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  She paused when I started but only briefly. As I watched, her hand shook slightly and she began to scribble things out regularly. The corner of my mouth jerked upward for a moment. I’d forgotten how much this body – my body – could act of its own free will. I began scratching the arms of the chair again.

  I didn’t like the noise the woman in red had caused. Neither did Allison. But Allison never did anything about it when people did things she didn’t like.

  “I’m almost finished writing,” Dr. Santia said. “I’m sorry, but could you not scratch the arms of the chair? Something about that noise...”

  I almost laughed. Something about that noise. She didn’t like noise? Well, I didn’t care for noise either, and soon she’d pay for the noise she’d caused.

  “I understand,” I said and smiled.

  Allison began to cry.

  ***

  About the Author:

  Jaime McDougall is a citizen of the world, currently loving life in beautiful country Victoria in Australia. She loves eating sushi, kidnapping her husband and naming her pets in honour of science fiction authors. She has been published in Chicken Soup for the Soul: High School: The Real Deal and Chicken Soup for the Soul: Campus Chronicles. She has also enjoyed writing a column called ‘The New Australian’ in local newspapers as well as various articles online.

  Echo Falls is her first paranormal romance novel and is available in print and multiple ebook formats. You can visit her website at https://www.InkyBlots.com

  ###

  The Old Bookshop

  by Julie Elizabeth Powell

  Copyright © Julie Elizabeth Powell

  This story has been included in Julie’s short story book, Figments published through Lulu - 28.7.11.

  I saw it in the window – Help Wanted.

  I could do that, couldn’t I?

  And Saturdays were free...forever probably, now that he’d gone.

  It had finished.

  At least they’d be no more burnt toast.

  Or banging into imaginary cupboards.

  I looked at the notice again.

  No number to call.

  Was that a mistake?

  But didn’t that mean I was ahead of the game?

  Ahead of the game! It wasn’t for some high-powered executive position.

  I reached for the handle, trying not to giggle.

  Just so stupid sometimes!

  I saw my reflection amongst the etched letters spelling out The Old Bookshop and winced.

  Pulling back my hand, I smoothed the blown tangles of dark-blonde hair that attempted to blind weary green eyes – olive, he’d insisted – before taking hold of the large, iron handle.

  The black jeans and purple T-shirt would have to do.

  Shame about the slashed message: Born a woman, be afraid!

  Maybe I should go home to change? But by then I will have lost my nerve.

  And nerve was something I’d have to chase until the demons were vanquished.

  At least I had the T-shirt.

  I’d bought it in defiance, and it was my talisman against past shadows.

  The heavy door swung surprisingly easy, and then closed to the sway of tinkle overhead.

  Lemon polish, tobacco and aged leather; I recognised the aromas amongst the ancient tang of musty pages and mingled scents of at least ten thousand people, each with a story to tell, while searching for faraway fantasies.

  Shelves heaved in a blur of colour and size, spilling outward and up like an exploded volcano.

  A rickety stool leaned, as if guarding its own special book, chosen centuries ago, never leaving its side.

  Someone coughed, breaking the library hush.

  It wasn’t me.

  I walked along the tumbled rows until there he was, a professor-like figure, as jumbled as the surrounding books, wearing the stereotypical leather patches on the elbows of a rather frayed brown tweed jacket and dark green cord trousers. The shirt, I noticed as he came to the end of the aisle, was a paler green, sporting a matching bow tie.

  All that was missing was the pipe.

  I was wrong.

  He stepped closer and there it was, sprouting out of his top jacket pocket like a worn brown bulb desperate for sunshine.

  I breathed deeply, sucking in the remembered odour, dark and smoky, rich and fragrant.

  Dad, as he sat reading the newspaper that had always seemed enormous to me. But to him, he’d fold and re-fold as each page turned, as if it were nothing more than a wisp, smoke curling along its edges until wafted away with each new pleat.

  But this wasn’t Dad. Nothing like him at all, with his itchy, grey beard that reached to the level of the bow tie, much like the curls of his corresponding hair.

  And too many lines on that ragged face.

  Could anyone be as old?

  He noticed me and shuffled even nearer, the glint of the buried spectacles peeking through the mass of hair, probing the space, as if an alien seeking answers.

  I shivered, as cold grey eyes seemed to puncture their way through to my soul, almost reading me, as if I were one of the many neighbouring books.

  The smile warmed them.

  “You’re here about the vacancy.”

  He said it, not as a question but a statement.

  The deepness of his voice only served to compound his age.

  My mouth slackened, not sure what to say.

  Should I admit why I’d come in?

  “You can fill it if you want.”

  He turned abruptly and, surprisingly quickly, made his way to the antique desk at the front of the shop.

  I slowly followed but kept my distance.

  Why was my heart pounding?

  Was it a trap?

  Don’t be stupid! He’d gone for good and wouldn’t be hiding behind that desk.

  The old man picked up something and came back, his arm outstretched, his hand proffering what looked like a square of purple card.

  And a key.

  He stood and waited for me to take them. He was smiling again.

  This must be what a deer feels like when confronted by humans.

  Could he be trusted?

  What was he going to do, shoot me!

  I sighed, ignoring the tingling down my spine.

  But it didn’t feel like all those other times.

  Never again!

  I was free now, wasn’t I?

  I still hadn’t said a word but took one step nearer, then another until we were less than a stride apart.

  I took the card gingerly between my thumb and forefinger, inching it out from beneath the key, feeling its thick, warm texture, and stared at the rounded silver letters.

  Life is about choices, you just have to recognise the right ones.

  I felt hot.

  What was this place?

  Where was I?

  I looked around and realised we were alone – Father Time and I.

  Good name, it suited him.

  I smirked inside, despite the weirdness of it all.

  My eyes flickered back to where he stood, unmoving, as if waiting for my answer; at least the warmth remained in his eyes.

  Only the silence filled my ears, while the fragrance of books almost permeated my skin.

  It wasn’t unpleasant.

  I’d always loved them.

  I’d missed them.

  What could I say? What should I say?

  Had I crossed over into some other dimension or was it merely my imagination wanting to bring the magic back into my life?

  I shook my head, as if to clear it of tomfoolery.

  I’d overdosed on the fresh feeling of freedom, on the wearing of the T-shirt – on the itchy, dusty, baked smell of books.

  I looked back at the card.

  The sentiment was true.

  I had made the right choice – I’d never see him again.

  And who was I to question this opportunity? Shouldn’t I grab it and say, ‘Thank you,” whatever this w
as?

  Whomever?

  I pushed back the tangle from my face.

  He still hadn’t moved.

  I focussed on him and understood he hadn’t turned into a statue but was immersed in patience.

  “Okay,” I said.

  His smile broadened, as he thrust the key towards me.

  I took it, half expecting it to explode or turn me into a toad.

  It was only a key.

  “It’ll give you passage into the shop from the lane at the back.”

  “But what exactly...?”

  “As the sign says.”

  “Okay.”

  Considering my love of books, my vocabulary seemed stunted.

  He took one pace back before twisting round.

  “Follow me.”

  I did.

  Back at the desk he said, “You’ll start at Fiction,” while handing me a thick notebook. “It doesn’t matter how long it takes.”

  “But shouldn’t it be...?”

  “On a computer? No. This is the only way.”

  I slipped the card and the key into the pocket of my jeans, while both feeling the heaviness of the notebook and glancing at the rows and rows of books.

  “As I said, it doesn’t matter how long it takes.”

  The echoed tinkle resounded through the shop.

  Life was moving again.

  I couldn’t deny that I’d decided.

  Here it was then, the next stage of my life, one where I would be in control, where I could continue to choose what was right for me.

  And it wouldn’t matter how long it took.

  ***

  About the Author:

  Hello everyone. If you haven’t guessed by now I have a passion for words and have nine books published...all thanks to ‘lulu’, much hard work and sleepless nights.

  My eldest daughter has flown the nest and is married to a man who doesn’t mind his mother-in-law though my son is still fluffing his feathers.

  My middle child is off on a mysterious adventure, the like of which I can only guess...and tried to do so in my first book, Gone.

  I love to read and am looking for ways to double time so to indulge in the mysterious and wonderful and delicious and strange...my favourite kind of story.

  Writing is my passion, though I enjoy creating handcrafted cards, jewellery making, scrapbooking and dabbling in encaustic art whenever I can.

  Oh yes, I used to teach or mark exam papers but now concentrate on writing and enjoying my new life, which materialised, as if by a miracle. Though still dislike all those necessary domestic chores that would, for me, be included in the Rings of Hell!

  That’s it. Thank you to anyone who reads my books...enjoy the flight!

  I have two websites, where reviews on my books can be found as well as other (maybe helpful) information:

  https://www.freewebs.com/julizpow

  https://www.alchemyuk.yolasite.com

  ###

  Scale of a Dragon

  by J. Michael Radcliffe

  Copyright © 01/23/2011 all rights reserved

 

  The warm glow of a fire flickered through the window, beckoning to Callen as she struggled through the snow towards the cottage. It was late; it had taken her much longer to gather the firewood for the night than she had thought, and darkness had fallen while she was still in the forest. The wind was bitterly cold, slicing through her furs like a knife and stinging her face. Every breath she took seared her lungs as the icy fingers of air tried to freeze her heart. She struggled to pull the sled laden with firewood through the drifting snow, her fur lined boots crunching as she walked. She’d had to journey deeper into Ebonwood day after day trying to find dry tinder to keep her cottage warm through the long winter nights. Much of the debris she normally found, fallen branches, sticks and the like, had been consumed by fires throughout the valley. The war between the dragons and the wizards had literally exploded across the land, with the dragons scorching and laying waste to any settlement they could find. The wizards weren’t much better. Heaving a sigh, Callen trudged onward with her burden. Although she was a magic user herself, she had a great respect for nature and specialized in creating tinctures and potions from the ingredients gathered in Ebonwood. Most witches and wizards looked down on herbalists like Callen, thinking her backward and uneducated, yet many relied on her for ingredients for their own spells.

  Struggling the last few feet with her heavy load, she tied the sled’s tether to a post and pushed open the heavy wooden door. At least two feet thick and covered in glittering runes etched by Callen’s family over generations, it swung soundlessly inward – it knew her touch as it had known her mother’s and her grandmother’s. Callen staggered in with an armload of kindling and dropped it on the large stone hearth as the door quietly closed behind her.

  “About time you got back!” snapped a harsh, gravelly voice from a dark corner of the room.

  “I’m sorry Papa,” sighed Callen. “It’s getting harder and harder to find wood for the fire – I had to go farther into Ebonwood than I’ve…”

  “Bah! Don’t give me excuses girl! Now stoke the fire and get supper going; I’ve been starving while you were out wandering in the forest.”

  “Yes, Papa,” said Callen as she hurried over to the fire and stirred the embers with an iron rod, sending sparks flying up the chimney.

  He’s worse tonight. It must be the cold.

  “Do you need a blanket, Papa?”

  “If I wanted a blanket I would have said so, wouldn’t I? Stupid girl! Always asking questions when the answer is obvious!”

  She winced at his harsh words and hurried into the kitchen to make up the cook fire. Her father had always been difficult to please, especially after the death of her mother. The past ten years had been hard enough before the war started, and now her father’s temper was even worse. She could not remember the last time he had left his chair in the corner, wrapped in shadows. As a wizard he did not approve of Callen’s life as an herbalist, thinking it a waste of her time that brought shame to the family – a fact that he reminded her of at least five times every day.

  “A plain girl such as you must sharpen your wit! If a man won’t have you for your looks, perhaps we can at least find one that will have you for your mind,” he would say.

  Callen busied herself in the kitchen, stoking the embers of the small cooking fire so they would heat the soup she had put on earlier in the day. It had been at least an hour since the sun had set, so dinner would be late – another thing her father would remind her of she was sure. He had always been difficult to please and Callen could not recall the last time she had seen or heard anything like compassion or affection in his harsh voice.

  I’m sure it’s because he’s been ill. If only he would venture out into the fresh air once in a while.

  She knew her father had been ill for some time, but he refused to budge from his corner and scolded her harshly when she tried to persuade him to go out. She never knew if or when he ever moved from that one spot, for he was always there, wrapped in shadows, when she passed through.

  “Callen!”

  “Yes, Papa?”

  “You’ve forgotten to bring in enough wood to last the night, girl! What were you thinking?”

  “I’m sorry, Papa! I’ll bring some more in after I’ve brought you your soup.”

  “Forget it; you’ve made me wait so long my hunger has waned. I doubt I could stomach your cooking tonight anyway.”

  Callen felt the heat rise into her cheeks as her face flushed and tears welled up in her eyes. “But Papa, you need to eat!”

  “You heard me, Callen! Bring in the wood – NOW, before the chill sets in!”

  “Yes, Papa,” she sighed as she choked back her tears.

  Callen pulled her hooded cloak from the peg on the wall and wrapped it tightly around her, knowing the chill wind awaited her outside. She walked past her father’s corner without looking at him for fear he would scold
her for crying. Lightly touching the door, she stepped aside as it swung open for her and shuddered as a blast of cold night air took her breath away.

  ***

  Callen shivered in the pale glow of the moonlight as she stacked piece after piece of wood in her small arms. She cursed her diminutive frame, which limited how much she could carry. She had learned over the years how to balance more wood than most men could carry, for she knew better than to disappoint her father. Too many times he had made her carry the bundle of wood back out and start over again when the first armload wasn’t enough. “More than one trip is a waste of time,” he would snap and order her back out into the cold to start her task over again.

  A rumble of what sounded like thunder in the distance made Callen pause, as one did not often hear thunder in the middle of January, much less under a cloudless night sky. She glanced upward to look for the source when suddenly an ear-splitting shriek pierced the night air, echoing over the forest. Dropping her bundle of firewood, Callen looked around in fear as the sound made her blood run cold; the shriek had carried the sound of rage, pain and anguish in equal amounts. A sudden burst of blue-black flame in the distance caught her attention, as an enormous dark object hurtled towards her. Callen screamed and dove behind the pile of firewood as the object passed just over the roof of her cottage, knocking a few stones from the chimney as it passed. A thunderous crashing sound followed as whatever it was plowed through the forest behind the cottage and came to a stop some distance away.

  Callen cowered behind the pile of firewood for several minutes, until the cold chill of the snow forced her upward. The forest was remarkably silent since the object had crashed, with the only sound being the wind creaking through the branches high above. Taking a few furtive steps, she eased around behind her home until she could see the forest beyond. Small branches and entire limbs had been torn from the trees, although the object’s trajectory was not perfectly straight – some larger trees had been entirely missed – as if someone had fallen from the sky instead of something.

  Unable to contain her curiosity any longer, Callen carefully followed the trail of debris into the forest. Not far beyond the edge of the treeline, she could make out a dark mound nearly the size of her cottage. Callen knew the forest well and there had never been a mound of dirt here before – and this one appeared to have been on fire as there were wisps of smoke rising from it and the smell of burnt sulfur permeated the air. She edged forward, trying not to stumble over the debris in the snow.