Thank you for taking time out of your busy schedule to answer a few questions for us at FAR. We appreciate all the hard work you portray in your work. These are being out early so we have them in the database when it's your turn to go up on our updates. Thank you again…

What are you working on right now?

Right now I'm doing some promo for Bella Donna which was released on Aug 18 from Ellora's cave. I'm also in the last part of a paranormal which I am to submit in January 2005. It's a contemporary story of a woman (a young widow) who is lonely and who desperately needs help to run a riding stable. She receives an antique mirror and strange things start to happen on the summer solstice-which is also her birthday and the full moon. Hmmm... She can see through the glass and watch a Victorian family. Including a handsome young man! If only he were in her own time, he might be able to fill all her needs! The thing is, her friend keeps giving her sex toys which she has never used until-nudge, nudge, wink, wink . I also have an idea for a short involving a Roman girl and a galley slave who has some extraordinary talents.

Who is your favorite author?

Don't have one. I read lots of different things depending on my mood. I can tell you though, that I'm not too fond of some of the big guys who write 'thriller' formula and not very well.

What is something personal that you believe your readers would like to know about you?

I work for the church in Africa. Which is why I use a pseudonym for my romantica™. I'm comfortable with what I do. I write lots of healthy sex and always have an HEA, but many wouldn't understand that. So I don't talk about it.

What is your best quality as a writer?

Perseverance. I've also found I can write anywhere and for any length of time. I used to think that unless I had a clear couple of hours, I wouldn't sit down to write, although I always envied those who claim to write while feeding the kids or in the loo at lunchtime. But I found I could write in short spurts too. You're never too old to learn something new.

What is your worst?

Procrastination. I'll do anything some days but what I'm supposed to do-get that story written

Do you believe in writers block?

Not really. There are dry spells, but I've never had a real block, although I believe those who have.

Do you have a job besides being an author? What is it?

Only working in Africa. I volunteer to work with teachers. I was a teacher and school principal in my first life. I am a Rotarian and have a mandate from Rotary to find sites for wells in this area of Africa (part of the Clean Water Initiative.) I also am acting as liaiason with my Rotary Club to assist a group of women who are herding goats and wish to upgrade the herd. I'm also helping the local Rotarians set up their secondary school, and helping my husband run a small computer training school. Between times, I write.

As a child growing up who was your biggest hero?

I had a book once called "The Girls' Book of Heroines" I loved that book. I think I modeled myself after the best of each of them.

What did you want to be when you grew up?

First, a doctor, then something in the diplomatic service. I did get to travel a lot, but not in the way I dreamed of when I was younger. I've lived (& worked) in six different countries.

Do your characters talk to you as you write? What do they say?

Yes, they do. I wrote Secret Services in the first person. Believe me, I tried to change it, but Gillian Christie insisted on telling her own story in her own way.

What is the biggest misconception about being an author?

Who was it who said, to write a book you just open a vein and bleed? The biggest misconception is that it's easy.

What is the worse part about being an author?

Being on tenterhooks for reviews and other criticism.

The best?

Having people tell you they love your books

Could you please share some of your work with us?

Fantasy Island: a short story in the anthology "Afternoon Delights" from Liquid Silver books (wwwliquidsilverbooks.com)

Fantasy Island is a short story and my first venture into erotic romance. I enjoyed writing it so much, that I started on a novel, Secret Services.

We used to have a cottage on a lovely island in Howe Sound where there was no commerce and the only access was by boat. At that time we had a power boat, but later we explored the wonderful coast line of BC and Vancouver Island under sail.

I used the island and some sailing experiences for the setting of Fantasy Island.

In the story Liz sets off on a shakedown cruise for her new yacht on a bright, sunny day. One violent storm later, she wakes naked in the bed of a handsome stranger, who offers her a fantasy she can't resist...

This excerpt is very short because so is the story LOL.

Stefan is the hero, somewhat of a recluse, and he has an unsociable cat who falls for Liz.

Excerpt:



He stretched out a hand and ran his fingertips down the side of her face, around her shoulder, over her breasts. His hand came to rest on the edge of the covers at her waist. He paused, and she knew he was waiting for her signal to continue. She wanted his hand to rip away the blankets, to continue the path down to the patch at the junction of her thighs where the ache had settled. She wanted to be touched, caressed, loved, taken out of herself and her world.

Without taking her eyes from his face she sat up and seized the open fly of his jeans to pull the denim down around his hips with his shorts. His erection sprang out, huge and beautiful. She touched the quivering tip with one finger, lifting a pearly drop of liquid and bringing it to her lips. She took it on the end of her tongue.

Stefan stepped out of his jeans and tore the bedclothes from her body.

******

Secret Services was my first book from Ellora's Cave. I remember reading many years ago in a tabloid about a group of people who got together for sex games, a bit like 'spin the bottle'

I knew something about the lifestyle of certain members of the British aristocracy before WWII and the germ of an idea formed about a young woman who got herself in a bit deeper than she intended.

I wrote this book in the first person, the first time ever. I use first person sometimes when I'm writing a draft, just to get into the head of my character, but in this case Gillian adamantly insisted she would tell her own story!

I queried EC first to see if they took first person books. The answer being 'yes' I sent it in. My editor grabbed it and confessed that she hadn't realized until she finished that it was a first person narrative! Secret Services is classed as a twentieth century historical (doesn't that make you feel old?)

Gillian is at her party, looking for a bed partner to relieve her of her embarrassing condition: her virginity.

Excerpt:

"You must be Lady Gillian!" A well modulated voice made me turn. A tall, blonde woman in a fashionable frock came towards me.

"I'm Sandra Ellersby," she said, extending a hand. "The butler let me know you had arrived. I'm so pleased you could make it. We're always glad of fresh faces for the Game."

She gave a smile and a knowing look, led me to a side table and poured me a cup of tea with her own hands. "You'll find we're not too formal at these get-togethers," she said, passing me a plate of sliced lemon, "so please don't wait for introductions. Do you know anyone?"

I scanned the room again. "I don't think so, Lady Ellersby."

She gave a tinkle of laugher. "Oh, please, call me Sandra. There'll be no formality this weekend, I assure you." She gave me a wink, but I wasn't quite sure what it was I was supposed to understand.

"Let me start you off." She took my arm and steered me towards another girl of about my age. "I'll introduce you to Emma Houndsdale and then you can go from there."

She smiled warmly and patted my hand after she'd made the introduction and sailed off towards a group of people in the corner.

I'd actually heard of Emma Houndsdale. She's the youngest daughter of an earl and is on the guest list of every party mentioned in the society pages of The Times. Of all the girls whose names appear regularly in the society pages she wears the shortest skirts, the longest necklaces and kicks the highest in the Charleston.

That day an embroidered cap molded to her head, leaving just a few wispy curls peeking out around her elfin face. She smoked a cigarette in a holder and gazed at me amiably.

"So you've come to play the Game, young Gillian."

"I suppose so. Is it some sort of group game?"

She flicked her cigarette ash and gave a small smile. "In a way."

"I'm not all that fond of party games."

She looked at me narrowly as the smoke wreathed around her face."It's easy to play. We all sit around a table. It doesn't take long, and then everyone can go off and enjoy themselves." She took a delicate drag on her cigarette.

She looked like Theda Bara in 'Madame Mystery.' I decided I'd have to learn to smoke and look as femme fatalish without choking to death. After I'd orchestrated the seduction of the willing virgin.

The assembled company chatted or watched some of the men play cards until it was time to dress for dinner. I was on the lookout for a suitable ravisher, but wasn't having much luck. Three or four of the men were very old, at least thirty-five or forty. It would be like going to bed with an uncle. I needed someone with plenty of stamina because I meant to find out everything I could while I had the chance.

I wandered around the large room and approached the grand piano where a young man was tinkling away on the keys. He was film star handsome and looked up as I stopped. My spirits rose. I leaned on the piano in the same way I'd seen Louise Brooks do it in 'Pandora's Box.'

"Hello there," he said and did a clever ripple of chords. His hands were very pale and slender. His nails were buffed and perfectly shaped, a lot better than mine. I mustered a mysterious smile and sipped my drink, trying to imagine how he'd look without his jacket. His shoulders were thin and his neck was a bit too long. He closed his eyes and listened to his own music, ignoring me. So he fancied himself as an Ivor Novello. I moved on before he could start to sing.

I spent a few minutes listening to a beefy young man holding forth about a polo game. The body looked fine, but he had a bushy, gingery mustache that would tickle like mad. I was beginning to feel like an appraiser at a horse show. I was getting a bit depressed, having geared myself up for the big plunge, so to speak. Maybe I wouldn't find a man I'd want to let into my bed.

I stood by the window for a moment and looked out at the gardens. Was it too much to ask for a man who was good to look at, well put together, who would be interested in making my initiation to sex a pleasurable and memorable experience?

***

I'm not all that fond of ladies' talk after dinner, so I decided to find a loo, powder my nose and skip some of the chat about engagements and pregnancies. With luck I'd only have to endure about fifteen minutes of gossip before the gentlemen reappeared, full of port and smelling of cigars, and we could get on with the main business of the evening, namely the Game. I'd already figured out the Game had to be some naughty version of Postman's Knock or Sardines, so it might help me in cutting Mr. Cummerbund from the herd.

I found the cloakroom tucked away in a dark passage close to a door giving onto a garden. It was hot and stuffy in the main rooms of the house and I decided a bit of fresh air would do me good. I stepped outside onto a brick pathway. How could I corner Mr Red Cummerbund and lure him into bed in the time remaining? I'd concocted plenty of schemes to get round my mother's rules and this shouldn't be beyond me.

I was deep in thought, strolling between some highly scented lilac when a movement in the shadows startled me. My pulse racing, I stopped and peered into the gloom. For all I knew, lying in wait outside could be part of the Game. The shadow moved and revealed itself to be a man. I breathed a sigh of relief as I realized who it was.

"Johnny! What are you skulking about here for?"

He stepped closer and wrapped his arms round me. "Pretend we're kissing," he whispered against my lips.

Pretend? I've had a few kisses in my time and this was not pretend. His mouth was lovely and soft, yet hard at the same time. I caught the tang of a spicy aftershave. The kiss blotted out all my thoughts of the fair-haired man. It set my pulse pounding and started a quiver deep in my insides. The feel of him pressed against me sent a zing right through me. I lifted my arms around his neck and pulled him closer. My fingers stroked the nape of his neck and the zing went deeper. I couldn't think, couldn't breathe.

I drew back for air and let my hands fall to his shoulders. My God, what was happening here? All my body parts were responding in the right way, but I had the wrong man. Johnny Westmarland was the last one I should be canoodling with.

He was still holding me tight, one hand cupped behind my head and the other on my waist. His lower hand begin to move downwards until it slipped over my hip. Despite myself I gave a little moan of appreciation. The thought of the hand moving farther turned my knees to water.

When he heard the moan his lips pressed harder on mine and forced my lips apart, gently yet firmly. [...]

This wasn't what I had intended at all, at least not with Johnny and not in a dark garden. It had to be time to return to the ladies. I moved back, trying to free myself.

"Just wait one moment," he said. His breath fanned my cheek, making me shiver.

"What-"

He closed my mouth with another kiss but I began to feel a bit uncomfortable. It wasn't done to go beyond flirting with your best friend's sister unless your intentions were serious. Johnny had to know that. I pushed harder against his shoulders and freed myself just as two men came by, materializing like battleships out of the darkness.

As they passed I made out the features of the German and the man I thought I recognized.

"Good evening," Johnny said, still holding me tight against him.

The two men nodded in response. The German waved a fat cigar. "You are too early," he said in a heavy accent. "Come back now so we can all play."

With a chuckle he and his companion disappeared along the path.

The thought of playing any kind of game with him gave me the cold shivers, but he was right about one thing. "It's time to go back inside"

Johnny pulled me towards a stone bench. "Sit down!" he said. "We have to talk."

When I was settled beside him he took hold of my fingers. He stroked the back of my hand seemingly lost in thought, sending more prickles of fire up the nerves. I knew I should pull my hand away, but the sensations were just too delicious. I promised myself I'd make him let go in just a few moments.

"I shouldn't have done that," he said. "I didn't mean it to be like that."

Even though I'd been thinking along the same lines, I didn't like hearing him put it into words. I didn't quite know what to say, so I said nothing.

"You don't know anything about the Game, do you?" he said.

"Not all the details, no."

"If you knew the details you wouldn't be here."

I laughed. "So what do they do? Sacrifice virgins on an altar?'

He looked me right in the eyes. I swallowed. All the times he'd spent part of the school holidays with Billy I had never realized what wonderful eyes he had. They were as blue of the summer sea and his lashes were thick and dark.

"They play a sex game," he said seriously.

I swallowed again. My stomach clenched in anticipation.

He opened his mouth to speak and then fell silent. "I can't tell you the details," he said at last.

I could have smacked him. "Oh for goodness sake, Johnny. They play Postman's Knock or Sardines and get a good grope, that's all." I stood up. "I'm going back inside. It must be time to rejoin the gentlemen."

He took hold of my arm, his face intensely serious. "Take the chair under the portrait of old Lady Ellersby," he said. "Please, I need you to promise."

"Very well, I promise. What is it, Johnny? You're making me nervous."

"Just be sure you're in that chair and wait for instructions. Let me see your shoes."

"What on earth for?"

"Just do it."

He bent at the waist and I lifted one foot to humor him. Apparently satisfied he took hold of me again and placed a brotherly kiss on my cheek. "Play it the way I tell you," he said and led me back to the house.

*******

In the excerpt of Secret Services you just read, you met Emma Houndsdale. Bella Donna, which was released August 18, is Emma's story.

Lady Emma Houndsdale has sworn off men, casual sex and a free-wheeling lifestyle in 1930's England. But when her cruise ship sinks off the coast of Mussolini's Italy and she is mistaken for her dead maid, she finds herself the prisoner of a dashing and dangerous rogue with secrets all his own. Marco whisks her from her life of sheltered privilege into a world of risk, lust, and betrayal, where every move is a test of loyalty. He opens her eyes to sensuous delights and forces her to re-evaluate all she has known about men and life.

Together they dance through passion and danger in a land rife with volatile politics.

Excerpt

Here is poor Emma, shipwrecked and taken captive by Marco

He'd mentioned the Blackshirts. She knew who they were, thanks to two or three lectures from Johnny Westmarland and some other smooth talking man from MI5 a year ago. It had been useless to protest that she had no political opinions whatsoever, that she'd only been in Lady Ellersby's circle simply because she liked going to bed with different men. To hear them go on about it all , anyone would have thought she'd been ready to sell the Crown Jewels.

But the attack on Johnny and Gillian and the subsequent fuss and bother had given her a good fright and she'd had to swear off men and casual couplings. One day she supposed she'd get married when Daddy insisted. So here she was, as chaste as a nun for the last few months, and contemplating bedding this very unsuitable man who'd tied her up, ravished her with his gaze and was bearing her off to God knows where.

One thing she knew. If Marco was fighting the Blackshirts and Mussolini's government the less she knew about it the better. And the less Marco knew about her involvement with the Fascist sympathizers in Britain, the better too.

Gradually the sun rose above the hills, bringing color and life to the surroundings. At first they had passed through ancient terraces on the dry hills, where men had cultivated vines and fruits for centuries, but Emma was in no mood to appreciate the stark beauty around her. Scuttling and panting, she fought her way beside Marco. Twice he stopped at the top of a particularly steep rise and offered his hand. The first time she refused and slid back several feet in payment for her stubborn independence. The second time she gave her hand, and he pulled her up until she topped the slope, landing hard against him. The aromas of thyme and flowering bushes rose around them, and she caught the scent of him, of male sweat and leather as he took hold of her. His arms gripped her, his face inches from her mouth.

She looked up into his eyes and locked her gaze with his. Keeping her still clamped against him with one hard arm, he pulled the gag from her mouth and instinctively she moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue. After a long moment, he took the bandana from around his neck and brushed the drops of moisture from her brow. Her breath caught in her throat and she closed her eyes. The pack animals and their drivers had disappeared behind a wall of rock. She and Marco were alone in the world, under the warmth of the morning sun. Her breath came in gasps, and her heart thundered in her chest. He held her so tight she felt his erection against her mound. She had no underwear. Marco knew that. At the thought, moisture oozed between her legs. Her breath came in gasps, and her heart thundered in her chest. Oh, God, she thought. This might be where I lose control.

***

Marco has taken Emma to a strange village built inside huge caves in the hillside. She tries to escape and he finds her and bring her back

Emma knew there was a big problem. Although she hadn't understood a word of what Marco said to the small group of people, she had recognized the strength and passion in his voice. She'd seen some of the listeners nod as he gesticulated to emphasize his points, but others had frowned and murmured in disagreement. As he fell silent she sensed danger in the air. Her heart thudded in her throat. Apprehension knifed through her, making her stomach clench.

She didn't see the man approach her until a rough hand seized her arm and pulled her off the horse. The fellow grabbed her as she stumbled, holding her against him. She caught a waft of stale sweat and garlic and swallowed a wave of nausea.

She made herself remember all the battle weary Houndsdales who had never acknowledged defeat. A great uncle had fought at the siege of Mafeking, a cousin had commanded a unit in the trenches in France. She lifted her head proudly.

"Get your hands off me."

She shoved the man away and shook the loose ropes free from her wrists. Taking a deep breath she turned to face Marco. His eyes were hooded, his lips set in a stern line of disapproval, as he swiftly covered the ground between them and barked an order at the one who had manhandled her.

She touched his sleeve. "Speak to me. Tell me what's happening."

"Later." He freed his arm, gave an order to a young man standing nearby, spun on his heel and walked away.

The youth took her arm.

"I can walk by myself."

He obviously didn't understand English because he tightened his grip and pulled her toward the cave entrance. She lengthened her stride to keep up with him rather than be dragged along.

Without a word, the young man led her inside the cave entrance and stopped at a doorway built into the rock face, opened the door with a large, metal key and thrust her through it. Emma stumbled into a cell chiseled out of the bare rock. She whirled around, but the door slammed in her face.

She beat her fist once against the solid wood, then took stock of where she was. With her back to the door, she estimated a span of about six paces to the back wall, maybe ten from side to side. A wooden bench with a coarse looking blanket stood against the lefthand wall . Nothing else. Through the thickness of the door she could hear the hum of activity gradually pick up as people resumed their tasks.

What did this mean? How long would they keep her here? On trembling legs she moved forward and sat on the bench, which creaked and shifted under her weight. She didn't need a translation to know that Marco was fighting to retain his leadership of the group. Whether it was only because of her, or for other reasons, some of his followers were ready to rebel. Back home they'd once hired a new footman who had ideas of advancement that put him on a collision course with the head butler. She recognized all the signs of hostility and discontent amongst this group. Where did that leave her? Right in the middle, the meat in the sandwich, as they say.

For the first time she realized there was a slot cut into the door, roughly at waist height. Getting to her feet, she crouched and put her eye to the gap.

She could see nothing but the backs of women, busy stirring pots. A faint waft of soup drifted towards her, mingled with the smell of boiling clothes. The combination was sickening.

After a moment, Marco came into view, deep in conversation with Irena. Emma's irrational heart leaped in her chest, her breath seized up, and her knees felt weak. His hair was tied back once more and his dark head was bent low as he listened to the girl. He touched her arm. His breath must be fanning her cheek. Irena looked up into his face and Emma felt a stab of jealousy such as she'd never felt before. She couldn't breathe. Seeing him with Irena, unable to reach him, sent raw need flooding through her. Heated memories of being in his arms last night warred within her against her anger and jealousy. Marco was a handsome man. He was powerful, strong. Did the leader have the pick of the girls? Why wouldn't they all throw themselves at his feet, dammit?

Emma drew a deep breath and called his name. He looked up, staring at the cell door, and said something more to Irena. The girl nodded. Emma called again, more softly, and this time he came over to the door. He squatted, bringing his face close to hers, and she saw the lines of fatigue etched in his face. He'd arrived at the farmhouse at dead of night, had climbed all day and hadn't slept last night because of her. He needed to rest. She tried putting her hand through the slot, but then couldn't see him. She could touch him or look at him. Not both. She chose to leave her fingers for him to grasp and in a few moments she felt his hand on hers. She gripped him tight. He was her anchor.

"Marco, what is happening?"

"Bella donna, I will not lie to you. The people are to vote on your punishment."

"Punishment? For escaping?"

He stroked the back of her hand with his thumb." Yes. "

She swallowed. "What do they want?"

He hesitated and she wished she could see his face. When he spoke she heard the pain in his voice. "Usually it means a few strokes with a cane."

"What is a few?"

"Usually no more than ten."

She sat back on her heels, trying to absorb what he said. She had been caned once by a governess. She remembered the indignity of her skirts hoisted to her waist, of bending over a chair, then the sting of the strokes even through her underclothes. When her father had heard about it, the woman had packed her bags and left without a reference. She closed her eyes. Daddy couldn't save her this time. "Who will do it?"

"The rule says the capo, the leader, must do it."

She gripped his fingers tighter. "You have to beat me?"

"Unless I can persuade them otherwise."

Her legs turned to water, and she sagged against the door. She was glad she was kneeling. It could only have been for a moment that her breath froze, absorbing the shock, but even after she exhaled and drew air into her lungs, she still couldn't seem to get enough oxygen.

Fighting for control, she swallowed hard. "Come inside. You owe me that."

For a long moment he hesitated, then let go her hand. A second or two later she heard the rasp of the key turning in the lock, and she scrambled to her feet as the door swung open to admit him..

*****

Heat will be released by Elloras Cave on Oct 6 2004. It's a shapeshifter Quickie set on the hot plains of Africa.

Sara Parker stalks the wilds of Africa, battling her ferocious dual nature. She is one of the chosen, the Siri Mtu, at times human, at times Serah the lioness, protector of the innocent creatures of the savannah. But time is running out. Ruthless poachers hunt the nearby elephant herds and her feral nature is growing stronger, flaring with the heat of sexual desire, threatening to overwhelm her and steal the last shreds of her humanity.

Only a mating can save her or damn her.

Daudi, the magnificent, virile and strong head of the lion Pride, is drawn to the scent of her growing need. He wavers on the precipice of breaking the taboo against Lion and Siri Mtu mating. But that path will rob her of all humanity.

In the wilds of Africa viable human men are hard to find.

Dr. Jack Wilding suffers severe migraines. So when his doctor suggests time away from Seattle, he is drawn to Africa to study the animals of the savannah.

There he meets Sara, a woman so intoxicating that he feels immediately connected to her by an intense, life-altering passion .

But Sara has a secret. A secret tied to his own past. A secret that could scare him away, and damn her to life as Serah the lioness with little memory of her humanity.

*****

Excerpt:

Sara had no recollection of leaving his tent and stumbling down the steps. She found herself outside, leaning against the trunk of a flowering flame tree, breathless and moist with sweat. Her heart thumped painfully in her chest and she closed her eyes, leaning her head back against the warm bark, fighting to regain control.

Her pulse drummed a wild rhythm in her throat, against her ribs and low down in her belly. Her pulse drummed a wild rhythm in her throat, against her ribs and low down in her belly. The urge to throw off her clothes and pull him on top of her on the bed had almost overwhelmed her.

So, why hadn't she done it?

Because she wasn't merely an animal that mated when the urge became too strong?

Because she retained enough human genes to want to know something about the male with whom she planned to copulate?

Planned to copulate...

Be honest about it, that's what you're going to do. He's here for four days and four nights. You need him. No, you have to have him, because if it's not him it will be Daudi or Tricky Dickie.

And he wouldn't be hard to take. In fact, he was a gorgeous hunk of man. Tall, well built, broad shouldered. And he wanted her. She'd noticed his erection, hard and strong, and how he'd tried to hide it. The memory brought a flood of moisture between her legs.

The sound of rapid footsteps made her open her eyes. Dickie was striding toward her, a scowl on his heavy features.

"Ah, there you are," he said. "Someone said you were in a guest tent." He didn't need to add that was against the rules.

"I was just making sure Dr. Wilding was comfortable," she said. "Did you want something?"

"The dining room is a mess. Tables left uncleared after lunch- I'm getting John back to fix it."

"I told him to leave one table and that I would clear it. I'm sorry, it slipped my mind. I'll do it now." She pushed herself away from the tree.

She started back in the direction of the main lodge. Dickie followed close behind. "A professional image," he muttered. "We have a reputation for attention to detail."

Closing her ears to his babble, she strode across the paved area to the table the Italian couple had left. Quickly she stacked the empty cups and brushed crumbs from the linen. It was no big deal. Why was Dickie so uptight?

She glanced up and saw Fisi, the pilot, sitting near the door to the dining room, two beers on the table in front of him. He lifted a hand in casual greeting and she nodded. She wondered if he knew that his name meant "Hyena" in Swahili. Probably not. Just a coincidence like her own name. Parker was sufficiently like 'paka' which meant 'cat.' Inside jokes for shape shifters, she thought wryly.

Dickie joined the pilot at the table and picked up one of the beers. Soon the two men were deep in conversation, their heads together. She wondered what they had to say to each other that was so engrossing.

As the idle thought flickered through her mind, she felt an ominous tingle in her hands and feet. She glanced down in horror. Her right hand that held the stack of dirty cups and saucers was shrinking, becoming rounded. Her nails had passed the tips of her fingers and were turning in-

A change!

Thank you for being here and for answering our questions. Have a wonderful day.



Interviewed by: Ruby