Introduction

A story about saving the last slice of pumpkin pie

Listen to chapters from my books

Weird traditions

My friend Jenna writing her romance novel

Long ago, the Danube was not just a river but a living spirit, a guardian that demanded tribute from those who wished to cross.

Prince Buda, son of the western hills, was strong and contemplative, tied to stone and tradition.

Princess Pest, daughter of the eastern plains, was quick and radiant, tied to fire and progress.

They met at the river’s edge, but the Danube, jealous of their union, declared:
“When iron and stone span the waters, when the city breathes as one, the lovers shall embrace.”  To prove their love, each had to undertake trials set by the river-spirit.

Prince Buda’s Trial of Stone: He had to carve wisdom into the cliffs, leaving caves and fortresses that would endure for generations.

Princess Pest’s Trial of Flame: She had to kindle the fires of commerce and culture, building markets and theaters that would draw people from afar. Each succeeded, but still the Danube flowed between them, laughing.

In 1873, when Buda, Óbuda, and Pest were finally united into Budapest, the legend says the lovers clasped hands at last. The Danube, softened by centuries of devotion, allowed their embrace.

Their union symbolizes balance: hills and plains, tradition and progress, stone and flame.
The city itself became their child, a living testament to love overcoming division.
Whenever a new bridge is built, the Prince and Princess renew their vows.
And every time someone crosses the Danube River is a reenactment of their love.

The Chain Bridge is a true bond, a silver clasp across the river 

Unlike Hungary’s deep reservoir of folklore, this story is not a traditional myth.

Some versions link Prince Buda to Attila the Hun’s brother, but historians note this is fabricated. The “legend” was essentially invented to give poetic meaning to the statue and the city’s unification.

The narrative endures because it resonates with visitors: a tragic love story transformed into a metaphor for civic unity in 1982 by a Hungarian sculptor Márta Lesenyei.

And the legend expanded a little by the imagination of author Erika M Szabo

Whiskers, the family cat, stood by the door sniffing the snow on the doormat. He jumped when Uncle Joe walked up the steps and loudly stomped the snow off his boots. Instead of turning to run inside, the spooked cat bolted down the driveway onto the street. Whiskers, fueled by adrenaline, ran down the street, ignoring the children’s desperate shouts. Everyone drew a sharp breath as they watched a shadow move swiftly from the evergreen bushes.
​
A coyote lunged, seizing the cat in its jaws. The children screamed from the doorway, and panic rippled through the family and guests as the coyote dragged the screaming, squirming cat toward the wooded area across the street.

But before despair could take hold, another figure appeared. Mr. Thompson, the old man everyone knew but few spoke to. His house was always dark, his curtains drawn, his presence marked only by the occasional gruff nod. Yet that night, something stirred in him. With surprising strength, he grabbed the snow shovel by his door and charged forward, shouting.
The coyote startled, dropped Whiskers, and fled into the woods. The cat bolted back toward the Johnsons, safe but trembling. Mr. Johnson picked up the frightened cat and checked its body. “He’s okay,” he said to the worried children.

The family stood frozen, staring at the unlikely hero. Mr. Thompson’s breath puffed in the cold air, his face stern but softened by the glow of Christmas lights.

“Thank you,” Mrs. Johnson cried, her voice breaking. “Thank you for saving Whiskers. Please, come inside and have dinner with us.”

At first, Mr. Thompson shook his head. He had lived alone for years, avoiding company. But then the children ran to him and tugged at his coat, their eyes wide with gratitude. Slowly, hesitantly, he followed them into the warmth of the house.

Inside, the table was set with festive plates and steaming dishes. The guests made room, and Mr. Thompson found himself seated among laughter and kindness he hadn’t known in years.

As the evening unfolded, he shared a story he had kept locked away. Long ago, he had a wife and two children. They were his world, his joy, his reason for living. But a tragic accident had taken them from him, leaving him hollow. Christmas, once his favorite time of the year, became unbearable. He withdrew from the world, burying his grief in silence.

The Johnsons listened with empathy, tears shining in their eyes. Mrs. Johnson reached across the table and placed her hand gently on the old man’s. “You don’t have to spend Christmas alone anymore,” she said softly.
​
Something inside Mr. Thompson shifted. The stone wall he had built around his heart began to crumble. He laughed at the children’s jokes, carved the turkey with steady hands, and even helped to hang the last ornament on the tree.

After dinner, everyone gathered in the living room, sipping eggnog. Whiskers curled up in Mr. Thompson’s lap, purring as though sensing the healing in his soul.

That night, Mr. Thompson rediscovered something he thought was lost forever: the feeling of belonging. The Johnsons gained not just a neighbor but a friend, and the old man found a family again.
​
Outside, the snow continued to fall, but inside, the spirit of Christmas burned brighter than ever.

On Christmas Eve, the little town of Maple Hollow in the mountains was covered by powder-soft snow that had fallen since dawn. The Main Street lay hushed and shadow-draped, illuminated only by multicolored bulbs that winked like earthbound stars from frost-rimmed eaves and porch railings. At the northern edge of town, Daniel Whitaker trudged through the snow, his breath clouding the air. The brass lantern in his mittened hand swung gently with each step, casting a sphere of light that made the untouched snow sparkle like diamond dust.

Daniel was on his way to the ancient pine tree that loomed like a sentinel over the silver-glazed pond. Its majestic branches had witnessed this pilgrimage every Christmas Eve since his grandfather's passing. Daniel had carried the antique brass lantern along this same path, feeling the weight of both metal and memory. He could still hear his grandfather's voice, cracked with age: "A light in the dark reminds us that we're never alone, Danny. The smallest flame can call to hearts across the miles."
​
Daniel noticed something unusual in the moonlight: a delicate trail of footprints breaking the pristine snow, leading toward the lake. Curious, he followed the footsteps, his lantern casting trembling shadows across the untouched drifts on either side of the narrow path. At the old, weathered bench by the frozen lake, sat a slender figure huddled against the cold. A young woman about his age with copper hair spilling from beneath a hand-knitted cap, her mittened hands clutching her knees to her chest. Daniel recognized her; she was Clara Winters, the new elementary school teacher whose gentle voice and patient smile had already endeared her to the town's children. She'd quietly moved into her late grandmother's Victorian cottage at the edge of Maple Street just before autumn painted the trees gold and crimson.

“We’re not alone, you’ll see," Daniel whispered, his voice like warm honey in the frigid air. “My grandfather raised me since I was a little boy, but he’s gone. We had this tradition of sitting by the lake on Christmas Eve, talking and singing.” He began humming his favorite Christmas carol, the melody rising and falling with the rhythm of his breath. The familiar tune of "Silent Night" drifted between them, mingling with the crystalline silence of the snow-draped world.
​
Clara's eyes brightened. She joined in, her clear soprano weaving delicately around his baritone, their voices creating puffs of silver mist that hung suspended in the lantern light. The ancient tree above them seemed to lean closer, its frost-tipped branches sheltering their impromptu duet as they sang of heavenly peace while snowflakes danced around them like silent applause.

Soon, people in town noticed the golden light by the frozen pond, its light rippling across the ice like liquid amber. Old Mr. Peterson arrived first, his arthritic fingers cradling a hurricane lamp that had weathered eighty winters. The Abernathy twins followed with matching red candles in mason jars wrapped with plaid ribbon. Mrs. Finch brought her great-grandmother's silver candelabra, its three flames dancing in the night breeze. Soon, the ancient pine tree stood sentinel over a constellation of lights, brass lanterns with smoke-stained glass, battery-powered camping lanterns with their harsh blue-white glare, even strings of battery-operated fairy lights draped around children's necks like luminous scarves. The gathered villagers formed a perfect circle, their shadows stretching across the snow like the spokes of a great wheel, voices rising in harmony that seemed to make the very stars pulse in time.

Clara's breath caught as she turned slowly, counting the faces gilded by firelight. "The whole town is here," she whispered, snowflakes melting on her eyelashes.
​
Daniel squeezed her mittened hand, his grandfather's lantern casting honeyed shadows across his face. "That's the magic of Christmas," he said softly. "A single light can bring people together."

Human storytelling stretches back to firelit caves, each teller adding their lived experience to tales passed through generations. Can we truly place AI in this ancient chain when it has never loved, suffered, or gazed at stars with wonder? Or might we be witnessing the birth of an entirely different category of narrative voice?

The ethics of AI-authored literature has emerged as a flashpoint in publishing circles. As algorithms increasingly mimic human creativity, writers, publishers, and philosophers grapple with fundamental questions about authenticity and artistic value. Several key ethical tensions have surfaced in this ongoing conversation:
 
Attribution & Disclosure
The literary contract between writer and reader hinges on truthfulness about creation. When AI generates the bulk of a text, ethical standards demand transparency about its mechanical origins.
Many writers now employ AI as they might a research assistant or sounding board, a fundamentally different approach than passing off computer-generated prose as one's own creative expression.

Originality & Creativity
AI doesn’t “create” in the human sense; it remixes patterns from its training data. Ethical concerns arise if the output is too closely mirrored by existing works, potentially bordering on plagiarism.
The question becomes: is the book offering something genuinely new, or is it derivative of human authors’ work without proper credit?

Labor & Fairness
Traditional authors spend years honing their craft. Flooding the market with AI-written books could devalue human labor and overwhelm readers with mass-produced content.
On the other hand, AI can democratize publishing, providing people without writing skills a means to share their ideas.

Reader Trust and Transparency
Presenting AI-generated content as human-written violates the implicit contract between author and audience. Conversely, clear labeling empowers readers to make informed choices about the art they consume.

The Soul of Literature
Books have historically functioned as repositories of human experience and imagination. Critics worry this essence evaporates when algorithms generate content, while proponents argue that AI simply extends humanity's long tradition of using technological innovations, from quills to keyboards, to amplify our storytelling capabilities.

Ethical Middle Ground
Many ethicists suggest a balanced approach:
Use AI as a collaborator, not a ghostwriter.
Disclose AI involvement clearly.
Ensure originality by editing, curating, and adding a human voice.

My opinion:
I create my own stories and use AI to do the basic editing of my books, but I prefer a human editor to help with finetuning my stories. I also use AI to create pictures and videos, and when I need to do quick research, I ask AI the question instead of combing through 50 websites.
Treat AI as a tool, not a replacement for human creativity.

​What are your thoughts on this?

​Can you tell me if any of my books has been used to train AI?
​https:/www.authorerikamszabo.com

The answers of AI:
That’s an important and very sensitive question, Erika. Here’s the reality:

• Training Data Transparency
• Companies that build large AI models (like me) don’t disclose the exact datasets used. That means I can’t confirm whether your books — or any specific author’s works — were included. The training process typically involves a mix of licensed data, publicly available information, and data created by human trainers. But the precise sources are not shared.
• Your Website & Published Works
• Even if your books are available online (through your site, retailers, or libraries), I cannot tell you whether they were part of any training dataset. There’s no way for me to “look inside” my own training history or match it against your catalog.
• Industry Context
• This lack of transparency is a major point of debate in publishing. Authors, artists, and musicians are asking for clearer disclosure and stronger protections. Some lawsuits are underway to determine whether training on copyrighted works without permission constitutes infringement.
• What You Can Do
  • If you’re concerned, you can monitor ongoing legal cases (like those involving the Authors Guild and major AI companies).
  • You can also use tools like the Authors Guild or Creative Commons to explore rights management and advocacy.
  • Some platforms are beginning to offer “opt-out” mechanisms for future training, though these are still evolving.

In short: I can’t confirm whether your books were used, because no AI system reveals that level of detail. But your concern is part of a much larger conversation about ethics, copyright, and creative ownership in the age of AI.

Mary stared at the empty chair at the head of the table, where Grandma June always sat. She adjusted the centerpiece, the same pinecones and dried berries arrangement Grandma had made every year, and she sighed.

The smell of cinnamon and cloves hung in the air, mingling with the lavender that still clung to the curtains Grandma had washed last spring. The wooden spoon Mary clutched had a hairline crack down its handle, smooth from years of Grandma's thumb rubbing the same spot.

​Mary's fingers trembled slightly as she unfolded the recipe card for cranberry-orange relish, the corner stained with something that might have been butter from 1997. She squinted at the measurements, trying to decipher whether that was a one-third or one-half cup, while the marshmallows for the sweet potato casserole sat unopened beside her, each one the size of a golf ball. When she rolled out the pie crust, it tore. Why did I say I’ll cook Thanksgiving dinner? It’s going to be a disaster! I wish Grandma were still here. She made everything look so easy. She mumbled.

Mary watched her mother take a bite of turkey and reach for her water glass a little too quickly. Across the table, Aunt Deb chewed a green bean longer than seemed necessary. The silence stretched until Uncle Joe cleared his throat and launched into the same story about his golf tournament that he'd told at Easter. Three different forced laughs followed, none reaching their eyes. The empty chair at the head of the table seemed to grow larger.

After dinner, Mary slipped away from the halfhearted card game in the living room. In the kitchen, the last slice of pumpkin pie sat on Grandma's blue plate, the one with painted violets around the rim. The whipped cream had collapsed, trickling down into the filling like tears. Mary's finger traced the plate's edge, remembering Grandma's hands lifting the last slice of pumpkin pie, passing it to Cousin Emma, who'd just failed her nursing exam. The year before: Uncle Joe got the last slice, right after the layoffs. And once, to Mary herself, when she'd arrived with puffy eyes and no boyfriend, Grandma's weathered hand covering hers as she whispered, "Sweet things help mend tender things."

Mary's gaze drifted across the kitchen until it landed on Lily. Her niece sat on the linoleum, one hand buried in Rusty's golden fur, the other tracing invisible patterns on the floor. No humming. No fidgeting. Just those wide brown eyes staring at nothing.

Mary lifted the blue plate and grabbed two forks from the drawer. "Scoot over," she whispered, lowering herself beside Lily.

Lily's fork hovered, then dipped. Their shoulders touched as they ate, the only sounds Rusty's gentle panting and metal occasionally scraping ceramic. “I’ve been struggling at school. I have a hard time keeping up,” Lily confessed, sobbing. “It’s just too much! I’m never going to be a doctor.”

“There, there,” Mary patted the young woman’s hand. “The first year is the hardest. Once you develop your study routine and you remain consistent, it will get easier.”

“Do you think so?” Lily asked with a slight hope in her voice.

“I’m sure,” Mary laughed. “Remember? I’ve been there and done it. It wasn’t easy, but hard work and dedication always pay off.”

That night, while returning Grandma's recipe cards to their box, Mary's fingers brushed against an envelope. Inside: a yellowed index card with loops and swirls she'd recognize. The ink had faded to the color of light purple.

Remember how I saved the last slice for those who needed it? Keep the tradition. There's always someone at the table who needs to be seen and heard.

Mary traced the handwriting with her fingertip, leaving a smudge where a teardrop fell.

Year after year, Margaret climbed the narrow stairs to retrieve that same cardboard box from her farmhouse attic. The Christmas decorations inside never changed: lights that refused to untangle, ornaments bearing the scars of holidays past, and a garland shedding its tinsel like an aging cat. But there, beneath layers of tissue paper, waited the snow globe.

No larger than her palm, its once-bright red base had faded to the color of old bricks. Inside lived a world in miniature. "When you’re feeling sad and lonely, and truly wish for a Christmas miracle," her grandmother had whispered, pressing it into seven-year-old Margaret's hands, "give this globe a shake."

The globe remained still for a very long time, Margaret had all her wishes fulfilled. She had a comfortable home, a job she loved, a loving husband, and a daughter she adored.

Everything changed when Paul passed away in the summer after a long illness, and Lily was still in college. Besides quick phone calls, she didn’t have time for visits. Margaret was alone.
Maybe she’ll come home for Christmas, Margaret thought while decorating the Christmas tree, roasting a turkey, and baking sugar cookies, Lily’s favorite.

When Christmas Eve arrived with its silent snowfall, Margaret sat alone by the tree holding the snow globe. One gentle turn of her wrist set the world inside spinning.

As white flecks danced and settled, the living room blurred at its edges. Her grandmother's voice hummed forgotten melodies, Lily's fingers stretched toward freshly baked treats, and somewhere, her husband's laughter tangled with the sound of Christmas carols. Not enchantment, perhaps, but something equally powerful: happy memories of past Christmases.

The sound of the key turning in the lock snapped her out of her nostalgic mood. Feeling alert and hopeful, she put the snow globe on the table. The hinges protested as the front door swung wide, and Lily appeared in the threshold, her cheeks stung scarlet by December air, clutching packages wrapped in silver paper. "It smells like Mom’s kitchen," she said, breathing in deeply.
Margaret’s tearful eyes lit up. "Lily, you came!" she whispered, wrapping her arms around her daughter.
​
They sat together by the fire, sipping cocoa and sharing happy memories. The snow globe sat on the coffee table, its flakes now settled. Outside, the world was quiet. Inside, it was full of love, and the kind of magic only Christmas can bring.

Brian dragged himself through the front door at 7:30, his shoulders hunched from twelve hours of boardroom negotiations and client emergencies. He loosened his tie, dropped his briefcase by the coat rack, and sank into the worn leather sofa with a deep sigh. Across the living room, his wife Brenda was on all fours, laughing, her ponytail swinging as she chased their twin boys around a pillow fort. His daughter Emma sat cross-legged on the carpet nearby, her face half-hidden behind "The Secret Garden," her small finger tracing each line as she mouthed the words.

Brian watched his wife crawl after the twins, her laughter mingling with theirs, and something sour twisted in his gut. His shirt collar chafed against his neck, still damp with stress sweat. The memory of fluorescent lights and endless spreadsheets clung to him like a second skin while Brenda's day had been filled with pillow forts and story time. The unfairness of it lodged in his throat, his muscles ached from hunching over keyboards while she got to do fun stuff all day.

While Brenda wrangled toothbrushes into resisting mouths and cleaned up the dinner mess, Brian sprawled across their king-sized bed. His eyelids drooped as he stared at the ceiling fan's hypnotic rotation. “Dear God,” he prayed, his hands folded loosely on his chest, “please give me a day off from fluorescent-lit hell. Let me be Brenda for just one day. Let me wear sweatpants, watch cartoons with the kids, and take an afternoon nap, and let her suffer through my endless meetings and impossible deadlines while I lounge in domestic bliss.”

Brian drifted into sleep, unaware that somewhere beyond the cosmos, God stroked his silver beard and chuckled. The Almighty turned to Gabriel, whose iridescent wings shimmered, and eyes lit up with barely contained mischief. "This fool," God whispered, "doesn't know what he just wished for. Switch their souls at dawn, but make sure they retain the knowledge and urge to do of each other's daily duties. Breanda I’m not worried about, she’s a woman, she can easily adapt to any situation. But let’s see how Brian’s day will turn out."

The early morning light filtered through the cream-colored curtains when Brian woke up, his face buried in a cascade of silky blonde hair that wasn't his own. He sat up in bed with a jolt, heart hammering against his unfamiliar ribcage. "What the…" he gasped, flinging the floral duvet off to reveal slender legs and delicate feet with coral-painted toenails. His new body felt impossibly light, almost buoyant, wrapped in Brenda's lavender silk pajamas that smelled faintly of her jasmine lotion. "Thank you, God!" he whispered, turning to see his own six-foot frame sprawled across the other side of the bed, chest rising and falling with deep, rumbling breaths. A sudden thought pierced through his mind: "The kids' breakfast!" Panic surged as he scrambled out of bed, adjusting to shorter legs and a lower center of gravity. He fumbled through Brenda's dresser, pulling on her well-worn gray sweatpants and faded university t-shirt before padding barefoot to the kitchen. "Why am I doing this?" he muttered, watching his unfamiliar slender hands crack eggs into a ceramic bowl, whisking them with a practiced efficiency he didn't recognize. "I was supposed to sleep until noon!" But some deep-seated instinct drove him forward as the butter sizzled in the pan.

Brenda woke to the rich aroma of coffee mingling with the smell of frying eggs and buttered toast. She stretched languorously, her consciousness still foggy with sleep, when her fingertips brushed against an unfamiliar terrain of coarse chest hair. Her eyes flew open. She lifted her hands, they were larger, squarer, with prominent veins and neatly trimmed nails instead of her coral manicure. A faint whisper caressed her ear: "It was your husband's wish to switch places, just go with it and enjoy your day." Brenda's lips, now Brian's lips, curved into a smile as she swung a pair of legs that felt like tree trunks over the side of the bed. She padded toward the bathroom, marveling at how the floor seemed farther away, absently scratching at the sandpapery stubble on the strong jawline she normally kissed goodnight.

By the time Brenda entered the kitchen dressed in Brian's charcoal pinstripe suit, the kids were demolishing breakfast. The twins, faces sticky with syrup that dripped from their chins onto their pajamas, had transformed the oak table into an abstract masterpiece of amber fingerprints. Emma, her hair a bird's nest of tangles, pushed scrambled egg remnants around her plate with a scowl. Brian, trapped in Brenda's petite frame, rolled her hazel eyes skyward and released a sigh that seemed to deflate his borrowed body even further.

Brenda gulped down a cup of coffee, grabbed a piece of toast she barely had time to bite into, and clacked across the tile in Brian's oxfords that felt strangely comfortable. The leather briefcase felt foreign in her grip as she rushed to the silver sedan waiting in the driveway.

Meanwhile, Brian battled breakfast. He scraped the leftover food from plates into the garbage disposal, attacked maple syrup with a sponge that quickly became a sticky disaster itself, and wiped down the table and chairs. After wrestling the squirming twins into mismatched outfits and attempting to tame Emma's hair into something resembling a ponytail, he herded them toward the minivan. Ten minutes and six failed attempts at properly securing car seat buckles later, he navigated morning traffic with white knuckles, dropping a teary-eyed Emma at the elementary school's chaotic drop-off lane before delivering the twins to a kindergarten.

“Finally!” he sighed leaning back in the driver seat. “Now I can relax.”

A sudden thought made him sit up with such force that the delicate neck muscles of Brenda’s body protested. The mental to-do list unfurled like a medieval scroll of tortures: I have to pick up the dry cleaning, stop at the farmer's stand where Brenda somehow haggled for the freshest produce, and do the weekly grocery run with its labyrinthine aisles and impossible-to-reach items on the top shelves. Brian's unfamiliar eyes stung with hot tears that threatened to spill over Brenda's finely shaped cheekbones. His smaller hands trembled as he turned the key in the ignition, the minivan's engine rumbling to life with more authority than he now possessed. "My God," he whispered through lips that tasted of Brenda's cherry chap stick, "why did I wish for this? I thought I could spend the day horizontal on the couch watching the baseball game."

Meanwhile, Brenda surveyed the wasteland of Brian's desk, coffee-ringed reports stacked like geological layers, posits in three different colors fluttering from every surface, and a half-eaten protein bar fossilizing beside the keyboard. "Let's see if I can make sense of this disaster zone," she muttered, fingers already sorting papers into neat piles as the fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. The life of a busy office was all familiar to her, managing a real estate business for years before the kids were born. Then she decided to be a housewife until the kids were old enough to manage without constant supervision. Through the thin walls came the muffled sounds of ringing phones and clacking keyboards. After a few hours of archaeological excavation through spreadsheets and email chains, Brenda strode into the glass-walled conference room where Brian's colleagues sat slumped in ergonomic chairs. She unfurled a presentation with crystal-clear flowcharts that made the quarterly projections Brian had been wrestling with for weeks suddenly appear logical and attainable. The conference room transformed, shoulders straightened, eyes widened, pens scribbled furiously. "This actually makes sense," whispered Tanya from Accounting, while Mark from Sales nodded vigorously, his tie bobbing. "Why didn't we think of that?" Afterward, Brenda settled into Brian's high-backed executive chair, feeling the pleasant weight of accomplishment as she swiveled to face the city skyline. "I could definitely get used to this," she smirked, stretching Brian's longer limbs luxuriously.

Brian was exhausted by the time he finished shopping and put the grocery away. “Now I can rest.” he plopped down on the sofa and turned the TV on. “Darn it!” he stood up. “The laundry basket is full, and I didn’t make the beds yet. The tub needs to be scrubbed, the carpets vacuumed, the kitchen mopped after the breakfast disaster, and the kid’s room is a mess.” He sighed and got to work.

By the time he finished with every chore and glanced at the sunflower-shaped kitchen clock, he shouted, "Oh, no! I'll be late picking up the kids!" and bolted out to the car, Brenda's floral keychain jangling in his unfamiliar smaller hand. On the way home, a throbbing pain bloomed behind his temples as three high-pitched voices created a cacophony of complaints, accusations, and whining that ricocheted off the minivan's interior.

Finally, herding everyone safely inside, Brian slathered peanut butter and grape jelly onto whole wheat bread, cutting each sandwich into triangles the way Brenda always did. "Go play," he ushered the trio into the living room, his borrowed body collapsing onto the kitchen chair. His momentary peace shattered at the sound of glass breaking, followed by a piercing wail. Scrambling up on Brenda's shorter legs, he rushed to find one of the twins sprawled on the beige carpet, crimson droplets blooming around his pudgy fingers clutching his forehead. "Just a scrape," Brian mumbled through Brenda's lips, scooping up the trembling little body that felt heavier than expected. He dabbed the wound with antiseptic-soaked cotton balls, wincing at each sob before applying a dinosaur-patterned bandage, then attacked the rust-colored stain with foaming carpet cleaner and Brenda's prized steam machine. After the children settled into a trance before dancing cartoon characters, Brian dragged Brenda's fatigued body toward the kitchen, shoulders slumped beneath the thin cotton t-shirt. "How does she do this every day?” he whispered. “I better get dinner going."

When Brenda strode through the front door, still adjusting to Brian's longer gait, she caught sight of her own body slumped in the kitchen doorway, hair disheveled, mascara smudged beneath weary eyes, and a spaghetti sauce stain blooming across her favorite blouse. A smug warmth spread through her. Now he knows what I've been putting up with day after day, she thought. She sank into the leather sofa with legs sprawled wide, relishing the sensation as she watched the kids playing. Her eyelids grew heavy, Brian's body apparently programmed for an evening doze, until her own voice, higher than she'd ever heard it sound, called them to dinner.

Later, while Brian scrubbed sticky handprints from the dinner table and negotiated toothbrushing treaties with overtired children, Brenda channel-surfed with Brian's larger thumbs, her borrowed body manspreading across the cushions. That night, catching her reflection, Brian's reflection, in the bedroom mirror as she changed into his striped pajamas, a delicious curiosity flickered through her. "What would it feel like," she whispered through Brian's deeper voice, "to make love to my own body as a man?" The experience proved disorienting and strangely exhilarating. They both discovered the secret language of the other's pleasure from an entirely new perspective.

Brian woke first, sunlight filtering through the gauzy curtains. He bolted upright in bed, Brenda's silky nightgown twisted around his borrowed thighs. His fingers trembled as they touched the soft curve of a cheek that wasn't his own.

"I'm still in Brenda's body," he frantically cried out, voice high and strange in his ears. "Dear God, give me back my own body and my easy life. I learned my lesson!" His throat constricted, tears welling up. "I really appreciate all she does now, but I want my life back, please!" he pleaded into the quiet bedroom.

"Well, you have to wait nine months for that," came an eerie voice, whispering directly into his ear. Brian's breath caught in his throat and skin prickled with goosebumps as the voice continued, "You got a bit carried away last night, and now a new life has started in your—er, your wife's body." The voice seemed to circle him, though no one was there. "I can switch your souls back into your own bodies only after your baby is born. So, my friend," the voice concluded with what sounded almost like amusement, "I’m afraid you have to go through the entire pregnancy and birthing process in your wife’s body."

I hope you enjoyed this short story. Click to see the LIBRARY with my published books, you might find something that will interest you. 
Happy reading!

When a man criticizes a woman for being "too assertive and too masculine," he often reveals more about his own insecurities than any flaw in her character.
Women typically become assertive not by preference, but by necessity. Consider how a nurturing woman gradually transforms when circumstances leave her without support, she becomes the decision-maker, the protector, the manager of all things.
This shift isn't a betrayal of her nature but an adaptation to her reality. Her femininity hasn't vanished; it simply waits for the safety to reemerge.
A secure man understands this. Rather than feeling threatened by a strong woman, he recognizes how her strength complements his own. Instead of questioning her assertiveness, he creates conditions where she no longer needs armor, where her gentle femininity can flourish naturally alongside her strength.

What do you think? Tell me your opinion.

I got a text message from a young person, and it always make me feel old when I have to decode the abbreviations and symbols if I want to know what people under 30 are saying. 

So, this message included #67, yes, with a hashtag. Reading the entire message, I had a vague idea, but I did a little research. 

The mysterious #67
Or more precisely, “six seven.” It’s one of those viral internet phrases that exploded into meme culture and now gets tossed around like confetti, often without any fixed meaning. This is what I found:

The origin of “6-7” or #67
It started with a hip hop track called “Doot Doot (6 7)” by Skrilla, released in late 2024.

The lyric “6-7, I just bipped right on the highway” became a catchy soundbite.

TikTok and Instagram users began pairing it with videos of basketball players, especially LaMelo Ball, who happens to be 6'7".

How It Went Viral
The phrase became a meme thanks to its rhythmic vibe, hand gestures, and visual edits.

A kid yelling “six seven” at a basketball game went viral, earning him the nickname “67 Kid.”

Athletes, influencers, and even celebrities like Shaquille O’Neal started referencing it — often without knowing what it meant.

What Does It Mean?
Nothing... and everything. It’s a kind of digital shrug, a playful nonsense phrase.
People use it in response to random questions like:

“What time is it?” → “Six seven.”

“How tall are you?” → “Six seven.”

“What’s that?” → “Six seven.”

It’s become a flexible meme, used to convey awkwardness, confusion, or just to be in on the joke.

Symbolically Speaking
If we riff mythically for a moment, “67” could be seen as a liminal number, not quite 66, not quite 68, a threshold between meanings. It’s the kind of phrase that thrives in Gen Alpha’s meme culture: absurd, rhythmic, and communal.

In case you didn't know either, now you know.

I never decorate the apple pie the same way twice. Today, I cut the dough into crescent moons. I'm no culinary genius, but I do believe in keeping things natural, no preservatives, no chemicals, just real ingredients.
Sure, some pastry chefs might scoff at my back-to-basics approach, but I prefer to taste the sweetness and tartness of the apples not being overpowered by cinnamon and nutmeg.
Here is my recipe:

Dough ingredients:
2 cups of flour
1 stick butter plus 2 tbsp
1/4 cup sugar
2 tsp baking powder, 
1/2 tsp salt
2 egg yolks
4-5 tbsp sour cream

Filling:
4-5 large apples (my favorite is Honeycrisp)
About 1/2 cup sugar (depends on how sweet you like your pie)
A handful of yellow raisins
Cinnamon and lemon juice optional, I don't use either because it gives me heartburn
A handful of breadcrumbs


The dough:
Work the softened butter into the flour until it resembles coarse sand. Stir in sugar, baking powder, 2 egg yolks, and a pinch of salt. Add 3-4 tablespoons of sour cream, kneading gently. The dough should feel supple but not sticky; add more sour cream if needed. Wrap it and let it chill while you turn your attention to the filling.

The filling:
Take your apples, remove their skins, dig out the cores, and run them through a grater. A splash of lemon juice keeps them from browning. Let them rest for 10-15 minutes.
Set your oven to 350 degrees and let it warm while you prepare the filling.

Grease your pie dish with butter, then dust it lightly with flour. Divide your chilled dough in half. With your rolling pin, flatten the first portion to a quarter-inch thickness and smooth it into the dish. Pierce the bottom with a fork several times, then slide it into the oven for a brief 5-6 minutes. As it bakes, roll the remaining dough into a similar sheet.

Assemble your pie:
Dust the warm dough with breadcrumbs. Wring the juice from your grated apples, then spread them in an even layer across the bottom. Scatter half the sugar and a handful of raisins over the apples, and if you like cinnamon, add a dusting at this stage. Dot with small pieces of butter, about a tablespoon's worth. Add a second layer of drained apple gratings, another generous sprinkle of sugar, and finish with another tablespoon of butter, broken into small pieces across the apples.

Now comes the artistry:
Transform the second sheet of dough into whatever shapes delight you—stars, leaves, lattice strips—and arrange them across the filling. Whisk an egg yolk with a splash of cold water and paint this golden wash over your creation. Slide the pie into your preheated oven and wait for alchemy—about 20-25 minutes in my electric oven until the crust becomes burnished amber, though gas ovens may perform their magic more quickly.
Let me know how it turns out and share your recipe.

When I first began weaving stories, I didn’t set out to become a bridge between worlds. But somewhere between the Raven’s cry and the whisper of táltos spirits, I realized that folklore wasn’t just a backdrop, it was a living pulse beneath every word I wrote.

Hungarian mythology is rich with dualities: healing and curse, light and shadow, the known and the unknowable. It’s a tradition where horses fly, witches heal, and ancestral memory is carried in dreams. These motifs don’t just decorate my stories—they shape them.

In my fantasy novels, I blend these ancient symbols with modern dilemmas. A woman haunted by a generational curse might also be navigating grief in the digital age. A táltos child might be born into a world of science and skepticism yet still carry the echo of her heritage. This fusion of myth and modernity is where my fiction lives.

Why Folklore Matters
Folklore isn’t static. It evolves, just like we do. By placing Hungarian myth in contemporary settings, I invite readers to see their own lives through a symbolic lens. What if your recurring dream is a message from an ancestor? What if your chronic illness is a metaphor for a spiritual imbalance? These aren’t just plot devices—they’re invitations to reflect.

Writing Across Cultures
As a bilingual author, I’m constantly navigating between languages, cultures, and worldviews. My children’s books celebrate this fluidity—teaching values through stories that resonate across borders. My adult fiction dives deeper, exploring how myth can heal, challenge, and transform.

Whether I’m writing about a Raven spirit guide or a bullied child finding their voice, I’m always asking: What story wants to be told here?

Hungarian mythology in fiction

myth-inspired fiction

generational storytelling

bilingual children’s books

fiction with spiritual symbolism

Social media can be a double-edged sword for kids and teens: it offers connection and creativity but also opens the door to harmful influences like cyberbullying, unrealistic body standards, and addictive scrolling. Here’s a research-backed, emotionally intelligent approach parents can take:

1. Build a Strong Parent-Child Relationship
Emotional connection is the foundation. Teens with high-quality relationships with their parents show better mental health outcomes—even when exposed to social media.
Listen without judgment. Make sure your child feels heard and respected, especially when setting boundaries.

2. Set Clear Boundaries and Monitor Use
Time limits matter. Excessive screen time is linked to anxiety, poor sleep, and reduced self-esteem.
Use parental controls. Most platforms and devices offer tools to restrict content and monitor usage.
Avoid platforms that emphasize likes and endless scrolling. These features exploit developing brains’ craving for peer validation.

3. Have Ongoing, Honest Conversations
Start early. Kids as young as 8 may create secret accounts.
Talk regularly—not just once. Ask what they’re seeing, how it makes them feel, and what they think is appropriate.
Discuss both risks and benefits. Social media can offer community and self-expression, especially for kids with minority identities.

​I’m learning the “techno language” and for me, the best way to learn new words is to make up a story with them. 

I'm learning, but techno wizards, if I got something wrong, let me know in comments!

​Once upon a time, in the dazzling neon heart of Technotopia, a city where the clouds glimmered with code and the buildings pulsed with LEDs, there lived a princess who was unlike any who had come before. Her name was WiFi, and she was as clever as she was curious. Princess WiFi was the only child of Queen Upload and King Hyperlink, who had ruled the land with a gentle touch and a blazing-fast fiber connection.

​She was raised on bedtime stories of famous inventors, legendary hackers, and the daring deeds of open-source champions, and by the time she was ten, she had built her own operating system, still a little buggy, but hers all the same.
​
Where other princesses long past wore glass slippers, WiFi laced up battered sneakers scrawled with code in indelible marker; she abhorred tiaras, choosing instead headsets and custom circuit-board hairbands. The castle’s vast libraries held as many servers as books, and her most trusted companion was not a unicorn or magical rabbit, but a loyal drone named Pixel, whom she had rebuilt from the scraps of her failed 7th birthday weather balloon. Pixel followed her everywhere, hovering overhead as WiFi zipped through the palace halls, or waiting patiently outside classroom doors, sensors blinking in anticipation of the next adventure.

​Most days, WiFi could be found in her workshop atop the castle’s highest turret, soldering circuits or debugging her latest invention while gazing over the digital city below. She loved the hum of activity in Technotopia, the soft whir of electric scooters, the chatter of social feeds, and the gentle ping of notifications drifting up from the bustling squares. She loved her city, and her city loved her back, for she was a princess who listened, who fixed things, who remembered birthdays and always created the best memes.

But Technotopia ran on more than ingenuity and kindness. Its very life was powered by the Great Signal Tower, a radiant crystal spire at the city’s core that kept everyone connected. The Tower’s signals bound the city together, allowing the citizens of Technotopia to stream cartoons, send emojis, and order pineapple pizza (the royal favorite) with a single tap. People basked in the glow of uninterrupted connectivity, and even the city's pets had smart collars that could order their own treats.

Then, one strangely overcast morning, everything began to unravel. The Tower’s signal began to flicker. At first, it was only a hiccup, an animated sticker failing to load, a playlist that skipped a beat. But soon, the issues cascaded. Video calls froze midway through smiles, food delivery bots lost their way and spun in helpless circles, and no one, not even the Queen, could order pineapple pizza for lunch. The city murmured with confusion and then, slowly, with rising panic.

Princess WiFi watched from her turret as the world she loved blinked in and out of existence. She rushed to her parents’ throne room, where advisors were frantically waving their tablets, trying in vain to connect to the palace WiFi. King Hyperlink was already on his feet, blueprints unspooled at his side, and Queen Upload was tapping a sequence of emergency fail-safes into her armrest.

“It’s The Bug!” the king shouted. “He’s back!”

Everyone in the room drew a sharp breath, and the panic erupted. WiFi felt a jolt of determination. If the city was in trouble, it was her duty as a princess to fix it. She jammed her sneakers onto her feet, snapped on her favorite circuit-board hairband, and called Pixel. By the time Queen Upload could say a word, Princess WiFi was out the door, racing down the spiral stairs that led to the heart of the kingdom.

She zipped through the city on her hoverboard, dodging confused delivery bots and cars. As she passed the market square, she heard the grocer’s son mutter, “Probably just a bug,” but WiFi knew it was more than that. She’d seen the Tower’s diagnostic logs, the code was being tampered with from the inside. Someone, or something, was sabotaging the Great Signal.

By the time she reached the base of the Signal Tower, WiFi’s mind was already working through possible fixes and suspects. She slid behind a bank of servers and plugged in her diagnostic toolkit, fingers flying over her custom keyboard attached to her forearm. The logs confirmed her fears: a malicious program was devouring the bandwidth, rewriting code as fast as the engineers could patch it. And in the code, a signature she recognized instantly, a glitched, looping smiley face, the calling card of the mischievous Gremlin Glitch.

Princess WiFi’s sneakers squeaked against the crystalline floor of the Tower as she moved deeper through the tangled labyrinth of servers. The glow of the emergency lights lit her path, a stuttering staccato of red and blue. Pixel the drone zipped ahead, scanning the air for traces of interference, leaving a trail of faint green as its sensors probed the network. The closer WiFi got to the center, the more her own skin prickled with static. She could smell the fried circuits, and the air itself seemed thick with the sticky residue of corrupted codes.

She ducked into the main control chamber just in time to see chaos itself, personified and shrieking, swinging from a mass of fiberoptic cables: Gremlin Glitch. He was smaller than she remembered, shaped like a half-erased emoji, with jittery limbs and a mouth that glitched in and out of a perpetual giggle. Wherever he touched the code, it twisted and mutated. Half-written emails sending themselves, photos swapping faces, even the weather displays blinking between sunny and snowstorm every few seconds. The engineers had long since abandoned the room, overwhelmed by the mess of contradictory instructions and pop-up windows that spiraled across every available screen.

WiFi observed Gremlin for a moment, noting the patterns in his mischief. He’d always been a worthy adversary, but this wasn’t malice. This was boredom, a desperate hunger for acknowledgement. She watched as Glitch paused, mid-sabotage, to admire his own reflection in a polished terminal, sticking out his tongue to see if it would appear twice, which, thanks to his code, it did. He was a digital trickster, unpredictable but not unkind. For the first time, WiFi wondered if he simply wanted a friend.

Instead of launching the counter virus she’d prepared, WiFi called out over the din. “Hey, Glitch! You ever try Capture the Bug?”

Glitch froze, one hand inside a junction box, the other tangled around a spool of blinking wire. His eyes oscillated, then focused on her. “Not allowed games. You chased me last time.”

“That was Tag,” said WiFi, sidling closer. “This one’s different. You have to work with me. First to find and patch the real root bug wins.”

Glitch tilted his head, considering. “What’s the prize?”

“Winner gets to name the new update,” said WiFi, knowing full well that Gremlin Glitch couldn’t resist having his name immortalized in the city’s system. From the way his static-charged grin widened, she knew she’d baited the hook well.

Pixel chirped, dropping a tiny data drive into WiFi’s palm. The two adversaries squared off, fingers poised above their respective terminals. The air hummed with anticipation as they dove into a high-speed game of Code & Catch, chasing each other through layers of encryption, setting digital traps, leapfrogging across corrupted platforms. WiFi watched as Glitch darted through the Tower’s memory, leaving behind trails of harmless pranks, rainbow text, upside-down menus, but none of the sabotage that had plagued the city. In fact, he seemed to be learning, improvising, even correcting some of his old exploits as they moved deeper into the network’s core.

They reached the mainframe’s heart at the same time. Here, the true villain revealed itself: a legacy bug, ancient and bloated, forgotten by generations of engineers. Glitch recoiled in horror as the thing writhed in the code, threatening to consume everything. For a second, he faltered, but WiFi grabbed his hand, and together they wrote a patch on the fly, their code weaving in and around each other like a dance. They beat the bug, barely, locking it away in a quarantine folder guarded by a thousand smiling emojis.

The moment the signal stabilized, the city erupted into spontaneous celebration. All at once, Technotopia’s screens burst to life: neon marquees flashed THANK YOU, delivery bots resumed their rounds, and pineapple pizzas flew from ovens so quickly that the royal kitchens ran out of dough. Everyone cheered, but no one louder than the engineers who had witnessed the impossible. Gremlin Glitch not only neutralized but converted.

WiFi looked at her former nemesis. “You fixed half the Tower. What do you want to call the patch?”

Glitch fidgeted, suddenly bashful. “Couldn’t do it alone. Let’s call it ‘Friendship Update.’”

WiFi grinned wider than she ever had before. “I love it.”

That night, the kingdom hosted the most extravagant festival. The streets bloomed with QR-code confetti, and the sky was alive with Pixel’s aerial lightshow of blinking hearts and looping infinity signs drawn in pixel-perfect arcs above the palace. Everyone wore LED bracelets synced to the city’s heartbeat, which pulsed with warmth that even the oldest citizens admitted they’d never felt before. WiFi and Glitch stood side by side on the royal balcony, sharing a victory slice of pineapple pizza as a thousand drones spelled out their names against the dark.
When the music faded and the crowd gathered for the closing speech, Princess WiFi stepped forward, her voice amplified across every speaker in Technotopia. The city fell silent, eager to hear their heroine.

“My friends, thank you for trusting me, for trusting each other, and for reminding me that the best part of being a princess isn’t ruling the kingdom, it’s connecting it.”

The applause was instant, thunderous, and a little bit teary. Somewhere above, the Great Signal Tower glimmered with a new symbol: two hands joined together in a clasp.
​
Technotopia stayed connected from that day forward, not just by Princess WiFi, but by friendship, ingenuity, and occasionally a few heart pop-ups that nobody ever bothered to fix.

I whisper to the stars, let this wish take flight,
For every reader out there, seeking love and light.
Let their hearts be open, let their spirits soar,
As they dive into my stories, I wish nothing more.

I get many contact messages on my website, most of them are offering publishing or marketing services, and occasionally, dating or even marriage proposals. Go figure!

The messages I truly appreciate are the ones when readers tell me how they feel about my writing. Some readers like to voice their opinion in the form of book reviews on selling sites, and others prefer to contact the author.
I copied some of these messages that are truly special and personal!

Katherine
"Dear Erika. The Mischiefs of Noodles and Cicada is a delightful children’s story that gently explores the ups and downs of friendship. Through Noodles’ loyalty and Cicada’s mischievous antics, you’ve woven a playful yet meaningful tale that highlights forgiveness and compassion, even in the face of mistakes. It’s a charming reminder for young readers that kindness and understanding are the true heart of lasting friendship."

Olivia
"I recently came across your book Fake It Till You Make It, and what an absolute gem it is. The way you compare life to a simmering stew layered with heartbreak, compromise, love, and growth is as poetic as it is deeply human. Nancy and Bruce's story felt like sitting at a cozy corner of life itself, witnessing two flawed yet endearing souls discover something extraordinary in each other. But what truly captivated me was the soul behind the pen you. Reading your bio, I felt moved by your journey from a hidden reader, flipping through Dumas behind textbooks, to an author with such incredible range from magical realism to bilingual children's books. Your life and work radiate empathy, creativity, and a deep sense of purpose. It’s rare and refreshing."

Mike
Dear Erika, Congratulations on Dark Clouds and Pretty Rainbows a beautifully layered collection that captures the full spectrum of human emotion, from joyful absurdity to quiet sorrow. Your stories read like painted vignettes: intimate, insightful, and profoundly real. In a literary world oversaturated with high concept, your work offers something readers crave authenticity with heart. Your background in both art and healthcare adds incredible depth to these vignettes. Whether readers are laughing at Steve’s sweet clumsiness, reflecting on the tenderness of family, or shedding a tear over the darker corners of life, your stories leave a mark."

Margaret
"Dear Ms. Szabo. First of all, I loved your stories in the What if anthology. I'm a visual reader, and the way you write makes it so easy to see the characters and scenes in my mind. But more importantly, I discovered a treasure trove of books on your website when I tapped on the link in the eBook. You are a prolific writer! I just ordered your novels and a few children's books to fill up the Christmas stockings."

Diana
"In the early hours of the morning, I heard the most beautiful piano music I’ve ever heard!!! It plays at the end of each segment in a video advertisement for your website. I am curious to read your creations, as that beautiful music haunts me even now. I would hope to learn to play it myself!! Thanks!! Can’t wait to read one of your books!"

Carla
"When I first read The Ancestors' Secrets back in 2014, you misspelled the word "made" to "maed" and ever since, I caught myself a few times writing it with the wrong spelling. It made me laugh every time the autocorrect flagged it and reminded me of Ilona. I just finished reading the story for the second time, and let me tell you, I enjoyed it even more. I searched for "maed" but it seems it's been corrected. Thank you for giving me a few hours very enjoyable escape from reality!"

Carol
Hello, I've found your books in a catalog that the author I like posted on Facebook, and I've read one of your ebooks about the Egyptian prince. Your storytelling is amazing! I want to spend my gift card buying the paperback book that has the seven stories, the ancestors' secret series, and three of your children's books for my granddaughter. But would you mind answering a few questions before I spend all that money? In your stories, are there any: Transgenders, abusive and same-gender or kinky sex scenes? Are your children's books about boys and girls and not those theybabies? Thank you so much, Carol"

Thank you all from the bottom of my heart!

Many influencers feel relevant because their platforms reward visibility and engagement. When a creator garners attention, likes, and brand collaborations, it provides tangible validation that their voice holds weight in a particular space.

It’s not entirely misguided—social influence is real, and when wielded responsibly, it can spark trends, shift consumer behavior, and raise awareness on global issues.

But here’s the catch: that relevance is often built on algorithms and audience attention spans, both of which are famously fickle.

The fragile scaffolding of influencer fame:
Influencer fame, especially that which emerges quickly or virally, can be incredibly fragile.

Algorithm Dependency:
Platforms like Instagram, TikTok, and YouTube prioritize fresh content and ever-changing trends. One tweak to an algorithm can bury a creator's reach overnight.

Audience Fatigue:
What once felt novel can quickly become repetitive. Viewers may move on to the next voice, aesthetic, or niche.

Brand Fickleness:
Collaborations can vanish if an influencer falls out of favor or is deemed too risky or passé.

Public Scrutiny:
The internet has a long memory but a short temper. One misstep—intentional or not—can unravel years of goodwill.

Fame versus influence:
There’s a crucial distinction between being famous and being influential. Fame is often visibility without permanence; influence can last longer when it’s built on authenticity, trust, or expertise. Some creators do transition into long-term relevance—think podcast hosts, authors, or activists who evolve with their audience rather than chase trends.

Who gets to tell the story, and how long people keep listening—that’s where the real influence lives.

​The man's tears fell onto the dog's fur as he held his loyal companion.
It had been a spur-of-the-moment decision for the man to visit the animal shelter that day. He had been feeling particularly low and thought that spending some time with animals might help lift his spirits. As soon as he walked into the shelter, he was greeted by a cacophony of barks and meows.
But then he saw the dog sitting quietly in its kennel, looking up at him with soulful eyes. He felt an instant connection with the dog. He knew right then that he had to adopt it, but at first, he was hesitant. He didn't know much about caring for dogs, and he wasn't sure if he would be able to handle the responsibility. But the shelter staff assured him that Pepper was gentle and easygoing, perfect for someone looking for emotional support.

So, after filling out all the necessary paperwork and undergoing a brief home check, the man brought home his new best friend.
In the beginning, it was a bit of an adjustment for both of them. The dog, who had spent most of its days in a shelter, was now being introduced to a warm and loving home for the first time in its life. And the man was learning how to take care of this beautiful creature who seemed to sense his every emotion.
As days went by, their bond grew stronger as they got used to each other's routines and habits. The dog quickly became attuned to the man's mood, sensing when he needed comfort or when he just wanted some space.

Whenever the man felt overwhelmed with his depression or anxiety, he would turn to his dog for support. Pepper would rest its head on his lap or nuzzle against him until he calmed down. It was like having a constant source of love and understanding by his side. The man also found himself opening up more to the dog than anyone else in his life. He would tell the dog all his fears, worries, and doubts without any fear of being judged or pitied.

He remembered the time when he had lost his job and felt like his whole world was crashing down. He had sat on the couch, feeling defeated and hopeless, when the dog came and curled up next to him. Its warmth and presence were enough to make him feel better.

Then there was the time when his doctor tried to find the right medication to control his panic attacks, he had gone through a tough time. He cried himself to sleep every night, but the dog would lie next to him, offering silent support until he fell asleep. The man realized that the dog had been his emotional support long before it became an official therapy animal. Its natural instinct to offer comfort and love was exactly what he needed during those difficult times.

The bond between them only grew stronger with each passing day. The man found himself relying on the dog more than ever, not just for emotional support but also as a source of joy and happiness.

Together, they would go for walks in the park, play fetch in their backyard, or simply cuddle up on the couch watching TV. The man couldn't imagine his life without this furry friend who had brought so much love into it.

And as they continued their journey together, both man and dog knew that they had found something special in each other - a bond that could never be broken.

But now, as he sobbed into Pepper’s fur, he knew that their time together was limited. The vet had just given him the heartbreaking news that the dog's condition was terminal, and it would only be a matter of weeks before it passed away.

Through tears and sobs, the man whispered words of love and gratitude to the dog, thanking it for being there for him when no one else was. As they sat together in silence, their bond grew even stronger, knowing that they were both there for each other until the very end. As he wiped away his tears, the man made a promise to always be there for this loyal companion who had never left his side. And with that thought in mind, he hugged the dog tightly once again.

The man knew that no matter what happened in life, this dog would always hold a special place in his heart for being more than just a pet, but a true emotional support companion who had changed his life forever.
​#anxiety #emotionalsupport #animal #dog #companion

During the time of the pharaohs, the people of Egypt savored a rich and diverse culinary culture that was as intricate as the hieroglyphs adorning their temple walls.

Bread, a cornerstone of their daily sustenance, was crafted from the hearty grains of emmer wheat and barley, forming dense loaves that were both nourishing and flavorful. The air was often filled with the sweet aroma of baking bread, a scent that intertwined with the vibrant flavors of the land.

Their tables were also graced with a colorful array of fruits, including the lush, honeyed sweetness of figs, the chewy, caramel-like richness of dates, and the jewel-toned burst of tartness from pomegranates. Each bite offered a taste of the fertile Nile valley, embodying the richness of the earth and the bounty of their civilization.​

In ancient Egypt, meat was regarded as a luxury, typically reserved for the affluent elite who indulged in sumptuous options such as beef, poultry, and fish. These proteins, savored by the privileged few, were complemented by a variety of vegetables, with onions, garlic, and leeks frequently enhancing their dishes with rich, aromatic flavors.

To satisfy their sweet tooth, honey was the preferred sweetener, adding a natural sweetness to their desserts and culinary creations. Meanwhile, during lively festivities, the Egyptians brewed beer, a staple beverage that added to the joyous ambiance. Overall, the ancient Egyptian diet was a harmonious blend of diverse grains, juicy fruits, vibrant vegetables, and nourishing proteins, reflecting a well-balanced approach to nutrition.

A powerful curse cast thousands of years ago by the Grand Vizier. Tanakhmet cursed Prince Akhmose to never enter the Field of Reeds, the heavenly paradise. Why did he want him to linger as a restless ghost among the living, forever?
By reading the hieroglyphs, Layla, a young Egyptologist, inadvertently breaks the curse and frees the ghosts of both Prince Akhmose and the Grand Vizier whose thirst for revenge is stronger than ever.
With Layla’s help, can Prince Akhmose finally cross into the afterlife?
Or perhaps, because of the charms of the mortal woman, he doesn’t want to…

The deafening rumble of powerful engines echoed through the stillness of the night as the Panthers rode their Harleys through town toward their favorite bar. The moon, full and luminous, hung low in the sky, casting an eerie glow on the rugged faces of the riders. Their leather-clad bodies were silhouetted against the darkness, their tattoos and scars illuminated by the moon’s pale light.
With practiced ease, they killed the engines and dismounted their bikes. Raven, the gang’s robust leader, took off his helmet and shook his head. His long, jet-black hair swung to his back, covering the black panther painting on his leather jacket. “I’ll go through the back door,” he said, turning to his second in command, Jackal, his voice sounding deeper than a panther’s purr. “I need to talk to Pedro.”
Jackal let out a deep, guttural grunt. He was a tall, lanky man with dark hair and a scruffy beard. His voice was rough and strained, the result of a brutal bar fight that left his vocal cords permanently damaged. He hated speaking, the sound of his own voice reminding him of the painful incident. And he cringed at the thought of his friends jokingly telling others, “You should’ve seen the other guy!” The guilt of knowing that he had caused someone to lose his life in the fight weighed heavily on Jackal’s conscience. Although not his fault, the drunk man attacked him cutting his throat and he acted in defense, the man died hitting his head on the pool table when Jackal pushed him away. The memory still haunted him like a shadow that he could never escape.
Stubby, the compact and sturdy member of the gang, let out a deep exhalation. “I hope he has some good news for us,” he said, his voice laced with tension. “It’s been two days since we heard the Hyenas had crossed the border with a new shipment, and we still don’t know where their hiding place is.”
Raven let out a heavy sigh as he approached the corner of the building. Each step caused small pebbles to crunch under his sturdy boots.
As he peeked through the open back door, Raven spotted his informant hunched over the sink. He motioned to him discreetly, and Pedro nodded in response, quickly glancing around to ensure they were not being watched. With cautious movements, Pedro made his way toward the door, holding onto a large garbage bag.
Raven waited for him behind the garbage container. “Did you find out?” he asked the fidgety man.
Growing up in the vibrant streets of Mexico, Pedro was all too familiar with the dangerous activities of human trafficker gangs, called hyenas. His cousin had been pressuring him to join their gang since he was just a teenager, promising him a life of wealth and power. But when he met Maria, she showed him that there was another way out - a chance to escape poverty and break free from a life of crime. Together, they bravely crossed the treacherous border and made their way to a small town in America where they found jobs and rented an apartment in the bustling Latino community. Pedro kept his ears open and listened closely as drunkards at the local bar spoke about the dark dealings of the notorious gangs. He knew he had made the right choice by following Maria, and now he was determined to make a better life for both of them while helping others who didn’t see a way out.
“I heard that there is an abandoned house about five miles from here deep in the woods,” Pedro whispered, his eyes darting nervously toward the door. “I’m not sure if the gang is hiding there or not, but I know that the guy who talked about the house is their connection on the US side. He takes care of the sales. He was well liquored up on tequila and kept blubbering about the house and that the family who lived there a hundred years ago were killed.”
“It’s possible,” Raven mused, his voice low and gravelly. “Thanks for the information, Pedro. You’re one step closer to joining us.” He raised his fist for a bump, sealing their partnership with a resounding thud.
The stocky man’s face beaming with joy hurried back to the kitchen.
Raven entered the bar through the front door and found his gang at their usual table in the far corner. “We have a possible location. Finish your drinks and let’s get going.” Raven informed his comrades.
The five members of the Panthers understood the gravity and urgency of their mission - to rescue innocent teenagers and young children from the clutches of ruthless human traffickers, who sought to sell them as commodities for sexual exploitation.
With fierce determination in their eyes, they raced toward the abandoned house on the outskirts of town, their roaring engines leaving a trail of dust and adrenaline in their wake. Although people in town were used to their presence, and they never heard anything bad about them, the fear that something might happen always left them with unease when they heard the roaring engines.
The scent of gasoline and leather lingered in the air, adding to the intensity of their presence and the darkness seemed to part before them as if even nature itself knew not to stand in their way. As they reached the dirt road in the woods, Raven raised his hand in a commanding gesture, signaling for his comrades to halt.
With practiced ease, they killed the engines, dismounted their bikes, and hid them in the thick bushes.
“We go the last mile on foot,” Raven instructed his men. “No guns, until we’re forced to use them,” he said.
“Fists and knives,” Stubby added, and the group murmured in agreement.
They moved forward with silent, calculated steps. The air was heavy with anticipation and danger, each member acutely aware of the risk they were taking. As they crept closer, shadows seemed to dance around them, adding to the sense of danger.
With firm determination in their eyes and weapons at the ready, their hearts burned with righteous anger, knowing that they were the only hope for these helpless souls. Since they were honorably discharged from the armed forces six years ago, at first, they had a hard time adjusting to civilian life. Later, Raven and Jackle opened a car repair shop, Doc became a veterinarian. Pokerface, the always stoical looking yet highly emotional friend opened a Dojo and taught self-defense.
The air was thick with tension and adrenaline as they prepared to put an end to this heinous operation. They spotted a large van parked in the clearing as they cautiously approached the rundown house. Its black exterior blended with the night sky, but its chrome bumpers glistened in the moonlight. Crouching low, they peered from behind the vehicle to see a guard stationed by the door. His posture was tense as he held a sleek machine gun at the ready. In the flickering light streaming from a nearby window, they could hear faint sounds of children crying and men shouting from inside the house. The hair on their necks prickled with a sense of danger and urgency as they plotted their next move.
Jackal glanced at Raven, who gave a subtle nod of approval. The lanky man dropped to his hands and knees, moving with the grace and precision of a stalking animal. He slinked through the shadows, keeping his body low and silent as he crept towards the unsuspecting guard.
When he was within a few feet of the man, Stubby made a slight noise by tossing a small rock toward the corner of the house. The guard, startled by the sound, turned his head in that direction. Taking advantage of the distraction, Jackal sprang forward with lightning speed and wrapped his arms around the guard’s neck in a chokehold. With his other large hand covering the guard’s mouth and nose, he effectively silenced any potential screams for help.
Without hesitation, the rest of the bikers sprang into action. In a flurry of movement and precision, they made their way silently to the door. Doc, whose occupation as a veterinarian had provided him with some interesting skills, quickly punctured the guard’s neck with the needle attached to a syringe filled with a powerful animal tranquilizer. As his body went limp, Jackal eased him down against the wall while Stubby secured his wrists and ankles with strong duct tape. The operation had gone flawlessly so far, but they knew they still had to move quickly and quietly to ensure their actions inside just as smoothly.
Guns at the ready, their eyes flicked to Raven for a signal. With a swift kick, he sent the door crashing off its hinges and tumbling into the vast room with a resounding thud. The six men, dressed in sleek black leather outfits, poured into the space like an unstoppable force. Inside, three burly men stood guard over a group of frightened children, their hands reaching for their weapons but halted by Raven’s firm voice. “Game over, boys. Hands up!” The tension in the air was palpable as the two groups faced off, guns pointed and hearts racing.
With a fierce cry, one of the men launched himself at Raven, only to be met with the hard metal of his gun hitting the man between his brows. The heavily tattooed man crumpled to the floor, dazed and defeated. Stubby wasted no time in springing into action, deftly pulling out the roll of duct tape from his pocket. The other two men looked on, wide-eyed and fear evident in their rapid Spanish chatter. Raven calmly gestured towards them, and his men moved quickly to hold them down while Stubby skillfully bound their hands and feet with the tape, rendering them immobile and powerless. Every move was executed with precision and efficiency, a testament to their years of training.
Pokerface towered over the two bandits, listening to their pleas for mercy in rapid Spanish. They were sweating and shaking, their eyes wide with terror as they begged for their freedom. But Pokerface only chuckled, causing the men to stop and stare at him in confusion. “No, boys,” he said firmly, his voice laced with amusement. “The town’s sheriff won’t be giving you a free pass. In fact, he will never see you.” The men’s faces fell in despair as they realized their fate. “Yes, you’re going back home,” Pokerface declared with his usual stoic face and neutral voice.
The bandits’ pleas became more frantic, but the gang paid them no mind. “I know,” Doc had enough and said calmly. “The prisons back there are hardly five-star hotels. And who knows if you’ll even make it there alive.” He shrugged nonchalantly as if their potential death sentence meant nothing to him. “But hey, you knew the risks when you took up a life of crime. We have no sympathy for you.”
As the bandits continued to plead and beg, Doc’s attention shifted to Raven who had approached a group of children. Despite the tense situation at hand, his face was gentle as he spoke to the young ones, offering them comfort and safety in the chaos surrounding them.
The eight young children, boys and girls, from ages three to nine huddled together in the corner of the dimly lit room. Their eyes were wide with fear as they watched the strange, scary-looking men in front of them wearing leather outfits with black panthers painted on the back of their jackets. The sound of their heavy footsteps echoed off walls, causing the children to shrink further into the corner. Raven crouched down before them with a reassuring smile on his face. As he spoke calmly in Spanish, the children’s faces softened, and they began to relax. Trust slowly crept into their eyes as Raven promised to get them home safely.
With a sense of determination, Raven stood up and dialed his contact in Mexico. “We have four hyenas and eight young children,” he spoke rapidly in Spanish. After receiving instructions from his contact, Raven turned to the children and smiled again. “You’re going home,” he assured them. Despite their fear and confusion, the children couldn’t help but feel hopeful as they followed Raven out of the dark room and toward safety.
***
A decade had passed since Pedro joined them and the Panthers gathered around their usual table in their favorite bar. Time had etched deep wrinkles around their eyes and peppered their hair with streaks of grey, but their spirits were still as strong as ever. They sat together, discussing their latest, successful mission, when Raven let out a heavy sigh. “It’s never going to end,” he said wearily. “We take one gang out, and in no time, another one pops up to take their place.”
The others nodded sadly in agreement, lost in their own thoughts, when a young man and woman approached their table. The man had a wide smile on his round face and held tightly onto the woman’s hand. “My name is Juan, and this is my wife, Alejandra,” he introduced himself with genuine warmth.
Raven gestured for them to have a seat at their table. As they sat down, Juan continued speaking. “You may not remember us, but we will never forget you,” he said, tears glistening in his eyes. “Ten years ago, you rescued us not far from here. Thanks to your help, we were reunited with our families in Mexico.” His voice shook with emotion as he spoke.
The bikers looked at each other questioningly, unsure of who these strangers were until Juan explained further. “We were just kids when you saved us,” he said, looking at each of the weathered faces before him. “Because of you, we have grown up in our families.” He paused for a moment before adding, “Because of you, instead of being a sex slave of the rich, I’m going to start medical school in the fall with my fiancée. Thank you for all that you do!”
As they listened to Juan’s words and saw the gratitude shining in his eyes, Raven and his men shared a silent exchange that conveyed without words: it was worth it. All of the struggles and sacrifices they faced as members of the Panthers gang were worth it to see the positive impact, they had on the children’s lives they saved.
Raven sighed and with a smile on his face reached across the table and held Juan’s hand. “Just don’t tell anyone about this, son. We can only do this if we stay in the background.”
People in town viewed them as bored middle-aged men having fun riding their Harleys and getting drunk in the bar. If only they knew what they did and were not expecting any reward or recognition, these unsung heroes would be celebrated by many. 

In 2017, I started this blog with a group of fellow authors, but in 2019, the group fell apart, and everyone went their separate ways. I continued to post occasionally on my own, but it wasn't the same without the camaraderie, so I stopped updating the blog in 2022.

I was pleasantly surprised to see that it still had a strong following in 2024. People continue to visit and read the old posts. After bringing it up to the anthology writer's group, some of us decided to resume the group project.

#OurAuthorGang is a diverse group of writers from around the world, united by their love of literature and support for each other's creative endeavors, and each member brings their unique style and voice to the group.

#OurAuthorGang is not just a name or hashtag - it represents a community built on mutual respect, creativity, and passion for storytelling. The members may come from different backgrounds and cultures, but they are connected by their shared love for books and their determination to make an impact through their writing.
This diverse group showcases the power of collaboration and the potential it has to elevate individuals and create something truly special.

We post something new six or seven days a week: 
https://asmallgangofauthors.blogspot.com/p/gallery.html

Sundays: Book Sunday
Mondays: Campfire stories
Tuesdays: Flash fiction stories
Wednesdays: Video Day
Thursdays: Guest Authors
Fridays; Short story day
Saturdays: Poetry and author introductions

Watch videos on our new YouTube channel: 
https://www.youtube.com/@WeWriteStories4You where Lorraine reads stories such as this one:

Join our Facebook group: 
https://www.facebook.com/groups/stories4you where we have contests and discussions.

​The headlights of the police vehicle cut through the gloom, creating ripples of shadow and light through the trees. Officer Angela Devon, a tall, athletic woman in her late twenties pulled up behind the silver car. With the headlights off, it was parked on the side of the winding road that ran through the middle of the dense forest.
“This is Officer Devon, pulling up at the location now,” she spoke into her radio, peering through the windshield. “There is a car here, and according to the GPS locator, the call came from two hundred yards away in the woods.” She said, hoping it was just a prank call made by bored teenagers, but until she knew for sure, she wouldn’t leave. Not if there was even the slightest possibility that someone was in trouble.
“Copy that,” the dispatcher’s voice crackled through the receiver, followed by a short burst of static. “I’ll be on standby if you need backup. Over.”
Angela cut the engine and turned off the headlights. She leaned back against the headrest with a sigh. Without the headlights on, the forest seemed to be closing in on her in the eerie light of the full moon, darkness spilling out through the branches.
She grabbed the flashlight from the glove compartment, switched it on, and then pushed open the driver’s side door and climbed out slamming the car door closed behind her. The large bluish-white beam flooded the trees in front of her, creating ghostly shadows in her peripheral vision.
She really did not want to be there, but she was the only officer on duty who had been able to answer the call. Her partner’s wife went into labor, and nobody was available to take his place for the night shift. In their small town, way up in the mountains, and a small department with only a handful of officers, it wasn’t unusual for the officers to answer calls alone. 
“Let’s just get this over with,” Angela muttered under her breath.
The 911 call that had come in had been an odd one, to say the least. A woman crying for help, saying she was being followed by someone she couldn’t see. In the background, the operator could hear footsteps thudding in the distance, and heavy breathing, but that was all. The phone went silent before she could give a location, but they had managed to trace the area where the call had been made. In the forest by a country road a few miles from town, the caller identified herself as Bella Mason, a twenty-four-year-old clerk at the local hotel. Why would a young woman be out here alone, in the middle of the night? Perhaps meeting someone in secret, Angela thought, and only hoped she’d lost her phone, and whoever found it made the prank call, rather than being anything serious. 
Hefting her flashlight into the other hand, she made sure she had her radio, taser, and Glock within reach and stepped into the forest.
Given that the location had been out of town, and it had taken twenty minutes to get there, Angela had no idea where the woman might be. She was only one person, and she wouldn’t be able to search the entire forest on her own, but she would do her best to follow any tracks that she could find. She wouldn’t leave until she was confident nothing bad had taken place.
Twigs and underbrush crunched under her feet as she moved between the trees, shining her flashlight in a wide arc. Bugs flitted around her, attracted by the glow, but she paid them no mind, other than occasionally brushing a mosquito off her cheek. Despite the cool night, it was humid beneath the canopy of trees, and a bead of sweat trickled down the back of her neck, making the collar of her uniform stick to her skin.
The woman on the phone had raggedly gasped out ‘Bella Mason’ when the operator had asked for her name, so that’s what Angela began to call out, her voice echoing through the forest.
“Bella Mason! I’m a police officer responding to your 911 call.” 
She winced when the sound bounced between the trees, the echo growing strange and distorted. She didn’t like the thought of attracting the attention of anyone—or anything—that might be hiding in the shadows, but there was no other way she could go about it. She had to hope that Bella heard her somehow and could give Angela a clue as to where she was.
Seriously though, what was she doing out here in the middle of the night?
“Bella! Bella, are you out here?” She continued to call out as she traversed through the trees, brushing branches and silky moth wings out of her face. “Bella! It’s the police. I’m here to help.”
Nearing the approximate spot where the call came from, the deeper into the forest she went, the quieter it got. She could no longer hear the sound of small rodents and insects scurrying in the undergrowth, or nightbirds ruffling their feathers high up in the trees. Even the wind had fallen still, no longer rustling the leaves. There was only her own labored breathing, and the soft crunch of her boots against the fallen twigs on the ground.
It was almost like walking in the graveyard at night. Everything was so still, so quiet. Angela felt nervous about disturbing the silence, but she quickly shook that thought away. She was there to answer a distress call, which meant she had a job to do. 
She cleared her throat and wiped away the perspiration that beaded her forehead. “Bella! If you can hear me, please answer.”
As the echo faded into silence, Angela thought she heard the faint sound of footsteps behind her. Soft, spongy, like someone walking barefoot in the sand.
She turned, swinging her flashlight in the direction of the noise. “Bella? Is that you?”
She saw a fleeting shadow by a wide tree from the corner of her eye, and Angela felt a shiver of fear twisting her stomach. If it was Bella, she would have answered. Had I merely imagined it? “Who’s there?” She croaked out the words, and suddenly, her mouth and throat felt dry. She swallowed hard and felt the flashlight slipping from the sweat that was accumulating in her palms. 
Get a grip, there’s nobody out here but me and perhaps Bella, if it’s not a prank. And don’t be a scaredy cat. Your eyes just played a trick on you with that shadow.
When it was clear there was nobody there, Angela turned around and continued walking, though now the darkness and fluctuation of light from her flashlight was making her disoriented, and she couldn’t remember which way the road was.
“Don’t get lost now,” she muttered and debated calling for backup but decided against it. The station was short-staffed as it was, and she didn’t want to rob the town of help if a real emergency occurred. She could handle this on her own.
She paused for a minute and took a few deep breaths to compose herself. She probably should have come up with a plan before charging blindly into the forest, but she didn’t normally have to deal with calls like this without her partner, and she felt a little out of her depth. 
Trying to think rationally, she asked herself the question: If Bella thought she was being followed, what would she do?
Running was the first answer. If she could find a place somewhere safe, then she would probably hide. But where was there to hide in a forest like this?
Angela looked around, shining her flashlight over the ground. If she ran, there would be traces. Footprints. The ground was spongy and damp, and when Angela looked behind her, she could see evidence of her own boots treading through the soil. If Bella had run through here, there would be footprints left behind. She just had to find them. She was so wrapped up in her trail of thought that she barely noticed she was no longer alone.
Continue reading in the book HERE

The sun was just about to set as eight-year-old Mary Jane Eden watched its golden rays spread over the azure waters surrounding Grand Cayman as if to illuminate and warm the sea. She smiled and felt at ease as she sat in her weather-beaten rocker on the second floor of Pedro St. James Castle.  It had the best views on the island—it always did, that was until it had fallen into ruin in the 1950s. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky this late September evening. The mahogany wooden floor creaked as she rocked back and forth. The grounds people had left for the day—she knew their routine, after all, she’d been here since 1877. Since that time, she was bound to the property when she was struck by lightning on the steps of the plantation house as she and her brother went to fetch water in some buckets.
Before that, the castle was one of Grand Cayman’s most important historical properties, a place where democracy had taken place back in 1831 and later the governor of Jamaica had proclaimed the end of slavery in the British Empire. The three-story structure resembled that of a plantation solidly built with stone walls 18 inches thick. It was originally built by slaves and William Eden and his family resided there until his daughter was killed by a freak lightning strike during a tropical storm. It was then the family decided to move, leaving the castle to be later occupied as a bar and a restaurant, but only to become victim to two mysterious fires. The seven-and-a-half-acre property is surrounded by colorful bougainvillea and opulent poinciana trees.
The tourists had been sparse lately and Mary Jane wondered who would show up tomorrow. Maybe someone who would want to stay, maybe stay longer than the usual tour. Every day gave her new hope.
She wandered around the three-tier plantation checking to see if anyone was still there. She peered out of the thick louvered shutters once again checking the night sky for any hint of a storm. She went from room to room twirling around in her long white tattered dress. She decided to sit on the wooden rocking horse in one of the main bedrooms. It was a special gift she treasured from her father one Christmas. She rocked away until she became very sleepy.
***
“Now please, please, stay with your guide,” Mrs. Taylor urged. “If you get lost then it will reflect on Grand Island Elementary and we’ll never get an invitation to come back to visit,” she said, her tone firm.
She had been taking her sixth-grade class to Pedro St. James Castle for the past seven years on a field trip. It was scheduled every year by the principal urging local students and expat parents to work on the island to learn the history of the structure.
Mrs. Taylor tried to settle her students in hopes of gaining their interest, instead of posting videos on social media.
“Students, as you know in 1831 this island signed its first democracy papers and the government had been formed,” raved a tall elderly man who was the main docent for the tour. “My name is Mr. Dalton. You will first watch a movie on the history of the castle in our large theater room and then we will begin our live tour. And please remember to have your phones muted or turned off during the presentation.”
The students were all seated in the theater then the lights went out. There was only blackness as the big screen rolled down from the ceiling. A few of Mrs. Taylor’s students began to scream, but it was mostly the girls.
“Ssh!” Mrs. Taylor hissed, putting her finger up to her lips. 
“But, Mrs. Taylor, I’m scared, and I don’t like this place!” Jessa Franklin said, clinging to her teacher’s arm.
Dana Benson had her arm around Jessa, being they had been best friends since first grade. “It’s okay, Jessa. It’s just a movie.”
“I can walk her outside, Mrs. Taylor,” offered one of the parent volunteers.
“I’ll be okay, Mrs. Taylor,” Jessa said softly. “I’m going to be brave.”
“The movie will be over soon and then we’ll be out in the sunshine,” Mrs. Taylor assured. “You’ll feel better then.”
The movie began with the portrayal of the beautiful grounds that surrounded the castle as Robert Thompson, the governor from Jamaica held court inside where he issued a proclamation that ended slavery in the British Empire. Outside dark skies rolled in and thunder boomed as a fleet of pirate ships came ashore only to be met with an intense thunderstorm that now caused the castle to be shed in an eerie light. The loud booms caused the entire theater room to vibrate due to a state-of-the-art surround sound system. A misting system had been activated to sprinkle its audience giving them the full effect of the storm, not to mention the musty smell of a damp theater.
A voice echoed from the speakers, “What you are about to see is not for the faint of heart.”
Jessa grabbed Dana’s arm tightly. “I’m going to cover my eyes.”
A frightening portrayal of the storm that had taken the life of Mary Jane Eden, the daughter of William had commenced. Most of the students were silent as they watched bolts of lightning strike the child on the steps of the bottom landing as she and her brother attempted to fill buckets of rainwater.
When the movie screen rolled up, the lights came back on and everyone clapped, especially Jessa.
“Okay, students, now that you know the history of the plantation you’ll get a tour from our guides, Mr. Dalton informed.
“I’m glad, that’s over,” Jessa sighed as she wiped the sweat off her forehead while they walked outside. The bright sunlight hit their faces like a strobe light causing the students to squint. Jessa wasn’t the only one who was glad to be outside as the other students spoke of being spooked in the theater.
“Mrs. Taylor, can I use the restroom?” asked Dante Reed, the class troublemaker and attention seeker.
“Sure, and you know, I think we’ll all take a break before heading on with the tour. Please stay with your group. We’ll meet out by the main house when you’re done,” the middle-aged teacher said while pulling her long brown hair up into a high bun. She wiped the back of her neck with a handkerchief.
“Ya know, Dana, for some reason this place really gives me the creeps. Do you believe the stories about the slaves they kept in the basement and all the strange things that went on here?” Jessa asked while scanning over the lush grounds.
“Yeah, and I kinda like it,” Dana confessed as she smoothed her long black hair in the bathroom mirror. “I especially like the story of how the Eden family moved out right after their daughter was struck by lightning on the stairs in 1835, not to mention how pirates lived here as well.”
“You’re weird, girlfriend!” Jessa shook her head. “I can’t figure you out.”
“No, I just love old places, and I’ve been here before with my mom. There’s something about this place. It makes me feel good in a weird sort of way.”
“Well, it makes me feel sick,” Jessa had her hand on her stomach.
The students gathered at the front of the steps to the main house as they listened to each tour guide give specific instructions.
“Some of the rooms have been sealed off due to preservation,” announced Mrs. Kline, who was dressed as a former housekeeper from the 1800s in traditional Caymanian style. She wore a long, red-checkered dress, a white apron, and a scarf tied around her head.
Mrs. Kline explained to the children to respect and not touch any of the items on display. They were authentic and actually some of the original toys that had belonged to Mary Jane, daughter of the Eden family.
Mrs. Taylor had a tight hold of Dante Reed’s arm. She knew he could be a handful and was well aware of his antics on previous field trips. She wasn’t about to let him spoil this particular trip.
Jessa and Dana were fortunately in the same group. They followed Mrs. Kline up the steps to the first level where the original kitchen was and then a larger room with a long wooden dining room table.
“Would you look at this wooden table!” Dana squealed. “It’s the most beautiful mahogany I’ve ever seen! I wish I could run my hands over that wood.”
“Yeah, I’m looking at it all right,” Jessa mumbled. “And I wouldn’t even think of touching it!”
“You’re still afraid, aren’t you?”
“Just a bit. It’s better now that we got out of that dark movie room,” Jessa replied, rubbing her arms to erase the goosebumps that she still had.
“Just try to relax and enjoy yourself.”  Dana put her arm around her best friend. “We’re gonna get some good shots to post on TikTok later. We’ll get so many hits.”
“Well, that doesn’t exactly make me feel better, to tell you the truth.”
As they now made it up to the second level veranda a slight breeze picked up carrying the fruity scent from the red frangipanis that were abundant throughout the grounds. It was a refreshing break from the heat of the midday island sun. It blew a few strands from Jessa’s auburn hair into her eyes. As she brushed them away with her hand, she noticed the rocking chair at the end of the veranda was moving.
She pulled Dan’s arm. “Look! The rocking chair— it’s moving!” Jessa shouted.
Continue reading in the book HERE

​Lost in the Woods by Erika M Szabo
A young police officer enters the woods to find a missing woman, but it takes all her mental strength to deal with what she finds.
She Waits by Lorraine Carey
During a class field trip to a historical site in the Caribbean, a curious student encounters a lonely ghost who does not want her to leave.
The Treasures of Grandma’s Attic by Erika M Szabo
Sixteenth birthdays are special, but something they find in Grandma’s attic will make sure they’ll never forget this party.
Church of the Sentient System Ascendant by R.A, “Doc” Correa
A civil servant who is deeply devoted to his faith. By accident, he learns the truth about his religion, and the malevolent A.I. behind it.
Genie in the Sporran by Erika M Szabo
A device cloaked as an everyday item makes all your wishes come true. But Blair and Rhona find out the hard way that everything has a price.
I Scarecrow by Alan Zacher
A troubled man is cursed by a gypsy woman, and the scarecrow he built makes his wishes come true. All is good, but he might get more than he bargained for.
Don’t Look Out the Window by S.S. Bazinet
Growing up in a house with a cursed window, Hank has to find the courage to look out its glass panes, even if it kills him.
The Spirit of The Rattlesnake by S. M. Revolinski
In the spring of 1889, civilization with railroads and cattle ranches moved into Wyoming. However, the Indian Spirit was not finished. Into this, Alice Potter begins her trek.
Will You Wait for Me? By Erika M Szabo and Lorraine Carey
Fate gave her one year of happy marriage, but although losing her husband and unborn child devastated Gladys, she'd find a way to live a full life. Will they meet again?

When I watch a movie based on the book I read: “Wait, that’s not how I pictured it when I read the book!”

It's fascinating to consider the world of mental imagery. As we read, most of us effortlessly conjure up vivid mental pictures, as if a movie is playing in our heads. Meanwhile, others may feel like they're simply reading a script without any accompanying visuals. It's incredible how the same words can elicit such different experiences for each reader.

Most people (including me) when they read about a character, might see that character’s face, hair, body posture, surroundings, and even the tiniest details—the mischievous smile as the corner of their lips curl up, the glint in their eyes, the style and color of their clothes, and the way they lift their arm or nervously tap their foot.

However, not everyone experiences reading this way. Some people, about 2-5% of the population, have what’s called aphantasia. It’s like their mind’s eye is not able to form a mental image of what they’re reading.
Imagine you’re reading a book, and the author describes a comfortably lit living room with a crackling fireplace and an inviting plush sofa with fluffy throw pillows. The character is relaxing on the sofa with a drink in his hand. You can almost hear the ice cubes clinking to the glass and taste the sour whiskey on your tongue.
People with aphantasia won’t see that room and character in their minds, they focus on the words they’re reading and understand the concept of a living room without any visual images.

Whether you’re a visual or aphantasic reader, you can enjoy reading a book in your own way.

A rugged-looking heavily tattooed man was wheeled into the emergency room, his face twisted in pain. His wife followed closely behind, her eyes filled with worry and fear. She explained that he had fallen off the roof of their home, but thankfully a nearby bush broke his fall, sparing him from more serious injuries. However, his body was covered in shallow puncture wounds, cuts, and scrapes. The doctor immediately ordered a Tetanus booster because of the debris the man may have come into contact with during his fall.

After cleaning and treating his superficial injuries, I went to prepare the Tetanus booster for him. The moment his gaze landed on the syringe clutched in my hand, his mouth contorted into a terrified scream. "No way! You ain't gonna do that!" he shouted, panic lacing his voice. “It’s gonna hurt!”

With a heavy sigh, I braced myself for what was to come thinking, you allowed the tattoo artist to puncture your skin a million times, and yet you’re scared of one measly tetanus shot. Oh, boy! I knew it would take some effort to calm him down, explain the importance of the booster, and convince him to let me administer the injection. But to my surprise, after only two minutes of reasoning, he reluctantly agreed to go through with it.

However, as I prepared the needle and approached him, he threw up his hands in protest. "Wait until I'm ready!" he warned, his eyes darting between me and the syringe.

Another two minutes passed as I patiently waited for him to feel mentally prepared. Each time I lifted my hand with the syringe, he flinched back and yelled, "Not ready yet!" It seemed like we were back at square one, despite our initial progress.

Feeling pressed for time, I resorted to an old trick I had learned as a young nurse. With determination in my gaze, I positioned myself to shield the entrance door from the man's view. In a hushed tone, I whispered under my breath, "Oh my God!" The man immediately perked up; his curiosity piqued as he craned his neck to catch a glimpse of what was happening. With wide eyes, he asked, "What's going on?"

It took me a second to give him the shot while he focused on the door, and I said while putting a band-aid on his arm, “All done.”

“What?” he asked and looked at me with such a confused expression on his face that I couldn’t hold back a giggle.

“I just gave you the Tetanus booster.”

“You’re telling me that you gave me the shot? You really gave me the shot!” It dawned on him as he touched the band-aid on his arm, wincing. “You’re good. Thank you! I didn’t feel a thing!” he announced.
​
As he filled out the patient satisfaction survey, he couldn't help but praise the ER and its staff. "The injection I got here was top-notch. I didn't even feel a thing! This is definitely the place to be if you need a shot!"

Every kid in town knew that old Mrs. Robbins was a vampire. What they didn’t know, and are about to find out, will change their lives forever.
​#whatif #storytelling #fiction

Every kid in town knew that old Mrs. Robbins was a vampire. Their parents laughed at their childish fantasies, but the kids had evidence as a result of spying on the old woman for months. Mrs. Robbins always wore black clothes and never left the house. At least never during the daytime, until...

The most compelling piece of evidence was when Billy Atkins said that he saw her watching the sunrise on her porch one morning, and when the sun was about to come up, she clasped her chest and ran inside. “You see what I’m talking about? Vampires burn to ashes when the sunlight hits them.”

It hadn’t been so bad at first, having a vampire in the neighborhood. Moreover, it was exciting. They knew she couldn’t harm them in the daytime, and they’d be locked in their houses safely at night. “Everybody knows that a vampire can’t come into your house unless you invite them in,” Billy assured his still apprehensive friends.

But then, even Billy started to feel a little uneasy when they noticed that Mrs. Robbins began to venture out of the house more often. She’d only go out after sunset, and she’d only go as far as the front lawn and a few days later up to the gate. She did the same thing every evening. She’d stand there holding onto the closed gate, staring at the street. Then slowly she’d reach into her pocket and pull out her keys, rattling them with a back-and-forth motion of her wrist.
The kids saw her more and more at night and later in the early morning too. She’d stay until the sun came up, and then she’d clutch her chest and run inside. This went on for a few weeks and the boys were getting bored when taking their turns to watch the vampire’s movements. But then one night Scott, the lanky teenager who was watching her from behind the azalea bush in his garden gasped and jumped when the old woman slowly opened the gate and took a shaky step onto the sidewalk.

A few days later she started getting closer to the street.

Every night she’d rattle the keys harder until the neighbor’s dog began to bark at her. But old Mrs. Robbins didn’t pay the dogs any mind. She just stood there rattling her keys. That’s when Billy Atkins came up with a plan. “Our parents don’t believe us, so we must do something before this bloodsucker would suck us dry!” he shouted. “Let’s sneak into her house at night and take a picture of her coffin. Then they’d believe us,” he said to his best friend, Johnny Miller.
“No way!” Johnny shrunk back. “I ain’t going in there!”

“And why would she have a coffin?” Bobby, Billy’s scrawny brother asked. 

“All vampires sleep in a coffin, dummy. Everybody knows that!” Billy snarled at his brother. “Besides, if we can get a picture of it, then our parents will have to believe us.”

Nobody in their six-member gang volunteered to join Bobby, so they drew straws to see who would be the one to sneak into Mrs. Robbins’ house with him while she was out rattling her keys. David, their chubby, blond friend drew the shortest one to everyone else’s relief. David wasn’t happy, as a matter of fact, he was scared out of his mind. But his fear of being teased for the rest of his life as being a coward painted a dreary picture in his mind, so he remained quiet.
The next night, while Mrs. Robbins was standing by her gate, David and Bobby snuck into the house through the front door. It wasn’t hard; Mrs. Robbins left the door wide open.

As they stepped over the threshold, they noticed that the house had an oppressive feel to it. It was stiflingly hot and smelled like mothballs. David clutched his phone tightly in his sweaty hand as he scanned the living room for the coffin. There was no sign of it.

“I guessed there wouldn’t be in here,” Bobby whispered. “Let’s check the bedroom.”

They tiptoed down the hall on shaky legs. Bobby pushed the door to the bedroom open, and it gave out a loud creak. He whipped his head around to see if Mrs. Robbins had heard the noise, but he saw the old woman still standing by the gate, rattling her keys. 

Read the full story in the anthology:

Jayden and his archeology group found the burial site of a Medicine Woman from the 5th century. Strangely, Jayden also finds a crude leather book in his grandmother's secret room that was written in 426 by a Shaman.
His sister, Sofia, decodes the ancient runes, and they learn that a powerful curse cast sixteen hundred years ago destroyed the lives of their ancestors for centuries. If it remains unbroken, the curse will ruin the lives of future generations as well.
Dark memories of their childhood start to surface, and they’re stunned to realize the similarities between the tragedy of the family described in the Shaman’s book and theirs, sixteen hundred years later. They’re stunned by the conclusion that Jayden is in danger due to a family curse.
#books #reading #fantasy #magical #realism #Romantic #fiction

Jayden, a handsome, young American archeologist worked in the third pit, alone, oblivious to the excitement just a few yards away. Although Helen wanted everyone to concentrate on the two holes, they’d found the artifacts in, Jayden convinced her to let him try the abandoned pit again. He pulled a crumpled handkerchief from his dusty overall pocket to wipe the sweat off his forehead. “Phew! It’s already hotter in this hole than in the witch’s oven.” He mumbled under his breath while he pulled a hairband off his wrist and tied his shoulder-length, auburn hair into a man bun. I really need a haircut. He thought.

A few minutes later his chisel made a nerve-fraying sound as it touched metal in the ground. Energized by the thrill of the potential discovery, he began the painstaking work of carefully scraping the packed dirt around the rusty handle of an ancient sword. “Come on, beautiful! Show me your glorious body,” he whispered.

As he changed position and kneeled back down, he spotted a snake wiggling toward him from the dark corner of the ten feet wide hole. “Geeze!” he yelled and threw himself backward, not sure if the snake was poisonous or just an innocent garter snake that had fallen into the pit by accident. The moment his elbows hit the dirt and feet still up in the air, an arrow hit the exact spot he was kneeling on a second ago, with such force that the wide obsidian arrowhead nearly disappeared into the dirt with the shaft violently vibrating.

“What the hell!?” He cried out in fright and looked up. Six feet up at the mouth of the hole he saw his sister staring down at him, holding a recurve bow. She let out a furious scream and disappeared. “Sofia? When did you… how did you get here? Wait!” He yelled and scrambled to get to the stepladder as fast as he could. “Sofia! Wait!” he shouted as he climbed out of the hole.

The stout security guard woke to the high-pitched scream and jumped to his feet, feeling confused and stunned. “Hey! What are you doing there?” he yelled at the young girl running from the pit. She glared at the guard with a murderous expression on her face. Clenching her fists, she growled and ran toward the path between the thick bushes, and soon disappeared from sight. The guard grunted and stomped after her as fast as his heavy body could move.

Jayden, finally out of the hole, looked around frantically but didn’t see his sister anywhere. His teammates climbing out of the larger pit ran toward him and looked at him questioningly. “What happened?” one asked. “What’s going on?” others shouted.

“A woman just tried to kill me! She fired an arrow into my pit,” Jayden said running toward the narrow path. He couldn’t tell them his suspicions without proof about the woman being his sister.

His teammates followed, and they saw the small red car speeding down the dirt road and disappearing behind the bushes at the curve. Jayden fished his keys from his pocket and jumped into his beat-up Jeep.

“Comin’ with ya!” Rowan yelled and stuffed his large behind into the passenger seat.

“When did that woman get here?” Jayden questioned the guard.

“Uhm… I… I was in the tent putting away some tools when I heard the scream. By the time I got out of the tent, she was running toward the cars. I chased after her, but she was running so fast that I could only get a glimpse of her.” His eyes shifted from Jayden to the side mirror as he wiped the perspiration off his forehead.

“Where is your partner?”

“He drove to town to pick up the breakfast.”

“Oh, right!” Jayden shook his head. “But you shouldn’t have gone into the tent when everyone was in the holes.”

“I’m sorry, I apologize,” the guard mumbled feeling relieved that he hadn’t seen him sleeping on the job. “I couldn’t go after her because my partner gave me a ride this morning. I don’t have a car,” he added his excuse.

The Jeep accelerated as Jayden pressed the gas pedal harder. What the hell is going on? Did my sister just try to kill me? But how did she get here? She’s supposed to be in New York! Frantic thoughts chased each other in his mind while driving downhill like a madman. “Did you see her firing the arrow into the hole?” he asked the guard.

“No…” The guard hesitated, giving Jayden a side glance. “As I said, I was in the tent, but she carried a bow and had a leather quiver on her back,” Rowan speculated, holding onto dear life. His body was violently shaken by the speeding Jeep on the bumpy dirt road. “Man, you’re driving like a devil. Slow down!”

Jayden ignoring the guard’s protest, asked, “Did you see anyone else?”

“There was nobody else.” The guard braced himself holding onto the dashboard.

Suddenly, the Jeep jerked to the side, and it took all Jayden’s strength to hold onto the steering wheel. He stepped on the break slaloming between trees and bushes for a minute, finally, the Jeep stopped, crashing into a large tree. “Crap!” shouted, stepping out of the driver’s seat and inspected the blown tire and crushed front. He pulled his phone from his back pocket and called Helen. “I ran off the road and called the tow truck already, but could you send someone to take us back to the site?”

Helen sent one of the students to pick them up, and while they waited, Jayden called the towing company to take his Jeep to the repair shop. “I hope they can fix it,” he muttered.
“No worries, Joe at the shop can fix anything,” the guard said with a half-smile on his round face.

As soon as they got back to the dig site, Jayden spotted Helen standing by the largest pit. She called out, “Are you okay?”

Jayden nodded and walking to Helen he stood at the mouth of the hole and looked down. What he saw made him forget the attempt on his life and his crashed car. Scanning the half-unearthed skeletons of a horse and human, he stared at the smiling woman and feeling ecstatic, he shouted, “Helen, I can’t believe it! You’ve found a medicine woman!”

“Yes!” Helen replied, smiling at the young man. “Isn’t that exciting? Let’s go down and take a closer look.”

Both standing at the bottom of the pit, Helen called over to Jayden, “Come, look at the skull. Judging by her teeth, she must’ve been around forty when she was buried in full regalia. And her hand,” Helen pointed at the bones. “Look at that delicately carved falcon into her ring that looks like it was made of jade.”

Jayden took a sharp breath and bent down staring at the skeleton’s finger. Deep emotions constricting his throat, he whispered, “Helen, I need to talk to you, alone!”

“Okay,” Helen said, looking surprised. “Hey, people!” She called out. “All of you, go up and take a break.”

The student looked surprised but complied and climbed up on the stepladder, one by one.
“Helen, this is my ancestor!” Jayden whispered and turning his head he looked into Helen’s eyes.

“What? Oh, you mean in general like an ancestor of the Huns…”
​
“No.” Jayden sighed, straightening up. “I mean, my ancestor. The Turul bird with wide open wings holding a sword in its talons has been my family’s insignia since the 4th century when my ancestors were leaders of the Roaring Falcon Clan for generations. Look!” He extended his left hand and showed his gold signet ring to the astonished woman.