My daughter was nine months old and in her high chair eating baby oatmeal and peaches when she aspirated. When her head bowed down towards the tray, my husband thought she was just tired and put her in for a nap. Shortly after, I arrived home from work and was surprised to hear that the baby was napping. "Five o'clock isn't nap time!" I said, not in anger but with concern, and I turned away from him and bolted up the steps two at a time.

Lifeless is very different than sleeping. Instinctively I knew to grab her from the crib not knowing how difficult the next few days would be when I saw her blue lips. My husband was right beside me when I looked up for help from a God I didn't know I believed in, crying out, "God please let her live. Take me instead!"

"Start the car!" I said. Both of us ran from the house knowing our only hope was to get to the hospital asap. As I grabbed the car door with one arm, holding on tight to my lifeless daughter with the other, her body jerked forward. She vomited, then cried and her cheeks turned a beautiful color of pink. "We're taking her to the emergency room." I told my husband. "How do we know she's okay?"

The doctor said, "There is a lot of fluid in her lungs. Let's take her to Albert Einstein hospital where they can probe the lungs if necessary . I'll order an ambulance."

Three days later after many tests and observation she was going home with us alive. Taking a deep breath, remembering the offer I had made in that harrowing moment of life and death I wasn't sure if God would let me live to see her grow up. As I write this story, 36 years after the fact, I am very grateful God didn't take me up on my offer.

Go to sleep, Go to sleep,

My sanity, I want to keep.

Your diaper clean, your tummy full,

Oh, my hair, I want to pull.

Your eyes are wide, you're smiling too,

Please, sleep is all I want to do.

I will beg, I will plead, I will cry, 

Your bed is warm, can't you try? 

There were ten items on Coke McDonald’s to-do list on June, 17, but jumping off a cliff was NOT one of them.

But let me go back to the beginning of Coke’s reckless venture into the drug world which was first on his list. Coke had never done anything right so this would not be the first time! He had boarded a cruise ship in Miami and jumped off the lower deck near Anguilla, in the Caribbean. Unfortunately, he had misjudged the distance and struggled to reach the island floundering through white capped seas. It was harder than he thought because he had a heavy money belt around his waist and was still wearing his shoes! He lay prostrate on the beach for several hours until one of the native islanders found him and dragged him back to his small colorful cottage.

“Hey, what’s up, mon?” asked Banjo, the islander.

“I need to find a place to buy cocaine. Where can I get it?” Coke asked which was probably the dumbest thing he had every uttered.

“Oh, mon, I can help you. I have a friend who can get you coke on St. Martins which is really close and I can take you there in my rowboat for $500.”

Both Coke and Banjo piled into the rickety rowboat and headed in the general direction of St. Martins through the rough seas. Soon the patch on the bottom of the rowboat came loose and the boat began to sink. Coke abandoned ship, deciding to swim to St. Martins which was in view. What Banjo hadn’t told him was that the water was so shallow, he could wade in! Banjo sloshed through the water with him and introduced him to his friend, Stubbs, and then left him to go back home.

“Twenty thousand dollars,” said Stubbs. “Meet me in four hours at the other side of the island by the cliffs and I’ll have the coke for you in a suitcase.”

Coke spent the time while he was waiting drinking island rum. Realizing he was too drunk to walk across the island, he paid someone to take him there and drop him off. But no one was there waiting so he removed the money from his money belt and tucked it into his pants so no one could rob him. He was watching a school of sharks from the top of a cliff when Stubbs came up behind him and put a gun in his back. Rather than give up the money, Coke took a flying leap off the cliff, landing right in the midst of the sharks.

Well, Coke never did finish the nine other things on his bucket list.

(This is the first chapter of my novel in the works, Ugly Beauty)

Mirrors. Sierra hated them. Every time she looked into one, she was reminded of what she wasn't. And that was pretty.

     Of course, her parents assured her that she was beautiful. And at one time, Sierra had been naive enough to believe them. But on her first trip to Siris, the huge metropolis they lived on the outskirts of, she realized that she was what they called Flawed.

     And she also found out why they didn't live in Siris. After all, only the richest and the prettiest could live in Siris. 

     And those two words--rich and pretty--didn't describe her family even if you used your imagination.

     With a sigh, Sierra let the tiny gilded mirror fall from her hands to the rocks below. There was a tinkling noise as it broke, and she regretted what she'd done. But only for a moment.

     She shielded her eyes as she glanced at the sun. It was time to go home. Much like a monkey, she scampered down four or five branches and then leaped to the rocks below. 

     "Ow!" she yelped in surprise, as a shard of glass from the mirror embedded itself in the calloused underside of her foot. Hopping around on one foot, she carefully squeezed out the tiny sliver and wiped away the blood.

     She stared at it for a moment, long suppressed feelings bubbling up again. "Yeah, I bleed everything time I look in a mirror," she muttered angrily, tossing the piece away and limping home.

     Sometimes, as she walked, she imagined that she was beautiful and rich, and living in Siris. And she had a boyfriend. But Sierra was too old for that, now, and her hopes of becoming beautiful when she hit her teenage years had shriveled up and died. So had the dreams of living in Siris before Governor Sharon. It was she who had made the first push to "cleanse" the city from "undesirables" such as Sierra's own self. Fifty years had passed since then, and Governor Sharon's goals had been carried out by her successors, Governor Lyron and Governor Petrie. 

     Upon reaching the small, two-story house that she knew as home, she paused to watch the sunset before pushing open the weathered front door and entering into the dim interior.

     "Hello, honey," her mother called from the stove. The greeting was cautious, testing to see what Sierra's mood would be today.

     "It's getting cooler, so that's nice," Sierra responded, heading for the stairs.

     "Yes, that is," her mother agreed. She didn't press for any more conversation, recognizing that her daughter needed some additional time to think things through.

     Sierra's mother wasn't plain, but she wasn't beautiful, either. However, something about the golden-red hair, blue eyes, and the graceful, proud way she carried herself often turned heads. Perhaps she would even have found a place for herself in Siris if she hadn't have fallen in love with a young man, who was both poor and flawed by a huge scar on the left side of his face.

      Sierra wished she'd gotten her mother's elegance and grace, but she hadn't. She'd gotten the same reddish gold hair, only perhaps more red than gold, and her eyes were sky blue. Her skin was pale with freckles, and something about her face was just...plain.

      It was of these things that Sierra thought as she stared out her window. Rheal, her best--and only--friend, had told her to quit thinking about her looks and try and help her parents out.

     "Stop daydreaming, wishing you were beautiful because you're not. And you've got to come to grips with that," Rheal had broken out, at last, a little harshly. "I used to be beautiful until my face was burned in that big fire in Siris. If anyone has a right to complain, it's me, losing everything I knew. But you don't see me leaving at dawn to wallow in self-pity while my parents and siblings do all the work."

     Sierra hadn't really talked to Rheal after that. She knew that he was right, and she didn't want to admit it.

     "Time for dinner!" Keagan, her little brother, hollered up the stairs.

     Sierra started from her thoughts, then collected herself. Turning away from the window, she hurried down the stairs to the dinner table.

     There wasn't much talk. Her father was bone-tired from whatever it was he did at the power plant, and her younger brother was too busy stuffing his face with food to talk. Her mother, ever sensitive to Sierra's moods, just let her have her quiet.

     Sierra gathered the supper dishes and washed them while her parents talked quietly in their bedroom. Maybe about her? She considered eavesdropping but pushed the thought quickly away. What was the point?

     After washing the dishes and drying them, she lingered by the family room to watch her brother play. It was one of the rare moments in Sierra's life when she actually felt happy, watching his youthful innocence, as well as his curiosity at work, crafting impossible stories for his toys to play out. She actually smiled a little as she watched the giraffe and the ant fly to the moon to discover the charm that would make everyone beautiful.

     I wish, she grinned, shaking her head.

     Keagan, sensing her eyes on him, looked at her. "Do you want to play?"

     He asked the question so often, and Sierra had said "no" so many times, she wondered if he would ever ask it again. But he had.

     For a moment, she considered actually playing with him. But then she remembered that she was sixteen. This was a world she'd been shoved out of a while ago. Now it was like she was between two worlds--the world of her childhood and the world of her adulthood. And it was like neither wanted her.

     "Not tonight, buddy. I'm a little tired," she responded, smiling at him. "But maybe tomorrow."

     Keagan considered her for a moment, then smiled wider. "Okay!"

     She lingered in the shadows, watching him return to his ridiculous fantasies, and then turned to the stairs and the haven of her bedroom.

     Emotionally drained, she stiffly lay down on the bed, her sun-browned arms spread wide across the clean sheets. Gradually, as the moon rose in the sky, and her eyelids closed, her fingers worked their way beneath her pillow and closed around the small mirror she kept there.

     For someone who hates mirrors, I sure have a lot of them, she thought wryly to herself.

     The other part of her brain responded It's because you keep hoping that one day you'll look in that mirror and see a different face.

     If only.

Title:Ugly Beauty

Author: Abigail Burchwell

Word Count of Excerpt: 1,105

Genre: YA/Fiction

Age Range: 14-18

Synopsis of Ugly Beauty: Sierra Rosenberg only wants one thing: she wants to be beautiful. After all, your face and your money are what gets you a place in Siris. Unfortunately, she has neither of those. She must learn to come to grips with her reality and learn that looks aren't everything, and ultimately, what true beauty really is.

Why I Believe This Project Holds Potential: Nowadays, a lot of emphases is placed on what you look like and how much stuff you have instead of who you are. A lot of teens are struggling to meet people's expectations of perfection and are left feeling inferior and worthless because they simply can't. It's important for every person to realize that their attitude and their personality is what makes them beautiful, just as Sierra does.

Education: Homeschooled/Private Tutor

Platform: Self-published on Amazon

Website: https://shadoweliteallies.wixsite.com/shadow-elite

Preferred Genre: Science Fiction/ YA

Age-Range: 14-18

Previously Published Works/Experience: The Motto Trilogy Book One: Together We Fight

Article in the Clarion Mirror

Three-year course in creative writing

Currently taking a year-long course in crafting short stories and novels

Likes: Outdoors, running, dog training, writing, swimming, hanging out with friends

Hobbies: Running, writing, drawing, and doing things with paracord

Bio: I've been writing since I was seven, and I haven't stopped since. I've only self-published one book, however, to "test the waters". I come from a large family consisting of four older brothers, a younger sister, a dog, and a snapping turtle. It can be hectic at times, but it's usually pretty fun, and never cease to give me encouragement, inspiration, and criticism!

Hometown: I was born in Hagerstown Maryland, but my family moved to North Carolina when I was three. I have recently moved to Pennsylvania. 

It was the end of the week on a Friday when I answered my telephone. Even before I picked up my phone, I felt that I could feel the sense of urgency to its demanding rings. I considered letting it continue to ring and leaving the office for the weekend, but in a job like mine, I knew that it could be an emergency with one of my psychiatric patients. I really wanted to go home to my cozy apartment and have a stiff drink since it had been a difficult week for me. I pictured and imagined the smell of the warm pot roast that my housekeeper had left in my oven. I hadn’t had time to eat any lunch and was ravenous.

“Hello,” I said into the mouthpiece, trying not to show my annoyed feelings. “This is Dr. Cohen.”

“Dr. Cohen, this is Jade. I just needed to hear your reassuring voice. I am feeling shaky and a little unhinged. The last couple of months have been challenging for me.”

I felt a tremor of concern course through my body upon hearing Jade’s voice. She seldom called me with good news. “Jade, is anything wrong? Where are you? Is your husband okay?” I really hated to ask these questions but believed that I needed to get to the bottom of Jade’s obvious emotional state. At the same time, I felt a little aroused as I waited for her tale to begin to unfold. Jade took the actions that were only ‘pie in the sky’ for me. My admiration for Jade began to increase as I saw her reach for her dreams once again. I could imagine such things but I did not have the guts to follow through. One day, I hoped to let my inhibitions go.

“Oh, Dr. Cohen, I am no longer in North Dakota and I am no longer with my husband.”

“Did you get a divorce or are you separated?” I asked hopefully, needing her to assure me that he was still in the land of the living. However, I knew that this was unlikely.

“My beloved husband, Jim, had a terrible accident. The bed of a truck came down suddenly and crushed him to death. Please don’t think it was my fault – it was an accident. The truck mechanism malfunctioned and slammed down on him. The insurance company admitted that the truck was defective and settled out of court,” Jade promised with muffled sobs. “I am so upset and will miss him so terribly.”

I really did not believe Jade entirely but she was so convincing. I knew that I must give her the benefit of the doubt. And she did sound very distressed and troubled. “Jade, are you all right? I am so sorry. I know that you really seemed to like this husband. Where are you? Would you like to come in to see me? Is there anything else bothering you that you want to talk about?” In my heart, I wanted Jade to be a normal person and I couldn’t help but care about her. She had been my patient for a long time and I felt a connection to her. Her downward erosion seemed to be pulling my values down to her levels and I couldn’t do anything about it. I also was beginning to become sexually aroused by the tales of her exploits, although I did not want to admit my shortcomings.

“I had to get away from North Dakota after the tragedy,” informed Jade. “I am in the sunshine in Miami Beach trying to get back to normal. I need this time to rest and recuperate and can’t get in to see you now. But there is something I need to discuss with you. Do you have a few minutes?”

“Of course, Jade,” I reassured her. “Is something bothering you other than the tragic death of your husband?”

“Dr. Cohen, I am still having feelings of paranoia. I am sure that some sinister person is watching me and wants to do me harm. He seems to be inside my mind, making me believe that he is responsible for the hardships and pain in my life. Is this a just a figment of my imagination or is this really happening to me? I try not to have these feelings but they are beginning to overcome me. They seem to persist day and night and I find it hard to go on with my life.”

“My plan is beginning to work,” I thought. “Soon Jade will be completely consumed by her paranoia. I think that she will eventually be unable to function and I won’t have to take any drastic actions. The course of her behavior needs to stop and I must become the master manipulating his puppet.” My slight body seemed to expand and become more powerful as I took charge of my patient.

“Jade,” I assured her, “if you think something is so, it is true in your mind. You must avoid the conduct that brings on your paranoia. It might be reaching the time that you need to take yourself away from the world to a place where you can be helped and medicated. Do you think that now is the time when you feel ready for this kind of solitude and peace from your thoughts?” I smiled as I thought of having Jade in my complete control where she would have no choice but to cater to my every whim. “Yes,” I thought, “an institution would be perfect for her and I could see her whenever I wanted.”

I listened as Jade’s mood completely changed from darkness to light.

“Dr. Cohen, I am fine,” she chirped with a lilt in her voice. “I was just feeling some doubts and needed to hear your voice. I feel much better now. Thanks for helping me and talking to me. I will keep in touch with you.” She had dismissed me summarily, as if my advice had no merit.

Hearing the phone disconnect, I held the phone in my hand, unable to put it down. I was overcome by a feeling of apprehension. I was angry that she did not listen to my advice. A chill convulsed my body but I knew that I could do no more. Maybe in the future, Jade would be more amenable to my suggestions. If not, I would have to do whatever I could to stop her. I really did not want to do what I feared would be necessary.

_____________________________________________________________________

Title:  Jade Murder Without Remorse

Genre: Psychological Thriller 

Age Range:  Adult from 18 to 80

Word Count this write: 1100 words Book Word Count 64987 words

Author Name:  Pen Name: Sari Lantana Real Name: Claire Grebin

Why a good fit: This book would be a good fit because it is an exciting psychological thriller which would appeal to many readers.  It has a very unique twist that no one will be able to foresee. It is very well researched and delves into psychological aberrations.

The hook:  The subject of this book is a psychopathic murderer.  The book delves into what caused her to be this way and is seen through a psychiatrist's eyes. Every murder draws the reader in but the conclusions reached will not be what is expected.

synopsis: Escape into the realm of the beautiful, psychopathic Jade who commands both love and hate as she charges forward in many twists and turns, engineering novel ways to kill her four husbands. Become immersed in the world of renowned psychiatrist, Dr. Cohen, who is conducting a research study on psychopaths, hoping to understand them and prevent them from treading on dangerous paths. The story of Jade is told as seen through the eyes of Dr. Cohen. But Dr. Cohen has a hidden, devious aspect as he finds himself becoming involved in a symbiotic relationship with Jade. Against his better judgment, he finds himself wishing that he had the courage to take a risk and explore the dark side as his patient does. Will he have the courage to step over the line? The suspense mounts to a conclusion that will be both shocking and unexpected. Ride this thrilling adventure into the uncharted future because the ending will prove challenging and out of the realm of imagination of even the most astute.

Target Audience:  Adults of any age.

Bio Platform:  I am a self-taught writer, college educated and have a background of owning and operating a dive boat charter business from Miami to the Bahamas where I saw many unusual situations and interesting characters which made me want to write my first book, Bahama Red, Intrigue on the High Seas, which is based loosely on my experiences.  I now have a second book, Jade Murder Without Remorse, and am working on my third book, Half of Me is Missing, which will tie back to my book, Jade Murder Without Remorse.  My books are published as e-books. I write on Prose daily and am number one on their popularity list so have many followers.

Personality:  I am creative in most areas such as my writing and I also paint and sell my work.  I love adventure and like to incorporate it into my books.  I love to walk, do aerobics, go to the gym and I also like to socialize. I have a love for the sea and often include it in my work.  I am lucky enough to live in a little seaside town which feeds my passion.  I love to research my books so that the reader will become fascinated but not feel overwhelmed by pedantic facts.  I love to fool the reader so the ending will be completely unexpected.

Likes/Hobbies:  I write, paint, sew, enjoy friends, fish, like the beach, enjoy exercise, prolific reader.

Hometown:  Flagler Beach, Florida

I ran my hand through the water, cold as ice, in the predawn gray. Milagra, lying flat on her surfboard, was just ahead of me, weaving through waves too small to notice. I followed her, aching for my moment. We waited. And waited. And then, the ocean took a breath. We rode it out, whooping at the top of our lungs until we were breathless.

Milagra looked drunk on adrenaline. “WOOO! Crys, how do you like mi novia?”

I laughed. She treated the ocean like it was her girlfriend. “Yup, I’m gonna miss her.”

She wrinkled her nose as she bobbed beside me. “Oregon waves are nothing like Cali’s though. El agua es una puta fria.”

Milagra only speaks the language of love when she’s in the ocean. “¿Verdad? Oregon’s waves can’t be as cold as Cali’s in the morning.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Just wait. You won’t know what hit you. You’ll be alright though. You’re practically a mermaid anyway.”

“Really? That’s kind of extreme,” I said, laughing then glanced at the sun streaked horizon. “I should head out. My dad’s already going to kill me for sneaking out this morning.”

As we turned our boards in the direction of shore, something caught my eye - a tail fin silhouetted against the pink skyline. It was gone before I could blink.

“Did you see that?” I asked Milagra.

“See what?”

“I - nevermind.” I shook my head. It was too early for hallucinations.

We didn’t speak until we splashed onto the sandy shore, still breathless. As we stripped off our wetsuits, she said, “I’ll miss this. Now I’ll have to surf with boys again. If you’re ever back in Santa Rosa, look me up.”

“Sure thing,” I promised, knowing I would never keep it.

~

Orange slices waited for me in the kitchen along with a pissed-off Dad. “Today, of all days, you had to go surfing?” he said as he wrapped the last of our dishes and put them into a box.

“Today is exactly is the day I needed to go,” I said, not looking at him as I walked into the kitchen and devoured the orange. “I needed to say good-bye.”

He paused from his frantic, last minute packing and softened. “To Mom or Milagra?”

“Both,” I said. The orange turned sour in my mouth but I chewed and swallowed anyway. It’d been two years since Mom drowned and her absence was still a gaping hole between us. “Why do we have to move again?”

“You know why,” he replied, renewing his frantic packing.

“But I like it here.”

He sighed but at least looked a little guilty. “I’m sorry, mija. I know it’s hard but it’s my job.”

I clenched my jaw then, reluctantly, growled under my breath, “What can I do to help?”

He handed me a broom and told me to start sweeping. Before the accident two years ago, Dad owned a busy antique shop in Vallejo, our hometown. After her death, he decided he couldn’t stay in the same place she died and sold the shop. Now he worked for an auction house as a roaming antique researcher. They procured cheap, old houses and Dad searched them for old letters, diaries, jewelry, etc, dragging me along with him.

By nine a.m., the apartment was swept and the car stuffed full with all our junk. I threw my backpack onto the floor and slid into the front seat.

“Ready for our next adventure?” He grinned and gave me a cheesy thumbs up.

I faked a smile just for him. “Sure thing, Dad.”

~

The setting sun followed our car as it climbed higher and higher up the mountain. Huge pine trees lined the curvy road, making me feel small and insignificant. Finally, we reached the gravel driveway of an old mansion that sat on a bluff looking over the Pacific Ocean.

“Bienvenido a nuestra casa nueva,” Dad announced with a sweeping gesture as he got out of the car.

“This is where we’re living?” I gasped and stood next to him in front of the magnificent but dilapidated house.

“Claro que si.” Dad grinned and flicked the brim of my Lakers hat, sending it tumbling behind me. “Instead of renting one of those cheap apartments, we’re living on the job.”

“Thank God,” I said, punching him in the shoulder before snatching my hat off the ground.

This was an improvement. For the past two years, every apartment we lived in had the same dirty walls, leaky faucets and broken windows. It was like the buildings grew legs and raced to our next destination. I ran through the front door, Dad just behind me.

Inside, I felt along the wall until I came across a switch. A chandelier blazed to life, revealing a grand foyer with stained, cedar floors coated with a thick layer of dust. With a quick look around I saw a second-floor balcony that circled the rim of the foyer. On the left side of the stairs were twin archways. Rich, chestnut double-doors took up most of the right side of the foyer.

“Mija, look over here,” Dad said. I followed him into the first of the two archways and entered a parlor. It was empty except for a few dusty side tables, some folding chairs and a cobblestone fireplace that still retained some of its former glory.

We wandered through the next archway and found ourselves in a large dining room with floor to ceiling windows. Although it was getting dark, I could still make out the mountains and a slight glimpse of the ocean through the windows.

“This is amazing,” I breathed.

“I know. Check that out,” Dad said, pointing up at the balcony that looked over the dining room.

He walked through a door at the end of the room that opened into a huge kitchen. An old, cast iron stove dominated the room, still gorgeous in spite of the cancerous rust. It contrasted greatly with the modern white sink, fridge and marble countertops.

We crossed back through the foyer to explore the room behind the oak double-doors. Tall shelves overflowed with faded books and Dad immediately went to inspect them. My eyes, however, were drawn to the window and the sparkling ocean beyond it.

After tearing myself away from the view, I ran up the creaky stairs, leaving Dad to fawn over books. I peered into each of the six bedrooms, looking for the one with the best view. Most were shabby except for one that was unusually clean. Some realtor must have attempted to show it off.

The best part though was the perfect view of the ocean and the huge rock sticking out of the water like a giant haystack. The room even had a window seat that jutted out and made you feel as if you were suspended in midair.

“Mija, ¿Dónde está?”

I jumped and ran back to the top of the stairs. “Up here.”

“Ven aqui, come get your stuff out of the car.”

“Sure thing,” I said and threw my leg across the banister. Just as I started to slide, I thought I heard a bird’s shrill squawk.

       My life was easier in 1717, but that damn storm took everything I ever held dear. The world became foreign, hostile and cruel. It had no place for a man thrown through time.

       I was born in Hittisleigh, a small run down town in Devonshire, England. 1689 was known for its cold beginning, and one January night was colder than the rest. Winds were wild outside as my mother screamed in pain, my father at her side. My two older brothers sat in the other room, waiting to be called upon to meet me. When I was finally delivered, my mother wept as she held me. Her name was Elizabeth, my father called Stephen. A single look at my frail body wrapped in wool and my parents chose the name that would one day be placed on my tombstone. From then on, I was named Samuel Bellamy.

       At first it seemed like life would continue in a positive way, but not long after my birth, my mother became ill. Her body could no longer produce milk for me, her arms becoming too weak to carry me. Eventually, her heart gave out and she passed in her sleep. After that, my father turned to whiskey and rum to subdue his emotions. My eldest brother Eric, no older than ten at the time, had to take on a lot more responsibilities than any child should be asked of. My father was in no shape to raise me, so Eric did it instead.

       He would milk the neighbor's Jersey cow and pour it into a leather pouch, putting a slit in the bottom and cover it with linen to create a barrier for my tiny lips to wrap around. He dressed me in his old clothes, too large for my infant body but still better than shivering through the nights with nothing. My other brother, Adam, was merely two years older than myself but still helped out as best he could. He would talk to the cow about how big I was getting, how helpful the cow was being after mommy had gone to a better place. He even held me a couple times while I drank, telling me that he would protect me from anything evil. At least, that were the stories told to me.

       My first memory was the summer of 1693 after Eric met a pretty girl named Amanda who was 15, a year older than him, a few towns over. He and our father were talking about marriage, and of course our father disapproved. He had a bottle of whiskey in his left hand, his right holding Eric’s shoulder either for support or to keep him from walking away. With a swig of his drink, our father looked straight into Eric’s eyes while the eldest stared right back.

       “You’re out of your goddamn mind if you think I’ll let you marry.” His breath must have smelt like liquor when he spoke, for when he did, Eric’s face convulsed in visible disgust. He brushed his father’s hand off his shoulder before responding, a thing we rarely did while our father was drunk.

       After clearing his throat, he once again met his father’s gaze. “It’s my life, you can’t control it.” A flash of movement happened and our father’s hands were gripping Eric’s collar hard, tightening it around his neck in an uncomfortable way. I felt the urge to intervene, but I knew I would merely get hurt in the process. With fear in my body, I just watched the fight take its course.

      Through clenched teeth, our father gave his reply; “I helped bring you into this world, don’t make me take you back out.” He watched Eric very closely, expecting a very specific response from his eldest son.

       “But-” Another flash and Eric was pinned up against the room wall, his pain shown through his expressions as our father held him there firmly.

       The limited control our father had over his drunken anger finally stopped, and his voice became a thunder directed toward Eric’s face a mere inches away from his. “Do I make myself clear boy?”

       “Yes sir.” Eric’s mumble was barely audible, but it was enough for our father to restrain himself and back away, releasing Eric from the wall. Eric felt his father’s grasp disappear from the collar of his shirt, and corrected the shirt’s position on his body before walking away. He strode with granite features masking his face, a brisk movement in his steps as he went to his room. From then on, our eldest brother rarely spoke to our father. When he did, it was always a “Yes sir,” or a “Right away, sir.” It was like the flame within Eric had been snuffed out, but in reality the fight had ignited an inferno.

       A month after the fight, I had awoken in the middle of the night to the sounds of glass smashing and wood splintering. Wiping my eyes from sleep, I descended the steps of our home to find Adam at the base, staring at our father in disbelief. He had thrown bottles of whiskey around the room, shattering them against the walls and floor. The table that used to sit next to a window was now mere planks of scattered wood throughout the entire house. In the middle of the entire mess sat our father on his knees, a single bottle of rum in his hands, still intact. Beside him laid a perfect piece of parchment, somehow unharmed by the destruction our father had caused. Taking a few steps closer, I noticed it was a letter. A letter addressed to me. Adam must have noticed too, for he crossed towards it through the sea of broken glass lying upon the floor. While wincing in pain, he leaned over and picked up the letter, adamant about not disturbing our father. Once back beside me, he placed the letter in my hands and went to his room, biting back screams of pain with every step he took. For a second I just stared at the letter, wondering what it had said.

       Then my legs began to work again, and I walked towards my room in a sluggish manner. Once on my bed, I scanned the parchment for anything I could make out. Eric, like he did with my other brother when Adam was four, was teaching me how to read. Sadly, I had only learned the alphabet and a few basic words. On the page I saw my name, Samuel Bellamy, written at the top. I could also make out a few scattered words like had to go and goodbye. Frustrated with how little I knew, I decided to hide the letter until I could read better. I removed a board in my bedroom floor that was loose from age. Inside, a small space could be reached. I folded the letter with timidness before placing it within the floor, then replaced the board back to its original position. I told myself I would return to the letter when I could, but for now its mysteries were left alone.

       I could no longer feel the beckoning of sleep. Instead, I dressed myself and went down to Adam’s room. He was sitting on his bed wrapping his foot in linen, the glass that was once piercing his skin now on the floor speckled with blood. “I can’t sleep,” I told him as he looked up at me, noticing the awareness in my face. He nodded once and got dressed, then we both left our home through his window. We traveled down the street to the river, oil lamp posts flickering as they illuminated the cobble streets. The moon and stars shone above us, a cloudless night filled with a soft mid-summer breeze. The calm warmth lowered my alertness, and soon we were lying next to the river, looking at the moon through the ripples of water made by the fish under the surface.

       “I want to see the world Samuel,” Adam said as he turned to me, a look of excitement and the hint of an inferno that was found in Eric. “I want to sail the ocean and be a captain. That’s my dream.”

       I looked at him, trying to think of a good response for my older brother. “Will you take me?” I smiled as he laughed at me, his eyes closing and his feet kicking the ground lightly.

       “Yeah, you can come along. I’m captain though.” he said with a small grin.

       “Promise?” I looked at him, the seriousness and hope in my face clear for him to see. He sat up, looked me in the eyes, and swore an oath to me that our dream would one day come true.

       “I promise, Sam.”

                                                    To Be Continued...

Title: The Prince of Pirates

Genre: Historical Fiction, Science Fiction

Age range: 16 - 45

Target audience: North America, Central America, Europe

Word count: 1111

Author's name: Jefferson House

Synopsis: "My life was easier in 1717, but that damn storm took everything I ever held dear. The world became foreign, hostile and cruel. It had no place for a man thrown through time." After losing his mother at birth, Samuel Bellamy is set on a path in his life that no one could predict. Filled with loss, blame, and a beloved to return to, Samuel must face the test of time in order to return home.

     I pulled his pants down and was momentarily terrified by what I saw. I remember seeing a documentary about this once before but never believed it existed for real. Now it was staring me in the face. I had three seconds to make a choice: put it in my mouth or get up and walk out of that hotel room.

     Phuket was disappointingly touristy. So completely different from what I had imagined. My friends and I had finally made it to Thailand and we were staying at a Holiday Inn with hamburgers on the menu.

     We were drinking TsingTao beers at yet another dimly lit and smoky bar, one of those touristy places full of English-speaking travelers. We started chatting with a group of English men that were sitting next to us, one of which was Dan. He was blonde with light eyes and hilarious. Not traditionally attractive, but the more he made me laugh the hotter he became, and the more I liked him. I laughed harder than I thought possible. Phuket was finally starting to look good.

     Dan and his friends and me and my friends decided to go to another dark bar together. We ordered more TsingTaos and whiskey shots. Lots of Thai prostitutes. The soundtrack was one CD, playing the same ten songs on repeat. I was magnetized to Dan; he was one of those people that you instantly felt connected to, someone that made you feel at home.

     After the club, we all decided to go to the beach. It was empty and dark, nothing but the stars and the moon lighting the beach. The waves crashed in methodically, rhythmically. The weather was perfect, warm with just a little bit of humidity. My friends and Dan’s friends, all sensing what was about to happen, said their goodbyes and headed back to their respective hotels to leave us alone together. Dan went to get a six-pack of beer, and I laid right down in the sand the way only a drunk woman would.

     "Let’s go in the ocean!” I shrieked upon his return.

     “What ya gonna wear, your knickers?” Oh shit that British accent.

     “No… let’s just... just keep our clothes on. Come on! Swimming in the moonlight will  be insane!” I jumped up and started dragging him out to the water.

     “But I’ve still got my trousers on!”

     “Who fucking cares! Let’s just jump in in our clothes, it’ll be sexy.” I slurred on.

     I must have looked like one crazy bitch running into the water still wearing my Target dress. Surprisingly he came right after me into the warm water, and we finally kissed as the waves crashed over our fully dressed selves. We dove into the water with our lips locked. I grinded myself against his crotch, and was disappointed not to feel anything hard. We continued to make out, rolling in the sand, the moonlight bouncing off of us. We drank our beer on the beach, soaking wet and covered with sand.

     We held hands as we walked back to his hotel room together. He threw me on the bed and kissed me, hard and deep. His warm tongue was so deep in my mouth it sent flutters down my spine. I was drunk, and too forward. I asked if he had condoms. He said yes, and pulled one out of his wallet.

     "Oh, you guys have Durex in England too?" I asked.

     "Of course, dummy," he charmingly smiled, "What do you think we use, Mars Bars wrappers?"

     I laughed out loud and began to go down on him. I really wasn’t too sure what a Mars Bar was but I assumed it was a weird British candy of some sort. I kissed my way down, starting at his neck, then drunkenly kissed and licked his blond-haired chest. I made my way down further to what I was sure would be a hard penis, but I felt nothing. I was disappointed but determined to try harder. I ripped off his pants and boxers and found myself face to face with a real life motherfucking micro-penis.

     I hesitated for three seconds and then put it in my mouth. It was so small. No bigger than my thumb and at first I couldn’t figure out if it was hard or not. It was like sucking a fleshy finger.

     Why wouldn't he have told me? Wait, did he have to tell me? Life can be so unfair. I was so shocked by its small stature that I just continued to give him head, pretending like it was any old regular penis. He came so quickly and there was so much semen I was shocked.

     I was relieved that it was over. This freaky sexual experience was done and I could go back to my Holiday Inn hotel room. I kissed him and started to put my wet dress back on.

     "Wait, where ya off too?" he asked.

     "I was…uh.. gonna go." I muttered.

     "Oh, no. I'm not done with you yet."

     I was scared to death and unsure of what that really meant. He pulled out the Durex and slid it right on that taut tater tot. He looked at me, and expected me to get on top. I apprehensively tried to slide down on his penis, but couldn't really feel anything. He moaned in ecstasy, and I figured I should too.

     I rode that penis like it was the greatest sex of my life.

     He came hard, (again!) moaning and jerking. For some reason we couldn't find the condom after it was over. We gave up looking for it and laid down, and he spooned me in the kindest way, like a boyfriend. In the morning he woke me up tenderly, kissing my forehead. We got dressed and he walked me back to my hotel room, holding my hand the entire way, my dress still damp. Two whole days later I was peeing when the used condom plopped out in the toilet. Whoops! A fond reminder of all that fun I had with that fleshy, fantastic finger.

The clickety-clack of the Trans-Siberia Railway was equally hypnotic and torturous. I woke up half-naked in my compartment, with a throbbing, two-day, drug-induced headache and a note taped inside my briefcase that read, “If I can do this, think of what the FSB and CIA are capable of.” My thoughts ran to self-preservation rather than the mind-numbing sounds.

So much of my odyssey had been a living combination of Monty Python meets Dr. Strangelove that I had almost forgotten I was dealing with superpowers, real people, and telling a secret that would change the world. I entertained the notion that if I could concentrate, the migraine would dissipate.

I reached for my backpack and pulled out my notes. I spread them on the bed and tried to make some sense of what I learned on my journey thus far. After sorting through them aimlessly for a while, I decided there had to be a system: put each prong of the story in one pile rather than trying to make a single, convoluted epic from four diverse groups who had no idea any of what the others were trying to do. The participants sounded like a bad joke. What if the Soviet Union, the US, a small European prince and an angelic African leader were all trying to save their countries at the same time?

The first portion of the story came from the data I had collected about the Russians-Soviets, as they were known at the time. I’d uncovered a lot of information about the inner-circle of the Kremlin. I read it and re-read it, unable to believe what I knew from experience was true. There was no way these megalomaniacal buffoons and paranoid apparatchiks could have run an empire that spanned major parts of three continents.

As was always the case, the worker bees were the competent ones, brave and able to work under pressure. Much of my information had come from former KGB operatives who had been involved all those years ago,

Damn, I kept thinking during the five-thousand-mile journey each way from St. Petersburg to Vladivostok, this can’t be true.

My piles of notes kept shifting with the movement of the train on antiquated tracks. I grumbled and stood, opening the door of my compartment to recapture the ones that slipped under the door.

A beautiful conductor bent over to help pick them up, and her skirt rode up to show spectacular legs. She smiled as she handed me the stack of papers. I struggled to remember my rudimentary Russian, finding her beauty distracting. “Are you writing a book?” she asked me with a brilliant smile.

Oh shit, had she read my notes? I swallowed against the sudden dryness in my throat. “No, I’m helping with some research for a university.”

“How interesting,” her eyes sparkled.

The train shimmied, and she fell into me. I wrapped an arm around her to steady her, or so I told myself. Her smile grew to almost feline proportions. Man, this was more of a test than any other I had thus far. I couldn’t cheat on my girlfriend. More importantly, no matter how cute she was, I couldn’t let this conductor see what I was doing. For all I knew, she could be FSB.

“Th-th-thanks. I need to get back to work,” I said, releasing her and clutching the notes to my chest.

“If I see your papers in the corridor again, I’ll knock on your door,” she smiled and walked away and into the next car.

I closed the door, sat on my small chair, and took a deep breath. Looking in the cabinet for water, I discovered only a bottle of vodka. I drank it straight from the bottle like a true Russian.

Fortified by the liquor, I returned to my review, starting on the next stack of notes: the scant of information referencing the United States. As I read through it, I couldn’t help but laugh. Doonesbury wasn’t a cartoon. It was a documentary.

I gagged on my next slug of cheap vodka. The idiots in charge of the United States were every bit as crazy as the Soviets.

I found that the American team left a land of Victoria’s Secret, Monday Night Football, and shopping malls for Russia, a country of perpetual gray skies, no hot water, and umbrella-wielding babushkas. The KGB was omnipresent, and the Americans could be shipped off to enjoy the Siberian winter if they were caught. Hell, if someone caught them, being sent to Siberia would have been downright lenient. I doubted any of the Americans would have made it to the next street corner. Stealing Soviet national secrets was understandable during the Cold War. But how could anyone have come up with this crazy plan?

I understood why the world’s superpowers were so frustrated and willing to try anything, but their plans weren’t what really ended the Cold War. In the geopolitical world, as in the real world, accidents often create the greatest results. I needed more vodka and sucked down a third of the bottle in one swig.

My notes blurred, and my head spun as I considered the two men central to my journey. The key players in this farce couldn’t be more different. No amount of vodka could possibly make this make any sense, but I had met them and knew all of this was real. Insane, wild, crazy, but real.

Of course, I had to change the names of countries other than America and the USSR. The names of the players had to change, also. For my own safety and the safety of everyone involved.

The next player in this mad story was President Mbangu of Madibu, who has often been considered a living saint. Hell, he’s known as The Great Man throughout the world. During a time when Africa suffered through brutal civil wars, dictatorships, corruption, and economic unrest, his idyllic island nation was poor and happy. He was a much better man than I ever could hope to be. However, his nation’s successes were waning and he had to come up with a way to turn Madibu’s fortunes quickly or chaos could ensue.

Although it was against his better angels, he tricked the U.S. and U.S.S.R., but no one lost, and his people benefitted greatly. How could he ever know that his beaches, hotels, a cargo/cruise ship port, rhesus monkeys and new-found libation production would help end the Cold War?

Mbangu’s friend, and polar opposite, was Prince Claude of Luxenstein. All anyone needed to know about him was his nickname: The Pied Piper of Pussy. As outrageous as it may sound, it was a gross understatement of his life. Casanova was a virgin compared to the Pied Piper, and the Pied Piper was real. He was a one-man good year for casinos around the world. But this time he had gone too far, he only had a short time to fix it or his fairytale nation would be gobbled up as a province of France or Belgium to protect the public from his excesses. His family’s five-century-old principality would be history. He couldn’t hold back. If he had to be dangerous and crazy, so be it. Who would take him seriously anyway? So, he jumped in full force, hoping he would succeed against all the odds.

The last notes I organized before putting them back in my briefcase for the evening were the perfect ending point for the night. They came from Petey, an eighty-five-year-old former pit boss in Vegas, who had seen the Pied Piper in his wildest days.

“You gotta promise me one thing,” Petey had told me.

“What’s that?”

“If you find out the real story before I die, you gotta tell me.”

“Absolutely.”

A huge smile lit his wrinkled, ancient face, “When you come to tell me, make sure I give you my will first.”

“Why?”

“Because when I hear what he did, I’ll probably laugh my ass into the big one. It’ll be a helluva way to go. Die with a smile on my face. Man, I haven’t been this excited since that hooker in ’83. You’ve made this old man very happy. I’ve got something to look forward to now. Thank the Pied Piper for me.”

“You’ve got it, Petey,” I said with a snicker.

Perfect. I let the vodka and clickety-clack of the train put me to sleep. I smiled to myself with that one last thought.

When your kid asks, “How did the Cold War really end, daddy?” You can tell him, “This is how. Don’t believe what you read in the history books. Sit back and read the real story.”