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Authors: Arby Robbins

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Dream Tunnel

BOOK: Dream Tunnel
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Very special thanks to

Don and Nancy Neuman

 

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the author.

 

 

DREAM TUNNEL

 

First eBook Edition

December 2012

 

Copyright © 2012 by Arby Robbins

 

Copy Editing by Always Write

http://www.alwayswrite.us/

 

Cover design by Robin Ludwig Design Inc.

http://www.gobookcoverdesign.com/

 

Cave photo by Creative Coop

istockphoto.com/leobold/

Girl photo by Igor Balasanov

istockphoto.com/_IB_/

Cast of Characters

 

Conroe Williamson

17-year old girl who time travels to bring back her true love

 

Crane Carmichael

the 17-year old boy Conroe loves

 

Geneva Station

Conroe’s best friend

 

Wilford “Will” Wincraft

the boy chosen by the queen for her daughter to marry

 

Queen Connie Williamson

Conroe’s mother - Queen of Ampla

 

Wally Williamson

Queen Connie’s husband and Conroe’s father

 

Opal Edelsburg

Queen Connie’s evil twin sister

 

Frederick Edelsburg

Opal’s son and Conroe’s cousin

 

Tonya Meloni

girl trying to steal Crane from Conroe

 

Nurse Olive “Old Cracker” Olgencracker

administrator of Philanopian “Philly” Children’s Home

 

Kelsey, Emily and Libby

Tonya’s friends at Philly

Dedicated to my wife,

Lynda

Your love inspires me

"
There is no difference between Time and any of the three dimensions of Space except that our consciousness moves along it."

— H.G. Wells,
The Time Machine

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

1

 

C
onroe Williamson stepped into the shopping mall looking for trouble, wearing a black leather motorcycle jacket and pants with spike-toed combat boots that added two inches of height to her lean, muscular, six-foot frame. Lipstick color: Dead Black. The silver ring in her nose matched the ones in her ears. Her braid of dark brown hair hung at her back, curled up at the end, threatening onlookers like a venomous snake. The message tattooed across her forehead echoed her attitude: FLUSH IT.

A young mother stared at her as she walked by—obviously wondering what kind of horrible parents raised such a freak. Conroe saw the disdain in her eyes and smirked at her. The woman clutched her two children close to her sides, as though Conroe might try to snatch them away and bite their heads off.

A group of boys clowned around near the escalators. The leader of the pack shot Conroe a wink. Cocky and good-looking, he was probably the star quarterback. But she had no use for him or any of his teammates. She was looking for trouble, but not
that
kind of trouble.

Conroe saw cliques of girls shopping for clothes, flirting with boys, and eating ice cream in the food court—doing all the things that girly girls do. Maybe she would walk up and punch one of their pretty little faces. She wondered if a broken and bloody nose would be enough to get her thrown in jail. It was an option.

She stopped at a water fountain and overheard two girls talking. From what she could gather, they were planning some kind of mischief, and Conroe wanted to watch. It was a diversion, to be sure, and she had an agenda, a critical mission. Still, she couldn’t resist.

She followed the two girls into Babes, a teen clothing boutique. They headed straight for the sixty percent-off table, which was stacked with hundreds of pairs of shorts in a dozen different pastel shades. One of the girls grabbed a couple of pairs, seemingly at random, and took them into a dressing room, while the other continued to rummage through the pile.

Conroe stopped at a rack of costume jewelry nearby and pretended to study several of the items while waiting for the girls to put on their show.

The girl walked out of the dressing room wearing a pair of pink shorts, with only a black bra on top. “Well, Tiff—what do you think?” She struck a sexy pose.

Tiffany laughed. “That looks
hot
, Rachel.”

A middle-aged clerk intervened. “Miss, you can’t walk out here dressed like that.”

“Why? Oh—is it the bra? Is it the fact that it doesn’t match the shorts?”

“No. I just need you to—”

“Well, I like black, and I think it goes very well with pink. But if it’s against some stupid store policy to wear black with pink, I can solve that problem.” Rachel unhooked her bra, took it off, and slung it across the saleswoman’s shoulder. “How’s that?”

“Young lady, get back in the dressing room!”

Tiffany began laughing hysterically.

Several customers turned to see what was happening. Two pre-teen girls giggled.

“Please!” The saleswoman placed the bra cups over Rachel’s breasts and pushed her backward, toward the dressing rooms.

“Get your hands off me,” Rachel said.

Conroe had enjoyed watching the girls’ antics, but now it was time to get down to business. She stuffed dozens of the cheap jewelry items into her jacket pockets and walked out of the store.

The security alarm sounded.

Conroe froze.

“I saw what you did,” said an unfamiliar female voice.

The girl was two inches taller than Conroe, and twenty pounds heavier. She wore a denim jacket over a black T-shirt, with faded jeans and white sneakers. Her blond hair was cropped short enough to make her look like a boy—although the large breasts dispelled that possibility.

“It’s none of your business,” Conroe said, turning away, wondering what was taking the mall cops so long to get there.

The girl grabbed Conroe’s shoulder and spun her back around.

Conroe saw the fist coming toward her face and ducked.

The girl lost her balance and fell down. But she jumped right back up and cocked her fist.

“Stop!” a man yelled.

When the girls caught a glimpse of the skinny young man in uniform holding a shaking pistol, they threw their hands into the air.

“Why are you pointing that gun at me?” asked the girl. “This ain’t no bank robbery, Junior.”

“Both of you put your hands against the wall.” His voice cracked, as though he hadn’t quite made it through puberty.

He handcuffed the girl. A second guard arrived to cuff Conroe.

“You’re ridiculous,” said the girl to the skinny guard. “You wear that uniform like a skinny old lady.”

“We’ll see who’s ridiculous,” he replied, “when you’re sitting in jail.”

The girl snapped at Conroe, “What are you looking at, chicky? Wait until they put us in a cell together. I’m gonna tear your face off and stuff it down your throat.”

Conroe smiled. The first step of her plan had worked—although not exactly as she had envisioned it.

 

 

 

 

 

 

2

 

O
fficer Johnson, a young black policewoman, sat between the two girls in the back seat of the cruiser. Her forty-something white male partner started the engine and drove out of the police station parking lot.

Conroe peered over the top of the front seat to check the time on the dashboard. It was 9:45 p.m. They had been at the police station for three hours. “Where are you taking us—jail?”

Officer Johnson answered, “Nope. You lucked out. The store manager agreed to drop the misdemeanor charges if we admitted you to Philanopian Children’s Home.”

“A children’s home?” Conroe asked. “I don’t belong in a children’s home.”

“Sure you do,” said the other girl, “because you’re a kid punk.”

“You’re going there too,” reminded the male cop.

“I’m a grown woman,” said the girl.

“You’re both seventeen,” replied Officer Johnson, “and neither of you have got any living relatives—at least none that we could locate—so you’re both going to Philly.”

“Philly?” the girl asked.

“That’s what everybody calls it. It’s a good place. They help a lot of kids. So, when you get there, try to be civil. Otherwise, you may get shipped off to juvie.” She looked at one girl and then the other, studying them in the beam of headlights from oncoming cars. “I don’t know if you two have been formally introduced, so let me do the honors. Conroe Williamson, meet Tonya Meloni.”

Both girls stared straight ahead.

“Shake hands.” The female cop took each of their right hands and touched them together. “I said, shake hands.”

Conroe took Tonya’s hand.

Tonya squeezed it hard.

Conroe squeezed back.

It turned into a death match—each one trying to out-squeeze the other.

Officer Johnson popped them in the foreheads with the back of her hands. “Cool it.”

They let go.

Tonya said, “Conroe? What kind of a name is that? Your parents named you after a city? If they were gonna do that, they should have gone big and named you Houston.” She laughed.

“I think going big would have been more appropriate for your parents.”

Tonya lurched at Conroe, but Officer Johnson elbowed her in the ribs, and she retreated.

“Actually, I was named after my mother. She’s the one who was named after the city.”

“Well, I’m just glad to know the name of the person I plan to kill.”

Officer Johnson said, “Now, Tonya, let’s try to have a positive attitude. No more talk about killing anybody. I know you didn’t really mean that anyway.”

“We’ll see,” Tonya replied, eying Conroe.

BOOK: Dream Tunnel
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ads

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