Phil Giunta's Blog

A Spatio-analyst lands on the planet Florina to warn the authorities of a threat to their world. For his troubles, his memory is wiped and he is left on the planet unable to function. He is cared for by a local woman and trained to work in a factory. Over time, flashes of memory return, placing him and those closest to him in increasing danger. Asimov delivers an adroit mix of intrigue, mystery, and science fiction in a fast-paced story with solid world-building. It should be noted that this tale is set in the same universe as his Foundation series with Trantor as the seat of the Galactic Empire.

For me, the end of summer is typically accompanied by trepidation. As much as I love autumn for its gorgeous foliage, cooler weather, and of course, Hallowe’en, I dread the imminent approach of winter. Once the holidays are over, I have no use for the cold, dark months that exacerbate my battles with depression and anxiety. January and February are like the Monday of the year. Bleah.

However, we’re not there yet and I’m enjoying a spate of sunny September days with mild temperatures. I’m also looking ahead to several wonderful book events in the coming months, which will be  listed at the end of this post. You can also find them on my Upcoming Events page.

As I write this, I’m awaiting the results of two writing contests that I entered in the first quarter of this year and I hope to hear back soon from a popular magazine about a short story I submitted over the summer.  Should I have any good news to share about these, I’ll post it here and chat about it on my YouTube channel. 

Speaking of summer, I took a hiatus from writing new material to compile a collection of most (but not all) of my published short stories from the past fifteen years. I reviewed each one and made a few light edits. Revisiting these characters and their adventures was a fun trip down memory lane.

Dreams from the Edge of Reality will offer 27 stories of fantasy, paranormal, detective, and even a few inspirational. Advance review copies have been sent to a handful of writers for their opinions and I hope to release the book by summer 2026. 

I held back all of my science fiction stories as they take place in the same region of our galaxy and will be gathered into a collection of their own to be published in 2027. More on that later. 

There were also a few personal reasons for taking a break from writing, which included a series of minor home repairs and renovations, ongoing business regarding my late mother’s estate, litigation over a matter I cannot reveal at this time, a few health issues, travel, and the need for self-care while juggling all of the above.  

Despite the obstacles, I managed to record new videos for my YouTube channel, Got a Story for Ya, in which I read story excerpts and offered updates on upcoming events, writing awards, and book releases.  A new episode should go live in late September. 

Near the end of August, I got my writer’s legs under me again and started working on a short ghost story that is partially derived from a novella-in-progress that I placed on hold in 2024.  I should finish the ghost story in the next week or two and if accepted by the publisher, it will be included in a Halloween anthology in 2026.

In October, I plan to resurrect the aforementioned novella and focus on that to its long overdue completion. With any luck, that will be published next year.

As promised, here are a few upcoming events where you can find me this autumn. Hope to see you at one or more of these if you’re in the area. In the meantime, enjoy these final weeks of summer and stay safe out there.

CREATURES, CRIMES, & CREATIVITY – Doubletree Hilton, Columbia, MD. September 19-21, 2025. Keynotes: Tom Straw and Jody Lynn Nye. Additional author guests include Ellen Crosby, L. Marie Wood, Joe Brosnan, Mark Bergin, Sharon Buchbinder, Weldon Burge, Austin Camacho (con organizer), Ef Deal, Bill Fawcett, Phil Giunta, Dana King, Serge Koren, Joanne McLaughlin, Roberta Rogow, Ilene Schneider, Ann Stolinsky, Lane Stone, and more!

WITCHES DAY OUT – Tri-Boro Sportsmen Club, Northampton, PA. Sunday, October 12, 2025. Halloween craft fair with live DJ, tricky tray, costume contest, kids activities, and more! I will have a table at this show.

 

 

EASTON BOOK FESTIVAL – Downtown Easton, PA. October 13-19, 2025. The seventh annual Easton Book Festival presents literary programs for adults, teens, and children, including readings, seminars, open mic performances, story-times, panel discussions, a Small Press Expo and a Young Adult Fest.  I will participate in a number of literary events and discussion panels on Sunday, October 19 in the Sigal Museum Gallery.

BROWSEABOUT BOOKS – Rehoboth Beach, DE. Saturday, November 8, 2025 from 11AM – 1PM. Excited to join several fellow authors at Browseabout Books in Rehoboth Beach, Delaware to sign copies of our latest Mindful Writers anthology, Retreat, along with previous titles such as Shell House, Into the Woods, Love on the Edge, and more.

 

In early 2024, Ann Stolinsky of Celestial Echo Press invited seven writers, myself included, to be headliners for an anthology called Ruth and Ann’s Guide to Time Travel.  Aside from one reincarnation story, I had never written a true time hopping tale before. This old familiar trope has been done so often, and from so many angles, that I was intimidated by the challenge.

Nevertheless, I began thinking about how time travel could be used as crime prevention and that led me to write a tale that partners a physicist with a detective to stop a serial killer before he gets started.  “A Thorne in Time” went on to win first place in the Pennsylvania Press Club Communications Contest in 2025. I hope you enjoy the opening scene. Thanks for reading!

A Thorne in Time

by Phil Giunta

Captain Garrett McNally straightened his tie as he marched along the concrete walkway that led from the driveway to the front of the sprawling Thorne Mansion. The weed-infested gardens and overgrown lawn clashed with his memory of the last time he stepped foot on this property twelve years ago. Every inch of the place had been immaculate then—a paradise at the edge of the city.

Its luster had since faded and McNally couldn’t help but wonder if that began the moment he informed Robert and Emily Thorne that their daughter, Tanya, had been the latest victim of a serial killer at the tender age of twenty-two. Robert suffered a fatal stroke a few days later and Emily lost her battle with cancer six years after that. As far as McNally knew, Tanya’s twin sister Noreen still lived here, alone.

He jogged up the steps to the portico where two dead plants in mold-covered cement pots flanked a weathered mahogany door in dire need of a cleaning and new finish. He rang the camera doorbell. A few seconds later, a form undulated in the frosted privacy glass before the door swung open. McNally had expected to be greeted by a woman in her mid-thirties, but Noreen’s salt and pepper hair, tired eyes, and drawn complexion lent her the appearance of someone much older.

“Ms. Thorne. It’s been a long time.”

“So long in fact that it’s Doctor Thorne now. Nice to see you again, Captain. Please, come in. I appreciate you driving all the way out here so soon after I called. Can I get you anything? Water, coffee…?”

“No, thank you. I’m good. When you said you had new information regarding the Westside Slasher case, I cleared the rest of my day.”

“Well, I hope to make it worth your time.” She closed the door behind him. “Let’s go to my office. So, how’s your daughter these days?”

“Darla’s doing well. Joined a new law firm not too far from here. Still misses Tanya. Talks about her once in a while.”

“They were closer than anyone realized back then.”

She led him down a short hallway to a room with four large monitors mounted in a square formation above a cluttered desk. They were connected to a single laptop by a tangle of cables and adapters.

Thorne tapped the space bar. Every screen lit up, each with a video file ready to play. “I must ask you to indulge me, Captain. Twelve years ago, the first victim of the Westside Slasher was Sarah Peretti. Do you recall his sixth and final victim?”

“Of course.” McNally cocked his head. “It was your sister.”

“Are you sure about that?” She grabbed the mouse and clicked the play button on the first screen. An anchorman with Channel 14 News shifted in his seat. “The sixth victim of the Westside Slasher has been identified as twenty-eight-year-old Mae Kaplan of Roycetown. Kaplan worked for MacHale Medical Center, just three blocks from where she was attacked and stabbed seven times. Police are—”

Thorne stopped the video.

“That’s not right.” McNally frowned. “I don’t recognize that name and as the detective on the case, I remember every victim.”

“What about this one?” Thorne launched the video on the second monitor.

“The sixth victim of the Westside Slasher has been identified as twenty-one-year-old Hailey Mahlberg of Bartlett Village,” the same anchorman reported. “Mahlberg was a senior at Declan University—”

“Hailey Mahlberg was the third victim not the last one,” McNally said. “What is this?”

“As I said, Captain, indulge me.” Thorne slid the mouse to the third screen and clicked play.

“The sixth victim of the Westside Slasher has been identified as thirty-year-old Deb Webb, a mother of three and math teacher at Upper Carlton Middle School. Police are—”

“Are these deepfakes? Did you use AI to fabricate them?”

“I don’t have access to that kind of technology.” Thorne folded her arms and leaned against the desk. “Even if I did, I wouldn’t use it to disrespect these women, especially since my sister was one of them. What you watched are three videos from three different timelines.”

“Come again?”

“I don’t have the tools to make deepfakes, Captain, but what if I had something that could help you stop the Westside Slasher before he claimed his first victim?”

McNally snickered. “Like what, a time machine?”

***

“A more accurate term would be time portal. Beautiful, isn’t it?”

In the center of Thorne’s sub-basement lab, McNally gaped at the gray metal arch that stood floor to ceiling. Several pairs of colored cables wrapped around its thick metal framework, terminating in scattered sockets where small green and amber lights pulsed and flashed. A shimmering, translucent field of pale blue filled the span beneath the arch. Across the room, four monitors were mounted on the wall above a long white counter, reminiscent of the office upstairs.

McNally paced around the arch, examining every detail, before shooting a sidelong glance at Thorne. “You gotta be kiddin’ me.”

“It’s no joke, Captain. Those videos I showed you were the result of my three failed attempts to save Tanya’s life in the past, which spawned three alternate timelines. Originally, she was the slasher’s second victim. Each time I traveled back, I managed to steer her out of harm’s way only for her to be murdered somewhere else a few days later. In the process, the list of victims always changed.”

McNally rubbed his forehead as the reality of Thorne’s words set in. “So every move you made had a kind of butterfly effect.”

“Right, but where you and everyone else remembers only the final sequence of murders—the current timeline—I remember all four timelines, perhaps because I was tethered to the time portal. The computers in the house are all connected to the arch, which allowed me to save the videos I showed you from each timeline.”

“How long did it take you to build this?”

“It was my father’s invention. He spent two decades designing it and working out the math before constructing the arch. All he wanted to do was explore history, but he died before the portal was finished. So, I dedicated the past twelve years to learning the science behind it and making a few upgrades.”

“How does it work?”

“I could show you fifty-five pages of equations.” From the pocket of her cardigan, Thorne produced a small device with a screen displaying several rows of icons, similar to a phone. Its edges glowed with the same blue light as the arch. “Or we could just take a trip.”

“You control your time travels with that?”

“Correct again. I leave through the arch and when I need to return, this handheld controller generates a portal back to it. I have two of these devices, should you decide to help me.”

“I’m listening.”

“Regardless of the changes in the timelines, a few things remained the same. The first victim was always Sarah Peretti, you were the detective assigned to the case, the murders stopped after six, and the killer was never caught. Now we have the perfect opportunity to stop this bastard before he even gets started.”

“You want me to go with you twelve years into the past and catch the Westside Slasher before he becomes the Westside Slasher?”

“That about sums it up.”

McNally laughed. “This is insane.”

“Captain, when you came here twelve years ago to tell us that my sister had been murdered, I peppered you with questions about whether you had any suspects or witnesses or any leads at all. Do you remember what you told me?”

“I couldn’t say much. It was an open investigation. Technically, it still is. But I believe I said I wouldn’t give up until I found the killer.”

“I’m offering you that chance now, Captain. Please help me save my sister.”

Read the conclusion of “A Thorne in Time” and other fantastic tales in Ruth and Ann’s Guide to Time Travel!

A new episode of my video newsletter is up in which I chat about Lehigh Valley Comic Con , Easton Book Festival , Witches Day Out, and Creatures, Crimes, and Creativity Con .‌I also read excerpts from my stories, “In the Span of a Heartbeat” published in Black Cat Weekly (Issue 176, January 2025) and “Isaac Geary’s Instant Utopia” published in Bright Mirror (Oddity Prodigy Productions, May 2025).‌One correction: I mention that the Lehigh Valley Comic Con has one-day shows every “August and July.” That should be every August and December. I blame lack of sleep.‌

In April of this year,  I sold a Halloween story to Black Cat Weekly magazine to be included in one of their upcoming October issues. I’ll share more details on that when it’s published.

This was the second story I sold to them, the first being  a science fiction piece titled “In the Span of a Heartbeat,” which appeared in Issue #176 in January 2025. I realized recently that I’d never shared the opening scenes of that story here on my blog as I did with my three other stories that were published in the first half of the year. So, here it is. I hope you enjoy this subsurface trek into danger, discovery, and personal reckoning.

During a survey mission on a distant planet, a group of scientists discovers an underground cavern rich in valuable artifacts, but soon find themselves hunted by a pack of subsurface creatures.

In the Span of a Heartbeat

by Phil Giunta

A string of expletives assailed Norimi as she entered the lab. The gruff voice bellowed from the conference table in the back corner, above which hovered a massive rotating hologram of Uzo, the largest of three planetoids at the edge of Enyari space. Its desolate, pockmarked surface resembled an artist’s palette of taupe, white, and burnt umber with occasional patches of slate blue. Uzo was also home for the next four weeks and the final stop on a yearlong expedition to survey the last undeveloped real estate in the solar system for colonization.

At the workbench across the lab, speleologists Wyn Kuona and Seth Reizig conversed in hushed tones as if afraid to draw the ire of the science team’s cantankerous leader.

Norimi sidestepped the hologram to find her father hunched in his seat, jabbing a finger at the touch screen in the table’s beveled edge. “Everything all right, Dad?”

“Can someone please tell me how the hell to pull up the damn contour map from Sonda?”

Oren, the team’s technical engineer, bounded in from the adjacent room. “No problem, Doctor Jurahn. Let me show you.”

The seismologist rolled his chair aside as the younger man hunched over the screen. He tapped once, swiped twice, and Uzo faded out. One more tap produced a rectangular cross-section of a lava tube connecting two massive calderas.

“Thank you.” Jurahn stood. “Perhaps my daughter married someone useful after all.”

Ignoring Norimi’s fuming gaze, the team leader cleared his throat. “Before we begin, just one announcement.” He clasped his hands behind him as Kuona and Reizig fell silent. “I received word from Captain Milliken earlier this morning. She’s been diverted to the edge of Zhoreen space. Hostilities are escalating in the region and the navy wants more firepower along the border. As a result, she will not be able to pick us up as scheduled. The closest ship to us is the Praetorius, but it’s five weeks out.”

The team responded with groans and slumped shoulders.

“Yes, I know. We’re all anxious to go home, but after a year in space, what’s an extra week? Now, let’s review our objectives for today.” Jurahn traced his finger along the edge of the holographic contour map. “According to the body wave emitters planted by our Sonda rover last year—”

“Just before it crapped out.” Kuona folded her arms across her chest and smirked at Oren. Norimi’s husband had designed the rover, which went offline five months after landing on Uzo, making him the target of occasional ridicule ever since.

“We don’t know what happened to it, Doctor Kuona,” Norimi said. “And it isn’t relevant right now. We have its last known coordinates. If we find it while we’re here, we’ll figure it out.”

Kuona’s smirk faded as her gaze shifted to the hologram.

“As I was saying,” Jurahn continued. “The seismic data Sonda sent back shows that this lava tube is sixty-three meters in diameter and runs for ninety-four kilometers, making it a strong candidate for a subsurface habitat. It’s seven hundred and eight meters down and runs directly beneath the two calderas we saw from orbit, Prythian and Erimaal, about ten kilometers apart. Near the base of each are caves, some of which connect with the lava tube.

“There are also several conduits that branch off from the tube. Some appear to end in caverns, others lead to dolines, or sinkholes, that are open to the surface. We’ll explore as many as we can. Based on the coin toss aboard ship yesterday, Kuona and Reizig will head northwest to Prythian, while Norimi and I go southeast to Erimaal. We’ll collect soil and rock samples, assess structural stability, and get a closer lay of the land while Oren monitors everything from here. Any questions?”

No one stirred.

“Excellent.” Jurahn tapped the screen and the hologram vanished. “Let’s go spelunking.”

***

Although four hundred times dimmer here than on their homeworld, the sun’s light was sufficient for navigating Uzo’s craggy terrain. In the driver’s seat of Crawler One, Norimi craned her neck to peer up at the towering rim of Erimaal, beyond which lay the largest caldera in the Naxdin Belt of planetoids. What had been a breathtaking view from orbit became humbling—and intimidating—at close range.

In the passenger seat, her father recorded their journey on the crawler’s exterior cameras, controlled by the dashboard’s touch screen. “We’ve been driving for twenty minutes and you haven’t uttered a word. When my daughter gives me the silent treatment, I know she has something on her mind.” He leaned toward her. “She gets that from her mother.”

“And if mom were still with us, she’d smack you upside the head for the way you treat Oren.” Norimi tore her gaze away from Erimaal and glared at her father. “I’ve held my tongue until now because we’re both still grieving, but I expected better from you.”

“As the leader of this team, I don’t have time to coddle anyone, Rimi. That includes your lesser half.”

“I’m not asking you to coddle him. I’m asking you to show him some respect for a change, as a colleague. You constantly belittle him because he’s not a scientist, yet Oren developed almost all of the tech we’re using on this mission.”

“Well, let’s hope it holds up better than his Sonda rover.”

“Why do I waste my breath?” As they drove into Erimaal’s shadow, Norimi slapped the dashboard touch screen. The headlights flashed on and glinted off the frame of a small vehicle parked beside the cave entrance. “Who the hell could that be?”

Her father tapped his dashboard screen. “Team One to Basecamp. We just arrived at the foot of Erimaal, and it looks like we have company.”

To continue reading “In the Span of a Heartbeat,” and many other fantastic stories, check out Black Cat Weekly #176.

Ironton, New Jersey police detective Frank Nagler has his hands full as the lead investigator when a decapitated woman is discovered in a swamp known as the Old Iron Bog. To make matters, one of the most brutal storms in recent history has flooded the town, causing millions of dollars of property damage. Nagler’s search for the unidentified woman’s killer dredges up bad memories, suspicious finances at City Hall, and scandalous activity by local politicians. The Swamps of Jersey is a fine example of contemporary detective noir by author and award-winning journalist Michael Stephen Daigle.

Had a few minutes to breathe today, so I recorded a new video newsletter. It’s a bit long at 18 minutes, but it covers a lot of ground including The Easton Book Festival, Shore Leave 45 SF convention, Lehigh Valley Comic Con in August, my recent Pennsylvania Press Club awards, and my latest short stories in the new Bright Mirror and Retreat anthologies. Click here to listen.

 

In March, my 30th short story, “Give Them Peace,” was published in Writing a Wrong, the latest mixed-genre anthology by the Greater Lehigh Valley Writers Group.

A mob boss with a nefarious retirement plan. A husband preparing the ideal breakfast for his wife. A young girl intent on visiting the neighbor’s turkeys—on her own. A mystery author who steals an idea for a novel and now, years later, faces the consequences. An essayist musing on a letter she would write to a friend she inadvertently upset. Writing a Wrong is filled all of these and more.

“Give Them Peace” is a ghost story featuring psychic-medium paranormal investigator Miranda Lorensen from my novels Testing the Prisoner, By Your Side, and Like Mother, Like Daughters.  I hope you enjoy this excerpt. If so, consider grabbing a copy of the anthology in paperback or ebook. Proceeds benefit the Greater Lehigh Valley Writers Group and our work in the community.

Give Them Peace

by Phil Giunta

Crippling sorrow flooded Miranda Lorensen’s thoughts the moment she stepped through the door of Heldon Studios. Overlapping voices in her head pleaded for help, begged to be set free. Miranda ignored them for the moment as she and fellow paranormal investigator Marc Malkasian greeted the studio’s general manager, Stillman Ross.

“Thanks for rearranging your schedule for us on such short notice.” Stillman extended a hand. “Where’s the rest of your team?”

“Short notice means shorthanded,” Marc said. “You’re stuck with the two of us. Any more activity since you called?”

“Later that night, in fact.” Stillman nodded toward a row of offices down the hall. “We caught it on a security camera along with the other incidents I mentioned on the phone. I have the footage queued up.”

By now, the edges of Miranda’s vision had blurred and she winced against another torrent of desperation and grief. Closing her eyes, she tuned out the conversation between Marc and Stillman. I’m here. Tell me what you need.

A plaintive voice rose above the chatter. “Finally, someone who can hear us.”

“We’ve waited so long,” another added.

Both were women, but Miranda sensed that they weren’t the only spirits attached to the building, or perhaps the land. How can I help you?

“You’re a sensitive,” the first voice said. “As we were. That’s why he killed us.”

Who killed you?

There was no response.

Are you still with me? What’s your name? Again, Miranda’s questions were met with silence.

“Randy?”

A hand clutched her arm. Miranda’s eyes shot open and met Marc’s bewildered gaze.

“You okay? You wandered off without a word.”

Miranda took in her surroundings. She didn’t recall leaving the lobby, yet she now found herself in a wide corridor between two sound stages. “Right. Sorry about that.”

“Did you have a vision?”

“Not exactly.” As they started back toward the main entrance, Miranda shot a glance over her shoulder. “But the day is still young.”

***

All three tripods crashed to the floor, hurled across the room by an invisible force. In the security office, the astonishing scene played out on two wall-mounted monitors.

“That happened about four hours after we closed on the day I called you,” Stillman explained. “I thought it was one of my technicians playing a prank, but no one was in the building at the time. Of all the footage we captured, this scared the shit out of me more than anything.”

“I can see why,” Marc said. “These spirits definitely seem pissed off about something. Where did this happen?”

“Stage C. Last one on the right before you get to the storage room.”

“Hold on.” Marc pointed to the screen. “When the tripods hit the floor, they kinda resemble arrows, evenly spaced and perfectly lined up beside each other.”

Miranda cocked her head. “Arrows pointing toward the storage room, perhaps?”

“I’ll be damned.” Stillman slumped in his chair. “Since we converted this place from a warehouse, we don’t use that part of the building much. I’ve never been comfortable back there. Always feels like someone’s watching me from the mezzanine.”

“Maybe they are,” Marc said. “When you called, you mentioned a woman who appeared on film, but no one saw her in person. Can you show us?”

“Absolutely.” Stillman opened two video files and dragged each to its own monitor. He pointed to the left screen. “This was the first appearance, during an interview show. Watch for the middle-aged woman with the salt and pepper hair and bruises around her neck. There. See her standing off to the right behind the host?”

“Jeez.” Marc leaned forward. “Her gray eyes and blank expression aren’t creepy at all.”

“Check it out,” Stillman continued. “They cut away and back to the host… and she’s gone.” He stopped the video. “Now, let me draw your attention to the monitor on the right. There’s a company in the area that makes cleaning products. They use our studio to shoot their commercials. This one had three actors, four if you count the dog. Watch this beagle turn its head from the kid and stare at nothing until they cut away, come back, and bam—there she is again. Where she came from, no one knows.”

The beagle whined and stared up at the woman who gazed at the actors with a forlorn expression. Stillman paused the video just as she peered into the camera.

“She came from this place.” Miranda glanced from one monitor to the other. “Her soul is trapped here, and she isn’t alone.”

Stillman raised an eyebrow. “How many are there?”

“Something tells me we’re about to find out.”

‌

To celebrate the 10th anniversary of the Mindful Writers Retreat, we chose “retreat” as our theme for this year’s charity anthology and our members did not disappoint. From the Lehigh Mountains of Pennsylvania, to Rehoboth Beach in Delaware, across the Atlantic to Ireland and Italy, and south of the equator to Belize and Africa, our heroes are in search of the illusive inspiration to create a life of their dreams. The quest leads them through forests and jungles, by carriage and train and plane, into libraries and flower shops, and even a convent and a monastery.

I hope you enjoy the opening scenes from my story, “A Certain Magic” and consider picking up a copy of Retreat. All proceeds benefit House of Ruth Maryland.

A Certain Magic

by Phil Giunta

Why was this place so familiar? Keri Lange had never been to Ligonier, Pennsylvania before yesterday afternoon and yet, she’d been haunted by a relentless feeling of déjà vu from the moment she arrived.

Keri paused along the trail as the first rays of the rising sun highlighted the resplendent autumn colors of the surrounding trees. Her gaze swept across the expansive field of green and brown grass bordered by a narrow, meandering creek on its north side and Macartney Lane to the south. Beyond the far edge of the field, opposite the trail on which she stood, sparse traffic flowed along Route 711.

Macartney Lane was the only road in or out of the Ligonier Camp and Conference Center, her home for the next four days. Nestled in the Laurel Highlands region of the Allegheny Mountains, the five-hundred-acre property was a summer camp for kids, but a group of writers from the nearby Pittsburgh area rented the place for a weeklong retreat every October. It was the perfect location to break away from life and get into the creative flow all while nestled in the bosom of Mother Nature. Although Keri lived several hours away, she’d connected with a few of the local writers at a recent conference and was invited to join them.

One of the first things she’d learned during orientation was that many of the writers took sunrise walks to clear their minds before immersing themselves in their work. For Keri, it was a welcome change of pace from the stress of urban life.

To her right, a path of dirt and stone wound its way up to the distant crest of a hill. Keri was tempted to make the climb but she’d been walking for over an hour and her stomach was grumbling. She made a mental note to tackle the hill tomorrow and continued along the trail until she arrived at Macartney Lane. There, a large wooden sign served as an information marker about the Wilpen train crash that had occurred a few hundred yards away on July 5, 1912. The trail on which she’d been walking had once been a branch of the Ligonier Valley Railroad and the site of a horrific collision between a passenger train headed north to Wilpen and a freight train carrying coal on its way south to Ligonier on the same track. Twenty-seven people were killed and twenty-six injured.

Overcome with inexplicable dread, Keri backed away from the sign and darted up the road to the lodge as if some calamity might befall her if she lingered too long on the trail.

***

The rest of the morning passed without further apprehension. Seated against a window in the first-floor lounge, Keri had become so absorbed in her writing that it was almost lunch time when she glanced up from her laptop. Contemplating the next scene in her story, she stared out at the grassy hill behind the lodge and the tree line beyond—until the blast of a train whistle jolted her. She glanced around the room at the other writers, but none of them appeared disturbed by the sound, even when it happened again.

Maybe they’re used to it, since most of them have been here before. But I thought the railroad was long gone. A brief Google search confirmed that it had been decommissioned in 1952. So where did that whistle come from? It was so close!

Keri was tempted to dash outside and track it down until retreat organizers Carla Poole and Barry Sharpe gathered with two other writers and started toward the back door.

Carla leaned toward her as she sauntered past. “Comin’ to lunch?”

Keri closed the lid on her laptop and joined them as they made their way out of the lodge and up the hill to the cafeteria building. “Did any of you hear a train whistle a few minutes ago?”

“Train whistle?” Carla shook her head. “Nope. I don’t think any trains run through this area.”

“The lodge offices are just down the hall from us,” Barry said. “Maybe one of their computers makes a train whistle sound when an email comes in or an alert pops up.”

Keri shrugged. “I guess that makes sense.”

“How’s your writing going?” Carla asked.

“I’m one scene away from finishing this reincarnation story I started last week. It’s about a woman who travels back to her previous life in order to rescue someone and change history. I was struggling with the ending, but this morning’s walk helped clear my mind.”

“That’s what this retreat’s all about,” Barry said. “There’s a certain magic about this place. The guided meditations we do after lunch should help you stay in the creative flow and knock out that last scene.”

“That’s the plan. Once the story’s done, I can give it a quick edit and send it to my critique partners.”

“You still have three days left,” Carla said. “Got anything else?”

“I could work on a novella I put aside a few months ago,” Keri replied. “Unless I get an idea for something new. I see there was a train crash here back in 1912. Maybe I’ll research that. Might get a story idea out of it.”

“That happened two years before this camp was founded.” Barry opened the door and motioned for the women to precede him into the cafeteria. “We’ve had enough strange occurrences here over the years to wonder if this place is haunted by some of the people who died in that crash.”

Keri recalled her unsettling experience on the trail. “That… would explain a lot.”

To continue reading this story and many other wonderful tales, pick up a copy of Retreat from Amazon, Barnes and Noble, Kobo, or your favorite independent bookstore. Thank you for supporting small press publishing and a worthy cause!

My 31st short story was published last month in a marvelous new utopian science fiction anthology called Bright Mirror by Delaware-based small press, Oddity Prodigy Productions.

Bright Mirror offers tales of adventure, discovery, and the promise of a better tomorrow.  I hope you enjoy the opening scenes from my story, “Isaac Geary’s Instant Utopia.”

Isaac Geary’s Instant Utopia

by Phil Giunta

It took only a day to grow the first snow-capped mountains. The entire range had erupted from the surface on the other side of the world, far enough away that the shockwave barely registered at Terraform Control. By the following afternoon, several kilometers of barren gray flatlands were transformed into lush fields of colorful wildflowers and deep green grass bordered by a rushing river on one side and a dense forest on the other.

“Sector Zero terraforming complete,” the dulcet voice of the computer announced over the intercom.

On the opposite side of the canteen, a group of scientists cheered and toasted their success while the Marines in the back corner maintained their stoic silence.

Seated across from me at our usual table, my sister raised her cup. “Here’s to Isaac Geary’s instant utopias.”

I tapped mine against hers. “And the lives they’ll save.”

This wasn’t the first time Nula and I had witnessed the ancient terraforming technology work its magic on a dead world. After living on the remote planet of Orellan for the past few years, she and I were used to landscapes changing at the press of a few buttons. We could order up a beach of pink sand one day and go skinny dipping in a secluded hot spring the next.

Don’t ask us to explain how it works. For that you need to chat with the lead scientist, Dr. Isaac Geary. He’s the one who’d discovered and mastered the long-buried alien machinery after his ship crashed on Orellan. That was long before my sister and I landed there to hide from the law, but that’s a story for another time. Suffice it to say that Isaac saw something redeeming in Nula and me and took us in rather than turn us over to System Police. Since then, he’s become a surrogate father to us.

After he’d created a perfect utopia for himself on Orellan, Isaac was reunited with his wife, Hannah. She joined him there after he treated her terminal cancer using nanites he’d programmed himself, but they both knew she was living on borrowed time. It broke our hearts when she died a year later, but at least they’d spent that time together in paradise.

To help him cope with his grief, Isaac set his mind to duplicating the terraforming technology so he could offer it to others. That brought us here to Apphira, a barren planetoid in the middle of the Noltaq system. It was a proving ground to see if he could generate a utopia from scratch. If the test succeeded, the process could be used on other lifeless worlds, alleviating the pressure on most of the overpopulated planets throughout the Eight Systems.

“What time are we takin’ off for Lyris?” Nula asked, just before a distant explosion rocked the base. Plates and utensils rattled, cups toppled to the floor. “Was that another shockwave from the terraforming?”

The Marines shot up from their table and bolted from the canteen while the scientists rushed to the windows, but the tranquil scene outside gave no indication that anything was amiss.  “Attention, all personnel,” the computer beckoned. “Lockdown in progress. Do not attempt to leave the complex. All vessels will remain grounded until further notice.”

“Sounds like we’re not taking off anytime soon.” I downed the last few drops of my coffee. “Let’s find out what the hell happened.”

We charged down the corridor, covering our ears against the alarms screeching from the ceiling. By the time Nula and I bounded into Terraform Control, Isaac and his colleagues were huddled around Colonel Lorca, the commanding officer of the Marines assigned to protect the base.

“…cargo ship on a direct collision course with this complex,” Lorca was saying. “When the pilot failed to acknowledge our hails, two of my patrol cruisers shot it down near Kilrain Crater. We’re sending a squad to check for survivors. We’ll lift the lockdown when I’m satisfied we’re out of danger. In the meantime, I’ll shut off the alarms.”

It’s hard to believe that anyone would object to the idea of creating a better future for humanity, but the death threats against Isaac and his team started two days after our project on Apphira was featured on the interplanetary news. A handful of extremists condemned the technology as dangerous and vowed to stop us, but I never expected they’d get this close. People often fear what they don’t understand. I used to be one of them, until I met Isaac.

“I’ll be curious to see which terrorist faction claims responsibility for this,” he said to the colonel.

“You and me both.” With that, Lorca hurried from the room.

It wasn’t until the other scientists had drifted back to their stations that Isaac noticed us and ambled over. “How are my two favorite pilots in the galaxy?”

“A lot more worried about our future here than I was ten minutes ago,” I replied.

“Understandable, but I have faith in our Marines to keep us safe. Speaking of which, I know you two were heading out to Lyris in a few hours to pick up the equipment for Sector Two. I don’t know how long you’ll be delayed, but once this crisis is resolved, I’ll request a military escort for you.”

Nula waved off the suggestion. “We don’t need that. With all of the mods Zai and I made to our ship, we got more than enough speed and firepower to deal with anything those thugs can throw at us.”

“Don’t underestimate those thugs,” Isaac said. “They possess more determination and resources than the pirates you’re used to fending off in the space lanes.” He slipped an arm around each of our shoulders. “I don’t know what I’d do if I lost you both so the Marines are going with you. Besides, by the time you get back, Sector One will have been terraformed and I programmed a few hot springs into the matrix just so you two can go skinny dipping.”

***

There were no survivors from the crashed cargo ship. It had been a drone, its course pre-programmed. Four hours passed before Nula and I were allowed to leave with one System marine cruiser as an escort. The trip to Lyris took six days through hyperspace. Our final approach brought us between the planet and its primary moon, Dek’ahj, a patchwork sphere of rust, beige, and slate gray pockmarked by scores of impact craters. I wondered if anyone lived there until my tactical display picked up a cluster of surface-to-space missiles on an intercept course.

“This wasn’t the welcome I was expecting.”

The automatic red alert klaxon blared through the ship. Even Nula couldn’t sleep through that. I slapped the comm button to hail the Marines. “ME-2061, this is the Gilded Rage. I have two dozen spearhead-class seeker missiles on their way up from Dek’ahj. Any suggestions?”

Nula stumbled into the cockpit half-dressed and strapped herself into the co-pilot’s seat. She shut off the alarm and pulled up a tactical display on her console. “Who the hell’s firin’ at us?”

“Someone on that moon. ME-2061, do you read me?”

The only response was static.

“Whoever it is, they’re jamming our comms. Hang on.” I threw the ship into a forward dive toward Lyris then banked hard to port.

The marine cruiser unleashed a spread of anti-missile rounds. Several small explosions followed. The remaining spearheads separated into two groups. One swerved toward the Marines, the other followed us.

Nula’s fingers danced over the weapons console. “Since when do pirates use seeker missiles? They disable ships to raid ‘em, not blow ‘em out of existence.”

“I don’t think these are pirates.”

Somewhere behind us, the marine cruiser exploded.

“Shit! We’re on our own now. Maybe we can shake these damn things near the outer moons.”

“I might be able to get rid of ‘em sooner.” Nula pressed a button on her console, launching two aft torpedoes. They sailed into the cluster of seven missiles and exploded, destroying four of them and knocking the remaining three off course.

Our victory was short-lived. The tactical screen flashed red as the klaxon sounded off again. Two of the missiles that had been diverted to the marine cruiser earlier were still in the fight. They emerged from the debris behind us and slammed into our engines, sending the Rage spiraling out of control toward Dek’ahj.

To continue reading this story and many other fantastic tales, pick up a copy of Bright Mirror from Amazon, Barnes and Noble, Bookshop.org, or your favorite independent bookstore. Thank you for supporting small press publishing!