L etter from the E ditor I t is my profound belief that all of us have a story to tell. We have all lived a life full of ups and downs, twists and turns, happiness and tragedy. Each of these experiences is unique to us and while we often seemingly battle in solitude, we are never truly alone. Somewhere a single mother in Arkansas is trying to figure out how she’s going to keep the lights on at the same time as a family of four in Seattle. A grade school kid in India is being bullied right now because of the quality of his clothes, while the same thing is happening to a girl in Florence. Although we live across the globe from one another, and we will more than likely never cross paths, we are the same. We are joined in togetherness by our experiences. By our stories. Chapter One Magazine is here to give voices from all over the world a platform to express their story and to share their experiences and their writing prowess
with all of us. This week we will thrust ourselves into a mysterious world of magic and duty, meet outrageous characters along with two friends who hold a book that can predict the future, and lastly, but certainly not least discover one woman’s journey of overcoming trauma, heartbreak, and the quiet battles that are fought behind closed doors. I ask you, the reader, to sample these works, and if you like what you see, support them by purchasing. There isn’t a bestseller among us in here. They are simply people. Just like you and I. People who have lived and have bared their souls in the words that they’ve shared with the world.
Happy reading everybody and be kind to each other.
Brian
Kimberly Cross known as KC the Author, is a children's book author, publisher and community storyteller dedicated to preserving history, faith and life lessons for the next generation. Through her imprint, Cross Reference Publishing, she created meaningful, culturally rooted stories that spark conversation, confidence and curiosity in young readers. Inspired by her granddaughter, Honor - - Kym is a creator of The Honor Series, a collection of children's books designed to teach values such as courage, kindness, and financial literacy and pride in Black history. her work blends family storytelling, faith, and historical education. making her books ideal for homes, classrooms, churches and community spaces. KIMBERLY CROSS CROSS REFERENCE PUBLISHING
A former educator --turned human resource professional in the finance industry, lives and works in Charlotte, North Carolina and is continuing her education, at the University of North Carolina, Pembroke. She is dedicated to continuing to write, publish and advocate to "raise leaders and readers" while making sure that her literature has representation and generational impact.
Her latest work -- Honor Steps Up to the Plate: Lessons of Legends is a culturally rich children’s book that introduces young readers to the legacy of the Negro Leagues through the eyes of Honor, a determined young girl stepping into her own power. When Honor faces challenges on and off the field, her grandfather shares stories of legendary players whose resilience, excellence, and integrity shaped baseball history. Their lessons help Honor discover confidence, character, and a deeper connection to her heritage. This book supports literacy, cultural education, and intergenerational storytelling, making it an ideal fit for museum stores, library collections, and youth programming .
Honor Steps Up to the Plate
and all other works from
Kimberly Cross (KC the
Author) are available at this
link:
Amazon.com: Kimberly Cross:
books, biography, latest update
The Book Was Passed to a Girl by Justin Hulford
Emily heads to the annual family caravan holiday not knowing that she's embarking on a journey to a different reality altogether. With trusted friend Bran by her side she must overcome her fears and unravel the true meaning of the book she buys that predicts the future. Well, sort of predicts it. Her path crosses over with a murderous man on a quest to recover his own body parts, a woman who would be Queen, and a foppish dandy who knows a lot more than he's telling. As she tries to make sense of it all a specialist detective tries to unravel the odd and grisly murders that are infesting the city. They seem linked in various ways including the slow emergence of a girl's name beginning with an E.
The Book Was Passed to a Girl.
Get to know Justin Hulford
“ I always enjoyed writing "compositions" in English language lessons and ever since then my writing has grown and grown. I started with smaller formats such as short magazine pieces and poetry before moving onto grander things. This included a lot of fantasy and in particular gaming. Aside from a few throw away pieces in magazines like Dragon, White Dwarf and even one in Viz I was first published as a poet in two anthologies, both hard copy. Since then I have been a key contributor to the printed magazines Corduroy (slightly tongue in cheek articles that might interest a fictional country gentleman) and Powerplay (CD and live reviews as well as interviews all within rock and metal music).
I have then become the main contributor to the reviews and interviews on website The Rocktologist which has a monthly online magazine to showcase them. I also have my own reviews website and even a radio show. I love writing in any field and have a huge list of ideas and part written pieces all waiting for development. I have now completed three novels and four non-fiction books. ”
Chapter One The voice was so many things at once as it called her name. There was melancholy running through it, sad enough to crush the happiest of times. There was no hope, instead it sucked the joy from anyone that heard it. It sucked the joy from her.
Emily!
There it was again. She couldn’t ignore it, no matter
how hard she tried. It was yearning, seeking approval. It
was the only thing she could hear. Emily tried desperately to close her mind to it as it half-sung, half- whispered her name, but it penetrated any barrier she created.
Emily!
The voice was desperate, solitary. Alone. It smothered her like an early morning fog rolling in from the sea, enveloping any sense of self. She looked down to the familiar razor blade, ready to mark herself again, the pain all that could defend her.
‘Emily!’ shouted her mother. The new voice, a real
voice, cut through the fog and startled her for a moment.
‘Emily, we’re leaving in five.’
The harsh whispering voice suddenly gone, Emily
rolled her sleeve back down and put the blade back in the safety of its special bag before shouting back to her mother that she was on her way. They were about to embark on the annual seaside trip that she really had no desire to join. But it was happening yet again, a ritual that her step-father Dave had brought into her life when he had arrived on the scene ten years before. He’d spent a week of every year since he’d been born in one of the static caravans close to Selsey and seemed determined to help Emily share this experience. All she could hope was that Bran would be there again, Emily’s beacon of hope. Her escape. She’d met Bran when she was twelve, the two of them the same age. Bran stayed there, from one of a small number of families that lived permanently on the site, and 2, Bran knew all the good things to do. And the bad ones. Without her, Emily didn’t think she could get through another week. She grabbed her bag and checked her sleeve was definitely back in position. She dared not let her mother or Dave see the cuts, let alone the small pentagram tattooed further up her arm. Emily hastily scanned the room one more time then headed down. They were out in the car straight away, an anonymous saloon. Dave drove of course, a creature of manly habit despite his youth compared with her mother. Not that you’d know as she betrayed her punkish past with dyed blonde hair pushed up high that dared not touch a fish net top that she wore over a black bra. Bright red lipstick
matched her leather skirt as she gripped on to the past as tightly as she could. He instead wore a pastel polo shirt and slacks, somehow managing to look too old for jeans. Pipe and slippers next. They’d pulled off the drive and left their quiet side street and were turning onto the main road when Emily remembered the handful of books she’d left on the side. ‘Sorry, no’ stated Dave. ‘The traffic’s bad enough as it is. We’re not going back.’
‘There it is, Emily’ added her mother, sounding more
like a petulant older sibling than a parent.
‘But I need the books,’ she pleaded.
‘Not with the way the roads have been’ concluded
Dave, tapping the sat nav to emphasize the expected time of arrival.
‘We’ll get you something down there’ her mother
added, suddenly trying to reconcile. Negotiations over, if they ever started, Emily slumped into a sulking huddle. The seatbelt suddenly felt like it was rubbing in an odd position and she just stared out of the window as The Clash or The Ramones or something else she hated began playing on the car stereo. Dave just kept going as their mundane world slipped by. A young woman pushed a buggy, dark green material with chrome fittings, an infant silent within. Three lads, about Emily’s age, loitered at a bus stop as an old woman felt obliged to
stand outside, scowling at them from within her bright cagoule. And then there was the man. He was tall, only his face properly visible. He wore a long brown overcoat, topping it off with darker brown leather gloves and a hat, perhaps a Trilby or something similar. That was brown too with an inch wide band in black running just above the brim. All the others were just going about their day, oblivious of Emily’s tortured journey to the caravan, but the man stared straight at her. He made eye contact and as they passed, he stood still but turned his head to keep her in sight. Emily turned to look back, her view obscured by the heating wires in the rear glass and window corners full of grime that had escaped the wipers and Dave’s sponge. The man steadily disappeared from sight as they continued on but she knew he’d been staring all the time. At her, she was sure. Emily said nothing but simply sat back down in her seat, subconsciously readjusting the left sleeve that hid everything. She could have sworn that the pentagram was burning just a little but then that might just be because it was so new. She spent the rest of the journey thinking about the way he stared, his look as penetrating as the voice she so often heard. But whilst the voice surrounded Emily and left her with no easy escape, it was familiar and oddly comforting in its chill regularity. The man was different. He looked at her as if he knew her, or knew something about her. His eyes cut to her inner self and he didn’t look like he would ever offer comfort.
If you enjoyed Chapter One of “The Book Was Passed to a Girl” by Justin Hulford, and you’d like to continue reading and support Justin by purchasing a paperback copy on Amazon for just $9.99, Kindle for just $5.99, or read for free on Kindle Unlimited, click on the link here!
Amazon.com: The Book Was Passed To A Girl eBook : Hulford, Justin: Kindle Store
Next we turn to the realm of fantasy with author E.A. Smith and Book One of The Betrothed series, The Outsider World.
Dylan Knight dreams of a woman he has never seen, her face growing clearer every night. When his estranged mother unexpectedly reappears with cryptic answers, Dylan is thrust into a mysterious world of magic and duty. To uncover the truth about his dreams and the woman who consumes them, he must risk everything, leaving behind the life he knows for a love more profound than he ever imagined. Abigail Martin thought she could leave her past behind. But when a mystical Bond drags her toward a stranger she’s never met, she faces an impossible choice: surrender to a destiny that demands everything or fight for a freedom that may cost her love and more. With hearts on the line and destinies they did not choose, Dylan and Abigail must decide if love is worth the sacrifice. Fans of Sarah J. Maas and Leigh Bardugo will be captivated by this tale of passion, destiny, and the price of self-determination.
Get to know E.A. Smith
E. A. Smith’s passion for science fiction and fantasy was sparked by his father at a young age. While earning degrees in physics from Georgia Tech and Vanderbilt University, he wrote an unpublished science-fiction novel, several short stories, and a fantasy novella. After completing his studies, he taught at several universities in Atlanta before settling in Milledgeville, GA, where he resides with his wife and daughter. He continues to craft captivating tales that invite readers to explore new dimensions of reality and imagination.
Chapter One: Dreams
“I saw her again last night.” Dylan paused, the phrase tickling at the back of his mind. “That’s from a song, isn’t it?” “The woman in your dreams?” Dr. Richards inquired, professionally ignoring another of Dylan’s tangential comments as he scribbled on the notepad he held in his lap. “Do you know who she is yet?” “Not yet,” Dylan said. “Though I can make out her face now. It’s like she’s slowly coming into focus, night after night.” He shifted slightly on the cushion. He never knew why television always showed people lying down when talking to their therapists; the couch was uncomfortable enough sitting up. “It’s been almost three months now, and every time I think I’m going to recognize her – I feel certain that I should – I can never quite place her.” He sighed, an explosion of breath from deep within his lungs that he didn’t even realize he had been holding. “I’ll tell you this, though. She looks a bit like my mother. Not exactly, but there are definite similarities.”
Dylan grimaced.
“Am I really dreaming about my mother? Do you think this is some kind of Oedipal thing?”
Dylan rested his head in his hands and tried to stare through the doctor’s notepad, wondering just exactly what the man was writing down. He knew shrinks weren’t supposed to judge, but he felt queasy asking that last question, and not just for the obvious reason. Ever since he had started coming to Dr. Richards about the dreams, a couple of weeks ago, he had been apprehensive about when the topic of his mother would inevitably arise. And here he was bringing it up himself, like a chump. “No one’s taken Freud seriously for years, Dylan,” the doctor assured him. “So I’m not assuming you want to have sex with your mother. Though this recurring dream woman might have something to do with her. Tell me about your mother.” “Can you say that in a German accent?” The doctor just stared back at him, and Dylan shrugged, resigned to the inevitable. “I don’t remember her at all. Dad only has one picture of her, holding me when I was just born.”
“Just one?”
“He said that she didn’t like having her picture taken. I think he snuck that one in.” Unbidden, the image formed clear in his mind; like an idiot, he had stared at that one photo often as a child. “She looked absolutely terrified. I mean, she’s trying to hide it, but you can tell.”
His voice dropped to nearly a whisper.
“Looking at her like that, in hindsight, I think anyone could see she was ready to skip town.” Before the therapist could pry further, Dylan forced his voice back up to normal volume, maybe a little higher, and pushed his shoulders back. “But I don’t need a picture to know the dream girl looks like Mom; everyone who ever met her tells me all I need is a mirror to see what she looked like. I somehow got all her genes.” Dylan self-consciously ran a pale, delicate hand through his straight, jet-black hair. “The girl in the dream has the same features. Not Mom exactly, but similar.” The doctor jotted down another note. “And what do you feel about her, this girl in your dream?” “Wow, that’s not a stereotypical question, not at all.” Dylan grinned. “Still, better than ‘Tell me about your mother’.”
Richards didn’t return the grin.
“We will return to her soon enough, but I want to get a better idea of the dream first; then we’ll dig into causes. So, how do you feel about her?” “Nothing motherly, I’ll tell you that,” Dylan said, feeling a blush warm his face. He looked around the
office, scanning the various diplomas and certifications, finding it hard to meet the doctor’s eyes.
“So it is sexual, then?”
“That’s not the word I would use,” Dylan protested. “They aren’t sex dreams or anything like that. I just see her; I don’t do, y’know, stuff with her. But there is a very strong . . . attraction, I suppose, is the best word to use. Like when you see a girl in class and you just can’t look away, not because you’re turned on necessarily, but because there’s something there that’s inherently fascinating. A connection. A . . . drawing. I want to be with her, more than I’ve ever wanted anything.” He
shrugged again. “That’s the best way I can explain it.”
“Sounds very powerful.”
“Believe me, it is.” Dylan could feel his heart quickening at the thought of it, and he clasped his hands together in frustration. He took a deep breath before continuing. “And recently, she’s always there in the back of my head, like some ghost looking over my shoulder. She never goes away, even when I’m with another girl.” “Tell me about those other girls.” Dr. Richards said. “Dates? Girlfriends?” “I’m hardly what anyone would call a player,” Dylan said, “but I’ve had a few steady girlfriends, and other than the fact that they all eventually ended, those relationships were all fine. Normal. But ever since this
started, I haven’t been able to make anything work. I just don’t . . . I don’t feel it, no matter how hard I try. It’s like all other girls have gone black and white, and the one in my head is the only one in color.” Dylan paused, searching for some point of comparison. “Have you ever
read “The Zahir”?”
“I can’t say that I have.”
“I read it in World Lit class a couple of years ago. It’s a short story about a magic coin that causes whoever finds it to become so obsessed that it’s all they can think about, so that eventually they can’t even feed themselves.”
Scratch, scratch went the doctor’s pen.
“I’m not to that extreme,” he rushed to add, “but this feels like the beginning of that story.”
Dylan frowned.
“Maybe I really am going over the edge. Do you think I’m schizophrenic?” “Are you hearing voices? Seeing her anywhere outside of your dreams?” “No, nothing like that,” Dylan protested, then, after a pause, sunk back in the couch in resignation. “But sometimes it feels as though I almost could, like she’s on the verge of manifesting right outside the edge of my sight, or that I could close my eyes and walk straight towards her.”
Dylan felt as though he were building the padded walls of his cell with every word, and sank his face into his hands with a groan. “God, I really am going crazy, aren’t I?” “It’s 2011, Dylan, not 1850. ‘Crazy’ really isn’t a word we use anymore. And since you say that you aren’t hearing voices or seeing anything that isn’t there–”
“Yet.”
“– And you are obviously aware of what is real and what is not, then a diagnosis of schizophrenia seems a bit premature. You aren’t on any drugs, are you?”
“No!”
“Then there are several possible conditions that could be responsible. Or maybe none at all. I can give you the names of a few good psychiatrists. You might need some medication, at least at first. But it’s far too early to say anything for certain yet.” “Dad always said that he suspected Mom was crazy,” Dylan muttered. “I guess I’m getting it.” “Not exactly a professional diagnosis. A lot of people say that about their exes.” “Yeah, but he never said it like he was angry at her.” Dylan thought back, remembering the few times he could get his father to speak about his missing mother. “It was very matter of fact, just something he always suspected.
He said she seemed a bit off, like she didn’t quite fit.” Dylan snorted. “He said he found it charming, at least at first. That, and her accent.” Dr. Richards tapped his pen on his notepad a few times. “You seem very determined to talk about your mother.” “What?” Dylan said, alarmed. “No, I’m not.” He had the sinking feeling of being caught in a well-prepared trap.
“And yet you keep coming back to her.”
“Only when it’s relevant.”
“The very fact that you constantly think it’s relevant tells me that you need to talk about her.”
He continued on over Dylan’s protests.
“So let’s talk about her. She had an accent. Where was she from?”
Dylan shook his head.
“Dad never really knew. She was always very vague about her past. He just knew she wasn’t from around here. Not from the States, I mean. Probably would have been a real problem had they ever tried to get married. But Dad was always very clear that she wasn’t just strange in ways that anyone from another country would seem strange; it was more than that. She was . . .
different.”
Dr. Richards wrote a bit more on his pad, and Dylan again gave into the urge to try to take a peek, only to have Dr. Richards tilt the pad upright, out of his view. “None of which changes the fact that I still can’t stop thinking about the dream girl, which is what I’m here for. Doesn’t change that I want her out of my brain, now. Will the meds do that?” “Psychiatry isn’t a magic pill, whatever you might see in the movies,” the doctor said. “Medication can help, but it doesn’t fix the root problem. It’s obvious that you have a great deal of unresolved anger towards your mother–”
“No, I don’t!”
The doctor’s only response was a level stare.
“I’m just upset for Dad’s sake. I realized a long time ago that since I never knew her, I didn’t really lose anything.” “Our job is to get to what’s at the bottom of these dreams and work on resolving it. We can only do that if you’re honest with me, Dylan. More importantly, with yourself. Then, hopefully, the dreams and obsession will fade away on their own. And that takes work and time.” “I don’t have a lot of time, doc. I leave for grad school in just a couple of months.”
“Make sure you get a good doctor there. Until then, we’ll see how far we can get together. We’ll pick up here next week,” the doctor said, his tone a clear indication of finality. “I know it’s not the easiest thing for you to do, but I want you to think about what you know about your mother, and what you want from her.” “What does it matter?” Dylan said, more harshly than he intended. “Whatever I want, I’m not going to get it.” “That doesn’t matter. Just think about it, and we’ll discuss it next time. In the meantime, I’ll email you a list of good psychiatrists, and you need to make an appointment with one of them as soon as you can. See you next week.”
# # #
Dylan opened the front door of his shared apartment to find a strange woman sitting on the couch, her back to him. Her long black hair, with a little bit of gray mixed in, cascaded over her back, and even sitting down he could tell she was uncommonly tall. “Um, hi,” he said, uncertain, as he closed the door behind him. “Are you a friend of Roger’s? I think he’s still at . . .” The woman stood and turned around, and all Dylan’s words drained out of his mind, leaving only incoherent sputtering. “Dylan,” the woman said, crossing her arms while briskly eyeing him up and down. “You’re looking well.
That’s good.” Dylan didn’t respond, and she narrowed her eyes. “You do know who I am?” Dylan slumped back against the door, the wooden rectangle the only thing holding him on his feet as his heart threatened to pound its way up his chest and out his mouth as he simultaneously fought to take in air. Yes, I know who you are, he thought, but couldn’t yet say. The passage of twenty- two years had obviously taken its toll on the woman standing in front of him, her cheeks showing a few lines, her figure no longer quite as slender, her eyes harder; but the face was the same, and that accent – musical, almost trilling – was exactly how he had always imagined it from his father’s descriptions. Dylan could never have mistaken her, not even if a century had passed. “Mom,” he whispered, which was all he could manage. She nodded with a small smile. “So, your father still has that photograph,” she said. “That’s why I let him take it, you know, so that you would know what I looked like.” She took a step forward, and her forehead creased slightly.
“Can you speak?”
“How . . . how did you get in here? What are you doing here?” He had to fight for every word at first, but then it was as though the most immediate questions had loosened his tongue and opened a floodgate. His heart
still pounded and his breath was still quick, but they were now increasingly driven by a different emotion, one which leapfrogged the obvious questions to ones much more personal. “That picture. You wanted me to know what you looked like? You know a better way to do that? Don’t run the hell off!” He was out of breath again, but standing on his own. He advanced, sticking his finger in her face, and she batted it away. “Do not presume to lecture me,” she replied. “I had reasons, reasons which you cannot yet understand. In time, you will come to see–” “See? Understand?” Dylan said. “All I understand is that you vanished when I was barely out of the maternity ward. Do you have any idea what that did to Dad? He never got over you! And now, what? You want to just show up and pick back up where you left off? Well, screw you!” Dylan reached back and threw the front door open. “Get out! We don’t need you, Cynthia. Just . . . get out.” Dylan felt as though he had run out of steam with that last demand, and stood holding the door, shaking. His mother studied him for a moment, and rather than either replying or obeying, looked at the door and uttered a single word.
“Close.”
The door tore itself from Dylan’s grip and slammed itself shut. His shell-shocked brain barely had time to register what had happened before Cynthia turned back to him. “You’re angry,” she said. “I’m not going to say I’m surprised. I won’t even deny you have some cause to be, though less than you think. I will explain everything in time. But not now. We need to leave.” Now her voice hardened. “And, despite what you think of me, I am still your mother. I will be addressed as such.” But Dylan was no longer listening, rather reaching out to touch the door in disbelief. “What the hell was that?” he said, looking back and forth between the door and his mother. He wanted to believe that a breeze had blown it shut and his mother’s command was only a coincidence. But Dylan knew he had not felt so much as a gentle wisp of air. Cynthia smiled. “Do you want to know what I did?” she asked. “I can show you. That and so much more. We can start once we’re on our way.” For the first time, there was warmth in her voice, and she reached out to touch Dylan’s shoulder awkwardly. The contact broke the spell Dylan had felt descend upon him, and he jerked back. “No,” he said, pulling away. The initial flush of anger was beginning to fade, and Dylan felt drained. He
walked past his mother and sat down on the couch, head in hands. “Please, just go.” “I’m not leaving without you, Dylan. There’s too much at stake.” He heard her footsteps approach, and saw her shoes step onto the floor in front of him. Fortunately, she didn’t sit down next to him; Dylan wasn’t sure what he would have done if she had. “You want to know why I left, where I’ve been? Come with me, and I’ll answer every question you have. There’s a great deal you need to know about me. About yourself. And I’m the only one who can tell you.” Dylan was tempted. The very possibility of answers was compelling; that there actually were answers, even more so. He looked up at his mother standing there, arms crossed once more, and the sight drove all temptation out of his mind. He stood up, and found, standing toe to toe, that as tall as she was, he stood over her by at least an inch. The realization strengthened his resolve. “It doesn’t matter what the answers are,” he said. “No rationale could ever excuse what you did. I don’t care what your excuses are. I don’t care what you want to tell me or where you want to take me. I don’t even care how you pulled off that trick with the door. All I care about is that you left us, and you broke something when you did. And you can’t fly in here more than twenty years later and fix it. I’ll say it one more time. Get out.” Dylan extended his arm toward the door, while his eyes never
left his mother’s face. He thought he saw something flicker there. Guilt? Uncertainty? Fear? Whatever it was, it was soon gone. “So this is what you’ve become,” she replied, making no move towards the exit. Her voice was thick with disgust. “So small. So obsessed with your minuscule concerns. Incapable of looking beyond your own hurt feelings. A perfect anskáya. But you are my son, too. You’re made for better things than this. You have a heritage and a destiny far greater than anything you could imagine. All you need to do is come with me and claim it.” Dylan barked a sharp, brittle laugh. “I have no idea what you just called me,” he said, throwing up his hands, “and I don’t really care. Dad was right. You are crazy. Completely freaking insane.” Dylan knew he was being extreme, but he finally got the reaction he wanted. Cynthia’s expression hardened in anger, and Dylan pressed on. “I think I could throw you out by hand if I wanted to–” Cynthia snorted “–but it seems pointless, since I don’t know how you got in in the first place, so you’d probably be able to get back. So I’ll be the one to leave. Stay as long as you like, I don’t care. If you’re here when Roger gets home, though, he’ll probably call the cops on you, so keep that in mind.” Dylan moved towards the door, feeling oddly light, as though he had achieved some kind of cosmic balance,
his leaving for her leaving. The last thing he expected was the next words to come out of his mother’s mouth.
“I can take you to her.”
Dylan missed a step and stumbled. She can’t mean that. Not what I’m thinking. But he didn’t take his next step towards the door. “Who do you mean?” he asked, keeping his tone as nondescript as possible. “The girl you’ve been dreaming about,” she said, and Dylan’s gut flipped cartwheels. “I’m here to take you to her.”
# # #
The wind coming off the bay was sharp, even in summer, slicing through clothing and skin alike to drive cold deep into the bones; but Abby had grown up in even colder climes, and she barely noticed the chill. Her attention was focused on the canvas in front of her, the image painted on it slowly gaining definition and life as she applied brushstroke after brushstroke. Every now and then, she would stop and look around, chewing on the end of her brush, the tip held in her mouth by long, pale, delicate fingers. All the while, she hummed to herself a tune of her own devising, an improvisation to fit the rise and fall of her mood.
In time, the paint on her canvas began to mirror the scene on the wharf before her, realized with the sharp, angular lines and stylized figures unique to her in the Outside world, her passport to recognition in the San Francisco art community. Abby was excited about this new piece. In the last year, she had begun to be noticed, hailed (by those few who had taken an interest in her work) as an original and almost alien voice – recognition that she had struggled for over three years to achieve and had hoped was only the beginning of a long and rewarding career. But now, that longed-for future was in danger, and she was desperately working to solidify her reputation in the little time she had remaining before other duties could interrupt. Duties personified by the shadowy form she was seeing every night when she closed her eyes. That shadow was always in the back of her mind, a presence both sweet and threatening, promising everything she had dreamed of as a little girl and everything that would disrupt her life as an adult. The wind picked up, blowing strands of her waist- length black hair wildly about; to keep them out of her paint, she reached back and tied her tresses into a loose tail. One manageable distraction out of the way, she closed her eyes and shook her head, a quick jerk to either side to clear her thoughts and refocus on the task at hand. A car screamed by on the road behind her, windows rolled down and blasting what was to Abby’s ears nothing more than discordant noise. Four years
among the anskáya, with all that she had managed to adapt, and she still did not think she would ever come to understand the music. A wave of homesickness engulfed her. Those had become frustratingly common lately, ever since waking up from that first vivid, unmistakable dream. The dream that had brought an end to her increasingly desperate efforts to deny what was becoming more and more undeniable, that had forced her to admit that she had unexpectedly — inconceivably — become one of the ilmai. Ever since then, she had known that her time was limited; all she wanted now was to make enough of an impact so that, should she not take the option to return, she would not be utterly forgotten. Abby sighed and put down her brush, and took a few deep, stabilizing breaths. Obviously, her heart wasn’t really in her work today; probably better to give it up for now and start back again when her mind was clear. As she packed up her materials, she watched the boaters and dock workers scurry around her. None of them seemed uncertain, none of them seemed torn; they seemed to know what to expect out of their lives and they did what they needed to do. She knew she was oversimplifying things, that the older man tying off ropes might have a sick wife at home, or the waitress collecting tips at the little café to her left might be facing eviction. But she did know, without doubt, that she was the only
person in this entire city – the city she had chosen for her new life – facing her exact conundrum. Abby picked up her canvas, intending to lay it carefully on the ground in preparation for packing away her easel and other supplies, but before she continued, she paused to take a closer look. As she had expected, there he was, the face she saw in her head, projected onto one of the passers-by in the painting. The features she had outlined were disturbing, not because they were alien, like those of the faces around her, but because they were so close to being familiar. They added up to a face that looked almost like one she could have grown up with, but slightly off – the skin a little too ruddy, the shape a little too round. The overall effect wasn’t ugly, far from it; rather, it was just different enough to be unsettling. I can’t get away from him today, she thought. Why? She felt she could have closed her eyes, reached out her hand, and closed it on him; or failing that, run straight to him, the Bond pulling her in his direction. Her thoughts were disrupted by a chime. Her breath skipped and she nearly jumped in surprise, but she recovered quickly and, after setting her canvas down, picked up her cell phone from where it had been sitting on her easel. She didn’t recognize the number offhand, but she flipped open the phone anyway, fairly certain of who would be on the other end.
“Hello?” she said, and was proud that her voice shook only a little bit. The voice on the other end was instantly familiar, confirming her suspicions. “She’s found him,” she heard her father say. “It’s time to come home, Abigail.” Abby lowered the phone from her ear without saying a word. She didn’t know how to respond to the voice that kept coming out of the speaker, asking if she was there, if she could hear him. One dream was fulfilled, another shattered. What was she supposed to feel about that?
If you enjoyed Chapter One of The Outsider Lord by E.A. Smith, and you’d like to purchase a copy, purchase the paper back for $14.99, hardcover for $23.99, kindle version for $5.99, or read it for free on Kindle Unlimited!
All available at the link below!
Amazon.com: The Outsider Lord: Book One of The Betrothed eBook : Smith, E. A.: Kindle Store
Our final submission for this inaugural issue of Chapter One Magazine comes from Kamika “Kamikaze” Mincer. Her story
Echoes: A Memoir of Mind and Shadows, is a harrowing account of overcoming darkness and finding strength in the light.
Echoes in the Dark
(What Hurts Me)
Before the journey toward the light can truly begin, one must first confront the silence of the void. This opening section is a descent into the raw, unpolished reality of survival, where the weight of inherited silence and the sting of betrayal form a heavy fog.
It is here that we examine the masks we wore to stay safe and the moments where the world felt loud but our hearts felt hollow.
This is the foundation of the story—not because pain defines us, but because you cannot heal what you refuse to face.
Chapter One The Frequency
The first thing I remember every morning is the static.
It’s not a sound, but a feeling—a low-frequency tremor right behind the sternum, telling me the perimeter walls are down again.
Get up, I think, but the word is just a faint echo, drowned out by the other, louder voices.
You don’t belong here.
That’s the most persistent one. The Liar. It doesn’t scream; it whispers, using my own cadence and syntax. I know it’s not mine, but the seamless forgery is why I spend the first hour of every day fighting the urge to dissolve back into the sheets, to surrender the day before it even loads.
I manage to sit up. The act itself is a tactical victory.
My room, with its bland beige walls, is supposed to be a sanctuary, but it often feels like a thinly defended fortress.
If you’d like to continue Echoes: A Memoir of Mind and Shadows, and continue to support Kamika Kamikaze Mincer and her efforts to spread awareness of overcoming traumatic experiences and understand that you are not alone, you can purchase her book at the link below: Echoes: A Memoir Of Mind and Shadows: Mincer, Kamika Kamikaze: 9798278197973: Amazon.com: Books
If you’re an author and you’d like to have your book featured in a future issue of Chapter One Magazine, email Brian at Chapteronemagazine@gmail.com with your book title, your cover, your author photo, a brief synopsis of your book, the first chapter of your book in a word document, and links to where potential reader can find and purchase your work! If you’d be interested in having a 10 second video commercial for your book produced and run inside the pages of Chapter One Magazine, email Brian at Chapteronemagazine@gmail.com for details and pricing!
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