Tag Archives: Fiction

My Christmas Gift to Everyone

Merry Christmas all. It’s a beautiful morning here on the plains.

As my special Christmas gift to everybody I am offering my novel HAUNTING INJUSTICE, as a FREE GIFT to download at Smashwords. This is a TODAY ONLY deal.

Head on over to  http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/55588, give it a download and enter the coupon code PB84D on Checkout. You will be given a %100 discount and my novel for FREE. (Today only so act fast)

Haunting Injustice“A bona fide, page turning thriller!” – Apex Reviews….

Ghosts, murder, kidnapping, technology, love and romance. This ghost story has it all. Phoenix Worthy, noted paranormal investigator, lives in the most haunted city in America, Savannah, Ga. His latest hunt brings him face-to-face with a brutal killer. The only question is… Who is more deadly–the killer or the ghosts of his victims?

Everyday Fiction 3 – The Anthology

The third Everyday Fiction anthology is now on sale. It includes four fantastic pieces of flash fiction written by my favorite writer, Debi Blood. (Only one other writer had as many.) Yours truly has three stories in this book including Trajectory, Fire on Falcon Road, and The Newly Dead of Winter. Beyond that there are 97 other works of flash fiction published last year at www.everdayfiction.com


Everybody has some kind of vision of what Angels are. Hollywood has put their spin on the heavenly ambassadors practically since the first roll of film snaked through a camera. From Clarence in It’s a Wonderful Life to Buck Henry in Heaven Can Wait, angels have almost always been portrayed as pleasant and eager to help the object of their earthly mission.

And then sometimes the Angel mythology gets just a little bit darker and the line between angel and demon can get somewhat blurry.

Deborah Winter-Blood, an extraordinary writer (and sweetheart,) and visionary in this kind of fiction, announced the launch of her angel project, Heaven’s Shine, a novella and cornerstone piece of an anthology she hopes to complete by year’s end.

Read the full announcement here.  Her plan is to release Heaven’s Shines in small bites over the next few weeks. The first installment is already up at her website: http://deborahblood.com

Look for Debi’s debut novel, The Glendale Witch, to release this summer. The book is a wonderful young-adult fantasy revolving around teen-ager Celeste Needfyre as she discovers her magical heritage and what role she must play in an epic battle brewing in an alternate universe. Celeste must grow up quickly as the future of our world rests in her hands.

For more about The Glendale Witch visit: http://deborahblood.com

Stairway to Heaven – (Short Fiction)

“It was right there,” the lanky old man said and pointed to the old brick steps twisting their way up the hillside to some unseen landing above.

“What was?” his curmudgeon friend quizzically asked.

“You know… that song, Stairway to Heaven, was written about those steps.” He took another sip of beer and continued, “Couldn’t keep the kids off the bloody things for years after — damned hippies!”

“Are you daft or something? That song was about a girl – a rock and roll groupie of some sort.”

“That’s right,” lanky continued. “As the story goes that Palmer boy was standing down here chugging pints with his mates when he looked up towards the top and saw this woman standing under the street lamp. She wore a long flowing gown spun from gold thread and smoked cigarettes one right after the other.”

“And how do you know all this?”

“My son went to school with those blokes. He got the story straight from the singer’s mouth, so to speak. Went on to be big rock stars, they did, and made piles of cash playing guitars and dancing around on stage like Mick Jagger.”

“And whatever became of the girl?”

“I heard she opened up a diamond shop in Sky Plaza. Check it out yourself – Lucy something-or-other is ‘er name.”


This story is pure fiction. Resemblance to well-known rock stars is absolutely on purpose.
All rights reserved.

Cap’n Crunch Attacked by Pirates

Cap'n Crunch

Reports are coming in from the Gulf of Arden that famed maritime commander, Cap’n Crunch, and his ship have been boarded by Somali Pirates and at this time are slowly sailing towards Somalia.

Cap’n Crunch, whose real name is Horatio Magellan Crunch, is nothing short of a national treasure loved by children and small adults alike.

It is unknown what the Cap’n and his ship, the Guppy, were doing in the area. There is some conjecture that they were on a covert surveil-lance mission for the CIA, but this has not been confirmed or denied by government sources. Government officials have stated that if the Cap’n and crew are harmed in any fashion that the full force of the U.S. military machine would come to bear on the pirate strongholds of Somalia.

U.S. Naval vessels are on the scene and tailing the Guppy as the pirates head back to their home port with the Cap’n and crew held somewhere below deck.

An unidentified man has reportedly contacted the State Department asking for a 500 million dollar ransom for the Cap’n and crew. A “Free Cap’n Crunch” fund has been setup at Bank of America.

Mock-up of the Guppy

Unconfirmed reports are coming out of the State Department that Count Chocula will be handing all negotiations with the pirates. As you may know, Count Chocula has been instrumental in many other high profile hostage situations before. A talented negotiator, however only able to work at night.

A contingent of extra guards have been stationed around the White House as a crowd of angry children have gathered demanding immediate government intervention.

The is a developing story – stay tuned for more on this crisis in the gulf.

Millie (Short Fiction)

She instantly had 100% of my attention. It was not her looks, although the tie-dyed tee and long flowing skirt were visually stimulating, it was her voice and lingo that drew me in.

“Man, I want a hot cup of Peppermint Ginseng Tea with a Gingerbread Scone,” she ordered in a raspy voice reminiscent of a Janis Joplin song.

The server stood there with his order pad at the ready. “Will that be all?”

“That’ll do.”

Her wide smile exposed a perfect set of glacier white teeth. Her skin tone, almost the same white, told me she spent very little time in the sun.

A hundred questions ran through my mind. Who was she? What’s her story? Is she seeing anybody? I thought she had the most beautiful face I ever saw, not painted on looks like a fashion model, but a quiet natural glow; a soft beauty that could steal the heart of the hardest man.

And then it happened. She caught me staring. I felt my cheeks catch fire with blush. My gaze fell into my coffee so quickly I am surprised it didn’t splash. When I looked up again her eyes were fixed on me.

“You’re a Virgo, aren’t you?” she asked, her brilliant blue eyes fixed on mine.

“As a matter of fact, I am,” I replied. “But how did you know?”

She shrugged. “Lucky guess.”

“I’m not a big believer in luck.”

The server brought over her tea and food. “Anything else?”

“No, this is fine.”

She looked back over at me and asked, “Would you like to join me?”

“Sure.” I picked up my coffee and sat down across from her.

My heart was pounding like a drum. A slight point of sweat gathered on my brow. Wiping it away I asked, “Have we met before? You seem very familiar to me.”

“You would not remember,” she said. “It was a long time ago.”

I sipped my coffee and searched memories for where and when.

She offered her hand across the table. “My name is Millicent. Millicent Sullivan Dawson, but everyone calls me Millie.”

I studied her with every fabric of my being. “We’ve met somewhere, but I don’t remember. Oh, and my name is David.”

“Of course you don’t. I don’t either, but we have met several times.” She smiled and took small bites of her scone. “I already knew your name.”

“Help me out. Where do you know me from?”

“I can’t tell you. I have to show you.” Her eyes locked onto mine. “Would you be willing to go home with me? Nothing funny, but I think you would understand my reluctance to be very specific right now.”

My stomach pushed up into my throat. I nodded and said, “Sure.”

The next thirty minutes was a mixture of quiet study and small talk; getting to know each other. We discussed the minutia of our respective lives. I dropped out of college after drinking my way through the first year. And now I eke out a living, selling swimming pools to suburbanites.

She was a professional student and at thirty-three, studying for her PHD in philosophy. She came from money – old money. Best of all, she wants to take me home – so much for not believing in luck.

We left the coffee shop and she took my hand in hers. Our shoes clicked on the cobblestone sidewalk; the late afternoon sun cast long shadows ahead of us.

“I don’t live far from here.”

I wanted to talk, but my thoughts consumed me. Nothing remained that enabled me to put together any significant conversation, so I just followed her lead. She did not share my conversational hiatus. Raspy sentences rolled off her tongue without a hint of comma or separation of topic.

“Here it is.” She pulled me up a short set of steps to a heavy metal door painted red. I watched as she fumbled through her canvas bag. Finally she pulled out a large set of keys with a small collection of rings and things hooked together in a metallic bundle of chaos. Without hesitation, she singled out the right key and twisted it in the lock.

The door swung wide and I followed in behind her. She hung the keys by the door and kept walking through the hallway into another room. “Come on,” she looked back and motioned me towards her inner sanctum. “It’s in here.”

I walked into the room behind her, took a quick scan and got a good feel for exactly how eclectic Millie Dawson really was. The more I took in, the more I liked her. Her room was decorated in late sixties fluorescent and late eighties furniture. I spied a Lava Lamp and a Rubik’s Cube side by side on a table.

One wall was nothing but books. I walked over and started going through titles. She watched me with great interest. You can tell a lot about a person by the books they read. This new age hippie girl was as diverse as they come. Her library included volumes by Hemingway and Hawthorne, Jimmy Buffet and Pearl Buck, Capote and Tolstoy. The mix of century old authors stacked beside the latest contemporaries was incredible.

“You don’t strike me as a reader of classic literature,” she observed.

“I’m not really.” I straightened up and turned to face her. “But it’s pretty obvious you are.”

“I’ve been cursed that way.” She reached into a small box on the coffee table and pulled out a cigarette. “Do you mind if I smoke?”

“No,” I replied with indifference. “It’s your house and your lungs.”

Blue smoke left her lips as she blew out the match, dropping it into a ceramic ashtray shaped like a windmill. “They are French and not very strong. I don’t smoke very much. Seeing you tonight was kind of startling and I just needed something to cut the edge.”

“What’s this about? Where have we met before?”

“David, do you believe in destiny?”

“I don’t know what to believe. I think if we met before, I would remember it.” My mental rolodex was spinning like a slot machine.

“Sit down. I want to show you something.”

She pulled me down beside her on a worn blue sofa, lit an incense cone, and pulled a book out from under the table. She opened to a page held captive by a small wooden ruler and spread it out in front of me. “I ran across this a few years back when I was browsing an old book store.”

I looked at the photograph on the open page. It was a picture of a confederate soldier taken at Chickamauga in 1863. Standing to his left was a woman who looked exactly like Millicent Dawson. The soldier looked exactly like me. No, not that he looked exactly like me. It was me.

My pulse began to race and my breathing got very shallow.


I heard her say my name but I could not seem to respond.

“Look at this.” She pulled another book from the stack. It was a very large art book. She opened to a place marked with a sheet of paper and put it in front of me. On each facing page there were copies of oil painting portraits of a 17th century couple. The caption read “Mr. and Mrs. David Sullivan, Charlestown, S.C., June 1791”

The portraits could have been of me and Millie painted just yesterday. I swallowed hard and began to search memories in places hidden by time and preservation. The dreams over the years of civil war battles and Carolina street markets began to come back with crystal clarity. The dreams always included the presence of this beautiful woman.

“What does this mean?” I asked.

“I don’t exactly know,” she replied with a slight hesitation in her voice. “I just always knew we would meet. You have been in my dreams since I was a child. Then today, when I passed the coffee shop and saw you sitting there, my heart almost jumped out of my chest. I knew instantly it was you.”

“You came in there because you saw me?”


I looked back over the pictures and squeezed Millie’s hand in mine. For the first time in many years, everything made sense and the loneliness I carried as a constant companion was gone. Millie reached up and pulled my face towards hers. Our lips joined with a familiarity that transcended generations.

Later that night, before we fell asleep in each other’s arms, a simple thought floated through my consciousness. Two hundred years from now, would a beautiful woman in a distant galaxy intersect with a space traveler she fell in love with many times over since the beginning of time?

I certainly hope so.

Mickey Mills – 2011, All rights reserved

The Floating City (Short Fiction)

“And, three… two…. one,” the producer counted down to air time. Dan Allen looked into the camera and quickly went into face mode. He could talk and smile at the same time with the air of intellect pretty much unheard of in the realm of talking heads.

“Good morning, Norfolk, Dan Allen here bringing you live coverage of this historic event.” He turned to gesture offshore at the light fog settled over the Atlantic.  “You are just now starting to see the top of the Empire State building coming into view.” After a short pause he gave directions to his cameraman, “Hank, see if you can zoom onto the New York skyline as it passes to our east.”  Dozens of spectators gathered at Virginia Beach with binoculars and cameras to watch the city float past the coast of Virginia.  Dan was at his best with an on-hand audience.

After the collapse of the New York economy and the sale of California to the Japanese, it was only fitting that the Seminole Indian tribe of Florida would exercise first option on the purchase of Manhattan.  They successfully argued to the Supreme Court that the contract for the sale of the island to the Dutch in 1626 fell under tribal law.  A little known twist in tribal contracts gave the Seminoles the right to buy-back the island at an amount equal to the rate of inflation plus twenty percent.  Considering the original purchase amount was roughly twenty-four dollars, after factoring in the inflation plus the buy-back fee, the Seminoles took possession of Manhattan for the unheard of price of Twelve hundred dollars.  The city was shocked when the tribe announced that they would be moving Manhattan Island to Florida.

“As you can see ladies and gentlemen, New York city is headed south for its new positioning off the Coast of Jacksonville.” Dan lifted his hand to his earpiece and said, “wait a minute, folks, my producer is passing off a new flash.  It seems that the tribal elders have decided to rename New York to New Jack.  Quite fitting considering its new home.”

Dan Allen turned back to face the camera and with the skyline of the city disappearing to the distant south, said, “Manhattan Island is headed to its new anchor point off Jacksonville.  For a full story on this historic event, you won’t want to miss the report on Sixty Minutes this Sunday night, An Island in the Gulf Stream…. Back to you, Brad.”

Copyright 2010-2011, by Mickey Mills, All Rights Reserved.
This is a fictional account. No small animals or sea creatures were harmed in this writing.

Haunting Injustice at “The Deepening”

The Deepening world of fiction is devoted to fiction, its readers, its creators and authors. They have a real taste for the paranormal. The are highlighting my novel, Haunting Injustice, today. I am honored to be recognized by their excellent team of editors and book reviewers. The editor confirms what I always knew about this work. The prologue is a bit rough but the story is superb.

Thank you to the editors at The Deepening for highlighting my debut novel.
The Deepening and Haunting Injustice


Everyone is psychic to some degree, and really successful paranormal investigators even if they do not realize it are using their own psychic ability to sense the environment. ~Rosemary Ellen Guiley Quote

Goose (short fiction)

If quiet had a volume knob, the silence at breakfast was set to eleven. Goose lifted his head to say something to Dan, caught him staring into open space and asked, “Hey dude, where are you?”

Dan looked up and replied, “I was thinkin’ about the first time we went to Daytona with the Rebels.  You remember? It was the night you brawled with Axel over Dixie.”

Goose didn’t respond. He simply got up and went to check the oil in his bike. Dan looked at me as if to ask, What’d I say?  I shook my head and looked over my coffee cup, thoughts drifting back to that Daytona trip.  I remembered like it was yesterday.

* * *

Axel Roberts was the president of the Rebels, a crew of misfits from around the south. He was a mean, unforgiving son-of-a-bitch who ruled the club with an iron fist.  Goose was no different than any of the other guys.  He knew his place in the pecking order. If Axel wanted the girl, she was his – no questions asked – no argument.

We were slamming beers at some dive along Highway 1 when Axel took a liking to the server, a hot blonde named Dixie. She kept looking at Goose as Axel pawed at her through the night. The look in her eyes pleaded, “Help me!”

Goose took all he could stand. His character overtook common sense and he stepped between Axel and Dixie, saying, “That’s enough, Axel.”  The big biker stepped back and rushed Goose head-on like a bull. The fight raged on until Goose finally got the better of the drunken biker. The leader of the Rebels was done. A couple of the other guys helped him stumble outside to cool off.

Sometime during the melee, Dixie quietly slid out the back door. I followed behind to see if she was okay and found her leaning back against an old Buick, trying to light a cigarette. She looked up as I walked over and asked, “How’s your friend?”

I lit her cigarette and replied, “Oh, he’s okay. Personally, I thought Axel would mop the floors with him, but it seems Goose was… inspired.”

She dug in her purse and pulled out a sheet of paper.  She scribbled something and held out the note.  “Would you give this to him, please?”

“Sure.” I took the paper from her outstretched hand. She smiled, climbed into that Buick and drove away.  I looked down at the paper, saw a phone number and her name with the words, Please call, scribbled underneath.

“Frank!” I heard Dan’s voice behind me. Turning around, I saw his head poking out the back door. “Come on, man. We gotta go. When Axel comes to, he’s going to want to put a bullet in Goose.”

As we walked over to the bikes, Goose was already on his machine ready to ride. Axel was still pretty much out of it. I walked over to my friend and shoved the paper into his shirt pocket and said. “You should give her a call.”

The lights of the roadhouse dimmed in the distance as we sped away. A few miles down the road, Goose veered into a gas station. I watched as he walked over to the pay phone. He read the numbers off the paper and dialed. He leaned his head against the side of the booth and talked with someone on the other end of the line.

I looked at Dan and he looked back at me. “What’s that all about?”   I shook my head and replied, “Dixie.”

Goose walked back to where we were parked. “Ya’ll go on. If you don’t see me by Saturday, head back without me.”

I watched the panhead’s red taillight shrink to a small dot before disappearing in the distance. Dan kicked his knuckle to life and we rode back to the campsite. We had to get our stuff out of there before Axel and the rest of the crew returned.

Saturday came and still no sign of Goose. With our gear strapped to the bikes, we headed back to the North Carolina mountains. It was good to be home. Goose showed up three weeks later – a little happier, a little fatter, and a twinkle in his eyes. I didn’t ask and he didn’t offer.

* * *

“Frank!” Goose said. “Where the hell were you?”  I pulled myself out of the memory and smiled. “Back in Daytona.” Not wanting to expand on that any farther, I stood and threw on my leather. “Let’s get some wind in our hair!”

Steel horses screamed through the back roads of South Georgia; my oldest friends, Greasy Dan and Goose McAlister lead the way. We were cowboys of the highway and creatures of the night. But this ride was different; we are on our way to say goodbye to an old friend.

Three hours later, we slowed to the speed limit when our bikes rolled past the city limit sign of the tiny north Florida town. Goose seemed to know his way around pretty good. I saw a small white chapel ahead with a few old cars and a few motorcycles backed up to the curb. We backed in by the other bikes and headed towards the church. Goose walked quickly into the chapel and straight to the front where a shiny black casket rested.

Walking up behind him, I placed my hand on his shoulder and looked at Dixie lying there with a peace she never knew. My friend breezed in and out of her life many times since that night in Daytona. Then came the day they crossed paths with Axel. The bullet that struck Dixie was meant for Goose. The bullet that found Axel was right on target.


This is one of my earliest short stories when I started writing again back in 2006. It was somewhat odd that last night I dreamed pretty much this same story. I figured that meant I was supposed to post it here today. Copyright 2011 – All Rights Reserved.

The First Viral Christmas Poem

Remember the story? Twas the night before Christmas and all through the house… yada, yada, yada.

When I was a child I believed this little tale was the annual punctuation to the whole kid year. However growing up in the late twentieth century in a southern tourist destination, a lot of the language was foreign to me. I remember thinking things like:

What’s a sugar plum?

Stockings? The only think I knew about stockings were they were slowly being replaced by pantyhose. I don’t know about you, but I wore socks.

And then there’s this line: “The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow” Now even as a kid I knew that breasts and snow went together like paisley and plaid.

You get where I am headed with this?  The poem, written in December of 1823, was a snapshot of the era, but in the twenty-first century has become somewhat outdated.

The original poem has influenced the picture of Santa Clause across several generations.  From the names of the reindeer to Santa’s red suit, the imagery and culture of the jolly old man grew from this poem. Amazing how a piece of literature can so subtly impact legend and history.

On top of that, ‘Twas the Night before Christmas’ may be the most parodied of all time. Here’s just a few stand-out examples:

The poem has been done by such television programs as:

  • The Simpsons (The Fight Before Christmas)
  • Home Improvement (Twas the Night Before Chaos)
  • Home Improvement (Twas the Blight Before Christmas)
  • The Honeymooners (Twas the Night Before Christmas)
  • The Golden Girls (Twas the Nightmare Before Christmas)
  • Hallmark movie – The Night Before the Night Before Christmas

To sum it up, we’ve taken a very old Christmas poem, squeezed every dime we possibly could out of it and continue to look for more creative ways to milk this gravy train.

Here are some of my ideas…

Twas the Dark Lord Before Christmas (Harry Potter)
Twas the Death Star Before Christmas (Luke – I am not Santa Clause)
Twas the Speedway Before Christmas (NASCAR)
Twas the Pinhead Before Christmas (Bill O’Reilly)
Twas the Cell Before Christmas (Martha Stewart)
Twas the Tax Bill Before Christmas (President Obama)
Twas the Kite Before Christmas (Ben Franklin)
Twas the Bite Before Christmas (Twilight)
Twas the Byte Before Christmas (Steve Jobs)
Twas the Flight Before Christmas (US Airways pilot “Sully” Sullenberger)
Twas the Right Before Christmas (Glenn Beck)
Twas the Spite Before Christmas (Nancy Pelosi)
Twas the Tight Before Christmas (Mel Gibson)
Twas the Write Before Christmas (ME!)

“Christmas is the Disneyfication of Christianity” ~Don Cupitt