This week, I’m introducing you to Dani Erickson, a perfectly normal teenage girl who just happens to have inherited some interesting talents…

The following is the opening to Demon Daze, my first published story about Dani!

A shiver of anticipation raced along my spine as Allie and I ducked inside the fortune-teller’s tent. My parents didn’t approve of psychic nonsense, but they’d allowed me to come to the carnival with Allie’s family as a pre-birthday treat. The even bigger treat? Not a single one of my older brothers was tailing me. If the Erickson boys were at the carnival, they were enjoying their own night out, not watching over their baby sister.

Turning fourteen had its advantages.

The inside of the tent lived up to all my expectations. A thick Turkish rug covered the brittle, brown August grass and swags of colorful silk festooned the sidewalls and ceiling, ropes of twinkling LED lights camouflaged within the folds. A small table draped in blood-red velvet sat in the center of the small enclosure. A single intricately carved high-backed chair occupied the far side, while two folding chairs waited for us.

Allie glanced at me as if seeking reassurance. The corners of her lips curved in a timid smile and her eyes widened. “Are you sure we want to do this?”

I grabbed her hand and pulled her to the folding chairs. “This was your idea, remember? We’re here. We’re not backing out.” I plopped onto a chair and waited. Allie lit on the very edge of hers, muscles tensed for flight.

A figure disengaged from the draping silk and approached the carved chair.

“I am Madame Simone. Welcome to my den of enlightenment. This place is hallowed, serving as a threshold to the great beyond.”

The olive-skinned woman was swathed from head to toe in a rainbow of silk. Small golden discs dangled from her headdress, gracing her forehead and calling attention to dark, liquid eyes. She studied my best friend for a moment and then turned her attention to me.

“You have come at an auspicious moment,” she said, and lowered herself gracefully into the high-backed chair. Leaning forward, she placed long-fingered hands upon the velvet tablecloth. “Tell me what you seek.”

Allie uttered a nervous squeak and huddled back in her chair, moving as far from the fortune-teller as possible without jumping and running.

I glanced at Allie and then faced the psychic. “Aren’t you supposed to tell us what we need to know?” I don’t like people intimidating my friends.

“What you need to know,” the woman murmured, holding my gaze and refusing to allow my escape. “Are you sure you’re ready for that? Wouldn’t you rather I told you silly tidbits about boys and kisses and who to dance with at the prom?”

I straightened my shoulders, but didn’t look away. Her sarcastic tone bugged me. Allie and I might be young, but we were paying for this woman’s time.

“Look, just do your thing, okay? We paid for a reading, so read.”

Madame Simone’s smile could’ve frozen Boulder Reservoir. “As you wish.” She inclined her head, breaking our eye-lock, and turned to Allie, “Your hand, my dear.”

Allie placed her right hand in Madame Simone’s left and shuddered slightly when the woman traced the lines in Allie’s palm with a perfectly manicured nail.

“I see a long life if you sever your relationship with dangerous friends,” the psychic said, spearing me with a pointed glance. “You will dance on the stage to the acclaim of millions. Beware the company of demons.”

Allie snatched her hand back the moment Madame Simone released it and cradled it to her chest.

The fortune-teller cocked an eyebrow at me and held out her hand.

Alchemy…Alchemy…what should I write about alchemy?

I know! Let’s take something associated with the middle ages and fling it out into space. Yeah. That’ll be fun!

The resulting tale was Astromancer!

Here’s how the story starts…

WYOT WANDERED, AWE-STRUCK, through the serpentine halls of the Emerald Conclave. He’d dreamed of being invited into this building, into the prestigious gathering of Alchemists it housed, but he’d never expected his dreams to become reality. He was an astrologer of the third rank, possessed of nowhere near the innate magical talent required to join this august body.

He knew the way — when the Thrice Great called, he provided the knowledge — but Wyot took his time, absorbing every marvel as he walked. Who knew when he’d have such an opportunity again. The corridor sparkled, bathed in red-toned shafts of sunlight from the dwarf star of Rigil II. No matter where he looked, Wyot was dazzled. The walls were robed in gold, undoubtedly transmuted by members of the Conclave, while windows boasted crystalline panes from Luyten. Even the floor beneath his feet shone, consisting of highly polished marble from Barnard Prime. Priceless artwork lined the walls, showing scenes from every planet that was home to a Guild oracle…and since any planet without an oracle was isolated from the rest of the starfaring worlds, all were represented. And the statuary! He didn’t have words for the creative genius that graced the carefully crafted niches along his route.

“Astrologer Wyot!”

The whip-crack voice calling his name pulled Wyot from a reverential inspection of an exquisite rendition of his homeworld, Eridani. He snapped to attention before touching fingertips to brow in deference to an older member of the guild.

“How may I serve, elder brother?”

“You may follow me swiftly,” replied the older man. Silver-haired and stern-faced, he wore his dignity like a cape over impressive robes of scarlet and midnight blue sashed with gold. “Your tardiness is delaying the business of the Emerald Conclave.”

Wyot’s heart hammered, unease zipped along his spine. The entire Emerald Conclave? What had he done? A meeting with the Thrice Great had been intimidating enough. “Apologies, elder brother,” he said, striding to position himself a respectful pace behind the older man.

In silence, they moved through the remaining corridors, coming to a halt before a pair of ornately carved doors. Soaring sixteen feet from floor to lintel, the doors were covered in gold leaf, their carvings depicted Alchemical symbols, formulas, and stylized representations of the Guild’s most famous accomplishments. Wyot stared open-mouthed at the gleaming surfaces, until his guide’s voice snapped him back to attention.

“When I announce you, walk to the center of the room and salute,” the man instructed. “Don’t fidget and don’t gawk. Whatever happens, don’t speak unless spoken to, and even then use as few words as possible. Do you understand?”

Wyot nodded. “I do. Thank you.”

His guide gave a gentle push, and the right-hand door swung silently open. He stepped through and called, “Astrologer Wyot, excellencies.” He bowed, motioned Wyot inside, and then left, closing the door behind him.

As instructed, Wyot strode to the center of the room — easily identified by a sun surrounded by cleverly depicted orbiting planets, all inlaid in the marble floor. Once in position, he faced the conclave and raised fingertips to brow. Lowering his hands to his sides, he stilled mind and body and observed the leaders of the Alchemical Guild.

The conclave sat on a raised platform, behind a table spread with a snowy cloth; six men and five women. The Thrice Great sat in the center, a handsome man of indeterminate age — as befitted one who held complete control of the aging process. Dark hair, deep blue eyes, dressed in robes of saffron yellow trimmed with ocean blue. His fellows ranged on either side, men and women who appeared to be in the prime of their lives, dressed in rich fabrics, their eyes heavy with knowledge.

Silence reigned, became a palpable thing.

I’m a sucker for a dragon tale! When I first discovered Anne McCaffrey’s Pern series, my heart sang. I wanted to immigrate to Pern just so I could impress a dragon…or if not a dragon, then surely I could manage a fire lizard.

Since I couldn’t board a space ship to Pern, I did the next best thing: I created my own aerie of dragons! Sorcha’s Heart is the foundational tale for my own fictional love affair with dragons.

Here’s the opening to the first volume of my still-in-progress epic…

SORCHA KNOTTED HER FISTS SO tightly her knuckles whitened. She glared at her mother across the rough oak worktable. “When are you going to acknowledge me as a fully capable wizard? I’m not an apprentice anymore. I don’t need your permission to seek the Heart of Fire.”

“Fine,” Elspeth shot back, “but I’m warning you this is a mistake. The Heart of Fire is dangerous.” The small, compact woman stretched to reach the braid of garlic hanging from the beam above her head, yanked a bulb loose and tossed it to her daughter.

“So is this war!” Sorcha caught the bulb by reflex, slammed it on the table and separated out three cloves for the strengthening potion. Her gaze never left her mother. “Don’t you realize how powerful dragons are? If Leofric continues on his present course, he’ll push them too far. They’ll wipe us off the face of the earth.”

Fear flashed across Elspeth’s face, and Sorcha knew that her mother agreed; the King’s recent aggressive actions could have serious repercussions.

Sorcha’s mood softened. She picked up her paring knife and began to chop the cloves, pondering the enigma of the woman who had given her not only life, but a heritage of magic. Because of that heritage, strangers often assumed they were sisters rather than mother and child. Elspeth’s long, dark hair sported only an occasional strand of gray. Trim, active, healthy. These words described both her and her mother. Neither of them possessed the lush curves so desired by other women at court, but neither really noted the lack, being too concerned with the practice of magic to worry about attracting the opposite sex.

Elspeth’s bright green eyes glowed with fervent belief and wily intelligence. Sorcha shared her mother’s fervency and intelligence, but not her eyes. She had inherited her unknown father’s eyes; deep blue, with an exotic slant that engendered frequent comparisons to cats’ eyes.

“Yes. I do understand,” Elspeth said with calm assurance, “and I’m trying to convince Leofric how dangerous his present policy is.”

Sorcha opened her mouth to push home her advantage, but Elspeth held up a slim hand to stem the flow of words.

“But that doesn’t mean I’m willing to sacrifice my only child.” She leaned forward, eyes wide, pleading and vulnerable. “Leave the Heart of Fire alone. It might end this war, but at what cost? Sorcha, you have no idea what that amulet will require as payment for its power.”

A shiver ran down Sorcha’s spine and she made a reflexive warding sign as she wiped her hands on the tattered hem of her potion-making apron.

*~*~*

The quiet waters of the isolated lagoon unnerved Sorcha. She knew a distant barrier reef protected the soft sand from the harsh pounding of the tide’s ebb and flow, but she longed for the accustomed roar of surf—and home. The skirt of her simple shift and tunic tugged damply at her ankles as she prowled the water’s edge. Her eyes darted warily from the aspen thickets that climbed the hill to the north, to the open path winding southward among the dunes covered in beach grass. She might have been the only living creature on the earth.

As much to reassure herself of her own existence as for something to do, she bent to stare into the unnaturally still water. A cool breeze tickled her nose with the scent of seaweed, and tugged a few wayward hairs from her tightly woven braid as she gazed at her reflection in the sparse predawn light.

Tension mounted as she waited for the perfect moment. Unable to remain still, she straightened, searching the sky’s melting darkness. Only fading stars and dawn’s awakening color met her restless gaze.

She must complete her quest, must recover the Heart of Fire. Humanity’s existence depended on her success.

The warning, when it came, took the form of tingling skin as all the tiny hairs from neck to wrists rose in unison. The dragon soared into sight above the aspen covered hill, and Sorcha fought the instinct to run. Instead, she stood her ground and watched him land at the edge of the lagoon. Gods and goddesses, he was longer than the house she shared with her mother! He had to measure thirty feet from his deadly looking teeth to the triangular tail-tip that splashed the lagoon’s still water. He folded leathery wings flat against glistening black scales, and turned his massive head, piercing her with a fiery gaze.

“Greetings, little wizard,” he said, his rough voice conjuring wind-swept crags and the barren isolation of frozen wastes. “It seems the Heart of Fire requires more than one witness to its rebirth.”

I’m a huge fan of Anthea Sharp’s Feyland novels, and was thrilled when Samuel Peralta’s Chronicle Worlds anthology series gave me the opportunity to play in her world! Having read every single Feyland story, I’m very familiar with the world’s delights … and its dangers.

In celebration of the release of the print version of Chronicle Worlds: Feyland, here is the opening to my alter-ego Deb Logan’s story, “On Guard”…

Wallace padded softly across the wooden floor, following his boy. He faltered slightly as they passed a puddle of golden sunlight streaming through a low window onto the flagstone entryway. His old bones creaked and he longed to rest in that sunny patch, allowing the warmth to soak into stiff muscles. But he followed the boy, mindful of his duty.

In his prime, Wallace had been a mighty hunter. The terror of small rodents. Field mice and rabbits still avoided his domain, though he was far from his kitten days. Old age stalked him as once he had stalked prey in the greenbelt behind his humans’ dwelling.

But despite his advancing age and loss of fluid grace, he held to his duty. The female of his pair of bonded humans had given Wallace charge of the boy when he had been nothing more than a squirming bundle wrapped in blankets.

“Watch over him, Wallace,” his female had said. “Guard him, always.”

And Wallace had. No harm had ever befallen the boy while Wallace was on guard. He would not shirk his duty now for the physical relief of sun-warmed stone.

The boy continued downstairs, as Wallace had known he would, to the windowless cave the humans referred to as The Game Room. Wallace glanced toward the ceiling, thinking of that glorious pool of sunlight. Perhaps later, when the boy tired of sitting in that chair. Perhaps there would still be warm sun to bask in then.

He glanced around the room looking for the most comfortable spot to maintain his guard. In the center of the room two tiered rows of dark blue cushioned chairs faced a blank white screen. Off to one side sat a low stool surrounded by sparkly red metallic cylinders. The male of Wallace’s bonded pair liked to sit on that stool and beat on those cylinders. Wallace could appreciate his human’s need to express aggression, but just the thought of that noise made his head ache.

On the other side of the room was the object of the boy’s attention. A massive black leather chair surrounded by boxes full of mechanical whirrs and whistles. The boy sat on the edge of the chair pulling on skin-tight gloves that sparkled in the room’s low light. He touched one of the boxes and high frequency noise assaulted Wallace’s sensitive ears. The boy pulled a sleek black helmet over his head, covering his eyes with a darkened visor and completely occluding his ears.

Wallace closed his eyes in a slow blink. Why would any intelligent creature choose to blind himself in the middle of the day? The boy spent hours in that chair, completely oblivious to the world around him. He saw nothing, heard nothing. Wallace knew. He’d tested the boy, cavorting around the room leaping lightly onto surfaces where he had no right to be, even sitting at the boy’s feet and yowling until the female had raced down the stairs to see what was wrong. All for nothing. The boy had not emerged from his helmeted stupor.

With resignation, Wallace leapt onto the padded chair closest to his boy, circled three times and sat, tail curled around his paws. He watched the boy’s hands twitch on the arms of the big black chair. Sometimes he spoke, nonsense words and phrases that had no bearing on reality. Quest and Feyland and Thank you, kind sir were uttered with some regularity, but Wallace had long since learned to ignore anything his boy said while wearing the helmet and gloves.

Justice. Talk about a broad topic. I considered which piece of the spectrum to tackle and finally opted for a historical story. A topic I was familiar with from my childhood in Oklahoma, but hadn’t studied as an adult…the Trail of Tears. A prompt of “Justice” actually ended up as the story of a terrible injustice.

The soldiers told us we would reach our destination within the week. I didn’t believe them. My life had been reduced to an endless trail of misery. I would walk until I died, just as my mother and sister had. My father hadn’t even begun the journey, dying of dysentery while still penned within that horrible removal fort.

The sun shone in a cloudless blue sky, but it shed no warmth. The snow had finally gone and this piece of road was packed and dry, but my blistered feet found no relief. The leather boots I’d worn on the day of removal had long since fallen to pieces. Now my only shoes were blood-stained rags.

I closed my eyes and plodded on, following my uncles and the mothers of my clan. I couldn’t smell the sweetness of the day, only my own foul stink and the fetid odors of my people. I’d forgotten what it was to be clean and well-fed and content.

All of life’s goodness had been stripped from us along with our homes and land. No joy remained in the world. Only tears and despair and this endless trail.

Once I was a daughter of the Tsalagi, Cherokee in the white man’s tongue. A maiden on the verge of womanhood. Now I was nothing. A starving stick-figure without family or home or hope.

Sometimes at night, as I lay huddled on the ground with only one thin blanket and the warmth of my clan mothers’ bodies to protect me from the cold, I dreamed of home; of what was no more. Of the father and mother and little sister who had loved me. Of our village, deep in the ancestral lands of the Tsalagi Nation. Of our fields of sweet corn, plentiful beans, and plump, healthy squash.

The Great Spirit gave those lands into our care and we loved them. The mountains and valleys carved by the wings of the Great Buzzard, the rocks marked by the frightful claws of Uktena, the horned serpent. The Creator set the first man and first woman of the Tsalagi in that land, and we had remained.

We were an ancient people, wise in the ways of the world. In times of ease and plenty, the white chief, our peace chief, led us with wisdom and compassion. When hard times caused other nearby nations to raid, the council of mothers called for war and our red chief, the war chief, led our men in battle to defend our homes and fields.

We were not a war-like people, but when the mothers decided the time had come, we were not afraid to fight.

This was the way of the Tsalagi. This was how it had always been.

Until the white Americans saw that our land was good and determined to take it for their own.

My challenge for this one was to write a story related to a tavern. Hmmm…

After a bit of thought, I decided to move the  pane of ancient Irish glass containing Red, an ensorcelled faery, from the bed & breakfast where it resides in RED’S MAGICK to a pub. I must say, I enjoyed visiting with Red again!

Evan Flynn leaned against the old-world mahogany bar and surveyed his domain. Flynn’s Irish Bar was his dream-come-true. He’d designed every detail, from the painting of horses and hounds behind the bar to the softly glowing lamps on the scattered tables, but finding that bar in an abandoned restaurant scheduled for destruction…well, that had been sheer luck.

He ran a hand over the smooth wood, lovingly restored by his older brother, Ben, rested a hiking-booted foot on the polished brass foot rail, and breathed in the scent of lemon oil and beeswax. The bar was his talisman. His good luck piece. He was Irish enough to believe in such things, as did the rest of his family. Grannie Flynn certainly had. She’d always insisted that Evan had inherited the family gift, that he had the sight, like his grandfather before him.

Evan shook his head and glanced over his shoulder to his grandparents’ talisman, the pane of ancient Irish glass that had been the founding of his family. Without its intervention, his grandparents would never have met. It, or rather its inhabitant, had been the magic that had made their little bed and breakfast the destination of choice for couples seeking a romantic get-away in Colorado’s Mile High City.

For nearly sixty-five years the family business had flourished in Denver, first with Evan’s grandparents and then his parents. Unfortunately, neither Evan nor Ben had been interested in continuing the tradition. Both young men had chosen the Pacific Northwest for their homes. Ben had settled in Seattle, but Evan had fallen in love with Portland.

After a long and successful run, Evan’s parents had retired to Estes Park, Colorado, leaving the home that had housed the bed and breakfast unoccupied. But last year, when the city condemned the entire block where the house stood, Evan had returned to Denver long enough to rescue the pane of glass before a wrecking ball could shatter it.

He didn’t have a clue what would happen to the inhabitant if the glass broke, but he wasn’t interested in finding out. Red, as the inhabitant was known, was family. Grannie Flynn had always claimed that the fact that Evan could sense Red’s presence, could sometimes even see him floating in the glass, was proof of Evan’s gift.

Evan wasn’t convinced he had the sight, but he did believe in Red’s existence; he’d always felt Red’s presence, right down to his very soul. The being in the glass might be insubstantial, and mischievous beyond belief, but as far as Evan was concerned he was also a Flynn, and no one would harm him while Evan lived.

Giving the mahogany bar a final pat, Evan straightened and headed for his office. Time to buckle down and get the monthly accounting done. As always, he paused beside Red’s glass and placed the palm of his hand in the center of the two-foot square framed pane. His staff thought it odd that he’d framed a piece of blank glass and hung it beside his office door, but he didn’t care. He liked having Red nearby, knowing that the little guy was keeping watch over the pub. A ghostly figure swam into view, somersaulted, and approached the surface. A slim, long-fingered hand stretched to meet Evan’s and a pointed-eared head nodded in acknowledgement.

“Glad to see you too, Red,” Evan murmured before opening the door and stepping into his office.

For this opening, I was trying to imagine a different kind of apocalypse. No nuclear wars or alien invasions. No catastrophic asteroid strikes or even plagues or zombies. What would a quiet, stealthy apocalypse look like?

I am a child of the Cold War. When I imagined humanity’s annihilation, I envisioned sinister mushroom clouds blighting the world’s landscapes, their deadly concussive waves roiling across the earth like tsunamis of destruction.

But Mother Earth is more subtle than man. The death she sent was imperceptible, so quiet we didn’t even realize we’d been struck a fatal blow.

I am dying, as all men must, as humanity itself now will. I have no regrets. I have lived a full life; born healthy children; seen them grow to adulthood; held my grandchildren in my arms. No, my regrets are not for things left undone in my life, but for the generations that will not come after me.

I am surrounded by the familiar: the bed I shared with my beloved husband for nearly seventy years supports me in my decline, the quilt I made for his fortieth birthday comforts me, its colors still jewel bright though my sight is dimming. The room is lit by the soft glow of candles in jars, a whim of my youngest daughter. She hopes the sweet aromas of lavender, jasmine, and chamomile will tempt my soul to stay, but I am not interested in lingering. I know what the future holds and I am ready to relinquish my place in it.

I study the faces of my family. The legacy my beloved and I created together in love. Strong, handsome sons. Beautiful, capable daughters. And the grandchildren, grown to adulthood now, though I will always remember them as infants.

There should be great-grandchildren as well. That is my sorrow. The loss of the precious lives that might have been.

My daughters have known the joys and fears of motherhood; my granddaughters never will. I mourn for the birthright they will never experience.

The exquisite pain of childbirth: sheer physical labor that saps the strength and leaves you panting and begging for relief. The inexpressible joy when it is finished and the soft, warm weight you have carried so long beneath your heart is finally placed in your arms. The wonder of seeing your child’s features for the first time: your button nose, his cleft chin, the shape of your mother’s ear. Ten tiny fingers clutching your one. Toes curling as delicately as rose petals. Tufts of downy-soft hair and skin so smooth and silky you’re afraid your rough fingers will mar its perfection.

And the smell! The glorious, delicious smell of infancy, an indescribable but unmistakable combination of warm skin, soft breath, milk, and primal magic that binds a mother to her child, making it nearly impossible to put your newborn down or allow someone else to take the babe from your arms.

This is what we have lost. This is what will never come again.

I glance at each beloved face and my gaze comes to rest on my youngest granddaughter. Her life will be so very different from mine. She may very well live to see the end of our race. She lifts her eyes and meets my gaze. We mourn for each other.

I’m pleased to have a book in the Science Fiction Summer Shorts book bundle at Bundle Rabbit.

The price is awesome and my short story, Beneath and Beyond, a first contact tale, is  included. You’ll also find nine other amazing authors all with science fiction stories.

I’m really excited to be part of this bundle. It’s a great price ($2.99 or $4.99 depending on which level you get and honestly, it’s worth the higher level!). If you haven’t read my short story, this is a great time to grab it. Plus, you’ll meet up to 9 other authors that could be new to you, including Douglas Smith, Rebecca M. Senese, Rob Vagle, and Chuck Heintzelman.

Happy summer reading!

My prompt this week was loss, and I thought of the most unimaginable loss for a parent: the death of a child, no matter what the age…

New Year’s Eve. Tomorrow would be a new year. A year without her in it. A year I’d have to face without her in my life. How could such a year exist? It couldn’t. Not in my lifetime.

Parent’s aren’t supposed to outlive their children.

I puttered around her workspace in the laboratory, picking up one object after another. The large room was empty, my footsteps echoed against white tile floors, bounced off sparkling windows and featureless white walls. I was alone, as I had been since her death. Who else would be in the lab on New Year’s Eve? Who but a daughterless mother seeking some remnant of her child’s spirit?

Gleaming chrome countertops supported complex instruments that stood silent sentry; waiting. Waiting for their masters to set them new tasks, new experiments to assess. The air smelled of disinfectant, reminding me sharply of the hospital where we’d spent too much time this last year.

Last year. Her last year.

I pushed the thought away. I didn’t want to remember her struggling to breathe, eyes filled with pain. I wanted to see her here, working on a theory, her lovely brow furrowed with thought, tapping a pencil against her chin. Remember the joy and excitement in her expression when an experiment had borne out a supposition.

Straightening the notebooks where she’d inscribed her last thoughts on various theories, my fingers lingered over a page of her neat, square handwriting, gloried in the slight indentations left by the pressure her hand had exerted on the pen. Her living fingers had touched that paper. Those words and equations were the final manifestation of the ephemeral, unexplainable phenomena of conscious thought. Her conscious thought.

We’d been so lucky. Mother and daughter, scientists, working side by side at the National Laboratory for Temporal and Spatial Research. Her team had specialized in time; mine in the interconnectedness of objects in space.

Now time moved forward without her, and I’d lost my ability, or desire, to connect to the people and objects surrounding me.

2025 had been a hellish year. It had seen my beautiful, brilliant daughter waste away until the wreck of her body could no longer sustain life. And yet…and yet her spirit had remained strong. Her consciousness had still sparkled within its pain-wracked physical shell.

2025 had known her. 2026 never would.

I couldn’t face a year without Sophia.

With effort, I pulled my thoughts from their downward spiral and forced myself to concentrate on her journal. To look past the agonizingly familiar handwriting and find meaning in the words she had written.

As understanding penetrated the fog of my grief, I gasped. Weak-kneed with surprise, I stumbled to a chair, clutching the journal to my breast. A few steadying breaths later I was ready to reread the passage.

A slow smile spread across my face, the first in too many months. If I was following the line of her thoughts, and I was sure I was, she’d done it. She’d found her way through the maze of quantum mechanics and various theories of physics into the continuity of the time stream.

My brilliant daughter had solved the riddle of time travel.

This week’s prompt was to write a story without a human protagonist, maybe even without any humans at all. I chose to be a redwood sprout…

I opened my eyes and stared into the leafy canopy so far above my head it might have been—What was the word? I searched my consciousness and delved into our collective memories. Ah. Yes. There it was—the sky. I pulled air into my tissues, refreshing the cambium layer running just beneath my bark. The air was crisp and clean and tasted of family. My grove.

I stood quietly, drawing strength and understanding from the life of the root system below me. I was Needle-Green, a redwood dryad. I had made the leap from growing sprout to sentient being.

Glancing around, I saw other dryads stirring. Hundreds of us littered the ground at the feet of our elders. Most were seedlings, tall stripling youths whose seeds had drifted to earth seasons earlier. They had germinated in the needle-strewn soil of our grove, sending rootlets down, questing for the life of our communal roots, while unsteady stems shot their cotyledons into the air.

A few, like myself, were sprouts. We had sprung up from boles of parent trees. Even fewer had leapt skyward from the decaying trunks of downed giants.

Whether seedling or sprout, we would carry the spark of redwood life into the future. And those of us who had successfully made the leap to sentience were now known as dryads. We had reached the second phase in the life-cycle of a redwood. We were conscious…and capable of movement.

Not all of us had succeeded. I closed my eyes and mourned the seedlings and sprouts who had failed to awaken. They would now shrivel and die, their remains enriching the soil of the grove. They would return to the circle of life as nutrients. Before I could follow that root too deeply, an elder spoke into our collective awareness.

Welcome to our grove, little dryads, whispered the ancient titan at the center of our grove. We are pleased you have safely awakened. Pull in your rootlets and explore your world, but be careful to return to us before your small stores of energy run low. Only our root system will nourish you sufficiently to maintain your growth.

Yesssss, sighed the surrounding giants. Dryads who are too adventurous too soon have starved in the rootless expanse. Do not stray too far, little ones. Not yet.

I shivered as though buffeted by a strong wind. Memories of dryads who had failed to return drifted through my thoughts and stuck there, like pollen collecting on cones. I nodded. Warning internalized.

Carefully, delicately, I experimented. Flexing my roots, I withdrew a filament. Nothing happened. I hardly noticed the decrease in water and nutrient flow. Emboldened, I pulled in all my filaments, separating myself from the life of the grove.

For a moment, I wobbled, my tender trunk unsteady, unbalanced, but then I divided the base of my trunk into twin stems capable of independent movement. I widened my stance, trying to compensate for my loss of anchorage. The exercise left me vaguely dizzy. Quickly I sank my roots back into the security of the grove’s interconnected system. Peace flooded my cambium like sap.

This week’s opening was sparked by the rather odd title: “Truth or Nemesis.” And for a teenage girl, who’s a better nemesis than her sister … her twin sister?

I yanked my bedroom door open and came face-to-face with my evil twin, Phoebe.

Okay. You’re right. Phe isn’t really evil, but she is my twin. My fraternal twin.

People who don’t know us would never guess that we’re even sisters, let alone twins. But the fact of the matter is that we were womb-mates for nine months. We have the same mother and father and the same birthday. We’ve shared everything from diapers to prom dresses. In short, we’re twins.

Phoebe is tall and willowy and so blonde that her hair and eyebrows are nearly white. She takes after our very Scandinavian father.

I’m a few inches shorter, nicely rounded (in all the right places, I might add) and my hair is dark enough to quality as midnight, if that weren’t actually a shade of blue, and so curly it’s nearly impossible to comb. You guessed it; I take after our Irish-to-the-bone mother.

So of course, when we were born, one fair and one dark, our parents named us Phoebe and Melanie. Phoebe means “light,” while Melanie means “dark.”

At least they steered clear of Snow White and Rose Red. (Thank God!)

Anyway, back to my bedroom door. I yanked it open, ready to storm down the hall and beat on Phe’s door until she admitted her crimes.

Evidently, she had the same thought.

“What do you want?” I growled, straightening to my full five-foot-two inches in a vain attempt to match her five-foot-six.

She gave me her best ice-queen stare and pushed a forefinger into my chest. “How dare you accuse me of cheating,” she said, her voice cold and brittle with rage. “I’m a straight-A student. I don’t need to cheat to earn a place on the college bowl team!”

“Oh!” I said, my cheeks heating and undoubtedly flaming to red. “And I do? I’ll have you know I have the highest marks in the school in physics and history. You want to compare grades? Let’s go talk to Mom.”

Phoebe turned and flounced toward the kitchen, her straight blonde hair swinging below her shoulders like a sheet of silk. I clenched my jaw and followed. I hated following her. Anywhere. Even to see Mom.

And we needed Mom to settle this. For some unknown parental reason, Mom and Dad had forbidden us to compare report cards. Ever. Phoebe brought her marks home and discussed them with our parents. In private. I did the same. Neither of us had any idea what the other’s grade point average was, and frankly, neither of us cared.

Until now.

Until someone (I suspected Phoebe; she suspected me) had posted an accusation of cheating on our favorite social media site. Someone said that a certain untwinly twin girl had been cheating on her tests all year just to earn a highly coveted seat on our school’s college bowl team.

I wonder what the girls will discover? About each other, and (more importantly) about themselves?

This week’s opening is for a middle grade adventure story – a SPACE adventure story

My name is Cinnamon Chou and I’m a detective.

Okay, I’m a kid, but I’m going to be a detective when I grow up. Just like my dad. For now, I’m practicing on the easy stuff. You know, like lost full-spectrum goggles (“They’re perched on top of your head, Master Engineer Wyandotte”), missing red silk slippers (“Got ‘em, Mrs. Abrega! When was the last time you cleaned under your bed?”), or my favorite, The Case of the Missing Inarian.

What’s an Inarian? I’m glad you asked.

An Inarian is a warm-blooded denizen of the planet Inaria. They’re cute and cuddly and definitely don’t meet the standard of intelligence necessary to classify them as sentient. Reading through my datalinks on old earth biology, I’ve decided they’re pretty similar to hamsters. They make great pets, but they’re about as bright as deep space with no stars in sight.

My best friend, Lando Maxon, has an Inarian named Dumpling. When Lando woke up that morning, he discovered that Dumpling had managed to escape from his habitat. Inarians may not be smart, but they can wriggle out of places you’d swear were tightly sealed.

Normally, a Dumpling escape wouldn’t merit my intervention as a detective. Lando would just set out a bowl of Dumpling’s favorite treats and wait for his pet to get hungry. But today was not a normal day. Today Lando and his family were leaving the space station and returning to Centauri Three, their home planet.

That’s one of the real bummers about living on a space station. Sooner or later all of your friends move away.

Of course, the up side is that new friends cycle in constantly.

At least, that’s what my mom tells me every time a close friend leaves for a distant star system. Dad says Mom is an optimist. He’s right, but so is she. By the time I grow up and take my place in the Universal Star League, I’ll have friends in so many star systems I’ll need my own database just to keep track of them all.

Back to Dumpling. I was eating breakfast with Mom and Dad when Lando pinged my link. “Lando Maxon,” my link announced.

Mom frowned at the link on my wrist. “Not at the table, Cinnamon,” she said, using her duty officer voice. “You know the rules.”

I swallowed a mouthful of protein-rich, calcium-enhanced syntho-juice, wiped my mouth on a recycled napkin and said, “But Mom, Lando is leaving the station in less than six hours. If I don’t answer him, I may not have another chance.”

Mom glanced at Dad, who nodded.

“Very well, Cinnamon,” she said, “Your father and I will make an exception this time. You are dismissed.”

I grabbed a slice of replicated toast, jumped out of my chair, and dashed for the door. I didn’t want to give Mom time to reconsider.

Yep. You guessed it. That particular prompt led to yet another Dani Erickson tale

Here’s the opening:

High school. It’s a totally different world than what I expected when I first stepped through the glass-paned front doors last year. Back then I’d just discovered my destiny as a demon hunter and was still focused on the mundane issues I’d always anticipated when entering the big-leagues of public education. You know what I’m talking about: bullying upper classmen; cute boys who didn’t know I existed; cliques of mean girls; cute boys who would break my heart; teachers intent on writing tests filled with the most tedious details imaginable; cute boys who wouldn’t return my affection. The normal problems of a teenage girl’s life.

What I hadn’t expected to find were kids just like my six older brothers who were demon-ridden. Literally. Teens with small, rat-faced demons riding their backs, claws firmly embedded in necks and scalps, draining their victims’ life force while whispering evil suggestions into their psyches.

That was then.

Now, my high school was a much happier place. I’d defeated hundreds of personal demons and enough of the larger, humanoid demons that the vermin were wary of stepping foot on my territory, and Longmont High was very definitely my territory. Consequently, kids were kinder, more gentle than the national average. Teachers — many of whom were also demon-ridden when I arrived — were more inclined to be helpful, more willing to explain difficult concepts multiple times, seeking alternate examples to get their points across.

Now, I’m not claiming that my school was a utopia once I’d exterminated the demon pests, but it was, on the whole, a calmer, more civilized environment than anyone had a right to expect … and that was largely due to me.

Even my youngest older brother said so. Jamie had been at Longmont High for a year or two before I arrived. He definitely noticed the difference. Of course, he also knew all about my demon-hunting abilities. He’d learned my secret when I rescued him from a horde of demons who were using him as bait last spring. And to my eternal surprise, he’d kept my secret.

For a price.

“You want what?” I asked, my eyes bulging and my face heating. “Wick doesn’t do charity work.”

“That’s my price.” Jamie folded his arms across his chest and stared at me with familiar belligerence. “You want me to keep your secret. Fine. I’ll risk the Wrath of Mom, but I expect something in return. I want Wick to teach me how to fight. If you can do it, so can I.”

I shook my head and stomped onto the little bridge in the center of Loomiller Park. We’d needed privacy for this conversation, so we’d headed to the park where we could see anyone approaching long before they could hear what we were saying.

“And just what are you going to do with said fighting skills,” I asked, not bothering to keep the sarcastic tone out of my voice. This was Jamie, after all. The closest brother to my age. We were rarely civil to each other, even without the excuse of personal demons.

He frowned, but his jaw jutted out at a stubborn angle. “Once I’m trained,” he said, “I’ll help you fight demons. Make sure you don’t get yourself killed, ‘cause if you did and Mom found out I’d known anything, I’d follow you to the grave in about a heartbeat.”

I laughed out loud. “Help me fight demons?” I said. “When you can’t even see them? How’s that going to work?”

I’m thrilled to announce that WDM Publishing has released my short historical fiction tale, SISTERS IN SUFFRAGE.

Writing this story was a departure for me since mysteries and crime fiction are not my genres of choice. I had written a blog post several years ago encouraging women voters to exercise the rights that our foremothers suffered to earn for us. I knew when I began my research that my right to vote hadn’t come freely, but I hadn’t realized the extent to which “suffrage” and “suffering” were related when it came to women in the early 20th century. When the memory of that research surfaced, “Sisters in Suffrage” was born.

I hope readers will agree that this fictional tale of women’s suffrage in the United States is particularly apropos in this election year.

SISTERS IN SUFFRAGE
by Debbie Mumford
Audience: Historical Fiction | Short Story

Nineteen-year-old Emily Tuttle defies her father and travels to Washington, D.C. to join her idol, Alice Paul, in the fight for women’s suffrage. With high hopes, she joins Ms. Paul’s “Silent Sentinels” only to discover that her expectations of easy victory have been naïve. Will Emily and her sisters in suffrage gain the right for women to vote, or will they give in to the patriarchal pressures of their day?
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This is an exciting time for my alter ego, Deb Logan! First, her/my short story Terrors has been released in FICTION RIVER: SPARKS, edited by the fabulous Rebecca Moesta.

I’ve written several stories about characters who experience the world differently, teens who see the unseen creatures of the paranormal. But I think Terrors may be the creepiest of these tales!

Terrors came to me full-blown. The first draft of the story flowed effortlessly from subconscious to screen, introducing me to two amazing teens. Artie, a misfit girl who knows too much, and Jed, a surprisingly stable and open-hearted boy with an indomitable desire to protect the innocent. I’m pretty sure the world hasn’t heard the last of these young heroes.

I love this story and was thrilled when Rebecca Moesta chose to include Terrors in this anthology with so many other amazing stories. I hope you’ll enjoy meeting Artie and Jed too

Fiction River: Sparks is available in electronic and paper formats from WMG Publishing, or your favorite electronic bookstore.

*~*~*

Then I discovered that for a limited time (until April 30, 2016), you can get a free electronic version of SPARKS (in the format of your choice) from Kobo. Here’s how:

1) Go to the link to the book: https://store.kobobooks.com/en-ca/ebook/fiction-river-sparks
2) Click on the “Add to Cart” option then go to your Shopping Cart and click on CHECKOUT
3) If you don’t already have an account/credit card on file, select PAYPAL option to pay to bypass entering your credit card
4) Enter the promo code SPARKS into the box that says “enter your promo code here” and hit APPLY

Enjoy!!

*~*~*

My next big news for Deb is that Wattpad featured Lexie’s Choice as one of their recommended reads this week! Major *happy dancing* accompanies this news

*~*~*

And finally, WDM Publishing has just released my latest Dani Erickson tale: Family Daze!

Dani Erickson has a secret. She’s a hereditary demon hunter. The seventh child of a seventh child, she was born to battle the nasty monsters she sees infesting her small Colorado town. Unfortunately, her family doesn’t know. The only girl in her family, she thinks her family wants a pretty Pomeranian, not the ferocious Rottweiler Dani knows herself to be. How far will Dani go to protect her secret life?

Family Daze is the third installment of Dani’s adventures. First came Demon Daze followed by School Daze. I’m currently dreaming up Dani’s next “Daze-ing” adventure

Hooray! My publisher has just announced anther  of my “Spun Yarns” short story releases: SPINNING.

SPINNING
by Debbie Mumford
Audience: Science Fiction | Short Story

Brett D’Agostino has always been a solid citizen, as far from a gambler as a man could get, and yet he’s about to risk everything he owns on the spin of a roulette wheel. When the ball drops, he’ll either be able to book passage to Arcturus Prime, or he’ll be penniless, his family homeless. What has driven him to this desperate gamble?

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Another SPUN YARNS short story! This one involves a grizzly bear…

SILVER-TIPPED DEATH
by Debbie Mumford
Audience: Adventure | Short Story

Lost in the wilderness. Separated from his cousin and uncle. Faced with a hungry grizzly bear. Can he possibly survive?

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Hooray! It’s here

ASTROMANCER
by Debbie Mumford
Audience: Science Fiction | Short Story

Astromancer explores the mystical connection between the human mind and FTL space travel. Apprentice Alchemist Wyot is an astrologer of the third rank. He dreams of becoming an astromancer, one of the elite few who move starships between the known planets, but knows he lacks the innate magical talent required to fulfill his lofty ambition. When the Thrice Great commands his presence, Wyot has no idea what to expect from the leader of the legendary Emerald Enclave.

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I’m thrilled to announce that I have a short story in this anthology!

Edited by the incomparable Kristine Kathryn Rusch, this volume focuses on historical crime fiction–stories about crimes that are no longer against the law.

Writing “Sisters in Suffrage” was a departure for me since I don’t write mysteries or crime fiction. My usual genres are all speculative in nature, so I was stymied about how to approach this story. When I realized that the crime didn’t have to be solved, that I could simply tell a story about something that horrified me, I was on my way.

I had written a blog post several years ago encouraging women voters to exercise the rights that our foremothers suffered to earn for us. I knew when I began my research that my right to vote hadn’t come freely, but I hadn’t realized the extent to which “suffrage” and “suffering” had been related. When the memory of my research surfaced, “Sisters in Suffrage” was born.

I hope readers will enjoy this anthology, but even more I hope the stories will make people think about what’s legal, what isn’t…and why.

Since I wrote an “Edie-versary” post back in September, I thought it only fair to celebrate Georgia’s anniversary as well.

On Friday the 13th, Georgia reached a milestone: 9 years with our family. When we brought our four-month-old puppy home, we had two grandchildren living nearby. Nine years later we have five precious kidlets in our lives, but none live close. Eldest daughter and her family are now in Montana, while youngest daughter and her family are just outside New York City, on the New Jersey side of the river. Thank heavens for airplanes and Skype!

We didn’t have a lot of information about Georgia when she joined our family. Like Edie, she was a Craigslist find. Her owner had been killed in a motorcycle accident and his sister wasn’t prepared to keep the four-month-old pup. She advertised Georgia as a “Brazilian Mastiff,” which almost cost us the BEST dog in the world. The research I did on that breed worried me, but our daughter (the one with two small children who would be visiting our home on a regular basis) encouraged us to give the pup a chance.

As I said, BEST DOG EVER!! And wonderful with children

We eventually did a genetic test and discovered that she’s a Mastiff / Bull Mastiff / American Staffordshire Terrier mix. At this point, she’s just Georgia, our extremely loyal and loving furry child.

Happy ninth anniversary, Georgia. May we be blessed with many more!

Today, October 15, I’m the featured author on Meredith Pritchard’s AUTHTOBERFEST event!

Let’s let Meredith explain this yearly event in her own words:

*~*~*

October is upon us and you know what that means; fall leaves, steaming cups of coffee, tea, cocoa, sweatpants, blankets and fires, and… dead things. Ghosts and Zombies and the Apocalypse align. Droves of the undead, aka real live humans, line up to devour it all with a ferocious appetite. I’m no exception. All of my favorite books, TV shows, and movies tend to release in October. I’ve long been a fan of The Walking Dead and my love of that series has impacted my book blog Secret Life of a Townie. What began as a zombie apocalypse discussion blog has turned into a book review and author interview blog, infused with apocalyptic and zombie themes. I’ve used this platform to discuss the books I love and gather interviews from authors of all paths of publishing; debut and tenured, indie and traditional and hybrid. I usually post one interview a week, but after a surge of reaching out and getting encouraging responses from the gods of publishing, I suddenly had a handful of interviews from some of my favorite authors. I really wanted to get these interviews out into the world and I knew that during the fall my blog gets the most traffic. So what began as a scheduling conundrum turned into “Authtoberfest.”

“Authtoberfest” is a month of author interviews from horror, sci-fi & fantasy authors. The questions are Halloween and Zombie themed. The authors discuss their favorite books, the ability of their fellow authors to survive the zombie apocalypse, and advice for aspiring writers. With 31 authors there are a lot of great book suggestions and some awesome tips to keep writers motivated.

The event started on October 1^st with Peter Heller. Peter wrote an amazing novel, The Dog Stars, and has an impressive CV that makes me feel like I’ve done absolutely nothing with my life. He’s a super nice guy who took time out of his busy schedule to answer my emails and impart his words of wisdom upon the world.

Isaac Marion’s interview is schedule for October 9^th. Isaac wrote the hilarious yet profound novel Warm Bodies, it was a major motion picture and my favorite read of 2013. My Goodreads review went a little like this: “This started off really fun, really funny, and then turned super deep. So here I sit, book finished, a bottle of wine gone, and I’m still trying to figure out what the f–k I just read…” Isaac had a ton of great tips, book suggestions, and a playlist that gave me nightmares. If you loved Warm Bodies, check out his latest release The New Hunger. Isaac Marion never disappoints.

Peter Cawdron, The Behrg, Ernie Lindsey, R. E. Carr, Nick Cole, and Josh Malerman will also be featured. Josh’s interview brought back all the scary crap from my childhood that I’ve spent the past 30 years forcing myself to forget. I had to sleep with the light on a few times after reading that interview but his thoughts are quite amazing so it was worth it. Josh’s interview posts Oct 31^st. Bird Box was an amazing read, if you haven’t read it yet make sure you pick it up.

I had a wicked ton of fun preparing these interviews for everyone. Check out the author interview schedule or stop by daily. Like, comment, Tweet and share. And have a Happy Authtoberfest!

_ _ _ _ _ _ _

M.R. Pritchard is a lifelong inhabitant of upstate NY. She lives near the shores of Lake Ontario where she spends her days reading and writing and watching the snow fall. When she is not writing she is a NICU Nurse, wife, mother, gardener, aquarist, book hoarder and science geek. M.R. Pritchard holds degrees in Biochemistry and Nursing. She likes books, coffee, and rum.

To receive updates on new releases sign up for her newsletter at http://eepurl.com/TXnkL.

Visit her website MRPritchard.com or her blog http://secretlifeofatownie.blogspot.com/where she writes about all things books.

Good lord! How did it get to be the middle of September already? Didn’t we just start this month? *sigh* Time seems to race by now days. I remember when it used to drag … of course I was a small child waiting to become an adult so that my life could “begin” *shakes head* We humans have an interesting love-hate relationship with time…

And speaking of the passage of time…it’s our kitty’s anniversary. Miss Edie has been with us for 10 years today! We adopted her as a tiny kitten from a Craigslist ad. We almost didn’t get her, due to my husband’s impatience. We arrived at the designated address to find an apartment full of small, squealing children and a couple of harried young mothers. Yes, they had a kitten to give away, but she was hiding under a bed having been terrorized by all the pre-schoolers.

When the woman couldn’t produce the kitten, hubby was ready to leave–feral children get on his nerves, but I persevered and managed to coax Edie out. She seemed relieved to come to our house, where she only had to contend with two adults and an elderly Dalmatian who couldn’t be bothered with a cat.

Happy Tenth Anniversary, Edie!

Labor Day has arrived, signaling the end of summer. Granted, the season doesn’t officially end for another couple of weeks, but functionally, summer is over. Kids are heading back to school and adults are settling into their work-a-day worlds, thoughts of vacations and get-away weekends having been wrapped in gossamer and stored for next year’s use.

Autumn is upon us, and far from feeling nostalgic for the loss of summer’s heat and sense of possibility, I’m looking forward to crisp, cool weather, tart red apples, and a kaleidoscope of fall colors as Mother Nature changes her garb.

Fresh pressed apple cider. A drive in the hills to admire the red, gold, and bronze foliage. Soft blue skies with scudding white clouds and just a breathe of chill. The honking of a chevron of geese overhead.

These are the delights of autumn and I’m looking forward to experiencing each and every one!

Farewell, Summer. You’ve been awesome. Welcome, Autumn. I’ve missed you, my favorite season, and I’m looking forward to getting reacquainted!

Dani Erickson’s story, DEMON DAZE, finishes in this 6th and final installment.  I hope you’ve enjoyed meeting Dani! (Look for information about her NEXT adventure at the end of this post )

DEMON DAZE

by Deb Logan

 Demon Hunter

I SPENT THAT EVENING trying to convince myself Warwick James was a scam artist or a serial killer. Anything to erase the exceptionally abnormal future he’d outlined for me. What did I know about demons? Why would I want to hunt them? As far as I knew, no demon had ever harmed me or mine. Wouldn’t Mom counsel me to live and let live?

And what about Mom and Dad? How were they supposed to take the news that their only daughter would never be the epitome of graceful femininity they desired? That she was instead destined to be a warrior charged with protecting the human race? They didn’t want a guard dog; they wanted a pampered Pomeranian.

I stalked from room to room of our comfortable home, unable to settle anywhere. The kitchen taunted me with visions of the girl I’d never be. If I were more like Allie, I’d be warm and welcoming like its terra cotta red walls and pale lemon curtains, nourishing like the contents of its hickory cabinets, accomplished like the woman who ruled the heart of our home: my mother.

The great room, usually my retreat of choice, repelled me tonight. My brothers and their friends had gathered to watch a pre-season football game on Dad’s awesome eighty-inch high-definition television. I could fit in with a roomful of guys, no problem. I’d been fitting in with guys since birth. But tonight I needed to think, and the guys’ rowdy antics would kill higher brain function.

The formal living room mocked me. Every piece of furniture in that room knew its place and function better than I did, same with the elegance of the rarely used dining room. One of the bathrooms? No. Unless I wanted to settle in for a soak, someone would be beating on the door in a matter of moments. Bedrooms? All were off limits except my own, and I felt like a caged animal pacing round and round my bed. I briefly considered sitting on top of the washer in the laundry room, but the white enameled metal looked cold and uncomfortable.

My restless wandering finally drove me outdoors — not far out, I remembered Wick’s warning — onto the wide, covered porch that wrapped three sides of our two-story home. I settled on a cushioned patio chair and stared across the street into the familiar shadows of Loomiller Park.

Big mistake.

On an ordinary night, I could’ve stared for hours at the well-known tree shadows, the mirror smooth lake that was really little more than a pond, the winding walkways and seen no more than the outline of an occasional Canada goose. Heard no more than the peaceful chirping of crickets or the breeze sighing through the foliage. But tonight was no ordinary night. Tonight I possessed the senses of a demon hunter, and the normally quiet park teemed with life of a type I hadn’t known existed until yesterday.

Demons of all shapes and sizes crowded the edges of our property. They crawled across the streets, climbed on the kiddie play equipment, splashed in the shallows of the lake, and hung from branches of the evergreens. But mostly, they stared at me. Hundreds of pairs of eyes gleamed in the darkness of the still August night.

A paralyzing chill clenched my spine in an icy fist. An impulse to jump and run seized my brain, but my feet and legs refused to act. Like a rabbit charmed by a swaying snake, I stared into their eyes and drowned in fear. I was no demon hunter. I was prey. How could one untrained teenage girl hope to survive when the night teemed with such … such … filth?

Filth? I shook my head, breaking eye contact and laughed. Not a happy giggle, but a terrified, ironic chuckle. Something deep inside had challenged the thought the demon horde had tried to plant. Yes, I was young and untrained, but an unacknowledged spark in my soul recognized them for what they were, filthy vermin to be hunted from the face of the earth.

“Thanks, guys,” I murmured, rising and walking to the door with a newborn calm. “You’ve convinced me. I’m a demon hunter in need of training.” I smiled, waved a salute to the unholy creatures only I could see, and strode to the great room to join my brothers. “See you in the morning, Mr. James,” I murmured to myself as I grabbed a handful of popcorn from Jamie’s bowl.

Settling into my favorite chair, I smiled as the buttery goodness of popcorn melted on my tongue. I finally knew who I was. Never again would I see myself as a clumsy, too-tall imitation of Allie. No, I was exactly who I was meant to be. Dani Heleen Erickson: Demon Hunter Extraordinaire!

*~*~*

Thanks for reading DEMON DAZE!

Want to know more about Dani? Be sure to look for SCHOOL DAZE…

SCHOOL DAZE
by Deb Logan
Audience: Juvenile | Demon Hunter | Short Story

Dani Erickson is a hereditary demon hunter. The seventh child of a seventh child, she was born to battle the nasty monsters she sees infesting her small Colorado town. With the help of her best friend Allie and her sensei Warwick James, she’s getting into fighting trim — just in time for her first day of high school.

Demons beware. Dani’s on the prowl!

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Dani Erickson’s story, DEMON DAZE, continues in this 5th of six installments.  I hope you enjoy Dani’s continuing adventure and I look forward to your comments.

DEMON DAZE

by Deb Logan

 Guardian

I WANTED TO RIP OPEN the door and run for my life, but I couldn’t. My knees wobbled, my lungs seized, my heart pounded like my brother Seth’s drums, and a series of cold chills played tag on my spine. And you don’t want to know about my stomach. Trust me. Too much information doesn’t begin to cover it.

But sooner than I would’ve expected, my racing brain calmed. A serene acceptance washed through my mind and I knew, absolutely, positively, with no question of doubt, that whoever Warwick James might be, he’d spoken the truth. I was a born and bred Demon Hunter.

I slipped sideways away from the door and leaned against the peeling paint of an interior wall. One by one my pieces parts returned to normal until I found the strength to speak.

“I’m a demon hunter.” A simple statement of fact, and once the words were out, I straightened away from the wall, stronger and more sure of myself than I’d ever been in my life. I made eye contact with Wick and nodded. “I’m a demon hunter.”

Concern fled from his face and he smiled like a proud father presented with his first-born. “Yes, Miss Erickson. You are a demon hunter, and I am your guardian.”

A small frown pulled at my eyebrows. “Why would a demon hunter need a guardian? Besides, I already have a father and six brothers.”

“True, but can they teach you to fight? Can they see demons? Can they watch your back while you learn the skills you’ll need to survive?”

I chewed my lower lip and prowled the room, keeping my new awareness centered on Wick. “You can see demons? You can train me?”

“I can and I will. That is my purpose: to find demon hunters and protect them while I train them to protect mankind.”

“I’m missing something here. If you can see demons and already know how to fight, why do you need me?”

He pivoted slowly on the spot, keeping me squarely in the center of his vision despite my pacing. “I’m not a demon hunter, Miss Erickson. I don’t have your, shall we say built-in radar? I can fight them and make a nuisance of myself, but I cannot kill them. That power is reserved for your kind.” He bowed his head in acknowledgement of my superior abilities.

“I will be your mentor and trainer, but you, Miss Erickson, are the demon hunter.”

I stopped pacing, faced him, and planted my fists on my hips. “What is this place? Why did you bring me here?”

He held out his arms and completed a slow circle. “This is my new business, a martial arts academy. I will teach Tae Kwon Do, Karate, Judo, and Kendo. You will learn a blend of all of them while developing your own unique style.”

“Doesn’t look like much,” I muttered.

He threw back his head and laughed so loud the room echoed with his mirth. When the explosion of sound died back, he wiped his eyes and said, “Give me a chance, Miss Erickson. Madame Simone and I have barely had time to set our plans in motion. She only confirmed your burgeoning power on Saturday night. I think I’ve done well to find a Main Street location on such short notice.”

My eyes widened and my jaw dropped. “Madame Simone? Do you mean that wacko fortune teller from the carnival?”

“Language, Miss Erickson. Madame Simone is a gifted psychic. She and I have been with the carnival for years. The perfect cover for traveling around the country checking up on families that might possibly produce a demon hunter. Now that we’ve found you, we will settle in Longmont and other members of our clan will make the rounds.” He shook his head. “Possibles are far too few these days.”

I filed that comment away for future consideration and wandered back to the door. “Okay. So let’s assume I buy this crazy story,” I said, all too aware of the lie implied. I believed him and he knew it. How could I not? Even now I sensed three demonic entities roaming Longmont’s peaceful streets … and they were just the ones in range of my newly awakened weird-o-meter. “What do you expect me to do?”

He strode to the door, reached for the knob and opened it for me with a small bow. “I expect you to assimilate your new knowledge. Rest tonight. Think about what you’ve learned, and come back tomorrow ready to begin your training.”

I stared at him for a moment and then stepped out into the late August sunshine. “I’ve got to meet my brother.”

“I’ll look for you around ten,” he said, joining me on the sidewalk. He glanced up and down the street before continuing, “I’ll shadow you back to your brother. For your own safety, go straight home and stay there. The home of a hunter is sacrosanct. You will always be safe there, as will anyone else within its walls. Be vigilant, Miss Erickson. You are now aware of demons; they are also aware of you.”

With that cheery thought, I headed north to meet Jamie, Warwick James following at a discreet distance.

*~*~*

Thanks for reading! The 6^th and final scene will be posted on 8/5/15.

Can’t wait to find out what happens? Demon Daze is available online:
Buy Now: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Kobo | Smashwords