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Read Part 1

The wagon wheels creaked as they traveled the desert floor. The sun was high and the heat had returned. Harrow saw another white puff of cloud in the distance, a collection of whatever moisture could be pulled out of the arid world around them. In other places, that cloud would likely grow into a storm. Here, it would eventually go away, replaced by yet more blue sky and more heat.

Wendel stirred. He stretched out on the brown wool blankets in the back of the wagon. Harrow heard him and turned to look.

“Where are we?” Wendel asked.

“Told you it had a kick.”

“You weren’t wrong about that, mister. How long have I been asleep?”

“A night and a morning. Any good dreams?”

Wendel took a drink of water out of a tin cup and poured the rest over his head. He mussed up his hair and wiped his face dry with his hands before taking the seat next to Harrow on the jockey bench.

“Think I went back in time,” Wendel said. He looked around before continuing. “Damn desert looks the same as it did yesterday.”

“That’s an illusion. The horizon is always just over there, but the mountains to the left and right have grown larger.”

“Plants ain’t much to look at.”

“No, they ain’t. So tell me. What was this dream you had? I’m always interested in what my customers experience. Makes for good advertising.”

“Just so…odd. There was a little boy, about four or five. Think he was me, but I don’t know. He was playing with some little toy soldiers.”

Harrow reached into a shirt pocket and held out the toy he had taken as payment for the pill. “Like this?”

“Yeah, that’s it. In fact, that’s the same toy the boy in the dream….” Wendel trailed off. Harrow glanced his direction and saw the man’s eyes drift backward into memory, fixed on a moment rather than any object in the present.

“Go on.”

“That’s just it. I don’t think I can. The boy was playing with the toys and there was a stove. I can’t recall what happened. It felt like a memory, though, but some piece of it is missing. What’s in that pill, anyway?”

“A few odds and ends. Magic. Whatever you want to call it.”

The wagon rolled forward for a quiet minute. Clomp, clomp, clomp.

Finally, Wendel spoke up. “You said dreams help heal whatever the past has thrown at you. What did you mean by that?”

“Dreams are many things. They can be memories, the brain working out problems, or just random thoughts laid out in random ways. Things in the past can seem lost sometimes, but they’re nothing but memories we haven’t processed, load-bearing walls in the construct of our house. I think sometimes dreams help us repair that wall if it’s causing us to behave certain ways later in life.”

“If this was a memory, you’d think I’d remember more.”

“Maybe. Maybe not.”

“Always thought dreams meant nothing.”

“No.” Harrow chuckled. “They’re something so much more.”

“What do you mean?”

“Think about it this way. If I gave you a book with a thousand words, you could make up a thousand stories, right?”

“I suppose.”

“But you can’t make up stories that included words that were not in that book. In that way, you’re limited to what you have.”

“I’m not following.”

“Your memories are those words. Your brain won’t make up what it doesn’t know, so there are holes. Those random images are not random, are they? They are the words in that book being shuffled around until they make up a new story. What if we could put those words back in the order they first appeared? What if we could patch the holes by using the words of another man’s book? Another boy’s book?”

“Guess I don’t get it.” Wendel sighed as his leg rhythmically bounced. “Wish I could go back and figure it out.”

Harrow pocketed the little toy and smiled slyly. “You can. For a price, of course.”

                                                       ###                                         

“I’ll take a shoelace.” Harrow pointed to Wendel’s shoes as the two sat apart from each other around another nightly campfire. “You ain’t got nothing else I need.”

Wendel obliged, removing first a shoe, then pulling its lace through the holes. He passed the lace to Harrow in exchange for another pill.

“We’ll be at Avernus tomorrow, so make this one count.”

Wendel nodded and choked down the pill.                                                                                                                      

                                                               ###

There is the boy again and the wooden container with the toys inside on the stove in the living room. The old people are still talking and laughing at whatever it is old people talk and laugh about. They have their backs to the boy and do not see the first signs of pending trouble, do not see the first flame ignite a piece of wood on the side of the bowl, a piece that drops from the bowl onto the floor.

The boy’s eyes are wide as he tries to cover up what he’s done by throwing a nearby cloth over the flaming piece of wood. In his haste, the wooden bowl tips over, spills the contents of the melted toys onto the floor.

The fire spreads. The old people turn to see what the boy has done. Some of them are yelling. All of them are on their feet. One of them pulls the boy back from the stove while another tries to put the fire out by batting it down with a blanket. Rather than go out, the fire grows. A spark catches a curtain. Another catches a throw rug. In seconds, the living room explodes into a firestorm and the boy is pulled farther away by the old person, farther away from the fire, farther away from the experiment that was supposed to end in a rainbow crayon with which he could paint the world. It is gone, like the bowl, the stove, the curtains, replaced by flames, by screams, by shouts of direction and the words of unintelligible panic, by the heat and movement and a dozen different smells vying for attention in the boy’s nose.

The boy is sitting in the grass now. It is wet. He is scared and does not yet know what he has done, what he has wrought upon his mother, his brother, his father, the old people still in the house. He hears glass break and sees flames erupt from a window. The night sky, so often full of stars, is now fading, turning a reddish gray, covered by smoke rising from the house and lit from the fire. The boy fears he is not far enough away. He can feel the heat. He is not far enough from the fire in the house, from the angry old people, the glances in his direction, the people running from the trough in the barn with buckets. He wonders why they don’t use the water from the well, the well Daddy said to never go near, the well his brother said was home to a troll, the well in which he once saw Mommy toss a coin.

His brother. The boy looks around. He cannot see his brother, cannot hear his brother. He does not know if one of the old people grabbed him and pulled him out. He had left the living room to go into the kitchen. Is he still inside? Is he safe? Or did the fire reach him, wrap its devilish fingers of flame around his body, and drag him to the place Mommy said bad people go?

Wendel now recognizes himself. He is standing in the grass off to the side, his uncle’s house engulfed in fire to his right, the boy in front of him. He watches the boy, the boy who is backing up, the boy who does not see how close to the well he is.

The boy who was his brother.

As rapid as the fire had taken over the house, a surge of regret and guilt—pent-up emotion trapped behind bricks built of self-doubt and denial, of projection and displaced anger—bursts through and floods the tangles of Wendel’s mind. He feels his throat constrict even as his eyes grow wider with the realization that it was he who egged his brother on, he who pushed him to place a wooden bowl on a hot stove to make a New Thing, he who was responsible for the fire…he who forgot his brother had died in that well on that night so long ago.

Wendel takes a step toward the boy still backing toward the well. He wants to warn him, to say something to the boy who was his brother, who would still be his brother if things had turned out differently.

He wants to, but he does not.

There is something in the grass the boy left behind, something that blends in with the green but stands out because it wants to stand out, because it needs to be a beacon of light in the flood of emotion that threatens to drown Wendel, a buoy on which to cling.

He reaches down and picks up a toy soldier, the kind that is kneeling, the kind that is aiming a rifle. He tells himself he will hold on to it, that he will cherish it, that he will always remember what he did until the day he dies.

He will make the New Thing for his brother. Maybe then they can forgive him.

Wendel blinks. He is in another field, another time. He is no longer a boy, no longer welcome anywhere. In front of him, there is a house on fire, just like his uncle’s. A woman screams. People frantically try to douse the flames. A woman writhes on the ground. The scent of burning flesh stings his nose, waters his eyes. He grips the toy soldier in his hand, the rifle digging into his palm as he watches the fire create a New Thing in front of him.

Once more he closes his eyes. The screams fade, the smell dissipates. When he opens his eyes again he sees another house, another attempt at creation. But he is too close. The world fades in and out, black and then orange, black and yellow, black and red. He is dizzy. The smoke in his lungs robs him of consciousness.

When he comes to, heat from another fire rushes over him, and he opens his eyes to see.

A larger building in a city. Fire wagons surrounding an inferno, people throwing buckets of water on the flame. He stands across the street and watches, entranced by the flames, comforted by the heat, satisfied with the way the wood pops and crackles and steam trapped inside heats up and bursts. He knows this fire will deconstruct the building, just as it did those crayons, those toys, the other houses, the world. He knows he can finally make the New Thing for his brother. He knows he can paint the sky with magical rainbows, yellows and oranges and reds all rising among the black and brown of smoke.

In his hand, he grips the toy soldier tighter until the rifle snaps off..

                                                               ### 

Harrow backed the wagon up to a precipice. Far below, the rotting bodies of men and women and children clambered over each other, stretched out to find purchase on the vertical sides, to find a way to climb out of the pit. They moaned and cried and wailed and screamed. There was room for a million more and then some. No doubt, as Harrow completed his delivery of this man, he would return to the desert and find another and another. Perhaps they will recall why they were chasing the horizon in the first place, why they wandered in the desert with no destination in mind. Perhaps they won’t need a pill to remember.

It’s a nice thought, but they all need a pill. True sins can leave voids in the brain, empty spaces where memory should be. The pill helps fill in past transgressions with facts from someone else’s point of view.

As the horses pulled the wagon forward and the still sleeping body of Wendel tumbled out of the bed and into the pit, Harrow reached into his pocket and took out the little toy soldier. He regarded it for a moment, turned it in his fingers, then tossed it to land among the detritus of a million other payments made for a chance to learn the truth, a million other reminders of the wages of sin, the price of guilt.

                                                              The End 

In this issue, interviews with:

     John Yunker, thriller and mystery writer

     Marni Graff, mystery writer  

     Mark Atley, noir crime writer

     Ellie Lieberman, fantasy author

Also an article by Richard Koreto covering a different perspective of mystery sleuths, and a short story by Benjamin Wretlind!

Celwyn’s Cats

All About Podcasts goes national!

An Interview with John Yunker

How would you compare Devil’s Island to regular mysteries? 

I often refer to Devils Island as an eco-mystery because the environment and animal protection are overarching themes. But it more commonly described as a “locked-room mystery.” In this case, the locked room is a remote island off the coast of Tasmania. I think what might make it slightly unique is the structure – we leveraged the five-act structure of Hamlet for the novel.

Which of your books was the hardest to write, and why?

My most difficult book to complete was Where Oceans Hide Their Dead. Took about 7 years of writing and much more rewriting. This is the darkest novel I’ve written because it deals with some difficult and timely issues like drug addiction, and the horrors of the animal industrial complex.

Does your own reading stay within your writing genre, or do you read a different genre for yourself?

I read across genres and my writing most likely reflects that, as sometimes my novels are called “literary” other times called “thrillers.” While I appreciate that a genre label help readers find books they want to read, as a writer, I worry that these labels get in the way of publishers taking chances on work that don’t fit cleanly into any one category.

When researching your books, do you have a sample of what you discovered that is especially interesting?

For Devils Island one of the most interesting bits of research is learning that the Tasmanian Devil, an animal about the size of a small dog can devour a large animal like a kangaroo within hours—muscle, organs, fat, bones, even fur—leaving nothing left.

Will there be a sequel to Devils Island, and if so, what will it focus on? and will it have a solid ending or leave things open for more?

We’ve left the door open to a sequel, one that would take place in Ashland, Oregon. So we’ll see. I have a difficult time letting go of characters, which often leads to sequels. In fact, my novel Where Oceans Hide Their Dead is a sequel of sorts to The Tourist Trail.

What do you think new authors should decide first, before they begin their book? 

I always aim to write the book that I most want to read and I recommend writers do this as well. Because, in the end, regardless of whether you find an agent, a publisher or readers at the very least you will have pleased the most important reader of all: yourself. But, that said, during the editing stage it’s important to be able to see your work as other readers will see it. My partner Midge often quotes Stephen King: Write with the door closed; rewrite with the door open.

How important is site research for the location where your books take place, and why? What should a beginning writer consider about location in their novels?

Site research is the most exciting part of writing, particularly in the case of Devils Island, where we hiked the island off the coast of Tasmania where this novel takes place. While I don’t believe it’s essential to visit every place you write about, it certainly can’t hurt.

Can you see yourself using Ai in your books? On what part and why?

I’m amazed at how well AI engines produce cleanly written sentences. But humans are far messier, our voices more distinct, than any computer algorithm. I don’t really see AI as a threat to creative writing – though perhaps a threat to predicable and voiceless writing. That said, writers deserve to be compensated by any tech company that wants to scan their work to train their algorithms. The very reason AI appears “magical” is because it was trained our hard work.

An Interview with M K Graff

Is there something about your books/your point of view that you think readers should know?
The Trudy Genova series is based on my favorite real nursing position as a medical consultant for a NY movie studio. It’s the series my mentor and friend, PD James, asked me to write and the first book is dedicated to James. I like to say Trudy is a younger, prettier version of me! But really she’s her own person, with the ability to lie at the drop of a hat when she pokes her nose into murder investigations. At first annoying NYPD detective Ned O’Malley, he’s come to learn she’s a good judge of human nature. I’m enjoying having Trudy move in that circle behind the camera where directors ask for your expertise but are under no obligation to use it!

Are there other writers who influence you, either present or past?
I read all the Golden Agers and of course Agatha Christie is a big influence on most crime writers. But two of my favorites are: Daphne Du Maurier, with Rebecca my favorite novel for its complex plot and nuanced characters; and PD James, whose complex look into all of her characters made me understand them fully. She’s also believed, as I do, that setting is important to the plot, as it’s a character in itself. Your setting is the stage you move your characters around.

If you have your next book’s plot already in your head, could we have a preview of what to expect?
I’m actually straying from my series and going to do a standalone historical, a first for me. Its title is Eleven Days and it’s set in 1926 at the Harrogate Hydro in Yorkshire. The main character is a young maid living there under a false identity. She becomes embroiled in a murder investigation when a fellow worker is killed, and a new guest helps her as she questions what happened. It becomes apparent to my character that the guest, Mrs. Teresa Neele, is really the missing Agatha Christie. Having a huge secret of her own, she keeps Christie’s identity quiet. There WILL be another Trudy Genova that will bring her back to New York City, but that setting is in the works and I can’t reveal it yet…but think bridal shops!

A Profile of Wren and Hadley: Reflections on a Lesbian Sleuth by R.J. Koreto

Writing about Wren and Hadley required an adjustment for me: When I wrote about straight couples, I found I had to work around a spirit of inequality. Even in modern times, there are still men’s roles and women’s roles: On my birth certificate, there is a place for my father’s occupation but not my mother’s. Wren and Hadley, however, could start their relationship without preconceived notions on gender-based behavior.

I’d like to think people have always found workarounds. In an Edwardian-era mystery I wrote, “Death Among Rubies,” I portrayed two unmarried women who elected to share a house for companionship. One attended to their social life, and the other managed the finances: a typical relationship for its time. But it was one they chose, not one imposed on them according to gender rules.

This same freedom works today, and I’ve enjoyed developing Wren and Hadley. Or, more accurately, watching them develop. Their third mystery, “The Cadieux Murders,” will be released later this year. Wren is logical and introverted, happiest when working on the historic homes she renovates as an architect. Hadley is intuitive and extroverted, a chef/event planner who fits right in with the lively dinners and parties she organizes. They complement each other wonderfully. Ironically, they may be the most conventional couple I’ve ever written about. But again, it’s a matter of choosing what is right for them as individuals and as a couple, rather than meeting society’s expectations.

Indeed, Wren and Hadley have encouraged me to think about all kinds of relationships, which is exciting for me as a writer. I now see multiple ways to be a couple: In The Turnbull Murders, Wren must contemplate the romantic life of her long-widowed father. He has made an effort to understand her romantic choices—but can she understand his? And in her first outing, The Greenleaf Murders, Wren struggles with her growing feelings for Hadley, while contemplating the murky Gilded Age couplings that once existed in a great New York City mansion she is renovating. More than a century ago, men and women worked to forge relationships and succeeded—or failed—just as Wren will.

“I don’t understand all this,” Wren complains to her new girlfriend about Gilded Age bed-hopping.

“What can I tell you?” says the more worldly Hadley. “Straight people are strange.”

Richard Koreto is the author of several historical mystery series. His current book is The Turnbull Murders, second in his Historic Homes series.

An Interview with Ellie Lieberman

Do you plan to change the personality of one of your characters to make them more interesting, less violent, more empathetic, etc.? Will they evolve as your series does? (do family/friends ever call you by one of the characters’ names?)

I do not plan my characters. I discover them as the story unfurls much like the plot itself. One thing I can always guarantee about the characters is there will always be some form of development, whether it’s for the best or a downward spiral. Even when the Be Series goes back on the timeline, like in the sort of prequels of An Impossible Dream, and my current WIP, Where the Heart Is, there is development in a better understanding of the characters for the reader.

Do you have your next book’s plot already in your head? Could we have a preview?

I’m currently working on book 3 of the Be Series and, because it is a prequel to book 1 & a sort of prequel/running parallel to book 2, An Impossible Dream, I know far more of the plot than I normally do when I write.

Preview: 

“A pen shoved into her hand redirected her attention back to the document before her. “Duty,” she reminded herself. “Responsibility.” This was for her kingdom, her people. “Give me strength.”

“True love is never stealing a selkie’s coat, forcing her to be where she doesn’t want to be, forcing her to be anyone but herself.” According to Clary’s mother, that was what her grandfather said.

“Even if you find someone who loves you like that, society does not and will not,” her mother told Clary once. “It is not just the individual who steals the coat.”

Her hand was suddenly in possession of a mind of its own. She hesitated. Had it been Molvinius’s name instead of the careless scribble she could not begin to make out, their seed might have been a pine tree. A nod to his Northern heritage. A symbol of longevity, forever green, withstanding snow and sun.”

Is there something about your books/your point of view that you think readers should know?

An Impossible Dream follows a character very important to the story but is only really mentioned in book 1. It’s her story, but readers also get to see younger versions of characters they loved from the first book, such as Henry and Fra. They get to meet a slew of new characters that will come to play a vital role in the books to come.

I discover the story as it naturally unfolds, I write by the seat of my pants (pantsing), rather than plotting. And what has been amazing with this series in particular is the threads across books, tracing them back to some of their roots, learning more about characters, and in doing so the way each book seems to naturally set up the next, especially given the shifts in the timeline between books.

Will there be a sequel to An Impossible Dream, and if so, what will it focus on? Will it have a solid ending or leave things open for more?

An Impossible Dream is already a sort of prequel for the first book in the Be Series, but the books can be read in any order. I’m currently working on a sort of prequel for An Impossible Dream, but book 4 is really the sequel to Be, where characters from the first 3 books come together and strive for peace, both personally as well as between kingdoms.

When you were writing this book, or previous books, did the plot flow just as you initially wanted it to look, or did you have to change anything major?

I do not plot my books. Instead writing a sort of prequel as both An Impossible Dream and my current WIP, Where the Heart Is. For book 3 of the series, I’m working off on the timeline that each previous book establishes, and adding to it. This makes more of an outline than I usually follow. That being said, having the chance to see moments from a different character’s perspectives or memory can sometimes change events, in terms of the level of understanding or depth.

And each character tends to have something I did not initially anticipate when they first came to me.

Let’s Talk About Book Genres! Are There 5 or 5,000 Different Genres?

Categorizing books into genres can be challenging, even for experienced book reviewers. Today, I’ll look at the basics of book genres to help readers find stories that suit their tastes.

Fiction is an overall general genre that includes literary fiction, historical fiction, science fiction, fantasy, mysteries, thrillers, and romance.

Nonfiction includes biographies, self-help books, and history, while the Young Adult (YA) and children’s genres cater to younger readers with age-appropriate themes and adventures.

Distinguishing sub-genres can be tricky, so relying on the author’s classification or trusted sources like Bookshop.org or Goodreads is always recommended and helpful.

Exploring different genres can enrich your reading experience and broaden your literary horizons.
To learn more about book genres and classifications, please read the full article at ginaraemitchell.com.

Here’s a quick peek at a few of the books I’ll be reviewing in the near future.
Fresh Grown: Essential Guide to Use, Store, and Make the Most of Your Vegetables by Andrea Kristin
Embracing Calm: Meditation Journeys for Inner Peace by Anne Beall
Jane Austen Lied to Me by Jeanette Watts and An Interview with Author L.J. Ambrosio.

The Celwyn Series YouTube channel

A Short Story: Terminal Conversations

Track One, Number Nine! All aboard!

The terminal was packed. So much for quick and easy travel. People crowded toward the entrance to Track One, their bodies pressed tightly against each other. Justin watched with detached disgust, hoping his train wasn’t so crowded.

In front of him, a fat man in a business suit was engaged in a heated argument with a ticket agent. His toupee flopped up and down in time to his mouth. The agent stoically looked past the customer, as if she wished he were either dead or she were someplace else entirely.

Justin couldn’t hear the exact words, but something was “not right” about “time” and the man wanted his “money back.”

Maybe that was “mother back.”

The line stretched past the counter and wrapped around stanchions and ropes. There were probably fifty people waiting to buy tickets and an equal number who waited for information. The air was stale; each individual exhaled breath added a distinct smell to the mix. It wasn’t right. Justin found himself secretly wishing they would all stop breathing.

A woman in her thirties, lithe and well-groomed, crossed the terminal commons. She seemed to hone in on the chair next to Justin and turned. He smelled sweet and alluring perfume before she ever sat down. Her dress shifted up past her knees as she crossed her legs and fumbled with her purse. She turned to Justin and weakly smiled. “Hi.”

“Hi.” He thought he heard his voice crack.

The woman pulled a compact out of her purse and studied whatever it was women felt they needed to study in mirrors. With flare, she snapped it shut and put it back in her purse.

“So, where are you headed?” The woman sat back in the chair and folded her arms.

“1952.” He tried to shift his eyes from her. He did not want to stare. “And you?”

“I’m going to ’59.”

“Going to see family?” Justin wondered if that question sounded too obvious, almost childish.

“Yeah. My grandmother graduated high school back then. I think she would have liked to know I was there.” The woman smiled, her eyes twinkling under the harsh terminal lights.

“Ever traveled back before?”

“Once, when I was fifteen. I took a train to 1929 with my father. He said he wanted to see his dad before he hung himself after the market fell.” The woman’s smile faded. She leaned over and put a hand on Justin’s shoulder.

“I don’t think he told me the truth,” she whispered.

Justin felt his heartbeat escalate. “What does he do for a living?”

“Plays on Wall Street with all the other stuffed shirts. Haven’t seen him in a few years, though.” She took her hand off his shoulder.

Justin put his ticket inside his coat pocket and looked up at the line at the counter. “Looks like a busy day to travel.” He turned back and noticed again just how attractive she was. “Name’s Justin.”

“Allie.”

The noise in the terminal grew louder. Words collided against words while people mindlessly walked from place to place. The high ceiling and open spaces created echoes out of every sound. Justin sat back against the chair.

“And you?” Allie turned her head slightly, revealing delicate tanned skin on her neck. “Travel much?”

“On business, mainly.” Justin sighed. “I’m a temporal systems program manager, so this is pretty much my life.”

“How many trips have you been on?”

Justin shrugged. “More than one, less than fifty. I really hate taking the train, though.”

“That’s funny.”

“What?”

“You travel all the time, and you hate taking the train. It’s like someone in the Navy who hates boats.”

Justin smiled. “Maybe. I’m just not a fan of the jump. A little too much, if you ask me.”

Allie turned. “I remember that trip I took with my father. The train was older, not like these new, sleek models. I thought it wasn’t ever going to get up to speed, but right before hitting the wall, I passed out. Never felt the jump.”

Justin peeled his eyes away again and looked over at the counter. He felt redness in his cheeks and hoped Allie hadn’t noticed. The fat man with the toupee was gone and a few people in line had moved. Not many, though. “Most people pass out. Personally, I’ve never been able to do that before the jump.”

“Really? What’s it like?”

“The jump?”

“Yeah.” Allie leaned forward, her eyes lighting up again. This time Justin wasn’t sure if was the terminal lights or something else. He fumbled with his thoughts, trying to answer her question while watching images of the two of them dancing on clouds.

“Um… well.” Look back at the line. “It’s pretty much fire and heat. It rolls through the cabin until it gets to you. It’s like falling into a fireplace but never feeling the wood or the chimney.”

Justin paused for moment. His mind swirled with images. “You float in a liquid Hell.”

“Good thing I passed out, huh?”

“Yeah, it hurts.” Justin’s mind traveled quickly from his description to his memory. So many jumps, so much pain. He pried his attention away from the line and found himself lost in Allie’s eyes. “If you pass out, you never know what hit you.”

Track Two, Number Four! All aboard!

The intercom filled the cavernous terminal. People from all over looked up as if it helped them hear better. Words spoken seemed frozen in the stagnant air, waiting for the decision to continue or drop off altogether.

People stood up from chairs and grouped together in impossibly tight messes. They pushed to the right of the terminal, each step small and cumbersome but taken together.

Justin watched the group head for Track Two. The fat man with the toupee was tangled together with a skinny kid in his mid-twenties. They pushed against each other and jockeyed for the best position to get through the gate.

“Look at them,” Justin said, pointing toward the crowd. “Each one of them thinks the first person through security will get a better seat on the train. They push and shove and get mad at each other.”

“What’s the rush?” The old woman coughed. Justin shifted his weight away from her. Since she’d sat down, she’d been nothing but annoying. Her eyes were hidden behind the folds of her skin and Justin couldn’t help but watch the hairs inside her moles wave at him. He silently wished she would just disappear.

Justin shook his head. “I don’t know, Mrs. Allie. I never could understand it. The train isn’t leaving until all ticketed passengers are accounted for and all seats filled. I always go last.”

The noise in the terminal exploded again as people continued their previous conversations either with each other or in heated bursts aimed at helpless ticket agents.

“You said you were a temp… tempo… something.”

“Temporal systems project manager.” Justin drew his attention from Mrs. Allie’s moles and back to the line in front of him.

“What exactly do you do?”

Annoying question. “Basically, I make sure people don’t mess with what’s already happened. Let’s say your father didn’t go back to see his dad before he jumped. Let’s say he tried to stop him.”

“I thought that’s what Inhibitors were for.” Mrs. Allie put out her hand to show Justin the bracelet on her spotted wrist. “I thought these were supposed to stop interference.”

Justin smiled smugly. “These aren’t permanent. There are ways to take them off.”

“Hmmm. Okay, so my father stops his dad from jumping. Then what?”

“Whatever your grandfather couldn’t have done because he was dead is now a moot point. There’s a body in the mix that isn’t supposed to be there. Whatever he changes affects something else.”

“Like a butterfly effect.”

“In simple terms, yes. But this isn’t the same thing.”

“If history changed like that, though, you wouldn’t know it. You couldn’t go back and change what is now truth.”

Justin sighed. Old people never understand.

Number Eight arriving at Track Three!

“Do you have any gum?” Allen poked Justin in the side.

“Quit poking me, kid. Isn’t your mother somewhere around here?”

“Nope. She’s dead. Got any gum?”

The crowd shifted from right to left like a herd of animals following the blinking lights above Track Three. In seconds, a few people would come through the gate. There was always less who came back. It was inevitable. Justin watched the crowd form a semi-circle of greeters.

Some of them would go home alone.

“No, I don’t have any gum.” Justin pulled his jacket away from the armrest. The snotty kid might try to go through his pockets.

“If you try to stop things from happening, Mister, how do you find out what happened?” Allen swung his legs back and forth on the chair, his baseball cap askew.

“There are temporal researchers who travel more than I do. They run back and forth collecting books and newspapers and whatever else they can find. If something they collect is dramatically different than what they know, they put together a team of people to investigate.”

“Why?”

“To fix the problem.”

“Why?”

“Because that’s what we do. We clean up messes.”

“Why?”

Justin stood up. He had enough. The crowd of people still stood around the gate to Track Three and waited. He pulled his ticket out. Track Two, Number Six. Above him, glowing green monitors listed arrivals and departures. It clicked once and changed Number Eight to “Arrived”.

“Ten minutes,” he said. “Ten more minutes.”

“Hey, Mister?” Allen stood next to him, pulling on a pant leg. “If you go back and change something that’s already been changed, would that mean you didn’t need to go back and change it? Huh?”

“Yes.” Justin gritted his teeth. “It would also mean that I wouldn’t be talking to kids like you.”

“Okay. So, if you changed something back, and it didn’t need to be changed, and you then didn’t need to go back and change it, you really didn’t go back and change it, and it’s still the same way it was. Is that right?”

Justin ignored the question and looked over at Track Three. A few people filed through the gates, their eyes filled with wonder or sadness, sometimes both. People greeted them with hugs and kisses, smiling or not, laughing or not.

The fat man with the toupee stepped through the gate next. He looked through the crowd in front of him then stomped off through the masses. Apparently he didn’t get what he wanted.

Track Two, Number Five! All aboard!

Justin watched the monitors above him. They clicked and the lines moved up one. His train was next.

“So what are you going back to change?” the ape asked. It looked at Justin with wide eyes, then picked a flea off its fur.

“Something’s not right.” Justin sighed and looked around at all the apes and humans bumping into each other. He wasn’t about to tell this ape that the temporal research unit found that simians couldn’t mingle properly like humans. Nor, for that matter, could they talk. Someone had gone back too far and changed something too drastic. “I really can’t tell you what that is, but I have to fix it.”

The ape picked another flea off and looked at it crushed between its fingers. “If you’re going to change it, what happens to you?”

“Hopefully nothing.”

The ape dropped the flea and walked back to the chair. Justin followed, suddenly afraid.

It wasn’t the first time.

“What happens to me?” The ape didn’t look at Justin. It stared ahead at the ticket counter where other apes and humans were engaged in conversation.

“What do you mean?” Justin knew what it meant, though. He’d been in this situation before.

“If what you change makes me not exist…”

Justin turned to the ape and smiled as much as he could. “If what I change makes you not exist, then you wouldn’t know it.”

“I’d… die?”

“No. You wouldn’t have existed in the first place.”

The ape sighed and looked at Justin. Justin felt attraction, disgust and annoyance well up inside of him all at once. In its eyes he saw someone he wanted, someone he wished would go away, and someone who needed to find some gum. For some reason, he felt only one of those people had the right to exist.

Justin blinked, not understanding, and turned away. “Don’t worry about it. Just enjoy the ride.”

Read more Short Stories, Excerpts and Poems:

Short Stories, Excerpts and Other Things

Benjamin X. Wretlind is the author of sci fi series, speculative fiction series, and non-fiction books, more info can be found here.

An Interview with Mark Atley

Of all your characters, which resembles your personality most? How many of the character’s traits are already part of you versus what you want them to be?

The character most like me is one few have met—Paul-Wayne Collins. I included many autobiographical details in his construction, but his family life is not mine. He is obviously more tortured. Twisted and sensualized.

What happened when you killed off one of your favorite characters?  Do you think it is necessary to do this to keep a series fresh? Or does knowing their favorite character is safe endure readers to you?

If I cannot kill off a character, then I am not doing my job. If, at some point, I feel resistance to what the story is telling me to do versus my intention, I always go with what scares me and what the story is telling me to do. It knows better than I do. I don’t have a starting repeating character, but I do have some favorites that come and go in certain books. They’re safe until they are not.

When you did research for your books, do you have a sample of what you discovered that was especially interesting ?

Pat Garrett’s final confrontation with Billy the Kid is echoed at the end of A Bright Young Man but in a subversive way that I hope both acts as an homage to the historic moment in time but serves my novel.

Is there something about your books or your point of view that you think readers should know? 

I write in the present tense because it works for me. I am a detective. I write in past tense all day long because detectives investigate crimes that have already happened. I would love to be able to write in the past tense in my novels, and I believe it would earn me greater readership; however, it quickly becomes work and not fun. Present tense allows me to have fun, write creatively, and use jump cuts.

Do you plan to write any nonfiction?

Yes, a co-worker has a great idea for a non-fiction book about a rodeo star. I’ve helped him create a wonderful title for it and have even discussed how to present the information about the star and rodeo, but we have not seriously started on it. Additionally, another co-worker, the grandson of Sheriff George Wayman, has approached me about maybe doing something. I would be honored to work on either project.

Do you already have the plot of your next book in mind? If so, could we have a preview?

Yes, my next book is in the planning stages. I was originally going to do something different, which I have thought out but have shelved for now. I’ve been working on a quartet of novels to make up the middle portion of my Tulsa Underworld Series, building up a “big bad” Bill Ruth. The next novel will be the final in that quartet…if it stays a quartet… and will be about fathers and sons, involving the character, Joe Creek.

Talk about writers groups please.
Living where I live, I have not found a writing group. I wish there were one here. Maybe I should start it. 

X (Twitter) is where I found my group, and I frequently bounce ideas and edits against Craig Terlson and M.E. Proctor, to the point I feel guilty about using them. They are better writers than I am, and they are amazing people. I highly recommend any of their books and writings to readers.

What is New with the Celwyn Series?

What is new with the Celwyn Series?  

Book 6 is through editing with my publisher, and the cover will be ready soon. Swango, will be out late this year, and ….warning: it contains a new genre. One that fits totally, and gives the story more freedom.

A rough draft of the blurb of Swango:  

“The story opens in 1877 as Celwyn and his brother survive a vicious attack in Singapore. The atmosphere aboard the Nautilus is tense; not only has Pelaez returned (claiming his innocence for destroying the flying machine), but a third of Nemo’s crew is marooned in the city and under threat by Wolfgang, Celwyn’s father.

By the time the magician and the others leave Singapore, they are grieving; a member of their family has been murdered in Prague. 

The magician’s first encounter with Swango is told as they plan for the Nautilus’ journey to the Castell de Ferro in Spain where Doctor Jurik Lazlo is hiding. Captain Nemo has been searching for him for a long time.”

For book 7, Lucky and Mrs. Nemo, progress has been made since the last newsletter. The manuscript is all in my pc and the cussing at Dragon (voice activated software) for supreme illogic has stopped. Instead, I’m slogging through the 420 pages looking for my own version of illogic, no cussing involved, just a big sigh and then correcting it. I’d always wanted to write full time, and no complaining is allowed. 

There isn’t a blurb yet for Lucky and Mrs. Nemo, but Lucky is a character, literally and figuratively. The personality of a scientist is dry?  Not so in Lucky, who enjoys a good gunfight. It seems that there are only male scientists in the late 1800s? Not Lucky. And when there is more time, I’ll describe how she looks. This is a family newsletter, and I’ll have to clean up what she says, too.

Book 8?  130 pages of the handwritten first draft is still safely put away until the book 7 edits have been finished and it has been beta read. This cuts down on confusing my brain.  As a preview though, book 8 continues to address the dangling danger at the end of book 7; most satisfactorily for some of us. Then things get worse.

The near future holds another companion book for the series, untitled, and it will star Pelaez demonstrating his untrustworthy and devious ideas of fun. 

Shameless Buy Links to booksellers who carry the Celwyn series. The Violins Played before Junstan book 1 https://books2read.com/celwyn01 Music Shall Untune the Sky book 2 https://books2read.com/celwyn02 The Raven and the Pig book 3 https://books2read.com/celwyn03 The Pirate Danced and the Automat Died  Book 4    https://books2read.com/celwyn04 The Sea of the Vanities. Companion book. https://books2read.com/celwyncompanion01 The Wyvern, the Pirate, and the Madman  Book 5 https://books2read.com/celwyn005

Celwyn has avoided caring about anyone for hundreds of years, but he’s about to learn the advantage, and cost, of true friendship.

While on a mission to avenge the death of his lover, the immortal peyote-eating magician Celwyn is hired to deliver an automat, Professor Kang, to a priest. But Celwyn quickly learns that everything the priest told him was a lie. Now his ship, the Zelda, is stuck in a horrific storm and Celwyn knows he must reconsider his allegiance if he is to steer his vessel in the right direction and continue his quest.

Choosing Professor Kang, the pair journey west, hunting for revenge. To deflect the attention of the city’s police, they allow an American heiress to join their party as she escapes matrimony in search of adventure. When the trio encounters an intelligent but superstitious widower––their misfit group is complete. Through battles against malevolent forces and dangerous rescues, the companions start to feel like family to Celwyn, but he has lost someone he loves before and is in no hurry to watch it happen again.

On Amazon, Barnes and Noble, Goodreads

Check out the Companion series Jonas Celwyn

In 1865, the three protagonists set off from Prague on the train the Elizabeth to retrieve Professor Xiau Kang’s wife in Singapore.  The ‘family’ of protagonists encounter adversity and adventure, and Celwyn’s magic becomes the central focus.  Everything is based upon the question, “what if?”

The trip is fraught with unexplained occurrences, murders, magic, and more adventure.  Along the way, the author Jules Verne crashes his hot air balloon next to their train in order to join their entourage.  Once they arrive in Singapore they are attacked, and eventually end up on the Nautilus with Captain Nemo.  It seems that Professor Kang, automat and book lover, is also one of the few experts in the world on the basics of building a flying machine, something very much desired by Nemo.

Months later, after their return to Prague, Celwyn is wounded again and dies just Kang rendezvous with the Nautilus and Captain Nemo.

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And be sure to check out the Companion Series: Jonas Celwyn

A magician, a widower from the Sudan, and an automat travel the world…

It is 1876. Three close friends–Jonas Celwyn, the automat Professor Xiau Kang, and Bartholomew, a scientist and widower from Sudan–set out on another adventure. Celwyn has been wounded and all that keeps the immortal peyote-eating magician alive are the skills of an old enemy, his half-brother Pelaez.

After Celwyn is taken aboard the submarine Nautilus by his companions, they must journey to Thales, the healer of the immortals. Even for the intrepid Captain Nemo and his fearless crew, the adventure will prove deadly. Vampires, witches, and warlocks are gathering nearby. Friends or foes? Who is the target: Jonas or Professor Kang and his plans for a world-changing flying machine?

The Raven and the Pig is a steampunk fantasy filled with murder, magic, and adventure.

On Amazon, Barnes and Noble, Goodreads

From the Celwyn Series

The will of the protagonists, including Captain Nemo, is tested after the massacre at their compound.  They travel back to Prague, but along the way stop at an island off the northeast coast of England.  Findbar Island is perfect for their new compound where they will rebuild the flying machine.  It is also haunted by the participants from an earlier tragedy there, along with the mystery surrounding the sanitarium that once resided on the island.  Celwyn receives word from Tara McFein, who he is falling in love with.  As a spy for the Queen, a witch and vampire, she “participates” as Celwyn is fond of saying.  She also is being kept prisoner in the Tower of London.