As far as I can tell the store is only for Kindle users.  I’m trying to find a more general place to upload the story, but if anyone happens to have a Kindle out there you can pick it up for $1.50.

Cheers!

A handful of knights, the bravest horsemen called from their homes, left their position at the back of the line and advanced to within a range of their friendly footmen who were being surrounded by more legions of black clad soldiers.

Unwilling to relinquish the field, the white king ordered his personal men at arms, to hold the line. His closest advisor, a nobleman of brave heart and great repute, took the field by the storm. He advanced quickly, unmolested by the dark legions. He eyed the enemy king, who fearing the Duke’s great spirit, ordered his knights to his side.

Seeing great advantage, the hoary king of the white flag, advanced his own knights beyong the center of the field. The enemy king, a notorious coward, pulled his Queen’s own men to defend his position.

As of yet no bloodshed had been spilt. It was all maneuvering and posturing. The true battle had yet to begin. This ended in an instant. The glorious footmen, bearers of the flag, engaged a dark legion, flanking them easily and taking the advantage.

The enemy responded immediately. He sent his Queen’s guards to shore up the line. The footmen responded valiantly. They matched the Queen’s men sword to sword, but they fell under the onslaunt. The Duke, his own flank now removed, was put in peril.

As an old and heroic man, the Duke knew his duty. Facing certain death he proceeded forward, well beyond where the line could protect him. He engaged the King’s knights, annihilating them to a man. As a bold, a triumphant hero his pointed his sword at the dark king and threatened him to his face.

It was a glorious moment, but it was his last. The Dark Queen’s brother, an able general of the crusades, furfilled his kingly obligations and smote the Duke. It was a terrible loss, but a glorious end for the grand commander.

The White King survayed the field. His center was in disarray. He order more footman to advance to cover his knights, stranded beyond his line. The Dark King sought to interfere with the preparation and moved his Queen’s men forward, but they were chased off by a division of crusader swordsmen.

Determined to be a menice, the Queen ordered his men to take the center of the field. Her pennat waved threateningly over the field. The White King wisely brought his siege engines into position, should it be necessary to remove her from the field by force. A second unit of knights, was moved onto the field as well, to threaten the Queen. Finally she was moved to retreat, but not before slaying another band of valiant footmen.

With a great yell the majority of the army clashed. There was smoke and fire. Arrows were traded and darkened the sky. Footmen on both sides died in their boots, still clutching their swords. The Dark King’s Bishop, a notorious butcher was forced to cover his king.

In an instant the Knights responded. Furious at the death of the Duke, they crossed the field and slew the queen. Unsatiated they captured the Dark Tower, a old fortification built in the days of Barbarians to hold the flank. It was a terrible loss for the Dark King and his men feared their demise. The Queen’s men killed the Bishop Butcher, a unit of footmen crossed the field, blood was spilt across the field.

When the smoke cleared the knights, the valiant knights who first carried forward, were dead. Slain of a pusillanimous unit of archers.

The Knights were avanged by the mighty siege engines. They threw their stones forward. Crushing the enemy archers and a units of knights as well. The Dark King’s army was in nearly complete disarray. His footmen abandoned him. His Knights and Noblemen were slain in quick order. His remaining loyal soldiers, crossed the field in a futile attempt to break through, but they were repeased. The might of the White Banner overcompassed the field. The Dark Knight, with a final brave gesture, sent his siege engines to bombard the oncoming footmen. They were destroyed and the King surrounded.

He stood amongst the corpses of his army, the dead horses, the broken engines, the crumbled walls. His own Queen lay on the field, dead. An honorless and cowardly man the Dark King refused to die with bravery. He called off the last stand, waved off any thought of resistance. He offered his sword and was captured, bound to live his life a testament to dishonor and weakness.

My submission below:

Miracle on the Hudson

For weeks I wracked my brains over what to write. Hudson River, memoirs of the Hudson River, recollections, musings. What could I possibly write that would truly capture the scope of the people, the towns, and the river itself?

I certainly have some things to say. I grew up in Goshen, well within the Valley and close enough to go boating or hiking during muggy, mosquito-filled summers. More recently, I have worked as a deckhand, on a boat called ‘Pride of the Hudson’ no less. I’ve gone up and down its length a hundred times, pointing out landmarks well-known and less-so, tossing rope in storms that turned West Point into a foggy nothing, buying fruit from dockside vendors between shifts.

Really though, these are splashes of color. They capture a few moments in time and place. The smell of the Newburgh docks, industrial, oily, fishy, the quaint peacefulness of Cold Spring in August; these are snapshots. They cannot possibly do justice to the Hudson.

And then there was ‘the Miracle on the Hudson’. In a week that will have scrolled by on CNN so many times it will be subliminally linked with images of Anderson Cooper. Right now though, a day after that tragedy, it is fresh and poignant and meaningful.

In New York, like nowhere else, we are used to the bittersweet taste of life. We are well acquainted to all the tragedies of life, petty and profound. A man gets mugged, but a support network develops in the form of a neighborhood watch. A school is vandalized, but people come together to erase, repair and then improve. On that most momentous of days thousands of people died, but the world saw heroism in its truest. We have seen it all and expect to see even more.

The Hudson has seen it all too and it has become a cynical river. With good comes bad, with bad comes good. If there’s a net-gain, it’s only at the expense of time and sweat and blood. Rivers are always fickle, they expect tribute. But maybe that is going to change. Maybe it already has.

Chesley B. “Sully” Sullenberger III, pilot of Flight 1549, landed a crippled 747 carrying 155 passengers into the Hudson. It could have ended in candlelight vigils and days of rescue divers pulling bodies from the depths of the Hudson, but it didn’t. Emergency workers responded immediately. No one died. Injuries were minor. The Captain’s a hero.

It’s the fairy tale ending, but it’s not at all a fairy tale. Just real life, tragic and heroic. It’s as fine a testament to what this river has seen and what this river represents as any of the thousands of similar stories that happen every day but never make the news. It is my fondest memory of the Hudson and my highest expectation of what the future will hold. It is the Hudson River in all of its glory.

~Robert D. Drake

Standing on the back of a boat in eighty degree heat, I was shaking. We were in the Caribbean on a “very special” family vacation, as my mom called it, and my dad and I were about to go parasailing. I wasn’t afraid of heights, and I’d probably done much more dangerous, and much more stupid, things before. Sure, hanging in the air five hundred feet above the ocean, being pulled along like a kite attached to a speed-boat driven by a rum-punch drinking, gold-toothed native didn’t thrill me. But it did look cool, your feet lifting off the earth, a parachute around your shoulders, and the sea beneath your toes.

My excitement rather quickly gave way to nerve-fueled adrenaline as our harnesses were strapped on; the driver’s gold tooth caught the sunlight as he shouted instructions, none of which I heard. And then the boat was no longer there, and the wind was tugging – hard — at our backs, taunting our parachutes to come play. Higher. Higher.

It seemed my stomach had abandoned me and stayed behind on the boat, the wimp. I looked over at my dad, who was grinning – or was his face simply stretched by the relentlessly strong wind? And inexplicably, I began to laugh; why feel afraid when exhilaration is available too? I laughed harder; I’m a bird! I’m a plane! I’m Superwoman!

That turquoise gem of a sea sat lazily below our bare feet; the island looked paler from this view, almost a mirror image of the clouds dotting the sky above. The driver signaled us by pointing with both hands over his head: “Higher?”

My dad and I both gave him the thumbs-up. The rope was let go to its full length, and up we flew. All too soon, the driver began to reel us in. But as we drew closer to the back of the slow-moving speedboat, I realized that this was the best part: forget the birds and planes (and even Superwoman), I’m James Bond!

That feeling lasted approximately twenty-four hours. The following night, my parents were mugged on the same beach that speedboat had picked us up from. My dad was shot through the hand. (The result of punching one of the muggers in the face). After a nerve-wracking trip to the island’s two-room hospital, where a gynecologist removed the bullet, my dad was determined O.K. He’d have to see a non-gynecologist doctor in the States, so we flew to New York the next morning. My older brother, who is in the NYPD, met us at the hospital, and promptly chewed our dad out for once again landing himself in the hospital. He also questioned my dad’s sanity.

“Dad, trust me, always just give them your damn wallet. Is this worth it?”

Scott’s partner, who stood beside him in the tiny room, snorted.

“Yeah, Scott, like you don’t give ‘em what’s coming to them down in Brooklyn.”

“I have a badge. And a vest.”

I nodded along with my mom and younger brother, but I kind of understood my dad, who was now proudly declaring, “They didn’t get my wallet!”

I watched as he argued with Scott, waving his bandaged hand around. I began to picture two thugs approaching my parents on that dark beach, only now I was with them, instead of babysitting my younger brother back in the room. As the images continued to form in my mind, I thought, why shouldn’t we fight back? Sure, my dad is an example of the prime reason why not, but maybe if the playing field had been leveled a little, the outcome would have been different.

Right before I turned twenty-one, I began graduate school in New Haven, Connecticut. It was a new apartment, a new city, a new chapter. My parents were healthy and safe in Florida, and I was loving my uber-academic environment. Still, almost inevitably, something was missing, or out of place somewhere. I spoke to my mom about it, whose first question was,

“Are you happy?”

“Sure, yeah, I mean I like it here, Mom. My apartment, my school –”

“Okay, but do you feel safe there?”

I had to think about my answer. I didn’t want her to worry more than she was already, but in truth I didn’t feel safe. Not anymore.

When I was a little girl, I thought, as many children do, that my parents were invincible. That our little corner of the world was impermeable. Seven years ago, I was a fourteen year old high-school student in Goshen, New York, and September 11th happened. Pandora’s box shattered my sheltered sense of reality.

A few years later, when asked what he thought about the overwhelming percentage of Americans who oppose the Iraq War, Dick Cheney answered, “So what?”

This effectively diminished any remaining positive thoughts I had towards the current state of affairs. And to top it all off, I managed to waste a good few months with a now ex-boyfriend who, let’s say, didn’t mind showing he was stronger than I was.

So no, Mom, I don’t really feel all that safe and secure anymore. In fact, I feel like a walking six o’clock news story waiting to happen. And I hate it. I’m studying to become a journalist, so that one day maybe I can travel and explore and write about what I see. But for now, I should be able to walk home from my parking garage at night. I didn’t tell my mom all of this, of course, but my prolonged hesitation told her enough.

“Listen, sweetie, I was just talking with Donna, and she told me about this kind of Israeli self-defense class that her son is taking. It’s called Krav Maga, and it’s supposed to be pretty intense. I think its what the Israeli troops learn in training? Anyway, her son loves it. Why don’t we look into it? It’d be really good for you to try, you know, even just to learn some basics. You’re all alone up there…”

She paused for a breath.

“You’ve already looked into it, haven’t you, Mom.”

“Well there’s a class right near where you live! And it’s difficult to find these Krav Maga places, you know. Look, I’ll give you the number of the instructor, just see what he has to say, and just try it if it sounds good. Maybe you actually won’t hate it.”

Predictably, I was skeptical at first, and it took three phone calls with the Krav Maga instructor for me to convince myself to go to the studio.

And predictably, my mom was right: it was intense. I was one of two women in the large class, which included some men who looked like they could probably fare just fine without martial arts. But when I met the instructor, I knew instantly he was one of those people you simply cannot dislike. And the class turned out to be, well, one of the best things I’ve ever tried. It’s a bit like Fight Club, but with grappling gloves and a little less blood. After a few weeks, I became part of the camaraderie between my classmates, and I felt like Ed Norton after he lives with Tyler Durden for a while. I felt great: harder, stronger, and much less afraid walking home alone at night. I invested in a heavy bag, worked out hard on my own, and it showed in class. My punches and combinations were more accurate, my roundhouse kicks stronger and less shy.

We also worked with plastic guns and knives in class; the gun exercises tended to bring about flashbacks. After a while, though, all I saw was my partner’s gun and my hands, and soon I was able to take the weapon away from my “attacker,” and then demand his wallet.

I still do Krav Maga in that same class, and I feel like a new person every time. I’m not flying above the ocean like Superwoman, but when I hit that heavy bag, or my partner, it’s like my feet are landing on the back of that boat all over again. I wonder if MI6 is hiring…

Horoscope is interesting though. I wonder if I can find a story there…I could do with a day of brainstorming. Horoscope Brainstorming…?

I’m a Pieces:
“Being blunt can be liberating — give yourself a break and just speak the truth.

Someone offers you a great deal, which might be complicated by a debt they or someone else owes you. Try not to think about it too much — if it feels right, go for it and if not, then say no.”

James, stares out the window watching the snow pile up on his car. A recent feud with his neighbors/landlord means there won’t be any snowplow coming today. That’s what you get for complaining about midnight sessions of rock-band being played a wall away. So much for being blunt.
The phone rings. James picks it up lazily. He’s tired and not expecting anyone. It’s David, a coworker.

“How’s the weather at your place?”
“Snowy. A few inches.”
“Weather channel says it’s going to continue tomorrow.”
“I know. I might be late for work.”
“How about you don’t come in at all.”
“Work from home?”
“Not quite. Check your email.”

The man hangs up abruptly. James shakes his head and logs into his computer. “I wonder if I got fired. David said if I screwed up one more time…”
James pulls up his email. He was BBC’d on a message from management.

“Senior Managers: Due to cost-cutting and efficiency measures we are asking all employers to do an immediate review on all employees. One member of each department is slated for occupational minimization before the end of the quarter. We expect reviews to be turned in by Thursday.”

A moment later his email beeps. There’s a message from his coworker.

“James: read the message from senior management. I sent to all the other technicians. I’ll make you a deal: you stay at home this week. Just stay home. You’ll get fired, but I’ll pay you 50% of my salary. I’ll get to keep the health care that I need for my kids. My wife’s work-at-home business will cover the rest of my bills. You won’t have work so you can do freelance or whatever to make the rest of your bills. Think about it!”

James closes the laptop and goes to make coffee. As James sips from his cracked mug he looks outside. It’s nearly a whiteout and his car looks like a burial mound soon to be dissolved into the land.
“I don’t want to go in tomorrow and I don’t really like work. Something is weird though. Why would David be worried about getting fired?”

Just a short story idea. A bit of practice. I would need to flesh everything out a lot more, make real paragraphs. It’s winter and it’s cold, but I the weather needs to be really bad for this to make sense. Maybe it’s not the storm. The wind took out a bridge so the commute is now an hour longer. This car is really just a rental from a friend. His commuter car has a broken axle on a highway somewhere, a remnant of the last time he tried getting to work in the snow.
David shouldn’t just be a coworker. He should have a title, something senior. Maybe David is the department head. The whole conflict should be a bit larger anyway. It can’t just be “not driving to work/getting fired/healthcare”. There should be someone else at work. There’s a new person angling for the boss position. A recent hire from a good school, well liked by senior management. “On the fast-track for sure.” Maybe James is part of the car-pool that picks the new guy up because he doesn’t have a driver’s license. David is trying to sabotage him as well?

Just a few thoughts to get myself warmed up today. I, for one, wouldn’t mind not having to shovel for 50% of the salary. Ha!

noun:
1. An encampment for the night, usually under little or no shelter.

intransitive verb:
1. To encamp for the night, usually under little or no shelter.

Van Morrison is crooning another round of “Moondance”. It’s been playing on repeat for hours. The damn CD player is broke. What can you expect from a second-rate beater purchased from a chop shop in Tucson. It was damn lucky the car has even made it this far.
I’m turning out of the parking lot. Another day of work done, some freelance ‘jack-of-all-tradesing’ that has kept the car full of gas, my landlord off my ass, and enough change to buy Saltines and tequila. Bad habits both of them.
I’m not much used to the forest. Taller than builders, but none of the glass. Don’t really care for it. I always speed until I get to the lights of the town. During the day it’s small and not worth caring about, barely more than a gas station and a Home Depot, but at night it almost looks like Phoenix. No Carl’s Jr., though. It’s a damn shame, but I guess it doesn’t matter. That shit’s too expensive anyway.
Highway is always crowded. I’m not a fan. Can’t speed, can’t lag about, can’t even flash my brights when the signs are too small to read. It’s better past Newburgh. Not that many people go past that. It’s usually just me and a few 18-wheelers with Quebec plates. What the hell are the Canucks transporting all the time, anyway?
My exit. Last one before a long drive north. I’ll head that way one of these days. Me and my car will bivouac in Quebec for a bit, pretend we got the Oregon trail backwards. Probably wait till summer first. Car already grumbles about the cold. Landlord thinks he’s got me in a lease too. Whatever.
Not sure where I’d go after that. Keep going farther, one bridge at a time. We’ll see how that goes. Right now I’m just gonna enjoy the last few city lights. Might as well. Never know when you might not make it outta the forest.

Limn: –verb (used with object)

1. to represent in drawing or painting.
2. to portray in words; describe.
3. Obsolete. to illuminate (manuscripts).

An interesting word.

The student sat beside the man-made pond and watched the geese sail aimlessly around the green algae that covered the surface. A stack of well-worn books sat precariously beside him, threatening with each gelid breeze to crumble onto the ground and crush the frosted grass. The student ignored them with frigid indifference.
He cautiously grabbed a drawing pad from the top and conjured a pencil out of his curly hair. His fingers limned the ducks and their irreverence, crafting beaks from parchment and sketching ruffled feathers with the side of the pencil. He moved onto the algae.
Flickers of crystal began to strike the page, leaving moist stains and faded charcoal. The student looked up. His cheek fizzled and he was retreat from the blizzard. Slowly and with a heavy sigh, the student closed his tablet, bowed to the ducks, and walked to class.

Hopefully this will be the first of many examples. Enjoy!