Christmas at Sinners Part 3 of 3 by Rolynn Anderson

Christmas at Sinners Part 3 by Rolynn Anderson

Sable cocked her fist at Mitch's suggestion about the bed, but decided to treat his comment as a joke. She could use some back-up to collar two criminals, and this guy had the build of a wrestler. His blurt about the sister's medical bills gave her pause, but his strategy for vetting the guys in the bar made sense. What she didn't understand was the sadness she saw in his eyes when she smiled at him and the distance he kept between them.

Mitch’s eyebrows were up, waiting for her answer.

A throat clear. “We’ll try your way, Mitch. Don’t know if you can detect an eye-twitch from your position, but maybe you can watch for other tells.”

Mitch nodded. 

“I want you to come over and put your arm around me to show the guys I tried to worm a room out of you, regretful you didn't have one to give.”

“O...okay.” He rose from his stool and gave her a quick side hug before he moved away. His expression was wistful when he said, “I like you Sable Chisholm and you smell good. Don’t forget to smile. Big. They’ll do anything for you when you smile.”

Sable surveyed the bar, wondering where to start. Something about the guy smack in the middle, head down like he was drunk, but neck held too stiffly to signal inebriation, drew her. Another man, black hair and mustache, staring into space, sat at the same table. The vast distance between them clarified they weren’t mates.

She graced them with a small smile. “Gentlemen, may I sit for a moment?”

The pretend-drunk shot her a side look, his alertness no surprise. He was a broad-shouldered fellow, square-jawed, dark brown eyebrow shooting up to his short brown hair. A good haircut. Jeans and a jeans jacket. Shirt looked tailored. Did his eye just twitch? Was he medium height? She couldn’t tell.

The mustached guy said “Take a load off,” so she stuck out her hand. “Thanks,” she said, sitting. “Sable. I won’t take much of your time. Promise.” Sable worked on a grin until their eyes focused on her. "Names?"

“Burke,” said the not-drunk guy.

“Ken.” The mustached guy squirmed in his seat. 

“Tough we have to spend Christmas Eve here when we should be with our families." 

Ken stroked the hair under his lip. "We’re stuck, for sure. Buy you a drink, ma’am?” The man dipped into his pocket and pulled out a wad of bills. “Name your poison.”

When she waived off the offer, Ken said, “Snow’s stopped. Storm’s over.”

“How did you learn that? The internet’s down.”

He shrugged.

“But they’re out of rooms.” Sable said plaintively. “Are you guys going to sleep in this bar tonight?”

Burke scoffed. “Not me. I bought a room off that guy over there." He pointed to the far left of the bar. "And I’m about to crash. You looking for a sleeping partner tonight, ma’am? Why don’t I buy a bottle of champagne and we can retire to my place.” He lifted his eyebrows suggestively.

Sable ignored his offer. “I heard the road’s closed at Rainier because of snow. Customers are stranded up there.”

“Hell of a bad stretch. Those folks at Rainier won’t get out of there for days.” Burke smiled as he fingered a hundred dollar bill. “Now about that bottle of champagne?”

She waved away his offer a second time and zeroed in on Ken. “Do you have a room I could buy from you, sir? You look like you’d prefer to spend the night out here, anyway.”

Ken shook his head. “No room at Sinners for me.”

Frowning, Sable stared at Ken’s finger, the one he used to rub his forehead. She stood and walked over to the man. “Sir, you’ve cut yourself on your cheek. Right here.” She swiped her thumb on the place. With a quick pivot, she turned to Mitch, and hidden from the Ken’s view, she showed her finger.

Mitch jumped off the bar stool and approached the table. “Am I hearing a ‘ho, ho, ho’ from over here, Miss Sable? Did you find a room?”

“Better. I’ve got a 10-32.” Burke looked confused. Mitch’s smile disappeared. Ken stood abruptly and stared at Sable. 

She walked behind Burke, put her hands on his shoulder, and bent her head close to his. “Looks like you’re about to gift me with your bed for the night.”

The man leaned back to take advantage of her caress. In the next second, he jerked up and yelled, “What the hell?”

Sable held the gun she’d taken from Burke’s belt, dangling it by one finger to save fingerprints, and setting it on the floor well away from the table. She flipped a nylon tie out of her pocket and had him cuffed before he could stand. The pressure she applied to the back of his neck immobilized him. He groaned in pain.

"Witnesses at Mt. Rainier ID'd the gun you waved, 'Burke.' Extruded green plastic. Homemade." She Mirandized him.

“Mitch, come over here, will you?”

With a puzzled look, he approached Sable.

“Closer."

He complied, reluctantly.

"You’re bleeding on your nose, my friend.” She reached out and swooped her thumb over the spot and examined her finger. Sable turned to Ken and asked, “You on the job?”

The man’s shocked expression was almost comical. She smiled. “See this finger. Make-up. Got cuffs?”

Ken nodded slowly.

Sable gestured to Mitch. “He’s your man. In disguise.” She raised an eyebrow at the imposter. “Mitch, bounty hunters memorize cop codes. You didn’t know what a 10-13 was. Weather. A 10-32 means person with a gun.” She tsked. “Maybe you don’t care a 10-24 means ‘assignment completed.’ God we love our 10-24’s.”

She watched as Ken finished cuffing Mitch. “Your second mistake was giving me the make-up and disguise idea.” Another tsk. “Using me to find you a tow or a place to hide until morning, wasn't the smartest, either.”

Mitch stayed quiet, head down.

When she surveyed the bar, few customers seemed interested in the arrests. Too many troubles of their own. She winked at Ken, all six foot five feet of him. Definitely not drunk. Definitely interesting. “We’ve got a room, partner. Mr. Mustache shelled out big bucks to procure one for our benefit. I’ll report in, and we’ll take these bastards to the room, tie them up tightly and get some sleep. We’re about to make the local cops and Rainier’s rangers very happy because they can go home to enjoy Christmas Eve.”

Ken glanced at Burke, then at Mitch. “I thought the mustached guy was my man.”

“Nope. He bought a room from a guy in the bar, which seemed like the action of someone newly wealthy. Plus, my smile dazzled him and he straightened up in the chair. At my refusal to go to bed with him, he slumped over and I saw his jacket catch on his gun.”

Spike lumbered over to their table with a key card and a Buddha smile. “Chisholm, I watched you in action and I have to admit I’ve never seen a smoother operation, with not one bit of damage done to my bar. Here’s the key to his room. I’m having two steak dinners and a bottle of wine delivered. I know a professional when I see her.”

As the big guy spoke to the bartender, Sable cast a sympathetic look toward Mitch. “In the spirit of Christmas, I'll mention in my report you surrendered peacefully.”

She put more of her weight on the back of her collar and spoke to Ken. “So we’ve opened two big gifts this Christmas Eve. I've risen a notch or two in the eyes of my colleagues; you’ve earned a bounty.”

“Add dinner and wine and a bed,” said Ken, looking hopeful.

“You realize we’ll have to spell each other all night so these two don’t rabbit on us.”

Ken clicked his tongue. “It’s not perfect, this Christmas Eve at Sinners. A ranger and a bounty hunter, spending the night with two thugs.”

“Unless…” Sable said.

“Unless what?”

Sable smiled big at Spike. He rolled his eyes and stalked to the front room, returning with the goofy tree. When he handed it to Sable, she thanked him.

To the room of men, now alert and watching her, she raised the blinking tree. “Merry Christmas, everyone.”

Thanks for reading my story. Sable Chisholm is the main character of my mystery series, kicked off with FIRE IS NICE, now in pre-order. Save a dollar on this e-book until its release Dec. 4. 

Amazon: http://a.co/d/iOgLJuw

Smashwords : https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/902286

Tomorrow, enjoy Alison Henderson's short story: "A Very Un-Merry Christmas"

Writing When You're Not Loving It by Alicia Dean

We all know that writing is often a struggle, regardless of what we're writing. But, I've found, (which really is a no-brainer), that when I'm trying to force something that I'm not enjoying, it becomes a dreaded chore. And, the results suck. For various reasons over the years, I've become involved in writing stories of a specific type or theme, due to special 'calls for submission' or a joint project with other authors, etc. 

It's difficult to write when you're not in the zone, when you're not enthused, but I always try to make myself power through. Sometimes, to my surprised delight, even the forced stories will click and I end up liking them after all.  An example is an anthology I became involved in where the stories had to be set in Africa, and had to be very short. I thought of and discarded a few plot ideas, and finally settled on one that I wasn't all that enthused about. But, I forced myself to keep writing, and I ended up with a story I don't hate. :) 

Has that ever happened with you? Do you have any tricks to making the words flow even when you're not feeling the love?

Below is a bit about the story, which should be releasing soon. (We had some glitches with a few authors in the anthology, but I believe all is just about resolved). I shared an excerpt a little while back, but this is a different excerpt, from the opening. 

Blurb:

After dying for the third time, unloved and unlovable Autumn Baines is running out of chances to avoid purgatory. For her latest life, she’s sent to the Serengeti, where she’ll have to perform a selfless act and find someone to love her. She sees her chance with the arrival of widowed father Logan McBride and his teen daughter.

Faced with an opportunity to make a tremendous sacrifice, she’ll have to decide…can she forego her eternal happiness to give them theirs?

Excerpt:

The third time Autumn Baines died was the most painful, the most horrific. She’d been warned that would happen. Each of her deaths would continue to get worse. This time it had been a high speed car accident where she’d been trapped for hours, pinned beneath the steering wheel, gasping for breath, begging for help. The paramedics had arrived and performed a long, agonizing extraction, but she died in the ambulance before they reached the hospital.

She shuddered and banished the disturbing image, focusing on the now. Her guardian angel, Milo, sat across the table. The glow around him was so intense, had he not been black, he would have faded into the whiteness of the room. So much white—walls, chairs, floor, desk. The first few times she’d been in this room, the starkness had been blinding, but she was growing used to it.

He frowned disapprovingly. “Back again, I see.”

She lifted her hands, palms up. “Well, you know, dying is so much fun, I can’t resist.”

“You joke, but you know that, eventually, you’ll use up all your chances. And then…”

“I know, I know. Eternal damnation.” Her tone was light, but her heart pounded, and her stomach clenched in terror. As much as the thought horrified her, why couldn’t she do what she needed to do to avoid it? What was wrong with her?

Sympathy flashed over Milo’s face, then he schooled his expression into neutrality. Sounding like a judge handing down a sentence, he said, “Autumn Baines, after your first death, due to your selfishness and acts of unkindness, you were sentenced to eternal damnation. However, based on the—”

“Come on,” she interrupted. “It’s not like I haven’t heard this before. Twice.”

“Yes, but you know we have to go over it again. That way, you can’t claim you weren’t given all the facts.”

She smirked. “Like, I could take God to court?”

He gave her an exasperated look. “Just let me do my job, okay?”

“Fine.” She sat back in the chair and crossed her arms, waiting. It wasn’t like she was in a hurry to begin her third life anyway. So far, they hadn’t been exactly paradise. Paradise, hmmm…now that was something she could get behind. Maybe they were sending her to the Bahamas this time. She listened patiently, her hope growing that they’d give her a nice little hut on the beach with a horde of cabana boys to see to her every whim.

“However,” Milo continued, “after reviewing your life, it came to our attention that, while you had never performed a selfless act, you also had never, in your twenty-eight years, had one single person to love you.” He looked up at her, no doubt to gauge her emotions.

The words were cruel, but she knew Milo’s intentions were not. He was kind-hearted and sympathized with her plight, but he needn’t bother. So what if no one, including her own mother, had ever loved her? She’d known plenty of people who had been loved, and they were unhappy—many were even more screwed up than she was. 

Found in Translation – Part 1~ by Leah St. James

This was the absolute last time she kissed anyone under the mistletoe.

Tessa Baxter had noticed the man—dark, close-cropped hair, fit and trim in a tux that looked custom tailored—jogging down the magnificent foyer stairway as she’d handed her wrap to the liveried servant. Had she known she was standing beneath the blasted ball of beribboned green leaves she would have moved. Maybe.

His eyes had lit on her, and before she could react, he’d covered the thirty feet that separated them in several long strides, holding her frozen in his gaze as if he were a panther and she a paralyzed bunny rabbit. That’s how he walked—silently with purpose. Focused. On her.

“May I—I mean, peux je vous aider?” She’d squeaked the words out while her heart scampered in her chest.

“Yes, you may help me.” His accent was pure American, his voice deep and melodious, making her think of a baritone’s aria sailing to the ceiling at The Met. His gaze shot upward for a beat or two before returning to her face.

“Oh! Mistletoe!” She laughed, sounding a bit manic to her own ears, and waved a dismissing hand. “Nobody really does that anymore.” Her brow knitted. “Do they?”

“Back home? Probably not, but here?” He lifted a shoulder in gesture that would have made any Frenchman proud. “Certainly you have no aversion to a tiny peck from a fellow American, especially so far from home, do you? We wouldn’t want to offend our hosts.”

Their hosts were the American ambassador to France and her handsome husband, and their daughter Sammi, Tessa’s oldest and best friend. No way she’d do anything to embarrass them. They’d made it possible for her to have the trip of a lifetime to Paris, the City of Light, at Christmastime. The invitation had come at a perfect time—eight months since her disastrous break-up with Tony the Creep, as Sammi had dubbed him months earlier when she’d caught him two-timing her with some bottle blonde in a bikini.

“Time for you to forget him. Time to move on and do something exciting, Tessa,” she’d declared. “You haven’t had a vacation in months. Spend Christmas with me in Paris. I love Paris, I love studying at the Sorbonne, but I’m lonely here without you.”

Between airfare and some new clothes, Tessa’s credit card had taken a hit, but it was worth every penny. She’d spent the last week touring, visiting every clichéd tourist stop, and had already filled up an entire SIM card with photos and videos. But how could she resist the golden lights twinkling along the Champs Elysees, or the glorious Christmas tree at the Notre Dame Cathedral. Plus, being out and among the people of France was a perfect way for her try out her rusty French...the language of love.

“Mademoiselle?”

His perfect intonation drew her attention. “No, of course not. But how do you know I’m American? Maybe I’m French with an impeccable American English accent.”

He grinned, making her tummy flutter. “First of all, your French accent was way off. Second, why would a French woman want to perfectly emulate an American accent?”

She gave him her own version of  that Gallic shrug. “Maybe she’s... un espion.”

“A spy.” His right eyebrow lifted. “Seriously?”

“Mais oui!” Why she continued to babble in her high-school French was beyond her. Even his snort didn’t put an end to her lunacy. “Maybe she’s undercover in Paris for some super-secret, previously undiscovered global terror network. Maybe she purposely threw you off with her accent.”

“Hmm.” His eyes narrowed and he gave her another top-to-bottom perusal. “Are you a spy? Because if you are, I might have to take you into custody. Now. Before you can do any damage.”

She jerked back. “Custody? Who are you anyway?”

“Matthew, for goodness’ sake, just kiss her already!”

The whirlwind that was her best friend appeared next to them, like Scotty had just beamed her to the spot, her arms folded, her foot tapping. “Come on, you two. Pucker up.”

“Not that I don’t appreciate your encouragement, Sammi,” mystery man said, “but I’d love to know the lady’s name before I collect my...prize.”

“Good grief.” Sammi lifted her palm toward the man. “Tessa, may I introduce you to Matthew Durand, legat assigned to the embassy here in Paris. At least through the end of the year.” She lifted her opposite hand toward Tessa. “Matthew, this is Tessa, short for Contessa if you can believe it, Baxter. My closest, oldest and best friend. She’s a math professor at NYU, spending a few days here during their holiday break.”

Sammi planted her fists on her hips and eyed them. “Introductions all done. Now get on with it. You’ve got a line behind you!”

Tessa steadied her breathing and lifted her eyes to meet the man’s, a liquidy brown shade that reminded her of deep, rich cocoa. As she stared, that eyebrow lifted and his lips curved into a half smile as if to dare her. She licked her lips. “Oui...uh...nous allons baiser...uh...maintenant.”

Confusion flashed across his eyes. Then his jaw dropped, and he chuckled. “Certainement, mademoiselle.” Seeming to have recovered, but lips still twitching, he stepped closer, and the scent of  an earthy musk wafted around her. He slid one hand to her waist and moved the other to the back of her head, both firm and steady. A warmth spread across her back and her neck, down her shoulders. How long had it been since a man had touched with such...intent?

Shivering, she lifted her face.

Their lips met, and sparks zinged down her shoulders and back, to the ends of her fingertips and toes. He made a soft purring noise and angled his head—

“All right, you two. That’s enough. You’re making a scene! And there really is a line now. People have their phones out. They’re taking video.”

As Sammi’s voice broke the spell, Tessa’s eyes snapped open, and she jerked her hands from around the man’s neck.

“Pardon me!” She scrambled backward, into something solid and warm. “Oomph!”

She pivoted, stared into another impossibly handsome, be-tuxed man. Golden hair, deep blue eyes, also focused on her.

“My turn?” His accent was thickly French. He moved in a step.

“Sorry, Monsieur, she’s had enough.” Sammi grabbed her arm and dragged her down the hall into what appeared to be a coatroom, manned by more costumed staff. “For crying out loud, Tessa, what the heck? This is the embassy’s holiday party.”

“Why? What’d I do?” Tessa stumbled after Sammi, swinging her head from side to side in search of the first guy, Matthew what’s-his-name. They turned into another room—a big one—where a full orchestra played from a raised dais at the far end, and couples in evening wear waltzed to some instrumental piece with weeping strings. They landed in an alcove off the main ballroom, probably designed for lovers’ liaisons once upon a time.

Sammi stopped and faced her. “Your French is more than a bit rusty, honey. I can send you some links to good instruction programs.”

Tessa stilled, dread filling her chest. “I said, ‘Yes, we can  kiss now.’ ... Didn’t I?”

Sammi gave a soft laugh. “No, honey. You got the noun and verb mixed up. The verb to kiss is embrasser. You used baiser, which  is a noun for kiss, but as a verb means something altogether different. You invited him to...to...” A laughing snort exploded from Sammi’s mouth, and she bent over and howled, laughing while holding her stomach.

“What?! What did I say, Sammi? You’re scaring me!”

“Oh, Tessa, you asked him to do the dirty with you!”

Heat swam up Tessa’s neck to her face, and a moan slipped from her mouth. “I did not ask him to have sex! You’re bull—you’re teasing me!”

Sammi straightened from her laughing fit, wiped her fingers beneath her eyes and shook her head,  chuckles still rolling up her throat. “I wish I were. Oh God, check my mascara, would you? I haven’t laughed that hard in years. I’ve missed you, Tessa.”

Heart pounding, stomach churning, Tessa asked, “And who exactly is it that I, I...?”

“Propositioned?” The word set off a new round of hysteria, and Tessa had to shake her friend’s shoulder to get her attention.

Calming once more, Sammi dropped into the chaise lounge at the back of the alcove and patted the cushion next to her. “It’s okay, truly. Matthew is one of the good guys. He’s with the Bureau—“

“The Bureau? As in Federal Bureau of Investigation?”

Sammi nodded. “He’s the embassy’s Legat, Legal Attaché.”

“So he wasn’t really kidding when he said he could take me into his custody.” A tingle worked its way down her spine, and  she had to squelch the chorus of Salt ‘N’ Pepa’s Whatta Man warming up in her chest.

“He could, although his job is more to facilitate official working relationships with the local law enforcement on international issues.” She eyed Tessa. “Last I knew, you weren’t an international criminal, although you could be accused of butchering the French language.”

Tessa groaned and dropped her face into her hands.

“Don’t worry, honey, he might look all James Bondishly, roguishly handsome, but he’s a gentleman. He’s probably already forgotten about you.”

***

 Thanks so much for reading part 1 of my story. I hope you're enjoying the pickle Tessa has gotten herself into. Please stop by tomorrow for the next chapter. 

Leah

www.leahstjames.com

Toad, Part 3 -- A Short Story by Betsy Ashton

The third and final episode in the story of Toad and the spacemen.

Today, Toad decided he knew better than his father. Some rare and wondrous adventure lay over the low rise, across the dry wash and up onto the higher plateau. He approached the rim; the new thing, the spaceship, was on the other side.

“Whaddya think, Shorty? Should we cross?”

Shorty lowered her head, shook her ears and snorted. Rex barked and bounded down the trail, tail wagging, nose scenting the air. He stopped at the bottom, looked up at Toad and Shorty and barked again.

“Okay.”

Toad checked north, saw no clouds, and led Shorty down one side of the wash, across the deep sandy bottom, and up the rocky far side. His heart thumped by the time he climbed out. Rex led the way, until he took off after a jack rabbit and disappeared behind a clump of Joshua trees.

“We won’t tell anyone where we went. Okay?”

Shorty blew warm breath on his face. By the time he reached the rim of the wash, he was thirsty and stopped to rest. He threw himself on the ground.

“We must have come at least a hundred miles,” he said to his animals.

He took a swig of warm water from the canteen, thought about the peanut butter sandwich squished in his pocket, and decided to save it. Shorty rested her head on Toad’s shoulder and nuzzled his shirt pocket for another treat.

“Is food all you think about? It’s no wonder you’re so round.”

Toad pulled her gray ears, patted her fuzzy forehead and surrendered a treat. Rex loped back, panting, to flop in Shorty’s shade. Once again, the jack rabbit was safe. Toad watched a tarantula make its awkward way across a small patch of scree. Unusual for it to be out in the daylight, he assumed something strange had disrupted its normal hunting patterns. The spider didn’t rear up in a threatening manner, but Toad knew better than to provoke it. He’d been bitten the first week at the compound. The bite hurt less than a bee sting, but it had left a red lump for a couple of days. He reached out and touched a hairy leg.

“If you walked on me, I bet you’d tickle.” He wasn’t afraid of spiders like Jimmy was. He was too old for such nonsense.

He shifted sand between his fingers and put a bit of green bottle glass and a couple of rose quartz rocks into his pocket. Not the one with the peanut butter sandwich, the one on the other side.

“I wish I could fly.”

Lying on the warm sand, Toad watched contrails loop, spread and fade in the jet stream.

“Way above that cloud into the sky.”

He pointed to a puffy cotton ball, which appeared out of nowhere. Rex and Shorty ignored him. Rex put his head on his paws and snoozed; Shorty rested her weight on three hooves, eyes half-closed, ears flicking to keep flies from landing.

More contrails crisscrossed the bright blue sky. He dreamed of riding one to a distant land where wonders not yet imagined awaited. Could a contrail take him to the moon or even beyond? Could they be supply ships traveling between a large spaceship and the city spacemen were building? He dozed in the heat of the midday sun and dreamed of flying away.

Toad woke when Shorty nudged his nose and Rex licked his sweaty face. If he was going to finish his big adventure before his parents came home from work, he had to get moving. He ate the melted sandwich, not even noticing that the bread was soggy and the peanut butter slick. He remembered to save a bit of the crust for the chipmunks.

He brushed sand from the seat of his pants and picked up Shorty’s lead. Even though she wouldn’t stray, he felt responsible for her. Once more, Rex bounded away, nose to the ground, tail parallel and wagging. For another half hour, Toad neither saw nor heard anything out of the ordinary. The wind moaned softly, but otherwise the land was so silent and empty he might have been the only little boy on earth. Nothing stirred on the ground since he left the tarantula.

“I wonder where all the animals are. Could they be hiding from something?”

He’d never come this far before. He tried not to be afraid, but deep inside his chest, his heart thumped.

Toad stooped and picked up a piece of lava. “Cool. Another one for my collection.” Then he found a black snake skin, coiled it up and wrapped it in the waxed paper that once covered his sandwich. He put the skin into his pocket too. This side of the wash was loaded with treasures.

Finally, Toad heard a low rumble, the same noise almost every day for two weeks, a noise made by no one and nothing. He squinted against the glare.

“It’s just gotta be spacemen.”

Shorty’s head shot up, and she yanked back on the lead, which shipped through his fingers. Rex whined and clamped his tail between his legs.

The rumble got louder. The spaceship was headed right toward him.

Whoosh! The noise knocked Toad on his butt, his chest too tight to breathe. Shorty brayed and took off for home, followed by a yipping Rex. Toad couldn’t move. More whooshes. Then, a silver-gray jet roared thirty feet above Toad’s head. Upside down.

Toad sat and stared. Other jets followed. Some soared upward and disappeared, leaving only contrails behind. Four flew wingtip to wingtip. Then all disappeared, leaving behind little more than the normal mid afternoon wind, which lifted columns of sand skyward, dust devils replacing clouds of sand from the low-flying jets.

Toad still couldn’t move. He sat and grinned and grinned and grinned.

Later, when it was obvious neither the jets nor his four-legged friends would return, Toad picked his way to the edge of the wash, down the rocky trail and up the other side. An hour of steady marching brought him to the gate where Rex and Shorty waited as if nothing unusual had happened. Shorty flicked her tail and shook her head; Rex lay in the dust and panted.

“Hey, you’re the ‘fraidy cats. You ran off and left me behind. Remember?” He petted each of his best friends.

He let them in, fed and watered both and ran a brush across Shorty’s rough coat. He returned to the platform and threw himself on a ratty sofa, which should have long ago made its way to the town dump. Too restless to take a nap and forbidden to watch television during the day, he searched for a spare tablet and began to write his first short story: “The Day My World Changed Forever.”

Maybe, just maybe, Toad thought, he hadn’t heard a spaceship after all. Maybe, just maybe, they were jet planes. If he couldn’t fly like the pilots he’d seen, he could write a story about them. Maybe, just maybe, his mother was right.

This time, anyway.

###

Betsy Ashton is the author of Mad Max, Unintended Consequences, and Uncharted Territory, A Mad Max Mystery, now available at Amazon and Barnes and Noble. I'm really excited that the trade paper edition of Uncharted Territory was released this week. Please follow me on my website, on Twitter, Facebook and Goodreads.