Contest! Contest contest!
This contest is honor of the fantastic and gripping suspense novel Rock Paper Tiger by Lisa Brackmann, now on sale and which you should definitely purchase for your suspense reading pleasure.
BUT DON’T TAKE MY WORD FOR IT. In a starred review, Publishers Weekly called it an “electrifying debut,” and the Miami Herald said it’s an “extraordinary portrait of an ever-shifting country,” and with a nod to the gripping travails of the main character, they add helpfully, “it makes you damned glad your life is boring.”
You may remember the plot of Rock Paper Tiger from Lisa’s most excellent query:
The Beijing ’08 Olympics are over, the war in Iraq is lost, and former National Guard medic Ellie McEnroe is stuck in China, trying to lose herself in the alien worlds of performance artists and online gamers. When a chance encounter with a Chinese Muslim dissident drops her down a rabbit hole of conspiracies, Ellie must decide who to trust among the artists, dealers, collectors and operatives claiming to be on her side – in particular, a mysterious organization operating within a popular online game.Rock Paper Tiger is a fast-paced, 108,000 word mainstream novel set in a China where the ultra-modern and cutting-edge clash with ancient neighborhoods and traditions, and in an America where the consequences of war reverberate long after the troops have come home. It will appeal to fans of William Gibson’s books with contemporary settings, Laura Lippman’s strong female protagonists, and almost anybody’s whacked-out travelogues about the world’s more surreal places.
Now then! For the Rock Paper Tiger Chase/Action Writing Contest Extravaganza (TRPTC/AWCE, as it shall be known henceforth), your prompt (should you choose to accept it:
Write the most compelling chase and/or action and/or suspenseful sequence. It may be something you have written for the purpose of the contest or from a work in progress.
The prizes (oh yes the prizes).
The GRAND PRIZE TRPTC/AWCE WINNER will receive:
– Their choice of a query critique, partial critique, or 10 minute phone conversation/consultation/dish session
– The pride of knowing you suspensed the heck out of me and your fellow readers.
Runners up will receive a query critique or other agreed-up on prize.
Now for the rules. Please note that all rules may and probably will be amended at my sole (and fickle) discretion.
1. Please enter one suspense/action sequence not to exceed 500 words in the comments section of this blog post. E-mail subscribers: you must must must must must (must) enter in the official contest thread. Please do not e-mail me your entries! If you need help leaving a comment, please consult this post.
2. You may enter once, and once you may enter. If you log in to post anonymously, make sure you leave your name or other identifying marker.
3. Spreading the word about the contest is not only encouraged, it is strongly encouraged.
4. Snarky comments, anonymous or otherwise, about entries, hobbits, ors, ents, or any other species from Tolkien’s Middle Earth will be deleted faster than you can say Isengard.
5. Please please check and double-check your entry before posting. If you spot an error after posting: please do not re-post. I go through the entries sequentially and the repeated deja vu repeated deja vu from reading the same entry only slightly different makes my head spin. I’m not worried about typos, nor should you be.
6. I will be the sole judge of the contest.
7. You must be at least 14 years old and less than 138 years old to enter. No exceptions.
8. I’m on Twitter! You can find me at @nathanbransford and I may be posting updates about the contest.
9. The deadline for this contest is 4:00 PM Pacific Time on Thursday, June 3rd. Finalists will be announced Friday morning, and you will have the opportunity to vote on the winner, which will be announced on Monday.
There you have it! May the best chase/action sequence win!
UPDATE: TIME’S UP!! THANK YOU FOR ENTERING!
At the campsite Olly and crew had cleaned out the shack, collapsed the tents, and stowed the MegaMeth in their cars. Dutch was point man and led the way out in his Bronco. The others followed with Olly in the Mercedes and Artie and Jimmy in Volvo wagons. Billy and Bobby in the Roadrunner were rear guard, the last car out.
Dorthea and Anita watched as the camp woke up and packed to move out.
“If they hit the traps right, they’re road kill,” said Dorthea.
“There’s only one way out, how they goin’ to miss it?”
“Ever hear about the best laid plans of mice and men?”
“I don’t do either. Wanna burn some crack?”
From the east side of the mountains fast flowing dark clouds poured down channel cutting drops of cold rain; mixed in with the hard water fell gritty hail rough enough to penetrate cloth and bruise flesh.
“Try and keep it together. We gotta do this right.”
“No sweat.” said Anita.
They didn’t see the lightning, they heard the thunder; and the sound of water running fast down the canyon gullies. From hundreds of yards up in the canyon came the ominous grumble of boulders crushing rock. The weather had sprung a different trap early, and changed the hunter to prey. The boulder driven rockslide was rolling down the canyon at them. Anita lit the crack pipe and tried handing it to Dorthea.
“Take a hit of this, you’re goin’ to need it.”
“You are an idiot!”
“Yea, I’m in charge of the weather and I parked in the gully.”
Dorthea turned on the engine and stomped the accelerator to the floor. The rust bucket had trouble getting traction in the sand. The sound of the boulder slide grew louder as it gained momentum.
“I guess I’ll get out and walk.” said Anita.
“I need your weight to get traction. You get out and I’ll run you down!”
The rising sun glare blinded her eyes, Dorthea drove through the sand traps, the bouncing jalopy shedding metal like a rusty snake. She turned up into the rocks and rode the high side of the gully walls. The bigger boulders broke free of the slide and started bouncing ahead of the shale rock.
“You’re really drivin’ like a Princess.”
“Shut up.”
Dorthea came down off the sidewall beyond the traps and hit a pocket rut that knocked her hands off the wheel. The biggest boulder was bouncing down the ridge crushing rock into sand. Dorthea grabbed the wheel with a knuckle white grip, redlined the engine, and aimed for where the highway should be.
Scott Moloney, Love In The Future Tense, moloney@bananabelt.org
Title: Simon's God
Pain.
“Dear God, give me the strength to get through another day.” Simon whispered under his breath.
More Pain.
Simon willed his old body up and out the door of his humble room. He quietly eased up to the table to inspect his non-descript breakfast. All around him, surrounding him on every side were his fellow inmates.
No Escape.
“Thank you Lord, for this wonderful bounty.” Simon prayed softly.
Don’t Taste, Just Eat.
“Nourishing the body, replenishes the soul.” Simon reminded himself.
Pain.
Rising gingerly to his feet, Simon moved slowly to the transit corridors. He took time to marvel at the engineering feat that created this complex. It never failed to amaze him what one could accomplish with time and faith. Carved from the very rock and sand that made up the land, the underground facility stretched out in every direction, every available inch of space was utilized to its maximum capacity. Simon headed west, toward the newest tunnel construction site. Realizing he’d been taking a little too much time, Simon quickened his pace slightly.
“Must hurry, they will be choosing soon.” Thought Simon.
Darkness.
Slipping into the colossal chamber, Simon’s black eyes filled to the edge with the never ending darkness that engulfed the massive room. Moving quickly, Simon limped to the magistrate’s desk and entered his name on the list.
Please.
Simon wasn’t one to take his faith lightly. One didn’t ask God for every little thing. In fact, Simon had only asked for two things in his entire life. Neither had happened. That was fine, he had survived without them and proved that the Lord wouldn’t test you with more than you could handle. But he needed this.
Please.
“Please Lord, let me go outside today. Just once. Before I’m too old to see or feel the sun. One day, please. The wind on my face, the touch of real grass, the sky. Please Lord, your humble servant.”
Please.
“Jerry.”
Please.
“Corey.”
Please.
“Simon.”
Please.
“Simon? Is Simon here?”
“YES! I’M HERE!” Simon screamed.
The one word Simon had waited his entire life to hear and he had almost missed it.
“Follow the foreman over there.”
“Thank you.” Simon said through his smile.
Thank You.
Standing tall, Simon proudly walked, not limped, to back of the line.
No Pain.
No pain today, not today. The darkness would be pushed aside, at least for a few hours, and the light would flood in. Finally he would be able to stand before his God. Stand in his presence, kneel in thanks, and show Him that Simon was worthy of His love.
They were moving now. None of those in line needed a foreman to show them the way, everyone knew which path lead up. Simon smiled in acknowledgment of those that watched him pass by. Light was starting to radiate down the tunnel. Only a few more steps.
The light was blinding. The wind took his breath.
Turning his eyes skyward, Simon the ant whispered. “Thank you, God.”
The staccato of my stilettos hitting the tile as I ran reverberated through the darkened museum corridor. My heart beat frantically as I turned a corner. I could hear heavy footsteps closing in on me. The hair stood up on the back of my neck. My lungs ached for air, but I pushed myself to run faster. I knew that I could run faster without the shoes, but was terrified that if I slowed to kick them off that he would catch up to me.
“I can hear you! Why don’t you just come out? You can’t escape!” a grizzled voice called out from behind me. I choked back a scream as I recognized his voice. I knew that if I got out of this museum alive it would be by an act of god.
I tried to remember the layout of the museum. I cursed the museum designers for the maze like corridors, designed for the purpose of making people spend more time in the museum.
Around another turn, then another. I decided to chance kicking off my stilettos while running, managing not to fall in the process. I glanced at the reflection in the glass case holding vases excavated from the Valley of the Kings. I could see down the two corridors behind me in the reflection. The both were empty. I breathed a sigh of relief as I allowed myself to slow.
I lost him. A thrill of hope went through me that I might actually get out of this alive. I tiptoed past another corridor. Empty. I let out another quiet sigh of relief. I glanced around me to get an idea of where I was, and if I could get to an emergency exit before he caught up to me. Somehow I had managed to make it into the statue room. Darkened figured filled the room. A thrill of fear raced down my body as I wondered if he was in the room, standing as still as a statue watching me. It felt like every pair of eyes in the room was watching me.
The red glow of an EXIT sign emerged from behind a tall statue as I neared it. Another thrill of hope coursed through me, but was squashed when I saw the arrow next to the word exit, indicating that the exit was in that direction. Not an exit, but at least a map of where to go! It would have to do.
I slowly tiptoed out into the hallway, checking each direction. Nothing. At the end of the hallway was another glowing beacon of hope, with an arrow pointing down another hallway. I sucked in a deep breath and took off as fast as I could run. My feet padded quietly on the cool marble floor. I raced down the hallway and skidded to make the corner. My heart jumped into my throat as I bounced off of a hard, warm body, standing in my way.
HClift:
This is different from the stuff I've read, but hopefully someone will like it. A different kind of action and more suspence. (I hope.)
Enjoy!
——
Grace Alexander slipped a key into the lock of the garage door. Even though this was an action she wasn’t accustomed to doing, it was necessary. Henry had only been buried six months ago. She was hesitant to pack his things up. It was just another reminder that he really wasn’t coming home.
She began to circle around the organized asylum her husband spent the majority of his time. The garage was always Henry’s domain, and she tended to stay out. She started to pack up some car magazines stacked on the workbench. Suddenly, the sound and resounding echo of metal hitting the concrete floor startled her. She looked down, only to see a single key laying in the sunlight. Grace looked up at a peg board were various keys hung, each marked for their appointed destination—lawnmower, red toolbox, blue toolbox, Chevy…There were no empty hooks to accommodate the newly found key. Not knowing where it could go, she simply laid it on the workbench and went about her task.
Walking over to the corner of the garage, she bent to pick up a crate. It looked light, but she couldn’t pick it up. Must be where he stored his bowling ball, she thought to herself. Once she got a good grip on it, she drug it out to the middle of the floor so that she could open it. It was locked with a padlock. Pure gut instinct forced her to grab the key she had found earlier. She slid it easily into the lock, twisted, and the shank opened immediately.
Inside the crate were decades of memorabilia. She smiled as she pulled out a bowling trophy, Henry’s Mason’s handbook, and various certificates and awards he had gotten for his work for with city. At the bottom, were a stack of letters, tied together neatly with a red ribbon. Grace sank to the cold floor and began to read. Various photographs floated around where she sat, freed from their envelopes. Tears streamed down her face. Raising her face to the sky and not caring who heard, she yelled, “WHY!? How could you have done this to me? You filthy bastard! I will never forgive you for this.”
“We were in love.”
Startled, Grace spun around, still seated on the floor. She hadn’t heard anyone walk in. “What….what did you just say?”
Her neighbor, Richard, stepped forward. “We were in love. We knew we couldn’t live together, so we thought this was the best arrangement.”
Grace looked up at this man like she’d never seen him before. “I don’t understand. You and Iris have lived next door for over thirty-five years! Did she know?”
Richard looked down at his feet. “No,” he whispered. “I knew it would kill her if she ever found out. As much as I grieved over her death, I was relieved the hiding was over.”
Grace stood, walked over to Richard and slapped his face. “Oh. It ain’t over. Not by a long shot.”
Title: A Valkyrie's Vengeance
Historical Romance
Tyra studied him from the safety of her hiding spot, he wasn’t a large fellow by any means. Dark hair fell across his brow and his rat-like-nose almost appeared to sniff the air.
She tensed. Could he really smell her?
Her heart rate slowly increased and her palms moistened. Would he find her? Had she hidden well enough? What would she do?
Her hand clasped the sharp tip of the arrow still in her hand and she knew, she would defend herself to the death if need be. Her father had raised no cowards and she would make him proud.
Determination made her clench her jaw tight but it didn’t relieve the shaking of her hands. She ignored the terror rising in her chest and tamped down the panic threatening to take over.
He stumbled further into the clearing and began to whack at the overgrown offending brush around the house. He was searching for her.
Alarmed, she jammed her eyes closed but she could still hear the ominous swish of the sword followed shortly by the cutting thwack.
By Odin, please protect me. Save me. Let him just go away.
Breathing heavily, Tyra squeezed her palms until the arrow cut into her skin. Even the pain didn’t persuade her to loosen her hold. Fear kept her immobile. But the sound grew closer and she knew she would have to make a move soon.
The whir of wind alerted her that the man was right on top of her. He spoke in a foreign language and then laughed.
The sword chinked against something hard and her eyes shot open. He stood a foot from her, seconds from locating her hiding spot and sheer terror kept her motionless. Her heart pounded inside her chest. Could he hear it? She fixed her gaze on him, now suddenly too afraid to take it off of him. Her brow beaded with sweat and she wanted to cry. But she refused.
The sun broke over the horizon, the day finally burning away all traces of the night. And in the light of day, Tyra must face this man. Could the Gods be so cruel? Must she die on the first beautiful day she’d seen in over a week?
Loki must really be enjoying himself.
Two more steps – one more – the man turned his back to her. Tyra leapt from her hiding spot onto his back, her lithe figure allowing her the speed and agility she needed. One arm wrapped around his neck and with a berserker-like scream she jabbed the arrow into the soft flesh of his neck. Blood spurted from the wound across her forehead and onto the ground. He stumbled under her weight and choked on his own scream.
Tyra landed on her feet as he tumbled to his knees and with his last heaving breath, she yanked the arrow free. The red liquid spilled down his neck and soaked into his tunic as his limp figure collapsed.
Enter the Forest (YA Fiction)
“Do you think it’ll die?” she whispered.
“I don’t care. That flower is our ticket home, so just get it and let’s go.”
It burned like fire when Sarah tried to pick the small flower, and she knew at once that the tree would not allow her to take it. The pearl shaped petals glowed brighter, and vague vibrations flittered through the cavern, seeming to move through the very air they breathed. A deep cracking sound originated somewhere beneath her feet, and the ground trembled.
“Just take it!” Geoff yelled.
“It’s not that simple,” Sarah cried, whose fingers were now shiny and raw where they had touched the stem. She felt dizzy, and was having trouble keeping her eyes open and had to struggle to remain standing.
“Sarah, now!”
Geoff’s voice was little more than an echo in her ears; he could have been outside, a world away. In an instant she felt a distinct and sharp pain on her ankle and the immediacy of it shook her out of the cocoon of fatigue that had been threatening to engulf her.
She saw movement in the walls of the cave and in the depression in the center, and she realized a second later that bone white roots were rapidly growing in the space around them.
As quickly as she could she grabbed the flower, ripping it away from the central root. She ignored the pain that flared through her arm and scrambled up the stone steps that bored into the ground beneath great behemoth that protected the flower.
All around her, small vines reached out to slow her down, to ensnare her in their burning tresses. There was a dull humming in the air, and somehow she knew it was the sound of the tree’s misery, and rage. She felt it deep in her chest, in her limbs, and when she saw the light of day filter through the passage up ahead, Sarah dredged up her last ounce of strength and smashed through the thin layer of roots that had entwined themselves over the entrance. She rolled away from the tree and without pausing for even a second she stumbled up into a run. She ran, feeling the blood pumping in her heart, in her burning hand still clenched into a tight fist.
When she was sure she could no longer feel the ground shaking beneath her feet she stopped. She fell to the grass right where she was, and surrendered to blackness at last.
From Kids’ Town
Someone knocked on the front door. A stranger. People who knew them came in through the kitchen. The hair stood up between Sir Henry’s shoulders and he growled.
“No, Henry.” Mary patted the terrier’s head.
For once, Sir Henry obeyed. Mary pressed herself against the wall and sneaked a peak behind the curtain. Soldiers from her mother’s lab stood on the porch. She didn’t know the bald one, but she recognized tall, skinny Schyler.
“Creepo!” Mary dropped to the floor and crawled into the kitchen, to the pantry, dragging Sir Henry along.
The pantry door always stuck. Mom called it her weight control device. Mary tugged it open and shoved the dog inside. She was right behind him. Sir Henry panted on her feet. A box of cereal poked her shoulder.
The front door banged. Footsteps trounced through the living room and up the stairs. The third step creaked. Sir Henry snorted. Mary placed her hand on his muzzle. Two minutes later, by Mary’s glow-in-the-dark watch, the third step creaked again.
“Find her?” Schyler asked.
Mary shuddered. Schyler had rotten breath and he called her names, Half-Bad and Chinky Girl.
“Notice there’s nothing from the lab in this whole house?” Baldy said. “It’s as if Dr. Glendenning keeps her two lives separate.”
“This ain’t a psychology convention,” Schyler snapped. “If we don’t find that kid, Sarge will have our hides.”
“Nichols has the doctor. Why does he need the kid?”
Sergeant Nichols had her mother? That was impossible. Mary just saw her on television talking to a reporter about the new vaccine.
“No loose ends,” Schyler said.
Hatak, the neighbor’s cat, mewed at the door. Hatak liked to visit Sir Henry.
“Where’s that cat?” Baldy called. “Hey, the door to the deck is open.”
Who opened that door? It was closed a few minutes ago.
“I don’t see any cat,” Schyler said.
“It’s out there. We both heard it.” Baldy stood just outside the pantry.
Don’t open the door. Don’t open the door. If I searched a house, Mary thought, I’d open every door.
Schyler stomped through the kitchen and cursed. His partner rapped three times on the wall. Henry growled deep in his throat. This was it. Mary grabbed a jar of spaghetti sauce, the only weapon she could find.
“Let’s try Dr. Patel’s house.” Why was Baldy shouting?
The refrigerator door opened and closed. Mary lowered her arm, confused. Why didn’t he open the pantry? And what did this have to do with Hetvi? Did the sergeant have Dr. Patel, too?
Schyler didn’t like the plan. The men argued. The front door slammed. A truck engine revved. Hatak yowled.
Mary waited. Something wasn't right. Maybe they were trying to trick her.
Henry growled again.
“Shhh,” Mary said, her ear against the door. She wanted to hear wheels on gravel. As soon as she heard the truck drive away, she was out of here. She had to find Hetvi before the soldiers did.
Our cart plunged beneath the last set of doors before the spaceport. A massive clunk rang through the tunnel.
"What's that?" I said, craning around. A cart shot through the doors behind us. Doors which, impossibly, were drifting closed. "We're being trapped!"
We crossed the portside doors with another clank. The other cart dodged a dawdling bike, humming angrily. A bike-dotted strip of pavement led straight to the port built into the far wall of the final dome. In the other cart, men in dark armor clung to its side rails, the barrels of rifles sticking past their shoulders. They swung wide around us, outpacing us for the spaceport. The tunnel doors were an ever-narrowing band.
Baxter cleared his throat. "Fay. Plan D?"
"Still available," Fay said from orbit.
"Seems prudent." Baxter popped open the dashboard, spilling transparent, floppy sheets with a small canister attached to one end. He held one out, other hand on the wheel. "Anyone who needs to breathe should smush one of these on her or his face now."
I grabbed a mask and snugged its edges against my skin, ears popping. The cart of armed men wheeled in front of the spaceport. Troops hopped out to shepherd onlookers inside while others knelt in front of their vehicle, readying rifles.
Baxter cut hard for the bubble wall. A seam appeared around a rectangle of retracting dome.
"Is that a door?" Shelby said, her disbelief unmuffled by her breather. "Like, to open Mars?"
Dust and scraps of trash tumbled toward the emergency door revealing itself two hundred feet away, obscuring the doorway behind a cloud of debris. Through the brown-orange haze, I couldn't tell if it would be wide enough by the time we intercepted it. Back at the other cart, men scurried to reboard. We hurtled into the cloud of dust. Something rapped against the indomitable plass wall–the maniacs were shooting at us.
If I'd reached out as we cleared the door, its transparent edge would have shorn my arm off. Bitter Martian air battered our faces, probed icy claws under our clothes. The cart bounced over a rocky plain. Our shuttle sat far from the other tarmacs and landing pads, a dingy finger of carbon with almost no wings at all.
At fifty yards away, a plume of dust and smoke bloomed between us and the ship, frothing madly in the thin air and low grav. Baxter slammed the brakes, yanking us against the seatbelts; inside the dust cloud, a silvery Veetle touched its rails to the ground.
"Hands up!" a black-suited soldier screamed, unnaturally faint in the Martian atmosphere. "Get out of the cart! Slow!"
"That isn't fair!" I said.
"Get out the far side of the cart," Baxter said. "When Fay says, get down on your face."
I popped the far-facing door and raised my hands. The lead soldier shouldered his gun while six others held their aim.
Fay's voice was cold and sharp as starlight. "Drop and hold still."
"I can explain," I say.
"I'll bet you can,” Red says. Her tone's even — too even — and her eyes are narrowed, and that's all the warning I get as, quick as quick, her hand moves and the first of her knives come flying at me.
Instinct takes over. I drop and roll and the knife embeds itself in the wall. "Red," I shout as I come up out of the roll, and then I have to dive again because knife number two is already whizzing at my head. "Honey, calm down and listen!"
"Oh, I'm calm," she says in that same tight little toneless voice as I come up in a crouch. Somehow, my own knife is in my hand now. Her third knife is in her hand, ready to throw, and two spots of color are burned into her cheeks. Red can throw faster than I can, but my reaction times are a split second faster than hers. I've got the advantages of weight and strength — and Red has speed and deadly accuracy on her side. We both think on our feet, and neither one of us mind fighting dirty. Comes down to it, we're pretty evenly matched. I can't say who I'd bet on, were I a betting man.
But I don't want to fight this fight…and I'd stake my life on the fact that she don't want to, either. "What are we doing here, Red? This ain't us,” I say. “I'm going to put my knife down now."
She doesn't say anything, just stares at me with those narrowed eyes. Deliberately, I let my knife drop to the floor. "I'd appreciate it if you'd do the same," I say, "and then we can maybe talk about this."
"Get out," she says. Her hand holding the knife is rock steady, alarmingly so, but worse is the look she's shooting me, like a dagger to my heart.
"Red, come on…"
"Get. out," she says between her teeth, "or I swear Jim Wolfe, I will kill you."
I hold my hands up, palms out, trying to placate her. "I'm telling you, things ain't as they seem. I know what the obvious conclusion is, but it ain't the right conclusion –"
"Shut up!" she shouts and I twist and jerk in time so the knife doesn't go through my eye but, with a crash of breaking glass, the window instead. I bolt for the door.
"You lying, cheating son of a bitch," Red screams as I dive and roll my way out the door and knife number four zings off into the night.
"Red, I love you!" I shout and then duck as knife number five come hurling my way. "All right. All right! You take some time, and then we'll talk this through. Okay?”
My only answer is the sound of the front door slamming shut so hard, the remaining pieces of glass in the broken window shatter to the ground.
I slid down the ridge on my butt, kicking up sand, rucking up my coat. I felt something burn and scrape my back, and my foot caught on a rock. Pain ran up my leg from my ankle. When I hit the bottom, my ankle was hot and full of sharp things. I limped back toward the door, trying to stay calm. I couldn't afford to get lost. I had to take the right path.
I was doing fine until the first ghost ran toward me. It was a girl, not much younger than me, and she tried to grab me. I dodged her and ran faster, because I never wanted to see anything like that again. She wasn't like Scott or Uncle Gene. Something had been done to her. She was one of the doubled ghosts.
"Miss Clark," a sandy voice called. "There is no running in the halls."
Mr. Vargas, my middle school principal. There he was, blue sand, with that awful shroud, a double of himself hanging over him. Up close, I could see that's what it was. Like he'd had his skin pulled off and put back on. Under it was the shape of a person, but of solid blue sand, and things like hooks held the Mr. Vargas skin on the blue sand mannequin.
I ran as hard as I could on my ankle, but Mr. Vargas grabbed the back of my coat. I stumbled, fell. It was no different than fighting a live person, because when I rolled over on my back and kicked at him, he let go of me.
There were more of them coming, the girl still and another man, so I got up and ran. I felt like the Little Mermaid, like a knife was being stabbed up my leg, and like I'd lost my voice. The cold hurt my lungs so much I could hardly breathe, let alone scream. Then I saw the door with light leaking around the edges.
"Lee!" I screamed as loud as I could, coughed hard and tried again. Finally I got a little volume, but somebody grabbed the end of my scarf. I reached up and tried to untie it.
Another ghost grabbed my coat, just as the door opened to this beautiful yellow rectangle of safety, with Lee kneeling in it. I got my hand on the edge of the door frame, but the ghosts piled on me. I pulled and Lee pulled and the ghosts pulled.
With Lee holding me under the arms, I let go of the door frame with one hand and got my fingers up under the scarf. When I yanked it over my head, Mr. Vargas fell back, and then Lee reached over me and punched the other ghost holding me. A shower of blue sand scattered over me and I pushed hard against the girl. Lee jerked on my arms and I fell through into the basement.
Title: Schrodinger's Cat
Category: AWCE
A white wall parted apathetically to yield passage. Air around, still till ignored moments ago, bumped past two figures opposing it.
“It.." The old man held the pronoun with a pronounced full stop, letting the enormity of the reference be revered by the other "..is my pride. A vault so safe, even I can't break in. Come..”
The young man followed. He was aware of a faint impulse inside him to look back, to see if the vault Sesame would close its jaws now that it had successfully lured them in.
"Close Sesame" the old man Diwakar Chaudhary absently reprimanded its creation.
"Don't mind the dark. Your eyes will get used to it."
"Of course not." A moment's displacement in the words' movements made Diwakar stop. The answer was a reply to his second sentence, not first. Aviral cleared the incongruity by confirming it.
His eyes didn't get used to the dark as light once again splashed in.
"Open Sesame" Diwakar's voice said, though Diwakar didn't.
Already deep in the vault, Diwakar followed Aviral through his mind much faster than his body could have.
"Close Sesame" Diwakar's voice, held hostage away from his sight, said again.
“Aviral Sen, right? Was it your mobile phone?” He calmly shouted, at full blast of his lungs, near the door of the safe.
“Of course, Mr. Diwakar."
Aviral continued, "The mobile and the purse were after all the only things that your guards left me with before we left for this island. Naïve. The legendary conman didn’t think of such a simple deceit? ”
“I see. You recorded my opening and closing commands and played them to lock me here.
I wonder if you have thought the plan through though.
I still have my voice. So I can still open the safe from inside.
So I can still kill you. ”
“Will you?”
“Feeling Curious, are you. Let's quench the query then.
‘Open Sesame’.”
The door began to open. But it was countered by the same voice standing opposite.
“Close Sesame”
Aviral’s laugh rang loud even in the huge dark inside of the safe.
“Each time you give the open command, I will give the close command. You can’t get out of there."
His carrying mirth continued. "Funny thing is that this situation is technically called a ‘deadlock’. Befitting isn’t it?”
The laughter seemed to ricochet inside the walls of Sesame.
“ Sesame- it’s my creation.” Diwakar said. His voice was lower now. Aviral concluded that the air inside must already be exhausting.
“I will get out.” Diwakar said in a voice lower still and then he said nothing more.
“Will you?” Asked Aviral with a grave face. And then he said nothing more either.
it won't take my google account so I am using anon – contact info
ejgjunk@yahoo.com
YA – Untitled:
“You didn’t think it would work? Why didn’t you say something before this?”
“I couldn’t think of anything better.”
“You should have said something.”
Josh opened a door and looked in “Sorry, wrong room,” he said and closed the door moving on.
“Ok, it’s a dumb plan.”
Lori looked at Josh in astonishment.
“Look it’s not over yet. We can’t celebrate yet. We need to get out of here. Where are they?”
Up ahead of them Mora squeezed her way out of a carved double door at the end of the corridor and Josh jogged over to her.
“We need to get Dr. Throgmorton out,” he said.
“Wait a moment, where is the artifact?” Mora said as she grabbed Josh by the upper arm and pulled him back from the door. He had never realized how strong she was.
“I have it,” Lori said.
“Let me see it,” Mora said as pushed Josh aside and strode up to Lori. A little zing of anger ricocheted in Josh's breast; he didn't like being pushed and Mora wasn't the pushing kind.
“Hey wait a minute,” Josh raced passed her and blocked her access to Lori, “Not now.”
“Yes now,” Mora said as she tried to get passed Josh. “Josh what’re you doing?”
“What’re you doing?”
“What I need to do,” she said and Josh thought the look in her eye reminded him of the look kids on the ice give to the other team.
“Don’t give it to her Lori,” Josh shouted and Mora shoved him to the ground, he slid into the wall with the force of the push. Lori retreated backwards down the hallway, her mouth open in a small 'o', eyes sharp dissecting Mora who advanced on her. Then she stopped next to a water fountain.
Josh yelled from the floor “Get out of here Lori.” But she stood there unmoving.
“Now give me the artifact Lori,” Mora said as she approached. But Lori decided to take a drink from the fountain.
“What’re you doing?” Josh called out when the water from the fountain spurted out past Lori and cascaded over Mora whose body gave off sparks and buzz likes a shorted out toaster. For a moment it looked like Jon stood there and then Mora and then Jon and the air had a strange burnt plastic smell.
“She is Johannes,” Lori said taking her hands off the fountain.
“Of course.” Josh murmured.
Mora began to shake and squirm and give off charges of electricity.
“Run,” called Josh as he got to his feet. Lori headed for the staircase exit door but alarms blared and startled Lori turning her back for a second and Mora went for her. As she touched Lori a ball of electricity flowed down her arm and onto Lori who flew backwards into the wall and then slid down it to form a crumpled mass on the floor. The blast drained Mora of her disguise and she stood there now revealed as Johannes.
from The Companion
Diana Hunter
(apologies for deleted post; several paragraphs were missing from my first attempt to post)
“What happened a few weeks ago?”
"These same six riders…came down and road past the farm. We all seen ‘em. Three black chargers, one roan, two mottled. But fast.” The boy almost smiled. “Poor old Starlight here was outclassed, that’s fer sure.”
“Did you speak to them? Did your papa?”
Nobbs shook his head. “No, they didn’t stay…they rode on through like they was followed by wild animals. After a few days, we kinda forgot about ‘em…it being planting season and all.”
“Of course.” Leave it to farmers to find planting their crops far more important than letting authorities know strangers had ridden into the country.
“But this morning, they came back.” Nobbs’ face darkened and he shivered under Arvot’s cloak.
“Papa was working out by the road, puttin’ in new fence rails. I could see him from where I was, back by the treeline, chopping up the small stuff left after papa had cut the new rails from the big tree he fell.”
“Those men…they rode up, just as fast as they’d ridden down. Only this time, as they passed my papa…one of ‘em took out a sword.” Nobbs paused, fighting the tears as he struggled to get the words out. Arvot waited patiently, his eyes hard. Finally Nobbs looked up at Arvot, a tear spilling down as he blurt it out.
“I saw my papa’s head roll into the ditch. That man…he killed my papa with one stroke. And he wasn’t doing nuthin’ but building a fence!”
“I know this is hard, Nobbs. But I have to know it all. What else happened?”
“I started down the hillside, but it felt like I was running through syrup. I know I shouted, ‘cause mama came out and there was another man who was comin’ up side of the house. She saw papa lying in the road and ran to him…the men still on horses ran her down and killed her too, then rode into the yard. Two more got off their horses and went inside where the other man already was. But then I didn’ see much. I was still running, but there’s a hollow there, between the treeline and the house, and I had run down into it, so I didn’t see exactly what happened next. But I could hear my sisters, screaming…”
Nobbs swallowed hard, his face taking on a determined look. “I got to the window and saw the one man push my sister off his sword…her skirt was gone and she had blood between her legs. And Bem, the littlest one…barely five, her head was facing the wrong way and there was blood between her legs, too. I knew they were dead, but I couldn’t move. Not until one of ‘em looked up and saw me in the window.”
“They came after you next.”
Nobbs nodded.
An unhurried scrape dragged along the far wall. Ellie’s chest constricted. Stay calm. It’s nothing, just a really old building. She dropped in front of the door.
“911. What is your emergency?”
The scraping stopped. Her heart thudded irregularly in her chest.
“My name is Eliza Brown.”
“Excuse me, could you speak louder?”
“Eliza Brown. I’m at the Treasure Bin on Main. The power is out. No one is here and I am locked in.” She didn’t want to say she heard footsteps and strange noises. “Please, can you send someone?”
“The police are on their way. Please stay on the line and remain calm.”
Ellie nodded. Her tongue lay weighted, attached to the orange-sized rock that seemed to block the flow of air through her throat. The scratching resumed. She gripped the phone tightly with a sweaty palm. Then her phone beeped and its light dimmed.
No, no, no.
The phone beeped twice in a row. Low battery flashed on the screen. “My phone is going to…” Then it went dead.
She kicked herself for not charging the battery earlier like a “responsible young adult.” Her mother’s voice was very clear in her head. Something moved and it fluttered the stray hairs around her face.
“Hello, Eliza.” It was no more than a whisper, but it was clear and distinct and very, very close.
Dropping onto her hands and knees she scrambled toward where she thought the front counter was. Swish, swish, swish echoed the dress. Traitor. I knew you were bad luck. Her face met with several musty smelling, low-hanging garments. She dropped her head and plowed through, eventually banging her skull into the edge of the glass. In the silence, it sounded like a small explosion. She leaned back onto her heels, holding her head with her free hand, and then stood up.
It’s all in my imagination. The police or fire department or even the sheriff. They are coming. Any minute. Both the fire department and police station were only a few blocks away. If she could get out, she could run there.
It loped across the room knocking over several racks of clothing. She screeched and dove head first over the top of the counter. The bottom of her dress caught and didn’t release. She hung suspended above the ground. Her fingers brushed the floor. Her head was just a few feet from smacking into the linoleum. It’d caught the end of the train. She kicked air and clawed at the floor. The momentum she gained was rewarded with the sound of tearing fabric. She somersaulted over the counter. The dress flipped up over her head and fell like a parachute on top of her. The ground smashed into her tail bone.
YA Sci-fi/Thriller
I opened the front door and walked through the kitchen, placing a disturbing letter from my overseas friend Jay on the marble kitchen counter. Rounding the corner, I entered my room.
The window was open.
Ok, so I must have forgotten to close it earlier.
I crossed the deeply-grained, polished wood floors, dropped my keys on a bookshelf I passed, and slammed the window down.
Suddenly, for some inexplicable reason, I was afraid to turn around. A chill skittered up my spine. I was still gripping the window frame, nails scratching against the wood. My heart began to pound.
I took a breath and let it out, berating myself. The madness of the day was totally getting to me. I forced myself to release the window frame and spun around in one smooth motion.
The breath rasped from my throat, almost choking me.
All the posters on the wall next to my bedroom door were slashed – in two, three, four pieces. Gouges tore deep into the drywall. Words were scrawled across the shredded posters in dripping, red paint.
Remember – if you dare
I stepped near the wall, catching a whiff of something that, until then, hadn't registered. A sharp copper tang. It wasn't red paint dripping down my blue walls.
I hurled myself out my bedroom door, fumbling for the cell phone at my waist. By the time I reached the kitchen it was in my hands. I punched 9-1-1.
Dialing….
Battery dead!
"NO!" I had just charged my phone that morning. There was absolutely no way it could be dead already.
I pushed my long hair out of my face and looked at the counter where I had dropped the letter from Jay. It was shredded into microscopic pieces.
My throat clenched.
Whoever had sliced the posters and written those words… was still in the house.
I clamped my mouth shut on the building scream, clipping the useless phone back to my waist as my eyes darted to the front door. I just needed to get across the living room.
But it seemed an eternity away. The silence of the house pounded in my ears. I strained to hear the slightest sound, but only my panicked breathing filled the void.
Ok…. just run.
I bolted across the living room. My hand touched the knob, and I flung the door open at the exact instant that something smacked into the door facing.
I glanced to the side.
A huge knife quivered in the splintered wood an inch from my wide eyes. I looked back.
A person clothed completely in black – black pants, black shirt, black mask – stepped smoothly into view from the hallway leading to my parents' room.
He raised a pistol.
I hurled myself out the door and onto the porch. The gun exploded and concrete shattered right by my foot, a shard ripping through my calf. I stumbled but kept running, a wild laugh and pounding feet chasing me.
The low moan escalated into a shrill wind screaming through Jackie's head, helmet only partially blocking the noise. She winced as she looked over the edge of the tower. Her first, and maybe her last bungee cord jump loomed before her. She could almost see the grim reaper below beckoning her with outstretched claw hand, it's long index finger and naked bone crooking its way. Hood partially pulled back to reveal decayed teeth and rotting jaw.
The jump seemed like it was a million miles up and her vision swam before her terrified eyes and her head felt like it would float off her shoulders. Jackie's knees buckled as the instructor grabbed her from behind.
“All right?” his concern reflected on his weathered wind burned cheeks.
All she could do was nod.
“You know you don't have to do this.”
“Yes I do,” she shouted over the lump in her throat. The gargantuan panic bubbling through its porous layers. “I'll be fine,” she shouted back feeling an encouraging squeeze.
Jackie looked back over the edge, her boyfriend Alex's taunt reverberating in her head. All his exes had done it! Why didn't she love him enough to make the leap for him! She felt she had to do this for her own self improvement…right?
The fear bubbled hot lava into her throat, “Damned acid reflux!” she thought. Then her grip loosened on the safety bar and she leaned forward pushing off with her feet. Then she was flying through the screaming air, the ground rushing up to greet her. The exhilaration drowned a scream and she felt free.
When she came to a gravity pulling halt, they lowered her to the ground. Alex came over and with wide eyes, he told her that he didn't think she would do it. “I was just kidding about my exes doing the jump.”
Jackie lashed out with her fist connecting with the startled jaw. “Count me as another Ex Alex. Good Bye!” She turned around and marched out through the startled crowd who opened for her automatically. There was nothing like a brush with mortality to make you see your priorities.
She almost made it back to her car, thankfully she had come separately. She felt the grab on her arm, thinking it was Alex, she swung around at the head of….the instructor.
She backed away mortified, “I'm sooo sorry.”
The instructor massaged his jaw for a moment, and then wryly replied, “You forgot to give back your gear. And to also tell you, I'm proud of you… you did it!”
“Thanks.”
“And there was also one more thing,” he looked down at his feet momentarily.
“What's that,” she said encouragingly, her heart picking up pace again. She had been fighting her feelings too.
"This,” he moved in and took her into his arms and kissed her to the spontaneous applause.
Carrie was coming.
“We have to move,” Sera said, grabbing the keys to the car. “She’s not going to settle for having us sent to prison this time.”
It was 3:07 a.m. when they fled the house and got into the car, Sera behind the wheel, Nick in the passenger seat. The only thing she could hope for was enough time to get across the one bridge off the island before Carrie arrived.
She pushed the car up to ten miles an hour, then fifteen. She almost missed one of the turns and the right side of the car rose sharply into the air, coming down with a thud. They made it to the main road, still dirt but slightly more serviceable. Sera increased the speed to thirty. The trees began to thin enough for her to see the lights of the bridge, less than ten miles away now.
“Someone’s coming. From behind us.”
“There’s no way on the island back there.”
“Pull off anyway. We can’t take any chances.”
No, they could not.
The next driveway was free of cars and Sera pulled in hoping it was as deserted as it looked. She parked in the back where they couldn’t be seen yet had a nice view across the bay. While Nick watched the approaching driver, Sera spotted twinkling lights moving well above the posted speed limit. “Nick? You better take a look at this.”
He turned. “Oh, God.”
The speeder reached the bridge. “We’re safe here.”
Please, let it be true. Nick came around to her side of the car and hunker down. “What about the guy coming up the road?”
She lost the speeding car in the thick of trees and whirled around to find the other. Whoever it was moved slowly to avoid damage on the uneven road. No! Another person could not be caught in the crossfire. Sera jumped back into the car.
“What are you—!” Nick grabbed her arm as the keys went into the ignition. “No! You’ll get killed!”
“What about—”
The speeding car was not deterred by the questionable dirt road. It blasted past the cabin they hid behind.
And went directly for the late-night driver. The vehicles collided in an explosion of metal.
Sera got back out of the car, creeping forward to look at the wreck. There was a cry for help and then the squelch of metal on metal as someone forced a door open.
Bang!
Gunfire.
“Get back in the car,” she whispered to Nick. He didn’t need to be told twice. Sera knew it was impossible to miss the sound of the engine turning over, but it couldn’t be helped. The car jerked onto the road and she pushed it to twenty, thirty, fifty miles an hour.
The rear window shattered in a deafening explosion. Screaming but not stopping, Sera turned the headlights on in just enough time to avoid driving off a dock into the water. She spotted the bridge, the way out.
Hearing the shriek of the large metal gate, I whirled around and crouched behind the closest gravestone I could find. A small concrete teddy bear momentarily sheltered me from the onslaught of wind and rain, but I couldn’t stay here; I wouldn’t let an innocent child hide me. I deserved to be caught. Running through the dense fog, I stumbled yet again, falling out onto the serrated stone path. My fall added a third oozing gash to my hand and reopened the scored line on my face. The blood running down over my left eye should have rendered me blind, but the dense fog had already taken care of that.
The old rusted gate clanged shut; I had to move. He didn’t have to signal his presence, he always wanted me to know when he had found me. This time, I had let him get too close. If I hadn’t recognized the creaking metal as his warning, the unintelligible threats he uttered as he walked the stone path that I had the ill fortune of tripping out onto, solidified that he would find me.
I froze, a statue, in the middle of the path and listened to his peculiar chatter. I couldn’t decipher a word. The wind had picked up and threatened to blow away the dense mist that shrouded me from sight. My bruised and bloodied legs carried me as fast as they could as I vaulted over tombstones that appeared with no warning, the lifting fog continuing to veil the offending hulks of concrete.
I heard the sharp intake of breath behind me; one false step and the game would be over. I could run fast or I could run silently. I chose speed, but whatever luck, fate, or god had sheltered me before, callously abandoned me now. I had thought his age would slow him down, forgetting that time had been cruel to us both.
I veered off the path and jumped blindly over the small hill that would lead me to where the fence shortened and I could vault easily over it. We had both been here before; we both knew all of the ways out. In my haste, I forgot the row of crumbled monuments that rested there, some in memorial to our last visit to this place.
Crashing onto a concrete slab, the swift snap of my ankle signalled an end to his chase. Collapsing on top of the jagged piece of concrete, I watched as his massive dark form approached, nothing more than a shadow. I heard the muted curse as he struck his foot on the same fallen headstone that had ended our game—and soon my life.
Closing my eyes I counted the ominous footsteps. One. Two. Three. I felt his warm breath fan across my face as a large calloused hand clasped down hard on my trembling shoulder.
He spoke the words I had waited too long to hear. “You’re it.”
(From a sci-fi about a colony ship landing gone awry)
He tried to catch his wife before she slumped to the floor but the hallway was spinning crazily. “What did you put in them?”
Rhonda had backed herself against the opposite wall with her hands behind her back, eyes round with guilt. “It’s a sedative. You’ll be okay in a little while.”
Reg struggled to stay on his feet. “Why? Why did you do that?”
“I would never hurt you.”
Leaning against the wall he tried to navigate towards the comm button, which seemed far away. Rhonda measured the distance between Reg and the button with her eyes. “We were going to cause so much death, so much pain. We had no right.”
When Reg got too close to the button Rhonda took hold of his upper arm, placed her knee behind him, and rocked him back. Then he was on the floor, where he remained.
“What are you doing to us?” Reg’s speech was getting slurred.
“I love you both and I’m sorry she came with you. It was just supposed to be you going out there.”
Going out there?
“You weren’t going to stop. It’s your nature. You’re like one of the old explorers, an old adventurer. The people were following you. You were going to win.”
Rhonda pressed the code into the keypad by the door and the inner door snapped open.
“Don’t … no!”
She grasped Tree’s arms and started to pull her towards the door but stopped as Tree’s head twisted around to a dangerous angle. Switching to Tree’s ankles she pulled her into the airlock and out of his sight. Reg made a final futile attempt to reach the comm button, but his legs were uselessly wobbily. When Rhonda came back for him he tried to fend her off but by that time her strength far exceeded his. With little difficulty she dragged him into the airlock by the ankles and left him by Tree, who appeared to be merely asleep.
To his confusion it was filled with garbage bags. Had they been storing garbage in the airlock?
“Rhonda!”
Her kind face, loved since childhood, was rigid with grief. “I’m sorry. Always remember I do this to prevent suffering. I love you. Goodbye.”
The closing of the door ended the life he had lived.
The airlock was designed to do two things: fill with air, and jettison anything placed in it. Rhonda started a slow jettison.
First, the outside door snapped open and alien air began to mingle with the ship’s air. Then an unstoppable presser rose out of the floor and shoved Reg, Tree, and all the garbage bags outside. With the last of his strength Reg wrapped his arms around Tree to help cushion her fall.
It was a long drop. Landing flat on his back on the garbage bags with his wife in his arms knocked all the wind out of him. His last thought before losing consciousness was that it would be better if he never inhaled the alien air.
From my thriller in progress, THE LUTEFISK AFFAIR.
Christopher (tunescribble@mac.com)
The ice cream truck blew up a hundred yards away. Flaming popsicles rained down around me. There was a strange, invigorating smell in the air. Kind of a combination of burning rubber and mint chip fudge. My ears rang. Then I realized it was my cell phone.
“Murphy,” I said, wiping hot rainbow sherbet off my face.
The voice on the other end cackled. It was one of those evil cackles that can only be emitted by either an insane lunatic of a madman or a deranged chicken. I knew chickens didn’t use phones. Logic told me I was talking to a madman.
“Is this Mike Murphy?” cackled the voice. “The Mike Murphy? Defender of widows, orphans, and lost causes? Righter of wrongs? The modern Sir Lancelot with a gun?”
“That’s me,” I said modestly. The guy hadn’t gone into the usual description of my chiseled good looks and lean, muscular body, but that was okay. I’ve got a mirror over the sink.
“I’m the wronger of rights,” said the madman, his voice dropping to an evil whisper.
“What? I can’t hear you.”
“Oh. Can you hear me now? No? How about now? Can you hear me now?”
“That’s better,” I said. I took a quick reconnaissance around the burning wreckage of the ice cream truck. No one seemed hurt. The driver had found refuge in one of his freezer units. I gave him the thumbs up.
“I said, I’m the wronger of rights,” repeated the madman.
“Wronger is not a word.”
“It is too,” he insisted.
“It isn’t. Trust me on this one.”
“Who cares?” he cackled. “I’m an insane lunatic of a madman! I can destroy the rules of grammar, just like I will destroy the universe, one ice cream truck at a time. Hahaha! No longer will they play “It’s A Small World” in tinkling, lo-fi quality! No longer will they sell half-melted fudgsicles for twice as much as they normally cost in a typical grocery store, convenience store, or superstore, such as Sam’s Club, Walmart or Costco. Myself, I prefer shopping at Costco with my American Express card, as it nets me two percent cash back at the end of the year. You can’t stop me, Murphy!”
“Stop you from using your American Express card at Costco?”
“I’ll destroy the universe, and, after that, the world! Hahaha!”
“But where would you buy your fudgsicles if you destroy the –”
I spun around, but I was too late. He stood twenty yards behind me, guns in both hands. The air cracked. Bullets hammered toward me. I went for my Glock.
“You fell for the oldest trick in the book!” he shrieked. “Never get distracted by a madman’s monologue!”
The pool of melted Eskimo pies saved my hide. I slipped in their chocolatey goodness and went down hard. Bullets creased my hair. I came up with my gun spitting cupronickel-jacketed death at a velocity of one thousand five hundred feet per second.
Remnants of the familiar nightmare still hung in the air as the squeal of the screen door opening downstairs echoed through the sleeping house. The Johnsons were always offering to fix it whenever they stopped by, but they didn't understand that I kept it that way. An early warning system for if he found us.
The soft sound of metal scraping metal reminded me that the bad dream was over and the nightmare was downstairs picking the lock. Trying frantically to recall who was adept at B&E, I slid the knife out of the duct tape sheath behind the headboard and tucked it in my waistband. If it was Johnny, there was a chance. Thomas might be reasonable and only kill me. Then a word, "Becca", drifted up from the porch, soft as a lover's caress.
James.
We were as good as dead.
I crept towards the boys' room, avoiding the creaking floorboards that would tell us when he'd made it upstairs. My four year old slept on the trundle next to his big brother, thumb in mouth, blanket firmly tucked under his chin. Picking him up, I gently shook my oldest's shoulder. He woke instantly.
"Time for Plan B, buddy."
At twelve, he still remembered the last time and knew the drills weren't just pretend. Nodding with a world-weariness no child should ever know, he headed for the girls' room. I hated putting that look in his eyes, but there were no time for regrets as a gust of wind downstairs told of the door being pushed open.
Opening the last of the doors, I gently lay down my youngest in what was once the closet, now the most secure spot in the house. Having been roused by their brother, the girls plodded into the closet, still half asleep, as I took inventory. Two deadbolts, a cell phone, blankets, a flashlight, and an aluminum bat.
"Tell the police about the knock. Only unlock it for them." I whispered. "This is like the quiet game, so don't get tricked into making a sound after brother makes the call. And remember," I said, taking a final look at the only good to come into my life. "Even if it sounds like Daddy, it's not him."
With the sound of heavy footsteps coming up the stairs, I began to close the door when my son grabbed my arm.
"Mom?" he said, trying to hide the fear and desperation in the question.
A lifetime of explanations and apologies welled up in my throat. Your father wasn't always the monster down the hall. Him being caught murdering me might be the only chance you'll ever have to finally be safe and show the truth about the personalities. I love you all more than anything. But there was no time, so I did the only thing I could. I lied.
"It's okay, buddy. I'll be right back."
Farmersarahjane@gmail.com
Entry by Jessica Wagner, reachable at jess_qur@yahoo.com.
Her legs were going to give out any minute. She just knew it. Sweat trickled down through her soaked scalp, along her neck, and through the hollow between her breasts. Her heart was pounding so heavily she was surprised that it hadn’t burst through the sinew and bone of her ribcage, onto the forest floor.
An eerie laugh caused the sweat-slicked hairs on the back of her neck to stand on end, bouncing off the tree trunks, making it sound like she was surrounded by specters of death. She ignored the burning in her legs and put on an extra burst of speed, focusing her attention in front of her, willing her body to keep moving through the forest.
How could this end up happening to her? She had thought him to be her best friend. Even her lover. And now she was in a terrifying race against time, knowing that if he won she would lose not only the race, but her life.
Her heart froze in terror as she heard a gun shot, and she cried out in pain as she felt a burning pain in her side as the bullet grazed her. Her legs, waiting for an excuse to give out, crumpled underneath her, and tears streamed from her eyes as she cursed them, struggling to get to her feet.
She screamed as she felt a strong hand gripping her by the ponytail, hauling her up against a strong, muscular, very male body. Her cheeks flushed in as she recalled that just last night she had been hauled up against him in a very similar fashion, but that her chest had been heaving in desire, rather than in terror right now.
“I enjoyed getting inside you last night, sweetheart, but it was not enough,” he breathed in her ear, sending shivers down her spine, and she fought to steady her breathing, to lock her trembling legs so that she would not fall. She could feel the razor sharp edge of a knife at her throat, sliding gently along her skin, drawing blood, and was too scared to fight back, knowing he could slit her throat easily. “I need to feel your blood on my hands, need to cover myself in it.” Horror crept up into her throat in the form of bile, and she couldn’t find the words to respond.
The short silence following was abruptly shattered with gunfire, and she found her face spattered with a torrent of blood. She heard him scream in agony, but did not look back; she was already running ahead, her heart lifting with impossible hope. Tears and blood blurred her vision, but she saw the figure of her friend Alice up ahead, screaming at her to hurry, to come to safety.
Just as she reached her friend, her arms outstretched, inches away from touching her, the ground shifted beneath her feet. She screamed, tumbling into the earth, the expression of horror on her friend’s face the last thing she saw.
Smack. Smack. Smack.
“How much damage?” he asked absently, gaze focused on the rock and swing of the cradle.
“At least twenty billion dollars, sir.”
Smack. Smack. Smack.
“Lives lost?”
“Fifteen hundred, sir.”
Smack. Smack. Sma- with a sigh he reached out and halted the motion, leaving the Newton’s cradle at rest.
“But these are only estimates,” the hopeful comment rang hollow even to his own ears.
“Yes, sir. The cost of damage should double by next week. More bodies are being found as we speak.”
He yawned, felt along his desk and—aha, there it was—grabbed a slinky from where it sat beside his calendar.
“Sir?”
He juggled the lemon-colored object between both hands, watching as it rippled under the fluorescent lighting. “Some time alone, please.”
“Certainly, sir. Please watch the time. The camera crew will be here in ten minutes.” Her carpet-dulled thud of stiletto heels signaled her exit.
The plastic child’s toy collided with the wall.
George wrung his hands, ignoring the pain in his pasty white knuckles. Never let ‘em see you sweat old boy. The clear voice of his father throbbed within his temples.
“Easy for you to say, Poppy,” he muttered. “God, I need a drink.”
Never show weakness.
Had his father even said that? No, but it sounded like something his dear old dad would say. But damn, he was weak. Nineteen years of abstinence and suddenly driven to alcohol.
“Mr. President?”
He hadn’t even heard the door open. “Yes?”
“The cameras are ready.”
He grinned, “Great. Let’s get this circus over with, dinner’s in half an hour. I hear they’re serving steak.”
He stepped up to the podium, thankful it shielded the death grip on his notecards from the audience.
Never give ‘em a reason to doubt your complete control.
“My fellow Americans, this morning I spoke to FEMA Secretary Mike Brown in regards to Hurricane Katrina…”
Word Count: 497
THE WINDWARD PASSAGE EXCHANGE
The first time the Haitians tried to rush me. Fortunately, it's impossible for more than a couple of bodies at a time to get onto a yacht's deck from below.
The first one up the ladder stuck the barrel of his AK47 through the cabin hatch and fired blind. His burst cracked over my head in the direction of an airliner on its way to Port Au Prince. Idly I wondered if the tourists could see the firefight.
I'm in the Zone. Clinical psychologists refer to it as tachypsychia. It's hard to describe if you've never been there–imagine watching yourself in a slow motion movie while hell breaks loose.
The Haitian peeped over the transom to see if the white guy was in bloody tatters. From the thin protection of the steel steering post, I screamed, “Surprise, Motherfucker.”
The buckshot from my Mossberg removed part of his head in a red, gray and white welter of brains and splintered bone. His body dropped out of sight. One down.
The heavy-set one, Turk, was struggling through the tight fit of the forward hatch. Reaching the deck, he got his Uzi into play.
Like most untrained “spray and pray” idiots, he didn't allow for recoil. His first rounds spanged off the steering post, but then tracked up and right so most of his burst missed left. We all make our little mistakes. But in this business you don't usually get to make the same one twice. I pumped out two rounds, and Turk grunted and fell behind the cabin. Two down? Maybe.
My attention turned back to the midships cockpit and the cabin hatchway where the most danger lay. Trading fire with automatic weapons from twelve feet is not at the top of my list of things I like to do at sea.
I put another couple of rounds into the cabin hatchway. Splinters flew. Damn, it would be hell replacing all that beautiful teak. Now I was really pissed.
Suddenly the racket of gunfire and screams was over; leaving the sounds of engine noise burbaling from the exhausts, the hiss of the bow wave curling past, the creaking of the mast, and the occasional rustle and flap of sails trying to catch a breeze.
My mind did a double-take, wondering if all the shit flying around just a few moments before was imagination. But my ears are ringing; my throat is scratchy from screaming curses; there's a stink of cordite; and my body is suddenly screaming, " I'm hurt…burning…OH SHIT…I'm hit." .
Everything rushed into focus like I'm slipping back into a normal time dimension. But only split seconds have passed. I'm out of the Zone. Time to deal with the real world again.
I lie there, bleeding, the brassy taste of fear in my dry mouth, and with the pulse in my temple pounding from the rapid beat of my heart, wondering how I let myself get into this mess…
The bus rumbled across the dusty open, hopping up with each rocky encumbrance that threw itself in the way. Flecks of light stole into the interior through patches of missing paint, applied in broad sweeps across each window. One of the occupants, a young boy with grimy hair that might have been brown once, chipped at the paint with a broken fingernail until his mother pulled his hand down, gripping it in her lap. A young woman slouched low in the back of the bus, watching their motions with a studied disinterest. The mother caught her gaze but quickly looked away, her eyes twitchy and her lips bloodied with nervous chewing.
They lurched to a stop, the driver emitting a low whistle and snapping his hand up. Three men in patchwork military outfits, guns at the ready, fanned out through the bus, sidling up to strategically placed holes covered in metal grating. The young woman slid to a crouch and fished a knife out of her boot. The boy whimpered but his mother clapped a firm hand over his mouth, crushing him against her chest and dragging him into the aisle.
The driver peered out the side, iris flicking back and forth in the light. He waved two of his men to the left side where the young woman waited. They unclipped compact aerosol canisters from their belts, bringing them up to the grates and holding still as statues. They waited.
The young woman heard the sniffing before anyone else, starting along the back fender. The light glinted off her knife as she waved it to the nearest man with a gun, jerked her head toward the sound. He nodded and shifted his weight as slowly as possible, sliding his booted feet across the corrugated rubber floor. Everyone else stood still, mouths open and eyes closed.
A high whining noise picked up outside, singing along the chord of tension running through the bus, vibrating the dust floating through patches of light. A solid thump hit the side, rocking the bus up off its two left wheels. The axel creaking didn’t muffle the scream from the little boy.
The man with the gun cursed under his breath, ripping his tight leather glove off with his teeth and thrusting his hand up to the closest grate, holding the canister next to his fingers. A rumbling started outside the bus, rattling the grate, the bolts straining to hold it in place. The metal bent in like foil, slicing open the man’s palm. He aimed the can downward through the gap and pressed the top, liquid spraying everywhere. A roaring scream split their ears as the bus rocked back again, the entire side cratering with the impact. The engine roared to life, everyone thrown sideways as the vehicle took off. The young woman peered out one of the hole in the paint, watching the thing roll around in the dust in agony, the screams carrying forward faster than the bus.
Dunno how this posted in Monday's comments but…
From the romantic thriller: Kate Blue Jeans, and a Single Shot
_______
Catherine rummaged through the medicine cabinet, tossing her toothbrush and other necessary items in a backpack.
As she reached for the mouthwash the front door opened and slammed. Footsteps tread heavily around the apartment at an alarming pace.
“Catherine!” her husband, Michael shouted.
Terrified, she ran to shut the bathroom door but it was too late, Michael was already on it. She pushed against it trying her best to keep him on the other side, but his hand found a handful of her hair. He yanked, slamming her head against the door jam.
Keeping his grip on the fist full of hair, he pulled her out and into the living room where he shoved her on the couch.
“Do you know how much trouble you’ve caused me?” His fist met her right temple, knocking her over.
She drew up her knees up to protect her face and body.
“The police think I killed you.” He went to kick her, but his shoe flew off and landed by her feet.
She cowered, hearing his frustration come to a boiling point as he growled.
“You fucking bitch!” He picked up the shoe and whipped her with it. “Where’ve you been hiding?”
The intercom buzzed.
Michael stopped and turned to look at it, taking a good step backward.
It gave Catherine an opportunity to run. She got to the door and leaned hard on the intercom button allowing whoever was out there in, knowing she wouldn’t be able to fight Michael off otherwise. Then she prayed it wasn’t a delivery to be left by the door.
Michael was at her back almost immediately as she desperately tried to unlatch the deadbolt, but she wasn’t about to give up. They fought over lock until Michael hammered her forehead against the door and wrenched her hand away, twisting it behind her back.
“I won’t let you runaway this time.” He reached over her shoulder to relock the deadbolt, but door flew open, knocking them both down.
Hit hardest by the door, Catherine’s mouth filled with the irony taste of her blood, forcing her to cough it out in a bright red spray on the carpet.
Though stunned, she sat herself up, and was offered a hand off of Michael who remained motionless staring at her savior.
Jay closed the door behind him. “Do you think anybody in the building heard that?”
“No,” She shook her head “Everyone works during the day.”
“Good,” Jay said, examining her face. “Go wash up. I’ll take care of him.”
Jay reached in coat pocket and pulled out a snubnosed revolver and pressed it against Michael’s forehead.
Catherine backed down the hall, watching, hoping Jay wouldn’t cross the line and kill Michael.
“So you like beatin’ on your wife.” Jay smiled. “But that’s not how I roll. Take a guess as to what I’ve got planned for you.”
This far down the road, even if I screamed, no one would hear me. They would wait until I got closer, then attack in the hope it would draw my family out. Seven of us dead was worth however many casualties they would suffer. I activated the Bluetooth hidden in my thick hair.
"Mom. They've declared war." I spoke without moving my lips.
"Where?"
"Hiding in the wheat field. Over forty, I'd say." I didn't tell her about my broken club. She'd find out soon enough.
"We're on our way."
I grabbed a stray branch out of the ditch and started running. Skintomieurs are fast, but they aren't smart or graceful. I went a good fifty yards before the leader gave his war whoop and the rest got up. Just enough time to get my family outside and for us to halve the distance between us. Then, instantly, they were everywhere.
One went down when I jabbed the end of my weapon into his eye socket. Behind him I saw my oldest brother take two down in rapid succession with a club in each of his hands. I held out my hand and he tossed me one, grabbing another from the holster beneath his coat. Unlike me, Benny was always prepared.
There were more, tearing at me with their teeth. My thick clothing deflected their onslaught and I knew that if I could stay on my feet, I had a good chance to take them out before they started climbing on eachother to get to my face. That's how they took out my brother two years before – he killed one, slipped in its blood, and fell. We started studding the bottoms of our boots after that, but tripping was always a danger. They were low to the ground with stocky bodies perfect for holding a human if they could get one to go down.
I killed one and stunned another by the time my dad got to me and threw me another club. Training had taught us to kill with one shot to the soft spot on their skull – a few inches to the side and they'd only be stunned. My dad and Benny's favorite technique was to kill one with the right hand, stun another with the left, and move down the line until they were all dead.
I should have practiced more.
The swinging made my arms ache, but adrenaline kept me moving as I watched one creature after another go down. My sister Katherine was a few yards in front of me and looked as if she was tiring as well. I yelled to her to switch to hitting one at a time and I'd follow behind to finish them off. My mom saw us and did the same thing behind my other sister. Blood and brains and bone fragments shot everywhere and I was afraid to loosen my grip in case my hands got slippery.
Young Adult
The light ahead changes yellow. I hammer on the accelerator, cut off a taxi, and zip through. Horns blare behind me.
“I think I’m going to be sick,” Ping groans from the back.
“Better than dead,” I say, racing up the expressway ramp. We shoot out onto the highway. Once in the far lane, the speedometer hits one hundred. I zigzag in between cars to keep three figures on the speedometer.
“Is he even behind us?” Ping asks.
I check the rearview mirror. “I can’t see him. Turn around and look for a silver Porsche.”
“No. Your driving is making me sick.”
A slow minivan forces me to brake. “You want me to watch the road or the cars behind us?”
“Fine,” he snaps.
“Chang, get out the GPS in the glove box and hook it up.” Passing the van, I spot a cop ahead and slow down to slide in between two cars. Chang slowly unravels the cord. “Hurry up.”
He plugs in the end. “It’s hard to do when your hands are shaking.”
I resist rolling my eyes.
“I think I saw it,” Ping says.
Since getting behind the wheel, the first real tingle of fear hits me. “How far back?”
“Maybe ten cars?”
How the hell? I lurch back into the fast lane, spot the lights of the cop car ahead, and snake back in.
“It’s ready,” Chang says.
“Punch in the address near your house, basement, whatever.” I tap a blue nail on the steering wheel.
The GPS voice comes on. “Take the next exit.”
I spy the minivan in my blind spot.
Ping pulls at my headrest. “He’s coming!”
My fingers grip the steering wheel and I focus on my surroundings.
Car ahead. Maybe seven feet.
“Four hundred yards,” the computer warns.
The Porsche zips to my side.
“He’s next to us!” Ping yells.
Car behind. Maybe four feet.
“You’re going to miss the exit,” Chang warns.
The Porsche’s passenger window rolls down.
Ugh. Smith’s ugly face.
“You missed the exit!” Chang shouts.
Blind spot. Minivan.
“Take the next exit in five hundred yards,” the computer says.
Car behind. Eight feet.
“He’s got a gun!” Ping screeches.
Slow lane. Freakin’ minivan.
Smith points the gun at my front tire.
I swerve and almost kiss the minivan’s door.
Minivan brakes and honks.
Finally.
I push the pedal to the floor and the SUV crosses both lanes in time to catch the ramp. It’s a short one. I put steady pressure on the brakes. The seat belt slams my forward lurching body back. Both buttheads scream like girls. The Mercedes comes to a complete stop inches short of on coming traffic.
“Ahhhhhhhhh,” Ping keeps screaming.
Chang crouches in the corner with wide eyes.
“Enough! We’ve stopped!” I shout over the never-ending wail.
Ahhhhhhhhhh,” he continues.
Pulling off a glove, I twist around ready to smash it into his mouth.
Instead, the glove falls to the floor and I scream too.
Aleck chose to hide his beer away in his stroller rather than take a last sip. His mind coursed with thoughts of Bonnie and his future. So intense was the daydream, that he failed to sense the predators at his back, till a push from behind sent him face first into the alley wall. He lurched for the stroller, throwing an arm into the seat before his attacker kicked it away.
"That's my beer!" growled Larry Jenkins. He was accompanied by Jake, Cat and Greg.
Beer was the last thing Aleck wanted from the stroller. When it, rolled away, his hand clenched the rusty lawnmower blade. He swung it hard, landing with a heavy thud against Larry’s shin, slicing flesh and gouging bone. Larry howled in pain, retreating out of reach. Aleck rose to his feet as Larry produced his box cutter.
"I was going to just take your beer and have a look at the shit you pulled from the trash, but now I'm gonna leave you holding your guts for Christmas," he said in a perversely, happy tone.
Larry charged, burying his shoulder into Aleck's chest, driving him into the wall as Aleck swung the lawnmower blade far too late. Aleck’s hand and blade’s hilt thumped Larry's shoulder before rusty hunk of metal continued its arc to strike hard into Larry's lower back.
Dismissing the pain to his back as the cost of getting in close, he pushed hard to slice deep into Aleck's torso. The thin nylon shell and puffy polyester filling of Aleck's coat were no match for the box cutter’s razor. Larry growled with delight, sure he felt his blade scrape bone. He stepped back to enjoy the look in the old man's eyes as he discovered the gaping wound.
That look of fear and pain never had a chance to cross Aleck's face, because Jake stepped in to drop him with the thump of a rock. Enraged by the interruption, Larry turned his attack on Jake, grabbing him by the hair and repeatedly punching him in the stomach so as not to damage his moneymaking face.
"Wait…Stop…" Jake croaked, the wind knocked out of him. Fearing far worse than a punch to the stomach, Jake made no moves in defense. He only pointed up at a security camera focused on the alley. "If somebody… calls… the cops…"
There were many people Jake would have loved to see cut into bloody piles of agony, but this sweet little old man was not one of them. Putting a stop to his tortured death was an act of kindness, a twisted gift amongst the misery that was life on the street.
Exhaustion vanished and adrenaline filled its place. I clutched the book close, waiting for solitude. It seemed like hours as I listened to the quiet breathing around me turn into calm hums and snores. Everyone was asleep. I glanced from my left and to my right. Nobody moved, but I couldn’t bring myself to pull the book out from under the covers.
The back of my throat burned from the dryness I had endured during the wait, yet my hands felt clammy. I turned on my side, curling my knees up in front of me, letting the book slide onto the mattress. My hands shook as I pulled the blanket down, moonlight gleaming over the brown cover.
I opened it.
The handwriting was Mom’s.
May 3rd
10 am—High Senator Radcliff’s hair appointment
1 pm—lunch meeting with Executor Loften
On the bottom were notes, scrawled like someone was in a hurry.
Adamson 219 D
Graff 1104 S
Hakala 600 C
Larsen 380 T
All the other dates for that week were the same, High Senator’s appointments and things that needed to be done. But the names… I couldn’t figure out what they meant. Sometimes there were two or three names—sometimes more, all with house addresses next to them.
I stopped reading. My senses buzzed with alarm. I held my breath as I heard a soft swishing noise coming nearer.
Footsteps.
Someone was walking up the aisle. Visions of being yanked from my bed with the condemning book filled my mind. I took in slow painful breaths, forcing back the images, hoping the footsteps would walk past me.
The strides moved closer. I inched my hand toward the book, tucking it under my bent knees as I pulled up the covers. My mouth felt like cotton but I didn’t dare swallow. I closed my eyes and hoped that the moonlight that was strong enough to read by was dark enough to convince someone that I was asleep.
The footfalls crept closer. The pounding of my heart filled my ears as the person stopped…right
at the end of my bed.
They know.
Any second now, they’d reach for me and I was powerless to stop them.
The person near the end of my bed let out a long sigh. I waited, forcing myself to draw in slow, steady breaths, eager for the sound of retreating footsteps. My lungs ached, my heart thundered. Just leave. Just go.
(Hey, thanks for reading! =D )
The beetles scurry from the edge of the newly ripped trench, set to frenzied circling by the tremors reverberating through the earth that rattle their subterranean chambers. Massive yellow skinned machines creep forward in tandem, the heavy chains linking them pulled taut. The sound is deafening–bulldozer, plough, long bed “stitcher” fitted with immense, creaking spools of polyvinyl cable, unreeling and looping like a giant commercial sewing machine. The men high astride the machines, isolated in their cabs, are shielded from the noise by protective earmuffs. Impassive faces drained of all expression by the blankness imposed by their mirrored sunglasses, the men seem mechanical, mere appendages. The train of machinery tears into the soil, inserts its cargo, and seals it in place in a matter of minutes, the heavy compactor rolling the soil smooth in its wake.
A lone man stands beside the trench. Dwarfed by the machines, his urgent shouting is swallowed by the incessant roar. His arms wave frantically, but he is unnoticed, insignificant, like the bones he tries to bring to their attention. He wrenches his cell phone from his back pocket and hurls it toward the man working the plough high above him. It hits the cab and shatters, the pieces that rain down becoming indistinguishable from the shower of pebbles pouring from the tracks. He yanks off his goggles and throws them too, hopping up and down in frustration. Last is the yellow helmet, but it misses its mark and sails into the bulldozer where it is promptly rolled to the ground and flattened.
From the parking lot another figure approaches, pauses to lean over the back of an equipment truck and remove a shovel. Giggling at the silent dance of the monitor, the watcher hefts the lightweight instrument and strolls casually forward.
The monitor grimmaces in despair as the bones, whole skeletons now, shake apart, tossed into the air and ground into fragments as the train of machines passes over them. The thwack of the shovel that hits him between the shoulder blades is lost in the din. His cry of surprise, then terror, is unheard as he stumbles forward, hands and feet scrabbling for purchase on the crumbling ground. A steady waterfall of soil pounds down on him, cascading from the back of the machine, carried in conveyor buckets from the scooping mechanism behind the plow. He raises his arms to shield his face but his thin frame is no match for the heavy torrent. Like blows the soil knocks him down, the weight pinning him in place. Soil pours into his mouth, and blinds his eyes. Panicked, he gasps for breath, sucking in soil, coughing and choking as it begins to suffocate him.
In seconds it is over, the newly ripped trench reburied just as quickly, the only sign that it was ever there a slight darkening of soil, rapidly fading as the moisture evaporates in the stifling heat of the day.
With each passing minute the train recedes in the distance, the roar becoming muffled, dust settling back into place. High above the mended rent, the beetles bear mute witness, their sensitive antennae tuned to the rapidly thumping heart that is slowing to silence.
Bona fide chase, NOT a dream sequence. Scout’s honor. 🙂
********************
PEARL EDDA • Heidi J. Johns
I whacked Iven with my ski pole. Right across his cheek.
Not very ladylike, I know, but I was ticked. I mean, we’d avoided each other all week, and had just patched things up when he pushed me – after insulting my skiing. Really? Like skis hadn’t been strapped to my feet every winter since – I don’t know – forever?
He didn’t look fazed. Instead he perused the darkening mountain behind us. “We need to go, Mia,” he said, rubbing the pole-inflicted welt. “Now.”
And then the egomaniac reached toward me again.
I harrumphed, planted my poles, and propelled myself down the slope. Keenly aware that he pursued me. Mad that I was a little pleased.
Traitor heart.
Olivia and Tait had already veered off onto a little used run, a drainage that cut through the forest and narrowed into a chute, and I shot off the lip, dropping down after them. Towering pine trees clustered together on either side of the trail, only allowing light to sneak through in muted patches, and I could barely track Olivia’s bright red jacket as it darted through the murky labyrinth.
Iven skied, wordlessly, beside me. The forest, too, was still, and the only sound came from our skis schussing in sync. I almost laughed from the stupidity of it all when I sensed something behind me. Its cold, dark shadow curled around my boots like wisps of smoke. It squeezed my ankles – firmly, once – and then backed away.
What the crap?
I looked toward Iven, but he grabbed my arm. “You said you could ski, Mia,” he hissed through clenched teeth. “Do it now. Like your life depends on it.”
He again pushed me, and I surged forward. This time he didn’t follow.
My hammering heart shot into my throat, and I brought my skis together while bending my knees. I realized the moguls of our previous run were nothing compared to the speed of the trees coming at me now. As boughs slapped me, their snowy blankets exploded, peppering my body with icy crystals.
Knowing better, a lot better, I ignored the cardinal rule of every horror movie ever made and glanced back. My entire body heaved as I immediately faced forward again, gasping in short, staccato bursts, while rapid-fire questions erupted in my brain.
What the heck? What the heck? What the heck is THAT?
I forced myself to keep on top of my skis, but a numbing breath streamed up my back. A low growl and what sounded like the snapping of teeth followed, and the hairs on the back of my neck stood straight on end.
The owner of the shadow had arrived. And I was alone.
EVER
Middle Grade
Ryan turned, searching the darkness for the source of panicked cries. Footsteps pounded toward him. Two yellow flashlight beams bounced crazily along the limestone path.
“Get inside!”
Ryan recognized his grandfather's commanding voice, but he froze in confusion. Ryan stared at his grandmother. Knees raised and arms pumping, Gram sprinted down the walkway. A stream of blood flowed from her brow. Pop followed her, leaning heavily on his walking stick and dragging his right foot. Behind them, a dark figure seemed to be increasing its pace.
“Move,” Bree screamed, motioning to Ryan from the front door.
Ryan stumbled through the wet grass and made his way to the porch.
“Go, go, go,” Gram yelled.
Ryan felt his grandmother brush beside him. She gave him a push, and they started up the steps together.
Ryan risked a glance over his shoulder and saw the monster in the glow of the porch light. Bulging, blood-red eyes protruded from a frog's head. Black skin, a tapestry of grotesque warts, oozed glistening slime. A long lizard-like tail curled around the enormous body and hooked claws reached from the tips of his gnarled toes.
Ryan gasped. A pink blur whipped from the frog's thin lips, wrapped around Gram's waist, yanked her through the air and into his waiting mouth. The jaws clamped shut with only Gram's Nike sneakers showing. She kicked frantically while the creature rose from his crouched position He leaned back on his hind legs, tilted his chin and began to swallow.
Scatterbrained
Science-Fiction
The intruder moved smooth like liquid, quick as lighting. I didn’t even realize that the girl had thrown a punch until it was inches from my face. I had only enough time to dodge, but just barely. I didn’t see the next one until I leaned back, purely on instinct, and caught a blur whizzing by my nose.
Aunt Jane taught me to fight. But I’d never had to defend myself it in a real life situation. I surprised myself with how well I did.
Jab. Uppercut. Elbow. Knee.
Duck. Dodge. Counter. Block.
“Too slow,” sang the intruder.
Apparently, I hadn’t trained hard enough. The girl caught me by the wrist and twisted my arm around, then, catching my other arm, held me in a very uncomfortable position with my arms bent behind me.
She tsk-tsked.
I struggled to free myself, but all I accomplished was to cause myself more pain as I pulled against the forced contortions of my limbs.
The girl laughed. “You really are in a sad state, aren’t you?”
I threw my head down, and maybe I had Loony Tunes on the brain because I manifested from light a huge, Wiley E. Coyote worthy anvil and sent it over my head and into the face of my intruder. She was fast though. She let go of me and sidestepped it so easily the routine could have been choreographed. But I’m fast, too. I transformed the anvil into a short staff, snatched it from the air, and attacked the girl. She pushed through my offense bare-handed like it was made of gelatin.
And I’m going to be real honest right here. I’m not exactly sure what happened after that, but next thing I knew this girl had me by the hair and I was nearly doubled over backwards. Pain shot from the roots of my hair to my bent spine to my stressed and shaking legs.
The most amazing thing, though. During the whole fight she made sure we didn’t make a single sound, not allowing even my staff to crash into any furniture.
“Since I have your attention,” she said looking down on me, “I have to ask. Don’t you wonder why they’re doing you this big favor and keeping you out of the public eye? I’ll tell you if you want me to. Seriously. Just let me know.”
I glared.
“Okay, okay. You’ve forced it out of me. Well, you see,” she grinned, leaned close and spoke in a whisper, “this way if it doesn’t work out and they decide they’d rather kill you than let you be the Heir, they avoid a huge PR nightmare.” She let it sink in. My eyes widened with understanding.
“And just so you don’t think I have something to hide, I’m your cousin Zizeh.” She kneed me in the back and tossed me aside like a plaything she’d grown bored with. “Welcome to the family.”
I stumbled then spun around swinging, but Zizeh was gone.
A Fist fight Down Memory Lane
By Billawaboy
It was a flying roundhouse kick, for sure, but in the dimness, all I saw were the boot treads ready to tattoo my face with lines and curves. For a brief moment I saw myself at the police station trying to get them to ID the shoe print.
I ducked. It would be hard to ID anything with a broken cheekbone anyway.
I headbutted his groin. The mask had fooled me. This was no man. Important parts were missing. Why would a woman, or perhaps a eunuch, break into my apartment? I went down the short list of ex-girlfriends in my head as I dove between her legs and grabbed at the umbrella stand. No luck. She fell on my legs and put her full weight on it. I twisted on to my left side just in time to see her elbow miss my spine and connect with the floor. She screamed in pain.
It wasn't Tammy. Besides this wasn't really her style. She was a knife-between-the-ribs or a gun-in-your-kidney kinda gal. This one liked to bruise. The scream did sound familiar.
I backed away to regroup. And to get my gun. I turned to my bedroom-slash-office where I had a .45 hidden under my desk-slash-ironing board. A hand grabbed my ankle and pulled hard. I slammed shoulder first into the tile floor. It was my turn to scream.
It couldn't have been Gail. She had tried to poison me twice after the curses didn't work. I probably shouldn't have laughed during her proposal, but who wouldn't laugh at “Would you be my witch?” She's still doing five years after pleading guilty to three counts of attempted murder.
I felt myself being dragged back. I looked into the darkness and only saw a silhouette, ninja-like, methodically pulling me back. I searched my pockets for a weapon. A pack of chewing gum and a paper clip. Despite the imminent danger of the moment, my mind couldn't help try figure out how the hell a paper clip got into my pocket. Good when I'm trying to solve a case, but not when fighting for my life.
A swift kick to my groin doubled me in pain. The kicks and blows started landing all over as my assailant worked out her anger issues. Even through the pain, I wondered what evolutionary advantage did it serve to make a man so vulnerable. I made a mental note to buy a cup. I began to put a distance between myself and the pain. I collected myself for one last attack. It was now or never.
I kicked hard and connected with the chest. I heard her body hit the far wall. Then nothing. I muttered briefly, asking for my mother's forgiveness for hitting a woman. Wait a minute… That scream.
“Mom!?” I called out into the darkness.
The right hook came from nowhere. I saw stars fading into darkness, my last lingering thoughts about the day she left me. Thirteen years ago.
She had not moved or spoken in months, but now was the time. Slowly, she rose from her couch. There was nothing left to do but obey her inner thoughts. In her mind it was the only way to be free of them, and then she would be at peace.
And really, it was the only solution in this war. Ken would never end it. As long as he was still standing and there was someone to oppose him he would fight. She doubted if the earth’s destruction would stop him. Not even his death would slow him down, he would find a way to escape the halls of the dead and go after Amaterasu. No, this was the only way. This way the mortals would not suffer, would not continue to die needlessly. This was their only salvation, for the mortals and immortals alike. She would be their savior. She would be heralded as the messiah of the mortal world, saving them from the unjust fate the other Gods cast upon them.
The more she thought about it, the more it seemed the right decision. She would strike down all those that oppose her, the mission was far too important. She would save Amaterasu and the planet from the deadly fate that awaited them. She would save the mortals from the war. She would save Ken from folly, the other Gods from becoming like the mortals and falling from grace.
Yes, she was the messiah of the doomed.
She would save Amaterasu from her doomed fate that awaited her. She knew as well as anyone that Amaterasu didn’t want to be imprisoned for all eternity. No, Oki wouldn’t let that happen.
Farther and farther she walked from the battlefield. If she had bothered to look back, the tents would have been no more than specks on the horizon. The sounds of war were no more than whispers in the wind.
Soon she was in the forest, making her way through the dark cover of trees, heedlessly walking with only her end goal in sight. In her head she kept telling herself over and over that what she was about to embark on was for the greater good, until it became like a mantra.
She reached her destination after what seemed only a few moments. She found what she was looking for easily, it was in plain sight.
She didn’t need any mental encouragement after she had decided she was going to do it. She now walked in a trance, no longer thinking, only doing. Her senses were completely overloaded until she no longer heard anything but the beating of her own heart. She didn’t see anything- but the object in sight. Didn’t feel anything- her body was numb. She was devoid of all feeling, of all thought but her mission.
She felt like a hunter, stalking its prey, circling in for the kill. Satisfaction splashed across her face, but she was no longer Oki anymore.
The police pulled up in front of my mother’s rental house for the second time. I heard two car doors slam—thunk and thunk. Police-radio static and broken voices grew louder. I left through the back door, jumping silently from the top of the three step stoop to the tired, burnt-out lawn. Squat, recover, run. I hid past the end of the next barracks-like apartment building. I wasn’t supposed to be in her house, whether she was or not, and she wasn’t. But I needed a place, somewhere safe to crash, and sometimes I snuck in to sleep when Mom was at work. But now it wasn’t safe. The police weren’t safe. That’s one sure thing I’d learned since I’d stopped living with my mother at 17. Police were trouble.
I was already breathing hard and sweating in the July heat. I sprinted to the next house and hid again. I was still too far from the edge of the complex, where parched lawn gave way to scrubby trees.
The police had to be looking for me. Why else would they come to my mother’s house, my last known address? What could my mother possibly have done to deserve their attention? They had to be looking for her misfit druggie daughter. My daughter, who my mother was raising, was only three. No chance they would be looking for her.
Pant, sprint again. This time, I crossed Lakeview Drive and ran an extra length to hide behind the apartments on the other side of the road. My path was out of sight of Mom’s front stoop. I was almost to the woods, almost to a place where I could hide and not be seen. Almost to the slow slope down to the lake that was little more than a puddle this time of year in the heavy heat. Almost to the place where I’d seen her, the floater, the time I called the police for help, that one time ever.
Thanks, Nathan, for once again demonstrating you are a glutton for words!
An excerpt from my adult sci-fi WIP, Girl Under Glass:
The ‘thumm-thumm-thumm’ of massive, otherworldly engines rattled my teeth, my bones. “Pearl! Answer me!”
A phalanx of Ohnenrai gunships, their chameleon exteriors changing to match the earth and sky, cleared the Sawtooths’ snowy crags.
Pearl and Zeus slammed into me.
The ships split into two groups and surrounded the township.
The dog whined and barked then jerked away and raced into the house.
“Zeus!” Pearl shrieked.
Everywhere I looked gunships descended. The air shimmered with heat and whirling, swirling debris.
“Go!” I shoved Pearl back through the house to the kitchen, pushed her into the pantry. “Back! Back! All the way back!”
“But Zeus!”
“The dog can take care of himself!” Towers of boxes lined the back wall. I pulled them forward, pushed Pearl into the space. I slipped in beside her, slid the boxes back. “Quiet, baby. No matter what.”
We huddled and cringed.
The thrumming and vibrations grew. The floor, the windows, lights, boxes, cans, plates, everything danced and rattled. Then all eased as the gunships landed.
Pearl and I started as shots cracked the air.
Shouts. Orders and protests. Screams.
I wiped her tears, pressed her to me, covered her mouth with my hand.
The front and back doors banged.
Boots thudded up the stairs, through the rooms, overhead.
The kitchen door groaned. Weaponry and military gear jangled and creaked.
A voice over a headset: “Remember, hold fire. Hold fire. You know why we’re here, people. Let’s get our prize and go home.”
A response came, “I have two here.”
“Match?”
The scratch of hard soles on the kitchen tile.
“Negative. Bundle and go?”
“Affirmative.”
Another set of boots.
We jerked as pots and pans clanked.
A deep voice beside the pantry: “The cupboards? How small do you think these people are?”
“I don’t know. The kid is small, right?”
Pearl whimpered.
I stroked her hair, kissed her head.
The pantry door squeaked. Light entered the room.
Another headset voice: “I have them.”
Pearl pushed against me.
“Match?”
Crumbs crunched beneath boots.
“Uh, negative match. Bundle and go?”
“Affirmative.”
A muffled voice came through the wall beside us. “I have one.” The other soldier was in the medical room.
Joshua! I swallowed bile.
The headset voice asked, “Match?”
“Negative. Unresponsive male.”
Leather creaked, close enough to touch.
“Deceased?”
We held our breath.
“Negative. Wounded. Must be medicated. Bu-”
A snarl erupted.
Pearl and I jumped.
A gunshot cracked. A yelp. A second shot. Silence.
“What was that, soldier?”
“Zeus,” Pearl whispered.
“Dog, sir. It’s down.”
The pantry soldier spoke in monotone English. “I heard you. Come out. We’re not here to hurt you.”
We didn’t move. We didn’t breathe.
I heard the ‘shoop’ of a chambered canister.
“Don’t make me gas you.”
I shook as I remembered the gas from my childhood; when they chased us from the woods. It burned my eyes, my throat, my lungs. My tongue swelled. I couldn’t eat for days.
Pearl sobbed, “Momma, I’m scared.”
As always, I am humbled by the great talents here. So many of you are wonderful masters of the craft.
This suspense section is a "narrating in mixed verb tense" exercise from one of my "top drawer" children's stories.
rose.
*****
I was cold, so I pulled my coat closer around me and tried to get my knees and feet under it. Wait a minute…what coat? I sleep in tighty-whities! Whoever put me in this nerdy green coat and these highwater pants is gonna get it. Just let me get warm first.
A whisper tickles my ear. No one knows my name. My eyes jump open.
I am the voice, the vision, the knowing that haunts your days.
There weren't nobody around except for a dusty chicken pecking at my wooden button. A chicken? Whoa! says I. How come we got a chicken on the 13th floor of our apartment building?
"Garble garble mooning over da girl garble garble?" I didn't understand half the words, but that scratchy old voice, a differn't one this time, sounded just as real as anything on the radio.
Doom. Impending doom.
The words were close and quiet. I jumped up and looked behind the tree. That's when it hit me that maybe I wasn't IN my bedroom anymore.
"Garble garble cow," said a round redfaced woman who looked like a apple in a saggy skirt.
Sooon. This was starting to freak me out. Something in that voice reached inside and grabbed me up. In the far distance I saw people, some on horses, all headed the same way. There must be a road over there.
Do-o-o-m. Hurry.
"Boy, garble garble wild-eyed fer?" The apple-lady sounded like she'd been left out in the sun waay too long. I shook my head and pushed by her. I had to do something, run away or run toward…. I don't even know what. I just had to.
The road wasn't much of one, just a couple of dried up ruts, Walking, then running, I passed as many people as I could, going till I was sucking wind hard; all the time wondering, Man oh, man, how come everybody's dressed like they're in an old Robin Hood movie?
I have a uncle who likes to talk about how the US could solve the world's problems by "bombing 'em all back to the stone age but it seemed like somebody got to us first.
Soon I see TV antennas not too far ahead and taste the salt in the air and smell the ocean, or what I think a ocean would smell like if it wasn't covered over with oil and garbage.
Hurry.
OKAY!, I'm hurrying! I don't know where I'm going, but the crowd builds and sweeps along until we come up to a wharf lined with docks and sailing ships of all sizes I see that the TV antennas were just their wooden masts.
I couldn't go any further, even if I wanted to.
Do-o-
Oh, shut up! There ain't nothing else I can do!
The voice starts in with some dumb little-girlie playground sound. Da-da da-da da-da Da.
“NO!” she shrieked. “It’s going to –”
At the sound of her voice, the box exploded; the shockwave propelled Nick from his feet, and he skidded across the floor, jolting to a stop when the diamond shrapnel hovered in the air, twinkling magnificently against the light.
Nick’s relief was short-lived. He could hear feet thudding against the dirt, the tumultuous thundering of –
He leapt to his feet. Reaching for his sword, Nick drew only thin air, then muttered a curse under his breath as he racked his mind, eyes skimming the room for a safe place.
“There you are,” a woman’s voice said kindly.
Nick’s blood turned to ice. His feet turned him around to face her, but when his eyes flickered upward to her face, charred and bloodied, he reeled backward. The drumming grew louder, made the ground tremble beneath his feet.
“I d –”
He stopped abruptly, eyes widening as she raised a hand above her head. There must be some weapon, invisible to him until the moment it killed him. Run! Nick was thinking, but he couldn’t move.
Her ice gray eyes held him in place.
“Nicholas, move!”
Another body shot out of nowhere and tackled him back to the ground. A second later she was gone, and he looked up to see her standing, sword in hand, flames tickling her elbows as she glowered at the woman. Time stopped. Her hair turned red. The air went cold.
She smiled.
And then she struck. In one motion, her sword met the weapon in the other woman’s hand. She spun back, fire dancing around as she pushed the enemy back – she ducked in time to miss an arrow that screamed past Nick’s ear, but he was transfixed. They moved too quickly for him to focus on one motion – to discern one from another until the world froze once more, and he saw her sword slice upward, disarming the woman.
There was a split second while the two stared at each other, breathing hard, forgetting to breathe in shock. She had the power. She had won.
The woman disintegrated, no longer existing.
“Nick.” She turned, her eyes hardly seeing him when she turned to speak to him. “N-Nicholas, go find your sister. Quick –”
Her head shot up. They were outside the castle, now. The entire world was quaking as they pounded at the doors, the unyielding windows.
“No,” she whispered. “No, no, no… this isn’t how I planned it.”
No sooner had she spoken than the door crashed inward, echoing hollowly against the stone walls. The army – a tangle of metal, poison, and blood, clanked inside. Their new leader stepped forward.
“Live, child,” he told her.
He erupted in the same fire that had followed her into this mess, but then he stepped calmly free of it. Nick realized with a pang that she was trembling just as the world had been. She, the fearless Queen of everything. His mother.
“They all live,” she murmured. “Happily ever after.”
Expat
Comedy/Action-Adventure/Crime
A university football stadium in Oklahoma. Graduates congregated on a grassy field wearing black robes and matching caps. Ted Klimber hugged his dad with urgency. Ted was boyishly cute with a wad of thick dark hair. After today’s graduation ceremony, Ted’s new life would commence. Growing up in the hick town of Buffalo Wallow was about as exciting as a Gunsmoke episode with Russian subtitles playing on a TV screen.
And, up until today, Ted lived at home with his dad Gary and young stepmom Carrie. They all lived in a custom-built three-thousand-square-feet grayish-pink brick house with wood shingle roofing and a swimming pool and storage shed on five acres. Even though not visible from the road, it looked like a tornado target in its ranch style with low ceilings and dark panels covering its interiors. Ted knew he wasn’t destined for Oklahoma.
Ted sneered at his stepmom. Carrie was blonde and bubbly and also Ted’s age. She stood back out of listening range holding an obnoxious-sized gift sack that appeared to be bigger than the skirt she wore.
“Dad, why did you bring Carrie to my graduation?” Ted whispered.
“Because son, she’s your stepmom,” Gary answered.
“She’s my age,” Ted said staring at his dad’s awfully haggard toupee. The hairpiece resembled an ill-tempered bagger. It looked as if it were saying, ‘you touch me and I’ll rip your arm off.’
Gary goosed an unsuspected Ted. “I always say, marry the babysitter,” he snorted. Ted shook his head.
“I didn’t want everyone knowing about my job.”
Gary straightened his wide cowboy tie. “Why the hell not, son? With pay like that? I can’t believe you nabbed it!” He slapped Ted on the back. His dad was right. The pay was extraordinary.
“Me neither. Dad, I’m nervous. I’m not sure I’m up for this—“ Ted caught Carrie approaching from the corner of his eye. She sported a big wide smile.
“I bought you a gift, Ted. Congratulations!” Carrie squealed like a Javalina hog.
Ted reluctantly accepted the sack.
“Don’t wait till hell freezes over, open it,” Gary ordered.
Ted stared briefly at his classmate, Eddie Kind who was standing a few feet away. Ted felt indebted for Eddie’s help in securing him his new job. Eddie worked for a professional resume service and had sent out his resume to oil companies.
“A briefcase. Wow, thanks Dad,” Ted said.
“Real leather. Look at the double-stitching,” Carrie interjected.
Gary snatched the briefcase from Ted’s grip, tossing it on the ground. He then stomped on it. “This thing is damn solid. A herd of camels couldn’t damage this case,” Gary said beaming.
“I even had your name engraved,” Carrie said.
Ted picked up the briefcase from the ground and read the nameplate.
“Property of the Russian?” Ted asked.
“I thought it was cute since you’re moving to Russian!” she squeaked.
Ted quickly corrected her. “Russia.”
“That’s what she said, Ted,” Gary explained.
“Well, Atyrau is not in Russia.”
They catch you, they kill you.
No. No. No. No. No.
Every thud of my heart sounded like a roaring denial of the inevitable. Every crash of my foot on the needles of the forest floor was too loud. They would find me. I prayed they wouldn’t.
I wanted to stop. I wanted to hide from the sharp cookie cutter shadows their searchlights made, but I was incapable. The adrenaline was a tangible force in my veins, driving me forward like the hardest taskmaster in history. They were running too: they were too close.
Snap!
I froze. They were waiting for me, and they could be anywhere. They catch you, they kill you. Tears overran my eyes, and I covered my mouth with both hands to stifle the sound of my sobbing. Deep breaths. I could have been inhaling concrete for all the good it did me.
My eyes jumped from one phantom monster to another in the trees, another shot of adrenaline gushing through me with every sight. I pressed my back to the nearest tree, the bark chewing into my skin through the shirt. The forest echoed with calls of my name, with false offers of friendship. And the lights, always moving, always searching for their victim. They catch you, they kill you.
The light passed within inches of me, a pale monster in the black meant to blind and disorient. New and frightening shapes jumped at me in the lights absence. I couldn’t move. If I moved they would see.
The foot fall was like the whisper of an echo, and directly to my right. “They catch you, they kill you.” His voice sounded in my head. I shook my head, this could not be the end.
“Jane? Won’t you come home?” The velvet voice out of my nightmares spoke, and let loose light. They were everywhere. Blinding, closing in. My feet were running before I registered the action. The precious black swallowed me out of their circle, but I was still blind.
I think I may have screamed. My flight was not the only sound. The crashing branches were right behind me, an entire forest collapsing in my wake. They catch you, they kill you. He was wrong. When the caught me it wouldn’t be death. It would be far, far worse.
I broke through the end of the trees, and more were coming. Directly at me. I was trapped between two enclosing walls. If they wanted me to be docile, then why had they programmed me with such a desperate need for freedom? I turned from both lines, sprinting for anything other than this life. I could see to the end of their lines, a tunnel of moving danger. But the end was too far away. It was almost over.
excerpt from "In God we Trust"
David Axelrod slammed his office door and locked it, sweat beading his forehead. He heard several more gunshots. He hoped that was the Secret Service. Then he heard Obama calling his name in the hallway. More shots were fired, a lot closer this time. Then a soft tapping on his door and Barack's voice, "David, David, it's me," the doorknob was jiggling, "open the door." David answered back softly "Just you Mr. President?" Barack answered back "Yes, just me." David turned the lock and slowly opened a 3 inch gap. He saw Barack's warm smile, then noticed a shadow on the opposite wall behind him jerk. David put his foot against the door, pushing hard to close it, but the president was pushing back and two more hands appeared in the gap, forcing him back. David winced and put everything he had against the door but they were too much. He gave up and burst in tears. Emotion overtook him and he started trembling. "Oh, God, Mr. President, please sir, please, ohhhh," he pleaded backing up. Barack raised his hand trying to get him to calm down. "It's ok David, I know you weren't involved, Rahm told me everything." David dropped his gaze and saw the Berretta in the president's hand. He looked past Barack at Rahm who was closing the door and smiling. "Are the Secret Service coming Mr. President?" David asked. The President didn't respond. David slid slowly past the side of his desk never moving his eyes off the presidents. He turned his chair and sat. Breathing was now becoming difficult.
"David" the President continued "I need to know everything. What was said, and who knows." David started to feel more relaxed. He guessed the President didn't know about Michelle's involvement. He felt emboldened. "Barack, look, maybe if I had some assurance." Barack straightened quickly, his eyes became wide and his face contorted "Don't fuck with me David!" he screamed. Barack quickly circled the desk and picked up the bronze paperweight, then smashed it down on Axelrod's flat hand. David screamed in pain. "God damn it Dave, you know what the fuck I'm all about," continued Barack "You fuck with me and I will bring Heaven and Earth down around your motherfucking ass!" The President was as enraged as David had ever seen him. "You people don't mean shit to me David," the President glanced over at Rahm and continued "Do they Rahm?" "Not one fucking bit" Rahm retorted emphatically. "Let me fucking demonstrate, David" Barack was screaming. He turned quickly and fired three rounds into Rahm. David screamed in anguished shock. Rahm went back hard against the office door. His eyes widened as he crumpled. Barack looked back quickly. "You have five seconds David" David felt himself falling apart. He didn't even know what the question was anymore. "Three David" He felt numb and weak. "Two….David" His gaze rested on the family portrait on his desk. "One David!" He didn't hear the gun go off.
excerpt from "In God we Trust"
Carson slammed into a cement pillar in front of the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation. The cop pinned him there. Black clad, eyes shadowed by his visor, he swung the baton hard against Carson's shoulder and kept hammering. “Tenderize me,” Carson thought, “Pulverize me and hang me on a hook.” He deserved it for tagging along with anarchists when all he really wanted was for these world leaders to take their summit elsewhere, so he could ride the subway to Union Station in peace.
The cops tackled another pseudo-radical in a fashionable suit and skinny tie, yanking his eighties neckwear before punching him senseless. Mounted police surrounded a group of young women carrying signs, emblazoned with “Free Hugs” and “Fuck the G20”. A frail man with a billowing white beard tried to fight his way to them, but the riot police pepper-spayed him in front of the Starbucks at John and Wellington. Inside, a woman in heels dropped a cappuccino and stared wide-eyed.
“I feel your pain,” Carson felt like telling her. “This riot is *so* not Toronto!”
He braced for another fist in the face as the cop swung him around, but the officer craned his neck in the other direction, towards a man on a mountain bike screaming like a banshee and swinging a bike lock. The blow knocked the cop to the ground, unconscious. Carson's avenging angel, a bike courier with a death wish, hit the brakes and let his ride skid out from under him. He got up, slapped dirt off his ripped shorts and put his hands on his hips.
Carson recognized the non-chalant pose. He wasn’t surprised: Only his drugged out, doppelganger of a brother was crazy enough to get a bike past security barricades.
“You look like shit,” Adam said, fishing a cigarette from the back pocket of his bike jersey. Tear gas drifted into the intersection and the light dimmed.
“Thanks. You’re insane.” Carson spat out the words along with a bloody tooth. His eyes were watering.
Adam laughed and lit up. “Here,” he said, grabbing a second bike lock out of his saddlebag and tossing it to Carson. “You might need this. I’m in the mood for an espresso. It's a yuppie joint but I admire them for fearless commerce.”
Before Carson could object, his brother made a b-line for Starbucks. Maybe it was that confident stride that let him move unnoticed while riot cops battled a supernatural-looking band of goths beneath a billboard advertising American Idol.
He stopped mid-intersection and Carson followed his gaze down Wellington. An armoured personnel carrier barreled towards the knot of protesters. Adam glared. He seemed to be channeling Tiananmen Square, like it was perfectly reasonable to stare down tonnes of steel that could crush you like a fly.
Carson brandished his bike lock with a war cry and ran to his brother. He was going to buy him a coffee even if it killed him.
YA Fiction excerpt:
It was hard not to speed, but I didn’t want to get pulled over. The cop wouldn’t like my reason and it might prove premeditation in court.
Ian’s shutters were open and I could see him sleeping. He must’ve been out late searching for Ann. Good. He’d be tired.
Rain pelted my face as I lifted up on the window. The frame started to give way under my hands. The idiot didn’t lock his windows.
Before I could get it open, I was distracted by lightning and then deafening thunder shaking the ground. Turning back, I was jolted by Ian on the other side of the glass. Well, damn.
His eyes were deranged. I swallowed hard, unprepared for him to look as menacing as I felt.
Through the cracked opening, he said, “You’re not coming in.”
“I know — I’d have to wipe off fingerprints. You’re coming outside.”
“Is that supposed to scare me?”
He smashed his fist through the glass, grabbed my collar in his bloody hand and sent me flying into the mud.
As I righted myself, Ian pushed the shattered window open, hopped out and began to circle me.
I crouched and tried to survey the backyard for a weapon. “I warned you. You tried to kill her — so it’s only fair I attempt to do the same to you.”
“Try.”
I’d glimpsed a row of flat stones, but was too far to reach them. If I kept up the dance, we’d eventually be closer.
Ian’s hand was bleeding without him giving a single grimace in pain. He really was insane. Lightning split the sky, illuminating his creepy ass face.
He lunged for me and I jumped to the side. He’d barely missed me as I’d slipped my foot into his path, sending him to the ground. I gave a swift kick to his gut and turned to the pile of rocks. I managed to get a large stone, but Ian was already beside me, knocking it from my grasp. He clipped my jaw. I retaliated with a hit to his mouth.
Ian wasn’t even breathing heavy between his bleeding lips. Holy hell. He came at me again, but I caught him off guard with a blow to the stomach. My knuckles slammed into his nose and I felt it crack under the force. I charged him, knocking us both to the ground as I grasped for the stone and crushed it against his skull.
Rain dripped along my face so thick it made it hard to see. The hit should have taken him out of the fight, but damn if I ever got a break. Ian took me by the throat.
I couldn’t breathe. The fingers around my neck were steel and I immediately thought of Ann’s finger-shaped bruises.
A large branch splintered over Ian’s head. He fell into the mud, eyes rolling back.
John watched me pant as he checked Ian’s pulse and said, “He’s alive.”
“Hit him again.”
I leaned back in the chair and kept quiet. He pressed a button with his foot and I was eased into a lying position. His face gained a rosy pink color up his cheeks and his attention shifted from me to the lenses.
“When I put these in your eyes you’ll see a progression of blinding lights- hear loud noises in your head. It’s the lenses linking to your brain. Don’t be scared.” He grabbed latex gloves and pulled them on. “Once both lenses are in place, you’ll see words appear in your line of sight. I need to calibrate which eye is dominant so the command prompt is in only one.” He sounded like a computer programmer who had done this several times before.
He reached up and touched a circular light above my face, it was incredibly bright. I strained my eyes to nearly shut trying not to look directly at the light. He pried my right lid back, pausing for a moment, almost like he was going to tell me something. My eye stung as it dried from the cool air. I watched as the lens on the end of his latex finger crept closer. My head compressed heavy in the back of the chair and my feet pushed at the bottom of the footrest. Fear snatched my confidence and for a short moment, I had changed my mind.
Horrible shooting pain, like a serrated knife, stabbed deep to the back of my eye. Flashes of lights, bright as the sun, burned under my pinched lids. Instantly my vision was gone, not even the burnt outlines of the space around me existed. Everything was black. I felt the invasive fingers of the lenses, pushing and twisting to create intricate webs connecting my mind to the lens, penetrating the deepest parts. My hearing imploded to a deafening pitch that reverberated through my teeth and into my nasal cavity.
I tried to remember what Dr. Finway had told me, it was harder than I had thought. What was this thing? The sickening pain disappeared and I began to see cast shadows change to colored images. Muffled sounds of the room tiptoed their way to my ears. My muscles released the adrenalin from its thick fibers, creating a reprieve I clung to. I took a deep cleansing breath trying to erase what had just happened.
“Next eye” he said pressing his forearm to the space between my shoulder and collarbone. “Sorry, should’ve told you about the shooting pain and eyesight, but I didn’t want you to flinch.” His eyes withdrew from mine tracing down to my hands.
“You ok? Do you need a minute?”
“No, I’m ok” I lied.
He reached down and pulled my left eyelid back. The contact lenses turned and clung to my corneas causing my lids to drag heavy across their broad edges. The instinct to blink a hundred times and clear my eyes was unrelenting. Nothing helped, the words were still there.
PROCESSING PLEASE WAIT…
A mob beat on the Delta-Squad’s police safety cage with tire irons and pipes. Two pulled the Jaws Of Life from the abandoned police van. The idiot Parker shot bean bags out the cage gaps. It could harm them.
Mladen touched his com. “Stop shooting!” Parker acknowledged and ceased.
So many susceptibles in one place. Had the telepath somehow staged them here for his attack?
The mob’s common vision of rage came to him. The Delta-Squad was four child predators intending to molest a child inside the cage. The oldest policeman was the child; the telepath’s idea of a sick joke. This telepath was very strong. Mladen wanted to tear them to shreds himself.
Tito ordered the Gamma-Squad forward. “Susceptible Protocol.”
“Wait,” said Mladen. He attached authority and safety to their team’s image and projected it into the susceptibles’ shared mind. The Jaws Of Life worked through the crowd. “Now.”
A deep loathing for a dictator in the crowd hit Mladen. He had slaughtered thousands of helpless people. Thugs surrounded him, he wore a police uniform, and he had Mladen’s face.
“Oh, shit.”
The crowd pressed. The Jaws Of Life fought with the trapped cops for positioning into the upper bolt.
“What?” asked Tito.
“They’re after me.”
Tito ordered his men around Mladen, then pushed forward. Loathing intensified, and the crowd pushed back. The cage groaned, and the bolt cracked. Many cheered and bent the top outward, lodging it with a pipe. Determination save the boy twist off the molesters’ arms flooded Mladen’s mind. The Jaws Of Life jockeyed for the lower bolt.
The Gamma-Squad pushed. A woman in a pink blouse drove the van toward them. The crowd divided, and she gunned it. Gamma-Squad scattered. The van turned.
“Get to the Deltas!” Mladen poised before scaffolding, and the van barreled toward him. He leapt toward the construction shelter and entered it.
He bounded up stairs to the roof for a view. A ratchet strap secured the cage door, and Parker struggled with another, but the crowd pulled with a frenzy. The second bolt cracked, and the door lurched.
Tito’s men struggled to protect themselves.
Mladen concentrated on the Delta-Squad’s honor, projecting with effort. The mob hesitated, but outrage returned.
The mob pulled in rhythm, shaking the cage. A man produced a knife and cut through the top straps.
Mladen jumped off and sprinted for the van. He jammed it into gear. He honked and nudged with the bumper. He searched the rage for an image to reveal where it came from, and found an angle. One more rope. Too slow.
He projected the danger of the van and yelled. The way cleared as the last rope fell. Mladen gunned it to the door, braced the van hard against it, locked the doors, and busted out the back doors. He found the angle. A face disappeared from a window.
“Tito! Third floor of the Jefferson..”
The rage finally gave way to his projection.
This time with better paragraph separation:
A mob beat on the Delta-Squad’s police safety cage with tire irons and pipes. Two pulled the Jaws Of Life from the abandoned police van. The idiot Parker shot bean bags out the cage gaps. It could harm them.
Mladen touched his com. “Stop shooting!” Parker acknowledged and ceased.
So many susceptibles in one place. Had the telepath somehow staged them here for his attack?
The mob’s common vision of rage came to him. The Delta-Squad was four child predators intending to molest a child inside the cage. The oldest policeman was the child; the telepath’s idea of a sick joke. This telepath was very strong. Mladen wanted to tear them to shreds himself.
Tito ordered the Gamma-Squad forward. “Susceptible Protocol.”
“Wait,” said Mladen. He attached authority and safety to their team’s image and projected it into the susceptibles’ shared mind. The Jaws Of Life worked through the crowd. “Now.”
A deep loathing for a dictator in the crowd hit Mladen. He had slaughtered thousands of helpless people. Thugs surrounded him, he wore a police uniform, and he had Mladen’s face.
“Oh, shit.”
The crowd pressed. The Jaws Of Life fought with the trapped cops for positioning into the upper bolt.
“What?” asked Tito.
“They’re after me.”
Tito ordered his men around Mladen, then pushed forward. Loathing intensified, and the crowd pushed back. The cage groaned, and the bolt cracked. Many cheered and bent the top outward, lodging it with a pipe. Determination save the boy twist off the molesters’ arms flooded Mladen’s mind. The Jaws Of Life jockeyed for the lower bolt.
The Gamma-Squad pushed. A woman in a pink blouse drove the van toward them. The crowd divided, and she gunned it. Gamma-Squad scattered. The van turned.
“Get to the Deltas!” Mladen poised before scaffolding, and the van barreled toward him. He leapt toward the construction shelter and entered it.
He bounded up stairs to the roof for a view. A ratchet strap secured the cage door, and Parker struggled with another, but the crowd pulled with a frenzy. The second bolt cracked, and the door lurched.
Tito’s men struggled to protect themselves.
Mladen concentrated on the Delta-Squad’s honor, projecting with effort. The mob hesitated, but outrage returned.
The mob pulled in rhythm, shaking the cage. A man produced a knife and cut through the top straps.
Mladen jumped off and sprinted for the van. He jammed it into gear. He honked and nudged with the bumper. He searched the rage for an image to reveal where it came from, and found an angle. One more rope. Too slow.
He projected the danger of the van and yelled. The way cleared as the last rope fell. Mladen gunned it to the door, braced the van hard against it, locked the doors, and busted out the back doors. He found the angle. A face disappeared from a window.
“Tito! Third floor of the Jefferson..”
The rage finally face way to his projection.
The rain slaps me in the face, plasters my bangs to my eyelids, and blinds me. I nearly hurtle face-first into a parked taxi, but manage to swerve three inches to the left just before the passenger says, “Drive!” Fortunately for me, the driver doesn’t understand, so he doesn’t drive yet, and therefore I don’t crash and break. Unfortunately for me, the taxi isn’t the answered prayer I hope for, and they don’t block the street. I have to keep going.
They’re still coming.
I pedal faster, which, in a skirt, is difficult to begin with – in slippery flip flops? It’s a miracle I’m still alive. Blood and rain trickle from my shins, down my ankles, between my toes. I’m leaving a trail, but I can’t worry about that now. Shouldn’t, anyway.
It’s only five past midnight. They didn’t understand. They never do.
The young handsome one, the bait, is close. I don’t want to know who chases him. “XiLing!” My name sounds so sweet on some tongues. Not on the tongues of bloodhounds, when it’s barked sharp like bitter ginger.
My worn wheel slips as I turn into the alley, it bends under my weight. Broken. I leave the good wheel spinning in the mouth of the alley, along with my sandals and whatever traces of blood I have left to give. I run.
Midnight alleys in this part of Shanghai are no places to play.
Then again, I’m not playing.
“XiLing!” Footsteps, bootsteps, puddle splashes. Too close. He yells something, tries to bribe me, appease me. I shut my ears and climb the fire escape, one step, two steps, closer, closer. Breathe.
The window won’t open. It’s stuck like someone’s nailed it with a hundred nails. My hands slip. It doesn’t budge. I kick, hard, knowing I’m scaring the living daylights out of some poor sleeping old man, but it doesn’t matter.
I slide in, and I’m safe.
From Dirt in her Pockets
YA Urban Fantasy
I was alone on the rooftop. Me. On a rooftop. Of all places.
But I needed to do this.
Kevin didn’t trust me. I needed him to trust me, and this was the only way.
I forced myself to take a step, and then another. I dragged myself all the way to the edge of the roof, and clutched at the ledge with two white-knuckled hands. I literally shook with terror.
I had to do this.
I needed to learn how not to be afraid. I needed to trust my instincts and take control of my power.
I needed to learn how to fly.
All or nothing, I told myself as I forced first one foot and then the other onto the top of the ledge. At least it was stone beneath my bare feet. Stone would keep me grounded.
I could do this. I had to do this.
Still, I knelt there for a good five minutes before I found the courage to rise, a millimeter at a time, until I was standing on the ledge, facing outward. The ledge seemed to stretch to infinity, a thin ribbon of stone to either side of me. In front of me, there was only empty air.
I was going to do this. I had no choice. Kevin would never speak to me again unless I unless I jumped off of this ledge.
All I had to do was take a single step. All I had to do was show him I could fly.
I must have stood there for a full ten minutes, frozen in place, staring ahead into the empty air between our building and the next. I don’t remember how long it took me to convince my muscles to finally unlock. Maybe it was the wind that finally did it, that strong, damp wind that signals a coming storm. Once the rain started, all bets were off. There was something earthy about the rain, and I knew it would ground me once it began. If I didn’t do this soon, I wasn’t going to get the chance.
Still, I stood there, unwilling to step forward, unable to step backward. I couldn’t bring myself to move until the wind picked up and forced my hand. It shoved against me so hard I had to step sideways to steady myself. My left foot came down on empty air, and my stomach jumped into my throat as I hopped backward, wobbled sideways, and somehow managed not to plunge to my death.
The second gust was even stronger, as if its sole purpose in life was to tear me from the roof, and I did a desperate dance to keep my footing.
I needed to get down. This was stupid. Of course I couldn’t fly. If I stayed up here any longer, I’d plunge to my death.
But the wind was buffeting me from all sides, and I couldn’t figure out how to climb back down without falling. If I lifted one foot to step off, the other would slide out from under me. I was sure of it. I was stuck.
By the time the wind finally gave up on its tug of war with my body, the first drops of rain had begun to pelt my face and shoulders. I needed to get down from the ledge now, before the drizzle turned into a deluge. If I fell during a rainstorm, I knew I would die, and I couldn’t exactly stand up there until it was over.
No more wind. I could move now without falling.
I lifted one foot, began to bend the other. I was going to climb down. I was going to be okay.
But just as my knee was about to touch the stone, my other foot hit a wet spot, and I felt the ledge slide away from me. I threw myself backward, but it was too late. The ground rushed up to meet me.