Princess Upon a War Horse

The journey from the foothills to Darjeeling was like the slow, tantalising drip of jungle honey. Antara could walk alongside, on the brink of the hills, green valleys yawning below; chew on delicate pink flowers that tasted sour, and breathe deep the pine-scented air. Tiny wooden houses sat on stilts, their windowsills creaking with rosy-cheeked children waving at her, and pots bursting with red and pink geraniums.

She went horseback riding in Darjeeling on the tallest horse she could find, and although Mama's contempt caused her to miss a stirrup and fall face-down upon the horse's neck, she would ride alone. She was a princess upon a war horse and the boys with peace sign lockets around their necks whistled appreciatively at her as she galloped past.

After a round, when she neared the crowded ‘chowrasta’, Antara reined in the horse beside a little mound of earth, and gingerly dismounted. She did not wish to make a spectacle of herself again. The horse followed her like some docile dog, so that a tourist mistook her for a guide.

A young man with rosy cheeks came up to her and handed her the earring she had lost when she fell. She thanked him with a smile, and hastily clipped it on, for to be seen with just one earring was worse than not being seen with earrings at all.


BIO

Anita Saran leads a rich life that encompasses the world of fiction writing and spiritual practice. She is the award-winning author of the national award winning science fiction novella 'Aditya the Underwater Boy', and 'Dolphin Girl and Other Stories.'
Her short story 'City of Victory' was broadcast on BBC Radio 4 in July 2004. You can listen to it free here:
http://www.associatedcontent.com/audio/10164/city_of_victory_by_anita_saran_narrated.html
Her audio story 'Panic' is up on Sniplits - http://sniplits.com/storiesbytitle.jsp#
Her Science fiction story 'The Enlightened Robot' is on Cezanne's Carrot: http://www.cezannescarrot.org/vol2iss2/enlightenedrobot.html

Novella 'City of Victory' published by chillifreeze.com :

http://www.chillifreeze.com/publish_your_book/city_of_victory_by_anita_saran.aspx

Her first novel 'Circe' – a funny satirical fantasy- is about to be released by Mojocastle Press.
Anita teaches short story writing and copywriting online on chillifreeze.com..
Read some of her writing on her personal website - http://www.anitasaran.com.

UNNOTICED by Jim Wisneski

It was the last changing leaf of the season.  The transformation from a dark, rich green to a bright red to a golden yellow to a fallen leaf happened unnoticed.  It blew down the street, block by block, until finally held down by the rain and the endless tires.  The remains were carried by foot, breeze, plow, and time as the last changing leaf went unnoticed.

The rush of candy, of thanks to be given, and lights and toys came and went. The treacherous winter sunk its teeth into the earth and held tight for as time made it feel like forever.  Then something magical happened.  The first leaf of the season budded.  It stuck its head out and opened with a sigh and welcomed back the warm sun.  The first leaf welcomed the rest and time moved forward once again, unnoticed.

 

 

Short bio: Visit Jim's writers blog at www.writersnwriters.blogspot.com - visit his personal blog at www.wizworld.wordpress.com - and visit his podcasting blog to hear some of his stories, novellas, and novels at www.jimcast.wordpress.com. Jim writes short stories, novellas, novels, and poetry.  When he isn't writing, he is thinking about writing.

HANDS by Kevin Hoffman

He looked down at his thick, time-worn hands and flexed his fingers deep in thought. These hands could carry a shovel and clear the way for a bright future or carry nothing and stand in the way of progress. They could cradle a baby gently within their grasp or crush the life from someone's throat. These hands can build a home to shelter a family or rip it apart one board at a time. He turned his hands over to examine the back, marveling at the variety of the size and shape of the veins running below the surface.

He thought how each vein turned at a fork in the road; a choice made that led him down one path and away from another. Through his hands, he could love someone or show them hatred. His hands could lift someone's heart and spirits or crush them and forever damage a soul. His hands were full of power. All the power in the world to bring about whatever wish he could imagine rest within his simple, bare hands.

Kevin Hoffman has been writing stories and books since he was a kid. He's spent the last 14 years of his life writing computer software and writing books on computer programming. He has finally decided that computer programming is just a day job and his true passion is writing fiction, though you will have to pry his high-tech gadgetry from his cold, dead hands. http://www.kshmusings.com

Behold the Dawn:

An excerpt from just released medieval novel Behold the Dawn:

The infidels struck, screaming their wordless battle cry. Everything around them turned to pain and death. Annan didn’t wait to check for the guards. He clamped one hand round the lady’s arm and lunged forward. The sounds of the slaughter surged after them with an intensity and a speed that bespoke all too well of the attackers’ vigor.

He kept low, not daring to look behind him, knowing the Moslems were much closer than he wanted them to be.

He and the lady crossed the corpse of a guard, and Annan paused long enough to lift the infidel saber from the still-warm hand. It was a masterful stroke that had felled the warrior—silently, deftly, instantly. His nostrils flared in a momentary flash of admiration. Whatever else he was or had been, the Baptist was a man of many skills.

The courser, a muscled gray, snorted through distended nostrils, but he could not veer fast enough to escape Annan’s hand on the tie-line.

“Master Knight!”

At her cry, he spun to see the approach of the horsemen, dark against the ruddy sky. With one stroke of the saber, he severed the tie line and vaulted into the saddle, narrowly clearing the high cantle.

The Moslems swept through the camp, shouting their curses of vengeance, and Mairead turned to look up at Annan, eyes dark with the sudden horror that he was abandoning her already.

He shifted sword and reins all into one hand, fighting to keep the snorting courser from charging away. He reached out with his left hand and caught the countess’s outstretched arm. His wounded shoulder burned, and the tightness of the bandage nearly forestalled the necessary strength to swing her onto the pillion behind him.

She landed with a soft thump and let go of his wrist. Her arms came around his waist, her face against his shoulders. “Go.”

He laid his heels to the gray courser’s sides, and the horse lunged forward, dark mane unfurling against his rein hand. But this was a Western horse, bred for muscle and endurance. He had not the dexterity and fleetness of the Mohammedan war mares.

Behind them, the tattoo of hoofbeats grew louder yet, and Annan dared a look over his shoulder, past Mairead’s blowing hair. Only paces separated them from two infidel pursuers.
He spurred the courser again. The horse was fresh and responded with another lengthening of stride. But Annan knew they would never outpace their followers. He could only be thankful that these infidels were not that brand of Moslem archer famed for their accuracy on horseback, else the countess’s exposed back would already have become an easy target.

Not that it mattered. Once they drew near enough, the infidels would cut them apart at their leisure anyway.

He could not run. So he must fight.

about K. M. Weiland I grew up chasing Billy the Kid and Jesse James on horseback through the sand hills of western Nebraska, where I still live. A lifelong fan of history and the power of the written word, I enjoy sharing both through my many fictional stories and my novels, A Man Called Outlaw and Behold the Dawn (available October 1st). I blog at Wordplay: Helping Writers Become Authors andAuthorCulture and air a weekly podcast as well.

WHEN

"Mommy!, I can't find my favorite necklace!" shrieked Emily.

"One sec Jane" sighed Clair as she turned away from the phone to address her daughter.
"Emily, how many times do I have to tell you?  If something is that
important to you, you have to take really good care of it or it'll end up
lost.  Go on, keep looking and I'll help you find it when I'm off the phone".

With a shake of her head, she went back to her conversation. "Sorry Jane....
I knooow!  When will they ever learn?!?  Now, what was that you were asking?
Oh no dear, that's ok, I don't mind you asking at all.  I really don't know
what happened.  I guess we just grew apart and needed something else out of
our lives."

Runswith Cizers is a nube writer who loves Mac products and Mustangs.  When he's not running with cissors, and even when he is, he is a  computer geek.  

WAKE-UP CALL

The day arrived packaged in a brown paper bag. 

The pinched sun was knotted up behind a bank of burnt cork cloud, high up at the apex of the celestial. 

Lesser cumuli corrugated the sky like wrinkles. 

God, the old consumptive, was obviously anxious to get his latest sequestration back home through the pearly gates and was gripping to the firmament just a mite too hard. 

And then it broke, all Hell that is. 

A jagged tear at the bottom where the sky kissed the concrete Babel, from which hailstones rehashed from Ancient Egypt toppled on to the sidewalk.

The divine short order chef dashing his eggs over easy.

Sunny side down. 

Or perhaps, considering the alcoholic withdrawal that continually ram-raided the hole in my soul, maybe the hailstones were resonating more like popping corn inside mycranium. 

Unhh, no need for an alarm clock with my finely altered biochemistry.

Marc Nash:  Experimental UK writer, lover of language and imagery. Ex-playwright, now assaulting the novel form. Self-published "A,B&E" imminent. A scabrous mirror held up to my people. A love-hate "Dear John" letter.

Blog: http://sulcicollective.blogspot.com/

Self-Publishing experience Blog: http://self-publishinguser.blogspot.com/

Website: http://marcnash.weebly.com/

Twitter @21stCscribe

TWILA

 

Twila was born in the mountains of Virginia under a full moon “That’s when all the lunatics came out,” her grandmother said.

 

Maybe that’s why Twila set out to do things no one else could do.

 

Like the time she decided to roller skate to the White House and ask the President to stop all war; she made it five miles and then the sidewalk ran out . . . so she thought she’d go home and watch The Cosby show, instead.

 

On her fifteenth birthday she recruited six of her friends to help save the world from hunger; if they collected five hundred dollars the purchase of rice and beans could feed the impoverished.

Realizing these people would need fire and water, her plans changed to handing out bread and peanut butter where the local homeless gathered.

 

No one was surprised on the day after graduation—when Twila joined the Army to make new friends in Iraq .

                                                                                  #

Jeanette is a charter member of the Hampton Roads Writers.

A veteran member of many online writing sites and E-Zine’s.

Six Sentence Blog site and E-Zine. A semifinalist; in the Mixed Drinks contest and published two Six Sentence Magazines of Six Sixes and in their newly released book Volume Two.

Published on: Smith Magazine and in two of their memoir books.

Three of these books have been on the New York Times best sellers list.

Twice published on The Verb’s Chalkboard, and a Semifinalist in the Verb’s Dynamic Dialogue contest, Helium--Premier Writer Status andMarketplace Writer, Gather, Doorknobs and Body Paint, Edit Red, Pen Pricks, Thrillers Killers ‘N’ Chillers, One Sentence, Robert Swartword and Verbsap winner of the best title contest, Word Salad Haiku and poem. Pen Ten Scribes and Forthcoming: Harbinger*33.