“The only way back home is forward.” – Aizarg of the Lo

Prologue 

It had been over a thousand lifetimes since her forehead touched the earth. Her knees, which had long ago forgotten how to bend, ached on the cold marble. Terror, shame and grief reacquainted themselves with the goddess’s ancient spirit.

He emerged from the fountain in the guise of human flesh, but even still, the goddess couldn’t behold his radiance without bursting into flame.  She heard the water drip off his body and splash onto the glass-like floor. He was real, he was here, and he carried a terrible judgment.

“Nine have forgotten my name. Their temples are corrupted and their bastard children despoil what is mine. They are lost to me.” His voice was stern but without malice. Unlike a mortal voice, it did not echo off the alabaster pillars of the Inner Temple. “Are you lost to me, too, daughter?”

“No, Father.” She gasped, trying to control her terror. “Forgive me!” Trembling, she reached out to touch his feet. He stepped back.

In the village far below they screamed her name, begging the Goddess of the Turtle Mountain to save them. Her beloved people were being slaughtered and devoured where they fell. She could save them with a thought.

 “I beg you, let me save my children!”

“They were my children before they were yours. If you truly loved them, you would have remembered that.”

She pulled into a ball and moaned under the crushing truth. “Punish me instead. They are innocent.”

“Punishment? Innocence?” He pondered the words, as if they were alien to him. “You can save them, but only for another ten days. That choice is yours. Save Nushen for but a short time and you condemn Fu Xi to share their doom. My heart is hardened, my judgment set.”

She sensed her son drawing near.

If I had not sent Fu Xi away, the village would be safe.

The goddess tried to collect herself. “These strange people you ask Fu Xi to save, these Lo, are they more deserving of mercy than my people...of Fu Xi’s people?”

“The righteousness of Nushen only thrives in the shadow of the Turtle Mountain.”

The weight of her sins came crushing down upon her. “Do not make me choose. Take this burden from me,” she moaned. “Everything thing I did, I did for love!”

“Everything I do, I also do for love.” He gently touched her head and kissed her gray hair. She shuddered under the power of his touch. “Love is a tender curse, my beloved daughter.”

Fresh screams floated up the mountainside as the monsters began to feast on the women and children.

“Choose.”

"Carson's Love" is my first foray into independant publishing. Its available in paperback and e-book on Amazon.com and Barnes and Noble.

I didn’t see the sun today. Well, that’s not entirely true; I felt its presence. Sunlight streamed through my office window, but it never actually touched my skin. I left for work at 4:30 A.M. and here I stand in front of my house at 7 p.m., getting out of my car in the clear spring twilight.

I’m tired. Not normal ‘tired,’ but deeply, numbly exhausted to my inner bones. If I could stand forever between my car and my house, I would. Right here, under the budding stars in this tiny sliver of time I belong to myself, even if for one moment.

I suppose this day went to the same place my other days go. It is converted, like everything else in my life. I’m not a man anymore; I’m a conversion machine. In the morning I convert coffee to consciousness, so I can go to work and convert the dwindling minutes of my life into a paycheck, which is then converted into a mortgage.

At least my mortgage isn’t upside down, like most of my neighbors. We were sensible and waited until we could afford our house. As luck had it, we bought after the housing crash. I’m often told how sensible I am. I think it’s supposed to be a compliment.

My house isn’t upside down. I am.

Through the open garage I see a white overstuffed trash bag waiting on my workbench, right next to my dark, greasy 289 small block V-8 engine. I’ve been rebuilding it since we lived in the last house. I haven’t touched it in years.

After we moved in I spent two nights getting my garage workshop exactly the way I always wanted it. From my Craftsman tools to the custom overhead vacuum system, this workshop is (was?) my dream. I immediately started looking for a 1969 Ford Mustang body in which to lovingly place the rebuilt engine.

No Mustang body materialized in my garage and the engine isn’t complete. Now my workshop is buried under knick-knacks, boxes stuffed with old clothes, and outgrown toys. My well-organized Craftsman tools lay somewhere below that pile, hidden and waiting for a sunny, perfect Saturday.

Half of all author’s profits will go to Curesearch.org.