Next Chapters Unleashed: A Beachy Anthology

By Clarissa Gosling, Jessica White, Kathryn McClatchy and 11 more

Fifteen international authors, members of the Unleashing the Next Chapter online writers community, join forces to produce a tantalizing and diverse compilation to satisfy your appetite for the sweet, the salty, the light, the dark, and everything in between. This beachy anthology weaves the changes of life with the faithfulness of canine companions in an assortment of genres.

 

A timid ghost follows a friendly beagle, hoping to find a forever home. Determined women dive into wild ocean waves. Vacationers yearn for the courage to turn dream jobs into permanent opportunities. Surprises await inside staid museum walls. Magic abounds, pups play matchmaker, and families forge unbreakable links in the face of adversity.

 

Each story in this summer read will keep you coming back for something fresh, something different, something to keep you on the edge of your beach chair. Or wherever you may be.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Prinsenhof Publications
• Release date: Apr 26, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201173395

Clarissa Gosling

Clarissa has always lived more in the world of daydream and fiction than in reality. In her writing she explores purpose and belonging across worlds. Having never found an actual portal to faeryland, she creates her own fantastical worlds where dragons, fae and other magical creatures rule. She now lives in the Netherlands with her family, where she writes as much as they will let her. When not reading or writing, she drinks too much tea and has a burgeoning obsession with Bundt cakes. Clarissa is the author of the "Dragons of Kaitstud" and "Lost Princess of Starlight" YA fantasy series, and the "Expat Life" series of non-fiction guides for families moving, and living, abroad. She is an admin for the 365 Writing Challenge, an international group that supports people to build the habit of writing. And she is one of the co-hosts of the Reading Queens podcast, which discusses mainly young adult fantasy books and their major tropes. Find out more about her at clarissagosling.com

Book preview

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© 2022

Edited by Sara-Meg Seese

Published by Prinsenhof Publications on behalf of

Unleashing the Next Chapter

Cover by Jackie O’Connor

All rights reserved.

Thank you, Thank you, Thank you

to ALL the contributors

What a privilege and joy to serve as project manager alongside so many talented women. Your creativity and unique skill sets provided a harmonious environment to collaborate, learn, and have fun while doing the hard work, culminating in a quality product. I’m so proud to have labored with you on the birth of this book baby.

Congratulations on a job well done!

~ Kelley Rene

About the Editor

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Howdy! I’m Sara-Meg Seese, a NJ native transplanted to north Texas. You’ll find me penning contemporary romance, romantic fantasy, and literary/women’s fiction. In college I wrote an honors thesis on J.R.R. Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings, focusing on his belief in eucatastrophe—the sudden happy turn when hope is rekindled and love prevails. So I write Stories of Hope and Heart!

I once toured with an international repertory theater company, performing at churches, schools, and nursing homes. I now have a full-time job in IT, so I hang out with a bunch of computer geeks, but when the SQL and C# code gets too much for me, I go home and binge-watch the Hallmark channel while snuggling with my three lovable kitties.

You’ll find info about my recently published novella and other writing projects, as well as my editing services, at saramegseese.wordpress.com or on Facebook @SaraMegSeese.

Introduction

WE LIVE IN a world of possibilities.

Self-help gurus implore us to expect the unexpected. Movie soundtracks send subliminal cues, preparing us for one surprise after another. A butterfly flaps its wings and, halfway around the world, a tornado forms.

Unleashing the Next Chapter started with an idea, a possibility. What if there was a forum where aspiring novelists could support each other at the critical, and underserved, intersection between learning the craft of writing and producing published works?

Soon the possibility became reality. A handful of local writers grew to a community with more than 200 members. And someone had an idea . . . instead of describing the process of getting a book to market, let’s actually do it!

You hold the result in your hands, an eclectic collection of possibility turned reality.

This is your warning: expect the unexpected within these pages.

Most short story anthologies fall neatly into a category. Inspirational Christmas romances, chilling Gothic horror, suspenseful murder mysteries, urban fantasy . . . no matter the genre, there’s undoubtedly an anthology that showcases it. Traditional publishers tailor collections for specific marketing reasons and assemble stories they already know will appeal to their target audience. Like-minded indie authors team up for a collaboration that introduces their most-faithful readers to fellow writers with a similar style. These collections fit neatly into a well-defined Amazon category.

But UtNC is a bit different. Well, okay . . . a lot different.

Our membership comprises an eclectic set of authors who write in a variety of genres. Some are multi-published, some are still early in their writing journey. Some provide mentoring, others are eager to be mentored. But all are committed to maintaining a supportive community that nurtures creativity.

Which brings us to the stories in Next Chapter Unleashed.

We could have picked a target genre and invited all our authors to decide if they wanted to write within the tropes and expectations of that choice.

But that would have flown counter to the goals and ideals of our group.

Instead, this anthology ranges from sweet romance to dystopian, from road trip to apocalyptic. Each contributor stayed true to their own specialty, their preferred genre.

That’s not to say there aren’t common elements.

Somewhere in each story, you’ll find a beach, that mystical place where land meets sea, where tides ebb and flow and the only constant is change.

In honor of the founder of UtNC, Kathryn McClatchy, and her faithful service dogs Gizmo and Butler, canine companions are integral components of the narratives.

All of our authors are women, and empowered female characters with agency and strength appear on every page.

And somewhere in each story, the narrative hinges on a choice that opens a new chapter in someone’s life.

So sit back, relax, and settle in for a beach read. Snuggle a fur baby while you escape into a realm of creativity. Celebrate the women who have committed themselves to following their dreams of writing success.

And follow the lead of these amazing characters. Embrace the amazing possibilities life has to offer. Envision your dreams turning to reality. Because the next chapter of life starts by turning a single page.

SPRING BREAK ESCAPE

by Kathryn McClatchy

Running away from her abusive foster family, Staci nearly jumps from the frying pan into the fire, as she encounters would-be kidnappers on her journey to shape the future she's always hoped for in this contemporary story.

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I’m Kathryn McClatchy, a reader and writer of mystery and suspense and anything else that piques my interest.

My husband, Steve, and I live in Texas with two goofy Labrador Retrievers. I serve on the board of directors for W.O.R.D. (WORDwriters.org), facilitate the annual Fall Flash Fiction Contest for Writers Guild of Texas, and have been the social media manager for BoucherCon, InkersCon, and Writers in the Field.

When not reading or writing, you’ll find me participating in church activities, feeding my houseplant addiction, and researching my current obsession. I love to travel, and the beach is my happy place.

I’m a digital media strategist, and the founder and owner of Unleashing the Next Chapter.

Learn more at KathrynMcClatchy.com.

Spring Break Escape

MARCH 2008

STACI squirmed in the backseat of the police car. What a way to spend a beautiful afternoon, the last day of school before spring break. Handcuffed.

Words bubbled in her throat, but she held them in. She wanted to explain to the officers what really happened, but this wasn’t her first rodeo. No matter what she said, it wouldn’t do any good.

Staci stared out the window. The bland North Texas streets blurred past until they pulled up to the behavioral health center. This wouldn’t be so bad. One week here meant no back-breaking chores, no one groping her, no one blaming her when they got caught getting in trouble. On her last visit, she’d met compassionate, overworked staff members who left her alone as long as she didn’t cause any trouble. Her only diagnosis—foster kid with childhood trauma—required no real intervention, just minimal supervision. The way they liked it.

The two cops pulled Staci from the backseat and flanked her as they escorted her to the intake office.

The moment they entered, the male cop pointed at a shabby seat and glowered until she eased onto it. On the other side of a plexiglass shield, an intake counselor balanced a phone between her ear and shoulder, grumbling into it about someone’s insurance coverage, while typing furiously. Without looking at them, she held up two fingers.

Staci resigned herself to waiting. At least she already knew the counselor. The office might be in unexpected shambles, with random stacks of notebooks and folders instead of last year’s well-staffed orderliness, but the familiar face, green staff polo shirt, and khaki slacks offered a little comfort.

Five minutes later, the counselor hung up the phone, picked up a pen and clipboard, and rattled off questions without even shifting her gaze from the computer monitor. Is this the 72-hour psych hold?

The male officer leaned on the counter. Yes, ma’am.

Staci rolled her eyes. Three days? Ha! She’d be stuck here at least a week.

Name and date of birth?

Anastacia Altman, November 2, 1992. The officer read from his pocket-sized notepad.

The counselor behind the desk looked up, eyes wide with surprise. Hey Stace! You’re back. The fosters took off again?

Hey Becka. Staci lifted her hand to wave, but encountered the handcuffs. She settled for a one-shoulder shrug. Disney World plus some beach resort in Florida.

Ouch.

The junior officer shot a nervous glance at her partner. I think you’re mistaken, ma’am. This is Anastacia Altman, fifteen years old, and her parents are Elijah and Cathy Davis, not Foster.

Becka winked at Staci and glared at the police. Oh, I know who she is. The Davises are her foster parents. Anastacia, or Staci as she prefers, gets a ride to a behavioral health center every time the Davises want to take their biological children on a vacation out of state, since foster kids aren’t allowed to leave Texas. Sadly, Staci won’t be the only one in this situation next week.

The officer sighed. I forgot next week is Spring Break. We see this happen more during the summer. He glanced at his partner. Guess we know why this seemed an unusual transport.

Wait, what? The younger officer put her hands on her hips. You’re saying foster parents can dump their kids here, and that’s okay?

No, it’s absolutely not okay, but it gets done. Becka sighed. We report it to the caseworkers, but they’re overworked. Plus, there aren’t enough foster families to move these kids. It’s one weakness in the system. You can take off those cuffs. She won’t be a problem.

Stuck in intake, Staci daydreamed about sunbathing on some idyllic beach, not that she’d ever seen the ocean or real sand for that matter. Finally, her caseworker was notified, her benefits through the state confirmed, and all the paperwork completed, printed in triplicate, and filed. The Davis kids wouldn’t be checked in to their beachside rental for several more hours, but all Staci had to do was close her eyes and she could smell a salt breeze and feel seafoam between her toes.

If only it were real.

Eventually, someone from the dining room brought dinner as well as one of the visiting therapy dogs to keep Staci company. The chocolate Labrador, Lottie, played a half-hearted game of fetch and rolled over for belly rubs. Mostly, though, she kept her warm brown gaze on Staci.

I sure would love to have a pet, Lottie. Especially a dog like you. Staci stroked a velvety ear. My mom was a vet tech when I was little. She’d bring all kinds of animals home. Well, to Grandpa’s house. She said she collected strays. I loved every one of them, even wanted to be a veterinarian when I grew up.

Lottie leaned against her leg, the weight warm and comforting.

But Grandpa died, and then she OD’d. Now I’m the stray, I guess. She brushed her nose, willing herself to get it together.

The therapy dogs had been gone for hours, and it was well past lights out before Becka could finally assign Staci a room.

I’m sorry I couldn’t get you a single, but the girls’ hall is pretty full. Your roommate tried to OD two days ago. She might not be the best company. Becka yawned as they walked to the teens’ wing.

I don’t care as long as she keeps her hands to herself during the night.

Still having a problem with the foster sister?

Staci shoved her hands in her pockets.

We reported that on your last stay. Becka touched her shoulder gently. Let’s make sure to talk about it on Monday. I’m only helping with intake tonight because we’re shorthanded. I’ll be your counselor next week.

Sure. Whatever.

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After a miserable night in a miserable room with a miserable roommate, Staci made it through breakfast and into the mid-morning group session they were all required to attend. There was only one other staff person she recognized. The adults were all in a sour mood, overworked and overtired. The charge nurse acted more like Nurse Ratched than a ministering angel. Staci had landed on her bad side before she even left her room.

The over-caffeinated PRN counselor who facilitated the group session didn’t know any of the teens and struggled to get them to participate. The daytime tech no-showed, so the night tech stayed to sub, after having already worked a twelve-hour shift. Six other girls and four boys, ages thirteen to seventeen, slouched on folding chairs in a circle with the counselor, while the tech leaned against the door with his arms crossed and his eyes half closed. A couple of the kids were changing meds, and it showed.

Staci felt sorry for the young counselor and for the exhausted, grouchy tech, but she mostly felt sorry for herself. She chose a seat close to the exit, with the door behind her. Rather than contributing to the group, she daydreamed about escaping and running away from her abusive foster family and Texas. California, she decided. As far away from the Davises and their Florida vacay as she could get, right? Surfers and palm trees. And miles and miles of ocean waves.

Of course, the pleasant imaginary scene poofed out of existence when one of the older boys, obviously delusional, started yelling at the therapist. That set off one of the younger girls into a crying jag. Two other boys took the opportunity to pick a fight. The inexperienced counselor lost control of the room.

Jolted awake, the tech radioed for help as he moved to intercept the fighters. Staci sidled closer to the door to get out of the way. The unit nurse and an administrator dashed in to help. Staci caught the door with her foot and held it for them. Reflexively, she grabbed the detachable lanyard and electronic door keycard that flapped over the admin’s shoulder as she passed. The staff was so focused on the boys fighting, no one realized Staci had taken it.

Staci eased out the door and into the hallway, where she ducked behind a large trash bin to scope out the sitch. No one lingered nearby, just a solitary nurse at the centralized station, scolding a kid who wasn’t where he was supposed to be.

Holding her breath, Staci slipped off her shoes and ran barefoot down the hall. She darted through the common room to the unit exit and used the keycard to unlock the door.

As she entered the lobby, she slipped her cheap hospital-provided canvas shoes back on, straightened her shoulders, and ran her fingers through her mousy blond hair. A drama teacher once told her to act the part no matter what. So, she acted like someone with the right to leave the hospital, walking calmly out the front door as a family entered for visitation.

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Staci’s confidence only lasted to the edge of the parking lot. She halted to get her bearings. An old cemetery sat directly across the street, with a wooded lot beyond that. Going back to her foster home seemed much scarier than an overgrown cemetery. She forced herself to walk like an adult who belonged there, even though every fiber of her being wanted to run like the scared kid she was.

The wail of approaching police sirens warned her she had little time. Skirting along the wrought-iron fence that ringed the cemetery, she breathed a sigh of relief as shrubbery and monuments shielded her from view. No way could she run fast in the slip-on shoes provided by the hospital, but from a distance, the sweatpants and baggy T-shirt wouldn’t raise any eyebrows.

By the time two squad cars pulled into the psych hospital’s parking lot, she’d made it to the wooded lot, far enough away to risk running, or at least jogging.

She emerged on the other side to find a new subdivision had been mapped out, but not built up. Paved streets connected driveways-to-nowhere. Porta-potties and work trailers dotted the section, along with a mobile home that served as the builder’s office. Staci set her sights on the nearest work trailer and ran as fast as she could. With luck and a break in the skirting, she could squeeze herself under it. Good thing she was petite.

But as she circled it, looking for a gap, the area behind the mobile home office came into view.

Damn! People!

She was running out of time. Soon, the police would start combing the neighborhood, looking for her. She squatted behind the work trailer, small and inconspicuous, while she caught her breath and considered her options.

A gust of wind blew her hair back, carrying a familiar scent as well as indistinct voices.

She smiled. Her luck continued to hold. Those people behind the office were nothing to worry about. Just kids her age getting high. Maybe eight or ten of them leaned on three cars, a nice new Mustang and two family sedans. Staci took off her shirt and turned it inside out. Now no one could read Property of TDFW Behavioral Health printed across the front. She put it back on and finger-brushed her hair into place.

Staci took a deep breath and coached herself to act like she belonged there. Squaring her shoulders, she walked right over to the group of teenagers. Her drama teacher would be proud.

She was close enough to touch the nearest car before one girl noticed her. She nudged the biggest boy in the group and pointed at Staci. Thankfully, he was pretty well stoned, and Staci could tell from his giggles she had nothing to worry about from him.

But the oldest in the group, a young man, came over to Staci. Whatcha want? He reeked of pot but acted completely sober, and his eyes were clear.

Nothing. Staci blurted, almost forgetting what she’d intended to say as a cover story.

The older teen was athletic, good looking, and stood at least a head taller than her. Well?

Uh, yeah. She held her hands out, placating. I was out for a walk, and a cop stopped me asking if I’d seen any teens with a blue sedan, like that one there. Staci pointed at the newer of the two family cars. The cop said someone had reported it stolen and the kid who took it was a runaway.

Aw crap! The young man addressed the group. Ryan! I told you to go home last night. Your dad finally went through with his threat to call the cops on you.

As if on cue, the sirens sounded. The girl who had first noticed her lurched backward, and panic spread through most of the others too. Several piled into the old green car. Ryan, the big stoned guy, searched for his keys, still giggling, while his girlfriend and two others jumped in his dad’s blue sedan.

Both vehicles sped away, leaving Staci and the guy she was talking to. He rushed to the new Mustang and opened the door. His eyes lingered on her. You coming? I can drop you somewhere.

Staci ran for the car and climbed into the passenger seat. The car took off before she buckled her seatbelt. Within minutes, they merged into the traffic on the interstate.

The driver held out his hand to Staci while keeping his eyes on the road. Thanks. You did us a solid. I’m Caleb, by the way. How can I repay you?

Staci shook his hand. No problem. I’m . . . Her brain raced. I’m Ann. My stepdad was supposed to pick me up at that tool trailer. Can I use your phone to call him? My cell got taken up at school yesterday.

That sucks! Sure. Here ya go. Caleb fished his very new and very expensive phone from the front pocket of his jeans and handed it to her.

Staci had no intention of calling anyone she knew. She pressed randomly, ignored that it was a wrong number, and kept talking to someone she called Dad. The wrong number hung up. Staci told the phone what exit they had just passed. Okay . . . Yeah . . .  Sorry. Okay, I will. Bye.

What’s the plan? Caleb took his phone from her.

He said to take the next exit and drop me at the first gas station on the right. He’ll be there soon.

Now almost fifteen minutes away from the psych hospital, on the interstate, and about to cross into another city, Staci’s stomach settled.

Caleb’s phone rang. He checked the screen. Damn. When he answered it, his cool, easygoing demeanor snapped to attention. Yes, sir? His voice dropped. No, sir. I wasn’t able to complete the sale . . . I understand, but one of the kids’ dads called the police. I barely got out of there before they showed up.

The exit came and went on the right while Caleb stayed in the passing lane. Staci’s hand tightened on the armrest next to her.

Yes, sir . . . Yes, sir . . . I’ll get the money . . . Yes, sir. I will bring the cash to you in an hour. Thank you, sir. Caleb ended the call and dropped the phone into a cup holder. He swiped a hand across his forehead. The car accelerated.

Everything okay? Staci shifted in her seat.

No. But it will be. He eased off the gas. I owe my boss some money. I was going to get it from those kids at the work site.

Oh. Sorry. Not to add more trouble, but you missed the exit while you were on the phone.

Caleb took a long sideways glance at her. Any chance you have access to a thousand bucks?

What?! Me? Hardly. She didn’t even have access to ten.

Think your dad will pay a grand to ransom you?

She scoffed. No way!

Let’s call him and find out. Caleb hit the redial on his phone, but within seconds realized Staci had faked the call. He shot her a look. What’s the deal, Ann?

She couldn’t tell if he looked more angry at her or scared about his boss and the money he owed. I’m a foster kid. I ran away.

Shit! So now, in addition to my boss wanting the money for the drugs those kids just did, I have an underage runaway on my hands. Caleb eased off at the next exit and slowed down on the frontage road. You’re going to get out of my car, and you’re going to forget you ever saw me. Understand?

The car skidded to a stop on the road’s shoulder.