Winter, An End and a Promise: The Seasons, #3

COPYRIGHT

Healed by the Bell Ringtone and The Love Sign—

Copyright © 2022 Ana Paulina Lipster all rights reserved

Chasing Northern Lights and Traditions—

Copyright © 2022 Dena Linn all rights reserved

Clinquant (ˈkliŋ-kənt) and The Captain’s Sweater—

Copyright © 2022 Kevin Urban all rights reserved

EverWhite and New Horizons Mind Control—

Copyright © 2022 L. K. Blair all rights reserved

Saving Santa and A Promising Dinner—

Copyright © 2022 Aletta Bee all rights reserved

The Yellow Pajamas and The Gardener—

Copyright © 2022 L’Michelle Bleu L’Eau all rights reserved

Sucker Punch and A Near Death Experience—

Copyright © 2022 Lawrence Urban all rights reserved

Lost Credit and One Minute—

Copyright © 2022 Yash Seyedbagheri all rights reserved

Conspiracy and Distance—

Copyright © 2022 Jonathan Byrd all rights reserved

Tempted and Yiska’s Story—

Copyright © 2022 Kathleen Osborne all rights reserved

This is a work of fiction.

Similarities to real places, people, or events are entirely coincidental.

Winter—An End and a Promise

Copyright © 2022 Kathleen Osborne et al. All rights reserved.

Edited by Kathleen Osborne and Janet Jones-Bann.

Cover by L.K. Blair and L’Michelle Bleu L’Eau.

Published by Kathleen Osborne et al.

First Edition October 29, 2022

This book is written for adults.

SYNOPSIS FOR EACH STORY BY AUTHOR

Ana Paulina Lipster

Healed by the Bell Ringtone: A gripping tale of a dramatic and emotional night in a loving, sick and worried wife’s life. Will she survive the frightful long hours? Will her husband survive?

The Love Sign: How will a mistress solve a marital squabble in a distant galaxy? Find the answer in this sci-fi romantic comedy.

Dena Linn

Chasing Northern Lights: Two good friends reunite in a Norwegian city north of the Artic Circle.

One friend from London, one traveling from Spain. After six years, they meet for an adventure and to celebrate their mothers. Feel the excitement, explore Tromsø, chase the Northern Lights.

Traditions: Outmoded or a way of life? Traditions can both nurture and destroy. It is a story and a comment on sacrifice and oppression, lust and love, traditions and fear, and the elixir of gods, wine. What is the price you would pay for peace?

Warning: Story contains lesbian relationships and themes of human sacrifice.

Kevin Urban

Clinquat (ˈkliŋ-kənt): A demoralized man is visited by one of Santa’s elves on Christmas eve.

The Captain’s Sweater: Starving men fight for survival on a ship trapped in an icy sea.

L.K. Blair

EverWhite: On another planet where winter lasts for decades, two outliers meet, one young and one old. Both find solace and a sense of family through each other's company, yet the mystery of a high-tech domed city beckons.

New Horizons Mind Renewal: Artificial intelligence has crept into people's lives. A woman struggles to survive in an AI-dominated society as she feels her own identity slipping away.

Aletta Bee

Saving Santa: Seven-year-old Melissa overhears a radio show about whether to tell kids there is no Santa Clause. Wanting to protect her younger sisters from the truth and save her family’s Christmas, she goes all out to help them believe in Santa.

A Promising Dinner: Twelve-year-old Melissa gets stirred up by her first kiss from a neighborhood boy. When her father condemns her behavior at the dinner table, she makes a vow to herself.

L’Michelle Bleu L’Eau

The Yellow Pajamas: One tightly knit family holiday celebration is altered by the disappearance of the mother. A note, a secret ingredient, and a reoccurring dream binds mother and daughter. Both have moved on with their lives, searching for answers.

The Gardener: Twenty years ago, his partner disappeared. Now, a business venture will garner Richard money; so what if a few people are displaced?  

An ominous message from the gardener changes everything. As this story unfolds, nothing is what it seems.

Lawrence Urban

Sucker Punch: It’s Christmas Eve, all is well, except a bag full of money has gone missing and Jake’s cousin needs a bodyguard.

A Near Death Experience: Homeless and alone in the dead of winter, a young man despairs, nearly giving up. And then, a glimmer of hope.

Yash Seyedbagheri

Lost Credit: A struggling man debates whether to accept help from his doting sister.

One Minute: A boy’s mother leaves him in a grocery store. She claims she’ll be back in one minute.

Warning—Parental abandonment and some minor language.

Jonathan Byrd

Conspiracy: When you can’t decide if they’re out to get you or if you’re just paranoid it’s time to pull out the tinfoil. And if you’re going to wear a tinfoil hat, you might as well wear a big tinfoil hat.

No representation is made that the veracity of conspiracy theories to be described are better than the veracity of conspiracy theories left out.

Distance: The best laid plans for battle come down to a matter of execution. The decisions are not easier to make at higher levels, but their realities tend to be different. In the end, everything is a function of proximity and distance can make or break you.

Warning: This piece contains violence which comes closer and closer until it results in a graphic depiction of an enemy combatant’s death.

Kathleen Osborne

Tempted: A woman’s husband murders her, but her spirit doesn’t pass to another plane. She thinks she is alive until people talk about her being dead. She awakens just before the coroners are to start her autopsy. Her husband desperately tries to complete what he started.

Yiska’s Story: A young Navajo, training to be a medicine man, is kidnapped and released a year later. He goes to his sister, with no memory of where he has been. All he knows is he differs from before. His mentor and sister helped him recover his memory and find another victim before is killed. Both he and his sister find their true love.

SIDE A - TEN STORIES ABOUT WINTER

HEALED BY THE BELL RINGTONE

Ana P. Lipster

A Psychological Drama

Middle of the night . Violent winds. Showers of heavy rain. Thunderstorms.

Tough to fall asleep.

Trickier to stay asleep, if you dwell in the claws of perennial insomnia.

Challenging, if a shivering fever keeps you hostage, at home and in a separate bedroom from your husband. From the love of your life. From your partner of many decades.

A crash of powerful, threatening thunder interrupted the clattering of hailstones on the windowpane at short intervals. Otherwise, only dread and menace permeated the eerie silence.

I headed to the kitchen. My shoulders slumped lower than my mood, my legs as numb as a drugged zombie. Maybe a glass of hot milk would do the job.

Out of the darkness from my husband's bedroom, I heard petrifying screams, like the high-pitched screeching sound of a red fox calling out in the mating season.

My eyes burned from the high fever, and I cringed in fear while shock revived my consciousness. I steered my heavy, fiery body towards his bedroom in great pain. What happened? Why are you screaming? My weak, trembling voice sounded strange even to my ears.

Pain. Intense pain.

Where?

In my body, woman. Where else?

My pulse rhythm and heartbeats increased as if I were running an Olympic marathon. Strong hands were squeezing my throat, and I couldn’t breathe. My lover was never sick. Never a complaint. At least, never one as fierce as tonight.

Myriad thoughts raced through my mind–none made sense at that moment. Should I call a doctor? Should I make him tea?

More cries for help from the bedroom like icy shards spread in waves, shattering the night-time stillness. I clenched my teeth and froze on the spot.

Heavy knocks on the front door startled me. Yet I didn’t move. I swallowed hard as sweat rolled down my forehead into my inflamed eyes. Was it the fever or the fear? Both maybe?

Stronger bangs on the door filled the house like Aeolian winds and grew more potent by the minutes.

I snapped out of my stupor and plodded to the entrance hall–damn carpets, must get rid of them–hyperventilating from the physical effort and alarmed mind. I unlocked the front door, and our neighbour pushed herself inside the flat. I heard the shouts.

Damn the thin walls in this building. A deep crimson colour covered my embarrassed face and neck.

More screams from the bedroom. I can't stand it much longer. I'm going to die.

Not to worry, volunteered the kind woman. I’ll take care of everything.

A worrying eternity elapsed in less than a few minutes, and the eardrum-piercing siren from the approaching ambulance woke the rest of the neighbours.

My husband fainted on his way to the elevator. The sight of his unconscious body on the stretcher gelatinized my knees. My chest tightened.

Shame and self-loathing guilt upset my stomach, as I had to entrust my precious gem in the hands of a neighbour’s goodwill. Disgust brought nausea and a sour tang to my mouth.

Darned bug forced me to stay put, wishing to be there, to have accompanied him. Instead, I depend on strangers because of a contagious, despicable germ. Influenza A, the doctor said, his tone deferential as if expecting a deep curtsy.

Sleep was a fantasy. Utopia.

Should I contact the children? Not young anymore. Both married with toddlers of their own.

Time was slowing down. I panicked about a gloomy future without my lover. He’s always been my harbour and my shield. Soul mates. What about all those countless loving, tender, fairy-tale moments of our long life together? The increase in dopamine levels during each encounter? The lonesome after each departure? Spending nights reading Love Poems by Pablo Neruda?

Is it possible forever is getting nearer? Until death do us part, is it already here? Now he’s somewhere helpless and forsaken by me, the ungrateful woman.

I prayed and begged my lover for forgiveness. Silent tears slid down my feverish cheeks like water flowing from the creek behind our building.

Stop! I heard my tired brain berating my suffering soul. Stop.

I sat on the living-room couch–the same seaweed-green, two-seater my darling husband surprised me with on our thirtieth anniversary.

Our wedding picture stood on the sideboard. It reminded me of the loving and blissful moments of our life together. Romantic boat rides on the lake on sunny Sundays or sunset dinners on every anniversary.

A new onslaught of tears burned my eyes and blurred my vision.

Maybe a mug of hot cocoa will help.

Somehow, I pulled myself up from the couch. Dragging my swollen feet, I hauled my body between the living room and the kitchen. Kitchen to bedroom. The hot cocoa forgotten. And moaning, back to the living room.

No. This can’t be happening. I told myself while I leaned my ailing body on chairs and other furniture standing in my way.

I longed for and yet feared news from the hospital.

Irrational thinking took over, and spine-chilling images flashed through my mind. I couldn’t trust my reasoning. Not even when a light-hearted, floating sensation tingled my body—the willingness to focus on positive thoughts. 

The damn virus was keeping me a prisoner.

My panic-stricken mind crept up like weeds and interlaced with my frail body: profuse sweat; increased heartbeat; weakened, wobbly knees. Rasping breaths erupted from my throat.

I stood quivering with unfamiliar shock. In short, the total package of stress and dread mixed with the symptoms caused by the virus.

Reasoning did not work. No. Not at all.

I tried, of course. Nothing helped—no logic to my reactions.

Why was I so scared? It could be nothing severe. He was never sick.

He was not dead.

Yet.

True, he was in great pain, judging by his fierce, loud, hideous cries.

But still alive. I hoped. I prayed.

Barely–sneered the little devil sitting on my left shoulder, torturing my terrified mind.

Have faith–I heard the little angel whisper in my right ear.

Dawn insinuated itself through the cracks in the blinds. I returned to the living room couch, staring at the walls. They sure need a fresh coat of paint. Lack of air circulation throttled the space, generating a cloying, musty odour and leaving an unpleasant, rotting sense of abandonment. The stillness choked me, and the smell of forlornness nauseated me.

Patience and self-control struggled with unruly anger inside me. My mood coiled around itself like a downward spiral cone. I raised my hand to our wedding picture, wanting to shatter it into tiny pieces.

My heart took over in time. Smashing the photo would mean destroying a lifetime of romantic episodes and passionate mementoes—the first kiss, the first night, the love-making after a fight—brought me back to sanity.

Logic took hold.

I tried the hot milk stratagem again.

Before the liquid reached my lips, the phone chimed in its familiar song. The high-pitched sound of bells jolted me. I started. Drops of hot milk burned my fingers, and I let the glass fall to the floor.

I needed to answer the phone. But couldn't. I froze, rooted to the spot. The shakes hindered my legs from obeying my brain’s commands.

My heart jumped. Up. Down. Up. Down. Like a ping-pong ball bouncing at the highest speed possible before a person collapses.

Instead, I hauled my legs nearer to the table, reached to grab up the phone with both hands lest it should slip, and pulled it up from its cradle with trembling hands to my fiery face.

Hello? A terror-stricken rasping breath escaped my lips.

The church bells. A miracle! I'm telling you.

Excuse me? I groaned.

Listen to me. He is out. You get it?

What out? My brain cells refused to function.

Out of danger! No more wires or monitors. He's awake. We got here just in time before his appendix burst.

Appendix.

Appendix? Really?

Surprise. Scepticism. Joy. Mirth. Shock. Relief.

Brutal anticlimax.

A spurt of adrenaline tingled my whole body. The heavens forgave my sin of desertion. Sobs of relief erupted from my throat like water from a burst dam.

My brain had trouble registering the uninterrupted flow of words from the other side of the line. When the church bells rang this morning, he opened his eyes and asked for water.

Water.

This insipid, mundane word was balm to my aching body and tormented soul.

The bell phone ringtone saved me from my torment.

A hearty peal of shaky laughter erupted from the depths of my being through my dry mouth as a late reflex. Through the giggles, all the angst, the dread, and the heartache oozed out of my limbs.

Sudden lightness took hold of my body, and I returned to the kitchen.

This time I decided on chamomile tea and an analgesic.

AUTHOR BIOGRAPHY

Ana Paulina Lipster is Brazilian-born, now living in Israel. Her mother tongue is Portuguese. However, in junior high school, Ana Paulina fell in love with the English language—love at first word.

After attending The British Culture School for seven years, she received the Certificate of Proficiency from Cambridge University, United Kingdom, majoring in Extra-Mural studies.

In her late teens, Ana Paulina immigrated to Israel, where she has continued her love affair with the English language and its varied literature.

Ana Paulina has concentrated on honing the craft of writing in English by participating in various Creative Writing workshops.

She started her creative output by writing short stories posted on her website.

Serendipity is a short story published in the E-book version.

In addition, together with a group of other authors, Ana Paulina has to date published several stories in various anthologies. See https://transcendent-authors.com/

Ratioville and Misconception appear in the anthology Tolerance—A Collection of Short Stories.

Drop By for Unlimited Time and Two Distinct Seasons—A Recipe are published in AUTUMN—An Anthology.

Freedom and Murphy the Border Collie are published in Spring, The Unexpected anthology.

Branded is her debut crime novel, coming in 2023.

Follow her on:  Facebook page:  https://www.facebook.com/Ana-P-Lipster-Author

Her website: https://www.analipster.com/

CHASING NOTHERN LIGHTS

Dena Linn

Literary Fiction

DEDICATION

To Geri, friendship, and memories of Jerez de la Frontera

It is way below freezing , and I am beyond tired. It has been a long day, with trains and two flights, and now it is midnight. The Norsk Line airport bus glides, then crunches, to a stop in downtown Tromsø. The hydraulics hiss as the bus kneels. As soon as I step off, my lungs feel the dry air, and like post-trauma brain warp, my mind snaps back. My mother is telling, no, not telling, but writing me using a pad by her bed – Go Andi, like you’ve always done! I am dry, itchy, sucking my last breath . She’d died the next day or the day after. And now she invades my dreams, night and day floating beside me on the wind, a woman I’d never really known. I feel the arctic air pull at my lungs, and mother is in my mind’s eye, her wild, tangled hair flying around a tie-dye-swathed body.

I shake my head, stamp my feet. She is gone. I’m here in this frozen artic town to support my girlfriend.

I have no sense of snow, unlike the Inuit and others who grow up surrounded by this white stuff. My mother was a surfer and a true hippie; I knew only the sand and sea that had been outside our commune’s door. Now, the snow underfoot reminds me of sno-cones she’d buy me on the pier. I can hear the crystals crunch as I shuffle my boots, feeling for purchase. The tides surge, and I head toward the blue-black waterfront, then trudge through half-meter-deep drifts to find the hotel entrance. The green arrow on my iPhone map indicates the scenic path along the docks. I hug the buildings for safety’s sake. Better to be in windblown snowdrifts than over the edge and floundering in a frozen harbor. I feel the weight of my duty-free wine bottle, padded with long underwear and an extra pair of pants. The load presses, and I hunch against the wind.

When I reach the hotel, I find the floor and a door and wave my key card back and forth. My skin tingles as it defrosts in the hotel hallway’s ambient temperature. Nothing happens; I’m confused. I wave the key card back and forth, my tired eyes following it. Then, I see Room 322! Jeez! Wrong room! Is my mind stuck on frozen? I wander on, searching for room 332. This time, when I wave the keycard, the door buzzes open. In seventeen square meters, my London friend, Polly, can’t hide. She jumps up, arms wide, eyes wider, fingers wrapping the stem of a half-filled wine glass. She envelopes me with sloppy kisses on both cheeks, Spanish style.

You made it, girlfriend! Thank God! I’m a bloody wreck.

Polly pours; I struggle out of my boots and thick wool socks. It feels exquisite to strip off the layers. My skin breathes. I’ve never had so many things on my body at one time. I grew up half naked on a beach, covered in baby oil and iodine. Now, decades later, my body and mind are retired and cozy in the warmth of southern Spain. This trip was Polly’s idea, of course; she always has crazy travel ideas.

We should have a reunion and make it a Norwegian adventure. We’ll do it off-season in the dark of January and reconnect as amigas!" She’d texted with so many emojis I could hear her shouting ‘friends’ and the fun it would be to experience the aurora borealis together. Now, Polly sits back in the hotel chair covered by an oversize t-shirt and not much else, looking liquid. I am anxious to catch up face to face. 

It is going to happen. I feel it. Polly’s voice is teary. She refills her glass, tops mine, and clears her expression. First, before my drama, we must toast to longtime friendships and our quest to experience the aurora in all its glory!

We take slurps of the wine, and the alcohol shoots into my brain. I stifle a giggle. Still, my brows and cheeks hike in a laugh. Polly’s eyes look grey and tired, and her bottom eyelids dam welling wears. Just weeks before, she’d shared via text that her mum’s health had taken a turn. Mum had already picked a quaint hospice located far into the countryside that would respect her specific beliefs and dying wishes. Polly’s mum had been a professor of indigenous cultures, and so Polly had grown up traveling with her, visiting mind-opening communities and different cultures from Northern Canada to Australia. A highway car crash, and then a heart attack, had taken Polly’s father when she was twelve. After that, Polly and her mum melded even closer. The way Polly remembers her childhood, her mum was an avid reader, and under her tutelage she learned her mum's belief that all relationships were symbiotic, from trees and fungi to parents and children.

If I think back to my childhood, I almost can’t bring a clear memory into my mind, but I know I grew up with the smell of reefer and mother demonstrating irresponsibility as her unique form of love. In the face of bullies, I wore my Girl Scout uniform on non-meeting days. I’d no other clean clothes, and mother assured me that being the victim of bullying would make me stronger - mentally.

In Polly’s stories of her and her