I hope you enjoyed the two kick-off episodes of Underground Book Reviews' Short Fiction Series. I’ll be back from time to time with more reviews of short stories, compendiums, novelettes and novels. 

What would a short fiction series be without a plug for my
novelette Carson’s Love? Incomplete, of course. You can find Carson’s love on Amazon and Barnes & Noble. I’m currently working on the sequel and hope to have published by the end of the year. Enjoy.

***
 
The doors open across the garden and an elderly black man steps out. He holds the doors open with his butt, keeping a pole on tri-pod wheels upright with one hand and pulling a red wagon with the other.  The pole is the same type they use to hold the IV bag next to Carson’s bed, but this one is top heavy with bulky electrical boxes, pumps, and syringes. 

A tangle of tubes and wires lead to a small black boy, about Carson’s age,  in the wagon. The poor child’s arms and chest are covered with so many tubes, wires, and surgical tape he looks like some kind of toddler cyborg. 
 
I suspect the old man is his grandfather. Dressed in khaki shorts and a golf shirt he sports a pot belly and short graying hair. Grandpa struggles to prevent the wires and tubes from pulling while keeping the pole upright. With the skill of someone who’s obviously done this many times, he manages to drag the pole and wagon into the garden. He gently lifts the child and softly deposits him in the dew covered grass. 

I pretend to examine my phone while watching the pair through the corner of my eye. Dressed only in a diaper, his face and limbs are puffy and his hair stands straight up. He looks like a troll baby doll. I stifle a giggle. I see his runny nose from here and badly want to wipe it.

 The child picks up a leaf, shows it to Grandpa and says, “Eeaaf!” 

“Yes, Jamal, llleeeeaf!”Grandpa replies in a deep, loving tone. 

The sun peaks around the eastern wing and drops a bright ray on Jamal like a spotlight. 

He’s still for a moment, surprised by the sudden light, then squints up at the fresh, blue sky. 

“Peep peeps!” he suddenly shouts and points at the pigeons circling above the buildings. 

Grandpa chuckles.

“Peep peeps!” he repeats, stumbles forward after the birds and falls down. One of the lines pulls taunt before Grandpa can push the pole forward. It jerks and Jamal gives a sharp cry. Grandpa catches the pole before it falls over on the boy. Jamal screams as one of the electronic boxes blares an alarm.

I cringe. It’s the cry only a parent knows...he’s really hurt. I’m on my feet. I don’t think the fall was bad, he fell on his hands and the grass is soft. 

Before I reach them Grandpa has Jamal in the wagon and is untangling the tubes and wires. Again, Grandpa struggles with the door. I open it and he nods in thanks. The beeping becomes a steady flat line tone and  Jamal’s cries turn to frantic. 

Oh my  God!  An expanding blot of bright red blood forms under the gauze on his chest where a tube protrudes and runs to the blaring box. The fluid in the line turns red  near his chest. 

Grandpa hurries to the elevator.  The pole’s wheels jiggle and shimmy,  hindering his urgency.   He punches the up button and, thankfully, the doors open instantly.

Between Jamal’s screams and the alarm it’s hard not to panic. I keep the elevator open as he fights with the pole and wagon. 

“What floor?” I ask as I get on the  elevator..

 “Four.” That’s Carson’s floor. That’s oncology. 
 
Elevator music, screams, and alarms blend into a surreal orchestra as Grandpa stares ahead, jaw clenching with each scream. 
 
I take out a fresh tissue and wipe Jamal’s nose and tears. 
 
Grandpa meets my eyes. I know he’s angry at himself. But he’s not really angry, he’s scared. That’s the way Rob is. Maybe that’s the way all men are, they turn their fear to something else, unable to confront their own  terror. 

“Thank you, ma’am. They can’t expect a boy to stay in that goddamn crib all day,” he chokes back an unexpected sob, almost unable to contain it. “He’s gotta get out and play. You’d think they could take this shit off him just for a few minutes!”

 The door opens to the cancer ward. I hold it open as Grandpa scoots to the right with Jamal and pole. 

I’m not supposed to be here. Carson isn’t supposed to be here. 

***

BLACK SEA GODS transforms recently re-discovered Black Sea  legends, possibly the root of all Eurasian mythology, with ancient Chinese  mythology to create an unprecedented epic fantasy series. 

Synopsis

The  fish have disappeared from the sea. The animals have vanished from the land.  All  humanity, and even the gods, tremble under the specter of a pending  cataclysm.  The demigod Fu Xi races home from the end of the world bringing news of a  looming theomachy, a god war. He finds his land under attack by monsters  he once  called his children and discovers a terrible curse has been cast, one
intended  to destroy the gods and all life. To his shock, Fu Xi learns mankind’s  hope rest  solely on him, a simple fisherman and a banished slave  girl.

Beset on all  sides, Fu Xi knows he must act quickly and races west to rescue the saviors.  Unaware of the real doom that awaits, Aizarg the fisherman and his party begin a  perilous journey across a dangerous steppe. They seek the last of the Narim, the  legendary Black Sea Gods, who might hold the key to their salvation. Leading  them is the rescued slave girl Sarah, the  only one among them who knows the path  to the land of the god-men.

Over seven days the defining struggle of gods  and humans begins under the onslaught
of a dark force whose true objective and  origin remain a mystery. Fu Xi knows  the secret to victory resides in a  fisherman and a slave girl, whose lives he must protect, even if it means the  rest of the world must perish.

"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.