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Journal's End: Uncollected Anthology: Mystical Melodies, #13
Journal's End: Uncollected Anthology: Mystical Melodies, #13
Journal's End: Uncollected Anthology: Mystical Melodies, #13
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Journal's End: Uncollected Anthology: Mystical Melodies, #13

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What does a twelve-year-old chess tournament junkie do when their manager/legal guardian discovers a long lost relative, eighty million times removed, that pops up and says: Hey, I want to spend time with a total stranger that I might be less related to than Jesus? And a kid?

And where is this relative? In the middle of nowhere! In an actual, honest to God, log-freaking-cabin covered in miles of snow. And no internet!

Yeah, that’s a whole lotta nope right there.

Hopefully this “relative” just wants an autograph and civilization can be returned to before any lasting harm is done.

Everyone knows that boredom kills kids.

Every day.

LanguageEnglish
PublisherWayne Press
Release dateAug 1, 2017
ISBN9781386161981
Journal's End: Uncollected Anthology: Mystical Melodies, #13

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    Book preview

    Journal's End - Stephanie Writt

    Journal’s End

    Journal’s

    End

    Uncollected Anthology: Mystical Melodies

    Stephanie Writt

    Contents

    Journal’s End

    Read and be happy!

    Uncollected Anthology

    The Nightly Dance Aboard the Ship of Wonders, Brigid Collins

    At the Crossroads: An Abracadabra Incorporated Story, Kristine Kathryn Rusch

    Communication Breakdown, Dayle A. Dermatis

    Street Song, Leslie Claire Walker

    The Fairy-Boy Band, Leah Cutter

    The Last Night at the Crowly, Annie Reed

    When the Music Plays, Rebecca M. Senese

    Free Story: 1st in Geriatric Magic’s: The New York Collection

    Geriatric Magic

    Want to read more in this series?

    Preview: Love & Jinx

    Part One

    Chapter 1

    Chapter 2

    Chapter 3

    Chapter 4

    Love & Jinx: Want to finish reading?

    Also by Stephanie Writt

    About the Author

    Journal’s

    End

    Uncollected Anthology Issue #13: Mystical Melodies

    My Journal:

    Volume

    23


    This journal belongs to/copyright Morgan Brown

    Chess Champion and all around tournament junkie

    Began at age 12 years, 2 months,

    15

    days


    Note: Not for the faint of heart, the inquisitive or anyone other than Morgan Brown. Reading of this journal without Morgan Brown’s express approval will result in a lawsuit the length and breadth of which cannot be measured with existing technology.


    You have been warned.

    Journal

    Entry

    #

    23.1

    I heard it first. The honk of the horn, the drum of the garbage cans. The far away birr of the freeway traffic. And before I knew it I was through the tunnel, broke into the light and there was I was, back in the glorious and industrial mecca of…nowhere I wanted

    to

    be

    .

    Through the eight solid years of traveling I’ve done in my twelve whole years of life, the cities were washing into a grit-pocked foam of buildings that bubbled over rivers with thin bridges and underground tunnels. Metal and concrete suds that stretched over flat prairie land in groupings and mounds of civilization until it gathered at the ocean’s edge on either side of the country. The sea salt dissolving the progress with its cold, dark depths.

    I’ve seen it all. Or at least it feels

    like

    it

    .

    All the cities and sprawls, right across the United States. North, south, east and west. The country feels like a patchwork quilt of relative sameness with the occasional local area garnish where Best Foods is called Hellman’s, the kind of weather I will face-smack into between cab and hotel lobby, and what garble of sound that passes for English the bellman will slide at me (the kid) with a wink and an explanation of what it means. "What the local kids are saying thereabouts

    these

    days

    ."

    Snore. Yawn. Get me in my room, please.

    Here’s a tip: leave your condescending ass-kissing for the adults. They lap that

    shit

    up

    .

    Yep. Twelve. Said

    shit

    .

    Boom

    .

    Sigh.

    Sorry, my bad. I’m just grumpy because I am not stopping in this city of bland, at a hotel copy-cat, to lay down in quiet after a five hour flight on a subpar airline. Nope, I am driving to some poe-dunk land of the unknown in the middle of trees and mountains and wild animals. In a place called Montana.

    Yes, I’ve heard of Montana. But it is one of the few states I have not been too. I’m trying to think of another, but not coming to mind. Because it’s Montana. It was the leftover land after everyone was done dividing up the country. They clumped it together, slapped a name on it and left it to its own devices. And in the years since we have got a whole lot of nothing from that state.

    Geography test: what is the state most likely to be forgotten? OK, well there is Delaware, unless you live there. But otherwise? Montana.

    They (my manager/legal guardian and the state of Oregon where I was born) discovered a long lost relative, eighty million times removed, that popped up and said hey, I want to spend time with a total stranger that I might be less related

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