UPDATE: TIME’S UP! THANKS TO EVERYONE WHO ENTERED!
So. Last time we had a contest we had some problems because people were concerned with silly things like “rules” and “things Nathan promised” and “this blog isn’t worth the paper it isn’t printed on, and in fact, if you were printed on paper you wouldn’t be worth the paper you were printed on either, Meanie McMeanieagent.”
Let’s be clear up front: this is a for-fun contest that I conduct in the free time that I normally spend bathing and attending to personal hygiene. Rules may be adjusted without notice, as I see fit, in ways in which you might find capricious, arbitrary, and possibly dangerous to the Baby Jesus. Let’s be clear: no angst this time. You have been warned.
Are we having fun yet?
Now then! You remember how this works right?
1. Please post the first paragraph of any work-in-progress in the comments section of THIS POST. The deadline for entry is THURSDAY 4pm Pacific time, at which point entries will be closed. Finalists will be announced on Friday, at which time you will exercise your democratic rights to choose a grand prize super awesome winner.
2. You may enter once, once you may enter, and enter once you may.
3. Spreading word about the contest is strongly encouraged.
4. I will be sole judge this time. Bwa ha ha.
5. A word on word count: I am not imposing a word count on the paragraphs. However, a paragraph that is too long may lose points in the judge’s eyes. Use your own discretion.
THE PRIZES: The grand prize super awesome winner of the SUFPCx2 will win their choice of a partial critique, query critique or 15 minute phone conversation in which we can discuss topics ranging from reality TV shows to, you know, publishing. Your choice. Runners up will receive query critiques and/or other agreed-upon prizes.
On with the show!
Jo-Anne Vandermeulen says
First paragraph to my newest novel, BETWEEN TWO:
The needle scribbled over the white paper near Tara Robstead’s right ear, sounding like finger nails scraping down a chalkboard. Engulfed in total darkness, tape pinching her forehead, she pictured one of the machines hooked to her scalp assigning instructions to the instrument. Turn that damn machine off, she yelled from the confines of her mind and her solidified carcass. Her pulse hammered inside her head like an air pump expanding her skull.
Christine says
Was he following her, or was she being paranoid? Bryn waited until she was even with the pawnshop and looked across the street. The man’s reflection rippled over the long row of mirrored windows. Despite the sticky heat of the August afternoon, a chill ran down her spine.
Webvend says
Nancy Plains opened the envelope on her desk containing her new mission. Central Command located the Ever-Burning Log of Love in the real world and as a Special Agent for the Department of Unregulated Enchanted Items, she had to retrieve it. “Mutt, we’re going back.” She sighed as she knew a trip through the tunnel to the real world would cause her to shrink to be about a foot high and she would have to ride on Mutt’s back to get there.
Mike J says
For ten years Jim Locke spent his nights exploring the darker side of humanity, and his days writing about it for the New York Daily Post. He reveled in this life and once, after pounding back four or five boilermakers, he’d been asked to describe himself in one word. “I’m a cliché,” he’d said, then added, “I drink too much, I smoke too much, I hang out with lewd and lascivious women, and I get a warm feeling in the pit of my stomach when I scoop the competition on a story. Nothing else matters to me.”
Anonymous says
Jesse stumbled out of bed and made her way to the bathroom. She moved blindly: eyes shut, arms stretched out, fingers grazing walls and surfaces to help guide the way. Her head was pounding but she didn’t think she could stomach even one aspirin. She squinted at her reflection in the bathroom mirror –blood-shot eyes, puffy face and pale complexion. Her hair was an unruly, matted mess and her tongue felt thick and furry in her mouth.
Kim Wehner says
(My YA novel)
I was five when the bones washed up on the shore. First an ivory half-moon, the surface polished so smooth by salt water it was like satin. Next came yellowed teeth jutting from a cracked oval jaw, nestled in a seaweed blanket. Piece by piece the sections arrived like guests to a surprise party.
Eva says
Her hands shook so bad she could barely type the entry code, one finger at a time. When the opening screen finally appeared she let out a small squeak of anticipation. It took several tries before she was able to jack into the game. Once the data flow began the uncontrollable twitching subsided and a small smile even flitted across her tortured face. “Jacking” was the term used to describe a new phenomenon that was sweeping across the 20 to 30 something age crowd. Those people were so hooked on gaming, both single console and internet games that they felt they could not live without the game. They had had intricate game systems overlaid on, in some cases inserted into, parts of their bodies. Then to play they simply connected a cord to a power source, the other end connected to a port/jack in their body and the games began.
San Diego Momma says
Holy crap…there are over a 1,200 entries!
From my middle grade manuscript:
Tap, tap, tap. Tap, tap, tap. The sound reached Annie in her sleep, only in her dream, she’d been tossing stones at a fence, one right after the other. Once she realized the sound came from outside her dream, she struggled to open her eyes. They fluttered beneath cast iron eyelids. Tap, tap, tap. Her dream self split in two: one of her kept throwing stones against the fence and the other reached a hand up to swim out of the dream. Finally, her eyes flew open.
jerzegirl says
From Bruised Fruit…
Ethan Reueken is haunting me or I am delusional. I have no idea if he is living or dead, but his presence is overwhelming It’s been over twenty years since we last spoke and our conversation was brief. Yet our exchange was long enough to realized that Ethan Reueken would remain the unpaid tenant of my heart. Sure there were numerous times when I was certain Ethan vacated my heart only to discover that I fooled myself once more. Like when I married Peter, but I am getting ahead of my story.
Aimless Writer says
He loved elevators. In an elevator you could stand in a woman’s space, inhale her essence and no one cared. The more crowded the better. The wood feel of the small box, four walls closing in, a moving crypt of pleasure. Women close enough to eat. He could close his eyes and imagine being in a coffin with them. A glimpse of how they would be in death.
fas says
“I tell thee, I shall go mad if I am made to spend so much as one more hour in this putrid, stinking valley that the devil would not deem worthy to have a piss in! And then thou may sit and watch me sleep until my wits see fit to return to me.”
Eddie Louise says
From The Devil in Her Dreams – a WIP:
The insistent blaring of the alarm hadn’t been enough to wake Orianna. Neither had her downstairs neighbour’s frustrated banging on the ceiling with a broom handle. Nor the secondary alarm on the clock radio, bleating forth shock-jock pseudo rage at uncomfortable decibels, all aimed at the latest perceived shortcoming of the liberal presidential candidate. The latter item was her fail-safe alarm as her frustration with the pig-headed, misogynistic, morally smug DJ normally brought her screaming to wakefulness.
Gregory Thomas says
From a Biblical Novel:
Rivkah’s skin prickled at the sound of coarse laughter.
Tossing a damp towel over the dough she’d been kneading, she whipped off her apron and raced to the window. She huddled beside its hide covering, ear cocked. The jumble of male voices, though indistinct, grew steadily louder.
Somewhere beyond the hill a rooster crowed and frightened chickens squawked.
Okay, maybe it’s techincally three paragraphs, but they’re short.
Phil says
The rumors were true. A great ashen stain diffused amongst the brilliant white and blues of Earth’s complexion. The onerous blemish, visible from the bridge of the ICS Somal, belied the chaos it masked. A great firestorm engulfed the entire seaboard below.
“What a mess.”
John says
The Snow Whale
UniqCorps Plastics Division made what John Jacobs called desk doodles. They were clear plastic hourglasses filled with colored water and co-polymer solutions—referred to by UniqCorps employees as “goo”—bright bubbled liquid beads that dripped from a reservoir and sank in a row down a spiral maze, the effect mesmerizing. Bank officers kept the desk doodles prominently displayed, and bank costumers saw the goo at rest. They knew the activity to be short-lived, but wanted to flip the thing over anyway. In the UniqCorps Plastics Division literature, desk doodles were known as “corporate novelties,” and their official purpose was to inspire a childlike creativity from desk-bound employees. John Jacobs never felt anything close to childlike, though his desk at UniqCorps was covered with desk doodles. He didn’t design them, he didn’t test them, he didn’t market them, though he was acquainted with the people who did. John Jacobs and his fellow salesmen in the plastics division spent eight hours a day in their cubicles sending out emails or talking on the phone to very rich and powerful people, the senior executives who gave their employees token gifts from the company each year—semi-useful things like stadium blankets, fold-up lawn chairs, can coolers, visors, or just about anything summery, fun, and costing less than twenty dollars per unit when bought in bulk. John Jacobs sold them desk doodles. His job was to convince the rich and powerful executives that profit and company pride were likely returns on the distribution of cases of corporate novelties stamped with the company logo.
Jack Saux says
Mr. Bransford, thanks for the opportunity to introduce you to “Act of Faith.”
Chapter One
Pier Six, Orleans Marina
New Orleans 1985
La Signorina e Bianca danced in her slip. She swayed to the music of the marina symphony – percussion from the slapping of halyards on masts, string ensemble of wind whistling through rigging, and vocal accompaniment courtesy of the perpetually hungry gulls.
Jack Saux
MelodyO says
Gerald Tweedsmuir broke up with me this morning after nine days, fourteen hours of dating, because, he said, I wasn’t “normal”. How, dear Gerald, could I possibly have turned out normal when I had a mother who determined people’s basic worth by their misuse of apostrophes? Even in my teens, while my friends lived in exhilarated dread of being discovered fornicating in their basements after school, I had to contend with the risk that my mom would catch me dangling a modifier in public. Emotionally, psychologically, grammatically, I never stood a chance. Neither did Gerald, it seemed, as I noted that in his goodbye email he’d assured me he still really liked me alot.
ChristaCarol says
YA fantasy (Thanks, Nathan)–
With a deep breath, Lusa pushed forward into the dark mouth of the temple. The sun sunk below the auburn canopy of trees, dappling light into the gloomy foyer. Now or never, Lusa.
Gillian G says
I sank onto an overturned bucket and rested my forehead against the closet door. A tiny window near the ceiling let in enough watery autumn light to keep the worst of the terror at bay. For now. But my throat burned from shouting, and panic plunged it’s icy claws into my chest when I glanced at the watch pinned to my blouse. I’d been trapped here for almost two hours!
Poppy R says
Finding anyone on a reservation is never easy, even someone dead. Map labels and road signs were never part of this world.
Lee says
First paragraph of “Dire Strait,” a novel by Lee Ewing:
At the southwest corner of the White House roof, Ryan Geary raised his binoculars and once more scanned the grounds, the perimeter and beyond, looking for anything out of the ordinary. Staying alert always was a challenge. The Secret Service’s most dangerous enemy was complacency bred of boredom. Even now. For three days, the nation had been on heightened alert. The recent increasingly deadly terrorist bombings in Copenhagen, London and Barcelona, along with an unusual surge in chatter on the Internet, had convinced national security officials that a new attack within the United States could be imminent.
whinydad says
From the in-production YA “BTW My Dad’s Literally a Super Hero
Just as Mick’s eyes flashed open to the red 1:57 on the night table clock he heard footsteps on the back porch. The reflection through his window of a streetlamp and the night table clock were his only light. He held his breath. The back door creaked open. It smacked close. Next came the “shucks” of a muffled, familiar voice, followed by the air-sucking plop of the refrigerator opening and the fizzy gush of an opened club soda bottle. He had once more woken to his dad’s return. Mick exhaled, knowing now that there was nothing to fear.
Susan Bradley says
She anchored her feet, leaned forward, and placed her hands on the brick of the gymnasium back wall to stretch out her tight calves. Her eyes darted around looking for him. She had begged him not to show up after practice, but he’d defy her instructions and do what he wanted to anyway. He always did.
Dacre Hill says
This is the first paragraph of my WIP ‘A Road in the Forest’
I was born an old woman and I knew it by the time I was five. I had to wait a full life for my body to catch my soul,and in the waiting I wondered if those of my kind who had gone before me had found the patience, with themselves and the world, that the special gifts of Spirit demand. Sometimes those gifts carry too high a price. Some of my tribe would shun me if they could, I know this, but the time always comes when they have need. I was not the first woman of my kind, there have been many, but not all have been honored as shaman. Few men would marry them, but no matter. I was not pretty and no man sought out my father, and many believed the stories that were whispered in the dark, and had other destinies to fulfill in their hearts. But a few came to me in the night and, maddened by the Anglos’ gift, fumbled and bruised me in their haste, and I let them. I let them because of what I knew had to be.
Travis Erwin says
With each labored step, the tequila sloshed in the bottle dangling from Nick’s sunburned hand. He focused ahead, on the thin line where the blacktop merged with the barren horizon. One foot in front of the other, Nick trudged on. The shimmering heat waves reminded him of the strippers in Vegas. Curvy, arousing to watch, yet impossible to grab hold of. The same thing could be said for luck.
Rose Pressey says
I’m not psychic, but I knew something strange brewed in the distance. I felt it in my bones, coursing through my veins, like a bug that antibiotics just couldn’t shake. The wind whipped against the window, whistling its sharp hiss through the cracks in the jambs. Dark skies descended on the mountain town of Mystic Hollow, Kentucky.
AuthorMomWithDogs says
He sat alone with his back to me, staring off into the distance. Looking at nothing in particular, so far as I could tell. Still, his body language suggested a longing — as though he was waiting for someone to arrive. He sat cautiously hopeful, expectant even, and yet there was an ever-so-slight sagging of his being. As though the time was growing late, and perhaps the appointment had been missed. I walked across the field and up the hill to where he sat, hoping to get a glimpse of what he was seeing. He didn’t turn to look at me. He seemed fixed on his vision — a vision only he could behold. Was he staring into the past or into the future? I had no way of knowing.
Beth says
Oh man. I whispered, staring at myself in the mirror. “What was I thinking?” Strands of wet hair covered my hands. I closed my eyes and prayed for this to be a bad dream, then slowly opened them up. “Oh. My. Gawd, my mom’s going to kill me!” The pounding of my heart grew loud in my ears.
Anonymous says
The rain was heavy, coming straight down from a leaden sky, splashing in the puddles and drumming on the roof of the car. With the windscreen wipers on high speed, Carter Harris shifted down a gear, turning north out of Stephen’s Green. The clock on the dash fascia flashed two in the morning and there had been a freezing rain coming down since late afternoon. The streets were empty, glistening black and silver under the lamps, with reflections across their surface and the gutters beginning to stream. At the intersection from Grafton Street into College Harris put on speed when the lights changed to amber. But this was a mistake. The large, dark sedan came from out of nowhere, its headlights sweeping the narrow intersection, hurtling towards Harris before he could safely brake. The ominous sound of tires shrilling against wet pavement filled the air, sending a smell of burnt rubber into the compartment as Harris swerved the wheel at the last instant. There was a horrible grinding of metal on metal as front fenders brushed. The rear of the car waltzed as the tires lost their grip on the wet surface, sending Harris hurtling toward the shops that lined the narrow byway, making it impossible to steer.
Patricia Parkinson says
First paragragh of my Historical Western Romance
A fierce wind whipped Ruby’s cheeks and rustled her petticoats. The unforgiving wind kicked up the dust and scattered it like ashes across the prairie. Four women gathered around Ruby.In silence they stared down at the man’s lifeless body.
Celise says
First paragraph from my second published book, Dance Jam Productions (YA)
———————————–
A phone rang incessantly over the throbbing beat of Michael Jackson’s “Smooth Criminal.” Head bobbing, hips swaying, fingers snapping, Mataya Black Hawk picked up the receiver on the fourth ring.
“Rhythm Station, how may I help you?”
Anonymous says
Tracey Shearer from Seattle. 1st paragraph from my WIP, Blood Destiny:
Karl Stanislav knew that this would be the day he would die. The end of his life would be violent, just as his parents’ had been. Fingers cramping, he moved the baby carrier to his other hand being careful not to jostle the precious cargo inside. He had managed to escape from the hospital, but knew it was only a matter of time before the vampires found him.
yvettesgonefishing says
This is the first paragraph of a YA book which contains elements of both fantasy and mystery.
For most eleven year old boys, one old creepy, boarded-up house, shrouded in darkness and lurking at the far end of a cul de sac, is irresistible. Not so for Mickey Walker. He just didn’t want to be this close. Ever. He overturned a heavy clay flowerpot lying just beneath the broken front picture window, and climbed on top of it. Steadying himself, he looked inside. He saw glass shards scattered across a hardwood floor but no sign of his baseball, which must have rolled into another room in the house. He stepped down off the flowerpot and reached over to try the front door. It wasn’t locked. The creaking sound nearly scared Mickey right out of his jeans, and he could have sworn he saw the faintest hint of a dark mist or dust cloud escape through the narrow opening as the door drifted open just an inch or two. It was as though he had broken the seal on something dark. He backed away from the door, not bothering to pull it closed again.
If I would place in this contest, I’d love to get the phone call–I would like to ask if it would be an issue with an agent or publisher if I submitted this story and it didn’t appear until chapter 3 that it has nothing at all to do with a haunted house. Problems?
Yvette Cathers
yvettesgonefishing@yahoo.com
elisa nader says
From my YA novel:
The humid basement smelled like musty carpet, soaked with puke, marinated in bong water and dusted with mold. My throat closed. I despised crowds, and now I was in the middle of a heaving one. Red plastic cups and cigarettes crunched below my feet. Naked light bulbs hung broken, threatening scalps of the jumping audience. As the sweat-drenched bodies rubbed against me, I felt the hands of nasty guys who were just trying to feel me up.
Ernie says
A beach at sunset is a beautiful thing. The wave, the wind, the color weave a certain kind of magic. But there is something else. A sunset viewed by a couple in love can be very romantic. It can be the stuff memories are made of. That same sunset seen by a person, alone on the rocks, may take on a completely different personality. While it is none the less beautiful for that solitary soul, it may only signal the end of another lonely day without someone to share such beauty or trigger memories of sunsets past and loves lost.
Kynelle Harris says
Val’s dad pulled into the driveway and saw the bathroom window screen cut away. He could hear the TV as he eased up the steps and across the porch, then peeked through the screen door. Val was sitting on the edge of the couch, in her field hockey sweats, staring at something nonthreatening on TV. She gripped her stick, which nodded in approval with what they had done. A gurgling lump of flesh and clothing was on the floor near her feet. Cy creaked the door open and examined the lump.
Clarity says
Justine pressed her fingertips and forehead to the thick plate-glass window and took in the silent, panoramic view of the park. People were running around the reservoir.
She remembered the smells: car exhaust, of course. But also vanilla, and toasted coconut, and burnt chestnut, from the street vendors. And the smell of green. Fresh earth, and cold air.
Even from up here she could see that the trees were finally starting to bud. They made her think of white flowers: hyacinths, tulips, peonies. Lilies.
“Justine,” Brad said.
She turned to look at him.
“Fingerprints.”
“Oh, sorry.” She scrubbed the glass with the sleeve of her gray Rutgers sweatshirt.
Kristin Laughtin says
Humans had never been so dangerous. The very idea that they could be was ludicrous. The danger came not from the weakness of their bodies, squishy bags of flesh and fat and bone that were too weak to reinforce the overall structure. Nor was it connected to any specific individual: while some were more influential, their lives were too transitory for any one’s threat to live long after them. Ideas lived on, though, but even pinning the danger on those was a bit too simplistic. This new hazard was not caused by the ideologies of a certain war. Though the specifics of the skirmishes changed–allies became enemies, foes became partners, swords became bullets became simple explosives–it still relied too heavily on causing bodily damage in ways to which they were not susceptible.
Hal Alpiar says
She’s the only one who knows the professor’s been mobster-muscled into this impossible middle-of-the-night task. As he trudges through freezing desolate winter wetlands mud and drizzle in search of a hundred-pound dead turtle, she paces. She’ll work on it with him once he finds it and brings it back, but for now, Maddigan is on his own. He must trek through miles of slop to locate the corpse that’s anchored into the mud and ice-slick weeds at some vaguely calibrated point aligned with a corona-enwreathed Atlantic City skyline he can scarcely see. Once he’s there, and pulls it from the sucking mud, hefts it to his shoulder, and lugs it back to the Jeep, he must get it home. He knows JP will then be waiting —with hatchet, knives and crowbar— to help him find the embedded microchip.
Thank you for your time and the opportunity to be considered. First Paragraph submitted by
Hal Alpiar Hal@TheWriterWorks.com
http://www.halalpiar.com
NQLucas says
First paragraph of my novel THE FAMILY…
King Jona Tye sat on the windowsill of the fifth floor of his castle and stared at the pink glow of the moon. Anxiety mashed his guts so tightly against themselves he swore he could hear them squeak. He had emptied his bowels four times already in the last thirty minutes. The pain in his stomach was rabid enough that tears began to bud on the edge of his eyes. His sanity slipped just a little further from his grasp. And though he was miserable in his torment, he was grateful.
Deborah says
Okay…I’m in.
Here’s the first paragraph of my YA manuscript titled, “Bye-Bye, Evil Eye”:
“I think I see it!” I craned my neck as I peered out the small, round window, trying to spot a glimpse of the city below. A moment later, it rolled into view just ahead of the shadow of our plane. Clusters of white-washed homes surrounded by scrubby hills and mountains. And somewhere down there in that jumble of buildings was that old Greek building we learned about in history class. The Partinon…Parnethon…something like that. With my eyes fixed on the scenery, I tapped the glass with my pen. “There it is – look! It’s Athens!”
H. L. Dyer says
The backs of Valeria Cruz’s heavy eyelids were plastered with images from the night before. Blink. Her stacked hands and laced fingers slick with conducting gel during the chest compressions. Blink. Cassie’s head and shoulders bucking up from the hospital mattress when the paddles fired. As Val gripped the steering wheel until her knuckles blanched, she cursed the red light. The flat green line of the cardiac monitor burned in the back of her brain. Her eyelids drooped nearly closed. The fringe of asphalt visible through her lashes looked the same ashy shade as Cassie’s lips.
Perry P. Perkins says
Sleet nailed the pre-dawn darkness to the city streets.
The first winter storms were sweeping across the Eastern Seaboard, pushed by artic north winds, dumping a grainy, ice-hard snow that blanketed Manhattan in a bitter shroud. All night long, the wind shrieked through the glass and steel canyons of the great metropolis, rattling windows and turning the bustling city streets into an unnaturally empty wasteland. The city that never slept, huddled instead, quiet and fearful.
rssasrb says
She was almost home free. As the bus pulled into the station in Norfolk, Joey Lawrence clutched the straps of the green canvas backpack she cradled in her lap. Her eyes burned, gritty from lack of sleep and her muscles twitched with tension. She took a deep breath and slowly exhaled. She couldn’t lose it now, not this close to her goal.
Donna says
Here goes… WIP Chic Lit Novel
Posted by Donna Rae Weiser
It had been a hard morning. I broke a nail getting into my black convertible Mercedes CLK on my way to the Calabasas Swim and Tennis Center, and didn’t have time between lounging at the pool and my tennis match at noon to get to the nail salon. For an hour I worried while reading Vogue, Shape and Vanity Fair, that missing an acrylic nail would affect my game. Me and Mitzy were playing doubles with Stacy and Katie, two divorced cougars who flirted with our husbands at the Memorial Day Pool BBQ. They won our last match, even though Stacy’s eyes were still swollen from her puffy eye surgery and Katie’s teeth were in pain from over-bleaching. This time we vowed victory would be ours, but while trying to mentally prepare for the game, I couldn’t relax. It was then that I realized something horrible about myself. “I think I’m really shallow.” I said to Mitzy who was posing in her Christian Audigier Royal Panther in Black bikini on the chaise beside me. It looked better on me, but she spotted it first on the rack at Neiman Marcus.
Amber Leigh Williams says
Here’s the very short first paragraph from my current WIP, “City of Secrets”:
“In all fairness, Thaddeus Mountbatten should’ve died a thousand years ago. Times like these made him seriously resent immortality.”
Janette says
This is for a spacewestern story I’m working on…the spelling is correct, even though it looks a bit whacky.
Alcie Bakr considered herself a generous and god-fearing woman. She was fair of face, built to last and fearsome when riled. Once experienced, no one yanked her chain a second time….no one except Torrin Hill, that perverse scaggle-toed jekker. He had turned riling Alcie into an art form, and he’d done it once too often, and at this moment she was fit to spit hen’s teeth.
sally apokedak says
“When birch branches clack like dead men’s bones, it means the little people are roaming.” That’s what old Blind Alice had told Nate Zackar the last time he was ’round her way, selling pelts. She’d trembled and pulled her afghan tight against the chill Alaskan wind. “Looking for victims,” she’d whispered. “Wind makes ’em hungered.”
Tochi says
This is for a paranormal action thriller:
April 1807
The African gazed at the shore from the deck of the ship. From where he stood, the forest trees were silhouettes against the red sky, like long shadows reaching out to touch him. Soon he would take his first step on African soil. Ako had waited years for this moment, and now it was finally here. He looked to the horizon to gather his thoughts. The darkness above was spreading.
Peter says
My first para:
Fred sat on the foot of the bed with his arms wrapped around his knees. The room was bedroom-sized and barren except for a few pieces of simple furniture. There was a sliver of a window in the corner, the glass sandwiched by iron bars on both sides. Footsteps echoed down the hall as they approached: three people, maybe four. He listened and tried to make out the sound of each pair of feet. The carefree walk of the orderlies; the mechanical, purposeful steps of Dr. Rockwell.