Second Chapters

By Barbara J Glover, M. M. MacLellan, Daniel McMillan and 3 more

Everyone deserves a fresh start. But what they choose to do with it...

 

"Second Chapters" is the creative result of six brains let loose with one topic. The outcome is a collection of thriller, fantasy, and life stories that will take you on unforgettable journeys, all relating tales of second chances, and each ending in an unexpected destination.

 

The White - When a victim of domestic abuse decides to take control of her situation, she finds that it can be difficult to stop. How far will she go to bring balance to her life?

 

Greenbrier Heights - A stately manor houses more than just the people who live there. The secrets the old home has witnessed may be even greater than the structure itself.

 

Savage Relic - A deadly assassin is robbed of his memory and becomes a gentler version of his former self. But when his past catches up with him, what qualities will he retain to protect what he's built?

 

Liorah - An inexperienced fairy is assigned to a tough case on the Do-Over team. How many chances does one person need before they find contentment?

The Intruder - A tortured soul lurks in a place it shouldn't be. But all is not what it seems when things go bump on this particular night.

 

Eight Days of Spring - An elderly couple, set on transforming a community park,  is assigned to supervise a troubled young man. What can this unlikely pairing possibly accomplish in eight days?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Brandon Writers' Collective
• Release date: Jul 18, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393695158

Book preview

Introduction

THE ANTHOLOGY YOU HOLD in your hands—or are viewing via an e-reader or other electronic device—is the fantastic work of the Brandon Writers’ Collective. Having edited the stories you’re about to read, I can tell you with firsthand knowledge that you’re in for a real treat.

The main thing to know about this collection is that each story revolves around the idea of second chances. For many of us, second chances have provided opportunities to make amends for past mistakes, or to live up to better ideals—whether self-imposed or societal. The world is arguably a better place as a result of proffered second chances. That more people don’t get the opportunity to have a second chance is a real shame, if you ask me.

The authors who make up the Brandon Writers’ Collective are a diverse bunch. I was introduced to the group by Daniel McMillan after working with him to produce an audiobook of his title DECEPTIVE VISIONS, as well as doing some editing of his title EVE OF ASCENSION. Dan has a real flair for science fiction, and if you’re a sci-fi fan I would most definitely recommend checking out his work. The other authors here are new to me, but each of them has gained a fan in me. Some are new authors; some are old hat pros. Each has a unique voice and vision to share, which I feel certain you’ll enjoy.

Barb Glover brings THE WHITE to the table, a tale of startling abuse and wicked redemption that had me cheering the protagonist (and only slightly wishing she’d have gone just a wee bit farther...). This is the first of many stories to come from Barb, I’m sure.

GREENBRIER HEIGHTS by M.M. MacLellan blends the past and the present seamlessly, offering up a tale of immeasurable suffering tempered by a modern redemption that just might bring a tear to your eye. I’m certain I won’t be able to look at old houses the same after reading this one.

Daniel McMillan gives us the tale SAVAGE RELIC, in which a life is presumably lost—perhaps for the best—only to be recovered with the aid of a spectre from the past. There’s redemption here, oh yes, but at what cost? You, dear reader, must decide that for yourself.

Jamie Stouffer’s LIORAH is perhaps the quirkiest of the shorts in this collection, and I loved it. This one is all about fantasy, the choices made, and the outcome of said choices. Can having a do-over really bring fulfillment? I, for one, think it can.

THE INTRUDER by Renee Cronley is a thrilling and complex look at perception and how that can link back to second chances and redemption. I’m confident in saying that you, dear reader, won’t be able to predict the outcome of this tale, but that you’ll be pleasantly satisfied nonetheless.

The final entry, EIGHT DAYS OF SPRING by Bonnie Nissen, is the story I can perhaps most relate to myself in this collection. The wisdom of age and the arrogance of youth collide to give us a tale of redemption just waiting to be taken before it’s too late.

In these stories you will find hope amidst despair; joy within heartache; peace after chaos. You’ll find characters that are likeable, relatable even, and characters you’ll love to hate. Above all, you’ll find that at the center of each of these well-crafted stories is a message we could all do with: redemption is indeed possible if you look for it and work for it.

I genuinely hope that you will enjoy these stories as much as I have, and find the inherent value in each message of hope that is conveyed. There is always hope to be found, redemption to be had.

28 JUNE 2020

Todd Barselow

Acquisitions Editor, AAP

The White by Barbara J Glover

WHEN THE PLATE HIT the floor, I started. My whole body tensed.

Dogs wouldn’t eat this shit. I don’t come home from a hard day’s work to eat crap like this.

I’m sorry...

Sorry? You’re sorry? His lips curled in disgust.  Who will pay me for the food on the floor? Well? Let me tell you—it sure as hell won’t be you! And the bonus I won’t be getting at work isn’t going to pay for it either. You’re useless! I don’t know why I married you.

I rose, granting him a wide berth, and served him another plate. Then I sat, head down, twisting my wedding ring. Waiting. Praying he didn’t demand the fragments be cleaned up. They were too close to his feet and certain injury.

I had tiptoed around his anger ever since he’d gotten home,

In an attempt to appease him, I served the potatoes in a bowl that had been a favourite of his mother. The pork chops were seared 3 minutes on each side in the broiler. While the blender pureed the gravy to ensure no lumps, I slathered the peas and the tiny onions with butter. A glass of water with two ice cubes was on the right of his dinner plate. The salt and pepper were within easy reach on the left. Everything was just as he preferred it.

When he shoved back his chair, I rose cautiously. Reaching for the potato bowl, I splayed my hands on the table as white pain overwhelmed me and I saw double for a moment.

Bitch. The second blow sent me to the floor, pain shooting up my jaw. You fucking cow!

White blinding pain shot up my hip and I rolled away from him.

He kicked my stomach, and I curled into a ball, feeling bile rise in my throat. When his boots targeted my back and buttocks, I felt warmth spread between my legs. I heard the door slam shut, and let a shaky sigh of relief escape.

I lay weeping, waiting for the white to recede, aware this was not over. He would be going to the bar, fueling up, getting meaner. The situation was beyond repair. He would not settle till his anger had been sated, and I wasn’t sure I would survive.

When the white receded to a dull throb, I pulled myself to my knees sliding gingerly onto a chair at the table. I hadn’t noticed when the man I fell in love with became miserable and angry; the transition had been so gradual. I now spent my days monitoring his moods, walking on eggshells, watching for the next punch. How it had come to this, is a question I used to ask myself. Now I just existed, from one beating till the next.

I hungered for the days when he would run his fingers down my cheek and cup my face in his hands. His blue eyes used to sparkle as he looked deep into my eyes before he kissed me. His voice was rich, his laugh a rumble. He used to make love to me outside under the trees. That was where Sherri, our daughter and only child, had been conceived.

I limped to the kitchen, took three painkillers, and waited for the throb to become a dull ache. In the dining room I swept up the mess, dumping it on the table with the remnants of the untouched meal. I knotted the tablecloth and spotted a jagged edge of shattered plate I had missed. A rage I had never experienced before began to blossom. I knew I should shove that rage down into the pit of my stomach and lock it up. But I was tired, and I ached so bad, I couldn’t stop the angry genie from clambering out of the bottle. I grasped the broken china and scraped and gouged the table, crying and shrieking at what I had become and the existence I was surviving. Everything poured out of me onto that table, including the blood from my cut hands.

I purged.

I would not be forgiven for this, the defiling of his father’s table. The retribution meted out would be excruciating. I traced a pattern in the blood spatter, then I picked up the tablecloth. On my way out the door, I hurled the whole mess against the wall leaving a brown blotch he was sure to notice—and his mother’s precious bowl just as shattered as I was. I tossed it all into the garbage.

I RESTED ON THE BENCH by the house, enjoying the soft evening breezes caressing my skin. The sun’s rays warmed my battered body easing some of the soreness. I held my hands up and saw the cuts, welcoming the pain and stinging. It felt good. It meant I was still alive...for now.

This evening would not be a rerun of when I once left after a brutal beating. I had taken 10-year-old Sherri and fled to Howard, our local law enforcement and Rodger’s brother, for protection. Howard told me that he was sure Rodger hadn’t meant it. Rodger was possibly having a rough day and that he, Howard, would drive us home and check in on us from time to time to make sure we were fine. He talked to Rodger, and things returned to normal. Rodger apologized, brought me flowers and helped Sherri with homework. We played games and laughed often. We were a family again, and I was happy. Then as time passed the promises became worthless and beatings became the norm. Howard made visits now and again but despite the bruising he could not miss, he did nothing. Eventually those visits ceased.

It would