Dianna is a contributing author in the last three anthologies from The Bethlehem Writers Group, An Element of Mystery: Sweet, Funny and Strange Tales of Intrigue, Fur, Feathers, and Scales, Sweet, Funny and Strange Animal Tales and Untethered, Sweet, Funny & Strange Tales of the Paranormal. She has also contributed stories for the Bethlehem Writers Roundtable ezine, including “In the Delivery.”
Born and raised in the Midwest, Dianna has also lived in three other quadrants of the U.S. She writes short stories and poetry, and is working on a full-length novel about a young woman in search of her long-lost brother.
She is a member of Sisters in Crime, Horror Writers Association, The American Medical Writers Association, and The Bethlehem Writers Group, LLC.
Dianna also has a regular column here on A Slice of Orange, titled Quill and Moss, in which she frequently includes short fiction.
Below, you can also listen to Dianna read her short story, “Cold Front” from the GLVWG Writes Stuff anthology.
Armed with an LED light array half its length, the robotic sub maneuvered closer to the vestimentiferan colony.
“Hundreds and hundreds of them, it looks like,” Dr. Parish said. “Can you get any nearer?”
“Trying,” Angela said, and sighed in frustration. “The rocky terrain around the vents is tricky. I’m afraid of hitting a jagged outcropping and damaging Deep Fin. We can record from here, and I can boost the magnification. That’s safer.”
“You are now the one in charge of this project?” Dr. Parish said.
Angela said nothing, knowing it was futile to argue with Parish. Besides, she was the pro at controlling the sub unit. Inept at fine controls, Parish nearly crashed it the first few times they had sent it out, and he finally acknowledged that she would be the permanent “pilot.”
She turned on recorder and increased the zoom. At least two meters in length, the tube worms formed dense clumps of slender white cylinders, their deep red gills protruding from the tops. White crabs and other vent creatures clung to the colony like baubles on a giant bracelet.
Parish sighed. “I’d love to spend all of our allotted time on these.”
“But the unit only has about forty-five more minutes before it runs out of battery,” Angela finished.
While the worm colony drew their attention, it was the vents with their bubbling, superheated water they were more interested in.
“Go ahead then,” Parish said.
They sat side by side in the control booth aboard the Searcher research vessel in the Pacific. The day was calm, a counterpoint to the excitement Angela felt at finally getting to examine the vents—even if via robotic sub. She had to keep Parish on track. He often drifted, like a boat in a swift current without an anchor.
Slowly, with a delicate tuning of the controls, Angela moved the sub to the vent they had marked on their map. It had formed within the last year, since they had last examined the area, and was remarkable for its size. The monitor registered a rapid warming of the water as the sub inched closer to it.
Angela, intent on the vent itself, was startled at Parish’s sudden intake of breath.
“What the hell was that?” he shouted, making Angela jump.
“Where?” She concentrated on maintaining the sub’s location. “On the screen?” When she glanced at him, his eyes were wide, alarmed.
“A figure, but it couldn’t be,” he said.
She had seen nothing but the rough terrain the sub was navigating. No time to be studying anything else.
“We’ll run it back later,” she said. Parish must have imagined whatever he thought he saw. “Figure—are you talking human?”
Parish ran a hand over his buzz cut. “It couldn’t be. The pressure down there is like a trash compactor on steroids. But what was it?”
Sensing that Parish was no longer interested in exploring the vents, Angela moved the sub out of harm’s way, slipping back from the rocky outcroppings. “Let’s hold here for a few minutes. I’ll keep a sweep going, and maybe it’ll show up again.” While I’m watching.
“Sure, sure.” Then he fell silent, studying the screen intently.
Angela continued panning the light array across the field of vision. The worm colony lay a dozen meters away, and the rest of the view was the profound darkness of the deep.
A shiver ran down Angela’s spine. He’d probably seen a fish, some odd-ball creature with surprising appendages.
The screen shimmered with momentary static, and when it cleared, she was staring at a face—a human-like face—only centimeters from the sub’s camera.
Almost as quickly as it appeared, the face vanished, and seconds later, the camera went offline.
“It was there, wasn’t it?” Angela whispered, more to herself than Parish.
“I saw it,” Parish said. “We both saw it.”
Looking at the readouts from the sub’s controls, Angela felt sick. “We’ve lost more than the camera feed. All connection to Deep Fin has been severed. It’s gone.” And how many millions of dollars gone with it? She and Parish were responsible.
As if reading her mind, Parish clapped her on the back. “Yes, it’s a huge loss, but the flip side is, the world will be at our doorstep the minute we release the footage. Unbelievable. We’ll be heroes.”
Angela hoped he was right.
in a brief burst
of fiery red and gold
we burned….
our flame
inextinguishable
in Autumn’s blasting
wind song
as it whooshed
past our ears with barely
a tickle
ripe as apples
sweetened by the sun
we bit into the luscious fruit
of seasonal love
but fires
do not last and winter must come
yet, for that fleeting moment
we were gloriously
young
©Neetu Malik
I was sixteen and working my first job at Wendy’s Old Fashioned Hamburgers. We were a lively crew. Jerry had the front register, Juanita and Javier were making sandwiches and scooping fries, Greg had the grill, and I was on the back register.
It was a hot day, scorching hot, hot as only Texas does hot, when the big boss, the district supervisor, left his skyscraper in Dallas and drove down to inspect and grade us. He didn’t know, and didn’t care, that we enjoyed the camaraderie of our team, took pride in our work, and routinely invited our family and friends to come to the restaurant. His opinion of us was all too clear in the way he strutted about, his huge smile never touching his eyes. It didn’t matter that the restaurant ran like a well-oiled machine; we were lazy hoodlums that needed to be whipped into shape. After he’d chastised Jerry and the others for trivial mistakes—I believe Javier wasn’t properly using the pickles to spread out the ketchup on the bun—the district supervisor meandered on back to my register to judge me.
Just so you know, I might have inherited a bit too much Texas ornery, Texas gall and Texas stubborn. Of course, I personally don’t think a person can have too much ornery. And gall, life is just plain boring without gall. Stubborn though . . . well . . . stubborn does tend to get a person into trouble.
Ding.
I stepped on the pedal. “Hi, may I help you please?”
Through the speaker came a broad Texas accent I easily recognized, “Yeah. I’ll have fries, a large Sprite, a single, with cheese, tomato, everything and extra ketchup.”
Reader, are you paying attention? The customer said, “Everything and extra ketchup.” Javier, standing not ten feet away, ears pricked to the speaker, laid a bun open on the sandwich board. Greg dropped a single patty of meat dripping melted cheese onto the bottom half of the bun.
I wrote the order down on the outside of the takeout bag. Fries, lg sprite, single, cheese, tomato, everything, no mustard, no mayonnaise.
Right on cue, know-it-all-supervisor-guy spoke, “He said extra ketchup, not no mustard, no mayonnaise.”
I didn’t bother to turn my head and look at him. No, that would’ve been polite. Instead, I opened the bag and put it on the end of the sandwich station and spoke with my back turned toward him. “But he meant no mustard, no mayonnaise.”
Without seeing the supervisor’s face, I knew his fake smile was history. Tension vibrated from his body. After all, time was running out. The car would begin rolling forward any second. If he wanted to clarify the order—
“Ask him if he wants mustard and mayonnaise.”
At the sandwich station, Javier never paused. He kept right on making the sandwich—with no mustard and no mayonnaise. I always liked Javier. Juanita dropped the fries into the open sack and gave me a wink.
The district supervisor repeated, “Ask him if he wants mustard and mayonnaise.”
“I will not,” I said, pulling the drink. “He’s already given me his order.”
The beast shoved me aside and stepped on the pedal. “Sir, would you like mustard or mayonnaise on your sandwich?”
The customer’s loud Texas twang echoed through the speaker, “NO! I told ya, I only want ketchup!”
I tried and failed, to keep the grin off my face. Javier chuckled as he put the neatly wrapped hamburger in the bag.
Yeah, we were only teenagers, working a summer job for minimum wage, but we knew how someone from our hometown ordered a hamburger.
You know, that big boss, that supervisor guy from the corporate office, he didn’t say another word to me all day. Sometimes you’ve just gotta love that Texas stubborn.
Kidd Wadsworth is also the author of the fantasy novel “The Death of Magic” which you can now read for FREE at https://www.royalroad.com/fiction/59915/the-death-of-magic
Distance and independence from her overbearing mother are just what Kay Alexander needs to establish her life on her own terms, and figure out who she is and her place in the world. When her uncle Archibald offers her an unusual opportunity in Paris, she jumps at the chance. Fluent in French, a debutante, socialite, and heiress to her family’s Radwell chocolate business, Kay feels confident to take on this challenge.
How hard can it be to mingle and observe what goes on in the salons and grand hotels, and spy on some German leader named Hitler?
Under the guise of studying the French chocolate business, in order to open an American Radwell Chocolates branch in Paris, Kay finds her own troubles pale in comparison to the realities of German occupation, brutal Nazi soldiers, and horrific antisemitism.
Thrust into the precipice of a world on the verge of war, Kay determines to use her money and affluence to help as many people as she can; in particular three young Jewish sisters, desperate to escape Europe and the certain death camps that threaten to swallow them up.
The risks she takes, the friends she makes, and the daring pilot she falls in love with, will change her life forever.
As one of the characters states, “…we’re stronger in harmony.”
The Orphans of Berlin is a song of bravery, sacrifice, and freedom that sings out loud and strong.
See you next time on December 22nd!
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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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