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!
521 comments:
«Oldest ‹Older 1 – 200 of 521 Newer› Newest»Ha ha! You have us trained too well now!
Action sequence:
(I accidentally copied and pasted my first 250 words and had to scramble when I realized it was the wrong thing...duh!)
Sawyer can’t see his reflection in the mirror at the moment because he’s scrabbling along the tile floor, writhing in almost every conceivable three-dimensional direction, palms clutched tight to his face, over his eyes, fingers knurled in various configurations of agony. He’s been down there for about thirty minutes. The pain’s onset was rapid. Even his breathing is now a labored and conscious effort.
Sawyer’d finally managed to wriggle himself up to his knees a few moments ago, bracing his weight against the toilet before freeing his wallet from his back pocket—only then he’d somehow proceeded to drop his wallet in the process of trying to retrieve the special Harvard items from behind his dollar bills with his appreciably shaky hands, and so his wallet of course—at the irresistible mercy of gravity—fell splashing down into the toilet, the lid of which Sawyer’d thought to raise in a preemptive maneuver to address his very uncommon cluster headache-related nausea.
And so then the aforementioned wallet-into-toilet sequence of events just about completely shoved Sawyer over the edge of his already deteriorated capacity for concurrently tolerating pain and stress, and so said sequence of events probably would have shoved him right on over had he not (luckily) managed to pinch one of the two Harvard items between his thumb and forefinger before accidentally depositing his wallet into the shiny, white basin filled with chemically-treated, though environmentally-friendly, clear, coolish water.
And so Sawyer, not really in the exact frame of mind to stop and think about a whole lot else, places the innocuous off-white blotter tab on his tongue and is happily surprised with the rapidity with which it dissolves. There isn’t much of a flavor to speak of, but a sort of pseudo-aspartame –like aftertaste does linger. Sawyer, eases himself back down to the floor with a spasm’d hand still clutching his face where the imaginary icepick seems lodged inside his right eye-socket. He begins considering experiences likely more pleasurable than this, his current one: castration by butter knife, disembowelment via soup spoon, medieval torture implements such as the rack, the iron maiden, flagellation, drawing and quartering or perhaps even thumb screws.
The pain finally begins to dissipate after another 20 minutes or so, give or take. Sawyer’s clothes are soaked through with sweat utterly. He’s feeling a little dizzy and not at all in tip-top shape but—most unbelievably of all—the pain is gone. It’s just fucking vanished. And he isn’t sure where Ashley is or why she’s been gone all day—on a Sunday, no less—but Sawyer figures his best bet as of right now is to sleep off the dizziness and reassess everything at a time a little later when he doesn’t feel like he’s teetering on the verge of imminent death.
He carefully makes his way to the bedroom, fearing that any sudden movement might reverse the effects of the 2-Bromo-LSD. It’s working; don’t fuck with it, he thinks. Sawyer carefully eases himself into the bed, underneath his freshly-laundered Frette sheets and reaches for his BlackBerry.
@Cheryl: He does have us trained well! I was already to go with my first 250 and then I saw the rules were different, haha!
The odd thing is that my post should have more spaces than that; it's like the blogger system arbitrarily polices where it will and will not allow you to have spaces between paragraphs...weird...
Woot! Sounds like a lot of fun. I shall return shortly with suspense.
Title: Unknown
Psychological Thriller
A smile blossomed while Jessica Foxx imagined her family’s reaction. Twenty-one days before her baby sister’s bridal shower and ten pounds left before her plump ass would fit perfectly in that sexy black dress that hung from the kitchen door. But she couldn’t wait to see her cousin, Lucy. She was the bigger reason for running every morning at five am, more so than the cute guy at work, who has taken a notice to her trimmer look lately.
Putting on a Nike windbreaker and cranking her iPod up, Jessica burst out her apartment door and out into the streets running, admiring the vintage Salem, Massachusetts as she headed for the beach park, Salem Willows, where she liked to stop, sit on a bench, and enjoy the sunrise.
“Oh my gosh you look great! How did you do it? You look wonderful!” Flattering expressions passed her mind like the houses and trees as she continued. Jessica envisioned her mother running over to her in complete joy. Her grandmother asking her to model the dress. And most of all, the look on Lucy’s face will be priceless. Lucy always had the figure, the boys, and the last word. When they were alone, she muttered only loud enough for Jessica to hear. “Is that actually fat on the back of your neck? He’ll never touch those saddle bags. They want me over you; they will always want my hard ass over your cottage cheese cheeks.”
No More! Jessica ran harder, pounded the pavement, tears taken by the wind, the world around a water colored blur.
From Arclight:
There's a knock from outside the door, a set of very human knuckles rapping out a pre-arranged rhythm so we know it's safe. The last beep of the security code unlatches the door and we lurch forward as the one outside pulls Jonah into the hall by the wrist.
"Go."
Mr. Pace touches each shoulder, counting as we pass to make sure no one's forgotten. Tobias loops his hand back through the strap on my shoulder for the inspection, then grabs me around the waist again once we're clear.
"If we have to run, go limp," he says. "I can carry you faster than you can move on your own."
Before I can protest that I don't need to be carried, or that I don't trust him not to toss me aside and leave me here, Tobias stumbles forward from a sudden push at his back. The force ripples through our chain of hands. Elbows and knees hit hard on the ground, and the yelps that come after are followed by frantic shushing.
"They're through," Mr. Pace shouts behind us, but he isn't talking to us.
"Move! Move! Move!" A voice I finally recognize as Lt. Casey shouts and shoves our line again.
As soon as we hit the hall, everything falls apart. We've only ever marched in silence with no real sense of urgency or danger. Now we're a hive mind with a massive case of brain freeze. Total chaos - all the drills mean nothing.
Our lines break. What used to be our classroom erupts into the sound of shrieking, gunfire, and something that is in no way human.
I hit the floor with my hands over my ears, curled into a ball against the sound - the other side of my edge. Loud noises are overwhelming. For the first week, I couldn't handle light, either, because my eyes were still attuned to the Dark. That one's getting better, but the sounds still kill me.
"That's not what I meant by limp, Marina!"
Tobias is beside me, pulling me up by one arm. The next thing I know, we're racing toward the shelter beyond the maze of hallways. Well, he's racing, I'm being dragged - gaining speed is hard after getting shot in the leg, even when the wound's had a few weeks to heal.
Good to his promise, Tobias has me off the ground before I can remind him that I can't move as fast as he can, and over his shoulder I watch what everyone else is trying to hide from.
Now I know why they tell people not to look back when they're running away.
Mr. Pace and Lt. Casey. Three others I can't name. They shoot at shadows in the dark, every round making them twist and jerk from the impact of the rifles hitting their shoulders. A flare illuminates the face of Honoria Whit with the odd bald "V" scarred into her hairline.
"Bring it down," she orders. "Collapse the doors!"
“Stop,” Moriah called when she neared. The Gendarmes ignored her. A cry of pain erupted from the center of the soldiers.
“Please sirs, have mercy!” The dhalim’s voice shook with each strike. None of the soldiers did anything except continue hitting him. They kicked and punched until the dhalim’s pleas turned into a wail of pain.
“I said: Stop!” Moriah reached the group, and grabbed the nearest Gendarme’s shoulder. He spun and swung at her. She ducked under his fist and landed an uppercut that sent him sprawling. The other soldiers looked up, and two more men rushed her. Moriah swept the legs out from under one. She brought the other down with a knee to the crotch. The second pair of soldiers came after her with long knives. She twisted the first soldier’s knife free. The second swiped at her and she spun away.
One man grabbed her from behind. Moriah stomped on his foot and dropped beneath another knife thrust. The blade slammed home into the man behind her. Moriah rolled away, came to her feet, and drew her revolver in the same motion. The last soldier pressed one foot into the dhalim's chest and aimed a repeating rifle at her.
“Release him,” she growled. “Or I will shoot.”
“Under whose authority?” The Gendarme didn’t move. The silver barrel of his rifle glittered in the sunlight. Gears clicked when he snapped the safety off. Moriah clicked the hammer back on her weapon. She glimpsed a pair of chevrons on his breast pocket before she flicked her eyes back to his. Nine Hells.
“My own.” Moriah resisted the battle-rage that stirred in her gut. Shooting a Gendarme would get her thrown in the dungeons. Shooting a sergeant would get her a firing squad. She couldn’t afford to let this miscreant get her angry — not while an innocent man was injured.
“And who in the Nine Hells are you, trollop?”
“She is The Lady Moriah Rowani, daughter of the Archduke Alexei of Callarion.” Malory announced. Moriah didn’t look away from the Gendarme. She hadn’t heard the carriage drive up, but relaxed ever so slightly at Malory’s voice. Maybe he’d defuse the standoff and get this braggart away from the injured man.
“Is she now?” The drawl in the Gendarme’s voice grated on her nerves. “Give me one good reason to listen to the half-breed spawn of a blood-mixer.”
“Can you move faster than a Senro-trained huntress, sergeant?” Malory leaned out the driver’s window of the carriage.
“Senro-trained.” Ammonia wafted from the Gendarme. Good. He was smart enough to be afraid, but still didn’t lower his rifle. The barrel shook the barest amount, and Moriah knew she had him.
I looked over for a moment to notice Jamie was kind of swaying in the wind.
“Jamie? You okay?”
She didn’t reply.
“You need something to eat?” I walked over to her, hockey stick still in hand.
“Earth to Jamie.”
She looked up at me so quickly I nearly jumped out of my skin.
Jamie was looking at me alright, but she wasn’t in there.
Her eyes were glazed over. I didn’t fully panic until I noticed just a little bit of white spit coming out of the left side of her lips.
Shit.
I started backing up slowly, like she was a feral dog I didn’t want to disturb. I was about twenty feet from her when she sprang up. She charged me and before I could turn to run faster she was bearing down on me. I continued backwards, with my stick in front of me diagonally across my body.
When she was only a few feet from me I swung my stick with everything I had right at her legs. She went down, but only for a second. She was up again, but a little worse for the wear. She’d lost some speed but was still too fast. I could tell I’d hurt her left leg, maybe her knee.
“Jamie, wake up!” I didn’t know if you could reason with somebody infected with rabies, or if they could snap out of it but I had to do something.
“Jamie! It’s me! Sam!”
Jamie began shouting words; only they weren’t words, just garbled together sounds.
I stumbled as she was getting closer and scrambled to get up.
She lunged for me and I jumped to her left and rolled three times. Not even a bit disoriented I got right up and kept running.
Shit shit shit.
I immediately thought of my bag on the bleachers.
Jamie stopped running for a moment, long enough to puke.
She looked up at me, without an ounce of humanity left. I had to do something. She went at a dead run at me again. I headed across the field, back toward the bleachers. She’d have to follow me.
I ran up as fast as I could, lungs burning and heart pounding. I was at the south end of the bleachers and I’d have to wait for her to come all the way to the top for this to work. Close as it was, I waited for her to come to the top and I took off to the other end. I stopped, faced her and she charged head first towards me. At the last minute I ducked down and squatted. As I felt her above me I raised both hands, with my hockey stick and heaved her over the edge.
It worked. I looked over the rail. I suppose her neck broke. There she was, in running shorts and shin guards. Hours ago she was excited about the team, now she’s a heaping mess beside the bleachers.
BLOOD WILL TELL
Urban Fantasy
At a signal from Valeriah, they all three set spurs to their horses’ sides and rode past the camp at a mad gallop. Although his horse was probably faster than the other two, Rolf rode to the rear, to provide some measure of protection. They were through before the men could wake up enough to try to stop them. There was no pursuit.
It wasn’t long before they knew why they hadn’t been followed. The road was blocked by twenty more men in green shirts. And these had been alerted by the shouts and the pounding hoofs.
Suppressing a desire to curse, Valeriah shouted, “Follow me!” and swerved into the forest, following a narrow game trail. It was dangerous to gallop through this part of the forest. The trees grew much too close together. One of them was bound to be unseated by a low branch sooner or later. But Valeriah knew these woods. She had grown up here as a young werewolf exploring her world. Just ahead there was a stream. On the other side of that, there was a close-growing copse of young willows. If they could stay far enough ahead of any pursuit--and keep from falling off--they could hide there and let their pursuers follow the stream, thinking they had used that for their get away.
She saw the stream up ahead and glanced back to be sure the others were with her--and that they were out of sight of the green-shirts. Valeriah was relieved to see Crystal, hunched low over her palfrey’s neck. Rolf had the palfrey’s reins. The war horse was doing an admirable job of keeping away from the worst obstacles, protecting his rider.
Valeriah led them across the stream and around the willow copse, to a place in the back where a narrow trail led into the heart of the thicket. There was barely room for them and their horses when they dismounted. They heard the stamp of horses suddenly stopped at the other side of the stream.
A man’s voice said, “Half of you go down stream. The other half come with me. They must have followed the stream bed. It’s the clearest trail in this Goddess-forsaken wilderness.”
They held their breath as their pursuers split up and followed the stream, away from them. There was a rustling in the forest on all sides, heavy bodies moving through the thick underbrush. Rolf drew his sword, but Valeriah shook her head.
“There are too many.” She heard a howl from back in the trees. Following her instincts, Valeriah did something she had not done since her mother died. She tipped back her head and howled in reply, a long, mournful sound.
Half a dozen huge wolves stepped out of the trees surrounding them. Two of the largest converged on Valeriah, sniffing suspiciously. They circled her, coming closer to breathe in her scent. She stood completely still.
“Wolves!” Crystal said.
Valeriah could smell her fear. “No. Werewolves.”
Do you have to be 14???
DREAM WAR
genre: Fantasy
Luzveyn Dred screeched. As he did, a multitude of demons appeared in the sky. Creatures began to leap from the sea, some breaching like whales. From the land, gray beasts advanced, trapping them on the cliff.
“Get her out of here!” Lopez gestured towards Alexis.
Alfonso grabbed Alexis, as if he’d anticipated the plan. He placed a medallion on her.
Lopez dashed toward the cross. It would take every power he had to get them out of there unharmed. He focused his positive energy, leapt high and landed atop the cross. Balanced at the tip, he materialized machetes in both hands. Lopez cut the bonds that held Wendy's feet.
He dropped behind her and, while falling, snipped both ropes that bound her outstretched arms.
Alfonso and Alexis were trapped in a fiery web of Luzveyn Dred’s creation. A dark but translucent orb surrounded and prevented them from leaving the Spatium Quartus. Sparks jumped from the sphere. Luzveyn Dred looked like an unholy sorcerer with a crystal ball. The combined power of both Lopez and Alfonso would be necessary to pry the little girl from Dred’s powerful grasp.
Lopez grabbed Wendy’s hand.
“Stay behind me!”
As they ran toward the sphere, flying creatures plummeted into and merged with it. Each collision made it cloudier, darker.
“Mommy!” Alexis screamed.
Wendy tried to blow past Lopez.
“No, wait!” Lopez said, ripping off his medallion.
He sprinted to the orb and plunged the medallion in it. An intense white light momentarily blinded him.
Demons’ shrieks could be heard as they frantically attempted to escape the glowing ball. Then, the entire orb exploded in a flash of sparks and glowing embers. Flaming demons flew about wildly before crashing into the sea, or onto the rocks.
Wendy screamed.
“Alexis is okay,” Lopez said. “She’s back.”
He still had the medallion. He needed to get Wendy out.
Luzveyn Dred thrust his arms toward the sky and released a primal yell. Winds picked up with such intensity that everything in the vicinity was swept into the air. Lopez clutched for but missed Wendy’s hand.
The ire in Luzveyn Dred’s voice escalated with each syllable. “If I cannot have Alexis, then I shall kill you both!”
Lopez was propelled into a group of boulders forty yards away from Luzveyn Dred. Wendy had been flung in the opposite direction.
Without looking back, Luzveyn Dred’s thorny tail extended and shot through Wendy’s chest. It retracted, the tip curled around her still-beating blood-pumping heart. Luzveyn Dred wiggled the heart back and forth in a triumphantly evil wave. His rage replaced with a look of lustful pride.
Lopez’s experiences had numbed him. It was impossible to feel the pain of each lost life. Like a soldier on D-day, death surrounded him, but he moved forward, step by step, knowing that the cause he fought for was a just one. He took advantage of Dred’s celebratory moment. Clutching his medallion, he projected himself back to his dimension.
those are the coolest/best-written rules i've ever read, ever.
Ooooh, fun!
Okay if I sit on the sidelines and cheer everyone on?
“Were you just standing out on the corner?”
“Yeah,” Davis said with nervous embarrassment.
“I was just coming to talk to you,” the man said, moving a bit closer.
The boy's nervousness continued. “Really?”
“Yeah, I was wondering if you and me could have a little party together.”
“Nah, I need to...”
“C’mon,” the man interrupted, “It’ll be fun.”
“No, really. I...”
“Look,” the man continued undeterred, pulling a money clip from his pocket, “I’ll give you forty, no, fifty bucks.”
Davis’s “fight or flight” instinct turned his body away from the man, sent impulses to his legs to walk toward his car and impulses to his mouth to blurt out, “I have to go home.” When it came out, even he could hear the wavering panic.
As he strode, he heard the loose gravel crackle beneath two sets of footsteps walking in the same direction and his heart raced faster. With the key ring encircling his index finger, he squeezed the keys so tight into the palm of his right hand that he could feel their jagged edges dig into his skin. When he was only a few paces from his mother’s car, he felt the man grab his right elbow and he heard the man say under his breath, “Don’t walk away from me.” When he turned in response to the touch on his arm, his mind registered a shock of black and yellow, the sound of a dull, numbing thud and a blast of searing pain from behind his right ear.
Davis fell to his knees, dizzy and disoriented. He then put both his hands out to make contact with the ground as his whole body rocked further forward, drawn by gravity’s pull. After gaining some semblance of stability, he put his empty right hand to the part of his head that was throbbing: behind his ear just below the base of the skull where his hairline began. He felt with his fingertips a slit in his skin and the warm blood flowing between the gaps of his fingers.
As Davis pulled his hand from his head and held it in front of his face to see the deep, dark liquid, the man walked around and stood directly in front of him. Davis could only see his feet set apart until he lifted his head. His tear-filled eyes followed the crease in the man’s pants up to the belt that held them in place. The man struck a dominating pose with his fists resting on his hips and his elbows out. Davis barely noticed something metallic clenched in the man’s right hand which seemed to surround and encase each of his fingers.
“Oh, God,” Davis whimpered. “Don’t hurt me.”
“Shut the fuck up, whore,” the man screamed quietly between his teeth as he struck Davis on the left side of his head. This time, Davis’s mind perceived nothing, it simply gave way to the force of the blow and his body slumped to the ground.
How about a little buckling of swashes for this contest...
---
It was up to me to lead the boarding party, but the Frenchmen were quick to board us instead. I called for reinforcements from the gunnery deck before leaping into the fray.
I had not thought a great deal about my sword, but I soon discovered its true potency, thanks to Anne’s alchemical working. I parried my first attacker, only to slice cleanly through his blade. I admit, I was so taken aback that I allowed him time to attempt to grab me. Thankfully, my blade was far sharper than my wit, and my late defense nearly cut him in twain at the waist.
Discovering myself so well armed, I raced to the front of the battle, effectively disarming a number of boarders and allowing my fellows to manage them after.
That is, until my blade met another that it did not slice cleanly through.
I looked up to see a giant of a man, with a heavy black beard and a ragged coat that likely once belonged to a naval officer. I had heard many a description of the infamous Jacques LeMaire, and I had little doubt that this man was he. He came at me with a snarl, and it soon became evident that, despite my training, he was the superior swordsman, for it took all my skill to parry his furious blows. Soon, my back was to the mainmast, and a second wave of boarders from Chance followed him aboard, free to engage the rest of my shipmates.
“You are brave, sir, I will give you that,” he said. “But you are overmatched. Surrender and I will make your death quick.”
I attacked, but was too easily parried. His counter was quick, and I was only able to angle his blade up and away from my heart, so that it pierced my shoulder and embedded itself into the mast behind me.
The pain was excruciating, as you may well imagine. My opponent laughed and left his blade there, stepping back to admire his work. “See now, you are in pain. You should have surrendered!” Yet behind him, I saw our own swivel gun on the quarterdeck; the men were loading grape shot into it. I needed but to distract him a few moments longer.
“And you have not the virtue or decency to finish me cleanly,” I taunted. “Perhaps you have not the courage to take a life when you must watch your man die before you!”
At this, and with great pain, I wrenched his blade from my shoulder, and our mast, and threw it as far as my good arm would carry it – overboard, as a matter of fact. At this, LeMaire became enraged, striking me hard across the face and sending me to the deck.
I could not have planned better. I heard the swivel gun fire, and immediately saw LeMaire stiffen as the shot hit him and his fellows. He looked confused in that moment, before sinking to his knees and toppling over, dead.
This is a chase sequence from my second novel:
Running never felt so good.
Saname led the way, followed closely by Nishizono and the Gyokusai chumps. They spliced and diced their way through a narrow street overflowing with fashion related courier companies and too many people for a Sunday, many of whom were left stunned, their strawberry red faces craning to see what all the fuss was about. Some were pushed; some politely, some not. Sweat poured on Saname’s brow despite the mild weather. Nishizono started to pant profoundly after they passed a shop selling paper fans and Saname told him to hang on, they would rest in just a few more minutes.
During their first vacant stretch of street, she chanced a look over her shoulder. The Gyokusai weren’t exactly gaining on them, but they weren’t slowing down either. Although their long arms were unaccustomed to limited space and thus rather awkward, elbows locked to their sides as they were, they ran with purpose.
A potbellied man stood outside the entrance to a Middle Eastern restaurant near the end of the street, carrying a bottle of soda. Saname weaved toward him and snatched it out of his hands right before he twisted off the cap.
“Hey!” he shouted. But when he took the first step in going after her, he was shoved back into the door by one of the Gyokusai.
Saname handed the bottle to Nishizono and huffed out, “Here, drink this. I can’t have you passing out.”
His smirk buried under miles of fatigue, Nishizono drank it down in a few large gulps, then chucked it into a trash can over the heads of a gaping gang of teenagers. He wiped his mouth. “Thanks, I guess. That helped.”
Almost there. They rounded the wrong corner. A street fight between what looked like two yakuza hustlers, with a woman in a mini skirt in the middle of it, raged on. A small band of policeman tried in vain to break them up. Saname and Nishizono verged to the left out into the street just as a yakuza received a roundhouse smack to the face. Luckily the cops paid no mind to anything or anyone else. The four of them sprinted across a crosswalk, Saname trying her best to crochet herself in between pedestrians.
“Clear the way, damn it!” she yelled languidly. She clutched at a newborn stitch in her belly and her teeth ground dust. More people seemingly let themselves get bumped into, their breath resigning without notice, hers coming in painful stabs. Once on the sidewalk, they found themselves off of it once again because of a construction site. They nearly un-avoided a bus, its horn blaring and the near-death ripples vibrating atop Saname’s skin. Both Gyokusai got across to the other side safely, one of them even sliding over the hood of a van for purposes of see what I can do?
Somehow in the rush of smeared Tokyo, she managed, after a couple of botched tries, to bring up Bishamon’s number on her cell.
Ellis rose from under the dash, sure that the gang’s truck had passed. He froze, then smoothly drew his pistol and clicked off the safety, for not but thirty feet in front of them came a group of men, roughly twenty-plus.
Holding his breath, he snatched Brandon's mouth with his hand. Brandon acted as if he was about to protest, but then caught on.
Ellis removed his hand slowly, watching the group as they walked past them. Luckily, it was dark enough that they were almost invisible inside the cab of Brandon’s truck while still.
Any motion would bring attention, and Ellis continued to breathe slowly. He tried hard to calm his heartbeat, knowing a quickened pulse could lead to loud breathing.
“Nah, man. I ain’t got nuttin',” one of the men yelled to another.
“Whatever. You lyin'. You know you got sensi, so kick down!”
“Nah. I told you, foo. I ain’t carryin'. Hey, hold up, I gotta pee real quick.”
The other man laughed. “Oh shoot! Did you just say, 'I gotta pee?' Ha! You want mommy to button up your jammy jams after you go wee wee?” He laughed loudly, clapping his hands together.
“Shut up, foo! I can't pee when you're talkin',” the man shouted.
As fate would have it, without reason or provocation, the man walked right up to the Ellis’s window and unzipped. Ellis was not but two feet from the man’s face, which thankfully, was focused downward.
Don't look up, kid. I'd hate for you to die with your pants open, Ellis thought, finger on trigger.
The man breathed out heavily as he urinated, blowing a wall of stench into Ellis's face. Menthol cigarettes, cheap beer, marijuana, rotten food and days without brushing made the most heinous stench. It filled Ellis's nostrils.
Knowing his life was in danger almost wasn't enough to stop him from vomiting.
“Come on, come on...” the man said, as he finished the job and zipped up. “Wait up guys. Come on ya'll! Wait up!” He ran to catch up with the large group who continued up the street.
“Holy. Crap,” Brandon said after they were in the clear.
“What the heck was that?” Briggs leaned in through the rear window of the cab.
Ellis sat motionless, trying to keep his meal in his stomach where it belonged.
“That was us getting lucky, that's what,” Brandon said.
“Wait a few minutes, then lets get outta here,” Ellis said.
“Did you see that? That dude almost peed on you!” Brandon laughed.
“I though for sure he was gonna see us. He must’ve been really baked,” Ellis said. He breathed faster and faster as the danger slipped away. “Alright, let's get moving back to the station.”
“Back to the station? We need to follow these guys and find out where they're headed,” Brandon said confidently.
I hate it when you're right, Brandon.
Lisa aka Other Lisa, congratulations! Can't wait to read the book.
An inhuman scream pierced the air.
Alexia and Jackson pressed against opposite walls, guns drawn automatically. Another scream followed, but this was from a different source. A man.
Jackson plowed through the swing-door and into the morgue's examination cell. Empty stainless steel tables lined the center of the concrete room. A metal door at the back presumably led to the loading dock area. Jackson moved for the door. Something pounded into it, leaving a large dent. He stopped, his mouth dropping open. Another man's scream chilled Alexia's heart. Jackson raced for the back door. Alexia followed. Something on the other side exploded and crackled. The florescent lights in the room flickered like strobes. Alexia's hip caught the corner of a table. Her gun fell from her grasp and skidded across the floor. Jackson vanished through the door.
Alexia dodged between tables to grab her gun, disoriented by the flickering lights. Another loud pop echoed. Pitch black swallowed the room. Jackson shouted a command from somewhere on the other side of the door. Shots exploded. Then silence. Alexia patted the concrete floor with her hands, feeling for the gun. A high-pitched wail rent the air. Her blood iced over. Her extra sense pulsed like electrodes down her neck.
The back door slammed open. Metal shrieked. Something whipped through the air and clanged against a wall.
Footsteps pounded from the door Alexia had entered through. Light danced across the room as the security guard from the front entered at a full run, flashlight in hand. Alexia looked in the direction of the light. Bit back a gasp. Maria Wood's pale, blood-spattered face squinted in the light. The woman held up a red-streaked hand to shield the light.
"See? Feel?" Maria sniffed the air. "Smell," she said with certainty, her voice croaking and hoarse.
"Holy hell," the security guard said.
He fired his weapon but dropped his flashlight. The flashlight slammed into the floor and went out. Muzzle flashes lit the room. Bullets pinged off the concrete. One sang past Alexia. She ducked and tried to roll in the direction of one of the tables but banged her head on the leg.
Maria shrieked. "Feel. Feel. Feel," she said, dragging the vowels in a ragged voice.
A short scream from the guard was interrupted by a loud wet thud on the table next to Alexia. She stifled her own cry and curled into a ball.
"Hear it," the woman said again. Something hit the table again, hard enough to make the metal screech.
Warm liquid splashed on Alexia. She didn't need to see it to know what it was. The rusty odor of blood overwhelmed the formaldehyde.
Silence for a moment. Then bare feet dragged across the concrete. Ragged breathing and short bursts of insane giggles punctuated the silence.
Alexia was alone in the dark with the creature that had been Maria Wood.
Working Title: The Cholent Was Good
(Narrative Nonfiction)
The closet is moving though there is still light coming through the little window. It’s too early for Mr. Sokol to bring food. The days are long and he and his family work all the way until the sun goes down. Besides, he never opens the door in daylight. Ever. I hear boots on the floor above us. More than one pair. Mr. Sokol doesn’t wear boots. He can’t afford them.
Mrs. Popowska grabs Malka’s arm and presses it against her heart. Mama jumps up, her hands are in balls at her side. Uncle Simon twists his head back and forth, not knowing which way to look. It reminds me of chickens at the shochet running from the knife. I think the world must be falling apart. Sara and Rivka clutch at each other while Uncle Moshe davens. His eyes are closed and his face trembles as he raises the siddur to his lips to kiss it.
I hear the trap door being lifted and the only sound is the scraping of wood. All of the movement inside the cellar stops and I listen as 21 people hold their breath. Liebl Popowska and Hershel Winograd creep to the entrance, some of the other grown-ups gather behind them. The guns, the ones Liebl and Hershel stole from partisans, are pointed to the small room where the waste buckets sit.
I see my father at the little window. He is holding Abraham, trying to push him up and out onto the earth. I hear my brother scream at the same time that I hear a gun shot. My father yanks him back inside. That’s when the shooting starts. Bullets are flying; people are running. And then I see and hear nothing.
Now it is dark, past when we should have gotten dinner. We are upstairs, sitting against the wall in the Sokol’s bedroom. I want to hold Abraham’s hand. I want my mother’s arms around me. But we are lined up and no one is touching. There are men, lots of men. I try to count them but my brain trips on itself and I can’t keep the numbers straight. 12? 18? A hundred? They all talk at once, asking questions. I understand their Polish and hear that they want money. “Where is the money?” they ask. “Give us your gold!” We don’t have any, but they keep asking. They spit their words and their voices remind me of the dogs that marched with the Gestapo, barking angry barks. They all look the same, one face in matching filthy shirts and pants, opening drawers and looking under beds. Two men who had gone into the cellar come back upstairs. They shake their head. I hear a shout, a Polish word I don’t understand, and they lift their guns at the same time. I’ve never seen a gun pointed right at me. It has eyes, staring right into my own. I want to bury my head into my knees, but I see that no one else moves, so I hold still.
Pop speaks. “If you kill us, then all the money and jewels I hid in Zelechow will never be found.” I know Pop is lying. We gave our valuables to Mr. Turek. Nothing is left because Mr. Sokol sold it all for food and there is hardly enough food anymore. But these men believe Pop. They are so stupid. I am only eight years old and even I know it’s a lie.
I later learned that Dr. Bisburn, our next door neighbor dentist, had watched with amusement as my suitcase popped out of my window and then I followed it out and then shoved it back in and crawled in again after it. The thing was that the timing kept changing. I remember hiding the smart hard-cased white Samsonite suitcase with its metal clasp back in my small closet, throwing clothes over it and then hanging nonchalantly on my bed as my dad passed up and down the hall. I was not allowed to close my door. If he caught me in the act, I was going to die. Hell, there wouldn’t even be plant-life in the neighborhood for years, maybe decades.
After about three or four of these passages in and out, I guess Dr. Bisburn lost interest and went inside and fixed himself a Gin Fizz. I hadn’t realized my timing included his cocktail hour and I would have been mortified if I’d realized he’d been watching. None-the-less, about four-o-clock I made my escape, threw the suitcase out the window and leapt after it. It was heavy as hell. It contained all my favorite things, clothes, shoes, journals, books. That and my stuffed-to-the-gills purse weighed me down considerably as I pulled it around the three houses of my nearest neighbors, each house that had to be checked out before I made my getaway past. Then I was off and lugging my suitcase through the woods on my way towards the back runway by the airport.
The woods were deep in there. I found a place and stashed my suitcase. Then I flew to the higher sparser woods near the back runway of the airport. Four o-clock and my rendezvous was due to pick me up. I only had to wait and hope my dad didn’t find me first.
No such luck. My ride was late. My dad and my brother were combing the woods for me.
Like I said, there was no underbrush here. I had no choice but to shimmy up one of the sparse trees where I hovered like a squirrel trying not to twitch. I knew if I looked down, they would look up. Simple perception. So I tried to look away, squeezed my eyes shut, and stopped breathing like my life depended on it.
I knew my brother didn’t want to turn me in but if he saw me, he would have to. He couldn’t lie either. He stood beneath me for a full minute. I thought I was going to die. But then he moved on. A second later, a handful of needles and twigs fell from the branch I was squeezing onto where his head had been.
They moved on to another part of the forest. Damn. My suitcase was a lost cause. That’s when I heard the car. I grabbed my purse and ran. “Go! Go! Go!” I said as I hurled onto the floorboards. We were out of there!
Leper Woman watched in her pocket mirror, as the mandarin Warlord El Diablero, rolled slowly downward to the river, in his mighty horse drawn carriage. The high mountain, Secret Temple warrior Bhagda Duder, had accelerated his pace in a fluid motion.
He caused no concerned eyes of attention to be drawn to his movements. In one smooth step, he had come out between two parked and waiting carriages, ever so softly, gently alighting onto the short back step of El Diablero's coach, where servants of the carriage renters rode, behind the main cabin, on long journeys thru the Countryside. The long line of transports were facing downhill, stretching for many blocks, and crossing multiple alleyways, waiting to cross the bridge.
As El Diablero passed the Leper Woman, hidden in her medium brown and blue four seat horse drawn rental coach; she turned her hand mirror towards the tensed and coiled Lady Small Feat, who lay waiting seven carriages ahead, between two parked river bound transports, poised for her leap. The Leper Woman secreted in her coaches quarters, reached out her mirror, reflecting the sunlight in three quick flashes on to her tiny face and then three quick flashes onto her own hideously scarred visage, reassuring the mind and heart of the tiny Lady Small Feat; that El Diablero was in a carriage with the leather padded spokings, safely covering the triangular holes in the wheels of the mighty coach.
When El Diablero passed, she leapt with tigress fervor and true loyalty to the mysterious Blue Prince, hurling herself mightily from between the parked carriages in a cannonball posture: with knees bent, opening her arms and slapping the leather wheel thongings, as her small form struck the huge wheels
of leather wood and steel; making as startlingly loud a whomping thump as possible.
Even the horses neighed and whinnied, wondering what fearful creature might be preparing to nip at their heels.
The driver hearing the discordant reverberating thump and seeing his horses perking to the alertness of possible danger; was already slowing as the mandarin El Diablero leaned out the gilded window of the great coach yelling.
“Halt this monstrosity! We have struck a tiny child!”
The Leper Woman had observed the girls flawless leap into the oncoming coach and Lady Small Feat’s solid impact and smooth graceful recoil, after slapping into the padded thongings, as loud as her tiny little body and spread winged arms; would allow.
She was suddenly startled; becoming alert to greater dangers, growing wary of hidden complications, upon suddenly noticing one of the secret Bhagda Temple warriors of the Double Golden Dragon; step off from the servants stoop on the back of the Warlord’s coach.
Fist-sized spiders boiled from the fissure like porridge from a pot. Blue and black carapaces flooded the rocky soil, red legs pounding a churning clack that drove all other sound from the forest.
Lek stumbled and fell. Ceb stood transfixed, face gone pale.
"Run!" Lek screamed. "Save yourself." Clawing the ground, he thrust himself between the spiders and his brother. Ceb hesitated a heartbeat before dashing to the clearing's edge.
Lek's fingers found a fallen branch as wide as his wrist. He swept it in a wide arc, knocking the leading wave of spiders to one side. One landed on its back, clawing helplessly. Its underside was soft, the gray-black color of charred wood.
The others regrouped before Lek could blink.
He swept the branch a second time. Spiders gripped its needled offshoots and scrabbled toward his hand, red eye clusters sparkling.
"Teuthi's Teats!" Lek flung the branch and pushed to his feet. A good fight, that's what he would give them.
He stomped, squashing one beneath his boot. Its carapace crunched. Another crawled over his toe. He stomped again. A shiver coursed through him. What if they bit? Their mandibles were sinister interlocking pincers.
He raked spiders from his legs with both hands. He kicked and stomped. He spun in circles. No use. No sooner had he killed one, than two others replaced it.
He tried to run, but tripped, falling heavily onto his stomach. Bodies crunched beneath him. He rolled over. Carapaces crackled and crunched.
Spiders mounted his arms, his chest. He clawed at his face to keep them from his eyes. He rolled again, squishing and squashing the things until his shirt was soaked in gore. A spider scuttled onto his palm. He flung it away.
Get off! Get off! Humid pressure filled his gut. The spiders kept coming. He tried to crawl to his knees, but it was too much. Everywhere he felt the drumming of their legs. Pinpricks penetrated his shirt.
Off of me! Lek clawed at his face. Spiders clung to his skin like briars. A spider mounted his stomach, manidbles working. Lek glared through a smear of tears. He lifted his hands, willing it dead, gone, destroyed. His sight seemed to sink into the spider's dark underbelly.
His back arched violently. He heard a rumbling like an elephant cart on a cobblestone road. Blue fire erupted from his fingertips; the spider exploded into a thousand shards. The scent of burning flesh clogged his nose.
Flame steadied and expanded up Lek's hands, his forearms, his arms. Surprisingly, he felt no pain. The fire's whooshing rush was calming.
"Lek!" Ceb called.
"Stay away!"
A scene wavered into view as though through a fog. Lek stood atop a ridge overlooking a vast plain. In the distance, cultivated trees formed rectangular patterns interspersed by farmland, lakes, and villages. Nearer the ridge the plain was mostly grassland fed by a winding river.
Movement drew his gaze to ranks of men in leather and iron armor splashing across. Some had already exited the near bank.
Sue Linville & Steve Ramey (from The Web Beneath the World, an unpublished epic fantasy)
Looks like I've got some stiff competition! There's some pretty good action here! >:D
From: A Glass Half Full
Paranormal Thriller
Melody skipped down Ashland Avenue three blocks from the firehouse. Then the gunfire started. Gunfire is not as loud as most people think. Get a few blocks away and it sounds like firecrackers, especially to a kid. Melody was intrigued by the sound and kept going. Just before she entered the intersection of Ashland Ave. and Longwood, she stopped at the curb and looked at the light. The one on Ashland blinked yellow, the one facing traffic on Longwood blinked red. They would switch to the standard cycle of red, yellow, and green at four o’ clock.
Melody knew she was supposed to wait for the green light before crossing. She waited thirty seconds, then a minute. Not a car was in sight. She stamped her foot. Knowles was now four blocks down Longwood traveling at seventy-five miles per hour. Melody looked around one more time and saw nothing. The yellow light still blinked. She tucked her doll under her right arm and took her left hand with her right before stepping off the curb.
Three blocks away and approaching fast, Sheriff Knowles saw every horrid detail with preternatural clarity. The tiny figure stepping into the street. The wind tousling the little one’s blond hair and fluffing her skirt like a miniature Marilyn Monroe. The fake fur trim of her coat twinkled in the sun.
“Mother-of-GOD!” His brainwaves fired like an overheated circuit board. He couldn’t just slam on the brakes. The car would swerve but continue forward. He would wipe her off the road with the car’s side instead of the front.
Then he remembered the service road running behind the firehouse.
“JESUS!” He hollered into the windshield, pumping the brakes, once (sixty-five mph), twice (fifty-eight mph), three times (forty-nine mph). God, it was going to be close. Did he dare make this turn? He better, here it was. Knowles turned the wheel and caressed the brake with his foot. He was going forty, now thirty-five. The tires squealed and the back ones slid. The car shuddered and started to spin.
Melody turned and saw the huge police car barreling down on her.
Knowles savaged the wheel to the right. For a second, he thought he’d lost control. The car would continue its spin and smash into the girl’s tiny body. He yanked the wheel back to the left, desperate not to let that happen. The back fender clanged off a fire hydrant and the car lurched forward. He was going to make it, by God and sunny Jesus.
Knowles was just about to ease up on the gas and let out a well-deserved sigh of relief when his windshield filled with the red grill of a large truck.
Title: Hound in Blood and Black
Genre: dystopian fiction
A gangly man struggled against the flow of traffic, upstream against bricks, waving a pair of shoes in the air. Kumari couldn’t help but notice they were in decent shape. Soles still attached for the most part – a flapping heel, wagging slack-jawed but holding on – complete with shoe laces and not enough holes to let pebbles in. Kumari wiggled her toes against the worn insides of her own boots.
All he wanted, the man claimed, was to gamble for water. What did a dead man need shoes for, he wailed. Kumari subconsciously checked her canteen, confirming it hadn’t been lifted.
She knew what would come next. Someone was going to try and take those shoes. He was right; a dead man had no use for shoes. Kumari cursed under her breath as the crowd began to shift, the flow of the tide leaning backwards instead of away, despite the whips and threats from the arena guards.
Idiot had done himself in. She shook her head. A person could live three days without water – a few hours more if they were lucky. She knew. She’d done it plenty of times. Sure, dehydration hurt, sometimes drove a man inches shy of crazy, but he looked lucid enough that he was likely only a day, maybe thirty-six hours, without a drink.
Kumari threw an elbow at the mammoth man fixated on the unfolding drama and in her way, and caught his jaw. He grunted, rocking back, then slapped past her, heading the wrong way – the wrong way for those damn shoes. She gritted her teeth, using her smaller size to duck under arms and shimmy between spaces the bulkier men surrounding her would have found impossible to fit through. The stairs were just a few paces off.
The first gunshot fired, followed by the kind of scream made by a dying man. Her pulse sped, panic prickling up and down her skin as the crowd responded.
People snapped, crashing against two sides of ugly motivation. Get the shoes, or get the hell out before things got worse. Heat thickened, thousands of people breaking into sweats of greed or fear.
Three more shots broke out, enough to rail in her wandering mind. By Kumari’s guess, they came from three different guns: two pistols and one shotgun. What little order held at the sound of one shot – an ordinary and expected occurrence – shattered at the change from singularity to sure fire shitstorm. She padded her holster and fumbled between her belt, her shirt and own slick skin. Her hand was shaking – she’d face the undead any day, but an unruly mob inspired a rightly placed fear. Too many, too risky. Too out of control. Eyes on the exit, Kumari folded her fingers around the gun grip.
The cold metal reminded her that control was hers to take. Escape was about fifteen bodies away.
She’d get out one way or another.
“If it ain't the boy from the circus.”
Startled, Hagai looked up. He'd wandered into an alley between two warehouses. A man stood in front of him – completely bald except for tufts of hair above his ears. His leg was broken, and his face bruised terribly, but Hagai knew the dak counter immediately. “Oh, come on,” he said. Wasn't the day bad enough?
Dag limped forward, leaning on a walking stick. “Where's your circ stone? The one what tells the future?”
“I lost it.”
“Sure you did. And I won me a dance contest today.”
Harsh laughter. Dag wasn't alone. Two men stood behind Hagai, blocking his escape.
“Do I look like I have it on me?”
“Nay,” Dag hobbled forward, “but you know where it is, don't you?”
With a pirate, who nearly cut my throat. Maybe he'll give it to you if you ask nice. “Look, I don't have it, and I can't get it. Just – ”
A blade scraped against leather behind him. A set of punch rings jangled in someone's hands.
Hagai ran. He'd never get past the thugs behind him, so he took his chances with the dak counter. Dag reached out to grab him. Hagai spun away, stumbling backwards into someone – a fourth man Hagai hadn't noticed.
The man pushed Hagai to the ground. Hagai threw up his arms to block the first of many blows, but the man walked toward Dag and the others. He was cloaked in black and hooded. Hagai couldn't see any defining features; even the man's hands were hidden beneath long, cowled sleeves.
Dag said, “What are you? His – ” But he never finished the sentence. A sharp elbow to his chin knocked him down. His jaw hung loose; it was possible he would never finish a sentence again.
His thugs attacked. The stranger spun; the cloak flowed and whirled around him, masking his movements. With a crack, the thug with the punch rings was flung backwards, his leg bent unnaturally. The other took his knife and slashed viciously at the cloak. There was an unexpected clang of metal on metal. An iron rod flashed from the stranger's sleeves and caught the thug on the wrist, while the cloak itself seemed to strike him in the chest.
The thug with the knife landed in a heap. The other threw his punch rings to the ground and limped away.
The cloak stilled, draping over its bearer.
Hagai was afraid to move. Had he been rescued? Or was the stranger after the stone too? He'd never seen anyone fight like that, taking down three men without hardly stepping out of place. If he was after the stone, Hagai was lost.
Action & Suspense:
“What the hell’s that?” Craig points to something up ahead, in a tree. The closer we get, we can tell it is a tire, suspended high up in the branches. The odd thing is, it’s not the only thing in the tree. Hanging down between the leaves, from nearly every branch, are all sorts of car parts. Spark plug wires and distributor caps hung from wire; radiator hoses and serpentine belts that dangle like shredded snakes; alternator and power steering belts looped over branches; lug nuts swaying on heavy twine. Busted off antennas and the arms of windshield wipers hang straight down like bizarre needles.
“What the hell?” Craig asks again. We make an arc around the furthest reaching branches that stretch over the street. It looks like this tree is made for dropping shit on people. I’m hoping we’re not the people.
“That’s weird.” Blaine says and then he points further off down the road. The farmhouse is in sight, kind of, through all the weeds.
“Weird?” Craig grunts. “This is a horror movie. And we’re the sheeple walking right up to the farmhouse and knocking on the door. We might as well climb right into the oven when we get there.”
“Then how come we’re still walking?” I ask.
“Because I want to see the bizarre nut job that would live in that house.” Blaine says. “I’m not going up there. I change my vote. Let’s go the other way.” I say.
“We’re here.” Craig says. “And there’s three of us. There can’t be three weirdoes in that house.”
“Why not?” Blaine asks.
“Because there’s never three male weirdoes all living together. They’d kill each other.”
“Deliverance?” I say. We all go quiet. We all saw that movie a few years back, scooting to far ends of the furniture from one another. It left a deep mark. As we’re standing there contemplating a retreat, Blaine slaps the back of his neck.
“Ouch!” He examines his hand. “What is that?”
He holds out his palm, his face losing all its color. Craig and I lean in, squinting to see what’s there. It’s not a bug. What’s in his hand is more terrifying than a nest full of scorpions. It’s an efficiently tucked, heavily doused, spit wad.
We’re not alone.
“Holy shit…” I whisper to the guys.
“Let’s haul ass outta here.” Craig turns back in the direction we’d just come from and bolts. I wheel around, dragging Blaine as he squeals and shrieks about his ankle. Up ahead, like he’s caught in a cross fire, Craig is stumbling and swatting, howling curses as he tries to protect himself against a blizzard of tiny, white spit balls. I see them falling out of the air like hail, showering down from the trees in every direction. We’re surrounded.
Some background: Our hero finds himself in a vast colosseum of an underground empire, surrounded by blind, albino velociraptors intent on eating him, when they are all rudely interrupted by the one thing worse than blind, albino velociraptors: a pair of blind, albino Tyrannosaurus Rexes.
He runs toward the far side of the arena, and everything with teeth gives chase.
Fortunately, everything with teeth is pretty stupid, and also hungry. One of the raptors gets close, and gets a knife into its brain, and goes down twitching, an instant appetizer. Two more aren’t fast enough; they’re pinned by thick Rex claws and picked apart squealing and scratching in a matter of moments.
There are two left and him as he approaches the far wall. He finds himself taking off his blood-soaked shirt, twisting it into a solid cable, and then it occurs to him why. Shouldering aside a lifelong antipathy for equestrian sports, he takes a deep breath and jumps on the back of the nearest eyeless raptor.
His shirt slides neatly between its jaws, and he yanks it back hard enough to hear a stunned little gack from the depths of its throat. Nothing like this has ever happened to the beast before, so it just keeps running. Its last remaining comrade stops and cocks its head, thoroughly baffled, and gets a swift introduction to One-Arm’s jaws.
In about five seconds, the beast he’s riding — Whitey, as he has suddenly and affectionately begun to think of it — will realize what’s going on, and most likely kill the hell out of him. That’s okay, though. The wall is four seconds away.
Still gripping his makeshift bridle, he plants one foot on Whitey’s back, then the other, and surfs toward the wall on the beast’s spine. Behind him, X and One-Arm loom. Closer… closer…
He lets the ends of his shirt slip out of his hands, and he jumps from Whitey’s back up and over the wall, and into the stands. The poor beast smacks hard into the stone wall, and is then promptly pulped under X’s right front claw.
Up and up and up he runs, legs screaming for rest, lungs on fire. X and One-Arm, awkwardly but with great enthusiasm, flail and scrabble and finally lunge up over the stone barrier into the stands, and follow.
They’re gaining on him swiftly, big Rex strides swallowing distance, and he’s running out of up. Vines beard the rim of the stadium. As he gets to the edge, he reaches down and scoops one up and dives. One-Arm’s jaws close an inch from his trailing foot.
He tumbles through the air. The vine catches, draws taut, and he swings back around and smacks into the leafy, tendril-covered wall. Above him, the Rexes roar their fury, jaws smeared in raptor guts, and he whoops and, best he can around the blade in his hand, shoots them the V.
Mid-taunt, his vine snaps.
Unfortunately, I don't have time to enter the contest. However, I'm reading ROCK PAPER TIGER, and it is fantastic!
Unable to vent his frustration, anger and bloodlust, Darion screamed. He whirled the morningstar above his head, shouting, “For Kheld! No surrender!”
Around him, others took up the call. Slow and scattered at first, it grew into a chant. Some Camarans took up their own call, but most fought in grim, concentrated silence.
They’re tired. They came a long way, and need rest. Darion sensed an opportunity, and didn’t waste time. “Push on hard, we’re beating them!”
Darion’s command spread to the ranks. A moment later he sensed a shift in the battle. His vision was limited by the tight pack of horsemen around him, in a swirling cloud of kicked-up dust, but they seemed to be advancing faster.
Then a hole cleared in that tight circle. Darion charged forward towards a Camaran, locked in battle with a Kheldsman. He pulled back the reins, and struck the man’s side. The spiked ball connected with a satisfying crunch.
Darion sensed more than saw someone bearing down on him from the left. Not wasting time by turning his head, he flung up his shield and crouched in the saddle. A thud shook his shield, slamming it hard into his shoulder. The impact almost unhorsed him.
A lance flashed by. Its point pierced the neck of Darion’s mount. The animal staggered sideways, screaming in a high, almost human pitch.
He cleared his right foot from the stirrup. The horse fell. Darion tried to roll away, but his other foot got tangled in the stirrup. He struggled to breathe, lost all sense of direction. He managed to kick himself free and scrambled away to avoid the htrashing legs of the dying horse.
Dazed, he looked up. A Camaran officer on a black stallion dropped the lance which jammed under the dead horse. The man drew his sword. Darion, one knee in planted in the grass, dove to his right. The weight of his armor and shield made him hopelessly sluggish. His enemy followed his movement, calm and focused.
Darion bumped into his dead horse. He blinked. Trapped. This is the end. I’m going to die here, on Kheld soil. The realization and acceptance calmed him. The Camaran’s stallion reared.
Everything around Darion slowed. Sound dampened to a buzz, the periphery of his vision blurred as the central image sharpened. The black beast rose gracefully, looming over him. Bits of mud floated away from its pawing front hooves. The man’s sword, raised high, caught the sun in a lazy gleam. A waft of crushed grass and earth wet with blood tickled his nose. All that happened in a heartbeat. An exalted laugh escaped Darion’s lips. The finality felt liberating, and with it came the absence of fear.
Suspense:
My wife pressed her power forward, but rather than flow into mine, it dissipated into the staff, which was no longer cool to the touch, but burned as our energies tried to wrap and join. With a cry of agony, Suse pulled back, broke the contact, and the circle collapsed long before it reached the point of destruction. She looked at me with sad knowing eyes. I was incapable of doing what she wanted. The winds calmed, the power slowed, and faded. The protection circle retained its soft yellow light without the flames around us. It softly illuminated us within the protection circle; the room without having grown dark, cold, and reflected my mood.
I said, “You knew this was a possibility. I love you Suse and I can’t destroy your soul.”
Suse reached out and touched the staff again with her hands, determined, “Sam, you must join the circle.”
“No.” I screamed as young and untested Sam stepped forward to join us. “You can’t ask him to do that. He doesn’t understand the consequences.”
“Then explain them to him, or shall I?”
I couldn’t speak. Suse continued where I could not, “Sam, you must join the circle. With you inside, James will have no option but to protect you from a failed backlash of power.”
I turned to the young apprentice. “If you cross into the circle, your life is at risk. If I am unable to complete the enchantment, it will collapse and all within will parish. I cannot risk your life by having you join us.”
Sam hesitated, not certain what he should do.
Suse looked at me and called out to Sam. “James will protect you at all cost, including that of my soul. Yes, there is risk, but it a risk that could mean our world heals itself. Is that not worth the risk to your life?”
Sam stepped forward and my chest ripped in agony. “No Suse, stop him. I can’t do this Suse. I can’t do this to you. I will stop the enchantment now.”
Suse’s hand left the staff and touched my face, my falling tears, “Dear James, you must do this. You will protect Sam from harm, and you will bring hope to the world again. I love you James but surely you knew that you would falter? That is why I asked Sam to stay.”
“Suse…” My words failed me as Sam entered the circle and knelt. I knew that I was lost. I would not let another charge under my care come to harm if I could stop it. Sam was but the surrogate for all the children that were out there in need of my protection. He was but the reminder of my duties to my kind and to humankind. Suse knew all along that I would fail without Sam joining us in the circle. I never could keep anything from her.
“Mote it be, Suse. Mote it be. I love you.”
Just a helpful tip for others--copy and save your post before you hit the 'publish your comment' button. I'm so glad I did, because when I hit it, my text vanished! unless it posted and I didn't notice, if so, sorry for the double post!)
_____
Mark felt their presence before he heard them. He bolted up in bed. Hands-- dozens of them-- grabbed him and pulled him onto the floor. The covers tangled around his legs and someone had a vise-like grip on his hair. He lashed out with his feet and arms, feeling impacts and hearing grunts, but there were too many hands.
Panting, a harsh growl rumbled in his throat. He felt blows landing on him, but he ignored the pain as terror fueled his efforts. A hand brushed his face and he lunged at it, biting hard. The metallic tang of blood washed over his tongue, but he only released when forced by a brutal kick to his ribs. Frozen in agony, he couldn't resist as they dragged him across the floor and yanked him to his feet.
Mark staggered and blinked as his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness. Who were these people? Why were they here? Fingers dug into his biceps and he tugged and fought to break free. His ears roared with the sound of his wildly thumping heart. Three shadowy forms converged on his right and grabbed at his arm. Loose hoods hid their faces, and he strained to see into the shadowed recesses. Two more figures appeared on his left side, and slammed him against the support beam in the center of his loft. His head thumped against the brick and stars exploded in his head. He shook his head to clear his vision.
A face loomed above Mark's, and dread, cold and paralyzing, drenched him. He knew that face. Pale light from the street lights reflected off the flat snake eyes.
"It's no use, Taylor. Stop fighting and it'll go easier for you."
"No! Lemme go!" He arched his back, every muscle straining to escape, but the intruders held him fast. Sagging in defeat, the sound of his breathing, ragged and harsh, filled the loft. "Wh..what do you...want?"
Kern laughed. "We want to see if it's true, Mark."
A bright light shone in Mark's eyes and he squinted. "See if...if what's true?"
“GET DOWN!” a rough voice shouted through the trees.
I spun around in time to see a race of blue and red and black, and ducked as the dagger sliced the air, and landed with a thud into something that let out a low whimper and a growl…a werewolf?
Something heavy landed on top of me, pushing my face into the dirt, and I gagged and sputtered until the weight lifted.
“Are you okay?” Michael extended his hand and pulled me to my feet. His eyes weren’t full of fear, just surprise, and his arms, wrecked in black smudges, pulled me close. “Don’t leave my side,” he ordered, looking past me to the bordering woods.
A twig snapped.
“I’ll take it from here,” Billy said, crossbow by his side as he stepped between Michael and I.
“What’s going on?” I begged.
“There’s more where that thing came from,” Billy said. “There’s a pack.”
A few feet from Emerald lay a second body, red, bloody, distorted, definitely no pixie and definitely no human. Steam rose from the red skin, as thin as that of a grape, and little puffs of fire broke out around it, like a protective circle of flame.
“Don’t go near it,” Michael said, grabbing my arm when I stepped forward for a better look. Was that a skinned…werewolf? No. This was something else entirely.
Billy suddenly shoved Michael out of the way. “Don’t touch her."
“Man, I wasn’t trying anything with your girlfriend. I was only trying to keep her from getting too close to that hellhound before…”
A giant burst of fire engulfed the red body, and Emerald’s along with it, sending sparks of warmth all over, and I ducked, covered my hair, and moved to the edge of the clearing. The fire depleted, as if a giant hose sucked the flames into the ground, and then, in the center of the woods, lay two charred holes, and nothing else.
“What the…” I choked.
“Damn,” Billy said. “That mutt took my dagger.”
“Where did they go?” I said.
“Hell,” Billy replied, as if this answer were obvious.
Michael yanked out a long, thin blade that reflected the full moon.
“We’re surrounded." His tone was gruff, all business.
“Whoa. Wait. You’re carrying? Is that a typical farm boy weapon? Who are you?” I said.
Low growls danced with the black smoke weaving between branches, beautiful and sour and tense. Chills slithered up my back. My dress fluttered in the wind and I yanked the sleeves of Michael’s black sweatshirt over my wrists. I grabbed the knife from the holster around my thigh and gripped the handle tight as two red eyes pierced the smoke.
“We can do proper introductions later.” Michael swallowed hard.
“If we all make it out alive,” Billy added.
Excellent point.
The second hellhound pounced, slicing the cloud of smoke as if it were ribbon, its blood-soaked claws hurling straight for my throat.
From Hopeful Romantic
He’d locked the doors and windows.
He’d pulled the blinds.
He’d turned up the music.
He’d lined up the bottles.
He’d hunted up every hidden hoard that he’d accumulated and in a robotically cold and calculating manner, counted out the pills.
He did the math, figuring in terms of grams, not milligrams anymore.
He’d taken specific and explicit steps with them, every last pill, in order to be sure that he’d get them all down and keep them that way.
He’d remorselessly ingested them with a caustic, intoxicating liquid guaranteed to speed their effectiveness, and allow him to sleep through it all, unaware.
All I wanted was to be unaware, he thought. Permanently.
But I fucked it up. Again. I’m still here. I’m such a screw up I can’t even do this right.
A deep, mechanical pulse throbbed in his throat. Tears refused to form in his eyes, he was far too close to dehydration for that.
His throat.
There was something stuck in his throat.
He was choking.
That sound…what is it? Beeping, then that ticking and hissing. The strangest honking noises I swear to god it sounds like the circus just got into town. What the bloody hell is that anyway…
Oh god. I know that sound.
It's a vent.
I’m still here.
I want out.
He battled the insurmountable effects of gravity, attempting to raise his arms. Too ambitious. He would have to start more slowly.
A single digit, then maybe one hand at a time.
His fingers were long as were his arms, legs and toes. Maybe Arachnodactyly had its bright side yet if it allowed his reach for once in his life to stop exceeding his grasp.
Then if only he could find the strength he would reach up and he would grab that goddamned tube and he would get the hell out of this place one way or another.
It was only after several attempts to gradually draw his fingertips toward his palms into a fist to try to remember how to use them that he realized he wouldn’t be able to raise his arms to yank out the tube no matter how he struggled.
His arms were tied down tightly with restraints.
His heart sank, an anchor to the bottom of an angry, violent ocean as he realized that even if he could move, even if he could rip the vent out, even if he could leave this particular hospital bed, the very last place they would be letting him go was home.
I can’t believe I’m going to have to go back to Rehab 3.
Title: The Key of Talchat
Genre: MG Fantasy
Jack gripped the balcony rail and watched in horror as the sabre-tooth carried his brother across the fields towards the woods in the distance. He didn’t know how, but Sam was alive; struggling in the tiger’s grip, shouting at the beast and trying to prise its jaws open.
“Sam!” yelled Jack. “Stay calm. I’m coming to--”
He flinched. Something had touched his shoulder. He snapped his head around and saw the imposing figure of his uncle staring down at him.
“Uncle Bill,” Jack blurted out. “It has him. It just … it just picked him up and took him.”
“What has who, Jack?”
“Sam … the tiger, it took Sam!”
“A tiger?” Bill spoke quickly and with urgency in his voice that Jack had never heard before. “In here? Where did it come from? What did it look like? Where did it go?”
He grabbed both of Jack’s shoulders and spun him around.
“Have you seen it before? Tell me, Jack … What happened?”
Jack suddenly remembered his father’s last words. He shook himself loose from Bill’s grasp. “We’re wasting time. We have to follow it. We have to follow the tiger.”
He then bolted through the bathroom door, jumping over the shattered pieces of wood, and sprinted down the landing. He bounded down the stairs three at a time, almost cutting his bare feet on the shattered glass from the grandfather clock halfway down. Bill shouted for him to stop and come back, but Jack had already reached the bottom of the stairs.
A moment later, he burst into the kitchen, giving Pat the surprise of her life. She dropped the plate of sandwiches and looked up.
“Oh, Jackie,” she said. “Look what you made me do.”
Jack ignored his aunt and rushed to unlock the backdoor. The lock clicked. He pulled at the handle. The door didn’t open. He tried again and again, shaking and pulling at the handle. The door held fast.
“Why won’t this stupid thing open?” he shouted, kicking the door.
“It’s bolted, my dear,” said Pat, still cheerful in-spite of all her freshly-made sandwiches lying on the floor. “Is everything all right?”
“It’s Sam,” Jack shouted, pulling back the heavy bolts at the top and bottom of the door. “It’s got him.”
With the bolts released, the backdoor swung open. Jack ran into the garden as Bill bounded into the kitchen, panting heavily. “Jack, come back, you don’t understand. You can’t--”
Jack ignored Bill’s pleas and ran across the patio, heading for the trees at the far end of the garden. He couldn’t waste time explaining what had just happened. He had to follow the tiger. Besides, they probably wouldn’t believe a prehistoric animal had crashed through a clock, grabbed Sam and made off with him in its mouth. If Jack hadn’t seen it with his own eyes, he wouldn’t have believed it either.
Bodies were everywhere. What had just been a busy street in Cairo was now torn to shreds. For roughly a minute following the blast, the street had been enveloped in the other worldly silence that follows a disaster – the time it takes for the surviving to catch their breath. Low moaning broke the quiet first, and by the time approaching sirens could be heard in the distance, the screaming had been ongoing for some time.
The Cairo Police Department arrived first, followed by the Interior Ministry’s paramilitary Central Security Force and the Cairo Medical Center ambulances. After a curt discussion between the ranking officers on site, jurisdiction was ceded to the CSF forces because they had authority over events that may be terrorist-related. The security forces went about setting up pedestrian barriers, as a crowd had started to gather.
The CSF Chief watched his men go about working with the CMC doctors, assembling a service area to help triage the wounded. He estimated about one hundred wounded and about 20 dead. The scene bothered him primarily because of the administrative paperwork he’d have to do as a result. He’d long since grown hard to the mixture of victims’ wide-eyed shakiness and spent explosives’ metallic and chemical smoke odor.
The chief squatted to pick up a book lying open on the ground. It was a tourist’s laminated pocket-sized map book and he dropped it back down. Almost absent mindedly, he pulled a scorched vinyl pouch over to him by its broken strap. It was white, with pink trim and a palm tree pattern printed on it. He unzipped it and shook it gently to look in on its contents. He closed his eyes and grimaced. A passport. A blue one. An American. Now this had his attention – much more paperwork. He ran his finger and thumb over his moustache and sighed.
In the United States, the story of the Cairo market bombing drew a tough statement from the White House on fighting terrorists and a promise to bring the responsible parties to justice. In two weeks time, however, the story slipped into the back pages of the daily national newspapers.
A minor story developed four days after the blast when it was reported that among the dead were two Democratic National Committee committeemen and one committeewoman. They had been a part of a national party “relation building” trip (junket) to the Mid-East. The DNC chairman, a salt-and-pepper haired former Maine governor, issued a statement mourning the party’s loss. Later, at their spring meeting the committee passed a resolution remembering their fallen committee people, and business continued as expected.
Which meant the plan had worked.
Beyn stood next to Walter's outstretched body and traced a finger around the swirls of scars on his own chest.
"I am Beyn Rhiall b'rey Ba'Wren, daven of a house of Noruun. I am salwa'daousas. I have these scars by my own hands, that I might remind myself of the pain of my bonding. I am a servant of the bond and the Raeden is my love."
He took the lump of rock in his cupped hands and brought it gently to his lips. He blew softly and the rock began to steam. The ore grew brighter and hotter as Beyn blew on it, changing color from black to red to white. Beyn pressed and shaped the white hot ore with his hands and when he had smoothed the rock to a ball, he closed his eyes.
"Poulaefaesel o nacher son aschas nalos da naou."
The ore erupted in green flame and molten rock ran through Beyn's fingers where it fell to floor and ignited the already charred straw, filling the hut with black, pungent smoke. As the ore bled its impurities, Beyn cradled what was left --a pool of liquid heat like quicksilver--and passed it carefully from hand to hand.
He held his hands out over Walter's body and in a flat voice without affect said, "Ischa é o nacher da o daousas. Wosai womcheda sal raenaecha pele saou womcheda."
He turned his hands over and poured the metal into Walter's navel.
Walter found his voice.
His body stretched taught as he threw his head back and screamed. The metal burned through his skin and bored into his body.
Beyn moved his hands slowly, guiding the thin line of molten metal up Walter's chest. As Walter thrashed and writhed under the stream, the line swept over Walter's chest in great, snaking curves.
"Daousas, d'ouaee naou nalos."
The hut was thick with the stench of burning flesh and Walter heaved in pain as he gulped in the acrid air. The metal reached his neck and he wept. He thrashed to the side and the metal ran up and around his ear. He thrashed again and the last of it pooled into his right eye.
He felt his eyeball swell and burst.
The metal ran freely into his skull and pain consumed the universe.
His bonds fell from his hands and the glass slipped out from under him. The Noruunan vanished into the smoke. The smoke burned away in the heat. Walter's body melted in the agony and he felt his soul crisp and burn. The last of his flesh burned and sloughed off and he was free. He swam in pain and heat and he dissolved in a great, unending void of white.
But still, there was his soul: a drop of black, a fleck of filth, a stain of sin in an ocean of purity. His mind bent under the pressure of the white and he felt his foulness burn. The purity pushed against the pain and swallowed him and yet, even as the pain receded, his mind scrabbled back, clawing at his soul and clinging to the hurt and the heat. The white was endless, without hope or mercy or form and he entered it as a thorn, tearing and staining it with sin and corruption.
And then it ended.
Walter choked on the smoke, his body dripping wet with sweat. He raised his head and could see the silver-green river of metal running along his body. The band blended without scars into his skin. Like the strip that ran along the blue man's body, its surface seemed to flow as if covered with oil.
"You have been bonded. You are bound now to the gods."
YA fantasy
My heart started racing, and my scream stuck in my throat. "Give me the necklace, and I won't harm you," Daax said. His voice was rough, and his whole body seemed to shake. I backed away from him, the voice in my head growing louder.
"Do not let him have it. Help is on the way.".
Help was on the way? No one even knew where I was!
Shaking my head, I tried to block the voice out. I looked at Daax again, and froze. It was not his appearance that made me gasp in horror. In his hand was the most wicked looking dagger I had ever seen. The blade was black, and jagged. He brought it up near his face, and examined it with his other hand.
"You know, you really don't have to get hurt. You could just hand over the necklace, and I will let you go unscathed," he said in his deep voice.
"Do not yield!" The voice in my head shouted.
I covered my ears.
"I know!" I shouted. Daax looked startled, but still stood motionless against the backdrop of trees, holding the knife at his side.
Adrenaline suddenly kicked in, and I took off running through the trees, in the direction I had just come from. I didn't look back. I listened for footsteps following me, but there were none. I wanted to cry for help, but I didn't want him to hear my shouting and come after me, so I kept quiet, ignoring the burning in my lungs.
After running for who knows how long, I snuck a peak over my shoulder to see if I could see him. The forest was still, with no indication he had been following me, but I didn't slow down. As I looked forward again, I slammed into something hard. I felt the breath leave my lungs, as I stumbled forwards into someone's arms.
My eyes widened as I looked up, seeing the Daax's black, lifeless eyes in the moonlight.
I didn't notice the pain until I pulled away from him. My eyes took in the black knife he held in front of his body. Instinctively, my hand went to my side, and I felt a warm, sticky liquid cover my fingers in seconds. He stood in front of me, watching my shocked face, with a smug grin.
"You shouldn't have ran," he said.
I looked down at the gaping wound in my abdomen. Blood was already soaking my white shirt and I put my hands over the wound, trying to staunch it. The pain hit me full force. I backed into a tree, and slid to the ground, gasping for breathe. A tear slid down my cheek, and I knew I was going to die. I was barely aware of Daax, still standing over me, until he leaned down, speaking softly in my ear.
"Just a few more minutes, and it will all be over."
Smitty and the rest of tactical negotiation team rumbled down from the stage in pursuit of the band members, and the man in the pig costume. A deafening chorus of boos rose from the audience.
As the SWAT members charged up the aisle in their helmets, flak vests and boots, debris started hitting them. A deluge of food, drink cups, metal lunch boxes—anything the crowd could throw, they threw. The view from Smitty’s helmet-cam wobbled crazily, and Veronica, watching it on the live feed, could barely make sense of the chaos.
The audio crackled. WE’RE UNDER ATTACK! DEFENSIVE POSITIONS!
One SWAT member put his head down and charged, and someone stuck out a foot. The crowd cheered hugely when he splatted on his face.
THIS IS A RIOT SITUATION! INITIATE RIOT PROTOCOL!
SUBDUE THE CROWD! TEAR-GAS CANISTERS!
NEGATIVE, THERE ARE CHILDREN IN THE CROWD. FIND ANOTHER EXIT!
Smitty and two others headed for the fire exits, while getting pelted with more flying debris. Finally the SWAT members barreled out an exit.
HEAD NORTH.
ROGER. WHICH WAY’S NORTH?
Smitty and crew hut-hutted up a dark alley, turned a corner, and found themselves on a wide street crowded with people, parked cars, and motorcycles. It was cloudy at dusk, but the street was flooded with light from all store fronts and the signs full of lurid Kanji characters. They trotted past blaring loudspeakers, vending machines, anime characters with tiny noses and eyes swollen like cysts, a rack of cartoon porn DVDs, and racks of electronic gadgets.
THERE’S THE PIG!
WE HAVE VISUAL ON THE PIG!
Smitty sprinted up the street, zooming past street musicians and Japanese women passing out flyers who were dressed like French maids. Veronica heard Smitty's team panting as they veered and dodged silhouettes so fast it looked like a movie in fast-forward.
ALPHA TEAM, FOLLOW THE PINK ONE AND THE PIG. BRAVO TEAM, FIND THE ORANGE ONE.
The green-tinted video shook and blurred as they weaved around kiosks, pillars and trucks, people, and piles of boxes. They entered a computer store crammed with racks of stuff. They turned a corner—then Smitty fell back as a rack collapsed on top of him.
HE’S ATTACKING!
THE PIG’S ATTACKING!
SEND BACK-UP!
Smitty’s helmet-cam jolted backward to show a glimpse of the pig. Smitty staggered to his feet, just as the pig yanked on another rack, and shelves full of merchandise collapsed on top of him. The view lurched crazily, and jagged bolts of light leaped across the screen. Smitty’s cam view returned, showing a random diagonal view of the store’s ceiling, like it had been tumbled in an avalanche.
I’VE BEEN HIT! SEND HELP!
STATUS REPORT! WHERE’S THE GODDAMN PIG?
The last thing Veronica was the pig looming over Smitty, and its huge pig-fist zooming toward the screen.
Then the link went dead.
(This is YA)
It was impossible to distinguish the dirt from the grass by eyesight, so once I shuffled toward the Blue Spruce, hidden by shadows, I got down on all fours, and patted the cold hardened soil.
A patch of soil, three square feet at least, was loose, muddy.
Here went nothing...
Knife in my freezing fist, I stabbed the earth with all my might.
Ting!
Pitching out handfuls of dirt and sludge, I rocked the top of the box, and finally loosened it enough to wedge it from the cavern. I didn’t have the key with me so there was nothing else to do but take the whole thing. Silently, I heaved the metal box – 27 pounds and 14 ounces or my name wasn’t Avery Mazur – out of its pit. Balancing it on my leg for a moment, I was able to get a comfortable grip on it. Mission accomplished.
Swoosh. A sliding glass door opened. Toenails tapped across the wood deck. The jangling of a single set of dog tags rang out... no... two or three sets, maybe more.
“Go out, go on, go outside,” a woman’s soprano voice urged.
Hmm. Maybe if I stood still they’d do their business and go back inside.
Clicking toenails ceased as paws hit the ground.
A choir of, “Awrroor! Awrroor!” yapped into the night air.
“Hush!” the soprano voice scolded. “Stop that! Jasper, Lucky, hush! Barkley, shh!” The deck light came on, casting eerie patches of light through the dense evergreen limbs.
“What’s going on?” a baritone voice said.
“I don’t know,” the soprano said. “Maybe that squirrel again.”
Go Avery, go!
As fast as I could, I ran along the perimeter of the yard, avoiding the deck light’s rays as much as I was able. Stumbling through the darkness, box cradled, mud sliming my jacket, I made a break for the side of the house.
“Who’s there?” the soprano voice demanded.
From the middle of the yard, five dog heads snapped toward me, their suspicions confirmed. The pack came for me. At me. Their wet mouths screaming barks of protest. “Awrroor! Awrroor!”
Oh, sweet Jesus, I was going to die.
One leapt for my backside. Two others stalked me from the side, attacking my heels.
“Awrroor! Awrroor!”
“That’s no squirrel,” the soprano said.
“I don’t see anything,” the baritone said.
“Don’t just stand there,” the soprano hollered. “Put your shoes on and see what it is!”
I’d made it to the side of the house and out of the view of the deck when razor-sharp teeth sank into my ankle. The shock catapulted my center of gravity, and I fell forward. My ribcage landed hard on the metal box. The shift in perspective spun my head like a top. Jerking myself upright, belly lurching, I stumbled along, hoisting the box back into my clutches, stepping on paws, kicking at dogs, trying to regain balance. Ten more steps and I’d be home free.
The invisible fence stopped the beasts where the sidewalk met the front lawn, but it was no use. I paused, and vomited: in the yard, on the sidewalk, and on more than one snout and tail.
And just as quickly, I turned, and was gone.
Terriers, I thought, as I flung myself into Jasmine’s mother’s car and started the engine, never did like those dogs. And my next bizarre thought, was... Jasmine likes Billy Wu?
The sun hid behind the clouds, plunging the century old bank into near darkness. It took a minute for my eyes to adjust to the dim electric lights.
The old woman in front of me gasped; reaching for her walker, she steadied herself. Then as quickly as the darkness fell, sunlight soon flooded the bank again.
The old woman with the walker turned to me. “When the lights went out,” she said, “I was sure the bank was going to be robbed.”
“Just the sun disappearing behind the clouds,” I assured her. I turned away, hoping the old woman would do so as well; but when I turned back, she was still facing me.
“I’ve been in here before when the bank was robbed.” A tear threatened to roll down her wrinkly cheek. “Four people died.”
I smiled. “You survived, so that’s good,” I said, hoping the old woman’s moment of nostalgia would pass.
“They killed my mother,” she said, her voice a ghostly whisper. “I was thirteen years old.”
I reached my hand out to touch the old woman’s shoulder. I understood her pain – I lost both parents. “I’m sorry.”
“Next!” came an angry shout. I looked up to see a disgruntled bank teller.
“You’re next,” I told the old woman.
Momentarily confused, the old woman’s face darkened as the sun must have partially slipped behind more clouds. “I’m next,” she repeated slowly, staring off past my shoulder.
“The bank teller is calling you,” I said. I turned to see what had caught the old woman’s attention.
There were three people standing in the doorway – darkened figures with guns. My hand slipped off the old woman’s shoulder.
“Everybody down!” echoed through the bank.
I turned to the old woman. “Here, let me help you.”
“No,” the old woman said. “It will hurt my hip.”
“You’ll get shot if you don’t,” I said. “Hurry.”
“No,” the old woman repeated.
“I said everybody down,” the man’s harsh voice boomed.
I slowly sank to the ground, pleading with the old woman to get down.
“Look, Grandma, get your ancient ass down on the floor,” he said, shaking his gun at her.
“I’ll break my hip again,” she said defiantly.
“I don’t give a damn; just get down!” he yelled.
The old woman stood her ground.
From my spot on the floor, I could see the old woman’s legs shaking. I saw the old woman’s knuckles turn whitish-blue as her grip tightened on the walker.
“Please lie down,” I whispered.
She looked down at me. “I’m tired of waiting in line.”
I saw the old woman’s eyes lose all traces of fear.
“I’m next.” The old woman sounded triumphant.
As the words left her mouth, a shot rang out in the bank. People screamed. A streak of red streamed down the old woman’s face. Her body crumpled to the ground. Her walker lurched forward and skittered across the polished marble floor.
“Now, is everyone going to listen?” the angry man yelled out.
CIRCLING
Sci-Fi Thriller
“Come on, get in,” called George, leaning out the door of the airplane as it suddenly sputtered to life.
They ran to the plane, Bill giving Leah a boost into the back beside Nemo. The air in the hanger was heavy with exhaust and the smell of gasoline. The plane began rolling even before Bill swung his feet inside. They bounced out of the hanger and onto the wet, grassy stretch of runway.
“If you are a believer, I’m gonna ask you to say your prayers now, Hon,” said George.
“What’s wrong?” said Leah.
“I’ve got a limited runway for this type of plane. I’ve only ever taken it up a few times by myself, and it’s a lot less agile with more weight. With all of us in here, it’s a full load, and it’ll be tough to get airborne.”
“He’s also going to have to make a soft field takeoff,” said Bill. “This wet grass increases friction on the wheels and makes it harder to get up to speed. That treeline ahead is 450 meters away. To clear that is going to take every bit of skill he’s got.”
Leah’s face showed her dismay, but Bill wasn’t going to hide the truth from her. Her life was on the line, just as theirs was.
“But, you said he’s the best pilot there is. Surely he can do it,” said Leah.
Bill nodded. “He can.”
George looked sideways at Bill as he pressed the throttle forward. “Thanks, mate.”
The piercing zing of a bullet punctured the cabin between Leah and Nemo, exiting out the center of the windscreen. Leah screamed.
“Get down!” said Bill. He looked over at George who was fighting to keep the plane steady as they increased speed over the bumpy terrain.
George flipped the switch to set the flaps down for extra lift, and wiped sweat off his forehead. “Just got to keep the weight off the nose wheel,” he said, almost to himself.
Bill could hear more shots as the plane lifted, but hovered only a foot off the ground for what seemed like an eternity.
“What’s happening? Why can’t we lift up?” said Leah, her fingers now digging into Bill’s arm. Nemo began to whine, as if in empathy at Leah’s distress.
“It’s ground effect,” said George. “We’re only up because the wings are giving us a bit of a lift. Any moment now, our down draft will—”
The plane suddenly lurched upward, pushing off against the ground and snapping Bill’s head back.
“Are we good now?” said Leah.
Bill shook his head and gestured at the rapidly approaching treeline.
Leah clapped her hands to her face, covering her eyes, but immediately parted her fingers to peek through as they zoomed over and across the top of the closest tree with a slight bump and high-pitched squeal as the tail scraped against the upper-most branches.
Hi Nathan, as usual, brilliant contest. I really don't know how you continue to find time to do these.
Just a quick question. The rules state no more than 500 words. If you submit with, say, 501 or 502 words, will it be automatically disqualified?
many thanks
"Unit ten, cover the northeast sector from the crest of the hill."
"Roger that," said Ten. "ETA is two minutes."
Francois Ambergris, the tactical coordinator, peaked over the crest. "Four, status."
"I'm not happy with my cover. Looking southeast, a small party of likely-types has gathered."
"Three, go to your alternate post. Tell me if you can penetrate the storage outbuilding and enter the main building unnoticed."
"I thought--"
"I'll do the thinking, Three...Four?"
"The party's dispersing...I'm losing site of--"
"Six?"
"Laser-ranged them, about two hundred meters from Seven."
"Seven?"
"They're dispersing. Three towards the main building and two walking south."
"No action until the prime target is sighted."
"I see them!"
"Who said that?" said Ambergris.
"Eight."
Ambergris looked at his map. "Are you sure, Eight?"
"Black Bentley. Right markings. The window's tinted. Looks right to me."
"Ten and Three, hot-foot it one-hundred meters west."
"Moving."
"Moving."
Ambergris worried that the vehicle under surveillance was a decoy. "Five, hang back to cover our backside. Civilian clothing. Arm yourself with something small...your choice. You know what that means, right, Five?"
"Bonus pay if I make the tag?"
"Good man, Five."
"This is Eight. The target car turned east...they pitched something out the window...small, white."
"Check it out," said Ambergris. He tapped his boot nervously. "Eight?"
"Cigarette butt."
"Was it lit, Eight?"
"Yeah, it's still warm."
"We've been royally screwed," said Ambergris. "There's no chance in hell there was a lit cigarette in the target's car. Five?"
"Another limo just squealed in. The ushers are all over it."
"Damn! Five, it's up to you, pal." Ambergris turned and viewed Five with his binoculars. Five had selected clerical garb. Ambergris hoped it was tear-away theatrical gear.
Five waved a Bible at the group and said something, but Ambergris could not hear him. He saw a group chuckle, though, so Five was doing well.
The target emerged from the limo. She was in white. Gorgeous. Five reached into his pocket and stepped in front of her; recognition of the situation immediately crossed her face. Ten shot her point blank with his weapon of choice for close-in work, an older Nikon point-and-shoot compact digital. It was only six megapixels, but at this range, it was deadly. No other tabloid would have anything but their imagination for their coverage of the prince's bride.
Ambergris watched helplessly while Five attempted his escape. The ushers were stunned. Only a hapless security guard managed to grab Five by the collar, but the prop clerical robe tore apart. Five was over a fence, scrabbling down a planned escape route within
seconds.
"Scatter!" said Ambergris over his radio. He scrambled to his motorbike in the woods. He'd hook up with Five at the office, later. His stomach clinched. They'd hook up if Five didn't cotch the merchandise and put it on auction himself.
It happens. It's a dirty business.
I had spacing and tabs for paragraphs in my Word doc that didn't make it into the cut/paste of these comments.
Sorry for the rough format! I know that makes it tough to read.
That's so cool, can't wait to read ROCK PAPER TIGER!
I'm afraid you'll have lots of extra reading to do this week, Nathan.
A flash of lightening displayed the scene through the window.
Paulo felt his mouth fall open at the shiny gloss of the dark stains patterning the palm leaves. Pale limbs moved in ghostly arcs, lifted by the shadows of the black lawn.
Caterina sat up,and the white oval of her face made Paulo take a step backwards. Blood ran from her lips, staining her chin and falling to the satin bodice of her dress.
The movement had spawned an urgency in him, and Paulo used two strides to reach the weapons rack, pulling the wooden implement into his clenched hands.
The crossbow clicked as his fingers wound the tension tighter, mirrored by his growing distress. His tears left trails down the heat of his face as he returned to the window.
She was his maker, the only vampire he had ever desired, or loved, but she had to be stopped.
The silver tipped bolt dropped into place.
No time to enter. But I took a break and I've enjoyed reading the other entries for far.
jed-
Yes, under 500 please!
And for others, I wouldn't copy over from Word - it might make the formatting wonky. Try and either type in or copy first into something like your Notepad that will turn it into plain text so you can see what it will look like when you paste it in.
Foster's breath caught in his throat as she drew near. His heart raced. He longed to be near her. He memorized her every curve, every speck of snow dust sprinkled across her pink cheeks. Long branches of ivory bone and feathers fanned out from between her shoulder blades. Each wing -tip dipped in topaz. Her velvety soft hair reflected the warm glow of candle light flickering throughout, as if kissed by a thousand stars. With her body, wrapped in ivory, she moved softly; a dancer’s grace.
She was alone. Alone! She never came without her wolf companion. Why would she venture into the forest by herself? It was not safe. Although frustrated by her lack of concern for her own safety, Foster knew it was the chance he'd long waited for.
Cautious, Foster crossed the stream to meet her. His desire grew stronger. His heart tripped over an extra beat. Foster felt his blood warm over. He shook the jitters from his hand and touched the small of her back.
Her spine stiffened under the palm of his hand. She rose up, spun wildly in the air and turned to him. Her hand instinctively reached for her cross bow. Confusion washed over her face. With her glowing amber eyes upon him, he was struck silent, unable to speak a word.
The stench of coal and stale milk overwhelmed his senses. Foster knew their stink anywhere. He heard the rustle and gaggle of stone fairies on the hunt.
“Hide now!” he whispered to her.
He watched as a small doe, wild with fear, leaped over the stream and up the hill, desperate to lose them. Foster heard the hiss of the arrow, hurling through the air as it ripped each branch, ready to down the little doe.
He saw the panic in Luella’s eyes and heard her heart pound hard against her ribs. Luella clutched her chest and fell to the ground. Foster knew if he didn’t save the doe, it would be no different than if he stabbed Luella in the heart.
He scanned the trees, the arrow moved past him in slow motion. In one fluid movement, he plucked the arrow from the air and watched as the doe broke free of the forest and took long strides across the frost soaked meadow.
In the tree, above where the doe had passed, he sat, so still, as if his weight had no bearing on the branches below. His sapphire spotted wings stretched out behind him. His once stone blue-grey eyes softened into still pools of aquamarine.
Peering down at her, arrow in hand he turned; making sure the doe was safe. His eyes shifted back to her. He held her gaze. Frozen she stared back. The penetration of her silky eyes upon him smoothed over his once rigid demeanor. This moment lingered as the thick hiss of the stone fairies echoed through the trees. They were aware of their defeat, but unaware of her or him. Knowing she was safe, he disappeared.
Thanks, Nathan. Please, please tell me that the title isn't included in that 500 words. Please. Pretty please.
:-D
many thanks
A steel bird land on the telephone pole a few paces away. It was black and had piercing red eyes.
“Hey, look!” Billy whispered to Megan, pointing toward the bird. It primarily resembled a vulture.
“Oh, wow…” Megan uttered. “I think we’d better sneak off, Billy. I don’t think it would be a good thing if it…” But before she could finish her thought, the robotic vulture looked down, and its eyes glistened upon registering Billy and Megan.
“Oh, no…” Megan gasped just before a deafening scream penetrated the mist, forcing Billy and Megan to cup their ears with their hands. The vulture continued to scream for what felt like two full minutes, its head upturned toward the sky. All Megan and Billy could do was gawk at each other with their hands on their ears. When the abominable noise finally stopped, a series of sounds congested the area. But these sounds were even more alarming than the shriek issued by the vulture. Loud clanking noises emanated from behind them and in front of them – a whole army of machines from the sound of it.
“Crap – what’re we gonna do?” Megan cried.
“This way!” Billy said, and veered off the side of the road onto the brown grass. Megan followed close behind, the bird screaming its eardrum-shattering scream again – and again forcing Billy and Megan to lid their ears. As they ran, Billy threw a glance behind him.
Nothing.
He threw another glance a couple seconds later, and glimpsed among swirls of fog sporadic segments of two black sword-wielding robots behind them – the same type as the first one they encountered. There were more than that, too, he knew, but these were the frontrunners.
When the vulture stopped screaming, Megan rasped, “Should we start shooting?”
“Not yet,” Billy said. “We still have some leeway on them. They’ll catch up, obviously, but we should try to avoid using our guns until we absolutely have to. Just give it a little more time.” He glanced behind him again. As expected, the first two had advanced a couple paces, and two more were now vaguely visible behind those. “Shit…” he murmured.
“I don’t know if we can shoot them all down,” Megan wheezed. “I mean, one was okay, but a few? I think the more room we have to shoot, the better. Why wait until they’re literally on us?”
Billy was about to concede her point when part of the mist shifted in front of them, revealing a cabin in the near distance just a bit off to their right.
“Megan – another cabin!” he cried. “Maybe we can use it as a stronghold – or a distraction of sorts.”
“You sure?” Megan said.
“It’s a good a plan as any.”
And so they angled toward the cabin with the scratchy thish sounds of a squadron of metal feet on their heels.
jed-
Title doesn't count.
I'm reading Lisa's book now -- hard to beat an action scene featuring McDonald's workers battling KFC workers at the Great Wall!
Great contest to match a great book.
Good luck, Lisa!
Phew!
You've just made my christmas card list ;)
Gretchen’s arms broke out in goose bumps. The tall man giving the discourse turned. It was the same man who had threatened her during the séance. Piercing blue eyes stared out from his withered face. Gretchen’s heart pounded hard in her chest. ‘But if that’s him, and he’s dead, that means that all the others....all those people....’ She stiffened. “Josephine, can you see them?”
Josephine nodded solemnly. “Yes, why? What do you think they’re doing here?” Gretchen shook her head. “They’re all dead Josephine. They’re ghosts.”
“GHOSTS!!” Michael’s voice rang out as he shot upwards, eyes wide. Josephine tried to keep him quiet but it was too late. The voices had stopped. Gretchen looked up to find twenty pairs of sunken eyes staring in their direction.
“Blasphemists!! Satan worshipers!” The white haired man raised a fist. He bounded towards them with unearthly speed, followed by the mob of puritan spirits at his heels.
“Run!” Gretchen called out to the others as she herself started down the beaten path with all her might.
“Wait!” Sully called after her but she didn’t slow. He eventually caught up to her and they joined hands, running together through the forest. Somewhere in the distance Gretchen heard Josephine’s scream.
“Joe!” She called out breathlessly.
“Don’t stop!” Sully commanded. “They’re right behind us!”
He pulled her off the path and they fell down amongst the brush. Gretchen closed her eyes. “Mira, Mother, Father.” She muttered her silent prayer under her breath and instantaneously the gold, green and red flashes of color surrounded her. A fierce icy wind blew towards them, separating the brush as it went. Gretchen buried her head in Sully’s chest, waiting to be overtaken by the mad spirits.
But from the corner of her eyes, she saw her parents and Mira spring forward like warriors in battle and make a barrier between them and whatever it was on their chase. Within moments, they had forced the spirits back out onto the path and farther away into the woods until they disappeared from sight.
And then all was still. Gretchen and Sully continued to breathe in ragged gasps for a long moment. “What was that?” Sully asked in a choked whisper. Gretchen shook her head.
“Ghosts.”
Sully stared at her. “Ghosts?” he repeated.
“Don’t tell me you’ve never heard of them.”
Title: Willem Hawk
YA Adventure
Sky and earth tilted to the left, a blur of blue and white, as a shrill whinny broke into the air. Padrig Forester had only time to grasp the pommel as his horse lurched further to the side. The mare’s hooves begged for purchase in great dragging scrapes. He held on, rocking and sinking, until at last she found a foothold and righted with a jolt. Padrig made a low sound to soothe her, a sound made strange by his trembling voice.
He searched the ground below. White gashes floated inches above the mountain trail, scored by the mare’s shoes. Black ice again, invisible and deadly. Padrig patted her sweat-matted neck.
“Steady as you go, Ginny,” he murmured. “This will be done with soon.”
The mare startled under his touch and tossed her head in defiance. She was a good horse, had served him well for near a dozen years, but Padrig knew their bond had been broken that morning. She had smelled the blood early and when it came time to tie the cart’s shafts to her harness she had fought, rearing and bucking like he’d never seen. She had even bitten his shoulder, stamped his skin with a purple imprint of horse teeth that still throbbed.
But Padrig couldn’t blame her. Animals had a powerful aversion to death.
Padrig turned around. The cart still crunched along over the snow-patched trail behind him. Dark circles stained the woolen blanket he’d draped over the top. The putrid stench overtook him, nausea striking next, raking claws through his stomach, flooding his mouth with warm saliva. Padrig bit down and pressed a prayer through his lips, pleading to Gepsa for forgiveness. When the sickness finally ebbed away, he vowed not to look at the cart again. Not until he had to give it to the boy.
He lifted his gaze to the crest of Mount Aroe. There, within the icy dome, lay the Cobai city where the boy was said to be. It would be immense work to reach that place—the coming trail would only offer steeper grades and more snow—but that was why he had been chosen to deliver the cart. His reputation as an expert tracker had brought him good coin in the past. This time it was he who’d pay if he failed. WIth his life.
“Take heart, Ginny.” The mare’s long brown ears flicked back. “At least we’ll learn if the blood of the Lion still lives.”
Padrig found solace in his own words. Since autumn, the question had been in every mind. If the boy truly was Erick of Belfort’s son then Tarthians could have some hope. If he was the Lion’s son, Padrig would pledge his fealty—his life’s service—in a single breath.
But how would the boy react? Would he condemn Padrig for what he was doing? Padrig had no choice but to deliver this vile load—would the boy have the wisdom to understand? Padrig leaned aside and spat at the frozen earth. No one should have to do what he was doing.
No one.
Bad as he felt, Padrig knew the boy, Willem Hawk, would feel far worse when he saw what was in the cart.
“Who are you? What do you want from me?” I managed to choke out.
“I've come to take you home.”
“I am home. You're not real, just a figment of my imagination.”
“I'm as real as you are Kendra.”
“You can't be real. I really do have a good imagination. I'm going to close my eyes now, you'll be gone when I open them again.”
I couldn't close my eyes though, couldn't look away. I was lost in the depths of his golden gaze. My head was spinning faster making me nauseous. I could feel the acid rising up into my throat, burning through my esophagus as I instinctively swallowed it back down.
The spinning stopped abruptly as his hold on me was released and I dropped. I could feel the cool grass beneath me, smell the freshness of the too clean air. This couldn't be home. There was no sidewalk, no pavement, no cars parked in the driveways or on the side of the road, nothing but a grassy meadow surrounded by trees. Nothing like home. It had to be a dream.
“We have to go,” he spoke urgently now.
“Go where? Where are we? How did we get here? Who are you?”
“I will answer your questions just as soon as I get you to safety.”
He held his hand out to me.
“Come on Kendra, you can wake up anytime now,” I told myself.
“This is not a dream and if I don't get you out of here now we will both be in serious danger.” His voice was louder now.
“I sense no danger here.” Except from him, I thought. He's finally driven me completely insane.
I heard a noise in the woods behind us and turned to see what it was. He took my hand in his powerful grip as he pulled me to my feet again. It felt like every bone in it was being crushed. He dragged me behind him at a speed I was finding increasingly difficult to match, despite my years of physical training. My breath was coming out in ragged breaths as we continued the pace, branches slapped at my face and I nearly tripped more than once over fallen tree limbs. At least I hoped it was only tree limbs.
I could sense his desperation to get us out of these woods, felt the danger he sensed and my overactive mind began to conjure images of dead bodies littering the ground around us, bringing on a new sense of panic in me. Every attempt to breathe brought a sharp pain into my lungs, my legs felt like rubber and by the time he finally stopped, I collapsed into him. The panic increased as I realized I couldn't draw in that breath of air that I so desperately needed.
I'm toying with this as an opening for my paranormal suspense.
ACTION SEQUENCE
The tiger crashed through the underbrush. Berani forced herself not to look back; it would only delay her. Or worse, she’d lose her footing. She raced through the trees. Her hair whipped behind her, snagging low-hanging branches. Strands ripped free and sent searing pain coursing through her scalp. Though the skin burned, she dared not feel for damage. She couldn’t, not if she wanted to escape.
There…a flicker of light? Yes, she was so close. Ahead the sun broke through the thick foliage of the forest. Her salvation.
A roar thundered so loud and ferocious, birds took flight. Her chest resonated from the sound of it, and she missed a step. She recovered and put forth an extra burst of speed. Her lungs burned with the effort. Still, she pumped her arms. She could do this…Only a couple more feet. If only…
Too late. A low growl, her only warning, vibrated behind her—so close it whispered in her ear. She spun mid-step, tumbling backward. Her heart skipped a beat as a massive of orange flew at her. Great Spirit! She clamped her eyes shut. Her body tensed.
The tiger hit. Its shoulders slammed her midsection. She grunted as the air whooshed from her lungs. Jerked from her feet, she sped through space.
The wind chilled her skin. Time lost meaning.
Her mind snapped. Thoughts raced. The ground fast approaching. Her vulnerable position. Spine exposed.
Berani opened her mouth, but the scream caught her in throat, and she fell in silence.
The tiger twisted and rotated, putting her on top. Her eyes flew open. The imminent ground rushed at her at neck-breaking speed. She threw out her hands just in time to jar all bone in her arms. Her shoulders threatened to jump out of the sockets while her hands scraped along the dirt and rocks.
Berani slid for a yard before stopping. She lay frozen; her wits too scattered for action. Alive—the only thought her mind could formulate. Her body kick started, taking over where she could not. Like a baby inhaling its first gasp of air, her lungs expanded and drew in a huge wheezing breath.
The huge cat chuffed beneath her, shaking her with each sneeze-like sound. Laughter slowly replaced the chuffing as the fur faded and the immense bulk of the tiger diminished. In the place of the massive feline lay a young man.
Young man, she scoffed to herself, more akin to a boy barely entering adolescence. Berani pushed off him and lay on her back, her deep breaths slowing to a steady rhythm. She let her head fall to the side, facing him.
His body quaked with mirth as his beautiful tanned skin, perfect save for the ragged scar running down his belly, glistened with a light sheen of sweat. His yellow catlike eyes stared back at her in utter amusement. “Not quick enough that time, Berani.”
She narrowed her eyes. “If you were anyone but my brother, I would kill you.”
Barnes and Noble didn't have Rock, Paper, Tiger today! They offered to order it, but I told them I could get it from Amazon faster. Looking forward to reading it. Congratulations, Lisa!
From No Ceiling Zeros (WIP):
Alex piloted the Black Swan down south along the east shore of the Potomac, and now was nearly at the southern end of Bolling Air Force Base, the point where he always turned the boat west to cross the Potomac River and return home to the Washington Sailing Marina.
It was only seconds after Alex had turned the boat that the brothers first became aware of the strange noise.
“What the hell is that?” Jamie asked.
Alex shook his head, unsure.
The two brothers had sailed the Potomac nearly every weekend for the past three decades. What they heard now didn’t match anything on record. They searched the river in all directions for an approaching boat or heavy rolling wake. Nothing. Jamie glanced back at the Swan’s engine compartment, saw no smoke. The view of the sky above them was obscured by the boat’s extended cabin cruiser roof.
The sound grew louder, painful, more puzzling. Alex cut the throttle. He didn’t know what else to do. Their hands raced up to protect their ears while their bodies cowered. What they heard and saw next wasn’t something they’d likely forget over two lifetimes.
Leaning forward in their seats they peered through the Swan’s windshield and saw a 737, headed straight toward them. It passed overhead at barely one hundred feet with engines in shrill protest.
The brothers turned to look aft, and saw that the plane was cranked around in a hard left yaw, like a car whose rear end had stepped out on a patch of black ice. A flash of sunset raced across the plane’s polished aluminum belly.
Within two seconds, the left wing which reached some fifty feet out from the fuselage, tilted down sharply rotating the plane about its long axis. Fixed to the tip of each wing was a winglet, an eight-foot high aerodynamic addition that helped the plane conserve fuel during flight. The left winglet was pointing down now toward the frigid water below. Stretching. Reaching like a claw hungry for contact.
Alex and Jamie stood to watch the plane fly its final seconds. Surely the men in the cockpit were working to save their airplane, Alex thought. That the pilot had harkened back to a computer simulation with these very same parameters, that he was searching desperately to find the proper control inputs to end this aerial doddery and restore grace.
But the Potomac was coming fast.
The winglet hit first, clutching the water in a tightened fist. A sickening whip followed. The cockpit dove down into the water striking the shallow river bottom. As the tail section shot suddenly upward, the left wing sheared off and the fuselage buckled. The plane tore apart in a hopeless cartwheel of destruction.
Action sequence, by "DrawnToArt"
It wasn't his voice that caught my attention. Nor was it the way he walked, even thought his ankles nearly gave way with every step because of the beers.
It wasn't the smoke rings from his cigarette that rose high into the musty air like an SOS sent out after your only chance of rescue had long since come and gone.
What caught my attention was his eyes.
They say they are a window to the soul, with their being human or animal proving irrelevant.
I'd never believed it until now.
I could see the sin and hatred spilling over into his irises as he leaned over me, his pupil no longer strong enough to contain them.
I was on my knees, restrained and powerless, because he didn't have the balls to kill me like a man.
My badge meant nothing to him, and it didn't mean anything to me, either, when I didn't have a gun to back it up.
I didn't have my issued firearm, but he did, and he was deep in thought, contemplating, I was sure, just exactly he was going to do the deed.
Did he want a mess to clean up before his six year old son came home from school and asked him to take him to the park, blood spattered on the walls from killing me execution-style?
Or did he want a clean and nearly silent little venture?
What he wanted more than anything was to see me die, a true blue cop and Vietnam vet, in his worthless little hands.
He wanted to watch me take my very last breath. He wanted to hear me curse him. He wanted to be able to say he took down a man of the law singlehandedly, and that I didn't even fight back.
He would never admit the truth, but taking my life would instantly become the biggest accomplishment of his waste of human life.
He brushed back a lock of his gray hair and spat in my face.
"You got family?"
"I do."
"A wife and kids?"
"Yes."
"Your kids still call you 'daddy'?"
I nodded.
"You tell your kids you loved them this morning?"
My mouth was as cotton, dry as rattan. "I did."
A smile never crossed his face; I thought one would have.
"Looks like daddy won't be coming home."
He pulled the trigger, but the weapon didn't fire. I didn't get a chance to tell him it wasn't loaded, but I took it as my saving grace and used the opportunity to try one last thing, one last attempt to live to die another day.
It was one last attempt to survive.
War hadn't killed me, but I was afraid this just might.
Chase scene:
“Follow!” I said instinctively. “This doesn’t seem like regular road rage.” Sawyer said nothing more; he made a sharp U-Turn as the car passed us, and sped up to keep up with it. The driver quickly picked up that he was being followed and started to serve erratically down side streets, trying to put distance between us.
“This ain’t my first car chase,” Sawyer said, making a sharp right to avoid a truck that was in front of us. The streets here were narrow and packed, but we kept the car in our sights, and Sawyer didn’t take his foot off the gas. I was buckled in, but had to grip the dashboard to keep from being thrown around. We had now turned onto Broadway, which was good because it was a much wider road, but bad because it was still packed with cars. Sawyer honked and blasted his horn, and maneuvered between cars like an expert as we kept up our chase.
“I refuse to wreck another car,” Sawyer said through gritted teeth.
“So far you’ve just been scratching the hell out of the sides,” I said. The SUV was in closer range now. Just then I saw someone lean out of the back seat window and point a gun at us.
“Fuck!” I yelled, as the gun fired and Sawyer swerved to avoid it. The gunman didn’t stop with one bullet though, he kept firing off shots at us, and that just made the panic in the streets rise as people started screaming and running, and cars started driving erratically as their drivers tried to get out of the way. That at least would work for us.
“Two can play that game asshole,” I said. I took out my gun, rolled down the window and slid out.
“Be fucking careful Avirae,” Sawyer said. “I almost lost you once, don’t catch a bullet.”
“I won’t,” I said. I pointed my gun and sighted down my arms, but I wasn’t aiming for the gunman, who was still firing though his shots went wide. I was aiming for the back tire. As I was about to fire, Sawyer suddenly took the car in a wide swerve and I lost my aim. His swerve had put me out of the way of a bullet that came whizzing past though, so I was okay with it. I aimed again, and this time got a shot off before I had to dive back into the car as a several bullets came right at me. One of them shattered the wing mirror and Sawyer cursed.
“Fucking assholes ruining my baby!" Sawyer growled. “Stop them now Avirae, so I can smash their faces in.”
“I’m on it.” I edged back out the window, aimed my gun, and fired off several shots. One of them finally did the trick; one of the back tires blew out and the car started swerving crazily as the driver tried to maintain control of it.
This experiment is double-blind. We don't know which of us is the clone, and neither do those quack scientists.
It's better this way. I would wring their necks if they knew and we didn't. I suppose that means you would too. Unless quantum fluctuations have already jostled our once-identical brains.
I wish you'd say something. It's lonely sitting here in the dark, no chair between me and the concrete floor. I scream but get no response. Not even an echo.
And I have to pee. I'm not using that bottle they left, as if I could find it. I'd probably pee on you.
#
I think you're the clone and you know it. How could I be the clone? I feel like me, like I've always felt.
That explains why you're so quiet. You're sure it means you'll have to go fight in some unknown war, while I head back home to screw our wife. My wife. Don't even think about her like that, you freak.
Maybe you felt the nanobots gather your atoms while we slept. Maybe it hurt enough to wake you. Maybe those scientists told you and not me.
The more I stare at nothing, the more I wonder if I'm the freak. I'm the original scraps of meat that shouldn't exist anymore. Obsolete. If this were the local end of a teleporter, I'd disintegrate while you went off to explore strange new whatever.
#
You're not in here with me. I ran around this tiny room flailing my arms and found only the walls, a seamless extension of the floor's dull concrete. No sign of you.
Must be an air vent up there somewhere, but the ceiling is out of reach. Maybe you're hanging from the grate or already slithered to freedom. The only other way you could be hiding here is if you knew exactly where I'd move next. I sure as hell don't know that about you.
Are you in your own dark room, thinking these thoughts, panting from your flailing?
You better be.
#
After a few hours in boring darkness with nobody to talk to, you'll find yourself eager for any new sensation. Even the smell of your own piss. The sound of shattered glass, as shards fly into your hand.
Breaking a thick bottle isn't some love tap against the proverbial bar, then you have yourself a weapon. You have to work for it, even smashing it against concrete.
I don't care who the clone is. I'm the one who's getting out of this experiment alive.
#
The light is blinding, feels like someone moved my balls up to my eye sockets and then punched real hard.
But I ignore the pain and force myself to look. At last I can see you, you quiet bastard.
You come at me with your own broken bottle, the same angry look on your face.
#
Fucking mirrors.
Title: Smashing
Genre: YA
Curiosity got the better of me and I moved back to the gap in the tent.
The riot had grown so big that it was impossible to distinguish any one person. Jane stood next to me, and together we watched as the moving mass pulled down one of the residential tents. In seconds, the heavy covering was stripped from the poles holding it up. The riot moved on, but the resulting damage had volunteers trying to fight their way under tarps making sure no one was caught underneath.
“Should we leave?” Jane asked.
I couldn’t answer. Watching the riot was sickly fascinating. The mob seemed to move as one, tearing apart the camp. Soldiers surrounded them, but there were far more rioters then there were of them. Men in riot gear – heavy helmets and black bulletproof vests – joined the soldiers. The crowd grew so large that they brushed the edges of D tent. Panic settled into the palms of my hands. I tried to shake it off, but it was no good.
“Let’s go,” I said.
“Where?” she asked.
I was already running toward the opposite side of the tent. There was still a crowd gathered at the entrance, so I made my own exit ripping open a gap in the wall. Jane had trouble fitting through, but in moments we were both running. We weren't the only ones. There were just as many people trying to flee the riot as there were joining it. A deafening noise of panting, shouting and the eerie chanting from the rioters filled the air.
"Needing help is not a crime, needing help is not a crime," they sing-songed, answered by the gruff, metallic call of "Return to your tents” from the refugee camp’s mounted speakers.
The sound made the hair on my arms stand up.
The loud crack of a shot firing sent the people fleeing the riot into a tailspin. Jane ran so much faster than me we got separated. I tried to stay calm, but I couldn’t. My breath came up short, and I had a painful stitch in my side. I stopped running, just for a second, just to force down some air, and I got knocked to the ground. Someone stepped on my hand. The pain was so immediate; I thought my bones might be broken. Another shot fired, and with it the speed of the people passing me. I couldn’t get up. When I tried, I was knocked back down. I made myself as small as possible. People kept running past me, so close their legs brushed my face.
I couldn't catch my breath. I'm not sure how long I stayed like that. All I know is that it occurred to me at some point that I'd rather not die by being trampled to death, and I started crawling.
I made it to my feet when a heavy hand clamped down on my shoulder.
- Melissa Constantine
Peace at last. I sank into the music, convincing myself that I was back at home. Back lying on my double bed with the Missoni throw and furry cushions, people laughing in the streets below me, only a bus ride to the shops, a tube ride from the best city in the world. It was so easy to...
My dreams broke off as I heard a noise, indistinct underneath the guitars. I flicked out one earbud and listened, my ears twitching.
Nothing.
Pushing the volume up, I settled into London again, reliving my perfect day. Meeting up with Lucy by the clock tower, sharing gossip over a mocha, getting the tube to Neal Street to buy some clothes and...
Crash!
The sound of breaking glass shattered my mental picture into a million tiny pieces. I ripped off the ipod and ran to the window, holding my heart close.
The garden was clear. I stared into the hedges beyond the lawn, straining to see whether anything was hiding behind the trees. Nothing.
Breathing out, I closed the window tight again and tiptoed onto the landing. The hall below was empty as far as I could see and there wasn’t any damage, but something wasn’t right. I squinted again then drew back sharply as I spotted faint marks on the floor.
Footprints. Lots of them.
“Ben? Is that you?” I croaked.
A leaflet blew across the foot of the stairs.
I crept into Nan and Richard’s room, pressing my nose against the glass, hoping to see the car on the lane, but the road was empty. Downstairs, a door banged shut.
Screams crowded my throat, pressing to get out, but my curiosity was stronger. I peered between the bannisters, squinting though the dusty sunray that slashed across the stairs. The prints were all over the hallway, marked out in mud and something horrible, red against the pine floorboards.
My body went numb, but my brain stayed surprisingly calm - telling me to weigh up the options, to take control. There weren’t any phones upstairs, and there wasn’t a lock on my bedroom door. My best chance was the bathroom. At least I could barricade it properly. Whoever was downstairs might not even guess that anyone was at home if I moved quietly enough. I wiped my hands on my jeans, and placed the tip of my sock on the wood, my hands clenched tight. I leaned forwards.
There was a long low creak.
Panic shot through me like a knife and I froze. I stepped backwards, waiting for a few seconds, keeping a lookout and when no one came, I took a larger step towards the bathroom, hoping that my stride was wide enough to miss the creaky patch. Two more moves and I’d be in. I braced myself, and checked the hallway again. I wished that I hadn’t.
It was staring right back at me.
Title: Timeless
Genre: YA Paranormal
A pair of boots crunched on the dry leaves behind me. I'd thought I was alone. I turned and squinted in the setting sun, in the direction of the fire-scorched hill at the edge of the graveyard.
A boy in a charcoal coat stood in the brush, the brown weeds up to his knees. He looked a couple years older than me, maybe eighteen. His emerald eyes sparkled in the early evening light, and a gust of wind tousled his hair and blew an inky lock into his eyes. I didn't know who he was, but I wanted to reach out and brush the black wisps away for him.
He took a couple steps toward me, still watching me. His coat was unbuttoned over a tweed vest and brown wool trousers, and the glint of a delicate silver chain around his neck caught my eye. Maybe all that Mr. Darcy stuff from the summer reading list had finally seeped into my brain because he looked almost Victorian. He furrowed his brow while he stared, as if he recognized me. And he gave me a lopsided smile.
I couldn't tear my eyes off him.
He stopped thirty yards away from me. I started to get up, but he backed away as soon as I did. I froze. He retreated a few more paces before he spun on the heel of his boot and bolted.
"Hey! Wait!"
"I'm sorry, I can't," he yelled over his shoulder, with a hint of a British accent.
"Do I know you?"
"No, my mistake..." He fled up the rocky slope, into the scrappy bushes of Mt. Ladoga Hills.
For a moment, I gaped after him. Don't just stand there! What are you waiting for? I jerked into action and scrambled over the short, stone wall at the edge of the cemetery, sprinting in his wake through the long brown grass and sagebrush. He hurdled over a boulder and onto Old Coyote Trail.
I raced after him as fast as I could, but his legs were way longer than mine, and my rubber flip-flops tripped me up. By the time I reached the trail, all I could see was the puff of dust he'd kicked up behind him. I followed the path until the cloud of dirt settled. My eyes darted around, down the trail, to the hill to my left, to the shallow ravine on my right.
There he was, weaving through tumbleweeds at the bottom of the trench, a hundred yards away from me. He looked over his shoulder one last time before he dashed away. I lost sight of him in a cluster of oaks.
A minute later, the sky exploded in a flash of translucent blue light.
What the –! Go, Helene! I careened down the side of the ravine, trying not to get too tangled in the branches of the chaparral, and tumbled the last few feet. My heart pounded in my throat, and I hurried after him into the sparse oak forest.
I handed Fiona to my mother and gazed through the window. It was chaos. I couldn’t see anything that was going on for sure. I focused on Ruby and her flaming red hair. She seemed to be standing tall and confidently. It gave me hope.
Of course, she could have looked exactly the same way right before being shredded. There was no way for me to know.
In the midst of the turmoil, it was amazing that I could notice anything on the fringe, but my attention was pulled from the battle. While we were far away in our observatory, there was no mistaking who it was. And he had someone thrown over his shoulder as he ran. I would know that ponytail anywhere.
The gasp escaped me. “Lily!” What could he possibly want with her?
But I couldn’t wait to find out. I spun on my heels and ran toward the stairs.
Blaire grabbed me around the waist. “No way, Anabelle. You’re under my care, and you’re not leaving.”
I fought against her grip, but she was much stronger than me. But I did have something she couldn’t compete with. I pooled the energy within me, and released enough electricity from my skin to give her a minor shock. She stumbled away, stunned.
There was nothing to stand in my way.
I was flying down the stairs. I heard Marcus calling after me, but I couldn’t stop. I’d done too much to keep Lily out of harm’s way all these months. She might have the courage of a cougar in a kitten’s body, but that was only if the fight was held within the rules of the mundane. In this world, the only magic Lily had was detecting lies, and you couldn’t fight fire with lie detection.
I found stairs and practically slid down them to the ground level. If he had been headed for the garage, he was probably bringing her inside. If I could just cut him off…
From behind me, I heard, “Anabelle! Wait!” But I couldn’t.
As I turned a corner, a door at the far end of the hallway swung open. Without even a pause, all I saw was Lily’s ponytail swinging as she was carried down another hallway and out of my sight. I ran as fast as I could behind them and bounded around the corner.
They were nowhere to be seen, but since the hallway ended after a hundred yards, he couldn’t have taken her far. Doors lined the hall, but none of them showed any signs of having been opened recently. None were swinging shut. None were unlatched or slightly ajar.
I cautiously moved down the hall. It ended with a door, presumably to the outside. Something was familiar about this hallway, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. Had I been here before?
I was about halfway down when I heard a doorknob click behind me. I jumped around, on guard, ready for what might come.
Title: MYTH
YA Fantasy/ Thriller
Sunday night, I was awakened by a hand on my mouth. They held it so tight that I tasted the warm, metallic tang of my own blood. The lights in my room flickered on and off with laughter and shrieking. I felt like I was in a bad horror movie, and screamed like Bimbo #1 about to meet her fate.
They dragged me into the bathroom where the buzzing of an electric razor snapped me into fight or flight mode. It took four more large girls to hold me. They threw me face down on the bathroom floor. It's chill went through me.
“Just hold still, Paris Hilton. This won’t take very long” Angela said, her rugged voice laughing in triumph.
Two girls held my arms behind my back, and a few sat on my legs. If I could’ve gotten a leg free, I would’ve kicked them into the next room.
A small body straddled my shoulder blades and jabbed a sharp knee into my neck.
“I said hold still. Girl, why do I always have to repeat myself with you?” Angela’s weight was deceptive for her size.
My breasts felt like they were going to burst under the unwelcomed pressure of the miniature sumo. She sliced her knee into my neck like the blade of a guillotine as the razor made several sweeps over my skull, slashing my wavy locks. I helplessly acknowledged my tresses as they fell to the ground in defeat.
After being sheared like a sheep, my captors turned me over onto my back. Angela, hovering over my head, pulled out a black Sharpie marker and moved in on my face like a demented clown. My fear-filled expression reflected off of her dark green eyes.
The marker raked across my skin like a tattoo needle, slicing the flesh in some places. With the final stroke of the Sharpie, the little tormentor smacked me across my cheek.
“I think you’re ready for your close up, Paris.”
The crowd cackled and pointed when I stirred, tears pouring down my marked face. I was going to kill them all, slowly and painfully.
“Let’s leave Ms. Millions to her makeover. She needs to see just how pretty she is,” Angela said.
She spit at me and left, slamming the door in crude laughter.
I managed to sit on the closed toilet, unable to compose myself, legs shaking. My body was conflicted between rage and hurt. With an open mouth, I moved my hands over my head and pulled myself up to the mirror. A blunt coldness hit me at my core as I stood, reading the vulgarities scrawled over my face: “slut, whore, Angela was here, $$$$$”. I looked like a tagged underpass. Shaved to stubble, my head rivaled that of a chemo patient.
“Step back from the railing!”
Danny ignored the man and leaned a little further, in an attempt to see down into sinkhole. A few days before, the giant hole had swallowed an entire intersections plus parts of four buildings. Before security or rescue personnel had arrived, Danny had fearlessly walked to the edge and peered down into the earth. Sheer walls of rock extended down several hundred feet and then there seemed to be a chasm of some sort.
He watched the guard as he swung a leg over the railing and then the other. The guard immediately leveled his rifle at him, but Danny did not care. He had no family to speak of and was hopelessly unemployed. When he had looked into the darkness a few days before, he knew he had seen lights moving down there. He was sure it could not be one of the buildings burning and many thoughts raced through his mind.
Finally, he had arrived at his current plan. It was ten feet from the rail to the rim of the hole and Danny wasted no time getting there. The guard yelled something at him again, but Danny did not hear it as he jumped off into the darkness.
Seconds later he pulled the rip cord on his parachute. He watched the rings of sedimentary rock float by as he approached the bottom of the rock walls, hoping the guard would decide against taking some shots at him. The carbide light came to life with the click of a switch, but it did little to pierce the vast darkness as he continued his slow fall.
The sunlight from above him had turned into nothing more than a small circle the size of a manhole when he finally landed. He looked away from the sky and attempted to peer into the blackness all around him. There were no walls and the top of the cavern was also invisible to him except where the hole had broken through.
He knew that he had to be standing on a huge pile of debris and began scanning the area. He saw no lights in any direction and began hoping he was not dreaming when he had looked down the first time. That was when he realized he was not standing on rubble. Instead it appeared to be freshly turned dirt and rocks. He walked in spirals around his landing site for nearly half an hour before being rewarded with the discovery of a makeshift roadway. He smiled to himself, but that quickly faded as he heard a deep voice over a loud speaker from somewhere to his right.
“Trespasser! Stop!”
Danny had no interest in finding out who might be down there with him, so he ran into the darkness to his left. The smell of water ahead of him and the roar of an engine behind him drove him forward. He only hoped the water would slow down his pursuer and that he would not drown.
Two cars parked up the street with people sitting in them alerted Bryan that something could be wrong. He stopped, not wanting to ditch the bag of groceries. The ingredients for Joanna's birthday dinner cost him a bundle. A car door opened and a man in a suit got out and looked his way.
This was not good. He needed to turn around and run. The other car began to back up towards him. Bryan carefully laid the bag down in the faintest hope he might be able to come back for the contents. He walked across the street as calmly as he could. He was running as soon as he made it a few steps onto the sidewalk.
A ffffft sound blew past his ear. The bark of the tree behind him shattered. Bryan didn't know if that was a warning shot or if they wanted him dead. He thought that dead might be more the case. After all, it’s a bit risky to date the mobster's daughter, especially when you're with the FBI and undercover.
The car turned a 180 and it was now pointed towards him and accelerating. Bryan heard the engine whine. Powerful. Just like Lucas Pedrelli, Joanna's father. Whiny and powerful.
He jumped a fence and laid low for a minute to let his breath and brain catch up with the last minute's events. His phone. He pulled it out and called the emergency number.
"Cover blown. Suspect's minions are after me just north of my house. I have no car and only eight bullets in my gun. Help would be appreciated." He left the connection on to help the cavalry find him quicker--or find what was left of him.
Bryan ran around the house to the alley in the back. He heard a brawny engine idle. When he reached the corner of the fence behind the car, he climbed up. Two men were about to go through the back gate. Bryan pulled out his gun and shot both of them. He shot twice through the roof of the car knowing about where the driver was. No one armored roofs.
The yard would be a trap. He vaulted over the fence and landed on the trunk and a quick inspection showed the driver was dead. Taking the car was not an option. He reached in and grabbed the keys after turning off the engine. He ran towards the far end of the alley. When he made it halfway there, the other car turned into the alley.
Bryan's eyes widened as three guns poked out of the windows. Joanna was driving. So much for his cover and his romance. He vaulted over the fence into his next door neighbor's yard and then climbed the fence into his own. He jumped in his car and started his car and immediately got out again, getting over the fence and around to the other side of the house just when the car bomb blew.
HAPPILY EVER AFTER
Genre: YA
Outrunning a wolf is a stupid plan. I knew this, but I hoped Mara didn’t, because my only plan was to run until I came up with a new plan. I’m usually pretty good at coming up with brilliant master plans, but it is a little difficult with no help and no inspiration while running through the woods and getting lost with a screaming girl while the guy you are really supposed to protect is also running lost through the woods and quite possibly getting eaten.
Then I lost Mara’s hand. I heard her scream and turned around. We apparently were running through a thorn thicket and the brambles had snagged her hair. The more she thrashed, the worse it got. The wolves were almost on top of her. I ran back, pulled out my sword, and jumped in the way right as a wolf leaped for her. He met with my sword instead of her flesh and nicely impaled himself. But there were plenty more coming.
“Untangle it!” I yelled, batting away another giant wolf.
“I’m trying!” she yelled back.
I glanced up at her from underneath the wolf that tackled me. She wasn’t making much progress.
“Robbie!” she screamed.
The wolf on top of me went flying and I jumped up in time to skewer the wolf she was trying to kick away. Her hair was firmly wrapped around the brambles. Why do princesses have so much hair?
There was only one thing to do. I ran around her and knocked out another wolf. Things were getting ridiculous. Surprise, surprise. I pulled out my dagger and handed it to her. She stared at me blankly and before I could explain I got tackled. Again.
“Cut your hair!” I yelled, holding the wolf’s jaws away from my throat.
“What!”
“Cut your bloody hair or we are both going to die!” I rolled on top of the wolf, and punched him the gut. He squealed. “Do it!”
She still stood there, staring at the knife. I’d about had enough. Stable boy, my eye! Between knocking wolves off, I took my sword, raised it above my head, and brought it down. Her hair got very short. I think she screamed.
At that moment two wolves tackled me and I couldn’t really worry over how she felt about her new hairstyle. I stabbed one and pounded the other on the head, but before I could get to my feet I found myself staring into the gaping throat of a very large wolf. This was going to hurt.
To my surprise, the wolf let out a squeak and fell on top of me. I batted him on the head and sent him packing, then looked up. There was the princess, standing above me with my little knife soaked in blood. “Wow,” I said, then I grabbed her arm and pulled her on top of me only seconds before a wolf flew through the air right where her head had been. This was exciting.
Title: For the Birds
Genre: Fantasy
Rain began to pour down the hole as Nerina climbed toward the exit, making her ascent muddy and exhausting. The pin-hole in the distance grew and grew as Nerina scrambled forward and finally she was there. She crawled from the hole, into the rain soaked-clearing, covered in dirt and turned around to pull Lars and Liam out. They were all filthy, covered in the red-brown dirt of the tunnel, but they didn’t have time to worry about appearances. Brogan was close on their trail.
Nerina helped Lars up and the three of them started to run down the path.
“I’ve got you now!” A deep voice bellowed from behind them.
It wasn’t Brogan. The minotaur had been patiently waiting for them to return from the maw of the tree, and his patience had been rewarded. Confused by the hunter’s sudden appearance, Lars stopped, looking in astonishment at what he considered to be a mythical beast.
“And now there are three of you!” He cracked his knuckles and stalked toward Lars, “How delectable. We don’t get many feather-walkers up this way.”
The minotaur would not be the one eating today.
The tree from which they’d just emerged exploded into splinters and the ground sprang up, soil raining back on them. Brogan, still on the hunt, burst forth from the small tunnel they had used. Turning at the sudden expulsion of dirt, the minotaur saw the snake for only a moment before he was swallowed whole. It was just enough time for his ears to fold back and the utterance of a single word prayer to escape his lips.
Nerina and Liam grabbed Lars and pulled him down the path, away from the crunching sound as the minotaur was ingested behind them.
It took Brogan a moment to regurgitate the mangled minotaur before he could continue his chase, and Nerina rejoiced internally that the vile creature had given them a small measure of time.
The trio ran back to the plateau, and Brogan was right on their tail. They were running out of time, but Nerina had an idea. “Take my hands” she said to the other two, and they did so without hesitation. In a blink of her eyes, they were in the ravine, the hoard of spiders hissing behind them, their escape ahead.
Brogan fell out of the thin air behind them, landing in the midst of the spiders, killing several on impact. He lashed out at others in annoyance as he chased through the ravine behind them. But the spiders instinctively attacked him. Jumping on the giant serpent, they dug their chelicerae into his scales, but their tiny maws ineffective against the armored scales of the giant snake.
An unfortunate spider found Brogan’s soft spot and, upon scratching at it with his long furry leg, he was smashed by the recoil of Brogan’s tail as he lashed around to throw his attackers off.
At the ravine’s end, the world blinked again. They ran down the path through the forest.
from DEVIL'S PIT
“Stop!” I called to Tray, who complied immediately and turned to look at me. I raised my arm to block the light from his cap-lamp and got off the tram, my legs shaking.
“What is it?” he asked.
“I’m not sure,” I admitted. “Just . . . something’s not right.”
“You know,” Krystal said, “I am sick to death of you two and your mysticism. I thought you had this Spark stuff down to a science! Literally! This wasn’t supposed to be this difficult! And we’re this close to the exit, showers, and beds, and you’re holding us up for what? A weird feeling?”
She got up from her tram seat and stomped toward the dim light coming through the mouth of the mine. The sun was already setting on the other side of the mountain.
The chaos of the mine’s images cleared for one second, and I shrieked, “No!” Throwing myself forward, I wrapped my arms around Krystal’s waist and tried to run backward.
“What the f-?” Krystal yelled, a second before a deafening boom shook the tunnel and the roof came in.
Dust filled the air. Something shoved me to the floor, and I was pinned under Krystal. All I could hear was a cacophonous crashing and rumbling that seemed like it would never end. I lay under Krystal’s prone body, tucking my hands under my arms to protect them, bowing my head so the hard hat would take the brunt of anything coming down. I tried not to breathe, taking quick sips of coal-flavored air through my nose.
When the noise finally stopped, I raised my head cautiously. Small pings and cracks echoed through the shaft as pebbles continued to settle. The air was nearly opaque. The lights in the tunnel were out. Krystal still lay over me, and she wasn’t moving. With a groan, I found a grip on the floor and pulled myself forward, out from under her.
“Adria! Krystal?” David threw himself down next to me. His face was nearly black from coal dust. Tray was right behind him, and I heard him curse as he looked at Krystal.
“Is she okay?” I croaked, taking David’s arm to pull myself to my knees.
“I don’t know,” David said.
“I think I’m okay,” she said, her voice barely a whisper. “I’m just caught.”
I turned to really look at the damage and heard myself cursing, as well. When I ran out of vulgar words in English, I started in German. Occasionally, the four years I took in high school came in handy.
“Is it that bad?” Krystal asked, a tremulous smile on her lips.
Her leg was caught under a boulder, but the buildup of smaller rocks and dirt was too great for me to tell how badly trapped she was. David and I began digging as Tray tried to contact the surface on his walkie, to no avail.
“I think someone just tried to kill us,” I said.
As she waited in the inn’s common room, Lyanne’s attention wandered to the windows. The dogs still bayed in the courtyard outside, their howling almost a frenzy. She moved closer to the glass and saw two tracking hounds tied to the gate. In a flash that froze her insides, Lyanne realized she knew those dogs: they belonged to her father. When she fled, she hadn’t considered the dogs; of course he would pursue her like any other creature that eluded him.
Slipping to the side of the window, her headache forgotten, Lyanne searched for the men her father had sent. Her shock turned to blind panic as her brothers Natan and Marke emerged from the stables, leading Arga by her halter.
Lyanne stumbled back from the window, almost overturning a table. The innkeeper was at her elbow. “Your lunch is prepared, miss.”
“I-I’ve forgotten something upstairs,” she stuttered. He bobbed his head as she backed away. Her heart was going to break free of her chest. She fled up the stairs, locking herself in her room and sliding a chair under the doorknob for good measure. Her head pounded in time to her frantic breathing. Ear to the door, she schooled herself to take even breaths, but the hallway outside remained silent.
If I’m going to get out of here, I have to stay calm. This is no worse than facing the Magistrate last night. Only one bag. The window is small, and I’ll have to abandon Arga. My saddlebags are useless.
She flung herself at the wardrobe, throwing everything of value into her haversack. Rya’s journal and the appointment papers went into a pocket concealed in her skirts, alongside her pistols.
The drop out the window gave her pause. Fortunately the room looked onto the alley and not the courtyard, but the fall was more than twice her own height. A thin misting of snow covered the street. Throwing caution aside, she shoved the haversack out first. The leather bag hit the cobblestones with a thunk but did not break open. Lyanne hooked her ammunition pouch around her neck before scooting onto the windowsill and turning around, lowering herself so she hung by her fingers.
It doesn’t matter if I break an ankle or leg. Nothing could be worse than going home. I know how to fall from a horse; this isn’t so different.
She took a deep breath and let go.
The cobblestones proved much harder than she had imagined. Her legs tucked beneath her as she hit the ground and she rolled, sprawling into the snow. The wind left her in a loud grunt and she struggled for her next breath. Seconds passed away before she managed to sit up and examine herself. Her legs were sore, her knees protesting as she moved them, but they worked properly.
Lyanne snatched the haversack and fled down the alley.
Oops, forgot to mention the genre for my scene: mannerpunk fantasy (in the vein of Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell. MS is complete but as yet untitled.
The only thing better than a contest on Nathan's blog, is a contest where he uses Tolkein references in the introduction.
Awesome.
Yay!!! Love Nathan's contests!!
So, I loved reading the entries so far. Very, very fun. Fun to see how people I know from the blogs write.
These contests are always such great learning experiences, too. For example, today I learned that I can't write an action sequence to save my life.
The only thing I could think of was a snail crossing a finish line.
Maybe I'll do that compelling piece of action, but I'll probably just cheer everyone on and offer lots and lots of opinions, which I'm sure will be greatly appreciated.
Good luck entrants! :)
From: SECTOR C
Near-Future Thriller
Donna and Mike stood in the middle of the road, waving their arms to flag down the driver of the black 4-wheeler.
The vehicle slowed as the man behind the wheel palmed his phone -- either to call a friend to tell them how he’d run across two strangers stupid enough to be walking down a remote road in the middle of a summer day, Mike thought, or to take a picture to prove it.
As the vehicle came closer, Donna saw the logo plastered on its hood and doors: three interlocked Es.
“Run!”
She grabbed Mike’s arm and pulled him off the road toward the barbed wire fence beside it. Thank God for economical ranchers, she thought. Four strands of wire instead of the usual five meant there was more room between the strands. Yanking the middle two wires apart, she told Mike, “Go!”
He heaved himself through, ripping his shirt and arm on the sharp points. Once on the other side, he held the wires apart so Donna could slide her smaller frame between. Together, they ran for a grove of trees in the field 50 yards away.
Behind them, the runabout revved up then slammed to a stop where they’d gone through the fence. Lim Chiou slid out of the vehicle, lifting a tranq gun off the seat beside him.
Grabbing the trunk of the nearest bur oak, Mike and Donna slung themselves around it just as the rifle cracked. The first dart flew within inches of the oak and thocked into a tree only a few feet beyond where Mike crouched. He opened wide eyes in Donna’s direction and gestured with a jerk of his head toward the dart that had embedded itself in the bark.
While Lim reloaded, he and Donna fled farther into the grove.
When they looked back, they saw Lim was on the move, climbing through the barbed wire fence. Mike felt Donna’s hand tighten on his upper arm. His gaze followed where she pointed, away from the keeper.
A shape loped along the side of the nearby hill, paralleling the road. But instead of heading away from the area with the noise of the rifle and the engine as Mike assumed most wild animals would, this one was heading toward them. More precisely, toward the keeper, now in open pasture peering down the length of the rifle as he advanced.
Donna covered her mouth, fighting back the warning everything in her that was human begged her to scream.
Mike was slower on the uptake. But it was only a moment more before he saw what Donna had already seen. Stripes and fangs and a burled body that resembled nothing native on this prairie.
His gut clenched. They’d had no clue the saber-tooth had been trailing them.
The cat bounded toward Lim, closing in fast, peripheral to the man’s field of vision, certainly out of his focus, gaining speed as it came.
Ben shook his head, squinting at Stephon. His friend said nothing and moved further into the stables. He looked at the others, all of whom did everything they could not to make eye contact with Ben. Ben cursed and sped around the corner. The stampede had indeed headed towards the neighborhood called the Wedge. Ben knew he had to do something.
He ran, vaulting over as many fences as he could, towards the edge of the stables that surrounded the Hippodrome. He yelled as a cart came rolling around a corner. Timing it just right, he slid under it, just missing the back wheels. His heart thundered in his chest and he jumped up and ran through the Hippodrome gates down the main avenue. He could see the wreckage the horses had caused. As he ran, he was sure he saw a woman screaming, cradling something red in her lap. He kept moving, memories of the Bloodman suddenly fresh in his mind.
He cut across an alley that he knew led to one of the major city streets that led to First Wall, where he could run almost freely. He adjusted his surcoat so the Prince’s sigil was visible as he bounded over a narrow, smelly canal that flowed underneath. Someone as he skidded into them on the other side. A breathless apology was all he could offer as he ran down another narrow alley. He could hear the rolling thunder of the horses and knew that somehow he’d managed to get ahead of them.
The First Wall loomed before him. He ran parallel to it for a little while, until he saw what he needed down an alley. Sprinting down, he jumped up onto the open window sill, pulling himself up. A woman squealed and Ben said as he slid into the room, “Excuse me.”
Dropping a gold coin onto the floor, he passed through the room into the hall and up the stairs to the roof. Half a dozen men were dicing. One saw Ben in his livery and growled, producing a knife. Ben waved his hands and said, “No, please, don’t get up.” He ran as fast as he could and threw himself off the roof, catching the rampart of the First Wall in his gut. The air left him and he slipped. Rocks and pebbles skittered to the ground below him. With all his strength he pulled himself up and ran towards the gatehouse that blocked off the Triangle.
The horses were almost at the gates and the guards were too slow in reacting. Ben jumped down from the wall to the gatehouse, hanging from the top and thumping to the ground. He ignored the grunting comment of the guard and ran towards the horses. The head stallion reared, whinnying as he saw Ben and they thundered closer. A feeling of dread came over Ben and a voice in the back of his head said, “Now what?”
The checked flag is down.
I push the green neon button next to the plexiglas with the word DETACH on it and in an instant, my mobile is halfway down, followed by Kenton’s then and Jones’s and lastly Ter’s. I’m not too surprised by that; Terrence’s mobile is fish out of water right now. He’ll pick up speed when his mobile is in its element, in about 30 seconds.
All four mobiles are approaching the ramp that will send them over the edge of the roof and onto the next building of our choice. Or, if you’re Terrence, I gather he’s going to dive straight for the water. Kenton’s souped up pre-flood Honda steals up behind me and I swerve closer to the outside of the roof.
The bastard.
Not only would my metal would be crushed if we were to have a collision, everyone knows the first roof is a grace period. You don’t mess with other mobiles until you’re off the first roof. Too many people watching. People have died. All it takes is one sideswipe to send a mobile into a crowd. Not that he cares. He’s just ready for a win.
I scouted the territory earlier so when the roof ends and pitch black eats its way toward my mobile, I know to swing it sharp left. It will land on the roof of another building, one that is covered in about an inch of water thanks to the low tide. Normally that building is entirely underwater, and I bet money none of the other racers will go for this route; they don’t watch the tides like I do.
That, and I’ll make an educated guess here, is why they always lose.
First static, then a voice cuts in on my headset. “Ren, how you doing?”
It’s Benson. He’s probably growling more than I am about Kenton’s little stunt.
“I’m fine B. He’s just trying to get me shakin’ in my boots.” My Hessian’s have never seen me shake, and they ain’t likely to.
“The mama’s boy. I should have put maple syrup in his tank when he wasn’t looking!”
I don’t reply, not right now, though I chuckle as I imagine Kenton trying to start up his mobile and finding it better suited to a pancake breakfast than to a Ward Wallrace.
Here it comes – the end of the roof.
Readying myself for the jump, I grip the steering wheel. My mobile flies off the edge of the building and halfway midair, I hit a red button: ROCKIN’.
A blast of music shoots out the stereo, mostly muffled but enough to keep my head on straight. My mobile is vibrating with the old school rock, and I’m sure even the people watching from the first roof can hear something. “I’m on a highway to hell,” I sing, way off key but who cares. As I headbang along with the music my mobile drops, I’d say, ten stories.
Yes.
This is what it’s all about.
Sweat streamed down Evie’s back. Every breath drew hotter air. All she wanted was to dive into the water and drink the river dry. Wading in, she cupped her hands and slaked her thirst.
Up close, the water looked wrong. Tiny whirlpools speckled the surface, each one whipping up a pale blue gas that curled into the air in a spiral. But it was too late and she didn’t care. She drank and drank and drank.
First, she heard a single crack. Her shoulders stiffened. Then, a sound like gunfire ricocheted around the cavern, deafening her. It could just be the echo. Or there could be an army firing between the stalagmites. She grabbed Ben’s hand and pulled him on, ducking deeper into the water.
‘Where’s it coming from?’
‘I don’t know,’ Evie answered. ‘But we’re not safe in the open. Run!’
Stooping low, they splashed along the river till it disappeared into a tunnel. At least here they’d be hidden from sight. Evie’s head began to throb as she breathed in the pale blue gas. She rested on a rock to catch her balance.
A giant rat ran over her hand. When she screamed, the air tasted of poison. She pulled her hood across her nose and mouth to shut out the stench: a mix of mould, rotting food and cigarette smoke. She couldn’t identify the other smell, a filthy, unearthly stink that coated the back of her throat. Just ahead, the rat stopped and tugged with its teeth. Horrified, she realised where the rancid smell was coming from.
The rat was feasting on human flesh.
‘Bodies!’ she shouted to Ben. ‘Turn back, quick.’
Before she could retreat, a line of eyes lit up in the tunnel ahead. Haggard young men wearing green uniforms and mud-stained helmets pointed guns above the tunnel wall. Looking up, she saw stars spotted on a navy sky. But there was no time for questions. The nearest man lowered his rifle and brought his face close to examine her. The whites of his bloodshot eyes jumped out from scarred and broken skin. Sweat poured from his temples forging clean streaks through the dirt.
‘What the… how did you… how come there’s children in the trenches?’
Evie couldn’t answer his question if she tried. Staring back, she wanted to work out how old he was. He reminded her of Aaron, one of her babysitters, who was supposed to be revising for his A-levels. Instead, he spent all his time playing bass guitar in his band, Weltschmerz.
‘You shouldn’t be here,’ the Aaron-lookalike whispered. ‘We’re all going to die. Just go back, however you got here. Run, if you can.’
Evie didn’t wait. Her feet stumbled over the bleeding arms and legs of the bodies on the floor. Sickness swept over her and she tried not to retch. Confusion came too – were they still inside the cave? If not, how had they managed to leave? And how could they ever get back?
Jackpot by Austin Girl
Jack pivoted and disappeared between a couple of semi-trucks. I sat behind the wheel, shivering. The temperature dropped to a stop-your-heart thirty-two-degrees. He had returned and was standing outside the Galaxy near the driver’s side, giving instructions to Eddie and Jon. He signaled for me to roll down my window.
“Candy, stay in the car.”
“Sir, I know I’m a rookie and not allowed to ask questions--” I said.
“Then don’t,” he interrupted.
“Whose semi?” I asked anyway. Daddy always taught me to speak my mind.
“The mob,” he uttered condescendingly. His face revealed a tiny hint of apprehension.
“The mob?” I repeated. I sounded like a parrot with a Texas drawl.
“Teamsters, same difference, Rookie. They’re controlled by the mob. We’re here to recover stolen property from Philly.”
He walked off slowly.
I rolled up the window and watched with curiosity as he opened the double doors to the semi. Jack climbed inside, while Eddie and Jon jogged to the front of the semi. The car reeked of Jon’s cologne. Tapping my fingers on the steering wheel, I felt restless. I opened the glove box and found a Taco Bell hot sauce packet. With my teeth, I ripped it open and squirted the juice on my tongue. An adrenaline rush hit my petite body.
Suddenly, from out of the darkness, a baldheaded burly man rounded the semi. He wore a silky Philadelphia Eagles jacket and cradled a handgun as though he knew how to use it. He was sneaking up on my guys. I ducked and took several deep breaths. Inhale, Exhale. I told myself, as if I’d forgotten how to effin’ breathe.
I slammed my palm on the horn. Nothing. Silent.
“Gawd damnit!” I yelled. The horn didn’t work. Typical government-issued junk car. My mind raced. I thought. Oh, yes, my Annie Oakley duffle bag is in the trunk. Inside my bag was the Tommy. I rushed to the trunk, grabbed the gun and tiptoed towards the back of the semi, careful not to slip in the slick-soled leather flats mandated by the FBI. My bunion pulsated with pain. I missed the comfort and safety of my cowboy boots.
Just as burly man was about to fire his weapon into Jack’s back, I clobbered his cone-shaped head. The event was reminiscent of my Quantico stunt with that lame actor. Burly man collapsed on the gravel, and his gun, like the snake’s head, was tossed a few yards away. A frozen moment occurred as burly man regained ground and violently swung at my blonde beehive hair with his fist. I blocked the blow. He staggered backwards.
Out of the corner of my eye, I glimpsed Jack staring in utter disbelief. I knew what he thought. How could a dainty woman my size beat up a big fat horse’s ass like ‘Mister Philly?’ I smiled wide then delivered my devastating left hook to burly man’s jaw. The douchebag was knocked out cold, like an overweight boxer on amateur night.
On the curved top of the air structure, Jake knelt, a rock in his right hand. Wait till you see the whites of their eyes, he thought; kneeling would make them climb higher before his position was revealed.
A head appeared to his right. He first looked away from Jake's position. Bad luck.
Jake sprang to his feet, wound up just like he had at college, and let fly.
The stone took his target square on the temple. He fell backwards and disappeared down the eighty-foot slide to the ground.
Jake murmured, “Still got the old high, hard one.”
Two other men puffed their way to the top, one twenty feet to Jake's right, the other fifteen to his left.
Doc’s men were in no hurry—where could he go? Aerobic workouts were apparently not a part of their lifestyle; they gulped air, hands on knees for support.
Jake let fly a rock at the nearest man. As soon as he released it he took out another and went into a windup.
His target twisted to his right, and the rock missed by inches.
Jake saw the direction of his move, aimed to anticipate the next one.
The man laughed as he turned back toward Jake, only to see the finish of Jake's second throw. He twisted to the right again . . . into the path of the rock.
It crunched into his upper arm with a meaty smack; in the quiet of the desert the crack of bone breaking came loud and clear.
The guy howled and clutched his arm. “Goddam, he broke it. How'm I gonna get down with a broke arm?”
Jake heard the slap of feet on the fabric, wheeled to see the other man charging. The boneman roared, club held high, other arm spread wide. He was big. And fierce.
And easy.
Jake faked toward the club arm, the attacker reflexively extended his other arm, Jake grabbed it, fell back, planted a foot in the dummy's belly and put momentum to work.
The man flipped through the air, landed on his back and slid helplessly on the slick, Teflon-coated fabric.
Jake got to his feet and watched as the man went straight at Broken Arm, who tried to sidestep. He slipped as well.
They collided and spun away from the roof's center, a tangle of legs and arms.
Down the slope they went, grabbing at cables. Their screams faded when they disappeared beyond the curve of the roof.
Jake stared at the point where the two had vanished.
Their screams cut off. Three down.
He pushed aside the sick feeling their deaths brought; as long as Nick was unaccounted for, he had more fighting to do.
Something smashed into the back of his head, the world turned gray, he pitched forward onto his belly, grasping for a handhold—
GENRE: Y.A.
TITLE: Skin Farm
(Entry is precisely 500 words)
---
I knew Jais was dead, but I couldn’t stop shaking him. Not until the orderlies grabbed me and pulled me to the floor.
I screamed as his fingers slipped out of mine, which were still sticky with my best friend’s blood. The chief surgeon was saying something to me, but I couldn’t hear her. All I could hear was a rushing noise in my ears.
I’d just seen my only real friend die on the operating table. The surgeons had done nothing but watch as blood seeped out of his severed arteries and onto their sterile white floor.
“Get him out of here,” the chief surgeon snarled at the orderlies. She gestured at Jais’ body with one manicured hand. “And take that thing out with you.”
An orderly shoved me, obviously expecting me to leave. After all, children obeyed adults without question. Anything else was unthinkable.
I did the unthinkable.
I twisted and slammed my elbow into the orderly’s face. Skin moved under me in a sickening way as his nose cracked with the wet sound of cartilage breaking. I saw metal gleam on a nearby table and picked it up. A surgeon’s scalpel, stained with Jais’ blood. I had to fight the urge to throw it away from me. Instead, I held the knife that had killed my best friend out in front of me with trembling hands.
“Don’t touch him!” I shouted. “No one can touch him!”
Some of the orderlies smiled, but their grins faded as they realized how serious I was. And how large. I was strong from working in their fields while they sat back in their soft hospitals, watching children die.
“What are you doing, Nath?” the chief surgeon asked gently. “Put it down, and let’s talk.”
“Nothing to talk about,” I said. “You let him die.”
“I understand you’re not thinking straight,” she replied. “We don’t want to hurt you. Just put the knife down.” Her hand hovered near the intercom on the wall.
“Don’t,” I told her. “I’m not stupid. Keep your hands...“
She moved before I could react, slapping the intercom. “Securi--”
The response was pure reflex. My foot snapped out, colliding with her chin. Blood sprayed out between her perfect white teeth.
The room around me exploded. Orderlies lunged at me from all directions. I felt their hands pulling me forward. Instead of fighting it, I moved with them. The unexpected momentum sent us crashing to the floor.
I wriggled out of the orderlies’ grasp and slashed at one of them with the scalpel. The blade struck something, maybe bone, hard enough that the handle slipped from my blood-wet fingers. I pushed myself up and ran. Something groped at my heel, but I kicked free with the brittle snap of bones breaking.
I had often fantasized about what I would do to the adult staff if I ever got the chance. But instead of feeling triumphant, I just felt sick. Revenge had never been so messy in my mind.
Hmm, it only posted part of mine. Oh well, I'm sure you've got plenty to read already!
Cool contest Nathan. In my best Governator voice: I'll be back.
CHADA-CHADA FEVER
“Got our work cut out for us” the nurse said to Cinda.
They were walking quickly down the corridor, on the third floor of Sibley Hospital. Which is in the suburbs of Washington, DC.
Walking down towards the room where the hospital had put poor Ibrahim.
There was a strange noise coming from inside Ibrahim’s room. You could hear the noise all the way down the corridor. A loud noise. Continuous noise. Some kind of high-pitched sound. Cinda had never heard anything like it.
The nurse glanced over at Cinda. “Think you can. . . . . like. . . . take this?”
“This. . . ?”
“You’ll see.”
* * * * * * * * *
Cinda and the nurse walked into the hospital room where Ibrahim was. It was easy to tell who was Cinda, and who was the nurse, because Cinda is a full head taller.
Out of habit -- though it made no sense, since the only people in the room were an unconscious man on the bed and another nurse who was standing next to the bed -- out of habit, Cinda said “Please don’t get up!”
She said this with an upward tilt of her head and a regal wave of her long arm -- a haughty gesture which seemed a tad inappropriate for a non-doctor visiting a sick man in a hospital.
Ibrahim was lying on a bed in the middle of the hospital room. He was moaning, and his eyes were shut. Still unconscious. He was wearing only pajama pants. His chest and arms were bare.
The other nurse was standing next to the bed.
The noise in the room was deafening.
This was Cinda’s first experience with Chada-Chada Fever.
Ibrahim Hassan al-Iryani is a short, fat, middled-aged man with gray hair.
There was something very weird going on.
Cinda stared at Ibrahim’s chest.
His whole body was pouring sweat and his chest was heaving.
There were hundreds of little things. . . like caterpillars. . . wriggling up through Ibrahim’s skin.
You could see these caterpillars moving!
* * * * * * * * *
Fact is, these little caterpillars were not caterpillars at all. They were tiny living clones.
Clones of Ibrahim himself.
That’s what Chada-Chada Fever does. The disease takes over your body. Takes complete command. Orders your body to start making miniature, living copies of you.
Each of these clones is about an inch-and-a-half long.
At any one time, hundreds of tiny clones of Ibrahim Hassan al-Iryani were wriggling up through Ibrahim’s skin. All over his body.
These clones were alive.
Hundreds of clones of Ibrahim. . . . . tiny, fat, naked, alive clones, each with gray hair.
Each of these tiny clones (called “chaddies”) was screaming at the top of its tiny lungs. This crazy high-pitched voice. This loud, continuous noise. Sounds like “Rat-a-chada-chada. . . . . . . Rat-a-chada-chat. . . . . . Rat-a-chada-chada. . . . Rat-a-chada-chat”.
Trace shoved Jericho away with a grunt and fled down the path. No one understood. No one cared what really happened. They just wanted him to be caught. As long as he could, he had to keep his legs moving like a running back surging through defenders.
Before long, the ground sloped up steeply into a series of cutbacks that zigzagged up the face of a hill. He slipped on the surface of a wet stone sticking out of the ground but caught himself with a tree. The bark tore through the skin on his palms. No time to worry about that; he had to keep going. Direction didn’t matter—going forward did.
When he reached the top of the hill, he stopped and gasped for air. His legs wobbled, so he bent forward and placed his hands on his knees. Ten seconds—he’d give himself ten seconds. After ten, he made it thirty instead.
And then he ran again. Along the top of a ridge and around the side of a another, taller hill. The path narrowed so that he had to slow down. After several yards, the path switched back and continued climbing the hill. Fall leaves plastered over the dirt and made for a slippery ascent. Below, the lower path snaked back toward the deeper woods.
Someone appeared around the bend below him, looked up, and pointed a rifle. Trace accelerated, which he knew was a bad idea here.
After only two steps, his foot slid on a patch of leaves, and his entire body left the ground. His legs shot up in the air, his hands groped for anything to grab, the world seemed to spin. When he landed, something jabbed into his side, and he half rolled, half slid down the hill. He glanced off trees and tumbled roughly over rocks and stumps.
Until he stopped—harshly and suddenly. Something had caught his shirt and kept him from careening down the rest of the way. A knot formed in his stomach.
MG, SF
There were only two E-suits aboard, and Akiesha was wearing one of them. The Dragon was going to kill one or perhaps both of her friends if she didn’t do something. ‘It’s me he wants,’ she thought, ‘so I’ll give him me. Then the others can escape.’ Without a word she scrambled into the airlock.
“Hey? Where are you go…” Jordan’s question was cut off as the hatch clanged shut.
Akiesha hit the ‘depressurise’ lever and the pressure started to drop. Then it stopped and started to rise again.
“Princess what the heck do you think you’re doing?” came Magee’s voice on Akiesha’s suit-comm.
“I’m going to jump out. Pavelovitch will follow me and you can escape.”
“No way, Princess. I’m overriding the airlock pressure control valve. As soon as it equalizes you get your butt back in here.”
Akiesha looked at the pressure gage. Five hundred millibars and rising. In a few seconds the pressure would be equal to that inside the rover. She reached for the emergency release on the outer hatch, pulled it down and ...
BLAM!
All at once Akiesha was flying. The ground racing underneath looked kind of neat. Then she hit the rocky surface and stars exploded in her head. It took several seconds for her to regain her wits. ‘So that’s what explosive decompression is like,’ she thought. She looked back towards the rover. Magee was braking violently and the vehicle slid to a stop in the soft soil some thirty meters away.
As Akiesha got up she felt something wet on her face. Red dots speckled the inside of the toughened plastic and she tasted blood on her upper lip. Then she heard hissing and an alarm sounded in her headphones. Her suit was losing pressure! The next moment she saw why. A crack ran across her helmet visor. She had cracked her helmet and bloodied her nose.
“Akiesha! You get back here now! Can you hear me, Princess? Get back to the Beast. I won’t move until you’re back on board!”
In the distance she could see Pavelovitch’s flyer circling for another pass. At a dead stop, the Beast would be an easy target.
“Magee, take Jordie and get out of here! Get help! I’ve got all the evidence with me: the pictures and everything,” she shouted through her suit-comm, knowing that Pavelovitch would hear and hoping he would believe her lie. “It’s me the Dragon wants, so here I am! But he’s going to have to catch me first!”
Akiesha bolted away. She had no idea how much air remained in her suit, or how long it would last, but she intended to keep going until it ran out, or until Pavelovitch caught her. She ran as hard as she could, struggling to breathe through the blood in her nostrils, and struggling to move in the heavy suit.
I think I'll watch too, Other Lisa. Though, I thought the rules were pretty actiony as well.
A spectator scaled the wall and dropped into the bull ring, a tall man with a mane of silver wearing a collared white cotton jersey, black jeans, and cowboy boots. He motioned for the wounded matador to retreat, shouted to the bull.
“No more!”
That voice! Marilyn realized this was The Wizard. The cult leader confronted the animal ramrod straight, his steps sure and steady. The matador cocked his head at him, befuddled.
“No more!” The Wizard repeated.
The bull turned, pointing its blood-dipped horns at the new intruder. It scraped the earth with its forepaw, sending up a yellowish cloud of dust before a hefty snort pounded some of the dust back down into the ground.
The Wizard strode onward. Among the cult members surrounding Marilyn a deafening cacophony arose: burbling and crying and shrieking and shouting. Their leader was in peril.
Questions came to her in a torrent. Who is this man? What is he doing? Is he crazy? Is he suicidal? Or does he think he’s invulnerable? She tried asking Aura her questions, but couldn’t hear her own speaking voice above the din.
The Wizard motioned again for the matador to retreat. Instead, the bull fighter dutifully tried to gain the attention of the bull with a flap of his cape.
But it was too late. The bull had chosen the cult leader. With a sudden burst, the animal rocketed toward its latest nemesis, leaving a long thin, unbroken train of dust in its wake.
Marilyn gasped at the animal’s pace. The gap separating man from beast closed at an alarming rate. The speed, the ferocity, the red splotches of blood on its hide, and the madly flapping colored sticks poking out of its back transformed the beast into some kind of supernatural hellkite.
“Run!” Marilyn cried. “Get out of there!” In another two seconds, it would be too late for The Wizard.
The crowd noise unified into an anguished, ear-splitting wail. The Wizard kept coming, steadfast, on a collision course with the rampaging animal.
Fifteen yards to impact!
When The Wizard turned slightly and began to raise one arm, Marilyn felt a rush of hope. A gun! she thought. He must have a gun!
A split second later, she realized she’d been wrong. No gun. She watched, dumbfounded, as The Wizard assumed the stance of a traffic cop ordering a car to stop—right arm stiff, in front of his chest, the palm of his hand vertical.
Ten yards!
The bull continued its furious advance. The Wizard remained frozen in his traffic cop stance. Marilyn cringed, her eyes narrowing, anticipating the dreadful end of a shrewd though apparently quite insane cult leader.
Five yards!
The bull locked all four legs at once and came to a sliding halt, inches short of the unflinching maniac, whose only misfortune was to endure a heavy dust spray. The air cleared. The Wizard lowered the stop signal, and a moment later, a ton of animal flesh collapsed at his feet.
Eric Christopherson
From historical fiction WIP The Messiah Notebooks
‘What in God’s name⎯?’
‘Can’t tell you, sir,’ I said, and in a flash, had escaped his grasp. After so long struggling against knots, chains, restraints…another man’s hold is not such a tricky thing. I stood afar from them, poised at the door.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘You won’t see me again.’
And, in the next moment, I made my escape.
I felt as I had the night James died. Like then, my world spun and I did not even notice how the ground was pitched sideways, how I thundered down the stairs and half-crashed into the men waiting below. I broke free from the curious crowd and fell out into the street, shied away from the red uniforms that pressed in on all sides, the clamor of voices.
This need be on paper? James knows what I've done, James knows how I tried to kill the rogue--how I wanted him dead, and how I still do!
I still feel sick, and as wild as I did then, as I burst into the stables that lay adjacent to the inn. Startling the servants out of their roosts I seized the first saddled horse I saw, and despite their protests I kicked the poor animal out into the night. The horse was terrified, and shouts echoed behind me, riddled with gunshot. I had to escape now, with or without W⎯. I cursed martial law⎯Murat’s militia seemed on every street. The Kingdom of Naples would join the ranks of countries that would have a bounty on my head if I should ever attempt to return. But, just as on the night I fled Oxford, I was too drugged with fear to care.
The devil gripped me and threw my down the allies, around the corners of plazas, as I heard the ghostly echoes of hoofs behind me. The end of days rode with them, I was sure of it.
I flew onward.
I veered at a crossroad and gunshot erupted behind me. Volleys flew haphazardly as the hoofbeats multiplied and my steed panicked. Another rider collided with me, and my horse was sent sprawling. It tumbled over its legs and I spilled off onto the cobblestones.
I rolled across the ground, and sprang to my feet as men materialized across the square, armed, clad in uniform. I tried to twist out of the way of their guns, but in the next moment I had doubled over, groping at my left arm. The shock was so great I scarcely felt the pain there directly, but every other part of me did. I collapsed on the ground, shaking uncontrollably, sick from my own sweat. The men hauled me to my feet, and chained my hands together. The clamp of irons ripped the street from beneath me, and I was suddenly violently sick. I retched around their boots. I choked, and it seemed a whole company had lodged their bayonets in my chest.
From my WIP:
I turned my horse around, ready to get the hell out of there, when a fourth grenade went off behind me, shaking my bones and teeth. I felt death claw at my back, and then the world went silent. Blades crossed in front of me, horses stumbled in a screen of smoke, men’s mouths shouted words, but I heard none of it. I was on the path to the afterlife. Death was the only explanation for why my vision had narrowed into a long dark tunnel. And then Lt. Daniels rode up beside me and screamed at me to ride for the trees.
“Go!” he ordered, pointing with his sword.
Delivered from deafness, I heard the word lift off his lips and realized I wasn’t dead. Not about to ignore him a second time, I prodded my horse through the drifting smoke to the line of oaks on the right, as the lieutenant slashed at one of the devils who tried to chase. My horse broke for the trees, galloping in a zigzagged pattern as she maneuvered the wood. I hugged her neck and held on, diving to avoid low branches. We made it about a quarter of a mile into the thick of the trees when I heard the pounding of hooves behind me. I risked a look and saw the lieutenant riding hard to catch up. Three attackers followed.
That’s when it ignited: the flash of defiance that rises up in me whenever danger chases me down. I don’t turn from the fight. I meet it head on like a rock in a river. Perhaps it is nothing more than foolhardy daring that will get me killed one day, but every muscle in my body made me pull up on the reins and turn my horse around to end this. With only a second of surprise on my side, I hugged my legs tight around my horse and nocked an arrow against the bowstring. Daniels ran his horse hard right, breaking from the enemy, and I caught the first rider right where his heart ought to be.
I quickly set another arrow and drew my bow, arms tensed against the strain of wood and sinew. Riders hurtled toward me. Daniels leaned left and I prepared to release when his horse suddenly lurched. Hit from behind by an arrow to her hindquarter, his horse went down, throwing Daniels to the ground. I never saw him get up, but there was no time to find him. The second rider flattened out on his horse and charged straight at me. But arrows are quicker than horses. I stuck him just below the ribs and he fell from his saddle into the sea of ferns.
I had killed two of the assassins, and if I could kill the third I might just get away with my life. But I had made a dangerous mistake. The third rider had already stopped twenty yards in front of me, aiming his arrow true.
Jack freezes. His feet take root in the mud of the bank. His breath is snared in the back of his throat and it will. Not. Come. Out.
She’s a pale phantom on the black water, hair fanned over the surface, arms hooked open for an embrace that will never happen. His sister floats, weightless. A winter leaf.
Jack’s thoughts clamor. This is not real. This is not happening. It’s a dream. She's not dead! The plug! The boat plug!
It burns in his pocket, a cork lump as heavy as a mountain.
Jack crashes into the water, limbs flailing, slogging. He dives, surfaces and churns, arm over arm, gasping. Until his hand brushes her body. So cold.
He pulls her close, legs kicking furiously to keep from going under, and rolls her over. Her head lolls against his shoulder, blue lips fixed in a breathless gasp. Almost he screams, gulping water. He kicks hard for the shore, clawing water with one hand, towing her with the other. The bank is so far.
Fire kindles in his arms and legs and Jack slows, even as his heart races. The water is too thick, like swimming through molasses. He’s too weak. Too tired. The water climbs to his eyes, pushes into his nose with callous tendrils. He chokes and coughs. No!
He sinks. Mute darkness swallows him, but he keeps swimming in the same direction, pulling her. One more push … icy mud swallows his foot. He shoves to break the surface and sucks in a great gasp. Jack heaves, tugging under her arms, pulling with his back hunched, digging his heels until he slips in the muck onto his side.
Air chugs in and out of his lungs. For a moment, spots waver in front of his eyes. He scrambles to his knees and leans over his sister. Her slender form stretches down the slope of the bank, white dress clinging to her legs, trailing into the water. Like an enchanted lake princess from one of their games, caught in a spell. A curse.
“Sis?”
His voice is less than a whisper, deafening.
She won’t wake up. Her eyes are wide and vacant. She would have been looking for him, desperate and afraid as the boat sank. Flailing in the water. Trying to say his name, but choking. Her big brother. It’s his fault.
A terrible wail--short and piercing--flies over the water, shivers through the willow branches. His hand clamps over his mouth, cutting it off.
He doesn’t know what to do. His eyes dart to the trail that leads back to the house. It yawns emptily. Cold dread wraps around his spine, chokes all reason. Run! a voice shrieks inside him. Hide! He staggers to his feet and backs away, terrified, sinking deeper and deeper into the shadows that reach out from the silent trees.
An anxious breeze slithers between the trunks, wrinkles the black water. “Wicked,” it breathes from the trail.
Jack flees.
"Ah,"" said Konrad. "Anna Overbeck."
"Anna?"" said Saul. "Anna?"
"Vince," said Judith, standing. "Does Saul know about--"
He shoved an electronic card at her. "Go!"
Judith cleared the van and took off for the loading dock. She swiped the card and yanked open the door, finding herself in a corridor that roared with machinery and smelled like hot laundry. "Which way?"
"Right, second left, and down the hall," said Vince in her ear. "He'll be coming out on your right past the double doors--kick it down, Jude, he's moving."
She picked up speed, smacking into the wall on the last turn, barely missing a croupier and a cocktail waitress, and racing through the corridor to the double doors. She shoved through into the front lobby and had a split second to turn and brace herself before Saul slammed through the adjacent door.
Judith stepped in front of him. "Saul! Stand down!"
For a moment, she thought he would go through her and she prepared to make it as difficult as possible. But he stopped two feet away, looking over her head. "Move, Jayce."
"No."
"The bitch killed Mikey." His knuckles popped.
"She sure as hell helped. But if you go in there, best case, she'll make you and blow the job. Worst case, you'll be arrested for assault--"
"Homicide," he said through his teeth. "Justifiable."
"--and I'll be arrested for knocking you out. Don't make me defend her, Saul. Saul!" She snapped her fingers under his chin. He glared down at her, and she met his furious gaze with hers. "I swear once we're done, I'll help you track her down. But now isn't the time."
"What's going on here?" said a male voice.
"Security," said Cassie, appearing next to them. "The real thing."
"Blaine needs us," whispered Judith. "Don't let Anna kill him, too."
"Please, honey," whined Cassie, grabbing on Saul's arm. "That guy was drunk. He didn't mean what he said . . . he won't remember it tomorrow." She pushed herself in front of Judith and put a hand up to his cheek. "Please don't mess up this job for me." With her other hand, she pulled his employee badge off his blazer and passed it to Judith, who stuffed in her pocket and stepped back just as security arrived.
"What's the trouble?" he asked.
Cassie turned to him. "Nothing, I swear. I had a little trouble with a customer and Sam was just--Sam didn't understand that it's part of the job. He understands now, right, honey?"
"Understand?" growled Saul. His hand shot out, and Judith checked her instinct to block as he plucked the folded money from Cassie's cleavage. "He slips you a hundred and I'm supposed to take it lying down? Or is that what you're supposed to do?"
"Sam! He's a big tipper and a big talker, that's all."
Judith did a fade as Cassie and Saul started arguing with each other and the security guard.
--from WIP: The Pigeon Drop
It was all a pink-tinged haze until the last bar. It was a mistake to go in there. We were bouncing around trying to order margaritas and the bartender was explaining in a cold tone that they didn’t have them when the grey shirted pervert came up behind Candy. He didn’t have the grey t-shirt on anymore he’d switched it out for a tasteless white button down, in some pathetic attempt to attract a woman, but I knew it was him. Before I could even warn her, the coward had picked up a bottle and smashed it on the back of her head. She had been in the process of turning as he swung and he must have been pretty drunk, so the blow didn’t catch her full on. The bottle crashed down on the bar counter and shattered there, sending bits of amber glass and puddles of beer rolling across the counter. Candy’s head started bleeding but thank God for both of us she was not knocked out.
She turned around fast as a rope uncoiling and her fist connected with a shattering crunch straight into the pervert’s mouth. He reeled backwards spitting out teeth. She’s Muhammad Ali, I thought through a liquor-induced fog.
I was going to pass out- the world spun blearily around me- I grabbed the edge of the wooden stool and squeezed it, willing myself to stay conscious. Then another figure came barreling towards us from the murky masculine depths of the back room, “Bill!” He was coming towards Candy and the pervert who were now on the ground, rolling in a ball of muscle and blood and sweat. Something clicked in my mind. I knew Candy couldn’t fight two of them.
As he got closer the scene slowed, the endorphins in my brain burst like duck shot into my bloodstream. I balled up my fist, keeping my thumb on the outside like Carl had taught me, leaned my body backwards, bracing against the bar with my other arm and threw myself forward like a diver toward the pool. My fist connected with the man’s most sensitive region and he crumpled with a groan. At the same time, Candy landed the knock out blow to Bill-the-pervert and stood up. Her pink track jacket had smears of blood on it. Her hands shook. Silence surrounded us like a threat. All noise from the crowd had stopped. The shock of two women, one tall and one tiny, standing over two incapacitated men was so unreal that nobody, not even the bouncer, moved.
Here it goes.
Lydia shook her head and removed her hand from her weapon. The deer had returned. Very slowly, so as not to startle it, she sat. Laughing inwardly at her jumpiness, she reached into her pack and took out a chocolate chip cookie. As she brought the morsel to her lips, the deer lifted its head, its tail raised in alarm, and bounded away.
A fierce growl echoed around the glade. Before Lydia could drop the cookie and pull her gun, it leapt on her. Pain seared her right shoulder as the beast bit. Claws raked her legs and the momentum pushed her onto the ground beside the stump she’d leaned against a second before.
She tried to push the animal off. It released its grip on her shoulder, and she felt gashes open across her cheek and nose. She choked down the searing pain and fear and struggled to focus on her defense. Her left arm rose to protect her face. It wrapped its mouth around the arm and shook its head like a dog with a rag. Lashing out with her feet, she bucked and groped for her gun.
Cold metal pressed against her back where her shirt had ridden up. With great effort, she reached with her right hand, her left arm now useless. Her fingers slid around the grip, years of training coming to the fore and overshadowing the pain. She lifted the weapon and fired into the fur.
The beast barely yelped. She fired again. It released her arm. She shot again and again and again. Screams filled the air. Her vision swam and her strength ebbed. She was losing blood.
Another large creature leapt into the clearing.
“No,” she whimpered. Her strength completely gone, her gun fell from her fingers.
Blackness.
* * *
Gunshots rang through the woods from just ahead. He burst from the trees and leapt onto the hairy back of the staggering beast. Ryan sank his fangs into its flesh and yanked its head back.
Blood spurted and claws reached around in an attempt to dislodge him. They pierced the skin of his neck. Suddenly it flipped him onto the ground and the beast leapt atop him.
Ryan stabbed his claws into the beast’s abdomen just as teeth closed on his throat. Instead of the crushing bite he expected, the Bestial Butcher threw his head back in a howl of pain.
Using this opportunity, Ryan pushed his way to a standing position and slashed at the Butcher’s neck. Blood gushed from the wound. The beast grabbed its throat with one clawed hand and made to slash at Ryan with the other, but then at the last minute, it ran into the woods.
Ryan roared in frustration and started after it. However, a frightened moan behind him caught his attention.
Lydia lay on the ground, her gun in the grass next to her. Her eyelids fluttered. Puncture wounds on her shoulder glistened in the firelight. Ryan cursed. The beast had bitten her.
The Black Serpent
Horror/Fantasy
Prologue
Darkness. Ominous darkness. His wickedness encased me like a decaying corpse lying in a cold coffin. He’d been stalking me for seven days — the mysterious man whose face was often shielded by the night sky. His boots — I shuddered the first time I heard those cowboy boots shuffle across the cold, hard stone of the Mayan ruin. They were python with a medium box cut toe with a two-inch riding heel and a decorative vamp. With every step, they made a distinct click. He never took them off; he wore them all the time. It was as if the boots were an extension of his lengthy legs.
The stranger had intolerably good looks that he wore with a memorable swagger. Both were breathtakingly seductive with promise. And that promise was fulfilled when he sated my every desire. He bequeathed beauty, youth and sexuality. These gifts flooded me with unshakeable confidence; in fact, I bathed in it. And after I’d absorbed it, I radiated a power unattainable by human standards. But tonight, under the hot canopy of the jungle, my shadow, my stalker, my lover has come to collect. He has come to collect a debt.
The dagger. His dagger — a symbolic vessel to an evil world, lied dormant inside his hiding place. Sheathed inside his black oilskin duster for isolation and maximum protection, the blade alone measured twenty-inches in length with a full ten pounds of tempered steel. On the gold handle gleamed elegant and intricate carvings that reminded me of a complicated road map leading to a final destination. The blade too was decorated, sporting a symbolic crest — the Serpent — the Black Serpent. The Black Serpent snaked down the blade’s center until at the blade’s tip, the Black Serpent’s jaws spilled opened, revealing a dark world where evil ruled.
The Rubies. The Rubies set as the Serpent’s eyes were a beautiful deep rich red hue as intense as they were desirable and hypnotic. Their brilliance penetrated the darkness, casting an eerie light in the blackness of night. The Rubies could see where no mortal man’s eyes could see. Like their owner, the Rubies roamed the night, scanning for souls. They were his eyes — Da’Vari’s eyes. The Rubies paused their restless sweeping when I came into view, the stones glittering with excitement as if this scene had become all too familiar. The Serpent was alive. And, it became clear to me that the dagger was Da’Vari’s soul.
The Diamonds. Princess-cut white diamonds lay on the Serpent’s forked tongue. The tongue exploded with a sparkle as rare as the diamonds themselves. I could see them even when Da’Vari was in silhouette, stoking a fire that burned behind me. The air was clouded with thick dark smoke. Gripped tightly in his left hand, the Black Serpent dagger hissed as the flames burned and grew taller. Da’Vari flung stones with the dagger’s tip with the gentle ease of a calm whisper.
The Minotaur's breath was hot and moist on the back of Theseus's neck. His legs burned, but in another moment he would reach the outside wall of the labyrinth and the corner where the masonry had crumbled just enough to give him a foothold. At least, he hoped it would.
He could not hear anything but the monster’s grunts and thudding footfalls. Theseus jumped, his nails scraping against the bricks, somehow finding purchase as he hauled himself up. The Minotaur howled with rage beneath him. From the top of the wall, he could see his sword, half covered in dust, two turns back. Somehow, he had managed to keep hold of the string. The Minotaur bellowed and paced beneath him. He would never make it to the sword before the creature was upon him.
Theseus wrapped a length of the string around each hand, standing on the edge of the wall. He could leap over the other side, but Minos would only throw him back into the maze. No, he had to finish this now, but it would require more precision than he was certain he had left in him. He silently thanked Poseidon for Ariadne's help.
He dropped, landing on the beast's shoulders, his weight forcing it to the ground and the dirt. A horn tore into his bicep, but he ignored the blood. Theseus pulled the string taught around the creature's neck, a knee in the animal's back. Let it hold, Father.
The blood was hot down his arm and the Minotaur heaved, trying to throw him free. The string sunk deep into the throat of the beast. The animal’s bellows turned into guzzled gulps, and the dusty ground became red mud from the beast’s blood. Long after the Minotaur had stopped struggling, Theseus stared at the red-black puddle as it grew, until his fingers were numbed by the string wrapped around them. Too long. Minos would have his throat slit, if he was found.
He rose to his feet, pulling the string free from the monster, causing a fresh spurt of blood to flow, and disentangled it from his hands. He did not think this was what Ariadne had intended when she had given the string to him, but it had served.
Theseus retraced his steps back to his sword and then followed the path of the string back through the turns and twists of the labyrinth. His arm ached, hanging as if deadened by the time he reached the entrance. Ariadne’s eyes widened and her lips pressed together into a thin line at the sight of him. He fell to his knees before her and bowed his head. Her fingers moved through his hair, light and gentle.
He raised his eyes to hers, but did not touch her, for he had no wish to smear her with its foul blood. "The Minotaur is dead."
She nodded and bent, taking hold of him by his good arm and helping him to his feet. "Then we must hurry."
The Servant
Urban Horror
Usually when the racks made her nervous she just pictured herself in an alpine meadow ringed with trees and craggy peaks. There she would sit and watch as the sun began to dip behind one of the mountains sending the warm glow of twilight across the lush green, gold, and lavender hues of the meadow. Immersed in a field of wildflowers she could feel the lazy touch of a soft summer breeze brush against her cheek carrying with it the scent of ripening blooms. It was a good image and it always left her with a warm woodsy feeling. But today, no matter how hard she tried, the racks at the rear of the room just felt big and gloomy.
She was reaching to replace a large volume analyzing the works of nineteenth century poets when she heard it again. Click-click, Click-click, Click-click. The sound was the same as before, only closer. Straightening, she peered nervously into the surrounding shadows. They revealed nothing. She had a distinct and eerie feeling that the owner of the sound had been secretly watching her from behind the racks, when she had gotten too close it had moved away. Whatever it was, it didn't want to be seen.
Carefully she moved to the end of the narrow aisle and peered around the corner. Nothing. Silently she ran through the possibilities in her mind, whatever it was it wasn't large, and it certainly wasn't human. The door was locked so it had to have entered the room by some other more circuitous route, probably through the ducting or the endless profusion of pipes that ran across the ceiling. There was only one creature that she knew of that was capable of such an acrobatic feat; a rat. She was certain that’s what it was. Her unseen companion was probably nothing more than a common rat that had found its way down from the street along the tangled mass of duct work that ran throughout the building.
She breathed a sigh of relief, and smiled to herself pleased with her own powers of deductive reasoning. Sherlock Holmes beware. When she finished she would leave a note for Deborah to get an exterminator in before the little bugger could chew up any of the texts. Many of them were bound in real leather and a rat would have a field day gnawing on the bindings. It had happened once before and the damage had been terrible.
Relieved to have solved the mystery she returned to the cart and began replacing texts on the shelves. Less than a minute later she again heard the rat scurrying across the tiled floor. Click-click, Click-click, Click-click, it moved quickly behind the book cases just opposite where she was working. Glancing behind her she saw nothing other than the dark shadows that loomed and fell across the end of the aisle.
Chiding herself for being silly, after all it was just a rat, she again began replacing books. Click-click, Click-click.
The earless hound cocked its head, as if she were a puzzle to figure out. Nashlin found herself drawn to it, wanting to stroke its back. The red eyes seemed familiar somehow. She reached her open palm toward it, but jerked it back when the hound answered her gesture with barred teeth. A jagged white ridge of fur rose on its back, but it made no move toward her. When the hound behind it let out a bark, Earless snapped at it before returning its pitiless gaze at Nashlin.
Somehow, Nashlin remembered the use of her legs and backed away. Edging around the intersection, she found her way to the passage leading up and continued walking backward until the two hounds disappeared behind a rocky bend. They made no move to follow. They just watched her. Once out of sight, Nashlin whirled and sprinted up the passage. Tears streamed down her cheeks and she prayed that if Akmon would show her the way out, she would never again enter his underground domain. Her feet pounded up the steps carrying her upward until she saw the serpentine lamps. The sarcophagus door was open. The thrill of discovery was cut short when a distant howl echoed from below. A heartbeat later it sounded again, closer. Her fingers found the edge of the opening and she pulled herself through. She gave the sarcophagus a shove to close it, but it didn’t budge. The howls sounded again and sent her dashing into the night. She quickly lost herself in the mist among the towering tombs.
Nashlin didn’t stop running until the wall encircling the cemetery loomed before her. Somewhere in the distance, the baying continued but the mist diffused the sound making it come from all directions and none. She glanced down the wall face in both directions. The gate could be either way, or she could be on the complete opposite end of the cemetery, she didn’t know. Instead, she searched out finger and toe holes in the wall and climbed.
She glanced back when she straddled the wall top, fearing to find the hounds grinning up at her but found nothing. The cemetery looked like a sea of mist with the tops of the taller mausoleums poking through like stranded islands. Some were topped with figures, statues most likely, but after what she had seen tonight, she wasn’t assuming anything. She leapt down, landed in a roll, and didn’t stop running until she burst into inn’s common room.
Ignoring the innkeeper’s questions about the late hour, Nashlin dashed up the stairs and unlocked the door to her room. She slid the bolt back into place once she was inside. Nashlin turned to watch the door, expecting it to burst open at any moment. Without taking her eyes from the rough wood, she backed away until her heel touched the far wall. Sliding to the ground, she hugged her knees to her chest, all the while watching, waiting, shivering.
Here we go, from a recent WIP. Why not?:
She scaled the railing--intended to keep people from falling down that open-air column to their deaths--and angled her body to land three floors down. With a heavy gasp she pushed off and flew. Rather graceful, she thought--although her crooked landing would have snapped any mortal's ankles. Sure enough, the thief was two hundred feet ahead, racing down a hallway illuminated by security lights, devoid of living things. He was fast. Not Gavin, then, but she would not be shocked if this individual was connected to him. To validate her suspicions, she called his name: "Gavin!"
He did not stop, but his footsteps faltered. From this distance, Anna could not be sure it was a "he"; distinguishing characteristics were hard to make out, even for her eyes. But the reaction--the fact there was a reaction at all--sealed away any vestiges of doubt. He recognized the name, and Anna had heard enough preaching about destiny to believe this was no coincidence.
She began again, relentless. That is, until she approached one of the central staircases open all the way to the skylight. The light was graying, lightening; day approached. Damn. The thief raced on, unconcerned with the danger. Why he was still in the building? Her instincts told her to exit as quickly as possible, especially if the hated sun was so near. With it would come a large influx of workers, increasing the likelihood of detection; she was surprised she had heard only one shout as they raced by at speeds ludicrous for humans, and certainly for scientists accustomed to labs forty-plus hours a week.
This hallway intersected with another ahead. As expected, the leech turned left. When she caught up and looked down the perpendicular corridor, he had disappeared. She cursed before glancing around. He could have gone down any of the smaller hallways branching off, or ducked into an office.
She crept until she reached another of those central staircases. Her eyes flickered to the skylight, judging the encroaching day: she needed to get out of here or hide. More footsteps now: people arriving for work, their sounds drowning out the thief. She straightened up to resume her search when something hit her back, like a slap and a stab all at once. Her body couldn't figure out how to react. She braced her hands against the railing she was now bent over, and had just succeeded in facing her attacker when he ducked down, grabbed her feet, and flipped her over. She reached out but grasped only air. Damn. This wouldn't be fatal. It wouldn't even hurt. She hit the floor with a crunch, and it took her only a moment to realize this stairway went down to the main entrance. Her adversary had planned this well. If she moved, she would reveal herself as inhuman. If she allowed them to move her, they would discover that the crunch had not been her bones smashing, but the cement and tiles beneath her.
Now that Quinn was playing the hunter, not the hunted, she felt much more comfortable. Her steps were quick, graceful, and almost silent. The darkness was a problem, she could see well enough to avoid trees and major obstacles, but a forest floor is made of smaller tangles.
After a few steps though, her magic kicked in, compensating for the dark. She flowed then, a silent figure running seemingly effortlessly through the trees. Each trunk that passed her gave her a little thrill, small currents of air caressing her as she came close enough to stroke those living avatars forests soul. She ran through that soul, on a path all her own.
Now if she could just catch Andy in time.
She was aware of Andy up ahead, the magic made her aware. She ran a path, and he was the X on her map, the destination of her road. She would catch him, but though she knew where he was with every changing footstep, she didn’t know where he was headed. They were racing, she towards her goal and he to his, and it was uncertain who would win.
She was also aware of Feathers following behind. He moved nearly as quickly as she, but he moved like a beast, flowing from tree to tree in a subconscious desire to always stay close to cover. Her path was straighter, truer, and he had taken a moment’s pause before starting after her. He would not catch her.
Still, there was a certain thrill in being chased. It made the magic of the run throb, giving it a poignant flavor that seemed to roll over her tongue and pour through her blood.
She could just make Andy bounding up ahead now. Her focus narrowed, tunnel vision with her target at its center. Despite the intensity of her intent, the woods seemed to lighten some. Maybe from the magic filling her, maybe from the hope that she could stop all this before it went horribly wrong.
Andy stopped sudden and hard, body rigid.
He had won the race, and they were all lost.
The Dream Player
YA Thriller
Dustin scanned the area and crouched back down. “We’re playing against the Duwali kids from the Plateau. We’re destroying them. See all these bandanas on the death tree? These are the ones we’ve killed.”
Jake ran a hand up and down the knots and tails. “Killed?”
“Yeah,” Dustin said through clenched teeth. “They’re dead when you rip off their bandana. Only one’s left. Wanna run with us?”
“Maybe next time.”
“Suit yourself. But watch out for the Duwali. They’re savages. If you’re not careful—” Dustin peered out one more time and slapped Jake on the shoulder. “Cool hair, by the way. I’ll catch you later.” After a few clunky strides, he was gone.
Jake stood, wiped his damp palms on his shorts and patted down his long curls. Should he join in? Nah, he should get back to his grandparents’ before they realized he was gone—or Lilly ratted him out.
He left the cover of his tree and headed back across the street.
But a cloud of night spray coalesced in his path.
“Dustin?”
Jake stepped back as a figure materialized from the mist. It was a dark-skinned boy, shirtless, and marked with war paint on his chest and face. His build was muscled and thin and he wore shredded jeans and sneakers. A red bandana dangled from his left arm. Some dark symbol painted on his torso swelled and shrunk with his breaths. His eyes never blinked.
Jake looked around for Dustin—or anyone.
The boy cupped his hands and shouted a piercing war cry into the night sky.
Jake’s feet tingled. It felt as if energy from the earth was zapping his entire body.
Other voices joined in from the surrounding darkness, blasting the valley with echoing cries. Jake didn’t know why, but every cell in his body wanted the kid’s bandana. His stomach fluttered. Play or be played, his dad used to say.
Jake slowed his breath.
He lunged for the boy’s armband, but the boy pulled away with a cool smile. Jake smiled back and shook out his ankle. It was tight, but okay.
He dove again, but the boy—the hunted—darted away, and Jake—now the hunter—exploded after him.
The boy’s surprise changed to laughter as he ran.
Sure, mock the new kid.
Jake wanted the kid’s life. The boy was fast, but Jake stayed with him—plowing through the yards of neighbors he hadn’t yet met. His first night in Sleepy Valley and he was sneaking out, trespassing, and probably lost.
He didn’t care. He needed speed. Anything and everything for speed.
The Duwali boy used his knowledge of the neighborhood to his advantage. He slipped through fence openings and hurdled hedgerows, tumbling, turning, and tearing to keep his “life.”
The chase led Jake out of the neighborhood and into a patch of woods. He entered slowly as the canopy masked the moonlight. His breathing quieted while his eyes adjusted. The boy was there, he could feel his presence.
Oh this looks like fun! Enclosed is the action sequence entry. Thanks so much!
C.
Action Sequence:
The water....I must reach the water...
My thoughts raced like a whirlwind; I stumbled, quick to catch myself as I fell against the needle covered path that I had been careful to memorize in previous days. I pushed upwards and ran; heavy branches slapped back against my flushed skin while my steps propelled me through their gauntlet.
Silence. That was the first thing I shattered as I barreled down to the water’s edge, my feet pounding as I snapped the less fortunate branches just before the shore spread out in front of me. The relief made me careless. Able to forget the sounds of hooves and the howls of the dogs that followed so close behind me.
At the last, it was the roots that captured me. Not the Witchfinders. My ankle twisted and tangled with one so thick that it snaked upward off the ground. I slammed to the earth; the snapping of a bone in my foot mirrored the sound those branches had made behind me, only moments before.
My pursuers, dogs and men alike, were on top of me before I could move. The group of men who prided themselves on capturing the evil witches of England grabbed me up with rough hands. Their leader pulled his steed to a halt before us.
No introductions were needed between us. For I knew to fear him for his great evil as well as he knew to fear me for mine.
Matthew Hopkins. England’s own Witchfinder General.
His thick blonde hair was shoved beneath a hat that sat askew from his ride. His dark eyes glared down at my green ones before he spoke.
“Bridget Sinclair. You are hereby placed under arrest by order of his Royal Majesty for the crimes of witchcraft and consorting with the Devil. You are to come with us at once.”
As if I had a choice in the matter. As if my woman’s voice had a place amongst them.
The fear coursing through me revived my strength, helped me forget about my broken ankle. Such a charge was not unexpected. Nearly every unwed woman in Colchester had been named as a witch; falsely accused, near all of them.
Except this time, they had found what they were after.
A Chosen One.
A witch.
But to go to my death with ease, without struggle, was something that I could never do.
I would not do.
Rough hands restrained my arms behind me with sleek leather bonds, but my palms opened as I called forth to the waters that lined the shores to my back. I could hear them churning behind me. Rising at my command.
If the Great Goddess was ever needed by me, it was at this moment.
Bright sunlight flooded the room, and Mother Renee snapped awake. Blinking her eyes madly, she pointed a gnarled hand at Jack and Helen, and cried out, “No! You cannot leave! Door, close!”
For the briefest moment, Jack thought they were done for. If Gedrall was right, and she was one of the three ancient witches, then a simple matter of closing a door from across the room should be no trouble. Jack, Helen and Mother Renee stood frozen for an instant, waiting for the inevitable clanking of the door.
The sound never came, and the door remained open. Blinking with surprise, Mother Renee mumbled a curse under her breath, fixed her walking stick in front of her, and began to move forward toward Jack and Helen. She muttered to herself in a language Jack didn’t understand as she approached, cracked lips moving fast and spewing spittle down the front of her blouse.
Jack, snapping into action, flung himself towards the door as Mother Renee hobbled across the room. Just before he stepped foot outside however, the stone in his tunic began to burn, scorching his side in a blazing fire. Clutching at the spot with his free hand, Jack fell to his knees, all the while pushing Helen out the front door into the sunlight. “You need to get out of here!” Jack screamed.
“What happened? Why aren’t you coming? Jack, what’s wrong?” Helen shrieked.
Mother Renee limped closer, closing in on Jack and Helen at an alarmingly quick pace for one so old. “You cannot leave us, not now!” she screeched.
Jack struggled to get up, to throw himself out the door, but the intensity of the stone’s heat kept him in place.
“Jack!” Helen screamed, tugging at his arm through the doorway.
Mother Renee was nearly upon him now.
“Come on!” Helen screeched, tears pouring down her cheeks.
“I can’t,” Jack cried, panic etched across his face, his side feeling as though it were being charred through.
Mother Renee reached Jack, and laid a bony hand on his shoulder in a grip far stronger than Jack would ever have expected. “Back, back, back,” she said, cackling at Helen. “Back inside, dear, or your man here gets it!”
“Don’t come back in,” Jack warned. “I’ll stay.” Then, to Mother Renee, “Let her go!”
“No, no, no, that won’t do, Marifissa and Dravidia will be so disappointed. Inside, inside, come back inside,” Mother Renee said, tightening her grip on Jack’s shoulder, but reaching with her other skeletal hand towards the doorway where Helen stood immobile with indecision.
Mother Renee couldn’t quite reach Helen and keep a grip on Jack’s shoulder, and so she was left gesturing with her free hand, pulling at the air as though she could grip an invisible rope around Helen’s waist and force her back inside.
“Come back in, or your man here will suffer the consequences, dear. Now, we wouldn’t want that, would we?” Mother Renee said, gesturing and still pulling ineffectively at the invisible rope.
He traced the pile to the summit, where a man’s broken body lay spread eagle. A claw-mark across his face revealed the stark cavity of his nose and cheek. Larn didn’t want to linger, but the wide-eyed expression held him in place. The dead man must have seen his attacker as a blur of jointed claws, and then darkness. Did the empty face of a construct taint the vision he took to his afterlife? Why hadn’t they closed his eyes?
A fat crow settled on the man’s head and spread its wings in a dark crown. It aimed its beak and started to jab at his brow.
Larn heard himself cry out. Without thinking, he stepped across a limp arm and hoisted himself up the pile of bodies. He grabbed for the hands that stuck out farthest, trying not to wonder if he felt their fingers close around his own. By the time he reached the summit, he could barely breathe through the choking stench of gore. One of the dead man’s eyes shone between the points of a black beak, which glared at Larn with the crow’s attention.
“Give it back to him!”
The crow spread its wings and cawed, sending the eye rolling down the corpse’s collar. The bird wrapped bundles of hair in its talons.
Treachery extended from Larn’s hand and caught the light of campfires below. He didn’t recall drawing the blade from its scabbard. “Now leave.”
The crow’s beady eyes flicked to the sword and back to Larn. It cawed once more, bristling the feathers across its back.
The weight of the sword carried Larn’s entire body with the swing, but he felt the impact hit its mark. An explosion of feathers coated the pile, sticking to his face and arms. The other crows started to shriek and pace, never leaving their prize collection of meat except when they took to the air in short, panicked bursts.
Someone called out from below: “Crowslayer!”
More of the camp’s soldiers stopped to turn their sleepless eyes to the corpse pile. They smiled up at Larn and cheered, raising their weapons over their heads. A few carbine rifles went off in the air, sending up drifts of powder. “Crowslayer!”
Larn paused his attack to look out on the camp. Wet feathers coated the edge of his blade. He raised the tip to point at the nearest soldier. “I want these bodies placed in lines, and their eyes closed. Their part in this war is over. They shouldn’t have to watch you canter like dogs. Funeral rights at morning muster.”
The soldier below wore more buckles and badges than Larn, but grinned and nodded in spite of it. “You’re a better man than I, Crowslayer.”
A man? Larn tested the idea as he wiped the blade across his sleeve, where it left a red-black trail in its wake. He supposed that standing atop a mountain of corpses tended to put on a few years.
Qui fought nausea. Refusing to panic, he sent scattered thoughts to identify the source of the pain. Safe? It seemed not. What had gone wrong? Necessary vigilance was impossible. Pain locked him down. Sudden, unexpected, wet: the back of his head, the base of his spine, radiated heat, and agony.
“Crap! Knocked out cold shouldn’t be so cold! Are you moving? If you don’t move, I’m leaving. You take the flack. You hear?”
Qui shook to the rhythm of the hands on his shoulders, agony ripped along receptors to the extremes of his brain.
“I can’t leave you, didn’t ask you to be here. If you don’t move now – I’ve got to shift.”
More pain, the internal rippling, Qui knew his body would respond.
“Hey? Man? You hear me? We have got to go.”
His body was his, Qui clenched his fingers, shrugged his shoulders. He rocked away from the wall. Water dripped, but the relentless spray thudded against the figure that knelt beside him. He struggled with multiple sources of physical pain, clung to the fraying fragments rent by deeper, layered agony... pains with psychological stems. Maybe it was true, he was warfed with failure.
Qui opened his eyes. Blinded by harsh light and close green, he snapped his lids down. Irradiated by both glares, he absorbed and recovered. Gathered detail from chaos. Black tiled floor and pupils. White walls stained with grey streaks and water stains. Green eyes cowering from the strip light... and realisation.
Hands, hot and desperate, forced their way under his arms, pulled. Water sprayed over him washed under him, wasteful. The fingers dug a little tighter, suddenly released.
“Stay, then.”
“I’ll come – with you.”
Anger?
“Yeah, right.”
His words were wrong?
“I...”
When the full force of water caught him Qui head ricocheted against the wall and away.
“Wait?” He pushed against the tiles, away from the insistent spray.
One foot slipped, Qui felt himself losing ground. A warm hand curled under his elbow, a shoulder curved into his back. The jacket’s crackling surface grated at his skin. He stumbled with the pressure, felt the soft beneath the hard. Girl. She was soft, beneath the hard.
Qui cracked his knee against a low bowl, caught an arm against a pipe.
One hand, the one wrapped around his elbow tugged him away from the edge of the room while the other grabbed skin with his tee-shirt.
“Ah!” The sound forced itself through his lips, a physical failure.
“Sorry.”
She pushed him against a frame and the wall, tugged at a long metal bar. Qui felt the door release, choked as the levels of oxygen increased, shivered. His cells were saturated. While he tried to piece together his most recent past, he chased individual thoughts. Disorientated, his oxygen enriched brain swam. Leaning against the smooth wood and smoother surfaces, Qui check off the things he knew: alive; thinking; moving. This was unexpected.
Legend of Diablo
By Fat Bastard
Comedy/Action-Adventure
Diablo drove up in a 1960 black Chevy Pie Wagon like a lazy shark. It was decked out hot rod custom style with flames painted down the sides and hood. It had mud splattered on the back plate that read: hot. Disco music blared from the car’s speakers. Python cowboy boots emerged from the driver’s side. Wrapped in a black oil duster with chiseled hair, he stretched and yawned as he stepped out of the car. A trio of scantily clad sex kittens ran up, fawning over him like teenage groupies to a rock star. The Sex Kitten Trio wore black mid-drift football jerseys with the name Hell Cats written on the back with the numbers one, two or three written on the front.
Diablo protected his obnoxiously huge and obviously fake diamond bling shaped like a key. This fake diamond key looked like something a rapper would buy in Chinatown. “Don’t touch my bling,” he barked at the sex kitten trio. He stroked the key like he was brushing a show dog for competition. The trio of sex kittens were three young, deliciously hot females with orange membrane-like bat-wings, whiskers and pink dragon tails.
Diablo marveled at his reflection in a smoke-stained oval-mirror that had the word evil embossed in gold above it. Grinning, he placed his costume red devil horns on his shiny crown of hair and attempted to light a candy cigar in his mouth with a lighter that had a logo of a red devil. The candy cigar wouldn’t light and he tossed it on the floor towards grandpa’s direction. One of the sex kittens handed Diablo a red folder marked: changed mind. Diablo tossed the folder on the ground and stomped on it like a fifth grader not getting his way. “My reputation’s at stake!”
The kitten frowned. Diablo turned his attention to grandpa who he held for ransom. Grandpa sat tied up at the base of the volcano, which at dangerously high temperatures would erupt and send massive amounts of hot, melting lava his way. Diablo walked over to a panel with three red control knobs that had temperature gauge readings.
The first knob read: ‘hot.’ The second knob read: ‘very hot.’ The third knob read: ‘damn not.’ Diablo cranked the first knob. Grandpa peered up at the billowing smoke and shooting ash. He tried to wiggle loose from the ropes. But, it was no use. The candy cigar was jammed in Diablo’s mouth. He animated when he spoke like he was playing the game, Charades. “Where’s my sword?”
Grandpa endured the obvious pain. “Go to hell, Diablo.”
Diablo removed the cigar, “I’m two steps ahead of ya, grandpa.”
First, congratulations to Lisa whose Rock Paper Tiger is generating such great buzz. And, thanks Nathan, for a fun contest. Here goes:
Dressed in a favorite blouse with oversized faux-pearl buttons, I rushed through my scheduled interview with a wildlife conservation lobbyist to arrive at the Governor’s Albany mansion half an hour early.
Julia Sattler, the Governor’s press secretary, greeted me with a handshake. “You’re early.”
A smear of peach-colored lipstick marked her front tooth and I fought the urge to brush a finger across the slick surface of my own teeth. “I don’t mind waiting.”
“No, no.” She smiled. “On the contrary, the Governor will be delighted. His son’s Little League game starts in an hour.”
She led me to the Governor’s office.
He smiled; his politico-perfect teeth mocking Julia’s. “Ms. Gray. Nice to see you again.” He stood from his desk and shook my hand. “I understand Jim Rothberg had more pressing matters.”
I returned his smile, both in greeting and in appreciation for his remembrance of me. “Yes.”
“Julia, make a note to send a gift.”
“Of course,” she said and gestured for me to sit down. “Do you know if his wife had a boy or girl?”
“A boy.” I set my tape recorder on his desk. “Their second.”
“Speaking of boys.” The Governor pointed to a spot beyond me.
I turned and saw the Governor’s son wearing his Little League uniform and a youthful exuberance that would do Norman Rockwell proud.
“Hello,” I said.
The boy raced toward his father. “Are you coming to the game?”
“Ryan, I told you. I’ll be there,” the Governor said. “Now, say hello to Ms. Gray. She’s a magazine reporter and writes a monthly column about children’s law.”
Ryan’s eyes brightened. “About kids my age?”
I smiled. “Yes, kids your age.”
“Cool.”
The Governor winked at me. “I think you’ve gained a f...” His focus shifted away from me and the color drained from his face.
I turned to the direction of his gaze. My immediate thought that the sports-clothed stranger who stood behind Julia was the Little League coach vanished when a flash of silver appeared at Julia’s neck replaced by a thin red line. Only when the line grew into a waterfall of horror did I react.
I scrambled from my seated position and rushed forward. The assassin grabbed me from behind. He wielded his knife toward my throat and the blade deflected off the top button of my blouse and sliced my collar bone. I dropped to my knees as my seeping blood turned the teal color of my blouse into an ugly shade of puce. I fell to my side and watched in gruesome disbelief as the man produced a second knife and aimed it above the number eight embossed on Ryan Manola’s uniform.
In agony, I squeezed my eyes shut. I held my breath and willed my nostrils not to flair at the pungent odor of blood and urine that now cloaked the room. As consciousness began to fade, I was certain the death I was faking would become reality.
The driver squealed with delight as he took the turn at twice the posted speed limit. He slotted the Lamborghini LM002 through Alexandria’s rush hour traffic like a man on a mission. This made sense, as he was.
“I am coming, destiny! I salute your patience in my worthy endeavor!” Then he actually saluted. Not some spit-shined, regulation quoting salute, but one that would be right at home in a Gilbert and Sullivan operetta. This, unfortunately, forced him to choose between letting go of the steering wheel, or the cheese Danish in his other hand.
The SUV jerked to the left when he let go of the wheel. Cars going the opposite direction swerved out of his way, honking and shaking their fists as he barreled past, but for the man known as the Generalissimo, this was a small price to pay to protect one’s baked goods.
His phone began playing Sir Mix-a-lot’s “Baby Got Back”. He pressed the button on the steering wheel to answer his phone.
“You have reached the Generalissimo! If you feel you have reached me in error, please hang up, and dial again!”
“Damn it, Generalissimo, what the hell is going on?” The voice on the other end was more than just familiar to the Generalissimo: he’d pledged his undying loyalty to the angry man whose cheese Danish he was in the process of eating.
“Mon Presidénte!” He saluted once again, just as he was in the middle of illegally passing a transit bus on the right. Without its master’s deft inputs, the Lamborghini shot onto the sidewalk. The Generalissimo released the salute in time to catch the wheel and avoid striking an elderly couple out for their morning walk. Their bag of fresh fruit was not so lucky.
“It is good of you to call!” he cried as two apples and a banana bounced off the hood.
“Where is it?”
“It would help me greatly should you choose to narrow the parameters of your righteous inquiry!”
“The memory chip, Generalissimo. Where is it?”
“My comrade in arms has it!”
“Thank God.”
“He’s about to be robbed of the device in question!”
“What?!”
The Generalissimo’s voice lowered, taking on a more menacing tenor. “I am following his progress as we speak, but I fear that my remedy presents as many problems as resolutions. If it is within my power, mon Presidénte, I will keep it out of the hands of those wretched villains, those serpents of doom, those purveyors of excrement, those—”
“Damn it, Generalissimo!” the President barked. “Just get it back!”
“Your wish is my command! Now, if you will excuse me, I need to finish my Danish before I get to work!”
“Wait, are you the one that stole my Danish? How did you get in here? Answer me!”
“I’m going through a tunnel!” He wasn’t. “You’re breaking up!” Again, he wasn’t. “Wish me well in this valiant undertaking!”
“Generalissi—”
He hung up on his Commander in Chief.
BLOW FORWARD
Thriller
Lizzie glanced out of the window and peered into the night. Something made her heart skip a beat. In the night illuminated dimly by the parking lot lamps, a pair of human silhouettes glided through the shadows of the trucks. She couldn’t make out their faces. It could be a trucker and a lot lizard.
When she gazed up again, turning her attention away from her meal, she noticed that a man stood next to her rig watching her. A car slid by between them, and when she looked again, the man was gone. A moment later, another figure appeared next to her truck, looked both ways, and then began moving quickly to the back of a flatbed parked a few feet away from hers.
Almost at once she experienced a rush of adrenaline. Her truck was her home, her life. She rose quickly, tossed a twenty-dollar bill and the napkin on the table and hurried out of the restaurant.
“Hey, honey,” the waitress called after her. “Are you okay?”
Lizzie didn’t answer. What if she were putting her life in danger? On the other hand, it could be her imagination. It could be a truckers headed for their rigs. Either way, she had to find out.
In seconds she was running. She ran through the parking lot, past a few parked trucks, around a Winnebago. She saw the men disappear behind a row of trucks. She ran faster, her arms pumping hard. She was gasping for air. She was horrified of what she’d see when she finally drew close enough to the back of the truck. In the shadows by the side of a parked truck, she crouched ever lower and held her breath.
She stopped to listen, and then she cut behind one of the trucks and see if she could get a good view of her truck from there. The figure reappeared behind her truck, an alert form, nearly lost to the thickening night. She leaned back, causing her to retreat deeper into the shadows and press her back against the tire of an 18-wheeler, feeling its roughness on her back.
What if she were putting her life in danger? On the other hand, it could be her imagination. It could be another trucker headed for his truck.
They seemed to appear out of nowhere. Nearly jumping out of her skin, she spun around to find them standing close.
Their faces emerged from the shadows. One of the men came forward. “We want to talk to you.”
His disarming smile left her cold. “About what?” It wasn’t until he got closer that she recognized the dark, brooding eyes. It took another second to place him at the warehouse, only this time he was wearing jeans and baseball caps. He looked so ordinary. A puzzled look came over her face.
Lizzie started. “You . . .”
The below is my entry at 497 words.
“One…two… three...” George said as he twisted the knob on his locker, concentrating on getting the numbers right. Satisfied, George opened his locker.
It didn’t take long for George to identify the items he needed to take home, and it took him even less time to put the items in his backpack.
As George was turning away from his locker, he heard an almost silent crunch underfoot, almost as if he’d stepped on a chip. Lifting his foot, George saw it was simply folded piece of paper that he’d stepped on.
“Must have fallen out of my locker,” George reasoned, bending over to get the paper and read it. Careful so as not to rip it, George opened the paper and read the scrawl of words there: He’s coming for you George. Get out. Now.
George had been mentally compiling a list of possibilities that the paper could be, including a note from a friend, a teacher, a love note. Never on the list would George have thought to put warning to save his life.
Dismissing the note as a joke his friends were playing, George hastily stuffed the note into his locker, no longer taking the care he had been earlier. Closing his locker behind him, George turned and began to walk off. He only got ten feet from his locker before the lights went out, leaving him in the pitch-black darkness.
Slowly, a glow began to fill the hallway, growing brighter with every passing second. It took George only a minute to realize that the glow was coming from his locker.
Cautiously, George crept over to his locker and opened it. There was nothing inside but a few books, some papers and… the note. That was the source of the glow.
With trembling fingers, George picked up the note and fumblingly opened it. The second it was completely unfolded, the glow of the note magnified tenfold, casting the hall in a vast array of colors.
The entire page was nothing but a display of moving colors. George watched as the colors disappeared, and molded themselves into small black letters like the last ones: He’s here George. Run while you still can.
Thoroughly spooked now, George looked around for the orchestrator of this elaborate joke. But he was the only one around.
The glow diminishing from the note, George was left with hearing alone. He heard running and the clash of something metal against the floor. Then he heard the scream. It was a woman’s scream, and was cutoff in the middle. There was no droning off, it just ended.
George dropped the note and turned around to run. At that moment, the note shone like a flashlight, showing George the creature behind him.
The creature was seven feet tall, and almost completely human except for two features: there was no skin or muscle, and the creature’s eyeballs were a solid blood-red.
The last thing George saw were three words on the note: You were warned.
BLOW FORWARD
Thriller
Lizzie glanced out of the window and peered into the night. Something made her heart skip a beat. In the night illuminated dimly by the parking lot lamps, a pair of human silhouettes glided through the shadows of the trucks. She couldn’t make out their faces. It could be a trucker and a lot lizard.
When she gazed up again, turning her attention away from her meal, she noticed that a man stood next to her rig watching her. A car slid by between them, and when she looked again, the man was gone. A moment later, another figure appeared next to her truck, looked both ways, and then began moving quickly to the back of a flatbed parked a few feet away from hers.
Almost at once she experienced a rush of adrenaline. Her truck was her home, her life. She rose quickly, tossed a twenty-dollar bill and the napkin on the table and hurried out of the restaurant.
“Hey, honey,” the waitress called after her. “Are you okay?”
Lizzie didn’t answer. What if she were putting her life in danger? On the other hand, it could be her imagination. It could be a truckers headed for their rigs. Either way, she had to find out.
In seconds she was running. She ran through the parking lot, past a few parked trucks, around a Winnebago. She saw the men disappear behind a row of trucks. She ran faster, her arms pumping hard. She was gasping for air. She was horrified of what she’d see when she finally drew close enough to the back of the truck. In the shadows by the side of a parked truck, she crouched ever lower and held her breath.
She stopped to listen, and then she cut behind one of the trucks and see if she could get a good view of her truck from there. The figure reappeared behind her truck, an alert form, nearly lost to the thickening night. She leaned back, causing her to retreat deeper into the shadows and press her back against the tire of an 18-wheeler, feeling its roughness on her back.
What if she were putting her life in danger? On the other hand, it could be her imagination. It could be another trucker headed for his truck.
They seemed to appear out of nowhere. Nearly jumping out of her skin, she spun around to find them standing close.
Their faces emerged from the shadows. One of the men came forward. “We want to talk to you.”
His disarming smile left her cold. “About what?” It wasn’t until he got closer that she recognized the dark, brooding eyes. It took another second to place him at the warehouse, only this time he was wearing jeans and baseball caps. He looked so ordinary. A puzzled look came over her face.
Lizzie started. “You . . .”
How long would it take him to park, walk into the house, and come up the stairs and kill her? Not as long as it would take her to chew through her rope. She scanned the room for something sharp. There was the mirror over the dresser, but he would hear it break. She should have thought of that earlier.
Standing up, her back against the door, Lorrie chewed feverishly. Her heart was a caged bird, trying to escape. When the front door opened, her bowels loosened. Hoping she had chewed through enough, Lorrie jerked her arms apart as hard as she could. The nylon sliced into her wrists like a garrote, and blood pattered silently to the carpet.
Lorrie tore at the rope with her teeth.
*****
He slammed the front door. So far, today had not been his day. His bank had called to tell him they had released his records to the police. Those idiot detectives would be on his trail if they ever figured it out. But it was almost over, and then he would be long gone. They could come looking for him in Mexico.
His day was about to get a lot better. Knife or gun, gun or knife? He laughed.
He checked to make sure his gun was loaded, and put his knife in the waistband of his pants. Then he changed his mind and put the knife in his pocket. Why take unnecessary chances?
Whistling, he headed up the stairs. No time to waste.
*****
She heard him laugh.
Dear God, dear God, dear God.
Lorrie spit out blood, and kept chewing. She had nearly bit through her swollen bottom lip when she caught it between the rope and her teeth. She held her wrists out quickly and looked at her handiwork with her one good eye. Not many more strands to go. Her hands were shaking so badly she could barely hold them still long enough to grab the rope with her teeth. A flood of panic washed over her.
Sweat stung her eye, and she blinked it away. He was whistling, his footsteps thudding softly on the stairs. She nearly cried out in frustration. She chewed a second longer, until he hit the landing. With one final tug, she ripped her hands apart.
She was free.
Lorrie grabbed the ladder-back chair and turned it over. The chair felt as heavy as a couch, and she feared her right shoulder would not lend support when she swung it. Blood from her wrists made the chair legs slippery, and she wiped first one hand then the other on her shorts.
Lorrie could hear him fumbling with his keys, and when he opened the door, she was waiting.
*****
Dan walked into the room as he opened the door, and the empty bed barely had time to register before the back of the wooden chair knocked his front teeth out. He fell to his knees, and Lorrie reared back and hit him again.
Kate slammed on the breaks as the front o