UPDATE: TIME’S UP!!! THANK YOU TO EVERYONE WHO ENTERED!
It’s that time. I’m pleased to announce the opening of THE SURPRISINGLY ESSENTIAL FIRST PAGE CHALLENGE!
Before I get to the guidelines, I’m also pleased to introduce the contest’s co-judge, my very good friend Holly Burns, author of the wonderful and hilarious blog Nothing But Bonfires. I conned, er, persuaded Holly to participate because: 1) she’s British (I mean, they invented the darn language), 2) she’s an extremely talented writer (did I mention her wonderful and hilarious blog that you should already be reading?), and 3) I thought it would be helpful to have a judge from outside the publishing industry, the type of person who might pick up your book in the bookstore after reading the first page — in other words, THIS IS YOUR READER.
So a massive thank you in advance to Holly for agreeing to participate.
And now for the contest guidelines:
1) All may participate. First pages may be from your work in progress or one you invented solely for the SEFPC. I’ve learned my lesson from contests past, and am limiting entries to one (1) per person.
b) Leave your first page in the comments section of this post. People who subscribe to the blog via e-mail: please click through to the site and leave your pages on the actual blog. Entries that are e-mailed to me will not be counted.
4.6) First pages are limited to 500 words. Use them wisely. Paragraphs should be single-spaced with double-spaces between paragraphs (like how this blog post is formatted). Please do not get crazy with your formatting.
+) The preliminary deadline for entries is Wednesday at 5:00 PM Pacific time although for some reason I always end up changing my mind about these deadlines, so please keep checking back. Nominees will be announced whenever Holly and I have had a chance to decide upon them, and you will have a chance to vote on the ultimate winner.
£) Spreading word about the contest on the Internet is encouraged. I am ready to judge this contest. No matter what. Even a million entries will not faze me. My voice only quivered a little when I said that.
X) And the prizes! The ultimate grand prize deluxe winner will receive the satisfaction of knowing they have a seriously awesome first page, and will have a choice of a query critique, partial critique, 10 minute phone conversation, or one of my clients’ books. Runners-up will receive a query critique or other agreed-upon prize.
And that is it! Keep checking back for updates because these guidelines may be changed on a whim. Thank you again to Holly (here’s her blog one more time) and good luck!
Who has the most surprisingly essential first page? Let’s find out.
Dinah Night says
The Colony
In the mountains to the north, an ursalea roared, and Kara Van Horne increased her pace. Following the road through the forest of banded-ring trees, she cradled her newborn inside the sling fastened around her shoulder. The last bit of sunlight squeezed through the forest ceiling creating slithering shadows on the ground and in the trees. Above her, seedpods rattled, making her flinch and ratcheting her nerves.
One foot after the other, she moved toward Hopewell Towne where she would find formula to feed her baby, where her brother-in-law Raphael Van Horne was governor. Something stabbed her leg. She squealed and bit her tongue, feeling wet trickle down her calf. Her cry and bloody smell would attract the ursalea.
She pulled a flashlight from her apron pocket and turned it on. When she strayed from the road, needle bush thorns had sliced through her skirt and skewered her calf and thigh. She pointed the flashlight down the road. In the twilight, nothing seemed unfamiliar.
Childbirth had stolen her strength. Her breasts produced no milk, although she’d pinched them until they bled.
“Guide me, Good-God,” Kara prayed, but she didn’t think the Good-God would help her. Her husband Mycah had forbidden anyone to leave the Good-God Settlement. She had only herself. If she walked slowly, she would feel the pavement through the thin soles of her shoes and avoid tripping over the plants growing in the cracks.
“I’m nearly there,” she said, but a voice inside her whispered that she hadn’t even reached the river, the halfway point. If this baby died, she’d go crazy. She’d run around in circles and bay at the moon, but which moon, Big John or Little John? Nothing came easy on Humana for those following the Good-God, not even going insane.
She lurched into a clearing with a stockade in the center–the abandoned Settlement of Bidens. It was full dark, the sky clear. Humana’s two moons were full, Little John appearing to chase Big John. She inhaled the night’s damp scent, free of outhouse stink and wood smoke.
The stockade gate hung open. The deserted cabins had once housed the people of Bidens. Their sheep had died the first winter, and they’d moved to Hopewell Towne. They were the lucky ones.
She might find a safe place to spend the night in one of the cabins, but motherly instinct warned that the baby wouldn’t survive the night. It had been too long since the baby’s cry had made her empty breasts ache. The river was a mile away. She must push on.
Her legs trembled and she slumped against a scarlet banded-ring tree. The viney trunk poked her back but she didn’t move. A small creature ran over her foot but she didn’t turn the flashlight.
Searching her apron pocket, she felt something hard and rough. She withdrew it and bit off a small piece. The salted goat meat absorbed all moisture from her mouth. Although her jaw ached, she chewed it all.
achap54 says
Savannah Oak/Mainstream/100,000 words
ONE
“A simple ‘I’m proud of you’ would have been nice,” her daughter said as a cool May breeze ruffled her graduation gown.
“Maxine. Honey. I am proud of you,” Haylee Falcon replied. A fact, though she was also confused and disappointed. Eighteen years of loving, developing, and encouraging your child. Eighteen years of focusing on their needs and wants. You coddle them and indulge them. Then, they go off to college and, in four short years, become someone else. A baffling stranger. “But, honey, I don’t understand why you’re not going to law school. You have an outstanding GPA and your LSATs are out of sight.”
“I’m not ready.” Maxine removed her graduation gown and shoved the honors cords into her purse. “I don’t want to be a lawyer.”
Not what Haylee wanted to hear. “What exactly do you want to be?”
“I don’t know.”
The answer cut into her. Her baby adrift. No. Not right. Maxine had a superb education, a sharp mind, and a bright future. But, indecision? Doing nothing? Going nowhere? It didn’t add up. What a waste. Sad.
“Mom. What’s wrong?”
Haylee straightened, and shook her head. “Nothing.”
Maxine’s green eyes turned skeptical.
Haylee met her daughter’s gaze and forced a smile. “Nothing. Nothing at all. I’m fine.”
* * *
Fifteen Months Later
The swift drive across Savannah to her daughter’s place was not a trip Haylee Falcon often made nor one she looked forward to.
Maxine’s apartment was in a depressed part of town with dangerous people who made Haylee uncomfortable. With a sigh of resignation, she pulled into the barren, pot-holed, weed-strewn parking lot.
She opened the door, stepped out into the summer heat, and slung her purse over her shoulder. The snub-nose Colt revolver inside the purse bounced reassuringly on her hip as, grey heels clicking on the cracked concrete, she headed toward Maxine’s apartment at the back of the complex. The dense shrubs needed pruning and the parched lawn could use weed killer. But then, what could you expect for four hundred a month?
She spotted a dime on the sidewalk. Stopped. Picked it up. Pocketed it. She thought about how foolish she must look, but Daddy would have been proud.
At the front of Maxine’s building, she punched the yellowed entrance button. The lock buzzed open. She swept into the lobby, climbed the frayed carpeted stairs to the second floor, took the pitted knocker for 2A in her fingers, and struck the base twice. Wham! Wham! The deafening sound reverberated in the small hall.
While she waited, she noticed music from inside the apartment and hoped the percussion of the knocker had penetrated the chaotic noise.
Haylee raised her hand to knock again when the off-white door swung open and there stood Maxine … alive and, apparently, well. Thank God.
She wore the blue silk jammy bottoms Haylee had given her last Christmas and a white stretch tank top. No makeup. No nail polish. Her blondish brown hair was tangled and greasy. She smelled like she hadn’t showered for days. Though never a tidy person, she had always kept herself pristinely clean.
ineti says
From Horus Reborn, urban fantasy:
The prowler signed out to officers David Jenson and John DeVries tore through Argent’s grimy warehouse district. Its sirens bounced off the pockmarked buildings lining the narrow street on either side. The blue LEDs on the sedan’s roof reflected off the new snow dusting the battered pavement.
Jenson pulled his seat harness tighter as his partner slid the prowler into a corner. Tires screamed as they sought purchase on the snow-dusted road. Tire smoke tickled Jenson’s throat and watered his eyes. The vehicle they had been chasing for the last several blocks, a rusted import with a surprisingly strong engine, roared down the street ahead of them.
“We’re gaining on ‘em!” cried DeVries.
Jenson held on tight as DeVries slalomed the car, first avoiding a wandering tomcat then just missing a flaming trash can that had been set off to one side. DeVries let out a whoop as the street cleared in front of them and mashed the accelerator to the floor.
Jenson felt himself pushed back into his seat as the prowler leapt toward their quarry. Jenson spared a glance in the side mirror. Their backup slid into view behind them, coming around the corner with less agility than DeVries had managed.
Over the roar of the engine and the blaring of the sirens, Jenson yelled, “Annie and Keller are right behind us!”
DeVries tightened his grip on the wheel. “Good. We’re getting these suckers!”
Jenson squinted ahead as the import grew larger in the windshield. He glanced at the monitor on the dashboard and swore. “It’s too dark to get a good image!”
DeVries slapped a hand against the steering wheel and then clutched it tight again so that he could swerve around a vagrant who had wandered out into the street. “Man, I wish we had better gear!”
Jenson glanced at the surroundings blurring by. “Keep on them, Dev. They get deep enough into the warehouses, we may never find them.”
“They’re not getting away from us. No way am I letting all this great driving go to waste.”
Jenson spared his partner a grin, then spoke into his headset. “Two-Lincoln-Ten, Two-Lincoln-Four. Copy?”
“Two-Lincoln-Ten, copy. What’s up?”
Jenson glanced in the side mirror again. The LEDs on Annie’s prowler flashed behind them. “Annie? These perps might bolt once we’re in deep. Hang back a bit in case they get around us.”
Under Annie’s confirmation, DeVries muttered, “They’re not getting around us.”
The driver ahead swerved around the corner of a dilapidated warehouse and then darted down a trash-filled alley. DeVries slung their prowler in after them. The perp tried to turn out of the alley, but clipped his bumper on the corner of the next building in line. The import spun in the snow and slapped into a chipped brick wall.
Jules says
Caspian’s Eye – Romantic Suspense-105,000 words
Jillian Parker had been staring at the bills and delinquent notices for over an hour and still couldn’t believe it.
Needing to quell the panic tightening its grip on her chest, she’d called the utility companies and the marina where the boat was stored, hoping she’d been wrong. She’d called all of their suppliers from the small shop that provided their letterhead and business cards, to the man who delivered the bottled water, praying she’d made a mistake on her math.
The answer was the same every time.
She’d turned her attention to the bank statements and had crunched the numbers every way possible; scoured through deposit slips to make sure nothing had been missed. Her efforts were fruitless. She arrived at the same devastating conclusion no matter how she worked it.
Treasures of the Sea was teetering dangerously close to bankruptcy.
Leaving the desk and the pile of debt behind, she raked her fingers through her auburn strands and walked to the window of her father’s second story office.
Blue sky above, frothing ocean below, the waves of the Pacific charged into the shores of Monterey with its regular exuberance and consistency. She knew she’d give just about anything to immerse herself in the crystalline depths; anything to lose herself in the silence and solitude it offered. She also knew running away wouldn’t resolve the disappearing money issue.
Better to muddle through it now, she figured, then to waste a good dive.
With a heavy sigh, she tucked her fingers into the back pockets of her blue jeans and tried to calm herself with the serenity of the view.
She spent the majority of her time several stories above the water these days, rather than a hundred feet below it, though she still managed three to four dives a year. Having spent months at a time out to sea during her graduate studies, she was more than willing to let Michael have charge of the backbreaking salvage work required for their parents antiquities business. Still, there were times she missed the thrill of the hunt, the joy of discovery. Times she ached for the quiet comfort only the blue abyss seemed to provide.
She glanced down at her arms as she crossed them over her breasts.
There were times she missed the deeper glow of her skin such a regular dive schedule provided, she thought, rather than its current shade of stuck-in-the-lab white.
With a deep breath she massaged her temples as she tried to wrap her mind around the recent information.
She’d known her parents weren’t rich, but to discover they’d been on the verge of losing their business, their livelihood, was heartbreaking. She couldn’t even question why they’d never said anything to her or Michael because she knew the answer. They loved their children too much to burden them with such worrisome news.
Jan Whitaker says
Starving for Life – 65,000[guess, not finished]
Chapter 1
Never again. Never ever again. Pauline tugged her knees to her chest and buried her face in the pillow. The stench of the alley still stung her nose, even though she had fled Melbourne hours ago. But here she was safe, at least until they found her.
###
Brrrrrzzzzz. Brzz. Brzz. Brrrrzzzzzzzz.
Sadhu rolled over and looked at the bedside clock. Two-fifteen. Who in the world would be ringing the doorbell at this ungodly hour?
Pulling on a fleecy robe and sliding her feet into slippers, she padded downstairs. ‘Coming.’
She tried to keep her voice low to
avoid waking Michelle, still hopefully asleep despite the disturbance. Freud sat on the doormat, hissing at the catflap, not daring to go out. Brrzzzz.
Sadhu flipped on the porch light and peered through the narrow gap in the lace curtains beside the front door.
Pauline’s father, Peter Granger, stood in the yellow glow.
Sadhu twisted the deadbolt and threw open the door, clutching her robe tightly to her chest.
‘Mr Granger? What’s wrong?’
Panic filled his normally hooded eyes, wide in the porch light, but his body was stiff and tall, his barrister demeanor maintaining its dominance. ‘Pauline’s gone. I thought she might have come here. Her mother and I are very worried.’
‘Come in. It’s warmer inside.’ She stood back to let him into the entryway. Keep calm. ‘Pauline’s not here, though. How long has she been missing this time?’
Sadhu studied his face for a sign, worried that there was more going on. Mr Granger always called when Pauline pulled one of her disappearing acts; he never came to Sadhu’s home outside office hours. Pauline was well on her way to recovery from her eating disorder after months of therapy. Her disappearing acts were more for assertion of her own seventeen-year-old independence, taking control of her life and her decisions.
Granger unbuttoned his coat in the warmth of the foyer, pulled the scarf from around his neck and crumpled it in his long-fingered hands. ‘She left home after tea, around six, supposedly going to Sarah Middleton’s to study for her French exam. The Middletons are only three blocks away, so I didn’t need to give her a lift.’
‘Yes, I know Mrs Middleton from the church.’
‘We expected her home by ten, ten-thirty at the latest. When she didn’t turn up, my wife rang Pauline’s mobile to see what was keeping her, but Pauline didn’t answer. So Monique rang the Middletons and found out from Sarah that Pauline hadn’t been there at all. Dr Singh, Pauline isn’t a liar. Or at least she hasn’t been till now.’
This was different. Pauline had — correction: has — her problems with food and self-esteem, but truth had always been one thing Sadhu could count on with her patient. They struck the deal when Pauline’s therapy started: no lies, no matter what. Maybe Pauline didn’t see it the same way with her parents.
Neptoon says
Aloha Nathan the Brave,
If I could make you a tribal member, we would call you “Runs With Words”
From wip, titled Render Loving Care, The Story of a C.I.A. Kidnappee
“Yetcchhh,” Woody blurted to no one in particular.
His body jerked spasmodically and his right foot involuntarily slammed down upon the accelerator. The V-Dub camper he is driving responded just like his body, crossing over bumpy lane dividers to the left…then bumpy lane dividers to the right.
“This crap tastes like turds from a vinegar vat!”
Frantically fighting the urge to shut “now-I-can’t-see-a-lick” watery eyes, mixed with an equally overwhelming desire to hurl major chunks, Woody continued to French kiss the matchbox.
Meanwhile his left hand madly sought for control of the steering, while his right hand faithfully twisted and turned the object of his affection.
No problema! Woody Wanamaker is used to being out of control.
Struggling to keep the Germanic house-on-wheels from doing a highway boogaloo with the eighteen-wheeler Peterbilt passing on the right, he forced his tongue deeper into the tight corners of the cardboard box. Woody is determined to lap up of every last grain of the crystalline white powder within…no matter what the stuff is…or how bad it tastes.
Woody is on a mission!
Only the camper’s lovely purple and orange Hawaiian-style curtains keep the other freeway denizens from seeing the driver’s peculiar antics. Not that Woody is exactly in a “caring what other people think” kind of mood. No Sirree, Bob!
His haywire emotions are running a brutal gauntlet…being pummeled back and forth, ping-pong style, between fear and outright anger.
Woodrow I. Wanamaker doesn’t need this new job, and he sure as hell doesn’t want to go to this silly job interview.
He had arisen at 5:00 AM, dressed his best for failure, having borrowed everything but the knee high moccasins, and then set out from a friend’s house in Malibu to face his destiny. Woody had previously asked said so-called friend to help with his plight, but all his crony came up with was this stupid matchbox with about half a teaspoon of white powder in it. His old pal, Denny McNuttly, told him to ingest the stuff when he was about a half hour away from his destination.
At the time Woody had been righteously pissed, but said nothing to his good buddy who he knew was only trying to help.
Yet here he is twenty minutes away from exactly where he doesn’t want to be. And what the hell good is a tiny box of fairy dust going to do anyhow?
Nevertheless Woody continued squishing his tongue into the corners of the box…just in case…while steadying the course of the mobile Deutschlander shoebox.
McNuttly had never let him down before.
Truth be told, Woody has never been high on anything stronger than beer in his whole life…a purity that is about to experience a significant change.
haggis says
I’d been trying to put it off, because…well…I guess I might just be a little bit shy around girls, but Earl insisted.
“Look. She’s there. You’re here. The time’s right. Do it,” he told me.
Earl’s pushy that way. I know he means well, but sometimes it pisses me off. The other guys say their ghosts aren’t nearly that demanding.
“Okay, I’ll do it,” I said, “But you’ve got to promise not to get inside my head like you’re always doing. I can’t listen to two conversations at the same time.”
Earl nodded in agreement, but I knew he didn’t mean it.
I took a deep breath, and walked into the G. Mennen Williams Middle School library. There she was in all her glorious cuteness, Mary Margaret Kwiatkowski. She sat at the far table, next to a window, the bright sun backlighting her long blond hair. I grabbed a National Geographic from the shelf, and me and Earl walked over. He leaned back against the wall, while I took a chair directly across from her. She looked at me and smiled, then returned her big blue eyes to her book.
Well, what are you waiting for? asked Earl.
“What do you mean?” I mumbled.
“Did you say something, Robby?” asked Mary Margaret, her smile a silvery mouthful of braces.
“Uh, sorry. No. Just…um…talking to myself.”
She chuckled, then returned to her book, while I just sat there feeling stupid, and angry with myself for talking instead of thinking my question to Earl.
You’re not staring at her chest. Why the hell do you think we’re here?
Mary Margaret shifted in her seat, leaned forward and stole another peek at me. She was still smiling.
Look, Earl, I just…
Look, yourself, said Earl. She’s fiddling with her top button. That’s one of their signals. They’re tricky, these women. Now go ahead.
Earl, I can’t. I just can’t.
Jesus, Bobby. It’s not like she has much of anything to see. She probably just wants you to notice she’s finally wearing a bra. Can’t you accommodate her on that one simple thing?
I don’t understand. Why would she want me to know that?
Damn it son, nobody understands why women think the way they do. Now would you get with the program?
Once again he gave me no choice, so I trained my eyes on what would have been Mary Margaret’s boobs if she had any. A few seconds later, her eyes met mine again, and she saw where I was staring. She screwed up her mouth into an awful, ugly scowl.
“Pervert,” she spat at me. She snatched up her book and flounced away from the table
I spun around and glared at Earl.
He shrugged. See? She likes you.
And that’s pretty much the way my life’s gone since Earl became a part of it on my eleventh birthday.
Rachael W says
El Ladron: A Novel of Ancient Spain (Historical Fiction)
God moves in mysterious ways His wonders to perform. A chance encounter here, a well-made decision there—either can determine the direction of your life. Had Miguel not convinced me that this exploratory undertaking was worthwhile, had I not peered over the wall as an insatiable onlooker to the first in a great chain of events that would ensure the legend of El Cid–
But I get ahead of myself. Let me just say that it is truly amazing where a worthless life and a cynical attitude will get you.
* * *
Conde Rodrigo Diaz de Vivar, the most famed and gentlemanly noble of Burgos, lived in a large stone structure abutting the city keep. Compared to the rest of the houses within the town walls, his home was magnificent, but Burgos had seen little of the Conde since his childhood.
Rodrigo, at age thirty-eight, had already become something of a hero to the Castilian people. Even I had heard of his exploits. On the battlefield, he had distinguished himself as the commander of both Sancho’s and Alfonso’s armies. Many years later, a soldier would tell me that Alfonso was nothing, militarily, without Diaz.
But in the moment that I first laid eyes on the man who would have so much impact on my life—on so many lives—he merely appeared defeated.
A group of men were gathered in front of the Conde’s house, astride horses that occasionally pawed the ground in impatience. I had never seen such finery before. Their mantles were made of a cloth that shone when the light struck it and embroidered at the edges with thread that glistened. I had no doubt that even one of those mantles would enable Miguel and I to live like kings for a year.
Miguel and I had clambered onto a nearby wall to better see the goings-on. Perched as we were, we were also less likely to be seen. Miguel had to strain to distinguish the men’s identities.
“Which one’s the Conde?” he squeaked, his voice several shades higher in his enthusiasm. “Do you know, Lázaro?”
I pointed to the only man who appeared as if he could live up to the name of Rodrigo Diaz. He was standing apart from the rest of the men, facing them squarely, but his posture suggested that he welcomed their presence. Fine lines traced a pattern across his hard features, deepening with every frown.
“We came as soon as we received the news,” said the youngest man. “How many days have you left?”
Diaz shook his head. “Six.”
“Cierto, that doesn’t give us much time,” said a slightly older man.
“To reach the borders of the king’s lands? No, not much time at all,” Diaz responded.
“Jesu Cristo, why do you wait?” asked the oldest and least well-dressed of the men. “You know that King Alfonso, long may he live, will have your head if he discovers you’re not four miles from the very spot where he banished you.”
Rebecca Kaminsky says
Down Will Come Baby: How Postpartum Depression Made Me a Better Mother –approx 90,000 words
The shoes are retro, a big fat wedge of rubber platform, with a wide band of silvery blue over the toe. They’ll look great with jeans, the sexy heel showing just below the flared denim pant leg. I wonder where my pre-baby jeans are?
Jack and I just moved to Oakland from San Francisco with our newborn son, Simon. We drove a moving truck over the Bay Bridge when Simon was just seven days old. Now it’s his one-month “birthday,” and I finally feel like I can nurse without feeling self-conscious. We’re going to celebrate– have dinner out with the baby.
I find the jeans in a box, way in the back of our closet. No spit up stains. A quick look in the bassinet– excellent. Simon is still sleeping. I pull on one leg and then the other in front of the full-length mirror built in to the closet door. The jeans slide on magically –past the “point of no return”—my ass. Hooray! I haven’t worn anything but sweats and my ratty old Birkenstocks since Simon was born.
Everything is defined that way. Before Baby or After Baby. Wow. Looking into the mirror it feels almost like Before Baby. With improvements. My satiny blouse (also Before Baby) clings to my new post baby figure; my milk-enhanced breasts (After Baby) make it look even better than I remember. I think I’m ready to let my hair out of its practical pony-tail. It’s longer, even curlier than before.
There once was a time I could tell when someone was “checking me out”. In the past year those occasional glances have turned into nice offers of seats as I toddled onto the bus, barely able to balance my giant belly—or post-birth offers to let me go ahead in the grocery line if Simon is crying in his stroller. People notice my situation, but that’s a far cry from noticing me. Now, looking in the mirror, I feel a little charge of the past—my old self snaps back for just a moment.
We get all the baby gear together and go outside. I lead the way down the stairs of our second story apartment, the top floor of an old craftsman. I carry Simon, his eyes closed. I can’t believe he slept through a diaper and outfit change. He’s in his baby “nightgown” with the moons and stars, and swaddled in a matching blanket. Jack follows with the diaper bag and stroller. The narrow paved walkway around the building is unlit, but I notice the bushes have become overgrown and are crowding the path.
I edge along being extra careful not to let the stray branches scratch the baby, and think about whether I want lamb or chicken curry. I can’t wait to get to Ajanta, our favorite Indian restaurant. With any luck, Simon will continue to sleep through the first part of our meal. I see myself dipping a Samosa into tangy coriander chutney and my stomach feels a tug of hunger.
I don’t see the crack in the pavement, the one that catches the toe of my sandal, jolting me forward. I only feel myself falling. My life pitches and then breaks into horrifying movie slow-motion. Simon soars out of my arms with the uncontrollable force of my bodyweight — right onto the cement.
gabor says
My grandfather offers me a cigarette, as he always does, and I accept it with a grateful smile.
“It’s gonna be the death of yours,” he says, the blue flicker of a lighter deepening his wrinkles. “It’s been the death of mine,” he adds a puff or two later.
So I bought this cemetery, and truth be told I’m sitting on a tombstone right now. My grandfather’s one, see? Kolya Stepanovich Volkov, it’s his name, and right now he’s walking up and down in front of me, the restless dead that he is. Some people just never change. It was also Grandfather who coaxed me into buying this plot of goddamn land, but that’s a long story. Sure, I’m gonna tell it, and you’re gonna read it, yet there’s no point in rushing things.
Haste spoils the fun of revelations. Like, if I told you whether I lived to see the end of this story or if I’m just as dead now while writing this as my grandfather is, you’d feel cheated. You’d still wonder, of course, about the nature of our kind of being dead (if I were dead, that is), for it clearly differs from the usual, but you’d feel cheated somewhat. Also, you could guess what kind of fate awaits you, my beloved half-sister. Rest easy now, I’m not gonna reveal for a while whether I live or die.
“Still can’t take your mind off dying, can you?” my grandfather asks me. “All the nonsense they stuffed your head with. You’re either back to dust to be excavated a thousand years from now by some Darwinist or you go to some kind of hell or heaven. Reborn sometime, at best.”
“You’re wrong, Grandpa.” I put out my cigarette, shaking my head and glancing at the sad, towering clouds above.”What I’m thinking about is all the dead I’ve got to take care of soon. By when should we expect them?”
He stops. “Expect them? They’re already here. If you can’t feel them, just look behind you. There’s young Mr. Collins, only he’s ever polite, that’s why he kept silent so far,” Grandfather says. “Step closer, son.”
You remember Mr. Collins, sister? He used to do your homework in high school, when you were too lazy to care about anything else but your music and your ‘lovers’, Jon Collins himself included. He was especially diligent about anatomy. Your anatomy, that is. But he went too far. That’s why we, me and the boys had to beat him, and beat him so badly he can now be staring at my neck. I do feel that now. Not as if we had wanted to kill him. You didn’t know it was us who did that, did you, sister? We ourselves learned about it only a few years later, and so far we never told anyone.
“You’re a bit early,” I say to Jon without turning. “Always an early riser, aren’t you.”
“Dead funny and original, you asshole,” he says.
elizabeth says
Dates and Knowledge
I know we have begun to be accustomed to the desert when I let them tie the live sheep to the luggage rack on top of our four wheel drive. I laugh at the audaciousness of it all; the oddness. I’ve always been kind to animals, taught the children likewise. “If we did this in Oregon, they’d probably put us in jail!” I tell the children, who stare back at me, round-eyed.
We are in Atar, a big village in Mauritania. Where? In general, Americans have not heard of this nation, located on the Western edge of Africa, where sand blows constantly across the low, barren hills and wealth can still be measured in camels. In spite of my careful explanations, many of my friends think I’m in Morocco, or maybe Mauritius.
My husband, Donn, and I came to Mauritania over a year ago to open an English bookstore. We live in the capital city, Nouakchott, in a big white house that has electricity and water most of the time. Due to the simple fact that getting anything done here takes about four times longer than planned, the bookstore is not yet open. Soon, insh’allah. The kids have settled into the local French schools, and we have made friends in both the national and the expatriate communities.
In the summer, when sun and sand conspire to turn the country into a furnace, everyone in Nouakchott returns to their villages for a month or two. They sit under tents which provide a small respite from the glare, and sleep on the sand, their clothing wrapped round their heads. They drink camel’s milk from large bowls, eat dates during the harvest, pray for rain.
This year, we’ve decided to join them. We are off to a village named Oudane for the month of July. We have rented a house there for approximately $10. Our 4×4 is piled high with all that’s needed to furnish a one-room house and kitchen. We have 5 thin foam mattresses, which will serve as couches during the day and beds by night. We have a pitcher and basin with which to wash everyone’s hands before they eat; this is important, as people eat with their hands, and there’s no running water. We have a large sack of rice, and a lot of tinned fruit and vegetables, packed by me in an attempt to keep a certain balance to our diet, in addition to the Mauritanian staples of meat and milk which we’ll purchase there.
But Oudane is a small village, and the herds tend to be a bit lean. Besides, we have a host waiting for us. We’re supposed to bring a gift, and few things are more appropriate than a big fat sheep from Atar. So we stop and Donn haggles with a shepherd from the local market for about 20 minutes. Afterwards, there is no place to put the sheep but on the roof. It feels strange to me, but no one else gives it a second thought. In a desert, life is casual.
liz says
SUCKER PUNCH/Mystery/100,000 Words
When I was fifteen, my sister Jane was caught making out under the bleachers with Eddie Biazzi, running back for the Garringer High Wildcats. No surprise there. Making out under the bleachers was sort of Jane’s specialty. But it wasn’t Jane’s name that ended up scrawled on the back wall of the girls’ restroom. It was mine.
That’s the problem with having a twin. People are all the time mistaking us for one another. And being mistaken for Janey isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. Being mistaken for Janey often leads to headaches, ulcers, or, as was the case this time, having a huge-ass gun pressed against the back of my head.
“On your knees,” the guy with the gun said. “Do it nice and slow.”
It was a little after five in the morning, and I had just gotten home in from pulling a double at Sloopy’s Diner, a greasy spoon in the middle of downtown. I was tired and cranky, a little confused and a whole lot scared. And I wasn’t real sure what I should do. My gut instinct was to scream like a girl, but I didn’t figure that would do any good.
I live in a small one-bedroom apartment in an old two-story brick building across the street from Sloopy’s. There are five units, total, all on the second floor. Two of those units are vacant. Missy Valmont lives in the end unit by the stairs. Missy’s a sweet old lady with blue hair and faux-glow orange skin. She has a dog named Pedro, and a fondness for menthol cigarettes and hard liquor. And when she’s not sunbathing nude on the roof of our complex, she likes to wile away the dull hours filming amateur porn in her apartment and uploading it to the Net. Probably if Missy heard a scream, she’d rush in with her video camera, hoping to find something worthwhile. No help there.
Cory Neal lives in the apartment beside mine. Cory’s an out of work used-car salesman who lost his shirt in the Dot-Com boom and bust of a few years back, and a bit of a loner. Six months ago, his wife Sheila left him for a truck driver with a spotty goatee and a steady paycheck, and I haven’t seen him set one foot out of his apartment since. No help there, either.
So that left me with Plan B. I didn’t know what Plan B was, exactly, but I was pretty sure it had something to do with kicking ass like Xena, Warrior Princess. Problem was, I’m not Xena, Warrior Princess. And I’m not an ass-kicker. I’m Annie Greene, diner waitress.
And I’m in deep shit.
Lonestar2007 says
The fence was modeled after Auschwitz: multiple rows of electrified barbed wire strung between 13 foot high blocks of reinforced concrete, even though for miles in every direction all the other fences were made from high tensile wire stapled to six foot tall wooden posts.
An identical concrete and barbed wire fence lay 12 feet inside the first. Between the two, randomly strewn bundles of barbed wire were partially covered by brown prairie grass.
Instead of being angled in – like they were at Auschwitz where the fences’ purpose was to prevent the prisoners from escaping – the top of the poles were angled out. The gate was different too: 36 inch thick reinforced steel, supported on cement columns drilled 20 feet into the soil. The gate was strong enough to stop a large SUV, but not a tank; the residents had other plans if they were ever attacked by the US Army.
A hand-painted sign said, “An Independent Aryan Nation.”
Four dusty cars were parked in the dirt lot – two Cavilers, a Malibu and a Mustang – along with an assortment of Ford and Chevy pickups. The pickups were all dark: a mixture of black and blue. Each pickup had a gun rack and every rack held the same model of semi automatic shotgun: a Berretta Extrema 2 whose ability to shoot light rounds made it suitable for bird and small game hunting. When loaded with heavy ammunition, however, the Extrema 2 provided extremely effective short range self defense; it had good stopping power and the recoil reduction features gave it excellent follow up shot accuracy.
Every shotgun was loaded with double ought buck.
The prairie grass looked like it stretched to the horizon. A white flag, which displayed a golden sun shining on a black swastika, flapped in the cold autumn breeze. There were no buildings visible, only a dusty path that led from the parking lot to a gray reinforced steel door, which opened into a Cold War relic: a 12,000 square foot underground bomb shelter.
storm grant says
Shift Happens, a nearly finished urban fantasy/paranormal romance by Storm Grant
Magic Man-Cat Walks Among Us
Nude Alien Autopsy Photos!
Elvis Outs Self in Phoenix!
Class-Action Suit seeks Dental Benefits for Vampires!
Mac scanned the headlines as they crawled down her computer screen, trying to sort the ridiculous from the merely bizarre.
Egyptian Mummy Reveals Sex Secrets of the Ancient Pharaohs!
World Health Organization Deploys Secret Death Squad
Her news aggregator was “set to stun,” configured to feed her all the truly weird news stories in one long listing.
New Designer Drug Gives Cops the Blues
Woman with 140 Cats Eaten Alive!
Gah! Mac shuddered at that particular headline. Damn cats. She wouldn’t put it past them. She wouldn’t take on this story even if it turned out to be the one truly newsworthy story she was seeking. To investigate it, she’d have to spend time with the damn things. She hated cats with a passion dating back to a traumatic childhood incident involving an oversized Persian, a curling iron, and a kiddy pool. The episode had left her with a substantial aversion to anything feline. Not to mention bad perms. She didn’t like to think about cats, and so she bypassed the man-eating kitties and read on.
Family Battles Killer Bees with cola!
Rich Doc Blows Fortune Seeking Jungle Cure
She clicked on the one about the Jungle Doctor. It sounded a little more likely than the rest, although she wouldn’t be surprised if, once she dug deeper, she’d find a story involving shoplifting kangaroos, or a new diet that claimed you could burn fat by putting real sand in sandwiches. Maybe real witches, too.
She followed the links back to their source, which brought her to a press release housed on a reputable site. Oh, sure, the Knights of the Round Planet were a bunch of deeply spiritual tree-huggers with an anti-corporate bent (which was rather odd since most of their funding came from big business), but they were fair and realistic in their attempts to generate interest in ecological and human rights issues. They probably wouldn’t have posted the press release about this doctor looking for a cure for malaria if it wasn’t legit.
She read on, clicking on links and googling other relevant info. Malaria was big news now, or at least it should have been. National Geographic had even done a cover story on it. It had outlined how climate changes and destruction of the rainforests and lack of funding for treatment were making malaria once again one of the worst pandemics on the globe. But since most of the world’s wealth resided in countries where malaria wasn’t considered the new black plague, nobody really cared.
Except this one guy. According to the press release, Dr. Basil Deereborne was willing to put his family fortune where his heart was. Yanking her sort-of-blonde curls back in a messy ponytail, Mac opened her word processor and began to make notes.
Rebecca Kaminsky says
Please delete the following text from the fifth graph of my entry for Down Will Come Baby:
There once was a time I could tell when someone was “checking me out”. In the past year those occasional glances have turned into nice offers of seats as I toddled onto the bus, barely able to balance my giant belly—or post-birth offers to let me go ahead in the grocery line if Simon is crying in his stroller. People notice my situation, but that’s a far cry from noticing me. Now, looking in the mirror,
So sorry for the posting error,
Rebecca Kaminsky
Nathan Bransford says
rebecca-
I can’t do that. If you want to change it, please delete your entry and re-post.
selatious says
Untitled – many words.
The Quiet. The Quiet is impenetrable. The Quiet is not The Silence. It is not to be confused with The Silence. From The Quiet springs the infinite. From The Silence springs nothing. The Quiet is the quick solitary snap of a twig underfoot in a forest. The Quiet is the cooing pigeon on a fire escape by an open window that lulls you awake at first light. The Quiet is the screech, a prosaic aural evocation, of the northbound 4 train wheels on the rails as it rounds the curve into the Wall St. Station or for that matter any City of New York subway train rounding any curve. The Quiet is the explosion of propelled metal into metal. The Quiet is the fireball collapse of two very tall, very large, very ugly eyesores at the beginning of one particular work day. The Quiet is not the momentary break from forced productivity at the water cooler or coffee station or copy machine or facsimile machine or website. The Quiet is not yoga or any other sort of active meditation as some might argue yoga is. Nor is The Quiet passive meditation. The Quiet is not the five minute break from work or play or any other sort of activity. The Quiet is not sedentary. The Quiet cannot be silenced. The Quiet cannot be grasped. The Quiet cannot be ordered or controlled or pigeonholed. As hard as one tries, The Quiet cannot be cataloged or defined. The Quiet enshrouds and suffocates with nonchalant ease. The Quiet is impenetrable. The Quiet is impenetrable to all but The Few. The Quiet is the guardian of The Edge. Only The Few perceive The Edge. The Many believe they can perceive The Edge, but The Many can only rely on accounts of those of The Few who slip through The impenetrable Quiet at its invitation and choose to return and give account. Not until one of The Few move to The Edge does he or she understand the guardian of The Edge is The Quiet.
In the pulse of a heartbeat, while he tried to avoid The Quiet over a cup of watery, burnt Starbucks coffee during a work break, did the full weight of The Quiet finally jolt Eddie Malventura. It had taken three decades. It had taken his entire thirty-one years of life. Eddie had cognizance of The Quiet and beyond it, The Edge, throughout his life, the strongest recognition of their existence being in his premiere year. With each passing year the awareness diminished from his full cognizance to the occasional glimpse that resided just beyond his full understanding.
This time, however, the full weight of The Quiet stayed with Eddie for more than a fleeting moment. “Hey, you alright?” Eddie had broken into a cold sweat and shook, unable to control himself. ‘Yes, thanks, I’ll be okay.’ In the pulse of another heartbeat and eight spoken words Eddie was jolted back from The Quiet to his silent cup of bad watery, burnt Starbucks coffee. The Quiet all but impenetrable once again. However, a minuscule thread of The Quiet clung to his dirty jagged fingernail which left an infinitesimal fray at The Quiet’s edge. It was to be the most grievous event of Eddie’s one score, one decade and one year. It was to bring to his scrutiny the inherent and obvious conflict of his desire to be one of The Many and one of The Few simultaneously.
Vivi Anna says
MOONLIGHT – urban fantasy – Vivi Anna
The intense sickly-yellow glare of the spotlights made the grisly scene in the park all the more gruesome. I’d seen macabre before. A person didn’t work as a police psychologist and not know the face of horror. I just didn’t expect the gore strewn across the trampled-down blades of green grass to appear black like tar—tacky and foul.
My stomach roiled in revulsion and I had to swallow down the bile rising in my throat. Licking my lips to stop from retching, I scanned the scene for anything out of the ordinary. Anything different from the previous crime scene photos I’d seen. On a first cursory glance, everything seemed the same. But I knew from experience that looks were always deceiving.
Case in point, why this assignment had by-passed regular vice and had been kicked over to SEMA—Supernatural Event Monitoring Agency, aka the Creep Crew. Three years ago the Canadian government formed a covert organization to police and keep track of supernatural beings that just happened to live among us despite most of society’s ignorance. Team members were assembled from varying law enforcement institutions as well as the military and some civilian branches, like anthropology. I had been drafted, well, actually I had volunteered, upon hearing the rumor about the organization from the psychology field. I was now both police shrink and criminal profiler.
Hence, why I was called into this case and to the scene.
The first killing, a young woman mauled while on a hike, had taken place about a month ago and the detectives hadn’t gotten anywhere with it, so they had tossed it over to us to see if we could figure something out. Obviously, something flagged the officers on this scene that it was no ordinary attack.
Detective Damon Cole, who stood respectively nearby watching me, touched my arm with the tips of his fingers. “You okay, Nina?”
I nodded but didn’t allow him to see the horror, I was desperately trying to keep under control, on my face. I had asked to come to the scene, claiming that photos wouldn’t be enough this time. Not to get a clear idea about the killer. It wouldn’t do me any good now to faint in front of my partner. He’d never let me live it down.
Damon was that way. He constantly liked to have proof he was right. No matter the argument. And they had had their fair share of arguments—both professionally and personally. Thankfully the personal ones were over and done with.
I made a circle around the body taking in as much as I could without having to actually crouch down beside the victim. Despite the distance I was keeping, the smell was still horrid. Thinking about the foulness that would seep into my nose if I had to move any closer, made me shiver. Odors like that stayed with a person, clinging to the olfactory cells, for days, some even lasting a lifetime.
Death possessed one of those eternal smells.
mallory-blog says
Silk
Steampunk Fantasy
Silk tucked the brown recluse up under her plum-colored Victorian top hat, knowing it would burrow down in her hair until it rested quite comfortable against her scalp. She adjusted her hat to make certain the disoriented spider would find no gap along the brim’s edge to make an escape. Then she brought out her gathering spindle, caught one strand of the web and threaded it through the oil-dispensing spider eye and with delicate care wound up the web, removing debris and dead bodies as she went along. It was a large, disorderly web reflecting the age and stability of its owner so it was complicated to harvest.
Silk spooled the last of the thread, slid the spindle back inside the spectacle case she’d modified to hold it and replaced the case in her tapestry knitting bag. She then removed her button hook, which she used to rescue the brown’s well-developed egg sac, hidden under a flap of the cardboard box. She stored the sac inside a small apothecary bottle, holed to promote airflow and then numbered the bottle cap and added the acquisition to her notebook before storing her tools back in her bag. Her bag hung from her parasol, which stood inexplicably on its tip, as if such an unusually sharpened point could somehow explain the parasol’s failure to topple.
Silk rose from her squatting position taking a moment to dust off her Edwardian, cream-colored high-button boots, and smooth down the lacy layers of her mid-calf ivory dress and netted stockings. A brief pat down of her fitted dark-blue frock coat reassured her that her appearance was flawless. She pulled her cream-colored fingerless kid gloves from her pocket slipping them over her hands, snapping their tiny pearl buttons closed at the wrist. The alley where she stood reeked of urine and rot, the concrete walls of the adjoining businesses gone black with smog and dust. The city had tacked signs along such alleys, warning of imminent clean up. That’s what brought Silk out to rescue the larger spiders and better webs. She regretted the city found it necessary to disturb such habitats mid summer when egg sacs were still being finished and the best webs woven.
An alley this size could house hundreds of spiders, most of little interest to her, at the moment. Still… Taking her bag to hand Silk lifted her Chinese rose parasol, unfurling its embroidered mastery and picked a path through the litter of boxes, decayed food, used condoms, needles and garbage, striding firmly into the small gusts of wind such alleyways attracted. The one-quarter inch weightless gold plate lining her boot soles created the rhythmic tick-tock of a clock with each step.
Where the alley breasted the street she paused, retrieving a small metal box from her bag. A box that looked altogether exactly like a 1920s electrical connector box. She wound the box with a skeleton key until resistance indicated its quite modern components were fully charged.
Anonymous says
Saving Merci – Single Title,100,000 words
by Susan
Gang Specialist Mercedes Callahan sat outside her Lieutenant’s closed office door, feeling very much like she was back at Farragut High School, awaiting her fate for her latest crime. Skipping school to hang out at the Game Stop, grabbing a smoke in the bathroom, pulling the fire alarm to get out of an algebra test she knew she’d flunk since study was never in her immediate itinerary. She fought the urge to glance outside the reception office, certain she’s see her father lumbering toward her in his grease stained work clothes a scowl on his face. A scowl he’d perfected just for her.
The sound of low toned snippets of conversation just outside the where she sat told her other wise. If the cops out there whispering to each other believed she’d missed their stares and smirks they were mistaken. She saw them and heard them. She just didn’t care.
Like an elderly nursing home resident who can’t recall where she left her false teeth, Merci had searched recent memory and couldn’t uncover a single thing she’d done to warrant being ordered to Lieutenant Morano’s inner sanctum.
“Officer Callahan?”
Morano stood stiffly in the doorway of his office, his gaze fixed somewhere over her head. Merci had always admired his soft spoken, serene manner. The Hispanic notes in his accent reminded her of the mother she hadn’t seen in twenty years. The mother whom Merci hated with a passion that was often frightening.
“Sir.” Merci stood and followed him into his office, sitting in one of two chairs in front of his desk. He sat on the other side and shuffled a stack of paper into a neat pile. Then, finally he looked up at her. His features told her it was a chore.
“There’s no easy way to say this Mercedes.”
“So just say it.” She shifted in her chair, uncomfortable with the fear that lurked beneath her calm facade.
The square pile on his desk was adjusted once more. “There’s a Latin Count at Cook County Hospital in a coma. Someone you arrested a few weeks ago.” He hesitated until Merci insisted, “And?”
“Several fractured ribs, a broken arm, both eyes swollen shut and he may loose vision in his right eye. His spleen was ruptured but he underwent emergency surgery . . “
”So some punk got a well deserved ass kicking and this has what to do with me?”
“Antonio Cabrera,” the lieutenant said.
“Antonio Cabrera, enforcer for the Latin Counts, three tear drops under his right eye, a rap sheet as long as my arm. Allegedly has several kills notched on his Glock, yet did hard time for only one crime – armed robbery of a fast food place that he botched because he was so high on PCP.” She intoned this as if rattling off a grocery list.
“There’s an eye witness who is making a claim that you did it,” Morano interrupted.
For a few beats she just didn’t understand. “Did what?”
“Beat him. He’s in a coma. The swelling around his brain is indicative of blunt trauma. When the Dics interviewed the witness, he knew you quite well.”
Andrea Kail says
Kiril’s Daughter – Fantasy – WIP
Chapter 1:
The dead girl couldn’t have been older than eighteen. She lay sprawled across the Empress’ Landing, her dark eyes open and fixed on some distant, unknowable point. A spread of blood stained her holiday finery and pooled on the veined, white marble beneath her. No doubt she’d been trying to escape the fighting and got caught in the crossfire, poor thing.
Grigory bent to close her eyes.
And remembered Marya’s eyes holding a similar look: bewilderment, as if death had come as a surprise. His stomach lurched, and Grigory shook off the image. No, he couldn’t allow himself to dwell on such memories now. Later, maybe, once this night’s work was done, once he’d fulfilled all his oaths and was safely on his way south. But not tonight, no. Tonight he had to be calm. Tonight he had to live in the present. Tonight, Grigory had a task to complete.
“You, Grigory. Here to me. Now.” Edik shouted, waving a ham-fist to signal him over. Edik loved to shout, and, were he still inclined toward such things, Grigory would have laughed aloud at his bluster. For all his fine, new coat and fancy epaulettes, Edik still looked and acted the provincial butcher he’d been: pig shit indelibly crammed beneath his fingernails, the scowl of a laborer the only definition to his flat face.
The thin man standing beside him, thumbs hooked inside the belt cinching his coat, was almost as ridiculous, though Yuri rarely made him want to laugh. Yuri had deep, shadowed eyes that saw much and gave away little. Yuri was quiet; he kept his own counsel. Yuri, Grigory thought, was a dangerous prospect.
And then, of course, there was Vasily Ansev.
Stepping over the body of the girl, Grigory climbed the short flight of stairs to the Imperial Gallery.
How long had it been since last he’d seen the inside of the Vladizoff–sixteen, seventeen years? He could still remember with startling clarity the first time he’d set foot in the palace. How awed he’d been by its magnificent, high-flying architecture, by the exquisite gilding of the barrel vaults and the ethereal frescos within them and by the grotesques that winked from the curves of each arch.
“Stop gawping like a bumpkin,” his brother had hissed, and Grigory had blushed a red to match the silk walls of the Crimson Room.
Yes, Grigory had changed much, but the Vladizoff had not, though blood stained its elegance now, the scent addling his brain, making him feel drunk as a vintner’s boy. Funny that sense of smell was the one gift that still remained to him, though it was more of a tease than anything else. A constant reminder of what he had lost and that he was human, now, no matter what his nose told him.
Allen says
Ghost Machine 120,000 words
It’ll work.
Greg wiggled the seventh and last vacuum tube into its socket. He had to handle it carefully. The sixty-year-old tube was the only one he had. He took a deep breath and switched on the circuit. Would it work? Would this invention put him on the cover of Time? After a long half-minute, all the tubes glowed a dull orange. Faint wisps of burning dust spiraled into the still air of the garage. So far so good. At least nothing exploded, which was a good thing.
“Is it working?” Christopher called. He stood next to the workbench, waiting to help.
Greg wiped his hands on the sides of his khaki pants and stood up. He felt a bit relieved that it worked, but his heart was thumping inside his chest. “Seems to be,” he said. He switched the device to Standby. “The tubes are glowing, the indicator’s green. It’s time for the test. Turn on the receiver, would you?”
“Right now?” Christopher grabbed two Rolling Rocks from the refrigerator and tossed one to Greg. “Are you sure it’s ready?”
Greg caught the bottle and nearly dropped it. He twisted off the cap. “We’ve worked on this thing for six months. It’s ready. I’m ready.” He sipped his beer. “Let’s do this.”
Christopher pulled out a pack of Marlboros and held one out to Greg. “Smoke first?”
Greg grimaced. “Thanks, no. I’ve watched you smoke a million of those. I’m not starting now.”
“Suit yourself.” Christopher lit one and blew the smoke toward the floor. “Look,” he said. He gulped down half the contents of his beer, belched, and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. Avoiding Greg’s eyes he said, “I don’t think it’s gonna work.”
Greg suddenly coughed on his mouthful of beer. Foam spurted from his nose. “What?” he said, rubbing his burning nostrils. “What do you mean?”
“I trust your abilities,” he said. Christopher’s eyes flicked toward Greg and returned to the floor. “But I’m an electrician. You just can’t send electricity, even simple house current, through the air. It’s a physics impossibility. Can’t be done.”
Greg was speechless at his trusted friend’s treasonous words.
“I know the electrical is sound,” Christopher continued, “but I’m sorry.” He shook his head. “I don’t trust it. I don’t want to be near it when you turn it on.” He set his bottle on the floor and got up. “So, I’m gonna blow. No offense, okay?”
Greg leapt from his seat. “You’re leaving?” He waved his arm. Beer sloshed out and spattered on the floor. “But, I mean, why didn’t you say something before?”
“Actually . . . I never thought you’d get this far.”
Greg closed his eyes. “But it’s, I mean, I can’t believe—” He forced himself to focus. “Nikola Tesla made it work. I can do this.”
“Tesla failed, if you haven’t forgotten your history.”
“He was ahead of his time. Just listen. It’ll be awesome.”
Deniz Bevan says
The Face of A Lion by Deniz Bevan–YA, 65,000 words
Austin met the cat on his first afternoon in Turkey.
Bored with helping his parents clean their villa, he set out to explore the neighbourhood. Every couple of minutes he climbed onto the stone wall edging the road, as a car or bus full of tourists whizzed past, a stench of diesel fuel wafting behind. Once the roar of each vehicle faded, the seaside sounds rushed back into his ears: children’s shouts, the drone of motorboats slicing the water, cicadas buzzing in the distant tops of fir trees. And below everything, the rhythmic crash of waves breaking one after another on the sand, carrying through all other sounds, like a low note in an extended piece of music.
He waited on the wall as another car zoomed by, then peered through the exhaust and added up the houses he had passed. His Mum had said there were only fifty houses in her childhood, but at the fig tree he had reached forty, plus fourteen for two blocks he had forgotten to count, that made –
An unearthly howl filled the air, drowning out the disappearing rumble of the car. It came again, close at hand, and Austin ran to the crossroads. The wall here fell away in a sharp drop to the weed-filled garden of a boarded-up villa. On a patch of paving stones, two boys crouched over a thin grey cat; one gripped its front paws as the other tied something to its tail. The cat wrenched and jerked on its back legs.
“Hey, what are you doing?”
Austin’s yell was swallowed by the roar of two buses passing in quick succession and a watermelon seller’s truck lumbering up the street. He looked down, prepared to risk a jump, and saw a garden shed directly below. He leaped, and as the boys looked up, hands still on the squirming cat, he vaulted off the shed’s roof to stand beside them.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
“Abi, yabancı bu.”
“Bizden büyük. Ya birini çağrırsa?”
“Hadi gidelim.”
He felt he had understood their speech, though that was obviously impossible. They seemed to decide that he was older and bigger, as well as a foreigner. As one, they let go of the cat and ran off.
He bent and untied the twine binding two tin cans to a tail puffed out and crackling with electricity. The cat crouched low on all four paws, eyes wide and ears back, but did not move as Austin broke away the last of the metal and tossed it aside. He stroked the cat between the ears.
“Thank you, Augustine.”
He tipped over, and gripped the cat’s tail to steady himself. The cat flinched, but stayed still, yellow eyes staring. “Thank you.”
Austin heard a chirping sound, similar to the ones his parents’ old cat used to make. Not meowing or purring, just chirping, like a new species of bird. But below that note, he could have sworn the cat had spoken in English.
Naughty Nikki says
Criminal Promises, 110,000 words
“Harte! Harrison! My office now!”
Detective BD Harte looked across the stifling and noisy bullpen to see Captain Winchester, an ex-military drill-sergeant, retreating into his office. Winchester’s routine behavior of barking out orders and expecting everyone in the ranks below to jump chafed at times, but the job got done right.
Damn heat. BD shifted his shoulders, hoping to un-stick the shirt from his skin. How hard could it be to pick up a phone and call for an A/C repairman? Then again, after ten years of reporting to the Dallas Police Captain, he knew Winchester well enough to know that putting off calling for a repairman was a tactic. The discomfort kept everyone from getting too soft, and it sent people out into the streets where crime never died.
“Seems pissed.” BD’s partner and long time friend, Craig Harrison, tossed down the pen he’d been flipping between his fingers. “What dumbass thing did you do now?”
BD watched the pen land on one of the messy piles covering Craig’s desk. Nothing about his buddy’s appearance or personality was predictable, except his loyalty and devotion to people he cared about and the job. Most people thought he fiddled with things out of nervousness; BD knew the constant movement helped Craig focus, or mentally block unpleasantness—like the eighty-five degree bullpen.
BD shoved his chair away from his own neatly organized desk and stretched. The cotton clinging to his back didn’t breathe quite like the ads promised. “You’re always the idiot who gets caught.”
“After you start the shit.”
No point denying what he had always known to be true. His temper was no secret, and it had landed him in the hot seat more times than he could count. BD figured that alone explained the eyes of the officers and detectives in the room following him and Craig toward Winchester’s office.
The captain may claim to have an open door policy, but even when he summoned someone, he expected certain protocols to be followed. BD knocked on the doorframe and they waited for a formal invitation.
“Sir?” BD and Craig stood behind the two metal chairs facing Winchester’s desk. BD drummed his fingers on the cool steel back.
The cold anger in Winchester’s eyes promised this would be bad.
“Shut the door.” His blunt index finger tapped a file. “Sit.”
“I’d rather stand.” BD pushed the door closed and resumed his place behind the chair. Winchester glared and then shook his head. BD stayed rooted to his spot and braced himself.
Craig, the peacekeeper of the team, glanced between BD and Winchester before he silently sat. His being built like a brick house negated any impressions of weakness people seemed to get when they discovered his teddy bear tenderness.
“Just over a year ago you two were involved in a pursuit that ended in a bystander’s death.”
“Yes, Sir.” BD’s blood sizzled and he shivered as if someone had raked nails down a chalkboard.
Betsy says
I staggered beneath the weight of my waterlogged pack. Alone on the winding road to Sidon, I slogged through the mud and muck with weary determination. The previous night’s rain had soaked everything within miles and although the noon sun beat on my head, the day’s heat had yet to dry either the road I walked or the pack I carried. Upon reflection, I could have gone a step further when I stole supplies from my uncle the week before, but taking a horse had seemed unwise at the time.
On I trudged, runaway daughter of one of Sarianon’s nine noble houses, up to my knees in enough filth to send my aunt Vanora into paroxysms of distress, and approaching the port city of Sidon—full of merchants, traders, thieves, beggars, and all my hope for the future.
My tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth, though I loathed the thought of taking another swallow from my flask. The rain swelled the streams, to be sure, but it also filled them with bitter silt. If I’d believed in gods I might have wondered if my actions displeased them and I suffered their retribution.
As it was, even the wrath of all the world’s gods couldn’t have kept me in Lord Braden’s household a moment longer.
Jude Mason says
Jax squatted behind a crumbled, vine encrusted wall and eyed the ruins ahead. The streets were choked with weeds and scrub, the pavement lifted and twisted where upheavals had shifted the earth, the rusted skeletal remains of vehicles and scraggly deformed trees—plenty of hidey holes for rodents or bigger things. It looked like it had once been a small town. Now it was a grey tomb sprung up from the surrounding forest. Some of the buildings were still standing, although the majority had major damage: parts of their roofs missing, walls and windows gone, and many leaned, as if a good wind would topple them. The air smelled of death and decay.
He shifted, easing his cramped muscles and pulled his bow from the top of his pack and strung it. Notching an arrow, pulled from the sheath at his hip, he shifted again, conscious of the slight scraping sound his leather boots made. Rising, he peered closer into gaping black doorways and through glassless windows. The early evening light was still bright enough for him to move ahead without difficulty, but he disliked going into a new town without at least some scouting first.
He glanced upward. The sky was clear for the moment. But, in the distance, and not too far distant, great heavy clouds darkened the landscape. Rain fell in sheets behind him. Lightning flashed. He needed to get under cover.
“Damn,” he muttered. Moving ahead, he kept to the shadows when he could. Darting into the first ramshackle building, he quickly raced for the next when he spotted human remains in the corner. A family by the looks. Nothing but a little skin and a lot of bones.
He clambered over enormous blocks of cement, dust pothering up around his shins. He skirted a wall, heading for a doorway as quietly as he could. Bow at the ready, he peered inside. It was clear.
He stepped inside, still reaching out with his senses for any movement or noise that would indicate he wasn’t alone. The roof had fallen in on the part of the first room, but making his way deeper into the building he saw another gaping doorway. He stopped just outside and listened. Nothing moved, so he stepped inside. Rustling sounds came from the far wall, and he quickly turned toward it, bow raised. A family of rats, as large as old world house cats, scrambled for cover. Debris littered the room, but checking the ceiling, he thought it looked solid enough. At least he’d be dry, or semi-dry. Very few roofs didn’t leak.
Pushing some of the refuse to one side with his foot, he cleared the corner farthest from where he’d seen the rats. He unstrung his bow and leaned it against the wall, close to hand, the arrow next to it, while he slid his pack to the floor. He arched his back and stretched for the first time since he’d donned the cumbersome carry-all that morning.
Siren Cristy aka Conspicuous Chick says
Discord & Rhyme – WIP
Sixteen months ago I was snuggled under a blue Grandma-crocheted afghan when Andie’s hobbies dropped me within breathing space of the man I suspected lived only in my wayward memories.
“I just won a soundcheck and Meet and Greet with Boomerang Blue!” she exclaimed through the phone.
In college, Andie was notorious for two things: her always growing collection of cassingles, those cassettes containing sometimes three or four versions of a band’s song plus a so-called B-side, and second, listening to and calling morning radio shows, often winning paraphernalia she really didn’t want.
“I think I just peed myself a little.” I replied.
Elbow deep in bubbles at the kitchen sink, Troy was attempting to scratch a phantom itch on the side of his face with his broad shoulder when I gave him the news.
“Why do you look like you’re about to vomit?” he asked.
“Do you remember when I met Denny Wilcox, the drummer I’ve had a crush on since high school?” I asked. “I took a header right in the middle of the venue. When he turned around to make sure I was following him, I was on my hands and knees paying homage to his shoes. Kelly laughed at me for three days.”
Troy balanced a cookie sheet on the dish drainer.
“Celie, that was before the magazine. You’ve met how many people since then?”
“Yeah, but that’s business.” I fingered the zipper on my sweatshirt. “In junior high, my bedroom walls were plastered with Boomerang Blue pictures. Sutton Daugherty is the first guy I had sexual fantasies about.”
“Do tell.”
I tried to shoot him a menacing look, but he just laughed. That’s what happens when you’ve been together for fifteen years.
“What if I regress into a gawky twelve year old fan?” I asked.
“That won’t happen.”
“Denny. Wilcox.”
Troy flicked soapsuds in my direction and I swatted them away. Then I cuffed him on his muscular behind and bolted. He chased me through the dining and living room before snagging the back of my hoodie and pinning me on the carpeted landing.
“Are you going to do that to Sutton? Smack his ass and run?”
“It had crossed my mind.”
“Well, try to avoid a restraining order.”
“I’ll do my best.”
Morning Scribbler says
The humidity was unbearable. It smothered me like an overprotective mother, squeezing my chest and compressing my lungs. I’d lost track of the time but I must have been sitting in that foul, piss-stained cell for at least four or five hours.
“Hey,” I shouted, “What do I have to do to get a drink around here?”
A guard walked past without turning his head. A few minutes later he came back holding some keys. He motioned for me to follow him, leading me down the hall to a windowless room where two more guards were waiting.
“Sit!” ordered the shorter of the two.
I sat in the chair. On the table in front of me rested a cup.
“You thirsty?” he asked, and then before I could answer he shoved the cup in my face and said, “Okay, you drink.”
I didn’t trust the guards but I figured if they had wanted to drug me they would have done it by now. Desperate for some kind of relief, and not wanting to dehydrate, I took the drink and downed it in one gulp.
The liquid was as hot and as thick as the air in the room. I couldn’t place the taste—sweet, bitter and coppery all rolled into one. “What was that shit?” I asked.
“You like?”
I spat on the floor in reply.
“Bring him more!” the guard commanded.
The other guard that had been waiting in the room when I arrived made a big show of putting on some heavy gloves and pulling out a long, metal rod. Then, with his back to me, he walked to a box in the corner of the room and lifted something out.
When he turned around, I was face to face with a King Cobra, hood up and poised to strike.
“Now,” said the short guard, “you want your pet back?
Michael Merriam says
Old Blood’s Fate -Urban Fantasy – 100,000 words
Jack Clausen found the coyote lying on the side of the gravel covered county road. The animal’s fur was matted with dark blood, his body twisted at an odd angle. With every ragged breath bright red flecks coated the coyote’s muzzle. The metallic tang of blood and urine filled Jack’s noise, combining with the scent of sagebrush and dust in the air. Jack could see fear in its eyes as he approached; fear that this human would do something to make his inevitable end even more miserable.
Jack knelt down next to the coyote. The animal took a wheezing breath and glared at him.
“I’m sorry,” Jack whispered. “There’s nothing else I can do.”
Jack drew his hunting knife and gave the suffering animal the gift of cold steel. The coyote’s body tensed for a moment before exhaling a final breath and relaxing into death.
Jack took off his denim jacket, and carefully wrapped the dead coyote with it. He refused to leave the poor beast on the side of the road. The coyote had suffered enough indignity. He picked the bundle up and looked around. He had lived here once, before moving up north, he knew a place near the road where few people went. At least, Jack thought, few people had known about it ten years ago.
It took twenty minutes of walking down the gravel road and then across an empty pasture of stunted yellow grass and red Oklahoma dirt to reach the little stand of elms and oaks. No one passed them on the road or saw them cut across country, which was fine with Jack. He did not know how he would have explained himself to a stranger, and after a decade away they were all strangers now, even the people he had grown up with.
And, he thought with a grin to himself, a black man carrying a limp bundle wrapped in a jacket was sure to draw the wrong kind of attention in rural Oklahoma.
Jack pushed his way through the overgrowth, finding the small clearing near the center of the trees. He laid down his sad burden and sat back on his heels. He drew a pack of cigarettes from the front pocket of his long sleeved shirt and lit one, giving it a rueful glance. He had started smoking again recently, stress making him slip back into an unwanted habit. Jack blew out a breath. The bluish smoke took flight and vanished into the wind. He raked his fingers through his black hair.
“May the Cufe be slow of foot where you go,” Jack whispered, remembering the Creek word for rabbit. He finished the cigarette and snuffed out the butt in the dirt, careful to extinguish the embers. It had been another dry, windy year in Oklahoma: The last thing we wanted to do was start a fire in the parched yellowed grass.
As he stood to leave, movement near the edge of the trees caught his eye, making him freeze in place.
It was the largest coyote Jack had ever encountered. Its fur was tipped with black, and the eyes were mismatched: one blue, the other brown. The coyote stood at the edge of the clearing and regarded Jack with its odd colored eyes before it threw back its head and howled.
Cush Creekmont says
THE LAST MACHINER – 127,000 words
There were no sharks in Bellies’ bar. That obvious fact eluded Fast Frankie Burger, who envisaged the irrational fear while his floor-side nostril lay in a puddle of slopped beer, causing him to snort as he breathed. An old Cola machine, an off-key singer, a set of drunks gaping at depleted jiggers, the bartender, a fat woman returning from the restroom, and the remaining sprinkle of bar occupants tendered no solicitude because Frankie was often prone – a victim of his own lush-loaded incompetence. Frankie’s parochial view of Bellies’, which currently spanned six feet of blurred barroom floor, fell short of its derelict reality. In the metaphoric arena of down, it would take Sir Edmund Hillary and ten Nepalese Sherpas six months to climb from Bellies’ up to a sidewalk grating. The bar featured split upholstered stools, well-worn chairs, and forlorn tables, while its fluorescent beer signs hung so jacketed in dust that should their dormant lamps flicker to life no photon would escape. The squalid saloon sat on buckled floorboards, warped by years of booze and beer and breaches of human self-control. Bellies’ supported insect life both normal and mutant, and there were assorted flabby, cadaverous, and worn human inhabitants, mutant possibly, but none normal. There was an out-of-place and anachronistic Cola machine. But there were no sharks in Bellies’ bar.
The Cola machine’s improbable placement had long ceased to be considered by those who frequented Bellies’ (with the exception of Frankie, who rediscovered the old as new each day). It stood wide and tall with its top touching the low ceiling of its cloistered location. The broad and simple selection buttons signified the machine style of the 1950s. Its cursive insignia flowed elegantly, unlike the brash block logo of its successors. The smoke of thousands of cigars and tens of thousands of cigarettes had dulled the International Cola machine’s primary red. Scratches around the coin deposit confirmed the impaired motor skills of the local customers while dents, creases, and scrapes near its base testified to the bellicose nature of the setting. Unscathed above the payment insertion slot, the aged device shined as brightly as its nicotine glaze would allow. Physical abuse not withstanding, the machine sustained a countenance of nobility, an elevated deportment, a stateliness of appearance that contrasted to the shabbiness of Bellies’ and the prostrate figure of Fast Frankie.
One tremulous leg moved. Frankie could tell it was his leg. It was his leg because it had vomit on the pant cuff where he had thrown-up earlier. He felt proud that he had figured out whose leg it was. It might have been an alien’s leg or even a foreigner’s leg trying to invade his body and become one of his legs. (In Frankie-speak, an alien is, of course, an extra-terrestrial being because non-Americans, along with assorted ethnic Americans too numerous to list, were foreigners.) Yes, Frankie had saved himself from a foreign leg or maybe a shark.
Phyllis M says
NINE LIVES< TWO DOWN Wednesday night, September in Denver, Colorado It was an issue of life or death.
Sam DeLuca reminded himself once more through his irritation.
Frankie insisted he meet her tonight – right now, she’d told him. She’d made it clear that it was extremely important and concerned one of his cases, but she evaded the question of which one and repeated the life or death comment. Despite the hype of her being a TV investigative reporter, he’d never known his sister to be so melodramatic, so he had to assume it was truly critical. Still, he was in no mood for her tonight.
He pulled into the side lot of the small restaurant. He noted how the flood light on the side of the building cast awkward shadows from the parked vehicles, but gave him enough light to detect any danger. After he drove into an angled space, he shifted the truck into park and turn off the headlights. He let the Titan’s powerful engine idle while he looked over the lot. Absently, Sam nodded as nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Nothing suspicious. Nothing dangerous. He would not have been his chosen this location for meeting spot, but he’d have to make do with it. The patronage of the little eatery was low, which suited his poor disposition just fine.
A young couple left the restaurant and as they walked arm and arm, Sam watched the man drop his hand below her waist and nestle inside her back pants pocket. They giggled and nudged each other, trading secrets with their glances.
He could have gone without seeing that little scene. He’d been happy and contented like that–once. A muscle at the corner of his one eye twitched and he closed both of him to gain some control over it. Beth was there — back in his mind. He quickly opened them to make her disappear, but it too late. The familiar roller coaster drop feeling landed in his gut and the old ache throbbed deep in his chest. Instantly, he became acutely aware of the radio playing the Bee Gees song Tragedy, which told of lost love. Old memories surfaced of twisted circumstances and hurt feelings and of misunderstandings and denied love. Everything rushed back to him. The pain was raw like salt had been poured into his wounds — into his soul. Damn it!
Ulysses says
Kenneth Williams returned from the market in Scarborough to find his boathouse occupied by the last man he wanted to see. Garth Anderson had not worn the four years since the massacre very well. He had put some soft weight on his wrestler’s physique, so much that his loud Hawaiian shirt looked overfilled, and the wide red veins in his nose had swollen from drinking too much. His eyes were still the same, though, steel gray and steady.
Behind Ken’s desk, Garth tipped the chair back and swung his feet up on the desk’s old blotter. He paged through Ken’s account book with thick fingers. The logbook for the “Rapier” lay open on the desk in front of him, a banana peel spread like a yellow octopus on one page. The desk drawers were open. The pens and papers, credit card slips and receipt books Ken had kept neatly ordered inside lay in heaps on the desktop and the floor.
Ken had lost the weight Anderson had gained. Mirrors showed him a funhouse image of what he had been, all stretched out and narrow. He’d taken off the beard, and grown his hair so long that he had to tie it back into a tail with whatever was handy when he got up in the morning. Usually, that was sail cord. He had watched it turn gray too, as it grew longer, until the last of his original brown had vanished. He had grown very old in the four years since he had walked away from the remains of the commune.
Ken stood in the doorway, an old cloth market-bag weighing down his shoulder with mangos, hot peppers, and a couple of fresh crabs. The north shore of Tobago and the Caribbean Sea were not far away, even on foot. He could probably lose any pursuit in the forest that covered Main Ridge, run all the way to Plymouth and buy or steal a boat there. Grenada was the closest island, and there were plenty of others. Barbados was nice. He could slide into one of its old pirate harbors where no one knew him and start all over again. But Anderson would find him eventually, and he’d have to run again, and probably keep on running.
With a sigh heavier than a thousand bags of groceries, Ken stepped into the boathouse and quietly closed the door.
Anderson slapped at a mosquito on his neck, then looked up with a smile almost as broad as his face. He rose quickly and bustled around the desk like a used car salesman sighting a repeat customer. “Ken!” he said, one hand out. “How are you?”
Ken shook his hand without knowing why.
ldragoon says
Prickly-Pear Jam-Childrens-29,000 words
Sarah Clark rounded the corner and jerked to a stop, frozen by the sight of her mother standing outside the motel room they rented, surrounded by everything they owned. For a moment fear held her chained to the spot, then she broke free and ran forward.
“Mom!” she shouted. “What’s going on?”
Her mother glanced up at Sarah’s call and stepped around the piles of boxes. Sarah stopped a few feet away, her hands balling into trembling fists at her sides. Kate Clark moved forward and laid a gentle hand on her daughter’s shoulder.
“We’re moving, honey.” She gestured to their battered station wagon, resting in the shade of an oleander tree across the parking lot. “I was just going to start packing up the car.”
Sarah jerked back from her mother’s touch. “No!” she shouted. She stamped her foot, even though she knew it was a babyish thing to do. “No!”
The motel manager leaned out of the office window and glared at them.
“Keep the noise down!” he called.
Sarah watched as the lines in her mother’s face deepened.
“Yes,” her mother said. “We’re leaving. We have to. Now help me pack.”
“No!” Sarah shouted again and darted past her mother, into the motel room. Her mother didn’t attempt to catch her, and that fact angered Sarah more. She slammed the bathroom door and locked it. She caught an image of herself in the mirror. Her dirty-blond hair stood out in a frantic halo, her normally pale face flushed scarlet. Her eyes, the same moon-gray as her mother’s, glared outward, red-rimmed already.
A tear dropped down her cheek as she folded herself between the toilet and the bathtub, spine pressed against the wall. More tears followed the first, dripping down onto the tops of her sneakers.
Moving. How could they be moving? They had lived in this room at the Riverside since she was four. She was eleven now, eleven and ten months. That made it over seven years they had lived here.
Sarah pressed her face against her knees and sobbed.
readwriteandedit says
A Distant Thunder (Medieval Adventure)
Sounds stalked me, like well-trained hounds, driving me into danger without consideration. I was sightless, yet without caution-—terrified, but my heedless flight never slowed. To run recklessly into the black night was foolish, but how much greater a fool would I be if I stood defenseless on a battlefield, beset by unseen forces.
I recognized their sounds-—men yelling, swords ringing, horses insistently beating at the earth with heavy hooves. Infrequent flashes of lightning, which should have comforted me with their illumination, only increased my fear. Why could I see nothing more than swaying trees, menacing branches? Where were the men whose cries rang in the cool air? Did I hear phantoms only and not men, shades who played at battle in the deepest hours of the night when no human eyes should look upon them?
Even my stumbles, resulting in scratched face and hands, were not cause enough to slow my feet. After each spill, my heart raced faster, so certain was I that a terrifying warrior or headless specter breathed at my side.
In fulfillment of my fears, a menacing figure who crouched low before me drew the last of my breath and halted my flight. The challenger was as still as I; my heartbeat drowned out all hint of his breathing. My arms tingled, hair standing on end, as I waited for him to speak. In mockery of the conflict, the wind played a sibilant whisper in the tops of nearby trees. Long moments passed in silent and sightless confrontation before a vivid lightning strike electrified the earth beneath my feet. I jumped as thunder cracked the air, ripping open a hole in the heavens, permitting lightning free rein over the skies.
I cowered, yet my opponent never shifted, and the white-blue light of the lightning flares gave reason: My challenger was neither warrior nor specter, only a low-cut stump whose lone remaining branch stuck out in stiff imitation of a raised sword.
I chuckled in relief, but another rumbling crack set my feet in motion once again. Another quarter hour brought me no nearer to escape, yet curiously, no closer to the combatants either.
With time, my breath became ragged, each step accenting the stitch beneath my ribs. My motion finally slowed, not because of my will, but because I could no longer keep the pace. The long hours of my journey had wearied my body; days with little sleep and less food distracted my mind; and the strangeness of the night dragged at my soul. Yet suddenly, even as I listened for pursuit, I noted that the sounds of battle had receded as quickly as they’d begun. I didn’t know whether the conflict had eased or if I had merely gone beyond the fighting, nor did I care overmuch. I was only relieved to be well away from the threatening sounds and the dread they raised in me.
Anonymous says
When Farrah Fawcett Majors exploded on television in 1975, every teen-age girl in the Western Hemisphere, except the lesbians, became a casualty. Farrah and her hair did for them what Helen Reddy had done a few years back for the feminists with I Am Woman. She united them. She was also single handedly responsible for the misspelling of ‘pharaoh’ and ‘faucet’ by a whole generation of teens. John Lennon may have claimed the Beatles were more popular than Jesus Christ. Farrah did Lennon one better. She was more popular than the Virgin Mary.
She broke down economic and social barriers. And nowhere was this more evident than in our school hall before the morning bell rang. The cheerleaders, the fat, the homely, and the flat chested and big bosomed huddled into chatty Charlie Angel groupies sporting Farrah lion manes and toting curling irons for touch ups. The day Mei Ling Fong showed up in Math class with her silky black hair dyed blonde and mangled into a Farrah Fawcett back flip, I knew Farrah was. . . well, pretty much an epidemic, and invincible.
Even our mothers weren’t immune from Charlie’s most famous Angel. Try being a fourteen year old boy sitting across a 42 year old Farrah Fawcett facsimile in a glittery nightgown with a plunging neckline at the breakfast table? It ain’t pretty. But at least I didn’t have to suffer the same embarrassment as Timmy Hinks. His 76 year old wheel-chair bound grandmother took it upon herself to be the prototype for the disabled senior citizen Farrah set. Luckily, my gran was dead but that didn’t stop me from envisioning her in her coffin struggling with a rusty comb (and limited elbow space) to get the Farrah Fawcett coif ‘just right.’
I was a normal teen-age boy going through the phase of homosexual tendencies. (That’s what the assessment from the school guidance counselor said anyway.) I didn’t want to be Farrah Fawcett Majors. I wanted to replace her. Every night I prayed the Six Million Dollar Man would burst out of the poster above my bed, pick me up in his bionic arms, and whisper: “Stan, it’s you I want! Not Farrah.”
He never did. But a temporary-gay boy could still dream, couldn’t he? And that I did.
Undaunted, I saved up my allowances and bought every Six Million Dollar Man lunch box and action figure I could find. I started a Six Million Dollar Man fan club at school and enrolled all the boys. I’d show Lee Majors and the executives at ABC (Anything But Charlie’s-Angels) that I, not Farrah, was the only one worthy of his affections. They never replied to any of my 700 fan letters.
Stan aka anonymous
Traveler says
Chosen- Historical Fiction
Chapter 1
Korea, 712 AD
“To be a crane in a flock of chickens.”
Sorwon had always thought his dreams were a gift, his own secret revealing the future. That was until today.
Sorwon craned his neck, along with nearly every citizen of Yangju, to catch a glimpse of the great warriors. Through the city gates he scanned the horizon from where he stood in the courtyard. Patience, he told himself.
And then he spotted them. The Hwarang. The glory of Korea, who sought honor and beauty as they wielded their sword and bent their bow.
They galloped across the plain in the morning light, their long hair streaming behind like ribbons. Dust billowed in their wake as they rode through the city’s gates. Yanking against the reigns, the lead warrior reared his horse. It neighed and clawed at the air before giving a submissive stance.
Sorwon dropped his head and shoulders down into a bow as he and the other village boys stood in a line as straight as the bamboo tree. His fingers twitched at his side. The summer air hung heavy on his head. Surrounding the boys, a crowd had gathered, curious to see these boys’ destiny.
“Bong!” the town bell gonged from the pagoda platform. Sorwon’s body jerked. Despite the strict warning to keep the proper submissive stance, all the boys’ heads popped up, including his.
His uncle, the head chief, strode out to meet the Hwarang. With a spring, the warriors dismounted to greet him and the four spoke muted words.
Sorwon studied these great ones. Dressed in moss green tunics and soft white pants, they carried their shoulders wide and chins high. A thick black belt wrapped around their waist, the long ends fluttering at their sides. Each warrior’s hair grew long. Two had theirs braided while the center warrior’s hair was coiled in a topknot with a portion hanging loose down his back.
Bowing his head again, Sorwon contemplated the clumps of dirt threatening to bury his feet. The air smelled of dust and sweat. He dug one big toe deeper and then the other.
Gone, he mused, hidden safely in the earth. A place he was beginning to yearn for.
Tentatively, he peeked out the corner of his eye. His cousin, Dong Kun, posed ready next to him, muscles taunt and jaw set. Sorwon stretched his torso taller. If I had a rock, he thought. I’d stand on it and then my shoulders might reach Dong Kun’s. Maybe.
Sorwon stared back at his toes. They had wiggled free and exposed. He pressed his sweaty palms against his thighs to keep them from twitching and focused on taking deep breaths.
A lone dove cooed in a distant treetop as the center warrior moved to stand before them.
The warrior paced their line, eyeing each boy like a hawk. When he passed Sorwon, he paused. Sorwon felt steel eyes bore into him. He hung his head lower. The warrior moved on.
Anonymous says
*ya paranormal romance*
Gravel crunched beneath my feet as I circled the school. Again.
They weren’t in the northern courtyard. I’d checked three times. They weren’t in the other four courtyards either.
The stadium lights glared at me. The trumpets’ blares taunted me.
I should have left right then.
I hadn’t wanted to come in the first place, but my mom had found the invitation. “You need to step out of your comfort zone.”
Why she thought I needed to be uncomfortable, I had no idea.
I should not have started walking. Alone. At night. Toward a haunted house.
Though that last part wasn’t intentional.
I should have gotten in my car and driven home. Told my mom I couldn’t find the barbecue.
It was the truth. Even if it did sound pathetic.
I should’ve gone into the stadium and waited for the game to start. Alone.
Even more pathetic.
So I took a walk.
Walking never felt pathetic. It felt purposeful. Even by myself. Even if I had no destination.
A block from the school, a bright orange sign tacked to a light post caught my attention: Haunted House, Free Today Only, 7 p.m. to Midnight, 4374 Oakmont.
A sudden vision entered my head. Perfect horror movie scenario – lonely girl goes to mysterious haunted house and winds up dead – or worse. My mind rambled through various horror fantasies, the dark images complementing my dreary thoughts. Eaten by a zombie? Turned into a werewolf? The other way around? I didn’t know which was more likely; I avoided scary movies. Maybe zombie werewolves?
I would not be going to any haunted houses. Not by myself. Not ever. Even free ones. I’d never understood people who chose to scare themselves for fun.
My stomach growled, reminding me I hadn’t eaten dinner, reminding me of the barbecue no one had told me was canceled or moved or whatever had happened. I dug in my purse, hoping to find a piece of chocolate. A peppermint. Not what I wanted, but better than nothing. I popped it in my mouth.
I jumped as light flooded the sidewalk. Streetlight, I told my suddenly racing heart. That’s all.
I squinted at the nearest sign, wondering where I’d ended up, but the light didn’t quite reach. It didn’t matter. The glow from the stadium would lead me back. I rounded the corner.
Halfway down the street, new sounds mingled with the cheers from the distant stadium. Eerie music. Creaking doors. My steps slowed. Flickering orange lights. Lacy cobwebs. A scream.
My heart lurched again. A glance at the sign confirmed it.
Perfect. I’d come here after all.
I would not be staying.
But I stared at the house a second too long.
-Melinda
verdandiweaves says
Alex Morgan, The Westwinter Case, approx 40,000, 8-12 years.
Caroline Dunford verdandiweaves@mac.com
– the ceiling came down. Alex dropped to a defensive crouch, flinging his arms above his head just in time to ward off a large lump of rock. He felt a quick slash of hot pain, as a rough edge sliced through his thin shirt and bit into the flesh.
Anyone else might have stopped to clutch his arm, to examine the damage, but Alex was already up and running. He knew there would be another rockfall coming. Dust and debris filled his vision, but he could see, which must mean he was near the entrance. Only a few more strides and he’d be out.
Behind him in the tunnel, something roared. It was the kind of vicious, rolling roar that made it quite clear whatever it was didn’t like you much and couldn’t wait to get its hands, paws, claws, or whatever it had for appendages, on to you, and that when it did it wouldn’t be shaking hands and asking to be your friend.
Anyone else would have bolted out of the trap door and away into tomorrow. Alex Morgan stopped, his hand brushing the small disc in his pocket and turned to face the darkness, but then by now it should be clear that Alex Morgan was not anyone else.
If he hadn’t dropped his torch several metres back, anyone who had been around to see would have noticed that Alex had gone alarmingly flour white. His shirt was sticking to his back with sweat; his hair positively standing on end cartoon fashion and his breath was coming in nasty, jagged spurts. His eyes held the wild fear of the hunted.
The first plan hadn’t worked. His Internet research had let him down. The chemical recipe he’d so carefully prepared had succeeded in only really, really motivating the thing to kill him. Now, he was onto his fallback plan and he wasn’t at all sure it would work. It was going to be a very bad time to find out if C0nundrum was an enemy rather than a friend.
(Another internet rule broken, accepting gifts from someone you had never met. Important gifts. Gifts that might save your life.) If he lived he could track down c0nundrum and thank him personally, and if he didn’t… well, nothing much would matter.
Footsteps, loud as rolling thunder, echoed through the tunnel. Alex refocused on his immediate danger. If he waited long enough he’d be able to see what it really was. If he let it get close enough to the light from the trapdoor he’d know for certain.
Five metres away in the darkness two red wells flickered into being. Alex’s stomach lurched as he realized they were eyes. The air on his face grew hot and this time the roar vibrated the ground beneath his feet. Dimly he began to make out a shape in the tunnel – and it wasn’t a good thing to see.
Stiflersmom says
Snow falls as we pull into our driveway; my dad complains about driving to Rochester tomorrow. I wish I could go with him, I’m bored. I have been grounded since Thanksgiving – when my little brother fell through the ice. He only got a little wet, but Dad says I need to lay low for a while. Since then, I mostly stay inside – watching TV or pretending to study or looking at the Sears Wish Book. Mom says I shouldn’t plan on getting anything but coal for Christmas. Dad says maybe I can start hockey in February when I turn eight, but he gets in trouble for putting ideas in my head.
Dad carries my brother into the house. He fell asleep in the way back of the station wagon coming home from dinner. It’s garbage night, so I have to move the trash cans to the end of the driveway. I throw snowballs at the streetlamp, waiting for my mom to get inside. She turns, tells me to hurry up, and shuts the front door behind her. I run to shed and look at the matchbooks I stole from the restaurant tonight. Sizzler matches are the best. Yesterday, while Mom did laundry, we played war behind the shed. We lit our toy army men on fire, cheering as flaming gobs of plastic dripped onto the snowy battlefield. After the battle, I played Taps on an invisible trumpet while my brother buried the melted soldiers deep in the snow. I was almost out of matches yesterday. I hide my new matches in a flower pot before dragging the garbage can out front. It’s been snowing all day. I stick out my tongue and catch some snowflakes before heading inside.
It’s cold in the kitchen, I can see my breath. Mom calls out and tells me to come to the living room. As I walk down the hall, the furnace kicks on. The warm air smells like dust. I turn the corner and see a man I don’t know in our living room. He is really tall and is wearing a black mask. He is pointing a gun at my father. Another man grabs my arm when I walk into the room. I can’t see him. My mother is sitting on the couch, my brother still asleep in her lap. My father looks scared. He tells the men they can have anything they want. The tall man hits my father in the face and tells him to shut up. I can feel my mother shudder from across the room. The tall man grabs my father by the back of his neck and pushes him to his knees. My dad looks like he is going to cry. The tall man unzips his pants and stands in front of my father. He tells my father to get to work. He points his gun at my mother. The other man squeezes my arm and giggles.
Guy Stewart says
Victory of Fists — YA — 50,000
�Hey, smartass!�
There were three of them and one of him. Otherwise, the outdoor basketball court of James Earl Carter High School was empty and dark.
�I�m not an ass,� Langston Jones said. �But I do got really big hands. More like a golden retriever puppy.� He knelt down to tighten the laces on one basketball shoe. His hands shook, not in fear. �I like to write poetry, too.�
They were on the asphalt court; he was at the free throw line and the trio under the basket. The shortest one laughed, the tallest one muttered something Langston couldn�t hear. The in-between just stood there. All of them had their hands stuffed in the pocket of their hooded sweatshirts. Faceless because they wore their hoods up.
It had been a cold May so far. Langston�s breath fogged in front of his face as he picked up his basketball. He saw it in the lights of a car that drove past the school, briefly making it glow. The lights cut through the shadows of the boys in their hoods, too, but only enough to see two black chins � the short one and the tall one � and a white one in the middle. Three identical clouds of smoke glimmered near their shadowed faces. Once the car was gone, their faces disappeared again.
�We�re here to kick your ass, white boy,� said the middle boy.
Langston nodded. �I�m not white. I�m biracial.� He flashed a mouthful of perfect teeth. �My momma�s black and my daddy�s white, but I ain�t seen my daddy since I was twelve.� He talked Southern black, but he could talk Northern white just as easy. Or Nigerian or Jamaican. Depended on who he was with.
�Dumbass,� said the tallest boy, stepping once toward him.
�I thought you said I was a smartass,� Langston said, snapping his mouth shut. Why�d he always say stuff that made people madder rather than getting them to back off? His hands shook harder. He gripped the basketball harder with one and shoved the other hand in his pocket.
What did they want with him? He was wearing a thrift-store jacket and his basketball was scuffed and dirty. The question was rhetorical. The answer was that Langston Jones had a big mouth and no friends and lived not-quite in the poorest part of town behind the hospital. He fit no group but his own.
The middle one glanced at his friends then popped a white fist into a white hand. Otherwise dressed in black, they were invisible in the dark. �Gonna kick your white ass,� he said.
�I don�t have a white ass,� Langston said. �It�s kinda dark. ‘member, my mom’s black and my dad’s white? I think that�s what momma told me one time when I was about six. I got in fights then, too. I still get in fights �cause I can�t never shut up…
aerialscribe says
When I fell, I wasn’t thinking of falling, I was thinking of flying.
Swinging high, I gave no thought to falling. I’d never fallen before, and after all, I was after the big red apple in the sky. I didn’t have time to think of falling. I was going to fly. At the climax of my act, I meant to throw myself into the sky with a double-twist, slide into an ankle-hang, and just graze the side of the enormous apple with my finger tips.
It was the face that threw me. The face high in the rigging, in a place where no face had any right to be, floating weightless among the trusses in the reaches of the ceiling. An ice-white face, a face as cold as snow, with red lips, ruby lips, lips the color of blood, and eyes as dark as stars.
There was no double-twist. My spin went wide and wild at the sight of that face hanging motionless in the rigging. I felt myself go askew, and the last thing I saw was the full, lush lips of that austere face, parting ever so slightly in hungry anticipation. Then there was no more time. I felt myself falling and straddled my legs wide to catch the trapeze, but it was too late, and I only banged an ankle painfully against the bar as I fell past, out of time with the swing, beginning a long descent to the stage.
The safety line caught with a slight jerk and Marko lowered me in graceful arcing swings to the stage. At least one of us had been paying attention. I twisted upright as I descended; one hand on the line, the other flourishing artistically as clowns tumbled out on to the stage to serve as distractions while the audience applauded. I took my bows while Gecko undid my safety in an expert display of clownish subterfuge that yanked him up into the air writhing and wriggling into the recesses of the rigging. I vanished in a puff of smoke and slid through a trap door under the stage.
“Hey Fruit Bat! What the fuck was that all about?” Denny said to me as I stepped away from the trap door, still wrapped in a fog of smoke. The acrid smell of the stage smoke made my nose twitch. I folded back the bat wings of my costume from my arms and removed my headgear with the large, tufted, furry fruit-bat ears and walked toward him.
“I don’t know Denny,” I said, thrusting a finger at his chest. “Who the hell have you got climbing up in the rigging right in my sight-line when I was about to throw the double? ‘Bout scared the hell out of me!”
“What? Hey, no one’s up there. No one goes up until Gecko does, after your act.” He pushed my finger down with one hand and we glared at each other.
“There was a face in the rigging,” I said.
Suzan Harden says
Zombie Wedding
Urban Fntasy
“Sam, get your mother out of my face, or I’m going to stake her.” Tiffany Stephens hissed the words in my ear while we waited for Mom and Antoine to come back with a load of designer bridal gowns. My sympathy for Tiffany didn’t extend far. I knew Mom would start on my bridesmaid dress once she was satisfied with Tiffany’s wedding wear.
I stared at my brother’s fiancée. With all the mascara and eyeliner, her squinted eyes were little more than black slashes on her nearly white face. A quick glance around the Beverly Hills boutique reassured me that everyone else was out of hearing range. Normal human hearing range anyway.
“Killing her would be the perfect Christmas gift for me,” I whispered back.
She snorted at my teasing and pursed her purple-black lips. Her size two combat boot tapped an irritated rhythm. As the only human Enforcer of the Augustine vampire coven, she could hold her own against any supernatural menace.
Standing against my mother was another story.
Mom charged back toward the dressing area where she had planted the two of us. Antoine, Mom’s personal image consultant, floated in her wake, loaded to the gills with fluffy white material.
I wasn’t precognitive-at least not yet-but I could see what was about to happen. Hell, the blind beggar on my corner could have seen what about to happen.
Mom held up the first filmy concoction.
“No effin’ way.” Tiffany glared at my mother.
“Now, Tiffany, darling, since you have no older female family members to assist you with planning your wedding, you really need me.”
Ouch. Smooth move, Mom. Remind the homicidal future daughter-in-law that her parents are pushing up daisies. I bit my tongue to keep from saying those thoughts aloud.
“I really would suggest off-white or pale rose with Ms. Stephens’s coloring,” Antoine simpered. “Nothing fitted with her-” He coughed discretely. “-delicate condition,” he finished sotto voce.
Mom shot him a nasty look. I bit my lower lip and stared at the ceiling to keep from breaking out in hysterics. Tiffany’s pre-marital pregnancy was a touchy subject – for everyone, except Max since it proved his manhood. But she was only six weeks along so it wasn’t like the baby was showing on her petite frame.
“I’ll give him delicate,” Tiffany muttered. I held my breath, but she didn’t reach for the dagger tucked in her right boot.
“And that atrocious make-up she has on simply won’t do-“
Tiffany leapt before Antoine could finish the sentence.
Okay, I didn’t foresee that one.
Honestly, I could have stopped her, but it was more fun to watch the nineteen-year-old Goth try to strangle Mom’s snobby image consultant. That is, if she could find his scrawny neck amid all the taffeta.
“Samantha!” Mom shrieked. “Do something!” She was more mortified at the scene Tiffany made than concerned over harm to Antoine. Especially now that everyone in the boutique watched Tiffany pound Antoine’s head against the floor.
Sherlyn Todd Andreozzi says
“Rise Of The Underland” first book in the YA “Butterfly Queen Chronicles”.
Old Coyote eased onto his side and stretched his long, skinny legs across the pale, cool sand. After a long journey to the pyramid sand hill deep in the Texas desert, a heavy weariness seeped through him and settled in his bones. He closed his eyes and tried to clear his mind of the impending danger the desert concealed beneath its surface awaiting a delicate butterfly of a child who would soon carry the weight of it all. His ears pricked up a short time later when soft laughter and whispered words came drifting across the sand. The sounds became secondary to the feeling of a presence near him. Reluctantly, he opened his eyes to two small-callused feet with stubby hairy toes wiggling next to his snout.
“Sandlings,” Coyote sighed. How did they know he was here so quickly? It was impossible to keep anything a secret from them. They truly were the nosiest of all desert creatures.
“Me thinking you here for some reason, me does,” said a scratchy voice.
“Certainly can’t keep a secret from you, Dreamer,” Coyote replied, taking notice of the creature’s eyes blazing in the night like little yellow flames. “My goodness, you’re even older than I remember.”
Dreamer smiled showing his sharp, pointed teeth that were as yellow as his eyes. “Me old enough to knows you come to this place looking for something, me does.”
Coyote got his feet under him and shook the sand from his fur. “This is true, old friend.”
“Must be careful, me thinks. The Harmful Ones are not far from this place. Saw them run, then slither `neath the sand, me did.”
Coyote surveyed the nearby hills slowly and cautiously. They were out there – he could smell them. “Gather all the Naturals and Unseens and put them on alert. I must have enough time to complete my mission.” Coyote could hear the urgency in his voice, though the fear behind it, he kept well concealed. “If my visions are true, we’ll have a new Protector chosen and sealed within the three circles before the next season of cold winds.”
“Me has others waiting not far, me does. Me send them in all six directions keeping eyes and ears open, me will.” Dreamer touched the top of Coyote’s head. “Me leaving me dreaming powers with you, me is.”
Coyote sniffed the air. “It appears I’ll need them. Go Quickly.” He paused to clear his throat and mask the panic. “They’re getting closer.”
Without a moment’s hesitation, Dreamer rolled into a ball and swiftly skipped across the sand like any other tumbleweed traveling on the wind.
Chelle says
DON’T MIND IF I DO
Tami Miller pulled her truck into a well-lit parking spot, slipped out the door and made her way to the Food-A-Rama. The first cart she grabbed suffered from wiggly wheel.
Not after this day at the office! she thought.
When Tami tried the next cart, she nearly wrenched her shoulder from its socket. The darn thing was so jammed into the adjoining one that it needed the jaws-of-life to pry it loose. She muttered to herself and rolled her eyes before a third attempt. Bingo!
As she raced down the familiar aisles, Tami seized a mixture of veggies, fruits, and meats from the mental notes she had made on the drive to the supermarket. When she was down to the last item, her cart, as if set on auto-pilot, made its way to frozen food and Hastings Home Made Heavenly Cream. In her haste, Tami nearly collided with another shopper’s cart, but she applied the brakes just in time. Just in time to see a long arm reach up and snatch the last pint of Deserved Decadence, one of Hastings best sellers. Unconsciously, she spoke out loud, “You can’t be serious.”
The man who’d just irreverently thrown Hastings Home Made Heavenly Cream’s Deserved Decadence into his shopping cart turned to look at her. “Excuse me?”
Tami rubbed her forehead, feeling the chocolate craving hormone kicking in as she fought the urge to stalk Mr. Pint Tosser and rescue her beloved ice cream when he wasn’t looking. But darn, he’d already seen her. She’d be a prime suspect in the checkout line.
“Oh… nothing,” she muttered.
Warm brown eyes smiled down at her. “Oh,” he said, tracing her stare to the ice cream, “you wanted the Decadence, huh?”
Tami felt an incredible rush of hope. She flashed her best smile and replied, “Well, yes. You see I had this really bad day and… “
“Me too!” he interrupted. “Nothing like a little Decadence to make you feel better, right? Well, I’m sure they’ll get another shipment in tomorrow.” He winked and proceeded with his shopping.
Tami couldn’t believe this total stranger just tormented her over a pint of ice cream. What ever happened to chivalry? What a laugh, huh? To think he might actually have offered her the last pint of Deserved Decadence. To console herself, Tami settled for the only pint of Hastings Home Made Heavenly Cream that was left on the shelf. Vanilla Java.
This should be interesting, she thought. No chocolate. Caffeine added. Wasn’t this just the perfect antidote to a stress-filled day! Well, perhaps a hot bath would help once she got home.
Tami started to unload her items on the checkout line when she realized the ice cream tease was in front of her.
“Hi again,” he smiled.
Tami winced at him and then went back to her items.
“Oh, c’mon, you aren’t really mad at me, are you?”
Mark D. says
Viciously, the dark-haired beauty pitched her fists with repeated precision and without pause. The old man inched backward, surprised by the ferocity of the woman’s attack, but he shouldn’t have been. It was a fight for survival. Continuous roundhouse kicks mixed with straight punches kept her same-sized opponent on the defensive. Next, she feigned a reverse kick and then double chops astride his neck forced the oldster to his knees. The reeling impact of a 360 flattened him.
Stepping forward, the young lady looked down at her beaten foe with dazzling almond eyes. Her ruby lips curled a cruel smile that could highlight a photo shoot of Asia’s most beautiful models. This was no photo shoot, however, and she was no model. With the grace of a leopard, she moved in for the kill. Flicking a thick ponytail with a twist of her head, she raised her arms for the deathblow.
Unexpectedly, the aged defender turned in a microsecond, slicing his legs through her ankles in a classic scissors throw. The woman dropped, but before hitting the ground was caught in a stranglehold of iron. Her breath choked away and the snapshot of Japanese architecture blurred. In desperation, she attempted a counter strategy, but the wily veteran, anticipating that very move, neutralized it by averting the weight shift with one of his own. Her thoughts slipped into oblivion, her consciousness in tow.
“Enough,” the elder man shouted in their native Japanese. He released the grip, and allowed the woman to regain her wits, as she gagged violently to regain her breath. Standing up, he looked at her with displeasure. “You disappoint me. This was your worst session yet.”
Receiving only persistent coughing as a reply, he twirled his small body into a brisk exit. Unable to speak, the young lady could only watch his slight frame shrink with every step. Halting his gait, abruptly, he turned a glare to the prone woman. “If you can’t stop thinking about him, you’d best stop training. The Shoji Tokyo Dojo is no place for the lovelorn. Do you understand? DO YOU?”
Still floored, she buried her brow into both forearms. If she hadn’t, her grandfather would have seen tears pour from red eyes, and that would have been worse than losing the match.
Again, he stormed away, but before clearing the courtyard, the patriarch’s anger morphed to compassion. He reversed direction, approached his granddaughter, and beheld her with hard eyes that revealed a soft soul. He spoke gently. “I’m sorry, Yoshiko. I should not have said that.”
Finally clearing an airway, the woman looked up while breaking down. “Go away,” she cried, caring no longer. “I hate you!”
Shoji Wada felt guilty. He knew she hadn’t had time enough to heal a broken heart. Was it so long since he experienced the tender moments of true love? Pivoting again, he walked slowly with his thoughts lost in the memories of a long past.
Mark says
The Law Of The Splintered Paddle — 76,000 words
I was punching air on Kaimana Beach on Waikiki’s gold coast when the hooker found me. From her appearance, I didn’t guess she was a hooker. College student, maybe. Ten or twelve years younger than me, wearing a two-piece suit that revealed a body toned from youth rather than discipline. Her suit was no skimpier than the costume worn by perhaps a dozen other women at the beach. No skimpier than my own two-piece. A broad-brimmed straw hat hid most of her face in shadow
I threw a set of left/right straight punches followed by left/right roundhouse combinations.
She stopped a few feet beyond the reach of my jabs. “Ava Rome?”
I continued the workout, counting each punch out loud. “. . . fifteen, sixteen . . .”
“Moon Ito told me I’d find you here.”
“. . . nineteen, twenty.”
At twenty, I was supposed to switch from my left stance to my right and repeat the drill, but Moon Ito never sent anyone to me before. I dropped my arms and got out of the stance.
“I’m Ava Rome. Who are you?”
“My name’s Jenny Mordan,” she said from the shadow of the hat. Her voice had an accent I couldn’t place.
The intensity of my workout left me sweaty and overheated. I picked up my towel and a water bottle. Squirted cool water down my throat and on my face and mopped it with the towel.
“Have we met?”
“You were easy to spot. Ito said look for a sharp haole chick with her game face on.”
In a state obsessed with origins, everybody wears a label. Haole means caucasian, a label that applied to about a third of the people at the beach, including Jenny Mordan, and a similar proportion of residents of the state.
Nobody else wore a game face, but then you can’t buy a game face at Walmart or on QVC.
Jenny Mordan said, “You do this jujitsu a lot, do you?”
“It’s not jujitsu, it’s krav maga.”
“It’s all the same to me.”
“Jujitsu is Japanese, krav maga is Israeli.”
“You’re Israeli?”
“No. Krav is Israeli.
“Whatever. Gets the hunkies ogling, doesn’t it?”
“Why don’t we step into my office?” I tied my towel around my waist and pointed to a vacant picnic table under the trees on the other side of the low wall demarcating the beach.
“Why did Moon send you?” I asked as she fell into step beside me.
“He said you protect the defenseless. He said it’s your calling..”
Protecting the defenseless was once the law of the nation of Hawaii before annexation by the United States. Kamehameha The Great’s first law, the law of the splintered paddle, is still ingrained in the spirit of the islands and her people. It’s on my business card, right below “licensed private investigator:” The defenseless shall be guaranteed protection from harm.
“It’s my business, not a calling. Nuns have callings. That’s not me.”
Pete Osborne says
Strain – Post-pandemic Thriller – 92,000 words
Fact:
In December 2003, a team of geneticists from the University of California – Berkeley geneticists studying the latent mechanism of tuberculosis accidentally created a more lethal, resilient, and rapidly reproducing pathogen.
“These findings come as a complete surprise to us,” said Professor Lee Riley, the study lead.
“One of the very few hypervirulent organisms ever created,” said Dr. Lisa Morici, later adding, “there are several other virulent organisms out there that are easier to manipulate than TB.”
□□□
PROLOGUE
The pathogen, dubbed Flip Switch, was bioengineered from a multi-drug resistant strain of mycobacterium tuberculosis (MDR M.TB) and divided approximately every 110 seconds. Overnight, it became the fastest reproducing and deadliest bacteria known to man.
On Thursday, January 8, 2004, the National Institute of Allergy and Infectious Diseases (NIAID) delivered the Top-Secret/SCI National Security Council Flip Switch Assessment to a special, joint session of the House and Senate Intelligence Committees and the executive branch. The report hit like a hammer.
The Flip Switch Assessment detailed the effects of a likely hyperviral doomsday scenario. The stark assessment punctuated the accelerated rate of reproduction, resiliency to antibiotics, ease of transmission, and lethality of the new pathogen. A shockwave of genuine fear tore through the executive and legislative branches.
On Friday, January 16, 2004, the top-secret Executive Order 13149 – Flip Switch Special Access Program was signed on a countertop in the kitchen of the president’s personal residence. Six people were present: the president, his chief of staff, the chairpersons of the Senate and House Intelligence Committees, the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, and the National Security Advisor. EO 13149 claimed unprecedented power for the executive and centralized authority outside Constitutional parameters in the event of a hypervirulent pandemic in the interests of national security.
Bolstered the Public Health Security and Bioterrorism Preparedness and Response Act of 2002 (BPARA), the real function of EO 13149 established the framework for decentralized and fastidiously compartmentalized preparations to respond to a hyperviral outbreak. In addition to quarantine protocols, EO 13149 granted authority to exercise immediate condemnation via eminent domain and authorized the use of force with extreme prejudice to contain any outbreak.
In a separate Executive action, an additional $2 billion in funding was earmarked to expand the genetic bioengineering research at 24 sites and 409 support facilities across the country. The appropriation’s introduction, presented as new NIAID funding, was paired with the administration’s reaction to House Resolution 2264 authorizing the Congo Basin Forest Partnership.
On August 17, 2004, while on a re-election campaign stop, the senior senator on Ways and Means announced the construction of the newest NIAID Level 4 biosecure research facility – with its $125 million price tag, 200 new construction jobs, and influx of additional monies for local infrastructure.
A small town on the verge of sliding unnoticed into history became a momentary celebrity in the regional news cycle. Chosen for its plausible proximity to a state university with a respected genetic research program, the site was…
Donna says
Chapter One
Paige ran from the hospital, without looking back. She needed to escape. She ran faster, towards the stairs, which emptied out two streets below. The railings were cold — the treads uneven and difficult to maneuver at a run. It kept her from thinking. She started to count —fourteen steps, landing — nine steps, landing — twenty-seven steps, landing — twenty-five steps, street.
The scent of fresh baked bread made her pick-up the pace. Run faster. Get to the sanctuary of the café ahead. Out of breath, lungs burning from the cold December air, she pulled the door open and found shelter.
Seth Bellingham sat in the café trying to ignore the old woman who groused at him about sitting at the tiny table in the corner with the reserved sign. He told her he’d move when the regular occupant came in, and he would, but right now, he needed the seclusion.
This morning had been one in a series of horrible mornings since he’d come home, to Portland, Maine, to deal with his father. Bellingham didn’t want to take his mother to the hospital and they’d argued. She insisted and would have to deal with the consequences.
He’d been told to leave — to abandon her with the bitter old man. He’d left angry. Furious at how easily the old man still manipulated him. He didn’t want to be here — he didn’t belong anymore.
Unfortunately, until his father died, he was trapped in Maine. Until then, he’d finish his career as a police officer while becoming a Watchkeeper for Richard Thorndike’s agency at the same time. His first case for Richard, a.k.a. Rick, wouldn’t be a hardship. He considered it a favor for a friend.
The harsh sound of bells slamming against the door made him look up. A fierce pixie flew in. She’d been running and looked angry. He checked his watch. She was right on schedule. He’d been watching her from a distance, but the last abduction hit too close to her and the time to meet in person had come.
The knit cap she’d pulled over her head obscured her face and her eyes were undistinguishable, but he still recognized her. Paige Logan. He felt the same sexual punch he had when he’d first seen her picture. Her red cheeks and the sweaty face didn’t lessen the impact. He sat back waiting for her to come to him. She wouldn’t be happy that he’d taken her seat.
Anonymous says
Sitting in the dark with a pistol in my hand, focused on a glimmer of moonlight glowing through the cracks of the mini blinds. Trembling thoughts of the unknown race through my head like a micro-horror movie. The 8 year old O’Malley twins consume my every thought. There must be something I can do…the phones are dead. “Why won’t the kids answer the damn door?” Feeling warm sweat dripping down my face distracts me from focusing on the house across the street.
Rushing toward the window, my silk robe floats behind me and clings to my thighs. Standing there, my body trembles as I peer through the small cracks of the closed mini blind. Feeling my eyes quiver; they focus on the blood smeared front door and the yellow homicide tape surrounding the house. There’s got to be a clue somewhere. Those kids didn’t just vanish.
Looking down the street, I notice headlights coming my way. I clutch my husband’s gun firmly in both hands, my throbbing heart pounding in my chest, standing motionless behind the blinds. If someone breaks into that house I’ll shoot them… it’s my only option. The gun feels heavy and my hand is shaking uncontrollably while listening to the sound of my own garage door lift slowly. Are they coming for me? I crouch down in silence, feeling the relentless pounding in my chest while the inside door opens. The eerie silence in the room overwhelms me as I cock the gun and aim in the direction of the door, heart still pounding beneath my breast, my hands clammy. I feel the dampness of my own sweat consuming my tense body as I listen to the quiet footsteps move toward the door. He’s entered the house. “STOP OR I’LL SHOOT!”
. My husband reaches for the light switch. “Dammit Angie! Put the fucking gun down! You almost gave me heart failure jumping out at me like that. Why are you sneaking around in the dark with my gun in your hand? Is it loaded?”
My hands are visibly shaking as I lay the gun on the coffee table in front of him. “Rob… I wasn‘t expecting you home until tomorrow morning! There’s been a homicide…,” speaking in a voice barely resembling my own, I pause briefly before continuing, “Donna and Joel O’Malley were murdered early this morning, leaving the 8 year old twin girls alone in the house. I’m worried about the children Rob. They haven’t been found. They have got to be there… I heard screams almost an hour ago and I haven’t heard anything since…nothing. I’ve notified the police… and where in HELL are the damn police? I’m telling you, I think it was one of the girls I heard screaming. Rob, you have to do something… NOW! We have to find the O’Malley twins.”
“For God’s sake Angie, calm down, you’re getting all worked up for nothing. For all we know, the police could already have the kids in their custody.”
Kandybar says
Broken Mirrors – YA Fantasy – 55000 words
Her potion was blue. She was sure she had added the ingredients in the correct order and amounts, but it still insisted on being this brilliant ocean of wrongness, instead of a nice violet color. There was nothing sinister about blue.
Winnie tapped her finger against the side of her hat, pondering where she could have made the mistake. Maybe she hadn’t added enough toad’s blood, or had put in too much wormwood, or maybe she had stirred counterclockwise accidentally once or twice.
Igor perched on the rim of the cauldron, cocking his head so he could see the mixture. Winnie sighed; not only could she not correctly mix a simple summoning spell, she couldn’t even attract a proper familiar. Most witches had things like ravens or crows or wolves; she had a cockatiel. A cockatiel named Igor.
“Well,” she said to the bird, “I didn’t really want to summon a demon today anyway. What would I have done with him? He’d only get dirt and blood all over the carpet and eat my supplies.”
Igor bobbed his head in agreement before flying over to perch on her shoulder. Winnie sighed, pet the bird on his head, and went to retrieve one of the many bottles her great aunt had given her. Winnie wasn’t sure what was in it; her great aunt had only told her it was useful for ‘getting rid of her mistakes,’ but no matter what potion it was applied to, it always left the cauldron clean and empty, without any signs of the potion that had been made.
Winnie’s great aunt was a bit of a curiosity of a witch. She lived away from everyone else, which was standard, except for the fact that she lived in the middle of a forest in a house made of gingerbread and candy. It was fairly well known by the children in the surrounding towns that if you could manage to find the candy house, the old woman inside would give you pie and tell you stories about dragons and knights and trolls for as long as you liked.
Associating with children was not something approved of by the High Assembly. Winnie wasn’t too fond of children herself; there weren’t a lot of them nearby, and when she did come across them, they always seemed like such noisy, vile little creatures.
Convinced that the cauldron showed no sign of her failed potion, Winnie tucked the bottle away in its hiding spot behind a rock and left the cave. Witches were solitary characters; soon Winnie would go through her Ritual and leave home to become a hermit in some dark forest or tower or cave somewhere, but for now she used this small cave, half-tucked behind some bushes on an unassuming hillside, for practice. The entrance was warded so only she could get in and out. She had found this necessary not only to protect her supplies but also so certain people could not bother her while she was working.