"To Whom It May Concern…You will be escorted off these premises between midnight and dawn on the…"Naturally they weren’t giving him long to decide or prepare; they never got push-back. But, then, he wasn’t like everyone else. Even so, he still had to consider the three teens he was grandfather, and now, father to.He'd gotten his fill of war long ago, apparently the sheriff hadn't. So be it.The old man had lived there, on that plot of farm land, all his life. His parents before that, and on back to the days not but a few generations beyond the original Bay Colony. Well, there'd been the years when “duty-to-save-some-foreign-nation called” and he and the family's men before him had gone off to get shot at and shot up for good old Uncle Sam.To say this official “common wealth” land confiscation was a kick in the teeth, after all that, was an understatement. Its date was hand printed larger, even more neatly, than the rest of it. Oh, and it was highlighted orange. No missing it. And less than three weeks away…But seeing those words in black and white merely added a splash of fuel to a fire that had been kindled in his soul who-knows-how-many “election cycles” ago.He worried most about the two older kids. If the spark of hard-won Liberty was to survive, it wouldn’t be in their travel rucksacks. Nope. It’d have to be the youngest, little Eliza. But performing well in peacetime training, the old man knew, was far different than feeling the pressure of “the day.” She knew some of her stuff, but was it enough to keep her safe?He’d known deep down this day would come. Had hoped, though, he’d been six-feet-under and very cold by then.

It’s Christmas Eve and college student Jamison Riley has chosen to spend the holiday alone, in Sigma Mu Pi’s just-off-campus frat house. Of course the fact he’s arranged a blind date for tonight had something to do with turning down several relatives' offers. The date is after all, the first such opportunity - of any "acuity" - he’s had all semester.When Jamison’s date bails he’s sure he knows why, and it has nothing to do with Fate. He’s certain it’s got frat-brothers’ fingerprints all over it. The last laugh will be on them, though. Their housemother has just made the 21-year-old an eleventh hour offer he wouldn’t dream of refusing. On this night, of all nights, book learning will take a back seat to the timeless fundamentals of Hope, Life, Innocence, and Faith...all wrapped up in new beginnings.

Hereford Bolton was just happy to finally get a job. I mean, he had a bunch of school loans to pay, not to mention a basement to escape. (Probably never heard that one before!)The realities of not holding out for a better employment deal have been sinking in with a vengeance lately. Something's gotta give...Ever gotten to the point where you've had-enough-and-just-aren't-going-to-take-it-any-more? Well, meet Hereford Bolton. He's over-worked, under-appreciated, and paid a lot less than nearby school districts' head-honcho computer geeks are. Oh, and to top it off, his boss has been lying to him about not having the budget to hire any relief "hitters" for "Hef's" one-man IT team.He's nearly ready to tell the Big Boss what she can do with her non-stop demands. Won't you come along for the ride? You can ride shotgun.

They say your 40’s are pretty cool but I’ll never know...My story started in Vegas and, sure as Hellfire, it won’t “stay there.” If I help just one of you young, careerist women out there, that's OK. Only the good die young, you say? Bull. I'm barely-living proof that's a lie.Are you a postmodern ladder-climber? Dread living in perpetual Bridesmaids-Ville? Then read, learn, and "don't."They say misery loves company but that’s not my motive. My probably-already-cold corpse doesn’t need to steer you (dead) wrong. I’m confident there’s plenty of “company” in the Rings of Purgatory, where I’ll spend eternity - no doubt insufficient prayers will be going up for me. But imminent death wouldn’t have been my fate if I could have just faced reality.If I could’ve remembered the old, “if it seems too good to be true, it probably is,” (maybe had it tattooed somewhere I could see it easily and often) chances are I’d have more just a few months left on earth.But who can resist quick, easy, money, especially when their credit card statements look like mine? Even now, on the computer, beautiful people in banner ads are practically crooning my name, promising a better-paying career, or shadowing me with flickering visions of stuff I’ve window shopped for (but need a better paying job to pay for!). So, back in June with that Vegas bartender? After a few sips of something he concocted, I was all eyes and ears.And all you need to know, to stay safe out there, (or anywhere) is: stick with the bottled drinks. 'Cuz his blasted strawberry slushy recipe turned him from a half-blood hound, into a garnish-skewering, paper-parasol wielding demi-god of pre-mature death.They say, live and learn. I say, learn from me and live longer.

Mel Dobson’s a demon who’s used to flying solo, particularly when on a time-travel gig. He’s been stood-up by his assigned IMC-partner from the heavenly realms; been stuck all week doing KP in the culinary bowels of 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. No surprise then, that days ago his attitude had already taken a nose dive of hellacious proportions.Now, Mel “to hell with cooperation” Dobson’s devised his own plan.But why would the lowliest of Afterworld operatives risk going off script, risk taking his assignment into his own two suddenly very pudgy hands, especially - for starters - the potential wrath that could rain down from the powerful angel that he’s expecting to land, any moment, in D.C.?Simple. Because even demons like Mel know things about this particular IMC target, a former U.S. President...one Abraham Lincoln. He knows things that most egotistical earthbound humans, even in the Information Age, don’t. Unless, that is, those humans are part-time Sherlocks. And go off their usual spoonfed earthly “scripts.”Mel knows, for example, from the early 1850’s onward ol’ Abe held his mentor Henry Clay’s view on emancipation: that both the Union and the black slaves throughout it would be best served by “re-colonization,” and not simply to their homeland – Africa – but specifically to Liberia, the country created decades earlier by freed American blacks. Now, he’ll make use of that knowledge and more.No surprise that a demon with a discipline problem would go out on a limb to accomplish his and his heavenly partner’s assignment...and with a most unexpected political twist.

A loyal subject does not bite the hand that feeds her...without understanding the terrible price that will most certainly be extracted.But a high-ranking, middle-aged Admin of the ruling regime in Washington has had a pang of conscience. She decides to finally reveal the truth behind the elite pogrom, begun generations earlier, which essentially killed Liberty and Justice for the American male.Behind secure, blast-proof walls in Washington, D.C., a regime minion is burning the midnight oil...literally. This night, she’ll risk everything, to complete a task she suddenly sees could be the only honest contribution of her entire life.Trained throughout that female-privileged life to distrust men, she'll ride out from certain safety and into certain death. If wild animals outside the Protected Zone don’t get her, she’s pretty sure wild men will. After all, she’s meeting one of the most notorious outlaws in the region. She’ll deliver a Truth only she has had the wherewithal to record; does she have the stomach to face the consequences that’d be most fitting?

Julia needs some relationship advice and a friend suggests she consult a psychic named Morgana. But this one doesn’t read tea-leaves. Nope. She’s a 21st century seer who requires a specific roast of a specific well-known brand of coffee beans. Julia finally tracks down the properly-dated vacuum-packed bag, but gets a rude (psychic-)awakening in the process: cryptic questions. To ask the psychic!Man-trouble is never a good thing, but for Julia, this time it’s just plain confusing. Her guy was all over her at the start, but now? She thought he was on the brink of popping-“the”-question. But so far there’s been no pop, only a slow fizzle. She’s decided it’s up to her; she’s going to have to pop a different question, since he’s suddenly working late, not answering her calls, or when he does he’s unsure if he’ll be able to keep their date.Julia needs to know, once and for all, whether Joe’s a keeper or a has-bean, and Morgana promises to have the answer.Gourmet coffee beans, custom ground, then analyzed to your specific needs. Who, in their right mind, would have thunk the spirit world was so-o-o trendy, so particular? But that’s how Julia’s modern psychic does business, so that’s how Julia will experience a slice of life where going beyond words means approaching the Twilight Zone.

Why doesn’t eight-year-old Brett’s mother understand? All she wants is a pet. Since the family first moved to Texas a few months earlier, the girl has seen nary an alligator...either from her perch, high in the SUV motoring around the Urbs or the sub-urbs, or out the back or front doors at home. Why can’t her mother just get over what happened in coastal Florida to her three precious pups?If Brett has to believe in magic to get a pet companion - or two - she will. Of course she’d rather do it the normal way: by asking. Which of course she’s tried. Over and over again. And continually failed. But she always comes back to try again. Like today. Already scanned the area for alligators, too, and is relieved to report none. Now, if only Mom will cooperate.So far the woman’s first brunch martini has slid down without resistance, so Brett knows after one or two more, her mother may very well be in a cheery enough mood to agree. To something, even if it’s just another ant farm.The house keeper is always talking about ants made of fire, but she told Brett they don’t seem to have any in their yard. She’s also told the girl about Texas scorpions, and best thing about both of those pets? They’d be free.

Writing about container-gardening was bad enough, but now Yoshi Pratt, 26, has to endure Inauguration Day (in the sure-to-be-swarming City on the Potomac) with an obnoxious female boss who’s the embodiment of something his grandfather always calls “The Peter Principle.”Yeah, he'd dreamed of political-journalism, but dirt, weeds, and unwelcome planter-pests wasn't sounding all that bad today.Yoshi’s got a Master’s in Journalism so of course he was an aspiring political correspondent. Finally employed, he thought his nightmares were over. Although the 26-year-old D.C. native didn't get his dream job at the Post, at least he got something "in the newspaper business." Could move into his own place. Could start to repay his school loans, or rather, some of the interest on them.Oh, and he could still get a peek at a few of the taller centuries’ old symbols of the City's ruling-power. Sure, it was only on rare occasions. Sure, it was only when he was offering a platter of fresh organic produce (no, not on bended knee!) to the almighty editors of the suburban no-name paper where he worked (as the “Urban Agriculture” columnist).But things in the glass walled conference room of the paper’s 10th floor Crystal City high-rise office are about to get shaken up. Literally. And of all the “dreams” Yoshi’s had in his life, it's a bad one that seems to be coming true - before his very eyes today. And it's one he wouldn’t have wished on his worst enemy.As his grandfather would say, Let the ducking and covering begin. Seriously, people...move!