Comments on Nathan Bransford - Literary Agent: The Surprisingly Essential First Page Challenge

Kazi Boku The enormous bear soundlessly crept alo...

2010-01-24T03:06:09.402-08:00

Kazi Boku

The enormous bear soundlessly crept along the bank of the small stream with mincing paw steps. His head was locked, intently watching his prey play in the water with a small block of wood that held a bit of rag for a toy sail. The flesh-eater froze in place as the little girl leaned over the floating device and blew into the sail making the object move away from her. The bear knew he could rush her now but she smelled sweet and was sure to be unpleasant tasting. He preferred to feast upon running and bleating animals. The bitter flavor of panic in the blood was satisfying and the quivering of bunched muscles added a delightful texture.
He thrilled in his knowledge of self and knew he was no ordinary being. He had found beasts in the wilderness that looked similar to him but they seemed stupid and feared his tremendous size. Only once had he tried to mate with one before satisfying his appetite in frustration. He wondered if he tasted as good as they did.
His nose was an instrument of delicate surveillance, capable of relating his surroundings in detail from a wide-ranging distance. He silently stood on his hind legs to sniff the local terrain. A large wave of shadow flowed across the water towards the child as he rose. It rapidly blanketed the toy boat and continued on to envelope the girl who turned, looked up, and screamed. The smell of terror made him drool. Larger two-legs always accompanied little ones. Usually the little cries brought the larger food and this day was no exception.
He ate his fill, rummaged in the house for treats and decided to sleep in the barn. A storm was coming and he hated storms. Storms were the only thing he feared. Years ago, as a young adult he had been caught in a tempest that spawned large hail and lightning. The hail hurt. The storm had taken him by surprise while he was crossing open fields near settlements and he could only run and run, being continually pummeled and buffeted by large chunks of ice. A wooden cave built by two-legs provided the only escape from the punishing hail and he sheltered amongst breakfast stock, sleeping fitfully after a brief slaughter.
In dreams he always found himself alone; alone and angry with an insatiable appetite that continuously kept him moving towards his next meal. Awake, he was an abomination.

I think that means you need to run the contest aga...

2009-01-30T19:00:00.000-08:00

I think that means you need to run the contest again for 2009.

People are still entering. Wow! Perhaps your blog-...

2009-01-30T17:53:00.000-08:00

People are still entering. Wow! Perhaps your blog-o-philes love you so much. I see that I am the 660th
person to leave you a message. Run, Nathan, run very, very, fast!

Oops. Sorry.

2008-02-04T20:04:00.000-08:00

Oops. Sorry.

Okay, I might not be the smartest woman in the wor...

2008-02-02T04:52:00.000-08:00

Okay, I might not be the smartest woman in the world, but that doesn’t mean I’m dumb enough not to realize that all was not what it seemed when it came to my parents.

Although they attempted to hide their true nature behind airs and graces, Jade, my mother, let her tongue slip occasionally, allowing me a glimpse of her previous life. And when my parents argued, boy could they swear. It was like an explosion, as though they’d been holding it in for too long. All of a sudden, they would remember themselves, look at one another in disgust, and then return to their charade.

Another clue that the pretty picture was a painting after all, was their association with Beth and Clay, two hard-core bikers. Bikers that didn’t have a problem popping pills or smoking marijuana joints in front of me. In fact, when they deemed me old enough, they offered me my share. Who was I to object?

My brother John, took an overdose and killed himself when he discovered the truth. He was only twenty-two.

I suppose I blame myself, but it was also John’s fault. He should never have read my diary.

Clay is my godfather. My father, Marcus, was the best man at Beth and Clay’s wedding. He’s always been straight with me. Told me how it was, whether I could take the truth or not.

One late afternoon, the three of us were sitting on their veranda chatting, when I dared to bring up the taboo subject of my parents first meeting.
What Beth and Clay revealed changed my whole outlook on life. It changed who I was.

***

“So, why have you never brought this up before?” Beth asked.

“I’ve wanted to talk to you about this many times; I’m guessing being stoned might have given me the courage.”

“You know you only had to ask,” she said.

“Yeah, I don’t have a problem discussing it,” Clay added. “Although I know that Jade and Marcus would rather forget it.”

Beth left her seat and entered the house. Clay passed me another beer.

Clay’s appearance was one of a typical beer-drinking biker. A large, muscular man, with medium length, white, bushy beard, always wearing soiled jeans and an old tatty T-shirt. But if you could see past his appearance, you’d find one of the nicest blokes you could wish to meet.
I’d yet to see his temper, but I could imagine, if matched with someone his size, Clay would come out on top.

Beth returned and handed me a large photo.
A group of sixteen bikers stood in front of a line of impressive motorbikes. Each biker wore jeans or leathers, and looked tough.

Reasonable Doubt - FictionIt’s a Green Mountain mo...

2008-01-31T06:05:00.000-08:00

Reasonable Doubt - Fiction

It’s a Green Mountain morning in October. Great drifts of scenic fog. The sun yet to rise over the dumpster, the parked cars, the leaves and litter blowing in restless tumbles down the slopes of the valley. I pack my small suitcase with the broken zipper, cramming it full of bulging woolens and scarves and a few hand knit sweaters I’ve had since I was sixteen. As if careful planning and an early start might offer any comfort against the cold hope that my father, before his passing, will say, just once, ‘I did it and I’m sorry.”

My old Honda starts with a shudder, the familiar whine of a Japanese car, a high pitched, tinny sound reminiscent of toy planes and Vespas. I wait for the engine to warm, rattling through the CD’s that Chad left in the glove box, searching for something appropriate, a score suitable for the epic and solitary drive. It’s a Fire and Rain moment. I need a little James Taylor, his familiar, mournful crooning. It’s nowhere. Gone. Chad must have taken Sweet Baby James with him, leaving me only the rejects. There’s No Jacket Required. I can’t stand Phil Collins. I blame Phil for the D+ I earned in Cultural Anthropology. My mind, too busy retaining every word of Take Me Home (which I haven’t heard in-total since 1985), to absorb lectures on the humanity. I settle for old Radio Head, singing along with Thom Yorke, If I could be who you wanted, all the time…

There’s one more cigarette in the pack on the dashboard . It’ll be a good five hours before I arrive, enough time for the smell of cigarette smoke to dissipate. Mom, reproachful, worried, has just sent a study linking malignant breast tumors and smoking. It won’t do to have that conversation upon arrival. Not with the Dad dying the undignified death of terminal cancer.

Memories of my father, his temper, his long absences, the defeated hang-dog way he drifted around the house filling ashtrays and playing Steppen Wolf albums so the windows rattled, make it hard to conjure anything close to pure sorrow. I hurtle past towns called Brattleboro and Bellows Falls, struggling to suppress panic as it occurs to me that I will be asked to say something apt and poignant at the service.

By Exit 62, I recover my senses. Mom and I will bury him in Franklin, the place he played his last USTA match in ’61. It will be she and I and the open grave site. No trumped up eulogies delivered by a minister that has never laid eyes on my father. Franklin is perfect. Franklin is a town thirty miles from the one in which my parents have lived physically together and mentally apart for more than two decades. Franklin represents a time before ashtrays and Steppen Wolf, a memory my mother will be willing to honor.

Still, I am restless and divided, unable to settle on which loss to mourn. There’s the effort to anticipate my father’s shrunken frame, his last days ahead of him, but just. But then there’s Chad’s recent departure. Nothing to show for our year together but the embarrassment that is now my car. Violent, sprawling expletives spray painted across the hood. ‘BITCH’ and ‘WHORE’ companion sentiments to the old bumper stickers, peeling and faded: Keep Your Laws Off My Body, Clinton/Gore ’92, Good Planets Are Hard To Find.

I suppose the clichéd beginning to this should be ...

2008-01-31T05:59:00.000-08:00

I suppose the clichéd beginning to this should be "it was on a day just like this..." but that's just in books. The truth is that the day couldn't have been more different.

Today the hail hits the window in a tattoo of cold and up to now; it's been summer, hasn't it? I look back over what seems to be centuries of time that stretch between the first day I saw him and today and I hardly recognise myself.

And Alex? oh Alex changed outwardly with the times and the fashion, donned the motley, but inside he was the same from the first moment to the very last. I certainly don't recognise me. How could I? Blue serge, black serge, bowler hat. I was the product of my youth - the jelly-baby man he accused me of being. Pre-fab Ed. A million of us; getting up, getting fed, getting on trains, getting to work, doing the hours and coming home. I was just like all the others.

Or I thought I was. No. That's not true, and if I've learned anything, in the time we’ve had, it's the value of truth. The value of it, at least. I knew I wasn't like that. Oh, I went to work with the others, I had the nice house in the nice district. Valerie was the envy of my colleagues for her Nordic beauty, her fame, her talent and her capability to throw together an impromptu fondue night for bosses or colleagues with a mere hour or so's notice.

I fitted that mould he talked of exactly - exactly - and I had the image so pin-stripe perfect that most people looking outside would only have seen Ed Johnson, the man with the pretty good - if not perfect - life, and been convinced by it. All most people would see was the stockbroker with shiny shoes and would never had have guessed the secrets behind the suit and the earnest expression. It's so easy to fool people.

That morning as I crawled out of bed and yawned my way to the bathroom, there should have been portents, there should have been a dead raven on the lawn, a comet livid and bloody searing the sky, but of course there was nothing more epic than sparrows and starlings squabbling over the last of yesterday's crumbs.

In the shaving mirror I saw Valerie float past the open bathroom door, and I realised that it was going to be another one of those mornings. She had that glittering hardness to her face, and she had on the red and orange housecoat that always spelled trouble. It would seem my penance of sleeping in the spare room had not papered over the cracks of the night before and battledress was the choice of the day. Camouflage, for Valerie, came in clashing colours.

Waking from the coma was much easier than all of j...

2008-01-30T23:34:00.000-08:00

Waking from the coma was much easier than all of just about everything else. The lights were off and then- without my doing anything- the lights were on again. I was a suddenly-woken focus of hospital wonder who got baby-spooned small bits of information and food that I nibbled and swallowed. Nurses came and cleaned my ass and welcomed me back. Some reporter came and took my picture. She called me a hero. They all did.

“You’re a hero.“ they all said while I nibbled and swallowed.

I really had to blink my eyes at what I had woken to become. I got trampled by a dozen pairs of boots is what they tell me and I’m a hero? Imagine that? Three and a half months in a coma and you’d think I’d bump into some unique understanding of life’s profundities- and here I am, dumbfounded by a compliment on my second waking day? It’s all a mish mash. Who knew it would all become a mish mash?

Who knew I could get so angry, and “do” those things I think I remember?

I certainly didn’t. Like those retroviruses that erupt under stressful conditions- apparently- I always had it in me. It was hiding in my flesh and waiting for a ripened day- an evil hour- where all my circumstances converged into a reason to erupt.

Boy oh boy. I can’t believe I did the things I think I remember. I took on a gang of men, all by myself. I stormed into a gang of men, and demanded their respect. I did not turn my cheek. I did not roll over. I did not let them push me around. I stood up to a huge and hairy, nasty group of enormous men- I spoke up and I defended myself and those around me who were suffering too. Yeah. I did that and I’m a hero.

I did other things too. Lots of other things. Lots and lots and lots of other things. Wow. Yeah. Every time I think about it, I did some more.

The end of me is down there wriggling beneath a hospital sheet. I suppose it’s my beginning too? That’s where I start and stop. My beginning and my end. It’s where I come into being or disappear. Those are my feet. After that, there isn’t much left of me in that general direction. I suppose I could tell you that my footprints are some of me? If that’s the case, then my feet are near the end of me, but I go on and on. My head must be where I begin then, if that‘s the case? My head that holds my brain and all my thoughts. Sure. That could be where I begin? I think therefore I exist. I have a thought, and it begins me, and my feet leave footprints in the world and I leave me everywhere I go. My lights are off. My lights come on. I can wriggle my toes.

You can’t blame me for my way of thinking. I’ve got nowhere else to go. If I remember, I remember many things that seem like someone else. I remember days and nights filled with angst/revenge and longing and sleeping by myself. I remember the roar of the crowds when the lions were let loose. I remember I stood there naked and trembling with my pointy stick pointing accusatory crying “Momma”. It troubles me. I mean, I can’t be sure too much of anything.

I was trampled after all. And they say I’m a hero

DulwichDulwich woke with a headache, a nagging des...

2008-01-30T22:07:00.000-08:00

Dulwich
Dulwich woke with a headache, a nagging desire to go to the toilet, and the uncomfortable realisation that sometime last night he had revealed to Sergeant Durham his reason for joining the police force.

Most of the rest of the previous night’s events were a badly edited, out of focus, Tarantino beer commercial; only this single one act conversation was clear. His self humiliation ensured clarity.

The pivotal conversation begun with Durham stating the reason he joined the force.

“There were nowt else to do”, he phlegmatically, stated, “I wasn’t good enough to play football, even semi-professionally. The army’s been getting into too many wars and I knew farming. My family been farming for generations, and I know that’s shit. Up at six, in all kinds of weather, and always scraping for a bob. Not worth it, was it?

I knew I weren’t suited to working in no office. I got too much energy, like, and needed something where I’d be about. So the police was all that were left.”

Then Dulwich’s moment of weakness, brought on by too much lager, a sudden feeling of compassion for this stocky farmer’s son, and the inevitable wash of euphoria and released stress that came from resolving the Kinsbridge Murder.

“I joined the force, Durham,” and here Dulwich clearly recalled he paused, trying to phrase the words exactly as Jack Thaw would have, ”I joined the force because of The Sweeney. Best police show on television ever. They drove fast cars, got the girls, and caught the crooks.” Then passed his empty glass to Durham. “Your round, son”.

Dulwich couldn’t recall if Durham had commented, or grinned, or even got the next round. Durham might have already been distracted by beerily leering at PC Tiffany Smith and her non-Newton objects dancing. PC Smith was the object of desire and lust for the entire constabulary of the Greater Birmingham District. Her departure to London would result in great efficiency gains by lessening the number of visits male members of the force found themselves compelled to make to the public liaison office when she was on duty.

Non-Newton objects. Some clever wit in the cafeteria had used the term to describe PC Smith’s magnificent breasts which defied both logic and gravity in staying so prominently upright on her petite nubile unblemished body.

Having completed his morning piss, Dulwich snuggled back deep under the duvet, against that deliciously warm, knowledgably carnal body. In her dozing Tiffany wiggled her buttocks back against him.

He glanced over at the clock radio. It was 7:15, needed to be at the police station by 8:30; and needed a shower. He had time.

With a mischievous grin Dulwich began drawing the map of the Kinsbridge bicycle paths on Tiffany’s back.

(Sorry if this is a double-post.)Playing with the ...

2008-01-30T17:53:00.000-08:00

(Sorry if this is a double-post.)

Playing with the Tiger

With an easy, fluid motion, Bidjtru ducked and rolled away from his opponent's high, arched kick. He and Paul moved to the rhythm of the music sung by the students sitting in the circle around them. Ôi, sim, sim, si-siiim, não, não, não, não-uh. After gathering himself together, Bidjtru sprung up in a counterattack. His foot connected with the side of the guy's head as Bidjtru's dreadlocks swung out and bounced against the sweat-soaked fabric of his thin yellow T-shirt. The rules required only that the kick connect enough to make it obvious that Paul couldn't have evaded it. Well, his kick had certainly made it obvious. When the ball of Bidjtru's foot crushed into Paul's cheekbone, spit flew out of Paul's mouth and his eyes widened in surprise. But Paul managed to hold himself together well enough as he and Bidjtru knelt down at the front of the circle, next to the students who stood playing the African instruments. According to proper form, after getting up from their kneeling position, the two stepped back into the circle and joined the chorus. Sai sai Catarina . . .

Bidjtru's masked face hid his thoughts well. In São Paulo, where opponents in the Capoeira circles taped a razor blade to the toe of their right shoe before entering the circle, anyone who opened himself up for a kick like that would have been dragged out of the circle by his armpits. Bidjtru glanced at Paul. He was bouncing enthusiastically next to the birimbao player. Bidjtru pushed his lips upward into a subtly derisive sneer. He couldn't stand how soft these Americans were. But, this group of overcalm students playing around in a third floor dance studio was the best Capoeira circle he had been able to find in Seattle. They took themselves so seriously with their borrowed Eastern religions and cheap incense. Still, they were better than the groups of "cultural celebrants" -- middle aged women who were planning to save the world with workshops and "body work." This circle didn't have the mud and intensity of the São Paulo docks, but at least here the songs hadn't been bastardized. And it wasn't that bad to know that he could take any one of them -- except sometimes Michael, the pansy-ass instructor.

It was hard to pin Michael down in his mind. He fit Bidjtru's profile of a typical American perfectly, yet he somehow didn't. Just old enough to be out of college if he had gone, Michael had trained in Brazil with Maestre Noh. Bidjtru still didn't know why the maestre had accepted Michael's petition and not his. He didn't mind, of course, it was just that it was strange. After all, it has worked out all right for Bidjtru -- he would have never been able to train with Maestre Vadrione if Noh had accepted him. But why had he been rejected?

MISSING CLAYTON 75,000 words I don’t like it here...

2008-01-30T17:15:00.000-08:00

MISSING CLAYTON 75,000 words
I don’t like it here. It’s dark. It’s cold. Why doesn’t Mommy come and get me? She knows I don’t like the dark. Where is she?

He said she was coming. He grabbed my arm. It hurt. He said it was a game. It’s not a good game. He’s not very nice.

I called her. But he put his stinky hand over my mouth. I wanted to bite it. Mommy doesn’t like biting. But he’s mean.

I don’t like this place. Will Mommy find me here? She will. She’s good at hide and seek. I hope she finds me soon.

He sat cross-legged in the cave-like space, a scrap of blue tweed rug his only protection from the dirt floor. Putting his head in his hands, he felt the mud coating his hair. He tried to scrape away the dried bits of earth. He’d screamed when the man had rubbed it onto his head. “Mommy doesn’t like my hair dirty. She’ll be mad at you.”

The man laughed. Not a nice laugh either. He sounded like the Wicked Witch of the West.

Brushing at his head, he felt bits of clay come loose. The mud was so thick nobody would see his blonde hair. He remembered this morning and Mommy brushing his hair. She said it shone like the noonday sun.

He scrubbed until his hands hurt but the dirt remained. He leaned forward, his head in his hands. He didn’t want to cry, but the tears started to slide down his face and mixed with the dirt. As they ran into his mouth, the muddy mixture stung his tongue. He spat it out.

His small hands clenched into fists and he pounded the rug beneath him. It wasn’t long before his hands throbbed from hitting the hard ground. He stopped pounding and began tearing at the ragged fringes along one end of the rug. When his fingers slipped beyond the rug, he felt the earth, damp and cold, and he shivered.

After what seemed an eternity, curiosity overcame his fear and he began to investigate. His eyes, adjusted to the dimness, allowed him to see a few feet beyond the rug he sat on. A dirt wall, like the one behind him, ended the open space in front of him. To his right side, the wall was about an arm’s length away; on his left, the area stretched into an inky void.

He peered into the darkness. He was able to make out several wooden crates, each filled with different shaped objects too obscure to recognize. Above him was the wooden door he’d been shoved through. He counted the four wooden rungs of the ladder that lead up from the crawl space. Mingling scents of mold, dampness, and dried animal droppings closed in on him.

He stretched a hand above him and sticky tentacles coated his fingers. He jerked his hand back and rubbed the spider webs onto his shorts. Maybe it was better not to check.

Hammurabi Roadby Steve Vernonhttp://stevevernon.ca...

2008-01-30T17:11:00.000-08:00

Hammurabi Road
by Steve Vernon

http://stevevernon.ca

The moon was a stone’s throw away from the Jack Pine Stretch and the lights of the town were nothing but a distant memory and the three of us were bunched together
in the front seat of the pickup on account of the back seat being crammed full of Tyree. He was kicking up some,trying to shuck himself out of the duct tape, snare wire and rope we’d tangled him up in, but other than that he wasn’t making much of a sound. The gag helped some and fear of retribution did the rest.

“Moose are the worst,” I said.

“Worse than cows?” Donny asked.

The thing about Donny was he didn’t always care about hearing the answer. To him talking was a little like table tennis. The object of the game was to snap that ball right back at the other guy just as fast and as hard as you
can. Donny had an incurable habit of asking questions because it pretty well guaranteed an answer. Words just felt good coming out of his mouth, I guess. I didn’t mind.
Donny looked up to me and made no secret about it. I did my best to live up to his respect. Bert and Ernie couldn’t have done it any better.

“Worse than bears,” I said. “Usually a moose will
just bounce, but man alive when they get their hooves tangled up in the tracks the engine will drag them a mile before letting go. You’ve got to hose their carcasses out of the locomotive’s wheel trucks. I’m telling you that nothing stinks like dead moose. Not even Irvin.”

Donny liked that. He grinned me that Donny smile of his. Half cocked to one side, all bright and innocent.

Looking at that Donny smile I knew that nothing could ever change between us. Donny and I were arguing about what kind of track-kill stank the worst after it had been pile-driver-pureed by a half a mile of freight train. It happened more often than you might think.

“You’re sure about that, are you?” Donny asked.

“Sure as shooting,” I replied.

“Shooting isn’t sure,” Donny pointed out. “Sometimes people miss.”

Donny had a point in his own weird kind of way. That was Donny’s magic. He wasn’t slow or retarded or whatever you want to call it. He just had a different way of
looking at things, was all.

“You know what I mean Donny.”

“I know what you figure you mean, but you’re only guessing. There’s three sides to every story,” Donny said.

“Yours, mine and the truth.”

Romeo, UnboundOur brothel squats below the inner e...

2008-01-30T17:08:00.000-08:00

Romeo, Unbound

Our brothel squats below the inner eastern rim of Posidonius A, well in its shadow. Foot, cycle, and hover traffic flows past in the liquid ballet unique to low-g, breaking and rejoining, strangers moving from partner to partner in a rush-hour dance as they pour down from the Heights. From my perch in the third-floor window, the skyline is a mirage, barely glimpsed. Condensation from heat exchangers fogs the dome’s inner transparent surface, hiding Earth and the eternal lunar day that looms overhead.

My brothers and sisters avoid the view: too many people. Uppers riding and Downers walking, mixed as well as oil and water, each group as firmly bound to their classes by dictums of economics and culture as their boots and cycles and hovers are magnetically bound to the mazy pathways that traverse this metropolis. Each still has more freedom than lowly clones, we who are only nameless Untouchables.

My initial memory uploads include various dictionaries and encyclopedia, so I know my definition by heart. Used as an adjective, “untouchable” means forbidden to the touch, not to be handled; lying beyond reach; and disagreeable or defiling to the touch. The noun relies on circular logic -- “One that is untouchable” -- but provides derivative information that matches my encyclopedia entries. It explains the concept came from India and traditional Hindu beliefs, and describes a member of a large, formally segregated hereditary group that could defile a higher caste just through simple contact.

Here and now, in this city, which its citizens call Selene, convenience and economy outweigh ideas about contact and taboos. I am a commodity. I am used.

The Bear Riders, Fantasy/Mystery, progressThe old ...

2008-01-30T17:02:00.000-08:00

The Bear Riders, Fantasy/Mystery, progress

The old man stared in horror at the arrow that protruded out of the young warrior's chest. No, a crossbow bolt, that much he recognized; but it was the runes carved into the shaft that frightened him. He had not seen them for years, nor ever wished to again. They had done away with that kind of magic. With stealing life in such a terrible way.

And in such a place, where only peace should exist.

The young man's body sprawled across the steps leading up into a small mountain shrine, his blood staining the beautiful green silk of his tunic and short coat. Hanas had paused on his journey to the city to give an offering to the nature Spirit, Maira, mother to the trees and bushes and the plants of her soil; and instead he had found death outside the door of her shrine. He looked up into the small building housing the delicate wooden statue of a dogwood in bloom which represented her; then glanced at the cloth scroll hanging behind it, where the words of The Enlightened One were written in beautiful flowing script. Which did the young man come to honor; to find solace or joy in?

Hanas was torn, not knowing what words to offer over the body. The young man's spirit could no longer care, but he, Hanas, must honor this dead one as the young one himself had come to honor his beliefs. He would give of himself what he knew; at least that, even if the young man didn't follow the old ways. He reached into the pouch at his side and carefully withdrew a small amount of dried rice. It didn't grow here, but all the Spirits found it a good gift. He sprinkled it near the young man's head and then into his outstretched hand. When done, Hanas looked up into the sky and murmured a few words, petitioning the Spirits to watch over this young man and help his spirit find refuge and relief. He glanced down at the body, though, and continued to feel burdened, not knowing what more to say. That the young man's spirit had been assailed in this way distressed him.

There was a way to find out what had happened, only Hanas recoiled from trying. What would he see, hear? Ashamed, Hanas bowed his head. His people did not back away from death, nor what they saw surrounding it; but this kind of death was monstrous and those who still killed in this way cursed. And he feared being cursed touching its energy.

But this young man did not choose to die this way either, and perhaps ... perhaps Hanas could help his spirit ... maybe, though it was too much to hope, even release it from that which bound it.

By CastorNothing but prairie greeted Val's eyes as...

2008-01-30T17:00:00.002-08:00

By Castor

Nothing but prairie greeted Val's eyes as he looked around. The people and wagons that should have been there were not. When he turned to tell his parents, his legs gave way. Immediately, he thought of the sickness. As the pounding of his heart slowed, his strength returned. Then, Val realized the obvious. Even if he told his parents of the wagon train's departure, there was nothing they could do. Barely conscious, they were much too weak to leave the wagon. The noisy oxen finally gained his attention and gave him something familiar to do.

Once the animals were taken care of, Val busied himself doing things around camp that didn't need doing. Those activities kept him from thinking about his parents; they didn't keep him from worrying. He stopped often to check on them. Each time, he felt so helpless. As much as he wished or prayed for it, they weren't getting better.

Then, just before mid-day, his parents' suffering ended. While their deaths were not unexpected, Val was unprepared. Still, he did what had to be done. He used his father’s shovel to dig the grave. He dug until he was exhausted. The grave was scarcely big enough and just two feet deep. He stopped only briefly to rest and eat. By nightfall his parents were together, their grave was covered, and ten-year-old Val was alone for the first time in his young life.

When darkness came, Val tied the lead ropes of the oxen and horse to the wagon. He hardly noticed how tired and sore his body was as he climbed into wagon. There, he placed all of his father’s weapons close to hand. Two were inherited. One, a musket and the other a hand gun. Both were flintlocks. The other, an unusual weapon, was a more modern single shot, percussion-cap pistol. Once settled, Val could not stop crying.

The bawling of the oxen woke him. They were hungry or thirsty and letting the world know of their discomfort. When Val looked out, he realized how late it was. For a brief moment he felt shame. His parents were always up with the first light.

As Val stiffly and painfully climbed down from the wagon, the oxen saw him. Their cries grew louder and more excited. Whether they recognized him or simply wanted to hurry him along was a matter for debate. Before he could stop his thoughts, he remembered how his parents spoke of what they each believed.

Val breathed deeply several times to hold back the tears. By the time the animals were watered and staked on fresh grass, his decision was made. As he waited for the animals to finish eating, he slowly packed up. Hitching the huge animals to the wagon took far longer than he expected, but eventually the job was complete. After tying the horse's lead rope to the back of the wagon, he took one last look around before he urged the oxen forward. He glanced back only once.

Annnnnnd TIME'S UP!!Thank you to everyone who ente...

2008-01-30T17:00:00.001-08:00

Annnnnnd TIME'S UP!!

Thank you to everyone who entered!

The Pirate Princess of the DesertYouth, 75,000 wor...

2008-01-30T17:00:00.000-08:00

The Pirate Princess of the Desert
Youth, 75,000 words, Present Day

The white flag was still flapping in the air.

With each stroke, it kicked up less and less dust from the last batch of riders. They were already two minutes into the last lap when Sammy “Boom Box” Jones slapped his partner in the press box across the back of the head.

“Dang it, Donnie, put that away and get the checkered ready,” Jones yelled.

Donnie wasn’t too bright, but he lived for waving those flags. It was only four years ago that Jones won a lottery, a rich tiding of $103,089 after taxes. And he knew that his treasure was well-invested giving himself a new chance at life - the announcer of his own dirt bike races.

Sammy mopped at the fat beads of sweat on his forehead. It was a hot one today. He used the same rag to wipe down his binoculars one last time and took in the back edge of the course.

“Here they come ‘round the final turns,” he said into the microphone. A static-cracked speaker bolted to the back of the press box distorted his words into a subway station lingo. “It’s Maddie ‘Mad Tiger’ Roberts in first, holding off Ricky ‘Big Time’ Binks and the No. 3-ranked racer in the state, Curt Swan ‘Dive.’ One more jump and two more turns are between them and the richest purse ever, ladies and gentlemen.”

The pit row crews were already up and hawking over the best spots along the finish line. They were there even before the white flag went up. The spectators, charged five bucks a head, started to pull themselves out of their lawn chairs. The show was about to end.

###

Maddie cursed whatever idiot made this course. The jumps were all in horrible spots, away from the pit crews and help if things went bad. And most of the course dipped and dodged through the scrub brush terrain of the fringes of the Mohave Desert.

About the only thing she liked about it was that there weren’t a lot of places to pass. Normally, she hated this. But with a good pit stop 12 laps ago, she was reaping the benefits of being the lead dog.

Both Swan and Binks had some big-time sponsors. They had multiple bikes. They had engines that always started for them.

Roberts had a sponsor: The Four Corners Diner (watch for baby rattlers). Her bike, Sara, was finicky at best. But together, they could fly.

The ramp up the jump was ahead. Maddie gave Sara a good gunning. The high-pitched whine peaked. The ground stayed behind.

Maddie didn’t showboat. She could have. She wanted to. Just a little kick to the side. What could that hurt? But Spider’s whiskey-grained voice kept mumbling to her. She couldn’t actually understand what his imaginary voice was saying to her. Yet that purse was gleaming in her mind. It was enough booty to give Sara an overhaul and a spare engine. Enough to buy the entry fee for Vegas.

Death smells like disinfectant and coffee. My head...

2008-01-30T16:59:00.000-08:00

Death smells like disinfectant and coffee.

My head spins, and my heart pounds through my chest. I glance around the emergency room; it’s empty, except for a young mother holding a small child with flushed cheeks in her lap. She rocks him back and forth, singing quietly to him.

When Matt was a baby, his mom probably sang to him, too. I bet she never saw this coming... Sixteen years later, her only son, unconscious in an emergency room, getting an entire bottle of pills pumped from his stomach.

Mom waves me over to the reception desk, and a nurse leads us down a long hallway. The lights reflect on the shiny floor. It's too bright. The strong smell of disinfectant burns my nose. Each step grows heavier...slower.

Matt’s dad is slumped against a wall at the end of the hallway. I slip my hands into the front pockets of Matt’s sweatshirt jacket; it's big and roomy and 'Matt'. The cool metal of my cell phone rests against my palm, and I flip it like a coin in my hand. Back and forth...back and forth.

The nurse walks a few steps ahead of us. Her teal pants, an inch too short, show off the the weight of her ankles overflowing her white loafers. She points to the door next to Matt’s dad.

“One person at a time.” Brief and insincere.

Matt’s mom meets us at the door. My mom takes her in her arms, consoling her as she weeps. Just past them, Matt is lying motionless on the bed. An oxygen mask covers his face and an IV is shoved in one arm. On the other arm there's faded black sharpie, like someone tried washing it off. It spells, ' Austin' .

Oh God! Austin should be here--and he would be--if Matt's parents weren't so against him. In their warped sense of reality, Matt's going to marry me after college and he isn't gay.

Legs move! But it’s hard going. I can’t stand to see him like this, and the closer I get the more he looks like he’s laid out in his coffin. I watch his chest rise.

I reach for his hand. It’s unresponsive to my touch. I squeeze it hoping desperately for him to squeeze back. I lean close and whisper in his ear, “BFF, Matt. Best friends forever. Don’t you dare leave me." My throat tightens and my eyes burn. "You promised!”

I just heard about your contest today. Here is th...

2008-01-30T16:57:00.001-08:00

I just heard about your contest today. Here is the first page of Last Straw by Ann Fischer and Linda Baxter

Chapter One

Sereno, California
Thursday March 20, 2:00 p.m.

Liv Gordon danced jitterbug steps down the hall, body humming with heart-tickling energy. She had her engineers working crazy hours, even by Silicon Valley standards, but G-Tech would beat the Pentagon's deadline. Their groundbreaking sensor would sniff out every explosive and snare that contract.

Liv opened the break room door and stopped short. Her team had devoured all the pizza. Nothing left but a few crusts. Her stomach growled.

As she stuffed the greasy boxes into the trash, something caught her eye. When had the juice machine disappeared?

She stepped into the empty space and cocked her head. Weird. Somebody had jammed a coffee mug behind the soda dispenser. She yanked it free. Milky scum had congealed inside. Grimacing, she tipped the contents into the sink.

Metal clunked against stainless steel.

Out of the Darkness 70,000 wordsChapter OneDarknes...

2008-01-30T16:56:00.001-08:00

Out of the Darkness 70,000 words

Chapter One

Darkness surrounded her. Darkness and cold and something else. Maybe it was calm. Maybe it was acceptance.

She didn’t know. All she knew was she had to be still. Had to pretend nothing mattered.

Her heart raced and she focused on breathing in, breathing out, trying to see, to feel, to know where she was.

Right, left, it didn’t matter. Directions were pointless in the void.

“Holly.”

A voice. Deep, soft, soothing. She dropped her hands and focused.

“Holly.”

She turned but there was nothing. No one.

“Holly.”

There. A spark glimmered and for a moment she saw eyes. Calm. Peaceful. Alluring.

Drawn to them, she tried to move, but her legs refused to cooperate.

She opened her mouth to speak, to call out, to ask for help, but the spark flared and the eyes changed. Icy fear reclaimed her as evil replaced the peaceful calm.

This time when he called her name she tried to run, but it was no use. Her legs still refused to move.

Something nudged her shoulder and Holly Andrews snapped her eyes open at the same time her cat began purring beside her pillow.

Relief poured through her followed quickly by the anxiety that seemed ever present.

A nightmare. Again. That’s all.

She breathed in deeply and exhaled, trying to rid her mind of the dark images as she’d been taught, but the remnant of fear still held her in its grip as she kicked off the quilt that had twined around her legs like padded restraints. She looked around, anchored herself in the present. The same old room in the same old apartment.

She was fine. Everything was fine. Stupid nightmares.

The alarm clock next to the bed flashed midnight off and on and she wondered when the power had gone out.

Reaching over, she grabbed her cell phone off the bedside table and squinted until she could read the numbers.

Three a.m.

Crap. She needed her sleep or the headaches would start again.

If she could just get her breathing under control and get those creepy eyes from the nightmare out of her mind. But she knew better. Knew the eyes would be with her for months probably. Because that’s the way the nightmares worked now. The way they had ever since….

Casper nudged her hand with his nose and mumbled as she scratched his chin. Sweet kitty, just trying to make her feel better. Funny how the cat seemed to know.

Tossing and turning, she finally gave in to the inevitable. Sighing, she slid her feet into her tiger print slippers and sipped the lukewarm Dr Pepper from the half empty cup beside the alarm clock then padded down the hall to the kitchen.

Her roommate’s laptop was open, the away message still on. Strange. Serena usually called to let her know if a date was going to turn into an over-nighter.

She forced the instant panic away. Stupid nightmare had her worrying over nothing.

Phishing for Jesus Literary Fiction (wip)1955 “...

2008-01-30T16:56:00.000-08:00

Phishing for Jesus Literary Fiction (wip)
1955
“Jory, c’mere!” yelled nine-year-old Scooter Biggs. “Ya gotta help me look.” Squatting down on the shoreline of Lake Champlain, Scooter scanned the great body of water with his binoculars, hoping for a glimpse of Champ, the legendary lake monster. His best friend, Jory Harper, sat nearby on the edge of a rotting pier, a homemade wooden fishing pole gripped in both hands, intent on snagging a fish to take home to Miss Glory.

“Can’t, Scoot.” Jory’s voice squeaked even higher than usual. “I got somethin’ bitin’ on my line.”

A dark brown lump flickered on the surface of the gently bobbing waves before disappearing. Scooter jumped two feet into the air and shouted, “I-I saw it, Jory! You gotta c’mere.” He kept the binoculars trained on the spot where the lump had disappeared and muttered, “C’mon, c’mon. I knowed you’re out there.” A loud crack! startled him, and he looked over at the pier, only to watch in horror as it crumpled into the water, carrying Jory with it.

By the time Scooter rushed to the few jagged sticks still standing, the lake had completely swallowed Jory and his fishing pole. Oh no! He can’t swim! Without hesitation, Scooter kicked off his shoes, splashed into the water, and started swimming under the surface. He stayed below for a long time, but finally came back up gasping for air. No Jory. He called Jory’s name and submerged again. This time, when he sputtered to the surface, he was starting to panic. For a third time he went under, staying until he felt ready to burst. He popped back up.

While his lungs fought for breath, he heard a faint humming noise echo off the suddenly glossy, smooth surface of the water. He kept turning in circles, treading water as he tried to identify the source. A faint hope flickered that it might be coming from Jory. But all he could see now was a golden incandescent haze hovering over the surface of the lake, in stark contrast to the tragedy unfolding beneath it, and a white bird fluttering in the air.

The humming stopped, and the lake settled into a reverent stillness. He couldn’t ever remember it being so quiet. Fear struck him. Champ! Scooter had always wanted to see the monster, but meeting it face to face terrified him. He started floundering toward the shore, but a slimy bump hit him in the back. He stopped swimming and started screaming. “Help me, somebody! It’s the lake monster! Help!”

From a hundred yards away, Father Gabriel Theron, fishing from another pier and enjoying the strange calm, heard the screams. The Episcopalian priest threw down his rod and raced along the sandy shore until he spotted the young boy floundering in the water. He ditched his shoes and plunged into the ice-cold lake, plowing the water with strokes that had made him a champion in college. He reached Scooter as the boy started to sink.

Jarri and the Legend of Surfers’ Hollow by ...

2008-01-30T16:55:00.000-08:00

Jarri and the Legend of Surfers’ Hollow
by Sonia Timms

Word Count: 20,000

Market: Children’s Fantasy, 7-10 years

(Australian Spelling)

Chapter One: A Bush Sprite Called Jarri

“It’s not fair!” Jarri Knot yelled. “How can I break a record if you never take me leaf surfing?”

Dad flicked his emerald wings and fluttered onto the branch beside Jarri. “Don’t be silly,” he said. “There’ll be plenty of time to break records once slater-bug season’s over.”

“It’s always slaters this, slaters that,” Jarri said. “You don’t care about me at all.” He screwed up his face and threw down his shiny leafboard. So what if it got scratched. Dad hardly let him leaf surf anyway.

“Settle down.” Dad dropped his bundle of twigs into Jarri’s arms. “Take these to the slater nursery for me.”

Jarri’s stomach felt hollow. Slater season was totally about jobs and lasted all winter long. “But my wing buds are itching like crazy. What if my wings sprout before spring?”

“Then you’ll be flying.” Dad flapped his four wings and shot into the air. “It’s more fun than leaf surfing. Watch this.” He somersaulted like an acrobatic dragonfly and then hovered in the air.

Jarri sighed. Dad just didn’t get it. Flying sprites couldn’t set leaf surfing records.

“Dad,” he said, “this might be my last chance to leaf surf before winter hits.” He put the twigs down and pointed at the horizon where charcoal clouds puffed high into the air. “I might never get into Surfers’ Hollow if we don’t go now.”

Dad raised his fuzzy eyebrows. “Well…”

A bolt of lightning hit the skyline and made Dad’s wings sparkle. He frowned at the storm and Jarri’s heart sank. He knew what was coming.

“That storm looks vicious,” Dad said. “I’ll need your help to get the tree ready.” Thunder boomed and made his blue eyes blink.

“Please,” Jarri begged, rubbing his cat’s-claw necklace for good luck. “Just one teeny ride.”

Dad scratched his head and jerked his wings in annoyance. His eyes flicked between Jarri and the storm. Jarri held his breath, waiting to be told off for pestering.

Instead, Dad nodded and sighed. “As long as you agree to help with the slaters later.”

“Yes!” Jarri whooped and did a back flip along the branch. “Anything.”

Lightning streaked across the sky again.

“We’d better make it quick.” Dad flew through a leaf-shaped door in the tree and returned with a paintbrush and a pot of sap. “Did you cut a good leaf? A brittle one might buck you into my arms again.”

“Strong and springy.” Jarri picked up his leafboard and flexed it. “The perfect gum leaf.”

“Lucky you didn’t scratch it when you threw it down. You’ve got to learn to control your temper.” Dad painted two patches of sap onto Jarri’s leafboard. “Go on then.”

SealedPrologueI was seventeen when a fortuneteller...

2008-01-30T16:52:00.000-08:00

Sealed

Prologue

I was seventeen when a fortuneteller predicted I’d take my own life one day: “You’ll do it yourself. Your kind always does.” She stared at the cut marks on my arm. My friend Angie dragged me off the witch and said I was lucky not to be charged for busting her nose. I thought I should’ve sued the woman for jinxing me because I spent too much time looking around corners after that, waiting for whatever or whoever might be the pill-popping, gun-grabbing catalyst in my life. Truth was, I knew the psychic was right the way I knew the garbage man would spill crap on the walk when he dumped our bin—a tuna fish can or a Twinkie wrapper or a red-spotted tissue from one of my nosebleeds. The bad always stuck.

It wasn’t until my twenty-fifth year when I understood. I was in New York City, sitting in a hotel room drinking my third miniature bottle of Skol—though I should’ve been testing coffee at a restaurateur convention—when an airplane penetrated one of the twin towers four-and-a-half blocks away. The second plane came minutes later. I didn’t call home, though I could’ve. Just let my cell ring and ring, and never bothered to recharge the battery. Sometime during the first vigil, when I stood in the street among the vacant-eyed disbelievers and everything around me looked and smelled and tasted like Armageddon, I realized I could use it. A gift among the rubble. An escape hatch with an invisible door. A fulfillment of my prophecy.

I purchased a new life behind a hidden panel in a store specializing in imitation Coach bags. My name would be Maria, and Marie Montague would move to Miami; the phrase rang like a crystal supper bell in my head, promising grand things to come. I never could’ve predicted meeting Stance, who had my number in less than a minute and whose nose I couldn’t reach to punch.

You’d think my life had enough twists, but nothing affected me more than the day I learned about my mother’s death and returned home as plain old Stef Harold. The second thing I did after finding her gravestone at the dinky Northport cemetery was find my own. And when I learned a fallow casket lay buried under my six feet of clay, I felt driven to see it for myself. I convinced some guy to dig up my grave by pointing out I was clearly not dead, then showing him a tall stack of crisp twenties. Stuffed animals, dried flowers, pictures and more letters than I’d ever received in my life all but poured from the small pine box when I lifted the lid. I read every word my family and former friends had written, and then went out to stare at the scar my grave had left on the earth, knowing the task that lay before me—to fix it all—would be tantamount to raising the dead.

Posted for Edward Lewis:PROMISES Approx 110,000 w...

2008-01-30T16:51:00.001-08:00

Posted for Edward Lewis:

PROMISES Approx 110,000 words, Women’s Commercial Fiction

Standing at the window of my condominium on a January afternoon, I watched snow blanket Central Park. My mood remained as gray as the clouds. Despite the apartment’s warmth, I tugged my sweater tighter and crossed my arms protectively. I wasn’t working today; I never do on this, my least favorite day of the year.

It hadn’t always been like this. I loved winters as a little girl. Every fall I would watch for clues of what the coming winter might bring, checking out the wooly bears’ coats and spying on the squirrels to see how many nuts they’d gathered.

In Eastern Kentucky where I grew up, the weather turned frigid after Christmas. January meant frost on the inside of the windows, extra quilts on the bed and the Warm Morning heat stove in the living room set to high. January also brought snow, deep snow that filled the hollows and drifted over the back porch steps.

Those deep snows meant no school and going sledding with my younger brothers. Even today, I smile when I recall coming inside cold, wet and invigorated. We’d hang our gloves, coats and knit hats in front of the stove to dry and hurry to our rooms to change. When we returned Momma always had mugs of hot cocoa waiting on the kitchen table. She warned us to take baby sips so we wouldn’t burn our tongues. We, of course, never listened.

Sometimes, if we had the right kind of snow, she’d send me outdoors with a big spoon and a bowl. After carefully scraping away the crusty top layer so I didn’t get soot from the chimney, I’d fill the bowl and Momma would turn it into snow ice cream. I’ll never forget how soothing it felt on my sore tongue.

Those were good times for us all…me, my two brothers, and Momma and Daddy. The future looked as perfect as perfect can be. Everything changed the year I turned fifteen and Momma took sick. She died the following January.

Folks back home say I look just like her, that we could be twins. It’s true. More and more when I look in the mirror it’s her I see. Those same people think I rely upon her good looks to earn my living. In a way, I suppose I do. But it takes more than good bones and a nice figure to make it to the top as a model.

On melancholy days like today I remind myself Momma was not so much taken from me, as she was given to me. Even if only for a short while. She guided me in life and continues to guide me in death. A few days before she passed over, I sat at her bedside and made certain promises. Promises I’ve done my level best to keep.

The thought that I might have fallen short, that I’ve somehow let her down, continues to haunt me.

The smell took his breath, and for a second Javen ...

2008-01-30T16:51:00.000-08:00

The smell took his breath, and for a second Javen lost the will to live. “Tell me this gets better, Mobsby, because I’m about to pass out.”

“Javen,” Mobsby dramatically stirred a foaming bucket, “this only gets worse. When the hot water combines again with the dung at the bottom of the hole and agitates the waste smells, they will rise once more to render coherent thought nearly impossible. Furthermore, once the foaming hot water is forced,” Mobsby raised the bucket to show Javen what he meant by forced, “through the tunnels and outside to the pits, we’ll dump buckets of special earth into the hole to absorb all manner of nasty things, stirring smells anew. As more water with cleansing herbs is then poured into the hole sending the special earth into the pits, the outcome of our most recent dinners will finally be covered – though the odor lingers a bit. Go ahead, grab the other bucket of hot water, and pour it in the hole too.”

Javen heaved the hot water onto the lip of the privy seat and tipped it into the hole. Again, the smell assailed him and he dropped the empty bucket, as he backed away to clutch the wall. He gagged as his eyes streamed tears.

“You’re right,” Javen said gasped, “that was worse. I’m glad this is only a week-long duty. I couldn’t handle much more of this.”

“I can’t believe you’ve been here this long without having privy cleaning in your chore rotation. I think I did this twice the first year I was here.” Mobsby said lifting a large bucket of white powdery sand from the floor and pouring it down the hole as Javen followed with the second bucket of special sand.

“What with being captured by Malcaster slave traders, and then kidnapped by a Malcaster lord, I think certain duties ‘fell through the cracks’.”

“Ugghh, that’s a foul joke, Javen and unworthy of you.” Mobsby’s virtuous pose lasted all of one second before an appreciative laugh exploded. “Wish I’d thought of it.”

Javen grinned shamelessly, “Anyway, the Malcaster wasn’t about to let me go so I could do privy duty.”

Mobsby hefted a bucket of water laced with cleansing herbs preparing to tip it into the hole. “Guess you never thought you would have reason to thank a Malcaster.” The ever-present twinkle came to his eyes, “Isn’t the stench, just a wee bit better now?”

Javen grunted, “Come on, smart guy. Let’s get done, we’ve got the Bonding tonight and I want to clean off this ‘stench’.”