Again, I had to fudge for this entry. I don’t have any books with a V title, although this one was called Vik and Gemma before I came up with the title, Portrait of Love. Gemma Reinhardt is a wealthy … Continue reading
It’s small town Nebraska in 1976, and life in the small Midwestern town is quiet and uneventful. That’s what Libby Marshall and Bobby Menedez think until Bobby’s cousin, Ramon is beaten by a group of white boys because he is … Continue reading
This is another strange direction in fantasy for me. Not exactly Dystopian, it is set after some sort of toxic contamination of the Earth. Because the land was poisonous, people took to the trees. Lulu Talltree, and her village, call … Continue reading
So Much It Hurts is set in a huge metro-plex of my own design. The city hasn’t got a name, though it has quite a personality. I’ve set quite a few stories here, and know it as if I really … Continue reading
I was invited to a local writer’s group and one of the exercises was to draw 10 random words, and write something using them. We had 20 minutes to write, so I put the time to good use. I liked … Continue reading
Yes, I had to fudge this one a little bit. I don’t have any stories beginning with Q, but I do have a couple of characters with Q names – One of whom is the main character in Ranger’s Heart. … Continue reading
The Power is a step in a very different direction for me. Not only is it a futuristic fantasy, it’s written in two distinct points of view. The first is Aliya, a young woman with mysterious abilities, she calls The … Continue reading
Finding themselves on the run, Jamie and Draven know they need to get new transportation. His motorcycle is known to the authorities and there are already news bulletins out with its description. Undaunted, Jamie has a suggestion.
“I have an idea,” Jamie said. “Give me the keys. I’m driving.”
“You know how to ride a motorcycle?”
“Is that so hard to believe? I’m no Hollywood stunt man, but I do okay. They’ll have an APB out on the bike by now. We need different wheels. Come on.”
Draven followed her like a bedazzled puppy. A light misting drizzle started again. Raising his face to the sky, Draven tried to gauge the fullness of the clouds.
Jamie tugged on his hand.
“Let’s go.” Taking back roads, she drove south to a secure storage locker in Port Orange, on Nova Road. Stopping by a large one near the back, she unlocked it, wheeling the bike in. There was very little there, except for a hulking form, covered by an elasticized car cover. Jamie pulled it off and Draven nearly collapsed with delight. A black beast of a car lurked under the dim light.
“Is that a 1977 Oldsmobile 442?”
“It is. Ned and I take it to classic car shows. Believe me, he’s put a lot of work into her. That baby can cook!”
Draven ran his hands over it lovingly. His eyes caught the light, glittering like twin chunks of topaz. “This is a seriously sexy car.”
“And a seriously sexy woman. God, I wish I wasn’t on the run.”
“Besides the obvious, why?”
“I really want to make love to you, Jamie.”
Jamie shrugged off her jacket, tossing it in the car. “All talk, Wick?”
Draven chuckled, slipping off his own jacket. “Not even, babe.”
“Prove it.” She pushed him onto the car’s hood. Taking his belt off, she then unzipped his pants.
Although he was turned on by the sexy car, Draven’s gaze drifted to the Harley. He lifted Jamie, carrying her to the bike. “Hell with the car, do me here.”
Her blue eyes widened as she looked from the man to the bike and back. She kissed him. “Thank you can handle us both?”
© 2018 Dellani Oakes
Teague and Vivica meet under odd circumstances—he runs into her with the door at Dunkin’ Donuts. Needless to say, she’s not very happy until he buys her coffee and flirts unashamedly with her. Soon, they start dating and Teague finds out that her life is full of danger, mostly because her older brother is the head of a dangerous biker gang.
Teague was worried. The man sounded mean, hard. The tone of Vivica’s voice still bothered him. Lying in bed, he got a sudden case of the creeps. He made another circuit of the house, peeping out the edge of the drapes in the living room. With the room dark behind him, the moon reflecting off the water, he thought he saw a person lurking in the shadow of the dock. As he watched, a lighter flared, barely illuminating the figure. It was a man with a shaved head. Teague couldn’t see details from his room. He had the impression that the man was solidly built.
The idea of calling the police flickered through his mind, but he dismissed it. Instead, he got dressed in dark jeans and a black T-shirt. He got his survival knife, attaching it to his gun belt. Next, he got his Glock 22 out of the locked cabinet. He had a license to carry a concealed weapon. That went in a holster opposite the knife. As prepared as he could be, he put on his military boots and left the house by the side door that opened off the utility room. It was concealed by an arched trellis covered in bougainvillea and nearly invisible from the street. Chances were, if someone was watching the front, they were also at the back and the door facing the side street. He doubted they knew that this other side door existed. He’d lived in the house nearly a week before noticing it himself. Leaving it unlocked, he eased through the trellis, the thorns on the bougainvillea grabbing at his clothing and uncovered skin.
Ignoring the stinging wounds, he moved like a shadow through the overgrown side yard down to the street. He knew he’d be exposed crossing the street, but the nearest light was almost a block away. There were deep shadows from the thick water oaks that surrounded his house and the one next door.
Becoming part of the night, he took a circuitous route to the dock next to his, coming at the man from the right rear. His knife was out and across the unprotected throat before the other man knew he was there. Left hand held the knife, right clasped his neck in an unyielding hold.
“Who the fuck are you and why are you watching my house?” His voice a menacing whisper.
The man didn’t move, but Teague felt him tense. He was going to try to get away. The knife blade turned slightly, catching the glimmer of moonlight along the razor sharp edge. It was the only part of the knife that shone. The rest of the blade was a dark, matte finish. An assassin’s knife and Teague knew how to use it.
“Give me a reason,” Teague growled.
The man relaxed. “I’ve got friends,” he murmured.
“I’m sure you do. But you’ll be dead before they can take me out. Keep that firmly in mind. Now talk.”
“Doing what I’m told,” he grunted as Teague’s grip on his neck tightened. “I don’t know.”
He hyperventilated as Teague’s forearm put pressure on his windpipe.
“Swear ta God—I don’t—know!” He gasped as he collapsed on the ground. He wasn’t dead, just unconscious.
Teague went through his pockets looking for identification. He had a driver’s license on him. Teague couldn’t see it clearly in the half light, but caught part of the address. He wasn’t a local. Memorizing the face and as much of the name and address as he could, he put it back. He wondered where the other men were. Had they seen him? Doubtful, or he’d be surrounded.
He took his concealed route back across the street, making his way to his neighbor’s yard. He was up and over the high wooden fence in one smooth movement. Landing lightly on the soft turf behind his garage, he took another watcher by surprise. This one had the time to make a faint noise of alarm before Teague knocked him out.
He couldn’t have seen the other man’s ID in the murky darkness, but he searched him anyway. This one was armed. Teague emptied the magazine into his palm, ejecting the chambered round before tossing the gun on the man’s chest. He pocketed the bullets.
The first man had mentioned friends. Teague assumed that meant at least one more. Since he had another door facing the side street, he figured the third man was probably watching it. There was heavy cover around it. That would play to his advantage as well. He thought of the place that would be the most obvious ambush spot and headed for it. He wasn’t disappointed to find a third man standing by the birdbath under the oak tree, surrounded by a thick stand of ferns, hibiscus and other tropical plants.
It wasn’t the place Teague would have chosen, there were too many mosquitoes and noseeums hiding in the undergrowth. He hoped the guy was getting eaten alive. A slow, feral grin spread across his face as the man swatted multiple times, grumbling loudly about getting bitten. The grousing lasted about 20 more seconds before Teague had his arm locked behind him, his face grinding into the bark of the oak tree.
“Who are you?” He snarled low in the man’s ear. “I swear, I will end you and your buddies if you don’t talk.”
“This is your place?”
“Why the fuck would I be here if it wasn’t? Talk!” He emphasized the importance by slamming his thigh against the man’s knee from the rear. A grunt told him that it had connected with the tree. “And don’t give me ‘I don’t know’ like the guy by the docks.”
“What?” His voice rose in volume and pitch.
“How many are there?”
“Three. I swear, just us three.”
© 2018 Dellani Oakes
The Maker is book 3 in my sci-fi series. Shakazhan is a mysterious planet, virtually forgotten by every civilization. Rumors and fables circulate, but no one realizes that the myths and legends are true. The planet is really an artificial construct, made by some long forgotten race. In essence, a giant, living computer, it must be repaired and reset.
When doing just that, Wil, Matilda, Marc & Ben must chase an escaped prisoner. Unfortunately, he gets away from them, and they end up running for their lives. To their horror, Matilda, pregnant with her first child, falls into a bottomless chasm. In his grief, Wil is inconsolable. His friends do their best to break his dour mood.
Wil said nothing as he turned and walked out the door, setting the privacy light as he left. He meant what he said, he wouldn’t leave without Marc. He realized without his wife he was vulnerable. He needed someone he could trust to back him up. He gathered a few things he would need, then ported to Anvil. He was looking for a way to spend the next couple hours.
Wil’s feet led him to the bridge, where Ben was taking report. Glancing up, he saw Wil and stopped talking. He tried to smile normally, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t admit to Wil or anyone else how dear Matilda was to him. Next to Emme, she was the only other woman he truly loved.
The pain in Ben’s eyes made Wil stop and look at him in a different way. To him, Ben had always been as hard assed as he was, tough, beyond pain, an iron man. To see him obviously suffering kind of put a whole new spin on their relationship. Right then, he felt more like a father than he ever had in his life. Giving in to an impulse, grabbed Ben in a bone crushing embrace.
No one thought it was strange. All the women on the bridge had been wanting to hug Ben morning, just to make him feel better. No one knew quite how to treat Wil. How did you talk to a man whose wife had been killed? What did you say?
Ben worked his way free, Wil’s arms like a vice around him, holding to him like a life line. Ben didn’t want to disengage, but he couldn’t breathe. He wasn’t sure what to say any more than his crew was. He couldn’t act normally, but he didn’t want to say all the standard things either. There was nothing anyone could do to ease the pain and sense of incredible loss. But to let it pass unnoticed was unforgivable.
“How are you doing?”
Wil sighed deeply, running his hand through his hair. His dark eyes were troubled.
“I’m almost done here. Do you want to go work out, maybe hit the heavy bag? I could stand a good beating today and Ray’s busy.”
He tossed it out as a casual invitation, hoping Wil would accept. They both needed a release from the tension. He felt it in himself and could read it in every line of Wil’s face.
Wil tried to grin. “I could use a good ass whipping. Yeah, we can meet in what, ten minutes or so?”
As he headed down the long, empty corridors, he had a compulsion, to go on planet. He had to wait for Marc. He had promised him a couple of hours alone with his wife. Considering how dangerous the planet was, it might be the last two hours they ever had together.
He found himself praying quietly, “Dear God, please don’t let anything happen to him, for the sake of his family.”
The heavy bag hung in the deserted gym. He noticed that Anvil had added a few other items he liked to work with. He found his staff, a banderatta and another weapon he had bought on Primos. It was sort of a cross between a bullwhip and a club. The handle was short, stout and made for mace work. The other end was longer and supple like a whip. He hadn’t used one of those in ages. What was it called? Frowning, he felt the name was right above his eyes, trying to surface, but for once his memory let him down.
“I can’t even think straight,” said aloud. He hadn’t heard Ben come in, but wasn’t startled by his reply.
“I can only imagine how you must feel, Wil. Like you have a hole right through your heart.”
Wil couldn’t speak in reply. Instead, he hit the heavy bag, landing a series of blows on it so rapidly, he was a blur. Ben moved into position to hold the bag for him, but Wil shook his head, motioning him away.
The percussive volley of punches and kicks played a staccato tune, like machine gun fire on a battlefield. Ben couldn’t even follow Wil’s movements anymore. They melded into one dark cloud, like a tornado passing. The bag grew hot under the onslaught, but Wil kept hitting it until his hands were numb from the impact. Breathing heavily, not from exertion so much as emotion, he stopped the swinging of the bag with one hand. Leaning on it, his face close to the hot leather, it seared his skin.
Ben stood near Wil, arms folded, eyeing the bag critically. “I’m glad that you didn’t hit me like that. I can take a lot of abuse, but even I couldn’t have lived through that.” Ben picked up a whiplike weapon, weighing it, feeling it’s balance.
“I didn’t know you used these. Don’t see them often any more, they quit making them about thirty years ago.”
“Yeah, I got that about fifty-three years ago. I can’t remember what the damn thing is called.”
Ben eyed the weapon critically. “It’s got a lot of names, I always called it a snake-hammer, but it is officially known as a shnack-haueter.”
Wil’s frown turned to a smile of enlightenment. “Oh, yeah! I remember now. I got it in the Primos bazaar. This really gorgeous girl was selling them, so I bought a couple. Made a good excuse to talk to her. She was so hot, she made my skin sizzle.” He grinned happily as Ben handed it back to him. “Hey, you’re from around there, aren’t you, Ben?”
Ben’s nod was curt, his brow raised. His expression was unreadable, even to Wil. “I grew up around these. My mother’s family made them for centuries. They stopped when her father died. She sold them in the bazaar.” His statement hung in the air between them like an accusation.
Wil’s face clouded. “Oh, God, Ben. I’m such an asshole. You’re going to hate me when I tell you, I can’t remember her name.”
He turned away from his son, hanging his head sadly. Ben clapped a work hardened hand on his shoulder that would have brought a normal man down.
“She couldn’t remember your name either. She just told me you had the most incredible eyes she’d ever seen, black as night and deeper than a well. That was how she described them. One look and she fell into those eyes. She said I looked a lot like you.” He pretended to be offended. “God, what an insult!”
Wil examined at him, unsure of how to respond. Ben’s mother had been dead several years, he knew and never married.
“Was she happy?”
“Very happy. I had a great childhood and a wonderful family. Where I came from, it wasn’t a big deal for a woman to have children by different men and never marry. I didn’t grow up like Riley.”
“Ben,” Wil hesitated, not knowing how to continue. “What was her name?” It was a plaintive request, odd coming from Wil, but it was important to him.
Ben smiled sympathetically. “Her name was Elisicia.”
© 2018 Dellani Oakes