Moments In Time: A Collection of Short Fiction

Moments in Time

Short Stories by Authors:

Dominic K. Alexander

Kahlen Aymes

Daryl Banner

C.C. Brown

Chelsea Camaron

Karina Halle

Lisa M. Harley

Nicole Jacquelyn

Sophie Monroe

Amber Lynn Natusch

Erin Noelle

Joanne Schwehm

Madeline Sheehan

Ashley Suzanne

Presented by:

Love N. Books Blog

Edited by:

Pam Berehulke

Bulletproof Editing

(except as noted)

Cover by:

Sommer Stein

Perfect Pear Creative

Photography by:

Toski Covey

Toski Covey Photography

Forward

Acknowledgments

The Airship’s Heart
by Dominic K. Alexander

A captain’s young widow longs to avenge her husband’s death, so disguises herself as a boy and enlists in Her Majesty’s Navy to take a post on an . . . airship?

Baby
Special
by C.C. Brown

A gung-ho Marine learns to adapt to a situation beyond his control as his wife gives birth to their first child.

Because You Are Mine
by Madeline Sheehan

Half human, half wolf, and promised to a purebred alpha wolf who wants her to submit. What’s a girl to do?

The Benson
by Karina Halle

Ghost hunters investigate a hotel rumored to be haunted, and discover more than they bargained for.

Dark Paradise
by Karina Halle

Distraught by her husband’s affair, a woman flees to Hawaii to lose herself, but instead finds something unexpected.

Home
by Joanne Schwehm

Newly divorced Sophia DeMarco returns to her childhood home ready to pack up her past and begin her new life. What she discovers is there are parts in her past that aren’t so easily left behind.

Maverick
by Chelsea Camaron

An ICU nurse takes a personal interest in a patient’s recovery, changing both his life and hers forever.

One Night Away
by Nicole Jacquelyn

After chasing her kids around the house all day, a stay-at-home mom goes out for a much-needed night on the town and encounters a sexy man.

One Night with a Cowboy
by Lisa M. Harley

What’s a sure-fire cure for a broken heart? A cowboy, of course!

Reaching for the Stars
by Sophie Monroe

A shallow, self-centered party girl sets her sights on a rock-and-roll star for her happily-ever-after.

Sapphire
by Ashley Suzanne

Traumatized by the abuse in her past, a hooker working in a strip club is shocked to learn that fairy tales sometimes do come true.

Shouting with Silence
by Kahlen Aymes

An off-Broadway actress struggles with whether to continue an online relationship that has been a constant presence in her life. But when the enigmatic man she chats with refuses to allow her to truly get to know him, she is forced to face the fact that words—while powerful—may not be enough.

The S
lum Queen
by Daryl Banner

Though she came from the slums, she is now queen of a world far in our future. Ignoring the uprising that threatens her throne, she sets her focus on filling the hole inside her heart. But will she succeed before it’s too late?

Uncharted
Waters
by Amber Lynn Natusch

After years on the run from her abusive ex, Cristina seeks refuge in an unlikely place—Alaska. When a handsome fisherman enters her life, can she stop looking over her shoulder long enough to give him a chance, or will her past continue to dictate her future . . . a future full of solitude and regret?

Unleas
hed
by Erin Noelle

A young shifter who has been captured and abused is eventually unleashed in more ways than she could imagine.

Copyright Information

Dear Reader,

The collaboration of this anthology was truly a labor of
love for all involved. Fourteen authors, several editors, and two cover artists worked together to create something that would not only entertain and enthrall, but give back to the community as well.

U
nlike most charity anthologies, we wanted to do something a bit different. While the majority of the contributors usually write romance novels, the subject matter and treatment is actually quite different. By coming together with our various writing styles and subject matter, we’ve put together a unique collaboration of short stories with genres ranging from Steampunk to Erotica to Paranormal to Contemporary. Mix together a little of this and a little of that, and voilà! You have a mishmash of short fiction from the realistic to the fantastical.

Why did we do it this way?
We wanted to give our readers a chance to read stories from the genres and authors they love, as well as introduce them to new genres and new authors.

What charity benefits
? One hundred percent of the proceeds from the sales of this anthology will go directly to Western New York Independent Living. WNY Independent Living is a nonprofit organization that works with people who live with any type of disability, both children and adults, from all walks of life, teaching, instructing, and encouraging them to take control of their lives and become active and contributing members of our society.

Services range from assisting parents in guiding their children through the bureaucracy of special education,
gaining meaningful employment, finding transportation services, personal-aide assistance, and transitioning from hospitalization into the community. The organization also works to educate businesses, institutions, and other organizations about the abilities and potential of people with disabilities, and works with the government to ensure that laws passed don’t create barriers to people with disabilities.

E
ach individual is unique in their differences, and their contribution to our world makes each day a more colorful adventure than the last. This anthology also embodies that philosophy. Enjoy each unique story and as you do, take pride in what makes you different.

Sincerely,

Dominic K. Alexander, Kahlen Aymes, Daryl Banner, C.C. Brown, Chelsea Camaron, Karina Halle, Lisa M. Harley, Nicole Jacquelyn, Sophie Monroe, Amber Lynn Natusch, Erin Noelle, Joanne Schwehm, Madeline Sheehan, and Ashley Suzanne

To learn more about Western New York Independent Living, please visit their website at:

www.wnyil.org

Special thanks to:

Pam Berehulke of Bulletproof Editing

Toski Covey of Toski Covey Photography

Sommer Stein of Perfect Pear Creative Covers

Ellie of
Love N. Books

Editor Kathryn Voskuil

Editor Liz Desmond

Tiffany Tillman
of
This Redhead LOVES Books

Kris and the boys

Jesse Smith

Tyf Snyder

L.B. Simmons

by Dominic K. Alexander

A captain’s young widow longs to avenge her husband’s death, so disguises herself as a boy and enlists in Her Majesty’s Navy to take a post on an . . . airship?

History has proven that a person’s life is void once it is in the hands of their captor. Interrogations were a painful means to tell a roomful of people you were guilty of a crime, whether you were or not, and those people, in turn, decided your fate. In this time and place, that fate was almost always death.

Mary sat and stared resolutely at her captors before she began to tell her story, knowing it could be the last words she would ever utter. This was her story, in its entirety, and though she knew it would most likely earn her a meeting with the hangman, it was her story to tell.

• • •

No one ever felt comfortable explaining death to a child. A young woman was expected to grow up and marry and bear children without a solid understanding of the harshness of life and death, for these topics were off-limits. And so, in a time of war, like so many others, I discovered what pain and loss were all on my own.

Looking back, it was the looks of sorrow that were the hardest to bear. People who once hung on my every word now stuttered over their own words, not quite knowing what to say. A widow at the age of eighteen was unheard of. Where my friends once looked up to me, they would now only show pity in my presence. The constant reminder of my husband’s loss was, and forever shall be, the reason I ran away.

In the summer of 1875, I boarded a train from Blackpool to King’s Cross Station wearing new clothing, with my hair cropped short and my bust tightly wrapped. Most onlookers mistook me for a boy, and that was my plan. The most common phrase I heard that day was, “Move along, boy,” and the words were most welcoming. Though women were now welcome in all facets of the military, the widow of one of its finest captains might have turned some heads, and that was something I didn’t want.

The air was thick with despair as news of another lost battle spread like wildfire. The idea England might very well lose the war with Italy was one no one wanted to think about, yet was on everyone’s mind. With every loss came more anarchy in the streets, and less hope to be had. Fake smiles and forced conversation were commonplace amongst England’s citizens.

As the train car filled with passengers, stories and discussions took my attention, keeping my depressing thoughts at bay. There was an empty seat at the far back of a passenger car, and I took it. From there it was easy to eavesdrop on the other passengers as they milled about in the aisles. A salesman talked about his latest product, the automoclock, which he explained to be a pocket handyman that also told time.

“Even a woman would be able to fix things around the kitchen with one of these,” he said.

Although his sexist comment made my blood boil, the watch itself did seem like it would be very useful. At a cost of twenty-five pounds, eight pence, it was a bargain, really. Every man needed a watch, so it was a good purchase. My father had bought me a normal watch for several pence more not than a year ago, but that watch now sat at home, collecting dust.

Immediately upon opening the hunter case, I examined the beautiful craftsmanship inside, then pulled a picture from my pocket and placed it in the case. My husband looked back at me in full uniform, and a tear rolled slowly down my face. Seeing his gentle expression and upturned smile was more than my emotions could bear.

As I snapped the case closed, I accidentally bumped the stem and the watch sprang to life, sprouting three wiry legs and two arms that held small screwdrivers, while my husband’s face in the picture still looked at me. The mechanical menace dropped to the floor, tightened two screws on my chair, and crawled back to my hand, where it closed as if nothing had happened.

My eyes were wide with surprise, but the salesman simply laughed, his unshaven jowls bouncing on his dirty shirt collar. At one time he might have been a very good salesman, but with the current economic uncertainty, people were stingy with their money and sales were scarce.

“Bit of a shock the first time, isn’t he?” he said.

“A little warning would have been nice,” I replied.

“Let me tell you how it works,” he said. “The button on the stem brings him to life. A twist of the knob changes his functions: fix, survey damage, entertain, and tell time. After he is done, he goes back to sleep. If he begins to run low on energy, he winds himself. I do warn that sometimes he takes on a life of his own. You think you can handle him, boy?”

“I will be fine.” I placed the gadget in my pocket and turned my eyes away from the wretched salesman.

The train pulled away from the platform and toward my future, tearing through the battered and broken towns at high speeds. The area was once a rich and prosperous one, but now was nothing more than destruction and rubble. Thieves were plenty and money was scarce. War with Italy had proved a failure, and their more advanced technology got the better of us; the ruined countryside was our reminder.

My head ached with stress and I closed my eyes, thinking of better times.

• • •

On that day long ago, the sun had beat down on the pond in the garden, and a breeze had ruffled the surface just enough to cause thousands of sparkling diamonds to show across the top. Cover from the great willow brought shade as
Oliver Twist
occupied my thoughts, which brought me to a world not my own. The feeling of eyes on me broke my concentration, and I looked up to see the soft gaze of a young soldier, eyes fixed on his heroine.

He had just been promoted to lieutenant after saving several of his shipmates during the confrontation at Turin in 1869. Being a hero made the girls swoon at the very mention of his name. They were all rather simple, in my opinion. I, on the other hand, could not help but notice his slightly upturned smile as he looked in my direction.

My father, a wealthy landowner, and his father, a distinguished military man and government official of some sort, talked while he looked at me through those hypnotizing eyes. It was the first time I had been able to take in his handsome figure, and we were never able to speak a word. The men simply talked terms of our arranged marriage.

A week later, a package arrived for me. It was full of books. My father sputtered about the boy being as mad as I was, lamenting at how he could make a proper lady of me if the boy encouraged my want to read.

It was at that moment I first fell in love with him. Most men who had shown interest in me were only looking for a young, rich wife. This man wanted me not as a prize, but simply for myself. Even though arranged marriages were out of style, my acceptance to this one was greatly welcomed.

It was a full year before he came to see me a second time, and another before we were to marry. Our courtship wasn’t at all normal. Being in the military didn’t afford him a lot of time, and as war claimed endless amounts of lives, it gave us even less. In the time we had together he brought me more books than I had ever seen before, and satiated my love of knowledge. The stories of airships and how they worked, the battles they saw, and the crew they were home to, made me yearn to be a part of one. Even the manuals and specifications fed my want of knowledge. Knowing the inner workings of these beautiful machines of war was fascinating. Without my even knowing, he prepared me for survival when he was finally gone.

Many girls hung around me so they could bask in my glory, and find out how I had managed to trap him into marriage. A man whom every girl wanted was going to marry me. The daily conversation from the young ladies often involved what his hard muscles must be like to touch. To be honest, the exchanges were a great deal more lewd than I had ever expected during civilized conversation. After one of the ladies went into a long discussion about what she did with her stable boy and the extended length of his unmentionables, which she mentioned in great detail, I declined their invitations more often than not.

What little time I shared with him and the new friends we made quickly became short-lived. Though I thought I had hated those girls so very much, I now missed them and all of their ill-mannered indiscretions with me, for they represented a time when he was with me, and we were both very happy.

• • •

The train screeched to a halt as we pulled into King’s Cross Station in the center of London. My daydream vanished as fast as it had come, and the war-torn city on the other side of my window snapped back into view. Most of the other passengers had already vacated the car, leaving me alone, which was something I was becoming extremely accustomed to. As I had no possessions it was easier to travel, and the place I was headed wouldn’t allow anything of my own anyway, so I simply went to find the recruitment office.

Having never been to London before, it was a slow walk down the platform and out into the streets where the buildings looked down on me, whetting my love for exploration. I had hoped to see Big Ben in Westminster, but recent attacks on London had left much of the area a barren wasteland. Buildings had been burned and streets bombed. Our airship and zeppelin attacks were becoming more frequent, as well as fiercer, but alas, we were losing the battles nonetheless. The rich quickly became poor and homeless, and the poor took full advantage of their previous masters’ misfortune by showing abuse and theft to their unsuspecting victims.

The skies were dotted with England’s remaining fleet of airships. There was a plethora of different types intermittently blocking the morning sun. Most were Frolic-class gunships held to the sky with two large balloons, yet others were smaller Corvettes from the Americas that only required one balloon. My jaw almost dropped when I saw the massive eight-balloon carrier ship at the center of the squad. I was sure this was where the admiral was, and since we had met on multiple occasions, it would be in my best interest to avoid him at all cost.

As I made my way through the littered streets, it was hard to not notice the unnerving sensation of eyes upon me; I was sure robbers had chosen their fresh and helpless mark. As two men slowly closed in from behind, panic ran through me like icy water. An onlooker whose hair was almost as red as mine, and who was at least a foot taller than me, stepped in the path of the ready-to-pounce attackers, his solid frame evident beneath the grease-covered shirt he wore.

“It’s not nice to gang up on young lads,” the man said in a thick Irish accent.

“Moind y’self afor we gut ya,” one of my would-be attackers replied, obviously the product of a poor upbringing.

The attack was thwarted before it started. The Irishman’s fist shot forward in a blur of speed, dropping one of the men, and the other fled quickly, leaving his partner bloody and unconscious on the ground. Without a word, my rescuer disappeared in the crowd of gawkers who had gathered around, leaving me unable to properly thank him.

The Air Elites recruiting station wasn’t far from the attempted attack, and any further assumptions of my being easy prey had completely disappeared, making getting there without further issue a simple task. The station surprised me, as it was nothing more than a tattered brown tent, a rickety wooden desk, and two frighteningly skinny soldiers.

“Do you have a message, young man?” The soldier sitting at the desk looked up at me as his partner rummaged through some supplies behind him.

“No, sir,” I replied with as much confidence as I could muster. “I want to join the Air Elites.”

He stared for a second, looking up and down at my small, thin, boyish figure before shaking his head at the sight of me.

“Name?” he asked, holding a pen and looking at a book in front of him. My real name, Mary Summers, almost left my lips, but I caught myself and blurted out the first thing that came to mind. In retrospect, it wasn’t the best of choices, and would gain me laughs every time it was spoken, but without time to think of something better, this would be my new name.

“Oliver Dickens, sir.”

My face burned with embarrassment, and I yearned to take the name back. Of course, the name Charles Twist or something more clever could not have come out. Instead, a name that would earn me comical looks every time it was mentioned was what I was stuck with.

Sure enough, the man slowly tilted his head up to look at me. “Come again?” he asked.

“Um, Oliver Dickens . . . sir.”

The man sat back, belting out a throaty laugh until tears filled his eyes. After a full two minutes, he was able to calm himself enough to talk again.

“What . . . skills . . . do . . . you . . . have?” he asked, laughing through every word.

“I am a mechanic, sir,” I said, my hopes deflated.

He wiped the tears from his eyes and began shuffling through some pages, then wrote some notes next to my name in the book. When he looked up, his eyebrows were raised in disbelief, and a smile still played at his lips.