M L Gammella Week 186: First Contact

Picture 1


Picture 2


M L Gammella’s Picture Choice: 2

Title: First Contact

Major Jareth Kibben dug his toes into the sand and took a deep breath of the sea air. It was a rare day when he was able to relax, and not just relax but to actually leave the base for a few hours. The respite was much needed from the pressure and stress of his new assignment within the United Earth Navy.

There had been several incidents of activity just outside of Neptune’s orbit that hadn’t originated from Earth or any of the non-terran settlements. With colonization of the solar system finally taking hold, the powers that be within the UEN were understandably nervous. While the colonies were mostly self-sufficient, they were still dependent on the UEN for protection. If there was something approaching the solar system, the UEN had to be ready. It was Jareth’s job to figure out what was going on and if the incidents were friendly or not.

Major Jareth had been on several runs out to various points around Neptune’s orbit and so far his results haven’t revealed anything. It was like someone or something was toying with the UEN, triggering sensors then disappearing. The military obviously didn’t like that and took it as a threat, while many others were excited about finally having First Contact. Despite man finally leaving the cradle of Earth, humanity still had not encountered any other sentient life forms. Perhaps this would be the first time.

Jareth was brought out of his musings by a brush of sand across his chest and a very female giggle.

“Come on, Jer. Stop thinking so much and relax.”

He laughed and brushed the sand from his chest. “I am relaxing, just hard to turn the brain off sometimes.”

“I know, that is why we are here, silly. I haven’t been to the beach in ages.”

“Me either. I’ve been in space more than I’ve been on Earth over the past several years. It’s good to feel natural gravity again.” Jareth reached over and pulled his wife into his lap. “I can think of a few other things that feel good too.”

She laughed again, running her hands across his smooth stomach. “Me too, like back massages and foot rubs...”

“That’s not what I was referring to, Gayle,” Jareth growled, leaning forward to nuzzle her neck, grasping her hips with his hands.

“Stop it, Jareth!” she squealed, pulling away.

“Nah, never!” He tightened his grip on her hips as she continued to pull away.

“Jareth, I’m serious. Stop it!”

“I’m not doing anything,” he protested, removing his hands from her hips as she sliding backward.

“Something is pulling at me!”

“What?”

Before his very eyes, she started to levitate. He looked around wildly, trying to find the source of what was affecting Gayle. No one else on the beach seemed to notice anything unusual was going on.

“You aren’t doing this?” Her eyes widened in panic as she continued to rise slowly.

“No.” Jareth grabbed her arms to try to keep her from going any higher. Gayle clutched at him desperately, her legs lifting above her head.

“Jareth, what’s happening?”

“I don’t know, sweetheart. Just stay with me!”

He dug his feet as deeply into the sand as he could but could feel whatever was pulling Gayle was stronger than he.

“I’m trying!” Her voice had reached the pitch of full panic.

“I know, sweetheart!” The tenuous hold that his feet in the sand started to give.

A spatial distortion exploded above Gayle, glowing and crackling with unseen power.

“What the hell?” His voice was lost in the noise.

While Gayle’s strange levitation hadn’t garnered any attention by anyone else at the beach, this got their attention. He couldn’t hear anyone else but he saw them running away as quickly as they could, leaving blankets and possessions behind.

Gayle looked behind her, her feet nearly straight up in the air, with the anomaly just beyond. Her face turned ashen and she began screaming. “Jareth, don’t let go!”

“I’m not!” He wasn’t sure how much longer he could hold on. He was being pulled out of the sand but the pull on Gayle was stronger.

“I’m slipping!”

Jareth tried to tighten his grip on Gayle, but it wasn’t working. The pull from the distortion was becoming too great. The anomaly surged, glowing brighter, and Gayle flew out of Jareth’s hands.

Her screams cut off a moment later when the distortion disappeared, just as suddenly as it started, with Gayle with it.

“NO!” Jareth dropped to his knees in the warm, sun-kissed sands, his heart pounding and adrenaline pumping. The few people that were still on the beach looked at him in confusion. He needed to find his comm. Someone had to have seen that anomaly pop up on their scan.

A man in a police uniform ran up to him, his radio squawking. “What just happened?”

“I have no idea, but I intend to find out.” He stood and grabbed the bag of stuff that he and Gayle had brought with them.

“Sir, I need to ask you a few questions.”

Jareth ignored him as he dug through the bag, finally finding his comm buried toward the bottom. It was already pinging with messages, one an urgent message from UEN central command. He pulled on his shirt and tapped out a quick response to one of the messages.

“Sorry, Officer, I need to go.”

“Sir, I can’t let you do that yet.” The officer grabbed Jareth’s arm firmly but gently.

“Yes, you can and you must.” Jareth impatiently flashed his comm to the officer.

The officer’s demeanor changed immediately. “Major Kibben! Sir, yes, sir! Whatever I can do to help. I’ll escort you to the base. I can get you there faster than anyone else.”

Jareth nodded and followed the officer, skimming his comm as they went. The United Earth Navy was mobilizing. The spatial distortion that he just witnessed had the same energy signature as the anomalies that they had been tracking near Neptune. Gayle wasn’t the only one taken either. At least twelve other anomalies popped up all over the planet, all at the same time, all taking a person. No one had any idea what the anomalies were or where they had originated, but the UEN was going to find out.

Jareth flipped his comm to a picture of hi wife. “I’ll find you, Gayle. No matter if I have to travel to the other side of the universe.”

Earth finally had First Contact, and it meant war.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Like what you just read? Have a question or concern? Leave a note for the author! We appreciate your feedback!

M L Gammella lives in Ohio with her husband and their three pets. She is currently working on her first novel, a paranormal suspense based in Maine. Please follow her at @MLGammella and visit her website at Onward to the Written Word.

#DailyPicspiration

M L Gammella Week 54: The Perfect Scene

Interested in joining the #DailyPicspiration blog? We have an opening! Email Miranda at burntcore@gmail.com for details.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Picture 1


Picture 2


M L Gammella’s Picture Choice: 1

Title: The Perfect Scene

Sunlight warmed her skin as she buried her face in the crook of her arm. She couldn’t let the other train passengers see her cry. Mark wanted to create a scene and she refused to give him the satisfaction of breaking down in public.

Their relationship had been on the rocks for some time, so it wasn’t really a surprise when he told her he was leaving her for good. What Rosana didn’t expect was him telling her in front of everyone in the dining car, and going into detail what his new girlfriend did better than Rosana. He always did enjoy drama, and apparently their anniversary trip together was the perfect backdrop for his announcement.

Many of the diners looked on with disgust, some with pity. The pity was the worst. It wasn’t until Mark left the dining car, did her hold of her emotions start to break. She was more embarrassed than hurt. Rosana was used to his games, but hated it when he made his games ‘public.’

“Are you okay, dear?” a kind-looking old woman asked, resting her gnarled hand gently on Rosana’s shoulder.

Rosana rubbed her eyes and took a deep breath. “I will be, thank you.”

The old woman smiled and patted Rosana’s shoulder before walking away. A small object fell into Rosana’s lap, startling her. She turned to call out to the old woman, but the woman was gone. The door to the adjoining car was whispering shut.

Rosana stared at the small object in her hand and smiled, a plan forming. Mark sure loved a scene. It was time to see if he liked them as much when the tables were turned against him.

Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, indeed.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Like what you just read? Have a question or concern? Leave a note for the author! We appreciate your feedback!

M L Gammella lives in Ohio with her husband and their three pets. She is currently working on her first novel, a paranormal suspense based in Maine. Please follow her at @MLGammella and visit her website at Onward to the Written Word.

#DailyPicspiration

M L Gammella Week 48: Canvas

Picture 1


Picture 2


M L Gammella’s Picture Choice: 2

Title: Canvas

Fumes from fresh paint hung in the air. The room looked like something from Jackson Pollock, there was paint everywhere in various colors, just strewn about without any rhyme or reason. Most appeared to be on various canvases that were around the room, but it looked like the artist missed quite a few times.

“If this is supposed to be art, I don’t get it,” my partner said beside me as we walked into the room gingerly.

“Me either, but stuff like this sells,” I replied.

The flat appeared to be empty. No movement besides our own steps could be heard.

“Who lives here again?”

“Melanie Phillips, according to the landlord that called us,” I replied.

I looked around the room again before I continued into the next room. “Ms. Phillips? Are you here? It’s the police. We received a call.” My voice echoed through the hallway without any response.

The smell of paint faded as I walked down the hallway, only to be replaced by a sharp metallic scent, like iron.

“Craig, get over here. I may have something,” I hollered over my shoulder.

The smell most reminiscent of blood was overwhelming as I stood outside a door slightly ajar at the end of the hallway.

“What is it? Holy crap, is that blood?” Craig asked, quickly joining me.

“I think so. Not sure yet.” I withdrew my firearm from my hoster and called out again. “Ms. Phillips, are you here? Are you okay? Can you hear me?”

WIth a gentle nudge with the barrel, I pushed the door open and wished I hadn’t.

“Holy crap,” Craig repeated, shocked.

“Who would do this?” I asked myself as I carefully stepped into the room, trying to avoid any blood pools. “Radio for the coroner, will you?”

Craig nodded and walked into the hallway, all the more eager for a reason to get away from the horrifying sight. Too bad I didn’t have that luxury to look away. Someone had to figure out who did this.

A woman, Melanie Phillips I assumed, or what was left of her, was very clearly dead. Her blood had been used to paint the room, similar to how the main room was, except the person had used her limbs to apply the paint. A lock of hair was dried in a clump on a bed frame, her arm tossed in a corner. Those were only the first things I saw. THere were much more. I began taking pictures of the scene with my camera phone. I would be able to download the pictures later back at the station.

Craig returned to the room while I was finishing my pictures. “Wait, did they really stake her head?” Craig looked green. He was still a rookie. I had money that he’d be puking in the alley within a few minutes.

“It appears so, but based on the amount of blood on the top of her head, it looked like the person that did all of this, decided to paint using a really big brush.”

That did it. Craig gave me one final panicked look before he bolted. He didn’t make it to the alley, but he did manage to find the deceased woman’s bathroom and leave her with a piece of art in her toilet.

I shook my head and took some more pictures. It was going to be a long day to sift through all of the evidence. Then, the hunt for the killer would be on.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Like what you just read? Have a question or concern? Leave a note for the author! We appreciate your feedback!

M L Gammella lives in Ohio with her husband and their three pets. She is currently working on her first novel, a paranormal suspense based in Maine. Please follow her at @MLGammella and visit her website at Onward to the Written Word.

#DailyPicspiration

M L Gammella Week 44: Tracing a Revolution - Part 2

Picture 1


Picture 2


M L Gammella’s Picture Choice: 2

Title: Tracing a Revolution - Part 2

Trace hurtled through the sky towards the Corporation building. The air whistled past her ears, her hair plastered against her head. Within seconds, she smacked up against the imposing structure.

She was prepared for this. Trace had adjusted her body to absorb the impact so she remained unhurt. With a slight bounce, her body repelled from the wall. Trace carefully moved along the seams of the building, her fingers and toes digging into the tenuous holds.

She shuffled until she arrived at a small, private balcony. The advantages of being the big shot, Trace thought to herself as she laughed without humor.

Once over the edge of the railing of the balcony, her feet landed with a soft thud. Trace retracted the amarid floss and pocketed her tools.

The door to the balcony wasn’t locked at all. Who’d expect someone to walk in from the outside, this far up? Trace was almost disappointed. She enjoyed lock-picking, especially high-end electronic locking mechanisms. However, the open door saved her several minutes of valuable time.

She scanned the door to make sure there wasn’t any other kind of security features that weren’t readily seen. Nothing came up on her equipment. The President of the Corporation was apparently very confident in the safety of his office.

Trace gently opened the door and slipped inside. The door didn’t make a sound as it shut. Perfect. She needed access to the mainframe to plant her chip, and she would need to start here. The actual system was much farther down in the depths of the building but she needed his security clearance.

It would have been easier to steal the security clearance of one of the mainframe techs, but their low level clearance wouldn’t give her the access she needed. Only the President had that. So she went right for the top.

The President’s office was large, the main room was nearly half of the whole floor. His massive desk dominated one part of the room, flanked by touchpads, computer screens, and other electronics. There was also a more informal part of the room that had a chaise lounge and a beverage service with a large crystal decanter. There were three doors, two were on each side of his desk area and one was more central to the room. That was the elevator door, disguised to look like the other wooden doors. Very clever.

Trace didn’t waste any more time looking around the room and ran over to the President’s desk to his main computer interface. She began typing rapidly on the screen as she searched for the information she needed.

Trace almost found it when she heard the swoosh of the elevator car approaching and the ding as it came to a stop. She looked around wildly to find a place to hide. The room was just far too open and the balcony was all glass, so no hiding outside. She’d have to take a chance with one of the nearby doors and hope that she wouldn’t get caught.

Before making a break for it, she slipped an eavesdropping microchip under the desktop and cleared her search query from the computer. Trace opened her connection to the microchip and ran for the door. Trace had just pulled the door shut to the adjoining room when the elevator door slid open.

“I want the latest report on the activity in Sector C right away,” the President demanded, his steps powerful and unwavering.

“Yes, sir,” a timid voice said, whose steps paralleled the voice. This person, maybe an assistant, was clearly intimidated by the President.

“After that, send Joanie up here when you leave. I am also not to be disturbed for the rest of the day. Understood?”

Trace listened to a clink of glass and splash of liquid. The President must’ve been pouring himself a drink. Afterward, his steps increased in volume, Trace assumed that he was approaching the desk..

“Yes, sir,” the same voice repeated, squeaking out the phrase. “The report is spooling now. It will be on your desk in less than a minute.”

“Great. Now, why are you still here?”

“Oh! Ah, yes, sir. I’m going now, sir. Thank you, sir.” Hurried footsteps scurried away toward the elevator. An answering chime, swish of the door, and the assistant was gone.

The microphone in the planted microchip was very good. Trace could hear every movement the President made, every sigh.

The elevator dinged again, and the president sighed happily this time, his clothes rustling. “Bout damn time,” he muttered.

Women’s heels clicked across the floor without hesitation, unlike the timid assistant.

“You wanted to see me sir?”

This must be Joanie.

“Yes, I did.” The President paused in his speech. His voice dropped when he spoke again. “I’m glad you came dressed appropriately.”

When the woman spoke again, her voice was much closer, like she was on the immediate other side of the desk. “Well, I remembered last time how frustrated you were over the amount of layers you had to deal with. I certainly wouldn’t want to do that again,” she said.

“Yes,” he agreed. “I wouldn’t want that either. Give me a moment to finish reading this.”

“Mmm, why don’t I just start without you?” Snaps popped, a zipper opened. “Encourage you to hurry up.”

“You never wanted me to hurry before,” he commented.

“I think you know what I mean.” The whisper of clothes sliding to the floor was the only sound.

Trace wished the pick-up on the microchip wasn't as good as it was, or that she could turn it off without permanently disabling it. The slurpy sounds of sucking and the occasional moan came through into her ear crystal clear, like she was right there. She nearly gagged over some of the things the President said as he rammed his dick down Joanie's eager throat.

After a final, satisfied grunt, the President commented, "You certainly know how to take the edge off."

"My pleasure, sir," Joanie purred. Fabric rustled.

"Hmm, don't get dressed. I'm not done with you yet."

"Oh?" she asked.

"Yes."

The President stood, the sound of his chair sliding back a gentle sound compared to the other things Trace had heard.

"As great as your mouth feels, your pussy will feel much better."

"Anything you want sir," she replied, excitement in her voice.

The man laughed, but it seemed without much humor. "What I truly want, you can't give me. But, in the meantime, I'll satisfy myself by taking you over and over again."

Footsteps increased in volume. The President and Joanie were moving toward where Trace was hiding.

Shit, she thought. Trace was in a bedroom, perfect place to hide provided the President wasn't going to use it for some daytime stress relief. Looking around quickly, Trace was running out of options. There wasn't a closet in the room, but there looked to be enough room under the mattress. The frame was raised from the floor, like old-fashioned beds were made. She quickly darted underneath the bed, knowing full well what she was about to subjugate herself to while she was trapped in there. The door burst open, just as she completely slid under the bed. The President and Joanie were all over one another, kissing and rapidly removing their remaining articles of clothing.

Trace had to admit that while the President may have been a corrupt man with no real redeeming qualities but he kept himself in shape. She surmised that his physically attractiveness must've been a part of his lure, how was able to do the horrible things he was able to do.

The two tumbled on the bed, where the President quickly positioned Joanie where he wanted. Not that it took much effort. Joanie was quite willing, and even offered suggestions. Before much time had passed, the rhythmic sounds of skin slapping skin as he pounded into her resounded across the room. Just when Trace thought he might be done, he got his second wind and kept going. Joanie wasn't complaining one bit. The President had an impressive stamina for his age.

As impressive as it was, it was all Trace could do to keep from screaming. It was a horrible kind of torture to have to listen to the President get his jollies off with his secretary, when all she wanted to do was run into the next room and get the information she needed.

Finally, much to Trace’s relief, the President was finally sated and fell asleep, snoring loudly. When she didn’t hear any movement from the secretary, Trace slowly crawled out of her hiding spot under the bed. She stayed low to the floor as she inched her way to the door. THe last thing she needed as for one of them to wake up and see her in the room.

With a final glance at the bed, Trace reached up and quietly opened the door. The soft hiss of the door opening, that was normally barely noticable, sounded like a roar in the stillness of the room When no movement or sound came from the bed, Trace scurried through the door and back into business.

Trace disconnected the eavesdropping chip and downloaded the data to her wrist cuff. Most of the information she would need soon would be from the chip. She needed to know how the President interfaced with his computer.

As it downloaded and her pre-programmed algorithms began processing the information, she clicked away at the computer. Occasionally she referenced the data gathering on her cuff. The Corporation’s system was tricky and it took all of her concentration to work through the levels of security. Normally, she didn’t allow herself to be so soley focused but this was too important.

“What do you think you are doing?”

Trace’s head whipped around. The secretary, dressed in a soft, black robe, walked toward her as the bedroom door whispered shut behind her.

“It’s probably best that you don’t know,” Trace replied as she slid her hand into her pocket, wrapping her fingers around her weapon.

“If you’ve blown my cover, I will kill you,” Joanie seethed.

Trace stopped short, looking at the woman with suspicion. “What cover?”

“You idiot. I’m a part of the rebellion. I’m assuming based on what you are trying to do that you are a part of the same.”

Trace blinked, completely caught off guard ... which didn’t happen often. “I don’t believe you. You are trying to trap me.”

The woman that Trace knew as Joanie laughed. “Why? I just admitted to being a part of the rebellion. What benefit would I have for making that up?”

“To give me a false sense of security, so you can stop me.”

Joanie shook her head. “Not this time. I want the same things you do, I just have a different method.”

Trace tapped a few more times on the computer, not wanting to comment on what she thought of the other woman’s methods.

“Why would they send me in if you were already inside?”

Joanie shrugged as she picked at a fingernail. “My methods, while effective, are time consuming. They probably got tired of waiting for me to bring them some hard facts.”

“Looks like you were getting it pretty hard earlier,” Trace mumbled under her breathe, but not quietly enough.

Joanie’s nostrils flared as her brow furrowed. “I don’t question what you do. You don’t get to question mine. They are both effective, just in different ways.”

“Yours is not a way I’d choose.”

Joanie shrugged. “Doesn’t make a difference to me. Like I said, we are on the same team.”

Trace nodded as something blinked on her cuff, trying to get her attention. She still didn’t believe Joanie but now was not the time to argue with her.

“My time is up. I have to leave,” she said, wiping her access into the President’s computer.

“Did you get what you sought?”

Trace didn’t reply, only quickly walked out of the room and onto the balcony. Her amarid floss was flying through the air before she stopped at the edge. With a final backward glance at the other woman, Trace jumped off the balcony, hanging onto the floss as it guided her to a nearby building.

Dusk was beginning to settle in the city. Trace found a perch along the water where she could think about everything that happened. Her superiors would want her report soon, but she wasn’t quite ready to file that report. There were too many questions and not enough answers.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

Like what you just read? Have a question or concern? Leave a note for the author! We appreciate your feedback!

M L Gammella lives in Ohio with her husband and their three pets. She is currently working on her first novel, a paranormal suspense based in Maine. Please follow her at @MLGammella and visit her website at Onward to the Written Word.

#DailyPicspiration

M L Gammella Week 44: Spring

Picture 1


Picture 2


M L Gammella’s Picture Choice: 1

Title: Spring

Spring.

Spring meant walks along the gravel path, dotted with heavy-headed Brown-Eyed Susans.

I looked forward to those warm days, when I would run my hands across the blooms, relishing the velvety texture of the petals.

Bees buzzed, crickets chirped, and birds sang, all a song for me as I walked in the midst of their kingdom.

I think of those walks now, when the warm breeze of spring caresses my cheek. I long to run my fingers along those petals, but my body is no longer capable of going on those walks. My memory has to be enough, as even if I could walk along that path, my fading eyesight would only tease me with blurry glimpses of such happy sights.

Spring meant rebirth and new life, the world in a tizzy to grow again.

But for me, it was another reminder of what has passed me by. The world is made for the young, for the old can’t keep up.

So I shall wait until the world catches up, to collect me. So I can be reborn in the Spring, and take those walks along the Brown-Eyed Susans again.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Like what you just read? Have a question or concern? Leave a note for the author! We appreciate your feedback!

M L Gammella lives in Ohio with her husband and their three pets. She is currently working on her first novel, a paranormal suspense based in Maine. Please follow her at @MLGammella and visit her website at Onward to the Written Word.

#DailyPicspiration

M L Gammella Week 42: Another When - Part 9

Picture 1


Picture 2


M L Gammella’s Picture Choice: 2

Title: Another When - Part 9

I refolded the list of items that Roger had in his special room. The paper had quickly become dog-earred with the amount of times I opened and folded it.

I didn’t even need to look at it anymore. I had the list memorized already. The images from that room and closet were burned into my retinas. I never had an eidetic memory but this, with this I recalled everything.

A pretty young waitress brought some fresh tea and toast as I sat looking out toward the street. She smiled politely and let me be before turning to end to her other tables.

Margaret and I had many breakfasts like this. She had a collection of prized teacups and sauces that she’d pick one for each Sunday morning for tea. Each one was different and her selection was never random. Margaret picked whichever teacup and saucer fit her mood and seemed to call to her.

My favorite saucer had a bright pink-red floral print with a delicate scalloped edge. The matching cup continued the floral pattern. It embodied Margaret to me.

I spread some strawberry jam on my toast and considered my next move. Should I try to confront Roger myself? Should I call the cops instead? If I confront Roger, how would I explain my presence in this time? If I called the cops, could they do anything? Would they do anything based on an anonymous tip?

My mind spun as I considered both options.

If Roger really did kill Margaret, then he was the one that framed me. He has more than enough of my things to be able to deflect his crimes on me, which clearly worked since I sat in prison for years on a crime I did not commit.

I had to try ... but would it be worth it in the end? Would it do any good?

If it meant stopping Roger, then yes, it would be worth it. I would gladly spend all that time in prison, and even more, if it meant Margaret lived. Anything would be worth saving her.

I finished my tea and toast and quietly walked out of the restaurant. I took a chance by even going there and I didn’t want to try my luck and be recognized. Sure, I looked much older than my current time self, but someone could still figure out who I was.

I hoped there were still pay phones around. They were long gone in my time. In my time, phones were much smaller and much more portable. However, today was my lucky day. There was a couple of pay phones around the corner from the cafe. It looked like it had seen better days. But, as long as it worked, I didn’t care about it’s appearance.

A well-worn and much abused phone book, missing several chunks of pages, hung limply from a metal cord connected to the phone booth. As I approached, a foul odor wafted from the book. Some desperate individuals had used the phone book for either toilet paper or target practice. With a grimace, I gingerly flipped through the pages, trying to minimize my contact with it.

It was disgusting, but I needed the phone number for the police department. Sure, I could’ve called 911, but it wasn’t an emergency and I didn’t want the call to be traced. I couldn’t take the chance that they would be able to pin me down as the caller. Hopefully, just by calling and giving an anonymous tip, it would be enough to avoid a future emergency.

After slipping the correct change into the coin slot, I dialed the number and impatiently listed to the phone ring. I cradled the phone between my neck and shoulder as I wiped my hands on my pants. They still felt dirty, no matter what I did, after touching that horribly befouled book. I wouldn’t wait to wash them.

“Clarksville Police Department. How can I help you?” a somewhat bored female dispatcher answered.

“Hi, I need to report a crime,” I replied, deepening my voice to help disguise it.

“What is the nature of the crime?”

“Theft, breaking and entering, stalking. I’m afraid he’s going to hurt someone.”

The dispatcher seemed to pay more attention. “Who is that, sir?”

“Roger Lockwood. He stole clothing and personal items from Harry & Margaret Churchill. He has an obsession with Margaret. I’m afraid he’s going to hurt her or Roger.”

The woman cleared her throat. “What is Roger’s address?”

“323 Seminole St.”

“Thank you. And how did you come about this information?”

“I’ve seen it. Roger has a special room on the second floor of his house. It’s full of pictures of Margaret, and their belongings he stole.”

“Why would Roger show this to you?”

“He didn’t.”

“Then how did you see it?”

“I was there. Just believe me, it’s there,” I insisted.

“How do you know Roger, sir?” the dispatcher asked, trying a different tack.

“I’m a ... neighbor.”

“What’s your name and address so we can reach you if our detectives have questions?”

“You can call me John Doe and you don’t need my address. Just believe me, Roger Lockwood is going to do something bad and you need to stop him.”

The dispatcher sighed. “Very well, sir. I will send a squad out to Mr. Lockwood’s house to talk to him. However, we can’t search his house without his permission or a search warrant. A phoned-in tip won’t give us probable cause to search. Margaret or Harry themselves need to come in and file a police report. Will they be able to do this?”

Harry huffed in frustration. “They don’t know. I only came about it on accident. I didn’t want to frighten them by telling them their neighbor is stalking Margaret! Can’t the police do anything?”

“Like I said sir, I will dispatch a car to Roger’s house to see if they can detect anything from talking to him. The officers can ask to search the house, but if Mr. Lockwood says no, then there isn’t anything else they can do without probable cause or a warrant.”

“Thank you. I can only hope that he allows them to, although I doubt it. She’s in danger, she really is.”

“Okay sir, thank you for calling it in.”

I hung up, discouraged. I had hoped that the police would be able to take care of everything. They operate off of tips all the time, why is this any different. Damn laws. Damn probable cause. It looks like I’d still have to come up with a plan of some sort. If the cops show up at Roger’s house and don’t arrest him, all it will do is tip him off that someone knows about his room.

Wait. No. What if ...

I sat down on a nearby bench as my knees gave out.

What did I just do?

Thinking back to the trial, I remembered that there was a brief mention of an anonymous tip shortly before Margaret’s death. I didn’t put much stock on it as it was so incredibly random and the police had no idea who made the call, except for a ‘neighbor’ and he couldn’t be found afterwards for questioning.

Would Roger have killed Margaret if I hadn’t made the anonymous tip? The contents of the room were indicative that he had been watching Margaret for some time. Why did he act out when he did? Maybe he knew someone was onto him and felt pressured to make Margaret ‘his’ before it was too late?

I stared at my hands, all this time thinking I was innocent of Margaret’s murder, when it turned out I’m the one that signed her death warrant.

---------------------------------------------------------------------

Like what you just read? Have a question or concern? Leave a note for the author! We appreciate your feedback!

M L Gammella lives in Ohio with her husband and their three pets. She is currently working on her first novel, a paranormal suspense based in Maine. Please follow her at @MLGammella and visit her website at Onward to the Written Word.

#DailyPicspiration

M L Gammella Week 40: Tracing a Revolution

Picture 1


Picture 2


M L Gammella’s Picture Choice: 1

Title: Tracing a Revolution

Trace stood on the edge of the building and looked down at her target. The tips of her black hair moved slightly as the air swirled gently around her. This high up, the wind should’ve been whipping around her, threatening to push her off the edge. It was like the world knew that change was about to happen.

She adjusted the orange case that hung from her shoulder, the small size of the case deceptive in its weight. The contents of the case were very light but were extremely fragile. The protective case made up most of the weight. If the chip inside broke or became damaged, then the whole mission, the years of training, the entire rebellion would be all for nothing.

Failure was not an option.

The Corporation’s goons circled around the base of the building, the lights from their vehicles glowing with warning. The rebellion knew better than to attack Corporation from the ground. That would be too obvious. An attack from above was why Trace was standing hundreds of feet in the air, her toes mere inches from the edge of the concrete building.

A nearby air-conditioning unit shut off, quiet pings filling the air as the unit cooled. Provided the temperature stayed somewhat the same over the next several hours, the unit would kick on in another fifteen minutes, run for ten minutes, then cycle all over again. The timing really didn’t matter to Trace, but the slow pinging of the unit would help her focus until it was time to strike.

With the sun overhead, Trace pulled out a spool of aramid floss from her pocket. The micro-thin but super strong fiber would carry her across the street far below to the Corporation’s building. And if she found trouble when she made it across, the fiber could be used to garrote someone quite effectively. She quickly patted her other unassuming looking weapons where they rested in the pockets of her cargo pants. It may look like she was completely defenseless, and anyone who assumed that would find out the truth rather quickly.

Trace attached the end of the floss to a line-fly, her term for the small projectile tool that would take the wire and attach it to any surface that the projectile struck. The tool resembled old-fashioned projectile weapons, and in a pinch, she could shoot one of the cartridges of the line-fly at someone. However, she had better weapons at her disposal than to use the line-fly like that.

With a smirk at the patrolling Corporation security officers circling below, Trace triggered the line-fly. A sibilant whirling sound was barely heard over the pings of the air-conditioner. The spool in her hand shook when the line-fly hit home and imbedded itself into the steel structure. She fastened her end of the wire to the air conditioning unit behind her and tugged on the wire just to be sure it was secure. Although the line-fly had never failed her, there was always a first time and she didn’t feel like being on the losing end of Murphy’s Law … especially not from 200 feet above the ground.

Satisfied, Trace clipped her runners to the barely there aramid floss and counted down, following the gentle pings behind her. This was her favorite part of any mission. It was the next best thing to flying. When her internal countdown zeroed out, corresponding with the last ping of the air-conditioning unit, she took a deep breath and jumped.

(Yes, I’m sure you are wondering if I am going to continue the serial ‘Another When’ – I have not forgotten it, the pictures just haven’t been calling to that story. I hope to pick it up again soon)

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Like what you just read? Have a question or concern? Leave a note for the author! We appreciate your feedback!

M L Gammella lives in Ohio with her husband and their three pets. She is currently working on her first novel, a paranormal suspense based in Maine. Please follow her at @MLGammella and visit her website at Onward to the Written Word.

#DailyPicspiration

M L Gammella Week 36: Return of the King

Picture 1


Picture 2


M L Gammella’s Picture Choice: 1

Title: Return of the King

The storm was rolling in, much stronger than I had anticipated. I was used to storms like this back home, but this was something much different. There was an alienness to this that was unexpected … and alarming.

The statue of Louis IX, or Saint Louis, glowed in the light from the storm. He looked regal in his bronzed repose, the lightning flashes making him appear to be lit from within.

I ran under the the eaves of a nearby building as the rain poured down, doing my best to shield my face from the spray. The rain felt like normal rain, cold and wet. A crack of thunder made me jump, the percussion vibrating down to my bones. I was momentarily blinded by the lightening that quickly followed. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary about this storm, but there was something to it that made me uneasy

Other people scurried for cover as the storm strengthened. The thunder and lightning increased in strength and frequency. It felt like the storm was right on top of us. Some women screamed when an especially loud clap of thunder shook the area.

I remained outside to watch the storm. I wasn’t sure just why, as even then under the eaves, I was still getting soaked to the skin. The sense of something different about this storm stayed with me, and increased as the storm waged on.

Something was happening here, and I was going to see what it was.

Another earth-shattering roar of thunder ripped through the air. It was like the hand of God slamming down on the ground to smite us. I half expected the brick of the square in front of the Sacré-Cœur Basilica to split in response. A second later, I was blinded by a bright, white light -- the equally as powerful lightning that went with the thunder.

When I could see again, the storm seemed to have spent itself completely. What was more remarkable was the statue of Louis IX. No longer was the king enshrined in bronze. He and his trusty steed were real … and his steely gaze was locked onto me.

“Qu'est-ce que ça veut dire?”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Like what you just read? Have a question or concern? Leave a note for the author! We appreciate your feedback!

M L Gammella lives in Ohio with her husband and their three pets. She is currently working on her first novel, a paranormal suspense based in Maine. Please follow her at @MLGammella and visit her website at Onward to the Written Word.

#DailyPicspiration

M L Gammella Week 34: Wrong Direction

Picture 1


Picture 2


M L Gammella’s Picture Choice: 2

Title: Wrong Direction

“I think we are headed in the wrong direction,” David said, his flashlight swinging from side to side through the trees.

“I’m telling you, we are fine. I know these woods like the back of my hand,” Colton insisted.

“Dude, you could get lost in a wet paper bag.” He sighed. “I don’t know why agreed to this.”

“Because you love adventure.”

David sighed again and stopped, moving his flashlight around the small clearing. Colton stopped a few feet in front of him, his flashlight hanging limp in his hand.

“I love a warm bed and a hot meal too, and at this rate I’m going to have either.”

“Ye of little faith,” Colton chided as he consulted his compass.

David remained silent as he looked around. All the trees looked the same. They had been in the woods for over an hour, on a hike that Colton claimed wouldn’t take any longer than 45 minutes. He wasn’t a real big outdoorsman. Sure, he liked going on ‘adventures’ as Colton called it, but he preferred the urban kind. Being this far from a city --at least it felt like he was far from a city-- made him nervous.

Colton turned around, using his flashlight to examine a few of the trees. His brow was furrowed and didn’t look happy about something. A bad feeling weighed on David’s shoulders. He really wished he had told Colton he didn’t want to go when he still had the chance.

A twig snapped nearby. David whirled around and shined his flashlight in the direction of the noise. Nothing was there, just more trees melting into the darkness. His heart began to pound.

“Colton?”

“Yeah?” his friend replied, as he continued to look at a particular tree with interest.

“What exactly were we out here for again?”

“There is supposed to be an old Indian burial site around here. I’ve been searching for it for years.”

“What makes you think we can find it now, and in the dark no less?”

“I got a tip from someone to help me refine my search.”

This idea was sounding worse and worse. “Who gave you the tip?”

“I’m not actually sure. It was from someone on an site I go to for stuff like this. He responded to a thread I posted.”

“Oh, great,” David spat, turning to face his friend. “We are out here in the middle of nowhere in the middle of the night based on some asshole’s random tip? Who knows what is really out here or who? This could just be a ploy to get two dumb schmucks out here to do who knows what to us.”

Colton raised his arms in a peaceful gesture. “Relax, David. I’ve gotten lots of tips like this over the years from that site and they have never been wrong.”

“Yet.”

“Pessimist,” Colton countered.

“Maybe, but it beats being a dead optimist.”

Colton shrugged and looked at his compass one final time. “We’re off track slightly. We need to continue to the north-west about 500 yards.”

David swallowed his apprehension and followed his friend. He kept a sharp eye out for anything unusual while they walked, his ears perked for the slightest noise. The only thing he heard were their footfalls through the brush. It still didn’t help him feel any more comfortable.

“Aha! It’s here! It’s really here!” Colton crowed ahead of him. “David, come here! Quickly! We found it!”

David trotted to where Colton was standing, shifting his weight eagerly from side to side. Colton’s flashlight illuminated another small clearing, the ground covered with mounds. The mounds weren’t in orderly rows like in normal cemeteries. The mounds were in some kind of pattern not visible by the ground.

“Wow,” David whispered. There weren’t any animals chittering or insects buzzing. There was an odd hush to the air, like someone or something was waiting.

Colton moved to step into the clearing and David grabbed his arm to stop him. “Wait, are you sure we should go out there?”

“Are you kidding? This is a gold mine!”

“But, aren’t these burial grounds considered sacred?”

“Maybe to the Indians, but they are all gone. The only thing left is their bones.” Colton pulled his arm from David’s grasp and walked into the clearing, stopping at the first mound.

David felt a very strong sense of wrongness in entering the burial ground. The Indians may be dead, but something was out there.

“David, come on. I need your help,” Colton called as he knelt on the ground.

Reluctantly, David joined his friend in the clearing. The wrongness he felt did not go away, but increased. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end. This was such a bad idea.

“Can you hold your flashlight on the mound here?” Colton asked, as he pulled out a camp shovel out of his pack.

David complied and watched in horror as Colton began to dig at the base of the mound.

“Colton!” David hissed. “What are you doing?”

“Making us very rich!” Colton replied, a huge smile on his face.

David desperately wanted to get out of there but didn’t want to leave his friend. He felt very exposed and his gut was screaming for him to get out of dodge, that danger was very, very near.

“Colton, I don’t think this is a good idea. Let’s come back during the day,” David offered.

“I’ll never find this place again if I try.”

David shook his head and fought against everything that was telling him to leave. Colton had dug about two feet down when David began to hear drums.

“Colt, do you hear that?” David asked.

“Hear what?”

“Drums, like Indian drums?”

Colton laughed, the barking sound obscene in the quiet of the clearing. “David, you are hearing things.”

“I’m not hearing things. You really don’t hear that?” The drums slowly increased in volume.

“No, the only thing I hear is you, acting like a scared little girl.”

“Asshole,” David muttered. Something was out there, he knew it, and they weren’t happy about his and Colton’s presence.

“Man up, David. No one is out here except us.”

Another twig snapped behind David. He turned to the sound and his flashlight hit the ground.

“David, what are you do-” Colton froze mid-speech as he watched the body of his friend crumble, his head a bloody mess and hairless. He had been scalped. An Indian stood behind him, a bloody tomahawk in his hand.

Colton dropped his shovel and wiped his eyes, trying to make sense of what he was seeing. The Indian was still there, except Colt could see the trees and brush right behind him, right through him.

“Hey man, I- I, uh, I’m sorry. I’ll just leave …” Colton stuttered as he slowly stood.

The Indian held up his hand, his face dark and full of fury. As he stepped toward Colton, Colt bolted for the safety of the trees.

He barely heard the sound of a tomahawk whistling through the air before it thumped into his back, cutting his spinal cord, and knocking him to the ground.

The last thing Colton saw was the moccasin covered feet of an Indian long dead, seeking revenge for the desecration of his tribe’s burial lands.

------------------------------------------------------------------

M L Gammella lives in Ohio with her husband and their three pets. She is currently working on her first novel, a paranormal suspense based in Maine. Please follow her at @MLGammella and visit her website at Onward to the Written Word.

#DailyPicspiration

M L Gammella Week 32: Another When - Part 8

Picture 1


Picture 2


M L Gammella’s Picture Choice: 2

Title: Another When - Part 8

I was struck dumb by what surrounded me. Everywhere, there were images of Margaret. Some were rough charcoal drawings that I assumed were done by Roger, while others were photos. What was more disturbing was some of those pictures were private, ones I had taken of my wife and printed in the privacy of my office. There was no way that anyone would have access to those pictures ... unless.

No, he woudn't have, could he?

Unless he broke into my house and stole them. My office had been ransacked when Margaret was killed, so somebody was there, but that hadn't happened yet here.

How many times had Roger been in our house? How many private things did he go through? I shuddered, feeling sick to my stomach, and continued on into the room. I still didn't know if Roger killed Margaret, but it certainly seemed quite likely. I needed to find some kind of evidence to really link him to the crime. So far, there wasn't anything here that said he was going to murder her, just that he was obsessed with her. I looked around, trying to see if anything stood out.

The closet. The closet door was ajar, the sliver of darkness beckoned me. Apprehension twisted in my gut as I reached out and pulled the door open.

After seeing the contents of the room, I shouldn't have been surprised by what I saw, but it was still shocking.

Hanging neatly in the closest were some of Margaret's clothes. I ran my fingers across the fabrics in confusion. Here was the red dress that Margaret couldn't find. The blue blouse that I loved to see her in. Even some of my clothes were in there, a simple white dress shirt and slacks. They were things that I had multiples of so I had no idea they were missing. When I reached the back of the small walk-in closet, there was a small table with a mirror resting on it and a few personal items.

Except the personal items weren't Rogers.

A memory filtered through the terror that griped his heart. Margaret had mentioned that she couldn't find her favorite hair brush a month or so before her death. Looks like this is where it ended up. Even more horrifying was the bag of hair that rested under the brush. It was the same color as Margaret's fine blonde hair. I had to fight the waves of nausea that threatened to overtake me.

Roger was a sick, sick individual. He hadn't killed Margaret yet, but he had stolen from her and myself. That alone I could have him arrested for, but I would have to come up with a good reason to explain how I knew he had our things.

I wrote down as much detail as I could, itemizing the things I knew were ours. I wish I had brought a camera, but this would have to do. It was better than nothing.

I had just finished up when the growl of a car engine cut through the air. The engine cut off and the car door slammed.

Shit, Roger was home.

I quickly walked out of the closet and the room, making sure I left everything as it was. If his house was anything like mine, there would be a balcony off the master bedroom and I would be able shimmy down the support posts and escape. But, he would most likely come into the master bedroom first after coming home.

I had to take the chance.

As quietly as I could, I danced on the toes of my feet to avoid making loud footballs. Roger had just entered the house as I entered his bedroom. I didn't have the luxury of time to investigate but nothing stuck out. The door to the balcony was locked and it took me a minute, a minute I could little afford to spend, to get the bolt to open. Finally, the lock released and the door swung open. The door shut much easier once I was on the other side of the door.

With a deep breathe, I crawled over the railing to the balcony and began the careful trek down the support posts. The door to the balcony swung open and I held my breath. I was far enough down the post that Roger shouldn't see me, but if he looked over the edge, he'd see me.

Luckily, Roger didn't seem suspicious. He closed the door and returned to his house. Perhaps he just wanted some fresh air. I honestly didn't care. I was just glad that he didn't look over the side. Without any further delay, I shuffled down the rest of the support and quickly left the property.

I didn't have a destination in mind. I wasn't sure where to go. My mind was overcome with what I had seen in Roger's house. It was just too crazy to imagine. Roger always seemed normal, a little on the odd side, but still normal.

My feet led me to the waterfront. Margaret and I had come here several times when the weather was nice. It wasn't far from our house and made for a nice walk.

Today, I was glad I was alone. I stopped on the boardwalk and looked out towards the water. Boats bobbled up and down in slight current while tied to the pier. Margaret and I had often talked about buying a boat. Just something else we never got to do.

My gaze rested on a bronze art instillation. I had seen it a thousand times before but the piece never really stood out until now. The crying woman, reaching out, beseeching to something, anything. Her face was carved deeply in the throes of loss.

I exactly knew how she felt.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

M L Gammella lives in Ohio with her husband and their three pets. She is currently working on her first novel, a paranormal suspense based in Maine. Please follow her at @MLGammella and visit her website at Onward to the Written Word. #DailyPicspiration

M L Gammella Week 32: Righteous Revenge

Picture 1


Picture 2


M L Gammella’s Picture Choice: 2

Title: Righteous Revenge

Sha'donar was approaching as the sun sank toward the horizon. The night before a major battle was a holy celebration for the Strijela people, especially for warrior and head priestess Mirja'a. It was her responsibility to bring the blessings of Upinde to her people.

The upcoming battle had special significance for her as well. She was finally going to exact revenge for the death of her parents at the hands of the Bijeszlo. Many years ago, the Bijeszlo swooped down from their settlement in the northern ranges and brutally attacked the Strijela. The Bijeszlo focused their attacks on the priests and priestesses, decimating the holy people of the Strijela.

Mirja'a's parents died protecting her, shoving her into a hidden panel in the wall of their bedroom as the Bijeszlo stormed the temple. She remembered hearing the screams of her mother as a Bijeszlo soldier cut her down, only after murdering her father, the head priest of the Strijela. Mirja'a stayed her hidden spot, shaking and terrified, even after her mother's blood seeped into the space.

The Bijeszlo weren't able to kill off the entire priesthood of the Strijela before the people rose up and fought back, but the damage had been done. The majority of the senior priests and priestesses were dead, leaving only a few elderly priests and laypeople. The Strijelaist people mourned for months, black bunting hanging from flag poles and totems until the cloths became worn and frayed.

During this time, a young Mirja'a, still a child, tried to fulfill the roles her parents held with the help of the remaining priesthood. It was very difficult. She often cried out to Upinde, questioning why their god would allow this to happen to the Strijela. Through many a crisis of faith, Mirja'a finally realized her calling to her people and threw herself into her role as the head priestess.

She trained with the war chief for years, growing strong while learning the art of war. She would revenge the deaths of her parents and the others that the Bijeszlo butchered. Their blood would flow as a sacrifice to Upinde.

Now was that time. Her training was over. She was the Strijela, the arrow, that would strike the Bijeszlo.

As the setting sun reflected off the water, Mirja'a stood on the stone-filled shore with her bow in hand. Her instrument of revenge would be consecrated with the blood of her enemies. Soon, she would need to return to the village before Sha'donar started. Now was her time to pray to Upinde, to seek the calm presence of her god and the blessing of righteousness.

Mirja'a strung her bow with a tipless arrow, and drew the wood back toward her jaw. Tomorrow, her arrows would be tipped with the finest arrowheads the Strijela people could make, but today, her arrowhead would be her supplication to Upinde. Arching her back, she pointed her bow up into the sky. With a soft word of prayer, Mirja'a closed her eyes and released the arrow. She listened to the faint whistle of her arrow through the air and continued to pray.

A gust of wind caressed her body and she opened her eyes. "Thank you, Holy Upinde," she murmured, kissing her bow and settling it across her body.

After a final look across the water, Mirja'a turned and walked back toward her temple where her people would be waiting. It was time for Sha'donar, the Holy Blessing. With Upinde's grace, they would be victorious.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

M L Gammella lives in Ohio with her husband and their three pets. She is currently working on her first novel, a paranormal suspense based in Maine. Please follow her at @MLGammella and visit her website at Onward to the Written Word.

#DailyPicspiration

M L Gammella Week 30: Another When Part 7

Picture 1


Picture 2


M L Gammella’s Picture Choice: 2

Title: Another When Part 7

I stared at the two names on the list, John and Roger ... two people that I thought I knew. Could one of them really had been a party to what happened to me? They seemed like just normal guys at the office, even if they did immediately turn their backs on me when I was arrested.

The questions that had been swirling through my head over the past several days became shrieks in my head ... except the questions had names. What did John and Roger have against me?

Scratching my head, I tried to remember as much as I could about them. John was married, but Roger wasn't at the time of Margaret's death. Roger didn't even have a girlfriend. He had mentioned a few ladies that he was "friends" with a few times but the married men of the office just rolled their eyes.

Quickly, I wrote down as much information about Roger that I could, and wished more than anything that I had access to the kind of technology that was available in my real time. It would be so much easier if I could just punch in some words on my computer and have my search results pull up.

When I couldn't think of anything further, I looked down at the page and was disappointed with the paper being only half full. This was not enough information, not by far. I needed to scope him out, John too eventually, but I had a stronger feeling about Roger.

I vaguely remembered where Roger lived, but I couldn't waste time wandering around aimlessly while trying to find it. Hoping that the hotel still had them in suite, I yanked open the desk drawer and found a phone book.

I flipped through the pages until I got to the "C" section and ran my finger down the lines until Roger Clemente's name crossed my finger. I scribbled his address down on the same paper I was using earlier and rushed out of the hotel room. His street wasn't far from the hotel.

It was time to see what ol' Roger had been up to and what his part was in my wife's death.

...

Roger's neighborhood was very similar to mine, modest but well-tended homes with flowers and sedans around. It wasn't even lunch time yet so children were still in school and many people were at work. This would be a perfect time to try to see what I could find out about him.

I walked casually through the neighborhood, looking for housewives or any one else that were home that would see me. Thankfully, it appeared that Roger's immediate neighbors were gone for the day, either at work or the store. I honestly didn't care, just glad for my small bit of fortune.

This was back in a day when people didn't always lock their doors. I hoped that Roger was one of those people. The front door was locked, which didn't surprise me. The property had a privacy fence that was connected to the house. This would also help me, provided that the gate wasn't locked.

It wasn't.

I didn't bat an eyelash as I strolled through the gate, acting like I was familiar with the place and above suspicion. As I stood by the backdoor, I listened carefully for any noise from in the house in case Roger stayed home from work or had one of his female houseguests over. Not a sound could be heard.

I wrapped my hand around the door knob and it turned cleanly, not a squeak or squeal to be heard. As I walked up into the house, a quick glance told me that Roger's house was much more similar to mine than I realized. It was set up almost exactly the same.

There were a few differences ... mostly the lack of a feminine touch. Roger's home screamed bachelor. Each room was messy, not dirty, but cluttered in the way that we men tended to create ... things that Margaret was always after me about.

What I wouldn't give to hear her nag me about my shoes or papers laying out again.

Perhaps I still can if I can solve this mystery in time.

Despite Roger's evident bachelor status, there wasn't anything suspicious anywhere downstairs. He appeared to be completely harmless.

Frustrated, I scaled the stairs in hopes of finding something that would help. If his house was as much like mine as I thought, the master bedroom would be at the end of the hall while the other bedrooms were immediately off the stairs.

It did seem rather odd for a bachelor to have a three bedroom house without any kids or pets or anything.

The first bedroom was unremarkable. It was a plainly decorated guest room that looked like it had never been used. The thin layer of dust on the chest of drawers confirmed that. I shrugged and walked to the next room.

In my house, this bedroom would've been my office. Here, in Roger's house, it was something else entirely.

My hands shook as the door swung away from me.

This room was a shrine ... to Margaret.

-------------------------------------------------------

M L Gammella lives in Ohio with her husband and their three pets. She is currently working on her first novel, a paranormal suspense based in Maine. Please follow her at @MLGammella and visit her website at Onward to the Written Word.

#DailyPicspiration

M L Gammella Week 28: Another When Part 6

Picture 1


Picture 2


M L Gammella’s Picture Choice: 1

Title: Another When Part 6

Henry stood in his living room, the house was silent except the running of the shower upstairs. He was confused. He had no idea how he arrived at his old house.

Quietly, he walked through the living room into the kitchen. The room was spotless, everything cleaned and put away except the day's newspaper. Henry picked it up and glanced at the date.

His hands shook as he put the paper back down. Today was the day. He didn't know how the date caught up to him so quickly. He wasn’t ready yet. It was too soon.

His heart pounded and glanced upwards again toward the sound of the shower. Henry had to do something, and do it now ... before it was too late.

Urgently, he ran to the front of the house and up the stairs, not caring how much noise his footfalls made. Better that anyone that was in his house knew that he was there.

Just as he crested the top of the stairs, a loud crash reverberated through the house, followed by a woman’s scream.

Margaret!

"No!" he shouted, tearing down the hallway into the master bathroom.

Henry violently threw open the door, the heavy wood bouncing off the wall. He stood frozen, his face pale as he stared at the visage before him.

Margaret was standing next to the shower tub, stark naked and still damp from the water. What filled him with fury was what was behind her. A man Henry didn’t recognize had his arm tightly wound around her neck and his other hand across her mouth, her eyes closed as tears tracked down her face. The intruder was momentarily startled by Henry’s sudden entrance into the room.

“Let her go!” he shouted, and looked quickly around the room for a weapon.

Margaret’s eyes flew open at the sound of Henry’s voice. She cried out, her words muffled by the man’s hand, as she struggled to break free.

The man squeezed tighter, cutting off her air supply and chuckled. “I don’t think so, Henry.”

Margaret’s eyes bulged as she tried to breathe. She clawed at the man’s arm but he was too strong for her.

“Let her go!” Henry begged and stepped into the room. “Please, you’re killing her! I’ll do anything!”

“That’s the idea, Henry,” the man replied, a cruel smile on his lips. “Guess you’ll just have to find me.” With the man’s last words, he twisted Margaret’s neck and her body went slack.



Henry’s eyes flew open, his heart pounding. He was laying down on the bed in his hotel room. The list of possible suspects was clutched tightly in his hand.

He scrambled out of the bed and searched for anything with the current date on it. Finally, he spied the tv remote and flipped on the television. The evening news was broadcasting. The date, time, and temperature was in the lower right hand corner.

Henry’s knees gave out and he sagged to the floor. It was just a dream, all a dream. He didn’t really watch Margaret get strangled to death. He hung his head and sobbed with relief.

After a few moments to collect himself, Henry tried to remember as much as he could about the dream. The image of the intruder was vague. There wasn’t anything that stood out or was recognizable. Additionally, Margaret wasn’t killed in that manner. She was stabbed to death. Henry wondered what would’ve been worse to see, the strangulation or stabbing. He shuddered, both were horrible.

He wiped his face and stood, returning to his desk. There was work to be done and a killer to be found.

------------------------------------------------------

M L Gammella lives in Ohio with her husband and their three pets. She is currently working on her first novel, a paranormal suspense based in Maine. Please follow her at @MLGammella and visit her website at Onward to the Written Word.

#DailyPicspiration

M L Gammella Week 26: Celebration

Picture 1


Picture 2


M L Gammella’s Picture Choice: 1

Title: Celebration

Fall was her favorite time of year. There was just something about it. The weather started to change, the leaves began to color. There was a crispness to the air that summer never had.

Sure, spring and summer were awash in a glory of colors, from pale and delicate daisies to vibrant and bold roses, but it was nothing in comparison to the richness of fall. The reds, golds, browns, and purples

All her friends thought she was crazy. They loved to be as unencumbered by clothes as much possible and lived for the heat and sun of summer where the uniform was tiny shorts and itty bitty tank tops. Those things didn’t matter to her. She didn’t care for the heat and she burned easily.

Kate didn’t mind spring or summer totally, she did enjoy watching the plants grow and picking fresh fruit and vegetables. It was awe-inspiring actually, to plant a tiny little speck, nothing more than what looks like a bit of rock, in the ground and watch what happens in the days following. A delicate, pale shoot reaching for the sun and sky, declaring that it lived and would thrive.

Still, Kate preferred the fall, after all the plants had grown and produced all that they could.

When her friends groaned at that first gust of crisp, fall air, Kate cheered and eagerly ran for her soft fleece jacket or her warm wool coat. While her friends huffed and fussed in their homes, too chilled in their summer clothes to venture out, Kate happily strolled through the trees, gathering handfuls of fallen leaves and tossing them in the air like confetti.

It was like nature was celebrating the completion of another season, another plentiful harvest. So why shouldn’t she celebrate too?

All too soon, the leaves will be gone and the world will be purified by a blanket of snow. The bitter cold of the dead of winter was a little much for Kate, but she knew that it was necessary. Even nature needed a moment of rest, and after the last of the snow melted, it would all start again.

And Kate would be waiting for those leaves to fall, to celebrate again, another year of life.

------------------------------------------------------------------

M L Gammella lives in Ohio with her husband and their three pets. She is currently working on her first novel, a paranormal suspense based in Maine. Please follow her at @MLGammella and visit her website at Onward to the Written Word.

#DailyPicspiration

M L Gammella Week 24: Another When Part Five

Picture 1


Picture 2


M L Gammella’s Picture Choice: 2

Title: Another When Part Five

In my hotel room, I wracked my brain over who would have been in my office. I wasn’t working on anything special. Nor did I have any enemies that I knew of off the top of my head. I was well-liked in my office and was a hard worker. Sure, not everyone liked me, but that would be the case anywhere. So what could it be? Did someone dislike me that much, did they hate me enough to do something like this?

Not only were they looking for something in my office, but they also killed my wife and framed me for it. Despite all the claims by co-workers, friends, and family that I would never, could never, hurt Margaret, the “evidence” during the trial said otherwise. Could one person have done all of this themselves?

My head swam. I pressed the heels of my hands into my face and wished for Margaret’s calming presence.

After a hard day of work, no matter how busy she had been through her day, she always took a few moments to help me relax. She’d take my coat and briefcase, bring me a drink, and rub my shoulders while we’d talk. She was the best woman, the best wife, the best friend, a man could ask for.

Several of my co-workers would make jokes about how lucky I was, and I knew it. None of them would’ve done this, would they? In a jealous rage? Wouldn’t they just try to get rid of me and worm their way in by ‘comforting’ the widow?

It was mindboggling to try to think like someone like that, capable of murder and deceit. I was an honest person. It just didn’t make sense. How could a person do something like this? Why?

I pulled Margaret’s picture out of my jacket and held it close to my chest. “You always had the answers, Maggie,” I whispered. “I could really use your guidance now.” I had imagined us growing old together, retiring, and moving out to some old farm to live out our days. We’d be that old couple holding hands and kissing on the porch swing with our grandkids and great-grandchildren running around.

As if she could hear me, somewhere in time, I felt the gentlest touch on my shoulder and the smell of her perfume filtered through the air. I reached up to pat her hand and felt nothing. She wasn’t really there. I knew it, deep down, but it was still nice to imagine.

“I’m always with you, Henry”

My hands trembled as I put away Margaret’s picture.

What had she told me that week? There was something that I shrugged off … someone calling or stopping by? My old brain just didn’t remember some of the details like I used to do as a younger man.

I shuffled over to the small desk next to the bed and pulled out my notes from the day before. Methodically, I went through each name on the list crossing through those I trusted implicitly. When I was done, there were just a few names left. Was it really that simple? Could not one of the ones I crossed out be my Judas? How well did I really know these people?

Grabbing a new sheet of paper from the drawer, I rewrote the list and examined it with a more fine-toothed comb. Instead of looking at it from whom I trust implicitly, I went through the list by who had the most to gain with my demise.

Thinking back to that time before and after the trial was murky. I was so full of grief from the loss of Margaret and righteous anger over being held for her murder. The rest of the world seemed to fade away, and being held in jail during was hard to keep up with things.

The world was vastly different when I was released from prison thirty years later. My so-called friends had long washed their hands of me, except for a very close few. What of the ones to dismissed me readily, as soon as I was arrested? And of the ones that refused to speak on my behalf as character witnesses during the trial?

I glanced at the list one more time. Ah, yes, there were two that fit that description. John Lockwood and Roger Clemente. Both men who I had been friends with for years prior, immediately sided against me when the news broke I was arrested. I knew that some would, so it wasn’t unexpected. However, they were also two of the people who declined to speak when my lawyer inquired to my office. Mr. Trujillo had asked everyone in the entire office for people willing to attest to my character. More than John and Roger declined, but they were the only two that openly rejected me after my arrest.

Roger and John were two I had also crossed off of my first list. What did they have against me? Did it have something to do with Margaret?

I needed to go back to my house and search for more clues … before it was too late for Margaret.

----------------------------------------------------

M L Gammella lives in Ohio with her husband and their three pets. She is currently working on her first novel, a paranormal suspense based in Maine. Please follow her at @MLGammella and visit her website at Onward to the Written Word.

#DailyPicspiration

M L Gammella Week 24: Over Tea

Picture 1


Picture 2


M L Gammella’s Picture Choice: 2

Title: Over Tea

Jorge had been wracking his brain for months on how to go through with it. The platinum diamond solitaire was burning a hole in his pocket. He needed a plan but had no clue what to do. He knew it had to be unique and special, just as unique and special Nahlia was.

Every day he thought about what would be the perfect way to ask her to be his legally bound, religiously sanctified, better half. Just getting down on one knee wasn't enough. Announcing it during a sporting event was too cheesy and neither one of them liked that kind of attention. Friends had done it over dinner or in a book, but none of those things represented Nahlia.

When he walked by a gift shop early one morning and saw the pair of mugs, he knew that was it. Excited, he clutched his new purchase close to his chest as he practically ran back to their apartment.

Nahlia loved fancy gourmet tea, the kind that you buy loose put in teabags or a mesh tea ball to steep yourself. She didn’t go a single morning without at least one cup of tea, no matter if it was 95 degrees out or below zero, she always had a cup.

Now Jorge? He loved coffee. Tea just wasn’t it for him. He was as fanatical about his coffee as she was about her tea. Some mornings he couldn’t decide if he wanted French press or Turkish. Such decisions.

Nahlia was still sleeping when Jorge returned. He couldn’t believe his luck. Normally she wasn’t such a late sleeper but she had been up late the past several nights finishing a project. He knew she’d love to wake up to a cup of tea waiting for her.

As quietly as he could, he started a kettle of water on the stove. When it whistled, he knew that it would wake her up, but he didn’t want her to wake up before he was ready. Delicately, he scooped out the appropriate amount of tea leaves from her most favorite type and put them in a tea ball, careful not to crush any of the leaves. As the water heated, he put his coffee in the French press and washed the new cups in preparation.

A few minutes later, the kettle whistled shrilly. Jorge grabbed the kettle and turned off the heat from the stove. As he poured the boiling water into her mug and the press, he heard Nahlia stirring in their bedroom.

“Jorge?” she asked, her voice scratchy with sleep.

“In the kitchen, dear.”

His beautiful Nahlia came shuffling into the kitchen. Her hair was a mess, her face creased from the sheets, but she was still the most gorgeous woman he had ever seen.

“Did you sleep well?” He asked as he finished preparing their drinks.

Nahlia nodded but didn’t say anything further. She was not a morning person. Jorge was taking a chance on doing this now when she wasn’t fully awake, but she was far too observant when she was awake for him to try this any other time.

She sat down on the island and watched him while he worked. He was careful to keep the images on the mugs away from Nahlia as her eyes started to brighten as she woke up. Jorge pushed the plunger down on the press and poured his coffee. The smell alone was enough to wake him. With a smile that was fighting to be a huge grin, Jorge turned to stir her tea one more time, the water starting to darken.

With a quick prayer, Jorge slipped something on the tea ball and heard it clink against the side of the mug. Satisfied, he turned and presented Nahlia with her tea, sliding the cup across the island to her.

“For you, my dear,” he said softly.

“Thank you, Jorge,” Nahlia said, holding the mug close to her face to smell the tea. “Oh, you made my favorite.”

Jorge nodded and waited.

“Are these new mugs, Jorge?” she asked and took a sip.

He shrugged, waiting for her to notice what was on her mug.

Nahlia put her mug down and stirred the tea ball, diffusing more of the tea into the water. Satisfied with the color, she pulled the tea ball out and nearly dropped it in the next instant. It was also at that moment that she saw what was on her mug.

“Mrs?” she asked, her voice full of wonder.

Jorge quickly walked over to her and pulled the ring from the tea ball, holding it out to her with his heart in his hand.

“I’ve been trying to figure out the perfect way to ask you, and finding these were it. I want to be your Mr. Will you be my Mrs.?”

----------------------------------------------------

M L Gammella lives in Ohio with her husband and their three pets. She is currently working on her first novel, a paranormal suspense based in Maine. Please follow her at @MLGammella and visit her website at Onward to the Written Word.

#DailyPicspiration

M L Gammella Week 22: Another When Part 4

Picture 1


Picture 2


M L Gammella’s Picture Choice: 2

Title: Another When Part 4

My blood ran cold as I heard her move through the house. It was too soon! She wasn’t supposed to be home from work yet.

“Henry? Are you home, dear?” her sweet voice called from the living room. “I got a call from your office that you came home early.”

My office? Why was my office calling Margaret? And why would they tell her I was coming home early?

I tried to think back to what happened that day. There was so much going on those days leading up Margaret’s death. Her death that was unjustly pinned on me. As if I would ever hurt her.

The house creaked as Margaret climbed the stairs. If I didn’t move soon, she’d find me. I looked around quickly to find a hiding place or a quick exit. Our bedroom looked over the street. There was no way I could sneak out without being seen.

I slipped my shoes off and shuffled a connecting bedroom through the master bathroom. We had converted the bedroom into an office for me just a few short years after we bought the house. It was an important step for Margaret and I, we were planning on starting a family and I wanted to be home more. The person or persons who took her from me before we could.

With barely a snick, I shut the door behind me, locked it, and leaned against it. I listened carefully as Margaret's footsteps crested the stairs and approached their bedroom door.

"Henry?"

Ah, her sweet voice, so close. My heart broke with her so close yet so far away.

The handle to the office jiggled as she tried to open the door.

"Henry? Are you in there? Henry?"

I held my breath and closed my eyes and willed myself not to respond, despite every fiber of my being that wanted to throw open the door and take her in my arms.

"That is so weird." I heard her say as she turned and went back the way she came.

My shoulders slumped with relief as I let out my breath. Thank God. I stepped away from the door and looked around with concern, ice filling my veins. My office was a mess. There were piles of papers strewn everywhere and drawers pulled out of filing cabinets. This was not my doing and Margaret wouldn't have done this either. I was too OCD about keeping everything neat and organized.

Someone had been in my house. Someone was looking for something. By the looks of it, they hadn't found it yet ... and that someone would be back. I knew this because I never once came home and found my office in such disarray. Someone would be coming back to clean up their mess. I had a strong suspicion that whoever that was also had something to do with Margaret's death.

Unanswered questions of the mystery were starting to line up. I started making a mental list of who would know about my home office and would try to find something out of it.

Carefully, not to disturb the mess around me, I grabbed a blank sheet of paper and began jotting my notes down. I stuffed the paper and a pen in my jacket pocket and looked outside. Margaret was outside in the backyard, watering the garden.

I slipped my shoes back on and raced down the hallway, down the stairs, and out the door before Margaret was finished. The front screen slammed shut just as I heard her open the back door. I ran as fast as I could down the sidewalk. One of the neighbors had a car in the driveway that I ducked behind in case Margaret was looking out the front of the house. I could only imagine that she heard the screen door slam.

After a few minutes of catching my breathe, I stood up and glanced at the house with longing one last time. I would be back, just not sure how soon. With a resolved step, I retraced my earlier steps and made my way back into town.

Later that night, in my rented bed in my dingy hotel room, I dreamed of a life where Margaret was still with me. We laughed together and lived together, way past the age I was now. Her brilliant red hair faded to a pale yellow but she was still the most beautiful woman I had ever known.

I woke a few hours later with tears coming down my face. The dream just further strengthened my resolve. I would see that dream become reality.

--------------------------------------------------

M L Gammella lives in Ohio with her husband and their three pets. She is currently working on her first novel, a paranormal suspense based in Maine. Please follow her at @MLGammella and visit her website at Onward to the Written Word.

#DailyPicspiration

M L Gammella Week 20: Another When Part Three

Picture 1


Picture 2


M L Gammella’s Picture Choice: Both

Title: Another When Part Three

There were hardly any differences on the street than it had a moment ago. Some of the buildings looked newer and the trees were smaller, but it appeared the city was timeless.

I walked along the street, awash in memories. What was I doing on this day? Where was she? As eagerly as I wanted to see her, I didn’t want to accidently run into her along the street. I would probably say the wrong thing and frighten her or she’d recognize me and be freaked out about my ‘sudden’ aging.

It was bittersweet. I saw old friends I hadn’t seen in years, parents of friends that were still alive. I tried to keep my head down, just in case someone recognized me. It would make for too many questions that I wouldn’t have an answer.

As I walked, I finally remembered that Margaret and I were both working that day and wouldn’t be home for several hours. That was perfect. It would’ve made things much harder if I had to work around myself and her, no matter how much I wanted to see her.

My head was shrouded in the past, which was now my present, as I continued walking, my feet remembering a path that I hadn't traveled for years. The buzz of the city fell away into the quiet peace of the suburbs.

The peace that was broken that night.

My feet stopped in front of a modest, split level house. Bright flowers lined the stone walkway to the front door. Margaret went to great pains every spring to plant the flowers, using different colors every year. She was partial to yellow, which was the color of the flowers this year. I hated yellow after that.

I still do.

I looked carefully from side to side, to see any of my old nosy neighbors were looking before I walked up the driveway. This was my house after all, I wasn't a criminal.

The back door was unlocked, as it usually was. I quickly slipped inside and took a deep breathe. I had forgotten how the house smelled a bit like Margaret ... elements of her perfume and her favorite scented candles wrapped around me. I closed my eyes and allowed the moment to run its course. It had been so long.

A clock chimed nearby, pulling me out of my memories.

I slipped up the stairs into the kitchen. There were breakfast dishes in the sink and a cup of coffee left in the pot. I tried to remember what we had for breakfast that day.

I continued into the living room. I wasn't sure what I was looking for, but just felt I would know when I saw it. I stopped on a dime when my gaze crossed over a picture that was long lost for me.

Margaret and I were holding hands, our expressions full of love, the photo commemorating our wedding day. I remember pulling that veil over her head and kissing those lips for the first time as husband and wife.

I remember kissing those lips for the last time, as I said goodbye when she laid in that satin lined box.

My vision blurred and I walked away before I was completely overcome with emotion. I hadn't found quite what I was looking for yet so I continued to the upstairs.

My hands shook as I approached our bedroom. Would I really be able to do this? I reached out with a tentative hand toward the doorknob. The metal was cold, enough to shock me out of my nerves.

Our room was just as I remembered it. Pictures were along the wall. The bed clothes were rumpled. We never were one to make the bed every morning. The book that Margaret was reading that morning was left open. I sat down on the bed and picked up her book, running my hand along the cover.

My reflections were cut short when I heard a door slam downstairs.

"Henry?"

-------------------------------------------------------

M L Gammella lives in Ohio with her husband and their three pets. She is currently working on her first novel, a paranormal suspense based in Maine. Please follow her at @MLGammella and visit her website at Onward to the Written Word.

#DailyPicspiration