The Sun Singer by Malcolm R. Campbell
“Ospreyyyyyyyy.”
To Be Continued by Charmaine Gordon
Elizabeth Malone wanted to revel in memories of the great sex she and Frank, her husband of forty years, had last night. At his insistence, for God’s sake. She practically had to seduce him before they did it anymore; was on the verge of suggesting those little blue pills the girls talked about, when out of nowhere he became amorous. And it was great. No. . .wonderful. No. . .Fan—fargin’—tastic!
“Mmmm.”
Her fingers crept along the sheets searching for her mate. They groped to where Frank could be found most early mornings except on golf days or scheduled surgery. She touched the edge of his pillow but no Frank.
Turning her head, she called his name. At the same time she saw an envelope lying on top of the pillow. Never like Frank to leave a note but how sweet is this? A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth and she sat up. The sheet slipped down and there she was. Naked. Liz, you’re such a slut. Where oh where is your nightie, you naughty girl. A heap of green satin lay on the floor next to the bed, evidence of last night’s pleasure.
With care, one long polished nail sliced through the envelope. The nail snagged on an edge and broke. “Damnit.” Nothing was going to spoil the moment because this was the first letter from Frank in all the years of togetherness and she planned to keep it. Stumbling off the bed, letter clutched in her hand, she groped for reading glasses, found them, dropped them, on hands and knees patting the carpet, found them again. Naked on the floor, she read: Dear Lizzie, It’s not you. It’s me. I have been uncomfortable in my own skin for a long time and have decided I must make a change in my life. I sold my half of the practice to George. You, dear Lizzie, are well taken care of. Call Bruce Bradley. He has all the papers, investments, everything you will need to live in comfort. The house is yours. Last but not least, I signed my portion of divorce papers so whenever you want to, sign yours. Bruce will take care of it.”
She leapt up—made it to the toilet... and retched. Foul taste in her mouth,Elizabeth
“Mmmm.”
Her fingers crept along the sheets searching for her mate. They groped to where Frank could be found most early mornings except on golf days or scheduled surgery. She touched the edge of his pillow but no Frank.
Turning her head, she called his name. At the same time she saw an envelope lying on top of the pillow. Never like Frank to leave a note but how sweet is this? A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth and she sat up. The sheet slipped down and there she was. Naked. Liz, you’re such a slut. Where oh where is your nightie, you naughty girl. A heap of green satin lay on the floor next to the bed, evidence of last night’s pleasure.
With care, one long polished nail sliced through the envelope. The nail snagged on an edge and broke. “Damnit.” Nothing was going to spoil the moment because this was the first letter from Frank in all the years of togetherness and she planned to keep it. Stumbling off the bed, letter clutched in her hand, she groped for reading glasses, found them, dropped them, on hands and knees patting the carpet, found them again. Naked on the floor, she read: Dear Lizzie, It’s not you. It’s me. I have been uncomfortable in my own skin for a long time and have decided I must make a change in my life. I sold my half of the practice to George. You, dear Lizzie, are well taken care of. Call Bruce Bradley. He has all the papers, investments, everything you will need to live in comfort. The house is yours. Last but not least, I signed my portion of divorce papers so whenever you want to, sign yours. Bruce will take care of it.”
She leapt up—made it to the toilet... and retched. Foul taste in her mouth,
by Smoky Trudeau
Prologue: I Am Nature
The patch of earth between the side walkway and my house was a riot of color: deep purple, red, yellow, white, and pink, each shade more brilliant, more beautiful, than the one next to it. After months of ice and snow, of being cooped up inside the house except on the rare occasion when I was allowed to venture outside, bundled up so tightly against the wind and the cold I could barely move, it was spring, and the tulips were in bloom.
I wandered down the path and into the back yard. The fragrance hit me first: apple blossoms, perfuming the air so sweetly I could follow my nose around the corner of the house to the tree hidden behind the garage. I giggled. It sounded like the tree was singing. Thousands of bumblebees flitted from fragrant blossom to fragrant blossom, gathering nectar, spreading pollen.
Unfazed by the bees, I climbed up onto the picnic table beneath the tree, then into the tree itself. This was one of my favorite spots to sit. It was especially pleasant on this day, barefoot for the first time in months, hidden from sight by the riot of flowers and bumblebees.
I sat quietly in the branches among the flowers and the bees, smelling the blossoms, listening to the tree hum, just being. Someone called my name; I did not respond. I was the tree. I was the bee. I was not who they were looking for.
The soft white blossoms each were punctuated with the bright black and yellow stripes of the bumblebees. The hum of their wings was in perfect pitch, one single note, one ohmmmmmm. I hummed too, adjusting the hum up, then down, until I too matched their pitch. I was the bee. The bee was me. We hummed in the tree, the bees and me.
I closed my eyes and felt for the pulse of the tree in the trunk beneath my fingertips, for surely this tree had a heart that beat like mine. The trunk warmed beneath my gentle touch as my branch swayed in the easy spring breeze. It felt like the tree was breathing. I matched the rhythm of my own breath to that of the tree. I was the tree. The tree was me. We breathed and swayed, the tree, the bees, and me.
That was the moment that defined my place in the natural world. The moment I understood that I, a human being, was not above the other creatures of Creation. Not better than the bees and the birds and the bears. Not superior to the snakes and the snails and the swallows. I was Nature. Nature was me.
Thus began my life as an earth mage. Not someone who performs magic—I’ll leave that job to Mother Nature—but rather, someone who sees the natural world as a magical place, full of wonder and miracles. I was three years old.
Fifty years have passed, and every time I set foot outside my door, I am still as awestruck as that three-year-old girl sitting in the apple tree. Whether I’m giving myself a dirt manicure by planting tomatoes and marigolds in my garden, walking my dog around the neighborhood, or standing on the peak of an ancient mountain, the magic of creation never fails to enchant me.
Welcome to my world, as told through stories and poems I’ve written and published in various magazines and on my blog. Come hike the trails of our national parks and take a stroll along an ocean beach. See the magic in a tiny dragonfly, a humble hermit crab, and the spectacular waterfalls of Yosemite
Be enchanted. Be an earth mage. Come.
The House on the Shore by Victoria Howard
Her doubts started with the picture.
It was taken at the university picnic. She and Mark knelt in the grass by a gigantic oak tree, side by side, heads slanted toward each other, arms around shoulders, clearly and disgustingly in love. When was it taken? A year ago? No, two. Had they been together that long? She swallowed pain as she took the photograph out of the silver frame. The frame she would keep. The photo… she held it in both hands and struggled to tear it, but couldn’t see it through the tears. She settled for balling it up and letting it fall to the floor.
There was no denying Mark was a complete bastard. Thank God she’d never asked him to move in with her. Obviously he had no intention of marrying her. He’d been adamant that he’d never stoop to such old fashioned sensibilities. For a time she’d agreed with him. What was marriage anyway, but a contract that didn’t just bind two parties, but frequently strangled them?
Damn. She could have been a good wife, would have been a good wife. But now?
Was she doing the right thing? While she could never forgive his infidelity, she would miss her job and her friends. She scrubbed a tear away with the back of her hand.
It was too late now to change her mind, she thought, folding a pair of jeans into her suitcase. She’d already surrendered the lease on her fashionable Morningside apartment. The rent, barely manageable on her salary, ate into her savings quicker than a ravenous hyena.
“It’s all for the best,” she told her two Border collies. Their tails wagged as if they understood. “Besides, I’ve been breaking the lease with you here anyway. No pets allowed, remember?” The younger collie, bright eyed with dappled paws, edged over and gave her hand a quick lick. Anna ruffled the black and white head. “You’re a good dog, and I’m doing all of us a favour anyway. We’re off to the country, my girls. Peace, quiet, and who the hell knows what else.”
Anna locked the suitcase and placed it next to the door with the others ready to carry down to the old beat-up Land Rover. She took one last look around the room. Emptied of its contents, the apartment looked huge now. She couldn’t take her furniture with her and had arranged to put it into storage. All that remained of her life—at least the past seven years of it—was a carpet that needed shampooing and places on the wall where lighter paint called attention to where her paintings had hung.
She picked up her handbag. This phase of her life was over. She had a book to write. Apart from her clothes, laptop, printer, and the few books she intended to take with her, the things she most wanted to leave behind were the raw sores of an aching heart.
She knew she’d be taking them too.
The Women of Camp Sobingo
She approached the stone edifice with legs that felt like rubber. Entering, she paused at the casket that contained the body of her father-in-law. “Colin,” she murmured. “You would have been proud of me today. I turned the company upside down. And yes, I threw up later.” She allowed herself a somewhat crooked grin as she stroked the top of the casket. She could almost imagine Colin guffawing loudly, his eyes sparking with a mischievous glint. She was silent for a few moments then turned to her husband’s casket a few feet away.
“Philip,” she whispered softly as she knelt to touch his casket. “I’m keeping the pact we all made when we were in Korea
Wiping her eyes, she straightened and walked briskly to her waiting car.
“Let’s go home, Leo,” she said.
Now clear-eyed, Trudy allowed Leo to assist her from the limousine, saying, “Come into the study. We’ll have a drink before we go over those new Ellis contracts.”
Leo followed her from the car into the great hallway and into the massive oak paneled study. At the sideboard, she poured a drink and sat in a dark green wingback chair.
I feel like a fool, crying in front of Leo like that. It must be hormones, she thought.
They’re running full steam, getting in their last gasps, but Alex doesn’t think I’m too old. The feeling of warmth spread to her breasts as she remembered last evening with Alex. No, there was nothing wrong with my hormones, she assured herself.
She turned her thoughts to her upcoming reunion. She wondered how her “old” friends had fared in these twenty-five years since they had all been Army wives in a military compound so far from home.
Maggie would only be more plump, more brassy, if possible. And Nell. Nell would be even more of a comfort, an island of sanity in a crazy world.
And Leah?
She swallowed her drink
Leah should be here, she thought.
But Leah was dead.
Leah died in Korea
She stood and mixed another drink, something she rarely did.
The voice nagged at her. Leah didn’t just die. She killed herself.
Her legs became unsteady beneath her, and she sank into the chair. Colin’s chair. Her breath came in ragged gasps.
She was crying, dammit.
“I really don’t know why I’m crying, Leo,” she sobbed. “Except, after all these years, I miss those people. They were special.”
She motioned for his handkerchief. She blew her nose and started to hand the handkerchief back. “Thanks. I’ll get this back to you later. I’m sorry you had to see me cry.” She laughed self-consciously. “And if word ever gets out that Trudy Cavanaugh cried, I’ll know who to blame…”
“I’ll find them for you, Trudy. I’ll bring them all back.” Leo patted her shoulder awkwardly.
No, you can’t bring them all back, Trudy thought. Not Colin, Philip, or Leah.
Or the past. Never the past.
Hostage Heart by Chelle Cordero
When Ryan began to move, so did Deanna. He was able to wait until he felt her tighten around him and saw the fire in her eyes before he allowed his own release. He held her close to him and felt their hearts pounding.
“Better?” He whispered gently.
“Oh yes.” She was still breathless.
Ryan waited as long as he could until he no longer had a choice before he withdrew. He held her to his side. “That’s how making love is supposed to be. I’m sorry this wasn’t your first time.” He swallowed. “That’s how I wish I had done it the first time.”
She was quiet as she lay next to him. Her fingers toyed with his muscled chest. “Come back with me, Ryan. Turn yourself in. It’s got to be easier than always running and hiding. You’re better than this.” She waited through his silence. “Please Ryan. Please do the right thing... for you.”
He squeezed his eyes and exhaled slowly. “No Deanna, this is me. This is my life.”
“If the police capture you, they are going to put you in jail for a long time.”
“They won’t capture me.”
She sat up next to him. “Ryan, if you come back with me and turn yourself in, I’ll tell them that you didn’t kidnap me. I’ll tell them you protected me and saved me. I’ll help you as much as I can. Even if you have some jail time, they’ll go much easier on you.”
“No.” He felt a hole in his heart. “I know that you are trying to help me, but don’t. I am going to get you out of here. And then I am never going to see you again.”
“No Ryan, you could if you wanted. Not because of what we just did. I know there was no commitment. You could choose someone else... or I could. But I can feel there is so much good in you. You’re a good man.”
He wished he had the time to see where things could go. He wanted to get to know her better, maybe even to build a relationship with her. “Deanna, trust me, I am not getting out...”
“You could.”
“No. Deanna, I expect to die here.”
