The lady in the moon
(Favourite stories from Chinese)
Example of narrative text
One
day, one of Hous I’s friends told him about the “Pill of Everlasting Life” Hou
I at once sent his servant to get it for him from the Queen Mother of the West.
Example of narrative text
The
Queen Mother lived by herself on top of a high mountain. She was very ugly. Her
teeth were as long and sharp as a tiger’s. she also had nine tails. She spent
her time making medicine from grass, leaves and flowers. At first, she did not
want to give the pill to Hou I’s servant. When he told her who his master was,
she became afraid. She quickly handed it over to him.
Example of narrative text
“Tell
your master that the pill is very strong?” she said. "He must not take it
when there’s a full moon. If he does, he will fly straight up to the moon.”
Example of narrative text
Hou
I was very pleased to get the pill. His wife kept it for him in a cupboard in
her room.
One
night, while she was gazing at the full moon, she suddenly decided to taste the
pill. Her body immediately became lighter and her feet left the ground. She
began to float up in the sky towards the moon.
Example of narrative text
When
her husband saw her, he tried to shoot her down with his bow and arrow. But she
was already too far away. In a short time, she landed on the moon. She felt
very cold and lonely. She thought of her husband. Every day and wanted to
return to him. But there was no way for her to do so. At last, she built a
small house for herself in which she lived all alone.
The legend of Edelweiss Flower II
The Flower That Lives Above The Clouds
LONG
ago, long ago when the flowers first woke to life on this dear earth, each
chose where it could live as it chose, too, the color of its petals.
"I
will cover the ground and make the bare soil gay with green blades," cried
the grass.
"I
will live in the fields and by roadsides," laughed the daisy.
"I,
too," echoed the buttercup, the cornflower, the poppy, and the clover.
"Give
me the ponds and the lakes," the water lily called.
"And
let us have the streams and the marshes," begged the irises, cowslips, and
Jacks-in-the-pulpit.
"We
love the shaded, ferny woodland spots," lisped the shy forget-me-nots and
wood-violets.
"And
we wish to be petted in gardens," declared the rose, the pansies, the
sweet williams, the holly hocks.
"I
love the warm dry sun — I will go to the sandy desert," said the cactus.
So all places except the bare ridges of high mountains were chosen. To these,
no flower wished to go.
"There
is not enough food there!" the daisy explained.
"There
is not enough warmth! There is not enough food!" all decided. " It is
so bare and chilly! Let the gray moss go and cover the rocks," they said.
But the moss was loath to go.
"When
one cannot live without moisture, warmth, nourishment — when one must have
petting or live in a garden, surely the bleak places of the mountains must do
without flowers! How foolish it would be to try to make the ragged, bare
mountain-tops lovely! Let the gray moss go — he has not yet chosen!"
So
the gray moss went up the high mountains because he was told to go. He climbed
over the bare rocks beyond the places where forests ceased to grow. All was
desolate and silent up there.
Up
higher and higher crept the gray moss. It went even above the clouds where the
ragged rocks were covered with ice and snow.
There
it stopped short in amazement, for it found a quiet star-shaped flower clinging
to the crags and blossoming! It was white like the snow around it, and its
heart was of soft yellow. So cold was it up there that the little flower had
cased its leaves in soft wool to keep warm and living in the bleakness.
"Oh!"
cried the gray moss, stopping short. "How came you here where there was no
warmth, no moisture, no nourishment? It is high above the forests, high above
the clouds! I came because I was sent. Who are you?"
Then
the little starry flower nodded in the chill wind. "I am the
edelweiss," it said. "I came here quietly because there was need of
me, that some blossom might brighten these solitudes."
"And didn't they tell you to come?"
"No,"
said the little flower. "It was because the mountains needed me. There are
no flowers up here but me."
The
edelweiss is closer to the stars than the daisy, the buttercup, the iris, or
the rose. Those who have courage, like it, have found it high above the clouds,
where it grows ever gladly. They call it Noble White — that is its name,
edelweiss! Love, like the edelweiss, knows not self-sacrifice.
The
legend of Edelweiss Flower 1
Edelweiss
Long
time ago, there was a handsome young man who wanted to climb the Alp Mountain.
The mountain was so cold and covered with thick snow. People said that a
beautiful fairy lived in that mountain.
The
young man wanted to meet the fairy. He also wanted to see the beautiful palace
made of ice. Many people tried to climb the mountain but all of them did not
succeed. Some of them gave up before they met the fairy and some others could
not stand the cold.
This
young man was different. He could climb the mountain and did not give up. He
climbed and climbed for the whole week. The weather as so cold, but he kept
climbing to the fairy’s palace.
He
finally met the beautiful fairy, and they fell in love with other immediately.
But, the fairy was not happy.
“We
can’t live together. My father would not allow me to marry a man,” said the
fairy.
“Why
not?” asked the young man.
“Because
we live in two different worlds. I can’t stay in your world because it is too
hot and you can’t stay in my palace because it is too cold. I’m afraid you will
die,” explained the fairy.
Therefore,
they had to separate. Since that day, the young man promised to himself that he
would not marry anyone. The beautiful fairy was so sad that she cried every
day. Every time her tears flowed down on the mountain, it became a beautiful
white flower called edelweiss.
Short
Story - The old man and the tiger
The old man and the tiger
(Favourite story from Chinese)
Kumpulan Short Story
Many years ago a fierce tiger lived
on a mountain in north China. It chased any man, woman or child who passed by.
The local magistrate offered a reward to anyone who could kill it. Many tried but lost their lives. At last, the
magistrate sent for a famous tiger hunter living in a nearby village.
Kumpulan Short Story
|
Kumpulan Short Story - the old man and the tiger
|
When the hunter arrived, everyone
came out to have a good look at him. They were disappointed to find that he was
a small, old man with a bent back. There was a boy of about twelve or thirteen
with him. “Where is the tiger?” the old
man asked. No one answered. “let’s go and catch the big cat in the mountain
before doing anything else,” the old man said. Again no one replied. He knew
that no one wanted to help him so he waited until the next morning. He then
told the magistrate what had happened. The magistrate ordered ten young men to
take the old man and his boy to the mountain. When they reached the bottom of
the mountain, they were afraid to go any further. “Come on!” cried the old man
“Don’t be afraid! I will show you how to kill the tiger.”
Kumpulan Short Story
Just before they reached the tiger’s
cave, the old man told them to stop. “Dig a deep hole in front of me,” he
ordered. “Cover it with leaves.” When they had done this he said, “I shall now
tell the boy to roar like a tiger. When the tiger comes out of his cave, you
must all hide behind the nearest rock. I shall face the tiger alone.”
Kumpulan Short Story
He then ordered the boy to roar like
a tiger. The tiger come leaping out of his cave. It ran towards the old man who
stood waiting for it with a long spear in his hand. Just before it reached him.
It fell into the deep hole which had been dug in the ground. The old man leant
over the hole and stabbed the tiger with his spear many times.
Kumpulan Short Story
“It is dead!” he cried. “It will
never cause you any more trouble.”
The villagers living in that place
praised the old man for his bravery and skill. They asked him to become their
leader.
The Men With Green Faces
It's been six months since my grandpa Walter J. Montgomery passed away. He
died in his sleep at the age of ninety-two, in the spare bedroom of my home
where he had been living for the past five years. I am just now in his old
house, packing things up, making this process of his finale complete. Well, I'm
not really
in his house actually. I'm sitting on the rocking chair
right outside, on the front porch, taking a much-needed break.
I've got two items in my hands on this break of mine. A soon-to-be-opened
bottle of Steelhead Ale that I've brought with me all the way from my home in
Humboldt County; and one simple photograph that I've just found in a drawer.
The ale has a distinct flavor to it, and for anyone who knows beer the way I
do, they'll tell you that within this flavor is a subtle richness all its own.
It's quite likely, in fact, that if you were to discretely pour a glass of this
ale for a fellow beverage connoisseur, one sip is all it would take for them to
realize what they were drinking. But I've been staring at this photograph for
an hour already, and as a marine sniper with twenty years of experience, there
isn't a person alive who could convince me that I've got shitty eyesight. Yet
nonetheless...
Some things in life never change much. My grandpa's house is a one-bedroom
cabin in the rugged mountains five miles north-east of Coeur d'Alene, Idaho.
Other than a few loose floor boards, some rotted siding on the south side, and
a cracked kitchen window, this place is still exactly how I remembered it for
all those times I've been here. It's still surrounded by a grove of pine trees,
and it still overlooks that small lake right there, just past the green grass
and rickety dock in front of me. I saw a moose standing in a bed of reeds on
the west-end of the lake just this morning. Probably the same one I saw five
years ago, when I came up here to get my grandpa.
On that day, Grandpa had been sitting on this very rocking chair as I came
walking up from my truck. He wore green overalls and leather work boots, as if
he had just finished cutting some wood, or was about to. But on his head was
his faded blue, tattered ball cap from the Ford Motor Company. Grandpa won that
cap at some auto-rally when he was eighteen years old, and for the entirety of
his life, he only wore it on special occasions. Some things in life never
change.
But then again, there's this photograph in my hand. And it's of something
completely out of this world. And as much as my head keeps telling me I've up
and gone insane, or that maybe the altitude of these mountains have affected my
way of thinking, I know my eyes have never lied to me. I'm opening this beer
now, because even though some things never change...some things obviously do.
And when that which changes happens to be your own sense of reality, well,
let's just say alcohol knows how to help smooth things over during a moment
like this.
The Viet Cong used to call Navy Seals, "the men with green faces."
They came up with this term on account that the Seals painted their faces in
shades of green and brown, helping them to blend in with their environment.
Before their whole world would get lit up in a classic ambush that rained a
barrage of .223 rounds, and half a dozen Claymore mines, some of these Viet
Cong undoubtedly spotted a few of those white, hungry eyes staring out from the
framed tapestry of the surrounding jungle; men with green faces. But I'll tell
you right now, that those Viet Cong were in no way the first ones to come up
with that term. And that those Navy Seals, with their painted skin and
predatory eyes, weren't the first ones to be called by such a name.
February 5th, Nineteen forty-five. The Battle of Hurtgen Forest, near the
Belgian--German border. That's where my grandpa, and four other infantryman
from his platoon had been rescued by what they called, "men with green
faces." On patrol, they had gotten lost and wound up deep behind enemy
lines. Surrounded by Germans. The winter coldness was bone-chilling, and tore
at the platoon's morale like shreds of steel grated over soft flesh. But they
fought with desperation, believing as they did, that surrender to the Nazi war
machine would grant them a fate far worse than death.
And so then they died. Mowed down with gunfire. Blown to bits by grenades.
Stabbed with bayonets. Men of the U.S. 28th Infantry Division, my grandfather's
platoon, were slaughtered in a fierce battle with the Germans somewhere in that
thick, snow ridden Hurtgen Forest--all except for those five men.
No one believed their story of course, when they were found two weeks later
after the battle which had decimated most of them. Soldiers from the American
Army, fellow brothers of that war, simply balked at the tale those five men
spun pertaining to how they survived the German onslaught. They were given over
to doctors to check their bodies, and their minds. They were suggested to be
mentally incapacitated, gone insane from the horror they had endured in that
forest, and then swiftly sent home to spend the remainder of the war in a cozy
hospital.
But photos never lie.
A local European newspaper ran a story about my grandfather and those four
other men. How they were found in a half-starved state of decrepit brokenness.
And
where they were found. What had surrounded them: The ring of
filleted bodies.
"How could we have done this?" my grandpa explained to his
commander, in defense of his outrageous allegory of how they had been rescued.
And over the years of my life, I heard my grandpa's version of this story only
three times--all by way of eavesdropping on a conversation between him and my
father. But each time, Grandpa's story was always the same, and in complete
collaboration with what that European newspaper had printed.
In the final moments of battle, as those Americans were being overrun by
Germans, massacred by a dreadful blitzkrieg, all at once there came a deafening
blare from a great horn in the sky above. It was so loud that each and every
man, German and American alike, stood frozen on the battlefield in complete
awe. And then there came the blinding white light.
"It was all in their hands, then," said Grandpa. "The men
with green faces dropped down from gray clouds, their hands extended into
razor-sharp blades...all four of them. Four hands, that is."
He went on to explain what those creatures looked like, and how they moved.
Ten feet tall maybe. Bald green heads, large eyes with thick eyebrows, green
faces with braided strands of purple facial hair at least a foot long. And four
lengthy arms, each wielding a terrible blade.
"They moved like insects--you know? Jittery. Hoppy-like." He said
they also jumped really high, and really far. They danced around the
battlefield and all the soldiers like cats playing with dead mice. And then the
Germans began to scream and shout, cursing obscenities in their native tongue
while those things darted back and forth, slicing them up. Slicing them up real
good, cutting and hacking, tearing apart human bodies limb by limb. A mass
butchery.
The newspaper ran the article, and the Army was outraged:
American
soldiers saved from certain death by the Germans, thanks to
"other-worldly" creatures with green faces, and four arms, and large
bodies seemingly immune to German bullets, and German grenades, and German
bayonets. It went something like that.
But those photos were there in that article. How could those men have done
that? How could those five Americans who were found half-starved, frozen from
both cold and terror, able to not only defeat that German army of over five
hundred soldiers, but also mutilate their bodies in the fashion in which they
were discovered? And then pile them high into a colossal ring?
There were three pictures in that article. One was of my grandpa, and those
other four men sitting in the back of a truck, blankets wrapped around them,
their faces hollow and thin. It was obvious that they had been shivering from
cold and fear. You could see it past their smiles, and in their eyes.
And then there was the picture of the ring of bodies.
"It gave us
shelter from the snow storms. Maybe that's why we stayed in there."
That was the statement taken from one of those men, as quoted underneath the
photograph. Over one-hundred feet in diameter, and ten feet high. Five-hundred
German soldiers ripped to shreds and woven amongst each other to create a
great, circular wall of grisly death.
And then a final picture; a close-up shot at the face of one of those
Germans. His ending was nothing short of absolute terror. That, you could also
see in his eyes, past his screaming face locked forever in a grim howl due to a
complete and sudden death.
"How could we have done this?" my grandpa insisted. And
then they sent him away.
I'm a grown man. I've been in two wars myself. Hell, I've even worked
alongside men with green faces: the Navy Seals. I've seen a lot in my life, but
to tell the truth, I've never had much of an opinion about my grandpa's amazing
story. Perhaps my mind has always been too afraid to confront the possibility
that my father's dad was a raving lunatic. That he wasn't meant to endure the
grim realities of war, and that he himself, along with those other guys simply
snapped.
Yet that doesn't explain how he survived what he did. Or how those Germans
were killed, and piled up like that. And now, as I sit here in this chair and
stare at this photograph--this
fourth picture that should've been in
that article, God-damnit--I'm finding that maybe it's
me who's turned
into a raving lunatic. Maybe I'm the one who's gone insane; unable to cope with
the grim realities of having my entire life filleted, then woven into a
colossal ring of denial that my mind just can't seem to accept. Or won't
accept.
I'm opening another bottle of Steelhead Ale, as I stare at this photograph
once more. I'm seeing those creatures my grandpa talked about. They're standing
out on a bleak field of snow, eyes off in the distance as if searching for
something, or taking in a spectacular view from atop a mountain. I can see that
they each have four arms, long and muscular. They've got thick eyebrows that
frame huge eyes, and faces that might be green if this photo wasn't taken in
black and white. And their faces end in a trail of long facial hair, braided,
like rope hanging from their jaws. They look as if they might be standing a full
ten-feet high...but that's just a guess.
These are the men that saved my grandpa and those other Americans, I know
this now. These are the men who fell from a gray sky, like angels descended
from heaven, only to deliver a fury of death upon five-hundred German soldiers.
The same men who, after killing all those soldiers, used their razor sharp
blades to butcher them, and weave their bodies into a ring of death. These are
the men with green faces, and yes, they are most definitely beings from another
world. In fact, there's nothing in this photograph that would convince me
otherwise. Not even the tattered ball cap stenciled with the words "Ford
Motor Company," as placed on the bald head of the one standing in the
foreground, eyes staring at the camera.
Bio: Beginning at 5:00 a.m., Chris spends the only available lot of solitary
time he gets in a day feeding his addiction to writing. If he's lucky, he'll
get two hours in before "they" wake up, after which he lives a
wonderful life as a family man, and special education teacher. His stories have
been accepted at a number of publishers including
Cover of Darkness, Midwest
Literary Magazine, Bete Noire,
The Absent Willow Review,
Underground Voices, Residential Aliens, and
Bards and Sages
Quarterly.
You can reach him at
chakalives@gmail.com,
or at his static blog;
frombehindthebluedoor.wordpress.com.
Source: http://www.short-story.me/horror-stories/430-the-men-with-green-faces.html
A Helping Hand
Hands, not eyes, are the windows to the soul. The study of hands has long been
a fascination for people the world over. Palmistry began several hundred years
before the birth of Christ. Leonardo Da Vinci is famous for his artistic study
of human hands. I am no different in my quest for the knowledge hidden in
hands.
Experts say there are several things that can be discerned from just a
handshake. The size of the hand can determine a person’s personality or
occupation. It’s a common misconception that pianists have long fingers;
instead, they often have shorter, stronger fingers, which are more suitable for
the repetition of playing the instrument daily. Jewelers and craftsmen who are
accustomed to finer detail have thinner, longer fingers.
They say soft handed people run out of energy faster. Also, with the new
generation of video game players, softer hands reveal a lack of any kind of
labor or adventurous sport in their lives. Those hands disgust me. While firm
handed people often have more energy and vigor for life; those are my favorite.
To think people put such little stock into a handshake.
Even the care of one’s hands helps identify much about their lives. Rough
callused hands with dirt around the edges indicate a manual laborer. Men and
women with well-groomed hands often work desk jobs. Some people have hands that
are a mixture of the two often meaning they enjoy activities involving their
hands such as gardening or working on their sports cars.
No one ever wants to shake my hand, or rather my claw. I often force
handshakes just to see how uncomfortable it makes everyone. No one can shake my
hand without becoming squeamish and everyone pretends not to notice, but the
look in their eyes says it all.
Ectrodactyly is the proper term for the mutilations that I have for hands.
My mother was a drug addict, which led to such a rare deformity. Did you know
there is no information in palmistry related to claws? Also, pincers aren’t at
the top of the list of subjects for artists.
It’s a shame people take such precious things for granted. Hands and fingers
are used for virtually every part of life. From eating to computer work to
pissing and shitting, you have to wipe with something, hands are the most
integral part of each waking moment. Hands can even perform miracles through
CPR and surgery. People don’t appreciate them and that’s what I’ve been put on
this earth for, to help people appreciate what they have.
At the moment, I’m at a business conference I don’t belong in searching for
a perfect pair of hands. Business conferences force the shaking of hands no
matter how much the other party is repulsed by the sight of my claws.
My nametag says Henry, but that’s not my name. I like to visit hotels
looking for conferences or meetings. Often, they don’t know who is supposed to
be there, and I can slip in without a second glance. I dress well, but not too
well. It’s best to blend in. I only shake the hands of people I’ve watched. I
watch them have a drink, shake other people’s hands, and write on their
notepads.
Once I’ve found my favorite of the group, I introduce myself and shake their
hand. I like hands that are firm, groomed, and dry. Moist handshakes are the
worst. I want hands that are capable not pitiful. I want hands that have been
used just enough to make them strong but not too much to have worn them out.
After we shake hands, we exchange business cards. I now have their place of
business, phone number, and email address. It’s that easy. I stick around the
conference just long enough and then while no one is watching, I step out to
“use the restroom” and I leave. Then, the fun begins.
I place the business card in my wallet and drive back home. A quick Internet
search finds Michael A. Nasser in the white pages complete with his approximate
age, household information, and most importantly his address and home phone
number. Now, I wait.
Prison is not somewhere I plan on going to, so I have to be patient. During
the waiting period, I will usually follow my hands a bit to learn their
schedule. It’s good when they go out for drinks or have occasional schedule
irregularities, because then a disappearance isn’t noticed as quickly.
Luckily for me, Michael A. Nasser is the picture of normality. He has a wife
and kids, he works out at the gym, he spends time bowling, and most importantly
he goes out alone on occasional errands. After six weeks of waiting, I’m ready.
The urge can’t wait any more, but I can quiet it enough to be thorough.
I decide to meet him before going into the gym. He’ll remember my face well
enough to come and speak to me.
He pulls into the parking lot and I get out of my car at the same time. When
he gets out I’m ready.
“Michael? Michael Nasser? Is that you? I didn’t know you worked out here.”
“Yes, and you are....” He replies clearly trying to place a name with my
face.
“Henry Weldt. We met at the investment conference a few weeks ago” I say
walking over to him. “I was actually going to call you to see about
consolidating and reworking my finances.”
“Well, I’d be happy to help. Just give me a call and we can set up a
meeting.” He starts to walk away. He is clearly in hurry to stop this
conversation. He’s probably afraid I’ll try to shake his hand again. Rage brews
inside me.
“Sure, actually if you wouldn’t mind I have a few quick things from my stock
portfolio I would love for you to take a look at. Could you spare a few
minutes?”
Being the normal guy he is, Michael A. Nasser steps over to my car to look
at my “portfolio.” As soon as he leans over, I put the chloroform over his
face.
I may only have claws, but tightly gripping a handkerchief over someone’s
mouth and nose is something I was born to do. I work out regularly just so I
can maintain the strength to squelch any resistance. Shortly after, he’s in the
car, and we’re on the way without a single car driving by or person in the
parking lot.
When he comes to, he’s strapped to a chair in my basement. I’m sure he’s
scared.
I change my modus operandi often enough to avoid suspicion. I always travel
to find my prizes and usually I go quite far. I own a couple of properties, so
I’m not always at the same area. I choose male and female hands from all
socioeconomic backgrounds. Also, I don’t always kill; I’m not a monster after
all.
Sometimes I get my trophies at random. I don’t always research I sometimes
act opportunistically. Usually they don’t see me at all and in that case, I let
them live. I just take one or both of their hands so they can truly appreciate
what they had. Sometimes I check in on them months later to see if they’ve
learned to be thankful for what they have or had in life. I always keep the
hands in formaldehyde rather than leaving rotting flesh lying around. It’s the
perfection of the hand I admire and want to preserve.
Michael A. Nasser is currently looking around at my collection too shocked
to scream. But as usual, the screaming comes. I have him gagged, which muffles
most of the noise and sound proofing blocks the rest. I wait for him to calm
down; I prefer to use as little violence as possible. Hands weren’t made for
too much violence, not even my claws were made for useless battery.
“You’re probably wondering why you’re here and what’s going to happen to
you.” My voice is calm even though the excitement and agitation is welling up
inside of me.
He nods his head; tears are in his eyes.
“Well, I want to make this as easy as possible, so I’ll tell you everything
straight. I don’t feel there is a need for games at this point.”
He stares blankly with wide eyes like a deer.
“You have something that belongs to me, something that should have been mine
from my birth. Even worse, you don’t appreciate what you have that’s mine, and
I intend to make you understand and to take it back.”
He starts crying, which I can’t understand, because I haven’t even told him
what’s going to happen yet. I cross my arms and stare at him waiting for him to
collect himself again.
“Are you finished?” He nods his head and stares up at me again. “I’m going
to have to remove your hands....”
He’s screaming again and I can’t finish my sentence. His hands are clenched
in fists. I feel the rage boil inside me again. How dare he make such a crude
gesture with my beautiful, perfect hands. I grab my butcher knife. He’s
blubbering like an idiot and screaming some more; I yell at him.
“I didn’t want to raise my voice; I wanted this to be civil. So just SHUT
UP.”
He quiets down a bit, but is still crying. I grab his left thumb and hold up
the knife. I was going to keep both his hands intact, but he’s left me no
choice.
“The thumb is one of the most important parts of the body since we use it
every day. It marks the evolution of our species from walking on all fours to
walking upright. Scientists also believe it coincides with the development of
larger brains. Spiritualists believe it has to do with a person’s will and that
a perfect thumb is one that is a good length and stretches up to the middle
joint of the index finger, much like yours does.”
I let the knife fall and the screaming starts again. I cauterize the wound,
apply local anesthetic, and wash up.
“You can stop screaming now; it won’t help your situation and the anesthetic
should be kicking in now.”
Michael A. Nasser begins to calm down again. I bring the thumb, which is now
resting safely in formaldehyde over to him.
“The shape of the thumb is perfect.” I say pointing out each detail. “It’s
well rounded at the top and slims down so that the middle section is slightly
smaller. This represents a balanced will, intellect, and a loving personality.”
I set the jar back down as he stares at me in awe. Then, he does something
stupid. He tries to head butt me or some other nonsense and causes the perfect
thumb to crash on the floor.
I quickly remove his right hand and slit his throat. I hate being so brutal;
I had originally planned on this being a civil, polite matter, as civil as can
be anyway. I was even considering letting him live. How else was I going to get
him to appreciate his hands?
It’s always a shame when things don’t go as planned.
Rachel Sloan currently resides in Murfreesboro, TN with her fiance, dog, and
cat. She graduated from Middle Tennessee State University with a degree in
journalism. She writes short horror stories as time off from work allows her.