The Kiss: An Anthology About Love and Other Close Encounters(109)
C?ran smiled and his mouth brushed hers, 'I have no doubt you could.'
*
And in that one moment I became the angel queen, Galvahha Afir?na. C?ran's fate was sealed with mine, and we would leave our descendants to achieve great things. I watched them all from above, the kings and queens of Calnis, forging a great nation that would shape the history of the world. I mourned its destruction, but my people lived on and it is in honour of them that I now write the Chronicles, the history of Calnis and its legacy.
And I knew at C?ran's coronation that his statement to the people was God's truth; 'This small community, this country … this entire nation … will live forever.’
*
UK author J R C Salter trained as a chef and practiced for ten years before quitting to pursue a writing career. His epic series, the Calnis Chronicles, depict the adventures of different characters surrounding a mysterious artifact. During any spare time, he likes to dabble in photography, build giant Star Wars models from Lego, and make cookies. J has an unhealthy thirst for knowledge, and has been known to waste time on Wikipedia and YouTube.
www.calnis.com
https://www.facebook.com/jrcsalter
https://www.facebook.com/thecalnischronicles
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My Contact
(Excerpted from The Package)
Cleve Sylcox
My name is Dave Winter. I work, or should I say I worked for, a snake of a lawyer named, Bill Tinsley better known as BT. He gave me the package to give to Al. He said he would do it himself but had a pressing engagement. With whom he didn’t say. He told me all about the forty G’s and then rushed off.
Shit, I didn’t have anything better to do and who couldn’t use that kind of money, so I hurried to the wharf.
BT told me to go into Moe’s, a flea trap of a joint at the edge of oblivion. The bar is built at the end of the wharf which hovers some forty feet above the bay. If you stagger the wrong way it might be your last because just below the bay’s surface lays Elizabeth, a sunken Russian vessel which exploded some years back. Her jagged belly points up toward Moe’s. I stared down at her in disbelief. Only thing separating me and a date with those sharp points was a thin railing. I turned and went into Moe’s dark ambience. You’ve seen joints like this. They keep the lights down low so you can’t see any…dealings, if you know what I mean.
BT’s instructions were clear, go to the back of the bar to a table with a painting of a pirate above it. I was to sit there. Not talking to anyone and most defiantly not drinking anything. My first contact was to give me further instructions. Cloak and Dagger…kind of find this stuff exciting.
I did as I was told. I sat straining to see through the dim lighting and smoke. The place smelt stale, dirty. A bartender stood behind a makeshift bar made from lobster crates. A long plank rested on top of the crates forming the bar top. Dirty ashtrays along with bowls of shelled salted peanuts sat on a thin cloth used as a bar cover. As the patrons walked around the bar, peanut shells crunched beneath their shoes.
A large rotunda of a man with a patch on his right eye flicked his cigar in the peanuts, then tossed back a double Scotch. He slammed the shot glass on the plank with a sharp clack. He nodded approvingly at the bartender, and then limped out of the bar through a mob of patrons who mingled, drinking and chatting loudly, most of whom looked like dogs after a hard fight, hair unkempt and ragged clothes.
Behind the bar was a makeshift wooden shelf holding bottles of Scotch, and whiskey. A fish net draped down from the wall covering a corner of the shelf, an obvious attempt at decoration. Oddly to say, it worked. At least it fit in with the tables made from old lobster crates with a small plank laid across them. These tables filled the place. On each table sat a candle in a bottle, which most used to light their stubbed cigars or cigarettes. The chairs were wicker and old. I felt if I move too fast theses would-be assassins would collapse, killing me.
Adding to the ambiance are the walls. They were made of old planks with tight lines of grain with a knot or two. Rough prints of pirate ships hung from old nails driven into their knotted mass. I sat beneath the only painting not of a ship, it was a pirate.
I looked at the black bearded pirate in the painting, wondering who he might be. That’s when I heard a voice that somehow didn’t fit in the surroundings. The voice was soft and sweet. I turned to see an absolute angel.
Her young face smiled at me from beneath two large blue eyes. Her blonde hair lay on her shoulders like a layer of golden cream. As I gazed down her perfectly proportioned figured, I was instantly enchanted. Jessica Simpson holds nothing on this dame.
“Excuse me,” she said in an English accent, “May I get you something to drink.”
I sat gazing into her eyes wondering if she had a name ...or a price. Her perfume, sweet and alluring, danced in my nostrils. I liked it.
She asked again, “Sir…would you like a drink?”
I smiled, “Sure, Scotch straight up.”
She smiled back, twirled on one foot then trotted up to the bar.
I watched her walk away…and nearly fell off my wicker. Then I remembered the package and patted my shirt pocket, reassuring myself. I opened the top of the pocket and stared in at it. It was a small manila envelope with the top-glued shut and stamped with a wax seal. I jiggled and heard something rattle inside.