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Dave Foreman

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A Rip In Time
by Dave Foreman   

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A time travel Romantic adventure taking place in the present and in mediaeval England.


Joan Walker is a bored insurance clerk.

A strange looking decanter, purchased from a curio shop in a small New England town catapults her through time to medieval England, where she meets Edward, a British nobleman and the man of her dreams.

She wants to stay with him but realizes that in doing so she is risking her sanity and her life.

Slipping back and forth over centuries, she tries to unravel the mystery of the decanter and find a way of living the fantasy that is becoming all too real . . .


. . . As she opened the door to get into the MG, a cloud passed in front of the sun. She turned to see what had caused the sudden darkness and her gaze fell on a little curio shop a couple of doors down from the restaurant. It wasn't much, just a doorway with a little peaked roof over it sandwiched between a real estate office and a lady's wear store, but the sign was intriguing. It was hand-lettered in an old-fashioned calligraphy script and, although it was weathered and old, the lettering was firm and quite beautiful. The name was interesting, too - A Little Place of Wonder.

Joan couldn't resist. She absent-mindedly closed the door of the MG and walked over to the shop. It was perfect; the window in the door comprised nine rectangular panes with just the right amount of dust in the corners. She turned the ornate door handle and walked in to the sound of a tinkling bell.

A well-dressed elderly lady turned from arranging trinkets on the shelf behind the counter. "Hello," she said pleasantly.

"Hi," Joan responded. "What a lovely shop."

"Oh, thank you. It was my mother's before me and her mother's before that." She looked at Joan conspiratorially. "They say my grandmother was a witch. Practiced her craft in Massachusetts before moving here. You know how these old stories go. Supposedly, she fell in love with a British nobleman from the past who took her on trips through time to his realm in medieval England. She died mysteriously when she was in her late thirties. Interesting story." The woman chuckled musically.

Joan was fascinated. "Tell me more," she said eagerly.

"No more to tell." That's what makes a good ghost story. Plenty of mystery and very few details.

While Joan was drinking in the atmosphere, her eyes lit on a small decanter. The glass was brownish, semi-opaque and covered with unusual symbols. There was something odd about it

"It's never been opened." The voice of the shopkeeper awakened Joan from her reverie. "It's very old.

Joan had to have it. "How much?" she asked.

"Fifteen dollars," said the shopkeeper. "Are you sure you don't want something else? I have lots of lovely souvenirs."

"No. No. This." Joan picked up the decanter and placed it on the counter. Then she took out a twenty-dollar bill and handed it to the woman.

"Going to seem strange without that on the shelf," the proprietor said. "It was here when I took the place over."

"Thank you," Joan said, rushing out and clutching the decanter close to her. She hurried to the car, placed the decanter gently on the passenger seat, and pulled away.

As she drove, her eyes kept wandering to the bottle. It had felt empty when she bought it, but she wasn't sure it was. She couldn't wait for dark so she could stop for the night and study her new purchase.

Soon the sun began to set and she started watching for motels. There! The Oasis. Not the Ritz Carlton, but it looked clean and had a nice bright Vacancy sign.

Hurriedly, she traded her credit card information for a room key, pulled the MG around to the designated parking spot, opened the room door and stumbled in with a bag in each hand and her precious glass decanter tucked carefully under one arm.

As she was unpacking, Joan caught her reflection in the mirror. Naturally curly brown hair, long enough to be sexy, short enough to be easy to handle. Decent body. She was in good shape, worked out regularly, and she knew she could turn heads pretty well any time she wanted. Chuck had certainly never complained. She had a cute oval face, pert and devilish with dancing green eyes that twinkled enough to give almost everything she said a hint of double entendre. "You'll pass, kid," she said nonchalantly to her reflection.

Ten minutes later she was unpacked and sprawled out on the bed, turning the decanter over in her hands. There was a small, neatly folded parchment tied to the neck of the bottle with a gold string. She unfolded it and looked at the faded writing. It appeared to be in Latin and Joan couldn't understand a word. She twisted the glass stopper experimentally. It slid easily out of the decanter. Interesting aroma. Kind of musty. Not objectionable really . . .

A clap of thunder jolted her awake. The accompanying lightning flash was so bright, even through the heavy motel drapes, that it lit up the room enough for her to see a shadowy figure in the corner. She was terrified. She leaped off the bed and tried to scream, but the sound died in her throat. She reached for the phone, but it was too far away, and she was afraid to move.

"I am here for you," came a sepulchral voice from the corner of the room.

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