Great writers - C

 Carter Little is an avid horror fan who grew up in Colorado. Currently he lives in Corpus Christi and writes stories with his black cat Jinx. 

Published by Black Cat Books 2023

Copyright Pending

All rights reserved by Carter M. Little

Reproduction during Copyright pending period is ill advised and just totally not cool. So, don’t steal!

The Shadow

He noticed it only subtly at first. Maybe he’d move his arm, or one of his fingers, and it wouldn’t follow. It wouldn’t keep up. He’d move his head, and of course, in the act of moving his head, be unable to track the movement of his shadow but he knew it didn’t move at the same rate he did. It moved a little slower. Because it had to mimic. God forbid he ever found out where the thing came from. Damn him if he ever did find out. Because it was just there. Not one day, then the next. The next it was there. Whatever IT was. Or is. He’ll never find out now, because it got him. Just like it gets all the rest.

The day was shiny, blue, reminiscent of every other gorgeous sunny day that anyone’s ever had anywhere. A jogger with his dog had stopped for the dog to expel and graze for a moment, and the canine looked up at our friend, the subject of our story who may remain nameless, as his name is irrelevant to the story, because it’s happened over and over again and I can guarantee you my friend, it may happen again and you aren’t safe if you think it could never happen to you. Well this nameless individual, whose name was actually Timothy Werner, corny name, right? Decided later on that this dog looking up at him wasn’t the thing that caused it to follow him. Because he had continued on past that jogger in that park down the path where he was headed just to walk. He wanted to clear his head, and the day was gorgeous like I’ve said before. He was enjoying his walk, and never did really notice that the dog had looked up at him until he gruelingly played that day over and over in his head for some sort of answer, some sort of clue. As he stepped on the blacktop his shadow acted just like a shadow should, based on the scientific principles that rule and govern the presence of light and the interruption of photons. Acted just like a shadow needs to so one can believe reality is truly governed by a set of invisible unwritten laws that act in the infinitesimal omnipotence of a true law. And his shadow went bobbing along as he strutted down that path towards the few trees the park offered as shade. Usually nestled in this shade was the wild human that inhabits every municipality that’s ever hosted an economic hierarchy. Today the bottom echelons of this omniscient class were elsewhere, and the thicket of trees was vacant. Our friend, Timothy, decided he’d like to sit under one of those trees. Something he thought on par with a connection with nature, or at least one he could fathom with his citified concrete jungle upbringing. His mother panthered around every high-end store she could find, and his father crossed the rugged terrain in a black automobile fit to kill worth as much as most people’s homes. He’d tasted their luxury, and wasn’t doing too badly himself in his own career, which isn’t relevant to the story. The relevance lies back with that tree he decided to sit under. Which was the only strange thing he could remember doing that day. So, there he sat, under that tree. On top of a board left there as a seat from one of the feral humans that normally occupied the space under that tree which he currently inhabited. He sat there for a short while and watched as the sun moved slowly in the sky and his shadow moved with it. He remembered in that moment, later on as he wasn’t necessarily conscious of his immediate wandering thoughts, that he watched his shadow and became fascinated with it. He watched as the sun moved above him and the shadow moved over each blade of grass, one at a time, slowly scraping across the slightly rough slightly furry blades. It was mesmerizing, until he noticed one of the ruffians was encroaching and he figured he’d better make a quick escape. 

` So that’s all it was. He sat under a tree and ended up with it following him. In the throes of his later madness he played the day over and over again in his head, like I said before, trying to figure something out that would explain how him sitting under that tree, right then, right there. Just existing in that space, that place in time. Just existing gifted him the consequences that he was currently dealing with. He had no Idea what was on the other side of that board, or what was beneath it. He had no idea what extracurricular activities the feral humans were involved in. All he did know, the only thing he could figure out, was that was the only obscure out of the ordinary thing he’d done that day. And it was the next day when the insanity began. Although he hadn’t realized it. Much like the dog’s gaze bending upwards towards him as he walked headfirst into his fate, the first subtle signs were so subtle he didn’t notice them for what they were immediately and it was only after recollecting those days that led up to his madness that he realized his shadow had become more solid. It was a subtle thing, and it was still disappearing. Acting and behaving just like it should. He didn’t notice, as he stood there at the gas pump, that his arm that splashed across the ground painted of black silhouette didn’t retract when he moved the arm above it and shoved the nozzle of the fueler into his tank. He was too busy staring across the fuel kiosk at the ragged broken-down truck that housed a down on their luck couple who were having a quiet argument in the privacy of that truck. The thought sauntered across his mind’s eye that he shouldn’t have stopped here­–that he’d have had plenty enough gas to get back into a better neighborhood. He was so fixated on this couple and the potential danger of his surroundings that he completely ignored the fact that arm strewn across the ground didn’t move until he grasped the completed fueling nozzle and placed it back on its rest. It retracted just like a shadow should, and he looked at bright expansive daylight lit concrete where the rubber of the soles of his shoes and of his tires both hit the pavement connecting their greater forms to the lesser silhouette of their shadows. He observed the elongated and nearly comical effect the late afternoon sun had on the car beside him, the effect it had on the cars shadow. It looked to him as though the car were made of many great mountains and his own, strewn across the parking lot in tandem with the cars, looked like a great island attached to a long slender peninsula. It was then that he noticed his own shadow seemed a trifle darker than that of his vehicles. This wasn’t something he noticed immediately either. His subconscious picked up on it, and he even said to himself absentmindedly “Oh my shadow seems darker, it must be the way I’m standing” and never gave it a second thought as he pulled the car door open glad to be rid of the sound of blustering romance. 

The next time his shadow misbehaved was slightly less subtle. Or maybe it wasn’t. After wracking his brain for any remanence of a memory after the darkened shadow and the arm that didn’t move that he didn’t see, that only you the reader know about, he couldn’t find a single one in the latter periods of his madness. Only you the reader will know, as I tell you now, that the disease that plagued our subject, our friend. This individual whose life we are peering into, progressed slowly. It permeated only the absent of his mind, the very deepest recesses and corners and never allowed itself to be observed, until it wanted to of course. I could tell you of each of the other times the shadow didn’t move, or how it began to like to stay in a singular position at certain times, for as long as it could before it inevitably had to disappear before it was discovered. A disembodied shadow, could you imagine? Anyone who saw that would scream. Or laugh, or both. Or freeze. Really there’s no telling. Our guy, the guy we’ve been talking about, the first time he saw it he wanted to do both. He wanted to laugh because he thought it was a prank. Of course he did, anyone in their right mind would think it was a prank. A floating shadow, come on. Seriously? Could you imagine? But that faded quickly as he looked around and realized there was nothing there to cast the shadow. No major light source. He was looking at a shadow in a softly lit room staring down at him from the wall while he lay on his bed.

Staring might be the wrong word to use, because of course the thing had no eyes. Glaring might be a better choice. Because the terror that ensued as our guy, this individual the story is about, realized there was nothing to cast the shadow and no earthly way for the thing to reasonably exist he let out a little shriek and instinctively turned the three-power lightbulb–which he’d always preferred over a conventional bulb–up to the highest notch blanketing the room in heavy comforting light. He wasn’t exactly sure when the shadow had receded, or where it had gone. It seemed benign enough, the interaction. And it was easy for him to resign the experience to a combined lack of overwork and sleep deprivation as he’d been stressed out at his job that, while probably interesting to him, isn’t very important to the telling of this story. This rationalization he chose to employ comforted him and removed his worries about the terror that had suddenly gripped his kidneys and tightened his chest, and gave him finally enough comfort to find sleeps embrace, but not without the typical deluge of unrelenting thoughts that now included every so often the terrifying presence of this obscure shadow of his own creation that had cast itself in an ungodly and physically impossible manner.

Thoughts of the strange occurrence with the shadow followed him into the next day, and at every turn he followed his silhouette as it painted itself across many canvases. Once the coffee counter where he followed the exact path of his arm as it carried the decanter across that counter and poured the dark liquid–which also cast a shadow­–into an awaiting cup. The next was at his desk, and the thought of the former night’s incident had flashed harrowingly through his mind, and he watched, as the papers he held in his hand that he intended to file scattered flutteringly towards the ground casting many different shadows, and he caught sight of his own. It was a puny thing. Nothing more than a large splotch on his chair as the office lights that were to cast a shadow were directly above him. It didn’t seem very supernatural. It certainly didn’t menace him or show any signs of dementia or malice. It just looked like a shadow. And our subject felt silly for feeling the fear he did at that time. Sitting on top of a benign splotch of darkness he shook his head and picked up his papers and went back to concentrating on his menial proletarian existence. 

And he was successful. He successfully concentrated on the mundanity and civility of the office he worked at surrounded by the other smartly dressed, crisp young professionals who he couldn’t imagine having the same kinds of problems that he did with love and life and women. Married men who cared and loved and were loved. Somehow, he was able to convince himself these people who surrounded him were of that plane, the plane of happy living and joy. The plane of exuberance and elation. It’s a shame he wasn’t able to apply the same denial into ignoring that terrible feeling of being followed that seemed to strike him every time he was walking somewhere alone. He never felt it when someone else was around. Then again, why should he? If someone werearound why would you get the funny feeling something was following you. You only get that feeling when you’re alone. Something he quickly realized was a luxury he was no longer allowed. To be alone. 

It was the worst in his home. A feeling of being followed can also be interpreted as a healthy sense of self-preservation that’s a crucial aspect of the human condition. The necessity for that primal urge ends at the threshold of a locked door, or it should at least. One would only be so safe to assume that once they put themselves behind a locked door whatever’s there behind that door along with them would be removed from whatever’s on the other side, and if there were something maleficent on the far side of the door the individual on the locked side of the door would be safe from that evil that floated on the opposite side of the door. Thoughts like these of rationalizations and reasonings, bargaining with himself. I’m crazy! No I can’t be crazy! I swear someone’s here with me!

He’d have these thoughts, rationalize with himself. Argue with himself, and finally submit to his own needs and search his apartment again for the umpteenth time for some trace of someone. Someone or something that would explain the maddening feeling of being watched and followed. Subconsciously he knew, he knew what was really there. Subconsciously he was fully aware of his shadow and the fact that it followed him everywhere. Subconsciously he knew the shadow had stopped growing and receding like a shadow is supposed to. He knew all of these things, but he denied them for as long as he was able to. Denied them until the denial became his reality and when his paradigm shifted suddenly his psyche couldn’t handle the strain. When he finally came to the realization that his shadow was solid. That it was just there, and it would always be there, glaring at him. Staring. Mocking him. He couldn’t handle his unwanted company and he began trying to sever ties with his shadow but nothing worked. How can you cut off what isn’t actually attached?

Darkness was his answer. He knew it would come for him eventually, he knew it would do something. He knew it would try. Try Something. What something was he didn’t want to find out. And so, he sequestered himself into darkness. A modern hermit stuck in the darkness of his own mind. He walled himself up in that apartment where he’d lived so benignly for so long. Sitting in the darkness both metaphorical and physical so his shadow could not exist for fear of what it may do. He sat that way, as his apartment grew filthy and infested, as he chose to see nothing and wouldn’t brighten the space for any reason whatsoever. Nobody came, nobody questioned his disappearance until the smell became unbearable and the neighbors called the police. Thinking him dead and decomposing they had the landlord open the door.

There they found him sitting in a circle of his own waste muttering “NO LEAVE ME ALONE YOU’RE GOING TO LET IT OUT” He said these words over and over again in rapid succession as the police tried to reason with him. Then he raised the weight he’d had that had anchored him to reality. The only thing in his possession that he thought might be able to stop the beast if it ever truly escaped.

He heard them scream, and he heard the blasts of several rounds of gunfire and felt the fiery sear of his retribution tear through his emaciated body as he fell. 

Perhaps they set him free. 

Charles's poetry, fiction, and creative non-fiction have been published in a variety of reviews and anthologized in a number of books, and he has written two plays and a novel, CHAGFORD REVISITED. See his website. Read a longer bio at the end of this section. 

Every night at midnight, the purple clouds came out to dance with the blushing sky. I drew my curtains closed, unable to enjoy the pretty clouds. I lay back down.

I had come to dread them. 

Purple clouds have become a harbinger of doom, a sign that trouble was on the way. 

They meant my father was coming.

Every single night. Purple clouds. Blushing sky. My father’s visits. Every friggin’ night.

Perhaps I should explain. My father is dead—he died about a year ago. At first, everything was, well, not fine—you don’t feel “fine” because your father died—but things were normal, in the sense that my family and I were grieving—tears, fond memories, missing him. You know—the way normal people feel when someone they love dies.

KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK!—there came a knocking on my bedroom door. Then, a voice said, “Mark me!”

“Pop,” I hissed.  “Be quiet. I’m coming.” I felt silly—Diana, my wife, can’t hear my father. Apparently, I’m the only one who can. But he bangs on our bedroom door every night, and every night, I’m afraid he’s gonna wake her up. 

I got out of bed and shuffled quickly to the door. 

“Pop,” I started to say, but then I tripped and fell into the laundry basket.

“YELP!” Daisy the beagle, who’d been peacefully sleeping between the bed and the doorway, didn’t seem to be hurt, but I’d scared the hell out of her.

“My hour is almost come…” Pop continued, trying unsuccessfully to speak in a creepy voice.

I left the room, closed the door, and confronted him in the dining room. “Pop, I know. ‘Sulfrous and tormenting flames,’ blah, blah, blah.”

“You don’t like Hamlet?” he asked. 

“Not when you quote it every single night,” I said. “At midnight.” I walked right through him (on purpose, because he hates that), went into the living room, and sat down in a chair.

“I failed raising you,” he said, sinking dejectedly into the chair next to mine. “No appreciation of culture. I bet you haven’t even noticed the purple clouds are a reference to ‘The Raven.’”

“Nope,” I said, reaching down into the cabinet between our chairs and pulling out a bottle of Scotch and two shot glasses.

“See, in ‘The Raven,’ the narrator’s bedchamber had curtains made of purple silk,” Pop continued.

“I don’t care.” I poured myself a shot of Scotch.

“So I made the clouds purple because….”

“If you keep talking, I’m not going to pour you any of this,” I said, gesturing with the bottle. Of course, he can’t drink, being a spirit and all, but he says he can still smell. He appreciates it when I pour a shot for him.

“You are a horrible, undutiful son,” he sniffed. But he stopped trying to talk about Poe and the Raven. “Is that Highland Park?” he asked, looing suddenly cheerful.

“Yes,” I said. “Diana got it for me special, for my birthday.” I picked up my glass, taking a small sip, letting the rich flavor roll around my tongue.

“When’s your birthday?”

“Today,” I said, giving him a baleful look. He’d never remembered even when he’d been alive.

“Hey,” he said defensively. “Time functions differently in the spiritual realm.”

“Shenanigans. I call shenanigans. I don’t believe you.”

He bent over, took a long sniff of Scotch vaper, pointedly not responding. I let it go.

Finally, he said, “So, how’s Diana? The boys?”

“The same as they were last night, Pop.”

“Oh,” he said. “I guess so. Then he was silent.

I just waited. Pop came for the same reason every night. And it’s not to check on his daughter-in-law and his grandkids, whom, to be fair, he doted on when he was alive. And it sure wasn’t to check on the wellbeing of his only son. Me.

That’s not how haunting works. No, ghosts haunt people because they have unfinished business with the living. That’s me. Pop haunts me because he extracted a solemn promise from me on his deathbed, and, as far as he’s concerned, I haven’t delivered on the promise.

“Have you heard anything?” he finally asked. 

“I’m surprised it took you this long to ask.”

He looked offended. “That’s not the only reason I come,” he said. “I care about my grandsons. I love my daughter-in-law. And you did promise….”

It was a promise I had regretted making every single night.

“The Promise” isn’t want you think. It’s not about vengeance, or telling somebody he loved them, or a secret treasure to make sure my three boys had money for college. Nope, it’s about a book manuscript.

Yep, the deathbed promise he extracted from me was to get his book manuscript published. It had been his life’s work, his dream. 

“Pop,” I said, compassion cutting through my irritation. “Yes, there’s news.”

He sat upright in his chair. In case you’re wondering what ghosts look like, he looks pretty much the same as he did when he was alive. At least that’s the case for “manifestations,” the technical term for a personal haunting—when someone from your past keeps appearing to you.

Yes, I looked it up on Wikipedia.

“There is? When are they going to publish?”

He looked so eager, so hopeful…as sleep-deprived and irritated as I was, I felt bad.

“It’s not good news.”

My father’s manuscript wasn’t some literary tome—a genius novel or a collection of poems. After he’d died, he’d told me he’d met both John Kennedy Toole and Emily Dickinson, and that they were both very positive about how well received their posthumous works had been. Nor was his book on a nonfiction topic that might gather interest—not a book on birds or woodworking or winemaking.

No, the title of my father’s magnum opus was The Hitherto Unnoticed Influence of Aramaic Linguistic Structure on the Development of Early Christianity in Syriac Cultures. Try finding a publisher who’d even lookat a manuscript with that title.

“What did they say? Did they want a rewrite?” 

“They’re not going to request rewrites from a dead author, Pop.”

“That’s true. But you could say you understand the project and tell them you’d be willing to do any necessary revision.”

“They have to want to publish the book in the first place.”

Pop sagged. “They didn’t care at all?”

“They said ‘While the scholarship is insightful, the small market for a specialized work such as this isn’t large enough to justify the expense of publication.”

He was silent for a while—something he never was when he was alive. Then he looked at me, a pained expression in his blue eyes—eyes the same color of gunmetal blue that mine are. “So I guess that’s it.”

As gently as I could, I said, “That was the last press that publishes books on Early Christianity.”

“I don’t understand. My students always said the subject was fascinating. Said ‘it sounds boring at first, but when you get into it, it’s interesting.’”

I didn’t know what to say. “I’m sorry.” It sounded lame even as I said it.

“I guess my ideas won’t live on. They’ll be forgotten,” he said. 

“Pop, we remember you. We love you. As long as any of us draws breath, you won’t be forgotten. Diana puts your picture up on the family ofrenda. She even leaves whiskey and pan dulce out for you.”

“It’s not the same thing.”

Now I felt hurt. Not remembering my birthday was one thing. Not caring that I loved him and remembered him was ….

“I don’t mean it like that. You, your family, your mother….they mean the world to me. But I’m talking about my professional life, my work, the things I spent hours working on during the workday.” He looked at me, making eye contact. “You want to think the work you did matters.”

“That makes sense,” I said.

“Well,” he went on. “I can’t fault you. You got off to a slow start, but I have to admit that you’ve done everything you can to get my book published.”

I tried to ignore the crack about the “slow start.” Apparently, he’d expected me to start sending out manuscripts the afternoon I got home from his funeral. I was still pretty deep in grief when he’d started haunting me, three months to the day after his death. “I really did try, Pop.”

He stood up, crossed to me, and put a hand on my shoulder. Of course I couldn’t feel anything, but I appreciated the gesture. “Thank you, son. Thank you for trying.”

He turned and started walking to the door.

“Pop, they did say ‘the scholarship is insightful.’”

He turned back, a sad smile on his face. “That’s editor-speak for ‘I’m not interested but I’m trying to be kind about it.’” Then, he said, “Good bye, son.”

“Bye, Pop.” 

I watched him go. He never opens the door and leaves; he toddles over to the front door and just…dissipates.

He was starting to dissolve into mist when I said “WAIT!”

Resolving into a more solid form, he turned back and said, “Yes?”

“The whole time you’ve been haunting me...nearly a year…you’ve never once said ‘good bye.’ You’ve said, ‘Keep trying’ or ‘Don’t be lazy’ or you’ve tried to dictate snarky replies to editors who rejected your book. But not once, have you ever said ‘Good bye.”

He shrugged. “I have to let go.” Then, more gently, he said “I probably shouldn’t have made you promise in the first place. If I had pushed myself a little harder, been a little more focused, I would have sent the book out myself. Maybe if I’d been alive, it would have been harder to reject it.”

“So that’s it?”

“Yes,” he said, coming back over to me. He cupped my cheek in his ghostly hand. I wanted to believe I felt his caress, but I didn’t. “You really have been a good son.”

“No,” I said. I couldn’t believe it. Sure, I was irritated that he woke me every night. I’d come to hate the color purple, especially in clouds, even though it had been my favorite color my whole life. I’d bitched about the time and energy it took to format his manuscript so it looked like a book, to find potential publishers, to send out queries and sample book chapters. I’d hated telling him when I got bad news.

But I also got to spend a part of every night with my father, a man I loved even if he drove me crazy half the time. In the midst of my grief, I’d gotten my father back.

And now, he was leaving, this time for good.

“No, what, son?”

“We haven’t tried foreign publishers,” I blurted out. “What about some in the Middle East? Where they still speak Aramaic?” 

He shook his head sadly. “I think you’ve tried hard enough, son. Time to let go. Time for you to get a good night’s sleep.”

“But Pop,” I said, trying to clutch his arm so he wouldn’t go. Of course I went right through him when I tried to grab him.

“Please stop doing that,” he said, “It tickles.”

“German!” I blurted out.

That stopped him. “What?”

“German. A lot of the scholarship on your subject is in German. Maybe we could get your book translated into German.”

He threw his hands up, his ‘surprised’ look when he was still alive. “German? I was at a conference once and met a man named Kirchdorrfer. Said he was interested in my ideas. Maybe he’s still alive.”

“I can find out,” I said. “I’ll find him on the internet. And I’ll look for a translator, too.”

He looked at me for a long time, an odd smile on his face. “Thank you, son.”

I wanted to be casual but was choking back tears when I said, “I’ll see you tomorrow night.”

He nodded. “Tomorrow, then.” He took a step, and said, “And one more thing. Tell Diana I appreciate the empanadashe puts on the ofrenda for me. But tell her I really don’t like pineapple. Tell her I prefer pumpkin.” 

Then he slowly dissipated into a purple mist and was gone. I went over and peeked out the window, looking up at the purple clouds and the blushing sky.

I’ll see you tomorrow, Pop, I thought, went back into our room, and slipped into bed beside my still-sleeping wife.

Thirty-three thousand tons of steel,

She slogged through the gray seas,

Like an arthritic aunt,

Determined to cross the street without help, 

Graceless but reliable.

When Uncle Sam invited her to the dance,

The dance called World War II,

She was not his favorite niece,

He told her to dress,

So she could take care of sea planes.

She stumped gracelessly across the Pacific,

To Japan,

Where out-of-ammo pilots aimed planes 

At her thick hull.

She wasn’t pretty, 

But she was tough,

Shrugging off attacks,

Giving better than she took.

She sank sixteen enemy ships,

Put thirty more out of action, 

Shooting enemy aircraft out of the sky

While performing more than 400 rescue missions.

Like sailors, Ships get medals—

She was awarded two, 

And the admiral made her 

His flagship.

All she wanted to do

Was make her Uncle Sam proud. 

But was obsolete before she got home from the dance.

But her Uncle Sam was a thrifty fellow,

Figured she’d gotten all gussied up

Why not invite her to a different ball?

“It’s an honor,”

He whispered in her ear, 

“You’ll be a test platform. 

We’ll put new weapons systems on you,

To see if they work.

You’ll be the first to try everything.”

She didn’t quite trust,

The lascivious, tempting sound

Of Uncle’s voice, 

Gamely, though, she agreed.

Her sailors kneeled worshipfully on her decks, 

Holystoning each teak plank, 

Polishing her brass,

Painting her deck, 

And she hoped that, 

Just once, she would be 

The belle of the ball,

When they ripped wood off her fantail she cried,

Blushing when they bared her bare steel bottom

For all the world to see.

She howled when they cut a huge hole

On her fantail

Plunging a missile magazine into her depths,

Leaving a launcher sticking up out of her bottom. 

It was embarrassing. 

None of her ship friends even knew what it was.

The first missile

Made her decks burn like no ships’ decks

Had been burned before.

She hadn’t been built to take this kind of abuse,

But the same hull and decks

That shrugged off Japanese zeros

Took it,

Because she wanted to make her Uncle Sam proud.

But, quietly,

She cried at the burns,

On her beautiful teak decks.

Her Uncle had other concerns, though,

The Soviets were putting things up in the sky,

Out in space,

And the Navy had to track them,

So he added three more decks

To her already top heavy frame,

Looking like a short, heavy woman

Forced to teeter about on six inch heels.

Decades came and went,

But she was always game,

They cut out launchers, 

Added others launchers,

More radar.

One day, 

Uncle Sam called her up,

She could hear tears of joy 

In his voice.

“The Cold War is won!”

He breathed excitedly,

“We command the seas.”

Then, an embarrassed cough,

“Um, and we don’t need you anymore.”

She wanted to plead,

Promise to be useful,

But he had already hung up.

She was the oldest line ship in commission,

For more than forty years, 

She’d taken everything they’d thrown at her,

Dive bombers, enemy ships,

Missile platforms, radar—

And now they were done.

All that is left of her now,

Is a plaque and a ship’s bell. 

The steel melted down now for other things—

Maybe a girder on an overpass,

The steel in a building,

Maybe a playground Jungle Jim,

Or maybe the razor blade you shaved with yesterday.

Her eternal reward 

For forty-five years

Of faithful service

To her Uncle Sam. 

The Gods of the North warn

Hell is a hot place.

Do bad, and you will burn, 

Smelling brimstone in a fiery pit

Forever.

South Texas sun blazes like an angry god, 

Sweat runs rivers down my back,

My pale skin burns, red, so I must hide from the Sun, 

Shield myself from the wrath of Thor

With sun hats, and sunblock,

While he burns my plants,

Evaporates lakes and rivers, 

And slays even the toad 

Crossing the parking lot,

Who dies, then swells up,

A grotesque balloon blistering on asphalt

This is summer.

Gods of the South snicker at the North,

Bask in the heat of Thor’s wrath, 

And warn,

Do bad and you will freeze,

In a dark cold place,

Forgotten.

Old Sol, the Sun, has grown weak

Forgetting Chicago in January.

I must work outside, 

Stand in waist high snow, 

Try to use a metal wrench

When it’s twenty below zero.

The wind shoots down from the North,

Knifing my heart through the long underwear,

And heavy jacket. My hands, numb, can’t work 

With gloves on, 

But can’t work when they are frozen.

This is winter, 

Quetzalcoatl’s anger is everywhere, 

Inescapable.

My southern bones fear Aztecs 

More than Vikings,

Can always take clothes off,

But can’t put on enough to keep warm.

If I have to choose hell, I’d rather be Aztec than Viking,

Would rather burn than freeze.

Copyright Charlesa Etheridge

Pink granite swells billow

From the barge dock to the distant island

Crimson sun slowly melts on the horizon

Perfect stillness on the water

Socially distanced fishermen

Sit on the barge dock

Still, but charged

Ready to pounce

If a fish bites

Mosquitos are biting

Fish are not

A perfect, still tableau

The only motion

A dark haired girl

Maybe four

Twirling happily by herself

Singing sweetly in Spanish

Her small sweet song providing 

Just the right compliment

To the stillness

Peace is punctured

By a red Chevy Avalanche

Barreling down the barge dock

Poorly muffled engine

Drowning out all other sound

A whoop from the driver’s window

Truck cuts its wheels

Tires spin on the concrete

Testosterone machine

Cuts circles, marring the dock

Spinning, smoking tires

Blackening the air

Replacing the salt-scented air

With eau de burning rubber

PIeasant smells, pleasant sounds

Gone

Driver loses control for a second

Truck lurches straight at the little girl

Her song stopped

Wheels catch at the last second

Barely missing the songstress

By a yard

Driver never sees her

Just keeps spinning his tires and whooping

Angry the father of the girl yells

He and another man 

Stride angrily toward the truck

Driver notices, and leaves

After a minute or two

The sound is gone

But the smoke remains

The moment is broken

The sea is still pink granite

The sun a dissolving crimson disk

Fishermen still fish

But the tiny songstress sings no more

I’ve always been taught, that if somebody is hungry, you feed them. It’s a basic act of human decency. Forget the politics. Forget trying to analyze the situation that made them hungry. Forget blame. If someone is hungry and you have the ability, you help. It goes doubly if there are children in need.

This past weekend, my wife, Diana and I went with a couple of people to do some relief work at one of the camps in Matamoros, Mexico where asylum seekers are waiting for the chance to enter the US legally. Along with our priest, Father Jonathan, and a friend named Donna, we took a car full of gifts donated by our church—air mattresses, cook pots, and a couple of hundred pounds of food. We were also armed with a generous cash donation from the parishioners to buy needed materials once there.

Our first stop after leaving Corpus was the Humanitarian Respite Center in McAllen, about a 2 ½ hour drive...

Read the rest in Corpus Christi Writers 2020

Self-proclaimed desert rat Chuck Etheridge was raised in El Paso, Texas. After a stint in the

US Navy keeping the coast of Southern California safe from the threat of enemy invasion, he

attended the University of Texas at El Paso and Texas Christian University. In addition to his

time in the service, he has worked as an actor, a convenience store clerk, a Rent-a-Poet, and a

catalog copy writer before finding respectable employment as an English teacher, first at

McMurry University and, later, at Texas A&M University-Corpus Christi. His poetry, fiction, and

creative non-fiction have been published in a variety of reviews and anthologized in a number of

books, and he has written two plays that have been produced. His first two novels, Border

Canto and The Desert After Rain, were published by Fine Tooth Press. His comic

novel Chagford Revisited recently appeared in the UK and is available in the States on Amazon.

His most recent work has appeared in Corpus Christi Writers, Switchgrass Review, and Level

Land: Poems for and About the I35 Corridor.. See his website. 

Charles's poetry, fiction, and creative non-fiction have been published in a variety of reviews and anthologized in a number of books, and he has written two plays and a novel, CHAGFORD REVISITED. See his website.

Comino, Chili, Salt, Pepper, Garlic Powder
The Five Pillars of Wisdom
The Pentateuch,
The Torah of South Texas Cuisine.

Comino, rich, dark brown,
Called “cumin” by some,
Brings the heat,
Opens the airways.

Chili, the deep warm red,
Adds spice,
Which is not the same
As heat.

Salt, the Biblical spice,
The covenant of friendship,
Helps the tongue tell
One flavor from another.

Pepper, glorious in blackness,
Adds depth,
Makes flavors sharper--
Use it sparingly.

Garlic, faintly yellow granules,
Opens flavors up,
Spreads more evenly through food
Than its fresh cousin.

This sacred five,
This holy quinity,
The five-fold ministry,
The building blocks of life.

Together they manifest
Tantalizing tacos,
Fabulous fideo,
Pleasing picadillo,

Glorious guisada,
The list goes on,
Arroz, elote,
Carne al pastor…

The only debate,
How much of each to use,
Family secrets,
Or hand-written recipes

Abuela’s cookbook
A sacred trust.
My theory:
You can’t use too much comino.

My oldest son says
“You add comino until
Your ancestors rise from the grave and say,
‘Ja, mijo.  Basta,

‘That’s enough son.’”
And then you add
A couple of shakes
More.

If your wife enters the house,
And can’t smell comino
When the door opens,
You didn’t use enough.

Our faith
Welcomes impure thought;
Divergence from the path of righteousness,
Yields delicious deviations.

Want to entertain heresy?
Remove the comino,
Add onion powder
And you have brisket rub.

Want to stay sacred
But veer away from doctrine,
Creating an apocrypha,
Still holy, but not quite pure?

Remove the chili
Add tempting turmeric
And a bit of oregano,
And you have sazon.

I share the Gospel with you
In all its glory,
Go forth,
Spread the Good News:

Chili, Salt, Pepper, Garlic Powder,
And comino,
Blessed be
Comino’s holy name.

Christian Garduno’s work can be read in over 100 literary magazines. More about Christian at the end of this section.

I sat all day on my ergonomically-correct office chair in my corner office, ignored all janitors and groundskeepers on the way to my bad-ass leased car in the parking lot, bought some gas pilfered all the way from God only knows where, and made it home by 5:45.

Time to let the wifey cook dinner from scratch, turn up the game while she checks the kiddos’ homework, does all of everyone’s laundry, folds it, irons it, puts it away—in between, I ask her if she can grab my charger—bathes the children, gets their day ready for tomorrow. Then, when she finally hits the couch, I have her ask me about my day. Well, really, I just Googled stuff all day, went over the Thompson account with Williams, but by then, we had to cut it short because it was lunchtime, which the company paid for, naturally. Came back to the office, talked about the game with Anderson until it was break-time, grabbed some free coffee from the break room, mentioned to Amanda in Accounting that her Pilates is certainly paying off (Mmmmm) and if she could add me on FB (the OTHER account I have on the down low).

Finally, it was time for me to shove random papers into my briefcase (I don’t even know whats in there LOL). By the time I hit the elevators (entirely oblivious to the cleaning crew coming in to wash the toilets, sweep the carpeting, wipe down the elevators, toss out the stale coffee, prep the filter for the morning, etc.) I saw Jameson, and I owed him one, so I broke out the company card and we tied on a quick-double shot at Nippley’s. While talking about how plump that waitress’s tush is and how one day—one fine day—he’s gonna ask her out and hit that, I slam my drink and I says to him- No way, man, dream on; he laughs even harder, saying: When I brutalize them cheeks, I’m gonna send you a selfie of me hitting that fo’ sho’!!! 

Whew, I laughed all the way across the freeway, all the way to my off-ramp, all the way down the street (where I saw some sad sap waiting for public transportation, so I splashed him), and just before I hit the corner, I slapped that garage door opener, slid the SUV right into my space, left my briefcase—I never need that damn thing—and as I turned the key into my extravagant home, I thought—Whew!! Man, that Jameson is one funny-ass dude!!!! 

 I was on the house-phone in the kitchen
you were looking out over the Mendenhall Glacier

watching three bear-cubs romping below
seems like you said that for an hour

It'd be a good time for you to swim back to shore for sure

I got your telegram last week, I keep it hidden away in my composition book

Giovanni’s back along the coast
read the rest in Corpus Christi Writers 2022
 

I like this song because you like this song
why is that so wrong
I like who likes me
is that wrong
 

So go ahead, pull the pin
& let’s begin again

falling back half-asleep to the black &  white
Liz Taylor movie on cable TV
I call all the dreams you save
one mass grave
Eyes half-closed
and I can’t tell if it’s you
or the hydroponic THC
 

You crook your index
and I’m at your feet
you blow an eyelash
and I’m on the floor
 

There go the wolves
here come the buzzards
make sure to tell the ravens
my heart is left of center

The story begins and ends in the graveyard 

which I knew at the time…

I even thought about that after my first Bloody Mary 

such irony at 38,000 feet above the earth.…

not exactly a time to lose your marbles.....

praying to keep from looking out the window, out over the clouds, what agony

crying for mother, swearing my full name, every iota devoted to landing

clenching the armrests in gasps

Touchdown and I couldn’t jump off that plane quick enough

a lay-over margarita, and I spilled it magnificently

meeting Emily by chance, sunfalling by enormous glass windows

exchanging books, numbers & looks

Holding court in a mansion, stepway to the hot tub & shower

pool table inside, fire place outside

blowing speakers and neighbors away, 91.1 FM Berkeley radio- 

props, man, props

vikings and raiders

getting lost in The Old City

free BART weekend 

La Val's has closed 

N Judah all the way down

the Spunset, Funston, Great Expectations

READ THE REST IN CORPUS CHRISTI WRITERS 2021

All songs are sad when you’re in love
who would want it any other way?
He still sings in the shower-
like who does that anymore??
and why do you sing in that faux British accent?
makes no sense whatsoever
and why do you cry when you play Willie Nelson records?
I swear, you are so weird

You read too much Plath, you know
She can really get to you
She’ll lead you down a life of Sundays
All love is doomed, it’s primordial.

She’s a sailor
guided by brittle stars
and the chorus of waves
sailing on the banks beyond
the barking sands
 

She is underway
forever skimming
over mountains of ocean-
At the helm of her own soul
anchored only to Heaven itself

Counting every wave on the Ganges

every tomb is another womb

and every time you're checking out

another soul is perfectly checking in-

it's just the rooms we rent...

Read the rest in Corpus Christi Writers 2020

Find me some buds before too long in the afternoon,

anywhere you are can make a mighty fine saloon,

when the beach is your backyard, 

you don’t have to look very hard,

so give me a flash, let’s make a splash,

Gulf of Mexico’s always got plenty of room

read the rest in Corpus Christi Writers 2019

Christian Garduno’s work can be read in over 100 literary magazines. He is the recipient of the 2019 national Willie Morris Award for Southern Poetry, a Finalist in the 2020-2021 Tennessee Williams & New Orleans Writing Contest, and a Finalist in the 2021 Julia Darling Memorial Poetry Prize. He lives and writes along the South Texas coast with his wonderful wife Nahemie and young son Dylan.

Christian Garduno’s work can be read in over 100 literary magazines. He is the recipient of the 2019 national Willie Morris Award for Southern Poetry, a Finalist in the 2020-2021 Tennessee Williams & New Orleans Writing Contest, and a Finalist in the 2021 Julia Darling Memorial Poetry Prize. He lives and writes along the South Texas coast with his wonderful wife Nahemie and young son Dylan.

 (originally published in Syncopation Literary Journal, Nov 2022)

I’m pretty sure this was all your idea-
you were beaming with pride over it
when you thought of it
back in June
you were like- let’s go to your brother’s in Virginia for the holidays, dear
and without looking, I said- do you know what all that would entail?
I mean, I’m not saying I wouldn’t wanna see the fam and all, but damn
You were wiping down the counter, your left shoulder slightly up-
It would be nice- a little road trip, asking directions lol,
and anyways, it’ll be a quaint quiet white little Christmas…
the…left a gap in the conversation I knew better not to even touch
You pursed your lips- well, the thing is, I’ve already been saving up
and requested the time off work, and I emailed him last week saying we’d be there
everything’s been settled, but there’s just one little caveat, my love
I exhaled- and what would that be?
You started a pot of coffee- it’s just that we all kind of came to the consensus
that it would be better if you didn’t play any Dylan this year, that’s all
we all know how much he means to you, but it really isn’t holiday music, is it?
I inhaled- how about for Christmas, I give you all the gift of getting Dylan?
You started wiping down the same counter you wiped down before-
Darling, read the room a little, you know? How about Janey Mitchell? Everyone likes her, right? Why don’t you make one of your little playlists with her music? Do you want milk in your coffee tonight? I know it’s been giving you gas lately
Exasperated, I said- just sugar and who the hell is Janey Mitchell? Did you mean Joni Mitchell? Wow, way off!
You combed your hair behind you ear with your hand- Oh, honey bear, don’t be so upset, you know who I meant- I really like that one she sings about California, so soothing, she’s like “I love California!”
I took the coffee- that’s not even how that song goes, and my playlists are CURATED, and what do you mean caveat? How many people have signed on to this?
You looked over your cup- Well, I wouldn’t want to say everyone, but everyone
I put my cup down on the coaster- Everyone?!
You looked me in the eye- well, not everyone, I guess the cats might like it, I dunno, look, my love, we just all remember that Fourth of July weekend when you did like an 80-hour non-stop commercial-free Dylan deep dive and well, I’m just gonna say it, sweetheart, I don’t think he can sing very well, that’s all, I suppose if he sprinted for some vocal lessons and found his range, he could be alright…
The…left a distance between us
Your eyes widened- No! Don’t do it!
My chin was raised in defiance- I grabbed my laptop and made a playlist right then and there: BOB DYLAN @ XMAS @ VIRGINIA and I emailed it to the coalition
 

We did take a road trip that holiday season, we did have to ask for directions, the snow was falling in Virginia and best thrill of the entire year was when we walked into my brother’s warm house and I yelled out-
 

Alexa, play BOB DYLAN @ XMAS @ VIRGINIA and she said ‘ok now playing’  

Clara Tamez was born in Corpus Christi. She holds a Bachelor of Arts degree from the University of the Incarnate Word in English and a Master of Fine Arts degree in Creative Writing from Kingston University London. More about Clara at the end of this section.

 “Would you still love me if I didn’t have teeth?”

“Did you wake up with them gone or did you get into an accident?” Jaydon’s voice sounds a little hollow as it always does over the prison phone line. “Or were you born without them somehow?” He laughs and I imagine the curl of his lips as he pictures a me with no teeth or the laugh I would have gotten if I told him I had no hair, or had been magically transformed into a chicken. I loved the laugh I would have gotten with that one. 

“All of the above. Start with me waking up without them.” 

“It would be freaky. I’d be more worried about the trauma inflicted on you, waking up with puddles of teeth in your lap.” 

“Hah! I imagined they just disappeared. Now what if I got into an accident and they all fell out?”

“That’d be some accident.” 

Questions that used to be for fun are now a welcome, necessary distraction for both of us. I give him scenarios and he goes through as many as he can in fifteen minutes. Sometimes, we get thirty, if no other inmates are waiting. 

These calls are a lot better than they used to be. The first one was: “Luna, you need to help my mom with Ada.”

I didn’t want to at first. That was what he did, and he would continue doing it. Until I heard the bail amount. Then, I marched right up to Raul and demanded he make me full-time. I don’t think he knew why I asked, or cared, just assumed I was desperate to save up for college. 

I press the phone into my shoulder. “Ada, finish your applesauce, please. I’ll be right back.” 

At the dining table, Ada nods. She moves her spoon as if it’s heavy. Her face is the unusual one compared to her siblings. Jaydon’s skin is deep brown, and when he stands in the sun he glows. Ada’s skin is the color of sand, barely darkening at her forehead. Where his nose widens, hers turns up. The only thing similar is the brow. Heavy lids that blink only when they need to and eyelashes so long they curl into the eye, like yesterday; I held her while she cried and I flicked one out with my fingernail. 

I step into my room and the door creaks when it closes. 

“You know how old people have sets of fake teeth? Guess we’d have to get you some,” he continues. 

“Mmm. But would you still love me?”

“Yeah. What about you, would you love me?”

A pause. “Yes.” 

After that, it’s silent for a while. 

I run my tongue around my whole mouth. When I was younger, I feared that thinking or saying something over and over would make it come true. If I thought about the devil long enough, he would appear in my room. But none of us can ever predict reality. I couldn’t have. 

The prison ends the call abruptly as it often does, without even a chance for a goodby.

Thirty minutes later, I walk back to the kitchen and grab my lunch box. I peek at the inside and take out a half-eaten granola bar and crumpled napkins. A big stain ruins the bottom from my last day of school. Instead of eating at the cafeteria, all us seniors went to the McDonald’s on the corner and signed each other’s yearbooks with greasy French-fry fingers and hearts and promises to keep in touch. The full thermos of soup jostled around and spilled. 

The refrigerator has leftovers neither me nor Mom want. It wasn’t very good to begin with since I don’t know how to cook. The microwave at work only functions at half power but it’ll have to do today. I grab a baked chicken leg. 

Behind the refrigerator door, Ada’s bowl is empty and her spoon rests next to it, licked cleanly. 

“Ada? Are you in the bathroom, sweetheart?” Silence. I zip up my lunch box. 

“Ada?” The bathroom is empty. “I know you can hear me. Are we playing hide and seek?” 

She’s almost three but she doesn’t say much. Definitely doesn’t ask, “Why is the sky blue?” like what I read online that kids might start asking at this age. Maybe we both fear the day she does, since I won’t know what to tell her, what would be appropriate to introduce. 

“Oh! There you are.” 

She’s standing in the doorway to my bedroom looking in. She could be looking at a number of things: my old pink dollhouse now crammed full of books, old knickknacks I can’t let go of like a robotic dog that moves its head side to side when you press a button. She turns my way and widens her eyes. 

Two weeks ago, the last time Jaydon was here, we watched a documentary. His surprise that he’d hinted at over text was a bag of microwavable popcorn with extra butter, two hot chocolate packets, and a movie he pirated. We lay perfectly still so my bed wouldn’t creak and every few minutes switched who held the phone so our arms wouldn’t hurt. 

I want to study English in college, so the film was about linguists discussing the hardest and least spoken languages in the world. Jaydon fell asleep after thirty minutes, his breath sweet and salty and his head heavy on my shoulder. I was warm off the hot cocoa and with him and that slightly fuzzy film, I felt like I had everything. 

One of the languages covered is spoken by the Pirahã people in Brazil. They don’t have words for numbers, colors, or past or future tense. They don’t understand abstract concepts like people leaving and if you can’t see or physically observe something it doesn’t exist. 

Jaydon is Ada’s favorite sibling and I keep waiting for her to throw a tantrum or ask where he is. Each time she bites her lip and furrows her brow in some kind of thought, I immediately prepare answers that she could understand—he went away for a while but he’s going to come back. We’re all working really hard on it. None of us like this arrangement any more than you do—but once she’s done thinking all she does is blink. Like now, for her I didn’t exist a few moments before. Every time I enter the room, she looks at me like I’m new.  

READ MORE LIKE THIS IN CORPUS CHRISTI WRITERS 2022

Clara Tamez was born in Corpus Christi, Texas in 1994. Her love of literature began as a child reading Emily Dickinson’s Poetry for Young People. She has traveled through Greece, Italy, France, Malta, Iceland, Scotland, and England and spent most of her childhood writing songs and filling up sketchbooks. She holds a Bachelor of Arts degree from the University of the Incarnate Word in English and a Master of Fine Arts degree in Creative Writing from Kingston University London. She currently resides in San Antonio, Texas

Cynthia Breeding often wonders if she was born in the wrong century. She has a love/hate relationship with technology and has an avid interest in medieval history. Most of her books are historical romances with a bit of paranormal thrown in now and then. She also loves sailing and horseback riding. Cynthia is a well-established romance writer with 49 novels and novellas available.  

(Novel Excerpt)

By the devil’s own horns, he hadn’t expected Abigail Clayton to be so beautiful. The information he’d gotten on Sayer’s new bride hadn’t said much. Luke Cameron narrowed his gaze at the woman who’d just stepped off the train. She wore no bonnet and the sun made her golden hair glow like a halo, brightening her eyes to the deep blue of the Pacific. She had the face of an angel, softly rounded with a pert nose. Not that Luke had any experience with angels. Gunslingers rarely did. But…he studied her face again. Her mouth was definitely not angelic. The full lips, right now gathered in a pout, begged to be kissed. He pushed the thought away. He was here to see who would come for her now that Sayer was dead...

Buy Gunslinger on Amazon

21st century history teacher Elizabeth O’Malley wakes up in a Texas barn in 1849 wearing only a black silk negligee. When she’s discovered by Texas Ranger Miguel de Basque, he thinks she’s a prostitute from a Fort Worth brothel…perhaps suffering from amnesia,

given her wild tales of where she’s from.

Elizabeth O’Malley was falling, gliding through mists, hurdling downward, the air getting darker until all was pitch. She reached for something to grab onto, but met only swirling vapors as she spiraled on. A speck of light dawned ahead, silhouetting the shape of a flame-haired woman dressed in white leather. The vision became engulfed in a web of blue and green strands as Elizabeth rushed forward. She put her hands out to brace herself and swept right through the mesh, landing with a solid thump onto a floor, bumping her head in the process.

“Ouch!” Rubbing her forehead, she slowly opened her eyes. She was lying face down in a pile of fresh hay. Her nose twitched. The smell of horses filled her senses. A stable? She must be dreaming, but this felt so real.  

Behind her, a horse gently nickered and stamped a hoof. Elizabeth rolled over and sat up in front of a box stall. The dappled gray who looked at her had large intelligent eyes set in a broad forehead and well-placed small ears, cocked forward as he leaned over the half-door to nuzzle her. 

Trembling, she stood and stroked his muzzle. The horse felt real, but she often dreamed of horses, or at least she had until sexy men began appearing in her night visions, and she always dreamed in vivid color. 

She looked down. She was still wearing the Victoria’s Secret black bra and thong with the chiffon wrap her traitorous fiancé would never see. She certainly did not need to relive finding Edward in bed with a Barbie look-alike. Not that she should have been surprised, she grimly reminded herself. Edward was drop-dead gorgeous and had enough Bad Boy attributes to make him alluring to any female. Better she had found out about his promiscuousness now than later.

Elizabeth fingered the leather strap on her wrist from which a Native American wood-carved fetish dangled. Her history students had given it to her yesterday, before the start of the Chirstmas holidays, along with a beautiful dream-catcher. The kids loved to tease her about her passion for the Old West, but they’d gotten caught up in the era after she’d brought in vintage John Wayne films and Clint Eastwood’s spaghetti westerns. The fetish probably wasn’t the right accessory for her black lace, but she had not wanted to take it off. Just as she started to close the chifforn wrap, not that it covered much, she heard a sound. She whirled around and gasped.

A half-naked Indian teenager stood not two feet away, close enough for her to see a slight bead of sweat on his upper lip. It was uncanny how authentic this dream felt—probably the result of seeing too many of those western films.  He wore a breechclout and leather leggings. Colored beads hung around his neck and his bare chest. A hawk feather was braided into his long hair and he had the blackest eyes she had ever seen. He looked like a hungry wolf stalking its prey. Instinctively, she took a step backward.

The Indian took a silent step forward. “I could have counted coup, you know,” he said. “Touched you without your knowing I was here. But I wanted you to know.”

Elizabeth drew another shaky breath and tried to cover herself more fully. Why in the world would she be nearly nude in her own dream?  The Indian’s glance traveled from her face to her breasts and a small smile played on his mouth. A hard mouth, thin-lipped and straight-lined. She took another step backward and bumped against the wall of the stall. Trapped. The wall felt real, too. Some dream.

He came closer and reached over to touch her copper hair. “Fire Woman. You must have much magic. Your eyes are the color of our forests—a blessing from the Earth Mother.” He touched the diamond solitaire at her throat with a finger. “A shining star from the heavens. Yes, you have much magic.”

Elizabeth held herself still, hardly breathing. This would be a really, really good time to wake up. “I don’t have magic. Where am I? Who are you?” 

Drawing himself up, he said proudly. “I am called Swift Hawk. My father is a Comanche chief.” He twisted a strand of her hair around his finger. “To my people, a woman with flaming hair has much power. Many even fear her.”

She smiled weakly. Good Lord, a Comanche? She had conjured someone from the fiercest of all the Plains Indians to dream of? The finest light cavalry in North America, some said, and the most dangerous fighters. They loved to fight and feared nothing. Well, except maybe a woman with red hair. Feeling ridiculous to be so deep into the dream, she raised her chin.

“Take your hand off me if you don’t want to feel my wrath.”  

Swift Hawk laughed and his hand dropped to her shoulder. “I said many fear you, Fire Woman. I do not. I am the son of a chief. I will claim you as my woman and have much honor and power among my father’s people.” He grasped her head in his hands and leaned forward to kiss her. She pushed against him, hard.

“Don’t you want to know where I came from?” she asked, trying to stall him. 

He looked surprised. “The Great Spirits sent you. I do not question them.” He glanced down at her breasts again. “I like what they’ve clothed you in, too.” His hand slid down to stroke a breast. 

She needed to something to stop this—closing her eyes, she screeched at the top of her lungs. 

Suddenly, he was yanked away. Elizabeth felt cool air surrounding her. Slowly, she opened her eyes and then quickly closed them again. She could not have seen what she thought she had. Clearly, her mind was bent on fantasies tonight. 

Tentatively, she peered out from behind her tousled hair. The man—her rescuer, she assumed, for the Indian boy was gone—was breathtakingly handsome. Far too good-looking to be real and very much like the delectable man she’d encountered in her sleep a couple of nights ago. She might still be dreaming, but this was much, much better. The stranger’s blackish hair curled just above the collar of the open neck of his shirt and a part of it fell across his forehead, giving him a roguish appearance. She almost reached out to brush it back for him. His eyes were warm brown and deep-set above high cheekbones and a straight nose. He had the most sensuous mouth she had ever seen. Definitely kissable. Well, of course he would. She was dreaming! He was tall, well over six feet with broad shoulders. With the sleeves of his white shirt rolled up, she could see tan, well-muscled forearms. Her gaze traveled to his tight fitting jeans and she tried to ignore the bulge lodged there. She focused on his well-developed thighs. Big mistake—better to look down. The boots were hand-tooled. Cowboy boots. Real ones. She really had to stop reading romance novels about the Wild West. Cowboys and Indians. Her students would get a real laugh!

“Who are you and how did you get into my barn?” His voice was deep and resonant and held a note of authority. A man would think twice about crossing him, she thought and almost giggled. She certainly had conjured up her perfect cowboy. And all man. She couldn’t resist extending her dream-fantasy just a little longer…

“Elizabeth O’Malley,” she said and gave her dream man her best smile, the one her best friend, Brooke, said made her look alluring. “And you are one hot fantasy.”

The man blinked and let his gaze travel slowly over her body and back to her face. A corner of his mouth twitched. “Happy to oblige. My name’s Miguel.”

Elizabeth became uncomfortably aware of how much of her body was exposed. She drew her wrap closer which caused her fantasy to grin. It was a lopsided grin, giving him a definite Bad Boy look. Obviously, her dream-mind hadn’t quite learned its lesson about Bad Boys. But it was only a dream— 

“How did you get into my barn?” he asked again. “You don’t look like you’re from around here.” His glance lingered on her breasts. “Are you a working girl?"

Working girl? Did he mean prostitute? This dream was taking an ironic direction given the fact at twenty-four she was the oldest virgin she knew. Her fantasy man sounded dangerously real. She could almost feel the heat radiating from him. She crossed her arms over her breasts. “I’m a teacher.”

buy Catch a Dream on Amazon

Excerpt from Bedroom Blarney

Chapter One

“Vodka martini, extra dry. Two olives.”

“Yes, Ma’am. Coming right up.”

As the bartender moved away to get her drink, Eve O’Connor closed her wet umbrella and plopped it alongside her satchel on the empty barstool next to her and pinched the bridge of her nose to relieve tension. TGIF had never sounded so good. Her art classes had been crap today. Not one high school kid had taken notes on value and hue in color and they certainly had not cared about line and space in composition. 

Given the array of video games on smart phones and tablets, it was getting harder to get her students interested—let alone keep them interested—in something as mundane as classical art. Little wonder newbie teachers lasted less than two years in many cases. She had even contemplated changing careers herself, but Joe, her worthless ex-husband, had gambled away her savings before she’d caught him and she was still paying off the cost of the divorce. Besides, she had almost ten years invested in Deer Hill High School.

“Why so glum?” a male voice asked behind her. “It is Friday, after all.”

copyright Cynthia Breeding

read more of this story in Corpus Christi Writers 2018: An Anthology.