Holiday Memories

by Stephanie Osborn
http://www.stephanie-osborn.com

The following is taken from my collection of poetry, and is a melange of Christmas memories throughout my life, from childhood to the present day. It is warm and sweet and comforting, like hot chocolate on a winter's day. Merry Christmas.

~~~

The Tree

by Stephanie Osborn

excerpted from Stolen Moments: A Book of Verse, by Stephanie Osborn

The wind blows briskly through the bare tree limbs.

It bites my cheeks, turning them a dusky red.

The lowering clouds spit snowflakes.

We make our way through the harvested field

Brown and sere, toward the clump of trees near the edge.

Cedar trees grow here. Thickly clustered

On the hillside, they are the only green visible

For miles. We circle each one carefully, inspecting

And commenting to each other about this one

Or that. Finally, it is done. The choice is made.

Father glances at Mother. "Are you sure?"

A nod, and he raises the axe. In a few strokes

The living tree has fallen, the scent of cedar

Borne to our nostrils on the crisp December air.

We breathe deep the fragrance of evergreen.

At home, measurements are carefully made

And Father trims the base of the tree,

affixes the stand, and brings it inside.

We oooh and aaah with excitement

Before Mother opens the ornament box.

Fairy lights and tinsel, snowballs and mercury glass

And garland ropes, antique balls and strands

Of silver bedeck the tree in quick order. Each

Of us has his or her apportioned task, and even

The youngest has a special ornament for the tree.

The oldest ornaments, the family reserves for me

To place carefully. They know my love for them

And know I treat them as the treasures they are.

Delicately, I position them on each branch, and smile.

"There," I decide, "perfect. It's all done."

Mother nods, and Father smiles. He switches off

The room lights, and we all sigh with happiness.

Glimmering proud, the tree stands as a symbol

Of love, of family, of tradition, of faith. The room

Grows quiet, as we all settle back to enjoy.

 

Later, the gaily-wrapped gifts will emerge to be

Placed beneath the decorated boughs and enjoy

Their rightful place. For now, the cat slinks her way

Underneath, finds a spot where she can gaze up

Into the multicolored phantasia, and settles down.

Outside, the snow comes down softly. Father

Lights a fire in the fireplace. Mother gets out

The homemade candies and puts them nearby. There is

The sound of mirth, soft laughter, loving conversation.

The season has come to us. Happy Christmas.

~~~

"Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night." ~Clement Clarke Moore

-Stephanie Osborn

Christmas Eve 2014

http://www.stephanie-osborn.com

Interlude: The Ariadne Connection, A Guest Blog by Sara Stamey

by Stephanie Osborn
http://www.stephanie-osborn.com

SURPRISE! This book isn't quiiiiiite ready for a holiday gift just yet! This is a sneak peek at the upcoming book by Sara Stamey, The Ariadne Connection! Here's what Sara has to say:

"I’m excited to announce my new near-future thriller, to be published in print and ebook by Book View Café in March 2015. The Ariadne Connection follows a young Greek scientist experimenting with a cure for the New Plague pandemic, who discovers she’s actually healing plague victims with her touch. Dubbed “Saint Ariadne,” she’s pursued by violent factions out to claim her secret, and must rely on a jaded American smuggler to escape pursuit and visit ancient sacred sites to explore the source of her disconcerting gift."
~Sara Stamey

Now let's read a short excerpt!

~~~

“Final warning to the boat bearing Ariadne Demodakis. Last chance to surrender, or—” The radio cut out into static.

“Peter, we can go through the Hot Zone. They won’t follow us. And I can cure us of radiation exposure—my experiments have reversed cellular damage.”

“Damn!” Peter jerked the wheel, swerving around a barely-submerged rock reef. He cut back the throttles and checked radar, then spared her a glance, bracing himself against the lure of her eyes, clear blue with those purple glimmering depths. Or was that just in his own eyes, like the Cherenkov’s radiation? “Look, maybe you’re a genius or a saint or maybe we’re out of our minds, but I don’t care if you can make the dead rise, I’m not taking us into the heart of this Hot Zone.”

Whoompf. A missile struck just to port, throwing them sideways in a thrashing surge. Adrenaline slicing, Peter rode it, boat nearly swamping.

Whine of another missile, striking the islet he was weaving past, spraying rock shrapnel. “Duck!” Ahead of them, a channel opened up the only escape, Ariadne jabbing her finger toward it.

“Okay, hang on.” He blew out a breath. “We’re going in.”

He wrenched the wheel, and Nereid flew into the angled passage, island blocking off his view of the mercenary hydrofoil, taking them out of radar range. He cut speed, looked back again. Waited.

“Phew.” Dicey little skirmish. And he hadn’t even winged the hydrofoil. Would his client cough up for expenses on top? Re-arming on the black market would be pricey.... Just better hope they didn’t run into any more action before they made Crete.

“They are no longer following.” Ariadne had straightened, raking the hair off her face to peer back over the stern.

“They’ll be waiting for us to turn back.” He swallowed and gestured with his chin.

She turned to look. “Oh.”

The narrow cut between islands opened out into a natural harbor sheltered by the high cliffs now blasted into a lifeless moonscape. Twisted, blackened masses—most unrecognizable as former pieces of ships and a nuclear sub—were scattered over the rock slopes. A jagged thirty-foot length of twisted metal was imbedded in the cliff face to starboard. Sharp spires and melted blobs hulked out of the water, making the bay into a bizarre obstacle course. Gray ash drifted in the breeze off the lifeless islands.

“Here. Cover your nose and mouth.” Peter handed Ariadne his bandanna, then pulled up his T-shirt to cover his own lower face. He cut the engines way back, edging cautiously forward to grope out a passage.

Through the crystal-clear water as they passed over some shallows and more sunken wreckage, he could see them etched sharply: scattered, broken fuel rods. The sea shimmered a harsh radiant blue.

“Hellfire and damnation….” he whispered.

Beside him, Ariadne stirred, then laid her hand on his bare arm. He turned to look into the steady, deep blue of her eyes. The color wasn’t at all like that sizzling virulent Cherenkov’s.

“Holy shit!” Leeza scrambled up from her huddled crouch on the deck, camera-goggles craning back and forth. The reporter stepped forward, jerked back, then lured by her big story she scurried forward to the rail. She aimed the goggles over the side, into the shimmering blue glow of radiation. “Subliminal....”

~~~

Cool, huh?

And here is the complete book cover "flat"!

Be sure to reserve your copy asap!

-Stephanie Osborn
http://www.stephanie-osborn.com

Interlude: Kindred Rites, A Guest Blog by Katharine E. Kimbriel

by Stephanie Osborn
http://www.stephanie-osborn.com

Today we're going to hear from Kat Kimbriel, as she presents an excerpt from her book, Kindred Rites!

~~~

"...we are all Death’s pupils, we practitioners—students of the great healer." 

When magic broke free in my blood, I chose to follow our ancient family path and become a practitioner. I'm learning to heal, and to protect innocents. I dip into minds, stalk vampires, and set wards by the light of the moon. I can hear the children of the night calling. But there are other families...and other paths. Families with twisted ambitions and frightening powers. On the frontier, folk whisper that one clan is the most dangerous of all. 

Chief among those dark sorcerers is a man known as the Keeper of Souls. 

And now he wants to keep mine.

* * * * * * * * *

“Ready for a lesson?” Marta said suddenly.

I blinked, surprised by the question. “Tonight?”

Marta lifted her head to meet my gaze; a half smile flitted across her lips. “No time like the present,” she offered, tugging her thread back through. “Between fetches and poltergeists, I think it is time for you to learn the first of the major arcana.”

Suddenly I was wide awake, and there was an ache in my chest, like I couldn’t catch my breath. Between fetches and poltergeists, I’d been feeling a bit ragged, truth to tell. I wasn’t sure I was ready just then for any more surprises.

“Christmas Eve?” I clarified. Marta had conducted a ritual on the solstice a few days past, but as a neophyte, I had not actively participated. Christmas was also a good time for ceremonies?

Marta looked amused. “’Tis said that ghosts walk on Christmas Eve. Can you think of a more appropriate—or safer—time to look beyond the borders of our world?”

“Ghosts?” Well, now...spirits were interesting. I straightened up.

“Actually,” Marta began, pinning her needle in place and setting aside her square, “the first major arcana you must learn is how to call upon Death.” Turning to smile at me, she added, “Nothing else is truly frightening after you have faced Death.”

I just stared at her, a sinking feeling in the hollow of my stomach. “Death isn’t really a person, is it? I thought that was just poetry, in the Bible....”

“Death is a spirit,” Marta said softly, her hands folding in her lap. “Some claim it is Azrael, the angel of death. Most people never see Death—or never know it is Death they see at the last. Death can wear many faces—Death can be anyone you have ever loved or known who has gone beyond. The face chosen is usually whomever the failing person wants most to see. And so the dying are comforted as they step over into the next life.”

The angel of death. Lord and Lady, these were deep waters, now. “Do we find those people over there?” I finally whispered.

“We may. Death is ambiguous when answering questions about the other side of life.” Marta looked a little evasive herself.

“Death will answer questions?”

Marta nodded as she stood up. “That is why a practitioner calls upon Death, to ask questions. But it is not done lightly. You do not ask Death anything that can be answered by anyone or anything else. You have to work at the answers—Death does not make things simple.”

As she started for the kitchen, Marta added, “And you never, ever ask about your own death. That is the one question Death will not answer.”

Rising to my feet, I threw the big pillow over on the pile and started after her. “What are you going to ask Death?”

“This is the only time that you call upon Death when you have no questions. When you begin learning the major arcana, you must introduce yourself to Death.” Looking back at me as she lit a single taper from the kitchen fire, Marta went on: “All apprentices learn this spell first. Once you have cast it, Death will know your call, and may choose to answer it.”

I thought about it, and shivered. “May choose?”

Marta smiled and went into the stillroom. “When Death is invited, Death may choose whether to come.” Her voice grew lower as she continued. “The only way to guarantee Death’s arrival is to kill something. Soldiers do it all the time, and rarely see Death passing by. But if a practitioner kills to demand Death’s presence, it changes the relationship.”

“Changes?” I hesitated at the doorway of the stillroom. Relationship?

Marta returned to the kitchen holding the candle and her carpetbag of wands, wards and beeswax candles. “Death is a friend to a practitioner, Allie,” she said solemnly. “Death is the last, great healer, who takes away the pain we cannot ease. It’s not Death people really fear—it is suffering. Death will answer specific questions concerning healing.” She stopped before me, her expression grave. “Once you shed innocent blood to summon Death, you are no longer perceived as a healer. You become...something else. You become an enigma to watch, and perhaps a danger, a black sorcerer.”

“Death no longer trusts you?” I asked slowly, watching her eyes.

Her brows lifted slightly, and she said, “Perhaps. I try not to attach emotions or attributes to Death. Death is not human, and helps us for obscure motives. Death never volunteers information—but Death always answers.” Setting down the bag on the table, she began to take out things. “Sometimes the answer is no,” she added.

“Is Death male or female?” I asked quickly, more to hear someone speak than to know the answer...which was a good thing, because Marta was done answering questions.

“Both, and neither. Get your coat.” As I looked at her in surprise, she said, “We do not need ritual robes for this ceremony. Just fire and water, tobacco, blood, and honesty.”

I was halfway into my coat before I realized Marta had said blood.

Might as well have not bothered with the coat. No mere sheepskin was going to warm my body, much less my soul.

Not this Christmas Eve.

~~~

Katharine Eliska Kimbriel reinvents herself every decade or so.  The one constant she has reached for in life is telling stories.  “I’m interested in how people respond to choice.  What is the metaphor for power, for choice? In SF it tends to be technology (good, bad and balanced) while in Fantasy the metaphor is magic – who has it, who wants or does not want it, what is done with it, and who/what the person or culture is after the dust has settled. A second metaphor, both grace note and foundation, is the need for and art of healing.  Forthcoming stories will talk about new things that I’ve learned, and still hope to learn … with grace notes about betrayal, forgiveness, healing and second chances.”  A Campbell Award nominee.

Now THERE is a rather interesting Christmas Eve...

Make sure you check out K. E. Kimbriel's Kindred Rites this Christmas Eve!

-Stephanie Osborn
http://www.stephanie-osborn.com

Interlude: Dragon Fire, A Guest Post by Dina von Lowencraft

by Stephanie Osborn
http://www.stephanie-osborn.com

Today we read a bit from Dina von Lowencraft's book, Dragon Fire! Dina told us a bit about her book earlier in this holiday promotional interlude, and it sounded exciting! Today she's giving us an excerpt from the book! Have fun! I know I am!

~~~

Some choices are hard to live with. 

But some choices will kill you. 

When seventeen-year-old Anna first meets Rakan in her hometown north of the Arctic Circle, she is attracted to the pulsing energy that surrounds him. Unaware that he is a shapeshifting dragon, Anna is drawn into a murderous cycle of revenge that pits Rakan and his clan against her best friend June. 

Torn between his forbidden relationship with Anna, that could cost them both their lives, and restoring his family’s honor by killing June, Rakan must decide what is right. And what is worth living – or dying – for.

DRAGON FIRE

by Dina von Lowenkraft

Chapter 1 The Circle Tightens

The candle flickered in the subzero wind but Anna made no move to protect it. She stopped on the hill in front of Tromso’s three-year high school and watched the water of the fjord shimmer below. Even though it was mid-afternoon there was no sun, just the luminous reflection of the moon. The procession of students continued on without her, leaving only the fading sound of crunching snow in their wake.

“You seem as eager to go to Fritjof’s memorial vigil as I am,” June said, startling Anna with her sudden appearance.

Anna fingered the oval piece of bright orange coral that she had carried around like a talisman since she was a child. She usually kept it in her pocket, but today she wanted to feel its soothing energy closer and had it in her glove. She had never liked Fritjof, and even though she wasn’t glad he had died, she wouldn’t miss him.

She turned to face June whose cobalt blue eyes were at odds with her otherwise Asian features. June and her boyfriend had also been out on the mountain when the avalanche claimed Fritjof. “I’m glad it’s not yours too,” Anna said. “I’d really miss you.”

“It would take more than an avalanche to kill me,” June said, trying to smile. But Anna could feel her friend’s pain lurking under the surface.

“Hey.” She wrapped an arm around June to comfort her. But as soon as her hand touched June’s shoulder, a burst of energy exploded from her stone. Anna ripped off her glove and the piece of coral went flying. “What the—”

June spun around, pushing Anna behind her as if to protect her from an attack. She scanned the area, her body tensed for a fight.

“Who are you looking for?” Anna pressed her palm to dull the pain as she glanced around the deserted hilltop. “Whatever it was, it came from my stone.”

June relaxed her stance. “Are you okay?”

“I think so.” Anna gestured towards the coral-colored sparks that crackled in the darkness of the Norwegian winter. “What do you think it’s doing?”

“Don’t know.” June crouched down to get a better look. Her hand hovered as a bright green light flashed around the stone.

“Don’t touch it,” Anna said sharply. Her stone had always had a special energy, but never coral-colored sparks. Or green flashes of light.

“It’s okay now.” June pulled her hand back. “Look for yourself.”

Anna knelt next to June. The stone was dark and lifeless and she felt a sudden pang of loss. She prodded it gingerly with her good hand, but felt nothing. She picked it up. It was just a pretty bit of coral. The gentle pulsing energy that she had liked so much was gone.

“Can I see it?” June asked.

Anna nodded, her throat constricted. The stone had always reminded her of her father. Its energy was something he would have been able to feel too. The only other person she had met so far who was open to that kind of thing was June. Everyone else got freaked out, or thought she was crazy. So she had learned not to talk about it.

June closed her fist around the stone. “Where did you get this?” Her voice wavered.

Anna’s attention flicked back to June. She never wavered. “I found it in the mountains. Years ago. Why? What is it?”

“A trigger.”

“A trigger for what?”

June returned Anna’s searching look. “I have no idea.” She handed the stone back.

“So how do you know it’s a trigger?”

“I just feel it.” June picked up the candles that lay forgotten in the snow. “If you’re okay, we should go.”

Anna picked up her discarded glove and froze. In the middle of her left palm was a star-shaped scar. She stretched her hand to get a better look. It was about the size of a half Krone. She touched it. Like an echo under the fading pain, she could feel the energy of her stone pulsing faintly in her palm.

“Here,” June said, offering Anna a candle. She stopped mid-motion. “What is it?”

“I don’t know. The stone…” She held out her palm. “Look.”

June dropped the candles and took Anna’s hand in hers. Gently, she ran her fingers over the slightly raised ridges of the scar. “A Firemark,” June said as if talking to herself. “But how…?”

“What’s a Firemark?” Anna examined the scar. It was almost silvery in the moonlight.

June looked up, her fingers still on Anna’s palm. “It’s like a living connection between two people. But… there was only the stone.”

“It always felt alive,” Anna said. She touched the Firemark one last time before putting her glove back on. It was warm and smooth.

June shook her head. “But even if it felt alive, it shouldn’t have left a Firemark.”

Anna shrugged. “Maybe. But I like it.” Anna closed her hand around the Firemark. It felt like she was holding her stone. She smiled. She’d never lose it now.

June re-lit the candles again and handed one to Anna. “Ready?”

Anna hooked her arm through June’s. “I think so.” They walked silently through town and across the bridge that straddled the green-black fjord.

“Do you think it’s over?” Anna eyed the Arctic Cathedral that sprawled like slabs of a fallen glacier on the other side of the fjord. It was lit up like a temple of light.

June shook her head. “It’s only just begun.”

~~~

Born in the US, Dina has lived on 4 continents, worked as a graphic artist for television and as a consultant in the fashion industry. Somewhere between New York and Paris she picked up an MBA and a black belt – and still thinks the two are connected. Dina is currently the Regional Advisor for SCBWI Belgium, where she lives with her husband, two children, three horses and a cat.


Dina loves to create intricate worlds filled with conflict and passion. She builds her own myths while exploring issues of belonging, racism and the search for truth... after all, how can you find true love if you don’t know who you are and what you believe in? Dina’s key to developing characters is to figure out what they would be willing to die for. And then pushing them to that limit.


Dina is now repped by the fabulous Kaylee Davis of Dee Mura Literary Agency.

Everybody go check out Dragon Fire!

-Stephanie Osborn
http://www.stephanie-osborn.com

Interlude: A Guest Post by Barb Caffrey

by Stephanie Osborn
http://www.stephanie-osborn.com

With Thanksgiving behind us and Christmas, Hanukkah, and Kwanzaa approaching fast, here's Barb Caffrey to tell us more about An Elfy On The Loose!

~~~

The Importance of Ghosts in AN ELFY ON THE LOOSE

By Barb Caffrey

When Stephanie Osborn and Aaron Paul Lazar approached me regarding holiday guest blog opportunities, I wasn't sure what to say. What haven't I talked about yet with regards to my comic young adult urban fantasy/romance novel AN ELFY ON THE LOOSE?

And then it hit me. Ghosts. I haven't talked about them, and they play an important part in the ELFY duology (AN ELFY ON THE LOOSE is book one, with book two scheduled to come out in April of 2015).

"But Barb," you protest. "Your book sounds like it has so much going on as it is. It's a comedy. It's a romance. It's a mystery. It's an urban fantasy. It has alternate universes—" (I wrote a blog about this for Stephanie a while back, and it's a good one.) "And now, it has ghosts, too? How do they fit in?"

Yes, AN ELFY ON THE LOOSE has ghosts. Specifically, there's a ghost character named Egbert who takes an inordinate amount of interest in my hero Bruno the Elfy and his romantic companion Sarah (formerly known as Daisy). And it's partly because of Egbert the ghost that Bruno and Sarah have a chance to win the day.


But he's not the only ghost in play. (Nope; that would be too easy!) There are other ghosts alluded to in AN ELFY ON THE LOOSE, including Bruno's parents and possibly a few of Sarah's relatives…and they all matter.


You see, Bruno can communicate with the dead. (Me being me, I called him a Mage of Communication, the shorthand for that being—you guessed it—a Communicator.) And that's why these ghosts can help him out…or at least interfere in his life.


The reason this intrigued me initially is simple: Bruno had no idea he could communicate with the dead before he came to our version of Earth. He also had no idea that he was an Adept of an unusual kind, that his powers were both formidable and dangerous, and that he had many enemies—nor did he understand that the aircar accident that had badly injured him and killed his parents had been engineered by a high-ranking member of the Elfy High Council in his home Elfy Realm…someone who has some rather unusual ties to Egbert.


So here he is; a short, magical Elfy in the Human Realm (otherwise known as our Earth). He doesn't know what's happened to him. He doesn't even know why he's there. But he meets Sarah, he's immediately drawn to her— and she to him—his teacher Roberto the Wise tries to rescue him (with disastrous results), Sarah hides Bruno, a Dark Elf shows up…


And then we meet Egbert. We don't know why he's there, either, as he doesn't identify himself right away. But we know he's friendly, we know he has taken an interest for some reason in both Bruno and Sarah, we know he understands the Elfy Realm (even if we don't know why), and we know that he, too, has power. So he can, indeed, affect the outcome—years after his own death—and he can help Bruno figure out exactly why Bruno is in the Human Realm at all.


Now that I think about it, there are some few parallels between Egbert and Charles Dickens' character The Ghost of Christmas Past. Like Dickens' ghost, Egbert knows what happened in the past. And he wants a better outcome for the living…while they still have time.


Granted, my characters Bruno and Sarah are being threatened by a Dark Elf, a being inimical to Elfys and humans, not their own past as is Ebenezer Scrooge. Bruno in particular is under immediate threat due to Sarah's parents' hostility toward all Elfys. And there's a reason Egbert cares about these two—a pressing, compelling reason that I refuse to spoil.


But there are parallels nonetheless, because in AN ELFY ON THE LOOSE (as in Dickens' A CHRISTMAS CAROL), ghosts matter. Only a few remain able to make their wills be known and their wishes understood, but those few continue to be important and influential.


In our world, of course, the only way a person can matter after his or her death is in our memories. Or, if you believe in the positive Afterlife, perhaps our deceased loved ones can do something there that helps us out in some way we'll never understand until we rejoin them.


But in my conception, ghosts—at least some of them, like Egbert—can still do things to bring about positive change. That creates more drama, more suspense, more surprises…and sometimes, more laughs as well. Because in AN ELFY ON THE LOOSE, some people are so irrepressible that even death itself cannot keep them down.


In conclusion, if you've been looking for a magical, heartwarming, suspenseful, romantic, and riotously funny story—with ghosts—that's like no other this Christmas season, look no further.

Because AN ELFY ON THE LOOSE is here.

~~~

BARB CAFFREY is a writer, editor and musician from the Midwest. She is the author of the humorous urban fantasy/romance AN ELFY ON THE LOOSE, and is the co-author of the Adventures of Joey Maverick series (with late husband Michael B. Caffrey). Other stories have appeared in HOW BEER SAVED THE WORLD, STARS OF DARKOVER, and BEDLAM'S EDGE. Barb is a huge baseball fan (Go, Brewers!), reviews books at Shiny Book Review, follows politics, is mystified by the Maury show, and wonders when her little dog will ever stop doing "the paw trick."  Find her at Elfyverse, Facebook, or Twitter.

Folks, I'm responsible for seeing to it that Barb connected with my publisher to get An Elfy On The Loose into print -- I can say without doubt it is a fun romp! Go have a look, and seriously consider it for a holiday gift for friends, family -- and yourself!

-Stephanie Osborn
http://www.stephanie-osborn.com

Interlude: The Case of the Displaced Detective: The Arrival by Stephanie Osborn

by Stephanie Osborn
http://www.stephanie-osborn.com

This is not your father's Sherlock Holmes...

The Case of the Displaced Detective: The Arrival is a science fiction mystery in which brilliant hyperspatial physicist, Dr. Skye Chadwick, discovers there are alternate realities, often populated by those we consider only literary characters. Her pet research, Project: Tesseract, hidden deep under Schriever AFB, finds Continuum 114, where Sherlock Holmes was to have died along with Moriarty at the Reichenbach Falls. In a Knee-jerk reaction, Skye rescues Holmes, who inadvertently flies through the wormhole to our universe, while his enemy plunges to his death. Unable to go back without causing devastating continuum collapse, Holmes must stay in our world and adapt. Meanwhile, the Schriever AFB Dept of Security discovers a spy ring working to dig out the details of - and possibly sabotage - Project: Tesseract. Can Chadwick help Holmes come up to speed in modern investigative techniques in time to stop the spies? Will Holmes be able to thrive in our modern world? Is Chadwick now Holmes' new "Watson" - or more? And what happens next?

~~~

"...This is a really bad time for me to leave console at the moment, hon.”

Caitlin shot her a hard, annoyed look.

“You can’t be considering it,” she said flatly. “All hell is breaking loose here. I don’t care if the President needed you five minutes ago! You have to stay here!”

“Chill, Cait,” Skye tossed an aside to her friend, phone held absently to the side of her face with her shoulder as she tried to read the scribbled note Timelines handed her, around annotating her clipboard. “I’ve got more to do than I can shake a stick at now. I’m…what?” she said, staring at the note. “Software! Check the focus subroutine! Make sure it’s initiating at the correct point in the program! The last thing we need now is a software glitch causing a delay in timing. If that’s happening, no wonder the induction element’s hosed! Hardware, make sure the circuit’s clear! Holmes, I’m sorry, I can’t make it right now. I don’t have time to catch my breath down here.”

* * *

Holmes listened closely, not only to Skye’s direct comments, but also to her asides and commands, and to what he could hear of the remarks made to her. He covered the mouthpiece with his hand and informed Jones and Smith.

“It appears matters are not going well in the Chamber.” He punched the speaker button on the phone so the other men could hear. Then he returned his attention to the sounds coming from the phone. “Skye, what is happening?”

* * *

Skye watched as her teammates fought with the recalcitrant apparatus. One of the Hardware console members, Chad Swann by name and a longstanding friend of Skye’s, moved into the center of the room to check the circuitry of the monoliths. Skye grabbed her clipboard, flipping to the malfunction shutdown checklist, where she scanned the list, trying to determine the seriousness of their
situation.

Vaguely she heard Holmes’ query, but didn’t have time to devote to it. Still, she managed to find two spare brain cells to rub together, and replied abstractedly, “We’re having a malfunction in the induction element system. We can’t keep it focused…”

“Skye, we need you to make a call! Shut down, or put it in a holding pattern and troubleshoot?” Caitlin interrupted. Skye juggled phone and clipboard, trying to assess the checklist for priority red malfunction modes.

“Holmes, I’ve gotta go,” she said into the phone. “I need to figure out how serious this is—”

“DR. CHADWICK! We’ve got a GRAVITON SPIKE!” Sequencing shouted.

* * *

Smith and Jones watched as Holmes’ expression grew more and more grave as he listened to the sounds on the other end of the line. They heard Skye’s attempt to break the conversation, and Holmes was about to answer in the affirmative when they overheard the exclamation from Sequencing.

Holmes paled as they heard Skye shout, “Chad!! Get out of there! NO! EMERGENCY SHUTDO—”

The line went dead.

Instantly the entire building shuddered hard enough to knock books off shelves and send Skye’s chalk tumbling from its rack on the blackboard, smashing into dusty white shards on the tile. The three men grabbed for heavy furniture to avoid being flung to the floor.

* * *

When the quake subsided, the three men sat staring at each other, shaken. Holmes felt almost lightheaded, his grey eyes wide.

“What happened?” Jones demanded. “Did that earthquake have anything to do with Project: Tesser—”

“Emergency shutdown,” Holmes snapped out, leaping to his feet. “Graviton spike.” He didn’t fully understand the significance of the graviton spike, but from his reading of Skye’s quantum mechanics text, which perforce contained a significant amount of particle physics, he knew what a graviton was, and strongly suspected it was connected to the quake. “I am going down to the Chamber,” he declared in a tone brooking no argument. “The two of you may come, or stay.”

* * *

“Is your authorization in?” Jones turned to Smith.

“Your duty officer entered it into the system when I arrived this morning,” Smith observed.

“Good. We’re coming, Holmes,” Jones declared.

But Holmes was already out the door and down the hall, headed for the elevators at a dead run.

Jones and Smith sprinted behind.

~~~

The Case of the Displaced Detective: The Arrival is available in print and ebook (all formats), and the first four books of the series have been released in a collected ebook edition, The Case of the Displaced Detective Omnibus. Book 5, A Case of Spontaneous Combustion, is a 2014 new release. All of them are suitable for gift-giving!


-Stephanie Osborn
http://www.stephanie-osborn.com

Interlude: Islands, A Guest Blog by Sara Stamey

by Stephanie Osborn
http://www.stephanie-osborn.com

Today I present to you an excerpt from Islands, by Sara Stamey, for your consideration as you do your holiday gift shopping! Also Sara and I have arranged to give you a sneak peek into the cover art for her NEXT book, The Ariadne Connection!

~~~

“Arrogant jerk.” I was rooted on the dark path among shadowed trees, staring into the night, hands fisted as I recalled the meeting with my “host.” I shook my head and pushed impatiently on, picking my way along the twists of the narrowing trail in the gloom, ducking under boughs. Laura had given me “the spiel” about the Caribbean plantation’s history and the restoration of the eighteenth-century Great-House by her employer’s grandfather, but not much about Leon Caviness himself. He was a dealer in rare art, who often entertained visiting clients. Laura hadn’t been very informative about her own role as social secretary for the bachelor’s estate.

Pat MacIntyre’s Cheshire Cat grin floated on the darkness.

I thrust past it, through a curtain of sweet-flowering branches. The shrouded path ended in an open expanse of black volcanic rock dropping away over a steep cliff. A nearly-full moon sailed above low cloud drifts, spilling white light and black shadows over the cliff, repainting the night in stark otherworldliness. Darkness seemed to ooze from the rock itself to absorb the moonlight. The narrow point dropped in fissured fault blocks, giant stairsteps down to the surf. To the right, a sheltered bay mirrored the shimmering trail of the moon, and to the left, the open stretch of ocean hurled wind and waves to crash in white foam against black rock.

Something held me motionless in the wild spot, breathing the salt wind, soaking in the night. The place gave me neither welcome nor warning. I was only an insect perching there. The sheer mass of rock, imbedded in water and moonlight, reduced the nearby presence of lights and cars to a fitful dream.

Almost. I belonged to that smaller, civilized world.

In another existence, I might have thrown off my clothes and danced homage to the moon, embraced the stones and flung myself into the cool arms of the sea, seeking their magic release from my grief.
Turning brusquely back to the path, I stopped short, then dropped to my knees near the rocky cliff edge and brushed a vine aside from a flat shelf of the stone.

A glass jar tipped and rolled over the rock with a clatter and the scent of rum. I caught it reflexively, staring down at what looked like a freshly-severed chicken head lying on a mound of grainy flour. Beside it, a crude face stared out of the stone.

The moonlight suddenly rippled in dizzying waves, my heartbeat echoing in my ears. No, it was a drum, beating out an urgent rhythm, overriding my pulse. The stone beneath me throbbed like a tautly-stretched hide, and the beat shuddered through me, demanding, my blood pumping to its rhythm, not my own. An indignant protest rose up in me, but there was something, some blind force in the night, in the echoing rhythm, that brushed this logic aside.

*the pounding beat is a live being. It takes my senses, the pores of my skin, opens them wide to greedily drink in the heat and the moonlight and perfumes of rum and flowers. It dances my feet to the driving rhythm*

I jolted back from the carving, skin crawling with irrational fear. I shook my head and took a deep breath, let it out. “Get a grip, Doctor Dunne,” I muttered.

Leaning forward, I studied one of the carved stones I’d come here to research. Moonlight and shadow highlighted grooves scored into the rock, a very basic petroglyph, one of the common designs found from Australia to Africa to Alaska. Nose and eyes, an elemental watcher looking out to sea. My hand felt oddly detached from my will, reaching down to trace the lines of the carving. The ancient face almost looked ready to find its tongue and speak.

“Wha you do here?” The harsh voice came from behind me.

I lunged on a burst of adrenaline to my feet, spinning around, startled into clumsiness as I stumbled backwards. A man clutched my arm and yanked me from the verge, a glimpse of boulders pawed by the sea below.

The face revealed by the bright moon was not reassuring. It was broad, black, and scowling. Long woolly hair hung over his brow and down to his shoulders in unkempt dreadlocks. His clothes were patched together from multi-colored rags of shirts and cutoff trousers, and he had thick legs and arms and big hands. A scar ran across his left cheek and pulled his upper lip into a sneer.

“Wha you wan here?” It was a slurred, single-word burst. “You wan trouble?”

Pulse thrumming in my ears, I remembered Pat MacIntyre’s warnings about the violent “Dreads.” There was no place to go except the path the man was blocking. He stepped closer, the whites of his eyes glimmering.

A crooning noise in his throat. “Liddy missy scare?” He chuckled nastily.

“Mr. Caviness is waiting for me at the Great-House.” I cleared my throat, injected some authority. “Now please move.”

“Huh.” A contemptuous thrust of the hand. “You go. Stay way!”

I needed no urging. The man stepped aside and I hurried through the bushes onto the path, fighting the impulse to run, the back of my neck prickling. I managed to retrace the twists and turns in the dark, tripping over roots in my haste. I stopped at the edge of the pool terrace, heart galloping.
Movement and voices inside the Great House, and a muted progression of piano counterpoint. Bach. Intricate harmonies, impossibly cool and civilized amidst the humid air and riotous foliage. Chords spilled through the night, pebbles dropping into a moonlit pond.

~~~

And now for the surprise. Sara and I proudly present to you the cover art for her next book, The Ariadne Connection!

AND -- Don't forget to pick up a copy of Islands by Sara Stamey for your friends and relatives today!

-Stephanie Osborn
http://www.stephanie-osborn.com

Interlude: Fires of Nuala, A Guest Blog by K. E. Kimbriel

by Stephanie Osborn
http://www.stephanie-osborn.com

Today, in preparation for holiday gift-giving, we're going to hear a bit from Cat Kimbriel's book, Fires of Nuala! Enjoy!

~~~

On the planet Nuala, the scam that beguiling free-trader Silver has come to join has just been blown to the skies, along with the throne lines of three separate sovereign nations. 

The last male heir of one throne line, Sheel Atare, is unprepared to rule, but he's quick to seize allies wherever he can—like the beautiful and dangerous Silver. 

Now Silver has to choose: stick to the scam, or get sucked into the struggle to save Nuala—and Sheel Atare's life.

* * * * * * * * *

Mailan had reached the terrace when she heard the crash. Instinct took over; dropping her assorted bundles, she drew her cat knife and threw herself through the open doorway.

A jumbled scene littered the floor. Seeking Sheel first, Mailan found him on his knees, a cat knife gripped tightly in one hand. He had the tip of the blade pressed into the throat of a guaard. A guaard? Glancing around quickly, she saw Jude crouched, both knives held in throwing position, her gaze on—

"Crow?" Mailan's surprise sounded shrill. Vision widened, taking in the entire room. Pressed against the inner door, the off-world woman waited, the color of her face rivaling alabaster. Crow was almost as pale—and confused. He clearly had no idea—

"Seri?" Mailan ventured, wondering if she should speak, and if so, what were the proper words. Sweet Mendülay . . .

"Did you send him here?" Almost conversational, Sheel's tone.

"No. I sent him to the palace to speak to your sisters."

"Did you tell him where we were?"

"No."

"Then what" —Jude, rising now, her exasperation evident— "were you doing creeping around in the bushes?" Her voice easily rose an octave from start to finish, even as she gestured for Mailan to close the terrace doors.

Afraid Jude would lunge at the young man, Mailan quickly said: "Crow . . . how did you ever guess? . . ."

"Common sense. I checked a few other places on my way. Where you spent the night was not important—the current location was the major thing. And unless you went to the Ragäree's retreat—"

The knife pressed closer, and Crow stopped his careful recitation. "I doubt anyone else would guess. I have met you after duty before, Mailan. I knew where to look."

"Why were you creeping around the windows?" Again, that gentle speech pattern, which always meant Sheel was fighting anger.

Crow actually rolled his eyes. "Because I did not want anyone to see me sneaking around the temple grounds, of course. I did not intend for the entire guaard and local enforcers to find the place. Mailan wanted it kept quiet."

"Then why did you come?" There was no way for Mailan to warn Crow that his life depended on the answer to her question. Why Sheel was acting this way was unimportant. To those who knew him, he was on the edge of violence.

"Because . . . whatever you were doing, you needed help. You were—are—a mess, and one alert guaard on an heir is not enough." The youth was completely relaxed as he directed the last to Mailan; he had even dropped his knife, drawn instinctively when he was jumped, if his story was true. If? Could she doubt him? Why had she not confided in him? In more lucid moments she would have known he would read her worry.

"Seri . . . what do you need?" Mailan started, still afraid to move.

"The oath will do."

All three guaard stared at him a moment. Mailan was lost. . . . What oath? Did he . . .

Glancing over at Jude's defensive posture, Sheel drew his steel away from Crow's throat and reversed the blade, holding it point down between them. Crow did not risk looking away; his gaze still meeting Sheel's, the young guaard reached to wrap his right hand around the offered hand and hilt.

"On this I swear," Crow began, the whisper slowly gathering volume, "by life and honor, by blood and trust, that with this oath I will serve the son and daughter of Atare, obeying all words and following all leads, shielding their line and prizing their secrets as Mendülay guards mine own, for so long as they hold to their charge."

Mailan's knees felt weak. That oath—the sharing of oaths, the duty accepted by each at the feet of their Atare, the moment they were chosen to become guaard.

Sheel responded by folding his left hand over Crow's. "On this I swear, by life and honor, that I will take you as a guaard to serve Atare within the bounds of your oath, holding your trust as I hold to my charge—head, hand, and heart of the heirs, now and forever."

The group remained frozen in their tableau for several moments. Finally Mailan moved, reversing her grip on her cat knife. Noticing her action, Sheel sat back on his heels and shook his head.

"No, Mailan. I only ask for that oath once. And you . . . ‘spoke’ . . . for Jude." Grinning suddenly at Crow, he released his grip and added: "You did not have time to speak for him." Standing and turning his back to Crow, Sheel stretched, loosening massively constricted muscle. Glancing at the off-worlder, he said in Caesarean: "It is all right. No one is going to die."

~~~

Katharine Eliska Kimbriel reinvents herself every decade or so.  The one constant she has reached for in life is telling stories.  “I’m interested in how people respond to choice.  What is the metaphor for power, for choice? In SF it tends to be technology (good, bad and balanced) while in Fantasy the metaphor is magic – who has it, who wants or does not want it, what is done with it, and who/what the person or culture is after the dust has settled. A second metaphor, both grace note and foundation, is the need for and art of healing.  Forthcoming stories will talk about new things that I’ve learned, and still hope to learn … with grace notes about betrayal, forgiveness, healing and second chances.”  A Campbell Award nominee.

Get Cat Kimbriel's Fires of Nuada at Amazon, Barnes-Noble, Kobo, Apple iTunes, and Book View Cafe! It makes a great gift!

Happy Holidays!

-Stephanie Osborn
http://www.stephanie-osborn.com

Interlude: Burnout: The mystery of Space Shuttle STS-281, by Stephanie Osborn

by Stephanie Osborn
http://www.stephanie-osborn.com

How do you react when you discover that the next Shuttle disaster has happened...
...right on schedule?

Burnout is a science fiction mystery about a Space Shuttle disaster that turns out to be no accident. As the true scope of the disaster is gradually uncovered by the principal investigators, "Crash" Murphy and Dr. Mike Anders, they find themselves running for their lives, as lovers, friends and coworkers involved in the investigation perish around them. What happened to the Shuttle? Who is responsible and why? Why is the government calling it an accident? Why is someone willing to kill to keep it a secret? And how big is the conspiracy?

They say, "Write what you know," and I did. I finished the first draft and gave it to my writing mentor, Travis S. Taylor...and then Columbia went down. And I found that I pretty much nailed it in my fictional disaster scenario: orbital inclination, incoming trajectory, overflown states, intended approach to the Cape, region of breakup, debris field, I nailed it all. The only difference was a slight extension of the debris field into the Gulf of Mexico off the Texas coast, and this was due to the fact that my fictional scenario was no accident.

And right now, Burnout is on sale in all ebook formats! More, if you buy the print book at Amazon, for a limited time you can get the ebook too, for only $0.99! 

Why is this happening, you may ask? Simple. The December issue of Analog magazine, on store shelves right now, carries an article I co-authored with my partners, detailing our SPEARED concept and materials research -- a concept that was inspired by the Columbia disaster, killing a friend of mine aboard her, and my having just completed the Burnout rough draft when the disaster occurred. 

So in honor of my friend Kalpana Chawla, and SPEARED, which I hope will prevent anyone else from dying like she did, Burnout is on sale until the end of November.

Here. Have a "taste."

~~~

...Overhead, the sky was a deep, rich, star-spangled Prussian blue; along the western horizon could be seen the faintest hint of deep teal. “Lessee…” he glanced at the TV, to the ground track Mission Control was displaying on the big front screen, then looked at the night sky, trying to correlate the two. “She oughta show up… somewhere over in there.” He waved a hand heavenward, in a vaguely northwestern direction.

Conversation in the back yard of the ranch house ceased as everyone clustered together in the darkness, searching the west-northwestern sky. The only artificial illumination came from the TV screen, and the NASA Public Affairs Office Commentator could be heard in the background as he delivered general remarks about the landing.

“…and this is a somewhat unusual re-entry pattern over North America, due to the successful efforts to retrieve the multi-million-dollar Next Generation Tethered Satellite, dubbed NexGen or NTS, which was co-manifested on STS-281 with the Mission to Planet Earth payload, Gaia-1. This nighttime landing will make for spectacular observations by residents of California, Nevada, southern Utah, Arizona, New Mexico, and Texas. Coastal residents of the Gulf States may also be able to observe…”

“Hey, big brother,” Jimmy remarked curiously, “isn’t the commander of this flight an old friend of yours?”

“Yup,” Crash replied, still scanning the star-strewn, blue-black sky. “Lawrence Jackson. Jet. He and I flew in the same squadron in ‘Nam. Been buddies ever since. There’s almost nothing we wouldn’t do for each other—except give up a slot in the astronaut corps.” Crash pulled a wry face.

“Yeah, that’s right,” Ham Carter remembered. “He beat you out for the slot, didn’t he?”

“Uh-huh, he did—only because Jackson comes before Murphy in the alphabet.”

“Look! There it is!” Sally exclaimed, pointing into the western sky, and all but jumping up and down. “Crash! Isn’t that it?” she urged her brother-in-law.

“Yeah, Sally, I—” Crash did a double take and surveyed the blazing spark as it shot through the black velvet sky, then gave a swift glance at Hamilton Carter. “Ham, have they got a re-entry DTO on this flight?”

“No, Crash—I see it, too,” Ham acknowledged, forehead creasing with worry. “Listen… can I use—”

“Cell phone right here,” Crash scooped the instrument off the corner of the picnic table and shoved it into Carter’s hands as he looked back up. “Damn, Jet, get it in gear, old buddy!” he exclaimed with increasing concern.

“What’s wrong, Crash? What’s happening?” Jimmy asked his suddenly worried brother, as the flaming speck, growing larger and larger, flew almost straight overhead. Smaller sparks could now be seen peeling off the main object.

“Dammit! Jet, flare out, man! Shit! Break it out! NOW!!” Crash began shouting into the sky. Tracy, the “fourth team” relief FAO, was frozen, staring upward in shock, and Ham stood stiffly, head tilted back, listening to the cell phone he held to his ear. They all watched dumbly as the white-hot streak shot by overhead and disappeared behind the house, trailing flaming sparks in its wake.

Crash ran around the house to the front, trying to keep the airborne conflagration in view, and the others followed. “Damn, Jimmy, she’s comin’ in hot,” he belatedly answered his little brother. “Jet’s not bleeding off velocity in the roll reversals like he’s supposed to…” Crash paused, horrified. “Not that it looks like it would do much good, anyway…”

The gathered celebrants watched in stunned disbelief as the fireball plunged toward the southeastern horizon, flickered, and burned out.

~~~

Interested? Have a go at it on Amazon, then! (Here's Barnes-Noble and Books-A-Million too, if you'd rather.) Remember, I spent over two decades working in the civilian (NASA) and military (DoD) space programs, and put my knowledge to good use in this book. 

Happy Holidays!

-Stephanie Osborn
http://www.stephanie-osborn.com

Interlude: A Guest Blog by Dina von Lowencraft

by Stephanie Osborn
http://www.stephanie-osborn.com

Today, in preparation for holiday gift-giving, fellow author Dina von Lowencraft will tell you all about her book, Dragon Fire!

~~~

Some choices are hard to live with. 

But some choices will kill you. 

When seventeen-year-old Anna first meets Rakan in her hometown north of the Arctic Circle, she is attracted to the pulsing energy that surrounds him. Unaware that he is a shapeshifting dragon, Anna is drawn into a murderous cycle of revenge that pits Rakan and his clan against her best friend June. 

Torn between his forbidden relationship with Anna, that could cost them both their lives, and restoring his family’s honor by killing June, Rakan must decide what is right. And what is worth living – or dying – for.

The Story Behind Dragon Fire

by Dina von Lowenkraft

The funny thing about Dragon Fire is that it didn’t start out as a book on its own. It started out as a subplot in another manuscript. After writing Call, the first book in a planned four book series, and thinking it was market-ready, I began to query it. And no one was interested. All I got, if I got anything at all, were form rejections. I gathered my courage, read several craft books, and re-wrote it before querying it again. But my second batch of queries had no better results than the first.


Frustrated and a bit stumped as to how to improve my manuscript, I once again stocked up on craft books. A few months later, after reading Donald Maass’s Writing the Breakout Novel and analyzing several YA books with his ideas in mind, I began to understand where tension was lacking in Call.


Unfortunately, I still didn’t know how to fix it -- especially since it would mean cutting about 40-60 thousand words. And yet I wasn’t ready to leave the world I had created and loved. So I decided to pull out a subplot from Call’s sequel and write that. That subplot, about a young shapeshifting dragon named Rakan and the human he falls in love with named Anna, became Dragon Fire.


While writing Dragon Fire I signed up for Jordan Rosenfeld’s class, ‘Building Tension’. Taking this class was essential to my growth as a writer and it made Dragon Fire a better manuscript. I would take scenes from my work-in-progress and apply the lesson to it, improving it a first time. Then I’d get feedback and I’d re-write it again, improving it even more. All of this before rewriting one final time to produce the ‘first’ draft.


Once Dragon Fire was complete, I queried it and got several requests for fulls. In the end, I had the good fortune of being able to choose between three publishers, and I chose Twilight Times Books. And now, finally, I’m ready to go back to Call and re-write it!

~~~

Born in the US, Dina has lived on 4 continents, worked as a graphic artist for television and as a consultant in the fashion industry. Somewhere between New York and Paris she picked up an MBA and a black belt – and still thinks the two are connected. Dina is currently the Regional Advisor for SCBWI Belgium, where she lives with her husband, two children, three horses and a cat.


Dina loves to create intricate worlds filled with conflict and passion. She builds her own myths while exploring issues of belonging, racism and the search for truth... after all, how can you find true love if you don’t know who you are and what you believe in? Dina’s key to developing characters is to figure out what they would be willing to die for. And then pushing them to that limit.


Dina is now repped by the fabulous Kaylee Davis of Dee Mura Literary Agency.

-Stephanie Osborn
http://www.stephanie-osborn.com

Interlude: An Elfy On The Loose, A Guest Blog by Barb Caffrey

by Stephanie Osborn
http://www.stephanie-osborn.com

Like fantasies? Like mysteries? Like comedy? Put 'em together and you have Barb Caffrey's An Elfy On The Loose. Bruno is a young Elfy, a creature from another dimension, and he's been dumped into our dimension with little to no preparation. While here, he encounters young Sarah, a human who is not what she seems, and Sarah's parents, who are not nice people at all...

~~~

Bruno watched Sarah run through the grass while still carrying the backpacks, and wondered why she had so much energy when he had none. Could Roberto have been right? Could she be draining my energy and using it for herself? Although if she is, she can’t possibly know it…maybe she needs training. Although he didn’t know how Elfy girls got their training in magic, much less how a Human girl would get any.

Bruno knew that girl and boy Elfys were sent away to separate schools at the age of twelve. Bruno himself had been held back and home-schooled by his parents, not for being slow, but rather because they hadn’t trusted the school system. Bruno had never been sent to a segregated, all-boy Elfy school until he turned sixteen. That was right after his parents had died in a fiery aircar crash, after he’d become a ward of the state.

Many Elfys used magic frivolously, almost as if it was going out of style, and they didn’t want to use technology. Yet his people had aircars, while Sarah’s realm, the Human-Earth Realm, didn’t. Elfys would use toasters, light rail, and buses, when they wouldn’t use electricity to heat their homes (why pay for electricity if the magic was free?) and only used modern plumbing for elaborate, sybaritic layouts. He wondered if the Humans had those, too. He simply hadn’t had enough time on Sarah’s Earth…he needed to know more!

If the Elfy High Council was going to just send him out, why allow him to be so woefully unprepared? This was just silly!

Bruno rubbed at his head, and frowned. He felt a headache coming on; surely, this meant he should stop thinking so hard. He vowed to ask as many questions of Roberto, providing Roberto found them anytime soon (wherever they were), as he needed in order to make the headache go away.

This avowal immediately made him feel better.

But he still had no idea where he was. He didn’t recognize anything, except green grass, yet he had the oddest feeling. He wasn’t sure, but he thought they somehow had made it back to the Elfy Realm after all, and the not-knowing made him dizzy.

Sarah had stopped and appeared to be weaving on her feet. Bruno jogged the equivalent of three city blocks to get to her, hoping she’d not fall before he made it.

“Bruno, I feel…sick,” she gasped when he was only a few steps away. He sprinted toward her and turned her around; her greenish-white face was alarming. He told her to let the packs fall, then gently helped Sarah lay down on the ground.

“Will you two help me? I need a pillow for Sarah,” he asked the backpacks. Before he could feel too silly about asking backpacks, of all things, for help, a fluffy white pillow appeared in the air by his right hand. Maybe the packs had more power here for some reason? Bruno reached out and caught it before it hit the ground. “Thanks,” he said over his shoulder to the backpacks, as it never hurt to be polite.

He went to Sarah, knelt on the grass, and put the pillow under her head.

He started stroking her long, black hair, just to soothe her. He remembered, distantly, that his mother had used to do the same thing when he was a wee small Elfy and ill from eating some herb he wasn’t supposed to…anyway, he stroked. He talked, mostly nonsense, and tried not to think about the two of them in the middle of nowhere, one very ill and one mildly so. After all, considering Sarah’s sudden illness and his own headache and dizziness, wasn’t it more likely than not that they’d both been exposed to something? He wasn’t a completely stupid Elfy.

“Sarah, hold on,” he said as he continued to stroke her hair. “Somehow, Roberto will come. I know he will!”

“Why are you so sure, Jonny-wonny?”

“Please don’t call me Jonny-wonny, Sarah, or I’ll start calling you Daisy again,” he threatened, smiling to take the edge off his very real threat.

“All right…Bruno,” she gasped, and tried to smile. It was a feeble thing, like to her real smile as a tiny birthday candle on a cupcake was to a candelabrum.

“Don’t try to talk, Sarah,” he soothed, and continued to stroke her hair. This was very like petting a cat, he mused. Except Sarah didn’t claw when she was done with the petting.

He tried not to panic, but he had no way to treat her illness, and no way to get her any help. He felt completely useless, as he had no healing magic…very few did outside of the clerical orders, and even Roberto himself had very little.

He propped the backpacks behind him and asked them to stay put. They did. Then he fell asleep, her cradled on his lap (with the pillow between) and his arms around her. Lost on a sea of too-green grass, with no way out in sight.

~~~

An Elfy On The Loose would make a great gift for anyone -- adult, young adult, or older child. Check it out for YOUR holiday gift-giving!

-Stephanie Osborn
http://www.stephanie-osborn.com