Our story thus far: We met John, an aspiring mystery writer, who lives in an efficiency apartment in Los Angeles and has recurring nightmares. Except for a dream about a smiling blonde woman…

Then he meets Mary at a nearby diner - cheers her up, helps her to solve her life-problems, and they find each other attractive….

Start Here | Table of Contents

To not miss out, get these delivered to your inbox or app every Saturday:

Subscribe now

Our next installment:

Walkaway Blues: 3

Once our mugs were refilled, I sweetened mine with honey this time. And real cream out of the small pitcher provided.

Oh, that was really good.

It brought out the dark roast flavor instead of trying to overpower it. I let out a small moan of satisfaction and smiled.

John looked over at my sounds. “Pretty good that way, huh?”

I closed my eyes in appreciation, and turned back to him as I opened them again. “Only one thing in the world is better than that - I mean, besides their pie a la mode.”

John flushed a bit at that comment, which in turn resulted in my own chest and neck turning a bit hot. Funny how those things worked. So we both took another sip and a moment of quiet.

At last, I broke the silence before it became too much more awkward. “You mentioned that Adventure and Romance are also in the mix for great stories. Can these also be used to resolve life problems?”

John smiled and looked back at me around his steaming mug. Lowering it, he replied, “Sure. Most people live dull lives. So something coming along to excite them is welcome. The problem is that people think that negative emotions, like anger and hate, are the only ones they should be experiencing in life. So news stories lead with violence and antipathy and seldom get beyond just stirring people up.”

I returned his gaze, watching his expression with minute attention to the smiling wrinkles around his eyes. “So, does that then fill up their lives with unwanted emotions, like red herrings in mysteries?”

John took another sip, and only smiled.

I smiled back in return, waiting for the explanation.

John set his mug down on the counter. “Life isn’t all anger and contention. And the story will lag. It’s a lot like reading thrillers or horror as a steady diet. Both of the good stories in these genres require some slow spots to give the reader a needed break. But adventure and romance are great sub-story-arcs to throw in there and relieve the tension, briefly.”

I had my mug near my chin, holding it with both hands, letting the aroma caress my nose. “Something like King’s The Shining, where the character keeps typing ‘all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.’”

John nearly sputtered into his own mug. “Exactly. Great example. And a great movie, too. A counter-point is the Dan Brown Da Vinci Code series. Always a new love interest for Professor Landon in each story.”

Carefully waiting for John to swallow, I then narrowed my question. “Brown was such a prude though - or the movie direction was. His hero Landon never took anyone to bed on screen.”

John smiled at this, but the question raised no flush on him. “You only need to include elements that forward the plot. And off-screen peccadilloes are often better when implied or suggested. Like fully-naked models aren’t as attractive or provocative as partially-clothed ones.”

That was my turn to blush. I held my top away from my neck to cool my chest - as John noticed with a glance. And I managed to allow the next button down my blouse to escape meanwhile.

He averted his eyes, but I noticed he now sported an honest flush to his face. While he returned his coffee mug to his face as cover-up.

I just continued my advancing thought. “As without adventure in the story - real life or not - then a lack of romance would also then ‘make a dull boy’?”

John saw through the gambit. “That’s a common interpretation these days. And probably why Westerns these days have so many randy scenes in them. L’Amour and Brand didn’t need these, and their books have never gone out of print. Which perhaps shows that their model proves out. Sure, there were the kisses in those, but the off-screen amorous scenes hardly even had hints that they occurred. If an author wants to have perennial-sellers - not just a momentary hit on the booksales lists, then clean and cozy seems to be the rule.”

I set down my coffee and leaned my face against my right hand, my left slid to my lap. “But in real life, two attracted people - well,..”

John gave a wry smile. “Jack can ward against being a ‘dull’ boy all he wants - as long as it doesn’t get in the way of his writing.”

I returned his smile and leaned toward him. “Of course, we’re talking hypotheticals. Back to my own problem, it was completely lacking in both romance and adventure.”

John allowed himself another glance at the new view I’d provided him. “Yes, but the adventure was also off-screen - the election returns. You haven’t mentioned any love interest in your life.”

I chuckled in a low voice. “No, We’ve left this scene cozy and only implied.”

John sat quiet, taking another sip. Turning back to bring his right hand up to hold his mug with both hands, he sat in silence. The ball was in my court.

I leaned over and put my hand on his thigh. “Look, I didn’t mean to embarrass you. And I really appreciate what you’ve done to cheer me up.”

When John said nothing I started to lean back, but John then slid his hand down to cover mine. And leaned over to give me a light kiss on my forehead.

At that, we both withdrew.

A moment passed. John finished his coffee, smiling. “Well, this has been nice. Thanks for all the inspiration you’ve given me.” He reached into an inside pocket of his brown jacket, and returned with a slim paperback.

He patted his shirt pocket and extracted a pen, then opened the book to scribble inside it. “Here, just something you might enjoy reading. And you can see how well my cozy fiction mystery deals with romantic story arcs.” Then he closed the book and placed it within my reach on the counter top.

At that, he checked his watch on his left wrist, then replaced his pen. “Looks like my bus is due any minute. Maybe we should meet here again sometime to continue our discussion. This was nice, refreshing.”

With that, he pulled out a wallet from his other inside jacket pocket and put several bills on the counter. Enough for both of our coffees and pie slices. Smoothly, he slid off his stool, but stopped to put an arm around my shoulders. I looked up into his eyes as his other hand reached up under my chin to tilt my lips upward — as he stooped to meet them with his. And gave me a small kiss.

With a quiet smile, he turned. A few long strides took him out the front door.

Quickly, I scooped up his book and slid it into my handbag, then quick-stepped to catch up with him outside.

A touch at his elbow was all he needed. I slid my handbag onto the inside of my elbow as he immersed me into his strong arms. My other arm was around the back of his neck, pulling him down to meet my face, just as I stood on tiptoes to reach his face with mine.

- - - -

John didn’t seem to care when his bus left without him. He held me close, my lips on his, and I could feel his strong back with my fingers and all his toned muscles up against my front. His broad hands wrapped around my back and pressed me close. My enveloping want met his pressing need. We didn’t come up for air until much later. I didn’t concern myself with our appearance, trusting to that phrase, “No one walks in L. A.” There were only us two in that long moment.

At last I stood there against him, breathing deeply. My head was resting on his broad chest, his own cheek against the top of my head.

John only held me close for a little while longer. At last, he took me by my shoulders and gently pushed me back. “The next bus also goes my way. Sorry, but I have to get to my day job. Otherwise, we could see how this romance story arc plays out. Perhaps another time, then.”

On cue, a city bus throttled down and arrived behind him with a gust of hot Los Angeles. air, its breaks squealing slightly. Then the pneumatic door hissed open behind us. He squeezed my upper arm as he swerved around me to climb aboard. As he disappeared among the other standing passengers on that crowded bus, another hiss and clatter closed the bus door while the engine revved up to take my mystery writer away.

Only temporary pungent diesel fumes remained in the air to give any evidence we’d ever met.

I then remembered his book and fished it out of my handbag.

When I opened the cover and read what he wrote inside, it was obvious that we’d meet again. Now I had another reason to look forward to a follow-up conversation.

Because he wrote his phone number in there as well.

Coming up are some thirty-plus episodes, one each week.

Your Vote

This episode can go several different ways. What do you think?

Subscribers can vote and see the results.

How You Can Contribute

This serial has been fleshed out as a full story. It’s based on an anthology of short stories, Walkaway Blues Anthology. Currently available at most major online book distributors. as ebook and in paperback.

I’m putting this serial up on Substack for feedback. So your comments, shares, and subscriptions are valuable.

Leave a comment

Share

You’ll want to subscribe to this in order to not miss any episodes as they are released.

Paid subscribers will get the original anthology (which is already available) and major sections of this book as they are completed and available in digital versions.

Later, they’ll get to pre-order the ebook and paperback. As well, a hardback collectible is being planned…

Subscribe now

In the Chat feature of the Substack app, I’ll be including material that didn’t make the cut, such as background information and world building reveals. As well, this borrows other characters from this world, some of which are already available here on Substack with their origin stories.

Probably the best way to keep up is to get the Substack app:

Get more from Robert C. Worstell in the Substack app

Available for iOS and Android

Get the app

Sneak Preview

I’ve been discussing the work of building this serial on Substack. And giveaway the working builds as I go. You can get your copy here, as well as links to the 9-part series on building serials.

And see other fiction by this author (under his pen names):

In our last episode, we met John, an aspiring mystery writer, who lives in an efficiency apartment in Los Angeles and has recurring nightmares. Except for a dream about a smiling blonde woman…

Start Here | Table of Contents

Premise:

In a world with a timeline of self-obsessed cults and an overabundance of malevolent ghosts, can a former cult member and aspiring mystery writer, find a supportive lover while working part-time as a cattle farmer?

All despite being recruited to use his abilities to solve ghost mysteries, while encountering a psychotic time/space-bending ex-girl friend, and supernatural entity trapped in an enchanted ring - which only wants to wreak destruction on the known universe.

And will solving this mystery cost that writer his own soul in order to save those he loves?

To not miss out, get these delivered to your inbox or app every Saturday:

Subscribe now

Our next installment:

Walkaway Blues: 2

That election night was a nightmare I didn’t want to return to. Yet this mystery writer is telling me that you can see through the lies of the media if you simply apply the story structure of mysteries to it. That was a long draw to pull.

Still, he was cute enough, sitting there in that diner days later. He was explaining his new take on how to do more with books than just reading them to escape. So I was fascinated, in more ways than one. Something was stirring in me, something long neglected.

John continued his explanation. “Sure. If you knew everything about a problem there isn’t any mystery to it. In fact, that is one of the key ways that geniuses of all time have solved problems - to ask questions and define everything there is about a problem. Same rough idea that the detectives in mysteries use to solve cases.” John took another small bite to highlight his point.

I raised an eyebrow at this, still looking over his features. “You’re saying these imaginary detectives, and their contrived actions are able to solve our modern problems - if Sam Spade showed up today and sat on the other side of you, you could give him problems like ‘Global Warming’ and he’d sort it out for you?” I was letting my ice cream melt and saturate the last of my pie at this point.

John had kept eating, and was nearly down to scraping his plate. “More or less, yes. What I’m actually saying is that if you know how a mystery is written, you’ll be able to apply that to personal problems and solve them.” John then scraped the last of his own sauce and crumbs off his plate and pushed those few drops into his mouth, smiling at the final taste.

Eying my own saturated crust, I simply started my own scraping, to finish it off before it got at least as high as room temperature.

“Would you like some coffee? I’m having one.” John asked.

I nodded in reply, too busy working to enjoy the last drips of this incredible dessert.

John rolled ahead. “Any plot has a character with a problem in a setting. In most mysteries, the crime occurs at the beginning or before the beginning of the story itself. A crime is a non-optimum solution that has been made against the published laws. A simple mystery solves the problem by finding the hidden optimal solution. Detectives have to both solve the how-dun-it of the criminal, and also determine his motivation and prevent him from repeating the crime again. That concept can be applied to almost any life situation, if not all of them.”

This struck home to me. “Almost? Like what would be exempt?”

The coffee arrived. John put honey in his. I put imitation cream in mine, with white sugar.

John sipped slightly and let the mug cool a bit. “Mostly any exception has to do with miracles, or supernatural events. Ghost stories fall into this. But there’s a modern school that solves the incomplete actions ghosts have been trying to solve that they couldn’t while alive. And that brings them closer to the Western ideal that the story has to end up with a positive outcome.”

“So, other than an act of God, are we able to solve anything?” I summarized.

He smiled at my conclusion. “Generally, yes. Of course an impossible problem is easy to set up. But the locked room murders have long been solved in fiction and in real life.”

John sipped from his cup again and smiled. “Their coffee is almost as good as their pie.”

My own coffee was good, but didn’t compare with that now finished pie. But I took his bait, finally. “OK, let’s test this. My problem is that I caught the media lying to me.” Another sip now had me wishing I’d put real cream and honey in it instead. Maybe the next cup, if our conversation lasted that long.

John sat back, sat his right hand on his thigh. My eyes lingered there, a bit longer than needful, but not too long.

John brightened with the attention. “Well, that’s not too much of a problem. The media’s been lying for years. Practically, the Hearst Yellow Journalism all but created the Spanish-American War. But it never really got better after that.” John took another quick sip. “The problem is not that the corporate news media lie, it’s our wanting to believe what they say is true. Most people don’t differentiate between verifiable fact and authoritative-sounding opinion.”

I let that sink in for a bit. “So it’s more that they have been telling me something that I really wanted to believe, in a way that I would believe it.”

John nodded. “Believing makes facts, as William James said, more or less. When you believe in something enough, it starts creating that reality for you. And when enough people believe something, it might as well be true - because they believe it is. That doesn’t make it work, though. And so another lie has to be created to explain why that belief didn’t ‘come true’. Of course, we have more ways to verify data, more eyeballs on the results, and more videos available on our smartphones and from all these surveillance cameras now. So the news becomes pretty outrageous as the lies keep getting bigger.”

At that, John stopped and looked at me to make sure he wasn’t getting too far ahead.

I swallowed a mouthful of my cooling coffee. “Oh, I think I’m following you. Here’s where bias comes in. You want to believe so-and-so will get elected, so you cherry pick your data and then phrase it so it has to be true.”

John sighed at this and shook his head. “That is why the recent election was so disappointing. The media was all on her side, but the facts never supported her getting elected. And so many people wanted to believe. And so, they then started running stories about how there was cheating at the polls.” He shook his head at this, and now took a decent gulp of coffee. All his talking had let it cool way down.

Now he was hitting me where I lived. “I’ve felt that myself - where I get so upset after watching the news that I want to do something bad, and those studies about social media being a cause of depression. That must be related to it.” I said.

John nodded. “People need to learn to walk away when the facts don’t add up. That can save them some grief.” He looked at me directly now, still half-turned toward me. “I don’t mean to pry, but I’m figuring that the gloom you came in with was something along those lines.”

I nodded and took another sip of my disappearing coffee.

John had finished his own, and signaled the waitress.

While she was en-route, I also swallowed my last bit of pie slush. Time to test that honey he used last time.

Between the pie, coffee, this cute guy on the next stool, and his infectious conversation, I was feeling almost better since – I couldn’t remember when.

So it was now time for another question I had to ask John.

Something personal to him this time.

Coming up are some thirty-plus episodes, one each week.

Your Vote

This episode can go several different ways. What do you think?

Subscribers can vote and see the results.

How You Can Contribute

This serial has been fleshed out as a full story. It’s based on an anthology of short stories, Walkaway Blues Anthology. Currently available at most major online book distributors. as ebook and in paperback.

I’m putting this serial up on Substack for feedback. So your comments, shares, and subscriptions are valuable.

Leave a comment

Share

You’ll want to subscribe to this in order to not miss any episodes as they are released.

Paid subscribers will get the original anthology (which is already available) and major sections of this book as they are completed and available in digital versions.

Later, they’ll get to pre-order the ebook and paperback. As well, a hardback collectible is being planned…

Subscribe now

In the Chat feature of the Substack app, I’ll be including material that didn’t make the cut, such as background information and world building reveals. As well, this borrows other characters from this world, some of which are already available here on Substack with their origin stories.

Probably the best way to keep up is to get the Substack app:

Get more from Robert C. Worstell in the Substack app

Available for iOS and Android

Get the app

Sneak Preview

Next week’s story is based on a short story from 2018, The Case of the Walkaway Blues. This is available on Substack:

And see other fiction by this author (under his pen names):

The story so far: John’s regular nightmares from leaving a corporate cult were interrupted by a recurring dream of a young blond woman. She appeared, next to him in his bed, brought him into her pastoral world, but vanished when he woke. If he could find her, his life would be fulfilled.

Previous | Table of Contents

Today, he walks into a crowded diner for a dessert. To find a haunted blond sitting at the counter, with that diner’s famous pie a la mode in front of her. And a single counter stool available right at her side.

Her name is Mary. This is her story:

Subscribe now

Walkaway Blues

I came for the pie - to glue back together the pieces of my broken heart.

Comfort food. That’s why I got the ice cream on top.

Apple pie. Something wholesome. All-American. Innocent.

Like the innocence and beliefs in America I’d lost long ago.

Not just any ice cream. They stocked a special cinnamon-vanilla ice cream which turned their apple pie into a piece of heaven. One that gave meaning to the phrase “pie in the sky.”

Perfect for soaking the pain out of my soul, for mending the rips in my heart that the lies had left.

I hardly noticed the man who slid onto the counter stool next to me. The place was packed this time of day, the usual lunch crowd. And their blue-plate special was nearly as good as their dessert.

But nothing mattered to me more than the ice cream in front of me. One small bite at a time. Getting all the comfort out of it I could. My left elbow was supporting my face and lending moral support.

A baritone voice next to me on that side almost startled me. “Is she having your famous apple pie a la mode? Please give me a slice just like hers.” The man spoke in a Midwestern accent, obviously not from around here. I only glanced at the sleeve of his brown duck jacket. While his hands were lined from use, their light tan showed he got outside to work, or walked for exercise. Not a native Los Angelino - if there even was such a thing.

My thoughts turned back to my ice cream. brought back the anguish I’d only started realizing days before. When I found out the secret that had been hidden all this time.

That secret became apparent when we watched the election returns and listened to the network spokespersons. Not only did our candidate lose, but those talking heads’ limp excuses showed the whole exercise was a setup. And we were the dupes that fell for it. That night, I drowned my sorrows in a full bottle of Chardonnay, sharing it with a friend who’d come over to watch the returns with me. She got the couch while I managed to drop fully-clothed onto my bed before losing consciousness.

The next morning we didn’t know what was worse - how our heads felt or that we had to go to work in that condition. I let her borrow a fresh blouse and slacks, the least I could do. But I saved that bottle. And it probably was the first step to uncovering the long list of lies that didn’t seem to quit.

Today, I was here again. Dressed simply, in a nondescript russet blouse and simple beige skirt. Hoping to blend in with this crowd. My head was still a bit woozy two days later, but most of the after-effects of that wine had seeped away. This dessert then became my next-best, and non-alcoholic way to keep the sorrows at bay. At least my regular few hours in the gym daily would take off the excess calories my emotions required.

That voice interrupted my misery, again. “Isn’t this just the greatest dessert ever?” The stranger asked me. “I’ve heard about this all over town, and came to try it. Then I had to come back for more.”

“Mr. Chirpy” next to me wanted something. But he’d paused. The next move was up to me.

- - - -

I felt I had to do the polite thing. So I nodded, glanced toward his general vicinity and put on a No. 5 smile for him, briefly. Then returned to my pie without looking at him directly. Thankfully the diner was crowded today. And the waitress wasn’t too far away if this guy tried to start anything.

His voice intruded, again: “I don’t mean to seem forward, but that smile makes your face look better.” The man next to me held his hand out. “Hi, I’m John.”

“Mary,” I said as I shook his hand. “And thanks for the kind word.”

“Anything to help a fellow traveler through this wild world we live in,” John replied.

That idea resonated with me. “I could agree with ‘wild world’. Even worse than the Old West. It was hard enough back then to find the law and get them to act, so scammers and criminals tended to get away with murder or worse.” That said, I returned to my pie, wondering why I spoke up at all.

“You’re a Western fan?” John asked.

My heart responded. “Yes, my favorite is L’Amour, but I also go to Max Brand and Zane Grey. The classics generally are better than what’s come since.” He’d gotten me talking about my favorite diversions. “But I take a break now and then for a good mystery by Doyle or Chesterton.”

“It’s just too bad there aren’t more cross-over books.” John was in his element. “Good western mysteries are so hard to find. I have seen this in some of Brand’s books, and even L’Amour, but the mystery usually plays second-fiddle to the action. That even happens in the Western romances, though.” John replied between mouthfuls.

I saw him wolfing his dessert down. “You might want to slow down on that pie - two helpings are just going to add pounds you’ll have to work off.”

John looked down at the next fork-full of pie, and set it down to halve it. “Thanks. You’ve got the better approach. Treat it as a delicacy, not as a main course. Time enough to enjoy the simple things.”

I sighed. “True. It’s good to take time to sort things out instead of rushing into them all the time.”

John continued on talking about books, “Most of the Western mysteries wound up on TV to get any real series of them. Like the old ‘Hec Ramsey’ and ‘McCloud’ shows. But there just isn’t the same flavor watching TV serials as there is reading it in text.”

“You must like mysteries.” I mused.

John nodded. “It’s my living. I do write other genres, and of course the best books have all three story structures in them. Mystery, Romance, and Action/Adventure. But cozy mysteries and clean romances are my current best sellers. People seem to be looking for more light-hearted entertainment these days.”

I swallowed the bite of pie and nodded. “That’s what I like about Westerns. You don’t have all this ‘I’m a victim’ stuff out there. It was back in the days where there was still an American Dream that you could do something about.”

I then took another small bite to savor. I used a spoon instead of a fork, because the sauce was the secret and a fork left too much on the plate.

John’s fork stopped at his plate on this. “You’re right there. Even when ‘Gunsmoke’ was still on the air, there’s some understanding of what is actually ‘right and wrong’.”

He noticed my spoon option and tried it himself. The look on his face was priceless as he closed his eyes in delight. Yes, there I was looking at his face.

His looks were rugged, handsome. Broad shoulders. A firm jaw. Twinkling eyes when he spoke. Had to be somewhere in his 30’s. Enough to get some experience in dealing with the opposite sex. And this talk wasn’t just tested pick up lines in the middle of the afternoon. He actually seemed to value my opinion.

I was now warming to this conversation. “And probably goes back to your cozy mysteries and clean romance. Back in the ‘Gunsmoke’ days, you hardly even saw Matt Dillon and Kitty ever kiss. Different times.” I sighed again.

John noticed my glumness had returned. “What’s your favorite mystery?”

I had to take my time with that one. So I kept the spoon in my mouth upside down while I looked at the wall where it met the ceiling. “I like female authors. Of course, there was Agatha Christie, and her American contemporary, Mary Roberts Rinehart. But I think my favorite was a little known science fiction writer, Leigh Brackett - she wrote ‘No Good From A Corpse”.

“What made you choose that one?” John asked me.

Now I was warming to my favorite readings. “She wrote a really expressive noir detective novel. And the relationship between him and his girl was more than superficial. Too bad the women in that story didn’t have good endings. But it was “noir”, after all…”

John nodded. “Like Dashiell Hammett and Raymond Chandler?”

I smiled slightly at that. John was taking my mind off my other matters. “You aren’t trying to cheer me up with all this talk of favorite books?”

John smiled. “Well, since it’s so obvious, yes. An odd habit of my old optimistic self. Sorry if that bothers you.”

I turned toward him, taking a good look. “Not at all. It’s about the best I’ve felt in maybe years.”

He looked surprised. “Years? What has been haunting you all that time?” Then he paused. “Oh, you don’t have to answer that. I don’t mean to pry, it’s just my writer’s nature.”

His eyes were alive now, all above that solid jawline. “What nature does a writer have that is prying?” I asked in return.

John half-turned toward me. “A writer, or at least this writer, wants to know all about a character. Frequently one that is haunted has an unsolved mystery in their life. Ghost stories are just another version of mysteries, along with riddles and detective stories. Once you can start seeing the mystery, then that story starts writing itself, like any good story.” John explained.

“How does your prying-optimism solve personal hauntings?” I had to ask.

John was now in his element,“The theory goes - and it’s easily tested - that the best writing mirrors how people want their stories written, so that writing is based on how most people think their lives into existence. The old Greek 3-Act structure then can tell you how to help people solve their life problems.”

I sat back at this. “Wait a minute – personal problems are mysteries?” I protested, even not taking my next bite. And the last two days of election results, the Chardonnay, the hang-over - all these came flooding back into my mind…

Coming up are some thirty-plus episodes, one each week.

Your Vote

This episode can go several different ways. What do you think?

Subscribers can vote and see the results.

How You Can Contribute

This serial has been fleshed out as a full story. It’s based on an anthology of short stories, Walkaway Blues Anthology. Currently available at most major online book distributors. as ebook and in paperback.

I’ve updated and smoothed this collection into a single novel, putting it up as serial for your feedback. So your comments, shares, and subscriptions are valuable.

Leave a comment

Share

You’ll want to subscribe to this in order to not miss any episodes as they are released.

Paid subscribers will get the original anthology (which is already available) and major sections of this book as they are completed and available in digital versions.

Later, they’ll get to pre-order the ebook and paperback. As well, a hardback collectible is being planned…

Subscribe now

In the Chat feature of the Substack app, I’ll be including material that didn’t make the cut, such as background information and world building reveals. As well, this borrows other characters from this world, some of which are already available here on Substack with their origin stories.

Probably the best way to keep up is to get the Substack app:

Get more from Robert C. Worstell in the Substack app

Available for iOS and Android

Get the app

Sneak Preview

Next week’s story is based on a short story from 2018, The Case of the Walkaway Blues. This is available on Substack:

And see other fiction by this author (under his pen names):

This starts a new serial, a first episode.

See Table of Contents for later installments.

Alternate audio:

Premise:

In a world with a timeline of self-obsessed cults and an overabundance of malevolent ghosts, can a former cult member and aspiring mystery writer, find a supportive lover while working part-time as a cattle farmer?

All despite being recruited to use his abilities to solve ghost mysteries, while encountering a psychotic time/space-bending ex-girl friend, and supernatural entity trapped in an enchanted ring - and the ultimate risk to his own soul in order to save those he loves?

To not miss out, get these delivered to your inbox or app every Saturday:

Your feedback and suggestions are welcome:

Subscribe now

Perchance to Dream

For years, I’d gotten used to the bad dreams, even nightmares, ever since I left the Corp. That cult left me dreaming mostly of leaving and getting away from their enforced insanity. You have to climb out, somehow, when you realize you’re just digging your hole deeper.

It’s said that life is a dream, an illusion. Well, there was one dream that changed my life. Quite some time before I ever met Mary.

That one dream was different, calming. I felt lighter somehow - a weight was lifted. For a while.

- - - -

I half-woke to some sort of presence near me. I could smell a very feminine scent. Violets. Not heavy though - subtle. And in the background were sounds of young frog-peepers in a nearby pond or pool. Crickets and night insects. Distant dogs barking, while the trees rustled in the light breeze.

I didn’t dare open my eyes, but just enjoyed the feeling. Until I reached over.

And found the bed was empty. But warmish. As if someone had actually been there.

The next thing I became aware of was that dawn was breaking.

So I rolled over and pulled the sheet and thin blanket across to cover my head. Just so I could see her in my dreams again. Smiling. Blond. Close to me. And smell her personal scent of violets coming through the room with fresh country air.

A smile rose to my lips.

Until a police siren sounded nearby, while a garbage truck roared its diesel through the street, clanking refuse cans with its hydraulic lifts. The air smelt of smog, car exhaust mixed with smoke. Hot air.

Now I was fully awake. Pulling the bedclothes off my head, I saw the cracked and peeling ceiling paint belonging to the seedy efficiency apartment I rented. My hand now felt only the dank sheets from my sweating in the hot Los Angeles early morning. Even in this second-floor room, the acrid street fumes came up to insult my nose as a wake up call. Because there was no A/C, no filtered air. The windows stayed open almost all year round, excepting only heavy rain storms.

That was my life now. Ever since I’d left the Corp. No relief for the wicked. Just work, sleep, and the writing I did – to try and earn enough income to afford to move somewhere where the quality of living was both cheaper and better. All this - a form of hell on earth.

A living nightmare, except for dreams, like that last one.

So I sat up, pulled the top sheet and thin blanket toward me, smoothing them out flat again. Eased out one side of the Murphy bed, then pulled them back to tuck them in on that side. All so I could fold that bed up, into its closet, and get some space to do anything other than sleeping.

Which turned out to be only enough space to simply do some stretches.

I went the few steps to the coffee maker, Filling my mug from the sink, I poured that into the coffee maker tank, then turned it on. So I could get another cup of weak brew to drink this morning. No sugar or creamer. Too close to pay day. But I stayed out of debt this way. And was slowly building up a stash - so I could go somewhere else. Some day.

The alarm clock goes off. Stepping over to the tiny side table, I silenced it. My calendar was fixed on a nail in the wall above that clock. Another Monday.

This Friday was when I’d get paid. Meanwhile, I worked, slept, wrote.

So I headed over to what represented a bathroom. My “coffee” would be ready after I got my lukewarm shower.

Then came the thought about that mystery girl in my dreams again. Somehow, that gave me a slim hope to grasp.

That there was someone out there who could care about me. Finding them, in this wide world, is the challenge. If they actually exist…

Coming up are some thirty-plus episodes, one each week.

Subscribe to not miss any:

Subscribe now

Your Vote

This episode can go several different ways. What do you think?

Subscribers can vote and see the results.

How You Can Contribute

This serial has been fleshed out as a full story. It’s based on a collection of short stories, Walkaway Blues Anthology. Currently available at most major online book distributors. as ebook and in paperback.

I’m putting this up serialized edition up on Substack for feedback. So your comments, shares, and subscriptions are valuable.

Leave a comment

Share

You’ll want to subscribe to this in order to not miss any episodes as they are released.

Also, this is available simultaneously on the Book Universes podcast, so you can take it with you in its audio version if you like.

Paid subscribers will get the original anthology, and major sections of this book as they are completed and available in digital versions.

Later, they’ll get to pre-order the ebook and paperback. As well, a hardback collectible is being planned…

Subscribe now

Until next week, then.

Meanwhile, you can visit this site for more information about this serial and how it’s being built.

Chat is Available to talk to the author directly

In the Chat feature of the Substack app, I’ll be including material that didn’t make the cut, such as background information and world building reveals. As well, this borrows other characters from this world, some of which are already available here on Substack with their origin stories.

Probably the best way to keep up is to get the Substack app:

Get more from Robert C. Worstell in the Substack app

Available for iOS and Android

Get the app

Sneak Preview

Next week’s story is based on a short story from 2018, The Case of the Walkaway Blues. This is available on Substack:

And see other fiction by this author (under his pen names):

A repository of this fiction serial. Bookmark this to keep up-to-date.

One new episode every week.

List of Episodes:

Stay tuned for more each week as this serial continues…

See other fiction by this author, available here on Substack:

Share

Leave a comment

Subscribe now

Previously posted on this Substack - a four-part serial, “The Case of the Walkaway Blues”

List of Episodes:

See other fiction by this author, available here on Substack:

Share

Leave a comment

Subscribe now

Seriously. Not just another teen-angst romance. This was deadly serious. Deadly for everyone, including me. And somehow, he seemed to actually care…

(Note: Too long for email. See link below to access the whole story online.)

I

I‘D FIGURED IT ALL out by the first day as a high school sophomore. And I could care less. Because it wasn’t real. None of it.

Schooling was another trap built to “keep people safe.” And get them ready to have a job and accept the rat-race, wage-slave mentality.

Not that my parents or teachers or anyone else around could really understand what I was going through. They all just set it up as another “coming of age” drama that always played out. All the older siblings I inherited had made it through, somehow. In their own ways.

The trick was - I knew they were all part of the same trap.

I didn’t belong here, that I knew. And I was here to keep me safe from something far darker and more sinister than going on welfare, or being homeless, or doing illegal drugs and going to jail.

Something was out there much darker and more deadly than anything they could threaten me with. I could feel it in all my body from my bones to the lady parts that I was supposed to “think with” at this age.

I didn’t belong here.

And it became more and more obvious the more I tried to “fit in” by attempting to work out the customs and morality they all had. All the “now-you’re-supposed-to’s” that they probably filed in a non-existent loose leaf binder we were all issued when we were born.

The trick is that I wasn’t born. I had no memory of it. And all the things they told me I liked to do when I was a kid - I didn’t remember any of it. Because they were training me to just accept, just go along, just act on what they told me my memories were.

And they showed me “movies” of when I was younger. Filmed on something called “Super 8” and then later it was on “video tape.”

All made up to just reinforce the programming I’d been given along with this body.

Life wasn’t real. Life just sucked. Boyfriends, fashions, put-downs, come-ons, sports, band, gym, everything. Sucked.

Because it didn’t make sense. And the more sense I tried to make out of it, the worse it got.

Until I got a clue.

The same day I met him.

II

FIRST DAY OF SCHOOL for that second year of torture.

And since we had roughly the same last name, we were assigned seats in order and wound up in the back of the room by each other.

And that meant we had to collaborate on class projects. Chemistry. Another yawning class to endure. Until what? Until the day was over. Then we had homework and then we went to sleep and then woke up and started over.

A gigantic baby-sitting service to raise their kids to get jobs like they did. And have kids. And let them get raised like us, like our parents were.

“Some gigantic conspiracy.” That guy sitting in the next row over mumbled.

“What?” I asked.

“Just a way to keep us all amused until we get our scrap of paper saying we did learn to write our dots and dashes just so, and we are approved to go out and now be carbon copies of what they want us to be, good little boys and girls, good little workers.”

Clearer this time. A full run-on sentence.

“Kinda grumpy today?” I said.

“Maybe. But thanks for noticing.” He replied.

“I’m Harriet - but please call me Heri.” Introductions were best cut short.

“Sol - short for Solomon.” To the point, but with a smile. “Nice to meet someone else who was saddled with an unwieldy moniker right out of the gate.”

I had to smile at this. The guy was colorful. I tended to be reticent, quiet.

“So what do you think of this lab work we’re assigned?” Maybe curious, maybe polite small talk.

“Sucks. As usual. Teacher does the lecture, makes us do something so we can parrot the answer back. It’s called ‘learning.’ Could be worse, I imagine.” Now I started to warm to the subject.

“Yea, well. You’re probably right, could be worse.” He slid down into his seat so his shoulders were on the backrest and elbows on the laminated top. “Stuff gives me nightmares as it is.”

“Nightmares?” I turned to him. This struck a chord.

“Sure - am I in the right class, do I have the right books, am I dressed like I’m supposed to. What about that cutie in the front row - is she going to ask my something and I won’t know what to say? And then I wake up and see that I still have hours to go before I’m supposed to get up.” He frowned at remembering.

“Yeah, I know about that. Except the cutie in the front row. She’s an air head. Don’t worry about her asking you anything. She’s into getting top grades.” I frowned on my own.

“Just another trap to catch you.” He gave a wry grin out of the corner of his mouth, half turned toward me.

“Lots of traps here. But I’m beginning to figure them all out. They might have a pattern.” I turned more toward him to see his response.

He shrugged. “And what would knowing the pattern do to help us? We’re stuck here.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. Gives me an idea. This might sound personal, but do you gotta car? Transport?” I watched his reaction carefully.

Sol turned toward me, eyebrow raised. “Yea. An old clunker that runs, mostly. Cleaned it up though.” Now his turn to be reticent.

“Don’t know how to ask this except straight up. It’s Friday.” I stopped at that point.

Sol raised both eyebrows at this. “That’s a question? Wait. You’re asking me out. Me?”

I turned to face the front and slunk down in my own seat. “Sorry. Probably wouldn’t work.”

Sol smiled in his voice, though I was looking down at my desk and its papers. “Probably not. But when should I pick you up and where do you live?”

I turned to toward him. He was sitting up now. “You aren’t going to get all touchy-feely-gropie on me are you?”

Sol smiled again. “Well, you are cute.”

I blushed. “Yea, well so are you. So what?”

Sol noticed the teacher looking at us, so he picked up his assignment and pointed at one of the questions on it. Then leaned toward me across the aisle. “Maybe it could work. OK, here’s a trick question.”

I looked at what he was pointing at, and tried not to smile, but did anyway. “No, that’s not. It’s a dumb question. That question is just to show whether you were listening.”

Sol smiled. “No, that’s not the question. Here: Past lives and entropy - what’s the relation?”

I thought about this for awhile. “No right answer. Depends on belief. You believe in past lives or you don’t. Because they can’t be proved to exist scientifically.”

“But suppose they do?”

“Then entropy…”

“A belief by the Science believers.” He smiled at me.

“…would tend to prove that past lives exist, as the mind is measured as a form of energy, and energy cannot be destroyed, only transmuted in form.” I finished.

Then I wrestled out my own hand-out and finished every second question, by either simple term or equation. And passed it over to him, nodding at it.

He then filled out the other half of the questions on his sheet and handed it to me. “Your turn.”

“Trick question: Politics?” I asked.

Wrinkling his nose and forehead as if getting a whiff of something bad. “A religion of beliefs, again. Only based on power and graft…”

“…that are in the eye of the beholder, usually the party out of power.” I finished.

He looked at me with clear eyes. “One word or short answer - turnabout: Sex?”

I tensed at this. “When I can, just so far. Food?”

He smiled. “Pizza - or any sandwich that’s portable. Movies?”

I smiled back. “Books are better, but they don’t have balconies. Beer?”

He frowned. “Illegal. Won’t go there, publicly. A good time?”

I grinned. “Scintillating conversation - which means ideas where people dare not tread. Popular trends?”

He grinned back. “Nod and smile, then move a long. Pick you up?”

I bent to tear a sheet out of my notebook and scribble on it. Then asked, “7 pm, home by 11. One time or steady?”

He took the sheet I handed him, on top of his version of the quiz. “Maybe, depends?”

I raised an eyebrow at this. “Depends on?”

He handed my quiz sheet back to me. “All of the above.” And smiled with a twinkle in his eyes.

The bell rang and the class was over. Until tomorrow, the only time we met each day.

I found myself looking forward to it.

III

WE’D GONE OUT FOR A few weeks. Ate a lot of pizza and sandwiches. Saw some movies in the balcony. Made out in my car, usually. But the talking was what kept me coming back.

She was pretty widely read, and could quote a lot of things. We ended up meeting at the library and picking out books for each other, speed-reading through them in quiet. She would pick out a book and I’d nod in those quiet stacks to tell her I’d read it or not. If I hadn’t, she’d hand it to me. If not, she’d pick out another nearby that would have something to do with that subject - and sometimes take me over to another section of the library to pick out a related book. Of course, that would be baffling until I finally got to where the author picked up the thought - or I’d wind up checking it out when we left so we could discuss it later.

And I’d take her out to one of the sandwich shops in town. Often we’d go over to the city park and talk over the ideas in those books.

After it had gotten dark, I’d drive her in my old 50-something, four-door Chevy to some secluded spot where we would get out, scoot the front bench seat forward, and make-out in the back seat for awhile. When our glands were suitably spent, we could get back to serious discussion.

I’d rigged some RV lights inside, as well as curtains to keep moths and lookie-loo’s at bay. Our own private island of intellectual discussion, regardless of the world at large.

Of course, the floorboards and back window shelf had stacks of books we would read and discuss and refer to during our night-time rendezvous. (I did install a 12-volt Marine clock that had a quiet alarm to give us time to make ourselves presentable and be back by our parents’ set curfew times.)

Heri started with Ayn Rand’s “Anthem”, which led to Bradbury’s “Martian Chronicles”, and led to Blish’s “Cities in Flight”, led to Burroughs’ “Mars” series, to his “Tarzan” series, to Kipling’s short stories, to Doyle’s adventures and then his mysteries, then Leigh Brackett, Dashiell Hammett, Carolyn Wells, G. K. Chesterton, E. B. Smith, which led to E. E. Smith, and last to Andre Norton’s “All Cats are Gray.”

Heri brought this point up and left me stumped. “Remember what you asked about entropy and past lives? I think I’ve stumbled onto a worse one.”

I was, of course, all ears by this time.

She continued, “Thought itself is an energy, and so there is nothing such as ‘losing your thought’ or ‘losing track’ of your thinking. Thoughts come and go and they never disappear. They have to simply transmute.”

I bought in. “Memories were transmuted, but then senility isn’t the end of them, as they’d have to go somewhere. I remember Nap Hill said once that thoughts were contagious and spread like flu - that they were stored as ‘habits’ in some ‘universal intelligence’ and could be tapped. That then ties to a bunch of New Thought authors, as well as Edison and Einstein. Their concepts of an over-arching storage system for ideas…”

Heri took this all in like a fish to water. “Of course! But take this one further - what if beings actually lived in this stuff? If Bristol’s ‘belief is father to fact’ is correct, then we might have mysterious beings who live in that ‘ether’ stream or field and manipulate our own physical universe to store thought through our bodies.”

I was silent for awhile. “Of course, you know that this is unprovable, even science fiction.”

She looked off in the distance, beyond the curtains of our little yellow 12-volt-lit world. “I know. Like past lives. But it doesn’t matter. Belief is all that matters. Take these tremendously insane social customs we are following here and now. There’s no real use for them, other than as ‘grease’ to fit the various parts together. The dull follow them like sheep in a pasture, and the too-brilliant ignore them. In both cases, and everything in between, they only deal with this one limited universe we physically live in, and actually just this subset of culture in this hemisphere. Not universal at all.”

I reached over the front seat to the pizza box, handing back her drink while I pulled the box and my own drink back over. “This is really making me hungry.”

Heri smiled at all this. “Like our ‘exercise’ earlier wasn’t enough, already.” She sipped her cool drink of ice-diluted soft drink whose carbonated fizz had long since fizzed away.

I offered her the last piece of pizza, but she shook her head, lost in more advanced thought. So I finished that piece too and shoved the empty box back into the front seat.

Her frown was as cute as her smile, and she was frowning now. “Beings who live in that other universe who may be or are controlling our thoughts in this one. If I am right, and our own cultural reactions mirror those, then this could explain some of the weird coincidences and disappearances. Particularly of certain free thinkers, and societies of the gifted.”

At that point, the alarm sounded, and we had minutes to get our musses un-mussed, and then the interior lights turned out, the curtains back in place and us returned to the front seat and traveling back to our local so-called civilization.

After Heri got the pizza box into the back, with her legs and feet curled under her, she leaned against me on the bench seat, .

I’d long ago learned to drive with my left arm in order to leave my right free. And to appreciate the advantage of old cars with bench seats instead of the more modern buckets.

Heri pulled my right arm over her shoulder, and held onto it with her own right. “Just hold me, Sol.” Then nuzzled her head against my shoulder with her left arm draped across my thigh.

Life was good in these moments.

Even though we were returning from our mind-bending flights of discussion to an uncertain world of nutty emotions and now-you-gotta’s that made no sense and couldn’t be disputed in any court.

IV

I HAD MY ARM AROUND her again as I walked her up her concrete sidewalk to her ranch-style home in a 60’s subdivision, where the neighboring houses were so similar to only differ in paint and front shrubbery.

Heri looked up at me while we were in the yellow bug-repellent porch light. “Thanks Sol. You’re one in a million or more. Oh, the food was good, too.”

I bent down and kissed her lightly. “We’ll see you in school on Monday. Our only class.”

A small frown creased her forehead. “I’m worried about that idea I had.” Then she brightened, optimistic. “The next few days will tell.” At that she pulled away and skipped up the steps to touch the front door knob. Turning, she winked at me and went inside with one smooth motion.

Of course, I smiled all the way home.

- - - -

ON MONDAY, SHE WASN‘T in class. The rumor was that she had a sudden death in the family and had to take a trip out of state. Her seat was empty and stayed empty.

I drove by her house soon after that and found a “For Sale” sign out front, and the place all empty like her family had never lived there.

The semester had finals shortly after, and then school was over for the summer. I had a job lined up, and other matters took her place in my thoughts - mostly.

I finally accepted it like another fact of life. She never wrote me. And I never found anyone who could dissolve fiction into non-fiction to come up with a completely new and unique compound.

Heri had probably found a universal solvent that erased her from my and anyone else’s universe. Almost.

When I graduated, I left town myself, and my life became a series of adventures in other towns and places. I had no use for the graduating class of that small town’s school, so never kept in touch with any of them. I learned a new set of customs to replace the pitch-and-woo of teen-dom, some that would keep me employed until I discovered I could write and make enough income to fire my last boss.

But last night, Heri came to me in my dreams, when I was looking for inspiration. And we cuddled, while the back seat of that 50-something Chevy and its curtains came into my mind as a backdrop. “Just hold me,” she said.

And so I did, as long as I could that night.

And when I woke, I wrote this story.

Because she is still out there, somewhere. As long as I continue to believe, that thought never disappears, it’s only transmuted to another form.

Are the mysterious beings who control our thoughts real?

Probably as real as you believe.

- - - -

THERE WAS JUST ONE problem with all that, and why I deleted the original ending and started writing this again.

Heri wouldn’t stay out of my dreams.

V

WHERE I SHOWED UP AFTER I walked through that front door didn’t make a lot of sense at first.

I was walking around the high school where I first met Sol.

Only I could walk through stuff. Pretty much everything.

Must be purgatory, I figured.

The place looked different. All this new construction that looked old. Which meant some time had passed as well. They’d made some improvements to the school in all that time.

But it still sucked. And the students were still bored. Only now they had more administrators to “take care” of them.

Meaning, it was still a trap.

With a big new Gym, and the buses parked somewhere else. Tennis courts were gone, replaced with some other silly sport.

Where I’d been, I didn’t recall. Or didn’t want to.

Now I could hear people’s thoughts, and send my own to them.

I’d become one of those “mysterious others” that I’d only imagined existed. Meaning I must have come pretty close to the truth.

Or I died somehow and became a ghost.

One of the two.

But I wasn’t stuck to the school grounds. I could go anywhere I wanted. And even just by thinking the thought of where I wanted to go. That was cool.

Library was a first stop, of course. They’d made some improvements, too. But the more things change, the more they stay the same. Still lots of books and newspapers. DVDs and CDs now.

Somehow I wasn’t surprised by all that.

The question was still: What the H___ happened?

I was in high school, then I’m back as some sort of telepathic ghost.

To my mind, I was still a teenager. But everything else had changed. Since when?

Newspaper date says forty years ago.

Next question: Whatever happened to Sol?

All I recall for sure was turning and walking through my own front door at home. Then showing up at the school again, like I am now.

I sure could use someone to compare notes with.

Forty years, though. He’s probably married, had kids. Even grandkids by now. He could have done anything with that mind of his. One in a million or more, like I told him that last night.

All that time ago.

Wonder what he’s doing now?

- - - -

AND THEN I SHOWED UP – just wherever he was.

VI

“HERI – THAT YOU?” I smiled “Missed you. Been awhile.”

“Yea, I know. Not like I had a lot of choice in it.” She smiled in her voice.

“I always wondered what happened to you. But where are you, really? I don’t see you around, just hear your voice in my head.”

“Oh, yea. Well, try this: close your eyes.”

- - - -

WE WERE IN THE BACK of my 50-something Chevy. RV lights on, curtains closed. Stacks of books behind our heads and on the floorboard by our feet.

“Heri – wow. This is what, my dreams?”

“Something like that. It’s how I remember our last night together.” She sniffed at that.

I looked over and saw a tear running down her cheek. And went to wipe it off with my hand, then stopped. “You are still cute, and I’m sorry you’re upset. But did you have to make me a teenager again?”

Heri smiled at this, and wiped her own face. “You are such a dork, don’t you know? Just listen to yourself – who wouldn’t want to be young again with all you now know?”

I smiled in return. “OK, I’ve got forty more years of experience. But I tell you what, I’d have quit school that year if I could have. Mom made me stick it out – either that or I was going to college and do even more years at the same grind. I just couldn’t hurt her like that. So the easier route was seeing how to game their system. You should have seen my senior schedule – all I was there for was the PE credit and some history class. It was all rigged.”

Heri smiled at my story, but I could still see she was sad.

“Hey, kiddo. Cheer up. We’re here, now. Tell me what you’ve been up to for the last forty – and what’s with all this dream stuff?”

“Sol, I actually don’t know where I’ve ‘been’ for the last forty years. To me, our last night was minutes ago. And then I showed up at the high school again, then the library, then thought of you – and here I am. I’m not apparently real enough to be seen with your actual eyes.” She looked down and the tears really started flowing.

I pulled her to me. “Heri, just let me hold you for awhile.”

And we sat in the back of my old Chevy for as long as it took for her to feel real again. At least to herself.

Of course, it made me feel good again, too. Something I’d missed for a very long time.

VII

IT WAS LIKE WAKING up in Heaven. Melted into the arms of the first person I really trusted, and just let him hold me. It was the best feeling I could have. It had only seemed like moments for me, but it was all I really wanted out of this world.

At last, I started bringing him up to speed. “OK, Sol, we did this crazy math-logic thing with those fiction books, and wound up marrying them to your old ‘past lives/entropy’ theory. Then invented some ‘mysterious beings’ that live in a world outside of ours, but able to affect us in ours. The core idea went long the lines that they were just using us to store memories, thoughts.”

Then I stopped. What hit me felt like a brick wall falling on me. “Hey Sol.”

“What?”

I sat up away from him again and looked at him “We forgot a book.”

“Wait. I lost track years ago about what we laid out.” Sol brushed his hand through his thick, curly hair and stretched the arm that had he’d used to hold me for so long.

“OK the short end of that analysis was Norton’s ‘All Cats Are Gray’. And that had an invisible being in it that only the cat could see – and the heroine, who was color-blind. She killed it and then got rich when they turned in that empty luxury liner they found as salvage.”

“Oh, yea. Invisible beings like those ‘thought-meisters’ of yours.” Sol sat up straight, all ears now.

I looked directly in his eyes. “Thinking and then believing in what you named ‘thought-meisters’ then gave them power over me in this universe. Because what they did next was simply in self-defense. Regardless of what their motives are for using us for memory storage, it doesn’t much matter.”

Sol smiled. “So now you’re going to re-work your idea and the belief behind it?”

“Exactly. Not that I can take that thought back, but I can fix the problem it created. Or at least I think I can.” My forehead wrinkled with this new idea. “The book we missed was L’Engle’s ‘Wrinkle in Time’.”

Sol sat forward, his brow uncreased as he got my concept. “The main weapon those kids had against the mind control was Love. Just plain unconditional love. Have I ever told you how much of a genius you are?” And then he leaned forward and kissed me.

Yes my knees went soft, and I simply wanted to melt back into his arms, but I pushed him away again. “Thanks, but sorry, I need to stay focused. Glands and stuff will have to wait.”

Sol was contrite, but smiling at me. A personal admirer for all time.

At last, I almost jumped out of that back seat with the new idea. “Sol, you just inspired me – but wait, just sit there. Let me get this out. We both have to do this to make it work.”

He was quiet while I gathered my thoughts, and kept his hands to himself.

“Love.” I said at last. “Remember that old book you were studying, who was that guy – Haanel. Said something about love.”

Sol frowned. “Oh, that love is like a primal element, what brought the rest of the world into existence.”

“Exactly. Perfect. Just the element missing from that solution. Something we are too afraid to admit.” I got nervous at this. Hanging out was one thing, making out in the back seats of cars another, but we were about to go into a realm teenagers avoided. Too permanent in these shifting teen-age worlds.

He saw my nervousness, but didn’t get it yet. So he stayed where he was and let me finish working it out.

“Sol, this is where Christian love and romantic love and Haanel’s textbook love all meet.”

We were both shocked at that. Because these were all talked about separately. But that one unitary concept held the secrets to the universe. Universal glue and universal solvent all in one.

Sol started frowning. “But does this just create more problems to solve?”

“Such as?” I asked.

“One: the time conundrum – we’re forty years later but now are together at ‘date zero’ where this started. Two: do these guys just quit interacting with our universe – and does that then interrupt a natural process. I could see where this blows our whole scene sky high.” Sol looked around the now cramped back end of his car, all the curtains, books, and us two.

I just had to smile. “You worry too much sometimes, Sol. Look – one, Nature takes care of itself. If we blow the whole thing up, we wouldn’t remember any of it anyway. And two, if the ‘mysterious beings’ are fulfilling a natural function, then something will replace them. And if it’s more efficient with disrupting them out of the picture, then things will run more smoothly. Either way, we’ll either remember this time or not. No worries, as the Aussies say.”

Sol was all smiles again. He looked up at the clock. “And just by coincidence, time has stopped just before that alarm went off and we had to get you home.”

I looked and saw he was right. “OK, I know what puts this all in motion again. But you’re going to show some absolute faith in what we are going to do. It’s nothing we’ve done before and nothing you’ve done in the forty years after. Probably because we didn’t do it right now. We need to commit.”

He swallowed and nodded. “Just what I was thinking. Hari, for all time, forever, regardless of anything that happens: I love you.”

Of course my eyes went misty and my heart missed a beat. “I love you too, Sol. Forever and regardless.”

We came up for air after that kiss when the alarm went off.

It didn’t take long to get the books put away, the curtains drawn back, and I was again in the front seat next to him, my legs curled up on the rest of that bench seat, his arm around me. Heading back to my parents home. For my home was now wherever – and whenever - he was. “Just hold me, Sol.”

He did, and too soon we pulled up into my parent’s drive.

We both got out, but after he kissed me good night, I didn’t let go of his hand. With the other I turned the knob and opened the door to the future we had just created.

VIII

WE HAD AND RAISED TWO children, with four grandchildren. They visit us often, always a delight.

Heri and I waited until after graduation to get married – the next weekend, actually. Then moved into a small rental and got local steady jobs while we took night classes at the community college to get trained in what we were interested in. Heri got a degree in library science, and I got a job programming robotics after only a couple years of study. Then we started businesses of our own, learning how to make our fortune part time – by investing from our day job to make it happen.

Soon we were able to make the shift from full-time job to part-time and then figured out how to fire our last bosses.

I never forgot all I’d learned in that first forty years, so going through it all again had its perks, especially in investing in certain stocks at certain times.

Heri taught herself programming, and started doing web design and content marketing even before they were a thing. I started writing and slogged through the years before self-publishing was a thing. Of course, those forty years of practice made it all a lot simpler. Lots of pen names were the key. So I could make all the income I wanted, but kept a low profile to save my privacy.

We moved just outside of Austin, close enough to be part of the tech boom that later developed there, but invested in a small ranch and resisted the developers who wanted to overpay us for it. Instead we planted a lot of trees on the borders and a tall fence to keep our livestock in. Plus some guard llamas and donkeys to keep everything and everybody else out.

Our kids loved all the animals we raised, and learned a lot from raising them. They went through their own teen travails, but with guidance from our own lessons learned.

Then one day, Heri brought this story to me. She’d saved it for decades, as she knew I would want to update it when it was time.

I had to laugh when I read it. Of course, it was still accurate. And I finished the ending to it after all those years. You’re reading it now.

And you know, I bought another 50-something Chevy later and had the back-end chopped out of it. It sits in our living room now. The trunk was made into a couch so visitors can watch the big screen.

But when no one is around, Heri and I usually move into the bench back seat, pull the curtains, turn on the 12-volt RV lights and discuss books and their ideas, in between our make-out sessions.

That’s never gotten old, no matter how long it’s taken to get to where we are now.

Forty years later and it only seems like a moment ago.

How did you like this?

Let me know…

Leave a comment

Share

Share Write. Farm. Share.

Your contributions are welcome. Keep more of these stories coming to you. Become a paid subscriber:

Subscribe now

Or buy me a coffee:

Buy me a coffee...

The book series where this story is found is also available from the author for Pay-What-You-Want.

It’s own Table of Contents is coming soon. Meanwhile, see the Fiction Table of Contents for other short stories…

Subscribe now

Read more

succeeded in tempting me out of fiction-writing retirement. Between him and I got surrounded by ever-present muses who simply wouldn’t shut up until I wrote them into life.

Of course, these muses also were from days gone by, so handed me characters and settings and lore which fit (mostly) the prompts that Bradley handed out.

And both he and Maryellen were introducing me to all the wealth of top-flight writers that they enjoyed and admired. So I was too-surrounded to do anything else - but write.

Today, I finished compiling these into a book shape, and am nearly ready to push this out to the world as yet another ebook and paperback.

So they and all the incredible writers here on Substack should take all the credit (beyond my own craft, of course). Because. Why not?

If you’ve found this, you can now download the pre-release ebook for yourself. And share it with everyone you want.

Cheers!

Flash Fiction February 2026 Robert C

445KB ∙ EPUB file

Download

Download

Flash Fiction February 2026 Robert C

1.1MB ∙ PDF file

Download

Download

Oh - and like, share, restack, and subscribe - or upgrade to paid:

Share

Subscribe now

Leave a comment

Get more from Robert C. Worstell in the Substack app

Available for iOS and Android

Get the app

It started simply. I hadn’t really written any fiction in years, then started making some engaging prompts that I wanted to try again. And then — he repeated what he did last year in February. And that year, I just watched and upvoted from the sidelines.

But then, it grabbed me. What the heck? Why not?!?

If you like these, then help me climb the leaderboard by liking, sharing, commenting, or restacking - heck, subscribe while you’re at it:

Subscribe now

Share

Leave a comment

Share Write. Farm. Share.

And so, in roughly reverse order, here are all 28 of my entries:

(But stay tuned for free bonus lore links and downloads at its end…)

Bonus Downloads

The Ghost Hunters Lore connections

Many of these tie back into a world of the Ghost Hunters that I wrote over several years. To help you understand the background of these-type stories, I included (and sometimes newly published here to Substack) the earlier stories that give the background or origin of that character. These are found at the end of these stories.

An Upcoming Serialized Novel

As well, I used this to work over problem areas of my upcoming serialized novel. For this, I’ve linked to a post which also has the first draft available for no-cost download.

Again:

If you like these, then help me climb the leaderboard by liking, sharing, commenting, or restacking - heck, subscribe while you’re at it:

Subscribe now

Share

Leave a comment

Share Write. Farm. Share.

A sequel to “There Be Dragons”.

This is part of ’s final Flash Fiction February challenge.

And also tells some of the lore behind the Ghost Hunters series.

We’re competing here for comments, likes, restacks. So please join in:

Leave a comment

Share

Subscribe now

THE EARTH RUMBLED beneath my feet. But because my pendant buzzed simultaneously, I knew that was the earth goddess Gaia just coming to call. At that, a dust devil emerged from the otherwise damp ground. It coalesced into my old friend. Again, it must be something important. So I waited. She did love the dramatic.

I finally saw her in the tailored Western garb of a plaid blouse with pearl snap buttons, stove pipe denim jeans tight enough to be poured into them, which in turn were stuffed into some fancy-stitched turquoise alligator cowboy boots with tall, feminine heels. Her long coal-black hair with gray highlights flowed down her back, almost to her waist. And she wore a small smile that said she was happy to see me. But a minute later she was in my arms, giving me a hug while she laid her head on my chest.

So I gave her some time. Spending a few minutes hugging her back, compared to the millions of years she’d been alive, was well worth her investment, and receiving my return on it. So I stood there and waited.

“John, I need your help.” She quietly spoke into my red-t-shirted front.

I said nothing, waiting.

She at last stood back to look up at me with those dark eyes. “I’m about to become a mother.”

I smiled, “So - congratulations?”

She nodded in return, though her eyes turned misty. “Yes, and thanks, but it’s not what you think - I’m birthing dragons.”

----

We’d walked the cow path to my little writing cabin in quiet. At last, outside of the cabin door, I motioned for her to sit by the cabin door on the Adirondack bench there. “Some of my ‘bachelor’ coffee? My wife’s not here today, so you’re getting the home-brewed variety.”

Gaia nodded, but said nothing, looking out over the pasture that sloped away down the way we came.

Shortly I returned with two mugs of my dark chicory blend. Handing her one, I sat down next to her with the other. And waited.

At last, with another sniffle, she summed up the problem that she needed help with. “Well, John, I don’t know what I’m doing, because I’ve never given birth before.”

Glancing down at her trim stomach, I wondered. And then I remembered those eggs she’d protected some time ago. “Oh - you’re bringing those dragons back from eggs - and they are nearly ready to hatch.” The relief was tangible in my voice.

She looked up at me, quite serious. “I don’t think you know how serious this is. There haven’t been dragons roaming this earth for thousands of years. And that they’ve chosen to hatch now has more meaning that I can even cipher out. Why now? And how do I raise them? More - and worse - how do I protect them from all the human destruction and selfishness? Does this mean I’ve failed by giving all these humans a place to survive and take over as the alpha species here?”

I held my tongue. Even if I could have stepped into that torrent of questions, I was far smarter to simply listen. Until she was ready to hear me.

I sipped my coffee and enjoyed the morning as it warmed up. And the comfort coming from the thigh-warmth I felt next to me. Gaia chose this form for her own reasons. Mostly, it was a way she could get my attention. Which she had all of now.

At last, I asked, “So, dragons?”

Gaia cleared her throat. “Yes, I’m going to have some cute little fire-breathing youngsters running around and have no clue what to feed them, how to get them exercise, whether they need flame-proof diapers - all that stuff.”

I put my arm around her and gave her a squeeze. “Let’s unpack that a bit at a time. Take a breath. OK. Now - how about that portal in that mountain cavern where we left them last. Does that still work?”

She nodded. “Yes, and I’ve taken some time to visit with these other surviving dragons in this galaxy and others. And they are a bit inscrutable with their advice. I’ve been told not to move the eggs at all, just keep that cavern at a regular temperature. And then the process otherwise takes care of itself.”

I shrugged. “If that’s it, then that’s not much.”

She looked up at me. “No kidding. I’m stumped.”

A tear fell from her cheek down into that coffee, leaving ripples.

I squeezed her shoulder with my hand. “Oh, that’s too bad. We’re on some real thin ground here, then.”

Gaia only nodded again, and sniffled.

An idea came to me. “OK, so the hatching itself is fine, then. What about the raising?”

She looked up at me, her eyes red-rimmed. “Exactly. If your government and its scientists find out, then - well - I don’t have any real way to protect them.”

She turned toward me. “Look, I’ve told you about how dragons bring balance, that they preserve the ecosystem and ensure life continues…”

I nodded, waiting.

She looked off across the pasture. “I don’t know why I’m so dense at times. Dragons returning means there’s work to do in rebalancing all that’s been done here. Technically, they can live in magma indefinitely. That’s how they raised me. And they can fly in that stuff, which is what has raised more than one mountain range. But humans are either going to have to help them grow and learn from them, or will be in the way and need to be eliminated.”

One corner of my mouth came up in a wry grin. “Oh, maybe it’s not all that bad. You’ve already set the solution in motion - with your own not-completely human solution.”

She looked back at me, with a raised eyebrow. Waiting for the other shoe to drop.
I smiled. “Now I seem to recall that you were partly responsible for my siring those three harpy daughters. All of which was a surprise to me. And you said at the time, quite mysteriously, that they had different names before they came to be born on this planet.”

Gaia gave a surprised look. “Hope, Faith, Charity.”

I nodded. “So, how are those three doing these days?”

She gave a slight chuckle. “Between Harpy herself, and her sister Rose, they’ve learned a lot of their native talents. Meanwhile, your spirit-guide wife has taken her own god-mother duties seriously and been holding them to their lessons in human culture. So they are turning out to be able to live around humans quite well, even with their capacity for flight, and their siren singing. So what do they have to do with dragons?”

I gave her another hug. “Remember how we first met? I seem to recall that you took me deep into the depths, and gave me a tour of your solid-rock apartments…”

“One which should have killed you off, since humans can’t breath solid rock - with certain exceptions.”

I nodded. “Because I’d been infected and cured by Rochelle as a Lazurai-enabled human myself.”

She sat back to look at me. Her coffee sloshing in its mug. “And so, genetically, Harpy’s daughters are part Lazurai and so could baby-sit these little dragons below ground, where they’d be safe while they grew up.”

That brought a smile to my face.

Then she frowned. “But when they get bigger? The governments, those NGO’s that go after your friends from time to time. And their military ‘friends’…”

I just patted her shoulder. “Those are years from now. You have that portal where they can get advanced training from other dragons. So that when they are ready, and the best trained that my harpy daughters and their own kind can give them, then…”

Gaia’s face was bright now, all signs of tears gone. “...Then we’ll be ready to bring the imbalance in human culture back into alignment, all without having to sink continents or anything.”

She stood at this, placing her coffee mug on the bench. Then she reached out for my hand.

I wisely put my own mug down by hers.

Because next she was in my arms giving me a big hug, which was followed by a grateful kiss.

“John, you’re an absolute wonder. I knew you could figure this out!”

We stood, arms around each other, looking over the gorgeous day that was forming.

“Imagine, a sky with flying dragons. Helping humans achieve greater things than, well, they’ve ever done. Helping them to learn to find their own balance…”

Gais hugged me close, then pecked a kiss on my cheek before stepping away off my tiny home porch.

“I owe you one, John. Maybe even name one of the baby dragons after you.”

At that, her bright smile faded into a swirling dust cloud that sank quickly back into the earth.

I was glad I put some extra coffee on this morning. I had a story to write.

Imagine that. Dragons flying around. Humans growing up, finally.

We’re competing here for comments, likes, restacks. So please join in:

Leave a comment

Share

Subscribe now

And - it’s easier in the app:

Get more from Robert C. Worstell in the Substack app

Available for iOS and Android

Get the app

PS. If you’ve missed descriptions of John and Gaia, you can find their origin stories here:

An entry in the Flash Fiction February challenge by

We’re competing on likes, shares, restacks, everything, so:

Leave a comment

Share

Subscribe now

“You Are Invited,” it started out. “To A Very Merry Tea Party”.

And signed, simply, “Maryellen”. And it was in purple ink, with a bit of glitter.

I had to smile. Everyone who was anyone knew her. Because she left people with that cozy feeling. Well, her writing did. And I’d never met her in person, so…

Then I saw more. At the bottom was added, “...PS. and bring your plus-one.”

Just too cozy. I thought at once of my spirit guide wife. And then thought of her sister, who also dearly loved parties.

At that, a second invitation sprung out from the top of that book, still folded, and simply was inscribed on its outside: “For Jude, plus one”.

I had to smile at that. Of course, So thoughtful. So very .

----

We arrived, the four of us (Jude brought her own shifter husband, Bernie). We wound up all together on one corner of a very long table set out under the trees of someone’s front yard. Two rows of trees, as if to completely shelter this table from any impolite weather that might want to interrupt. All set for tea, with the same number of settings as chairs surrounding that length - conveniently. And lots of chairs.

As we looked at each other, we had to laugh. Jude was in her typical black, but was wearing tall black bunny ears. Sal was in her typical off-white, gold pinstripes - but was wearing a pinafore with a flouncy white apron over it. And her hair was flowing down her back, with a good-sized matching off-white bow tied on top of her head. I was in my work clothes, but my ball cap had been changed into a denim top-hat, with a wide band around it.

Apparently, we didn’t get the note that this was an Alice-themed tea party. I was suited as the Hatter, Jude was the March Hare, and my darling Sal was to play Alice. (Bernie was in his border-collie form, with a nice brown leather and brass collar. Only his head was above the table top, as he was ever polite. But he seemed to be asleep. Which suits him for the Dormouse part.)

Of course, the settings were for tea. Simple china cups with saucers. One row on each side. Except at the far end, where a young woman (wearing a purple dash of color in her own hair) was sitting in a large arm-chair at that end.

She was busy with a tall stack of papers, taking one and filling it out, then folding it and setting it down on the opposite side, where it would promptly flash out of existence. Her pen, meanwhile, was a glittery feather, which would occasionally rise out of her hand to refill itself from an open ink well nearby. Purple ink. With a bit of glitter. At one point, the ink refilling and the flash-leaving coincided.

The woman glanced up for her next sheet and saw us. Her face beamed at us. “Oh, you’re here!”

She jumped out of her arm-chair and ran down to where we sat. Her own outfit of a western-cut blouse with pearl buttons, stuffed into sturdy riding jeans, covered with an open leather vest, was jalouncing as she came, her small booted feet tapping on the packed, trim lawn with every step.

We all rose (except Bernie, who stayed asleep and in character for the part) and greeted her with open arms.

It was hugs all around, and wide smiles.

I took my top hat off, setting it on the more steady table-top - as it was getting jumbled around during all these hugs and jostlings - and I’m a ball-cap type of guy anyway. “So glad to finally meet you, at least in a story.”

To Sal and Jude, I introduced Maryellen. And at that, another round of hugs and smiles ensued.

We all at last sat together. “Oh I’m so glad you could make it. All of us are so very busy at writing these days. And there are little ones to care for.

As if on cue, two large white Pyrenees-mixed guard dogs galumphed down her side of the table with wide smiles and tongues lolling.

“Oh, I think you all know your own neighborhood guard dogs, Jussie and Libby. They got here first and were keeping me company.”

At this, Bernie narrowly peeked through the slits of his eyes, saw them and went fully awake. He dropped off his seat to go make acquaintances. At that they all started playing with each other in mock fighting, then the three of them ran off through the trees, tails curled up and wagging.

It was then I had a good look at the setup all about. “Well, you’re set for guests.”

Maryellen nodded, smiling. “Yes, someone got the idea we should all have a tea party to celebrate my birthday, and started spreading the word. Of course, I wanted to get my personal invitations out to all my friends, so I sent you a personal note - for all of you to come.”

I grinned as did my two gals. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world. Looks like you’re expecting quite a crowd.”

She glanced down along the stretch of table. “Oh, well, I certainly hope so. All of these writers love a party - especially one that they can write their own version of.”

She reached over to touch the table’s polished top, then added quietly, “I don’t want this to go to its head, but it’s capable of extending itself interminably. And going to its head, where I was sitting, means being interrupted whenever it goes to thinking that we don’t have enough room for everyone. And that tends to give me a poke in my stomach.” And she rubbed her center, as if in memory.

But then, she remembered where they were. “Oh, you’re going to love this…” She walked over to the nearest row of the trees, placing her hand on one trunk and gesturing wide with the other.

“This world is right smack dab in the middle of several others. The Synaptic Sprawl is over there, right next to D’veen - and Sword and Sorcery is just a bit to its right. And this expanse (she spread both her arms wide) is for Dragons! (That’s one of my favorites.)”

And as if on cue, a tiny purple-tinged dragon peeked its head out of her vest and gave a snorting puff of greenish-yellow smoke.

Jude was enamored instantly by the little fellow, and reached out a finger toward it - but the small thing was shy and just ducked back inside that vest pocket again.

I pointed out another area, one that looked like it went out to a desert clime. “Is that for your Westerns?”

Maryellen nodded with enthusiasm. “Yes, I share it with all the writers who need to write into such a world. Then she stopped, stock still. “Oh, I nearly forgot…”

Running around the farther end of the table and over to the other line of trees, she stopped to catch her breath and wait for the rest of us to catch up. “And here (pausing for effect) is Nevicata.”

From here, we could see a lot of people and animals and various comings and goings. Maryellen was smitten with this world, and we allowed her that space of appreciation time.

Over to its left, we saw some dirigibles flying, and various cities here and there. I had to ask, “Steampunk?”

She only nodded with affection. “Yes. Another favorite haunt of several writers here.” In there somewhere is the house where Aunt Tabitha ( ) sends her letters.

And beyond these nearest worlds, one could see others on their horizon. As I was peering, Maryellen saw this and came over, taking my arm. “Don’t strain yourself, John. There are infinite worlds out there to explore.”

I smiled and patted her hand. “Writers have no shortage of ways to be inspired.”

We both looked out for a while. Until a teapot tooted a tune instead of a shriek.

“Well, that’s a polite way of saying refreshments are served.” Maryellen patted my arm and then moved away, down the table. Sal and Jude took one of my arms in turn, and we sauntered back to our original places. Bernie was now returned there, along with his canine playmates, all panting and grinning, with lolling tongues. Back from exploring and carrying on.

By the time we arrived, Maryellen had already sat down at the table across from our original places, and was watching the teapot pour our cups brim-full. While slices of carrot cake trundled down the table, each toward one of our saucers.

Once we were all situated, Sal picked up her filled tea cup carefully. “To friends!”

We all raised our own, and repeated in unison: “To friends!”

And on that cue, a sudden crowd of people appeared, walking in from both ends and taking their own places. All while the teapot and cakes were busy serving, and the table kept extending whenever it looked like there was no more room for arriving guests.

The conversations flowed as fast as the tea.

Just as Maryellen had envisioned that day.

It was her Tea Party, after all…

This non-canonical lore adds to the Ghost Hunters series:

P.S. Highly Recommended - the Nevicata Chronicles. (Should really become a book…)

How did you like this? Like, share, comment, subscribe:

Share

Subscribe now

Leave a comment

Share Write. Farm. Share.

And - all of that is easier when you use the Substack app:

Get more from Robert C. Worstell in the Substack app

Available for iOS and Android

Get the app

There was some discussion inside. Loud. Some of it in Russian.

At last the door creaked open, ominously. On its own. But that was typical when you’re coming to check out a haunted house - even when it’s up near the Arctic Circle, in that long night they had. Plenty of time for spooks to get out and raise havoc.

An entry in the Flash Fiction February challenge by

We’re competing on likes, shares, restacks, everything, so:

Leave a comment

Share

Subscribe now

Sal and Jude and I were now all sitting on one side of a long table. In a long room. Plenty of empty seats, Ghost Hunters. Waiting. But the suspense wasn’t killing us. We were bored. That paltry candle light didn’t help. So Jude put up a glowing orb to show what we were facing.

Pretty drab room, actually. But then, northern Alaska wasn’t Southern California or Times Square.

The story that got us up here was something about vampires coming out during this Long Night they had, after the locals went south for their 9-month vacation.

We’d gotten a tip, though. One of these was a fake. Not really corporal if he didn’t want to be. The rest were actual killers, so we were told.

And so I brought my own protection. My spirit-guide partners would see that I was safe against these other characters.

“Oh, now you’ve gone and ruined everything. You don’t know how hard it is to get some real frightening display going on.” It was a voice from outside of the room.

About then, the owner came in with a gas-powered lantern - almost brighter than Jude’s glow globe.

At least it gave the whole room a lighter aspect. One long room where this long table could fit. And a dozen chairs around it. The walls held some pictures of Russian scenery, rivers, authors, what not.

The owner was dressed in some typical peasant farmer dress - sash around his waist over a wool shirt and knee boots.

As a contrast, we three were in our usual attire - ones I’d written us into in various stories. Sal had her light tan business outfit, with her blonde hair in a bun And Jude was wearing all black leather with a v-front that hardly covered her assets, while her own black wavy locks flowed down her back. Me, I was just wearing my usual Midwestern farm-chore duds. We were in our work outfits, here to get our job done.

Our ghost was nowhere in sight.

Until the owner sat opposite us, and then he shimmered into view.

Grayish skin, red lips, hair coiffed high above his forehead, and a black cape with its high collar over an all black outfit, but styled in the Russian tradition. Oh, and red eyes, of course.

That vampire looking ghost was ogling my two spirit-guides like he hadn’t gotten any in a long while. They weren’t impressed, though - both happily married. And besides, we’d been working to help vampire ghosts since my first week on this job.

It was the building owner who spoke first, “The deal is that you don’t ask him anything about the reason he’s still hanging around - nothing that will make him see the light and move on.”

I nodded, and sighed. “Of course, you didn’t hold up your end of the bargain. This is no ghost.”

He was shocked - busted. And tried to protest. “That’s not true. Didn’t you see him phase in? And after all I did to get Vladimir here for you…”

The corner of my mouth went up in a wry grin. “Of course, that tends to prove it. Ghosts are generally limited to a specific location. And our reports say he only started his haunting a decade or so back. You got him from somewhere else. So he’s no more ghost than my two friends here.

All while his “ghost” was still fascinated by the good looks of my protecting spirit-guides.

Vladimir suddenly jumped and bent down to rub his shin.

Jude glared at him. “No footsies, Vlad. Or should I just take that leg off with a spell?”

Vladimir held his hands up above the table in the universal surrender position.

I directed my comment to our host with a little attitude to boot. “Both of my associates are more than capable of dissecting your ‘ghost’ here in a permanent fashion. So I’d suggest you keep your Vladimir here on a leash.”

Vladimir just glowered. “I speak English and have heard all you said. And apologize for any offense I may have caused.”

At that the two girls looked at each other, sending thoughts that I didn’t need to hear to understand. Once bitten, twice shy - his apology didn’t go over with them. Handsy is as handsy does.

“So, what’s your deal, Vladimir? What’s your take on what you’re here for?”

The owner looked at his ‘ghost’ and nodded.

Vladimir sighed. “Well, it was about his daughter. You see, we do have a real vampire outbreak here in the Long Night season. And Bob (nodding to the owner) made a deal with me. I keep the real ones away from his daughter and then I could run around and tease the tourists and locals all I wanted the rest of the year.”

“By ‘tease’ you mean seduce if you can.”

Vladimir shrugged assent.

Then I raised an eyebrow. “So, it was you who sent for us, then?”

He nodded, eyes lowered.

Bob glowered at him.

Vladimir confessed. “You see, his daughter and I got along fine. But this year, she’s gone to one of those colleges in the South ‘48 and so our arrangement is basically null and void now. Except for protecting Bob here, but that’s about as interesting as watching ice melt.”

Bob shrugged. “Actually, I was planning to start moving south for the winter, too - but Vlad and I haven’t discussed this yet.”

The Russian ‘ghost’ turned his red eyes on Bob with a glare.

I chuckled. “Well, Vladimir, now what? We were brought here on false pretenses. You’re a spirit guide like these two friends of mine, free to come and go as you will.”

He sat forward, a pleading look on his face. “Wait - can’t you help me out of this boring scene here? I’ve read all your books, I can help you out. Plus, I mean, er…”

Sal and Jude exchanged another meaningful glance.
One that I knew well. They were sorry for this fraud.

I smiled again. “Oh, you think that if the spirit guides and goddesses are half as good looking as the way I’ve written them, then you wouldn’t be so ‘bored’ all the time as you are up here. Plus, you’re missing a lot of training - you’re only a one-trick pony at this point.”

Vladimir nodded, sheepishly.

----

Sal and I said our goodbyes to Jude as we made our way up the pasture path to my tiny Midwest writing cabin.

She nudged me with her elbow. “Well?”

“What?”

“You’re just an old softie.”

I smiled. “You know me too well.”

She grinned. “So three months out of the year, he’s ‘in-training’ at the Library Academy while he ‘helps out’ with the new recruits.”

I hugged her. “Yup. And don’t forget the single goddesses that come and go.”

She stopped me to look me directly in my eyes.”Do you think he’ll be able to keep the real vampires at bay up there, and all the remaining humans safe?”

I bent down a bit and kissed her on her nose. “That’s the deal. And you know Jude will carry out her promise if he doesn’t - it’s not just a leg that she’ll take off…”

Sal only giggled. “Yes, I know my sister all too well. Our female trainees will be perfectly safe. And satisfied, otherwise.”

I put my arm around her waist and got us moving again. “While he learns the finer arts of being a gentleman.”

Sal grinned to match my smile. And sped our progress to that writing cabin by shimmering us directly there.

This non-canonical lore adds to the Ghost Hunters series:

How did you like this? Like, share, comment, subscribe:

Share

Subscribe now

Leave a comment

Share Write. Farm. Share.

And - all of that is easier when you use the Substack app:

Get more from Robert C. Worstell in the Substack app

Available for iOS and Android

Get the app

An entry in the Flash Fiction February challenge by

We’re competing on likes, shares, restacks, everything, so:

Subscribe now

Share

Leave a comment

I REMEMBER STRUGGLING into that saloon and dropping to its floor. And that’s all. The fight I’d been part of was lost. I’d reloaded and fired everything I had, and took out my fair share. But then - it was over. I was spent.

How I got up here and who treated me was another set of questions.

Rising, I felt little pain. Sitting on the mattress edge, I paused - waiting for the spinning imbalance to appear. It didn’t. Grasping the iron headboard railing, I pulled myself to my feet - and was surprised to feel myself almost normal. A bit weak, but not straining to find energy to rise.

Something had been at work healing me. And with my history, I never held out for miracles. That wasn’t my side of the table in this life of poker hands. I’d been dealt bad luck, and lived. And the best I ever hoped for was to deal out as good as I got.

Pants and shirt had been cleaned, but not repaired. The holes where four bullets entered were still raw. But the blood, dirt, and gore around them was gone. Pulling my pants on, then my socks and boots, followed by my shirt, all gave me an ease I hadn’t felt in a long time. Because I was somehow given a bath, and was now putting on clean clothing. Like someone was preparing for me to either attend a Sabbath meeting, or go to my funeral as a respectable citizen.

Buckling on my gun showed it as now cleaned as well. It was too much to hope that I’d been also given a full belt of cartridges. Nope - not a one. And my worn hat looked also free of all the grime. I pinched myself - yup, I was still a human being walking on this planet.

But I felt like some angel had been dealing me the full house I’d somehow never prayed for.

Time to find some answers. At that, I heard some pots and pans rustling downstairs.

The upper hallway was short, and the railing down the steps to the main floor gave a few creaks, but they were overall in good shape.

The main room was empty, other than the round tables and bentwood caboose chairs.

“Well, someone is up and moving. How are we feeling today?” A feminine voice called out for me, apparently.

“Not too shabby. Worn for wear, but better than I’d hoped for when I came in. Who may I ask is wondering?” I could see no one from the bottom steps. But smelled some beef being cooked, and maybe some potatoes and fresh baked bread. My stomach rumbled.

At that, a tall, well-figured woman came around, wiping her hands on a otherwise clean wheat cloth towel. Russet-haired, grey-green eyes, and a smile that made my heart skip a beat. A modest dress, with a blue gingham apron barely disguised her full figure.

I removed my hat, out of respect. And swallowed.

She had a smile that probably would have launched a thousand ships a few centuries back. “Just good to have you back. You’ve been up there awhile, and I was expecting to have to take soup up their shortly. You just saved me a trip. Glad you’re feeling better.”
“And I’m mighty grateful for the care I’ve gotten. Oh, I’m Jake, by the way…”

She stepped forward and held out her hand. “And I’m Hami. This is my place, well my husband’s name is up there too, but it’s more known as ‘Hami’s’.”

“Nice to meet you Hami, although I’d like to meet and thank the doctor and nurse who have been caring for my - er - wounds.”

“Her smile turned into a grin. OK, well, you just did. I was able to help you heal yourself, but you did most of the work.”

“Oh, I don’t hardly believe that - not to to infer you told me any untruth, but it’s just…”

She nodded. “Yes, I know. Hard to believe. Well, you came to the right place at the right time.”

At that point, she moved to the nearest table and pulled out a chair. “Here, have a seat. I’ll get your dinner out here shortly.”

My stomach rumbled again. “Thanks, Miss Hami. I think I’m ready for a goodly amount of grub.”

She just smiled and turned back to the kitchen somewhere in back. And I shortly heard humming as a plate got clattered and filled.

Soon, Hami returned with a heaping platter of foot, plus some metal tableware.

I dug in - meatloaf, fried potatoes, and thick bread covered with butter and honey. And almost pinched myself again, because I though only angels in heaven got treated like this. But I wasn’t waiting around for company.

Hami returned with two tall tumblers, playing one in front of me. “Hope you like unsweet tea.”

I stopped shoveling for a second, forced a swallow, and then picked up my tumbler for a taste. And smiled. “I’m more of a rye drinker on average, but this is cool and nice. Didn’t realize I was as thirsty as I am hungry.”

“Bodies need fuel to run on. And to repair themselves with. So that’s only natural.” Hami sipped at her own drink as she watched me.

----

Too soon, I was filled, after several helpings. And I sat back. Hami was still sipping her own drink, while mine had been refilled more than a few times.
Of course, now I could ask my questions. “So, Hami, how did you heal me - or am I just dreaming all this, and I’m gonna wake up soon and finish bleeding out?”

Hami smiled. Like she’s been here before. “Short answer - laying on of hands. Longer answer - I’m what they call a Lazurai healer. I didn’t heal you - you did. All I did was help you sort out how you got into the mess you did when you stumbled in here a few days ago.”

“Oh - so now there’s nobody after me? And now I’m bullet proof?”

She shook her head ‘no’. “We can put you back into the same time-space you came from, and you’d probably just get shot up again. Especially since your gun is unloaded and you’re out of ammunition.”

I sat back at this. Like I thought - too good to be true. And I glanced around looking for a likely exit.

Hami just gave me one of her silver-dollar smiles and leaned forward. “No, there’s no one after you in this here and how. You’re safe. But unless you do decide to step back into the world you left, you’ll never know if you can really continue to live out there on your own. To that degree, you’ll still be haunted by your earlier choices.”

I frowned. “Wait - you said I sorted things out that almost got me killed.”

“That’s talking about any deals you made, or your preferences for violent reactions that wound up with you getting shot. If you went right back out there, maybe things would be different, maybe not. But you’ll never know.”

I studied this over. “So how did I manage to walk into your saloon here?”

She shrugged. “A bit above my pay grade. All I know is that it happens from time to time. Some sort of time-space-thought cross-connect. And since I’m a healer by trade (and they say they like my cooking) then I generally have to patch up anyone who does come in. Unless you already live in this time-line. But if you hang around here very long, you’ll see some examples of this, pretty much every week or so.”

I reached for my tumbler of tea and sipped it while I thought this all out.

----

When I went back through that door, it was another hot day on the street. And just as Hami said, the building behind me shifted into something rowdier, and with a tin pan alley piano player belting out tunes for all he was worth. Horse manure on the street just off the boardwalk, the clink of glasses and rowdy laughter behind those swinging doors I’d just come through.

But I was different. Very.

Then I remembered more of what she said. And who I had been before I fell into Hami’s version of that saloon. So I unbuckled my gun belt and held it loosely in my hand, pistol down near my boots.

With any luck, I could make it to the Sheriff’s office. In one non-shot-up piece. After all, I knew where a lot of stolen gold was hidden. Maybe I could make a deal.

So I started walking, whistling as I went.

Not every day you get a second lease on life without bullet holes..

Lore to this story:

How did you like this? Like, share, comment, subscribe:

Share

Subscribe now

Leave a comment

Share Write. Farm. Share.

And - all of that is easier when you use the Substack app:

Get more from Robert C. Worstell in the Substack app

Available for iOS and Android

Get the app

Another entry in the Flash Fiction February challenge by

Day 24.

More lore for the Ghost Hunters series - or a new story beginning…

Please enjoy:

TO NO ONE, I had to say it out loud, “Why is Karma such a bitch?” Cleaning up after rank amateurs was never something I liked. But collecting demon-possessed artifacts could never be a hobby. That would be more like collecting full gas cans and storing them in the same vault as your match and lighter collection. You wind up with a time bomb that was set in the dark by some unknown force - you couldn’t know when it would go off.

We’d been watching this collection grow. It was on our radar, but only as energy signatures. We only knew the amount of potential destruction being amassed, not what items or who was doing the collecting. The blast area took several blocks out.

And our Lord only knows where all their evil little trinkets and gizmo’s wound up. They didn’t just get blown into other people’s yards, but were more probably energized into different time-spaces, alternate universes. That would make the real clean-up a multiverse project, probably taking years and a dedicated, special-skills group.

I’m just the one who is the advance scout. Because of my history. Ulysses’ lover and all that. I had to smile at that memory. He was such a lovable dork.

HQ buzzed my pendant just at that thought. History doesn’t repeat itself, but it does echo. “Yes? OK. No, fortunately no casualties that I can tell. So you’re getting all this? Good. I was wondering how the reception was with all this dark matter floating around. Yes, I’ll report in once I finish the sweep.”

Where I stood used to be the front doorway. But calling this ground-zero of a bomb site was just as accurate. Only the concrete steps were left. And they were both burnt and cracked. Beyond that, there was the rubble-filled depression formerly known as a basement. A small scooped bowl in its center was fused glass mixed with ashes and some melted steel. All cooling now. Time for an aerial view.

I unfolded my wings from their jacket slits and stretched them. A crouch and jump took me airborne. Within minutes, I was a few hundred feet in the air, riding the heat thermals. Some advantages to being one of the last surviving harpies.

From the ground, I looked like either a condor or a large eagle. So there was no need to use some invisibility spell to hide from lookie-loo’s. But this site was so remote, most people drove 4-wheel drive pickups for their daily commute. They needed them to navigate the gravel roads leading anywhere near this dead-end village

The blast zone was circular, and the dead village was mostly empty lots and derelict buildings. Some of them had collapsed from the blast, a few were smoking. But this looked to be more of an etheric force than any chemical reaction. Had it been a high-temperature combustive explosion, we’d have a several-alarm fire - with trucks and equipment from several counties and towns around.

My acute hearing only picked up two sirens approaching. Rural volunteer fire department. And they were the first humans to witness that small town’s final demise. And they ‘d have no problem putting out the few embers to keep them from fanning out into a brush fire. It had stormed and rained buckets last night, so the sopping-wet ground left little chance of that. A green glint caught my eye, so I swooped down on it.

Anything to tell what this being or beings had been up to was welcome. Once I was on the ground, I reached down to pick it up. A crystal eyeball. Maybe out of some statuette. Dunno. Those sirens had quit. I was out of time. The rural volunteers were now slowing their approach, wanting to save their tires from punctures, and not bury their wheels into soft, rain-soaked ground.

I wasn’t there for any interview, though. Folding my wings into my jacket, I made a simple hand-gesture and shimmered out of their view.

“Harpy! So glad to see you!” John was smiling as I phased in. He standing just in front of his tiny front porch outside his tiny writing cabin. Typical red cotton t-shirt and dungarees, denim ball-cap to shield the sunrise from his eyes, but too warm for a chore-coat, even in these early morning hours.

“Wish I didn’t have to drop in on you unannounced. But I’ve got some questions you can answer from your old stories.” I was smiling now, too. It was always good to see friends.

“Sure, anything you need.” John was grinning now. This looked to be another great story to write up.

The screen door creaked as his wife came out. Sal was dressed in simple tan pajamas. Her long wavy blonde hair cascaded down her back. Seeing me, she grinned broadly. “Good morning, Harpy! Coffee?”

I held my hand up, finger crooked, as did John. Sal made a small gesture, and a mug of steaming coffee filled both mine and John’s hands. She then phased in one of her own.

Raising it to my face, I could smell the chicory blend dark roast. “Just what I needed for this early morning detective work.”

John raised an eyebrow in reply. I had that mystery writer’s full attention now. The game was afoot.

Raising my other hand, I opened my fist to show him the green crystal orb. “Ever seen or heard of something like this?”

He reached for it, but I kept it out of his touch. “No, we don’t know what’s connected with this yet, it’s the only clue I have to what psychic or demonic source bombed the blast site I just left. Probably not fit for human hands, yet”

John looked at it carefully, gesturing that I turn it over. “Looks like one of those cat statue eyes that god Set used to have around. Just missing the rest of it. Odd that this one survived.”

I nodded. “That would fit. I remember those from one of your stories.”

Sal stepped closer, sipping her own coffee. With her other hand, she extended her fingers as if to feel any emanations from it. “Yes, it’s got memories stored in it. Mystic ones. Jumbled. And something else.”

She looked directly at me. “Let me get you a lock-box for it?”

I shook my head ‘no’. “Not just yet.” Then I held it up to in the sunshine, looking for any way to access the data it held. And that was all it needed.

The sunny day disappeared to solid black instantly. The three of us were surrounded by this dark as the orb’s recording started. Gone were the pastures, cabins, trees.

We now stood in a dark room. Several of the collected articles were dimly glowing. Enough that we could now see the room as a vault, filled with shelves, which were filled with various items and devices. The recording was replaying from eye-level.

The stature was apparently facing out from the one of the walls, sitting on a shelf. The first action in this recording was a heavy door opening, with the resulting light glare - until the click of a light switch, and a single electric bulb turned on - casting shadows behind the objects and artifacts crammed into that space.

Whoever had been collecting all this had secured them from human theft, but not cosmic retribution. We saw an undistinguished couple enter the room, a man and woman casually dressed. While the focus was blurred around the edges, we could see the center most clearly. The man was holding a small box, one which was ornate and intricately-carved. It looked like a puzzle box. The couple were both fascinated by this. And he turned it around and around in his hand.

Then a loud click happened, and the box opened in two halves.

At that, the door slammed shut, and the single light bulb tinked out - the room was filled with darkness except for a bright red glow from the inside of that opened box. A ring levitated out of that container. We could see it clearly. The Ouroboros. Snake eating it’s tail. Jeweled red and blue eyes. And the ring rotated, as if the snake eyes were taking in everything in the room, inventorying them. A sudden vibration jiggled the recording, and shifted its focus downward.

The cat statue seemed now to have arrived face down on the floor of that vault. And the recording made a few sharp shifts, as the view dimmed. Such as being buried by other artifacts. The visual red-shifted into a greenish-yellow, then a bright flash that we all tried to shield our eyes from.

Sal levitated the orb out of my hand up into a floating lock box above it. Once closed, various clasps clicked in rapid combination to secure it. Back in the bright morning sunshine, that untouched box now looked ominously dark. She released that locked box, dropping it into my own hand, safe now.

I looked into John’s eyes. We both knew.

That naive couple had just freed and empowered an arch-criminal in its escape. And paid for their foolishness with their lives, apparently. Unless they were “lucky” they had “only” been shifted to an alternate reality.

An old villain had returned. The multi-verse had been made a lot more unsafe again.

Related Stories

You’ve met Harpy, John and Sal before. Their stories are part of the Ghost Hunter Primer, available here on Substack:

This story is a nice little competition between the writers you can read in this challenge. Like, Comment, Share, Subscribe. Everything counts.

Subscribe now

Share

Leave a comment

And all of this is easiest if you get and use the app:

Get more from Robert C. Worstell in the Substack app

Available for iOS and Android

Get the app

Another entry in the Flash Fiction February challenge by

Day 23.

Enjoy:

She wore a gossamer-thread shift over her, which was a bit distracting. Brunette hair, clear blue eyes. None of this covered her feminine features very well. I’d just looked back from staring out my small window and there she sat, on the quilt covered daybed in my little writer’s cabin. I was surprised, as I took that scene in. Have you ever seen gossamer?

It’s extremely thin, and rare. It’s the stuff young spiders put out in order to catch the wind and fly to their new homes. Of course, it’s the same stuff web silk is made from, so is extremely tough. When you walk through the woods, you’ll find that across trails and catching in your face. So tough that you can almost hear it “pling” as it breaks. So thin that you barely see it except when you catch the sun glinting off it.

So making an entire garment out of this would be expensive, and humans wouldn’t find it possible.

“Fairies.” She said.

“Huh?” I asked.

“Fairies collected and wove these strands into cloth.” She said.

“Well, that would make sense. Providing you believe in fairies.” I replied.

“They don’t need you to believe in them. That rumor got started by a writer and his stage play.” A slight frown crossed her face. “Fairies only appear in your universe if you believe in them. That’s the trick. They still exist regardless of whether you believe in them or not. But they only show up if you ask them, or expect them, even as a stray thought.”

“Like the odd times that you see a single small branch waving in the wind, but you feel no wind, and nothing else is moving.” I said.

“Exactly. But that might not be a fairy. Might be a goblin. Might be a poltergeist.” she said.

“Could be helpful. Could be dangerous. How would I tell?” I asked.

“Only by accepting it as it is and figuring out how to talk with it. If you can’t see it, you haven’t accepted it enough, yet.” she answered.

“So I see only what I want to see.” I said.

“Sure, like it’s always been. Like you don’t hear the teacher sometimes in class. Like when you ‘tune out’ to some recording and find it ‘rewritten’ when you listen to it again - new sections you’d ‘never heard’ before. This is old stuff. You’ve been through this. Selective perception.” She idly played with a loose thread on the bed’s quilt.

And the patch-worked, padded quilt she sat on was more or less tidy that day. I’d pulled it and the comforter, the various thinner blankets below it that kept me warmish in winter. Blues and rust reds in the cloth patches that were stitched together and then sewn into the padded batting in between. Old school. Comforts you can’t buy except in Amish country. Old skills that were lost generations ago.

It fit the old cabin I wrote and lived in. Small, one-room, with a table for writing and a counter with the kitchenette I needed. And a simple electrical box that would click off if I tried to run an electric heater or A/C window box at the same time I was cooking. A small shelf of books, one chair to sit in.

Why a goddess would come and visit this minimalist life I led was the question.

“Because you’re worth it.” She said.

“Why me?” I asked.

“Why not? Don’t you write, don’t you dream, didn’t you ask for inspiration?” she replied.

“Well, yes.” I tried to think of something to say that wouldn’t just circle back again.

She uncrossed her legs and leaned back on her arms. While she sat in the shade, I could still see how gossamer didn’t cover much.

“Of course, that’s what you think goddesses dress like, so I’m not here to disappoint.” she said.

“A little sexy to keep my attention, or to keep me distracted?” I asked.

“To fire your inspiration.” One bare foot was tracing the oval pattern of the hooked rug on the floor. Her light skin contrasted with the dark brown and burnt umber threads in it. “How you interpret my looks is up to you. If you wrote horror, I might have come as an old hag in your nightmares. Or Macbeth’s witches.” She looked up from the pattern her foot was making. Her eyes peering into my eyes without blinking.

“You have a truth in you. I just came to remind you to trust yourself and write.” she said.

“Write what?” I asked.

“Write everything, anything.” Her foot stopped moving. She crossed her legs and sat up to lean across them with her elbows. “Look. You have a great deal of stories waiting. They asked me to come here and tell you to get to work. They know their lives depend on you. If you don’t write, they can’t come through.” Her eyes seemed to burn like blue coals. They made her light skin and brunette hair glow with their own intensity.

“I have been writing.” I replied.

She frowned, as she slowly shook her head ‘no’. “You’ve been diddling around. What you’ve produced is squat compared to what you could be doing. Look, you’re leaving things sitting around and then say that you’ve got some ‘writer’s block’ or something. That’s just an excuse. Writers write. So, write!” With that she rose from the bed in a fluid move and came toward the ladder-back chair I was sitting in.

This close, her thin shift showed just how little it did cover. Her scent was like evergreens and lilac in bloom. But her eyes had my complete attention. Despite my wanting to look at the rest of her.

Her hands went on my shoulders. I stood stock-still and took it all in. A goddess talking to me, touching me. My heart was racing while I struggled to keep my breath at a normal ebb and flow. I didn’t know whether I should be scared, but my body was certainly excited.

“And that’s the point, isn’t it?” she smiled, and the corners of her eyes wrinkled slightly. “You don’t know if I’m here to seduce you or to empower you. Believe me, it could go either way. Because I showed up the way you wanted me to. This form is your idea. I took it so you’d pay attention. If you had been a girl, this might have been a hunk with six-pack abs and sculpted pecs, bare to the waist and a flowing mane of hair. Maybe a slight stubble.” She looked off into space and sighed at that.

Then her eyes focused on me again. “This appearance is a last resort, of sorts. You simply haven’t been listening. So I came.”

Her eyes still peered into mine, unblinking. Moments passed. I finally looked away to the side, out of respect. (If I looked anywhere else, I might see something I shouldn’t. Even the thought made me begin to blush.)

At that, she turned and sat on my lap, an arm around my neck and her face even closer. Her other hand grabbed my chin with a slender thumb and index finger, the touch light, but firm. She turned my head to face hers, just inches away. Then both arms crossed loose around my neck. “Do you think all this is an accident, still? Look, I’m your goddess. We can do whatever you want.”

One of my arms went around her waist, crossing her back. The other went lightly across her lap, to keep my balance and hers. Like a close girlfriend.

“Because, you already have an intimate relation with me, don’t you know? I’ve been showing up in your dreams for a long time, and whispering at you from the trees. Even leaving voices through the fan you run in the summer, and the heater in the winter.” Her breath was spice and mint.

“That was you? I...” Words failed me.

“Yes, and others. We are there to inspire your tales, to give you ideas. We are everywhere, at all times. We are the trees, the rocks, the wild animals, the neighbors livestock, the clouds, the sky, the rain, snow, and dust. We are Story.” she said.

Pausing for emphasis, she took an arm away, then lightly touched my nose with one finger. “You have to start doing something with all these hints.” Then she kissed me on my nose and shimmered into thin air again.

A whisper in my ear sounded, “Remember, we are always here and will show up as you want. You only have to believe.” And then a light breeze stroked my face although the windows and doors were shut.

I had my orders. She was the most pleasant drill sergeant I’d never met.

So I turned my chair around, opened my laptop, created a blank text document full-screen, and began typing.

You want to see a goddess? First, believe. Then, write.

This is a nice little competition between the writes you can read in this challenge. Like, Comment, Share, Subscribe. Everything counts.

Subscribe now

Share

Leave a comment

And all of this is easiest if you get and use the app:

Get more from Robert C. Worstell in the Substack app

Available for iOS and Android

Get the app

Writing isn’t easy, but it helps when you get engaging prompts.

has been running a February Flash Fiction challenge - for writers to produce one 1500-word story every day for the 28 days of February.

And now, the stories are all told, and we’ve lived to tell the tales.

Earlier, I noted that there’s a site called substackprint.com where anyone can print off a list of their story links and receive a PDF of them, formatted for letter-sized paper and in three columns.

I had to test and follow through on this myself.

So - here are my complete four weeks of submissions to this challenge, as well as a prologue of the three works I produced in January - as warm up:

The Substack Print Prequel

3.44MB ∙ PDF file

Download

Download

The Substack Print Fffweekfour

8.83MB ∙ PDF file

Download

Download

The Substack Printfeb2026week03

8.26MB ∙ PDF file

Download

Download

The Substack Printfeb2026week02

9.2MB ∙ PDF file

Download

Download

The Substack Printfeb2026week01

11.1MB ∙ PDF file

Download

Download

And yes, I now know I have a full, slim paperback to produce. It’s quite a bit of work to edit these into shape - but will feel good in my (and your) hands once it’s released to the world.

Here’s hoping your own author journey is as adventurous and rewarding…

PS. I now have a page where all these 28 stories can be accessed for binge-reading online:

Oh - and do like, share, subscribe, and upgrade if you’d like to see more of my writing about writing (and some cute calf photos weekly…)

Subscribe now

Share

Leave a comment

Get more from Robert C. Worstell in the Substack app

Available for iOS and Android

Get the app

And now, it’s all published into one ebook!

Print editions coming soon…

Get Your Copy NOW!

SAL FOUND ME in the pastures, checking cows and their forage, and fences.

I was happy to see her, as usual. Getting married to her was the best thing that could happen to any fantasy-mystery writer like me. Cute spirit-guides that never age are just that way.

After we finished our long kiss, she leaned back from me. “So, this is your reaction to what we just heard?”

“Oh, that world-ending pronouncement?”

“Yeah, that minor update on human progress - or the upcoming lack of it.”

I shrugged. “By now, I thought you’d be used to my reactions to calamities and disasters. Oh - but you spirit-guides have only had a few centuries to prepare for something like this…”

She punched my arm.

“Oww - you’ve been working out!”

Sal held me closer around the waist. “Precious seconds are passing, and you are out here just checking cows and probably working up fast repartees so they sound like they’re off the cuff.”

I had to smile. “Have I told you recently how gorgeous you are?”

She grinned. “Yes, but that never gets old, even when the world is ending.”

I nodded. “Oh, about that. I trust the governments have come to us to help save their butts again.”

Skillfully, she slipped to my side and started me walking back to our trio of tiny cabins - somewhere on the other end of one of those nearby cow paths.

I took the hint and just shut up for a while, enjoying the feel of her waist and how her hips moved near mine.

Halfway there, and I stopped. My pendant was buzzing. “Yes? Oh, is that so? That figures. Then Cassie is onto it? Already there? Oh, OK then. Let me know how it turns out.”

A few more steps, and Sal couldn’t take it any more.

“Don’t you think that you should be taking this seriously?”

I stopped and turned to her, holding her on both sides, looking deep into her dark eyes. “Yes, dearest. Typically nothing to worry about. Cassie will have the scoop shortly. Then we re-broadcast everything through their own Galactic Council emergency broadcast system.”

“But what about all these cities with their panicky grid locks and looting?”

“H. G. Wells already wrote about that. I couldn’t start to beat what he came up with. Besides, I only write good endings. Cows don’t like it when I come out here all depressed.”

She held me close and put her beautiful blonde head on my chest. And I was reminded how much I liked her wavy, full hair let down instead of in a tight bun like she wore in so many of my stories.

I gave a sigh. “So the cities are rioting. That’s not new. And there is probably no toilet paper or white bread in any of the big box grocery stores.” I rubbed her back and she gave out a quiet sound of satisfaction.

“OK, John, I know where this is going. The closer people are to the land, the more they could care less what people are saying, especially from metropolitan areas.”

I just nodded. Now her back was relaxed, so I started rubbing on her shoulders.

Then my pendant buzzed again. Touching it lightly, “OK, what is it now? Yes? Of course. OK - we’re on our way.”

I took my hand to raise Sal’s face to mine, and gave her a long, deep kiss.

She sighed. “You always have the calmest responses to the end of the world. So, I guess that means we should get going?”

I nodded.

She shimmered us out of the pasture….

----

And we arrived at the Library.

Her sister Jude was already there, along with her husband Bertie - who was in his 3-piece wool-blend suit instead of his more typical border collie form.

“Hiya, Jude, Bertie. Ooh, this must be really getting serious.” I glanced down to the floor and saw Jude ‘s footwear. “Spiked heels? Really?!? Now I know it’s the end of the world.”

Everyone laughed.

At that, a big screen materialized at the end of one of the Library’s vast shelving sections.

Rochelle was standing there in her nursing scrubs, with a wry smile on her face. “John, I caught the tail end of that. I didn’t know you were writing dark humor books these days.”

“Hey, Rochelle - yes, I’ll be here all week. Book signings in the back, after the show, as usual.”

The sound of a floor drum, followed by a high-hat clash arrived.

Jude snickered. “Sorry, John, couldn’t resist the sound effects.”

Rochelle’s smile turned into a near-grin. “Anyway, just wanted to let you know our back-up plan is almost complete. Herding a bunch of elementals around is worse than cats. With apologies to feline shape-shifters who may be listening in.”

I raised my hand. “And our own powers-that-be know their script in all this?”

Rochelle nodded. “Yes, we don’t have time to treat them all, and they still haven’t gotten over how little we take them seriously. So it’s like walking on eggshells around them - happy I don’t have to do it.”

I interrupted. “Glad your husband Rick is our official go-between in these situations.”

She nodded. “We’re all fortunate to have him. He’s only hung up on the President about a dozen times now - just to ensure they got the point.”

At that, an electronic buzz came across the feed, and the screen split between Rochelle and Cassie.

Cassie showed up as some sort of electrical field at first, then morphed into her usual corporeal appearance - brunette, blue-grey eyes, and youngish. “Hey, everyone!”

Smiles lit up the faces of all present.

I had to ask, “How’s the story going, Cassie?”

“Fine, just fine. I was able to shimmy up their broadcast feed into that mega-warship they’ve parked upstairs. And you were right - the great Grand-Dame herself was on hand to officiate at the official demise, along with the corporate Sponsors who are underwriting this invasion. A little snooping around found the recordings we knew were there…” She put a finger to her ear as if she was getting a signal. (Her theatrics were really short-handed signals to explain what was going on to those of us who couldn’t see all the myriad electronic flows she was monitoring.) “OK, we’ve got it all on tape now, and here’s the playback:”

----

The screen blacked out for a split second, and then a grainy recording started playing. A countdown of the minutes to total annihilation of the human species was playing across the bottom of that screen in red numbers and colons. Above it was a video from a conference on that mega-warship. The Grand-Dame was talking to those same corporate Sponsors. They were looking at a 3D holographic projection of the Earth as we knew it. The Sponsors were running some presentations of what they were planning to do to re-terraform the planet once the humans were gone.

The shark-faced head of those sponsors turned abruptly to the Grand-Dame. “Are you sure your end of it is lined up? We can’t afford a slip-up now.”

The Grand-Dame just nodded and pulled up a screen. It was showing some private account of hers. The numbers were shifting rapidly, and increasing. At last they stopped with a huge number, with some exponential symbols to its end. She made a swiping motion to move that screen over to the side. “Now we are set. The Galactic Council will get their split and make that decree. Of course the witless humans will be blamed, and then there will be no witnesses when they are gone, no one to care about that little backward planet.”

At that, the video froze, with both the Grand-Dame and the Head Sponsor shaking hands on the deal. The view of her private account total was visible just below their hand-shake.

Then that recording disappeared. It was replaced by a live stream from the mega-warship bridge, which now revealed the faces of both the Grand-Dame and those Sponsors, showing their shock and stuttering denial of what they’d just seen broadcast. She looked to the side, nodded, and visibly palled. “...to everyone, galaxy wide?” Then she swallowed and signaled that the feed get cut. The Sponsors were rapidly making their way toward the background, where there were some sort of transport tubes ready, while the bridge live stream faded to black.

The counter at the bottom of that screen suddenly stopped, then disappeared.

Another, anonymous voice spoke over the now black screen, “We interrupt this broadcast to - er, um - announce that the - uh - planned termination of all human life on planet Earth has been indefinitely postponed — pending further review. That is all.”

----

I was walking my pastures again, hand-in-hand with my gorgeous spirit-guide wife. The cows were lowing, and munching on lush grass. And we’d saved the world once again. All while adding more clients to the list of people who wanted me and my associates only as - friends. Ones that could help them out of sticky situations they were involved in.

When we finally got back to my cabin, I’d have yet another great story to write - that, as usual, no one would believe was true..

Such was my quiet life out here.

Find the origin stories of the characters mentioned above in the Ghost Hunters Primer:

You may recognize the character of Cassie, who was introduced recently during this challenge:

How did you like this? Let me know…

Leave a comment

Its easier to like, comment, and share via the Substack app:

Get more from Robert C. Worstell in the Substack app

Available for iOS and Android

Get the app

Your contributions are welcome. Keep more of these stories coming directly to you by subscribing:

Subscribe now

Or buy me a coffee:

Buy me a coffee...

What follows is an entry into the February Flash Fiction challenge by . Based on photography of .

This is also an excerpt from my upcoming serialized novel - another new addition. (The below link has a no-charge, downloadable working copy of this first-draft novel for you...)

Please enjoy:

IT WAS ONE OF THOSE all-white hallways. You’ve seen them. No details, really. Movies have them when you just want to make a point by having two characters alone - just to talk to each other. There’s no real end to these things. And where they have doors, some are open, some shut. Curious, mysterious, but bland.

As for me, I hate writing scenes with them as a setting. You know, just by the simple plainness of them, that’s going to be a short scene. No real action, just dialog. Or a monologue like this one so far.

Sal showed up right then.

And ran into my arms to give me a hug and a deep, long kiss.

Finally, she broke off - “John – you’re... Wait.”

She looked around. “What is this?”

I squeezed her again. “Sal, it’s so good to see you and feel you again. But we’re just in some sort of purgatory or somewhere between waiting rooms.”

“Waiting rooms for what or who?”

“Death. He’s around here somewhere.”

“He?”

“OK, you remember from the last time we met, just after out golden Lab Bertie passed. He was dressed like he could be “either way” – and really, really fat. Playing the victim card was how I described it.”

Sal’s hand came to her face as she suppressed a giggle, just not the smile.

“I remember that pompous...” She looked around as if he could hear her. “...Person.”

“Ass is my term. But I don’t mince many. Writers have that license.”

“What’s the deal then, John?”

“The ‘deal’ is that I’m not being fair to you. Every time I crash in that operating room we’re in up there, it’s taking something out of you. But Bernie is stubborn and wants to defend me and protect me at all costs. That’s his border-collie-shifter thing. And when he does, then it takes a toll on Jude. If we both keep being stubborn – selfish is the word that ‘person’ used – then all four of us will be Death’s cannon fodder.”

“So is he here for both of you?”

“No, and not you - nor Jude. Just one of us. But he won’t tell either of us who that is.”

“Sounds typical, from what I read of your other book.”

“Yeah, likes to play high-stakes poker.”

“So?”

“So, we’re here and he’s probably listening in. But I’ve just told you where to find the solutions you need. Death doesn’t read anyway, can’t figure it out in time if he could. That other book, right?”

Sal went wide-eyed and nodded.

“Now, we all have to sort this out together, and that’s above my pay grade on how to get us all into a room like this.”

“Don’t worry, John. Jude and I can cover that. It’s not like we haven’t had you in worse scenes than this before. A certain lighthouse on the prairie comes to mind...”

I just shook my head. “I’d rather not go there.”

Still, we both smiled at that.

Sal came forward and we hugged. I kissed her cheek.

Then the hallway shifted around us...

----

In that green-hued operating room, John’s monitors came alive again. He was back from flat-lining. Beeping away again. Still out of touch with the rest of our world. Except…

Sal looked over to me, her face drawn. Her eyes were blurry and red-rimmed, hollow. Bringing John back this many times already was taking its toll.

“Jude, we’ve got work to do.” Then she straightened her shoulders, back to being all business.

“Sal, what...?”

“No time to explain. We need John’s first book on death – the one where we were all choked up in the opening chapter.”

I nodded, my eyes wide.

“Yes, that one. And I’ll tell you more on our way to the clinic library. The boys will be fine while we’re gone – trust me.”

She turned and almost sprinted out of the room. I did my best to round the bed without knocking anything or anyone over in order to catch up.

----

“OK, Jude – you got it now?”

I nodded. She and I were back between the two beds in that operating room. This time she had her hands on each of Bernie’s and John’s heads. I had my hands on both their hearts.

Then, as if on cue. they both flat-lined.

----

Sal was almost smothering me, and Jude wasn’t giving Bernie much room, either. And kisses were pelting our faces.

Of course, we were back in that white hallway. Standing with our lovers in our arms.

“Ladies, please – remember, back in the real world we are both flat-lined. I don’t suppose you had a chance to brief Rochelle so she doesn’t freak out?”

Sal nodded. “I did think that far ahead, but I’m glad you checked.”

I just smiled at her cheekiness. “OK, yes Death is listening in, but he knows we need to sort this out.”

Jude raised her hand – the one not still holding onto Bernie’s shoulder.

“Yes?”

“Which one of you were on his list?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

That surprised her.

I spoke before anyone else could. “Alright. It’s settled then. I go and talk to Death. Alone.”

Shocked faces all around.

“Oh come on, now. Let me explain: Bernie, you can’t protect me from Death. You have to protect Jude. Jude – you have to take care of Bernie and get him back again. Right now, he’s flat-lined on an operating bed up there - somewhere.”

I turned to Sal and put a finger on her lips.

“Sal, we have a lot of talking to do. But the same goes for you. There’s nothing you can do down here. I know how to play the kind of poker game that Death deals. If and when I come back, you’re going to need to be the first one welcoming me back to the land of the living. No one else can. OK?”

Sal took my finger down and leaned in to give me a very long, deep kiss.

She looked deep into my eyes and said with a quiet, firm voice, “Know then, that this is one promise I’m holding you to. Try to break this one and there are a few favors I can call in that will make you regret it – dead or not.”

I nodded, serious. Then kissed her nose.

Standing back from her and the other two, I gave them all a wave.

“Wish me luck.”

----

Same old death. Same dull theatrics - drapes, carpet, dark hues on everything surrounding that dark throne he sat on.

“Hiya Death – surprised?”

“Kinda, but not really. You’ve always been smart.”

“Still am.”

“For now.”

“Forever.”

“Says you. This isn’t any poker game. You came here on your own. Your name wasn’t on the list, but you volunteered.”

“Wait, just back up. There’s still a hole card I have to play.”

“Such as – no, wait...”

“Right. The one thing you can’t take the life out of. The one thing that can’t die. It’s the Story. It comes to life anytime someone reads it or writes it again.”

Death slapped his forehead. “Ooh, I fell for it again.”

“That you did.”

“But if you write this story up, then it will wreck everything!”

“Oh, go and think that through. Just for once. You know all my stories are written and published as fiction on purpose...”

“...because no one would believe them to be true life events.”

“Exactly. Now, who would even be disposed to possibly figure that these might be true?”

“Mystery writers.”

“Really?!?”

“No, come to think it through, there would be only those that read fantasy-mysteries as fact.”

“Which comes to...?”

Death looked up and did some calculations. “Oh, maybe five – six, tops.”

“Right.”

Death came off his throne and extended a bony hand to me.

“John, as usual, it’s been a unique pleasure.”

I shook his hand. “And you have a standing invite to bring some of your friends and sharpen your poker skills any time you want.”

While it wasn’t the most pleasant sight to see, Death smiled at that.

“Deal.”

At that, the dark throne room went utterly black…

More on that upcoming serialized novel (complimentary first draft download included):

How did you like this? Let me know…

Leave a comment

Its easier to like, comment, and share via the Substack app:

Get more from Robert C. Worstell in the Substack app

Available for iOS and Android

Get the app

Your contributions are welcome. Keep more of these stories coming directly to you by subscribing:

Subscribe now

Or buy me a coffee:

Buy me a coffee...

This is part of ’s February Flash Fiction challenge.

We’re competing here for comments, likes, restacks. So please join in:

Leave a comment

Share

Subscribe now

THE ODD FACT THAT Zombie-infected humans give any Lazurai nurse training centers wide berth in their travels was our first clue to solving that outbreak. Apparently, they can “sense” the presence of those immune to their bites and will go off in search of other prey. And so urban centers become massive targets. Rural areas with Lazurai healing clinics and schools are avoided by zombies, both due to their low populations and natural immunity.

The state of “Zombie” was created by the “solanum” virus, which is transmutable only by direct exchange of bodily fluids. Chiefly, being bitten. Elementals can neither be infected by, nor transmit that virus. And so, we train our healers in these clinics to develop their native abilities in these areas. Just preparing for the future. Plus, there is a certain inherent beauty to that form.

What happens in over-populated metropolitan areas, is generally overcome by either overwhelming numbers defending themselves, or transmutation - where the virus degrades over time. In general, people who survive an earlier, more deadly version of any virus cannot succumb to later varieties. The apparent exception to this, is where they relapse in response to their own anti-bodies and then exhibit the same symptoms again. With adequate care and treatment, these relapses can become more infrequent and eventually cease.

The solanum virus, like the Lazurai virus, is thought to be sentient, although it differs as its victims’ efforts to avoid the very people who could cure them. A true sentient virus is symbiotic, and assists its host to live a better, more productive lifestyle. This is known as mutualism. The solanum virus simply kills off it’s host, as a true parasite, then controls that “living dead” person to find other hosts to infect. It’s “sentience” is less than a swarm of flies or bees.

The lifespan of that virus is in the three to five years that the body it inhabits can still be animated. Rot takes over once body death occurs, and is a slow process generally, depending on environmental factors. Zombies in desert areas tend to dry faster when exposed to hot sunshine, while zombies in swamps are protected by shade and high moisture levels. Chinese studies have a lot of comparative data available.

Some theorists contend that the Chinese military itself produced the original Zombie virus, and then was able to spread it world wide by air transport of infected people to other metropolitan areas. As the illness was untreatable by conventional means, it was spread through hospitals at first, and then into the more highly populated areas, such as high density modern ghettos and government housing projects. This is unsubstantiated, and denied by the current Chinese mainland government, while they continue to develop viral weapons for warfare in various research facilities. This contrasts with the natural propagation method of the Lazurai virus.

How the Lazurai treatment works is due to the fact that it is spread with love. Of course, we are dealing with the later versions of this virus as it mutated symbiotically with its host. The earliest version was initially stolen from an undisclosed government lab and then inserted as payload in a dirty bomb by terrorists. Only babies were known to survive this first attack, and the early efforts to shun grown survivors into apathy worked only to delay the spread. Lazurai were known to simply submerge into rock formations and underground structural walls and remain there.

These also then later could sporadically resurface from time to time as elemental formations, observed mostly dust devils or waterspouts. It’s theorized that all four of the ancient elements can be found as Lazurai-enabled creations. So, earth, wind, fire, water. A fifth element - thought - is also theorized, but cannot be sensed as separate from the highly-rational or highly-irrational thinking minds currently available for study. There is little documentation on these elementals returning to human form

The earliest documented human-form Lazurai healer was a teen-aged girl, named Rochelle, who left a trail of healed individuals as she moved from the Southwestern deserts northeast to Chicago. She was also known to transmute dirt and rock into silver coinage. Government-funded hunts to bring these Lazurai individuals in for further study have ceased according to available records. Yet squads of NGO mercenaries have been spotted hunting them at various times, using sophisticated tracking devices. However, there continue to be push-back incidents by these Lazurai.

One seminal incident, which is known as Internet urban legend, stopped all admitted direct government activities along this line. It was reported to be an counter-attack in Area 51, where various high governmental officials and military officers found themselves buried up to their chests in the dirt floor of a Quonset hut until they agreed to cease all hunt and research for the Lazurai. See the signed affidavit. No remaining version of this documentation can be found on-line Also, according to unsubstantiated documents found on the Internet, those officials were threatened by letting press unlimited access to all the files and personnel on the bases - while those were helplessly submerged, The file cabinets and vaults being unlocked and papers blowing about on the base at the time of that agreement. (The press received anonymous rumors and swarmed the unmanned and wide open gate to that compound, apparently restrained from entering by a force field with unknown properties - per reports.)

Since then, the government is rumored to employ these Lazurai to solve various paranormal incidents that affect national security. And so, these natural healers eventual involvement in mitigating the Zombie outbreaks.

The ability of the Lazurai virus to restore the human body is also of note. Accelerated healing has been noted by several published books in this area. There is no known reports of revivifying deceased bodies. However, the original Lazurai virus would kill and then accelerate decomposition to dust of any affected human within hours of their death. Winds would then spread that virus via the dust.

Limited after-action studies of zombie hordes who encountered Lazurai elementals seem to verify a variation of this same approach to the “walking dead”. The affected, once physically contacted, then fall passively to the ground immediately after said contact and decompose rapidly into dust. Testing these remains finds them only to contain the Lazurai virus, with no trace of Solanum virus. Most of the viable mitigation approaches incorporate similar approached.

Contemporary common tactics to resolve Zombie outbreaks: First, find the living individuals who have not been killed and cure them. Again, this is observably done by “laying on of hands” by Lazurai treated and trained nurses. Second, where the individuals are truly walking dead, the practical approach was to transmute these to individual dust piles, humanely collect these and sent to their families for burial and closure. Such priorities mitigate the contagion with a high survival rate.

There was some comment about cross-universal time-line contagion. Some Lazurai-enabled individuals are known to cross these barriers freely and at will. However, all the rest of us humans can know for sure is what happens here and now - in our universe, in our current now. Yes, that might explain the Chinese “patient zero”, but that’s a moot point now, since the Solanum viral outbreak in our time-line and universes has been eradicated. As well as establishing protocols to protect against further outbreaks.

As part of this, more rural Lazurai clinics have been established nationwide and health standards have increased in these areas. However, they are devoted simply to maintaining their privacy. What people do in larger cities are their own responsibility. Health-wise and otherwise.

Our cities have dodged the bullet on this last pandemic. And so, training Lazurai healers to learn the ancient art of shape-shifting is our answer to later outbreaks of various communicable diseases. While our government continues to deny knowledge of, or involvement in, any such Internet-spread rumors.

Yes, this is all expected to be treated as wild fiction. And yes, several fiction writers have been employed to record the Lazurai-influenced tales. The theory of this is to protect the privacy of those people characterized in those books - while also publishing the very practical parables widely. Learning from our mistakes continues to be a sensible approach, as proved by Aesop.

Bonus homework

There are several works now found here on Substack which this article adds lore to:

Also, you may like the single story which started this dark saga:

And it’s sequel:

We’re competing here for comments, likes, restacks. So please join in:

Leave a comment

Share

Share Write. Farm. Share.

Subscribe now

This is part of ’s February Flash Fiction challenge.

We’re competing here for comments, likes, restacks. So please join in:

Leave a comment

Share

Subscribe now

OF COURSE, EVERYTHING WAS NICE HERE. Beautiful tropical beaches, all the free drinks you can want. Beautiful women and young studs wanting to hook up with, well, it seems like just about anyone. And all the accoutrements of a five-star hotel. Room service is outstanding, and if you leave your bed for any reason it’s perfectly made when you step back in. Great food, but you were never hungry. One of the benefits of living in a digitalized world. My favorite benefit was that you never have to take a bathroom break.

So my little report-back press gig took a few more days than expected in this digital paradise. So much better here than the bombed-out, burnt-out mess we called civilization.

But my job said they wanted a glowing report to bring back from someone who’d been there, done that.

So I extracted myself from the willing and eager arms of a luscious redhead, got dressed and headed back.

Of course the return trip had wait-times, since so many people were arriving, they said, that the return download queue had to wait for enough bandwidth to be allocated. At least there were only couple of people waiting in front of me.

Meanwhile, I reviewed my mental notes so I’d remember everything. Of course, I couldn’t take any physical notes here and get them back home. And of course, after I returned, I planned to be queuing up to return again.

Paradise made real. Or at least, digitally realistic.

----

“What took you so long?” The grizzled welcoming party of one wasn’t impressed with me - or much of anyone.

He sat at a card table in a folding chair, the gymnasium that was so full with crowds of people was mostly empty now. A few still in line at the digitizing exit line, completely unlike the mob I’d originally avoided with my Press Pass. And here it was, still hanging around my neck. Another proof that the return trip could be uneventful.

All I said in return to that grizzled attendant was a shrug and a slight smile. “I was only gone three days…”

He shrugged in return and looked at the form I was filling out, pointing. “Time is relative. Scratch out the date you think it is - that’s your time. The real universe has moved on. Add six months to it.”

I thought he was joking at first. Then I saw through the frost-accented windows - it was winter now. I’d left in the middle of a balmy heat wave. That walk back to my press office was going to be brisk - I’d brought no coat with me.

----

By the time I’d gotten to my dingy little station and it’s dusty, well-worn keyboard, my nose was runny and I was shivering. At least I’d left a light jacket there. And the heat was running in the building - somewhere above freezing.

And as I tapped out my report that the publisher had paid me to write, it wasn’t hard to compose a nice puff-piece that would simply tell the glorious story about how people should get in line and save themselves from the dire post-apocalyptic world we created here.

It hit me as I polished the prose and proofed it. I’d lost six months of my life. For three days in a digital paradise.

That didn’t make it into the published report. A reader would have to note that it was one of the first reports coming back - and one of a tiny few reports that had surfaced. The rest of the news was of people rebuilding, obituaries for those who had someone to write them. How international communications were just now being re-established. And ads for the few businesses that had goods to sell. Only the government was hiring, since the streets needed clearing, and the rubble cleaned out of yards and lots emptied ahead of next Spring, all for hard-scrabble gardening for those who survived this First Winter After.

Everything was “after” now. Nothing had really survived.

So we all were given this solution that people could line up and get digitalized into a new nirvana, while their body was placed into storage somewhere, somehow. All powered by the few fusion reactors which had survived. Because we didn’t have enough left to keep everyone going - or that was the mantra that was repeated by all the press. Times were hard, were going to continue to be hard.

Who wouldn’t want to simply take the chance?

My reporter mind said something was up with all this. That solution was too pat. And sure, I had my fun while I was there, those three days in Paradise. But it had cost me six months.

Over the next week, I collected notes on a back-burner of my mind. Especially as I did my volunteer quota on the rubble squads, getting the city put back together, somehow. With those fewer shoulders among us to help with this work, those fewer who were also requiring no rations to keep them alive in the here and now. What didn’t add up was the time lost. No one ever mentioned that.

----

About a month later, I was asked to do a followup piece. And I almost turned it down. Because of the time I’d have to invest to get even an hour’s worth of reportage “over there”. Of course, the image of that willing redhead came back to me, someone who I wanted to interview to find out what she had left over here to become a willing bed-mate to digitalized strangers there.

Life was still very hard here. A month of hard work showed me that this was going to be the next few years of life on this war-worn planet of ours. Eventually, we’d struggle through. And those who had left weren’t going to have to deal with any of it. They’d come back years from now, all rested and refreshed and ready to inherit the results of our back-breaking work at rebuilding.

So I had my edge to this story now.

----

The portal line was non-existent. Most of the lights in the old gymnasium were dark. The same grizzled, bored attendant met me there. Somehow, he recognized me. “You again? Going back to stay this time?”

I shook my head. “No, the boss wants a follow-up story.”

That attendant shrugged, glanced over the paperwork I’d submitted, rubber-stamped it and put it into a small pile in his out-basket.

Then looked at me one last time. “Oh, have a nice trip.”

The portal glowed as I stepped through once again.

----

It was night time when I stepped through the other side. Or seemed like it. But the stars were not constellations, they were evenly spaced across a wide dome. And the beach that seemed to stretch to the horizon was now just a flat pool, no waves. All the recordings of sea bird sounds were mute now. A few street lights guided my path to the hotel, which itself was completely dark, other than a single entrance light above its door.

The last time I was here, this was all well lit, and people were coming and going all the time. Arm in arm, or in groups.

Now it was all vacant. Quiet. Eerily quiet.

I did the math in my head, it should have only been maybe a year in their time.

Ahead, I saw a single person sitting on a bench, facing that still pool.

As I neared him, I saw almost the same dull, detached look that the attendant had on the other side. But if he heard me come up, he made no sign of it.

When I sat down on his bench, he scarcely looked at me. And said nothing.

So I asked, “Been here long?”

He gave a slight chuckle. “That’s a loaded question.”

I waited.

The man finally looked at me again. “You must be a new arrival.”

I nodded, “Back to do a follow up report about how it’s going here.”

He sighed. “Well, now you know. Paradise isn’t what’s it’s pegged out to be.”

“Where is everyone?”

His slight chuckle again. “Oh they’re all packed away, sleeping it off.”

My jaw dropped. “When I was last here, it was full-on party, 24/7.”

That got me a curious glance. “Yeah, well, you can get too much of a good thing. So we’re in maintenance mode now.”

“How long has this been going on?”

He looked up, as if estimating. “Let’s see, it’s been about fifteen years or so, now. Once they rolled out their program of people opting for a perpetual sleeping stasis, most took it up.”

I turned toward him, “Wait, that means time isn’t linear here, it’s logarithmic!”

The man only shrugged. “Welcome to eternal paradise.”

I jumped to my feet and sprinted back to the still-glowing exit portal. With any luck, I’d only be missing 50 years or so - if I hurried.

We’re competing here for comments, likes, restacks. So please join in:

Leave a comment

Share

Share Write. Farm. Share.

Subscribe now