MeowOWeen a charity anthology for children, edited by Stephanie Barr
Spooky, scary, otherworldly, magical…
You can find all kinds of tales and tails in this collection of haunting cat stories for children and the child in us all. And if you think the perfect solution to a frightening dilemma or phantom is a kitty or two, well, you might just be right.
But don’t make them angry…

Death crept closer.
There was a nest of baby birds perhaps three meters up the tree, but Death could leap that easily. The night was dark and the moon was hidden. The mother bird dozed on her babies, unaware.
Death was used to that. He was silent and dark. Many thought him harmless since he had no tail and no front claws. It was usually the last mistake they ever made.
Closer, he crept and closer still. The father bird was elsewhere so no threat. Even the mother could not hold her own against him. Death was a large creature, sleek, lithe, deadly.
His yellow eyes were all but hidden behind the dark of his pupils. His feet were silent on the fresh-cut grass. The nest was on the other side of the tree, but he could leap up there and be on the birds before they had a chance to defend themselves. He was Death.
Easily, he could feast on the baby birds, a week old or so. And probably the mother. He could offer his friends what remained as treasures once he had consumed his fill.
Death poised for the jump. His strong back legs—oversized to compensate for the tail he’d never had—were ready to spring and propel him up the tree…
A door slammed open to his right, bathing the yard with yellow light from the kitchen. “Alvin!” the man shouted.
Death hissed his frustration. He was Death, Death! And he was being interrupted.
The birds were awake now but where could they go? Death returned to his pursuit, ready to leap and destroy.
“There you are,” a human voice said. “There’s my little smoochy oochy.”
Death turned to warn him away with a hiss. The birds definitely knew he was there now. He could still kill, but he might not get out unscathed.
The human scooped him up and snuggled him despite his wiggling protest. “Who’s a handsome boy? Want some fresh salmon?”
I am not a handsome—wait, did you say salmon? After all, those birds would be there for several more weeks.
The man, who smelled of oil and gasoline, nuzzled his head. “That’s right, you beautiful kitty. Nothing but the best for you.” With that, he walked back into the house, Death cradled in his arms. As soon as he’d closed the door, he let Death back to the floor, then crouched and scratched Death’s head in just the right spot. He rose and moved to the kitchen, then paused. “You coming, buddy?”So what if he was Alvin here? He had nice humans to pet him.
And let’s not forget the salmon.
Life was pretty good for Death.

From ‘Death Stalks’ by Stephanie Barr

All proceeds from MeowOWeen go to St Jude Children’s Research Hospital whose mission is to advance cures, and means of prevention, for paediatric catastrophic diseases through research and treatment. Consistent with the vision of its founder Danny Thomas, no child is denied treatment based on race, religion or a family’s ability to pay. No family receives a bill for treatment.

All authors and illustrators have donated their work free of charge:
Stephanie Barr, Knixolate Bar, Rose Campbell, Jocelyn Dex, Ken Goudsward, Jane Jago, Debbie Manber Kupfer, RC Larlham, USA Today Bestselling author Lily Luchesi, Jen Ponce, DM Rasch, F Stephan and Donna Marie West

A Bite of… Stephanie Barr

Question one: How much truth do you think there is in the following statement, and why? If cats weren’t so fluffy and cute, people might notice that they are just about perfect killing machines.

I think that’s a lovely summation. So many cat adoption stories come from a kitten out in the “wild” walking up to a stranger and looking adorable with the person falling in love. The adorable nature of kittens is, without a doubt, a survival mechanism. 
Even when they’re older. “Punkin, did you tear up the bread and leave shreds all over the house?” Punkin (ginger tabby) rubs against your leg and purrs, with an added purry meow. “Well, don’t do it again.” Repeat endlessly. 
I find the fact that they’re also brutally capable hunters as well also appeals to me. Cats are amazing killing machines and, ounce for ounce, one of the most devastating killers out there. Hard for me not to respect that.

Question two: The connection between cats and Halloween is probably as old as the festival itself. Why do you think this is the case?

Cats are quiet, sneaky, slide easily into forgotten corners, can hide in plain sight, can be brutally vicious, and don’t bow down to the dictates of people as most other domesticated animals do. I think a part of it is driven by the faction of people who don’t like an animal that sees them as, at best, an equal. That’s likely the group that demonized cats.
For some people who love cats, their ability to get where they shouldn’t, their ability to kill effortlessly, their silent tread and stealth can seem like magic. And the purr. How many creatures have a mechanism that effortlessly reduces stress and even heals? Magic!
People who love cats can often love cats unreasonably, with an almost slavish devotion.
And most people who have cats have, at least at some point or another, seen cats staring at what looks to be a blank wall, as if there’s a spirit or some other otherworldly beast there. (The story “Fate” addresses this point directly).
Plus, who wants a holiday without cats? Maybe I should do a Christmas cats anthology next time.

Question three: As a person who loves cats would you agree that people may own dogs but they are owned by cats? And why are cats so addictive?

Cats can definitely get away with more than most and, people can become almost slavish in their support. I mean, we literally clean up their crap. Dogs want to make you happy, and, I think, dog people are definitely devoted to their dogs, BUT, dog owners know they’re the boss. Cats want you to clean up their crap and bring out dinner, chop chop. And pet them when they want you to, okay you can stop now. Don’t make me have to scar you.
So why are they so appealing, so addictive? Why do people have to actively stop themselves from having an indefinite number of cats? Part of tit is their apparent independence, their disinterest in what we think of their behavior. It’s hard not to respect that.
Part of that is their dangerousness. Having a deadly creature that cuddles up to you and jumps on to your shoulders is flattering.
Part of it is that cats—and especially kittens—are so damned adorable. And cats, often, do better with a friend to keep them entertained. And, once you have two, if you stumble across a new kitten, it’s hard not think, “So, how much more trouble is a third?” How do you take an adorable new kitten you find in your engine to a shelter? How do you leave a sad neglected stray to its own devices? They know how to appeal to the people they choose (there are dozens of examples of people who “hated” cats who became totally besotted). Then, suddenly, you have ten and nowhere to put another litterbox.
And cats are caring, too. Sure, they do their own thing and don’t need you, but people who have been depressed or are recovering from illness and injury will tell you how devoted a cat can be, even a standoffish one. Cats are very empathetic.
But, the same passion that people have for cats is not necessarily stronger than the antipathy some people have for cats. Feral cats are subject to abuse with little or no notice. And cats know true cat haters and respond accordingly (which is likely reinforces it both ways). I have a story about that in Pussycats Galore (“The Cutest Little Zombie Apocalypse Evah”).
Their very independence leads people who picked up a kitten for its cuteness but had no idea what they were getting into to abandon their cats. Cats can be very difficult. Some people just leave their cats behind when they move, neglect them, brush it off when they disappear. Toss ’em if they get expensive or difficult with age. It’s not all beautiful.
But, when it’s beautiful, it’s glorious.

Although Stephanie Barr is a slave to three children and a slew of cats, she actually leads a double life as a part-time novelist and full-time rocket scientist. People everywhere have learned to watch out for fear of becoming part of her stories. Beware! You might be next!

You can find Stephanie on Facebook, Twitter, her webpage, her blog – or sign up for her newsletter and be sure not to miss out on any new projects!

I can’t stand bloody freesias. Had them in my wedding bouquet. They were white and pink and smelled like summer and happy ever after.
Only I ain’t gonna get neither by the looks.
I’m stuck here in perpetual winter, and the asshole I was stupid enough to marry has sashayed off back to his momma in sunny Florida.
Last week he sent me the divorce papers I been kind of expecting. I signed them and found myself smiling for the first time in months.
This morning my big bear of a neighbour brought me freesias. These ones smelled like hope.

©Jane Jago

Because life can be interesting when you are a character in a video game…

The cavern entrance became a long tunnel that went down for a while, lit by a weird blue luminescence which seemed to come from the walls. Then there was an abrupt angle up and the rock had been carved into steps. Climbing these, Milla suddenly found herself emerging from water into a huge underground chamber, with the same spooky illumination coming from pillars of rock.
“Awesome!” Pew breathed. “We made it in.”
“Well, now we’re here. What are we doing?”
Milla wondered how Pew would explain the situation to Glory. It wasn’t going to be easy she was sure of that.
“We’re here to rescue someone,” Pew began. “It’s a kind of friend of mine and…”
“Well frack me! Pew, what you doing here?”
Milla spun around and saw a rather fat dwarf, with a long beard which was plaited into a complex design. But it wasn’t the beard that held her attention. It was more that he was wearing something that looked part way between a bikini and a sarong. On his head was a golden tiara set with a huge glowing diadem.
“String?” Pew sounded faint and Milla felt him grip her hand tightly as the dwarf waddled over towards them.
“Oh hello Milla. You here too? And who’s this?”
“Uh.. I’m Glory. Nice to meet you…um.. String?”
String smiled happily.
“I’m glad you came by. I’ve missed you buddy!”
“String,” Pew released Milla’s hand and put both his on the dwarf’s shoulders. “You’ve got to leave here. Come with us now before the Queen repops.”
String laughed.
“You fracking kidding? Leave? I got it all here, bro. You seen these Lamia? Let me tell you the Queen is the hottes…”
“String! You are being controlled by her. You’re stuck here. Like really here. Your roomies are going wild. You’ve got to come with us.”
The dwarf pulled away.
“I don’t think so.” Slowly he began to grow until he was almost twice the size he had been. A giant dwarf, now looking Pew in the eye, his inappropriate attire stretched almost to breaking over his bulging body. He produced a double-headed axe from somewhere, each blade engraved with dwarven runes of power and the haft bound with strips of black dragon leather. String grinned and gave it a test swing. “Nice action. Now, what were you saying, Pew?”
Pew stepped back shaking his head.
“You’re not yourself. Look at you. Dressed like that. Wake up!”
The giant dwarf threw back his head and laughed.
“You thought you had it good with a girlfriend in game. You don’t know nothing, Pew. Nothing.”
Then without warning his face transformed to a snarl and he leapt forward, axe swinging, aimed right at Pews neck. The axe blade clanged into Glory’s sword which was suddenly in the way, and then Glory was too, standing between Pew and String, sword ready.
“No, don’t attack him Glory. It’s too dangerous. If he dies here… I don’t know. He might really die. In the real world.”
The dwarf was swinging again and Glory parried and reposted, pushing him onto the defensive.
“Not sure I know what you are on about,” she said, her own face stone featured. “I didn’t start this with, fats here, but I’m going to finish it if he doesn’t put that axe down.”
String laughed maniacally and swung into full on attack mode, Glory moved and dodged the swing, bringing her sword up to cut into his unarmoured flesh, but the blade seemed to do little damage.

We will return to Wrathburnt Sands by E.M. Swift-Hook next Sunday.

Return to Wrathburnt Sands was first published in Rise and Rescue Volume 2: Protect and Recover.

If your mood’s for wild romance
With you I’ll swoon
Beneath the cold moon
Does love lead you a merry dance?
When icy is your lady’s glance
Beneath the cold moon
I’ll sing of your sorrow
Your pathos I will borrow
Enchant your sad tomorrow
Oh gloom, gloom
Beneath the cold moon

©jj 2021

The Insulae Nero was in the poorer end of Viriconium. One of a number of squat blocks with an external staircase leading to each floor’s front balcony. In some attempt to create an impression of a pleasant environment, the blocks were set out in quadrangles around what might have once been central gardens, but which now had the odd broken piece of playground equipment and banks of overgrown weeds with litter blowing through like tumbleweed.
Had this been in Londinium, Dai would have regarded it as decent enough non-Citizen accommodation. Indeed both himself and Bryn had lived in insulae not so very different from these in their time there. But here in Viriconium, it was anything but. They had parked up on the edge of the estate under a security camera and walked through attracting attention from local dogs and children. The adults saw them and seemed to either melt away or lurk threateningly as if daring them to approach. At one point a bottle smashed close behind them, but they just kept walking.
“Hello, SI Cartivel.” The speaker detached himself from the insula wall he’d been supporting and stepped into their path. Beneath a mop of dark brown curly hair, he was thin faced, with one ear and one nostril pierced. His tunic and trews seemed too stylish for the locale. Dai moved his hand to push back his jacket intending to both grip and reveal the nerve whip at his belt. But beside him he felt rather than saw Bryn sink into the casual stance that offered no aggression but left him ready to respond to any attack. Unlike Dai’s approach, Bryn’s was de-escalatory. Taking his lead from the man who knew this area best, Dai let his hand drop back.
“Hello Cas. Not your usual playground. You been barred from the Dog and Onion again?” Bryn sounded almost as if he cared.
The man called Cas, hawked and spat as if the name tasted bad. “You know I don’t run with the Broanan’s SI Cartivel, they are not nice people. And I’m here visiting my *llys-tad.”
“Which one would that be? You had a few growing up, so I’ve heard.”
Cas pulled his face into an expression of sorrowful hurt.
“What are you implying about my mother, SI Cartivel? She was a good woman. The best. Gave me a good upbringing.”
“I heard she was a generous soul,” Bryn agreed mildly. “Just a shame she weren’t so successful at teaching you the difference between right and wrong.”
“You insult me,” Cas sounded pained. “I’m a good man. I look after my own. There’s never been any crime laid at my door.”
“Well that is because you just feed on the profits of other people’s crime, isn’t it. Cas? You point them where to go and when. They do the deed and you sell it on. Worse thing is it’s the local kids you get to do it. They don’t even understand the consequences. You know we’ll get you for it one day.”
“Is that a threat, SI Cartivel? My lawyer told me you aren’t supposed to threaten me. I could report you for it. Get you suspended.”
“No, it’s not a threat,” Bryn told him, his tone still mild and amicable. “In your case, Cas, it’s a promise.”
He walked on and Dai stayed put, fixing the curly haired man with a cold glare until he turned away and loped off towards one of the insulae.
“Nice place,” Dai said when he’d caught up with Bryn. “Not sure I’d want to come visiting alone after dark.”
“Cas Ofydd is a cunnus. But a clever one. If he’d put that intelligence into something honest he’d have made good. Instead, he uses it to recruit kids to commit crimes he sets up for them. But there is never anything to link him to it all except their word if we catch them. I’ve seen the court send two teens to the arena in the last year thanks to that bastard, though that was as much the Magistratus’ fault in pressing the letter of the law on them when he could have chosen not to.”
“The Magistratus feels he has no choice.” Dai wondered why he was defending his superior. Perhaps because he had faced some really difficult judgements himself and knew how hard it was to draw the line in the right place. He got no reply and was left with the impression he had somehow failed a test.
“The people here are used to seeing authority coming in hard with nerve whips and menaces,” Bryn explained as he led the way up the stairs of one of the blocks. He gestured along the first balcony. “Most of the front doors have been forced so often they don’t lock properly anymore, so it’s not too hard if someone wants to walk in and take stuff.”
“Forced by…?”
Bryn shrugged and jogged up the next flight of steps.
“Most often Aiofe’s lot or one of her competitors collecting on illegal loans, though it is as likely to be the angry drunken ex-spouse or the drug-warped teenager who forgot their key. And our boys and girls, of course, though we only do it when they refuse to open up.”
He turned onto the next landing and made his way along the exposed balcony. Faces stared at them from the windows beside the doors – those that weren’t boarded over.
“This,” Bryn said stopping outside a door that had several cracks in it and a hole where the lock should be, “is Villa Gillie. A commodious residence with views over the local park…” he paused to gesture dramatically to the small square of mud and weeds with a couple of vandalised benches, “and built-in air seasonal air-conditioning.” Bryn put his hand above the absent lock, hooked his fingers through it and held it, braced against the frame. Then he knocked hard on the door a couple of times.
There was no reply so after a few moments, he knocked again a bit harder. The window beside the door was still in existence and a face appeared there briefly. Bryn let go of the door and it swung slightly open as he did so.

‘Dying to be Born’ is one of the exclusive bonus short stories The Third Dai and Julia Omnibus by Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook

Biker, biker roaring past
In the street, night before last
What the hell possess-ed thee
To wake me up at half-past three?

On what distant motorway
Did you begin your ride that day?
On what tarmac didst you roll
From whence came you my sleep to troll?

And what hard shoulder fast depart
Could twist your manifold apart?
So that the popping of the sound
Could so reverberate around?

What did hammer your bike chain
To make it thunder in the rain?
What did make you choose my road
To burden with your heavy load?

When the stars – or sparks more like,
Flew from the tailpipe of your bike,
Did you wonder what fell fate
Left you back-firing by my gate?

Biker, biker roaring past
In the street, night before last
What the hell possess-ed thee
To blast me up at half-past three?

Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV

Listen to Granny because Granny always knows best!

Yesterday I got invited on a ‘ghost walk’ around town. For a moment I was gobsmacked sufficiently to be unable to refuse, but I recovered quickly enough so that when the heavily moustached female licked her biro and brightly enquired how many tickets she should put me down for I replied ‘none’ and closed the front door. But not before Gyp piddled on her Ugg boots.
Back in the sanctuary of our own fireside, I turned to Gyp and sighed.
“What in the name of freaking nonsense was all that about?”
He raised a ginger eyebrow but forbore comment – which is unsurprising as he is a dog, albeit one of dubious parentage – and returned his attention to an itchy spot to the left of his scrotum.
I found myself, not for the first time, questioning the grip on reality of many of my fellow humans.
The merry sound of ‘Born to Be Wild’ played off key broke into my reverie and I picked up the phone. Having ascertained it was my chum, Beryl, I answered the bloody thing.
“Have you,” she asked without the usual preamble of greeting, “yet been visited by a moustache wearing very ugly boots? I thought you might have because the left boot looked as if a dog had pissed on it.”
“I have,” I said guardedly. “The boot decoration may even have been Gyp’s contribution to the conversation.”
I spoke with more care than usual, as Beryl has been known to dabble in the murky waters of weej and amateur witchery – but I need not have worried.
“Ghost walk,” she snorted. “Tomorrow night. When the weatherman promises gales, heavy rain and a maximum temperature of seven degrees. In what alternative universe is that happening?”
“Not mine. Or yours by the sound of you. Even with the lure of the supernatural.”
She snorted out a laugh. “I would think the supernatural might have sense enough to stay indoors on a filthy night like it promises to be. And anyway I’m off the spiritual stuff. It’s becoming a bore. I’m thinking of joining the folk club. Why don’t we…”
The words ‘folk club’ and ‘we’ in the same sentence were enough to have me put an abrupt end to the phone call.
Me and Gyp turned off the bloody phone and went to the chip shop for supper.

The Elf King was owed a princess, and a princess he was going to get. Just not the one he expected. Princess Marianne was a delicate fairylike beauty, and, in her father’s estimation, far too valuable to waste on a promise. Princess Ella, by contrast, was plain and meek and only too aware that her father had cheated.
It took all her courage to look into the Elf King’s face. To her surprise the tall brown-skinned monarch laughed.
“I do not,” he said, “value human beauty highly. But I am enamoured of bravery.”
He held out his twiggy hand.

©️Jane Jago

“You are,” she said, “a remarkably patient person.”
He grinned. “There are some things in life that are worth patience.”
“But what about if I’m not one of them?”
“Then I have lost nothing, because I’m enjoying your company immensely.”
“But what if I can’t? I mean never. Kissing and cuddling and stuff ”
Mike turned his hand over on the table so that it was beneath hers and their hands rested palm to palm. He offered her a gentle smile.
“Palm to palm is holy palmers’ kiss,” he said gently.
The sweetness of that pierced Jenny’s armour in a way she didn’t think was possible any more. She awaited his next move warily.
It was a mark of the man that he made no attempt to press home any advantage that he may have accrued. Instead he pushed the plate or chocolates towards Jenny.
“You going to eat any more or will I have them make you up a doggy bag to take home?”
“Doggy bag, please. I might like to eat them in bed with a cup of hot milk.”
“Then you shall.”
His smile was a complicated thing, but warm and comforting too.
“Thank you, Mike.”
He leaned across the table. “Don’t thank me, just be comfortable with me.”
Almost of its own free will her hand came up to briefly touch his cheek. “I’m beginning to think I won’t be comfortable without you.”
He signalled for the bill and Jenny phoned her usual cab company. As he walked her to the end of the road she looked up at him and put on her best hard girl face. “I’ll understand if you don’t want to see me any more.”
“Silly woman. How about lunch tomorrow?”
“Only if you come to mine, and I cook for you.”
“I’d like that.”
“Okay then. Come as soon as your hotel throws you out.” She scrabbled in her bag and handed him a card. “Here’s the address.”
She got into the waiting taxi and left him looking down at the little piece of pasteboard as if she had given him the world.

Jenny got up early the next morning and spent a happy hour in her shining kitchen before she sat herself down to a breakfast of brown toast and honey.
Her phone bleeped and she saw it was a text from Mike. She felt something sour in her gut at the idea he might be cancelling their lunch date.
Is half eleven too early? What can I bring?
She found herself smiling mistily as her thumbs flew. Time is fine. Just bring yourself.
With the answer sent, she went back to her interrupted breakfast, but not before mentally chiding herself as a silly cow to even think about getting attached to another man.
Putting that aside as irrelevant for now, she ran down the road to the mini-market where she bought certain necessities for a traditional roast dinner.
By half-past eleven all was in readiness and Jenny had even managed to shower and change into a very becoming flowered silky dress. Right on time, she heard the sound of a car being parked outside her gates.
Unwilling to admit, even to herself, how much she was looking forward to seeing a man she had seen only the night before, Jenny resisted the impulse to run to the front door. Instead she waited for his knock.
When it came, she trod lightly to the door to find Mike had stepped back and was eyeing the little house appreciatively. He had his hands behind his back, and when he saw Jenny he stepped forwards.
“Pretty house and pretty lady.”
He took a very attractive bouquet of simple garden flowers from behind his back and presented it with a half bow. Jenny chose to ignore the ‘pretty lady’ comment, instead focusing on the flowers in her hands.
“Oh. How lovely. However did you?”
He grinned with exaggerated pride. “Internet. Last night. Independent florist down on the quay. I described you and she made the bouquet.”
Jenny felt herself blush, uneasy at the idea of the implied compliment, but Mike carried on speaking as if nothing had happened.
“Told her you were a country girl at heart, and as prickly as a briar rose.”
It felt to Jenny as if he would always know what to say to ease her over the rocks of her crippling memories, which left the overriding worry of for how long she could trespass on his patience and kindness.

Jenny is the latest book from Jane Jago

“It must be a terrible place to live,” Oliver observed as the documentary went on, “I mean, having a social score based on who you’re friends with and what you buy, determining whether you can get a train ticket.”

Krista nodded agreement and finished leaving a bad rating for the delivery driver. He’d been five minutes late. Some pathetic excuse about traffic. “Just glad we live in the free West.” Her fit-watch vibrated and she sighed. “I’ll have to leave you to it. If I don’t get enough steps done today they’ll cancel my health insurance – or quadruple the price.”

E.M. Swift-Hook