Award winning author Alina K. Field earned a Bachelor of Arts Degree in English and German literature, but her true passion is the much happier world of romance fiction. Though her roots are in the Midwest, after six very, very, very cold years in Chicago, she moved to Southern California where she shares a midcentury home with two furry four-legged girls and keeps a dependable stash of lollipops for the munchkins in her life.
She is the author of several Regency romances, including the 2014 Book Buyer’s Best winner, Rosalyn’s Ring. She is hard at work on her next series of Regency romances, but loves to hear from readers!
In addition to Quarter Days, Alina’s quarterly column’s on A Slice of Orange, you can visit her at:
Claire was lost in her thoughts when Mason crunched on something in the weeds.
“No.” Claire tugged at the leash, trying to pull the Lab back to her side. “What have you got?”
The dog kept his head down, not allowing her to reach the object, and growled.
“Mason? Give it,” she commanded. But still the dog worried the thing.
Whatever it was, it couldn’t be alive, she decided. Most likely a bone, but you never knew with a dog. She didn’t want a mess back home, when the object Mason had disagreed with him.
“Let’s go.” Claire tried again to separate the dog from his newfound fetish. Mason lifted his head and shook it, then responded to the pull of the leash. He wagged his tail as if to say, Aren’t you proud?
Protruding from either side of his jaws was a length of deer leg, stripped mostly of fur and skin. A strong whiff of decay floated up, making Claire scrunch up her nose.
The trail through the woods behind her house often crossed paths with the narrow routes made by white-tailed deer. It wasn’t unusual for Mason to flush out a doe or even pounce on a fawn hidden in a clump of wild grasses.
“No,” Claire said. “You can’t bring it.”
The dog pranced around her, and each time she tried to snag one end of the leg, he moved away from her.
Giving up, she turned toward home, and the dog followed, still grinning in that canine way with his prize in his mouth.
It was a lot like her brother, Duane, and his endless stories about their childhood, unearthing a past she had done her best to bury. A past now thankfully down to the bones and a little skin. The meat—the core of what had happened—had rotted away, as long as she didn’t go looking for it.
Duane knew only the good side of their father. And with the funeral in two days, she would steel herself to listen to the well-wishers and keep her mouth shut. Let her brother do all the eulogizing. She’d told him she didn’t like talking in front of a crowd, and he’d believed her.
Back at the porch steps, Claire pulled her house keys from her coat pocket and bent to unclip Mason’s leash from his collar. The dog dropped the deer leg into the flower bed and looked up at her with a whimper.
“Good dog,” she said, and dipped into another coat pocket for a biscuit. “We’ll leave it out here.” Mason trotted onto the porch with her, eyeing her hand for another treat.
If only discarding the past were that simple, she thought. Still, she could try.
long shadows
the afternoon s t r e t c h e s us
on the sidewalks
holding hands
but when dusk falls
and we vanish
into a shadowless world
what will remain of us?
© Neetu Malik
I suppose there were opioids in my IV. I remember eating a three-foot-long, hot-pink centipede. I was a trifle worried. It was Lent. Does centipede count as meat?
While I chewed—centipedes are a might gristle-ly—there appeared by my bed three women. They “poofed” in; I thought them witches. Like a Hollywood wind machine was in the room blowing only on the three of them, their wild, flaming-orange hair and amethyst robes flowed out behind them.
They spoke, talking on top of each other, one starting before the other stopped.
My southern upbringing immediately identified them. Must be Yankees, I thought.
“Oy vey can you believe…,” said the first witch.
“Without her hair cut…,” said the second.
“She came to the hospital, and there’s people everywhere…,” said the third.
“…and her hair…,” said the second.
“You can’t cut your hair?” said the third.
“I know a place…,” said the first.
This started such a discussion about which place.
I picked up the small hand mirror Mom left for me on my bedside table.
I do need a haircut.
“My tante Zelda…,” said the first witch.
“What?” said the second witch. “Your tante? Why she’d be better off having her hair cut by monkeys at the Bronx Zoo.”
And the third witch nodded, her bangle bracelets clinking, her crystal earrings casting rainbows on the ceiling.
“Do you have any mustard for my centipede?” I asked.
“Why yes,” said the third witch, pulling a jar from her pocket. “Grey Poupon?”
As I spread spicy brown mustard on my centipede, the first witch called her tante Zelda on the phone, “How’s next Wednesday, Dear?” she asked me.
I hesitated, trying to remember when I was scheduled to be discharged. “I don’t know.”
“You’ve got to go,” said the first witch. “You have some gray, no offense…”
To which the second witch said, “But not to Zelda. Anyone but Zelda.”
I’m a Sci Fi fan—live long and prosper, dude. One of my favorite TV shows features evil aliens with glowing eyes. As I struggled to remember my upcoming calendar, I looked out the door of my hospital room. In the room across the hall, I saw my doctor. He turned toward me—and his eyes glowed.
“Oy vey, you don’t look so good…,” said the second witch.
I paused a bit of mustard covered centipede halfway to my mouth. As my doctor started walking across the hall to my room, the witches grabbed their light sabers. I dropped my fork and pressed the button on my IV.
Time for more juice.
Title Photo by Stephen Andrews on Unsplash
News stories remind us daily of the migrant crisis throughout the world as people flee their homes for a variety of reasons. Refugee, by Alan Gratz, though written for a middle-grade audience, is a riveting novel for adults as well that draws us into the migrant experience from a child’s perspective.
Three continents. Three different time periods. Three children fleeing their countries.
Alan Gratz joins the past and the present to weave a gripping tale of the harrowing experiences of three children forced from their homes due to war and political unrest.
Josef yearns to celebrate his upcoming bar mitzvah and finally become a man. He just never expected it to be on a ship bound for Cuba, which he and his family board to escape out of Nazi Germany. When the ship is forced to return to Europe, and perhaps certain death, Josef finds himself thrust into adulthood and must make a decision that will determine the survival of his family.
Fast forward to 1994, when Cuba is teeming with food shortages and riots. Teenage Isabel finds herself on a questionable homemade raft. Together with her family and the neighbors next door, they depart for the United States. They just need the raft to hold up, avoid the Coast Guard, pray the sharks don’t get them, and hope that her mother, heavy with child, can survive the journey.
On the other side of the world, in 2015, war tears Syria apart, forcing Mahmoud’s father to seek a safe haven for his family. Amidst gunfire, danger, and the ever-present threat of death, they travel through Turkey and Serbia, enduring hunger, thieves, and prison. Mahmoud and his family continue onward through Austria and finally Germany, where the lives of the three children find a binding tie.
Refugee is a fast-paced, heart-rending story of the strength and courage of children and their valiant efforts, despite all obstacles, to forge a life filled with meaning and purpose.
Veronica Jorge
See you next time on May 22nd!
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They liked macaroni and cheese SO much, if they could, they would eat it for breakfast, dinner, and lunch!
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More info →A Slice of Orange is an affiliate with some of the booksellers listed on this website, including Barnes & Nobel, Books A Million, iBooks, Kobo, and Smashwords. This means A Slice of Orange may earn a small advertising fee from sales made through the links used on this website. There are reminders of these affiliate links on the pages for individual books.
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