Art ~ Writing ~ Life

From Handprints To Footprints

Kismet eBook Is Free Till Halloween

October 7, 2016
Steve Campbell

A reminder that my 99-cent sci-fi adventure novella Kismet: A Ridgewood Tale is still free at Smashwords, which ends Halloween (10/31/2016). To get yours, go to my Smashwords page and enter coupon code AR96Q (not case-sensitive) when ordering. You can download the book in the following formats for your tablet, e-reader and /or computer: epub, mobi, pdf, lrf, pdb, txt, and html.

For more information about Kismet, click on my bookstore page tab at my blog’s header.

Thank you.

Free Kismet eBook Promotion Reminder

May 20, 2016
Steve Campbell

Now until Halloween of this year you can save 99 cents and get my ebook Kismet: A Ridgewood Tale free at my Smashwords page by entering coupon code AR96Q (not case-sensitive) when ordering. You can download the book in the following formats for your tablet, e-reader and/or computer: epub, mobi, pdf, lrf, pdb, txt, and html.

Kismet is a mystery story with a sci-fi element of time travel in it for adventure. You can read its history and different versions of it here at my blog by using Kismet as the keyword of your search, though it may take away the enjoyment of reading the final version first.

Kismet occurs in my fictional town Ridgewood, of course, and is about a diary from the past that warns Addison Taylor about her future. However, it’s Christmas and she’s too busy with her recent marriage and problems at work to worry about a book whose author is certainly delusional. But when she and her husband Daniel hike Myers Ridge in the spring, the diary’s warnings become real and force the couple headlong into mystery, suspense, and a strange world of past, present, and future. Can Addison and Daniel change the past to protect their future together?

I hope you take advantage of this offer and read the book to find out.

Free Book Promotion

April 30, 2016
Steve Campbell

Hello readers and fans of my fiction. I am offering my 99-cent sci-fi adventure novella Kismet: A Ridgewood Tale free starting tomorrow (5/1/2016) and ending Halloween (10/31/2016) at my Smashwords page. Go to my page here and enter coupon code AR96Q (not case-sensitive) when ordering. You can download the book in the following formats for your tablet, e-reader and /or computer: epub, mobi, pdf, lrf, pdb, txt, and html.

You can view more information about Kismet at My Books page tab above my blog’s header.

Publishing and selling my books via Smashwords are new ventures for me, so please contact me if you experience any problems. Thank you.

Last Free Day for Ridgewood Sparks

June 16, 2014
Steve Campbell

Sorry about the commercial, friends; I will make it quick.

Today is the last day to get your FREE copy of my e-book Ridgewood Sparks: A Collection of Really Short Stories at Amazon.com worldwide.

Follow this link to get Ridgewood Sparks for your Kindle.

Have a great Monday everybody.

New eBook Update

June 15, 2014
Steve Campbell

Days after I published my latest e-book Ridgewood Sparks: A Collection of Really Short Stories at Amazon.com on June 6, and then a day or two before the current “Get My Book Free” offer, I noticed errors and made minor changes to the book’s text. If you bought my book before the changes, I urge you to take advantage of the free offer today and tomorrow and replace the old version with the revised one. Although the changes are small, I think they make Ridgewood Sparks a better read.

Meanwhile, I send a big shout out “Thank You” to everyone who supports my enterprise into this crazy world of self-digital-publishing. (Or is it digital-self-publishing?) Big supporters include my family, friends, readers, and fans who ask, “When’s your next book coming out?” You keep my nose to the grindstone.

If you haven’t done so already, follow this link to get your free, updated e-book offer of Ridgewood Sparks for your Kindle.

Attention! … Correction

June 14, 2014
Steve Campbell

My new e-book Ridgewood Sparks is free tomorrow and Monday, not today as I originally posted. Sorry about the error. Click here to get your copy at Amazon, starting tomorrow.

New eBook Giveaway Weekend

June 12, 2014
Steve Campbell

Once again, to all my readers, fans and followers, I’m offering another free e-book—this time to kick off Father’s Day Weekend. (If that isn’t a thing, it should be.) An e-book of 12 really short (and awesome) stories, Ridgewood Sparks is available at Amazon worldwide beginning Saturday, June 14 and running all day Sunday, June 15. As always, the book is available to lend out to family and friends.

An excerpt of one of the stories, “A Buzzing of Bees”:

Brian pushed hanging branches away from his face. This part of the woods on Myers Ridge was thick with broadleaf and coniferous trees, and infested with thorny blackberry and raspberry bushes. These barbed sentries were deep in cover, away from hungry predators and ambitious and adventurous gardeners with spades and pruning shears. But few people trespassed here on his land. The terrain was rough and steep in many places and challenging to walk over. Thick and thorny underbrush, stinging nettle, and rattlesnakes were common threats, including branches falling from trees infected by disease and acid rain attacking their roots.

From “A Sinister Blast from the Past”:

Inside this cold and sterile environment, I am a prisoner of time, a prisoner of fate, a prisoner to the cruel circumstances that have left me unable to communicate to the people around me. They pass me and I go unnoticed by them. Without a name I am nobody. Without a voice I am nothing more than a silent pet that must be fed and bathed and taken care of. Unable to move I am less than that.

From “Dead Rabbits Don’t Run”:

I smell it again. Past hemlock and below hill the aroma is coming from man’s wooden lodge, drifting to me on smoke from most powerful and burning my nose with the fragrance of the blood of my sins. Although my eyes are closed, I know that if they were open I would still see the tormenting image of man eating his bloodless rabbit meal: chewing, always chewing; licking fingers clean; sucking bare every tawny bone; he will leave no bloodless meat behind. Before he sleeps tonight, he will bury bones into ground behind his lodge near where I committed my first crime. If I could move, I would run to there now and commit one last sin by digging up bones and feasting on marrow for the remainder of my short, pathetic life.

And nine more short tales of fantasy, a bit of horror, all set in and around peculiar and eerie Ridgewood, Pennsylvania.

Follow this link to get your free e-book, Ridgewood Sparks for Kindle on June 14 and 15.

Have a good read … and a great Father’s Day Weekend!

Free Kismet Weekend

June 4, 2014
Steve Campbell

To all my readers, fans and followers, a quick post to let you know that you can get a free e-book version of my novella, Kismet, at Amazon.com beginning tomorrow, June 7 and ending after Sunday, June 8. Though the standard U.S. dollar price is only $.99, I always like to offer something free to people who appreciate what I do. The book is available to lend, too, so you can loan Kismet out to family and friends.

BTW, this is book 4 of the compilation book, The Green Crystal Stories. However, if you do not own TGCS, I wrote Kismet as a standalone book outside the lives of Vree Erickson and her friends.

Follow this link, free Kismet offer! on June 7 and 8 to get your free e-book.

Have a great weekend!

Free Kismet Story, Chapter 4

May 27, 2014
Steve Campbell

Kismet is a short story that went through many rewrites before I presented it as part of The Ridgewood Chronicles series several years ago. This version is basically the story at Amazon, told in 4 chapters before I decided to rewrite it, add more chapters, and change the ending. Enjoy.

KISMET

Copyright © Steven L Campbell

FOUR

Darkness took away the heat and cooled her.  When she opened her eyes, she knew she had been asleep.  For how long, she wasn’t sure.  She wasn’t sure of anything, except that her throat hurt.  The bed she lay in was a stranger’s; unknown faces peered down at her.  She panicked, unable to breathe.  Someone pulled a long tube from her throat and she was able to breathe again.  Outside a window near her bed, rain fell in torrents against the glass.  Lightning lit up the sky and frightened her.

She knew not where she was or who she was, except that she was terrified of the lightning filling the sky.

* * *

Aunt Peggy lay in her hospital bed and stared weakly at Brian.  To the right of her, a January blizzard fell outside her window.  “Heather is trapped in the past.”

“So what can I do?”  Brian stared dumbly at the diary in his hands.  “The police think I’m crazy, that I killed my wife.”

“You have to save her.  You have to go back.  Keep her from killing herself.”

“How?”

“Go back to the cave.  The answer is there.”

“How can you be sure?”

“Because it is.  You have to believe.”  She closed her eyes.

Brian sat for an hour and listened to Aunt Peggy’s irregular breathing while he read again Jane’s diary.  Then he prayed.  For what it was worth, he got some satisfaction from begging to God.  When he stepped from the room, he knew, as crazy as it seemed to the rational part of his mind, that there had to be a way to save Heather.  And the answer did lie within those green crystals and lightning.

* * *

It was the third week of August, not long after a terrible thunderstorm had passed through Ridgewood, when some teenage boys hiking Magic Hill stumbled upon Brian Stevens’s Grand Cherokee parked atop a rise.  A police officer remembered Brian’s name and his incredible story about his wife disappearing inside the cave.

The guy was surely insane and had killed his wife, only they were never able to find her body to prove it.

Now, inside the cave once more, the officer and his partner found an overturned tent containing a sleeping bag, a dozen empty cases of canned spaghetti, soup and vegetables, and three one-gallon containers of water that would later turn out to be rainwater.  They also found some books about lightning, local history from the 1940s, and theories on time travel.

Once more, they found no one—not even a body—inside the cave.

* * *

The amnesic woman known as Jane sat slumped in her oversized wheelchair.  Nurse Rachel Watkins had parked Jane’s chair again in front of the parlor’s largest window so she could look out at the hilly, tree-lined block of neighborhood.  Rachel brought her here every morning and claimed that looking at the woodland section of Victorian houses could help bring back memories of Jane’s past.  Rachel had even bought her a diary so she could record her thoughts and memories inside.

Jane squinted past the silver-gray skylight stabbing through the large window.  It was July, but the Pennsylvania sky looked far from being a kind one.  Thunder sounded.  The Tuesday morning skylight outdoors darkened and threatened to pour down rain.  Alone, Jane looked at the silver wedding and engagement rings she wore and wondered what it was like to have a husband, to sit with, hand in hand, and watch it rain.

Lightning lit up the sky.  She looked again out the window.  Beyond the sloping lawn that ran to Henry Burkhart’s black iron gate barring the sidewalk, a man dressed in a long black raincoat stood at the bars.  A sleek blue car with lots of chrome was parked behind him.  Two boys in yellow plastic raincoats scurried past as the man looked through the bars at the house and the window.

He waved to her.

A flash of lightning and clap of thunder made her shoulders jump, but it was the stranger now striding through the gate and heading to the front door that made her heart beat faster.

She balled her hands into tight fists and listened for the sound of the doorbell.

Free Kismet Story, Chapter 3

May 19, 2014
Steve Campbell

Kismet is a short story that went through many rewrites before I presented it as part of The Ridgewood Chronicles series several years ago. This version is basically the story at Amazon, told in 4 chapters before I decided to rewrite it, add more chapters, and change the ending. Enjoy.

KISMET

Copyright © Steven L Campbell

THREE

Heather left Aunt Peggy’s hospital room and found comfort in Brian’s arms.  An intracerebral hemorrhage had left Aunt Peggy comatose.

“Let’s go,” Heather said.  She left ICU doctors and nurses busy lowering Aunt Peggy’s blood pressure and providing life support and comfort.

Odors of antiseptic and sanitizer alcohol wafted through the fluorescent-green hallway and mingled with last night’s waxing of the corridor’s cream-colored tiles.  Heather hurried Brian past that other smell, the pungent one that came from the dying.

Outside, the sky was cerulean and ultramarine, and the morning sun burned bright above the southern horizon.  Heather filled her lungs and left her parka open to the unseasonably warm weather.  The land was white and wet beyond the paved black landscape where Brian had parked his Grand Cherokee among four rows of gleaming vehicles.  Around them, the tiny hospital seemed too busy with traffic driving in and out of the visitors’ lot.

“Does the whole damned town have to get sick during the holiday?”  She climbed inside the Jeep and waited for Brian.  She saw two suitcases in the backseat.

“I have three days of vacation left,” Brian said when he got in.  “I called your boss and extended yours.  We have a room with a Jacuzzi with our name on it, ski slopes if we want to ski, and the weekend for just the two of us.”  He drove past the big green sign directing them to Myers Ridge Ski Resort.

Heather almost protested.  Aunt Peggy’s warning, “Never go there,” clanged inside her head.  Brian reached for her and found a hand.  He squeezed.  “I love you,” he said.  He brushed her thigh, first outside, then in.  He reached for her shoulders and pulled her as close to him as her seatbelt would allow.  He wanted to cuddle and that meant one thing.  She held him off with promises.

Check-in at the lodge was quick but barely fast enough for either Brian or Heather.  It had been too long since they had made love in a bed other than their own.

Inside their two-hundred-dollar-a-day room, which last year’s American Resort magazine gave five stars, Heather made true on many of her promises.

* * *

When she and Brian exited their room two days later, most of the snow around Ridgewood had melted.  The ski resort was busy making its own snow to keep customers happily skiing, despite the almost summer temperature.  Heather and Brian went to Eagle Rock Incline to take in the view of Ridgewood.  At 630 feet up, they could see ravines and drumlins and several gulches and dry washes between Ridgewood and the outskirts of New Cambridge to the east.  The marker they stood next to said they were on Magic Hill.

“I thought this was Myers Ridge,” Heather said.

“The ridge is made up of several hills.  Magic Hill is one of them.”

“Magic Hill.”  Heather looked around.  “I wonder what’s so magical about it.”

“I know it had some sort of significance to the Indians living here. But that’s all I know.”

Heather pointed to a clearing a half-mile down the valley.  “Is that a cave where those big rocks are?”

Brian squinted.  “Probably.  Where there are hills this big there’s bound to be a cave or two.”

“I’ve never been in a cave.  Maybe we could make it our own special place.”  She stood on tiptoes and kissed him.

* * *

Along the woodsy and rocky terrain, they scratched at invisible gnats buzzing around the back of their necks.  They reached the cave an hour later.  Brian had to stoop to enter the cave, which was immediately cold and damp and musty smelling.  They stayed close to the entrance where sunlight warmed them.

Heather and Brian found a spot of smooth granite to sit on.  Heather straddled Brian’s lap.

“There might be bear,” Brian said.

“I don’t care.”  Heather undid his belt and pants; they made love, fast and wild the way they had when they were dating.  When they finished, both shivered uncontrollably.  The sunlight was gone.

“Should have brought our coats,” Brian said when he was dressed.  He ventured into the large chamber, his eyes now adjusted to dim daylight twenty feet above them.  He stopped at a small pile of rubble formed by the collapse of the cave’s ceiling.  A long, thin finger of daylight pointed from the chimney-like shaft of the surface sinkhole above.

“Someday,” he said, “all this will come crashing down.”

“Not today.”  Heather went to him and pulled at him.  “Come on.  I think I heard thunder.”

Brian listened to a faraway rumble.  “I think you’re right.  If we get a cold front mixing with this warm weather, we’re gonna have a hell of a storm.”  He hurried to the entryway where a sprinkle of rain began to fall outside.  A sudden flash of lightning sent him stumbling backwards into Heather.  She fell and cried out.

“My ankle.”  She rubbed her left foot.  “It really hurts.”  Heather’s red nose peeked up at him.  Mucus dropped from the tip of her nose.  She swiped at it with the back of a hand.  “I can’t move my foot.”

Brian took her by the arm and helped her up.  She leaned on his shoulder and hobbled to the narrow entryway.  Along the way, he heard a clatter upon the ground and saw that Heather had dislodged his cell phone.  He tried to reach for it, but Heather cried out from the pain.  He’d come back for his phone later.

At the cave’s threshold, Heather pressed close to him, to try to make their passage easier, but Brian struck his forehead against the stone.

“Sit down,” he said, rubbing at the lump growing on his head.  “I’ll drag you out.”

“I think it’s broken.  It’s really aching now.  Let me rest.”

Brian helped her back inside.

A sudden wind whipped through the entrance and sprayed them with cold rain.  Brian pulled Heather further inside.  The storm suddenly stilled.  A faint humming sound came from above them, inside the cave.

Brian’s ring finger ached; his wedding ring vibrated.

Heather swatted at her temple.  “Something just stung me,” she complained.

The sky outside lit up.  Lightning entered the sinkhole and struck the cave floor a few feet from where Brian’s cell phone lay.  The floor exploded.  Stony shrapnel flew past them.  Brian threw himself to the floor; Heather clutched his back and trembled.

The walls began to emit green light in places.  Another lightning bolt entered the sinkhole and struck one of the large green lights.  More shrapnel rained down on them.  The other lights grew brighter.  Brian examined one of the lights nearest to him.  The light came from a stone, which was wide and faceted and shaped like a crystal.  It warmed his hands at the touch; he welcomed the warmth as it coursed through him.

He saw his phone and crawled to it.

Heather screamed.  “What is that?  Oh my god what is that?  Brian.”

Brian turned and saw a green whirlwind of light three meters in diameter above Heather’s head.  Miniature lightning shot from the walls of the whirlwind.  It twisted faster as the green lights around them grew brighter.

Heather put up an arm as though trying to ward off a blow as the whirlwind fell upon her.

A bolt of lightning from the sinkhole struck the whirlwind.  A blinding flash of light caused Brian to cover his head.  Hot wind and stone blew across his back.  Then it was gone.

When Brian opened his eyes, the light was ebbing.

The lightning had stopped.

The whirlwind and Heather were gone.

Free Kismet Story, Chapter 2

May 11, 2014
Steve Campbell

Kismet is a short story that went through many rewrites before I presented it as part of The Ridgewood Chronicles series several years ago. This version is basically the story at Amazon, told in 4 chapters before I decided to rewrite it, add more chapters, and change the ending. Enjoy.

KISMET

Copyright © Steven L Campbell

TWO

Heather gave Brian pajamas and slippers at Christmas.  She didn’t read the diary.  Instead, she mailed it to Aunt Peggy’s store.

Three days later, the diary returned.  Heather knew it was the diary as soon as she took the package from the mailbox.  She called her great-aunt.

“I’m bringing back the book,” she said.

“Read it,” Aunt Peggy said.  “Please.  You must.”

“Why are you doing this?”

“It’s the only way to stop it from happening again.”  The line went dead.

Heather slowly opened the package.  She had better things to do with her time than to entertain an aunt who was obviously crazy.

The diary stayed on the table untouched for several minutes before she opened it and whisked the photo of the crippled woman to the back of the book.

At the front, the pages began as scribbles by an unsteady hand.

Today, nine-year-old, Sara Burkhart, stands behind my enormous wheelchair and brushes my long hair.

“Don’t move, Jane,” she tells me with her usual hollow order.  “I’m almost done.”

Static electricity from my hair fills the brush and irritates her.

“Stop that, Jane,” she says, as though I’m the one responsible for the electricity.

My name isn’t Jane.  But I don’t tell her.  It does no good to argue with her; I don’t know my name.

The mansion’s employees bring me to this parlor every morning to watch the traffic.  Nurse Rachel hopes it will help bring back the memories of my past and fill an empty mind that’s become a blank slate.  I’m supposed to write about anything that looks familiar, but nothing about Burkhart Mansion or the street outside looks even vaguely familiar.

Outside today, the snow-filled sloping lawn runs out to a large black iron fence where a snowplowed street lies beyond.  There, an occasional large and angry-looking car or truck grumbles past me.  I remember snow, but I don’t know why.  Everything I know about myself—little as it is—came two months ago, after I awakened from a coma inside one of the large, upstairs bedrooms.  Henry Burkhart, the man who owns this mansion, visited and told me about myself.

Henry is a cigar-smoking, black-haired man in his early forties with smartly styled wavy hair.  He wore a shiny suit as dark as his steel-blue eyes that day, and a red silk tie that glistened bright against a white shirt.  He spoke with an even, soothing voice, and gestured with clean white hands with manicured nails.

“It was a Sunday,” he told me, “nine years ago in August when I found you.  I was hiking Myers Ridge, looking for arrowheads and whatnot.”  He smiled pleasantly at me.  “I’m an aggregator … a collector.  Numismatist and philatelist, mostly.”  I didn’t bother to interrupt him to find out what those words meant.

He said, “That’s when I found you unconscious and near death at the bottom of a ravine not far from the highway.  I could tell your legs were broken, so I fashioned a stretcher with my jacket and got you to my car where I drove you to the hospital.  You were nine years in a coma while the authorities tried to find out who you are.  You had no identification.”

At this point, Henry looked me the way I imagine he looks at an unusual artifact.  “No family has ever been found.  That’s why the hospital released you to me.”  He frowned then, as though discovering a flaw in me.  “Your fingerprints have revealed nothing, which isn’t a bad thing.  It simply means we may never know who you are … unless your memory returns.  Until then, you’re a living Jane Doe, which is why I call you Jane.”

I saw no malevolence on his face when he said, “Until your memory returns or someone recognizes you as family, my home is yours.”

I managed to tell him how thankful I was.  I still am.

Heather skipped a few months ahead.  There, the handwriting became stronger—familiar.

The weather is stormy.  I don’t care for lightning.  My head hurts when there’s a storm.

Henry is overseas on a business trip.  The war over there has everyone on edge.

I saw Sara’s teacher for the first time today.  I watched curiously from my wheelchair as Doris the housekeeper answered the door and let in Sara’s red-haired teacher.  After Miss Johnson removed her fur coat and gave it to the housekeeper, she came to Nurse Rachel and me waiting for the elevator.  She ushered a friendly good morning to us, whereupon I sensed a familiarity with the woman.  It wrestled with the constant cloudiness in my mind as something—a memory, I think—tried to surface.  The clouds parted for a moment and I saw Miss Johnson dead, lying in an open coffin.  I knew I was seeing Miss Johnson in the future because her face and hands appeared very old.

I cried out then.

The clouds returned; dizziness overcame me and my senses spiraled into a smoky darkness.  I dimly heard Miss Johnson apologize for frightening me.  When my vision cleared, Miss Johnson was gone and Rachel was peering into my eyes.

She pulled me into the elevator and took me to my room, whereupon she filled me with medicine and caused me to sleep most of the day.

Heather flipped to the last entry.  She squirmed when she recognized the handwriting; there was no mistaking her own unique flourish.

As of last night, I know who I am.

I am not of this time.

I don’t know how I came here, or how I can ever go back.  But it’s too late now; I took the pills.

They’ll bury me above a gravestone with the wrong name.  I am Jane Doe.

They think I’m mad, that I’ve lost my senses when I tell them I’m from the future and that my name is Heather Stevens.

Heather threw down the book as though it had bitten her.  She picked up the phone and dialed.

“Sara was Heather’s daughter,” Aunt Peggy said when Heather calmed down.  “Your daughter.”

“The woman who died at your store?”

“I saw the uncanny resemblance in you and Sara when you and Brian moved here.  Sara never resembled anyone in the Burkhart family.  That was the tip-off.  She eventually had her blood tested and discovered that Henry Burkhart was not her father.  She finally sent some DNA to a friend who does genetic testing.  The results came back last week.”

Heather moaned.  “Please don’t say it,” she said, but Aunt Peggy continued.

“Sara was your daughter.  Jane was you.  You came from the future, pregnant, and gave birth while in a coma.  No one knew.  Henry Burkhart never told anyone.”

“That’s ridiculous.  Preposterous.  Impossible.  Do you hear me?  Impossible.”

“Heather—”

“No.  Stop it.”

“Heather, I … I—”

The phone clunked on the other end; Heather knew that it had been dropped.

“Aunt Peggy?”

The line was silent.

Free Kismet Story, Chapter 1

May 3, 2014
Steve Campbell

Kismet is a short story that went through many rewrites before I presented it as part of The Ridgewood Chronicles series several years ago. This version is basically the story at Amazon, told in 4 chapters before I decided to rewrite it, add more chapters, and change the ending. Enjoy.

KISMET

Copyright © Steven L Campbell

All the world’s a stage,
And all the men and women merely players;
They have their exits and their entrances;
And one man in his time plays many parts.

William Shakespeare

ONE

Heather Stevens drove her silver Volvo through Ridgewood’s frigid downtown district where the streets were ablaze with Christmas decorations and colored lights.  The snowplowed streets glistened with ice, so Heather babied the drive toward her great-aunt’s bookstore.  Main Street was empty; most of the town traveled to bigger New Cambridge, five miles away, where discount stores were a major attraction this time of year.

Her cell phone buzzed.  Her husband Brian wouldn’t be home until after nine o’clock.  He still had many student art projects to grade at New Cambridge University before he could start his Christmas vacation.

Heather returned the phone to her coat pocket and drove with both hands gripped around the steering wheel.  Snow was falling again and she couldn’t afford another accident on these streets kept barely plowed.

With a population of almost eight thousand, downtown Ridgewood was small, with two banks, a post office, a few diners and bars, and Peggy’s Good Used Books sandwiched between a hardware store and a pizzeria.  Heather managed to park off the street in front of her aunt’s bookstore and upstairs apartment, but she had to battle piles of snow to get to the store.  Inside, a tiny bell above the door announced her entrance.  The place smelled of lilacs and aging paper, two fragrances that immediately lifted her spirits.

She called out and announced her arrival while she hung her black parka on the tree next to the door.  A distant voice responded from the back; she made her way through a tunnel of shelves and entered a room full of unsorted books and magazines.  Plastic bags, cardboard boxes, paper sacks and volumes of text littered the room’s tables, benches and floor.  In the center of the room, a fluorescent light flickered and buzzed overhead.  Directly beneath it, her great-aunt sat at a tiny desk.  The small woman with short hair dyed red stared into a computer monitor and slowly clicked at the keyboard below it.  In front of Aunt Peggy’s desk, an old woman looked at Heather from a wooden chair.

Heather said to Aunt Peggy, “I’m really excited you were able to find that art history book for Brian’s collection.  He has so many already, I was about to give up and just get him some pajamas and slippers.”

“My sister Jean’s granddaughter,” Aunt Peggy said to the woman.  She punched a key and studied the figures on the monitor’s large screen.  “Heather and her husband moved here in July.  He’s from Pittsburgh, she’s from New Cambridge.”

“The lake,” the woman across the desk said.  “Is that what brought you here?”  She coughed and sniffled and took a Kleenex from the box on the desk, and then gently brought it to her blue nose.  She was bundled in a heavy, brown fur coat, yet Heather saw that she shivered.  Despite the folds of skin that hung below her chin, and her thin white hair that barely concealed sagging earlobes adorned with mother-of-pearl earrings, Heather felt certain that the woman’s age was several years less than Aunt Peggy’s.

The woman sniffled again.  “They always come because of the lake.”

“But it’s Myers Ridge they don’t know about,” Aunt Peggy said.  “Show her the diary.”

The woman took a black leather book from her coat pocket.  She stood and waited for Heather to come for the book.  When Heather did, the woman peered at Heather’s face.

“It’s her,” she said.  She sat quickly and shivered harder.

Heather held out a hand and introduced herself.  The woman said, “Forgive me if I don’t shake your hand.  Please don’t take it personal.”

Heather looked quizzically at Aunt Peggy.

“Look at the picture,” Aunt Peggy said.  Heather saw that she trembled, too.  Aunt Peggy’s delicate look—like a china doll that could easily break—always made Heather uneasy.  The woman was eighty-three, after all, and still living in Pennsylvania’s Snow Belt.

Despite the heat that nearly choked the room, Heather said, “Would you like me to turn up the thermostat?”

“No, girl,” Aunt Peggy said.  “I want you to look inside the book.”

Heather found an empty chair near Aunt Peggy’s guest and opened the diary.  Inside, on the first page, someone had scrawled JANE DOE in large blue letters.  After that, doodles and scribbles filled its thin pages.  She leafed through the book and a square Polaroid photograph tumbled out and fell to the floor.  When she picked it up, a woman’s miserable, hollow-eyed face looked out at her from the black and white picture.  The woman’s wide mouth grimaced with a queer bit of happiness on a face otherwise lined with anguish.  An anorexic body became lost in an oversized sweatshirt, Capri slacks and metal wheelchair.  Heather quickly turned the photo over.  On the back, someone had elegantly written in blue ink, Jane—1943.

“What I’m about to say will sound incredible,” Aunt Peggy said.

“Unbelievable,” the other woman said.

Both women stared hard at Heather.  She squirmed.  Her hands felt swollen and prickly as she studied the photo and listened.

“Lord help me,” Aunt Peggy said. “It took me a long time to figure this out, and when I did … well, even I couldn’t believe it.”  She looked at the other woman who stared down at her hands.  “But thanks to modern medicine with its blood testing and DNA, the craziness became plausible, even if it did become crazier to believe.”  She looked back.

“I’m sorry,” Heather said, “but whatever you’re trying to tell me, perhaps you should start at the beginning.”

“That’s you.”  Aunt Peggy pointed at the photograph still in Heather’s grasp.  “Can’t you see the resemblance?”

“Don’t be silly.”  Heather swallowed.  She looked at the photograph.  “This isn’t me.”  She waved the photo at Aunt Peggy.  “Stop messing around.  I still have Christmas shopping to finish, presents to wrap, pies to bake.”

“That’s a picture of my mother,” the other woman said.

“See,” Heather said and frowned at Aunt Peggy.  “Why would you say such a thing?”

“Because you’re my mother,” the woman next to her said.  “I’m your daughter.”

“This is crazy.”  Heather began to stand.

“It’s true,” Aunt Peggy said.  “We can prove it.”

The overhead light sputtered, as though affected by Aunt Peggy’s insanity.  The sputtering turned the old women’s movements into jerky motion as they looked at each other and then back at her, like in a Nickelodeon movie from long ago.  Heather felt almost transported back in time.  Then the sputtering stopped and the room was almost bright again.

“I’m leaving.”  Heather stood.

“Please,” Aunt Peggy said.  “It’s up to you to see that history doesn’t repeat itself.”

Heather tossed the diary and photograph on Aunt Peggy’s desk.

“You owe it to yourself and to me,” the other woman said.  “I don’t want the next me to grow up isolated from her real parents.”  She reached out and touched Heather’s right hand.  A large spark of static electricity snapped.  Heather jumped back and yelped while the woman slumped forward and fell hard to the floor.

For a moment, time moved in slow motion.  Then, Aunt Peggy was at the woman’s side, checking for a pulse.

“Call 911,” she said to Heather.

Heather rubbed at the pain pulsating through her wrist and arm as she started toward the phone on Aunt Peggy’s desk.  Suddenly, it became difficult for her to breathe.  The pain grew, traveled to her shoulder.  The room shifted and turned; her stomach flip-flopped.  She stumbled from the desk, managed to sidestep the two women on the floor, and staggered to the bathroom at the back of the room.  She fell against two tables before she fell through the bathroom door.  On her knees, she vomited loud into the toilet.  Her body shook violently.  When she finished, Aunt Peggy stood at her side.

“I-I’m … f-freezing,” Heather said.  She pushed herself up, into Aunt Peggy’s embrace.  Then she stumbled along as Aunt Peggy led her to the desk.

The two looked at the corpse on the floor; a green afghan covered the body.  A siren sounded from far away.  Outside, December wind whipped against the store; a window rattled.

“Stay away from Myers Ridge,” Aunt Peggy said.  “Please promise me you’ll never go there.”

Heather swallowed and felt sick again.  “Aunt Peggy,” she said.  The room began a slow twirl.  She tried to focus her eyes, located the window and watched large flakes of snow swirl past.  A flashing light from the ambulance outside caused the twirling to increase.  She closed her eyes and said a small prayer for herself and the dead woman.  When she opened her eyes, a paramedic was bandaging the red and angry welt that appeared on the back of her hand.

“I’m okay,” she told the concerned paramedic, and was glad when he left her.

After the body and paramedics were gone, Aunt Peggy returned to the room.  Heather was standing, feeling better, although the room still spun when she turned.

“You should go upstairs and rest,” Aunt Peggy said.

“I’ll be okay.”  Heather started to leave.

“Don’t forget the diary,” Aunt Peggy said.  “Read it.  Please.  We’ll discuss it later.”

Heather turned and was forced to close her eyes as the room whirled.  The diary was placed in her hands and she was led to her coat.  She may have kissed her aunt goodbye, but while she shuffled to her car, she wasn’t sure.  Not even the winter chill brought her back to her senses as she sat in her car and watched through the icy windshield the lights go off downstairs in the bookstore.

The drive home went unnoticed as her mind repeated the events at the bookstore; questions whirled.  At home, she popped some popcorn in the microwave, stared at the TV, then curled up on the sofa and fell asleep.

Her dreams were washes of senseless images.  Then a hand touched her shoulder and reality flowed over her like a cold ocean wave, chilling her.  She tried to smile at Brian, but her face wouldn’t work, so she stared at the sight of him for several moments before she broke into tears and bawled.

Free Book February 28—March 2

February 20, 2014
Steve Campbell

[Steve Campbell] may have discovered a way to turn the written word into something like a fine wine that gets better with age. Humor, darkness, adventure, friendship … I love it all! (Review by Bruce at Amazon.com.)

Kindle readers, mark your calendars!

My e-book The Green Crystal Stories will be free again for your Kindle at Amazon.com from February 28 to March 2, 2014.

Click on this link to get your copy.

Already have a copy? Get one for a friend and make their day a good one!

Happy reading.

 

Vanishing, Chapter 3

October 7, 2013
Steve Campbell

Author’s Note: Vanishing is an alternate version of Kismet, a story now available at Amazon. I tried to get the attention of book publishers with this and the two earlier chapters. I never had any takers, but I never gave up on the story.

Heat had blanketed David when a bolt of lightning struck the center of the sinkhole seconds after Lisa fell. Within those seconds, he had felt an explosion in his eyes and skull from the lightning and the plume of green light that erupted from the hole. The force hammered him down until he was on his back, his eyes and head throbbing and fire burning inside his lungs.

Now he sat on his sofa, barely able to breathe, and trying to make sense of what happened.

“Believe in things much greater and far more mysterious than we can explain,” Nancy Pennwater Stephenson said to him inside his living room. He squeezed his eyelids shut. To the right of her, bright morning sunlight had entered the bay window. “When the earthquake struck yesterday, I knew that it had happened. Again.”

“I came home, took a rope back to the hole and went down inside the cave,” David said. “It’s like a giant geode of crystal with no way out but up.” He turned his head until it was out of the sunlight. “So what else can I do?” He looked dumbly at the journal and photograph in his hands. “The police think I’m crazy, that I killed my wife. They don’t believe that she fell into the hole and disappeared.”

“They’ll think you’re insane if you try to tell them the truth,” Nancy said.

“The truth.” David sighed. Then, he looked at the photograph and the journal, both yellowed and faded, yet so tangible—especially the pages of names and addresses and phone numbers … some of them exclusive to him and Lisa. “How?” he said and sat back. “How do I get her back? If she’s in the past, how can I go to where she’s at?”

Nancy sat for a long time and said nothing. Then, “Go to the cave where she vanished. The answer is there. It has to be.”

“And what is the answer?”

“I don’t know. But when you find it, God be with you.” She stood and said goodbye. David unfolded himself from the sofa and showed Nancy Pennwater Stephenson—his daughter from another time, another dimension—to the door. After she had driven away, he sat for an hour and reread Nancy’s journal. After that he prayed. For what it was worth, he got some satisfaction from talking to the supposed ruler of the universe, although most of the one-sided conversation was spent begging for a miracle.

When he stepped from the room, he knew that Nancy was right, as ludicrous as it seemed to the rational part of his mind. The doorway leading to Lisa lay within the cave’s green crystals and the lightning that had struck there.

He prayed again for a miracle, then went to the crystal cave and waited for a miracle.

During the third week of July, not long after another terrible thunderstorm had passed over Myers Ridge, three teenage boys hiking Eagle Rock Incline stumbled upon the sinkhole and cave. Inside, the boys found an overturned tent containing a sleeping bag, a dozen empty cases of canned pastas, soups and vegetables, and three one-gallon containers of store-bought water. They also found some books about lightning, local history from the 1940s, and theories on time travel.

They also found no one inside the cave, alive or dead.

Vanishing, Chapter 2

September 29, 2013
Steve Campbell

Author’s Note: Vanishing is an alternate version of Kismet, a story now available at Amazon. I tried to get the attention of book publishers with this and the previous chapter (along with a third chapter, which I will post in the next few days). I never had any takers, but I never gave up on the story.

Lisa found herself driving aimlessly around town, soaking up the sunlight coming through her sunroof, and heading to nowhere particular. She drove past her parents’ house, decided not to stop, then headed to the drugstore to buy a home pregnancy test. Afterwards, on the drive home, she thought it was stupid to do so, but she wanted so much to see the stick show negative and prove the old woman wrong.

But she knew it would show positive. This was the first day of the past three that she had not vomited after waking in the morning.

“So what if I am pregnant,” she said. “That doesn’t prove anything.”

She caught herself talking aloud, a habit when she was upset.

“That’s right, I talk to myself,” she said. “I wonder if that’s in your stupid book that shocks people, lady.”

The pain in her elbow throbbed, but flared when she turned the steering wheel. She winced and bit her bottom lip as she drove into the driveway of her and David’s cottage home at Alice Lake.

She found David behind the cottage, heading to the deer path that led upwards to Myers Ridge’s Eagle Rock Incline. The college art teacher had painted vistas up there during the past two weeks. Lisa grabbed a bottle of orange Gatorade and tagged along, wanting his company and needing someone to talk to. The crazy woman’s strange conversation echoed in her mind until she unloaded on David the event.

At 630 feet above Ridgewood, she finished and David said, “I know. She called me right after you left. Told me the story of how she believes you’re her mother.”

“She’s insane,” Lisa concluded.

“Precisely what I told her.”

David and Lisa said no more while he set up his easel, canvas, paints and brushes. In front of them was a green vista of ravines and drumlins and several gulches around the blue one-mile spread of Alice Lake below. Every earthly feature had been carved into existence by great sheets of ice more than ten thousand years ago. That included the craggy ridge and its Eagle Rock Incline they stood upon.

As a grade school science teacher, Lisa knew well the geology of the old Pennsylvania hill—a mere remnant of the mountain it once was all those years ago. While David painted, she meandered along the hilltop, careful of the surface erosion and cave-ins where sinkholes threatened to swallow her if she wasn’t careful.

Despite the dangers, the place felt peaceful. It smelled sweet and powdery of life beginning to ripen. Lisa felt the love she had for the place stir. And then the atmosphere changed. A few fat raindrops fell from the cloudless sky and landed upon her arms and cotton blouse, chilling her skin. The sunlight scorched away the chill and wetness, so she returned to meander among the grassy landscape which looked like an old field sprinkled with aspen and birch trees.

It was while she was inspecting the outer edges of a sinkhole when she felt the tremor enter her feet and spread up her legs as Myers Ridge grumbled. The tremor quickly became a quake strong enough to bring down three aspen trees behind her—none of them close enough to strike either her or David.

Next to her, the ground around the sinkhole collapsed. She rolled away from the enlarging hole, then watched loose stone and sod tumble down into it. All around her—and David too, who was several yards away and holding his easel to keep it from toppling—the clash and scream of birds taking flight sounded like someone had ripped open the sky.

The quake, which lasted almost fifteen seconds, stopped.

Lisa stood and saw the sky over Alice Lake had darkened with growing rain clouds, as though an artist had dipped a loaded paintbrush into water. Thunder spoke as the sky over Myers Ridge buzzed with immediate electricity.

Lisa knew about the phenomenon of electricity sounding like the buzzing of bees when a static charge is building between ground and sky. As the sky buzzed, she felt the hair on her arms rise and the skin prickle. The fine hair on her face and neck came alive next.

Charged by electricity, Nancy had said. By the lightning storm.

“No,” she cried, “it isn’t possible.” And she wasn’t referring to the buildup of electricity around her. “People don’t travel in time.”

She called out to David while she scrambled to remove her wedding rings and told him to remove his own ring and anything else made of metal. She said it twice, her voice trembling each time, but he only looked at the sky and scratched the back of his neck. Above them, the sound of angry bees sounded angrier.

She ran to him, took his hand—the one still bearing the wedding band—and hurried him down the path.

A sudden wet wind pushed at their forefronts, slowed their escape, and caused Lisa to shield her eyes from the bits of grass and leaves flying at them. She did not see the green light emanating from the new sinkhole that obliterated the large part of pathway in front of them.

David skidded to a stop, but Lisa went on, not seeing the light and the hole until it was too late. Down she went, tripping over deadwood and rock and plunging into the light that filled the hole.

Inside the light, she fell long, and her screams resounded against the force that pulled her down, her mind fearful of what lay waiting for her at the bottom of the abyss.

[To be continued…]

Vanishing, Chapter 1

September 21, 2013
Steve Campbell

Author’s Note: Vanishing is an alternate version of Kismet, a story now available at Amazon. I tried to get the attention of book publishers with this chapter (along with two more chapters, which I will post in the next few days). I never had any takers, but I never gave up on the story.

“Don’t think me insane,” the old woman said. “You are my mother.”

Lisa Evans, a twenty-something redhead, remained smiling politely, though a frown had bitten into her otherwise unblemished forehead.

“Surely you’re joking,” she said from her seat at Carol’s Diner.

The old woman across the table said, “As I told you on the phone, my name is Nancy Pennwater Stephenson. I’m from Pittsburgh and I have a book that proves much of what I’m about to tell you.” She sniffled, took a Kleenex from her white wool coat wrapped tightly around her, and brought it shakily to her blue nose. Her nails were painted poppy red and matched the color of her lipstick. She shivered despite the June day’s sudden heat wave that had made its way inside the small air-conditioned diner.

Lisa stirred her cup of tea and looked around. Except for two Amish fellows at the front counter, they were alone.

She said, “Look, I’m twenty-five. You’re definitely much too old to be my daughter.” She smiled kindly, unsure of how to proceed. “You understand that, don’t you?”

“I’m not senile.” Nancy returned the Kleenex to her pocket. “Nor am I insane.” With two wrinkled, blue-gray hands, she hefted her large, black leather purse from her lap and placed it next to her cup of tea on the table. “Before I show you the book,” she said, “I need to explain who I am and why you must believe me.” She picked up her cup and blew at the tea inside before she slurped. “Delicious,” she said. Then, “My father—I mean, the man who raised me—was a physician—Henry Pennwater. He was passing through Ridgewood in 1934, visiting a friend after both had attended a convention at Philadelphia. This friend, Dr. William Geddes, used to vacation here at a place called Alice Lake. Henry claimed it’s very beautiful there.

“The two of them—Henry and Geddes—were hiking along a ridgeline behind the lake and Geddes’s cottage when they discovered a young woman injured and in shock. She went into a coma before the two were able to get her to the cottage where they further treated her injuries. They later transported her to a facility in Philadelphia where she resided in a coma for nine years.

“During her first months while comatose, it became obvious to the hospital staff that the woman—their mysterious Jane Doe patient—was pregnant. I was born eight months later. However, I would never know this until just a few years ago when, on her deathbed, Rachel—Henry’s sister—told me about Jane giving birth to me while in a coma.”

Nancy took a black leather book from her purse. She said, “Henry took me in when no relatives of my mother’s were found. He and Rachel raised me. For years, I was Rachel’s daughter, even when Jane—that’s what we called you. No one knew your identity until—”

“Excuse me,” Lisa said, leaning closer and lowering her voice. “I can see that you believe what you’re telling me, but—”

“Listen. You were brought to us after you awoke from your coma nine years later. I took this photograph of you with my Instamatic camera a year later.” Nancy took a black and white photograph from the book and handed it to Lisa. When Lisa reluctantly took it, a quick spark of static electricity snapped at her fingers. She flinched but gripped the photo and raised it to the daylight streaming through the window at her left. A sad-looking woman stared back at her from a wheelchair. Her anorexic body was lost in an oversized sweatshirt and Capri slacks, and her pale face looked very much like Lisa’s.

“Okay,” Lisa said. “There is a slight resemblance.” She turned the photo over. On the back, someone had elegantly written in blue ink, Jane—1943. “But I never lived during this time.”

“The coma left your body twisted and crippled and in excruciating pain. And your short-term memory was completely nonexistent—you could never remember one day from the next, which caused you grief and torment—you wanted so much to remember your past. But the drugs Henry gave you kept you sedated most of the time.”

Lisa tossed the photo back to the table’s center, then searched Nancy’s face for a glimmer that she was pulling a cruel hoax on her. There was no glimmer, not even the smallest inkling.

She said, “And how did I manage to give birth to you in 1939—”

“1940. The thirteenth of February. I missed being a valentine baby by one day.”

Lisa looked away. Outside the window next to her, Franklin Street in Ridgewood glowed in the sunlight. Three normal, sane boys on bicycles rode by, each in matching summer attire of white T-shirts and blue jeans. Her husband and family and friends were out there, too, among the sane. And until the phone call earlier, she had considered talking her husband into readying the patio grill for supper that evening. Something a lot of sane people did.

“Okay,” she said as she returned her attention on Nancy, “you drove from Pittsburgh, called me from this diner and convinced me to meet with you, just to tell me … what? That I somehow lived in the past, fell into a coma, and gave birth to you? Why? And more importantly, why would you think anyone would believe such a story?”

“Because,” Nancy said, “as crazy as it seems, it’s true.” She held up a hand to stifle Lisa’s protest. “When I was fifteen, I became interested in nursing and medicine and the ideal of eradicating all diseases. I convinced Henry to allow me to start you on an exercise program—physical therapy we call it today.

“During those several months, your health began to improve, so Henry decreased your pain medicine. That’s when you began to confide in me and tell me about ovens that could cook food in seconds, and people communicating to each other through their television sets and sending photographs by telephone. I never believed you, of course; it was 1949, after all.”

She held up the black book. “I kept a daily journal of everything you told me. It’s all here, just as you described it to me, including your name, your husband’s name, and your parents, along with dates, addresses and phone numbers” She placed the photograph inside the book. “Of course, I attributed those so-thought illusions to whatever had put you in your coma. But years later, after I came across my journal, I did some investigating. The information inside matches everything you told me all those years ago.” She held out the book for Lisa to take.

Lisa reached for the book and felt sudden heat emit from its cover. She hesitated, then took hold of the book. A surge of electricity filled her fingers and shot pain through her hand and wrist and into her elbow. She recoiled from the offering, dropping the book in the middle of the table. She cursed at the pain that throbbed inside her hand and arm as she pushed her way out of her seat and stood. She said, “I don’t know why you chose me to screw with, lady, but—”

“I’m sorry about the static electricity,” Nancy said. She rubbed her hand where she had been shocked as well. “I think it has to do with the you in the past touching the book and leaving on it an electrical signature … scientific extrapolation of which I don’t fully understand.”

“Well, whatever it is, you can keep it to yourself.” Lisa pulled two dollars from a pocket of her brown cargo pants, slapped the bills on the table, then said, “This conversation is over.”

“You killed yourself,” Nancy said, hissing the words. “When your memories returned, you couldn’t live with the truth, couldn’t live without David. I’m trying to keep that from happening again.”

“Get some help, Nancy. It’s obvious you believe in something totally impossible.”

“Please, Lisa, it’s going to happen again. You said there was an earthquake before you fell, before you traveled from this time to—”

“Stop it.” Lisa lowered her voice. “Listen to yourself. How can you really think—”

“You’re pregnant.”

Lisa paused, surprised by the sudden … revelation, or lucky guess? Then she said, “No, I’m not.”

“Test it. Prove me wrong. But I know the morning sickness has started. Everything you told me all those years ago is about to happen again if you don’t stop it now. And the first thing you must do is stay off Myers Ridge. That’s where the crystal cave is, the one you fell into, the one charged by electricity by the lightning storm.”

Lisa placed her palms on the table and glared at Nancy.

“I’ve explored many caves at the ridge,” she said, “and there’s no crystal cave. And what’s more important: there’s no such thing as time travel. Now do yourself a favor and find a good psychiatrist.”

She pushed away and hurried toward the front door.

“Wait,” Nancy said. Then, “It’s up to you to change things,” she called out. “Change the future.” She lowered her voice as Lisa stormed outdoors. “Change the future for all of us.”

[To be continued…]

With Blemishes, With Love

May 8, 2013
Steve Campbell

With Mother’s Day fast approaching, my thoughts are on my mother who is no longer with me, but whose spirit lives on in me. She was the one who introduced me to reading, writing and making art. And when I started writing stories in high school, she encouraged me to continue, even on those days when I felt unsure.

Kismet is a story I wrote for my mother many years ago. She encouraged my hopes and dreams, and that is why I wrote the story for her. In a way, Kismet is a Mother’s Day-type story filled with hopes and dreams, even when things go wrong.

Here, for the first time, is Kismet in all of its originality, written for my mom. Names and events are different from the published book at Amazon, and this version is free. With all its blemishes, I present Liam’s Kismet with love.

Happy Mother’s Day, Mom.

A Sinister Blast from the Past

March 29, 2013
Steve Campbell

© 2001 by Steven L Campbell.
(Approximately 1,700 words.)

Inside this cold and sterile environment, I am a prisoner of time, a prisoner of fate, a prisoner to the cruel circumstances that have left me unable to communicate to the people around me. They pass me and I go unnoticed by them. Without a name, I am nobody. Without a voice, I am nothing more than a silent pet that must be fed and bathed and taken care of. Unable to move, I am barely alive.

It began when my Uncle John died ten days ago. He was more of a father than an uncle. He and Aunt Zela raised me after my parents died when I was four. My older cousins Judy and Donald became like sister and brother, and when Judy called with the heartbreaking news, the two of us wept while we remembered John Foster’s inexhaustible kindness.

That evening without Carrie at my side (she was in Pittsburgh at an art show), I left my woodsy ranch home on the northeast outskirts of New Cambridge and drove west to Uncle John’s funeral in nearby Ridgewood. I felt alone without my wife and constant companion next to me.

(My dearest Carrie, I miss her dearly. We married the year she graduated from New Cambridge University. I was twenty and she had just turned twenty-three. The wedding ceremony turned out better than how we had rehearsed it. Even the cake turned out just right. Although Aunt Zela lamented that I had married too young, that my destiny was college and a profession as a teacher, she shared my happiness anyway when I became a writer for the New Cambridge Gazette. She and Uncle John ended up loving loved Carrie and the children dearly.)

During the drive to Uncle John’s funeral at Ridgewood, a strange storm dropped rain and hail on me just north of town where the surrounding woods are thick with pines. Despite the canopy of tree limbs, brisk winds and sheets of rain caused me to pull over and wait for visibility to return. My cell phone searched for a signal while I sat alone in my cramping Toyota Camry parked along the highway.

A few yards behind me, a naked tree that had lost many of its branches long ago toppled and splintered onto the road. Then, as I looked through the torrents of rain striking the sunroof and flowing down my windshield, I saw bolts of lightning strike beyond Myers Creek to my right. Suddenly, a whistling bolt of lightning struck the hood of my car and rocked it like a boat taking a large wake to the stern. My ears popped and a deafening ringing filled my head. My hands tingled and felt like they had been too close to a raging fire. I stuck my fingers in my mouth to relieve the burn. When the ringing stopped and the burning in my fingers had subsided, the storm was gone.

A headache twisted my forehead into an unvarying frown. I got out and inspected a large scorch mark across the hood of my car where the lightning had turned portions of the metallic blue color to an ashy gray. Nothing I couldn’t fix I reasoned as I got back in. As I looked in my rearview mirror before driving off, something seemed amiss. By the time I had driven another mile, I realized the tree that had crashed onto the road had not been there when I pulled away.

The headache knifed at the back of my eyes and the evening seemed especially bright when I drove into Ridgewood. When I arrived at the funeral home, no one was there, so I tried calling Aunt Zela, but my phone still searched for a signal. I left downtown Ridgewood and drove south to Uncle John and Aunt Zela’s house, and the place where I grew up. As I turned on Hamilton Street and approached the house, a thin teenage boy darted out in front of my car. I stopped quick enough not to hit him and he was athletic enough to dodge a car coming down the other lane. He turned and looked at me and I stared dumbly into a face I hadn’t seen for a long, long time.

A girl around the same age and a boy no older than seven, came across the street next. My cousins Judy and Donald passed in front of my vehicle and I watched them catch up to the boy that I had been in another time. Next, I saw Uncle John come to the driveway, climb into his old, red `66 Chevy pickup truck, back out onto the street and drive past me.

A car horn blared from behind and I was startled into driving in the direction I had seen my self and cousins go. Suddenly, I began to shake and had to pull over. I got the door open in time to vomit onto the street. After I emptied my stomach, I closed the door and wiped my mouth with my hands. My headache ceased, but my stomach roiled.

I don’t remember how long I sat there along the side of the street with the engine running and my mind locked in disbelief. At some point, I turned on the radio, likely to distract me and keep me from thinking. A baseball game came on. The Pittsburgh Pirates were playing the Cincinnati Reds in Pittsburgh, at Three Rivers Stadium.

The announcer’s voice from long ago sent chills through my numb body. His was a cherished voice I had listened to on many summer days and nights while growing up on that very block of town.

I snapped off the radio and cried deep sobs. It was all I could think to do. Perhaps I should have screamed, but the thought never entered my mind.

When my nerves settled enough to drive, I tried the radio again. Many of the stations I selected were playing anti-war songs, and Watergate was still a hot topic on the news. I slid a New Age CD into the CD player and drove madly away, but the strangeness remained as I passed late 1960 and early 1970 classic Chevy and Ford vehicles from some insane road show. Of the vehicles I followed out of town, their Pennsylvania license plates looked plain—authentic yellow and blue like the ones nailed to the wall inside my garage back home, not like the colorful and fancy wildlife one fastened to the back of my small, aerodynamic-designed Toyota.

Along the way, I saw places from my childhood restored. Sam’s Diner and the movie theater were back. The shopping mall was Chester Bailey’s farm again. I knew that I had somehow traveled into my past, and my fancy car was trespassing on it. What would the police say if they should pull me over? I drove the back roads toward New Cambridge and home. There, the peaceful countryside settled my nerves.

Night came early as a second front of storm clouds quickened the darkness. When I returned to the highway for the final three miles home, I could tell by the large and round headlights that passed me that I was not getting closer to where I wanted to be. The strangeness had reached New Cambridge and I saw that the BP filling station two miles from my house had changed its square green and yellow signs to red and blue oval ones with AMOCO AMERICAN GAS in white letters across their blue centers. Amoco’s gas was 47.9 cents for a gallon of regular, and I laughed like a loon as I turned on the road to home and drove toward the house I knew would not be there.

The road came to a dead-end next to the creek that wound its way behind where a home would someday stand surrounded by walnut and maple trees with a doghouse and swing sets and tire swings below. Someday, three children would be home-schooled here, a practice that would fly in the face of some of our friends on the school board. Carrie and I would contend that a good education can come from the home and that most schools, although well-intentioned, don’t develop well the minds for creative problem solving. Andrew would become a sculptor and teach college art classes in San Diego, California. The twins, Haley and Becca would become geology and nursing students respectively at New Cambridge U.

A different type of headache drummed in my head. I recognized it as the kind I get when I’m stressed and tired. Irritation set in and I hammered on the steering wheel, yelling at God until all that irritability changed to anger, and anger changed back to frustration and confusion.

Afterwards, I sat alone for several hours trying to figure out what to do next. For sanity’s sake, I knew I had to find someone and some place familiar. The once beautiful woods that I had enjoyed being in had now become ominous tree shapes silhouetted by a large spooky looking moon.

I turned around and drove into New Cambridge not sure of where I was going. I felt numb and out of sorts when I started over the railroad tracks on Dearborn Avenue and noticed that the signal lights were flashing red. That’s when the train struck my car.

When had they started using the railroad again?

That’s the question I tried to ask the ambulance crew who pried me from the wreckage before I passed out.

After that, I woke up here in ICU, broken, alone, a prisoner to cruel and sinister circumstances, making me unable to speak to the people around me.

No one looks long at my eyes. Perhaps they’re afraid of what they see there.

God, take away my misery.

About Kismet

February 25, 2013
Steve Campbell

I took a break from teen literature for my latest book, which is retooling of a story I wrote many years ago.

You can read various versions of Kismet here at my website, as well as buy the $.99 version at Amazon (follow this link). Like all my stories, I fiddled with Kismet for many years, trying to get it right. It wasn’t until I read an article about Joseph Campbell’s The Power of Myth that I found the story’s proper Journey.

I first wrote Kismet in 1988, put it in a drawer and left it there until 2002 when I joined my local writing club. I shared the story with the group and they encouraged me to edit it. I did, with Joseph Campbell’s structured framework as a guide. Then the group encouraged me to self-publish it for a group book show and sale. So, I used a desktop publishing program on my computer to format the pages, and then I printed them from my printer. The story was too long for me to bind its pages with staples, so I edited it to a shortened version. I even shortened the names of some of my characters along the way. I was able to staple the new version, so I printed 20 copies until I ran out of ink.

Kismet became an instant local bestseller and some customers even asked me to autograph their copies. I sold all 20 copies at $10 each, gave most of the money to the club’s treasury, and set about writing more books. I haven’t looked back since.

As with all my stories, I have set Kismet in eerie Ridgewood, Pennsylvania, a fictional town based on the town where I grew up. Although my hometown was never as spooky as Ridgewood, it did have a peculiar abundance of “haunted” houses and stray black cats running the streets.

Finally, a heartfelt Thanks to all of you who have taken time to read my stories and email me with criticism and encouragement. This really means a lot to me, knowing that you care about my stories.

The Ridgewood Story, 16

October 4, 2012
Steve Campbell

Changing the Future.

Four.

Suppose lightning struck a place seventy years ago.
And let’s say lightning struck the same place today.
Would that create a time tunnel?

“Believe in things much greater and far more mysterious than we can explain,” Nancy Pennwater Stephenson told me after she came from the house with Dave and Lenny and Dave’s dad. They had no problem believing Vree had vanished; Nancy had prepared them inside Parker’s kitchen while Vree and I had been inside the tent.

I stood over the rope Parker had lowered into the sinkhole before he and I searched the hole for Vree. Now I gazed inside, drenched and feeling defeated. The rain had stopped a few minutes after Vree had fallen, but new storm clouds threatened to unleash their burden upon us.

Nancy said, “When the earthquake struck, I knew it had happened. Again.”

“So what can I do?” I looked dumbly at the journal in my hands, the words spoken by Vree almost seventy years ago. “She’s gone. I went inside the hole. There’s no way out but up.” I kicked at the rope tied to a cement block that was part of the back doorsteps. The other end was swallowed by the sinkhole. Parker and Dave and Lenny stood between the hole and the house, watching quietly.

“The lightning, plus the green crystals, must have created the time portal,” I said. “But if Vree went into the past like you say, then the portal would have been created at that timeline. And now it’s gone.” I sighed. “There’s no way I can possibly go to where she’s at if the portal no longer exists.”

Nancy stood at my side for a time and said nothing until thunder rumbled overhead. “It’s late,” she said. “I have a room at a motel at Alice Lake. Call me if you need anything. I’ll help as much as I can … whatever I can do.”

I showed her—my fictional daughter from another time, another dimension—to her car. After she left, I stayed with Dave and Lenny inside the kitchen while Parker went to talk to Vree’s parent. The three of us sat at the table and barely spoke. I left a half-hour later with no idea what to do.

As I passed the sinkhole, I saw inside a green glow. Then another, and another, until I counted twenty-three crystals aglow inside the sinkhole, filling the empty chamber with eerie green light.

The last of the exposed crystals inside were attracting electricity from the sky. I was certain another doorway waited to be entered.

Thunder boomed. I yelped. Electricity filled the air.

The sound of a thousand bees came from the sky. My hair stood.

Lightning struck the ground; thunder crashed into my chest. I stumbled, almost fell, then caught my balance and stood upright.

Green light swirled inside the sinkhole.

I dove headfirst into the light.

The Ridgewood Story, 15

October 4, 2012
Steve Campbell

Changing the Future.

Three.

The next day, Dave’s two-person tent was up behind his dad’s place on Myers Ridge. He and Lenny were inside the house. Vree and I sat inside his tent where I shivered from the unseasonal fifty-degree weather despite a rich July sunshine that hurt my eyes as it glared off Mr. Evans’s house.

I stopped looking outdoors and returned my attention to Vree. She wrung her hands while she spoke, her voice hoarse from crying.

“I’m fourteen and pregnant,” she said. “What am I gonna do?”

My thoughts whirled with changes I would make in the rewrite. But the first draft was always the truth, so I settled on what lay in store for us as I watched outdoors again, this time at the front end of what looked like a rain cloud sailing toward us.

“I love you, Vree,” I said.

She was quiet for a moment. Then she said matter-of-factly, “I’ll get an abortion.”

“No. It’s dangerous.”

“It’s the only way.”

There had to be a better way out of our predicament. After all, it was still my story.

I took her hands in mine. My eyes paused on her sweet face. She looked at me, quiet and big-eyed; she shivered. I stroked her face and my love went to her the way it had done the November night we made love in the very tent we now sat in.

She had never balked when I undressed her, undressed myself, and then gently pressed her to my sleeping bag Dave had allowed me to put there. I fumbled my way to her warm body. We touched and smelled and tasted each other until finally I poised above her. She brought her legs up to me and I fell into her. We dared to be bold and loud, and I lost myself within a joyous symphony of sound and color. Wrapped inside her embrace, the symphony seemed to go on forever until I felt brand new in her arms.

“I’ll always love you,” I had promised her that night. I still meant it when one hundred miles beneath Myers Ridge, magma exploded and slammed superheated carbon toward the earth’s surface at supersonic speed. It shoved tons of carbonic graphite into the deep bowels of Myers Ridge and shook the limestone remnant created by an ice age more than ten thousand years ago. Along the ridge’s surface, rock that had been weakened by acidic rainwater caved in.

None of us knew that while the ground vibrated lightly. Vree looked puzzled as she lifted the tent flap and peered outside. “I need to think,” she said before she crawled from the tent. I followed. The ground stilled, but the sky turned busy as rainclouds covered the sunlight.

Vree turned and faced me. The look on her face was close to accusing. She said, “Do you believe in time travel?”

I thought about what Nancy Pennwater Stephenson must have told her. “Why?”

“Humor me. You like science fiction, so you must know all about time travel theories. Tell me.”

I shrugged. “If you mean like being able to pass through holes in space and time, some scientists believe it’s possible. But it’s all conjecture. I’m reading a sci-fi novel about a time tunnel that’s accelerated at one end by nuclear matter and stationary at the other end. The main character just entered the stationary end and went into the future.”

“What about going backward in time?”

“Only if the tunnel’s stationary end was created last. It’s believed you’d go to the accelerated end’s moment of creation if you went that way.”

“Could lightning cause a time tunnel?”

“It’s powerful enough, so I suppose it’s possible.”

“Well, suppose lightning struck a place seventy years ago. And let’s say lightning struck the same place today. Would that create a time tunnel?”

A few raindrops fell. I bit my lower lip. Then, “Yes. Probably. But that doesn’t mean—”

“I’m going home now.” Vree started toward the driveway where a visitor had parked a yellow Sunbird. That’s when the ground trembled again, harder than before.

Below Vree, a cavern ceiling crumbled and created a sudden sinkhole. Inside the grotto, ancient crystal-filled geodes splintered and opened.

She scrambled to get out of the ground sinking and become a hole swallowing her.

I lunged at her, missing one of her outstretched hands by inches. The hole widened and threatened to take me too until I backpedaled far enough to solid ground.

Thunder boomed where storm clouds churned and rumbled.

Heat suddenly blanketed my front side as a bolt of lightning struck the center of the hole. I felt an explosion in my eyes and skull as a plume of green light erupted from the hole. Electricity filled the air. My eyes and head throbbed; fire tore inside my lungs. The air cooled and the rain started. I lay on the ground for almost a minute before the pain lessened and allowed me to think, to remember, to see again. I scrambled on my belly close to the edge of the sinkhole and called Vree’s name.

Green light emanated from inside, rising to the sky like a beam of swirling light. Then there came a sucking sound before the light blinked off. Several green crystals glowed inside the hole until they too went dark.

The Ridgewood Story, 14

September 18, 2012
Steve Campbell

Changing the Future.

Two.

I hoped the crowd didn’t notice I looked more nervous than usual when I took the stage and played the rhythm guitar intro to ARC’s first number, a cue to the band to take the stage. Vree was last from the storage room behind the stage as she followed Dave and Amy and Riley and Cheryl to the instruments and microphones awaiting them. I nodded at her when she passed, but she seemed far away, likely lost in nervous thought.

Amy took lead guitar and microphone, and was especially loud through the first set of songs. An hour later, she and the rest of us were on our last number. The music hammered the pine floor beneath my feet, vibrated up my back and down my shoulders, including the sore one Nancy’s book had caused.

It was the only time I thought of the strange woman. Then my concentration was back at fingering my strings and getting the chords right.

Behind me, Cheryl attacked her drum kit; her sweat rained upon me. Next to me, Riley played a Moog synthesizer and was the only one not wearing blue jeans or any of ARC’s monogrammed T-shirts. She wore a yellow miniskirt instead and had her manicured fingernails highly polished for tonight’s event. Next to her, Dave expertly fingered his electric bass guitar while at the front of the stage, Amy and Vree sang harmony to a wave of arms and hands rippling across a sea of teenagers clogging The Roundhouse’s dance floor. Glittering strobe lights spun across them until our song came to a climactic crash of guitar, organ and cymbals and drums.

Sudden houselights bathed the room in brilliant white light. I squinted out at the eruption of applauding kids who slowly emptied the floor, except where autograph seekers hurried to the stage’s only exit, adding to the crashing waves of squeals and noisy talk boxing at my numb ears.

I put away my guitar and leaned the case against a giant speaker, then turned and caught Vree looking at me before she followed Amy off the stage. I hurried after her into the crowd of autograph seekers.

A redheaded girl in a lime green T-shirt with ARC stenciled on the front pushed up to me when I stepped onto the dance floor. She looked older than the rest of the girls in the crowd, and I figured she was a college girl from the campus over at New Cambridge.

“I love your band,” she said as she lifted the front of her shirt and asked me for an autograph. She was braless.

“No pen,” I started to say until the girl held a black marker in front of my reddening face. I hesitated, not because I was surprised by the sight, but because a linebacker-sized muscular guy behind the girl glared at me. The unhappy fellow lifted his meaty hands and clenched them into mammoth fists at me.

“Sign my twins,” the girl cried out.

“You’re not at a strip club,” Amy said to the girl. “Put those away.”

“You can sign, too,” the girl replied. The crowd cheered her on. The guy’s stare remained fixed on me until Vree stepped up, lifted her own T-shirt and revealed a pink bra.

“The only breasts Steve touches are these,” she said. Then she pulled down her shirt, whirled, and took me by the arm and led me around the stage to the wobbly round table inside the restricted equipment room.

Giddy from the event, I dropped onto an ancient footstool beneath a rattling air conditioner above me and laughed.

“You would find that funny.” Vree’s green eyes peered down at me wonderingly. I nodded.

“Thanks for rescuing me,” I said. “I owe you.”

Suddenly, she kissed me on the lips.

“Get a room,” Amy said as she and the rest of ARC surrounded the table. They attacked a large red bowl of popcorn in the center, and then applauded when a pretty strawberry blonde-haired woman arrived with a pitcher of root beer and plastic glasses filled with ice cubes.

“I heard what happened,” Mrs. Erickson, owner of The Roundhouse, said. She pointed at Vree who had taken a seat next to me. “Keep your breasts covered, young lady. I don’t need any fines.”

“But, Mom,” Vree whined, “that girl and her anthropoid boyfriend started it.”

“And I took care of it,” Mrs. Erickson said. She turned her attention to Amy and Callie sitting side by side. “That last song was quite impressive. It got everybody dancing; including me.” She beamed. Then she snapped her fingers as though she had remembered something important.

“There’s an elderly woman at the bar who wants to talk to you,” she said to Vree. “I can send her in, or you can go out there.”

“I’ll be out in a minute,” Vree said before her mother headed out into the noisy room of teenagers.

“Don’t go,” I said as Cheryl hurried to a duffel bag near the exit door. She returned with a large bag of green onion potato chips. Amy and Riley applauded, and the three girls ARC was named after were quick to open the bag and begin eating.

Dave watched, almost transfixed by their frenzy.

“Save some for the rest of us,” he said. The girls ignored him. I turned to Vree who was heading out to meet with Nancy Pennwater Stephenson.

I thought about the claims Nancy had made. Overall, they made for an interesting story.

When Vree returned minutes later, she looked lost in serious thought.

“Are you okay?” I asked as soon as she sat.

“I’m fine.”

“It’s just that you look—”

“I said I’m fine!”

Surprised she had yelled at me, I grabbed some popcorn and shoved the handful into my mouth. She tapped my shoulder.

“I dropped a dollar,” she said. “Will you get it?”

I leaned down to where the dollar bill lay between our stools. Vree leaned over and whispered an absurdity in my ear. Then she stood and hurried out the back door. I let her go and said nothing to the others.

The Ridgewood Story, 13

September 18, 2012
Steve Campbell

Myers Ridge, 1972, Fourth Visit:

ARC was scheduled to play a Fourth of July gig at The Roundhouse, the old roller rink now owned by Vree’s parents. On paper, I played better harmonica and rhythm guitar than in real life, so I wrote myself as a visiting member of the band.

Vree liked to sit inside the walk-in refrigerator before performances so she would stay cooler longer on stage. I sat with her.

Changing the Future.

One.

Minutes before ARC’s Fourth of July gig at The Roundhouse, Vree had just left the refrigerator when I closed my eyes and listened to the muffled sounds of teenagers filling the dining hall beyond the kitchen, coming to hear us play on the stage now ready with pre-tuned instruments and pre-checked amplifiers. I didn’t hear the refrigerator door open and close, or the old woman take a seat on the stool next to the shelves of lettuce and tomatoes. My mind was on my music when she coughed.

My eyes flew open and I sat up on my stool.

“Are you Steve Campbell?” she said, then sniffled and took a Kleenex from her white sweater wrapped tightly around her, and brought it shakily to her blue nose with a wrinkled, blue-gray hand. Her nails were painted a bright red; the color matched her lipstick. “Of course you are,” she said between dabs with the Kleenex. “It’s all in the book.”

“What book? Do you mean the stories I’m writing?” I asked.

“Don’t think me insane,” she said. “You are my father.”

“What?” I’m pretty sure I yelped.

“It’s true.” She shivered for a second from the refrigerator’s cool air being circulated by a large, slow-moving fan overhead. “My name is Nancy Pennwater Stephenson. My father, the man who raised me, was a physician—Henry Pennwater, from Pittsburgh. He was vacationing at Ridgewood in 1904, at a cottage at Alice Lake, and was hiking along a ridgeline behind the lake when he discovered a young woman injured and in shock. She went into a coma before he could get her to the local hospital. He later transported her to a private facility in Pittsburgh where she resided in a coma for nine years. That young woman’s name was Verawenda Erickson.”

My brows knitted. “Is this a joke?” I glanced at the door, waiting for someone to enter and yell “Surprise.”

“It’s no joke.” Nancy returned the Kleenex to her pocket, then pulled a large, black leather purse from the floor and placed it on her lap. “Before I show you this book, I need to explain who I am and why you must believe me.”

I glanced at my new Timex wristwatch with the two-inch brown leather band. It was nearing seven o’clock. The band would be taking stage in five minutes.

“Your parents gave you that watch on your fifteenth birthday,” Nancy said. “Or, that’s what Vree told me.”

“How do you know Vree?” I asked.

“I told you. She’s my mother.”

I said nothing for a moment. Ridgewood was a weird place, but this was too weird.

Before I said anything, Nancy said, “During her first months while comatose, it became obvious to the hospital staff that their mysterious Jane Doe patient was pregnant. I was born seven months later via caesarean delivery.” She took a black leather book from her purse and held it to her breast. “Henry took me in and raised me. He took Vree in, too, after she awoke from her coma. She suffered amnesia until last year while she was dying.”

“Dying? Wait a minute—”

Nancy held up a hand. “I wrote down everything she told me when her memory returned. It’s all here, just as she described it to me, including how the two of you used to sit in this very same refrigerator before your band went on stage.”

How did she know these things?

“Who are you?” I asked.

Nancy held out the book. “The answers are in here. Please read it. I’m trying to save her life. She must stay away from Myers Ridge.”

“But she lives there.”

“I know. Please read the book.”

When my hesitant hand finally took the book, a hard slap of static electricity stung my fingers and shot pain through my hand, down my arm and into my shoulder. I recoiled from the offering and dropped the book. Tears actually welled in my eyes.

“I have to go,” I said, no longer interested in being a part of this woman’s craziness.

“I’m sorry about the static,” Nancy said. “It’s all about electrical fields and time travel—things I don’t understand.”

I spun and hurried out the door. It banged against the outer wall. The kitchen was empty of Mrs. Erickson’s usual staff. They were in the dining hall serving sodas and popcorn at the bar.

“There will be lightning and an earthquake,” Nancy called out. “Vree said there was an earthquake before she fell.”

I dodged past the stainless steel table with pots and pans hanging overhead. I rubbed at my shoulder as I went.

“It’s going to happen again, unless you change things,” Nancy said as I charged into the busy dining hall. “Change the future for us all.”

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