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    1969
    1969
    1969
    Ebook143 pages1 hour

    1969

    By Zimbell House Publishing, Dawn DeBraal, E W Farnsworth and

    ()

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    About this ebook

    The age of Aquarius is quickly approaching and witches the world over are heeding the call.

    In 1969, you will find five new writers telling seven short stories about this unique time in history where anything is possible. 

    Which witch will be your favorite?

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherZimbell House Publishing
    Release dateMay 14, 2019
    ISBN9781643900537
    1969
    Author

    Zimbell House Publishing

    Zimbell House Publishing is dedicated to promoting new writers. To enable us to do this, we create themed anthologies and send out a call for submissions. These calls are updated monthly, typically we have at least four months worth on our website at any given time. To see what we are working on next, please paste this link into your browser and save it to your bookmarks: http://zimbellhousepublishing.com/contest-submissions/ All submissions are vetted by our acquisitions team. By developing these anthologies, we can promote new writers to readers across the globe. We hope we've helped you find a new favorite to follow! Are you interested in helping a particular writer's career? Write a review and mention them by name. You can post reviews on our website, or through any retailer you purchased from.  Interested in becoming a published author? Check out our website for a look behind the scenes of what it takes to bring a manuscript to a published book. http://zimbellhousepublishing.com/publishing-services/process-behind-scenes/ We hope to hear from you soon.

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      Book preview

      1969 - Zimbell House Publishing

      This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. All characters appearing in this work are the product of the individual author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is entirely coincidental.

      All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the written permission of the publisher.

      For permission requests, write to the publisher:

      Attention: Permissions Coordinator

      Zimbell House Publishing

      PO Box 1172

      Union Lake, Michigan 48387

      mail to: info@zimbellhousepublishing.com

      © 2019 Zimbell House Publishing

      Published in the United States by Zimbell House Publishing

      http://www.ZimbellHousePublishing.com

      All Rights Reserved

      Trade Paper ISBN: 978-1-64390-051-3

      .mobi ISBN: 978-1-64390-052-0

      ePub ISBN: 978-1-64390-053-7

      Library of Congress Control Number: 2019904654

      First Edition: May 2019

      10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

      Zimbell House Publishing

      Union Lake

      Acknowledgments

      ZIMBELL HOUSE PUBLISHING would like to thank all those that contributed to this anthology. We chose to showcase five new voices that best represented our vision for this work.

      We would also like to thank our Zimbell House team for all their hard work and dedication to these projects.

      Sister Moon

      Wendy Steele

      It was the 4 th of March 1969, a warm, if slightly cloudy day and the day I met Em. It was her eyes I noticed first; bright, green diamonds shining from beneath a demure, baby blue hat. Her coat matched, as did her court shoes, giving the impression she’d chosen her outfit from a copy of The Lady rather than a shop on the King’s Road, Chelsea. The leather suitcase beside her on the metal bench was battered, held together by a thin, worn belt that had once been pillar box red. Her demeanor, sitting primly on the bench in the railway station, was one of resignation, rather than enthusiasm. I lost sight of her, making my way onto the platform among the crowds.

      The influx of commuter trains was over; I’d added their engine numbers to my notebook. I walked back onto the station concourse, and she was still there, glancing at her wristwatch before returning her hands to her lap. Before I knew it, I was drawn toward her. I grappled for courage, and with my heart beating redness into my cheeks, I asked her if she was waiting for anyone or whether she would care to join me for a cup of tea. Her smile rendered my legs to those of a newborn foal.

      I should like that, she said, standing, unfolding her long, elegant limbs and picking up her case.

      Shall I take that for you?

      She looked down on me, her straight, bobbed, red hair brushing her jawline, her shoulders level with my ears. There’s no need.

      I looked at my scuffed shoes, wishing my green, flared trousers weren’t so frayed and hoping I could keep my anorak on in the coffee house, so she wouldn’t see my hand knitted tank top.

      She took my arm. Where to?

      There’s a Lyons, on the Strand.

      Is that good?

      The Lyons Corner House? Yes, you can have cake or ice cream or hot food, as well as tea there.

      Tea will be fine.

      I was relieved. I could treat us to a cup of tea at five pence each. I struggled to place her accent, yet I was usually good at it. We walked out of the station, onto the Strand, teeming with people hurrying along the pavement and cars and taxis bumper to bumper along the road. Our progress was eagerly followed by pedestrians and drivers alike. I glanced up at my companion, but she was oblivious to the stir she caused.

      Have you traveled far?

      From Cornwall. I started out yesterday, ended up in Bristol, and finally made it here today, but I am still very early.

      Are you meeting someone?

      Yes, I have to be in Trafalgar Square, at three o’clock.

      You are early!

      She laughed, her gleaming white teeth enhanced by her full, red lips, becoming yet another perfect smile. Better than being late though, don’t you think?

      Yes, yes, of course, I stammered.

      Where once there had been starched white table cloths, napkins, and shining cutlery, we took our seats at a melamine topped table, decorated only with sauce bottles, condiments and two menus. I handed one to my companion and then offered my hand.

      I’m Peter Birchall. Pleased to meet you.

      She took my hand, but instead of introducing herself and returning my grip, she flipped my hand over and with a perfectly manicured fingernail traced the lines on my palm. I held my breath, afraid to flinch at the delicate, feather-like touch, in case she stopped and never touched me again.

      She looked up. You’re a lucky man, Peter Birchall, she smiled, Your lifeline is a long one, as is your success line, and with a heart line so clear, you’re certain to have love in your life.

      I don’t know about that, I muttered. I hid my blushes behind the cardboard menu, pretending to choose food to go with my tea.

      I’m Margaret, but you can call me Em, as my sisters do. What do you do, Peter Birchall?

      Just Peter. I work on the railways, maintenance, ganging. Today’s my day off.

      And you come to the station on your day off?

      I blushed again. I, well, I like trains, always have done.

      Then do not blush, Peter, and hold your head high. You work at a job you enjoy, and that is a good thing, not achieved by everyone, I’m sure.

      I did hold up my head, especially when the ‘nippy’ came over to take our order, and I could see the confusion on her face. I’m not of a handsome disposition, you understand. Not ugly, but my nose is a little broad, my eyes too close together and my lips too thin. My forehead does me no favors either, high and proud above my nose. I was teased at school for having the looks and brains of a Neanderthal, while the popular boys looked like Cliff Richard, Elvis, and Tommy Steele, but now fashions have changed, and a quiff isn’t essential, I pass muster with my longer hair disguising my pronounced brow ridges.

      While the waitress filled our order, I gave myself over to Em’s scrutiny, not just with direct, pertinent questions, but with eyes that looked deep into my soul. By the time our teas arrived, she knew I lived alone in a flat in Romford, that I’d only had one long term relationship and that had ended five years ago, and that I admired one man and his music above all others.

      They say he’s closing Woodstock, I said.

      Woodstock?

      The music festival? It’s in August in the Catskill Mountains, northwest out of New York City. They’re calling it ‘An Aquarian Exposition: Three days of Peace and Music.’

      Em held her teacup between her thumb and third finger while dismissing my words with her other hand. I know of the Age of Aquarius, and they are wrong.

      Who are?

      Those who say it’s started. An age comes around every 2,150 years or so. If it’s measured as the sun, at the March equinox, passes from being in front of the constellation Aries to being in front of the constellation Pisces, the next one isn’t until 2082 if you take the start date from 68BC.

      I wanted her to keep talking. I could listen to that strange, beautiful voice all day. And that’s what we had, the whole day to walk and talk together. I carried her suitcase through St. James’s Park, while Em ran to see the ducks, and disappeared into the flower beds, emerging with insects balancing on her fingernails.

      Look at these! Aren’t they wonderful?

      Yeah, I guess.

      Em crowed her riotous laugh, encouraging the insects back into the shrubbery. You’re a real townie, Peter Birchall. It was a west country accent that tinged her words. We live on an amazing planet, and you’re blinkered to it! Take your shoes off and feel the grass between your toes.

      She kicked off her court shoes and with her arms out wide, she turned and spun, laughing and smiling as dizziness sent her off course. I gripped her case and lowered my eyes. A crowd was forming; Japanese tourists lifting their cameras to the crazy English woman dancing on the grass. Two police officers pushed through the crowd. Fear overwhelmed me. I reached for my inhaler.

      Excuse me, miss, said the first officer, Can’t you read the signs?

      I didn’t hear what she said, but the other officer held out his arm for her to balance while she replaced her shoes while the first policeman smiled and nodded in my direction.

      What did you say to them?

      Em waved goodbye to the grinning policemen and took my arm. Nothing. Let’s eat. I’m starving.

      We can go back to the Strand if you like, or there’s another Lyons near Piccadilly Circus.

      I should like to visit a circus. Em’s eyes shone. Do they have tight rope walkers and a lion tamer?

      It’s not that kind of circus, sorry. I think it can mean a Roman arena, where they had chariot races, but today, it’s more where roads converge.

      They shouldn’t call it a circus then.

      Her disappointment was tangible. I wanted to please her. I spoke without thought of cost, my only intent being to see my friend smile again.

      We could go to Hyde Park and take out a boat on the lake.

      I’d like that.

      Em’s excited smile made the world right again.

      We paddled among the ducks and as if on cue, the sun burned away the last few clouds and covered our day in sunshine. We ate scrambled

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