The Bedtime Story: An Early Prologue to EXILE, by Betsy Dornbusch

Today, it’s my pleasure to welcome Betsy Dornbush to the Rock, where we’re in for a treat! She’s sharing The Bedtime Story: An Early Prologue to Exile – a companion piece to her book series that begins with Exile, the First Book of the Seven Eyes.

In Exile, Draken vae Khellian, bastard cousin of the Monoean King, had risen far from his ignominious origins, becoming both a Bowrank Commander and a member of the Crown’s Black Guard. But when he is falsely condemned for the grisly murder of his beloved wife, he is banished from the kingdom and cast upon the distant shore of Akrasia, at the arse-end of the world.

Compared to civilized Monoea, Akrasia is a forbidding land of Moonlings, magic, and restless spirits. It is also a realm on the brink of a bloody revolution, as a sinister conspiracy plots against Akrasia’s embattled young queen–and malevolent banes possess the bodies of the living.

Consumed by grief, and branded a murderer, Draken lives only to clear his name and avenge his wife’s murder. But the fates may have bigger plans for him. Alone in a strange land, he soon finds himself sharing the bed of an enigmatic necromancer and a half-breed servant girl, while pressed into the service of a foreign queen whose life and land may well depend on the divided loyalties of an exiled warrior...

Let me tell you a bit about Betsy.

Betsy Dornbusch is a writer and editor. Her short fiction has appeared in print and online venues such as Sinister Tales, Big Pulp, Story Portal, and Spinetingler, as well as the anthologies Tasty Little Tales and Deadly by the Dozen. She's been an editor with the ezine Electric Spec for six years and regularly speaks at fan conventions and writers' conferences. She's the sole proprietor of Sex Scenes at Starbucks where you can believe most of what she writes. In her free time, she snowboards, air jams at punk rock concerts, and has just started following Rockies baseball, of all things.

And now, without further ado, I give you:

The Bedtime Story: An Early Prologue to Exile, by Betsy Dornbusch

Drae pulled the rough blanket up to his chin as his father talked and shifted so the straw didn’t poke his side as bad. He scratched his head. The cook had clipped all the knotted braids out of his hair again and his head felt funny without them. He bet the Prince never got knots in his hair. It was fine and straight, the color of sunlight.

“And the blood, boy, I tell you, it liked to never stop. It ran down the cliffs like a river, into Moon Bay, as it was called in those days, the blood of ten thousand people, twenty thousand maybe. Even babies, like yourself.”

I’m not a baby, Drae thought. I’m six. But he didn’t dare say it out loud.

“Those Akrasians screamed behind me as I ran.” Drae’s father scowled. “They line their eyes after the habit of their damned goddess Ma’Vanni. Make them look like demons. Fair frightening they are, too, when they come at you with swords and murder in their hearts.”

Drae shrank back—not at the boom of his father’s voice, but at the big hand as it swept the air over his head. This was the most exciting part of the story, but he never knew what his father might do when he got to it.

“But I was to the tunnels by then. I heard creak of the chains. The whole place stunk like sweat and blood. My men were hauling the gates up, some of them injured. I took my father’s boat—the one he never let me captain. He was past caring by now, being dead. Fifteen oars a side and a whip-man; we were away before the Akrasian scum even knew we had boats hidden in those caves.” His father got a far-away look.

“And then what happened?” Drae whispered. His voice felt heavy in his throat. They’d left all those people to die…

“The men rowed hard with the current and it runs strong on the Erros. The whip at their backs helped. Bastards shot a thousand arrows at us—my own man Halmar rowed with one in his shoulder for an hour. But we got to safety. We got to … here.” Drae’s father paused to lick his teeth like he had a bad taste in his mouth. He stared through the shuttered window over Drae’s head.

Drae hated that window. It sat low over the moat, low enough he could reach out and touch the water if he wanted. Not that he did. His father said errings swam in the moat and looked through the window at night, searching for awake little boys. They’d make a meal of him if he ever got off his straw pile in the corner before morning. Errings didn’t much like straw, Drae reckoned.

His father sighed. “There’s magic in the world, Drae, and some say it’s grand. But it’s a cold, black magic that keeps a man from his homeland. You’ll go back someday, swear it to me.”

“I swear, but Father, there’s no such thing as magicks.” And this was just a story. His father had said that before, laughed over it.

His father frowned. Drae flinched, but couldn’t dodge the slap. His father’s meaty hand caught him on the temple and ear. Blinded by pain and humiliation—not tears, never tears—Drae pulled the blanket over his head and huddled in a little ball, tightening his spine against the next blow. But the weight of his father’s body shifted away. Soon after, he heard a muffled scream from a maid, then some thumping and grunting at the other end of the kitchen. Drae kept his eyes squeezed tight.

When Drae woke the next morning, his father was gone to his duties for the day. Drae was disappointed. He wanted to tell his father he hadn’t bawled, not once, not even when he’d heard the youngest maid sobbing in the pantry all night.

***

Thank you for sharing The Bedtime Story with us Betsy! 

You can learn more about Betsy and her writing on her website or on Electric Spec's website.  Plus, here's a link to an excerpt (Chapter One) of Exile, and links to the Broadway Book Mall and Amazon, where it's available now!

Janet Fogg

Janet is the author of Soliloquy, an award-winning historical romance, and co-author of the military history best seller, Fogg in the Cockpit.

Humbenthalos Part 4: The Conclusion

The following is the fourth and final part to a short story I wrote based on HP Lovecraft's famous C'thulu Mythos. Happy Halloween! ☺

Harry pulled her close. "We can't stay."

"I know."

He sighed. "I'll go out and start the Jeep. As soon as you hear the engine, come join me, okay?"

She hesitated, knowing he was right, but also knowing a great mystery lay in a small clearing just beyond the forest's edge. A mystery that had been important to their grandfather, so important that he probably sacrificed his life to it. She was desperate to know what it was, but not if it meant risking her life--or her brother's life--to find out.

Esther glanced up at Harry, ready to follow his lead, when a burst of green light shone in the distance. It pulsed brightly, and a gust of wind blew from its source, a gust so powerful it bent the aspen trees and made the window shake.

His voice sounding surprisingly normal, Harry asked, "What now?" Another blast rattled the glass and he shoved his sister aside. "Fuck it. We're outta here." He ran out the door before Esther could stop him.

"Wait!" she shouted, leaping for him, then halting at the threshold. Little green birds littered the porch, their bloody bodies skimming across the boards as another gust blasted through the pines.

Esther could barely see Harry in the dim glow of green light that throbbed in the distance. He had stopped behind the Jeep, his head tilted forward. He was looking down at Chris.

A deep, resonant humming came from where the light pulsed, and a gale of wind whooshed over the cabin, making the roof shake. Esther reflexively crouched down and covered her head. The humming grew louder, the wind stronger, and the window beside her cracked in a web of splintered glass.

Then came the screams.

Esther stood and looked out the door, trying to make out where the screams were coming from. When the cabin's roof shook, she hunkered down again. Shingles flew through the air like wingless birds. Another scream, fainter this time, but with such agony it made her legs quiver when she tried to stand.

"Harry?" she called, then shouted with greater insistence, "Harry? Where are you?"

A shriek heralded overhead and Esther scrambled out onto the porch, heedless of the feathered bodies she crushed beneath her feet. "Harry?" she bellowed, her voice ripping from her throat and making her cough. But he didn't answer.

Another scream, weaker this time. An enormous dark shape blocked the moon's glow as it flew overhead. A bat? No, it was too big, bigger than a man, and its wings flapped so fast she could hardly see them. A long, slender spike protruded from its head, and something dangled from the end of it, with legs that kicked and arms that waved in frenzied panic.

Esther ran to the Jeep. The driver's side was empty. She called for her brother again, but he had completely vanished. Just like Grampa. The wind settled and she stared up at the starless sky, realizing where her brother had gone.

"I have to feed it."

It was the thing that flew overhead. Its food was... Harry?

Panic clutched her throat, closing it against the breaths she tried to take. Eyes closed, she agonized over what to do now. The obvious answer was run, but her feet would never be fast enough.

She flung open the Jeep's door and hopped in. Her shaking hands barely managed to locate the keys puddled in the cup holder. After several tries, she rammed the key in the ignition. When the engine roared she cried out with relief. Her hands felt numb as they groped for the gearshift, and once found, the stick slid into reverse with grinding protest.

Esther floored the accelerator and jerked the Jeep back, meeting resistance. Chris' body lay behind the rear tire! She'd have to drive over it if she wanted out, away from the cabin, away from the horror that had probably killed her grandfather and now her brother. She sucked in a breath, her heart banging against her ribs, and stomped the gas pedal. The back tire rose and fell with a thump, then grabbed the packed dirt beneath it. The Jeep shot backward and raced across the driveway, jolting to a bone-jarring halt when it slammed into a tree.

Esther's head jerked forward, her chin hitting the steering wheel. Exquisite pain shot through her mouth. Something thick and warm trickled from the corners of her lips. She spat blood that bubbled from the hole she'd bitten through her tongue. Blessed silence followed. But it didn't last long.

A rush of wind blasted through the trees and Esther knew what was coming. It had come for Harry. And before him, it had come for Grampa.

"I have to feed it."

And it was still hungry.

©2011 Karen Duvall

Humbenthalos Part 3: The Story Continues

The following is the third of four parts to a short story I wrote based on HP Lovecraft's famous C'thulu Mythos. The story's conclusion will appear next Saturday, October 22.

Esther and her brother and cousin are painting over the mysterious writing that covers the walls of their grandfather's cabin. No one knows where grampa is, but Esther remembers the strange monolith in the forest that had captivated the old man before his stroke. It was special, and Esther longed to understand why. Perhaps she'd learn the answer soon.

"Have you tried reading any of this stuff, Esther?"

She turned to watch her brother run the brush down a heavily scribbled section of wall. "No. Why?"

"The more I look at it, the more it seems to make sense."

Esther shrugged and stared outside again. "You're imagining things." The hummingbirds chased one another, competing for the flowers. Six red-throated males fanned their tales in an aggressive move to defend their territory.

"Like this sentence here," Harry said. "Ph'ngliu mglw'nafh Cthulhu n'gha-ghaa naf'l thagn! lä! Cthulhu! Humbenthalos, humbenthalos, humbenthalos!"

The hummingbirds suddenly started attacking each other. They shot their little bodies high into the air, then dived to strike their pointy beaks into the birds below.

"Did you hear what I just said?"

"Yeah." Esther was too fascinated by the battle outside to listen to her brother's gibberish. Was it normal for hummingbirds to act so violent?

"Just listen, okay? Humbenthalos, Ygnaiih! Humbenthalos, Y'bthnk! Humbenthalos, humbenthalos, humbenthalos... lä! lä! lä! Cthulhu!"

Hummingbirds streamed out of the dense forest beside the cabin. There were hundreds of them now, males and females, their green bodies shimmering with the reflected sunlight that had nearly vanished over the horizon. Swathes of crimson bathed the swarming birds as their beaks impaled each other. Little bodies fell from the sky, thumping onto the porch in small splashes of blood.

Something was terribly wrong. "My God," Esther said through the hand that covered her mouth. Sharp tingles skittered across the back of her neck. "Harry, look outside. They're killing each other!"

Harry continued to recite the writing on the wall. "Ph'ngliu mglw'nafh Cthulhu n'gha-ghaa naf'l thagn! lä! Cthulhu! Humbenthalos, humbenthalos, humbenthalos!"

It became a slaughtering frenzy. Dead birds fell onto the porch and into the patch of wildflowers, their numbers replaced by more from the forest. The buzzing of wings became audible inside the cabin, and high-pitched squawks and cheeps blended in a cacophonous roar.

Esther realized Chris was still outside amidst the flock of rabid hummingbirds that filled the air like swarming locusts. Her breath came in quick pants that matched her tripping heartbeats. "Harry!" she yelled.

He ignored her, the strange words still spewing from his mouth.

She tore her gaze from the window and grabbed Harry's arm, yanking him around to face her. His eyes looked glazed, as though hypnotized, while his lips continued to move. "Ph'ngliu mglw'nafh Cthulhu n'gha-ghaa --"

Esther delivered a hard slap to his cheek. Harry's mouth clamped shut and he blinked.

She pointed at the window and yelled, "It's a bloodbath out there!"

Brows knitted, he glanced where she pointed, his eyes widening to show their whites. "Where's Chris?" He bolted for the door, but Esther stopped him.

"Don't go," she said, forcing calm into her voice. "They're killing each other, Harry. The hummingbirds are stabbing each other to death and if you go out there, they'll stab you, too."

Her brother gasped, then inhaled deeply before saying, "Chris is in the outhouse. He'll be okay as long as he stays where he is."

Esther nodded, and kept nodding because she couldn't stop. She leaned against the window, her hands splayed across the glass, mesmerized by the winged creatures skewering each other. Tiny corpses fell everywhere, and those not yet dead flapped wildly, their bloody bodies flopping on the red-stained porch.

"I can't just stand here and do nothing. I have to help Chris." Harry lunged for the door, but Esther stood in his way.

"The birds can't keep this up forever," she said. The sun was completely down now, but a faint light glowed over the horizon. A full moon, looking small and insignificant, shone benignly in the faded night sky. "Wait a few more minutes and--"

Something darted through the flowers beyond the porch. It ran wildly, arms flailing, its legs dancing in place before giving way.

"What was that?" Harry asked.

Esther hadn't realized she'd been holding her breath until the need for air shocked her lungs to life. "It's Chris. Chris!"

The thing that had fallen in the flowers abruptly shot to its feet, a grotesque creature covered with little green birds, many of them still flapping their wings. Dozens of beaks were embedded in Chris's body. He faced the window now, his eyes streaming with blood but opened wide to reveal his horror. His freckled cheeks were pierced by hummingbirds, his neck coated with the blood that streamed from his ears and the holes beneath his chin.

Esther and Harry were glued to the window. They watched in paralyzed terror as Chris swatted at the birds stuck in his flesh. He might as well have tried dislodging hooks from a caught fish. His mouth moved, but whatever sound came out was drowned by the humming wings of the birds. The humbenthalos.

Chris tottered backward toward the Jeep. Then he grew still, his arms dropping to his sides as his strength seemed to leave him all at once. His bloody eyes stared sightlessly at Esther and Harry before he collapsed.

Esther could no longer see Chris because his body was hidden by the Jeep. Evening had settled into a rich blackness that enveloped almost everything.

His voice cracking, Harry asked, "Where'd the hummingbirds go?"

Esther leaned against him and he wrapped an arm around her shoulders. "I don't know," she said, watching the few flying shapes that had survived the massacre. "They must have gone back into the forest."

"Maybe Chris..." Harry let his voice trail off. He and Esther had both seen death in Chris's vacant eyes. He grasped Esther by the shoulders. "We have to leave. Now!"

"But what if some are still out there?" Esther bit her bottom lip to stop its trembling. She was thinking of Grampa, and about his hummingbirds, his humbenthalos. Had he shared the same fate as Chris? Grampa's last words to their grandmother had been: "I have to go back and feed it." Esther wondered if "it" was the hummingbirds, and if Grampa had been their food.

Read the conclusion to Humbenthalos next Saturday, October 22.

©2011 Karen Duvall

Humbenthalos Part 2: The Story Continues

The following is the second of four parts to a short story I wrote based on HP Lovecraft's famous C'thulu Mythos. Part three will appear next Saturday, October 15.

Esther has come with her brother and cousin to fix up their missing grandfather's old cabin in the woods so they can sell it. The cabin brings back peculiar memories for Esther, and the hummingbirds outside are more restless than they should be. Might the birds have something to do with Grandpa's mysterious disappearance?

Esther shrugged. "He disappeared two years ago. That's not the same as being dead."

Chris squinted at her. "The man was seventy-two years old and recovering from a stroke."

"A mild stroke," Harry said.

"Whatever," Chris said. "He was acting crazy the day he left, remember? He even shoved Gramma out of his way when she tried to stop him, and she broke her hip in two places when she fell. Gramma never saw him again after that. None of us did. I say good riddance."

"How can you say that, Chris?" Esther scowled at her cousin. "I thought you loved Grampa."

"Before he lost his mind, yeah. But not at the end. Not when he went into those weird trances and babbled nonsense, like that stuff written on the walls in there." Chris waved a hand at the open door hanging crooked on one hinge.

Harry stood. "I'll go air out the cabin."

Esther and Chris sat silently watching the hummingbirds, or humbenthalos, as Grampa liked to call them. Their wings blurred with the speed of furious flapping, the resulting hum so loud it grated on Ether's nerves.

"I just remembered something else." Chris plucked a twig from the floor and snapped it in half. "Something Gramma told us he said just before he pushed her. He told her, 'I have to go back and feed it.'"

Esther remembered, too, and hearing the words again chilled her to the bone.

Chris studied the busy hummingbirds. "What do you think 'it' was, Esther? And how was Grampa planning to feed it?"

"No idea." But she wondered if the dead animals in the kitchen might have something to do with it.

She stood and wandered to the end of the porch that faced the forest. A dense wall of coniferous trees blocked her view of the meadow a quarter-mile beyond. She knew the clearing surrounded an enormous monolith of black stone with crude but beautiful carvings. She'd only seen it once, when she was twelve and snuck out of the cabin one night to follow her grandfather. He always waited until the children were asleep before going out on his evening strolls, and Esther thought it was because he wanted to be alone while gazing at the moon. But he did more than that. When she caught up to him in the clearing, she found him kneeling beside the towering black sculpture. Grampa chanted in a strange language, saying words that were a lot like the ones painted on the cabin walls. Clouds had boiled overhead, changing colors and melting into each other like a swirling dance that made Esther dizzy just before a sudden burst of green light shot out from the top of the monolith.

The next thing Esther remembered was waking up in her cot at the cabin with Grampa wiping a cool, wet cloth across her forehead. She'd seen his eyes before he realized she was awake, and they had looked flat and empty, his mouth curved down at the corners and slightly open, his upper lip curled in a snarl that showed his teeth. It had frightened her because he'd no longer looked like her grandfather.

Now Grampa was gone. Maybe dead, maybe not. Today the cabin belonged to Esther and her brother, and to her cousin Chris. They'd only come this weekend to spiff it up with a little paint and polish before selling it, despite Chris's insistence that whoever bought the property would raze the cabin. Esther was having second thoughts about selling. There was something special about this place, about the monolith and about the bizarre language on the cabin walls.

"We better get started." Chris stood and yawned. "I plan on leaving first thing tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?" Esther asked. "You're kidding. No way can we finish by then."

"That's when I'm gone, even if I have to walk back to town. If it's not done by then, tough shit. You and Harry can do whatever's left."

###

Harry helped Esther bag the animal carcasses in the kitchen, then lugged them outside to bury in the woods. Chris covered the furniture with a canvas tarp and started painting. His brush flung white paint across one wall covered with writing and snowy polka dots splattered the dark green tarp on the floor.

"Whoa there," Harry said, clamping a hand on Chris's arm. "Take it easy."

Chris panted, his flabby belly heaving with each breath. His red hair lay plastered to his forehead, beads of sweat bubbling from an upper lip stubbled with pale whiskers. "The sooner I finish this, the sooner I can leave."

Harry shrugged. "Whatever. Point me to the brushes and I'll help."

His cousin peered down at the floor. "Damn. I left the rest of them in the Jeep."

"I'll get 'em." Harry headed for the door.

Chris jumped in front of him. "Let me. I need to use the outhouse anyway."

"Go for it," Harry said to Chris' back as he rushed outside.

An enormous window of hand-glazed glass framed the scenery beyond the porch. Esther stared out at the frantic hummingbirds, their needle-sharp beaks poking into one flower after another. It was past eight and the sun dipped behind the mountains, casting a sickly yellow glow over the forest trees. The aspens threw long shadows across the grove of wildflowers, seeming to make the hummingbirds anxious but no less energetic.

Humbenthalos (Part 1)

The following is the first of four parts to a short story I wrote based on HP Lovecraft's famous C'thulu Mythos. Part two will appear next Saturday, October 8. After reading this story, I doubt you'll look at hummingbirds the same way again. So in the spirit of Halloween, I give you:

Humbenthalos
by Karen Duvall

Esther stepped out of the Jeep and into a yard bursting with wildflowers. Dozens of hummingbirds hovered over them, their wings buzzing like a swarm of bees as they flitted from blossom to blossom. Just beyond lay the weathered old cabin that had belonged to her grandfather before he disappeared.

A shove from behind made her stumble.

Chris pushed past her and laughed. "You're blockin' the road, Buckwheat."

She glared at his ample backside and watched him mow down a swath of wildflowers with his size thirteen Reeboks. The hummingbirds darted out of his way.

Esther trod over the path of crushed flowers to the front porch. "You have no respect for nature."

Chris dropped his box of cleaning supplies and wiped sweat from his freckled forehead with a shirt sleeve. "So what? It's all getting bull-dozed anyway."

"You don't know that."

He chuckled. "No one's gonna buy a shabby, seventy-year-old cabin with a leaky roof and no indoor plumbing."

Esther frowned. "It has its charm."

"This cabin is a piece of crap."

She dug a key from her back pocket and slipped it into the enormous keyhole on the front door. "Grampa loved this place."

"Grampa was crazy."

Not really. Esther's grandfather had only been a little touched in the head before he disappeared, but that was because of his stroke. It wasn't his fault.

She rattled the doorknob. "It's stuck."

"Let me," Chris said, reaching for the door.

"I'll do it." Harry, Esther's brother, heaved their luggage from the Jeep. He barreled his way between Chris and Esther, his lanky body towering a foot above them both. "Wussies. Leave it to a man to do a man's job."

Chris rolled his eyes.

Harry rammed the door with his shoulder. "It's not... stuck... any... more." He grunted and flung himself against the plank of old boards. The hinges gave way and the door flew inward. "I'll fix it tomorrow."

Esther stood facing the open doorway and stared in disbelief. "Good lord!"

Chris stood beside her. "What the hell happened in here?"

"Some cobwebs and a little dust. No big deal. What do you expect after two years?" Harry peeled a matted web from the front of his shirt as he turned around. He took one look at the walls inside. "Holy shit!"

Streaks of sunlight cut through a fog of disturbed dust and shone over dingy gray walls covered with writing.

Chris's eyes widened as he scanned the string of foreign words on all four walls. "Looks like it was written with brown paint."

Harry leaned close to a wall and sniffed. He shook his head. "Not paint. Smells like blood to me."

Esther stayed in the doorway, amazed by the scope of writing that filled nearly every inch of wall space. The alphabet was English, but the combination of letters looked like nonsense. Was this Grampa's work? She squinted, a word she recognized catching her attention. She pointed at it and said, "Does that say 'humbenthalos'?"

"Yeah," Harry said. "That's what Grampa used to call the hummingbirds. Check out how it's repeated over and over."

"He'd told us he made it up. I wonder if he made all this up, too." Esther stepped into the room to take it all in. "But when? Before or after his stroke?"

Chris shook his head. "Doesn't matter. It's all coming down anyway."

"I wish you'd stop saying that." She ran her hand across one of the words and sniffed her fingers before wiping them on her jeans. "I wonder where the blood came from."

Harry tilted his head toward the kitchen. "I think your answer is in here."

At the far corner of the kitchen lay the dried, partially decomposed corpses of several animals. Esther couldn't tell for sure what they'd been before their mutilation, but she recognized at least one raccoon and a skunk. The long, skeletal snout peeking from the bottom of the heap was probably a coyote.

"Now that's disgusting." Chris covered his nose with the hem of his shirt.

The carcasses were mummified and didn't smell like anything, but Esther detected a very faint scent of dry earth mixed with rotting vegetables. Though it was the height of summer, not a single fly hovered around the mound of decaying bodies.

Esther knew she should be repulsed, but she felt fascinated instead. The condition of her grandfather's cabin was like a puzzle that had a solution for opening doors to places she'd only dreamed of...

Harry tapped her lightly on the shoulder. "Earth to Esther."

She spun around to face him. "I was just thinking how odd that it doesn't stink in here."

Chris still had his nose covered. "Are you sure?"

"Yeah, man," Harry said. "It just smells like dust."

Chris backed out of the kitchen. "I need some air." He rushed outside to the porch.

Harry followed. "You okay?"

Chris bent forward to clasp his hands over his thick knees. Sweat darkened the red hair at the back of his neck and his pudgy sides heaved like a bellows. "I'm fine. Couldn't breathe in there, that's all."

Harry overturned a bucket from the box of cleaning stuff and sat, gesturing for Chris to do the same. Esther joined them, settling herself on the weather-polished boards of the porch floor.

"I used to love this place when I was a kid," Chris said. "But now it creeps me out."

"Because Grampa's dead?" Harry asked.

Chris stared at him. "No, idiot. Because of the blood on the walls and the dead animals in the kitchen. That's not normal."

"Maybe Grampa isn't dead," Esther said.

Both men looked at her as if she'd just sprouted a third eye.

End of Part 1
Tune in next Saturday, October 8, for Part 2 of Humbenthalos

© 2011 Karen Duvall