Catherine Cavendish
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Catherine Cavendish lives in the North of England and in Wales,
with her longsuffering husband and a slightly eccentric
tortoiseshell cat. She has had a lifelong fascination with the
paranormal which intensified when she saw an apparition which
no-one has ever been able to rationally explain. She is
currently working on a number of new projects, including short
stories, a novella and a novel featuring a circle of ancient
standing stones. When she’s not slaving over a hot computer,
she can usually be found wandering around Litopia or Facebook -
or more likely trying to untangle her latest hero/heroine from
some impossible predicament.
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Every night, Jane Furnival prays for the souls
of the dead celebrities she most admires. Somewhere, in a parallel
dimension, those she prays for must gather and it’s an odd assortment of
stars – from Jim Morrison, John Lennon and Marilyn Monroe to Agatha
Christie who’s still writing plotlines in her notebook. But can they
help her resolve the biggest crisis in her life? Her formidable,
long-dead Aunt Margaret decides if anyone can, Jim Morrison’s her man,
so accompanied by Marilyn Monroe in a skin-tight gown, the two set off
on a mission to find $5000 before breakfast.
Excerpt
Word Count: 4665
Pages to Print: 19
File Format: PDF
Price: $2.99 |
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In the cool reddish-green of a November dawn in
the 24th century, Domenica Sarsen stands at her doorway and looks out
over the filthy street, hugging her secret to herself. Soon she and her
husband will leave the sprawling, gasping metropolis of Carlisle and
head for the green fields of Orkney,where the Rampagers will never find
them and they can live out their lives in peace. If only they can
out-run the Dust Storm…
Excerpt
Word Count: 4644
Pages to Print: 20
File Format: PDF
Price: $2.99
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| Excerpts |
| Say
a Little Prayer |
Jim Morrison leaned back and stared out at the young woman as
she knelt in prayer. It was early and she had only just begun,
so the small room was quiet and still. Soon, if this was a
typical night, others would join him. He sighed. God, some
nights you could hardly breathe in here there were so many of
them.
Suddenly the irony of his last thought struck him, and he
laughed. Breathe; yeah man, that’s a good one. Haven’t drawn a
decent breath since 1971!
Why did she do it anyway? I mean, it wasn’t as if she had ever
met him. Sure, she loved his music, although she wasn’t even
born when he had joined Jimi and Janis on the other side. Come
to think of it, where were they hanging out these days? Jim
shrugged. Maybe the girl would pray for them tonight. Hell, she
pretty much went through the whole back catalog of music
legends—not to mention Marilyn Monroe—and Jim was sure he had
caught a fleeting glimpse of a rather bemused JFK the other
night. Probably couldn’t understand why he was rubbing shoulders
with a sexually frustrated Mama Cass. Jim shivered as he
remembered his last encounter with her. Even in her current
state she was a big force to be reckoned with and didn’t take
rebuttal graciously.
He shifted position and heard sounds behind him.
“Evening Jim.” The familiar nasal Liverpool twang of John Lennon
greeted him. “Has she got to George yet?”
“Forgotten him tonight, I think.”
“He won’t be very chuffed.”
“She’s forgotten Janis again, too. Thank God. Can’t stand the
woman.”
“Thought you and her had a bit of a thing going.”
“Too much like hard work. She throws things, and I tell you man,
those bottles still hurt—even here.”
“Shouldn’t do. This is supposed to be heaven. It only hurts in
the other place.”
“I’m telling you man, if Janis Joplin throws a bottle of
Southern Comfort at your head, you’re gonna know about it.”
“You two boys arguing again? Honestly, what does a girl have to
do to get a little bit of attention around here? Move up,
sugar.”
Jim did as he was bid. He had never managed to get the hang of
saying no to Marilyn Monroe and, anyway, what man in his right
mind would want to?
“She looks so lonely out there,” the honeyed voice of his
Chanel-scented neighbor washed over him. Behind him, John Lennon
was chatting to some new arrivals. Two deceased Beach Boys,
three-quarters of the Mamas and the Papas, Freddie Mercury and,
for some unfathomable reason, Agatha Christie joined some
bemused members of Jane Furnival’s family.
“She’s going through the lot tonight,” Jim sighed, letting his
hand travel toward Marilyn Monroe’s silk-covered knee.
“Later, sugar, and not here,” she whispered as she gave his hand
a squeeze and returned it to his own knee.
“She’s crying,” Jim said.
“Poor kid!” John said, with feeling.
“Isn’t there something we can do to help her?” An elderly woman
with a determined air tapped Jim on the shoulder. He turned his
head. “Young man, you seem to have a bit about you. Can’t you do
something for her? After all, she prays for you every night.”
“Look—whoever you are . . .”
“I’m Jane’s Aunt Margaret.”
“Okay, Aunt Margaret, what can I do? What can any of us do?
We’re all dead.” |
| Back to
Say a Little Prayer |
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The Dust Storm |
Domenica Sarsen hugged herself in the
cool reddish-green of a November dawn and inhaled the dry air,
only to exhale in a fit of coughing. Even at seven in the
morning, before much of the world was up and about, the
atmosphere tasted rank and toxic. It was the same every day but
for Domenica and her husband Leon, today was different. Today
they would leave the sprawling, gasping metropolis of Carlisle
for the green fields of Orkney Islands far to the north, off the
coast of Scotland, and they were never coming back.
She stood at the battered front door of their shared house; her
gaze traveled up and down the dusty street. Years ago this would
have been a busy road, teeming with cars and lorries and all
manner of engine noises unfamiliar to Domenica. It would have
been covered in tarmac; where now it was rutted, littered with
remnants of hardcore and little more than a wide dirt track.
Then, traffic fumes would have polluted the atmosphere, where
now lingered the more earthy smells of human habitation in a
world devoid of fancy chemicals to sweeten the air and the
inadequately washed bodies. Where dogs and cats might have
played, now there were none, and at night, as she lay awake,
Domenica heard the scratching of rats and the scurrying of
roaches.
But it would all be different in Orkney. The Lottery people had
said so and Domenica felt that surge of joy she had contained
inside her since they had heard the news three days earlier. It
would never do to broadcast such good fortune. The Rampagers
might hear.
“I heard you coughing. Are you sound?”
Domenica turned to her husband who had come up behind her. “I’m
sound, Leon, don’t worry.”
“You’re not getting the old trouble back are you?”
Domenica shook her head. “I shouldn’t think so. I think they got
it all out when they gave me the replacement lungs. Toxic
Dust—something else to thank our forebears for!”
Leon wrinkled his nose. “Our ancestors have a lot to answer for,
burning fuel like there was no tomorrow.”
Domenica agreed, her lip curling as it always did when she
thought of the profligacy ultimately leading to such global
warming that two thirds of Great Britain was now an
uninhabitable arid wasteland. “Thank God for President Norton.
My grandfather said that if it wasn’t for him and others like
him, even this place would probably be a desert now and, let’s
face it, it’s not far off it.”
“Yes and imagine what it would have been like if he hadn’t
banned all fuel-driven transport?” Leon ran his fingers through
his wife’s fine blonde hair, taking care not to snag it and pull
out any more. After all, she was twenty-four now. At her age, a
lot of women were already wearing replacement hair. At this
thought, Leon unconsciously rubbed his own bald pate and found
himself wondering what color his would have been now if he had
been lucky enough to keep it.
“Was it Norton who moved the capital up to York? I get him and
President Steele confused,” Domenica said.
“No, it was definitely Norton. He was also the one who organized
the mass evacuation of the south of England and Wales during the
Forty Year Dust Storm. My granddad was only a child at the time,
but he remembered the terrible choking fumes and people dying on
the streets of London, unable to breathe.”
Domenica shivered. “They must have been awful times. My grandma
told me she remembered her mother crying when the doctor told
her she must be sterilized as part of the population reduction
program.”
“Well, at least she’d had her one child. Now we’re not even
allowed that! I’ll never understand why they turned down our
application to breed. What’s so wrong with us? We’re normal,
intelligent people, but clearly our gene pool wasn’t strong
enough for the Population Control Board.”
“Welcome to life in the twenty-fourth century,” Domenica said,
with an uncharacteristic edge of irony.
“Thank God we’re taking a trip back in time,” Leon kissed her
head, feeling the familiar configuration of bumps and
undulations under his lips. “Will you miss any of this?” he
indicated the street.
Domenica leaned back against him and let her gaze wander across
to the dilapidated houses opposite, packed tightly together and
interspersed with huts made out of old timbers, rocks, recycled
drystone walls, in fact anything people could get their hands on
and could fashion with hand tools and their bare hands. No
machinery was allowed unless it would work without any form of
fuel. Electricity, gas, oil and nuclear power were a thing of
the ancient past, only read about in history books. How ironic,
she thought. Two hundred years ago, her ancestors had toyed with
something they called “Going Green” but, by the time they
actually had, it was too late. The world that had gone green was
a world that had gone to waste.
“Tea before we set off?” Leon suggested. “I picked some
dandelions yesterday.”
Domenica shot him a frightened look. “You know that’s not
allowed. What would have happened if they’d caught you?”
Leon shrugged. “What could they do? We’re leaving today. How
would they know?”
“Someone might have seen you. Everyone spies on everyone else
these days. Especially now the police have upped the Informer
Reward to two fuel packs.”
“No one saw me, don’t worry. Now let’s have our last cup of tea
here and get out of this godforsaken hole once and for all.”
Domenica nodded, still worried. These days you didn’t know who
to fear the most, the police or the Rampagers. She shivered as
she remembered the night a gang had killed her father before her
eyes and all because he wouldn’t give them his last fuel pack.
An hour later, they had packed the few possessions that had been
crammed into their small room and said goodbye to the twelve
other couples who shared the same house.
“I wish I was going with you,” old Mrs. Morris sobbed. “I told
Nathan we should have done that blessed Lottery but he would
have none of it. Now look at you two. You bought a ticket and
won and you’re getting out of this dreadful place.”
Domenica patted her hand. “There’ll be another one next year. I
hear the prize is going to be a home in the Outer Hebrides. I
think it’s a place called Callanish. They’ve built twenty homes
from the ancient stone circle, so there’s a better chance of
winning that one. Skara Brae’s got only ten.”
Mrs. Morris tried to smile through her tears as she hugged
Domenica one last time. “Take care of her, Leon, she’s very
special. Her mother was my best friend.” |
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Dust Storm |
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