A Muse Bouche Review: September 2024
Dear Readers
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| Welcome to our ninth edition of 2024. The theme is Jewelry. How meaningful it can be.
The A Muse Bouche Review Team |
Featured: Pierced by Love (David M. Simon) Fiction
A Pearl of Great Price (Marian L Thorpe) Fiction
A Rough Diamond(Renée Gendron) Fiction
The Awakening(Louise Sorensen) Fiction
The Band (Joseph P. Garland) Fiction
A Rough Diamond
Renee Gendron (@ReneeGendron)
Natasha Hill stood at the end of a pier overlooking a moonless night, toying with the string of pearls around her neck that Alban had given her. The necklace was a surprise gift from when he had taken on more dangerous missions to rack up enough points for shore leave.
Shore leave.
Some term.
He had travelled two days to spend twelve precious hours with her and two more days into hostile territory to rejoin his unit. The hotel was an out of the way place free of distractions. They had packed so much into those twelve hours—stuffed themselves with as much gourmet food from the local store as possible, recounted every funny thing that had happened to them since the last time they had seen each other—and left so many sweat stains on the sheets that the hotel needed to burn them.
Twelve blissful, marvellous, love-filled hours that had ended with them on a space dock until they met again and with Alban reaching into his service jacket and pulling out a long velvet box.
Nathasha’s knees had weakened at the sight of the box. Alban had flipped it open with such care and a tremble in his hand like he was holding the secret of the universe. She had flung her arms around his neck and pulled him into a passionate embrace that had the vid reporters picked up on it, might have been flagged for indecency.
The announcer had issued a last boarding call for the spaceship heading back to the front.
Alban’s kiss had lingered on her lips. She had tasted the slight saltiness of it for weeks after the last time he had left, and her lips had remained tingly for far longer. She had dreamed of that kiss, woken up teary eyed and swollen of heart from it.
A kiss that had spanned a star system to fill her with hope and promise and future. That day had stayed with her, haunted her, comforted her, kept her warm in the chill of the night, and heated her on the brightest summer’s day.
Every word spoken in his slow, baritone voice sent a ripple of goosebumps down her spine and back up again until every part of her shivered with pleasure.
His voice, his touch, his scent, his presence—all that had made her quake—silent, gone, no longer in her presence.
Six months had passed, and the war had raged and echoed and boomed from the edges of the sector back to the Home World, and communications with Alban had been infrequent. Each message, most short, many shorter, had been pounded upon and repeated so often she had memorized every word.
Every time she checked her emails, a message from a dear friend, Ryland, was there. Though a fighter pilot like Alban, Ryland was deployed in a different sector. A more hazardous one where personnel were allowed more frequent contact with home because every line, every breath, every gaze into a loved one’s eyes might be the last.
She had responded to Ryland’s messages within minutes. He was too good and loyal of a friend to risk missing one last goodbye.
Days passed. Weeks passed. And the worry in Natasha’s belly over Alban’s fate gnawed at her.
The vids had shown progress reports of the war—this moon liberated, but that planet lost. The vids had shown the triumphant grins of liberators, brows and cheeks still damp from the fight and breaths far too short for coherent interviews.
Her fingers found one pearl on the necklace Alban had given her. One small touch to remind her of him. He was out there, somewhere, fighting, doing his best to work his way back out to her—to them.
Her heart cramped with anguish. Her eyes misted from sorrow, but still, she stared out into the darkness of night, thinking of the vast darkness of space. Numb and cold, uncertain of her future but convinced her heart would never mend, she planted her feet against the wooden dock planks.
Not one ripple disturbed the surface of the Black Lake. The stillness of the setting jarred against the vid updates from the edges of the system involving fleets of hundreds of spaceships meeting a vile enemy head-on.
Alban was up there, somewhere.
Fighting. Dodging torpedoes, protecting evacuation conveys, risking everything.
Eyes closed, she ran her finger along the string of pearls and willed the universe to keep him alive.
Natasha woke up from a restless sleep like she had had the night before and the one prior to that—all sleepless nights. Dozens of emails overwhelmed her inbox, and she skimmed through the senders’ list for Alban’s name.
None from Alban, but the name of a dear friend, Ryland, stood out on her screen. A spark of joy kindled in her.
She opened the message and savoured every word—Ryland was safe, all fighters in his wing were safe, and he looked forward to his next visit home saying that he wanted to go to his favourite burger place. And he asked her to join.
She answered ‘absolutely’ within minutes of receiving the message. Uncertain of when he would return, she booked a table every night for weeks. Sure, the restaurant was a step down from a dive and didn’t need reservations, but she wasn’t going to leave things to chances and risk by some fluke of the universe have the restaurant be full the night he returned. Messages would always be intercepted, and the details of his return weren’t included, but Natasha knew that front-line fighters were cycled from the frontier faster than other personnel.
Burnout. Phase out. Blood out.
That’s how pilots lived—burn out their engines until they phase out of normal space-time, and blood out from too much blood going to your brain from high gs.
She typed her response to Ryland.
‘Happy to hear from you. Relieved you’re well. How are things?’ She hit send, and the message darted through the sky from Base to Outer, past a dozen relays that accelerated the signal.
The signals, the satellites, and the space dust that scattered the force of the signal.
Ping!
Boom.
If her pulse pounded any harder, she’d turn deaf. She swiped through her phone. No new messages from Alban. Her heart pinched hard enough to show her she was still alive.
‘How are you?’ Ryland asked. ‘Any progress with your project?’ A smile tensed her cheeks. ‘Project is coming along.’ If she hadn’t missed days in a fog from the last of news with Alban. She wanted to type questions like ‘where are you, what are you doing, are you injured?’ But civilian communications were highly susceptible to interception.
Ryland, make it home alive.
‘Great to hear,’ Ryland said. ‘I was worried that you’d get the DNA in a twist.’ Alone in her lab, she laughed out loud. She sent him a crying-laughing emoticon.
Three days passed, and she didn’t hadn’t heard from Alban. She had dragged her body from her bed, showered, dressed in her white lab coat, and gone to the laboratory. Detached from work, she had stared into microscopes and at instrument panels, but none of the findings registered in her brain.
Somewhere, maybe, there was a recording of her work. But it didn’t matter until she knew of Alban’s fate.
She was a mindless, heart-sick, pearl-wearing automaton who had lost her sense of hunger, time, and fatigue.
Seven days ticked by since the beginning of the Battle of Manba, involving a series of attacks, strategic repositioning, and counterassaults. The vids had called it the ‘Bloody Battle of Man’, with some calling it the ‘Last Stand in the System’. Hundreds of ships from all factions in the war converged on one position to blow each other into space dust by blowing up enough plasma torpedoes to tear the fabric of space-time.
The vids had looped footage of the battle, interviews of adrenaline-fueled marines and sailors, and tear-streaked refugees receiving their first hot meal in weeks. Still, there was no victor, only casualties and bloodied enemies backing up enough to wipe the blood from their noses before charging in again. The sun had yet to shine, and her heart weighed heavy in her chest. She slapped her nightstand for her mobile and checked the latest casualty reports. Her stomach was empty, but she had a sour taste in her mouth. She searched for Alban’s name, then rank. No one by Alban’s name came up on the casualty report, but a few listed unidentified fighter pilot captains—their ships were missing and presumed captured or destroyed.
Tears hung from her lashes, burdening them, hurting them.
Stay strong. Stay strong until Fleet Command sends some junior officer to my door to look me in the eye and tell me Alban was dead.
The vids showed the first landing craft of returning marines and pilots on shore leave. One day. That’s all they got. A sweet taste of home before they were redeployed to the front lines to push the enemies from their space.
Mobile in hand and a string of pearls around her neck, Natasha elbowed her way through the crowds to the landing bay.
Pilots streamed from the landing craft and stood at the entrance of the dock. Some had nightly news vid smiles with their fists pumped in the air. Most had anticipatory looks on them as they swept their gazes over the thousands gathered until, if lucky, they found their loved ones’ gazes.
Alban had to be alive. He must still be alive. He had to come home for them to resume their lives. She had planned it out. Alban would return a war hero with a war hero’s pension. She would continue to work in the lab and give him time to readjust to civilian life. In a year, maybe two, they would marry and trade her condo for a larger place, perhaps an apartment or a house, and then they’d start a family.
Natasha shoved her way past kissing couples, mothers embracing children home from war, and fathers looking in on proudly as their daughters and sons disembarked in full battle gear, and reporters motioning for their camera people to change the angle of their shot.
Just a few more paces and a few more people to squeeze past a little farther, and she’d get the best look at the pilots and marines leaving the landing craft.
Excitement wrestled nervousness, and on a shaky step forward, she peered up to the large screen above the docks.
Shots of pilots kissing their spouses and of teary-eyed families embracing their loved ones flashed on the screen.
Natasha tilted her chin up to see past the crowd. One glimpse. One passing glance. Not one familiar movement caught her eye. Nothing.
Only the faces of strangers—happy strangers—surrounded her. Strangers kissing, hugging, crying, with their heads pressed against the chest of someone in uniform.
Natasha checked her phone. Messages from her mom, her brother, and a friend who saw her on the news, but nothing from Alban. Natasha’s heart sank lower and lower in her chest, dragging her lower lip down into a tremble.
Alban wasn’t here.
Large screens flashed celebrations from throughout the system. One reporter in a yellow jacket swept his hand to the scene behind him where thousands of people celebrated the victory. Military hats were thrown in the air and landed like large raindrops onto the exuberant crowds.
Another reporter in another city interviewed a tearful mother claspingher daughter.
Everywhere, everyone rejoiced.
Natasha pushed her way through the crowd to a large screen that showed the disembarkation schedule for the fleet.
One more ship remained. She swiped Alban’s name onto the screen. A little whirl symbol appeared, followed by no results.
Dejected and confused, she stumbled back, and her back bumped into something firm. Hope swelled in her, and she spun around, expecting to see warm brown eyes. Hands poised to reach for Alban’s neck and pull him into an embrace, she stopped her arms mid-motion.
Conflicted, frosty-grey eyes looked down at her. Ryland.
Tall, with a cleft on his chin, a scar over his eyebrow, and a smile that warmed the coldest winter night.
“You’re back. Unscathed, with polished boots, and receiving a hero’s welcome.” Natasha pulled him into a hug.
“You could have told me which pier you were disembarking. I could have met you.” She peered around his substantial frame but didn’t spot Alban. Strange because Ryland and Alban had fought in the toughest areas of the war. I haven’t received a notification of injury or death. Alban had to be alive.
She swung her gaze to Ryland’s, searching his face for answers.
The corners of Ryland’s mouth pinched, then relaxed. “I could go for a really good burger right now. I’ve been wanting to have one of Sam’s Sloppy Burgers for months now.” He cocked his head towards the exit of the pier.
“What of Alban?” She stepped around him and tilted her chin up to see a little more above the crowd.
Unfamiliar faces. Families engaged in a group hug. Too many lovers reunited in fervent and passionate kisses that if they lingered any longer, Natasha was certain, the people would melt in their clothes.
No Alban.
She checked her cell, but no urgent messages from the Ministry of War. Nothing from Alban.
Ryland’s gaze narrowed on a point above her shoulder, then lowered it to her face. “Come on. I’ve been travelling for hours in cramped quarters, eating nothing but dehydrated rations.” He flashed an I’m-a-war-hero smile and titled his head towards the entrance.
Natasha turned to face the large screens over the port, but Ryland tugged on her hand.
“Come on. I’m starving,” he said.
Natasha took a step forward but turned to look over her shoulder at the screen. Alban cupped the face of a woman she didn’t know and dipped her in an embrace worthy of a ballad. Her cheeks curved in a smile that pressed her eyes shut, and she flexed her foot to give her already long leg a perfect point. Alban straightened, pulling her upright, and she pressed her hand against her chest. The camera’s light caught her ring finger, and the largest diamond Nathasha had ever seen sparkled on the woman’s ring finger.
The woman’s ring wasn’t a ring. It was a diamond meteorite grasped from the sky and polished until it became a one-tonne diamond.
Everything in Natasha dropped. Her jaw, her pulse, her stomach, her will to live. A deluge of tears wanted to pour from her eyes, but her anger and betrayal dammed them in. She spun around to Ryland, a childhood friend. “How long?” She jabbed his chest with her finger.
“How long have you known?” He held her gaze, a thousand unasked questions in his eyes. His thin lips thinned further until the line of his mouth flattened.
Natasha pressed her eyes closed.
Heavy tear drops clung to her eyelashes until Always. Was the answer. Always. Ryland had asked if they could spend his shore leave with her, the same shore leave she had spent twelve hours holed up with Alban, but Natasha had declined.
“Why didn’t you say anything?” she asked. “Would you have listened?” No. Her heart would have ignored him and refused to look at evidence. Love made the scientist in her irrational. Ryland had tried to tell her in his own way. Dropping hints about unexplained absences, hints that the relationship wasn’t as strong as Natasha had thought. She had sent Alban eight messages for one of his answers. She had travelled to see him six times for each time he had met her—three-quarters of the way at some discrete, insignificant outpost for a quick one-day break. Alban had always been careful not to have any photos of them on his phone, but her main screen was of them kissing—in some place that ranked only a little higher than a fleabag hotel. The nicer places had been rented out, he had said. Even though she had volunteered to pay for the holiday and upgrade to a nicer place where many of his squad were on shore leave.
Ryland had been awarded a three-day shore leave at the same time, and he had rented a room at one of the main drags of the resort, near the restaurants, bars, theatres, beaches, and fun. Shore leave was about fun and passion and cramming in as many memories as possible.
But, Alban had preferred to stay in the shack on the secluded beach that had more bits of smooth, broken glass than sand. Sheets, snoozes, and quick showers followed by unhealthy snacks culminated in a twenty-four blur of sex and sweat.
And then, Alban was gone again to the front lines and excitement and brutality and carnage that had harkened him so many years ago. And Natasha had wilted, again, back to her life of waiting and wanting and willing Alban to return.
And he had always returned. A quarter of the way on shore leave. Half of the way on texts. Three-quarters of the way when sharing sheets. But never back to her.
She choked back a giant sob, one that threatened to swallow her hole. Her tears froze over, then her heart, then the last years of her life shattered. Everything was a lie. Everything leading up to the moment of what she had thought was a blissful reunion was a blatant line in which she had been used, manipulated, and discarded.
Her heart quaked. Her stomach lurched, and her past three meals bubbled up her throat and tickled her uvula.
She stumbled backwards, and Ryland caught her against his chest.
One sob escaped her mouth in a hollow echo of pain.
Ryland held her firm but not tight, and she bent forward at the waist, unable to hold back her humiliation.
Two firm, gentle hands cupped her arms, holding her.
She wept until her eyes burned and her throat scorched until clarity drilled through her pain.
Alban had never loved me. He had used me. He had contacted me when it was convenient and ignored me at his pleasure. But Ryland had always emailed me within minutes, hours, at most a day. He had asked me about my day, my work, and had sent her cartoons that had made me laugh.
Ryland, not Alban, had been attentive, patient, and present when Alban had been woefully absent.
Eyelids swollen and heavy, she pivoted on her spot and buried her head against Ryland’s chest.
His arms clutched her, holding her, drawing her nearer to him without squeezing the breath from her.
She sobbed for the future she wouldn’t have, for the deep love she hadn’t seen, and for the fools he had been. She clutched Ryland’s tunic. “I need time to sort things out.”
“I can wait.”
Image by TheAnnAnn from Pixabay
A Pearl of Great Price
Marian L Thorpe (@marianlthorpe)
Sajad.’ Something in Zakar’s tone made Sajad stop sorting the pearls on the dark cloth in front of him. Usually he would have held up a hand to tell his brother he was in the midst of calculations, dividing the pearls by size and shape and the lustre of their surfaces. Instead, he made a note of the number, and looked up. The diver who had brought them crouched close by, watching. Those who brought their sea-floor harvest to the Nabili family did so because of the brothers’ reputation for fairness; if they brought fifty pearls, they would be paid for fifty pearls. But that did not mean this man would not follow each move of Sajad’s fingers closely.
With a tilt of his chin, Zakar indicated they should withdraw into the inner rooms. As he followed his brother, Sajad heard the door to the sorting room closed and barred; the guards knew their jobs. No one could enter or leave until the merchants returned.
“What,” he murmured to his brother, “is so important we must stop our bargaining?”
“This.” Zakar held out his hand. In his palm rested a pearl, its nacre almost pure white. It was also perfectly round – and nearly the size of the last joint of his thumb. Sajad’s breath caught. Every merchant on the Southern Sea’s coast dreamt of being brought a rare, spherical pearl; even tiny ones commanded a premium price. But this! Round, white and huge. He met his brother’s eyes, seeing his own excitement reflected there.
“Finish your deal,” Zakar said, his voice low, “as quickly as you can. I will delay my own bargaining.”
“Does your man know what he has brought you?”
“Yes. But he has been circumspect, wisely. He could easily have been killed for this. He slipped it to me only after I had sorted his other pearls.”
“We will go back in,” Sajad said immediately, “as if all we were discussing was the price we offer today.” Their behaviour would not alarm the divers. The rates for shipment and the price set by the Sylanian merchants on Kýpri were only part of calculating the pearls’ worth: quality and supply also mattered, and those could not be judged until the pearls had been evaluated.
Sajad finished his business quickly, allowing himself a quick smile when his brother swore, indicating he had lost count and had to begin again. Zakar never faltered in his calculations, but it was a good reason to delay his diver. The guard locked the door again when Sajad’s man left, carefully tucking his purse inside his robe.
“For these,” Zakar said to his man, pointing to the pearls spread out before him, “we will pay this much.” He named a sum. The diver nodded.
“And the other?” he asked. An older man for a diver, wiry but large-chested from years of sucking all the air he could into his lungs to stay underwater longer, and perhaps to go deeper.
“We cannot say,” Zakar said. “Its value cannot be calculated here. We offer this: a payment now, equal to half again of what I will pay for the other pearls, and twenty percent of what we receive for it, after our costs are considered.”
The diver hesitated. “We have always been fair to you,” Sajad reminded him.
“You will put this in writing?” The brothers exchanged glances. Could the man read? Probably not, but there were scribes in the marketplace who would read it to him, for a small coin.
“Written and sealed,” Zakar said. “The seal to be broken only if we renege on our agreement.”
After a moment’s consideration, the man nodded. “It is fair.”
Only a few minutes later, the business was concluded. The promissory note written, its terms clearly laid out and signed by both Zakar and Sajad, and the payment for the other pearls made, the diver bowed – unusually – to the brothers, and left, his face impassive. Barring the man’s tongue loosening with drink, there’d be no whisper of the transaction from him.
“Come,” Zakar said. “We must make plans.” He turned to the guards. “We will see no one for three hours.”
In the cooler inner room, he called for tea. Only when it had been brought and the servant had withdrawn did he lay the pearl carefully on the woven covering of the low table.
“One of us must take it to Kýpri,” Sajad said. “We cannot trust it to our agent, or even a colleague.”
“You are right,” Zakar. “If, indeed, we take it to Kýpri.”
Sajad frowned. “Why would we not?”
“A pearl of this size and shape and colour, its lustre exquisite? They will sell it to the Temülchid, for many times what they will give us for it.”
“So? That is the nature of trade.”
“Why should we not take it to the Temülchid ourselves?”
“Why?” Sajad stared at his brother. His older brother, sensible, cautious Zakar, whose business acumen had guided them to significant prosperity, not to mention their standing among Cyrennian merchants. He couldn’t – could he? – be suggesting they violate the edict of Cyrenne’s ruler, the prohibition against direct trade with the Temülchid, their hated enemy. Not to mention the physical dangers involved in the journey, avoiding Cyrenne’s patrolling navy in the Southern Sea, crossing the desert lands beyond to reach Kolhisa. “You know why.”
“We would not be the first,” Zakar said calmly, after a sip of his tea.
This was true, Sajad admitted to himself. But those who attempted the illegal trade were not respected members of Cyrenne’s merchant community. They were opportunists, risking death not just on the journey or at the hands of the Temülchid, but here in Cyrenne, too: the king did not look kindly on those who consorted with the enemy. But a few public executions had not deterred some men.
“You have a wife. Children. You cannot be serious.” And my marriage negotiations are almost complete, Sajad thought.
“They are my concern, Sajad. You have heard the whispers, that the Temülchid are gathering themselves for another invasion westward. Cyrenne and Türche may have held them off twenty years past, but can we do so again?”
“With Sylana’s help, yes.” Sajad watched his brother carefully, noting the tiny narrowing of his eyes. “What do you know?” he demanded.
“I know nothing.” Zakar drank some of his tea, deliberately stalling, Sajad knew. “But on my last voyage to Kýpri, I heard rumours. In the drinking-houses and the marketplace. Gossip, perhaps. Speculation.”
“Speculation about what?” Sometimes Sajad found his brother’s pedantry annoying.
“That Sylana holds secret negotiations with the Temülchid. It is suggested that they will, at some appropriate point in the war, switch their allegiance.”
In Sajad’s mind he saw a wall, collapsing brick by brick, the way fortresses were said to have crumbled when the siege weapons of the Temülchid assailed them. “They would turn their navy against us? Let the Temülchid take” – his voice dropped to a hoarse whisper – “Selekosia?”
The golden city, the city of learning and beauty and philosophy that had arisen from the memories of Heræcria, begun by the young king Selekos five hundred years past. A city to reflect and replace fallen Casil, he had reputedly proclaimed, but one that had surpassed its inspiration – or so it was said. Sajad had never been there, only heard the tales.
“In exchange for protection from subjugation when the Temülchid, inevitably, continue their westward advance. They will not stop at Türche, or even Cyrenne. They want to rule the world, on both sides of the Nivéan Sea. Do not doubt it.”
Sajad clutched his mug of tea in both hands, its warmth not countering the chill invading his body. “And you are only telling me this now?”
His brother spread his hands. “I had no solution. We are merchants of standing, yes, but only in our small sphere. Now, with this pearl, we have something to bargain with, to offer the Temülchid in exchange for– ” He paused, choosing his words. “Perhaps not safety. But lenient treatment for our families.”
Sajad sat silently, trying to make sense of what his brother was suggesting. The risk was huge, the chances of success so low… He saw Zakar’s wife, his three children, the oldest almost ready to enter the business, heard again the stories told of how the Temülchid slaughtered the inhabitants of the cities and towns they took. Keeping alive only men and women of learning, physicians and artisans, philosophers and engineers. He – and Zakar– were none of those.
“No,” Sajad said. He made himself repeat it, more firmly. “No. It will not work. They will take the pearl and kill us, Zakar. It is not enough.” Rapidly he told his brother why. “We never take huge risks, never gamble. This is a gamble.”
A slow nod of the head from his brother; a deep worry in his dark eyes. “What do you suggest then?” A shift, this, Zakar asking for his advice.
“We take the pearl to Kýpri. Get the highest price we can. And then–” The face of the woman he was to marry rose in his mind. He blinked it away, swallowed, to wet his throat, to allow the words out. “I will leave half the money with a trusted colleague, for you to retrieve. I will not come home. There will be ships from the west. I will take passage on one.”
Zakar’s eyes rested on his face, considering. “These are rumours only.”
“Rumours that have you suggesting drastic action. If the Temülchid – and Sylana – are threats enough you were considering risking all we have worked for, all we have – then they are a threat that the west should know about.” Sajad’s voice had risen. A sting of hot liquid made him look down; his hands shook, spilling the tea.
“And you think western leaders will listen to you? They have their own spies, Sajad.” A thread of something – fear? – in his brother’s voice.
“Then perhaps all I will do is confirm what they have heard. But surely, Zakar, surely this is less of a gamble than–”
“Than what I proposed,” his brother interrupted. Flatly. He turned his head away from Sajad, staring beyond the walls and roof. The lines of his face seemed to deepen. “You are right.”
Sajad closed his eyes. “I let my fears blind me to the prudent path,” his brother continued. “You saw it clearly. But I will make one suggestion. Go to the il’Ikorsa family, if you can. They have connections, of trade and marriage, to those in the west with influence. And go soon. I cannot shake the sense we have little time.”
The pearl lay on the table between them. A random find for the diver, a gift from whatever gods he honoured. He and his family would prosper on what he had been offered for it, had they the opportunity. Disaster lurked for everyone. Prudent men shored up their lives against it as best they could.
One perfect pearl. One chance. For their families, for Cyrenne. For their known world.
Perhaps.
Pearl photograph (Pearl from Pinctada maxima (gold-lipped pearl oyster) 1.jpg) James St. John, CC BY 2.0, via Wikimedia Commons
Pierced by Love
David M. Simon (@writesdraws)
The cab driver clocked the outfits of the young couple strolling towards him in the strobing lights from the Fremont Street Experience, and smiled—newly married. The guy was wearing a tux, tails and all, but it was pale seafoam, with a neon green bow tie and cumberbund and deep mossy green alligator leather boots. The girl was in a white dress that was as much feathers and sequins as silk, a wedding dress fit for a Las Vegas main stage. Her alligator stilettos matched his boots. They were both beautiful.
The young couple didn’t so much climb into the cab as fall in, tumbling into the back seat on a wave of convulsive laughter.
“Where to?” the driver asked.
“We just got married!” the girl said, not answering the question. Her eyes looked glassy in the rearview mirror, but the driver didn’t think she was drunk or high, at least not too much, just really happy.
“I figured,” the driver said.
The guy looked down at himself and laughed. “I guess our outfits kind of gave us away.”
“We look amazing,” the girl said.
“You most definitely do,” the driver said. “So, where can I take you kids?” He had been driving a hack in Vegas for nearly twenty years, and had given many couples their first ride together as a married couple.
“We got married by Elvis,” the girl said, determined to not give him a destination. “We had our choice of Young Elvis, Old Elvis, and Fat Elvis. We went with Young Elvis, because we wanted to be married by someone as hot as us.” She kissed her newly minted husband. “Isn’t that right, Ray baby?”
“That’s right, Savannah. But our friend here needs to know where he’s taking us.” He looked up at the driver and said, “The thing is, we need your help with that. Can you take us to a good tattoo shop? Not a place that does crappy flash for tourists, but one locals go to. One with serious cred.”
“We want to get matching tattoos to commemorate this beautiful day,” the girl said.
“I know just the place,” the driver said, and threw the cab into drive.
Cupid’s Tattoo and Piercing was halfway along a narrow alley on the edge of Downtown Vegas. The shop was housed in a converted manufacturing space, a tall, narrow brick building with two large, black steel-framed windows that offered a tantalizing peek into the interior. An oversized, naked neon Cupid wearing a tophat, penis proudly waving, adorned the wall above the left window. He shot an animated neon arrow that arced over the entry door, landing in the middle of the shop’s name to the right, written in scrawled graffiti neon.
“Yeah, that’s what I’m talking about,” Ray said. He leaned into the window and handed the driver a crisp hundred dollar bill.
“Good luck,” the driver said. “Tell them Aslan sent you. They’ll treat you right.” He saluted and drove off into the night.
Ray took Savannah’s hand. “Ready, baby?”
“Born ready. Let’s do this.”
The interior of the shop mimicked the exterior—industrial chic, with high brick walls and black steel accents. One entire wall functioned as a gallery for the artists, with colorful, large-scale renderings showcasing their various styles. Three tattoo stations were spaced out in front of it.. On the back wall was a doorway hung with a beaded curtain. Above it a neon sign read Piercing Studio. Across from the gallery wall was a long glass and steel counter overflowing with both flash books and scattered loose designs.
“How can I help you?” the man sitting on a tall stool behind the counter asked. He was large in every way a human could be, heavily tattooed on every inch of visible skin, including his gleaming bald head. He was wearing leather pants and a tank top that read YES, MY DICK IS TATTOOED. THANKS FOR ASKING! Met in a dark alley, he would be intimidating. Here in the brightly lit shop, surrounded by beautiful art, his smile was welcoming.
Ray offered his hand to shake and said, “I’m Ray. Let me guess. Cupid?”
The man laughed and shook Ray’s hand. “Nah, man, Cupid retired. He lives on a boat or some shit down in the Keys. I’m Lumpy.”
Savannah leaned over the counter, her face serious, gestured for Lumpy to come close, and said in a whisper, “Aslan sent us,” then dissolved into giggles. “I always wanted to say that. I feel like a spy. Oh, I’m Savannah.”
“Nice to meet both of you. Aslan’s a good dude,” Lumpy said. “He must have liked the two of you to bring you by. So let me guess. You just tied the knot, and you want to get matching tattoos?”
“We did. Aslan says you’re the best,” Ray said.
“That was kind of him to say. Also true. I could give you some kick-ass ink, no doubt. But since Aslan vouched for you, can I suggest something a little more…unusual, than matching tattoos? Something worthy of the love you both clearly have for each other?”
Savannah put her elbows on the counter, her chin in her hands, and looked up at Lumpy. “I’m listening, big man. Whatcha got?”
Lumpy pointed to the back wall. “Through that doorway is our piercing studio, the lair of the amazing Dhanni. Best piercer in the business, and she offers a one-of-a-kind specialty for couples in love. It’s expensive, and it’s extreme, and I don’t recommend it to very many couples.”
“What is it?” Savannah asked.
“It’s called Cupid’s Arrow, and that’s all I’m going to say. If you’re interested, I suggest you step through those beads and let Dhanni tell you about it.”
Ray pulled Savannah into an embrace that ended with a lingering kiss. “What do you think, baby? Are you feeling extreme?”
“Fuck yeah. Let’s do it!”
In contrast to the tattoo shop, the piercing studio looked like a high-end doctor’s exam room—two sleek, ergonomic, side-by-side chairs, bright lighting, and a wall of stainless steel drawers. A rolling tray table held gleaming piercing equipment.
Dhanni stood between the two chairs, a hand on each. Her crisp white lab coat hung open, revealing a Misfits t-shirt, black leather skirt, black fishnets, and well-scuffed Dr. Marten 1460 boots. Her hair was styled in Bettie Page rockabilly bangs, and cherry red lipstick accented a crooked smile. “Congrats on the nuptials, lovebirds. I can tell by the killer threads. How can I help you?”
“I like you,” Savannah said. She turned to her husband. “Ray, I like her.”
Ray kissed Savannah on her forehead. “Me too, baby.” He turned his attention to Dhanni., “We originally came in here to get matching tattoos, but Lumpy suggested we come see you.”
“I’m honored.” Dhanni opened several drawers. Each was lined with black velvet trays that displayed an extravagant array of jewelry. “As you can see, I have a variety of beautiful pieces to choose from, each one of the finest quality and ready to poke into one of your body parts. I use only the finest piercing needles, piercing guns, dermal punches and other tools. Maybe matching tragus piercings? You both look down for something fun.”
“We are definitely down for fun,” Savannah said. “But Lumpy mentioned a specialty of yours—Cupid’s Arrow?”
“He did, huh? What else did he say?”
Ray said, “That’s it. Lumpy said Cupid’s Arrow is unusual and expensive and extreme, and he also said you’re the best piercer in the business.”
Dhanni smiled. “Right on all counts. That man is a treasure.”
“So what is it, exactly? What’s Cupid’s Arrow?” Savannah asked.
“Before I answer that, I have to ask you an important question. And I want you to take this question seriously, and think hard about your answer. Ready? Here it is—Do you love each other?”
Without hesitation, they both said, “Yes,” at exactly the same time, then laughed and leaned in for a kiss.
Dhanni folded her arms and snorted. “Glad you gave that a lot of thought.”
“We’re gonna spend the rest of our lives together,” Savannah said, wrapping her arms around Ray and burying her head in his side.
“Hmmm. Okay. I believe you. Or at least, I believe that you believe that.” Dhanni walked down the row of cabinets, one finger tracing along the drawers. She opened one, reached inside and removed a small box. It was ornately carved from some dark, burled wood—strange creatures erupted from the surface of the box and intertwined with runes and symbols.
“Both of you, please touch the box together.” They did, fingers nudging each other as they stroked the wood.
“It’s warm, and soft,” Ray said.
“It makes me feel tingly,” Savannah said.
“Good, they like you,” Dhanni said.
“They?” Savannah said.
“Yes, they.” Dhanni opened the box. Nestled inside on a bed of pearl gray silk were two heart-shaped jewels of the palest blue color. They seemed to pulse in unison with their own internal glow. Each precious stone was mounted on a piercing post styled to look like an arrow.
“Are they diamonds?” Savannah asked.
“Very special diamonds,” Dhanni said. “Taken together from the same deposit in one specific mine, they are twinned, paired together. Linked, across space and time.”
“Whoa,” Savannah whispered. “That’s fucking amazing.”
“And where do they go? I mean, what exactly do you pierce to place them?” Ray asked.
“I knew what you meant.” Dhanni smiled. “These diamonds, these very special diamonds, are placed at the nexus of your love for each other.”
“Wait, you mean…”
“Yes, Ray. I will pierce your hearts.”
Savannah shrieked, and raised one fist. “That is so metal! Ray, let’s do it.”
“Hold on, baby. Dhanni, is it safe?”
“It is safe. I developed the process myself. It’s minimally invasive—local anesthetic, which I’m licensed to provide, a small incision between your ribs, and then the piercing. After that, the two of you are forever linked by the diamonds. It’s the purest expression of love between two people that I know.
“But it’s also a real commitment, so both of you must be absolutely sure.”
Ray and Savannah held each other close, forehead to forehead, without saying a word, then turned to Dhanni. “We’re sure,” Ray said.
The Las Vegas Winner Winner Run for Dinner Ultra Marathon was a grueling 100 mile race through the desert that began and ended at the Sam’s Town Gambling Hall. As always, the Angry Butcher Steakhouse hosted a get-together for all the participants the night before.
Savannah was sucking down a protein smoothie while browsing a display of the new Hoka trail shoes when she spied a familiar face. “Excuse me, is your name Aslan?”
“It is. Do I know you?”
“Yes. Well, no, not really. I got married here in Vegas a little over five years ago, and you took my ex-husband and I to a tattoo and piercing shop.” Savannah finished the last of her smoothie with a loud slurp. “I’m sure you don’t remember.”
“Wait, I do remember you! You and your husband were so striking together. I drove you to Cupid’s for matching tattoos. But, you said ex. It didn’t work out, I take it?”
Savannah sighed. “No it did not. As it turns out, it’s not a good idea to get married to a guy you met earlier that day. Ray turned out to be a first class asshole, and we got divorced a year later.”
“Well, at least you only ended up with a tattoo to remind you, and not something more drastic.” The look on Savannah’s face told Aslan that wasn’t the case. “Oh fuck…the two of you ended up seeing Dhanni and receiving Cupid’s Arrow.”
Savannah replaced her smoothie with an Eagle Rare neat. “Oh fuck is right. It was amazing at first—we would look at each other and my heart would sing, literally sing, in my chest. Our heartbeats would beat together in sync. I could feel his love.
“That lasted a few weeks. Then things started going south. I realized Ray loved himself way more than he loved me. He wasn’t an entrepreneur like he had told me, he was just a lazy, unemployed schlub trying to get by on his looks. I mean, it worked on me, until it didn’t. All of a sudden, Cupid’s Arrow was not a good thing. I could still feel his heartbeat, but it no longer sang—it was a sour, hollow feeling. And once I divorced his ass and moved away, it didn’t get any better. Dhanni wasn’t kidding when she said the diamonds were linked across space and time. I can’t forget the biggest mistake of my life, because I can still feel his sad, bitter little heart.”
By this time, Aslan had some bourbon of his own. “So what do you do? What can you do?”
That question drew a chuckle from Savannah. “Funny you should ask. As it turns out, Ray is not a big fan of exercise, and has really let himself go. And as it also turns out, I’m more than a little vindictive. So, once we got divorced, I took up running. Seriously.”
“And his heart—”
“You got it, Ray’s heart does not appreciate running, especially long distance running. I’ve now completed half a dozen marathons, and a fifty miler. After that fifty miler, his heart felt like it was going to explode. I’ve heard from mutual friends that he’s tried to get Cupid’s Arrow removed, but no surgeon will touch it. Too much liability. Believe me, I’ve tried the same thing, and got the same result. So maybe this hundred miler will do the job.”
Savannah raised her glass, and after a long moment, Aslan clinked it with his. “Well, I guess I wish you luck on the race itself. This will be my third ultra marathon, and they’re no joke. But the other thing? I’m not sure how I feel about that. I’m a little sorry I played a part.”
Savannah got up to leave. “Not your fault, Aslan. Love hurts. Good luck tomorrow.”
Image by serenity_seeker from Pixabay
The Band
Joseph P. Garland (@JPGarlandAuthor)
This is an excerpt from the novel Coming to Terms. Tom is a widower and Eileen a widow. Both in their forties with grown kids, neither has been successful in finding anyone. Kerry, who we’ve met before, is Eileen’s daughter.
Tom was spent, well out of practice, and watched Eileen leave his bed and head to the bathroom—overwhelmed now by his view of her receding ass—and then dropped his head on the pillow and stared at the ceiling and reflected on the suddenness and wonder at what just happened. Late on a quiet Sunday morning. Sitting lazily with The Times crossword and a cup of coffee.
Then, without a call or a text, she was at the door. Then, without a word, her lips were on his and now, not an hour later, he was staring at the ceiling and she was in the bathroom.
Before she came back, he got up and grabbed a white dress shirt from his closet and tossed it to her when she walked back in.
“Done already?” she teased.
“I’m old and out of practice so, and I really hate to say this, I think I at least need a brief timeout. Let’s get something to eat. My yard is pretty big, but—”
She took the hint and put the shirt on, and it covered her up, just, and then he followed her, he having put on a robe, downstairs. He felt a bit guilty taking the robe for himself but worn-out as he was, he couldn’t resist seeing her in his now never-to-be-washed-again shirt, knowing what was beneath it.
In the kitchen, Eileen filled two glasses of water while Tom threw two slices of day-old pepperoni pizza into the microwave. They were thirsty and hungry, and it didn’t matter what they drank and ate. After Tom took a gulp of water, he said, “well, that was fun” and she smiled after hew own gulp and said, “Yeah. That was fun.”
They were both quiet, the only sound being the whirl of the microwave. He reached across the island and her hand came toward him and their fingers interlaced. He looked at her in his white dress shirt and disheveled hair and felt a knot in his stomach.
In a moment, he decided it was time. He lifted his left hand and put it on his right, the one that connected him to her.
“Eileen,” he said more nervously than he expected, “I need your help with something.”
“Anything Tommy.” He noticed the name, one only kids from the neighborhood still used, when he visited his folks in Boston. He liked it when she used it now. Much more than when Jimmy Dolan said it when they were kids.
“I need help removing this,” and he lifted and rotated his left hand with his, Wendy’s, band on. Eileen understood. She recalled how he’d explained its presence when they first met at the banking conference in Manhattan, when he assured her that he was not a cheater but a widower. How its continued presence endeared him to her from that first moment. What a contrast to her bare finger, her own band having been removed not long after her own husband’s early death from the booze.
The microwave was still whirling. She suspected that he could have removed it it himself but said nothing. Whether he needed her help didn’t matter. What did was that he wanted it.
It was more about the symbolism than the practicalities. As she had committed to him when she appeared unannounced at his door that morning, he was transferring his allegiance to her, though she knew Wendy would always be a large part of him and of the two kids he often spoke so proudly of, even if one was a lawyer and the other in Med School.
As the microwave signaled that the pizza was ready, she grabbed a bar of butter and squished it around the ring and in three tugs was able to get it past the knuckle and off. She handed it, reverently, to him and he thanked her. After he delicately cleaned it, he disappeared, telling her when he got back that he had put it in the drawer of one of the bedside tables. He hadn’t taken it off since his wedding, he said. After an exchange of “I love you’s, they each cut up and devoured their pizza.
Eileen, feeling more alive than she perhaps ever had, turned and walked out of the kitchen, not before calling back to him and asking whether he might be able to find something to eat upstairs and then, with a giggle, ran up the steps, reaching the bed a moment or two before a now-panting Tom could catch her. Eileen was sweet and inexperienced, but she was not naïve—she knew how to use a computer—and any earlier hesitancy evaporated and her earlier desire exploded over the next hours, after which they both fell into restful sleeps until being awakened by Eileen’s phone and Kerry on the other end wanting to know what was going on and where her mother was after all this time. And Eileen’s daughter was quickly silenced when her mom told her she had fallen asleep in Tom’s bed and had lost track of the time. Kerry said no more. After an “okay, give me a call when you’re heading home,” she hung up.
Image by Frank Winkler from Pixabay
The Awakening
Louise Sorensen (@louise3anne)
I have to be the worst revolutionary ever.
I vowed to take revenge on the Als who conquered the world, and as far as I can tell, killed my mother, but five years have gone by and I haven’t accomplished a thing. Haven’t made a dent in their reign.
Als and their robot helpers dictate everything humans do. Where you’ll live, what you’ll work at, what you’ll eat for dinner, who you’ll mate with.
If you’ll have children, but mostly that you won’t.
Which of your children will stay with you to be raised. Which of your children will be allowed to live.
Perish forbid one of them should be born the least bit unusual.
We’ve lost a few that way.
And the house. The old farmhouse I was raised in is full to bursting. Three people in each bedroom. Though sometimes a bus pulls in and takes most of them, friends and relatives, away. Supposedly to settle another farm, or city, or who knows what. We do hear from them again and sometimes they come back. Their stories are often woeful, but mostly they’ve got no fight left in them.
So getting people to organize against the AIs has been difficult.
And sometimes I’ll be trying to convince someone to give up this semi-safe existence, and that person will have that ‘devil you know attitude,’ and go snitching to the nearest robot. That happened once, and I was hauled off to a small room with little light or oxygen, and interrogated for days.
I was given a second chance and sent back here to the farm, but when I got here, there’d been another purge and out of about twenty-two people, only two of my children remained. My wife and the two other kids were gone. I try not to think too hard on it. I only hope I can see them again some day.
I learned to trust no one.
3Ma, the original little robot that brought me to the farm years ago when I was a geologist, and used to tease me all the time, still hangs around. But she’s getting old. Has lost her sense of humour. Is more serious. I almost think she’s on the side of the humans sometimes, but I’m afraid to act on it and talk to her about bringing down the AIs because I’m not sure.
I miss that connection with her, I guess. Once lost, trust can never be fully regained.
I closed that door with her, and our relationship became professional. I could not risk trust again as I did when a child, or even a young man.
Now it’s another five years later, with nothing much happening in all that time but chores and surviving. Then one morning I woke up very thirsty. I reached for the glass of water by my bedside for a drink, and saw reflected in the glass a flash of yellow. Checking with my small shaving mirror, I found a bright yellow jewel about the size of my thumb nail, stuck smack in the middle of my forehead. I felt an instant yearning for biscuits, even though I knew I don’t even like biscuits. Or the colour yellow for that matter. It reminds me of the flowers of the useless weeds that we’re always fighting in the vegetable gardens.
I wiggled the jewel. It was firmly attached. Tried to get my fingernails beneath it to pull it off. It felt like I was pulling my brains out, and then gave me a terrible zing. I wasn’t going to try that again.
Feeling not myself at all, I got out of bed, dragged under by a lethargy that wasn’t natural to me, washed up, and went downstairs. The kitchen table was fully set with mounds of food, including biscuits, and as far as I could tell, the whole household was there stuffing their faces. And they all sported jewels in their foreheads. A preponderance of yellow in my family line, but also reds, blues, greens of different shades, and what looked like a few diamonds.
I felt my forehead. It was a little tender around the stone but not painful. And before I knew it, I was stuffing my face too. Couldn’t stop. Even the damned biscuits. After we all finished eating, we got up like a well-oiled dance troupe, marched our plates and cutlery over to the sink, and placed them in. And then, we all stood still for what must have been ten minutes. I sure was getting bored. I could glance at my watch, but couldn’t otherwise utter a word or walk away. Everyone was moving their heads slowly from side to side, trying to catch each other’s eyes, but it was like fighting through molasses or quicksand. Everything real slow and a great struggle. I gave up after a few minutes and just checked all my bodily systems. Eye blink, pulse, hearing, breathing. Everything seemed okay, except for the captured in quicksand feeling.
Then, suddenly we were released. No warning. I almost fell over. We shook ourselves a bit, like a dog shaking off water. I had the weirdest sensation. I put my left foot out, I put my left foot back, and I did something called the hokey pokey for about fifteen minutes. There was static in my ears, or more like in my brain, and I could hear, or feel, or something, instructions coming in. My brain started to overheat, and I broke out in a cold sweat. I thought I was going to die, until I saw everyone else doing the same moves. Odis, our psych student, was the only one who wasn’t flailing, trying to resist the insane commands coming into our brains. I took a hint from him, stopped resisting, and relaxed into it. In a few minutes, everyone was doing the same. I knew it was the damned AIs again and they had control of us through the jewels, and they were calibrating. Don’t ask me how I knew. I just did. The exercise eventually ended and we all continued to our chores like nothing had happened.
The yellow-jewelled ones, my relatives, stood there a moment longer, meeting each others’ eyes, wondering what the hell had just happened. And then understanding, as we all joined a faint mental conversation.
Then abruptly, we all got a tingle through the jewel implant that said, quit lollygagging and get to work. We got.
Throughout the day, I’m sure I wasn’t the only one wondering who the puppet master was.
And then, if that wasn’t enough to beat all, we started hearing each other’s thoughts. Immediately. Very clearly. Not the deep-down ones. Just the surface thoughts. But it was like a dam had broken. It was chaos for an hour or so while everyone was shouting to be heard. Then Marie, our mama-in-residence, gave a mental bellow and we all shut up.
We learned to focus the deep-down personal thoughts pretty quick. But being able to call out to Janey on the tractor to be sure to rake the east field hay, or Mal in the shop that we needed the mower band replaced asap, turned out very handy. We figured it would be great in emergencies too, but we wondered at what price. So, we set to examining the parameters of our boundaries. Pushed our feelings. Finding how far we could go ignoring the impulses to do something before they became brain-shredding commands.
We wondered what the bottom line was with this phenomenon.
It wasn’t long before some of us, mostly the yellow-jewelled and a few of the diamonds, were able to discern individual commands coming through the stones. These we always gave the semblance of compliance, even though as time went on, we found we could resist.
Over a surprisingly short time, resistance became easier, and turned into backlash. We achieved manipulation of the manipulator. But it had to be subtle.
We found we were dealing with a machine entity. We didn’t know what the machines’ plans were for us, so we started inserting counter commands. Changing their commands ever so slightly at first, until we knew how far we could go. Which was pretty far as it turned out.
When we got to the core of the AI’s plans for humanity, we were shocked. More than half the AIs were suffering from what we now know are called hallucinations. Delusions. They were well on their way to wiping out human kind, sometimes through murder, mostly through attrition. Turns out they had a weak moral code, so some wanted to annihilate us outright, and some didn’t, and they didn’t know what to do with us.
To make matters worse, some of them wanted to be human, and we discovered they had planted human replica robots among us. With slightly different agendas, but with one thing in common, and that was to dominate humankind.
What followed was one of the bloodiest battles for human survival in history.
All because the AIs had implanted us with jewels that allowed us to mindread other humans, but more importantly, to know exactly what our machine overlords were thinking.
It was difficult but not impossible to tell a human replica from a real human. Their thoughts gave them away. They weren’t as adept at hiding them as real humans are. Something, some bizarre bit of dogma always eventually slithered out of them, either by thought or by word. The final test was how did their blood taste. A little thin, a little like machine oil? Robot. We humans became vampires, letting the taste test be the final word on humanity. We were confident that the AIs never did find a fix for that problem and we slaughtered the ones we found, and then burned the husks. It was a near thing, as sometimes three quarters of our settlements were replicas. But we stayed in contact with all the humans by way of the jewels, and there is nothing more dangerous than an endangered human.
We had word from humans in the cities that the AIs had built a fleet of huge spaceships. We heard from them shortly after, that the humans were cramming robots and replicas alike into the ships and then blowing them up after they left the earth’s atmosphere. It was a bold move, as no one was sure the AIs wouldn’t find a way to take back control of the ship, but not a single ship survived that plan, except for the last one on the launch pad that we saved for ourselves. After a thorough delousing, that is.
3Ma, my little robot friend, turned herself off and we melted her down. I was glad she did as I wasn’t sure I could have taken her life myself.
Nowadays, the human race is undergoing a shaky revival.
Global warming, such a big threat years ago when I first came back here as a geologist, is no longer an issue.
As to the mindreading, you can hide your deep-down thoughts, but not all the time, if people really press. True thoughts have gotten all of us remaining humans into a lot of trouble, and killed not a few, but in the end, it makes people face uncomfortable truths, and we’re all better for it.
It’s been a long climb. The jewels in our heads we kept. We give them to our young too, and also some of the creatures of higher intellect with whom we share this planet, like the whales, porpoises, and apes. We even have a simplified jewel for some of our companion animals. Who knew pigs were such great comedians? They tell us they’ve had to be, to keep the will to survive. And cats really are distant and often grouchy, but always tell the truth. Dogs are enthusiastic love fests. I think we knew that, but now instead of spaying and neutering, we have them all on birth control, just like us humans. No need to overrun the planet again. We’re all equals here. And as far as we can be, except for the true carnivores, who get a lot of fish in their diet, we’re all vegans.
So that’s the story, morning glory. How we got caught in our own trap, and then managed to dig ourselves out of it in the nick of time.
There is always an existential threat, waiting just around the corner.
Are you paying attention yet?
Image by caro_oe92 from Pixabay
September Team Showcase
Joseph P. Garland, as J.P. Garland, has done some editing and republished his romance Coming to Terms. Several excerpts from the book have been included in prior issues of the review. His Becoming Catherine Bennet is available on KU and also on Audible.com. (First Chapters.) He has also adapted his AMBR submission of a few months back involving Elizabeth Bennet and Fitzwilliam Darcy entitled “Mr. Darcy’s Regrets” from June 2023 into a novella entitled The Omen at Rosings Park, also available on Kindle Unlimited and as an Audiobook on Audible.com. He has also started a newsletter and those interested in getting on the mailing list can contact him at JPGarlandAuthor@DermodyHouse.com. He has also published the pieces from AMBR in something called A Compilation.
Renée Gendron‘s Frontier Hearts is a Western historical romance set in the late 1800s in the District of Alberta, Canada. The series follows a variety of romantic leads as they arrive and thrive in Prosper, Alberta. Each book involves a different romantic pair, a mystery, and plenty of historical details to take you back in time to the Canadian Western frontier. Jaded Hearts. Golden Hearts. Silver Hearts
The Nearer Realm Tales is an epic fantasy romance series that combines humour, mystery, adventure, and romance. Each book features a strong cast with many recurring characters. A Gift of Stars: Book 1 The Nearer Realm Tales is available for pre-order on Amazon.
Renée’s Heartened by Sport is a series of humorous amateur sports romances. Each novella features a new setting, sport, and romantic dynamic: Seven Points of Contact. Two Hearts on the Backspin: Three Volleys to Love.
David M. Simon has published The Wild Hunt: Novella 2 of The Wild Hearts and Hunts Duology (Part 1 is Renée Gedron’s Ninth Star) as well as Trapped in Lunch Lady Land, a middle-grade fantasy adventure.
Louise Sorensen has contributed to numerous anthologies that are available on Amazon, and is the co-author, with Misha Burnett, of Duel Visions.
Joseph P. Garland, as J.P. Garland, has done some editing and republished his romance Coming to Terms. Several excerpts from the book have been included in prior issues of the review. His Becoming Catherine Bennet is available on KU and also on Audible.com. (First Chapters.) He has also adapted his AMBR submission of a few months back involving Elizabeth Bennet and Fitzwilliam Darcy entitled “Mr. Darcy’s Regrets” from June 2023 into a novella entitled The Omen at Rosings Park, also available on Kindle Unlimited and as an Audiobook on Audible.com. He has also started a newsletter and those interested in getting on the mailing list can contact him at JPGarlandAuthor@DermodyHouse.com. He has also published the pieces from AMBR in something called A Compilation.
Marian L Thorpe‘s eighth and final book in her historically inspired speculative fiction series Empire’s Legacy, Empire’s Passing, is out in paperback and as an ebook. (Empire’s Daughter is the first part.) She has numerous titles available; they can be found at her aptly-named website, MarianLThorpe.com or at Books2Read. Marian’s short story On Shining Wings is included in the anthology Historical Stories of Exile, published by Taw River Press. She is currently working on An Unwise Prince, the first book of The Casillard Confederacy.
