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    Twisted Shorties II
    Twisted Shorties II
    Twisted Shorties II
    Ebook581 pages6 hours

    Twisted Shorties II

    By A. F. Stewart and Pam Brittain

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    About this ebook

    Back again, those writers from the late, lamented website Gather.com are bringing readers another book of peculiarity, a second anthology full of poems and stories to please and entertain. Twisted Shorties II is packed with romance, sci-fi, fantasy and horror, and spills over with wonderful fiction and poetry that will intrigue and delight. This time around, fifty authors grace the pages, each one bringing a unique and engaging voice to charm readers. They will take you to other worlds, both in space and fantasy, send chills down your spine with tingling tales of horror, tug the heartstrings with poignant poetry and even sweep you off your feet with romance.
    So come on in and check out the talented authors of Twisted Shorties II, including Patricia Gilliam,(author of The Hannaria Series), A. F. Stewart, (author of Reflections of Poetry, Gothic Cavalcade, and Ruined City), Sheila Deeth, (author of Divide by Zero, Flower Child, Black Widow, and Refracted), Barbary Chaapel, (author of Estuary, No Name Harbor and Journey of the Snow Goose), Tracy Fabre, (author of Evan's Castle, Reasons, Sending Rupert Home and Callie By The Bay), Douglas Westberg, (author of The Depressed Guy's Book of Wisdom), and Aaron Paul Lazar, (author of the Gus LeGarde Mysteries, Sam Moore Mysteries, and the Tall Pines Mysteries).

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherA. F. Stewart
    Release dateJun 25, 2013
    ISBN9781301269365
    Twisted Shorties II
    Author

    A. F. Stewart

    A steadfast and proud sci-fi and fantasy geek, A. F. Stewart was born and raised in Nova Scotia, Canada and still calls it home. The youngest in a family of seven children, she always had an overly creative mind and an active imagination. She favours the dark and deadly when writing—her genres of choice being dark fantasy and horror—but she has been known to venture into the light on occasion. As an indie author she’s published novellas and story collections, with a few side trips into poetry and non-fiction.

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      Book preview

      Twisted Shorties II - A. F. Stewart

      FOREWORD

      A. F. STEWART

      So here we are right smack in the middle of the second book of Twisted Shorties. (Yes, we were crazy enough to do another one, this time with more stories and poems). I’d like to take a moment to thank our hardworking editors, Len Maxwell, John Beck and Greg Schiller, our Chief Wrangler of Writers, Pam Brittain, and our talented cover artist, James Terrell. These guys do all the heavy lifting, I'm just in charge of the clean-up.

      Once again, writers that share and scribble over at Gather.com came together and decided to collaborate on an anthology. Either we're gluttons for punishment, or we had a ball writing the first one (sometimes I do wonder which). More people jumped on board, we allotted more time for putting the book together, and then as we neared the end... something happened.

      You see, as we publish this book, Gather is going through a crisis. Major technical snags occurred when new owners took over, and the website is now on life support. Hopefully, this will sort itself out and the Gather writers can carry on there as we have, but if not we will continue our journeys elsewhere, still bringing our readers stories. Whatever the future holds, we will always be writers. We may have to relocate, but we will be out there.

      Now on to some of our authors. This time around, we have returning favourites, like Tracy Fabre, Doug Westberg, Barbary Chaapel, Patricia Gilliam, and Sheila Deeth as well as Twisted Shorties newcomers. Writers such as mystery author Aaron Paul Lazar, the talented David Wainland, skilled poets Franklin Newman, Irina Dimitric and Elsie Duggan, have all joined in on the festive fandango.

      So turn the page and begin reading...

      CONTENTS by Authors’ Names

      A. F. Stewart

      Foreword

      The Paranormal Assistant Agency

      In the Mirror

      A Tale Told in Winter

      The Rising

      Song

      A.W. Sprague II

      Weird Alley Radio

      Aaron Paul Lazar

      It’s Over

      Response to It’s Over

      Alice Grimes

      The Mystery of One

      I’ve Been Wondering

      What Manner of Man Is This?

      Ashleigh Spurgeon

      Perfectly Terrible

      Happily Never After

      Reflection

      Barbary Chaapel

      Two Spiders Go A Sailing

      Fruit Flies Line Dancing

      The Language of August

      Bernard M. Coldwell

      A Street dog called Apooch

      Cool Down Period

      Arm an eye jacket

      Death glow

      Green Grey Streaks

      Boris Glikman

      Amerika in the Sky (In Memoriam)

      The mePhone

      The Curious Story of Frank and his Friend Mr. Stims, The Hydrophobe

      The Caterpilion

      Clifford Neal

      Frozen in Time

      David Wainland

      Work Will Set You Free

      The Temporal Rocker

      Debbie Whittemore

      Civilization Rises

      The Long Drive

      She Thinks Too Much

      Doug Westberg

      Egostatic Fluffery

      Limericks

      Double Dactyls

      My (Near-Fatal) Brush With Embarrassment

      Cantare Pater Noster

      Douglas Raymond Rose

      An Immigrant’s Grateful Grandson

      Elsie Duggan

      The Dance

      The Veteran And His Wife

      Now I Lay Me Down

      There’s No Place Like Home

      Awestruck

      Franklin Newman

      The Phantom of the Holidays

      The Appropriate Christmas Parade

      The Orc Paladin’s Wife

      By Her Side

      Temptation

      Greg Schiller

      Honest Harry

      The Smart House

      Irina Dimitric

      The Girl with Dark Hair

      To Tell you the Truth

      Foresight

      Sweet and Sour

      There is no Rose without a Thorn

      James Fox

      Sergeant Gus And The Day Of Joy

      Staremaster

      Zuk And Zub – A Fable For Our Time

      Jan Hersh

      My Daily Prayer

      Janice Farnsworth

      The Knotty Ottoman

      Buffy Bonanza Style

      Jeanne Clarke

      If We Had the Chance to do it All Again

      Jennifer Lafferty

      Spring Flowers

      Joann B

      The Thief

      John Beck

      Exasperation

      The Unicorn

      Crossing the Bar—a glossa on a stanza by Alfred Lord Tennyson

      Karen H. Vaughan

      To the Moon Alice

      Kevin A. Ewing

      The Cockroach Shuffle

      Len Maxwell

      Harold Loses

      Marvin Finds a Job

      Regifting Uncle Mort

      Fairies Without Wings

      Liz Husebye Hartmann

      Summer’s End

      Dr. Seuss Meets Mother Goose

      The Cost of Acceptance

      And On the Fourth Day, There Was Nothing

      Good Enough for Moses (For American Folk Artist Grandma Moses)

      Lord Gregory

      Interview with Death

      Fear of the Living (Based on a True Story)

      M. Bradley McCauley

      Doorways to the Future

      Taking Grandma Home

      Magi

      Have You Seen My Love?

      Dying in the Snow

      Stranger in the Mist

      Where the Wild Dogs Howl

      Whispers on the Wind

      Michael B. Fishman

      The Burning House

      The West Side: A One Minute Play

      Michael David Anderson

      Rusty

      To the Hall of Time

      Michael Robert Dyet

      Saint Jude

      Ms Lee P.

      Steampunk Grandma and the Clockwork Cat

      Steampunk Grandma and the Olympics

      The Second Mouse Gets the Cheese. This is usually True.

      Busy Day

      Washing Dishes

      Pam Brittain

      Mary Fairy

      Gramma and the Skunk

      The Dawning of the Aged

      Catlin

      Pat Moore

      Dear Credit Department

      Walter

      Conversations with my Daughter

      The Second-Class Railroad

      A Holiday, Somewhere in the World

      Patricia Gilliam

      The Hannaria Series: We Come in Peace…Sort of

      Peter Rogerson

      The Expectant Virgin

      The Reverend Josiah Pyke’s Judgement

      Priya Patel

      Deep in love

      A morning new

      I think of you

      The Lord is my Shepherd

      Just you and I

      R C Larlham

      Arizona Phoenix and the 4th Haboob

      Stardrive Engine for Sale – Cheap

      God’s in His Heaven… and there are People Here Too!

      Should a Ghost Meet a Ghost A’comin’ thru th’ Rye

      Tiny Jets

      René Allen

      HouseCapades

      Richard Lynn Livesay

      My Lady

      Gotchu

      Broken Promise

      Cries The Beloved

      Sheila Deeth

      Tran

      Cupid’s Arrow

      Distracted

      Wake me up when it’s over

      Valentine Hearts

      Stirling Davenport

      Agent Mengon-60 On the Case

      Terry McDermott

      King Danny O’Beam

      Sky Blue Rooster

      Reindeer Sing Noel

      A King’s Freedom

      The Lifespan of a Pencil

      Tracy Fabre

      Dental Mental

      Farmer’s Delight

      The Pudding And I

      To the PamMobile!

      Vicki Lynn

      The Giant of Ten Feet Tall

      The Haunted Bedroom

      William Earl Estes-Dotani

      Glad To Be Now

      CONTENTS by Category

      Romance

      The Phantom of the Holidays

      Franklin Newman

      Summer’s End

      Liz Husebye Hartmann

      My Lady

      Richard Lynn Livesay

      A Holiday, Somewhere in the World

      Patrick Moore

      The Girl with Dark Hair

      Irina Dimitric

      The Mystery of One

      Alice Grimes

      The Dance

      Elsie Duggan

      The Veteran And His Wife

      Elsie Duggan

      HouseCapades

      Rene Allen

      Sci-Fi

      Harold Loses

      Len Maxwell

      Catlin

      Pam Brittain

      Arizona Phoenix and the 4th Haboob

      R C Larlham

      Stardrive Engine For Sale – Cheap

      R C Larlham

      Gotchu

      Richard lynn livesay

      Agent Mengon-60 On the Case

      Stirling Davenport

      Frozen in Time

      Clifford Neal

      Steampunk Grandma and the Clockwork Cat

      Ms Lee P.

      Steampunk Grandma and the Olympics

      Ms Lee P.

      The Hannaria Series: We Come in Peace…Sort of

      Patricia Gilliam

      Work Will Set You Free

      David Wainland

      The Temporal Rocker

      David Wainland

      Amerika in the Sky (In Memoriam)

      Boris Glikman

      Tran

      Sheila Deeth

      The Curious Story of Frank and his Friend Mr. Stims, The Hydrophobe

      Boris Glikman

      Children’s Stories

      Marvin Finds a Job

      Len Maxwell

      Dr. Seuss Meets Mother Goose

      Liz Husebye Hartmann

      The Second Mouse Gets the Cheese. This is usually True.

      Ms Lee P.

      Mary Fairy

      Pam Brittain

      The Caterpilion

      Boris Glikman

      Humor

      Honest Harry

      Greg Schiller

      Exasperation

      John Beck

      Regifting Uncle Mort

      Len Maxwell

      Gramma and the Skunk

      Pam Brittain

      Egostatic Fluffery

      Doug Westberg

      Limericks

      Doug Westberg

      Double Dactyls

      Doug Westberg

      My (Near-Fatal) Brush with Embarrassment

      Doug Westberg

      The Appropriate Christmas Parade

      Franklin Newman

      The Orc Paladin’s Wife

      Franklin Newman

      By Her side

      Franklin Newman

      The CockroachShuffle

      Kevin A. Ewing

      Dear Credit Department

      Pat Moore

      Walter

      Pat Moore

      Conversations with My Daughter

      Pat Moore

      To Tell You the Truth

      Irina Dimitric

      Sergeant Gus And The Day Of Joy

      James Fox

      Staremaster

      James Fox

      Zuk And Zub – A Fable For Our Time

      James Fox

      Cupid’s Arrow

      Sheila Deeth

      Distracted

      Sheila Deeth

      Dental Mental

      Tracy Fabre

      Farmer’s Delight

      Tracy Fabre

      The Pudding And I

      Tracy Fabre

      To the PamMobile!

      Tracy Fabre

      The Knotty Ottoman

      Janice Farnsworth

      Fantasy

      The Paranormal Assistant Agency

      A.F. Stewart

      In the Mirror

      A.F. Stewart

      A Tale Told in Winter

      A.F. Stewart

      Fairies Without Wings

      Len Maxwell

      The Unicorn

      John Beck

      The Dawning of the Aged

      Pam Brittain

      God’s in His Heaven… and there are People here Too!

      R C Larlham

      The Thief

      Joann B

      To the Moon Alice

      Karen H. Vaughan

      Foresight

      Irina Dimitric

      The Second-Class Railroad

      Pat Moore

      The Giant of Ten Feet Tall

      Vicki Lynn

      Interview with Death

      Lord Gregory

      Now I Lay Me Down

      Elsie Duggan

      The mePhone

      Boris Glikman

      The Burning House

      Michael B. Fishman

      Horror

      The Rising

      A.F. Stewart

      The Cost of Acceptance

      Liz Husebye Hartmann

      And On the Fourth Day, There Was Nothing

      Liz Husebye Hartmann

      Should a Ghost Meet a Ghost A’comin’ thru th’ Rye

      R C Larlham

      Rusty

      Michael David Anderson

      There’s No Place Like Home

      Elsie Duggan

      Fear of the Living (Based on a True Story)

      Lord Gregory

      Wake me up when it’s over

      Sheila Deeth

      Valentine Hearts

      Sheila Deeth

      General Fiction

      The Smart House

      Greg Schiller

      The Expectant Virgin

      Peter Rogerson

      The Reverend Josiah Pyke’s Judgment

      Peter Rogerson

      Spring Flowers

      Jennifer Lafferty

      King Danny O’Beam

      Terry McDermott

      Doorways to the Future

      M. Bradley McCauley

      Taking Grandma Home

      M. Bradley McCauley

      The Haunted Bedroom

      Vicki Lynn

      Saint Jude

      Michael Robert Dyet

      It’s Over

      Aaron Paul Lazar

      Response to It’s Over

      Aaron Paul Lazar

      Perfectly Terrible

      Ashleigh Spurgeon

      Weird Alley Radio

      A.W. Sprague II

      The West Side: A One Minute Play

      Michael B. Fishman

      Buffy Bonanza Style

      Janice Farnsworth

      If We Had the Chance to do it All Again

      Jeanne Clarke

      Poetry

      Have you Seen My Love?

      Magi

      Dying in the Snow

      Magi

      Stranger in the Mist

      Magi

      Where the Wild Dogs Howl

      Magi

      Whispers on the Wind

      Magi

      Crossing the Bar – a glossa on a stanza by Alfred Lord Tennyson

      John Beck

      Song

      A.F. Stewart

      Temptation

      Franklin Newman

      Two Spiders Go A Sailing

      Barbary Chaapel

      Fruit Flies Line Dancing

      Barbary Chaapel

      The Language of August

      Barbary Chaapel

      Good Enough for Moses (For American Folk Artist Grandma Moses)

      Liz Husebye Hartmann

      An Immigrant’s Grateful Grandson

      Douglas Raymond Rose

      Tiny Jets

      R C Larlham

      To the Hall of Time

      Michael David Anderson

      Sky Blue Rooster

      Terry McDermott

      Reindeer Sing Noel

      Terry McDermott

      A King’s Freedom

      Terry McDermott

      The Lifespan of a Pencil

      Terry McDermott

      Broken Promise

      Richard Lynn Livesay

      Cries the Beloved

      Richard Lynn Livesay

      My Daily Prayer

      Jan Hersh

      Sweet and Sour

      Irina Dimitric

      There is no Rose without a Thorn

      Irina Dimitric

      A Street Dog Called Apooch

      Bernard M. Coldwell

      Cool Down Period

      Bernard M. Coldwell

      Arm an Eye Jacket

      Bernard M. Coldwell

      Death Glow

      Bernard M. Coldwell

      Green Grey Streaks

      Bernard M. Coldwell

      Busy Day

      Ms Lee P.

      Washing Dishes

      Ms Lee P.

      Civilization Rises

      Debbie Whittemore

      The Long Drive

      Debbie Whittemore

      She Thinks Too Much

      Debbie Whittemore

      Happily Never After

      Ashleigh Spurgeon

      Reflection

      Ashleigh Spurgeon

      Deep in love

      Priya Patel

      A morning new

      Priya Patel

      I think of you

      Priya Patel

      The Lord is my Shepherd

      Priya Patel

      Just you and I

      Priya Patel

      Awestruck

      Elsie Duggan

      Glad To Be Now

      William Earl Estes-Dotani

      I’ve Been Wondering

      Alice Grimes

      What Manner of Man Is This?

      Alice Grimes

      Cantare Pater Noster

      Doug Westberg

      Romance

      The Phantom of the Holidays

      By Franklin Newman

      The flat is beautiful, decorated perfectly for Christmas.

      It is a studio apartment, on the second floor.

      It is the winter solstice tonight.

      The marked off days of the calendar say so.

      A woman in a pastel rose dress weeps,

      over the arm of her green leather couch,

      as if it were her therapist.

      On the opposite side of her couch is a newspaper.

      Down on the floor is an engagement ring

      and a photograph of a not all that handsome man.

      The newspaper has been X-ed out with purple lipstick.

      Man shot saving a child at a bank robbery.

      And so she cries, wrapped in a blanket of black.

      And the lights in her house come only from outside.

      The window is open, and the holiday lights

      from the neighbors intrude on her dark lamentations.

      These intrusive lights are as unwelcome

      as the blissfully unaware carolers below,

      or as would be the self-inclusion of joy

      in the greatest of Dickinson poems.

      Entering through the window

      was a woman in a robe of green,

      with silver spirals and a lavender jacket.

      Crimson hair like wildfire, and a green mask on her face.

      She opens the window, and her shadow falls through.

      Bringing with it literal snow and the biting wind.

      The woman on the couch doesn't notice a thing.

      She cries so bitterly, the couch almost cares.

      The phantom advances to the couch,

      then reaches out and touches the woman.

      Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh, she screams, jumping up in terror.

      Who are you?

      "I am the phantom of the 'olidays.

      Now why were you crying alone in the dark?"

      No, no, no, go away! The woman runs to the door.

      Picking up the ring and picture, the phantom follows.

      With herself in a sweat, and her hands twice as soaked,

      the woman cannot manipulate the locked door.

      So she runs to the cabinet, and pulls out the gun,

      as the phantom continues to follow her.

      Bravely, she fires five shots with the gun.

      With a wave of the phantom's hand,

      the bullets deflect harmlessly to the wall.

      Then the phantom takes away the gun.

      Is this the man who causes you pain?

      the phantom sees the picture, and smiles.

      She creates a wand, out of complete thin air,

      then she taps the picture three times.

      "Beloved, come back to us, on this sacred 'oly night.

      And we will weave a body fit for your soul to live."

      The phantom begins to weave her hands,

      as green sorcery fills up the room.

      Now instead of darkness is green light all around.

      Green snow, green wind, and green leaves fall asunder.

      And the woman steps back, watching the whole affair,

      uncertain, unsure what's going on.

      With a brilliant green flash, the green light was gone,

      leaving only green snow, and green leaves, and the phantom.

      And the woman, of course, and somebody else.

      The man, back in the flesh, instead of his picture.

      Oh, Miranda, he looks at the woman.

      And all she can do is weep again.

      He hugs her, and wipes the tears off of her face.

      I love you, my Douglas, is all she can say.

      "My Miranda, sweet Miranda. We'll have no more tears.

      I understand how precious life is now. Let's get married."

      On Christmas?

      On Christmas. Miranda.

      I love you!

      Miranda broke free, and started to look around.

      Phantom, thank you for your... wait, where are you?

      The phantom is missing, the window is closed,

      and all that is left is a gentle green rose.

      ~~~~~

      Copyright 2009 Franklin Newman. All rights reserved.

      http://chronologist.gather.com/

      Summer’s End

      Liz Husebye Hartmann

      Sonja leaned on the window frame, plump elbows glistening in the late morning sun. Her baker’s cap drooped in a failed attempt to contain her lustrous white-blonde hair, and her cheeks shone with the morning’s labor of baking a dozen fruit pies for the September Harvest festival. Across the courtyard, other apprentices sweated and cranked, catching the golden juices dripping from two spitted deer and a wild hog, and drizzling them over the browning meat. The recent hunt had been quite successful, and further back, towards Shambling Mountain, the smokehouse huffed importantly with additional deer, a half dozen rabbits, and a couple of goats. These last two had been collected as tribute from the young serf, Nikko.

      A frown creased Sonja’s smooth brow. Her Nikko was not happy about the goats. His flock was small to begin with, and he had hopes of a small house on the mountain foothills, with a fair-haired wife and a half-dozen little ones as beautiful as the wife.

      Sonja blushed and clasped her hands, leaving a dusting of flour on her young breast. She cried out as the wooden spoon landed squarely on her shoulder.

      Quit daydreaming, Girl! Red-faced and sweaty, Cook-Mistress Anna glared at her. The day has just begun. She tossed her head sideways towards a wheelbarrow spilling over with spuds. "Treena can’t be expected to do all the work around here!

      Rose! Benedicte! Get away from that dough! The Baron is expected to bring his two fat sons and his hag of a wife, and you know how much bread they eat! Two dark-headed twins, rumored to be of gypsy blood, giggled and ducked as the heavy spoon missed its mark and clattered against the kitchen sideboard.

      Treena rolled her eyes, and tucked a dark curl behind her ear. Her hair was as irrepressible as Sonja’s and between the two of them, they doubted the superiority of the fussy dun-colored caps over a strip of leather wrapped around a braided tress. But they were indentured servants and Cook-Mistress would have her way in her kitchen, including how her girls wore their hair. Sonja picked up the paring knife and joined her friend at the scarred wooden table.

      So, Sonja, is he coming tonight, after Cook falls asleep and the Nobles are well in their cups? Treena kept her eye on the potato she was peeling, because she knew Cook would have her eye on her.

      He promised he would, whispered Sonja. But oh! He is so angry about the goats! I fear some trick of revenge will delay our plans and anger the Lord. ‘Tis only two more years until my release, and then we can be wed proper and keep the good will of the Lord and the Cleric. Not to mention Cook-Mistress Anna.

      Treena regarded her friend with an arched eyebrow. You know he is impatient to have you. Perhaps tonight is the ideal time to distract him, to turn his thoughts from revenge to a roll in the sheets?

      But ‘tis not proper! Cleric Good says…

      Proper is over-rated, Sonja. Will you peel potatoes for someone else’s pot for the rest of your life? She tossed a potato into the iron pot and grabbed another from the wheelbarrow. Don’t make the same mistake I did. Had I not waited, I might have been a Woodsman’s wife.

      Sonja laid her head on her friend’s shoulder, then planted a kiss upon it. He was a fool to not have waited for you. But perhaps you are right.

      ~~~~~

      Copyright 2011 Liz Husebye Hartmann. All rights reserved.

      http://huldermn.gather.com/

      My Lady

      By Richard Lynn Livesay

      passion excelled by beauty within

      your shadow brushes my heart

      as moonlight beckons eternity to begin

      essence sparkles within spiritual fountains

      floating like The Lady of Shalott upon

      cleansing waters from crystal mountains

      paradise gardens grown for your pleasures

      infused aroma of honeysuckle and roses

      in flora your fair form seeks its treasures

      but in the morn awakes with hair like wire

      a pimple upon her nose exposed and lips

      like cracked foundations in wilted attire

      She groans as a nasty toilet bowl awaits

      Dirty dishes in the sink scream, wash me

      mopping floors as breakfast boils with hates

      and yet, I see my queen aglow upon her throne

      smiling as I approach to kiss her soft cheek

      and I tell her how lucky I am to call her my own

      ~

      Romantique poetry and literature relate pure feeling, to love and being loved

      The natural spirit of the imagination sharing transcendental emotions and feelings

      ~~~~~

      Copyright 2013 Richard Lynn Livesay. All rights reserved.

      http://richardlynn.gather.com/

      A Holiday, Somewhere in the World

      By Pat Moore

      I paused halfway along the path. The two coffee cups were hot enough that I had to adjust my grip. For a moment the park seemed to be empty in a manner that only winter could manage: dreary, devoid of people and leached of noise and colour. Then I saw Ian, sitting on the bench.

      G'day.

      He glanced over as I sat down. Thought you were out of town.

      Hardly.

      The bench had only been there the last couple of years. It had been set between the arms of the Resting Tree, so named because of the two huge branches, which, unable to support themselves, had placed elbows on the ground then cantilevered out over the path, forcing people to duck and bow as they passed. Its twisting, tangling limbs were perfect for the children who had climbed on, carved into and sheltered under it for generations. As youngsters we had played there ourselves many times, and the imprints of our own probing toes and grinding heels lingered somewhere in the memory of the wood.

      I handed him one of the cups. Sophia called yesterday.

      Thanks. How is she?

      Good. She's in Portugal. With Paolo.

      Still with Paolo. That's gotta be a record.

      Yep. I took a sip. She wanted me to tell you she's taking today off as well. Albeit in another time zone.

      Always a holiday somewhere in the world, eh?

      Always. I replied, quietly.

      Time had been kind to Ian. It had barely touched him and when it had, it had been to flatter. As is the way with attractive people he was well known, and as is the way with good people he was well liked. But those others never saw him on this day. Always and only for this day, he looked like what he was: a forty-three year old man with a burden of memories, and a friend who understood why.

      It's a holiday somewhere in the world... those had been Helena's words, not his ...anyway it's my second birthday. Help me celebrate.

      We had never needed much convincing. Helena had ruled over us since we had been young. With her grey eyes, olive skin, long brown hair and her impish, imperious manner, we had titled her the fairy queen. She had hated that: she always wanted to be the knight, shining in her silver armour. She had constantly tilted at windmills and nobody who knew her could avoid being pulled along in her wake. Least of all Ian. When his family had moved into the neighbourhood he had been a shy and awkward five year old who had stood on the other side of the street and watched as we played. Helena had been four, and she had marched over and said I'm Helena. You're my friend now. Then she'd kissed him right on the mouth and grabbed his hand and pulled him over to join us. That had just been Helena's way, and if Ian had fallen for her that very minute, well, nobody could blame him.

      We had never questioned why Helena had two birthdays: she was Helena, after all. Her first, real, birthday was in summer and involved barbecues and backyard games and Helena's dad dressed as a clown. The second birthday was in winter and involved a huge roast dinner and a chocolate birthday cake and party hats and sometimes a noisy sleepover. And when she had outgrown her second birthday, she reminded us that it's a holiday somewhere in the world and she was still going to celebrate. She never wanted for company in doing so, especially in Ian. We had all loved Helena; Ian was not alone in that. But he was unique in that Helena, typically wholeheartedly, loved him back.

      The view framed by the branches turned to a soft watercolour as a drizzle of rain set about the Resting Tree. I was glad I'd remembered the coffee.

      You cold?

      Ian wrapped his jacket a little tighter around him. Nah. I'm fine.

      I looked at my watch; it was just past 3 o'clock. Right on time.

      Ian did not reply.

      Over time, some families moved away, and the rest of us grew up and discovered more interesting things than knights and fairy queens. Of the original dozen, only four of us remained.

      For a while, we had been two couples, however Sophia and I had put our tempestuous courtship down to the inexperience of puberty and reverted to simple friendship. Not so Ian and Helena. As soon as she started at university, they moved into a tiny flat together and started to share a life. Their circle grew but the dynamic did not: Helena was still the centre of the happy chaotic storm that was university life, and the holidaysomewhereintheworld became a part of everyone's social calendar.

      Then one day after just such a party, Ian had me meet him at a bar. His eyes were red and he had been drinking shots as though he wanted to drown in the glass.

      Bloody hell Ian, slow down. What's wrong?

      It's Helena.

      You two haven't had a fight have you?

      Yeah. No. Kinda.

      Why?

      I asked her again this morning. You know, about the whole second birthday thing.

      Why the hell did you do that?

      I just wanted to know. I mean, why wouldn’t she tell me, at least? I said I deserved to know.

      You’re an idiot, mate. You know Helena, and you know she’s not going to tell us. It’s your own damn fault if you’re gonna get angry at her over it.

      At first yeah, and then...

      Then what?

      Then she told me.

      It seemed that Helena's genes had conferred upon her more than just grey eyes and long brown hair and pale olive skin. Somewhere, deep inside them, was a flaw; twisted strands of her life caught in a fatal embrace. When she had been diagnosed at six months old, the doctors could not say how much longer she would live. So every anniversary of the diagnosis, every year she proved them wrong, was a celebration, and Helena lived every year as though it would be her last.

      I finished my coffee, took Ian’s empty cup and placed them both in the nearby bin. The winter wind picked up from the harbour and set the branches of the Resting Tree to creaking. It also remembered.

      Helena had been briefly and bitterly angry at Ian, but she was resigned to the fact that we now knew. On the surface of it, things returned to normal. But only on the surface. I could not help but feel that something within her had cracked. A chink had appeared in her silver armour. Nothing I could put my finger on - just a feeling, but it bothered me nonetheless.

      On the eve of her twenty-second birthday, she fell ill.

      At first, it seemed to be just a chill or a touch of the flu. Nothing to worry about, for all that it was summer and nobody else had so much as a sniffle. However we decided that the holidaysomewhereintheworld would be her official twenty-second, so we could celebrate properly when she got better. But she didn't. Trips to the doctor became trips to the specialist, and then brief stays in the hospital. At Helena's insistence they moved in with her parents. The doctors began to refer to her treatment as a regime, and the tests and medicines drained her energy. The four of us would spend long afternoons together in the sunroom of the house, where she would rest her head on Ian's lap while he stroked her hair, and they would sing to each other. Then the doctors dropped any pretence of treatment and recovery. The term palliative became a frightening new reality in our lives.

      One day Ian called me:

      Can you guys meet us in the park?

      Sure. Why?

      Helena wants some fresh air and sunshine.

      Is that wise?

      Does it matter anymore?

      It had just gone 3 o'clock when we met them. Ian was propped in an elbow of the Resting Tree, and Helena was nestled against him. She had been sleeping, but Ian had whispered in her ear and she looked up and smiled as we approached. Hey, there you are. I'm so happy to see you guys.

      Sophia and I sat down against the other branch. Helena sighed and huddled in closer to Ian. Sing with me, love.

      Ian could not lift his gaze from the ground. His jaw clenched and unclenched, and his eyes glistened. Then he started to sing, softly, her favourite lullaby.

      Sleep my child and peace attend thee,

      All through the night

      Guardian angels God will send thee,

      All through the night...

      Then Helena joined in.

      ...Soft the drowsy hours are creeping,

      Hill and dale in slumber sleeping

      I my loved ones' watch am keeping,

      All through the night...

      Sophia was shivering. I drew her closer and held her hand. Helena faded into sleep, but Ian continued:

      ...Angels watching, e'er around thee,

      All through the night

      Midnight slumber close surround thee,

      All through the night

      Soft the drowsy hours are creeping,

      Hill and dale in slumber sleeping

      I my loved ones' watch am keeping,

      All through...

      and then he stopped singing.

      Twenty years ago. That was too far in the past for memories so fresh, but there was a reason for that. The Helena we had known, the one before the illness, had been far too vivid, far too essential to be constrained within a single, flawed, body. And that day twenty years ago where she had left off, Ian had taken over with a vengeance. His more recent friends, those who marvelled at his passion and vigour and love of life, did not realise just whose life he lived. And his old ones, Sophia and I, saw the spirit of the love we had lost, in the soul of the one who remained.

      I came back to the here and now. Happy anniversary, Helena.

      Ian wiped his face. Happy holiday somewhere, love, wherever you are.

      ~~~~~

      Copyright 2007 Pat Moore. All rights reserved

      http://pifflem.gather.com/

      The Girl with Dark Hair

      By Irina Dimitric

      He spotted her dark hair

      And her chirpy chatter

      Among the giggling girls

      There was love in the air

      He searched on the mountain

      Clad in pristine white

      Dotted with myriad figures fair

      Swaying, swishing downhill fast

      Where is she, the girl with dark hair?

      There she was one fine day

      Right at the top having fun

      Resting on her crossed skis

      Caressed by the sun…

      When from her not too far

      He addressed her

      Hello Miss, don’t you wear a bra?

      The cheek, he didn’t get an answer

      He pursued his love-struck pursuit

      Throwing his bait, a witty remark

      Whenever he crossed her elusive path

      Until one day at noon

      Paradise Valley all white and bare

      The swaying figures gone to lunch fast

      He waited for her, the girl with dark hair

      Knowing she would be the last

      Like a princess from a fairy-tale

      She came down on a cloud

      Descending exactly where he stood quite pale

      You have beautiful green eyes, he said

      And invited her for lunch

      They skied together all day

      Swishing and swaying down the mountain

      Their charmed snowy love fountain

      In the evening they danced

      And continued to gently sway

      While listening to the piano play

      My one and only love

      To this very day this is their song

      The song of their winter love affair

      When he spotted her

      The chirpy girl with dark hair.

      ~~~~~

      Copyright 2012 Irina Dimitric. All rights reserved.

      http://bregana.gather.com/

      The Mystery of One

      By Alice Grimes

      My soul is now wedded to yours,

      My heart will ever be thine.

      Your soul’s home is in me,

      Your heart has always been mine.

      Though we each tried to fill the void with another,

      What we so desperately needed we did not find.

      Our discovering true soul mates in each other,

      Was no accident but God's loving design

      When you least expect my presence

      From some inner sanctum it will stir,

      Unbidden memories that whisper of need

      For the whole ONE we twain ever were.

      Though you walk beside the pulsing sea

      Or under the moon's pale mystic light,

      If I am unable to be at your side,

      You will revel in another more magical night.

      When your cup runneth over with joy,

      Or your lot is uncertainty or dark pain,

      Instinctively, you will be drawn toward me,

      To share the joy or to find sweet solace again.

      When life seems lacking in luster or laughter

      And the child in you so needs restoring,

      You will seek out your sensual playmate

      To send your aching soul once more soaring.

      You and I are one of life's great mysteries,

      Our whole ONE greater than the sum of its parts.

      Separately we found some measures of joy,

      But no match for that shared between our hearts.

      Our souls and lives are finally, fully entwined,

      Our hearts now

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