by Sarah Daltry
“I get it. Forget about money. I’m sure it’s awesome.”
“Here you go.” I hand her the Link heart.
“Oh, God. It’s my heart. I left it in your car. I was afraid it was gone. This is great.” She stands up to kiss me.
“Hang on, quick draw. The rest of the gift is inside. Shit. If I’d known I could regift, I wouldn’t have done the rest.”
She pulls open the heart a bit and slides out an ink ribbon. “This is like one of those things you load into an old school typewriter, isn’t it?”
“Yes. And before you start to tell me how stupid this gift is, let me explain. Look,” I point to the old, some would say vintage, but really it’s just old, typewriter on the corner of my desk. I dug it out just for this occasion. Normally, it sits in my closet when I’m home for breaks. “For some reason, I like typing on this old typewriter. I don’t do it all the time, but when I try to do something creative, it helps me to use this thing. It was my mom’s and I’ve had it since I was little.”
“So far, so cute,” she says.
I pull my own ink ribbon from my pocket and walk over to the typewriter. “I want you to have my typewriter. It seems weird, but it means a lot to me, and I just want to use it once more. Then, I want you to take it, so that I can only make changes with you.”
“Make changes?”
“To our game.”
“Oh, wait, I get it. Typewriter and ink ribbon.” She smiles. “You, the master of unlocking. So, what’s the last thing you’re going to do with it?”
I slide the ink ribbon into the typewriter. “I’m saving my game. That way, if something bad happens, I’ll always be able to come back to this exact moment.”
Katie
Damn. He’s so cute. I kind of hate the GameStop gift card in my pocket right now. Luckily, there is one more thing. I give him the gift card and, while he opens it, I ready the box in my pocket.
“Thanks. Maybe I’ll get lucky and meet some hot chick while I shop,” he says.
“Yeah. Maybe.” I take out the box and hand it to him. “I’m poor, too. But, well…”
“Say no more,” he says and opens it.
It’s a small box, the kind people put jewelry in. People who don’t meet at game stores at midnight and aren’t twenty-something. Inside is a thin string. He lifts it and it nearly blows across the room, it’s so light. “It’s-” I start, but he cuts me off.
“Sheep gut.”
I nod. “They don’t really make lutes anymore, but the guy at the music store said that, if they did, this is the kind of string that they’d use.”
He tucks the string back into the jewelry box, places it on his desk, and drags me over to the bed.
“In all that time in the game,” he says, “I’ve always regretted… not being with you.”
I giggle. “With me? You mean to say… as in sex?”
“I mean to say,” he says.
“To Hell with this,” I say, but before I can finish the quote, he’s on me. My few other experiences are forgotten and I let him press me back into the mattress. I know it’s Christmas and his parents are downstairs, but we’ve never been alone, not since we realized this was a thing, and we’re young and needy. Therefore, it surprises no one when he sneaks a hand into my shirt just as his door opens.
“Come on downstairs. We’re making sandwiches and it’s time.” His dad closes the door and leaves us to our disheveled angst.
“We’ll continue later?” he asks.
“Oh, yes. We most certainly will.”
His parents have turned the kitchen table into a sandwich smorgasbord, although there are four of us. I try to load up my sandwich, but it doesn’t make a dent in the food. George, on the other hand, makes six sandwiches. I guess having a growing male in the house means buying extra food.
“That’s a lot of food,” I point out.
“One, I’m hungry. Two, I eat when I’m depressed.”
“Oh? Why are you depressed?”
He leads me down into the basement with the old VCR and we settle onto the couch while his parents make their own sandwiches. “Soon, you will understand. Soon, you will crave the sweet embrace of sandwichy death.”
“It can’t be that bad.”
He says nothing, just chews his sandwich with a sad, Eeyore-looking expression.
“Katie, I’m so glad you could join us,” George’s mom says as she takes a seat next to me. “George’s father bought this video on eBay when George was only eight and we’ve watched it every Christmas since. He loves it.”
George says something, but it’s incoherent through a mouthful of roast beef. I’m sure it’s something he shouldn’t be saying in front of his mother anyhow.
“All right, everyone be quiet. It’s time,” George’s father announces and he turns down the lights. Han and Chewbacca come on screen and then, in the strangest ninety minutes of my life, I see things no human being should ever see or experience. When it’s over, the silence is palpable. George’s parents say nothing; they simply take their plates and go upstairs.
I stare at the now blank TV screen. “People did a lot of drugs in the 70’s, huh?”
George shoves a sandwich in his mouth.
“For once, I think I longed for Lanyon and his narration,” I say. I feel like a small part of my soul has died, but then, George takes my hand and we go to the kitchen to clean up our plates. His dad is already asleep again in the chair. I don’t see his mom anywhere.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers once we start the dishwasher.
“It’s okay. There’s no one else I would have wanted by my side for that trauma.”
He nods. “You do understand… if we are long term, this will happen every single year?”
I sigh. “I better practice eating a lot of sandwiches.” We head back to his room. I look at the door, which has no lock. “Will anyone interrupt?”
“My dad will sleep until New Year’s and my mom doesn’t dare come in here except once a semester while I’m away so she can clean. She says my swords creep her out.”
I glance over at the rack of replica weaponry. “I think they’re kinda hot. I like knowing my man can protect me.”
“Well, if you’re ever at risk of being injured by a fictional character weak to replicas of video game swords, I will save you,” he says.
I jump on the bed and lean back against the wall. I try to flash him a sexy smile, which I’m sure is a little awkward, and I then I just go for it and lift my shirt over my head. I bought this damn fancy bra and someone is going to see it.
“So, you, uh, you wanna make the sex?” George asks.
“I definitely do,” I reply.
Then, as the foreigners say, George and I make the sex. And it’s pretty frigging incredible. So that night, we make the sex many, many times.
CONGRATULATION.
THIS STORY IS HAPPY END.
THANK YOU.
Sarah Daltry writes about the regular people who populate our lives. She’s written works in various genres – romance, erotica, fantasy, horror. Genre isn’t as important as telling a story about people and how their lives unfold. Sarah tends to focus on YA/NA characters but she’s been known to shake it up. Most of her stories are about relationships – romantic, familial, friendly – because love and empathy are the foundation of life. It doesn’t matter if the story is set in contemporary NY, historical Britain, or a fantasy world in the future – human beings are most interesting in the ways they interact with others. This is the principle behind all of Sarah’s stories.
Sarah has spent most of her life in school, from her BA and MA in English and writing to teaching both at the high school and college level. She also loves studying art history and really anything because learning is fun.
When Sarah isn’t writing, she tends to waste a lot of time checking Facebook for pictures of cats, shooting virtual zombies, and simply staring out the window.
Find her online:
SarahDaltry.com
/> Facebook
Twitter
Pete Clark likes writing, animals, potato chips, and cheese. Midnight Riders is his first published novel, although he can also proudly say he finally finished Helix Crashing, the fantasy novel he has been working on for over a decade. In addition, he has written Across the Barren Landscape, a collection of linked Western short stories. He also writes plays, both dramatic and comedic. When he is not writing, Pete tends to ignore everyone around him and obsess over sports.
Find him online:
Wordpress
Facebook
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And now, enjoy this excerpt from
Helix Crashing
by Pete Clark
Brutch decided that now was the time for common sense and logic to be employed, in an attempt to prevent them all from being murdered and/or eaten. “We are travelers from Deckshire. We wish only to pass through your lands.” His voice was powerful and trimmed with authority.
“These are not our lands.” The creature looked around. “This place is a dump. We wouldn’t live here.”
Paramus let loose a short burst of laughter and the creature followed. A moment later the fog itself seemed to snicker with a dozen amused voices.
“Do you think they’re going to eat us?” Barty asked no one in particular. “I feel like they’re going to eat us.” The creatures laughed again. “You guys know that creepy looking guys in the fog laughing in unison does not put strangers at ease?”
“You should relax,” said the central beast, who seemed to be in charge. “We are not violent. We just like to know what goes on in our wood. We are the Zahstrallin. I am Narom and you do not seem like a threat to us.”
Barty relaxed. A little.
Brutch maintained his role as politician. “Certainly we are no threat to you. We merely wish to pass through the fields.”
“You must be rare men indeed.” Narom flashed his jagged teeth. “Not many dare pass this way. And still fewer survive the crossing.”
“Well, if you mean us no harm then we should be fine.” Reikar’s booming confidence felt forced.
“Ah, but there are many things that lurk in the curling mist. We are but those you have seen first. And the fields are long and wide and getting lost is as simple as breathing.” He chuckled softly and the laughter was echoed by the shadows that surrounded them. “Although it is not our intention to frighten you, it is our custom to present strangers with honesty. These fields are dark and filled with those that slither and creep. If you wish to turn around, we will escort you back the way you came.”
“Your hospitality and offer is graciously appreciated but we are in no position to go back. Time is against us and the fields are our only way.” There was nothing forced about Brutch’s confidence.
“Then we will mourn for your souls.” Noram paused, glaring into the eyes of each of the visitors. The hollow blackness set Drake’s bones to freezing, yet only Barty turned away. Then Noram laughed his tin-scarred laugh. “Just kidding.” The fog laughed again. “Although it is dangerous, we shall appoint a guide to help you. Without our help, keeping one’s direction is nigh impossible.” He gestured to the mist and out stepped a smaller version of Narom. At first, Drake thought that the new one was female but that was based entirely on height as there were no other means of determining sex.
“This is Stellan. She shall guide you.”
I was right, thought Drake. It is a girl.
“Stellan is going through our trials of adulthood,” Narom explained. “One of the trials is to survive a catastrophic challenge of some sort. Leading you on your journey will qualify.”
“Great,” Paramus snorted. “I love catastrophe.”
Narom looked to Stellan and a few quiet words passed between them. It was clear then that they were father and daughter. Only a few words could be overheard but “avoid the south” and “listen for Zestian” were among them. Narom turned back to them. “I wish you good fortune on your journey through the silver cemetery.”
“Silver cemetery?” asked Reikar.
“It is what we call this place. For the fog is silver and the dead lie thick amongst it.” With these words Narom turned and disappeared into the liquid silver. A shimmer around them gave them the feeling that the others had gone as well. There was only the travelers from Gideon and Stellan.
She stepped forward. Clearly nervous but determined to be bold. “Stay close, remain silent, and never lose sight of me or each other.” Then she, too, turned and walked onward.
The others followed. Drake was last. He looked back over his shoulder and saw the ever closing wall of gray which sealed behind them with each step. It dawned on Drake that they must be surrounded by Stellan’s village and yet there was no trace of it. There was no trace of anything. Every inch was the ceaseless silver, and they rode deeper into its mysteries.
Want more? Here's an excerpt from
Primordial Dust
by Sarah Daltry
"I don't understand." It’s the first thing I can think of to say in response to my mother's diary. I didn't know she could do magic.
"Alusia said she would answer your questions," Mornir says. "I’m sure she can fill in the missing pieces, or at least some of them."
"My mother killed someone." That fact, amid all of the others, took a while to settle into my mind, but now it’s flashing through my brain. My mother and all of her diplomacy, her grave expressions, her constant reminders of what it means to be a princess. None of these things are linked to this woman whose diary we’ve just read.
Mornir puts the book on the bed between us and takes my hand. His fingers trace the lines on my palm; I feel little comfort in touching anyone right now. The contact makes me think of what we’ve just learned.
"Are you all right?" he asks. His voice suddenly stabs through me, as if, because he read the diary aloud, it makes him an accomplice in the events described within it. I don't want to feel this way about him. I try to turn off my mind and focus on what I have learned and what the new information has told me.
"You said that you took me from the caves per my father's wishes. And something about a weapon?" I ask him.
"He said we had to come here, that what we would learn would give us what we need to fight back."
Mornir looks at the diary; nothing inside of it has helped my confidence. I feel no more capable of taking on my brother, of defending Anara, than I did two days ago when I stood in pools of blood drained from the people of Kooram. All I feel now is loss and emptiness; I also feel betrayed by my own family. If truth had not been such a luxury, Mornir and I would be completing our engagement tour of the kingdom and life would still be what I thought it always would be.
"There is no weapon in here. There is nothing but lies. That is all they have ever given me." My anger is living and breathing as if it is its own person. I throw the diary across the room and it falls to the floor. Some loose papers fall out of the back and blow under the bed. I want to pick them up, but I feel as if anything else I learn right now will not help. I must rest; I can choose how to proceed in the morning.
"Do you -" Mornir starts to ask, but I roll over, my back to him. He reads my signals and quiets. Blowing out the candles, he gets back in the bed. The proximity is awkward, especially with my rage brewing. We do not speak and attempt not to touch, but his arm brushes my back.
"I need to sleep," I say.
The silence swallows us. I feel him breathing and every so often, he accidentally brushes against me, but I can sense his tension as he attempts to keep space between our bodies.
In the darkness, I stare at where the diary was on the floor. The phantom luminescence of its secrets glows, taunting me. I want to hurt it, to hurt my mother, to hurt anyone and everyone who felt that I was too young to know that a rebellion was growing inside the castle walls. Do they know that Eriham is to blame? Do they feel shame? Remorse? Anger? Misery? What forces saved me from his wrath, only to leave me alone in the chill of the memory of
a family and a childhood that was nothing but a cocoon, a sheltering from the truth that would eventually destroy everything inside of me?
Questions numb my brain and the night passes slowly. Eventually, I must sleep, because I remember little else.
***
There is no window, so morning comes without an announcement. I wake, wrapped tightly in the sheets, my body surrounded by Mornir's. In my dreams, I must have clung to him, but I do not recall what I dreamed and I slip from his embrace. He’s still asleep.
I pick up the diary, thumbing over the pages, each word glaring up at me as a challenge. Somewhere in this story are the pieces that will save my family, my kingdom, and my future. It has fallen on me to discover them.
For someone so resistant to the role of fate, I seem to find myself often put upon by destiny and fortune. None of my choices led me to this place; it has been the choices of others that have left me without choices of my own. My mother, in her diary, wrote of choice, of control, of shaping one's own fate, but in her convictions, she has shaped mine instead.
I get down onto the dusty floor, trying not to breathe as the glistening shards of the past bombard my nostrils, and I pull the loose slips of paper out. I decide I should read them with Mornir, since he is now also a player in this story. Again, my mother and her actions have made yet another person a pawn for fortune.
