# The Author Snippet Challenge



## Edward C. Patterson

*Because some are looking for the Good Old Days - here's one of the Good Old Threads that have died away - Jump in with elan:*

*Kindleboard Authors. Here's the deal with this thread. I invite you to post a SNIPPET of no more than 250 words and only once a week from one of your books. That's the challenge (and because I have so many books, the seven day rule is appropriate to assure a balance). You can include a text link to your book, BUT NO GRAPHIC LINK. Any member can comment on your snippet, ask questions and discuss, but only one snippet a week and only 250 words. Please no full chapters. The shorter the better, and the better that chance that your snipet will be read. I'll post the first one as an example and won't post another until May 28. I thought this would be different and fun.

Thanks

Edward C. Patterson*


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## Edward C. Patterson

Here's my snippet:

"The wise say the reason the sound of rain upon roofs and windows comfort is rooted in a remembrance before birth, when we sensed the beating of our mother's heart in the chamber of her cherished womb. No other sound can so restore us. Therefore, after the Cave of the Winds, no better restorative could have been sought than to lie in the Xiao Homestead and attend to its rain-kissed ancient roof."

from The Jade Owl

Edward C. Patterson


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## rebeccalerwill

Snippet from Relocating Mia by Rebecca Lerwill 

The wind had become even stronger in the last hour, and several branches swayed in front of Douglas, obscuring his vision. He held his breath to better concentrate on what he was watching. 
The van's back doors swung open and so did the hatch of the lab entrance. Shurnik appeared from underground, but to Douglas' astonishment, he was not carrying any kind of package that could conceal the drugs. He had a man in a white jumpsuit over his shoulder. 
The man was either dead or unconscious. He did not seem to be shackled. 
Shurnik leaned forward and deposited the body into the back of the van. He said something to the driver, who shook his head. He disappeared again into the lab, just to return momentarily with yet another body draped over his shoulder. 
"Holy sh**," Douglas murmured.

Award-winning romantic suspense, Relocating Mia


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## RJ Keller

Very cool, Ed. Thanks for starting this. 

The first time I dropped acid I had a vision of Sister Patricia. She was wearing a beautiful tie-dyed habit, kneeling on her stone floor, head bowed, praying to God. There was a light rattling, tapping, rustling sound at the window that startled her out of her meditations. She floated to the window and opened it up and when she did it let in a rainbow; pure and just as vivid as my crayons had once been. The beauty of it enveloped the cold, dreary room, and filled it - filled her - with the Love of God. I was nineteen - long after catechism classes and church and even prayer had been a part of my life - holed up in my one room apartment with some guy I'd met two hours earlier. I still can't remember his name, but his hair was Goldenrod and his eyes were Sky Blue.

~ Prologue, Waiting For Spring


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## Greg Banks

Ogg spread his arms as he neared the cliff. He ran faster, the inside of his chest pounding in rhythm with his feet against the soil. The valley below came into view. He glanced at his wings. They were steady, strapped to his forearms and wrists with the strongest vines he could find. He looked to the sky and smiled. The gods were surely with him today.

He leapt from the cliff, imagining the swirling winds lifting him toward the sky....

Ogg remembered little afterward until he came to rest at the base of the cliff. He slowly opened his eyes. When everything spun, he squeezed them shut again.

For an instant, he thought he was still airborne. But then he recalled feeling the same after Maku had once struck him for returning late from the hunt with firejuice on his breath. Ogg's head had hurt the same for three suns after.

- **** Geekian - a short story - $0.99


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## Carolyn Kephart

I love snippetry! Thanks, Ed.

From Wysard, first volume of the Ryel Saga:

"...from earliest childhood he would escape into the Steppes night while all else slept, running far from the yats into the deep fields, there to lie with his back to the breathing grass and his face to the flickering infinity overhead. As a child he had known no greater delight than those rapt communions that leapt to ecstasy at every touchstone streak of meteor. But as he grew older the joy ebbed, giving way to aching awe, ineffable hunger, solitude absolute and godless where each pinprick shimmer melded into a burning white weight just above his heart, intensifying with every star that fell.

_I have not known the stars in two years_, he thought. The remembrance of everything else he missed seemed to envelop him like Markulit fog, chill and desolate."

CK

Edited to note that both volumes are now on sale for $0.99 until June 1; full first chapters, reviews and more at my website.


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## wavesprite

rjkeller said:


> The first time I dropped acid I had a vision of Sister Patricia. She was wearing a beautiful tie-dyed habit, kneeling on her stone floor, head bowed, praying to God. There was a light rattling, tapping, rustling sound at the window that startled her out of her meditations. She floated to the window and opened it up and when she did it let in a rainbow; pure and just as vivid as my crayons had once been. The beauty of it enveloped the cold, dreary room, and filled it - filled her - with the Love of God. I was nineteen - long after catechism classes and church and even prayer had been a part of my life - holed up in my one room apartment with some guy I'd met two hours earlier. I still can't remember his name, but his hair was Goldenrod and his eyes were Sky Blue.
> 
> ~ Prologue, Waiting For Spring


I just finished Waiting for Spring day before yesterday. It is a GREAT read, with colorful characters and substance! I highly recommend this book to anyone!!


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## Carol Hanrahan

Great idea!

  “This is weird weather,” said John. 
  Trees bent from side to side, as though undecided if one way was better than another. Off to the west, a funnel cloud loosely formed, but as it reached for the ground, the ugly shape of it became precisely defined. Huge clouds of dust and debris were swept up into it, and it seemed to grow by the second.
  By now, Nokie was barking and dancing around them. 
  Nick stared at the tornado, transfixed. Across two cornfields, it grew blacker, and the swirl of wind sucked everything up inside it. He was paralyzed. Why wasn’t it moving? Didn’t tornadoes move? With a sudden sickening in the pit of his stomach, he realized the twister was moving. It was heading directly at them. 
  “Get to the cellar. Hurry.” Nick grabbed John by the collar, dumping over the trunk as he pulled his brother to his feet. His ears popped, and the air around him thinned.


I'm enjoying reading these!

Carol


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## meljackson

Well, I'm off to buy Relocating Mia. 

Melissa


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## [email protected]

Snippet from "Irretrievably Broken." This is from the restaurant scene where Nora and her colleague Joe, both newly divorced, have lunch.
"I think there's just enough time for a cup of that brown water they call coffee here. Anything for you?"


Spoiler



"Blow job?" He smiled sweetly at one of the women at the table next to them who'd turned to glare at him.


"You know what?" Joe said when Nora returned with her coffee, "I think you and I'd be good together.
"Oh be serious."
"We could give it a try. A nice dinner out, then see what develops."
Nora took a couple of sips of her coffee, made a face and said, "Ready to head back?"
"As soon as you tell me what time I can pick you up tonight."
"Just keep asking," she told him, slipping on her raincoat. "It's really good for my ego."
He put one hand over his trouser zipper, saying, "Any time you want to be good to my ego you know where to find it."

_family board, folks! Please be selective in your snippets. Betsy_


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## Thumper

Much coolness here 

From Finding Father Rabbit:

I was staring at the clock, the bright red 12:00 popping on and off with military precision, trying to ignore the people around me, wanting to forget about what day it was, wishing time could stand still for just a minute, long enough for the pounding in my head to stop and long enough for me to remember what it felt like to take a long, deep breath without jagged edges of pain ripping through me. I watched the clock and flattened popcorn between my fingers, wishing for just a single minute of something that resembled happiness, when I heard my name over the din of voices, a squeal of feminine delight that instantly made me sit up straighter and smile.


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## Michael R. Hicks

Thanks, Ed! Although I'll submit that I'm probably lousy at snippet-ology. 

Here's my first candidate from _In Her Name: Empire_ --

Perhaps infinity was a concept best not dwelt upon by a young warrior still untested in battle, but Esah-Zhurah thought she came to understand it well as she struggled through the water toward the surface. Distance and time merged into numbing agony and fear as she fought for every stroke against the current that had helped her find him, but that now threatened to doom her to the same fate. She clamped her arm harder around Reza's chest to keep his armored body from sinking like leaden ballast. She turned to look at his shadowy outline, wondering if he could even still be alive.

No matter, she told herself. She was determined not to leave him behind. Not ever...


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## MichaelS

Brendan Carroll said:


> Here ye go lads and lassies. This is how I first met the lovely Meredith Sinclair. I hope you enjoy this snippet as much as Mark did.
> ---------------
> 
> 
> 
> Spoiler
> 
> 
> 
> _"Spoken like a true knight, but you don't have to worry about all that now." She smiled at him and traced one cool finger down the trail of blood on his face. "Such precious blood should not be wasted." As she leaned closer, he realized that the thin, summer dress was the only thing she wore and the tan on her face apparently extended all the way down past her fully exposed breasts to her toes. His mouth fell open slightly. She presented a pleasant view, or at least it would have been pleasant under other circumstances&#8230; perhaps. She followed his gaze with her own eyes. "Do you like what you see?" she asked and rocked forward just enough to brush his face with her own and then spoke directly in his ear. "There is such a fine line between pleasure and pain, Mark Andrew. Don't you agree?"_


woah! is this one on Kindle?

Mike


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## Brenda Carroll

Of course it is, Mike.  Just click on the links in the signature below it.


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## MichaelS

Brendan Carroll said:


> Of course it is, Mike. Just click on the links in the signature below it.


So, why is your second book on sale? Can you give us a break on your first one?


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## Brenda Carroll

MichaelS said:


> So, why is your second book on sale? Can you give us a break on your first one?


Just give it a minute. I don't know why the second and eighth book dropped first, but the others should come through any time now and all will be listed $1.99. Will that be good for you? Thanks for taking an interest! I love it... love it... love it.


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## MichaelS

Carol Hanrahan said:


> Great idea!
> 
> "This is weird weather," said John.
> Trees bent from side to side, as though undecided if one way was better than another. Off to the west, a funnel cloud loosely formed, but as it reached for the ground, the ugly shape of it became precisely defined. Huge clouds of dust and debris were swept up into it, and it seemed to grow by the second.
> By now, Nokie was barking and dancing around them.
> Nick stared at the tornado, transfixed. Across two cornfields, it grew blacker, and the swirl of wind sucked everything up inside it. He was paralyzed. Why wasn't it moving? Didn't tornadoes move? With a sudden sickening in the pit of his stomach, he realized the twister was moving. It was heading directly at them.
> "Get to the cellar. Hurry." Nick grabbed John by the collar, dumping over the trunk as he pulled his brother to his feet. His ears popped, and the air around him thinned.
> 
> I'm enjoying reading these!
> 
> Carol


Think I might have to get this one too, I got a whole weekend to sit aound it's supposed to STORM here


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## Kevis Hendrickson

Snippet taken from The Legend of Witch Bane (The Witch Bane Saga)

Scene~The wicked Queen Rhiannon Eldess seduces her captive prisoner the fairy princess Laris Goddaya:

"What care I for riches? What is desire but an empty purse for someone like me who has lost the only thing she ever truly wanted?" asked Laris.

"To live is to yearn. Only death can steal our desire. How shall I believe that you desire naught when a deep longing consumes your every thought? I daresay even your dreams are filled with the pangs of your unfulfilled desires," replied Rhiannon.

"Then my dreams are become nightmares if only you can give them meaning."

"Even nightmares must have their end."

"Shall I ever know such a day?"

"Dear child, you have needs of becoming free from the fears that haunt you. I can give flight to your desire and thus free you from your slavish ways."

"Yet, you would make a slave of me in turn for my loss of freewill."

99 cent book sale ends on May 31st.


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## Edward C. Patterson

I'm so glad so many of you are finding your way here. I hope the readers are enjoying these too. I just can't wait to indulge in my second snippet, but alas I need to wait until May 28.  

Edward C. Patterson


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## Kevis Hendrickson

Great idea, Ed. I hope the readers are enjoying them too.


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## Edward C. Patterson

And readers can certinly chime in. I mean, we authors are nothing special. We're just readers who write. No stars here. In the words of my favorite actor, Elijah Wood. "I'm not a star, becuse a star is a big ball of gas."

Ed Patterson


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## mamiller

Thanks, Ed. You always have wonderful ideas. What wonderful snippets!!! There are some extremely talented writers here.

From WIDOW'S TALE.....

"I don't like this idea one bit.
"I'll be fine, Harriet."
Serena stood on the pier, eyeing the thirty‐foot hull of the Mighty Morgan. "You know I've done
this before."
Harriet looked like a puffed up bird, expressing its indignation. Her short grayish‐blonde hair was
ruffled by the wind and her cheeks were bright red from the sun and the sea, and perhaps a little too
much beer. She glanced at the burgundy and white striped hull, then towards Serena.
"It's been awhile," Harriet said, "and besides, it's not you I'm worried about-I don't trust him."
Serena smiled in resignation. "Why, because he's a Murphy? Brett's different, Harriet. Don't ask
me why, but I think I can trust him."
With an eyebrow arched in disapproval, the tackle shop owner reminded her, "You trusted Alan
at one point too."
_No. Not really. I might have loved him once. But I never trusted him_.

www.maureenamiller.com


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## Carol Hanrahan

Michael,
I hope you enjoy Baling!  Too bad about the nasty weather!  
Carol


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## Brenda Carroll

So my snippet got snipped.  That's OK, I have much more. Perhaps this one will be more to everyone's liking:

"And what if I destroy you instead, Brother?" Ramsay recovered and eyed him steadily. "I am the Knight of Death, the _Chevalier du Morte_, Master of the Key to the Bottomless Pit, Keeper of the Secret of the Philosopher's Stone. I should think that would mean something to you."
"At this point, I believe it means more to me than to you though I do not understand why it is so. I must know. I will know. It is a risk I am willing to take," the Knight sounded detached, unemotional. "If you should attempt to destroy me, then I will know that you are a traitor as charged by your own free will. In fact, if you are guilty, it is your only recourse. Further, if you are truly a traitor, then I am destroyed already unless I can correct the damage you have done..."


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## MichaelS

Carol Hanrahan said:


> Michael,
> I hope you enjoy Baling! Too bad about the nasty weather!
> Carol


Yea, it is about to become a huge down-pour! So I have a couple things to do before I get to reading, trying to beat the rain.


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## rebeccalerwill

Snippet from *The Acronym - White Nights of St. Petersburg*, by Rebecca Lerwill, sequel to her award-winning romantic suspense, Relocating Mia (Thanks for doing this, Ed!)

Douglas ducked, barely avoiding another punch. This match wasn't fought with technique anymore-it was about the plain necessity to kill the opponent with bare hands.
Morris' own training kicked in, and he willed himself to put the searing pain in his right arm aside. He got to his feet and quickly took the few steps to where Douglas' Five-seveN was in plain view on the boat deck. With his left hand, he awkwardly took it and aimed at his former partner's back.
_Safety off and shoot._
The sound of the shot ripped through the night and ricocheted off the Neva River. The bullet first pierced flesh, then vital organs, and the body was lifeless before it fell to the deck.
*
The Acronym is on sale for only $1.59*

The Acronym - White Nights of St. Petersburg


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## Kevis Hendrickson

Snippet taken from The Legend of Witch Bane (The Witch Bane Saga)

Scene~In an attempt to save her sister's life, Princess Laris Goddaya confronts the evil Red Wizard:

Now fell the duel between Laris and Sargos the Red Wizard. Laris' will was as strong as ever. Never would she yield the life of her sister to an evil wizard. Her twin swords sung in the air like gushing rivers of liquid fury. Her every attack was filled with the bitterness of a lifetime of suffering. Laris was as pale as winter; her glower as dark as night. Yet, she knew that this was a battle she could not win. What strength Laris possessed in her limber arms was like a lover's words fading in the wind. The cruel bite of her swords was as soft as a baby's kiss. The power of flesh and muscle and steel would avail her none against the raging magic of Sargos. For his power was a force with which a sword could not contend.

--To be continued in The Legend of Witch Bane.--

99 cent book sale entering its final days.


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## Edward C. Patterson

Loved those snippets. Remeber that the challenge is 150 words and only one snippet every 7 days. Otherwise, my 12 books and 3,000 pages of published work would swamp us all.


Edward C. Patterson


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## celiaisawesome

Brendan Carroll said:


> So my snippet got snipped.  That's OK, I have much more. Perhaps this one will be more to everyone's liking:
> 
> "And what if I destroy you instead, Brother?" Ramsay recovered and eyed him steadily. "I am the Knight of Death, the _Chevalier du Morte_, Master of the Key to the Bottomless Pit, Keeper of the Secret of the Philosopher's Stone. I should think that would mean something to you."


He's such a strong, steady guy...even when he doesn't really know what's going on... Pretty amazing...


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## Kevis Hendrickson

edwpat said:


> Loved those snippets. Remeber that the challenge is 150 words and only one snippet every 7 days. Otherwise, my 12 books and 3,000 pages of published work would swamp us all.
> 
> 
> Edward C. Patterson


I'll take that challenge, so long as I get to post snippets from my war arsenal of unpublished works. Just kidding!!


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## rebeccalerwill

edwpat said:


> Loved those snippets. Remeber that the challenge is 150 words and only one snippet every 7 days. Otherwise, my 12 books and 3,000 pages of published work would swamp us all.
> 
> 
> Edward C. Patterson


This is too much fun. Gives me a week's time to think about more snippets. That makes me read my books, again, and I still love 'em. LOL
Becca~


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## Carol Hanrahan

Ed,
Is the second snippet supposed to be from a second book or can it be from the same book?


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## Edward C. Patterson

It can be from any book, even mine, if you want to quote me.   I'm even thinking of putting up a snippet from my current work in progress.

Ed Patterson


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## Brenda Carroll

celiaisawesome said:


> He's such a strong, steady guy...even when he doesn't really know what's going on... Pretty amazing...


Hey, I just saw this here post. How did you know that I didn't know what was going on. That is pretty amazing... and scary!


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## Dave Dykema

This is an early scene from STALKER. Dan Freeman gets out of watching the violent, R-rated horror movie "Stalker" and is appalled when he sees a mother with little children exiting. He follows them to the parking lot...

He realized he was within two yards of her when he stopped his pursuit. Without moving, puzzling over his actions, he watched her and her boys walk the rest of the way to their car, get in, and drive off.
Then it hit him. She never heard. She never suspected. No wonder those guys in the movies get away with it.
It's so easy.
And fun.
Suddenly he was aware of the tingling dancing through his body. He was aware of the pulse-pounding heartbeat. He was aware of the sweaty palms. His every nerve felt so alive, awake, ready to take in new sensations. He hadn't felt like this since the tenth grade when Paula Winston asked him if he wanted to see something special and then proceeded to unhook her bra, letting it fall into her lap.
God, it _was_ fun, wasn't it?
_Yes it was
And easy
And she never heard a thing_&#8230;


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## MichaelS

Dave Dykema said:


> This is an early scene from STALKER. Dan Freeman gets out of watching the violent, R-rated horror movie "Stalker" and is appalled when he sees a mother with little children exiting. He follows them to the parking lot...
> 
> He realized he was within two yards of her when he stopped his pursuit. Without moving, puzzling over his actions, he watched her and her boys walk the rest of the way to their car, get in, and drive off.
> Then it hit him. She never heard. She never suspected. No wonder those guys in the movies get away with it.
> It's so easy.
> And fun.
> Suddenly he was aware of the tingling dancing through his body. He was aware of the pulse-pounding heartbeat. He was aware of the sweaty palms. His every nerve felt so alive, awake, ready to take in new sensations. He hadn't felt like this since the tenth grade when Paula Winston asked him if he wanted to see something special and then proceeded to unhook her bra, letting it fall into her lap.
> God, it _was_ fun, wasn't it?
> _Yes it was
> And easy
> And she never heard a thing_&#8230;


OK! This hits home. I have kids (13, 11, 9) adn I am continually stressed by the fact that their friends parents allow their children to watch R-rated movies and my girls know that they can't but, I am still worried that these other families will play the movies while my girls are present.

Now, as far as BOOKS go... I think I will have to get this one, when I am finished with Brendan's . You seem to write a lot like some of the authors my wife reads. If I can get her to read this maybe we can share at least ONE favorite author!


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## J Dean

Alright, I'll bite. This is an excerpt from The Summoning of Clade Josso. Slightly edited for length.



> That wasn't right-the wind was blowing from his right-whichever direction the "right" was: east, or north, or wherever. These clouds moved head-on toward him. He was no expert on meteorology, not by a long shot, but he was smart enough to realize that this couldn't be normal.
> Moments later, the black, beastlike phenomenon hungrily devoured the sun, casting a thick, dark shadow across the landscape. The thunder began again-this time a more gradual, rhythmic roll than a sudden clap, reaching a climax that quaked the ground under Clade's feet. Startled, he began a quick stride in the direction of the clustered structures. Whether or not it was a town, at least it would be some sort of shelter from the advancing storm...
> And in the midst of the thrashing clouds, something else appeared.
> A head


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## Edward C. Patterson

This is the opening paragraphs to the second section of Turning Idolater

The line of sea and sky was broken by the crest of land that he could see when he pushed to the surface, his blowhole seeking the crisp ocean air. He winked at his mate as she swam just beneath him. He would be lashing through the waves toward the sky soon - a playful game for those small craft he spied nearby. He knew that on the prow the humans would wave to him and applaud. He kept his deep blue eye square along the rippling waters. He saw the distant tower that had been his key when in these waters. It pricked the cloudless sky like coral, only in the world of air and sails.

Blow it high so they could see him - a marker of the deep. Laughter churning to the reef. They were still distant, too far to lavish their praise. Still the spout would draw them nigh. It always had. Down through the layers of blacked blue, he felt the warmth of this sunless world, where the krill swam heedless into his maw. His mate turned about and over, her flippers stroking the waters, causing the current to feed them more - to stream the microcosm into their leviathan bulk. It was ever so offshore and in season that he and his mate should cleave the chalice of the sea and then break the cup's edge into sunlight.

Edward C. Patterson


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## Legoboyzmom

Now that I've figured out how to do the text link:

It hovered like a fly trapped inside her skull, crowding out the squeaking of sneakers, the banging of the basketball. Drained, the fourteen-year-old sank down on the bleachers and the low-pitched buzz between her ears evened to a soft hum. She swallowed twice. Perhaps this episode would end now. Gently. She prayed there would be no hallucinations.
Eyes fixed on the gym floor, the girl reached back to pull off the band holding her sun-bleached hair in a ponytail. As the elastic slid from her damp strands, the floor seemed to fall away. She gasped and drew back. Then, slowly, she craned her neck forward.
She looked down into the pool at Baghdad's exclusive Alwiya Club. But instead of the expected blue water, the girl viewed miles and miles of mud-brick sarifa villages. Like the ones in back of their house when they lived in Iraq some years ago.

~Onset, The Reckoning


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## Carolyn Kephart

Time to play.

"He had forgotten how rough life was among the yats. Forgotten the dirt and the din, the compacted miasma of meat seared by fire, of hot spices, horses, human sweat, the gritty reek of dust and smoke. The noisy hordes of children, and gangs of truculent dogs. Markul had taught him the luxuries of peace and cleanliness, however sparely he had elected to live there, and now he could not help wondering why his mother chose still to dwell among the Elhin Gazal when she might freely return to her native city of Almancar, the fairest in the World. Ryel felt a wrench of sorrow for that delicate spirit suborned to a dullard husband, a rough people, a harsh land." ~Wysard

CK


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## Edward C. Patterson

Wow, two beautiful snippets. Carolyn, I'm glad I own the Wysard series (now to read them, and that certainly inspired me to move forward on it). And Tanya, now I own The Reckoning.

Edwad C. Patterson


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## Carolyn Kephart

edwpat said:


> Wow, two beautiful snippets. Carolyn, I'm glad I own the Wysard series (now to read them, and that certainly inspired me to move forward on it).
> Edwad C. Patterson


Many thanks, Ed. I'm pretty Zen, and try to say a lot with a little.

CK


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## RJ Keller

Thanks for the kind words back in the beginning of the thread, Wavesprite. 

Snipit #2 from chapter three of Waiting For Spring:

The first question people insist on asking a new acquaintance is: What do you do for a living? I hate that. Insecurity, probably, because I'm not a lawyer or a doctor or any of those other professions that make people say, 'Oh...' in that reverent, awestruck way. And anyone unlucky enough to ask me that fatal question without preceding it with at least two others--for example, what books have you read lately or who's your favorite ballplayer--was answered with:

'I'm a lumberjack.'

Because any person with a greater interest in what it is I do to earn enough money to afford rent and music and beer and food and jeans--rather than in the fact that I think Bill Lee is the coolest guy ever to climb onto the pitchers mound--deserves to think I spend my days in the woods cutting down trees.


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## Edward C. Patterson

Nice, JR - I love it when I see other authors using the _*forward press cataloging method * _ . . . "afford rent and music and beer and food and jeans." I'm a big proponent of smashing the series comma discipline, Beautiful.

Edward C. Patterson


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## RJ Keller

edwpat said:


> Nice, JR - I love it when I see other authors using the _*forward press cataloging method * _ . . . "afford rent and music and beer and food and jeans." I'm a big proponent of smashing the series comma discipline, Beautiful.
> 
> Edward C. Patterson


Thanks! I didn't know there was a name for it.

Narration, in my mind, should be musical. PG Wodehouse wrote musical comedies for the theater, and that really comes across in his short story / novel writing. His words have rhythm, which I _love_. I don't write comedies - although I certainly use humor very liberally - but I've always been very influenced by his style.


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## Edward C. Patterson

There wasn't a name for it until my last post.  

Edward C. Patterson


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## RJ Keller

LOL!!

I don't think I've been present for the birth of a new literary term before.


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## Carol Hanrahan

It's been a week, so here's another snippet from Baling:

She grinned mischievously.  “You want to see me ride one?”
  “What, you mean a cow?”  Nick said.
  “Sure. I used to do it more often.  Mom’ll get mad if she catches me, says it puts them off their milk.  But it’s a blast.”
  She slipped out the side door and ran around to the large doorway the cows used.  She shimmied up the side of the doorway, using the large beams to pull herself up.  
    “Now just wave your arms and say ‘Shoo, shoo,’ and they’ll come out,” she said when she was in the upper corner of the doorway.
  “Shoo, shoo!”  Nick and John both leaned over and waved their arms. 
  The cows regarded them cautiously, then ambled towards the door, en masse.  At that point, Lainey swung herself to the middle of the doorway and as the second cow passed by underneath her, she lightly dropped onto its back, grabbing hold of the skin on either side of the animal’s neck.
  Alarmed, the cow pushed by the one in front of her, bucking her way across the pasture. She turned first to the left, then bucked to the right.  Her tail stood straight up at an incredible angle.

Hope you enjoy it!


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## mamiller

Hey Carol,

That took me right out to the pasture.  I feel much more relaxed now.  Great snippet!
Can't say I've ever ridden a cow.  Not even one of those fake ones.


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## Carol Hanrahan

Dare I say it - my Mom and her sisters did this.  I even have a picture of my Mom up on a cow, sitting side saddle-ish.


----------



## vikingwarrior22

Carol Hanrahan said:


> Dare I say it - my Mom and her sisters did this. I even have a picture of my Mom up on a cow, sitting side saddle-ish.


See, now this is a good book for a country guy like me. I like cows. I even rode the bull a "Gilley's" way back when ("Urban Cowboy" days) I think I got a new one to put "to read" list.


----------



## mamiller

It's the experiences like that which make the writing 'real'.  

Now if I could just write a romantic thriller involving glass manufacturing software....


----------



## Legoboyzmom

edwpat said:


> Wow, two beautiful snippets. Carolyn, I'm glad I own the Wysard series (now to read them, and that certainly inspired me to move forward on it). And Tanya, now I own The Reckoning.
> 
> Edwad C. Patterson


Thanks, Ed. Hope you find it worthwhile. Thanks again for coming up with this challenge!

Tanya


----------



## Brenda Carroll

OK, great. So it's been seven days and I am dying to put on another snippet from _the Red Cross of   Gold I: the Knight of Death_ "...for your viewing pleasure," he said dramatically, using one of his many fake accents. The women frowned in confusion and he laughed maniacally. "Ha! Ha!" She slapped him soundly. Er, that's not the snippet.  As follows:

Snippet 2:
The effort was too much. He stopped and then realized that he was looking at someone's feet in front of him. Black boots. Not Merry. Valentino looked down at him. She held the Golden Sword of the Cherubim above his head. The lightning reflected off the golden, double-edged blade that resembled a frozen flame. He sat back on his heels and frowned up at her in total confusion. Where had she come from? Where had she gotten the Flaming Sword? It was his sword!

The first drops of rain spattered down into his upturned face. He blinked as the rain came down harder and harder, drenching him to the skin almost instantly.

"You have profaned the temple!" she shouted at him. The rain poured over her, soaking her dark hair and running down her face in rivulets.

"Meredith!" he shouted again and tried to look around the woman.


----------



## Brenda Carroll

rjkeller said:


> Thanks for the kind words back in the beginning of the thread, Wavesprite.
> 
> Snipit #2 from chapter three of Waiting For Spring:
> 
> 'I'm a lumberjack.'


Loved your snippet. Makes me very interested in your story. Would you believe that I have actually told people that I'm a lumberjack and thought I was the only one to ever think of it. I used to tell people that I bought all my clothes at "Blum's". That might not sound so strange except that "Blum's" was a furniture store in my old stomping grounds. I figured they had no business asking where my clothes came from. Especially since I actually bought them at flea markets.  Not too bad... after I invested in a flea collar.


----------



## Edward C. Patterson

Jeff:

Wha a delightful snippet, nd from your family's hisory too.

Ed Patterson


----------



## mamiller

How quickly a week goes by....  time for snippet number two from my romantic suspense novel, WIDOW'S TALE.  Gosh, it's Friday, I should have chosen a more upbeat excerpt!  

---
    Something made her stop. 
    That prickly sensation at the back of her neck—the same paranormal sensation that occurred just before her ghosts arrived. 
    Under the beacon atop the bordering trawler, Serena traced the arc of light. In horror she watched the surging black wall of water that came straight at them. 
    Her scream was severed by its impact. 
    Launched from the deck into the frigid void, suspended in churning darkness for an eternity, Serena surfaced, choking. She squinted against the onslaught of the storm and located the trawlers, shifting shadows several feet away. Struggling to kick her feet, her arms flailed to keep above the waves. 
    Cruelly, Serena’s mind flashed to the past. She felt the weight of Alan’s hand on her head. Sputtering for breath, she tilted her neck back so that only her face reached the cold night. 
    Two kicks.
    One. 
    Serena’s legs stopped moving. 
    With a last twitch of strength, her arms fell still.


----------



## Carol Hanrahan

mamiller,
guess you're just going to leave us hanging there......  ok, checking out the sample, the sample......


----------



## Brenda Carroll

mamiller said:


> How quickly a week goes by.... time for snippet number two from my romantic suspense novel, WIDOW'S TALE. Gosh, it's Friday, I should have chosen a more upbeat excerpt!
> Two kicks.
> One.
> Serena's legs stopped moving.
> With a last twitch of strength, her arms fell still.


Truly a great snippet. I went to your website and looked at the first page. Made me go to the free preview: Prologue and Chapter. Made me want to read the book. Ghosts, Maine (my favorite state since I was six years old, you know PUFFINS and all ), stormy, rocky coastlines, ghosts . Drinking beer (yeah, that's what really got me ) at a seaside tavern, dead villainous husband, hint of a romantic venture in the brother-in-law. All very mysterious and very interesting . Loved your website. I'm still building mine, but like the Pharoahs of ancient Egypt, I may be dead before the capstone is put in place.


----------



## Carolyn Kephart

I hope the originator of this thread won't mind if I include a snippet from Lord Brother, my duology's second book, something I haven't done yet. My protagonist, the wysard Ryel, dreams a dream...or is it one?

"The silence turned liquid, and he sleeked through it without need of air, moving neither his arms nor his legs. Clouds of fishes darted back and forth like showers of indecisive finned prisms, catching the diffused sunlight in a thousand hues. A great ray shuttled by in soundless undulation while striped and spotted eels mutely knotted and unwound their scaly skeins. Corals and anemones waved languid jewel-hued fingers as Ryel slid past. Here was the hulk of a ship, its cargo of ancient amphorae storm-jettisoned and forgotten lying in a heap. Ryel broke open one of the amphorae, and red wine issued forth like blood-smoke. Into the smoke he swam, breathing it deep, tasting its heady strength with slow delight.

Drunkenly he glided through waving fields of seaweed that stroked his naked skin with ragged ribbons of live green satin. Rounding a spar of rock, he discovered the ruins of a temple rising up from the white-sanded sea-floor in an ordered forest of fluted columns, roofless yet with its altar still intact. Some queen's megaron it must have been, daintily built for the soft forgiving religion of a sunlit sea-girt land now forever lost. Between the columns stood statues of pure marble, which Ryel swam around in slow circles.

Next the wysard observed that behind the altar yet another pedestal stood empty. This he swam to and stood on, nobly attitudinizing, playing the god. But when he tired of his posturing a moment later he found himself unable to move anything but his eyes..."

And then it gets scary.

CK


----------



## mamiller

One of the characters drinks Allagash beer.  I've spent a lot of time in Maine, but I never had Allagash beer.  Then one time in Portland, I found Allagash at the bar.  I sat there with this inane grin on my face, drinking the beer and thinking of the character.   
My smile was so ridiculous I was probably the first person to be 'cut off' after two sips of beer! ...kidding    

...just think, when a Pharoah dies, their tombs tend to become 'Wonders of the world'.  So your website may become the 8th wonder....


----------



## Edward C. Patterson

Carolyn: 

The snippet can be from anywhere.

Ed Patterson


----------



## Carolyn Kephart

edwpat said:


> Carolyn:
> 
> The snippet can be from anywhere.
> 
> Ed Patterson


Understood with thanks, but I didn't wish to exceed the stipulated quota. 

CK


----------



## Edward C. Patterson

The quota is 150 words or thereabouts (no giganto novel slice) and one snippet per author a week. I'm happy that this thread is wroking so well for authors, and I've recieved notes from readers saying they really enjoy it and get to know the author's better through these posts.

Edward C. Patterson


----------



## Thumper

This one's from It's Not About The Cookies.

A grocery list of breakage. He read it off the chart in a very matter-of-fact voice. Milk, eggs, broken back, bread, crushed knees, cheese, hip fractures, and M&Ms for dessert.
"Am I paralyzed?"
"You respond to stimulus, but we're waiting on a surgical consult-"
Simon stepped closer. "You're going to cut her open?"
Their voices became a drone in the background as I closed my eyes and I tried to drift past the noise. MRI. Cat scan. Broken vertebrae. Nerve damage. Metal rods. Hip fractures. Both legs broken.
Scott's voice. "What are the risks?"
Simon's voice. "Damn, it sounds like she might be better off if she was paralyzed."
Scott. "Will she be able to walk again?"
Simon. "Will she be in pain?"
Simon. "Will she be okay?"
Simon. "It's my fault. I asked her to go into town. She wouldn't have been there if I hadn't asked her to go."
Simon. "It's my fu


Spoiler



cking


 fault!"
Simon. "I'm sorry, Mom. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."


----------



## RJ Keller

edwpat said:


> I've recieved notes from readers saying they really enjoy it and get to know the author's better through these posts.
> 
> Edward C. Patterson


That's good to know.


----------



## Brenda Carroll

mamiller said:


> I sat there with this inane grin on my face, drinking the beer and thinking of the character.
> My smile was so ridiculous I was probably the first person to be 'cut off' after two sips of beer! ...kidding


I have had several similar instances whilst drinking... just kidding.  I have indeed experienced the same sort of euphoria on several occasions when I actually got to see or feel or touch something that directly relates to one of my characters or storylines. It's a great feeling to have that inner joke with yourself and its your secret that no one else would understand... except, of course, another author.


----------



## Kevis Hendrickson

I'd like to post this snippet from my science fiction novel Rogue Hunter (Chronicles of the Rogue Hunter). I think it's a great way to introduce one of my most beloved characters:

Sinuous streams of phosphorous light gushed forth from the dilapidated vestibule that served as a transport chamber. Within the dense amalgamation of photon particles and ion emissions molecules began to swirl and form solid matter from which the silhouette of a human figure could be discerned. There was the continual hum like the buzzing of moving servos before the figure completely materialized in the transporter. Zyra Zanr, donned in her trademark encounter-suit of grey, purple, and flamboyant red had hardly taken a step out of the transport bay when a shower of sparks flew out of the transport apparatus behind her. Zyra looked back at the destitute transport device with an innocuous grin beneath her helmet.
This is really getting old, she thought.


----------



## Edward C. Patterson

Here's my snippet contrbution for the week from No Irish Need Apply

Sarah followed his eyes and starred at the door also, her sight meeting the portal as the buzzer erupted. She jumped.	
"That's Louis," Kevin said. "I'll get it." 
He bounced to his feet, but so did Sarah. "No. Sit right down. I'll welcome him to our home. I'm the lady of the house . . ." She winked. " . . ain't I?" Sarah gained the front door and opened it as if she were a tour guide at a heritage home.
Louis Lonnegan stood mystified in the doorway. He matched Kevin in tone and manner, although his darker complexion and his tousled black hair made him appear lonely - lost in the space between the threshold and the lintel. 
"Mrs. Borden?" he asked. "I'm Louis Lonnegan. Is Kevin at home?" 
"Come in, Louis," she said in almost singsong. "Kevin told me you like to be called Louis." 
Louis entered keeping one eye on the lady of the house and another on the largesse of the homey living room. This was a far cry from his poor dwelling over Mrs. Larimer's on Apple Street. "Well, that's my name," he said.	
"Of course it is. Glad to meet you." 
Sarah extended her hand, which Louis touched as if it were a banister or a guide rail in some narrow, dark place - more a touchstone than a ladies' glove holder. 
Kevin jumped to rescue Louis before the full treatment took effect. "Let's get started," he said. "We've lots of ground to cover." 
"Not yet," Sarah said. "Let's chat. Sit down Louis. You know there's nothing like a little chat on a busy day to relax and unwind. Please sit."
"Ma, we need to start studying." 
"Plenty of time for that," Sarah said. She led Louis to the sofa's edge, where he wedged in between the Martha Stewarts and the cushion cracks. Sarah watched Kevin as he resumed his place in the chair of the house. That sauce needed a stir, so this little interlude was sure to be a quick ride. 
"So, Louis do you live near here?" 
"Linden," he said looking about the room at the full collection of bric-a-brac. "About two miles." 
"How nice," Sarah said. "You live with your Mom and Dad?" 
"Ma," Kevin protested. 
Louis smiled. "No, that's okay, Kevin. Just me Ma since me Da left . . ." 
"Divorced?" 
"Not quite." 
"I'm sorry," Sarah said. "Divorces can be so hard on the children. Kevin's father is gone also, but he's . . . gone gone."
She pointed to a picture on the coffee table. 
"Dead?" Louis asked. 
"In other words," she said. "But we've managed quite well. He's gone gone for two years now."
Silence. Louis gazed at Harold's picture. He possibly sensed the same sadness that overwhelmed his own mother. "I'm sorry," he said. "Me Da's gone gone too. Two years is about right."

Edward C. Patterson


----------



## RJ Keller

After cautiously dipping my toe into the snipit sharing challenge, I'm jumping into the deep end by posting a rather meatier excerpt from Waiting For Spring. (WARNING: Content in spoiler tags contains salty language and adult/sexual themes.)

----------​
Even though she'd spent all night drinking, she was sitting there drinking some more. Drinking herself into oblivion. Into a haze. Filling her stomach and liver and brain and empty heart with poison.
I looked away from her, because I knew. That would be me. When I was too old and ugly and desperate to get a guy to give me the Something that I needed to make the voices go away. To make the empty, god-awful ache in my heart disappear. 
That would be me.


Spoiler



_Bullshit, Tess. That's you right now. Because you fucked that guy. You fucked a man you don't even know. You climbed on top of him and took him inside of you and let him make you come. You let him come. Inside of you. It's still inside of you, right now. And you don't even know his name. _


 That's what I did.


----------



## Edward C. Patterson

So that's what those black bars are for. I was wondering. Now I can post some of MY saltier snips. My readers know not to give my books to their children, although I am NEVER explicit, except when it comes to Chinese style executions . . . but that's Okay.  

Edward C. Patterson


----------



## Carol Hanrahan

Ed, is it time for another snippet?  I think so....  from Baling:


  A chocolate candy flew through the air and landed on John’s stomach.  
  “What the…?”  He lifted his head.  
  Another flew through the air and hit Nick on the shoulder.  Then three more came lobbing out of the cornfield followed by a giggle.  Parting the corn stalks, Lainey came dancing out of the field, twirling and tossing the candy into the air about her.      “I come bearing gifts!”  She circled about them, her long hair dancing out behind her.  
  He laughed and tried to catch the candy while John scrambled to his feet.  They searched for the pieces in the long grass, then sat down to eat them.  
  “I brought the whole bag,” Lainey said.  “We can get sick if we want. Or at least spoil our dinner.  ‘Young lady, why don’t you ever eat anything?’”  Lainey mimicked her mother’s tone.
  “It won’t hurt Nick’s appetite.”  John laughed. “He eats everything.”


Hope you enjoy it!


----------



## Edward C. Patterson

Yummy.

Ed P


----------



## Meredith Sinclair

Carol Hanrahan said:


> Ed, is it time for another snippet? I think so.... from Baling:
> 
> A chocolate candy flew through the air and landed on John's stomach.
> "What the&#8230;?" He lifted his head.
> Another flew through the air and hit Nick on the shoulder. Then three more came lobbing out of the cornfield followed by a giggle. Parting the corn stalks, Lainey came dancing out of the field, twirling and tossing the candy into the air about her. "I come bearing gifts!" She circled about them, her long hair dancing out behind her.
> He laughed and tried to catch the candy while John scrambled to his feet. They searched for the pieces in the long grass, then sat down to eat them.
> "I brought the whole bag," Lainey said. "We can get sick if we want. Or at least spoil our dinner. 'Young lady, why don't you ever eat anything?'" Lainey mimicked her mother's tone.
> "It won't hurt Nick's appetite." John laughed. "He eats everything."
> 
> Hope you enjoy it!


Ok, now I'ma wntin' my FREE chocolate from the other thread!!! Oh, where, oh where, is my coupon? Iz CRAVIN' me sum chocolate!


----------



## Brenda Carroll

Here's a little snippet from _The Red Cross of Gold VIII: the Silver Caduceus_. My leading lady has gotten into a bit of trouble by this time and so has the Mystic Healer, Simon, it seems. Remember, Knights everywhere, "the company of women is a dangerous thing", but never-the-less, indispensible. 

"You are my wife," he told her calmly. "You have only me and the Order, Sister. I'm afraid your [American] citizenship expired when you joined up."

"That's preposterous!" She dropped the sheet and began to put on her clothes uncaring of his presence. He had seen her before during the Solomonic experiment. "I'm leaving, Simon! I'm going back to the Villa and I'm going to tell your father what you've done."

"Really? And what do you think he will say?" he asked her.

"I don't know." She felt like crying, but was too angry for tears.

"You made a wager and you lost," he told her. "Now you have to pay up as they say in America."

She spun around to face him&#8230;. "What? You would have me as your wife for seven days?"

"No." He shook his head. "We will stay here seven days, but you will be my wife forever."


----------



## Thumper

Judging my the hairy body and wet nose pressed against my monitor, I'm thinking Max feels slighted in my snippage. To avoid having anything else of mine meeting a toothy death, this is his snippet, from The Psychokitty Speaks Out: Diary of a Mad Housecat

FEBRUARY 11, 2004

If you see a paw sticking out from under the door, it means one of two things: 
Let me out. =or= Let me in.

It does not mean "Let's screw with the cat and tickle his little paw," nor does it mean, "grab his little paw and see what he'll do."

He'll get mightily upset, that's what.

And no, you're not allowed to go to the bathroom without me. No real reason why. You're just not. 
***
FEBRUARY 12, 2004

Oooh. You know what's fun? A box of Kleenex, that's what. And you know what's even more fun? The People when they see how you've redecorated with just a single box of Kleenex. 
***
FEBRUARY 22, 2004

Let's get something straight: 
If it's on the floor, it's mine. If you drop it, it's mine. If it's on the table and you walk away from it, it's mine. If it's on the counter and you're not looking, it's mine. In fact, if it's in your hand and I can get to it, it's mine.

Got it? Good.


----------



## mamiller

Brendan, Brendan, you make me swoon.  Or is it Simon of Grenoble?

And Thumper, your snippet echoed the very same thoughts going through my head as I sit here at my desk, and I'm not a mad housecat.  It's amazing the great source of amusement a Kleenex can be!  

And Carol...well, dang, you made me hungry.


----------



## Brenda Carroll

mamiller said:


> Brendan, Brendan, you make me swoon. Or is it Simon of Grenoble?
> 
> And Thumper, your snippet echoed the very same thoughts going through my head as I sit here at my desk, and I'm not a mad housecat. It's amazing the great source of amusement a Kleenex can be!
> 
> And Carol...well, dang, you made me hungry.


Well, Miss Miller, you certainly put a blush on my cheek as well. That Simon is really a sneaky little devil.

And Thumper, you got it right on the money with that Catt thing. I've had several and you've caught it.


----------



## Carolyn Kephart

"No one ever really got to know a rashak, and Cela had never made an attempt. She patched them up and they paid her if they had money, giving exactly what her services were worth, neither more nor less. However much agony they might be in, they never showed it. Their flat wide-mouthed saurian faces remained stonily impassive even when the pain ebbed, and their gratitude was equally effusive." ~from 'Regenerated,' a short story published in _Quantum Muse_, free to read on my website.

CK


----------



## Edward C. Patterson

Carolyn:

I love the *saurian* faces. How antidiluvian.

Ed Patterson


----------



## Carolyn Kephart

edwpat said:


> Carolyn:
> 
> I love the *saurian* faces. How antidiluvian.
> 
> Ed Patterson


Thanks.  'Regenerated' continues to get a lot of reads at AuthorsDen, and since the 'zine's rights to it were first-time only, I'm planning to put it up on Kindle.

The story's categorized as sci-fi, but if Koth had been a gnome instead of a humanoid lizard, it'd have been fantasy. 

CK


----------



## boydm

This is a great thread! I thought I'd jump in and share a snippet from my novel, The Palmyra Impact:

  “How big?” Kai asked, already knowing that it was beyond his worst fears.
  Reggie let out a heavy sigh. “At least 70.”
  There was fear in Brad's eyes, but he also had the slightest smile. Kai could understand the mixture of dread and excitement he was feeling. Despite the terrible devastation from the massive waves, despite the danger, despite the illogic of it, Kai had always wanted to see a tsunami in person. Now he was going to get his chance.
  “The Asia tsunami didn’t get bigger than 30 feet high, did it?” Brad asked. 
  Reggie shook his head. “There are some estimates that it got at least twice that high in Banda Aceh.”
  “So 70 feet will be huge." 
  Kai put his hand on Brad’s shoulder. He didn’t get it.
  “Brad, all of our figures are in metric units. Meters, not feet. 70 meters. The wave is going to be over 200 feet high.”


----------



## Brenda Carroll

boydm said:


> This is a great thread! I thought I'd jump in and share a snippet from my novel, The Palmyra Impact:
> 
> "Brad, all of our figures are in metric units. Meters, not feet. 70 meters. The wave is going to be over 200 feet high."


That gives me anxiety. I don't swim that good.  Are they very far from the beach? A dumb question no doubt!  Good snippet. Got my attention.


----------



## Dave Dykema

I thought that last snippet was also a good one. I didn't expect the metric twist at all!


----------



## boydm

Brendan Carroll said:


> That gives me anxiety. I don't swim that good.  Are they very far from the beach? A dumb question no doubt!  Good snippet. Got my attention.


Being close to the beach is only the start of their problems.


----------



## David J. Guyton

Man I thought I thought this idea up! Ed you beat me to it weeks ago it seems. I should come to the forum more often I guess.

Anyway, here's a snippet from the middle of Mighty Hammer Down:

*Patches of sunlight moved lazily on the forest floor as they made their way back onto a more suitable trail. A gentle breeze cooled them as it rustled the leaves in the canopy overhead, weaving the sounds of nature into a pleasant song. Both of them took some time to be silent and enjoy the surroundings, content just to breathe the fresh air and walk together through such a glorious landscape. Rommus lost himself in his thoughts until he almost lost himself in the forest, forgetting where he was going.*


----------



## Dave Dykema

Here's another snippet from "Stalker."

The palette of the sky changed from reds to blues and finally purples once the last sliver of the sun pushed beyond the horizon. Dan enjoyed the darkness, just as he had as a kid. It was his ally. He felt stronger, more sure of himself. The night hid his insecurities. He embraced it.
Thinking of the character from _Stalker_, he looked for someone to follow. He'd stalk him/her for a few blocks, closing the gap as he went, and then let up once he got near. He didn't want to arouse suspicion. Besides, he thought he wouldn't have to worry about that. He figured he wouldn't even get within half a block.


----------



## Meredith Sinclair

Dave Dykema said:


> Here's another snippet from "Stalker."
> 
> The palette of the sky changed from reds to blues and finally purples once the last sliver of the sun pushed beyond the horizon. Dan enjoyed the darkness, just as he had as a kid. It was his ally. He felt stronger, more sure of himself. The night hid his insecurities. He embraced it.
> Thinking of the character from _Stalker_, he looked for someone to follow. He'd stalk him/her for a few blocks, closing the gap as he went, and then let up once he got near. He didn't want to arouse suspicion. Besides, he thought he wouldn't have to worry about that. He figured he wouldn't even get within half a block.


I think I am going to treat myself to your book Dan. I have this one and "Widow's Tale" that I want and shall do it tomorrow perhaps, my DD has my Kindle soooo... I will have it by tomorrow afternoon!


----------



## Brenda Carroll

David J. Guyton said:


> Man I thought I thought this idea up! Ed you beat me to it weeks ago it seems. I should come to the forum more often I guess.
> 
> Anyway, here's a snippet from the middle of Mighty Hammer Down:


I'm intrigued by the title of your book (not to mention the cover picture which is very... intellectually catchy ). What is the source, if you care to share, of the Title: Mighty Hammer Down?  Is that the red knight's name? That is a knight, isn't it? Or is it some other type of warrior. Do tell.


----------



## Edward C. Patterson

David J. Guyton said:


> Man I thought I thought this idea up! Ed you beat me to it weeks ago it seems. I should come to the forum more often I guess.


Oh, I have a lot more ideas that authors and hopefully readers will enjoy. The snippet I think is a good one. I have a variation coming up, where autors will be asked to write snippets on a theme set on the thread - and on the spot. I also have another one brewing where we can pass along a passage we've written and published and ask our fellow authors to rewrtie in their own style, complete with annotations. But for now, lets keep it to this one until we're really familiar with the breadth of our styles.

Edwrd C. Patterson


----------



## Susan in VA

Oooh, sounds like old-fashioned parlor games for authors!  Looking forward to eavesdropping on those too


----------



## Meredith Sinclair

Susan in VA said:


> Oooh, sounds like old-fashioned parlor games for authors! Looking forward to eavesdropping on those too


Me too... if I'm allowed...


----------



## David J. Guyton

Brendan Carroll said:


> I'm intrigued by the title of your book (not to mention the cover picture which is very... intellectually catchy ). What is the source, if you care to share, of the Title: Mighty Hammer Down?  Is that the red knight's name? That is a knight, isn't it? Or is it some other type of warrior. Do tell.


Well thank you! Actually the title I kind of stumbled upon while writing it. The original title was Rommus (the knight guy you see there) but during a speech in the book, someone says

"Now let us ride to war. Now let us bring this mighty hammer down on our enemies."

So as soon as I wrote that I knew it was the title. The guy in the armor isn't a knight as in a medieval knight...the setting is more like ancient Rome. That is the armor of the god of war you see.

Incidentally, I paint my own book covers


----------



## Carol Hanrahan

Just the background or the whole cover?


----------



## David J. Guyton

Carol Hanrahan said:


> Just the background or the whole cover?


Whole cover, front, spine and back (for paperback anyway). Painted in Acrylic and then edited some in Photoshop. The next cover is done but it was done in oil this time


----------



## Kevis Hendrickson

Gotta say this was a great idea, Ed. Until you created this thread I'd never posted any snippets from my books online before. I figure I'm due for another go at it, so here's my second snippet from Rogue Hunter (Chronicles of the Rogue Hunter):

Scene~After surviving countless threats to her life, intergalactic bounty hunter Zyra Zanr now closes in on the person she thinks is responsible for her father's death:

Macabre hues of black, crimson, and cobalt-grey greeted Zyra when she combed the vast winding cavern that marked her destination. Except for the lights that glittered about the cavern walls like little stars, the cavern, growing larger with every step, was nightmarishly dark. Zyra winced as she observed her surroundings that were comprised of machinery so grossly sculpted that it resembled some idiosyncratic artist's rendition of the human body turned inside out. Her eyes tracked along the path ahead of her while she noticed herself being displayed on an endless array of obliquely shaped, old-fashioned, two-dimensional visual monitors that reminded her of a spider's prey being reflected in a cluster of black, menacing eyes. Perhaps that was exactly what was happening now. After many days of toil, Zyra had finally arrived at the center of her proverbial spider's web, not knowing for sure from which direction creeping death would come.


----------



## Brenda Carroll

David J. Guyton said:


> Well thank you! Actually the title I kind of stumbled upon while writing it. The original title was Rommus (the knight guy you see there) but during a speech in the book, someone says
> "Now let us ride to war. Now let us bring this mighty hammer down on our enemies."
> Incidentally, I paint my own book covers


Thanks for the info. All I can say is that if you write as well you as you paint, your book really must be something.  I will have to read it at first opportunity. I am a great fan of ancient Rome, Troy and the Egyptians as well. Love all those bloodthirstly types.  I'm impressed and now knowing where the name came from makes it all the more interesting. Thanx. Brendan


----------



## Edward C. Patterson

My turn now. This is from my latest novel, the 3rd Book of The Jade Owl Legacy Series, called *The Dragon's Pool*. The protagonist, Nick Battle has the ability to "glimmer," which is a psycho possessive state. In this case, he "glimmers" a missing character (Tadzio) and sees some astonishing things, including his own (also missing) adopted son, Silky (Master Marsh).

------------------------
Teeth - sharp and arrayed in a hideous smile, dominated the vision. They were long teeth, ready for lunch - ivory white and marshaled in a snout jaw like some weird carnivorous duck. A flash of gold and crimson feathers flared from the noggin as brash as any chorus girl's and quite in need of a drag queen's finishing touches. It was a low creature, but long enough and wide enough to sport . . . a saddle. Although there was no bit, a harness sprouted reins, and those reins were held by . . . Silky.
"They're spark plugs today, Tadzio," Master Marsh said. 
He balanced himself on the creature's back as if he was born to it. The big bird wiggled, but appeared to obey Silky's grip. Its muscular hind legs were comical to Nick's eye. Feather-covered leg warmers came to mind, but comedy flailed when he observed the sharp talons below this fru fru - sickle shaped daggers - the raptor's calling card. 
Nick felt words rising in his throat. 
"Just you take care."
Silky roared. So did the beast. 
"I'll race you to the paddock."
"Clot," Tadzio said.
Suddenly, Nick's nausea spun in several directions as he watched Silky kick his booted feet to the raptor's underbelly, and take off. Nick felt a rumble, and then realized that Tadzio rode his own monster in motion. Nick espied Silky ahead through a full fan of feathers on his own creature's crest. He also heard a voice calling to him. At first he thought it might be Simone, awake and wondering why his husband stood naked before the window bobbing like a sailboat, but this voice was deeper. Commanding - tinged with a modicum of pissed off. 
Suddenly, Nick jarred forward as Tadzio braked. 
"Hoy! Master Marsh! The race is off."
"How can you presume to misuse these delicate animals?" carped the voice. Nick recognized the voice, as Tadzio did, but unlike Tadzio, Nick didn't readily attach ownership. "You must tend the flock until your time comes," said the man, who was coming into view as Tadzio steered his raptor-steed to what appeared to be a high, wooden fence. 
"Yes, Master," Tadzio said. "Hoy! Master Marsh. Hoy! To me!"
Nick could see Silky rein in his raptor, the dust rising above the spry bird-thing. It snarled and snapped as if to show its displeasure in curtailing such an invigorating run. Its stubby arms waved like pincers, while both sickle claws rapped the clay impatiently. Silky aimed the beast at the fence and, while Tadzio dismounted (a disorienting experience for Nick), he turkey trotted toward his wrangler partner. 
Tadzio faced the man. Nick trembled. It was Han Lin. 
--------------------------------------------------------
The Dragon's Pool

Edward C. Patterson


----------



## Edward C. Patterson

We're not over punctilious about the 150 word rule - just no full chapters or 800 words etc. 

from the guy who made the rule and rules are meant to be broken and I broke it.
Edward C. Patterson


----------



## Carolyn Kephart

David J. Guyton said:


> Well thank you! Actually the title I kind of stumbled upon while writing it. The original title was Rommus (the knight guy you see there) but during a speech in the book, someone says
> 
> "Now let us ride to war. Now let us bring this mighty hammer down on our enemies."
> 
> So as soon as I wrote that I knew it was the title. The guy in the armor isn't a knight as in a medieval knight...the setting is more like ancient Rome. That is the armor of the god of war you see.
> 
> Incidentally, I paint my own book covers


I too had been wondering about your title. Thanks for clarifying!

CK



> http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=put+the+hammer+down


----------



## Carolyn Kephart

edwpat said:


> We're not over punctilious about the 150 word rule - just no full chapters or 800 words etc.
> 
> from the guy who made the rule and rules are meant to be broken and I broke it.
> Edward C. Patterson


Hm. That means everyone will start breaking your 'post only one snippet per week' rule. 

CK


----------



## Edward C. Patterson

Nope. That one I won;t break, because we'll have authors posting every day and if I, with 12 published books can hold my water in that respect, I expect everyone to hold to that one. My next snippet will be on the 14th. 

Ed Patterson


----------



## Carol Hanrahan

David J. Guyton said:


> Whole cover, front, spine and back (for paperback anyway). Painted in Acrylic and then edited some in Photoshop. The next cover is done but it was done in oil this time


Now that is awesome!


----------



## Kevis Hendrickson

David,

Can't wait to see the final product. Must be amazing.


----------



## William Woodall

This snippet comes from "Cry for the Moon", as Zach is thinking back one day.  A larger sample is available on my website or on Amazon.  This book costs $2.78 in the Kindle Store.


    "I’d be lying if I said I didn’t miss the
mountains and the wild hickory trees, and the
sound of whitewater falling over rocks. They say
there’s no place like home, and I guess that’s true.
I missed it more than I ever thought I would, and 
how could I ever even begin to replace it
all?"
    "The answer to that one was easy, of course;
there wasn’t any way. You can never have the
same thing twice, and it’s hopeless to try. It never
works like that, and all you end up doing is
breaking your heart against a solid rock. That’s
why when you lose things you have to let them go
instead of trying to get them back again. You can’t
do it, and you only hurt yourself worse if you keep on.
Never cry for the moon."


----------



## J Dean

Here's another excerpt from CLADE JOSSO.  This one is a conversation between the protagonist and one of his traveling companions.        

        Radha’s eyes shifted to the small window.  “I need to let you rest now.  Expect one of us to wake you before sunrise; we have a journey of several days to undertake.  You’ve probably got a thousand questions going on in your head, right? We’re going to have plenty of time to talk on our trek, so you can ask away tomorrow.  I can’t guarantee that everything can be answered for you, but we’ll do our best. Sleep well.”
She rose from the bed, moving toward the door.
“Radha?”
“Yes?”
A heartbeat of hesitation silenced the room.  Clade continued timidly. “Are you coming with me tomorrow?”
She nodded. “I, Meru, and Alha will go with you.”
“I’m… glad to hear that.”
Radha smiled at him, but the smile came across to Clade as more of a thin disguising of melancholy than an expression of any real sense of happiness or gratitude.  He considered saying something about it, held his tongue, and returned the smile.  With that, she disappeared behind the closing door.
Clade’s hand fumbled over the gas lamp, finding a little knob, giving it a little twist to shut it off, moving it the wrong way at first, which caused the room to experience a surge in illumination.  Correcting the matter with a turn in the opposite direction, the flame in the glass housing dimmed into blackness.  
His mind was still swimming in questions when sleep washed over his body.


----------



## Brenda Carroll

Well, J. Dean, I am impressed with the originality of this line: "_A heartbeat of hesitation silenced the room_"
I love lines like that and it's incredible to think that after all the writing and 'literizing' (I like making up words and that is how I 'splain my typos) that we can still find original lines. I'm always on the lookout for them when reading, like a hobby, I guess and then I memorize them and spring them on my unsuspecting friends, family and co-workers.


----------



## Edward C. Patterson

I like making words up too. My favorite is _*grayment*_, which appears in the second line of _*The Jade Owl * _ and is used at least once in each of the subsequent books in the Legacy series. Anyone's guess, out of context, what it means?

Edward C. Patterson


----------



## David J. Guyton

Grayment: The dulling of things once vibrant

....just a guess


----------



## Edward C. Patterson

Nope. Here's a hint - the opening lines of The Jade Owl:

"When Rowden Gray charged into the San Francisco Museum of East Asian Arts and Culture, he caused quite a stir. He had been pacing in the buttery sun of Golden Gate Park for at least twenty minutes, his feet scuffing the grayment."

Edward C. Patterson


----------



## David J. Guyton

hmmm...I assume concrete? Or some kind of gray pavement?


----------



## Edward C. Patterson

David J. Guyton said:


> hmmm...I assume concrete? Or some kind of gray pavement?


gray pavement = grayment. I also set tone with the protagonist's last name - Gray.

Ed Patterson


----------



## Meredith Sinclair

edwpat said:


> gray pavement = grayment. I also set tone with the protagonist's last name - Gray.
> 
> Ed Patterson


I know, I know. It's a play on the gray of the cosmic consciousness that represents the embodiment of all things since gray is the color that signifies the smoothing of conflicting emotional responses in reference to the conflicting miasma of the human condition. Ha! Of course, I wrote that myself. Hmmm, mmmm. Yep. I wrote that. So your character dragged his feet on the grayment or, in other words, he felt the primordial pull of the basic animal nature and did not wish to leave that sensuous moment in his life, but at the same time, he felt drawn upward to the place where he must relinquish those responses in order to make the complete spiritual evolution necessary to attain to the greatness hidden within the depths of his soul. Am I right? Am I right?


----------



## Edward C. Patterson

Merry:

I thnk you need to read the books.  Because after Rowdy scuffs the grayment, the series takes off and doesn't stop to smell the cosmos for 700,000 words (to date - only 3 books finished. My magnus opus). 

Edward C. Patterson
Visit my Amazon Authors Page http://www.amazon.com/-/e/B002BMI6X8


----------



## Carolyn Kephart

It's been ages (more than a week!) since I posted anything from *Wysard*. Here's a snippet:

They squared off and saluted in one of the Kaltiri ways-not the salute of enemies bent upon death, nor of friends vying in strength, but of a warrior testing his squire-a low bow from Ryel, and almost none at all from Edris, and then blades lightly crossed once, twice, then drawn apart slowly-and in that lingering last moment, battle swift and strenuous. Soon Ryel felt all his blood grown hot, heard himself panting as he slashed and lunged.

He knew his kinsman's strength only too well. Fifty World-years had thinned and grayed Edris' close-shorn dark hair, and deeply etched his outer eye-corners, but none of those years had shrunken or softened the lean muscles that clung to his hulking height. Now the disarray of combat revealed the long stark-sinewed arms and legs, the broad chest, that the trailing amplitudes of Markulit robes at all other times concealed, and at the sight Ryel felt newborn weak and naked. Furiously Ryel redoubled his attack, all in vain. Edris only laughed at him, and with his tagh's flat swatted Ryel across the side of the head, very hard.

"You'd need Mastery to beat me, brat. Do your worst."

Delirious with rage and pain and humiliation, Ryel shouted an Art-word, all his fury balled into it. He had never forgiven himself for what came next.

*****​
CK


----------



## Edward C. Patterson

An Art-word. I know a few of those.  

Ed P


----------



## TiffanyTurner

Here's my go at a snippet:
From the First Book in the Crystal Keeper Chronicles, "The Lost Secret of Fairies":
Wanda, the main character, is about to make a very important decision.
(Chapter 4, pg 27)
"I looked down for a sec. This could be dangerous later, I guess. But I managed to come through so far, figuring out how to make it. I had the brains. After all, I get tons of 'As' in school.

But then, I remembered the look on Jessica's face when she got the gold metal at the gymnastics meet, and I hadn't even placed. I wanted to be good at something. That's when I dropped out of the advanced class and took intermediate instead.

Then, I felt a knowing that this was right. Like it was somehow my destiny. Somehow, this would help me not only with gymnastics, but with other stuff too.

'I don't think I want this to be a dream. I want it all to stay real.' "

Listed at a bargain price of $3.19-http://www.amazon.com/Lost-Secret-Fairies-Chronicles-ebook/dp/B002C1A2BM


----------



## mamiller

Snippet time!      

WIDOW'S TALE ---

  Serena’s feet crunched over frozen turf.  Air billowed from her mouth as her eyes began to tear from the wind. She tucked her chin even deeper into the down collar. Walking backwards against the gust, she focused on the floodlights illuminating the tavern’s deck. From this perspective, O’Flanagans represented a warm and inviting symbol of hope, the lights on the third floor reminding her that Brett lay safe and asleep.

  Turning back into the blustery weather, sounds came to Serena in muffled echoes within the cocoon of the jacket hiked around her ears. She nearly missed the grinding tread to her right. Instinctively she crouched, cursing the open knolls that lead to the lighthouse. She prayed for cloud cover—any form of camouflage.  But the moon glimmered across the fresh snow. 

  Spinning about, she studied the dirt path that led to the light-keeper’s house like a black vein scarring white marble. 
  
  The path was empty. She was alone.


----------



## Carol Hanrahan

Snippet Day!  From Baling:

  “There’s something in this pocket.  Sort of.  I can feel it, but I can’t grab it.”
  “Let me see,” John said, sticking his hand in the jacket pocket.
  “I think it’s stuck in the lining somewhere,” Nick said.
  “Here, let me see it,” Aunt Jess said, returning from the kitchen.  She took the jacket from Nick and felt in the pocket.  “Hmmm, you’re right.  There is something in here.”
  She went to the cupboard and rummaged around inside.  She took out a sharp little seam ripper, sat down, and started tearing the seam open.  A few minutes later, a dark key dropped out of the jacket lining.
  “What was this to?”  John scooped it up and held it for them all to see.  “It’s not very big.”
  The key was small and had ornate scrollwork on the end of it.  
  “Why would it be hidden inside the lining of his jacket?” Nick asked.  

Enjoy!
Carol


----------



## RJ Keller

Oh! I'm late for Author Snipit Day. 

From Chapter 21 of Waiting For Spring.

________________________________________

"Listen to me, Brian. I love you."

I put as much feeling and power behind the word as I could, but it still didn't seem like enough. Because what I meant, of course, was that he was fire and music and life. That he was everything that was good and decent and strong. That his heart was so big and full that I couldn't understand how his body could possibly contain it; why it didn't just burst open and spill out all over the place, all that passion and wonder and heat.

Because love is a weak word. Just four little letters. But it was the only word I had, so I said it again, because I really did love him. Even though what I meant was all those words I couldn't bring myself to say, all the emotions I didn't even know the names for. The ones that meant even more.


----------



## LCEvans

This is my first post for author snippets. This snippet is from my new book, We Interrupt This Date.

I escorted her up a flight of stairs. Mama doesn't trust the elevator in her building since it got stuck once when the power went out. While she was still fumbling in her purse, I unlocked her door with the spare key she'd given me. I pushed the door open, and the Chihuahuas converged yapping from their plush little bed in the corner. They squirmed at her feet, fighting each other for position. She squatted to scoop the two trembling bodies into her arms. 
"Babies, babies, give Mama some sugar."
I tried not to gag. If sugar was the dog spit they were depositing on her face, she was getting plenty.
"I'll call you tomorrow, Mama. Promise."

We Interrupt This Date


----------



## Edward C. Patterson

Because I'm going on the road until Wednesday (although I'll be checking in), I'm going to post Monday's snippet today. This one is from *The Dragon's Pool * and has been discussed in the Author's Support thread as part of a discussion on research where I spent a month cooking Tuscan meals just to write these 2 paragraphs. So suck it in for this hgh caloric passage that takes place in a Pergolatto in Fiesole overlooking the olive groves near Florence (Firenze): Note: la matrigna is the step-mother, in this case a main character and China hand - Rose Whitaker, Rowden Gray's first wife and now married to Rafealo Tosti-Tostacaroni (Mr. Toasty for short). Rose has brought a very special, green hooty thing to Tuscany and has buried it . . . well, let's eat.

"Enter - the lamb. Even Rafaelo brightened. The staff, in their gray and white presentation best, swept through the arches and delivered the repast. They were preceded by the aroma of the hills, the embodiment of Fiesole en plate. Crostini di Polenta, deep fried and golden, as crispy as the Bacconcini di Carciofi - baby artichokes, rising in a pyramid above a red and green riotous bowl. Flat vessels of antipasto skirted cups of Minestra di Castagne, the chestnut soup of the region, which played fine with Rose's conception of brewed magic.

For Carla, the green nests - Nidi di Erbucce, with their ivory eggy-cheesy eyes peeping like pearls in an oyster, was a superior choice than the heaps of rabe and salami julienne. Marla was partial to the Frissoglia - green beans and zucchini flowers, their zesty, pungent song calling her appetite to zenith. Stefania could have skipped the main dishes and gone to the Budinine Risso - sweet and rice-pasty and loaded with cinnamon. To her, there was no rule that dictated a pecking order. Starting with dessert was just as happy as ending with the Chestnut soup.

The platters came. The aromas enticed. The staff set their own places at two adjacent tables, while Cook and two honored assistants of the day wheeled in the Agnello al Forno. It was soaked in the gravy of the gods - a thick garlic and bay concoction that blended the house wines in careful proportions. The slices were slightly pink and resonated to their appreciative audience, far beyond the precipice of il Pergolato, rivaling the distant silhouettes of Giotto and Donatello's creations. And for those who found the lamb a heavy dose, there were the veal shanks - Ossibuchi al Pomodoro, and the grilled trout - Trote al Frantoio, kissed beyond its woody texture by the Parpardella al Cunghale, a song of wild mushrooms and pasta drenched in boar sauce and juniper berries. Ezio applauded, his eyes as wide as the fish. Tadzio scanned across the plating to another pair of eyes, these alive and not piscine. He then glanced at his matrigna. Help us, they said. Can't you see we are desperate? And this drove some steel back into Rose's waning fire."

Edward C. Patterson


----------



## LCEvans

Maureen,
I loved the snippet from a Widow's Tale. I read the sample last week, but reading the snippet reminded me how much I liked it, so I went ahead and ordered. I look forward to reading it. In fact, it will probably be the first book I read on my K2 when it arrives.


----------



## mamiller

Thanks L.C.!  

It's one of those books that even though it's June and 90 degrees out, you want to bundle up in a blanket while reading it.


----------



## boydm

This is a snippet from The Ark:

“What the hell is going on, Judy?”
“That bone is why the hazmat team is here. Because of the condition of the remains, the FBI was worried about biological or chemical residues. The closest team was an Army unit from Dugway Proving Grounds in Utah. Didn’t find anything. They gave us the all-clear to start our processing yesterday afternoon.”
“How many bodies have you recovered so far?”
“None.”
“What?” Locke said, incredulous. “You must have found some by now. According to the manifest I saw, there were 27 people on board.”
“We’ve found remains from at least twenty people, but no bodies.”
“By remains, you mean hands, torsos, things like that?”
“No. That row of bags you saw before contains nothing but bones.”
Locke was speechless. Grant looked like he felt--completely shocked. 
“How is that possible?” Locke finally said.
“We have no idea,” Judy said. “All we know is that before the plane crashed, something reduced every single person on board to skeletons.”


----------



## Ann in Arlington

**I remember that part**


----------



## Brenda Carroll

This is a snippet from the third book in my series: _The Red Cross of Gold III:. *the Head of the Crow*_
Something just got out of a glass jar in the alchemist's laboratory and he and one of his Brothers has gone down to check on the 'ominous Temple treasure' stored there. So here goes.

They crept along the wall as far as possible away from the ominous treasure, bumping into odds and ends stacked on the floor and made their way around the long table that held all of Mark's alchemical equipment, acting very much like two six-year-olds lost on a dark, country road on All Hallows' Eve. The air was heavy and their ears popped time and again. Mark stopped suddenly and gripped Simon's arm hard enough to make him wince out loud.

"God in Heaven," Mark said suddenly, his voice barely a hoarse whisper, his tone almost causing the Healer to faint from sheer terror.

Simon looked around the basement, eyes popping from his head, ready to run or die or witness something more hideous than imagination could muster. All his blood was in his feet and his heart was pounding hollowly in his chest.

The bell jar lay shattered on the rough wood lab table in thousands of sparkling shards that spilled across a portion of the floor.


----------



## Kevis Hendrickson

Here's my 3rd and final snippet from The Legend of Witch Bane (The Witch Bane Saga):

Scene~The wicked Queen Rhiannon sends her evil hunter to destroy the 3 children who are trying to reach her castle. The children are in a fight for their very lives:

With one deft swing of his sword, the stranger deflected the second arrow Anyr had let fly at him. Then he leapt from his saddle and engaged Kòdobos in a furious exchange of deadly blows. For all his bravery, Kòdobos was easily overcome. Anyr cut across the path of the stranger and hooked the shaft of another arrow into her bow. But a savage backhand left her sprawled on the snow beside Kòdobos. Laris knew her brother and sister would be killed if she didn't stop the stranger. At first, there seemed a moment in which she was inclined to summon forth some great power hidden deep within her. But her heart failed her, and the words she had begun to utter faded from her voice. Instead, Laris attacked the stranger with a raging maelstrom of violent thrusts, lunges, guard checks, ripostes, impasses, pirouettes, and parries, causing the air to erupt in a cacophony of exploding metal.

Now available for only 80 cents.


----------



## Carolyn Kephart

It's a lovely day for a snippet. This is from a work in progress, set in the present day and age, no magic.

***

Crunching her ice hard, Esme tried to consider her options and gave up, taking another slug of her drink instead as she glanced around the room. Very soon the monochrome poses ceased to fascinate. Deciding she would rather be very far elsewhere, Esme headed for the exit, but got misdirected somehow in the near-darkness and found herself in another section of the club, a room full of irritatingly chic sofas and knee-tormenting tables where cliquey little groups were being jaded and


Spoiler



bitchy


. No one wasted a glance on her, save to note that her clothes were hopeless. Feeling defeated, she was on the point of turning around to leave when she discerned a voice thrillingly human, equivocally sexed, wonderfully calm and clear. A voice like the rustling of green leaves in deep blue sun-fragrant space, warm against her back. Instantly Esme turned around with eyes wide open, seeking the music that lit the din like a thread of gold in a gutter.

It, too, had glanced about, this indeterminate entity. There'd been no need for it to shift its glance from the entourage that encircled it, and Esme had said nothing, done nothing to draw its attention. Sheer accident, their encounter; and the meeting of their eyes came like a crash, lasting so long that the enchanter was able to lift its drink and take a deliberate sip.

"What is it, Nick?"

The man so named by the insistent girl at his side did not move his eyes from Esme. "I've found my angel," he said at last. "Move over, Marva." And he held out his hand to Esme, with cordial grace.

Marva, who sat at Nick's right hand like John at the Last Supper, preferred immobility and made difficulties until Nick at last turned and said something into her ear that got her out of her chair cursing. Esme, drawn by the man's look and directed by his gesture, took the place at his side.

***

CK


----------



## Edward C. Patterson

Well folks, I'll share a snippet from my next book, which hopefully will be out and available at the end of July or early August. It's called *Look Away Silence* and is unusual for me, because it is written in the 1st person. Here's the opening paragraph:

*"I am a child of Christmas. Some people are Easter-kids. Others get fired up over the Fourth of July or wax poetic for Arbor Day. Not me. Christmas has always been the focus of my year, because everything that has been good in my life has come down from the sparkling Yule Fairy and wrapped up in bows and striped paper. As little children, we wish for many things at Christmas - trains, bikes, Legos, baseball gloves and some, like me, asked Santa for an ironing board. Now that would bode well and never shock, except my name is Martin and not Martina, and . . . it quite put my Grandpa off his Monday Night Football. My mother was cool with it, otherwise she would have bought me a GI Joe and insisted I dig trenches and drop fake bombs over the chenille. However, I wouldn't have minded a GI Joe either, a fact my mother also sensed. So it was an ironing board for me. Vivian Powers' sissy boy was devoted to Christmas from that day forward. I knew there was a Santa Claus and his linen closet was impeccably arranged."*

Edward C. Patterson


----------



## mamiller

Great snippets on here this week! Good work, all. 

Okay, here's one more WIDOW'S TALE snippet. I promise next week I'll throw a ROGUE WAVE snippet in the pot.

----------

Her words were lost to Brett as he felt the vise of panic cinch around his stomach.

"Serena," he whispered in desperation.
Brett launched through the oscillating door, into the empty kitchen where he saw the back door banging restlessly in the wind. For a moment he stood rooted, captivated by sporadic glimpses of the frigid hell outside.

Gray-black-gray-black, the door swung back and forth, mocking him. _Too late. Too late._

A footfall behind him caused Brett to whirl and discover John Morse at his heel. The man peered over his shoulder into the fog bank beyond the gaping door.

"Let me guess," Morse said, "she's gone? And you know who took her, don't you? It's time to start redirecting your anger, Murphy. There were several people that had issues with your brother."


----------



## Dave Dykema

This is from my new book, "Wrong Number":

After a couple hours of this I snapped off the idiot box. That just filled a void too, but it held no excitement. There was no sense of entering new territory. That's what my life craved: an element of danger, an element of the unknown.
_Brad, give me a call. I'd love to see you again sometime. 555-2664 [email protected]_
If I was going to call Julie I had to do it right. Besides, my window of opportunity was fast closing. She probably gave out her telephone number on Friday, maybe Thursday if it drifted in the parking lot for a day. If too many more days passed it would be too late. Girls get


Spoiler



pissed


 off if you wait too long, right?
The beer gave me a slight buzz and liquid courage. I went into the bedroom and dialed her number.
I planned on telling her a joke Jermaine told me at work. It was a little politically incorrect, but still funny enough to share. All I had to do now was worry that I didn't screw up the punch line&#8230;how did it go? Was it _That's not my rabbi, that's my priest_ or was it the other way around?
"Hello?"
The punch line didn't matter. I had the real girl on the phone this time.
"Hello?" Julie repeated.


----------



## Edward C. Patterson

Carolyn, Dave, Maureen - Great snippets.

Edward C. Patterson


----------



## Carol Hanrahan

Ok, it's been a week, so here's another snippet from Baling: 

Below them, at the creek, Lainey let out a whoop of victory.  
  “She’s got him,” John said, starting down the slippery bank towards a flash of blonde hair. 
    She was at the creek’s edge, and they hurried to join her.  Twenty feet above, Nick paused.  She held the bullfrog above her head with both hands. Up to her ankles in water, she was beautiful.
  “I got him.” She laughed, splashing through the creek towards them.  At the edge of the water, she took an unsteady step onto the muddy bank.  
  “Hang on, we’ll be right there,” he called down to her.  
  Stepping up onto the wet mud, she slipped, tipping headlong into the bushes in front of her.  She let go of the frog to catch herself.  With two enormous leaps, the frog was gone. The bushes shivered when she landed.  A small cry brought him up short.  She rolled over and sat up as they reached her.  
  “Are you all right?” John asked.
  “A snake.”  She held her left wrist up to them.  “I got bit by a snake.”  She turned towards the creek.  “There he goes.”
  A black snake swished through the water for an instant, then was gone.

Carol


----------



## RJ Keller

GREAT stuff being posted here!

Here's another one from Waiting For Spring.

________________________________________

The Doctor was saying something about sedation. Demerol for pain and Valium to help her relax. Rachel nodded. She was all for that. Until The Doctor mentioned the dangers of giving it to her if she'd consumed any drugs or alcohol in the past twenty four hours. And that's when she had to tell us.

She'd taken Something last night. Right before she'd hopped into bed.

"Just so I could sleep, Tess. Just so I--"

I put my hand up. "It's alright, Rach."

I said it even though it wasn't alright. It was as far away from alright as we could get. But it was a done thing and right now I couldn't do anything about it. Right now she needed to settle down and not worry about Condemnation and Judgment and Consequences. There would be enough of that later. But when it came it wouldn't be from me, and it wouldn't be about the Something that had helped her drift off to sleep. It would be even worse. It would be Rachel judging Rachel. I knew it. I could see it in her eyes. Already.


----------



## LCEvans

I'm loving all the great snippets. 
Here's another from my new book, We Interrupt This Date:

Patty finished ringing up a sale and waved from behind her register. “Thank God, Odell’s finally outta here. 
What’s going on?” She sashayed out from behind the counter to lounge against the doorway to my office.

“Nothing.” I put my fingers on my keyboard and glanced at her sideways.

She reached up and tugged her hair clips loose, letting her black hair fall from the loose pile on top of her head to a full cascade down her back. She’d once told me that there comes a time in every ******* woman’s life when she has hair down to her butt. Then she’d planted her hands on her hips and said, “Honey, except for my interest in the occult, I’m as ******* as they come.”


----------



## Brenda Carroll

Here's a snippet from my latest release, Red  Cross of Gold X:. _Genesis 6:5_
One of the immortal Knights of the Council is trying to use his mystery to reattach a soul that has been separated from its body inside the Great Pyramid at Giza. He is interrupted by unexpected company:

"Have you never done this before?" the wizard asked as he watched the small golden, tornado in fascination.

"No! Now shut up," Lucio told him and looked up at the soul. The ceremony was over. The soul should soon re-enter Jasmine's body and it would just be a matter of getting her out of the Pyramid and back home to Italy or to America or wherever she wanted to go.

"That is very rude," the Djinn said as he continued to back toward the northern shaft. "I am afraid that you have made a terrible mistake. Are you sure you won't part with the urn?"

"No!" Lucio shouted at him and then stood up as the coils began to descend around Jasmine's body.

"The bird, then?" the Djinn called above the roaring noise as he continued to back up. "I can make you a grand offer. One thousand dinars and a lamp of pure bronze." He produced an elaborate Arabian-style oil lamp from up one of his sleeves and held it up.

"No!" Lucio said and took a step toward him. "What do you mean I made a terrible mistake?"

"You did very well rejoining the soul to the body, but...." the Djinn held out his hands apologetically. "I offer a thousand apologies for my carelessness in leaving her detached though I was in a rush. I meant to come back, but I became preoccupied. But you, my friend, have made her immortal. Perhaps you may regret it?"

"What about the papyrus?" he asked hopefully. "Three peacocks, one leopard and a pound of mercury."


----------



## mamiller

That sounds great, Brendan!  Felt like I was there.  
People say I have a tornado in my wake wherever I go.  Maybe someone is trying to get my soul back into me.

Is this the book with Abdool-owl-hossenfeffer?  I have to read this.


----------



## Brenda Carroll

mamiller said:


> That sounds great, Brendan! Felt like I was there.
> People say I have a tornado in my wake wherever I go. Maybe someone is trying to get my soul back into me.
> 
> Is this the book with Abdool-owl-hossenfeffer? I have to read this.


I'm afraid that Abdul Hossenfeffer has gone astray at this point , but the Djinn is even more interesting than he was. If I could be anyone of my characters, it would be the Djinni (that's just a clever way of spelling Genie that I found in my research in obscurities). As for your soul, well, if you ever lose it, I have a character than can put it back for you.  Anjou just pointed out that she hated all my characters. Of course, she is only just on Book I and I excel at making people you love to hate, but hey... some of them will grow on you... I promise!


----------



## BP Myers

Snippett from A Truck Story (Opening paragraph

First of all, it wasn't a hijacking. Let's nip that in the bud right away. Don't you believe it.

And it was never meant to be a kidnapping either, though I guess technically that's what it was. If you wanna go by that whole letter-of-the-law thing, I mean. My brother Billy and me are still kids, what with me being eleven and him being nine and all. And we were napped, if that's the right word for it. But let's you and me just let my parents and uncle fight that one out.

That woman from the rest stop? Yeah, that was a kidnapping all right. I guess there's no getting around that. I was there when it happened and should probably tell you right now I even helped out a little. But like my uncle said later on when he took the witness stand, "We were desperate men."


----------



## Meredith Sinclair

Brendan Carroll said:


> Here's a snippet from my latest release, Red  Cross of Gold X:. _Genesis 6:5_
> "No!" Lucio shouted at him and then stood up as the coils began to descend around Jasmine's body.
> 
> "The bird, then?" the Djinn called above the roaring noise as he continued to back up. "I can make you a grand offer. One thousand dinars and a lamp of pure bronze." He produced an elaborate Arabian-style oil lamp from up one of his sleeves and held it up.
> 
> "No!" Lucio said and took a step toward him. "What do you mean I made a terrible mistake?"
> 
> "You did very well rejoining the soul to the body, but...." the Djinn held out his hands apologetically. "I offer a thousand apologies for my carelessness in leaving her detached though I was in a rush. I meant to come back, but I became preoccupied. But you, my friend, have made her immortal. Perhaps you may regret it?"
> 
> "What about the papyrus?" he asked hopefully. "Three peacocks, one leopard and a pound of mercury."


Loved this one Brendan... I was so hoping you would put something from this one in the snippets. You know I love the books and all the characters, even though I H*TE some of them. But even those... I tend to like/love/ feel sorry for even the friggin' DRAGON for goodness sake!!! Unbelievable how ya do it but I keep falling for all of 'em Aaaaaaaaaahhhhh!!!!!!


----------



## Brenda Carroll

Meredith Sinclair said:


> Loved this one Brendan... I was so hoping you would put something from this one in the snippets. You know I love the books and all the characters, even though I H*TE some of them. But even those... I tend to like/love/ feel sorry for even the friggin' DRAGON for goodness sake!!! Unbelievable how ya do it but I keep falling for all of 'em Aaaaaaaaaahhhhh!!!!!!


Thanks, Miss Meredith. You know that I've had people actually throw the Dead Tree versions of my books across the room (or worse yet, at me) when they find themselves falling in love,


Spoiler



lust


 or like with one of the characters that they formerly hated.  They say "How could you do that?!"  It's amazing that with just a few tweaks of character and a few acts of contrition can turn a villain into a hero. I love doing it. It keeps the reader in a constant state of flux and keeps them coming back for more because they swear they will not fall for it again, kind of like that addictive thread we have around her about SS-P. I hear it calling me... calling me... calling me...calling me...


----------



## Meredith Sinclair

Brendan Carroll said:


> Thanks, Miss Meredith. You know that I've had people actually throw the Dead Tree versions of my books across the room (or worse yet, at me) when they find themselves falling in love,
> 
> 
> Spoiler
> 
> 
> 
> lust
> 
> 
> or like with one of the characters that they formerly hated.  They say "How could you do that?!"  It's amazing that with just a few tweaks of character and a few acts of contrition can turn a villain into a hero. I love doing it. It keeps the reader in a constant state of flux and keeps them coming back for more because they swear they will not fall for it again, kind of like that addictive thread we have around her about SS-P. I hear it calling me... calling me... calling me...calling me...


ok, ya got me going now... SSP     Is that only for SPECIAL people? 

MQMH


----------



## Brenda Carroll

Meredith Sinclair said:


> ok, ya got me going now... SSP     Is that only for SPECIAL people?
> 
> MQMH


Shameless Self-Promoter


----------



## David J. Guyton

*More from Mighty Hammer Down

The Emperor speaking:*

"Chapter of change, these pages better left to burn. I have seen it coming for years, and I could not stop it. My nation rots from within like some carcass in the sun. Its bones still red with the memory of life, but soon picked clean by the beasts that hide in our own shadows. Many among us hear in their roars only a lovely melody, their silver words in golden song. They have fed the people their poison telling them it is nothing but sweet wine. Now a new order comes. Now a great enemy raises its head from the waters, and this enemy the Legions cannot touch, for it is made up of all those who support them like the columns that support this great city."
He turned to face them in the room with tears beginning to wet his eyes. "Once their evil takes root, we will hear the screams of all those in this world, all in key with the final song. This enemy struck us today, here, at the heart of the army itself. My General, my friend, they are coming for us all."


----------



## Edward C. Patterson

David: That snippet has gavitas. I love it. It is so genuine and real - regal and desparate, revealing character in subtext.

Edward C. Patterson


----------



## David J. Guyton

Thank you Ed. That means a lot coming from you. I really appreciate that.


----------



## Kevis Hendrickson

Dave,

That snippet is still one of my favorite passages from Mighty Hammer Down. It has a Shakespearean air to it and really resonates with me. I'm not sure I'll ever stop loving that kind of language.


KH


----------



## Brenda Carroll

Kevis Hendrickson said:


> Dave,
> 
> That snippet is still one of my favorite passages from Mighty Hammer Down. It has a Shakespearean air to it and really resonates with me. I'm not sure I'll ever stop loving that kind of language.
> KH


I agree with Kevis, Dave. It puts me in mind of Hamlet to be more specific. I kind of liked old Hamlet, who reminds me of Ham and Cheese Omelets, which I also like!  Good writing there.


----------



## GuinS

permit1850 said:


> Snippet from "Dad, Dog and Fish" Chapter 10: Bunkie and the Birds and The Bees, see below:
> 
> Colleen was also a certified slut. I'm sorry; there is just no other way of putting it. We had them separated by a chain-link fence; you'd think that would be enough, but no. Colleen would back up to the fence, and Bunkie would damn near castrate himself trying to get to her.
> 
> Try sticking a band-aid on that, good luck.


Genius, Permit! Ironically, I once had a yellow lab that was a back-into-the-fence-while-in-heat-er.

My first snippet. From _Rocky, Miss Kitty and the Immortals_:

The boy felt safe in the grip of his father's hands. Graced with long and beautiful fingers, and a softness that belied their power, they were strong and warm. Gently, his father lifted and guided his entire body through the lesson that wasn't so much an exercise, as an act of love; it was a love for the art, and a special love for his son.

Effortlessly, in an almost soporific fluidity of motion, the two of them, as one, raised the tip of the long rod and brought it back up and over their heads. Lifted clear of the water, the line scribed a great flashing arc, and shed tiny, wet diamonds of light as it sheared through the autumn afternoon. The small black fly at the end of the line streaked overhead, ripped dry by the speed of its travel through the alpine air.


----------



## Edward C. Patterson

This is from _*The Academician - Southern Swallow Book I*_, one of my favorite Snippets.

*He blinked from the crook in the tree while watching Pi Fang powder her bosom. Lilacs wafted from behind her screen, the aroma tweaking K'u Ko-ling's nose. He sneezed.

"Get away," screamed the old woman. She rattled across the planks, rake in hand. Ko-ling twisted about the bough, his robes dangling over the wall. The rake poked its evil teeth toward the bough. "If you want to buy something," shouted the woman, "show me your silver."

K'u Ko-ling dangled from the bough, but he was losing his grip. He knew that if he didn't get to the ground soon, the gate would swing open and the rake would do damage. So he let go.

"Ai," he yelped. The gate began to open, but he didn't wait to see the rake or hear the matron of The Golden Peony berate him with lips as sharp as the rake. He ran to the end of the lane, knocking over a pastry man, who had been toting his wares to market.

"Ai," screamed the man. "Come back here. You must pay damages for any cakes that you have broken, you inconsiderate


Spoiler



bastard."



However, K'u Ko-ling had reached the narrow path beside the canal, where the trackers were hauling barges into port. Ko-ling glanced backward. He heard only the usual hawking of the Eastern Market - no shrewish madam now, or delirious pastry man. Ko-ling jumped the low railing to the canal path and hopped down to the water's edge. Here he hunkered down and laughed.

Pi Fang had some big


Spoiler



teats


, he thought, and then laughed. Someday I'll get some of those and bury my face there. And in other places. But for now, he had a task list to fulfill - a pocket filled with paper requisitions -the kind that the merchants hated, because it meant giving over their best wares to the Ya-men for payment at a future date. Sometimes the payment never came. Ko-ling also had ten cash, the outsized coins of His Majesty, that his master had given him for a treat. He thought to spend this wealth at The Golden Peony, but what were ten copper cash there? That might get him a second glance at a left nipple, and no more. He sighed*

Edward C. Patterson
PS: I wear around my neck on a golden chain a 1,000 year old large coin (one of His Majesty Hui's from the Sung Dynasty), and when I sleep at night and touch it, I join that young scamp K'u Ko-ling in the crook of the tree overlooking the Golden Peony.


----------



## Dave Dykema

GuinS said:


> and shed tiny, wet diamonds of light as it sheared through the autumn afternoon.


I really liked the imagery there. I'm not one for enjoying line after line of pointless pretty prose, but I thought that was perfect.


----------



## SpinyNorman

New guy here.

The levels of awesomeness of the snippets in this thread are a bit intimidating.

This is a cool idea so as I used to do as a small boy when I knew the pool water was freezing cold, I am going to just jump right in!

My snippet from The Testing Police:

THE TEST. That is how he always thought of it, THE TEST, all in capital letters as large and white as the Hollywood sign, with a few spotlights and some orchestral accompaniment thrown in for good effect. Over the years THE TEST had become almost a living, breathing entity. A monster of sorts, one of the particularly nasty, vicious monsters from his childhood nightmares. The kind of monster that every child knows is hiding under the bed as they lay under the covers, small body bathed in sweat, heart beating a mile a minute. Almost smelling the monster underneath; a wet, sludgy smell, the smell of a basement after a summer thunderstorm. In that clarity of imagination that all children are born with this creature could almost be seen, saliva dripping from its impossibly long, razor sharp fangs. The glow of those red, all too intelligent eyes, eagerly watching in the hope that a foolish child would get careless and drop a foot to the cold floor so it could be grabbed by the monster, wrapped in slimy tentacles and pulled tight, dragging the careless child screaming (which the parents would never hear) to some dark cave where the feasting would begin. This monster from a thousand childhood nightmares was what the now grown man always compared THE TEST to. He always imagined himself as the student’s protector from this imaginary beast, given new life in the form of an exhaustive paper and pencil test. An admittedly silly notion he always thought, but a mental image that always made him smile.

I know I went over a bit...call it a rookie mistake...


----------



## Edward C. Patterson

We've been all going over a bit and especially me (and I started the thread). The word limited is only a suggestion so we don;t wind up with complete Novellas.   Excellent snippet. Welcome.

Edward C. Patterson


----------



## Elmore Hammes

From The Twenty Dollar Bill

*Devon*: 
So we are bumming around the mall, trying to avoid getting run off by the rent-a-cops when we see the old man. What a screwy geezer, walking like he is asleep, holding that twenty dollar bill in front of him like it is some kind of trophy.
I look at Skeeter and Tom and we just laugh out loud. Easy pickings, it would be a crime not to teach the old guy a lesson. If it wasn't us it would be somebody else parting that bill from him, and they wouldn't be so nice about it.
He tries to give us some sort of sob story, and man, Skeeter starts shuffling around and looking like he is going to believe it. As if some lady would have hugged this guy! God, it is all I can do to avoid puking, he smells so bad, I can't imagine touching the geezer.


----------



## Edward C. Patterson

Glad I wasn't in that Mall.  

Ed Patterson
a screwy old geezer


----------



## GuinS

Elmore Hammes said:


> From The Twenty Dollar Bill
> 
> *Devon*:
> 
> I look at Skeeter and Tom and we just laugh out loud. Easy pickings, it would be a crime not to teach the old guy a lesson.


Nice, Devon. I wanna try first person sometime, but worry that I'll turn the character into me.


----------



## Susan in VA

GuinS said:


> I wanna try first person sometime, but worry that I'll turn the character into me.


Hasn't that already happened with the human Rocco?


----------



## mamiller

I promised I'd take a break from Widow's Tale snippets and insert a little clip from my romance, Rogue Wave.

Alone in her office on the fourteenth floor of the Kapaa Tower, Briana set the stack of blueprints down on her desk and moved to the wall-length window. Her forehead rested against glass made cool by the air conditioning as she gazed out onto the harbor. Beyond Aloha Tower the ocean was turning dusky rose under a violet twilight. The lights of the marketplace flickered on, and further beyond, a freighter moored at Sand Island became an illuminated hulk on the dark horizon.

From up here, or even on the crystal shore at Manale, the water looked innocent. Briana knew that the placid surface was full of deception, though. Yes, she as much as everyone else loved to look at the ocean, to stroll its opalescent beaches. But she would not go in. No, she'd never go in.

The ocean was a killer.


----------



## michaelbalkind

Ed, 
I love this snippet thread. With so many great books by talented authors, it hard to choose what to read these days. This tasting menu is perfect. Thanks.

Here's a snippet from Dead Ball, the second book in my Deadly Sports Mystery Series, available now on kindle, to be released in paperback at the end of July. Sorry if it's a few too many words. (BTW- if anyone plans to read the first book in the series, Sudden Death, this snippet is a spoiler)

snippet:
The four-seat golf cart skidded to an abrupt stop, launching the Secret Service agent in the passenger seat into the windshield. The agent who had been driving jumped out and darted into the pristine gardens bordering the basketball arena.

Until that moment, the tour of the AllSport athletic center had been similar to every other, except today, the person sitting in the golf cart next to golf legend, Reid Clark, happened to be the President of the United States. The First Lady, along with another agent, was in the back seat. As usual, comments of amazement about the facility and athletes in training had flowed non-stop from the honored guests. Reid's cart was boxed inside four full carts of agents. An additional cart of agents was ahead of them and another behind.

Reid saw the head cart stop but was far enough back that he had no idea what the commotion was all about. He heard multiple agents' radios beep and tried to listen to the quick commands. Suddenly the carts on both sides pulled close and the agent in Reid's cart commanded him to stop. Agents immediately surrounded his cart with guns drawn. Out of nowhere appeared a black Suburban that skidded to a halt only yards away. The President and First Lady were whisked into the truck.

Dead Ball

Sudden Death


----------



## Carol Hanrahan

It's snippet time again!

From Baling:

  “Hey, Lainey,” Ben said, ignoring him and John.  “My steer won a blue this morning.  You dad judged his class.  Come see.”
  He led her into the stall while Nick and John stood outside, looking at each other.
  “Oh, he’s beautiful, Ben,” she said.  She poked her head out the door and waved them in.  They entered the stall to see the largest solid black steer they had ever seen.  His coat was sleek and shiny, almost blue in its depths.  Clear brown eyes regarded them indifferently.  Nick reached out and touched the iron-muscled back, smooth and powerful under his hand.
  “In August, I’m taking him up to Springfield, to the State Fair.”  Ben continued to ignore them.  “If he wins up there, I’m going to sell him to some big Chicago restaurant.  We’re talking big bucks here, Lainey.”  He scowled at Nick then.  “Why are they here with you?”


Carol


----------



## GuinS

Susan in VA said:


> Hasn't that already happened with the human Rocco?


Gah! It's not supposed to be so obvious. And I was a better pilot.


----------



## Susan in VA

GuinS said:


> Gah! It's not supposed to be so obvious. And I was a better pilot.


Obviously, since you're not a raccoon....


----------



## Dawsburg

Here's an excerpt from Double Life's first chapter:

I tried on the glasses.
Instantly I felt like I had been sucked out of my body. For one second, I was a void, a vacuum. Then, all of a sudden, I could sense my existence again.
There I was in the car. But it was not my car. It was David's Dodge Charger. And it was not my mom driving the car-it was David.
You read it here first. David, my imaginary friend, was driving the car instead of my mom.

Hope you liked what you read!


----------



## Kevis Hendrickson

Since I haven't posted a snippet in a while, I figured I'd post a snippet from my upcoming dark fantasy novel:

The horrible shriek of the frayed bodies pinioned to the sordid chains above a deep pit bursting with tall red flames filled me with pleasure to no end.  The wide walls of the dungy chamber rang with the screams of the dying, causing the hairs on my arms and nape to stand stiffly.  The ethereal energy that was the essence of my being tremored at the sight of the writhing figures being lowered into the pit: figures that were racked with pain—such delightful pain.  I inhaled the scent of burning flesh and hair, tasted the smoldering ashes of the marrow of the victims that carried in the warm draft of the chamber.  King Balfashazzar had done this to appease me. And appease me he did.


----------



## William Woodall

My weekly snippet, from "Cry for the Moon"

"It still hurt my fingers and it wasn't easy, and I still had to take the wire cutters to it one more time before I was done, but after about thirty minutes I opened up a hole I thought would be big enough for me to worm through.

I put my backpack outside first, then I stuck my head through the fence. So far so good. I had to push hard to get my shoulders through, but once that was done I thought I was home free.

Didn't turn out that way, naturally. I was squirming my way through and the dadgummed fence snagged on my belt buckle. I don't know how it happened, but I couldn't move either direction. I struggled and kicked and got scratched and sweaty in spite of the cold, and by the time I finally broke free I ended up ripping a big hole in the front of my pants right next to the zipper. That made me mad, so I turned around and kicked that fence as hard as I could.

Probably not the smartest thing I ever did, cause the fence didn't feel it, but you can bet your sweet cream I did. It hurt!

So there I was with a sweaty face and a sore foot and holey pants, looking like I just came out of a fight with a bobcat. I was glad nobody was around to see me like that. . ."

Cry for the Moon


----------



## Kevis Hendrickson

Permit1850,

I assume you didn't read the rules in the OP. You are only allowed to post a snippet containing no more than 150 words. Interesting snippet though.


----------



## Kevis Hendrickson

Permit1850,

I read that post before, but I personally think your snippet is excessively long and not by a little bit. But as I said before, it is a good snippet, even though it's more of an excerpt.


----------



## Edward C. Patterson

Kevis:

Did I miss something

Edward C. Patterson


----------



## Kevis Hendrickson

Ed,

Just a friendly conversation between two authors about respecting the length of the snippets we post here on this wonderful thread you created. Although rules are made to be broken, there is such a thing as going too far. To be honest, the real problem is if one author is allowed to post darn near the entire chapter of his book, it wouldn't be fair to the other authors who go through so much trouble to make certain that their snippets don't exceed the suggested length. After all, what's good for the goose is good for the gander.


----------



## Edward C. Patterson

Okay. ell I think the 150 words limit has been broekm by me a few times, but the spirit of the rule is to prevent chapter exerpts. The once a week rule is to prevent dominance, and since I'm the one with the 12 published books, it was made that way so the thread was not miscontrued as self-serving. I'm happy with the way the thread has gone. The talent of the authors who post here is top-nitch, and it also give those reades that drop in the flavor of an author, and perhaps something to encourage them to download a sample. I'm raising the length to 500 words, and hopefully this won;t encourage 1,000 words. This will allow for authors to post a snippet  without worrying about curtailing a complete thought. But beyond that, I think well just have whole chapters posted.

Edward C. Patterson


----------



## Kevis Hendrickson

Perhaps that isn't a bad idea. I'm thinking that it might be best if someone started a thread where authors can post the first chapter of thier books. That way the snippet thread can remain the way it is. If an author wants to psot more than the alloted words, then he/she can simply post their entire chapter in that thread. If no one else takes my idea and run with it, I'll start that thread up soon.


----------



## Edward C. Patterson

Kevis:

That isn't a good idea for a thread, because Kindlebords does not like redundancy. That's why we shouldn't (or can't) post our Amazon reviews here. We can direct a reader to them, but reposting materials that can be fetched from Amazon is redundant *and* a first chapter can be downloaded as a sample. So posting a first chapter would violate the spirit of author promotion here.



Edward C. Patterson


----------



## Kevis Hendrickson

Ed,

I had thought of all that before I left my last comment and also one of the reasons why I never post a snippet from the first chapter of my books. I'm just a concerned KB citizen wondering what's going to happen when more authors arrive here in the Bazaar and start doing whatever the heck they please even after they implicitly state that they are aware of the rules.

I actually like the 150 word rule because it allows people to sample our writing without gettiing carried away. 500 words seems to be a little too leniant. It takes away the creativity of the author to post his best snippet since the limit on words forces him to choose quality over quantity. Ultimately, I'm all for whatever becomes the code of conduct here on the Boards. But as you know I am always willing to try a new idea if it can help to keep the peace and maintain the semblance of fairness.


----------



## Patricia Sierra

Now that I see the word limit is raised, I've deleted what I posted before in favor of this scene from The God Wars

"What is it you do, Mohammed?"
He continued to stare at me.
"Your work," I pressed forward. "What field are you in?"
"I am an architect."
"Fascinating," I said. "You design buildings."
"Various structures, yes."
"Bridges and dams and such?" I asked.
"No bridges."
"Anything I would recognize?"
"Why do you ask these questions?"
"It's what we Americans call small talk," I said, aware of how inane my smile must look to this very serious man. "Are you traveling somewhere, or just meeting someone?"
He glanced at his bags.
"Dumb question," I said with a laugh.
Because I spotted what looked like the beginning of a smile at one corner of his mouth, I continued my effort to make conversation. "Where are you from, Mohammed?"
"Cairo," he said, leaning forward. "Do you understand that we have nothing to talk about, nothing in common?"
I, too, leaned forward, thinking that it added a sense of intimacy. "All the more reason to talk," I told him. "Perhaps you and I, sitting here in the airport, a teacher and an architect, an Egyptian and an American, can bridge our cultural gaps. I'd like to know more about your country, Mohammed, and about your people."
He hesitated a moment, then stood and reached down to grab his bags. "No bridges," he said, and walked away.


----------



## Carol Hanrahan

I like the the 150 word limit.  (Although I have gone up to 200 words - no one complained   )  It gives the reader a peak into our books, and I try to judiciously pick my snippet to pique the reader's interest.  I'll probably stay with the 150 words just for those reasons.  Maybe readers can tell us if they prefer longer or shorter.


----------



## Edward C. Patterson

Okay, 250 words. I've changed it to that.

Ed P


----------



## Susan in VA

Kevis Hendrickson said:


> I'm thinking that it might be best if someone started a thread where authors can post the first chapter of thier books.


Speaking as one reader only, I think that's what _samples_ are for. These snippets have been wonderful to get a flavor of the books in question, and if the snippet is intriguing I'll buy the book... or get the sample first if I'm still not sure.... but posting entire chapters would be like asking KB members to read a whole bunch of samples that we may or may not have any interest in.

It seemed to be working so well, with a fairly short limit AND some tolerance for those who went a bit over. Please don't change it too much.


----------



## Dawsburg

Susan in VA said:


> Speaking as one reader only, I think that's what _samples_ are for. These snippets have been wonderful to get a flavor of the books in question, and if the snippet is intriguing I'll buy the book... or get the sample first if I'm still not sure.... but posting entire chapters would be like asking KB members to read a whole bunch of samples that we may or may not have any interest in.
> 
> It seemed to be working so well, with a fairly short limit AND some tolerance for those who went a bit over. Please don't change it too much.


Yeah...this does seem like a really good idea. I went ahead and posted my snippet, and I also have garnered interest in other books by reading their snippets. I don't think more than 250 words is a good idea.

Dawson


----------



## Brenda Carroll

OK, time for a new snippet.  240 words this time, taken from Dragonslayer, the sixth book in the series: the Red Cross of Gold.  Enjoy this scene wherein the lead character has just met up with a troop of elves in the underworld.

"You are truly as barbarous as they say," the elf remarked and glanced at him sidelong.

"As who said?" Mark asked and wondered if he had spoken his thoughts aloud.  It was entirely possible that he had.  He turned up his bowl and drained the last of the honey elixir.

"As ‘they’ said," the elf laughed.  "Your thoughts are certainly colorful and lively, as well as, vivid and wonderful and strange."

"My thoughts? You would do well, little brother, to stay clear of my thoughts.  But what would you have us do about this Marduk?"

"We must clear our land of the Dybbukkym.  They do not belong here," the elf spat the name of the shadowy creatures Mark Andrew remembered von Hetz mentioning to him.  "It will not be easy.  There are many of them and few of us.  We are spread too thin, too far, too sparse.  War has not come to our land in many and many ages.  We are unprepared."

"Those things didn’t seem so ferocious to me, nor intelligent," Mark Andrew said and waved one hand toward the dancers.  He was feeling more courage than he actually possessed.  The liquor was very good.  "Surely these fine lads could have the better of them in one or two nights."

"These things you have seen are but shadows of themselves.  They grow stronger and wilder and bolder and uglier with each passing day.  And they are spreading."


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## mamiller

Excellent snippet, Brendan.  Aside from a book I'd like to read, it sounds like a movie I'd like to see.


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## Edward C. Patterson

Wow, Dybuks. Golems too. I grew up in the Jewish part of brooklyn where there were Dybuks under every sukkah.

Edward C. Patterson


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## Brenda Carroll

Edward C. Patterson said:


> Wow, Dybuks. Golems too. I grew up in the Jewish part of brooklyn where there were Dybuks under every sukkah.
> 
> Edward C. Patterson


Wow!  I hope they weren't like these little fellows.  These creatures are pretty nasty, mostly claws and teeth. Would that be an apt description for your dybuks? Surely not. I'm not familiar with the Jewish term.


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## Brenda Carroll

mamiller said:


> Excellent snippet, Brendan. Aside from a book I'd like to read, it sounds like a movie I'd like to see.


Thank you so much, Miss Miller!  Where have you been keeping yourself? If ever they made a movie of my books, I would simply die of joy. What a thrill that would be... and then, being the manic depressive that I am, I would immediately begin to bite my nails, worrying about the reviews like I'm worried about the reviews for my work right now!  OMG! Here I go again, get the bag, I'm hyper-ventillating (sp)!


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## mamiller

I've been a busy little girl.  What with all this 'tagging' business   ...
Actually, the day job keeps interfering with my life as an illustrious author.


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## Brenda Carroll

mamiller said:


> I've been a busy little girl. What with all this 'tagging' business  ...
> Actually, the day job keeps interfering with my life as an illustrious author.


I heard that. I'm the same way, trapped in an exciting dead-end job, while my writing goes by the wayside or ends up here on the threads... enjoying the heck out of myself!  Better get out of here so I'm not OT (that's overthe top! )


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## mamiller

If I could just find a way to incorporate my work into my writing...but glass manufacturing and romantic suspense

Here goes...the first ever snippet on the fly..

Out of the rows and rows of overhead flourescent lights, only a few remained on, and even they were in their final throws of illumination.  With the last sputter of light, the manufacturing plant went dark.  One figure stood in the farthest corner, a place even echoes could not reach.  She switched on her laptop which cast an eerie glow against the face of the behemoth tempering furnace.  She had to be quick.  There was only a ten minute window that the server went down to do its nightly backup.  Perspiration dotted her forehead as her fingers typed and the figures uploaded.  Without waiting for the laptop to shut down, she desperately held the power switch till it went off.  A few aisles away she could see the bouncing beam of the security guard's flashlight...

hahaha...sorry, that was fun.


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## Brenda Carroll

mamiller said:


> If I could just find a way to incorporate my work into my writing...but glass manufacturing and romantic suspense


Sounds mysterious enough. I wonder what she is uploading....


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## mamiller

Brendan Carroll said:


> Sounds mysterious enough. I wonder what she is uploading....


Now I wasted my weekly snippet


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## Brenda Carroll

mamiller said:


> Now I wasted my weekly snippet


What happened? Did I miss something?


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## Dave Dykema

I know the decision has been reached, but I wanted to make a comment on snippet length anyway.

I look at the snippets as that little scene you get when you open a book, right on the first page, where there's an excerpt from the novel. They're short, snappy, and their point is to entice you to buy. I'd say they're around the 150 word count.

250 I'm OK with. That's a page. Any more, and it's more like a scene than a snippet.


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## Elmore Hammes

You had me with "okra gumbo"! Nice opening.
Elmore


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## lkcampbell

Thanks, Elmore!


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## Carolyn Kephart

*A pivotal encounter from Lord Brother:*

*At the end of the narrow little room someone impatiently looked up from the papers covering a work-table. "Well?"

The voice was equivocally pitched, and Ryel could not tell if it were woman's or man's. But as his eyes adjusted to the faint light, the person at the table, at first a blur, took on form but gradually, as if surfacing from deep space. Ryel saw the hair first of all: hair of pure silver, without curl as it was without color, falling unbound to the shoulders in straight heavy masses. The face next, its still-youthful features at odds with its silver frame. It seemed a marble mask of neither gender, aquiline-nosed and deep-eyed. Then like a stab the mouth-brooding red, commanding, carnal, set in the marble and the silver like a living jewel. But the eyes, last of all to emerge clearly, held Ryel fixed: ice-eyes the blue of diamond-gleam.

The wysard bowed, as much to escape that glacier-stare as to show respect. "I am most fortunate to address the great Domina of Hryeland."

The image, slow to form, seemed to rest suspended in the darkness like an alien moon. Then the red lips parted, speaking again in a voice low and a little rough, like the after-tang of honey. "Tell me who you are." *

​***

*CK*


----------



## LCEvans

And yet another snippet from We Interrupt This Date. Susan has just gone to pick up her sister from the airport and discovers that the dog, Brad, is part of the package.

      One of the baggage handlers wandered out and led me into a building that looked like an oversized metal garage. He pointed out a crate about three feet high and two feet wide.
“There’s got to be a mistake.” I just managed to keep a civil tone. I was hot, tired after loading DeLorean’s things, and in no mood for incompetence. “I’m picking up a puppy, not a pony.”
I turned in a complete circle and pointed to a row of crates that could have held cocker spaniels. “He’s probably in one of those.”
“DeLorean Marsh, right?”
“My sister.”
“There’s your dog, lady.” He pointed to the big crate again. Then he motioned to a co-worker, who brought over a cart that looked sturdy enough to move an elephant.
      My heart rate totally out of control, I approached the crate and squatted to peer inside. A mass of long, curly, gold-colored fur undulated back and forth and a pink tongue tried to lick my hand through the bars. I sucked in a deep centering breath and read the tag on the crate. No wonder DeLorean hadn’t mentioned Brad during our brief phone conversation this morning.


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## Erik Williams

From my novella GONE, THE DAY:

    The world ended a few weeks ago when the sun disappeared.  I don’t know what day it is now.  They’ve all blurred together.  Perpetual darkness does that to you.  Speeds everything up and then slows it down.  First you think weeks have passed.  Then you realize it’s only been a couple of hours.  That’s about the time you wonder why you’re still living.


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## Elmore Hammes

From my middle-grade mystery/fantasy, The Holmes and Watson Mysterious Events and Objects Consortium: The Case of the Witch's Talisman

Mrs. Crabapple shuddered. She was sitting at her kitchen table, thinking about what Gavin had said. Wondering what she, a simple gypsy woman with no real power, only the occasional vision, could possibly do against the likes of the witch. 
She felt the crackle in the air. She didn't know what exactly was happening, but she knew someone was messing with power. And who else could it be but the witch?
She stood up from the table. "I don't know what you're going to do when you find her, Agnes Crabapple," she said to herself, "but I'll be darned if I'm just going to sit here quietly." She grabbed a sweater from the back of the chair and put it on. "No sense catching cold while doing it," she said.


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## Edward C. Patterson

Wonderful example of sequeling, Elmore. 

Ed Patterson


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## Elmore Hammes

Edward C. Patterson said:


> Wonderful example of sequeling, Elmore.
> 
> Ed Patterson


Thanks, Ed. Appreciate the feedback.


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## Kevis Hendrickson

Well, I wasn't sure I'd be including any more snippets from The Legend of Witch Bane on this thread. But if this is the last one, I think it's a good one:

Scene~Prince Kòdobos confronts a strange old man inside the Dream Cave.

"I have courage!" cried Kòdobos.

"Yes, that I deem you do," said the old man. "But courage without wisdom is foolhardy and pointless-even dangerous, I would say."

"I only use my sword when I have to," Kòdobos tried to explain.

"Yet, here you come to this cave looking for a weapon when weapons you already have," said the old man.

"But a single sword is not enough. I need more weapons," said Kòdobos.

"And what mighty weapons would you have, young lad? Another sword? Or shield? Or, perhaps-even a suit of armor?" inquired the old man.

"Anything that will give me victory, sir," said Kòdobos.

"Victory over one's enemies in battle is a fine thing for a hero to obtain, but not at the cost of sacrificing of one's self," replied the old man.

"I am not afraid to die," said Kòdobos.

"That is not what I mean. When put to it, most people would rather die than sacrifice the thing they love most. But what if the thing one loves most is the very thing one must sacrifice?" asked the old man.

"How can I answer that? I am only a boy," said Kòdobos.

"And yet, for a boy, you seem determined to wield weapons that perhaps you should not. It is possible that in the end, you may have to learn to let the thing you love most perish in order to save yourself from an even greater evil than the one you seek to fight," said the old man.

The Legend of Witch Bane (The Witch Bane Saga) is currently on sale at Amazon for 80 cents.


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## Edward C. Patterson

So here it be, folks. A snippet from my favorite book (again). The opening to *Turning Idolater*.

*It was a small tub in a tiny bathroom, but it served Philip Flaxen well as he prepared. All craftsmen attend to the maintenance and condition of their tools. Chefs hone knives. Hacks change cab-oil on a schedule. Writers look to their quills; and painters care for their horsehairs and camels. Diggers sharpen pickaxes and none but a preacher can fill the fount with consecrated drink. Thus, it was with Philip Flaxen as he plunged his hands between his legs lathering the tool of his trade and, although changing the oil might be less scintillating, the honing of this particular tool gave Master Flaxen pleasure beyond measure.

The bubbles welled in massive peaks, like whip cream, almost eclipsing young Flaxen in a world of cleanser as he finished off. Nevertheless, his emerging better nature prevailed. Wineglass in one hand, he reached for a book with the other, his deep, black eyes intent on the words, not tools now, unless these were considered some additional craftsman's artifact. Here in the pages was a new world, as foamy as his tub; he was under the prow of the Pequod as it ported its master in pursuit of the Great White Whale. The words may have been from a shelf above Philip's normal mantel, as he had never finished high school, and in fact never pursued any white whale of education - not even a white elephant of a diploma, but this book was magic to his eyes. The words may not have had keen meaning, but they had rhythm - the beat of the waves; and aroma - the smell of the sea. The pages dripped with foam and he turned them like a capstan, weighing anchor. The margins puckered beneath his pruning fingers, but he didn't care nor did he wonder. He was tripping beyond the bubble bath, out on old Nantucket wharves. Therefore, when the alarm clock buzzed, reeling him to shore, he flinched. The wineglass tipped turning the suds burgundy and the book nearly swam back to sea. However, Philip caught it before the plunge, diverting it to dry-dock, in this case, a mat on the bathroom floor.*

Edward C. Patterson


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## Edward C. Patterson

Jeff:

Very appropriate snippet and from a book I like a lot.

Edward C. Patterson


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## Joseph Komen

I will join your forum Edward. Good to see you here.
Here is a snippet from my book: Desire of Many

"No you can't, to be sure," Mr. Dover agreed. "But, perhaps, some place a little less tame would be to your liking. You wouldn't be going to Mars. No! Mr. Sasaki, I'm sorry about your wife, but there's nothing you can do here. You can't undo the damage. It wasn't your fault. She may yet come out of the coma, but it&#8230;sorry about this&#8230;how shall I say it?&#8230;doesn't look promising. I have no desire to pain you, Dr. Sasaki. We have need of your science and of your vision for the living. The president proposes not to send you to do that which now more common men desire but to those places where only the exceptional set their aspirations," he waited a minute. "Not to Mars, Mr. Sasaki, no that is too easy. We want you to prepare a new home, an unknown, untamed beast of place. We want to send you to a place where your pioneering spirit is still appreciated. Are you game?" He raised his brows.


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## BP Myers

Been more than a week for me. I'll add another 150 from A Truck Story:

-------------

My uncle took his hands off the wheel and reached over with his arms to hold us in place a second before we were going to crash. I grabbed onto Billy outta habit and then squeezed my eyes shut as we fell through the air.

But we didn't crash. It was more like . . . a splash, and a gentle one at that.

I kept my eyes closed until I was certain we weren't flying anymore. It felt almost like we were . . . floating. And when I opened my eyes again and looked out the window I saw . . . clouds . . . white puffy clouds all around the truck. And then I heard this noise, real calm and soothing like.

I looked over at Billy and saw he was OK, then looked over at my uncle.

"Is this heaven?" I asked.


----------



## RJ Keller

From chapter 14 of Waiting for Spring:



Spoiler



Later that night I lit a dozen tiny candles all over my room and we made love in my bed; slow and hot and beautiful. The room was filled with shadows. They flickered everywhere; on the ceiling, on the walls, on Brian's face as it hovered gently over mine. My heart was open wide, filled and overflowing with a thousand fragile emotions I couldn't even put names to. I stared into his eyes, eyes that were glowing with dark orange light. Glowing with love and heat and the reflected flames of the candles, and I was too overwhelmed for words or moans or sounds of any kind. I just gazed at him, at those eyes, his hot breath on my face, as he reached inside me and touched my soul.

And when we were finished, when I was lying in his arms, I looked into his eyes again and I said it. Even though I'd said it to him before, more times than I could count.

"I love you, Brian."

I said it to him again. Because it was the first time I'd really meant it.


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## mamiller

Okay...time for a snip of my romantic suspense, WIDOW'S TALE.....

    "No, over there. On the counter."
    Sweeping the candle back into the kitchen, it penetrated into the far corner to reveal two indistinct shadows atop the nicked formica. Advancing towards them, Brett was conscious of Serena’s nails biting into his arm. Her other hand was on his hip as she molded herself against his back.
    "It’s a bag of corn chips?" Brett tried to justify the fear he felt in Serena’s grasp, but wasn’t going to dissuade the friction of her body.
    "And a bottle of Allagash." Serena added, hoarsely.
    "Yeah?"
    "Alan drinks Allagash," she whispered. "And corn chips were his favorite snack."
    "But this was his home, naturally there are going to be traces of him left behind. I know it must hurt, Serena—it must be hard on you to come down here and see signs of your husband, but—"
    "No," Serena grabbed the beer bottle, and held it up to the flame. Tilting the glass left and right, she watched a frothy ring of liquid slosh around the bottom. 
    "I was down here a month ago, just before Alan’s service. These were not here. There’s still condensation in this bottle. It would have evaporated if it was here that long."


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## Brenda Carroll

mamiller said:


> Okay...time for a snip of my romantic suspense, WIDOW'S TALE.....
> 
> "And a bottle of Allagash." Serena added, hoarsely.


OK, there's that Allagash again!  Looky here, Missy. I'm drinking rum right now and feeling just right for the 4th of July. Hurrah!! I have two things on my to do list: get me some of that Allagash beer and convince someone to buy me a Kindle so I can read your book! I'm tired of reading it in just snippets, but it still sounds as good as ever. By the by, I was just writing to a poster about the Maine accent and was wondering if you know how one might spell it out phonetically so that the reader could get the ambience and atmosphere going on? I love accents and practice them for my characters until I can get them spelled out so the reader gets a taste of what the characters sound like when they speak. I don't use it all the time, but now and then. Great snippet! Brendan


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## mamiller

Welcome home, Brendan.  I threw the Allagash snippet out there just for you. 
I have a bar patron with in the book with a heavy Maine accent.  Or maybe her speech is just slurred from the beah...I mean beer.


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## Edward C. Patterson

I'm including this snippet from the Acknowledgements of *Surviving an American Gulag * as my July 4th offering.

"_*Acknowledgements*_

*Surviving an American Gulag is a work long in the undertaking and comes from real experiences that I encountered during my sojourn at Fort Gordon, Georgia in 1967. The events, although novelized, pattern the U.S. Army's best (or worst) solution to solve perceived intramural social problems prior to the advent of the notorious Don't Ask, Don't Tell policy, a provision I hope to see overturned during my lifetime. I want to thank all those brave men and women in the armed forces, regardless of their sexual orientation, for their service. You have contributed to the pulse and bloodline of freedom, from the first Minutemen to the last souls that stay the good course in Iraq and Afghanistan. I too can count myself among your number."*

Edward C. Patterson


----------



## Varin

From my Dark Songs Told Series; the title of this one is forever changing ^_^;;

And yes, at least part of this story, involves vampires. >_<


  He felt the beginnings of a headache. The scent of her blood crept slowly upon him the longer he held her, until it was as though he were immersed in a cloud. It drew from him all rational thought. He stared down at his hands, smeared red with her blood. His vision blurred.
  Michael forgot where he was. The forest around him fell away.
  He ached to kiss her, to taste her blood, pierce her lips and take in what was now driving him to a slow madness. A groan escaped his lips. He wanted her astride him, his fangs deep in her slender neck, her blood in his mouth. In his fantasy, her blood was thick and luscious, utterly satisfying to his thirst, held far too long.
    In his mind’s eye, he saw her body beneath his, her creamy skin flushed with desire, his name on her lips, nothing between them. It seemed there was no end to his thoughts; he saw her again, naked and magnificent, blood coloring her flesh as reaching for him...-


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## Brenda Carroll

Saturday morning and time for a new snippet from the Red  Cross of Gold  Series book VI:_ the Dragonslayer_. Here we find Bart, the Black Dwarf Cavern Knocker, lying in his cave, minding his own business when...

Bart was deep in the cave, lying on a rock with his feet propped against the wall, his hands clasped over his heart and his pipe clenched between his teeth firmly. He was practicing winking. One had to keep in practice. He scowled deeply and then winked his left eye for several seconds. When he was pleased with his success, he opened both eyes and then concentrated on winking his right eye. Just as his right eyelid began to droop, the sounds of approaching footsteps echoed down the passage and he sat up quickly. A cloud of dust drifted lazily in front of him. Visitors? So soon? He'd just had visitors not more than twenty years ago. Why would someone be bothering him again so soon? And just when he was beginning to get good with his left eye! They probably wanted to eat his bread and butter and drink the last of his beer.
He shook his head and ran his gnarled fingers through his long black beard, scaring away three black and orange spiders and one field mouse. Picking up his hood from beside him, he shook off the layers of dust on it and pulled it over his head. His black eyes glowing with anticipation, he slid from the rock and brushed off the spiderwebs that had accumulated on his black tunic. He tugged on his vest, hitched up his pants and stomped his boots to wake up his toes.


----------



## Meredith Sinclair

Too bad there is a word limit...because this is one of my favoriet scenes... buuuuut Sam is in it and he is soooo freakin' wordy! He would use up 250 words in his first sentence!!!!


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## eakahler

I'm new here, but having a great time reading the snipets! I thought I'd try posting one of my own.

This is from the short story "Deadly Sins" by Ericka Kahler

Envy

"Remember our contract, Malcolm." Satan glowered at Malcolm, his tailored suit and modern collarless shirt at odds with both the medical equipment that surrounded the bed and the rich furniture it rested on.

"I remember," Malcolm wheezed around the oxygen tube in his nostrils.

"Make sure you get it back," Satan told him, and vanished from Malcolm's room. Ely watched the scene reflected on the smooth surface of a pool of water. The water lay in a shallow basin atop a tall stand, the only physical object in his surroundings. Ely never imagined what death would be like when he lived. Perhaps that was as well, he thought, for he could not have imagined this. An impenetrable gray mist surrounded him and the basin showing his brother Malcolm's life. Only a dome shaped pocket of clear air protected Ely from the mist. _A torment for the damned man I have become._


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## LCEvans

I'm really enjoying the snippets and have even bought some books to read more. Here's another from my book, We Interrupt This Date.

I shook my head. “I can’t. But I have to know--this business would be?” 
“Ghost tours.” She pasted on an “everything’s settled” expression and folded her hands in front of her like a tiny tent. 
Ghost tours? Thoughts ping ponged in my brain. Just because I once thought I’d seen an apparition hovering in the bushes outside our dorm and screamed loud enough to cause Veronica to trip over a bump in the sidewalk, did that make me an expert on the supernatural? Was I now qualified to lead goggle-eyed tourists around the historic streets of Charleston while pretending said streets were haunted? 
“I’m not sure I even believe in ghosts, in fact, I probably don’t. It doesn’t sound like it would bring in all that much money and…” I trailed off. I didn’t want to add that Mama would say the whole idea was tacky beyond belief.


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## Erik Williams

Another snippet from my novella GONE, THE DAY:

We walked out of the frat house in slow motion, stumbling a little toward the car.  I squinted, preparing for the sudden onslaught of sunlight, waiting for that shift of extremes one feels when exiting a dark movie theater into a bright afternoon.  It took me a few feet of walking and squinting before I noticed no bright light shined.

I stopped and opened my eyes all the way and looked around.  

There was no light at all.  No sun.  No day.  It was dark as night.  

No, it was night.  

I checked my watch again.  A little after nine a.m.  I surveyed the sky.  Black as midnight.  I figured someone must have messed with my watch after I passed out.

Thinking about that, being so f*cked up I didn’t remember someone screwing with my watch, made me want to laugh.  Then I noticed both Jack and Corn checking their watches and the urge died.  The looks on their faces told me my watch wasn’t the only one reading nine a.m.


----------



## sierra09

I just found this found and while I'm really bad with picking out the best snippets, I've decided to try one from my novel: Celtic Evil: A Fitzgerald Brother Novel: Roarke (The Fitzgerald Brothers)

"My mother is off-limits." This time there was no denying the edge to Mac's voice but before he could go on a sudden snarling was heard from the fields where a lovely white stallion was heard making all kind of noise. 
Looking away from the equally firm green eyes, Mac stood to see what the issue was when he saw the large black wolf in the fenced off area with the horse.
"Bloody hell." He whispered, instinct had him laying a hand on the patio fence to jump it and try to help the horse when the wolf raised its head and blazing red eyes stared into his and he felt the blow to his chest.
"Oh My God!" Maggie screamed as the wolf jumped on the horse and began to shred it but she also knew she couldn't leave Mac in this shape as she dropped to her knees next to him, shocked to see what she was but also shocked to see his eyes.
His smoky gray-blue eyes had gone totally to smoke and his words, muttered to himself, were in Gaelic. A language she only knew a few words in.
"The wolf&#8230;" the horses scream was ringing in her ears but then so was something else, like the taunting laughter of a child. "It's not real." She slowly came to realize, grabbing at Mac's arm. "It's not real, is it?"


----------



## Tanner Artesz

After spending a few hours reading all the wonderful snippets on here, I nearly decided not to add my own. I think the general feeling is sharing though, rather than competition, so I'll give it a try...

From: Shadow of the Ghost: Book 1: Lord of Chaos Trilogy

Ky nodded, left the table and gathered his weapons. He took them outside and arranged the arrows on the porch so they were easy to access. He sat with his feet dangling off the porch and rested his right hand on his bow. The ghost family came out and waited with him as the sun burned a path across the sky to the orchard.

They heard the goblins coming through the orchard and Ky shifted to one knee and notched the first arrow. He pulled the string back slowly, focused and released. A few seconds later, a dull thud was heard followed by the sound of a body falling to the ground. He picked up the next arrow and let it fly. Another thud and another fallen body sounded from the trees. Ky released five more arrows before the goblins came into view.

He continued firing arrows, faster now that he could see his targets. Each arrow found the throat of a goblin. The last goblin squared off on Ky, muttering and waving a dark stick. Ky took aim and fired as a ball of flames shot towards him.

As the arrow found the left eye of the goblin, the man jumped in front of Ky to intercept the flames. They passed through him unhampered and struck Ky in the chest. The young elf was thrown backward and slammed against the wall. He collapsed as red and green arcs of magic danced across his convulsing body.

Everything I've read on this forum makes me wish I could afford one of them Kindle type things and download the lot. Keep the snips coming, I'm loving the reads.
Tanner


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## Elmore Hammes

This has certainly been an entertaining thread!

This week I will offer a short scene from my science fiction space-opera/adventure/romance, The Cloud. This occurs shortly after the alien (given the name 'Grant') and the Indiana farm girl Charlotte ('Char' for short) have met:

Char heated up the spaghetti and sauce in the microwave, as it had grown cold during their visit with her father. She sat a plate down in front of Grant and another at the place setting beside him, where she sat down.
"Go on, eat," she said. 
Grant looked at the food, watched her twirl the spaghetti around her fork and eat a bite, slurping in a stray strand of pasta with a swooping sound.
"I've never actually eaten this way," he said. "I had intravenous tubes in the ship, and well, you know about outside the ship."
She refused to recall those memories from their shared experience. "It's easy, just twirl your fork, put it in your mouth, chew and swallow. That is, if you can do that?"
He smiled. "I have mutated into a nearly identical physical form as a human being. All my organs function correctly."
"All of them?" Char asked. She blushed when she realized what she was asking.
"Yes," he answered, with no hint of embarrassment.


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## harfner

Here's a snippet from chapter one of my book _Nightmare_:

The slave auction took place in a room big as a school gymnasium. Evan Weaver, hands shaking, shuffled forward with the rest of the colonists as the slavers herded them forward. A silver band encircled his left wrist, and a similar one bound his left ankle. The auction room floor was gridded with green squares, each a meter on a side, with yellow pathways painted between them. The air smelled stale, as if poorly recycled.
"Pick a square and sit!" ordered a slaver in blue coveralls. "Move!"
The colonists slowly scattered themselves across the floor. Mystified, Evan picked a square and sat. His mother, father, older brother, and younger sister did the same. The moment Evan sat down on the floor, his square turned red. The plain white tunic he had been given to wear did little to blunt the chill of the hard floor. More and more white-clad people from the colony ship arrived and were told to take up squares. Green squares steadily changed color until nearly all of them were red. Voices rumbled and echoed around the huge room until a computer tone announced the PA system was active. The colonists instantly fell silent, already knowing from experience that talking during the PA announcements resulted in instant pain.


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## Carolyn Kephart

*A Wysard snippet today. Before he can qualify as a healer for the demon-tormented Diara, the wysard Ryel Mirai must first convince her father the Sovran:

"But now music sounded, and the little throng of would-be healers gave way as the sole ruler of great Destimar approached, borne high in a palanquined carrying-chair on the shoulders of his guard, preceded and followed by attendants and soldiery. Ryel was at first much impressed, for Agenor Dranthene was a gorgeous sight in his imperial finery of purple and scarlet and gold. But at second glance the wysard observed how the stiffly projecting shoulders of the Sovran's billowing cloak failed to disguise his age-bowed back, while a wide many-wrapped sash did little to bind in his corpulent girth. His entire inert body seemed a great mound of glitter from which protruded two limp fat-fingered hands barely visible for their rings and bracelets, while atop this gleaming heap the Sovran's unmoving unblinking head appeared to be part of a badly tinted second-rate statue, its hair dyed an unnatural and glossless black, its face's weak features bedaubed with garish painting. Ryel had observed in his travels through the city that it was customary for upper-caste Almancarians of both sexes to make use of cosmetics, but never this thickly plastered. It was only too obvious that a skin-surgeon's skilled yet futile handiwork had attempted to confer a semblance of youth, and succeeded only in producing a ghastly mockery of it-especially since just beneath the tautly-pulled chin hung two others wobbling full of fat."*


----------



## Frank_Tuttle

Great thread! Here's my snippet, from the opening of "Dead Man's Rain."

The Widow Merlat sat across from me, breathed through her scented silk hanky, and did her best to make it plain she wasn't one of those Hill snobs who think of us common folk as mere servant-fodder. No, I was all right in her book-not a human being like her, of course, but as long as I kept my eyes on the floor and knocked the horse flop off my boots, I'd be welcome at her servant's entrance any day.

"You come highly recommended, goodman Markhat," she said, daring Rannit's unfashionable south-side air long enough to lower her hanky while she spoke. "The most capable, most experienced finder in all of Rannit. I'm told you are discreet, as well. I would not be here otherwise."

I sighed. My head hurt and I still had cemetery dirt on my shoes. I did not need to have my face rubbed in my humble origins by a Hill widow who doubtlessly thought her son was the first rich boy to ever take a fancy to the half-elf parlor maid.

"I'm also told you are expensive," said the widow. She plopped a fat black clutch purse down on my desk, and it tinkled, heavy with coin. "Good," she added. "I've never trusted bargains, nor shopped for them. Money means nothing to me."

"Funny you should say that, Lady Merlat," I said. "Why, just the other day I was telling the Regent that money means twenty jerks a day, to me. Plus expenses. And that's only if I decide to take the job." I leaned back in my chair and clasped my hands behind my head. "And, despite your generous display of the money that means nothing to you, I haven't said yes yet."

The widow smiled a tight, small smile. "You will, finder," she said. "I'll pay thirty crowns a day. Forty. Fifty. Whatever it takes, I will pay."

Outside, an ogre huffed and puffed as he pulled a manure wagon down the street, and all the silk in Hent wasn't going to keep the stench out of the widow's Hill-bred nostrils.

http://www.amazon.com/Dead-Mans-Rain/dp/B001CNR8HM/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1245000285&sr=8-1


----------



## Brenda Carroll

Time for a new snippet. This one comes from the Silver Cadeucus, the 8th book in the Red Cross of Gold Series. Our hero has just sworn to live under the old Laws of Moses in order to make Miss Meredith his wife, but there is one... small problem... 

The Grand Master stood up.

"Then I suggest you check yourself into the infirmary at once. I will call the good doctor and make the necessary arrangements," the Grand Master said quickly and waved one hand in dismissal. "Brother Barry, do you have the doctor's number in your telephone?"

Barry reached for his cell phone, but Mark held up one hand.

"Wait!" he said and straightened up slowly. "The infirmary?"

"Yes, of course." D'Brouchart looked at him as if he were daft.

"Whattar ye talkin' aboot? I'm not sick!" Mark Andrew looked about at his Brothers.

"You will be for a short while. Three days, of course, in your case," d'Brouchart told him as the barest hint of a smile played about his watery blue eyes. "You have sworn the oath. You will not go back on your word, will you, Brother?"

"No!" The Knight of Death cringed as his Brothers refused to meet his questioning gaze. He drew a deep breath and got his brogue under control. They were all in on this joke, whatever it was. "But why do I have to go to the infirmary?"

"I told you there were some additional concerns, Brother." The Grand Master started for the door. "There is the matter of


Spoiler



circumcision


. You cannot make any sacrifices or begin to fulfill your oath until that little issue is taken care of."

"What?!" Mark Andrew almost shouted and ran after him. "No. Wait. This was not discussed!"

"What is there to discuss, Brother?"


----------



## BP Myers

Snippet from my latest, titled Sumner Gardens:

I had been home from camp about a week when it happened. There were only about three weeks left to go before we had to go back to school and I wanted to try and make the days last forever. It was late in the afternoon and I was laying on my bed reading a story from one of my books called _The Veldt_ when I heard laughter coming from the kitchen.

I could hear my mother and my two older sisters and whatever it was they were laughing about it was funny as hell. After a couple of more minutes I climbed out of bed and put my thumb in my book so I wouldn't lose my place and walked up the hall holding it. I had a half-smile on my face and was ready to be let in on the joke. I walked into the kitchen and peeked my head around the corner and dropped my book on the floor.

They weren't laughing.


----------



## Brenda Carroll

BP Myers said:


> Snippet from my latest, titled Sumner Gardens:
> 
> They weren't laughing.


Heeey, you left us hanging!!! What happened? Who is this "I" person? Won't you go on the "Hey, Where did he come from?" Thread and tell us about the character. Sounds intriguing. Brendan


----------



## mamiller

Brendan Carroll said:


> "Yes, of course." D'Brouchart looked at him as if he were daft.


Nothing wrong with being daft... 

Here's a little ditty from WIDOW'S TALE-------------

The door was unlocked. 
Wary, Brett proceeded with the flashlight. He entered the cylindrical edifice, scaling the beam up a spiral staircase, past the network of cobwebs, into obscure shadows that tortured the soul with unlimited possibilities of danger. 
If one believed in ghosts, this place seemed like a potential breeding ground for them.
Brett flinched against the chain of echoes. Their footfalls resonated with chilling clarity while the waves that crashed below sounded as if they would tow the precarious structure off its moorings and out to sea.
"And this is where you would come to play?" He asked of the dark.


----------



## BP Myers

Brendan Carroll said:


> Heeey, you left us hanging!!! What happened? Who is this "I" person? Won't you go on the "Hey, Where did he come from?" Thread and tell us about the character. Sounds intriguing. Brendan


Hilarious, Brendan. Made me smile. Not sure how old you are (Brendan's a lot more popular name now than it was . . . then), but here's another brief snippet that you especially might appreciate . . . from one Brendan to another . . .

- - - - - - -

I remember one time, after another black eye, I tried to console him by confiding to him that I hated my name too. I had been named Conner after one of my mother's seven brothers, but nobody else I knew even had that name and I hated to be different. And lots of times people called me Connie, which was even worse because that was a girl's name. I preferred the full Conner or Con for short, but what could you do about it?


----------



## Brenda Carroll

mamiller said:


> Nothing wrong with being daft...
> 
> Here's a little ditty from WIDOW'S TALE-------------
> 
> scaling the beam up a spiral staircase, past the network of cobwebs, into obscure shadows that tortured the soul with unlimited possibilities of danger.


Thanks for noticing me, Miss Miller.  I like that snippet a whoe bunch. I have a bell tower at my chapel that catches a lot of action in the series and my main characters has an affinity for Spiders and Cobwebs, which he allows to go freely in his creepy alchemist lab which is in his basement. Everything you put up makes me want to read your book even more... towed out to sea... that would be me... up the creek without a Kindle.


----------



## Brenda Carroll

BP Myers said:


> Hilarious, Brendan. Made me smile. Not sure how old you are (Brendan's a lot more popular name now than it was . . . then), but here's another brief snippet that you especially might appreciate . . . from one Brendan to another . . .
> 
> - - - - - - -
> Thank you for the NFO, but we'd best not take up too much space on this snippet thread or else Edward will be jealous. LOL!


----------



## BP Myers

Brendan Carroll said:


> BP Myers said:
> 
> 
> 
> Hilarious, Brendan. Made me smile. Not sure how old you are (Brendan's a lot more popular name now than it was . . . then), but here's another brief snippet that you especially might appreciate . . . from one Brendan to another . . .
> 
> - - - - - - -
> Thank you for the NFO, but we'd best not take up too much space on this snippet thread or else Edward will be jealous. LOL!
> 
> 
> 
> And don't think that very point didn't cross my own mind . . . point taken. Over and out!
Click to expand...


----------



## harfner

Here's a snippet from my book DREAMER:

“You may rise, Mother Adept,” said a female voice.
Ara brought herself to a kneeling position and used the time to take stock of the body she possessed.  It was a well-muscled male.  Brown hair dusted his forearms, and his torso was lean and strong.  He wore voluminous black trousers and a collar, the marks of a Silent slave.  A thrill rippled through Ara.  No matter how often she did it, she always found it incredible that her body was light-years away while her mind was here, on another world in the body of another Silent.
Ara snuck a glance at her surroundings.  She was in a white pavilion large enough to shade two or three acres.  Several slaves stood poised with food and drink while a handful of others knelt on pillows similar to Ara’s.  Armed guards stood posted all about the pavilion.
Directly before Ara was the Imperial Majesty herself, the Empress Kan maja Kalii.  She sat on a pillow which sat, in turn, on a raised dais.  The Empress was close to Ara’s height, but angular and lean, with ebony-black skin and equally dark hair piled high on her head.  Tiny jewels orbited her head in lieu of a crown.  Silky blue robes cascaded down her shoulders.  Ara couldn’t even hazard a guess at her age.  The air around both Ara and the Empress shimmered slightly, meaning Kan maja Kalii had activated a sound dampener to ensure their words remained private.
“Speak, Mother Adept,” the Empress said. “You have a report?”
“I have, Imperial Majesty,” Ara replied, and explained what had happened when the Post Script arrived at Rust.  The slave’s deep voice sounded odd in her ears.  “The government is surely suspicious of us, but we’ve already begun searching for the child,” she finished.  “I doubt the Unity Silent have uncovered its presence.  Brother Kendi will look for it in the underground slave market while Sister Gretchen and I explore the legal venues.”
“Is it wise to send Brother Kendi along this path, Mother Adept?” the Empress asked.  “As I recall, he is someone who sometimes—these are your words—‘needs to be sat on.’”
Ara bowed to hide her startlement, though she didn’t know why she was surprised.  If Ara were in the Empress’s sandals, she would have accessed every file she could get her hands on too.
“Brother Kendi has grown in the months since I wrote those words, Imperial Majesty,” Ara said.  “He also has a knack for making underworld contacts, and his ability to locate people within the Dream is uncanny.  He is still the only Silent who has sensed the child, after all, and he was able to narrow its location to a single planet.  Not only that, he identified the child’s ability to possess the non-Silent.”
The Empress nodded.  “Very well, then.  I also want you to continue reporting directly to me, and not your superiors among the Children of Irfan.  This child’s existence must be kept a secret as long as possible.  Your skill and discretion in similar matters is why I chose you directly and I expect you will live up to your own high standards.”
Ara bowed her acquiescence.
“I’m nervous, Mother Adept,” the Empress continued.  “Brother Kendi claims he has felt this child reach through the Dream to possess other minds, willing or not.  Such a child would have the power to topple empires, including this Confederation.  What if this child possessed me?  Or another ruler?  The balance of power between the Independence Confederation and its neighbors is delicate.  One mistake could mean war.”
“Anyone would know instantly that you had been possessed, Imperial Majesty.  The child would not have your knowledge or experience.  It would be impossible—”
“We always thought it was impossible for the Silent to possess any but another willing Silent,” the Empress pointed out.  “Who knows what else this child can do?  What if the wrong people gain control of this child?”  She paused.  “I’ve been thinking, Mother Adept, and and I’ve decided that the safety of this Confederation is more important than the chance to . . . study this new form of Silence.”
“Imperial Majesty?”
The Empress sank back to her cushions, her regal face blank as stone.  “If, in your opinion, this child would pose a threat to the Independence Confederation, I want you to destroy it.”

--Steven Harper Piziks


----------



## Tanner Artesz

BP Myers said:


> Snippet from my latest, titled Sumner Gardens:
> 
> I had been home from camp about a week when it happened. There were only about three weeks left to go before we had to go back to school and I wanted to try and make the days last forever. It was late in the afternoon and I was laying on my bed reading a story from one of my books called _The Veldt_ when I heard laughter coming from the kitchen.
> 
> I could hear my mother and my two older sisters and whatever it was they were laughing about it was funny as hell. After a couple of more minutes I climbed out of bed and put my thumb in my book so I wouldn't lose my place and walked up the hall holding it. I had a half-smile on my face and was ready to be let in on the joke. I walked into the kitchen and peeked my head around the corner and dropped my book on the floor.
> 
> They weren't laughing.


_The Veldt_: That wouldn't be the Ray Bradbury story would it? Very nice snippet. You caught my attention.


----------



## BP Myers

Tanner Artesz said:


> _The Veldt_: That wouldn't be the Ray Bradbury story would it? Very nice snippet. You caught my attention.


It would indeed, Tanner, and thanks. Incidental to the story though, in the interest of full disclosure.

It was the kind of stuff that I . . . I mean my protagonist was reading at that age.


----------



## Edward C. Patterson

Okay, folks. Here's a snippet from Cutting the Cheese

*Stilton*

The minute they entered the kitchen, Mortimer took charge. He felt the pink power of social committee chairmanship surge through his veins like Texas oil. Suddenly, the early arriving talent became the cheese-brigade - minions in the service of GLAABS.

Mortimer trained his eyes to the butcher block. He tapped at three specified places for his work band. It was amazing what a stern glance and a firm tap on a block of wood will do to bring everything into perspective. This was a work party, after all. With complete submission (if you can believe it), Padgett, Todd and Luke surrounded the cheese like mountaineers at the base station of Everest. Kelly gave them knives, and then tapped the butcher block, pointing to the bricks of cheddar-sharp (and the mild, mild, mild stuff too).

Todd was distracted, as Kelly was a distraction. "And you are?" he asked.

Kelly arched his back on the counter. "I'm the f


Spoiler



ucking


 slave."

Mortimer, for a fleeting moment felt his authority slip, deferring it to the wiry charms of that Ariel of the household - Kelly _F


Spoiler



uck


-me-twice_ Rodriguez. "He's the houseboy," Mort said as much to say, don't step in it boyz, there's piles of it everywhere.

"Oh, the follies of the rich," Padgett shimmered.

Edward C. Patterson


----------



## Elmore Hammes

This week I will offer a brief scene from Belt Buckles & Pajamas.

I used a pen name (Michele LeBlanc) for this one as it is intended for mature readers and it was released shortly after my middle-grade mystery/fantasy, and I didn't want any kids to mistakenly think it was a similar book.

This snippet occurs fairly early in the book, when Daphne (the viewpoint character) is in a session with the new therapist, Andie. I know there are fragments, as well as long run-on sentences, but that's an intentional choice to represent her thought patterns. I picked a rather tame section, but the novel contains frank language and sexual situations which would be unsuitable for minors.

"Okay, good to see everyone again this morning." Andie is smiling, pretending that Glen didn't attack her, that she still likes us all, that today will be better than yesterday. They always pretend that last one, sometimes enough so I think maybe they actually believe it. After a while, though, they quit. On us. On themselves. On believing. They always quit.
She smells like coffee today. It is a good smell. A morning after everything is going to be okay and last night didn't happen and we woke up so we slept so nothing happened we were asleep none of it was our fault smell. And Mom would have bacon and eggs and Dad would pat her on the ass when she was cooking and she would laugh and everyone would love each other again. And if I cried Mom would keep cooking even if the eggs were burning and Dad would read the paper until I stopped.


----------



## harfner

Hmmm . . . interesting.


----------



## Carol Hanrahan

Here's another snippet from Baling:

  “You guys never told me why you were so interested in this old glass.  Interested enough to go in and steal it, that is.”
  “We wanted some pieces for a keepsake,” Nick said.
  “But why?”
  “Our great-great-grandfather built the chapel.  Over a hundred years ago.”
  “It seemed like those windows weren’t going to last much longer.  Most of them were pretty broken out.  We didn’t think anyone would even notice a piece or two gone from each one,” John said.
  “Well, you’re right about that,” Lainey said, turning the pieces over in her hand.  “They are beautiful when you hold them up to the light.”
    “If only we’d been able to get some of the pieces from the rose windows.  They were too high,” Nick said, taking a piece from Lainey.  “Those were really cool.”
  She put the pieces in her lap.  “You know, we could go back and get them.”
    “What?  After your Mom lit into us like that?”  John said.  “We’d have to be crazy to go back in there.”
  “We wouldn’t tell her.  In fact, tomorrow night, she’s going to her ladies’ club meeting.  She always stays late.  If you can sneak out, I know I can.”  Lainey’s eyes danced and she propped herself up on her knees.  She picked up the pillow from the couch and threw it at Nick.  “C’mon, it’ll be fun.  It’ll be our secret.”


----------



## LCEvans

Today I'm posting a snippet from my children's book, Night Camp.

      I bent my head closer to Brad's and, remembering to keep my voice down, described breakfast. "Just one thing, Brad. If they’re real vampires, how come Trevor and Colin ate tomatoes and drank tomato juice?" 
    Brad snorted. "What do you expect? You figure they should call for a couple of volunteers?” 
    I felt my face turn warm. "I didn't mean that. I meant, how can they survive on tomato juice?" 
  "So who says it's tomatoes? And is it really tomato juice?" Brad's face seemed ten shades paler in the moonlight. 
    My throat closed up as though someone squeezed it and I choked on my drink. Lemonade boiled up and squirted out of my nose and my mouth at the same time. Half the campers turned around to stare. I felt like crawling away when I saw that one of the curious campers was Nicole.


----------



## Tanner Artesz

Another snippet from: *Shadow of the Ghost*.

The young elf stifled another gag as he looked at the others in the cage. He counted twenty rag-clad, scabby skeletal bodies crowded along the back wall of the pen. Their sunken dull eyes stared at nothing. He turned back to the bars and the alley. The guard had passed from sight. The elf's hands flared with flame and the shackles melted. He squeezed through the bars and ran down the alley.

As he expected, once he turned the corner, the air was slightly more breathable. He started exploring the town. He looked for the middle aged man he had sent here several hours earlier. The buildings he passed wore warped planks beneath their sagging roofs. Wood frames surrounded gaping holes that had once been windows. Some still clung to pieces of shattered panes. The townspeople resembled their dwellings.

His frustration at not finding the man began to turn to anger. His opinion of the place deteriorated from disgust to hatred. He hated the run down buildings, the filth laden mud streets and even the sweaty stinking people. After twenty minutes, he found him, or most of him. His head sat in a butcher shop window, the top having been cut off to expose the brain. His torso and thighs sat beside his head under a sign that read "fresh meat".


----------



## Carolyn Kephart

A snippet from _Starklander_, the prequel to the Ryel Saga, currently a work in progress; apologies for the slight extra length.

"Some think death is like this place."

Michael turned toward the watcher who had led him through the walls, and who had spoken for the first time. Only iron self-command kept him from taking a backward step at that sight. What met his gaze was not a face but a mask, dead white and flattened, lipless. The nose was squashed level with the cheeks, as wide as if it had been pressed for centuries by a coffin lid. Out of haggard hollows, pale eyes glowed with sickly fire. There was not a hair on the entire head, save for a sparse set of eyelashes. Missing teeth made ragged gaps in the mouth. It reminded Michael of a corpse mummied by ice.

"A place without form, nor a clearly defined source of light; rather like the womb in many respects," the watcher said, having paused as if waiting for Michael to register his reaction. "But the womb is warm, so I hear. With a heartbeat."

It had an ugly voice, this watcher; a muffled wheeze made lisping by the missing teeth. It reached into its cloak and brought out a stoppered vial of dark green glass. "Drink this."

Michael had come too far to question what the bottle held. He merely opened it and drank. The liquid was revoltingly viscous, flat and salty like tide-brack, but he ignored his disgust and drained the flask empty. Almost immediately he became unaware of his body-its cold, hunger, thirst, pain. So complete was the relief, and apparently so evident his amazement, that the watcher actually smiled, or at least seemed to. It was as if the corners of its mouth were drawn up by hooks.

"We live on that, here," it said. "One really needs little more."

Michael half-smiled back. "It could use somewhat more flavor."

The watcher's face lapsed back to its death-guise. "Why?"

***​
CK


----------



## vwkitten

Oo - Oo - My turn... a teaser from Painting the Roses Red.

"You made me beg for your touch before," she whispered as she lowered her mouth to rain kisses over his chest


Spoiler



and flicked her tongue over one taut nipple


. 
"Is that a complaint?" his voice was husky.
"Only if you never plan to do it again," she looked up through her lashes at him.


----------



## sierra09

Well, that hooked me and it's in paperback too!! Great.

Well, I think it's been a week since I posted my snippet so it should be o-kay to post this one. From the end of Chapter 7 of Celtic Evil: A Fitzgerald Brother Novel: Roarke (The Fitzgerald Brothers)

"Run." He told her, knowing she could go through the stable and take the long way to the house. "Go find my brothers or the Mavericks."
"I can't leave you to fight this thing alone." Jessica argued, feeling his fear but also feeling his determination. "Roarke, no. I can't&#8230;"
Seeing the beast hunch its back, Roarke grabbed Jessica's arm and pushed her back toward the stable. "Go, Jessica!" he snapped, his fear making his voice hard.
Hesitating a second, she finally nodded and began backing away when another growl had her whirling just in time to scream.
Spinning at his friend's voice, Roarke saw the second beast jump from the shadows at the girl and it was his panic and fear for her safety that had him doing something he hadn't done in more years than he wanted to remember.
Lashing out with a wave of wind to deflect the beast jumping for Jessica, he diverted a portion of his power to search for his brothers and hoped after years apart one of them picked his call for help up even as the first demon was jumping on his back.


----------



## Brenda Carroll

sierra09 said:


> Well, that hooked me and it's in paperback too!! Great.
> Well, I think it's been a week since I posted my snippet so it should be o-kay to post this one. From the end of Chapter 7


Thanks for the snippet. Yes, I did find your earlier snippet and this sounds very intriguing. It seems that your book falls into my category of interesting topics and I will have to give it a read as soon as I can squeeze it in.  Brendan


----------



## Edward C. Patterson

My turn. From The Dragon's Pool
--------------------------------------------------------
The hope chest that Silky used to stow his gear, his little magpie store of teenage bits and mathom, was three feet high and five feet long. It was fine ebony and among Simone's best pieces, but since the boy was going to stay and Simone detested any clutter beyond his own, he suggested that the box would be a perfect solution for Silky's truck. The box was no mere eyesore. It was decorated with silver inlay and mother-of-pearl - a French country scene a la Watteau, with verdant and ruby hints about the edges. It also perfumed the parlor with a touch of sandalwood, which it owed to its interior. Simone had stored fine tatted linen tablecloths in there before he gave up the space and the camphorwood aroma to his number one lodger.

Nick opened his hands, and then shifted them toward Silky's box. Silky stirred, a flash of panic blotching his face as if he thought that Nick was going to open the box and reveal the scattered teenage secrets held within. Or perhaps he thought Nick would explode the thing - that would be unique and demonstrative. However, Nick simply raised the box four inches from the floor and floated it across the room toward the kitchen.

"I've seen you levitate things before," Silky said. "Unless you're going to teach me how to do it, it's old hat."

"I cannot teach you. It's a gift from a special teacher, but . . ." Nick gained Silky's ear. He whispered. "Stare at the space between my hands and the box."

As Silky twisted forward, Nick's eyes squinted. He turned pale. His shoulders twitched. The space between was just space; nothing but air and blankness, but it seemed to thicken, a slight creaming in the light. Nick's complexion turned alabaster. Between his fingers and the box now spun a golden veil - a glittering shimmer of amber dust suspended in an arc. 
"What is that?" Silky asked.

"Ch'i," Nick said. "It is the stuff of life; of spirit and power. It binds us all and lives within all things. It is through the manipulation of ch'i that I am able to defy mundane laws."

"Why can I see it now?"

"Because I am manifesting it - a very difficult feat. One that weakens me and if I keep it in view, all my ch'i will drain away through the portals of time." Nick huffed. The glittering shower twinkled, winking between the box and Nick's digits. 
"You must stop it then," Silky said.

"Yes," Nick replied. He blew a puff between his lips and the ch'i stream dissipated. The box quaked, and then fell onto the floor. "I am tired, Master Marsh."

Silky grasped Nick's arms.

"You are good to me, Nick. I will never forget it."

Nick closed his eyes.

"Even as you are about my undoing."

Edward C. Patterson


----------



## emilydowns

"The Misogynist"

http://www.amazon.com/The-Misogynist/dp/B001V5J4VO

---



Spoiler



"You make your hand into a fist and stroke it." I remember wondering if the other boys were just going along like they didn't understand too.

"Then what happens?" one of the other little boys asked.

Chris continued, "white jiz comes out of it."

"Well why do you do it?" One of the dense children quizzed Chris. The boys were now circling like sharks.

Chris seems to relish the attention, he is all smiles. "It feels good."

The other boy is now standing close to Chris, "How does it feel good?"

The invasion of space has Chris realizing his surrounding, "I don't know, you shake, it feels good." He is pushing the other boy away from him.

Everyone breaks apart, moving away from each other. All of us are rushing home to the solace of bathrooms. It was an Asian girl I had in class. That is who I thought of that day as I leaned over the bathroom sink. I wonder whatever happened to her.


----------



## vwkitten

I only had a chance to read a few snippets as I'm seriously focused on writing but...

Maureen, nice imagery.  I really enjoyed it.

Sierra, you really grabbed my attention.  Thanks.

Ed, I love this thread.  Thanks.

Meredith, on the Old Laws of Moses... that's funny.


----------



## Meredith Sinclair

Where have you been Trish? ... We miss you!


----------



## Edward C. Patterson

I thought this thread would serve well fo auhors to share views of their style that canno be necessaily conveyed by the downloaded samples. It works, I think.

Edward C. Patterson


----------



## RJ Keller

A [rather long] snipit from chapter 4 of Waiting For Spring.

Check out counter. I stood behind a young woman and her son. He was maybe five or six years old. Both of them were dirty. Smelly. Old, ripped clothes. Her groceries: a candy bar, a gallon of milk and a half gallon bottle of Allen's Coffee Brandy. I clenched my teeth, because I knew. Even though it's wrong to judge. Even though I'd been judged--unfairly--too many times to count and knew better than to do it to someone else. I judged her anyway.

And I was right.

I'd never had a problem with the concept of State Aid. Food stamps or MaineCare or even welfare. Because sometimes people fall on hard times. Sometimes people work hard and still can't afford health insurance. Sometimes they roll out of bed one morning and find that their job has been shipped South or East. And that's when they need a helping hand. A little something to see them through the rough spots. I'd been there myself.

Then there were people like this woman.

She paid cash for the twenty dollar bottle of liquor. Used her food stamp card for the candy bar and the milk. The milk that wasn't for her son. He wouldn't drink it with his supper tonight or dip any cookies in it for dessert or pour in onto his breakfast cereal in the morning. He looked up, gave me a huge smile and I smiled right back. He had greasy blonde hair and big blue eyes. Probably the kids picked on him at school because his clothes were dirty. Because he smelled. Because his front two teeth were black and rotten. But underneath the dirt he was a beautiful child.

I wondered how much longer it would be before he realized exactly what kind of family he'd been born into. Before he understood that the twenty dollars his mother was using for liquor should have been used instead for soap and shampoo and laundry detergent. Would he grow up resentful? Bitter? Would he rise above it, determined to make a better life for himself? Or would he grow up thinking that it was normal to live that way?

The woman turned back, too, and glared at me. She knew what I was thinking and I didn't care. I wanted to say something to her. Wanted to tell her to go get some


Spoiler



fucking


 help. Tell her that twenty bucks would buy a bar of soap and a bottle of shampoo and a box of cheap laundry detergent. Or maybe tell her about all the childless couples out there who would gladly take that little boy off her hands and give him a good life. A life that was filled with baths and toothbrushes. With leafy green veggies and cold milk. The kind of milk that was poured over breakfast cereal and not mixed with coffee brandy.

I didn't, of course, because right now--right now--the boy was at least somewhat content. Living with a mommy who probably loved him at least a little. And he loved her. That much was obvious. Bad days were coming for him. I knew that, too. But right now, to him, today was The Day Mommy Bought Me a Candy Bar. I couldn't turn it into The Day Mommy Yelled at the Mean Lady in the Grocery Store. So I gave the woman an almost friendly nod, waved goodbye to the boy and watched them walk away. The little boy was holding his mommy's hand. Because right now he still loved her.


----------



## vwkitten

Meredith Sinclair said:


> Where have you been Trish? ... We miss you!


Writing the sequel (finished first draft today).


----------



## Brenda Carroll

Here's a snippet from the _Red Cross of Gold Series Book III: the Head of the Crow_. Mark and two of his Brothers of the Order have just run afoul of one of Mark's neighbors and the old fellow has come to apologize to him:

Mark Andrew remained in the yard, looking after him for several long moments. Long enough to cause Lucio to have some very interesting thoughts. The man looked to be in his sixties, perhaps, and worn to be sure, but he would have to be into his eighties...

"I thought you said his father died in France during the Great War?" Lucio asked him as he passed by on his way back to the library.

"He did," Mark answered him shortly. "Lots of people died in France."

"He looks young. He called you 'father'," Lucio said as Mark entered the library.

"Lots of people hereabouts call me father because of the chapel," Mark snapped and turned a dark frown on him. "I believe you share the same experience on occasion?"

Lucio winced inwardly. That was true. They often passed themselves off as priests when traveling abroad. It especially helped when they traveled under protection of the Holy See. And had he not had to explain the very same truth to Meredith on a fateful plane trip from America a few years earlier? He let the matter drop, but kept the thought.

The card proved to be a personal business card. The name was James Petrie, a dealer in antiques and rare books, retired United States Air Force Lt. Colonel, member of the Waco Rotary Club, board member of Waco Bank and Trust, Chairman of the Procurement Committee of the Waco Business League, etceteras, etceteras.


----------



## mamiller

Wow, a week goes by so quickly....here is a moment at O'Flanagans in WIDOW'S TALE  
----------------
"I don’t know, Harriet. Do I look like someone who can analyze men?"

Snorting into her mug, Harriet cackled. "Rena honey, I hate to laugh, but no."

Serena’s eyebrows narrowed to feign anger, but her smile won. Her laugh was curtailed as she glimpsed over Harriet’s shoulder at the dark individual crossing the floor. 

With ebony hair drawn back into a loose ponytail and black eyes scanning the patrons warily, John Morse located Serena and targeted on her as he approached the bar. Serena’s quick intake of breath had Harriet rooting around in her seat. She acknowledged Morse with a grunt of disapproval, and then swiveled back.

"What’s he doing here? He never comes out in public—kinda like a vampire or something."

"Harriet, could you excuse me for a minute?" Serena was already edging down the bar towards the vacant spot where Morse now rested an elbow, peering disdainfully at the crowd.


----------



## Edward C. Patterson

Maureen, I loved the snippet just as I loved The Widow's Tale, one of the first Indie books I read back in the days when we were all pariah and no one considered us worth the reading. My, how things have changed, and MY, how you have helped to change them.

Edward C. Patterson


----------



## Dave Dykema

It's been way more than a week for me, but here's the start of my novel _Wrong Number_:

The phone rang. I jumped like a scared cat, my body jerking, the mattress squeaking.
My reaction didn't make a whole lot of sense. I had been expecting the call when I walked into the bedroom, striped off my jeans and shirt and dumped them into a pile on the floor, and climbed onto the bed. I'd waited for it, lights out,


Spoiler



one hand tucked into my boxer briefs


.
I looked at the black handset, smudged with greasy fingerprints. It rang again.
I licked my dry lips and reached for the phone with my free hand. "Hello?"
"Is this Brad?"
"&#8230;Yes&#8230;"
"Hello, baby. You and me are gonna have a hot time," the breathy voice promised.
I looked at the ad with the Brazilian beauty whose long black hair, smoky eyes and dark skin glistening with exotic oils enticed me to call. I tried to imagine her talking to me. Unsure what to do next, I asked what she was wearing.
"A smile. Nothing else."
I brought the cordless phone closer to my parched lips. I licked them again, wishing I had a cold beer with me.
"Sounds nice."


----------



## Tanner Artesz

I've enjoyed reading the typo thread, so I chose this from *Legacy of the Ghost*. 

Herr William took a deep breath and organized what he had taken from the first drawer into one of the boxes and opened the next drawer. He had two weeks to vacate the office. He removed items from the drawer one at a time. He lingered on each item, soaking the past from it, savoring each memory. Halfway through the contents of the drawer, he found a crumpled piece of looseleaf paper crammed into the back corner by the other things in the drawer. He placed it on his desk and carefully smoothed it. Tears slowly escaped his eyes as he read the fading pencil scratchings on it.

_August 1987_

_Dear Herr Wiliam and teechers,

Thank you for adopting me and letting me come to your school. I will work really hard. You really made me happy bringing me hear.

Love,
Micah.
_
Herr William read the note many times, smoothing the paper a little more after each read. Then he folded it and placed it safely inside Little Ky's history book.

"I will miss you, my son," he whispered as he closed the book. "My one regret is that I never told you."


----------



## Carol Hanrahan

Here's another snippet from Baling.  I hope you enjoy it.


  “So your dad judges antique tractors, too?”  Nick brushed his shoulder up against Lainey's as they walked along. 
  “No, he owns one.  It’s his pride and joy. A 1938 John Deere.”  She didn't pull away, then after a few more steps her shoulder brushed up against his. “He spent all spring getting it running.  It was his grandfather’s, you know.”
  “Does he let you drive it?”  Nick's heart raced and the blood pounded in his ears. A moment later, he skimmed his hand along hers, and as he curled his fingers, her hand slipped into his and rested there. He glanced sideways at her and a smile played at the corner of her mouth. 
  “Are you kidding?  He babys that tractor more than anything.  He’s hoping to beat out his buddies at the fair.  He keeps it tucked away in the chapel all year long.  Dusts it off once a week.  Practically sings it to sleep at night.”  She turned her head to face him straight on, then she squeezed his hand. Her eyes took on a dreamlike quality, and looked deeply into his.  “After all, it’s just a tractor.  What’s so great about a tractor?  I’ll never know.” 

Carol


----------



## Elmore Hammes

A short piece from my science fiction space opera, The Cloud. This occurs early in the book, as the Cloud enters our solar system.

The cloud slowed momentarily as it passed near various comets. It expanded and contracted as it traveled, stretching out to investigate objects that were not in line with its direct path. 
It encountered Pluto and its moons. Cold, lifeless orbs, offering it nothing for its efforts to shift its path to encompass them in its gaseous particles. It did not care; it did not know how to care. It learned there was no energy to be found here; it contracted and shifted particles, easily escaping the minimal gravitational forces of the dead planet. It was roughly three and a half billion miles from where there was life in this system. It did not know that, did not look forward to it. It simply moved on, seeking energy.
It wasn't capable of picking out the next system to journey to; it let the winds of the interstellar medium drive it to the next encounter. It could, however, detect the large planetary masses within a system, altering its course slightly to pass through as many of them as it could on its trek through the system.
The Kuiper belt, consisting mostly of countless pieces of ice and rock, its inner portion leading to Neptune and its moons, registered to it as the next potential feeding ground. It would be ten hours before it would reach them. It did not matter; time did not matter, not to the cloud.


----------



## LCEvans

Another snippet from We Interrupt This Date:

What was wrong with me? My mood had morphed from reasonably content to rotten almost from the moment Jack walked into the house. You’d think I’d be pleased he was here.  
Jack asked Christian and Trinity about college. They’d barely finished talking when DeLorean broke in to update him about her years getting her degree.
“I couldn’t have known that nothing I experienced my freshman year could have prepared me for dealing with Baldwin.”
Neat trick the way she could snare Jack’s attention and bring up her ex at the same time. I would have bet if I said I’d seen a rhinoceros galloping west on I-26, she’d have butted in to say she’d seen two of them and that her ex had tried to push her out in front of them.


----------



## harfner

A snippet from _Trickster_:

"I have their holos," Ben said. "Want to see?"
Kendi leaned forward despite his fear. "You know the answer to that."
Ben tapped a key and the text vanished. The head of a woman in her mid-twenties appeared. She was beautiful, with large brown eyes, skin darker than Kendi's, and sharply-defined features that included a firm chin. Kendi touched his own chin when he saw her. "Martina," he breathed.
Another hologram appeared beside the first, one of a man in his thirties. The resemblance to Kendi was unmistakable, except for the striking blue eyes. Kendi's throat thickened. The last time he had seen his brother and sister they had been fifteen and ten, respectively. Now they were adults.
"I managed to break into their medical records, including their DNA scans," Ben said. "I ran a comparison. All three of you have the same mitochondrial DNA, which means you're siblings. It's definitely them."
Kendi's heart was racing and he tightened his grip on Ben's hand. "You said there's bad news."
"Yeah." Ben ran his free hand through his hair. "Ken, they've both disappeared."
For a moment Kendi could only focus on the fact that Ben was calling him Ken, a nickname he didn't allow anyone else to use and one Ben used only rarely. Then he said, "Disappeared?"
"Kidnapped. Someone broke into the slave quarters and snatched them both away. No clues, according to the news reports. They're gone."


----------



## Edward C. Patterson

Here's a snippet from a work that will not be published until October 2009. From The Nan Tu - Southern Swallow - Book II. The old family servant is recalling how he led the young Emperor many years ago to his master's hostelry beside the stables. The rest speaks for itself (Water Dragon is the name of a horse):

"I am a connoisseur of


Spoiler



horseshit


 - the aromas of the stable. So the breezes that wafted the perfume across the courtyard from the equine barns to Magnolia House were not strangers to me. In fact, there has always been wonderment in the power of the stuff, especially when used to grow cabbages and leeks. Now as for cowcumbers, like the ones back on my father's tenancy, we had no horse, and the ox was prone more to farting than dung, so the family would need to contribute to the health and well being of the crops in the growing season. Since my father's cowcumbers were the largest on the Li Xien estate, there's something to be said for human poop. However, when it comes to aromas, I much prefer that of horse.

Now, if I recall, the Emperor was hell bent on seeing my master, but I knew that this was the hour of prayer, when my Master consorted with his strange relics. These unusual convocations were not even for the eyes of an Emperor, although I have seen them on occasion. However, my master had convinced me that I had a role to play in his dainty religion, and now that I think of it, I should have run away at the first mention of it. Still, I insisted that His Majesty come to the stables and visit my horse - well, his horse, Water Dragon. Prince Kang was always soft in the head for his horses, so I figured that since only months separated the Prince and the Emperor, the Son of Heaven might like to feed my beast the fabled carrot or two. I was correct in this assumption. I am always amazed that whether a man is born from Mount T'ai or from a dunghill, he can always be stirred off course by a promise of a carrot. Never fails.

Edward C. Patterson


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## vwkitten

Woot  -- is has now been exactly a week and here is the *first *sneak peak of Never Smile at a Crocodile (available in September)...

"The last guy you sent me to tag at a casino is now lying dead on my couch," Rianna hadn't meant to say it. She hadn't meant to tell him anything about it. She didn't want Marcus to come in and tell her that she had somehow screwed up something else.
"Ah, man," Marcus sounded disgusted rather than the shocked. "Haven't I warned you about bringing in stray psychics? I don't know what sob story he told you, but that guy wasn't strong enough to join the crew. He's just a talented conman, not a psychic of any worth. You'll be lucky if he doesn't steal you blind."
Rianna endured the lecture because she was too annoyed to respond right away. Even when she told him the truth, he assumed she was exaggerating.
"Marcus, listen very carefully," Rianna's voice was soft and dangerous, though Marcus would probably hear something totally different. "There is a dead body on my couch. As in dead. Bullet hole in the middle of the forehead kind of dead. Bleeding on sofa cushions kind of dead. As in call for the morgue kind of dead."
Rianna had the satisfaction of hearing silence on the other end of the phone. 
"And it's the guy you tagged at King Solomon's Casino last week?" Marcus's tone became serious.
"Yes, Marcus," Rianna spoke slowly and precisely. "Fast Eddie, who was running cons at King Solomon's two days ago, is now not breathing in a pile on my couch."


----------



## mamiller

Great snippet, Trish!  The book is going to be good!


----------



## Kevis Hendrickson

Without a doubt, this thread is awesome. Nice snippets guys.


----------



## sierra09

So many great snippets this week. I really need to ask you guys how you cut a scene down to fit in snippet range. It's so hard so find just the right scene.

Anyway, it's been a week(went by so fast) so here's one from toward the end of Celtic Evil: A Fitzgerald Brother Novel: Roarke (The Fitzgerald Brothers)

"Don't yell." She warned, sensing his temper was on the surface but also feeling his fear. "I knew you needed the time." 
Mac's hand on his shoulder stopped him from speaking. "I guess Maggie's excuse that she was just following you was true." He sighed, starting to kneel down but his brother just scooped the girl up easily but carefully. "Roarke, you using too much power at once."
"I can do it, Mac." His younger brother promised him, knowing his emotions weren't level yet but wanting the girl out of the field as he felt her leaned against his shoulder.
Cameron Young wondered up, eyeing the pair. "Should I tranq him?"
"Leave him be. Ryan or Mac will know if the fight gets too loud." Kerry replied, eyeing the field even as Ian cleansed it without a problem. "Ry, we really need to test Ian's power range."
Ryan laughed as he also watched their youngest brother. "Hell, I knew that when he was nine and like to reshape things while he slept."
Mac and Kerry both turned to stare at him. "I want to know just what you haven't told us." Mac muttered, feeling Maggie's arm around him. "Let's go back."


----------



## Carolyn Kephart

sierra09 said:


> So many great snippets this week. I really need to ask you guys how you cut a scene down to fit in snippet range. It's so hard so find just the right scene.


Agreed, some good stuff here! As for finding scenes, this one from _Lord Brother_ was just hanging around, so to speak:

***​
*He made himself stay calm, think slowly. The word, the word, what was it-he remembered, said it, waited for the snap of broken metal. But none came. Angered, he uttered another word far more powerful, superfluously strong; and still the chains held fast. A thrill of sickness pooled in the pit of his stomach, but he ignored it, whispering carefully with painstaking enunciation a great word of freeing, a word that would make the very gates of Markul burst from their hinges. He closed his eyes, steeling himself for the shock.

None came.

An odor nastily foul stole into the room, dragged by a shuffling form only just recognizable as human. "Good words, young blood. But you need better." The shape drew nearer and stood before him, enveloping Ryel in ghastly miasma. The corpselight intensified, illuminating the bald scalp peeling away from the skull, the scar-gouged leathery cheeks hanging in creased folds, the gaping holes of the orbits.

"Comfortable, sweet eyes?"

In answer Ryel wearily held up the irons on his wrists. "Don't you find chains and dungeons rather elementary?" *

***​
CK


----------



## Dave Dykema

sierra09 said:


> So many great snippets this week. I really need to ask you guys how you cut a scene down to fit in snippet range. It's so hard so find just the right scene.


I don't cut my scenes down at all. It just takes a while to find one succinct enough to meet the criteria.

Think of your book and a key moment--one that doesn't give away anything too important--and see if it fits. You want to tease, tantalize. Leave us wanting more.


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## Edward C. Patterson

I don't cut down either. If it goes over, it goes over. I chastise myself and go . . . oh well.   I think I've stated, the snippet limit is mainly so no one goes overboard with a full chapter or take up real estate with cover art. But if it goes over and makes a more rounded demonstration of style, then by all means . . . 

Edward C. Patterson


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## sierra09

I'll remember that for next week.   The snippet I really wanted to use was about 453 words....unless I find a better one by then.


----------



## RJ Keller

Here's a snipit from chapter 5 of Waiting For Spring.

I'd felt it all slipping away, for months and months. Hope and happiness and love. Drifting. Slowly. Away. And now&#8230;it was gone. He was gone. He hadn't even shown up in court, and it was probably just as well. Because I was drunk enough to remember that I'd planned to beg him to take me back.

Please, Jason? Please? Five months apart and that's long enough. Long enough to know that it's stupid to throw everything away. All those years together. A whole lifetime of love. We can't just give up on it. Please, Jason&#8230;

Please?

I was going to beg him. To take me back.

And now it was too late. It really was. But I still missed him. Even as I drifted off to sleep. Even in my dreams&#8230;

When I woke up in the morning he was there, Mine again. Golden beard; blue, glowing eyes; hands and lips everywhere. Hotel carpet. Sweet whispers that told me I was safe and loved. Even if it was just in my mind. One more time. One last time.

It had to be the last. Because when I was done there was no guilt. None at all. But I had to bury my head in my pillow, the one I'd spent the night pretending was him, to hold back the tears. Because that's when I knew. For real.

He wasn't mine. Not anymore. Not ever&#8230;


----------



## Brenda Carroll

Here's a snippet from the _Red Cross of Gold  XI: Ars Arabia_. Meredith and Mark are in the swimming pool. He is trying to convince her to use her mystery to help find the missing Djinni:

"Merry," he said in a stage whisper. "I have been thinking that you should try to consult an oracle. The Wisdom of Solomon says that in order to evoke phantoms, one must be intoxicated or mad. I am perpetually one and quite capable of the other."

"It does not say that," Merry objected. "It is by use of the magick carpet for protection and the incantations and invocations one protects one's self from being killed by the phantoms one wishes to invoke and, also, the reason for the invocation must be pure and not self-serving, Mark Andrew."

"That is very wise," he told her and smiled in her face. "But it does say what I have said. You will do your stuff and I will do mine."

"You do not know what you're talking about!" She laughed nervously. "Besides where are we supposed to find an oracle in this day and age?"

"Sort of like finding a dragon?" He raised both eyebrows.

Nothing was impossible.

"You see?" He laid back again. "I want you to do some research. Find us a phantom or a witch. A dead witch. We will call her up and ask her where the Djinni is. I know his name. I will do the talking. You will remain pure. Our purpose cannot be construed as anything less. We are not asking for buried treasure. We are trying to restore our Brothers and ensure the continuation of God's work here on earth. God gave us this wisdom to use and we will use it!"


----------



## TeresaMcCullough

*The Enhancer*

"Stop spinning for a minute, Lenera," Meeral said. "I'm always looking for different ways I can enhance. Help me try something new."
"What?" the twins said together.
"Both of you, just work your treadle, only do it together. No, exactly together." 
The eight unmanned wheels near Lenera began turning, shortly followed by the eight wheels near Linima. The ninth remained still, of course. Meeral remembered that Thera had considered it unusual that she had enhanced two horses on her trip to Pactyl. Enhancers were not supposed to be able to do that, but she had already found that she could enhance fire further than people said was possible.
"Now reach for the yarn," she said. "No, exactly together. I've lost it. Try again."
"Twin, follow me," Lenera said. "Down, pick up, lift, fan."
Together, it worked -- the treadles moving in unison, the wheels turning, the yarn -- they lost it -- they started again. Both twins reached down for the fiber in front of them, their hands touching it at the same moment. They picked it up, fanned it as they fed it -- and everything worked right for a few minutes.
Sometimes they hardly got started. Other times they felt they were part of a huge machine, with eighteen wheels spinning and eighteen bobbins turning.

http://www.amazon.com/The-Enhancer-ebook/dp/B002A7WSCY/ref=ed_oe_kπ


----------



## Daniel Morris

Here's a snippet from my horror/thriller novel: The Canal. (Very cool thread btw... Will get around to reading more of these today...)
-----------------------------------

The insect wriggled across Teresa's wild-grown herb patch. In its wake the foliage curled and turned black. The bug's eyes were blind, white as its own skin, like two small balloons filled to bursting with milk. A tongue, purple, at least a foot long, emerged from the mouth to moisten herpe'd lips. Growths and pustules laced its skin, a whole skyline of tumors racing up and down its spine. As it got closer the insect managed to appear vaguely human, albeit melted, like a Jonas who'd eaten his way free from the whale's belly, to emerge half digested, the bile still sizzling away.

And now Paul could feel the heat. Peals of it radiated from the creature, blasts of furnace air hotter even than the barbecue fuming at Paul's stomach. He discreetly moved to unhook the nearby meat fork...and as quickly as it was in his grasp, it spun out of his fingers and fell, clanging on the cement.

The creature bolted sideways, a blur of mandibles and convulsions. It snuggled along the base of the nearby wall and then -- and this caused Paul's heartbeat to veer dangerously up-tempo -- then its mouth snapped open to tremendous size, a bear-trap filled with glass-edged needles, poking out of its gums like thorns. Paul realized that this creature could have just as quickly scrabbled up his legs and taken him by the jugular. The thought was frightening, yes. But also, it was _exciting_. He'd never seen anything quite so beautiful.

http://www.amazon.com/The-Canal-ebook/dp/B002IA09HY


----------



## Elmore Hammes

Here's the first couple paragraphs from my short story, Three Avenues of Escape, which was first published in the Fall 2006 of _The First Line_. When rights reverted back to me I decided to offer it in Kindle form for $1.00.

When my brother, Andy, went away to college, he left me his fishing pole, a well-read copy of The Wind in the Willows, and a stack of Playboys. Each of those, in different ways, would allow me to make my own escape from our troubled home.
I called it a home, but it wasn't what most people considered a home. It provided shelter from the weather outside but held none of the familial love and guidance found in normal homes. Mom's death from an overdose years ago had burned away what little compassion Dad ever had as he poured bottle after bottle of alcohol down his throat to drown her memory. Or more likely the memory of how he had beaten her, how he had sent her down the path of popping pills until she finally found her avenue of escape.

Elmore Hammes


----------



## Edward C. Patterson

Snippet from my latest novel Look Away Silence. Our protagonist is a member of a gay men's chorus - The New Jersey Gay Sparrows. Let's drop in on a rehearsal, shall we?

*The flock came to order - all of them. The whole assortment. And we were a collection of mixed nuts. A few scrawny crows, a wallflower or two, a whole belly brigade (Ron was so fat, when he sang, his mouth disappeared into his chins). We had butch boys, and drag queens, the talented, the tone deaf and buff and the bodily odor challenged. We even had a manic-depressive music librarian - Brian, and you hoped when he handed you your music that the medication had settled, otherwise you might get three sets of the same piece. Twenty-seven New Jersey Gay Sparrows, and here and there a chicken hawk. The only thing we were missing was a straight man. We did have one when we started out, they tell me. He hadn't realized that the Central Jersey Men's Choir was that way. He actually stuck it out to the first concert, they say, but I guess his girlfriend objected. Some people are so insecure.
"On your feet, ladies," Gerry said. 
No speech. No welcome back or rules and regulations. He just pointed to Tim, and we naturally applauded the man for his thankless work. 
"Hands at your sides and stretch. And stretch and stretch. Now to your right and to your left."
It was funny watching the belly brigade do these, but without the stretching, our diaphragms would be just so much dead skin in the lung vat. After the stretches, we went through a series of breathing exercises - huffs and puffs, and lip farts and the ever-popular radiator shush. Then came humming and scales and harmonizing, and then a small lecture on enunciation.
"Remember your h's, ladies. It's when, not wen. A wen is . . ." 
Gregg paused and pointed at us.
"A sebaceous cist," we caroled in unison.
"Exactly, and since we will have some Latin this season, its not eXcelsior, but eGGcelsior."
Finally, we sat and sight-read the entire program. It sounded like a gaggle of geese instead of a twittering of sparrows, but it was fine. It settled my heart. After hours of rehearsing there is nothing like the sound of a men's choir, fully balanced and blended. However, this first go-through was . . . was music to my ears. Other rehearsals would belabor every measure. We would need to stop and teach the second tenors their parts, pounding out the lines on the piano. Second tenors were . . . well, second tenors. But the first rehearsal was anything goes. We were divine individuals, each trying to embrace the music on our own terms. The concert would require us to sacrifice our souls to performance - to the sacred blend of voices. But that first run-through was always the best.*

Edward C. Patterson


----------



## mamiller

Time for a WIDOW'S TALE snip snip...

    The room was frigid, the warmth of the fire upstairs long forgotten. Brett was conscious of Serena’s fingers entwined with his as she guided them past the bank of windows into a short hall flanked by blackened chambers. 

    Doorways to the unknown. 

    In a whisper, Serena chronicled what each quarter represented. 

    "This is the den to the right, and on the left is a guest room, and towards the far end there, was—the bedroom."

    Brett felt a stab of shame for resenting the happiness his brother once had, but Alan was foolish enough to damage a good thing. 

    Flashlight held aloft, Brett slipped ahead of Serena into the den. Erratic sweeps of the light dissected the darkness. In its scope, the flare encompassed bookshelves with threadlike cobwebs linked to the recessed ceiling. He swept the light over a wooden desk adorned with a blotter, brass lamp, and photo of Serena and Alan. Brett scooped up the framed picture and heard Serena’s startled gasp behind him. She too saw that the glass had been shattered, their faces obscured behind a web of jagged shards.

    "Any strong breezes in here?" Brett inquired cynically.


----------



## Edward C. Patterson

"She too saw that the glass had been shattered, their faces obscured behind a web of jagged shards."

I love this wonerfully rythmic line, Maureen.

Edward C. Patterson


----------



## Thumper

It's been a while since I posted a snippet...This one is from my WIP, _The King and Queen of Perfect Normal_ (and hence, subject to change prior to publication...

Terry had let go of my shirt, but she was still leaning against me, so I put my arms around her. "Blame this one. She woke me up in the middle of the night with these wanton ideas in her head."
She tried to shove me back but I had too good of a hold on her. "Chip, you're horrible."
"I'm guessing that's not what you said to him in the middle of the night," Kris teased.
"No, but I may have a whole lot to say to him later."
"Oh, she's all flustered now, but I guarantee what she has to say will be x-"
She pointed a warning finger at me. "Watch it, buddy."
I was grinning stupidly and about to say something that probably would have really made her mad, but Kris steered her towards the door and they walked out, presuming, I suppose, that we would follow.
"Blame it on the valium," Doug chuckled.
"She's not really mad. I think. She's not really mad, right?"
"Definitely the valium."
"I've told you how bendy she is."
"Yes, but not right in front of her. And not in front of Kris."
"But she is bendy."
"And insatiable. I got that memo a while back, Chip. Focus. We are taking our wives out to lunch, and we will not discuss how bendy they may or may not be, nor will we talk about what they talk about in the middle of the night. Let's not embarrass them."
"Well, you know they talk about us."
"As well they should. We're gods in bed, and deserve the praise."


----------



## vwkitten

A snippet from Painting the Roses Red --

    "What is she so upset at me about anyway?”
    “Oh, I don’t know boss,” sarcasm dripped from Marcus’s normally good nature.  “She’s been dumped in the middle of nowhere with no idea who she is and a big gaping hole in her mind.  She’s a little testy.  I can’t imagine why.”
    “A little testy?” Jordan gaped at Marcus.  “She’s totally out of control.”
    “I wouldn’t go that far, boss,” Marcus shrugged.  “She’s not on some rampaging crime spree.  She’s following the trail exactly as she should and she’s contained most of her tantrums in tight shields.”
    “Except with me,” Jordan pointed out.  “She slammed me through an electrified wall of steel.”
    “Well, yeah,” Marcus agreed with a lazy smile.  “Except for that.”


----------



## sierra09

There were times when I wanted to slap Jordan so I understood Tiara's frustration with him at times. Great snippet.

One more day for me...I hate waiting.


----------



## Brenda Carroll

mamiller said:


> Time for a WIDOW'S TALE snip snip...
> 
> The room was frigid, the warmth of the fire upstairs long forgotten. Brett was conscious of Serena's fingers entwined with his as she guided them past the bank of windows into a short hall flanked by blackened chambers.
> 
> Flashlight held aloft, Brett slipped ahead of Serena into the den. Erratic sweeps of the light dissected the darkness. In its scope, the flare encompassed bookshelves with threadlike cobwebs linked to the recessed ceiling. He swept the light over a wooden desk adorned with a blotter, brass lamp, and photo of Serena and Alan. Brett scooped up the framed picture and heard Serena's startled gasp behind him. She too saw that the glass had been shattered, their faces obscured behind a web of jagged shards.
> 
> "Any strong breezes in here?" Brett inquired cynically.


This was a particularly well-written scene, Miss Miller. I was actually afeared something was about to happen to them. I really have a morbid curiosity about closed off rooms and such. Spooky!


----------



## vwkitten

sierra09 said:


> There were times when I wanted to slap Jordan so I understood Tiara's frustration with him at times. Great snippet.
> 
> One more day for me...I hate waiting.


ROFL =)


----------



## Carolyn Kephart

Many a nice new snippet here, to which I'll add one of my own, from _Wysard_. Ryel visits Almancar's far-famed pleasure quarter, the Diamond Heaven:

*Often in time to come the wysard would remember the Temple of Atlan, and with each remembrance find his Rismaian upbringing and his Markulit training severely tested. He had grown up in a hard land, among a stern people distrustful of luxury. The vacillations of the flesh he had studied dutifully and with as much detachment as he could summon during his study of the Art, and had wondered at their power over mankind. But Atlan's worship made him fully understand the essential sanctity of pleasure, and he was awed and humbled by the depth of that comprehension. Every sense that might bring delight to the spirit was exalted, from the silken scented cushions whereon the worshippers reclined at their ease, to the music of ravishing sweetness, and wine so heady that a single taste brought euphoria, passed hand to lingering hand in cups of gold. In dancers of the rarest beauty, whose bodies slid and twined and enlaced in ardent exaltation of the flesh, seconding the ever-accelerating music with rhythmic clicks of gems. Ryel felt his eyes dazzle, his mouth dry. He glanced over at Priamnor, and wondered how the Sovran's masked gaze could be so clear and searching, studying the dance with complete dispassion.

The music died, the dancers dispersed, the rites ended. Ryel released the breath he'd been holding and sank back on his cushions, his wits unsteady, his blood in riot.

"Most edifying. Most awe-inspiring," came the Sovran's voice, controlled and amused, at his side. "Can you walk?"

"Not very well, probably," Ryel muttered.*

CK


----------



## RJ Keller

From Waiting For Spring, chapter 29:

--------------------------------------------------

"Don't worry, Tess, I'll pay you back. I can -"

"Rachel, I don't give a


Spoiler



fuck


 about the money!"

I had, honestly, no idea how much the ring was worth. How much Jason had paid for it or what kind of money it might bring now. As far as engagement rings go it was probably a bargain. But it didn't matter. I didn't care. Not then and especially not now, because it wasn't the money. It hadn't been for Jason, either. He would have paid whatever it cost to get me any ring in the world he thought I'd like.

It's why I couldn't wear it anymore, why it had been sitting in my jewelry box for over a year. Because it was the ring that meant _I Love You More Than Anything_. But I had saved it anyway because there was always Someday. When the hurt and sadness were gone for real and it might just be a beautiful ring.

Right now - right now - someone else was wearing my ring. It had probably been a Christmas present. And that Someone would never know the story behind it. The story about a man who had loved a woman so much that he thought she was too beautiful to wear just a diamond. So he searched for a stone that was as colorful and lovely as he thought she was. Then he took her on a summer picnic in a field of wildflowers and gave her that ring. And when he asked her to marry him it sounded like this:

"There was never any color in my world, Tess. Not until I fell in love with you."

And they made love in the wildflowers, in a fragrant breeze of pastel petals. They loved each other for a very long time and they were very happy. Until the love went away. But even after the love was gone she still had the ring. A whisper of summer. Because that's what Jason was. Summer. Just like Brian was Fire.

How many hits had it bought her? A day's worth? Maybe? She'd traded my ring for a day of haze and now it was gone. The ring and her drugs, too. And she'd need more. Once the haze wore off and the ground returned, along with the shaking and puking and chills and diarrhea. She'd stolen my ring and it wasn't enough. It would never be enough.


----------



## sierra09

Well, this snippet is actually from my WIP, the second novel in the Celtic Evil series. There won't be too many of these until the silly thing stops changing but this section is locked down....finally.  

            Ian was engrossed in looking at a leaf that seemed unusually withered for this time of year and for the kind of tree it was from when the hair on his neck began tickling and the pain started building in his head.
“Toby, don’t go too far into the woods alone.” He called to his classmate when the first scream came from elsewhere in the dark woods. 
Whirling, Ian’s first look told him that the other boy was not anywhere that he could see. Reacting on instinct and not considering anything else, he ran into the woods where the screams were now getting louder.
“Not your brightest move probably.” Ian was telling himself and could just picture his brother Mac’s reaction to his impulsive move.
Concentrating on finding his friend, Ian didn’t feel anything else until he cleared a heavy spot of foliage and found Toby Armstrong….or what was left of him.
“Oh, bloody ***.” The boy breathed, wanting to turn away from what he found but couldn’t.
The red-haired Dublin native had wandered further into the woods to locate the other items on the Professor’s list when he found something else. 
Now, his eyes were staring wide open in terror from what he saw in his last moments, as his body seemed to have been torn into multiple pieces by the snarling and frothing beasts that were still gnawing on bits of him.
Ian had seen creatures like this once before, several months before at his family estate in Fitzgaren. Struggling to recall what Kerry had called them, the boy soon realized the name wasn’t as important as surviving this.
One beast looked up from the leg it was chewing on as if sensing its new prey, red eyes locking on Ian.
“No, I don’t think so, puppy.” Ian’s fingers glowed as he began to channel his powers when the sudden pain doubled and took his breath. “What the bloody…” gasping when it become apparent his powers weren’t coming on and that was the first time in his memory that he actually knew fear.
A fear that doubled as the beast prepared itself to lunge.
“You are youngest of the Five, yet you have powers that have yet to be tested. What are you without your brothers, Ian?” a voice he knew spoke from behind him but before he could turn a sharp blow like an ice-cold hand went through his head. “It is a pity that the fate that was originally destined for you had to be changed so late. Now, not only will your powers be tested but the loyalty of your entire family.” 
Ian fought the pain and building fear as a gentle touch to his face turned to agony as he spiraled into an abyss of darkness with only a fleeting thought of betrayal even as the demon dog bared its bloody fangs and lunged for the helpless boy.


----------



## harfner

From DREAMER:

Kendi sighed heavily and headed for Mr. M's stall.
Thick rugs covered the floor, and people lounged provocatively on comfortable-looking furniture. Several were talking to customers. Sweet incense perfumed the air. The proprietor bore down on Kendi the moment politeness allowed, computer pad in hand.
"Something I can help you find?" the man asked. He was older, and as round as Mother Ara, though she had more hair.
Kendi drew himself up. "I represent an . . . interested person. We're looking to acquire a few things on a permanent basis."
The man hemmed and hawed until Kendi dropped more kesh and mentioned the other places he'd patronized. "Check with them and they'll tell you I'm a good customer."
The man tapped some keys on his pad and spoke to it in a low voice. Kendi let his gaze wander around the booth, feigning boredom despite a dry mouth and sweaty palms.
_"Do I hear fifteen? Fifteen for this fine--fifteen, thank you, sir. Do I hear twenty? I have fifteen, will someone give me twenty?"_
"I'd be glad to show you what we have, sir," Mr. M said, breaking into Kendi's memory. "This way, please."
Kendi followed Mr. M through an opening in the back of the booth and into the tall, thin house behind. The round little man presented his thumb for verification, opened a heavy door, and descended a flight of stairs. Dampness mingled with faint murmurs from below. Kendi's stomach churned. The urge to run welled up, but he bit the inside of his cheek and went down the steps.
It was like descending into the past. Mr. M's words barely registered as he showed Kendi a long row of people. Each person wore a thick metal bracelet on wrist and ankle. On the concrete wall behind them glowed a series of disks. They were sensors that tracked the movements of the shackles. If any slave moved beyond a prescribed area, the shackle transmitted first a warning tingle, then a wrenching shock unless the slave immediately returned.
The youngest slave in the basement was a girl of nine, the oldest a man of seventy. Kendi passed a teenage boy who looked up at him with frightened eyes, and memories rushed at him. He was twelve again, fettered near a damp stone wall near his mother. A procession of people probed and pushed at him with rough hands. Anger mixed with hurt, frustration, and fear, and all of it turned to terror his father and sister were lead away. His brother was already gone.
Kendi rubbed his wrists and firmed his jaw. He would find them-all of them. If he had to check every slave in the universe, he would do it.

--Steven Harper Piziks


----------



## mamiller

Very good snippet, Steven.


----------



## Lynn McNamee

Is it okay to put a snippet of a book in progress, even if I don't have anything published, yet?

Or, is this just for advertising published works?


----------



## Edward C. Patterson

Lynn, 

Be our guest. I publish snippets of works in progress all the time. This thread is less for advertising ur works, but a place to strut our styles, a cross section of stuff you don't get in sampling. Go ahead. This is for all Kindleboarders.

Ed Patterson


----------



## Lynn McNamee

Just a work in progress. Only 1/2 done, so I don't even have a title, yet.

----------------------------
He remembered his first artistic kill vividly; no art had come from it, just the idea of the art. He had allowed himself to be picked up in a bar by a petite blonde woman who brought him home to her place. 
When they got into her bedroom and started to undress, she laughed at him just like all the others. Even though the laughter was expected, he still felt that same rush of anger. He stepped around the end of the bed to show her exactly why making him an object of ridicule was not a good idea. 


Spoiler



Seeing movement from the corner of his left eye, he froze for a moment and so did the blonde. Then, the woman, smirk still affixed on her lips, moved toward the kid. He intercepted her, threw her on the floor, and started pounding on her face. He was yelling at her the whole time asking why she had brought him there when she had a kid. At some point, he realized the woman was no longer breathing. 
He looked over at the little girl whimpering in the corner. She looked to be around five or six years old. He asked her if she wanted to be with her mommy and she nodded her head with tears streaming down her face. He went over to her and, ignoring her cringing from him, gently lifted her trembling body up off the floor. He walked toward the body on the floor and just as he was setting the child down, snapped her neck. She fell across her slutty mother's body, and he gazed down upon the tableau.


 It was a true work of art. He wished he had a camera or some way to immortalize it. Instead, he had to settle for memorizing the scene for later. That's when he knew he had found his calling. His art was his life, and he gave all of his life to it.

edit: spoiler block added. . .scene is graphic violence. . .


----------



## Preston DuBose

From Buried Tales of Pinebox, Texas, the short story _The One That Got Away_

***

Clay gave up threading the line through the lure and swiveled his chair to face
the foam cooler in the front of the boat. The ice water sloshed loudly as he groped
for a bottle. Six empties already rolled around the bottom of my near-antique aluminum
bass boat. You could tell which bottles were Clay's because he liked to peel off
the labels, but my two with the big breasted Brazen Hussy girl were still intact.

I was thinking about her inviting smile and eyes full of promise when Clay
jumped up and sent the boat wildly rocking. "Hey, what's that?" he used my beer
bottle to point out to our left, "Is that a body in the water?"


----------



## [email protected]

http://www.amazon.com/IRRETRIEVABLY-BROKEN-Irma-Fritz/dp/144045230X/
My snippet is from my the "Classmates Reunion" chapter of my novel, Irretrievably Broken:
When Nora stepped out of the shimmering heat of the parking lot and into the restaurant, she literally entered a red zone. She knew no other way to describe the feeling of being in a room where walls and ceilings, tables and booths were red. In her red clothes, she not only felt ridiculous, but invisible. Ruing the fact that she'd let Bettina talk her into splurging on this silly outfit, she followed the hostess to Garrity's table.
"You could do me a huge favor and ask her if I could have her autograph." The hostess gave Nora a glass of water, a menu, and a smile.
Nora sipped the ice water and shivered. The air conditioner was going full blast. The vinyl of the bench chilled her thighs and back, and she wished she'd brought a sweater. Her attention was drawn to a group of young people who were seated at a large table near her and carried on an animated conversation. One of them had a giggling fit whenever the others mentioned someone named Kevin. A red-haired model-type at the table next to Nora murmured into a cell phone while fixing her hair in a mirror that lined the wall behind them. She wore a very short skirt and her blouse had no back to it.
Just as Nora wondered if she too should turn to the mirror to fix her perspiration-dampened do, Kaye rushed in. She wore a black summer dress and black sandals on her bare feet. Her hair was cut short, the best haircut Nora had seen since she'd left LA.
"You look fabulous." Nora couldn't stop herself from gushing.
"Hi, Garrity." The waitress in egg-white shorts, egg-yellow blouse, hair adorned with red satin devil's horns, followed on Kaye's heels, "great show this morning. Super intense. I tried to call in, but it's impossible to get through."
Ignoring the waitress, Kaye touched cheeks with Nora. "Hello, you." Laughing, she added, "You blend right in," then sent the girl for a pitcher of devilish lemonade and a plate of deviled eggs. "I want to know all about Nora, the whole nine. Is that how you say it in the Pacific Northwest? Ah, here's Helen. Hello, you," Kaye curved her right index finger at a woman wearing black slacks, a Hawaiian shirt, and a tropical tan. "Catch the show?"
"A reunion," Helen hugged Nora's shoulders. "What a day it's been already," she sighed and let herself fall into a chair.
The waitress brought lemonade and eggs, and could she have Kaye's autograph? Kaye signed her name on a napkin, saying, "Everybody, get your order in before the kitchen gets swamped."
"What about Marsha?"
"I'll order for her."
"Anything vegetarian," decided Helen; "absolutely anything as long as it's quick."
Nora tried to read the small print in the dim light. "What's good?"
The waitress suggested the hot and sour omelet, the house specialty, and beaming at Kaye, she confided, "I'm taking broadcasting at USC."
"Good for you, dearie."
"Do you ever take interns?"
"Never on an empty stomach," laughed Kaye and ordered the Orient Express.
"How about one more autograph?" Nora proffered her napkin.
"Anything for you, dearie."
"Actually, it's for the hostess."
"Can we cut the celebrity talk-show crap long enough to find out what Nora's been up to?" Checking her watch, Helen sighed, "I see my next patient in exactly forty-five minutes."
Nora forgot her frustration over her clothes and her discomfort with the place. Smiling approvingly at Helen, she said, "So, you did become a doctor."
"Dr. Henderson, that's me." Helen took a lint roller from her bag and ran it across her lap. "That Linda. Today she brought all five of her cats and she never brushes any of them."
"Comes with the job," Kaye informed her. "With me it's guys who jack off while they're talking to me on the phone. Pays the bills though, doesn't it?"
Ignoring Kaye, Nora asked Helen if her patients brought their pets to the clinic. After all, it seemed anything was possible in LA.
"Pets are my patients," laughed Helen.
"Helen's a vet."
"That's . . . great, but I don't remember you being much of an animal lover." As a housemate, Helen had claimed allergies when Nora had wanted to adopt an abandoned kitty.
"What can I say? I got the kids, the house, and the clinic."
"I'm sorry, Helen, I didn't know. Max and I just divorced and it's been hell. But it must be worse with kids &#8230; and for them to grow up without a dad."
"They never had a dad when we were married. Now they're in college and don't care. Besides, not much has really changed, except that I own everything and he works for me."
"Well, congratulations. I think being a vet is very commendable." Nora had visions of Darrowby in the Yorkshire Dales, vets with big hearts and non-stop personalities from All Creatures Great and Small.
"He's pretty good when he's sober. I myself never had time to get certified with putting him through veterinary college and raising the kids, but I picked up a few tricks along the way."
"You're not . . .?"
"Who cares, dearie," Kaye interrupted. "She makes money hand over fist."


----------



## Meredith Sinclair

RedAdept said:


> Just a work in progress. Only 1/2 done, so I don't even have a title, yet.
> 
> ----------------------------


This is truly the scariest piece of work I have ever read... REAALY wish HAD not read it at all... much less, before bedtime...


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## Edward C. Patterson

I guess that means that it is ery effective.

Edward C. Patterson


----------



## Lynn McNamee

Meredith Sinclair said:


> This is truly the scariest piece of work I have ever read... REAALY wish HAD not read it at all... much less, before bedtime...


I'm sorry. 

Was that too, um, 'over the top', for the forum? Obviously, my work in progress is about a serial killer, so the 'best' scenes are kind of graphic.

I can delete it if I have broken some rule?


----------



## RJ Keller

Red, Maybe a warning about content and/or use of the black spoiler bars would do the trick.

But I have to say, I thought it was incredibly well-written. Very chilling. I can't wait to read it in its entirety.


----------



## Brenda Carroll

rjkeller said:


> Red, Maybe a warning about content and/or use of the black spoiler bars would do the trick.
> 
> But I have to say, I thought it was incredibly well-written. Very chilling. I can't wait to read it in its entirety.


I know there are a lot of books out there about serial killers and I have known some people that read about them, but I'm only going to say this: Miss Adept, you have great talent and are obviously capable of wielding a keyboard extremely well as Miss Keller pointed out, very well written, but... I like a good scrape, a bawdy fray, a tempestuous temper tantrum, but I'd rather have the protagonists have some sort of fighting chance at winning. Serial killers are not my cup of tea, is what I'm trying to say, but of course, your writing is your writing and this board is for writers to display your wares. Don't worry about it. Maybe a warning would have been good. When I first posted here with a snippet, I was afraid I might put something unacceptable, but as we all know


Spoiler



blood, sex and violence


 not only grabs the attention, it sells.


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## Lynn McNamee

Our wonderful moderator has kindly 'blacked out' some of my snippet for the faint of heart to skip. 

Ms. Meredith: If you could take out the part of my snippet that you quoted, that would be most helpful so that the 'blacking' will be at its most effective.

I appreciate the kind comments on my writing style. I have not finished this novel simply because I am my own worst critic. As 'harsh' as some think my reviews are, multiply that by 10 and you will come close to my opinion of my own writing. 

The whole book is not as dark as the snippet makes it out to be. It's actually about a guy with a secret who meets a woman, a single mom with an autistic son, in an online game. However, someone else in the game has a secret, too, along with a more deadly interest in the woman.


----------



## Brenda Carroll

RedAdept said:


> Our wonderful moderator has kindly 'blacked out' some of my snippet for the faint of heart to skip.
> The whole book is not as dark as the snippet makes it out to be. It's actually about a guy with a secret who meets a woman, a single mom with an autistic son, in an online game. However, someone else in the game has a secret, too, along with a more deadly interest in the woman.


Hey, Miss Adept, I know what you mean. I'm terribly critical of my own stuff, too and I wonder all the time if I'm saying too much or too little. I understand what you're saying and I did wonder if perhaps this was not just maybe the worst character in the book and by telling this little part, you were showing just how bad he really is, building the reader's animosity for him. Taking things out of context is what causes a great many troubles. Your explanation clears this up and makes me feel all warm and cuddly cuz I was right!!! Yay me!! Yay me!! LOL. Yours, Brendan


----------



## Edward C. Patterson

RedAdept:

Generally, I use the SP black out function for anything that would be rated R or anything that sells my book outside the Book Bazaar (but still pertains to the conversation) and my book titles if they would hijack another person book thread (I have enough of my own). In this thread, which I established, we haven't general ly had complaints of problems about content. I would have just put a label in bold about your snippet and then let it fy. But the moderator's choice is what counts. I've seen some posted black out things that I would let a ten year old read, but then again I'm a old potty mouthed intellectual who is a veteran of gay parties and military service, one who finds that he


Spoiler



looks awful in a bathing suit and so dispenses with one.


 I blacked out that portion so as not to offend Stephen King. 

Edward C. Patterson


----------



## Brenda Carroll

This little snippet is from the _Head of the Crow_, fourth book in _the Red Cross of Gold _ Series. Mark and two of his Brothers of the Order have just had an interesting encounter with one of Mark's neighbors who seems to have a personal problem with the Knight of Death:

"How do you know they won't call the authorities?" he asked, pressing the point. "Perhaps you should look into to buying him out. Head the problem off, as it were. How is that his property seems to be embedded in yours? I have eliminated that problem in Naples. Perhaps you should speak to Montague about it. He can work wonders with real estate."

"They won't be a problem." Mark looked up at him and frowned.

"How can you be so sure, Brother?" Champlain joined the Italian.

"I knew his mother before he was born. His father was killed in the second great war in France. The house and the property already belong to me. He and his wife live here at my pleasure," Mark's tone took on a quality that bespoke a threat as he eyed the Italian steadily in the mirror as if daring him to delve further into things not his business.

Lucio's eyes lit up and he looked as if he would ask another question.

"Don't start," Mark told him in a low voice. "It's like you always like to say, Brother. It is God's will."

"Of course, Brother," Lucio smiled and squirmed in the seat. "On, Tonto!" he goosed the gas pedal and prodded Louis in the ribs. "Big Chief of


Spoiler



Dumbfuck Tribe


 must make spell against evil spirits. Something evil this way comes. When are you people going to start driving on the right side of the road, Brother?"


----------



## Meredith Sinclair

RedAdept said:


> Our wonderful moderator has kindly 'blacked out' some of my snippet for the faint of heart to skip.
> Ms. Meredith: If you could take out the part of my snippet that you quoted, that would be most helpful so that the 'blacking' will be at its most effective.


Done


----------



## Carol Hanrahan

Here's another snippet from Baling:

  The figure in the doorway held up an odd looking torch.  She must not have a flashlight with her.  In that case, she would never find them way up there.  Maybe they were safe after all.  The next moments were unreal.  With a grunt, the torch was lobbed up into the air, like a football, a long Hail-Mary, thrown into the end zone.  It fell into the middle of the chapel, drowned from sight by the tractors all around it.  For an instant, there was complete darkness.  The following explosion knocked Nick and John into the wall behind them.  A sharp pain punched into his shoulder, and John slumped into his side.  He shook his head to clear it.  He tried to get up, but John held him down. As he struggled, the flames below grew.  Fantastic shadows leaped out, as the tractors were illuminated, their colors dancing in the wild light.  Orange, and greens and blues.  Smoke began blurring his view of the tractors and his senses returned to him.
  “We have to get out of here,” he said.  “Now.”  He pushed at his brother.  

Carol


----------



## Elmore Hammes

A snippet from The Twenty Dollar Bill. This occurs around the mid-point in the novel, when the $20 has made its way to Mexico.

*Anna-Maria*

I say my morning Rosary. My knees hurt from kneeling so long on the wooden kneelers. My cousin Juanita told me once that the churches in the big cities have soft padding atop the kneelers. It is strange to think of making prayer easier, of giving comfort to our bodies when it is about prostrating ourselves before God. It is God who gives comfort to our souls, we should not be concerned with the softness of where we kneel.
It is not my affair. I say a quick prayer for forgiveness for letting my mind wander while still in the church. I glance at the alms box, thinking about the twenty dollar bill that arrived yesterday, carefully hidden within three sheets of paper covered with my daughter Rosita's beautiful handwriting. No, I will know what it is for, I do not hear God calling for the money yet. I dip my fingers into the font as I leave, letting the holy water soak in where I tap my forehead, stomach and either side of my chest. The wind is still as I walk along the dirt streets. Good, the dust will not be in my eyes today.
I hear a slow rumble behind me and I turn and see the Americans are early today. There are two vans full of them, another mission trip that is building new houses in the colonia. The vans they drive are worth more than all the houses they will build this week combined. But it is still good that they are helping.


----------



## vwkitten

Oh goodie! On the day of the release of Never Smile at a Crocodile (PSI Consulting Mystery), it's time for another snippet! I've got to admit that some of this stuff I do just for me. The description of Vegas - I just had to do it. The poetry part - inspired by Ed.

The car rounded a curve in the landscape and the city of Las Vegas slid into view like a stripper slowly peeling down a pair of tight shorts revealing sparkling sequin-studded underwear. Dusk and the storm darkened the sky moodily, but the Las Vegas lights defied the gloom with irreverent winking eyes of neon glory. At that moment, it was Damian's turn to goggle.

"Welcome to Vegas, baby," Rianna teased him, catching his look of amazement in one of her furtive glances.

"Out of the desert rises a city of impossible proportions, glittering with life," he murmured.

"That almost sounds ominous. Is it a prophecy or something?" Rianna was reminded how little she knew of the man sitting next to her.

"How could it be a prophecy?" Damian was distracted, craning his neck to take in the whole vista. "I did not predict anything."

"Poetry then," Rianna felt stupid.

"I take it you do not have many poets in this place," Damian grinned at her.

"Poets are generally mocked," she admitted.

"No matter to me," he shrugged. "Poetry is the base of magic. I suppose magic is also mocked?"

"To hear most people talk, magic doesn't exist," Rianna rolled her eyes.

Damian chuckled. "It would seem that most people are sincerely stupid here."


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## mamiller

vwkitten said:


> The car rounded a curve in the landscape and the city of Las Vegas slid into view like a stripper slowly peeling down a pair of tight shorts revealing sparkling sequin-studded underwear.


Great!


----------



## Edward C. Patterson

Well here's a snippet from my Bestseller (the little book that could) - No Irish Need Apply

*The entrance to Mrs. Larimer's house was a poke in the wall. The door to the upstairs apartment was around the side and even pokier. Louis fumbled for his key. He had intentions now. He longed for a glass of milk and hoped there was some. He also fancied a shower and perhaps a wet


Spoiler



wank


 to clarify his thoughts, but as he poked the key in the door, the door stirred. Open? He pushed it and mounted the stairs that were redolent of refinery perfume. He could hear low sobbing.

"Ma?" he called. The sobbing abated. Sniff. Hitched breathing. The shuffle of composure.

Louise Lonnegan sobbing at her kitchen table was a common enough sound. Louis wished his mother would collect her emotions and bury them in some urn and dust it on important occasions like other widows, but she had hooked her star to Laren Lonnegan. She gave him a good home, meals and a son. He gave her intrigue, a small allowance and a trail of bar bimbos to feed her curiosity. Louis knew his father was nothing near the saint his mother created now. When he died, and it was unexpected - a stunning surprise, Louis was sad. Who wouldn't be? But the old man was never warm. He looked for a whole passel of children, like any good Irish Catholic. Louise was a one-babby wife - just barely surviving the first experience. And what did she give the Waterfordman? A soft boy, who played with the girls when he was six; who was happy with reading and never into sports. A baseball could have been a


Spoiler



cow turd


 for all Louis cared. Louis was not the rascal monkey to run in his father's shadow. No, Laren wasn't warm to the child, but he wasn't mean either. He just read Louis as a mystery. Laren wished he had married Margaret Murphy instead, who squeezed out a tribe of ten babbies. He could have had the pick of the litter among those sons; baseball games and sly pints of ale between


Spoiler



ballsy


 men - father and replica sons. *

Edward Cliffe Patterson


----------



## sierra09

Here's a short snippet from Celtic Evil: A Fitzgerald Brother Novel: Roarke (The Fitzgerald Brothers)

She couldn't see her friend, but felt his thoughts weakly and his emotions as she fought against the words to say what she needed to. "I&#8230;I love you."
"I know that, a gra." Roarke sighed, adding in a whisper he hoped she could hear. "I'm sorry."
His hand was a flash as the orb flew up the steps then things seemed to go into slow motion for everything.


Spoiler



"Shit!"


 Mac snapped, not believing this was happening even as he saw Ryan smile grimly.
"No!" Sebastian, in a panic, yanked the girl to one side more to shield him when a whistle sounded from above them.
Ryan tossed what he had pulled from his jacket out in a careless toss down to his brother even as the ball of light exploded in front of Sebastian, blinding him. "One shot, brat and don't miss." He called in what he hoped was a calm voice despite the hammering in his chest.
The item tossed landed perfectly in Roarke's hand to which he quickly aimed and cocked the 9mm Walther handgun. "Sebastian!" he snapped, eyes going black with both temper and power. "Steel and magic routed you once when my father stabbed you with the pocketknife he had, tiny magic then but a 9mm parabellum round cast in magic is a hell of a lot more effective these days." 
The gun aimed and fired once, striking Jessica once in the upper chest and passing through to hit the wizard who, once struck, screamed as if struck by acid and released his grip on Jessica to grab his chest and face.


----------



## Edward C. Patterson

Ah, someone had to do some gun research. I only had to do that once for


Spoiler



Turning Idolater


. I admire authors who know weapon logistics and employ it seemlessly.

Edward C. Patterson


----------



## sierra09

I come from an action background originally in my writing so I have more books on weapons and military stuff than I think I do anything else. I learned early on that you certainly can't shoot a terrorist if you didn't know the difference between a Walther handgun and an AK-47.


----------



## Edward C. Patterson

In my case (only knowing the weapons I fired when I was in the Army), I needed to find a handgun that would rarely kill and make it a red herring point in my whodunnit. Making it as natural as I can make a scene set in a Chinese Village or one in a Gay Bar was not an easy task. However, given the results, I believe I was successful. However, I have learned, you can't have an escape scene in a fast motorboat if you've never been in one.   Thus I would make a crappy crime writer. It's a good thing my whodunnit mystery is about everything but who-done-it. In my opus magnus, the protagonist announces more than once that "I hate guns," which relieves me of the possibility of ever having to describe one, and when they turn up in the work, they are described through the protagonist's eyes - that they have barrels and triggers and shoot bullets - bang bang.  

Edward C. Patterson


----------



## sierra09

That's certainly one way to do it.


----------



## J.E.Johnson

Hello fellow authors, here is a snippet from my fantasy novel, *The Legend of Oescienne - The Finding*:

A sudden blast of strong wind caused by the dragon's passing overhead made the creature cower once again. This was no place to stand and think about what it had just witnessed, so it quickly ducked behind a large eucalyptus tree and drifted like a semi-solid smoke back into the heart of the trees, muttering to itself the entire way.
As Jaax soared over the Wreing Florenn in the last light of day, his long shadow skittering across the tops of the dark trees, the creature crept over the forest floor with, for the first time in many, many years a glimmer of anticipation. _I don't know what that dragon was doing with an infant, but I intend to find out. And why would an infant's spirit call so strongly to me?_ it wondered. _I may not know now, but I have all the time in Ethöes to find out._ 
With a flicker of determined patience, the creature disappeared into the depths of the woods to do what it did best, to wait.

-Jenna Elizabeth Johnson www.oescienne.com


----------



## Christopher Meeks

As he spoke, the words "one fine morning" came to me. One fine morning, what? It occurred to me that at our best moments, on our fine mornings, our future is golden. "Soon" we will buy the right IPO and get rich on stock. "Soon" our spouse will recognize how brilliant we are. "Soon" our lives would make sense. Year-by-year, though, we have less future, and the current always is against us. If we can't be golden or can't be recognized or can't find sense this year, when? Or how? I wish I knew. Bert looked unusually content, as if he knew but couldn't explain. Maybe, I surmised, only when you are dying do you know what is truly valuable. - from the title story "The Middle-Aged Man and the Sea," page 29

The Middle-Aged Man and the Sea


----------



## Carolyn Kephart

Heavens, how quickly a week wings by. Here's a snippet from Wysard, where Ryel finds Srin:

***​
He had wandered into a hollow set in Kalima's side, into a wondrous place. A fair large green field stretched between two embracing arms of rock, and in the midst of this field was set a lake little more than a pond. In the midst of the lake lay a grassy flowery island perhaps fifty feet across, and in the midst of the island rose a single tree that seemed to Ryel a great slim-wristed hand holding aloft a bubble of cinnabar silk. The deliberate fantasy of the place made Ryel smile, and he urged Jinn into the glassy water, that he might cross to the island. But scarcely had Jinn ventured a hoof than the water erupted as if a thousand snakes were fighting to the death therein, boiling hot as molten iron. The horse reared back, shrilling terror, and Ryel hurtled through a vivid swirl of blue and green and cinnabar before crashing into red darkness.

Steel, sharp and cold against his throat, choked him into consciousness. Squinting upward, the wysard found himself straddled by a tall broad-shouldered figure obscure against the sun, clad in the way of the Kugglaitana Steppes. One of its hands held his sword, the other his horse.

"Talk, you prying


Spoiler



whoreson,


" boomed his captor's voice. "And say it in three words, or die squealing."

Ryel groaned. "Srin Yan Tai."

***​
CK


----------



## LCEvans

Here's an excerpt from my novel, Talented Horsewoman (not yet on Kindle, just in paperback):

Footsteps tapped across the concrete and the man stopped in the office doorway. Close enough now for me to see that he had a squarish, Brad Pitt jawline. His eyes were periwinkle blue and his hair was dark chestnut with reddish highlights. He was medium height with a muscular, “I-work-out,” kind of build. 
Confusion flickered across his face when he glanced up and saw me. I guessed Frazier hadn’t told him there was someone in the stable.  
I jumped to my feet and held out my hand. “Hi, I’m Leigh McRae.” I felt as though I should add something, but didn’t think “talented horsewoman” or “equine enthusiast” would be quite the thing.
“Jared Beaumont.” He shook my hand. He had a solid grip, though his hand was damp. Understandable in the heat. “Mind if I wait here with you? The detectives want to ask me some questions.”
He must be the Jared on the calendar, the appointment Rita would never keep. “No problem. But I guess you can’t tell them much more than I can. Still, they’re cops, they’ve got a job to do and they like to ask questions.”


----------



## Brenda Carroll

Here's a little blurb from _The Quinta Essentia_, incidentally, the fifth book in the Red  Cross of Gold series:

The fight was finally over only when the Ritter showed up, pushing past Michele. The Apocalyptic Knight immediately intervened his own body between the fighters, facing Dambretti, who was still trying to throw haphazard punches at Louis.

"What goes here?" he asked Champlain as he dodged Lucio's fist.

"He attacked Sister Meredith," Champlain answered him almost calmly. It appeared that he thought the Knight deserved a beating and he was simply giving him one. "I intervened on her behalf."

Suddenly taking Lucio by both arms, von Hetz almost magickly held him in place. The Knight swayed in his grasp. "Is that true?" von Hetz asked him.

Lucio said nothing.

"What is the matter with you?" von Hetz asked and shifted his gaze to Mark Andrew accusingly. "First you," he addressed Mark. "And now you?!" he turned back to Lucio. "I will know what is going on here!"

"No, wait!" Merry rushed down the steps and took hold of the Ritter's arm. She did not want him to 'see' what Lucio had accused her and Simon and even the Ritter of doing. Nor did she want anyone to know the terrible words that he had spoken to her. "He wanted to know about&#8230;" She looked back at Mark and then dragged the Ritter aside. He let go of Lucio and he crumpled onto the grass, his adrenaline abandoning him.

"Brother," she said in a low voice. "Lucio wants to know about Simon and what happened when you sent me into the dungeon with him."


----------



## Carol Hanrahan

Another week whooshed by!  I'll be gone for a couple of weeks, so this is all from Baling till September!  

  “What happened?  Where am I?” he asked.
  “The chapel – it’s on fire.  We have to get out.  Can you stand up?”  Nick tried to pull him to his feet.
  John coughed and made an effort to get up.  He was moving in slow motion, the flames getting closer and hotter.  The cracks in the floorboards showed the flames had already reached directly below the stairs.  Nick tugged at John.  
  “Follow me.”  Back at the rose window, he looked out.
Where was Lainey?  The ladder stood where she had left it, far below them.  He took a gulp of fresh air before turning back.  John hadn’t moved.  They would have to jump.  Two floors.  What would a broken leg feel like?  Better than the alternative.  Maybe it would just be a broken leg, not legs and arms and ribs and necks.
  He pushed out another piece of the leaded glass and it fell far below, smashing into tiny pieces.  He punched out another piece of the window, and in the enlarged opening he saw Mr. Wagner driving his tractor around the corner of the chapel.  Lainey ran behind him, jumping up and down, her arms waving about.  

Hope you enjoyed it!

Carol


----------



## mamiller

It has been 12 days since my last snippet (sounds like a confession...) 

From  WIDOW'S TALE................

    Serena woke violently.
    
    Pitched against a barrel, she strove for equilibrium. Her hands flew to seek hold of something stable, though the drum by her side rolled as unsteadily as she. Fighting pain, she tried to open her eyes and blinked when a stream of saltwater poured into them. 

    Drenched in seawater, resting on all fours, Serena cried out and thrust open her gaze. Waves crashed into her, and were it not for the rope fashioned securely about her waist, she would have lurched off the deck into the black sea. 

    Identifying her situation as incomprehensive and grave, Serena reacted by gripping the rope and yanking it till she could locate its origin. A lantern swung inside the pilot house. It framed a murky silhouette hunched over the controls, fighting for balance. Around her, the boat groaned against undue treatment, each thrust of the hull into the blockade of waves, potentially its last.


----------



## Meredith Sinclair

Brendan Carroll said:


> Here's a little blurb from _The Quinta Essentia_, incidentally, the fifth book in the Red  Cross of Gold series:
> The fight was finally over only when the Ritter showed up, pushing past Michele. The Apocalyptic Knight immediately intervened his own body between the fighters, facing Dambretti, who was still trying to throw haphazard punches at Louis.
> "What goes here?" he asked Champlain as he dodged Lucio's fist.
> "He attacked Sister Meredith," Champlain answered him almost calmly. It appeared that he thought the Knight deserved a beating and he was simply giving him one. "I intervened on her behalf."
> Suddenly taking Lucio by both arms, von Hetz almost magickly held him in place. The Knight swayed in his grasp. "Is that true?" von Hetz asked him.
> Lucio said nothing.
> "What is the matter with you?" von Hetz asked and shifted his gaze to Mark Andrew accusingly. "First you," he addressed Mark. "And now you?!" he turned back to Lucio. "I will know what is going on here!"
> "No, wait!" Merry rushed down the steps and took hold of the Ritter's arm. She did not want him to 'see' what Lucio had accused her and Simon and even the Ritter of doing. Nor did she want anyone to know the terrible words that he had spoken to her. "He wanted to know about&#8230;" She looked back at Mark and then dragged the Ritter aside. He let go of Lucio and he crumpled onto the grass, his adrenaline abandoning him.
> "Brother," she said in a low voice. "Lucio wants to know about Simon and what happened when you sent me into the dungeon with him."


I LOVE this part! Great snippet Mr. Carroll!


----------



## Meredith Sinclair

mamiller said:


> It has been 12 days since my last snippet (sounds like a confession...)
> 
> From WIDOW'S TALE................
> 
> Serena woke violently.
> 
> Pitched against a barrel, she strove for equilibrium. Her hands flew to seek hold of something stable, though the drum by her side rolled as unsteadily as she. Fighting pain, she tried to open her eyes and blinked when a stream of saltwater poured into them.
> 
> Drenched in seawater, resting on all fours, Serena cried out and thrust open her gaze. Waves crashed into her, and were it not for the rope fashioned securely about her waist, she would have lurched off the deck into the black sea.
> 
> Identifying her situation as incomprehensive and grave, Serena reacted by gripping the rope and yanking it till she could locate its origin. A lantern swung inside the pilot house. It framed a murky silhouette hunched over the controls, fighting for balance. Around her, the boat groaned against undue treatment, each thrust of the hull into the blockade of waves, potentially its last.


Great Snippet Ms. Miller! I could almost taste the salt in the air!


----------



## Kristan Hoffman

Ooo, what I love this thread! There are some great snippets (but it's hard to go back and comment since I'm so far behind - I'll keep up from now on!). Here's one from my episodic fiction series *Twenty-Somewhere*:

###​
Three young women gather at the end of summer to say their goodbyes. Long-limbed Sophie is dressed for a tennis match and has plans to meet X at the courts right after this. She likes to keep busy. MJ sips from her cappuccino, licking foam off her top lip and evaluating the guys in the room. Believe it or not, she's the nerd of the group. Last but not least is Claudia, late as always. She breezes into the café, spewing apologies in advance.

"Lose track of time working on the book?" MJ asks, scooting over to make room at the table.

"Not exactly," Claudia says, taking a seat. Sophie hands her the smoothie they ordered in anticipation of her tardy arrival. "I spent all morning looking at pictures of puppies online! Eli found a great shelter near us, and they just got a new litter."

MJ and Sophie shoot each other knowing looks. Claudia is a writer and has been working on her first novel for a over a year. Now that she's graduated and is moving in with her boyfriend, she'll supposedly have time to polish the manuscript and get it sold and published. But every time they ask how it's going, she's got a new distraction.

MJ changes the subject. "Ten hours till takeoff."

"I still can't believe you're going to ENGLAND." Sophie shakes her head and crosses her legs, drawing the attention of a few males nearby.

###​
Twenty-Somewhere (Episodes 1-4)

Kristan


----------



## Edward C. Patterson

To celebrate Leslie Nicholl's new release Taming Groomzilla, a hilarious romp on planning a same-sex wedding, my snippet shows the more inglorious side of the same-sex marraige issue - a hospital scene in the mid-1990's from Look Away Silence.

"What's Matthew Kieler's room number?"
I took advantage of the shift change, so there was no suspicion from the new receptionist that I had every intention of sneaking upstairs and defy their little maintenance rules.
"423," she said, and then went about her busy work.
_Busy work._ I thanked her, paced some more, and then, when the busy work consumed her attention to her dereliction, I darted into the open elevator, where I paced some more until the bell rang and the door slid open on the fourth floor. The place was like a fortress, the nurse's station looming over the traffic. No busy working nurse here. Instead there was a hulk - a woman who certainly wasn't the dietician, dressed in blue. I caught her attention immediately.
"Yes," she said. "Can I help you?"
She said this before I lost sight of the elevator bank. I regained my dignity and marched to the fore.
"Yes," I said. "I'm here to see Matthew Kieler."
She huffed, and then perused a monitor, muttering _Kieler, Kieler, Kieler_. 
"Room 423, but it's marked immediate family only. Who are you?"
"Martin Powers."
"I mean, what relationship are too Mr. Kieler?"
"I'm his . . . I'm his partner."
"Business partner?"
"No. We . . . live together."
"Sorry. Immediate family only."
Suddenly, my heart sank. The floor shook and I was at sea.
"I am his immediate family."
"I can't see that you are. I suggest you come again when he can see friends and acquaintances. Call first."
I was stunned - stunned and angry. I wanted to cry, but couldn't. I turned back to the elevator, pressed the down button, and then waited. However, when the car came, I couldn't move forward. I spun about and charged at the woman, who now was buffered by two other wardens.
"I told you, sir," she said, firmly. "Immediate family only."
"But I'm his partner," I shouted. "I'm his . . . lover."
This didn't help my case. In fact, it girdled her resolve and probably evoked other rules - unwritten ones from the spleen of clean Christian living.
"I'm sorry, the rules are the rules," she proclaimed, her words like daggers. "Immediate family only."
She stood triumphant.
"Can't you even tell me his condition?" I pleaded.
I felt the tears rising. I trembled and thought perhaps to get on my knees and beg. She wasn't relenting. In fact, she seemed to relish her position as the great divider.
"He's critical," she snapped.
"Critical," I muttered. I was falling. I slouched on the desktop. Perhaps my genuine tears would move her to pity.
"I can't tell you more. Immediate family only. You can discuss it with his doctor, but the doctor won't tell you any more."
"But you don't understand," I moaned.
I was pathetic; a poor creature brought to these portals beseeching a simple kindness only to be treated like a cur. Matt was my love. He was my husband. I had a ring. I vainly displayed the ring before this snarling beast, but I couldn't bring myself to say the words. She would have probably laughed - dance a jig maybe.
"Uncaring bitch," I said. 
"Sir, if you become abusive, I'll have you removed from the premises."
"No, no," I said. "I'm sorry. You must know that Mr. Kieler is my . . . well, we are . . ."
"Sir, that's no concern of mine," she said. She made it to Torquemada at last. "If you are not an immediate family member, you must wait until the family arrives. Perhaps they will tell you . . ."
As if on cue, the elevator doors slid open and Mr. and Mrs. Kieler, with Mary, emerged.
"Martin, Martin," Mrs. Kieler said, embracing him. "How is he?"
"We were caught in traffic," Sam said. "Martin, you look terrible."
"He's not . . ." Mary whimpered.
"I don't know," I said, weeping full force now. I pointed to the keeper of the gate. "She won't tell me anything. She won't let me in to see him. She says I'm not his family. There are rules. I'm not anyone important . . . important according to them. I'm not his . . . She won't let me see him. They don't understand. They don't understand."
Louise Kieler opened her eyes wider than she possibly could, her teeth bared. She gazed at the nurse.
"Oh, she understands perfectly," she said. She marched to the counter.

Edward C. Patterson


----------



## RJ Keller

That is THE argument for gay marriage. [/soapbox] 
Well done. As predicted, I bawled all through 'Look Away Silence.' But that's as it should be.


----------



## Kristan Hoffman

:\ How sad. And what's worse, that still happens today. I was reading an article (can't remember where, sorry) about a woman and her partner, and they had 3 adopted kids. Well, the partner went into the hospital and was dying (something quick and unexpected) and they were all denied permission to see her until it was too late.


----------



## Edward C. Patterson

Oooo. You know RJ, Look Away Silence doesn't have any stars on Amazon and no reviews yet (hint, hint).  

Ed Patterson


----------



## RJ Keller

I shall organize my thoughts and remedy that.


----------



## Edward C. Patterson

That's the best thing that happened to me today, besides Leslie's most excellent release.


Thank you
Ed Patterson


----------



## JimC1946

From chapter 3 of my book: Recollections: A Baby Boomer's Memories of the Fabulous Fifties

_One fireworks product that was very popular with kids were cracker balls. These were little paper balls about a quarter of an inch in diameter filled with a few grains of gunpowder. You threw them against a hard surface and they exploded with a sharp crack and a puff of smoke. They were considered fairly harmless, so most parents would let their kids buy them. One day a kid in my school had just bought a box of them and put them in his back pocket while he went skating. Unfortunately he slipped and fell backward. The whole box of cracker balls went off and blew a big hole in his ass. You had to see it to believe it, and of course the stupid kid went around showing it to everyone after he got out of the emergency room. So no more cracker balls for us, all because of one moron._


----------



## vwkitten

Ah lovely Wednesday is now my day to post a snippet -- from Never Smile at a Crocodile (and ya know - this snippet of the book is something I found hilarious even though I wasn't sure anyone else would appreciate my sense of humor about it - so I want opinions if ya got em)

"What are you two conspiring?" he asked Rianna, her pose against the door bothering him for some reason. "What's going on here?"

"At least now you are asking the correct questions," Damian drew Marcus's attention, much to Rianna's relief.

"And you still aren't answering them," Marcus shot at Damian.

"You haven't even told me your name," Damian smiled. "I have told you mine, but you haven't told me yours. It is rude. I tend to treat rudeness with evasion."

"You know," Marcus took a step closer to Damian and since Damian didn't step back, they were nearly nose to nose, "I don't like your supercilious smile. It reminds me of a crocodile. I also don't like your whole laid back attitude. I've known guys like you; always calm, always smooth. Until one day, like a ticking time bomb, they go off and explode, leaving a mess for everyone else to clean up. So what my instincts say about you is this constant tick-tock of that time bomb."

"You should trust those instincts," Damian smiled without giving an inch. "You could lose a hand trusting a guy like me."


----------



## vwkitten

rjkeller said:


> That is THE argument for gay marriage. [/soapbox]
> Well done. As predicted, I bawled all through 'Look Away Silence.' But that's as it should be.


You know, you can't stop people from being jerks. Rules like that aren't meant to be used that way and the people who do are just being mean-spirited. What irks me is that they use ... hmm... nevermind <edited as politically impolite> ... you get what I mean. Hugs all.


----------



## Tim K. Scott

from Chapter 2, A Treasured Threat

"Sorry I'm late folks," Obee says as he walks up a short plank and steps through the transom door. "I had to stop for gas. Only had six bucks left, they had this," as he lifts up the brown paper bag, "two sixes for five bucks, ain't that great?!" He sits down on a chair opposite them and puts the bags on the deck.
Johnny says, "'bout time, I'm parched." 
Obee reaches into the paper bag and tosses Johnny a can. 
Johnny squints his eyes looking at the label, "What's this?" 
"Two sixes for five bucks! What a deal ah?" Leaning over he unzips the soft bag, pulls out a white laptop computer and sets it on his thighs. 
Johnny pops the top on the can, takes a big gulp and forms a face of disgust as he swallows. "Blaa!" He holds the can up to read the label again, "I think you mixed up the gasoline with the beer!" 
Obee opens the computer and pushes the on button. "Where's the disk boss?" 
"You didn't have to bring that, I've got a computer."
"That dinosaur's just like you old man, not enough memory." 
Johnny gives a low growl and holds up the can threatening to throw it at Obee. Shaking his head he sets the beer can on the deck and rises out of his seat. "I'll get it, right after I find some turpentine to wash my mouth out." Johnny turns and goes below.


----------



## Meredith Sinclair

vwkitten said:


> Ah lovely Wednesday is now my day to post a snippet -- from Never Smile at a Crocodile (and ya know - this snippet of the book is something I found hilarious even though I wasn't sure anyone else would appreciate my sense of humor about it - so I want opinions if ya got em)
> 
> "What are you two conspiring?" he asked Rianna, her pose against the door bothering him for some reason. "What's going on here?"
> 
> "At least now you are asking the correct questions," Damian drew Marcus's attention, much to Rianna's relief.
> 
> "And you still aren't answering them," Marcus shot at Damian.
> 
> "You haven't even told me your name," Damian smiled. "I have told you mine, but you haven't told me yours. It is rude. I tend to treat rudeness with evasion."
> 
> "You know," Marcus took a step closer to Damian and since Damian didn't step back, they were nearly nose to nose, "I don't like your supercilious smile. It reminds me of a crocodile. I also don't like your whole laid back attitude. I've known guys like you; always calm, always smooth. Until one day, like a ticking time bomb, they go off and explode, leaving a mess for everyone else to clean up. So what my instincts say about you is this constant tick-tock of that time bomb."
> 
> "You should trust those instincts," Damian smiled without giving an inch. "You could lose a hand trusting a guy like me."


 OK, Trish gotta get this one NOW! Great Snippet!


----------



## intinst

Meredith Sinclair said:


> OK, Trish gotta get this one NOW! Great Snippet!


You won't be disappointed.


----------



## sierra09

Ah, another week so another snippet. No where near as wonderful as Trish's last one...I gotta get a Kindle.  This is from Chapter Two of Celtic Evil: A Fitzgerald Brother Novel: Roarke (The Fitzgerald Brothers)

"Kerry, that thing is still in him." He warned lowly.
"Of course it is." Ryan snorted, rolling his eyes as he focused his power. "That just distracted it enough that it backed off but the brat's still in too deep." He looked at Kerry fully. "You know how to end it."
"We will not take his life." Kerry's eyes went to pure smoke but they locked with Ryan's and read his feelings. "Ryan, it wasn't his fault."
Cameron Young's head snapped up after figuring what this meant. "Oh, this won't be pretty."
Ryan Fitzgerald's eyes seemed to hesitate before lifting to look at Kerry's. "Do we know what happened on that island, Kerry?" he countered then waved it away, hating to have his own emotions played on even as Roarke jerked under his hands. "We only have his word on what happened and of course, what you say you saw in the visions."
"Ryan!" Mac snapped, tone going from the one he used when playing healer to the firmer, harder one he used to use when mediating between bickering brothers.
"Are you here to help or hurt boyo?" Kerry's voice was ice and the power he summoned was clear but his black haired, rash brother just smirked.
"If I wasn't I could have taken Sebastian up on his offer in Monaco." He returned, feeling the power building and shot his own back at it. "Get the hell outta the brat, demon! Nobody touches him but me."
Roarke's eyes snapped open but while the black was still there it was obvious a struggle was going on because his one hand had turned over on the bed and gripped his oldest brothers.
"You know so little about this one whom you fight so hard to save." The voice coming from inside their brother sounded strained. "You wouldn't if you knew the secrets he hid, the shames. Ask&#8230; ask the female about them." He gritted as if something was trying to stop the words. "Ask about the scars he hides."


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## RJ Keller

From chapter 38 of Waiting For Spring:

"Tess&#8230;I'm sorry, but I'm closing after the game is over. Last call was--"

"I don't want a beer, Zeke. Just&#8230;" I fell onto a stool. "I don't know. Maybe a diet soda."

He brought it over, then looked at me closely. At my hair and makeup and nice clothes that were Just So. But he didn't say a word. Even though he knew what I'd been out doing, looking like this. And while he looked at me I looked at my soda. Just looked at it. Because I couldn't drink it. Couldn't even pick it up. I was shaking too badly.

"Tess, where's your coat?"

"My coat?"

"Yes. Your coat."

"Oh&#8230;it's&#8230;"

I'd left it on the stool at the other bar. My coat and my pin. The three dollar pin that cost me a buck. The pin that meant, _I love you, Jason, so don't give up. I love you more than anything, so don't let me go._ Filled with colorful stones, except for the fake ruby. All the colors that meant&#8230;that meant&#8230;

_ There was never any color in my world, Tess. Not until I fell in love with you._

And I had let it go, just like he had let me go. It was back in that bar in Westville with Red Bartender. And what would he do with it? With a worn out old coat and a cheap old pin?


Spoiler



From the worn out, cheap old lady who had fucked him in the booth of a bar&#8230;



"It's gone, Zeke. That's where it is."


----------



## Edward C. Patterson

RJ Thank you for the glowing review of Look Away Silence. I wanted to thank you again and also use the GLOW button on the dashboeard.

Ed Patterson


Spoiler



This is fun and you can adjust the colors too!


----------



## RJ Keller

You are very welcome! It was one of THOSE books...the kind you know you won't ever quite shake.


----------



## Elmore Hammes

Here's a snippet from my mature reader novel Belt Buckles & Pajamas. This scene takes place after Daphne, the POV lead, has recruited a couple other patients into her therapy group.

*Thirteen: Group Therapy With The New Group*

"I see we have some new faces today." Andie is such the friggin' student of the obvious. But she is so nice about it. And she smells like coffee again.
Violet takes over the conversation. She's been doing that a lot lately, ever since Glen&#8230; Well, since there's been no one to keep her in line.
"Well, I had to get somebody to fill up the space with Glen and Theodore off traipsing around in Never-Never land, didn't I?" she asks Andie. "I mean, God, we have to have something to talk about other than my libido and Stuart's conspiracies. So I invited Shy Boy and Pet Shop to give us some new topics of discussion."
Andie smiles at Violet's recruits. "Well, Herbert, how are you today?"
Pet Shop beams back at her. How could anyone not smile at her? God, she is so&#8230; NOT Doctor Martin. 
"Sunshine on my shoulders makes me happy," the hedgehog offers. He has it right: Andie is just like stepping into a warm sunbeam that ignores the arctic breeze and shines through the living room window and you just want to curl on the floor and let its warmth soak through to the bone.
"I'll take that as you being okay with joining us today. How about you, Gordon?"
We all look around. "Who the hell's Gordon?" Stuart asks. "Is someone hiding? Is it one of THEM?"
Andie is looking at Shy Boy. "Hey, it's Shy Boy," Violet says. "Shy Boy has a name!"


----------



## Dave Dykema

Another snippet from _Wrong Number_. Two friends are discussing Brad Mullen's first date with Julie. I wanted everyone to know Brad's not always on the phone...

"You used protection, at least, didn't you?"
My friend Jermaine Wallace and I were having a working lunch at the law firm. Takeout sandwiches from the deli around the corner littered the table, along with stacks of books and reams of paper. We were whispering.
I lowered my eyes and shook my head no.
"


Spoiler



Jesus Christ


, Mullen! What were you thinking?"
A few heads turned our way.
"I never expected things to go that far," I whispered. "I didn't have anything with me."
Jermaine shook his head and took another bite of his sandwich. A big black man with dark skin, he'd been at the firm a year longer than me, doing the same job. He befriended me when I first started and it felt like no one else would talk to me. His funny take on things made me laugh. We've been buds ever since.
He rubbed his bald head and looked back up at me with warm brown eyes.
"So not only do you have a pregnancy scare to worry about, but AIDS and


Spoiler



sh**


 like that."
"Like you've never done it without one?"
"


Spoiler



Hell yes


, I have. But that was a long time ago, when I was young and an


Spoiler



asshole


. I don't like playing Russian Roulette. You shouldn't either."
I stared at the mahogany table our lunch perched on, unhappy with the reflection I saw.
"It wasn't supposed to happen like that. But she smelled so good."
Jermaine smiled and put a hand on my arm. "Mullen, we've all done stupid


Spoiler



sh**


like this. I don't mean to scare you half to death. It's just that I'd hate to see something happen to you, bro." He winked at me, and I breathed a bit more normally. "So, was she worth it, at least?"
I couldn't help but grin. "Yeah, she was awesome."
"That's cool. What d'ya do next?"
"After that we just kind of snuggled, watching the last of the fireworks. When they were over I walked her back to her car where she kissed me goodnight and left."
"You gonna see her again?"
"I hope to."
"That's cool."

P.S. Wow, more spoiler boxes/dirty words than I thought.


----------



## Brenda Carroll

It's hard to believe another week has come and gone and I'm sitting here enjoying another glorious Saturday. I'd like to give out a warm thank you to all who have read my stuff and given such wonderful words of encouragement. Here's a snippet from _The Red Cross of Gold I:. The Knight of Death_:

"Pleas don't cry, lady&#8230;" He bent to look in her eyes. They were beautiful even full of tears. He would have to pray mightily for forgiveness if he ever got back to&#8230; back to&#8230; "For God's sake, tell me your name, lass. I can never ask God to forgive us if I can't even tell Him your name."

"Merry. Meredith," she said tearfully.

"All right then, Meredith. I'm going to pray for you when I get home and I'll never forget you, but you have to understand the concept of kidnapping? You and your big, ugly friend have kidnapped me and brought me here against my will. That is a crime in every country in the world. If you will let me go now, I promise not to say a word about it to anyone other than my priest. Thank you for the beef and the wine and the&#8230; bath. Now let me go peacefully."

"And what about you? Kidnapping is a crime, sure, but what about intent to commit murder? You came here to kill Anthony. What about that little detail?" she asked. Her tone had gone from bewilderment to indignation.

"I don't know what you are talking about. You have me confused with someone else. I don't know this Valentino and I have no idea who Anthony is."

"And where are you going to go without shoes?" she asked and looked down at his feet. "You don't even have shoes. You'll cut your feet."

He looked down at his feet, remembering the pecan shells and rocks in the drive.


----------



## mamiller

Yeay, Miss Merry!    Great scene.  Two completely interesting characters.  Two thumbs up, Mr. Carroll!!


----------



## vwkitten

Meredith Sinclair said:


> OK, Trish gotta get this one NOW! Great Snippet!


Miss Meredith, I'd be honored to have you as a reader... =)

Great snippets all... I may be quiet, but I'm always lurking in this thread.


----------



## RiverAndRoad

From Down the River Up the Road -

“The Wall” had claimed one more victim.  I could feel the cold water filling my lungs as I went down for what had to be the last time.  Dizzy, cold, and full of heavy Salmon River water, I relaxed and let the river maytag me for the final time.  Three times I churned around in the whitewater, one second smashing along the bottom and the next second managing a foamy half gasp of air as the water dragged me back to the surface for a hopeful instant. The current had a fury that was incredibly strong, intent on holding everything that came within its reach.  I had fought and fought the river but there was no escaping the hole that had reached up and sucked me off the raft.  A six mil Farmer John wetsuit, a Cat V lifejacket, and years of swimming in whitewater were no match inside this ring.....


----------



## Edward C. Patterson

"let the river maytag me for the final time"

Ah, some one who uses metaphors. A man after my own heart.  

Edward C. Patterson


----------



## mamiller

A snippet from WIDOW'S TALE.....

    The Christmas-like jingle of the bells strung to the front door of Morgan’s Bait and Tackle Shop sounded over Brett’s head as he entered the cramped quarters of Harriet Morgan’s store. He located Harriet behind the cash register, hastily clamping down the lid of a Tupperware container filled with chocolate chip cookies. A quick brush of the back of her hand across her lips left traces of chocolate. 

    Gray eyebrows narrowed at his approach as Harriet rose to her feet and plopped her chocolate-stained hands down on the counter. 
    
    "Lookin’ to do some fishing, are ya?" 
    
      Her voice oozed sarcasm, enough to make Brett smirk. 
    
    So, Serena Murphy had the entire village of Victory Cove wrapped around her finger, he thought. But he was not from this town, and he was trying to stay immune to Serena’s allure. And he could not be bullied by the likes of this daunting shop owner who had within her reach several large utility knives and other ominous tools that belonged in a torture chamber.


----------



## Edward C. Patterson

Maureen:

"And he could not be bullied by the likes of this daunting shop owner who had within her reach several large utility knives and other ominous tools that belonged in a torture chamber."

I love the imagery here - tools being ominous and a hint of the Torquemada, and the "o" poetry of *o*ther *o*min*o*us t*oo*ls that bel*o*nged in a t*o*rture chamber. I love internal alliteratives that just sing us into the natural weave of a sentence.

Edward C. Patterson


----------



## Edward C. Patterson

Okay - here's snippet from the 2nd Jade Owl Book - The Third Peregrination http://www.amazon.com/dp/B001Q3M9QI. Come meet a real villain:

Rowden scanned the courtyard. The household (family and tenants) crammed the perimeters, Thomas and his sister, the cousins and aunts - even the old woman of the house. Nick, still in his briefs, held his pants over his arm, his sneakers slung around his neck. 
"Rowdy, they're arresting us."
"Who the hell do you think you are?" Rowden snapped at the officer, who unholstered his gun, and then held it to Rowden's chest.
"I do not think anything," the officer shouted. "I know who I am. I am Bao Ben-ch'u of the People's Constabulary. You are, however, wanted for questioning for serious crimes against the People."
Rowden backed away, detesting gunplay of any type, especially when the cold steel was directed at his chest. He retreated to the yard's center, where Nick hooked onto his arm. 
"This is Wu Ch'e-k'ai's doing," Nick said. "You can bet on it."
"Officer Bao," rang the voice of Ch'en Hui-ni, who arrived in the courtyard with as much authority as he could muster. Rose and Sydney, the agents of his coming, were at his side. "This is dishonorable. Why do you intrude on this _hu-tung _ and lay hands upon my guests? These men are under the protection of the Ch'en family and are here on official business. Must I summon the central committee to redress this grievance?"
Bao Ben-ch'u holstered his weapon. He bowed to Minister Ch'en. He handed the old gentleman his warrants. 
"You can complain to the chairman himself, for all I care. These men have been accused of a high offense. They are to be investigated and detained at Lao-yang Jian-yu." Ch'en Hui-ni perused the papers, his hands shaking as reality overtook his apparent authority. "As you can see," Office Bao said, "my orders are clear. Any obstruction of these warrants will assure your own dismissal from any posts and frivolous honors you might think you hold like some ancient landlord."
Ch'en Hui-ni held his heart, the warrant falling to the ground. Never had Rowden seen the man so downcast from his pedestal. 
"Keep a civil tongue in your mouth," Rose shouted. She snapped her finger in Bao Ben-ch'u's face. She retrieved the warrants, and then flung them at the constable. "You may have papers and duties to perform. That's no reason to be arrogant, you two-bit tin soldier. Remember, tin-soldiers are eventually forgotten by the children who play with them."
Bao Ben-ch'u's face flamed scarlet. He shook, and then slapped Rose, his open hand leaving a scarlet imprint across her face. No sooner had he struck than Nick leaped like a half-naked tadpole onto Bao Ben-ch'u's back, twisting the officer to the ground. 
"Never strike a lady, you


Spoiler



fucking


 Maoist pig." 
The soldiers cocked their rifles, aiming them at anyone who dared venture a move. Bao rolled over easily on Nick, standing and drawing his service revolver again. Suddenly, it slipped from his hands, flying across the courtyard. It rested squarely in Rowden's grasp. 
"


Spoiler



Shit


," Rowden said. He gazed at the revolver, and then tossed it away as if it were hot. All rifles were aimed at him now, while Bao Ben-ch'u kicked Nick with the steel of his boot. Nick doubled over like a child at birth. Rose shrieked.

. . . and thus it goes. 

Edward C. Patterson


----------



## LCEvans

A snippet from We Interrupt This Date:

“But if she’s wrong for him,” I said, “then maybe it’s a good idea not to fight him on this sleepover thing. No need to give him even more reason to rebel.”

“That sounds like utter nonsense to me. Mark my words, Susan, you will wish Christian had never laid eyes on that—that androgynous little tart.”

DeLorean and I exchanged glances. “Androgynous little tart,” she mouthed. I turned away to keep from laughing. 

The phone rang. The receptionist at the Pet Wellness Center informed me that Brad Marsh would be ready at five. Mama grabbed Tiny and took the opportunity to make her exit. When she got to the door, she turned and said, “And another thing. Get your fence fixed. There are housedogs, Susan, and there are yard dogs, and I brought you up to know the difference. You girls would do well to pay attention to me once in a while. Heaven knows I did my best to instill my values in you.” She stiff-armed the back door and marched outside.


----------



## Ann in Arlington

> Thomas and his sister, the cousins and aunts


Ed. . . . I sense a little channeling of G&S. . . . .


----------



## Edward C. Patterson

Ann:

That was truly not by design - but it's curious, because in an earlier scene, Rose (you haven't met Rose yet - once you do, you shall never forget her), Rose sings "Now to the banquet we press," from The Sorcerer. W.S. Gilbert is one of my mentors. I was introduced to the great Savoyard when I was 8 years old when I acquired a recording of The Mikado, with Groucho Marx (because I had seen it on TV) as Ko Ko and it's been a love affair ever since. I have performed all of the Savoy Operas with the exception of The Grand Duke (I've even sang Sir Bailey Barre in a rare performance of Utopia Limited). It's the one thing in my life that I sorely miss, as performing is difficult with sight in only one eye. I tried it in a performance of The Sorcerer in 2004, and during the Second Act Country Dance, I nearly danced my way into the orchestra pit. However, that being said, my company (The Ridgewood Opera Company) is scheduled to do a rare, rare mounting of The Grand Duke next year and I am actually considering traveling over an hour to rehearsals back in New Jersey and tearing up the scenery. I am a completist at heart.  

"Now to the banquet we press, now for the eggs and the ham!"

Edward C. Patterson


----------



## vwkitten

Oops, I'm a day late, but not a dollar short -- this is one of my favorite little bits from Never Smile at a Crocodile.  Howard is the VP of the Lucky Clover Casino in downtown Las Vegas.

    “Howard,” Marcus hung his head, “you’re killing me here.”
    “Yes, I know,” Howard laughed some more.  “It’s just my way of getting back at you for costing me a few hours sleep, and by sleep, I mean the two hours of hookers I had set up on my trip out of town without the wife.”
    “Did you set us up, Howard?” Marcus finally asked the bluntest question.
    “No,” Howard answered certainly.  “The mob doesn’t run Las Vegas; you know that.  I don’t have to bury a body in the desert.  I’ve got a half dozen lawyers who bury people in paper and lawsuits.  I make more money that way, and I don’t end up on the front page of some crime tabloid.”


----------



## jesscscott

_From: -¤ Jade AshtoN ™ ¤- ([email protected])
Sent: Sunday, September 17, 2006 8:36:23 PM
To: [novan] ([email protected])
Subject: for you
Attachment: EyeLeash.doc (1,998KB)_

Hey Novan  I was thinking abt what you said. Since you asked for it, I'm sending you a copy of my personal blog. I know I said I didn't blog, but I do -- just that it's a private one. So it's very personal. Rants raves and everything else.

I guess you'll learn quite a lot about me, so it's quite a big risk I'm taking. I mean I understand if you never want to speak to me or see my face again after this. But if anything's going to happen, this is what/who I really am&#8230;so if I don't hear from you, I'll know it was a mistake.

I'd just like to request that you respect my privacy and not let anyone else know about this blog of mine. I believe I can trust you with that. All said, attachment is with this e-mail.

xoxo

Jade.

P.S: I stole your poem's titles for the attachment. Hope you don't mind.

* * *

First page of EyeLeash: A Blog Novel, by author/artist/non-conformist, Jess C Scott


----------



## Kristan Hoffman

A blog novel, eh? Now that's an intriguing concept.

Here's a snippet from Episode 4 of my series Twenty-Somewhere. I'm sure some of you can identify... ;P

********************

Eli’s job requires him, and thus Claudia, to attend a number of social functions throughout the year. Claudia enjoys meeting the people Eli works with and learning more about what they do, but inevitably the conversations all take the same turn.

“So, Claudia, what do you do?”

“Oh.” Nervous laugh. “I’m a writer.”

“Really? How exciting! Have you been published?”

“Uh.” Another even more nervous laugh. “Not yet. I’m actually still revising my first novel.”

“Ah, okay. Wow. Well, I can’t wait to read your book! Hopefully I can get an autograph…” Wink wink nudge nudge.

Gracious smile. “Of course.”

# # #

On the other side of the Atlantic, MJ is dealing with an awkward situation of her own. Ben has been coming on rather strong, and though she appreciates the attention, she doesn’t need quite so much of it all the time. He’s a like leaky faucet: even when she tries to turn him off, a little bit still drips out.

Not being much of a plumber, so to speak, MJ decides to avoid him for a while. She hides out in friends’ rooms, living out of her backpack, returning to her own room only to shower, change clothes, or sleep. It’s nomadic, and a little strange, but it works.


----------



## sierra09

This week's snippet comes from Chapter 8 of Celtic Evil: A Fitzgerald Brother Novel: Roarke







(Hopefully the link works since I'm having trouble with link-maker tonight) 

Feeling the beast finally escape his grasp and knowing this was it; Roarke's last thought was of Jessica and his brothers when suddenly the beast jerked and screamed as if in agony and then the weight was off the young Irishman.
Gasping as air was finally able to get back into his straining lungs; Roarke barely saw the bright blue energy that struck the beast as it went to lunge at him again.
"Get the hell away from him,


Spoiler



bastard


." Ryan's voice had no accent, just anger and power.
Teleporting was something he only did on rare occasions since it could leave him too weak but knowing the risk to his brother was greater than the one to him he used the spell in order to get to the scene more quickly.
Arriving, he had taken in the scene quickly and judged which threat was greater.
Jessica was unconscious and bleeding slightly and being stalked by a smaller creature but he could tell that his brothers would be there in seconds to deal with that.
Ryan's eyes went to pure black as his anger took over upon seeing the large beast on top of his younger brother and feeling what he did.
Reacting on that anger, he grabbed the beast both with a wave of energy and with his hands and pulled it back and away, lashing out with blue energy it started to lunge again.
"I said; get the hell away from my brother." He looked at the beast and felt the evil coming from it. "You couldn't have him then and you won't have him now."
The beast seemed to be looking at Ryan curiously then it raised its head and with a howl, launched itself right at him.
"Stupid." Ryan sneered, letting his powers flow and meet the beast fully and as it rolled back in screeching yelps, it slowly began to dissolve into a thick black slime on the spot where it landed. "Yeah, the gardener won't bloody well care for that."


----------



## cjpatrick

"Sewer Cat"

-Story told from the perspective of a stray...

"HEY KIIIITYYY!"
Oh no.
It was one of the females of their species. Females were by far the worst. Sure they were less inclined to be violent, but they were more prone to want to feel her, to pick her up off the solid, stable ground, and let her limbs dangle, wavering in the air. They were fond of pressing her tightly into their bodies, squishing her legs and pulling her fur. Some had a vile burning smell about them too. The potent odor, which reminded her loosely of flowers, would burn inside her little nostrils for days.


----------



## Edward C. Patterson

Folks, I am happy that I started his thread. I've started a few that have just petered out, but this one is going strong and I bet will continue grow strongew, and new snippeters every day, new styles and ideas. New books and best of all, the sharing of words. We have over 350 snippets in here and over 4,700 visitors (views). Yes. I'm glad this one has taken off as a permenant feature of Kindleboards and one of the mainstays for our Book Bazaar. And we thought the Bazaar wouldn't be successful (that was less than 4 months ago). Thank, you Harvey, Ann, Betsy and Leslie. I'd say The Bazaar and its seperation from the Book Corner has created a unique place for authors and readers to share on the Internet.

Now back to our regularly sponsored topic.
Edward C. Patterson


----------



## Eric C

Snippet from my psychological thriller called Crack-Up http://www.amazon.com/dp/B002HMCLFQ

_I can't go home again until-or unless-I can trust myself. Because what if I'm really losing it? What if that disembodied Darth Vader-like voice I used to hear coming from the ceiling, or a drainpipe, suddenly returned? Spouting all those dire-yet lavishly senseless-warnings it somehow sold me every time?_

I wrenched my body to face the river once more. I had to squint in the face of a sudden gust of wind. My body shuddered, head to toe. I couldn't bear the thought of what I might do upon hearing that Darth Vader-like voice tell me Sarah's cooking was poisoning me, slowly poisoning me. Or that my four year-old was plotting to poke my eyes out with the kitchen scissors.

Tears seeped from my tightly closed eyelids. Some cry struggled to come out, but I pressed it down inside me, pressed it down, pressed it down, grimacing from the strain.

"Don't lose control!" I told myself. "Don't! Figure out what's going on. And for God's sake, figure out what to do!"


----------



## mamiller

Thank you for starting it, Ed!


----------



## Damian Santiago

Here is my snippet from my short story titled _Christmas Story_ from *Erotic Tales * - http://www.amazon.com/dp/B002FU5QNE. I was surprised at just how dificult it was to select only 250 words!

"I wandered too far and got lost. Can I warm up inside for a while?" I asked without even looking up to see who had opened the door.

"Come inside" I heard a soft female voice I vaguely recognized. "Sit by the fire and I'll get you some coffee."

I walked in and sat on the wood chair sitting next to the fire and felt the heat melt the snow off my face. I looked up and found her back to me as she made me a cup of coffee and tried to remember where I had heard that voice. She was tall and thin with long dark hair straight down her back. She stood quietly for a minute before bring me a cup.

"Here. Careful, it's hot," she whispered as she sat down on the couch across from me. "I don't get too many visitors up here since my husband passed away last year."

"Do I know you?" I asked her, still trying to figure out why she seemed so familiar to me.

"I don't think so. Maybe you knew my husband," she offered, taking a sip of her own cup while watching me with her deep dark eyes.

I sat quietly watching the light flicker off her face and for an instant I could see my wife. The fire would dance around and the shadows would change and she would be gone, but for that brief instant I saw her sitting there in front of me.


----------



## harfner

Here's a snippet from OFFSPRING http://www.amazon.com/dp/B002LASFBS

They were halfway to their destination when Kendi felt a sting on the back of his neck beneath his slicker. He slapped at it and spun around with an oath. Keith, walking behind him, had also turned.
"What the hell was that?" Keith said, looking over his shoulder. "I thought I saw-"

Kendi collapsed to the boardwalk. Ben blinked down at him, uncomprehending. Lars shoved Ben aside and dropped to his knees. He rolled Kendi over, revealing a thin trickle of blood that flowed from the back of Kendi's neck. Face set, Lars pulled a small metal dart from the wound, then yanked a kit from his under his slicker. Belated fear thrilled through Ben.
"What's wrong with him?" Ben demanded. He tapped his earpiece. "Emergency! I need a medical emergency team right away!"
_"We're tracking your signal, sir,"_ said a calm voice in his ear. _"A team is on the way. What's your emergency?"_
"It's Kendi," Ben said tersely. "He collapsed. He's unconscious. I think it's poison."
Lars, meanwhile, opened the kit and produced a dermospray and a small suction unit. He ripped Kendi's slicker off, pressed the suction unit to the wound, and set the dermospray against the skin beside it. The dermospray thumped and the suction unit clamped itself to Kendi's neck.
_"Is he breathing?"_ asked the voice.
"I think so," Ben said. "Yes. But it's fast and shallow and he's sweating. Our bodyguard is giving him something. A broad-spectrum antidote."
Lars took out a medical scanner and touched it to the suction unit. It beeped once, and text scrolled down the display. Ben read over his shoulder, surprised at how calm he felt. It was as if he were floating in a quiet pool of water, watching everything happen to someone else. A crowd was gathering, but Ben was too busy reading to notice.
"The first aid kit found polydithalocide in the wound," he reported. "Oh, god. That's a neurotoxin."
Lars put another ampule in the hypospray and thumped it against Kendi's neck.
_"The rescue team is almost there, sir,"_ the voice said. _"You should see them now."_
"They're here!" Keith said, pointing upward and waving his arms. "Hey! Over this way!"
An ambulance dropped from the sky like a stone and landed a few yards away. The backblast blew through Ben's hair and sent a shower of water over everything. Two paramedics were on the ground before the ambulance had fully landed. They gave Kendi a quick examination and bundled him onto a hovering stretcher while a third paramedic asked questions. Ben answered as best he could, but Kendi's ashen face and slack body were a terrifying distraction. Ben climbed into the ambulance behind the stretcher, leaving Lars and Keith on the walkway with the crowd. Several people in the crowd had cameras and other recording devices. Ben turned his back on them as the paramedics slammed the double doors.
The ride to the medical center was horrible for all that it was short. Ben pressed himself against the side of the ambulance while the paramedics worked on Kendi. They slapped IVs on his hands, and the tubules burrowed into his skin like worms. One medic injected more drugs. Then a shrill alarm sounded. Kendi's heart had stopped.


----------



## Brenda Carroll

Time for another snippet from _the Red Cross of Gold_ Series. I'm going with book _IV:. the Hesperian Dragon_. The Knight of the Golden Eagle is ill and possibly dying and no one can say exactly why.

"Let any man having knowledge of why these two should not be joined in Holy Matrimony speak now or forever hold his peace," Simon pronounced the words that Lucio had been waiting for. The Healer looked up from his book of Sacraments and gave the required pause before continuing.

"I object!" Lucio announced just before the priest continued with the ceremony.

A general murmur of surprise ran through the congregation gathered in the Chapel of Glessyn followed by the singular sound of the song of the Golden Sword of the Cherubim when the Chevalier du Morte, drew the blade from its scabbard. The Italian cringed and felt perspiration running down his face and neck into the stiff collar of his tuxedo.

"Brother&#8230;" Ramsay uttered one word of warning and pressed the tip of the blade against his back. "Mind your tongue."

"What is the basis of your objection, Sir?" Simon ignored the Knight of Death and directed this almost casual question at the best man.

"He does not love her as I do, Father," Lucio said in spite of the danger.

"On your knees, Brother!" Mark Andrew ordered and took his arm just above the elbow, twisting it painfully.


----------



## mamiller

Howdy  Here's a little scene from my romantic suspense, ROGUE WAVE









A slight breeze caught Briana's hair as she drew it away from her face. Not a second later she noticed Kathy mimic the gesture. Inwardly she smiled at the idolization of the young apprentice, but chastised herself for dragging Kathy into her mission to help a man who would most likely never want to see her again.

"Okay, so we know for sure it's this pier, right?"

Holding a crinkled piece of paper under the diffused glow of a streetlight, Kathy squinted behind her glasses and nodded.

"Slip 22."

"Damn."

"What?" Kathy's head shot up from the paper.

Briana contemplated the locked gate. It was absurd that she even entertained the idea of climbing it-although knew she was going to do so nonetheless.

"Oh," A whisper of dismay sounded by her side. "I can get over that."

"Don't you dare." Searching the empty parking lot, Briana touched Kathy's arm. "You stay here, you know-keep an eye out-that whole thing."

"Got it." Kathy nodded. "Should I make a bird call if I see someone?"


----------



## Edward C. Patterson

I can't remember when I've put up a snippet from The Jade Owl, but here is the opening to the Bei-jing section:

Night spread her pall over Bei-jing. So did the snow, kissing her golden roofs in the invisible moon. Like a lover bedded by the full caress of soft down, the silent city held her warmth in cold's subtle windfall - an ice palace. To the native, she was now foreign in her wintry gown - twice so for the visitor, who expected only her golden reputation.

Thomas Ch'en, a tall lad, clearly of northern Chinese stock, inherited the Ch'en family smile and affable manner. He had prepared for tour #784-G's arrival as any competent CTS agent would. The plane, however, was hours late. So Thomas Ch'en paced the airport terminal, warming his hands with his breath. He was warmer in here than out by the awaiting limousines. He hoped the drivers had the good sense to lock down and go for a cup of tea and soggy noodles. He hadn't given the order and he expected that they would be slow to act on their own. If they hadn't, numb hands and frozen


Spoiler



balls


 would be the price for a lack of good sense.

Thomas worried. The tour might be a day late; perhaps two. He had only witnessed snow twice before in Bei-jing - once when he was two, and again, four years ago, if that counted as it was a minor coating, a few hours in duration. Bei-jing almost never had rain, so the absence of the frozen counterpart came as no surprise. Dust, the city had. Wind and cold, without a doubt. Snow? Rare occurrence. Snow reminded the People that their fortress city could soften to quilt down.

Thomas thought of that time when he was two. He remembered it well. He awoke in the Ch'en hu-tung in the bitter cold. Flakes tickled his black button eyes as they drank in the sights of the inner courtyard. The usual grayment was shawled white, lacey yarn spilling from the balustrades, overrunning vegetable pots. He recalled bolting into the yard with his brother, slipping on his ass and crying. His brother laughed, while his mother scolded, coming to the rescue. She tenuously held his infant sister from her hip. He remembered. The chastisement. His brother's tease. Most of all, the crusted flakes accumulating on his baby sister's eye lashes. Thomas Ch'en sighed. These were good memories, golden in reputation.

Thomas continued his pacing. He wondered if the expected flight was even airborne. (The agents could not, or would not, confirm it). The flight was stranded in Shang-hai. It had been en route from distant Yu-nan. His list of travelers was short - only twelve, but they must have been an important dozen to have limousines ordered for them. That was not for him to question. Nor did he question why he was chosen for this particular tour. He originally was scheduled, three days hence, for a larger contingent of Japanese tourists - thirty-five at least, whom he thought were tailored to his talents. However, despite his anticipation, he always followed the dictates of the home office. If the order came to lead a smaller group of mixed nationalities through an assortment of sites not generally on any itinerary, who was he to question it?

The waiting area was as solemn as the city. There were few inbound flights that were not delayed. All outbound flights were cancelled. In other hubs throughout the civilized world, this would have meant pandemonium, thousands of misplaced travelers sleeping on benches or rushing for alternative transportation. Perhaps in Shang-hai, where holiday crowds were trying to flow homeward this might be the case, but in Bei-jing, it was a ho-hum affair. People shrugged oh well or paced like Thomas Ch'en did, knowing that the weather had precedence over such luxurious pursuits as travel.

Suddenly, the PA system broke the silence, announcing the arrival of the flight from Shang-hai. It surprised Thomas Ch'en, who was resolved to wait only another hour before packing it in. He blew on his hands, smiled (not a whole-hearted smile), and then proceeded to the Jetway to greet tour #784-G.

Edward C. Patterson


----------



## Lynn McNamee

Here is a very short snippet from my unfinished work "Dysfunctional": (Yes, this is a different manuscript than the one from my previous snippet.)

Now, I was expected to go to the man’s funeral, not to dance on his grave, but to be the loving, bereaved daughter. I was expected to look in my grandmother’s eyes and not reveal to anyone how she had betrayed her granddaughter.  I knew what they wanted; to my family, appearances were everything.


----------



## RJ Keller

Oooh! I like that.


----------



## Elmore Hammes

Another scene from The Twenty Dollar Bill, which lends itself very well to the "snippet" concept.

*Stan*
It's my last call for the night. Usual pickup, couple from one of the late hours clubs. Big guy and a sweet looking girl. I flip the meter on and head to the address the guy gives me.
They sit quietly while I drive, none of the usual after-partying talk, or one of the drunk make out sessions I've seen just as often. It doesn't take long to get to the apartment building, and nothing but my old 70's station on the radio to interrupt the silence of the drive.
The big guy pays me the fare and a couple dollars extra, more than I expected from him, but I guess this little lady has him flying high tonight. I watch them walk up to the entrance and then turn my In Service light off. I radio into Louis that I am done for the night. I start filling in the paperwork for my shift. I'm halfway through when there's a tap on the window. The lady is looking in through the passenger window, waving at me. 
I roll the window down. She smiles, a beautiful, gorgeous face bright despite the dim lighting from the buzzing streetlamp. "Can you drive me home?"
Guess the guy isn't flying so high tonight after all. Why not, I think. I keep the meter off. This is on my time; I did my shift. What Louis doesn't know won't hurt him. I unlock the door. "Sure," I tell her, and am rewarded with another smile.


----------



## Kristan Hoffman

Elmore-
I love your snippet! Also, I wanted to let you know that someone bought your book after visiting my aStore (back when I was using my aStore, anyway). Now I know why! 

Kristan

PS: I had to laugh when I started reading your snippet, because my nickname is Stan.


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## Elmore Hammes

Kristan,
Thanks so much, I appreciate that. I guess with forty-some POV characters, I hit a few more people's names or nicknames!
Elmore


----------



## Brenda Carroll

Here's a snippet from _Tempo Rubato ~ Stolen Time_. Dr. Mannheim is a Mozart Scholar who teaches Music History at the Music Conservatory in Vienna, Austria. She is teaching a section about Mozart when one of her students points out an anomaly in the textbook:

"But, Dr. Mannheim." Tony persisted. "What about the two men who removed him from his deathbed on the night before he died? Who were they? No one ever saw Mozart alive again."

"What two men?" Elisse frowned at him.

"The two men reportedly sent by Dr. Sallaba, of course," he answered.

Antonio looked down at his textbook in confusion and flipped through the pages to where a picture of a portrait of Mozart stared up at him.

"Surely you misread the lesson, Tony." Elisse smiled. "Mozart died in his own bed in his own house. He wasn't taken anywhere by anyone."

Her statement caused a general stir in the classroom. Several students cleared their throats and others shuffled their books and papers while others exchanged puzzled glances.

"Pardonne moi." One of the French students raised her hand timidly.

"Yes, Claire." Elisse was glad for a distraction this time.

"It is here, Madame." The girl tapped the textbook opened in front of her and then began to read in German. "Two orderlies under the direction of Dr. Sallaba took the ailing Mozart to the doctor's home the night of December 4, 1791 in order that the doctor could more closely monitor his deteriorating condition."

Elisse stepped down from the small dais in front of the class to the nearest desk where she spun the student's book around to face her. There on the page, just as Claire had read, printed in black ink were the disconcerting words.

"This is wrong." She muttered to herself.


----------



## sierra09

Here's the next snippet from Celtic Evil: A Fitzgerald Brother Novel: Roarke









Slamming through the front door with more panic than even he had thought possible, Mac felt the evil but he also felt fear and anger.
Hearing all this commotion had caused Deirdre to come from her room. "What is all this noise, boyos?" she demanded, tightening her robe.
"Mac, wait for us!" Ian shouted but knew it was useless as he quickly turned to the housekeeper. "Go someplace safe that isn't in this house." He urged, hurrying up the steps after his brother when he found himself hurled back down. "Damn!"
Before Deirdre could go to the youth, Kerry had her arm. "Go to the guest house and stay there until it's over and keep the Mavericks back too." He ordered her, turning to see his brother was back on his feet and mad.
Looking up the steps, Kerry felt the power radiating back at him like a slap but he closed his eyes. "Not in my house." He vowed, lashing out a hand that had windows rattling. "Find Mac. I'll go for Jessica."
Ian just nodded and was off; dodging the black tendrils that felt like ice when one touched his leg. "Light of good vs. dark of evil, your power holds no sway here or on me so back off."
Maggie had gotten back to Mac's room just in time to hear the snarls. Slamming the door against whatever was out there; she lunged for the books but didn't have a clue what to look for.
Hearing the door come down, she screamed even before she saw the dog. It was normal looking except for the blood red eyes and foaming mouth.
"I'm not lunch, Fido." She snapped, using powers she hadn't in years and soon came to see they were too weak to deal with magic on this level. "Oh, bloody hell." She whispered, looking for a weapon even as the dog jumped for her.


----------



## AnnaM

Ed, this is great. Sierra, I purchased _Celtic Evil_ a while back, loved it.

This snippet is from my second book, _Untamed Hearts_. Roy won his string of mules in a poker game, and he just can't seem to rid himself of them --

"Heck, these mules can do anything," Roy opined as he wiped sweat from his brow with his bandanna. _If they want to_, he added in silent afterthought.

Jeb's reply was a loud grunt and a disbelieving shake of his grizzled head.

Roy sliced a hand through the musty stable air.

"Just look at Sunday. Why, she's got a good mouth, if you don't look too deep. She's the prettiest molly a man's ever laid eyes on. And a lady can't resist Monday with her big brown eyes! But heck, she's not just some frilly bit of frippery! No sirreeee! She'll pick up all four feet -- once she trusts a fellow."

Roy's shining eyes flickered down and collided with McLeod's hot glare. He hadn't figured on locking horns with this man. Roy swallowed hard and thrashed on.

"Tuesday follows Monday just like a calf follows it's cow-mama, and Wednesday over there-"

"Whoa!" Jeb snarled, annoyed as a man dragged to church by his wife and then forced to endure the rantings of a long-winded preacher while his chores piled up back at the homestead.

"Git those mules outta my place, Easton! Pay yer bill, an' haul yer freight." McLeod's half-toothed, don't-mess-with-me scowl drove his point home.

Roy slumped his shoulders forward, and he thrust his hands deep into his pockets. So that was the way of it. Plain as paint peeling on a post, folks didn't want Roy Easton or his stock littering their town.

http://www.amazon.com/Untamed-Hearts-Easton/dp/B002IT5SIA/


----------



## RJ Keller

From chapter 34 of Waiting For Spring.



Spoiler



I helped him back into bed, even though I really didn't want him anywhere near me. And when I made my way back underneath the blankets again he said, "Tess, I lied. Before. I really don't want you to fuck anyone else. I don't think I could deal with that. So, can you please promise me that you won't? Maybe you can just keep on doin' it yourself for awhile. I'll try and get better soon so I can take care of you again."

I didn't answer him. I just rolled over, facing away from him. Facing the wall. Facing the window. Looked out at the cold, white moon. I knew I should be insulted by what he'd said, that I should be pissed at him. Knew that I should be embarrassed because he knew how I got myself to sleep most nights. Knew it should hurt that he was afraid I'd jump into bed with someone else; that I'd actually spread my legs and let the someone else inside of me while he was drowning in grief. I knew what it meant he really thought. And maybe that meant it was true. And I knew it should hurt, but it didn't. I didn't feel hurt or embarrassed or angry or insulted.

I didn't feel anything.


----------



## Dave Dykema

Back to Stalker for a snippet. In this one, Dan and his friend Jerry are at the movies. Dan's watching "Stalker" for the second time:

The light from the motion picture bathed the audience with a sporadic flickering of images at twenty-four frames per second. Jerry looked over at Dan to make a comment about the film, but decided against it after he saw him.
Dan was glued to the screen, mesmerized. His body sat in the stiff theatre chair, but his mind was up there on the stained screen, observing the characters and their motions. He studied with fascination the fluid-like movements of the killer. It was a ballet of horror, the murders performed with operatic beauty. He dreamed of becoming graceful, like his counterpart on the screen. With practice, he knew, it would come, as do all things.
_Practice makes perfect_.
Jerry saw this and could imagine Dan walking the streets, stalking girls and killing them. It gave him a terrible chill. He pulled at his shirt, searching for some source of heat to cover himself.
_Stalker_ played on&#8230;


----------



## vwkitten

This week, I'm going a little sideways with a snippet from the upcoming fables.  The following is from the fable entitled The Dragon and the Magpie. 

    There sat upon the branches two magpies twittering at one another in an animated twitching that reminded the dragon of mating chickens.  The dragon heaved a resigned sigh at the intrusion upon his burdened self-reflection.  His last night breathing would be spent listening to magpies harp at one another. Even as he reached for his last breath, he was distracted by their argument over his head.
    “It is a pile of autumn leaves,” the first magpie insisted.  This magpie had a single red feather at the tip of one wing.
    “It is not,” argued the duller of the two.  “It is a great beast, burdened with his travels.”
    “You dream too much of fanciful things,” the red-feathered magpie admonished, flicking her wings with disdain.  “Great beast indeed!”
    “But it is a great beast,” the dull magpie clattered it’s beak at the red-feathered one.  “Even if it isn’t a great beast, I can imagine it is so.”
    “What good will your imagination do you?” the red-feathered magpie cocked her head sideways to get another look at the heap of dulled dragon scales.
    The duller magpie merely sulked in response.  
    Disgusted, the first magpie pushed from the branches and left the dull magpie to her delusions.  
The dragon tried not to smile at the conversation.  He was, after all, amidst the serious business of dying and hadn’t time for magpie arguments.  Still, it would have been amusing to see the face of the haughty magpie if she’d stayed and he’d shown himself for the fanciful daydream come to life at her feet.


----------



## Elmore Hammes

Another snippet from The Twenty Dollar Bill.

*Jerome...*
I feel relief when I find the place empty. Good, Momma's not home yet. I sure don't feel like arguing with her about going out, not after hearing the lecture from Trevor. I take a quick shower and dress in my best clothes. This is your chance, Jerome, this is it. You get in good tonight, and no more worries. You can move Momma to a nicer place, you can have more than one set of clothes that you can go to the clubs in. It's all going to happen, if you can make it work tonight.
I splash on some extra cologne. I look in the mirror, adjust my collar. Yes, sir, Jerome, you are one mighty fine looking young man. I leave a note for Momma, telling her I will be home late. She'll be mad, but better mad than worried sick about why I'm not home. She'd be all worrying about me not wearing clean underwear and the people in the hospital seeing that when they bring me in from the horrible accident that I am in every time she doesn't know where I am at.
It's nine-thirty. I debate walking, but not sure I would make it without jogging, and extra-cologne or not, I don't want to show up sweaty and smelly. I go outside and get a cab, a lucky break in this neighborhood, and I am starting to think it will all be okay.


----------



## Edward C. Patterson

Well, my turn and today I think I'll give y'all a snippet from Look Away Silence http://www.amazon.com/dp/B002HRER5S, which I just reduced on the Kindle to $ .99.

What's wrong?" I muttered. "What's upset you? Was it John?"
"Yes, actually."
"He didn't mean anything, you know. He's always flirting with me. We're just sisters."
"No," Matt said. "That's not it. It's that he reminds me of . . . someone."
News at eleven. There was someone else - someone gone or left behind.
"That's okay," I said. "You don't need to tell me."
I really didn't want to know, but it looked like the time was ripe, or at least the Coronas primed to the appropriate level.
"You should know," Matt said.
He stood, helping me to my feet. He seemed better, but marginally so. It was cold and my hands were like ice blocks. I blew on them, but Matt took them into his, warming them, and then guided them into his pocket. That was sweet and provocative, but he wasn't flirting or easing towards foreplay. He was just keeping my hands warm so he could unburden his heart.
"His name was Luis."
Was. Past tense.
"Let me guess," I said. "He was a drag queen."
"The most beautiful drag queen you could ever set eyes on. He performed at la Chiquita Club in the Melrose, and the boys loved him. But he was mine."
He sniffed again, and then clenched my hands closer.
"He was soft like . . . like you sorta and had a considerable following. He sang like an angel."
Like me, sorta. I had a sinking feeling.
"Is that what you're after," I said. I collected my hands and did my own warming. "I'm no one's stand in, you know."
"No, no," he said. "That's not it. I know that people are different and when something is over, it's over. But Luis was never over in the sense that we broke up."
"Then he's waiting for you in the Lone Star State."
Matt choked. 
"I wish he was. Not that I can't be with anyone else, but Luis is . . . well, he's . . ."
He couldn't say it, and he didn't need to, because I wouldn't let him. 
"Killed him, they did.


Spoiler



Bastards."


"No, no, Matt. It's okay. You don't need to go through it. You don't."
He bawled, his head buried in my shoulder, his warm tears freezing on my shirt.
"He was such a little performer, he was. He didn't mean any harm, but he sometimes got into trouble with some of the rougher trade. They'd call him names and he'd toss it right back at them. But that night, they waited for him. They waited and . . ."
"No," I said. "You'll not do this to yourself. You're here with me and on Christmas. I'm the ghost of Christmas Present, and the ghost of Christmas Past needs to stay in the past or you'll never be free of it."
"It's not that easy," he said. "But . . ."
"Try."
He sighed. His eyes were cast down onto the court. The _thumpa-thumpa-boom-boom _ of the dance floor rumbled in the night. The laughter from the shack was in a different world. Suddenly, Matt gazed up at me. I think it was in that moment - you know the moment. Rare as it is, sometimes the fates conspire to snare the soul and the heart into a universal song, one without ending . . . never ending - never ended. Never. It was then that I knew that this Christmas gift was more precious than a vacuum broom. I scratched my head with my frozen mitts.

Edward C. Patterson


----------



## Carol Hanrahan

Been on vacation.  Here's a bit from Baling:

  “I’ll check the hen house,” Nick said.  “You go look under those bushes.”  He ducked his head upon entering the low-roofed henhouse.  One chicken was near the doorway and he shooed her out.  She clucked at him before she scooted into the yard.  Luckily, there were no hens sitting on the nests today.  Sometimes they would peck at him as he reached under to gather the egg.  He picked up one still warm from the nest.  Its soft roundness stood in stark contrast to the coarse, prickly nest he pulled it from.  It was such a simple, natural shape, and fit into the palm of his hand perfectly.  This morning, most of the nests held an egg.  Busy hens.  
  He had just set the third egg in the basket when John yelled from the chicken yard.  Nick froze.  John screamed again.  Nick set the egg back into the nest and dashed out into the chicken yard.  
  John was running across the chicken yard with Ted, the rooster, right behind him, flapping his wings and making an awful squawk.  The stick they always brought with them to collect the eggs was leaning up against the fence on the other side of the chicken yard, in its usual spot.  Neither one of them had remembered to grab it.  
  At first it was funny, watching John being chased by the angry rooster.  Then Ted reached out with one of his legs, twisted it a bit, and raked it down John’s bare leg.  A bright red slash appeared and John fell to the ground.


----------



## Jane Bled

Ooh! I got 249--that was close...

The following excerpt is from my award-winning homoerotic vampire novel, MASTER Book 1: Crimson by Jane Bled (The MASTER Series #1):

People fascinated Raiden as much as they repulsed him. After nearly five years as a vampire, he had learned to disassociate himself from the humans, now viewing them as a separate species from him. He couldn't pinpoint exactly when this change had occurred, but there was apparently no way to reverse it. Once bitten ... he thought bitterly, ordering Jack-on-the-rocks from the plastic-breasted Barbie bartender. She was giving him the eye, but Raiden didn't bother to meet her stare. Instead, he focused on the tanned flesh of her neck, smooth and indubitably soft. He wanted her, but not for sex. Instantly, he imagined her long limbs writhing beneath him, screams climbing higher and higher while his fangs sunk lower and lower into her flesh; until they were flush against her esophagus...

Raiden licked his lips unconsciously as she set down the Jack and tipped him a lewd wink, leaning on her elbows in order to accentuate her practically illegal cleavage. He wondered if he could pop her implants with just one of his incisors, or if he would need to use both.
Throwing down some money, the vampire grabbed his drink and left the bar, shaking off the bloodlust. He spied an empty, darkened corner and made a beeline for it. It seemed like the perfect hiding place. Producing a lighter from the inside of his jacket, Raiden settled his lips around a cigarette. The sharp scent of tobacco assaulted his senses, momentarily drowning the insistent call of blood.

Hope you enjoyed!

Jane Bled


----------



## mamiller

Here is a brief snippet of Brett Murphy in WIDOW'S TALE...

_Brett's free hand reached forward to grab Serena by the waist. He hoisted her between his legs so that their faces loomed close together.

"Well, I don't feel very brotherly to you, Serena. I've been holding back out of respect to our mutual loss, but that's not going to last." Brett's gray eyes smoldered. "So if you don't feel the same-if you don't want this-you better run, Serena. Run as fast as you can. Because when this is over, I'm going to chase you," he leaned in, "and baby, I'll break every record to get you."_


----------



## LCEvans

Anna M. I loved your snippet from Untamed Hearts. Sampled it (my book buying budget is in the red right now).

Here's another snippet from my books, We Interrupt This Date:

Patty held her arms straight up toward the ceiling. Her eyes narrowed to slits and she aimed the slits about a foot over my head to stare at the wall behind me. Then she started swaying her hips like a belly dancer warming up for a performance. “Right. Right. Susan, it’s good news. The Universe told me Jack is your destiny, and I am just soooo happy for you.”

“It spoke to you without benefit of the tarot? Despite the newsflash from the beyond, Patty, you can rest easy. Due to a complete lack of chemistry between us, which he was quick to remind me of last night over coffee, Jack and I are nothing more than friends. Besides he has a girlfriend.”

“The Universe doesn’t lie,” Patty said in tones of deepest respect. The bell at the front of the store rang, and she scurried back to her register to wait on a customer. 

I had a feeling she wanted to light a candle, but Odell doesn’t allow lit candles in the shop. I glanced at Brenda. Her mouth hung open, and she was fingering a little gold cross hanging around her neck.


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## vwkitten

mamiller said:


> Here is a brief snippet of Brett Murphy in WIDOW'S TALE...
> 
> "Well, I don't feel very brotherly to you, Serena. I've been holding back out of respect to our mutual loss, but that's not going to last." Brett's gray eyes smoldered. "So if you don't feel the same-if you don't want this-you better run, Serena. Run as fast as you can. Because when this is over, I'm going to chase you," he leaned in, "and baby, I'll break every record to get you."


I love that part...


----------



## sierra09

A brief snippet from Chapter Two of Celtic [URL=Evil:A]Evil:A Fitzgerald Brother Novel: Roarke[/url]









"Kerry! Me, you, words now about some bloody wizard paying me a visit at a real bad time!" Mac's voice echoed in the tone he had used to use when breaking up their bickering brothers.
"If Mac's this mad I can't wait until Ryan shows up." Kerry muttered, stepping out to meet his brother but was stopped by the fiery haired pixie like woman following him outraged.
Maggie Cavanaugh had jumped from the car and hurried after Mac and couldn't believe that he was yelling in a house he hadn't been in for such a long time.
"Didn't you have any manners growing up?" she chastised in a hushed tone. "You can't just barge into your brothers' home and start yelling."
Patrick 'Mac' Fitzgerald had grown more on edge the closer he and the reporter had gotten to his birthplace and upon stepping over the threshold of the massive main door a part of him was once again sixteen years old.
"I was born in this house, Miss Cavanaugh so no matter what else it's still part mine." Mac shot back at her, pulling up short when Kerry stepped from the living room and his eyes narrowed. "Is he back?"


----------



## NAmbrose

You know...  After reading sixteen pages of these, I am slowly beginning to realize that either, a: my writing is not as good as I thought it was, or b: there are an awful lot of people out there who are just outstanding!  Frankly, I'm leaning toward b... 

Nicolas


----------



## Gary Val Tenuta

Snippet from _*The Ezekiel Code*_ http://www.ezekielcode.com

"Tell me where it is!" The priest yelled again. Then he walked over to Banyon and grabbed him by the front of his coat, nearly lifting him and the chair off the floor. He bent down, looking right into Banyon's face, so close Banyon could see the blood vessels in the whites of his eyes. The priest screamed at Banyon once more, punctuating each word. "Tell... me... where... it&#8230; is!"

"How the hell can I tell you what I don't know?" Banyon screamed back into the man's face.

Angela managed to loosen the gag around her mouth just enough to force out a scream. "Leave him alone!" she yelled. "He's telling you the truth!"

The priest spun around and moved over to her. He grabbed her by the hair, yanking her head back. She gasped for breath. "She has beautiful eyes, don't you think?" he said, holding the knife up to her face. He shot a hellish look at Banyon. "Maybe you'd like to have one for a souvenir!"

Angela tried to move her face away from the gleaming blade but it was useless. The priest had her held tightly in his grip.

"Jesus Christ!" Banyon yelled. "You son of a bitch! Leave her alone!"

The priest yanked harder on Angela's hair, pulling her head back so far she could barely breathe. His knife grazed her eyebrow and drew blood. In the next instant all she could see was the gleaming point of the knife about to cut her eye.


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## Brenda Carroll

Time for a new snippet.  In honor of recently publishing the third book of the series in paperback on Createspace, this one is from the Red Cross of Gold III:. the Hesperian Dragon.  The Grand Master of the Order is sending Mark Ramsay on a mission to recover the stolen key to the Ark of the Covenant even though Dambretti has lost his immortality and is now vulnerable to all manner of death...

“My Prince,” Philip spoke softly and focused his eyes on him presently.  “I would speak to you concerning your decision to send Sir Dambretti on this mission with Sir Ramsay.  I do not believe that the circumstances warrant his presence in light of his... his new status.”

D’Brouchart nodded, he had expected this.  The Knight of the Golden Eagle was no longer immortal and subject to the uncertainties of life to a much greater degree than the other eleven members of the Council of Twelve.  It was Sir Philip’s duty as his second to point out possible flaws in his logic whenever necessary.

“Our Knights are not bound by the desire to live, Brother, but rather by the willingness to die in the service of Christ.  Brother Dambretti has always been at risk as are we all,”  d’Brouchart countered.  “Please do not remind me of the mistake I made.  I have suffered much on that account.”

Philip drew a deep breath.  He had not come here to chide the Master concerning Dambretti’s condition.  The Master had thought the Italian dead when he had bestowed the gift of mortality on the traitorous ex-Templar, Philipe Devereaux.  No one could hold him responsible for what had happened.  There had been little choice at the time.

“He has not passed on his mysteries and has sent his apprentice back to the Academy without proper authority.  The boy, Stephano Clementi, is barely eighteen and has completed only three years service next month with his Master…”


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## Damian Santiago

My snippet comes from a short story I started which has turned into a Novel in the making.  

One Wave at a Time

With the food gone and the bottle of wine empty, I watched him prepare his camera.  He took it off the tripod while I walked towards the water and wondered where exactly this was going.  “Are you ready for me?” I asked in my sexiest voice.  “How do you want me?”

“Just be yourself.  Act natural and do whatever you feel like doing.  Just be yourself and the photographs will find your beauty.”

I had been myself all my life and now was the time for something new.  “What if I don’t want to be myself?  What if I want to be someone else?”

He kept the camera clicking as he spoke.  “Who would you like to be?”

I stood in the water facing the camera and thought about his last question.  Here I was on a trip of a lifetime and free to do whatever I wanted.  


Hope it sparked your imagination...until next week


----------



## Edward C. Patterson

Okay - This is from my BIG Novel The Jade Owl http://www.amazon.com/dp/B001J54AWO

Mrs. K'ao split the tour into four contingents of three. She led each group to an awaiting table. Rowden, Nick and Griffen formed one group. Mrs. K'ao smiled at a tall man in a long gray coat, who was next in line for his fortune. He held a ratty spray of scallions in his left hand. He scowled when Mrs. K'ao held her hand up to insert Nick at the head of the line. Mrs. K'ao, however, met his scowl with a raised eyebrow. Soon, he relented, slapping the scallions on his knee. She smiled again (as was her nature).
"We have nothing to give," Nick said.
"Yes, you do," Mrs. K'ao replied. She looked to Rowden. "Perhaps, two silver lighters will satisfy the Tears of Guan-yin, Professor Gray."
Rowden foraged in his pockets producing two silver lighters. He wondered how these would muster with a cow-dung grown turnip or a home brewed batch of coleslaw, but he trusted Mrs. K'ao's judgment. He placed the lighters on the table beside the bushels of leafy vegetables, mushy condiments and rice - a cold feast indeed. It was then that the Jade Owl gave its loudest hoot.
Griffen cradled the knitting bag in his arms as the Cage began hopping about like a Mexican jumping bean, hot in the hand. Mrs. K'ao raised her fingers to her lips and, without shushing the bird, gazed at the bag as if she had X-ray vision and knew exactly what dwelled within (and how to calm it). Rowden observed this and felt uneasy. He liked Mrs. K'ao. He even trusted her on some level, even upon short acquaintance, but he could not fathom how this woman seemed to know their business, on all levels. What astounded him most was that the Jade Owl calmed at her bidding. Her eyes caught Rowden's. A smile blossomed across her face.
"Your musical box needs better timing, Professor Gray," she said. "Perhaps when we retreat from Lung-hua, you could remove its battery for silent portage."

Edward C. Patterson


----------



## Elmore Hammes

From Belt Buckles & Pajamas

I catch Andie watching me and I think maybe this wasn't all about being perfect and sitting together and maybe there's a little bit of how are you doing are you going crazy today involved also. But then she smiles and brushes a piece of a leaf out of my hair with her hand and it isn't about her being a doctor and me being a patient at all. 
"Thank you," I tell her. It's the first time I ever spoke to her. I mean without her doctoring me. Spoke to her like it was all my idea to speak.
"For what?" she asks.
I want to tell her the truth, I really do. But somehow, "For being someone who would brush a leaf out of my hair, for smiling to let me know it was all right, for inspiring me to live in this world, for being the love of my life," comes off as just a little too much. I think it would turn her doctor switch on, and instead I feel my face turn red as I try not to tell her I love her and that she smells good and I want to ask Violet how she tasted but I can't.
"Just because," I whisper, my head turned down, not willing to look at her, to be drawn into those soft brown eyes that own me.
I feel her watching me. I keep my head down, until the shouts of the boys playing ball draw her eyes away, and I look up, and watch her watching them, and it is wonderful again. Stepping into a warm towel just out of the dryer as you leave the shower, that's what she is. That's Andie.


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## harfner

I like that one.


----------



## Harden Taylor

This snippet is from my Kindle book _A Rock by Moon World_. 
Story Editor Gerald Paddington spat a bolus of tobacco-soaked saliva into his empty Styrofoam coffee cup then turned his scowl on the two hapless reporters. His raggedy voice, deepened by 30 years of heavy smoking was decorated with a serious strain of sarcasm.
"So, the "A" team (cough, cough) - a couple of kids and some wimpy yuppies managed to destroy a $2,200 camera, fake you out with their gimmick and send you packing. Great job gentlemen. And am I also supposed to authorize your paychecks? Do you have anything more to add to your pathetic tale?"
"Jerry, it really did happen &#8230; they really walked on water &#8230;" Eric said as he tried to talk with his hands but winced from the pain of doing it.
"What numb nuts over here is trying to say is that the water turned to dry dirt with weird little creatures running all over it. The kids and the grownups were running around on it and taking pictures and picking up stuff and putting it in bags. Then it all just disappeared," Fort asserted with a leering smile twisting his thin lips.
Enjoy, Harden Taylor


----------



## Lynn Bullman

*Yellow Wolf Running in White Snow*

_Western/action/high adventure!_

My Dunn, a good and experienced cow pony, started acting funny as I rode into that pass. Like any horse, she'd booger or spook hunt when she got tired and wanted to go back to the barn, but this time she was really acting like something was around-something that really did scare her.

About the third time she jerked her head up and blew sharply through her nostrils, laying her slender ears flat against her skull as she stamped her front hooves against the rocky soil, I figured she was really playing it straight with me. My first thought of course was that the old yellow lobo was around there somewhere. Hell, that bastard was crafty as the Devil, and surely he'd been hunted by men before, it'd be just like the canny asshole to double back on his run and maybe do a little bit of hunting of his own-maybe turning the hunter into the hunted.

Amazon link to Yellow Wolf Running in White Snow


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## kellyabell

Here's a snippet from Sealed In Lies kindle

Jack Weaver stood naked on the terrace staring out into the glorious Columbian sunset. He tossed his Gerber Trident combat knife from hand to hand. He had been in tight spots before but the situation he found himself in now left him with one hell of a decision to make. 
"Raul?" A sultry voice came from the bedroom behind him. 
Jack responded to his undercover name. "Si?"
"What are you doing, lover? Come back to bed." She whined in Spanish and patted the silken sheets on the monstrous king size bed. "We have hours yet before the dinner party."
Jack walked back into the bedroom continuing to toss the wicked looking blade as he glanced at the luscious dark haired beauty stretched catlike on the satin maroon comforter. She was the most beautiful woman Carlos had sent him to date. They had just completed a kick ass round of hot sex and he wished he could go one more round, but he wouldn't be able to concentrate. He could leave now and wreck six months of excellent undercover work trying to bring down the largest and most dangerous drug cartel in Columbia, or he could stay and ignore a planned assassination attempt on the life of the new President-Elect on Inauguration Day


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## kellyabell

Here's the 1st snippet from the Prologue of Haunted Destiny kindle

Enya shrieked again yanking and pulling to get away from the burning man. The scorching pain burned through to her very soul. He only held her tighter to him and dragged them both to the face the mirror. She was paralyzed with fear.
"Look at yourself, Enya. Are you proud now? You've killed your mother and brother and now you and I will spend eternity together forever in a fiery grave."
"NO!" Enya turned her head from the horrifying site of her and her father standing in the middle of the room being swallowed by the crimson and orange blaze. 
He yanked her hair and twisted her head back to the mirror. Her prayers to the angels wouldn't be answered tonight. "You know your end is ironic. I bet you don't even know what your name means in Gaelic. It means Fire! So watch, you witch," he growled. "Watch while we burn."
Enya did watch and what she saw in that mirror was more terrifying than the flames scorching her skin. Her father began to change. Boney protrusions began piercing the skin on his forehead and the hands that held her formed into black hooves with sharp talons at the back. The talons pierced the skin in her arms keeping her anchored to his morphing body. His face, oh dear sweet lord, his face formed into a twisted combination of goat and bull with jagged teeth. The last thing Enya experienced in her short innocent life was the sulfurous stench of his breath as he laughed his demonic laugh.


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## Heather Parker

I'm very new here and just noticed this thread - it's a great idea. So many appetizing tasters in your snippets!

Please could I add a short one below from Middlewitch? http://www.amazon.com/Middlewitch-ebook/dp/B002J256BU

I have never celebrated Halloween.
Submersing one's face in a bowl of cold water seems an uncomfortable and
bizarre way of eating an apple. As for mutilating a perfectly good turnip,
throwing away the only edible part and wearing it on your head? And they say
witches are eccentric.
More importantly, I didn't actually have any friends in the occult. I'd never
been tempted to join the village coven. They're a peculiar group of people
sporting long, flowing skirts and rings in their noses. I have no idea what they
do in woodland glades but whatever it is, I'm sure it serves to reinforce the old
stereotypes and makes it harder for the modern witch to be taken seriously. In
my opinion, most of these people are not possessed of a single power, unlike
myself. James was trying so hard to support me and respect my vocation,
however, that I really didn't feel I could refuse.
Had we known what primeval horrors awaited us on that dark, hostile
night at the village duckpond, we would never have stirred.

Thank you!


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## Gary Val Tenuta

Excerpt from my short story, "A Bite Out of Time", a rock-n-roll vampire tale with a time travel twist.

[URL=http://www.amazon]http://www.amazon.com/dp/B002OHD2CK[/url]

The woman's own body was on fire and her blood began to stir with anticipation as her mouth grazed across Vince's cheek. She lingered, momentarily at his left ear, breathing her hot breath into it and exploring it's curves with her tongue. Then down the side of his face she moved, slowly, slowly, toward his neck. She loosened the collar of his shirt, exposing his vulnerable flesh. The passion now boiled inside her with an intensity she could barely contain. She ripped his shirt wide and with a final surge of energy she sank the fangs of lust into the young man's throat and drank deeply of the crimson flow. Her body quaked and shuddered with an orgasmic rush. A moment later, satiated with pleasure, she threw her head back and squealed with delight as she backed away and let Vince's body slump to the ground, discarded like the empty wrapper of a fast-food meal. And then, for her, it was over. But for Vince it was only the beginning.


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## RJ Keller

From Chapter 27 of Waiting For Spring:

And here was a moment of truth. Because there was nothing in this closet, nothing on that top shelf - and there never had been - that a cleaning lady would ever need. No way to explain it away if an errant hair - slicked carefully back, plastered in place with hairspray, and covered with a knitted winter hat - or a drop of spit or sweat was found inside of this closet by a hardworking detective or crime scene investigator. No excuse, no alibi. Only one reason.

Less than a minute later the gun was in my hand. It was old, but in good condition, and it was butt ugly. Black rubber grip. There was something stamped on the short, silver nose.

Undercover. 38 SPL.

I had never held a gun before. Ever. It wasn't as heavy as I'd expected. Would it kick when I pulled the trigger? Would it make me fall backwards, or at least throw me off balance?

_ Think about that, Tess. Prepare for that._

I sat down at the desk. The same key that opened the gun box opened the bottom drawer.

Bullets.

I loaded the gun. It was easy, really. Push the catch, like so. Cylinder thing swings right out. Bullets slip right in.

Five. Bullets. Just. Like. That.


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## Brenda Carroll

In _the Quinta Essentia, Book V of the Red Cross of Gold Series,_ Mark Ramsay has fallen in with a trio of Roman ladies who have been taking advantage of his endless supply of Euros and his depressed state of mind. They have been paid by a mysterious stranger to conduct a little magickal 'experiment' on him and so they end the chant with the three names of Hermes Trismegistus:

"Chequetet. Arelich. Volmalites."

The rain broke over the city in torrents and the floor seemed to vibrate as the downpour set up a continual roar of wind and rumbling thunder. [&#8230;]They stood watching and waiting as the wind wailed around their third floor apartment.

"Oh my God! What is that noise?" Sylvia gasped and pressed her hands over her ears as a low, vibrating noise filled the air with a repressive buzzing sound.

The lights blinked off after a loud bang and the wind threatened to extinguish their candles. [&#8230;] The three girls sank to the floor in a tight huddle as they stared at what was happening to their unsuspecting guest.

"Is this supposed to happen?" Sylvia asked in a raspy whisper.

"Keep the camera rolling!" Adriana ignored Sylvia and poked Camilla. "I don't know. Stay inside the circle. It's supposed to protect us."

On the sofa, Mark Andrew Ramsay, _Chevalier du Morte,_ poor Knight of Solomon's Temple, lay unconscious with one arm covering his face just as he had for several minutes, but now he was encased in a glowing cocoon of light that shivered and shimmered just outside the contours of his body. While they watched, the cocoon grew outward and then separated itself into a vague twin image of blue light. The ghostly apparition sat up and put its feet on the floor, leaving Mark on the sofa in the dark. The Scotsman let out a long breath and lay absolutely still.

"Oh my God!" Camilla shouted. "We killed him!"


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## Edward C. Patterson

Little snippet (a snippetino) from The Academician http://www.amazon.com/dp/B001UE7D96 (Southern Swallow - Book I):

_"The Prince's kitchen was a fine place to rest - no nagging old woman to snap at me or shake a spoon over my head. In fact, the wenches there were almost as luscious as the brothel women, except they were dressed in gray cotton and wore their hair short. I was treated to a bowl of spring onion soup and a pile of oranges, and cherries - yes cherries, in honey sauce; and a bowl of wine. Only one cup, however, as I feared imbibing too much, and then look the fool before my master and his lord. I shouldn't have worried about that, because my master was about to look the fool. In fact, relaxing and watching the giggling kitchen help was about to come to an abrupt end. The women rushed about the place as if there was fire on the rooftop. I thought it might be something I said, but I had kept silent for once, my eyes speaking on behalf of my groin. No, there was a flurry of activity and I bounced up from my repast and followed them into the courtyard."_

Edward C. Patterson


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## Christopher L. Hughes

From _Grinzleville - The Grulling's Adventure_

He lifts his long calloused fingers to his neck and with the short talons he scratches down from his beak to the top of his chest, preening the white feathers while wondering how such a beautiful valley could be deserted and uninhabited, as this one appears to be.
He continues down the center of the valley, aware now that the sun has vanished behind him. Suddenly, as he completes a step, dread and uneasiness rapidly consume him. He halts; reactively grips the hilt of his sword and looks to his left, to his right, nothing there. He reaches for an arrow and loads it in his crossbow and continues into the basin, alert for any movement, his pinpoint eyesight allowing him to see for miles into this valley, his avian eyes ever focused, ever alert. 
Scanning far ahead he walks a few miles further, still uncomfortable, still hesitant. He turns south and trudges over the hilly terrain and down the gentle slope until he happens upon a slow moving river. He can't seem to shake this uneasy sensation. He decides to cross the river and leave this valley. _There is magic at work here! _

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B002OHD1SA


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## Kristen Tsetsi

But it can't be owned, beauty, can't be trapped in my lungs and tasted on my breath when I exhale. It's fleeting, like a silk scarf lost to the wind. An abstract, empty indulgence, so I threw--hurled, really--the geodes, but they wouldn't break, or even chip. Edges like painted glass, and inside, a cavern of dazzlingly perfect crystals, so perfect I wanted to eat them, wanted to pluck out the individual shards and push them into my eyes. I read somewhere that people are doing that, having garnets of all colors embedded in the whites of their eyes. Eye jewelry. But then, they can't see it unless they look in a mirror.

- from _Homefront_.


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## Paul Clayton

We'd spent three weeks at McGernity. Now we were going to the boondocks, closer to the enemy.

I heard the first chopper approaching, its blades going, "thock-eh-ta-thock-eh-ta." A few moments later it settled down like a duck on a pond, raising a storm of dust. One of the door gunners waved us forward and we ran, hunched over, and scrambled quickly inside. We all crowded in the center, our knees pulled up under our chins, as far away from the open doors as possible. Then I noticed Beobee and Glock sitting calmly with their feet hanging out the door. I followed suit.

The pilot wore a helmet with a mike. After looking around to make sure we were all in, he eased back on the stick. The chopper shuddered like a washing machine on spin with an unbalanced load as we lifted a foot or so off the ground. We started moving forward and Glock and I broke out in ear-to-ear grins.

It was magic. With our feet dangling earthward and the wind whipping through the cabin, we climbed quickly to four or five thousand feet. Soon we were over the jungle, and from this height it looked like a green sea with mountainous swells. The pilots seemed like young gods with fantastic powers as they worked the various controls that kept us shuddering and swaying through the sky like a great metal bird. I would have given anything for the guys in the neighborhood to have seen this.

http://www.amazon.com/Carl-Melcher-Goes-to-Vietnam/dp/B002KE5U/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=digital-text&qid=1252869458&sr=1-1


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## Randolphlalonde

From the beginning of The First Light Chronicles: Freeground - The middle of a conversation and the beginning of breakfast.

"Your mood matches the weather Jonas."
I took a seat on a stool and nodded. "You'd think they'd plant vegetation that didn't need so much rain. If I had the rank to know what this habitat would be like I would've found other housing."
"Watch what you wish for! Someone from Fleet Operations was in here the other day. She was talking about team members on your shift being promoted. I'd bet you a year of dinner you're on your way up." Minh handed me my lo mein and chopsticks.
"Oh, just what I wanted. From Port Clerk to Senior Port Clerk."
"Don't put down rank, this was my reward for retiring early from Infantry; a Kingdom of noodles and rice."
"I'm your loyal subject as always. Best lo mein I've ever had," I managed around a mouthful.
"The only lo mein you've had. You should get back into fleet, see some solid ground somewhere. Maybe spend some time at another restaurant. I won't mind as long as you come back with friends."
"One year on All-Con Prime was plenty."
"Not much of a world after the corporations mined it to nothing. Maybe you can find a nice home world to make landfall on this time. Just make sure there's a beach and plenty of women around so I'll have something to do when I get there."
"And leave your Kingdom?"
"Nothing is a constant but change."

You can get the trilogy here for free: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/3178


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## RavenRozier

From _Last Door_, a true, psychological thriller about multiple personalities and demons:

"Comforter, talk to me."
Then a whisper came out of Brendan's mouth,
something almost inaudible.
"Louder," Sean said, "I can't hear you."
In a faint whisper, Sean heard, "I can't."
"Can't, or won't?" he asked.
"I can't," Comforter murmured.
Sean, more forcefully, demanded, "Can't or
won't? Speak to me in your own voice."
Then, Comforter spoke softly but very clearly:
"The body wants to go to bed."
"Fine," Sean accommodated her. "Let's go lay
down. Holly, come with us."
They all rose and went upstairs to Brendan's
bedroom. Comforter lay down on her back on
Brendan's bed. Sean sat on the edge of the bed while
Holly stood back against the wall.
Sean goaded the stubborn personality,
"Comforter, please talk to me."
Nothing.
"Damn it," Sean said. His patience was wearing
more and more thin.
"Talk to me."
Comforter turned on her side and faced Sean
and Holly directly. A visage of total evil came across the
face. The high-pitched, female voice of a demon
threatened Sean.
"I can harm the body. I can destroy the others.
They all fear me."
Sean backed away from the bed, not taking his
eyes off of Comforter for a second, and calmly told
Holly, "Call the church. We're going to need help."


----------



## mamiller

This week's Widow's Tale







snippet takes us back to the very beginning of the book...

Serena Murphy squinted into the wind, searching cliffs lashed by angry surf. Maine's autumn freeze wrapped her in its clutch and whipped her hair over her face. 
Serena was looking for a body.
The maelstrom assaulting the deck of O'Flanagans Tavern did not deter her. She leaned forward and gripped the rail.
A month had passed already, and each day before the dinnertime rush, Serena came out to search the cliffs for any trace of her husband, Alan, who'd been pronounced lost at sea. 
Alan was dead. She was sure of that. Even the sea spoke to her, weaving a tale of his demise in the fishing boat she had urged him to repair. She was certain he was dead because he haunted her. Not as a physical ghost, but there were signs-small, intimate signals that could only be executed by Alan's malevolent spirit.
"Serena! Get in here before you catch your death of cold!" 
Tempted to ignore the intrusion, Serena caught a glimpse of her part-time waitress, Rebecca, with her head stuck out the back door. 
What an image she must portray to the young woman. Every night Serena stood out here, perched atop these cliffs, searching for a body. Searching for ghosts. 
But that's not what her waitress saw. She saw a distraught widow anguished over the loss of her husband. She did not see her. She did not see the woman who feared Alan even after death. 
It took effort, but Serena called across the wind, "I'll be right there."
Alone with the waves that crashed against the rocks below, Serena waited for pain to envelop her. She waited for heart-wrenching sobs or any raw emotion that might signal despair over the loss of her husband. 
Only the bleak whistle of the wind and the somber ring of a buoy answered.


----------



## Elmore Hammes

From my space opera/espionage/thriller The Cloud .This snippet occurs as the titular entity "the cloud" travels further into our Solar System.

The cloud expanded to its greatest width as it passed through the Kuiper belt. It found no life energy within the frozen rocks. It contracted again as it let the gravity of Neptune draw it near, slowing its speed slightly as it neared the largest object it had detected since the last planetary system. Again, its quest for energy was fruitless.
It shifted direction and widened its scope in order to encompass all of Neptune's moons in its path as it left the planet. It shifted particles, easily escaping the planet's gravitational forces. 
It continued its journey to the center of the solar system, orbiting the sun, letting its gravitational forces pull it in tighter and tighter circles, so it would intersect as many planetary objects as possible on its journey toward the sun. It would then use the great speed built up by the gravity of the sun to slingshot out of the system. It was within the boundaries of the outer planets now, having passed through the first of the four gas giants. Uranus, approximately the same size as Neptune but with three times as many moons, would be next in line. It would take just over three hours for the cloud's circular orbits to cross the void to reach Uranus, where it would probe for life energies again. It would take another three hours for it to pass through Saturn and the colossal Jupiter. After that, less than an hour to go through the asteroid belt and Mars. From there minutes to the only planet in the system that harbored the life energy it sought. Only minutes to the planet called Earth.


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## Heather Parker

A snippet from Middlewitch (Our heroine's future mother-in-law comes to stay...)

The following morning dawned cheery and bright. 
Unfortunately, so did Olive.
What sort of a woman gets up at eight-thirty on a Sunday morning and sings?
No wonder her husband needed a break from her once in a while. James and I
were accustomed to crawling out of bed about eleven and coming awake gently
with a nice pot of tea-not with six verses of 'All Things Bright and Beautiful.'
I've always been broad-minded, but witches do not generally appreciate hymn
singing in their bathroom. I dare say the Pope would feel the same about
someone chanting Hare Krishna in the Vatican. It just isn't politically correct.
James took one look at my face and put his dressing gown on hurriedly.
"I'll go and have a word, Alicia. She doesn't understand..."

http://www.amazon.com/Middlewitch-ebook/dp/B002J256BU


----------



## Edward C. Patterson

From my favorite child, Turning Idolater http://www.amazon.com/dp/B001FWZ92Q, a snippet demonstrating dialogue flow:

"Why did you give it to me?" Philip asked.

"Have a strawberry," Uncle Dean said, holding one out on his fork.

"Don't try to change the subject," Philip said. This man caused his change of condition and he sensed it was no accident. Philip had to know - deserved to know.

"I'm not changing the subject," Dean said. "This strawberry is the subject." He removed it from the fork and rolled it between his fingers. "You see, a strawberry is a common fruit grown by the million, low to the ground and many to the vine. There's nothing special about a strawberry until . . . until you dip it in chocolate and serve it with beer."

Philip chuckled. The man was charming - a philosopher at the kitchen table, who appeared more wizard than probable. Still the homily struck home. Philip reached out and snapped the strawberry from Dean's hand and popped it into his own mouth.
"That tells me how," Philip said between chews. "It doesn't tell me why."

"Need there be a why? Can't spontaneity count for something? You were a cherub in my midst and worthy of a generous gift."
Philip sighed. He realized that the man was going to be a Sphinx. "Yes. I was completely captured by the book. The words took my breath away and I followed the Pequod and her journey well. But if I hadn't met Tee, I wouldn't have ever known that you had given me something beyond accepting. In fact, if I had known its worth then, I wouldn't have accepted it."

Dean raised his eyebrow. "Would you have accepted a gold watch - a cheap Rolex by comparison? Or a few months in Montego Bay?"
Phil smiled. "At least I would have known what I was getting into."

"You might think that and still could be wrong. I wasn't buying your time."

Edward C. Patterson


----------



## Kristen Tsetsi

Denise and I sit-breathing, waiting-on the phone while we watch the first bow of white light streak across our screens and land somewhere in the center of the city. Beautiful, if there's no real thinking about it.

"That's it," she says. Something goes clink on her end, reminding me to refill my glass. "We just watched the beginning from our living rooms. Hey-what do you think they were doing in their living rooms?"

I stay up long after we get off the phone, until the bottle's empty, and check the line every now and then for a dial tone.

________​
_March 19
Jake,
Howe area yhou righkt now;? 
Don't type trunk. Drunk/ 
Howareyouhowareyouhowareyou
Alive,righat? Alive, I hope. I'ma sure you war. 
Are! 
What the hellk.
Lksdoihoagfnlkaglkd_

From _Homefront_.


----------



## Chris J

("Figure 1" is a graph of the earth's climate, based on ice cores from EPICA Dome C in Antarctica)

Figure 1 clearly indicates some things that need to be considered by the current population of our planet. For starters, our planet has only been as warm as it is right now, four times in the past 800,000 years. If you take a look at the peaks of the previous four interglacial periods, you can see that our planet begins to cool off after it reaches a certain threshold. That threshold appears to be three to five degrees Celsius warmer than this chart is indicating our current temperature to be. What this chart doesn't show is what the temperature over the last hundred years has been, because the temperature shown is one hundred year averages. We know that the average temperature of the Antarctic has increased about 1 degree Celsius over the past fifty years, and the last 100 year average of J. Jouzel's calculations for the period of roughly 1900 CE were roughly 1.5 degrees Celsius above 0. So instead of being close to 0 degrees, we're really quite close to that threshold, already. People who believe that nothing will happen in their lifetime either don't know this, or they are expecting to die in the very near future, because at best that only leaves us with 1 to 2 degrees to play with.

From The "End of Days" Cycle


----------



## LCEvans

Another excerpt from We Interrupt This Date:

Herman’s face, slightly blurry in the way fleshy features often are, had so far shown only two expressions—disapproving and smug. When I mentioned that my mother had a couple of Chihuahuas which tried to outdo each other in yapping, his response was, “Well, they would. Your basic Chihuahua has tiny vocal chords that can’t emit a deep throaty sound like, say, your basic German Shepherd.”
Yeah, I thought glaring at him, and your basic jerk probably has tiny…never mind. 
I’d poured myself a second glass of wine and taken a big gulp, though I wasn’t used to drinking and was already slightly tipsy. It was then that Herman managed to drop his fork in the middle of his plate and splat sauce—in an unattractive map of the world pattern--across the front of my blouse.


----------



## BP Myers

From my short story "The Collector" found in my . . . err . . . collection, titled Adamson's Rock and Other Stories







:

There was one bookshop off Tremont Street that often bought books in bulk, from estate sales and the like. Boxes of the things were always piled up along the back wall waiting to be sorted. The proprietor of the shop was himself a collector of some renown, so these boxes were off-limits to the public until he'd gone through them. But I'd mastered the art of rifling them surreptitiously, peering over my shoulder to ensure the college student behind the counter was otherwise engaged.

On the day in question, it was in the third box I'd gone through, buried beneath musty and worthless Masonic tomes and stacks of turn-of-the-century sheet music, that I found it. It took more than a moment to sink in. I could scarcely believe my eyes. I took in a sharp breath. My hands began to shake. I blinked hard before again opening my eyes for fear I was just imagining it. Still, there it was. Even an amateur collector like myself understood the scarcity and value of what lay before me.

It was a thin, softbound volume. A pamphlet, really. The front cover was stained and brown. The corners dog-eared. But even through the years of grime, still visible on its cover was the square-framed starburst with finials in each corner announcing to all the world the author had arrived! Alas, I knew the rest of the story. The world didn't care. Not then.


----------



## Brenda Carroll

I just posted my third novel in the Red  Cross of Gold series to Author's Den and found a rather scary, creepy excerpt from it for use on the AD site. Thought it might satisfy the Snippet challenge this week. Here's a little peek into the Red Cross of Gold III:. the Head of the Crow:

Mark Andrew was drawn inexorably down to the cellar and then on to the laboratory. Cold sweat poured down his face and he was shaking all over as he approached the heavily reinforced, almost invisible door leading into the lab. It took three tries to open the bolt and pull it back, so badly were his hands shaking. He pushed the door open cautiously and stood back, waiting for something to happen. The room beyond was filled with a soft glow and yet he knew that no candles or lamps were lit inside. He stepped into the room and looked for the source of the light. The wooden crate sat in the corner that he had hastily cleared for it and nothing had changed in that respect. The light came from everywhere and nowhere. As he looked about the laboratory, he noticed that his breathing was loud and raspy in his ears as if they were stopped up. To dispel the unnatural, unnerving glow, he struck a match and lit one of the small oil lamps amidst the familiar clutter on the worktable. His eyes fell on the bell jar and the strands of hair under the glass. At first, he thought his eyes were playing tricks on him in the gloom. He froze and squeezed his eyes shut, willing all to be normal, but the hair was moving of its own accord when he opened them again. The three strands were no longer braided, but were twisting and writhing about each other ...


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## kellyabell

Snippet #2 - from Haunted Destiny kindle
There in the mirror was the image of a horribly
burned girl. Most of her hair had been burned away
and what was left was singed and hung in a stringy
veil around her face. The face was frighteningly
disfigured, one eye was missing out of its socket
and putrid blisters nestled in black charred skin
made it impossible to tell what her original features
had once been. Destiny froze. She couldn't move. It
was as if the gaze of the one-eyed girl had her
paralyzed.
She opened her mouth to scream but no sound
would come out. She could hear Amy calling her
name but it seemed as if she were miles away. Still
watching in the mirror Destiny saw another figure
begin to form behind the girl. This was a dark
shadow in the shape of a human but the face never
materialized. The shadow moved in closer behind
the girl and loomed over her. The girl's head turned
and looked behind her. Fear twisted her disfigured
face and she stretched her mouth into a soundless
scream. Destiny's heart pounded in her chest and
she could hear the roar of her own blood rushing
through her veins as the adrenalin provoked a fight
or flight response. She wanted to flee but she was
rooted to that spot. She could not take her eyes off
that mirror.


----------



## Paul Clayton

We moved to the edge of the bunker and looked down to where the maze of barbed wire, mines and trip flares met the tangled green of the jungle. I could barely make out something moving through the greenery. Then bamboo crackled loudly and they emerged, hunched over, the green rucksacks high up on their backs like humps, weapons cradled in their arms. They plodded slowly up the winding path like a team of mules tethered together, three black guys, soul brothers they liked to be called, and a white guy bringing up the rear. One of the soul brothers carried an M-79 grenade launcher and another an M-16 rifle and the radio. The point man was very dark, and carried a sawed-off, automatic shotgun. The white guy carried the M-60 machine gun. All four of them had belted machine gun ammo X-ed across their chests like Mexican banditos.

Papa yelled to them. They looked up and waved feebly. I think they were too winded to yell or say anything. The dusty-colored guy lost his helmet as he leaned back to see us. He quickly grabbed it and laughed. The darker point man's eyes were hidden behind a pair of wrap-around sunglasses.

Inside the wire, they dumped their rucksacks and sat. They were all sweating pretty bad; it must've been a rough climb up from the valley. The white machine gunner collected the extra belts of ammo and left.

The three soul brothers regarded us casually as Papa introduced us.

http://www.amazon.com/Carl-Melcher-Goes-to-Vietnam/dp/B002KE5U/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=digital-text&qid=1253593637&sr=1-1


----------



## Edward C. Patterson

This snippet idea of mine has been a success, and I have something new up my sleeve for he creative spark among readers and authors. Keep an EYE in the Bazaar for my latest hairbrain idea.

Edward C Patterson


----------



## Elmore Hammes

From The Twenty Dollar Bill, at a point in the story where the bill has made its way to Mexico.

*Gloria*

I have been working for Hector for almost a year now. Once he realized I was a good worker, and interested in medicine and not his advances, everything has been fine. I think the previous attendant had those interests reversed, and he may have gotten less work done but been at the office a lot more then - that is until his wife found out why he was working so late. She was around a lot the first month after Hector hired me, but I think she can see I have no interest in him as a lover. Not that there is anything wrong with Hector as a man, other than his wandering eye, but he is at least ten years older than I am, and not the sort of man I wish for a husband, especially since he already has a wife.
I spend most of my time reading his books. I am trying to save up enough to go to a university, but it will take years to earn the money for tuition. And it is hard to save, when so many people come in here needing medicine. They can usually only offer a tenth of what I am supposed to charge. Most of the time I have to turn them away, but when the need is great, when a child's life is at stake, how can I refuse them?


----------



## J Dean

I'm going to throw one out from my upcoming novel, the sequel to _The Summoning of Clade Josso_ (see link in my signature)

Above them was one of the ceiling tiles. No, not a ceiling tile-Cseli's shiners revealed that the rectangular shape was fashioned from some sort of skin that was rocklike in appearance, but definitely not rock. It rippled, full of living, sculpted detail, with muscular features that expanded and contracted, as if it were breathing, or flexing its body in laborious contraction. At the far end of the tile, filling almost a third of the surface, was a circular impression, some sort of organ that seemed to relax and tense in harmony with the rest of the pulsing body. In this circle, an irregular array of yellowish points projected outward, each one, Cseli quickly surmised, to be roughly as long as his own index finger. At the center of the circular organ protruded a larger, black object, that came to a sharp point, reminding Cseli of an insect's stinger, only much larger. Beyond this, there were no other external organs to observe, not even eyes.
But it was the rest of the sight that caused Mahdlin to let out a frightened yowl. Hanging in the air, near the far end of the tile-thing, were Brate's legs, furiously kicking away. On either side of the tile-thing were his purple arms, which flailed uselessly in equally panicked fervor. The rest of Brate could not be seen; the tile-thing had mercilessly slammed him to the ceiling above, and a sickly, muffled sound resembling the violent tearing of fabric came from the unseen side, where the tile-thing had come in contact with the unsuspecting Juvan.


----------



## Kevin Gerard

The man pointed both barrels of the shotgun directly at the base of his target’s skull. He squeezed the trigger gently. If it weren’t for the splattered pieces of brain, skin, and bone flying in every direction, the sound of the blast would no doubt have frozen everyone in their shoes. A twelve gauge explosion in a small, enclosed room brings everyone to attention without pause.

The headless body slumped to the floor in front of the attacker. The man wearing the aviator sunglasses scanned the room quickly, looking for anyone foolish enough to challenge him. No one came forward. Instead, many in the audience bolted for the back door. What they saw there caused them to abruptly change their minds

Three men stood inside the dank, dimly lit room, each holding an AK-47 rifle. The man on the left fired off a short burst, halting the running men in their tracks. The audience members, their faces wide with fear, backed up toward the bloody pit in the center of the room.

Oddly, even with the gunfire and the apparent panic surging throughout the room, the two fighting dogs in the well continued ripping each other to shreds. One of the dogs had taken the worst of it. It limped horribly to the left while snapping its head back; trying to inflict any damage it could to its opponent. The other dog, a huge pit bull, seemed to sense that the battle had turned in its favor. It carefully measured its attacks to cause maximum damage. The first dog would be dead in a matter of minutes.

“Turner, Michaels,” said the man holding the shotgun, “the dogs.”


----------



## Edward C. Patterson

Okay Folks. Here's the snippet where Martin Powers walks the AIDS Quilt from my 3 hankie read, Look Away Silence http://www.amazon.com/dp/1448651921

"It's almost over, Martin," he whispered. "He's in your heart and he goes with you today."

I clutched him and gazed out at the throngs - the silent throngs that walked between the panels, between the boxes of tissues that were set at each corner. I stepped out. Numb, but I stepped.

At first, the world was brightly colored - a vast ocean of cloth as varied as the many lives that winked at God. The lanes were even and I had a strange thought that I was on a newly ploughed field in cotton country. Slowly, with Hank guiding me, I walked. Other mourners walked and watched, gazed and read - in pairs and in clutches and solitary. Some hovered at one panel, while other stood transfixed at a single point, reading or remembering. All the while, the names came over the PA system. Name after name.

I had walked onto this living symbol of shame and remembrance afraid to cast my eyes downward. I knew that at some point I would come to Matt's panel. I heard some people whispering. _Did you see Rock Hudson's panel _ and someone else referred to _Keith Haring's_. Was this a museum? A place to gather mementos? I noticed people photographing individual panels as if they were making a scrapbook and these were works of art. Art? No. This was the fabric of our grief that we sewed together to get a government to recognize that here was the unattended business in the land, business that stole away the young. This was not a cemetery. This was the graffiti of the heart. It shouted quietly over the landscape from the Capitol Dome to the Washington Monument - ten thousand expressions of remembrance all shouting in a whisper _Listen to me, for I am gone and could be still here if you did not ignore me_.

Finally, I gained enough courage to look down and see them - to appreciate my fellows in kindred threads. There they were as I passed - photos of young men and hearty couples. Their jackets and jeans, their merry life-filled faces enjoying what I had now in abundance, but they had not. Teddy bears for infants with short shrift date spans and firemen and police. There were architects and dancers and actors and poets and lawyers and even a nurse. I walked and walked until I scarcely noticed those who walked with me, beside me and between the cotton bounded lanes. It was so huge, this quilt - this field of waste that lay before me. I thought of the hours I spent caring for Matt and it was now multiplied in the thousands and tens of thousands. There was fellowship here among those who shared my peregrination. Still the names came.

Edward C. Patterson
Sorry


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## eddiewright86

'She said okay and I built a birdhouse. It felt like a good idea. It felt like the right idea. It felt like I found what I was supposed to do with my life. I was supposed to be a birdhouse manufacturer. I was supposed to sell them to old people. "It would be a goldmine," I said. "Make them with my own hands," I said. "Blood, sweat and whatever," I said. 
In twenty minutes, I hated birdhouses and I needed a new 
one. 
"But it's such a beautiful birdhouse," Bonnie said. I didn't believe her. I just wanted a new one. I just wanted the feeling again. I just wanted the rush again. There's nothing like inspiration. There's nothing like new ideas. There's nothing 
like that millisecond when thoughts and feelings and dreams and creativity and pride pile on top of each other to form a mountain of hope that you can climb to overlook all the shit that clouds your existence. 
But there's also nothing quite as horrifying as the inevitable fall that comes when you realize that the mountain was made of nothing. When you realize that you've been standing on false hopes, broken dreams and idiotic, unrealistic thoughts and you plummet right back into the middle of all that shit and it's worse than you remember. There's nothing quite like nothingness. '

From _Broken Bulbs_ http://www.amazon.com/Broken-Bulbs/dp/B002JIN85K/ref=sr_1_3?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1253729525&sr=8-3


----------



## Damian Santiago

Here is my snippet from my collection of short stories titled Erotic Tales. This story is titled Vacation and this is from the very end of the story.

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B002FU5QNE

The three of us lay there side by side by side, looking up at the stars that had come out, catching our breaths. The feeling that overcame us all at once was too much for words and we each just glided our hands over each other, enjoying how close we felt at that exact moment even though we had just met this 'stranger'. This was something new we had just experienced, and judging by the smiles we all had, it was thoroughly enjoyed by everyone and I'm sure they were thinking the same thing I was..._when are we going to do that again?_


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## KLBrady

Here's snippet from my novel, The Bum Magnet...

The crackling wood echoed in my Milano tile fireplace betraying the emptiness of my expansive colonial. I thought about adding another log to the dying flames, but in my depressed state, the five feet from the chaise to the fireplace was about four feet longer than I could bear to walk. I refused to budge for at least another two days. By then, the holidays would be over, and I could leave my house without suppressing the urge to rapid fire BB pellets into the spectacle of inflatable Christmas decorations adorning every front yard in the neighborhood except mine. 

My house looked like Gale-force winds blew out the windows. I  hadn't cleaned in over a week. The furniture exposed enough dust to grow crops, and the kitchen sink had all but disappeared beneath a mound of dirty dishes with a tilt reminiscent of The Leaning Tower of Pisa. Worse, I vegged on my chaise for so long the leather cushion resembled a foam memory pillow. But getting up was pointless, and I only had enough energy to R&R . . . rotate and reach for my snacks. 

Critical life-sustaining provisions were positioned within an arm's length—one fresh box of Kleenex, a trash can, remote controls for all of the electronics, two bags of Ranch Doritos, one half-eaten bag of Cool Mint Oreos, approximately twenty-five dollars worth of Godiva truffles from a fifty-dollar box, an unopened bag of miniature Reese's Peanut Butter Cups (Hershey's versus Godiva—no contest), and an ice cold bottle of Grey Goose, also half empty.


----------



## G.Hugh

*Excerpt from Treachery In Turtle Bay by G. Hugh Bodell*
www.treacheryinturtlebay.com

"Apparently, the cleanup had not yet been completed, or possibly not yet begun. I could see the body bag on the ground next to one of the benches, but there were still small pools of blood on and around the bench. I saw small clumps of what possibly were pieces of his brain or some other body parts. I concluded this because they were circled in yellow chalk marks on the stone surface of the park.

More to clear my brain of the vision, I looked up to the trees in the park only to see what looked like a light colored silken robe. It was ripped but much of it had stuck in the branches of the fifty-foot trees that were all over the small park.

Now who the hell puts on a silk robe to jump out the twentieth story window of their apartment?"


----------



## sierra09

Latest Excerpt from Celtic Evil: A Fitzgerald Brother Novel: Roarke









"Did you know?" he asked without looking.
"What?" Kerry sat on the desk edge and waited.
Roarke didn't want this. He didn't want to face this part of his past but suddenly needed to know this. He needed to understand.
"Did you know about it, Kerry?" he asked again, finally turning to his brother. "Did you know about what was going?"
"Roarke, I don't expect you to believe me but until the other night I had no idea what you had gone through." He replied honestly, staying where he was since Kerry knew now wasn't the time to approach. "I didn't know until I touched you and until Deirdre finally gave me these."
He held out the bundle of letters, seeing his brother's eyes narrow as he saw them. "If I had of known or even suspected what they were doing, what she had told them to do, I would have been in Mayo, you would have come home with me and those sadists would have hurt."
The firm tones of his brother made Roarke look at him fully, feeling the emotion from him. The pain and anger that Kerry felt inside for what he believed he had allowed to happen to his younger brother.
"She said you were better off and that's why you ignored my letters." He stated softly, eyes on the letters and didn't see his brother's eyes spark. "I always wondered."
"You thought I didn't care or that I blamed you for Mum and Da's death." Kerry guessed, being careful as he put the letters back on the desk so he could stand up. "I didn't know, Roarke."
Roarke shifted uneasily, finally going to look out the window; needing to focus on something else but he still felt the unspoken between them.


----------



## Heather Parker

*'Twas the week before Christmas&#8230;* *Middlewitch*

It all started the week before Christmas, and Middlewitch was a cold and bleak place. The villagers stayed inside their cottages and watched merry sagas on their television sets, such as_ Casualty and Cosmetic Surgery Live: the Christmas Episodes._ Even the weather forecast looked cheery and festive with tinsel round the map of Ireland and the happy presenter wearing a red hat with a bell. They say these little touches make one smile and feel so much better...
"Really, Alicia, you could at least try to make an effort. For my sake if not for your own. I actually like Christmas, with all the trimmings and traditions that go along with it. I put up with your lifestyle. It wouldn't hurt you to try to share mine occasionally." 
James was aggrieved at my constant grumbling and I suppose he had a point. He wanted to decorate the cottage with bunting and was meeting strong opposition from both Domino and myself. Tango was more interested, thinking a tree could be fun to climb-and those silver baubles looked promising.
"I didn't know you resented my being a witch," I replied haughtily&#8230;

*http://www.amazon.com/Middlewitch-ebook/dp/B002J256BU*​


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## Chris J

We are quite good at ignoring what we are doing to our future generations. We are also ignoring another major problem that is only getting worse. Our national debt has risen to its highest level ever, yet few people appear concerned. Our new president has even reduced taxes, in hopes that we'll spend the extra money, which might bring us out of our current recession. That might work, but don't count on it, because part of the prophecy involves a worldwide monetary system that is destined to collapse. The Stock Market is worldwide now, and we have recently witnessed how one nation's economic news affects other nations. For the first time in history we have a global economy, based entirely on the Stock Markets. And that is what one of the most famous men on our planet has decided to attack.
He knew what he was doing, when he brought down the World Trade Center. And he got to see the results of his work immediately. Gold prices started to rise, as the more scrupulous of investors started taking their money out of the Stock Market and putting it in gold. If you take a look at the price of gold for the last ten years, you will see the results for yourself.

From The "End of Days" Cycle


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## Brenda Carroll

This a preview from the Red Cross of Gold XIV:. The Skull of Sidon which should be released sometime in October.

The sound of hoof beats cut through his mind and he looked about to see Sam riding toward him under the trees. The elf pulled up short next to him and dismounted.
"King Adar." The elf bowed his head slightly. "A word with you, if you please."
"Of course, Sam. Speak your mind," Mark told him shortly.
"I have come to ask that you relieve my lands of your children and your children's children and their children. They do not belong here. I would hope that this is why you have come." The elf fell in beside him as he continued on his journey. He led his small gray pony behind him.
"Aye. That is why I'm here, Sam," Mark Andrew told him.
"Good. This new menace from the Abyss will surely go back to the depths as soon as you have taken them and gone."
"I would like to think so."
"We cannot stand against him. As we could not stand against his sister, the Queen. If he does not return to his death's slumber, then we will be forced to leave. It would be sad, depressing, distressing, most unpleasant to leave our homes here, Adar." Sam waved his slender hands about in agitation.
"I would be sad to see you go, friend. This is none of your doing. It is my fault and I will see to it as best I can. You have my word."


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## kellyabell

I'm a bit behind on my snippets but here is this weeks.  Haunted Destiny by Kelly Abell

Destiny swam to the surface of her mind responding to her grandmother’s voice. She could
hear the soft raspy sound of her name being called over and over and slowly she became aware of a
cool cloth lying across her forehead. Opening her eyes, Destiny found herself on the couch with Rose
on her knees next to her. The soft paper thin skin of her hand felt cool against Destiny’s cheek as Rose
stroked each side of her face.

“Destiny? Are you back with me?”

Destiny nodded. “What happened? Did I faint?”

“You did, dead away. If I hadn’t been right there you’d have cracked your skull on the floor. As it
was you took me down with you. It took all my strength just to get you over here onto the couch.”

“I’m sorry, Grams,” Destiny whispered.

“Child, you couldn’t help it. Must have been quite a shock to the system to hear you spent an hour or
so talking to a ghost. Most people wouldn’t have dealt with it as well as you did. At least you didn’t
run screaming into the street. You just shut down so your brain could process what you’d been told.
Personally, I didn’t react as well as you did the first time it happened to me. I was more of a
screamer, you see. For the first few months, when I was about your age, I would run away screaming.
Trying to scare them away I guess, hoping they wouldn’t follow, but they always did. Once you
know you have the gift you can’t get away from it. It is always with you.” Rose lifted the cloth from
Destiny’s forehead and struggled to her feet, moaning as she did so. Trying to make her stiff
arthritic knees work she shuffled over to the sink to re-wet the cloth.

“Grams, I’m sorry, but I really find it hard to believe that I was talking to a ghost. He looked
every bit as real as you do right now. He wasn’t transparent or floating or anything. How could he
be a ghost when he looks so real?” Destiny sat up and swung her legs around and tucked them
underneath her.


----------



## Paul Clayton

Carl's first patrol&#8230;

In a little clearing, Beobee and Glock were whispering excitedly to Ron and Papa. Beobee's helmet was off and his bald head shone with sweat. "It was damn near the easiest shot I've ever made, Ron," he said, pausing to daub his sweaty face. Beobee had a way of wiping his face that never failed to amaze me. He made a production out of it, the way some guys packed a pipe. He'd pull out his big, olive-drab-colored hanky, snap it smartly against his pant leg to loosen it up, and then fluff it and somehow work it up into this large, green puff which wriggled across his face and head, sucking up the sweat as if it had a life of its own.

I looked around and saw some guy laying on the ground. Beobee returned his handkerchief to his pocket and continued. "I just waited till he was about a hundred feet away and let him have it. Just squeezed a round off."

Ron listened, his eyes and feelings hidden behind his sunglasses. I'd swear he was born with sunglasses.

Papa nervously rubbed his dark smudgy beard and looked over at Glock who was on his knees beside the enemy guy, going through his pockets.

"He didn't try and run?" said Papa.

"Hell, no," said Beobee. "With me behind all this brush here, there was no way in hell he could see me."

I moved away from them to see the dead guy.

http://www.amazon.com/Carl-Melcher-Goes-to-Vietnam/dp/B002KE5U/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=digital-text&qid=1254025571&sr=1-1


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## mamiller

A snippet from WIDOW'S TALE ...

Alan was gone.
Serena was relieved to hear him leave. In fact, that that had always been the case. 
Yet it was at this moment, this dreadful silence before the arrival of her next phantom that Serena recognized the icy tendrils of fear. When her ghost arrived today, it assaulted her not with the anticipated wails of anguish, but something much more horrifying. 
_Laughter_. 
Serena's hands lashed out before her to hold the sound at bay, but the child's echoes of mirth dipped into her soul, permitting a glimpse of a life taken. Serena moaned, but the childish giggles prevailed, a singsong laughter that had her teetering on the edge. Incoherent pleas fell from her lips as she hugged her arms about her and rocked back and forth, ignorant of the tears coursing down her cheeks.
That was how Brett found her.


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## Elmore Hammes

A snippet from my mature-readers novel, Belt Buckles & Pajamas, written under pen name Michele LeBlanc.

"&#8230;However," she says, looking intently at Pet Shop, "if he doesn't choose to return you must allow him that. It is, in the end, his choice to be here or not. It is always a choice."
As if it was my choice, as if it is ever a little girl's choice. To trust her daddy. To listen to her daddy. To love her daddy.
"How could you be him?" I suddenly scream and then I am both shouting and crying. She looks startled, how can she be startled when she was there? Tears stream down my face and Shy Boy cowers down in his chair and Stuart and Pet Shop and Violet just watch as I explode. "How


Spoiler



the hell


can you say I had a choice when you made me love you? It's like saying I chose to have two feet or freckles or to feel like throwing up whenever I smell bacon burning?"
"There is no choice, it's not my fault it's yours, it's your fault, how can you be him?" I sob as she tries to hold me but I push her and start scratching and kicking and biting I don't know who it is I am attacking but it hurts and I hate him, I hate him, I hate him and Sam is pulling me off of her and I feel the needle plunge into my arm and it goes dark.


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## Edward C. Patterson

In Honor of Burn's *The National Parks: America's Best Idea*, I give you an appropriate snippet from _*The Jade Owl * _ http://www.amazon.com/dp/B001J54AWO

Yosemite, chilled by an early winter breeze beneath the mariposa, shadowed by Half Dome and Cathedral Rock, gave Rowden the serenity he sought. His stress drained away in this wilderness valley. He had left the plains behind and rose into the mountains. Redwoods towered over the road like a giant's picket. The majesty that surrounded him was rugged. Pristine. Much like it had been when the first lizards crawled up the granite and stretched under the pellucid sky.

First stop, El Capitan. Rowden left the bus in church-like quiet as if he stood beneath holy cupolas and sacred transoms. He witnessed Mirror Lake set to catch mighty El Capitan's reflection. Fresh sounds of silence. The untouched ancient hills washed his soul.

"It's peaceful," Rowden said. This was the ticket, the vision that made him small again, as he should be. He knew his life had been twisting along a road not unlike the one that crossed this park. _Do all paths need to end at something as glorious as this?_ He would often think of the peace that touched him here - touched him with erosion's beauty.

Nick stood beside him. "Inspiration Point."

"Today, I've wandered into Eden."  
Edward C. Patterson


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## Heather Parker

Snippet from *Middlewitch* - The Demon of Eternal Life

As part of the Halloween celebration, Mrs. Wilkins explained, Esmeralda from the health shop had got hold of a book on the black arts and found what sounded like an interesting spell. It was supposed to slow the ageing process and was greeted enthusiastically by the ladies of a certain age. Thinking it was a sort of mystical Botox, they performed the spell.
There was a ghastly silence.
"Whom did she say they had invoked?" 
I heard Domino's quiet but dreadful voice behind me and I knew we should be afraid. He looked up at me, the fur on his back rigid. I repeated the question to the coven, and the girl with the ring in her nose answered softly.
"The Demon of Eternal Life." 
Domino stared at me, and I at him. His old eyes were rounder and larger than I had ever seen them. 
Clouds crept over the full moon and the dark shadows seemed alive as they danced menacingly over the village. In the distance, I could hear the wind rising. The trees surrounding us began to wave ominously, closing ranks. The cats lay down, their tails swishing violently as they emitted low, blood-curdling growls. Even little Tango was aware of the enormity of the deed and pressed against my legs, trembling. I had never been so afraid in my life. 
"Will it work, do you think?" asked James. "Because I know my mother would definitely be interested."
I closed my eyes. Could this night get worse?

http://www.amazon.com/Middlewitch-ebook/dp/B002J256BU


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## Chris J

But Jesus was right about part of his interpretation of Daniel's vision. He took the part about the "Son of Man" coming in the clouds as a literal event. And so it was. He was also right about every eye seeing it, and so it was. That was the beginning of the destruction of the "fourth beast" in Daniel's vision. It was an event that every person on the planet is aware of now. There are very few people who didn't witness, or at least later see the destruction of the World Trade Center. That was the "Son of Man," "coming in the clouds." He didn't do it personally, but he definitely was responsible for it. The World Trade Center contained so many people that it could be considered a "city," and it even had its own zip code. That was "Aiath," and we're in trouble. 
It doesn't matter if a person actually lives in the country that got attacked, because the prophecies are telling us about a war that would lead up to the period of destruction. When it's all over, it won't matter who was guilty of doing what. All that will matter is if you recognized the "signs" well enough to take heed. If you have been misled about who the "Son of Man" is, and think that he's going to save the world by his own righteousness, then you are going to miss the easiest "sign." You are also going to miss an important clue regarding who will lead humanity to safety during the destruction, and where he will reside. Daniel gives us a clue about where he lives, when he said that the "Son of Man" would come to the "Ancient of days." What country did he go to when the World Trade Center was leveled?


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## Carolyn Kephart

It's been a while since I snipped. Here are the first paragraphs from my short story 'Last Laughter,' published in the latest issue (online and free to read) of Silver Blade Fantasy Quarterly:

"He was a troublesome fool, whose unbridled tongue and vicious tricks went unchecked because they amused the King. Whenever his behavior became simply too appalling, the jester took care to re-ingratiate himself with all manner of silly japes and tumblings and blandishments, but was well known that he wore a mail shirt under his motley to ward off vengeful stabs, and amulets to avert curses.

Keeping on the jester's good side was a prudent measure in a court full of idlers constantly seeking to work mischief on one another out of simple ennui, forming little cells and circles of self-interest that continually jerked apart in loathing or merged in cooing accord, isolating and ostracizing. Amid these inimical orbs the jester bounced and skipped, prodding and tickling and puncturing as the whim took him. Although his magic was of the lowest kind, it was effective enough to be exceedingly troublesome and embarrassing, and the wiser spheres took care to roll well aside at his approach. Only the Thaumaturge Royal, who made it a point to be in a class by himself, looked upon the fool with icy indifference, and stood his ground immovably."

*****​
CK


----------



## harfner

Here's a snippet from my novel NIGHTMARE:

"It's worth your hide if you spill one drop on guest or tablecloth," Tira warned, and bustled away. Lizard and Pup gave identical sighs of relief, then laughed. Lizard remembered his first night at the farm when he had heard Pup's laugh. He still liked the sound, though he had never said so.
A while later, the first guests began to arrive. Lizard stood behind the _hors d'oeuvre_ table, exchanging nervous glances with Pup and trying not to fidget in his tight shoes on the hard marble floor. The unfamiliar clothes began to feel heavy and confining, and he had to force himself to concentrate on the task at hand.
_Please please please_, he pleaded silently, _don't let me screw this up._
The ballroom was two stories tall and had a pale green marble floor shot with black. A balcony ringed the upper wall with two grand staircases at either end granting access to it. The guests were all human--Lizard hadn't seen a single alien since the space station--and they wore a dazzling array of glittering jewels, bright colors, and rustling fabric. Several of the women were accompanied by an entourage of gems that orbited head and hair like tiny solar systems. Lizard managed not to stare and instead put what he hoped was a friendly, obsequious smile on his face. A tastefully small orchestra provided light music from the balcony, though no one danced--that would come after dinner. Lizard guessed there were well over a hundred people present.
A steady stream of guests began to visit the _hors d'oeuvre_ table, and Lizard found himself very busy. He and Pup alternated bringing in food trays from the kitchen, combining half-empty serving dishes, and whisking the dirty dishes away. There was, Lizard found, a certain rhythm to it, and once he got it down, it wasn't that difficult. Once, Tira came by to inspect their work and grudgingly admitted they were doing "an adequate job." Lizard's nervousness eased and he began to wish there were something he could do about his sore, pinched feet. He had hoisted yet another tray of empty serving dishes onto his shoulder and was heading for the kitchen when an old woman dressed all in black stopped him.
"Where's the restroom, please?" she asked with more politeness than most of the guests.
Lizard nodded toward one of the staircases. "Directly through the doors under either staircase, Mistress."
"Thank you, dear." Before Lizard realized what was happening, she reached up to pat his cheek like a friendly aunt. Her bare hand touched his face, and a jolt slammed through Lizard's body. Lizard gasped, and the room twisted around him. The tray fell from his shoulder with a ear-shattering crash of breaking crystal and ringing silver.


----------



## Brenda Carroll

This snippet is from Tempo Rubato. The leading lady is having breakfast with the company shrink:

"I'm still trying to figure out what you are like." She buttered a piece of toast.

"What do you mean?" He asked raising one eyebrow. He made no move to eat anything.

"Well..." she put down the toast and sipped her coffee "one moment you are full of sarcasm and the next you are an unabashed flatterer and flirt. Then you're secretive. Then you're telling all. You are arrogant and self-deprecating at the same time. Charming and irritating. Here you are sitting in the bright morning sunshine not having breakfast in a tuxedo while everyone is dressed in bathrobes and slippers. Perhaps not all of those stares are directed at me."

"Good job on the analysis." He nodded and smiled. "You certainly have a way with words, and you are probably right. They are not used to seeing me here this time of day. I will tell you the secret of my life. My mother was a perfect lady and my father was a


Spoiler



bastard


. Hence, I am a perfect


Spoiler



bastard


."

"That's a very clever summation." She said without laughing. Perhaps she had met her match.

"At any rate," he continued "I think you should leave the psychoanalysis to me. It is, after all, what I get paid for and you will be much too busy very soon to be trying to do your job and mine no matter how much I might appreciate it. I have formed a preliminary opinion of you already and I think you might fit in here very well. We could use a bit of cool sanity."


----------



## Paul Clayton

From _Carl Melcher Goes to Vietnam_. Carl Melcher pulls guard on a four man patrol, in the middle of the night&#8230;

Tiny insect sounds filled the night. Occasionally I heard a rustle as one of the sleepers shifted position. One of the guys - I couldn't tell which one - cried out, a soft childlike cry. I wondered what horror was at this very moment stalking him through his dreams. As I sat quietly in total blackness, I seemed to be disembodied and floating, capable of moving vast distances. I could be in Vietnam or in Guatemala. I could be on a distant planet. I could be anywhere. There really was no way of telling. I couldn't see anything except for the phosphor face of the watch. Then I heard a tiny voice. "Bullet four, this is Bullet one. Sitrep, over?"

I was on the floor of the ocean in a diving bell.

"Bullet four, sitrep, over?" it repeated.

Millions of tons of black water pressed down on me and they wanted to know if I was alive. The little voice came again, an angry urgency in it, and I suddenly remembered the handset and the procedure Ron had explained to me earlier. "Sitrep" meant "situation report." They wanted to know how we were. A squeeze of the talk button on the handset would produce a click in their set back on the hill. I grabbed the handset and squeezed the button.

"Roger," the voice said. "Have a good night."


----------



## mamiller

Here is a brief glimpse of WIDOW'S TALE...

    Serena ran on instinct. Clouds of moisture billowed from her lips into her eyes, while muscles pumped and groaned against mistreatment. Unconsciously, she aimed towards the soaring silhouette of Victory Cove’s unmanned lighthouse. Racking sobs prevented her from advancing any further, though. Her knees folded and she fell headlong into the frozen pasture. 

    The ground was hard and cold. Unforgiving. Serena’s body writhed in pain across the brittle grass. She came to rest in a fetal position, her sobs hollow echoes. Agony tore through her, though little had to do with the fall. 

    All at once, the tears stopped. Serena heard the distant sound of broken waves, and the roar of arctic winds. She felt so tired—so utterly drained. She was aware that if she slept here, she may never wake. 

    Recognizing this fact, Serena closed her eyes.


----------



## Glenn Cheney

Here's a snippet from "Thanksgiving: The Pilgrims' First Year in America," by Glenn Alan Cheney:

"So the Mayflower contained a cross-section of values that would become quintessentially American: the insistence on following the heart rather than the law; the inability to tolerate injustice; the audacity to demand authority over authorities; the courage to pursue a better life no matter how much worse it might be; the wisdom of working together as a society for mutual benefit and personal profit. They believed in the power of the congregation. They would do their own thinking and make their own decisions. They would pray their own prayers. They would dig in their heels. The strong would bury the weak, perhaps suffer a moment of doubt, then remember the mercy of their god, and then get back to work."

You can read more excerpts at NLLibrarium.com


----------



## Edward C. Patterson

Little on the long side, but as an excerpt it is a complete short fiction piece. It is the Fishing with Birds sequence from _*The Academician http://www.amazon.com/dp/B001UE7D96*_ which is Book I of the _Southern Swallow Series_. This snippet has had a life of its own. ENJOY, my friends.

_*(Fishing with Birds)*_
The child's eyes were bright - precocious, many notions running through his noggin. He was awake before the sun arose, because this morning his father was taking him to the river's edge. His mother rolled rice balls in cassia leaves for her hardy fishermen. The child watched his mother's fingers knead the sticky paste, and then, with the flat of her palm, roll the mess into perfect globes. He wished he could have one now instead on the skiff, but he knew better than to beg.

"K'ai-men," she said, her smile lit by the dim lantern. "When you return, I shall fill the kettle with your catch. Your first catch." She beamed, her sticky hand lifting his chin. She kissed his forehead. "You bring me the best one that the bird snaps up."

"Yes, mother."

"And listen to your father. He knows the river well, and knows the bird."

"Yes, mother."

Suddenly, the lantern was on the move. His father had finished his preparations in the far corner of the hut. He was wrangling with a large cormorant that flapped its wings in anticipation of the moment. The child laughed. He was going on the river. He would fill the kettle.

"Do not drop them," his mother said as she handed him the wrapped rice balls.

"Come, K'ai-men," his father said. "Take care not to get yourself tangled. The bird is fussy today."

Li K'ai-men could barely see the way from the hut to the river's edge. A cool breeze horripilated his chilly arms, so much so that his teeth chattered. A mist kissed his forehead. He tripped over an old willow root, the tree having fallen into the drink many years before his birth.

"Careful, K'ai-men. You must take care not to scare the fish."

_Scare the fish?_ he thought. _So far from the water?_

Through the mist, Li K'ai-men spied other lanterns and, far above, over the distant silhouette of the plum-pudding hills, he saw the moon. He sighed. His father nudged him along. The skiff was grounded on the beach. K'ai-men helped push it into the river, and then hopped on board like a tadpole. The bird cawed anxious for a meal, as the skiff drifted toward the other lanterns. Li could see his neighbors, fishermen all, each with their lanterns held high and each with their own frisky bird collared about the neck.

"K'ai-men," his father said. "You must always remember to keep the bird's collar on tightly. These birds are greedy and will eat the fish before you have a chance to pull them back. Also, remember to feed the bird. At least one fish for every fifteen will do. Forget to feed the bird and it will cease to fish for you. It will be dead bird! Phwush! The flesh of a cormorant is unlike that of a chicken or a duck. It is not worth having dead. Only its bones are useful then. Phwush!"

Li heard the murmur of voices. The lanterns were raised to fool the fish to think that the moon was brightest and full. A prayer was murmured to enlist the goddess' aid. It was softly sung over the waters.

_
"Lady in the Moon come shine your light 
Over the pool where swims the carp. 
Kiss the waters with your love 
And ripple up the fish with your sighing harp."​
"See them, K'ai-men?"

And he did see them - the ripple of the carp, their splashing and dancing beneath the flow. His father tapped him on the shoulder, and then smiled in the lantern light. He let loose the bird.

It flew into the river tethered by its foot to the fisherman's lead. The bird's long, black neck dove for the kill. Splash. Struggle. Twenty birds took the plunge. The river bubbled with carp. K'ai-men watched their bird as it gorged its mouth with the fish, a silvery flutter in the collective lantern light. However, because the collar was tight, the greedy bird could not swallow the catch.

"Pull it in, K'ai-men. It will be your first catch."

Li K'ai-men grasped the line. The bird struggled. It wanted to fly away and eat its prize in peace. Li tugged, but needed a firmer grip, which came when he realized that he might lose both catch and bird. That would be a disaster. He yanked hard. Harder still. Then, an angry flutter of wings beat him as he wrestled with the bird on the skiff. It didn't want to give up its quarry, but Li K'ai-men prevailed. His father refereed until the bird coughed up the carp into Li K'ai-men's hands.

"I did it, father," he shouted.

"Do not scare the fish. It is still many hours before the sun rises." Li Xien beamed at his son. "You are my son. I am proud. To angle the waves with pole and tackle is a feeble way to fish. Ah, but now you know how to fish with the bird. You command it to do what it does best, and then you do what every fisherman knows best. To steal it away and feed his belly." His father laughed.

Li rolled about the skiff nearly falling into the river. He lay on his belly and spied the fish beneath the surface. In the lantern's light, he spied his face - a child's face. Hello, it said. He giggled.

They fished for hours, Li handling the bird again - five more times. When the sun brightened the sky and peeked over the razor cliffs, they hauled ashore the skiff, the fish and the bird - feeding the creature, two fish for thirty caught. It bounced along the rocks still tethered, but now only by its foot. It danced around its meal and flapped its wings, splattering the river in the wake.

Li skipped to the door of the hut. His mother was there, catching him in her arms.

"I caught a fish, mother. I fished with the bird."

"It is well that you have learned this from your father. You shall never want again under heaven, my son."

Li was hungry, the congee rice ball hardly enough for a growing boy. He watched his mother build the fire and fill the kettle with water and spices. His father would go to Yang-shuo later - to the market to sell the fish for some copper cash. He would take his son to the tavern, The House of Green Waters, where he would imbibe a bowl of wine while his son watched the old crones play fan-tan in the back room for turnips and rutabagas. But now, Li wanted his fish. The bird had waited, but now ate fine. Li wanted his first catch. He watched over the kettle's edge as the water boiled.

"Come clean your fish," his mother said.

However, the boiling water mesmerized the child. It sang the song of the moon to him. The steam bit his nose and tickled his chin. Soon, the fish was plunged into the waters, swimming again, but now with carrots and sweet grass. Li K'ai-men grinned widely above the kettle. Never such a meal could be had again. He had conquered the river.

Li K'ai-men smiled.

Edward C. Patterson_


----------



## plumboz

Hope this isn't a duplicate post. My connection went all wonky when I hit "Post" a few minutes ago.

Here is a bit from *Boomerang*.

"But Doreen, dear," Amelia said, tapping at the page. "They found a boomerang. Just like the one we want."

"What are you going on about? I don't care about a boomerang like the one we want; I care about our boomerang."

"Of course. Still, I thought it was interesting." Amelia began thumbing back to previously read pages. Nothing else to do.

"Give me that." Doreen whirled around in her seat and snatched the book from her sister. "What boomerang? Who found it?" She leafed madly through the pages. "What are you talking about? Where is it?"

Amelia quickly reached back over the seat for her skirt and draped it over her bare legs. "The couple who took the tour just yesterday, Doreen dear. The man found a boomerang with wombats on it. I just thought it was interesting, that's all."

"Which page?" Doreen flipped the pages furiously. She thrust the book back in Amelia's hands. "Find the bloody page!" 
Amelia began turning the pages. Slowly.

"Where is it!" barked Doreen.

"Let's see. It was after this page I believe. No, I don't think I've read this entry yet." Doreen was just about to grab the journal back when Amelia said, "Oh! Here it is." She began reading aloud.

"'Charming couple&#8230;"

"Give me that!" Doreen once again snatched the book away. She stabbed it with a angry finger "'along the trail!'" Another stab. "'wombat design'!" She thumped the book angrily. "They've got our boomerang!"

http://www.amazon.com/Boomerang-ebook/dp/B002BWPDYS/ref=ed_oe_k/188-7932739-7735213

http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/4167



Best,
Alan


----------



## JimC1946

A snippet from Chapter 9 ("Food, Glorious Food") from my book Recollections: A Baby Boomer's Memories of the Fabulous Fifties









As a large family, we guzzled soft drinks, so we bought Coca-Colas by the case. Throughout most of the Fifties, Cokes came only in little 6½-oz bottles, and you bought them in a six-bottle cardboard carton or in a heavy wooden case that held twenty-four bottles. They were returnable bottles, and when you went into the supermarket, you took your empties to the front of the store, where they gave you a credit slip for two cents a bottle. After you filled your cart with groceries you went to the cash register and turned in the bottle credit slip and the cashier took it off the total. The two cents deposit on bottles was a great money-maker for kids. Many times, people would toss the bottles alongside a road. Kids would pick them up, and when they had a load of them, they took them to a grocery store and got their reward. A lot of kids got their spending money that way. By the way, the bottles were not recycled as we use the word today. Instead of being melted down and made into new glass, they were cleaned and reused by the soft drink bottlers.

I mentioned Coca-Cola because that was our favorite drink. There were others, of course, including many of the brands that are popular today, but most soft drinks were colas or citrus drinks, and there were no diet colas until 1958 (Coca-Cola's first diet drink was Tab, introduced in 1963). And just for the record, Cokes had real sugar in them, not the "high fructose corn syrup" imitation the modern ones have. There's a difference. Note to Coke: Give us back our sugar!

Soft drink vending machines were everywhere in the Fifties. They were all designed to dispense bottles, since cans were not introduced until the early Sixties. In the early Fifties, the price was five cents. The next price increase was to six cents, which required every vending machine to be modified to accept pennies. With the inflation of the late-1950s, however, six cents didn't last long, and by the end of the decade, the price was a dime. By this time, many mothers decided to switch their kids to Kool-Aid, since it was a lot cheaper.

Most soft drinks and beer came only in glass bottles until the late 1950s or early 1960s. By the early Sixties, cans (steel at first, but eventually aluminum) were becoming more popular for both consumers and sellers, largely because cans were lighter and took up less space on store shelves. The earliest canned drinks had to be opened with a can opener, which was similar to a bottle opener, but with a sharp point. Can openers were euphemistically and irreverently referred to as "church keys." By the mid-Sixties, cans had pull-tabs, but these were the kind that came completely off the can. It wasn't until the early 1980s that the levered pull-tab that stayed on the can was in wide use. But in the Fifties, most drinks were in bottles, and every home had a metal bottle opener screwed to the cabinets under the countertop in the kitchen.

Recollections: A Baby Boomer's Memories of the Fabulous Fifties







is available for the Amazon Kindle for only $0.99.

If you would like to see a much bigger sample of the book than Kindle allows, check it out at Smashwords: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/3526


----------



## RJ Keller

I miss glass bottles. Soda tastes SO much better in them.


----------



## Edward C. Patterson

I miss seltzer bottles delivered to the porch.

Ed Patterson
(But I also remember running boards on cars.)


----------



## Elmore Hammes

From The Cloud. In this short scene, the alien (Grant) is having his first meal with the farmers he has met.

Grant ate the food with relish. Each new sensation was a wonder to him, every taste an experience to savor, to catalogue with the millions of other memories he had stored. But the experiences since he had left the ship were more complete than what he had learned by interfacing with the computer. They contained sounds, aromas, tactile sensations that enriched them beyond anything he could take in remotely. "This is very good, Larry. Thank you for the nourishment."
"As I said, you're welcome. I'm glad you are enjoying it. I wasn't sure if you could, you know, eat our food."
"My body is almost an exact duplicate of yours, physically," Grant told him. "All my organs, with the exception of my brain, operate within normal human parameters."
"Oh, that's&#8230; interesting," Larry said.
Char could see the wheels turning as he mulled over those words. What had been implied before, what her father had sort of assumed by the empty sofa and their clasped hands, was brought into the foreground as he thought about what Grant's human parameters might include. She couldn't help it. She had to blurt out, "Some are even beyond normal human parameters!"


----------



## rndballref

Under IIAA Bylaws, if a referee tossed a player or coach out of game on technical fouls, the referee had to fill out an incident report online. Most assignment chairpersons wanted to see a copy of the report as well because they usually got a call from an unhappy coach or AD. On the other hand, the state had a sportsmanship award that any coach, AD or referee could submit when something positive and notable happened.

During this season, Billy worked a game at Merrill High School. The Varsity basketball coach there was a known raving lunatic. Coach Peter Zach never rattled Billy. In their pregame referee conference in the locker room, Billy warned his partners to stay calm when Coach Zach hurled aggressive objections to their calls. 
It was a particularly close game and uncharacteristically, Coach Zach left the referees alone and focused on his team. He hardly raised his voice at anyone. He ultimately lost a well-contested game by two excruciating points.

After Billy showered, he walked past Coach Zach on the way out. The coach held out his fist and without either of them saying a word, Billy gave the coach “fist” back. The coach’s quiet game time demeanor was unusual for him, and high fiving the referee after a loss seemed out of character for him to say the least. Billy went online when he got home and wrote Coach Peter Zach up for a good sportsmanship award and emailed it to the IIAA officials. 

On the way to work the next day, Billy swung into the nearby Merrill High School parking lot. He wanted to drop-off a copy of the good sportsmanship nomination directly to the AD’s office.

“Rechter, what are you doing here?” the AD asked. “Did you throw someone out of last night’s game?”

“No sir. I wrote someone up for IIAA’s Good Sportsmanship Award,” replied Billy.

“From our school? You’re kidding me,” said the AD as he shared a laugh with his secretary.

“It’s from the game last night. A close game, well coached, hard fought by both teams. It is for Coach Peter Zach. He left us alone, focused on his team and was classy enough to acknowledge me in the parking lot even after a tough loss. It is easy to be a good guy when you win, much tougher when you lose. Coach Zach let us do our job without interference, while the opposing coach begged and argued about each call.”

“Well, Billy. I am sure Peter will appreciate the nomination, but there is a better explanation for his quiet demeanor last night. Just for the record, this week Peter picked up laryngitis!”

The three of them laughed until their sides hurt.

Advantage Disadvantage
Paperback and Kindle: amazon.com
EBook Formats:  smashwords.com


----------



## Chris J

In recent years, some people have made claims of something they call the "Bible Code," which they think might reveal hidden messages in the Bible. The claim is that the Hebrew lettering can also be read from top to bottom, left to right, or even diagonally, as well as from right to left. Of course, if you tried that, you could find almost anything that you wanted to find in the Bible. That type of "Bible Code" leaves quite a bit up to the imagination of the interpreter. But there is a "Bible Code," which can be used to descramble the "table" that Isaiah left for us. It's simple to use, and when properly understood it can reveal a lot more detail about what Isaiah was talking about. It doesn't leave much up to the interpreter, and it proves its own validity. It's quite easy to use today, though still a bit time consuming because it requires much more reading. It would have been almost impossible to use however, before the advent of the computer. We have the use of search engines now, which allows us to find the little bits of information that Isaiah scattered around.










Still Just 99 Cents​


----------



## Heather Parker

_*Middlewitch Snippet

Alicia's zombie relatives threaten Middlewitch&#8230;*_

"You can't burn us," said Bertie, looking uncertain. "You're a white witch."
"I was almost a fricasseed witch," I reminded him crossly. "And I am related to you, don't forget."
"Mother, tell her she can't burn us," cut in Wilhemina. "This is supposed to be the twenty-first century. They're civilised!"
"Don't you believe it. I've been to the City and I can assure you the civilization is just a myth. Now you've got two choices. We can do this the easy way or we can do it the hard way. You can go quietly back to sleep again and promise not to hurt anyone in Middlewitch. Or we can put you on the bonfire here and now."
I picked up a match from the table and held it over the still smouldering straw.
"Make my day," I said casually but with effect. I was pleased with my dramatic performance. I wondered where I could have got the idea.
"Mother?" said Wilhemina, definitely veering towards the easy way. "I was quite happy being asleep actually. I didn't want to get up this morning anyway."
"Neither did I," agreed Charles, who only just seemed to have woken up. He seemed a bit slow I thought. "This new world doesn't look a lot of fun to me."
Bertie looked around the village, obviously puzzled. "Actually it doesn't seem to have changed much in four hundred years."
He was probably right.


----------



## Brenda Carroll

It's snippet time again. This little scene is from The Red Cross of Gold II:. The King of Terrors wherein the Order's Priest/Healer is trying to talk some sense into the Knight of Death who is


Spoiler



hell-bent


 on marrying a mortal woman in spite of some daunting problems.

"What you say is not true, Brother. Whatever affects you, affects me. I am your Brother, whether you like it or not. You would exchange your peace of mind for a few short years with this woman and then she will be old. Too old for you to call wife. Will she then become your mother? Your grandmother?"

"I have no peace of mind to trade for anything," Ramsay objected. "I have never had peace of mind, Brother. I will never have it. The Order has already cheated me out of seven years with her."

"Have you remained in contact with her?" Simon took a new tack.

"No. Yes&#8230; not exactly," Mark conceded. He had dreamed of her&#8230; often.

"How do you know she would have you?"

Simon asked the same question that Mark had often asked himself.

"She has not married," he told him flatly. "I would know."

"And what does that mean, Brother?" Simon glanced at him briefly.

Mark Andrew did not answer at first. He felt didn't know why he knew. He just knew. And he was becoming angry with the Healer for asking these questions.

"I don't know how I know," he answered truthfully. "I just know."

"You have accomplished something today that I never thought would happen. Never in a thousand years&#8230; a million years. And, in the process, you and Lucio have made some people very unhappy."

"How so? A man would have to be happy before he would recognize unhappy," Mark told him in all sincerity.


----------



## Meredith Sinclair

Brendan Carroll said:


> "How so? A man would have to be happy before he would recognize unhappy," Mark told him in all sincerity.


Yea, Brendan!  Why can't he just be happy for a little while... He LOVES her... WHY oh, WHY won't ya let him just have some quiet time with her


----------



## eeaw

Obsession Everlasting

How he longed for such nights. The smell of wisteria and jasmine infusing the thick air, the darkness a velvety blanket that welcomed and warmed&#8230;

The marshland teamed with creatures of the night, leafy coves yawning shadows where hunter and prey battled to survive. A heron stood watch as fat frogs croaked in tall grass, and murky water lapped muddy slopes. The river was wide and dark running to the tumultuous sea. A squall brewed there, as gloriously black and bitter as the monster inside him. The Port-the city's life's blood for centuries-welcomed ships fleeing the storm's fury.

And then the precious jewel of the South, offering solace as the loneliness devoured his soul&#8230;

http://www.amazon.com/Obsession-Everlasting-Lisa-Phillips/dp/1934912182/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1255239773&sr=1-1


----------



## Paul Clayton

from: White Seed: The Untold story of the Lost Colony of Roanoke...

In the shade cast by a canvas stretched from the rail, Manteo, the Croatoan, sat cross-legged next to Towaye, their heads leaning back against the rail. High above, the sails hung limply. The wind had disappeared five days earlier, leaving the ship to sit, almost motionless upon the azure sea. The heat was like a spirit force, sucking the breath from the people, drying them out like strips of venison hung on racks. Manteo and Towaye watched the English people through the quivering waves of heated air. The English fared poorly in the heat, and came up from the inside of the ship only to relieve themselves over the side. Sometimes the soldiers came up to throw the dead overboard, followed by the little parson who prayed over the bodies. Such a group of English now stood around, heads bowed. Two bodies lay at their feet, one female, and the other male, both gray-headed with age. The black suited parson prayed as the English listened. Finishing, the parson stood back as the soldiers lay the woman in a shroud with a large stone taken from the belly of the ship. Then they tied the bundle up and slid it over the side.

The sound of the splash floated up on the dry, still air. “They are sacrificing their dead to the great thunder bird,” said Towaye. “They are hoping he will hear their prayers and flap his wings.”

Manteo smiled. “No, Towaye. They are burying their dead.”

“In the bottom of the sea?”

“Yes,” said Manteo. They watched the soldiers lay the male on a shroud.

“Why do they not wait and bury them at Roanoke when we stop there?”

“They believe that the dead will make others sick if they are not buried quickly.”

“But how will they make their way to the nether world from beneath the sea?” 
said Towaye.

“No. Christian people go not to the same nether world as Croatoan heathens. They go to a better place called Heaven. I will have you speak with the parson. He will tell you how it is.”

Towaye scoffed angrily. “He will not tell me anything, for I will not go near him.”

Manteo and Towaye watched as the English tied the white shrouded body up tightly. The parson knelt at the dead man's side and prayed. The others folded their hands and bowed their heads, joining him. The soldiers threw the bundle over the side. When the splash reached their ears, the English people got to their feet and started back down into the belly of the ship.

“They are through for the day,” said Manteo.

“Perhaps,” said Towaye, “perhaps we are all through.”

Manteo smiled. Something made him look up at the enormous, lifeless shapes of the sails. It seemed as if the larger of them had bowed out slightly. For a moment Manteo was not sure if he had seen this or if it was the hot air playing tricks on his eyes. He watched as the sail suddenly bulged out like the belly of a gentleman and a spar creaked woodenly. The English people stopped in their tracks and looked up at the sails. All the sails filled and the ship began moving forward, groaning as if in pain.

Manteo smiled. Over in the crowd of English, the parson fell to his knees and looked skyward, his lips moving in prayer.

“I told you they were sacrificing to their wind god,” said Towaye. “He has accepted their sacrifice and now he will blow the ship to Roanoke.”

*********************************************************

I HAVE posted White  Seed to Kindle, but it will probably take a few more days to show up.  White Seed is a big book, 492 pages, in the tradition of Clavell and Michener, the kind of book I like to lose myself in.  A historical with elements of the thriller, I think history buffgs and 'big book' lovers will find it a delicious feast.  SOON!!!.


----------



## mamiller

Here is a snippet from my Romantic Suspense, ROGUE WAVE









Less cautious, more concerned, Briana jogged closer to the vessel, and heard Nick's condemning oaths. With a sense of satisfaction, she identified the solid smack of his fist against a crewmember's jaw. Any moment now she expected Nick to sprint from the shadows and join her, but another blow from the dark silenced him.

Frantic, Briana searched for a way to intervene. By now she was able to calculate that there were at least three of them-two physically restraining Nick, one paralyzing him with the gun. She dared to advance one more pillar, spurred on by the change in the rhythm of the engine. The Merryweather was about to pull out of port, and Nick was still on it.

As surreal as this chaotic encounter was, Briana was sure of one thing. If that boat pulled out to sea with Nick aboard, the premonition that he would not return was too menacing to dismiss.

She needed a distraction.

Anxious, Briana scanned the pier, but it was annoyingly neat. A life preserver was mounted to a post near the closest trawler. She dared a brief interlude into the open to grab it. Safe again in her hideaway, Briana discovered that Nick was no longer on deck, presumably ushered down below. As dismal as her plan was, there was no recourse but to execute it.

With a hearty pitch, Briana sent the preserver arcing through the air to land with a deadened thud on a tourist vessel three slips back from the gate. She sank into the shadows and watched two dim profiles snap to attention. With agile moves, they hurdled the gap between deck and pier, the metallic glint of weapons evident in their hands.

Briana slunk around the pole in tandem with their approach, and held her breath. The gangly shadow with a sharp hook to his nose took the lead, while his stocky counterpart paused to consider the bow of each vessel, and finally jogged to catch up. She was afraid the pounding of her heart would expose her, but they passed by as Briana cautiously back-pedaled.


----------



## AnnaM

Action from my western romance, _Unbroken Hearts_, http://www.amazon.com/Unbroken-Hearts/dp/B0017I7XY0/

Gangs like the Malgers were part of a new breed of confused drifters - mostly aimless young men who'd fought for the confederacy during the war. Their soft southern drawls and fancy manners with the ladies concealed a gnawing bitterness, and they took their revenge by roaming the prairie, rustling cattle, stealing horses, and running scams in the boomtowns. A few even robbed banks and stage lines, and the worst of the lot killed innocent law-abiding people.

Some said the Malgers were drunk up on the Copper Strike's watered-down liquor that afternoon, but others speculated they were paid up to do it. The motive remained unclear, but three members of the bushwhacking clan were hell-bent on making trouble with the Eastons as they headed out of town that day.

Fortunately the Malgers squandered their surprise advantage. Roy, riding shotgun behind Cal, read the outlaw's fresh tracks, and out of the corner of one eye he'd caught the flash of late afternoon sun reflecting off a shiny spur or rifle barrel. And both men heard them.

The quick nod from Cal had set their guns to talking. Pete Malger scrambled around the side of a rock not twenty yards ahead, and he took aim at Roy with his pistol. Cal grabbed his gun so fast Pete later recounted seeing it as a blur. And Pete was lucky, because the rock he chose provided good cover. Cal's sharp eye, steady hand, and iron determination aimed up and fired a shot to the hip, the only exposed part of Pete's body. The outlaw yelped, and he got off a miss wide just as Cal's bullet struck.


----------



## MikeCrowley

"Like a lie detector?" I said.
"Polygraphs have been demonstrated to be inaccurate and are most certainly not admissible as evidence. This process, and the successful completion of your chemical detention, on the other hand, has been demonstrated to be one-hundred percent effective and are considered to be proof of innocence," he said.
"What do you mean one-hundred percent?" I said.
"No one experiencing an adverse reaction was innocent," he said.
I could not believe what he was telling me. "So it's like a lie detector that does exactly what when you are lying."
"No, it does not detect a lie, it reacts negatively with extreme guilt," he said.
"So it's like a lie detector that kills you," I said.
"No, it's not like anything else, Mr. Coulter. It interacts with your guilt, impeding the portion of the brain controlling the operation of motor functions as well as other critical functions of the human nervous system. Other reactions are undocumented. Your guilt is a catalyst for the chemical's effect, the stronger the catalyst, the more severe the reaction. It's not a lie detector in any sense, as much as it is a guilt detector. When people lie, not when something unfortunate happens to them, but when they commit an act that they feel immense guilt for, there are specific chemical reactions within the brain. This treatment will interact with those chemicals produced by guilt. The more severe the crime, the more severe your guilt, and therefore the more severe the reaction may be."
"So this can kill someone," I said.
Paglia seemed to search for a response. "I must tell you that it can..... I must also remind you that we are required by law to complete a formal interview that will be video-recorded prior to ingesting the pill. The questions I referred to earlier," he said.
"What sort of interview," I said.
Marshal Ellis interjected. "To see if you ran over your neighbors cat or stole a candy bar on the way home from work."
Paglia did not like this one bit, and responded abruptly. "Marshal Ellis, please, allow me to conduct the interview."
"Now Mr. Coulter, I believe you fully understand this option," he said.
This pill can make it all go away, I thought. "Yes," I said.
"Then you have a decision to make," he said.
"Yes I do." I said and then stared at the horrible photo on the table. He was not going to remove the last one. A horrible ghoulish figure prone on the floor. I thought about it. And then I did not think about it. I knew I could not think about it. My life was not supposed to go this way. I had so much planned. This only happens to other people. And then one thought only. This pill can make it all go away.

From "The Due Process Pill" FREE at https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/4480 for 30 days with coupon code tt48y


----------



## Elmore Hammes

This snippet is from my soon-to-be-released comical farce, Not Fit For Human Consumption.

    “Listen to me, Alfred. This will all go according to my plan. We bomb the parliament building. We kidnap Prime Minister Karzan. The Americans will come rushing to our aid with open arms and wallets. Simple things, predictable things. There will be no trouble. You will have plenty of time to sire a dozen sons, should you find some woman willing to have you.”
    Alfred blushed at the blow to his manhood, but was not deterred from his concerns. “But to destroy the parliament building. It is a treasure, where our constitution was signed.”
    “It is a rat hole that is falling apart anyway. Just last week a ceiling tile fell down on my secretary. She was petrified, would not come into the office for three days. We had to go to a hotel.”
    “Even so, it is a national symbol, one the people need.”
    “The Americans will build us a new building, one with marble floors and twelve foot ceilings. How many times must I explain this to you? They will give us an aid package to rebuild anything we destroy, ten times better than it was before. We will have new buildings and roads; we will get updated power plants and water systems.”
    “And Prime Minister Karzan?”
    “He is incompetent. He will die.”


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## Paul Clayton

From: White Seed: The Untold Story of the Lost Colony of Roanoke...

August 27, 1587, Roanoke

The air in the big house was thick with heat and moisture and it seemed to Maggie to have slowed down time itself. She wiped at her brow as she stood before the children. Fortunately they held up to the hot weather better than their elders. But another thing wore more upon them. They all knew of the cruel death of young George Howe's father at the hands of the savages. Sir George's handsome son, George the younger, sat in the rear. Numb with grief, he could look no one in the eye, nor could he mouth his lessons. The other children avoided looking at him. Even his most recent admirers, Thomas Reed and Charles Colpepper, were solemn and tentative around him.

"Thirty days hath September, April, June and November," the children intoned in chorus, "February eight and twenty alone, all the rest thirty and one..."

Maggie stopped her pacing before the children and smiled sadly, "Children, that will conclude today's lesson."

As Maggie headed for the front door of the big house Governor White and Ananias came out of the offices at the rear carrying a chest. Maggie warmed at the sight of Governor White. Because of her chaste behavior, his attentions to her had become less amorous and more kindly and she enjoyed her employ with him and the Dares. Now it was the Captain, a few of the gentlemen, and the soldiers, Thomas Shande among them, whose eyes she would occasionally feel upon her like damp garments. She followed them down the steps and outside.

"Is someone moving out?" she said.

Before White could reply a baby's cry floated across the compound.

"Is that little Virginia?" queried White, "or perhaps 'tis Margary Harvey's little babe?"

"I will go and see," said Ananias, hurrying off.

White smiled at Maggie. "I was like that for a time too, when Eleanor was a child." White's look grew serious. "Maggie, I am going back with the ships."

Maggie was taken aback. "Back to England, m'Lord?"

"Aye," said White. "I must see to some business and then I shall return."

Maggie felt the loss already. She could not imagine being in this strange place without the kindly Governor near by. Tears threatened to overcome her. "I will miss you, m'Lord." She smiled bravely.

http://www.amazon.com/White-Seed-Untold-Colony-Roanoke/dp/B002SN9GF2/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&s=digital-text&qid=1255670616&sr=1-2


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## marcychen

From Yellow & Green, By Marcy Chen and Michael Simon (Kindle book on sale for 99 cents until November 1 with all proceeds going to Philippines Typhoon Relief)
http://bit.ly/1v8A2uhttp://www.amazon.com/Yellow-Green-Autobiography-Marcy-ebook/dp/B002AVTVBQ/ref=ed_oe_k

"Hello Mother."
"You coming to Christmas dinner next week?" she asked, an invitation more tied to duty than a desire to see me.
"Dad going to be there?" I asked.
"No" she replied, something vacant in her voice.
"I'm gonna pass", I said, not looking forward to being stared down by her and Lin alone.
"I tried to call you at work." she said in retaliation. "They say you quit last week." 
"Yeah" was all I could summon.
"Lin tell me what happen with Janie."
I hung up the phone and put my head down on my folded arms. The thirty second conversation had been so draining that I fell asleep in the middle of remembering that there had been no Thanksgiving dinner. 
Pling pling pling pling ploong pling pling pling ploong. My phone jarred me awake from one of those sleeps where you get up but you're not quite conscious until you've had a chance to stare into space for 10 minutes, usually on the toilet. I looked at it and recoiled in dread. It was Ken. Meaning to send the call to voicemail, my sleep-addled brain sent the wrong signal and instead of hitting the "not-now" button on top, I swiped my finger across the front and the seconds of the call started ticking away.
"Hello?" he asked into the abyss.
"Marcy?"
I waited a full ten seconds, hoping he'd hang up and then the buzzer went off on the clothes dryer and ruined my pretend bad signal.
"I can hear your dryer," he sang in mock annoyance.
"I didn't anticipate a revolt from my appliances", I started. "They clearly want me out of the house."

Thanks for reading! The first few pages are there on Amazon of course! Hope you enjoy!

Marcy


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## Carolyn Kephart

*A snippet from Lord Brother. The wysard Ryel is led to the secret chambers of the Sword Brotherhood and the temple of Argane, Goddess of War, to engage in ritual--perhaps mortal--combat:

They entered a torch-lit landing enclosed by a high balustrade like a screen of pierced and tesselated stone. A long flight of stone steps led down from it, hewn out of the live rock.

Alleron motioned Ryel to the screen. "Look here. Best that you see first what you're getting into."

The wysard peered through one of the lace-like reticulations. Far below him opened a great circular chamber, in the center of which burned an ardent fire of massive coals red as fresh-spilled blood. A clutch of swords bristled in that fire, their blades aglow with heat. Around the fire seven men knelt with bared heads, their arms crossed over their chests. Naked to the waist were they all, and sweat gleamed on their skin.

Ryel's eyes adjusted to the light, and began to discern that all about him were tall plinths and pinnacles of rock hanging in swordlike draperies, surging up in palisades and spear-shafts, meeting in slim-waisted columns and heavy pillars. "You didn't tell me we'd be in a cavern."

Alleron half-smiled at Ryel's wonder. "I kept that for a surprise."

"But all the formations are carved! Dragons, spirals, serpents &#8230;"

"Demons aplenty, too," Alleron added.

"What makes the designs glow?"

"Some substance natural to these depths, that we call corpse-light. Ancient work all of it, done by the First."

Ryel started. "The first what?"

"Why, devotees of Argane," the captain answered. "Who else might they be?"

Who indeed, Ryel thought, astonished by the up-leap of his pulse, the sense of belonging to this strange place. The sense of fellowship he felt was not with the men who knelt about the fire. It went deeper, clear into the blood and beyond&#8230;

His blood quivered and his rai flared within him like the throb of an exploding star, and he knew.

This is wysard ground, his thoughts pounded. A sanctuary of the Art, doubtless built by adepts of Elecambron. And the Art is strong here, impregnating the stone, time-cleansed to its essence.*

*****​
*Please note: The Ryel Saga 99 cent sale ends on Halloween! As of November 1, Wysard and Lord Brother will be priced at $1.99 per volume.*


----------



## Edward C. Patterson

Since my life has been transfomed with Operation Ebook Drop lately, why not a snippet from my autobiographical novel _*Surviving an American Gulag http://www.amazon.com/dp/B001BOST1G*_

Gibbs glanced up and down the rows, but didn't move until he saw the simmering in Sergeant Gonvea's eyes, and he supposed he was set for a public dress down if he didn't act. Quickly, Gibbs shuffled to the bag, and then stood at attention with the rest of B Platoon. Gonvea smirked, and then clicked his fingers. Lieutenant Frakus walked the length of the barracks passing the shoddy goods that awaited his judgment. To Gibbs they appeared quite up to the moment, but they were an odd assortment - too tall, or too short, and many fat, and more than a few dreamy-eyed. They were black and jaundiced or near albino and swarthy. None seemed to fit, which must have been an effrontery to any well regulated regimentarian. Gibbs fit right in with the mismatched batch of misfits. Not much comfort there. 
Lt. Frakus continued his parade, finally returning to Private Gibbs. He scanned the faces of B Platoon as if to dare them to examine the new troop - he of the closed footlocker. 
"Gentlemen," Frakus said in a preacher's voice. "Meet Private Gibbs, a new member of your sorority. Make him feel at home here. He's bailing out the same life boat as you are." He glanced at Gibbs. "I'd hate to be in the same lifeboat as you, son, because you'd capsize it. But all these men here are boat rockers, so watch your


Spoiler



ass


." 
Frakus glared about the room, his eyes snapping first on one troop and then another until it landed squarely on a white skinned, doe-eyed thing at the far end, whose lips pouted; eyes lidded. It was clear to Gibbs that Frakus was sending him a message, but exactly what that message was, he could not tell.
The lieutenant riffled through his pocket for a pair of gloves - white gloves. He stretched these across his hands making the most of the act, his fingers wiggling as if they were conscious of their task - to root through crevices in search of incriminating dirt. To Gibbs' mind, it look more like a physician's preparation for an


Spoiler



anal


 probe.
"Sergeant Gonvea."
"Yes, sir."
"I'm ready."

Edward C. tterson


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## Brenda Carroll

This week's snippet is from the _Red Cross of Gold  XIV:. The Skull of Sidon_. The _Chevalier du Morte _ is in a bit of trouble at the moment, facing old enemies once more.

"What did you do to him?" Beaujold shouted at Mark in rage.

"I let him see the truth, Brother," Mark Andrew answered and then smiled slightly. The dark Knight had collapsed when Mark had released a large portion of his worst memories and nightmares into his unwelcome, psychic gaze. "Would you like to see it?"

"I 'ope 'e killed th' bastard!" Luke Matthew shouted at them and struggled against the chains holding him.
"Shut up!" Sir Thomas snapped at Mark's twin brother and shook the Apocalyptic Knight's shoulder roughly. "Wake up, Brother!"

It was no good. The German Knight's eyes moved rapidly under his eyelids, but he did not open them or answer him. "Damn you, Ramsay. What have you done to him?"

Beaujold got up again, leaving von Hetz on the floor. He went back to get the apprentice and dragged him to the hearth and then tied him up behind the Knight of Death's back inside the huge open fireplace.

"Whattar ye doin'?" Mark asked and tried to turn around, but the ropes held tight. He was on his knees in the gritty remains of last night's fire. Ashes rose up as he struggled and threatened to choke him.

"Be still! You can take your sleazy American apprentice with you to hell," Beaujold told him as he jerked the bonds tight on the young man's arms.

"Don't kill Christopher, Thomas," Mark Andrew's tone changed dramatically and his heart lurched. "He's just a boy, for God's sake. He didn't have anything to do with what I did. How could he control me? How can you blame him? God does not cry out for innocent blood. You know that!"


----------



## ASparrow

Snipped from: XENOLITH (contemporary fantasy) http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/4612

Shreds of cloud hung, tails tethered to the earth, wandering the bogs and glades like ghouls. Seor rested with her squad in a copse of wind-stunted firs. They had climbed many hours to reach these heights. Home lay but two portals away now: one to take them from Gi to Ur, the land of machines, followed by a traverse that would bring them back to Ubabaor.

In garrison, cozy with her blankets on a mat of straw, with a ration of sourbread and roastings twice a day, the prospect of a month-long mission had not seemed so onerous. In the backwoods of Gi, perpetually lost, hungry and ill, with enemies always on their trail, each day never seemed to end. 
Seor slung her crossbow and satchel and rose from the duff. She passed through her squad, expectant of the smirks and whispers that would betray their lost confidence. How could they not doubt her after such a parade of miseries, and all for naught? Thirty days they had wasted, haunted by fevers, traversing a baffling mosaic of drumlins and marshes. Rivers, if found, flowed opposite the direction marked on faulty maps. Queries posed clumsily, purportedly in local dialect, drew only stares from farmers. The lost cadre they sought remained hidden as phantoms.


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## Paul Clayton

This snippet is from _White Seed: The untold Story of the Lost Colony of Roanoke_

Maggie grabbed a handful of warm sand and let it run from her fingers. She looked back at the jungle. Its thickness had swallowed the others up completely, and their disappearance made her uncomfortable. She felt the need to take her mind off the others, and she turned to Lionel. "I have been thinking of our escape in London and our journey across the Devon countryside. We would probably be rotting in prison now if not for you. We owe you much."

Lionel shrugged.

"How did you ever become engaged in the trade?" Maggie asked.

Lionel shrugged again. "I wanted to eat. 'Twas either that or starve in the streets."

"But you are not the meaner sort. You have a gentleman's bearing. I've worked in gentlemen's' houses and I know."

"I was once a player in the theater," Lionel said.

"Which one," said Maggie.

"The Black Bull."

"I've heard of it," enthused Maggie. "Thomas and I talked of going there one day, before all that other business happened."

Lionel looked at Maggie. "Aye, we have all had various business happen to us, haven't we?"

"Aye," said Maggie sadly. She picked up another handful of sand and let it pass through her fingers. "Why did you leave the acting world?" she said.

"I fell in love with the wrong lady, it turned out."

Maggie looked back at the jungle. There was still no sign nor sound of the others. "How could any lady you loved be wrong?"

"She belonged to another, a merchant." Lionel scowled. "He was away most of the time. But when he was around he treated her most grievously."

"So your love was unrequited?"

"No. It was a true love, and fruitful. But her husband knew that the thing growing in her belly was not his, and he beat her." Lionel grimaced at the memory.

"You must have suffered greatly," Maggie said.

Lionel shook his head. "Nay, it is Humphrey who has suffered the most. And that Jack-an-apes husband when I finally caught him alone."

Maggie heard a shout. "What was that?"

http://www.amazon.com/White-Seed-Untold-Colony-Roanoke/dp/B002SN9GF2/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&s=digital-text&qid=1255820985&sr=1-2


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## Meredith Sinclair

Brendan Carroll said:


> This week's snippet is from the _Red Cross of Gold  XIV:. The Skull of Sidon_. The _Chevalier du Morte _ is in a bit of trouble at the moment, facing old enemies once more.
> 
> "What did you do to him?" Beaujold shouted at Mark in rage.
> 
> "I let him see the truth, Brother," Mark Andrew answered and then smiled slightly. The dark Knight had collapsed when Mark had released a large portion of his worst memories and nightmares into his unwelcome, psychic gaze. "Would you like to see it?"
> 
> "I 'ope 'e killed th' bastard!" Luke Matthew shouted at them and struggled against the chains holding him.
> "Shut up!" Sir Thomas snapped at Mark's twin brother and shook the Apocalyptic Knight's shoulder roughly. "Wake up, Brother!"
> 
> It was no good. The German Knight's eyes moved rapidly under his eyelids, but he did not open them or answer him. "Damn you, Ramsay. What have you done to him?"
> 
> Beaujold got up again, leaving von Hetz on the floor. He went back to get the apprentice and dragged him to the hearth and then tied him up behind the Knight of Death's back inside the huge open fireplace.
> 
> "Whattar ye doin'?" Mark asked and tried to turn around, but the ropes held tight. He was on his knees in the gritty remains of last night's fire. Ashes rose up as he struggled and threatened to choke him.
> 
> "Be still! You can take your sleazy American apprentice with you to hell," Beaujold told him as he jerked the bonds tight on the young man's arms.
> 
> "Don't kill Christopher, Thomas," Mark Andrew's tone changed dramatically and his heart lurched. "He's just a boy, for God's sake. He didn't have anything to do with what I did. How could he control me? How can you blame him? God does not cry out for innocent blood. You know that!"


By far, one of your BEST works to date Mr. Carroll! I am SO loving this BOOK!


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## Chris J

The understanding that the earth would be destroyed by fire is nothing new. People that have read the Bible have known about that for eons. Now, through scientific understanding, we know what will actually cause the fires that will someday ravage our planet. We also know through prophecy that there is absolutely nothing that we can do to prevent that from happening. We know that, because the prophecies provide no mention of being able to prevent these things from happening. Instead, the prophecies give us clues that tell us when to expect these events to occur. Those clues or "signs" along with the promise of destruction by fire, earthquakes, disease, and wars are part of the covenant that God made with man, through the prophets. Most of the signs have to do with a major war that involves the seizure of Jerusalem, and some of the people involved. When that war, the "last war" begins, we'll know that it's time to take a serious look at the prophecies of the Bible, and even other sources to fully understand what humanity faces.










Last Call for the  99 Cents Promotion is Over​


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## Heather Parker

*Middlewitch* - *Alicia attends the Nativity Play*.

Surprisingly, I became engrossed. The standard of acting wasn't brilliant and the prompt seemed to have the largest part, but it was a jolly good story. I did think it was unfair to the poor woman who'd just gone through labour and given birth in an outbuilding. I don't think I would have felt up to having farm workers and half the royal family visit within minutes of delivery. Surely the kings could have pulled a few strings and got her a room at the inn. But I mustn't carp as it was quite a good thriller.
I was so involved with the action that I almost missed the first sign that something was amiss, though I didn't think the baby Jesus was supposed to sit up in its manger and put out its tongue at the audience. Not at two hours old. The pint-sized Mary tried desperately to comfort her new baby, pushing him flat in his crib and holding a hand firmly over his face. 
I was puzzling that out-it was effective but I'm not sure it was the message the Church was trying to put across-when suddenly the infant escaped from its mother's grasp and jumped out onto the stage.

Middlewitch


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## Elmore Hammes

From my soon-to-be-released comic novel, *Not Fit For Human Consumption: A Comedic Farce*

Loretta snapped another piece of metal, and the section fell out. She made a mighty hop and cleared the lower level of rungs, landing with a soft thud on the carpet. She trembled in excitement, then went still as she heard the padding of paws coming through the kitchen.
Mittens, the Jenkins' tabby, sauntered into the living room. The tom cat looked at the rabbit with curiosity. "Hmmm, seems someone has gotten out of their cage." Mittens sat down, licking his lips, staring at Loretta.
"Oh, you know how it is, cooped up all day, I thought I would go for a little stroll."
"Did you now," Mittens said. "Well, seems to me, that rabbits in the cage is one rule, but rabbits out of the cage, well those are fair game. I am supposed to keep the house free from rodents and such."
Loretta shuddered. "Please, Mittens. I am old. I have little time left. I just want to hop out in the grass, to have a few days of freedom out in the sun and the grass. That's all I want."
Mittens stared at her. He cocked his head, considering her statements. "Well, I suppose I can understand that. I can go out whenever I want to. I only come back as it is convenient for me. They do not control me, have not caged me, as they have you."
"Then you will let me go?"
"Better than that," Mittens said. "I will show you the way out. The way to your freedom."
Loretta couldn't believe her long lop ears. She trembled, from both excitement and fear. She knew she couldn't trust the cat, that no cat could truly be trusted, yet she saw no other option.


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## Edward C. Patterson

For the Indie author, current and wannabe. Here's a snippet from Are You Still Submitting Your Work to a Traditional Publisher offered for FREE at Smashwords - http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/316

"The First Step is Validation

Becoming an Indie Author means, you must take all the responsibility for yourself in print (or e-book). That means that all the things that a traditional publisher would give you if they weren't in such a precarious position to take on one in 80,000. The first of these responsibilities is a hard one. The HARDEST one. Is your work publishable? (Not marketable - that's a different question and has nothing to do with writing). Is your work good enough? Too many writers think that every word they write is a blessing from Mt. Olympus. In fact, most writers think they are perfection - first draft is magic, immaculate - eat your heart out Stephen King. However, the fact is, if you want your work published, you need to validate your talent. Not with your friends and family either, because they will tell you that you're the next J.K. Rowling - and they will never buy your books. (Rule of the Jungle - Friends and Family do not buy your books). What you need is the opinions of 1) perfect strangers - beta-readers, and 2) a professional editor, agent, or an annotated rejection from one of the Dead-Tree houses (a fond, but catty name that Indie Authors have coined for traditional publishers)."

Edward C. Patterson


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## Guest

The first story in my anthology is actually an audio story (the rest of the book is text). Is it possible to post sound files here?


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## Edward C. Patterson

Not sure about audio. I know we can leave YouTube videos. I have a trailer posted in ne of my threads. Ask this question to Betsy in a PM.  I know you can link out to an audio file on a website (externally), which might be a way around it.

Ed Patterson


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## Guest

Oh, cool. I'm going to go look at  your YouTube video.


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## Edward C. Patterson

Its in the No Irish Need Apply thread in the Book Bazaar. Would be interested in your feedback, if you want to give it. Leave it in that thread as I don't want to hijack this one


Spoiler



(eventhough I started this one.)



Thanks Ed


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## Guest

suelange said:


> The first story in my anthology is actually an audio story (the rest of the book is text). Is it possible to post sound files here?


Okay, I'm quoting myself. I put the audio file on my server and you can download it from here: http://www.suelangetheauthor.com/sounds/Timestopperssample.mp3

Thanks Edward for the suggestion. This sound file is about 45 seconds long.

The story is entitled "The Timestoppers" from my collection called Uncategorized. I'm looking for reviewers if anyone is interested (direct message me). Short stories: surrealistic, humorous, science fiction, that sort of thing.

Cheers,

Sue


----------



## sierra09

It's been awhile since I posted in here but I've been waiting for the edited version to go up both in Kindle and on Amazon for the paperback so from Chapter Thirteen of Celtic Evil: A Fitzgerald Brother Novel Kindle









"She needs you to do for her what she did for you after Athens," Ryan spoke directly to his brother, seeing his eyes jerk.
"How did you&#8230;?" Roarke stared hard at Ryan, not understanding how his brother could know about that when only Jessica and Cam knew what he did.
Ryan had stretched out on a sofa in the room with his eyes half closed, but he looked at his younger brother from under his lashes, serious fully. "Because I was with Jessica the whole week and a half you were comatose," he replied, not liking to admit that or to recall the emotions that dredged up. "I stayed with her as she talked to you, held your hand, and hoped you'd forgive her for letting you get hurt, and then when the doctors assured me you'd live, I paid a visit to the back-stabbing little traitor who blew your cover."
Mac had turned to stare between his brothers even as Kerry's mouth was thinning, a sure sign he didn't like what he was hearing. Ian wondered which would speak first.
"I want medical records on you," he told Roarke without a beat as he narrowed his gaze as if looking to see for himself.
"You never told me any of that, Ryan." Kerry knew why even before his brother smirked.
Roarke still hadn't stepped into the room but his gaze had lowered slightly as what his brother said penetrated. "It wasn't her fault. I took the job and let my cover go in order to shield her," he paused. "Why were you there?"
"Brat's supposed to be smart but at times he's an idiot," Ryan muttered, sitting up on the sofa. "I was there because some group of racist Neo-Nazis decided to use my little brother as a guinea pig and despite it all, I loved you enough to know that no one but me gets to hurt you.
"Now get your bleedin'


Spoiler



ass


 in here and talk to the lass," he finished with a growl, throwing Ian a look. "Don't grin at me like that, lad."


----------



## mamiller

I haven't posted anything from WIDOW'S TALE in awhile, so here goes...  

  Serena started when the Jeep came to a quick halt at a roadside vista. Incredulous, she turned to find Brett with his fists bunched against the steering wheel, his profile strained, with a muscle pumping near his jaw.

  "What’s the matter?" She asked.
  
  "I hated that."
  
  "It was your idea."

  Cloudy eyes converged on her. "I hated it, Serena. Even if it was an act, it was—" Running a hand up into his hair, Brett shook his head. "You know that was an act. You know I didn’t mean a single word that was said there."

  Serena glanced down at the hands resting in her lap and caught sight of her simple gold wedding band. She swiveled it around her finger several times. It was loose, so she started to tug it off.

  "Don’t." Brett’s hand covered hers.

  "Why? I want it off, Brett. It—it’s cutting off my circulation." 
  
  Though the ring was loose, what it represented was no better than a tourniquet.


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## JimC1946

A paragraph from "Recollections: A Baby Boomer's Memories from the Fabulous Fifties." This is from Chapter 2 - The Family.

I still remember one incident when I was twelve years old. I had gotten a .22 caliber rifle (a Marlin Model 57 lever action, a really sweet rifle) for my birthday. You couldn't discharge firearms in our suburban neighborhood of course, but I was on the back steps just loading it and unloading it when the rifle accidentally discharged and a bullet went into the wall. I heard my mother scream, and I ran inside to the kitchen, where plaster dust was everywhere (walls were plaster then, not the sheetrock drywall that would come later). The bullet had grazed the plaster and made a very noticeable crater. Fortunately for me, the crater was behind the refrigerator and wasn't very noticeable, especially with the stack of old newspapers on top. My mom calmed down, cleaned things up, and sat me down to explain that if my dad ever found out what happened, he would kill me instantly and without remorse. Therefore, she said, as long as he's alive, we'll keep this refrigerator so he never sees the wall behind it. My father died thirty-two years later, and my mom kept that refrigerator going with duct tape and baling wire. I contributed by praying for the refrigerator's continued health. My dad must have wondered why my mom was so attached to the refrigerator, but he never said anything, and since he was a bit of a cheapskate, it was okay with him to not have to buy a new refrigerator. My mom got a ton of points for that, and afterwards, I upgraded her birthday present considerably from the usual soap-on-a-rope or chocolate-covered cherries. After my dad died, I bought her a new refrigerator, a deluxe model with all the frills. It was worth every penny.

Recollections: A Baby Boomer's Memories of the Fabulous Fifties


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## Brenda Carroll

In keeping with the Halloween Season, The Red Cross of Gold XIV: The Skull of Sidon brings us to a rather embarrassing scrying session wherein Meredith is searching the Abyss through the scrying dish for her beloved Knight of Death when she inadvertantly awakens Lord Nergal, Lord of the Abyss.  After she passes out, Lucio Dambretti, Knight of the Golden Eagle, looks into the dish and gets caught spying by the great Lord who mistakes him for the King of Babylon:

“O great King Nebucchadnezzar, thou hast raised many great monuments overlaid with precious stones and gold in honor of my father and my mother and my sisters and my brothers, but never once didst thou raise such a monument in my honor.  And now thou wouldst call upon the Mighty Lord of Kurnugi for favors?  Wherefore hast thou placed my temple?  Wherefore might I gaze upon my likeness in bronze and gold?  Wherefore are my eyes inlaid of ivory and ebony?  What precious jewels adorn my brow?”

Louis left Merry on the green velvet sofa and returned to stand very near the Italian, looking over his shoulder in the dish where he could see nothing but water.

“Exalted Nergal,” Lucio inclined his head and closed his eyes.  “I pray that thou shouldst forgive my impudent nature for I am but a man and not a god.  Had I known that you would allow me to see you, I would have caused a great celebration in your honor and would have shown my devotion to your most glorious name by building a shrine and a temple worthy of your greatness.”

“When thou hast builded this temple to my glory, come to me again, O great King, and ask of me thy petition and I will stand in judgment upon thy worthiness as a subject of the Great Nergal.”

The image shimmered and faded from the surface of the water and Lucio looked up at the ceiling.


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## Kristen Tsetsi

*Snippet from "Homefront":*

I move through the house. Hallway wall sconces, floating wax discs in shallow bathtub water, tea lights in holders on the windowsills and light strings nailed around doorframes. No one else is in the kitchen when I find my way back, and the clomping of my heels is lost in thudding techno. Multi-colored liquor bottles line the counter like a bar display. I check the refrigerator for orange juice and find only beer and water and a single orange with a spot of green mold. I mix something else, blue and clear and red and soda, colorful and tasty and strong in a red plastic cup, and take it back out to the living room. 
Couples of one kind or another fill the floor and hands slide over hips and pelvises glide. Open mouths, almost kissing, fingers breast-stroking blankets of air, all in dim light like afterglow, and they all know each other, or seem to, laughing, touching shoulders. I inch around the room with a smile, always a smile, alone without Denise or Charlene or Dick's Fiancé or Marc, until a plastic chair bumps the backs of my knees and I sit, back straight, smile stuck on so I look alone on purpose. A rest from all the dancing. My glass empties fast and I skirt the floor to mix another, thinking I hear someone say, "Who is _she_?" and remembering I look like a movie star-a goddamn movie star-tonight, if nothing else.

________​
I don't dance, but I am, and Denise, too, monster with a red mouth and matching body all beautiful and vaginal-she would love to be called vaginal, so I shout it over the music, "You look vaginal!" and she shouts back, "Damn straight!"-and in that minute we connect because we _get_ one another and we move closer and dance the way girls dance in movies, part-time lesbians for show, her arms coming around me from behind and her hands sliding down my waist and over my hips and we're laughing and watching the men watch us and she puts her mouth to my ear and yells, "This'll be good," and runs her splayed fingers over my pelvis, not touching me but almost-they think she's touching me, you can tell by their eyes-and we laugh and separate and move on our own, in our own heads, until a man grabs her and a voice says in my ear, "You're something." For a moment he is behind me and we're dancing the way Denise and I were dancing and then he touches me and I spin and Marc is smiling and smelling faintly of punch and watching his hips close the space to mine. 
I pull away. "Thirsty," I say, and he takes my hand and says, "It's just dancing."
"I'm done dancing."


----------



## Elmore Hammes

From my just-released novel, Not Fit For Human Consumption: A Comedic Farce:

Peter crouched close to Sarah. "I will tell you the vision," he said. "I will tell you what I saw."
She nestled an antenna with his, making sure she could hear and sense him completely. He could have told her anything he wanted to and she would have believed him. But Peter was not making things up, he was not delusional. He did not just believe but he knew the truth.
"It was four days ago, and I have been thinking about it ever since, trying to absorb the truth," Peter told her. "I was searching in the living room upstairs, near the upholstered chair."
"There are always good crumbs there," Sarah said.
"Yes, and this was no exception. I found some excellent morsels of pretzel, and I was trying to decide whether there was enough to save for later or to eat them immediately, when I heard the picture box."
"The noisy one, the television?"
"Yes," he said. "I normally ignore it but I heard it say 'cockroach,' so naturally that drew my attention."
"Oh my," Sarah said, captivated by his words.
"I focused on the picture as well as the words. It began to tell me a story. It was like it was talking directly to me. I have heard it before, and looked at it before, but never before did it seem like the words and the pictures were intended for me. This was a vision from some higher power, of that I am certain. It told me a wonderful story. It told me of our people, of the destiny of the cockroach."
Sarah tightened her antennae around Peter's. "Tell me, Peter. Tell me our destiny."
Peter paused, bringing back in his mind the vision from the television. "The box showed the humans fighting. Killing each other. Exploding bombs that destroyed everything around them. Everything but us."
He continued, his voice rising as his passion increased. "It showed the cockroaches emerging from the ruins. It said only our race would be able to survive the radiation, that we were superior to all the others. That we, the cockroaches, would rule the world!"


----------



## Dave Dykema

Been a while since I've done one of these. This is from _Stalker_. With Halloween approaching, get creepy with a fellow horror movie lover! Forgive the length, but I've noticed these are starting to get longer...

During a commercial break Dan looked up at his newest acquisition and admired its smooth, sheen surface reflecting the commercials blaring from his TV. The word "Stalker" stood out at the bottom of the poster in metallic block letters. The artwork consisted of a man's wrist, half obscured in shadows, clutching a knife held down by his side. The image of a woman appeared on the blade, walking down the dark street, oblivious to the danger behind her. The tip of the knife had an airbrushed glint applied to it.
He had stopped by the Triplex on his way home and his heart sank when he saw that _Stalker_ was no longer on the bill. According to the exhibition license, Mr. Peters had to return the poster when he returned the canisters containing the reels of film. The manager of the Triplex had bypassed this little technicality for him before, but those times he had asked for the poster while the movie was still running.
The box office wasn't open yet, but Peters let him in when he knocked. "What can I do for you?"
"I know this is a real long shot," Dan said, "but I was wondering if by chance you might still have a _Stalker_ poster. I noticed outside that you're not running it anymore."
"Horror movies never do have a very long run," Peters explained. "I've noticed that there's a small, but loyal, core that goes to all the scary movies. Most everyone else stays away. Once the groupies have seen the movie, there's no audience left for it anymore."
Dan nodded anxiously. He too found that to be the case, but right now he wasn't really interested in discussing the viewing habits of a fickle public. He wanted to know if he could get his hands on a _Stalker_ poster today.
Peters picked up on this and chuckled inwardly, feeling a bit like Santa Claus. "I thought you might be back, Dan. Come upstairs to my office. I have something for you."
Within moments he had a crisp, smooth poster in his hands. It was flawless except for a small crease in the lower left corner. He couldn't thank Mr. Peters enough. He felt like a babbling fool.
"I told the UPS guy that my ticket taker accidentally ripped the poster in half as she was taking it out of the frame in the lobby. Since it was torn, we 'threw it away.' That's my other option under the contract."
Dan felt a little devilish as he smiled and read the fine print in the white band framing the artwork:

"Property of National Screen Corporation Licensed for use only in connection with the exhibition of this picture at the theatre licensing this material. Licensee agrees not to trade, sell, or give it away, or permit others to use it, nor shall licensee be entitled to any credit upon return of this material. This material must be returned or destroyed immediately after use."

Knowing that it was forbidden to have made it that much sweeter. He had an inkling how Adam and Eve must have felt in the garden.


----------



## Kristen Tsetsi

_I post this today as the media reports October as one of the highest casualty months in Afghanistan since some such time._

I turn on the TV. On the screen a sun as perfect and white as a hole punched from paper balances atop the sharp point of a mountaintop. 
"Another morning here," says a man's voice from behind the image, "and another day for things to go extraordinarily well, or to go horribly, horribly wrong. With each sunrise there is new promise, but that can be a promise of something good or, as we know too well, Janie and Tom, it can be an omen. Yes. A promise of another kind, of something terrible to come." A red filter covers the sun in blood. "After last night, we could sure use a good day. An intense battle raging for five hours, both in the air and on the ground, losing a reported twenty-five soldiers and marines, and killing approximately one hundred of theirs. And, as you know, Janie and Tom, that's the highest death count we've had on our side in one day since the start of the war." Janie says they'll get back to him after these messages, but his voice carries on in my head: _Your soldier-that's right, yours!-could be one of the dead. Tune in at six to find out if you're today's winner of an elegant trumpeted service and a brand new, gen-you-ine American flag courtesy of the American Honor Guard! _I wonder if they have a board marked up with tally lines, "their side" and "our side," each soldier a Roman numeral one. Jake. I. William. I. 
I. I. I. I. I. I.
I. I. I. I. I. I. 
I. I. I. I. I. I. I. 
I. I. I. I. I. I.
Jackasses.

From "Homefront" (in signature)


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## Paul Clayton

This snippet is from: _White Seed: The Untold Story of the Lost Colony of Roanoke_
enjoy...

Now that they had returned to the fort, Parson Edward Lambert could not stop himself from again comparing the state of his English flock with that of his Croatoan. As he walked along the common he saw several people working in their gardens, their faces gaunt and stoic. The soldiers were just as morose-looking and unruly as they had been when he'd left. He thought back to the well-fed inhabitants of Croatoan. He thought of their dancing and singing, their joy! The Croatoans enjoyed so many of God's blessings. And they had enjoyed them long before the English had come here. Whilst here on Roanoke Island... Lambert let the comparison die, uncomfortable at where it was leading him. He said a prayer that his wife and little son were well.

Entering his cottage, Lambert was cheered to see William sitting in his little chair before the hearth, reading from his bible.

William got to his feet and set his bible on the chair. "Father!"

Lambert embraced his son. The boy was thin, but he still had plenty of youthful joy in him, thank God. "Hello, William."

Mary called down from the loft. "Husband, you have returned!"

"Aye," Lambert called up, continuing to admire his son. "Hurry down, Mary, that I may look upon you!"

William hovered about, anxious for news of his father's mission to the Croatoan savages.

Mary tried bravely to smile as she came down the stairs. Lambert was pleased. Perhaps God was finally answering his prayers. He embraced her. "What news, Goodwife?"

She shook her head sadly. "Little Thomas Reed has died of the fever. His mother followed three days later."

"May God have mercy on their souls," Lambert said.

"Amen," said Mary. "What has kept you in the savages' village all this time?" Her voice was colored with attempted cheerfulness.

"I baptized five, buried one, and married two."

"Married two, you say?"

"Aye. Both Robert's servingman, Lionel Fisher, and Slade the carpenter took Croatoan wives."

Mary frowned. "Is that permitted?"

Lambert smiled as he nodded. "Aye. By God. And I am but his servant. The brides were among the five that I baptized. God smiles upon their union."

Mary went over to the hearth. "Sit and I will get you some gruel." She reached for a pot hanging from its hook.

"Not yet, wife," said Lambert, guilty at the fullness of his belly. He looked down at William and worried over how thin the boy was becoming. "First I must go to the big house and get things ready for Sabbath service."

Lambert left the cottage and headed for the big house. He was not pleased to find a dozen or so soldiers crowded about the steps to the big house carrying on like roaring boys. Despite the cold, several sat on the ground.

"This cole chopped a card!" a man exclaimed.

http://www.amazon.com/White-Seed-Untold-Colony-Roanoke/dp/B002SN9GF2/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&s=digital-text&qid=1256792640&sr=1-2


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## Carolyn Kephart

*Just a bit of pretty:

The wysard gave himself to the light, floating upon it as if upon a sea, wishing only to remain forever in that scintillant bliss. He drifted off among the stars, gathering glittering handfuls, blowing them into the blackness like dandelion-seed caught fire. Far off, very far off, he could discern all the worlds that were-Cyrinnis glowing sweet blue and green, marbled with shining white; twin-mooned Drihaytn, sere and bare; bright nebulous Naja, huge Trantor splotched and striped, Ashrog with its rings-these he saw and others, their shining colored spheres pretty as a child's game carelessly left to roll where it would. It was so beautiful that Ryel would never have filled his senses with anything else.*

CK


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## sierra09

A nice quiet scene from Celtic Evil: A Fitzgerald Brother Novel: Roarke (no link here since the link maker and I hate each other but the link's in my signature   )

“Ah! A good stiff drink is just what this situation calls for,” the wiry silver haired Irishman who had been upstairs with Maggie announced cheerfully as he entered the room, clapping his hands. “Good year this bottle was. Be a good boy, Ryan, and poor us some drinks.”
Ian blinked at the whirlwind that was the little man even as he saw Roarke pull back at the new voice, wiping his face quickly. 
“Don’t want any of…” he started to object when the older man plopped down on the sofa on his other side and laid a hand, slightly weathered with age, on his leg.
“It’s the height of bad manners when any true Irishman refuses to drink with kin, boyo.” His eyes bright as he grinned, took the glass, and held it up to the light. “Especially when that kin is your own grandfather and the drink is an excellent aged whiskey.”
Ryan smiled into his own glass, knowing he’d be answering questions until hell froze over from Ian over this. “One drink, Roarke. It’ll settle things a bit.”
He poured some of the amber liquid into a glass, then while Lorcan Kerrigan kept Roarke’s attention, he shifted his wrist slightly. “Drink up, then we’ll go see if I should toss Mac outta the house.”
“You...” Ian began when a sharp kick shut him up then he blinked at the glass that was shoved into his hands. “I’ve never really…”
Lorcan shook his head, his full thick mane of silvery blond hair moving. “Damn bloody shame too, lad. I had me first drink at the age of two at my own sainted grandpa’s knee.”
Hesitating, Ian caught Ryan’s shrug that meant he might as well, and saw that Roarke had downed the single drink without a wince, so he did the same and then saw stars.
“Should probably have warned the lad this is one hundred fifty year old stuff and will kick like a mule,” Lorcan mused, holding his glass out for a refill.
Ryan shot his grandfather a sour look, then looked to see that Roarke was staying still as the combo of the liquor and the sleeping spell he’d slipped into it started to work, which allowed him to grab Ian before he fell forward.
“Just breathe through it, kid,” he laughed, gently slapping his baby brother on the back until he stopped choking.
“Lorcan!” the sharp accusing tone of his wife had the wiry little man sitting up straight.
Fiona entered the room and took in the sight with one look. “Are we trying to get our grandsons drunk on purpose?”


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## Renata

Journey Towards a Preordained Time is a satire on the life of Jesus.

Jesus listened to John the Baptist's sermon unmoved. He knew the kingdom of heaven was not coming for the Jews for some time. There were those in the audience who thought that John was preaching about a time when the Jews would be free of Rome's domination. It would take them almost two thousand years to create an independent state, and that was a small, beleaguered state surrounded by hostile neighbors. The preaching of John the Baptist seemed pathetic, not stirring. 
When John started baptizing people, Jesus released the "dove." It was actually a remote camera hidden in a mechanical bird. The long-range camera was good enough for the sermon, but they wanted close ups for the actual baptism.
Jesus never knew how John spotted him as being different. Perhaps it was his haircut or the newness of his clothes. Maybe it was the attitude he had. Most likely it was the dove. Jesus carried a concealed camera, but the dove hovered unnaturally close.
John said, "I have need to be baptized of thee and comest thou to me?" Jesus noticed that John's Aramaic was old fashioned and formal.
"Just do it," said Jesus abruptly.


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## patinagle

Snippet from _Glorieta Pass_, a novel of the Civil War in the Far West (http://www.bookviewcafe.com/index.php/Pati-Nagle/Novels/)

Silence fell in the rickety shanty of Dooney's tavern as O'Brien prepared for the duel. He himself saw no point in such drama-if you didn't agree with a fellow, best to settle it quick with your fists-but at the grand age of twenty-nine he was older than most of the lads, and they'd turned to him as referee. He ought to be flattered, he guessed. All the miners in Avery had crowded the tavern to watch. O'Brien ignored them, spoke quietly with the seconds to be sure they had done as he'd told them, and kept an eye on the nervous principals.

They were miners, too: Denning, a Georgian, and Peters from New Jersey. Best of friends, they had been, until news of the great conflict to the east had at last found its way into Colorado. "Hurrah for the North" and "Hurrah for the South" had been the first volleys. Others had joined the dispute, 'til the clear mountain air rang with bullets and violent words. Now these two fine young lads, grave determination in their eyes, faced each other across a rough table to settle on behalf of the infant town of Avery the question of Who Was Right.


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## Paul Clayton

_White Seed: The Untold Story of the Lost Colony of Roanoke_...

This is an early scene from _White Seed_&#8230; which finds Maggie and some others going out of the fort to gather firewood. Maggie becomes further intrigued with the Croatoan savage, Manteo&#8230;

The party stopped and they began gathering deadwood, placing it in neat piles that they would later carry back upon their backs. Snow began drifting down in tiny flakes.

Elizabeth came over, a thick piece of wood in her hand. "Think you we will soon spy a ship, Maggie?"

Maggie smiled sadly. "Perhaps. But it could be the wrong kind. I do not expect Governor White will return until the spring."

"Aye. But other English ships could call here."

"Aye," said Maggie, not wanting to get her hopes up. She continued to gather up sticks. From here and there came the crack of branches being broken into manageable lengths. The snow came down thicker now and the clean whiteness of it cheered Maggie a bit as she worked.

"How about that last lot that came from Powhatan's town?" said Elizabeth as she looked up at Maggie. Another party from the powerful savage leader had arrived at the fort, asking the Governor-Assistants if they would call upon Powhatan for a visit. The Assistants had voted not to go to Powhatan's village and had sent the savages away. Part of their reasoning, Maggie knew, was that they would leave this place for Chesapeake anyway, as soon as the Governor returned in the spring. Then they would parlay with the friendly tribe of savages, the Chesapeakes.

"I hear tell they want muskets," said Maggie.

"Over our dead bodies," said Elizabeth. She then looked around the woods suspiciously and bent to pick up another stick.

Maggie was suddenly aware of Manteo. He stood a few feet away. Snow had collected on his hair as he stared fixedly in the distance.

"What in the blazes is he doing?" Elizabeth said.

Maggie said nothing. She felt pity for the Croatoan of late. Manteo lived alone in one of the cottages. With the exception of Parson Lambert, Ananias, and Lionel, no one had anything to do with him. Lionel had recently told Maggie that Manteo badly missed his young friend, Towaye.

Manteo pointed to a tree. "Maybe have we-yass, adgeedamo!"

Maggie and Elizabeth looked at him dumbly.

"Meat, m'ladies."

Maggie looked at the massive oak he indicated. Its branches, perhaps as many as a hundred, spread out and up into the sky like skeletal fingers. Its thick trunk was ancient, pocked with half a dozen fist-sized holes.

Manteo went over to the tree and Lionel, Maggie and Elizabeth followed, their curiosity piqued. As the snow thickened and swirled around them, Manteo made signs for silence. He bent and picked up a handful of leaves, dirt and snow. He packed it into one of the holes of the tree, plugging it. He gestured for Lionel to do the same. After a time they had sealed off five holes and Manteo seemed satisfied. He then knelt on his haunches and took a flint from his pocket. He struck a spark onto some tinder he'd produced from a pouch, and blew it into flame, bringing that to leaves he had heaped up against the only remaining hole in the tree. He began fanning the smoke into the hole. The English people watched intently. After a while of this, the others went back to gathering wood. Finally Manteo stood, signaling to Lionel that he was finished. Manteo uncovered one of the holes at the bottom of the trunk and reached his arm in, probing exploratively. Smiling, he extracted a small bundle of fur and handed it to Lionel.

"By my sword!" said Lionel, holding a squirrel up in amazement, "he has smothered it!"

Manteo nodded happily and probed the other holes, removing two more squirrels. He held them out to Maggie. Tiny wisps of smoke wafted from the creature's fur. "Here, Mistress. For Master's pot."

Maggie's eyes met Manteo's as the curtain of snow fell about them, imparting a dizzying sense of magical motion. She forgot the others for what seemed like an hour but could only have been but a moment as she stared into the savage's handsome face. Elizabeth's bold laughter broke the spell, "ten of 'em's enough for me, but what will every one else eat?"

Lionel and the others laughed.

"Thank you, Manteo," said Maggie, forcing herself to look away from him and cast her eyes down at her feet. Despite the cold she felt a warm glow to the very marrow of her bones.

http://www.amazon.com/White-Seed-Untold-Colony-Roanoke/dp/B002SN9GF2/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&s=digital-text&qid=1255820985&sr=1-2


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## mamiller

Here is a clip from my romance novel, ROGUE WAVE, which is available on Kindle







or on Smashwords at https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/5401

_Pain pounded Nick's head and took a trek down the right side of his body. He was paralyzed, consciousness as elusive as the gulp of water he prayed for. 
In the last moments of lucidity, Nick was aware of her presence. The scent of jasmine filled the damp ravine. Her fragrance. He called out, but the hollow sound echoed back at him with a mocking timbre. 
Then, for just a moment, he felt a shadow fall across his battered body. He forced his eyes open. She was there, and she smiled, a divine goddess offering him a glimpse of salvation.
But she walked away._


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## Brenda Carroll

Here's a snippet from _the Hesperian Dragon_, Book IV of the Red Cross of Gold series. Mark Andrew is confronted with a specter from his past.

"I rebuke thee in th' name o' Chroist!" His voice was shaking as bad as his hands now. "In the name of Saint Michael, Saint George and Saint Andrew, I command thee. Leave this place, child of the Abyss."
She stood barely a meter away now.

"Ahhhh. You do remember me. Child of the Abyss. My lover. My brother. My son. How came you to let our son be killed, Mark Andrew?" She continued and her frown deepened as tears flowed down her cheeks. "Did he suffer long? I have been waiting for you, Father. Tell me, am I not still desirable to you?"

"I didn't&#8230; I tried to stop it, Elizabeth, I tried," he told her and shook his head before stepping back. "He was stubborn like his father."

"We can make another son," she told him and tossed her head. "There is plenty of time."

"There is no time for it. There was never time for it. Stay back! You are not Elizabeth!" He shook his head and tried to clear his thoughts. She was lovely. He raised the sword again, this time over his shoulder in preparation to strike. He felt his mind drifting under her gaze. She had been so young. Such a waste and it had been his fault. His fault that she had died, just as it had been his fault that Christopher Stewart had died and Volpi and the others.


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## Elmore Hammes

From my newest (and for the moment most affordable) novel, Not Fit For Human Consumption: A Comedic Farce. In this scene Henry is on a plane, trying to figure out how to recruit a very attractive young woman; this is complicated by an older woman sitting between them.

He considered poisoning the older woman, but that had the same drawbacks as the sleeping pills. He could hope her chicken dinner was grossly undercooked, but it would take hours for food poisoning to hit her, so that would mostly be a minor vengeance for her blocking the side view of Charlotte's exquisite chest. Well, for that alone, he did hope the older woman got food poisoning. He felt a pang in his heart at the realization that were the older woman not sitting there he would have had another hour and half already of drinking in a nearly twenty-five percent view of Charlotte. Food poisoning with vomiting and diarrhea, he mentally pushed toward the older woman. She deserved it.
Henry continued to ponder potential solutions to his dilemma. He needed to be alone with Charlotte, and he needed her to listen to him. If she thought he was sick or delusional or dangerous - well, dangerous to her, it was okay if she thought he was dangerous to other people - then it would not go as he wished it to. She must think of him as a protector, as someone who could save her from impending ruin and doom. She must trust him.
Henry decided that audacity was called for. He took out his pad of paper and wrote a brief note on it. "Matter of national security. Utmost caution. Meet me in the lavatory. Henry Stewart, Hedgehog Surveillance Network." He read it, frowned. He put that sheet back and took another sheet. "Matter of national security. Meet me in the forward lavatory. Trust no one. Henry Stewart, HSN." That sounded better, he thought. More spy like.


----------



## Edward C. Patterson

I'm behind in posting a snippet. BTW, I'm delighted that everyone has enjoyed this thread and continues to post here. What a blend of styles and what enjoyment we provide each other and readers:

Here's a snippet from _*The Third Peregrination http://www.amazon.com/dp/B001Q3M9QI*_, the second book in The Jade owl legacy series.

The men turned off Fu-ch'ien Street into the narrow mouth of the lane, the night lending scant light for their passage. They found the cobbles a nuisance beneath their feet. At this hour, no one stirred in the middle passage between the main thoroughfare and the tenements. Only the echoes of their shuffling feet could be heard; that, and a distant _erh-hu _ muddling from the _cul-de-sac _ beyond.

"Keep up with me, Rafaelo," Ch'en Hui-ni said, peering behind him, squinting to see the wide brim hat silhouetted against the lights of Fu-ch'ien Street. "It is not far now. Just through that alley."

"What alley, _signor_? I cannot see a thing." The silhouette shrugged.

"Wait and adjust your eyes. It will happen." Ch'en Hui-ni waved the metal tube above his head to help Rafaelo gain his night vision. "See it now?"

"The painting or the little pathway?" Rafaelo whispered.

"Either. Anything."

"_Gran Dio_, of course I see the painting. Would I ask if I could not, _signor_?"

Suddenly, a light shone from the ramshackle of houses flanking the lane. It beamed at their feet as if to pinpoint their position. It accused them of stealth and theft and all the guilty charges that neither men were apt to fit. Still, they stepped into the shadows, fearing to cross the beam. In a house, they saw a figure, an old figure - a bent woman stirring in her sleep, perhaps to wash away the summer sweats or maybe just to squat off too much tea. In any event, it was as natural as the light.

"Let us go," Hui-ni said.

They crossed the beam, shuffling to the opposite darkness. The alley, a dark hole to the surrounding walls, caught a glimmer of light from the _cul-de-sac _ beyond. Ch'en Hui-ni pulled across the divide, and then sprung into the alley. He stumbled across some device in the dark.

"What is it, Minister Ch'en? Where have you gone?"

Rafaelo flailed about looking for his guide.

"I am here," Hui-ni croaked. "Look down, you old fool. Here. There's something on the ground - a wire." The minister cocked his head. His eyes barely shone, but catching the beam proclaimed the deep question: "Who would trip us in the dark?"

Rafaelo felt the ground. He found a wire stretched at the alley's entrance. He tugged trying to release it. Failing this, he helped Minister Ch'en to his feet. While checking for bruises, and perhaps even breaks, they heard the swish of cotton and silk approaching. A terrible rotting odor grizzled their noses as if someone had opened the trashcan and exposed last week's cabbage. Rafaelo retrieved the painting. He stood sentry, watching an obscure figure emerged into the alley. 

Hope you enjoyed
Edwrd C. Patterson


----------



## Elmore Hammes

From my most recent novel, Not Fit For Human Consumption: A Comedic Farce

Sarah curled beside Peter in the basement. "So how do we become rulers, Peter? When do we get to be king and queen?"
Peter was too worked up after telling her his vision to notice her referring to each other as king and queen. "I don't know, Sarah. I just know what the box told me, that the cockroach was destined to rule the earth. I suppose it will be something the humans do to each other, from the pictures it was showing. Some sort of war."
"Oh." Sarah sounded disappointed, and Peter noticed her withdrawing slightly.
"What's the matter, Sarah?"
"I guess I thought it would be more exciting. Something we did, not just an accident."
Peter thought about it. "Well, maybe it is. Maybe we start the war."
Sarah perked back up at the prospect. "Really? We can start the war? Oh, let's Peter, let's start a war so the humans all kill each other and we can rule the world!"


----------



## harfner

From OFFSPRING, chapter seven:

Kendi slid out of bed, wrapped a robe around himself, and headed for the bathroom. On the way he pressed an ear to the closed guest room door. Silence. Lucia must still be-
"She is fine," Harenn said behind him. Kendi jumped.
"I'm combat-trained, you know," he growled. "I could have killed you where you stand, woman."
"The male ego," Harenn remarked, "continues to be a mystery. I have already checked on Lucia, and she is fine."
"You went home last night, didn't you?"
"Of course. But now I have returned to visit my patient-and make her a decent breakfast. One of you two bachelors must one day learn to cook."
Kendi shook his head and wandered into the kitchen. He smelled toast, hot rice cereal, honey, and butter. Bedj-ka was sitting at the table, digging into a steaming bowl with a spoon. A data pad on the table in front of him showed a feed story about a boy who had gone missing on a solo nature hike. The boy was a few years older than Bedj-ka.
"Shouldn't you be in school?" Kendi asked.
Bedj-ka swallowed a mouthful of cereal. "They've shortened the school week because of money. We're supposed to study at home on the computer. I'm doing current events."
"Are you going to study all day?" Kendi rummaged through the cupboards.
"Mom'll make me," Bedj-ka said. "It's not fair. School gets canceled but we have extra homework."
"Suffer, kid," Kendi said heartlessly, still searching the shelves. "When I was your age, things were a lot harder. We didn't have these sissy walkways and monorails to get to school. We had to swing from tree to tree on vines. In the rain. Against the wind. And we _liked_ it."
"If you are looking for coffee," Harenn said behind him again, "we are out. The grocer also has none. Have some tea."
Kendi groaned. "I wanted coffee."
"Wow," Bedj-ka said around a mouthful of toast. "You do have it rough."
"Your son," Kendi said, "is turning into a smart aleck."
"He does not get it from _my_ side of the family," Harenn said.


----------



## Heather Parker

Snippet from *Middlewitch* - the village is haunted.

"The Ghosts of Past, Present and Future?" gasped James, certain that Cyril was having us on. "But that's straight from Dickens!"
"And where do you think he got the idea? He wasn't that inventive, wasn't Charles."
"You really knew Charles Dickens?" I asked.
Cyril nodded. "I did, but just think about the other stuff he wrote. Very worthy, of course, and full of social comment. But not exactly Ebenezer Scrooge either. I liked Charles and I'm not criticising him, but he couldn't have written "A Christmas Carol" without the appearance of those three ghosts the week before Christmas. Lots of stories have been inspired that way. How do you think Will came up with Banquo's ghost?"
James and I exchanged astonished glances.
"Er, did you always move in literary circles then, Cyril?" I asked.
"Oh yes, I've always been keen on poetry and plays. Wrote quite a lot myself in the nineteenth century. They said I'd have been the second Byron if I'd been alive." He snorted. "And yet they believed he was. And him a vampire long before I was turned."
"Cyril's such a clever bloke," said Alf admiringly, and the vampire smiled gratefully at his friend.
"Yes, but I don't know how to mend a cistern, Alf. I reckon we need each other."
Alf laughed. They were so happy together.
Cyril went on to describe the strange phenomenon of the Christmas ghosts. It appeared that the three spirits were all manifestations of the same entity and occasionally managed to lose each other&#8230;

*Middlewitch








*


----------



## Carol Hanrahan

I haven't posted any snippets in ages, so here is one from Baling:

“Aunt Jess, we already baled all the hay last month,” John complained.  He flopped down on the couch, a deep furrow in his brow.
  “Just the first cutting,” Aunt Jess said.  “That’s the beauty of growing alfalfa.  You don’t have to plant it every spring, and you get three cuttings of it to sell to good neighbors like the Wagner’s.  Their milk cows love my alfalfa.  Eat it all winter long.”
  “So it’ll be just like last time?” Nick asked.  “All those bales?”  He couldn’t imagine piling all those hundreds of bales up on the wagons again.
  “Just about as many.  Not quite.”  She smiled at them.  “What a break, huh?”

* * * *
  
  Nick pulled his baseball cap down lower on his forehead, squinting in the morning sun.  Heat and humidity.  Yeah, it was July.  By now, he could turn on the baling machine without Aunt Jess’ help.  He hopped back up on the wagon next to John.  
  “I bet we get three hundred forty-five bales from this field today,” he said.  “What do you think?”
  “I bet we get more like four hundred ten,” John answered.  “Whoever gets closest wins.  Loser has to dry dishes for three nights straight.”
  “You’re on.”


----------



## BrendaClough

It's said that death from exposure is like slipping into warm sleep. Briefly, Titus Oates wondered what totty-headed thick had first told that whisker. He no longer remembered what warmth was. He had endured too many futile hopes and broken dreams to look for an easy end now. Every step was like treading on razors, calling for a grim effort of will. Nevertheless without hesitating he hobbled on into the teeth of the Antarctic storm. He did not look back. He knew the Polar Expedition's tent was already invisible behind him.

Finer than sand, the wind-driven snow scoured over his clenched eyelids, clogging nose and mouth. The cold drove ferocious spikes deep into his temples and gnawed at the raw frostbite wounds on brow and nose and lip. Surely it was folly to continue to huddle into his threadbare windproof. What if he flung all resistance aside, and surrendered himself to the wailing blizzard? Suddenly he yearned to dance, free of the weighty mitts and clothing. To embrace death and waltz away!

Read the rest here: http://www.bookviewcafe.com/index.php/Science-Fiction/Novels/Revise-the-World-Chapter-1


----------



## sierra09

Here's this weeks snippet from Celtic Evil: A Fitzgerald Brother Novel Kindle









Jessica Hadley had hit the ground hard and lay stunned, her head ringing and feeling her back burn, as she knew the thing was getting closer but couldn't summon any power as she fought to breathe.
"My master would have preferred you alive but he will have to accept your death as a tribute." The shadow demon raised a hand to strike again when he suddenly seemed to jerk as the tip of the ancient Fitzgerald sword pierced its chest. 
"No, you're both going to be disappointed," a strong voice spoke from behind the creature as the sword blade twisted harder and it began to glow with power. "I am Roarke Michael Quinn Fitzgerald, fourth born son of Toryn and Brenna Fitzgerald and one of the Five who will see your maker destroyed."
Roarke's usually calm and gentle smoky gray eyes were a pulsing black as his face seemed to shine in full power while he pulled the sword free in order to step in front of the snarling shadow creature.
"Fifteen years ago, he tried to take my life but took my parents. I am not a child any longer and will no longer allow him or his accomplices to threaten or harm what is mine," he spoke firmly as he locked eyes with the dying creature but knew its master could hear every word. "Be it my brothers, my friends or the woman I love. You didn't beat me or destroy me this time, Sebastian, and you won't do any of the same with my brothers, so deal with it." The sword lifted with barely a blur and struck a killing blow to the creatures' head.
The scream it uttered seemed to echo in the wind as a voice howled in outrage from somewhere far off, and the evil energy the creature exuded seemed to blow into the wind as Roarke shielded as much as he could.
"Okay, now that was neat," Ian let out a breath as he watched the rest of the demon creatures vanish.
"I'll admit he handled that better than I thought he would," Ryan shared a look with Kerry, as both knew this would only be a small victory for them.


----------



## Jennifer Stevenson

Here's a snippet from "Who Killed Science Fiction?" in ROCKET BOY AND THE GEEK GIRLS.

"I love this bookstore. You know? I guess I must spend five afternoons a week in here."
"At least that."
"It's dark, it's quiet, there's never anybody else in here. I can browse for hours if I want."
"That you can."
"What are you doing?"
"Ringing in used books."
"Oh, hey, any Bark Dangerly in there? I'm looking for--"
"--Volume ten, Bark Dangerly--"
"--And The Moebius Machine. I guess I've asked before."
"Only every day, Pushme."
"Well, I'm a collector. It's guys like me keep guys like you in business."
"Mm-hm."
"I've got every Bark Dangerly in every edition printed. I have the whole set. Every volume except--"
"--For volume ten. I'm watching for it."
"You sure it's not in this box of used books? Maybe somebody brought it in. Didn't know what it's worth."
"If they shop here, they know what it's worth."
"Why? Are you telling them?"
"No, you are."
"Me? Oh. I guess you mean they might overhear me asking for it."
"It's possible."
"I don't want that moron Pullyu getting it before I do. His collection isn't complete either. We've both been after it--"
"--For forty years, ever since your mothers threw out your old books."
"I guess I told you about that. We were in school, so we had no idea what they were up to. We came home from school--it was a half day "
"Pep rally."
"Or some stupid thing--"
"--And they'd thrown out all those old Bark Dangerlys."
"We never did have volume ten, you know. "
"I know."
....

Rocket Boy And The Geek Girls is available at http://www.amazon.com/Rocket-Boy-Geek-Girls/dp/B002T44HPE/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=digital-text&qid=1257566309&sr=1-1


----------



## Brenda Carroll

In honor of publishing The Red Cross of Gold V:. the Quinta Essentia on Amazon Createspace, here is a scene in Mark's laboratory where he is making a potion to help Meredith feel better after a terrible tragedy has stricken her.  The potion is 'potent' and he and his priestly companion are unable to resist having a little nip for themselves.

“Aha!”  He said.  When he came back to the table and deposited two small brown bottles on it haphazardly.

Simon picked up one of the bottles and read the label.  “GWREX4?  Who is King G. W. the fourth?  George?  What is ‘W’?”

“Great Work Red Elixir times four,” Mark corrected him.  “The fourth multiplication.”

“How do you know?” Simon’s voice was a bit slurred.

“Where is the best place to hide something?” Mark asked him.

“Out in the open,” Simon answered automatically.

“Exactly,” Mark Andrew nodded as he opened one of the bottles very carefully and sniffed the contents.  “Aye.  That’s the stuff.”

“There’s not much left,” Simon commented as he eyed the tiny bottles, which were only half full.

“It doesn’t matter,” Mark told him.  “The multiplication process calls for the perpetual increasing of the Elixir.
Every time you do it, the decoction attentuates exponentially with increasing expediency.”

“Where’d y’learn such big words?” Simon asked and Mark frowned at the Healer.

“I dunno.  Are you all right?” Mark asked him and turned up the wine bottle again.  They were getting dangerously close to drunk.  He needed to take the potion up to Merry before he could no longer find the stairs.  A spider crawled out onto the tabletop and Mark smiled.  Things would get back to normal now.  He was feeling better already.  Simon stuck his finger in the honey-like mixture and blew on it quickly before it burned to the bone.  While Mark was putting up the GWREX4, he stuck it to his tongue.  It tasted like honey with cinnamon and went straight to his already swimming head.

“Wooo,” he said involuntarily and shook his head.


----------



## Elmore Hammes

From my mature-readers (due to graphic language and sexual situations) novel, Belt Buckles & Pajamas by pen name Michele LeBlanc

It must be a dream because Glen is flying. Really up in the air, no strings attached, cape flapping behind him flying. And his t-shirt has somehow become this really geeky comic book superhero costume. I can still tell it's him because he isn't wearing a mask.
Anyway, there he is. Flying. He smiles at me, waves, and flies down to land next to me. "I am glad you called me, Daphne."
"I called you?"
"Well of course. This is a job for The Guardian, after all."
I am so confused. I hate it when I don't know what is going on in my dream. Wait a minute. I guess it is worse when I do know what is going on. Because it is always what it shouldn't be. What isn't right. Glen is waiting for me to speak. I just look at him, not knowing what to say.
He clears his throat. Oh, I get it. "Yes, of course, Guardian. Do your job. Save us all."
"Thank you my lady. I vow to stop this tempest that has beset us, to root out the source of the maelstrom that threatens our very existence, to quell the -"
"Glen. Guardian. Just do it, please?" I ask, not able to absorb anymore of his analogies or metaphors or whatever the


Spoiler



hell


 he is spouting at me. 
He salutes me, and flies up into what I now see as a very unhappy sky. Funny how that can just suddenly change like that, how it can turn from blue sky with puffy clouds to dark grey thunderheads in an instant. Surely I should have noticed all those bolts of lightning and huge hailstones and funnel shaped clouds of eerie green before this.


----------



## J Dean

Here's a different one from me: a snippet from a short story I just finished for a student of mine, entitled "Fraidy-cat":

**
Cheryl, Brandon, and Carrie stood in front of her, faces glowing from the light of the small flashlight.  They stared down at her with solemn determination, waiting in silence for Isabella to situate herself in the chair.
“So what happens now?” Isabella asked, “You guys gonna cast a spell on me or something?”
“Not at all.” Brandon answered in a calm, flat tone. “We do nothing else.  All you have to do is sit here, say nothing, and wait for eleven-thirty.”
Isabella leaned to her left, looking at the clock: one minute to eleven.  “Why?  What happens at eleven-thirty?”
“The game will be up.” Carrie’s voice had become as lifeless at Brandon’s.  Isabella didn’t like it.  
“So.. What?  The game’s starting now?”
“Close your eyes, Izzy.” Cheryl said with a slight bob of her head.
“Huh?”
“Do it.  Close your eyes.  We’ll tell you when to open them.”
Isabella’s lips parted in slight apprehension.  “Why do I-?”
“Close your eyes, Izzy.” Brandon said.  His voice remained unchanged.
“Okay, just-just don’t do anything, alright?”
“Close them, Izzy.” Carrie soothed.
Isabella did so.  The dim room gave way to black eyelids.
“Three….” Cheryl whispered-or was it Carrie?
“Guys, I-“
“Hush.  Two…”
Isabella let out a fearful moan.
“One…”
Her hands gripped the sides of the table.
“Open them, Izzy.”
With a sudden gulp of air, Isabella did so.
The other three were gone.


----------



## KathyBell

An excerpt from Regression, every third chapter is a journal entry from the future while the main story is set in 1985.

Journal of Doctor Nicholas Weaver 
August 10, 98 P. I.

My father's journals keyed me into the nature of Time. He and my mother died when I was fourteen -I never realized I was responsible for their deaths until later, but that is a story for another journal entry. Father was researching the geomagnetic polar shift with the National Aeronautics and Space Administration in the years before he died. I found his journals Post Impact. Fortunate to not have lived near the impact site, I continued to visit the house during the Strife years, often living there for months at a time. It was peaceful, filled with memories of happier times. But, I digress.
Those journals made note of unusual magnetic signatures within the Earth's orbit. The magnetosphere was well studied, but these anomalies he discovered appeared to exist on their own, having no relationship to the magnetospheres of either the Earth or the Sun. Father died shortly after his discovery, just before Impact drew everyone's attention away from anything but survival. I will follow his protocol, and document my understanding. 
Quotes, both famous and infamous, echo through my mind. Robert H. Goddard comes to the forefront.
It is difficult to say what is impossible, for the dream of yesterday is the hope of today and the reality of tomorrow.

I do what I do for Hope.

Thank you Ed for creating this list, it's such fun reading other people's excerpts.


----------



## Jane Bled

From my 2010 release, *MASTER Book 2: Luna *, the second entry in my yaoi vampire series. (MASTER Book 1: Crimson







is available in Kindle format)

After a mere five minutes, Gabriel was seriously considering his bodyguard as a potential snack, without any thought of consequence. 
"Monsieur Gabriel, are you listening to what I'm saying?" Baza queried. His sizeable paunch quivered as he spoke. 
"I'm sorry, it's just that..." Gabriel's words crumbled in his mouth like paper. His face turned bone-white, then flushed pink as Joe walked forward and placed a concerned hand on his shoulder. Mesmerized, he stared the thick vines of veins winding beneath Joe's dark brown skin. Some human part of him was sickened to find that his vampire side wanted to spill not some, but all of Joe's blood. Every. Last. Ruby. Drop. _You better get away from me, Joe--unless you have a death-wish. I can help you out with that, if you'd like._ 
Horrified by the murder in his thoughts, Gabriel jerked a bit in the chair, which only caused Joe to tighten his grip. _Stay away from me--unless you want me to take it. _ _God! I can't control myself._ His fangs shot downward, nearly puncturing his bottom lip. Luckily, he had enough sense to place a hand over his mouth the split instant before it occurred, so his incisors were hidden. Joe leaned forward to whisper into his ear, unaware of the danger in his action. 
"What can I do for you, boss?"
_You can give it to me. All of it. Just come a little closer so I can reach your throat. _


----------



## mamiller

It's been awhile since I've posted a snippet from my romantic suspense, WIDOW'S TALE, so here it goes.  Hold your breath.  

  Using the rail for leverage, Serena forced her numb feet to cooperate, and managed a few awkward steps. 

  Something made her stop. That prickly sensation at the back of her neck—the same paranormal sensation that occurred just before her ghosts arrived.

  Under the beacon atop the bordering trawler, Serena traced the arc of light. In horror she watched the surging black wall of water that came straight at them. 

  Her scream was severed by its impact.

  Launched from the deck into the frigid void, suspended in churning darkness for an eternity, Serena surfaced, choking. She squinted against the onslaught of the storm and located the trawlers, shifting shadows several feet away. She struggled to kick her feet, and flailed her arms to keep above the waves. 

  Cruelly, Serena’s mind flashed to the past. She felt the weight of Alan’s hand on her head. Sputtering for breath, she tilted her neck back so that only her face reached the cold night. 

  Two kicks. 

  One.

  Serena’s legs stopped moving. With a last twitch of strength, her arms fell still.


----------



## Edward C. Patterson

from _*Turning Idolater http://www.amazon.com/dp/B001FWZ92Q/*_
Turning Idolater is about many things, but most of all it's about BOOKS. Here's a snippet which takes you (and the protagonist) into the oldest bookstore in New York City:

enjoy:

"Philip was mesmerized by the galaxy of fine reading that surrounded him like a mite in a snuffbox. His head slowly bobbed from left to right as he spied golden and tattered bindings heralding names he knew and more that he hadn't - Tolstoy, DeMauppasant, Eliot, Trollope and Dickens. As he concluded this simple but grand peregrination through the stacks, he was suddenly overwhelmed by a thought. If he lived three lifetimes, he might be able to perhaps read the bottom shelf, and understand just a fraction of that. It left him with a deep sense of loss. How could he feel loss at something he didn't possess? Still, the very magic of the stacks made him glad at the same time. It was the stuff of madness.

The center aisle opened into a wider area - a room with wall shelving, four more stalls and three large, overstuffed chairs that beckoned for an ass and a glass and an wide-opened tome. The windows were clear here and showcased an old tenement courtyard, the kind architects called the central 'I.' It was overgrown with sumac and ivy, but afforded a brighter light than in the front of the establishment.

The clerk shuffled to the corner of the room, where a closed door concluded a short flight of three wooden steps. As he placed his foot on the first step, the bell tinkled. He didn't stop, so Philip reached forward and grasped his shoulder.

"What is it?" the clerk asked.

"The bell rang."

"Did it now." Philip now realized why the clerk hadn't heard him enter. "Just now?"

"Just now."

"Well, that must be the boy about the Bradstreet's." He finished the short flight, pushed open the door, and then switched on a light. "You just go up now. The proprietor is upstairs, and if he's expecting you, it'll just save me the effort. I spend too much time up there as it is."

Philip slid past him into the dim light of the inner staircase. He heard the clerk shouting through the stacks, probably trying to accost the poor courier to stay.

The stairway was even more wretched than the bookstore. The stairs were broken and the banister shook under Philip's grasp. He was glad it was only one flight. On the landing, there were three doors, but only one shone light over the transom, so he proceeded to that one. He knocked.

"Come," came a voice. He knew the voice and did not hesitate.

Edward C. Patterson


----------



## patinagle

Snippet from my latest novel, _The Betrayal_, a fantasy.

A footfall on the forest floor below brought Eliani's head up sharply. The scroll in her hands curled back into itself. She had not been reading it-her thoughts had drifted long since. The Lay of the Battle of Westgard had failed to entrance her today.

She leaned out from the branch where she sat and peered down between the leaves of her favorite oak, seeking the sound's source. A shadow of movement below, the edge of a cloak curling out of sight. Not a kobalen, then. Nor could it be a guardian, for Alpinon's patrols were always at least three strong.

Eliani laid a hand against the oak's trunk-slender here, near its top-and closed her eyes. The tree's khi was slow and deep. She sent her own khi through it and out into the forest: roots running strong into the earth, whisper-fine grasses moving with each light breeze, small creatures dwelling in branch or under root. A much brighter, stronger pulse of khi reverberated through the wood, one that could only be ælven. Eliani drew back from it, as the ælven did not trespass upon one another's khi.
She moved stealthily down to the oak's lowest limbs, making no sound at all, for she could have climbed the tree blindfolded in any direction. Peering on a lower branch, she saw a solitary figure walking away northward: tall, male, pale-haired.

She caught her breath, thinking for an instant that it was an alben.


----------



## sierra09

Well, I was considering posting a snippet from my newly completed action piece but I forget if that's allowed so I'm going with one from Celtic Evil: A Fitzgerald Brother Novel Kindle









Shaking his head, he backed away slowly. "I can't go to the cemetery yet, Kerry," he refused, nearly panicked at the thought. "There are too many issues to cope with before I can face them. I will but not yet."

"You still don't&#8230;Ow!" Ryan had started to sneer when Mac dug his fingers into his neck to silence him.

"Alright, you don't have to come," Kerry accepted that, not being too surprised but he did raise a hand to keep his brother's attention. "I would then ask you find Jessica and settle some things with her. She's scared for you, Roarke, and whatever happened this time made it worse."

Turning to stare at his brothers, he saw the way Ian was looking at the floor and Ryan's look. "What did I do?"

"Just talk to her," Kerry repeated as he moved to go to the back door with Mac and Ian following him.

Ryan hung back to consider something then finally spoke. "Roarke, wait." It was rare for him to use his brother's name so that got immediate attention. "I know you and I have issues but that's us and we'll handle that but&#8230;" he paused, hating to lose the arrogant attitude he'd always used but knowing this time he had to be serious. "She loves you, Roarke. Any blind fool could see that so I'm hoping you do 'cause that lass is willing to take a lot of risks for you."

"Loving me is a bad thing for anyone to do," Roarke replied lowly, going to turn away but tensed when his brother grabbed his arm. "Ryan&#8230;"

"That's bullshit, boyo," Ryan snapped, using his anger to keep the tone to his voice when every part of him wanted to soothe this scared boy.

He had always known that he and Roarke would fight the most but that was fine with Ryan so long as no one else hurt his brother.

"You talk to the girl, then talk with Kerry, because what you believe is wrong with you is dead wrong," he snapped, whirling on a heel to storm out but paused to look back. "Tell her, brat."


----------



## SimonWood

An excerpt from _*Working Stiffs*_.

_My old man didn't really keep secrets. He just never said anything. Mom was always saying, "Don't ask your father questions. He won't appreciate it." And he wasn't the kind of man you coerced into revealing something he didn't want to reveal. His construction background made him mountainous. He had the kind of handshake that came from cutting rebar with hand shears and a backhand to match.

People were always saying I was like him. True, I had his height and build. They also said we sounded alike, although I never heard the likeness. But, I did lack one attribute that no one denied--his coldness. Thank God.

I got to study my pop a lot, seeing as we worked together in his hardware store with my two younger brothers. I watched him deal with customers with the same lack of affection that he reserved for his family. It was amazing how he exuded caution. Customers knew better than to haggle over returns like they would with me, Tommy or Art.

And I came to realize that I only knew my father through observation. I was twenty-two and knew nothing about him. I didn't know if he'd played high school football, gone to college, or how he'd even met my mom. I wondered how much she really knew about her husband. None of us were allowed into his hermit world--until last year._

Check out the rest at http://www.amazon.com/dp/B002VWKG2C and http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/5543.

Enjoy...


----------



## JimC1946

Several readers have told me that this section of my book Recollections: A Baby Boomer's Memories of the Fabulous Fifties







brought back some unforgettable olfactory memories:

_When multiple copies had to be made, mimeograph machines were used. These machines were most often used to produce materials for institutions, such as examinations for schools and Sunday bulletins for churches. The process was very simple. Waxed sheets of special paper were used for stencils. Writing or typing on the stencil created a master that was attached to an ink-filled cylinder. When the drum was turned, ink flowed through the parts of the master that had been cut by a stylus or typewriter, and blank paper sheets fed through the machine picked up the ink. The cheapest machines were hand-operated, but the more expensive electric mimeographs were faster. No one who went to school in the 1950s will ever forget the peculiarly addicting smell of a mimeographed exam, especially when it was freshly printed. I read somewhere that the ink had alcohol in it, so maybe we got a little buzz from it. With all the hassle and messiness involved, mimeograph machines were joyfully tossed aside when photocopiers became available._


----------



## Nathan

_Excerpt from *Two-Lane*. (Boots, a desert hermit, dialogues about why he is living out in isolation west of Las Vegas)._

"Dat same kid starts kickin me in da leg. Starts screamin at me to let his pops go! I mean da same kid who was gettin a mout'ful of fist from his old man now starts trying to beat on me. I's look down and sees dat same blackness in da kids eyes. Same nutinness. So I's let da old man go and keep walkin down da street. Da man throws da kid into a truck and dey drive off. I's never could understand. Yous go out your way to help a soul out, pull it up from da mud and clean it off, den dat same soul just spit back in your face. Ungrateful lot dey is. Ain't no use even botherin sumtimes. So whats you make of dat Jack? Ain't nutin to be done for dem is what I reckon. A kind ting ain't mean nutin no more does it? Da good book says we are da salt of da earth. You know what salt does Jack? It keeps a carcass from rottin. Problem is&#8230;it already dead. So I's figure, let 'em have each other. Ain't no use. Let 'em rot."

check it out here http://www.amazon.com/Two-Lane-ebook/dp/B002WN2YDO


----------



## R. M. Reed

On the fringes of the galaxy, nearly 8,000 parsecs from Galactic Center, a single-engine, single-occupant spacecraft could be seen approaching a small blue and white planet. The spacecraft was a Glexo Nebula with an overhead fusion injection engine, 53,000 light years on the meter and a pair of fuzzy dice hanging from the rearview monitor. The planet was a small, oxygen-nitrogen atmosphere, not terribly impressive bit of space debris that had cooled, congealed, and spawned a dominant intelligent life form that liked to get down and get funky.

-Xanthan Gumm


----------



## Carolyn Kephart

The wysard Ryel journeys to the great city of Almancar to save a life if he can, and halts at a shrine:

In the colonnaded vastness of the temple  hundreds of worshippers knelt before a statue unlike any the wysard had yet seen—a wooden image of a woman enthroned, from all appearances immensely old, carved with artless yet compelling simplicity, neither painted nor bejewelled nor richly draped, but wondrously forgiving and tender of expression. All about the image, candles glittered and incense swirled; and a priestess in flowing rust-colored vestments, her silver-flecked dark hair shorn close and her ears and neck hung with great ornaments of beaten gold, offered up a silver bowlful of milk and fervent prayers to Demetropa, Goddess of Life.

"Demetropa," Ryel murmured. Years fled away like scattered leaves, and he remembered how his mother had called upon the birth-goddess when she was near her time with Nelora. In secret he had followed her outside the yat one bright night, and found her kneeling with her face lifted to the moon, whispering what seemed like a plea as she clasped her hands over the swollen belly that he had so entirely feared and resented; and when in the fulness of time she held in her arms Nelora newly born and fair as daylight, she had given deepest thanks to the First Mother, and bade Ryel do the same. And Ryel had touched his lips to the petal smoothness of his sister's cheek, and inwardly begged forgiveness of the goddess with all his heart.

CK


----------



## AlexStone

From *Hauling Checks*:

We touch the main wheels down on runway 28Right; so far a smooth landing, then I set the nose wheel down. The plane starts to shimmy and shake like the wheel's going to fall off. 
This airplane is not exactly what I would call "a solid machine" to start with so all this shaking can't be good. I imagine every nut and bolt on the plane vibrating lose and the whole plane falling apart right there on the runway. I have a vision of The Co and I just sitting in the middle of the runway in a pile of aircraft parts wondering what the hell happened.

Kindle: http://www.amazon.com/Hauling-Checks-ebook/dp/B002WB107W


----------



## Jane Bled

Time another snippet from my award-winning vampire story MASTER Book 1: Crimson







:

The crimson hue was all around him now; filling him to the brim, stifling him with its insistence, mocking him with its promise of life after death. Sights and sounds rushed by him on a high-powered stream of consciousness. _Raiden._ The last piece of the puzzle fit neatly into place. Gabriel remembered. _Just&#8230;_

"Just close your eyes."

That voice&#8230;he knew that voice only too well. Those canines, glittering, sharpening, dripping trails of his own blood onto dry patches of skin&#8230;he couldn't even draw enough breath to scream. So tight, his lungs were so tight, and the car's insides were so hot, so hot and close; the smell, the death-smell, it was oozing from his pores, and he couldn't stop it. Then Gabriel was begging for his life, begging with his last breath as the miasma of decay rushed inside his nostrils like a line of cocaine. He sagged helplessly against the seat, a victim of its toxicity. Briefly, the blackness enshrouded him. Then a sound-wet, slow, and ragged, brought him stumbling back to the surface of consciousness. As his eyes refused to budge from their tightly shut position, his other senses worked in overdrive to compensate for his lack of sight.

Following close on the heels of the ripping noise was a smell-something like pennies and ammonia mixed together. That scent-thick, greasy, noxious-came closer. Gabriel realized the source of the odor was the body next to him.

Read the full excerpt here: http://www.goodreads.com/story/show/48859.MASTER_Book_1_Crimson_14_Excerpts_?chapter=4
I'm doing a contest today on the thread "Contest (11/16): 'Tis the Season for Dark, Hot Read" in the Book Bazaar--if you're interested in winning a free ebook copy of *MB1: Crimson*, private message me or reply on that thread.

Cheers,
Jane Bled


----------



## KathyBell

A snippet from Regression, in the underground city Sanctum located in Northern Canada.

"I don't mind geology. I collected rocks as a little girl." She grinned in remembrance. "My collection was completely catalogued with recipe cards identifying the source, type, and method of formation for each sample." 
"A girl after my own heart." Yabarek Dirki joined them, responding to Adya's comment. "That is how I started into geology in Australia, collecting rocks. Our tribe was told to look for magnetic rocks, worth money to collectors of meteorites. As I searched, I found the other rocks also interesting." He provided a brief tour of his facilities where his efforts were focused on improving extraction of valuable resources from the ground and assisting in preparation for mining resources from the Moon. As such, he divided his time between Sanctum and T.E.S.C. where the Moon Resource Development Program was housed.
"Here's one of my favourite samples, a geode." He held up the sample, grey and plain on the outside but showing beautifully iridescent crystals on the interior. "There are a number of theories about their existence; no one really has the time to bother investigating them since they are worthless from a monetary or geological standpoint. So, they are beautiful and enjoyable, but not to be taken seriously." Adya felt a jolt of shock as she looked into Yabarek's smug, satisfied gaze. An inhaled breath from her left advised her Peter caught it as well. "I will see you in a few weeks." He nodded in dismissal, before glancing at Peter. "Peter."


----------



## sierra09

I'm going to switch a little from my normal routine in posting a snippet from Roarke's book in order to debut a snippet from what will be my newest novel. From S.E.A.L. Team Omega, Flames of Betrayal, I think this one has about my all-time favorite line in it.  I think I blacked out all words not suitable for all ages. I'm trying to remember to do that.

"Lieutenant, they have a


Spoiler



damn


 sniper!" Casey seen the rocket launch from the bridge then his heart did a fast leap into his throat as he seen his commander's jeep flip into traffic then keep rolling downs an embankment.

Brookes had frozen. He knew with that bike still close, if Ethan and Cassidy had survived, they wouldn't for long.

"Stop this thing." he snapped, shoving his door open. "On foot!" he ordered the SEALs. "Get to them and take out that


Spoiler



damn


 bike!"

Jake had already stopped the second vehicle and SEALs were running on foot with weapons drawn.

Ford had stopped long enough to aim his PSG-1 sniper's rifle at the motorcycle, his bullet hit the passenger who fell off but rolled into the way of a car that couldn't stop in time.

As cars and trucks tried to stop, SEALs had reached the scene just as another rocket was aimed at them.
Since Ford already had his PSG1 rifle out, he raised the aim and found their rocket man. "LT! You want him alive or dead?"

Brookes had pulled a woman out of a burning car. "He's shooting rockets at us! Kill the


Spoiler



son of a bitch,


 Ford!"


----------



## David Derrico

The dim light radiated by the candles flickered imperceptibly, casting dancing shadows along the earth-toned walls of the room. Tapestries of both human and alien origin adorned the walls, and a collection of artwork assembled from throughout the galaxy decorated the small chamber. Though it usually gave him much pleasure, the room gave the Admiral little solace now.
Even the seat his wife sat in was a work of art-created by an Arcadian sculptor thousands of years ago. His wife, too, seemed to be a part of that sculpture, her graceful lines blending with the subtle contours of the chair. His eyes followed her elegant form, tracing the flowing patterns of her robe up to the supple lines of her neck and into the recesses of her dark eyes as they burned back into his.
"I think you should go," he finally blurted out. "It's too dangerous for you to stay here, Tara."
"What do you mean?" she asked him, stiffening up at the unexpected request. "Where should I go? To stay with my parents on the mainland? Would I be safer-"
"No, not on the mainland," he replied, looking down into the dark fibers of the carpet. "I mean somewhere else &#8230; maybe just to Mars or the moons of Saturn for a little while &#8230; or maybe to the Cygnus System &#8230;"
"The Cygnus System?" she repeated incredulously. "What in the hell is going on out there?"
"I wish I knew," he lamented helplessly. "I wish I knew."

From  _Right Ascension_, my first novel.


----------



## gerrydodge

Here is my snippet from RIDE THIS DAY DOWN INTO NIGHT:


I would’ve never known more about the murder than anyone else in Califon had it not been for Olivia Buford and the fact that I fell in love with her.  She was a student in my junior, college preparatory class for American Literature. She was beautiful. Beautiful with a slight hard edge to her beauty, as if the fact that she was a Buford had erased some of the softness in her face that would have been there otherwise.  The Buford clan was different than other people from Califon.  The Bufords defined the rough fringe that was a part of Califon and Vernoy, a long standing reputation both of them had always had.  Vernoy wasn’t actually a town but a stretch on a river road where a line of shacks had been established, probably originally as a temporary settlement, but had remained for as long as anyone could remember.  If Billy the kid or Al Capone had come from around Califon, they would’ve been careful when they walked by a Buford, or at least the Bufords who lived in Vernoy.  Vernoy is where Olivia Buford was raised.  It was in her face and in her walk and in her body.  Whatever it was that made it clear she was from Vernoy and a Buford, it didn’t take away from the fact that she was beautiful.  Not for me anyway.


----------



## SimonWood

An excerpt from _*Dragged into Darkness*_.

_The landing craft bobbed clumsily on the waves. The damned things were so unstable when they didn't have a full accompaniment of men to act as ballast. Captain James Clelland's six-man team was no substitute. The ride back would be better. The boat would be full.

They were half a mile out and Clelland could see the carnage on the beach. He didn't want to look at it or think about it. There would be plenty of time for that when they arrived. There would be sights and sounds that would eat through his soul for a lifetime. He leaned on the side of the boat and stared into the sky, ignoring the flotilla of boats approaching the beach in a fan formation.

"Right, kit-up everyone," Clelland ordered.

"Make way for the Lord Mayor's Bucket Boys," Sergeant Williams announced in a pompous, officious voice.

Clelland hated the term that had attached itself to his men like a limpet mine. It had started in the mess hall after their second or third mission. The problem was the phrase was too apt. The real Lord Mayor's Bucket Boys picked up horseshit after the annual procession. His Bucket Boys picked up something different after the battles were waged. The stench of what they handled was no less disgusting, and most couldn't stomach the work. Turnover was high. His men always had a choice, of sorts. He didn't. He was Oracle's right-hand man. He was the only man perfect for the job. _

Check out the rest at http://www.amazon.com/Dragged-into-Darkness-ebook/dp/B002HWSLFU and http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/2911.

Enjoy...


----------



## Carolyn Kephart

The wysard Ryel Mirai attends a church service:

Theofanu's purple lips parted in a dangerous grin. Taking the black globe from the other priest, she held it forth, and a shivering gasp moved among the assembled courtiers.

"The Master calms all fear." And she hurled the globe high above the upturned anguished faces. It floated over the congregation with deliberate slowness, and everyone it passed shrank from it; and in its dark depths glowed a dark light like the death of a far-off star. Then suddenly with a numbing blast the funereal sphere exploded, hailing down a shower of scorching soot, and instantly the nave was plunged into eclipse unearthly cold, clammy as grave-dirt. A stench of putrefaction poisoned the air, and upon the miasma a horde of loathsome forms floated in a glow of corpse-light. No music sounded now, but ghastly laughter and maddened howls mingled with the swelling hysteria of the congregation.

~From *Lord Brother*, Part Two of the Ryel Saga

*****​
CK


----------



## Elmore Hammes

From my middle-grade fantasy/mystery, The Holmes and Watson Mysterious Events and Objects Consortium: The Case of the Witch's Talisman

The witch left the shed where she had imprisoned Tabitha and the now departed Jake. _I can't believe Gavin has come back to haunt me_, she thought._ I am not ready yet, I could barely contain the spirit of the dog. I haven't charged my power up enough to deal with the likes of the wizard._
She drew her robes about her, allowing her room to sit down without tripping on them. She rocked up and down on an old wicker rocker that was outside the shed. She looked about the woods surrounding her, grimacing at the afternoon sun, wishing it could be night time all the time. _Well, perhaps it will be_, she thought. _Once I recover all my magic, then I can summon thunderclouds every day; dark, billowing, bloated thunderclouds to pelt the peasants with rain and block all rays of light from their miserable days._
_But if Gavin has returned then I don't have much time_, she realized. _The animal spirits are not enough; I can't hold more than a little one at a time. I must recover my talisman. It must be near here, how else could I have been restored in this locale?_
She thrummed her long, crooked fingers against the arm rest of the rocker. _That is the key_, she thought, nodding her head up and down with the rhythm of the rocker. _That will assure that I will not be banished again. I must find my talisman and bond it to my spirit again. Then not even Gavin will be able to stop me._
She let out a loud cackle of delight. The birds flew from the nearby trees, frightened by the hideous sound of the witch's laughter. "Yes," she cried out loud, "once the talisman is mine I will be power incarnate and none shall oppose me!"


----------



## sarah.zettel

Here's a snippet from the introduction to IN CAMELOT'S SHADOW, available now, formatted for Kindle (and most other e-readers) for $4.99 here: http://www.bookviewcafe.com/index.php/Sarah-Zettel/

The Snippet

I hear the tales they now tell of Camelot, of Arthur and Guienevier, and Lancelot, Gawain, Morgaine and Modred. The truth is fading, washed away by the tide of story. Soon there so little left, God will be even be able to find us on the Day of Judgement. If I am to tie a noose about my neck, it should be done with words. Words were forever weapon, my prop, my delight, and in the end my downfall.

All you men, beware the tongues of rumor. Beware the poison burden of the tale-bearer and the tattler. These will do naught but raise a canker of the soul that will blacken and swell until there is nothing left but pain.

But this is not to be a record of my self-pity. It is to be a record of those days and those deeds led by my brother Arthur, the greatest king our island ever birthed. Do men love a tale of war? Do the ladies love a tale of romance and beauty? Then I, who amused the whole of Camelot time and again with my clever words, shall give them one.

Read on then, this tale of magics, white and black, and of the faith of true hearts. Read then this memory of Gawain, greatest of all knights, and how he came to win the heart of the proud and fair Risa of the Morelands, sometimes after known as the Loathly Lady.

Kai pen Hir ap Cynyr
At the Monestary of Gillean,
Eire


----------



## Heather Parker

Snippet from Middlewitch

My mother always told me not to walk in the forest on my own.
"There's things you don't understand lurking in there," she would say, ominously.
I'm not sure whether this nameless threat was supposed to be human or supernatural, but it was guaranteed to send me heading for the woods as soon as I was old enough.
"Contrary young madam," she would scold when I was discovered, but I could never resist the lure of romance and adventure.
Until the morning of my eighteenth birthday, when I met a man in tights.
Now I appreciate in London this is pretty commonplace and anyway we shouldn't judge. But things are slow to change in Little Saffron, and women wearing trousers are still regarded as cross-dressers by some members of the community. When my cousin, Elvira, coloured her hair with crocus pollen, my aunt almost had heart failure.
"Dyed hair means only one thing," she cried to her daughter. "Everyone will think you're a strumpet!"
Well, I know Elvira, and believe me it didn't take a blonde rinse to get that message across to the eligible males in the village. I'm the last person to gossip but as my mother would say, "That one's no better than she should be."
Anyway, I seem to be losing the thread of my tights.


----------



## sierra09

Here's this week's snippet and I chose to use Celtic Evil: Roarke for it. Link is in the sig since the link maker and I don't see eye to eye right now and I'm lazy tonight to do it the long way.  

            Roarke had remained silent until he got to the bedroom upstairs where he gently placed his friend on the bed, then stepped into the bathroom for water and towels.
“Are you going to say something soon or just brood?” Jessica finally asked, head hurting from where it had hit ground.
Sitting back beside her, he pushed his long black hair out of his eyes as he took one arm to start cleaning the scratches manually, but did remove the sting. “Did the part where I told you to stay in the house escape you or what?”
The absent, tense tone to his accent told her he was angry and hiding it, yet his touch was gentle.
“You needed the time to do the spell and I knew Sebastian would send his goons so they needed a distraction,” Jessica shrugged, wincing slightly as the long red scratches on her back pulled. “Just wasn’t expecting so bloody many of the buggers.”
“They knew that if you were hurt I’d feel it and lose concentration,” Roarke sighed, sitting the towel aside and motioned to her shirt. “Let me see your back.”
Clearly hesitant on that, Jessica’s fingers fiddled with the material for a few moments then slowly then lift it over her head and shift so he could see the minor wound back there.
The other scratches had come from the lesser demons, but these he knew came from the stronger one. These he wanted removed totally, so he carefully placed his fingers on them and worked on removing them.
“Roarke, what…?” Jessica felt the sudden power and shivered but didn’t move as his other hand stroked through her hair.
“Just breathe through the pain, luv,” he murmured, gritting his teeth as it hurt to take these wounds, but felt it ease as she took his free hand in her own and closed them over the rose quartz heart he’d given her.
Smiling as he leaned his face into her hair, Roarke felt the wounds going away, and when he ran his fingers gently over her back and shoulders, he felt no pain or anything else except for her soft skin.
“We need to come to an agreement about your plans that give me strokes,” he commented, looking back at her eyes and seeing the concern. “I’m not angry, Jessica… well I was, but it scares me now to know how easy you can get hurt.”
“Roarke, we’ve been friends over twenty years and we’ve worked together on cases where we’ve both been hurt,” she reminded him with an eye roll that usually made him smile.


----------



## Edward C. Patterson

These are all so wonderful. I'm glad I asked for them. I'm overdue. perhaps, tomorrow.

Edward C. Patterson


----------



## Brenda Carroll

Here's a snippet from _The Red Cross of Gold  Book XV:. My Hope is in God_. Lucio Dambretti, Knight of the Golden Eagle, is having a hard time resisting the call of the Abyss.

"Lucio," the whisper came again, barely more than a breath of air exhaled.

"Santa Maria!" He stood up. This was an eye-opener. He knew better than to come here. It was insane. It was dangerous. He clasped the book to his chest and backed away from the cave.

"Lucio." The whisper was a bit louder now.

"Oh, no. No! No! No!" he shouted and spun around. He almost broke his hand opening the gate and then slamming it shut. He engaged the electronic lock and ran back toward the house as fast as he could. He was just past the gate to the swimming pool when he was suddenly yanked back as if a great hand had caught him up. Lucio shrieked and threw up his arms expecting to be thrown onto the bricks on his back, but instead he was simply stopped and pulled through the wrought iron gate as if it were nothing more than spiderwebs.

When he recovered himself, he found himself standing in front of the Djinni.


----------



## Maria Hooley

Here is a snippet from The Mach Band Region

When people ask, “Do you believe in ghosts?” I want to tell them it doesn’t matter.  It’s the dead who have the power.  Nothing happens unless the dead believe in the living.  Right now there’s a whole lot of believing going on as I stand on the banks of McKarey’s Bluff, a strong hot breeze buffeting Blackjack and mesquite leaves against each other while forcing the clusters of Queen Anne’s Lace to dance.

Beyond the flowers and trees, I watch a lone figure standing at the cliff’s edge, her bare feet pale against the dark stones and earth.  The wind whips her long curly hair.  Her shoulders seem so pale as though sunlight has forsaken her skin, and the light brown of her dress only accents the difference.  Staring at her, I recognize that instead of a ghost haunting a landscape, it haunts her.


----------



## Damian Santiago

Here is a snippet from my new collection of erotica short stories titled Erotic Tales Two... creative, I know 

Still she didn't budge and lay there sleeping like a baby. I sat down on the edge of the bed next to her watching her sleep, trying to decide whether to wake her or not. As I sat there, I lay my hand on her arm and gently rubbed her smooth skin wondering if my touch alone would be enough to make her stir. I always loved to watch her sleep and listen to her breathing. She always had such a peaceful look on her face that was contagious and just made me feel good just to watch her. She almost seemed to be smiling even as I rolled her over a little and leaned over her to kiss her lips.

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B002Z13L62


----------



## SimonWood

Here's a snippet from the opening of *Paying the Piper*







.

_"Scott, where are you?" Jane squeezed out between sobs. "You said you'd be here."

Hearing his wife cry split him in two. His own tears welled, but he bottled them for later. He needed to be strong. If he let this overwhelm him, then what good was he to his family?

"I'm nearly there."

"Just hurry."

How could his life have changed so irrevocably? Just twenty minutes ago, he'd been living a normal life. A good life. He was a reporter for the San Francisco Independent. He and Jane had a loving marriage--a miracle in this day and age. They owned a house in a good neighborhood in the city, even with its insane real estate prices. It was the perfect place to bring up kids--and they did. They had two great kids.

Had two great kids.

It had only taken a moment to lose one of his children. Some sick freak had snatched him out from under them. How could that happen? He and Jane took every precaution. They'd entrusted their children to a good school--the best they could afford with their two incomes. They'd gone private to prevent this kind of thing from happening. He palmed away the tears clouding his vision.

He felt the guilt spreading through him. He'd failed his son. Abduction was a parent's worst fear, but he hadn't wanted to be one of those parents who saw phantoms on every street corner. Putting bars on the windows and deadbolts on the doors didn't keep them out, it kept you in. But that cavalier attitude had led to this. Someone had taken his son._


----------



## mamiller

A little snippet from WIDOW'S TALE because it's cold and dreary outside.....

"Lay down," Brett ordered. "You have nowhere you need to be right now. Just rest."
Anxious, Serena's glance searched the living room. "How do you know what needs to be done?" She argued. "I have plenty of things that have to be addressed right now. I need to turn on more lights."
"They can wait," Brett challenged, but released his grip on Serena's arm.
"Please," Serena sat up fully, facing off with him. 
Serena's eyes dropped to Brett's lips for a split second before she continued in hushed urgency. "Please, Brett, let me get up, I have to-I have to-" she stammered, "it's dark in here."
Brett stayed fixed, his arm across the back of the loveseat, a physical barricade that prevented Serena from rising. He studied the warm glow of the antique lantern, and the blaze of the fireplace. The lighting was nearly intimate. 
_Perhaps she was right. Maybe they needed more lights_. 
Brett's eyes returned to Serena's face. 
"There's enough." His voice was husky.
"No." 
Serena touched his arm as if to cast it aside, and froze when a footfall sounded behind her. 
Brett's head snapped. He searched the shadows beyond Serena. Heavy footsteps paced across the floorboards, pausing as if indecisive what trek to take-then resumed with determination towards the front door.
"What the hell?" 
Jumping up to intersect the path of the intruder, Brett heard the steady tread before him. Then, as if the figure passed directly through his body, the steps continued past Brett, out the open doorway.
"Stay right there!" He yelled over his shoulder while plunging through the door. 
The wind slammed it shut behind him.
Serena clutched her arms about her. She stared at the door, willing it to open again. She willed Brett to return and not leave her alone for the next ghost. Its chilling cries were more haunting than the doleful steps of a man she could not mourn.


----------



## Tanner Artesz

Here's a snippet from Legacy of the Ghost:

Herr William took a deep breath and organized what he had taken from the first drawer into one of the boxes and opened the next drawer. He had two weeks to vacate the office. He removed items from the drawer one at a time. He lingered on each item, soaking the past from it, savoring each memory. Halfway through the contents of the drawer, he found a crumpled piece of looseleaf paper crammed into the back corner by the other things in the drawer. He placed it on his desk and carefully smoothed it. Tears slowly escaped his eyes as he read the fading pencil scratchings on it.

August 1987

Dear Herr Wiliam and teechers,

Thank you for adopting me and letting me come to your school. I will work really hard. You really made me happy bringing me hear.

Love,
Micah.

Herr William read the note many times, smoothing the paper a little more after each read. Then he folded it and placed it safely inside Little Ky's history book.

(Spelling errors are intentional.)


----------



## Elmore Hammes

From my most recent book, Not Fit For Human Consumption: A Comedic Farce

Jacob Keplar clutched his chest. The excitement of launching his plan into motion, of setting the dials and punching in the codes, had proven too much for his eighty-six year old heart. He felt blood rushing to his brain, felt pounding and lightning in his chest.
The room tilted in his eyes as he fell to the floor. His vision went from wavy to blood red to darkness.
In a room beneath the Pentagon, Jacob Keplar died. But his actions had been made; unstoppable, irresolute, the machines did not take into consideration their master was gone. They simply continued to act upon ones and zeroes, bits and bytes, processing machine language instructions as dictated by the programming built into them. Soulless, cold, mechanical, it made no difference if the result of their machinations and calculations would be the opening of a partition to allow a rat to procure a chunk of cheese or the release of hundreds of nuclear missiles certain to bring about counterstrikes, radiation poisoning for the ones unlucky enough to survive the blast, nuclear winter for the outlying areas, and most likely the end of the human race. No, they simply processed calculation after calculation, in the order they were programmed, without variation.


----------



## Edward C. Patterson

Here's a snippet from *Look Away Silence*. In this scene we're at the Gay & Lesbian Choral Festival in Denver, CO:

There are times in life when you surrender. Coming down that mountain was one such time. I must have turned several colors, because my buddies couldn't help me. A ranger was summoned and he declared, or so I was told, that he had seen cases of mountain sickness before, but I took the prize. In fact, they considered getting me to an infirmary, but by the time we arrived in Estes Park, I was conscious and moaning and holding my tummy with every violent growl. I do remember the trip back to Denver, because we stopped two dozen times (who's counting) at every size and brand of service station so I could make a deposit from my overly lubricated bowels. Matt was no help. In fact, in my semi-delirium, I remembered that if I survived this I might just return his ring. However, while the grinds were overtaking my every priority, all I could think of was surrender.

I didn't much care about my impending solo as I writhed about in my bed. Sleep was more important. Still, after a full day under the covers (I hadn't a clue where Matt was, because he wasn't sleeping in my bed), I managed to sit up at the bed's edge. I saw someone in the shadows, the blinds drawn making everything difficult to see. I felt better, but I vaguely remembered dashes to the toilet, an unaccountable case of diarrhea, because I hadn't been eating. What had been coming out? My liver?

"Who's there?" I asked.

"Me," said a strange voice. "Jasper."

Jasper? Why the hell was he here, and . . . oh. He was loitering for the solo like a distant relative waiting for me to die and the last will and testament to be read. I wasn't leaving him my solo.

"Go away," I said. "I'm singing the


Spoiler



fucking


 thing, even if they prop me up with a broom." Then it dawned on me that I hadn't a sense of time. I may have even missed the event. "What day is it?"

"It's the day. You have less than an hour to get ready. That's why I'm here."

"Less than an hour?" I tripped about the room looking for my pants. I was bare


Spoiler



ass


 naked, probably a short cut for those toilet dashes. I was embarrassed to have my


Spoiler



ass


 flashed at . . . of all people, Jasper - goofy looking, big eared, second rate tenor, Jasper. "Where's Matt?"

"He's been sick too?"

_Sick too?_ This thing isn't catching, although we were all susceptible.

"Where is he?"

"He's been bunking with Russ and Tim. He's caught a cold - a doozey. I've been tending to your . . . well, I've tried my best at getting you to take the kaopectate, but you're the worst patient."

I recalled none of this, but gazed at Jasper in a different light. If he was trying to stop up my


Spoiler



anal


 dam, he certainly wasn't fishing for my solo. Well, of course, he had the duet with me, and if I didn't sing, what would he do? He was my backup, but no one was assigned to fill in for him.

"Help me find my pants, and . . . thank you."

enjoy
Edward C. Patterson


----------



## J Dean

Here's an excerpt from a short story called "The Drive"

As soon as I hit that particular lightless area, I flipped on the radio, specifically to the AM side.  That’s the other thing I like to do when I’m driving at night; I start running through the AM stations, just to see what I can pick up, especially if it’s something out of state.  Believe it or not, I’ve caught some cool stuff.  On one Sunday night, I’ve caught a Chicago station, broadcasting a handyman who was explaining how to check something on the furnace. I don’t even remember what the particular problem was that his caller had brought up about, but I found it fascinating.  Another time was something out of Atlanta, Georgia-a basketball game.  I’m not much of a basketball person, but there had been nothing else on, so I settled for it.  I’ve found stuff coming out of Tennessee, Florida, Louisiana, and a few other places.  It’s something I enjoy, hearing what’s going on in the rest of the world, be it a local news story, a sports event, or even a commercial put on by a local diner, inviting me to come on down and try the fried chicken special.  

And before this night, I would have suggested that you’d try it sometime as well, particularly at night.

But now, I’m not so sure I’d suggest it.


----------



## sierra09

Here's this week's snippet from: Celtic Evil: A Fitzgerald Brother Novel Kindle









A sudden wave of dizziness caused him to falter, going to one knee just to regain his balance as images and memories began flooding back.
"God, no," he groaned, feeling his stomach flip as images took him back to that barn and the pain and shame.
"You see the trouble you still cause?" Kathleen spoke from the shadows where she stood, a black velvet cloak shielding her from the mist. "Naughty little boy, you should have died on that island, not your father. Then you couldn't even die in Mayo when I told Ida and Felan to make you their whore, to beat you to within an inch of your life," she clucked her tongue as she crossed the grass toward him, eyes blazing with hatred.
Roarke fought the images, the pain, to focus on the voice bearing in his ears yet having been taken by surprise, he wasn't strong enough yet to combat his grandmother's power.
"Why couldn't you die?!" she screamed at him, hand lashing out and invisible nails raked his face, drawing blood.
Body shaking, Roarke finally lifted his head up to look at the older woman that he still had nightmares about. "I don't know," he whispered, unknown tears shining. "Why didn't you do it yourself that night in Mayo?"
Looking startled, Kathleen stared hard and bitterly. "Why should I sully my hands with such a task?" she chided, waving it away. "I assumed that Ida's lads would finish you off or one of those strapping lads that worked for them. I merely took a strap to you."
"After you cast a spell that would double the damage done, after you sat and watched what they did," he threw back then cried out as pain like a fist hit his stomach, and feelings that were more familiar took over. "No&#8230;"
"I could kill you with a thought, lad," Kathleen snapped, glaring down as her grandson collapsed on the ground. "But I think before I do, I want you to recall what those times felt like when you served the only purpose you'd ever have been good for anyway. Feel what Sebastian will make that British whore who ruined my plans feel before she dies."


----------



## Adele

Here's a snippet from the upcoming book "The Legend of the Seahawk":

As the afternoon wore on, the skies darkened, and it began to rain. It started lightly, but as night fell, it turned into a downpour. 
  “Where do you keep your candles, honey?” Betty asked while Helen rocked back and forth in the rocking chair trying to comfort Cynthia.
  “They’re in the drawer of the hutch in the dining room.”
  “It won’t be long before we lose electricity, I’m sure. Betty said, collecting the candles.
  “And where are the matches?”
  “Kitchen.”
  Now, with a feeling of foreboding, Helen took Cynthia upstairs to their bedroom. As she approached the window, the lights went out. Holding Cynthia close, she looked out into the blackness, hoping to see the Seahawk. As she strained to catch sight of a vessel, the flashes of lightning allowed a glimpse, a hope of something out there, but then at next strike, it was gone.


----------



## ASparrow

This is from Lethe: an unreleased book on my backburner.  It's about a dysfunctional afterlife, where God is an absentee landlord and inmates run the asylum. The main character Dan Tompkins (deceased) learn  early exactly how dysfunctional Lethe, (an island Purgatory) can be.

Chapter 1: The Farthest Shore 

He hath awakened from the dream of life. - Shelley(Adonais) 

I lie on a beach, but this is no vacation. A fading storm groans in the distance. Wispy shreds peel from bruised cumulonimbus. The rotting monster sheds diffuse, oily sheets.

Swells bludgeon the shore. Waves explode and shuttle me up an incline of pebbled sand, wrapped in a sheet of sizzling foam. I am conscious but inert, paralyzed but calm as a clam, as if I had always been flotsam washed up on a beach, at the mercy of the breakers.

The water rolls me up against a lip of puffy, black sand at the tideline. Limbs akimbo, spattered with grit, I drape the sand like a stranded jellyfish. Small waves nose me about like curious jackals. A bank of fog swoops in. The waves subside, fading like sobs.

A tiny crab traverses my elbow. Water trickles from my nostrils. I watch droplets grow on my skin until they can bulge no more, then dribble down my torso like shooting stars, etching a trail of pale skin through my algal fur. A cold wind peels my wet skin dry. 

My nerves spark. A shudder erupts. My torso heaves. Limbs sally forth with no purpose gouging shallow trenches – sand angels. 

I lick salty grit from my teeth. Cracked lips draw back. I spit. 

I turn rigid and shake. Tremors dash my head against pebbles. Droplets spray from the tips of my short shorn locks. 

The chaos subsides. The convulsions ease to a fine tremble. My lips form words but I can gather no breath to speak. My jaw falls slack. I vomit salty water.

I can feel my hands now. My arms and legs respond to my intentions. I swipe my hand over my hip. Something strange here. I am naked, but this is not my body. Hairless. Swellings over my ribs. I reach for my groin.

“What the...?” I sit up abruptly. My name is Dan Tompkins. But somehow, I’m a girl.


----------



## sierra09

Choices and choices. Now it's hard to choose which title to do a snippet from but since it's new on Kindle as of today, here is one from S.E.A.L. Team Omega Flames of Betrayal









Hearing the others in the squad coming Rafael swore. "Keep them back. She doesn't know them and she will shoot." of that, he was certain. He had seen her kill and he knew even as hurt as she was that she was still a dead shot.

O'Brien went out to head his squad mates off while Rafael considered their options. 'No choice' he decided while holstering his weapon.

"What the


Spoiler



hell


 are you doing, Rafe?" Casey demanded, seeing his friend take a deep breath.

"I'm going to try to talk to her." Rafael returned, eyeing the younger SEAL. "Failing that, tell my wife that I loved her."

Before Casey could argue Rafael stepped forward, seeing he had her attention but not liking the glassy look in her blue eyes or the way she was shaking.

"Cass? It's Rafael, can we talk about this?" he asked softly, careful to keep his voice low and calm despite the thudding of his heart. "Honey, it may not seem like it after this, but you are safe."

The girl's eyes had snapped up to meet his as soon as he had spoken but she showed no signs of recognition or of lowering the weapon.

"Get&#8230;away." her voice was whisper soft, the accent heavier as it always was when she was sick or hurt. "Won't&#8230;let you&#8230;Get away!" she screamed.

Rafael had taken a step forward but backed away at her cry, raising his hands. "Easy, boss, no one here will hurt you.


Spoiler



Hell


, my wife would scalp me if I let anything happen to you."

"Chavez, what in the


Spoiler



hell


 are you doing?" Logan Brookes demanded from the door.

"Duck, LT!" Casey yelled, throwing himself backwards at his officer and knocking the man to the floor just as the bullet flew past where he had been standing.


----------



## Miss T. D.

This is an interesting concept. Let me give it a try.

From _Double Take_

She walked in and felt like all the lights in the world had been cut off. The darkness pressed on her eyes so much that it hurt. Chirping insects seemed to scream at her.
And it was so cold. Something cold and slimy brushed her cheek. She slapped her face, letting out a strangled cry. She wasn't even sure how far she had walked in. She had been so ticked off at Adell that she just charged in. Fear suddenly hit her as if she had slammed head-on into a brick wall.
_What am I doing? How did I get into this?_
She felt herself hyperventilating.
_Calm down, Sophira. Calm down. Go back. Just turn around and go back. Adell is just outside of here..._
Sophira turned her body around slowly...then around some more. She felt so disoriented. Had she made a full circle? She couldn't tell. Being surrounded by complete darkness, she had no sense of direction. She couldn't tell forward from backward. She had walked in, but which was was straight out?
Whichever direction she walked, she was in danger of just moving further into the woods...
And that was a dangerous risk to take.


----------



## Brenda Carroll

Here's a snippet from _The Red  Cross of Gold II:. the King of Terrors_. The Chevalier Mark Ramsay is about to address the Council of Immortal Brothers to make his 'unorthodox' a formal petition.

"Honored Brothers, my request is simple for I am but a poor Knight of Solomon's Temple," he began with a rhyme that was not lost on his Brothers. It was also something that irritated his French Brothers because, as they said, English was not a proper language in which to conduct official business, but the prodigious amount of wine that Ramsay had consumed during the wait, had made it quite mandatory to speak English and make the joke. It was meant to engage their attention at a different level and to ease the tension in the room. The well known fact that Sir Ramsay had no sense of humor made his opening words even more outrageous. Dambretti smiled, but no one else dared bat an eye. How could they know if it was an accident or intentional? "I am honored and privileged to address this body so expeditiously and graciously assembled at my urging." Ramsay paused briefly to allow this barb to sink its teeth in the Master's craw before continuing. "I do not know how much has been said about the incident which occurred some seven years past now, but I do not intend to recount it here to you. I have paid for my transgression and received justice as you all well know and accept that justice as quite well meted out," he paused again and glanced around at them.

There was no mirth in his eyes. There was no mistaking his tone or expression this time. His words were carefully metered. His Scottish accent almost imperceptible. Here was the Oxford graduate. Not the simple alchemist he usually claimed to be. "There is a pressing matter I wish to address and I wish to make it as straight-forward and simple as possible that you may consider it without troubling yourselves overmuch. My petition is this: I would request that that the Primitive Rule of Order be modified especially in reference to article number sixty-nine. I beg to request that it be changed to read 'If Brothers of the fraternity should request to be married, we permit you to receive them on the following conditions: that after their marriage they will continue to perform their duties as set forth by the Council of Twelve, without regard to the welfare of wife or child, thereby setting duty to God first, fealty to the Order second and responsibility to family third.'


----------



## daveconifer

“**** ****!” he barked as the hammer tumbled onto the counter.  He grabbed his finger with his other hand and squeezed.  “****!”

“Hit your finger?”

“Yeah, I hit my **** finger,” he said angrily.  “Don’t worry about it, okay?”
 
She snapped the book closed and jumped to her feet.  “Give me that hammer!  I used to help my dad fixing fences.  I’m pretty good with one.”

“I don’t need any help!  Besides, you’re too busy with that damn Warren Report.”

She stared at him with narrowed eyes.  “Don’t you dare start ******** on me,” she warned.  “It’s not my fault you smashed your finger.  Screw you if you’re going to turn on me.  I don’t put up with **** like this.  Not from anybody, even if this is the most important story I ever worked.”  

“What are we doing with this story anyway, Abby?  What makes you think that after twenty years, you’re the one who’s got it solved?  Why--”

“I never said I had it solved!  Don’t put words in my mouth!  But I don’t see you doing much research!  It’s all me!”

“I’m doing plenty!  If you don’t like it then go find your own ******* story.  But answer me this, Abby.  What makes you think that after all these years, and a wall full of conspiracy theory books at every library, that we’re the only ones who were able to solve the mystery?”  

“Maybe we aren’t the only ones!  Maybe all the others got thrown over a cliff like Pomeroy!”

Jonas climbed back onto the countertop and finished nailing the board over the window.  He already regretted how he’d treated her, all because he’d lost his temper after hammering his finger.  He could hear the thump of Reno’s books as she threw them into her sack on the table.  “I need a ride back to the hotel.”  

From Man of Steel


----------



## ReeseReed

Why was it that no one had warned me what having a baby would do to my body? It's a very valid concern, so I was quite surprised that there was nothing much written about it in all those pregnancy and parenting books I'd read. Di**s should come with a disclaimer tag:

WARNING - the next few minutes of pleasure could cause flabby skin, drooping breasts, and a complete loss of self esteem. Proceed with extreme caution.

Maybe if I'd read something like that I'd have given having a baby a little more thought.

CHILDPROOFED by Reese Reed
http://www.amazon.com/Childproofed-ebook/dp/B002WYJQCU/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1260496461&sr=8-2


----------



## gerrydodge

From RIDE THIS DAY DOWN INTO NIGHT:

We wanted to hold the Stafio family close to us so that the rest of them were safe.  I think we suffocated them.  Two years after Castle Buford was arrested, tried, and convicted of Connie Stafio’s murder, what was left of the Stafio family pulled up roots and went back to Maine where Mrs. Stafio had been born.  
The other part that was strange is that Mrs. Stafio never seemed wistful after Connie’s death.  She continued to attend church and teach Sunday school.  She continued to be stern and she remained more interested in those who she viewed finer than she.  She didn’t seem to change at all.  And she seemed to avoid any discussion of her late husband.  At first people just thought she was too sad.  But in a small town, we’re similar to scientists.  We record what happens and then we begin to hypothesize, collect data, take an empirical view.  She never went to his gravesite and no one ever caught her at a vulnerable moment.  
There were even those who began to suspect her.  She was always a hard woman to know, they reasoned, and she must’ve been aware of her husband’s philandering.  But all of it came to nothing when Castle Buford was arrested.  Finally, after she moved away with her daughters and her peculiar sensibilities, we just marked it up to the fact that she was never a real Califonite anyway.


----------



## Heather Parker

Snippet from my new mini-mystery, A Quiet Place in the Country.

Jessica Winters sighed and picked up the keys to the patrol car. Most days she
enjoyed the job; time passed easily enough in the quiet Lakes valley. Not much
crime in these parts, except for the odd bit of sheep rustling.
Sudden deaths like these always got to her. Somehow city life made death more impersonal.
Here in the village, you knew the families. A girl of sixteen was dead, and Jess had to tell the mother.
She dreaded the meeting, but it was no good putting it off. She started the engine and set off up the lane.

A Quiet Place in the Country


----------



## The Hooded Claw

I'm currently reading "The Prairie Traveler: A Handbook for Overland Expeditions". It was written by Captain Randolph B. Marcy (of the US Army) in 1859 as a guidebook for people who wanted to "go west" as in pioneers and wagon trains. It is very nitty-gritty and detailed about how to do specific things, and giving guidance about what to take, how to select equipment, what to do on the trail, all sorts of interesting trivia (which may get old after one hundred pages, but for now is fascinating). Anyway, the following are the very first words in the book. I think it is interesting how times do not change:

ROUTES TO CALIFORNIA AND OREGON.

EMIGRANTS or others desiring to make the overland journey to the Pacific should bear in mind that there are several different routes which may be traveled with wagons, each having its advocates in persons directly or indirectly interested in attracting the tide of emigration and travel over them.

Information concerning these routes coming from strangers living or owning property near them, from agents of steam-boats or railways, or from other persons connected with transportation companies, should be received with great caution, and never without corroborating evidence from disinterested sources.

Incidentally, here's a link:

http://www.amazon.com/TravelerA-Hand-book-Overland-Expeditions-ebook/dp/B002RKSK6M/ref=sr_1_5?ie=UTF8&s=digital-text&qid=1260748753&sr=1-5


----------



## harfner

Here's a snippet from "The Soul Jar," my novelette in THE SHADOW CONSPIRACY, just released today from Book View Press:

"Ferrous," I said, "wake up." Then I smashed him on the head with a sledgehammer.

The blow rang with the clang of a church bell. The great iron dragon's eyes cranked open. He sucked in air and expelled soft steam through the horns on the top of his head. His boiler fires were banked, which always made him sleepy, and the blow I had dealt him was barely powerful enough to get his attention.

Ferrous was a huge black beast, a combination of dragon and locomotive, with wheels instead of claws and iron skin instead of scales. His strength was powerful enough to pull the massive circus train, and his codex complex enough to negotiate the maze of railways that snaked through the British Isles and the Continent. Kalakos had coded his cards, but I had modified them several times.

"Yes, Dodd?" Ferrous hissed.


----------



## Nathan

harfner said:


> "Ferrous," I said, "wake up." Then I smashed him on the head with a sledgehammer.


This is a nice line. would be a nice opening to a noir novel.


----------



## Edward C. Patterson

Well now that I've finished my next book, *The Nan Tu*, I have a little time to post a snippet - this one from *Surviving an American Gulag http://www.amazon.com/dp/B001BOST1G*

===================================================
Gibbs smiled and entered the mess. As he took his metal tray, a hand slammed his shoulder. It was Cook - Sergeant Beale. He was a thin, gangly man, not the typical picture of an Army cook. Still, he packed a powerful wallop. After the whack, Beale screamed across the food line to his assorted K.P. workers. "There's a Pillsbury Doughboy coming." He looked at Gibbs. "When you're in here, you're mine." His eyes bugged. "Only what's on your tray, nothing more. And if you don't get it in here, you don't get it." He yanked Gibbs by the collar. "Or I'll feed you to the other pigs. D'ya hear me?"

"Yes . . . yes, sergeant."

"Good. Then, we'll get along. Eat hearty."

Ormond pulled him along.

"What did he mean, a Pillsbury Doughboy?"

"What did you think he meant?"

Gibbs soon found out. He extended his tray for eggs and ham and hot cereal, but nothing materialized. Not so much as a biscuit. When he reached the end of the line, he stared at Ormond's tray and back at the next in line, Herbie, who had pancakes drizzled in honey. Suddenly, a plate sailed over the counter landing on Gibbs' tray. On it, a hard-boiled egg, two slices of dry toast. A glass of orange juice followed. He scanned this in dismay. He could smell bacon, but not on his plate. He spied oatmeal and maple syrup, but not on his plate. He hankered for country gravy and sausage swimming in grease, but now realized he was tagged for a special diet. The good stuff was not, nor would be, showing up in the near future on his plate.

Gibbs sighed, but he was hungry, and the dry toast and rubbery egg was nothing to sneer at, although as he chowed down beside Ormond and the others, he was finished before Herbie had started even one of his pancakes. He thought that maybe Ormond would spot him a hunk of ham, or even a pat of butter. However, while Ormond knew the lay of the land, he knew that Beale would have his balls if he


Spoiler



fucked


 around with a Pillsbury Doughboy's diet. Gibbs was so hungry he didn't notice the dozen or so other fellow Doughboys gazing dreamily about the mess hall, living on aroma and nothing more.
==================================
enjoy

Edward C. Patterson


----------



## harfner

Ha! It does sound like something Raymond Chandler would use. 



Nathan said:


> This is a nice line. would be a nice opening to a noir novel.


----------



## J Dean

Here's a snippet from an unreleased short story I have called "The Drive".  Please pardon that it's a little longer than normally posted:

The voice cutting through the static was an unidentified male, his words fired off in a machine gun-style staccato, reminding me of one of those news anchors from the nineteen-forties or fifties, whose job consisted of spitting out his reports as quickly as possible, with an almost artificial sort of emotional inflection that rose up and down as he spoke.  But it wasn’t so much how he was speaking but what he was speaking about which caught my attention.  Lemme see if I can remember it…

“…terrible!  Just terrible!  The town is hell on earth!  I repeat, for those just tuning in, do not-repeat, do NOT enter the city of Haven Ridge!  If you are traveling highway twenty-nine and heading through the Crest Edge area, authorities suggest an alternate route!”

Well that got my attention; something so catastrophic that it’s forcing travelers to not go to Haven Ridge.   Not that it really concerned me; there was no town called Haven Ridge in our area, nor was there any road called Highway Twenty-Nine.  I guessed that it must have been a broadcast from out of state, probably from the Kentucky or Tennessee area.  Haven Ridge sounded like it belonged down there.  I speculated that the breakdown of the local moonshine distillery in the McCoy’s backyard was the cause of the disaster.  Riots breaking out at party stores all up and down the borders of dry counties everywhere.  Film at eleven.

The report went on, “The hideous evil that has besieged us and doomed us has smothered the entire town!  Some have tried to escape, but to no avail!  The torment hasn’t stopped since…”

At that point in the broadcast, there was a nasty spike in the static that drowned him out for about five or six seconds.  It made me jump, and I nearly swerved off the road in my reaction.


----------



## mamiller

Howdy all! Here's a little snippet from my new romantic suspense, VICTORY COVE











He reached the door, but the hand on the knob hesitated.
"Look," Jake's voice was husky. "If you should find anything-anything that might shed light on Estelle's daughter-" he turned, and frowned. "What was her name?"
Megan swallowed. "Excuse me?"
"What was Estelle's daughter's name? I don't even know my moth-" he swallowed, "her name."
"Ummm-Gabrielle."
"Gabrielle." Jake whispered. "That's pretty, don't you think?"
Megan nodded, speechless.
Jake reached into the pocket of his jacket and extracted a card. "Anyway, if you should ever come across anything-" His voice dropped off. "Could you call me?"
He didn't wait for her response. He opened the door, eyed the sky warily, and then squared his shoulders, starting down the steps.
"Wait!" 
_My God, what was she thinking? _ 
Megan watched Jake pause at the foot of the stairs. He turned around and looked up at her. Stoic in the downpour, he waited. With rain dripping onto his eyelashes, he blinked away the assault. 
Something about Jake tempted her with haunting images of pleasure she would never be privy to. Whoever Jake Grogan was-whether he was innocent or a foe, Megan knew that she would not let him cross that bridge in this weather. 
_She had the gun. 
She would be safe._ 
Jake didn't move. He stood motionless under nature's onslaught, taking the beating and waiting for Megan to pronounce sentence. 
"Come inside." She whispered.
The steady stream of rain made it impossible for her voice to carry, but he read her lips. For every step he climbed, Jake held her eyes. He reached the top and loomed a head above her, looking down with dark force. 
Paralyzed by that compelling whirlpool of colors, all Megan could do now was pray she made the right decision.


----------



## Edward C. Patterson

Maureen:

Did that just come out. Didn;t know. Just bought it for the TBR. Wow.

Ed Patterson


----------



## Joseph Rhea

The first 220 words from Cyberdrome, the near-future technothriller by Joseph Rhea and David Rhea.
Winner of the 2008 PODBRAM Award for Best Science Fiction of the Year.

 Maya ran up the sloping jungle floor as fast as her tired legs could carry her. The warm, humid air 
made her struggle to breathe and her heart threatened to explode, but she couldn't stop-no telling 
how far back her pursuers were. Speed, and luck, were her only assets.
When an arrow zipped past her right ear, thudding into a large Mahogany directly ahead, she knew 
her luck had just run out. She ducked behind the tree, then spotted a better hiding place and dove 
headfirst into a thick tangle of Liana vines and ferns. She tried to roll but her foot caught on a vine, 
dropping her hard on her left shoulder and knocking the wind out of her.
Spikes of pain shot through her arm almost making her to cry out; instead, she rolled to the side 
and breathed a single word: "Hide." Her skimpy animal-skin outfit began to stretch and flow like liquid, 
quickly covering her from head to toe in a thin material.
Peering through a series of eye slits in the fabric, she saw a large, half-naked man standing in the 
ferns looking down at her. Behind him were two others, a male and a female, both stretching their 
wooden bows tight and taking aim. 
Maya froze, not even daring to breathe. 


Thanks for reading


----------



## sierra09

Time for this weeks snippet for S.E.A.L. Team Omega Flames of Betrayal









Chief Mike Chaning was using every oath he knew as he looked at Sean Grant. "This normal to you?" he demanded upon seeing the Lighting Team leader happily pummeling an attacker.

"


Spoiler



Hell,


 yes." Grant replied. "Hey, Lee, you got backup or what?"

Lee Chan was bleeding badly from a graze on his scalp and he wasn't happy. Not only had this job deteriorated but also this last stunt ruined his only good suit.

"Yeah, but they're helping the lot out front." he returned shortly, turning when he heard the strangled, pain cry. "Cass!"

Cassidy Marshall, stunned by the blast, recovered pretty well, despite the smoke and confusion.

She saw the SEALs had went to work instantly and they and her partners seemed to be working well together which was a mild shock since her brother didn't work well with anyone but Eli, Evan, and Ramon.

The girl was struggling to stand and locate Ethan in all the confusion when she caught the flash from the corner of her eye. Before she could avoid or strike back, a quick blow to a nerve in her neck both stunned and paralyzed her.

"Can't have our guest of honor going anywhere, can we?" Yuri teased, easily restraining the girl a gun in his free hand.

"Drop her." Tremayne snapped his pistol steady despite the smoke.

The former Russian assassin twisted so Cassidy was held in front of him. "Not a wise choice, Commander." he warned, the barrel of his gun touching the girl's neck as she stirred. "Lower your weapon and she won't have to die."

Ethan hesitated, knowing the odds of Cassidy's survival even if he did lower the gun but as her eyes flickered open and locked on his, he swore.

"


Spoiler



Damn."


 slowly he lowered his pistol. "Let her go."

"A foolish thought, American." Yuri replied with a grim smile. "I prefer the simpler days of my youth when killing was not so, as you Americans say, in your face."

The gun moved in one quick move to shift from Cassidy's neck as the Russian aimed and fired three rounds into Ethan Tremayne's chest in quick succession.


----------



## AlexStone

From *Hauling Checks*:

Before long, the storms were right in front of us. I scanned the radar to find the path of least resistance through the line. As we entered the weather, the turbulence started to kick up, and heavy rain began to hammer the plane. I tightened my lap belt and turned up the cockpit lights to drown out the lightning. The plane got tossed around like a rag doll as the updrafts and downdrafts took us. 
"Ask for a block altitude," I told Chip. This would allow us to ride the waves through the storm easier without having to maintain a constant altitude. Chip didn't say a word. "Chip, you hear me?" I yelled. I looked over and realized he was catatonic. He sat there in his seat, staring straight ahead like he was looking into the face of a ghost. 
I got the block altitude myself. It seems like no matter who I fly with I always get stuck doing all the work. 
Damn worthless copilots! 
The lightning flashed as bright as daylight all around us as I continued to fight the storm. The lights in the rear cargo area flickered on and off as the boxes bounced around back there hitting the light switch. I watched our airspeed as it fluctuated wildly up and down, continually making power adjustments to keep the plane within tolerances. Saint Elmo's fire crept up the windscreen, and the radios blared with static interference. 
That's when I smelled the s***, literally. Chip had s*** himself.
The weather was over before long as we punched out the backside of the line but the s*** smell stayed for the rest of the night. What was worse was that, when Chip came out of his catatonic state and started speaking to air traffic control again, he started crying on the radio, saying things like "Tell my parents I love them," and "I'm too young to die." 
"Will you calm down?" I said. "You're spilling your placenta all over the radio." 
I had to pull his headset cords out of the mic jacks to save us from further embarrassment.

www.haulingchecks.com


----------



## Heather Parker

A snippet from my new mini mystery *A Quiet Place in the Country*

But the pub didn't turn out to be such a good idea, either. Sarah's death was 
the talk of the village.
"She'll have got in with one of those gangs from Hazlemere," grumbled Sylvia
Paterson. "Into drugs and all sorts, from what I hear."
"I thought she'd been strangled," said Edwin, the local butcher. "Is that right,
Sergeant?"
Jess groaned. "Before you ask me anything else, I'm not allowed to talk about
it. You all know that."
"But surely you can tell us if she was murdered," Edwin persisted. "Where's
the harm in that?"
"Did she take drugs? Mebbe she fell over the crag while she was under the
influence."
"That's enough, Sylvia," David cut in. "You're obsessed with drugs. Not every
youngster in the village is a crack addict, for God's sake!"
"I do beg your pardon, Doctor Stuart, but I watch television and I read the
paper. I know what's going on."
"Then you don't need to hassle the poor sergeant here, do you?"
He glanced across at Jessica. "Come on, I think it's time we got you to bed."
Jess groaned again. That wasn't the sort of remark you made in this village
without someone picking up on it. She could imagine the gossip tomorrow&#8230;.
A Quiet Place in the Country


----------



## OliviaD

Here's a snippet from my novel: The Misguided Souls of Magnolia Springs









Police Sgt. Louis Parks has just met Angelica Aliger and is attempting to interview her husband, Perry, concerning an questionable accident that occurred earlier in the day...

"Mr. Aliger," Louis said as he sat on the sofa and Perry took a seat in a matching armchair. "I'm sorry to bother you so late."
[ ]
"My wife is making us some tea."

"Thank you," Louis nodded. [ ]. "You know, I've always wanted to see the inside of this place," he said glancing around. "You all have done a real nice job re-modeling it. Real nice. You'd never know it from the outside."

"No, I suppose you wouldn't. [ ] We are planning to give the place a face-up as well."

"You mean a facelift?" Louis frowned at him.

"Yes, that's right. A little paint and some new wood here and there and lots of flowers."

"Yeah, flowers," Louis agreed. "My personal favorite is caladiums. You know them fancy colored leaves? My wife always plants them everywhere. She digs up the bulbs in the fall and keeps them in the garage in baggies. Boy, you don't how many times I've found those weird looking things and almost throwed 'em away. Ugly things, like some kind of alien seedpods from outer space. You know, like the Body Snatchers?" Louis discovered he was rambling again. He felt foolish, but Perry seemed to be listening to him with the greatest interest. His strange eyes gleamed with curiosity.

"Do you think something like that will ever happen?" Perry asked him when he fell silent.

Louis thought it just might be possible. "Naw, of course not. I can't see me bein' taken in by some plant creature." He laughed nervously


----------



## ReeseReed

"Class, this is my daughter, Maddie, my son, Hagen, and my wife, Virginia."

A collective round of aww's went around the room. I handed Maddie off to Mark, and Ella immediately jumped on the bait.

"Aw, Coach, she's so adorable. Could I hold her?"

This couldn't be any more perfect, I thought to myself.

"Sure. Here you go. Be careful though, she's still kind of wobbly."

Ella took Maddie from Mark and placed her over her shoulder. I could have warned her not to bounce her that way. I could have told her that we'd just been told at the doctor's office that she has a terrible case of Acid Reflux. Maybe I should have told her those things. But I didn't.

I watched with satisfaction as Maddie opened her precious little mouth and spewed eight ounces of regurgitated soy milk down Ella's back.

"Oh my God. Oh my God."

I smiled at the scene as Mark hurriedly took Maddie from her and handed her a box of tissues from his desk.

"Ew, gross," said Hagen. "Maddie just barfed all over you."

"Childproofed" by Reese Reed

http://www.amazon.com/Childproofed-ebook/dp/B002WYJQCU/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=digital-text&qid=1261360324&sr=1-1


----------



## harfner

_A snippet from "The Soul Jar," my novelette in THE SHADOW CONSPIRACY:_

Resolve filled me. "I'm not leaving without that jar."

"Then I'll go to the police," Joseph said.

"I'm not Kalakos," I growled. "I don't care about the police."

"In that case-" Joseph gestured and two large men in black coats entered the tent. One of them had a metal arm with claws on the fingers, the other wore a large eyepiece which I recognized as a small codex that would enhance reflexes. "Perhaps my friends here can persuade you."

The two men moved toward me. I pulled a whistle from my pocket and blew. Instantly, my mechanical spiders swarmed into the tent. "Defend!" I ordered.

The spiders leaped. Red knocked the man with the metal arm flat on his back, and the injured spider attached itself to his face. He screamed. Eyepiece-man glided aside and flicked one attacking spider to the ground, but two more swarmed up his coat, and a third bit the back of his neck. The man grunted and snatched the biting spider, intending to fling it away, but it wrapped all eight legs around his wrist. Blood ran down his neck. The iron cat screeched in her cage. I reached for a heavy lead weight.

"Stop!"

I spun. Joseph was standing over the Leyden jar with a hammer.

"I'll smash it," he said.

"That might kill you." I said, though my mouth had gone dry. "Or send Nathan's soul back to his body."

"It might send Nathan's soul to eternity. Let's find out." He raised the hammer.

THE SHADOW CONSPIRACY: http://www.amazon.com/dp/B002YD8BWK and http://www.bookviewcafe.com


----------



## Adele

Another snippet from The Legend of the Seahawk:

"Lying on the floor, looking at his Cat in the Hat book, David noticed his uncle motioning to follow him down to the pier. David jumped up and ran to join him. It was there that he observed his uncle in his element, pointing out the egret walking on the shoreline and a kingfisher perched on a nearby tree branch. He was a large man with strong arms, dark skin, and a ruddy complexion—very different from the men in his own hometown. The real treat came when David’s uncle would reach into his pocket and pull out a rope.  
“Do you want me to show you a knot?”
“Of course, I do,” said the young boy with a grin from ear to ear.
“What knot would you like me to show you?”
“A bowline,” David replied.
He would watch intently, as his uncle with his large calloused hands would perform his magic. With the knot complete, he would hold it up for the young boy to inspect.
“Now, you do it.”
With his uncle’s kind guidance, David would slowly turn and loop the rope until he, too, could hold up his achievement for examination.  
Seventeen years later, and the voices filling the house then were now absent. A sense of sadness came over David."


----------



## sierra09

Merry Christmas to all. I was goin to post a snippet of my little holiday tie-in for Celtic Evil but since it's not on Kindle, I decided not to.  Here's this week's snippet from: S.E.A.L. Team Omega Flames of Betrayal









"What in the hell is going on down there?" West demanded, trying to think in about six different ways.

"We have some very persistent bad guys and Casey gave them a present." Cassidy looked back over her shoulder. "Aiden, we won't be coming back out the way we came into this room, Reese will have to circle around to the other side."

West looked on his map and could see where they were and about where they would come out if there was a door. "Did you fine Tremayne and the boys?" he asked, ignoring the yelling in his other ear.

"Yeah but Justin has to blow a door down." she replied watching as he slapped several pounds of demo charges on the door.

A sputtering came in her ear. "If there's uranium in that room you can't blow the door." Eli Schultz exclaimed from somewhere.

"Well, I have water seeping in already so I figure blowing the door won't hurt it anymore than that, do you?" she bit off, shutting the radio down.

Brookes seen her expression and guessed the cause. "Not happy with the cavalry?"

"I would be happier if it had been little green men from space than those three." she sighed, hearing Troy shout to stay down.

After checking on the placement of the SEALs and his own boss, the sandy haired Briton said a quick prayer and pushed the button.

A loud sound and a flash filled the hall and shook the whole boat as smoke filled the hall.

"Troy?" Rafael Chavez called, worried about the young merc. "You okay?"

"I bloody well better get a raise for this whole mess." Troy growled, moving closer to inspect his work.

The door was loose and water was seeping out. "Hey, Adams, c'mere and yank this monster off the rest of the way." he requested.

Jace Adams had played High School football and had been on the fast track to the professionals until he joined the Navy. So the blond 6'1" 240 pound SEAL had no trouble removing a half-exploded door.

Cassidy had to force herself not to charge into the room even as she felt Troy's hand on her arm.

Logan Brookes shined his light into the room and swore. "O'Brien, get over here." he ordered, "The rest of you keep an eye on those doors


----------



## OliviaD

Snippet from _Misguided Souls of Magnolia Springs_:

Peregrin raised his eyes from the street below and watched Angelica as she placed two cups of tea on the small pedestal table between the two chairs facing the long window overlooking Catherine and Main. She sat down in her chair without looking at him and picked up her tea. The silver light of the full moon fell across her lap causing her to almost glow in the dim interior of the alcove. He wondered vaguely if she had any idea how beautiful she was or if she cared.
He picked up his own cup and held it between his hands under his nose and closed his eyes. He wanted to live in slow motion. Everything moved too fast. He enjoyed everything. Breathing, smelling, tasting, feeling. He could feel the slightly raised surface of the black Chinese symbol on the white porcelain cup. The beauty of the symbol belied its simple meaning: tea. It was a strange coincidence that the central character resembled the letter 't' in the alphabet used in this country. But Chinese characters, like Japanese symbols, were so much more aesthetically pleasing than the Roman letters. People who created and used these symbols must have had some basic, if subconscious, knowledge of the secrets of the universe. To take such pains to build an individual work of art to represent one word displayed a dedication to the beauty and art of calligraphy that was passing from the world.
"Any thoughts?" Angelica interrupted his musings.


----------



## Michael R. Hicks

I haven't posted much on this thread because I'm terrible at choosing snippets! But here's the opener for my current work in progress, _In Her Name: Legend of the Sword (Book V)_:

Tesh-Dar, high priestess of the Desh-Ka, strode quietly along the stone paths of the Imperial Garden. Protected by a great crystalline dome that reached far into the airless sky of the Empress Moon, the stones that made up the ages-old paths had come from every planet touched by the Empire. The paths wove their way in a carefully designed pattern for leagues: had Tesh-Dar been of a mind and had the time, she could have wandered in peace for a full cycle and not fully explored it all. From lifeless rocks adrift in deep space to worlds teeming with the fruits of galactic evolution, they were here, each a testament to the glory of the Empire and the power of the Empress. Rutted sandstone to crystalline matrix, each stone was not only an exemplar of planetary geology, but a page in the Books of Time, with each one telling part of the story of the Empire's history. In Tesh-Dar's mind, each one also brought her people a step closer to their end of days...


----------



## Betsy the Quilter

MIke, you're such a tease... 

Betsy


----------



## Edward C. Patterson

Mike - I'm gonna start Book IV this week, not that you're coming out with Book V. I'm sure Peg of the red Pencil has finished Book IV (but alas I don't see her again until January 11). 

Ed Patterson

PS: Just uploaded to CreateSpace. Now to relax for a day or two.


----------



## Michael R. Hicks

Edward C. Patterson said:


> Mike - I'm gonna start Book IV this week, not that you're coming out with Book V. I'm sure Peg of the red Pencil has finished Book IV (but alas I don't see her again until January 11).
> 
> Ed Patterson
> 
> PS: Just uploaded to CreateSpace. Now to relax for a day or two.


Cool! Oy. I think I might finish the draft of this thing this week. I wish my body and schedule could keep up with my muse. Ack!


----------



## Elmore Hammes

This is another bit from : The Twenty Dollar Bill

"Cat"

It's a typical Wednesday. Tina, Becky and I meet for coffee downtown after work. They talk me into going clubbing, but I tell them only if we go early and don't close the place down. I do not want another Thursday morning hangover. They agree, so we split up to go get ready. They meet me with a taxi outside my apartment building about nine-thirty.
We heard about a newer place, Rico's, so we head that way. Supposed to be the latest and greatest, and Tina and Becky are on the prowl for fresh meat. Me, I just want to forget about work for a couple hours, do a little dancing, and get home safe.
The line is short and we get to the front pretty quickly. The doorman pretends he's going to stop three women dressed in skin tight dresses and high heels from entering. I smooch up to him. He's pretty nice, a big fella, with a real huggable look to him. Someone normal, not one of the high flying lawyers, fast track yuppies or flashy drug dealers that we'll find inside. He's pretty easy to butter up and before you know it we are inside the club where the music isn't quite full blast yet, the air is only partially hazy from cigarettes and cigars and the place is half empty.
But the half that is populated does not disappoint - not Tina and Becky anyway. A mixture of cultures, races, men and women, with the common denominator being cold hard cash. The place drizzles with it. And every one of them here for something. Power trips, massaging their egos, wanting to be seen. Dealing or being dealt with. Tina and Becky are going to have a field day, I realize, as I see them scoping out the lay of the room. I guess it is not going to be an early night after all, but I swear there will be no hangover. Three drinks max, after that it is water for this girl.


----------



## Edward C. Patterson

The Novel just became available on the Kindle and I haven't started a thread on it yet, but here's a debut snippet from
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Nan Tu - Southern Swallow Book II - http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00322P1N4
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Li K'ai-men opened his eyes in the sunlight. He tried to focus, but the sun was high in the sky now - too high for his liking. K'u Ko-ling hovered over him, holding a large red ball, or so it appeared until Li's eyes focused. Ko-ling cut the round object, and then pulled it into two hemispheres.

"Eat, master," Ko-ling said.

Li K'ai-men jumped up, grasping the fruit, and then frowned at Ko-ling.

"Why have you let me sleep?"

"You seemed to have needed it," Ko-ling said. "Besides, you said that we were no longer in a hurry."

Li raised the hemisphere above his head, his hand trembling. Here at last would be the long neglected beating, and with a half a blood fruit. Ko-ling cowered.

"Please, master. Don't be angry with your Ko-ling," he whimpered. "We have traveled very far together."

Li K'ai-men eased his arm to his side and surveyed the land. They were on a hillside, the panorama clear in the mid-morning brightness. There were several farms along the road and, in the distance, a pagoda - a city to be sure. Could it be Shun-ch'ang? Li wasn't even sure that they had traveled southwest, although if they stayed true to the forest road they would have happened upon Shun-ch'ang. The sun was too oblique to fix a position. Li K'ai-men raised his left hand to his brow, shading his eyes, while driving his teeth into the blood fruit, the crimson seeds bursting across his lips, the juice running down his chin. Ko-ling laughed.

"You think this to be amusing?" Li snapped.

"No, master. I was recalling the first time you gave me a blood fruit. I was young then, and had only seen a blood fruit once - a rare gift from the estate lord; a gift we dared not eat. Then you gave me such a fruit in our tent beside the Grand Canal. Do you remember, master?"

Li K'ai-men did remember. The thought of it raised a smile. He had just been starting out then, only a brace of years ago, but it seemed that an eternity had passed. He cocked his head, and then observed Ko-ling. When first they had shared the blood fruit on the road to Su-chou, K'u Ko-ling was a cheeky boy, no taller than a peony bush. Now he was as tall as his master, thin with long sweeping hair under his pearly cap, and a married man, although Li K'ai-men knew better than to consider that union a great joy. However, Ko-ling was every bit a father as the master, although the master had two sons now.

Li's anger subsided.

_I've spoiled him_, he thought. _The fault's mine that he's impertinent and too familiar for his own good._ 
However, Ko-ling was _ch'i-tang _ by dint of the sacred waters, and his common bond leveled their positions in the eyes of Heaven. Li wiped his mouth, the blood-like juice marring his sleeve.

"Master, that'll be difficult to wash now."

"And yet you shall wash it clean," Li said. "Your punishment for allowing me to sleep too long."

"Well, take it off and I'll take it to the stream."

"You'll do it later, when I've coated everything with a sticky mess. For now, fetch me the _south-pointing-needle_, and fill the beaker with water."

Ko-ling raised his hands, undertaking a dramatic bow. However, as he bent, _Water Dragon _ snapped the blood fruit from his hand.

"Greedy beast," Ko-ling yelled.

Nan Ya laughed. It was a just reward.

"Never mind your appetite," Li said. "If I'm correct, we'll be stopping at the next Inn, if to do nothing more than ask the Innkeeper where we are. If that's Shun-ch'ang ahead, _Sun Bearer's _ ride has been remarkable indeed."

---------------------------------------------------------------------------
Enjoy
Edward C. Patterson


----------



## Brenda Carroll

Here is a snippet from _The Red  Cross of Gold XV:. My Hope is in God_. Luke Matthew and Merry are talking with the Djinni, Lemarik, about Mark Andrew and Merry is asking too many questions about his brother as far as Luke is concerned:

....And that is how Adar came to be Mark Andrew Ramsay brother of Luke Matthew Ramsay."

"Thot is one verra, verra toll tale, my friend," Luke told him darkly.

"It sounds like a myth," Merry said excitedly. "And then what happened?"

"Luke's father sent them off to the crusades to free the Holy Lands of the Christians from the hands of the Infidels. And everything after that has occurred as you know it, Uncle, with the exception of the years you were dead and do not remember."

Luke choked again. "Spes mea in deo est. Wot years wud thot be, friend?"

"The years between when what was was and what is is." Lemarik waved one hand in dismissal.

"You mean between 2000 and 2060?" Merry's face lit up.

"Yes. Yes. Yes. I believe that is the way you would reckon it. I do not count years. It is immaterial to me. One year is much like another. It is only what we do that matters, not how many times the sun rises or the sun sets or the moon waxes or the moon wanes. Time is just a matter for old men to worry with. It means nothing to the young and it means nothing to the dead. Everything in between is what counts."

"But I have a question for you." Merry sat up in the chair and drew her feet under her, spreading the purple robe over her like a blanket.

"Merry." Luke held up his hand. "Perhaps now is not a good time to ask questions."


----------



## LCEvans

Snippet from We Interrupt This Date:

I had my back to the stairs, but that didn’t matter because Mama was prepared, as always, to keep me up to date.
“I must say, I am shocked. Susan Nicole, you’d better put your foot down now and put it down hard. Your son headed straight for his room with her like a bee back to the main hive. It’s obvious he’s planning to keep that brazen little thing in his own room right here under your roof. Why, she has hair shorter than Christian’s. And she wears mens’ clothing. Army clothing.” 
I bit my lip. It wasn’t as if I’d had planning sessions where I contemplated how to react if my son brought home a girlfriend and installed her in his bed. Did I care? Okay, I had to admit to feeling uncomfortable for no reason that I could articulate. But was that reason enough to put up a fight? And after I’d daydreamed about having a fling with a boyfriend if the opportunity arose, was I fair to point fingers at my eighteen-year-old son? 
DeLorean rolled her eyes. “Mama, puh-lease. This is the twenty-first century. You are such a dinosaur.”
“If being a dinosaur keeps me from having a child out of wedlock, then I’m quite happy with myself, thank you.” 
“So you’re going to throw it in my face that Baldwin and I didn’t get married. What’s next, are you going to call my baby a horrible name because he was born out of wedlock?” 
“DeLorean, the accusations. I declare. I would never.” Mama fanned herself with an envelope I’d left on the table. 
Christian and Trinity had just walked back into the room. 
“Whoa.” Christian put his hands in front of him, palms facing out. “I’m taking Trinity into Charleston. She has a friend who goes to the Citadel and we’re going to get with him for the afternoon and do the tourist thing. Hope you people have your problems sorted out by the time we get back.”
“Come on, Trinity.” He flung himself across the room and out the door. Trinity was right behind him, hanging unto the back of his shirt. “Nice meeting you all,” she called politely over her shoulder. 
“Well,” Mama said, after the door banged shut, “that was ugly.”
“Ugly doesn’t begin to cover it.” DeLorean’s jaw was thrust out. 
“Please, let’s not fight,” I said, before Mama could say she’d told DeLorean a million times that a man doesn’t buy the cow if the milk is free. “I’ll think about whether I want to tell Christian he can’t sleep with Trinity while he’s in my house.” Like I didn’t have anything more important to obsess over.
“You’d better think fast. I’d hate to imagine what would happen to his college career if he sired a child before he was halfway through his first semester. How would you cope then, having to look after a grandchild?”
The same way I’d cope looking after a mother and a sister and a nephew and a giant dog with too much hair and a live-in flea colony. The same way I coped every day at work up until the day Odell fired me. Cope should have been my middle name.


----------



## mamiller

Here's a cheery little snippet from VICTORY COVE









Jake wrenched the vehicle into park. He didn't take the time to kick the mud off the bottom of his boots as he climbed onto the porch. Two loud raps on the door and an urgent "_Megan_" produced no results. 
He yanked the screen open and tried the brass handle, but it was locked. He pounded the mottled wood, and was nearly tempted to kick it in when a shadow passed by the single pane of glass. The handle clicked beneath his touch and on the screech of a hinge, the front door swung open.
The ghost of Wakefield House greeted him with ocean blue eyes that could make a man believe in an afterlife.
Neither spoke. The exchange was much more vivid without words to divest it. Megan stood at the door, much like the first time he saw her. An oversized sweater made her appear vulnerable, while her fingers clutched the doorframe with a tenacity that pained him. Although, this time her free hand was wrapped around the barrel of an automatic weapon.
Jake only briefly acknowledged these details before he returned to her eyes. They shined with recently shed tears and in these misty layers he felt he could see directly into Megan's soul. 
For the longest time, they simply stood there, locked in place by the power of this silent exchange. This look they shared said, _"Put your cards on the table. Now, are you going to fold, or are you going to up the ante?"_


----------



## Heather Parker

A quick snippet from my fantasy, *Middlewitch*.

"Have you got everything you need, Alicia?" whispered James, putting his arm round my shoulders protectively. "Rowan berries, wooden stakes, that sort of thing?"
"Rowan berries are for constipation. And I'm not Buffy the Vampire Slayer!" 
Actually, I'd rather liked that programme. It's completely inaccurate of course, but at least the witches are young and attractive. I feel it provides a better role model for us than the old crones so popular with the media.
"Everything I need is in my head," I continued smugly. I could tell he was impressed. Of course, Domino had to spoil it.
"Pride goeth before a fall, miss. Remember last year when you said you could remember the rain spell? You didn't need to look it up," he sneered, and I wished I'd had him neutered. That might have mellowed him.
"What happened?" asked James, and Domino looked up at me, grinning wickedly.
"Nothing very bad," I murmured. "Do you remember those floods we had last summer that covered most of the east of England?"
Realisation dawned. "That was you!" he gasped, impressed and overawed all at the same time.
I smiled modestly. "Well, I was really only commissioned to give the Lake District a couple of wet days because the tourists expect it in July-but I overdid the runes a tad."
Domino raised his eyes skyward. "And you're the only one standing between us and Armageddon."

Middlewitch


----------



## kevindorsey

Snippet from Melvin D. Saunders - Brain Course:

There is a life energy flowing and ebbing in each one of us, and our immune
system is directly linked to this life energy stream. Your strength does not solely rely
on the size of your muscles. There are many environmental factors that can vitalize or
devitalize your body on subtle levels. With certain people, some factors carry more
weight than others in their effect, hence the variability from individual to individual.
An accumulation of negative influences weakens your immune system, leaving
you more susceptible to disease and overall emotional upset. But there is no need for
you to go through life lacking energy and in a negative, mental slump. By being
cognizant of what environmental factors de-energize you, you can avoid or at least
mentally override such factors when they're recognized.


----------



## ReeseReed

Here's a little taste of my current work in progress, "Claus"trophobic.  It's still in the drafting stage, but I hope to have it polished and ready by this summer.  It's my version of how Santa Claus came to be, told from Mrs. Claus's point of view.

"Well, hello, Mrs. Kringle," Kris said with a sly smile as I appeared in the doorway of the honeymoon suite draped in a red silk robe.

"Hello yourself," I said, slinking across the room to join him as he stood from the four poster king size bed in the center of the room.

"Mmm," he murmured as he wrapped his arms around me.  "I just thought you looked good before.  But this?  Wow."  He pulled back and held me at arm's length before running his eyes over my body once again.  "Hang on," he said.  "I think you've got cake in your hair."  He reached above my ear and began to rub my hair.  "Hmm.  It's not sticky."

"I just brushed my hair," I said, turning toward a mirror on the nearby dresser.  "I didn't notice anything."  I leaned in toward the mirror and turned my head, running my fingers through my loosened hair.  There it was.  How had I missed that just a few moments ago?  I lifted the hair at the scalp and let it run through my fingers as I looked on in shock.  "That's not cake," I said, my voice mildly hysterical.  "It's gray hair."

"What?" Kris asked, hurrying to my side.

"Look," I said, turning back toward the mirror.  "It's on both sides now."  My breathing grew labored as I lifted my hair in my hands before letting it cascade down, the silvery strands sparkling like diamonds in stark contrast to my jet black locks.  "What's happening?" I asked, turning back toward Kris.  "Oh my God." 

"What?"  Kris asked with panicked eyes.  "What is it?"

"Your.  Your face," I stuttered as I gripped the dresser to support my shaky legs.  Kris's jaw, which moments before had been clean shaven, was now covered in short, stubbly hair.  White hair.

"Let me see," Kris said, moving closer to the mirror and investigating his face.  "Whoa," he whispered, rubbing a hand across his sandpapery jaw.

"Kris, what's happening to us?" I asked, making no attempt to hide the hysteria in my voice.

"I don't know," he said, matching my panicked tone with one of his own.

We both jumped at the sound of a knock at the door.

"Just a minute," Kris called before turning to me.  "Go get dressed.  I'll get the door.  We'll get to the bottom of this."

"Okay," I whispered before staggering, half dazed to the bathroom.  I pulled on a pair of jeans and red tank top before summoning enough courage to look at myself in the mirror again. 

A shriek erupted from my throat as I jumped in terror at the sight.  My hair spilled over my shoulders, the once raven black now replaced completely with silver. 

"Jessica?" Kris asked as he burst into the bathroom before gasping at the sight.

"Kris," I said, my downcast eyes brimming with tears.  "Look at me."  I looked up at him and stifled a second yelp as I saw his face.  The white hair that was stubbly just moments ago was now longer and wirey, engulfing his face.

"Come on," he said, taking my hand.  "The Elder is here.  Let's figure out what's going on."

*****

"So, Mr. and Mrs. Kringle, I see the transformation is taking place nicely," said the Elder as we exited the bathroom and stood next to him.  I couldn't help but note again just how short he was. 

"What do you mean transformation?" Kris asked, stepping closer to the Elder.

"Surely you read the contract, Kris?"

"Of course I did.  I read it until my eyes were swollen.  Nowhere did I see anything about a transformation. As a matter of fact, the contract I read stated that upon signing, my wife and I would be granted immortality.  Now how, exactly, does aging decades in a matter of minutes constitute immortality?"

"Kris, your contract clearly states that your immortality begins at age seventy.  The transformation is simply a matter of getting to your immortality age more quickly."

"Age seventy?" I shrieked as my knees began to wobble.

"Now, Mrs. Kringle," said the Elder as he took my hand and patted it softly.  "I'm sure this will be difficult for you.  Aging is difficult for all women, I understand.  That's why we instituted the transformation process.  It will all take place in a matter of hours.  Quick and clean, like ripping off a band-aid."

"Age seventy." I whispered again as I shook my head and fought the tears welling in my eyes.  This was impossible.  I was twenty-five years old.  How was I supposed to wake up tomorrow and be seventy?  "Kris, no," I said, turning toward him, my eyes desperately searching his for an answer.

"I'm sorry, Jessica," he said.  "I told you that part of the contract didn't sit well with me.  I knew there was something about it I wasn't understanding.  Now we know."  He took me in his arms.  "I'm so sorry."

I gave in to the emotions boiling within me and flooded his shoulder with tears.


----------



## sierra09

This weeks snippet from: S.E.A.L. Team Omega Flames of Betrayal









Darius Ford had charged into what appeared to be the living room and dove behind the couch as a burst of auto fire shot his way.

"Don't know who you cowboys think you are but you sure made a mistake coming here," a loud arrogant male voice shouted from somewhere in the room.

'Yeah, I bet.' Ford thought to himself, staying low as he crawled behind the couch.

"You good ole boys don't have the guts to take on real black ops men." the man went on, shooting another burst off but with no idea where the black SEAL was. "The old man must be desperate to send his wet behind the ears kiddie squad in. Grants' team too busy to be bothered or just scared of us?"

Ford blinked, understanding as a voice came in his ear.

"This yo-yo thinks we're Olsen's outfit." Joe Carver said from somewhere. "You cool, Darius?"

A tsk sounded which meant his teammate was safe but didn't want to reveal his location.

"Fine, stay low, and Mark's about to send this guy a present." Carver ordered, nodding to the skinny black man next to him. "The yo-yo is behind that little wall he made with the desk and end table. Can you land it in one?"

Mark Robson, a twenty-two year old black man, rolled his eyes while cracking open the chamber of his Bullpup and inserting one of his 20mm explosive rounds.

"Can Case still break glass while singing?" he returned, whirling around the doorframe of the room and launching the round.

The 20mm shell landed next to the loudmouth man who looked down and shock, screaming as he tried to scramble over his barricade just as it exploded.

The blast sent the man flying then landed in a heap, writhing as he rolled trying to extinguish the flames.

Carver placed the barrel of his H&K MP-5 in the man's panting face. "You have a shot of living. Where's the girl you're holding?"

The man panted as his clothes and skin still smoldered but looked up with a sneer. "Go look for yourself, Chinaman." he spat, bleeding from the mouth. "Better yet, save yourself the trouble&#8230;not much left to find."


----------



## OliviaD

Here's a snippet from The Misguided Souls of Magnolia Springs









Billy finished off his own beer. "What's his name? Ballinger?"
"No, Aliger," Tyler corrected him. "Says he's from out of state somewhere. Kind of talks funny."
"Funny like a Yankee? Or like a foreigner?" Billy narrowed his eyes. "He ain't one of them damned A rabs, is he? Or a Paki Stanni? They takin' over everthing."
"Yeah and chargin' us a arm and a leg for a six pack," Mike agreed.
"No, he's not like that." Tyler waited while their beers were replaced by a bored waitress. "This guy is blonde and he had Aunt Mary eatin' outta his hand like I never saw her do before to anybody. She actually let him pat her arm and he kissed the back of her hand like Rhett Butler and she blushed, mind you, like a damned schoolgirl. Aunt Mary! Blushin'. Hell, I thought I was gonna have to call him out or something."
They all laughed at that, drowning out Hank Williams on the jukebox at least momentarily.
"Boy howdy!" Billy held his stomach as if it hurt him to laugh. "I'd like to've seen that. Your aunt is a hellacious woman, Ty. Last time I went over there to read her meter, she came flyin' outta the house, givin' me holy hell for steppin' in her flowers. hell, she planted 'em all over the place and right up next to the meter, too. What can a man do? I guess I outta get a pair of binoculars and read the damned thing from acrost the street."


----------



## sierra09

Here's this weeks' snippet from: S.E.A.L. Team Omega Flames of Betrayal









In the years since First Platoon had moved to Coronado and he had known Cassidy Marshall, this was the first night he had seen her drink anything but soda.

"Yeah, life learning lesson, Nick. When you're an anti-terrorist used to fighting in the black pits of the world never fall in love with a by the book Navy man." she sighed, swearing softly. "Sorry. I told myself I wouldn't mope and&#8230;Tex, don't even think about that."

Without even looking, she just called the warning as if sensing what the former SEAL was about to do while Casey Gibson's back was turned.

"Damn girl still has eyes in the back of her head." Tex Harte muttered, tipping his beer bottle back then looked toward the bar. "She's down."

Rafael Chavez looked, nodding. "She's hurting and can't cut loose. We need to get her to expend that energy before she sees the Commander."

"She sure seems to be expending it on us lately." Adams muttered muscles still sore.

Casey reached for another beer, disagreeing. "Nah, that's because she's tense. Cass is hurt, scared, and angry. If she takes all that out on the Skipper, we'll never get them together."

"Please, images I don't need." Keith Sutherland growled, shuddering at that. "I like to think of Cassidy as the cute little brat who took over our lives. Even thinking of her and the Skipper&#8230;" another shudder.

Unaware of what her men were talking about, Cassidy was considering another drink or just going back to the little apartment, she'd rented when the door opened.

A group of about ten or so men walked in dressed in street clothes but the swagger, the haircuts and the attitude screamed that these were more than plain civilians.

"Bloody hell, they're Marines." she muttered sourly, rolling her eyes toward the ceiling and silently asking what else did her life need.

It had never been a secret that Marines and SEALs didn't like each other. She had cleaned up more than one brawl between the two groups.

"What a dump." a large barrel-chested Marine stated loudly, looking around. "It's infested with SEALs."
Cassidy closed her eyes; quickly counting in her head how much cash she had on her and just as quickly pulled a credit card from her jacket pocket, handing it to the owner.

"What's this for?" he asked warily.

She knew the platoon had seen the Marines and scenes of Virginia Beach and other places filled her thoughts. "The damages," she sighed.

"They aren't any," Nick argued but seen the Marines eyeing the SEALs nastily.

"There will be," Cassidy promised, shifting on the stool as a tall lean Marine caught sight of her.


----------



## AlexStone

From *Hauling Checks*...

I glanced out the side window as I struggled to stay awake. Suddenly, something caught my attention that instantly woke me up. There was oil running out of the left engine. Not just a small leak like there always was. This was a steady flow that trailed down the top of the engine cowling and off the back of the wing.

"Wake up!" I said to The Co. "We've got a problem."

"That's fine," The Co mumbled in his sleep, "you can take care of it."

I quickly scanned the gauges for the left engine and found that the oil pressure was dropping, and the oil temperature was rising. This confirmed that we were losing a large quantity of oil quickly. There was no way of knowing how much we had lost already, but judging from the extremely low oil pressure, it wouldn‟t be long before the engine quit.

The proper procedure in this circumstance is to shut down the left engine. If it lost all of its oil, the engine would seize up, destroying itself. By shutting it down prior to that happening, the engine could be saved, the oil leak could be repaired, and the engine reused.

I'd had enough for one day though. I was pretty disgruntled at this point and decided that I didn't care if the engine was destroyed.

"Let them pay for a new engine," I growled. "That'll teach them."

I left the doomed engine at weekend power*; I figured I'd just run the hell out of it till it blew up. This kind of abuse of the engines, which happened on a daily basis, was a big part of the reason the planes had so many problems in the first place. That, combined with the lack of proper maintenance, of course. But when a company constantly treated you this poorly, it became hard to care about taking care of their airplanes.

* - Weekend power means full throttle even if that takes the engines over redline. This may result in airspeed exceeding the maximum speed for the airplane, which would set off a warning horn. If that happens, you just pull the circuit breaker for the warning horn, disabling it. This would allow you to overspeed the airplane without the annoyance of that pesky horn.

Weekend power got its name because no one wants to fly on the weekend, so, if you have to, you fly full power, getting the flight over with as fast a possible so you can go home. Some pilots have also used the terms "Horn Fridays," and "Overspeed Sundays."

Get Hauling Checks for $1.99 on Smashwords, this week only, using this discount code: ZP37C

www.haulingchecks.com


----------



## Brenda Carroll

Here's a little drama from _The Red Cross of Gold VII:. The Wisdom of Solomon_. Mark's son, John Paul, is a strange bird:

John Paul leapt from the table into one of the chairs and then stepped onto the floor. He turned and went out the door onto the sun porch with Mark Andrew and Simon and von Hetz close behind him. As he walked, he took off his remaining clothes until he was naked and then threw himself into the swimming pool.

"Dammit, John Paul!" Mark Andrew shouted and sat down to pull off his boots. The prophet sank to the bottom of the pool and stayed there. Von Hetz and Mark Andrew jumped into the pool at the same time and they soon had the half-drowned prophet pulled out of the pool. They laid him out on the ground and Mark Andrew covered him with Simon's coat.

"Bring him to my quarters," the Grand Master ordered as he passed them and headed down the walk to his rooms. He was shaking his head and muttering to himself. He felt responsible for what had just occurred. He should not have upset the prophet with so many questions. Von Hetz had warned him more than once to leave John alone, but he had insisted. He would learn someday that if the prophet had anything to say, he would say it in his own good time. He did not respond well to interrogation and bullying.


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## ChrisD

From *Magical Crimes* - a CSI with magic story by Chris Dolley, author of Resonance (Baen)

"What are we supposed to be looking at?" I asked Kozlov.

"That," he replied, pointing at something on the floor at the far end of the room. "I want to know if that's my daughter."

I walked over, peering as I went. I heard a click as Tulsa switched on her glove. What were we looking at? Those tiny plastic figures on the floor? There were two of them about an inch and a half high. One, a girl, was sat - no, _tied_ - to a chair. The other was sprawled on the floor, their arms and legs twisted as though they'd collapsed unconscious.

I leaned closer. The girl was gagged, her wrists, torso and ankles tied to the tiny chair. The carving, or moulding or whatever it was, was very lifelike - the details were sharp, the colours spot on. Could it be real? Had she been magically shrunk and turned to &#8230; plastic or whatever material that was?

The other figure just lay there, face turned to one side. It looked male - maybe teens or early twenties, dressed in a T-shirt, jeans and sneakers.

"Who's the other figure supposed to be?" I asked.

"Ryan Mullen. My daughter's boyfriend."

"And the chair? Is that from this room?"

"It's from her dressing table."

I turned to check. One dressing table. No chair. This was either one very elaborate hoax or&#8230;

"I'm picking up large traces of magic," said Tulsa. "From both figures."

http://www.amazon.com/Magical-Crimes-ebook/dp/B00332FFH0/


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## Joseph Rhea

Snippet from Cyberdrome (Warning: slightly PG-Rated)

"Won't they be looking for you?" he asked, and then wished he hadn't. 
She didn't respond, but instead walked over to the sofa against the wall and pulled on the lower cushion. It slid out becoming a makeshift bed.
"You do this often?" he asked, and then realized that, again, he was saying all of the wrong things.
She gave him a cold look, but then smiled. "All the time, actually. Every day." She unzipped her pants and let them fall to the floor as she walked slowly toward him. "In fact, three times a day when I can get it." Her blouse came off next and she dropped it on the floor next to his chair. "That's what we do here, you know," she whispered as she slid down her underwear and stepped lightly out of them.
She straddled his lap, her long, tan legs wrapping around the sides of his powerchair. The weight of her body pressed down in just the right spot. "I came to work at this top secret, multi-billion-dollar facility just so I can have sex in my office."
He opened his mouth to speak, but she grabbed his jaw with her hand and pulled him to her open lips. They kissed passionately. 
"All of the offices have sofa beds," she whispered when they finally took a moment to breathe. "We have to sleep here sometimes during long experiments."
"I didn't mean to imply anything," he stumbled to say.
With the fluid movement of a gymnast, she rotated off his lap and onto the bed. "Shut up and take your clothes off, Alek," she said.
He did.
Twenty minutes later, he found himself staring at the darkened ceiling. Maya's body felt warm and familiar beside him, but he still felt cold inside. "I need to know why he died," he whispered.


----------



## Edward C. Patterson

As the founder of this thread, I should post more often.  Bad Ed. Here's a snippet from my latest work - The Nan Tu http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00322P1N4 - and it'll show you just how much of a 12th Century bad boy I am.

"I am a connoisseur of horse


Spoiler



sh**


 - the aromas of the stable. So the breezes that wafted the perfume across the courtyard from the barns to Magnolia House were not strange to me. In fact, I have always wondered about the power of the stuff, especially when used to grow cabbages and leeks. Now, as for cowcumbers, like the ones back on my father's tenancy, we had no horse, and the ox was prone more to


Spoiler



farting


 than dung, so the family needed to contribute to the well being of the crops in the growing season. Since my father's cowcumbers were the largest on Li Xien's estate, there's something to be said for human poop. However, when it comes to aromas, I much prefer that of horse.

Now, if I recall, the Emperor was hell bent on seeing my master, but I knew that this was the special hour, when my master consorted with his strange relics. These unusual convocations were not even for the eyes of an Emperor, although I have seen them. But I had a role to play in his dainty religion, and now that I think of it, I should have run away upon learning about it. Still, I insisted that His Majesty come to the stables and visit my horse - well, his horse, _Water Dragon_. Prince Kang was soft in the head for horses, so I figured that since only months separated the Prince from the Emperor, the Son of Heaven might like to feed my beast a carrot or two. I was correct in this. I'm always amazed that whether a man is born from Mount T'ai or from a dunghill, he can always be stirred off course by a carrot's promise. Never fails."

Edward C. Patterson
Enjoy


----------



## Lisa Hinsley

Edward, may I ask why you've blanked out some words? I've been trying to guess, but the possibilities I've come up with swing between the silly and the preposterous.


----------



## Lisa Hinsley

Here's a snippet from Coombe's Wood http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B002TSAORU/ref=tag_nof_ap_edpp

A strange thumping whooped up the lane, so deep, her chest compressed with each wave of sound. Four paces behind Izzy, the treacle air called, shouted, begged that she turn back. She ignored the panicked cries, and waited in the dark. Something raced through the night, bounded along the lane. Almost rounding the corner. Nearly there. 
Stuck, the torch forgotten by her side, the dim light highlighting a circle of the lane, her eyes grew round. She tried to read the purple shadows across the lane. Would she see the creature coming? She took a step back, the thudding growing closer, just about here now.
A dark shape leapt out of the shadows. Saucer sized eyes glowed blood red in the dark, too high. The eyes bobbed in the air as a colossal creature sprinted at her. They burned, two bowls of fire, hungry, and fixed on her.


----------



## J Dean

This is from an unfinished short story I need to get back to....

            Paula moved to face him, laying a menu down.  “Hiya, hon.  Welcome to Jeff’s.  What would you like to drink?”
A pair of dark, sunken eyes looked up at her from around red-rimmed, puffy skin.   Underneath the melancholy look sat a thin mouth, lips grimly pressed together.  The face carried such a sad burden upon it that Paula had to try to keep from showing the pang of sympathy that suddenly welled up in her soul when she saw it.  He had been crying.  Paula failed to maintain her poker face.
“Are you alright?” she asked.
“I-I’d just like some coffee, please.  Black.”  His voice carried with it a somber, soft melody that matched his defeated expression.
“Nothing else?”  Paula ventured a cautious smile, hoping to prod him into better spirits.
“No, not right now.  Thank you.”
She responded with a conceding bob of her head, not bothering to scribble down the order on her yellow pad as she walked back behind the counter.  Tara joined her, brandishing a brand spanking new splotch of red, bloodily smeared on the sleeve of her baby blue Jeff’s Diner T-shirt.  
Tara pushed the curls of red hair away from her forehead, sneering at the wound of ketchup.  “That little brat with the family in booth four decided to dip his fry and throw it at me.”
Paula let out a snicker.  “Just think, that’s what you and Travis are trying for!”
“Hardly.  If my kid did that, I’d tan his hide.  But apparently his mom found it funny.” She turned her head toward the back counter that led to the silver and dull yellow of the kitchen.  “How much longer on the roast beef, Jeff?”


----------



## Ann in Arlington

lhinsley said:


> Edward, may I ask why you've blanked out some words? I've been trying to guess, but the possibilities I've come up with swing between the silly and the preposterous.


In accordance with the G, or at worst PG rating of these boards. . .he used the spoiler block on some of the words that he thought people might not want their kids reading. Hover the cursor over the black bar and you'll see the words.


----------



## Edward C. Patterson

Although, even with the spoiler blacking on, some words are authomatically **'d. I also did think the word poop was within the scope of G. 



Ed Patterson


----------



## Sharlow

A snippet from Storytellers:

Both horses came to a stop. Bexdal spoke a word, and slapped his hands together. A large, brutish man flashed into existence at the sound. Though he nearly slouched, he towered over Bexdal and his mount. The reek from his matted furs caused the old man's nose to wrinkle.

"Dismount me, you simpleton, and be quick about it." He reached up toward the large brute even as he spoke.

Darrius climbed off his horse, and watched as the old sage smacked and berated his construct. Twice his blue robes got stuck in the horse's harness, requiring extra time to disentangle Bexdal. So much time passed while the construct struggled and failed to dismount Bexdal in rather colorful and inventive ways, that Darrius wondered what the point of summoning the story was at all.

"Is there a problem here?" Yarmound strode briskly up and stood nearby, watching as Bexdal kicked the gigantic man in his forehead, still trying to free himself from the mount.

"No." Darrius failed to completely suppress the sheepishness he felt at the situation.

"The scouts have returned, you may want to hear their report." Yarmound still did not take his eyes off of the spectacle.

"Thank you, Commander, I'll let Bexdal know, once he's finished here."


----------



## Lisa Hinsley

Ann in Arlington said:


> In accordance with the G, or at worst PG rating of these boards. . .he used the spoiler block on some of the words that he thought people might not want their kids reading. Hover the cursor over the black bar and you'll see the words.


Thanks Ann. I'll bear that in mind with my snippets. Also didn't know about the hovering, although I really did guess the words.


----------



## Sharlow

lhinsley said:


> Thanks Ann. I'll bear that in mind with my snippets. Also didn't know about the hovering, although I really did guess the words.


 I figured it out totally by accident. My mouse ran over it and made it readable.


----------



## Guest

Thanks Ed for creating such an interesting thread. Here's a snippet from "The Resurrection of Deacon Shader":

It seemed that, even here, with its mighty towers rendered so small by the distance, Sarum still cast an oppressive shadow. Shader recalled how, during his time in the city, the sun had always been at least partially obscured by the buildings, no matter where it stood in the sky. From the abbey the shadow was of a different kind. Shader felt it more as a pull, like that of a rusted magnet drawing towards it all manner of decayed and discarded matter.

The cackling-warble of a kookaburra roused him from his reflection. Looking in the direction of the neighbouring woodland to the east of Pardes he could not see the culprit, but was met with the spectacle of a host of brightly feathered lorikeets launching from the tree tops just in time for a murder of crows to descend onto the deserted branches.

The sun had hidden itself behind a bank of cloud that had surreptitiously crept in from the west, and Shader's ill humour immediately returned. He re-entered the abbey through a trapdoor in the roof and descended the winding stone stairs. As he did so, darkness followed him, as if a great black cloud were settling over the abbey. Hurrying to a window he glanced outside and was astounded to see that night had fallen, where only moments ago he had stood in the brightness that follows dawn.

The Resurrection of Deacon Shader: Book One of The Deceptions of The Demiurgos

http://www.amazon.com/Resurrection-Deacon-Deceptions-Demiurgos-ebook/dp/B002YK4EDI/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=digital-text&qid=1263408227&sr=1-1


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## Guest

Here's one from my story "Jump" in the anthology Uncategorized published by Book View Cafe.

"As the train headed through Chelsea and Downtown, it filled up a little more at each stop. By the time they hit Borough Hall, it groaned at capacity with the tired day workers crammed in like refugees in a banana boat. The poor slobs standing tried to keep their dignity and distance, but they wound up touching each other anyway.

The two standing in front of Wendt commented on a newspaper headline some guy had the audacity to open wide enough for everyone to see. The article reported the latest rash of suicides, asking 'What Is Going On?' in Geobold typeface. It wondered what had taken over the minds of the city's inhabitants."

Find Uncategorized in the Kindle store for $1.99: http://www.amazon.com/Uncategorized-ebook/dp/B002Q0Y0QW


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## harfner

Here's a snippet from chapter four of my book NIGHTMARE:

Mother Araceil Rymar dropped her bags on the foyer floor with a sigh. It was a relief to be home again. The windows in the house were open, letting a pleasant summer breeze waft through the screens. Outside, the deep green leaves of the talltree that supported the house rustled, and far below came the roar of a dinosaur. The newly-rescued slaves were in the capable hands of Brother Manny, who would get them settled in for the night and thereby free Ara to go home for the evening.
Then she heard it-a strange metallic clank. She frowned and stepped over her suitcases, following the noise. It came again and again in a rhythm that echoed off the hardwood floors and walls. Ara followed the sound, mystified, until she came to her son Ben's room. The noise came from behind the closed door. She knocked once.
"Ben?" she called. "I'm home."
The noise stopped for a moment, then resumed. "Come in."
Ara opened the door. Ben was lying flat on his back on a narrow bench amid a series of levers and pulleys. He was pushing a curved horizontal lever straight up. Behind him, a short stack of black metal weights rose into the air, then descended with a clank. Ben's freckled face was shiny with sweat, and his flame-red hair was darkened with it. The veins stood out on his arms as he struggled to lift the bar again.
"Hey, Mom," he grunted. "Good trip?"
"Ben, what in the world?" Ara said. "What are you doing?"
"What's it look like I'm doing?" _Clank._ His voice carried a hint of annoyance.
Ara's gaze wandered about the room. As usual, the place looked like something had exploded inside a computer store. To make room for the weight machine, Ben had shoved his unmade bed to one side, crowding it against his desk. The overflowing boxes of computer parts that usually lined the walls were piled into an unsteady mountain in the corner. Ara was thankful to see that Ben had at least put rugs underneath the weight machine so it wouldn't scratch the floor. The room smelled of sweat despite the open windows.
"I meant, where did you get this from?" she said.
_Clank._ "Bought it," Ben grunted. _Clank._
Ara suppressed a sigh and felt tired. Talking to Ben lately was like trying to roll a square rock. He had always been reticent as a child, but lately things had gotten worse. Maybe it was a function of being fifteen. She was glad to see him, but a certain amount of exasperation was overtaking the feeling. Things had been so much simpler when he ran up to give her a hug whenever she picked him up from her sister and brother-in-law's house after a recruiting mission. Ara had recently decided he was old enough to stay by himself during her shorter trips-with someone checking on him from time to time-but now she questioned the wisdom of that idea.
"Who did you buy it from?" she asked. "And how did you get the money?"

It's available at Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/dp/B002ECF1R4 and at Book View Cafe: http://www.bookviewcafe.com/index.php/Steven-Piziks/Steven-Piziks-Novels/ for $1.79. Chapters 1-10 are available on-line for free at BVC!


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## mamiller

Howdy all.  Here's a little tidbit from my romantic supsense, VICTORY COVE









All these thoughts raged in her mind before the third shrill ring of the phone. Uncooperative fingers launched for the receiver and hefted it to her ear. Megan did not offer a salutation, she just listened. 
Silence. 
Not the stagnant silence of a severed connection, or the monotonous vacuum of being placed on hold. This was a heavy stillness that spoke to her in evil whispers, wicked hints that someone was on the other end-listening.
Both hands gripped the receiver and Megan shook so much now that her legs failed her and she sank to the edge of the bed. There was no heavy breathing or anything so sinister and obvious, but she knew he was there. Also was gone the electrical hum she had distinguished on the past call. Did this mean he had altered his location? Was he closer? _Was he outside?_
Vaguely, she was aware that Jake crouched before her, his dark eyes intense and concerned. Warm hands gripped her arms in an effort to support, though she was inconsolable. Every one of Megan's senses was honed to the stillness at the other end of the receiver as she awaited a revelation.
And then she heard it.
_ "I know where you are, Margaret."_


----------



## patinagle

from _Glorieta Pass_:

Hoofbeats penetrated Jamie's awareness, making him lose track of the sums he was doing. He looked up, knowing what he would see through the window over Mr. Webber's desk. Coming up the Camino Real was a company of cavalry. 
Jamie glanced at his employer, who was helping two ladies choose some calico, and quietly got up from the desk. He walked to the doorway of the general store to stand and watch the horsemen riding proudly up the street from the Military Plaza. 
They were lancers, each carrying a long spear with a small red pennant beneath its blade to drink the blood of the enemy. Each pennant bore a single white star, matching the Lone Star on the guidon carried by one of the horsemen. 
The lancers sat proud and erect in their saddles. They were Germans from town-he recognized some as customers-and they had uniforms, probably made by German wives and sisters determined to send their men to war properly dressed. 
Mr. Webber came and leaned against the door frame, running a hand through his greying hair. "Think you might go for a soldier, Jamie?" 
Jamie felt himself blushing. "I wouldn't want to leave you in a bind, sir." 
A small smile crept onto Mr. Webber's face. "Well, do as you think right," he said. 
"You rode with Kearny, didn't you sir?" Jamie asked. 
"I did indeed," said Mr. Webber. 
"Was it glorious?" Jamie asked. 
Mr. Webber gazed at him, the smile twisting up one corner of his mouth. "To a young soldier everything is glorious," he said, and walked away to put up the bolts of cloth left out on the table.


​


----------



## sierra09

This week's snippet comes from one of the early chapters of S.E.A.L. Team Omega Flames of Betrayal









"Let's start with Syria, simple job. Go in, blow up a town, get out, and make pick up. It was supposed to be a real bloody cake-walk." Cassidy's tone hadn't changed but it was clear that her mood had. "Just needed picked up and got screwed."

Shaw coughed awkwardly. "Cass, this isn't the time for&#8230;"

"That job cost Sully his life, and knocked Tex out of the SEALs. Two good men, my men, and they weren't the only ones." her blue eyes were ice as she locked on his. "You want me to name others. Keith, Scotty, Abe&#8230;and now this.

"You sent them in with no information and four are dead. Anymore, if I raid that boat and Ethan&#8230;" she cut off, refusing to think that. "If any one of them is dead, you had better pray I die because I will find you and&#8230;"

Sloan O'Brien figured that was enough and easily lifted the girl off her feet and back a few feet. "That's enough of that, little skipper." he spoke softly but it was enough to clear Cassidy's mind and she looked around at him.

"Put me down, Sloan," she ordered, shrugging him off. "I'm fine. Do you have any actual details Grady or am I flying blind as usual?"

Figuring it was finally safe to speak Shaw cleared his throat. "We know that ship has a crew of one hundred but the boat can house twice that many. We really have no idea how many men are on board and if everyone is bad. The crew could be innocent but then&#8230;" he shrugged. "You'll have to use your own discretion to deal with that."

"What about prisoners?" Aiden West asked.

"We want the uranium out of the hands of the bad guys. A prisoner would be fine but don't get killed if you can't." was the answer.

Shaw knew that both the SEALs and the Mavericks worked better if they weren't hampered with restrictions like taking prisoners. Therefore, even though his superiors would probably have liked a few, he wasn't going to distract them from their main goal.

"A stupid question but do we have the green light for this?" Jace Adams asked.

A tall blond man at 6'1 with a passion for reading classic horror, Adams was the platoon's radio operator and took care of all their SATCOM transmissions.

Shaw hesitated on that, meeting Cassidy's eyes. "Officially no and that brings us to my statement of liability."
"Uh-oh, here it comes." Casey groaned, sliding lower in his chair and closing his green eyes. "The old deniability line, if we're killed or captured the United States will disavow any knowledge of our existence. Been there, done that."

Laughter spread over the room at that, even Shaw smiled briefly but then he waved for silence. "That's usually the case but this time things are a bit different&#8230;"

"This job's illegal as


Spoiler



hell."


Cassidy told them, knowing SEALs didn't need any lies or sugar coating so she looked at them fully and spoke honestly. "Some of you know me and most don't but that doesn't matter. What matters is that I fully intend of finding Ethan and the others come


Spoiler



hell or high water.


----------



## OliviaD

Here's a little snippet from _the Misguided Souls of Magnolia Springs_:

"She really won't answer the door, Chief," Louis told him.

"


Spoiler



Bullshit


!" Lovell muttered and pushed past them to knock on the door with his free hand.

The door swung in silently.

"Maureen?!" Chief Lovell shouted into the dim interior. "It's me. Dan Lovell!"

There was no movement and no answer from within. He turned back to look at Sam and Louis and found a crowd pressing against him. Sam had pulled the pistol from the holster.

"Dammit, Sam!" The chief frowned at him. "Give me that thing!"

Sam handed over the gun reluctantly. The Chief gave his beer and meat fork over to Mike.

"Get back! All of you!" The chief barked at them. "Sam, you and Louis come with me. The rest of you stay back. We can't have a mob in there if something really is wrong."

Several more of the neighbors had moseyed over to stand gawking from the sidewalks and curb.

"Hey Jerry!" Someone shouted out at the street. "Go get your daddy! Somethin's happenin' down here. A murder or somethin'!"

"A murder!" Someone else shrieked. The situation was worsening by the second.

Lovell groaned and then stepped cautiously into the house.

The three men entered the house very carefully. Except for the noise coming from the street behind them, there was absolute silence. The living room was dark, drapes closed. Louis could hear himself breathing and his heart pounded in his ears. Mike and Tyler really had him spooked. If he didn't have another heart attack now, he'd know he was truly cured. Sam was right on his heels. He hated that they were unarmed.


----------



## Geoffrey Thorne

From my novelette *RED/SHIFT* (somewhere near the front)

*Amina Fisk-Okker had a secret. In fact she had many secrets both her own and those of others, all guarded with a zeal that bordered on the obsessive.

She knew who Missy Jean-Pierre-Sax was twisting with after her husband dropped into VR for work. She knew the original gender of Caruthers Mulky and why and how many times that gender had been modified. She knew the encryptions Topper Wallace-Quayle used to keep hidden his secret odes to the thirteenth wife of his father.

Amina knew not only where the bodies were buried but where the clones of those bodies were deep frozen as well. Of all the secrets Amina Fisk-Okker knew and kept the greatest was the one she kept about herself.

Amina was dying.

Everyone was, of course, dying, but relatively few were doing it in the spectacularly painful and degrading way Amina had managed to secure for herself. Prager's Disease was rare enough to have remained incurable but common enough to be instantly terrifying to anyone so unfortunate as to be given the diagnosis.

Few were the moments when she could keep herself from mentally reliving the scene of the docbot giving her the news.

"Diagnosis, confirmed," the featureless metal sphere had said. "Patient has presented with classic onset Prager's Disease. Primary phase; heightened sensory perception, increased neural connectivity, decreased need for REM sleep."

She'd actually enjoyed phase one. Who wouldn't? More time to dance, to twist, to learn, with less and less recovery necessary between bouts. *

here's the link-

 [URL=http://www.amazon]http://www.amazon.com/dp/B0031ERD5M[/url]


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## Brenda Carroll

Oh, it's snippet time again. Do you find yourself living from snippet to snippet? No? Just wondering.  Here is something from _the Red Cross of Gold VI:. the Dragonslayer_. Simon has taken Meredith to see a crystal water fall in an enchanted forest.

"Who is that?" She asked in wonder. "I thought you said we were the only humans here."

"We are," Simon told her and his expression turned to one of boyish mischief. He enjoyed scaring her it seemed. "That&#8230; is not a human voice. Listen more closely."

"It's lovely," she said after listening a bit longer. The language was totally unfamiliar. Nothing she had ever heard before. "But it is language, isn't it? Surely some form of intelligence is behind it. It's beautiful."

"And most likely deadly," he added.

"You still haven't shown me the dragon," Merry told him. "Is it a real dragon, like the one Mark Andrew had to fight?"

"I'm not sure," Simon looked at her. "I never believed in dragons, Sister. They are not something the church teaches other than in metaphorical and symbolical terms. The church discarded all references to such things as what we are seeing here and attributed them all to the dark powers of Satan. I used to believe in witches, of course and I know the dark powers exist as surely as God, but I didn't know of places like this. I never really believed the story Mark Andrew gave when he returned&#8230; until now. I thought he was relating a dream that he could not understand or perhaps trying to put something into words that he could not explain."

"So did you see the dragon?!" She asked, her eyes wide now with excitement. A real dragon! She could not help but feel curious in spite of the obvious danger of their situation.

"That is the dragon's voice you hear," he said very quietly. "She is in there."


----------



## harfner

Here's a snippet from Book View Press's newest author, Penny Drake and her romantic thriller TRASH COURSE:

The children shuffled across the warehouse floor in shackles and chains. I watched them through the mesh floor of a catwalk, feeling like a mother bear separated from her cubs, even though the kids weren't mine. There were a dozen of them-nine girls and three boys. They ranged in age from five to twelve and wore ragged, filthy clothes.

One of the goons riding herd on the little group gave a girl a shove to make her move faster. She stumbled and nearly fell. I started to growl, then shut myself up. No way I could take on six guys unless I had serious surprise on my side, and most crooks get over their surprise real fast when they hear snarling noises from the shadows above them.

A sixth man was with the kids and the guards. His name was Stanislav Yerin, the _Pakhan_ himself. Yerin reminded me of a pile of alphabet blocks-sturdy, square, and cornered. He even moved jerkily. A knife scar split his right eyebrow which, like his hair, was the medium brown of a wooden horse. I'd learned a lot about the Russian Mafia in the last few days, and knew the _Pakhan_-bosses-don't usually get involved in day-to-day doings on the street. Yerin's presence meant something special was going down.

The corner of my eye twitched. _Special_ always meant _complicated_, and _complicated_ always meant _injury_ or _pain_-probably mine.

https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/pennydrake


----------



## KathyBell

Many readers tell me their favourite part of my novel is actually the intermittent journal entries written by the last survivor of the human race, during his final days on the planet. I thought it might be fun to post his journal entries in sequential order each week, and will start today. Although some of the plot details are revealed through the journals, I do not think there are significant enough spoilers to ruin the full story for anyone who has not yet read Regression. Every third chapter is a journal entry, this entry is the prologue:

Journal of Doctor Nicholas Weaver
July 27, 98 Post Impact

It takes almost 70 exajoules to perform the regression. The amount of energy consumed by humans during one year when we were at the peak of our civilization. Such incredible discharges of energy are virtually impossible to achieve. Meteor impacts, megathrust earthquakes, or a blast of 17 gigatons of TNT might approximate the power. Not simple to orchestrate. It is both to my horror and to my advantage such an instance occurs November 11, 2011, providing thirty times the force required. The phenomenon precipitates the need for the regression while also providing the means to complete it. What tragic irony.


----------



## Sharlow

I see a lot of snippets here, all almost no reader comments. Do any of us know if anyone reads all of these?


----------



## Meredith Sinclair

Sharlow said:


> I see a lot of snippets here, all almost no reader comments. Do any of us know if anyone reads all of these?


We do read them, however they sometimes just make you click on over to Amazon and buy a good book based on the snippet!


----------



## Dave Dykema

Sharlow said:


> I see a lot of snippets here, all almost no reader comments. Do any of us know if anyone reads all of these?


When I first started snipping, I'd usually notice a sale or two soon afterward. I attributed those to these posts, though there's no way to know for sure.


----------



## Sharlow

Thanks you two. Meredith and Dave. I was just wondering. I have such a hard time picking out one snippet from many, and i just found myself asking if anyone read these. Besides me i mean...lol. Theres a lot here. I'm not caught up yet.


----------



## Sharlow

Here's another from Storytellers:

Slowly, she stood so that she was fully erect, closing her eyes and relaxing her face. Light gradually surrounded her head, and her hair began to swirl in a breeze that moments before had not existed. A sense of peace and joy filled the little enclave of safety, accompanied by the smell of flowers and fresh rain. Giggles echoed through the air, and then the Mahote were there. First one mote of light broke away from Alena, then more followed it, dancing around her, forming slowly into little people with multicolored butterfly wings. None of their wing designs or colors seemed vaguely similar to another's.

Pixies, Targ was unsure where the thought came from, but it seemed fitting of the tiny beings.

Dozens of pixies, as Targ had labeled them, were floating around the dome, and musical laughter permeated the entire area. Alena opened her eyes and carefully reached out a hand, playfully caressing one of the pixies. Its giggles were surprisingly loud for something so small, and its golden black wings quivered in delight as she stroked them, gently cupping it in her hands.

"Ah, my beautiful ones," she whispered, "I have so missed all of you."

Another loud crackle sent shock waves through the air, as cracks began forming in the dome and golem. Sweat glistened in the pale light on Gailen's face, as he concentrated on maintaining the golem. Another loud shock wave, and a chunk of the protector fell, shrinking the dome and causing the pixies to collide into one another.


----------



## Guest

From *The Resurrection of Deacon Shader*:

He would find Callixus, or whatever master he served, and strike a bargain. After three thousand years he had accumulated much knowledge that would prove beneficial both politically and scientifically. There must be something he could trade for the return of the stone.
A dark shape rippled in the sky high above Sarum's steeples, so high in fact that it seemed to come from between the stars. Sensing his target, the Abbot soared ever higher, his mind racing with the arguments he would use - pleas even - to secure his continued existence. Once he had done so, he reasoned, then he would devote his life to the faith, to see if he could find God, for the prospect of a Godless universe, one in which he was prone to annihilation, was too horrifying to contemplate.
He drew closer to the dark ripple and started to slow down as he saw that it was caused by the twitching - grasping - of huge gaseous fingers questing through the night sky.
"Callixus?" he uttered, knowing full well that this was not he.
The spectral hand lashed out and grabbed the Abbot's spirit body, stunning him with the almost physical pain he felt.
"You have basked in the power of my stone," a cold and flat voice stated. 
There was no emotion in the voice. Indeed, it barely had any inflection. The Abbot knew instantly that this was the voice of someone he could not make bargains with.


----------



## kyrin

From The Gift of Fury







- Chapter Nine

I walk, I don't run. Running down the street in the middle of the night in a bad neighborhood is the worst thing you can do. It screams out to any opportunist "Mug me!! I'm scared and not afraid to show it." Even if I wanted to run, I'm not sure my knee would cooperate. It's been hurting a lot after my little gymnastics routine, taking every opportunity to remind me of its displeasure. I pause to catch my breath in the shadow of a building that has been renovated recently.

"_I didn't know._" Kara says and I believe her. I know she doesn't tell me everything. If she knew about this, she would have shared that bit of knowledge with me. She knows what it means to me. It's a hell of a thing to be without a chunk of your memory especially when it concerns an event that changed your life. With the bad, there was a lot of good. Whoever hurt me is responsible for me meeting Kara. That doesn't mean I'm going to forgive them for it.

"I know. I'll be fine." I say and she knows I'm lying. It's not going to be anything close to okay or fine till I deal with whoever killed that girl and tried to kill me. They taught me I'm not a hero. Heroes aren't about revenge.


----------



## Liam

A snippet (actually, a chapter title) from my comic novel, On the Origins of Joy Boy's Chasm:

Chapter 49: How Charles and Nuntius were surfing the wave of fortune; how Joy Boy went home and used Ming's knife; and how the narrative thence continues, progressing towards a satisfactory level of resolution uncommon in real life (uncommon, that is, but not _unknown_, as everything that has heretofore been told and what is to follow has of course happened. The author is simply a conduit, recounting to the reader in a summarized fashion the hours and hours of eyewitness audio and video testimonies as well as the public records requests, including title searches, land deed inquiries and background checks, the prosecution's expert witnesses as well as those of the defense, and the results of other assorted and indisputably accurate fact-yielding processes and procedures. Not to mention what the old lady looking out her window, an infallibly accurate and willing observer, has offered.)

On the Origins of Joy Boy's Chasm, Liam James Leaven


----------



## Adele

Sharlow said:


> Thanks you two. Meredith and Dave. I was just wondering. I have such a hard time picking out one snippet from many, and i just found myself asking if anyone read these. Besides me i mean...lol. Theres a lot here. I'm not caught up yet.


Sharlow - I have been wondering the same thing....


----------



## Yusagi

"Alright...you hate me, I'm not too fond of you...it's mutual..." he muttered, walking hesitantly toward the stallion, hand outstretched, "I know you want to bite my hand off, but I swear I have no carrots, so you have no excuse...you want to throw me when I get on you...but if you even try, I will _stab_ you."

"I see you're bonding already." Lia scoffed, "How lovely."

"You can't be serious, how do you bond with something that doesn't even have a name?"

"Hale, it's a horse." she said, giving him a flat look, "You ride it. That's really the limit of its uses. It doesn't even make a very good pet...why name it?"

He rolled his eyes, _That's not the point_.

There was a flash of something like understanding in the black war horse's eyes, and the stallion did not seem to object to his finally mounting it.

"Gee, it wasn't that hard, now was it?" Lia sniffed, then nudged her mare forward to wait at the gates.

Hale sighed, and leaned forward to speak in low tones to his horse. "At least we agree on something...she's totally crazy."

The horse snorted in derision as he tried to navigate it forward. "Yeah...she's crazy, but at least she's easy on the eyes...not as...stimulating as say, Nerisma, but cute."

The horse eyed him a moment, then cantered forward toward Lia, watching her peculiarly. Hale got the sudden, somewhat eerie, feeling that the horse understood him more than he had expected.

Hale


----------



## patinagle

From my story "Zombi," in _The Shadow Conspiracy_:

Marie walked down Decatur Street, searching for the house to which she had been summoned. She would not use the front door, no; but she wished to see it. A door could tell a lot about those who lived behind it. 
The doors along this street--one of the more fashionable in the Vieux Carre--were clean and ornate, breathing money. Marie had several clients living here, rich matrons who appreciated her deft skill at dressing hair, and whose gossip she mined for the pearls of information that gave her power in the city. It was not one of these wealthy patronesses who had sent for her today. She had been called--urgently called--by one of her own people. 
A case of possession; an odd one. The details had not been complete in the message, but it appeared that a nursery maid was somehow in the grip of another spirit. 
Marie put a hand to the basket where her python, Zombi, rested in the warm shadow of a heavy shawl beneath the other things she had brought, things she would need if she were to banish evil spirits. But perhaps not. Perhaps there would be an easier cure. Only if she needed the snake would she wake her. 
She paused, waiting for a carriage to pass before crossing the street. The horses were restive, and she saw why. Their driver was an automaton.

​


----------



## Edward C. Patterson

A snippet from *The Academician*:

"The Superintendent drifted to the shadows. He meant to seek Mei Lin. He needed her sweet aroma to clear his nostrils of the fetid decay of the Willow Pavilion. He trembled. He did not want to treat Fu Lin-t'o so curtly, but in his heart, duty was rising above the course of love. He loved this man no less, but he had to know. He had to find the truth in his wife's eyes.

As he neared his _ke-ting_, he spied a form on the threshold - a familiar ball, but asleep and limp.

"Ko-ling?"

No answer. Li K'ai-men hunkered down to the boy, and then shook him. Ko-ling awoke, but was so pale he could hardly speak.

"Yes, my . . . my master. I am . . ."

"Can you stand?"

"Yes, my . . ."

Ko-ling attempted to stand, but collapse on the threshold. Li felt his forehead. The boy's breathing was labored.

"Ko-ling. You are ill. You should have told me that you were ill."

Li K'ai-men gazed into the ke-ting. No one was inside. Sometimes Ch'u Wu-ko would bring a tray. Perhaps some tepid wine could help revive the lad. However, no tray stood near the table. Li cradled Ko-ling's head, and then lifted him into his arms.

"Master. No, my . . ."

"Hush, dear boy. You shall be well again."

"Master. I fear that I . . ."

"Say nothing within heaven's earshot that you will regret."

Li placed the boy on his own k'ang bed. He wiped the fever sweat from his forehead, and then studied the lad. Here was a growing boy. He would soon be as tall as his master, but not so if the thirst laid him low today. It shall not happen.

"Forgive me, Han Lin. Forgive me."

Li rushed to his larder, pushing baskets and demijohns aside, finding his prayer satchel. He touched it with as much love as he would touch Fu Lin-t'o while making love.

"Forgive me, Han Lin."

He pushed the bag aside and went for the vials - the hidden waters he used for his sacred painting. He found a bowl on the table and filled it with the golden water. It fizzed upon release. His hands trembled as he lifted it. He gazed at Ko-ling, who was awake and watching.

"Master, you said that we could not . . ."

"No matter, Ko-ling. Heaven may not smile on me, but today the goddess will smile on you. Drink."

He cradled Ko-ling's head, and lifted the bowl to his lips. The liquid dribbled a bit, but the lad sucked at the brew with increasing interest. It flooded to his chin, until he choked. Li lowered the bowl and watched. Ko-ling's lips had been blackened and charred from chap. They began to soften, the pinkness returning. Ko-ling's forehead cooled. His breathing steadied. He pushed himself up, sitting tenuously on the bed's edge.

"Master, it is a miraculous drink."

He slipped to his knees, and then latched onto Li K'ai-men's legs.

"No, Ko-ling. It is _ch'i." _ Li raised the bowl over his head. "The tears of Guan-yin. Would that there could be such a drink for me."

Edward C. Patterson


----------



## Heather Parker

Snippet from Middlewitch - _James invites Alicia, a young witch, to a Halloween party in the village_.

This was difficult. I have never celebrated Halloween. Submersing one's face in a bowl of cold water seems an uncomfortable and bizarre way of eating an apple. As for mutilating a perfectly good turnip, throwing away the only edible part and wearing it on your head? And they say witches are eccentric.

More importantly, I didn't actually have any friends in the occult. I'd never been tempted to join the village coven. They're a peculiar group of people sporting long, flowing skirts and rings in their noses. I have no idea what they do in woodland glades but whatever it is, I'm sure it serves to reinforce the old stereotypes and makes it harder for the modern witch to be taken seriously. In my opinion, most of these people are not possessed of a single power, unlike myself. But James was trying so hard to support me and respect my vocation, I really didn't feel I could refuse.

Had we known what primeval horrors awaited us on that dark, hostile night at the village duckpond, we would never have stirred...
Middlewitch


----------



## sierra09

Here's this weeks snippet from: S.E.A.L. Team Omega Flames of Betrayal









Cassidy sighed, pulling her auburn hair back and under a black cap. "There is no bloody way in hell to approach and board her without them knowing it so we'll try a different way. Fast rappel while our ever present gunners give covering fire."

"They could kill the hostages." Darius Ford warned.

"Or us, as we rappel down." Joe Carver cut in but tightened his Nomex gloves.

Brookes began to cut in but stopped as Cassidy looked up calmly.

"Both points are true," she agreed, going on in a tone born of years dealing with Lightning Team. "But, we are going to be on the ground and moving before these sorry lads even realize what is happening and they won't have a chance to kill anyone. Anymore questions, gentlemen?"

Several heads shook and Gibson grinned. "God, I have missed her."

"Well, that being the case Mr. Gibson is first man down with these handy new concussive smoke grenades so everyone please remember to have your masks on." Cassidy smiled as Casey sputtered. "Days like this you miss Tex, don't you?"

"You're prettier, ma'am." Casey replied, pleased to see surprise in the girl's eyes for once. "Don't gawk, boys," he snapped at his teammates.

Jace Adams adjusted his mask and nodded toward the front. "She&#8230;got a&#8230;y'know&#8230;boyfriend, Case?"

Casey paused to consider that before grinning. "Yeah, she does." he waited a beat to drop the other shoe. "The skipper has that honor."

That announcement caught all the present SEALs by surprise and Troy McDowell laughed as he passed. "That was low, mate."

"I figured I may as well stop 'em now." Casey shrugged, feeling the chopper begin to change its pitch. "It's show time, boys. Suit up."


----------



## OliviaD

Please forgive me for posting a day early, but I must be away from the computer ( ) for two days. Me dear old mum's birthday, you see?  Can't let that one slide by, so I must travel a little ways to see her and take her Christmas presents. Better late, than never, I always say, but this one is a tad early. Here's a scene from the Misguided Souls of Magnolia Springs. (Misguided Souls of Magnolia Springs







)

_"You will go to too far, Peregrin. I will be forced to dismiss you," she told him quietly and turned away.
"Dismiss me?" He almost laughed. "That is unprecedented. It would surely not be wise at this juncture."
"Your behavior is already a threat." She waved one hand as she pulled out one of the drawers in the dresser to rummage through it absently. "Now I suggest you rethink your position and prepare yourself to receive our guests. It is almost time. And I would strongly recommend that you remember who I am."
She slammed the drawer without taking anything out and left him sitting on the bed. He looked after her for a few seconds and then smiled. He was making progress with her. There was no doubt about that. Anger... a very powerful emotion and the mother to many smaller ones. How would she go about doing such a thing? He had never heard of anyone being dismissed. Perhaps it was only an empty attempt at intimidation. He wondered if she had ever done it before. Dismissal! What an ominous sounding word. He changed into the blue pullover and stood up just as a knock sounded on their door accompanied by the door chimes.
The little mouse perched on the edge of the dressing table staring up at him. He reached to pick it up and stroked its soft fur. It was so very soft and fragile. "We will not fail, my little friend. We are not used to failure."_


----------



## mamiller

The previous snippet is a great book!

Here is one from my romantic suspense, VICTORY COVE









Closing the trunk and hoisting it under her arm, she reached with the flashlight to throw the latch open as the door ripped from her hands and the Atlantic screamed at her.

She screamed back.

Even with the collar pulled up over her ears, the myriad sounds of the tempest assaulted Megan. In the wind, she heard the ghostly woman crying, the phantom that besieged her at night. Outside of Wakefield's dark chambers, the cry took on a hollow sound, like a woeful moan meant to lure you towards its source...the yawning black shadows beyond the cliff's edge.

Megan also heard the anxious murmur of ice and snow, like a thousand voices whispering about her, berating her, cajoling her. Amidst their dissonance, one voice broke through.

"Margaret."

Megan's body jerked and the radio fell to the ground. It wasn't the storm that called her name. She spun around and instinctively crouched, prepared to attack, but she did not have her trusty Glock. She had nothing but her bare hands and a flashlight.

"Margaret." That chilled voice called again.

Megan whirled and saw his outline. Night swelled into the menacing form of a man. There were no distinct features, only a shadow-a frightening profile that looked as if the storm had taken its vivacity and breathed life into this very monster. 
The man spoke in a somber cadence that masked the scream of the gale. "I've been looking for you."

All her preparation for this moment was whisked away by the wind. Even now, Megan felt the tug of that strong coastal current drawing her towards the cliff's edge with a pull of deadly proportions. Her cry was one of denial, or perhaps madness.


----------



## Jane Bled

Snippet from my upcoming self-published short story release.

Title: *The Second Best Thing*
Genres: Genderqueer/Bisexual/Lesbian/Erotica/Romance
Story Rating: NC-17 overall (snippet is PG)
Blurb:  Trent, an accomplished, androgynous artist, reflects on her incendiary relationship with the beautiful, destructive Alicia on a career-changing trip to Los Angeles. 
Release date: Spring 2010 (date TBD)
Note: "Genderqueer" refers to a person who refuses to confine to one gender label regardless of physical attributes. So Trent technically has female anatomy, but identifies herself as both female and male. She's also bisexual.
Snippet: 

"Particular Fascination"

I wondered if she knew I watched her as often as I did. It wasn't anything I could control; the rush I received from covertly observing her overpowered me. For months, she had been a particular fascination of mine. At first, I thought it was only admiration--an innocent crush that would fade with time, a feeling I could easily erase. After a while, however, Alicia started to seep into my thoughts at alarmingly regular intervals. I found myself regarding her with a new, burning sort of intensity. I caught myself staring at her mouth, at the way her lips formed words and pouts and sighs. Though she wasn't the only woman I had ever desired, she was the only one I had ever truly wanted for more than mere play. That helpless-doll look she would shoot my way melted my joints, giving way to loose and spastic movements I couldn't seem to control.

It seemed the only solution to my predicament was to either give up entirely and somehow erase her from my mind (which was frankly impossible and out-of-the-question) or continue to test the limits of our friendship (obviously the solution I chose). I had to settle with existing as a happy ball of confusion until one or both of us decided to shed some more light on the state of affairs.

Fortunately, Alicia chose to share a juicy tidbit of her own with me--that I had recently starred in one of her sexy dreams.


----------



## Edward C. Patterson

Here's a snippet from *The Nan Tu*. It depicts an iconic scene in Chinese history (every Chinese schoolchild could tell you about it), but here's my take on it. To help it along - Comet is the Emperor's horse, and Su P'ing is his eunuch (the Emperor's, not the horse's). Nan Ya is the book's protagonist, Li K'ai-men and the River is the Chang Chiang, which is known in the west as the Yang-tze. Enjoy:

============================
Tears streaked down Emperor Kao's face as he stared through the mist, a sad mist, which clung to the glade and over Comet's lifeless body. Beside the stalwart beast, Su P'ing had succumbed also, lying face-up, eyes bulging, lips already blue as the toxin overtook him. Kao trembled, sitting with his knees close to his chin. He had slain the black water snake that had killed his faithful horse and the loyal eunuch, whose name he could scarcely recall. Still, a chill crept across Kao's flesh as he wept more for the horse than the servant, but also for himself - for his current state, his utter abandonment. The river was just down the road. If he had made it that far with Comet and Su P'ing in tow, he could have crossed and, once across, he could have fulfilled his plan. Now, he would be no more than one of thousands upon the road.

He thought to drift toward Yang-chou. At least he could recoup there - perhaps rouse K'ang Yu-wei to outfit him as a fugitive - hide him in an ox-cart and allow him to escape responsibility. Kao longed for the simple days of his princely state - rides in the park, fine food, a lotus-footed wife in his bed and the wanton wailing of a baby. Perhaps that was his sorrow now. He wanted to hear babies crying - sons from these consorts that Li K'ai-men had assembled.

_They want me dead_, he thought.

He would have obliged gladly if it wouldn't give them satisfaction. His guard couldn't protect him and his only defense was a brave consort wielding a guitar. He was even mortified at the ease of his escape. Now, alone, he was unable to do more than stare at his friend - Comet. He couldn't even call the eunuch to his side, to help him to his feet and adjust his robe. He felt their absence, these fleas that had pestered him, but now, once gone, sorely missed. Not even the physician lingering with the vial of blue orchid juice nagged him now. Just these cold corpses - Su P'ing, Comet and the snake.

As he stared through the mist, deciding whether to live or die, he saw another horse and was stirred. It was the color of earth and had a golden mane. He recognized it - Sun Bearer. He leaped to his feet.

"Hoy!" he shouted.

He thought he heard a whicker, but it was only the buzzing of the midges and the distant murmur of migrants upon the road.

"Hoy! Nan Ya!"

He could see Sun Bearer and upon his back, Li K'ai-men dressed in his riding leathers and gazing beyond him as if searching, but not finding.

Kao brushed himself off, and then moved closer, his sandals filled with the muck of standing puddles. The closer he came to the vision, the more like a vision it appeared - a waking dream. He thought he heard a murmur -

_My lord, I am coming_.

It was Nan Ya's voice. No doubt, and there was a whickering and a snort. Kao waded through the water, not caring whether other serpents lay in wait for his soft flesh. He reached the other side. Nothing.

"Nan Ya!" he shouted. "Hoy!"

He whirled about, feeling the air, helplessly trying to confirm his sanity. He had seen the horse and its rider.

"Su P'ing," he shouted. "Did you see him also? Su P'ing?"

Then he remembered and gazed back at Comet and the terrible evidence of his abandonment. He trembled again, staggering through the glade, kicking the muck until he lost his sandal in the water. He reached for it, but it was gone. He searched and searched, but couldn't find it.

"Su P'ing!" he shouted. "My sandal, Su P'ing. I need you to . . ."

He knelt, the tepid stream flooding his robes. He wept, shaking his hands, and would have stayed there until his body joined horse, servant and snake, but for a strange light drifting through the mist upon the glade. Perhaps it was Nan Ya after all.

"Hoy!" came a voice.

"Hoy," Kao answered, standing now, stepping toward the light.

"Do you have silver?" the voice asked.

Kao could see a lantern emerge, and then a hand - then an arm. These were carried in a flatboat - a small flatboat. It occurred to Kao that this was not a glade, but a stream that came from the great river.

"Do you have silver?" the man asked again. He was a tall man and didn't look trustworthy.

_So this is how I shall die_, Kao thought. _A rogue shall strike me down for silver that I don't have. Heaven will be satisfied that the Dynasty shall be at an end._
"Why do you ask?" Kao called.

"If you wish to ride in my boat, you must have silver."

"Can you help me cross the River?"

"I will take you, young sir," said the boatman. "But I've mouths to feed at Chia-ling-xie and can't take you without silver." He paused. "I might consider copper, if there is enough of it."

"All I have is a dead horse and a dead servant."

"A servant?" the man asked. He lifted the lantern high, spotting the corpses. "Your servant may rot for all I care, but your horse looks like a fine beast."

The boatman swung the lantern about, and suddenly three more boats emerged from the mist. They plodded ashore, their owners disembarking. They inspected poor Comet's body.

"Will you take me?" Kao asked.

"It would be nice if you had something better than horseflesh for payment. Any man who travels on the back of so fine a beast and has a servant must have silver, I should think."

"Well, you're wrong," Kao answered. "I stole the beast and the servant was a rogue who did my bidding. I would have sold both for my passage across the River. But as you see, we came upon misfortune."

"Their misfortune, young sir," the boatman said. He lowered the lantern and poled the flatboat towards his potential passenger. "Come aboard. Horseflesh's worth something, dead or alive. My sons will make short work of it while I take you across."

"Thank you, sir."

"Ah, a man with manners." He pulled Kao up on the planks. "Well, part of your passage is that you shall row. Take that . . ."

He hesitated, staring at the Emperor's long fingernails, beauties sculpted with silver and gold. "You do have silver, I see."
Kao shuddered, but took up the oar. He knew that he might lose his fingers or perhaps an arm in this passage. However, the boatman fell silent and didn't utter another word. Perhaps he feared the consequences of mistreating a solitary gentleman lost beside a dead horse and a servant, and sporting good manners and an imperious hand.
====================================================
Come read book I The Academician and then Book II The Nan Tu (2 more to come in this link to the Jade Owl Legacy).

Edward C. Patterson


----------



## vwkitten

From _Chasing Illusions_: A book of Fables by Trish Lamoree

"My name is Prudeth," she happily fluffed her feathers in greeting. "I'm sorry for intruding on your conversation, but I was wondering who you were talking about."

"This here's Jacob," the one with the oddly colored beak spoke gruffly. "That's Paulie, and I'm Conner."

Prudeth frowned. Conner spoke as if he were answering her question, and looked to her for the next segment of conversation. It was as if everyone else knew the script of the conversation that should be taking place and ignored all deviations as if they did not exist.

"I'm pleased to meet you," she tried to be polite. "Who were you talking about?"

"We are the last survivors of the Howard Christy Flying School," Conner thrust his chest forward, preening.

"I thought we agreed to call it the Howard Christy Flyers," the one named Jacob poked Conner's wing feather.

"I didn't agree to that name," Paulie stuck his beak under his wing, picking at something Prudeth couldn't see.

This started an argument between the three of them that Prudeth heard only portions of. They hadn't answered her questions, but Prudeth was smart enough to have figured out that they were talking about Howard Christy Crow.


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## Guest

Here's a snippet from my story "The Club" from my Kindle book Uncategorized.

"It sounds like an organization for old men who like to sit around smoking cigars, drinking expensive brandy, and watching skin flicks - but it wasn't that at all. The Club more resembled the Star Chamber courts, that medieval institution comprised of a few elite know-it-alls intent on improving things. To get the job done, the Courts used extreme punishment for minor infractions of arcane laws based on superstition. They knew what was up and what was down and they didn't mind sacrificing a few members of the rabble to effect their ideas of order."

Get Uncategorized for $1.99: http://www.amazon.com/Uncategorized-ebook/dp/B002Q0Y0QW/


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## Brenda Carroll

Snippet time again.
_The Red Cross of Gold  III:. The Head of the Crow  _ excerpt:

"God in Heaven," Mark said suddenly, his voice barely a hoarse whisper, his tone almost caused the Healer to faint from sheer terror.

Simon looked around the basement, eyes popping from his head, ready to run or die or witness something more hideous than imagination could muster. All his blood was in his feet and his heart was pounding hollowly in his chest.

The bell jar lay shattered on the rough wood lab table in thousands of sparkling shards that spilled across a portion of the floor. Mark stepped back, let go of Simon's arm and roughly shook off the Healer's death grip on his own arm. He looked around his feet, jerking his head this way and that, his breath coming in shallow gasps. Simon touched his back and he let go a shout in Gaelic, causing Simon to shriek with him. Mark backed into Simon, knocking him backwards, looking around the lab frantically, obviously horrified. Simon joined the search, scanning the room quickly, but he didn't know what he was looking for. Demons from hell. Angels from heaven. Something even worse? The storm suddenly increased in fury, shaking the ground, making the glass containers on the worktable clatter with each lightning strike. Skittering noises suddenly erupted all around them. Rats?

"What is it?! Rats? Is it rats?!" Simon shouted questions at Mark, but the Scot ignored him. "What is it?!"


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## J Dean

This is from an unfinished scifi series I was working on before committing to Clade Josso.  Perhaps after I finish the Vein series I'll get back to this one...

            Dennis had relaxed slightly, but the suspicion crept across his face again.  "Is this some kind of joke?  Because this isn't funny, and I don't want-"
Before Dennis could finish his sentence, a large stack of twenty dollar bills, wrapped tightly in tape, appeared from Gordon's pocket.  Dennis looked down at the money, stunned, then back up at Gordon.
"It's just a small down payment, of course.  But it's yours if you want it.  All you have to do is come with me."
Dennis' hand reached out to take the money, then hesitated.  Gordon continued to speak.
"Of course, you don't have to take it, Dennis.  And in fairness, I have to warn you that if you agree to this, you must not discuss any part of what you will be doing with us with anybody else-not until the time is right.  But if you want it, it's yours.  You'll get any funding you want, any equipment you need, anything at all.  Money will be no object, Dennis.  You'll have free reign over the project, and work with some of the best scientists in your field.  But think about this: if you decide not to do this, where will you go?  You've been expelled from a major university; that's permanent on your record, and it's almost impossible to get into any other college after something like that.  Your name has been plastered on the newspapers and broadcast on TV and radio.  People know who you are, and what you did.  To them, it doesn't matter whether or not you're innocent.  They've already branded you as guilty."
The money still awaited him, unwavering.  Dennis pressed his lips together.  "I have no family, nobody waiting for me."  he murmured.
"I know." Gordon replied.  "But we are waiting for you now, Dennis.  Come with me now, leave this life behind.  We'll give you a new start, and give you a shot at your dream."
After what seemed to be an eternity, the wet hand of the young college student finally wrapped itself around the money.  A triumphant smile spread over the face of Gordon.
"When do we start?"
"Right this way, Dennis.  To my car."
"What about my dorm room?  My stuff?"
"That's being taken care of as we speak."
They rounded the corner, disappearing in the night from the glow of the streetlights and the downpour of the rain.


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## KathyBell

Some of the more astute readers have caught the fact that the date of each journal entry is in fact the same calendar day as the subsequent 1985 chapter events, but I don't think too many have noticed the connection while reading Regression.

Journal of Doctor Nicholas Weaver 
August 10, 98 P. I.

My father's journals keyed me into the nature of Time. He and my mother died when I was fourteen -I never realized I was responsible for their deaths until later, but that is a story for another journal entry. Father was researching the geomagnetic polar shift with the National Aeronautics and Space Administration in the years before he died. I found his journals Post Impact. Fortunate to not have lived near the impact site, I continued to visit the house during the Strife years, often living there for months at a time. It was peaceful, filled with memories of happier times. But, I digress.
Those journals made note of unusual magnetic signatures within the Earth's orbit. The magnetosphere was well studied, but these anomalies he discovered appeared to exist on their own, having no relationship to the magnetospheres of either the Earth or the Sun. Father died shortly after his discovery, just before Impact drew everyone's attention away from anything but survival. I will follow his protocol, and document my understanding. 
Quotes, both famous and infamous, echo through my mind. Robert H. Goddard comes to the forefront.
It is difficult to say what is impossible, for the dream of yesterday is the hope of today and the reality of tomorrow.

I do what I do for Hope.


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## sierra09

Here's this weeks snippet from S.E.A.L. Team Omega Flames of Betrayal









"Robson's got the fastest time so far at four minutes and thirty-eight seconds." she called out. "Any one of you slow pokes who can't do this in less than three minutes and thirty seconds does the course again until you can, officers included."

"I knew she'd get back at me." Ethan muttered, already sweating.

Logan Brookes looked over at his co-leader to see her grinning at them. "How much meaner can she get?" he asked warily.

"Oh, she can be a lot worse." Rafael Chavez muttered, passing him to take his turn on the course. "She's got a wicked temper and an extremely devious mind."

Casey was laughing, as his squad finally was able to complete the course in under the time stated with only three having to repeat it.

Of course, it didn't help the amusement factor any that one of those who had to repeat it was Tremayne.

"Gee, Eth, you look tired." Cassidy smiled up at him sweetly as he finally dropped next to the chair, gasping for breath. "You really cut this last run close. I think you could have done it faster."

He looked up at her dangerously, considering the punishment if he hit her then seen her laugh at his look.

"Can't hit me, mate," she told him lightly, grinning. "What would that do for morale, not to mention&#8230;?"

He warred with himself for all of three seconds before surging up to take her by surprise, catching her face in his hands and kissing her.

It hadn't been the first time some of the platoon had seen this, but it didn't take the men long to realize that the emotions were different.

"I got a really bad feeling those mercs won't care for this." Sloan O'Brien grinned at his stunned teammates.

Cassidy's hand had went to his shoulder intending to push him back, but as Ethan's mouth moved on hers she seemed to forget that until finally some muttering broke through.

"Want me to run it again, Commander?" he asked when he finally eased back, his voice a whisper against her ear.

She had to shake herself out of it, cursing her reactions. "Maybe later you can." she replied, eyeing the men. "You never saw that."

Several voices echoed that. "Saw what, ma'am?"

"We weren't even here."


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## Guest

*From The Resurrection of Deacon Shader:*

"Wait!" cried Shader regaining his feet and scanning the thick vegetation. Heedless, Travid pressed on and was soon lost to sight. A few moments later Shader heard a low gurgling sound and a heavy thud. Osric drifted alongside him.
"This Shadrak is extremely skilful, it seems."
Shader frowned in concentration and made to follow Travid's route.
"Let me go first," said Osric, "for I doubt he has the ability to slay the dead."
Shader nodded and looked uneasily around as the wraith glided silently into the thicket. Shader half drew his short sword but then decided against it and sat cross-legged on the ground. His heart was racing in anticipation of the fight, or of the swift and silent strike of unseen death. Fumbling with the straps on his pouch he pulled out his battered black breviary, thumbed through the pages and then began to read from the psalter in a soft rhythmic monotone. Minutes passed and distraction retreated before years of disciplined prayer. His breathing slowed and heart rate settled, leaving only the tiniest fragment of consciousness at watch for the assassin, for to eliminate this would have taken a mind more focused and heart more virtuous than Shader's.
He did not pause in his prayer as something cold and sharp touched his throat.


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## Guest

Snippet from science fiction story "Peroxide Head" in Uncategorized:

Just as I was going out of my mind, the shunt dumped me and my peroxide head at 11:15 p.m. local time - three hours out of schedule - on the Central City Intergalactic bubblemac.

I'd left the planet of Shap in a huff, disturbed that nobody had noticed my recent 'do change from jet black to Marilyn Monroe. Seems like a small reason to throw the equivalent of a child's temper tantrum, but the Shaps'll do that to you: make you go off.
They're agonizingly mundane, the Shaps. Each individual just like each individual. Masters of camouflage, they take on each others' look, and worse: each others' personality. I was beginning to think that some of their national character was leaking onto me so I bleached my hair in a fit of individuality. When no one noticed, I fled back to home for a weekend with my man, Bell, the one person that could always throw me for a loop, surprise me, shock me.

I had calmed down from viscerally outraged to mildly annoyed by the time I was collecting my baggage - a black canvas stowaway and a wicker lap case - from the claim area. I rolled them out to the intercity transport area and grabbed the first free bus going downtown.

Due to the late hour, the bus was abandoned except for the computer controller, three kids with a mechanical dog, and me. The kids wasted no time in sicking their aluminum and bristle pet on me. Half way to Middle Zone, they pushed the attack button and up whoofed Fido, chain link teeth clacking and grinding, its LED eyeballs blazing with tin-headed ire.

Get it in the Kindle store for $1.99: http://www.amazon.com/Uncategorized-ebook/dp/B002Q0Y0QW/


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## Liam

From: On the Origins of Joy Boy's Chasm









_*Chapter 21: How Joy Boy got more advice on relationships; how Willie's loaded contention of Chapter 18 culminated, thereby provoking Jed to take the truck; and on riding the subway late at night*_

The three stepped out of the truck and as Joy Boy exited he felt the soles of his shoes sticking to what had become a gooey film on the vinyl floor. They made their way up to the front door of the Fashion Lounge, while Lerou snored lightly in the truck bed, dreaming of spaceships and milk.

Entering the club, Joy Boy spotted Nuntius seated near the front of the bar. He turned to Willie and Jed. "I have to go talk to my friend over there at the bar. You guys go mingle, or something."

"Boy's ashamed at us," said Willie.

"Just go, will you, please," said Joy Boy, turning to walk over to Nuntius.

"Coupl'a PBRs?" suggested Jed.


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## Carolyn Kephart

Since I haven't snippeted for a while, I hope the length of this one will be forgiven. From _The Ryel Saga_:

At that moment a rider dashed up in a clamor of ringing steel, angry horse-noises and energetic cursings, coming to a rearing halt at Roskerrek's side and saluting perhaps a little too smartly.

"Well met, General."

Roskerrek flinched at the racket and its resultant cloud of dust, greeting the newcomer with a resignation all too evidently habitual. "If you think so, Lieutenant Valrandin."

The young officer thus addressed grinned, showing teeth very white and even. He was at most twenty-three and of unusual good looks, with auburn ringlets framing a beardless face almost a girl's for delicacy, did not the bold hazel eyes and firm-lipped mouth and decidedly arrogant chin lend it strength. His maroon velvet doublet and breeches well became his supple slimness, and rich lace at neck and wrists drew the eye to mark the graceful poise of his head and the elegance of his ungloved hands. Spurs of bright silver rang at the heels of the lieutenant's boots, his fingers glittered with rings, diamonds flashed in both his ears; and from his entire body emanated a delicate yet penetrating fragrance compounded of rare and precious essences. To match this magnificence Valrandin had a demeanor both prideful and insolent, traits well evident in his next words, all the more cutting for being uttered in a voice so attractively resonant and musical.

"You look even more ghastly today than usual, General."

"And I'm sure you're sorry for it, Lieutenant," Roskerrek dryly replied.

Valrandin smiled. "It wrings my heart, General."

Long did they look on one another, with the slit-eyed intensity of predators; but when Roskerrek spoke again it was with no audible emotion. "I see you're not in uniform. Are you idling as usual, or have you some errand here?"

Valrandin became solemn. "I was sent by royal command. The Domina desired me to observe and report to her that place in the city where ruffians and knaves and other worthless persons most congregate. So here I am." Gazing coolly about him, he whistled a tune between his teeth.


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## chiefdalek

Subdued by fog and the night's easy tempo, the city had lowered its voice to a whisper. Unseen cars crept along unseen roads like mice under the floor of an empty house. Rain drizzled through the fog.
With my guitar on my back, I lurched along the pavement of a deserted bridge. Faux-Victorian street lamps illuminated the parapet with a string of shiny beads. Halfway across, I stopped and gazed into mist and listened for running water. All I heard was the murmur of distant traffic. The width of the bridge told me I was over a gorge some one hundred yards wide. But how far down and how deep was the river it carried? I had no wish to find myself lodged in a glorified mud puddle waiting to be hauled out like a discarded shopping trolley.
I needed a river that was deep and strong, a river that could free me from life and take my inglorious carcass out to sea where sharks and worms waited to feast. I wanted no part of me to remain. Not so much as a memory.
Ah, what a thought. What a sweet, sweet dream. To be done with this wretched flesh, to cast off misery like a worn-out sock. And then to be no more.

From 'Dr Frankenstein's Gift to Womankind' --> http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/6990


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## TimFrost

From 'Final Passage', contemporary nautical thriller:

Night. He was floating alone in the calm sea, warm, and quite comfortable for the time being, only not looking forward to drowning. There was no moonlight, but neither was it dark: he appeared to be at the centre of a little circle of dim artificial light. He flapped his hands and spun around in the water. Nothing. Nothing except his private patch of tropical ocean.  Or was there something? There – just outside the illuminated area. A dark shape, or more accurately an absence of reflections from the surface of the water that suggested a dark shape. 
He stopped moving his hands and lay still. The water lapped around his face.
Was it a shark? That would be a quicker death than drowning, but suddenly drowning seemed infinitely preferable. He braced himself for the rush of water, the piercing of the skin and body wall, the sudden acceleration as he was dragged down and his breath was crushed from him in a final useless bubbling cry for help. Would it hurt much? They say that the shock of massive trauma turns off the body’s normal pain response. But how do they know that? 
Perhaps it wasn’t a shark, because it wasn’t moving. Perhaps he would get to drown after all. His luck was holding.
He waited a few minutes and then paddled towards the darker patch of water. It might be a wooden palette, or something else that could help sustain life.
His little pool of light moved with him and very suddenly illuminated the shape which wasn’t dark at all when the light fell on it, indeed it was something pale, ghostly pale, a human arm in fact, which occasionally broke the surface as the swell of the ocean heaved up and down.
The pale arm was attached to a body floating just under the water. It was obviously dead, a piece of lifeless flotsam.
Great. He had a corpse for company. 

-Tim


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## OliviaD

I love this thread, except that waiting a week and then seeing that it goes by so fast, makes me realize just how fast time gets away from me. Here's a snippet from _the Misguided Souls of Magnolia Springs_:










"Just take these over to the window. Dottie will take care of the rest." She handed him the papers.

"Thank you, Cheryl." He reached for the papers and a spark of electricity passed from his fingers to her hand. She jerked her hand back and looked at it. "Your mother needs you at home," he said in a low voice. "Now!"

"Of course she does," Cheryl agreed and looked at him blinking rapidly. She opened the desk drawer and took out her clutch purse. "I have to go home. I think something is wrong."

Perry went to the teller's window where Dottie was waiting for him expectantly. Cheryl left her desk without another word and walked out the front doors of the bank.

"Cheryl said you would take care of this." He handed her the papers.

"I wonder where she's going?" Dottie looked past him as Cheryl disappeared out the doors.

"Her mother is ill," he told her. "She's going home."

"Perrygreene Kaylum Aliger," the redhead nodded and read his name off the paperwork. "Now there's one I've never seen." The rest of the ladies had scattered and were now back at their various stations still watching him. "I hope it's nothing serious. Her mother has a bad heart, you know."

"Yes, I know," he said. "I'm sure everything will be fine."

"Now tell me, Mr. Aliger, just how do you say that?" She smiled at him and blinked her large green eyes. "You'll need counter checks to start. How many would you like? Will there be a Mrs. Aliger on the account?"

"Uh, yes. Twenty-five. No. I mean, no Mrs. Aliger." He looked confused again.

"That's wonderful." She nodded and began to process his paperwork.


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## KathyBell

Another entry in the journal from the future, out of Regression.

_Journal of Doctor Nicholas Weaver
September 3, 98 P. I.

There were once those who described time as an eternal tapestry stretching into infinity. Woven from the lives of each individual on our planet, the tapestry of their imaginings grew in a linear fashion as time progressed. You would travel through time in this model by folding the fabric, bringing two temporal points together. They were wrong. You do not bend time to travel through it.
Instead, human time is a circle, a path upon which the Earth travels. Finite, the cycle of time lasts three hundred sixty years−give or take four or five. The tapestry is eternal but the fabric is recycled, making room for the next generation. This is why time travel as hypothesized is impossible, and also why no human will ever live beyond one hundred and eighty years of age.
The fabric of time is not a simple single layer. The depth of the fabric extends from pole to pole, each layer of time slightly different than the one above. Many of the threads are identical. The key to time travel is to use those parallel threads to change layers within the circle of time. The right amount of pressure applied at a key moment will dislodge a thread from its resident layer. The unbound thread is drawn automatically to certain points on the identical thread below, allowing a transfer of awareness. Only awareness, or consciousness, not matter, can move between the different planes of existence. This is what I do. I manipulate the threads. _


----------



## Paul Clayton

Here's a little taste from *White Seed: The Untold Story of the Lost Colony of Roanoke*.

The colonists have not yet reached Roanoke and have stopped at one of the Caribbean islands to replenish their water and perhaps catch some fresh meat. While the bulk of the people are aboard ship or on the beaches, White and his Lieutenants, and Fernandes the Navigator are in the heights, looking around. Earlier they had come upon a small band of the local Indians&#8230;

After sketching for the better part of two hours, John White wiped his charcoal-blackened fingers on the grass and reached for his pipe. Sir George Howe sat beside him and Sir Robert Harvey slept on the grass in a nearby patch of shade. White heard coarse laughter. Fernandes was pulling a savage girl, one of the bunch they'd come across earlier, toward the bushes. The girl's breasts were small and bud-like. White thought she could not have been more than twelve years of age. Captain Stafford and two of his soldiers looked on, smiling. Stafford held Fernandes' leather bota of wine in his hand and he and his soldiers were red-faced from drinking.

The girl jerked her hand away and turned, walking back the way they had come. "Ho ho!" called Stafford jovially, "she'll have none of ye, Senor. It's that enormous codpiece that has frightened her off."

Fernandes ran round and blocked the girl's path. He grabbed her hand again. "Come, little one," he said.

Realizing the man would not release her, the girl cursed him a torrent in her language. Stafford and the soldiers laughed heartily. The girl looked over plaintively at White and the others.

"Why do you not find one more willing," said Sir George, "an older one."

"Her reluctance is a spice which will make this a most memorable repast," said the wiry Portuguese. "Soon she will sing another tune. You will be able to hear it all the way out here. I promise." Fernandes turned away and continued pulling the girl toward the bushes. The girl dug in her heels to no avail. She began crying.

"I think you should take Sir George's advice," said White, "and find another."

Fernandes continued to pull the girl, ignoring her cries.

White grew angry at the man's impertinence and got to his feet. He grabbed Fernandes' shoulder. "Release her!"

Fernandes released the girl and she fell onto her buttocks. He turned to White, placing his hand on the hilt of his sword. "Senor?"

White's pulse quickened. Grabbing the man had been a mistake, he realized. Fernandes was small, but he was an expert with his blade and everyone knew it. White, on the other hand, was a painter of birds, maps and miniatures, a member of the Painters' and Stainers' Guild of London, not a swordsman. Although he wore a fancy Spanish sword given him by Raleigh, 'twas merely an indicator of his new rank, like an item of clothing, and he had had no gentlemanly training in swordsmanship to go along with it. Fernandes' wolfish smile told White that he knew all of this and intended to take full advantage of it.

White realized sadly that if Fernandes ran him through he would forever after swagger about and pose the hero. But he couldn't back down now from the strutting peacock. He would have to play out his hand, come what may.

"I said get back to your work," said White.

Fernandes' eyes bore into White's. White noticed something moving behind him. Sirs Robert Harvey and George Howe came into view. Sir George had his hand on the hilt of his sword. An ex-soldier, everyone knew his blade to be more than a fixture. Fernandes said nothing as he continued to stare at White and ponder his next move. Suddenly Captain Stafford interposed his muscled bulk between the two men. He winked at White and extended the bota of wine to Fernandes. "Senor Fernandes, methinks ye need more wine."

Fernandes allowed himself a smile and took the leather bota from the Captain. He took a long drink. Stafford smiled drunkenly at White. "He means ye no harm, Governor. He just wants the company of a young wench after being cooped up on the ship for so long. Ye know how that be, eh?"

Stafford winked lecherously and White's face reddened as he realized the Captain was hinting that there was some equivalency between Fernandes' behavior with the girl and his dealings with the maid, Maggie. "Nay," said White, "I know not how that is."

"As ye say, Governor." Captain Stafford continued to smile, but his eyes grew hard. He turned to Fernandes. "Senor, the Governor says that that little fish be too young. Ye'll have to throw her back."

Fernandes bowed theatrically. "Of course. Whatever the Governor says."

The girl ran back with the other Indians and White walked back to his things with Sir Robert and Sir George.


----------



## mamiller

Here's a light little romp of a scene from VICTORY COVE









Alright, maybe the observation had been in poor taste, but this woman was still an enigma. Hell, her name had been a mystery up until a few hours ago. The bottom line was that Megan could be a very viable suspect if she ever came forward, or at least Gordon could portray a credible case with his skill. Jake didn't consider Megan guilty of anything more than being in the wrong place at the wrong time, but he was concerned with putting the cards on the table-seeing what was stacked up against her.

These thoughts roiling through his head, Jake broke from them to take note of Megan's reaction. The blood had drained from her face, leaving a wan complexion that made her look like a Goth member of a casting call for a vampire movie. Pale lips opened and closed as she searched for words, but only a strangled moan escaped. Round eyes watched him with unabashed horror, and Jake groaned too. He realized the damage he had done, and before he could clarify his statement, Megan whispered in a clipped tone.

"You think I did it?"

He ripped a hand over his face. "No, I don't think you did it." When his hand dropped, those solemn eyes still followed him.

Jake's voice gentled. "But these are the suspicions you are up against. If everything you say about this Fortran guy is true, he will manipulate the system and you will lose."

A small flame ignited in Megan's gaze. "He's not concerned with manipulating the system. He just wants me dead."

The two front legs of Jake's chair thumped back to the ground. The finality of her statement chilled him as he swallowed down the effect and tried to be subjective. "How do you know that? What has he said to you on the phone?"

Under the fruity tiffany lamp, shiny sable hair dusted across tense shoulders as she angled her head towards the phone. Jake's eyes were riveted by the sleek curve of her neck. So fragile. So beautiful. If anyone tried to touch it. If any man tried to harm her-

"He tells me he's coming." Her voice was eerily detached. "He doesn't have to say any more. We both know why."

For one minute, no not even a minute, more like a labored heartbeat, the brief flash of time it took for a lucid thought to congeal-Jake considered leaving. This was not his life. It was not his battle to fight.


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## sierra09

The snippet of the week from:S.E.A.L. Team Omega Flames of Betrayal









"Or we decided to come down to see how this travesty of justice played out." The ex-Delta Force officer finally spoke the anger he still felt clear in his voice. "Is this how you planned on it ending, Cassidy?" he demanded.

The girl's chin shot up since she was several inches shorter than her brother even in heels. "That's why you're here." she hissed her own emotions coming out as she matched his glare. "You've been waiting years for something to happen, waiting for me to do something that I couldn't talk my way out of and you just had to be here to see me burned."

As the two warriors exchanged glares, Eli covered his eyes as if in pain as he silently considered the odds.

"It's time to chill out, Sean." Ramon Lopez urged, seeing the look of the SEALs starting to change.

Garret stepped up closer so he could talk in a harsh whisper. "Damn it Sean. Fifteen SEALs against the four of us. The odds are not in our favor here."

Grant slowly lifted his gaze from his foster sister's heated blue ones to gaze calmly at the steely looking men behind her.

"Odds always favor us, Evan." he remarked casually, fingers flexing as they normally did before a fight.

"Not this time." Garret snapped, looking around. "You might notice because I don't think these boys have but I don't think we're alone."


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## JimC1946

A snippet from Recollections: A Baby Boomer's Memories of the Fabulous Fifties







. Get it now for only $0.99.

One pet tradition that would be seriously frowned on today was parents getting their kids baby chickens for Easter. I have no idea how this custom started, and eventually it became unfashionable, since the animals usually died within a few days. Apparently, the chicks that stores sold for Easter were young roosters which are usually killed after birth anyway, so some enterprising poultry producer came up with the idea of dyeing the rooster chicks with food coloring and selling them. They were cute, but many kids mistreated them, and parents got tired of having chicken poop all over the house. When I was about eight years old, Janis and I got two of these little chicks for Easter. We took good care of them, keeping them outside in a homemade chicken coop. They were dyed green and red, and we named them Sonny and Reddy after two TV cartoon characters. They actually flourished and grew for several months till the food coloring was almost worn off and they were beginning to crow. Our parents then suggested that we take them out in the country to where one of our relatives lived. There they would live with the other chickens and have a long, happy life. For several years afterward, every time we went to see our relatives, they would point out Sonny and Reddy, although they looked just like the other chickens to us. Many years later, when Janis and I were in our late-teens, our mom casually remarked that our relatives had killed and eaten Sonny and Reddy a few days after we left them. Parents could be unspeakably cruel at times.


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## Brenda Carroll

Here is a snippet from Omar, the Prophet







, the latest edition to the Red Cross of Gold Series:

"Is that what you are?" She asked him with wide eyes. She knew who it was now with whom she found herself. She had heard tales of Sir Ramsay's dead son, Luke Andrew. Omar, the Anti-Christ's chief advisor. She had seen him on television! That was where she had seen him before, but she had never believed the tales about him being the Grand Master's son who had supposedly died of a broken neck years ago. "Are you a ghost?"

"Do I look like a ghost?" He grabbed her arm and pulled her close to him, crushing her against his chest. "Do I feel like a ghost?"

"Let go of me or I'll scream!" She warned him and struggled futilely against his grip.

"Oh, no! Not the dreaded Templar scream! How could I bear it?!" He asked and smiled down at her. "Why would you come up here and waste your kisses on a dead man?"

"He's not dead!" She shouted and stumbled back when he let go of her, hoping now that Father Simon could hear her. "You're the one that's supposed to be dead!"

"Really?" Luke stuffed his hands in his pockets and wandered over to the case. He bent over the glass and frowned at Corrigan's peaceful face. "He looks dead to me." He leaned over the casket and tapped one finger against the glass over the Knight's face. "Hallloooo, Mr. Corrigan! Wake up, wake up!...








[/url]


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## emilydowns

"Do you know what type of shotgun?" I want to tell him one that will fit in my mouth but fear I will be escorted from the store by men who already have shotguns. So instead I just tell him the model of the rifle I have researched. "A Remington 1870", I whisper.

"Excellent choice, give me a sec, let me grab one from the back." My eyes return to the glass and my reflection.

The shotgun rests on the counter while the young clerk and I look on. I reach down and rub the barrel, the rifle feels cold, indifferent. An old man wearing too many clothes appears to my left, "how can something so pretty be so mean." He is gone before I can respond. I wonder if he is a figment of my imagination.

The young clerk is very real, "So how do you want to pay for it?"


----------



## Liam

So if you must, if you will, if you need, if you care not to heed, read forth then, Onward, Onward, and you will learn what your most humbly treasured author recommends. Yes, my most dearly loved, smartly dressed, and highly esteemed readers, it is for all of you that I offer the following advice on the episodes that follow: steer clear, stay away, don't read this rubbish, put it down, man! Stomp on it. Throw it away, and then go and give your mother a kiss. Make a baby smile. Bake a cupcake. Save a squirrel. Go to the park. Try the honey- glazed eel. Elope. Ride a unicycle. While juggling. Relish.
But first, here's what you do: Go to the next page on which there are seven carefully chosen words. It took not one week to write the episodes that follow, yet it took 27 years to choose these words. So go to that page, rip it out (especially if you are reading this in a bookstore and you haven't yet purchased the book; alternatively, if you are reading on a Kindle, use the save-the-current-screen-as-jpg function to save the quote page, then delete the rest of the book), throw the book on the ground and stomp on it. Soak it in charcoal lighter fluid and set it ablaze! Then call it names, like 'stupid', and throw dirt on it.

On the Origins of Joy Boy's Chasm


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## harfner

Here's a snippet from DREAMER, which is now on special for $.99 for a limited time:

Kendi put up his arm and whistled shrilly. The falcon dove like a feathered boomerang, pulling up in time to land on Kendi's forearm. Although the falcon's talons were capable of crushing bone, they only pricked Kendi's skin. In the real world, Kendi's arm would have been reduced to a shredded mess, but this was the Dream.
"Sister," Kendi asked the falcon, "can you learn for me who speaks in the distance?"
The falcon leaped from Kendi's arm. In mid-air she changed into a kangaroo that bounded swiftly away. Kendi watched her go, then strode purposefully across the scrubby vegetation. Spines from ground-hugging spinniflex plants tried to pierce his feet, but in the Dream Kendi's soles were covered with thick calluses. As he walked, he was aware of the living earth beneath him. Every particle was alive and breathing. Every piece was separate, and yet part of a whole. Just for the practice, Kendi narrowed his focus for a moment to a single particle. It was a human female, completely unaware that her mind made up a tiny part of the Dream. He thought she might be sleeping, but he couldn't be sure. Reaching out of the Dream to the non-Silent was difficult for him, and in any case it wasn't why he was here.
Then he felt it. A flicker at the edge of awareness. Someone was reaching not into the Dream, but _through_ it, as if from one mind to another. Kendi pounced on the feeling, trying to pin down which direction it was coming from. It vanished before he could nail it.
_Damn,_ Kendi thought, frustrated. _But at least we know the kid is still around._
Kendi resumed his walk, following the sound of Ara's whisper. As he grew closer to her, he felt the shift where Ara's mind molded the Dream to her own perceptions. The only way to communicate with another Silent was to agree who would shape the Dream space they shared. Ara had said that she, Gretchen, and Kendi were to meet on her turf, so as Kendi walked, he released his expectations of reality and surrendered them to Ara.
The landscape changed with scarcely a ripple. The spiny spinniflex became soft green grass. Cool water tinkled softly in an elaborate fountain, and exotic perfumes scented the air. Tall shady trees blunted the sun's rays. Fat oranges and glistening pears hung heavily in their branches, and birds twittered among the leaves. Ara sat on the lip of the fountain. She wore a simple green robe of gauzy material. A close-fitting hood covered her hair and ears, and emeralds glittered across her forehead. Kendi wore loose red trousers and a long white linen shirt. His gold medallion had returned, and he now wore a silver ring set with a golden piece of amber. Ara wore a ring as well, though hers held a sparkling blue lapis lazuli.
"Where's Gretchen?" Kendi asked without preamble.
"Not here, obviously," Ara replied.
"Yes, I am." Gretchen emerged from behind the fountain. She wore the same outfit Ara did, except her robe was blue. Her gold disk gleamed brightly, and her amber ring matched Kendi's. Gretchen was a tall woman with fair skin, pale hair, and heavy eyebrows. Her eyes were gray and her lips were a startling, heavy red. Kendi had always thought she would look good in a belly-dancing outfit.
"Good." Ara looked at Kendi. "Is the child here in the Dream?"


----------



## Guest

Here's an excerpt from *The Resurrection of Deacon Shader* which is currently $1 on Kindle ($1.99 on Smahwords or o.99 with voucher code AW55Z until the end of the month).

"But Gaston, you have made a choice. This is not our way."
He paused and looked blankly at her for a moment but then the door catch lifted and the door was pushed open.
Silence. 
Pushing Ioana behind the door Gaston swept into the corridor. He swung the sword at a black shape to his left but felt something sharp pierce his side. He slashed the sword blindly behind him and heard a cry as it tore into soft flesh. Without waiting to see his opponent he threw himself against the far wall and quickly scanned the corridor left and right. The black shape he had first seen was a lean man in leather armour who was now kneeling some ten feet away and bringing a hand crossbow to bear. Gaston dived across the corridor as the bolt was released, rolled to his feet and impaled the man on the tip of his sword. 
Up ahead he could see more of the dark figures in the refectory. He heard Cadris crying for mercy and ran at the assassins. His first blow was parried by a short sword. Two assassins turned to face him whilst the third bore down upon Hugues and Cadris. Gaston parried a thrust from the short sword and stepped back as the other Sicarii produced some sleek silver darts. The noise of Hugues upturning the refectory table distracted the assassin with the darts but the swordsman leapt to the attack with a ferocity that stunned Gaston. The man cut and thrust with dazzling speed and great dexterity. It was all Gaston could do to block the blows; he had no chance of launching a counter-attack. 
As he backed down the corridor parrying desperately he glimpsed Ioana's despairing face peering from behind the door to his room. Cadris screamed and there were more crashes from the refectory. Something sharp struck Gaston's shoulder: the dart thrower had returned to the fray. Consumed suddenly by an old familiar fury, Gaston felt all uncertainty pass. He made a fierce parry that turned his assailant's sword and in that moment struck the man with a thudding left hook. The assassin staggered and then found Gaston's blade skewering his belly. Another dart hit Gaston, this time in the thigh. He felt dampness around the wound to his side, which was mercifully numb, and coldness where the first dart had struck him. He lunged towards the dart-thrower but was hit twice more as the assassin skipped nimbly back. Giving up all hope of defending himself Gaston charged the man, receiving another hit, and bowled him over backwards into the refectory. Cadris was writhing on the ground, a deep cut to his abdomen and Hugues was holding sternly to his assailant's wrists as the man sought a way to stab him. 
Gaston hacked wildly at his own opponent who was desperately seeking to regain his feet. More dark shapes appeared at the windows and then the room was filled with the sound of breaking glass as they smashed their way inside. He risked a glance over his shoulder and saw another assassin in the corridor bearing down upon the hapless Ioana. It was over, and all Gaston could feel was the rage of despair. He delivered a vicious cut to the head of the dart-thrower and followed it up with a thrust through the man's groin. As the assassin screamed and died two of the new Sicarii charged at him, both armed with short swords. He blocked a swing from one but the second caught him between the ribs. As the blood bubbled to his mouth Gaston disembowelled the man with a lightning riposte.
He tried to turn to reach Ioana but felt a stabbing pain in his lower back. He saw Ioana still standing, her attacker lying prone at her feet and Deacon Shader striding towards the refectory with two bloodied swords in his hands.


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## Herc- The Reluctant Geek

From _Love, Lust, and Petty Crime_ available at http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/8196 for the paltry sum of $1.99

'Emmet's scheme does not call for anything radical, just a minor re-arrangement of his habits while at work. He fondles a half empty packet of cigarettes in the pocket of his sensible business pants. Realising that the casual observer may think he is fondling something else, he quickly brings his hand back up above the desk. If the casual observer had any suspicions about Emmet's activities under the table, they would deepen if they catch a glimpse of the guilty and shameful look that briefly crosses his face. The suspicions would become rock hard conviction if they follow Emmet's hungry eyes to see who he was looking at.

Hands in plain sight, Emmet watches Voula as she wanders around her cluster. It generally doesn't take much convincing to get him to leer at the object of his desire in any case, but this time lust is not the prime motivation. This time, he awaits a sign from Voula that will launch his master plan.

Emmet has noticed that every morning, Voula takes her celebrity mags from her bag and wanders down to the basement for a cigarette. She usually goes alone because not many people at Star Insurance smoke cigarettes, and the ones that do tend not to enjoy celebrity magazines. This morning, Emmet is determined that she will not smoke alone.'


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## sierra09

Here's a new snippet from: S.E.A.L. Team Omega Flames of Betrayal









They stayed like that for some time until a knock on the door had her tensing. "Easy." he frowned. "It's death if this isn't important."

Logan Brookes slowly opened the door. "It's kind of important. We need to talk about moving her someplace else."

Ethan knew he should have considered that what with the hospital already being a target once.

He eased her back slightly, touching her cheek. "I need to talk to the guys, will you&#8230;?"

"I can hang out, sir." Casey offered, wanting to make up for his earlier mistake.

Tremayne started to reply when he noticed that Cassidy had moved slightly so she could see the other man, her eyes narrowing.

"Hey, what's this about another cheap floozy picking you up?" she asked, tired and still wary but curious.

Casey Gibson rolled his eyes, groaning. "Of all the


Spoiler



damned


 things I told her over the past few days, she picks that to remember." he muttered.

"You told her about Lola?" Jake Summers asked, laughing. "


Spoiler



Hell


, man, she was trying to pick up any SEAL that night."

"None of my SEAL had better be getting picked up by cheap tarts." Cassidy declared, eyeing Casey. "Did you come out of this one fully clothed and with your wallet?"

"Aw jeez, boss." the man turned scarlet as his teammates laughed.

Ethan smiled, leaning down to kiss her forehead. "Be good and I'll be back." he whispered, pausing to look at Casey. "Thanks."

Casey let out a muttered 'no problem' then settled himself to be lectured but silently he was thrilled.

"So what's up?" Tremayne asked, noticing his two officers and Shaw seemed to be the ones to talk to.

"Balboa is too large for even a full platoon to guard so we decided it was time to move her to a place where she would be more comfortable." Chaning explained.

Ethan could see the reason behind it. "Any idea who those two were today?" he asked.

"We're checking the woman's ID but so far nothing." Shaw muttered, disgusted by that. "The man is in surgery and will be under guard by Steven's people when he comes out. I'm hoping he'll talk."

Tremayne doubted that, but remained silent, choosing to speak of the one major flaw. "I don't imagine the doctors here will be too eager to release Cassidy."

He saw the looks exchanged. "Okay, what did you guys do?"

"I've decided those guys with the attitudes and a love for stealing aircraft does come in handy." Brookes spoke casually. "Jesse got his boss to pull some strings and luckily Cassidy is to be released into the care of our medic and her own."


----------



## KathyBell

Another entry in the 
_
Journal of Doctor Nicholas Weaver 
September 4, 98 P. I.

There are three points of importance in the timeline. Conception, puberty, and death. Conception and puberty are points of entry; death is the point of exit. I can best describe the process as detaching the thread from one layer, which is immediately drawn to the point of entry on the next layer of time and transfers the consciousness into the new timeline.
I wrangle with the ethical quandary of replacing one personality with another, slightly different, version. My comfort lies within the fact in every single timeline the major factors - such as impact - occur without variation. The human factors are what differentiate the timeline while the physical aspects remain consistent. I am not killing Adya by sending her into her parallel self, instead I give her the chance for survival. And all of us, the possibility of continuity. _


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## Guest

From "Uncategorized", the story: The Meateaters

Just at the point where the slaughter line made a sharp turn, Biv stood polishing the disembowelers, cleavers, and carcass hooks. She glanced up, assessing her co-workers’ progress. Curly-haired Stammie meticulously squeegeed pig innards down the separator chute. Near the freight tube, chunky Lirlette shoved her final bin of heads off to the cheese room. By the stainless steel doors, June, the head processor, stashed a vericoder in her shirt pocket. The inspector had just left after thumbing his approval into the coder, verifying the week had been above-board, beyond reproach, and pretty darn good.


----------



## SimonWood

An excerpt from _*Working Stiffs*_.

_Gears snarled as Todd struggled to find a forward gear. He jumped off the clutch and the car leapt backwards, slamming into a Porsche Boxster's headlight.

"Shit," he muttered.

His antics had drawn quite a crowd and they'd all witnessed his screw-up. Nowhere to run, he thought. He found first gear without effort this time and eased the Accord forward to assess the extent of the damage.

Everyone had an opinion and had no problem telling him where he'd gone wrong and how much it was going to cost him. He crouched in front of the Porsche and picked at the broken headlight and buckled bumper. There was a couple hundred dollars of damage to the average car, but on the German exotic, he was looking at thousands. His car, the piece of shit that it was, didn't exhibit any signs of damage-just like Todd, who didn't exhibit any signs of insurance.

"Does anyone know who the owner is?" Todd asked.

No one did.

"You'll have to wait," someone suggested.

"I can't. I'm late for work."

"I don't think you have much choice," someone else said.

"I can't. I've been late twice this week already." Todd delved inside his car for a scrap of paper and a pen. "I'll leave a note."

He wrote: People think I'm leaving you my contact and insurance details. I'm not. Sorry.

Todd folded up his note, wrote sorry on the outside and stuck it under the windshield wiper. He shrugged, hopped inside the Accord and raced off._

Check out the rest at http://www.amazon.com/dp/B002VWKG2C and http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/5543.

Enjoy...


----------



## Liam

Picking up the issue on this day, Joy Boy had delved devilishly into the ambrosial world of delights and, while flipping from one savory page to the next, looking up periodically to pass curious glances at the others in the waiting room, a small, white, rectangular subscription card had skillfully slipped itself out, to land on his lap. Joy Boy had picked up the card, folded it twice (making sure that the corners met each time) and placed it in the front pocket of his drab, polyester shirt. The astute therapist noted on this day, while chewing on his horn-rimmed glasses with a faraway gaze, that progress was imminent. Gourmet had been coming once a month ever since.

On the Origins of Joy Boy's Chasm


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## Edward C. Patterson

I'm so glad that so many authors have posted here since I opened this thread. We have enough matierals here for a book.  I hope the readers are enjoying it too. I haven't posted here in a while, so today I'll post something special - my gift to you all from _*Look Away Silence http://www.amazon.com/dp/B002HRER5S*_. Come drop in on the AIDS Memorial Quilters (known as the NAMES Project) as they survey the result of their work:
*---------------------------------------------*
The panels were complete, or nearly so by Sunday morning. The rain had never ceased. It sang accompaniment to our chatter, our reminiscence, our silences, our restless sleep and to those moments of retreat when we clustered in corners, on the porch, in the kitchen or over the work at hand. The rain hummed and thrummed like a vamp to the soul. No better balm could there be to those who seek some peace. Whenever I need an ounce of serenity, I let my mind drift back to the _Lantanas_, to the rain on the roof and the cats in the bushes and it comes. _What's in a quilt_, I thought. _How can we repair a life gone by sewing their pictures on cloth, their names in old ties or scribble our hearts from our sleeves? _ We cannot. But in the striving, the sewing and the knitting, we embroider some peace - some ever stirring, ever swaying tranquility forever lost in the rain drenched lantanas. And I may have understood.

Russell's pink and white panel was splendid, flashy with musical verve and queenie pictures - living and forever blooming as he was in life before the haste of living tripped him up like a stone in the river. Matt's panel was green and gray, the ties leaping from the background. The _Newt_ and the homilies from Louise and Hank and Mary and Sammy and Leslie and Ginger rang true to their remembrance of him. There were three clusters of photographs - his baby shots and his first cowboy suit and, at my insistence, a portrait of Matt and Luis, the only photo Matt had of him. Then there was Matt and I on leather Santa's lap on that fabled first date at The Cavern. Another cluster had Matt on the porch of the Lantanas surrounded by cats and one of him in front of The Crow. There was a little montage of our Rocky Mountain romp, and finally Matt at his computer and, at Sammy's inspiration, framed with a computer screen.

At the panel's crest was Leslie's embroidered swatch. It was perfect, although the quilters did not understand it. They knew the significance of the first two words, but the third word eluded them. Louise hugged me as we admired the finished work.

"It will stand proudly with the others in Washington."

"Thanks to you all," I said.

There was a communal sigh. My eye ran the gamut of this thing - this extension of my grief. I knew there was more to be done, but I couldn't bring myself to complete it just now. There was still time. The panel would go to the local NAMES Project chapter to be attached to seven other panels. It would be tended well. I wouldn't see it again until it would be ceremonially unfurled with thousands of others on the Mall.

"It's lovely," Louise said. "Perfect, in fact. And that embroidered saying just crowns it all, Martin."

It did. I was proud that I had thought of it. As I read it, I could hear my cowboy's bullfrog voice croaking it out in the snow.

_Look Away_, it said. 
_Look Away Silence_.
I understood. 
It stopped raining.

Edward C. Patterson


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## MConti

http://www.lulu.com/content/e-book/a-verdict-for-love/8356947

_edit: image deleted_

Excerpt:

The trial was fast approaching, and Chiara was researching and investigating the club and Mr. Shay. As a part of her efforts, she made a point of visiting Club Vanity Fair just to get a sense of the place and what was really happening there.

Of course, Shay and his racketeering partners had done some necessary cleaning up and rule-changing since the indictment, but Chiara still felt she needed to have a feel for the club and for Shay's role there.

She went to Vanity Fair on a Friday night around 11 p.m. and found it was full to capacity. Despite all the bad publicity, or perhaps due to it, the club was still doing well.

Chiara sat quietly in the corner of the nightclub, sipping a glass of chilled white wine watching the action unfold before her. She had never been to an exotic dance club before, so it was novel to see such beautiful women dancing and moving around the floor with naked disregard. She was aware that often women were coerced into working these establishments. Jack Shay might be a user but from what she could see these women were his willing accomplices. There were dollar signs in the eyes behind the smiles. She was the only female customer in the club.

She sensed that there was more than met the eye to this operation. According to her sources, upstairs there were hidden alcoves where women took clients for 'champagne and strawberries' at an obscene price of around $1,000 per hour. It was hard to believe but some men paid it. Her problem was that no juror was going to be stupid enough to believe that men were paying that kind of money just for dances, champagne and strawberries.

Chiara was enjoying the music despite her reservations about the whole place. The music was slow, rhythmic and bass inflected. The wine warmed her and as she became more relaxed as she reclined in the chair wearing her casual clothes-faded jeans, a black turtleneck and black boots. Even with


Spoiler



semi-nude women


 wandering about she garnered plenty of attention from the male clients and had to snub several come-ons. The appearance of a woman patron in the club also drew speculation from the dancers and waitresses.

A lovely young dancer approached her and softly asked if she would like some company.

Chiara gazed at her deliberately, her dark eyes honing in on the dancer's breasts. Her look went back up to the dancer's face. The girl licked her lips slowly and smiled at Chiara.



Spoiler



"Well," she asked seductively, "Would you like my company?"

Chiara asked her, "How much does your company cost?"

The dancer replied, "That all depends on what you want of me."

Chiara touched the woman's arm and felt the softness of her skin. The young woman smiled at her.

Chiara said quietly, "I think I have to pass this evening, though I am flattered that you asked me."


The dancer smiled and walked away.


----------



## Ann in Arlington

Folks, this is your friendly neighborhood moderator. . . . .just want to remind everyone that this is a family friendly board. We realize that many readers like adult themed stuff but please be aware in your snippets that you consider that many folks read the boards with their children. The guideline is "Is it appropriate for Harvey's young twin girls?"

I have place spoiler block on some of the content above (just hover the cursor over it and the text will appear) and have deleted one image, but left the book link.

Thanks for your understanding.

Ann
Book Bazaar Moderator


----------



## J Dean

From an upcoming short story I have in the works, entitled "Nick":

The deep exhale of breath cut through the silence of the dark room.  A row of spherical light fixtures above the rectangular mirror caused the darkness to fade away.  Nick was leaning over the sink, his face down, eyes squeezed shut, attempting to push out the thumping migrane in the middle of his head.  It had taken a tremendous effort to lift himself off the couch in the still black living room and into the bathroom; right now, he was content enough to prop himself up and not fall over for a few more minutes.
His head rolled upward, eyelids peeled back, looking through strands of blond hair that fell over his face.  A brush of the fingers brought back the sight of his square-jawed, stubble-peppered visage: not too disfigured, except that his steel-tinted blue eyes seemed to be sunk deeper into their sockets.  That would pass over time.
“You’re quite the devil, buddy.”  A low, craggy voice sputtered from his lips.
He let out a deep chuckle-not too deep, though.  Brenda was still sleeping in the bedroom, down the hall.  She was hard to wake up, but he didn’t want to take any chances.  Not after last night, especially.  What a night at work.  
And after work as well.
Somewhere, in the back of his throbbing head, a pulse of guilt was tapping him in between the rhythmic thump of the migrane.  Yes, he had been a bad boy, a very bad boy.  Granted, he hadn’t planned on it; it had just happened.  And guilt aside, it had been fun-more fun than he could have ever imagined.  He shouldn’t have done it.  There was no denying that.  A part of him regretted it,  dreading to look Brenda in the face when he would see her after work tonight.
But that didn’t mean it hadn’t been fun at the time.


----------



## sierra09

I'm not sure where this past week went but here is a new snippet to S.E.A.L. Team Omega Flames of Betrayal









"So, they're prisoners, then." Rafael nodded, wincing as O'Brien rechecked his arm.

"Wonderful." West muttered, rubbing his eyes and already knowing what his friend was thinking and cut in quickly. "First we get these guys back to ship, talk to Shaw, see how much time we have and let me talk to Shaun back in the States. If he can keep the Constellation off our backs or more to the point, Lightning Team, then maybe we can pull a raid off to find Tremayne."

"I will not leave those men." she declared firmly, eyes sparking as she crossed her arms. "Washington can go to


Spoiler



hell


 but I've never left anyone behind and I won't start now."

West blew out a breath, trying to rein in his temper because he knew how she felt but he also knew how much trouble they really were going to be in back home.

"


Spoiler



Damn it


, Cassidy! We'll be lucky if we aren't arrested on sight as soon as we land on the Liberty. Trying another move this soon without any backup or authorization is just asking to slit our own throats."

The current SEALs were watching this scene play out and since only three of them knew the young mercenaries, it was clear no one had a clue what was going on.

Rafael Chavez, the sniper for Alpha Squad, coughed lightly to break the tension. "I'm taking a wild guess, but you guys shouldn't be out here, should you?"

He asked the question of the general members of the Mavericks but his dark eyes locked onto Cassidy, knowing by her eyes and body language something was wrong.

"Cassidy Renee, what did you do?" he asked more firmly.

The British girl slowly looked around at the SEALs before finally meeting Rafael's eyes.

"We were on the Constellation when the call came in that you guys had been lost in the storm, some bloke from Navy Intel had already been in touch with Horton, and he refused to send out any search parties&#8230; so we came." she explained, hoping he wouldn't notice the lack of information.

Logan Brookes raised his eyebrows. "I can't see a Navy Admiral lending two Black Hawks out to&#8230;whatever you guys are."

As the Mavericks carefully avoided that and Cassidy shifted uneasily, Casey finally read the signs and gaped openly. "Oh, my God, you guys stole two Navy helicopters?"

"Borrowed, we only borrowed them for a little while." Cassidy corrected quickly as Rafael groaned.

"And you had the nerve to lecture us on some of the stunts we pulled." he muttered, eyeing her warily. "Do I want to ask how exactly you got past the Navy to 'borrow' these things?"

West coughed. "Doubt it."


----------



## Guest

From The Resurrection of Deacon Shader:

At the foot of the ravine stood a settlement that seemed to have been moulded out of the natural rock. Shader spied clear evidence of design: great spiralling stairwells, serrated spires, and squared jutting buttresses. The architects had efficiently used every conceivable inch and plane of the space afforded by the rift. It was a habitat on many levels, fully three-dimensional, where the heights were scorched by the sun and the depths languished in cold shadow.
“It is magnificent,” gasped Shader. “Do you know this place?”
“The work of dwarven hands,” said Maldark, “though the construction is beyond my ken.”
Maldark had been absent from Aethir for millennia. Undoubtedly things had changed during that time. 
Shader scanned the scene below but beheld no signs of life. He then crawled to the edge of the ravine and lowered himself, feet first, over the edge. Hand holds were plentiful and he began the descent with ease. Maldark followed tentatively, almost fearfully.
Sliding down a steep scree slope, Shader alighted on a narrow ledge which led along the wall of the ravine to an aperture some five feet across. He would have continued his descent had it not been for a disturbance of the rubble at the mouth of the aperture. Edging nearer, Shader flung himself back against the rock face as a powerful figure surged from the opening wielding a double-bladed great axe. Eyes blazed like lightning through a narrow slit in a jet great helm. The creature was shorter than Shader, evidently a dwarf, but its powerful thews gave it an elemental power that threatened to unnerve the knight.
The dwarf faltered upon seeing Shader. Clearly it had expected someone else and momentarily lost its determination. Shader stood perfectly still and took in more of its appearance. The dwarf wore filthy black troos, battered boots, and a chain-mail hauberk of immaculate, and incongruous, craftsmanship. The axe was almost as long as the dwarf was tall, its heavy iron blades etched with swirls and symbols.


----------



## Carolyn Kephart

A snippet from _The Ryel Saga_, in which our hero meets Lord Michael Essern, his great rival in the Art, for the first time:

There in his conjuring-room, as he read by lamplight during that
endless interval between midnight and dawn, he felt it--a stirring not of the
air, but of something beyond the air. It was wordless, yet it commanded
him. Never before had he been summoned to his Glass; Lord Aubrel's Glass
it had been, large and richly framed, hidden behind a dark curtain
broidered with arcane symbols in silver and gold. Ryel had always kept it
tightly closed, but now he slowly crossed the room and drew aside the
velvet drapery.

At length a shadow floated over the Glass, and fixed there; and the
shape's darkness took form bit by bit, as if some unseen artist were painting
an image upon the matte silver surface. It began with the hair--startling
hair of deep blood-red, that spilled in thick skeins to broad shoulders. The
body next appeared, to the waist; a strong form clad not in wysard robes
but a black jacket such as Northern soldiers wore, with silver insignia
denoting an officer of high rank. The top buttons of the jacket's collar
were loosened as if for the wearer's ease, but as if cognizant of Ryel's
scrutiny the form's hand reached up and fastened them as the face filled in,
starting with the eyes.

Those eyes would haunt Ryel's thoughts forever after. Never had he seen
a regard more cold, so icy that he caught his breath at it; eyes of pale gray,
wolfish and utterly unreadable under level lowering brows. The rest of the
face was forcefully handsome in a harsh, abruptly planed way, every feature
firm and unyielding. Ryel could not imagine that face smiling, save in
scorn; and even now the fine lips twitched, parting to reveal teeth fiercely
white, and a voice like deep still music issued, akin to a great bell tolling at
a far distance.

"So. Ryel Mirai."

*****

CK


----------



## shadow2683

Heres a snippet from Dawn of the shadow by well myself Pete Kelly

The android fires, but Pete comes in like a bolt of lightning and slams hard into the body
of the android. The android is flown off the cliff and falls firing its blast at the cliff under Tim and 
Mark. They look down to see it bounces off a few rocks then fall exploding on the bottom.
"See told you, it would work,." said Tim laughing and breathing slower.
Pete and Mark laugh looking down, the area where the cliff was hit starts to break off
taking Tim and Mark down with them. 
"Pete!" yelled both of them.
Seeing them fall, Pete looks and grabs a vine from a nearby tree. He ties it to his foot then 
leaps off the cliff towards them. Seeing how far down they are, he flaps his arms using both his speed and power forcing him to disappear to right above them. He grabs them both as they are 
about the hit the bottom. Breathing heavy and quickly, Pete looks down seeing both with his hand 
on their collars. Mark and Tim look up smiling then they change to completely surprised.
"Its all right guys I got ya,." said Pete calmly.
"What's got you?" asked Tim.
"I tied a vine to my leg,." said Pete.
"Pete, look up,." said Mark.
Pete does and sees the vine, as it comes flying down hitting the ground. Pete remains in the 
air floating above the ground holding Tim and Mark.
"I'M FLYING!" yelled Pete. 
The surprise causes Pete to fall to the ground along with Tim and Mark

http://dawnoftheshadow.webs.com/
http://dreambooksllc.com/index.html 
http://www.amazon.com/dp/B0036TH352


----------



## Herc- The Reluctant Geek

This is from A Virtual Life, one of the short stories in _Symposia: Short Stories About Life in the Modern West_ available at http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/8128 (free with coupon YM27F).

Chaosman stands up at the lectern and produces a handful of paper from beneath his cloak. He shuffles the scraps into an arrangement that pleases him and then takes a moment to read the first page. 
'Horc was not my friend,' he says, leaning towards the microphone. Slava drops his head into his hands and wishes Alaric were still alive to see this. Chaosman appears to be no more than 15 years of age.
'In fact,' continues Chaosman, in his squeaky pubescent voice, 'he was my sworn enemy. I have many, many enemies because of my leet fighting skills and tactical genius, but Horc was my greatest one. He was different from all the others because he was honourable. He knew what honour was, he knew how to behave honourably. Many guild leaders think they know about honour, but they are neubs compared to Horc.' Chaosman looks down at his notes and shuffles onto the next page.
'The last time I saw Horc,' he continues after taking a moment to read the new page, 'we was involved in a big battle in which he zerged us and defeated us by overwhelming numbers. I had him at my mercy when he must have hit his iwin button and cut my head off. Instead of lol-ing at my corpse like every unhonourble guild leader neub out there, Horc bowed. He bowed because he knew that I was a leet fighter and he had won by luck. He bowed because he knew what honour is and what it means to be honourable.'


----------



## OliviaD

So sorry I haven't been around lately to post much, so here's another snippet from _the Misguided Souls of Magnolia Springs_. If you like funny and serious and adventure and misadventure braided together, you'll love this story. Keep in mind that Tyler's aunt is in her eighties and Perry (our hero) has just saved Perry's life:

_"It was a long time ago. I'm certainly not the expert your aunt says you are. I was more of an apprentice you might say."

"Oh, a union man," Tyler nodded and picked up the tea bag string to dunk it automatically. A spicy orange scent filled the air. It had an immediately soothing effect on his frayed nerves and he realized he was being rude to a man who had just saved his life. He excused his behavior by attributing it to the after effects of the NDE, near death experience, as Readers Digest called them. "You're a Yankee then?"

"A Yankee?" Perry asked as he returned and sat down next to Mary. "Oh! A Yankee." He helped Mary unwrap her bag from the little cellophane cover. "Not a Yankee, no. More southern. Much more southern. Not exactly what you would call a Rebel, but not a Yankee."

"You don't sound like a southerner. In fact, you don't sound like anything. I mean, you don't have any kind of accent. You sound like a news anchorman."

"Don't be rude, Tyler," Mary chided her nephew. "Mind your manners. We mustn't insult our new neighbor. He has a fine, pleasant voice. Just fine."

"Thank you, Mrs. McDaniels," Perry said. Of course, Tyler noticed that he had a perfect set of teeth just like his own. Offhandedly, he wondered who had paid for Aliger's smile. Perhaps he had an Aunt Mary somewhere.

"You should call me Aunt Mary. Everyone does."

She patted the man's hand as he removed the tea bag from her cup for her and picked up a single sugar cube with a tiny pair of silver sugar tongs and dropped it into her tea. Tyler couldn't believe it; he'd never noticed the tongs before in his aunt's tea service. He'd always used his fingers to pick up the little squares. It's a wonder his aunt hadn't cut them off for him. Mary picked up Tyler's teaspoon and stirred her tea. What was the world coming to? Aunt Mary was drinking sugar in her tea now! It almost seemed as if this stranger was flirting with his great aunt and, furthermore, doing a damned fine job of it. _


----------



## Gary Val Tenuta

*From chapter-41 of The Ezekiel Code*


There was no denying the fact that the Bible 
was loaded with gematria from the Old Testament Hebrew through the 
New Testament Greek. It was a method of transferring information to 
those in the know, the initiates. But the idea of using the English 
alphabet as a gematria tool, a conveyance for the transfer of secret 
information was something Caldwell had never considered. Yet, as he studied 
the _Ezekiel Code_ and the rest of the notes accumulated by Banyon and 
Angela over the past several months the proof seemed to be staring him 
in the face. How likely was it, he kept asking himself, that the phrases 
_RENNES LE CHATEAU, SOUTH OF FRANCE, ISIS PENTAGRAM _
and _JESUS CHRIST_, all intimately related, would each equal 151? In 
their conversation during the flight he played the role of the Devil's 
Advocate trying to find a way to dismiss the whole idea. But for every 
argument he could come up with Banyon and Angela simply pointed to 
the words and phrases and the amazing synchronicity of the matching 
number values. That evidence in black and white, combined with the 
strange story about the priest of the _Order Of The New Dawn_ was 
overwhelming. Caldwell was satisfied. There was something going on 
here that was beyond mere coincidence. There had to be something to it.


----------



## Edward C. Patterson

from _*No Irish Need Apply*_

"Closets can be measured in various ways. Some are wide and walled with thorns, while others are narrow and restricted with girdles. No matter the size or scope, all closets are dank, keeping their prisoners wreathed in mendacity. Louis' closet was wide and thorny. He had become accustomed to its borders and knew the door was transparent. He was sometimes shucked through the edges and creamed like corn under a hateful boot and a wicked taunt, but he knew the contour of life beyond the borders. He ignored the fundamental arrogance that grew in his own backyard. That was Louis' closet.

"Kevin's closet was narrow and restricted. Other than the shadow in the hallway at Union Municipal, his closet was bordered by a drawn window shade and a parent proof door. It had a physicality he could well define, but it defied the dankness. To him, now that his love had been consummated within his bedroom arbor, just a whiff from the hollyhocks, Kevin lost sight of the lie that was forming within these four walls. His fears subsided when Louis entered this new world. He knew that when the lock was twisted and they reemerged into the living room that the secrets would be locked away again."==============================

Edward C. Patterson


----------



## KathyBell

In the sequel to Regression, every third chapter has an article from an 'underground' reporter, who criticizes the goings-on at Three Eleven, since the format for Nick's Notes was well received by readers of Regression I will continue that style with "Stewlogs" from Stew Singleton, whom readers met at the end of Regression. Below is another of Nick's Notes from the future:

Journal of Doctor Nicholas Weaver 
September 5, 98 P. I. 

The plasmid is the key. Somehow, it negates the effect of the virus and bestows fertility upon the carrier whether male or female. I cannot study it because no carrier exists in my reborn life. Except once, in our fourth lifetime. Adya bore a son. A son who survived impact and later fathered a child. I thought we had succeeded, that it would be enough, but the child died in the same tragedy which took his father. No one else was able to bear children in the years Post Impact. It must be the plasmid, and although I persist in the expectation I will someday see my beloved Hope again, even a male child of Adya−preferably many−will be able to save the human race from extinction.


----------



## David &#039;Half-Orc&#039; Dalglish

My first entry into this mammoth 28 page thread. Let's hope I don't lower the standard. Here's a snippet of a mental war taking place inside the mind of one of my main characters in my upcoming novel, The Cost of Betrayal.
----
*warning* graphic and potentially disturbing
----

He altered the memory, replacing it with his nightmares. The unseen cage doors opened. The creatures bellowed their joy in fearful howls. They would feed, and the feast would be bloody, painful, and eternal.
Qurrah expected this to drive away the intruding mental presence, but instead the image twisted. His unseen nightmare creatures walked into visible light, revealing each one as a large man with belly heavy from a life of drink. Their mouths were sewn shut. The men tore the thread with their hands. Flesh ripped, and shards of bloody glass spewed from their mouths.
"You killed mommy," the men said in unison as lungs and intestines followed, each punctured with glass. The scent of drink turned the darkness brown. Qurrah tried to run, but instead his hands moved of their own accord, for he was hungry, so hungry, and in his lap was food. The taste was phenomenal.
"So you'll be quiet," the men continued. "You'll be good, and you can replace mommy. Now shut up. I don't want to hear crying."
Qurrah glanced down to see a female arm in his hands, cold and pale. Blood filled his mouth. The thorn seemed to shudder, and from it, infinite sadness and anger poured into his mind. He tried to pull away as rough hands seized his shoulders. The thorn dug deeper, and the half-orc curled into a ball as he felt the hands of the men tear away his clothes. He was powerless. His past, his choices, his sins, it all seeped into that thorn, now grown into a great root sucking out the wretched parts of his soul.
*​----

David Dalglish


----------



## Sharlow

*From Storytellers*

After the short rest and then this break, Targ's legs were starting to feel a bit better. The trees only continued a short distance further before they opened into a large clearing. In the center of it, Targ could make out the dark forms of dozens of small houses and buildings. It seemed like a village to him, but as far as he could see there were no lights anywhere. No sounds came from the village, either. It was much too silent for a village.

"What do you think?" Gailen queried.

"I think they're all dead." Targ answered.

"No, I went up to the edge of the village. I would have smelled death if they were dead. It's simply deserted."

"Are you sure, Gailen?" Alena asked.

"My feral nose does not lie, Alena."

"I say we move on." Targ said with a frown.

"It's safe, I tell you." Gailen insisted. "Trust me, there's shelter and who knows, maybe rats or birds I can catch and we can eat."

Alena scrunched her nose at his latter sentence. "Very well...but Gailen, you've been feral too long. Rats, for pity's sake?"

"Then it is settled." Gailen said resolutely, and headed into the silent village.


----------



## Dawn McCullough White

Scene from _Cameo the Assassin_

The morning after, Cameo and Gail sat alone in the same coach she had taken just days ago. They

sat facing each other, sharing the same window. Cameo would've preferred him to sit further from her, but

he knew this and opted to stay as close and as annoying as he possibly could.

"Are you sure you know where he is?"

"Yes," she said confidently. She knew exactly where he was; she had left the shade with him, just in

case-in case she wanted to find him again, she guessed.

"How do you know?"

She looked up at him with her dead eyes. The coach was dark, and she could only make out the

indistinct shape of his face in the shadows. "Stop talking to me."

He laughed, "You'll feel better after we kill someone."

"I'll feel better after I polish off a bottle of wine."

"Whatever vice you prefer."

**********
Dawn McCullough-White


----------



## JonLinBooks

From Duncan Delaney and the Cadillac of Doom:

He had painted it from a photo Benjamin's mother took years before on a family trip to Yellowstone. Their car had broken down and they were obliged to camp by the highway, while hundreds of more affluent families motored by, staring straight and uncaringly ahead. In the picture Benjamin's father toiled beneath the hood of his battered sixty-three Chevy wagon. Benjamin's grandfather sat in the dirt next to the car, a frayed and faded cavalry hat on his head and a half empty bottle of Jack Daniels in his hand, staring at the camera with a despair as long as the continental divide, wrinkles like dusty rivers running down his withered face, a cigar wedged between cracked, tired lips. If hope were gold, the old man's eyes were as bereft of it as were the mountains behind them, and the only one who did not know it was Benjamin. Seven years old, he sat with his hands on the wheel, grinning like hell as he pretended to drive. The sun behind him painted the clouds above the Tetons in pastels of orange and violet. Benjamin's grandfather had complained of vertigo after the sun set. Benjamin's father, thinking him drunk, ignored him. Benjamin fell asleep in his grandfather's arms. When help arrived with the dawn, the old man was cold as the Chevy's engine, and they were required to pry his stiff arms from the crying boy with a crow bar in order to set him free.

Duncan Delaney and the Cadillac of Doom


----------



## sierra09

Had to flip a coin for this snippet. It's getting hard to decide which novel to take one from. 
S.E.A.L. Team Omega Flames of Betrayal









"Cassidy, what the


Spoiler



hell


 are you doing?" Rafael Chavez lunged back toward the door of the Blackhawk, staring at her.

"Lt. Brookes, do not let any of those men out of that chopper," she snapped firmly, eyes locking with his. "As co-commanding officer of First Platoon of S.E.A.L. Team Omega, I am ordering you out of this area ASAP."

Suddenly Brookes stared at her, understanding for the first time just who this young woman was.

"I'm sorry, Rafael. Take care of Ethan and the others." she stepped further back, and then ran off.

"Cassidy Renee, get back here!" Chavez yelled into the wind even as O'Brien and Adams were grabbing his belt.

"You jump from this height you'll kill yourself." the Platoon medic snapped, not having any real trouble restraining his friend.

Fletcher had no choice but to go as shots came his way and he swore under his breath.

"Reese, you have to go back!" Casey couldn't believe this was happening. "We can't leave her!"

"And I'm under orders. I can't go back." Fletcher snapped bitterly. "Cass was smart by issuing those orders. I can't go back and neither can you guys."

Brookes swore, jerking his cap off. "Damn it! Why the


Spoiler



hell


 didn't one of you tell me who she was?"

Rafael distracted and distressed as he was, shrugged. "She didn't want you to know yet. She said you probably wouldn't take it too well."

"I'm not taking this too well." he snapped, still seeing the look in her eyes. "She's up to something."


----------



## David.Niall.Wilson

From "On the Third Day" - by David Niall Wilson - Available only in digital format:

"The late afternoon sun filtered through the heavy blinds of Bishop Michaels' office, striped the walls and angled just over the heads of the two men seated on either side of the ornate mahogany desk. Tapestries hung on the wall, and the deep pile carpet was thick and soft. The wooden furniture was polished to a high gloss and the sunlight gave each surface the aspect of mellow, glowing flame. Nothing in the office was new. It whispered of ancient times, and power.

Crystal goblets surrounded a carafe that rested on a sumptuous buffet along one wall. The leather of both chairs creaked with each slight motion, and the air hung thick with silence.

Bishop Anthony Michaels sat in his dark, comfortable chair, and regarded the young priest across the desk from him over steepled fingers. The Bishop was the epitome of decorum. He had light blue eyes and a ruggedly handsome face. His hair was dark, graying at the temples - a look that was very distinguished when taken in conjunction with the carefully pressed vestments and the manicured nails. No hair was out of place. No crease or fold of material was out of order. Ordered, in fact, was the word to describe it all, ordered and proper. Immaculate.

On the desk before him sat an array of documents. Some were clipped from newspapers, others were photocopies and faxes, and all were arrayed like a silent army readying itself for the attack."

AVAILABLE IN THE KINDLE STORE: ON THE THIRD DAY


----------



## patinagle

from _Glorieta Pass_:

"Come on, Mac," said Owens in his soft, lazy voice. "They'll make you a captain." 
Lieutenant Lacey McIntyre watched the men loading Captain Sibley's wagons with supplies from the depot: rations, ordnance, crates of new rifles marked REPACKED FORT UNION DEPOT, 1861, all of it destined for Texas and the Confederacy. 
"Doesn't look like there'd be any room for me," he said with a halfhearted laugh. 
Owens shrugged, and stroked the ends of his sandy mustache with a gloved hand. "El Paso's a long road away," he said. "We've got to have supplies for the journey." 
"Ordnance?" said McIntyre wryly. 
"Apaches, Mac," said Owens. "We must be able to defend ourselves." 
"You've already got more than we took on last winter's campaign." 
"You're trying to change the subject," said Wheeler, leaning his shoulders against a wagon crammed with supplies. "Are you coming with us, or aren't you?" 
"My father'd disown me if I resigned," said McIntyre. "He's a big one for oaths and all." 
"But you swore that oath in Tennessee," said Owens. "Doesn't that mean you should defend Tennessee? Isn't that what your daddy would want?" 
McIntyre sighed. Owens was good at making things sound reasonable. He'd led McIntyre into a number of scrapes that way, but this was more serious. This was a war, which was nothing McIntyre wanted any part of, but it looked like the only choice he would have was which side to fight on.


​


----------



## Brenda Carroll

Tempo Rubato







is on sale for the month of March for $1.99.

_Nothing in her entire life had ever affected her so deeply, so profoundly as this. She realized that she was beginning to accept William's identity as a fact in spite of the contradictions from the common sense part of her brain. As the orchestra played on, she began to hear comments emanating from William from time to time. "Late." "Early." "Too fast." "Too loud." He was entirely displeased. To Elisse, if God had an orchestra, this was how it would sound; to William, if Satan had a conductor, Colletti would be his man; to Edward, if Left Field had a circus, this would be the center ring.

Edward began to chuckle distracting Elisse's attention and irritating her further with him.
"What?" She finally looked squarely at him.

"You." He said "And him." He referred to William who was totally absorbed in the activities on the stage.
Elisse glanced at William and then turned back to Edward to whisper to him.

"Why doesn't he just conduct the music himself?" She asked in annoyance. It seemed like cruel and unusual punishment to her.

"Carlo would have a cat." Edward told her.

"I don't understand." She whispered.

"The fine print." Edward shrugged. "It's in his contract. He's the conductor. William writes the music. That's just the way it is."

Their whispering finally penetrated William's concentration causing him to relax a bit and lean back in his seat. He looked at them frowning and then finished off the bottle of wine. Elisse realized that the music had stopped and the orchestra members were moving about the stage._


----------



## mamiller

Spend a night in VICTORY COVE







for a little danger and romance! 

The first thing she saw was the body. 
It was kind of hard not to. She was pushing on the door, which nudged the inert figure. She supposed she gasped. The blood was just now starting to expand across what was once someone's copious belly. The puffy face and shaggy blonde-gray hair were unrecognizable. Not due to the gunshot-she just didn't know this man.
Margaret looked up. 
"Margaret?"
Gordon Fortran watched her with shrewd black eyes. Eyes, that for a moment, were hypnotic enough to wrench her gaze away from the gun in his hand. The puff she had identified earlier was the silencer affixed to the silver barrel-the same silencer that was now leveled on her chest. 
Margaret bleated a sound that was a mix of confusion and terror as she took an awkward step of retreat.
"Margaret," he repeated more forcefully. "Don't get carried away. Stay put and let me explain this to you."
Maybe there was a logical explanation for the dead man on the floor. Maybe Gordon had every right to shoot the man. After all, the partner in one of Boston's most distinguished law firms certainly had enemies. Yes, maybe she should have stayed and listened to his take on this event.
But if it was all so innocent, why was that gun still aimed at her chest?
With one last look into the icy black eyes of her boss, Margaret turned and ran. She picked the perfect time to exhibit agility in her high heels as she slammed her palm on the elevator button and suffered a thousand coronaries waiting for the doors to close. 
Someone sneezed.
Margaret stared in horrified fascination at the smoke whirling out of a hole in the elevator wall. 
_My God, he had shot at her! _ 
The elevator doors slammed shut. Powerless, she slid down into the corner and prayed that no one would be there when they opened again.


----------



## Carolyn Kephart

_Lord Adept Ryel Mirai seeks the answer to a crucial question, but finds that getting it won't be easy. This scene features one of my favorite characters, the Count Palatine of Roskerrek, elder brother to Ryel's great rival in the Art:_

The Count Palatine carried the sword to the light. "I've always admired the Steppes _tagh_, but have never fought against one."

"I'd be more than glad to give you a chance," Ryel replied, with hard irony.

Faintly Roskerrek smiled. "Would you." His pale eyes narrowed as he read the runes on the blade. "This is a Brotherhood sword. Your father's, I take it?"

"Yes."

The Count Palatine eyed the wysard keenly awhile before speaking. "You well realize, I trust, that you have no right to wear this. But you might earn that privilege. And were you a member of the Fraternity of the Sword, I by the Brotherhood's laws could keep no secret whatsoever from you in the Temple of Argane."

"Then I ask to join the order."

Roskerrek swung the slim blade in a smooth arc, noting the way its gleaming metal caught the light. "You must swear to abjure all other gods."

"I swear it readily."

The Count Palatine lowered the blade level with his waist, trying a difficult twisting sideways thrust, executing it to perfection. "And you must promise to use no Art. This really is a remarkable weapon."

"I won't need my Art," Ryel said. But watching those trained and expert movements, he was far from sure.

Roskerrek continued to examine the tagh with calmly intent interest. "Brotherhood swords are wrought not of steel, but of metal infinitely stronger and signally rare, its chief component found only in Argane's temple. Surely you have observed the brilliant luster, which never dims? The way the blade is always keen as death, and never rusts? The way it weighs almost nothing? You'll also find that it can very quickly be brought to white heat, and hold that heat for what seems a distressingly long time, without the least loss of temper." He gripped the hilt in both hands, trying its balance, his stance and guard those of a Steppes tagh master. "This unique alloy is forged and wrought by the ateliers of the two armorers of the Order, men more jewelers than smiths, more artists than artisans. I can tell which of them made this one by the lamination of the metal. A Brotherhood sword is the work of many months and extreme expense, and not until the aspirant passes the initiation can runes be inscribed upon the blade."

"And in the case of failure?" Ryel asked.

"The sword is hung in Argane's sanctuary, there to remain forever."

Ryel gave a low whistle. "I daresay the aspirant feels some regret at that."

"One is past regret when dead-a condition in which an aspirant now and again finds himself," Roskerrek answered with meaning irony. "The ritual concludes with a combat in honor of the goddess, the aspirant's adversary being chosen by the chief priest; the bout is fought stripped to the waist, and swords white from the fire can inflict terrible brands early in the combat. Are you quite sure you still wish to join?"

The wysard smiled. "Quite."

*****​
CK


----------



## J Dean

Here is an excerpt from the Sequel to Clade Josso entitled_The Summoning of Old Velt: The Second Descent into the Vein_, which is just about done.

How long had that blue beam been visible now? Twenty days? Thirty? It had to have been closer to thirty. When it had first appeared, the dwellers in Valsis had a diverse range of reactions, from apathetic indifference, to panicked foretellings of doom. Fortunately, few of the city's inhabitants subscribed to the latter, and after several days without any sort of cataclysmic event, almost all of the Beings continued about their business. As for the Sect Lodge and its members, Hopath had heard that whispered rumors of excitement had spread among them, but after seeing no signs of aggressive organizing being taken, he declined from moving against them-much to Cseli's chagrin-but was not so foolish as to completely dismiss them. After all, the Sect could be a threat, and Hopath knew that one day he would have to deal with them in a manner of warfare that consisted of more than indirect opposition and clandestine observation.

Which reminded him: after finishing up with Cseli, he'd have to deal with Rowyn as well. First, he'd congratulate her on how well she had fooled him and everybody else in the Order, as such infiltration skills were enviable. It was not every day that Hopath was beguiled like this by his subordinates, and after finding out about two of them betraying him in one day-two of them, and him not having a clue!-Hopath had to give credit where credit was due.

Of course, he would say all of this to Rowyn with the utmost respect and professional courtesy, and do it all before killing her, not afterward.

And that was fair. Unlike Cseli, whose allegiance lay at the feet of his own appetites and lusts, Rowyn performed her espionage out of loyalty to her Sect, and that deity of theirs-What did they call it? The All? Bally-something? No matter-Anyway, Hopath did not fault her for that. To tell the truth, he respected her for it; she was, after all, just doing her duty for her side, and she did it well. No personal grudge there on his part. Hopath would have done the same thing, had he a subordinate capable of infiltrating the Sect. Maybe that would be a tactic he would have to consider implementing in the future. One carried out such tasks in war because of devotion, for the purpose of victory. And devotion for a higher purpose stirred respect in Hopath's mind, even if he did not believe in that same higher purpose.

But Cseli had no such devotion. Cseli's only devotion was reserved for himself, and himself alone. Those who betrayed for the sake of power often did so.

"That Shurin _nak-tu'a_." Hopath breathed out in disgust.

As if in response, the shiner revealed something ahead, lying on the ground amidst a scattered boneyard of stripped and broken branches.


----------



## Eric C

_"You want me to frame myself for murder?" Will Pruett stood with his back to a tall arched window overlooking the entire 50-block sweep of Central Park.
_

Opening paragraph of Frame-Up.


----------



## Sky Warrior

Have you ever wanted to fly an airplane?
Have you ever wondered if your pilot died in flight, would you be able to get it down, alive?
Have you ever wondered if you could survive on a deserted island?

If you would like to try the experience, go to chapter 10 Test Pilot's Daughter: Revenge(Kindle)

Harper Collins’ Review
Number 1 out of 8,000 books on Harper Collins’ Authonomy website November, 2009.  
Test Pilot’s Daughter is exciting, original and a real page-turner. It is extremely well plotted. The author’s familiarity with flying lends his action real veracity and texture.  
Harper Collins’ Editorial Staff


Only 99 cents on Kindle.


----------



## Kristie Leigh Maguire

From Second Chances (contemporary romance with a cowboy/western theme)

available at http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/9123 and http://www.amazon.com/Second-Chances-ebook/dp/B0035WTN4Y/ref=ntt_at_ep_dpi_1 for $2.99

Jane screeched to a halt in front of the old rambling, weathered log house at the Double F Ranch. She jumped out of her truck, leaving the truck door wide open in her haste, and ran up onto the porch.

She pounded on the front door so hard the dogs lying in the yard jumped up and started barking.

"Mike!" she yelled. "Are you in there? You better get yourself out here right now! I have to talk to you. Mike! Don't make me come in there after you!"

Mike opened the screen door and cautiously stepped out onto the porch.

Jane put her hands on her hips and glared at him.

"What's this I hear about you marrying some gal you met in Casper, Mike? Is it true?"

"It's true, Jane. I am."

Jane looked at Mike as though he had suddenly sprouted devil's horns.

"You bastard!"

Jane slapped Mike so hard it rocked him backwards, leaving an angry red welt in the shape of a handprint across his handsome face. Mike threw his hands up to ward off Jane's angry blows, but it didn't do a thing to stop her from hitting him.

He knew he had it coming.


----------



## OliviaD

Here's a snippet from ~The Misguided Souls of Magnolia Springs~. Perry is trying to collect the Pandora Boxes he is distributing for his study. This one belongs to his new insurance agent who apparently has something else on her mind.

_She stopped to pick up a faux-jewel encrusted kaleidoscope to look at the price. She held it up and looked through it.
"Here." She handed it to him. "Look in there."
He took the thing and looked through it with one eye. A million colors and shapes danced around as he twisted it slightly. He'd never looked in one before.
"That's how it was," she whispered in his ear when he lowered the toy.
"Really?" He smiled and looked in it again. "That's very nice."
"It was," she assured him. "If that thing didn't cost so much, I'd buy it and keep it with me forever. And every time I wanted to remember you, I'd look in there."
"I have an idea," he said.
"You do?" She looked at him expectantly.
"Yes." He handed her the kaleidoscope. "You take this and I'll take back the box."
"But..." She looked at the box.
"I'm not in the box," he told her and winked.
"I know, but..." She frowned.
"You write your secret in there and then we'll trade," he said and winked at her. "I can keep it for you in case you ever want it back."
"Ever?" She eyed him closely. "That would mean that we would have to stay in touch for a long, long time."
"I can handle that." He smiled at her.
"That sounds like a fine trade to me." She took the box to an antique wash stand and opened it up. He waited for her a discreet distance away and kept an eye out for Angelica while he fronted the rows of imported cookies and teacakes. Angelica was back at the register waiting on another round of customers.
_


----------



## Meredith Sinclair

OliviaD said:


> Here's a snippet from ~The Misguided Souls of Magnolia Springs~. Perry is trying to collect the Pandora Boxes he is distributing for his study. This one belongs to his new insurance agent who apparently has something else on her mind.
> 
> _She stopped to pick up a faux-jewel encrusted kaleidoscope to look at the price. She held it up and looked through it.
> "Here." She handed it to him. "Look in there."
> He took the thing and looked through it with one eye. A million colors and shapes danced around as he twisted it slightly. He'd never looked in one before.
> "That's how it was," she whispered in his ear when he lowered the toy.
> "Really?" He smiled and looked in it again. "That's very nice."
> "It was," she assured him. "If that thing didn't cost so much, I'd buy it and keep it with me forever. And every time I wanted to remember you, I'd look in there."
> "I have an idea," he said.
> "You do?" She looked at him expectantly.
> "Yes." He handed her the kaleidoscope. "You take this and I'll take back the box."
> "But..." She looked at the box.
> "I'm not in the box," he told her and winked.
> "I know, but..." She frowned.
> "You write your secret in there and then we'll trade," he said and winked at her. "I can keep it for you in case you ever want it back."
> "Ever?" She eyed him closely. "That would mean that we would have to stay in touch for a long, long time."
> "I can handle that." He smiled at her.
> "That sounds like a fine trade to me." She took the box to an antique wash stand and opened it up. He waited for her a discreet distance away and kept an eye out for Angelica while he fronted the rows of imported cookies and teacakes. Angelica was back at the register waiting on another round of customers.
> _


OK! That's it! I gotta go read that book again! Why do you do this to us? It is such a sweet, romantic book it keeps me coming back!


----------



## David Wisehart

From _Devil's Lair







_:

"I'll go first," Marco said.

He moved to the front of the group. The crack in the floor was wide enough to step through. Marco paused at the verge of the abyss, surveyed the entrance, then took the first step. William entered second, bracing against the walls to ease himself down. Nadja went third. Her hair caught the light rising from the Lance.

Giovanni watched them go.

When the others had vanished, their footfalls continued to echo up to the chamber where the poet stood alone. Light dwindled in the lower passage.

_You wanted to be another Dante,_ he chided himself, and took a deep breath to summon his courage.

He peered into the dismal maw and felt a warm draft on his face. The hole in the ground seemed to breathe. He sensed no sulfurous odor, merely the smell of damp stone. The echo of footsteps diminished and died. The only sound remaining was his galloping heartbeat and his panicky breath. It taunted and shamed him.

Giovanni crossed himself, muttering, "_Libera nos a malo,_" and followed the others down into Hell.


----------



## sierra09

Since the sequel will be out this month (grinding teeth impatiently ) I thought for this week I'd do a snippet from Celtic Evil: A Fitzgerald Brothers Novel: Roarke









Letting his fingers run over the chalice that was sitting on the shelf, Roarke knew he was no longer alone even before he felt the breeze.
"Hello, Da," he was proud that his voice remained steady but he didn't turn to look behind him yet. "Kerry said it was alright to come up here."
A thin shimmering glow was around his six-foot plus frame as Toryn Fitzgerald leaned casually against the mantle of the black obsidian fireplace across from his fourth born son.
"Your brother would know the right time for things," he finally spoke, his deep voice still heavy with the Irish brogue he'd had when alive. "He knew it was time to send you up here, didn't he?"
Roarke knew what he'd see if he turned, but in his heart the fear was still too huge until he felt the warm hand actually close over his shoulder and he glanced over, into his father's smoky gray eyes. "Are you real, Da?"
Chuckling, Toryn's eyes were amused. "You see me, don't you?" he countered then grew more serious. "Your mind is clear, lad. Look for yourself."
He did just that and probably would have collapsed again if his fingers hadn't closed on the table to keep him standing, and he felt the emotions swell. "Da, there's much I wanted to say. To do or apologize for&#8230;"
"Roarke, I said before you needed to let go of the guilt and that's true." Toryn kept his hand on the boy while his eyes looked into his fully. "Brenna and I did what was needed to save you and it's time to let the pain go."
Pausing as he considered things, the senior Fitzgerald saw his son's pain. "I should have allowed for my mother's downturn but I didn't think she'd do what she has. Especially what she's done and had done to you." He held on when his son went to move away. "Roarke, what happened wasn't your fault, and none of it could have been prevented. Now, you need to stay with your brothers and deal with what I couldn't."


----------



## trbraxton

Thanks, Ed. Here goes:

A diminutive young woman lay sprawled at Terrell Hawkins's feet. Her motionless form confessed no sign of life.

"She's dead." Terrell's cousin Brock confirmed his fears, speaking in a choked voice from the tiled bathroom floor.

The girl's shapely chest did not rise and fall in the hallmark of the living. A ring of blood highlighted the hair at the crown of her skull. Her head collapsed to one side when Terrell pressed his middle and index fingers against her neck. Neither her neck nor her wrist revealed a pulse.

"I told you&#8230; she's dead," Brock moaned. He sounded as if he were on the verge of tears.

From Dirty Hands http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/6119


----------



## patinagle

Another snippet from _Glorieta Pass_, on sale half price this week at Smashwords:

All eyes turned toward the back of the wagon, where Sibley's ***** house boy stood frozen over a shattered crate of champagne. Green glass fragments frothed with the wine that was fast soaking into the dust. The wagon's driver swore, grabbed his whip from the box and started toward the hapless slave.

"No!"

The force of the cry startled McIntyre; a rustle of black skirts followed. The driver came to a surprised halt, staring at Miss Howland, who had darted between him and the boy.

"He didn't mean to drop it," she said in a passionate voice, wholly different from her cool tone a moment before. She held out one black-gloved hand before her to stave off the whip.

"Miss Howland," said Owens, stepping toward her, "Come away from that." His smile had vanished, and his tone was that of an officer to his men.

"I will not allow this man to be brutalized," said Miss Howland, standing her ground.

Wheeler chuckled. McIntyre shot a glare at him to shut him up. For himself, he thought this righteous young lady was magnificent.

"It is not your concern, ma'am," said Owens, "and you might be hurt. That glass could cut right through your boot."

"I will step away if you will promise this man won't be beaten," said Miss Howland, gesturing to black Jimmy, who was as astonished as the rest of them.

"You know how much that champagne cost?" shouted the driver.

"Beating him will not bring it back!" she answered.


​


----------



## Carol Hanrahan

Been a long time since I've posted any snippets from Baling.

  “Look at this old bike.” Nick dropped the shovel and reached for it. He pulled it out. “This must be like a hundred years old.” He bounced the bike up and down. “ Get that pump. These tires are flat as pancakes.” 
  John picked up the tire pump as a soft rustling came from the other corner, in the straw. 
  “What was that?” He pulled the pump out and dropped it by Nick and the bike. 
  “Maybe Aunt Jess was right. Maybe there are baby skunks in here,” he said picking up the shovel. 
  The rustling stopped.  A small crack between two of the straw bales was hardly noticeable. 
  “Give me the shovel. I think they’re in there,” John said. He turned the shovel sideways and slid it between the two bales. Using it as a lever, he pushed them apart. 
  Three tiny skunks, no bigger than Nick’s fist, blinked, their eyes too large for their diminutive size.  They bobbed their heads up and down, bright noses twitching, testing the newly disturbed air.  Two began stamping their miniature front feet, while the third slinked behind them, almost disappearing. Then, as if on cue, the two in front wriggled their hind ends around, even with their heads, in a U-shape, and a sulfurous, noxious smell filled the air.
  “Geeeezzzz.” He jumped back, bumping into John as he slammed the door shut, almost tripping over the bike. “I thought Aunt Jess said…” The pungent aroma started to come through the walls. “Let’s get out of here.”


----------



## farrellclaire

My childlike bride danced in moonlight on the sand as a needle's kiss brought me to ecstasy. My eyes rolled back in bliss and she twirled around barefoot, her eyes aimed at stars she couldn't see. She made herself dizzy, silly little girl. Innocent but. She fell down panting and laughing even before I shared. She had never known true happiness until I led her down my path and showed her the pretty colours and instant joy that I could give her with one touch, one needle prick, one pill slipped from my tongue to hers.

https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/10677


----------



## SimonWood

An excerpt from Working Stiffs.

_"See what you've done."

Todd glanced at the headline: DRUG DEALER BUSTED DURING ROUTINE TRAFFIC STOP.

"The car you hit belongs to an employee of mine. Driving home the other night, he was pulled over for a busted headlight. The cops discovered two kilos of cocaine in his possession. He's in a lot of trouble and I'm minus an employee, not to mention a lot of money. Do you see now? Do you see what you've done and why it has led us to your door?"

"I'm sorry."

"That's not important."

"I didn't know."

"I wouldn't expect you to know. But I've lost a valuable employee who had a job to do. Now he can't do it. This is where you come in." The small man stabbed a finger in Todd's direction.

Todd's stomach twitched. He didn't like what was coming. He knew it was retribution for what he'd done, but it wasn't the kind he wanted. Points on his license and a fine he could accept. He'd even take a beating. But the small man's kind of retribution filled Todd with dread.

"Me?" Todd stammered.

"Yes. You'll have to fill in."_

Check out the rest at http://www.amazon.com/dp/B002VWKG2C and http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/5543.

Enjoy...


----------



## Brenda Carroll

Snippet time again. Tempo Rubato







is still on sale.

_"There's a metal box back here full of little balls of some sort." He told her. "Perhaps this will do." She kept her eye on the beast as he struggled to drag the box back to the front seat with him.

He slid back down in the seat and clunked the box on the floorboard between his feet. She glanced at the box. It was a tall rectangular affair painted olive green with wire latches on both ends of the lid. She frowned. Where had she seen one of those before? William unfastened the lid and popped it up. He reached in to take out one of the 'metal balls'.

Elisse drew in a sharp breath.

"Hand grenade!" She said in dismay.

"What?" He looked at her briefly and then examined the pin and locking handle on the oblong ball of dark green metal.

"Don't do that!" She almost screamed at him and he dropped it in the floor. He scrambled around the floor with his hand looking for it.

"Don't yell at me!" He told her. "You'd think it was a bomb or something."

"It is a bomb!" She told him and tried to reach for it. He held it out of her reach. He looked at her in consternation. He did not like being yelled at. She did not like bombs.

She forced herself to calm down.

"It's a bomb." She told him again. "If you pull out that little pin with the ring on it, it will explode and we'll all die."

"Oh." He said and held it very gingerly in the palm of his hand. "How do you know this?"

"Everyone knows what hand grenades are." She told him.

"Oh, everyone knows again." He mimicked her voice in irritation. "I'm everyone and I don't know. It doesn't look like a bomb to me. It's too small. What is this handle for?" _


----------



## sierra09

Here is a snippet from: Celtic Evil: A Fitzgerald Brothers Novel: Roarke









Roarke's eyes looked up fully at Kerry and there was no mistaking the pain and confusion. "Why did she hate me so much that she'd kill them or want Mum dead?"
"I don't know, Roarke," Kerry sighed, squeezing his arm. "Sometime on that island, Mum and Da cast a spell that banished Sebastian for fifteen years and that time is up. Now we fight him on our terms and we win for what he took from us," he vowed firmly, meeting each of his brothers' eyes. "I won't lie and say it won't be dangerous because it will be."
Ryan rolled his eyes. "I figured that out before I got here and the old man used Annie against me," he snorted, still not happy with that. "We're here and we'll cope."
"He's weighing the odds in his head," Mac smirked but nodded to Kerry that he was in.
"May as well," Ian shrugged, giving a boyish grin. "I didn't like the play I was doing, anyway."
Kerry moved around so he could kneel and be eye level with Roarke. "I know how hard this will be for you and if I could protect you from the pain this may cause I would and we will do that, but I need you, little brother."
"I know," Roarke sighed, closing his eyes for a long time. "I'll stay and do this, Kerry, because it's what we're supposed to do but all I ask is you help me keep Jessica safe because I can't lose her. I won't lose her."
"Aontaim (agreed)," Kerry held out a hand and felt the warmth when his brother's hand clasped his and held firmly.
"Fine, now can we actually sleep?" Ryan asked, yawning. "Brat's been through


Spoiler



hell


and we'll all need strength to handle this."
Mac rolled his eyes and heard Maggie giggle. "This is coming from the bloke who gambles forty-eight hours straight."
"It was seventy three hours actually, thank you very much," Ryan threw back ready to defend his gambling skills.
Roarke eased up and nudged Ian. "Tell Kerry I went up to check on Jessica."
"Sure as soon as he's done breaking this up, I will," the boy agreed, wincing as Mac shot something back and Ryan's temper went into sniping mode. "This may be sometime next week. Get some sleep too, Roarke," he urged.


----------



## mamiller

It's Friday. A happy weekend to all! Here is a little piece from my romantic suspense, VICTORY COVE









Megan gaped at the nightstand. The blaring device might as well have been an amplifier from Hell, a portal through which to communicate to the Devil. She started to shake as anxiety stabbed at her heart with each strident peal. Jake moved to pick up the receiver, but her sudden cry froze him.

"No!"

If it was Gordon, the last thing Megan wanted was for him to realize that she was not alone. This was her battle to wage. She would not allow anything to happen to Jake. 
Maybe Jake Grogan was a stranger. Maybe it was too fast-too strong, but there was no denying the effect he had on her. There was no denying the feelings she had for him. They were undeveloped, yet still wonderful feelings, which her cruel existence would have to nip before they ever developed.

All these thoughts raged in her mind before the third shrill ring of the phone. Uncooperative fingers launched for the receiver and hefted it to her ear. Megan did not offer a salutation, she just listened.

Silence.

Not the stagnant silence of a severed connection, or the monotonous vacuum of being placed on hold. This was a heavy stillness that spoke to her in evil whispers, wicked hints that someone was on the other end-listening.

Both hands gripped the receiver and Megan shook so much now that her legs failed her and she sank to the edge of the bed. There was no heavy breathing or anything so sinister and obvious, but she knew he was there. Also was gone the electrical hum she had distinguished on the past call. Did this mean he had altered his location? Was he closer? Was he outside?


----------



## Greenkeeper

Here's my snippet from my young adult fantasy, Tales from the Green Book 1: The Magic Flute

---------------------

"I guess four days here is a little too long for this to be a dream," he sighed, rolling over to try to get back to sleep. Had it been four days? It felt like he had been here for weeks already. When sleep didn't come, he found himself simply staring at the moon overhead. It was the first time he had really looked at it, and strangely enough it was the same old moon he had always seen, craters and all. That meant he had to still be somewhere on Earth, right? How else would the Green have the same moon, or any moon at all for that matter? It was a logical argument that he wasn't, in fact, on another world, just some place that was hidden somewhere, somehow, and Alex took momentary comfort in that logic. The illusion was shattered a moment later when another moon rose into view; or rather it was the same moon again, yet slightly farther away and moving a different direction. Alex moaned and rolled over, not even wanting to try to think how that was possible.


----------



## Carolyn Kephart

A snippet from _The Ryel Saga_. The wysard and the Sovran of Destimar make an incognito visit to the capital city's famed pleasure quarter, the Diamond Heaven:

Heaven it was indeed, to the wysard's already dazzled eyes. Amid the rich throng of revelers come from every corner of the World, rich litters borne by liveried slaves conveyed indolent glittering favorites to assignations, while in the meandering canal that divided the Jewel Path lovers reclined at amorous ease in gilded shallops, or pleasure-parties sang and played in lighted barges, scattering flowers in the clear water. Rows of fragrant trees aglitter with lamps lined and lit the broad avenues of inlaid marble and the fair canal, and wandering gallants and ladies now and again stopped for rest or coquetry at the vine-secluded benches set under the branches. Ladies leaned from the roof-galleries of splendid buildings, trading wit with the passersby below, and often tossing down flowers with artfully folded notes tied to their stems.

Ryel gazed about him, overcome, and gestured to the splendid buildings lining the canal.

"What are all these places?"

"Jewel and silk and perfume shops," the Sovran answered. "Gambling dens. Music rooms, chal houses, wine taverns, mask makers."

"And on the upper floors?"

Priamnor gave his rare grin; it flashed beneath his mask's edge. "Wonder and peril, my friend."

*****​
CK

FREE at Smashwords:

The Kind Gods:https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/10752
Regenerated: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/3196


----------



## farrellclaire

Quick snippet from a faery story - https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/11262

She carried a relentless weariness over her daily now. The strain of taking care of Azarel was taking its toll. But she had made a blood oath a long time ago which bound her to Azarel until her death. She had been commanded to make that oath but the order was never necessary. She would have willingly offered her heart on a platter for Azarel, the first fairy Queen capable of tears. Her vulnerability had to be hidden from others, but it was the one thing above all that captured Wyla's loyalty. How often she had held the Queen in her lap and soothed her grief, if anyone found out about this weakness, all would be lost. She had been the Queen's rock since childhood. The Court knew this and for the most part accepted it but if she put one foot wrong, it would be the end of her.


----------



## J.L. Penn

Fun! Here's one from The Cinderella Curse ...

One night we went to Bottoms Up, a new downtown bar, the name of which could not be fully understood until entering said establishment. The bottoms were up to here, if you know what I mean, and the tops were nonexistent. That was the wait staff, that is; tops for the patrons were optional. In truth, optional should have been recommended. The bar was full of hairy backed men with cottage cheese stomachs ogling the well endowed waitresses. After a quick survey of the crowd through one half-open eye - the way one might observe a particularly gruesome scene in a horror flick - I became concerned that the abdominally robust men had eaten the attractive men before we arrived.

Hope it makes you giggle. 
-Jenn


----------



## JonLinBooks

From Duncan Delaney and the Cadillac of Doom







:

"Well, now, Benjamin! Whatever did you do that for?"
"To see if I could."
"You always could have. You just never noticed."
Tiffy grasped his ears and kissed him again. She guided his hand to her breast. Benjamin had often lain in bed and mused what he would do to or with or for her if the opportunity ever tendered itself. But now, when she was (technically at least) broken up with Duncan and was as such fair game, he startled himself by resisting.
"You can touch me if you want," she whispered.
"Which is exactly why I'm not going to."
"It's all right. I wouldn't tell Duncan."
"I would."	
Tiffy cuffed him once, hard. Benjamin slapped her back. She appeared surprised, then stimulated. She seized him and tried to kiss him again.
"Let's get out of here," she said.
"I've got a better idea." He pushed her away. "Why don't I get out of here and you find someone else to lead around by the pecker."
He paid for the beers and left. Tiffy followed him to the Purgatory Truck. Her previously smoldering eyes had cooled to glaciers. She handed him an envelope.
"Will you give this to Duncan?"
"Sure."
"If you tell him anything, I'll just deny it." She turned and walked away. "Candy ass pansy Indian fairy," she said as she retreated.
"White bow-legged cowgirl slut," Benjamin said as he got in his truck.
Tiffy stopped. "I am not bow-legged!" she yelled. Then she went back inside.


----------



## Brenda Carroll

Two days late with the old snippet this week. I guess my fingers have been too cold to type. This is from The Red Cross of Gold VI:. The Dragonslayer:

_"I merely fled for my life and jumped into the pool," he told her. "It's quite deep. And cold." He shivered instinctively at the memory of the icy plunge. Simon was not an accomplished swimmer and he did not care for drowning. He had drowned once and it had been quite unpleasant. Besides, he was not sure that they were immortal in this place. The scratches and cuts he received each night did not seem to be healing as they should. There were two or three rather more serious on his upper arms that were more than four days old.
"Ahh," she nodded. So Simon had been having quite a few adventures in this place. "I see, but why were you fleeing for your life?"
"Shhh!" He put his finger to his lips. "Listen."
Merry strained her ears and the faint sound of singing came to her. A melancholy, but lovely, tune floated to them over the sound of the waterfall. 
"Who is that?" She asked in wonder. "I thought you said we were the only humans here."
"We are," Simon told her and his expression turned to one of boyish mischief. He enjoyed scaring her it seemed. "That&#8230; is not a human voice. Listen more closely."
"It's lovely," she said after listening a bit longer. The language was totally unfamiliar. Nothing she had ever heard before. "But it is language, isn't it? Surely some form of intelligence is behind it. It's beautiful."
"And most likely deadly," he added. 
"You still haven't shown me the dragon," Merry told him. "Is it a real dragon, like the one Mark Andrew had to fight?"[...]
"That is the dragon's voice you hear," he said very quietly. "She is in there."_


----------



## trbraxton

A snippet from my crime drama/suspense novel _Dirty Hands_:

Terrell's awakening senses failed to make out what his cousin was saying. "Wh-uuut?" he groaned.
"Shh!" Brock placed a trembling finger over his own trembling lips. "Git up. I gotta show you something."
Drunken grogginess did not stop Terrell from recognizing the shakiness in his cousin's voice. He slowly rose from the bed, taking care not to awaken Heloise.
The previously foreboding sky had given way to a tremendous rainstorm as Terrell slept. Flashes of lightning and crackling thunder announced heaven's fury.
Terrell slipped his boxers back on and closed the bedroom door behind him. He became aware of the eerie silence that permeated his apartment.
Brock's eyes were as big as saucers. His body was slick with sweat.
"What's wrong, Cuz?" Terrell whispered.
"I fucked up, man," Brock moaned, sounding like he was on the verge of tears. "I really fucked up."
"What are you talkin' about?" 
Brock motioned for Terrell to follow him. They walked into the bathroom. Tia lay still there, across the naked floor tiles. 
Having confirmed the girl's death, Terrell hauled his much smaller cousin to his feet. He stared into Brock's distraught eyes. "Tell me how this happened."

http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/6119
http://www.amazon.com/Dirty-Hands-T-R-Braxton/dp/0984124403/
http://www.trbraxton.com/
http://thecuriousmindoftrbraxton.blogspot.com/


----------



## sierra09

I'm thrilled to say that I can finally post my first official snippet from Celtic Evil: A Fitzgerald Brothers Novel: Ian









"Toby, don't go too far into the woods alone," Ian called to his classmate, just before the first scream came from elsewhere.

Whirling, Ian's first look told him that the other boy was not anywhere that he could see. Reacting on instinct and not considering anything else, he ran into the woods where the screams were now getting louder.

"This is not your brightest move, boyo," Ian was telling himself and could just picture his brother Mac's reaction to his impulsive move, knowing that Mac was always yelling at Ryan about encouraging Ian's recklessness.

Concentrating on finding his friend, Ian didn't feel anything else until he cleared a heavy spot of foliage and found Toby Armstrong&#8230;or what was left of him.

"Oh, bloody


Spoiler



hell


." the boy breathed, wanting to turn away from what he found but couldn't.

The red-haired Dublin native had wandered further into the woods to locate the other items on the Professor's list when he found something else. Something that no one should ever have been expecting to find.

Now, his eyes were staring wide open in terror from what he had seen in his last moments, as his body was torn into multiple pieces by the snarling and frothing beasts that were still gnawing on bits of him.

Ian had seen creatures like this once, several months before at his family estate in Fitzgaren. Struggling to recall what Kerry had called them, the boy soon realized that the name wasn't as important as surviving this.
One beast looked up from the leg that it was chewing on as if sensing its new prey, red eyes locking on Ian.

"No, I don't think so, puppy." Ian's fingers glowed as he began to channel his powers when the sudden pain doubled and took his breath. "What the bloody&#8230;" gasping when it become apparent that his powers weren't coming on and that was the first time in his memory that he actually knew fear since he had always depended on the magic that was his birthright to protect him.

He had no idea why those powers weren't working and that caused a deeper sense of fear than he could ever recall. A fear that doubled as the beast prepared itself to lunge.


----------



## Guest

From The Resurrection of Deacon Shader (prologue)

The sailor held firm to the mast of his boat, eyes narrowed against the spray and the squall. The yawl reared and plunged, wind punching the sail and pitching the prow. The churning sea drowned the reflected suns even as the storm-head smothered them up above. 
The seraphs harrying the ship cawed and soared heavenwards, their flames razing the gloom. For a moment the violet skies were freed to snatch a final glimpse of the tempest below.

The sailor ripped off his helm and slung his hammer beneath the bench. A fierce gust whipped hair in his face, the boat lurching as wave after wave broke across the bow. There was a moment's calm, a gentle bobbing, and then stillness. 
He wrung the moisture from his drenched beard, tasted its saltiness.

_Thank you._

Flopping onto the bench he ran cold fingers through limp hair and listened. 
Nothing. He was almost disappointed. Laying back he stared up at the heavy blackness. The clouds hung, bloated and brooding. Blood pounding in his ears, lips barely moving, he started to hum. No words; just a tune that gnawed at the back of his mind, soothing away the dark.

The oaken hull began to creek, quietly at first, and then with increasing strain. The sailor scurried around his vessel seeking the cause. Looking over the side he saw the keel warping and buckling under some great force. The sea sucked greedily at the little ship as violent eddies and swirls formed up ahead.

The wind blasted and suddenly switched direction, the ship heaving dangerously as it was wrenched against the swell. Ocean walls rose on either side, a frothing corridor of raging water. The sailor ducked against the roar, snatched up a rope and lashed himself to the mast as the boat sped along the channel towards a spinning black maelstrom.

_Lord?_ His eyes were riveted to the whirling darkness up ahead. _Is it finally you?_

The skin of his face was stretched taut by relentless force, his back crushed against the mast. With the last vestiges of his strength, and his consciousness, the sailor shrieked a plea for forgiveness as the ship fell into the dark and merciless eye of the vortex.


----------



## LCEvans

From We Interrupt This Date:

      “Don’t tease my babies.” Mama was already pulling the bags out of my hands. “I’ll have supper done in ten minutes.” 
I didn’t want her to have supper done. This was my house, my state of the art kitchen, and my life. But, judging from the delicious smells wafting toward me, it was too late to tell Mama to sit down and have a cup of tea while I did my own cooking. 
I took the only way out, nodding and stepping carefully around the Chihuahuas as I moved toward the hallway. I concentrated on my yoga breathing. 
“What’s wrong? Your lips are pulled together like purse strings and at your age there’s a serious chance of wrinkles if you hold that expression. I declare, you look like someone shoved a sour lemon down your throat.” Mama pulled me around to face her and peered into my face.
A sour lemon? Was there any other kind?
“I’m good, Mama. Give me a minute to change and I’ll help you in the kitchen.” If I made my voice any more cheery, she’d think I was trying to sell her a beach condo.


----------



## Ami Braverman

Hey,
Here is a snippet from my book Synsunder

CHAPTER NINETEEN: SPIRITUAL LUST

Edna knew that spiritual for most people happened late at night and into the wee hours of the morning. That was why she only opened the shop after midnight. She had also known that certain things were expected. There was a pattern to people's spiritual lust. She needed to have some kind of smells floating around. It did not matter what smell but there had to be something smelly in the front room. She also needed the place to be cluttered a bit. She had to seem to be a messy person. That was important. Spiritual is not neat. It is jumbled and mysterious. How can neat things be profound? Another thing she needed to be was a stereotype. She needed to be dressed in a stereotypical fashion that no sane person would be found dead in. It did not matter which stereotype but it had to be pronounced and easy to remember. She often wondered where some of these stereotypes had come from. Some things seemed so obscure and out there that they just could not be real. Why would a voodoo doctor wear so many feathers? But then again who had made all of these things up? Probably people just like her, she thought. People that needed the shock factor in their work. Suddenly, she heard the ringing of a bell. Someone had opened the door. Edna put her glasses on. They had ridiculous pointy sides and a hodgepodge of rhinestones around the rims.

Thanks Edward


----------



## SimonWood

Here's an excerpt from The Scrubs:

_Jeter's body, like the chair, spewed cables and tubes like ectoplasm. Sensors monitoring brain, heart and respiratory functions ran in messy tangles. Catheters trailed from his groin area, discolored from use. His mouth was muzzled and a food tube disappeared into his nose.

Keeler liked to think it was Jeter's rank stench that was making him gag, but he knew it wasn't. He feared he was witnessing his future fate.
O'Keefe, the prison governor, stepped down from a console looking pleased with himself. In tow was the deputy governor, Cady, O'Keefe's second in command and lap dog. Cady looked how Keeler felt. Keeler guessed this was his first visit to the North Wing, too.

"I see you're admiring the Throne," O'Keefe said.

"The what?"

"That's what we call it."

"Fit for a king?"

"Not at all." O'Keefe smiled. "Fit for a killer."

"What happened to his eyes?" Keeler nodded at Jeter.

"He gouged them out," O'Keefe replied like it was no big thing. "You can see the scars where he clawed at his face. The Throne takes some getting used to. Don't look so worried, Keeler. The Throne is Jeter's domain, not yours."_

Available for the Kindle (http://www.amazon.com/Scrubs-Book-One-trilogy-ebook/dp/B003DQNXTS) for $0.99


----------



## Edward C. Patterson

I glad that eveyone is still taking advantage of this little snippet thread idea. Long may it wave. So, I think I'll post something (haven't done so as of late).

From *The Third Peregrination*, the second book in The Jade Owl Legacy series.
===============================================================

Near the Fairmont Hotel on Mason Street, in that well-heeled neighborhood called Nob Hill, a city cab sped passed St. Mary's Cathedral and the Mark Hopkins toward the apartment tower that ensconced Gamaliel Pierpont Pelesar III. Rowden had managed this small coup - a meeting with the omnipotent Trustee, but on Pelesar's terms, of course. They seemed easy enough terms - a convivial negotiation with family and friends. Audrey would be introduced to the great man, as would Simone; and although Nick was uncomfortable with the casual conduct of a man who defined this formality, Rowden kept his eye on the goal. He could almost touch the New York Sister; almost feel the sea spray from the storm brushing his cheeks. His heart raced when he thought of repeating the triangulation process on this next acquisition. Still, Rowden held a tincture of wary. G.P. Pelesar was a man of worldly relevance - not the business-type, who wielded fistfuls of cash as an investor, but one who was above money. The self-made jack-of-some-trade, although Rowden was hard pressed to explain which.

Rowden caressed Audrey as the cab neared Nancy Tower. She was silent, perhaps sensing Rowden's blended angst. The family business - the Jade Owl and its ancillaries, had become a narcotic. Rowden squeezed her hand. She patted his. There was no need to speak of these things. It was explicit in their vows that the Jade Owl would never come between them, yet it would always pull them apart until it nested in the tree of logic; a seedling deep in obsession's redwood forest.

The cab drew into the drop zone of Nancy Tower. A doorman, in fawn and tan, assisted Audrey to curbside. Rowden bounced to the pavement, stretching the cramp from his right leg. Once relieved of ache and cab fare, he glanced toward Audrey. She was stunning in her white satin gown, cleavage showing to best advantage, so much so that Rowden was suddenly worried that Pelesar might think he brought his child bride to misdirect the Trustee. Still, why not? She was his greatest asset, wherever those smooth cheeks and dark eyes settled. He beamed, and then offered her his arm.

"You look gorgeous tonight, dear," came a voice near the entrance. "I love satin on a summer evening."

Simon Geldfarb, usually decked out in his finest wig and most fashionable dress for dinner, especially to break bread with the wealthy, instead wore a plain white suit, an ivory fedora with a little green feather in the band and a lemon meringue colored tie. Nick, one step above casual, was white shirted, loosely brown tied, tweed jacketed (this draped over his shoulder) and best sneakered. He locked arms with his Simone.

"Simon, you surprise me," Rowden said. He swept his hand from head to toe.

"Why so, Professor? You've seen me out of drag more than once."

Audrey pulled Rowden away. She cocked her head.

"You look stunning Simon. Don't listen to him. You know he's fashion challenged."

Rowden harrumphed.

"I just thought having dinner with G. P. Pelesar . . ."

"The third, dear," Simone carped. "Don't forget the third." He bristled as they shuffled toward the entrance. "You might be right. I did think, as we were so close to the Top of the Mark, that I'd dress to the nines. I have this new pink chiffon number with ruby glitter. But then I realized that this is a business dinner after all; and this is the closest I could get my Nicky into a tie."

"I'm wearing one," Nick complained.

"Barely." Simone slipped the knot to the collar's top. The doorman observed this skit. He held the heavy brass portal open nodding for them to enter the lobby. As they drifted inside, Rowden noticed Simone's tie. A sharp, sad memory crept to the fore - a tale that Simone had recounted in the little perch on the hill. A tale of meeting John Battle and the wearing of a lemon tie. 
Simone's goose beak bobbed for an answer.

"Is my head on backward, Professor?"

Rowden smiled. "No, nothing's amiss, Simon. I was admiring your tie. I seem to recall it."

Simon touched his chest, a dim memory betrayed across his lips.

"I still have it." He sighed.

Nick scrunched his face. Shrug.

"Don't bother asking," Rowden said. "It's a straight thing, between your hubby and me."

"Keep your little secret, then."  
=================================
Edward C. Patterson


----------



## OliviaD

Thank you, Mr. Patterson, for creating this thread for us to toot our own horns on from time to time.  Here's a new snippet from the Misguided Souls of Magnolia Springs







.

"Sam," Louis began slowly. "We've all had some sort of... experience with Perry Aliger. He's... well... he's different from us, you know what I mean?"

"Uh, huh," Sam nodded in apparent boredom still wearing the condescension.

"We all have questions that need to be answered," Louis continued. "The thing is that Perry Aliger hasn't done anything wrong that we know of. Now, look, I'm stickin' my neck out here by tellin' you this, but I ran his plates on his car and they came back clean as a whistle. He came out smellin' like a rose, a rich rose, but a rose none-the-less. There ain't no law against bein' rich. And there ain't no law about stealin' somebody's girl." Louis thought back with a grimace to what Perry had said about it.

"No? You're kidding." Sam said sarcastically. "And as far as Mr. Aliger goes, I suppose it all depends on your point of view whether he smells like a rose. He did steal my girl. And a thief is a thief. He did cause Billy to fall in the creek and then gave him a heart attack and I heard he gave you one too. And that sounds like attempted murder to me. And he left the scene of an accident which I believe is an actual crime you could have arrested him for and I don't think he was charged, but we won't go there. His brother started a riot at the auction and then they blew up the light post and now he's over at Maureen's house again answering her phone. How am I supposed to know he hasn't done something to her? I suppose that it depends on your point of view, like I said."


----------



## Imogen Rose

A snippet from my book *PORTAL*, a YA, time travel fantasy.

Link: http://www.amazon.com/Portal-Chronicles-ebook/dp/B0035RPGOK/ref=tmm_kin_title_0?ie=UTF8&m=AG56TWVU5XWC2

I'm going to take him out! I clenched down on my mouth guard so hard that I could feel the salty drops of blood on my tongue. Then I took a firm grip of my stick and zoomed over to number 4 in less than a heartbeat. Snarling under my breath, I lifted my stick and brought the end down hard on to his thigh and pounded my shoulders into his chest. He was down. Mission accomplished. The whistle sounded. Typical! The two minutes in the penalty box was so worth it. Seeing the look in his eyes as he realized that_ the girl _had brought him down&#8230;.


----------



## Carol Hanrahan

Here is a snippet from my latest childrens short story, Fresh Cheese in the Garden - a childrens story. It kind of describes how the story got its odd title!  As always, 0.99!

Next, the girls began applying makeup to their aunts' faces. "First some blue eye shadow," said Sarah. "Keep your eyes closed, Auntie."

"Hmm rmmph umnmmph mmm," mumbled Aunt Helen.

Sarah cocked her head to one side, studying her aunt. After a moment, she said, "Auntie, when the balloons race home, won't we have fresh cheese in the garden?"

"Uh hunh hmmmm," said Aunt Helen.

Sarah smiled at Carol. She pointed to Aunt Helen and mouthed, "She's asleep!"

Carol looked at Aunt Esther, whose eyes were closed too. "And then tomorrow," she said to her aunt, "we'll get the barn milked before the clouds parade the chickens inside of the breakfast baskets, won't we, Auntie?"

Then the fun begins......


----------



## J.L. Penn

A snippet from Reunion ...
    
    “But I could not seem to stay in control in high school so what makes you think I can stay in control now?”
    “Well, if you don’t, then maybe this is something you were meant to do.  Or maybe it will be so amazing that it will be worth the chance you are taking.  I mean, having sex with Alex was a total mistake and it is a real pain in my ass now, but it was one of those exhilarating experiences that makes life fun and worth living.  I have taken lots of those kinds of chances in my life, and I’m okay.  I’m still here to tell the stories, and I have some awesome memories for it.”
    “Wait a minute.  Are you saying that if I feel the urges I felt in high school, that I should act on them, and run the risk of destroying my marriage and breaking Kyle’s heart?”
    “No.  I am saying that you probably should not do that, but that if you do, life will still go on.  Everyone does things that they shouldn’t do in life, and they don’t all end in disaster.  Let’s face it, Allan never found out about that guy Jacque that I kissed in Paris.  And with your good advice, he will hopefully never know about Alex.  What Allan does not know won’t hurt him.  But it stinks to forever regret what could have been.  What if you were meant to be with David all along?”
    “Whoa, you are going down the road to crazy talk here.  Not to mention, you are getting way ahead of yourself.  Nothing ever happened between David and me in high school so there is no reason to think that is his motive now.”
    “Exactly.  So why the worry?”

Thanks for reading!
-Jenn


----------



## Brenda Carroll

Here's a blurb from The Red Cross of Gold XVI:. Omar: The Prophet







The Chevalier du Morte has been joined at his campfire by Adalune Kadif, the Djinni and is trying to learn some useful information from him:

"What news of the east?" Mark Andrew asked him casually.

"Ohhh. Omar is dedicating the great temple in Constantinople. He will dedicate it to Moses, Mohammed and your Jesus Christ." Lemarik smiled at them. "A very noble sentiment. Joining the three great western religions again in an attempt to bring unity. Of course he will need to rename it."

"Hagia Sophia?" Mark Andrew frowned. The most beautiful church ever built by Christians as far as he was concerned.

"Yes. Yes. Yes," the Djinni nodded. "Construction has begun again to reconstruct the Great Suleymon's Temple from the ground up. The entire building will be as glorious as the original. My son is very proud of this accomplishment."

"Pride is a sin," Konrad said darkly.

"Omar is proud of the people, Konrad," Lemarik shrugged and took his toasted marshmallows from his granddaughter. "His pride is not in himself, but in the people for having united to accomplish this great work in honor of your god. He prays continuously for the people to your god so that your god may notice their works and bless them for returning to him."

"I see," Konrad nodded.

"Your dead son has left the southern great island of the new world," Lemarik's expression changed. "I followed him for many leagues, but he is very elusive. I am concerned that he may have some sinister notion regarding my granddaughter."


----------



## sierra09

Weekly snippet time from Celtic Evil: A Fitzgerald Brothers Novel: Ian









"Ian, I don't think anyone would appreciate it if you smashed Cam's medic with that IV," he chided easily but became more concerned when he realized that the boy's thoughts were too cloudy and chaotic. "


Spoiler



Damn


, Maggie, change of plans. Go find Kerry&#8230;now."

Surprised at the sudden change, she was just starting to respond when a sudden impulse made her look. "Mac!"

Her scream came a moment too late as the bedroom seemed to shake and Mac found himself thrown away from the bed, slamming into the far wall.

"


Spoiler



Shit,


 this looks bad," Daniels muttered, debating on moving to check on Mac.

The reason for his debate was the fact that Ian Fitzgerald, while only semi-conscious, was clearly agitated, confused, frightened, and very dangerous.

"Ian, luv, stay still," Maggie urged him, keeping her voice low and soft in order to soothe the boy while checking on Mac out of the corner of her eye. "You're safe&#8230;"

Reaching out to place a gentle hand on the boy's shoulder, Maggie was taken off guard by the normally mellow young man's violent reaction to her touch.

"No! Don't touch me!" he screamed, lashing out blindly with both hands and powers as he struggled to escape the threat that his still fevered mind showed him. "You won't do it again,


Spoiler



damn it!


"

Not seeing Maggie or even his own brother, Ian's first reaction was fight then flee and in that reaction he summoned a spell on instinct that shook the whole house while blue flashes of energy danced on his fingers.

"Go back to


Spoiler



hell!


" he screamed, eyes turning black as his powers shot to full and blue flame burst from his hand straight toward Maggie while a heavy statue of a fairy flew from the mantle.


----------



## David &#039;Half-Orc&#039; Dalglish

The later half of the prologue from A Dance of Cloaks, which I'm stupidly excited about. A little long, so for that I apologize.

***


    “Do you know where Cregon is?” Thren asked. Aaron nodded. “Where?”
    Aaron said nothing. Thren, tired and wounded, had no time for his younger son’s nonsense. While other children grew up babbling nonstop, a good day for Aaron involved nine words, and rarely would they be used in one sentence.
    “Tell me where he is, or you’ll taste blood on your tongue,” Randith said, sensing his father’s exasperation.
    “He went away,” Aaron said, his voice barely above a whisper. “He’s a fool.”
    “A fool or not, he’s my fool, and he’s damn good at keeping us alive,” Thren said. “Go bring him here. If he argues, just rub your finger across your neck. He’ll follow you then.”
    Aaron bowed and did as he was told.
    “I wonder if he is practicing for a vow of silence,” Randith said as he watched his younger brother walk away without any sense of hurry.
    “Was he at least smart enough to shut the hidden door?” Thren asked. Randith checked.
    “Shut and latched,” he said. “At least he can do that much.”
    “We have bigger concerns right now,” Thren said. “If Gemcroft is firing at our men, that means he knew what would happen tonight at Connington’s. The Trifect have turned their backs to peace. They want blood, our blood, and unless we act fast they are going to get it.”
    “Perhaps if we up our offer…” Randith suggested.
    Thren shook his head.
    “They’ve tired of the game. We rob them until they are red with rage, then pay bribes with their own wealth. You know how much they’ve been investing in mercenaries and private guards. They want us exterminated. No bribe, no offer, and no threat will to change that. Their minds are set.”
    “Give me a few of your shadow dancers,” Randith said as his fingers ran across the hilt of his rapier. “I do not fear sellswords and cows in armor. When Leon Connington bleeds out in his giant bed, the rest will learn that accepting our bribes is far better than accepting our mercy.”
    “You are still a young man,” Thren said. “You are not ready for what Connington has prepared.”
    “I am seventeen,” Randith said. “A man grown, and I have more kills to my name than I have years.”
    “And I have killed more men than I have drawn breaths,” Thren said, a hard edge entering his voice. “But even I will not return to that mansion. They are eager for this, you fool. Entire guilds will be wiped out in days. Those who survive will inherit this city, and I will not have my heir run off and die in the opening hours.”
    Thren placed one of his shortswords on the table before him with his uninjured hand. Although old for a guildmaster he was still full of strength and vitality, a fact proven by Aaron’s birth so late in his marriage to Marion. He dared his son to meet his eyes and challenge him. For once, he found himself wrong in his assumptions about his elder son.
    “I may leave the mansion alone,” Randith said. “But I will not cower and hide in a safehouse. But you are right, father. This is the opening hours. Our actions here will decide the course of months of fighting. Let the merchants and nobles hide. We will rule the night.”
    He pulled his gray cloak over his head and turned to the hidden door. Thren watched him go. His hand shook, and no toxin was to blame.
    “Be careful,” Thren said.
    “I’ll return with Senke,” said Randith. “He’ll watch over you until Aaron returns with the priest.”
    When he was gone, Thren smashed his hand atop the table and swore. He thought of all the hours invested, all the training and teaching and lectures in an attempt to cultivate a worthy heir. Wasted, he thought. Wasted.
    He heard the creak of the latch, and then the door creaked open. Thren expected the priest, or perhaps his son returning to smooth over his rough speech, but instead it was a short man with a black cloth wrapped around his face. A long thin strip was cut into the fabric so his eyes and the bridge of his nose were visible.
    “Don’t run,” the man said. Thren snapped up his shortsword and blocked the first two blows from the man’s dagger. His vision was still blurred and his speed a pathetic remnant of his finely honed reflexes. A savage chop knocked the sword from his hand to the floor. Thren fell back, using his chair to force a stumble out of his pursuer. The best he could do was limp, however, and when a hand latched onto his cloak he fell back. He spun, refusing to die with a dagger in his back.
    “Connington sends his greetings,” the man said, the dagger pulled back for a final, lethal blow.
    He suddenly jerked forward. His eyes widened. The dagger fell from a limp hand as the would-be assassin collapsed. Behind him stood Aaron, holding a bloody shortsword. Thren’s eyes widened as his younger son knelt, the flat edge resting on his palms as blood ran down his wrists.
    “Your sword,” Aaron said.
    “How…why did you return?” he asked.
    “The man was hiding,” the boy said, his voice still quiet. He didn’t sound the least bit upset. “Waiting for us to go. So I waited for him.”
    Thren’s felt the corner’s of his mouth twitch. He took the sword from a boy that spent his days reading underneath his bed and skulking within closets. A boy who never threw a punch back when forced into a fight. A boy who had killed a man at the age of six.
    “I know you’re bright,” Thren said. “But can you read a man’s meaning from his words? Not from what he says but what he doesn’t say. Can you, my son?”
    “I can,” Aaron said.
    “Good,” said Thren. “Wait with me. Randith will return soon.”
    Ten minutes later the door crept open.
    “Father?” Randith asked as he stepped inside. Senke was with him, a man young as Randith with a trimmed blonde beard and a thick mace with a short handle held in hand. They both startled at the bloody body lying on the floor, a gaping wound in his back.
    “He waited until you left,” Thren said from his chair, which he had recovered and placed facing the entrance.
    “Where?” his son asked. He pointed to Aaron. “And why is he here?”
    Thren shook his head. “You don’t understand. One too many, Randith. One fatal mistake too many.”
    Then he waited. And hoped.
    Aaron stepped toward his older brother. His blue eyes held not a hint of apprehension. In a single smooth motion he yanked Randith’s dagger out from his belt, flipped it around, and thrust it up to the hilt in his brother’s chest. Senke stepped back but wisely held his tongue. Aaron withdrew the dagger, spun around, and presented it as a gift to his father.
    Thren’s eyes twinkled as he rose from his seat and placed a hand on Aaron’s shoulder.
    “You did well, my son,” he said. “My heir.”
    Aaron only smiled and bowed his head.

***

David Dalglish


----------



## Peter Salisbury

SF novel Passengers to Sentience: the story’s main characters have apparently disappeared from the open-cast mine where they were kept as slave labour. Vill, the team boss calls his group together. He is feeling ‘slightly displeased’.

‘Any chance of a brew, Vill?’ leered Symch.
‘The machine’s unlocked, get it yourself,’ Vill replied in a resigned voice. ‘Anyway, what are you two looking so pleased about?’
‘Well, Vill, it’s all back to normal now, isn’t it? With those two gone, I mean,’ Goster replied, nodding thanks at Symch in acknowledgement of the steaming mug he was handed.
‘You don’t get it, do you?’ Gran snapped at them.
‘What do you mean?’ asked Symch, his face falling, not used to Gran using such a gruff tone.
‘She means, know-it-all, know nothing dimwits, that we can’t be certain they didn’t mess up the systems before they vanished.’ Suddenly furious, Vill looked as though he’d like to knock one of them off his chair, or better still, both of them.
‘Take it easy, Vill.’ Xlok tried to calm the situation.
‘Yeah, take it easy. They went off half-baked on that hovercycle, the storm hit ‘em and they’re dead,’ Symch added cockily.
‘OK, Symch. You found the bodies, did you?’
‘Er, no.’
‘You’ve spent the last five hours helping Xlok and Gran pick over the computer log to see if they did anything else, like set the main power core to blow, have you?’
‘No.’
‘So shut it, until we get some more facts.’


----------



## Carolyn Kephart

A snippet from _The Ryel Saga_. The wysard Ryel and Priamnor of Destimar consider what means might rescue the prince's demon-enthralled sister, but are interrupted by more ill news:

At that moment the door slammed open and a woman rushed in, one of Diara's ladies in waiting to judge from her dress and her manner. She had been running hard, evident by her flushed cheeks, panting breath and disordered gown; running and weeping.

"Oh, sirs, you must come at once. She's dying. The sorcerers poisoned her."

Suddenly the short distance separating the two palaces seemed infinite miles. Ryel gathered up his trailing robes the better to follow Priamnor, who proved breathtakingly fleet, and together they left the lady to join them as best she could.

But thought's swiftness would not have sufficed. Bursting through the portals of Diara's apartments a few steps behind Priamnor, the wysard halted appalled by the loathsome fetor in the room, a stench only worsened by censers burning strong perfumes. Amid the miasmatic haze he could discern a bed exquisitely wrought of silver, but its linen torn to shreds and soiled. On this rich and vile couch lay a still figure pitiably frail, and at its side knelt the Sovran Agenor distraught even to madness, while gathered around them stood lamenting courtiers, their jewels shimmering in the last of the dusk. But the two Ormalans Rickrasha and Smimir huddled together gibbering in a corner, their glassy eyes desperately bulging as they sought the chance to flee.

"Too late, my lord," another of Diara's ladies said to Priamnor between sobs. "Those foul sorcerers-guards! hold them!-envenomed her with some infernal bane, thinking to afterward instill her body with a feigning spirit that would make her appear healed."

Ryel knelt, and took the Sovrena's hand. It was cold and heavy as marble, with lead-gray nails. Next he lifted one of the princess' eyelids, observing the pinpoint contraction of the pupil, and as a last confirmation of his fear put his face close to hers, scenting her breath. He smelled wet wood and rusting iron.
"Xantal in its purest form," he whispered, feeling his blood run cold. "By every god&#8230;"

Mere saffron dust, xantal; and barely enough of it to cover the wet tip of one's little finger would infallibly slay, without hope of antidote. But only a few grains and the sky became as a sea, and one's mind leapt across it from star to star. Only the Two Great Cities knew the true worth, use and peril of xantal; mere Ormalans were never meant to get their inept hands on such a powerful drug. Furiously Ryel considered vengeance on Rickrasha and her henchman, but before he could decide on how best to proceed the Sovran Agenor rushed forward, shoving him away from Diara.

"Don't touch her, Steppes fakir! Guards, cut him down!"

But the guards wavered. At once Priamnor beckoned to two of them, commanding them to restrain the Sovran. He was instantly obeyed. As Agenor wasted his feeble energies in struggle, Ryel turned to the other two sentinels.

"Clear this place. Drive out everyone except for the Sovran and his son, and then return at once. Go." He next addressed Diara's waiting-woman. "Have lights brought-as many as might be found. There must be no darkness here."

The soldiers and the lady in waiting obeyed without question, so sudden and strong was the authority that rang in the wysard's voice and darted from his eyes. Seeing their chance, the Ormalans would have bolted for the door, but Ryel shouted out a word and they froze entirely.

"By the god Divares," Priamnor murmured, stunned into involuntary faith.


----------



## trbraxton

Here's another snippet from Dirty Hands:

As they struggled into the bathroom, Tia grabbed Brock's free arm and viciously bit his wrist. He dropped her as he howled, "You crazy bitch!"
Tia regained her balance and rushed him again. 
Furious, Brock pistoned his arms outward, catching her squarely in the chest with both palms. Her feet lifted from the floor as her small body flew backward. For the split second that she was airborne, she looked like a tailback on the wrong end of a collision with Ray Lewis. A ripping sound was joined by six simultaneous pings as the cheap shower curtain tore free from the bar it hung from and the plastic rings that had held it in place popped like popcorn kernels. Tia's momentum carried the curtain with her, but it did nothing to stop her head from caroming off the inside lip of the bathtub. There was a sickening thud as her head rebounded upward before settling into a canted position against the lowest of the wall tiles that overlooked the tub. Her splayed feet hung over the edge of the bathtub as her limp arms dangled like those of a rag doll. She looked like a grotesque approximation of someone who had fallen asleep while sitting up on the couch. A dot of blood marred the spot where her head had struck.
http://www.amazon.com/Dirty-Hands-T-R-Braxton/dp/0984124403/
http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/6119
http://www.trbraxton.com/
http://thecuriousmindoftrbraxton.blogspot.com/


----------



## patinagle

A snippet from the first story in _Many Paths_, "The First Sword":

Ghaláran awaited the kobalen attack beneath tall
pines, gripping his longknife and shield, palms slick with
dread. Beside him stood his friend Jhirinan and the others-
twenty in all-who had remained in defense of the ælven
village of Highglen.
Their homes would be raided, looted for food and
whatever else took the kobalen's fancy, if they should fail to
turn back the attack. Kobalen were as savage as animals, and
wasteful. They would ruin anything whose value they did
not understand at once.
Ghaláran drew a breath, smelled the kobalen's
pungent odor, and grimaced. They were near. Dawn was
coming, and with it the attack would fall.
They would strike from uphill. Kobalen always did
so, since the raids had begun two years ago. Nothing like
the attacks had ever been known before. The first villages to
suffer had been completely destroyed.
Well, that would not happen here. They were
warned, and prepared.
Ghaláran took a firmer grip on the hilt of his
longknife. He had made it himself-he was a bladesmith,
and made all the knives for the village-and he had already
slain many kobalen with this knife.
A shift in the khi of the forest brought the ælven
defenders alert. Jhirinan's lips parted and Ghaláran heard
his sharp inhalation. The kobalen were coming.
"Spirits watch over us."

----------

_Many Paths_, available for $1.99 at Book View Café 
read a free sample


----------



## sierra09

Here's a new snippet from Celtic Evil: A Fitzgerald Brothers Novel: Ian









"Fitzgerald, quit whining, and strip," Andrea McCabe ordered as soon as she'd shut the bedroom door a few doors away from Ian's room.

Having stormed into the room ahead of her, Ryan had to admit that he'd dreamed of hearing those words from many women in his life but never from this woman.

"McCabe, I know I've been keeping you busy lately but this isn't the time to act out the employee/employer fantasy," he shot her a scowl, then a smirk. "Now, after this mess is over then maybe we could&#8230;"

A small bronze cat sailed by his skull as her jade eyes fired. "You'd have to pay me triple to get me to sleep with you, Fitzgerald," she snapped, stepping closer while pointing at his side. "Those wounds you got are still visible and may need looked at, so take it off or I will."

"I don't pay women to sleep with me, Andrea," he countered, the small vein in his forehead beginning to throb as it normally did with this woman. "I can also check my own wounds, so take yourself off and away from me."
Never known for her patience, Andi stomped a foot and let out a stream of curses in a mix of languages.
Only understanding a portion of her words, Ryan lifted a brow. "You can certainly be a shrew at times, can't you?"

"That's normally what my father calls my mother on Thanksgiving so I must get it naturally," she tossed back, cocking her head. "Let me look, boss."

Ryan considered before finally jerking his shirt off and tossing it at her. "Fine, look and then leave me alone," he snapped.

"Boy, she's right. You can be a huge pain in the


Spoiler



ass


 when you want to be." Andi caught the shirt with a grab, throwing it back at him. "I bet you were a handful as a kid."

"Ask Kerry about that," he said and sat down on a stool in the bathroom so that she'd have access to the sink or medicine chest. "Who said what about me? Don't listen to either Jess or Maggie because they don't know the full scope of my charm."

Andi buried her laughter with a choke on that one, rolling her eyes at him. "Sure, and I have been exposed to all that charm," she laughed then shrugged. "I don't who she is but I've been hearing this voice in my dreams and seeing this woman in them for a few weeks."

Looking at the side where the worst wound had been, now all she saw was a thin white line where a scar had formed.

Frowning, Andi moved around to gaze at his back and saw bruises where he'd hit the hallway wall after Ian had tossed him out of the room but again the knife wound seemed to be healing.

"So, aside from being an arrogant


Spoiler



bastard


 and a witch, do you normally heal this quickly?" she demanded, scowling but content that his wounds seemed to be healing.


----------



## jesscscott

Ooh, I like snippets 

Snippet from 'The Devilin Fey', the third story in 4lay: A contemporary cocktail of erotic short stories.

***

"That's yours, isn't it?"

"Yes." He picked the book up. There was a glint of approval, in his ice blue eyes. "I see you've been catching up on some...reading."

_He was the blond at the library,_ I thought.

"Incubi can shape shift," he replied. "They left that out in here."

***


----------



## SimonWood

This is a snippet from _*Road Rash * _ available from Amazon (http://www.amazon.com/Road-Rash-ebook/dp/B003DZ1EU4) and Smashwords (http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/1155.

Enjoy.

_The Caprice Man's fingers clawed the ground in an attempt to reach Straley. Then he dug with his legs and gained traction. Straley backed away, scrabbling on his butt, and the broken man gave up. He looked at Straley through bloodshot eyes and croaked, "Help me."

Straley shook his head again.

There was no helping this guy. If Straley tried to save him, he screwed himself. It wasn't an option. If he took the Caprice Man to the ER, the cops would take him down. Why the hell he was even thinking about hospitals? This guy was screwed. He was dissolving. No doctor on earth could save him. There was no point. This guy had minutes at most. He couldn't save the Caprice Man if he tried.

The Caprice Man repeated his plea.

The sound of the Chevy grew louder in Straley's head. The idling V8 missed a beat and then recovered. Who was to say the engine wouldn't cut out all together? He jumped to his feet and clambered up the ditch.

A spurt of energy fed the Caprice Man's dying body and he lunged. He caught one of Straley's heels and Straley slid back down into the ditch. The Caprice Man slapped a raw and bloody hand on Straley's wrist.

"Help me," he demanded.

"I was going to get help," Straley lied. His gaze fell from the old man's battered face to the hand clamped to his wrist. Partially clotted, jellified blood leaked between the man's fingers and ran down Straley's wrist. _


----------



## Brenda Carroll

Time for another snippet from the Red Cross of Gold series. In this book, Lucio Dambretti, Knight of the Golden Eagle has become Seneschal of the order against his protests. His entire life is up-side-down and the last thing he needs is more responsibility and now the Grand Master is ticked off with him. _The Red Cross of Gold XIII:. The Silver Caduceus_
"You may want to be here tomorrow around noon. We will discuss the contents of the book."

"Yes, your Grace," Lucio said carefully. He did not want to sound overjoyed though this news made him perk up immediately. "I'll be there."

"And Golden Eagle&#8230;"

"Your Grace?"

"Come sober."

"Ah, si`, your Grace, of course," Dambretti winced as the connection was cut abruptly.

"Santa Maria," Lucio said softly and then popped the cork from the bottle with his thumbs. "I am being sober&#8230; in moderation," he muttered as the cork flew across the room and shattered one of the panes in the window overlooking the street below. He listened quietly as the sounds of glass shattering against the balconies and stones echoed up to his ears.

"Santa Maria," he said again and turned up the bottle before staggering across the kitchen to peer through the hole in the window down at the street. He immediately received a good cursing from a bleeding, bald-headed man on the sidewalk below. The two policemen with whom the man had been conversing in animated fashion, looked up at the Seneschal. One of them put his radio to his lips and the other started for the door of the apartment building.

Lucio turned and grabbed the phone from the table, spilling the wine on the floor and the tablecloth in his haste to punch de Bleu's speed dial number.

"Brother!" he said when de Bleu's answering service came on. "I'm going to need a bit of help here, Brother&#8230;" he backed up and sat down heavily in one the kitchen chairs. "Are you there? Come on, man, answer the phone! Where are you?!"

Lucio sighed as his doorbell began to ring incessantly.

"Santa Maria! I'm coming, I'm coming!" he shouted and started for the door.


----------



## OliviaD

I'm a little late with the snippet this week, but better fashionably late than foolishly never.  Here's a little clipping from Misguided Souls of Magnolia Springs:

“Oh, yeah?” She nodded. “You got yourself a new hobby?”

“Maybe,” he said, looking up at the ceiling. “I got a date Friday night and Saturday’s the annual thing for the library. I’d kinda like to go downtown and see what all the ruckus is about. You know, do something different for a change. Pete and Amos can handle it. I done talked to Pete about it. And maybe Joe.”

“I guess they could.” Joanne smiled to herself. “You goin’ out Friday night, huh?”

“Yep,” he said and stretched as if this revolutionary idea were commonplace for him. “And I’ve promised to stop by Louis Parks’ booth... on Saturday.”

“His booth?” Joanne turned to look at him in surprise. “Since when is Louis Parks interested in raising money for the library?”

“Well, it ain’t for the library for one thing,” Chris told her apparently very satisfied to know something she didn’t. “It’s a special project he has come up with. He’s gettin’ special permission from Mayor Crosby to run it concurrent.”

Concurrent was a word Joanne had never heard him say in her entire life. Chris was a surprise a minute these days.

“That’s real strange.” Joanne shook her head. “Louis Parks and Mayor Crosby? What’s it for? A new keg for the police ball?” She asked sarcastically.

“Joanne, they don’t just think about the police ball all year. There’s only seventeen officers on the force anyway. The ball’s more like a picnic, if you ask me,” Chris told her importantly. “And no, it ain’t for that.”

“Then what’s it for?” She asked.

“To raise money to rebuild the old war memorial down on the corner. You know, the flagpole.”

“Really?!” Joanne was truly surprised now. “That sounds like a fine idea. Who roped Louis into doing that?”

“It was his idea,” Chris told her.

“No way. You’ve got to be kiddin’.”


----------



## Nathan

what a half a fifth of JD and a bad mood will get you:

Part II heading from Two-Lane

_We hang precariously over oblivion, strung by strings of faith and relationships like blind-folded marionettes. Early on, we hack at these out of ignorance. Desiring to ambulate without restraint, we start cutting. Freeing our leg we kick and beat the blackness, swinging through space while the threads strain to hold the weight. We keep cutting, slashing, chewing until our arms break free. Punching the air as strands fall away, broken beyond repair, we claw at the last threads until&#8230;

With a free hand we peek out beneath the fold, and see that the remaining bands can not hold out much longer, and we stare into the abyss that our weight is pulling us too.

We scream, grabbing broken tethers and working to tie them back as others break from the long held strain&#8230;there is but one left.
Dangling by a single line we despair, unknowing that the bind is unbreakable, we begin to lust for nothingness.

Staring down into the dark, we reach up to cut the last line. It resists. But rather than be cut, it lets go, and cries as we fall._


----------



## Heather Parker

A snippet from my mystery minibook, A Quiet Place in The Country...

Adam Mills was a charming, charismatic man in his early fifties. He shook Jessica's hand and led her through to his study.
"Would you like a coffee, Sergeant? Cappuccino, latte, whatever you drink."
She didn't admit she used the supermarket's instant at home. "Cappuccino would be lovely, Mr. Mills."
"Oh, please call me Adam. We're very informal here."
He wore an Aran sweater and brown corduroy slacks, beautifully cut, yet casual. The study appeared equally stylish. Leather chairs and thick carpeting gave the room a certain elegance, but it remained friendly and warm. She had to remind herself why she was there.
"I wonder if I might have a word with Laura. I believe she and Sarah Tyson were close friends."
"Oh, of course. We were devastated when we heard. Sarah was a regular visitor to the Hall these last few months. A lovely young girl. Laura's beside herself."
"I thought she might know if Sarah had a boyfriend. Or any problems we're not aware of."
"I'll call her, but please tread carefully, Sergeant. Laura's a sensitive girl, and I don't want her upset."

Laura wasn't attractive. She looked far too thin for her height, and her hair was pale and wispy. Somehow, Jess had expected Adam's daughter to be beautiful and sophisticated. She hardly seemed the man-hunter David had suggested.
"The other girls in the village didn't like Sarah," she sobbed. "I was the only real friend she had. Apart from Jason, of course."
Jess sat up. "Who's Jason?"

A Quiet Place in the Country









http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/51UV%2BLPlf0L._SL500_AA246_PIkin2,BottomRight,-13,34_AA280_SH20_OU01_.jpg


----------



## Cliff Ball

My snippet, which is the first couple paragraphs of the first chapter of _*Don't Mess With Earth*_, available here: http://www.amazon.com/Dont-Mess-With-Earth-ebook/dp/B001W6Q8BG/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&m=AG56TWVU5XWC2&s=digital-text&qid=1270926151&sr=1-2

The President was not looking forward to his first press conference, especially in the White House Press Room in front of all those scowling reporters. He had wanted to do it in the comfort of the Oval Office, sitting behind his desk, with no one around but the TV people and the Secret Service. In the end, he felt it was necessary and the right thing to do to give this press conference in person, because he was the one who ordered the strike and he was confident he did the right thing when it was ordered. What he was about to tell the people of not only the United States, but also the rest of the world, filled him with trepidation, only because it could anger enough of the right people to get him impeached and kicked out of office. The United States government had kept this secret now for more than sixty years, and now was time to tell the world. He himself had not known about it until scientists had finally figured out the technology to do what he had just ordered the military to do. The previous administration was informed, but that particular president, since he was leaving office, wanted to pass the buck, and let the new administration deal with it. So, here he was, a new president with less than one month in office and he was walking into the Press Room as his press secretary was introducing him, feeling as if the whole world was on his shoulders.

He stationed himself behind the podium, looked around the room, took a deep breath, composed himself, and began, "Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen of the Press and those of you at home watching on TV or the Internet. I am here to inform you of an action we, the United States, have taken no other government on Earth would have known about until shortly before this press conference. I suggest all of you sit back, relax, and listen to the whole story, because this may take a while, and if it takes longer than that, I'll have the story broken up over a period of three or four days. Well, it all started a few thousand years ago...."


----------



## Paul Clayton

This is an early scene from _White Seed: The Untold Story of the Lost Colony of Roanoke_&#8230; which finds Maggie and some others going out of the fort to gather firewood. She becomes further intrigued with the Croatoan savage, Manteo&#8230;

The group stopped and they began gathering deadwood, placing it in neat piles that they would later carry back upon their backs. Snow began drifting down in tiny flakes.

Elizabeth came over, a thick piece of wood in her hand. "Think you we will soon spy a ship, Maggie?"

Maggie smiled sadly. "Perhaps. But it could be the wrong kind. I do not expect Governor White will return until the spring."

"Aye. But other English ships could call here."

"Aye," said Maggie, not wanting to get her hopes up. She continued to gather up sticks. From here and there came the crack of branches being broken into manageable lengths. The snow came down thicker now and the clean whiteness of it cheered Maggie a bit as she worked.

"How about that last lot that came from Powhatan's town?" said Elizabeth as she looked up at Maggie. Another party from the powerful savage leader had arrived at the fort, asking the Governor-Assistants if they would call upon Powhatan for a visit. The Assistants had voted not to go to Powhatan's village and had sent the savages away. Part of their reasoning, Maggie knew, was that they would leave this place for Chesapeake anyway, as soon as the Governor returned in the spring. Then they would parlay with the friendly tribe of savages, the Chesapeakes.

"I hear tell they want muskets," said Maggie.

"Over our dead bodies," said Elizabeth. She then looked around the woods suspiciously and bent to pick up another stick.

Maggie was suddenly aware of Manteo. He stood a few feet away. Snow had collected on his hair as he stared fixedly in the distance.

"What in the blazes is he doing?" Elizabeth said.

Maggie said nothing. She felt pity for the Croatoan of late. Manteo lived alone in one of the cottages. With the exception of Parson Lambert, Ananias, and Lionel, no one had anything to do with him. Lionel had recently told Maggie that Manteo badly missed his young friend, Towaye.

Manteo pointed to a tree.  "Maybe have we-yass, adgeedamo!"

Maggie and Elizabeth looked at him dumbly.

"Meat, m'ladies."

Maggie looked at the massive oak he indicated. Its branches, perhaps as many as a hundred, spread out and up into the sky like skeletal fingers. Its thick trunk was ancient, pocked with half a dozen fist-sized holes.

Manteo went over to the tree and Lionel, Maggie and Elizabeth followed, their curiosity piqued. As the snow thickened and swirled around them, Manteo made signs for silence. He bent and picked up a handful of leaves, dirt and snow. He packed it into one of the holes of the tree, plugging it. He gestured for Lionel to do the same. After a time they had sealed off five holes and Manteo seemed satisfied. He then knelt on his haunches and took a flint from his pocket. He struck a spark onto some tinder he'd produced from a pouch, and blew it into flame, bringing that to leaves he had heaped up against the only remaining hole in the tree. He began fanning the smoke into the hole. The English people watched intently. After a while of this, the others went back to gathering wood. Finally Manteo stood, signaling to Lionel that he was finished. Manteo uncovered one of the holes at the bottom of the trunk and reached his arm in, probing exploratively. Smiling, he extracted a small bundle of fur and handed it to Lionel.

"By my sword!" said Lionel, holding a squirrel up in amazement, "he has smothered it!"

Manteo nodded happily and probed the other holes, removing two more squirrels. He held them out to Maggie. Tiny wisps of smoke wafted from the creature's fur. "Here, Mistress. For Master's pot."

Maggie's eyes met Manteo's as the curtain of snow fell about them, imparting a dizzying sense of magical motion. She forgot the others for what seemed like an hour but could only have been but a moment as she stared into the savage's handsome face. Elizabeth's bold laughter broke the spell, "ten of 'em's enough for me, but what will every one else eat?"

Lionel and the others laughed.

"Thank you, Manteo," said Maggie, forcing herself to look away from him and cast her eyes down at her feet. Despite the cold she felt a warm glow to the very marrow of her bones.


----------



## David &#039;Half-Orc&#039; Dalglish

This is a bit from the beginning of A Death of Promises, introducing a new character to my silly little epic.

***
    “Patient devil, aren’t you?” Jerico whispered as he knelt by a shallow stream running through the rocky terrain. He scooped handfuls of water and drank, doing his best to forget that the orcs often urinated along the banks. The last tribe he had seen was far downstream, but the gray scoundrels bred like insects there in the Vile Wedge. Most likely hundreds of orcs had relieved themselves further ahead, into that very same water…
    He spat out what little he had not swallowed.
    “Well, now I’m thirsty, sick, and still annoyed as the abyss,” he said. He shifted his left shoulder, adjusting the leather straps wrapped around his forearm. A thick rectangular shield hung across his back, emblazoned with the emblem of the golden mountain. That shield, protecting nearly every vital part of his body, kept him calm enough to keep his back turned to his unknown stalker.
    He looked past his broken reflection in the water. For two days he had felt a gentle voice of warning in his mind. It was the voice of Ashhur, his beloved deity, the one he served in full devotion despite what had happened. Despite the fall of the Citadel. Despite the fact he believed himself the last paladin of Ashhur. He had survived longer than the others because Ashhur’s voice was strong in his ear, and he was never one to doubt it. This time it screamed that death followed him like a shadow.
    “You’re no orc,” he said, his patience tiring. He hadn’t slept in nearly two days. “You’re too patient for an orc. So stop hiding. If you want to kill me, come and try. You want to talk, come and talk. If it’s neither, then please go with Ashhur’s blessing and leave me be.”
    “I do not think Ashhur would ever grant me his blessing,” came the reply from behind him. “For I have killed far too many of his failed, faithless children.”
***

David Dalglish


----------



## sierra09

I think I'm a couple days late with the snippet of the week for: Celtic Evil: A Fitzgerald Brothers Novel: Ian









"Ian's in trouble, Mr. Fitzgerald and I didn't know where else to turn and then your Daddy said to come here and tell you everything that's been happening and&#8230;" Molly blurted out all in one breath but still caught the flash of energy in the older man's eyes. "Guess I should have done that slower, huh?"

Kerry had stared hard as soon as his brother was mentioned, but when his father was brought up he began paying closer attention to this strange young girl.

"Tell me about Ian and we'll discuss how you saw my father later," he decided, seeing the tiredness in her eyes and leading her to the steps to sit. "We haven't been able to reach Ian in several weeks, not since he called to say that he was going on a field trip somewhere."

Taking a deep breath, Molly launched into a brief version. "Ian and his class went up to the Savernake Forest in Great Britain for a weekend trip about two weeks ago. One night, I woke up and knew that he was in trouble. For six days, I tried to get the school, the police or someone to tell me something and then finally I learned that a classmate who had been with Ian had been tore to shreds by something and Ian did not come back with the class.

"The Dean tried to say that Ian ran away after seeing Toby mauled by wolves but first, there are no wolves in that forest. A friend who was there showed me a picture of the&#8230;" she paused at the memory before going on "Toby was tore to pieces but no wolf would have done it that way and Ian wouldn't have run away."

Agitated, Molly began to pace. "The school is useless, his foster family isn't concerned, and the Dean said even your grandmother isn't worried and&#8230;" she stopped when Kerry's hand landed on her arm.

"The dean spoke with my grandmother?" he questioned, little lights flickering in his eyes as a cold hand began to clench his heart.

"Yeah, he said that she figured he'd turn up but that's not the way I'm feeling. If Ian hadn't told me some of the things that he had then maybe I'd be less concerned but he's my friend and&#8230;he was really uneasy before going on the trip." She sighed, scowling. "And every damn time I see that silver cat I know something's&#8230;hey, are you okay?"


----------



## maryannaevans

This snippet is the opening passage from my latest book, Wounded Earth







, in which you meet someone who is not a nice man...
...
Babykiller was meticulous in all things. It was his defining quality. Attention to detail was the key to longevity in his chosen profession, and Babykiller had been in business a long, long time.

Most of his competitors from the early days were dead or in prison, and he couldn't claim responsibility for all their misfortune. No, they had simply chosen a dangerous line of work. He was well on his way to outliving a second generation and he was considering retirement. At least he had been, before the oncologist's verdict. Retirement planning seemed so futile when death was certain.

Babykiller had created a life out of certainties. He left nothing to chance. He made no mistakes-at least, he made no mistakes that were obvious to the cretins who purchased his services. He had built a seamless organization that ran like a Volvo. It was reliable. It required little maintenance. It was safe. It was boring as hell. Even if his organization survived him-and he cared very little whether it did or not-it was a plain-vanilla sort of legacy for a man of his caliber.

Babykiller had more money than he could have spent in a normal lifetime. He had more than a fair share of cunning. And he had a long list of scores to settle with the world before he took his leave of it. It was time to retire and focus his considerable attentions on something more interesting. Or someone more interesting.


----------



## alainmiles

A snippet from The Lebanese Troubles....

Our little rubber boat swirled and twisted in the boiling, ice-cold water. Circling above us dizzily, the thick green pines and the mountain peaks, here and there flashes of snow gleaming in the spring sun. The Dog River - Nahr al Kalb. Somewhere up here last year, they said, a father had hacked his daughter to death because she'd run off with her lover. Now that same blind fury was sweeping us down from the primitive heart of Lebanon, down towards its narrow rich Mediterranean plain.

Ahead of us the stream narrowed and foamed. Rocks were waiting for us, sharp like fangs. Beyond - who could tell?

Lawrence barked an order to his one-man crew.

- It's a waterfall! Hold tight!

We scrambled to the side of our dinghy, ready to throw ourselves out. Hands groped for holds that weren't there on the smooth rubber. We were dragged screaming and swirling and whooping across the fangs - backwards, sideways through the jaws of Hell. Then concentrating its anger and power, the torrent heaved us up and out - ready to swallow us. The boat floundered and rolled. A shock of water blasted up into my nose, my mouth, my brain. A razor-blade slashed at my face. For a moment I was fainting. But the cold and the terror made me doubly conscious.

The boat seemed to be held, and I was head down beneath it.

_The rope!_ My ankle was caught in the bloody rope.


----------



## OliviaD

Here's a little bit of the ~Misguided Souls of Magnolia Springs~, available in Kindle, at Smashwords and in paperback from Amazon.

He shrugged. Thinking about numbers reminded him that he had to check his Lotto tickets to see if he'd won anything. He might be sitting there drinking tea when he could be a millionaire somewhere. He wasn't in the mood for one of his aunt's tirades about the coming of the end times.
"The beast is coming, Tyler," she continued as expected. "And I'll be right here in my house waiting for him with my eyes wide open unless God takes me home before it happens and I pray that He does. Mark my words, he's already in the big cities... Houston, Dallas, Ft. Worth. Even Carrollton. I read the news. I watch my television at night. I see what's happening. Mildred Morris is just the tip of the iceberg. Pretty soon we'll look up and the Devil.. he'll be right here."
"Aunt Mary, I hardly think that Millie Morris is a harbinger of the Devil," Tyler objected halfheartedly to his aunt's melodramatic predictions of doom and gloom. Magnolia Springs was hardly a place full of crime and corruption. The Devil would probably not even be interested in the town. Nothing ever happened of great consequence in Magnolia Springs, Texas. An occasional burglary or two would cause everyone to lock their doors and windows for a few days. The culprits were usually apprehended right away by their diligent little police department and would invariably be some itinerant hitchhiker or bum from a passing train at the switching yard. Homeless men from exotic dens of iniquity such as Galveston or New Mexico.
"I never said she was such a thing," Aunt Mary said suddenly interrupting his thoughts. "I think she's just coming down with Alzheimer's Disease that's all."
"Why do you think that?" Tyler asked abstractedly. "Is she gettin' to be forgetful? Maybe she'll just forget your phone number."
"She probably gets that no account son of hers or her maid to dial it for her." Aunt Mary wrinkled her nose. "But she can't seem to remember that I've said no a hundred times before and nothing has changed. You'd think she could remember something that simple."


----------



## donna callea

Here's a little snippet from New Coastal Times http://www.amazon.com/dp/B003AOA86E

"Don't you think all these food rules are a little ridiculous?" I said to Aaron one night when we were in bed. "If there is a God, a judgmental God, why in the world would he consider it a sin for his chosen people to serve mashed potatoes topped with cheese on the same plate as meatloaf? What kind of a food-obsessed deity would be that persnickety? It doesn't make any sense, unless maybe it's some big cosmic joke. Like don't kill each other, and, oh yeah, stay away from the pigs and shellfish. Except for you Catholics down there. For you it's all the fish you can eat on Fridays, but no meat that day unless the pope says it's OK. And, hey, Muslims, listen up. I don't want to see you put anything at all in your mouths between sunup and sundown during the whole month of Ramadam. During the dark you can pig out. That's OK. Except don't eat pigs. Pigs are just for Christians. Got that?"

Aaron chuckled.


----------



## CCrooks

Good idea, thanks. Here's a snippet from my drag racing romance book, Thrill of the Chase







.

As she inched into the staging beams, Sarah thought about it. Should she have left it alone? What if it was too much power, and the tires blew? What if the worst happened and the engine blew?

Thoughts like those shouldn't be running through her head. She should be concentrating on nothing but staging correctly, getting a quick launch, and then going through the gears with the routine she'd practiced so diligently and repeated with each round win leading up to the semifinals.

But she was worried.

The tree flashed as she launched. The newfound power of the car made it far more violent off the line, and it pulled harder than she'd ever experienced. She hit second gear early. The car continued accelerating like an Air Force fighter jet on full afterburner.

As she shifted into third gear, the eighth-mile marker flashed by, and that's when everything went wrong.

She saw the huge burst of flame an instant before she heard the thunderous explosion directly in front of her, coming from the engine compartment. The fireball was so big and so persistent that she couldn't see where she was going. She got on the brakes at the same time she felt her car hit the right-side wall. The impact combined with the fire to disorient her, and she hadn't had time to get her bearings before the second impact came. It was more harsh. The searing pain and the sound of grinding metal faded as she blacked out.

The next thing she knew, she was wide awake and afraid as she looked out of the shattered windshield at an engulfing cloud of thick black smoke and flames licking in toward her. She was aware of a sharp pain in her ankle and ribs. As she struggled to undo her safety harness, Gordon's description of fire victims came back to haunt her:

"Nobody really knows what that feels like, but the scientists say the skull protects your brain, so that's the last thing to die, meaning that you might feel agonizing pain the entire time you're burning to death."

With a horrified cry, she struggled harder. She choked on the thick smoke. Spots danced before her eyes and she knew she was blacking out. The safety harness was twisted. She couldn't get free of it. Could she hear the sirens of the fire truck and ambulance?

As the car smoldered, the pain seemed to swallow her body and the smoke became suffocating.

Christina Crooks
Thrill of the Chase







- .99 cents


----------



## David &#039;Half-Orc&#039; Dalglish

An excerpt from the crazy battle scene near the end of The Death of Promises.
***

  Harruq stood before the gap in the wall. His head was down, and his hair covered his face. Salvation and Condemnation were at his sides, their tips jammed into the dirt. His eyes stared at the people that fled to him and the safety he had offered. Even in their panic, they made sure not to touch him. Something about him made them veer. He did not see, but those that passed stared in admiration or reverence. He was like a deity made of stone.
    Several thousand had fled when he saw the first orcs. They were scattered and few, the teeth lining the edge of a gaping maw swallowed his city. It was swallowing people he loved. It would not swallow him. The last of the refugees screamed for help, but he did not move. He would not reach them in time, and if he left, orcs would escape the city and give chase. So he watched, his heart too calloused, too exhausted, to feel anything more than anger as the last men and women were butchered and mutilated before him.
    “You will die before you pass,” Harruq said to the first to approach. 
***

David Dalglish


----------



## Carolyn Kephart

Something different from me, from a work in progress. At a too-trendy Boston bar, Esme runs into a visiting artist seeking a model:

Suddenly, startlingly, Nic had Esme's hand in his, and was studying her arm, pushing up the sleeve to do so. "What fine skin. Truly milk and roses. Can you possibly be like that all over?"

Everyone was watching, out of their eye-ends. Esme felt her cheeks growing hot, and Nic noticed, and smiled.

"I hope you haven't marred that skin with ink, or piercings. If you have, I will never forgive you." As he spoke, he glanced at Varla, the barest most dismissing glance, and Varla almost reached to pull her blouse-edge up over the green and purple serpent peering from her left breast, but did not, and instead became all the more loudly animated with the others, her tongue-stud glinting. During that interval Nic assessed Esme with an attention no one had ever shown her before in all her life.

"I'll pardon the pierced ears. You're so out of fashion it is refreshing. Everyone lately looks as if they bought their clothes in a thrift shop."

Esme fought a blush. Her clothes truly _had_ come from a thrift shop.

"You have just the look I want," Nic continued. "Recessive in a medieval way. You don't seem grounded in this century, which is very pleasant. It makes me wish to find out more about you." His eyes again evaluated Varla, who was now drunk and misbehaving. Studying the girl as if for a painting that would almost certainly be a failure, Nic reached for his cocktail and took a sip. His eyes slid past Varla and made a deliberate tour of the table, steady and unblinking, each glance creating another silence.

"_Eh bien_," he said, every word audible and attended. "I will take this moment to say that my visit here was most informative, and I have enjoyed it, and plan to enjoy it more." He dealt Esme the briefest but most meaning of glances. "As you all know, since you attended my workshop, my current project is -"

Varla broke in, viciously sulky.


Spoiler



"Balls. All you do is copy the old crap."



Another artist, young, male, pudgy, far too sloppy for his surroundings and likewise frank with hooch, nodded because he clearly wanted a better look at Varla's snake, but his manner was more polite, since he still stood to gain. "Yeah. I mean, you're good, like I mean you're excellent, but it's not like you're saying anything revolutionary. Yet, I mean."

One of the faculty, too old for the place, who looked successful but unfamous in his Norwegian sweater and neat little graying beard, instantly hustled to placate. "Well, we must remember that one doesn't find one's niche right away. I can attest to spending a lifetime finding mine. Art is all about experimentation and exploration, pushing envelopes and buttons." He glanced around the table with paternal pride. "We are the last real revolutionaries."

His information was met with dutifully approving uplifts of wine-glasses from all but Nic, who fixed the faculty member with a contemplative stare. "Do you like it?"

The professor blinked behind his spectacles. "Excuse me?"

Nic leaned on his elbow, paying total attention, his clear eyes unblinking. "Your niche. You are happy in your niche?"

He spoke as if he were talking to a parrot.


----------



## Brenda Carroll

The following snippet is from _The Red Cross of Gold III:. The Head of the Crow in the Assassin Chronicles:_

Another first. His healing rite had never failed. He should have felt Mark's pain as vividly as if he suffered the same illness for at least several seconds, but he'd felt nothing. That one of them could just take ill and die had never been considered. Mark Andrew's condition was becoming critical and he could do nothing for him. The Knight could not eat and worse, he could not drink. He couldn't even take him to the hospital. What would they tell them? Name: Mark Andrew Ramsay, Date of Birth: Unknown, Age: 840? 850? Employment: Assassin. No health record. No family physician's notes. Nothing. No, that would not work. Furthermore, there were no records in the Order's archives; no precedents that could be consulted in order to learn what damage modern medical science could do to one of the immortal Knights. Simon was lost. He couldn't even consult with the Grand Master. He would have to inform Sir Philip, but Philip would not know what to do, Simon was sure of that.

Simon took a sip of coffee from his cup and then dropped the mug on the stone steps in front of him as the serene morning was suddenly shattered by an unearthly scream emanating from within the house behind him. Major burst through the open door and down the steps to grab his arm as he turned and began to drag him up the steps.

"Ye'd bettar come quick, sair! Sair!" Major was terrified and his brogue showed it.

"What..." Simon stumbled along behind the apprentice.

"He's dyin', sair," Major told him, his voice breaking, as they rushed through the kitchen. "He's dyin'!"

Kindle: 








Paperback:


----------



## mamiller

I haven't posted anything on WIDOW'S TALE







in a long time.  









Serena zipped the jacket all the way up so that her chin disappeared into the collar. Hurrying down the steps, she broke into a swift jog. Her destination was the menacing silhouette projected over the sea cliff. From this perspective, Victory Cove's lighthouse looked like a tall gravestone. And she was about to walk across its grave.

A brisk ascent up the incline did little to keep the cold air at bay. Serena's breath clouded her sight. She moved instinctively, traveling a path she had trekked since childhood, when the lighthouse was once operational. Extinguished more than fifteen years ago, replaced by the modern, high-tech model further down shore, this empty beacon stood as a lofty symbol of Victory Cove's romantic past.

As the outline drew close, Serena's pace stalled. She circled the tall edifice. The aid of moonlight came and went, the fickle north Atlantic current forcing along a patchy cloudbank. She took advantage of the brief moments of clarity to discern the single stone building at the base of the tower. In the past, gale force winds had lashed the waves high enough to mount the cliffs and engulf the tiny abode. Nonetheless, it survived through the years, a testimony to the hand-laid rock walls. She hoped the underground shed still offered the same access it had when she was a child.

Serena's feet crunched over the frozen turf. Air billowed from her mouth as her eyes began to tear from the wind. She tucked her chin even deeper into the down collar. Seeking relief, walking backwards against the wind, she focused on the floodlights illuminating the tavern's deck. From this perspective, O'Flanagans represented a warm and inviting symbol of hope, the lights on the third floor reminding her that Brett lay safe and asleep.

Most importantly, safe.

Turning back into the blustery weather, sounds came to Serena in muffled echoes within the cocoon of the jacket hiked around her ears. She nearly missed the grinding tread to her right.


----------



## sierra09

Here is a snippet from Celtic Evil: A Fitzgerald Brothers Novel: Ian









As the outraged voice spoke and prepared to strike again, Mac Fitzgerald's sense returned and he was able to deflect the next blow by shifting back.

Once his attacker was off balance, he caught the offending arm and restrained it as best he could, since the new arrival was about his height and weight but agile as a fox.

"Calm down, mate," he urged, tasting blood and hating that. "What's this about?"

The man, in his late forties or early fifties, had graying blond hair with green eyes and was in good shape for his age as he jerked free of Mac and prepared to attack again.

"I want answers to where my daughter is and I was told I'd get them here!" he snapped, eyes bright with anger and worry.

Painfully touching his face, Mac glanced up to see Ryan halfway down the steps. "Ry, there's a bloke here about his daughter. You know anything about that, or should I just send him your way on principal's sake?" he asked, seeing the smirk turn into a glare.

"Shut up," Ryan snarled, eyes turning dark as he took in the new man. "I'm about the only one who can smash my brother's face in, mate," he remarked dangerously. "Who are you, what brings you to our door, and why shouldn't I put a bleedin' hole in you?"

"I'm Keith Thomas Jackson and I'm looking for my daughter," the man declared firmly with an accent that still had the sounds of Ireland in the proper Boston tone, not appearing intimidated. "My mother-in-law contacted me last week with a warning, and when her school refused to tell me anything I flew to Dublin, and all that got me were several days of stonewalling until the chief Inspector told me to come here."

"Then you'd be Molly's father," Kerry spoke as he entered the foyer with Maggie following him.

Keith Jackson nodded, still not unclenching his fists. "That I am," he acknowledged, looking between them. "Who are you and where's my little girl?"


----------



## Sean Sweeney

This is from my current WIP, Loaded Up:

_The interview, though, didn't matter any longer. He probably wouldn't use much from Carson in his game story, anyway. Revere was back in the headlines for his game-winning hit, which is what his boss wanted. It's what the circulation department wanted. It's what the fans wanted.

There was only one thing Graham wanted.

He wanted to know where the real Bill Revere was._


----------



## Kait Nolan Author

Oh what a cool idea!

The bell rang.

_Round Two._

Archer shook his head like a big bull preparing to charge. Cade could see the sequence unfold in his mind. Archer rushing forward, aiming for another grapple. Missing and swinging with a powerful left. But the left would be off, just slightly down from his aim. And that would be his mistake.

It was always like that for him, always had been. Though Cade could remember nothing about his life before waking up in that motel room ten years ago, he had some bone-deep understanding that he had been fighting all his life. He never felt closer to opening up the secrets of his past than when he was in the ring, and striving for that elusive key had become an addiction for him.

Cade raised his fists, keeping them tight and close as Archer rushed him. He stepped to the side, hands opening, ready when the other man swung, placing his arm right into Cade's hands. Cade swiveled, using Archer's momentum to bring him up, up, and over in a bruising throw across the mat. Archer landed with an agonized grunt. Cade should have followed, should have moved in for grappling, but he stopped dead in the middle of the cage as he saw the woman in the
front row.

He didn't know her. Didn't recognize the high cheekbones or the lush, kiss-me-'til-dawn mouth. Couldn't conjure up a name. But her dark, serious eyes met his through the chain-link, and something inside him just stopped.

~Chapter 2 Forsaken By Shadow http://www.amazon.com/Forsaken-By-Shadow-Mirus-ebook/dp/B003E4849I/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&m=AG56TWVU5XWC2&s=books&qid=1271789821&sr=8-1


----------



## Sharlow

From Storytellers:

He turned to the cauldron and mumbled something incomprehensible, before crossing his left hand over the top of the cauldron. "Now, with all of the new transformations, this is no longer so." Black liquid rose to the edge of the cauldron as he spoke. 

"Bring him." Two dark shadows floated into the cavern. A young boy, no more than eight, struggled between them. His blond locks whipped about in his vain attempt to free himself. From within the darkness of the man's face, a row of perfect teeth glinted in what might have been a smile. "There, there...why do you struggle so?"

The boy froze, and his eyes widened in fear, as he stared up at the ever changing features of the man.

"Be calm. You are safe now." A dark-hued glaze spread across the child's eyes as his body relaxed, and he ceased his struggles. The dark man known only as Them gently removed the boy from the shadows' grip. He cooed in tones equally as gentle, as he placed him into the shining black liquid. The blonde locks vanished beneath the surface, and he lifted his hands from the cauldron, as a black fire erupted beneath it.

"Betrayal is living within all of us, Kerry." He turned back toward the cowering woman, who had torn a part of her robe and wrapped her arm with it."It is, in fact, our very nature. Now...go bring home our lost sheep." 

The woman stared up at him in silence as he turned back toward the now bubbling cauldron, which held the small child. Within the shadows cloaking his features, a faint smile could just be perceived, as he looked down at his own reflection. He began to sing a soft, haunting lullaby to its contents as he watched it.


----------



## alainmiles

From _The Lebanese Troubles_.

_Skirmishes have been reported in Beirut - and tonight events seem to have taken a turn for the worse. Sandbag fortifications have been built around the apartment block where British expats, Richard and Claire live. Richard is alone in the dark on his seventh floor balcony ...._

Rain was pelting down, hissing on the road. A few weeks back, it had rained so hard that Hamra was flooded in five minutes. We'd seen people walking on car bumpers in the traffic-jam to get across the street. The city had no drains - or none that worked.

These beautiful, hopeless people.

From this ledge before, I'd seen delivery boys cycling down the hill with loaves of flat Arab bread balanced on a pannier, piled high above the handlebars. Once a boy lost his balance and the loaves tumbled off and rolled all across the road. He scurried around picking them up, reloaded, and set off again. Ever since then, every time I bought bread, one of the pieces seemed to have a tyre-mark across it.

The water ran in rivulets down the street.

Once, after a storm, I'd come out of the school to see the mad caretaker, Abdul Haleem, dashing around on the pavement with a broom in his hand, roaring. He was chasing a rat. The fat brown creature made a run for it, or rather, a waddle. But Abdul Haleem's club crashed down, smashing it into a puddle. As it lay there dead, the old man danced around it, whooping in triumph, hitting it again and again. Then he picked up the bloody, wet carcase and hurled it into the road. Students were leaving the school too, girls pretty and elegant and eighteen. They clapped and cheered Abdul Haleem's victory.


----------



## Debra L Martin

Here's my snippet from "Quest for Nobility," Book 1 of the The Rule of Otharia series.  Gotta love assassins.

“I did so enjoy playing with you Rafner, but I’m afraid I have other tasks that I must attend to this evening.”

Nils pulled the knife out and the blood flowed freely.

Rafner tried to stem the flow of blood, but he was losing consciousness and his knees buckled.  Nils grabbed the big man by his collar and lowered him to the floor.  Kneeling beside him, he stared into the gypsy’s eyes, watching the light of life drain away, mesmerized until the final shudder of death.

With the bloody knife hanging loosely in his grip, Nils stood and surveyed the room.  Taking a deep breath to calm himself, he realized the pounding in his ears was the staccato beat of his own heart. 

He breathed in the miasma of blood and gore that permeated the room, filling his nose with the sickening sweet stench of death.  The ecstasy of the kill coursed through his veins, feeding and satisfying his perverse appetite for inflicting pain.  He loved this work, relishing the prospect of close quarter fighting and the inherent danger it held.  He shivered as the intensity of the moment overwhelmed him.

“What a rush,” Nils crooned.


----------



## SimonWood

This is an excerpt from _*ASKING FOR TROUBLE*_.

_"Get into a lot of fights, don't you?"

The sudden question jolted Matt from his thoughts. "What makes you say that?"

"The way you handled yourself in there. You didn't learn those moves in a boxing ring or a dojo. You've had a street education. Besides, I recognize a bottle scar when I see one."

Instinctively, Matt touched the thin scar beneath his left eye with his thumb. Although it was faint after so many years, he remembered the fight like it was yesterday. He'd been eighteen and it had been over a girl. Frank Tremaine hadn't liked the idea of losing his Susie. Matt thought it would be easily settled, but he hadn't expected Frank to go for him with a bottle of Bud. He nearly lost his eye that night. There'd been a lot of Frank Tremaines over the years and a lot of fights over lesser reasons than Susie. Tonight was no exception.

"Have you done time?" the man asked.

"Once."

"Carry on like you're going and it's easily going to be twice."

"Who the hell are you?"

"Harry Sharpe." He thrust out a hand._


----------



## dpare71

Here is my snippet from my book 33 Summers:

My mother was "just a housewife" according to my father. She was a very quiet woman, even with me. She always made sure I was dressed in nice clothes and kept me well fed with home cooked meals, but she always seemed a little distant. That was probably because of my father, who ruled not only with an iron fist but also an iron tongue. If you stepped out of line he always came up with the perfect words to take you down a notch, the kind that stung and buzzed around in your head, like an angry hornet trapped in a glass jar.

Darren L. Pare http://tiny.cc/2w77s


----------



## Jasmine Giacomo Author

A snip from "The Map Dance", set in the Maracaibo Basin of Venezuela, in August 1939:

"Don’t you see, all that nonsense about trails and roots and clouds, it’s meant to be put in a specific order, and that order will paint us a map that leads to Stack-Jones.” Wittington realized it was likely now that Stack-Jones had been dead for centuries, bizarre as that seemed. “Or whatever he wanted us to find,” he added.
Scallia frowned. “You’re actually serious.”
“But this is nonsense!” Linde interjected, waving an arm.
“You have a better idea?” Wittington asked the Norwegian.
“But, time travel?” The American professor wrinkled his brow in disbelief.
“Look over there.” Wittington pointed to the lake. “You’ve got an ancient lightning phenomenon that goes on every other night or so, without any thunder whatsoever, and beneath it the largest lake on the continent, which in turn covers the largest concentration of oil on the same, now swarming with the latest drilling technology the world possesses. And you want to rule out time travel, in this environment?”


----------



## Toni Leland

*Opening snippet from A Garden of Secrets*

A flash of brown streaked into Eva Brown's peripheral vision and she recoiled in horror as a tawny mountain lion hurtled after a huge stag, lunging through the meadow grass and quickly closing the gap behind the deer's powerful haunches.

Whump! The stag's body rolled across the hood and Eva slammed on the brakes, sending her small car into a sideways skid in the gravel. The rear bumper chunked into the embankment, the engine shuddered and died. Adrenaline flashed through her body, pulling a rush of nausea up her throat. Pale dust swirled into the open window. Flinging open the car door, Eva scrambled out of her seat and grabbed the car to steady herself. She gasped for air while she scanned the area for the wild cat, then searched the roadside for the deer's body. The meadow grass moved slightly with the breeze, then a band tightened around her chest.

Twenty feet away, the large stag lay in grotesque repose, his head tilted back at a sharp angle, the points of his antlers firmly wedged into the earth. Eva checked the open meadow again to be sure the wild cat was gone, then she slowly moved closer to the still, brown body. She didn't want to see the results of steel against flesh and bone, but she couldn't help herself-she'd done this.

*A Garden of Secrets*, Kindle on Amazon http://amzn.to/a05DA8


----------



## Brenda Carroll

Here's a snippet from my upcoming release entitled "Full Circle" which will be the seventeenth book in the _Red Cross of Gold:. Assassin Chronicles _ series. It should be released sometime in May on Kindle:

"Omar?" Luke Andrew squinted at who he thought was his nephew in the eerie glow and the man smiled crookedly at him. "What the hell happened?"

"Oh, I dunna know, laddie," Mark Andrew answered him in a decided slurred brogue. "Ye must 'ave taken a wrong tarn in Albequerque."

"Oh&#8230; my&#8230; God..." Luke scrambled to his feet and Mark Andrew stood up with him. The blue light was firelight from the elves' bonfires. "What happened? Why did you bring me here?"

"Sit down and shut up, whelp!" Mark Andrew growled and his amiable smile turned to a frown. He waved one hand casually, almost carelessly at his son and Luke sat down abruptly. "Ye'll nae be spoilin' me party with yur moanin's and groanin's. I didna coll ye 'ere. Ye came on yur own. And gud thot it wud be so. I can use yur 'elp."

Luke looked at his father wide-eyed with terror; now he would die.

His father wore a dark cloak, a black shirt and a golden crown on his forehead with a dark red stone glittering in the center of it. So it was Mark Ramsay that Jasmine had seen in her vision after all.

"Say what?" Luke Andrew asked him when he'd found his voice again. "You expect me to help you?"

"Ye're me son, air ye not?" Mark turned his eyes on his frightened son and Luke saw with amazement that the amusement had returned to them. "Ye've nevar, evar paid fur yur raisin'. Ye moight as well get a taste o' th' gud loife before ye grow auld and wot th' bloody 'ell? We nevar really got t' know one anoother verra well. Now we'll 'ave plenty o' toime t' get t' know each oother."


----------



## donna callea

A snippet from The Haircut, A New Year's Tale:

“You look a little better today,” Mike told Tasha that evening as he sat alone with her in the living room after his mother put Molly to bed and then turned in early herself.  Her black eye, swollen lip and the other marks on her face looked as if they were starting to heal, and although she still wore her nightgown and robe, she didn’t seem so much like an invalid anymore.

“It would be hard to look worse, no?” she replied with good humor.  “I know what a sight I am. A sight to make eyes sore.”


He wanted very much to touch her then, to stroke her cheek or maybe just take her hand.  To let her know how desirable she was to him despite the way she looked. But there was no reason for him to think she had any need for that kind of reassurance, or any desire to be desired by him. 

She had just gone through hell to free herself of a man, a millionaire. Why would she want to get involved with another one right now? With the barber who cut off her hair?  Besides, all things considered, she seemed to be handling everything that had happened to her remarkably well. Which was more than he could say for himself as he sat there, an arm’s length away, yearning to touch her, not knowing what to say, and still, somewhere in the back of his mind, feeling torn about Annie.


----------



## J Dean

Here's an excerpt from a short story I'm working on, entitle "A Walk in the Woods"

***

Don’t you just love Autumn?
I do.  It’s my favorite time of year, especially when I take walks out in the wood behind my house.  I’ve got a good ten acres of forest on my land, and make it a point to take a stroll every morning among the trees before heading to work.  I get outside, and am greeted with a morning air that carries a deep chill with it-not a frozen bite, like in winter, but a frosted nip, accompanied by the morning grass that’s encased in silver and grey ice, until the rising sun heats the air enough to make the green blades sweat off their frosted coats.  I love watching the puff of my breath escape my mouth and dissipate into nothing; sometimes I’ll just stand on my porch for a few minutes and mesmerize myself with slow blows of exhaled air, creating clouds that experience the joy of existence for a suspended moment of time.  Makes me feel like a life-giving goddess.
And the leaves: oh, what a thrill to see the changes!  The bulbous masses of summer green that blanket the sky develop blotches of red, yellow, and orange, and the blotches spread, blanketing the trees with their festive colors, colors as tranquil and silent as the middle of the wood itself.  All of my girl friends go on and on about the annual fourth of July firework displays that happen downtown.  I go with them every year; we end up making it a girls’ night out, and it’s fun to be with them.  But the fireworks-so fleeting, so fast to die after sprouting upward and outward in their midnight blossoms!  How quick they are to die!  Not like the display of grandeur I have here, where the gorgeous shades burst out and remain with me for more than just one night of passionate fire.  The trees flash their colorful fashion for me and all the world to see, and hold it up for as long as the leaves can hold on, before the dead of winter sets in and buries the world in a tomb of lifeless white.
Autumn.  This is my world.  My world which will soon be here in less than a week.  My world that will come upon me like a lover, smother me with cool kisses and tinted embraces, before leaving me forever.
Just like Stephen.


----------



## Marshall

Snippet from "Lucky is Lost"

Before you become a parent, you know you're not going to do everything perfectly. You might even know there's no such thing as perfect, but you think you're going to be pretty darn good. And then, the baby's born, comes home from the hospital, starts screaming, wanting things, needing things, and pretty quickly you learn that pretty darn good is about as unattainable as perfection. You settle for good. You settle for possible. You're just happy you managed to keep your kid alive.

It took a couple days, but I finally made up my mind about what was possible and what wasn't. I called Deborah and asked to meet her for lunch the following Monday. We met at a seafood place in the marina and got a table outside. The sun was warm, but the wind was chilly. Fortunately, we'd been seated near a standing heater. Deborah looked happy and somehow softer.

Of course, the reasonable thing to do was to tell Deborah everything. To work out some way of punishing the child, attempt to make Kayla understand what a contemptible thing she'd done. I knew Deborah wouldn't believe me, though. And, truthfully, I worried what Kayla might do if I told on her. After we ordered, I said, "There are things we should talk about."

Deborah sighed heavily. "Fine. As long as it's not about that awful dog."

"Lucky wasn't awful. What happened to her was."

http://www.amazon.com/Lucky-is-Lost-ebook/dp/B003BVIZCK/ref=sr_1_3?ie=UTF8&m=AG56TWVU5XWC2&s=digital-text&qid=1272069933&sr=1-3


----------



## CCrooks

A snippet from drag racing romance book, Thrill of the Chase







($0.99).

As she inched into the staging beams, Sarah thought about it. Should she have left it alone? What if it was too much power, and the tires blew? What if the worst happened and the engine blew?

Thoughts like those shouldn't be running through her head. She should be concentrating on nothing but staging correctly, getting a quick launch, and then going through the gears with the routine she'd practiced so diligently and repeated with each round win leading up to the semifinals.

But she was worried.

The tree flashed as she launched. The newfound power of the car made it far more violent off the line, and it pulled harder than she'd ever experienced. She hit second gear early. The car continued accelerating like an Air Force fighter jet on full afterburner.

As she shifted into third gear, the eighth-mile marker flashed by, and that's when everything went wrong.

She saw the huge burst of flame an instant before she heard the thunderous explosion directly in front of her, coming from the engine compartment. The fireball was so big and so persistent that she couldn't see where she was going. She got on the brakes at the same time she felt her car hit the right-side wall. The impact combined with the fire to disorient her, and she hadn't had time to get her bearings before the second impact came. It was more harsh. The searing pain and the sound of grinding metal faded as she blacked out.

The next thing she knew, she was wide awake and afraid as she looked out of the shattered windshield at an engulfing cloud of thick black smoke and flames licking in toward her. She was aware of a sharp pain in her ankle and ribs. As she struggled to undo her safety harness, Gordon's description of fire victims came back to haunt her:

"Nobody really knows what that feels like, but the scientists say the skull protects your brain, so that's the last thing to die, meaning that you might feel agonizing pain the entire time you're burning to death."

With a horrified cry, she struggled harder. She choked on the thick smoke. Spots danced before her eyes and she knew she was blacking out. The safety harness was twisted. She couldn't get free of it. Could she hear the sirens of the fire truck and ambulance?

As the car smoldered, the pain seemed to swallow her body and the smoke became suffocating.

Christina Crooks
Thrill of the Chase







- $0.99


----------



## mamiller

Put on your galoshes for VICTORY COVE









"Alright, look. You're obviously uncomfortable with the notion of me being here. It's okay, I understand that. I can sleep in the car and when the rain breaks I'll just drive out of here."

"It's not going to break for three days." Megan's voice cracked. "And don't be ridiculous."

A long sip of coffee, a deep breath, and she regained some control. "I have several bedrooms upstairs-that is, if you don't mind a little dust."

Jake sank onto one of the oak arrowback chairs, and placed his hands on his knees as he tipped his head and listened to the sounds of the house. Within the confines of Wakefield House, the heavy rain was muted to a dull throb, like someone was popping popcorn on the third floor. Age produced its own unique symphony, with a multitude of subtle creaks and groans orchestrated by the wind. And here in the kitchen, the coffee maker gurgled and joined the cantata.

"Do you hear that?" Awe filled his voice.

Megan frowned. "Hear what?"

"When I fall asleep at night," Jake said quietly, "I hear sirens on the street below. I hear the college kids getting out of the local pub at two in the morning. I hear dogs barking at the college kids and I hear the next door neighbor's alarm go off at five, shortly followed by the thud of newspapers growing closer and then passing by. But in this house," he hesitated, "I hear nothing."

There was that beguiling semblance of a smile on Megan's face. Such a timid gesture. It tugged at Jake.

"What I hear," she whispered, fascinated by the pattern of the raindrops as they streaked the tarnished glass. "Is the wind."

"It sounds like a woman." Megan continued. "A woman crying. And no matter what room I go to, she follows me. Sometimes I sleep with a pillow over my head, but that sound is so inherent."


----------



## David &#039;Half-Orc&#039; Dalglish

Excerpt for the hopefully soon-to-be-released: The Death of Promises.
***
    Qurrah spoke the words, driving all his strength into them. Dark magic poured out his throat, seeping into the dirt of the graveyard. In it was a single command, strong in its insistence. Rise.
    “Come and play, children,” Tessanna said, dancing from gravestone to gravestone. She pirouetted on one, the tips of her toes circling above the symbol of Ashhur as rotten hands and feet tore from the earth. The girl saw the movement and laughed.
    “I count twenty-seven,” she said, blowing her lover a kiss. Rotten bodies in faded robes continued their climb from their graves, tearing at the dirt that covered their eyes and mouths.
    “Not enough,” Qurrah said, his eyes still closed. He could sense more, lingering underneath the ground, awake but not obeying. He sent his will to them. Their revulsion to his desire angered him greatly.
    Tessanna twirled in between the dirt-covered minions. Words escaped from her lips, soft and slippery. At once, the earth about them erupted into turmoil as bodies freed themselves from their graves. Pleased, the girl danced her way to Qurrah, who was gasping for breath.
    “How many,” he asked, unable to lift himself to his feet.
    “Seventy,” she answered.
    “You said only…” A coughing fit interrupted him. He hacked against his fist, pretending not to see the flecks of blood that speckled it. “You said only fifty here were usable,” he said.
    Tessanna poked him in the shoulder.
    “Fifty usable that you could raise. You disappointed me. Bad Qurrah.”
***

David Dalglish


----------



## maryannaevans

*A snippet from Mouse House







, available alone or as part of the mini-anthology Offerings--3 Stories by Mary Anna Evans







. The genesis of this story came when the editor of North Florida Noir had a moment of weakness and told me I could stretch north Florida to include Orlando. This gave me the immediate urge to murder somebody at Disney World some nameless theme park with a castle. Since my uncle worked his entire career at, and in fact helped build, a place he called the "Mouse House," I have spent some time backstage there, soaking up the off-kilter atmosphere of a place where absolutely nothing is real. This is a snippet of the result. *

If Peter Pan had expired less flamboyantly or, better yet, if he had not expired at all, the murder of Paolo Arrezzo might have remained forever unsolved. If Peter Pan had stayed alive, it is possible (though unlikely) that Mr. Arrezzo's death certificate might always have read "cardiac arrest." Medical examiners tend to take special care with the post-mortem examinations of high-level Mafia officials who find themselves without a pulse at the tender age of 42, but there are many chemicals capable of rendering one dead. While the crime lab would certainly have looked for the poison that left him face-down in his apple strudel, some of them are d*mn hard to find unless you know precisely what noxious agent you're seeking.

Young Mr. Pan's cause of death was much easier to pinpoint. When a human being covered in fake fairy dust leaps out of a castle window, trusting that his safety cable will guide him gently to the ground, it's best for that cable to be in one piece. I was in my office, using a dozen security cameras to scan the excitable crowd below the unfortunate Pete, when the cable failed and sent him to his fate.


----------



## Edward C. Patterson

Checking in to see if I'm missed.  Here's a few paragraphs from my favorite child, Turning Idolater. This is from Chapter Four, which opens on Christopher treet, Greenwich Village, NYC:

The early spring chill clung to the evening soul of the East Village, much like a cold harbor waiting for its crew to ring the night bell and slurry out to sea. Never slumbering, the crisscrossed lanes and by-ways sang the song of the alive and the free, of the adrift and the wandering. These were the carols awake and acceptable, no map needed to understand the tidal pull; no liturgy wanted to keep us holy and safe from shoals. Here unfurled art and tangents, fostering fireworks and introspection in the same flare - a place in the sun at midnight, where no clock holds our course to the hour, the month or the year. Only the barkeeps and drag queens parry regulation, keeping such lore under lock and key - hymnals emblematic to sailors holding hands in their hammocks strung by night, never slumbering to the buzz-saw snoring liturgy held fast within the barkeep's ring.

Down Christopher Street, lovers strolled, hand in hand, fingers entwined - men with men - womyn with womyn; and here and there, the opposite sex found their Republican granted freedom and followed their gay sister's example. Drag queens ruled sidewalks like karaoke boxes. Sassy and fiery, they mustered the citizenry to the challenge. Leathermen and bears swaggered with pudding sweetness within the dark clubs and sweat pools. The accountant fell swiftly into his Shirley Temple watching gym-bunnies in jockstraps and not much more. Twinks hopped from corner to corner seeking quick fun and quick cash. The street teamed with strollers, dog walkers, cruisers, and general trash disguised as fine dessert. Being Nelly was fine. Being butch was grand. Everything pierced. Everything spiked. The vortex of the maelstrom and nothing sleeping. Sleeping was for the suburbs, not for Christopher Street.

While dance bars ruled the night, chance encounters called for coffee. _The Imperial Coffee Mug _ was a fine place to exercise such protocols. Facing the street with a broad window where the java juiced could watch the stroller parade, passers-by could glimpse at the coffee mavens and their wares. Philip, Sprakie in tow, shuffled by the window and gazed inside. The place was packed - mostly young men to middling, but there were a few croakers hunched alone over their brew cups. Thomas Dye was one of them, to be sure. The question was . . .

Edward C. Patterson


----------



## NickSpalding

From Life...with no breaks:

Tom came out with his first word at about seven months.

He is to this day the kind of child that likes to be different and the first indication of this trait was the first word he came out with. The usual words a baby says for the first time are along the lines of 'mumma', 'dadda' or 'nunna'. Easy words that require little effort and make parents all misty-eyed.

Not Tom though. No such simple pronouncements for him.

Tom's first word was 'Gorp'.

I swear to God&#8230;_Gorp_.

One minute nothing and the next 'Gorp'.

Everything was Gorp.

I was Gorp. Sophie was Gorp. The house was Gorp. His nose was Gorp. Chickens were Gorp. Bruce Willis was Gorp. Contrails left by jumbo jets thirty thousand feet in the air were _Gorp_.

I began to worry.

I started to entertain the fantasy that Tom was not in fact my son, but was some kind of one-man advance party for a massive alien invasion fleet. Sophie had secretly been impregnated by these fiendish creatures and Tom's job was to let the whole world know the name of the monster who would become their new alien master from beyond the stars.

_Gorp_.

Gorp The Mighty. Gorp The Powerful. Gorp The Emperor Of The Universe!

I kept an eye on Tom, waiting for him to start saying things like 'Gorp is coming. Bow down and kiss his tentacles.'

This never happened and Gorp's influence on my rapidly developing boy slowly slipped away. Gorp would just have to invade our planet the old fashioned way, with big spaceships and lasers&#8230;

Tom then picked up the regular first few words with great speed. His pronunciation was never normal though. He never said 'dadda', but '*dad'*, with a bold and clear tone of voice which never failed to amuse me. The imperious way it would come out of his mouth made him sound like the Grand High King Of Poobah-Land.

He'd also started to mimic sounds he'd hear.

It became a bit of an embarrassment when he picked up the word 'f***'. He no doubt caught this from me on one of the many occasions I tested his bath water and found it too hot, or tried to put a nappy on with cream all over my fingers.

Tom became like a parrot that sits in the corner of a room, shouting obscenities at anyone who comes into earshot.

There's nothing quite like the stony silence you get when your parents-in-law come round for a cup of tea and your kid starts swearing at them like a drunk Glaswegian docker.

There they are, sending you to sleep with their deadly dull recounting of the weekend in Eastbourne they've just had, when from the crib sat beside them comes the epithet 'f***', in a clear and ringing tone.

_Repeatedly_.


----------



## Joseph Rhea

Maya ran up the sloping jungle floor as fast as her tired legs could carry her. 
The warm, humid air made her struggle to breathe and her heart threatened 
to explode, but she couldn't stop-no telling how far back her pursuers were. 
Speed, and luck, were her only assets.

When an arrow zipped past her right ear, thudding into a large Mahogany 
directly ahead, she knew her luck had just run out. She ducked behind the 
tree, then spotted a better hiding place and dove headfirst into a thick 
tangle of liana vines and ferns. She tried to roll but her foot caught on a 
vine, dropping her hard on her left shoulder and knocking the wind out of her.

Spikes of pain shot through her arm almost making her to cry out; instead, 
she rolled to the side and breathed a single word: "Hide." Her skimpy animal-
skin outfit began to stretch and flow like liquid, quickly covering her from 
head to toe in a thin material.

Peering through a series of eye slits in the fabric, she saw a large, half-naked 
man standing in the ferns looking down at her. Behind him were two others, a 
male and a female, both stretching their wooden bows tight and taking aim...

[ The first 200 words from the SF thriller, Cyberdrome ]


----------



## David &#039;Half-Orc&#039; Dalglish

A recent bit (as in earlier this hour) written for A Dance of Cloaks, detailing the imprisonment of an old teacher named Robert Haern.
----

 Robert Haern remembered his comment to Thren Felhorn about the cruelty of King Vaelor's prisons, and his dry, bleeding lips cracked a smile. How prophetic those words seemed now. His arms were chained above his head, each shoulder pulled out of socket. The tips of his toes brushed the ground. Every morning, a guard came in and raised him higher, so that with the stretching of his skin and the greater pull on his dislocated joints, he still brushed the ground with his toes.
He'd come to fantasize about those toes. He wanted to feel the weight of his body on them, to flex and curl them in grass while his back stretched comfortably supported on solid ground. Robert sipped soup from a spoon at midday, which was held by a small boy who went from cell to cell carrying a little wooden stool.
W_hat madman lets such a young child work in this pit? _he had wondered the first time the door opened and the dirty-haired boy stepped in. Now he didn't wonder. Instead he tilted his head back, opened his lips, and waited for the soothing liquid.
Dreams came and went. They did so easily enough with old men, and the droning boredom only increased their vividness and frequency. There were times he thought he stood at the bedside of the king, telling humorous stories to scare away the nightmares that pierced his mind. Othertimes he was with his wife, Darla, who had passed away of dysentery a decade ago. She hovered before him with startling brightness, looking as she did when they first met. Light streamed through her blonde hair, and when she touched his face he pushed against it, only to have soup spill across his cheek.
"Stop it and hold still," the boy had told him then, the only time he'd spoken.
Robert had drunk the soup while tears trickled down the sides of his wrinkled face.
----

David Dalglish


----------



## Joyce DeBacco

Here is my snippet. To see the blurb about my book you'll have to find my page here. Or--you can go to my website, read the blurb and the first two chapters to see what it's about.

Serendipity House(kindle)









"You're not going to tear the inn down?" She stopped shaping burgers.

"No. We came up with some great ideas, and I'm looking forward to seeing
them come about. But if the only way to get you to stay on is for me to back off,
then that's what I'll do. And if you decide it's over-that we're over-I'll
understand. I won't like it, but I'll understand."

Sylvie kept her excitement in check, unwilling to give him what he wanted too
easily. "What else is required of me?" she asked coolly.

"Nothing. I promise."

"And what about Brad? Are you going to fire him?"

"No. Brad's job is secure. I know I jumped to conclusions there, and I
apologize for everything I said that day." He stepped closer. "So will you stay?"

Sylvie knew what her answer would be. Nonetheless, calling on a discipline
she never knew she had, she forced herself to say, "I'll let you know on Monday."
Then she calmly reached for another handful of ground beef.

"Fair enough," he said, sitting back in his chair. "I noticed a few new faces as I
came in. You hired more help?"

"Yes. It was getting to be too much for me and Cindy to do by ourselves." She
looked up. "That's all right, isn't it?"

"Yeah. Sure." He nodded toward the cookout fixings spread across the table.
"I see you're getting ready for the summer crowd."

"You're welcome to stay, if you like." The instant she extended the invitation
she realized how foolish it sounded. She had invited him to a bash for which he'd
be paying.

"Thank you," he said, without any trace of sarcasm. "Is there anything I can do
for you in the meantime? Make hamburgers, mow the lawn, eat crow?"

Her rigid lips softened, but she wasn't about to let him off the hook. No, this
time Alexander Clemenceau would dangle until she was good and ready to reel
him in.

He stood. "Okay then," he said, undoing the buttons on his shirt. "I'll just go
change." He paused. "Uh, where should I stow my things?"

"Room Seven upstairs is clean."

He turned to leave, and then stopped. "For what it's worth, Sylvie-I missed
you."

Sylvie continued shaping burgers. Dangle.

Thank you for reading.


----------



## alainmiles

From _The Lebanese Troubles_

I've always thought the best part of an adventure comes with the telling. That's when myths and legends are born - out of the ordinary actions of ordinary people. In a way, it's the story that really is the adventure, not the events at all. It's the story-teller who collects the incidents, shapes them, colours them, decides which to keep and which to discard. He can make a hero out of a bystander, a villain out of a man acting under orders. He can make the trivial significant, the accidental planned, cowardice an act of bravery. The wonderful thing is, it's all true - just because he tells us so, and the story is his invention.

Anyway, we were all heroes that afternoon. With our cuts from the brambles, our bruises from the rocks, our three remaining boats, and our stories, we sailed valiantly to the meeting-place, where wives, girlfriends, parents, child were waiting to applaud us.


----------



## Brenda Carroll

The Knight of Death expects the black ball, but what he gets is beginning of the end for 'The World as He Knew It'. The Red Cross of Gold II:. The King of Terrors.

Ramsay slipped his black marble in his coat pocket and leaned forward on his elbows again. He picked up his goblet and drained it of the remaining wine and turned it over reluctantly. His fifth goblet and he was feeling it. Warm and sleepy, he was badly in need of fresh air. If he could have done so, he would have left the chamber without waiting to hear the results of the vote. He expected no support, but he had been impelled to try. If this failed, he would petition the Grand Master for special consideration and personal dispensation in order that he could make Meredith his wife. The Grand Master certainly had it within his power to grant his wish, but if they changed the rule, then anyone of them could marry. It was only fair.

D'Brouchart removed a small key from around his neck and handed it to the Seneschal who inserted into a keyhole on one end of the box. When he turned the key a small opening just large enough to allow one ball at a time to escape the box appeared in the side of the ballet box. Philip tilted the box and they heard the marbles skitter toward the opening.

"White. White," Sir Philip's voice rang out like a gong in the drop dead silence in the room as he called off the colors of the balls emerging from the hole. "Black. Black. Black... White. White. Black. Black. White." Ten votes and the vote was tied. Five white. Five black. Sir Philip paused when no more marbles came. He shook the box and the last ball rolled out. He picked up the last marble, holding it up for all to see. "White. Ramsay's petition has found favor with the Council. So mote it be!"

Ramsay stood up suddenly. His chair grated on the marble floor in the ensuing silence. He stared at the white marble in Philip's fingers as if it were a seven-headed sea serpent. His deep blue eyes rolled back in his head and he crumpled to the floor.


----------



## sierra09

Here is a new snippet from Celtic Evil: A Fitzgerald Brothers Novel: Ian









"The underworld may very well rue this night," the man in black muttered, turning to eye Ian curiously. "You know, I could undo what was done this night."

Knowing that meant that he was offering to undo Molly's injury, Ian considered for a half a second before shaking his head. "If I'm going to indebt myself to someone I'd prefer it not be someone my faith preaches against, if it's all the same to you," he replied. "Just&#8230;just leave me alone with my failures."

Nodding, the man's black eyes seemed to glow red for a moment while looking at the two young people. "Goodbye, Ian Fitzgerald. You've survived this night with your life intact and that is a rare thing when I visit this realm."

As Ian watched the man step into shadows to vanish, he closed his eyes tiredly. "Yeah, pity I lost everything else," he muttered, forcing that away to slowly approach the stone altar.

Molly Jackson looked peaceful lying there, if he ignored the blood that had soaked through the shift-like dress and the dagger that was still embedded in her chest.

"Luv?" Knowing the outcome even before he touched her, Ian gently placed two fingers on the side of her neck to feel for a pulse and swallowed when he didn't find one.

The dagger had struck her in the heart and had been an almost instant deathblow even if Ian had been able to get to her sooner.

Stroking her cheek gently, Ian was unaware of the tears on his own face as it slowly sank in that the brave young woman that he'd given his heart to had given her life for him.


----------



## CCrooks

Thanks for the opportunity to share. Here's a new snippet from Thrill of the Chase







($0.99):

Gordon stooped to the furry form and patted. "He's cute." He reached out and enclosed the dog in his hands.

"No," Sarah said, alarmed. "He's suspicious of strangers, he might . . . oh. Well, I guess it's okay." She watched as Gordon held Ricky Racer against his chest and scratched behind the dog's delicate ears. Ricky didn't snap, or growl as he always did with Craig. He didn't even wriggle as he sometimes did with her. Instead, he went as limp as a relaxed cat and all but purred.

Sarah just stared. Then, shaking her head, she tossed her keys on the breakfast counter. "Some watchdog you are," she scolded. Ricky ignored her, eyes closed in bliss.

Gordon moved his hand to caress the dog's back. His voice was pitched so that she'd hear it from where she opened the refrigerator door. "He isn't usually like this, I take it?"

"No. Craig has the teeth marks to prove it."

Gordon muttered something about Craig and teeth marks that she didn't catch.

- Christina 
Thrill of the Chase


----------



## OliviaD

I think I'm behind in my snippets.  If I don't get busy and write something new, I'm going to have the entire book posted in this thread.  So here goes, Misguided Souls of Magnolia Springs:

It almost seemed as if this stranger was flirting with his great aunt and, furthermore, doing a damned fine job of it. Mary smiled at him and looked down at the table demurely. He thought he actually saw a blush on her wizened cheeks.

“Ahem,” Tyler cleared his throat and blinked “the Junk shop you say? You bought the junk shop? Why on Earth would you buy that old place?”

“Where else but Earth would one find such a charming old place?” Perry responded. “Of course, I prefer to call it a trinket shop. Junk is such an ugly term, don’t you think? Trinket sounds much more pleasant. In fact, it feels good just to say it. Try it... trinket. Like chocolate or cherry or chamomile. Not like junk. Plunk. Thunk. Drunk. Very unpleasant word. But then there’s skunk. Now there’s a misnomer for you. Such a beautiful, sleek, black and white mammalian concoction. Very formal. Nimis accuratus. Elagans at odoratus. That would have been a better name for him. Elegant, but odorous. But then those are not English words. Everything sounds better in Latin. A lovely language. Too bad no one uses it anymore.”

Tyler stared at him. The feeling of detachment had returned. He could not believe he was sitting at Aunt Mary’s table having this conversation.

“How very true!” Mary agreed and leaned her chin on one hand to gaze at the man. “You aren’t a clergyman, are you? One of those modern fellows who don’t wear the collar?”


----------



## JimC1946

Two paragraphs from my book Recollections: A Baby Boomer's Memories of the Fabulous Fifties







.

A number of novels published during the decade had profound influence on American culture and thought. Ayn Rand's _Atlas Shrugged_ (1957) was a critically acclaimed novel focusing on the evils of socialism. _Peyton Place _ (1956) by Grace Metalious was a blockbuster about the sordid secrets of a small New England town. It was on the New York Times bestseller list for more than a year. Lolita (1955) was an international bestseller and one of the most controversial books of the twentieth century with its story of an older man's infatuation with a 12-year-old girl. Leon Uris' _Exodus_ (195 novel thrilled us with a story told against the backdrop of the founding of the State of Israel. It was the biggest bestseller in the US since _Gone with the Wind _ was published in 1936.

Ian Fleming, the creator of Agent 007, published seven of his twelve James Bond novels during the 1950s. They weren't profound and they had little influence on society, but millions of readers passed a lot of enjoyable hours reading about 007's exploits against the arch villains of SMERSH and SPECTRE. All of the James Bond novels were eventually made into movies, but in the 1950s, we had only the literary version of 007.


----------



## Joel Arnold

From my story "The Kindness of Strangers" included in my collection, *Bait and Other Stories*:

Gary Nelson kneels with his back against a nearby oak. Tears trail down his cheeks. His eyelids resemble fat, bloated leeches. He places the barrel of a 12-gauge shotgun against the roof of his mouth.
"Barbara," he says around the barrel.
His tongue flicks against the rusted metal. He gags. He is thirty-eight years old. Barbara left him three months earlier for an insurance salesman. Nelson caught them on the living room couch. As if they wanted to be caught. As if they got off on being caught.
He shakes the memory away. He's got nothing left to live for. No family. No home. He shuts his eyes and pulls the trigger.
There is a dry click but nothing else. He opens his eyes wearily and removes the shotgun from his mouth, spits the taste of metal on the forest floor, and wipes the tears and sweat from his eyes. His breath is shallow and noisy as he checks the breech. A cartridge winks at him in the dying sunlight. Nelson calms down and sets the butt of the gun back on the ground, placing his finger upon the trigger. Once again he positions his head over the barrel. Closes his eyes.
That's when he first hears the whispers.

* * *

Thanks for looking!

Joel Arnold


----------



## J Dean

From my short story in progress, "A walk in the Woods"...

I had met Stephen last Memorial Day.  He was helping out in the parade, cleaning up the less-than-decorative memoirs left behind on Main Street by the horses.  I had been involved with the float for the elementary school.  I’m a teacher’s aide, you see.  Not exactly six-figure salary, but it pays the bills and I live close enough to the school to walk there and back, even during the winter, which saves me a bundle on gas.
I had been walking alongside our float, almost to the end of the parade route.  Ahead of us had been a few other groups that had used horses-the police had their own horse brigade, or whatever it’s called.  A couple of farmers were using horse-drawn carts for floats as well.  Anyway, that’s when I remembered stepping in it: a fresh pile of horse manure, deposited smack dab in my way.  Great time for me to be wearing brand new flip-flops-on sale at the shoe store, fifty-percent off.
He ran up to me, with a face as red as my toes were green.  “I am so sorry about this!” he exclaimed, stabbing the remainder of the warm, compressed pile with the shovel.
I have to admit, I was a bit miffed at him.  “Forget it.”  I snapped in frustration.  All I could do was look at my right foot, repulsed by the sight and smell of the filth that smothered it.  
He dumped the manure into the wheel barrow that he had been pushing, and pointed toward the pharmacy across the street-the local one, owned by Mr. Murphy, not the national chain one back at the starting point of the parade.  “Ol’ Murph has a faucet on the other side of the building.  Let me help you clean off.”  
“No, no-“ I protested, “I’ll take care of it.  Just keep up with the rest of your crew so nobody else ends up stepping in it.”
He laughed-whether or not he did it out of sympathy, or because he thought I was trying to be funny, I don’t know.  Nor did I care right then; humor was not at the forefront of my mind.  A fist planted in the middle of his nose-now that would have made me feel good.


----------



## L.J. Sellers novelist

Here's a snippet from THE SEX CLUB, the first book in my Detective Jackson mystery/suspense series (Echelon Press).

The open dumpster called to them, the scent of rotting produce permeating the crisp fall air. Jackson found himself wishing for a fresh corpse, one that had not been dead long enough to stiffen and stink. Jackson also wished for the body to be male. Most men who were murdered asked for it some way: a drug deal gone bad, an earlier act of violence, an infidelity with another man's wife or girlfriend. But women were almost always innocent victims. 
Jackson dug out a pair of latex gloves, pulled them on, and motioned the shivering young man to step away. The air stood still, silencing the rattle of the tree leaves. A sense of dread washed over him as he stepped up to the looming black hole. At six-two, Jackson was tall enough to look down into the container. 
A lumpy black plastic trash bag lay on top of several crates loaded with brown heads of lettuce. The bag's contents spilled out the opening, revealing the ghastly secret it had tried to hide. Jackson's empty stomach heaved. He held his breath and pushed the girl's hair away from her face.
It was a face he knew well.

The Sex Club (Detective Jackson mystery)


----------



## SimonWood

This is an excerpt from _*ASKING FOR TROUBLE*_.

_"No," Harry said. "We do things a little differently. Stein, why don't you tell Matt here what you did for the Taskmasters last month."

"Surely." Stein reseated himself, making himself comfy. "I killed a no good pimp. Put a bullet," Stein put finger to his own forehead and made a popping sound, "right between his eyes."

Stein handed around half a dozen Polaroids of a stick-thin Hispanic lying dead in a gutter with a small hole in his face. He went on to describe how he'd stalked the pimp, some guy named Hernandez, and finally, lured him to his death with the promise of a big score. The Taskmasters laughed and joked with each other as Stein walked them through the story. Matt didn't laugh. He was too busy trying to hold it together. His worst fears struck him with freight train intensity. He'd guessed the Taskmasters weren't on the up and up when they'd picked him up. Philanthropic tendencies were the last thing he felt from them. He remembered Harry's words in the alley. When he'd said that he could help Matt turn his life around, Matt had thought he would help him straighten up his act, not teach him how to hone his violent tendencies. _

Find the book here: http://www.amazon.com/Asking-For-Trouble-ebook/dp/B003GIRSTY and at http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/12089


----------



## Brenda Carroll

In the Red Cross of Gold III:. the Head of the Crow, the Knight of Death learns some startling things about the making of the Philosopher's Stone. Here is a little scene when one of his neighbors comes calling in order to deliver something he might need:

_McShan held out the card in one freckled hand. Mark took the slip from him slowly, but did not look at it, unable to tear his eyes away from his visitor.

"Twas on th' floor in th' bedroom upstairs," the old man looked down at his hands. "Me woife insisted thot I bring it to ye. She's an uproight gurl, ye know. Oll ways ready t' do th' roight thing."

"Thank you, Ian," Mark told him gravely. "Won't you come inside? We could have tea or..."

"No, thank you, Father. Just take care o' thot business, wud ye? It near scared th' loife out o' me woife. Her 'ealth is a bit fragile these days."

Lucio was shocked when Mark suddenly left the portico and took the old man by the shoulders, kissing him on both cheeks. The old man backed away from him and then hurried back to his truck. He stopped before getting inside and looked back at the Knight. "I'm soory aboot wot I said t' ye earlier. Twas wrong o' me t' say thot in front o' yur friends," he called back to him and then, without more ado, he climbed into the lorry and was soon headed back down the drive and out to the highway.

Mark Andrew remained in the yard, looking after him for several long moments. Long enough to cause Lucio to have some very interesting thoughts. The man looked to be in his sixties, perhaps, and worn to be sure, but he would have to be into his eighties...

"I thought you said his father died in France during the Great War?" Lucio asked him as he passed by on his way back to the library.

"He did," Mark answered him shortly. "Lots of people died in France."_


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## CCrooks

Snippet from Thrill of the Chase







($0.99):

Gordon stooped to the furry form and patted. "He's cute." He reached out and enclosed the dog in his hands.

"No," Sarah said, alarmed. "He's suspicious of strangers, he might . . . oh. Well, I guess it's okay." She watched as Gordon held Ricky Racer against his chest and scratched behind the dog's delicate ears. Ricky didn't snap, or growl as he always did with Craig. He didn't even wriggle as he sometimes did with her. Instead, he went as limp as a relaxed cat and all but purred.

Sarah just stared. Then, shaking her head, she tossed her keys on the breakfast counter. "Some watchdog you are," she scolded. Ricky ignored her, eyes closed in bliss.

Gordon moved his hand to caress the dog's back. His voice was pitched so that she'd hear it from where she opened the refrigerator door. "He isn't usually like this, I take it?"

"No. Craig has the teeth marks to prove it."

Gordon muttered something about Craig and teeth marks that she didn't catch.

- Christina 
Thrill of the Chase


----------



## Frank Zubek

Snippet from "Mr. Baxter", one of the short stories in my new collection 


Julia had been expecting a phone call from a student who wanted her to edit something, and had decided to take a quick shower before the call came. As she was drying herself in the bathroom, the call came. Quickly wrapping the towel around her, she ran to the bedroom to answer it. Holding the towel to her body with one hand, drying her hair with the other, she talked on the phone by tucking the handset in the crook of her shoulder.
Standing without a thought in front of the window, the blinds open to the world, she was deep into the conversation and casually looked out the window. The movement of a passing car in the street below had caught her eye.

Looking across the open space between the houses, she looked right into his own bedroom window, which was opposite hers-and right into his eyes.

His blinds were open, and he just stood there looking at her, smiling, just like he did that day in the garden. And it was not as if he had been just walking past the window-he had been waiting there.

Waiting for her to finish her shower.

She gasped as she quickly moved away from the window and hung up the phone. She had been holding the towel to her chest, but she had been in a hurry and knew it hadn’t fully covered her. Reaching out her hand, she closed the blinds shut, and then sat on the bed, staring at the wall until she stopped shivering.


----------



## KathyBell

This is the first snippet on offer from Evolussion, the sequel to Regression, which is due for release on 10/10/10 except for the advance reader copies which go out in July. 

The moon loomed luminous and replete, the man in the moon smiling down at her before nodding to her left. Turning, she spied another drifter joining her reverie. More and more points of light, shimmering silhouettes, floated outward from the surface although none seemed to notice her. She stretched her left hand toward the closest one and the plasmid marker flared, sending an ever expanding ring rushing out from her extended arm. As she watched, the ripple of light passed through the gossamer ghosts, snagging on a couple while sliding unhindered through most. She felt the pull of the captured spirits, a tightening of her own soul in response to the tether now connecting them. The draw increased exponentially until she was suffocating with the pressure, screaming for the ring to stop its progress and release her from the strain. Her right hand flung out in protest and the gleaming strand of the plasmid intersected her palm, completing the circle around the planet and finally easing the tug of the link to a bearable level. 


Breathing a sigh of relief, she sagged against the strands holding her arms wide. They began to twist and she cringed in fear at the return of the yoke. The strand bisecting the captured spirits divided into two separate filaments, sliding outward along each diaphanous form until stationed at the head and feet. Spiralling outward from her, the double helix cradled the inert figures securely between the twinned threads. It surrounded the globe, two endless loops connected by ethereal rungs. She recognized the basic form of a strand of DNA and then they were snapped away from the Earth, toward the edge of the solar system.


----------



## daveconifer

~~ Tactless Vinnie Zandanel from Snodgrass Vacation ~~

    We floated past a botanist in goggles with her hair tied back.  She was oblivious to us as she harvested a crop of bulbous, multicolored vegetables and sorted them by size onto plastic carts.

    “Look at the melons on that one!” Vinnie said loud enough for everyone on the boat, as well as the botanist, to hear.  “What?” he asked helplessly as passengers turned backwards to get a look at him.  “What’s everybody looking at?  Those aren’t cantaloupes on the front cart?”    

~~~

    “The next show doesn’t start until nine,” she told us as she kicked away a doorstop and allowed the door to swing shut.  “May I direct you to the resort?” she asked while she perched a box of tropical island props on her hip.

    “No thanks, we’re heading back to the beach,” I told her.  “Sorry.  I guess we’re lost.” 

    “Wrong turn,” Murph assured her.

    “Can we see your coconuts?” asked Vinnie.


----------



## mamiller

Here's a little morsel of my romantic suspense, VICTORY COVE









Megan glanced at the burgundy runner worn to a dark shade of gray at the center of each step. On the landing she could barely distinguish the fine thread of wire pulled taught across the surface. From its strategic position it was likely someone would either step on it, or kick it.

Would she have enough time if this alarm ever went off? The Glock was at her side and it would be dark, which gave her the advantage.

"If it goes off, I'll get to it first." Jake read her mind. "You stay up there, you hear me?" He wasn't satisfied with her lack of response. "You stay up there till I say it's safe."

_And if he hurts you?_ The rogue notion rang loud in her head.

"I mean it, Meg." Jake's brow descended. "If that alarm goes off, you call the police. Lock yourself in the bathroom. Do whatever you have to."

"I can't call the police." She pointed out dismally.

"Yes you can. By that point it will be self-defense. Self-preservation." Jake looked at her with a rare blend of tenderness and determination. "By that time, Gordon will have already found you."

Basically, what Jake was telling her is that by that time it will already be too late for him. Megan held her hands up over her face. She couldn't jeopardize his safety like this.

"Jake-"

"Megan." He volleyed.

Megan was on the verge of verbalizing her crusade, but she mildly pointed out, "You call me Megan."

Jake rubbed at his jaw, looked away and then looked back at her again. There was turmoil in the dark layers of his eyes. "I don't know Margaret. I only know you. Give me some time and I'll get to learn her better."


----------



## SimonWood

This is an excerpt from my supernatural thriller _*THE SCRUBS*_.

_Keeler didn't acknowledge his fellow lifer. Shock prevented him. The Jeter he and everyone else in general population feared wasn't the Jeter before him now. At the time of his arrest, Jeter had been a lean, handsome and debonair sociopath who could charm the birds from the trees and onto spikes. That Jeter bore no relation to the wretch sitting in the chair now. His wasted body barely held the rags hanging from his frame. It took a moment for Keeler to realize the threadbare clothes were Jeter's prison issue blues. Jeter's hands had mutated into claws. His overgrown, talon-like fingernails clawed at the ends of the metal armrests. Blood dripped from split quicks. His whole body was one piece of knotted sinew. During his trial, the newspapers had always commented on his piercing stare. Keeler didn't have to worry about that stare now. Jeter's eyes had been sewn shut.

Jeter's body, like the chair, spewed cables and tubes like ectoplasm. Sensors monitoring brain, heart and respiratory functions ran in messy tangles. Catheters trailed from his groin area, discolored from use. His mouth was muzzled and a food tube disappeared into his nose.

Keeler liked to think it was Jeter's rank stench that was making him gag, but he knew it wasn't. He feared he was witnessing his future fate._


----------



## Victorine

What a great thread! Here's my snippet from Not What She Seems:

When the bell rang, Emily went to the door expecting the neighbor boys. They like to shovel the walk for a couple of dollars, and it snowed pretty hard last night. Instead of two little boys on the porch, she came face to face with Steven.
Her heart lodged itself into her throat, and she couldn't breathe. How could he be here? She stepped back, not knowing what to do.
"Let me introduce myself. My name is Steven Ashton&#8230; but something tells me you already know that." Blue eyes pierced through her. All the guilt she suppressed came back ten fold. He's come to confront her about the money. What was she going to do? She couldn't repay him, she had nothing.
"I-" Emily's vision blurred, she blinked back the tears. She tried to speak, but all that would come out is a whisper. "Please, don't." The door pulled the chain taut. "Go away." She turned to look at Connor on the floor behind her. He hadn't spied Steven yet.
"Emily, I need to talk with you." He leaned closer to her, the look on his face more serious than she had ever seen.
Then she thought of something else. If Steven was able to find her, that means Richard could find her as well. She hadn't been careful enough. Panic rose in her chest. She didn't know what Richard would do if he caught up with her.

Here's my link: http://www.amazon.com/dp/B003HS5LRO


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## CCrooks

Snippets are fun. Here's one of mine from Thrill of the Chase







:

Gordon stooped to the furry form and patted. "He's cute." He reached out and enclosed the dog in his hands.

"No," Sarah said, alarmed. "He's suspicious of strangers, he might . . . oh. Well, I guess it's okay." She watched as Gordon held Ricky Racer against his chest and scratched behind the dog's delicate ears. Ricky didn't snap, or growl as he always did with Craig. He didn't even wriggle as he sometimes did with her. Instead, he went as limp as a relaxed cat and all but purred.

Sarah just stared. Then, shaking her head, she tossed her keys on the breakfast counter. "Some watchdog you are," she scolded. Ricky ignored her, eyes closed in bliss.

Gordon moved his hand to caress the dog's back. His voice was pitched so that she'd hear it from where she opened the refrigerator door. "He isn't usually like this, I take it?"

"No. Craig has the teeth marks to prove it."

Gordon muttered something about Craig and teeth marks that she didn't catch.

- Christina 
Thrill of the Chase







, $0.99


----------



## LeviMontgomery

Where would it have ended? If we had made different choices, if we hadn't already, each of us, crossed some line in the sand, if we hadn't already rejected the bounds of normal behavior, where would it have ended?

When you cross the boundaries of society, you are outside society. When you reject rules, you become unruled. When you turn your back on civilization, you become uncivilized. Each barrier you cross is a little easier. You gain a little momentum, pick up a little speed, each time.

We'd crossed those lines, we'd rejected those bounds, we'd turned our backs, and we were not a group of boys, united in some common goal, we weren't five normal young men, engaged in a normal activity, as we got to our feet and went down the ladder after him.

---------------------------------

I can't for the life of me figure out the hyperlink system here, but this is from my novella "The Death of Patsy McCoy," and it's available for Kindle at http://www.amazon.com/dp/B003LBS8TA


----------



## alainmiles

Events in Bangkok in the last couple of days have me thinking back to the beginning of the civil war in Lebanon - the way the fighting started then stopped, then started again. The technology has changed today, but I'm pretty sure the feelings will be just the same. The snippet's from _The Lebanese Troubles_.

Lawrence glanced at his watch and hurled himself back into the study.

- What is it?

- The BBC!

The loudspeakers above us boomed out a few solemn words in Arabic, then babbled like an electric stream - a micro-world of information and entertainment - as Lawrence spun the dial. We were just in time: the signature tune was already playing. _Lillibulero_. An extraordinary choice to herald in the British version of world news - an old Irish rebel song. The headlines began:

_North Vietnamese guerillas today attacked military installations ..._

And then -

_In the Lebanon, a bus containing Palestinian passengers was attacked ..._

Lawrence was beside himself in the study.

- Number two on the World Service! Number two! That's the highest we've been in years.

His excitement was infectious. There was a curious elation, a swelling of self-importance and pride that began in the pit of the stomach. I remembered the same sensation once before, back at home, when a housewife on one of the estates was found hacked to death. For two weeks it was headlines in the Gazette and for two days we were even worth a few lines in the national press. But nothing like this. Not number two on the world news. What would people say?

- You remember Claire Devine - Claire and Rick? They're out there.


----------



## sierra09

I got distracted and haven't posted a snippet in awhile for Celtic Evil: A Fitzgerald Brothers Novel: Ian







so here we go....

"Where did you get that?" Highly suspicious by this point, Ryan shot her a look that made Mac move in front of him. "Ian would never give that up willingly."

Grabbing his arm, Mac shoved hard to keep his hotheaded brother back then looked coolly at Molly. "I'd answer him, lass, because he's right. Our Mum's mother gave Ian that and he's never been without it."

"I saw your Daddy before I left Dublin and it was his idea that I come here to tell Ian's brothers what was happening," Molly replied, knowing the doubt was clear and she couldn't blame any of them for that. "When he touched my hand before disappearing, he left this in it and ever since I've been feeling Ian a lot more.

"Look, I don't blame any of you for mistrusting me since I did just show up out of nowhere with a story that not even my own Dad's sainted mother could spin in her best day," Molly remarked.

Her own fear and the temper she got from both sides of her family made her cross. "Ian's my


Spoiler



damn


 friend and I know he's in trouble. Ever since he came back from here all he's done was tell me about his big brothers and from what he's said, I don't really think any one of you will risk him like this&#8230;will you?"

Kerry held a hand up to stop his brothers from exploding on the girl any further, trying to scan again but found his power tossed back at him. "Outside, you mentioned that my father warned you about his sons' fighting. What was it he said exactly?" he asked curiously.

"He just said that his sons liked to bicker and that's probably what I'd be walking into if Mac and Ryan were going at it like usual," she replied easily, shrugging then gave a shy smile. "He also said that you, Ian, and your brother got your looks from your mother and I can see what he meant since those two got the dark and dangerous look from him, I take it."

Ryan couldn't help but snicker at that, shaking free from the grasp that Mac still had on him. "I can't bloody well help it, but I like you, lass."

"That's high praise coming from the king of flirting, Molly," Roarke sighed, feeling Kerry's acceptance of this girl and relaxing slightly. "We have a plan?"


----------



## Kristen Painter

From Heart Of Fire:

Dark elf. She mouthed the words silently, not knowing his name. The shadows in the room caressed him as though they knew him and for a brief moment, she envied the darkness.

She slid her hand behind his head. He moaned softly, but this time she didn't jump. He wouldn't hurt her for helping him, would he? She lifted his head enough to bring the mug to his mouth, trying not to think about the silkiness of his hair between her fingers or the lushness of his lips. She trickled as much of the liquid as she could into him, then eased his head back onto the pillow.

The last few ribbons of blue-black hair slipped through her fingers. She reached for the cloth, eager to occupy her hands with something else besides him. No, not eager. Reluctant, for in truth his skin infected her with the desire to touch, the urge to caress. She shook her head. This was not the proper behavior for a healer.

She mopped the sweat from his brow with the cool linen and left, taking his shirt with her to wash. The cottage was too dark. She slashed her hand through the air. Small flames flickered to life in response, the pair of candles on the mantel, the tableside lamp by her chair. Better. The light calmed her. 
His life relied on the healing power of the elixir now. She had no intention of using her gifts to heal him. None. Ever. Tyber had said dark elves had their own magic, and she knew too little about the alchemy of such things to chance clashing with whatever power flowed through him. It simply wasn't a risk worth taking.


----------



## traceya

What a great idea  Here's mine from Erich's Plea

"Peering around the corner into the room, Wulfstan was so horrified by what he saw that he nearly vomited. A largish rectangular room, roughly twenty feet wide by thirty feet long. This room had obviously been used as a torture chamber, dried blood, waste and what appeared to be bits of skin and flesh were spattered all over the tables and the floors and the stink was overpowering. Bizarre implements, their purpose horrifically obvious, hung on the rough stone walls to the north and south. Six long, low tables stood in the centre of the room. Each table had iron shackles at top and bottom, evidently used to tie the unfortunate victim in place. Wulfstan had not seen this room, or any like it, during his time in Zeaburg prison. Now, seeing it like this, Wulfstan thanked whatever gods might be listening that he had been spared this fate."

Tracey Alley









Cheers,
Trace


----------



## William Meikle

> I began to dream, of the 'Bogart'case, the one that would make my name and bring rich, good looking, women flocking to my office looking for a shoulder to cry on. After a while I went through to what passed for my bedroom and got my suit jacket out of the wardrobe. A battered fedora sat on the top shelf. For maybe the thousandth time I put my jacket on, lifted down the fedora onto my head, practised tugging my ear in front of the mirror, then put the hat back in its place. I'd bought it in a charity shop five years ago, and never yet had the nerve to wear it out in the street; I was willing to take the cliché just so far. I went back to my desk and fondled the money while smoking a poor excuse for a cigarette, then put the cash away in my wallet. Duty called.


From The Road Hole Bunker Mystery: http://www.amazon.com/Road-Hole-Bunker-Mystery-ebook/dp/B003CC15OI


----------



## Sharlow

From Storytellers Adept

She nodded in agreement as she was already starting to glow a light blue. Targ watched as she lifted off the ground, as a wind that only touched her blew her hair up and about. Within moments, the butterfly winged Mahote flew about her, giggling and singing in their high pitched musical voices. She smiled as she slowly floated back to the earth, the story breeze quickly fading. 

"My little ones." She reached out and stroked a nearby one's wing. The little Pixie, as Targ liked to call them, laughed and shot off away from her, flying in a three-sixty pattern around her. "Alright, you little ones," She whispered to them. "Find Gailen and search the area above him for trouble." The little bug people began to whisper excitedly to each other. "Now, none of that, you leave Gailen alone. This is important." A collective giggling rose up from the swarm. "Now go, see what you can find for me."

She shooed them off and Targ watched as they shot off in the direction she pointed, zipping around bushes and flowers and anything else they could find. He started to have serious doubts of their usefulness for this job. "Are you sure they can handle it?"

"I think they can," she nodded.


----------



## pamelasthibodeaux

Thanks Edward for the opportunity to do this!

Here's a snippet from The Inheritance

His thumbs caressed the back of her hands, chasing the chill from her blood. Lethargic warmth stole over her. As though in a fog she watched him lift her hands to his mouth and press his lips to her palm in a caress so tender it sent shivers down her spine.

She lowered her gaze, and he lifted her chin with his finger and waited until she looked at him again. "I want to kiss you, Becca, here in the midst of Paradise," he whispered, his lips covering hers with devastating tenderness.

Rebecca heard his primitive grunt of satisfaction when he let go of her hands and wrapped his arms around her, pulling her closer. An answering purr escaped her as tiny pinpoints of pleasure bathed her senses with light and color. Never in her life had she felt so alive, so consumed with sensations.

Whether a moment or an eternity, she had no idea how long they stood there, his mouth in sweet possession of hers. All she knew was that when the kiss was over she was plastered against his hard body, her breathing was sharp almost painful and her fists were clenched in his thick, sandy-colored hair. Appalled at her wanton response and the needy way in which she clung, Rebecca flung away with a startled cry of distress, and began to run.

Pamela S Thibodeaux
"Inspirational with an Edge!" (tm)
http://pamelathibodeaux.com
http://pamswildroseblog.blogspot.com


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## pamelasthibodeaux

Snippet from Tempered Hearts

Tamera trembled as his fingers brushed over the exposed skin of her shoulders and across the top edge of the blanket. Her flesh burned where his touch lingered. She heard his sharp intake of breath, trembled with an answering shiver and kept her gaze lowered for fear of the need glowing in his eyes, afraid of the hunger that reached into her soul in ways she didn't understand. Gently, very gently and slowly, his finger traveled from the top of the blanket to lift her chin. When it became obvious he was waiting for her to look at him, she raised her wary gaze to his.

"Why are you here?" he whispered, his voice so thick, breathing so sharp and painful, he could barely get the words past his raw throat&#8230;&#8230;.

&#8230;.Though confident about her knowledge and skill with the horses, Tamera found herself painfully shy and naive when it came to him. Especially the way he watched her, his gray eyes glistening with undisguised hunger. So she concentrated on the filly in her arms until the flush of excitement turned into heated embarrassment and she found herself aching in ways she never knew existed. And thus began her duties at the Rockin' H ranch.

_Tempered Hearts_ is available on Kindle for only $1.99!

Pamela S Thibodeaux
"Inspirational with an Edge!" (tm)
http://pamelathibodeaux.com
http://pamswildroseblog.blogspot.com


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## Guest

From The Resurrection of Deacon Shader (Fourth edition)


He stood and continued on his way through hushed and darkened alleyways until he arrived outside a low window he had come to know from the inside. Steeling himself, he rapped lightly on the glass. There came a slight disturbance from within – he imagined Lallia tossing and turning in bed. He rapped again and someone cursed – a man.

Frozen in mind and body Shader could do nothing as a lamp was hurriedly lit inside and the curtains thrown back. A tall thickly muscled man came to the window, unashamedly naked. Lallia moved behind him clutching a sheet across her breasts. Shock hit her eyes as they alighted on Shader. Groaning inwardly he turned about and strode back into the darkness. As he rounded a corner he staggered and a sob escaped him. 

Something flickered within his consciousness. Slowly, the internal images began once more to play, but this time they were visions of slaughter. He tried to close his mind to the bloodshed his emotions demanded. The sobbing threatened to return but he throttled it with a vision of Lallia’s waxy corpse crawling with maggots, worms coiling about her exposed ribs.

Shocked at the violence of his own imaginings, Shader grasped at the disciplines he’d learnt in Rome, trawled his memory for words that could anchor him, words that could calm him. They arose like a drowned lover bobbing to the surface, wrapped themselves around his mind like a comfort blanket. Cessate et cognoscite quoniam ego sum Deus: Be still and know that I am God. The words he had been given by Bishop Ludo when he left the Elect; the mantra that had carried him over the oceans to Sahul.


----------



## SimonWood

Here's an excerpt from _*ROAD RASH*_.

http://www.amazon.com/Road-Rash-ebook/dp/B003DZ1EU4
http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/11558

_Since Straley was the store's only client, he didn't mind airing his problem. He pulled back his sleeve to show the rash to the pharmacist. "Yeah, I've got this allergy or dermatitis thing."

"So, I see," the pharmacist said, pointing at Straley's face.

That stopped Straley in his tracks. He examined his face in a mirror on the counter near a cosmetics display. His forehead was inflamed with a corrosive looking burn that penetrated deeper than skin level. He raised a hand to touch it, then stopped, fearing he'd only spread the rash to other parts of his body.

"Yeah, I wouldn't touch that," the pharmacist suggested. "Have you been exposed to anything you know of?"

Straley remembered the Caprice Man's touch. "No."

"You sure? Not been out hiking? There's a lot of poison oak about."

"I'm sure." He continued to eye his reflection with growing despair.

The pharmacist came around the counter to examine Straley. He looked down his nose and through the bottom half of his bifocals at the rash. He took care not to touch the affected area, choosing instead to instruct Straley to turn his head this way and that.

"Any other affected areas?" he asked.

Straley showed the pharmacist his wrist and the hand-shaped print on it. The pharmacist couldn't fail to recognize the outline for what it was and gave Straley a disapproving look.

"Looks like someone's hand."_


----------



## kellyabell

Here's a snippet from my newest release coming from Solstice Publishing on June 1
Captured In Lies  - Book Two in the In Lies Series by Kelly Abell

Jack stood and watched her approach the house. He knew this would be hard for her and again pride filled his heart. She was one wonderful woman.
He set the suitcase down as his cell phone rang. “Weaver here.”
“Hello Jack.”
Those two simple words froze the blood in Jack’s veins. He knew that voice.  Sweat broke out on his forehead and his stomach clenched.  “What do you want?”
“I got you a wedding present. It's going to be a blast.” The phone disconnected.
Blast? …Oh God! “CAROLINE! Stop!”
Caroline turned around her arms hugging her chest. “Wha-?”
The ground shook with the explosion. 
www.kellyabellbooks.com
www.solsticepublishing.com


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## Edward C. Patterson

Here's a small snippet from _*The Academician - Souther Swallow - Book I*_.

When winter comes upon the joints, cracking within every step, I think of those days when I could crawl through a drain and spy on the whores in The Golden Peony - stiff in only one place, never thinking that in winter this would be the only place that ceased to stiffen. However, the world doesn't clarify for the likes of me - I have learned that. It is not with false humility that I refer to myself as a piss ant, because no man leaves more than his last utility in this world. With the approach of K'ang Yu-wei, I found utility that I never had imagined within me, utility that flew above the crows, because my master was the protégé of Han Lin. I had never seen Han Lin until I was returned to the river in Gui-lin and waited for the kettle to boil and our phantom guests to arrive for dinner and . . . well, all in good time, I shall tell of that. All in good time.

In these days - the green scallion days of Su-chou, when I fit into drains and could see beyond my hand and Madam Pi Fang's teats, I scarcely knew that the world was made from more mud than cobble. There were no inner workings in the universe for me then - nothing but the tasks at hand. 

Edward C. Patterson


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## Sharlow

From my new book Storytellers Adept.


"I suppose now's a good time." Targ lifted his hand towards the oncoming giants and clenched it into a fist. "I need you now, Grendel!" A great humanoid being, green from head to toe and covered in shiny thorned scales, appeared between Targ and the giants. The four paused mid-stride, as Grendel stood to his full height, and towered at least three feet above the largest giant. The creature let out a beastly, yet human shriek, that Targ figured deafened everything around them for at least a hundred yards.

Before the giants recovered, Grendel was on the first, grabbing the thing's shoulders and opening his mouth impossibly wide enough to encompass the tree carrying giants head, and clamping his mouth closed around it, causing it to implode in a large inky cloud. The event caused the entire battle field to pause and gape at the scene. Even Targ was surprised by the sheer power his construct seemed to wield. From the corner of his eye, he could see the dark Sage's expression of utter shock. Gailen recovered first, and tore one of his assailants in two with his enhanced strength. Grendel's second giant bravely crashed his tree into Targ's construct's collarbone. The tree trunk snapped in two from the force of the blow, but his construct seemed unaffected. The giant imploded a moment later, as Grendel punched his clawed and barbed hand through its chest. The two remaining giants immediately began beating there tree clubs across its back, as Grendel again stood to his full height and roared it's victory to the sky, apparently oblivious to the beating.


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## JimC1946

A brief snippet from Chapter 6 - Politics and Culture from my book Recollections: A Baby Boomer's Memories of the Fabulous Fifties







. "Recollections" has received 29 5-star reviews and is only 99 cents for the Kindle.

By the mid-1950s, both national network and local TV station news programs were becoming increasingly sophisticated and influential, and many people turned to news broadcasts for their daily news. Edward R. Murrow, now a TV legend, is usually considered the pioneer of network TV news with his weekly CBS show See it Now. The network nightly news shows began as brief 15-minute summaries of the day's national and international highlights, but had expanded to thirty minutes by the early 1960s. NBC's Huntley-Brinkley Report with Chet Huntley and David Brinkley was the most watched news show, but other well-known newscasters included CBS's Douglas Edwards and Walter Cronkite, and ABC's John Charles Daly. It's hard to believe today, with the daily hour-long network news shows and numerous news features throughout the week that the network news shows were only fifteen minutes, but in those days, TV executives looked at news shows more as a public service than as a revenue source.


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## CCrooks

Here's a snippet from Thrill of the Chase







:

Gordon stooped to the furry form and patted. "He's cute." He reached out and enclosed the dog in his hands.

"No," Sarah said, alarmed. "He's suspicious of strangers, he might . . . oh. Well, I guess it's okay." She watched as Gordon held Ricky Racer against his chest and scratched behind the dog's delicate ears. Ricky didn't snap, or growl as he always did with Craig. He didn't even wriggle as he sometimes did with her. Instead, he went as limp as a relaxed cat and all but purred.

Sarah just stared. Then, shaking her head, she tossed her keys on the breakfast counter. "Some watchdog you are," she scolded. Ricky ignored her, eyes closed in bliss.

Gordon moved his hand to caress the dog's back. His voice was pitched so that she'd hear it from where she opened the refrigerator door. "He isn't usually like this, I take it?"

"No. Craig has the teeth marks to prove it."

Gordon muttered something about Craig and teeth marks that she didn't catch.

- Christina 
Thrill of the Chase







, $1.99


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## blackbelt

"Billy Jones was only thirteen years old the first time he died."


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## OliviaD

Here's a snippet from Magnolia Springs. The police sergeant is trying to learn more about what happened when a boy who was hit by a truck was mysteriously 'saved' by the new guy in town. His interview is not going well.

_"So, have you lived in Magnolia springs all your life, Mr. Parks?" Angelica asked him.
"Please call me Louis if you don't mind," he told her, but was afraid to look at her. "Yes, ma'am, born and raised here."
"Born and raised here," Perry nodded. "That would surely account for the greater part of your life."
Louis raised one eyebrow. "And where do you folks hail from?" He asked as the opportunity seemed to present itself. Angelica's dark eyes were much more severe on the nerves than Perry's odd-colored pair. Louis did not know where to look. He watched the slinky Siamese that was giving himself a thorough cleaning on the hearth. The little mouse had vacated the table.
"California," Angelica answered immediately.
"Really?" Louis glanced at her. "What part?"
"The north part," she told him.
"North California," Louis repeated the odd phrase. He wondered why she was lying. "I spent some time in California. I was in the Navy."
"The Navy?" Perry blinked at him. "Ships and all that."
"Yeah, ships." Louis looked at him over his cup of tea.
"Yes, Peregrin." Angelica looked at her husband adoringly. "Ships. I'm sorry, Sgt. Parks, I mean Louis, didn't you have some questions you wanted to ask my husband?"
"Oh, yeah." Louis felt his face going red again under her gaze. "That's right. I almost forgot."_


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## traceya

A snippet from 'Erich's Plea' - 

“Come on people,” Wulfstan spoke derisively, “Are we really going to take the word of a necromancer?  I mean, Slade, you left court to become a druid.  You, Tares, you’re a cleric of Ilmater.  They’re all evil, all perverse and you all know it.”  Unconsciously Wulfstan's voice rose as he continued, “You can’t seriously tell me we’re going to take the word of this, this thing.  Wake up!  He’s the one behind the trap, he’ll get us all killed, that’s what they do.”
“Typical soldier, all muscle and no brain,” Nikolai said sneeringly, “I do not deny my allegiance to Bhaal.  I see no reason why I should.  Necromancy, in its’ way, is the most natural magic of all and your reaction speaks only to your fear.  Probably of all the forms of magic, druidic as well.  Don’t trust what you haven’t the intelligence to understand, isn’t that right?  You, and all your kind, make me sick.  I’m no friend to Ilmater, or any of his clerics, but sometimes we end up on the same side.”
“Oh, right.  And we’re just supposed to believe you cause you say so.  Silly me, I should’ve seen that straight away,” Wulfstan shot back sarcastically.
“Listen you muscle-bound idiot…”



Loving this thread 
Cheers,
Trace


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## Edward C. Patterson

A special snippet fom the founder of this thread.

*Because the Don't Tell, Don't Ask Policy is about to be repealed, I was moved to poetry tonight:*

*Who Gets the Flag?*
- for the tens of thousands of gay men and women who have shared in protecting our freedoms, but did so by sacrificing theirs.

Who gets the flag when my soldier boy falls
In the desert where he broke my heart?
They came to the door, but not mine
To say he was gone and fallen.
Phone call in the night told me that he died
But I knew before the signal rang,
Before the gentle nod from his mother
And the solace from his dad.
Because we were joined at the heart
Even when oceans apart.
But when I come to his bier
I am just a pal - a friend
Because even in death he would lose if known
That I am his hand and heart.
So as I sing hymns and listen to prayers,
I turn to his sister and whisper in wonder -
Who gets my soldier boy's flag now - 
Now that all mourn aloud - 
Now that I stand at the back of the church
And weep my silent prayer?
Who will fold it and give it to me
And thank me for my sacrifice
So I might rest my head upon his sacrifice
And dream the hero's dream?
But I know no one will see me,
A ghost more ghostly than my love.
There is no greater violence
Than a life that's mourned in silence.

Edward C. Patterson
I thought I'd never live to see the day


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## Joe Chiappetta

On a medical space station far from Earth, a young soldier named Joe woke up from a nightmare. He was in a recovery room lying down while a nurse ran diagnostics on his left arm.

"What happened? Where am I?" asked Joe while looking out the window to try and get a bearing on where he was. Surrounded by many stars, a planet he didn't recognize dominated the view out into space.

"You're a patient on the Mozart Military Medical Station," replied the nurse. "Your ship was caught in an ambush. Apparently, some religious terrorists caught your military unit by surprise. Your craft suffered the worst damage. Speaking of damage, how do you feel?"

"Well, my back hurts a little," said Joe, "but that always gives me trouble. Why does my left arm feel... different?"

"I'm sorry to inform you," said the nurse, "but your left forearm took on heavy laser fire. I'm afraid we had to amputate it. However, you are a rare find! You're one of the very few people whose biological system does not reject robotic limbs."

"Are you saying that my left arm is now a robot arm?" Joe asked in amazement. "It looks just the same."

--- From STAR CHOSEN, chapter 1 at http://www.amazon.com/Star-Chosen-science-fiction-ebook/dp/B003ICWE60


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## pamelasthibodeaux

Hello Again!

Here is a snippet from my novel, Tempered Dreams - book 2 in the 4 part 'Tempered Series'.....

He grinned. "I'm not blaming you. Yeah," he contradicted. "I guess I am. It's not my fault that you're so beautiful you take my breath away."
"Right," she snorted. "I'm so beautiful. My legs are too short, my breasts are too small, and my hips are too big. And you think I'm beautiful. You, doctor, need your head examined. Or your eyes."
Scott glared at her, irritated beyond belief at what he was hearing. "That low-life son-of-a-bitch really did a number on you, didn't he?"
Trina gasped, surprised and shocked at his anger. "I was just joking."
"Well, it's not funny. You're constantly putting yourself down, and I'm sick of it!" Lunging from the couch, he carried her into the bedroom and stood her in front of the full-length mirror. "Look at yourself," he insisted, urging her chin up with his hand, determined that she see herself as he saw her. 
"Your skin is like silk, all peachy and soft." He brushed his knuckles down her cheek. "Your hair is like satin, thick and shiny, makes me think of..." he hesitated. How could he describe the rich gold shot with equal proportions of red? he wondered, running his fingers through it, pulling her head back against his chest and placing a kiss on it. "Makes me think of a fiery sunset." 
"And those eyes," he groaned, forcing himself not to turn her around to face him, "are big and luminous and incredibly rich. Like two huge chocolate drops in a bowl of fresh peaches and cream. Those lips," he traced them with his thumb, "soft and full, beg to be kissed." 
His fingers trailed down her throat and over her shoulders until he cupped her breasts in his hands. "Feel perfect to me," he breathed, giving them an intimate squeeze. Releasing the tempting flesh, he continued, running his hands over her torso to cup her waist. "Beautiful," he assured her, his voice thick and husky. "So tiny. I can almost clasp my hands together, you're so tiny." 
His hands continued their torturous journey, cupping her hips. With a gentle tug, he pulled her firmly against his body. "Flared just right," he hummed. "Baby-making hips. Watching you walk, with that subtle sway of yours drives me crazy," he confessed. 
"And those legs," he rolled his eyes with a satisfied grunt. Turning her around, he picked her up, and wrapped them around his waist. "Not long, true. But incredibly slender and well toned. The sexiest pair of legs I've seen in a long time. And I see plenty of them in my profession," he admitted, stroking her thigh. 
"You have an abundance of energy, and depths of untapped passion that shows in the way you carry yourself, the glow you radiate, and the way you laugh and cry, with all of your emotions. That in itself is a turn on, knowing that when you love, you'll love with all of your being; that you'll hold nothing back, you'll give yourself freely and completely. I know you haven't been loved like that before, and it's hard for you to trust that you ever will, or can. But I love you, Katrina. I love you like that," he whispered.

If you liked Tempered Hearts you'll LOVE Tempered Dreams ~ available on Kindle for only $1.99!



Until Later.... Be Blessed!
Pamela S Thibodeaux
"Inspirational with an Edge!" (TM)
http://pamelathibodeaux.com
http://pamswildroseblog.blogspot.com


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## Barbara Morgenroth

This nearly 100 year old recipe is from my book The Ice Cream Parlor. I thought it might be fun for the Memorial Day weekend.

THE NEWPORT

The soda fountain stocked many glasses and dishes in all sizes and shapes for every specialty served. Parfait glasses allowed the customer to see the many layers of sundae construction. This delight is a dazzler.

You'll need:
Lemon ice cream
Peach ice cream
Whole raspberries
Crushed raspberries
Whipped cream
Shredded coconut
1. Place a scoop of lemon ice cream in the bottom of a parfait glass.
2. Spoon crushed raspberries over the ice cream.
3. Add a scoop of peach ice cream.
4. Fill to top of glass with whipped cream.
5. Garnish with whole raspberries and a spoonful of shredded coconut.

http://www.amazon.com/The-Ice-Cream-Parlor-ebook/dp/B003FMUY1A/ref=sr_1_5?ie=UTF8&m=AG56TWVU5XWC2&s=digital-text&qid=1274974701&sr=8-5


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## CCrooks

Hi! Here's a snippet from Thrill of the Chase:

Gordon stooped to the furry form and patted. “He’s cute.” He reached out and enclosed the dog in his hands.

“No,” Sarah said, alarmed. “He’s suspicious of strangers, he might . . . oh. Well, I guess it’s okay.” She watched as Gordon held Ricky Racer against his chest and scratched behind the dog’s delicate ears. Ricky didn’t snap, or growl as he always did with Craig. He didn’t even wriggle as he sometimes did with her. Instead, he went as limp as a relaxed cat and all but purred.

Sarah just stared. Then, shaking her head, she tossed her keys on the breakfast counter. “Some watchdog you are,” she scolded. Ricky ignored her, eyes closed in bliss.

Gordon moved his hand to caress the dog’s back. His voice was pitched so that she’d hear it from where she opened the refrigerator door. “He isn’t usually like this, I take it?”

“No. Craig has the teeth marks to prove it.”

Gordon muttered something about Craig and teeth marks that she didn’t catch. 

- Christina 
Thrill of the Chase, $1.99


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## traceya

Hi all,
Just a little snippet from the new short story 'An Unholy Encounter - A Kaynos History Tale'

Until this moment Wulfstan had not known that the undead actually consumed living flesh.  Although Wulfstan had been instructed in the ability and willingness of the undead to kill, to have others join their unholy ranks, he had not been aware that they would eat the remains of their victims.  He had not even known that they could eat.  Was it, Wulfstan wondered, because the only victims of the skeletons and zombies had been horses or would that become his own fate if the undead caught him?  Was that the reason, Wulfstan wondered, that those killed by the undead rose again to become themselves undead, because they had been consumed?  Wulfstan quickly shook his head; he could not allow these types of thoughts to cloud his mind and possibly jeopardize his mission.


Cheers,
Trace


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## Joyce DeBacco

An excerpt from Serendipity House.

But even as Sylvie issued the threat she knew she'd never follow through on it. She couldn't leave the grand old dame. In her mind, the inn was a living, breathing entity. Its worn floorboards, trod by large feet and small, gave up its secrets at night; its railings, rubbed to a golden patina by hundreds of hands, hinted at its strength of character, as did the sturdy walls and roof that sheltered its inhabitants through countless storms. And when evening shadows moved in, she swore she heard it sigh, as if to say, all is well, you're safe in my arms.

Not all of the old house's messages were subtle murmurings, however; some were more direct, like the horizontal marks with names and dates penciled inside Violet's closet door. Painting over them would be like tearing out a page in a history book.

The more Sylvie thought about her threat and Alex's counter threat, the more certain she was that he, too, had spoken in anger. Alex would never demolish the inn. She'd noticed the change in him over the past few months. No longer the stuffy businessman he'd pretended to be, but a man who'd known his share of struggle and strife, Alex had come to love this place as much as she did. Why else had he spent hours with her, discussing ways to attract a more family-oriented clientele? Not to replace the seniors currently in residence, but to add to them. Like an old-fashioned boarding house where lives intertwine and generations interact. They'd put in a small playground with swings and slides for children, a volleyball net for their parents, and a shuffleboard court for Granny and Gramps. Surely a plan the owner would endorse, he'd said. The owner. 

Sylvie's heart soared as she thought of all their hopes and dreams. But until one of them yelled "uncle" that’s all they would ever be. Hopes and dreams. 

Blurb and first two chapters available on my website, joycedebacco.com. Thanks for reading.


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## WAPatterson

From my novel _Future Useless_

"Grady, the era I am trying to research is the most difficult due to one thing: The theory of digital-conservation."

She waited as the man before her tried to pick his brain for a moment before coming up with the proper definition. Before he could respond she jumped in, not giving him time to phrase an argument that would negate hers. Grady was a good man once, but lately he'd taken a sad turn to becoming an expert at sophistry, reducing any view but his own to the absurd by obscuring the true argument. Lissa had learned over the last few years and had prepared herself for this.

"As you know, the law states that as any society advances towards being a true space-faring civilization, their ability to handle and suppress the excess loss of data masks it from detection over interstellar distances."

"That is the principal reason so many alien races managed to remain hidden until we actually developed the Hyperspace capable ships. As they evolved, the radio signals we so patiently waited to hear became encrypted, and then evolved to become indistinguishable from normal static."


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## Brenda Carroll

Here's a small excerpt from the Red Cross of Gold XIII:. The Children of the Temple. Mark Andrew is working a wee bit of magick on the shores of Loch Ness and it seems that he may have attracted more attention than he intended:

_Regaining her faculties, she turned and ran toward Mark Andrew, clutching the golden sword to her stomach.

"Mark Andrew!" She screamed at him and then bounced off the invisible wall of the protective circle surrounding him. She was knocked to the ground by the impact and the sword skittered away from her. She pushed herself up and around to look up at the dragon that had moved closer. It turned its head from side to side, looking at her from one eye and then the other. She expected to be destroyed at any minute, but was unable to move. The gaze of the dragon mesmerized her and caused her blood to run cold. It was almost as if the beast wanted to say something to her.

The dragon moved closer and shifted her gaze to Mark Andrew. She again moved her head from side to side and seemed to narrow her green eyes almost as if trying to understand what she was seeing. Whatever he was doing, had called her from the lake. Merry closed her eyes, expecting the worst. The beast snorted and Merry felt a cold, wet mist blast her face and then she almost fainted as the dragon sniffed her, actually pulling her hair forward around her face. She heard herself whining in abject terror. Then she heard another almost unbelievable sound... was the beast also whining? Was it crying? Was it mimicking her? When nothing happened, she opened her eyes and saw that the beast was gone. She leapt to her feet and ran to retrieve Mark Andrew's sword before going to look over the edge of the rocks again. Only a series of huge ripples marked the passing of the beast.

"Templar!" A voice from behind her made her turn around. Another challenger had come to see the sorcerer._


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## David &#039;Half-Orc&#039; Dalglish

A fun snippet from The Death of Promises. My lich villain is raising himself an army of orcs, and he's just appointed an orc named Gumgog as their leader. This is Gumgog's first official proclamation after taking rule.

****
    Velixar grinned, liking the orc already. Where his arm had once been was now a giant club with a stone tied to the end. To call attention to himself, Gumgog took the second ‘arm’ in his other hand and used his entire body to slam it to the ground.
    “GUMGOG SPEAK!” he shouted, and all around orcs quit their squabbles to listen. Velixar laughed. He had traveled with several warchiefs, some appointed by him, others already in power when he enlisted their service. He easily liked Gumgog the most.
    “We going to the Mugs,” Gumgog shouted to the three hundred. “We going to make them help us, maybe swear allegiance to us. Then we go to the Duns and the Glushes, and make them do the same! We make an army, and we follow the human in black. All hear me?”
    When an orc near him raised a hand to speak, Gumgog gripped his giant club and swung in a great heaving motion that used his entire waist and chest. The stone connected against the orc’s skull with a giant crack. The limp body flew ten feet before crumpling along the grass.
    “Any others need help hearing me?” Gumgog bellowed. No help needed. All understood.
***

David Dalglish


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## CCrooks

Here's a snippet from L.A. Caveman







, a contemporary romance novel:

Another gust of wind blew his shaggy, golden chestnut hair back from his face, and he raised his head suddenly to the west and frowned, distracted.

"It hardly ever rains heavily in L.A.," he murmured almost to himself. He shrugged on his backpack. "But those look like they might be serious rain clouds. How badly do you want to see the peak?"

"Pretty badly," she answered, her voice more breathy and sultry than she intended.

He smiled. Cute laugh-lines appeared at the corner of his eyes. He gazed into her own eyes teasingly. "Then the next question would be, do you mind getting a little wet?"


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## OliviaD

Here's a little snippet from the Misguided Souls of Magnolia Springs:

_"Angelica!" He almost shouted at her. "You are the most exasperating person I have ever known in this world or any other! I don't understand what you are trying to say. Do you want me to sleep with you or not? Do you want me to wear clothes or not? Are you trying to drive me crazy or not?"
She looked at him steadily without blinking. He stopped talking and held up one hand.
"You want to know what it was like?" He asked. "Wait here."
He bounded down the stairs to the shop and searched about frantically in the aisles before returning back to the kitchen.
"Here!" He handed her one of the kaleidoscopes. "Look in there while twisting the end of the device. That's what it was like."
Angelica held up the sparkling device and twisted it in the light.
"Hmmm," she remarked after a moment.
"So would you like to try it?" He asked after a long pause.
"Would thirty minutes a day be sufficient to keep you happy?" She looked at him around the toy.
"Perhaps," he nodded and picked up the peppers. "Do you want radishes?"
"No."
"Carrots or olives?"
"Olives."
"Wheat or white bread?"
"White."
"Now or later?""
"Later."_


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## philvan

Here is a Snippet from 'In the Valley' the longest story at almost 10,000 words, from the book 'In the Valley stories'

Gosnaat swung his AK to point at Solomon. “Be careful what you say, fool.”

“I say you’re the fool, old man. I say I don’t need to share anything.” Solomon cut loose, and blood and bone sprayed through an explosion of smoke and noise.

Automatics at arm’s length.  Ndinga’s gun was on top of the load he was going to carry, ten feet away. He grabbed for the panga hung at his waist, and pulled it from the buckskin sheath. No match for an AK, but the worn wooden handle fit the callouses of his hand. The steel blade gleamed between the black streaks of dry elephant blood as he held it up chest high, and backed away from the clearing. As soon as he was behind the baobab and out of sight, he turned and ran. Bullets kicked up dust beside him, and he felt something sting his back as he went. Not bullets, he realised after a very long second, because he could still run. Maybe dirt, or tree bark.


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## Brenda Carroll

*Here's a little preview from The Red Cross of Gold:. Full Circle. The Assassin Chronicles continue with book 17:*

"Merry." Konrad took her by the shoulders and looked into her eyes. "Luke has been gone now for seven years. It is highly unlikely that we will ever find his body."
"His body?" Merry's eyes clouded with tears. "You believe that he is dead."
"I cannot help but think otherwise," he told her. "If he were alive somewhere, we would have heard something. Found something. The Grand Master is very powerful. He would have found him."
"But he can't be dead, Konrad. He's immortal. He can't be dead unless Mark Andrew releases him," she said. "That is even worse."
"I know." Konrad held her close and stroked her hair. "But sometimes you just have to let go."
"But I need to know." Merry looked up at him. "Can't you puh-lease figure out some way that we could at least go and see this place? Just to ease my mind?"
"I'll try to think of something," Konrad told her and turned to leave her. He really didn't think it would be possible to find Merlin's resting place. He'd been all over the big island several times; both alone and with scouting parties and he had only just recently found a cave that even vaguely resembled the description of Merlin's tomb as given in Merry's books.
"Konrad?" She called to him as he opened the door. "If not, just give me a map. I'll go by myself. Mark Andrew won't kill me. He may be mad for a while, but he won't kill me."
Konrad nodded. No, he wouldn't kill Merry, but he might do some serious damage to the one who supplied her with the map.


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## Del

Here's a snippet from my middle-grade novel - Kevin's Point of View - where 12-year-old Kevin Tobin terrorizes his family with his active imagination. Hope you like it.

Del Shannon

Mrs. Tobin ignored Betsy's diagnosis and knocked on the bathroom door. "Kevin? Kevin, honey, why did you push your sister out of the way again to get the bathroom first?" Mrs. Tobin asked evenly. "I thought we agreed during our talk yesterday that we were going to be courteous and share things in this house."
_Captain Tobin whirled around and spotted the ship's cook, barely visible, hiding around a corner and reaching for the large, coal-black gun sticking out of his belt. With no time to draw his own weapon, Tobin jumped up the ladder, swinging himself out of the space that was suddenly filled with a spray of bullets._
"Kevin? Kevin, answer me," Mrs. Tobin demanded, her voice rising slightly. She waited five more seconds then pushed the key into the lock and swung the door open just in time to see Kevin's wet, naked body leaping out the bathroom window and into the backyard.
_Captain Tobin thought furiously as he battled the large swells of the north Atlantic. How could it have been the cook? He looked back at his rapidly sinking submarine and saw the outline of the traitorous cook screaming at him from the deck. In the distance he spotted an enemy helicopter, no doubt sent to pluck their man from the Fathom. It would be headed in his direction next.
"We'll meet again," hissed Tobin under his breath. "But next time you'll be the one swimming home."_


----------



## Dawn McCullough White

_Cameo the Assassin~_

"Where have you been?" Kyrian demanded.
"Ah, hello lad." Opal faked a smile.
"I've been looking all over for you." 
"Oh, have you? Well, now you've found me."
Kyrian examined his wardrobe. "You've bought new clothes?!"
"Yes. Surely that can't come as such a shock to you, can it? I've even had a bath."
The lad fumed, "I've been waiting here at the stables for you to get back!"
"Quite obvious you hadn't had a bath or gotten yourself a new set of clothes."
"You said to wait for you here!"
"Calm down, lad. You'll make a spectacle of yourself." He attempted to push Kyrian into the shadows near the town stables.
The acolyte looked over Opal's newest ensemble and scoffed. "I'm making a spectacle?!"
"You really do smell like a horse."
"I wonder why."
"The bathhouses are still open."
"Fine. Where's the money from the sale of those horses?"
"Hmm ... money, yes, well. Don't you have some money?"
"I spent all of my money buying you and Evangeline that bottle of wine, and my last meal. Where's my cut of that robbery money?"
"Oh, Kyrian," Opal rolled his eye as he lowered his voice. "Don't be a hypocrite. I know full well that the gods don't take kindly to thievery."
The lad grabbed him roughly by the lapels of his jacket and shook him. "You spent all that money on yourself! On this stupid outfit?!"
Black Opal looked down at the boy whose hands were still clutching the jacket.
Kyrian looked up at the pock-marked face, his anger subsiding to a wary realization that he had just attacked a wanted villain. 
"Did you really expect more than that out of me?"
"Um ...."
Opal's face softened a bit as he brushed Kyrian's hands from his jacket. "This material is crushed so easily. It's because it's so delicate, so yielding."
"It's very nice ... very, shiny."


----------



## terryr

From my sci-fi romance Discovery:
****
    He had to admit, she’d tried to tell him. She really had. He hadn’t listened or bothered trying to understand why she hadn’t been thrilled with the idea of bathing with water. He just assumed she, like most humans, would appreciate the luxury a hot shower with soap and shampoo, especially after sleeping in the woods and running for their lives. Stupid. Really stupid. Guilt smacked him hard in the gut.
He’d proceeded to get her completely soaked and lathered, not letting the building tingles warn him. Instead, he’d gotten lost in the pleasurable aspects those small shocks produced, along with the tactile pleasures of laving her wet, sleek body with slippery lather. He sought comfort in knowing that for a while she’d enjoyed it too.
    But now—
    He pushed his damp hair from his eyes and shook his head. “She liked everything else. Go figure. I get the alien with the ‘Dry Clean Only’ tag. What an idiot I am!”
    Now she stood there, angry, the damp air surrounding her thrumming with electricity. It had to hurt. And nothing grounded her. Through his bare feet he started to feel the shocks that rammed through her damp form with every beat of her pulse.
    “I better ask for more towels,” he said, feeling discretion was the better part of valor at that point...


----------



## Edward C. Patterson

Sorry folks - I know I started this thread, but I haven't posted in a while, so I thought to post the opening paragraphs of the fourth (and to be published in September) Jade Owl Legacy Book - _*The People's Treasure*_, which for my Jade Owl readers I hope will be a scintillating treat. (_and yes, we open the 4th book in Italy_) 

The night birds perched in the shadow of the eaves, their stalking brought to rest. Their chicks peeped for succor - for night crawlers and fireflies, brought to the nest by attentive parents. Swallows knew how to hunt for night crawlers and the best places to dig them out. However, when it came to the fireflies, swallows took care, because when flying over the place called _Campo Culadura_, fireflies stalked the night birds as prey. So swallows learned new strategies that diverted the bugs far from the eaves. Tonight, however, the fireflies were calm, their luminescence easily dowsed by cutting bites - food for the wee chirpers.

The quiet eaves of _Villa Tostacaroni _ settled over family slumbers - light and heavy snoring blending through the corridors in a single nocturnal song. From the upper rooms came breezy sounds from the three girls, who dreamed of parties and _ragazzi_ - of days airy with childhood pursuits. Papa and Mama were away in America, their rooms vacant, as was the eldest brother's room, he also being away on business. The younger brother and his wife had settled in for a comfortable sleep, with an amorous prelude, but now settled into a duet of snores that alternated over the counterpane. Other night rattles and coughs and sleep talking, from the servant's quarter, joined the night choir. However, the loudest snores came from the old woman's room - from Berenice Tostacaroni, sister to the _padrone_, and, before her illness, the estate's resident dragon.

Edward C. Patterson


----------



## swcleveland

My snippet from Pale Boundaries:

Noise was a constant companion to those who lived and worked at God's Saucer. During the rare moments when the supersonic boom of starships and shuttles died away and the distant howl of engine test cells faded the air gave out a long moan as if it had exhausted its ability to meet the demands placed on it by human activity.
It was during one of these lulls that Cormack MacLeod heard dogs baying amid the scrapped hulks of starships and aircraft behind him. He quickened his pace toward the edge of the boneyard, skinny frame bent beneath a backpack full of stolen property.
It had taken longer than expected to pry the instruments and circuit modules out of the hulk he'd scouted days before, long enough that the effects of the drugged meat he'd tossed over the wall had worn off. It might have been wiser to abandon his burden, but MacLeod decided that he'd be damned if he let a pack of filthy animals rob him of what he'd gone to so much trouble to steal.
He reached the wall as the pack emerged into the open less than fifty meters behind him. The baying fell silent abruptly as the animals spied him and broke into a full sprint. MacLeod shrugged out of the straps and spun once, twice, three times. He let go, sending the backpack arcing over the top of the three-meter wall.
The dogs had halved the distance. Puffs of dust rose from the ground beneath their feet as they closed on him.

PALE BOUNDARIES:www.amazon.com/dp/B0036FU0U6


----------



## Carolyn Kephart

I haven't snippeted in quite a while, so here's a bit from _The Ryel Saga_. The wysard Ryel has two encounters by the seaside, one with his deadly enemy, and another far more welcome and unexpected:

Night was on the point of falling, the sun no more than a faint gray glow on the thickly-misted horizon. The air had grown cold, but in his fever the wysard welcomed it. "It has begun," he said aloud, feeling each word like a stab in the back of his head. "Everything's moving too fast-everything but me."

The air thinned and tightened, and the voice of Dagar, which now infected his thoughts sleeping and waking, laughed at him yet again.

_Yes. Soon, young blood. Very, very soon now._

"Some help will come to me," Ryel said, more to himself than to Dagar. "I feel it."

_Do you then, sweet eyes? Feel this, first. 
_
With a spiteful thrust of agony Dagar departed, leaving the wysard swaying and moaning, clutching his head. As the worst of the pain began to ebb and his sight returned, Ryel observed for the first time a stick that leaned against a rock as if there for his help-a rich walking-staff of black smooth wood, ringed and headed with bright silver. In great need of such support, he reached down for it.

"Not so fast, knave." A brown hand darted out from the midst of a jagged boulder, grabbed the stick and gave the wysard a stinging rap across the knuckles. "That's mine." With a clatter the rock stirred and stood, and the wysard in numb astonishment saw that what he had supposed yet another lump of stone was in actuality a vast black cloak studded with barnacles and draped with seaweed, wrapped about a being fully as fantastic as its garment. Its long hair was bleached by the sun and tangled as a fisherman's net lost and washed ashore, still with shells and flotsam entangled in its seines. The wrinkles in its face were like tide-marks in wet dark sand.

The rock-creature's voice rasped again. "Stand clear, scoundrel." Staff clutched in one of its driftwood-gnarled hands, a wet burlap bag full of lumpy small objects in the other, it leaned and stared at Ryel with slit eyes green and fathomless as the sea, and croaked the fisher-dialect of Ralnahr's coast. "Why dost thou gawk at me, thief? Dost think me a beauty? Wouldst be the first. What dost thou here?"

Ryel stared a long while before speaking. "I don't know."

A seal-bark of a laugh in reply. "Bah. Thou seek'st something-or mayhap someone. And it may be thou hast found it. Or him. Or, more likely, her."

Confused, the wysard blinked against the tormenting salt of the air. "Who-or what-are you?"

The sea-being brandished its staff and glared. "That's naught to thee. But for thy enlightenment, which thou sorely seem'st to require, I'm the Markessa of Lanas Crin, and thou standest upon my land, where robbers get a whip's welcome."

"I'm not a thief. But&#8230;" he threw all reason to the winds. "Would you by chance know of a woman named Gwynned de Grisainte?"

The sea-being's glare intensified. "And what wouldst thou have of the beldam hag?"

The wysard winced at that look. "I understand she is a great healer."

"And who was it lied to thee so grossly concerning that crone?"

"A professor of the university at Hallagh, named- "

The strange creature snorted. "Jeral Colquhon, more than likely. A babbling old fool, Lord Jeral."

His wits still pain-bound, Ryel swallowed his rising gorge to make a crazy guess. "You're her. You're Gwynned."

She brandished the staff and glared. "_Dame_ Gwynned, thou ignorant knave. Markessa I am of this land, where robbers get a whip's welcome."

"Forgive my mistake. But I'm very sick, Markessa."

The sea-green eyes brightened in interest. "Art thou now. How sick?"

Ryel pushed back his salt-dripping hair with trembling fingers. "To the death, I think."

She wasn't in the least impressed. "Bah. Thou'rt a tall strong fellow, likely to live. Come, we'll get some good eatables into thee, and put thee into a clean bed- for neither hot broth nor white sheets hast thou known for many a day, it seems-and see how thou dost afterward. That's a notable horse thou hast-we'll ride together, thou and I."

*****​
CK


----------



## Vyrl

From *The War of Mists*

Lady of Beasts

The birds were the first to see her and hundreds - from the tiniest flitswa to the greatest eagle - flew to join her. There were thousands more, and she could barely see the sky through the thick of them. It didn't take long for the other animals to notice her arrival and, of these, Othalas was the first.

Upon seeing her, he let out a great howl and the wolves about him - a hundred other werewolves, all great and terrible, but none so great as he - picked up the call. Then the bears growled and the great cats roared - ligers and tipards nearly as big as the werewolves. All the other creatures paused, some of them resting on their haunches as they watched her descend from the trees.

Othalas padded up to greet her with a bow.

"All of wilddom has come to aid you, Lady," he said with a formality she was unused to. But her Stone was afire now and the lights about her head gleamed bright as stars. In her left hand Weiryendel sang with lights and rainbows. Her disguise cast aside, she looked in every part a great Faelord, if not something greater.

At his bow, all the other creatures bowed as well. There was a hush and Luthiel's breath caught when she saw love plain in the animals' eyes.

Oh what have I done to earn it? I who would hunt them and eat them? With animals bowing before her, she recalled Mithorden and his principles and she wondered if he had the right of it. For she saw in each of these creatures great heart and spirit even to the tiniest among them.

They all love life and will fight for it as I have.

She did not need to speak. It was as though the animals heard her thoughts and gave silent affirmation.

"We are ready to help you!" Othalas growled. "All you need do is give the word."

"Then the word is forward!" she cried. "I would save as many elves as possible. Will you follow me!!??"

The responding roar made the wind in the trees seem a whisper by comparison. Even the Glimflirs seemed to glow brighter.

"The wild has answered," Othalas growled.

Luthiel sprang to his back and the Senasarab gathered with the host. Othalas gave them only one questioning glance. But knowing they were with Luthiel was enough. Now was not the time for questions. That would come later. The wolf was built for action and this was the time for it. Woe to the spider who stood before him or threatened his mistress.

With a final howl, he was off through the woods, the great horde of woodland creatures surging in behind him.

Upon Othalas' back, she rushed through the wood. Light spilled from her Stone, making all seem to sway and waver. Even the animals looked like a great pack of spirits flowing through the woods. Trees flashed by as the animals ran or flew beside and above her. Werewolves were intermixed with native wolves and Luthiel even saw one unicorn. The air surged with birds of every kind. But borne aloft on the hot summer air, Glimfirs rose up above them, making the sky shimmer with a million false stars. A great wind was howling, fanning the trees, running ahead of Oerin's dawn.

Othalas found a low spot, making a riverbed his road. They ran along, masked by hill, tree, and rushing wind. But the cloud of Glimflirs must have made a disturbing spectacle as it grew and loomed over the spiders. Two of the rear-guard twittered uneasily as the cloud drew near. The plan hadn't gone quite right and though the elves were losing, this night's events made them want to slip off into the shadows. Too many had felt the bite of faerie sword, arrow, and Wyrd. Many more lay burned to ash. Now the wood was filled with strange sounds. It made them long for the mountains - the shadowed valleys no sunlight could touch. They'd caught enough to last for a good while and the greedy, lazy, spiders were ready for a feasting well away from the struggle. Were it not for her they'd be gone in a moment. But the Spider Queen was not to be argued with. So the spiders held tight to the tree limbs and quivered in anticipation of what dawn might bring.

Less than a mile away, a desperate struggle was taking place. The elves had fought their way to the hills. The spiders threatened to overwhelm them. Again and again they were thrown back. The battle raged on the ground and in the trees. The air was filled with birds and pixies on the wing.

Saurlolth sensed the changes. The Vyrl were coming. Beasts were gathering. Luthiel's magic was at work. Were it not for that girl, the battle would be won. The elves - slaves and food.


----------



## Paul Clayton

Maggie took a mattress and the heavyset woman took the mattress beside her. The woman's words - the simple musings of a fellow traveler, someone who was not after Maggie for what she could get, but rather wanting only to pass the time - warmed Maggie like the glow of a fire. "What is your name?" Maggie asked.

"Elizabeth McNeil of Belfast. And ye?"

"Maggie Hagger." The light filtering down through the latticework grew dim as a cloud passed overhead. Elizabeth pat Maggie's hand. "'Tis no fun being footloose, is it, Dearie? Always on the move, living hand-to-mouth. Well, that will soon change."

Maggie nodded.

"And yer indentured to the governor and his daughter! They'll take good care of ye, that I'll wager."

"Aye." Maggie remembered the old gentleman's kindly face and hoped Elizabeth was right. Sailors entered and lay down more mattresses on the deck. One hung a gimbaled lamp from a hook on the bulkhead to be lit later.

"Who bought your contract?" Maggie asked.

Elizabeth smiled. "A young gallant from Devon, Sir James Duncan." She leaned close, "the one with a blue peacock's feather flyin' from a red Italian hat. He be a friend of Raleigh's and looking to get rich stealing the savages' gold."

Maggie closed her eyes, giving in to her exhaustion. Elizabeth's voice roused her.

"Maggie! The lad fancies ye! Better let him catch ye before ye get too old."

Maggie shook her head. "I've had my fill of him since we left London."

WHITE SEED: The Untold Story of the Lost Colony of Roanoke


----------



## traceya

From Erich's Plea: Book One of the Witchcraft Wars


Arriving at the wheel room Slade was pleased to note that there were, as he had expected, fewer guards than usual.  In fact there were only six guards, including his two escorts.  What he had not expected, however, was the distraction being provided by a new prisoner.  The prisoner was huge, well over seven feet tall, heavily muscled and appeared to be a nightmarish blend of troll and ogre.  Slade stopped cold in sheer surprise; this was the creature that he had seen in his dream, the thing that Karel had become.  Just as in his dream the huge creature had the general appearance, height and musculature of the northern ogres with the green skin and elongated arms and legs of the woodland trolls.  

The huge ogre-troll had thrown off the guards who had obviously been attempting to guide him to the wheel.  When the creature spoke, Slade was once again utterly stunned.  Firstly, the creature spoke in a guttural, yet easily understood form of the Common tongue; and secondly he called himself ‘Trunk’.  Slade’s heart was pounding in his chest, although he did not understand how his father can possibly have known in advance about the appearance of this creature this was, without doubt, what his father meant when he had instructed Slade to ‘follow the Trunk’.

“Trunk not go on wheel!  Trunk go home!”  The creature said roughly.
As he spoke, Trunk flexed his huge, elongated and extremely powerful arms and threw off both his guards with the ease of a child tossing away a small doll.  The two guards who had escorted Slade ran immediately, along with the other remaining guards, to the aid of their fallen fellows.  One of the fallen guards, Slade could see, would never rise again; his neck twisted so that it appeared he gazed eternally over his shoulder.  

Hope you enjoy,
Cheers,
Trace


----------



## D.A. Boulter

Here's a snippet from my Sci-Fi book, Courtesan









Jaswinder knew she had no hope but wouldn't give up. Maybe the government hadn't sent Muscles, but that probably meant someone who wanted her removed, permanently, as Professor Preston had suggested, had hired him.
"Lady doesn't want to go with you," a new voice from behind said, and Muscles tensed. Jaswinder could see nothing but the brick wall in front of her. Graffiti in three languages, none of which she understood, engaged her eyes.
"Butt out, buddy, or . . . ugh." His grip loosened and Jaswinder broke free, dropping her ready-case. She staggered against the wall, turning just in time to witness the newcomer follow up his kidney punch with one to the stomach. A knee coming up met a jaw going down and Muscles collapsed.
"Here's your case, Lady," the tall man told her, a friendly smile on his lips. His smile faded as he beheld her heavily made-up face. He wore no hat over his short black hair, which should have told Jaswinder something, but she missed it in her relief. He indicated the street. "Let's go find a police officer." 
 "Uh," she didn't know how to begin. "He . . . he may be one."


----------



## Sharlow

Here's a snippet from my new paranormal vampire romance "Fallen Blood"

"We've got to do something Brian," she started saying, gaining more strength in her voice as her determination began to resolve. "We need to go to the police or..."

"Heather, look at me." He bent down trying to get her to look at him.

"No... We need to get help."

"Heather, wait!" He grabbed her chin with his left hand as he continued to hold her with his right. "You need to sleep."

"No...I need to..."

"Sleep, Heather. We will get help after you sleep." He forced her to look  into his eyes.

"Sleep..." she mumbled, "we'll get help in the morning?”

Brian nodded "Yes, after you sleep."  She smiled and closed her eyes, her form going limp and her legs buckling. 

He caught her before she hit the floor, lifting her easily and then carrying her up to his room. He laid her on his bed, and then watched as she curled into a fetal position. Her breathing was deep but at least it was relaxed. He stood there and watched her for several minutes. The rise and fall of her chest was one of the most beautiful things he thought he had ever seen. It was amazing how wonderful she looked even with the scratches and smudges on her.


----------



## 16205

Something felt strange about the night. Eugenia couldn't say what made her glance back, or start running. Maybe it was the thick fog, the poor visibility, or the wine. The hair stood up on the back of her neck and goosebumps swarmed down her arms under the sleeves of her dress. It was a bad time to remember the dark whispers about what kind of threat lurked in Malmsbury: a crazed citizen, gypsies and curses, witches and spells.

She tripped over the gnarled knob of a root and went down with a thump and a gasp. She felt the sudden rush of a brisk breeze but it wasn't like any wind she'd experienced before. It seemed too... contrived. As if something enormous had just flown past, low and threatening. The soft whoosh reminded her of wings, but even the biggest owl or eagle couldn't have felt large enough to blot out the sky. She couldn't _see_ the sky, but the impression was the same.

Scrambling to her feet, breathless, she paused to listen. She looked for silhouettes in the fog that didn't belong, for shifting shapes, lumbering bodies. Her imagination was running away with itself.

The mist should have felt protective, cloaking her from prying eyes. Instead she felt blind and exposed.

Something was out there.

She knew it as sure as she knew her own name. Shirking etiquette with shocking swiftness, she snatched up handfuls of her skirt and started running.

From Dréoteth


----------



## Groovy Writer

rjkeller said:


> The first time I dropped acid I had a vision of Sister Patricia. She was wearing a beautiful tie-dyed habit, kneeling on her stone floor, head bowed, praying to God. There was a light rattling, tapping, rustling sound at the window that startled her out of her meditations. She floated to the window and opened it up and when she did it let in a rainbow; pure and just as vivid as my crayons had once been. The beauty of it enveloped the cold, dreary room, and filled it - filled her - with the Love of God. I was nineteen - long after catechism classes and church and even prayer had been a part of my life - holed up in my one room apartment with some guy I'd met two hours earlier. I still can't remember his name, but his hair was Goldenrod and his eyes were Sky Blue.
> 
> ~ Prologue, Waiting For Spring


Loved this, R.J.! Here's my snippet:
-----
I knew of souls making contact with the living. It could be done. I pictured Kara and reached out.

So many minds and their petty concerns to wade through: what's for dinner; how are my stocks; that intern at work sure looks good; what to buy this weekend; Brenda at the salon said Sheila said something else and blah blah blah. Life is slow death when the importance is missed. "Don't you see," I railed at the lost souls, "that you're missing the point? Love! Love one another! The time is up before you know it, and all that's going with you is what you learn. Ever seen a U-Haul pulled behind a hearse?"

Distracted, I lost any chance to find Kara. It was no use. And even if I did find her, what then, punch through the barrier between life and death like a poltergeist and probably scare her senseless?


----------



## 13893

Here's my snippet from Blue Amber, free at Smashwords http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/16535:

On the boardwalk waiting to take them to the citadel were carriages drawn by muscular golden palominos with blond manes and tails. The three of them got into the first carriage.

"Here is a treat for you, Mallory." Sister Jordana finished reading a grid tablet then slipped it into her robe's pocket. "The regent has offered to let you bathe in her own chamber."

Bathe. She'd rather explore the streets here or find out what those colored lights were in the forest east of the wall.

Until she found out what it meant to bathe in the regent's chamber.

There was so much water, she could lie down in it up to her chin. And it was hot, with soapy bubbles and the fragrance of flowers. She went completely under the water. It felt funny with no hair, and she went under again and again.

She dried off and put on the clean robe left for her, slipping the stone Asherah into the inside pocket along with her shades. Being clean wasn't something they thought about at the settlement -- not this clean, anyway. She must have smelled awful, and everyone was just too polite to say so.

Something was wrong. A few minutes ago, the servants' chatter had been free and nonstop.

"Hello?"

Everyone was gone. The next room and the corridor outside had been crowded with people coming and going. It sounded like someone was stacking boxes at the end of the corridor.


----------



## CCrooks

Here's a snippet from my sports romance, Thrill of the Chase







($1.99).

As she inched into the staging beams, Sarah thought about it. What if it was too much power, and the tires blew? What if the worst happened and the engine blew?

Thoughts like those shouldn't be running through her head. She should be concentrating on nothing but staging correctly, getting a quick launch, then going through the gears with the routine she'd practiced so diligently and repeated with each round win leading up to the semifinals.

But she was worried.

The tree flashed and she launched. The newfound power of the car made it far more violent off the line, and it pulled harder than she'd ever experienced. She hit second gear early. The car continued accelerating like an Air Force fighter jet on full afterburner.

As she shifted into third gear, the eighth-mile marker flashed by, and that's when everything went wrong.

She saw the huge burst of flame an instant before she heard the thunderous explosion directly in front of her, coming from the engine compartment. The fireball was so big and so persistent that she couldn't see where she was going. She got on the brakes at the same time she felt her car hit the right-side wall. The impact combined with the fire to disorient her, and she hadn't had time to get her bearings before the second impact came. It was more harsh. The searing pain and the sound of grinding metal faded as she blacked out.

The next thing she knew, she was wide awake and afraid as she looked out of the shattered windshield at an engulfing cloud of thick black smoke and flames licking in toward her. She was aware of a sharp pain in her ankle and ribs. As she struggled to undo her safety harness, Gordon's description of fire victims came back to haunt her:

"Nobody really knows what that feels like, but the scientists say the skull protects your brain, so that's the last thing to die, meaning that you might feel agonizing pain the entire time you're burning to death."

With a horrified cry, she struggled harder. She choked on the thick smoke. Spots danced before her eyes and she knew she was blacking out. The safety harness was twisted. She couldn't get free of it.


----------



## OliviaD

Hi, Everyone!  I've been away for a few days and many things have gone on without me.  So here's a snippet from _Misguided Souls of Magnolia Springs _ for your viewing enjoyment. Our leading man, Perry, is at the emergency room with a little boy that he tried to save from a pedestrian/truck accident. The Doc has just declared the child DOA:

_"Reggie!" He waited. "Reggie, come on back now! Your daddy's here."

Reggie's eyes rolled in his head and he coughed before sucking in a deep breath.

"It's all right now," Perry told him as he looked around in confusion.

"It hurts..." he said in a low whisper and began to cry.

"Who are you?! What are you doing?!" An angry female voice sounded behind him. Perry looked around to see the red-eyed nurse standing in the doorway with her hands on her hips.

"I'm sorry." Perry frowned at her. "Louis Parks sent me here. I was just talking to Reggie."

Reggie began to wail in earnest. The nurse flew past him to stare at the boy.

"My God! He's alive!" She practically screamed.

Perry stepped back as Bobby Greene and the doctor rushed into the room.

"Daddy!" Reggie began to shout as soon as he saw his dad.

Perry walked into the hall and went back to the sliding doors. He could hear them laughing and crying and shouting all at once. The doors slid closed behind him and he stuffed his hands in his pockets and started back down the ramp, whistling to himself. He walked across the drive to the street and looked up at the gleaming courthouse dome above the tops of the trees. 
Presently a bright yellow Volkswagen Beetle pulled up beside him and stopped in the street. Its engine purred softly as the driver reached across to open the passenger door. He stepped off the curb and climbed inside.

"Are you all right?" the driver asked him._


----------



## A_J_Lath

Something from the darker side of Dreamshade (with additional shades of Ramsey Campbell, I hope):
--
Benjamin gasped. The shape, almost indiscernible in the dark, looked to be a small bundle of clothes; and yet it was moving. He stepped back, his eyes fixed rigidly on the sight. The bundle pulsed, like a creature taking air; a tendril of some kind, or a loose sleeve, sprung out from it, flopping onto the carpet. And then, like a knot unfolding, a hand appeared at the end of the sleeve, large and thin-fingered, pale in the dark. There seemed to be a pattern of light and shadow about the thing; a hint of what might be found on the back of a snake. And as it expanded - and it was expanding, Benjamin could see it -  it hissed, a chorus-call of insensate aggression that the boy, terror-struck, recognised immediately.


----------



## JennaAnderson

*From the opening scene of Healing Touch - doctor Nelson's waiting room: (Warning - a little swearing)*

I popped out of my worn blue chair with a sudden burst of health. "Well, I'd love stay and wait
forever for Dr. Doogie Howser but I have a job. Connie, let him know that if he wants to talk to
me he can schedule an appointment with my secretary." I gathered up my bag and headed to the
exit.

Connie shot me a snotty look. "You work at Madder's Truck Repair. You don't have a secretary.
Actually, aren't you the secretary, billing person, or whatever the guys call it?"

Mrs. Larson launched a lecture in my direction. I didn't have to look at her to know her index
finger was wagging for emphasis. "Tracy Campbell, you should be ashamed of yourself. Dr.
Nelson may be young but he's an asset to this community. Don't you mouth off and scare him
away. You hold your tongue, missy." Visions of third grade popped into my head.

"Gee, this is fun. Can we do it again soon? Bye everyone." I shot them a departing dirty look and
turned to leave the stuffy waiting room. My departing move wasn't quick enough to avoid the
call from a nurse.

"Tracy Campbell."

"Fucking hell," I mumbled.

"Tracy!" Mrs. Larson didn't miss a beat. It was almost as if she'd expected the vulgarity and had
the reproach waiting on the tip of her tongue.

The nurse smiled at me from behind my file. A large purple star adorned one of the corners of
the manila folder. It was probably secret code for 'pain in the ass' or 'make sure she pays up
front.'


----------



## terryr

from _Discovery - A Far Out Romance
_
Somewhere in the part of Kent that remained rational, he guessed she'd never been kissed like this before. Her body melted into his as she opened willingly to let him taste deep. She tasted so good, sweet and spicy.

Both were breathing hard when he drew back.

"One small step for man," muttered Kent.

"Hm?"

Struggling to control himself, Kent stepped back from her and turned to one side. "We've got to get going." His top teeth rubbed across his lower lip. He could still taste her, and it was a taste he knew he'd want more of. "We still have a long way to travel before dark."

He took a reluctant step back from her. How was it possible to feel so much yet remain so numb? Was that expression in her eyes, like her slow backward step, a reflection of his? The motions of reaching for packs, shouldering them, and making adjustments were made in a dreamlike pas de deux.

The eye contact between them broke only when Kent started toward the trail. The first few steps were made side by side. Enough for Kent to notice that, instead of limping, they each took the uncertain, careful strides of people whose feet had gone numb.


----------



## mamiller

Hi happy KB-ers! Here is the opening of my romantic suspense, VICTORY COVE









"You're hiding from me, Margaret."
Megan clutched the phone and slid to her knees, the tremors in her limbs rendering them useless. 
"It's only a matter of time." His voice had the sinister resonance of an executioner uttering the words, _any last requests?_
Cradled in Megan's lap, the Glock felt heavy against her thigh as uncooperative fingers gripped the handle.
"You can't live, Margaret."
Those raspy words incited a very obliging finger to loop through the trigger. 
"I know this cell phone is being forwarded, Maggie. That poses only a slight inconvenience." 
A low hum of static filled her ear, similar to the sound of an electrical tower. She tried to place the sound. Did it divulge his location in any way? Was he close? Panic wormed into her throat, preventing her from responding, although being mute was the best option. Any response would have been verbal confirmation that he had located her, and she wouldn't give him that one triumph.
"It took some doing to even locate this number." He paused. "Don't worry, though, your mother was not hurt." 
Megan's teeth bit down on her lower lip to contain her scream. She tasted blood. 
"Sleep tight, Maggie. I will see you soon."
There was no audible click, but the humming had ceased. All that was left was the ragged sound of her breath, and the pounding of the boxer scoring a victory knockout inside her chest. 
She dropped the phone on the floor and picked up the weapon. So many nights she had clutched it tight enough that her palm was permanently indented from the pattern of the handle. 
But, this night was different. For one year the phone had remained silent, and at no point in the last three hundred-some days did she let up. Never once was she lulled into security by his silence, knowing that this night would come. 
Megan took a deep breath. She had a lot of work to do.


----------



## Brenda Carroll

Here's a little excerpt from the Red Cross of Gold XV:. My Hope is in God. Sister Meredith is having a bit of an identity crisis:

_Mark Andrew took the phone from him.
"Meredith?"
"Who is this?"
"Mark. This is Mark."
"Mark. You are there with my husband?"
"Merry. I am your husband."
Complete silence.
"Where is Lucio?"
"He's here. For pity's sake, Merry. It's me. Mark Andrew. Don't you know who I am?"
"I know that you are there and I am here and that I would wish that you would allow me to talk to my husband, the king."
Mark Andrew slammed the phone back in Lucio's hand and stormed out of the kitchen.
"Papa?"
"Lucia." Lucio closed his eyes in relief. "Your mother wants to go down to the crypts. Don't let her do that. She thinks that there are dead kings buried there."
"Oh." A long pause.
"Just try to humor her," Lucio told his daughter. "Let her make some ceremony or something. Give her something to do. Santa Maria, what are going to do with her?"
"I don't know, Papa," Lucia's voice was full of sadness. "I think we may have to take her to Switzerland. Asher Schumacher knows some very good doctors there."
"Yes. I'll speak to Sir Ramsay about it... her."
"She is my mother, Papa," Lucia's tone changed.
"She is his wife, Lucia," Lucio matched her tone. He understood how she felt, but he could not do anything with Meredith without Mark's approval.
"They are not married."
"Just keep her busy and don't let her out of your sight."
"I'm going to call Asher."
"I love you, Lucia. Thank you."
"Ciao, Papa."  _


----------



## Edward C. Patterson

from _*Cutting the Cheese*_ http://www.amazon.com/dp/B0010K2ER6

_*Reblechon*_

Branch wafted in the moonlight, his feet shed of sneakers, seeking the draw of the heated pool. The breeze refreshed him as he gained the patio.

_This place is really rigged out for a big party,_ he thought as he scanned the furniture, the grills, the outdoor bar and what appeared to be a band shell.

The strings of Chinese lanterns were not lit, but a mushroom garden of path lamps guided him out of the shadows and onto the terracotta tiles. Branch regarded the water, aqua gel catching the moonlight and tossing it back to him like a volleyball. Never in his shanty Irish past could he imagine being in such a place, even to clean it. He filled his lungs with jasmine and chlorine, and then smiled. The wind sang in the rhododendron. It coaxed him to forget Max and Roy and bitchy Mort and queenie Kelly and, of course that interloper, Chaz. What he couldn't shake from his mind was who stood behind him now.

Branch knew Luke was there. Sensed him. Not all the rustling shrubbery could be wrought by the wind.

"Swim?" Branch asked, absently.

"It's nice out here."

He turned and repeated the offer with his eyes.

"I didn't bring a suit," Luke said.

Branch chuckled, and then dropped his jeans. In one quick twist, the shirt was off, hung on the pool railing. Only the BVDs lingered and they would be shorn soon, wet shorts being a bitch under dry pants. Off they came. Luke smiled, but made no effort to join in the strip. Branch reached for Luke's hand.

"I'll dump you in, clothes and all."

"No you won't," Luke said. "I'm not a swimmer."

Branch smiled, and then made a full pirouette as if he wanted Luke to see every inch of the merchandise. However, Branch wasn't really selling, was he? You sold to those who were buying, and Luke might have been fired up, but he wasn't whipping off his clothes and plunging into the pool with wild abandon. Still, the water beckoned.

Branch drifted to the deep end, mounting the diving board, holding a statuesque stance for a full three minutes. He felt Luke's eyes, but now he also felt other eyes - Theron's, Roy's, Kelly's and Mort's. He might have even attracted a Lesbian or two. Now, that would be a trophy moment unless it was Hester (who was sleeping off a glass of Zinfandel).

Branch stretched, and then dived, breaking the glossy blue surface. Who would have believed him back on the block in Linden, that he - Branch McPherson, son of Lester and Rose McPherson, arched naked in the moonlight before a company of secret eyes and an innocent lad, who was not a swimmer, but who wished he could unknot the cramp he must have felt from the pit of his spleen to the balls of his feet. When Branch struck the surface, he heard the hoots from the old gang back in the refinery fields. However, he also saw the triumphant faces of Louis Lonnegan and Kevin Borden as they swept into the gymnasium to a prom - shining examples of how to come out to the party. It made his heart swell with pride. The heated pool became hotter.
Edward C. Patterson

PS: Louis Lonnegan and Kevin Borden are the principles in my book _*No Irish Need Apply*_.


----------



## NoLongerHere

Bye


----------



## SimonWood

This is an excerpt from _*The Scrubs*_. Amazon has discounted it to 99cents.

http://www.amazon.com/The-Scrubs-ebook/dp/B003DQNXTS

_This sensation lasted several seconds before the North Wall ruptured. Keeler whirled as a diagonal rent raced across the stonework. Other tears presented themselves, each one appearing faster than the one before. Shards of masonry tumbled free and dust erupted from the cracks, forming into clouds. Keeler clamped his hands over his ears to shut out the shriek of stone grinding against stone.

Standing only feet from the devastation, the spectacle transfixed Keeler, unable to comprehend what he was witnessing. Hands yanked him back. Keeler turned to see and found it was Cady who had a hold of him. His face was a mask of disbelief.

The technicians undoubtedly had witnessed this spectacle many times before, but they still bore looks of frightened primitives observing their first eclipse. Jeter stood out of his chair as far as his leather restraints would allow. Keeler noticed that Jeter had broken his wrist under the load. Only O'Keefe seemed to lap up the event with something that Keeler recognized as pleasure.

"Is this the end of the world?" Keeler asked Cady.

Cady shook his head. "Much worse."

The spider web of tears became too much for the North Wall to bear and the stone lost integrity. The wall liquefied and the resultant lava vaporized before it struck the ground.

"My God," was all Keeler could say. The guard at the entrance had been right. This was hell. _

I hope people will read the rest.


----------



## CCrooks

Excerpt from $0.99 Choose Your Own Romance - A Gamebook








:

You're a sensitive soul who writes poetry, which has honed your instincts to a razor's edge. You sense trouble, which means there is trouble.

But when you confront your husband, he denies there is anything wrong. He says he adores his "comfy armful of love" more than ever and makes love to you to prove it. But keeps his eyes shut the whole time. At climax he whispers something that sounds like "humpy bunny."

To diagnose what's troubling your marriage, you snoop at his work. It doesn't take you long to find "humpy bunny." All five-feet, ten-inches of her, with blond hair, long legs and suspiciously huge round cleavage, cooing into the receptionist's phone and flirting with every man who passes her station at the front desk. Your husband regularly meets "Bunny" at the small house he's bought her with your savings, every night, and often for lunch too.

You catch them fondling each other.

Choose:

A) Forgive Baxter and ignore his indiscretions. True love can surpass such petty obstacles.

B) Don't get mad, get even.

C) Kill. Both. Now.


----------



## daringnovelist

Here's a scene from my mystery western, HAVE GUN, WILL PLAY, in which young gunslingers Mick and Casey meet the little girl they are supposed to protect (this is in her room, where she has all of the coolest toys the nineteenth century can provide):

“Did you have toys like this when you were little?” said Laurie.

I suppose I should have growled at her that I was never little, but I decided to leave that line to Casey.

“I had a stick,” I said, blinking at the stagecoach, and all the other wind-ups.  She waited for a second, expecting me to say more, then she let her jaw drop in disbelief.  No, not disbelief, horror.

“A stick?”

“A stick ain’t bad,” I told her.  “It can be a gun or a spear or a arrow, or even a horse if it’s big enough....”

“Or a magic wand?”

“I suppose it could.  I never tried that one.”

“You need more toys than a stick,” she said, and she turned to Casey, who was wandering around with her chin tucked in, looking doubtfully at all of it.  “You had better toys than that, didn’t you?”

I think the little girl was hoping she’d say no, or that she played with a rock or something.  Casey didn’t even look at her.

“Sure,” she said.  “A rifle, a horse and a....”

Casey stopped.  She stood still next to the girl’s bed, with the funniest look on her face.  There was a doll in the chair next to the bed, a real fancy one.  Which was interesting.  You never knew what would catch Casey’s eye.  She started to reach a hand out, but stopped.

“You can touch her,” said Laurie.  “Just be careful.”

Casey glanced at the girl and wiped her hand on her shirt before picking up the doll.

“It’s a French doll.  All the clothes are like real clothes.  Buttons and everything.  And she’s very fashionable.”

Casey turned the doll over and looked at the buttons down the back of the dress.  She glanced at me with her eyebrows up, and then looked down at the little shoes on the china feet, and all the petticoats.  Casey lifted up the petticoats and then let out a gasp.

“It’s got silk drawers!” she said.

That I had to see, so I took it from her and lifted up the skirt and petticoats.  That doll did have silk drawers.  Pink ones, with lace and everything.  And I was standing there, ogling this doll’s underside, when a lady came in.

“What are you doing!”

I jumped and just plain dropped that doll.  Luckily Casey caught it.  I heard the china legs clink together, but it didn’t sound like anything broke.  The lady stormed across the room and took it away from her.  She looked it over and then hugged it close, looking at me with a funny expression I didn’t like.

Camille


----------



## Paul Clayton

From: White Seed: The Untold Story of The Lost Colony of Roanoke...

August 27, 1587, Roanoke

The air in the big house was thick with heat and moisture and seemed to have slowed down time itself. Maggie wiped at her brow as Governor White and Ananias came out of the offices at the rear carrying a chest. Maggie warmed at the sight of Governor White. Because of her chaste behavior, his attentions to her had become less amorous and more kindly and she enjoyed her employ with him and the Dares. Now it was the Captain, a few of the gentlemen, and the soldiers, Thomas Shande among them, whose eyes she would occasionally feel upon her like damp garments. She followed them down the steps and outside.

"Is someone moving out?" she said.

Before White could reply a baby's cry floated across the compound.

"Is that little Virginia?" queried White, "or perhaps 'tis Margary Harvey's little babe?"

"I will go and see." Ananias hurried off.

White smiled. "I was like that for a time too, when Eleanor was a child." White's look grew serious. "Maggie, I am going back with the ships."

Maggie was taken aback. "Back to England, m'Lord?"

"Aye," said White. "I must see to some business and then I shall return."

Maggie felt the loss already. She could not imagine being in this strange place without the kindly Governor near by. Tears threatened to overcome her. "I will miss you, m'Lord." She smiled bravely.

WHITE SEED: The Untold Story of the Lost Colony of Roanoke


----------



## David &#039;Half-Orc&#039; Dalglish

A fight between a dark paladin and an assassin also worshipping the dark god, taking place in A Dance of Cloaks.
***

    “Can you stand the heat of the abyss?” Ethric asked as he stepped back, his left arm completely wreathed with purple flame. Nava lunged, trusting her speed. Ethric parried her first two lunges and countered a third. When she spun about trying to get closer, he opened the palm of his burning hand. Fire exploded out as if from the mouth of a dragon. The fire swarmed over Nava’s cloak, setting it aflame.
    Nava wasted no time, jumping backward and slicing off her cloak where it attached to the clasps atop her shoulders. But Ethric did not chase like she expected. Instead he stabbed his sword into the flame, turned it once, and then swung. A massive arc of fire lashed outward, catching her across the chest. All about, wagons set aflame and men died as the fire consumed them with frightening speed.
    Faring little better, Nava dropped to a roll. Her chest throbbed in pain, and even the dirt did little to stop the burn. Ethric rushed after, and when she rolled underneath a wagon, he punched it with his fist. The fire left his arm and set the cover aflame. An upward swipe of his sword cut the rest of it in half. Underneath was Nava, gasping for air and clutching her horribly burned chest. The wrappings were gone, revealing blistered skin blackened by the heat.
    “Shouldn’t…have burned me,” she said with labored breaths.
***

David Dalglish


----------



## swolf

Excerpt from my upcoming short story, Erato:

“I’ve been a fan of yours since your very first book Mr. Penner,” said the middle-aged woman standing in front of him with a huge smile on her face.
He smiled back.  “That’s very kind of you to say, and please call me Jacob.  When people call me Mr. Penner, I always look around to see if my dad is standing behind me.”
The woman beamed at this.  “Ok Jacob.”  She giggled a bit.
He had his Sharpie poised over her book, open to the back of the front cover.  “And what would you like me to write?” 
“To Rose, with love,” she replied.
He cocked an eyebrow.  “That’s your name?”
“Yes,” she replied, obviously very proud of the fact.  “And my friends tell me I look just like her.”
He looked at the woman.  Other than her red hair, which looked like a dye job to him, she looked nothing like his Rose.  And he wasn’t sure what her friends were comparing her to, since there were no pictures in his books, and he refused to allow his publisher to depict Rose on the covers.  Instead, they contained a single red rose, accompanied by some other object that matched the title of the book.
“Spitting image,” he replied, keeping his smile firmly fixed on his face.


----------



## Carolyn Kephart

Time for a romantic snippet from _The Ryel Saga_. The wysard Ryel has freed the Sovrena of Destimar from a dark power, but finds himself ensnared:

Her voice had become hesitant, unteasing. "Did you destroy my captor?"

For some reason the question eased his pain. "No," he replied. "I merely routed him."

"Then he may return."

Soft as her voice was, Ryel heard terror in it, resigned and desperate. He took both her hands in his, warming them against his chest. "I will prevent him from ever returning, Diara."

"You cannot. I know you cannot. And you know it too." Tears jeweled her dark lashes. "You must continue to keep the promise you made me in the desert, Ryel Mirai. I cannot speak the words I used then, lest my tormenter hear. But surely you have not forgotten."

The wysard blinked, too; but no tears eased the hurt. "I remember."

"You must keep your word."

He bent his head. "I will."

One of her tears fell on his hand, scalding as molten silver. "I wish you did not have to."

His heartbeat was bruising him. "So do I."

She drew near him, resting her hands on his shoulders. "Hold me close, only for a moment. Warm away the terror and the pain, and make me forget them forever. I have felt so cold, for so long&#8230;"

Her voice trembled as she spoke, and Ryel instantly complied, taking her in his arms, gently gathering her against him. He heard her give a little sob as she moved into his embrace, and he murmured her name into her heaven-scented hair as he wrapped her closer, and felt her body warming and calming. They stood entwined for what seemed at once an instant and eternity, and never had the wysard known such joy, or such sorrow, or such fear; and he felt those emotions wind about one another, meshing into bliss that sharpened beyond bearing when Diara slid her hands behind his neck, softly urging him down to her lips.

*****​
CK


----------



## Sharlow

A quick snippet from "Fallen Blood."


The sound of tires screeching as air brakes hissed announced an eighteen wheeler coming to a stop. A large, overweight trucker with a black baseball cap jumped out of his cab as it came to a full stop. "Does anyone need help?" The man yelled, as he stopped and stared at the dead officer and agents. Brian rushed up to him and looked him in the eyes.

"You're going to help us."

"I'm going to help you," The man repeated. "You want me to call for help?" He pointed at the bodies.

Brian shook his head as he lead Heather to the truck, "No, I'm sure they're fine."

The man looked at him blankly, then stumbled back to the truck and climbed in.

"Where to?" He asked.

"Just drive." Brian answered.

The man stepped on the gas and the big rig lurched forward.


----------



## Bridget S

From Summer Resolutions

    Wednesday was price matching, double coupon day at the virus plagued superstore.  This was the busiest day all week.  It also appeared Wednesday was the day they offered an additional discount if you cruised around the store on a scooter instead of pushing a cart.  I’ve never seen so many scooter people in my life.  Normally, I am in and out in fifteen minutes on a non-price matching, double coupon day.  This was my old routine, and I had it down to an art:
          •	Stick to my list
          •	Get what I need
          •	Pay
          •	Sanitize
    Holy mackerel!  I was there for two hours.  After reading the blogs, I was extra prepared.  Even the bottom of the cart was packed with stuff.  I lost a few things along the way, but I didn’t have room for them anyways. A couple cans of cat food rolled off the bottom of my cart and down the main aisle.  I hoped nobody got hurt during my shopping trip; however, I was afraid to leave my coupons unattended to chase runaway cat food.  I didn’t feel too guilty when I calculated the worst case scenario:  A scooter rolls over a can of cat food, busts open, and there’s stinky cat foot stuck on a scooter wheel.  You might remember that we don’t have any pets, due to allergies, however the cat food was free on double coupon day!  If it hadn’t been for the online forum about freebies, I never would have gotten free cat food!


----------



## RJ Keller

From Chapter 32 of _Waiting For Spring_:

I'd been back every week since I'd stolen and returned their gun, and every week it beckoned from the top of the den closet. The beautiful silvery nose and the sturdy black grip and the lovely engraving that said *Undercover 38 SPL*. And on this day, a day when Distraction was a necessity, I tried to imagine what a freshly fired revolver smelled like. In my mind it was like woodstove smoke, only metallic.


----------



## Brenda Carroll

The following snippet is from_ The Red  Cross of Gold VIII:. The Silver Caduceus_. Meredith and Simon of Grenoble are in the middle of a small crisis in the middle of the night in the Sistine Chapel in Rome.

"_Subter oculus serpens_," she said aloud. "_Nomis_. What does it mean, Brother?"

"That is where it is." He smiled.

"Where what is? What are you tal&#8230;" She stopped suddenly and her mouth fell open as realization dawned on her. "The Ar.."

He put one finger on her lips. "Shhhh! I wanted you to know. Just in case."

"Just in case of what?" She frowned at him and the crown threatened to fall from her head as the fabric slipped. She pulled it off and then looked closely at its intricate design. "What is this?"

"It is the wall of Jerusalem," he shrugged and took the crown from her.

"Just in case of what?" She asked again in reference to the wall and the Ark.

"In case they kill me."

"Look, Brother." She glanced around. "I really don't know what is going on here, but I don't like it. First they are going to kill you for witchcraft and now they are giving me a party? In the middle of the night? And now you say they may kill you again? For what? Who are these men?"

"It is the way of things. These men won't kill me for the Ark. Someone else might kill me for the Ark or someone else might just kill me for some other reason," he said with a pained expression. "These are trying times we live in. You do trust me, don't you?"


----------



## KathyBell

Excerpt from 
Regression

Journal of Doctor Nicholas Weaver
October 26, 98 P. I.

The first collision was unexpected. Trajectories for the comet and the asteroid had been plotted; neither deemed a threat. An error in the software neglected to calculate the risk of them meeting each other in the vastness of space. The impact of the two bodies sent them plummeting toward Earth, each with its own danger.
Comet 2009-721 should have been the lesser of two evils. Smaller, fragmented after the November 11 collision, there should have been nominal risk. But, where there is water, there is life. Asteroid 1999-0045 caused immediate damage as it struck the Earth on February 1, 2012 but the insidious effects of the water-borne virus did not manifest for an entire generation, leaving us no time to create possible countermeasures. Except mine. 

Countdown is on for the sequel...


----------



## terryr

From _Convergence_:

Gerrale lay in the position the blast had left her, half-in, half-out of a cold, shallow puddle. The debris that had broken her back, ruptured internal organs, and crushed everything else from the hips downward, had been removed.
How long has she been here, like this? Rett had commed her once, received a reply from Gerrale herself that she was injured and not able for movement. But that was all.
Rett settled her length alongside her dying comrade, making as much contact as she could without causing more discomfort. Carefully, so, so carefully, she gathered Gerrale into her arms, feeling the wounded woman's response to her presence with every pore: relief, acceptance, and a curious sensation of concern.
Rett kissed her, whispering, "Gerrale, I'm here."
Gerrale's lips moved. _I know. _Gerrale swallowed and tried to speak again, a twist of worry tightening her features. _Steffi...?_
"Steffi's fine. I'm sorry she isn't here. What do you want me to tell her?"
_ I'm sorry. I love you. Be happy._
"I'll tell her," whispered Rett, smoothing a strand of damp hair. "I'll make sure she's all right, we all will." Her eyes burned, but she forced them to remain dry.
Corporal Kraym's large, reassuring presence, just behind her, was close enough that Rett felt the heat from his body. His silent support gave her the strength to do what she must, if Gerrale still wanted it so. "Gerrale, you asked me for help, I'm here to give it..."


----------



## traceya

Another little snippet from Erich's Plea -


Two months ago he had arrived at Ostland’s Zeaburg prison complex and been taken to this subterranean dungeon with its smooth stone walls, mazes of corridors, little or no lighting and the constant smell of death, blood, waste and decay in his nostrils.  He had been alternatively beaten and tortured for hours on a daily basis.  His own screams blending with the cries, screams and moans of the other, unseen, sufferers in Zeaburg's nightmarish torture chambers.  
The horrors here were so great that even the rats eschewed Zeaburg, although the fleas showed no similar scruples and were an additional constant torment.  His body was covered head to toe with tiny bites from the multitudes of the awful creatures.  Slade would not have believed it was possible for a place like Zeaburg prison to exist if he had not seen it with his own eyes.  It well deserved its evil reputation.
Zeaburg also had a reputation for being inescapable; no one, in all its long history had ever escaped from its confines, except in death.  Slade had never believed half the rumors that had surrounded Zeaburg before, now he saw clearly they were all true and worse.  He also knew why so many of those imprisoned here died and, it was said, were glad to, death being preferable to daily life in Zeaburg.  
Each day that passed for Slade saw his strength being steadily sapped; his once lean and muscular frame becoming daily more wasted.  Between the pitiful amount of barely edible food, the near constant beatings or other, more inventive types of torture Slade had become a shadow of his former self.  Only two things had so far prevented Slade from succumbing to the horrors of Zeaburg.


----------



## swolf

A snippet from 'Amulet':

“Ok, serious question now?” he said.
“Go ahead.”
“Why do you like this guy?”
She was quiet for a few moments, and he wondered if she had ever considered the question before.
“Well,” she finally began, “he is good looking, has a great body, and is fun to be around, but with me, there’s something more than that.  Not sure how to explain it, but for every person out there, I believe there’s someone else who fits perfectly with them, almost as if they were broken off.”
“Broken off?”
“Let’s say you had a china plate, and you broke it in half. If you took those two pieces and put them together, they would fit perfectly.  Every nook and crevice of each would be filled by the other.  A perfect seam.  If you took two halves from two different plates, you might be able to shove them together, put some glue on them, and call it a plate, but it wouldn’t be the same.  I don’t want to be that Jason – glued together and called a plate.  I want to find my broken off piece.”
“And you believe this guy is it?”
“In my heart I do.  I don’t know how I know it, and I don’t expect anyone to believe it, but you asked, and that’s my honest answer.”


----------



## 16205

An excerpt from Dréoteth. This is a snip from one of his journal entries:

_I sit here conflicted, licking my teeth, agitated in ways I have not been. These doubts are not me. This is not the way of Dréoteth. When did my loathing for humans turn into the kind of curiosity that makes me pause in the killing of them? Unthinkable. These indecisions are the path to annihilation. As much as I like to think otherwise, my kind are not invincible. We can be killed as humans can and given the motivation, they are capable of hunting us down.

Such unusual, pessimistic thoughts, these.

Dréoteth. _


----------



## donna callea

Just got a lovely review for my novel The Haircut, a New Year's Tale from kindle addict, in which she mentions the "thorns to feathers" theme in the book. So I thought I'd post a snippet that explains what "thorns to feathers" means.

From The Haircut, a New Year's Tale:

Misha was the angel of possibilities, the angel of new beginnings, who, if you believed in him, and made the best of what you had, could make the future better than the past. He brought a year full of hope to those who were brave and good and didn't give up, even when life was hard or sad. 

"Thorns to feathers." She repeated Misha's refrain to herself. Words that meant happiness could come from hurt- that those who are wounded may yet fly away. 

She and Gregori would say those words while they waited for Misha. "Thorns to feathers.''

And then they would tell their New Year's wishes to each other- and to the angel. Wishes of childish things. Of adventures. Of sweets and treats and freedom from the stings and hurts that shaped their lives. They would also remember to tell Misha at least one happy thing that had happened to them. A good thing that had come from bad, something that made them smile when they were sad. Like the summer afternoon they spent splashing in a secluded pond after Gregori's papa spent the morning blistering their backsides with a strap. Like the time she was sure she heard her mama's voice singing to her when she was locked in her room alone in the dark. Those were the kind of stories Misha needed to hear to ensure a happier new year.

Waiting for him, they would drift off to sleep, thinking about all the wonderful things that would happen, that were sure to happen. Soon. Very soon. 

Of course, they never did. And she was not a child anymore. Yet, deep inside of her, she still believed in Misha.


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## D.A. Boulter

From my short novella _Vengeance is Mine_:

"Bail, bail, bail!" The public address overrode the wailing siren.
Carlton Voss rolled from his bed, drugged by the trank and too little sleep. He automatically reached for the 'dote and swallowed it before stumbling from the small transient quarters room into the passageway. He fell against the bulkhead, unable to maintain his balance, as the bright lights of the passageway blinded him. Using the bulkhead for support, he fought his way down the passageway praying his head would soon clear. 
_Dauntless_ lay docked on the far side of the station. Which way to go? He stumbled again and stopped. He needed time; there was no time. The sirens screamed. Others ran past, ignoring him. Only the bulkhead allowed him to remain upright.
"Bail, bail, bail!" 
Bail? Immediate evacuation, head for the nearest ship, if you can't make your own? What had happened?
He clutched at a woman rushing past, squinting against the glare. "What's going on?" He noted she wore civilian clothes.
"You drunk?" She studied the stripes and badges on his sleeve. Her dark hair cascaded wildly in front of her face. He closed his eyes, hoping the place would stop spinning.
"No. Trank sleep. Can't get my balance."
"'Doted?" He nodded and she grabbed an arm, pulled it around her neck and pulled him with her down the passageway. Voss blinked in the flashing glare of red warning lights, equilibrium slowly returning.
"Better? Good. Up here. No, not the lift, the access shaft ladders."

Pilton's Moon/Vengeance is Mine


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## SimonWood

This is an excerpt from _*The Scrubs*_ (http://www.amazon.com/The-Scrubs-ebook/dp/B003DQNXTS). Amazon has discounted it to 99cents.

_An untidy twenty-foot high by thirty-foot wide elliptical rent gaped where the North Wall had stood. Melted stone drizzled at the edges of the opening, but quickly solidified. Beyond the hole, open countryside stretched out, disappearing at the horizon where London streets should have existed. It was after midnight, but through the hole, hazy afternoon sunshine fought to break through a yellow-green smog. The impossible visage shimmered as if viewed through a heat haze.

O'Keefe took Keeler by the arm. "Didn't I tell you there was only one Jeter?"

Keeler stared dumbly at the governor then turned to Jeter. The sociopath's body was frozen in a permanent contortion. Blood leaked from every orifice. He looked as if he was coming apart at the seams. Keeler didn't understand how Jeter could cause all this.

"What has he done?" Keeler asked.

"He's created the Rift. That's the name we've given the phenomenon. We wanted to probe his mind, try to understand the beast that lurks within man, and he produced this." O'Keefe smiled. "Fascinating, don't you think?"

"Yes," Keeler replied without a hint of sarcasm. For all the fear he felt, he still couldn't deny the amazing spectacle.

"Instead of telling us what he did to his victims, he created this," O'Keefe said. "The Rift is the world where his thoughts thrive."

Keeler glanced back over at Jeter's Rift.

"You wanted to know what you'd volunteered for, well here it is." O'Keefe pointed at the Rift and the world beyond it, "Through there are Lefford and Allard. We need you to find them. Bring them back and document whatever you can while you're there."

"What's through there?" Keeler demanded, but his voice lacked authority.

"We don't know." O'Keefe forced a smile. "That's why we're sending you." He patted Keeler on the back. "Go now, before Jeter breaks down." _

I hope people will read the rest.


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## pamelasthibodeaux

Here's a snippet from Tempered Fire - book 3 in the 4-part Tempered series

Tempered Fire 
© 2006
Publisher: ComStar Media
ISBN# 1-933866-08-X

*Conflict occurs when daddy's little girl grows up and finds love of her own....*

Craig lingered over a second cup of coffee on the clear October morning. The days were getting shorter already and cooler. Another year was nearly over. Amber had just rehearsed the evening's events with them for the hundredth time.

"Amber, we've been through this twice before already," he chided in a gentle, teasing tone. "Relax."

She fidgeted, unable to keep still for the excitement curling in her gut. Being Junior Maid on the Homecoming Court was not all that was causing her heart to flutter and her stomach to clench like a nervous fist. She was used to that, being both Freshman and Sophomore Maid before. But the boy she had noticed, really noticed, for the first time last night had her as nervous and excited as an untrained filly.

"I met the guy I'm going to marry last night," she remarked, raising sparkling eyes to her father's teasing gaze.

Her voice was soft, husky. Craig grinned. "Oh, yeah? Who's that?"

"Stanley Morrison."

She practically sighed over the name, Craig noted, his grin fading into a frown. "You can't date until your twenty-one or marry until you're thirty-five. What makes you think this boy will hang around that long?"

"By the time I'm thirty-five, you will be a grandfather," she assured, rising from her seat. "Several times over," she added, her smile smug.

Craig's jaw dropped and eyes widened as much from her remark as the way she looked, all breasts and hips and curves, with incredibly long legs in an extremely short skirt. He couldn't have been more surprised had she sprouted wings or horns. "You can't wear that, it's indecent!"

Tempered Fire is available on Kindle for only $1.99!


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## pamelasthibodeaux

Hi Readers!

Here's a snippet from Tempered Joy, book 4 in the Tempered series......

_*Can two young people who clash from the onset find happiness and joy admist tragedy & grief?*_

Tempered Joy
© 2008
Publisher: ComStar Media
ISBN: 1-933866-14-4

Alexis Jayne Morgan, better known as Lexie, frowned over at Ace Harris while her foster-father Scott Hensley, marveled on and on about Ace's accomplishments. Ace had competed in rodeos since before his freshman year, and won in every event from roping to bull riding. Now, as a junior, he held more titles than any other boy his age. Lexie grunted in a very unladylike manner, "A true cowboy."
"Lexie," Scott's voice held warning. 
She ignored his tone and turned to him, eyes wide. "Well everyone knows that rodeo cowboys have rocks for brains and a death wish for a soul," she remarked, her tone a tad too innocent.
"Enough, Lex," Scott insisted.
"It's okay, Scott," Ace interrupted. "It's obvious that she doesn't know what she's talking about." All afternoon he'd listened with his father while Scott talked of the return of their most recent foster child. He'd spoken fondly of the girl who had been in and out of their home for the past two years. 'She's bright and intelligent, smart as a whip. And, sadly, wise beyond her years.' 
Now all Ace could think was how moody she was. Within the span of an hour she'd gone from shy to happy to grouchy. Her opinion of rodeo cowboys grated on his nerves worse than the sound of a gate that needed oiling and challenged the very core of his identity. He met sarcasm with arrogance. "I'll have you know, Miss Ma'am, that I've won enough money in prizes and scholarships to pay my entire college education. And all the while I've maintained a four-point-o average."
"Well, what do you know a cowboy with a brain," she pushed her plate away and turned an imploring gaze on her foster-mother. "May I be excused?

Tempered Joy is available on Kindle for only $1.99!


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## Brenda Carroll

Another snippet from _The Red Cross of Gold XIV:. The Skull of Sidon_, recently released in paperback form at Amazon.com. Here the former Grand Master is scaring Sister Meredith with a late night tale about the dreaded skull:

_Night had fallen and the flashing light of a distant thunderstorm intermittently lit the dark recesses of Ramsay's 'lair' with bluish light through the open skylights. A candle, a Bunsen burner and an oil lamp burned on the table in front of them. It was the perfect setup for a scary story. Merry felt almost excited for the first time in a long time as she sat on the stool and filled two goblets with the dark red wine. The former grand master always made her feel young.
D'Brouchart sipped the wine and licked his lips.
"Perfect," he said after a moment when a rolling peal of thunder reverberated through the lab. "A fitting night for dark tales and secret rendezvous. This almost reminds me of bygone times when we were forced to meet in such places to plan and scheme for better days. Your Mark Andrew keeps a splendid old lab. Just like the Alchemists of old. But then, he is an Alchemist of old and his appearance befits his occupation. Deep, dark and mysterious. One can almost see him flitting about here with his flasks and beakers, hovering over bubbling pots of odiferous liquids, adding a bit of this and a bit of that until just the right mixture is accomplished and then... Voila`. A perfect martini."
Merry laughed and turned up her glass. "He has made some very interesting things here. Have you ever had the occasion to try some of the honey-gold liquid he makes for 'nervous distempers'? It packs a helluva punch."
"Oh, oui. I did have some once. Once. Mind you, I could have used a flask of it on that day. But that is another long story that we will save for another stormy night." He looked into her eyes. "You know I truly would have liked to have had you as a daughter-in-law. I believe that Simon would have been spared a great deal of pain if only it had not been for our indomitable Knight of Death. But it is and was and shall be, always, the will of God." He raised his glass to her as he looked towards the heavens.
She clinked her glass against his and nodded.
"Enough of this blithering," he said and his face took on a more somber expression. He looked up at the flashing lights beyond the skylight. "God's displays are wonderful indeed, but the perversions of man are boundless. The popular, or I should say the most well known story is rather simple. It seems that a certain Knight stationed in Sidon in the Holy Lands was in love with a young woman who died at a very tender age. Supposedly, this Knight was so obsessed by his unrequited love for her, that he disinterred her body after it had been buried and violated her. The first Knight Necrophiliac. A gruesome enough story." He glanced at her shocked expression. "But it gets much better. Supposedly Sir Necrophilia allegedly heard voices from the great beyond that told him to dig up the corpse nine months later and... Voila`. On the legs or thighbones of the defiled deceased, he found the hideous skeleton of a child born in the grave nine months after the death and subsequent fertilization of the dearly departed."
Merry coughed and choked and turned up her wine again, draining the glass. D'Brouchart refilled her glass for her. 
"You may wonder at my flippant attitude and with good reason," he continued._
http://www.amazon.com/Red-Cross-Gold-XIV-Chronicles/dp/145364217X/ref=sr_1_2?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1278892474&sr=1-2


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## donna callea

From New Coastal Times:

I was helping them settle in.  Darryl Hanna, who’d grown to like not living homeless on the streets and was extremely fond of his hospital digs, was assisting me.  Darryl, who’d given up smoking (not only because of Yvette, but because there was nothing to smoke) and drinking for the same reason, had shaped up rather well since Walter, if you ask me.  He was also among the last to be given a place on a military convoy to elsewhere.  Which was OK with him.  But many of the discount store residents resented the fact that he got to live at the hospital from the beginning.  It was no secret that the hospital was the best place to live.  The earliest arrivals (including us) got what everyone else thought of as primo accommodations.  Which they were, compared to the Wal-Mart or Target.  The hospital had beds (though no privacy whatsoever), couches in the lounges and lobby, occasional electrical power, and, of course, bathrooms.    The Wal-Mart and Target, where people slept on cots or in sleeping bags, had just the store restrooms, which were totally inadequate for the number of people living in the aisles.  Plus the only real laundry and shower facilities were at the hospital.  Anyone could sign up to use them once a week.  But it wasn’t so convenient if you happened to live at the Wal-Mart or Target.


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## 17284

_I licked three Tallys together, took out a head of gunge and broke it into a few bits to wrap a quick lumpy joint. I lit it and toked backwards for as long as I could. My throat chucked another fit and my lungs twisted into a fist and tried to punch out the smoke but I bit down on my tongue and held it in there, telling my lungs to shut the **** up or I'd pull the ****** out. I took another hard toke. My lungs had listened. Another quarter of Jack, more tokes, more swigs and a blackness that had nothing to do with night soaked through the back of my neck, went up into my head and filled the gap of air between my brain and my skull. I took the masking tape from my bag and wrapped it a heap and a half times around my arm, covering the eagle tattoo and its child's message. I got out the Stanley knife but didn't look at the razor blade that stuck out the end of it. I was watching my old scars from when I was seventeen and had found out I was God and tried to cut myself an ending because after one squiz at the earth I knew it was the only right thing to do. They were twitching across my wrist like a face remembering how to smile. _


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## LCEvans

This is the first excerpt I've posted from Talented Horsewoman, new on Kindle this month:


The branch-wielding woman showed no signs of having heard and, as Tinker raced past, she planted her legs wide apart and landed a solid blow on the filly’s rump. Without missing a beat, Tinker fired with both hind legs, just missing the woman’s shoulder. The filly’s tail swished and she swerved toward the training arena. 

By then I’d had time to conclude that the horse-chasing woman was Millie Destin, Rita’s neighbor from across the road. If she wasn’t careful she was going to end up getting kicked or worse.

I turned to follow Tinker’s movement, hoping she wouldn’t head back to Millie. As I tracked the galloping form past the barn, a bundle of rags on the ground barely merited my attention—until an instant later when I realized the bundle wasn’t rags. With a jolt somewhere in the center of my chest I stumbled forward.

"Oh, my God, it's Rita," Millie sang out, echoing my thoughts. She scurried over to grab my arm, her fingers digging in like pincers until I peeled her loose. I glanced sideways and noted her complexion was the color of an undercooked biscuit. Mine probably matched.

We moved closer and I saw that the figure was indeed Rita Cameron. Holding on to each other for support, Millie and I stared down at Rita. She lay on her stomach, her face pressed against the concrete that formed a parking pad in front of the hay barn. Blood had pooled around her head. 

I dropped to my knees and felt for a pulse in her neck. Nothing. I knew it might be dangerous to move her if she were still alive, but she wasn’t breathing. CPR might be her only chance, so with Millie’s help I rolled her over. Then I wished I hadn’t. Rita’s blue eyes were wide open and had taken on the blankness of dolls’ eyes. Her blood-caked face was tinged purple.


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## OliviaD

Here's a snippet from The Misguided Souls of Magnolia Springs.

_"Who? Where are you?" Sam asked looked into the darkness above Perry's head. "What is this?"
"This is your chance to get even, Sam," Falco told him. "Peregrin here is at a distinct disadvantage, you see? He has been neutralized, so to speak. You recognize him of course. The man who stole your fiancée and then made a fool out of you in front of the whole town. Your precious Maureen has fallen for a man incapable of loving her as you do. She is going to go to China with him. You will never see her again. Here is the only real threat you have ever faced, Sam. Someone who can ruin you financially, emotionally, professionally and physically. What would you do to him if you could? Would you kill him? The choice is yours, Sam. This is but a dream and he is part of your nightmare. You can do anything in your dreams. You won't be held responsible. No one will ever know."
Sam looked at the table and then at Perry. He blinked as the water dripped from his hair into his eyes.
"Your mother needs you Sam," Falco continued when Sam hesitated. "She will always need you. You will be expected to take over your father's business. She will never let you forget how she saved your life with the help of one of Mr. Aliger's little boxes. She had to beg for that box and from Mary McDaniels! If you kill him, everything will return to normal, Sam. He will be gone and the memory of him will be gone."
Sam put his hand on the hilt of the gun then drew it back as if it had burned him.
"I am not a cold-blooded murderer and this doesn't feel like a dream," Sam said into the darkness. "I don't know who you are, but I will not kill this man or any other for you. What has he done to you? Stolen your girl? Made a fool of you? No! I won't do it. I've been an idiot long enough. If Maureen doesn't love me for me, then there is nothing I can do about it. As for my mother, I will just have to live with it. I've been living with it all my life. To you, Mr. Aliger, I owe an apology. Notice I said I owe you an apology. Don't expect to ever hear one from me."_


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## Sharlow

Here's a quick snippet from my 0.99 fantasy thriller "Storytellers".


“Oh my.” Them paused from examining his trapped adversary. “I feel vaguely threatened.” He pointed, and two shadows flew at the oncoming swordsman. The first to arrive exploded into black mist as the great broadsword split it in two. The second did marginally better at avoiding the first swing, only to fall prey to its reverse.

The construct howled in victory, lifting his sword above his head.

“This is getting bothersome.” Three more shadows cautiously approached the construct with a wave of Them's hand.

“I spit at your demons, Wizard!” 

Targ chuckled, as the construct followed through with his threat, his spit sizzling against one of the nearest shadows. 

“Targ, he's rupturing!” Alena shouted, and pointed at the tracker construct. A large brilliance of sparkles filled the air where the Indian had been, completely outlining the shadows that destroyed it.

“Fine. It's time we play as dirty as Them.” Targ lifted his right arm, and pointed at the group of shadows. “Grendel, tear them apart.”

A large, trollish humanoid appeared outside the dome. Targ estimated the man was twelve feet tall once he stood straight. Its greyish-green skin was covered in rough scales, which themselves were blanketed in wicked looking spurs and spikes. The great giant gave a loud bellow, and smashed into the shadows that stood confused at the construct's appearance.

Two shadows were crushed into clouds of inky mist before they could react. Another was torn asunder moments later as Grendel lifted it above his head, and ripped it apart. The other four immediately began to swirl and spin into a vaporous substance, in an attempt to avoid the monstrous hands of Grendel.

“What the hell is that thing, Targ?” Alena sounded shocked. To be honest, he really wasn't certain. He just remembered reading a story about the creature in the past.


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## donna callea

From New Coastal Times, a seriocomic novel about survival, love, friendship and hope:

Sometimes I wonder if people during the Dark Ages ever looked at each other and said, Jesus Christ, have we all gone to pot, or what?  What’s wrong with us?

One minute Western Civilization is progressing along nicely.  Not just nicely, but impressively.  The Ancient Greeks outdo themselves in philosophy, medicine, drama, architecture, mathematics— you name it— to such an extent that several millennia later those of us with middling intellects still recognize such names as Socrates, Plato, Hippocrates, Euclid, Aristotle, Virgil and Homer (although don’t expect us to remember who’s responsible for what).

Then Rome rises and falls, and the next thing you know, Hagar the Horrible is in charge, and everyone is acting positively medieval.

Forget plumbing, forget sanitation, forget art, forget science, forget everything except what the church powers-that-be tell you to remember if you want to get to heaven.  In other words, it evidently doesn’t take much for the human race to do some serious regressing and go straight to hell, metaphorically-speaking.

I don’t know if the present situation is in any way analogous to the dawning of the Dark Ages.  I really don’t know all that much about history, except what I learned to pass the requisite courses, and then mostly forgot.

But I am kind of worried.


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## Edward C. Patterson

I haven't snippeted in some time (shame n me) and this will be a true snippet (short and brief) yeah! It's from The Nan Tu, and opens the chapter on the Miao-Liu Mutiny:

"Nighttime is brief but thorough, and when it falls, it steals our better vision. We stumble in the dark, feeling our way down unknown corridors in hope of finding the light that reveals our progress. Brief, night is, but thorough. It hides the dastardly deed, but not for long. When light comes, we must face nighttime's trace in the daylight. Then, we mourn the moon's passage in the burnished blade of the sun."

Edward C. Patterson


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## Brenda Carroll

A little piece of "Ful Circle", the latest installment of the Red Cross of Gold, Assassin Chronicles. For further reading, click on the book cover in the signature below.

_"You have stolen my last two magicians."
"I have done what I had to do, my lady," he told her and pushed himself up to stand facing her.
"Do you know who I am?" She asked him. Finally, a different question.
"No. I do not know who you are. Do you also want to know where my brother keeps his treasures?" He asked her somewhat contemptuously.
"I have learned what I need to know," she smiled at him. She was dressed in a close-fitting gown of black and yellow. "You do not know where your brother keeps his treasures."
"I have been telling you that for a very long time," he said and shook his head. "Why do you now suddenly believe me? Is this your game, Madame?"
"You really do not know who I am," she laughed. "And I thought you were only playing with me. Your brother never mentioned me? I am hurt. Deeply insulted."
"I don't recall that he ever mentioned you by description." Luke returned her smile. "Perhaps if you gave me your name, I may recall something."
"I am Queen Ereshkigal. Queen of the Abyss, I have been called at times. Reshki, he called me when he was feeling affectionate," she said. "I am she who rules the halls of dust and ashes."
Luke's eyes widened. So he was in the Abyss. That much he had guessed, but to be face to face with this powerful entity, surely his end would come swiftly now. She had played out her game and knew that he knew nothing. She would have no use for him any longer._


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## CCrooks

From L.A. Caveman







:
Hating the helpless look of her car dangling half off the ground, Telly forced herself into the evil-smelling nimbus of sweat and cigarettes that was the cab of the tow truck.
Dave hopped in. He just sat there looking at her. "What?" she finally asked, dreading what the answer might be.
"Pay up front," he finally informed her, grinning unpleasantly and naming the high price. 
She paid it, feeling trapped in a nightmare. 
Now it couldn't get any worse, she amended.
The trip lasted too long -- any amount of time would have been too long with him -- but she finally saw The Greasy Monkey, a surprisingly clean-looking repair facility.
Her last sight of Dave was of him patting the hood of her Mustang too familiarly and waddling back to his cab, hitching up dirty jeans.
She breathed in a heavy sigh of relief and turned, resigned, to face the next challenge of her miserable day.	
A drop-dead gorgeous "Fred with Tires" lookalike strode toward her, a serious expression on his slightly grease-smudged face. Her heart dropped to the pavement and bounced up again, thudding wildly. _It's him_, she thought. Her heart and body, in full agreement, homed in on him. _That one. That's the one I want._ 
He cocked his head, almost as if he'd heard her.


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## KathyBell

An excerpt from Evolussion, sequel toRegression. Evolussion does not come out til October, but Regression is still on sale for 79 cents!

It started slowly, quietly. Helped along by the fears of we the people, Three Eleven subtly changed the landscape of our lives. We handed them the world on a silver platter and they served us our freedoms, all packaged with tasty sauces such as universal health care, guaranteed employment, and conformity for all. In the name of safety, we surrendered our best and our brightest to the warm embrace of a loving mother company whose figurehead inspired an entire generation of gingertops.
It was bad enough when the company was secretive but productive. By going public, by announcing to the world they not only discovered the threat to our existence but had the means to combat it, they took their underground control of the world's economy and broadened it, no longer hiding their influence.


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## G.L. Douglas

First time posting on this thread. From Alpha Rising, page 188:

…In the midst of the solemness came the faint sound of harp music.

Star looked around. "What beautiful music."

Nova pointed to a bramblebush hedge and put her finger to her lips. "The spiders I told you about."

In the spiky black bushes nearby, glowing in the dark, a network of lacy white spider webs looked like spun sugar draped across the twigs and vines. Dozens of phosphorescent spiders, centered within their silken snares, performed like passionate maestros, their jointed legs skillfully plucking their webs like harp strings.


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## JimC1946

The heat reminds me of how much parents used to dread summers for their kids. Polio, a crippling and sometimes fatal disease that was transmitted mainly in hot weather, was rampant in the US until the late 1950s, when vaccines were developed. Today it's hard to believe how much Polio was feared, but I remembered it in my book Recollections: A Baby Boomer's Memories of the Fabulous Fifties







. I'll bet some of you older folks can remember lining up to take a little sugar cube.

The "big one" that parents feared most was polio, also known as infantile paralysis. The "iron lung" respirator was a symbol for this dread disease that had no vaccine and no cure. Caused by a virus, the disease crippled or killed tens of thousands of kids and young adults in the US. By 1952, the disease was epidemic, with almost 60,000 cases reported that year. Since most infections occurred in summers, many parents were reluctant to let their kids play outside until cooler weather came. And then, just like that, the threat was gone. The first effective and safe injectable vaccine was developed by Jonas Salk, and by the late 1950s, many kids were being vaccinated at their doctors and public health centers. The real breakthrough came in the early 1960s when Albert Sabin developed an oral vaccine. By the mid-1960s, entire communities were lining up at their local schools on "Polio Day" to take a little sugar cube holding a drop of the vaccine. Within the space of a few years, polio was virtually eradicated in the United States, and both parents and kids breathed a huge collective sigh of relief. It's hard to imagine today, almost fifty years later, what terror a tiny virus held for people then.


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## mamiller

A little snip from my romantic suspense, VICTORY COVE









For a moment he sat there, assessing her with the fixed gaze of a jaguar. Megan trembled under that appraisal and sank down onto the redwood chair.
He crossed his arms. "Okay," he began, "let's try this approach. Who do you think I am?"
_You were sent to kill me._
"I don't know." She wrenched in anguish.
Some of the tension slipped from Jake's shoulders. She thought he was going to reach for her and nearly leaned forward in anticipation of that sweet shelter.
Instead, he shifted so that his head could be even with hers-so that he could look her in the eye. 
"It's none of my business, Megan. But to me, it's obvious you're hiding from something out here."
"You're right." Panic gripped her voice. "It's none of your business."
Jake nodded in submission, and then reached out and turned on the bedside lantern. She flinched against the bright assault and blinked until he came back into view. 
_Oh God_. Why did he have to look like that? Dark and lean, with eyes that mirrored the glow of the antique lamp. He leaned even closer and she discovered that the gold was just an eclipse around large black pupils.
"Okay," he whispered. "One last question. And for this one I need to see your eyes."
Megan's breath hitched. In that second, she heard every throbbing beat of Wakefield House. The cadence of the rain. The tempo of the wind. The pounding of her heart.
"Yes?"
"Tell me," He paused, "In all honesty, do you think I would hurt you?"


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## Victorine

That was a great snip from Victory Cove.  Loved it!

Here's mine, from Not What She Seems:

She closed her eyes.  “Steven, please, can’t we just –”
“No, I’m sorry.  I can’t anymore.  I have feelings for you.  I think you already know that.  But I can’t keep seeing you, not knowing if you will ever be able to return those feelings for me.”
The seconds ticked by.  Guilt washed over her.  How could he have feelings for her after all she’d done to him?  And how could she ever be with him, living in his world, knowing the kinds of things reporters would say about her?
She shook her head.  “Steven, you have done so much for me.  Words cannot express my gratitude to you.  I could never in a million years repay you for the kindness you have shown me and my son.”  She took a deep breath.  If only she could take back everything, start all over again.  But that was impossible.  And if she allowed this relationship to happen, Steven would end up getting hurt.  His business might fail.  He could lose so much.  She stared at the floor, and her voice came out in a whisper.  “I’m sorry.  I don’t feel the same way about you.”
Silence filled the hallway.  Emily wondered if Steven was going to get mad.  He didn't look mad.  She searched his face for some kind of reaction.  Without warning, he leaned over and pressed his lips against hers.  Warmth spread through her, his lips moving against her own. She couldn't think anymore.  He pulled her close, and she found herself getting lost in the kiss.  An eternity passed before he broke away.  When he spoke his voice was calm and soft.
“Look me in the eyes, and tell me that you don’t have feelings for me, and I won’t bother you again.”
Her heart hammered against her chest, and her head reeled.  This couldn't happen.  She would ruin him.  She clenched her hands and forced herself to look him in the eyes.  He looked so vulnerable, so open to her.  Pain stabbed at her stomach.  She had to let him go.  “I’m sorry, you’re a wonderful person, but I—”  Her voice caught in her throat.  She couldn't say the words.  She took a deep breath and let it out.  “I don't feel that way about you.”

Vicki


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## Sharlow

So do you think people read all the way back to this page? Just wondering, and I almost feel like I've asked this before, a little like deja vu. So I bet I've asked this before.... sigh.


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## NoLongerHere

Bye


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## Carolyn A

A snippet from 'Every Little Step She Takes' - a book about sex, scandal, and survival.

The first time Richard Gessler gave me a bath, I was still a virgin. He was fifty-two and famous, and I was an unknown eighteen-year-old dance student. The tabloids would later claim that he targeted me from the start, but it’s not as simple as that. We had a mutual need and if it was seduction—if it was seduction—then by God, it was sweet.

For everything else that came after, I hold my share of the blame.


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## Edward C. Patterson

Hi all. Enjoying the thread? Great.

Here's a sm\ nippet (actually the opening paragraph) to my 3 hanky read, Look Away Silence

I am a child of Christmas. Some people are Easter-kids. Others get fired up over the Fourth of July or wax poetic for Arbor Day. Not me. Christmas has always been the focus of my year, because everything that has been good in my life has come down from the sparkling Yule Fairy and wrapped up in bows and striped paper. As little children, we wish for many things at Christmas - trains, bikes, Legos, baseball gloves and some, like me, asked Santa for an ironing board. Now that would bode well and never shock, except my name is Martin and not Martina, and . . . it quite put my Grandpa off his Monday Night Football. My mother was cool with it, otherwise she would have bought me a GI Joe and insisted I dig trenches and drop fake bombs over the chenille. However, I wouldn't have minded a GI Joe either, a fact my mother also sensed. So it was an ironing board for me. Vivian Powers' sissy boy was devoted to Christmas from that day forward. I knew there was a Santa Claus and his linen closet was impeccably arranged.

Edward C. Patterson


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## SimonWood

This is an exceprt from my crime collection, _*Asking For Trouble*_ (http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B003GIRSTY).

_Richard checked his watch. He hadn't realized. He was tired, but not from the lack of sleep. Michelle sat at the table next to him and picked up his notes.

"How's it look?"

"Expensive."

Michelle sighed and ran a hand through her tangled hair.

"Sorry." Richard tried to smile. Michelle did likewise. "I think we could cobble something together," he said.

"That's great!"

"It'll be tight, though. We'll no longer be in the position to reward ourselves-the chance to see the world, early retirement-kids." He let that one linger. "It's all gone now, if we go through with this."

She didn't hesitate. "Okay." She nodded. "What do we have to do?"

"Well, you know how I feel about them living here."

"Let's not go there."

"We could pay their rent for them, but we'd just be pouring money down the drain. However, we can just about afford to buy a small house."

Michelle beamed.

"It wouldn't be anything fancy and probably wouldn't be in the best neighborhood, but I think we could do it."

"I knew you'd work something out."

"I wouldn't be too happy. Maui is out of the question."

She flung her arms around him and crushed him in her excitement. "I don't care."

"Well, I hope you don't care too much about cable TV, dinners out, going to the movies, name brand foods or any new clothes."

"I don't."

"For all the fuss your parents have caused, it would be cheaper to have them killed."

And there it was. He'd said it-admittedly as a joke. It was an option, though-an option he hadn't consciously considered. It was a solution, an answer to his problematical in-laws. Michelle was too wrapped up in the moment and hadn't heard his joke. She cooed sweet nothings into his ear. _


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## julieannfelicity

Yay! Thank you for the opportunity!

Here is a snippet from my book The Kindness of Strangers by J. A. Titus:

"Aahhhh &#8230; I'ma gonna git you, girl &#8230; I'ma gonna git you." He taunted, almost giddy with the plans he had in his mind. "Oh, just you wait until I get you!"

The bitterness rose in his voice and she debated just giving in. She knew it would be the only way to get him to fall asleep long enough for her to have the chance to run away.

She pressed even harder against the wall, wishing she could melt into it. Wishing she had some sort of secret handlebar to make the wall turn into another room, like it did in the movies. Only there wasn't any handlebar and there certainly weren't any other secret ways of escaping, he would eventually find her if he continued his pursuit her closet wasn't that deep.


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## D.A. Boulter

From "Pelgraff":

They have said many things of us, some true.
  
We have been called criminals and outlaws.  Others called us: brutal, vicious killers who cared for nothing; a disgrace to our race; an insult to the memory of those who forged a new society after The Great Die-Off.  And they have said that we single-handedly returned humanity to the barbarism of the past.

Perhaps they had the right of it in some aspects, but we were much, much more.  

With war now touching more populated systems, Pelgraff largely lies forgotten.  But not by us who fought there, who saw our friends die there, victims of the enemy and of those who should have been friends.  No, we have not forgotten.  We shall never forget.

And we shall never forget the honours we received for buying desperately needed time with our youth, with our bodies, with our very lives.  Yes, the honours: scorn, vilification and banishment.

We have been reviled and then worse, forgotten, put from their narrow minds.  All they want from us, now, is silence.  They do not wish to be reminded that events proved us right and them wrong.  Perhaps that was our greatest sin—to be proven correct.

But I will not fade away.  Not yet.  Not until they are forced to give us our due.  Not until our side of the story is told.  Then I will slip into the anonymity that I crave.  For I, too, have needs.  I need to do the impossible: to let it go.


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## Five String

Great idea! Although it's tricky to find something short and sweet from your book.

_"Where can I find Arizona Douglas?" Neville asked. The bartender had his hands in the sink, washing glasses. He jerked his head over toward the office, or so Neville thought. The woman in the white sweat shirt had stepped out of the office again and watched the dancer, as if evaluating. Neville looked over at her. Was she management? If she was, the address connection Rex had given would sort of make sense.
"Her?" Neville shouted above the music, glancing at the woman in the white sweatshirt. 
The bartender seemed infuriated. He jerked a suds covered hand over and pointed. Neville looked. 
He was pointing at the dancer. 
The dancer was stiffly bent over backwards in some inept dance pose, her face in an expression that was probably meant to convey sexual excitement, but it just looked like she was grimacing with effort. 
Oh, great, Neville thought. Just great._


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## BP Myers

Been a while since I contributed, so here's one from my latest, titled _Swash!_

_As if reading his mind, the man who called himself Captain Hornblossom strolled into the wheelhouse. Clem and Perry both nodded their acknowledgment.

"Yer a foin skipper, Mister Johnson. A foin skipper indeed," Hornblossom said.

Clem nodded and turned back to the window, awaiting three quick flashes from a light that was his signal to pull up to the dock.

"If'n ye don't mind me askin," Hornblossom went on, "the name has slipped me mind. But what be the name of our other destination this evenin', the mercantile shop I hear so much about. Walleye? Wallfort?"

Johnson saw three quick flashes from the end of the dock and revved his motors to pull up alongside.

"Wal-Mart," he answered. "Superstore's just across the street. They got everything there."

Hornblossom smiled in remembrance. "Ah, yes. That be the place." After a moment, he asked incredulously, "Ever'thin', you say?"

Johnson nodded. "Everything," he answered, turning the wheel sharply to glide alongside the dock. "And then some."_


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## Sharlow

Heres a snippet from my $2.99 Fantasy Storytellers, Book 1

A cracked smile broke across the older man's face as he brought the staff down. With a loud thunk, the staff was stopped just inches from Targ's head. A large, nearly naked man dressed only in a loincloth and leather boots stood in the room with the two of them. His outstretched sword had deflected the blow.

Anger filled the man's chiseled face, and his muscles bulged as he easily forced the staff away from Targ.

The shock in the old man's face quickly turned to mirth, as he began to laugh and chortle.

"Stories cannot kill me, boy." He cackled, as tears came to his eyes.

The large muscular man seemed unfazed by this turn of events. He spat on the floor between himself and the old man. He lifted his sword for what was obviously a killing thrust, then shouted in a strange accent. "Now you die, Wizard! Taste my steel!"

The thrust was clear and straight. The old man made no attempt to avoid or block it, but continued to cackle at some unseen comedy in the room's events. Even as the blood began to flow from his body, and the sword struck, he laughed for a moment, before falling to his knees and to his right side on the floor. The large man pulled his sword free from the old man's body, and idly wiped it on the old man's filthy robes. He paused, and nodded to Targ, before running out of the room.


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## JoeMitchell

Here's a snippet from Shard Mountain, where one of the main protagonists reflects on his past mistakes...

Jake had been convicted of possession of a controlled substance within a school zone, with jaywalking added as a special bonus, he recalled bitterly. It’s not like he was selling heroin or cocaine to school kids... Someone might think that, from the charges, but it wasn’t like that at all. He was just walking home from the bar one night with a few drinks in him, when he crossed outside of a crosswalk and some asshole cop had hassled him about it, searching him and discovering a joint in his cigarette pack. From there it went worse, as he tried to convince the cop to chill out and be mellow, trying to talk bro to bro with the angry police officer. Instead of being cool, the cop had shocked him to the ground with his taser, then tased him several more times to make sure that he was properly subdued. Jake had spent the night in jail, then got his uncle to bail him out. He had to talk to a public defender about it, who said that he should plea-bargain, which somehow landed him on that prison bus with Officer Parker Boll. He thought it was all so very unfair, but nobody really cared. It was his dumb mistake, right? Obviously, he should have used the crosswalk.


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## Bar steward

Here is a random snippet from my book MEMOIRS OF A BAR STEWARD (Word count 197)

_Anyway, I can't let myself be distracted by this at the moment as its mission time. I'm ready to go and secretly mingle with the local yokels in The Queens Legs. I've taken off my slick glossy shirt and tie, put away my designer glasses, messed my hair up and I've peeled one of Millers crude t-shirts off of his bedroom floor. I didn't iron it (must fit in with the common people). I also managed to find a pair of his jeans which weren't caked in old crusty vomit, nor had an old pair of discarded skiddy pants left inside them. I ALMOST put on some aftershave but luckily didn't, they'll sniff me out if I don't spell of p*ss. Lucky escape.

Right, so now I look the part, well almost. My beard growing op has gone a bit awry. I've never tried growing a beard before, and all I've seemed to have grown is some bristle beneath my nose, which has a kinda Hitler shape about it. No time to shave now though, must dash. Watch out Queens Legs, big Cox is coming!_


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## michaelbalkind

A snippet from Dead Ball,the sequel to Sudden Death. (Both only $.99)

He pulled up next to the other carts and walked past the group of agents standing by the garden. He saw an arm protruding from under a bush and pushed his way through the surrounding men. Looking at the body, his heart skipped a beat. His gasp was loud and tears immediately welled up in his eyes. Lying there with a bullet
hole in his left temple and blood covering his face was Bob Thomas, Reid’s dearest friend and the Chief Financial Officer of The Inner City Sports Foundation and AllSport.
Reid’s eyes fluttered and he became light-headed. He needed to sit down before he collapsed. Too late. Two of the agents closest to him caught him as he crumpled to the ground.


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## Bar steward

Can you comment on the snippets here?


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## JoeMitchell

Bar steward said:


> Can you comment on the snippets here?


Judging by your snippet, I think you'll want to do another editing pass before you publish. I saw a few errors. People hate that. Don't worry, i was told the same thing by my sister acting as proofreader, after I'd already edited twice. I went back through it another time and I'm glad that I did, because i found a few typos that she had missed as well.


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## Bar steward

JoeMitchell said:


> Judging by your snippet, I think you'll want to do another editing pass before you publish. I saw a few errors.


What were the errors you saw, some of the misspelling is intentional due to it being a (fictional) diary and written as the character would write. I'm (suppose to be) working now, but later I'll go back and read over the recent snippets, as I think this thread is a good idea. I'll post my comments this evening


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## JoeMitchell

Bar steward said:


> What were the errors you saw?


Okay, just know that I'm only trying to help, and could even be wrong, given that I failed high school English class. Here's what I saw wrong:

"its mission time" is missing the apostrophe in the contraction.

"messed my hair up and I've peeled" probably needs a comma before 'and', since it's part of a longer list.

'one of Millers crude' - missing apostrophe.

"which weren't caked in old crusty vomit, nor had an old pair of discarded skiddy pants left inside them."
This just seems wrong to me...but, I could be wrong. 
I would have made it "which weren't caked in old crusty vomit, nor *did they have* an old pair of discarded skiddy pants left inside them." This might just be a matter of opinion though.

"they'll sniff me out if I don't *spell* of p*ss."

The only other thing is your use of 'growing op', which might confuse people who don't know what a growing op is, which I guess would be most people.

I understand that most of this could be deflected onto your character's writing a sloppy diary, but given the number of errors I saw in one paragraph, you should probably go over the entire book one more time before publishing.


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## Brenda Carroll

Here's a snippet from the Company of Women, the seventeenth installment of the Red Cross of Gold:. Assassin Chronicles:

_"Omar!" Lemarik swayed forward, ducked the blade and caught his son in his arms. "My beautiful son! How are your legs? Did you miss me?"
"They are still attached, Father," Omar beamed at him. "And I am quite proud of them for holding me up. And yes. I missed you terribly. I thought I would&#8230; I thought I would&#8230;" Omar frowned and squinted at Lydia who was still panicking over the dismembered fingers. "Luke. Do something with her!" He demanded and then smiled at his father again.
Luke tried to help Lydia and had to duck as she swung at him.
"Ahhh!" Lemarik frowned and held his son at arm's length. "Well we must be away from here now. More Formorians are climbing the paths from the sea and I have strange and tragic news from the overworld, but we do not have time for it now." He turned around and placed his back against Omar's chest. "Up you go, my son." 
The Prophet clambered onto his father's back as if he were a child of five or six and Lemarik started for the stairs.
Luke looked at his father and raised both eyebrows as if expecting the same thing. He held out his arms.
"Not on yur loife!" Mark Andrew snapped at him and followed after the Djinni.
Simon took the near-panicked Lydia by the hand, shot a disdainful look at Luke Andrew and followed Mark Andrew down the stairs.
"Ahoooh." Luke held up both hands as if frightened by the Healer's glare. "Save the old man and what do you get? Nothing. Not even a piggy-back ride. I was always a deprived child. That is why I turned out so bad. People throwing me down stairs, trying to kill me with golden swords, people talking bad to me. Little pointy-eared goblins shooting me with arrows, stabbing me with knives, sticking me with swords. It is enough to make a bad man turn good," Luke continued to complain sarcastically as they hurried down the stairs. "And worst of all, I catch a falling maiden in distress and what do I get? A slap in the face and a dirty look from a priest. What is the world coming to?"_


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## Edward C. Patterson

Bar steward said:


> Can you comment on the snippets here?


Snippets are for readers to enjoy and authors to display their wares. Authors commenting and critiquing on snippets in a constructive way should probably fo it in a PM so we can stay true to this massive topic.

- The Threadmaster.

Edward C. Patterson


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## Sharlow

Here's a snippet from Fallen Blood.

The sound of tires screeching as air brakes hissed announced an eighteen wheeler coming to a stop. A large, overweight trucker with a black baseball cap jumped out of his cab as it came to a full stop. "Does anyone need help?" The man yelled, as he stopped and stared at the dead officer and agents. Brian rushed up to him and looked him in the eyes.

"You're going to help us."

"I'm going to help you," The man repeated. "You want me to call for help?" He pointed at the bodies.

Brian shook his head as he lead Heather to the truck, "No, I'm sure they're fine."

The man looked at him blankly, then stumbled back to the truck and climbed in.

"Where to?" He asked.

"Just drive." Brian answered.

The man stepped on the gas and the big rig lurched forward.

Now in paperback as well.


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## Cliff Ball

A snippet from _The Usurper_

"The enemy is anyone who questions the word of the government and the KGB. They must be destroyed; nobody can be spared if they disagree," answered Gary.

"You know who is one of your enemies, Gary?" asked al Hussein.

"No, who?"

"One of your enemies is your mother. She doesn't agree with the government controlling peoples' lives, and she thinks
terrorism to control the people is bad. What do you think we should do with her, Gary?" asked Putin.

"My mother is an enemy?" Gary innocently asked.

"Yes, she will destroy all that we are working for. Again, I ask you, what should we do to people like her?"

"The enemy has to die as an example to others not to think for themselves and do what they want. If my mother is an enemy, she must die,"


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## mamiller

Here's a little snip from my romantic suspense, WIDOW'S TALE









"If you're looking for Serena, she's not here, she's downstairs."
Rebecca cocked an eyebrow and pursed her coral lips. "I know Serena's downstairs, that's why I'm here." 
Her wine-colored fingertips dragged along the edge of the dining room table as she sauntered back in his direction. "I wanted to talk to you."
Brett folded his arms over his chest and waited. 
"About what?"
"Well, I just think it's awfully gallant of you to be looking after Serena like this. I mean," she paused for drama, "there's a strong chance that she murdered your brother, and still you're here every night keeping an eye on-things."
He had no time for games, and if he did, this was not one he wanted to play. "What are you up to, Rebecca?"
One finger was perched by its pointed nail on the edge of the table, till with a snap it released and Rebecca stood before him, head tilted to the side. 
"I'm just concerned that she perhaps killed one Murphy brother-what's to stop her from going after the other? I think-" Rebecca stepped even closer, so close Brett could feel her breath. "I think it's not healthy for you to spend so much time with her."
Brett leaned over so that his gaze was even with Rebecca's. Her head tilted back and her lips went slack. 
"And it would probably be best for me to spend some time with you?" The ice in his voice went undetected by the redhead.
"Yes," she murmured, closing her eyes. 
"What gives you the impression that Serena killed my brother?" 
Rebecca seemed annoyed that he had ignored her blatant aggression.
"Serena didn't understand Alan," she said. "He had plans, great plans, and she never supported him on any of them-"
"But you did?" Brett's eyebrow inclined as the picture began to unfold. "Were you sleeping with Alan?" 
Amber flashed. Rebecca's gaze floundered for the briefest of seconds. Now totally provoked, she continued. "Look, I just came up here to warn you that Serena is the proverbial ice queen. She never put out for her husband and she'll never put out for you."
"But you will." Brett sneered and reached for the doorknob. He had had enough.
"Your concern for my welfare is touching, Miss Sorrenson. It's fortunate I don't have any other brothers for you to rifle through."


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## Sharlow

"Thanks, it's just something I threw on." I smiled at him as I climbed into the car, and yet the fact that he said something sent a thrill of pleasure through me. I couldn't help but wonder what was going on. Normally, I don't react this way to men. After all, these things never work out. I meet a nice guy who turns out to be a jerk, or they turn out to be okay, but then decide they're not interested in me. Typical Melissa date. I got used to expecting failure even before we would go out. After all, if I had no real expectations, how could I be disappointed when things didn't work out?

With Mike, things were different. I found myself wanting to have expectations. Hopes and fantasies played at the edge of my mind as he tried to make small talk with me. I just found myself wanting to get lost in his voice. The world passed by outside my window but all I really could do was listen, enraptured by everything this man I had just met said. Every time I answered a question, I wasn't sure what I had said, as my intent was to keep him talking so that I could just bask in the sound of that husky, silky voice.

"So, I hope you don't mind." he said, and I realized that I had missed everything he had just said even while I had sat there listening to every word he spoke. "Well. Do you?"

I smiled and swallowed before answering. "I'm sorry," I put my hand to my forehead. "I wasn't feeling right just then. Could you repeat that?" I smiled sheepishly.

He smiled that disarming smile at me, the one that made my stomach do flip-flops and just nodded as if he understood, then repeated himself as if it wasn't a problem.

"I said, I hope you love authentic French cuisine?"

You can get it here:
http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B003ZDO7NU/ref=cm_cd_asin_lnk


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## Edward C. Patterson

This is from the upcoming (September 2010) 4th Book of the Jade Owl Legacy series, _*The People's Treasure*_. It's a little advance peek for my Jade Owl fans.

Tangy Win, the Master of the _ke-ting_, had found love at last . . . in the heart of his cousin's family. Once he was the terror of Chinatown - the boss who controlled most every shady business on both sides of Grant Avenue. A businessman, true - restauranteur, antique dealer and pursuer of long lost relics, Xiao Win-t'o, with his dapper three piece gray suit, his fedora and silver tipped walking stick, was not a man one denied. He had come a long way from the Xiao Homestead, where his mother had encouraged him to come to America, seek out his father and try on a scientific hat rather than one of commerce. However, the Old China Hand had a distinct distaste for his eldest son. Win-t'o found America a good place to run wild. Even though his aunt took him in hand and taught him the ways of business, it was the black market that made an indelible impression upon him.

Such characters who bluster and bully and shake their canes at old women, as Win-t'o had done, are unlikely to change. However, Win-t'o's passion to ace his half brother in possessing the Jade Owl, and his own cocksure assault on the relic, nearly cost him his life. Death is a great teacher to a man who never considers his own, but only considers the demise of others. In that act - his charitable salvation at his younger brother's hands, Win-t'o realized that the underbelly of life would thrive without him. In that epiphany, he reflected on his past and inherited the legacy of the old Grandmother. Now, his half brother was gone, and the shadow of his sister had also faded. He was still Chinatown's don, but respected now by those with short memories. Others ran the underbelly, while he looked away, and while that was not necessarily a cleansing of the soul, it was a matter for the archangels in Chinese heaven to decide. 

Edward C. Patterson


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## Guest

Here is a snippet from *The First Dragoneer* by M.R. Mathias

"What is it?" March asked. He had to squint his eyes to block out the glare from the torch flame. "Is it a rock?"

"Only if the rocks in here grow fur!" Bren said as his arrow loosed at the thing.
The arrow struck with a thump and sunk deeply into the creature. Before March could take a breath, Bren had another arrow ready to fire.

"It's not rock," said March moving toward it cautiously. "And it stinks!"

"It's not alive," Bren stated the obvious. His arrow was still trained on the thing though.

They were relieved to see that it was just a dead deer. That relief faded quickly when they saw that it was only part of a deer. Half of it had been torn away, leaving a puddle of thick black muck that was littered with pieces of broken bone...


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## JimC1946

Another brief snippet from my book Recollections: A Baby Boomer's Memories of the Fabulous Fifties







.

Mothers had strange ideas about preventative medicine in those days. There was one barbaric practice in particular that still grosses me out. During the winter months, we had to submit to taking a daily teaspoon of cod liver oil. Think about it. They take a cold, dead, smelly fish, cut out its liver, and squeeze the oil and God only knows what else out of it. Then they put this vile stuff in a bottle, and with some ingenious marketing they convince parents that the stuff is good for their kids. So we held our noses and swallowed the stuff, followed by a big slug of orange juice or Hi-C, a juice drink made from oranges and citric acid (not bad, actually - we loved it). We always wondered why if cod liver oil was so good for you, grown-ups never took it. Cod liver oil is one of those childhood memories that's best forgotten.

JimC


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## tsilver

Here is a snippet from my book Nunzilla Was My Mother and My Stepmother Was a Witch









Each nun had her own unique style of rendering physical punishment. There was one who laid you over a chair and then made the sign of the cross over your behind before whipping you with her strap. Some swung wildly and let the strap or stick hit you wherever it landed. One nun asked you to "hold up your snoot" so she could hit you in the face. Another would take off her wooden sandal and use her weight to hold you down as she beat you. Occasionally, a nun lacking a strap or stick would get carried away and use whatever was at hand. One lost her temper and threw her keys at a girl, hitting her in the collarbone and breaking the skin. One nun was known to hit kids hands with her crucifix.

I once stuck my tongue out at a nun when her back was turned. She had been haranguing us, yelling at us, and being especially sarcastic. Unfortunately, the nun turned around and caught me. She gasped in shock and acted as though I had sinned against God himself. I worried that maybe I had, because the nuns had taught us that God spoke through them. It frightened me, knowing I had been blasphemous and was in danger of hellfire. I ran up the back stairs to the fifth floor landing outside the attic, got down on my knees, and prayed, "Dear God, if you will forgive me for the terrible sin I committed, I will become a nun."

That was the only time I contemplated such a life, but when God didn't show up in a cloud of smoke, I promptly forgot my promise.

Terry Gelormino Silver


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## Brenda Carroll

The following is a snippet from my up-coming release that is due out in September. _The Red Cross of Gold XIX:. How Men Do It_

_"Saints preserve us!" Simon muttered and drew up short in the doorway.
Jozsef stood on the top step of the keep. The sunlight glinted on his silky hair as it was whipped lightly by the morning breeze. Beyond him, inside the inner bailey and spilling over into the outer bailey was a great army. An army made completely of the great, hump-backed creatures that Mark Andrew called Boggans. Hobgoblins. They were mounted on horse-like creatures almost as hideous in appearance as themselves. The horses' faces were more like skulls than flesh and blood. Dark red embers burned in their eyesockets and each had a gnarled horn protruding between its batwing ears. The Boggans were all different shapes and sizes, ranging in color from darkest brown and black to light gray. Their neckless heads were covered with black and silver helmets with long strips of iron-studded leather hanging down their backs and they each held various forms of the mace and morning star, lances and long knives and scimitars with twisted black blades. 
"John du Morte!" The same words they had heard upstairs came much louder and clearer to his ears now. "John du Morte!"
Jozsef stood perfectly still, staring at the source of these two words. She wore a bright yellow gown with a flowing cape of black draped over her shoulders and trailing down over the horse's rump. On her head was a sparkling crown of gold, studded with red and green stones. Her dark eyes were wide set and intelligent and she wore a smile on her lips.
"Mother?" Simon heard Jozsef's whisper._


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## 13893

Here are the opening paragraphs to Space Junque -- Coming soon, but the first chapters are free at Smashwords right now.

========

Ghosts would stay off the roads. Why risk an encounter with Homeland Security? But when Char Meadowlark floored the Malibu, their heads popped up all over the fields along Baseline Road. _Don't hit anybody. Don't hit anybody. Don't hit anybody._

By the time any of them realized she wasn't IHS, she'd be out of range even if one had a vehicle. She just hoped some ghost kid didn't wander out in front of her.

This stretch of putrid fields was condemned by the EPA. While the corporate owners appealed court orders to clean the site, the tainted rice and flax had become home to ghosts and vermin and great white herons. It was said the fields were so polluted that raptors wouldn't hunt here.

Not that Char believed that stuff about raptors.

At the train tracks a heron perched on the listing stop sign. No train would come, but out of habit she slowed. The bird seemed to disapprove of her classic 2031 Chevy. Yeah, its oil-based fuel system was embarrassing, but she had the carbon credits.

Besides, she had to make the launch, and she had no other way to get to the airport.

Smoke billowed up from downtown Sacramento, black on gray rising into the orange afternoon sky. She slid the zoom on her sunglasses' camera and projected the image onto the windshield. 801 K Street was burning, flames shooting through smoke on the top floors.

Mike had better be right that the launch was still secure.


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## D. Nathan Hilliard

This snippet is from The Ways of Khrem...Part II: The Cistern

I realized I had been all wrong about the nature of this creature.

Because of the ghastly face, I assumed it must have been some form of fish. And considering the way it chose to stay underwater while watching me on the ropes, it was a reasonable assumption to make. But on land, the body behind that head turned out to resemble the sea lions that basked on the rocks below the Cambriatic Sea Wall every spring.

On the other hand, none of those animals sported the spines or jaws of this monster. Nor were they anywhere near this big. Water hissed as it ran off its giant flanks in rivulets, and the loud smack of its thick hide against the stonework filled the chamber. Its pale skin possessed an almost rocklike texture due to the barnacles and various growths covering the beast.

The titan and I stared at each other across the short gap between us-in a room that suddenly felt much smaller-and I tried to remember the last time I had even come close to dying this stupidly.

True, despite this beast's bulk, it was awkward and not really suited to move on land. As a matter of fact, I'm sure that some able-bodied swordsman like Captain Drayton would have a reasonable chance of defeating this monstrosity. But this creature wouldn't be facing off against a tall Captain of the Watch with his trusty sword.

Nope. Not this lucky fellow.

This giant from the depths was going to be squaring off against a pint-sized moron with delusions of heroism&#8230;and a big spoon.

"GRRRRRROOOOOOORRRRRPP!" Ole Toothsome croaked happily as it started slide-waddling its way towards me.


----------



## Brenda Carroll

Here is a snippet from my upcoming release, due out in September on Kindle.

The Red Cross of Gold XIX:. How Men Do It

_Luke frowned at the Djinni and then blinked at the glinting blade of the dagger in his half-brother's hand.
"What? Are you going to kill me now?" Luke asked him and really didn't care. He'd fight the Djinni, if that's what he wanted to do. He'd fight Jozsef and Lemarik. He'd fight Jozsef and Lemarik and Simon of Grenoble and Anna and the whole rotten bunch. He really didn't give a damn.
"Oh. No. No. No. No. No." Lemarik swayed across the floor toward him. "I want only to express my gratitude for what you did for my beautiful son, Omar. I have learned from him that you would not leave him in his time of need. He has also told me that you vanquished the Scorpion Lord and that you also slew the rogue, Michael Townsley. These are great deeds of valor and you should be proud of your accomplishments, Son of Adar. I have procured this dagger from Anna. It is one of the treasures of Briton, taken from the tomb of Myrddyn, the great sorcerer of King Arthur. I know that your father would want you to have it."
Luke blinked at him. Lemarik had a strange way of turning things, even evil things into good simply by supplying a different perspective. His drunken mind tried to make the switch from depression to satisfaction at receiving such accolades and compliments from Omar's father. He would never have believed it possible to win the respect of the Mighty Djinni.
The Djinni laid the beautifully carved dagger on the table in front of him. Its staghorn handle was covered with carvings of running deer and archers portrayed in the hunt. The silver and gold blade was covered with intricate etchings of mystical beasts with fierce faces._


----------



## John Brinling

Love the idea!

Here's a couple paragraphs from my novel "Quarantine." A SciFi thriller with a cast of mutants, immigrants and aliens. It doesn't pay to be normal in the land of Uhuru.

Aboard the Ine Vessel Regulus II, the blue and green and white lights in the control room flashed at random intervals. The eerie whine of the engine droned constantly, part of the other background noise. Out the starboard portal was Earth, ringed by dark, photochemical clouds.
"The Mbili vessel will arrive shortly," Rak said, moving over the control panel laid in the floor. "I want to know the results of the test before then."
His lone companion, Arak, his son, stared at the cloud covered sphere through a starboard porthole, nodding slowly, his excitement intensifying. "We will enter Earth's atmosphere momentarily. Sixty Earth minutes later we will know."

"Quarantine" by John Brinling
https://www.amazon.com/dp/B003ZSHNUO

I have a more standard action adventure/mystery/thriller also out on Kindle. "The Ghost Of A Flea."
https://amazon.com/dp/B003WQBD96

Thanks for the forum. Enjoy reading.
John Brinling


----------



## D. Nathan Hilliard

This snippet is from Death and White Satin .

"C'mon, girl. Pick up," she muttered as she squinted at the labels. Her reading glasses were at home, and the glare from the stores bright fluorescents didn't help. "I'll let you get back to sleep as soon as&#8230;"
"Marge!" 
For a second, the older woman had a hard time recognizing the harsh whisper on the phone as belonging to her son's fiancée.
"Jessie? Is that&#8230;"
"Marge?" her voice sounded like she was whispering and trying not to cry at the same time. "Where are you?"
"I'm at the corner store," she put down one of the jars and repositioned the phone, "right down the street. Are you alright? What's wrong, honey?"
"S-She's here!"
The statement carried an edge of hysteria that sent a thin trickle of ice down Marge's spine.
"Who's there, honey? Do you need to call the police?"
Nothing but tight whispered gasps answered, the sound of somebody trying not to hyperventilate. Then Jessica returned.
"It's cold! A-And there's dust and cobwebs everywhere! And the dress&#8230;she's back in her dress!"
The thin trickle turned into a river.
"Who's back in her dress?" Marge abandoned her cart and started pushing towards the front of the store. What in God's name was going on back at her house? She thought Jessica had been asleep. "Jessica, you're having a nightmare. Wake up!"
"I'm awake, Marge," the voice whimpered. "She's really here. I think she's dow&#8230;.rs&#8230;.."
Static fuzzed the connection then her voice returned.
"&#8230;scared, Marge. I d-don't know what to do."
"Get out of the house!" 
"I'm - I'm trying. But I've got to see what's at the bottom of the stairs."
"What?"
"The stairs&#8230;Marge." The whispered voice gulped. "I don't want to just&#8230;OH MY GOD!"


----------



## OliviaD

Here's a little snippet from The Misguided Souls of Magnolia Springs wherein you can see that nothing good is going to come of this even if Tyler does work for the power company :

_Tyler got up and pulled the chair across the room to place it under the fixture. He stood in the seat and removed the milk glass cover while his aunt went to get a new bulb.
"You get what you pay for, Aunt Mary," he told her knowing full well that she bought her bulbs at the Dime and Dollar General Mercantile.
"Do be careful up there," she said as she returned with one of the cheap bulbs to stand below him. "I do believe that they don't make light bulbs like they used to. But three bulbs in one week... why I could go into debt just trying to keep the lights on. Did you know that a three-way bulb costs almost seven dollars? You'll not see Mary McDaniels paying that much for one bulb."
"Here's the trouble," Tyler said as he inspected the antique porcelain fixture. "It's all full of cobwebs in there. Hand me a spoon or something to get them out."
"You be careful now," she said again as she rummaged through her perfectly arranged spoon drawer to find a teaspoon with daisies on the handle. "Those old wires were installed by Moses."
"I know what I'm doin'," he assured her. He took the spoon and began to poke at the spider webs. Dust and cobwebs filtered down to the floor. "You just got to know where to poke and not poke."
"Oh, dear," Aunt Mary muttered as she watched the mess accumulating on the floor. "Let me get my broom."_


----------



## Joyce DeBacco

A snippet from Rubies and Other Gems - the Novel, women's fiction with a time-travel twist.

His face hardened. “Where the hell have you been? Do you think you can just come and go as you please? I was worried sick about you.”

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to worry you.”

“I want to know the truth, Lily, all of it. Where you’re from, how you manage to show up here out of the blue, and why the hell you only wear one, damn earring!”

“That’s one of the reasons I came back, Daniel. To explain. But I’m afraid you won’t believe me even after I tell you.”

He crossed his arms, his expression unchanged. “Try.”

Lily took a deep breath, and what spilled out of her mouth sounded as farfetched to her as it did to him. “I’m from the future, Daniel. And this earring and brooch are from the past. For some reason, whenever I wear them, I travel back in time. I don’t know how or why it happens, and I don’t seem to have any control over when it happens. I just feel it coming on when I’m at rest.”

She waited for him to respond. But all he did was stare. Then he burst into a hearty laugh that nearly knocked him off his chair.

“You expect me to believe that crock?” he said, wiping his eyes.

“Daniel, it’s the truth.”

“You must have been nipping at some powerful brew, girl.” He laughed again.

Lily tugged her phone from her overstuffed pocket. “I have proof. Look. Do you recognize anything?”

Daniel leaned forward in his chair, mesmerized by the photos she’d shot of the housing development that ran along the highway. “How did you do that?” he said in awe. “What kind of gadget is this?”

“It’s a phone. And it’s a camera. And—it does other things that I won’t even try to explain right now. It was invented years and years in the future. Now look again, and pay particular attention to the next frame.”

He watched, his brow wrinkling in confusion. “Where is this place?”

“It’s right here, the town and valley the way it is now. I mean in the future, my time. See here. It’s where your livery and blacksmith shop used to be. It’s a huge complex filled with modern automobiles now. And here, where all these cars are parked, is where you sit and rest. Only the tree you sit under has been chopped down and the land paved over to make a parking lot.”

End of snippet. Thanks for reading and I hope you'll download the sample with the first few chapters.


----------



## Sharlow

Here's a snippet from my newest book, "Shades of Twilight."

The lights came back on in the theater, and still half the people hadn't left yet. The first portion got up and left the moment the credits came up, but the rest sat in their seats and talked about everything they'd just watched. A few of the last people leaving let their eyes linger on Michael as they walked out, but most didn't even seem to notice him any longer. I guess they were more wrapped up in their new world of vampires and werewolves. I couldn't blame them, really. Bella's world looked all romantic and fun. Somehow even with a horde of vampires trying to kill her, the movie seemed to make it a cool thing. I realized that, had I been Bella and that was my life, it wouldn't seem so cool anymore. At the moment, though, it did. Her romanticized life seemed preferable to mine, and yet a part of me knew I wouldn't leave mine right now even if it were possible.

I looked over at Michael to see him sitting there staring at me. I wondered what he was thinking, if he thought I was his Bella, or was he just amused that I had the need to escape into fantasy. I noticed a kernel of popcorn stuck on his shoulder, then one in his hair, and couldn't help wonder how they got there.

"Are we done yet?" He asked with a bit of hope in his eyes. "Or are we going to go get another ticket and watch it again?"

He looked so adorable right now, just sitting there with popcorn in his hair. I wasn't sure what it was or why he so appealed to me right then, but without thinking I found myself pressing my lips against his silky soft ones. His lips warmed to the touch of mine, as we kissed.


----------



## Michael Crane

A snippet from the short story, _The Roller Rink_ from *IN DECLINE*:



> Life got complicated for me in Fifth Grade. A day where at Computer Lab, Doug asked me, "So, who are you going to ask to skate with you?" We were going to the roller rink for a field trip and it was a week away. This was the first time I had heard anything about having to skate with somebody.
> 
> "What?" I asked, thinking that somehow I misheard the question.
> 
> "You know. Who are you going to ask?" His red nose scrunched up as he snorted. "Everybody skates with somebody." At the time my attention had been focused on the computer screen in front of me. We were learning how to type without looking at the keyboard. The program we were using had a crappy animated dog that would walk closer to a bone every time you typed a word correctly. When you mistyped a word, he'd take a step back and if you typed enough words wrong, he'd run into his doghouse and refuse to come out. Needless to say, my dog was spending way too much time in the doghouse and it was p****** me off, but at that moment that was the least of my worries.


http://www.amazon.com/In-Decline-stories-ebook/dp/B003VD1FXY/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&m=AG56TWVU5XWC2&s=digital-text&qid=1278854328&sr=8-1


----------



## Guest

This is from "The Sword and the Dragon"  page 505

“Oh mighty mushrooms!” the little man chirped.  “Let me be, let me be!  I done naught to deserve to be a white furred monster’s turd!”
    Mikahl looked at Hyden and Vaegon in turn.  Hyden was busy soothing the wolves, but Vaegon looked just as shocked as he felt.  This only served to further Mikahl’s sense of disbelief at what he was seeing and hearing.  This was the forest that Vaegon called home.  Nothing in it should surprise him.  But this did.
    “Let him go!” Hyden ordered Talon aloud.  The hawkling obeyed but only stepped back off of the little man.  Talon kept behind him, ready to snatch him back up should he try to make a run for it.
    The little guy stood up and dusted his britches off indignantly.  They were a faded green color, as was his vest.  The garments looked to be made from frog skin or maybe leaf lizard hide.  On his tiny feet were leather sandals and his hair and beard were gray and neatly trimmed.
    “Who?  What are you?” asked Hyden.
    “I’m minding my own business is who I am!” He chirped back angrily.  “What’s a sorry lot like you bothering with peaceful folk out here anyway?”
    “Sorry lot!”  Mikahl shot as he sat up and loomed in on the little man.
    Little man pointed at Vaegon first.  “An elf who can’t see straight and a wizard who can’t read.” His finger had moved to Hyden.  Then he pointed at Mikahl.  “And what’s this?  A king with no kingdom!” the little man clutched at his belly and laughed with mock hysteria.  “Callin ya a sorry lot is bein far too kind!”


----------



## Cathymw

Thanks for this thread idea, Edward!

A scene from my new mystery novel, _Dead to Writes_:

She was tired of telling people she was innocent, tired of explaining that she didn't know anything, tired of saying that the investigation was ongoing. But her agent's call almost did her in. He was so cheerful. "Good morning, Cassie," Aaron trilled. "How is my most famous author today?"

She actually lowered the cellphone and stared at it in disbelief before putting it back up to her ear. "Tell me you're not happy about this situation."

"All publicity is good publicity, Cassie. How many times did you hear 'Cassandra Ellis, author of _Mailbox Murders_' yesterday? People are _so _going to buy the book today! Tonight's book signing is going to be a huge hit, I'm sure. Too bad people's attention spans are so short. I wonder if they'll still be talking about this Wednesday when you're on the cable show."

She smacked her hand on the kitchen counter. "Aaron. Someone has died. This is not a sales opportunity."

He sighed. "Cassie. You barely knew the guy. This is so totally a sales opportunity."

"What, you want to have a death sale or something? Ten percent off the book if you mention Seth Montgomery by name? Twenty off if you know something about the murder?"


----------



## SimonWood

This is a snippet from Road Rash available from Amazon (http://www.amazon.com/Road-Rash-ebook/dp/B003DZ1EU4) and Smashwords (http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/1155.

Enjoy.

_The Caprice Man's fingers clawed the ground in an attempt to reach Straley. Then he dug with his legs and gained traction. Straley backed away, scrabbling on his butt, and the broken man gave up. He looked at Straley through bloodshot eyes and croaked, "Help me."

Straley shook his head again.

There was no helping this guy. If Straley tried to save him, he screwed himself. It wasn't an option. If he took the Caprice Man to the ER, the cops would take him down. Why the hell he was even thinking about hospitals? This guy was screwed. He was dissolving. No doctor on earth could save him. There was no point. This guy had minutes at most. He couldn't save the Caprice Man if he tried.

The Caprice Man repeated his plea.

The sound of the Chevy grew louder in Straley's head. The idling V8 missed a beat and then recovered. Who was to say the engine wouldn't cut out all together? He jumped to his feet and clambered up the ditch.

A spurt of energy fed the Caprice Man's dying body and he lunged. He caught one of Straley's heels and Straley slid back down into the ditch. The Caprice Man slapped a raw and bloody hand on Straley's wrist.

"Help me," he demanded.

"I was going to get help," Straley lied. His gaze fell from the old man's battered face to the hand clamped to his wrist. Partially clotted, jellified blood leaked between the man's fingers and ran down Straley's wrist. _


----------



## tsilver

Here's a brief snippet from my memoir Nunzilla Was My Mother and My Stepmother Was a Witch







, my story of growing up in three Ohio orphanages in the 1930s.

_One of my more memorable play-acting episodes started out sincerely enough but then I guess the devil got into me. I stepped outside myself and thought how holy and religious I must look gazing at the statue of Mary. I wondered if the girls around me had noticed and were as impressed with me as I was--especially with the light streaming down on me from the stained glass window up above. To ensure their admiration, I decided to enhance the drama a little bit more and made myself cry while staring with rapture up at Mary. It was enough to convince the girls around me that I was having a profound religious experience. They were so moved that they began to cry in sympathy, although they didn't have a clue as to what was really going on. I don't know what pleased me more--looking so holy to the other girls, or knowing I had the power to affect others' emotions._

Terry


----------



## Christine Merrill

Thanks for coming up with this thread, Edward.

Here's a snippet of

Need to Know

It was at times like this that Harper really missed his desk. It was so much nicer to be in a cool, clean office, bored stiff and staring at a computer monitor, than out in the field where anything could happen.

Where's the money, Eddie?" Max's voice was still calm, but he was losing his temper.

Eddie didn't answer. He just grinned, showing a lot of yellowing teeth.

Max slapped him hard across the face, and the smile disappeared. "Maybe you didn't hear me, Eddie. I said, Where's the money?' You had a suitcase. Red Samsonite. We saw you come in here with it. We have pictures."

Eddie said nothing, and Max slapped him again.

It was such a nice desk, Harper thought. Not much space in his cubicle. But it seemed larger than the hotel bathroom the three of them were crammed into. Of course, his cube didn't have poor Eddie, stuck on the can, smelling like sweat and cigarettes. He took up a lot of the space.

Max repeated his question again. And the slap.

Eddie continued his smug silence.

Harper leaned back against the sink and willed himself to stay calm. Somebody in the room had to stay calm. Max was beginning to sweat. Beating the man on the toilet was spoiling the lines of his expensive suit. Max couldn't stand looking less than perfect. It made him crazy.


----------



## D. Nathan Hilliard

Here is a snippet from my latest release...The Passage of the Coral Horn

The crew moved with the speed born of both eagerness and anxiety, hauling on the ropes to pull the two ships tighter together. Topai moved among them, making sure the lines were secured properly.
"Okay," the Captain spoke in a hushed tone. "We want to do this fast and right. We're going up there, and doing a quick search of the deck. Barnas you take two men forward with you, I'll take two men aft with me. After we cover the main deck, we'll move down into the lower decks and holds.
"Topai," he continued. "You stay on the Horn, along with Croe, Pelig, and the boy. Cover that last lantern. It won't look right to the Tagarr out there, sitting beside the shadow of the ship instead of on it. We'll break it out again once we've secured the crates of silk and we're ready to move them to the Horn. Croe, take your station at the tiller. We're lashed tight but we might need to change that in a hurry."
"Aye." 
Men moved with purpose in the dark, two scurrying up the ropes to the deck of the big ship and dropping a rope ladder for the rest below. 
Croe gestured at him, and Ros followed the steersman aft, where the two of them could watch the activity from a distance.
"They ain't even looking for survivors now," the old man muttered where only Ros could hear. "Gods help the poor bastard if they find one."


----------



## CCrooks

Sarah revved her engine an extra couple of times as she eased her hot-rodded Mustang into the head of the staging lanes. She was next up for her pass down the track. As always, anticipation made her pulse thrum with excitement.

Drag racing was so mind-clearing. To launch quickly, drive fast, and get there exactly as quick as the elapsed time shoe-polished on her window; that was her idea of mental therapy. Never mind the expensive shrinks other women paid to make their vacuous lives more palatable. Give her 1,320 feet of straight road and a fast car.

Thrill of the Chase







- $2.99


----------



## Gordon Ryan

Snippet from the latter pages of my latest political thriller: State of Rebellion Book Trailer

As Rawlings turned to see Colonel Connor's reaction to the president's comments, the sound of two gunshots reverberated throughout the chamber. It took several moments for most of the assembled politicians to comprehend what had happened. Rawlings turned quickly to look at the podium, where pandemonium had broken out

Secret Service agent Cynthia Randall, positioned off to the president's right, reacted to the shots by drawing her weapon and leveling it at a man standing in the third row of the senatorial pews, holding a pistol. She acted too slowly. Before she could fire her weapon, Senator Malcolm Turner, Democrat from the state of California, shouted, "For California!" and turned the pistol on himself, firing the third shot into his own mouth, splattering those around him with blood and fragments of brain tissue.

Instantly on his feet, Daniel Rawlings' last view of William Eastman was of the president lying on the dais, blood running down the right side of his head, his body inert behind the lectern as Secret Service agents swarmed around him. Other agents literally lifted the vice president from the second level dais and carried her out of the chamber through the rear door. As animated as their actions were, Dan's vision of Secret Service agents surrounding a wounded president was compelling-a moment frozen in time that Daniel Rumsey Rawlings would retain for the rest of his life.


----------



## vwkitten

Okay It's been a while but here it goes:  This is a snippet from the new upcoming book in the PSI Consulting series named Poor Unfortunate Souls -- 

“No, wait,” Jordan chuckled at Marcus.  “I’ve got to know.  The fireworks in the television.  That was new.  When did you wire that up?”

“I thought you did it,” Marcus looked at Jordan blankly.

“I did it,” Damian stated matter-of-factly.  “You said I could add some pyrotechnics.  I just blew up the inner circuitry for some extra sparks.”

Jordan’s eyes widened and he stared at Damian as the room got quiet.  “You blew up the fifty inch plasma television for some extra sparks?” Jordan choked back what looked almost like tears.

Pete watched the two square off until the little spitfire, Rianna stepped between them.  “Ah come on, it was broken already anyway.”

“And,” Tiara still snickered from the couch, “it’ll give you a reasonable excuse to go get the bigger one.  Aren’t they sixty inches now?”

“Sixty-four actually,” Pete piped up.

“Seriously?” Jordan’s eyes cleared and he regarded Pete happily.  Then Jordan turned serious eyes back on Damian.  “Still, a little respect for the plasma, man.”

“Why, is it more volatile that I thought?” Damian asked Jordan.

“No, Damian,” Tiara put a hand on Damian’s arm.  “The plasma is more revered as a symbol of manhood.”

“I see,” Damian nodded apologetically to Jordan with only a slight twitch of his mouth.  “I am sincerely sorry that I messed with your man symbol.”


----------



## traceya

Here's a small snippet from Ursula's Quest:


Ursula's small chamber, like all the other private accommodations within the cavern, was set high in the walls overlooking the central area beneath.  There were several of these caverns dotted around the edge of the cavern, reserved for those in positions of leadership or given to those few families that had managed to escape intact from Ulrich's ever increasing tyranny.  
The floor below of the subterranean complex was divided into several sections.  The central and by far largest section of the complex housed rows and rows of hastily constructed cots where the Knights of Ilmater and the monks of the Black Lotus slept side by side with the other Vestland refugees.  Behind the large sleeping area was a short tunnel which led to a wide, open space with access to some of the many underground springs that ran through the complex.  The floor there was dotted with several small pools in the rock making it ideal for bathing even if it was slightly lacking in privacy.  It was not an easy life in the caverns yet Ursula thanked the gods daily for providing such bounty.
Beyond the sleeping area, through another short tunnel, was a large work area divided into two sections.  The larger of the two sections was used by the monks and knights to continue their training and daily exercises, an essential precaution given the current state of The Kingdoms.  The smaller part contained a small medical facility and a hastily constructed altar to Ilmater.  Nearby, accessed through yet more tunnels were other areas set aside for the preparation of food, study of the scrolls both ancient and new, and other essentials of daily life in the caverns.
Clever use of the cavern's natural curves had created storage areas where food, weapons, blankets, and medicinals were stored for communal use.  The well stocked subterranean caverns were a tribute to the farsightedness of the Black Lotus monks and Solomon’s leadership.  They had seen, far in advance of anyone else, the need for a place of refuge and had spent much time in secret preparation.


Only $2.99 on Kindle


----------



## R. Doug

I like "Ursula."  I even married an "Ursula."  Been married to one for over thirty-one years, now.


----------



## Joyce DeBacco

A snippet from Rubies and Other Gems - the Novel.

Outraged, Lily lashed out with a well-placed hand to the girl’s cheek. “I told you not to speak to me like that. I’m your mother, dammit, and you better show some respect or get out of my house.”

The minute she issued the ultimatum, Lily knew she could never enforce it. Surely, Sam would have something to say about kicking his daughter out. Suddenly, support came from an unlikely source.

“Molly!” Sam said from the hallway. “You apologize to your mother this minute!”

Molly turned to her father, her eyes filling up at the rare reprimand. Then, lips quivering, she mumbled, “Sorry.”

Feeling more like the instigator than the offended party, Lily nodded her acceptance of the forced apology. She wanted to say that she, too, was sorry, but her throat was clogged with her own tears.

Leaving both husband and daughter in the kitchen, Lily fled to her room. She was only seconds away from erupting into tears when Sam entered. Unable to face him, she turned her head to the wall. “I’m so sorry,” she murmured. “I really didn’t want to get into it the first five minutes she was home.”

He busied himself by putting his socks and underwear back in his dresser drawer. “Mmm,” he said, neither agreeing or disagreeing.

“And I shouldn’t have threatened to kick her out. I know you’d never allow that.”

He paused. “To be truthful, I don’t know what I would have done. She’s just a kid. She talks before she thinks. That’s what kids do.”

He finished putting his drawer to order, and then left. No more was said on the subject, but Lily knew in her heart, if push came to shove, it wouldn’t be Molly’s ass that got kicked to the curb.

Joyce


----------



## mamiller

A little romantic romp on the Windward coast of Oahu, ROGUE WAVE









"They noticed alright." Nick said. "The fishermen would have noticed, and many a tale of angered Gods are probably spinning in some of the seedier bars in Kaneohe right now. The point isn't so much the size, but where it came from, and if more will return."

Briana reached for the coffee mug and smirked over the steaming rim. "Why is it always about size with men?"

"Aah, actually I believe it's always about size with _women_." He corrected. "But, in this case we will have to ensure it _doesn't_ get bigger. It's accepted that the North Shore will encounter anywhere from ten to forty foot waves, and knowing this, it's accommodated for. But take waves of that impact on the Windward side, where the livelihood of many Hawaiians depends on the tranquility of the sea, and the tourists depend on gentle beaches for their children..."

Wrenching a hand through his hair, Nick rubbed at the base of his skull. "I know I'm getting carried away, but I want to be prepared, that's all."

Briana sat back in her seat and digested the commitment in his words. Perhaps he _didn't_ possess a personal vendetta against Manale Palms. Maybe, in reality, he was simply doing his job and protecting the state of Hawaii. She knew Nick still held an aversion for new construction on land he felt best left untouched. Regardless, there was no getting around the fact that the population was growing, and those families needed homes. She felt compelled to make him see that she was also trying to help.

"Okay, so what do we do?"

"We?" Nick cocked an eyebrow and shifted forward, brushing his calf against hers. The contact sent a jolt up her leg.

"Don't you see that by helping you find the source of the problem," Briana said in a husky tone. "I distract you from snooping around my site."


----------



## Brenda Carroll

Here's a little snippet from the Red Cross of Gold XVIII:. the Company of Women. Mark's evil son, Luke Andrew, is learning to live on his father's terms when he becomes stuck in the astral plane:

_Luke Andrew hurried down the stone stairway in the keep, chasing after the little Brown Man with the red hood. 
"Hey, come back here, Luff! You didn't answer my question," he called to the scurrying little creature. But the Brown Man also known as a Moor Man, a slight faery of the Brownie species, glanced back at him, scowling deeply. He wore, aptly enough, brown clothing that appeared more like withered foliage than cloth. A shock of deep, coppery colored hair protruded from under the hood and his bushy eyebrows made him appear much older than he probably was. The little fellow had a nasty disposition and Luke wondered who on earth had appointed him to be his personal valet. He never brought what he wanted and he snorted and complained loudly at almost everything Luke said or did. 
"I asked you to bring me a kilt." Luke scurried after him down the stairs. "I want to wear something different. I'm sick of this outfit. Can't we have anything around here?" Luke frowned at the Bean Tighes sweeping the steps and almost caused one of the elves carrying a huge silver candlestick up the stairs, to leap over the railing in alarm at the sudden disruption.
The Brown Man turned to face him at the foot of the stairs and put his hands on his hips, patting one red-booted foot impatiently. 
"Now, which o' th' clans wud ye want t' be representin', laddie?" Luff asked him sourly. "If ye've nevar woorn th' kilt, then 'ow ist, tell me, thot ye think ye'll be donnin' th' colors o' some proud Scottish fomily withoot th' sloightest thot t' th' men 'oo brot it out o' th' loom and onto th' battlefield?"
"What the hell did you just say?" Luke frowned and drew up short on the stairs._

The book is available in paperback now at: https://www.createspace.com/3473381


----------



## Michael Crane

From the short story _IN DECLINE_:

_*She doesn't ask me another question after that, realizing that I have most likely had a bad night at the casino and suffered some losses. These waitresses are smart here, believe it or not. They're real friendly to everybody, but if they figure out that somebody has just been through a punishing evening of gambling, they leave them be. Better to let them soak in their own sorrow rather than strike up some meaningless conversation that could cause some sort of an outburst or confrontation from the down-in-the-dumps patron. There was this one incident at a different place where a waitress said nothing but a simple Good Morning to some old guy with bloodshot eyes. That phrase was all it took for the guy to launch out of his chair with a pocket knife in his hand screaming, "I'll gut the sh** out of you, you f****** b****!" The waitress ran away from him and luckily there was a cop having breakfast only a few booths down, so he tackled the knife-wielding geezer. Turned out that the old guy was at the tables for an all-nighter and lost close to all of his savings. He was convinced that the waitress was in on robbing him of his cash, he later on told the police.*_

http://www.amazon.com/In-Decline-stories-ebook/dp/B003VD1FXY/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&m=AG56TWVU5XWC2&s=digital-text&qid=1278854328&sr=8-1


----------



## Philip Chen

Great idea, here is my snippet:

_&#8230; Mildred took the escalator up from the shuttle gate and turned left toward the rental car ... As she turned, she noticed the restroom to her right. Mildred went in.
Almost immediately after she entered, the heavy door slammed shut. Simultaneously, a wire garrote was thrown around her neck. Instinctively, Mildred grabbed the thin wire with her left hand and, in the process, got her silver bangles jammed between her hand and neck, but the grip of her unseen assailant was strong and the wire cut into the flesh of her left hand. Gagging, choking, Mildred tried to think. Stay cool. Try to think. Don't act hastily. God, that hurts. The rush of the kill. Uncontrollable ecstasy.
The unseen foe tightened the garrote. Mildred drew upon strength she had forgotten she had to combat her attacker. Frantically kicking backward with her high heels, Mildred tried to find a vulnerable spot. Her efforts to break free of the death grip were ineffective and her strength started to wane. Mildred's attacker was too well positioned to be pushed off. The attacker exerted maximum power, tightening the garrote while avoiding Mildred's flailing legs.
Mildred was dragged into one of the toilet stalls, powerless to resist the backward pull of her assailant. Desperately, Mildred's right hand raced through her straw bag, searching, hoping, struggling to find the knitting needle. As Mildred's mind started to cloud from pain and the lack of oxygen, she found and gripped the special knitting needle, a number 10. _

Exactly 250 words. 

From _Falling Star_

Thanks,

Phil


----------



## Sharlow

Hi everyone. Here's a quick snippet from Fallen Blood. Checks at the end for a link to a 5 star review, as well as a link to a video trailer.

She continued. "Silver, when he is in his wolf form. When he is human, anything will kill him."

"So all I need is some silver and he's done for?"

She nodded.. That sounded to easy, but then again, that thing was huge, and strong as well, by the way he destroyed the pavement back at that hotel. No, it wouldn't be easy trying to kill it, but for Heather's sake, he was going to have to try.."

"And the Annunaki?"

She shook her head and shrugged. "We don't know."

"Great. You say I have to kill him, and yet you have no idea how I can accomplish that?"

She sat back down in her chair and looked at her watch. "Brian, you need to dream walk now."

"What the hell is that?" He was sure she meant his traveling, but he wanted to make sure for himself.

"The agents are only a few blocks away, and unless you're going to fight your way out, you need to go now."

He licked out the rest of the IV as he thought about what she said. He could kill all of them, depending on how many there were, but why risk it? If he really could actually die, then maybe he should just get back to Heather. He had a feeling he was going to get the chance to kill quite a few agents soon enough.

"Fine. I'll kill this thing if I can, but not for you or your bosses." He said as he sat back in his chair and began to relax and concentrate on Heather.

"Fair enough." She said, "we expected no less from you."

Yeah, whatever, he thought. Stupid government messing with my life.

Here's the link to the review. http://sparkling-reviews.blogspot.com/2010/08/fallen-blood.html
And the video. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S30_CNFeRSA


----------



## Michael Crane

From the short story, _My Pal Rodney_:

_*"I know, Sweetie, but it's just... It's just..." She pauses and doesn't know what to say. She folds her hands on the table. "Don't you think you should play with kids your own age? It's just that Rodney is in the Third Grade, right?"

"Yes."

"Well, you really should make friends with kids in your own class."

"I don't like the kids in my class. They hate me and I hate them."

"But if they got to know you, I'd bet they'd like you," she says.

I look up from my bowl and ask, "Do you hate Rodney because he glued Ms. Myers' stapler and apple to her desk when he was in Second Grade?"

"He did that? Did he tell you he did that?" I nod and she says, "Well, there ya go. He's a troublemaker. I don't want you to hang out with anybody who's going to get you in trouble."

"Rodney won't get me in trouble. He promised me."*_

http://www.amazon.com/In-Decline-stories-ebook/dp/B003VD1FXY/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&m=AG56TWVU5XWC2&s=digital-text&qid=1278938747&sr=8-1


----------



## Brenda Carroll

Here is an excerpt from the _Red Cross of Gold XIX:. How Men Do It_:
Mark is feeling a bit of relief after a rather difficult passage spent in the underworld. He is longing for a time long past:

"We should try to take a trip together," he said suddenly and Lucio frowned at him. "Just you and me. Maybe we could go to Rome and see how things are going there."
"It would take some doing. There is still the matter of the identification program," Lucio told him. "Travel is impossible without the programming."
"We can invoke the immunity. It's still in effect, I believe."
"True. Perhaps we should."
"We'll just look around. Maybe we should go to America or Ireland."
"Wherever. It has been a long time since we traveled together."
"True."
"What of your son? He will want to go."
"Can he go?" Mark frowned at him. Il Dolce Mio had pointed ears.
"I don't know."
"We'll think about it."
"Perhaps he could wear a hat," Lucio suggested.
"Perhaps." Mark Andrew looked away to the west where the sun was sinking over the horizon in a glow of orange, red, pink and purple.


----------



## tsilver

Snippet from the first of five short stories (title story) "God Don't Take Crap From Nobody" featuring a devil-may-care homeless guy and his invisible friend.

            It’s gonna be a real excitin’ and lucky day,” Jimmy O’Malley predicted to Archie as he climbed out of the dumpster and rubbed his arthritic bones.  He pulled off his soiled brown derby, which looked like it had been sat or rolled on a few times, and reset it at a rakish angle atop his long, ginger-streaked gray hair.  Inhaling the dry-leaf smells carried on the Autumn wind, he hefted his two bags--the green plastic bag half-full of clanking aluminum cans, and his cotton laundry bag filled with good stuff--either to sell or keep.  His favorites were an almost-new “Playboy” magazine, given to him by good old Archie, and a plastic-coated picture of Jesus which he’d swiped from Holy Family Catholic Church.

He felt rich.  Not only did he have a dollar and seventy-six cents clinkin’ in his pocket from his last blood sale, but he’d found a damn good breakfast in the White Tower dumpster, which he shared with Archie.  Almost a whole cheeseburger and a handful of fries, strong-smellin’ and greasy.  And dee-lishous, Jimmy thought, sucking on his gnarled fingers after he’d finished.  “Better than what you’d get at one a-them soup kitchens.  Right Archie?”

And whoop-de-do!  Flowers!  Someone had thrown away perfectly good roses along with a few dead ones.  Breaking the long stem of a white rose, he inhaled its fragrance and then slipped it into the lapel of his torn, over-sized plaid jacket.  He gently laid the rest of the bouquet on top of his other valuables, and flung his sooty, raveling scarf over his shoulder so it wouldn’t cover his boutonniere.  “These are gonna come in handy,” Jimmy said to his silent pal.  “Bless their little hearts,” he said.  “The sweet little ladies love flowers.  And yer lucky, Archie; they’re crazy about old Jimmy.”

He walked over to the glass door of the White Tower, reviewed his reflected appearance with approval and fastened the mismatched buttons of his coffee and booze-stained jacket.  You still got it, he thought.  He tilted his beaten-up derby further down on his forehead and shuffled jauntily to the sidewalk--convinced he was a great looking Irish son-of-a-bitch.  Archie wasn’t bad-looking for a Brit.

Whistling tunelessly and cheerfully to the sound of the soda cans bouncing against each other and against his leg, Jimmy continued scavenging along Third Street on his way downtown--his alert nostrils sniffing the air for interesting smells and his eyes scanning city streets for friendly femininity.  Nearing the gasket company close to the viaduct, his bladder sent out an SOS.  He sneaked behind the building to answer the call.


----------



## Brenda Carroll

Here's a snippet from my up-coming release: the Red Cross of Gold XIX:. How Men Do It. Things are steadily deterioration for the Poor Knights of Solomon's Temple.

_Luke looked up at him from bloodshot eyes. He had been crying, but he didn't remember it now.
"What the hell is all the noise about?" He asked his nephew. It was hard for him to separate Jozsef from Omar except for the beard.
"The Queen is ill in the woods and lost. Dambretti is with her," Jozsef told him. "We must go out and look for her." He did not want to mention to his drunken uncle that Sam was having a baby. He did not like Luke's attitude and the fact that he was sitting at the table getting drunk when they were in such danger here. He really didn't like Luke at all and it seemed that he now looked more like Mark Andrew than ever before and that made Jozsef dislike him even more. Only the shape of his jaw and his chin was different, reminding Jozsef of his grandmother, Meredith and he had the dimple in his chin like Lemarik. 
"She doesn't need my help," Luke Andrew told him and waved one, black-gloved hand at him. "The little bitch hated me." He was very drunk.
Jozsef stopped in his tracks and drew a deep breath. The hilt of the King's golden sword protruded from the frogs at Luke Andrew's hip. Jozsef had planned on taking it for himself. First, he had been cheated more or less out of his father's sword and now this ingrate, son-of-a-bitch was wearing his grandfather's sword.
"You'd best watch your tongue, uncle, or you'll find it on the floor," he told him darkly.
Luke pushed himself up shakily and turned to lean against the table, raising his chin slightly.
"And who do you suppose is going to relieve me of it? Not you."
"You're drunk!" Jozsef wrinkled his nose at his uncle. "And I don't have time for this. Where are Simon and Lemarik?"
"Upstairs," Luke waved one arm haphazardly. "Downstairs. Who knows? Who cares?"
_


----------



## LCEvans

Here's the first snippet I've posted from my new novel, Jobless Recovery, Second Edition:

Joe Tremaine didn’t feel right the morning he went crazy. To begin with, his coffee tasted like sewer run-off and his head ached and throbbed so he could barely see to dump the swamp-colored sludge down the sink. When he picked up the paper and tried to read about Senator Buford Drake’s latest assault on American workers, the rattling of the pages buzzed against his eardrums like a swarm of bees and made him queasy. 
He threw the paper down and jammed his hands tight over his ears. It was hot in the living room, so hot that the heat coming off the couch turned his skin red, and hotter yet in the kitchen where the pilot light on the stove waved its blue tongue as if to taunt him. He staggered outside and down the steps to the road. An early autumn frost still lingered on the grass like a veil of white lace. He scraped up a double handful to rub on his burning skin. Then he stood at the curb, his arms held straight out to his sides at shoulder level, and tilted his head back to catch the ghost of a breeze tantalizing his face.
He stood until the fire left him and then he started moving again, separating himself from the house and the source of the heat. The sidewalk started melting as he walked, slipping into liquid under his feet. He ripped his gaze upward and away from the concrete sloshing around his ankles. When had the trees become so shiny? Someone, maybe one of the drug dealers on the corner, had polished the trunks so they shone like mirrors and the glare was coming in through his eyes and setting off fireworks to explode hot and noisy in his brain. 
A woman burst out of a house and shimmered in front of him for a few seconds like one of the Star Trek crew beaming down to an alien world. Joe shook his head to clear the sparkles out of his vision and plunged forward, barely able to keep his balance as the earth tilted and spun, trying to shake him loose to send him flying into space. 

Linda


----------



## SimonWood

This is an excerpt from my latest, _*THE FALL GUY*_.

Available from:
Kindle: http://www.amazon.com/The-Fall-Guy-ebook/dp/B00427YO2W
Smashwords: http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/24170

_Everyone had an opinion and had no problem telling him where he'd gone wrong and how much it was going to cost him. He crouched in front of the Porsche and picked at the broken headlight and buckled bumper. There was a couple hundred dollars of damage to the average car, but on the German exotic, he was looking at thousands. His car, the piece of shit that it was, didn't exhibit any signs of damage-just like Todd, who didn't exhibit any signs of insurance.

"Does anyone know who the owner is?" Todd asked.

No one did.

"You'll have to wait," someone suggested.

"I can't. I'm late for work."

"I don't think you have much choice," someone else said.

"I can't. I've been late twice this week already." Todd delved inside his car for a scrap of paper and a pen. "I'll leave a note."

He wrote: People think I'm leaving you my contact and insurance details. I'm not. Sorry.

Todd folded up his note, wrote sorry on the outside and stuck it under the windshield wiper. He shrugged, hopped inside the Accord and raced off.

He felt guilty for shafting the Porsche driver, but at the same time, he was buzzing with the thrill of his lawlessness and his speedometer showed it. He was accelerating past forty-five on Telegraph. He took a deep breath and eased off the gas.

In the scheme of things, what he'd done wasn't so bad. It was an accident and it was more likely the Porsche driver's insurance could afford the repairs than he could. Anyway, with a car like that, he thought, you're asking for trouble. Todd pulled into his employer's parking lot safe in the knowledge that the matter was over. _


----------



## mamiller

A little slice of my romantic suspense, WIDOW'S TALE to share... 

Serena Murphy squinted into the wind, searching cliffs lashed by angry surf. Maine's autumn freeze wrapped her in its clutch and whipped her hair over her face.

Serena was looking for a body.

The maelstrom assaulting the deck of O'Flanagans Tavern did not deter her. She leaned forward and gripped the rail.

A month had passed already, and each day before the dinnertime rush, Serena came out to search the cliffs for any trace of her husband, Alan, who'd been pronounced lost at sea.

Alan was dead. She was sure of that. Even the sea spoke to her, weaving a tale of his demise in the fishing boat she had urged him to repair. She was certain he was dead because he haunted her. Not as a physical ghost, but there were signs-small, intimate signals that could only be executed by Alan's malevolent spirit.

"Serena! Get in here before you catch your death of cold!"

Tempted to ignore the intrusion, Serena caught a glimpse of her part-time waitress, Rebecca, with her head stuck out the back door.

What an image she must portray to the young woman. Every night Serena stood out here, perched atop these cliffs, searching for a body. Searching for ghosts.

But that's not what her waitress saw. She saw a distraught widow anguished over the loss of her husband. She did not see her. She did not see the woman who feared Alan even after death.

It took effort, but Serena called across the wind, "I'll be right there."

Alone with the waves that crashed against the rocks below, Serena waited for pain to envelop her. She waited for heart-wrenching sobs or any raw emotion that might signal despair over the loss of her husband.

Only the bleak whistle of the wind and the somber ring of a buoy answered.


----------



## Guest

From *Oathbreaker *    by M. R. Mathias

The next morning, as they prepared to go wasp hunting, Oonzil wondered how the eagle had managed to get the doily out from under the teapot. He never had the chance to ask about it because no sooner had the curiosity came on him, the eagle leapt from the ground and went flapping lustily after a wasp.

It was all Oonzil could do to keep from tumbling off of Igor's back as the eagle chased down the unsuspecting bug. Just as Oonzil had instructed him, Igor got as close as he could to the wasp before he swept past.

Oonzil was thrilled. The feel of the wind in his hair and the forces generated by Igor's sharp swooping turns caused his heart to soar. Using the rigged up doily like it was a throw net, Oonzil timed his toss and let it loose. He yanked on the makeshift draw string he had attached. The net pulled closed. Excitedly, Oonzil had Igor sit them down near the fire bug cage that Oonzil had borrowed from the village bug man.

Both of them were disappointed to find the doily net empty, but they weren't discouraged. The setup would have worked perfectly if only Oonzil would have timed his throw better.

"You'll have to slow up a bit when we come upon the buzzers," he told the eagle with a grin.

"Aye, Ooonzy," Igor exclaimed gleefully. "It worked just like you said it would. We just need to get closer I think."

It took a few more attempts to get the timing of the approach and the throw down, but they did it. By evening the cage was buzzing with angry wasps. With much pride and satisfaction, Oonzil and Igor delivered the prize to the wizard at his supper table.

"What's this?" The old man asked. He rose from his soup bowl to see the pixie boy sliding off of Igor's back. The cage the eagle sat at the end of the table buzzed and vibrated in angry response. "Oh ho!" Master Zarvin chuckled with a big smile showing in the corners of his eyes. "Wasps!"

"Wasps for a bargain good wizard," Oonzil clarified. "A full Baker's dozen of them, all alive and whole."

"A bargain?" Master Zarvin's brows wiggled with curious delight. "Well Oonzil Windlestraw, let's strike a deal then."


----------



## Disappointed

Is a WIP okay? I'm working on something kinda steampunkish...


Crunch peers into the fish tank. Rather, the fish pressure containment vessel. It’s a capsule three feet in diameter and eight feet long made of two-inch thick clear polyplexi. There are brass clamp rings that bolt on the half-spheres at the ends.

The capsule itself is dwarfed by an installation of brass tubing, large valves, and a dozen round pressure gauges with indecipherable readings. Most of them are in the red. There’s also a slow constant drip of leakage. Instead of fixing the leaks, someone installed a catch sink to drain away the mess.

To feed the fish you have to operate a complex series of valved chambers, and if you do it wrong the whole thing will backfire and kill you with a high pressure jet of ice cold water. The fish goes hungry a lot.

Inside? Hardly worth the effort is a five inch long gray fish with huge teeth and no eyes. It just floats there in the center, waiting to be fed. Somebody went to the bottom of the ocean and came up with this? It’s from the deepest deep and it can only live under high pressure, hence all the dangerous equipment. If it were ever released into normal air it would swell up to the size of an elephant before exploding. Or so they say.

Crunch turns around and faces the rest of the people in the room. “Why is this thing even here?”


----------



## Brenda Carroll

Here's a snippet from my latest release, The Red Cross of Gold XIX:. How Men Do It. The Grand Master and his grandson are in the Abyss, trying to repair the damage done to the Seventh Gate by Mark's old enemies, Gerald Lorn and Al Hafiz al Sajek.

_"I like rocks myself," Mark Andrew told him abstractedly and started off into the depths of the cavern. Jozsef tore himself away from the spectacle and followed after him. The farther they went, the more wondrous things he found, but his grandfather was not allowing him time to tarry. He was going somewhere with a purpose. The cavern narrowed and the ceiling began to drop lower until they were in an area no larger than a small house.
Jozsef was still gaping at the wonders on either side of him and ran directly into the Grand Master's back.
"Uhh. Sorry, Grandfather, I&#8230;" Jozsef froze with his mouth hanging open. A great gaping hole loomed before them. The jagged edges of the wall about the opening seemed melted and twisted. The glassy crystal formations lost their brilliant colors, turning to grays and blacks. "What is that?" He felt as ignorant as a two-year-old. Beyond the edge of the rocks stretched another sort of blackness filled with stars. Billions of stars. It looked like the poster he had on his wall of the deep space image taken by the Hubble Telescope in the late twentieth century. There were galaxies and nebulae and suns and moons.
"What are we looking at?" Jozsef asked again in a barely audible whisper.
"The end of the world," came his grandfather's answer. Mark Andrew was staring at the sight with complete and utter horror written on his face. _


----------



## D. Nathan Hilliard

(Snippit from " SHADES: A Memory of Me")

“No thanks,” Will averted his face from the offering, “What is the whole point?”

“Historical clutter.” Jack gestured at the burning grave marker, its rounded top carved to look like the stone versions that more affluent people could afford back then.

“What?” he couldn’t help the shock in his voice. Even after knowing him for two years, Jack’s ruthless views on life still had the power to surprise him.

“What do Genghis Khan, Alexander the Great, and Attila the Hun have in common?”

“I . . .uh . . .I give up. What?”

“None of them have tombstones.”

“So?” Will tried to grasp the connection. He was far from slow, but Jack’s thought processes often left him feeling like he was floundering to catch up.

“They didn’t have tombstones. Hell, they were buried in secret. But everybody knows who they were. They mattered. This on the other hand . . .” he waved dismissively at the source of their illumination, “. . . is a vanity. It’s a pitiable cry for something undeserved.”

“Remembrance?”

“Beyond her own circle, yes.” Jack took a bite of the marshmallow. “And a pointless gesture on the part of whoever put it there. They didn’t need it to remember her, and she has no use for it herself. Hell, it’s cleaner to finish the job of sending the poor wretch off to oblivion”

“So you just erase her.” Will felt a bit queasy at the thought. The smell of the marshmallow hung fetid in the night graveyard air.


----------



## Liam

From On the Origins of Joy Boy's Chasm, _*Chapter 3: On Joy Boy's subscription to Gourmet, and how he ate a piece of pizza*_.

Picking up the issue on this day, Joy Boy had delved devilishly into the ambrosial world of delights and, while flipping from one savory page to the next, looking up periodically to pass curious glances at the others in the waiting room, a small, white, rectangular subscription card had skillfully slipped itself out, to land on his lap. Joy Boy had picked up the card, folding it twice, and making sure that the corners met each time, and then placed it into the front pocket of his drab, polyester shirt. The astute therapist noted on this day, while chewing on his horn-rimmed glasses with a far-away gaze, that progress was imminent. Gourmet had been coming once a month ever since.

Godspeed,
Liam


----------



## AnnetteL

Snippet from contemporary/spiritual romance _Lost Without You_

http://www.amazon.com/Lost-Without-You-ebook/dp/B003VIX1IG/ref=sr_1_4?ie=UTF8&m=AG56TWVU5XWC2&s=digital-text&qid=1284853618&sr=8-4

"I'm-I'm sorry it had to end this way," Brooke said. "I really am."

She reached over to hug him good-bye, but Christopher pushed her away with one swift motion. "Get out."

She fell against the door, her arm smacking against the handle with blunt force. She stared at him without a word, too stunned to move. Christopher's eyes burned with anger. She fought back her tears. Who _was_ this man?

"Good-bye, Brooke." He said her name like a dirty word.

Her wits returned enough for her to grab her purse and open the door as she tried to ignore the throbbing on her arm. Before she could step out, he grabbed her left arm. She turned to face him, hoping for a kind word-maybe an apology.

"I want the bracelet back."

Stunned into silence, she removed his only gift and dropped it in his hand before getting out. He barely waited for her to close the door before hitting the gas pedal and racing off, tires squealing as he pulled out of the parking lot and onto the road. Brooke hugged herself for warmth, even though the evening wasn't cold.

She turned and walked to her door, with a confusing mixture of relief, sadness, and anger swirling around her. She went inside with another emotion-feeling very, very alone.


----------



## Michael Crane

From the short story, _Uncle Lenny_:

_* "I don't care, Lenny. You don't walk out on your wife and two kids like that!" She moved in closer and really got in Uncle Lenny's face. Since he was taller than she was, she had to stand on her tiptoes to match his glance. Her hands were on her hips, fingers tapping the faded blue jeans. She always wore jeans. Uncle Lenny backed away and sat down next to me. He was still holding the cigar in his hand.
"I didn't come here to fight," he told her. "I would've went back home to Alice if I wanted a fight." Mom got red in face with anger-even her blue eyes were changing color-and Uncle Lenny quickly gulped down on his own words and changed the topic. "Look, I came over here 'cause I want you guys to meet Cherry. I wanna bring her over sometime this week so she can meet the family. I mean, I even showed her pictures of Charlie here," he pointed to me, "and she fell in love with him. I mean in love!"
"Charlie will never meet her. Do you hear me, Lenny? Never."
"Why not?"
"She's a stripper!"
*_

http://www.amazon.com/In-Decline-stories-ebook/dp/B003VD1FXY/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&m=AG56TWVU5XWC2&s=digital-text&qid=1278854328&sr=8-1


----------



## J Dean

Here's one from a piece I started a couple of years ago, but didn't finish. I'm getting back to it now....

Outside, the mounted wall light cast a glowing, ivory hue on the sidewalk. Night had swallowed the front parking lot; Barry had parked in the back. Paula pushed aching feet out the door and toward her car, making as deliberate an effort as possible to not give in to her curious and nervous wonderings about shadows and movement that caught the corners of her eyes. The haunted talk about one mysterious man in pursuit of another was enough for her. No staying up with a bowl of popcorn and a scary flick tonight.

Her hand reached into the purse, catching the key ring with a curled index finger. The battery in the remote lock had died on her two weeks ago; she wished she hadn't put off replacing it. Especially here, now, like this. The keys came out, the tip of the one held in Paula's hand bumping into the door metal before realigning itself with the lock. She let out a disgusted spat of air at her own carelessness.

_What's the matter, Paula? Scared?_

"I'm fine." She murmured to herself, turning the key. "Just fine."

The door didn't open.

"Come on&#8230;" she groaned, trying it again. Her mind adjusted to another thought while she corrected her efforts: Barry's license plate-what was it?

"Three-Three-Five, C-B&#8230;_X!!_" She said to herself, the last letter puffed out in angry effort.

The door didn't open.

_Hurry up, Paula!_ Her mind teased, _The Boogeyman's on his way!_

Another ratchet of the key yielded no results.


----------



## KathyBell

Hmmm...I'm of two minds about posting this snippet, since it is the new prologue to Evolussion and summarizes the entire story in Regression. But, I'll post it as a spoiler so you can choose not to read it if you have purchased Regression but not yet read it!

Evolussion - PROLOGUE


Spoiler



In 1985, the twenty-eight men using the world's largest corporation as the front for their efforts to save the world discovered they needed just one more thing. Adya Jordan. All of them had one trait in common-they were reliving their lives for a second time, each awakening at puberty after dying on November 11, 2011. Named Three Eleven by CEO Abraham Fairfield, the company uses information from the future to change the past. But, hidden within Adya's cells was a strand of DNA which could be the key to saving humanity from impending extinction.

None of them are aware of the man responsible for their second chances at life. Nicholas Weaver toils in solitude in the future, trying to change history to save the woman he loves as well as everyone else. His efforts lead to the regressions-the transfer of consciousness from one Earth timeline to the pubescent body in the next. Through sending Adya back in time, he hopes to re-write the consequences of the devastating Impact which he has endured eleven times.

Adya is forced to assume a new identity after the death of the Three Eleven founder at the hands of terrorist group Anvolussion, led by Lavrentios Alexopoulos. As Dawn Ingram, she takes over the role of corporate leader, and informs the world of the impending crisis while also covertly ensuring her genes are carried on through her many unique children. Her clarion call for global assistance draws the sceptical interest of journalist Stew Singleton, who does not believe all is as it seems with Three Eleven and its secretive executive leaders. He is correct, but in ways even he could never imagine.


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## Sharlow

If your into Paranormal romance's with vampires, check out my newest book, "Shades of Twilight"

Check out these reviews. 
http://sparkling-reviews.blogspot.com/2010/09/shades-of-twilight.html?showComment=1284073011189#c3365757334644437765

http://www.goodreads.com/review/show/117979192

http://www.goodreads.com/review/show/119848797

And here's a quick snippet from the book

"Thank you for letting me take you out Melissa. I really enjoyed your company."

I smiled at him, still trying to shake the sadness that I felt. "I enjoyed it too, Mike." I wanted to ask him if I could see him again, or if I would ever see him again. Yet, I just couldn't bring myself to ask. I was afraid the minute I tried to share my feelings, the dam would burst and I would lose all control and start crying my eyes out.

If that didn't scare away a man, I really wasn't certain what would.

"If you don't mind, could I call you some time?" He asked as I shut the car door.

I couldn't even begin to explain the joy and excitement I felt the moment he asked me that. It was all I could do just to nod my head furiously, as I was afraid to answer because I was sure I would cry for joy. He smiled and waved as he pulled away, while I just stood there and watched him go.

Something was seriously wrong with me. I couldn't remember anytime in the past that I had felt such a merry-go-round of emotions about any guy.

It was embarrassing, to say the least, and I really needed to get it under control before I chased this guy off.


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## SimonWood

Here's an excerpt from my crime thriller, _*The Fall Guy*_. It's about a down on his luck guy who becomes indebted to the mob.

Link: http://www.amazon.com/The-Fall-Guy-ebook/dp/B00427YO2W

_"See what you've done."

Todd glanced at the headline: DRUG DEALER BUSTED DURING ROUTINE TRAFFIC STOP.

"The car you hit belongs to an employee of mine. Driving home the other night, he was pulled over for a busted headlight. The cops discovered two kilos of cocaine in his possession. He's in a lot of trouble and I'm minus an employee, not to mention a lot of money. Do you see now? Do you see what you've done and why it has led us to your door?"

"I'm sorry."

"That's not important."

"I didn't know."

"I wouldn't expect you to know. But I've lost a valuable employee who had a job to do. Now he can't do it. This is where you come in." The small man stabbed a finger in Todd's direction.

Todd's stomach twitched. He didn't like what was coming. He knew it was retribution for what he'd done, but it wasn't the kind he wanted. Points on his license and a fine he could accept. He'd even take a beating. But the small man's kind of retribution filled Todd with dread.

"Me?" Todd stammered.

"Yes. You'll have to fill in."

The linebackers wrinkled their noses. They knew Todd wasn't the right man for the job and he agreed with them.

"What do you want me to do?"_


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## D. Nathan Hilliard

A small scene from Part III of The Ways of Khrem.


Reaching behind me, I drew the long steel dagger from its sheath on the back of my hip. It gleamed in the red light, and I took a menacing fighting crouch. I twirled the dagger in my hand and assumed the most gravelly voice I could muster…
“You be a good little girl,” I growled. “Do just what I tell you, and I won’t have to cut up your pretty face.”
Nocce frowned. 
Without saying a word, she grabbed the large wood splitting axe by its head, flipped it around to its handle, and threw it at me in one smooth motion. I hit the floor as the axe ripped through the air where my head had just been and buried itself over an inch deep into the heavy doorframe behind me. The loud thwok of the impact shook the entire wall. 
Rolling backwards and scrambling to my feet, I realized I had instinctually thrown my knife at her in return. I whirled to see her calmly pulling it from her shoulder and dropping it to the floor as she walked towards me. She didn’t even wince. 
She also didn’t appear to be terribly intimidated.
It was now time to for a contingency plan.
I desperately wracked my brain for what contingency plans I had for coming under attack by naked, axe throwing superwomen. 
The list was alarmingly short. 
I quickly discarded the first one since I didn’t feel that “Oh, shit!” really counted as a true contingency plan. Still, in this case, it merited inclusion. On the other hand, the second one titled “Run Away!” showed real potential.


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## SuzanneTyrpak

Here's a snippet from one of my stories in *Dating My Vibrator (and other true fiction)*. This is the opening of *Dharma Dan*:

I remove my glasses, so I can really see him. Could be handsome if he'd smile. His face is soft, a little bland. Indefinite.

"So, you're a Buddhist?"

"Yeah." He looks around distractedly.

Friday, and the place is packed. Dim lighting and alcohol mask the lines that creep across my forehead, enhance the lines designed to lure me into bed. I spot another guy I met on Match. The accountant. About a month ago, we went out for coffee. Dutch. He's wearing a black tee-shirt; I can't see the logo but I suspect it says Harley-Davidson. Our conversation consisted of a blow-by-blow description of rebuilding his motorcycle. I don't mind a guy who's passionate about transmissions, but our date ended abruptly when he asked if I'd be into group sex.

Not if the group includes you.

Didn't say that, but I thought it. Truthfully, the idea of getting naked with one person is frightening enough. A middle-aged group-grope holds as much appeal as a colonoscopy. In fact, a colonoscopy might be more pleasurable; they use good drugs to knock you out.

I focus on my current date. The Buddhist thing intrigues me-I want a guy who's conscious.

"These are good." He drains his glass and motions to the waitress. "Another Appletini."

I didn't know Buddhists were so into alcohol.


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## Brenda Carroll

Here's a short snippet from _Genesis 6:5_, the Red Cross of Gold:. Assassin Chronicles tenth book. http://www.amazon.com/dp/B002DYJXN6
_
"Master?" Von Hetz‟ voice sounded strained. 
"Brother Hetz," d‟Brouchart answered as he pulled himself further onto the tiles at the edge of the pool. The Seneschal‟s call was early. He was supposed to call at four, not two. 
"Sir, it is much worse than we had expected," von Hetz told him without preamble. 
"How bad?" D‟Brouchart waved the boy, Pietro, away from him. 
"Terminal," von Hetz told him shortly. 
"How long?" D‟Brouchart‟s face darkened at this sad news. Simon would be devastated. Rachel had been his all-encompassing life for the past several years. 
"She will not live long enough to deliver the baby," the Ritter told him and his heart sank. 
"Where is she?" The Grand Master made his way to the ladder and pulled himself out of the pool. He padded across the tiles to pick up his towel and then sat heavily in one of the chairs on the patio causing it to squeak ominously. 
"She is at home. Brother Simon would not hear of taking her to the hospital and she doesn't want to go. She will remain with him until the end. They wanted their privacy." 
"I see," the Master nodded and swallowed hard. So soon? It seemed that his son had only yesterday married the pretty little woman with large, dark eyes and long, beautiful hair. Where had the years gone? 
"And what does he plan to do about the child?" he asked after a moment. 
"He will take the baby after&#8230; afterward," von Hetz‟ voice almost broke. 
"But surely there must be something we can do," d‟Brouchart asked and sat up a bit straighter in his chair. How could Simon do it? "It will break his heart!" 
"His heart is already broken, your Grace," von Hetz answered him flatly. "You should come at once." _


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## Laurensaga

Snippet from my first novel Immortal:

Slowly he brought the knife up.  I flinched away closing my eyes.  I heard as Duncan took a deep breath in preparation.  I waited for the pain.  It didn’t come. 

Opening my eyes, I was shocked to see the knife pressed against Duncan’s left wrist.  The knuckles, tendons, and muscles of his right hand strained as they wrapped around the handle of the knife.  The fear I felt for my own well being diminished slightly as I realized what he was doing.

“Duncan,” I said keeping my tone even.  “What are you doing?”

His jaw was tightly clenched together.  His eyes, focused on the knife pressed to the soft skin of his wrist.  “I’m making sure you’re watching.”

I started to feel dizzy as I watched the scene in front of me unfold.  Drawing the blade across his wrist, he made no sound.  At first it looked like nothing had happened, then the blood started to slowly leak out of the wound.


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## Markus_Kane

The Eastside Grape Street Watts Baby-Loc Cripps had once been part of a larger group known as the Watts Vario Grape, or WVG, and even though some of the old timers still referred to the group by these initials or sported the tattoos on their forearms, the current members usually just called themselves the Grape Streets.


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## LCEvans

Here's a snippet from my new novel, Jobless Recovery. The tech team has been assembled to view a video announcement by the company CEO.


Dave stole a glance at Ken. He sat sideways, gazing at the floor and not at the screen, his fleshy hands dangling at his sides. Clearly, he’d previewed the video, knew what was coming, and had already conceded defeat. 
“We, the leaders charting the course of Markham-Hook Conglomerate, have embarked on a new adventure. In the next few months thirty percent of our tech work is moving offshore.” 
Harris held out both hands, palms up, and grinned sheepishly, as though to indicate that the tech work had decided on its own to depart for a foreign locale, and he hadn’t been able to rein it in. 
On screen someone loosed a flurry of balloons in Markham-Hook’s bright gold and silver colors. Several of the balloons drifted onto CEO Harris’s head, and he brushed them out of his way as if he were shooing away a pesky fly. He skinned his lips back in a grin and turned his attention to the notes in front of him. “Markham-Hook Conglomerate is partnering with a company from India, Golden Orion Technology & Computer Help Agency. This company will supply the new personnel, both offshore and right here in Avalon. And, let me rush to tell you, this is a deal we simply couldn’t overlook. Frankly, these Orion people are so cost effect...such good programmers, that we couldn’t pass up the opportunity to avail ourselves of the talent, to take on the best and the brightest. Finally, Markham-Hook Conglomerate will have the good people it needs to achieve the prominence it deserves. All of you Markham-Hook Conglomerateers, I’m sure, recognize this as a proud and historic moment in the history of the world leader that started out twenty years ago as little old County First Financials of Avalon.”
Harris paused in his delivery to beam once again into the camera and, no doubt, to give all the Markham-Hookers time to bask in the proud moment. 
Dave’s stomach quivered in place somewhere near his navel. He wished he hadn’t eaten the high fiber cereal Beth had recommended for his breakfast. It felt like a dozen little wire brushes were trying to scrub their way through his intestinal wall.


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## Edward C. Patterson

Hi all. I haven't been in this thread in a while. Glad it's thriving. Here's a snippet from my recently released 4th Book of the Jade Owl Legacy series - _*The People's Treasure*_:

The bulldozers revved up early, the destruction team planning the demise of a wall that had stood for three centuries on Wang-fu-jing Street. Beyond it stood a long house, which once belonged to the poet, T'ang Fu-lu, but he was dead now and his children had abandoned the place to dust and rubble. The wall was an easy target for the workers and their wrecking ball, the backhoes ready to dig out the cobblestones for modern concrete replacements. The team leader, Citizen Ji Erh-fa, assembled his crew on the vehicles and aimed them at the old hu-tung. He probably didn't much care for history. The state paid him well and he had a flat with four rooms for his wife and daughter. They ate good and had the latest video games. Citizen Ji defined the life of a contented worker.

Ji Erh-fa signaled to the wrecking dozer to move forward, its roar deafening - although he wore earplugs, a mask and goggles. This operation proceeded with a series of well-defined hand-signals. The yellow and black striped construction fleet screeched and ground like mechanical monsters, bumping over the cobblestones and the makeshift flowerbeds. It wasn't an unusual sight on Wang-fu-jing Street. Therefore, shoppers from the marketplace and visitors to the Tung-xi Mosque went about their business, darting between the trucks and ignoring the flagmen. A line of schoolchildren destined for the Children's Palace snaked across the street as if the bulldozers were just buses or taxis. Cyclists laced patterns in the dust to get to their destinations. Soldiers sauntered through the debris, chatting as if they were in the commissary waiting for noodles. It wasn't an easy job for Ji Erh-fa to keep these many souls from harm. In fact, once daily someone would fall into a hole or got nipped by a backhoe - nothing fatal, but it still invoked a stream of cursing that competed with the engines. So, when the lead dozer cut its motor and the driver stood on the hood, Ji Erh-fa invented a new hand signal, crisp and angry.

"Why do you stop?" Ji shouted. "Turn on your motor and do your job."

"But work leader, there's someone on the wall."

Ji Erh-fa could see that plainly. He shaded his eyes to assess the situation, the dust clearing as the motors quieted. The man on the wall stood tall. He waved a banner in one hand and held a camcorder in the other.

"You," Ji shouted. "Off the wall. We have work to finish."

"Your work is finished," shouted the man.

He brandished the banner. Soon, he was joined by three other men with similar banners - white with red characters reading:

_Chiu je-ge ch'iang! Bao-ch'i je-ge hu-tung
(Save this wall! Preserve the hu-tung!)_

"I said, get down or I shall take this wall down with you on it."

"Be my guest," Ming Ming shouted. "The world is watching!"

"Let them watch." Ji Erh-fa banged on the bulldozer's bumper. "Rev up and roll away."
============================
Edward C. Patterson


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## ReflexiveFire

From my work in progress, "Reflexive Fire."

It had been a long plane ride home, the longest of Deckard's life, sitting alongside the body bags. They had finally touched down in Kazakhstan an hour ago. Most of the troops were on their way back to the compound to hit the newly installed showers and then rack out in the bunks.

As the chaos swirled around him in the emergency area's waiting room he felt it again, the crushing feeling that hung over his head. He had never lied to himself about who he was or what he did. Deckard liked war, loved it occasionally. Combat was the only time you ever saw people for who they truly are, a place where any one can be a hero or a coward, or both at the same time. War was the only time you saw the world for what _it _ really was.

With societal constructs removed the truth became apparent, obvious even. Compared to war, any other job was just punching a time card.

He intrinsically understood that the mercenaries he commanded were grown men who had made their own decision, freely and with full knowledge of potential consequences. They hedged their bets because the pay was good, or signed up looking for some action after their military career. When you play big boy games you play by big boy rules, and any one of them could have been the guy coming home as a corpse.

Somehow that didn't make him feel any better.


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## Sharlow

Here's a quick Snippet from Fallen Blood:

"Silly, you're not a vampire, so you're not going to bite me." 

"Come on, there must be something else that doesn't involve hurting you."

Heather pulled her arm away from him and looked over at Bobby who was now waving at them to hurry up. Brian was not happy with the distraction, as he still wasn't sure that he was going to go with the trucker.

Heather turned back to him and sighed. "Fine, why don't you...oh, I don't know, how about...sparkle in the sunlight?" She laughed as she said it. He was sure that since they were already in the sun that she thought she had proved her point.

"Your wish is my command." Bright, shiny, gold and white light began to shimmer and sparkle all around him. So much so that he could see it reflected in her eyes. Eyes that were very wide as she took him and his illusion in. He had learned early on he could project images or sounds, and with that ability he also found he could make himself look different. He figured that's where the stories came from of vampires turning into mist, or bats, or even wolves. It made sense to him at the time, and it still did, as to this day he still couldn't change his shape, but he believed with enough practice he could one day make it look as if he could. But, simple illusions like making him sparkle? That was no problem at all.

"You're, you're sparkling." She said, backing up a step and putting her hand over her mouth. "But I thought real Vampires didn't do that, except in the books."

Brian crossed his arms over his chest and just smiled, until he saw another woman with two teen girls in tow gaping and pointing in his direction.

"Oh, crap." He said, before turning off the illusion. “We need to go now.”

"But why? We have so much to talk about." She said, as he grabbed her arm and began walking as quickly as he could in Bobby's direction, trying to hide his face from the three woman who were now just standing in the parking lot, holding up their cell phones in his direction.


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## OliviaD

Here's a short clip from Misguided Souls of Magnolia Springs:

She ran her finger over the box lid where a filigreed hummingbird was drinking nectar from a hibiscus bloom.
“I will buy that one for you on two conditions,” he told her.
“What?” She looked up at him with some of the suspicion returning that she had felt when he’d first arrived. She suddenly realized that she had to have the box.
“That you will give it to me to keep for you.” He smiled. “And that you will never ask for it back.”
“I don’t understand.” She frowned. Why would he buy it for her and then take it back? It didn’t make sense.
“You don’t have to understand,” he told her gravely.
“Yes, but...” she said and then looked up at the ceiling fan turning lazily over their heads. A single tear escaped her eye and she felt utterly devastated and sad.
“Here.” Perry took a crisp ten dollar bill from his shirt pocket and laid it on the table.
“Now.” He leaned back in the chair and picked up his tea. “Write down the one thing that you want most to be rid of. Go ahead. I won’t look.”
She opened the box and took out the little scroll and pencil. She hesitated only a second before quickly scribbling something on the paper. She folded it quickly and put it back in the box, closing the lid. When the lid clicked into place, she looked up at him expectantly.


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## Basil Sands

*This snippet is from my novel Faithful Warrior:*

"I got rights!" said G-man, "You'd better show me some badges, cops!"

"You've only got the rights I say you've got." Said Farris, "And at the moment, I'm debating taking away your right to breathe."

"You ain't cops are you!" G-man said

"Worse." Said Farris, "We're Marines."

G-man mumbled, "Mr. White ain't gonna like this!"

"If you do anything to me, Mr. White will have your balls."

"Really?"

"Yeah really," added Allie, "I don't care what gang you say you're from. Your balls are his!"

Hogan stepped up to Allie and swiftly moved his left knee up making contact with Allie's already tender private parts. The young man collapsed to the ground with a cry of pain, balled up in a fetal position and puked.

Farris went over to G-man who stood defiantly with his arms across his chest. Mike's fist slammed into the rapists stomach. G-man doubled over gasping for air.

"How does it feel girly man?" Farris asked, "Since you like beating up little girls, how about if I give you a dose of your own medicine?"

Farris dragged the gasping G-man over to the girl. She had caught her breath and was sitting up on the ground, watching the scene around her in confusion. The girl was darkened by the shadows of the building cast by the distant lights that glowed brightly in the distance behind her. Mike was not able to see the details of her face but she could clearly see him.

"Pastor Mike?"


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## sierra09

It's been a seriously long time since I've been to this thread...okay any threads  but after digging in my favorites file to find it I thought I'd pop in. This is a short bit from the newest book in my S.E.A.L. Team Omega series titled Treacherous Alliances:

“What’s the big deal?” Cassidy Marshall demanded from her chair, fingering a gold charm bracelet. “We did the DEA’s dirty work. We shut the drug cartel down. The Feds are happy. The boys in blue are happy and the Big Easy survived having Lightning Team in town again.” When she shrugged, her auburn pony tail slipped off her shoulder.

The youngest member of Lightning Team at twenty-eight, Cassidy’s voice still had the British lilt she had been born with. She also owned not only her own corporation but also the Mavericks. 
However, she had been away from Eagle’s Rock to work with the Navy SEALs. Now she chomped at the bit to return to them.

“The big deal is that the locals think it could have been done with a lot less… damage,” Olsen wasn’t sure which group to blame that on since both his team and the Maverick mercenaries had a fondness for causing property damage.

Before Grant could break in with the smart remark, the door to the Briefing Room slammed opened.

“If you’re worried about property damage, Olsen, I suggest you start with this place,” Shaun Richardson spoke from the door, eyes flashing and face hard.

“Oh, before I forget,” Steven Michaelson spoke from behind his friend. “I’ll apologize now for breaking a couple of your security agents at the front gate.”

Olsen stared at both men, wary when Richardson threw a file on the table in front of him.

“How long have you known about the Liz Decatur murder?” he demanded, eyes steady as he saw Olsen flinch.
Evan Garret, Lightning Team’s usual diplomat, frowned. “The name sounds familiar.”

“She’s the daughter of a Montana Congressman,” Cassidy told them, rolling her eyes. “Ethan’s mother wanted him to date Liz because she doesn’t like me.”

“So, who killed her?” West wanted to know, still leaning back and sipping coffee.

Richardson held Olsen’s eyes when he answered, “Commander Ethan Tremayne.”

Silence hit the Briefing Room until West bolted upright in his chair, spitting coffee as he choked. “Ex-cuse me?” he sputtered, grabbing the folder.


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## Ian Weaver

Unbeknown to her, the figure could also make her out and stood up to face her, swinging the rifle off his shoulder. Lucy let go with the arrow. It flew to its target as true as a bullet, but her aim was a little off, and it thudded into his shoulder.
Realising that the wound was not going to stop him, Lucy shouted to Matthew. ‘Quick, hand me the rifle!’
‘Lucy wait, don’t shoot, it’s me, Brad.’
‘Brad?’ She took hold of the rifle and pointed it at the figure that had now dropped to one knee. ‘Brad, is that really you?’
The kneeling figure dropped the rifle, staggered to his feet and shuffled forward to where the light of the moon fell directly onto his face. He clutched at the arrow that protruded rudely from his right shoulder. ‘Yes it really is me, and...and you seem to have skewered me,’ he said managing to force a smile.
‘Oh God, What have I done?’ cried Lucy, dropping the rifle to the ground and rushing towards the swaying figure as she recognised the voice more than Brad’s battered features. ‘Frank told us you were dead.’
She reached him just as his legs buckled, and managed to break his fall as he collapsed to the ground. The last thing he said as he slipped into unconsciousness was: ‘Frank? Frank! He’s a bloody German.’

Ian


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## D. Nathan Hilliard

This snippit is from *Shades: Wind and Dark Waters*.

"Bernie!" she yelled through the blast, "The power just went out!" She gripped the useless scarf she wore on her head, while at the same time trying to shield her face from the flying dirt and twigs. "What are you still doing out here?"

Words couldn't express how little Bernie cared about the power at the moment. He settled for pointing down the hill instead. The distant object remained in place, cloth flapping wildly in the roaring murk.

"Huh?" she frowned and came over to him. Looking in the gestured direction, she squinted against the storm's onslaught, "Oh, I see it. What is that?"

He didn't say anything, preferring her to arrive at her own answer. She helped him bury Charlotte, so she had the same facts at her disposal that he did. Maybe she would come up with something he didn't think of. Perhaps her quick mind could produce a simple explanation that would free him to retrieve his tractor without fear.

Instead, she suddenly gripped his arm, her nails biting into chilled skin.

"Oh God, Bernie! What _is_ that?"

The hint of hysteria in her voice told him she already had her answer, and it looked a whole lot like his. He glanced up to see her already pale face now almost white with fear. Her wide eyes met his, begging him to answer her with anything but her own conclusion.

"I think it's Charlotte." He managed to croak out, "I think she's down there, waiting for me."


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## Cliff Ball

Snippet from Don't Mess With Earth

Two days later, and over five hundred thousand miles from Earth, the _Korolevs_' data recorder was recording everything, the two men were asleep in their chairs, and then a mysterious shadow appeared over the spacecraft. The ship was jostled, which caused both cosmonauts to awaken, and they felt as if they were being pulled upwards, even though it was supposed to be an impossibility with no gravity in space. Gagarin got out of his chair, went to a window and looked outside, and what he saw shocked him. There was a spaceship of unknown origin out there, and it appeared to be pulling the _Korolev_ into the ship. Gagarin went over to his supply bag and pulled out his pistol, and checked it to see if it had bullets, which it did, and began weighing his options. Komarov saw this, his eyes went wide, and he asked, "You don't really plan on shooting your way out of this, do you?"
"No, I don't, but this is a protective measure. We have no idea if they're hostile, or what they even look like. I just want to be prepared in any case, and it looks like we won't have long to wait to see our benefactors."
The _Korolev_ was pulled inside the spaceship into what appeared to be a hangar bay of some sorts, from what Gagarin could see, since he saw craft of various sizes sitting in the hangar. The bay doors closed, breathable air was pumped into the hangar, and both cosmonauts experienced gravity again. Gagarin decided to open the hatch of the _Korolev_ to see what's out there, but, he made sure he kept his gun with him. Both men climbed out of their ship, looked around, and waited next to the _Korolev_ for someone, or something, to appear. Their wait didn't last very long when a door opened, and what appeared to be four humans, came walking towards the two Russians, as Gagarin and Komarov nervously stood next to their spacecraft, waiting for whatever came next. 
What appeared to be an officer of some sort walked up to both men, and said, "Greetings. I am Commander Gregor Lomanco of the Terran Base on Mars. We detected your spacecraft here drifting severely off-course for what we assume was a mission to your moon. Even though we officially try never to interfere with human activity, this is one time we thought it best to come to your aid. Unfortunately, we can't return either of you to Earth, since it would open up too many questions about us. Now, who are you?"
"I am Yuri Gagarin, and this is Vladimir Komarov, we are cosmonauts from the Soviet Union,"


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## Joyce DeBacco

From Rubies and Other Gems - the Novel. A woman learns her dream lover isn't a dream after all but a real man who lived and died years before she was born.


She moderated her tone. “I’m sorry. All I can say in my defense is that I believed it was just a harmless dream. When I realized it wasn’t, it never happened again.”

“Yeah, so you keep saying. It’s just so—so far out there.”

“I know how it sounds, and I don’t blame you for being skeptical. But you can’t honestly tell me you’ve never dreamt about making love to another woman.”

He slammed his fists on the table. “We’re not talking about me, dammit! And any fantasies I’ve ever had were just that, fantasies. I never cheated on you.”

“And it wasn’t my intention to cheat either. I was indulging in what I thought was a harmless fantasy. So, please, please don’t give up on our marriage, Sam. Give it some time before you decide. And give me time to make it up to you. We have too much history between us. Good history.”

Lily thought about that history. They may not have had the ideal marriage, and she may have toyed with the idea of leaving him on more than one occasion. But imagining their breakup and its aftermath was merely her way of dealing with the stress of headstrong children and an uncommunicative husband. Once she’d run the scenario through her mind, effectively purging it from her system, she’d always dismissed the notion. Would Sam also dismiss it?

“I don’t know what I’m going to do,” he said after giving it some thought. “All I know is that the kids need both of us now. Yeah, even Molly, though she’d be the last one to admit it. But Todd for sure. And I don’t want to disrupt his life any more than these past two weeks already have. Do you know the poor kid blames himself for your leaving? He thinks he drove you away.”

“I know. But we had a good talk about it, and he understands now.”

“Yeah? Well, I wish I did.”

“So—are we all right?” she asked in a meek tone. With no leverage on her side, Lily hung her head as she waited to hear the verdict. When Sam cleared his throat, she raised her eyes to his, hoping and praying he’d be as lenient with her as he was with their children.

His hard eyes bored into her. “No,” he said, his voice barely audible. “We’re not all right. But until Todd’s out of school and on his own, I’m not making any decisions. After that, well, I don’t know about after that. But I’ll tell you what I do know: If you ever go back to see this guy again, don’t bother coming home.”

Lily’s eyes pooled. Although it hurt to hear Sam issue such an ultimatum, she knew it hurt him more.

“Thank you,” she said in a small voice.

Joyce


----------



## terryr

From my upcoming (mid November) collection of short stories (working title "No Turn Unstoned, 99 44/100% True Tales of an Outdoorswoman); a short snippet from "Sherry and the Raccoons":

..."Why'd you chase them away? That was mean!" Sherry said, turning on me with a pout as the raccoons waddled off into the brush.

"I was mean? You think I was _mean_? I did them, and us, a favor. Raccoons in this park as bad as bears in Yellowstone," I explained. "Leave them alone. Now, come here and gut out your fish."

She took a sidestep. "Uhh--I'll get the fire ready instead."

I reached out and yanked her back. "I'll make you eat it with the guts still in if you don't."

Somehow, I ended up gutting the fish anyway, _and _making the fire. The woods became black, the lightning flashed but the rain held off. All of a sudden a hair-raising, screaming growl came from the woods, followed by another hair-raising scream somewhere to my right.

"WHAT WAS THAT!?" From infancy, Sherry had always possessed the most amazing set of lungs.

Her scream did more to rattle me than the one from the woods. I tried to smooth the hairs back down on my head, arms, and legs. Quite a feat, especially the legs: considering I'd just shaved them before we left and now inch-long hairs were poking out from the sturdy denim weave of my jeans.

"Cute little furry creatures," I told her, wondering if any my head hair would be saved in the process of disengaging individual strands from the cloth of the baseball-type cap I wore...


----------



## Steve Faber

I hope everyone is having a great weekend.
I just caught up with the books from: 
John Pearson
Dan Cannon
Roger E. Craig 
Thea J. Nilsson
Rudolf Kerkhoven
Maria Elizabeth Romana
Steve Silkin 
Kevis Hendrickson
Brendan Carroll 

Thanks for the support, everyone.


----------



## Mel Comley

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B0045UA6F0

Here's a snippet of Impeding Justice.

'Look, zip up and shut up, 'cos if this is for real, we'll be sussed before we get out of the car!' 
Lorne took up her position, leant forward and surveyed the long, narrow alley. The stench of urine and the rotting, fly-infested waste, spewing from overturned bins tinged her nostrils. She motioned the all clear to Pete and waited for him to dash across to the other side before checking the alley again and giving the thumbs-up. 
They picked their way along the graffiti-stained walls. A skinny dog, hunting for its next meal growled at them, but hunger won over conflict and he grabbed a chicken carcass and made off with it. Lorne released the breath she'd been holding and mouthed to Pete, 'Anything?'
'Not a fucking dickie bird, if you'd taken up the bet, I'd be twenty....'
A crack split the air. Pete slumped to the ground. Horror, held Lorne rigid, as she saw his bullet-proof fly in all directions, Oh no, Pete, no. You didn't do the bloody thing up! 
His body jerked as he took another hit. Lorne bent over, making herself as small as she could, and made to cross over to him, but a sting vibrated off her face spinning her to the ground.
She swallowed back the rising panic and delved into her inner resources: Everything by the book, Lorne - make the call. Grabbing her radio she gave her code, heard an affirmative answer, 'Go ahead, Inspector Simpkins.'
'Back up needed...DS CHILDS HAS BEEN SHOT-repeat DS CHILDS HAS BEEN SHOT!'
The sound of the helicopter changed from a distant hum to an urgent drumming and its blades chopped the air faster as it sped towards them.
Pete groaned. Thank God, he's still alive... But, he needed her help. Another spray of bullets echoed down the alley. Dust and rubble jumped into the air. Lorne looked around, desperate to find a way of getting to Pete.
Behind her, a large, steel, rubbish bin stood just inside the backyard of one of the shops. Its contents bulged out of the top, but its wheels looked in good condition. She could get behind it without being in the line of fire and push it between them and the gunman. As she did so, bullets ricocheted off the walls and the ground. Some hit the bin. Splinters of plastic bottles, tin cans and debris showered her, but her shield held good and she made it across to Pete.


----------



## LCEvans

From Jobless Recovery:


As soon as Jason, their server for the evening, had escorted them to their favorite table, Dave ordered designer waters and then picked up his menu.
“Dave?” Beth pushed the menu down. She drew a gift-wrapped box out of her purse and placed it next to the vase of white roses on their table. “I was going to wait until after dinner to give you this, but I can’t stand the suspense.”
A faint alarm buzzed in Dave’s head. Did one month of dating bliss come with a special significance attached? Why hadn’t he read some of the relationship books she’d recommended?  
“Thanks, honey.” Instead of opening the gift, he rubbed his chin, seeking enlightenment. When none came, he stuck the menu back in front of his eyes, though he’d already determined to order the freshly steamed vegetables with broiled salmon, which seemed a safe choice, guaranteed to steer him clear of unfamiliar dishes such as escargot and artichokes. He wondered if he could get away with telling Beth he’d ordered her a gift from some far away, exotic emporium and it hadn’t arrived yet, due to the inefficiency of some underpaid clerk. Probably not. That ploy was too obvious and Beth wasn’t stupid. 
Before his racing thoughts could hit on a solution, the first of the evening’s visitors stopped by their table to exchange air kisses and to remark on how beautiful Beth looked tonight. The visitor was someone whom Dave vaguely remembered had gone to college with Beth. The rest of the Beth fan club passed by in a blur, except for Oxford DeWinters, who was too important to escape notice. DeWinters was Markham-Hook’s second in command, a CEO understudy in case anything ever happened to John Victor Harris. 
Dave stood and shook DeWinters’ hand, noting that his grip was firm and dry and his eye contact was intimidating. He’d met the under-CEO once before at a banquet for the programming staff, a formal affair where the drinks had flowed as if someone had uncorked a bottomless bottle. 
DeWinters didn’t look older than thirty-five, though Dave had heard he was forty-six. He always dressed as if he were on his way to pose for a photo shoot for the cover of a business magazine. His expression was unreadable, but Dave knew that was a good trait for a man in power. And Oxford DeWinters radiated power like a tanning bed.
“Good evening. Dave Griffin, right?”
Dave hoped he successfully hid his surprise that DeWinters had remembered his name. He was so low on the company depth chart that even his supervisor’s boss didn’t recognize him when they passed each other in the hall. “Nice to see you again, sir.”
Dave had paid a lot of money for the coat he wore tonight, but now he felt his fingers involuntarily slide over the dark material, smoothing out imaginary wrinkles and checking for snags or a dry cleaning tag left hanging.


----------



## TrevorMcDingle

Here is a snippet from "My Diary: February To March" by Trevor McDingle...

"If you're not gay then where is your beard?" asked the captain.

"You really are senile" I explained to the captain "It is possible to be heterosexual without having a beard"

"Muslims have beards and you don't find any gay Muslims" rationalised the captain. "All you young lads who like a clean-shaven face and boast of your sexual conquests are really closet gays"

"I'm not a closet gay" I insisted. "Admittedly, by best friend was massaging cream into my penis earlier today, but I'm as heterosexual as any bearded man is. Anyway, women don't have beards and yet they are not all lesbians"

Amazon page: http://www.amazon.co.uk/co2me-21/dp/B0047DWZF4

Website: http://trevormcdingle.convey2me.com/

my eBooks page: http://www.myebook.com/index.php?option=ebook&id=52483


----------



## William Meikle

From THE INVASION - http://www.amazon.com/The-Invasion-ebook/dp/B003HS4V8O

The full horror of the situation was brought into people's homes by an enterprising television
crew from Boston who managed to get hold of half a dozen HAZ-MAT suits and ventured out
into the country to check up on what were originally considered wild reports of apocalyptic
conditions. The snow had turned to rain here - but that hadn't helped matters any. The rain fell,
thick, like green-pea soup. And above freezing temperatures meant that its effect was not
impeded in any way. Where it hit trees, the vegetation simply melted like plastic under intense
heat leaving behind only a rolling mass of sludge.


----------



## TrevorMcDingle

Here is today's snippet from "My Diary: February To March" by Trevor McDingle...

*"*Neither Trevor nor I seemed to have had any experience in brain surgery, but we felt that it must be possible to get some tips from the Internet. We located four pages about brain surgery that had been written by an American student, which we subsequently printed off to use as our reference manual.

This American genius had apparently mainly developed his brain surgery skills working on his younger sister's pet chipmunks, but he stated that he believed the principles to be pretty much the same for all forms of intelligent life. Assuming that old people could be considered to be "intelligent life" then our freshly printed reference manual on brain surgery should suffice.

It was good to discover that, to perform brain surgery, the principal equipment that one needs is a sewing needle, a magnifying glass, some tweezers, a powerful torch, and two small clock batteries connected to a length of wire (to jump-start the electric pulses within the brain after surgery is complete).*"*

Amazon page: http://www.amazon.co.uk/co2me-21/dp/B0047DWZF4

Website: http://trevormcdingle.convey2me.com/

my eBooks page: http://www.myebook.com/index.php?option=ebook&id=52483


----------



## TrevorMcDingle

Here is today's snippet from "My Diary: February To March" by Trevor McDingle...

*"*It was common knowledge that exposure to certain types of radiation could rewrite DNA and, if managed correctly, improve strength, vision or hearing upon the recipient. I felt confident that the right oven settings would enable me to achieve some good results with a cat, such as finding a way to double the size of its penis. I suspected that coating the cat's penis in self-raising flour and lard prior to microwaving it might help with the enlargement process. Obviously, I'd need to be careful to only experiment on male cats - causing a female cat to grow a penis would be a rather alarming outcome and would present some concerns regarding possible future misuse of my research.

Since I was in my best clothes, aimed at impressing Surette, I felt it foolish to try and go out and find a cat to experiment on right now. However, I made as many notes as I could from the few articles I could find that documented the microwaving of family pets, bookmarking the best pages, and I decided that this would be a research project that I could revisit in the future and seek Trevor's help with.

Obviously, I'd need to have a few successful experiments with cats prior to considering putting my penis in the microwave oven. In fact, it would probably be safer if I did my first human experiment on Trevor, and only considered microwaving my penis if the microwaving of Trevor's penis showed clear and undeniable size benefits.*"*

Amazon page: http://www.amazon.co.uk/co2me-21/dp/B0047DWZF4

Website: http://trevormcdingle.convey2me.com/

my eBooks page: http://www.myebook.com/index.php?option=ebook&id=52483


----------



## SimonWood

This is an excerpt from _*The Scrubs*_. Amazon has discounted it to 99cents. 
http://www.amazon.com/The-Scrubs-ebook/dp/B003DQNXTS

_An untidy twenty-foot high by thirty-foot wide elliptical rent gaped where the North Wall had stood. Melted stone drizzled at the edges of the opening, but quickly solidified. Beyond the hole, open countryside stretched out, disappearing at the horizon where London streets should have existed. It was after midnight, but through the hole, hazy afternoon sunshine fought to break through a yellow-green smog. The impossible visage shimmered as if viewed through a heat haze.

O'Keefe took Keeler by the arm. "Didn't I tell you there was only one Jeter?"

Keeler stared dumbly at the governor then turned to Jeter. The sociopath's body was frozen in a permanent contortion. Blood leaked from every orifice. He looked as if he was coming apart at the seams. Keeler didn't understand how Jeter could cause all this.

"What has he done?" Keeler asked.

"He's created the Rift. That's the name we've given the phenomenon. We wanted to probe his mind, try to understand the beast that lurks within man, and he produced this." O'Keefe smiled. "Fascinating, don't you think?"

"Yes," Keeler replied without a hint of sarcasm. For all the fear he felt, he still couldn't deny the amazing spectacle.

"Instead of telling us what he did to his victims, he created this," O'Keefe said. "The Rift is the world where his thoughts thrive."

Keeler glanced back over at Jeter's Rift.

"You wanted to know what you'd volunteered for, well here it is." O'Keefe pointed at the Rift and the world beyond it, "Through there are Lefford and Allard. We need you to find them. Bring them back and document whatever you can while you're there."

"What's through there?" Keeler demanded, but his voice lacked authority.

"We don't know." O'Keefe forced a smile. "That's why we're sending you." He patted Keeler on the back. "Go now, before Jeter breaks down." _ 
I hope people will read the rest.


----------



## LCEvans

Since this is Halloween month, I thought readers my enjoy my kids' book about vampires. Here's a snippet from Night Camp:



“The fangs don’t always show.” Brad angrily shoved me. "Pay attention, dummy. There's a million clues if you'd only look. Think. Has Trevor showed his teeth one single time? Even when he smiles, he keeps his mouth closed most of the way. And Colin isn’t going to go around with his mouth hanging open so you can measure his teeth."    
I thought for a minute. I didn't believe in vampires. But I had to admit I'd figured something was odd right from the beginning. After all, this was Night Camp. Vampires couldn't operate a day camp or the sunlight would kill them. "All right," I said. "Suppose for just one second that I think you're right, which I don't. What are we supposed to do?"
"Keep looking for clues, of course, Shane. You're so impressed by this castle, you wouldn't notice if a vampire drained every single blood cell from your veins. But I've been picking up clues ever since we got here." Brad's voice sounded more and more high pitched as he talked and now it cracked.
"Wow, it’s like you have superpowers. You're so observant, Brad. Or should I call you Radar Boy?" I let my mouth drop open and pretended to be amazed. Brad had been so busy picking up his vampire clues, that he hadn't even noticed the girl campers. I had. 
Brad ignored my dig. "For example, did you hear Trevor call us victims when he introduced us to the group?"
I snorted. "That's a clue? Is that why you tried to jab your elbow through my ribs?"
His face flushed. "It wasn't so much what he said. That could have been a joke. It was Colin's reaction I wanted you to see."
"I missed it. Naturally."
"I know. Well, Colin marched over and shook Trevor. Then he said something like 'I've warned you before. That isn’t funny.'"
I could see what Brad was getting at. If Trevor and Colin really were vampires, then calling the campers "victims" wasn't a very smart thing to say. 
"What did Trevor do?"
"He said, 'ow.'" Brad folded his arms across his chest and lifted his chin. To look at him, you'd think Trevor had come out and announced, "Listen up, world. My brother and I are vampires."
“Dope. Sometimes, Brad—“
“And then there’s that bat you’re making out of clay. How do you think Trevor knows so much about bats?”
“Since when do people have to be vampires to know all about bats? Haven’t you ever heard of nature studies?”
I sighed and leaned back. For a few seconds I'd actually started to believe Brad's nonsense. Exhaustion must be getting to me, turning my brain into a soggy blob instead of the computer like thinking machine I was used to.


----------



## Joyce DeBacco

From Rubies and Other Gems - the Novel.

Short blurb:

A woman's marriage is threatened when she learns her dream lover is not a dream after all, but a real man who lived and died years before she was born. Although her unintentional infidelity nearly destroys the marriage, she and her husband work at repairing it. But just when it seems they’re back on track, she accidentally sends herself back in time without a way to return. 


We pick up the story after Lily returns from the past. She thinks she’s only been gone the day, but it’s actually been two weeks. She’s already tried to explain to Sam, but he wasn’t ready to hear her out. Now, as they try to resume some semblance of normalcy for their son’s sake, he asks to see her proof.

* * *
Aware that her sanity or faithfulness was in question, Lily quickly scraped their dinner plates into a bowl for Cookie, and then reached for her phone. With hands shaking, she scrolled through the photos, holding each one out for him to see. Sam said nothing during the slide show, his face a cold, hard mask. When she reached the end, he grabbed the phone from her trembling hands and scrutinized every picture.

“This is him, with the suspenders?” he said, voice cracking.

“Yes,” she said softly. “And you can see from the picture that there are no telephone poles anywhere around. It’s all rolling hills and pastures, the way it used to be long ago.”

He took his time going through the pictures again. Then he shoved the phone back at her. “These could’ve been taken anywhere.”

“But they weren’t, Sam. They were taken right here in town, where the industrial park is now. Look at the pictures from inside the cabin. Do you see modern kitchen appliances? No. There’s a wood stove and a pump for a well. There are no electrical outlets, no TV, no microwave on the counter. Hell, there isn’t even a counter, just a rickety, wooden table to work on. If this doesn’t convince you, I don’t know what will.”

She didn’t realize her voice had risen until he shouted back at her. “I don’t know either, all right? Let me think.”

She moderated her tone. “I’m sorry. All I can say in my defense is that I believed it was just a harmless dream. When I realized it wasn’t, it never happened again.”

“Yeah, so you keep saying. It’s just so—so far out there.”

“I know how it sounds, and I don’t blame you for being skeptical. But you can’t honestly tell me you’ve never dreamt about making love to another woman.”

He slammed his fists on the table. “We’re not talking about me, dammit! And any fantasies I’ve ever had were just that, fantasies. I never cheated on you.”

“And it wasn’t my intention to cheat either. I was indulging in what I thought was a harmless fantasy. So, please, please don’t give up on our marriage, Sam. Give it some time before you decide. And give me time to make it up to you. We have too much history between us. Good history.”

Lily thought about that history. They may not have had the ideal marriage, and she may have toyed with the idea of leaving him on more than one occasion. But imagining their breakup and its aftermath was merely her way of dealing with the stress of headstrong children and an uncommunicative husband. Once she’d run the scenario through her mind, effectively purging it from her system, she’d always dismissed the notion. Would Sam also dismiss it?

“I don’t know what I’m going to do,” he said after giving it some thought. “All I know is that the kids need both of us now. Yeah, even Molly, though she’d be the last one to admit it. But Todd for sure. And I don’t want to disrupt his life any more than these past two weeks already have. Do you know the poor kid blames himself for your leaving? He thinks he drove you away.”

“I know. But we had a good talk about it, and he understands now.”

“Yeah? Well, I wish I did.”

“So—are we all right?” she asked in a meek tone. With no leverage on her side, Lily hung her head as she waited to hear the verdict. When Sam cleared his throat, she raised her eyes to his, hoping and praying he’d be as lenient with her as he was with their children.

His hard eyes bored into her. “No,” he said, his voice barely audible. “We’re not all right. But until Todd’s out of school and on his own, I’m not making any decisions. After that, well, I don’t know about after that. But I’ll tell you what I do know: If you ever go back to see this guy again, don’t bother coming home.”

Lily’s eyes pooled. Although it hurt to hear Sam issue such an ultimatum, she knew it hurt him more.

“Thank you,” she said in a small voice.
* * *
And thank you for reading.

Joyce


----------



## Dawn McCullough White

*From Cameo and the Highwayman*

"Hmm...." Opal breathed. "That and the murder of Prince Leon of course."

"Oh, I know you didn't do that because I did."

"What?"

"Sorry, Opal."

"You let us all take the blame for that...."

"Yes, I did." She pushed herself into a more comfortable position against the wall, at ease with herself. "The wanted posters had already been printed. Do you really think the old king would have believed me if I had said you had nothing to do with it?"

"No. I do wish you had told me earlier."

"Well, I'm telling you now."


----------



## J Dean

An excerpt from a short story I plan to finish and release next week...

From behind Paula came another sound, this one of a door opening. Not a car door.
"Paula?" came a male voice, "What are you doing?"
Paula turned around. In the doorway to Ray's apartment stood Barry, his hair and clothing disheveled.
The waitress gave him a perplexed look, "I thought you were asleep." 
"I heard a scream, thought it might have been you." Barry tilted his head, angling his face in order to look over Paula's shoulder with squinting eyes. "Is there somebody in my car?"
Paula looked back to the vehicle as the tall form of Mr. Due rose to his full height, turning around. Barry's hand gripped the door frame, his face hardening into a frightened stare.
"_You.._" he croaked.
"Yes, Barry. Me." Mr. Due answered, stepping next to Paula as one elongated hand set itself upon the surface of the popped trunk. "I was explaining to Paula why I'm here. And now that you're awake, I see that my job will be that much easier to perform."
"No.." Barry's voice trembled. "No&#8230; You don't understand what happened."
"Oh, that's the problem, Barry. I do." Mr. Due walked toward the open door. Something about the way his words were enunciated made the word lizard cross Paula's mind, "I do understand what happened all too well. I've seen it happen before, and every time I come to take care of business, the same excuses are thrown at me, just like you're doing right now."
"Get back!" Barry shouted. Paula caught sight of a dark window belonging to another apartment, coming alive with light.
"Do me a favor, Paula." Mr. Due spoke, not looking back at her, "Look in the trunk."
"No, Paula!" Barry pleaded, reaching his hand out, "Don't!"
The car's rear hatch lifted on its own. Something thick and bulky occupied the space below. Paula ventured toward the vehicle.
"Paula! _Get away from the car!_"
The murderous ferocity of Barry's words stopped her. She turned toward him, mouth agape in shock at the threatening tone of his voice. "What's in the car, Barry?" 
Less than fifteen feet separated Barry from the advancing Mr. Due. His attention switched from the curious waitress to the grinning, wicked face of the tall man in black who was nearly upon him.


----------



## SimonWood

This is a snippet from _Road Rash _ available from Amazon (http://www.amazon.com/Road-Rash-ebook/dp/B003DZ1EU4) and Smashwords (http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/1155. It's currently on 99cents.

Enjoy.

_The Caprice Man's fingers clawed the ground in an attempt to reach Straley. Then he dug with his legs and gained traction. Straley backed away, scrabbling on his butt, and the broken man gave up. He looked at Straley through bloodshot eyes and croaked, "Help me."

Straley shook his head again.

There was no helping this guy. If Straley tried to save him, he screwed himself. It wasn't an option. If he took the Caprice Man to the ER, the cops would take him down. Why the hell he was even thinking about hospitals? This guy was screwed. He was dissolving. No doctor on earth could save him. There was no point. This guy had minutes at most. He couldn't save the Caprice Man if he tried.

The Caprice Man repeated his plea.

The sound of the Chevy grew louder in Straley's head. The idling V8 missed a beat and then recovered. Who was to say the engine wouldn't cut out all together? He jumped to his feet and clambered up the ditch.

A spurt of energy fed the Caprice Man's dying body and he lunged. He caught one of Straley's heels and Straley slid back down into the ditch. The Caprice Man slapped a raw and bloody hand on Straley's wrist.

"Help me," he demanded.

"I was going to get help," Straley lied. His gaze fell from the old man's battered face to the hand clamped to his wrist. Partially clotted, jellified blood leaked between the man's fingers and ran down Straley's wrist. _


----------



## theaatkinson

the opening snippet from soon-to-be-released: Anamoly


Sometimes I think about angels, and I’m not talking about those man-made, Plaster of Paris knockoffs either. You know those kind, surely: chubby little bastards blowing kisses from dainty palms, their equally chubby little wings spread wide as a hooker’s legs, a vapid smile curving their mouths. Nope. I don’t think about those kind too much. Too many of them around my parents’ house, you see; so many that I tell people they’re what drove me to the evils of the big city.


----------



## Michael Crane

One of the stories from *LESSONS AND OTHER MORBID DRABBLES*, a collection of 25 100-word shorts.

http://www.amazon.com/Lessons-other-morbid-drabbles-ebook/dp/B0047T7F0S/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1287517897&sr=8-1

**************************

*LESSONS*

Poor, poor Mr. Wilks.
He used to have ten fingers, but now he only has eight. And the fact that he's screaming and calling me names isn't helping the situation any. He's tied to a chair, anyways. He's not going anywhere.
_Snip._ Another finger goes bye-bye.
Another howl of pain. Another name I'm called.
_Snip. Snip._
What a terrible mess. The floor is covered with blood. This is going to be a b**** to clean. No matter. A lesson must be learned. Lessons aren't always clean, are they?
Maybe next time, he will learn to use his f****** turn signals.

**********************************


----------



## mamiller

From the Golden Heart-nominated romantic suspense, WIDOW'S TALE

On a strangled cry she took flight.
"Serena!"
With each mounting stride, Brett's appeal grew more remote. Serena raced up the grassy hill, increasing the distance between them. All that was discernible now were her brief puffs of breath as she blindly climbed the sea cliff. 
_ Instinct_. 
She ran on instinct. Clouds of moisture billowed from her lips into her eyes, while muscles pumped and groaned against mistreatment. Unconsciously, she aimed towards the soaring silhouette of Victory Cove's unmanned lighthouse. Racking sobs prevented her from advancing any further, though. Her knees folded and she fell headlong into the frozen pasture. 
The ground was hard and cold. Unforgiving. Serena's body writhed in pain across the brittle grass. She came to rest in a fetal position, her sobs hollow echoes. Agony tore through her, though little had to do with the fall. 
All at once, the tears stopped. Serena heard the distant sound of broken waves, and the roar of arctic winds. She felt so tired-so utterly drained. She was aware that if she slept here, she may never wake. 
Recognizing this fact, Serena closed her eyes.

Were it not for the cloudless sky and the near full moon, Brett might never have found Serena. She had charged the craggy knolls with a familiarity bred by a lifetime, while Brett stumbled over loose rock and slick grass, trying to gain ground on the ghostly specter outlined by a luminous ocean. He almost passed her. She was so silent, so still, that he felt his heart neglect a beat. Lying on her side, Serena's knees were tucked up against her chest, her breath casting shallow clouds against the dirt. 
"Serena." 
No response.


----------



## Brenda Carroll

The Children of the Temple is the 13th book in _the Red Cross of Gold, Assassin Chronicles_. In this snippet, Mark has some interesting ideas about paleontology.
"But I'm rather tired of driving. I thought we'd just stay here and sit for a while. You know? Just look out over the water? Keep an eye out for Nessie? Relax?"

"Oh," he nodded. "Nessie. The monster in the loch."

"Yes. Have you ever seen her?" Merry smiled up at him.

"Aye," he told her matter-of-factly. "I've seen her and she's seen me as well."

"Really?" Merry was surprised by his answer. "What did she look like?"

"She's a black dragon with green eyes. No wings. One head. No horns."

"I see," Merry nodded. "Then Nessie is no mystery to you."

"No. She is not a mystery. She is real enough, but she doesn't actually live here."

"Most people think she's either a fiction or a dinosaur left over from the Cretaceous period that just got stuck here when the earth changed."

"She's no dinosaur!" Mark laughed. "Dinosaurs are the fiction, Merry."

"What?" Merry almost squeaked and pulled a bentwood rocker up to the window and sat down. "Dinosaurs are not fiction, Mark Andrew! 
Their bones are everywhere!"

"Are they?" He looked down at her and then dragged a foot stool over to sit beside her. "How do you know?"

"I've seen them on television and in museums," she said in astonishment. "Surely you've seen dinosaur bones!"

"I've seen some rather large bones, Merry," Mark Andrew told her. "And I've been told some rather wild stories about where they came from and how old they are supposed to be. But you can't have been a Templar for this long and not understand what I've been trying to teach you. The world is full of conspirators and conspiracies. They would tell you anything and most people would believe them..."


----------



## SimonWood

This is an excerpt from my latest _*THE FALL GUY*_.

Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/The-Fall-Guy-ebook/dp/B00427YO2W/
Smashwords: http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/24170

_"See what you've done."

Todd glanced at the headline: DRUG DEALER BUSTED DURING ROUTINE TRAFFIC STOP.

"The car you hit belongs to an employee of mine. Driving home the other night, he was pulled over for a busted headlight. The cops discovered two kilos of cocaine in his possession. He's in a lot of trouble and I'm minus an employee, not to mention a lot of money. Do you see now? Do you see what you've done and why it has led us to your door?"

"I'm sorry."

"That's not important."

"I didn't know."

"I wouldn't expect you to know. But I've lost a valuable employee who had a job to do. Now he can't do it. This is where you come in." The small man stabbed a finger in Todd's direction.

Todd's stomach twitched. He didn't like what was coming. He knew it was retribution for what he'd done, but it wasn't the kind he wanted. Points on his license and a fine he could accept. He'd even take a beating. But the small man's kind of retribution filled Todd with dread.

"Me?" Todd stammered.

"Yes. You'll have to fill in."

The linebackers wrinkled their noses. They knew Todd wasn't the right man for the job and he agreed with them.

"What do you want me to do?"_


----------



## Carolyn Kephart

Here's a snippet from _The Ryel Saga_. The wysard Ryel Mirai must survive a risky initiation to find answers to crucial questions. http://www.kboards.com/book/?asin=B00359FD28

At the meeting of the swords the wysard knelt, and crossed his arms, and bowed his head. But meditate he could not.

_You knelt in this place, ithradrakis_, he thought. _Tonight I will avenge that scar Warraven gave you, and win your sword. And in time I will raise you up from your bed of death..._

He drifted into the world of his most deep desires, for how long he was unaware until he heard the sudden faint clanging of chain mail, and felt something coldly hard touched him under the chin and made him lift his head, even as Edris' hand had done in front of the gates of Markul. Ryel opened distracted eyes to find Roskerrek standing before him with sword outstretched, the flat of its point delicately urging the wysard to consider the here and now.

"Your contemplation is profound," the Commander said. "That is well."

The wysard regarded Roskerrek down the shining length of steel. Black, white, red-the cavalry breeches and boots, the bared skin, the scarlet hair&#8230; and a fresh sacrificial slash over the right wrist. At the appearance of their high priest the Swordbrothers rose as one, forming a semicircle behind Ryel. The wysard felt the shift of mood among them, and understood that although Yvain Essern might be hated and feared elsewhere, here he was esteemed, even loved. And here he was fully in his element, in this dark temple of blood and war.

Manifestly secure in that knowledge, Roskerrek greeted his comrades with a faint smile before returning his attention to the wysard, coldly now. "Stranger, explain your presence here."

"_Ranor Argàna krân rin_," Ryel replied in the secret tongue.

One of Roskerrek's red brows lifted at those words, but otherwise he appeared unastonished. "_Krân rin Sirth, Argàna n'raght_," he replied. "The challenge is accepted." He turned to the sanctuary now unveiled, and Ryel saw that at the topmost tier of a marble dais a woman stood immobile under lamplight, a woman armed head to foot in gleaming silver, her features stern and pale-a warrior queen of chill alabaster with hair of white-gold wire hanging fine and thick from the helmet's edge to the elbows. The marble pedestal beneath her feet was covered with blood-dried purple smears, clotted gore, fresh bright splashes. Cradled like a child in her arms gleamed Ryel's Kaltiri tagh, bright as the lancing spark of a star.

High in the stony recesses of the vault, the wind crooned and hummed. The Count Palatine's voice barely rose above it. "I ask of Argane Queen of Battles the sword of he that the Brotherhood called Rukht Travàdh, Blood Flame."

Another word he spoke, that rose rough and guttural above the crooning air. The statue quivered as if alive, and slowly its folded arms unlocked until it stood with hands outstretched, Edris' sword now lying across its open palms. Taking the weapon reverently from the image, Roskerrek called upon Alleron, who carried both Ryel's sword and his lord's to the vessel of glowing coals, and plunged both blades therein. The Brotherhood watched in silence, awaiting the Commander's next words. Ryel could hear the blood-beat of each heart above the chill deliberation of Roskerrek's voice.

"Thirty years ago this man's father and mine strove in combat to give pleasure to great Argane. This night Ryel Mirai son of Edris seeks to win the weapon of his sire, and the Queen of Swords will decide between him and me."

Sir Payne de Sartriss' quick dark eyes glanced from face to face. "Who seconds him?"

Jorn Alleron stood forth. "I do."

Coldly Roskerrek inclined his head. "And I will have Tebran Koskàth, Blade Rain, for mine."

The Swordbrother so named-the wild young Markess of Covencraig-came forward to stand beside Alleron. Ryel wiped the sweat from his face with his bare forearm, and blinked it off his eyelashes; but the Commander was dry as desert stone, hard as trust betrayed, cold as love denied.


----------



## Brenda Carroll

In the Red Cross of Red:. How Men Do It, a terrible horde of monstrous beasts is released from the Abyss. Here is a snippet concerning with a first encounter of the terrifying kind.

_"No! Don't do it!!" Simon shouted to him as he started forward. 
Omar approached the thing cautiously at first and then the adrenaline and terror kicked in and he rushed toward it at breakneck speed: grab the knife, get away, grab the knife, get away, grab the knife. The thing moved, get away, grab the knife, the thing raised its arms, get away, Omar leaped for the knife. He got hold of it with his left hand. The knife came free with a sickening crunch, the thing shrieked, and caught him in the crook of its arm, flinging him back. Omar screamed, the beast screamed, Lydia screamed and Simon took off at a dead run toward the Prophet. Omar struck the ground on his back, sliding in the thick blanket of soft green grass. The thing sprang into the air from the sitting position, kicked its feet out in front of it and aimed the two hooked claws behind its heels at the downed man. Simon struck Omar as he struggled to get up and they went tumbling across the grass, the dagger in Omar's hand whipped dangerously close to Simon's head. They came up screaming at each other in mindless terror, and began to run at an angle away from the stream while Lydia went running and screaming along a path that would intersect with theirs. They scooped her up between them without stopping to look back. The grass grew thicker and taller and began to slap them in the face, slowing their pace and making it difficult to run. Soon they were stumbling through the tall growth and tangle of flowering vines until they had slowed from exhaustion and could go no further. They could hear the thing behind them. Simon noticed that there were tunnels made in the older, dead growth below the greener plants.
"Spread out!" He shouted and dived into one of the openings. 
Lydia crawled into another of the warren-like holes and Omar chose a third. The creature loped and hopped and screamed and stomped the ground in frustration when they disappeared under the grass.
The three fugitives crawled on all fours through the strange tunnels made by some unknown creature until they dropped from exhaustion. The sounds of the monster had grown fainter and fainter and eventually, it seemed, it gave up and returned to the streambed.
Simon, Omar and Lydia emerged from the warrens with grass and dirt all over them. They had not strayed far from each other and were soon reunited, hugging and weeping in each other's arms. Their relief was short-lived as they heard the distant screeching of the beast. It apparently had very good ears, wherever they were located on its hideous head. They turned together and began to hurry as fast as they could in what they thought would be a northeasterly direction through the tall grass which was now, blessedly, taller than their heads and sheltering them from sight._


----------



## LCEvans

From Jobless Recovery after Dave loses his job and begins to panic:


Dave tried to ignore the prodding reminders his mind sent him every few minutes: No one wants you, including your girlfriend. How will you pay for all this stuff? Why did you listen to the lies about the American Dream?
Absently he rubbed his hand back and forth across his breastbone. He remembered his grandmother telling him more than once about hard times when she was growing up and how they always got by. Sure, that was fine when you owned a few acres of good land and a couple of chickens, but how could you get by when you owed Markham-Hook Conglomerate for your mortgage, your furniture, your credit cards, your car, and--God, did Markham-Hook Conglomerate own the Foodarama, too? 
The company had just put banking branches in all the Foodaramas. Maybe they even controlled his food supply. He’d blindly let Markham-Hook Conglomerate take control of all his finances, his whole life even.


----------



## SimonWood

This is an excerpt from my latest _*THE FALL GUY*_.

Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/The-Fall-Guy-ebook/dp/B00427YO2W/
Smashwords: http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/24170

_He sniffed the car's rank air again. It didn't smell right. He powered down the windows for twenty minutes and let the night air flood in and wash the stink away. When he powered the windows back up, he sniffed again. The smell was still there, just as pungent and persistent and it didn't smell like sweat or bad breath.

His hands trembled as a thought punctured his brain. He fought to keep them steady. At the first off-ramp, he pulled off I-40 and drove along some poorly maintained county road until he found an abandoned strip mall. He parked around back out of view of passersby. He popped the trunk and walked to the rear of the vehicle. He didn't have to guess at what he'd find. The stench rammed a fist through the sweet night air.

Shrink-wrapped in plastic was the contorted shape of a man. The corpse's bulging eyes and tongue pressed against the tight plastic. Decomposition had set about its merry work and the body had bloated, stretching the plastic beyond the breaking point. The plastic seams had snapped in several places letting out the stink. Even through the distortions, Todd recognized the dead man from his picture in the newspaper. He was the Porsche owner the cops had picked up after Todd had hit his car.

Todd sighed. The small man wasn't going to let this slide._


----------



## Budo von Stahl

I love snipping snippets!  I see some really good ones in this thread.  Here is one from me  

Danoc had only been there once, shortly after the Sack of Palisor, trying to get the remnants of his countrymen to the safety of the mountains.  It was there he and Lady Ellin had been captured.  Desire came over him to see that place again; that place where his mortal life basically had ended and his eternity of undeath had begun.  
The Hakkonds had at first expertly tortured them.  They were not permitted to eat or sleep for days, and forced to drink just enough water to keep them alive.  Day after day, night after night, they were forced to watch each other suffer.  Brutes and beasts of all sorts used them for sport, and soon the captives were turned upon one another.  Such horror was not possible to endure for long, and they had eventually answered the very few questions put to them.  
Danoc and his friends had resisted the torment valiantly, but in the end it was not enough.  One by one, as their will to resist was broken and they began to cooperate in the vain hope of relieving their torment, they were taken away to Arkelebule.  Spells and concoctions and devices were used on them, and their hearts and souls were corrupted as badly as their bodies.  Danoc could remember none of the final corruption, save being bled and magically assaulted to the point of what should have been certain death, and awakening into a world of darkness, with a terrible thirst for blood and revenge.  

This and more on my fan page:  www.facebook.com/pages/Budo-von-Stahl/132083946835754?v=wall


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## Brenda Carroll

Here's a little snippet from _The Red Cross of Gold XX:. Cross Purposes_. Cross Purposes is the latest release in the series as the Chevalier du Morte's troubles continue.

_"Perhaps that is the key." Semiramis pursed her lips and a slow smile spread across her timeless face.
"What?" Aurora fell to one knee before her great-grandmother. "What is the key? Tell us, grandmother!"
"Leave me!!" Semiramis snapped and swirled about and the feathered cloak spread out about her form like angelic wings. "I will release him from this spell!"
Aurora got up quickly and took her mother's arm.
The two women hurried from the chamber.
"Mind the black ones!" Semiramis shouted after them. "Await me in the outer chamber."
She turned quickly back to the green and yellow form encased in crystal.
She ran her hand over the head and down the chest. 
"So cold," she whispered. "I will help you this one last time, my love. And when you are done with your crusade, you will return to me and we will leave this place. But this time you may see things differently." She smiled at the stone and then frowned and some of the compassion returned to her eyes. "You have treated me poorly, Adar. I grow tired of your dalliance with these mortal women and I try to forget you. I will allow you to finish your quest, but you will no longer make light of our love. You belong to me. And I have waited overlong for your return. Since you cannot decide, I will decide for you."
The warrior queen stepped back and sank to the floor of the cavern on one knee, bowing her head before the form of the trapped Lord of the Seventh Gate._


----------



## vwkitten

A sneak peek at Book 4 of the PSI Consulting series - Court of Miracles - due to release next week.

  “Hey!” Zack jumped to Damian’s defense, more than a little offended.  “Damian’s a solid guy.  He’s always been decent to me and he’s just plain a good guy.  I like him.”
  “He’s wasn’t in a motel room for a night with your fiancé,” Marcus growled.
  “That was before you gave Rianna the time of day,” Zack protested hotly.  “From what I heard, nothing happened, but even if it had, you wouldn’t have a leg to stand on with that gripe.  Damian’s been at our backs and he deserves to have us at his with defense, not a knife.”
  “Well said, Zack,” Jordan smiled winningly.  “I knew there was a reason I kept you around.”
  “I’ve got to agree with Zack and Jordan,” Greg stared at the girls playing with their puppies.  “I’d leave my horny teenage daughter with Damian as long as he knew I wanted her untouched when I returned.”
  “You have a daughter?” Jordan asked.
  “No,” Greg smiled.  “But if I did, I’d trust Damian with her virtue.  Unless she turned out to be his mate or something.”
  “Yeah, well,” Marcus grumbled some more but not with any real intent.  “She could have had Prince Charming, literally, and she chose me?  You’d be worried too.”
  “Seriously, Marcus,” Jordan put a hand on Marcus’s shoulder.  “Rianna’s wearing your ring and sleeping in your bed.”
  “And spending every waking minute with Mr. Wet Dream,” Marcus groused.  “And why’s she over there half in tears?”
  “Maybe because you were too tired to ‘celebrate’ your engagement last night,” Greg chortled at Marcus’s blush.
  “Are you telling me that you wouldn’t be jealous if he was spending all that time with Tiara?” Marcus challenged Jordan in a quiet growl.
  “Not at all,” Jordan took the high road, but his eyes flickered briefly.  It was too quick for Zack or Pete to notice, but Marcus did.  “I trust Tiara completely.”
  “Well, I trust Damian,” Zack stuck his two cents in stubbornly.  
  “I’d trust Damian over the girls,” Pete sucked deep on his cigarette.  “He seems the honorable type.  You know, death before dishonor.  Women,” he sneered and blew out the smoke, “they’re fickle creatures.”
  “Not helping, man,” Marcus and Jordan growled at Pete together.


----------



## garethmottram

Thanks for setting up this thread - here's mine before I have a scan down the pages...

Snippet from JASON WILLOW (Paranormal action/adventure)

*Prologue*

'Get down!' Dad yelled and hurled Jason and Miranda to the floor.

Jason tucked into a roll and flowed to his knees pressing tight against a concrete pillar. Mum and Dad darted behind parked cars as the blacked-out van squealed to a halt and three men burst out, automatic pistols in hand.

Miranda leapt on Jason from her prone position and flattened him to the floor. 'Keep down, you idiot!'

Gunfire exploded through the multi-storey car park as bullets ripped off concrete from the roof and columns all around them. Jason slapped his sister's arm away and jerked his head up.

Dad crouched behind the next pillar, with a pistol somehow in his hand. One of the gunmen suddenly appeared, leaping across the bonnet of a 4x4, his black overcoat billowing out behind him like gigantic bat wings.

Dad shot his heart out with a single bullet. As the dead-eyed head smacked onto the floor, Dad surged to his feet, gun blazing. He thrust his empty hand out in front of him and stepped out of cover.

Miranda caught Jason in a headlock and pulled him flat again. 'Stay down, they're agents. There's nothing you can do.'

Jason fought against her expert hold. 'Dad needs us - it's three against one&#8230;'

Suddenly the shooting stopped. Silence slammed down around them.

'Not any more,' Miranda whispered and eased her grip.

Jason broke free and scrambled to his knees. Dad stood just a couple of metres away, scanning the cars with his gun still out.

'Where's Mum?' Jason asked.


----------



## Alan Simon

Just found this thread; cool. Below is the opening from UNFINISHED BUSINESS (and *slightly* less than 250 words   )
-----------
Roseanne DeMarco often thought about her brief two-month affair with Frank Donaldson throughout the nearly nine years that followed those summer months of 1942. Almost every time, in addition to slipping into a near-trance as she vividly relived some moment or another during the affair that was burned into her memory, she found herself asking the same question she had asked herself so many times while it had still been going on: Why?

The answer her mind offered back each time she asked that question (not aloud, of course) never varied: Because I just didn’t feel married back then, that’s why. Occasionally some guilt-laden corner of her conscience would launch an assault and remind her that no matter how “married” she felt or didn’t feel, she had still taken a vow of marriage and eternal fidelity standing side by side with Joseph DeMarco before God on the St. Michael’s altar. Nowhere in the marriage vows Roseanne Conte-about-to-be-DeMarco had recited had there been anything that could have been misconstrued as terms of conditional compliance, an escape clause of sorts, that blessed Roseanne DeMarco to commence an affair barely a month later while Joseph – Joey, as he was known to everyone save his old country immigrant parents who insisted on using the given names of all their children – was away at basic training in Mississippi.


----------



## Laura Lond

I like your snippet Alan! Makes me want to find out "why" - just one month later.

Mine will be very short, hope it gives you all a smile. It is from _My Sparkling Misfortune_:

"Have you ever tried treating apathy and depression with mortal danger? From my experience, I greatly recommend it." -- Lord Arkus


----------



## destill

I saw this thread and thought the following snippet might be timely. This is from _Deedee Divine's Totally Skewed Guide to Life_:

It's possible to make a pumpkin pie from a real pumpkin (as opposed to a canned one). But like natural childbirth, why would anyone want to do that?
Perhaps a pie baked from the wholesome natural gourd tastes immensely better than one scooped from a container. Certainly, the original cooking process is more time-consuming and messy. However, it could offer a culinary connection to our nation's foremothers. And since I still had a fully intact pumpkin left over from Halloween, I decided to find out.

Through research I discovered that the first Thanksgiving feast hadn't included anything sweet, unless you count dried fruits and lucrative food swaps. In exchange for the five deer (or about 200 pounds of venison) the American Indians brought to the table, the pilgrims shared with them some roasted fowl. This worked out so well that later the settlers tricked their friends into trading them land for a bunch of casinos.


----------



## Dana Taylor

Here's a snippet from SHINY GREEN SHOES:

"Luther, Oklahoma 1935 
My fascination with shoes began with a bright, green shiny pair winking at me from the shoe store window Mama and I passed everyday on the way to the Knight house in the white part of town. Until that day in my eighth year in 1935 I had no idea such wonders existed. The ugly, stiff-leathered hand-me-downs that came my way pinched my toes and made me awkward. I shucked them ratty old things the first sign of spring, running free until winter frost forced my feet into confinement once again. 
We lived in Luther, Oklahoma, which survived the woes of the Depression and dust bowl by clinging to the life line of Route 66. My family survived by our work ethic, strong backs and a faith in the Almighty."

Dana Taylor


----------



## Judi Coltman

Here is a snippet from my book, 'Is It Just Me? or Is Everyone a Little Nuts?"


The English language is one of the most difficult languages for anyone not raised speaking the language to fully comprehend. What with words that are spelled the same, pronounced the same yet have vastly different meanings. . .words like, well “Like,” it’s a wonder we can understand each other at all. I can like (as in enjoy) something (Facebook encourages me to like lots of things) or something can be like. . .as in math: Are the amounts like? We've all seen the homonyms like (meaning, "as in") read and read. Or lie and lie. However, it has been my experience that perhaps the complicated meaning surrounding the simplest words is more of a problem for the average American - specifically the average American male. . .with the name Moondoggy.

I learned early in my marriage that the male of the my particular family species tend toward the extremely literal when they speak and are not capable of stepping back to see the deeper meaning of even simple words unless prodded and, yes sometimes even shamed. It's not a fault exactly, it's more like (meaning, "comparable to") a handicap. The sad part is that they don't seem to understand WHY the entire population of females in their lives think it's a problem. Pity. Take, for example, the word LOOK.


----------



## John H. Carroll

*Excerpt from "Rojuun":*
"Me? I am . . . Vevin!" he exclaimed in excitement, still doing his happy dance. His tenor voice was gravelly. It sounded distinctly non-human. "Yes! Vevin is my name. Vevin is a good name, no?" he asked hopefully.
While Tathan stood there staring at Vevin in disbelief, Liselle moved out from behind and answered, "Vevin is an excellent name. I like it a lot." She gave him a big smile. "Don't mind Tathan." She casually waved her hand in her cousin's direction as Tathan crouched, ready to attack this strange creature. "He's a bit jumpy and we really didn't expect to find anyone way out here in the middle of the forest."
"Yay! I like you. Hi Tathan!" he said, waving at Tathan. Still doing his dance, he spoke to Liselle, "You're nice. And pretty! I didn't expect anyone out here either!" Vevin spoke excitedly adding foot slides to his dance now.
"Thank you, Vevin," Liselle said, smiling at him. "You seem like a very happy person."
Vevin stopped suddenly and leaned forward with an intense look. "No! I'm not happy at all. He stole my home!" He exclaimed in outrage. "And he hurt me bad!" He turned to the right and showed them a long, deep gash along the left side of his face from the bottom of his chin to the top of his head. It looked as though it was beginning to heal, but it was a very serious wound.


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## Maryhc67

Melanie hated Chicago.

Well, not the city of Chicago, with its gorgeous skyline and sense of something always just about to happen. She just hated the airport, especially now. She was stuck with a gazillion other harried would-be passengers, all of them waiting for a break in the weather. It was the day before Thanksgiving, and the light morning snow had turned heavy unexpectedly.

All around her, she heard the sound of people complaining, of fretful babies, of the general chaos that can only be a major metropolitan airport during the holiday season. She longed for the quiet of her condo in Bethesda, Maryland.

O'Hare Airport, always busy at any time of the year, was positively groaning. To kill time-and avoid the urge to kill any of her fellow travelers-she found herself playing her old favorite game and made up stories about the people around her. It wasn't hard for her to imagine that the scowling young woman to her right who was clutching a briefcase to her chest was actually carrying secret documents back from a recent clandestine meeting with a fellow spy. And that the information secreted away in her briefcase needed to be in her superior's hands, making the flight delay a matter of life or death.

Or that the emo-looking young man nearby who was muttering into his cellphone while constantly pushing the hair out of his eyes was actually begging his girlfriend to give him just one more chance. That he hadn't meant to burn down her house, it was just an accident.

http://www.amazon.com/Flurries-ebook/dp/B004CLYHIY/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1290958070&sr=1-1


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## mamiller

From my romantic suspense, BORROWED TIME

And with the curiosity and awe of a child, Emily crossed that concrete floor as if it were frozen, as if she was on top of the ice-crusted surface of some faraway planet. She approached the mammoth craft suspended by metal scaffolding, like a creature of the sea,

Mesmerized, Emily began to pace the perimeter, studying the fine details of craftsmanship. The vessel looked like an enormous silver manta, with its eyes formed by the bank of windows at the forward nose. The body of the ship flowed in aerodynamic waves as if even in these metal shackles it was gliding silently through the water, leaving the faintest of wakes.

Emily dared to step closer and stare up at the smooth, black underbelly. From this perspective she felt just as she had as a child in the Museum of Natural History, staring up at the blue whale suspended from the ceiling of the Hall of Ocean Life. She had felt so diminutive, like a tiny spec of plankton that would be inhaled without a thought.


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## theaatkinson

great stuff on here.

LOVE the opening to Deedee Divine's Totally Skewed Guide to Life:

mainly because I soooo love pumpkin pie

here's the opening to anamoly  just released

Sometimes I think about angels, and I'm not talking about those man-made, Plaster of Paris knockoffs either. You know those kind, surely: chubby little bastards blowing kisses from dainty palms, their equally chubby little wings spread wide as a hooker's legs, a vapid smile curving their mouths. Nope. I don't think about those kind too much. Too many of them around my parents' house, you see; so many that I tell people they're what drove me to the evils of the big city four years ago.

What I do think about are the real ones: the seraphim, the guardian angels, the archangels. Those who fell from Heaven when they followed that most beautiful creature of all as well as those who remained behind, stuck in paradise because they couldn't manage out-of-the box thinking. Those ones who, all, have smooth expanses of desert where there should be moist oases of genitals. Those beings created for servitude to the glory of God. Ah, no use for genitalia to do what they do; no, indeedy not. And as you know, genitalia is a very big part of life. It rules us by its very nature of flesh and folds.

Still, do angels think about what their existence would be like with genitals: with a clitoris to raise shudders on nerve endings from sole to soul or a sensitive tip to plunge into secret areas and buckle a sac deep into its surrounding body? Or are angels, like only children free from sibling rivalry, simply unable to imagine what they've never experienced?

It makes me wonder if God in one of his exploratory moods granted Lucifer one of these accoutrements-or both, even-as an experiment, and ended up giving the creature an understanding of joining that the rest could never imagine.

Is that why they threw theology's greatest hissy fit?

It might reassure you to know that I do think of other things. I'm just like you; like most folks. I think about the economy and world peace. There's also the fact that a half-breed is the newest American President, happier to identify with his African side than his Caucasian for now because it ushers in 'a new era.' Not that I'm against all that. I think it's long overdue that a man of African descent could be President. An African American woman? Getting there. Better yet, what about a bi-racial, bisexual, cross dresser for president. We'd be making real strides as humanity there, now wouldn't we?

It matters to me, you see, that you understand just how like you I am. That I'm really a regular everyday kind of Joe. Or Josephine. Like you I worry about money, about work, about family. See? All very normal for a middle class heterosexual person.

Well, there is the tiny, very tiny, issue of what gender I am, but that's no big deal. Not really. Not when you remember how much crap is out there in the world to deal with.


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## opuscroakus

Okie dokie, and here we go, from THE GASLIGHT JOURNAL. http://amzn.to/gaslightjournal

Without being attentive to where she was walking, Isabella Audley, having collided with something solid, 
soon found herself lying in the snow with the wind properly knocked out of her, wholly unaware of what it 
was that had blocked her path.

She lay for a moment, stunned. _I hope no one is looking._

"Help you up, miss?"

A man stood beside her with his hand proffered, a group of men his approximate age, just behind.

Miss Audley, being a lady of privilege and the human condition--never a good combination for one with her 
own mind--fought the urge to be proprietous, although, she knew well, that being suitable was indeed what 
had always been expected of her. This divergence, however, seemed to inevitably be her own undoing, 
much to the chagrin of her poor mother.

"Did you lose your eyesight in a horrible accident?" she yelled, fully realizing that divergence had won out, 
yet again. Finding her reticule, she hastily made her way to her feet. In spite of her ire, she was not foolish 
enough to pass up a gentleman's hand, even if he needed a good lecture from a chapter in _Our Deportment_.

"Sorry, miss, I truly did not see you," said the man. A low ripple of chuckles permeated the group.

As she brushed the snow from her skirts, she was aware of crimson heat creeping into her cheeks.

"If you had any sense of decency, you would be ashamed right now."


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## terryr

From soon to be released short story/memoirs collection (title being determined). This story is titled "First Bass".
*****

...Despite my many years of angling, I never approached the sport with the techno-gadget fervor of some people I know, especially men. At first, I never gave much thought to what I caught, as long as I recognized it as "keeper" and "edible". 

After a while, I developed a preference for trout fishing. Better yet, trout fishing in some big lake or pond while lazily drifting in my canoe, without worry of washing out in rapids if I fell asleep. I was happy as long as I had a rod, reel, some live bait, or a few simple spinning lures. My tackle box usually held three or four lures, extra hooks, a container of worms, a few small bobbers—yes, I admit to using bobbers on occasion—a fishing knife, waterproof matches, and a six pack. There was plenty of room for that, since I didn't need all those funky little compartments for anything else. I removed most of them to carry something really useful on a fishing trip, like some St. Pauli or Heineken, maybe a sandwich. The sandwich, however, usually suffered a fate worse than death when the worm container spilled. After a few failed attempts to fix this problem, I had to give up on packing sandwiches in the tackle box.

My male friends didn't know my dark secrets. All they knew was that, whenever I went out, I caught something more than a cold from standing in water past my butt for hours on end. I came back with fish. The guys didn't want to hear that my three nice rainbows were taken using common worms from the manure pile. I tried honesty once, but they were so skeptical I started making up stuff about wet flies, nymphs, streamers, number 10 Royal Coachmen, and Black Gnats. They ate it up. Of course. It was exactly what those hunt-fish madmen liked to hear. 

I made sure to be current with the latest fishing technology and vocabulary. The rewards were great: men paid attention to what I said. They asked questions. They became reasonably intelligent, animated, and capable of concise, clear communication. It was amazing, and from that point forward I made it a point to do some serious research prior to telling fish stories of any kind to a particular audience.

So how did I then get hooked on bass fishing? A friend and co-worker from the liquor store where I was employed for so many years got me started. It happened the day he, instead of his wife, brought their eight-year-old daughter to my barn for a riding lesson. The farm that I rented for my horse-boarding business had a small, artesian-spring fed pond, maybe as big as an acre or so. 

Of course, my friend's wife's interest in the pond was for the pretty scene it presented, but my co-worker had Different Ideas. Little did I suspect the innocent, simple fishing life I previously enjoyed would end that very afternoon...


----------



## rsullivan9597

The following is the first few sentences of Book 2: Avempartha by Michael Sullivan (currently free on Kindle)

As the man stepped out of the shadows, Wyatt Deminthal knew this would be the worst, and possibly the last, day of his life. Dressed in raw wool and rough leather the man was vaguely familiar, a face seen briefly by candlelight over two years ago, a face Wyatt hoped he would never see again. The man carried three swords, each one battered and dull, the grips sweat-stained and frayed. Taller than Wyatt by nearly a foot, and possessing broad shoulders and powerful hands, he stood with his weight distributed across the balls of his feet. His eyes locked on Wyatt the way cats stare at mice.

"Baron Dellano DeWitt of Dagastan?" It was not a question but an accusation.

Wyatt felt his heart shudder. Even after recognizing the face, a part of him-the optimist that somehow managed to survive after all these dreadful years-still hoped he was only after his money. But with the sound of those words that hope died.


----------



## ericbt

Here's a snippet from SEAMS16:A New Home

“It's kind of a tight fit, but it breathes and moves freely, and doesn't bind anywhere,” Charlie said. “It'd be awfully hard to get anything caught in any machinery.  It's a pretty well designed uniform.  Look, the pockets on the front are just the right size for a small notetaker and they even have a pocket on the sleeve specifically to hold a Pic.”

“Are you sure that comes apart?  What if you have to use the bathroom?”  Susan asked.

“Watch.”  Charlie pinched the stripe on the right side at the waist.  The suit separated by itself as if it were being unzipped all the way around the waist, resulting in a neatly hemmed shirt that slightly overlapped pants with a one inch waistband.  Charlie then aligned the stripes again and gave it another pinch.  The suit resealed itself, leaving no trace of either the hem or the waistband.  “And it works from either side.”  He demonstrated by pinching the stripe on the left.

“I guess they really did think of everything,” Susan agreed and then teased.  “I especially like how it shows off your cute butt.”


----------



## JimC1946

A brief snippet from Recollections: A Baby Boomer's Memories of the Fabulous Fifties:

My sisters and I were suburban kids. Several aunts and uncles still lived in the country, and our parents thought it would be a good idea for us to spend some time in the country, so for a week every summer, my sister Janis and I lived with Aunt Beatrice, whose two sons were grown and on their own. Aunt Beatrice spoiled us rotten, and we loved it, except for having to use an outhouse, since like many rural people, her house did not have an indoor bathroom. But we were adventurous kids, and the outhouse was just part of the adventure. One afternoon, Aunt Beatrice asked us if we wanted fried chicken for dinner. Of course we said yes, figuring that she would go to the store and get a nice ready-to-cook chicken. Instead, we followed her to the backyard, where she proceeded to grab one of the chickens and chop its head off with a hatchet. With blood still spurting from the chicken's neck, she plucked the feathers off and gutted the chicken. An hour later, the chicken was frying in a skillet. For some reason, none of this bothered Janis, but I couldn't eat anything that night, and I didn't eat chicken for the next five years. I had always just figured Aunt Beatrice kept the chickens in her backyard as pets. It had never dawned on me that she ate them.


----------



## mamiller

A snippet of romantic suspense, from WIDOW'S TALE

Using the rail for leverage, Serena forced her numb feet to cooperate and managed a few awkward steps. 
_Something made her stop._ That prickly sensation at the back of her neck-the same paranormal sensation that occurred just before her ghosts arrived. 
Under the beacon atop the bordering trawler, Serena traced the arc of light. In horror she watched the surging black wall of water that came straight at them. 
Her scream was severed by its impact. 
Launched from the deck into the frigid void, suspended in churning darkness for an eternity, Serena surfaced, choking. She squinted against the onslaught of the storm and located the trawlers, shifting shadows several feet away. She struggled to kick her feet, and flailed her arms to keep above the waves. 
Cruelly, Serena's mind flashed to the past. She felt the weight of Alan's hand on her head. Sputtering for breath, she tilted her neck back so that only her face reached the cold night. 
Two kicks. 
One.
Serena's legs stopped moving. 
With a last twitch of strength, her arms fell still.


----------



## SimonWood

Here's a snippet from my supernatural thriller, _*The Scrubs*_.

http://www.amazon.com/The-Scrubs-ebook/dp/B003DQNXTS

_"What kind of game?" Cady asked.
"We're talking about Jeter. What kind of game do you think?" O'Keefe said.
"The worst kind."
"And those eighteen to twenty-four year olds would love it."
"You said Keeler was a guinea pig. Why have you really sent him in there?"
"To see if he can survive."
"So this has nothing to do with finding Lefford and Allard?" 
O'Keefe shook his head. "I doubt they're alive. We lost contact with them almost immediately. At this point, we're trying to establish telecommunication links inside the Rift. Once we achieve that then we'll be set."
"How close are you to achieving that?" 
"A couple of months off. We'll probably have to send in a couple more inmates."
"But how far are you from getting Jeter under some form of control?" Cady asked. 
O'Keefe sagged. "That part is going to take considerable time."
"So what are Keeler's chances of making it back?"
"With the brain Jeter's got," O'Keefe said more to himself than to Cady. "It's got to be slim to nothing. It's a slaughterhouse in there." _


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## mamiller

Romance in Hawaii. ROGUE WAVE

Before her, the planks of the pier faded into obscurity once the scope of the wire-meshed bulb lost its potency. Nerves made the tips of Briana's fingers numb and her hands tremble, but she was determined to find something useful-something that would make Nick stand up and take notice.

To her right, a commercial craft jolted in its slip, the block letters _Windward Explorer_ visible in the muted glow of the overhead bulb. As she progressed, it grew darker and more difficult to read the markings. The unearthly groan of the vessels made her conscious of the black water only a few steps in either direction. Briana battled images from the past that threatened to undermine her resolve. Instead, she concentrated on the slip numbers.

_Twenty. Twenty-one. Twenty-two_.

There it was. The _Merryweather_ rolled lazily in the calm sea, its fifty-foot hull painted white with a thick band of color down the side. It looked like a slash of blood, but that was just her macabre imagination. A flashlight really would have come in handy, but the darkness was an ally. Still, it was difficult to make out anything on the trawler's deck. In these shadows any sort of atrocity was feasible, and her mind ran rampant with possibilities. Cautious, she drew closer, holding onto a wooden pillar for support. Splinters jabbed her palm, but she only gripped tighter, leaning over the edge of the jetty for a better view.


----------



## MrMiracle

I pretty much engage in snippetry all the time in my signature.  But here's another choice cut:

“Who are you?” Stegler asked.
The man took two long, thudding steps and stood face to face with Ibram Glenn’s assistant.  Kent found himself staring right back at his own face in the dark reflection of the stranger’s smooth mask.
“You know, everyone asks that.  Everyone asks that because it’s a sensible thing to ask.  The funny thing is, they know the answer.  Or at least they think they do.  They’ve been told the answer, but ask anyway.
“You, however, are different Mister Kent Stegler.  You ask because you truly don’t know the answer.  Out of all the people I’ve met, you have the most logical reason to want to know who I am.”


----------



## SimonWood

This is an excerpt from _*The Scrubs*_. Amazon has discounted it to 99cents.

Kindle: http://www.amazon.com/The-Scrubs-ebook/dp/B003DQNXTS/

_"Do not fear us."

A woman had spoken to Keeler. She stood atop the corpses at the center of the pond. A water-soaked, sheer nightdress clung to her slim figure. She was somewhat older than the blonde who had touched his face, somewhere in her twenties. Although she'd spoken to him, she was quite dead thanks to an ear-to-ear gash across her throat. Keeler had no idea how she had spoken. Her mouth, like the gash in her throat, had been stitched shut.

This was too much for Keeler. He scrabbled away from the abomination of corpses, his feet struggling to find purchase in the soft soil.

"Please, don't run."

The sadness in the dead woman's voice halted Keeler. Her sorrow cut through him like a bitter wind. He no longer feared her and he slowly rose to his feet.

"Thank you," she said.

The woman remained unnaturally still, as if suspended by unseen puppet strings with no puppet master at the controls. Pond water dripping from the hem of her nightdress was the only sign of animation. The dead woman's unblinking gaze and unmoving lips unnerved Keeler. He couldn't maintain eye contact and he wondered if she noticed. How horrible for her, he thought and forced himself to look at her. Keeler walked as far as the water's edge, drawn by her ability to communicate, but he made sure he wasn't within arm's length of any of the corpses.

"Who are you?" he asked.

"One of Jeter's victims."_


----------



## CJ West

SimonWood said:


> This is an excerpt from _*The Scrubs*_. Amazon has discounted it to 99cents.
> 
> Kindle: http://www.amazon.com/The-Scrubs-ebook/dp/B003DQNXTS/
> 
> The woman remained unnaturally still, as if suspended by unseen puppet strings with no puppet master at the controls. Pond water dripping from the hem of her nightdress was the only sign of animation. The dead woman's unblinking gaze and unmoving lips unnerved Keeler. He couldn't maintain eye contact and he wondered if she noticed. How horrible for her, he thought and forced himself to look at her. Keeler walked as far as the water's edge, drawn by her ability to communicate, but he made sure he wasn't within arm's length of any of the corpses.


Great Snippets Simon. These are my two favorite scenes from the Scrubs!


----------



## JackNolte

All right, I have a few minutes, so I thought I'd play with this one. Here's the first page from my mystery, The Gray and Guilty Sea:

Chapter 1

THE WOMAN WASHED UP ON THE BEACH at sunset-a girl, really, eighteen or nineteen by the looks of her, dressed in black lace panties and a white tank-top. No doubt she was dead. Gage had seen enough dead bodies to know.

A fierce wind blew back his hair. His bare hand, gripping his cane, was numb from the cold. The approaching storm stretched along the horizon like an old metal coil, the hint of orange like rust in the dark, tightly-wound clouds. Above the clouds, the sky was flat and sterile like dull silver; beneath the clouds, only the white-capped swells broke up the gray monotony of the ocean. It would be dark in twenty minutes. Gage, groggy from an early bourbon, had almost skipped his evening walk. How different his life would have been if he had.

The girl had the look of an exhausted swimmer, body half out of the surf, half on the sand, head resting on one outstretched arm. But one ankle was tangled in sea kelp, sand and mud streaked her milky skin like paint splatters on white porcelain, and both eyes were wide and unblinking. Even from twenty paces, he could see her eyes-two slashes of white in all that gray.


----------



## SimonWood

CJ West said:


> Great Snippets Simon. These are my two favorite scenes from the Scrubs!


I'm glad you liked it, CJ.


----------



## William Meikle

From Watchers: The Coming of the King ( http://www.amazon.com/dp/B004HO5UNC )

They were a rag-tag bunch for an army. From his vantage point Sean saw kilted Scotsmen, the red-tunics of those who had once been in the English army, the tattered woolen over garments of farm workers, and, down there, just beginning to climb, the recently animated bodies of fellow officers of the watch killed in the last attack. They made up little more than a screaming, disorganised, mob; men, women and older children all united in just one common cause-to get over the wall and feed.

He aimed the nozzle of the bellows down at them and pressed the handles together. The stench of garlic suddenly filled his nose and brought tears to his eyes.

As the water hit the attackers, they fell back, hissing and mewling, leaving long trails of greasy marks as they slid back to the earth.

Screams rent the air, inhuman screeches of pain. Some of them, only their heads touched by the liquid, kept trying to climb until being hosed down further. And still the throng pressed forward, walking over the bodies of the fallen. And everywhere that water touched it brought boiling lesions to the skin and fresh screams in the air.


----------



## mamiller

Please try a little slice of romantic suspense in Lake George and Saratoga. BORROWED TIME .99 cents

For a moment the two men gauged each other, a silent standoff in which the wind's mournful whistle licked at the front door. Brian's fingers clenched around the trigger, but he kept the weapon down, resting against his thigh.
Years in Naval Intelligence had taught him nearly a hundred ways to incapacitate this young man in seconds without the need of a weapon, but the unwavering stare of this adversary immobilized Brian. It was like looking into a fortuneteller's crystal ball, where first you saw a mystical swirl of smoke and then finally the clarifying images of fate.
"Enough." Emily snapped the spell by hoisting in front of him. "Look, we don't have what you want."
You have plenty of what I want, Angel. Brian glared at the mutinous thought, but Emily backed down from that burning glance.
"Maybe that's the truth. But you _had_ it." He repositioned the handgun back under his shirt, and crossed his arms. "You're on film, Ms. Brennan. We know you had the backup drive, so if it isn't in your possession right now, you certainly know where it is." His gaze shifted. "Or the designer himself knows it's location. By the way, are you going to introduce me?"
Emily seemed surprised. "You don't know who this is?"
No. And it was pissing him off. He had known that night before he took off after Emily, but now there was no name. All he had was a breach of knowledge, one that was filled by Phil's recital of details. But he had only referred to the offender as "The Engineer."
Brian caught Emily studying him and he swore he detected concern in her gaze.
"I'm fine." He answered her unvoiced question, knowing that she could no longer be worried about him, but was probably sizing up a potential avenue of escape.
She continued to look at him, her eyes dipping to all the spots on his body that had sustained injury. With a flinch she snapped out of her stupor.
"Brian Morrison," She stepped back and swept her arm in the young man's direction. "Meet Colin Brennan."
Brennan. My God, her _husband_. The persistent stab of jealousy was back with a vengeance, and it made Brian's temperament even fouler. What the hell did he care? The woman he had been attracted to-rather, infatuated with, did not exist. She truly was an angel, and literally slipped up to the heavens the moment she left that hospital. Here before him stood a married criminal.


----------



## CIBond

This is from my my current work - _You Don't Bring me Zombies..._ so I haven't had any editor look at it yet... in other words rough. 

He smiled absently. "I thought you would know. You can scream if you want. No one will be able to hear you but sometimes it helps to scream a little. I do it myself when I am alone&#8230; of course I am never really alone, Orix is always with me." His voice carried a soft sibilance that made me think of snakes sliding over sand. I caught a brief peek at his tongue and noted that it was both tattooed and forked which explained the strange lisping quality to his words.
"That must be nice." I wasn't sure what the proper response was but Christians seem to take great comfort in the ever presence of their god, perhaps this was the same thing?
"He eats my thoughts." The robed man said with a frown. 
"Oh." Again the proper response eluded me. Was this a good thing? I was pretty sure that the Christian god didn't eat thoughts but never having been able to step into a church without passing out limited my knowledge. Maybe thought eating was an essential component to religious devotion, perhaps it brought beings closer to their deity? 
"It's okay, they are his thoughts too. We share a soul now." The man had a deeply blissful look on his tattooed face and his eyes had a slight pinkish sheen, almost milky in direct light. "He wants to know about your allegiance to Veltis. If you lie to us we will bring you pain."


----------



## Valya

"THERE IS A UKRAINIAN LEGEND THAT ONCE EACH YEAR, on the night of Ivana Kupala, a magical flower blooms in the heart of the forest. Anyone who finds it will be granted their heart's desire: the ability to hear the trees whisper and watch them dance, the power to make anyone fall in love with them, the magic to make barren lands bear fruit and barren women fruitful. It is a single red flower with several names: tsvit paporot, liubava, chervona ruta. The legendary bloom can grant wishes, open the doorway to the past, and awaken spirits to visit with loved ones.

I looked for the tsvit paporot when I was a young girl. I searched for it in many places, in different countries, over a lifetime. I eagerly went into the unknown, looking for magic, for mystery, for adventure. But sometimes magic finds you. Sometimes it comes in the least likely of forms: in a small black river rock, a deck of hand-painted cards, a sprig of purple herb or an envelope from home."

From The Silence of Trees

Thank you! 
Valya


----------



## SimonWood

This is from my brand new title, _*LOWLIFES*_

http://www.amazon.com/Lowlifes-ebook/dp/B004EHZRS0

_The touch of a hand reaching inside my jacket jerked me from unconsciousness. I swung at the figure crouched over me, but he jumped clear of my fist. I reached for my service weapon and grabbed my badge instead.

"SFPD, asshole."

I clambered to my feet. The fog inside my brain pushed me back down onto my knees. I stared at the thief's Cuban heeled cowboy boots. Who the hell wears Cuban heels in San Francisco?

"Man, you suck," my would-be thief lisped.

The figure retreated then broke into a run. I tried to make out his face, but the nighttime alley gloom and the pounding in my head reduced my light-fingered friend to a blur. He wasn't worth it, so I let him go. He hadn't taken anything and I was in no position to call it in. Junkie cops, even functioning ones, had no friends at the Hall of Justice.

I grabbed the dumpster next to me and ignoring the feted stench leaking from it, hauled myself to my feet. My body felt like a lead weight. I couldn't decide if my muscles had lost all their power or my bones had gone soft. My back hadn't hurt this much since I'd busted it up on the job a few years ago. I'd never suffered a crash like this. Ludo's pills were supposed to be pharmaceutical grade.

I reached inside my pockets. What remained of the oxy Ludo had sold me was gone. Goddamn it. That punk had robbed me. _


----------



## Brenda Carroll

Here's a short from Tempo Rubato, paranormal/time travel tale with a musical ring.

_ "I'm investigating a homicide. The victim had it in her personal effects. I'd really like to question whoever sent this letter to her. It's possible they could shed some light on who might have killed her. Whoever he is. I'm not at liberty to tell you much more than that. I'm sorry."
"Hmmm." The professor returned his attention to the letter to study the signature at the bottom of the page. "I can't tell you who wrote it, but I can tell you that whoever it was is certainly talented in the art of forgery. He definitely has the handwriting down perfectly. Not only the handwriting, also the style, the grammar... it's perfect. And here," he tapped the signature "this is astonishing. Look at that 'T'! If I didn't know better, I'd think this was an original."
Derek leaned to look at the specified letter, but it meant nothing to him. A 'T' was a 'T'. 
"So do you have any ideas at all?" Derek asked hopefully. "I mean, have you heard of anyone who might be forging stuff like this?"
Dr. Perkins seemed oblivious to him.
"This is great!" He glanced at the wall clock. "Damn! I really have to be going. Look, do you mind if I keep a copy of it!"
"I'm afraid not. The case is still open..."
"Of course, of course. Well, send one around when it's all cleared, eh?"
"Do you think it could be real?" Derek asked again.
"Oh, no you don't!" The professor laughed and stood up. He began to pick up a clutter of papers from his desk. "You'll not trick me into saying anything stupid that could wind up in the tabloids. It's a forgery all right, but it's a good one. The man's definitely a crackpot of some kind. Maybe, if you find him, you'll find your killer, eh?"_


----------



## mamiller

I so enjoy reading these snippets. Please keep them coming, authors!!! 

This is from my romantic suspense, BORROWED TIME

The spacious interior provided refuge from the wind, but the temperature was well below zero, and her teeth were chattering again. Brian rounded the vehicle and tucked his long body behind the steering wheel. He revved the engine on the first try, and swept the lever for the heat as far as it could go. With the dash blowing cold air in her face, Emily turned to glance at her captor. His jaw was tense, a muscle throbbing down the side. Dark hair glistened black, with sparkles of ice woven in the thick mix. His eyes were riveted on the rearview mirror as he shifted the Blazer into reverse, narrowly missing a lifeless oak.
At that second his gaze dropped to hers.

In the light of the dash, Brian saw Emily watching him. She looked at him as if he were the Devil. _Hmmph_, just a day ago she didn't think he was such a bad guy. As a matter of fact she seemed-ah, hell, it wasn't worth rehashing. She was a married woman. A thief. And, more importantly, an assignment.
One that he wanted over as soon as possible.
Brian jerked the Blazer into drive, and slammed his foot on the gas. For a moment the fat tires whirred in place and then with a surge, dug in and the vehicle jerked forward.
"Well, you know the man. Where do you think he would go?"
The rush of snow assaulting the windshield was riveting. Windshield wipers helped to keep it from accumulating, but nothing could penetrate the relentless attack, like a swarm of white flies, reproducing by the second. "Remind me of my motivation for sharing that with you."
"Your motivation," Brian bristled, "is that if you don't tell me, we circle around for hours. Then my charming disposition will quickly go to hell, and you'll wish you had just come out with what you knew in the first place and spared us all this bull-"


----------



## Brenda Carroll

This is a short shot out of _Tempo Rubato_ featured today as the KB Book of the Day:

_She recognized the music as surely as she recognized the handwriting she had been studying. This was Mozart at his finest and yet, she had never heard the piece before! She frowned and turned to look suspiciously at Tony. Was this some kind of weird conspiracy designed to drive her crazy? Tony was immersed in the music, eyes closed, directing the music with his right hand. 
She returned her attention to the music, transfixed.
When the finale came, she sat staring, mouth slightly open, at nothing. Unbelieving. Where had this music come from?
"Well?" Tony's voice startled her. "What do you think?"
"Oh." She turned to look at him as if she had forgotten he was there. "It's... it's... extraordinary. May I ask where you found it?"
"At the bookstore on campus," he said with smug satisfaction with her obvious approval. "It's his latest release."
"Whose?" She heard herself ask in a small, quiet voice.
"William Masters, the American," he said matter-of-factly. "I've been trying to locate a copy of it for you ever since I first heard it at a friend's house. I thought you would like it. It sounds so much like him, don't you think?"
"Who?" She asked hesitantly.
"Mozart, of course." He smiled at his own ability to discern the likeness.
"Oh." She nodded. "Yes, it does. How strange..."
"It's supposedly his second release," he interrupted her again. "Can you believe it? It's like he came out of nowhere. Like where has he been, you know?"
_


----------



## MonkeyScribe

_From my book The Devil's Deep, second page._

She couldn't pull her gaze from Chad's eye. Not the rolled-back right eye-the evil eye, she thought-but the left. The living eye.

It had begun as a fantasy, spun in her own head. She'd dreamed about Chad Lett, not the profoundly retarded man warehoused at Riverwood, but a man who had walked by her side along the beach. "Are you sure?" the man in her dreams had asked. "Absolutely sure? Look me in the eye, Rosa. Look! Then tell me that you're sure I'm gone."

And she found herself watching his eyes while she bathed him or fed him. The right showed only the glassy stare so typical of the lowest-functioning residents. But she couldn't help but watch the left, wondering and afraid, as it blinked.

She stood over his bed one shift after Riverwood sank into its nighttime slumber. "Are you alive? Blink if you can understand me."

And the left eye had answered. _Blink._


----------



## Joyce DeBacco

A snippet from Where Dreams are Born

Vicky took little notice as her employer went upstairs to change, still stunned by the trust he placed in her. Especially since their informal interview that morning yielded only trivial information on both sides. He didn’t poke into her life to any great extent, and she, returning the favor, accorded him the same courtesy.

An angry howl from the family room alerted Vicky to trouble brewing. Screaming at the top of her lungs, Suzy struggled to disengage her baby sister’s fingers from her hair. When Jodie refused to let go, Suzy bopped her one. Now two children howled. Linda, oblivious to the battle raging beside her, continued playing with her Barbie doll. Vicky separated the children, dried four teary eyes, and then returned to the kitchen just as the oven timer buzzed.

A movement from outside caught her eye, and she glanced up to see Jack hoist himself from the pool, adjust the fabric of his suit around his tight buttocks, and then stride out of sight.

Remembering her pie, Vicky removed it to a rack to cool. And though she didn’t want to, she found herself searching out her employer again. When he came into view, she couldn’t take her eyes off him, captivated by the sunlight glinting off the slick muscles of his well-toned body. Perched on the edge of the pool, he looked like an Olympic hopeful preparing to win a gold medal. He pushed off, and the force of his dive propelled him halfway across the pool. His movements, smooth and graceful, indicated he was athletic as well as intelligent. It was a combination that had been her undoing once before.

But Jack Hazlett, despite his expensive sheep’s clothing or present lack of same, was her employer. And though she intended to be the best, damn housekeeper and nanny the man ever had, if he expected more than child tending . . . well, he’d have to get his rocks off with someone else. She was through with his kind.

Finished with his swim, Jack came inside. “Damn, it’s cold in here,” he said, shivering. “Do you have the air on?”

“No,” she said, giving him a wide berth.

Wrapping his towel tighter, he inched closer to the oven for warmth. “Mmm, that pie sure smells good.”

“Thanks,” she said, trying not to notice that his hair was as black and shiny as a newborn pup’s, and his ears, pink and nicely shaped, resembled the rare, perfect shells she and Tommy sometimes found at the beach.

Her skittering eyes landed on the water pooling at his feet. Noticing the direction of her gaze, he stared at the puddle like a little boy who’d just had an embarrassing accident. “Sorry,” he said, dropping his towel to the floor and mopping it with his foot.

Unsettled by the sight of a half-naked man less than five feet away, Vicky tore off her apron and reached for her purse. “If there’s nothing else then, I’ll be going now. See you in the morning.” Before he had a chance to engage her in further conversation, she rushed out.

Thanks for reading. First two chapters on my website.

Joyce


----------



## Mark76

Part of Chapter 23 (of 3 of _Stolen Dreams_

There was a sickening wet crunch almost in Richard's ear. Someone screamed, loud in the darkness. The rippling click came again, this time very close by. It sounded dry and bony. There was a slithering sound as something was dragged away. The scream rapidly faded into the distance, leaving silence again.

"Who&#8230;?"

"Ben."

Moans.

Richard took a shaky step backwards, and another, until he felt the cold bricks on his back. His breath was fast and uncontrolled and his hands pressed against the wall in an attempt to ground himself, and give him a reference point in the absolute darkness. He heard the others shuffling together and holding each other, seeking protection that was not there. His legs shook so much that he slid down the wall to sit and wrapped his arms around his knees, hoping to hold them still.

The clicking came again. Everyone fell silent. Richard held his legs tighter. His heartbeat was loud and fast in his head. The clicking was repeated, and again, coming closer. More of them, he realised. Many more. He stared into the darkness, afraid to see and afraid to look away. The sounds drew louder, of scrabbling legs, of bone scraping on bone as they pushed up the tunnel.


----------



## Budo von Stahl

Here's a snip from the soon-to-be-released sequel, Pursuit of Evil:

It seemed to him, and the rest of the company, as if the whole world had suddenly begun to rush at them; as if the hillock they stood on was the center of an incredibly powerful vortex sucking all of creation into it.  Head awhirl, they acted instinctively when Eleanna cried out, ordering everyone to drop to the ground.  Dimly they heard the horde facing them scream in rage, and heard their pounding footsteps as they charged. 

Face down in the bracken, none of the companions saw what happened next, but the dizzying sensation they all felt likely would have denied them anyway.  The instant they hit the ground they heard a muffled thump, followed by a hiss, as of pouring sand, and the clatter of dropped steel, then silence.  The disconcerting sensation was gone.  They lifted their heads and saw only an empty field, and a putrid mist was wafting quickly away on the mountain breeze.  Not a bird or insect was to be seen or heard, and even the grass had withered.

With a moan, Eleanna fell from her perch.  For a mercy Valkane broke her fall.  The lovely priestess was bright red, hot to the touch, sweating, convulsing, and gasping for breath.  Valkane took her in his arms, tore the stopper out of his waterskin with his teeth, and dribbled a little on her forehead.  

“By all that is Holy, my dearest,” he stammered in awe, “what have you done?”  

“I...took...the...water...out...of...them”, she managed between gasps, then her eyes rolled back in her head and she went limp.


----------



## JenniferErickson

I'm enjoying all of these snippets. Here's one from _The Shadow Dreamer_:

"We do not bring weapons to school!" Mrs. Nickel grasped Chelsea roughly by her upper arm. "We're going to the principal's office. Everyone, heads on your desks while I'm gone. I don't want to see anyone up when I get back." She flicked off the lights and pulled Chelsea down the hall.

"This is--My God, what were your parents thinking, letting you bring this? You could be expelled."

"Fine," Chelsea mumbled. "Hate school anyways."

She flung open the door to the secretary's office and marched Chelsea in. Flashed the sword at the secretary with a meaningful look and dragged Chelsea directly through the principal's open door.

Mrs. Grogan took in the situation: "Young lady, did you bring this to school?"

Chelsea glared at her.

"What would possess you--? I'm going to have to confiscate it."

"NO!" Chelsea struggled out of Mrs. Nickel's grasp and launched herself at Mrs. Grogan. "It's mine! You can't have it!" The in-tray clattered off the desk. Chelsea grabbed the sword by the blade. Ripped it out of Mrs. Grogan's hands and clunked Mrs. Nickel in the head with the hilt on the follow-through. Blood oozed down Chelsea's arms. She gaped momentarily at what she'd done. Then, brandishing the sword a final time, Chelsea ran from the office.


----------



## publishing virgin

This is a great opportunity!  Thanks.  this is from PORTLAND OREGON'S MOST ELIGIBLE BACHELOR.  Maybe now someone] will actually read it.


     “God-dammit! Nightmares are for KIDS! He hit the marble wall behind the toilet with his balled-up fist. I’m a grown man, for God’s sake!  Not some wimpy little---I’m a--certified--friggin--genius, he emphasized each word with a smack of his fist.  People are in awe of me.  I’m rich---hell, I’m Portland Oregon’s Most Eligible Bachelor! 
     “No you’re not! You could have been but you chickened out. You’re nothing but a sissy little girl!  You were crying, for God’s sake.”  
     “That wasn’t the real me!  It was just the nightmare!” Michael defended himself to the voice in his head.  “Anyway, you were supposed to be in charge so I could get some sleep.” 
     “I’m not real.”
     “So why can I hear you?”
     “Because you are not normal.”
     Michael had no illusions about the insanity of talking to an imaginary companion in his head but the invisible twin he’d conjured up for company as a sad and lonely child had simply refused to leave him.  Like a real brother, the twin was his worst enemy and his best friend.  They bickered constantly.  When it came to Michael’s shortcomings, the twin cut him no slack, mercilessly pointing out his bad attitudes and secret vanities.  But, on the other hand, when Michael was miserable and depressed, he could count on the twin being there for him.  Bottom line; the twin made him feel like he had a family.  To give up the twin now would be like murdering a sibling.


----------



## SimonWood

This is an excerpt from my latest THE FALL GUY.

Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/The-Fall-Guy-ebook/dp/B00427YO2W/
Smashwords: http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/24170

_Todd glanced at the headline: DRUG DEALER BUSTED DURING ROUTINE TRAFFIC STOP.

"The car you hit belongs to an employee of mine. Driving home the other night, he was pulled over for a busted headlight. The cops discovered two kilos of cocaine in his possession. He's in a lot of trouble and I'm minus an employee, not to mention a lot of money. Do you see now? Do you see what you've done and why it has led us to your door?"

"I'm sorry."

"That's not important."

"I didn't know."

"I wouldn't expect you to know. But I've lost a valuable employee who had a job to do. Now he can't do it. This is where you come in." The small man stabbed a finger in Todd's direction.

Todd's stomach twitched. He didn't like what was coming. He knew it was retribution for what he'd done, but it wasn't the kind he wanted. Points on his license and a fine he could accept. He'd even take a beating. But the small man's kind of retribution filled Todd with dread.

"Me?" Todd stammered.

"Yes. You'll have to fill in."

The linebackers wrinkled their noses. They knew Todd wasn't the right man for the job and he agreed with them.

"What do you want me to do?"_


----------



## Chris Northern

Grand idea. I read loads of the above and ment to quote and comment but then read something else. Lots of great work and I'll be looking again as soon as I have posted this; the end of an escape scene, just for the sense of the thing.

"I'm sorry!" I blurted.
"Shussh," She raised her hand and there was a flash of non-light so fast I could barely see it. I caught a glimpse of a stone that must have been eighty carats.
"I lost your loupe, they took it." To my amazement, I couldn't hear myself speak. I hesitated a second, then laughed. It was bizarre, not a sound. I could feel the movement, knew I was laughing, but couldn't hear it. "What did you do?" I wasn't deaf, it was just that the sound made no sound. I stamped my foot to test the theory and sure enough, my shoes rang on the cobbles. Jocasta grabbed my arm and my attention. She really did have the biggest green eyes ever. "I've missed you," I said and tried to hug her.
"Sumto," she hissed, "you're drunk."
I nodded earnestly, remembering something important. I leaned back and shouted up to Sapphire. "Bring the beer!"
Damn, he wouldn't hear me. I gave Jocasta a little shake, pointed up and then made a drinking motion, my hand gripping an invisible glass. I have never seen anyone flush with anger quite that quickly. I watched the process, fascinated. "You're mad at me, aren't you."
"You are a drunken fool, just like my father said."
Under the circumstances, I think that was a bit harsh.

The Last King's Amulet http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/2299


----------



## Brenda Carroll

This is a snippet from my upcoming Assassin Chronicles novel _Book XXII:. Holy Blood_. It will be out before the end of March, so if you haven't started the The Red Cross of Gold series, get busy, you have about six weeks to read twenty-one books.  

_"Your Knights believe that the babe has died and that is what they will have in their minds if anyone should come seeking him. No one actually died, of course. It was done as in the days of old. It was all very wonderful. The Gruguach played her part very well."
"The Gruguach?" Mark Andrew frowned.
"Yes, she took the place of the child and then faded away as in the elder days when my people took the children of men to raise as elves. You have heard of this practice? It has not been done in ages and ages, but it still works." The elf was now looking under the bed.
"But Lucio will think his son is dead." Mark Andrew stood up shakily and held onto the bedside table for support until the vertigo subsided. "That was not good. That was terrible. Cruel."
"He will be all the more jubilant to learn that it is not so. It may not have been good, but it was necessary. I found that being King sometimes requires doing things that are not very pleasant." The elf told him and then looked up, frowning. "You have no armor here. No mail and no boots. Where are your clothes?"
"I'm afraid I left them on the roof of my castle." Mark walked slowly across the room. The pain in his back was completely gone and only a few twinges remained in his stomach. He reached under the loose shirt and began to pull the bandage gingerly from his tender skin. "I really must find the Master and tell him that I am ready to proceed. The sooner I can get back to Scotland, the better. Lucio has suffered too much. I also have to go to Arabia and help Lemarik with the Ifrit. Time is wasting."
_


----------



## Abigail

A snippit from http://www.amazon.com/Invisible-Tears-ebook/dp/B003IPCEU8

Daddy came into our bedroom early the next morning. He woke me up and gently whispered, 
"Honey I've got to go back to work. I will see you next week." 
I thought I was dreaming until I woke up a short while later and daddy was gone. I was brushing my teeth when a pain shot right through the side of my head. Next thing I knew Sue was screaming at me, "I called you, you little bitch and when I call you, you had better move!" The pain I felt was her right hand slapping me round the head, the force enough to knock me off my feet. 
"Get downstairs," she screamed right in my face. I had never been hit before, I was shocked. My brain froze in shear panic. I ran downstairs with all the kids looking at me. Alex asked, "What's wrong Abbie?"
"Butt out!" she shouted in his direction, "or you'll soon find out." 
The others ignored what was happening and carried on with what they were doing. They obviously knew better than to cross Sue.


----------



## adamelijah

A snippet from Tales of the Dim Knight:



> Superman fell from the sky, collided with a skyscraper, and bounced off as it toppled. The action figure crashed into a green stegosaurus grazing at the foot of the sky blue leather sofa.


----------



## Katie Salidas

A snippet from my newest release Karma & Melodies.

The haze cleared a little, leaving Kendra feeling as if she'd drunk too much, though she hadn't had anything other than iced tea all night. Confusion and disorientation took center stage in her slowly clearing head. She didn't know how she'd ended up in his car, but somehow she was there. Streetlights flew by her window in a blur as they raced down the road in Hector's black Porsche. 
His cold hand caressed her cheek, and then sank lower to her neck, sending a frightened shiver streaking down her spine. Intuition, a small whispering voice, tried to tell her that she was in danger, but the gray haze in her head wouldn't allow the thought to form coherently. 
"I like you. You're a special treasure," he said in his deep drawl. "I won't lie, I had ulterior motives for leaving the café. I have a weakness for unique and beautiful women. And you fit both of those criteria."


----------



## Steve Faber

From - Fast Fat Loss for Busy Professionals:

"Restrictive diets are typically just too restrictive, so in time, they are ignored and BAM! the fat all comes back. A 1997 study by Dr. Wayne Miller at George Washington University found that individuals using a restrictive diet as their sole means of losing fat lost an average of 22lbs, but that after only one year over 8 lbs was gained back.

To rid your body of that unwanted body fat, and keep it off, you need to refrain from going on another of those crazy diets. See, isn’t that better? You have to NOT go on a diet. In fact, too few calories will completely sidetrack your fat burning efforts and cause your body to store fat instead."


----------



## mamiller

In preparation for Snippet Sunday, here is an excerpt from my romantic suspense novel, BORROWED TIME.

She turned and saw him. Cerulean eyes widened in alarm and then narrowed in conviction. Gone was the anxious little angel. The creature that approached him was cool, reserved, and very suspicious.

"Were you standing there long?"

"I'm not doing anything quickly right now." He attested and nodded at the machine. "Want some coffee?"

Emily yanked her hands out of her pockets, catching his eyes on them. A deep breath settled her. "I had to make a call. You know, let family know where I am, and all."

"Mmmm."

After her hasty departure, Brian had tried to exorcise this woman from his mind. "Naturally they're concerned."

"I didn't think you could walk."

"I can't run." He shrugged. "I can walk."

For a moment they stared each other down. Emily's newly reserved expression wavered. Steeling herself with a jerk of the shoulder, she managed, "Well, then you are mending, and I am going."

She didn't even look back. She walked directly past him, ignoring his pained stance and nearly clipping a man in a wheelchair in her haste to reach the lobby doors.

Brian hefted off the doorframe and limped towards those doors, watching the white apparition disappear into a mist of snow and fog, as if she had never existed to begin with. Limping a few more steps, he reached the glass and searched the parking lot, but for a car he would not recognize anyway. Still, his glance surveyed the parked vehicles, some covered with last night's snowfall, some blackened by recent slush. But no willowy white figure. No soft cinnamon crown.

_His angel had spread her wings and flown away._


----------



## Jan Hurst-Nicholson

First paragraphs of _But Can You Drink The Water?_

South Africa 1988

As the 747 hiccupped through a pocket of turbulence, Frank Turner's white-knuckled fingers tightened round the armrests in the same vice-like grip he used on the dentist's chair. The cigarette clamped between his teeth was the latest in the chain he'd begun eighteen hours earlier on Liverpool's Lime Street station.

The cloudless blue sky abruptly turned to brown earth as the plane banked sharply for its final landing approach. Frank risked movement to turn round and peer impatiently down the aisle. The toilet door remained firmly closed. As his head swung back his cigarette narrowly escaped contact with the crotch of the brisk airhostess who was hurrying the passengers into their safety belts. "Please extinguish your cigarette and fasten your safety belt, sir," she said, nimbly avoiding the glowing cigarette tip, her bright smile now of a lower wattage after fourteen hours in the air.


----------



## gmjackson

From Alien Captive, Chapter One:  

Her helmet pressed down on the top of her head; her auburn locks flew in the wind, a wind created by her shapely muscular thighs and calves as she peddled her aerodynamic racing bike--a sliver streak in motion with tri-spoke wheels that whisked the pavement behind them.  She lowered herself against the frame and handlebars to make herself more aerodynamic.  Her tank-top-covered breasts straddled and brushed against the top tube.  She could feel the saddle sliding between her firm cheeks covered with silky-smooth ocean-green bike shorts.  Her legs were shaved and creamy-smooth to cut down on wind resistance (and to make heads turn).  Goosebumps tingled on her bare arms and legs in the cool, pine-scented morning air.


----------



## Mary Pat Hyland

Thanks for the idea, Edward. And now, from my latest novel... *3/17*...

_{The scene takes place in an Italian restaurant on St. Patrick's Day. Concetta, the restaurant owner's niece has just asked the band to accompany her on a song, "Danny Boy."}_

"Right then, folks, the lovely Concetta will sing us a song I think ye'll recognize." ...
"What key would ye like there, luv?" Diarmuid asked.
"I'll start, and then you follow. I don't know the key."
Oh shite, Diarmuid thought. No good could come from this.
"Ohhhh, Danny Boy&#8230;," Concetta started. What blasted key was she in, Diarmuid thought as he tried out several chords on the guitar. Not D, that would be easy. Nor G, nor F, nor C, nor even feckin' A! Bet this beast is singing sharps or flats, he thought. Sure enough, she was singing the song in the key of G flat. This had to be a first!
Fionn was shrugging his shoulders at Diarmuid looking for a clue.
"It's feckin' G flat!"
"Are ye kiddin' me? No one feckin'...."
"I know, Fionn. One for the Guinness Book."
Aisling and Peadar decided wisely to sit this one out. They cringed as Concetta, whose eyes were closed as she clasped her hands to her bosom dramatically, told the sad tale of that Danny lad, struggling with each note to retain any sense of tempo or, by that count, melody. When he wasn't squinting from the aural agony, Fionn looked out at the audience rapt with attention at Concetta's plaintive performance. He could tell they would be begging for an encore. Shite and onions, was there no way out of this hell?
People wept when she finished, and not for the same reason that tears were streaming down Aisling and Peadar's faces.


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## Jan Hurst-Nicholson

First paragraphs of _The Breadwinners._

There were many reasons why Charles McGill would remember the night he first took Hilde Richter. He could never think of it as the night they first made love, for he would never learn to love her. A resigned tolerance was the closest he would ever manage.

It was New Year's Eve 1923 - his first Hogmanay in Durban's sub-tropical heat. Charles was missing the cold northern climes of his native Scotland, and a family for which distance had made his heart grow unusually fond. But this only partially explained his being more than a little drunk. While stopping by to deliver the Richter family's New Year stollen bread he had been mistaken for an invited guest, anonymous amongst the gentry who were spilling out onto the veranda and lawns in search of cooler air. A glass of fruit punch was eagerly placed in his hand by the host's daughter. He swallowed it untasted, hoping to deaden the pain of betrayal that threatened to overwhelm him.

Hovering attentively, Hilde quickly re-filled his glass. Heavy, his sister would have uncharitably described her. Aye, she was fuller and more rounded than the pretty lassies he was used to tumbling in the heather back home. Home, where they'll all be having a bonnie time and ready to bring in the haggis, not like this stilted lot, prim and proper and all false bonhomie.

Hilde was at his side again, guiding him towards the tables laden with food, giggling and simpering in a tipsy attempt at flirtation. It was too hot and humid to eat, and he quenched his thirst with another glass of the alcoholic punch. The ice had long ago melted, and the warm drink conversely increased his thirst; and the alcohol his torment. Why had Addy betrayed him?


----------



## FrankZubek

This is a snippet from the title story (It's the 4th short story of eleven) of my anthology, Belated Regrets, down in my signature with the green cover

    It's available on Amazon for  99 cents but there's a standing offer for anyone who wants a free copy just ask! Send me an e-mail and ask for it in the header. Really.  [email protected]


“It turns out that she was right you know. All of her ideas for the business. My son keeps in touch with me every couple of months.” Mr. Johnson held his hand up to his mouth and cleared his throat. “When I killed her, I was in debt and desperate to accept a buy- out offer. But Annie was devoted to the family business and refused to sign the papers. She told me that her father had started it all out of the trunk of his car. Now, of course, my son has been running things and Johnson Tiles is one of the top tile companies in the world. She would have been quite proud of him.” After a pause, Mr. Johnson added, “I took all of that from her.” After another pause, he said, “That’s the bottom line, isn’t it?”

    “What is, sir?”

    “Murder, Lieutenant. It’s nothing but simple theft. You steal the rest of someone else’s life. What might have been. What they could have done.” Mr. Johnson wiped his eyes with his sleeve and then sat up straight. He chuckled to himself.

    “Is something humorous, sir?” Hartford asked.

    “You’ve been quite polite about all of this. Driving way out here in the rain. Sitting there, watching a man cry. I didn’t say all of that for you to forgive me and I doubt you will. But I just wanted to say the words. About my regret.” 

    “I understand, sir.” Hartford stood up and walked over to the bars. He stared out past the bars for a moment and then turned to look at Mr. Johnson. “I guess I’ll tell you something, sir. I’ve never told anyone this. Not even my wife. There’s something that I regret.” 

    Mr. Johnson folded his arms and met Hartford’s eyes, intrigued.


----------



## SimonWood

This is an excerpt from my thriller, _*Paying the Piper*_.

The Piper is the Bay Area's infamous child kidnapper. When the Piper selected crime reporter, Scott Fleetwood, to report on his latest child kidnapping, Scott thought he had the world in his grasp, but he held nothing. Scott had been duped by a wannabe. By the time the FBI exposed the hoaxer, time had run out, leaving the real Piper only one course of action-to kill the child. With a murder added to his résumé, the Piper vanished leaving Scott to take blame from the public and the investigating FBI agent, Tom Sheils. But now, eight years later, the Piper's back, with very specific targets in mind-Scott's young children. Scott can have his children back as long as he can pay the ransom. The hard part is that ransom isn't measured in dollars, but in blood.

http://www.amazon.com/Paying-The-Piper-ebook/dp/B004MDLXNY/

_Scott put the phone to his ear, "I'm here, babe. It's okay. I'm here."

"That's good to know."

The voice on the line chilled him. Instead of his wife's soft tones, he heard a voice that was harsh, blunted by an electronic disguise. The words came out robotic and demonic. Scott recognized the voice, but he hadn't heard it in eight years. The raw adrenalin left him as swiftly as it had come and he ground to a halt with the cops still racing towards him.

"It's been a long time, Scott. I thought I'd reintroduce myself."

"What have you done with Sammy?"

"Nothing--yet."

Scott feared asking the obvious question, but there was no way around it. "What do you want?"

The cops caught up to him. They bombarded him with questions and threats. He ignored them. He listened to the distorted voice on the line until it hung up.

He lowered the phone. A wave of nausea swept over him, taking his legs out from under him. The two cops caught him before he hit the ground.

"He has my son." Misery clung to his words. "The Piper has my son."_


----------



## Jason G. Anderson

_This is the start of my post-apocalypse short story, The Outsider._

Jacob blinked the sweat from his eyes. The harsh afternoon sun burned, even in the relative shade of the watchtower, and he longed for the end of his shift to arrive so he could get down from the tower and under better cover.

Next to him, Hank wiped his brow for what seemed like the hundredth time that day.

"Man, it's hot," said Hank. The phrase had long-since lost any meaning. Like every other time Hank had said it, Jacob didn't bother replying. There wasn't anything to say. After you've talked about how hot it is for several months in a row, the conversation got repetitive.

Jacob suddenly saw something move out in the wilderness in front of them.

"What's that?" Jacob pointed toward the movement. As Hank looked into the distance, Jacob grabbed the binoculars from the small table in the corner.

"Don't see nothin' but desert," said Hank, looking in the wrong direction. Jacob peered through the binoculars. If it was an attack, they needed to know as soon as possible so they could sound the alarm.

"It's a man," said Jacob after a few moments of studying the shape. The man looked to be in bad shape from what Jacob could see. His clothes were rags, and the way he was staggering, he looked near death. For a moment, Jacob thought it was Lewis, his missing brother. Then, the illusion was gone.


----------



## hughewil

from Stories from the Ether Volume I

His back was to me as he stood before the mysterious wall.

And the hammering, oh the hammering, that cacophonous ringing echoing off the walls seemed to come from the wall itself. Yet as I watched I saw that in his hand Rue held no hammer but only a trowel which he used to smooth cement around a freshly placed brick.

Finished with his existing task he stood up, at least as much as he could with his perpetually bent frame, still facing the wall and waited. I stood not even daring to breathe as that incessant hammering grew louder and louder, Rue turned to his left and reached out to the pile of bricks nearby and picked one from the top and then I learned the secret of Rue McGrath.


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## mamiller

Good morning, all. Here is a snippet from my romantic suspense, BORROWED TIME. Only .99 cents.

She turned and saw him. Cerulean eyes widened in alarm and then narrowed in conviction. Gone was the anxious little angel. The creature that approached him was cool, reserved, and very suspicious.

"Were you standing there long?"

"I'm not doing _anything_ quickly right now." He attested and nodded at the machine. "Want some coffee?"

Emily yanked her hands out of her pockets, catching his eyes on them. A deep breath seemed to settle her. "I had to make a call. You know, let family know where I am, and all."

"Mmmm."

After her hasty departure before, Brian had tried to exorcise this woman from his mind. "Naturally they're concerned," he said.

"I didn't think you could walk."

"I can't run," he shrugged. "I can walk."

For a moment they stared each other down. Emily's newly reserved expression wavered. Steeling herself with a jerk of the shoulder, she managed, "Well, then you are mending, and I am going."

She didn't even look back. She walked directly past him, ignoring his pained stance and nearly clipping a man in a wheelchair in her haste to reach the lobby doors.

Brian hefted off the doorframe and limped towards those doors, watching the white apparition disappear into a mist of snow and fog, as if she had never existed to begin with. Limping a few more steps, he reached the glass and searched the parking lot, but for a car he would not recognize anyway. Still, his glance surveyed the parked vehicles, some covered with last night's snowfall, some blackened by recent slush. But no willowy white figure. No soft cinnamon crown.

_His angel had spread her wings and flown away. _


----------



## Mel Comley

Here's a snippet from http://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/B004OEKFYO/ref=cm_cd_asin_lnk only 99c. The sequel to Impeding Justice.

'Sit.'
As her eyes met his troubled gaze, the hairs on the back of her neck stood to attention, his tone held a warning to expect the worse. She took a step back and gently lowered herself onto the sofa, placing her mug on the table beside her, 'I'm sitting. Now, what's up?'
'He's back.' Tony said.

Mel


----------



## Adria Townsend

To Conquer the Heart of a King

"Yes," said the Seer in a quiet voice. "You will be king&#8230;until your people rise against you."
"That's a lie!" Lukas of Falkenberg spoke to her now for the first time. She did not brace herself as he grabbed her shoulders. "You can't know the future." 
"Of course I can't, but I see the present very clearly. Let me finish! If you rule with a stone heart like your father, if you steal the food from your subjects' mouths--" 
"What you say is treason," he growled. 
"Is it so hard to see the difference between treason and truth?"
---

I'm being interviewed on New Hampshire Public Radio's Word of Mouth show today (Tuesday) around 12:30 to talk about my book, the wild west landscape of electronic publishing and my dime store cowgrrl blog. The Kindle Boards have been a great source of information for me. Thanks!

http://www.nhpr.org/wordofmouth


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## Edward C. Patterson

I haven't stopped by in a while. Looks like things are still perculating here after a few years. Glad we started it.

Here's a snippet from my latest book: The Road to Grafenwöhr

In the boondocks, the thoughts of a guard on duty are not easily catalogued. However, in Quincy Summerson's case, they were beyond divination. The rain beat on the trail down to the guard shack. A small ring of light cut a swath through a single slice of fence and gate. The tank and thunder rumble were ever-present and hard to ignore. PFC Love was more than anxious to be relieved. He had shivered under his poncho and didn't bother to exchange a word with Quincy. He had just nodded toward the light swath, and then scurried up the slippery path. Quincy, left alone in the whipping wind - alone with his thoughts, stood his Gothic vigil.

The shack was slightly larger than a coffin, or so Quincy imagined it. Tight and dark, with nothing more than a TAC phone and a panorama of dirty streaked windows. He trained his attention on the limited sight range on the horizon - the ominous mound of missiles under their camouflage, sparked by distant lightning. Quincy shuddered. It reminded him of a living creature asleep on the hill - a dragon with folded wings atop its golden horde.

Quincy jiggled in the chill. The shift would be long - four hours, and he had no room to pace, so he marched in place to steady his nerves. After twenty minutes, the long grasses beyond the fence bent in the wind. Shadows were cast. Creatures stirred. He thought he saw a rabbit - those long eared German rabbits that were as unusual to him as the long-eared red squirrels. The more he focused on the tall tufts that played in the lightning, the more he imagined larger creatures - deer, perhaps or . . . boar. He had imagined he had seen a boar when he had arrived through the forest on the road to _Grafenwöhr_. Here was another one.

_Just a big pig_, he thought.

However, as the creature paused just beyond the light swath, its eyes glowed - two beacons piercing Quincy's thoughts. He closed his lids, but the boar lingered in his mind's eye.

"The damn thing's thinking about attacking me."

Edward C. Patterson


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## Chris Culver

Haven't seen the thread before, but here goes nothing. Here's a random snippet from The Abbey. I recently upped the price, but if you act fast, you can still get it for 99 cents.

-----

We didn't need to discuss what would happen. We both had done it enough times that it was old hat. I put my hand over the peep hole while Lee positioned himself in front of the door with his firearm extended. I counted down from three to one with my free hand, and Lee kicked the door beneath the lock. It swung inward hard and fast, and Lee vaulted inside, sweeping the room with his firearm. I did likewise behind him and almost choked on the stink.

Rollo lived in a small studio apartment. There was a murphy bed built into the wall on the left and a small kitchenette with miniature stove and fridge to the right. Empty boxes of macaroni and cheese as well as cigarette butts littered the floor. There were flies everywhere.

"Sh*t," said Lee, sliding his firearm into his belt holster. I stepped forward and saw the source of the smell. Rollo was dead. He sat on a chair across from the door, his head leaning back and a slit on his neck from ear to ear like a huge, sh*t-eating grin. There was a waterfall of brown, dried blood on his shirt.

It was going to be a long day.

-----

-Chris


----------



## Kavita Nalawde

Here's mine from my novel 'Coffee @ 4:00'

The next morning Rakesh woke up completely confused. He was not sure if he did the right thing or not, also if he wanted it more or her. She was completely drunk but he was not. He was in full control of his senses, then why didn’t he leave immediately? Why did he wait for her to make the first move? Why did he respond in the same manner? His mind was too full of questions.

He dressed up and came to the lounge. There were sounds of sparrow’s coming from the windows and the brightly coloured flowers in the plant pots seemed to be mocking him in a very unique sort of the way. He was about to leave when Pam came. She was dressed in white, completely sober as compared to the previous night. She handed him an envelope which Rakesh guessed contained money.


----------



## Kristan Hoffman

From Twenty-Somewhere, my contemporary, romantic web-serial-turned-ebook:

Sophie's heart skips a beat as she recognizes Diego's silhouette. Ever since she invited him to Christmas dinner with her friends, he seems to show up everywhere. He's on all her projects, and one of the few people who is willing to stay late to perfect his work. She tells herself it's because his family is in another country and he doesn't want to spend the night alone in his apartment. But whatever the reason, she's glad for the company.
"Sophie, is that you?"
"Yeah, you caught me. I'm hiding out."
He turns on the light over the sink, which is small and not too bright, but she can see him when he laughs. "I can't blame you," he says. "It's a lot of people. A lot of English."
They chuckle. "Your English is good though," she reassures him.
"Eh. Only when I am relaxed."
"Well, I've never noticed a problem."
"Because I am always relaxed around you."
To her surprise, she begins to blush, and wonders if he can see. Clearing her throat, she stands and heads for the fridge. "I'm thirsty. You want anything?" She rummages around before settling on a Sprite.
When she turns around, he's standing right next to her. She gasps and fumbles her soda can. He catches it and sets it on the counter, never once taking his eyes off hers.

Amazon link: http://www.amazon.com/-/e/B002L1462Y


----------



## DeAngelo

Alright, here's a snippet from my book, the Skull Staff - Book 1: The Wizard and the King



> As the room became illuminated, her hopes did just the opposite. Not only was she in a cell, she was in a cave. She decided to ponder where she was once she was no longer there. She glanced through the bars and saw the door that the man had exited earlier. That was where she needed to go, but she had to do something about the bars.
> As a rat scurried by, she realized what she had to do. She sighed and grabbed it. She held it for a moment, wishing there was some other way. She realized that if she didn't get out, the life of a rodent would be the least of her concerns. With her free hand she drew a few runes into the mud. She closed her eyes and chanted a Transmutation spell Vincent had taught her. When she opened them, she was left with a cup made from the bones of the rodent, filled with its, now immensely more potent, stomach acids. She had to work quickly, for the acid had already began to eat through the bones. She made her way to the cell door and found the hinges. She poured a little on each hinge.
> When she was finished, she quickly tossed the cup away as the last of the acid it held finished eating through it. She laid the cell door onto the ground. Or rather, it fell and she quickly got out of the way. Luckily the wet ground, apparently made out of dirt and clay, absorbed the damage with little noise. She smiled at her victory and began to leave, only to trip over the chain that bound her to the ground. She tried pulling on it, but in vain. Letting out a sigh, she grabbed another rat.


----------



## NoahMullette-Gillman

Here's the beginning of Luminous and Ominous:

It looked like the Cornucopia had taken over the whole world. Our old green and brown trees were dead and dying, replaced by a new alien vegetation. They couldn’t hear any birds singing. The concrete of the sidewalk itself was split by the thunderous roots of Cornucopia Blue. The perverse invading tendrils were as wide and thick as tree trunks and as heavy as dead stone. This was an invasion which looked like it had been there for years, even though it could only have been growing for weeks or months. How much bigger were the plants going to grow?
Henry found himself thinking about the ruins he’d seen years before in the jungles of Mexico. He remembered knotted jungle trees growing between the gray stone steps; the trunks jutting up from the backs of the statues, mature roots wrapped around the carved images of Aztec serpents and jaguars and gods. 
It was Samantha who said, “I don’t think we should have left the shelter.” 
The jungle was deep with blue and purple ferns. Where they were green it was a wrong green, a foreign green, a shade better suited for neon signs than nature. The pattern in their edges reminded Samantha of fractals or DNA. It was like they were showing off, bragging. The beautiful shapes made everyone feel vaguely ashamed. It was threatening.
The extraterrestrial fruit was heavy and thick. They could smell the sweet juice inside. It smelled salty and made their mouths water. Blue skin leaked orange liquid in heavy drops which painted the brown sickly grass beneath it.


----------



## mamiller

A little Hawaiian romantic suspense snippet. ROGUE WAVE .99 cents

Pain pounded Nick's head and took a trek down the right side of his body. He was paralyzed, consciousness as elusive as the gulp of water he prayed for.

In the last moments of lucidity, Nick was aware of her presence. The scent of jasmine filled the damp ravine. _Her _ fragrance. He called out, but the hollow sound echoed back at him with a mocking timbre.

Then, for just a moment he felt a shadow fall across his battered body. He forced his eyes open. She was there, and she smiled, a divine goddess offering him a glimpse of salvation.

_But she walked away_.


----------



## SimonWood

This is an excerpt from my thriller, _*Accidents Waiting to Happen*_.

Josh Michaels is worth more dead than alive. He just doesn't know it yet. He has no idea why someone would try to kill him, clearly that's exactly what happened. When an SUV forced Josh's car off the road and into a river, it might have been an accident. But when Josh looked up at the road, expecting to see the SUV's driver rushing to help him, all he saw was the driver watching him calmly...then giving him a "thumbs down" sign. That was merely the first attempt on Josh's life, all of them designed to look like accidents, and all of them very nearly fatal. With his time--and maybe his luck--running out and no one willing to believe him, Josh had better figure out who wants him dead and why...before it's too late.

http://www.amazon.com/Accidents-Waiting-to-Happen-ebook/dp/B004MDLXNE/

_The car bobbed halfway between both shores-about a hundred feet from safety. A hundred feet, it was less than the length of a swimming pool and an easy distance to swim. Except, Josh had never learned how to swim.

He had taken lessons as a kid, but had scared the shit out of himself when he went down a water slide and found himself at the bottom of the deep end. Since then, he had never been in water any deeper than his chest. The water slapped the windows at his shoulders. _

_It took a moment for him to realize his feet were still on the brake pedal. He wanted to open the windows and cry for help but knew it would let the river in. He looked at the bridge for someone who might have seen him go off the road. The tailgater stood on the bridge in front of his SUV leaning against the safety railing. The driver was watching him, watching his car sink, watching him drown. Josh screamed at him to help, to do something. The driver did nothing.

Josh couldn't see the man well enough to distinguish his features. Sunglasses and a baseball cap obscured the man's face, but he could make out the driver's movements. The driver removed a cell phone and started punching in a number.

"Thank God," Josh said aloud and let his head drop. Emergency services would be on their way. He hoped they would get to him before the car sank. It was going to be okay.

The driver put the phone away, then did something Josh didn't understand. He held out his right arm perpendicular to his body and put his thumb up as if he was thumbing a ride. Slowly, the driver twisted his arm around until his thumb pointed down, like a Roman Emperor giving the thumbs down to a vanquished gladiator. _

Enjoy!


----------



## Brenda Carroll

_Here's a little 'love' scene from The Red Cross of Gold I:. The Knight of Death. The book is NOT


Spoiler



erotica


 despite what some may think. But well, so it does have a bit of


Spoiler



flesh


 in it.

He tightened his grip on her as she babbled on about how good Cecile had treated her over the years. Cecile infuriated him. Cecile stood between him and what he wanted and what he wanted was wrong. An abomination.


Spoiler



"Does she whisper these things in your ear while she's making love to you?"


The woman stiffened and tried to get up. He held her in place easily. "Be still!"
She relaxed a bit and he pressed her head back down on his chest, continuing to stroke her hair, relaxing his grip a bit. After a few seconds, he took her chin in his hand, tilting her face up. She closed her eyes apparently expecting a kiss. So confused. So dangerous.


Spoiler



"Who gets on top?"


 he dropped her chin abruptly and asked the question in a disinterested tone instead. He had to get away from her and since he could not, he had to make her get away from him, but he didn't really want her to get away from him. Not really.
She kicked her foot at the desk and toppled them both to the floor. He pushed the chair off him and grabbed for her foot as she crawled away from him. He pulled her back and flipped her onto her back, kicking and squirming,


Spoiler



and pinned her beneath him


. It was just so easy. Too easy. Too wrong.
He looked down at her and she glared at up at him. Not like before. She was truly angry this time. It was not a game this time.
"You didn't answer my question," he told her.
"You really are a


Spoiler



bastar


d," she said through clenched teeth. "Get off of me."
"You really don't know what you want, do you?" he countered and then raised up on one knee. He released her arms and she kicked away from him. _


----------



## Edward C. Patterson

Here's a snippet exerpt from _*The Road to Grafenwöhr * _ - a closing scene after our protagonist has toured Floßenberg Concentration camp memorial

===================

When Quincy emerged into the late afternoon sun, he spotted a solitary form standing before the ashen pyramid - Ratz. The tour had gone and the memorial was strangely cold now. Ratz could have been a statue, except he swayed slightly, rocking on his feet. Quincy approached him quietly. Ratz raised his hand - a shallow acknowledgement that he was no longer alone.

"What did they do here, Chico?"

"The devil's work."

"I wish I hadn't come today."

"So do I, but what's done is done."

Ratz turned.

"They sent me to find you - the tour. They're all on the bus and restless. The driver said if I didn't find you in fifteen minutes, they'd leave your ass behind."

"Rosie doesn't drive out this far, so we'd best be going."

Ratz walked toward him.

"No more travel."

"We'll do Munich in the spring - before you rotate."

"I'd like that. Until then, I'm a home body."

"A _short _ home body."

"Not that _short_, but short enough."

Quincy smiled.

"Let's go. I'm sleeping all the way back."

"I don't know whether I can ever sleep again," Ratz said.

Quincy cuffed his arm around his comrade's shoulder and guided him toward the exit. As they passed the gate, Quincy glanced back at the crematorium and sighed. He heard a murmur on the breeze:

_"Schlaf in himmlischer Ruh!
Schlaf in himmlischer Ruh!_

Edward C. Patterson


----------



## Felix R. Savage

Thanks, Ed, what a great thread!

From the beginning of The Forest Of Sincerity, a horror novella:

LILY:

I gatecrashed my boyfriend's funeral. His family had hired an upstairs room at an ornate, yellowing hotel in eastern Tokyo. The black attire of the mourners soaked up the light from the chandeliers. Their voices fuzzed out the lite classical Muzak. In this cocktail-party atmosphere, I didn't feel too conspicuous, though I was the only gaijin present.

I snagged a drink from the buffet and stood in a corner. Flowers and gold drapery smothered the shrine at the far end of the room. Shrine? Bier? Altar? Somewhere in there lay as much of Shunji as they'd managed to scrape up from the street. Bad mental images there. But of all things, it was the shrine's photographic backdrop that really creeped me out. A view of a mountain peak, backlit as if the sun was setting behind it, and down from its bony shoulders swept a mantle of forest so dense and dark that you could practically smell the pine needles rotting on the ground. A generic mountain. It couldn't be Fuji-san from any angle. It was a stock shot taken somewhere in the Japanese Alps - and so Shunji's parents didn't know, I told myself. How could they? They'd probably just chosen the picture because Shunji had been nuts for mountain climbing as a college student. Either that, or the hotel staff had picked it without consulting them. All the same, it made me wish I hadn't come. I hated coincidences.

http://www.amazon.com/The-Forest-of-Sincerity-ebook/dp/B004UB7JEU/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&m=AG56TWVU5XWC2&s=books&qid=1301763890&sr=8-1


----------



## SimonWood

This is an excerpt from my thriller, _*Terminated*_.

Gwen Farris crossed the wrong coworker when she gave Stephen Tarbell a poor evaluation. That was all it took to push Tarbell over the edge. He already believes Gwen stole the promotion that was rightfully his. He won't let her take anything else from him. Now it's his turn to take...and take. By the time he's finished with her, Tarbell plans to take her job, her family-even her life.

http://www.amazon.com/Terminated-ebook/dp/B004MDLXOS

_"It's okay," she said. "I'm not resisting. I'm not resisting." She hoped her words would come out strong and calm, but fear inserted a tremor.

Just to show who was boss, he shoved against her to reestablish his hold on her. The rain coating the car soaked through her blouse. Its chill forced an involuntary shiver.

Her assailant read something into the shiver and chuckled. She recognized the voice. She examined the white-knuckled hand grasping the roof rack.

"Steve?"

"I told you, only my friends call me Steve."

Anger boiled up inside Gwen, but the knife at her throat kept it from spilling over. This was no longer a workplace war of words. She felt Tarbell's intent in every one of his taut muscles.

"What do you want, Stephen?"

"Respect at last. Who knew it took a knife to get it?"

He'd snapped. She'd pushed him over the edge. She dreaded re-asking her question, but it couldn't go unanswered.

"What do you want, Stephen?"

He said nothing. Raindrops splashed down on her face. The puddle at her feet seeped into her open-toed sandals and the tips of her toes ground against the asphalt.

"Is this all it takes to get some satisfaction-a knife?" He jerked the knife just enough to draw blood. Nothing extreme, just a pinprick.

"Stephen, please take the knife away."

He constricted her with his body, crushing her against her car. She felt her ribs flex against the door pillar.

"Giving the orders again. You can't resist, can you?" There was a sing-song quality to his voice. The son of bitch was enjoying this.

"Okay, you're in charge," Gwen said, trying to sound calm.

"Have you submitted my evaluation to Human Resources?"

"No."

"Good, I want you to change it. You're going to say I'm an exemplary employee and all that managerial bullshit. Make me sound great. Deal?"

He was crazy. Had to be. He was assaulting her with a deadly weapon and for what-a positive evaluation? He had to know he couldn't get away with it.

He jabbed her with the knife again. "Deal?" he insisted. _


----------



## mamiller

A snippet from my romantic suspense, WIDOW'S TALE, only .99 cents.

"Come on," he said, "let's get back to the loft."

Brett's words were nearly stolen by the blustery gusts, but his nod of encouragement was sufficient translation. Serena plummeted into the night, her head pitched against the wind as she caught a brief and welcome glimpse of the lights of O'Flanagans.

One hand aimed forward with the unproductive flashlight, Brett extended the other backwards, seeking her fingers. Serena reached for it, but at that second, she detected a blaze of color in a world that was black and white.

Black were the cliffs as distended white waves billowed against them like sheets on a clothesline. Black was the ocean until the radiant moonlight bathed the surface with white diamonds. And in the midst of night, a slash of red spilled like blood across the rock face.

"Brett!" Serena yelled against the wind, tugging him to a halt.

"What?" As short as Brett's hair was, it whipped frenziedly atop his head.

"I-I see something. Down there-down below on the cliffs."

Cursing as the moon disappeared behind a full cloud, Serena watched listlessly as a patch of shoreline further down the coast benefited from its glow. With the current as strong as it was, it did not take long for the clouds to disperse and the slice of color to become visible again. Inching close to the edge for a better view, Serena felt Brett's hand fist around her down jacket.

"Careful, dammit."

"Don't you see it?" she called over her shoulder, leaning forward to discern the strip of crimson lodged between fissures of rock and churning surf a hundred feet below.


----------



## J. Carson Black

From THE SHOP:

He walked. It was a nice day. Clear. Lots of people on the street; he was just one of them.

He'd started out pure. Like white socks, straight from the department store. You wore them once and they got a little worn. The threads stretched, almost imperceptibly. There was the slightest discolor. Enough so that you cared about them a little less. They were no longer white and new, fresh off the cardboard. By the end of the week, after a washing, they weren't new in any way. Then you got careless. One day you wore them to mow the lawn. You got grass seeds in there and sweat from your feet, and they started to yellow. Before you knew it, they were just old socks.

He was a warrior. He'd fought for his country. And when he felt he couldn't go on---when he realized that he was pushing his luck and six tours were enough---he came back to the states. But then he got restless, wanted to go back, and he had a way to make a lot of money. Warfare and money together: the best of both worlds.

That was when he took the sock out of the cardboard. Eight months with KBR, making money hand over fist. Feeling the resentment of the soldiers. Their eyes on him: _you sold out_.

That was how he came to kill those kids in Aspen, Colorado.


----------



## Kimberly Spencer

Okay, I guess it's my turn. Here's a snippet from my YA Urban Fantasy novella, Shimmerspell:

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

Something was wrong with her, but she couldn’t ponder that something for long. The sound of feet shuffling had her heart back-flipping in her chest. Unnerved, she turned to run, or more honestly, hobble to class, and slammed into a brick wall.

Liam. Except—not. The boy in front of her had pale pearlescent skin that shimmered underneath the overhead lights, his eyes no longer the cerulean she had come to adore, but a deeper, more vibrant blue that reminded her of giant sapphires. Tension lines bracketed his mouth, and his gaze darted up and down the hall as if he expected someone to show up. 

Jensen found her eyes riveted to his face. She tried to count the number of hairs that made up his golden stubble, looking for something, anything to avoid dealing with the two things that had caused her breaths to come way too fast, and her palms to feel like she had dipped them in the ocean.

“What are you doing out here?” he asked, voice just as strained as the cords bunching in his neck.

She shut her eyes. They weren’t working anyway. But the darkness that followed only made her pulse speed up more, her heartbeat pounding in her ears. When she peeled her lids apart, she knew her sight wasn’t the problem because they were still there, still peeking over his shoulders at her. Still fluttering. Wings. Liam had wings.


----------



## Joyce DeBacco

A snippet from Where Dreams are Born. Amazon discount happening now.

Later that night, while Vicky put the girls to bed, Jack looked on from the hallway. He found himself doing that a lot lately, watching her as she worked, and listening in on her chats with the children. And each time he wondered what had changed since their first meeting. Despite his resolve to limit the amount of time spent together, he felt drawn to her. She intrigued him. But why? Because she gave of herself to his children so completely? Because he’d always dreamed of a beautiful woman adopting him, the mother he never had? Or was it something baser, brought on by months of living like a monk?

Their alliance was meant to be a simple arrangement, beneficial to both of them. Housekeeping and childcare for him; a safe environment in which to raise a child for her. A win-win situation.

So why did he suddenly find himself acting like a schoolboy around her, fantasizing when all he really needed was someone to share the responsibilities of a house and children, someone to relieve his loneliness while respecting his privacy? Why did he have to complicate matters with an imagined attraction? She was his housekeeper, for chrissake. And he’d hired her because of her warmth, gentleness, and uncomplaining demeanor. 

Damn, he thought, shaking his head. Was he describing a woman or a cocker spaniel?

Thanks for reading.

Joyce


----------



## D.R. Erickson

A snippet from THE BLOOD GATE, which finds Prince Hurrus and his most trusted lieutenant Xandros in the midst of a costly campaign in the Sarian desert. Xandros urges retreat, and Hurrus says:

"My men have tasted their first battle, Xandros. What would you have me tell them when they stand upon the same blood-soaked ground to face this Memnon a second time? What answer would you have for them when they weep at the funeral pyres of their fallen comrades and wonder to what profit their brothers have died? When they see the crown of Memnon sitting atop my head, they will know."
"Know what? That you are the king of the sandrunners?"
"I don't believe my ears. Xandros, what has happened to you? What glory has ever been won through caution and fear?"

The Blood Gate


----------



## julieannfelicity

A snippet from the soon-to-be-released short story collection, Sensing Evil by Spencer Collins:

The more he fought and the more panic screamed its alarm in his ears, the more the boy felt his lungs ache and strain. He was going to have to take a breath soon, whether he liked it or not. Puffing his cheeks out, and bracing himself for the stench he knew would soon envelope his nostrils, he breathed out and breathed in, all in rapid succession. Even though he had only opened his lungs for a brief second, the odor crept in and soon the boy couldn’t control his own bodily functions. He lurched forward, smacking his head against the metal bulkhead doors, and vomited on the slanted dirt steps.

The boy didn’t bother wiping his mouth before he breathed in again, despite the stench that became more pungent with the mixture of sick and stomach acid that lay pooled at his feet. He clawed at the metal door, kicked it and pounded it with his bare fist, but still the latch refused to budge. His chest felt as though it was on fire and he knew he wouldn’t be able to hold his breath again. He would have to give in and suffer the odoriferous aromas lingering in the air. 

He breathed in again and the smell was so overbearing it sent him into convulsions. It knocked him flat on his back, causing him to tumble down the slanted dirt steps to the basement floor. His nostrils burned and his lungs caved in. His heart thundered against his rib cage and he was in such a daze, he swore he could feel the blood as it pumped through his veins.


----------



## athanos

Snippet from Mad Gods.

“The Catholics?” Kosta felt it in his stomach, as surely as the monaxia, about which the old Greeks spoke so bitterly. 
The Catholic Church had lived in the Byzantine shadow, since Constantine I moved the imperial capitol from pagan Rome 
to Christian Kostadinoupoli. Under his hand, Christianity had evolved from a cult, into the imperial faith. 
Through jealous centuries, they watched the Byzantine Empire grow to become the envy of the known world, 
spanning both east and west, Christian and Muslim.

The Byzantines never took part in Crusades. They lived in relative harmony, competing in trade with everyone around them. 
It was the ideal soil for the growth of a vibrant culture. This cast the stagnant Catholic west further into the dark. 
The Dark Ages were dark, because they lived in the Byzantine shadow, its light revealing their faults. 

It went on until their Muslim neighbors no longer wanted to compete. In 1450, they wanted the golden city, 
wanted Kostadinoupoli, as their own. They tried bribes, cajoling and offered to let everyone live without harassment, 
as long as they left. All their attempts were rebuffed and, three years later, by force, they took what they couldn’t 
through either guile or diplomacy.

Hope you like it


----------



## Pearson Moore

From Chapter Five of "Cartier's Ring":

"Wake up, boy."

François hears the words, but keeps his eyes closed. The seas are calm, and he slept through the night. He didn't get sick. He didn't even vomit. It was the first good night in three months at sea.

"Boy, wake up!" A slap stings his cheek and his eyes pop open.

François sits up in his hammock and focusses on the man who slapped him: René Bouchard, the boatswain. Cherry-nose René. The stench of brandy and onions on the old sailor's breath is enough to make the boy gag.

"Père Martin needs ya," René says. "He's gonna try makin' sense o' them savages."

Père Martin, the fat old priest. He drinks more brandy than René, and he farts, even when he says Mass. He eats like a pig. "More o' them Mi'kmaqs?"

"Hell if I know, boy. All's I know, they're goin' ashore, an' Father says, 'git the boy.' So I says, 'Yes, Reverend Father.'"

François fixes his gallygaskins and throws on his short cassock. He forces his feet into the boots his father bought for the journey. 'A priest's acolyte must be properly dressed,' he said. His mother said he'd been spoiling François, ever since the boy survived the smallpox plague that took both his older sisters. The leather is soft, but the boots are too small now; he'll need to pay a cobbler to open up the toes.

On deck, a grand vista of sandy beach and green forest a quarter mile away surprises François.


----------



## hardnutt

'Is it yourself?'
Detective Inspector Joseph Aloysius Rafferty winced as his mother's voice threatened to pierce his eardrum and, although briefly tempted to plead not guilty, he had perforce to agree that yes, it was himself. Surely, he demanded of his reflection in the hall mirror, a hangover, a murder and his mother all in one morning were more than any man should be expected to cope with? Especially at six thirty and after less than four hours sleep. 'I can't stop, Ma. Sergeant Llewellyn will be picking me up any minute.' 
'I won't keep you then, son, but I didn't know who else to turn to and what with the wedding and all...'
Rafferty frowned. News of the murder had already taken their toll on his hung-over wits, but the word "wedding" on his ma's tongue was even more worrying and he struggled to get his brain into gear. 'What wedding?'
'I know Jack's only a distant cousin,' she remarked briskly, 'but surely you haven't forgotten that he's over from Dublin to marry my niece, Deirdre?'
That wedding. How could he have forgotten that Jailhouse Jack, the world's most incompetent criminal was preparing to plight his troth and pass his genes on to the next generation? What a wonderful addition to a policeman's close family the bridegroom would be, he thought ruefully.

Chapter one / Dead Before Morning, the Rafferty and Llewellyn mystery series


          ur[l=http://www.amazon.com/dp/0727880160/?tag=kbpst-20]







[/url]  

C


----------



## J. Carson Black

From THE SHOP:

One minute Nick was ahead of the Porsche—amazing, considering his car wasn’t anywhere near as fast—and the next, the jogger crossed in front of him.

They’d dragged from the light and were coming off the curve by the park when the jogger trotted out onto the road.  Three in the morning—and there’s a jogger crossing the street!  Nick hit the brakes and the car slewed sideways.  

Everything turned to slow motion.  The sunglasses he’d left on the dash floated past his ear along with an Arby's wrapper.

Then the car jounced against the curb.  

Everything stopped.

First thing he realized—the airbag didn’t deploy.  

Second thing he realized, he was unhurt.  Maybe banged up a little. But unhurt. He wriggled his toes, moved his arms.  The seatbelt had saved him.

Silence, except for the sound of hot metal ticking.  His car was in the right lane but turned backwards—he’d done a complete one-eighty.
He put a hand up to touch his face, and smelled the alcohol on his own breath.

Had to get out of here.

Because the airbag didn’t deploy, he could drive away.  There would be no drunk driving charge, if he could get this thing straightened up and go, soon.

But what about the other driver?  What about the jogger?  Bemused—it must be the shock—he looked around.  The Porsche was gone. The jogger was gone. 

Shaking, he got out, his dread building.  

And looked under the car.


----------



## Brenda Carroll

In Honor of Easter, I am posting a preview snippet of _the Red Cross of Gold XXII:. Holy Blood_.

Lucio and a new acquaintance are discussing the Holy Grail:

_"And about the ninth hour Jesus cried with a loud voice, saying, Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani? that is to say, My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?" Simon quoted the words from the Book of Matthew that Jesus had spoken upon the cross. "Many have tried to explain why the Son of God would ask such a question and all have failed to explain it."
"Did&#8230; do you think that God really forsook him?" she asked. She had heard these words before. All Christians had heard these words, but like many Christians, she had never really given them much thought.
"No. Of course not!" Simon smiled. "It was simply his humanity that cried out. God never really forsakes any who believe in Him. Even in their darkest hours. Men tend to make much of nothing. I can only be thankful that my own experience with the cross was a private matter or else the world would have heard a great deal of complaining and questioning. It was not a pleasant way to die. Even the Christ had feelings when he occupied the human body of Jesus&#8230; much like our beloved Brother, Mark Andrew. He suffers all the pains of any other man. His curse lies in the fact that he can suffer a great deal more without hope of true death."
"But that is the case with all the Brothers!" Merry was surprised to hear the Healer speak of the thing so lightly.
"But we, at least, have comfort in knowing that Mark Andrew could set us free of our pain. He does not enjoy that benefit. He cannot set himself free. Only God can do that for him. The curse of the angels."_[/i]


----------



## mamiller

An excerpt from my romantic suspense in the Adirondacks, BORROWED TIME - .99 cents

"Do you want to escape? I won't stop you, you know."

Emily's back was ramrod straight. "I am a thief. It was less than twenty-four hours ago that you yanked the distributor cap off my car, and now you sit there and say you won't stop me?"

"I'm just asking you, Em," he glanced up, and in the dark sought her gaze in the shadows. "Do you want to escape?"

With a twitch, her neck turned as she searched the back porch through windows that had grown murky with frost. Her fingers splayed against the frigid panel and when she withdrew them, a moist impression of her hand remained.

"No," she said desperately.

Brian felt a sense of tenderness overtake him. "And why do you suppose that is?" he whispered.

She refused to turn his way, but the rigid set of her shoulders slumped in defeat. "Because," the words choked out, "I believe I can trust you."


----------



## Todd Russell

An excerpt from a story inside Mental Shrillness

She opened her mouth and nothing would come out. Turning to the mirror she saw the longest piece of glass penetrated where her voice box would have been. Trembling, she dropped the phone and went to the door. She put her hand on the knob and stopped at the doorbell's clanging.
Peeking through the eye hole, she saw Beth outside. She started to open the door and then froze.
"Wanda, I need to talk to you," Beth said, her voice muffled. "I know you probably don't want to talk to me. Tim told me this morning that. . ."
Blood coursed down Wanda's thighs, back, stomach, breasts, neck. Little and big pieces of glass poking everywhere. She turned the knob and pulled it inward. HELP ME


----------



## mamiller

Hello all. Here is a snippet from my romantic thriller, ENDLESS NIGHT. 

Closing the trunk and hoisting it under her arm, she reached out to throw the latch open as the door ripped from her hands and the Atlantic screamed at her.

She screamed back.

Even with the collar pulled up over her ears, the sounds of the tempest assaulted her. In the wind, she heard the ghostly woman crying, the phantom that besieged her at night. Outside of Wakefield's dark chambers, the cry took on a hollow sound, like a woeful moan meant to lure souls toward its source, the yawning black shadows beyond the cliff's edge. Megan also heard the anxious murmur of ice and snow, like a thousand voices whispering about her, berating her, cajoling her. Amidst their dissonance, one voice broke through.

"_Margaret_."

Her body jerked and the radio fell to the ground. It wasn't the storm that called her name. She spun around and instinctively crouched, prepared to attack, but she did not have her trusty GLOCK. She had nothing but her bare hands and a flashlight.

"Margaret," that chilled voice called again.

Megan whirled and saw his outline. Night swelled into the menacing form of a man. There were no distinct features, only a shadow-a frightening profile that looked as if the storm had taken its vivacity and breathed life into this very monster.


----------



## stubbyp

From "Dreaded Friday"

"He stood on a downtown sidewalk, the edges of his worn sport coat and his cheap tie fluttering in the wind. People flooded from the buildings at some unheard starting bell and headed for cars and restaurants or just somewhere where they could get some drinks. Through open doorways, as he walked towards the bus stop, he could hear the clink of cocktail glasses, the tinkle of ice, the "gush" of beer bottles, and the bubble of conversation. A celebration of sorts, but all he could muster was dread."

One of the selections from Dreaded Friday and Other Tales: A Collection of Short Stories


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## stubbyp

From "Bringer" one of the short stories in Dreaded Friday and Other Tales: A Collection of Short Stories

"Long after dark, the children all lay silently in their beds, waiting for the void of stillness to fall over everything. When they were sure that the old ones' sleep was deep and sound, the children rose from their beds, and slinking in darkness, made their easy way outside.

Small shadows moved quickly across courtyards, and down pathways; not towards the moonlit fields that spread as far as the eye could see, but towards the dark and ominous woods that towered behind Park Meadow.

The shadow children disappeared along a path that was so slender as to go unnoticed by anyone unaware of its existence. Leaves whispered at being swept aside, as the children ran laughing, down the narrow path, toward the heart of the wood and the cutaway place.

Josh watched as the children flowed into the circular clearing they had cut long ago, at the center of the wood. He motioned them to be seated, as the last few trailed in. After all were seated and quiet, Josh rose to his feet and spread his arms wide.

"Open your eyes," Josh bellowed, "and see now, he that we call 'Bringer'." "

If you enjoyed this snippet, then please purchase a copy of Dreaded Friday and Other Tales: A Collection of Short Stories It's only 99 cents!


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## SimonWood

This is an excerpt from my thriller, *WE ALL FALL DOWN*. Amazon has discounted the price to 99cents at the moment.

Description: http://www.amazon.com/We-All-Fall-Down-ebook/dp/B004MDLXNO/ 
Hayden Duke is a young man on the fast track. He's just signed on with Marin Design Engineering to work on a very high-level project. But before Hayden started, one of MDE's employee's committed suicide. And he's not the only one. Is it the pressure? Or is there some other connection? Has Hayden just put himself on the fast track to an early death?

_He climbed behind the wheel of the Pontiac, closed the door and fed the rope through the open window. He stuck the keys in the car's ignition and twisted it until the radio came on. He scanned through the radio stations until he came upon a tune he loved. He hadn't heard it in years. He had the record somewhere at home. He'd bought it for Debbie. Damn, that had been before the kids were born.

He sang along with the words while he worked. He rested the rope against the steering wheel while he tied a slipknot. He tried the knot's slip action around his wrist. It worked well. He smiled. Always the engineer. He had to test his designs before he tried them out for real. Debbie would be rolling her eyes if she were here now.

"Debbie, I love you," he said.

He removed the rope from around his wrist and slipped the noose over his neck. His elbows connected with the Pontiac's tight cockpit, striking the steering wheel and gearshift. He slid the slipknot close to his neck and tossed the slack out the window, careful it didn't get trapped under the wheels.

Malcolm Fuller buckled his seatbelt and started the Pontiac. The car roared into life at the first turn of the key. He selected drive and disengaged the emergency brake. Without hesitating, he took his foot off the brake and stamped on the gas pedal. The tires ripped through the dirt before finding traction. Fuller accelerated away from the tree with the rope chasing after him.

"This is for the best," he said a second before the rope's slack came to an abrupt end._


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## Jnassise

A snippet from THE HERETIC, book one of the Templar Chronicles - http://www.amazon.com/Heretic-Chronicles-supernatural-thriller-ebook/dp/B003CT39PE/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1307651044&sr=1-1

He stands alone in the center of the street, in a town that has no name. He has been here before, more than once, but each time the resolution is different, as if the events about to transpire are ordained by the random chance found in the motion of a giant spinning wheel, a cosmic wheel of fortune, and not by the actions he is about to take or has taken before.

He knows from previous experience that, just a few blocks beyond this one the town suddenly ends, becoming a great plain of nothingness, the landscape an artist's canvas that stands untouched, unwanted.

This town has become the center of his universe.

Around him, the blackened buildings sag in crumbling heaps, testimony to his previous visits. He wonders what the town will look like a few weeks from now, when the confrontation about to take place has been enacted and re-enacted and reenacted again, until even these ragged shells stand no more. Will the road, like the buildings, be twisted and torn?

He does not know.

He turns his attention back to the present, for even after all this time, he might learn something new that could lead him to his opponent's true identity.

The sky is growing dark, though night is still hours away. Grey storm clouds laced with green-and-silver lightning are rolling in from the horizon, like horses running hard to reach the town's limits before the fated confrontation begins. The air is heavy with impending rain and the electrical tension of the coming storm. In the slowly fading afternoon light the shadows around him stretch and move. He learned early on that they can have a life of their own.

He avoids them now.


----------



## Joyce DeBacco

Sam finished wiping down the car, and then went inside for a cold drink, his thoughts centering on his failure as a parent. He should’ve known mere locks wouldn’t have thwarted their willful child. Ever since Molly was a little girl, if she wanted something, she found a way to get it. Sad to say, but he had aided and abetted her willfulness by spoiling her to excess. Lily tried to warn him, but he thought she was simply jealous of the attention he gave their precocious daughter. She also thought he was too hard on their son. And perhaps she’d been right on both counts. Todd certainly seemed less stressed these days. Then again, he wasn’t engaging his mind to the fullest either.

He’d just popped the top off his soda when Lily sat down beside him. “So what are we going to do about Molly?” she asked.

“What can we do? What’s done is done.”

“Sam, doesn’t it bother you that she and those no-good friends of hers were partying in our house while we were away? Sleeping in our beds? Doing God knows what?”

“Of course it bothers me. But we don’t have any control over her anymore. Jeez,” he said, fleeing to the living room with his drink. “Can’t I relax for a minute without hearing another complaint about her? I don’t know what to do about it, okay? So deal with it any way you want.”

Lily followed him into the next room. “Deal with it? You created the problem by indulging her to excess and now you want me to deal with it?”

Reluctant to engage in a battle of words, Sam fell silent. He knew he was responsible for some of his daughter’s behavior, but not all of it. Certainly not all.

From Rubies and Other Gems - the Novel


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## LizSchulte79

"A sticky, sweet smell veiled the house, making it hard to breathe. I should have known immediately. After all, how many times had I described it in my books? Yet it didn't even occur to me as possible. Never could I have imagined my fiction so brutally brought to life. And so close to home. 

The odor stuck in my throat. I gagged. Fear caressed my skin with its clammy hands. In the pit of my stomach I knew something was wrong, dead wrong. The intense certainty propelled my feet forward despite my legs unwillingness to move. They felt sluggish and uncooperative as I entered the only place left to look, the kitchen. The odor grew stronger, burning the inside of my nose. Swallowing several times to force the lump in my throat down, my mouth went dry. I concentrated on not throwing up, instead of what I might find. I stretched my hands out defensively. Time slowed. Every one of my senses assaulted by blood and death, I froze in place. The cold, blank, dead eyes of my husband met mine. Rocking back and forth, the room spinning, I couldn't process the whole of what I was seeing. All I could do was stare back into Danny’s eyes—eyes frozen open in horror and pain. The floor smacked against my body as my knees gave way. 

Everything went black."

Dark Corners
Liz Schulte


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## harpwriter

From _Blue Bells of Scotland_, a time travel adventure in medieval and modern Scotland:

The courtyard was empty-worse than empty. Apart from that brief sound of voices, it was silent, utterly desolate. At the back of his mind, he'd noted the unnatural silence at a time when sheep should have been bleating and wives stirring and horses whickering. Missing was the smell of the fire in the great hall. Where could they all be? The MacDougalls couldn't have returned so quickly for vengeance. They couldn't have emptied everyone out so swiftly and silently that he slept through it. 
Niall stooped to slide the dirk from his boot. Its smooth metal blade ran cold up his leg. A bead of sweat inched down his jaw. He scanned the desolate castle, right and left, and straightened, pushing the long, dark hair from his forehead. The walls: they were like his castle walls, but-he studied them-not quite.
A wave of dizziness crashed over him. He squeezed his eyes shut, braced his hands on his knees for a moment, and pushed himself back up, staring at the ruins where the stables, blacksmith, and armory should have been. The close was no longer beaten earth, grazed by sheep, but soft with dewy grass, like an English garden. 
He touched his temple, under his hair. The lacerations were still rough, tender to the touch. The wound ached as if it were only days old. Had it caused him to sleep long enough for people and sheep to disappear, for grass to grow?


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## Heather Parker

Please could I post a snippet from my new novel *Middlewitch Mayhem (the second in the Middlewitch Chronicles Series)*. Alicia realises the dreaded Witchfinder General has travelled through time to hunt down the young witch...

This was the nightmare every witch dreaded, and I wasn't sure I could endure it. I was so happy here with James, the coming baby and all my friends. I couldn't bear to be separated from them. But if this threat was real, I knew I might have to flee the village forever. There was no other way. If anyone came with me, the Witchfinder would turn his dreadful vengeance upon them. And I knew I couldn't protect them this time. 
"How do you know he's hunting me anyway?" I shouted, desperate for the priest to be wrong. "Hardly anyone outside Middlewitch is even aware of my existence!"
The priest sighed. "It was that report the BBC did about the village. Hopkins must have seen it and put two and two together."
"Hopkins watches television?" asked James.
"Yes, I was surprised, but it can be quite violent. I suppose programmes like wrestling or 24 Hour News might appeal. But with my appearances on the Sunday night discussion shows, I know a few folks at the BBC. One of them rang me and said they'd had a query about the Middlewitch story from 'some guy named Hopkins who lives in East Anglia. Some kind of witchcraft historian &#8230;' Apparently he wanted to know if anyone had met the supposed witch when they were here. Naturally I told the BBC I'd visited Middlewitch, and the witch was just a deluded girl with mental problems. But I doubt that will satisfy Hopkins, Alicia."

Middlewitch Mayhem
http://www.amazon.com/Middlewitch-Mayhem-Chronicles-ebook/dp/B0055DDB6M


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## msdanielle28

Thanks, here goes the Snippet: "Trapped"

John awoke feeling as if he was intoxicated. His head felt heavy like a bowling ball. It pounded like it was beaten with stones. He fluttered his eyes until they eventually opened. Slowly John became aware of his surroundings. So many questions filled his mind. He wondered who were the men with clip boards and pens. As his hearing slowly tuned in he over heard what they were talking about. The doctors talked among themselves questioning the medication he was on. One doctor said maybe his dosage is to low. Another said it is possible it's to high of a dosage. When he gained enough strength in his lips he asked.................

http://www.amazon.com/TRAPPED-ebook/dp/B00550MCQU


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## bjm

"His hours. Olivia Newton John posters everywhere. Somehow we're tripping."








.


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## stubbyp

I would like to post a snippett from my new nonfiction book The Helpdesk Style Manual: A beginners guide to working in the helpdesk industry Now available for only $1.99!

"Over the nearly ten years that I have been working in the helpdesk environment, I have noticed a trend in the general helpdesk analyst community toward talking down to or belittling the customer. It appears to me as if people have forgotten the golden rule, you know, "do unto others as you would have them do unto you". Stop for a moment and think about it. When a customer calls in for assistance, do you treat them in the same manner that you would want to be treated? Do you treat the customer with respect? Do you put the customer at ease and make them feel as if they are in capable hands? Do you relate to the customer as a person and not a problem? Do you act as if you are glad to be helping or do you act as if the customer is bothering you while you are trying to surf the web or get the high score in Tetris?

These are the things we should be consciously thinking while assisting a customer and even when we are between calls. If you were to put yourself completely in the customers shoes and treat them with empathy and respect, those customers would return an amount of gratitude that you may never have expected. I personally would rather have people praising me as a computer god, than having them bad mouth me to their coworkers."

Get your copy today! Only $1.99!
The Helpdesk Style Manual: A beginners guide to working in the helpdesk industry


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## Tommie Lyn

Here's a snippet from _...and night falls_:

The sun moved below the distant horizon and night fell, the darkness slipping across the water toward them, faint gleams and glows resting for brief moments upon the expanse of the bay, then disappearing when the wind scuffed the smooth surface. The darkness below the water's glassy veneer appeared bottomless. Shelley shuddered, and in that moment, the thought broke through into her consciousness.

That shirt on the body. Hadn't she seen one like it before? She'd only gotten a brief look, but now, it seemed as though she'd seen it before. No. That couldn't be. It only felt that way because the vision of the body lying behind the brush kept traveling through her thoughts, she kept seeing that awful sight. Yes. That had to be it. It wasn't-couldn't be-familiar. And yet&#8230;.

She glanced over her shoulder at the van. The Sheriff's Office Crime Scene Van. Crime. The word echoed through her mind. A chill of awareness rose up within her thoughts. _Yes._ She _had_ seen a shirt like that one. Farrell Gilbert often wore one like it.


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## JRainey

How cool is this thread!

"Ben would’ve liked to have gone with them to the pub, to see Clarice Wright make an idiot of herself for the thousandth time, but it was always awkward going out to eat with mortals. It took too many excuses that he wasn’t really in the mood to give. 

Benjamin Marlowe opted to head home, grade essay after poorly-written essay and then fall asleep at his desk at half past twelve to the sounds of soap opera reruns on the television. He dreamt of a woman in white satin trying to peel a twenty-foot-tall granny smith apple in a shopping center while, worlds away, Jack Bentley dreamt of him."

-From These Hellish Happenings, chapter 10


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## J. Carson Black

The pond behind Jolie Burke’s house was about two-thirds the length of a backyard swimming pool.  She figured it would take her eight strokes to reach the opposite bank.
    
There could be snakes in the pond.  Maybe an alligator.  During the day, the pond was usually opaque. The shadows were deep and almost impossible to look into. Little bubbles spiraled up near the bank where decaying vegetation and cypress trees met.

Never once before today had she contemplated swimming in it. 

That all changed earlier today, when she and her cat Rex took their morning walk along the waist-high chain link fence dividing her yard from the pond, and Jolie experienced a sudden and overwhelming sense of doom. 

One minute it was a normal day, the morning close and sticky.  Then she glanced at the pond.

The feeling had come up fast and gripped her hard.  She couldn’t get enough air. Her heart pounded. Her hands and feet went numb.  She felt as if some unimaginable horror was threatening to carry her away to a place of darkness. If she moved at all, she would fall in and the darkness would close around her and she would be lost forever.  

The pond was a dark snare, impenetrable.

From THE SHOP


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## Decon

"Oh, it's you, I wasn't expecting you," said Maria as she walked through the bedroom door to greet him.
"People never do. How is she?"
"She's very weak, but holding up. All she ever does is talk about you."
"Son, is that you?" he heard a familiar voice croak.
"It's me, mamma," he called back in a high, sweet tone. He turned to Maria, "Go take a walk and get me a pack of cigarettes." Maria grabbed her purse and left. She closed the front door behind her and he walked into the bedroom. 
"Come closer son; let me see that handsome face of yours." He moved his face within touching distance, and she gently stroked the contours. "That's better, now I can see," she said staring at the ceiling, her eyes milked over with cataracts. "Dad and your brother would be so proud. All dad ever wished for was that you would make it good and get out of here."
"Yeah, with a bit of luck we'll both be out of here soon. Let me straighten your pillow." He gently lifted her head from the pillow. He shook the pillow to fluff it out.
"What do you mean, we&#8230;" her voice muffled as he pressed the pillow hard over her face. Her arms and hands, almost translucent with age, flailed for only a few moments and then went limp at her side.

Extract from Russian Brides... Due for release August 1st. 2nd in The Jamie Jameson series to Survival Instinct.


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## Hans Cummings

From _Wings of Twilight_, my soon-to-be-released first novel.

"The forest felt different around the city, those with a connection to the land could tell. Finally, they saw a twinkling in the distance, barely visible through the branches of the forest. As night fell, a chill came over the air, and the first snowflake began to fall, drifting down from the heavens. At first, the snowflakes vanished when they landed, alighting on Lorelei's skin like delicate crystals, then melting, leaving only a cool drop of water to mark their passing. The twinkling in the distance became more distinct. The trees seemed to part as the walls of Celtangate came into view. When they arrived at the city gates, the snow dusted everything like a white powder. Moonlight broke through the canopy overhead, and the world glittered."

No link yet, 'cause it's still with my editor.


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## tallulahgrace

From "Fate", Book One of Timeless Trilogy

Kris bolted straight up in bed, sweat streaming down her arms and face. Her breathing was fast and shallow, as if she had been running for her life. The pink of early dawn peeked through the crack in the curtain as she struggled to regain control. She was home. She was safe.
The dream that had plagued her for weeks now was becoming more and more clear. The man chasing her was still in shadow, but scenes from the movie rolling in front of her were etched in her mind. The flames were everywhere; she could see Roni screaming and Cassie fall to the floor. Her mother and father were both fighting the fiery onslaught, beating back the flames with some kind of fabric, though they had been dead for years. The faces and the surroundings were in sepia tone, but the inferno was blue and red. The horror on the screen was bad enough, but Kris knew that the worst part of the nightmare had yet to catch up with her. Icy fingers scraped her spine as she ran as hard as she could.

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B0054QZNRA


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## Joyce DeBacco

From Where Dreams are Born.

The children finally grew tired and climbed out one by one to play poolside. With the pool all to himself, Jack began swimming laps. And though she tried not to, Vicky couldn’t keep her eyes off his lithe body.

Despite his sedentary job, Jack appeared remarkably healthy and fit, conditioned, she knew, by regular racquetball sessions with Russ, also well toned, and the lecherous George, the battle of the bulge’s most recent casualty.

After a thorough workout, he drifted toward her. Without warning, he grabbed her dangling leg. Vicky immediately stiffened. He’d never intentionally touched her before.

“Come on in,” he said, gripping her by the ankle. “The kids are playing nicely for a change.”

He flattened her foot against his chest, and the tactile sensation of his skin against the delicate pad of her foot made her toes curl. Their eyes locked, awareness flickered, and flesh upon flesh, they remained so, unmoving but definitely not unmoved.


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## Edward C. Patterson

Glad my snippet thread continues. I haven't put one in for a while - This ones from my latest novel _*The Road to Grafenwöhr*_

In the boondocks, the thoughts of a guard on duty are not easily catalogued. However, in Quincy Summerson's case, they were beyond divination. The rain beat on the trail down to the guard shack. A small ring of light cut a swath through a single slice of fence and gate. The tank and thunder rumble were ever-present and hard to ignore. PFC Love was more than anxious to be relieved. He had shivered under his poncho and didn't bother to exchange a word with Quincy. He had just nodded toward the light swath, and then scurried up the slippery path. Quincy, left alone in the whipping wind - alone with his thoughts, stood his Gothic vigil.
The shack was slightly larger than a coffin, or so Quincy imagined it. Tight and dark, with nothing more than a TAC phone and a panorama of dirty streaked windows. He trained his attention on the limited sight range on the horizon - the ominous mound of missiles under their camouflage, sparked by distant lightning. Quincy shuddered. It reminded him of a living creature asleep on the hill - a dragon with folded wings atop its golden horde.

Quincy jiggled in the chill. The shift would be long - four hours, and he had no room to pace, so he marched in place to steady his nerves. After twenty minutes, the long grasses beyond the fence bent in the wind. Shadows were cast. Creatures stirred. He thought he saw a rabbit - those long eared German rabbits that were as unusual to him as the long-eared red squirrels. The more he focused on the tall tufts that played in the lightning, the more he imagined larger creatures - deer, perhaps or . . . boar. He had imagined he had seen a boar when he had arrived through the forest on the road to Grafenwöhr. Here was another one.
Just a big pig, he thought.

However, as the creature paused just beyond the light swath, its eyes glowed - two beacons piercing Quincy's thoughts. He closed his lids, but the boar lingered in his mind's eye.

"The damn thing's thinking about attacking me."

However, the fence stood between them, so Quincy nervously unshouldered his weapon just in case he needed to go hunting. His fingers fluttered over the trigger. Suddenly, there were headlights up the road. Quincy froze, coming to attention. He watched as they slowly approached the gate.

The Colonel's jeep - oak clusters on the bumper. 

Edward C. Patterson


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## Lynn Mixon

From my just released novel _*Will of the Gods - Erotic Romance in a World of Sex and Sorcery*_

Zia tore off her cloak, hurled it to the floor, and stomped on it. Damn his eyes! The Solstice celebration would have been perfect! This was the first year they were holding it in the Priory since they'd attempted to exterminate every Tantris inside their borders back in the third year of the Dragon. She would've been in their den at their own invitation!

This meant another year she had to spend living on her back in the Theocracy. How was she ever going to recover the Mother's circlet if she couldn't even get into the Priory?

The circlet had been lost to the Sisterhood since the Priory Council had betrayed them and killed Lady Jenis, the last High Priestess, just before Zia had been born. If Grand Prior Quentin had his way, they would all be dead or enslaved before they had another. Zia wished the Goddess would actually do something to advance Her plans before that happened. The implied blasphemy immediately made her feel guilty.

She clenched her fists and swallowed. Perhaps it wasn't too late to find someone who would take her. There was still one full day to work on it. There had to be someone who had an invitation and would be willing to make a substitution. She would do anything to get into the Priory. Anything.

It might mean using her magic to sicken someone's slave or wife. What was one more perversion to her morals? First, she had sacrificed her body, now she was considering doing the same with her sacred power. The very thought sickened her.

Only in this sewer of a society could such a wrong act seem like the right course of action. She needed to get out before the killing of innocent people seemed justified. The Theocracy was like a poison, slowly eating away at her.

No, hurting an innocent person wasn't the answer. She needed to come up with another plan, and she only had one day to do it.

She lit a small oil lamp with a sliver of wood from the banked coals in the fireplace, closed the grate to keep any sparks safely in the chimney, and crossed the greeting room, heading for the kitchen. Some cider or wine might help her get some sleep. She would need to be up early to devise a new plan.

A man spoke from one of the chairs situated in the shadows. "Good morning, Mistress Galen."

She shrieked and dropped the lamp, which promptly shattered. Burning oil splashed the carpet at her feet and ignited the hem of her dress with a loud _whoosh_!


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## J. Carson Black

He didn't know why he was alone up here. He just was. The others had gone on ahead, and he'd somehow missed them, missed their exit into the forest that covered the mountain.  

It was cool up here.  He saw the caravan down below, slowly toiling up the dirt road.  Hairpin turns, dust churned up by their wheels.  
They were coming.  He knew they were coming for him.

He checked his cell. There were bars.  Hard to believe at this altitude. He called her and got her voicemail.  

Her usual reply: "I love you."  It wasn't that she loved him exclusively. It was just her voicemail message.  She loved everybody---and, he was beginning to find out--nobody.  

Anyway, he said, "I'm calling you because..." He faltered.  For the first time tears gathered in his eyes. Maybe she didn't care, but it was still hard to say it. To form the words in his mouth.  

"Because I don't think I'm going to make it through the night."


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## Connie Chastain

From Southern Man:

Troy was half-smiling, looking at his friend and listening with detached enjoyment, as if Max were talking about someone else.

"That would get tens of thousands of people in the stands all worked up and chanting his name, and it was somethin' to hear-Tro-_wee,_ Tro-_wee,_ Tro-_wee!_ And you know what? In all that fancy maneuverin', I never saw him fumble the ball."

"Wow, that's pretty amazing," Ferragamo said.

"Yep," Max agreed, "but there was a good reason for it. Remember in _Alien,_ that thing with the long fingers clamped to Harry Dean Stanton's face?"

"John Hurt," said Jeff. He wallowed a piece of ice in his mouth and looked at Max.

"Huh?"

Jeff crunched the ice between his molars and spoke around the bits. "The one with the alien on his face was John Hurt. Harry Dean Stanton played some sort of maintenance guy."

Max rolled his eyes. "Whatever. Anyway, that was the way Troy's hand looked when he clamped it around a football. There was no way anybody was gonna strip it from him."

Troy grinned. He'd be sure to tell Patty that one.

"Do you ever miss it?" Ferragamo asked. "Wish you'd played pro ball?"

Troy shook his head. "Nah. I played football in college to get an education. I started playing in the youth leagues when I was eight and I played my last game January first, 1973 when I was twenty-one. I figured thirteen years of getting tackled, knocked down, slammed around, kicked, kneed, elbowed, and stomped on was enough."


----------



## mamiller

Romance and danger aboard a Caribbean cruise. EMOTIONAL WAVES - .99 cents

At 6:00am Brent stood with his shoulder propped against the window lodged between two banks of elevators on Deck Seven. These were the only elevators for the deck so he would be able to see anyone come or go. What he couldn't do was tackle the staircases on each end of the corridor, but he presumed Luis would be too lazy to use them. Looking out at the sea, the surface was radiant from the morning sun and a cloudless sky. Brent saw the shadows of the deep begin to wane as the ocean floor rose to meet the hazy silhouette of Grand Turk in the distance. It had been nearly twenty years since he was on these waters.

Brent's summers were spent sailing in his parent's 40 ft. Cruiser, named Coales' Cove. Jack Coales, his father, owned Warm Winds Boating. One great perk that Jack Coales allowed himself was to take the summers off and spend them with his wife and teenage son. They would cruise the Caribbean under the guise that he was researching new engineering ideas. Brent loved those days. He loved marlin fishing with his father while his mother read under the shade of a floppy white hat. He always thought she looked like a bee-handler in that thing.

He missed them so much.

A bell went off on one of the elevators and Brent saw the red light above the bank to his left illuminate. A single cabin steward disembarked and Brent slouched back against the window.

"Excuse me?"

He turned around at the inquiry from the young man in uniform. Bespectacled eyes studied him curiously as the steward scratched his short red hair in contemplation.

"Are you looking for someone?" The steward asked.

"No, I was just trying to gauge how far we were from Grand Turk."

"We'll be docking in about an hour sir," the steward hesitated, fidgeting with an envelope in his hands. "I−I was told that you were looking for someone. He wanted me to give you this, but if you're not−"

_Dammit_! "Yes, yes, that's me." Brent grabbed the envelope and managed a curt nod of gratitude before the steward shrugged and disappeared back into the elevator.

Brent ripped open the envelope, feeling a sense of motion sickness.

_Back off or the girlfriend gets hurt._

So few words, and yet such an impact.


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## Brenda Carroll

Great Excerpt, Miss Miller! Rocking on with the watery themes, cool and inviting. I've been wanting to go on a cruise and this is making wish it was today! It's good to see this thread again as well. I would put in an excerpt from the Assassin Chronicles, but I'm baked and too tired to look for one. All I can say is here is the Assassin Chronicles, Red Cross of Gold I:. The Knight of Death Prologue:
(Remember this series is set in the present century and is not a historical novel)

The Red Cross of Gold [URL=I:]I:. The Knight of Death[/url]
_Prologue

For days the forces of Saladin pounded the walls of the great City of Jerusalem, seeking out the weak points in the fortifications, searching endlessly, relentlessly for the one place where his ballistae and catapults could do the most damage. A veritable rain of arrows, rocks and Greek fire poured into the city over the walls and into the streets, killing everything from dogs to rats caught out in the open. News, what little there was, from the army was hard to glean and disheartening at best. There would be no returning forces coming to drive the Saracens from the gates of the old city.
All was lost.
Lords Balian and Ranier had gone out to meet with the tyrant, Saladin, seeking terms after a mounted foray through the Jehosephat gate had been utterly destroyed. The two emissaries had gained nothing more than the ill-received news that the ransom prices would be paid in gold or else those who could not pay would be put to the sword. Every male over the age of ten would pay ten besants, females would pay five. Younger children would be required to pay one besant. Very high prices indeed and impossible for most of the city's population&#8230; those that remained alive at any rate&#8230; to pay. Saladin had graciously granted forty days for the gold to be gathered.
The young Templar Knight, Androu, only just arrived from the wild lowlands of Scotia, with his new Latin name of Armenius, had only just learned that he and his twin brother, Mathou, also newly named Larmenius, would be ransomed and allowed to leave the city with those other citizens, soldiers, clergy, royalty and Knights fortunate enough to have the ransom handy. This was great news. The two Knights had lain side by side in the darkness beneath the heavily fortified walls of the Commanderie, listening to the bombardment at night, speaking of their misfortune at having been amongst the few Templars left behind when the armies of the King had ridden off into oblivion. If only they had been allowed to accompany the army, they might have met more useful deaths. Anything would have been preferable to starving in the darkness like rats or being cut down by an errant arrow in the street or burned alive in some subterranean dead end. 
But this latest news was grand indeed and he wanted only to share it with Mathou as soon as possible.
Mathou, however, was not in the Commanderie, nor was he found in any of the usual places they come to haunt since the siege began. Androu rushed through the halls, calling for his brother in their native Scots tongue, drawing stares and admonishments from the clergy, monks and attendants who were desperately trying to minister to the masses of wounded and dying and dead who had sought refuge inside the fortified structure. Everywhere was the stench of blood and death, weeping, wailing women, crying children, but nowhere was the sight of his brother. He drew up short at the spectacle of bright sunlight spilling through a tall set of open doors. 
Androu blinked in the bright light as he realized that the hail of arrows was no longer falling into the street beyond the doors.
Several young men and boys were standing just inside the doors, looking out at the incredible carnage in the street. Blood filled the shallow drains alongside the street, bodies of men, women and children were strewn about along with dogs, cats, goats, sheep, chickens, donkeys and horses. All piled on top of each other, looking very much like hedgehogs under the weight of hundreds of arrows. There were also fallen blocks from the buildings surrounding the square as well as the rounded boulders flung there by catapults, overturned carts, broken pottery, pieces of metal and glass and splintered weapons of every imaginable sort. Food, much needed to feed the hungry, lay rotting amidst the destruction. A sad sight indeed. The fountain, choked with debris showed promise of nothing more than blood-tainted water. Poison. The sight was beyond comprehension. The smell was unbearable and the silence even worse than the constant explosions had been.
"What has happened?" He asked the boys in stilted Latin.
One of them turned large, frightened eyes on him. His dark face was smeared with dirt and blood.
"My Lord, the infidels have entered the city," he said. "The wall has been breached. Can you not hear them?"
Androu willed his heart to be still and strained his ears. Faint shouts of "Allah Akbar!" Echoed through the streets.
"My brother&#8230; have you seen Larmenius, the elder?" He asked, taking the boy by the shoulders.
"Your brother? Mathou?" One of the other children answered him with a question.
"Aye!"
"He left when the arrows ceased, Sir!" The boy, a swarthy complected ragamuffin of about fourteen years stepped forward. "That way." He pointed one dirty finger toward one of the clogged streets leading away from the square.
Androu sucked in a deep breath of relatively cool air and then stepped out into the smoke and glaring midday sun.
"Wait, Master," the boy shouted and caught up with him. "I can show you the way. You must be careful, sir. The infidels are killing people in the streets down that way. Blood flows like water through the sewers. One besant is my price."
Androu hesitated, checked his weapons and his purse, jammed the helmet he had been carrying, on his head and jerked his head to the boy in acceptance of the offer. If the boy was useful, he might see to it that his ten besants were paid in full. He needed a good valet and this one spoke Latin better than he did. 
The young fellow nimbly picked his way over the carnage and Androu followed more slowly in the more cumbersome chain mail, boots and surcoat. He heard someone shouting his name from the door, but did not look back. Once they were clear of the square, they kept to the more protected alleys and narrow streets where less debris had accumulated. Eventually, they came upon a less damaged part of the city where the streets were relatively free of bodies and clutter. They stopped in front of a formidable residential home. The doors stood open. Amazingly, this house was undamaged. Its gleaming white facade stood untouched by Saladin's rampage.
"He went in there?" Androu asked and frowned at the boy suspiciously.
The boy nodded solemnly and then smiled.
Androu started up the broad steps. He knew the place. The house belonged to a wealthy merchant who was purportedly a Muslim, himself. Some minor official who attended the King's court regularly, wearing outlandish garb from Persia, which he claimed to be his home. He was about to change his mind about going inside when he heard a woman's screams emanating from the open doors.
The Knight rushed up the steps, drawing his sword as he went, calling his brother's name.
"Mathou!" He shouted.
He found no one inside the first three rooms and then burst into the sunlight again as he stepped into an enclosed courtyard. His eyes fell immediately on the sight of a Templar floating face down in a sizable pool. A bright swath of crimson was spreading out around his head.
A woman, her face concealed behind a veil, stood near the pool, holding an ornately bejeweled knife in one hand. A brilliant flash of red blinded his reasoning and he jerked his head back.
When he locked eyes with her, she screamed. He screamed and the boy screamed with him.
She screamed again and the boy screamed with her.
He screamed and the boy shouted in his face.
"Sir! Sir! Wake up!" The boy, no longer a ragamuffin, was shaking him roughly by the shoulder.
"Christopher?" He asked and blinked into the worried face of his young American apprentice, Christopher Stewart. 
"Yes, Master. It's me, Christopher, for Pete's sake. The Grand Master wants to talk to you before you leave for America, Sir."
Mark Andrew Ramsay sat up stiffly and found himself sitting behind his rather barren desk where he had apparently fallen asleep after consuming a half bottle of Scotch the night before.
"You scared the bejesus out of me," Christopher ventured. "Can I get you some water, Sir?"
"Get back to class, boy," Mark grumped, managed a slight smile and then stood up. The dream about his brother's death rarely plagued him these days, but when it did, it brought back the proper perspective he needed for his life as the Chevalier du Morte, the Knight of Death, Alchemist and Assassin for the Order of the Red Cross of Gold, poor Knight of the Temple of Solomon._


----------



## Edward C. Patterson

Checking in here. Still going strong. Great. Here's a snippet from *The People's Treasure, Book 4 of The Jde Owl Legacy.*

Standing beside these activities was Ezio, Rose's stepson, who managed business. However, there wasn't much of that, not with Carter Vein and Met politics. Still, although Rose could manage Met politics quite well, thank you very much, her husband Rafaelo was a master at it. There's nothing like having a millionaire on hand to manage politics. This exhibition had already cost him many thousands of Euros. Still, Rafaelo marshaled himself daily to the foot of the Temple of Dendur and watched his son bark orders at the workmen and his wife moon at the vast glass bevel that reminded the world that Central Park was a stone's throw away.

At a distance, near the Closed to the Public sign, loitered another man, one who Rose had seen there for the last three days. He didn't come in. He couldn't - Closed to the Public after all, but he observed the workmen's progress as if he was the foreman and they were on his clock. Rose had made up her mind to challenge the man, and in fact was about to saunter down the Temple steps, when a familiar sound emitted from her smock coat.

Dingle-dang-dang-dingle-dang.

"Damn," she said, her hand fumbling into the smock pocket.

Dingle-dang-dang-dingle-dang.

"I hate this damn thing," she said.

She held a cell phone in her palm, but no mere cell phone this. A Blackberry, a glorious gift from the WiFi gods and Ezio, who insisted that La Matrigna get up-to-date and with-the-times. How she longed for simple pen and paper.

The Dingle-dangs drew Ezio's attention. Even Rafaelo's. The exhibit's progress was in its infancy and any distraction easily accommodated them. Any incoming text message was an event.

Rose winced at the black contraption, poking the surface like a shopper testing melons. She squinted, and then looked for Ezio, who was already climbing the steps, his father behind him.

"Ezio," Rose shouted, her voice carrying through the vault of the Hall. "I can't make head nor tail of this thing. I mean, a phone call I can understand, but when it comes to this thing, I'm all thumbs."

"Padrona," Ezio laughed. "You are supposed to be all thumbs with it. That's the way you do it. What do we have?"

Rose squinted again, shading the Blackberry from the bevel of light.

"A text message from . . . Rawden. But . . . I can't make out what it says."

Ezio took the phone and also squinted and shaded.

"He says that he's coming to Nuovo York."

"Is that what he says? Nuovo York? As sure as my daddy is a dentist, Ezio, Rawden Gray would no more say Nuovo York than I would say Barney Google."

"Well, Padrona, I sometimes say it my way."

"When is he coming?" Rafaelo asked.

"Non dice," Ezio says. "Not exactly. He just says that he is on his way."

"Well, it's about time," Rose said.

She had been anxious about Rowden on two fronts. She was anxious that he might have decided to retreat from his calling after Nick's . . . well, Nick's demise. That wouldn't do. Not the proper Yankee spirit and all that. So she was glad that he was coming. However, she was also anxious that Rowden would steal her thunder. After all, the Met was her sandbox and although Rowden had been a gentleman with the exhibit in San Francisco, he might expect some quid pro quo.

"You should text him back," Ezio said, handing Rose the Blackberry.

"Oh, no you don't," she said. "I can't type on that thing. It should come with a little tiny person that you could stick in your pocket to handle those messages. You do it. Tell him that I look forward to his arrival and that there's plenty of work to do."

Ezio started texting.

"And tell him that the space is glorious." She gazed back at the tall slab monolith of the Temple - its rectangular portal, grand portico and companion piers. "Tell him that we are joining the world's great civilizations . . ."

"Matrigna," Ezio complained. "Basta. I do not have a tiny person and I only have two thumbs."

"Well, tell him that . . ." She turned to Rafaelo, who beamed at her.

"You are happy, Rosa," he said.

"I am happy."

"That you are happy," Ezio said. "Bene. It is sent."

"Oh, I didn't mean to . . ."

"Follia," Rafaelo said, grasping her about the waist, pulling her close. "You are happy and I am happy too. And I swear before all the Dei d'Egitto, that when you are happy, I am happiest."

He kissed her.

Edward C. Patterson


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## Budo von Stahl

From the just-released Peonie and Captain Falbo:  (snippet somewhat condensed) 

  I was a bit down on my luck on that fateful day:  the day I met my Lady Love.  I was expecting easy victory, for I thought I beheld a simple merchant’s daughter, heavily laden jenny in tow bearing the seeds of my renewed fortunes, apprehensive and lonely in the wild.  It was my first mistake.  
  Well after dark, just before she would be rolling out her blanket, I stepped into her firelight, in my best finery and perfume, and gifted her a well-practiced turn of leg.  Brandishing my cutlass, I soothed:  
 “Good evening, My Lovely Lass!  You have the great fortune to have fallen into the clutches of Captain Falbo, legendary thief of love and virtue.  Fear not, however, for his clutches can be as gentle as they are strong.”  
 With that little speech, or one of my common variations of it, the swooning would usually begin.  She did not swoon.  It was all downhill from there, and the thump at the bottom still pains me.  She wore but rough tunic and trousers, while I stood before her in fine, tight, yellow silken hose and golden sash, my broad, tanned chest expertly displayed through my red silken shirt, a wide, blue hat on my head with a white silken band and a long white feather on it, and fine boots shining in the light of her fire.  She was not visibly impressed, as I had become accustomed to.  
 “You look like a peacock!” she laughed.  Thus did she swiftly, neatly rob me of my trademark swagger.  It was her first victory, my first loss.  
 “That was harsh,” I retorted, but withered as I was, I could not but ask:  “do you really think so?”  That was my second mistake.
 “I would not have said so if I didn’t,” she replied, still chuckling.  “Would ‘bloviating fop’ sound nicer?”  Oh, the sting of it!  
  “I’ll settle for ‘peacock’,” I managed.  
  “I have heard of you,” she admitted, and my heart thrilled.  “And have so looked forward to meeting you!”
  In my naiveté I took this to be a good thing.


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## Budo von Stahl

From the just-released Moment of Wonder: (again, slightly condensed, so ppgs and punct not guaranteed)

  “Why do so many people have to live like this?” Volkang asked. “Those who live inside the wall seem to do well, but they like to be mean to the rest of us.  Is it the same in every town?”  
  “It is in most, I am afraid.  As to why?  That is a long philosophical discussion.  Why do you think it might be this way?”
  “Well, the way I see it, the nobility are greedy to the point they think they own everything and everyone, but it can’t be about money since they pretty much have it all.  They can’t stand to be criticized; they think they are always right and everybody else is always wrong.  They expect the whole world to hang on their every word and praise them for their wisdom, no matter how stupid they sound.  They actually enjoy making other people sad, mad, poor, or hurt; they lie just for the sake of getting away with it: it is the same stuff you can see anytime two or more children get together to play.  I guess they just never grow up.  When I grow up, I’m going to be Warden, and things will be better.”  After a long pause during which Raoul failed respond, the boy added:  “Did I say something wrong?”
  Raoul burst out laughing.  “No.  I have simply decided to avoid long philosophical discussions with you, that is all.  As to you becoming Warden someday, I do not know.  But I do know that someday you will be King.”  
  “I hope not.  Kings are a bad idea.”


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## AithneJarretta

Snippet from Concentric Circles in which Elixer of Witch's Grass comes into the conversation.

"Yeah. Come on. Let's go in."
Shayla pushed the door open. Delicate tinkles sounded from a chime. Inside, the small shop presented a welcoming atmosphere. Celtic music played softly, brushing the senses. 
A round water fountain, displaying ancient Celtic symbols, dominated the center of the floor, added musical harmony. 
"Good evening. Welcome to Circle's Threshold into Ancient Journeys. I am Connell. Is there something I can help you find?"
"Elixir of Witch's Grass," Barb grumbled under her breath.
"We're just looking. Thank you," Shayla said, elbowing Barb. 
"Take pleasure then." Connell stepped behind the glass case where he began placing items on shelves that ran the breadth of the store.
"Witch's grass won't lower libido. I was just kidding about that," Shayla said low-voiced, eyeing one of the many candles on a table featuring ritual books and tools. 
"I know. Just wishful thinking."
"Find something else to take your mind off him," Shayla said. Barb would take awhile to get over Jeff. She knew that as certain as she knew her own twice broken heart. "Lot's of books."
Barb disappeared into the small library section. 
Shayla stared at the place where Barb previously stood. With a low sigh, she turned, focusing on the curious items in the lighted case. Small crystals cut in different shapes, made to carry in a purse or pocket lay on black velvet, gleaming with mystic allure. She moved down further, past an assortment of wands, feather quills and parchment, to the jewelry section.

Read more: http://www.tinyurl.com/Jarretta2 (Kindle page)

Thank you.


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## PMartelly

How fun!

*Fox snippet:*

Though satisfaction would usually sear through him at finally finding his target, Levictious felt none. The circumstances which brought him to the rundown cabin in the desolate tundra were too dreary to elicit that type of emotion. Months of endless searching had finally led him here and, as the wind whipped around him, the only thing he felt was relief. He tugged on his thick, black leather gloves, covering his exposed wrists, before pulling his coat tighter about his body. He turned his attention back to the little home. The thing was clearly a deathtrap, but the secluded shack would have served as an excellent hideout for Smitten.
Smitten had been his informant for years. They were nothing remotely close to friends, but Levictious needed information and Smitten needed money. Their arrangement had been in place for so long that Levictious had gotten used to the convenience. Then, the little vermin had disappeared when Levictious needed him the most. He hadn't really been surprised. His contact was like that: flighty, irresponsible and, evidently, spiteful.
Before Smitten disappeared, he had alluded to having information about the Magda, information that no one else knew, and information Levictious desperately needed. Though the months of searching had been a minor annoyance, Levictious had found his informant's little hideaway, and that was all that mattered. 
He made his way to the front door, his boots sinking deep into the ivory snow. The gusty blizzard ravaged his long raven hair, but the elements did nothing to slow his large, muscular, six-foot-six frame. As he walked, the blizzard seemed to become more violent, as if disturbed by his presence. If he had been a man who believed in signs, he probably would have taken it to mean that he shouldn't be there. But he didn't believe in signs and, even if he did, it would have changed nothing. It was critical that he get in contact with Smitten. A savage part of Levictious wanted to make Smitten pay for the months he had wasted tracking him down. But revenge just wasn't his way.


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## PJJones

From, THE VAMPIRE HANDBOOK:

*DIETARY RESTRICTIONS FOR VAMPIRES*
You've already learned the required food chain for vampires in *THE HANDBOOK FOR IMMORTAL ETIQUETTE*, chapter six, section 13, code D.

However, under amendment #17, section five, you will find two helpful lists, the first titled, EAT and the second, DO NOT EAT. Please be advised that vampires who feed from the DO NOT EAT list will be subject to a $100 fine and immediate decapitation. This rule is strictly enforced at all times. As these lists are constantly changing, it's best to download updates to your copy every few weeks. It would be a shame if a vampire were to feed from the DO NOT EAT list by mistake. Below is an abbreviated version of some popular celebrities and political figures found on the most current lists.

*CASEY ANTHONY- DO NOT EAT:* Unfortunately, Casey Anthony is a succubus and immortals are not encouraged to eat other immortals. Fortunately, however, because of Casey Anthony's recent reprehensible actions (even for demonic, blood-thirsty immortal standards) rest assured that she will soon find justice in the deepest, darkest, cavern of the underworld (the shI**iest of the sh**holes).

*PARIS HILTION, KIM KARDASHIAN, KATE GOSSELIN* and any other reality celebrity who equates being a spoiled, selfish b**ch with Oscar winning talent - EAT!!! The only question is - why hasn't another vampire already rid the planet of them? Sheesh! Between the mountains of silicone, cosmetics and designer handbags, they've already left a carbon footprint bigger than the imprint of Rosie O'Donnell's a** on cheap leather upholstery.


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## mamiller

I would love to share a little from my brand new romantic adventure, JUNGLE OF DECEIT! 

Chuck had gone ahead to check the trail one last time. It was almost a relief to have him out of her hair. Between him and Wes, their disapproval of her intended destination was stifling. It wasn't as if she was crossing that barrier-that unseen line where people had gone missing over the past few years. No, they would be a good forty miles from the sector labeled _No Man's Land _on Chuck's map.

Alex would never jeopardize the safety of her crew, particularly considering most were college students, too young to know any better on their own. Maybe she was barely ten years older than most of them, but it might as well have been a lifetime. Youth was something that fascinated her, but she felt a strange disassociation with it.

Again Alex's gaze returned to the photographer. He swiped a hand through hair made darker by perspiration. The hair was nice to look at, but her focus was on that hand. Big and scarred with nicks. A man's hand.

That rogue thought spurred Alex to slam down the trunk of the Jeep. The sound drew the photographer's attention her way and she met his eyes.

Midnight blue.

They reminded her of the ponds that provided sanctuary from the rigors of this dig. Cloistered by palm fronds, those small bodies of stagnant water discharged curls of steam on sultry mornings. Each pond was a temple to her. Each a retreat. 
And Mitch Hasslet's eyes looked exactly like the dark shadows at their depths.

Alex jerked her glance away. Maybe the move of their camp would improve her sudden treacherous thoughts. Yes, of course it would. A new challenge in an uncharted jungle. Land that no archeologist had covered.

Well, she couldn't say that was true.

If an archeologist had-they never returned to tell about it.


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## Sally C

Ed, what a great idea! Here's a snippet from Bound to Love, romantic suspense, on sale for 99c. Sorry for putting the link in instead of embedding it, but I can't work out how to do it 
http://www.amazon.com/Bound-To-Love-ebook/dp/B005GMJ1SE/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1313767350&sr=8-2, 
Memories of the abduction flickered through his head. His fist had connected with the thug who'd rushed him, and then she'd launched herself into action. She would have been no match for those men. From what he remembered from the museum, she didn't even come up to his chin. She must be crazy to have involved herself in this. 
He didn't even try to hide the disapproval in his voice. 'What on earth did you think you were doing, getting between me and those thugs?'
'Saving your ass, for one thing.' 
'That's nice of you, sweetheart, but you don't even know my ass.'
Through gritted teeth, she muttered, 'I probably know it better than you think.'
'You put yourself in danger and you shouldn't have.'
Didn't she have any regard for danger? His father had been just the same - a reckless character.
'I'm not the sort of person who just stands on the sidelines and watches while someone is forced into a van.' Her voice was sharp. Was she suspecting him of a lack of moral fibre? 'I couldn't live with myself if I did that.'
'And now you're tied up, god knows where.' He shook his head in disbelief. He'd never put himself in danger for someone else. He knew better than that. 
'You could try and be a little bit more grateful, you know. I only wanted to help you. Instead of being critical, you could get us out of here.'


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## Lisa Scott

This is from the first short story in my Flirts! collection, titled "The Hot Girl's Friend."

A night out with Miranda always ended in one of two ways: either she found this week’s love of her life right off the bat and I caught an early cab home for a night of popcorn and bad cable reality shows; or I spent the entire evening fending off the smitten males whose pheromones went on high alert the moment her big toe entered the room.

This night was going in the direction of option number two. I didn’t see any hot prospects at first glance. McGinty’s Bar was the place to be in Springfield, Massachusetts on a Saturday night. The place was packed with the crowd spilling onto the back patio to enjoy the warm summer night, and the music was thumping at a gotta-shout level. All eyes turned to the door when she walked in. A path cleared as six-foot-tall Miranda, platinum-blond hair hanging past her curvy hips, wiggled her way onto the dance floor.

I followed, because she couldn’t get her groove on without me. I’m a better dancer than she is and she steals all her moves from me. It’s true. I’ve got that going for me, at least—not that anyone notices her five-foot-four, dark-haired friend with the thick ankles. Her shadow certainly swallows me whole, but hey, not everyone wants to be in the spotlight. Suits me just fine.

We boogied to the hip song of the moment and soon enough, a few gutsy gals left the security of the scattered tables and joined us. Then the drunker of the men crowded the floor, probably wondering if they should shoot for the top and approach Miranda or pick one of us “lesser” girls—like they could flatter us into bed by flirting with us first. For the most part, men at bars are idiots. Newsflash, I know.


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## MindAttic

This is from my comedy ebook, The Life and Times of Car Johnson. I'd post some of my horror, but it isn't in book form yet.

*Snippet:*

The girl from the diner actually wanted to go out for beers. After a few dozen Coronas, she told me about her life (and that her name was Candace Carson, but everyone called her Candy.) Candy grew up in a cult of door to door salesmen, who traveled the world, selling brushes and sacrificing virgins to Willy Loman. When she turned eighteen, she escaped and joined the military, spent some time doing adult movies and finally got her current waitressing job. She really wanted to break into stand-up comedy, though.

I asked her if she collected cow fetuses, and she told me she preferred chicken fetuses. She treated them like her children and wished more people understood her odd collection. Wow! This was the first time I'd met anyone who had a collection even remotely related to mine. It was perfect! We could have cow/chicken fetus tea parties together, reenactments of the Battle of the Bulge with the chickens as the Germans and the cows as the Allies. Hell, we could even take our favorites to a family friendly movie.

So, I invited her and her chicken friends over to my house (I made the invitation for three days later so we'd both be over the few dozen Coronas) for dinner, charades and a cow/chicken fetus fashion show. My mother brought over her famous cheddar cheese and peanut butter lobster cakes so I'd have something special to offer my date. Then I cleaned the house and set up a fashion catwalk in my living room.


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## mamiller

JUNGLE OF DECEIT - Stolen Mayan artifacts bring an unlikely couple together in the jungles of Guatemala.

"Feisty, you are, Dr. Langley. You don't like to be held against your will, do you?"

"Is there someone who does?"

Solis seemed unfazed by her resentment and downed the contents of his tumbler. He set the glass down and started towards her. It was a test and she had no intention of retreating. Solis stood face to face with her and she realized that he was only an inch or two taller, the difference in height most likely coming from his elevated loafers.

To her horror the back of his hand grazed her cheek with the diamond-studded gold ring. It felt frigid to the touch, but even worse was when he extended his finger and she felt that pad of flesh against her. She struggled not to recoil or to avert her gaze from the penetrating black eyes that measured her every reaction. She strived not to cough at the strong vapor emanating from his open lips. She would give him nothing.

"So beautiful, Señorita. So beautiful. I will enjoy having you here." His hand slipped to her neck as he sculpted it and fanned his fingers across her shoulder.

"You shot one of my students."

He seemed taken aback as if he had expected her to whimper at his touch or beg for release.

"As I saw it from here, your student was disruptive and you could not control him. My men were given orders to keep the prisoners in line by any means necessary."

"Prisoners." She spit out the word as if it were snake venom. "I know that you started the fire that brought us here. This is your jungle too. You used to stay secluded, protected by a net of forestry that few would brave to trek through. Was it worth it? 
Was it worth it to lose that free security just to get your hands on one more archeologist?"


----------



## Steve Vernon

> Some journeys were like rivers. You dropped your canoe into the current and hung on hard while the go just took you.
> 
> Some were like oceans - deep, wide and hard to figure. Those journeys were the ones you navigated by skill and dead reckoning.
> 
> And if you reckoned wrong you'd most likely wind up dead.


First paragraph of my horror/historical Devil Tree.


----------



## amiblackwelder

The Invasion of 2020 (Shifter Evolutions Saga : Books 1-6)

Fixated on her supple slender lips, he remembered the first time he kissed her, behind the bleachers at a university football game. How long ago that seemed, sitting across from a woman at times he hardly recognized. She kept her once bouncy blonde locks always combed tightly into a ponytail. Wide eyes that once invited the world now looked tired and worn. Early wrinkles broke around her mouth and across her forehead. At twenty-five, the stress of life and finding the answer to her brother's death ravaged her and made her appear older.
Not that Christopher minded. Never vain, he didn't care for the superficialities of life. But he wanted his wife, his Samantha. He wanted to sit on the bed and have the long conversations that once put them both to sleep. He longed for the time to return when that extra skip in her step told him today had been a good day. He hadn't seen her happy in awhile.

http://www.amazon.com/Invasion-2020-Shifter-Evolutions-ebook/dp/B005J1TSTY/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1314481983&sr=8-1


----------



## HAGrant

Hi, Ed. Thanks for creating this topic.

Here's the beginning of my ghost photo book, Haunted Ground: Ghost Photos from the Gettysburg Battlefield:

Mention ghosts and I used to be the world's biggest skeptic. I thought that people who claimed they'd encountered ghosts were probably lying or were touchy-feely types with big imaginations. Then I walked through the Triangular Field in Gettysburg, Pennsylvania and changed my mind forever.

The Triangular Field was the scene of vicious fighting on July 2, 1863 during the Civil War. Gettysburg was the war's bloodiest battle with 51,000 casualties (killed, wounded, missing, and captured), according to the National Park Service.

Jack Grant, my late husband, took most of the photos in this little book. If the ghosts of the soldiers haunt the battlefield, I believe they showed up in Jack's photos because of his compassion for them. Jack struggled with an incurable illness for 13 years and was facing his own mortality. He also served in the military and respected both the Union and Confederate soldiers.

We shot the photos with film and digital cameras, including Nikon, Canon, Olympus, Fuji, and other brands, and one disposable film camera. The cameras were all in excellent condition. We didn't create or alter the photos with graphics software. I've included the best ones here. You can draw your own conclusions.


----------



## tsilver

Snippet from "Nunzilla Was My Mother and My Stepmother Was a Witch."

All I know for sure is that he used to take children with a mentally ill parent to the Columbus State Hospital for a visit now and then.
As one of the children taken on these visits, I remember being frightened to death of my mother and the other inmates of the hospital.  Many of the inmates were disheveled, haggard-looking creatures with wild hair and staring eyes, who would glower at us, mutter obscenities, or shout unintelligibly as we walked by.  One time several women got into an argument as to which child each of them wanted.  Carmela and I rushed past them while clinging tightly to each other’s hands.


----------



## Edward C. Patterson

David has been longing for the old days, so here's one of the most popular threads that just died away. Everyone get out your snippets.

Edward C. Patterson


----------



## MegSilver

Breath officially bated.


----------



## George Berger

Well, okay, but just because it's David.

From Stanley and His Sword, a not-actually-erotica tale of men and monsters and really shiny swords:

"Well, you look great," Stanley said, having no idea what she was talking about.
"Aww, you're just saying that. So, where to?"
"Have you ever been to Sedgewick's? Down on the lakefront?"
"No."
"Would you like to?"
"I'd love to!"
So, down the hill to Sedgewick's he drove. They made inconsequential small talk as he did so, and he managed to be adequately charming, which was always a concern of his. His luck held when they got to the restaurant, for they not only got a great parking spot, but were able to be seated immediately, at a quiet, cozy booth in a corner.
"What can I get?" Lois asked after their drink order had been taken.
"Whatever you want," Stanley said.
"Are we going Dutch?"
"What? _No!_ I'm paying."
"Sweet! But&#8230; how much can I spend?"
"Huh?"
"Like&#8230; eight bucks? Ten bucks?"
"Seriously," he said, "order whatever you want, it's my treat."
"Really? Wow. Um&#8230; so, what's good, here?"
"The steaks are really good."
She stared at him across the table, wide-eyed. "I-I can have a _steak_?"
"Sure! Why not?"
"Wow. _Really?_ I'm a broke college student, so animal-based protein is a rarity, you know? I was prepared to put out for a cheeseburger and fries; for a steak we might need to stop at a library and check out a copy of the Kama Sutra."
"Hold on to that thought," Stanley said, laughing.


----------



## Ras Ashcroft

_A snippet from 'Supervillain: The Concise Guide' -_

Use this to your advantage, by constantly attacking your opponents and enemies with half-truths and wild speculation. Is a politician creating waves with his calls for an investigation into your organisation? Dig out every single skeleton from his closet and expose the public to them with round the clock coverage. If he doesn't have any indiscretions worth reporting, simply make them up. Hell, go the extra mile and invent skeletons for his skeletons! Exaggerate every single detail with lies and rampant speculation.

Here are some examples of how to report information:

Information: Politician once visited a strip club when he was 19.
The News Report: Politician brazenly visits strip clubs every day during work hours, spending taxpayer money on wild Nazi-Themed orgies, putting his wedding in jeopardy and making a mockery of his stated 'Christian Values'. Daughter of politician possibly applied to work at said strip club.


----------



## Edward C. Patterson

Let's snippet away:
from _*The Road to Grafenwöhr *_

Quincy stowed his gear, grabbed a box of C Rations and sought out his buddies for a lousy repast.

"Over here," Ratz called.

Ratzenberger sat with Striker on a stump in the shadow of a supply truck. The motor pool monkeys were a short distance away, carousing over their rations and what Quincy supposed was some illicit Southern Comfort. Quincy flopped his box on the ground, and then sat ***** style, wincing - the bruise on his gut now sorer than when it was delivered.

"Whatcha got?" Striker asked.

"A box of some crap," Quincy said.

"Crap? Have some respect for military ingenuity." Striker plucked up the box, inspected the serial number and then grinned. "The Mutha load."

"Really?" Ratz said. "He's got one? I'll trade you my spaghetti and meatballs for it."

"You can have it," Quincy said. "I'm not hungry. And, by the way, are any of you guys rogues with your shelter half."

"No, we're in together," Striker said. "You hafta find someone, Chico, or it'll be a rough night."

"I got guard duty too."

"Same here," Ratz said.

"Me too," Striker said. "So there's some of your sleep problem solved."

Striker cracked open the box, while Quincy lit a cigarette.

"Better smoke that now," Ratz said. "When they turn the smoke lamp off, you'll be dying for one."

Striker reached into the box and drew out an olive green can, holding it up like a trophy.

"Ta-dah. The prize." He tossed it to Quincy, who almost dropped it. "Open it."

Quincy inspected the can, searching for a key.

"With what? A bayonet?"

"Use your P-38 tool," Ratz said.

"My what?"

"You mean, you don't have one?"

Striker reached down his shirt and pulled up his dog tags. On the end was a funny looking metal tube. He snapped it off the chain.

"You can skate, you can mate, you can masturbate," he chanted.

Then Ratz joined in the ditty.

"But don't leave the gate without your P-38."

"It's a can opener," Quincy muttered.

"We can't fool you, can we?" Striker said. "Give that back and I'll open it." He tossed another can to Ratz. "Open the cheese."

"Cheese?" Quincy said.

"Pee-mento Cheese," Striker said. "A Perdillo special."

As Striker skillfully applied the P-38 to the can, and Ratz did likewise to his, Quincy moved over to sniff around.

"What is it, caviar?"

"Nope. Ham and Lima Beans."

"I'm not eating that."

"You will when I get finished with it. Here, start the sterno."

"Ham and Mutha Beans," Ratz said.

"First you take your main ingredient," Striker explained. "Then the little plastic spoon. Ratz, the Pee-mento Cheese, please." Ratz complied. "You make a little hole here - a well, and stir in the cheese and . . ."

"Puke."

"Ah, Ratz. Chico is a non-believer." He held the can over the blue sterno flame until the cheese melted. "Then the finest ingredient." He grabbed the water crackers that Ratz had P-38ed. "Crush and crumble. Toss and tumbled, and voila."

They chanted together, even Quincy.

"Ham and Mutha Beans."

Quincy had to admit that it wasn't half-bad, although one can shared between three troops didn't make a meal. He downed it with warm canteen swill, and then finished it off with a cigarette. Then his attention turned to his problem at hand - the other shelter half.
Edward C. Patterson

auhtor of The Road to Grafenwöhr


----------



## George Berger

Edward C. Patterson said:


> I invite you to post a SNIPPET of *no more than 250 words*...


----------



## Edward C. Patterson

I changed that over 2 years ago. So knock yourselves out. But no full length novels.


----------



## Guest

A snippet from my noir novelette, Pale Moonlight (7 Post Meridiem #1)

She&#8230; I don't even know her name. I could find out; she lives at the far end of my office's corridor after all. I just have to look at her mailbox at the entrance. One; that wouldn't be ethical in my opinion. And two; there is a chance it would ruin the magic of revelation and the illusion I've built up around her from the time I first saw her. I always was sensitive about a woman's name. Calling a statue like beauty Matilda, Gertrude or Ingrid&#8230; well, that could ruin everything in my eyes.

This personal phobia started when I met a beautiful woman shortly before I joined the Bureau. She was pretty just as or even prettier than Sheila Terry or Kay Francis. My raving mind already foresaw our entire life together from the first date to our death; large house on the outskirts of D.C., a peaceful family and beautiful children. But everything I planned within those few moments collapsed immediately when her deep voice introduced herself as Bertha.

I still remember the dark clouds that rushed in to blot out the imagined vivid future&#8230; our future, that I built the moment I noticed her in the hall. The new picture horrified me. In my mind there was no trace of the American Dream, the kind housewife Ann, little Jack and Sarah. They vanished to be replaced by my new future family; a German howitzer squad. Me, Bertha, and the two little ones, Little and Big Bertha.


----------



## John Hamilton

A snippet from my YA action/adventure novel, Isle Royale http://www.amazon.com/Isle-Royale-ebook/dp/B004G5ZTMO/

As the outline of the beach came into sharper view, a light atop the craggy granite cliffs suddenly pierced the darkness. The brilliant beam swept across the water, illuminating the yacht for an instant. The man on deck threw his arm up and winced. Then the light was gone, sailing far out over the surface of the lake.

A wave crashed over the yacht's bow, drenching the mysterious stranger. He held the rail tight and rode with the ship as it sank down, then shot back up, sending his stomach into tailspins. He ignored the sickness in his belly and stared upward at the light perched on the cliff. His eyes narrowed to slits as he tried to focus through the wind and water spray. He cocked his head as he heard, above the roar of the wind and the pounding of the surf, the faint sound of&#8230; bagpipes.

A smile crept onto the man's lips. Then, like water crashing against a rocky shore and trickling back to the lake, the smile held for a moment and slowly faded, leaving only piercing, malevolent eyes to stare longingly at the light atop the cliffs.


----------



## Edward C. Patterson

smreine said:


> I'll bite.
> 
> That's actually from a WIP (is that cheating?). The Darkest Gate is the sequel to the first book in my sig. It'll be out at the end of May.


There's no cheatin' here. Go fer it!

ECP


----------



## Andrew Dzeguze

From chapter 2 of _Beyond Disbelief_

Tucked between a liquor store and one of many Chinese restaurants on the street, the Magic Monkey was utterly unremarkable. It had no actual signage, and the windows had grown opaque over years to the point where they could barely be seen through. Although Mr. Green had only run it for three years, the site had been a magic shop for seven of the last eight decades. Generations of magicians had gone through its doors, but you'd never know it. And, right now, it looked even more decrepit than usual, as the front door was hanging aslant from badly abused hinges.

This might not have been noticed by most people, but it struck a chord of deep fear in Brett. He'd been to the Magic Monkey every week for the last three years, and if there was one part of the store that was always in working order it was the door. A massive slab of oak, its hinges and knob were highly polished brass that always shined even though Brett never saw anyone working on it. The door always hung true and glided on its hinges. There's no way that it could have deteriorated to this condition in the 48 hours since Brett had been there last.

This would have been bad enough, but when he went to knock on the door it swung inward. The fact that in doing so it uttered a shriek of metal on metal protest just underscored how off it was from normal. Brett's mind was beginning to race ahead, thinking that if this was one of the horror films he liked he'd be confronted with a massive pool of blood and/or a snarling monster any second. Reaching into his pocket for a weapon of any kind, all he came up with was his mini-Leatherman all purpose tool. It was of great use in putting together trick cards and fixing props, but he doubted the one inch knife blade was going to be much help fighting a werewolf. Still, he held on to its bulk as some slight comfort against the panic he was feeling.

Please note - there are no werewolves or vampires in this novel.


----------



## R. Doug

In the interest of brevity, I'll keep mine short.  From the opening scene of The Globe:

"I . . . ."


----------



## R. Doug

smreine said:


> Don't leave us hanging!


Well, if you insist:

"I recognized her the moment I saw her. I desperately hoped that she didn't do likewise as I silently marveled at how little she had changed in the past quarter century. I also mentally went over my lifetime of lies in case she did. No matter which fork in the road her memory took, this was not going to be pleasant."


----------



## Ian Fraser

(Despite appearances, the following extract is about emotional pain, not physical.) 
From The Depths of Deception

Deep wounds are an educational process. It begins with the realization that a piece of flesh is gone and will never return. The body knows it has been disfigured; the conscious mind must be restrained from self-disgust, and the continual pain must be perceived as merely signals from torn nerve receptors. The jagged perimeter of the wound and its exposed tufts of severed muscles flex perpetually - an internal forest of scratching claws. The nostrils enter the picture; one becomes accustomed to the metallic tang of an open wound.

Deep wounds require daily attention; their owner becomes intimate with its crevices. Few wounds are symmetrical, each has unique features. Lubricated with saline, the fingertips must slide into the wound and pat it with dressings to dry the exposed layers. From doing this, a familiarity comes. The glistening flesh becomes a landscape of points and indicators on a map. Here is blissful nothingness; there a stabbing pain makes the world darken. The secret artwork of the body's interior is displayed in the wound: vermillion streaks of raw flesh, the tempura brilliance of exposed muscles and tendons.

The owner of a deep wound learns that skin itself is a liquid as the body attempts to seal deep holes with viscous fluid. But when too much flesh has been lost, the body gives up trying to use the seeping liquid. Dark-brown purple clots start gathering like barnacles around the wound's perimeter. The slowly-shrinking wound resembles the iris of a camera lens, or a dark clotting sphincter. Finally, once this growth is complete, the body abandons the interior crater, a pocket of liquid hidden by a thin veneer. Some catastrophic wounds can never heal.

These are my scars. This is my blood. This is my body.


----------



## Richardcrasta

From  "The Revised Kama Sutra: A Novel"

As all immigrants do, in time—or so the myth goes anyway—I had become a survivor. Having curbed the extravagant PL 480 American Dreams of my virginal days, I was simply on a survival track, like my four billion brothers and sisters on this planet. I had learned to do my low-rent thing, to cut my coat according to my loincloth, to have my cake and microwave it too. Library jobs, illegal jobs, term paper typing, scholarships, assistantships—America was addicting, because America forked over a few dollars every day, just enough to hang on to the frayed coattails of your dreams. Even if your life at the moment was drab as a toll collector’s, as sleazy as a soggy hot dog handed you by a scabrous pervert, there was always television, and in some still-virginal, illusion-friendly corner of your mind, the boob tube fuelled your dreams as powerfully as rajmaa fuelled farts.

Then I met Ruth. And soon, I was young and hopeful again. For she woke up my suppressed libido the way the Madras Howrah Express wakes up a ****** napping too close to the platform’s edge.

And in good time too. In just one more year,  I would be thirty years old—which meant that, according to the goal I had set myself at sixteen, I had ninety-six women to go.


----------



## JeanneM

_From *Dual * (I'm still fond of this little non-seller..LOL)_

The small wooden structure had sustained quite a bit of damage and the porch sagged under her slight weight as she stepped up and rapped on the door. She heard movement but got no response. She rapped again, harder this time.

The door flew open and Crazy Curtis stood before her in all his irate glory. "What the hell do you want?" 
He was a scrawny little man with bloodshot blue eyes, who looked like he hadn't said hello to a razor in days. His voice was raspy and she suspected it was from years of drinking. Her mother sounded the same way. Jimmy would too, one day. But she wouldn't be here for it.

She smiled. Her smile had always worked in her favor, but not this time. His eyes narrowed in suspicion and he gave her a hard stare. "Whatever you're selling lady, I don't want it. Now get lost." He started to shut the door. She'd been afraid this would happen so she pulled out her wild card.

"May I just rest here for a moment, Mr. Curtis? These Whiskey bottles I bought for my Mom are getting so darned heavy, my arms ache."

He opened the door wider and looked at the bag she had just placed on the porch. The tops of the bottles could be seen and he licked his lips. His eyes lit up and Betty knew he was thinking of only one thing. How to get at those bottles.

"Well, young lady if we was to have a friendly little drink together, you can sit inside and rest up. I'm sure your Mom won't mind if a couple of little nips are missin'. Am I right?" He laughed and she didn't know which she found more distasteful&#8230;his cackle or his filthy appearance.

But she chuckled along with him and said, "No, I'm sure she won't mind and I could use a little libation myself. It's been a long day."

He swung the door open all the way and opened the screen door for her. "Well then, hurry on in here and get out of that heat. Follow me to the kitchen and I'll get the glasses."

It had been so easy.

Betty put one bottle on the table and held onto it. He plopped the dirty glasses in front of her and she wasted no time. "I want to know about that little trip you took to another world."

He seemed momentarily stunned. "I don't like talkin' about that." She pulled the bottle back an inch. A subtlety that wasn't lost on him. No talk. No drink.

"Now don't be that way, Missy. I said I didn't like to talk about it. I didn't say I wouldn't." He held out his glass. "Be generous."

And she was.


----------



## David McAfee

This thread is like an old friend you haven't seen in a while. Soon enough, you realize why you stopped visiting them...

(Kidding, folks...just kidding. I'm glad Ed brought this one back.)


----------



## JeanneM

Note to self:  First murder victim of next book should be an author of Vampire fiction who sets his books in the Holy Land.  Writer should be from a nice little state...like...oh, I don't know....TN maybe?  Yeah, I like it!


----------



## mamiller

I'm so glad the Snippet Challenge is back!! 

A snippet from my Golden Heart-nominated Romantic Suspense, WIDOW'S TALE (On sale for .99cents)

There was a perverse sense of calm as the screeching gale winds grew faint. Using the rail for leverage, Serena forced her numb feet to cooperate, and managed a few awkward steps.

_Something made her stop._ That prickly sensation at the back of her neck-the same paranormal sensation that occurred just before her ghosts arrived. 
Under the beacon atop the bordering trawler, Serena traced the arc of light. In horror she watched the surging black wall of water that came straight at them. 
Her scream was severed by its impact.

Launched from the deck into the frigid void, suspended in churning darkness for an eternity, Serena surfaced, choking. She squinted against the onslaught of the storm and located the trawlers, shifting shadows several feet away. Struggling to kick her feet, her arms flailed to keep above the waves.

Cruelly, her mind flashed to the past. She felt the weight of Alan's hand on her head. Sputtering for breath, she tilted her neck back so that only her face reached the cold night.

Two kicks.

One.

Serena's legs stopped moving.

With a last twitch of strength, her arms fell still.


----------



## Jon Olson

RJ Keller said:


> Very cool, Ed. Thanks for starting this.
> 
> The first time I dropped acid I had a vision of Sister Patricia. She was wearing a beautiful tie-dyed habit, kneeling on her stone floor, head bowed, praying to God. There was a light rattling, tapping, rustling sound at the window that startled her out of her meditations. She floated to the window and opened it up and when she did it let in a rainbow; pure and just as vivid as my crayons had once been. The beauty of it enveloped the cold, dreary room, and filled it - filled her - with the Love of God. I was nineteen - long after catechism classes and church and even prayer had been a part of my life - holed up in my one room apartment with some guy I'd met two hours earlier. I still can't remember his name, but his hair was Goldenrod and his eyes were Sky Blue.
> 
> ~ Prologue, Waiting For Spring


Really nice writing.


----------



## Edward C. Patterson

Excerpt from The Dragon's Pool 

It was a time of discontent - war protests, bra burnings, civil upheavals, where the great looked to heaven for guidance and heaven seemed to have changed its address. To be a student in these times was both exciting and a challenge. To swim in the academic lake at Columbia University was to cast a shadow on the dangers of the adjacent Morningside Heights. The castle of intellect was a bastion south of Harlem and north of reality - a rarified cuttlefish in murky waters. Its cereal bowl dome made it noble. Its corseted regulation glorified it with a sacred charge - to matriculate and articulate the world's finest specialists so they might infiltrate society with the secrets imploded to the arcane depths of insignificance. Still, someplace had to do it and so - Old Pew.

Rose found everything about Kent Hall fascinating - its parochial façade, its airy lecture halls and its several miles of East Asian library shelving. Just the aroma of the old musty place raised gooseflesh. The creaking echoed underfoot as she strode beside the display cases that harkened some of the oldest dibs in the reliquary - oracle bones with scapulamancy's witchy-woo scratches asking the eternal questions that brooked no answer. Will my radish crop thrive in the South field? Will my eldest sire a son? Will the comets fall to earth again?

Rose winked at the oracle bones. She would have loved to feel their rich texture under her chew-nailed fingers, but if she lingered, she would be late for her favorite course - The Reconstitution of Imperial China: The T'ang-Sung Renaissance. She sighed. You mustn't keep a Renaissance waiting. She inhaled the wonderful scent of decay and headed for the stairwell.

Edward C. Patterson


----------



## Guest

A snippet from Crystal Shade: Angeni, Volume 1;

In the long lifespan of an Aserian, one could possibly discover every place and secret of Eecrys Aredia and visit everything there was to see. She just hoped she would be this Aserian who would see all.
"Where are you sneaking to, Angeni?" her father's tone held her back when she silently tried to sneak out after dawn to find her answers.
"Uh, nowhere?" she sang and quickly turned around, padding back toward her sanctuary.
"Stop right there, my daughter," the calm fatherly voice ordered. Her legs immediately rooted to the spot. Angeni curiously looked at the High-Guardian as he walked to her. "You walked this path before. You know where it leads and what lies there," he looked toward the sanctuary. "But what lies in that direction?" he curiously looked at the dark end of the corridor where Angeni was headed.
"This brave little guardian would like to go on an adventure to find her answers," she grinned proudly.
"A young one who finally realized life is not just about mindless actions and instant adventures as many believe," her father wondered, "but sometimes a world, a culture whose past must be known, its story, its secrets must be learned and revealed to understand."
"I reveal them. Then I go adventuring," responded Angeni with a wider grin then before.
"Life itself is an adventure, my dear. If you truly want to find your answers," he stepped aside. "Never hesitate, always take the unknown path regardless what others say."


----------



## Caddy

From Gastien Part 1: The Cost of the Dream  (dramatic historical fiction/family saga):

Marguerite yelled, "NON! NON, JEAN! YOU WILL HURT HIM!" She grabbed Gastien, pulling him away. With an angry roar, his father slapped Marguerite. She fell to the floor, and his father stood over her. 
"DON'T YOU EVER CHALLENGE ME AGAIN, YOU CONNE ! NOT UNLESS YOU WANT ME TO NOT ONLY BEAT YOU, BUT EVERY ONE OF THE BRATS YOU BRING INTO THIS WORLD, BABIES OR NOT! I WILL NOT HAVE MY PEACE DISTURBED AFTER WORKING ALL DAY!" He turned to the howling Gastien. "SHUT UP! IF YOU DON"T SHUT UP, I WILL HURT YOUR OTHER ARM!" 
Gastien was too small to fully understand his father, but he knew he had to stop crying or his father would stay angry. His mother might get hurt again! He gulped hard several times, trying to stop crying. Finally, he was able to do so, wetting his pants. His father stalked out, and Gastien stood over his mother, afraid to make any noise. She finally got up. Marguerite reached for him, holding him close. Gastien's arm was at a funny angle. 
The next day, she finally convinced Jean to get the doctor. Jean became afraid that Gastien would not be a good farm worker if the shoulder was not fixed. Saying nothing, the doctor pulled the shoulder back into place. Gastien's shoulder hurt for weeks. Jean complained about the cost of the doctor for months, maintaining that the boy was nothing but a pain in the ass.


----------



## Jonathan Winn

A snippet from Martuk The Holy:


  Demons, she said. I didn’t want to deal with demons. Demons were dangerous. I turned my back on demons long ago. That wasn't me anymore. 
  “So, you can't die," she suddenly said. 
  “Yes. I mean, no, I can’t.”
  “How so?”
  “I just can’t.” 
  “Okay,” agreed She of the Hyperactive Pen, “you’re invincible.” 
  “Of course not. I didn’t say that. I'm just like you. Normal. Just normal, you know? Nothing special. I just can’t die.” 
  “Normal?"
  "Yes."
  "Yet you claim immortality. Is that normal?” Her eyes glared at me from beneath a curtain of black bangs.
  “How?” she then asked, her tone softening. “How did you achieve this immortality?”  
  Glimpses of an altar piercing the stars clouded my vision. The chanting of Priests. An unseen crowd cheering far below. Oceans of blood for everlasting life, an Old Woman whispered. Bloody footprints on polished stone. The cloying scent of decaying flesh and the splitting of blistered skin as it roasted under an unforgiving sun. 
  Lips kissing mine and linen dripping red. Weeping, lying, bleeding, dying, the blade in His hand as He straddled me, both of us lost in the roar of the Darkness. 
  No.
  “Please, I don’t ... ”
  “Tell me, what do your parents think of this ... this immortality thing? You do have parents, yes?”
  “Of course I do. Or did. They both passed a long time ago.” 
  I wanted to leave. This was dangerous territory, my frustration and loneliness feeding my anger. Her unwillingness to connect, to listen and understand, stoking the flames. My salvation slipping away.


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## Guest

A snippet from the upcoming *Crystal Shade: Angeni, Volume 2*. Remember; as always, nothing and no one is what they first appear to be within the Crystal Shade. Not even this yet unedited snippet. 
___________________________________________________________

Everyone said there is only light and darkness with nothing in between. But that's a lie. Every soul is born so innocent and fragile. And every soul hides in a chrysalis to turn into something greater and stronger, to be something else for the rest of their life.

It had no mother. It was its own mother. It had no father. It was its own father. A soul so different, so cruel. I've seen all the senseless killings, all the brutality It ever perpetrated. But I took vengeance for the lost ones. It was different, but in the end it was like the others; it screamed in endless agony when I took Its demented life.

Our greatest fears have passed, so as I heard. Yet my soul still can't believe it. My soul still fears and waits for it just as it feared and always waited. But I don't know why I wait for something that has already passed and no more.

I'm still waiting for something; redemption maybe? Is this what the little girl wanted to be? Is this what I was reborn for? What am I? Who am I? I don't know anymore. My soul never came back from wherever I was. I'm a lost stranger in my known, yet unknown world. A guilty stranger waiting for something I can't remember, because I don't want to. And I don't regret it at all.

All I remember; I've become the angel of death, the harbinger of doom, the destroyer of my beloved world. Nothing can change that.


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## The 13th Doctor

A snippet from 'The Shoemaker's Son'


Spices looked at her and then started to laugh. Darcy joined in and, after a few hesitating seconds, so did Brogan.

'And,' Spices went on, still jovial. 'what would you say if I told you that after I'd beaten him up, I'd take you into an alleyway and sort you out?' The leer in his voice made Brogan want to knock him out. The implication of what Spices said didn't seem to phase Darcy in the least.

'Well, I'd say that if you want your balls to remain connected to your body, then I'd strongly advise against that,' she said.

In response, Spices reached inside his long black overcoat and pulled out a short length of rusty, copper piping. One end was jagged, as though it had been snapped off a longer piece. 'You think I'd listen to advice from a woman?' he asked.

Brogan would have told Darcy to run, were it not for the fact that she'd started laughing at the makeshift weapon.

'Oh, you know what the best part of my job is?' Darcy asked Spices, playfully rocking from side to side like a little girl. 'That I don't have to worry about insignificant little meat heads like you. There used to be days when I'd get nervous around violent little cretins, but with the training I've had, all I can say to you is -'. She paused. Taking a step back, both hands disappeared beneath the collar of her own coat before bringing out a magnificent-looking sword. 'How fast can you run?'


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## Dracula

A snippet from _STOKER: Day One._ There's a link in my signature, for the interested. And, perhaps, the uninterested.

From: Paige Warris <[email protected]>
To: Jason Hetlock <[email protected]>
Sent: Thursday, March 8, 2012 11:40 AM
Subject: DRACULA AFFAIR

Dear Magister Hetlock:

Thank you for agreeing to meet me at the safe house for yesterday's conference. I trust you will keep everything that was said in the strictest confidence, especially that matter involving Magister Gerollds and his connection to Edgar Allan Poe. I don't think I have to remind you what kind of hell we'd have to pay if that sort of thing leaked to the more popular news stations, not to mention the Internet. Society's ready for a lot of things, Magister, but not those sorts of things. You and I have a responsibility.

Anyway, enough of me and my soapbox. I'm emailing you an updated copy of the file pertaining to the DRACULA AFFAIR as it stands thus far. It includes a couple of things I want you to take note of, including the transcript procured by Adeptus Major Larson of the Chicago Chapter on Feb. 3, a screenshot of that Daily News article that we shut down just before it went viral, the paperwork from Beckmann Asylum and Mrs. Pekk's suicide note. Based on the info contained within this file, my advisers and I are prepared to come to the following conclusions:

1. Dracula has returned.

2. He's not happy.

3. He's gone public.

That's what we know. Here's what we need to figure out: What the hell are we going to do about it?

Think hard, Magister. The Order can't last forever, not under these conditions.

Sincerely,
Magister Warris


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## mamiller

From JUNGLE OF DECEIT, now on sale at Amazon for $.99. Action. Adventure. Romance.

Trailing after Chuck's worn USC shirt, Mitch avoided the backlash of tree branches with counteractive arm motions akin to karate. By this time, he thought he had grown accustomed to the jungle, but the terrain was so variable he could barely delineate between underbrush and overhead foliage. Even in this dense greenery, the flash of red and gold from Chuck's shirt could easily be mistaken as a disgruntled macaw.

"And what made the doctor move to this sector?" Mitch asked when he was knee-deep in ferns and unable to spot the ground beneath him.

Chuck stopped, lifting the bottom of his shirt to swipe the perspiration from his forehead. "You mean you don't know?"

"Know what?"

"That no one else has been here."

One glimpse up at the ceiling of writhing limbs, uncertain whether they were branches or indigenous reptiles, Mitch observed, "Understandable. But you sound cryptic. Why does no one come here?"

"Well&#8230;" Chuck seemed reluctant to embellish, "−there have been others-others who have." He paused, glancing over his shoulder as if to confirm no one had followed them. "But they never returned. Not one single member of any party that traveled to this region ever returned. The area is marked on the map as _No Man's Land_."

At that moment, a macaw screeched an eerie warning, and Mitch flinched.

"You're pulling my leg." He tried to sound composed. "Let's spook the photographer, huh?"

"Would I purposely try to scare you?" Chuck grinned. "I wish I had thought of that."

He pushed a branch aside and looked back. "Personally, I believe that a group or two have come in here, ran into some problems&#8230;hell, get bit by the right thing, or have a run in with a Fer-de-lance, and you're doomed. Anyway, over the years, those little tales have escalated into hordes of archeologists gone missing. It's become nothing more than campfire fodder," Chuck frowned. "You know what I'm saying?"

Mitch doubted the man's levity. And it was hard for him to form any conjecture without knowing the facts.

"How many people are you talking? How many have gone missing?"

"Five that I know of. There have been reports of others, but like I said, the frenzy of gossip could have jacked the count up."


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## chrysoula

From MATCHBOX GIRLS, an urban fantasy linked in my sig:



When Branwyn answered, Marley said, “Action Girl, I think I’ve ended up in your plot by mistake.” They’d known each other since before junior high, and by now the old games were reflex.
“Research Girl, is evil afoot?” Branwyn responded around a yawn.
Marley’s gaze flicked to the image of the twins in the rearview mirror, each looking out a window. “I don’t know. I hope not.”
“Use your magic visor, Research Girl!” Branwyn cried. Her voice dropped to a quieter register and she added, “So what’s up?”
“I have some guests that will be staying with us for a bit. Combined ages: around eight.”
“So what you’re saying is: I should cancel the naked kegger I was just now dreaming up. That’s fine, I can do that. Is it the kids of your park boyfriend?”
Marley made a face. “He’s not…yes, them.”
“Where’s he, then?”
“I’m not sure.”
Thoughtfully, Branwyn asked, “Is he at a kegger?”
“Branwyn! What is it with you and keggers today?”
“Guys at work. It’s fun to say. Kegger. Kegger.” Branwyn rolled the word across her tongue.
“He’s more of a James Bond martini gala guy, anyhow, I think.”
“Oh, we could do that. The gazebo. With action figures.” Branwyn paused, and then said with the faintest hint of accusation, “Except we can’t. Because now we’ve got the preschoolers. While he's off drinking all the martinis.”


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## pamclaughton

From Married in Montana, which will be out in late Summer.

“This is a joke right?” Christian Ford stared at his lawyer in disbelief.  “Are you seriously telling me that my grandfather changed his will a month before he died, and added this condition?”

“I’d love to tell you I’m kidding, but your grandfather was very clear about what he wanted.” Travis Jones, his lawyer and best friend added,  “I tried to talk him out of it. Told him you haven’t even seen her in years. But he was insistent, said he ran into her at the market. She was home for a quick visit, and they got to chatting.”

“Doesn’t she live in New York city now?” Christian hadn’t seen or thought of Molly in years.

“She does. Works for one of the large hotel chains. Sounds like she’s done pretty well too.”

“So this makes absolutely no sense then. Her life isn’t here.” Christian glanced around the office, not really seeing the varnished dark wood bookcases, or the view out the window behind Travis. The office overlooked Main Street, which in Beauville, MT, a small town just outside Bozeman, meant that it served as the center of town and most of the small shops and businesses were along this stretch.

“Your grandfather seemed to think she’d be better off here.”

“It’s absolutely ridiculous. She’ll never agree to it, why would she?”

Travis leaned back in his plush leather chair and picked up the will, shuffling the pages until he found the passage he was looking for.


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## Joyce DeBacco

From Serendipity House. http://amzn.to/pn3EpL

On his first day back in the office, Alex faced a conundrum. Exactly where did his loyalties lie? With a woman he barely knew? Or the man with whom he had a contract? He stared at the folder on his desk, remembering how good it felt with nothing to do but sit on a hillside and watch grass grow. On impulse, he peered out his office window. Hell, he couldn't even see the ground much less grass.

He opened the folder and studied Sylvie Gardner's picture, curious as to why Endicott was so set on finding her when she obviously didn't want to be found. She hadn't broken any laws that he knew of. Although Endicott claimed she'd stolen from him, Alex didn't believe that for a second. Unless stealing the man's heart was a crime, which he doubted. Endicott had to have a heart for it to be stolen. No, the woman had simply changed her mind. And after meeting the pompous Tim Endicott, he didn't blame her one bit.

Alex thought about saying he'd hit a dead end. But he'd already accepted a retainer, which made that course of action unethical. Like it or not, he had a moral and legal obligation to report his findings. Grimacing, he reached for the phone.

"Did you find the little bitch?" Endicott snapped the moment Alex announced himself.

Alex thought about his plans for the remainder of his fee. He'd promised Gran a nice vacation once his agency was on sound footing; Endicott's money would go a long way toward achieving that goal. Without it, he was looking at another six months of robbing Peter to pay Paul. Or, to be more precise, robbing VISA to pay MasterCard.
Fingering Sylvie's photo, he recalled the look on her face when he stuck a flower in her hair. She reacted as if she'd never experienced a man's gentle touch before-a damn shame if that were true. Now he was about to reveal her whereabouts to some ass who'd probably make her life a living hell.

Without further thought, Alex snapped the folder shut. "Sorry, Mr. Endicott," he said. "It seems the woman's dropped off the face of the earth." Then he hung up, leaned back in his chair, and heaved a sigh. Gran wouldn't mind waiting a little longer for that vacation.


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## 60169

It's very cool to see what everyone picks for their snippets.  This is from Feels Like the First Time, on sale now:


“That’s it then,” I said softly, almost to myself. There was nothing left to say. My composure was completely gone. Hot tears ran down my face, but I didn’t care. This was the moment I had done everything to both cause and avoid. It was possible I might see Dawn again at some future date, but I would never see this Dawn. She was so lovely it broke my heart to look at her.

I went to her and put my hands on her shoulders. I looked deeply into her eyes. I didn’t ask her to wait for me. I was trying to set her free.

“When we can see each other again, if you still love me, I’ll be there for you. I promise I’ll love you just the same.”
She nodded. Her tears streamed down her face and she looked away.
I walked out of her house, across the familiar yard and into the rest of my life.


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## Sam Kates

Here's a very brief snippet of the short story _Pond Life_ from the collection of the same name:

[Edit to remove copyrighted material after the unilateral change in the ToS by the current owners to which I do not consent]


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## Joyce DeBacco

From TOMORROW BLOSSOMS. Link in siggy.

Realizing conversation was futile once her husband switched into automatic response mode, Kate leaned back and silently reviewed the evening’s events. She was half-asleep when his softly spoken words jolted her awake.

“Do you ever think about finding him, Kate?”

Her eyes flew open, and she stole a look at his face, pained to see, grimly illuminated in the greenish glow of the dashboard, remembered loss, shared loss. She’d hoped the passage of time and the phenomenal success of their business would’ve lessened the sorrow. As if time and circumstances could ever mitigate the loss of a child.

It seemed so unreal to her now. A living being, concealed beneath layers of baggy shirts and sweaters, unborn, innocent, and a young girl sent to live with an aunt in upstate New York. The girl never saw the tiny infant who’d grown under her heart, never heard his mewling cries, or held his warm body to her breast. The entire experience left an empty place in her heart that lingered still. Did she ever think about him? Often. Did she ever think about finding him?

“No,” she whispered. “Never.”

Ward dipped his head in silent acknowledgement. And though he made no further mention of the child, his introspective look spoke volumes.
                                                                            * * *
Days later, Ward’s sudden interest in something Kate thought they’d put behind them years earlier still troubled her. She knew he thought about it, as did she. But they never talked about it. Ever. Why had it come up now?
She was seated at the hair salon at the mall, waiting for her color to set when her thoughts skipped ahead to her family’s mid-winter vacation. The annual respite was always a godsend for Ward. The minute he stepped off the plane he was a changed man—the most important decision on his plate, whether to jog, swim, or bike around their island getaway. Because he’d been so preoccupied lately, Kate hoped the relaxing interlude would take his mind off more distressing matters.

As she skimmed through one of the salon’s few new magazines, a gaggle of teen-aged girls loitered outside the salon’s window. Exposing as much skin as was legal, the girls postured and posed, showing off their various piercings and tattoos in an obvious attempt to catch the attention of the boys hanging out on the opposite side of the corridor. The scene set a tidal wave of memories in motion.

How different she’d been at their age. At fifteen, all she wanted was to get through the day without attracting attention. And she would’ve done just that were it not for a broken zipper and an errant football.

Joyce


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## Reeve_Thomas

*Snippet from "A Little Chaos." A novella coming in October*.

She named him Elliott Edward. It was a classy name, my mother said. He sounded like he came from good people, but he rests underground just the same. And she with him, or it may as well be. In fact, that would be more acceptable to me-the final death of my mother, rather than witnessing this slow, small daily death. Ants marching funeral procession.

Elliott in his crib, quiet heart. My memory of that night is so vague, a scene through clouded glass. My mother's face was broken, her quiet, dead baby clutched in her arms. My father stood in the doorway, running his hands through his hair, pleading with her to let the baby go.

"He's so quiet," she said. "He's such a quiet baby." She rocked him to sleep, sang a lullaby, her tears sliding onto his cool skin.

My mother keeps photos of Elliott in a wooden box, handmade by her grandfather, and felt-lined. A place for precious things. He looks so exquisite, and alive. It is almost as if he never died, captured on paper, frozen forever in perfection. Elliott had a wispy shock of my father's unruly chestnut hair, nearly black eyes, and a delicate nose and lips that looked to be carved out of soapstone. I've never seen her look at the pictures, but I know she must, creased and worn thin by her fingertips as they are.


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## DCBourone

PRELUDE TO A FIGHT, THE SHAFT OF THE SPEAR

Out on the water torque twitched the boat's hull.  
Engines revving to a dull roar. 
Exhaust a blue jet.
Getting ready.
All eyes on Gretzky.
Gretzky's attention unambiguous and high on the cliff to the right.  Do I see you?  Do you see me?  His hands moving far under the tarp and pulling back, once and hard.  If there were a dragon's swiveling head under the canvas Gretzky might have aimed it by the ears and pulled back on the lips to bare its teeth.  
Show me yours and I'll show you mine.
The sound of big men jogging.  
Nate and Tate moving away from their hides.  
Each man as powerful as a Cretan bull, either could have hurled The Bitch like a discus from the beach to the boat.  If Lou and Morales were the tip of this particular spear, Nate and Tate were the unbreakable shaft, Keith and Billy the grip to steer it home.
The engines really screaming now.
Billy inhaling, exhaling.
Warming the blood.
        Warming the body.
Keith laughing.
Almost ready. 
Billy rising above his warming flesh.  Both within it, and without.  Only in dreams do we relive real and imagined horror as helpless witnesses and Billy could feel his dreaming soul ascending on a prayer.
Ready. That he would never witness this again.
Set.  Screaming engines an unearthly howl.
Go.  Gretzky lit the last match.


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## JRTomlin

Oookay. Opening of my WIP:

Next to James de Douglas, one of his men grunted as he thrust his pike into the writhing mass of English trapped against the flow of the Bannockburn. A horse went down. Blood and mud splattered into James's face. The rider desperately threw himself free. James grunted and slammed a foot on the downed knight's chest, thrusting his sword at his throat. The man's eyes were wide and wild behind the slits of his helm.

"I yield," the man shouted to be heard over the screams and shrieks and moans.

"On them!" The yells from his men was deafening. "Oh them!"

James reached down and jerked the man onto his feet to shove him roughly behind him. Prisoners meant ransom.

"Sir James!"

James spun at the hand on his shoulder, jerking his weary sword arm into position.

The lad dodged backward. "The king sent me. He wants you."

It was chaos. Desperate English knights flogged their rearing mounts, trying to escape through the crush. A foot soldier screamed as his head was crushed by a slashing hoof. His own men's helms and studded leather coats, marked with the blue and white Saltire of Scotland, now were streaked with mud and blood and gore. The ragged line surged and surged again in a thin tide against the crumbling mass of a panicked enemy. They heaved forward a step. He'd lost count of the hours they had fought, pressing back an army that outnumbered them beyond count.

The English war horns shrilled. _Harooo Harooo&#8230; Retire&#8230; Retire&#8230; _


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## Patty Jansen

OK, the opening paragraphs of Fire & Ice:

Somewhere not far from the edge of the plateau, where the goat-track snaked up the rock-strewn slope, the rain had turned to snow.
Cocooned in his cloak, his view restricted to the swaying back of the camel, Tandor had failed to notice until a gust of wind pelted icicles into his face. 
He whipped off the hood and shook out his hair. The breeze, crackling with frost, smelled of his homeland. Oh, for a bath, to wash off the clinging dust and the stink of the prairie lands, of steam trains or the bane of his existence: this grumpy camel.
To his left, the escarpment descended into the land of Chevakia, its low hills and valleys bathed in murky twilight. To his right, the dying daylight touched the forbidding cliff face that formed the edge of the southern plateau, accessible only to those who knew the way.
Something flashed where the ragged rocks met the leaden sky. A tingle went up Tandor's golden claw, pinching the skin where the metal rods met the stump of his arm. Icefire. _Ruko?_
He peered up, shielding his eyes against the snow. Golden threads of icefire betrayed the boy's presence, flooding Tandor with feelings of relief, of urgency, of panic.
_Wait, wait, Ruko, not so fast. Tell me what's going on._


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## Joyce DeBacco

I'm glad to see this thread moving again. It's always been a favorite. My snippet is from SO WONDERFUL AS WANT.

Dinah spent her last week in Caloosa straightening the house, washing linens in the new wringer washer Zach had given her on her birthday, and making sure the pantry was stocked with canned goods.

Torn between her feelings for Zach and her growing feelings for Tyler, she agonized over her decision. She didn’t want to hurt Zach, but she knew she would. And it could’ve been avoided. Had he not been so good and decent, he would’ve gone off to school, earned his degree, and become the professional man he was meant to be. Instead, he took on responsibilities that weren’t his.

Now he was using the children to isolate her in Caloosa, knowing how much she’d always wanted to live in a real town. If he hadn’t been so stubborn, she could’ve sold her property, they all could’ve moved into town, and that would’ve been the end of her involvement with Tyler.

By Thursday evening the house was spotless and Dinah was edgy, wanting to pack but fearful of discovery. She didn’t plan on taking much—the children’s favorite toys and a few personal possessions; Tyler had promised to replace everything else.

That night, too keyed up to sleep, she looked back on her years with Zach, sorry for every gibe, every snippy remark she’d ever thrown at him. It had never been her intention to leave him, only Caloosa. But he gave her no choice. And she wouldn’t let sentiment or guilt hold her back any longer.

She glanced at his shadowy profile next to her, not surprised to find his eyes open. In recent weeks, his wakefulness often extended into the wee hours of the morning. She knew this because she, too, had spent many hours awake.

Suddenly, quite unexpectedly, she felt a great wealth of feeling for the man beside her whose only offense was loving her. Feigning sleep, she rolled towards him. Her breast brushed his arm, and he moved away. Her bare leg touched his, and he stiffened. She flung her arm across his chest, and seconds later, he covered it with his. Not wanting to, she knew, but compelled to.

“Are you sleeping?” he whispered.

She hesitated before answering. “No.”

He pulled away. “Then don’t.” His tone was a warning as well as a plea.

Needing to settle a vague disquietude within her, she reached out again. Again he turned her away. She urged his cheek to the pillow and touched her lips to his. He inhaled sharply but did not return the kiss. She kissed him again, harder, her body tingling with a strange excitement. And though he tried to resist, tried to push out of her embrace, in the end he surrendered, abandoning pride with a long, low moan.

End of snippet.


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## mamiller

Here is a snippet from my new Young Adult novel, *BEYOND* 

Ziggy cocked his head and emitted a low growl. For a moment Aimee wasn't sure whether he was going to dart deeper into the woods or just stand there barking like an insane puppy. But he surprised her. Ziggy, the traitor, took off back towards the pond like a herd of rabid Rottweilers were chasing him.

"Coward!" she yelled, turning to follow. "You could at least wait for me."

At least she'd meant to turn. She'd also meant to follow. Aimee couldn't move. If she'd done what she'd meant to do, she'd be walking nice and easy back around the pond, but she wasn't.
She thought for a moment that her muscles were locked in spasm from the two laps around the track during gym today, but her hands and arms were paralyzed. She tried to clench her fingers into a fist and could feel perspiration bead on her forehead from the effort. She was motionless.

What the hell?

Even her lips could not move to speak those three words.

Light materialized around her as if someone had switched on a spotlight from above. She tried to squint against the vivid assault, but even her eyelids were frozen in place. Instead, all she could do was watch as the light grew brighter, bright enough that she could see through her hands. That freaked her out. Her hands were transparent, and she could see through them to the mottled leaves on the ground below. 
The hum intensified and she began to feel lightheaded.

One lurch of her stomach and she felt nothing at all.


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