Guest Author Regina Puckett of Tennessee

Regina Puckett is an accomplished author  with her sweet romance Concealed in My Heart, steampunk book I Will Breathe, children’s picture book, Borrowed Wings, her poem Memories and book of poetry, Fireflies,  have all received awards of note.

She writes sweet romance, horror, steampunk, inspirational, picture books and poetry. There are always several projects in various stages of completion and characters and stories waiting in the wings for their chance to finally get out of her head and onto paper.

Copyright for the following excerpt is owned by the author and is used by permission.

Finding Libertry

Aapeli

Chapter One

 

When the airship entered the valley, Aapeli leaned over the railing to get a better view.  He never grew tired of looking at the pristine lake that took up much of the valley floor. It was the main water source for everyone who lived within a thirty-mile radius – the good and the bad. Stately pine and oak trees snuggled up close to the edge of the mountain, creating a wonderful hiding place for anyone interested in stealing his airship or killing him.

“Looks good so far.” He didn’t know when he had taken to talking to himself but took comfort in the fact there was no one here to witness it. Sometimes he just liked hearing a voice – any voice. The daily solitude was a way of life and had been for many years, but there were times he missed sharing ideas and words with someone else. It didn’t help knowing he was heading toward the loneliest place in the world - The Forbidden Lands.

Aapeli adjusted his goggles and leaned even farther over the railing, ever vigilant for what might be hiding in the forest. The nearby caves were supposedly inhabited by men who loved killing for the simple sport of it. The rumors were they ate their victims. In his twenty years of stopping at the foot of the mountains to refill the water tanks, there had never been any indication that these tales about the cave-dwellers were true.

It was quite possible the tall tales were just that – tall tales, but it didn’t hurt to keep a sharp lookout just in case there was some grain of truth in them. The last thing he wanted was to wind up on a roasting stick. It would certainly have been far safer to refill his water tanks elsewhere, but Big Lake was the nearest source of water before heading over the mountains into the Forbidden Lands.

Satisfied that all was well, Aapeli ran over to the helm and checked all the gauges before pulling a lever that sent a plume of steam into the air. Slowly but surely the airship began its descent. It skimmed over the tops of the trees before settling onto the bank of the lake.

 Aapeli patted Airus’s helm. “Way to go, girl. Another perfect landing.” A couple of turns on a large brass wheel lowered the anchor until he felt it hit the ground. To make certain it was secure he tugged it a couple of times before throwing the water hoses over the starboard side. Not wanting to lose his hat or goggles, he carried them over and set them down on the captain’s chair. They had belonged to his father, and to his grandfather and great-grandfather, so he felt it his duty to protect them.

Satisfied everything was secure, Aapeli lowered the ladder but then sat with one leg over the railing, casting a cautious eye over the area one more time. A flock of birds flew out of the trees closest to the lake.  He held his breath and listened for any unusual sounds, and when none came he rubbed his pocket watch for good luck before heading down.

Aapeli had nearly reached the bottom rung when an eerie wailing cut across the lake’s usual silence.  He halted, mid-step, and chills ran down his spine.

“What the hell?” Every sense snapped to full alert, and without thinking, he slipped the small handgun out of his jacket pocket before jumping the rest of the way to the ground. The lush, green grass assured a quiet landing.

Another cry filled the air, and he flattened himself against the ship and cocked the pistol. An unnerving silence then settled over the lake, somehow more alarming than the wailing.

Which direction had the high pitched sound come from? It was tempting to pull up anchor and get the hell out of here, but that would have meant backtracking to Little Lake. Damn. Totally unacceptable. It would set him back at least a couple of days. Not such a big deal any other time of the year but winter was quickly approaching. The delay could easily make the return trip over the mountaintop as dangerous as hell. The wind currents were unpredictable once freezing temperatures reached those higher altitudes. The added threat of snow was also a worry. Any extra weight would make Airus sluggish.

Another wail ripped through the stagnant air.

The smart thing would have been to get out of here for the crying had clearly drawn someone else’s attention.

“Shit.” To hell with being smart. Maybe someone needed his help, and so Aapeli stepped ahead, scanning the area again.

Something about the crying troubled him. It sounded more like a child’s sob than that of a man or woman. Was this one of the tricks the mountain men used to entice their victims?

“What are you going to do?  Shit or get off the pot?  Some mountain man is out there licking his chops, hoping you’re stupid enough to run right into his arms.” But none of the stories he had heard over the years had ever led him to believe the cave-dwellers were smart enough to pull such a trick.

“Mommy!”

“What the hell?”  It wasn’t possible for a grown man to disguise his voice enough to sound that much like a little girl. He stopped, stood on his toes and strained to see over the tall grass. He couldn’t chance it really was a child. How long before the cries drew the attention of someone looking for an easy meal?

“You can’t stand here all day.” With no firm plan in mind, Aapeli took off running, silently cursing himself with each step. He was a damn fool for taking such a chance and was probably going to wind up in someone’s soup pot tonight.

Keeping the pistol ready, Aapeli stopped every couple of steps to check around, in case someone had maneuvered themselves between him and his airship. When he turned to look ahead again, a movement at the tree line caught his eye.

Anger replaced apprehension. What kind of fool left their child alone in such a dangerous place? Aapeli ran across the open field toward the edge of the trees and stopped a few feet from the child, peering into the dense underbrush to make certain there was no one there waiting to attack. As best he could tell, they seemed to be alone and so he quietly approached the girl. 

Her big eyes watched his every movement so he slowly knelt in front of her, trying not to spook her. Her curly, red hair was filthy and matted. Tears had washed some of the grime off her face. A river of snot ran from her nose and dripped from her chin. Where was her mother? He looked over his shoulder at Airus and wondered what to do. He couldn’t very well leave her here without any protection but he couldn’t take her with him either.

“This is a damn fine mess,” Aapeli mumbled to himself as he scooted in closer.

With an innocent expression of curiosity, the girl eyed the shiny pistol before reaching out to touch it. Before she could, Aapeli put on the safety catch and slipped it into his duster pocket.

The little girl was no longer crying but was now drawing in ragged breaths.

“Where’s your mommy?”

She slipped a thumb into her mouth and hiccupped.

Before he could question her further, a shrill yell bounced down the mountainside. This time there was no mistaking the fact that danger was heading their way. Aapeli looked up toward the caves, seeing a mass of dark dots speeding toward the valley floor. He scooped up the little girl and took off running. Calmly, with each step, he mentally clicked off what needed to be done before takeoff.

The trip up the ladder took less time than it did down. Once onboard, Aapeli swiped his hat and goggles off the captain’s chair and there deposited the child. He vaguely noted that her tears had stopped and her big eyes watched him with interest, not fear. Sensing she could probably use some reassurance, he quickly patted the top of her head before running over and spinning the wheel that hauled up the anchor. That done, he dashed over to the portside and pulled up the ladder until it was all safely back on deck.

Feeling more secure now that no one could climb on board, Aapeli took a moment to look out at the herd of men rapidly running toward the airship. With them all bunched up and on each other’s heels it was hard to tell how many there were, maybe some twenty to thirty. By now they were at the furthest edge of the lake and heading in his direction.

“Damnation!” Aapeli checked that the little girl was still in the captain’s chair. She hadn’t moved but was sucking her thumb – a mystery sitting there that would have to wait to be solved after they were out of danger. Now at the helm, he increased the speed on the friction engine and opened the steam vent to release hot air into the balloon.

Even though the engine was running on it highest setting, it was an excruciating wait for the airship to lift off. Aapeli pulled out his pistol and looked over the railing. The crazed mob was now beating on the sides of Airus with their bare hands and large sticks.

Aapeli shook his head. If that was all they had, they were going to leave here disappointed. Since he had built Airus, he knew exactly how much punishment it could take and a few rocks and sticks were useless against its seasoned cedar planking.

He couldn’t decide whether to be afraid or amused at the sight of the ragtag mob. They were grabbing whatever they could and throwing it at the airship, as if that would be enough to stop it from taking off. Most of the missiles fell harmlessly to the ground but every now and then some would land onto the heads of those below. Of course that only stirred them into a more fevered pitch, but thankfully to no avail. Airus slowly gained altitude and climbed out of reach, the rocks and sticks no longer clattering against its hull.

Aapeli grinned and waved. The smile was all for show because their crazed growls and hoarse screams had unnerved him more than he wanted to admit. No doubt they would have torn him and the little girl into tiny pieces if they had gotten their hands on them.

Slipping the pistol back into his coat pocket, he returned to the helm and increased the steam pressure. He looked at the dirty little girl and sighed. Shit. What was he going to do with her? She was sucking on her thumb still but with renewed vigor, though there was no fear in her big brown eyes - only curiosity.

Lost for what to do or say, he again patted the top of her head. Her face lit up with a huge smile.

Before he turned back to the airship’s controls, he knelt in front of the captain’s chair, again hoping to reassure her. “I’ll stop by Shatter’s. I bet if anyone knows who you belong to, it’s him.”  That brought another bright smile. Someone was surely looking for this beautiful little girl. If she was his daughter, he would never stop searching until he’d found her.

With a new mission now before him, Aapeli headed Airus toward the local trading post.

 

 Thank you Regina for sharing your clever writing on the Scribbler.  Please visit her website below for more connections.

http://reginapuckettsbooks.weebly.com/index.html

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
 
 
 
 

 

Please drop by next week when The Scribbler will feature Author and Poet Judy Savoie of Shediac, New Brunswick with a collection of poems.

 

4Q Interview with Drake Alexander - Vigilante - Fictional Hero!

Drake Alexander is the coolest guy on the planet! Okay, I’m biased. He’s my hero!  Ex- Canadian Soldier, heir to a family fortune. I’ve tracked him down in Mexico to have him answer a few questions for the 4Q Interview on the Scribbler. 

 

 

 

 

4Q: Thank you for taking some time from your adventures Mr. Alexander to answer some questions for your fans. Would you describe yourself as a vigilante?

 

DA: Hey Allan, you can call me Drake, none of that Mr. Alexander business.

Well, to answer your question, which I’ve been asked or accused of many times, if we accept the true definition of a vigilante in that I sometimes take the law into my own hands then I guess I’d have to say yes! My team and I try to be ever conscious of lawful procedure as we dig around the world to either capture or detain or if all else fails, to eliminate, some of the Earth’s scum that have total disregard for anything lawful. I’m not talking about a petty criminal but the truly evil, the killers, pedophiles, arms dealers, master thieves and other low life. We’re more like private investigators working to help law enforcement agencies but sometimes we have to step over the line to make sure that whomever we may be pursuing does not get to spend any more time as a free person. If I’m forced to kill them, I will. And no, I don’t lose any sleep over it. 

 

4Q: Okay then, Drake it is! Since we first met you in Dark Side of a Promise, we know that you married your long time sweetheart Beth Stone and now have a family. How do they feel about you placing yourself in danger so often?

DA: That’s always been a tough one.  As you know, when I was a boy and saw the Army Reserve manage war games on my grandfather’s property in Cocagne many years ago, I was enthralled by the uniforms, heavy battle vehicles, the guns and other weapons and the brawny men that served to keep our country free and Canada’s long role as peacekeepers and I decided then to become a soldier, to do my part. Of course my father was disappointed that I didn’t follow him or my mother’s family into the jewellery business that they had built over the years but I’m as stubborn as he was. When he came to realize that being a warrior was my destiny, he supported me all the way.

As far as my immediate family, my wife Beth has been a reluctant backer and has occasionally been part of my team when her expertise with disguises and shooting skills has been required. Since we first met as adolescents she has always known why I chose to be a soldier, hated it of course, due to our continuous separation when I was or still am in the field or worrying about me getting hurt or killed. She knows how I feel about lawlessness.  I admit, I’ve asked a great deal from her and it is our deep commitment to each other that makes us strong.

With my children at a young age, I’m thinking that perhaps the day may soon arrive when I will give up my gallivanting. I want to spend more time with them. They are still under the impression I travel for the jewellery business. I don’t want any of them to think my life or what I do might be glamourous.  Even though we all have the same goals and lifestyles that permit us the freedom we need, I owe it to my comrades, Williston Payne, Elijah and Plum Glass and Dakin Rush who have stuck beside me over the years to value our good luck and pursue safer avenues in our lives. We’re all getting older and travelling the world to place ourselves in peril is wearing thin. In fact as we speak, I’ve decided that this is my last caper. I’m not sure if it will end here in Mexico or if I’ll be alive next month but if I have the good luck to find the serial killer that has ravaged Central America for the last eighteen months, I think I’ll trade in my guns for a pen and write about it, maybe create a good book or two. 

 

4Q: I can’t wait to read those. Good luck! Please share a childhood anecdote or memory with us.

DA: I’ll have to think about that for a moment because I have so many.

Probably the first time I actually met my wife Beth. My parents and I lived in Massachusetts when I was younger and we spent our summers in Cocagne, New Brunswick in the house that had been in my grandmother’s family for decades. My father owned land across from the older house that bordered the waters of the Northumberland Strait. When he decided to build a house there, we spent three weeks in New Brunswick one winter when he finalized the details of the work to be done with the contractor doing the work starting that spring. I had the opportunity to go to the nearest ski hill with several of my summertime friends. I had never skied before so in the morning I took lessons and by mid morning I was feeling confident enough to try a larger hill. When I got off the lift, I made it safely to what looked like an easy run. It was not. At the top of the first rise was a gaggle of young ladies and Beth was part of the group. I figured I was doing well enough that if I was careful, I might impress the ladies. Not so.

I had to pass in front of the group to make my way downward and as I did, the girls all fell silent and then I slipped. I slide seventy feet to the bottom but one ski stayed halfway up. To say I was embarrassed would be an understatement. I couldn’t imagine any thing being worse until Beth, with the grace of a true athlete, swished down the hill, grabbed my errant ski without even stopping and brought it to me. By then she couldn’t stop herself from laughing. When the other girls gracefully slid by me, she smiled and I melted. Her parting words soothed me a bit when she told me the same thing happened to her. I can’t remember ever having my ego deflated as much since but I’ll never forget how beautiful she looked at that moment. 

 

4Q: Many readers of the Dark Side of a Promise always wondered why someone whose childhood and growing-up-dreams of being a soldier did not make it a career. You chose being a grunt instead of officer school. You were part of the Canadian Special Forces with Joint Task Team 2.  What happened?

DA: I don’t talk about that much because it is still a major disappointment that I could no longer serve my country in the capacity of the Armed Services. Very briefly, I was with a small contingent of Canadian soldiers in Desert Storm. During our deployment, one of the American soldiers we had formed a bond with and one of our men were captured during a clandestine operation. Delta Company pulled our asses out of a bad situation returning us to base.  For reasons we were never told, the military would not mount a rescue operation even though our allies knew where they would be. I couldn’t live with that. I vowed to never leave any man behind. I disobeyed orders. With two fellow soldiers and a crafty stick pilot, we hijacked a heavy lift Chinook and did it ourselves, and in the nick of time I might add. We saved their lives but the Forces thought differently. When the dust settled we were given the opportunity to accept an honorable discharge or be court martialed. That’s it. 

 

Thank you Drake for this candid interview.

 

 

You can meet him in the international thriller Dark Side of a Promise which highlights events that took place in 2004. Alexander has made a promise to his best friend to find the man that killed his sister!  

 

 
In the newest adventure an amateur rock climber makes an amazing discovery in 1953 only to lose the secret for another fifty years until a close friend of Drake’s rediscovers it and has to run for his life from the clutches of Spanish raiders as they chase forgotten gold in Peru. The story is called Wall of War and will be available in fall 2016.

 

 Watch here for more details!

 

 

 

 

Next week the Scribbler is pleased to have Regina Puckett of Tennessee as our guest author.

 

Guest Author Ann Knight of New Brunswick, Canada

The Scribbler is fortunate to have Ann Knight as the featured guest this week. She has studied Dramatic Arts as well as Dramatic Screenwriting at Algonquin College and received an outstanding achievement award in English Language. She is a published author with a Young Adult story - The Rubix. She has also penned The Rising (2011), Midnight Peak - a sequel(2011) and Battlefield (2011) Her link is below.

Her short story The Raft is a creative piece about inner turbulence in the aftermath of a traumatic event.

Copyright 2015 by Ann Knight

All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. Used by permission.

The Raft

                Thunderheads rolled across the darkened sky. Gray clouds swelled and curled over themselves spewing rain that fell in tight streaks, lacerating the surface of the ocean that lay beneath like needles puncturing skin. This storm had caught me completely by surprise. After the worst of it had passed, I was alone in the squally waters fighting to stay alive, desperately clutching the only object that was keeping me afloat—a simple box crate. I didn’t know what had happened to the rest of my family—the storm had separated us. My husband, my children, my pets—the people I loved—where were they? They were in the blackness like me—maybe they were alone and holding onto something for dear life just like me too. 

I had already been at the mercy of this tumultuous sea for what seemed like a time without end and it was still raging and still powerful. A black wall of water rose in front of me, sucking me into it like a vacuum. I found myself at its highest peak, momentarily gazing at the bowling sky above until the wave dropped me back down so fast that bile came up from my stomach and burned the back of my throat. This was the roller coaster from hell—the dips plunged my heart into the pit of my gut until I thought the sick feeling alone would be enough to kill me. The violence of the sea was relentless. I curled my hand around the rope that was tied around the box crate, doubting that I could remain afloat much longer. My strength was all but gone. Hanging onto the winding rope, I ignored the frigid temperature of the water, endured the occasional slaps from the wild salty sea, and thought back to a time when I had navigated these depths with ease. It didn’t even seem like that long ago when…

The clear sky was above me and the calm sea was below me. My vessel was large, I remember it well. It was sturdy, beautiful, and it weathered the storms that came my way. I had spent a long time building it—constructing its base and overseeing the minutest of details until it was sail-worthy. I had placed everything that mattered to me on that craft; everything of substance that this particular storm brutally tore to pieces had been on that vessel—pieces I had tried to hold on to, but the tempest had swallowed them all.

The swell rose, heaving, and tossing me around. This night was especially dark, as black as coal. The occasional sparkle of light on the water, when the clouds decided to be kind and part, was somewhat reassuring. I wanted to think that even though I was alone—stranded—maybe someone was looking out for me—just maybe… I wasn’t completely abandoned. I rested my cheek on the crate. My teeth were chattering and my body was shivering uncontrollably. I gripped the slippery rope tighter, twirling it around my hand several times. If the storm took this crate from me too I wouldn’t survive. I needed it. It hadn’t been a part of my original vessel—but it was a part of my experience now. It had found me and kept me afloat—it was all I had to hold onto. It would mean the end if I lost my grip—because the way I saw it, without this crate I would drown. It wasn’t just a simple box crate. It was my lifeline. Even in the dark I could make out its shape, square and imperfect, but in my view it was just right… because it had saved me.

Wrapping my arms around the crate, I desperately clung for dear life. But the shift of my weight submerged us, and we slipped under the surface. The water swallowed us both. There in the cold depth, we were rocked and tossed, rolled and churned—me and my crate—until the rope disentangled itself from my hand. We were disconnected. I screamed underwater and bubbles rushed out of my mouth. Flailing and kicking, I reached for the rope that wasn’t there anymore. Disoriented and confused, I struggled to find the surface—needing to get air into my burning lungs.

A ghostly white light shone down from a break in the cover of clouds overhead, like a spotlight, and it showed me the way. Breaking the surface of the sea, I choked and struggled to tread water, coughing and spitting until something knocked me hard on the back of the head. It was my crate—and it was floating away from me. The sea was taking it. It’s leaving… I panicked and

opened my mouth to call after it just as a succession of small waves began to batter me. I flailed at the surface of the choppy water, fighting for my next breath, knowing I had no strength left to go on. Knowing I should let the storm take me because I had lost too much—more than most—and more than I could ever hope to recover.

I went under.

The water covered me like a cold, discomforting blanket. I expected death to claim me, as I knew it was waiting and longing to do. The tendrils of the deep reached for me, bucking and summersaulting me around and around. The rage and tenacity of the water spurred my own anger and I lashed out with furious fists, and sharp kicks, and everything I could muster—fighting the bodiless monsoon until my lungs screamed for oxygen. Exhausted, I opened my mouth and released the last of my air supply. The bubbles quickly rose for the surface, showing me the way up. I contemplated staying put. I need air! My lungs screamed again. But in this very moment the water was still; deceptively quiet and eerily tranquil like it was on pause. Just take me… I thought. Without so much as a thin thread to hold on to, I’m defeated anyhow.

Just then a raft appeared overhead, its shadow darkening the blue-black gloom. I looked up at the rectangular mass, temporarily mesmerized, until white hands broke the surface of the water and reached in. Those hands found me, curled around my upper arms, and pulled me out of the water. My lungs sucked in a desperate breath of air, all the while cursing me for allowing their extensive distress. My upper body landed on the hard planks. The soaked wood smelled of over-ripened apples and cheap cigars and my cheek was pressed firmly against it. My legs dangled off the side of the raft, tethered in place by the weight of my upper body. I couldn’t keep my eyes open because the water came up over the side of the raft and slapped my face over and over, developing a rhythm, like the beat of a drum. The slapping water gradually lessened in intensity until I realized that…

The storm was finally beginning to settle.

By morning, the sky was violet and blue. A stripe of orange peaked over the edge of the horizon where the ocean met the sky. The orange streak slowly spread across the dull sky, lightening and trying to overtake it. I took a deep breath, vaguely aware that I was not alone on the raft. My fingers found the edge of the plank above my head and I used the very little strength I had left to turn on to my other cheek. With my mouth gaping, I stared across at the familiar figure sitting just a few feet away. He had the appearance of a man, but I knew he was still a boy.

The salty water burned my eyes but I could see his shoes—white sneakers with bright green laces. They were familiar. My head was swarming with thoughts and ideas. The boy was sitting crossed-legged, his gray plaid cotton shorts revealing his long pale legs. There was something about him that I recognized, yet I couldn’t quite identify it. The misshaped form of his knees struck me. The bones slightly protruded beneath his kneecaps… This boy… can it be that I know him? I wondered. The raft was drifting on the choppy sea, but in the moment that I was staring across at the boy, everything felt peaceful. I opened my mouth, wanting to say something, but I was too exhausted to utter anything that made sense. “I… I can’t…” my voice broke and I hung my head.

“Don’t try,” he said clearly, and I knew his voice. I had heard it before. “Just rest.”

I squeezed my eyes shut. Pain constricted about my chest. My heart tightened around a small chest—a secret box that I kept hidden deep inside—a chest that now threatened to burst open. Pain mingled with my blood and pulsed through my veins like poison, becoming a hot and searing liquid. I bit down on my lip until the taste of blood filled my mouth. There was a boy on my raft—a boy. And suddenly I realized… this wasn’t just a raft—it was a piece of my broken vessel. This had once been mine… I swallowed hard, trying to push down the lump that had risen to my throat. I couldn’t look up at the boy now even if I wanted to… because I knew exactly what I would see if I did—hair as fine as strands of silk, dark espresso-coloured eyes that could see to the pit of someone’s soul, and a smile that could brighten even the deepest, darkest of days. On top of that though, I would see perfection. I would see the reflection of my joy, of my hope, and my endless love.

“Don’t try,” he repeated, and his voice took me back to a different time.

There had been a boy on my vessel—before this particular storm hit. He was a strong, handsome, caring boy. A boy that I

loved unconditionally. He left handprints on my heart and placed a trail of footprints throughout my soul. A sob broke free of my chest. My eyes were stinging, not from the saltiness of the water, but from the saltiness of the tears that were now flowing freely from them.

My heart was broken… I lost this boy to the storm.

A strong gust of wind twirled our raft around on the blue-marbled water. My legs were still dangling over the side when the wild current caught them. The sea tried once again to suck me back into its perilous depths. My shoulders lost their perch and my body slid close to the edge. Not again! I thought, and contemplated the value of holding on this time, of staying this course. What did I have left? Do we ever actually beat the storm? No. We are all either heading into it, in the middle of it, or coming out of it—after it has taken something from us. My fingers were slipping. My hold was failing. The water was swallowing my lower body and I had to make a choice—keep going or let go. The storm was testing me again. Choose.

As if in answer, the boy reached over and placed his hand on my back.

“It’ll be ok,” he said, and I could almost see his face. “Don’t let go mama.”

And I broke. I wept.

The water entered my mouth and I choked. I wanted to hold him—to hold the boy, but he was beyond my reach. “Hold on,” he said. “Don’t let go,” he whispered time and time again, and I did—I held on until the storm receded and the waters were calm again. The boy never moved from his place. I felt him sitting next to me, where he remained fixed and watchful.

The sky remained dull and gray for a long time, a long time. I held on, drifting half-on and half-off the raft, until the water became a ripple-less sheet of glass under the pale blue sky. Until a new dawn finally broke. Finally, the storm had relented. In time I found the strength to pull myself completely up onto to the raft, and all I could do was rest my forehead against the boards and hug my knees to my chest. I was barely alive. The next stretch of time was for recovering, restoring, healing. I didn’t move. I didn’t do anything but breathe. Weak and fragile, the only arms of comfort were my own, and I just breathed. Days turned to nights. Eventually, my ears began to work again and I heard sea birds

singing and playing in the sky overhead. Their songs were sweet, like nectar to my ears. They nurtured me. The occasional gush of water spraying from a whale’s blowhole as it came in for a curious look, startled me and helped me find the strength to lift my head again. I looked out onto the blue world, and my perspective changed. I noticed different things over time. Fins broke the surface of the water near my raft, drawing brilliant swirls that brought a smile to my lips. Life was all around me. The boy was gone. But he was with me. And life was within me. And life was all around me. The storm hadn’t taken it all…  

Love you forever my boy,

Ann Knight   

Thank you Ann for sharing this compelling story.

Readers can discover more about Ann by going to www.annknightfiction.com


Please drop by next week for another exciting 4Q Interview.

Guest Author Stevie Turner of East Anglia, UK

The Scribbler has an international scope, readers and writers from all over the world. Todays guest is Stevie Turner of East Anglia, United Kingdom. An accomplished author with 8 novels and 4 short stories published which focus on the darker side of relationships, but also have her trademark sprinkling of humour.

She is enjoying an early retirement and is now a full time writer. She is married with "an ever-expanding" immediate family. She gains inspiration while walking along the country footpaths and byways around her village.

This week we are fortunate to have one of her short stories that will be published in a collection later in 2016. Her link is listed below.

A MARRIAGE MADE IN HEAVEN, by STEVIE TURNER

COPYRIGHT STEVIE TURNER 2016

 

          “I hear you’re looking for a quick way to pay off your debts.”

          I look up as a stocky young guy with clean, dark, waist-length hair puts his lunch tray down opposite me and takes a seat.  I don’t know him but have seen him around the campus, usually carrying a guitar in a case on his back.

          “I might be; as long as it’s legal and I get to keep my clothes on.”

          I nibble on my sandwich as nonchalantly as I can, enjoying his throaty chuckle at my remark.

          “Well, it’ll definitely be legal, but it’s up to you about the clothes.”

          Intrigued, I study his face for more clues.  There are two laughing blue eyes trying to hide behind copious amounts of dark facial fuzz, which I swiftly decide he’d look better without.

          “Out with it then; I’ve a lecture starting in twenty minutes.”

          “Sure.”  He nods. “It’s like this; I’m here on a student visa which runs out in October, but it’ll be better for my musical career if I can stay in the UK.”  He takes a bite of his burger and scans my face intently. “So……. you agree to marry me, and I put fifteen thousand smackeroos in your bank account.”

          “Bloody hell!”  I nearly choke on my food. “You move right along, don’t you?” 

          “Don’t give me an answer now; think about it.”  He waggles his finger at me. “I’m not saying all this just to get into your pants; I really need to stay here.  Things are happening for me and my band.”

          “Jeez.”  I look at him aghast. “Married?  I don’t even know your name!”

          “Ha; it’s Gerrie Hermann.  So you’re interested then? What’s your name, by the way?”

          His accent is appealing, but I can’t quite place it.  I have a terrible mental image of taking him up North to meet Mum and Dad, the straightest, poorest, but proudest parents in all the land.

          “Sophie Woods, but I can’t see it working.” I shake my head.

          “Sure it will.  You don’t have to love me or anything, ‘cos I’m basically an arsehole.”  His eyes twinkle. “We get married; I go my way, and you go yours.  Only now you’re fifteen thousand pounds richer.”

          I try not to laugh as I finish up my cola and look at his frayed denim waistcoat and dirty-white tee shirt.

         

“And where are you, arsehole extraordinaire, going to get fifteen thousand quid from?” 

          “I’ve already got it from my parents and from playing gigs.  Come with me to the hole in the wall and I’ll print you out a balance.”

          “I’ve got a lecture.  I’ll think about it.” 

                              ***

          Gerrie finds me again the next day in the cafeteria.  I notice with distaste the same off –white tee shirt, but this time without the waistcoat.

          “See you at the cash machine at half past four.”  He winks as he walks past me. “Don’t be late.”

          The effrontery of the guy is amazing.  However, intrigued, I find myself walking a circuitous route to the accommodation unit after lectures end, just to see if he’s there.  He is; waiting there like Winnie the Pooh on steroids, with a smile on his face the size of the Blackwall tunnel.

          “I knew you’d come!”  He’s almost jumping up and down with glee. “You’re not seeing my pin number, but you can have the print-out.”

          I look away as he pops his card in the reader and enters the pin.  I still cannot believe somebody looking the way he does could possess thousands of pounds in his bank account.  He requests a balance and gives me another grin.

          “Mum and Dad are minted. Why do you think I’ve been able to get a student visa?”

          I take the balance print-out from him, and am surprised to discover there is over thirty thousand pounds in his account.

          “Because you murdered them and stole all their money?”  I look again at the piece of paper just to make sure.

          “Wrong. I told you; they’re wealthy.  What do you say?  Come down to the bank with me tomorrow lunchtime, and I’ll transfer it over to your account.”

          It was all moving too fast.  I saw a summer of not having to work at menial jobs in order to pay Mum and Dad back, who had re-mortgaged their home in order to be able to send me to university.  I could repay my debt to them in dribs and drabs so as not to cause suspicion, and be done with it. They’d never find out I was already married, and I could always say to a future partner that I didn’t need a marriage certificate to prove my commitment.  I decided for once in my life to live dangerously.

          “Okay, but wait until exams are over.  I’ll book it for some time in July, but you’ll have to shave though. I hate beards.”

          Gerrie shakes his head.

          “No way; love me, love my beard.”

          “I don’t love you, and I’m not marrying a guy whose face is full of fuzz.”

          “Bugger.”  Laughs Gerrie. “You drive a hard bargain, don’t you?”

          “Take it or leave it.”  I reply.

         

                                                             ***

         

          It’s a lovely day for a wedding, as fifteen thousand pounds richer, I stand on the steps of Newham Registry Office with my husband of just ten minutes.  We thank our two witnesses, and ask them to take some photos of us with our iPhones.  The witnesses comply, and then disappear into the throng of passers-by from whence they came, Gerrie looks at me and gives a whoop of joy.

          “Yes!  Thanks for this Sophie; you don’t know what it means to me.”

          “Thanks for the money.”  I laugh.  “Let’s go and celebrate!”

          As we walk along to a nearby pub, I take a swift glance at the newly-shaven Gerrie, who actually looks devastatingly handsome in a three-piece suit and cravat.  He catches my eye and puts a casual arm around my shoulder.

          “So you like the new me, eh?”

          “Sure.” I blush furiously. “You’ve scrubbed up pretty well.”

          “You’re not so bad yourself.”  His gaze travels up and down my body in an instant. “Fancy coming along to my gig tonight?  We can go for a curry afterwards if you like?”

          I’m suddenly happy that we’re not going our separate ways straight off.   I quickly agree, and with a mounting excitement look forward to what might happen after the curry.  After all, it is our wedding night!

         

 

 

Thank you Stevie for this entertaining story. 

 

 

Please drop by Stevie's site and check out her books and more.

 

www.stevie-turner-author.co.uk    

Next week on the Scribbler you will meet author Ann Knight of Moncton, New Brunswick.

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