Summer Shorts

By The Indie Collaboration

A eclectic collection of stories from various authors. From action filled science fiction to dark sinister chills, humorous mystery, and wild impish fun. Ideal for for relaxing in the summer sun.

Sarah's Tree by Paul Raven
The Kitchen Imps A. L. Butcher
Boots? by Donny Swords
The Case Of The Six Broken Milk Bottles by Chris Raven
Henry's Windows by Alan Hardy
Talia Saran: Summer On Indigo Prime by D.C. Rogers
Write What You Know by Madhu Kalyan Mattaparthi
Dreaming by Sonya C. Dodd
Newport Memorial Regatta by Kristina Blasen
British Summer Time by A.L Butcher

• Language: English
• Publisher: Peter John
• Release date: Jun 15, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310171154

The Indie Collaboration

The Indie Collaboration grew out of a group of like minded independent authors. Together, we decided to show the world how great works of fiction can be created without the involvement of any large publishing companies; creating a direct channel between ourselves and our readers is of the utmost importance to us. Each author has freely donated their time and work and are committed to the Indie Collaboration's cause of:Offering the best of indie authorsin bite size pieces for free.We hope you enjoy our books

Book preview

The Indie Collaboration Presents

Summer Shorts

A eclectic collection of stories from various authors. From action filled science fiction to dark sinister chills, humorous mystery, and wild impish fun. Ideal for for relaxing in the summer sun.

ISBN: 9781310171154

Copyright Retained By Authors

Smashwords Edition

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

Thank you for downloading this e-book. It remains the copyrighted property of the authors, and may not be reproduced, copied and distributed for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download their own copy. Thank you for your support.

Contents

SARAH'S TREE BY PAUL RAVEN

THE KITCHEN IMPS BY A. L. BUTCHER

BOOTS? BY DONNY SWORDS

THE CASE OF THE SIX BROKEN MILK BOTTLES BY CHRIS RAVEN

HENRY'S WINDOWS BY ALAN HARDY

TALIA SARAN: SUMMER ON INDIGO PRIME BY D.C. ROGERS

WRITE WHAT YOU KNOW BY MADHU KALYAN MATTAPARTHI

DREAMING BY SONYA C. DODD

NEWPORT MEMORIAL REGATTA BY KRISTINA BLASEN

BRITISH SUMMER TIME BY A.L BUTCHER

ABOUT THE AUTHORS

OTHER PUBLICATIONS BY THE INDIE COLLABORATION

Sarah's Tree By Paul Raven

In the Kentish countryside tucked away in the folds of the North Downs, lies the small village of Midas Green. I doubt very much if many people have heard of it, yet only a few years ago it was associated with a tragedy that was both macabre and strange. Midas Green has been classed as a village since before history was recorded and it is first noted in the Doomsday Book as having the grand population of sixty-one. With that one exception, fame or popularity had never disturbed the tranquility of village life that was strictly tied to the never ending rhythm of the passing seasons. It grew larger of course, but it remained essentially the same. Built in roughly the shape of an horse shoe surrounding a large green, it remained unspoilt by the changing times.

I spent my childhood there. Free to roam the fields and woodlands of the surrounding countryside with the other village boys, almost without restriction. The local farmers tolerated our escapades with the good humored outlook that 'boys will be boys', and even treated our seasonal scrumping raids on their orchards with only token severity. The fact was that we were country-bred and, as such, had an innate respect for the farmers fields as they well knew. So it was that we had fields to roam, trees to climb, and streams to fish or paddle in with no one to say yea or nay.

There was only one place we were not allowed to play and it was enforced by every adult in the village, whether it was their child or not. That place was Sarah's tree and it stood like a permanent temptation to every tree climbing boy in the center of the village green. An old elm, it stood gnarled and twisted by time, reputed to be the headstone of the only witch the village had known. The story was that she had terrorized the village during the Civil War, cursing people, animals and crops alike until the village feared and hated her so much that they reported her to the church authorities at Canterbury as a heretic and devil worshiper.

The reaction of Canterbury was swift and terrible. Within days of the report being made, a Franciscan Monk with his authority backed by four Cromwellian troopers, arrived at the village and interrogated Sarah in her cottage. The result of which was that on the Monk's orders the troopers dragged Sarah screaming to the center of the green and burned her alive. The pyre was the entire contents of her home and, even as the fire was still flickering, they left the stunned village as suddenly as they came.

The legend was that the elm tree had sprouted almost over night from the ashes of Sarah's final resting place. In the years that followed the story goes that anyone damaging that elm tree was dogged by ill fortune, sometimes ending in tragic and violent death. My grandfather told the story of the three village lads who were called up in the army for the duration of the nineteen fourteen war and they all vowed to meet back in the village after they had given the Bosch the lesson they deserved. They each picked a leaf from Sarah's tree and placed it in their pocket books to remind them of home and left to go to war. At the end of the war only two returned, the other having died in the Flanders mud. Of the two that returned, one was minus an arm and the other had a racking cough that he had as the result of a mustard gas attack on the Somme. The one-armed man took his leaf and buried it one night at the foot of Sarah's tree, to expiate the angry spirit he said. The other, having lost his, died several years later when he had coughed until one of his lungs collapsed.

As a child, I absolutely believed that the tree was cursed and when I reached manhood I left the village for the big town and began to doubt and then finally disbelieve the story as superstitious nonsense.

I kept in touch with the village over the years, first by the occasional visit then, after my father died, by letter to a boyhood friend who had stayed to run his father's farm. I thought no more of Sarah's tree until in the September of 1973 I received the following letter from my friend in Midas Green.

***

Dear Stephen,

I don't know if you remember the story of Sarah's tree that we had drummed into us as youngsters, but the strangest thing has happened. I suppose you know that Dutch Elm disease has been decimating our trees this year, well poor old Sarah has contracted it and has got to go. The village doesn't seem to know whether to be pleased or not and, though none of them will admit to it, there seems to be a current of uneasiness running through the village. It's funny really that even in this day and age that people can be slave to dark-age superstition.

Anyway Stephen, the tree is to come down the weekend after next so why don't you come down and stay at my place and we can drink a toast to old Sarah, the only tree for miles we never climbed as boys.

Hoping to see you soon,

John.

***

At the time pressure of work prevented me from making the trip even though I was quite taken by the idea of seeing part of my past before it was finally gone forever. I imagined the village would look strangely bare without that old tree's shadow. I wrote to John with some regret but I asked him to let me know how it went on the big day, for a big day in the village life it would

certainly be, because they were to lose, wanted or not, part of their history.

Sure enough, in due course, John's letter came.

***

Dear Stephen,

I am sorry you could not make it but perhaps another time soon.

Well Stephen, I am really at a loss to describe the other day at the tree felling. There was nothing to it really, if you look at it coldly, but there was something definitely strange about the whole operation. For one thing, the turnout by the village was very poor, only a few youngsters gathered