BestsellerBound Short Story Anthology: Volume One
A Collection of Tales by A Variety of Authors
Copyright © 2011 BestsellerBound.com/Darcia Helle
All rights to this anthology are reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the authors. This book contains works of fiction. The characters and situations are products of each author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Rights to the individual works contained in this anthology are owned by the submitting authors and/or publishers and each has permitted the story's use in this collection. Individual copyright information is listed with each work.
Contents:
Wish Upon A Star by Lainey Bancroft
Tears For Hesh by J. Michael Radcliffe
You Can Call Me Ari by Darcia Helle
Flames by Maria Savva
Minor Details by Jaleta Clegg
Ice Cream Man by Neil Schiller
No Eyes But Mine Shall See by Sharon E. Cathcart
The First Texas Twister by Magnolia Belle
Shadow Lantern by Gareth Lewis
Stained by Amy Saunders
Wish Upon A Star
by Lainey Bancroft
Copyright © March 2011
Jordana Jones flipped the pages of the scrapbook that had been left in her dressing room. The dog-eared sheets probably represented a five year labor of love. The demented effort of some dweeb who’d spent every night whacking off to her glam shots after he discovered the pathetic appendage in his pants was good for more than aiming at a urinal or writing his name in the snow.
Her fingers brushed the worn-to-velvet publicity pictures. The thought of a pervert’s digits repeatedly stroking the flesh she’d bared in the images forced a shudder from deep inside her already trembling frame. She reached for the amber bottle on the table beside her and shook out a couple pills, sifting the smooth ovals between her fingers and savoring the relief they’d bring.
The scrapbook headlines were no better than the revealing pictures. A collection of best loved clichés. Reporters considered her an overnight phenomenon with the power to rise to fame like a shooting star. She’d been credited with having ‘the body of a Venus’, ‘the face of an angel’ and ‘a voice heaven-sent’.
Once, all the claims were true, but it wouldn’t be long before everyone realized her greatest attribute—the one that actually mattered—was no longer a trait she had any claim to.
She hummed a few off-key notes, hoping it would drown out the voices that had come nightly for months now. Her feeble warble failed to silence the judgmental murmurs. Nothing would silence them.
Burn out. Fade away. Burned bridges. Burn out. Fade...
The only bridges she’d burned were ones she’d already crossed and she had no intention of burning out or fading away. She’d worked too damn hard. Jordana Jones was going to keep right on burning down the house and laying claim to fame. It was her right. She owned it.
Someone banged on the door. The collection of lotions, potions and cosmetics on the table in front of her rattled. Jordana jumped, the icy Southern Comfort trickling down her arm anything but comforting.
“You’re on in fifteen, Jordi.”
“Gimme twenty.” The diva-like request would be anticipated, the grating delivery, much less expected. The change couldn’t have gone unnoticed. Why hadn’t anybody mentioned it?
Jordana popped the pills in her mouth and chewed. The oxy, carried by a generous slurp of Southern Comfort, travelled down her throat like shards of lead crystal. Hot. Brittle. She welcomed the sharp spike of agony; it masked the relentless ache that had been ripping her apart mentally and physically for too long.
Tears danced in her eyes, fragmenting to bright bursts like shooting stars just as the comfortable numbness settled over her. She blinked hard. The tears brimmed over and fell to trail like cold drops of rain on her burning cheeks.
Her gaze dropped to the glossy eight-by-ten that served as the scrapbook cover. Her five-years-younger self stared back at her. She could clearly recall that blue-eyed innocent lifting her face to the stars that blanketed a small-town, northern Ontario sky and singing to the heavens. Singing for her freedom. For her big break. Singing for the opportunity to show the world that she could sing. Was born to sing.
The stars had fragmented that night, too. Well, one had, anyway. Her special star. The one she’d wished on the night Mama went away and never came back. The individual pinpoint of brightness that had called to her through her bedroom blinds so many tear-filled nights had burst into streaks of shimmering white light that rocketed out of the sky toward her, around her, and right into her. The unearthly heat had embraced her. The raw power had empowered her.
And she hadn’t even imbibed a single pill or shot of alcohol that night.
Of course, Daddy’d had plenty to drink. He’d damn near knocked her into that star-studded sky when she’d tried to explain what had happened. To tell him that the very heavens themselves had told her it was her time.
Daddy was wrong. She wasn’t crazy as a shit house bat just like her Mama. The cop that came after Daddy had that unfortunate incident with the hunting riffle didn’t think she was crazy, either. Officer Hawkins had used up his entire retirement fund and then some financing recording time for her and seeing that she got the proper promotional push to rocket her onto the pop music charts.
It was too bad she’d had to tell the press he’d behaved indiscreetly, but old Hawk just got too clingy as her popularity grew. Besides, the world loved to back an underdog. Being big wasn’t big enough for Jordana. She needed to be the biggest. Her status as the poor little girl who’d been done wrong fighting to make things in her life right had tipped that scale. Suddenly, she was no longer merely popular, but a media darling. A freaking legend in her own time.
There wasn’t a music fan in North America—in the world—in the Universe—that didn’t know her name. This, her first live tour in a year had proven that when the tickets sold out within minutes of the concert announcement.
The dressing room door rattled again. “Your fans are waiting, Jordi.”
“Yeah?” Jordana struggled to her feet. A rolling gait carried her toward the door, which she punched. Her eyes registered the burst of bright red blood on her knuckles but her numb hand remained unaware of the impact. “Let ‘em keep waiting. I’ll be out when I’m good and ready.”
Her uncooperative tongue ran the last words together so they sounded like the name of her favorite, multi-colored licorice treats. Mama had bought her a little box every Wednesday when they shopped at the local grocery.
She ran her tongue over the smoothness of her teeth, longing for the taste of sugary licorice—of love—but tasting only bitter painkiller, sour alcohol and the acrid burn of bone deep loss and loneliness.
Ignoring the pleas and continued rattling at the door, she thrust a chair beneath the single window high on the dressing room back wall. She engaged in several clumsy attempts before finally managing to climb aboard, and then blinked, fighting to focus through the two-by-two triangle of smeared glass. A sprinkling of stars dotted the night sky. To the right of the Big Dipper, in the area that had been a dark void since the episode she thought of as the night of the brightest stars, a small pulse of light glowed, growing stronger as she stared.
Her heart hammered in time to the pulsating and ever brightening light. She opened her mouth and a hoarse cry of rage drown out the plaintive begging of her manager from the hall.
“Gi
ve it back.” Spittle flew from her numb lips to splatter the already blurry pane of glass. She gripped the wood window frame to keep her balance, blood from her wounded knuckles making her hold slick and slippery against smooth pink paint. “It’s mine, damn you.”
“It was never yours.”
The voice was all around her. Familiar, and yet, unfamiliar in that she’d never heard it so clearly.
“Is so mine. Was born with it.” Her grip fumbled and she dug her nails in, tearing the siren red manicure to tattered, bloody nail bed. Tears welled in her eyes again and angry sobs burst from her chest. She released the windowsill to swipe moisture and mucus from her streaming face. “Born to sing.”
“And sing you did. Anyone can sing, foolish girl.”
“Not like me, they can’t.” The chair wobbled beneath her and she clung to slippery wood with both hands. “I was born to be a star.”
“Only a star is born to be a star, Jordana.”
“Bullshit!” Her fist flew through the glass, aimed skyward.
“Jesus, Jordana! What’s going on in there? Do I have to break this door down?”
Her manager’s voice sounded frantic. She giggled, picturing Bernie’s bulbous nose turning purple and his well-fed jowls trembling in frustration over his inability to control his meal-ticket. That’s all she’d ever been to him, a fat paycheck to fill his even fatter belly.
A sucker-punch of pain walloped Jordana. She surveyed her arm, half in and half out the window, flexed her fingers and took note of the red river of blood coursing into the crease of her elbow. Nope, her arm didn’t hurt a bit. It was her heart that ached. Hot tingles travelled from her fingers and along her arm for a second before her entire body felt cold and weightless.
The single hand still clinging to the bloodied wood lost its tenuous grip. The chair tilted and her body free-floated to the worn carpet. Even with her eyes closed she could see the ever increasing pulse of light in the space that had previously been dark. “I am a star.”
“Star power is leased to those who need it. Those who deserve it.”
“Fuck that. I earned it, dammit!”
The disembodied voice ignored her. “Sometimes the power is leased for a lifetime. Sometimes it is a brief, rental trial. We tried. You failed. Your lease is up.”
The voice was no longer all around her but right in her. She wanted to tell it to shut up but couldn’t seem to find a voice of her own. No voice to sing. No voice to speak. No voice.
“I faded away so you could shine and you burned me. You burned yourself and everyone around you, Jordana.”
Fuck you. The words formed in only her mind, but the voice heard her. She could tell by the stern, dismissive tone when next it spoke.
“The official word will probably be that Jordana Jones bled out due to a tragic accident caused by drugs and alcohol. The world will never know that when fame faded away what had once been the best part of her, a hope and warmth even the stars noticed, she burned out.”
Fade away, my ass. Jordana’s head lolled to the side as the dressing room door burst open. Her manager fell to his knees beside her, screaming for someone to call 911. Funny, she could hear his cigar and triple malt voice but couldn’t smell the cloud of expensive cologne that usually enveloped him. Bernie would never let her fade away. He relied on her too much to provide him with creature comforts. Burned out. That’s all she was, a little tired. She needed a few more weeks to heal the pipes, maybe kick the pills. Bernie would arrange it. He’d do anything for her. She’d ask later, when she wasn’t so tired.
Closing her eyes, she let the darkness and insulating comfort of the pills lift her away from the sudden chaos of her dressing room. Warm air cloaked her and she shifted, weightlessly left the commotion beneath her and floated into a wonderful, velvet blackness. Damn, but what a fine prescription. Possibly the best she’d ever had.
Jordana spread her arms and flew through the shattered window. In the midnight sky, just to the right of the Big Dipper, a brilliant star twinkled. A sob rose in her throat as she soared closer and saw that the star winked down on a poverty-stricken cabin in Nashville where a young woman with the face of an angel and a voice heaven sent sang softly to a tiny baby girl.
***
About the author:
Lainey Bancroft resides in the wine regions of Ontario enduring too much snow or too much humidity, depending on the season. She is surrounded by too many pets and too many teenagers, forcing her to sometimes indulge in too much lovely, regional wine. The many excesses help fuel Lainey's too active imagination and keep her fingers flying across the keyboard creating tales of romance and speculative fiction in various lengths. Unfortunately, she's never been in a situation where she had too much time to write.
Discover more about Lainey and her award winning, Reviewer's Choice romance stories at https://www.elaineforlife.com
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Tears for Hesh
by J. Michael Radcliffe
Copyright © December 2010
Hesh wandered about the potions shop aimlessly, unable to find the rare ingredient his master needed. He grew more frustrated by the minute, for his master had been very specific in his request. He had ordered Hesh to rush out and acquire one phial of firedrake tears, as quickly as possible. Almost indistinguishable from salamander tears, the tears from a firedrake were much more valuable and exceedingly rare, since they could only be gathered from a fully grown adult of the species. This was a dangerous task under the best of circumstances, since adult firedrakes – a distant relative of the phoenix – could only be found in the calderas of active volcanoes, where they built their nests.
Although Deadwood & Blight’s was one of the most reputable shops in town with an enormous selection, they just didn’t seem to have it. Hesh stumbled slightly as he tried to squeeze past a plump little wizard carrying a basket overflowing with ingredients. The cramped, narrow aisles of the shop made his task that much more difficult and at almost seven feet tall, he towered over all of the other patrons. Muttering to himself as he went, he scoured the shelves looking for the ingredient.
I will not fail the Master! He’s kept me on all these years when no one else would have me. I know he could have smarter and quicker assistants than the likes of me, but I’m strong and loyal, I am! Ha – I’d like to see any of those skinny little wizards carry a cauldron in each hand like I do! I just wish I didn’t stammer so; the Master said he’d fix my tongue one day with his magic. Like he said, how can I work for the most important wizard in the city if I sound like a dolt?
He shuffled down another aisle for at least the third time, bumping into a stack of cauldrons at the end of the row and sending several of them rolling noisily across the stone floor.
“Oi! You there!” shouted Jerrick, one of the clerks. “Mind where you’re going or you’ll be paying damages!”
“S-S-Sorry...” Hesh stammered apologetically.
What’s wrong with Jerrick? He’s never snapped at me like that before; normally he’s so understanding, even when I can’t get my words out.
Hesh backed out of the way as Jerrick tried to retrieve the errant cauldrons. The shop was nearly bursting at the seams with customers seeking to restock their supplies in preparation for the annual potions competition next week.
“I’m… I’m trying to find f-f-firedrake t-t-tears,” he stuttered.
Jerrick stopped restacking the cauldrons and glared at Hesh.
“Are you insane? Do you have any idea how unstable those are?”
“Unstable?” Hesh’s eyebrows shot upward in surprise. His master hadn’t mentioned anything about the ingredient being unstable. He had just ordered Hesh to find them immediately and at any price.
“Yes, unstable! If you shake the container too hard or gods forbid drop them, they will combust, destroying everything within fifty feet. That’s why they are on the restricted list!”
Hesh fumbled with his bag of coins and shuffled his feet, looking
around to see if anyone was near enough to hear what he was about to say.
“Look, Jerrick, you’ve got to help me. I was ordered to f-f-find them immediately. It’ll mean m-m-my head if I come back empty handed! Master won’t be happy, not happy at all!”
Jerrick just sighed as he finished stacking the cauldrons back into a neat pyramid display.
“Look Hesh, I’m sorry, okay? But trafficking in black market ingredients is just too dangerous. Besides, if your master needs them so badly, then why doesn’t he have a signed order approved by the Council Apothecary?”
“Shh! N-n-not so loud! Master said he doesn’t have t-t-time for such f-f-foolishness.” Hesh glanced around again to make certain no one had heard Jerrick.
“That isn’t right, Hesh. Do you know what they would do to you if you were caught with firedrake tears without a permit? You’d be indentured to the Council for at least ten years and forced to spend twenty-three hours every day as your animal form, whatever that might be.”
Unfortunately Hesh knew exactly what his animal form would be – a large panda bear. Unknown to Jerrick or anyone else, Hesh’s master, a member of the Council, had one day turned Hesh into his animal form for amusement. Hesh hated his animal form – the fur was hot and he scratched for hours after returning to his human self.
“But Jerrick, I don’t have a choice!” he pleaded. “L-l-look, I’ll give you t-t-ten gold crowns if you get me the stuff.”
Jerrick raised his eyebrows. “He must really want those tears,” he said, obviously surprised by such an offer. “That much coin would pay my wages for nearly six months!”
“Please, Jerrick! I must not f-f-fail the M-m-master! I m-m-mustn’t!”
“Look, why is this so important to him? What does he need those tears for, anyway?”
Hesh shook his head, and then brushed his long brown hair out of his eyes. “Dunno. All I know is he wants them, and he wants them now.”
“Alright, fine – I’ll get them for you, but keep your money. Your master doesn’t deserve you, Hesh; he’s obviously a cruel beast judging by that scar he gave you the last time we were out of ingredients he wanted.”