Tell a Tale

March / April 2013

W hen planning this year‘s

themes, I decided to do

something different for this

issue of Femnista. I knew my writers

were good at writing wonderful articles

but I had to find out: how good are they

at writing fiction?

Naturally, some of them were hesitant

to tackle it, since not everyone who

loves a good story can write one! But by

the time this issue was complete, most

had loved the experience and begged

me to make it a regular feature. (We‘ll

see!) Those who faced their fears and

were brave enough to share their fiction

(in some cases, this is the first one ever

written or shared!) are featured here,

and each is terrific! Some chose more

serious material, others went for quirk

and style. You may laugh, you may cry,

but each will make you smile.

In these pages, you‘ll find what the fan-

fiction community call ―one-shots,‖ or

single-scene short stories sparked by a

moment in a book, film, or television

show. Writing a one-shot is simple: it

just takes the desire for more and a

willingness to write. It‘s my hope that

this issue will inspire future fiction

writers to never let what is on screen (or

on the published page) be enough. With

amazing stories and characters, there‘s

always room for more. So read, be

inspired, and next time maybe you‘ll be

brave enough to submit a story of your

own!

Charity Bishop

3 Les Misérables 4 Major Crimes 6 Lord of the Rings 8 Pirates of the Caribbean 10 Place in the Sun 12 King Arthur 14 Doctor Who / Hogfather 16 Revenge 18 The Merlin Books

Happy Birthday, Elizabeth! (April 25)

Read interviews with our authors on Charity’s Blog.

www.charitysplace.com

Follow us on Twitter & Tumblr

20 Star Wars 22 I Capture the Castle 24 Hart of Dixie 26 Captain America 28 Jane Eyre 30 The Bible 32 Robin Hood 35 A Person of Interest

Les Misérables

3

Charity Bishop

I should have felt cold. Maybe I even was—but I didn‘t

know it. The only thing I felt was a strong pair of arms around me. Marius held me close, pressing me to his chest. His lips touched the top of my head.

Was this heaven?

Marius never noticed me —at least, not in that way. He considered me a friend—just a friend, just poor Eponine.

He came from wealth. I came from as good as

the gutter—a lowly inn until my father lost it.

Marius went to school, had ambition and a future. I helped my parents cheat wealthy men out of their coins. My only ambition was to live another day—to eat.

To have Marius hold me.

Blood seeped through our fingers—his hand and mine. I hadn‘t thought, just reacted to save him. He‘d not even

I was worn and street-tough; she was pretty and sweet.

But she wasn‘t here.

Marius, however, sat at my side. He held onto me and I‘m not sure but that he cried a little into the rain.

I cried too, out of happiness. My life for his —yes, this she could not give him.

It was mine alone. ♥

known it was me until later, until now.

It seemed a fair price, a life for another, a gutter rat for a gentleman‘s grandson.

Even if it meant he‘d spend his life with her.

Cossette was nothing like me,

my opposite. I had dark, mangled hair; hers was the color of sunlight in the spring. My hands were rough and tired; hers were clean and soft.

R esisting the temptation to close her eyes,

Sharon dug her nails subtly into the crisp upholstery of her nearly new Hyundai Genesis instead. Rusty made a right turn, the front tire bouncing off the edge of the curb and jostling her already gritted teeth.

―Oops.‖ Rusty shot a sideways glance at her before easing carefully into the flow of traffic. The light ahead turned yellow and then a blaring red. He slowed the car to a halt, a few scant inches from the vehicle in front.

Sharon‘s pulse pounded in her temples, but she still managed a calm, ―Very good, Rusty.‖ Praying that perspiration hadn‘t popped out on her forehead, Sharon ran through the scenarios she‘d used with her own kids while teaching them to drive. Rusty‘s attention to detail while driving was excellent, but distractions still assaulted him on all sides of the vehicle.

With summer break in full swing, Sharon gestured for him to turn into the high school parking lot that loomed

―Rusty, pull over, now.‖

The car lurched to a halt in-between two parking spaces, and Sharon leaned forward to collect the paraphernalia sprinkled liberally across her expensive pumps.

Brow wrinkling in that familiar whipped puppy-dog expression, Rusty sat silently in the seat next to her, worrying his lower lip with his teeth, arms tensely crossed across his chest. ―You know, Sharon, I actually am a responsible driver. My school instructor can tell you that. It‘s just that

up on their right. The tightness in her chest eased the moment they turned but renewed full force when Rusty hit the speed bumps. Her knees flew upwards, hitting the underside of the glove compartment. Just as she reached down to stabilize herself, Rusty hit another speed bump. Her fingers accidentally locked into the handle for the compartment and insurance papers, half-folded napkins, plastic spoons still shrink-wrapped, a shiny registered gun, and several CDs cascaded to

her feet.

Carissa Horton

Major Crimes

4

you make me nervous. It‘s like driving in the car with my mother!‖

―Yes, well, Rusty, that wouldn‘t be far wrong, now would it?‖

The glove compartment clicked safely closed and she leaned back into her seat, removing her glasses and pressing her fingers into the bridge of her nose, distancing them from any other handles she might suddenly decide to open in a compulsive play for freedom.

A small noise at her side drew her attention and she caught Rusty staring at her, head tilted in curiosity. ―I don‘t think I‘ve ever seen you without your glasses.‖

She raised an eyebrow.

Hands tapping idly on the steering wheel, he declared, ―You‘ve got wrinkles around your eyes. More than I thought. No wonder you wear glasses.‖

Any good feelings towards Rusty quickly vanishing, Sharon‘s testy side won out. ―Young

man, do you want this lesson to stop right now?‖

Rusty‘s laughter echoed in the confined space. He reached across the narrow gap between them and tapped her lightly between the eyes. ―I like people with laugh lines because it means they‘re good-natured.‖ He gestured between his eyes and across his forehead. ―My mother has lines here, and they deepen every year. I can guarantee they‘re not laugh lines.‖

―So my wrinkles don‘t offend you?‖ Sharon noted the way he gripped the steering wheel harder now, as if it were his life line.

―No. I… I‘m sorry. I don‘t know why I end up saying such nasty things to you sometimes. Defense mechanism, I guess. Forgive me?‖

When handling Rusty it was always best to keep a modicum of control because he had proven himself capable time and again of manipulation. Still, with him reminding her so much of her own

children after they‘d witnessed a fight between her and her husband, well, it was nearly impossible to stay irritated with Rusty.

Replacing the glasses, she tugged on the seatbelt, making sure it was securely fashioned across her lap. ―I think for a little while we might try driving in an empty parking lot where the only things you might possibly hit are inanimate objects.‖

She sensed his grin, but didn‘t face him as he started the engine, put the car in reverse, and pulled back out into the main lane in front of the school. They circled safely around the lot, him adjusting to the sensitive nature of the gas pedal on her vehicle, and Sharon trying to remember the Lamaze classes she‘d taken when pregnant.

After half an hour, Rusty faced her with a twinkle in his eye. ―See, no problem!‖

His attention distracted, Sharon grappled for the

steering wheel, but too late.

―Rusty!‖

The car eagerly plowed up and over the curb, its front wheels digging deep ruts into the xeriscape mulch. In a moment of panic, Rusty hit the gas instead of the brake and the car plowed on up the embankment, narrowly missing a Canary Island Pine tree. The branches scratched across the paint of the Genesis, Sharon‘s mouth open with no sound coming out, and a pine cone flew right through Rusty‘s open window, ricocheting off his head, and landing between them on the console.

Once the car landed on the other side of the embankment, Rusty braked to a halt and sheepishly faced her. ―Do you want to drive home?‖ ♥

5

O môr henion i dhû.

Ely siriar, êl síla.

Ai! Aníron

Undómiel!

It was the eve of a historic

day. The coronation of

Isildur‘s long-awaited heir

would unite the war-

ravaged people of Middle Earth—a land thought to

be forever divided, forever

lost. Aragorn, son of

Arathorn, King Elessar of

the House of Telecontar,

had finally come home. In

blazing glory, he‘d united

his kingdom and guided

her to triumph in the War

of the Ring. The Dark

Lord Sauron was defeated

and the Ring destroyed.

Mordor, not Gondor, lay

in ruins. Evil and tyranny,

so long prevalent, could

once more become but a

stranger, for good had

prevailed.

Above the city of Minas

Tirith, millions of stars

shone like glittering

jewels, joining a luminous

moon in applauding Middle Earth—and her

king—its victory. Minas

Tirith seemed to drink in

the peace of the placid

night, only occasionally

interrupted by the

rustling of the newly

flowering tree outside its

throne room. Until…

A moving shadow crept

across the courtyard

housing the White Tree of

Gondor, creeping toward

of the space and then the

other, taking in the stone

statues of the kings of old

lining the walls. Finally,

one more king of Middle

Earth was to be welcomed

into their midst.

Suddenly, a change

overcame him. His gaze

faltered; his head, so

proudly held a moment

ago, now drooped. The

noble, broad shoulders

slumped. Ever so slowly,

his right hand crept up his

strong chest and rested on something—a glittering

pendant encircling his

neck. Reverently, he

reached up and unlatched

the delicate clasp. His

gaze focused intensely on

it, twinkling in the rays of

the magnificent doors

hiding the royal throne

room from view. A man

became apparent as he

opened the doors quietly

and slipped inside, slowly

walking, aided only by the

light of the moon, into the

darkened space. His

stride was noble, his head

held high. There was no

manner of deceit in him.

No misplaced pride. He

belonged here somehow,

despite the furtive

approach.

As he paused in the center

his chest rising and falling

in a deep, gentle breath,

he gazed at the throne.

Tomorrow, a king would

occupy that seat. His eyes

boldly traveled to one side

Jeanna Marie

6

Lord of the Rings

the moon, shining with an

effervescent glow. The

room and even the throne

itself seemed to dim as it

recognized the presence

of the glorious object, or,

rather, the someone it

recalled.

―Arwen…‖ The name,

uttered so softly, so

reverently, still echoed

loudly throughout the

great, lonely hall.

The man haltingly

stumbled to the steps that

led to the throne. There,

his knees gave way, and

he fell upon the stone

steps, the pendant still

cradled in his hand. A tear

slid down his bearded

cheek, closely followed by

a steady flow of salty

companions.

Upon the steps that led to

the throne he would take

tomorrow, Aragorn, son

of Arathorn, the King

Elessar, wept, with his

whole body shaking. He

cried for the elf maiden he

had so long loved and could not have—for the

beautiful Evenstar of her

people had traveled to

Valinor to live her

immortal life. And he had

no way to follow.

His shoulders shook more

vehemently as a cry of

excruciating pain escaped

his lips. For though he

had gained a kingdom, he

had lost his own heart and

soul.

Tiro! Êl eria e môr. I 'lîr

en êl luitha 'úren. Ai!

Aníron…

A distance from Minas

Tirith, deep in a crowded

woods, the peaceful quiet

still reigned. Had it been a

week earlier no one would

have dared sleep without

a guard in such a silent,

dark forest, but no more.

The quiet was no longer

menacing; it was

welcoming. In a particular

clearing in the lush, green

forest, an encampment of elves slept—their tents

neatly pitched, embers of

their fires glowing. Only

the sound of the soft

breathing of the immortal

creatures broke the calm

of the night. Almost.

All but one elf maiden was

sleeping. Quietly, so as

not to disturb the others,

she rose from her

makeshift bed and

emerged from her tent.

Lightly stepping across

the ground in her bare

feet, she moved

effortlessly away. A deer

nearby watched her drift

across the ground, its

nervous heart soon

relaxing as the animal

realized there was nothing

to fear from her.

The maiden stopped a fair

distance from the camp,

in a place where the forest

was not so dense and she

could look up and see the

vivid night sky. A cloud

passed briefly over the

white moon, shrouding

the elf in darkness and

only succeeding in

making her all the more

beautiful when it passed

and moonlight revealed

her upturned head. The

sparkling light reflected

the kindness in her eyes,

the exquisite gentleness in

her movements. The deer

moved closer, seeming to

sense something different

about the divine maiden.

She must have sensed the

deer‘s interest, for she

turned and smiled on it.

―Mae Govannen!‖ she

whispered in the Elvish

tongue.

The deer shot away from

the clearing in a speed

that rivaled lightening,

leaving the elf to softly

chuckle. ―Beyest lin!‖ she

called after it. Her

gleaming blue eyes shone

as she turned and fixed

her gaze on a gathering of

flowers newly rooting in

the ground. Excitement

shimmered through her,

and a smile spread across

her lips as she gracefully

knelt beside the new life.

―Wise little plant, you

know it, too!‖ she

whispered. ―Aragorn is to

be crowned king

tomorrow. And I….‖

Her sweet smile faded,

her apparent joy dimming

as her fingers lifted to her

neck in uncharacteristic

speed, traveling the

length of her chest and

tracing where her

beautiful pendant, her

namesake, usually lay. A

single tear for the man

she loved slid from the

corner of one eye and

down her quickly paling

cheek. ―Estelio…‖ she

whispered, her eyes

sliding shut. ―Estelio…‖

The curious deer now

returned, moving from its

protective covering out

into the open clearing

once more, prompted by

the now grieving maiden

to apologize for its fearful

exit only a moment ago.

There was no way for the

poor animal to know the

one needing the proffered

comfort was not she.

The sadness passing from

her in but a moment, the

elf‘s eyes flew open. With

a strength unknown to

even the bravest man

making the night air

electric, she rose from her

knees and looked up once

more at the bright moon,

her eyes clearing of tears.

A soft smile again graced

her lips. ―Trust in us,

Estel,‖ she whispered.

―I‘m on my way.‖ ♥

English translation of

―Aniron‖:

1st line: ―From darkness I

understand the night: dreams

flow, a star shines. Ah! I desire

Arwen Evenstar.‖

2nd line: ―Look! A star rises out

of the darkness. The song of

the star enchants my heart!

Ah! I desire…‖

7

T he last thing he saw before the world went dark

was the gaping mouth of the monstrous beast. Next thing he knew, he blinked in the brightness of an overbearing sun. Cold damp was replaced by a sudden rush of heat, heat that went unabated by even a breath of wind. Captain Jack Sparrow lay on the floorboards of his ship, inert and bemused. Slowly he rose to his feet, steadying his wobbly sea legs and adjusting to the sudden motionlessness of the Black Pearl’s deck. But

then, Jack Sparrow was usually unsteady on his feet with the constant stream of rum that ran thicker than blood through his veins.

There’ll be nary a drop of rum to be found in these doldrums, was his first thought as he surveyed the bleak landscape surrounding him. Endless sand dunes stretched to the horizon in every direction without even a rock to add texture to the dry plains. Jack began to fully comprehend his situation.

change to have a listening pair of ears. Now Jack didn‘t even have that indulgence.

The lack of rum was the worst part, however. With rum, the situation might have become vaguely tolerable, but without it Davy Jones‘ locker presented an indisputably dismal prospect.

Jack paced the deck of the Pearl, wearing out the soles of his boots and the faded wooden planks simultaneously. His head felt unusually

―Davy Jones‘ locker. What a miserable, pestilent place in which to find oneself,‖ he muttered under his breath. He was utterly alone, without even that infuriating scoundrel of a cursed monkey for company. The Black Pearl was Jack‘s trusty sailing companion and had been for more than a decade but wasn‘t much for conversation. He could talk to her, but she wouldn‘t talk back. True, Jack was known to talk to himself more than to others, but every now and then it was a nice

Hannah Price

8

Pirates of the Caribbean

sound and his thoughts were lucid. Evidently, all traces of rum had worn off; either that or one of the many curses of Davy Jones‘ locker was the ability to clearly understand the hopelessness of the situation.

And Jack understood his situation very well. He was stranded in his own personal brand of hell, separated from the open waters of the sea and condemned to spend the rest of his days (or forever, he wasn‘t really sure) in an accursed sand wasteland. He wasn‘t sure how long he could hold up against the sun before his mind shriveled up like a raisin and succumbed to madness.

Minutes, hours, days, months, years… the time blurred together into one long heat wave. No wind, no water, no relief from the baking sun even in the shade. An ordinary man would have succumbed long ago to the elements, but Captain Jack Sparrow was no ordinary man.

―I‘ve escaped from worse than this before. I‘ve seen sights unseen, accomplished the

unfathomable, and I‘ve even traveled the path to immortality and returned! I am Captain Jack Sparrow and I refuse to give into this madness!‖ he cried as he grasped his ship‘s wheel.

―Indeed you will not. If you did then this entire ship will go to pot!‖ a voice answered.

Jack shot up straight as an arrow and jerkily turned to look beside him. He blinked but that didn‘t help; he still saw double when he opened his eyes. Not an exact double to be sure, this Jack didn‘t have a hat, coat or even a shirt, but otherwise it was like looking into a mirror.

―What did you say? Has my ship not gone to pot? Because it looks that way to my eyes, matey!‖ Jack growled to his double. ―And why are you here when you should be elsewhere? I have frequently reminded myself I am alone and you aren‘t helping the matter. If you looked like my dearly departed mumsy offering rum than perhaps your presence here would be a comfort in my isolation, but I do not need a reminder that I am the

only presence in this God-forsaken place. Away with you, irksome delirium!‖

―How about two reminders Jack?‖ another strangely familiar voice said from behind the Captain.

―What? Another one of you?‖ Jack couldn‘t believe his eyes. It occurred to him that his mind must have finally yielded to the pressure. ―What good will this do me? I cannot seem to be rid of you confounded delusions! If a crew is what I need, then a crew is what I shall have. Perhaps then we can salvage this situation. To the masts with the both of you and be quick about it. They be in serious need of trimming!‖

Jack was soon seeing triple, quintuple and even duo decuple. More than a dozen Jacks ran about the deck, performing duties that were rendered totally meaningless by the lack of ocean. Each hallucinatory Jack possessed an aspect of himself, but none truly encompassed his character. He was the genuine Captain Jack

Sparrow and he would command his mirages as he had commanded his crew from Tortuga. Davy Jones‘ locker would not get the better of him, at least not yet.

How long did this continue? Jack didn‘t know. Managing himself was as difficult as managing his real crew. His doubles grumbled, complained, talked back and did shoddy work too. The final straw occurred when he saw one of his hallucinations sitting down to a meager dinner, tucking in his napkin and gathering up his fork. The arrogance of the man to eat when he, the Captain had not! Jack had only one shot, but what did that matter in Davy Jones‘ locker? A second later the gun was smoking in his hand and one offensive hallucination was no more.

Jack leaned over the table, took his rightful small morsel and said first to his corpse, then to the rest of his apparitions, ―My peanut. Haul the halyard. Slacken braces!‖ ♥

9 9

A fter a long, hot

summer, the early

September night air felt chilly—downright

cold even—to the man

paddling a shabby canoe

on the far side of Loon

Lake. A shiver racked his

body. It wasn‘t just the

setting sun‘s lack of

warmth that brought it

on, though. No, it was

much more than that… it

was the venomous, cold-

blooded thoughts

coursing through his

mind.

Like the proverbial ―life

flashing before the eyes‖

final thoughts of a dying

man, the pictures flashing

through George

Eastman‘s mind came fast

and furious…

instantaneously almost…

one thought right on top

of another. Barely three

minutes had passed, but

an entire summer‘s worth

of life was re-lived in his

mind, bringing him to his

reason for being on a

remote lake just as the

sun was setting.

Angela‘s exquisite beauty

had captivated him from

the moment he saw her.

Never had he seen such a

stunning creature; truly,

she took his breath away.

She hadn‘t noticed him or

given him the time of day,

given such a gift, he didn‘t

know. All he could do was

thank his lucky stars for

it. With Angela by his side

and in his arms, life for

George promised to be

pure bliss.

George‘s delirious joy—

and the vivid image of

Angela‘s stunning

beauty—was eclipsed by

another face, one he did

not love and, in fact, had

come to hate. He had

never loved Alice, not for

a minute. She had been

nothing more than a

kindhearted person with

whom he could spend

time. God knew how

lonely he was, how

at first. God must have

been looking with favor

upon him, though,

because the next time he saw her—at the party at

his uncle‘s house—she‘d

not only noticed him, but

talked and danced with

him for hours. By the time

the evening ended,

George knew there could

never be any other woman for him—he was

completely, totally, and

forever in love with Miss

Angela Vickers. They saw

each other again and to

the utter shock of a poor

boy such as he, Angela, in

all her beauty and wealth,

loved him in return. What

he had ever done to be

Patti Gardner

10

A Place in the Sun

This is based on the classic film A Place in the Sun. While some people see George as no good, I view him in a more sympathetic light, and have written my story as I see him.

starved for friendship and

someone to talk to.

Moving to California to

take a job at his uncle‘s

factory, George had fully

expected to be welcomed

into the family fold and be

part of their social circle.

Alas, nothing could have

been further from what he

got. While his uncle gave

him a job at the factory,

feeling obligated to, no

doubt, friendship with the

family was not part of the

deal. They looked at him

as the poor relation, and

George knew it. He wasn‘t

good enough to be in their

social circle so they

ignored and looked right

through him as if he

wasn‘t there. But George

was there, and he was

desperately lonely. How

he longed for a friend, and

Alice offered it to him.

He‘d never loved Alice;

liked her, yes, but never

love. He‘d also never lied

and told her that he did.

So how it was that they

ended up in bed together,

he was never sure. Just

loneliness, he guessed;

loneliness that engulfed

both of them. Things had

just gone too far and he‘d

spent the night with her.

How he wished he could

turn the clock back and

relive his choice; he would

have walked away from

Alice before indulging in,

as his mother would have

said, the sins of the flesh.

It was that one mistake,

that one ―should never

have done it‖ moment,

that was now coming back

to haunt him, and

threatening to rob him of

Angela and the happiness

he knew with only her.

A new image moved into

George‘s mind: a baby‘s

crib. He couldn‘t believe

his one night of passion

resulted in pregnancy.

Now she was insisting he

marry her, something he

didn‘t want to, and could

not, do. To marry Alice

would be to lose Angela

forever, and he‘d just as

soon die as be without

her. Angela was his

reason for living, his sun,

moon, and stars all rolled

into one. To be separated

from her would be more

torturous than anything

he had ever known. If

only there was no baby…

if there was no Alice…

There was a way to

remove Alice from the

situation, and it entered

George‘s mind. He knew

she couldn‘t swim, and it

was for that reason that

he had come up with the

plan to take her out in a

canoe. It was easy: all he

had to do was capsize and

Alice would drown. He‘d

swim to safety… back to

Angela. Alice would die

on the far side of Loon

Lake and no one would

ever be the wiser; no one

would know it wasn‘t an

accident; no one would

know that George, in fact,

had murdered her.

With the word ―murder,‖

the image of his devoutly

religious mother came to

his mind. She and his late

father had devoted their

entire lives to the call of

God, and had instilled a

knowledge of God‘s Word

into their son. The sixth

commandment, ―Thou

shalt not murder,‖ filled

his mind. It was a sin to

kill someone. George

knew that. But, he argued,

no one would ever know it

was murder; they‘d think

it was an accident and

he‘d be in the clear. On

the heels of that thought

came Jeremiah 16:17: ―I

am watching them closely

and I see every sin. They

cannot hope to hide from

me.‖ Someone would

know what he had done.

While he might be able to

hide the truth from

everyone else, and maybe

even be able to deceive

himself, he could not pull

the wool over God‘s eyes.

Even now, God could see

the evil in his heart. God

would know the truth. No

matter where he went or

what he did, he‘d never be

able to hide from God.

Brokenhearted because he

knew Angela was lost to

him forever, George

realized he couldn‘t go

through with his plan and

murder Alice. It was one

thing to hide his actions

from everyone else, but it

was entirely another to

hide from God. To stay in the sun—that beautiful,

warm, radiant, place he knew with Angela—would

require him to try to hide

from God for the rest of

his days, and he knew that

such an endeavor was

futile. He‘d have to leave

the sun in order to be able

to live with himself.

The image of Angela‘s

beautiful, beloved face

moved once more into his

mind. Goodbye, my

darling. I’ll always love

you were his thoughts

before Alice stood up in

the far side of the old

canoe, causing it to tip

precariously to one side

and capsize completely,

sending them both into

the dark, cold water of the

mountain lake. By the

time George resurfaced,

Alice was nowhere to be

seen… ♥

11 11

I t was unnatural, Lancelot had decided long ago, to

be tied to a land not one‘s own, to be forced to serve any master but oneself. For fifteen years, he‘d chafed in service to the Romans, fighting their wars alongside his compatriots, rendering unto Caesar the service their fathers had promised him generations ago. In those years, he‘d seen countless good men die violent, painful deaths —to what end? Despite the flattery the Romans used when speaking of the Sarmatians‘ service, they

all knew the truth: Britain was a failed experiment. His Sarmatian brothers who died in conflict died in vain, for Rome was withdrawing. With the ever-present threat of the native Britons now compounded by the threat of the Saxons invading from the north, Rome had admitted defeat and turned tail in order to protect its more valued territories, not wanting to waste more time, energy, or men on a sure disaster.

Today, he and his fellow Sarmatian cavalrymen

those who had died before they could taste it. He‘d also anticipated a good deal of drinking and wanton behavior involved. In reality, his freedom did nothing to abate the heaviness in his heart.

Instead of feeling liberated, Lancelot felt akin to the thick black smoke rolling against the green British plains in anticipation of the Saxon attack. Villagers fled on foot and in wagons; the Sarmatian knights accompanied the procession on horseback insofar as it took them

had the papers guaranteeing their freedom and safe conduct across the Roman Empire in hand. Lancelot felt the weight of the scroll pressed against his side, where he had tucked it between his hauberk and his shirt. Freedom felt different than he‘d expected when he‘d fixed his mind on the subject during dark, rainy British nights with only the smell of dank wood smoke to accompany his thoughts. In his mind, freedom had been liberating, a delicacy he could relish in honor of

Laura F.

12

King Arthur

toward Gaul and the rest of the Roman Empire. Arthur, however, stayed to fight the Saxons. Arthur and Guinevere rallied the Britons and planned to defend this land against its invaders. Thinking of it now, Lancelot laughed aloud at the irony that, here at the end of things, one who‘d been a member of the Roman invaders chose to stay and fight to protect the Britons against a new invasion.

At the sound of Lancelot‘s gruff laugh breaking through the thick air, Gawain glanced at him curiously from where he rode nearby. Lancelot shook his head. Gawain shrugged, turning his gaze forward once again.

When he was honest with himself, Lancelot fully acknowledged the fact that Arthur had been as much a slave as he, forced to serve at the mercy of the Empire‘s whims. But Arthur was half Roman and, for no reason Lancelot could ever understand, truly believed in the Roman cause. In Arthur‘s eyes, the Roman armies were

missionaries as much as militants, spreading Christianity to the heathens of foreign lands. But Lancelot had never believed that any more than he believed in Arthur‘s God. The Romans were not missionaries; they were plunderers who took what they could and left decimated native cultures in their wake, channeling all wealth and knowledge back to Rome.

Now Arthur, too, was free of Roman bonds. He had rejected them for service to a higher cause—God, perhaps, or the right of all men to live free in the land of their nativity, or the hope of uniting the Britons under his kingship. Arthur would make a good king, the knight mused as the sound of two of Bors‘ children shouting imposed on his thoughts. Arthur‘s unshakable beliefs and compassion made him a beloved leader and friend to the men he led. And people without a leader were doomed—if the Britons did not unite against the Saxons, they would

surely face defeat. Merlin was revered, but he was not a military strategist. Against the Saxon hordes, his men would die. With Arthur, they had a chance of survival, of victory. A slim one, granted, but a chance nonetheless. A greater chance, Lancelot thought grimly, than any of his Sarmatian brethren had of finding their families or reestablishing the home lives to which they had told themselves all these years they wished to return. They were not family men now; they were warriors. He didn‘t think they could ever erase that from their blood. Perhaps some of them could, he conceded —Galahad, especially, had struggled to maintain a sense of normalcy amidst the bloodshed. But him? No, he had no pretensions of truly returning home. Even if he could find his tribe, he had been young when he left; surely much had changed and the reality of his family—if any still survived—was no better than the memories nursed in his mind to survive long days and nights after

battle and slaughter.

I will die in battle. Of that, I am certain. But hopefully a battle of my choosing.

When Arthur appeared through the smoke on the crest of that distant hill, Lancelot‘s own words from their fight came back to him, unbidden. Arthur had chosen his battle. It was time now for the rest of them to choose theirs. Freedom lay both before and behind them now, differing only in quality and kind. And so it was that, at Arthur‘s silent call, Lancelot turned back his horse along with his compatriots, because if he had no greater cause of his own, no family, no religion, no hope beyond the rush of battle and the clash of swords, then at least he could die in the service of a friend. ♥

13 13

S he heard was a

peculiar sort of

―wump-wump!‖

―Susan!‖ A face peeked

around the edge of the

door. ―There‘s a monster

in the basement again!‖

Thump!

Her book snapped shut,

and high heeled boots hit

the floor. ―Go back to

bed!‖ Susan shooed the

children into their room

and shut the door behind

them. She took a poker

from the hearth and went

downstairs. She stopped.

Her brow furrowed. She

lowered the poker.

It wasn‘t a bogeyman, a

dancing skeleton, or even

the Death of Rats. It was a

strange, large Blue Box,

omitting clouds of smoke.

Her head tilted.

The door flew open. A

curious sort of man with

wild brown hair tumbled

out. ―Right, so, leave that

lever alone in the future!

It causes spontaneous

combustion! Good to

know!‖ Soot billowed off

his brown suit. Dusting

himself off, he caught

sight of her. ―Oh, hello!

Who are you?‖

―Who are you?‖

jerked back in surprise.

―Oh, that‘s really clever!

Does it do that naturally

or just when you‘re cross?

You see, right now your

face is… are you human or

something else? And

where might Ankh-

Morpork be?‖

Her eyes narrowed. She

crossed her arms, still

holding the poker.

―Discworld.‖

―Ah, Discworld! I‘ve never

heard of it. There really is

something odd about

you.‖ He whipped a small

instrument out of his

pocket and aimed it at

her. It whirred. He

He grinned. ―The Doctor!

And this is the TARDIS.‖

He put his hand on it and

jerked it quickly away.

―Ouch! Hot! We were just

in the nebula galaxy and

had a bit of a… uh…

mishap. Stars exploding,

planets hurtling into a

black hole, that sort of

thing. No reason to panic,

so long as I get back there

in…‖ he checked his

watch, ―nine minutes.

Where am I?‖

―Ank-Morpork,‖ she said

suspiciously.

He neared, curious of her

hair. As he watched, it

rearranged itself. He

Charity Bishop

14

Doctor Who / Hogfather

smacked it. ―Must have

gotten fried when the

console exploded. Never

mind, I can fix that. So,

not all human then.‖ He

put scrawny hands on

bony hips and looked her

up and down. ―What are

you? Who are you?‖

―I‘m Susan,‖ she said.

He grinned. ―Posh, that‘s

just a name! Names can

mean any old thing, like

‗The Doctor.‘ There‘s

more to you than just

your name, isn‘t there? So

what is it?‖

Irked, her hair curled

tightly around her face.

She couldn‘t help it. Her

Voice came out.

WHY?

He jumped. ―Oh, that‘s

new! Never ran into that

before. New town, new

planet, new galaxy, new

whatever-you-are. Do it

again!‖

She ignored him. ―Where

did you come from?‖

The Doctor sprang up the

stairs. ―Here and there,

now and again, back and

forth, but originally

Gallifrey. I suppose you‘ve

never heard of it.‖

―No, I haven‘t!‖ She ran

after him, poker in hand.

Dodging through the hall

and snatching a top hat

off the banister, he burst

outside. Snowflakes

drifted from the roof. In

the window upstairs, two

eager faces peered out at

them. ―So, what have you

got here, then? What sorts

of things? Aliens? Cats?

Humans? Trolls? I love a

good Troll! Haven‘t seen a

Troll in ages!‖

―And dwarves, wizards,

the occasional tourist,‖

said Susan. ―Didn‘t you

say you had to go in nine

minutes?‖

―Five, but I can make it in

three.‖ He put on the hat.

―I like top hats. Top hats

are cool.‖ Sticking his face

in hers, he said, ―My sonic

screwdriver recognizes

every species in the

galaxy… except yours.

Why is that?‖

Her brow twitched. ―It

hasn‘t met Death.‖

―Death,‖ he repeated

dully. ―Oh, it knows about

death…‖

―No, not about death,‖

said Susan. ―Death as in

the actual Death, a

supernatural being.‖

―… ah,‖ he said. ―And this

world… has one?‖

―Yes.‖

He looked at her as if she

were a present under the

tree on Hogswatch. ―And

you’re—?‖

―I‘m his granddaughter. I

can walk through walls,

and make things happen,

go places no one else can

and see all the nasty

things that hide under

beds that no one wants to

talk about. I‘m the person

nightmares fear.

Everything that goes

bump in the night has me

to worry about.‖

The Doctor‘s eyes

glittered. ―Ah! Yes, I can

relate. Tell me about him,

then. Tall, black hood,

scythe, all that?‖

She nodded.

―How did he—uh, how are

you—?‖

Bits of snow floated up.

―My father was his

apprentice. My mother

was adopted. Hadn‘t you

better go?‖

―Got two minutes left.‖

Susan studied him.

―You‘re the last of your

kind, aren‘t you? I know

the look. I could make you

some tea, if…‖

―Best not,‖ he said in a

quiet voice. ―Must save

the world and all that. ‖

Heavy footsteps carried

him indoors. Susan put

the poker back and took

him into the basement.

He took off the hat.

―Keep it,‖ she said.

Twinkling at her, he put it

back on his head. His

watch beeped. ―I‘m off. I

don‘t suppose you want to

come along. Might be

useful to have you

around.‖

―No, but thank you. Ank-

Morpork suits me fine.‖

He started inside, then

paused. ―About the

voice…‖

Her eyes rolled. ―Oh, very

well.‖ GOODBYE,

DOCTOR.

The walls shook. Boxes

rattled. The Doctor

smiled. ―Bring a Troll next

time! Love a good troll!‖

He darted inside. With a

―wump-wump‖ the

TARDIS faded and

disappeared. In its place

stood a terrified, dazed -

looking bogeyman, his

horns askew.

I feel sick, it moaned.

OUT, she said.

Everything was back to

normal. ♥

15 15

E mily Thorne sat before a blazing fire, but it didn‘t

warm the coldness and deadness she felt in her heart. She had sacrificed so much of her life—both by her own choices and by the hands of other people—but this was too much. She gazed at the yellow Labrador, Sammy, lying before her. She glanced at the man crying next to her: Jack, her childhood friend and first love. The man who did not know that her DNA revealed she was really someone named Amanda Clarke. The little girl he‘d frolicked

in the sand with, the one he‘d pretended to marry so many years ago.

Amanda Clarke had ceased to exist; ―Emily‖ had made it so. When one heard the name ―Amanda Clarke,‖ they would hear and remember David Clarke—her father. He‘d been framed for a crime he didn‘t commit; people believed he had been in league with terrorists responsible for taking down Flight 197 which had killed many innocent lives. David‘s pleas had fallen on deaf ears; instead, he was

Hampton royalty and the family responsible for her father‘s demise. Her goal in life was to take them down and make them pay for their horrible deeds. She‘d do whatever necessary to see justice done. She‘d even marry their son, her fiancée, if she had to. She would live in the house she and her father had, right along the Atlantic shores—the one where FBI had raided in the night—if she had no other choice.

Emily looked down at Sammy. She blinked back tears as she realized

incarcerated in prison and later killed there, while his daughter was sent to foster homes and juvenile detention centers. The name ―Clarke‖ was poison throughout the country. That‘s why Amanda had swapped identities with a fellow ―delinquent‖ named Emily. She could now do what Amanda couldn‘t: such as make connections, and reestablish herself as a philanthropic millionaire thanks to some money her father had stored away. And she could gain access into the lives of the Graysons,

Ella G.

16

Revenge

one simple truth. He was dying. He was old and had done his time. But with his death, one of last living tangible reminders of her father would be gone. He had been the one to give her Sammy as a pup. They had spent hours running along Hampton‘s shores together and Sammy had delighted in giving her father kisses. When David Clarke had been taken by the police, Sammy was given to Jack—who had done a fabulous job taking care of him—up until now.

Though trained to turn off her emotions, Emily could not blink back the tears any longer. She was not a heartless woman only bent on revenge as some, had they known her true identity, would have surmised. She had feelings. She still knew grief and loss. All of her life had been about loss.

Beside her, Emily heard Jack talking to the dog. ―Sammy, thank you. Thank you for being such a good friend, such a good listener and for making me smile. Every day, even on the worst of them. Thank you for

teaching me about loyalty and friendship. Thank you for teaching me how it‘s okay. You go now, okay? You go play. We‘re right here.‖

These were words that Emily wanted to say yet couldn‘t. She had to keep her cover. She wanted to blurt out to her first love her real identity, that she had never forgotten him or Sammy. Silently, Emily thought out her own goodbye to her beloved dog, the one with whom she had been robbed of memories. I’m sorry Sammy. I am so sorry we didn’t run on the beach more often. I’m sorry I was there to see you grow up into the big boy you are today. But Jack took care of you—thank you for taking care of him for me. Thank you for watching out for him, for being his best friend and helping him through some of the toughest moments of his life. I bet you were a comfort after his dad died, since I couldn’t do it. Thank you for coming back here, Sammy. Back to the home where we lived with Dad. You knew, didn’t you? You

knew my real identity and you wanted to say goodbye. Now you can go, Sammy. And if you see Dad, tell him I love him. Tell him I will always honor his memory and I’ll always be his little girl.

Emily and Jack looked at each other. Sammy had drawn his last breath; his yellow body had no more life or fight left in it. Nor did Jack, it appeared. He reached for Emily and she held him. She stroked his dark hair as tears flowed. There was no denying the bond between the two of them. How could Jack not know that she, Emily, was really Amanda?

Jack raised his head and looked at Emily, his eyes full of grief and longing. He‘d already professed his love to Emily once recently—and she had turned him down. To have accepted would have meant she was turning her back on her vendetta, on her mission of clearing her dad‘s name. But here, in this moment, with no one around, Emily felt her self-made walls crumble.

Jack needed her. Their lips met in a kiss, a kiss that spoke of chemistry, try as they might to deny it.

The kiss deepened. She knew she it would be better to pull away now, but she couldn‘t. Her ties to Jack were as tight as those to her departed father. She could be Amanda Clarke right now—a girl who was grieving with a friend over a beloved pet. She didn‘t have to be Emily Thorne. No one was around to see her open up and reveal her true side. For a few moments, she could be free from revenge.

Here in Jack‘s arms, everything felt…

Oh so right. ♥

17 17

18

N iniane left the cave without looking back.

She guided her pony almost without thought toward home. She knew what could happen as a result of falling in love with the prince. The first few weeks after he‘d gone had been quiet, uneventful… then the sickness came.

Before it, though, she‘d felt a quickness, a shift in her awareness and known she would pay for that last afternoon of love. Her visions came more frequently, things

without consequence, the words her father would say clear to her even before he uttered them. She‘d ignored them, but with the nausea, could ignore the signs no more. She would have a baby and must be ready to guard his paternity with her life. After leaving the cave, she had refused to look back at what had happened. They‘d made their choices and she must deal with the consequences.

Niniane hid the pregnancy for the first

could she, when her rounded stomach told the true tale? She simply nodded. ―Who is the father?‖ But this question she would not answer. She remained dumb when he asked again, then yelled at her, ―I will know who the father is if I have to whip the skin off you! No daughter of mine will go whoring like a common slut!‖

And he was true to her word. He whipped her until the blood ran down her back, and still she

few months, wearing looser garments. This was easy in the winter months, but as the snow melted and warmer winds blew, she had to cast off the layers and cloaks, and come the middle of spring, it was apparent to all that she was with child.

Her father, the king, entered her room one day. Bushy eyebrows jutted over his eyes and his anger directed itself at her. ―I hear you are with child!‖ It was not a question, and Niniane did not deny it. How

Carol Starkey

18

The Merlin Books

19

kept her silence. ―She will lose the baby; you will kill her!‖ her ladies‘ in waiting finally cried, and only then did the beatings stop. But she refused to tell even them, though she heard the tales they whispered, stories of demons and incubuses and familiar spirits who had preyed on her, a young and innocent maid. If her father could not beat her, he could ignore her. Niniane was forced to stay in her rooms for the rest of the pregnancy. No visitors; no friends could visit her, none but her maids. During this time, Niniane felt her power increase. Every month as the baby within her belly grew and changed, her Sight grew stronger, so much that sometimes she‘d speak and not recall what she said. And with her growing power, the tales about the bastard‘s father grew as well. Most who lived in her house were sure he would be the devil‘s son.

Throughout these long months, the king refused to acknowledge her, save

for one incident. In her seventh month, heavy with child and sleeping, she had woken suddenly. ―Where is my father? I must see him!‖ So insistent was she that one of her girls went to fetch him and brought him to her in full hunting gear. Again, that scowl as he looked at her, and he spat out, ―What is it, wench?‖ ―You must not go!‖ she cried. ―I have seen your death. Your horse will jump over a log, land wrong, and fall on you. You will not return.‖ Niniane sighed deeply, then sank back against her pillows. If anything, her father‘s scowl deepened, but he did not go hunting. When the men came back, a horse had jumped over a log and landed wrong, breaking its leg. The long months passed slowly as the baby grew. Spring became summer, and the end of summer brought Niniane‘s baby. It was laid at her breast, and as he lay suckling, a falcon flew through her window. He lighted above the bed, cocked

his head at her, and looked at her with eyes that reminded her of her lover. It was then Niniane named him Merlin. She pressed the baby closer to herself and kissed his black hair. He looked up at her with eyes that knew more than they should and smiled at her. Not the infant‘s smile of gas but a smile that showed he knew his mother. She started and almost pushed him away, but then hugged him even closer. If this was the gift the prince had given her, she would write and tell him. Perhaps now he‘d come and acknowledge the boy, an heir to succeed him when he became king. She had seen it, seen the greatness in him and known he would hold power. But though she wrote, he did not reply. The baby grew into a gangly toddler, one with secret ways and not liked by the other children. His eyes were often suspicious and his movements furtive. But Niniane loved him. She saw his father in him

and was surprised that no one else did, though she was glad of it. And as the Power grew in her son, she gave up hers.

When she felt it come, she turned her thoughts to weaving or the care of her son or to talk of common things among her maids. And finally there came a day that she could not see even if she wanted to. ♥

19 19

20

T wo years after the battle of Yavin…

Skywalker. The Rebel who had destroyed the Death Star and single-handedly singed Vader‘s pride was a Skywalker. How many Skywalkers could there possibly be in the universe? How many force sensitive Skywalkers?

The day Darth Vader received the intelligence, he simply walked off the bridge of his Star Destroyer and went to his chamber.

He didn‘t come out for three planetary days.

Padme’s child.

The thought was like a snake latching onto his mind, sinking its teeth in, unwilling to let go. Like poison, it spread through all his thoughts. When his mind lapsed, he realized he was daydreaming of her giving birth on some ship with her last dying breath.

Those thoughts were what had led him back to Coruscant.

and the few expensive decorations.

As he wandered through it, he could almost feel her warm hands touch his face.

Ani! Ani!

He flashed open his eyes. He hadn‘t heard her voice so clearly in years.

He circled the couch, taking in everything yet forcing himself to remain detached. He stepped back, his foot hitting something underneath the couch.

To his wife‘s apartment.

After learning of her death, he swore to never return.

And now he was walking the passageway to her apartment again. He deactivated the code, the door sliding open.

Like a beautiful dream fused with a hideous nightmare, nothing had changed. The same bluish gray walls and steely carpet; the floor-to-ceiling windows let in bright sunlight, soaking the sleek, beige furniture

Hope White

20

Star Wars

21

He pushed the furniture away where underneath a small hologram device lay on the floor. He stooped down and picked it up, running his fingers over the slender electronic. He placed it on a hologram player in the corner of the room, a blue, hazy image projecting above it.

Padme.

She was alive again, immortalized in a holographic image, beautiful with her long, curly brown hair resting on her shoulders, her black silk gown revealing her pregnant stomach.

―Anakin, I don‘t know whether or not this message will get to you beyond the Outer Rim. So far communications between Coruscant and your battalions have been intermittent as the war seems to do nothing but escalate. As always this message is encoded and cannot be opened by anyone but you.

―I‘m pregnant, Ani.‖ She smiled tenderly, her hand caressing her stomach. ―I know what this means—I doubt the Queen will continue to

let me serve if she learns of this, and the Jedi order could throw you out. But I don‘t want you to worry. Every moment I think of you. I‘m afraid for you.‖

She reached out her slender hand for him. ―Whatever happens, our baby is my greatest strength and joy. I will always love you.‖

He couldn‘t hold it in anymore; he grabbed the hologram in his palm and smashed it against the wall. For a moment his eyes blurred while his body took over. His mind was a supernova of anger and jealousy, love and pain; emotions and memories woke from the dead, rising out of graves, walking through his mind again. All he could see was a blood red motion blur—

Until he finally dropped his lightsaber on the ground, everything around him destroyed.

Come away with me, Anakin. Help me raise our child. Leave everything else behind while we still can.

He groaned within himself, her voice haunting him from that fatal day on Mustafar, when she begged him to leave with her.

But don't you see, Padme? We don't have to run away anymore. I have brought peace to the Republic. I am more powerful than the Chancellor. I can overthrow him, and together you and I can rule the galaxy. Make things the way we want them to be.

Vader strode out of the stifling room onto the balcony. Outside he could see a steady stream of flying vehicles crisscrossing the eternally-lit city.

Luke Skywalker.

He would find Luke before the emperor did. He would put all of his will, all his time into it. The emperor wouldn‘t know his true intention. Vader‘s officers wouldn‘t question him seeking out the Rebel responsible for the Death Star‘s destruction.

Every force-sensitive person must die.

The emperor had decreed that just days after Vader had survived Mustafar. He had agreed wholeheartedly, personally hunting down every remaining hindrance to the Empire.

But Vader wouldn‘t kill Luke.

Instead he‘d open his eyes to the Force and his true heritage. He‘d lure him to the Dark Side just as the emperor had ensnared him. If he had to force Skywalker to his knees, eventually he‘d break. He‘d see the truth.

Together… rule the galaxy.

There had never been a together with his master. Vader was the slave to do his bidding, so entangled in the emperor‘s strings that if he tried to pull himself out alone, he would sever his own head.

Luke wasn‘t just another chance for Vader to get free. He was his answer.

To make things the way he wanted them to be. ♥

21 21

22

I write this no longer sitting in the kitchen sink, but behind a

desk, in my very own office which I have dedicated solely to my writing. It offers quite a professional perspective. Yes, at last, after much speed-writing I ventured to write a full-fledged novel, which has been published to critical acclaim. I had completed my last journal entry quite a few years ago, thinking that my story had ended, but as the future unfolds, I must add a little post script.

Rose and Neil are expecting their second child. ―If it is a girl this time, you should name her after her Auntie Cassandra,‖ I teased in one of my letters to them.

Father is visiting America on one of his lecturing tours. Now he speaks on both ―Jacob Wrestling‖ and ―The Cat Sits on the Mat.‖ Topaz accompanied him, but in a missive to me, she wrote that, ―American society is stifling and unromantic. And the American women… let

Or so I thought.

I was listening to the BBC and there was a news bulletin. Germany and the Soviet Union have invaded Poland. Appeasement with Hitler has not worked. England and France vow to avenge the Polish people. War is inevitable. With this new development, I can‘t go chasing after my dreams when my king and country needs me. I must do something, anything, to support my country. My dreams will always be there and after

me not get started about them.‖ I think she misses communing with nature.

Thomas received a scholarship to Oxford. He is quite proud and speaks about it every chance he gets.

So, as you can see, I am alone here in the castle, trying my best to capture its present state. An American edition of my novel is to be released. I considered joining Father and Topaz and do a little lecturing of my own.

Veronica Leigh

22

I Capture the Castle

23

this is all over, I may have new dreams. Perhaps I can be a war correspondent.

As I listened to those somber words, I heard the front door open and close. Who could that be? I hastened to the foyer where I found a tall, handsome blond Adonis. His strong features and muscular frame made my heart palpitate.

―Miss Cassandra?‖

My mouth gaped. ―Stephen?‖

He bashfully put out his hand. I disregarded it and hugged him.

―It‘s been years!‖ I said. ―What are you doing here?‖

―I came home on a holiday,‖ he said, following me into the parlor. ―Then I heard the news and wanted to see you and your family. Where is everyone?‖

―On various pursuits,‖ I replied with a demure smile. ―Care for some hot chocolate?‖

Stephen nodded. ―It will be just like the old days.‖

We went to the kitchen. I set straight away to heating it up on the stove while he sat at the table and watched. That look—the one I used to call ―daft‖—reappeared. I felt self-conscious and hoped to distract him. ―How is Hollywood? Meet any famous movie stars… Shirley Temple, Judy Garland or Clark Gable?‖ I asked.

He answered in the affirmative and spoke a little about his life in exotic California. He was a well-known British actor in his own right, at MGM and I had heard rumors that he was to star in a picture with Vivian Leigh.

My former resolve melted at the sound of his voice and my knees knocked as I carried over two steaming cups of hot chocolate. I tried to pay attention but found myself comparing him to the young man I knew. He was always sweet and very devoted to me but I never noticed him. My heart had belonged to Simon Cotton. Looking

back I can‘t understand why. I always knew what I wanted from life, but I was still very much a child. And now I am a woman.

―When do you go back to the states?‖ I asked.

He shook his head. ―I don‘t, I can‘t. My country needs me. I am going to enlist.‖

I gulped. ―But—what about your contract? Will they allow it?‖

―I only signed for seven years and I am not going to renew it. Not until this war is over.‖

I‘d come to the realization that everything I once believed was wrong. I had never given Stephen a second thought and now…

We reminisced for a couple of hours and then the time came for him to leave. As he was about to disembark, he turned back around. ―Miss Cassandra, may I write to you?‖

―Yes, I would like that.‖ I bit my lip. ―Stephen, be

careful.‖ I stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek. Our mouths were only a couple of inches apart, until we closed the gap. Everything tender and beautiful was wrapped up in one delightful kiss.

We parted smiling.

―I‘ll be seeing you.‖ Stephen whispered.

I stood in the doorway and watched him leave in his car. This is a new beginning.

I have loved, I do love, I will love. ♥

23 23

24

W here am I?

And what

have I done?

These are the first

thoughts that flit across

my mind as I step off the

bus onto a gravel road in

the middle of what looks

like… nothing. I force

back a groan as clouds of

dust cover me from head

to toe when the bus pulls

away leaving only me, my

luggage and five-inch

heels (which are looking

less and less like a good

idea!), watching as my

past in New York

metaphorically and

literally disappears.

My tired, limp body feels

like I‘ve travelled a

greater distance than to

just outside of the tiny

Bluebell Alabama. My

hair hangs in limp, damp

strands that would cause

my mother to gasp with

horror at my less-than-

pristine beauty routine;

the dark curls are rarely

styled and my highlights

haven‘t been tended to in

months.

Looking in all directions, I

see nothing remotely

resembling civilization

and for a moment I

consider running after the

bus, begging for it to stop —my situation is just

desperate enough, and I

don‘t think I‘m too proud

verge of a breaking point?

I can‘t believe a doctor, a

perfect stranger from

Bluebell, kept in touch

with me all this time. The

only time I met Harley was at my graduation—he

asked me to accept a

position in his general

practice. It was out of the question—I was chasing a

place at my father‘s

operating table, not in a

small town in the middle

of nowhere-ville. Now,

Harley‘s offer is a saving

grace.

This is ridiculous! Here I

am, standing in the ninety

-degree sun, waiting for

something to magically

to go for it. Instead, the

words of my E.R. boss

haunt me as I remember

our last conversation, one

that suggested I‘m not

good enough. All I‘ve ever

wanted is to be a heart

surgeon like my father but

I didn‘t get the fellowship

that would have assured

we‘d work together, all

because I‘m not a ―people

person‖? I don‘t need to

know the names of a

patient‘s grandchildren to

be a good doctor! All I

need is honors from my

graduating class, the best

work ethnic at the

hospital, and the skill to

go with it. I aced all three

of those requirements, so

why am I now on the

Rissi C.

24

Hart of Dixie

25

happen. I‘m Dr. Zoe Hart!

Graduating from medical

school wasn‘t as a result

of being handed a

diploma without effort!

I‘m an intelligent woman.

I make things happen.

Who needs

transportation?

Gathering up my things, I

begin walking, keeping an

eye and ear tuned for

anything resembling

human life. How long I

walk, I don‘t know. It feels

like hours yet probably is

no more than a half hour.

In the distance, there‘s a

sound that resembles a

vehicle. Looking back, I

see a cloud of dust but

best of all, there‘s a beat

up truck in it. Slowing,

the truck pulls up next to

me and comes to a stop.

The person inside rolls

down the window, a pair

of blue eyes and winning

smile coming into view.

―Need a lift?‖

Hesitantly, I answer, ―Yes.

I need to get to Bluebell.‖

―That‘s just where I am

going,‖ Blue Eyes says, his

voice dripping with a

southern drawl. He gets

out and walks to where

I‘m standing. He picks up

my luggage and places it

in the back of his truck.

My dumb-founded

expression registers with

him. He stops and quips,

―You know, I‘m not some

serial killer.‖

Since it is said with such a

charming smile, I can‘t

help but muster one of my

own. Blue Eyes seems a

pleasant sort and I‘m not

about to keep walking in

the dust in five-inch heels.

My training kicks in and I

stick out my hand,

thinking professionalism

the best.

―Dr. Zoe Hart.‖

―Pleased to meet you, Dr.

Zoe Hart. I‘m George

Tucker.‖

As he opens my door, the

stranger seems perfectly

normal; nothing about his

demeanor screams

psycho but you can never

be too careful on a lonely

dirt road. This isn‘t a day I

want to walk into a

twisted scenario only

Alfred Hitchock would

understand.

George gives me another

devastatingly handsome

smile, easing my nerves,

and stands by the door as

I slide into place. Once

we‘re travelling on the

road, a conversation full

of pleasantries strikes up.

―What brings you to

Bluebell, Dr. Zoe Hart,

business or pleasure?‖

―It‘s business. I‘m here to

work.‖

―Funny thing is I don‘t

remember the doctor

mentioning a new hire.‖

Not sure how to answer, I

simply state the obvious.

―Actually he doesn‘t even

know I‘m coming. It

wasn‘t something that

was a part of my plan. It

was news to me only a few

days ago.‖

Before I know it, we pull

into a small town.

George‘s conversation

blurs but I do manage to

get his welcoming me to

Bluebell and an

explanation that he needs

to stop at a local bar

called the Rammer

Jammer to return the

truck to a friend.

Looking around town, I

get the feeling I‘ve just

stumbled onto the set of

The Andy Griffith Show.

Everything looks like it

should be a part of a

movie set. The women

walking the streets are

wearing dresses that are

positively archaic, with

perfectly coiffed hair.

As I step out of the truck,

the day feels unreal.

I want New York.

Here it is hot and nary a

Starbucks in sight! Even I

look out of place in my

ruffled blouse and dark

pencil skirt. There is

definitely something

wrong with this picture.

Then my eyes meet his.

Standing in the doorway

of the bar, he‘s handsome

in a boy-next-door sort of

way, and looks nothing

like the 1960‘s.

Maybe, this isn’t going to

be such a horrible year.

It‘s not in my nature to

welcome change. Finding

myself so far off of my

career path makes me

nervous. Perhaps it‘s time

to shed the past. It‘s now

or never to make the best

of the situation I‘m in.

With a smile, I make my

way to my luggage.

I am resolved.

Good-bye, New York.

Hello, Bluebell. ♥

25 25

26

C aptain Steve Rogers pressed through the

freezing mud that clung to everything, including the better part of his thick blue cargo pants. Behind him the Howling Commandos followed, their own internationally flavored clothing in about the same condition. He glanced down at the caked mud on his boots. Without the Super Soldier Serum his feet would‘ve been frozen blocks by now. He sometimes admittedly forgot he was so different from his team, but now was not one of those times. He called a

halt at the edge of a shelled field and allowed a half hour‘s rest.

Rations were hauled out of packs and he left them sitting around to do a little scouting ahead. The bombed out field and the recent snowfall melting into it made it nearly impassable. They would need to skirt around it, but which way? He eyed both routes carefully, trying to determine if they were wired. Heading down the right hand trail, Steve followed it for several minutes before kneeling down and examining the ground for traces of

false move meant death, which is why he always went first. The serum would heal him, most likely, and he couldn‘t ask his men to act as land mine fodder.

He was so focused in his searching that the tiny snapping of the twig registered two seconds later than usual. He whirled around, his pistol clenched firmly in his right hand, his round Vibranium shield in his left.

Two pairs of little eyes stared out at him from a bush. Human eyes. Some inner realization

recent human activity.

This last mission had gone very well and another factory of The Red Skull‘s was completely obliterated. It was the miserable traveling conditions until they reached Allied territory that made every victory seem like they were on the losing side. It was exhausting, cold work that nobody enjoyed, but it had to be done.

That field had been intact when they passed through previously, but that had been a week ago. During war one

Caitlin Horton

26

Captain America

27

made him pause, made him lower his gun a few inches, made him think about what he was seeing.

―Come out.‖ He tried to inflect authority into his voice, not an easy task for a guy still not used to weighing more than 100 pounds.

Dead leaves rustled and two tiny figures emerged from the growth. Their clothes were filthy, caked with mud and torn from shrapnel fragments, their faces thin and cold and above all, terrified. Steve held out a hand and knelt back down. Neither child could have been more than 7, one looked much younger, around 4, and neither wanted to come closer. He pointed at his shield and again at his helmet where the A was emblazoned.

―American. Allies.‖

The older girl suddenly began to cry and charged at him, flinging her arms around his neck. The other little girl held tightly to her muddy rag doll and just stared at him. She pointed at his uniform and whispered one word.

―Pourquoi?‖

They were French then. Steve tapped the star on his chest. ―Why? Well, Star Spangled Man…Allies!‖

She stepped forward and shyly offered her hand, which he took.

His men were shocked at the condition of the children, even more so at their presence in a war zone. Steve wiped their faces with water from canteens and gave them rations before French Private Jacques Dernier questioned the older of the two girls.

―Ah, their names are Colette and Emilie. They are sisters who used to live in a farmhouse not far from here. Colette says it was bombed yesterday and their caretaker was inside when it happened. She thinks their parents are working for the Allies, she used to overhear them speaking about their work. Their names are Hugo and Antoinette Agnès.‖

Steve‘s brow wrinkled.

―Why would they just leave them here?‖

Jacques shrugged, his arm wrapped protectively around little Emilie. ―At that time this was safe ground, held by the Allies. They could not have known the German bombers would take out one home in the middle of nowhere.‖

Steve let out a deep breath. War really was hell and sometimes, when you saw the little casualties, it hurt so much more than you ever knew was possible. ―Okay, we‘re heading out. I think the right hand path is safest. Dum Dum and Gabe, you carry the girls. Bucky, you take point with me and Jim and Jacques, you take the back. Keep the girls in the middle. Let‘s go.‖

They reached Allied territory quickly, in spite of the new cargo, and upon entering the large American camp everyone stopped what they were doing and stared. The little girls sat on Dum Dum and Gabe‘s shoulders, singing Les Marseillais loudly, though Emilie didn‘t know all the words and giggled a lot during it. Peggy Carter, her usual radiant self in brown

uniform, whisked the girls away to hot baths, another meal, and bed before contacting the French Underground.

Their parents arrived two days later and Steve witnessed the reunion, just before he had to leave for England. The Agnès had heard their home had been bombed through a reconnaissance air flight and feared the worst. Yet miracles still happened in the middle of war and seeing them clutch their little girls tightly, kissing them over and over made Steve realize something important. If they had trudged across that field or gone to the left, those girls would never have been found. They‘d have died out there yet didn‘t. God knew and Steve believed wholeheartedly that divine influence guided his actions. Life would continue to march on and take him with it, but the image of those little girls, safe, he would carry for the rest of his life. It gave him hope in tomorrow. ♥

27 27

28

E dward Rochester laid in bed face up with his only

hand on his chest, feeling the pulsating beats of his heart. This night was his last as a bachelor, for he was to be married the next day to Miss Jane Eyre. He fixed his blurry gaze at the ceiling. He could not sleep. An overwhelming sensation of excitement and fear gripped him; he was looking forward to finally being happily married, but he was still afraid. Would Jane reject him again? Of course not! He shook the thought from his mind. She loved him too much

to reject him this time.

It seemed as if it were only yesterday that a plain governess came to reside at his home for the purpose of educating his ward, Adele. He remembered accusing her of bewitching his horse. The mere thought made him chuckle a bit.

His thoughts turned tragic as he remembered Jane leaving upon finding out about his wife, a demented soul hidden in the attic. The moment she left, he had entered the room where she stayed, sat down on the bed, and wept for

him from his sleep. He awoke to the smell of fire in the house and traced it to the attic where Bertha had broken a window and climbed onto the roof. Nearly blinded by the flames, he tried to coax her inside but instead, his wife fell to her death. Thornfield was nearly in ashes and he had lost his left hand and his sight, but not his love for Jane.

Every night after the fire, he‘d prayed to God that Jane would return to him. Humbled by his condition, he‘d also begged for salvation, for mercy, and forgiveness.

what seemed like hours. Days and weeks had come and gone. He had spent time outside the great house that until Jane came into it had felt like a prison, waiting for his beloved to return. He‘d occasionally take to drunkenness despite his hatred for such a state. He had prayed tearfully and feverishly every night for God to return Jane to him, but nothing happened.

Then had come his dream: that he saw Miss Eyre and ran towards her but she was swallowed by smoke and flames, which roused

Shannon H.

28

Jane Eyre

29

Then, one day in his study at Ferndean, he had heard a familiar voice, ―It is Jane Eyre.‖ Hearing it, he first found himself delusional but when she embraced and kissed him, he felt tears of joy fall from his blind eyes. God had heard his prayers and granted him mercy, he thought. The past no longer mattered and aside from Jane teasing him a bit, he had finally gruffly asked the plain governess (now a wealthy woman thanks to an inheritance) to be the wife he‘d wanted for so long.

Edward shook himself

out of his reverie but his thoughts turned to the future. Tomorrow, he would become, for the first time in his life, a happily married man. He imagined the honeymoon in Paris and Rome. He envisioned his wife cradling a little bundle of joy in her arms and rocking it to sleep. She would make an excellent mother someday, he knew. But dreams mattered less than what God had given him for the moment. Jane Eyre was a strong woman, strong enough to respect her faith and reputation and leave him when she had discovered

his lies, even when she loved him to say no to his advances however much she may have wanted them. Now, God rewarded them for her faithfulness. He had given them a second chance at happiness. Not happiness stolen, but in a union He could bless and that the church would honor.

The knowledge humbled him. Jane was still in her beliefs, strong enough to stand at his side as his wife, no matter what happened in their lives. At that moment, Edward said a prayer of thanks to God for his future bride.

And still in thought, he drifted off to sleep.

The next morning, he appeared at the church with his soon-to-be bride, Jane Eyre.

After vows were exchanged, the two were declared husband and wife. Mr. and Mrs. Rochester sat next to each other in the carriage ride home. His only hand held his wife‘s as she put her head on his shoulder. And for the first time in his life, Edward felt truly happy and blessed. ♥

29

30

I have seen him

before,‖ he

whispered. ―The

moment I heard him

speak I knew it. It was

nearly twenty years ago—

he was a child—but there

is no mistaking the eyes of

him. I have never

forgotten it, though I

thought I had.‖

―Forgotten what?‖

whispered his friend. The

two men were giving a

very good impression of

being in grave and

important conference and

being completely unaware

of the young man

supposedly in disgrace

speaking to a small group

of people near them.

―That child, ten or twelve

years old, speaking like an

old man after years of

study and wisdom. One

day, just after the Feast,

there was a commotion in

a corner where several of

the elders were gathered.

We all crowded in to hear,

and then I saw who they

were gathered around.

Not some venerable old

sage but a child, a young

boy. Unremarkable-

looking, dressed in the

humble clothes of some

child from the country,

but his eyes—How could I

do we not wear clothing

made of two kinds of

material?‘ He asked, ‗Why

did Jacob wrestle with a

stranger in the darkness?‘

Why, why, why? He

wouldn‘t be satisfied with

answers that explained

away the surface of a

thing but insisted on

plumbing to the depths

and bringing to light its

very soul, so that we had

to search inside ourselves

for answers we had never

known we knew or could

come up with. He was

teaching us how to

question and how to

understand, we who had

spent our whole lives

ever have forgotten his

eyes? They were the eyes

of something ancient and

wise, not the eyes of

something that has lived

only twelve short years on

this earth.

―He spoke to Gamaliel as

if they were peers,

consulting together over

some question in the Law.

The child asked questions

as if he already knew the

answers and wanted to

provoke some new

thought in his hearers. He

asked, ‗Why does the

LORD forbid adultery,

and why does He hate

divorce?‘ He asked, ‗Why

Christy McDougall

30

The Bible

31

questioning and

understanding the Law.

Three and a half days he

talked to us—‖

―Three and a half days?‖

Joseph interrupted.

―What about his parents,

his family? Why was a

child alone in the

Temple?‖

―We hardly thought of

that at all. It was like he

was a special visitation

from the LORD. You don‘t

ask an angel where his

parents are.‖

―Angels don‘t come in the

form of children.‖

―I know, I know. You had

to have been there,

Joseph, to understand.

You wouldn‘t have

thought of his parents

either, until the fourth

day, when we heard a

shriek from across the

temple court, and a

woman shoved her way

through us as only a

frantic mother can and

fell on him, embracing

him and kissing him and

crying and demanding

why he had disappeared.

The man was only

marginally less frantic

and more polite, knowing

that things may be

forgiven of a mother that

may not be forgiven of a

father.

―And the child! He

revealed to us for the first

time then that he really

was a child, because he

asked his mother in the

most innocent way in the

world, ‗Why were you

looking for me?‘ Only a

child would ask such a

question when he had

disappeared from his

family for three or four

days. But then he asked

them, the way he‘d been

questioning us, ‗Didn‘t

you know I have to be

doing my Father‘s work?‘

And his father‘s eyes

nearly started out of his

head, because by the look

of him he was a laborer,

strong, muscular, a

carpenter, maybe, by no

means a teacher or

prophet, so whatever the

boy thought he was doing,

it certainly wasn‘t his

father‘s work. His mother

was equally confused, but

she lapsed into silence for

quite a long moment,

staring at him like she

was seeking out

something inside him she

had often been trying to

seek out before. He had

his eyes from her, though

she never gave him that

ancient look.

―Well, then he simply

hopped down from his

seat, thanked us

courteously for our

hospitality, and left with

them, leaving us all a bit

dazed and unable to speak

of anything else for days,

weeks. Gradually he faded

from our daily thoughts,

and I—I think I haven‘t

thought of him in years.

But at that moment I

believed that there was

something unearthly

about that child,

something never before

seen in any prophet of the

LORD. But what? What,

Joseph? You never heard

the questions he asked.‖

―I saw what he did last

week,‖ Joseph said

quietly. ―He came into the

Temple, looked at the

money-changers—you

know how they

shortchange the ignorant

country people—and his

eyes blazed with fire. He

was like—the priests say

like a madman, but I

never saw anything less

like a madman in my life.

A madman doesn‘t know

what he is doing and is

carried away by some

uncontrollable force

inside himself. He knew

what he was doing. The

priests tried to stop him,

but he was like a force of

nature. And he said—‖

Joseph grasped his

friend‘s sleeve. ―He said,

‗Do not make my Father‘s

house a house of trade.‘

‗My Father‘ again. What

does he mean?‖

―I have to find out. I have

to.‖

―You can‘t just go ask

him. He is in deep

disgrace with the priests.

You can‘t risk your

position, Nicodemus.‖

―I know. If only I could go

see him in private some

time when he is alone.‖

―I know where he‘s

staying,‖ Joseph said

suddenly. ―You could go

to the house tonight.‖

―Why don‘t you come with

me?‖

―I don‘t dare. Anyway, I

have to make an early

start for Arimathea in the

morning. I‘ll show you the

house, and you must

promise me you‘ll write to

me and tell me what he

says.‖

―I will,‖ Nicodemus

promised, and they left

the Temple courts and the

young man from Galilee

speaking there under the

disapproving eyes of the

priests of Israel. ♥

31

32

T he early morning chill nipped at Much‘s ears as he

lay bundled in his tattered burlap sheet. He‘d folded it lengthwise the previous evening, hoping the majority of the holes in the upper right hand corner would be covered by duplicating the fabric. He lay restless, cocooned between John‘s massive body and the dwindling fire. Allan slept on the other side of John next to the dirt wall. Much pulled his cap down farther over his ears, and tried to ignore the cold. He turned his back to the cooling embers and listened to the quiet

rumble of John‘s snore.

―If someone could bother to stock the fire during the night, I always do it for supper,‖ he huffed, hoping the others would subconsciously pick up the message through their sleep. He doubted his technique would make any difference. It never had worked before.

―Everything all right, Much?‖ A deep voice startled him in the night. For an instant Much was alarmed and half sat up before he realized the source.

―Tuck.‖

vowed to silence gives ample time for sleep. I‘ve more than had my fill.‖ Tuck‘s eyes twinkled as he added, ―Those years also gave me an acute ear for the whispered prayers of others.‖

Much carefully sat up all the way, being careful not to disturb his sleeping neighbor. He scooted closer to the fire, running his hands briskly along his legs to warm them. They both sat in silence for a few minutes, listening to the crackle of the wood, before Tuck spoke. ―Is something troubling you? You‘ve tossed and turned all night long.‖

―Sorry, my friend, I did not mean to startle you. I simply saw you stirring, and heard you speak,‖ replied Tuck from the bench on the other side of the fire.

Much was unsure whether he wanted to admit to the mutterings. ―I didn‘t mean to wake anyone,‖ he half-lied, remembering the reason for speaking in the first place.

―You didn‘t wake me.‖ Tuck smiled, rising from his bench. He grabbed two more sticks, kindled the fire, and added them to the coals. ―Many years in a monastery with men

Camille Gaffney

32

Robin Hood (BBC)

Setting: Four months after Marian’s death in the Holy Land. Robin Hood and his band have recently acquired a new member, Tuck, after he brings the distressed group together again following a passionate meltdown (Season 3, End of Episode 1).

33

Much kept his chin tucked in, face towards the fire. His pensive eyes lifted, but he gave no indication of sharing his thoughts.

―I traveled with King Richard to the Holy Land,‖ Tuck began.―I‘ve been on many battlefields with burdened men. Sometimes the greatest weight can be lifted by sharing your troubles with another.‖

Much hesitated. Should he trust Tuck? After all, he‘d traded the gang to Gisbon, trusting Robin to rally and rescue them. It had worked to provoke Robin from his depressed complacency, but the penalty for failure would have fallen on Much, John, and Allan, not Tuck. Nevertheless, it had worked. The others had tried for months to reason with Robin after Marian‘s death. They‘d travelled all the way from the Holy Land, yet Robin grew increasingly more vengeful with each passing mile.

Only Tuck was able to reach Robin‘s tortured soul. A semblance of normalcy had finally returned in the camp.

For that, Much was grateful. If Tuck could accomplish that, maybe he could help sort out the jumbled mess in his head.

―Is Robin gone?‖ Much looked behind him to ensure the others were still asleep.

―Left about an hour ago.‖

Robin was prone to night wanderings to the tree where he‘d proposed to Marian and later buried her ring. He left after the others fell asleep and returned before dawn. Everyone pretended they didn‘t notice.

Much hesitated. ―I… I just can‘t believe she‘s…‖

―Gone? I understand.‖ Tuck gave him a sad smile. ―I wish I‘d had the chance to meet her. It sounds as if she brought out the best in Robin.‖

―Then you two have something in common,‖ replied Much, kicking a log into the fire.

―Don‘t underestimate yourself. The reason Robin ran away when you returned to England was because he couldn‘t bear to lose anyone else. I

think he‘d rather have died.‖

Much half smiled, looking at the fire.―It‘s just that it doesn‘t make sense.‖

―Marian‘s death? Death often doesn‘t make sense.‖

―I know… but I knew Marian—she was smarter than that. She wouldn‘t have challenged Guy without any weapon or protection. She knew how volatile he was. She watched him burn her house down!‖

―Sometimes the heat of battle makes us act hastily.‖

―I suppose, but she and Robin had dreams, plans, everything! After he proposed, they had a deal: ‗Find Lardner, warn King Richard, defeat the Sheriff, and get married.‘‖

―Who was this ‗Lardner‘? Did they find him?‖

―Yes, but he wasn‘t a man—he turned out to be a messenger pigeon used for King Richard. We had a difficult time getting him back to the King. We had to use a decoy to

prevent the Sheriff from killing it.‖

―A decoy, well done! Did the bird make it back to the King?‖

Much started to pace in front of the fire. ―That foul Sheriff and Gibson; how are they always one step ahead of us? Like when the Black Knights met to sign the Great Pact, Robin knew he had to stop them. But his knives were stopped by their hidden body shields! Why do we never have the upper hand? Why couldn‘t Marian have had such hidden armor?‖

An audible groan came from the wall where Allan lay.―There‘s no sleeping with you talking!‖

―You!‖ Much cried. ―All that time you spent with Marian in the castle. The least you could have done was to teach her some self-defense!‖

―The girl kept daggers in her hair! She didn‘t need much instruction if you ask me.‖

―Well, you could have done something!‖

33

―Let‘s not forget that I risked my life posing as the Nightwatchman to distract the Sheriff.‖

―Good for you, a single good deed in the midst of your scheming to help the Sheriff.‖

―I did do something else, speaking of body armor—I bartered for some of that special armor Djaq liked. You know, the Damascus steel? When I realized I had little chance of smuggling it to Djaq, I gave it to Marian.‖

―A second valiant deed,‖ muttered Much.

―MUCH,‖ a loud voice suddenly thundered.―Sit down, NOW.‖ John was

now awake. Much stopped pacing, but still fidgeted in the corner.

Tuck tried to ease the tension.―Let‘s not place blame, it can‘t change the past.‖

Much sat down in the dirt, knees to chest, giving Allan a sideways glance. ―I‘m not talking just about the past. When we thought Robin was dead and I was in the dungeon, every day the Sheriff sent out scouts and demanded a report of the south border of Sherwood Forest.‖

―Nothing abnormal in that,‖ Tuck aid.―Everyone was on the lookout for Robin‘s body.‖

―But Gisbon threw Robin into the river north of Nottingham, not south. I didn‘t think anything of it at the time, but why would the Sheriff be looking for something on the south side?‖

―Much,‖ John sighed, ―give it a rest, would you?‖

―All I know is something isn‘t right! Robin had a plan with Marian–and the plan wasn‘t finished. Call me sentimental, but I don‘t think this is how it should have ended. I‘m going to find breakfast! You all keep the fire going.‖With that, Much stomped off into the woods.

A half hour later, as Much reset one of his traps, he heard a soft bird call, Robin‘s signal. He turned to find Robin standing behind him. Robin held out a small piece of rolled paper in a trembling hand.

―Lardner…‖ Robin grasped for words, ―came to our tree. Will sent it...‖

Much took the paper and unrolled it. There, in tiny print, he read six words:

MARIAN ALIVE. SHERIFF ON HER

TRAIL. ♥

34

T he tall, dark-haired man with a bruised face stood

square in the middle of the sidewalk, apparently oblivious to passersby, and stared into the red eye of the camera mounted above the traffic light.

Knowing what he knew now, he was trying to figure out how he should feel about it. Nervous, he supposed. No—no, nervous wasn‘t quite strong enough. Afraid might be a better fit. Or how about paranoid? If anything called for going out and getting fitted for a tinfoil hat, it was the

information the mysterious Mr. Finch had given him about that all-seeing red eye.

Strange, then, that for the first time in a very long time, there was peace in his own eyes, even the hint of a smirk hovering around his mouth. Strange that, instead of fear, he felt something that lifted his chin and pulled his shoulders up and back as he turned and merged into the crowd.

————

The short man with glasses limped across the

faces? How long had he been waiting for someone who could do what he couldn‘t?

Slowly, without a change of expression, he reached up and unpinned one picture from the board. He held it lightly balanced on his palm for a moment, before setting it on the table.

Then he pulled off his glasses and, with one quick, furtive movement, wiped his wet eyes with the back of his hand. ♥

room, coming to a halt before a bulletin board crammed full of clippings. His board of lost chances.

His pale blue eyes traveled slowly over them, though he already knew them by heart—the faces that kept him awake at night, the words that were burned into his mind.

Shot. Stabbed. Murdered. Unsolved.

How many hundreds of times had he stood here like this, feeling his utter helplessness before that mountain of words and

35

Gina Dalfonzo

Person of Interest

This is set at the end of the pilot. Finch built a Machine that can see crimes about to happen, and needed help stopping those crimes. Reese was desperately in need of a job and a purpose when Finch found him.

Some of the most beloved works of fiction are Children’s Literature.

Join us June 1st to relive your childhood (or discover new favorites!).

This issue is full, but if you have a good enough

idea, we’ll make an exception! E-mail us at

femnista@charitysplace.com

Inside This Issue:

Louisa May Alcott Noel Streatfeild

C.S. Lewis J.K. Rowling

Cat Royal Black Beauty

The Secret Garden The Princess & the Goblin

Anne of Green Gables Bridge to Terabithia Nathan T. Riggins

Little Women Crusade in Jeans

The Melendys The Witches

The Boy in the Striped Pajamas

My Father‘s Dragon Caddie Woodlawn