Becoming Queen

Sometimes one must lose all hope to find the path to the future...

***

Princess Morgana strode through the woods, determined to find the elusive path. It had to be here. This was exactly where Mina had told her it would be. She spun around in a circle, finding nothing but aging oak trees.

Her mother, the Queen, had been very specific about the quest. A tear from a Naiad, when the full moon of mid-summer crested over the river. A tear from a Dryad as the last leaf of autumn fell. A tear of a Unicorn on the shortest day of the year. And a tear from the Weeping Willow as spring began its birth.

She and Carrick had spent the year collecting the tears, and only one remained. The Weeping Willow. Except, she couldn't find the path to the tree.

“You know the legend, Princess. One has to have no hope left in order to find the tree.”

She glared at him. “That isn't helping, Carrick.”

“I'm sorry, Princess.” He bowed. “Would you prefer I remind you that you have been as successful as your sisters?”

Hands clenched into fists, she took a deep breath, seeking calm. Three of her sisters had tried the quest and failed. Now, the fate of the Vale lay in her hands, for whoever completed the quest and formed the viewing pool, would be the Queen.

Morgana wasn't sure she wanted to be Queen. The title came with enormous responsibility, but if the gods had chosen her, she would accept her duties, and do all she could for the Seelie Court.

“There must be a way to make the tree appear.”

“There is. You must be at your lowest point, with all hope lost.”

She snorted. “I can't even begin to imagine what my lowest point would be.”

Eyes shimmering with knowledge she didn't have, he looked at her, It frustrated her that he knew so much yet said nothing.

“Fortunately, I know what that is and know how to reach it.” Carrick looked over his shoulder at the setting sun. “But it will have to wait until tomorrow. Meet me at the Aspen Grove at dawn.”

Morgana sighed but nodded. That night, nightmares plagued her relentlessly, drowning her in tears. She rose when the sun painted the sky a brilliant red, apprehension and fear twirling in her stomach as she readied for the day.

Sunlight dappled the path as she made her way to the meeting point. She tipped her face up, the early spring sun warm on her face. Birds twittered in the trees as they flitted about, gathering the makings for their nests. Buds formed on the branches, and Morgana knew by week's end, tiny leaves would unfurl, bathing the woods in a greenish hue.

The grove of Aspens rose before her, their bare branches silent. In the summer, she could lay there for hours listening as the wind blew through the silver leaves. She looked at her favorite place to sit, and her heart stopped.

“Carrick!”

Her body shaking, she ran over to his crumpled body. The hilt of a blade protruded from his stomach, blood seeping from the wound. His face looked ashen, almost grey, and his chest lay motionless.

She dropped to her knees and pressed her hands to him, sending waves of healing power through his body. But even as she touched him, she knew time had run out. Carrick was gone.

A keening wail rose around her as her grief poured out. She dropped her head to his chest, tears streaming down her face as she told Carrick all the things she'd never said. How much she loved him, the plans she had for them. How lost she would be without him at her side.

Cold wind swirled around her, carrying her name in its icy tendrils. She lifted her head and swiped a hand over her eyes, certain she imagined things. In front of her, bathed in a silver glow, sat the path she sought.

“You must be at your lowest point, with all hope lost.”

Carrick's words echoed in her mind, and she bit back a cry of anguish. Losing Carrick led to her lowest point, and without him she had no hope. Her life would never be the same. And, she would never finish the quest. In order to form the pool, she would need the aid of her Sentinel.

The Fae were too cruel, giving her the path to complete her quest while taking away her love.

Anger burning deep inside, she rose and stalked down the path. She would not let Carrick's death be in vain. She would collect the tear and save it for her sister, so she could complete the quest and become Queen.

Silence filled the Desolate Woods, the grey, leafless trees reaching to the sky like watchful sentinels. It was a land of endless black and white, no colors at all. At the center of the Woods, the trees thinned near a pool of water.

In stark contrast to the depressing woods blue-green water shimmered in the weak sunlight. Before the pool stood the largest tree she had ever seen, its circumference greater than the castle tower. Hundreds of branches curved to the ground, their weight too great to stand straight.

A face stared out from the trunk, tears streaming from its eyes. The Weeping Willow. The tree that collected all pain and allowed a person to drink from the pool in exchange for the healing comfort of peace.

Slowly, Morgana moved forward, her mind swirling with questions. She had found the last tear, but at what cost? How could she collect this tear, knowing the man she loved had died for her to be here? Why had the Fae teased her this way? Putting the very thing she needed before her while making it useless.

“Welcome, Princess. I've been waiting for you.”

The voice chimed around her from everywhere at once, but Morgana was certain it came from the Willow. She stared at the tree, gathering her scattered thoughts, the pain of her loss still too fresh.

Morgana bit back a sob as she pulled out an empty vial, her mind filled with memories of Carrick. A solitary tear trickled down her cheek and dropped into the pool in front of the tree.

A ghost of a smile played on the Willow's face. “He was right. You will make a wonderful leader.”

“Of whom do you speak?”

“The one you love. He spoke to me,” the tree continued. “And your tear has confirmed what he said and more. You have earned your reward. Drink from the pool, and heal your pain.”

Morgana stepped forward, her gaze focused on the tree's beautiful face. “And if I don't wish to forget my memories of him?”

“You do not wish to be healed?”

“No. I wish to remember all there is about him, good and bad.”

The tree smiled. “He knew you would refuse the comfort.”

“As he would choose with me.”

“Then come, take a tear, and join the one you love.”

Cautious, Morgana took a step back. “Am I to understand that if I collect a tear I will join him in death?”

“No, child. You will not die, at least not today.”

The end of her quest in sight, Morgana moved forward and captured a tear, the single drop glittering with all the colors of the rainbow. As she stepped back, a branch lifted, as if pointing, and a shimmering gold path appeared.

“Follow this back to the Aspen grove, and you will find what you truly seek.”

Morgana stepped onto the path, wondering where it would lead. What she truly sought was Carrick, but she'd never see his smiling face again. So, what did the Willow think she wanted?

The path twisted and turned, but eventually Morgana found herself back at the grove of Aspens. She stared at the sight before her. Certain she imagined things, she closed her eyes and opened them again. The scene hadn't changed. Carrick leaned against the tree, a smile on his face, not a wound anywhere to be found.

“How?” Morgana asked as she slowly walked over, still not believing he lived.

Carrick lifted a shoulder and let it drop, a secret smile playing on his lips. “A simple spell and a discussion with the Weeping Willow.”

“But I thought you could only reach the Willow when you were at your lowest point.”

He shrugged, but mischief shone in his eyes. “You could only reach it then, but I am the Queen’s Sentinel. I can go places, do things, see things, and know things others cannot.” He pointed at the vial she clutched in her hand. “Come, we need to make the pool and reveal your destiny.”

The short walk from the woods to the viewing room felt like it took years. The vials of tears weighed heavy in Morgana's cloak, growing heavier with each step.

Once they reached the viewing room, she pulled two vials out and handed them to Carrick then took the remaining two herself.

The silver chalice gleamed in the exact center of the room, and she stepped up to it, nodding for Carrick to join her on the other side. They held the vials over the empty cup, staring at each other as silence filled the room.

“Are you certain?” Carrick asked.

She smiled, touched that he gave her a choice. But she knew there was none. She'd been chosen.

“Yes.” Her answer rang off the walls of the room.

She gave a slight nod. Each tipped the vials into the cup, watching in awe as the viewing pool was created, declaring for all the realm that Morgana was the Seelie Queen.

***

This story is most like THE LOVE TALKER'S DAUGHTER, a free read available on Wattpad.

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

***

New Beginning by Dianne Hartsock

~A love so Familiar

"Stop fussing."

"It itches."

With an exasperated breath, Maxim stepped closer and straightened Camron's collar. Camron gripped his chin, forcing the man to meet his gaze. The beautiful half of Maxim's face flushed at his stare.

"It's you the prince should be honoring," Camron said with heat.

Maxim's laugh was painful. "I'd frighten the children."

Camron cupped the ravaged cheek, scarred by fire that had nearly taken Maxim's life in infancy. He held his blue gaze, his heart full of sorrow. "I see you in there, Maxim, more precious than any jewel."

"You are the exception. Now, let us go in. It's spring, Camron! A time of rebirth and growth, and our young prince must be given his chance to help his people prosper. Lord Fenton promises to raze this city to the ground. We must do what we can to stop him." Maxim's lips twisted in a wry smile. "Even if that means first sitting through an insufferable dinner party given in your honor."

Camron ground his teeth. "With you at my feet, eating scraps."

"Wonder what he'll be serving?" Maxim looked up from unbuttoning his blouse. "Close your eyes."

Camron set his lips, but obeyed the pleading tone. He'd never been allowed to see, though he longed to know every inch of the man's body, take some of his pain and loneliness away. But what did he have to offer the powerful mage? Besides the dubious ability to make others believe the magic came from him. They never looked past Maxim's tortured shell.

Maxim's indrawn breath grew ragged and pain clutched Camron's heart. He knew the agony it cost him to change. Camron's hair lifted at the sudden charge in the air, skin prickling as if anticipating a lightning strike.  Breathing grew difficult, and then his ears popped in a release of energy. Eyes still tightly closed, he couldn't control a shudder as the small creature leaped on his back, climbing onto his shoulder.

"I hate this," he muttered through clenched teeth. A tiny claw touched his face and Camron opened his eyes, turning his head to meet Maxim's intense gaze. Maxim couldn't speak in this guise, but he didn't need to. Camron knew what was expected of him. He'd played his part many times, ever since Maxim had pulled him from near death in a back alley and given him a life, someone to follow and serve.

And love, though Maxim would have none of it. Camron firmed his lips. One day soon he'd tell Maxim his heart, though the man sent him away for it.

Camron adjusted his cloak and swept into the chamber to face the court, a wizard and his Familiar, come to save the besieged kingdom for their prince. But first there was dinner to get through. He paused in the doorway as all eyes swept to him, a room full of handsome uniformed men and woman in pretty gowns and glittering jewels. A long table bright with candles and crystal and more food than he'd seen in a year ran down its center.

Maxim made a soft sound and rubbed his furred head against Camron's neck, and the tension eased from him. He took a step forward, a practiced smile plastered on his face, assuming his role. He could do this.

-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

Odeletta, Princess of Spring by Katie L. Carroll

The change was not gradual as most changes in nature are; it was swift and irrevocable, coming in a fit of emotion.

Blanchardwood wasn’t always a frozen wilderness. The woods once flourished under the tender tutelage of Odeletta, Princess of Spring. In the forest’s heyday, the soft feet of the Princess blessed its earthen paths. Her tender touch perpetuated flower blossoms and energized the forest animals.

As she meandered through the forest in the form of a woman, as was her preference—human senses proved the most sensitive to the wonders of the forest—she spied a being she had never before seen. Its hard face and spicy scent contrasted with the fuzzy creatures and sweet aromas she knew so well. The being approached Odeletta and smiled, showing smooth, white teeth. Apprehension welled up inside of her until she recognized the crest that adorned the being’s chest plate. She knew he must be a man.

“I see you wear the noble crest of my mother’s people, my lord,” she said.

He bowed. “I hail from the western shores. I have brought a message to you from your mother, the Great Mother. She was reluctant to let a man into the forest, but I heard the beauty of Blanchardwood was unparalleled by any sight in nature and had to see if it was true, and she allowed me to come.”

“Does my home live up to your expectations?”

“Almost.”

Odeletta clenched her fists in anger, her face flushed, and the forest waned under her rage. The man laughed.

“Don’t be upset, my Princess. The forest is breathtaking, but I have met one other natural beauty that surpasses it.”

“Impossible.”

He laughed again. “I am trying to pay you a compliment, but I see your love for your home has blinded you to your own beauty.”

“You mock my home and my face.” Odeletta was beginning to think she didn’t care for men.

“No, I only long to learn more about both. Forgive me if I have been blunt and offended you. I have had a long journey and wish to find a bit of food and a place to rest. Then, I will share your mother’s message with you.”

“Of course, you are in my mother’s service and so you are also in my service. It is my duty to show you the utmost hospitality. Please do not let my sensitivity be perceived as rudeness, my lord.”

“Princess, I understand. You simply love the forest so much that you cannot bear to hear an unpleasant word spoken of it. Love that true is an admirable quality.”

Odeletta softened a little; the trees brightened and the birds sweetened their song.

She led the man through Blanchardwood, so named for blooms of the dogwood tree that blanketed it in white in spring. Along the way, she learned that his name was Fyren. He had served Odeletta’s mother for many years, traveling all over the Great Peninsula to convey Mother Nature’s messages. The day passed quickly for Odeletta as she listened to his fantastic stories of adventure. It was only as the sun began to set that they reached the heart of Blanchardwood, the city of Kristalis.

The city sat at the point where the vigorous Eirome River broke into two, the eastern side flowing to the Greater Ocean and the western side south to Faway Forest. Its only building was a palace made mostly of glass so instead of obstructing the forest views, it reflected them.

Odeletta welcomed Fyren into her home. They broke bread, shared wine, and laughed the evening away. So entranced with her new companion was the Princess that she forgot all about her mother’s message. She gave him the room with the best view of the eastern river, and he made himself at home, wooing the Princess, who had never left her humble forest, with tales of the world. In turn she entranced him with her gentle voice that could entice a riot of colors out of the forest flowers.

Many days passed, the full bloom of their love coinciding with the summer solstice. On a bed of dewy grass, they lay, observing the longest day of the year come to a close with a fire of sunset in the sky. The stars twinkled on one at a time, but Fyren had eyes only for Odeletta.

He ran a long finger along her cheek, softer than a rose petal and a blush to match. “My beautiful rose,” he whispered.

She smiled, and the trees seemed to glow green. “Yes, my love.”

Fyren’s hand paused mid-stroke. “You love me?”

“Of course.” The forest pulsed with life and color as if to prove her love for him.

“Then you won’t mind if I kiss you.”

In response, she closed her eyes and leaned toward him with parted lips. His mouth crushed down upon hers. She gasped for breath, but not out of passion. Something was wrong, terribly wrong. Odeletta tried to pull, but he held her face to his until he had his fill.

An icy pain pierced her heart and traveled through her body to the very tips of her toes. Her hair went from golden to stark white. The ground around her froze, ice spreading through the forest faster than a wildfire. The river crackled as it froze solid.

Shaking, she huddled in the fetal position and whimpered, “What is happening to me?”

Fyren looked down upon her, a tower of authority, his eyes alight with glee. “Love is not only an admirable quality, it is the most powerful emotion in the world. And love from a daughter of Mother Nature, well, that kind of power is nearly insurmountable.”

“M-mother.” The word came out in a shiver, and Odeletta remembered why Fyren had come to her forest in the first place. “Sh-she had a message for me.”

Fyren crouched down and caressed her changed hair. Odeletta was too weak to move away. “She did indeed. But I was not the one who was to deliver it. No, I dispatched of that weak lord myself and stole his clothing.” He stood again, exerting the full power of his height. “I am Lord Fyren, but I do not serve Mother Nature. If she had been able to send you a message, she most assuredly would have warned to not stay far away from me.”

He ripped off the chest plate bearing Mother Nature’s crest and casually tossed it to the ground. “I serve myself, and you have just given me the power of love’s true kiss. Your mother and I have an old feud to settle. She is often called the Great Mother, but I will see to it that she will come to an end that is far from great.”

Bending to kiss her cheek, he whispered, “I am sorry it had to come to this for you. You truly are a beautiful creature.”

A soft snow began to fall, quickly whipping up into a blizzard. With purposeful strides, Lord Fyren left sweet Odeletta—once the Princess of Spring and now the Ice Queen—shivering in the courtyard. Spring would never again come to Blanchardwood.

***

This story comes from the mythology of Katie's YA fantasy ELIXIR BOUND, which is available now in paperback or as an ebook. 

Katie L. Carroll is a mother, author, and editor. Her YA fantasy ELIXIR BOUND has been described as “The Lord of The Rings with a YA fiction twist.” She is also the author of a picture book app called THE BEDTIMEKNIGHT. Her latest project is a collaborative, serialized middle grade mystery called THE GREAT CONNECTICUT CAPER, which is being released chapter-by-chapter starting in January 2015 and can be read at http://ctcaper.cthumanities.org/get-ready/. Katie worked as a puzzle magazine editor for Penny Publications for eight years before becoming a book editor for MuseItUp Publishing. For more about Katie, visit her website and blog at http://www.katielcarroll.com or follow her on Twitter @katielcarroll.

Spotlight on Young Adult Author, Eric Price

Today we are spending a little extra time getting to know Lightning Quick Reads author, Eric Price.

First let’s take a gander at Eric’s bio:

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, scheduled for an August 4, 2015 release, continues the Saga of the Wizards. He is a member of SCBWI. Find him online at authorericprice.com.

LQR: Tell our readers a little about you.

Eric: I lead a fairly mundane life, which is exactly how I want it. I work on my wife’s family farm and write. That, as well as my children’s sports and other activities, keeps me busy… sometimes busier than I’d like. We spend most of our free time and money traveling. I think kids learn more from first hand experiences than they ever will in a classroom.

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

Eric: The moment I go back to the most is when I found a secondhand copy of Stephen King’s The Shining. I didn’t like to read as a child. I found this book when I was in seventh grade, and it changed everything for me. It’s the first book I read entirely for my own pleasure. It spurred me to get into other authors like Poe and Irving, and before long I started to think I could probably create a story too.

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

Eric: I don’t really set out to write about any certain themes, yet most of my ideas, at least to some extent, seem to focus on fighting against corruption. I think I have a rather cynical world view, especially about those in positions of power. From business management, school boards, city councils, and everything up to world leaders, I have a hard time trusting individuals to make decisions based on the greater good and not putting their own self-interest above all else.

LQR: Tell us what you’re currently working on currently.

Eric: I’m in the editing process of The Squire and the Slave Master. It’s book two of the Saga of the Wizards, which started with Unveiling the Wizards’ Shroud (and assuming my publisher accepts it, concludes with A Wizard Reborn). My working titles for these books were Yara’s Sequel and Owen’s Sequel respectively. After Unveiling, Yara and Owen follow different paths, so a large portion of the two sequels overlap. It’s been challenging to write, but I like experimenting with different styles. Oh, I guess I should say a little about what actually happens in the book. Here’s a blurb:

After the adventure to save King Kendrick, for Yara, everyday life has grown monotonous. The dull work of learning her father’s blacksmithing trade, and the pressure from her parents to decide what she plans on doing with her life, has her nerves so stressed she snaps at her father’s slightest teasing.

Lucky for her, a surprise messenger from the castle brings the king’s request for her to join a collaborative mission between the Central and Western Domains of Wittatun to stop a recently discovered slave operation in a land to the west. King Kendrick and Owen want her to accompany the mission as a secret weapon disguised as a squire.

She has to keep secret not only her magical abilities from any possible traitors, but also her gender. The people of the Western Domain have a superstition prohibiting girls from sailing. But a chill wind carries the distinct odor of sabotage. Can one girl survive to destroy an evil rooted much deeper than mere slavery?

The Squire and the Slave Master is scheduled for an August 4, 2015 release as an eBook.

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

Eric: I’ve had some great classroom visits the past month. I’ve been working with an American Literature class in France. I did Skype interviews with them in two sessions, and they are working on a project for me. After reading the first two chapters of Unveiling the Wizards’ Shroud, they had an assignment to write what they thought would come next. If I can figure out how, I’m going to post them on my website and let people vote for their favorite. I’ll send the winners a copy of the book.

On the same day as the second interview, I also spoke in person to a middle school literature class in my hometown. They read my book as a class assignment (it was slightly above their reading level, so they took it slow and had a lot of classroom discussion). They all enjoyed it a lot, and for some of them it was their first experience with fantasy. Seeing the excitement in their faces in talking to me about the book was a great experience. They even did some book related artwork. I’m planning a blog post about both interviews.

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

Eric: I hope to have a book out every year or every other year. I’ve finished the first book of what I hope to be a three book middle grade series, and I have several standalone titles, some even for adults, in the planning phase.

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

Eric: I tend to read a little of everything, and my writing does tend to follow suit. My first love was horror, and the first story I ever had published was a spooky children’s tale. When I started reading a lot of science fiction, I wrote a few sci-fi stories. Some of them even won awards. When I moved on to reading fantasy, I wrote Unveiling the Wizards’ Shroud. Lately I’ve been reading a lot of P.I. books. So far I don’t have any stories of my own surfacing.

I recently watched the complete series of How I Met Your Mother over the course of about a month. I’m impressed by the writing on that show more than any other I can think of. Every detail, no matter how trivial it seems at the time it’s introduced, works its way back into the plot.

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

Eric: I can think of roughly a million things to do, and they’d all be somewhere around the Tropic of Cancer.

LQR: Anything else you’d like to add?

Eric: Just a plea from all authors: Please review our books, and if you liked it, tell your friends about it. I’m not as good at writing reviews as I should be, but I do try to make up for it by telling others about the books/authors I like. These are the two most helpful things you can do to promote a book or author you like.

LQR: Where can readers find you online?

Website/Blog authorericprice.com

Twitter: @AuthorEricPrice

Facebook: Author Eric Price

Goodreads: Eric Price and Unveiling the Wizards’ Shroud

The Plant Secret

Plant murderer revealed...

Another dried up leaf fell to the earth today, littering my otherwise neat office floor. Nothing remained of the dwarf schefflera but a stick in brown dirt.  Shocked and embarrassed that the once beautiful dwarf schefflera now looked as though it had spent years in a concentration camp, I proceeded to destroy all evidence.

On Friday evening after everyone went home for the weekend, I tiptoed down the hall with the plant hidden behind my back. Having spotted no one in sight, I placed it squarely in front of the janitor’s closet. Surely by Monday, those neat custodial workers would remove the offending plant and my culpability would remain a secret.

I’ve never been good with plants. Most of my houseplants withered and died as soon as they spotted me with a watering can in hand. I either overwatered the poor devils or starved them of the nutrients they needed. My sister had a “green” thumb. Everything she touched thrived and grew to Jack and the Bean Stalk proportions.

For my birthday, she gave me a wonderful African violet full of purple blooms. Of course, as soon as the plant spotted me, it began losing its flowers. Worried, I went out and purchased a plant light and books on how to keep African violets alive. I bought special food and an assortment of violet-saving tools. But, it was hopeless. The plant recognized me for what I was, a plant murderer.

After the African violet episode, my family stopped giving me real plants to kill. Instead, my house became a haven for silk flowers. “Here’s a plant you can’t kill,” my mom told me last Christmas and handed me a fake fichus tree.

People at work, on the other hand, didn’t know about my plant murdering tendencies, and I aimed to keep it that way. They imagined me a good plant person. Wasn’t everyone? They talked about weekends spent getting their hands dirty in the in the rich Georgia clay. I joined in the conversations, like the pretender I was. They believed I, like most of them, had the innate qualities to nurture plants, like children or other needy creatures. I’d kept my secret carefully hidden, hoping the truth about my homicidal tendencies would never come out.

When Monday morning rolled around, I sneaked into the hall and found it empty of all dead plants. With a spring in my step, I returned to my office, relieved. Never again would I pick up yet another dead leaf. The world turned right again.

Until the following Spring.

While crossing the quadrangle, I walked toward my office and there among the azalea’s and other beautiful bushes, whose names a non-plant person like me couldn’t guess, bloomed a green, dwarf schefflera, as gorgeous as the first day I saw it. Could this amazing specimen be my plant? Absolutely! Apparently, it had rejuvenated itself with more new growth than a sixteen year olds’s first beard. The janitor must have tossed it out here, and the natural outdoors brought it back to life. Nature at work. How about that?

Happy to have my plant back, I lifted it, marveling at the baby green leaves and new sprouts forming hither and thither.  When I removed it from of its home among the flowering bushes, I spied a note glued to its side. It read:
I only grow for people I like.

Stunned, I peered around in every direction. Was someone taunting me, playing some kind of game? My heart thundered. Caught at the scene with the evidence in hand, guilt flooded me with the same intensity as when my sister spied me in front of the cookie cabinet sneaking the last chocolate chip cookie

I crept back to my office with the plant, removed the note, and tossed it in the trash. Before the note hit the bottom of the trash bin, the first leaf fell to the ground with an accusatory plunk.

And then, fell another and another. 

Of course plants can't sneer, but with each withering, browning, dying leaf, I felt a sneer as clearly as I had when my eighth grade English teacher stood in front of me with my latest theme in her hand. Shame washed over me and forced me to do the right thing.

I returned the plant to its spot among the bushes, wiped my hands of the mess, and went about my business in the knowledge that for once I’d saved a plant before I killed it.

***

Growing Up by Meg Gray

Nothing stays the same...
Fern tossed the bag of burritos on the kitchen table and her family came running like a herd of rhinos. Hands dug into the bag and wrapped burritos were passed around along with little containers of sour cream. Fern stood back watching them, all consumed with the food. No one appeared to notice her arrival home from her long day at the office.

“Hi Honey,” Daryl said, kissing her briefly with a plastic fork in one hand and his burrito in the other.

“Hi,” she said, heaving a sigh and taking her seat. She unwrapped the remaining burrito, smoothing the foil wrapper out flat. They didn’t even use dishes anymore. Or silverware. It saved on dishes, but Fern missed setting the table every night with plates, napkins and silverware. She didn’t have the time anymore.

The rush to dinner had quieted as her family went about tearing into their meal. Fern bit into hers. It tasted the same as last week. If she’d made it at home she would have used less salt and more fresh tomatoes. Although, it beat the chicken wings and fried potatoes from last night that left her feeling like a slug all day today.

The meals her mother left behind in the freezer after her five day stay last month were gone in two weeks. It had been a delicious fourteen days. And the organization her mother had wrangled around the apartment—managing to get all the laundry put away and scrubbing that pink ring in the shower that hadn’t appeared until Fern abandoned her weekly cleaning schedule for more of a monthly or once every six weeks task—had all evaporated. They were back to chaos.

But at least her family was here, present, and at the table together. That had to count for something.

“How was school today, Mitchell?” she asked, eyeing her son.

“Great,” he said, his eyes lighting behind his glasses. “In Biology class we got to check our bacterial growth petri dishes from last week when we swabbed out our mouths. And mine had the most colonies of growth inside it. White ones. Yellow ones, and even a couple of gray ones.”

Fern set her burrito down and covered her mouth.

“It was so cool,” Mitchell said before he bit into his burrito again.

“Eww,” Erika said from across the table. “You are so disgusting.”

“No, you’re disgusting,” he said back at her.

“Shut up.”

“You shut up.”

“Enough, both of you,” Daryl said, putting an end to round one thousand-five-hundred and fifteen of the fight these two had been rehearsing since Mitchell could babble.

“I’m so glad you enjoyed your experiment,” Fern said, trying to push the image of rapidly growing mold spores out of her mind and focusing on that beaming smile her son hadn’t quit wearing since he started at his new science and technology academy. He was coming into his own and it was amazing to watch. “What about you Shelby-bug? Did you have a good day at school?”

Shelby nodded and smiled, bits of lettuce and tomato stuck in her teeth. “I have another loose tooth,” she announced. Her tongue pushed out one of her top front teeth, right above the nubs that had pushed through her lower gums last week.

It reminded Fern of when those tiny teeth had first pushed through her baby’s gums. Those bottom two teeth had been the first and only ones to appear when Shelby was six months old. All the rest filled in when she was eleven months old, right before her first birthday.

“Wow,” Fern said. “Looks like the tooth fairy is going to have to make a stop back here again pretty soon.”

“Yeah.” Shelby wiggled her tooth with her tongue again. “I hope I get five dollars for this one.” She stabbed her fork into a bean and popped it in her mouth.

“I don’t think the tooth fairy hands out that kind of cash for teeth,” Daryl said with a chuckle.

“Yes she does.” Shelby nodded. “That’s how much a boy from my class got for his last tooth. And Sari got Justin Bieber tickets. But I prefer cash. The more the better.” Shelby dipped her finger in her sour cream and licked it off.

“Well, we’ll be thankful for whatever we get, right?” Fern said, wondering what was up with the inflation on teeth.

Shelby shrugged her shoulders and tossed her head as she took another bite of her burrito.

“How was your day?” Fern asked Erika, wondering if today would be a warm or cold response day. It was hard to tell with her teenage daughter these days.

“Fine,” Erika said, lukewarm.

Mitchell crumpled his wrapper into a ball. “Can I go watch t.v.?” he asked.

“Me too. Me too.” Shelby pushed her unfinished burrito away.

Daryl nodded and the kids ran into the living room, except Erika. What was going on with her?

“Can I go out Friday night?” she asked, not making eye contact.

“Where are you going?” Fern asked.

“Just to a movie,” she replied. Her eyes quickly flitted in Fern’s direction before returning to the table in front of her.

“Who are you going with?”

“A friend. From school.”

Daryl brought his hands together in front of him. His face turned to gray stone. “A boy-kind of friend?”

“Yes, Daddy,” Erika said.

“Do we know him?” Daryl continued. Fern was glad to let him take over the questions, because she had the feeling this conversation was going to end the same way all the others did with Erika these days. Badly.

“I don’t think so.”

“What’s his name?”

“Ray.”

“Ray what?”

“Ray Jimenez.”

“Is he picking you up?”

A date? Fern thought. Erika’s asking to go out on a date? With someone they didn’t know? The only boy Fern had ever heard her daughter talk about was Caden and they only spent time together in groups with their friends. Was she ready for her daughter to start dating?

“I don’t know.”

Daryl quirked an eyebrow at Fern. “She doesn’t know if the guy who asked her out is going to pick her up or not,” he said as if she hadn’t heard the entire conversation. But Fern knew it meant Ray was starting out with negative points in Daryl’s book.

Shelby walked back in from the living room and climbed up on Fern’s lap, like a little kitten and pressed her head to Fern’s shoulder.

“Any person with a Y chromosome wanting to spend time with my daughter will pick her up and introduce himself to her father before she may ever go anywhere with him. Understood?”

“Dad, that’s so lame. People meet at the movies all the time.”

“Fine.” Daryl crossed his arms over his chest. “Then you can meet Ray at the movies and the rest of us will tag along and sit right behind you.”

“We’re not going to some cartoon show,” Erika said, looking at Shelby.

“That’s okay,” Shelby said, raising her head. “I can cover my eyes if there are any bad parts.” She put her head back down.

Erika performed a gold-medal worthy eye roll. “You guys are so ridiculous. It’s just a movie.”

“It’s not just a movie.” Daryl kept his calm. “Ray picks you up and takes you or you don’t go. Those are the rules.”

Erika stood from her chair and stalked off to her room where Fern was sure she was dialing up some friend to feed her woes to, but Fern was still grappling with the question as to when her first-born had become old enough to date. Where had the time gone? They were all growing up so fast.

***

 

Meg writes clean contemporary romance novels, featuring strong female characters. As a mom to two young girls, Meg is passionate about creating stories centered around female empowerment. She grew up in the Pacific Northwest where she still lives today with her husband, daughters, and crazy pets. She splits her time between homeschooling her girls and writing in the hours after she has put her husband and children to bed.

Check out Meg's new release novel, The Road Home, free books and giveaway offers at www.meggraybooks.com

 

 

The Promise of Hope by Meradeth Houston #FlashFiction

Sometimes hope is a choice. 

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Her cigarette landed with a hiss in the snow, right next to the tender green shoots of the first signs of spring. She didn’t even look down to use the heel of her boots to grind out the bud, taking out the plants in the process.

Better to put such things out of their misery. Hadn’t they heard that winter wasn’t going anywhere?

The warnings had been airing for years. Newspapers. Conferences. Screaming scientists. No one cared. No one listened. And so things changed. The weather, to start with. The predictability of the past was just that—the past. Spring marked on the calendar no longer meant anything.

Of course there were plenty of other things tied to the weather. Including billions of human lives, not to mention trillions of other occupants on the planet.

Better to spare those poor old bulbs the torture of a slow death.

The same couldn’t be said for the man she watched through her eyepiece. She’d enjoy the plans she had for him. Until he begged. Cried, too, with any luck.

And then? She’d kill him.

It was a small price to pay for his role in mucking up the planet. For sending so many people to watery, or scorching graves. And if no one else was going to take a stand, she had to do it.

Movement. The curtains, fourth window from the left. His room.

The compound was guarded well. It had to be, what with the milling Hungry, eager to take down anyone or anything they might fill their bellies with.

Once, she’d had a roommate with a penchant for old films from before. They used to watch them, casting them onto their ceiling. The water stains made for an interesting backdrop, but it worked. The films she remembered best were the zombie ones. There were so damn many of them. Drooling, shuffling, damaged people, milling around like mindless fools.

A little like the Hungry hoard. A comparison that struck a little too close.

Again, another movement. This time she was certain. Ducking low, she slid down the embankment to the electric fence. Taking a tool from her belt, she located the repeater that she’d spotted before. A quick shot, and the fence was nothing more than something to hop over.

It took exactly three minutes to get inside. Another two to reach the second floor. Laughter filtered through the posh interior from hidden recesses of the house, where people who didn’t worry about filling their bellies lived.

They’d have more than enough concerns by nightfall.

Her boots didn’t make a sound with the deep carpet. Carpet. Who had that kind of thing anymore? They must have salvaged it from somewhere—no one made the stuff any more.

Counting doors with crown molding and ornate knobs, she found the fourth room down. The one with the lace curtains.

At the door, she forced herself to stop. Listen. To get her heart rate low enough that she’d hear anything amiss. And more importantly, so she’d remember what was coming.

She’d pinned a small camera to her shirt to capture it all, but nothing would compare to her memories. To the smell and feel and sound of it all.

A deep breath out through her mouth and she knew she was ready.

There was no lock on the door. Who would need one in such a well-armed estate? The only locks were on the outside gates and on the evacuation rooms.

The heavy door opened without a sound. She stepped inside, the glare of the electric lights taking an extra heartbeat to adjust to.

“So, you’ve finally decided to come for me.” The voice, ancient and weary, spoke up from the far corner, behind a desk that screamed money and age and power. So large it took up half the wall, it was only dwarfed by the man behind it.

Tall, with a shock of white hair, and a shirt so pressed the creases looked sharp as knives, this was the man behind what was once one of the world’s largest chain of oil refineries. Even now, decades after his company had gone up in smoke, chocking the planet and everyone on it, he still carried the air of power. Hands clasped before him, his nose like the beak of a predatory hawk.

His voice nearly brought back up the small amount of synthetic food she’d made herself eat. Would serve him and his Persian carpets right.

She did not hesitate to stand a little taller, to meet his blue gaze with her own. She knew full well that his panic button would bring no one, that she had hours of time to toy with him.

Not bothering to respond, she turned to the door, securing it with another tool from her bag. This one ensured that they’d have to take the wall down before they dislodged the door.

The rest of the room was tastefully decorated with dark wood furnishings, low tables, and a fireplace off to one side. Paintings from the old masters hung in careful symmetry.

Just this morning she’d passed a woman carrying her dead infant in her arms. She’d stumbled along the side of the road, sure to join her child soon.

And here, this man showed no sign of remorse. No sign he regretted his family’s history of buying off the right government officials and scientists to cast dispersions on what their work did. Nope, he just looked put out that she stood on his carpet, mud and dead plants on her shoes.

Time to do something about that.

Looking up to address the man behind the desk, she stepped closer. In her hand was the last tiny tool she’d managed to secure on the black market. Not all countries had suffered as much as hers—some still managed to invent, to feed their populace. Not many, but a few. It would be there she’d escape to. Once she’d finished her work.

“When was the last time you left your gates?” Her voice was low, calm. Experience taught her how to do this for maximum effect.

The man did not blink. “Not recently. I know what’s going on out there.”

“Do you? Really? Want to guess how many dead I passed on my way here today?”

The man merely shrugged. “They were weak. Why should I help them?”

She sighed, her heart tugging at the thought of the woman from this morning. How could he not want to help?

“You’ve helped them plenty. By creating this mess.”

He shook his head and settled into his chair. “I didn’t create it. Everyone did.”

She’d hoped he’d try that argument. With two steps that were much to fast for the old man to avoid, she caught him from behind, her corded arm around his neck. The device in her hand secured his frame to the chair with twin wraps of steel.

“You could have helped change the tide. Decided you had enough and kept your hands out of politics. Decided that you wanted to help the world and not destroy it.”

Gagged, the man shrugged—or what passed it with the way his arms were caught behind him. It seemed to say ‘Not my problem.’

The response boiled her blood. It was his fault. Him and so many others. It was his greed that kept changes from happening when they could have. When they would have actually helped.

But he hadn’t. Instead he’d ensured that no one could. That the scientists words fell on the deaf ears of the government.

The knife she pulled from her boots was a simple one. One side serrated, the other smooth. One to torture, one to kill. She let it catch the grey light from the windows before she leaned in.

Finally, fear etched into the eyes of the old man.

Her first cut only brought a trickle of blood. Small ruby beads along his jawline.

The man struggled. She laughed. “No one’s coming. All they will find will be a warning. The Hungry will be here soon. Your poor fence won’t be able to keep them out.

The old man took a shuddering breath. Then began to work his lips, struggling to speak around the band that gagged him. Spittle surged around his lips and she backed away, disgusted.

Something about the look in his eyes—more than just pleading for his life—made her wonder. Let him speak? Suffer through more of his begging? Or worse, denial of his guilt?

But, he used his eyes to exaggerate a look toward one of the desk drawers.

Something within her urged her to look. If anything, it could be leverage to ensure he’d cry.

The drawer opened with the well-oiled ease. Inside was the plethora of detritus of anyone’s desk. Or how desks may have looked if paperclips and rubber bands were easy to come by. But that was no what caught her attention.

It was the vial of neon green that sat on top of a pile of papers. Ignoring the grunts from the man, she pulled out the sheaves of paper, skimming through them.

She knew the gist of what it said. Several years ago, there had been some hope that this might save

(Source)

them all. But no one managed to perfect it, so it languished, forgotten like the hope of so many.

But here was something more. Trials. Tests. Proof.

Still holding the pile of papers, she turned and hit the small button on the man’s cheek, releasing the bound across his mouth so that it slithered back.

“You know what that is, don’t you?” His voice was rough and he coughed.

“Algae. It will process the CO2 in the air and release oxygen. And the waste can be,” she referred to the paper, “be eaten or used for livestock.”

“It’s been genetically modified. It’s a thousand times more effective than traditional algae. If we can produce enough of it, we might stand a chance of things not getting worse.” The gleam in his eye, the knowledge that this had to get her attention, pissed her off.

She almost killed him then and there.

“How did you get it?”

“Money can buy more than nice houses and food.” He settled back, trying to give off the air of ease.

Crouching down to look him in the eye, she grinned. “Tell me where the rest of the information is. Where your supplier is.”

He shook his head. “Never. And without me, there’s no hope this project can move forward. My scientists are under strict orders to destroy it all if anything happens to me.”

She cursed.

“So, I’ll make you a deal. Let me go, and I’ll find a way to put this into production. My life in exchange for the millions I might save.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

He shook his head, his silence a testament to his honesty.

Standing, she took the green vial from the drawer, holding it up to the light. Inside might be the tool to saving the planet. Behind her was the man who had nearly killed it.

Setting the vial on the desk, she twisted the knife in her fingers. The choice wasn’t an easy one, but one she had to make.

***

Meradeth's never been a big fan of talking about herself, but if you really want to know, here are some random tidbits about her:

>She's a Northern California girl and now braves the cold winters in Montana.

>When she's not writing, she's sequencing dead people's DNA. For fun!

>She’s also an anthropology professor and loves getting people interested in studying humans.

>If she could have a super-power, it would totally be flying. Which is a little strange, because she's terrified of heights.


Find Meradeth Houston online at: www.MeradethHouston.com, Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, Tumblr, Amazon, Goodreads, and of course her blog!