Short Story Saturday: 'The Dog Star' from Guest Author Paul Skelton

Author Paul Skelton

The Dog Star

by Paul Skelton

It was a Wednesday afternoon, August 8^th to be precise, and Jenna Muldoon was sunbathing in her back garden, in her birthday suit. Not that it was her birthday; that was in July, she was a Gemini. Whilst Jenna attached little significance to her star sign, Charles Rixon did.

Charles was perspiring heavily, partly because it was a hot clammy afternoon and partly because he was studying Jenna’s naked form through his telescope from the balcony of his 12^th floor flat in Goldings House. It was a good ‘scope, a Hitachi Cirius named after The Dog Star. Such was its power that Charles could clearly observe every cleft and mound on Jenna’s body.

Mo Saheed regularly passed Goldings House on his beat. He was the local P.C.S.O., or plastic cop as the resident louts called him. They were the brash and proud keepers of dangerous trophy dogs, widely feared and reviled. Mo, on this occasion, was following up a complaint from the caretaker, Neil Barlow, of the Primary School overlooked by Goldings House. The school was hosting an outdoor summer holiday sports activity day, and having spotted Charles Rixon using his telescope, Neil was concerned that he may be spying on the children playing outside.

Mo nervously entered Goldings House and took the lift to the 12^th floor. He had calculated which flat was home to the guy with the telescope. Charles took an age to answer the door, but when he did, there was instant recognition and familiarity.

‘Hey, it’s the plastic cop. How ya doing, Mo?’

‘Yeh, good. Thanks, mate. Can I come in for a minute, gotta check something with you,’ Mo replied.

‘Yeh, come on in. Shut the door, come through and take the weight off,’ responded Charles cheerfully.

Mo did as he was bade, and he sat down on a comfy old chair in the main living room. The doors to the balcony were wide open, the Hitachi Cirius in full view.

‘Nice telescope, Charles, looks expensive.’ Mo observed.

‘Yep, cost over a grand, very powerful. Got it with the compensation money. So, how can I help with your enquiries then, Mo?’ Charles smiled easily.

‘Well, it’s Mr. Barlow at the school, mate. He’s a bit worried about what you may be looking at through that thing. It’s to do with child protection.’

Charles laughed. ‘Really? Well he needn’t bother himself, I’m into astrology. It’s my new thing.’

‘What, during the day?’ Mo was incredulous.

‘Well, yeh. These few days in August are the perfect time to observe the so-called Dog Star, which comes up with the sun.’

Before Charles could stop him, Mo had risen and was on the balcony, peering into the telescope. Then Mo turned to look back at Charles, his face glum.

‘Oh . . . mate, that’s sad. Voyeurism?’

Charles was suddenly tearful. ‘Yes, Mo. I know. I can’t let go, hurts so bad.’ He sniffed.

‘Look I know she was a bitch, but you need to move on, mate. There’s laws against this sort of thing. It’s a bit pervy.’

‘Look at me, Mo. That accident cost me my job, my mobility, and her. My so-called girlfriend. Everyone said she was selfish, but Christ almighty, she dumped me while I was still in hospital. She said she couldn’t fancy a guy in a wheelchair. How cruel’s that? I’m a Leo, she’s Gemini, we should have been compatible.’

‘It’s not you, is it, Charles, badmouthing her on social media? Posting those pictures of her on that revenge site? Are you the—’ Mo was cut short.

‘YES, MO!’ ranted Charles. ‘It’s me. I’m the troll called “Dog Star”. I’m posting all those naked pictures and stuff. Just desserts, I think.’

Mo was conflicted as he left Goldings House. Should he report Charles as a peeping-tom, a troll, a pervert? Should he, as a friend, turn a blind eye? Lost in these thoughts, Mo carelessly walked into the path of a delivery van and was killed instantly, so the decision was never made.

Jenna’s conflict was very different. She knew exactly who the “Dog Star” troll was but couldn’t bring herself to hate him for it. She felt too guilty for that, and yet, she couldn’t go on living with the cruel comments and revenge porn. As she lay there that afternoon, naked, she hoped Charles could see her one last time, whilst the overdose of tranquilizers, she had taken, took effect.

Later, as the sun (and its attendant Dog Star) went down, Charles had ventured out in his electric wheelchair. He was headed for his local Tesco Express to buy some Frosty Jack cider, which he called “brain damage”. The pack of Rottweilers were off the leash, their owners high as kites, and Charles stood no chance against them. Mauled and maimed, Charles died to the sound of the frenzied dogs howling, but he managed to add one last cry to the cacophony: ‘I AM THE DOG STAR, SEE YOU IN HELL!’

Writer Wednesday: Week Forty-six

Welcome to Week Forty-six of Writer Wednesday. I'm better this week, not so . . . flustered. How's everyone this week? Good? Bad? Read any good books lately? I have about ten or so of these posts left before I decide to discontinue them or not. I'm planning on starting up a Monday blog series though—an alternating of 'Mention Monday' posts where I say what I'm reading, a description, and maybe/probably give link(s) to the book, and 'Word of Mouth Monday' posts where reviews will be posted for books (this isn't going to start out as a review request blog series, but I won't say it won't evolve to that, though, eventually, maybe). 'Word of Mouth Monday' will feature more than just my crappy reviews, there will be reviews from Paul Skelton using his review name 'Grumpy Old Git', and hopefully, I'll have some other guest reviewers. I'm not saying these are going to be awesome reviews—trust me, mine are gonna suck because I'm terrible at reviews, but I'll do them none-the-less, because reviews matter and it doesn't matter if you go on Amazon and say, 'This book was amazing,' or if you write up a 2000-word book report type review on a blog (okay, probably won't see anything that in-depth here, but who knows).

Okay, but we should get to the reason why we're here. Our featured author for Week Forty-six is L. Fergus. L. Fergus writes Lesbian Action Adventure. I haven't had the chance to read much of L. Fergus' work. I always mean to because it sounds seriously interesting. One day, though, definitely. Below you can find links to find out more about L. Fergus and their works.


L. Fergus' Facebook Author Page

L. Fergus' Twitter

L. Fergus' Website

L. Fergus' Amazon Author Page


Books:

Birthright: A Lesbian Action Adventure (Ascension Book 1)

Razor's Pass: A Lesbian Action Adventure (Ascension Book 2)

Fall and Rise: A Lesbian Action Adventure ( Ascension Book 3)

Rebirth: A Lesbian Action Adventure (Game of the Gods Book 1)

Clouds: A Lesbian Action Adventure (Game of the Gods Book 2)

Sarin's War: A Lesbian Action Adventure (Game of the Gods Book 3)

Li've: A Lesbian Action Adventure (Game of the Gods Book 4)

Warmache


Thanks for joining me this for this week's Writer Wednesday. Please show indie authors some love by leaving them reviews for their works.

Snippet Saturday: A Scene with Steam an excerpt from 'Halfborn'

An intense cloak of lust stirred me. My eyelids slowly cracked open, revealing darkness. It was much later than it should have been, but my mind couldn't focus on that thought. The lust for blood and body hung heavy in the air around me. Nearly tangible. My throat constricted and dared to suffocate me. Consumed, I managed to get to my knees.

I knew Marshall was close. My eyes took a few seconds to adjust. He sat in a chair that had been pulled to the very edge of the bed. His hands gripped the arms of the chair hard enough that the wood had splintered. He restrained himself, from what overpowered him, with pure force.

All he wore was a pair of boxers. That made me almost certain he'd come directly to the room after he'd gotten out of the shower. The thought alone nearly gave me the strength to snap out of the lust-filled trance I'd awoken to.

A car drove by on the highway behind us. Its headlights cut through the gap in the curtains and bathed Marshall in light. His eyes were closed. His face filled with agony. My eyes betrayed me, sliding down the length of his body. Taking in the bulged muscles of his arms and chest from the grip he had on the chair. Further still, to where his erection protruded from the opening in his boxers.

I crawled the short distance to the edge of the bed. I straightened my body and rested on my knees, reaching my hand toward him until it met the skin at his collarbone. Running my fingers over his skin, slowly, they glided down, stopping right above his navel. I watched as goosebumps covered his flesh and his nipples hardened. The second I'd touched him the bloodlust ebbed. It was still there. It had only retreated slightly, allowing his sexual lust to rage.

I glanced up and met his gaze. His eyes were filled with heat, but, also, tinged with the agony still held on his face. Leaning forward, I brought both hands to his shoulders and then ran them down his arms. I urged him to relax his grip on the chair. When that didn't work, I slipped my knees out from under me and slid off the bed. I walked behind him and started to massage the tense muscles of his shoulders. I brought my mouth to his ear and ran my tongue along his earlobe. He kept his stiff posture, unmoving. My body ached with the strength of our combined lust.

He sucked in a ragged breath. “We shouldn't . . .” Through clenched teeth, he whimpered, “I can't . . .”

“Shh.” I slid the chair back and walked around to the front of it. Marshall tensed further, causing an audible crack from the splintered chair arms. I knelt in front of him and leaned into his legs, forcing them apart so I could slide closer to him.

“Coral, you don't understand. Right now, I want to rip your throat out just as much as I want to fuck you. This will only end badly for the both of us.”

I ignored his words and ran my tongue over the length of the erection that stood free through the hole in his boxers. A spasm rocked his body. The arms of the chair gave way, breaking into several pieces and falling to the floor. With nothing to hold onto, his hands found my hair as I drew the head of him past my lips. His breath hissed, leaving in a rush, and his body relaxed as my mouth took in more of him. I worked him in and out, taking as much of him as I could, and slid back up to tease his head with the tip of my tongue. His need for pleasure overpowered his need for blood, decimating it. I brought my mouth up one last time and nipped the head of him lightly with my teeth, causing him to gasp. My hand slid along his stomach to his chest. I looked up, meeting his expectant eyes. The look was very similar to that of a dog awaiting a treat that was held just inches out of reach.

Slowly, I stood—enough to be at eye level with him. My hand ran back down his body, and he glanced at it. Watching as it encircled him. I used the saliva left behind to slide my hand up and down him with ease. He watched for a brief moment and then returned his wanting gaze to me. I moved forward, and his lips met mine. His tongue pushed past my lips, and I twisted my own to embrace his.

Marshall worked at the button on my jeans. My right hand continued to slide gently up and down his shaft as I used my left hand on my shirt. I'd finished with all the buttons there and noticed he couldn't get my zipper down. Apparently, me being bent at the waist had caused difficulty for him. I broke the melding of our mouths, licking his lips before straightening my body to pull off my shirt and jeans. He watched with delighted anticipation when I reached back to unhook my bra. I hesitated. After a few seconds, I let the straps fall down my arms, and the fabric left my breasts. The bra hit the floor almost silently as I grabbed a hold of my panties and pulled them off, tossing them aside.

Marshall didn't move to get up, he just sat there. His eyes roamed over my body. I began to feel uncomfortable. My mind screamed at me to leave the room. That I was taking advantage of his emotions. Not that I didn't want him, because I did. I wanted his body and how it made me feel. He was sexy in his way. But sex would only make things more complicated. If our situation went wrong somewhere along the way, it would’ve just made everything that much more difficult.

I was about to bolt. Not that I would've gone far being naked in a Winnebago, but I could have left the room. Lust crashed against me, stronger than before. I wasn't just feeling his emotions now. He pushed them at me as hard as he could. He'd felt my resistance and let me know, even with my doubts, what he wanted without a word. My line of thought faltered, and I moved forward.

His hands moved quickly. Instead of taking off his boxers, he ripped them from his body. The sound of the fabric tearing made me tighten, bringing my own lust up a notch. The fact that the chair no longer had armrests made it convenient for me to straddle him. I placed one hand on his shoulder. The other I used to reach down between us. I lined him up, rubbing the head of him gently back and forth to spread my lips. With a little wiggle of my hips, the head of him slipped inside me.

I'd planned to start off slow and work my pace from there, but Marshall had a different idea. As soon as I had both hands on his shoulders, his hands went to my hips. I thought I was in control of the situation, but he'd shocked me with the full length of him. He slammed me down as he brought his hips up to meet me. The surprise of it left my mouth as something between a scream and a moan. How he had taken me, so rough, spiked the lust in me further. He took all control. Leaving me with nothing I could do but grip his shoulders and hold on. Suddenly, he stood, holding me against his body. I could feel him throbbing inside me, and I moaned as I clenched around him in response. Our pleasure mingled in the bond we shared.

My back ended up against the wall. His mouth was at my ear. “Grab that bar,” he growled.

I glanced up to find what he was talking about and grabbed the brass bar that was above my head. His hands went to the bottom of my ass. The tips of his fingers dug into my cheeks. I wrapped my legs around him, and he threw his head back as he began to thrust. His need drove him to push as hard and as deep as he could. The thin wall behind me protested with a cracking noise.

I tried to push away from the wall to no avail. Gathering everything I could manage, I spoke through heated, gasping breaths. “Marshall. We're going to . . . bust through . . . the wall . . . if you don't . . . restrain yourself.”

At first, I didn't think he heard through his concentration and our heavy breathing, but he soon slowed his erratic pace. His head straightened, and he met my gaze. The eye contact seemed too intimate. I wanted desperately to look away. Before I could, I was flooded with emotion so much stronger than lust. It was too much. I needed to pull away. Needed to stop. I knew I couldn't return what had washed over me. But I was pinned to the wall, and there was no escape.

The slow, precise movements of his hips began to tear away at my realization that allowing this to happen was wrong on so many different levels. I let go of the bar I held as a last-ditch effort. Thinking, somehow, I could have used my hands to push us away from the wall.

He felt my need to get away. Saw the fear in my eyes, but he could physically feel the lust between my legs. He could also feel the trembling need for release flow through me. My body betrayed me when my mind knew it was wrong. I was using him. Using his body. Using his lust. Using his undeniable love . . . for my own pleasure. A knot clenched in my stomach. I put my hands on the wall—one on either side of my head. My thumbs nearly touching my ears. I pushed as hard as I could.

Marshall's lips brushed my cheek as he stumbled back. His breath lingered there while he whispered, “I know. Don't worry about me. Only you matter.”

He turned, his hands still supported the weight of my body. I didn't have the time to say or do anything. My back hit the bed. His mouth was on mine, drawing on my tongue. Coaxing it to come and play with his. Lost in the feel of his mouth and the rhythmic movements of his hips, I kissed him back.

My thoughts fought to resurface but drowned in the wave of pleasure that crashed through my body. My body won the battle that it raged against my mind as two different pleasures, mingled and bound into one. Not sure which had started to strengthen first, but they emphasized each other. Building and building until it was almost unbearable.

I broke the kiss to let a sound of ecstasy escape me. My body clenched and tightened. Convulsions tore through me. The orgasm shook every inch of my body and left me with no control. Marshall's thrusts sped. The increased pace caused another orgasmic shudder to run through me before his body gave him release. He collapsed onto my chest. His face cradled in the curve of my neck.

I almost missed when the switch flipped. I had just enough time and strength to push him away. He hit the floor. The bloodlust that filled him struck me at full-force. I jumped to my feet, mentally pushing away at the starved need for blood.

“Marshall!” I screamed, “Snap the fuck out of it!”

His head whipped back and forth as if he tried to shake it away physically.

“If you eat me, you'll be lost.” Fear began to overtake me.

My instinct to flee kicked in, and I ran from the room. Reaching for the knob of the door that would take me outside, I was stopped by the knowledge of what Marshall would do if he was freed. I knew if I fled the Winnebago, he would follow, and he'd kill the first person he came across. Probably more than just the first. There was no way for me to know when he would, or even if he could, stop.

*This has been an excerpt from Halfborn. Interested to find out more, click here to grab a copy. Thanks for reading! ♥

Writer Wednesday: Week Forty-five

Well, this (Writer Wednesday: Week Forty-five) is going up super late. It's been a craptastic week, and when I saw who (or actually what) this week's feature was, well, I wasn't too thrilled. But that's my problem. Without further ado, here's this week's featured . . . group.

As mentioned above, this week I'm featuring a group of authors instead of just a single one. This group is known as One Million Project or OMP. This group of authors was brought together by smooth-talker Jason Greenfield (he'll be featured in a couple of weeks). The goal of OMP is to sell anthologies (it's supposed to venture into art and music . . . eventually), donating the proceeds to charity. The hope is to one day reach and surpass £1-Million. There are two charities that are to receive these donations: Cancer Research UK and EMMAUS (which is a charity to help put an end to homelessness). The anthologies were made up of over one-hundred authors from around the world, with each volume containing 40 stories—except one, which has 30. There were four in total: Fiction, Fantasy, Thriller (awesome S.L. Baron and I personally proofread and compiled this volume), and Variety. In all honesty, my opinion is, they would sell better if the volumes were smaller and more focussed in subject, but this wasn't my pet project, so it wasn't my say. Guys, bigger is not always better.

But, my current feelings aside, there are some fantastic stories in these volumes. Yes, they're pricey, but they're for a good cause. Below you can find the links for the anthologies and other helpful links to learn more about OMP.


One Million Project Facebook Page

One Million Project website (There used to be an actual website instead of this Wordpress one, but I couldn't find it.)

One Million Project blog

One Million Project Twitter (Really this is just Jason Greenfield's personal Twitter handle; he should probably separate the two entities.)

I'd give y'all the OMP Amazon Author Page, but that appears to not have been created.😬


Books:

OMP: Fiction

OMP: Fantasy

OMP: Thriller

OMP: Variety


Hey, hopefully, I post on time next week. Thanks for joining me this week, even though it's extremely late. Remember, support indie authors by NOT buying/downloading works from pirating sites. If you're unsure, ask the author where their works should be available. Also, please, leave reviews for the authors you read. Honestly, it means more than you'd think.

Short Story Saturday: Special Guest Author Xanxa Symanah with 'Cloned'

photo of Xanxa Symanah

CLONED

by Xanxa Symanah

I looked around me, wondering what kind of strange place I had ended up in. It appeared to be some sort of canteen or cafeteria. There was a line of people shuffling along, carrying trays, helping themselves from the food counter. At first, I didn't really notice what was odd about them, but then after a few minutes' observance, I realised ...

They were all the same. Exactly the same. Hundreds of them. All elderly men, tall and skeletally thin, wearing bedraggled, dirty grey robes, with long, grey matted hair and beards, their skin having that translucent pallor of those not long for this mortal plane of existence, their pale greyish eyes staring vacantly ahead. They seemed barely aware of each other, let alone of me, this stranger in their midst, female, short, plump, dark-haired and with brown eyes. I watched them a while longer, fascinated yet at the same time feeling distinctly uncomfortable.

Yeh, sure I've seen twins before, when I was at school there were two sets of twins in my year, at first I couldn't tell them apart, but then after a while, I began to notice minute differences between them, then when I got to know their personalities, I realised that they weren't so alike as I'd first thought. But these drab, grey men were all exactly alike. There were no differences visible to my eyes.

I began to ponder, if I could take samples of their DNA, perhaps if I were to grab a strand of the long, straggly grey hair that hung down their backs, would the lab analysis reveal that they were all total carbon copies? Were they born to mothers in the natural way, or were they created in a lab somewhere? Why were they all here in this place?

Something told me that this was a place of detention, an institution of some kind, perhaps a prison or a hospital. So, bearing out that theory, they were here for the purposes of rehabilitation or treatment, possibly both. They did not seem to be violent or disturbed, apathetic is the key word here. No conversation, no animation, just soft, slow, semi-conscious shuffling in their slippered feet, holding their trays, helping themselves to the food at the counter, collecting their plastic cutlery and their condiments from the stand at the end, then going to take their places at the long rows of tables.

Even as they sat down, each one took the next vacant place, filling up the row, then the next, then when that table was full, the next one would be filled. In any canteen or cafeteria that I've ever been in, people don't fill up the spaces in such an ordered way, they usually go and sit with someone they know, or find a vacant table, or politely ask if they could join a group or individual at a table.

The longer I stayed there, the more uncomfortable I felt. Then I wondered, would they notice if I queued up at the counter, helped myself to food, then took the next vacant place in line. I found myself moving, slowly and uncertainly, to the end of the queue, close enough to reach out and touch the long, straggly hair of the man in front of me.

As I got nearer to the food counter, there was a mirror beside the entrance to the kitchens. I found myself looking in the mirror, and to my horror, I could not see myself among the sea of grey haired shuffling clones. My reflection simply was not there!

Panicked, I left my place in the queue and ran, choking on nothing, struggling to breathe in this depressing atmosphere. As I tried to run, I tripped on the unravelling hem of my dirty grey robe, one slippered foot crashing into the other, and sending me tumbling to the floor ...

Writer Wednesday: Week Forty-four

Hello, everyone! How are you doing? Who's excited about Valentine's Day? (note: not me, I don't really celebrate holidays anymore, and I never really celebrated this one) Is everyone ready for Week Forty-four of Writer Wednesday? Keep reading to find out who it is!

Writer Wednesday: Week Forty-four's featured author is T.E. Bradford. She is a 'clean' Fantasci (a term she coined for Fantasy/Sci-fi) writer and a hybrid published author, meaning she's published through a publisher and self-published. Her Divide series—what I've read of it—is fantastic. She also has many short stories I've really enjoyed. I met her on Write On where I first started reading a futuristic, technological story she was working on, which hooked me—kind of weird for me 'cause I'm not really one for Sci-fi books. For the life of me, I can't remember what it was called, but I don't think she ever finished it. I'd hoped she would, but her other stuff is great, so go check it out. You can find T.E. Bradford and her works with the following links below.

T.E. Bradford's Facebook Author Page

Divide Series: World of Threa Facebook Page

Dragon Between Worlds

Heart of the Ajs Facebook Page

T.E. Bradford's Twitter

T.E. Bradford's website

Amazon Author Page


Books:

Surviving Cancer: A Story of Hope

Dragon Between Worlds: Divide Series Book 0

Child of Prophecy (Divide Series Book 1)

Heart of the Ajs (Six Worlds Saga: Story One Book 1)


Anthologies and Magazines:

One Million Project: Fiction

Kindled Legends: A Burning Embers Anthology

Flash of Brilliance: A Flash Fiction Anthology

The Best of Deep Magic: Anthology One

Deep Magic: October 2016

Deep Magic: Spring 2018


Thanks for joining me this week for Writer Wednesday. I hope to see you folks all again next week. Remember to support indie authors by buying their works from official sellers—please, say no to pirating sites—and leave reviews for their works.

Short Story Saturday: Guest Author Paul Skelton with The Hound Dog

Hound Dog

   'Ain't nothin' but a hound dog, dah di dah. Ain't never caught a rabbit . . .' Barry Monroe sang as he admired himself in the full-length mirror he kept in his hallway. It was December 1988, and Elvis Presley would have been fifty-three years old. Barry was fifty, and he was known as “The Hound Dog”—due in no small part to his obsession with all things Elvis. This included his stage act as an Elvis tribute singer. Twice divorced, Barry had even insisted on naming his only daughter Lisa-Marie Monroe.

   By day, Barry was a builder, specialising in home extensions and loft conversions, driving around in an authentic American 1950s Ford pick-up truck. The rest of the time—and always attired in Elvis jumpsuits—he drove a pink 1963 Ford Zodiac. Barry had spent years collecting his outfits, memorabilia, and all of Elvis Presley’s records. He had done dozens of voice-overs for commercials requiring the sound of Elvis's voice, and he was being considered for a role in a film focussing on Presley’s religious side.

   Greenview Care Home was unusual, in that all its inmates were elderly ex-cons—mainly gangsters, one-time mobsters—and exclusively male. It was run by Kenneth Prior (or “Kenny-The-Bump”) a retired gang leader and a huge Elvis Presley fan. Kenneth had booked “The Hound Dog” for Greenview’s Christmas party in the main hall for 1988. There would be a bar (unlicenced of course!) and scantily clad bunny girls serving drinks to the party-goers. Funds raised at the event were to pay for much-needed improvements to the care home, required to meet ever more stringent health and safety legislation.

  The night went as planned, and Kenneth was pleased with “The Hound Dog”, particularly as he stayed in character throughout the evening, even whilst drinking and chatting with the residents. Greenview had been a two-hour drive for Barry in his old Ford, so it had been arranged for him to stay the night in the rarely used “Links View” suite, reserved mainly for visiting relatives. As the night drew to a close, Barry retired to the “Links View” suite, unpacked his overnight luggage and relaxed with a large scotch. His P.A., microphone and backing track machine had been carefully loaded into his car earlier. It was just past midnight.

   Pete Cohn and Stan Frazer were the last two residents in the hall that night. Both were a bit senile, and both had drunk more than was good for them. They had been transfixed by “The Hound Dog’s” performance and amazed at how he looked exactly like Elvis. Heck, he even spoke like him.

   'I tell you, Stan, that's the real Elvis. He never died; I didn't buy that. Why, only last month he was spotted in a supermarket over Royston way, buying cuppa-soups.'

   'Okay, Pete, here's the deal. Fingers and Kenny're out back, clearing up. Now, if they agree with you, we'll go over “The Links” an' get him trussed up. I got Mafia connections, so, in the morning, I'll put in some calls. See if we can't get a few grand for him. You in, Pete?' It was a rhetorical question.

   So, with help from Fingers-Finbar and Kenny-The-Bump, the plan was carried out. Barry’s car was moved into one of the garages on site. Barry himself was bound and gagged as he slept, and utilising a cot from the medical room, he was moved to a utility storeroom in an annexe and locked in.

   The following morning, Stan Frazer made numerous phone calls to various contacts, and following each aborted conversation, he would add more exaggerations to subsequent calls.

   'Yes, Mickey, we got fingerprints . . .'; 'I'm tellin' you, Big-Ham, he got I.D. on him, proves it . . .'; 'Oh, Joey, 'course we checked him out, man. He's carryin' his daughter’s picture . . .'; 'Yep. That's right, Davey-Boy, he's signed a statement admittin' . . .' and so it went on all day.

   'No one's buyin' it, are they, Stan?' Kenny-The-Bump concluded at tea-time.

   'You old fool, Stan! Look what you got us into,' sneered Pete Cohn.

   'Nothin' for it, you mugs,' said Fingers-Finbar. 'We're gonna have to spring him.'

   'He'll go to the Rozzers, you berk,' remarked Pete.

   'Not if we slip him some extra wedge, boys. Come on, it's getting dark. Let's get it over with.' Kenny was adamant.

   The moon was full as the four old reprobates approached the annexe where Barry was imprisoned. As they neared the building, they heard howling from the inside, and Stan wet himself. Momentarily, they all froze and then proceeded to the locked door cautiously. The howling then changed to a low growling sound. Pete started backing away.

   'Come on, you mugs, ain't nothin' but our ears playin' tricks. Make with the keys, Fingers,' said Kenny-The-Bump sternly.

    Just as Fingers-Finbar “made with the keys”, the door splintered in front of them. The splintered hole quickly expanded, and a slavering wolf-like creature thrust its head through the aperture, snarling ferociously. The four old crooks simultaneously wet themselves, felt their bowels loosening and turned to run, but legs that had done a lot of running at one time were now hindered by arthritis, rheumatism and weakened muscles. The werewolf was upon them in seconds, slashing, tearing and devouring them amid the sound of crunching bone. It was all over in a few minutes, and the werewolf started to morph back into human form. The human returned to the annexe, climbed into an Elvis-style jumpsuit and picked up an overnight bag. Then he walked outside, carefully stepping over what was left of the bodies, and licked his lips as he did so.

   'So long, ol' timers,' he drawled as he walked away.

  Twenty minutes later, a pink Ford Zodiac sped out of the Greenview Care Home gate; its driver singing “Heartbreak Hotel”, substituting the words Heartbreak Hotel with the words Greenview Care Home, whilst Pete Cohn breathed his last dying words.

    'So, the real Elvis is actually a werewolf. Wow.'

Writer Wednesday: Week Forty-three

Hello, everyone! How are y'all this week? Well, I hope! We've made it to Writer Wednesday: Week Forty-three. I have twelve (I believe) more authors left before I have to hunt down more if I don't get any requests in for authors to cover. I'm sure I have several more on my Facebook friends list. I may grab some from Twitter. Suppose I'll cross that bridge when I get to it.

So, the featured author for this week is Tabitha Scott. Tabitha writes Urban Fantasy. You can find her and her works at the following links below.


Tabitha's Facebook Author Page

Tabitha's Twitter

Tabitha's Amazon Author Page


Books:

The Dark Witch: Evil Rising

The Dark Witch: Time for Evil Doing

The Dark Witch and the Ruby Slippers

The Dark Witch and the Elemental

The Lasts: Secrets of the Sewer

The Lasts and the Hall of Mirrors

The Lasts and the Missing Children

The Lasts and the Faerie Curse


Thanks for joining me this week. I hope to see y'all again next week. Remember to support indie authors by buying their works and not downloading from pirate sites. And, please, leave reviews for their work. ♥

Snippet Saturday: The Alley an excerpt from Wraith

I'd parked a good ways down the road from the boutique for two reasons. One, parking was limited, and what was available had already been taken. Two, I wanted to get a feel for the place and hoped to avoid any surprises. I'd gone there on good faith that I could trust Xander, but that didn't mean I trusted him implicitly.

Something seemed all too familiar about the place as I moved down the sidewalk. Storefronts I'd somehow seen before when I knew for a fact I hadn't because, of all the places I'd been, Maine wasn't one of them.

I spotted Dimitri's from down the block just as the tingling sensation started at the base of my skull. Immediately, I was aware that Xander had sent me to meet another Wraith. While that notion made a tendril of fear twist through me, it was what I saw next to the décor shop that made me damn near stop in my tracks.

The little diner restaurant, itself, seemed innocent enough. The images it brought to recall, triggering the reason why the place seemed so familiar, were not. I'd been there before, only not while I was awake.

The fear melted away from the heat of the anger that took its place. I mean, Xander could've had me drive to Oregon or even further, but if the point was to see if I'd follow instructions—well, I still would have left Marshall behind, failing.

I stopped in the alleyway between Dimitri's Antique & Vintage Boutique & Décor and Alexis Diner, listening to the footsteps that fell too quickly as they ran and jumped from rooftop to rooftop.

“Real funny, Xander! I've been here—done this countless times over the years. I don't care to do it in real life,” I yelled much louder than necessary, making a lone woman in the front corner of the diner glance out the window at me before continuing to eat her meal.

A pause from the soles of shoes connecting with concrete, then I heard as those rubber soles pushed off propelling the mystery man—or Xander, as I'd found out months before then was the mystery man in my dreams—into a leap which created a shadow I'd seen before. Only that fear that accompanied me in the dream version wasn't present. Irritation, on the other hand, was.

Flashes of dreams went through my mind. An alley of darkness. A kiss of breath through my mind by a river. A caress of bodies in my bed. Blood-matted pale blond hair in a forest. A goodbye with a promise in front of Innocence's mansion. It all left me wondering why I'd been rejected back at my house. Was it because Xander knew I acted out of revenge?

“I'm not playing this game. You get the hell down here, now, or I'm leaving,” I shouted, earning another glance.

Hush. The word whispered through my mind.

“Fuck it, I'm done. Done with the games. Done with whatever the hell the telepathic shit is. Done!” I turned on my heel and took a step in an attempt to leave the alley.

He was in front of me. The tips of his fingers on his right hand touched the ground. His knees bent with one pointed up in front of him and the other directly below his mass pointed down and stopped two inches or so before it'd made contact with the pavement. He straightened his body to a standing position in one smooth motion. He took a second to look at the woman inside the diner and moved his head back and forth, causing her to turn back to her food with a blank stare.