# Let's Have Some Fun: Excerpts & First Page Previews



## Guest

Inspired by another thread elsewhere on this forum, I thought it could be fun to give readers a single thread where they can sample a bunch of stories at once.

*Author Rules:*

If your book is available in print: Post* ONLY * your page 99 to this thread. *No* explanation of the plot. *No* background information. *No* sales pitch. Just the page 99 and a link to your book.

If your book is only available on the Kindle: You don't actually HAVE a page 99, so instead select a page of text approximately one-third of the way through your book. Again, *No* background information. *No * explanation of the plot. *No* sales pitch. Just the section of text.

If your page 99 is a partial page (like a single paragraph at the end of a chapter or a blank page, use either page 98 or page 100.

If your page 99 has a partial sentence at the beginning or end, include the completed setence.

See if your page 99 can stand on its own two feet and give readers the real flavor of your book.


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## Guest

On occasion a dwarf would look in his direction, sometimes pointing and saying something to a companion. He could only image the conversation. He caught sight of Darseidon and Warden. The boy was holding a tankard, and making a sour face. Other dwarves were gathered around, slapping the boy on the back and laughing. Whatever the ale in the tankard, if it didn't put hair on his chest it would surely burn a hole in his stomach. Nigel sipped his wine. Regardless of what had transpired, Warden would return home one day with amazing stories to share with his father and his friends. And even if he made a new home for himself in Marionhold, Nigel had no doubt that his talents would afford him a comfortable life and many more friends.

Darseidon would go home to a hero's welcome when he came back with the chaos diamond. Of course, the dwarf was already a hero multiple times over, as was evident from the warmth the dwarves of Greystout showered him with. Veteran of the War of Reckoning. Liberator of dwarven slaves. And soon to be savior of the Spirit Wall. Bards would sing his praises for generations to come.

Nigel's mind turned to Nadia. Morose, miserable, honor-bound Nadia who had somehow managed to survive the terrors of a childhood under the Necromancers and find her way into the highest ranks of Nadru's champions. If ever a person had valid cause to turn against the world and let it burn, it was she. How easy would it have been for her to allow herself to enjoy the comforts of her family's wealth when they obviously cared about her? The notion that vampires could grasp such familial affections was new to Nigel, but it was apparently true. And yet in spite of the horrors fate had placed upon her, when given the choice between the comfort and security offered by her family and the constant dangers inherent in fighting the Necromancers she had chosen to fight. When their adventure was over, she would return to Marionhold and continue her fighting. Or maybe, the Necromancers thwarted, she would finally turn her attentions to a much-deserved respite. She had a home to go back to, after all.

Nigel noticed a young woman looking at him. Their eyes met briefly. He smiled weakly and turned away. His heart wasn't up to it. Any other time the thought of a few hours in a strange bed with a beautiful woman would have sufficed to remove his own melancholy. There had been a great many strange beds over the years. Some to relieve his own anxiety. Some simply to ensure a place to sleep for the night. Some to collect a few coins, either in payment for services rendered or in petty larceny. It occurred to him that he couldn't remember one name or one face. And with the exception of a few former accomplices that would just as soon gut him, he realized there was no one that would remember him either.


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## Daniel Arenson

*FLAMING DOVE*
*a dark fantasy novel by Daniel Arenson*
*PAGE 99!*​
"You must be hungry," Beelzebub said. "I know I am. I have some omelets. I made them myself, with cheese and mushrooms and green peppers. And trust me, after twenty-seven years of war, it's tough to find cheese, mushrooms, and green peppers. I thought we might have a picnic on the beach."

Bat El stared at the wall. _Why does he want my friendship? Why is he so pleasant this morning? Whatever he wants from me, I won't give it to him._ "I'm more than content to eat here," she said, "and mushrooms or peppers won't be necessary. I am on Earth for duty, not pleasure. Toast and water would suffice."

"There will be no toast and no water in this fort. Come with me to the beach. I insist. If you agree, I'll let you have a bath later. You must be wanting a good bath, at least."

Bat El pursed her lips. A bath would be as heavenly as coffee; the demon blood and ash still coated her skin, and her hair had never been so dirty. She knew she had come to Earth for war, and had been prepared for it, but temptation was hard to resist. She looked out the window to the beach, and a longing filled her to let the sand touch her toes, the wind touch her cheeks, to escape from this fort which had become her prison.

She walked to the window. "Let's go," she said, placing a foot on the windowsill. _I'll humor him today,_ she thought. _I'll go with him to the beach._ The real reason she kept to herself. Out there, at the beach, no demons flew in vigil.

There, outside the fort, Bat El could escape.

*Flaming Dove website*

*Flaming Dove at the Kindle store*










Artwork by Timothy Lantz​


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## daveconifer

From MAN OF STEEL

      “I lost respect for them after they threw that pipe through the window,” Jonas said.  “They seemed scary when then they took Pomeroy out.  They really freaked me out the way they sent me that obituary.  But any clod can throw a pipe through a window.  Maybe they’re just amateurs.”

    “I don’t know about that,” she yelled from the bathroom, where she was stuffing cosmetics into a satchel.  “I’m respecting them just fine.”

~~~ 

    “Hey, Abby, can you take a look at this?” Jonas said when Reno came back in the room.  He was standing at the window holding the drapes aside.  “I think there’s somebody in my car.  Every couple of seconds I see something moving.  There!  Did you see it?”

    “I haven’t even found your car yet.”

    “I’m going down there,” he said as he let the drapes fall back into place.

    “Why?  What are you going to do, ask them how they like your car?  Joe, if somebody’s really in there we don’t want to mess with them.”

    “I just want a closer look.  I’ll stay out of sight,” he promised as he headed towards the door.

    After he was gone she moved the drapes again to watch.  Within seconds after finding the car she saw a man get out from the passenger side and walk away.  When he nodded towards the building Reno pressed her face against the window trying to look straight down but couldn’t see who the signal was intended for.  She had to warn Jonas.

    A loud knock startled her.  “Who is it?” she called through the door.

    “Abby, it’s Joe,” Jonas yelled back.

    “Okay, sorry,” she yelled as she scrambled to open the door.  “Sorry, you scared me,” she said after he was back in the room.

    “I didn’t see anything.  Now it’s my imagination is that’s playing tricks.”

    She pulled him into the bathroom and turned on the shower.  “I don’t think so,” she whispered.  “Somebody got out of your car right after you left.  There was somebody else down there too.”  She told him everything she’d seen.


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## William Meikle

THE INVASION

Hiscock had started talking to himself. He hadn't realized just how much he'd miss the company of other people.

He'd never really interacted with anyone on a day-to-day basis, but just knowing that he might be the only person left in the city had him more than a little spooked.

He wasn't reassured after talking online to several fellow survivalists across North America. They were all in the same boat - locked on their own in a subterranean bunker while their fears - for some of them hopes - were being played out for their viewing pleasure on their network feeds. There was still little consensus as to what was actually happening - many of his fellow bunkerites still insisted that this was a New World Order takeover, and anything they were seeing on screen was little more than smoke and mirrors - special effects to keep the plebiscite under control.

For once, Hiscock found himself disagreeing.

_Those diggers on my carpet were a bit more than a special effect._

More worryingly, several of his regular contacts, survivalists with whom he'd shared tips and strategies for months, sometimes years, seemed to have fallen completely off the grid. Perhaps they were deliberately keeping themselves quiet for fear of attack or, a more frightening thought by far, their carefully prepared plans had gone awry and their bunkers had been compromised.

The thought brought a whole new bunch of worries he decided not to think about.

_Not just yet._

He left his fellow bunkerites to their conspiracies and went back to scanning what remained of the news media. It immediately became apparent things had moved on to yet another new phase. Yes, the diggers were still digging, but there was only so much mileage to be had from showing pictures of deep holes in the ground. The media needed something to focus on.

_And they've found it - in spades._

That afternoon the black eggs came from the sky in flocks of thousands, each one coming to a halt hovering over a dig site. They seemed to vary in size, corresponding with the size of the hole they were sent to investigate - some were only the size of a football, whereas others measured forty meters and more.

"It is believed these craft are some kind of scout vessels," one announcer said. "They are obviously checking the progress of the diggers."

"Diggers" had become the word of the day, now that the "Green Carpet of Terror's" reign seemed to have
passed.

"Attempts have been made to communicate with these eggs," the announcer continued. "But as yet with no success. We are still no further forward in discerning the motive for this continued attack on our planet. Nor indeed do we yet know exactly what all this digging is meant to accomplish. The worry in official circles is that we may not be around long enough to find out."

http://www.amazon.com/The-Invasion-Extended-Version-ebook/dp/B003HS4V8O


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## LCEvans

DeLorean dragged herself into the kitchen, Cole in tow, about ten minutes after I got out of the shower in the morning. The makeup she'd forgotten to remove yesterday had turned into a dark bandit mask around her eyes, proof that she was just as tired and wrung out as she'd told me she was. She put Cole in his carrier, one of those all purpose models that doubles as a car seat and also fits into a baby carriage and a grocery cart. Then she plopped down at the table and assumed the expression of someone who'd just lost all her friends and had no prospects of getting new ones. 
On cue, a wave of pity swept over me. Despite her protests that she was better off without "the flaming narcissist," she had to be deeply hurt over his rejection of her and Cole. 
"Coffee?" I leaned across the table and squeezed her shoulder, and she beamed me a grateful smile.
"Sure. I'm still on California time and this is way too early for me to be out of bed. Right when I drifted off to sleep after you brought him up, Cole started howling."
I'd heard him, all the way downstairs in the family room. Now I wished I'd gone back up and taken him to give her a break. "Does he wake up a lot at night?"
"God, does he ever. If I'm especially tired, the little imp thinks after midnight is play time."
"Christian used to do the same thing. And speaking of Christian, he's going to love having Cole around. He always wanted a little brother. Of course, he won't be home from college all that much."
"I'll bet he'll make a terrific babysitter." She put a dab of sugar in her coffee and whirred her spoon in the cup as if she were carrying out an experiment to see if coffee would whip up like cream.


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## kcmay

"Yes," Risan said. "The sword I made for him has his gems in the hilt. They are the Rune Stones. He'll be the next king of Thendylath."
"Ahhh," Jennalia said, nodding and grinning. Her eyes stared past him. "Rune Stones. I understand now. A ribbon will finally be burned."
Risan looked at Arlet with wide eyes. A ribbon will be burned. Gavin was fulfilling his destiny. A shiver swept through him. No wonder his dream had been so powerful.
"We want to buy a special enchantment for his new sword," Arlet told Jennalia. "We have gold."
Jennalia chuckled and went to the dresser again. "You need no gold here, my dear." She opened a drawer and withdrew a piece of parchment. "Enchantments such as this cannot be bought for any amount of money." She shut the drawer and motioned Risan to follow her to a table. "Put it there."
Risan removed the leather wrap, set the sword on the table, and stepped back.
Jennalia laid the parchment on the table and ran her hands lightly over the sword. "The enchantment I will put on this weapon is very strong. It will bind to whoever claims the sword."
"I'll keep it safe," he said.
"You must not let anyone take up this weapon before the king does. It will speak to anyone with a warrior's spirit. No one but the king must utter its name else the weapon will bind itself to the wrong person."
"No one must handle the sword."
"Whoever speaks its name owns the sword. Only the owner's death can unbind the enchantment, which weakens every time it is unbound."
"Yes, I understand."
Jennalia opened another drawer in the dresser and withdrew an inkpot and a brush. She set them on the table and opened the inkpot. She dipped the brush into it. Risan watched the brush as she drew it across the parchment, first a horizontal line, then slightly curved line to the left, and then another at a downward angle to the right. She drew in the ancient script of Fartha, but he did not recognize the symbols. When at last she lifted the brush and wrapped it in a piece of paper, Risan studied the drawing, cocking his head. On the parchment were three symbols, one atop the other.
"Strength in battle," Arlet whispered, pointing to the top symbol. "But written backward."
"Yes, backward," Jennalia said. "The other two are for sharpness, so the blade will never dull, and Warrior's Wisdom. With the Rune Stones in the sword, the enchantments will become even more powerful." She placed three deep brown gems on the parchment around the three symbols and waved her hand in the air over them. Her lips moved silently.
As Risan watched the parchment and the symbols upon it, the ink flared up suddenly in a sparkling gold color, and then faded to black once more.
Jennalia laid the parchment on the blade, ink against metal, at the sword's shoulder. After a moment, a wisp of smoke wove its way skyward. The three characters faded into view on the reverse side of the parchment. Their color went from pale pink to blood red to dark brown and then to black. When the three characters stopped smoking, she lifted the parchment. 
The symbols were burned into the metal, black and dull against the silver blade. 
"It is done," Jennalia said in a shaking voice. She moved stiffly, raising a hand to her head, and fumbled for a chair before collapsing onto it. "Take it to our king, but remember my warning."
"Yes," Arlet whispered. "We'll remember."
Risan ran a finger over the three symbols in awe. He picked up the sword and gripped it, feeling the strength of the enchantment coursing through it. It hummed, vibrated with a life of its own. Oh, yes. It was a special sword, indeed.
_Aldras Gar_, a voice whispered in his mind. Its name was Aldras Gar.


page 99 of The Kinshield Legacy (Blue text is on p. 100 and concludes the chapter)


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## Monique

Even her friendship, if he could call it that, ran deeper than the trysts at Oxford or the stunted relationships he'd bungled in the years after. Intimacy was simply not part of his makeup. It required skills he'd never cultivated and he felt no inclination to do so. Until now. But it was too late for that. He was comfortable with the life he'd built.
He spent years refining the layers that buffered him from the outside world. His work had always been enough. The search for answers. Facts could be categorized, put in their proper place. Text books were conveniently black and white, but now the world was a swirling mass of murky grays. Feelings he couldn't grasp, much less control, were getting the better of him day by day.
And now, the one thing he'd been able to cling to, the one thing that centered him, was gone. If there were no way to get home, he thought and felt for the watch in his pocket, he'd be trapped here without his work. He supposed he could start a research project here, check some texts that were lost to the future. But it would do little good. She'd become an inexorable part of that too, he realized. There wasn't a facet of his life she hadn't slipped inside of, even his past--the one thing that separates each of us from the other. His grandfather's death, his nightmares were now all inescapably linked with her. 
A fresh wave of guilt and dread washed over him. If ever there was proof that he should have kept her away from him, this was it. If he'd never given in to her curiosity, never allowed her into his life, she'd be safe right now. Instead, she was trapped here with him, and about to walk headfirst into God knows what.


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## Erik Handy

Hell of the Dead

From Jacoby and Fleur's point of view, Stansley yelled something to the others in his jeep before vomiting out from his side of the vehicle.

Jacoby and his jeepmates looked on as both jeeps stopped.

From both sides of the flanking jungle came a barrage of rocks of all sizes. The rocks slammed into the exposed soldiers and jeeps.

The men filed out of their vehicles, unslinging their rifles. They wasted no time firing into the trees.

Soon the rocks quit flying.

Quiet.

Other than the initial strike, none of the rocks landed any serious blows. The jeeps' sides and hoods were dented, but that was the extent of the damage.

Everyone on the narrow path looked at each other. Did someone, no, a group of someones just throw rocks at them? It was strange to them that even though they saw the rocks that remained on the hoods, they had difficulty believing the last thirty seconds actually happened.

Fleur stepped away from his comrades. "All right," he addressed his men. "Let's get back --"

SLAM.

A large rock busted the captain in the face, silencing the authority figure and ensuring a closed casket funeral.


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## Carolyn Kephart

Page 99 of  The Ryel Saga: A Tale Of Love And Magic:

"You cannot come to me, Ryel. Not now. You must put yourself in readiness. Tonight you must meditate on the Analects of Khiar."

The Analects were strong precepts against fear. Ryel had last murmured them to himself three months ago, before attempting the spell that had wrought his eyes' darkness and his kinsman's death. "What would you know of Khiar?" he demanded. "How-" racing possibilities halted his tongue.

Diara too fell silent. After a long moment she spoke again. "I know nothing of Khiar. Something put him in my thoughts."

Ryel bowed slightly. "Her, most exalted."

"You see the extent of my ignorance." Her face shimmered a faint smile. "Whatever puts me in mind of Khiar wishes me no harm; I sense that strongly. But I have no time to speak of anything else than my errand, which is this: once you enter the gates of my city, you must meet with my brother, the Sovranel Priamnor. For the past five years he has for private reasons lived in seclusion, never leaving the Eastern Palace. But tomorrow he will join my father in the selection of a physician" She caught her breath as if in pain. "I half hope you aren't chosen. You would see horrors. I'm afraid of how my captor will use me, and ashamed..." she wrung her hands, and turned her face away.

He reached toward her. "Most exalted, if I could only-"

"You cannot&#8230;Ry." As she looked round again she said his name so softly that he more felt than heard it, sensing it envelope him like some exquisite scent, some dearly remembered music. "I am glad you do not love me, so glad. My captor would exult in turning that love to loathing, or would kill me outright to give you greater pain, and himself more sport." She trembled. "I do not wish to die, Ryel."

He inclined his head, wrung by the desperate supplication in her voice. With all his Art's strength he willed himself to forget the beauty of her face, the moonlit ravishments revealed by her shift's gossamer. "I promise never to put you in the slightest danger, most exalted."

"Thank you, a thousand times." But then it seemed her voice smiled. "What a pity."

Ryel looked up, astonished. "My lady?"

She was smiling. "It's really too bad. You're so handsome." Her regard slid to his shoulders, his chest, his arms, every glance an appraising caress. "And you look very strong."

He felt himself reddening all over, but somehow replied calmly. "All of that strength is at your service, most exalted."

"Is it. What a pleasant thought." But then her playful smile faded, and she paused as if listening. "I must return, lest my captor suspect."

Ryel had never felt more helpless. "I would do anything to help you here and now. Anything."

*****​
Click this link to read a sample of The Ryel Saga: A Tale Of Love And Magic
Carolyn Kephart's Website


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## Archer

From _Elfhunter_...

He was struck especially by the mind of Eros. The Aridan had described him in his message as occasionally having 'a roguish nature'. What Cappellion observed was a calculating willfulness bordering on genius. They had stopped trusting him when he had nearly escaped from them on his third day of captivity. Eros had feigned an injury to one foreleg, and the stable hands had haltered him and brought him out, limping, for Cappellion to examine. Eros had stood placidly while the Elf ran his experienced hands over the 'injured' leg, waiting for them all to take their attention from restraining him. After all, he wouldn't run off lame, would he? Cappellion had felt no heat, nor swelling, yet the horse would place no weight on the leg at all. He cradled the forefoot in his hands, calling for the steel pincers to test the hoof (such deep lameness could only be detected in this manner) as Eros nuzzled his back affectionately. They were all convinced that he had relaxed, and was now accepting their care. Two of the Elves had opened the large double doors to let in more light from the outside courtyard.

Eros lifted his head, turned it toward the doors, snorted once, then leaped forward suddenly, knocking Cappellion and one of his handlers to the ground. The other hung on gamely, but Eros literally dragged him through the large double doors, slamming him into one of them so that he fell, stunned, to the ground. It was then that Eros discovered that he was in a wide, stone courtyard. There was only one gate, and it was closed. Dragging his long line, he called to Réalta anyway. Let the Elves try; they would not catch him! Réalta was screaming in his stall, rushing at the gate and slamming to a stop. Finally, with the grace of a gazelle and a tremendous effort, he lifted himself up and over it, barely avoiding the stone roof with his head and withers, as Cappellion and his aides tugged frantically at the doors, closing them just in time.

Réalta and Eros were both furious. Thank the stars that the King and his son were gone on the hunt. Who would fail to notice the frustrated screaming of the two foiled conspirators, one of which still ran wildly in the courtyard? Cappellion noted ruefully the complete lack of lameness as Eros floated majestically back and forth before the gate, eyeing him defiantly as though daring him to try to outwit him with his feeble, two-legged brain. Cappellion would have given a great deal at that moment to have known Eros as a foal, and to have raised him as his own. What a war-animal he must be!

Eros grew weary and thirsty about mid-afternoon, and stood by the courtyard gate, his tail still raised like a sable flag. Réalta was still calling to him, but he had been caught and placed back in the stall, the gate of which had been fortified such that he could not jump it again. Such agility was rare, and Cappellion would have liked to keep Réalta to cross over some of the mares in the band; it would no doubt improve the quality of the foal crop. Eros, on the other hand&#8230;Cappellion would have worried a bit about the temperaments that would have resulted from that cross. There was such a thing as having too much intelligence. Eros was a horse that would be suited to relatively few riders. As Orogond had said, he would not suffer prideful or foolish behavior, and Ri-Aruin's people sometimes displayed plenty of one if not the other.

Capellion approached Eros now, no rope in hand, but with a small vessel of water. The tall, strong dun raised his head imperiously, eyeing him with suspicion. If one had been privy to their thoughts, they might have gone something like this:

(You will have to open this gate eventually, you know!)


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## Pamela

Page 99

She was physically reliving the event by going, like a
somnambulist, into Sabrina's bedroom and kneeling down beside the
bed, sobbing.  
    The fury was exhilarating and filling her with
energy, which she knew was from a hormone, norepinephrine, or
adrenalin.  So she was getting hormone reactions, she thought
logically, but her anger was not logical and she did not care. 
She felt like striking out at something and banged her head
forcefully against the bedpost several times, feeling her head
bounce back from the hard wood.  She got up, reminding herself
that even if she could not feel her head strike the bedpost, she
better not do it any more.  She might damage the brain.  Ferd had
told her never to hurt the computer or herself.
Eve walked back into the kitchen.  She turned on the
television to a game show, found the spatula and flipped the
eggs.  She guessed it was nice to have old memories of Sabrina's,
in a way.  At least she knew how to cook eggs, done just right,
soft in the middle yellow part with the whites cooked so they
were solid, not runny.  She knew that.
Eve picked up the pan so that she could transfer the eggs
onto a plate, not noticing that she was burning the flesh on her
palm until she smelled the acrid odor of burned skin.  She would
have to remember not to pick up pans after they were heated.  The
reddened and blackened skin changed to a pink tone that gradually
became flesh colored again.  
Then Eve noticed she was ravenous.  She was so hungry her
knees buckled.  She couldn't wait for the eggs.  She was going to
faint.  Darkness was already clouding her vision.  She quickly
opened the refrigerator, grabbed the syrup bottle, and sank to a
sitting position in front of the open door, drinking from the
flip-top container.  She took large gulps until she felt strong
again.  She wondered if she would have to carry a bottle of syrup
around with her in case of an emergency.  Maybe she was just so
new that her body was not yet used to the abrupt metabolic
changes required to heal.  If she had to carry syrup around it
would be a nuisance.
The cat was making a lot of noise and Eve looked at it
curiously.  It was a nice orange color and had beautiful liquid
eyes, a luminous yellow color with iris's shaped like black
candle flames.  She was mesmerized, looking into the cat's eyes. 
Then she knew what to do and poured some of the dry cat food she
had reached for automatically in the cupboard.  She watched as
the pretty animal crunched the food and Eve craved something to
crunch on with her own teeth.  A nice bone.  She shook her head
because she didn't think humans ate bones.  But she wanted one. 
She remembered that Sabrina asked her to cook a roast for
tonight.  Maybe she could eat the bone.


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## ketadiablo

Cesca bounded to her feet with hands on hips and there they stood, faced off like rabid weasels. Her head spun and she wavered between fleeing and kissing those succulent lips. Relief claimed her when Strikes First and Good-Looking-Woman appeared beside them.

Meko's friend took her hand. "Come, little one. We dance now."

Dragging her gaze from her husband's angry face, she said, "Oh, no, I can't. I'm not dressed like an animal."

"I see the teeth of the elk on your dress. Good Enough. Come, I teach you the steps."

She glanced over her shoulder and saw Good-Looking-Woman pushing Meko toward the dancers. 
With a smile, Strikes First led her through the basic steps, urging her to follow. Cesca dismissed angry thoughts from her mind and focused on his instructions, picking up the dance in short order. Her feet flew over the hard ground, her body moved of its own volition in perfect sync with the drums. She twisted, whirled and dipped, allowing her arms to flow gracefully over her head.

As the fire roared around her, she abandoned everything but the moment. Pulling the bandana from her forehead, she freed her long mass of hair. She was the gypsy, the wild and crazy nomadic wanderer, and her heart burned with the desperate need of forgetfulness.

A trio of young braves joined her, their eyes blazing with desire. She didn't care. She was one with the Earth now, the sky, and the stars. Slowly, the men circled her, their bodies emulating her sensual moves, their feet mimicking her frantic steps.

His face a mask of dread, Strikes First pushed them away. "Eneoestse! Stop! Eneoestse!"

He searched for Meko among the crowd and Cesca followed his gaze. Strikes First visibly cringed, but Cesca reveled in the black scowl on her husband's face. At last, she'd penetrated the man's cool exterior.

The crowd parted. In two long strides Meko reached her and made a futile attempt to grab her wrist. The young braves that had been dancing around her moments ago stood before their leader, heads bowed, faces staid, feet still.

But not Cesca. She wouldn't shrivel before the great Meko.

She skipped out of his reach, swiveled her hips, and sashayed toward him again. Sweat ran from her forehead and trickled into her mouth, but she wouldn't stop. She wasn't done with him yet.

Meko cut her a fierce glare. "Eneoestse!"

"Whatever is the matter?" Feigning sweetness, she offered her best smile. "You wanted me to enjoy myself, celebrate, and so I will." With the drums roaring around her, amid the resonant notes of the flute, she danced her way to within inches of Meko's grasp.

Like a cobra strike, his hand came out a grabbed a length of her hair. "Stop, Cesca!"

The muscle in his jaw twitched, an indication her triumphant run would soon end in a volatile explosion. With a yank to her hair, he pulled her from the crowd. A shriek left her lips. And then she attacked, clamping down on his forearm with her teeth. Forced to release her, she watched in horror as blood trickled down to his fingers.

The drums came to an abrupt halt. A thousand eyes fell upon them. Hushed murmurs and shocked gasps came to her through a tunnel. The People waited for the leader of the Dog Soldiers to strike her down, bring her to her knees. They'd never seen one of their own harm a dog man.

He advanced. The deafening silence-total, absolute stillness- rumbled around her. Yet still she wouldn't yield. She saw Marsh across the fire. Lucifer, his eyes are closed, and is he holding his breath? Had she pushed Meko too far? Did he mean to strike her in front of the People? A dangerous spark flared in the silver eyes, and the scar running eyebrow to jaw went limpid in his bronze face.

Cesca scanned the crowd and wished she could fade away like the smoke of the fire. Who would help her? Good-Looking-Woman had covered her eyes with her fingers, and Strikes First's head was bent toward the ground. The People reminded her of puppets, all wide-eyed and falling jaws.

In a battle of wills, the sleek black cat advanced, and she stood her ground like a tiger defending her cubs. Without pretense, he swept her from the ground. Cheers and whistles rang through the still night and still she fought him. Launching her foot, she slammed into his knee, and then aimed for his groin or any other vulnerable body part. She pummeled his chest and scraped her nails over his upper arms. Again she drew blood. If only she could turn her body around and claw his eyes out. 
Onward he walked, holding her firmly against him. "If you bite me again, I swear I'll beat you."

He meant every word, never bluffed. Her foot connected with his shin, eliciting a curse from his lips. And a smile from hers. "What are you going to do, cut my throat?"

"Quite possibly."

As they wound through the village, her eyes searched the dark. Moonbeams bounced off Brown Wing's lodge and soon they were on the outskirts of camp, heading for the river. The river?
"You wouldn't dare!" she bellowed.

"Wouldn't I?" He sloshed through the sludge on the bank and entered the shallow depths. "You're drenched in perspiration after that public display of offering your body to every young buck in camp."

"I did no such thing. I was dancing."

The water rose to his waist and still he walked forward. "They lusted after you like you were a bitch in heat. Besides, I've had enough of your tantrums."

Cesca tangled her arms in his and hung on for dear life, but he yanked on her wrists until she cried out in pain. Pitching her body from his, she hit the depths with a unyielding thud. The water washed over her head and swirled up her nose.

*Available on KINDLE*:


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## ketadiablo

Decadent Deceptions, Keta Diablo

Morgan had been so lost in thought he almost failed to see Olivia ducking into the mercantile across the street in town. Almost. Silently he thanked his lucky stars. He intended to have a drink prior to calling on Madame Rousseau, but now that fate had intervened and placed the Goddess of his breath in his path, he altered course. Pushing the door open amid a melodic chiming of bells, he searched for her down every aisle. Finally he found her among the bolts of fabric, her brow creased, her selective eyes glancing between the terra-cotta and its sibling cinnamon.

"Why don't you purchase both?" he said from over her shoulder.

She turned and looked at him, her searching gaze a mixture of surprise, and dare he think, subtle delight?

"Morgan, what-whatever are you doing here?"

"I desired a drink and intended to follow it up with a visit to Immortelles."

"Immortelles?" Her eyes widened, and a blush rose in her cheeks. "You frequent the establishment in the middle of the afternoon?"

"Under a blue moon, in the afternoon, whenever the fancy strikes."

"You're incorrigible," she said, her eyes sparking.

"You misunderstand me. I mean only to observe, not partake."

Giving him the direct cut, she placed the fabrics back onto the shelf and said, "Good day to you, then."

Denying her a chance to bolt, he grabbed her elbow, ushered her to the back of the store and backed her into a wall. With his hands at the sides of her head, palms flat against the hard surface, he said, "Join me."

Bewilderment masked her features. "Are you out of your mind?"

"Don't look at me like that. You know you're itching to return."

A stillness fell over her.

"Why not with me?" It wasn't easy to torment her while she looked at him with those green-spoked eyes, but he wanted to be near her, had an overwhelming urge to watch firsthand her sudden interest in carnal lust. "Unless, of course, you're afraid," he said goadingly.

His words effectuated the desired response. Her spine stiffened and her chin swept up. "You're the one who should be afraid," she said smugly. "Especially since you can't control, shall we say, a certain growing interest whenever a woman merely falls into your lap."

It was clearly a taunt, and oh, how he wanted to toss her onto the floor, take her like a common camp follower and show her she had been equally affected. Realizing any such action would put an immediate halt to his pending suggestion, he gathered his wits.

Catching her chin in the firm grip of his hand, he pressed on. "Yes or no, do you have the courage?"

"You're mad," she said on a half-laugh. "People will see us; it's broad daylight."

"No, they won't." He pointed to the back door. "That leads to the alleyway, and one block away is another back door to the brothel. I assure you, not a soul will notice us slip out of here and slip into there." She glanced around the room furtively. "I double-dare you," he said with emphasis.

"You're certain no one will know?"

He crossed his heart, and without waiting for her to change her mind, led her through the back door and into the alleyway. Arriving at Immortelles within minutes, he ushered her through the door and down the hall to a room. It had all happened so quickly, he had a hard time reconciling that his plans were to speak with Madame first. Instead, he found himself about to enter a peep room with the woman who made his blood clot.

"Don't tell me." She paused at the door, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "You have a standing appointment to voyeur? You can just walk into the brothel in the middle of the afternoon and go directly to a peep room?"

"I told you, I planned to call on Madame today. I sent a missive this morning," he said and pushed the door open. "It has all been prearranged."

"You prearranged it?"

With a nod, he pointed to the chairs, about to offer a lame answer when she said, "How convenient, two peepholes."

"There are those who adore having company while they engage in voyeurism."

"I'm not one of them," she said with narrowed eyes. "In fact, I find it a little crass."

"Pretend I am not here."

"And how am I supposed to accomplish that with the holes mere inches apart?" She looked at the seating arrangement. "And the chairs nearly on top of one another?"

"Sit," he said calmly, directing her into the plush cushion.

She shot him a lethal glare and slumped into the chair. He was delighted with the layout. He eased himself down beside her and inwardly smiled. They were shoulder-to-shoulder, thigh-to-thigh. Perfect.

"Must you be breathing down my neck?" she asked, the familiar scent of tea roses and jasmine wafting over him.

"I can hardly enjoy the performance from the mezzanine."

The door opened moments later. Morgan didn't know the man, but that fact wasn't unusual. Hundreds of transients passed through the brothel monthly, in addition to the regulars. If women thought this particular John handsome, it would be in a rugged way. The rough-hewn features, textured skin and dark, wavy hair that hung a bit unruly around the collar of his shirt definitely lacked polish. He cut a fine figure, however, with wide shoulders, trim waist, and underneath the trousers, Morgan imagined, strong, well-muscled legs.

From the corner of his eye, he studied Olivia, and at the same time cussed the betraying blood pumping to his cock. That's all it took, one look at her face or her exquisite profile, the slightly upturned nose and high cheekbones, long lashes and rose-petal lips, and the cursed member between his legs saluted the ceiling. Perhaps this wasn't such a good idea. How in hell could he watch a man and a woman make love and not imagine-wish with all his heart-it was him and Liv?

Available on Amazon KINDLE:


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## Ian Weaver

Time and Again - Page 99 (soft cover)

Available on Kindle $2.99

Brad climbed to his feet and walked over to Lucy who was checking their inventory.
‘Walk with me a while?’ he asked, and bent to help her up when she nodded. Once they were clear of the others they stopped and Brad turned to face her.
‘What do you think of our new friends?’ he asked.
Lucy answered immediately. ‘Oh Father Golding is a lovely man.’ She seemed to be genuinely pleased to have joined up with Matthew, maybe seeing him as a surrogate father after her recent family losses. ‘But as for that Frank,’ she continued. ‘He’s another kettle of fish altogether.’
It seemed that nobody trusted Frank one little bit. Lucy went on to explain how he gave her the creeps and how she felt that he was always staring at her, his eyes seeming to see straight through her yet at the same time taking in the soft contours of her body.
‘He frightens me, Brad,’ she finished quietly.
‘There’s nothing to worry about, I’ll keep a close eye on our friend Frank.’
‘What’s our next move Brad? We can’t just keep on following the river to its source.’
‘I’ve been thinking about that,’ he said. ‘I think I need to take a look at the set up the Japs have got here. There’s still a war on and any information I can get now could come in useful once we’re rescued.’ He purposely put across a positive attitude though he wasn’t that confident himself. He could hardly see her in the dim light but sensed that she could see through his optimism, but she was sensitive enough not to say anything. He continued. ‘We may even be able to do something to put a spanner in the works for them; cause them a few problems.’
This time she did say something. ‘Do you really think that’s a good idea Brad? I mean, they’ve no knowledge that we’re out here at the moment, why advertise the fact with what could only be a token gesture? And we’ve got to think of Father Golding. He’s not really up to active service.’


----------



## William Meikle

From THE MIDNIGHT EYE FILES: THE SIRENS

http://www.amazon.com/Midnight-Eye-Files-Sirens-ebook/dp/B00472O6PW

I didn't get a chance to finish.

"Tommy's hoor Mandy eyeballed you this afternoon, and we've got the cab driver who took you to The Rock at ten past eight. Your wee business card was in Tommy's jacket pocket, with the time-'eight o'clock' written on the back. Do you want to bet your prints are in the shop?" Hardy said.

"And we've got a wifie who says she saw you on the bus yesterday with John Harris. She said you were acting pally with him," Newman said.

I shivered.

"Can I at least get my clothes back?"

"Forensics," Newman said.

"Might take a while," Hardy said.

"Now about Pervy Tommy?" Newman said.

I told them my story, from start to finish. The only thing I left out was who I was working for, and what I was looking for.

"That trip to Dunblane?" Hardy said.

"Awfully convenient for you," Newman said.

"Aye," I said. "I suppose it's the only reason I'm not sitting here charged with murder?"

"There's time yet," Newman said.

"Plenty of time," said Hardy.

It was all down hill from there. They went over my story time and time again, looking for cracks, hoping for an inconsistency. I chain-smoked Camels, and they got more agitated. There was a window high on the wall above me and thin watery sunlight was beginning to seep in when they finally stopped.

Newman left the room, while Hardy just sat and stared at me. Newman came back with a pile of clothes and dropped them on the table in front of me. The stink of stale vomit assaulted my nasal passages.

"No blood. No bits of Tommy McIntyre," he said. "And the coroner is now saying that the wounds were caused by an animal-some kind of exotic snake he's never seen before."

"That doesn't mean you're off the hook," Hardy said.

"Aye. We'll be keeping an eye on you," Newman said.

"I know," I said. "Don't leave town, stay in touch, all that happy-crappy."


----------



## LCEvans

Jobless Recovery


A male staffer who introduced himself as Douglas, ushered people in and out of the Senator’s inner sanctum with practiced efficiency, his manicured hands signaling directions and his well-modulated voice giving quiet instructions. He had the system down to a fine science. Door opened, visitor out. Signal next visitor. Door closed. Wait five minutes. Repeat procedure.
When it was Dave’s turn, Douglas took the needlepoint from him and examined it millimeter by millimeter, as though he suspected Dave might have concealed a time bomb among the stitches. When he finally handed it back, Dave was sure he could detect a smirk forming on the man’s ferrety face.
“My grandmother made it for the Senator,” Dave said, feeling himself blush.
“Sure.” Douglas snickered. He signaled for Dave to step into the room where the Senator stood beside his desk wearing a toothy smile.
Senator Drake was a short man, small except for a paunch. He was middle-aged and balding and his pants rode low on his narrow hips under the stomach that threatened to upset his balance and send him toppling forward. His complexion was an unhealthy shade of pale beige with blue overtones. A prominent roman nose, deep-set eyes and a mouthful of long, pointy teeth made him look predatory. In fact, the Senator’s way of holding his arms bent out from his body made them seem unusually short, so he reminded Dave of a miniature tyrannosaurus rex about to grab its prey.
They shook hands, and the Senator invited him to take a seat. Dave did so, but first he awkwardly held out the needlepoint. “My grandmother made this for you, Senator.”
Senator Drake took the gift, turning it over and over in his squarish hands as though he didn’t know which way was up. Finally he said, “Liberty and Justice for All. This is going to look just dandy on the wall of my office. Thank you. And thank your grandmother for me.”
“I will, Senator Drake. She’ll be pleased to know how much you like it.”
Dave glanced around. He wondered if the Senator meant to hang the needlepoint in this particular office, where the walls were plastered with award certificates and diplomas interspersed with expensive looking oil paintings of hunt scenes.


----------



## Cliff Ball

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, when suddenly, 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, 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, pulled out his pistol, checking 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,"


----------



## Daniel Arenson

*FIREFLY ISLAND*
*a fantasy novel by Daniel Arenson*
*Page 99!*​
"It means nothing!" Grom said. "It's because of the ground man that Ket is now in prison."

Nepo looked sad. "I know it's hard, Grom. I love her too. She's like a daughter to me. But you can't condemn the boy to death for your grief. It's not his fault."

Grom turned his back on them. His fists clenched at his sides. "You did not see her when I found her, sister. You did not see how wet and frightened she was. I made a vow then. I vowed I'd kill anyone who harmed her again."
Roen took a deep breath. "Then you must kill Hyan Redfort," he said.

Grom spun around, his one eye blazing. "You speak high words for a ground man. Dangerous words. You will yet bring the Guard upon us."

"Are you afraid, Grom?" Roen asked. "Are you such kings of the rooftops that one of you is now in prison? But I'm not afraid, Grom. I want to free my father just as you want to free Ketya."

The crowd had grown silent around them. Roen feared he had gone too far, but then, he had nothing to lose now.

"What are you saying, ground man?" Grom demanded quietly.

"Only this: I will kidnap Hyan Redfort and make him free his prisoners. Then I will give him to you to deal with as you like."

The crowd stared at him.

"You're lying," Grom said.

"There are plenty of Esirens here. Ask any one to read my mind. I am not lying."

Grom drew a curved, silver-handled knife from his belt and leaned close. "If any harm comes to Ketya, ground man, if so much as a hair is torn from her head, don't think I'll be afraid to descend these roofs to find you. I will make you wish we had thrown you to the ground."

*Firefly Island at the Kindle store*

*Firefly Island Website*









​
​
​​


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## Victorine

What a fun idea! Here's my page 99: *Not What She Seems*

"If I wanted town gossip, I would ask Edna. She owns the diner, two blocks north of here. It's called Aunt Edna's."

Steven almost kissed her. "Thank you very much!" he said, in a loud whisper. He ran out of the library, forgot about the ice and almost became intimate with the sidewalk. He caught his balance, and skidded over to this car. He was sure Aunt Edna was the person he needed.

(It's the last page of Chapter 10. Here's the first page of Chapter 11... hope that's not cheating...)

Chapter Eleven

Aunt Edna's turned out to be a bright little fifty's style diner squeezed in-between a men's clothing store and a barber shop. When Steven walked in the door, he was glad to see most of the breakfast crowd had left. The smell of bacon and eggs reminded him that he had not eaten since lunch yesterday, so he sat down at the counter and looked at the menu on the wall. A red haired, middle-aged woman came over to him and smiled.

"What can I get for you, hon?" She peered at him over her half-spectacles.

"I'll have the bacon and egg breakfast platter," he said, taking note that her nametag said 'Aunt Edna' on it.

"How do you want your eggs, sweetie?"

"Scrambled, please."

"It'll be just a few minutes." Her eyes gave him the once over, then she turned her back and pinned a note to the order wheel.

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B003HS5LRO


----------



## Lexi Revellian

This is from *Remix*: http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B003Z4KBF2/ref=cm_cd_asin_lnk

"Why aren't you working, anyway?"

"Dental check up. I was practically passing your door on the way back to the bank, and thought if I asked you nicely you might make me a cup of your disgusting coffee."

I put the kettle on. Dog came in from the roof and wagged his tail at James, who patted him. "Did Ric bring him from abroad? No chance at all he's got a microchip and paperwork, I suppose? You realize he might be rabid?"

"Don't be silly, James, I've never seen a less rabid-looking dog."

He sat on the stool next to me. "Another reason I came by is I had a word with a barrister friend of mine - Rollo, I think you met him once at a party - and asked him about the penalty for obstructing justice and harbouring a fugitive. I told him I knew someone who was writing a thriller." James's blue eyes were bleak. "It's immediate custody, and a sentence of between twelve to eighteen months and four years, depending on mitigating circumstances. Caz, in your situation there aren't any mitigating circumstances."

The bathroom door opened. Ric appeared, clad only in a bath towel wrapped round his waist, clothes under his arm, recorder in hand.

"Hi," he said to James. He came over and helped himself to a handful of chocolate digestives. Ric had a serious biscuit habit. No one would guess this from his physique, most of which was currently on show. I noticed some nasty bruises on his arm and ribs, and wondered how he got them. Maybe he'd come off the bike. He said to me, "I'll bring the towel back up."

He disappeared down the stairs, Dog following him. There was the sort of silence usually described as pregnant. Probably with twins. At last James spoke.

"You let him use your bath?"

Lexi


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## D. Nathan Hilliard

The Ways of Khrem page 99

"That poor boy!" I meant it, too.
"They think it might be an old well since the boy said he fell into water, but they also said he claimed to have crawled out onto a ledge of some kind, so I don't know what it is. Regardless, they've been hearing less and less from him and there are a lot of reasons why that might be&#8230;and none of them are good. It's been almost an hour since they heard him last."
I nodded. Wet, cold and underground did not add up to a recipe for surviving very long&#8230;especially for a child. I probably knew more on that particular subject than anybody here. The heavy gray gloom of the day couldn't be a more appropriate setting for these proceedings.
This would probably not end well, if it wasn't over already.
We wandered over to where the servants were digging, and out of morbid curiosity, I looked down into the hole they were expanding.
They had dug a rather sizeable and deep shaft through difficult and stony ground, but I could see things were about to go from bad to worse. The top of bedrock showed through the soil at the bottom of the hole, and the ring of their spades confirmed it. They could continue on if they found some picks, but all meaningful progress would be coming to a halt&#8230;and with it, any last hopes of the boy's survival.
The two men pulled themselves out of the hole and went in search of picks, leaving Handell and I staring gloomily down into the earth.
The smell of wet soil rose from the cavity, uncomfortably reminiscent of a grave-which, I guess, is what it really turned out to be. Only this grave hadn't waited like others did; rather, it opened up on its own volition and engulfed a small boy while playing in his own garden. I wondered what the odds were of the parents being able to retrieve the body, or if they would just end up filling in the hole and putting a grave marker over it.
There existed a limit to what a couple of workers could do, even with picks.
I absentmindedly studied the smaller hole at the bottom of the pit that swallowed the child. It was a rotten way for a kid to leave this world. Dirt and roots framed the black orifice, liked cracked lips on a Turbruckian idol.
I frowned and squinted at the hole.
It _did _look like the mouth of a Turbruckian idol&#8230;as in, it had a certain rectangular quality to it. Another couple of seconds of examination, and I started to get a sneaking suspicion about what I was looking at.


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## Judi Coltman

*Is It Just Me? or Is Everyone a Little Nuts!*
http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_ss_i_0_12?url=search-alias%3Daps&field-keywords=judi+coltman&sprefix=judi+coltman

Another friend has a terrific son who, in his new-found freedom of college has found that sometimes there are consequences that are costly to say the least (and who among us hasn't been there?). And while she worries and frets over his choices, she knows in the end he will have to figure it out on his own. Let's face it, we
can only hope the lessons we imparted to our progeny manifest themselves at some point and our children become happy, law-abiding adults. Pray for happy - stress law-abiding because that opens up a whole new sub chapter of worry.
Children are challenges. Although the caliber of challenge differs from child to child and sometimes the challenges we are presented with feel insurmountable, giving up is never an option. As mothers, we NEVER give up on our children.	Last week a 21-year-old child died after fighting an insidious disease. His mother has had to face probably the most gut wrenching challenge one can face. After having her own stem cells harvested and transplanted to her son, she had to stand by while, in the end, it did not offer the miracle we had all hoped. Instead, she had to face that her child was going to die and support him through it until the end.
It's not in the Parent Manual. It's just what mother's do.


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## theaatkinson

cool. I'll play.

This a third of the way through One Insular Tahiti

I try to fool myself into believing I'm swimming during an Atlantic storm. Ah, but if only I didn't know I was dead. Dead men don't swim, waiting souls just wait. Still, the sensation of being buoyed persists, so I give in to it. The water is strangely warm, and I float on my back, letting the swells lift and let me go. A vibration moves through the water, through me, trembling like a heartbeat beneath water. Yes. A heartbeat. I hear it, and so I could be content pretending to swim, imagining tangles of rockweed beckon me from conjured rocks. Oh, yes, I could be happy, bounded in this watery nutshell, and count myself king of infinite space. Were it not that I have bad dreams.

The heartbeat comes faster. Thuds so hard, and strikes each moment so loudly that it could be mine. There's the sense that it's leaping into my throat, pounding to measure moments that are racing each other down, killing each other off. And it's this thought that makes me realize something is with me in the water. Waiting for me beneath the depths, in the dark places that light doesn't reach. The heart skips a beat, then holds onto the next one as though the thunk of it will go on for eternity. I peer hard into the shadows of the water. Come out, damn you. Come out. Show yourself.

A face looms up from below-- white, just the nose at first, then getting brighter, pinker, as it comes up. Sweet Jesus. If I could swallow, I would. If I could, I’d close my eyes. If I could scream. But it's okay. It's okay, man, get a grip. He's just a boy. Helmet trying to screw itself off his head. The mess of netting on the top is ragged, torn into shreds that wave in the water like seaweed. His eyes stare into mine, his gaze hard; his breath, when it comes, is hard. 

He's trying to speak: Help. That's what he's saying: help me. My stomach tries to rebel when I realize he's been shot through the throat. Suffering. His fingers scrabble for the crater in his neck, trying to close over the hole so he can create enough vacuum to speak.

"It's okay, Bobby," I hear someone whisper. The voice is shrill but quiet just the same. "Just lie still." 

There's the murmur of a group of men to my left. So the water may as well be gone, and the memory sharp enough to be living it again, on land. There’s no sound for a moment except my own ragged breathing. If I look up, I can see tree branches heavy with white blossoms. Apple blooms. Apple Orchard. But where are the birds, the butterflies? Then a cough answers the murmur. The abrupt sound of harsh laughter.

"Keep quiet." Comes the voice again, closer this time. Very close. I see a hand clamp down over Bobby's mouth. He struggles, trying to breathe, trying to get the hands off his mouth. Jesus, someone's killing him. Get off, I want to yell. Get the hell off, let him breathe, can't you see he's dying. "Keep still," Is what I hear, and I know it's from the owner of that hand. "Keep fucking still." The struggles go on forever and then...and then he is still. 

What sound comes, comes as though it passes through water. My ears are clogged with liquid. My heart beats once more and is amplified like the sound is traveling through the salt water of a Canso tide.

When next I see Bobby's face, his mouth is white in ridges where the fingers were. A fly enters his nose, another flitters across his skin then takes to the air without a sound. No, God, no, not again. I squeeze my eyes shut. There’s the stink of sweat from men fallen when the hiking is done and the fighting has descended on them, but I know if I stay here long enough, the smell of decay will arrive, bringing with it the fetid odor of sulfur. But for now the smell of apples is all around me in the orchard. Real or imagined, doesn't matter. It's here.

Here. No longer a landscape of orchards and soldiers, but this damned deadened sea that begins to feel as if the tides are growing shorter. I should see a moon, a sun, birds. I don't. I see everything as through closed lids, with a hint of color and shape, but nothing solid. I hate this here. I hate knowing that this here commands me. Ah, but then the only way out is to find the physical. And there is the rub. 

I don't want out anymore. Not if it means traveling to this place--this orchard--again, because that life that was me helped Bobby die. If there is something in that memory that I must see to find physicality--if that's my coin laid on the ferryman's palm, then I won't revisit it. I'll curl into a fetal position if I must, squeeze shut anything that remotely passes for eyes in this here, and I'll pretend there is nothing else. No God. No physical. No reason to continue.
Because if this is all there is—life after life meant only as some sort of evolutionary purpose, to bring us from mucus to monkey to man, then I'd rather have nothing.


----------



## purplepen79

"Prince Segar seems to like it," Eden said.

"Royalty oft has a peculiar taste for the common. Just don't keep up the habit after you're through with him."

She gave an impatient shrug, putting the lid back on the rouge pot with a clatter. "Or he's through with me. You seem to forget that princes discard their mistresses, not the other way around."

"You're hardly his mistress, Eden, and thank God for it."

She looked at me oddly. "But I thought that's what you wanted--a royal mistress in the House of Landers. The influence the Landers could have through me . . ."

"Is exactly the kind of influence we don't want," I interrupted. "Having a royal mistress in the House is like having the most bountiful harvest in a fallow year. Everyone's jealous gaze would be fixed on the Landers, and some would try to seed our fields with salt. We never want to be the most favored at court--the most favored are the ones most likely to lose their heads when the winds of fortune shift. If he starts giving you jewels and having his minstrels write songs about you, I'll send you away to the Sarneth court. Do you understand?"

Eden nodded as she picked up a perfume bottle. "I suppose."

"I'd rather you'd never attracted his eye in the first place, but since you have, we might as well make use of it." I stepped forward and pulled out the letter she had given me yesterday. "Here, that reminds me. Put this back where you found it."

"Is it what I thought?"

"Yes, and worse. Our prince is bribing the poor Bishop for the secrets told him in confession."

Eden laughed. "I have no doubt he's learning much--about cheating for coppers and overindulging on watered wine. Who confesses to the Bishop but virtuous fools like Cyril?" She pulled the stopper out of the bottle and began to dab perfume on her bare shoulders and between her breasts.

The faint scent of roses filled the air. Rose water. I choked on the smell, remembering how Arilea would get up naked from our bed and go directly to the washstand where she kept a bottle of the stuff.


----------



## Greenkeeper

Roughly 1/3rd of the way through Tales from the Green Book One: The Magic Flute.










"How can someone whose job is based around humans never have seen one?" Alex asked.

"Well, your kind doesn't come through the Green much anymore."

"And yet they have a whole government agency to deal with them," Riley pointed out with obvious disdain.

"It wasn't always like this. In the old days, back when my great-great-grandfather founded the DHA, humans were much more common in the Green. Oh, there were never that many, all said, but still, they managed to cause quite a stir when they showed up. Most wandered in lost and wandered right back out again without even realizing what had happened, but some stayed, and those warranted monitoring. They were adventuring types, mostly, come to slay monsters and find treasure and such. Why, there was even said to be a human city at one time, but it&#8230;well&#8230;"

"What happened?"

"The dragon happened," Riley answered.

"Correct," replied Edmund. "When the dread dragon Ssvalith appeared in the Green, he was particularly harsh to any humans he found. Some say there was a prophecy that it would be a human who would slay him, and so after&#8230;dealing with most of the humans in the Green, he destroyed many of the Mistgates that led to your world to keep more from coming through. It was quite awhile before any more of your people managed to find your way here."

"A prophecy?" Alex asked.

"You haven't heard of the prophecy?" Edmund asked in wonder. "Oh, well, I guess if you're new here you might have not. It was the human wizard Kezerik, some nine hundred or so years ago, who foretold that a great evil would one day come to the Green, and it would be a human hero by the name of Alexander who would...hey, isn't your name Alex? I don't suppose that's short for Alexander? I wonder if there is a connection&#8230;" The gnome trailed off and began writing more notes.


----------



## CIBond

1/3 of the way.

    “I’m not fragile.”  My pride grumbled, just recovering from a case of temporary leprosy and dealing with being kidnapped by the Twice Damned.  Give me a few hours and I’ll be just fine.  I let out an annoyed huff, really what did they expect.
    “I need her there, if we don’t recover the flash-drive or get evidence that the Assembly took it, Seattle won’t continue. Besides it isn’t your call, she doesn’t belong to you.  She belongs to me.”
    My head snapped up.  “What?  When were you going to tell me about this?”  I glared at Julian.
    “Ah, when you were calmer and maybe had a drink in your hands?”  Julian winced and then glared at Michael.  
    Michael snorted.  “If Mr. Abbey told you the truth you would have run.  As I recall you declined to show up even with a half-truth.  Would you like to call it a job offer then?  You can assist my lieutenants?”  
    “There is a difference between working for someone and being their property.”  
    “Not in my world.”
    “So they belong to you?”  I looked at Julian and Fredrick.
    “They aren’t human.  All humans here belong to me.”  Michael’s voice was calm and a little patronizing.  
    My mind flashed back to a conversation I had with Julian and I turned unconsciously toward him.  “I thought humans weren’t property here?”
    Michael looked at Julian and folded his hands.  “Perhaps you should clarify, Julian.”
    Julian looked a little unsettled and turned to Michael.  “This isn’t the way to do this, you will frighten her unnecessarily.”
    Michael’s eyes were starting to dilate.  “We don’t have the luxury of a long… courtship.  Please explain or I will find another party to be responsible for her well being.”
    I winced.  This was not going well.
    Julian turned to me and smiled.  He reached out and started stroking the back of my arm.  “Ah, all humans belong to the bank rather than individual Sang.  But, Michael is the exception in the arrangement because he is the bank so in affect… all humans belong to him.”
    I shook my head.  This really did sound like medieval Europe.  “So he can just take whoever he wants?”  The phrase ‘droit de seigneur’ leapt into my mind but I squished it down firmly.  I had enough to panic about without letting my imagination adding to it.
    “Normally it isn’t announced quite so blatantly but Mr. Abbey was the one who found you and he didn’t do it for personal reasons so…”  Julian trailed off and looked away.
    I swallowed heavily and wrapped my arms around myself trying to bring this new situation into focus.  I rocked slightly in the chair.  I had an uncomfortable feeling that running from the Sang would be a lot harder than getting away from Trackers.
    “There are places where the humans don’t all belong to the prince.”  Michael’s voice was softer this time.  “It is better this way.”
    “So there are limits on what you can ask.”  I wanted to be clear on this point.
    “Not by law but by practice.  Yes.  I will only ask those things of you that are for the sake of the common good.”  Michael’s lips twitched as if he knew exactly what I was thinking.
    I let out a small relieved sigh.  It would be hard to come up with a creative reason why group orgies would be for the common good or any of the other things I was worried about.  Maybe this would just be like a very demanding job, on the other hand what did I think working for a Dark Other would be like?


----------



## daringnovelist

From HAVE GUN, WILL PLAY









"The church fair," whispered Miss Clara. She went to the window and pointed. I looked and saw a sign in the store window across the way. I'd been looking at it all night but hadn't paid it any mind because we were just passing through. You couldn't make out much, except _Fairville Fair_ across the top half of the sign. Maybe somebody thought that was clever. I would have tried to come up with something else to call it.
"And they've got a puppet show?" I asked, because I couldn't see the details on that sign.
"According to the woman who cleans the rooms," said Miss Clara. "I heard her talking to Tyson...."
Laurie looked impatient and tugged at my sleeve.
"Have you ever seen a puppet show?" said Laurie.
"No, I haven't," I said.
"Then you have to go."
"Please, Mr. McKee," said Clara, still whispering. "You said you were glad to oblige us in coming here in the first place. And coming this way saves a day or two, doesn't it? So we can spare a few hours."
Miss Clara put a hand on my other arm and looked at me, and there I was flanked by two unhappy ladies, so what could I do?
Besides, I didn't see why not. I'd have to look at the map again to see how far the next likely town was, but it seemed to me it was less than a full day away. And then if we really were being followed, it might throw the other guys off if we pretended we were going to stay another day, and then we took off just before lunch.
"Okay, on one condition," I said. "If we're going to take chances...."
"It isn't really a chance, is it?"
"Maybe not, but you can help me make sure it isn't by keeping a watch out for people who look suspicious. Or maybe just familiar."
"Well, all right," she said. She didn't look alarmed, and I hoped that it worked out as a clever way of asking her about those two guys without actually making her nervous. If they followed us, she would see them, and if she knew anything about them, she would tell me. And if she didn't know them, she wouldn't think anything about it until I told her--or they did something.


----------



## JumpingShip

Try as he might, he couldn't think of another positive thing. Hell, he hardly had more than the clothes on his back and less than a thousand dollars in his pocket. 
Maybe he could start a little photography business in Madison. He would have to get another job to save some money to get more equipment. His throat clenched at that thought. It was like losing part of himself. Being a photographer wasn't just what he did, it was who he was.

The FBI had taken some of his equipment he knew, and probably all of his files. They had certainly gone through them all, but where they were now was anyone's guess. The other equipment though, like his backdrops and lights, probably hadn't been part of the investigation. Would they give any of it back to him? He hadn't been guilty of anything. He didn't have the first clue who to call to find out where his things had gone.
Mark wondered if his parents had any idea where it all might be. He rolled over, closing his eyes as he settled into the lavender scented comforter. Inhaling deeply, he smiled. As a teen, he had hated the smell. It was too girly and even his dad had backed him on that, but his mom always insisted the aroma would help him sleep. As he drifted off, he concluded she was right.

* * *
_
His shoulders ached and Mark gritted his teeth, trying to rise up in his toes enough to ease the pressure. How long would they leave him here this time? Bill circled him, a mocking grin stretched across his face.

"You know what we want. Come on, Mark. Who are you protecting? Is it worth it?"

He tried to gasp out an answer, but it was so hard to talk and concentrate with his shoulders aching so badly. "I'm not protecting anyone. I don't have anything to tell you. I swear it."

Bill reached up and yanked on something, tightening the rope. Mark groaned. "Stop!" Head hanging down, he panted. "Please...just...stop!"

_
* * *

"Mark? Are you okay, son?"

A hand shook his shoulder and Mark bolted up. "What?" His heart raced as he took in the golden sunlight that filled the room. He sagged back against the pillow. It had been a dream. It was too real; like he was back in the interrogation room. Mark ran a shaky hand through his hair, then scrubbed his eyes. His shoulder still ached and he rotated it. He must have been lying on it wrong.

His dad stood beside the bed, his eyes lit with worry. "What's going on? You were yelling."

Mark shook his head. "Nothing. Just a bad dream." He didn't meet his eyes. "I'm fine."
"You don't sound fine."

"It's nothing, Dad." He winced at the hard tone in his voice as he swung his legs over the side of the bed. Taking a moment, he rested his elbows on his thighs, hands dangling, as he tried to get his body to stop shaking. "What time is it?" He dared to look up, hoping that he didn't appear as rattled as he felt.

His dad gave him a long look before answering, "About seven-thirty.Your mom is making some breakfast. It should be ready in about fifteen minutes."

Mark wasn't sure he could eat with his stomach twisted up like a pretzel, but he pasted on a smile. "Sounds good. I'll be down soon." Standing, he stretched, wincing as pain lanced through his shoulder.

"You okay?" His dad nodded towards Mark's shoulder. "What's wrong?"

"I must have slept on it funny, that's all." That was true enough even though he didn't think his shoulders would ever be the same as they had been. The joints just weren't designed to hold all of a man's weight, especially when pulled at unnatural angles.


----------



## TWErvin2

From *Flank Hawk* (see signature at bottom for links to Kindle and print edition):

_(Full sentence stretching onto top of page 99, print edition)_ Road Toad wasn't and his alert observations and determined stride told me trouble was on our tail. It had to be more than a lurker or two from the shadows. The muffled rattle of gear and splash of footsteps kept pace a ways behind us. I wondered why Road Toad didn't want to turn and face those following us. I figured he was trying to lose them or find the right place to slip behind them.

I was wrong. We came down the main road and took the branch that led to the north stairs. The rain was steady now, and I wondered how slippery the thick wooden stair-planks would be. Heights didn't bother me and, although the stairs narrowed where they twice doubled back as they climbed the cliff face, a sturdy railing ensured even the most clumsy wouldn't fall.

I'd have felt better with my crossbow or spear instead of a sword. At least on the stairs, especially if those following outnumbered us, it would be to our advantage-unless they had javelins or bows.

We reached the stairs. Both Road Toad and I looked back when we started to climb. Four men wearing dark garments had taken the fork to the north steps too.

Road Toad spit over the railing. "This could get interesting," he said quietly as we began tromping up the worn steps, with me to his left next to the cliff.

"There's only four," I said, knowing we'd been in far worse situations. I'd rather face four men than two battle trained ogres anytime.

"For now," he said. "They're not armed as thieves, and I'm not sure they're intent on killing us." We reached the first double back on the stairs. "I think I have an idea who might be waiting for us at the top."

"At the top?" I asked, looking down at the four men who'd reached the stairs and began to climb. "Who?"

"You've met Colonel Brizich?"

I nodded, and peered up through the rain, toward the top of the cliff. "He doesn't think much of me."

Road Toad grinned. "I've never been popular with him either. Long story. But the short end of it is, since you're linked to me, you'll never be, well, popular with him."

"Grand Wizard Seelain doesn't like him," I said. "They exchanged words in the imperial seer's chamber." We reached the second double back. I took a couple of deep breaths to relax. Thinking of Wizard Seelain reminded me how poorly I fought with my sword against goblins on the battlefield. She'd come to my rescue then. I didn't expect the same from her tonight.

We were nearing the top. "If things go bad," said Road Toad, "make a break for it."

"No way I'll abandon you."

"If I'm right, this is about my past. You-"

I slapped him on the shoulder, and interrupted him. "I know I'm not much with a sword, but I'm your aft-guard, right?"

"Ha Ha," he laughed loudly. "Let's see what awaits us."

We reached the top and off the stairs, onto the wooden _(end of page 99)_ platform.


----------



## Holly A Hook

*Excerpt from TEMPEST:*

She nodded, begging her quivering chin to stop. No joke. This nightmare was all the truth.

"Did she try to come after you?"

No point in hiding this anymore. "Y&#8230;yes. At the hospital and at school."

Her father swore and paced across the living room as if shot out of a cannon. "That's never good news. I never should've taken you to the hospital."

Janelle barely heard her own words. "Dad, it wasn't your fault. You didn't know she'd be there. I went back after you said no. So it's mine." Busted, but who cared? She needed to change the subject before she broke down crying.

No lecture. No break. "She'll want you to kill as many people as possible," her dad said, ashen. "And she has ways to force you. We leave for the Bahamas tomorrow. I'm booking the first flight. Gary, you're coming with us. There's a few Tempest families down that way that might be willing to hide you." He stepped towards Janelle. "Now we can't risk delaying your transformation another day. I only want you to do what you have to do. But if Andrina finds you-"

"I'm not taking this trip!" Janelle's voice screamed in her own ears. "I'm not going to level a city or drown a bunch of people."

Her father's voice shook as he fumbled for words. "Don't be afraid, Janelle. It's not the senseless killing that you think it is. It's a noble duty and we have a purpose to fulfill. When you change, you get a whole new perspective. It's an experience you can't imagine."

Stomach heaving, she backed away and bumped into the kitchen table. Noble duty? Was he out of his mind? "Get away from me!"

The table lurched several inches and the truck keys jingled on it. There. Her ticket out of here. Janelle seized them and bolted for the front door. It would have to be the truck after all.

"Janelle, please listen to me." Her dad pressed himself against the door. "There're things you don't understand. You'll feel better when I explain everything to you."

"I've heard enough!" Okay, escape. She needed one, and now. The kitchen window was only a few feet away. Waving to Gary, she ran for it. "Come on!"

Her dad's mouth dropped open as he ran for her, but Gary jumped in front of him. They crashed and hit the wall.

"Go, Janelle!" Gary shouted.


----------



## Basil Sands

Page 99 From Faithful Warrior

He'd heard many bad stories in the past of being a black man found alone in a backwoods like this one by men who hadn't accepted the civil rights laws of fifty years earlier. Billy had been in many scary places and survived a lot of violent altercations. His only fear though, one that had even crept into his nightmares, was being kidnapped by a bunch of neo-Nazi militia nuts with a mind to lynch him. He pressed the accelerator and forced himself on.

A mile further he slowed. A dingy, faded plywood sign hung from a tree. He made out large but barely legible numbers 482. The sign looked ancient, like a leftover from prohibition. The lane that turned off Stouderman had tall grass growing up from its center, bounded by hard packed ruts, from which nothing grew, worn smooth by years of vehicles and tractors making their way back to the farm.
Billy drove up the road, through thick trees and past long abandoned fields. It was the kind of place he imagined some hillbilly types in blue coveralls might be working a still and sipping moonshine from mason jars with long double barreled shotguns across their laps.

At the end of the winding driveway the property opened up to a wide expanse at one side of which stood a tall, very old looking barn. The wood of its walls was a faded, lifeless looking gray. The structure canted unsteadily to one side like the Leaning Tower of Pisa. It definitely looked unsafe to enter.

Billy sat in the van and assessed the area. He turned off the engine, rolled down the window and listened in silence. He made mental notes of the details of the surroundings before getting out. A pile of rotted and molding firewood stood next to the barn. Weeds burst out from between the logs like shocks of wild of hair. Behind that lay a stack of old planks. The grass around the barn and along the boundaries of the drive way stood straight and tall, unbroken. There were no overturned leaves, no broken soil, no signs of human presence that he could make out. No one had been here in a long time.

He listened to the birds settle back into the songs. A squirrel chirped loudly at the end of the dried grassy field as a woodpecker noisily drummed its food from a tree somewhere in the distance. A rabbit darted out of a stack of warped gray lumber near the barn. The creature moved with awe inspiring speed and dexterity as it sprinted halfway across the field, faded to the left like pro-football player then shot into the woods where it vanished into the brush. The natural movement and sound of the animals was enough to satisfy him that he was alone. They did not sense danger in the air, there was nobody moving around in the area, at least no one the animals knew of. He was certain he had not been followed, but Billy always went on the side of caution. That was what had kept him alive for more than ten years in this business.


----------



## Erik Handy

The Malice Below

"Seven months ago," he began, "my wife and I were on a team with him. We were investigating a deserted New Mexican pueblo that had possible ties to 'el chupacabra.' Martin believed we found a nest.

"We came across a hidden cave and we plunged deeper, seeing more and more signs of animal remains the further we went.

"We weren't equipped for such a search so my wife and I wanted to leave and come back when we were prepared.

"The old man refused. He threatened to not pay us. We should've walked away, but my wife and I were about to start a family and we needed every spare penny.

"So we went on.

"Part of the cave collapsed. He and I were the only ones who made it out alive."

Cole eventually drifted back to the present. Kim let him. She really felt bad for him. She couldn't imagine loving someone so much and then to lose that person in an avoidable tragedy.

"I'm so sorry," Kim said. She sympathetically caressed his arm.

"There may be monsters out there," Cole said, nodding out at the ocean. "But I know for sure there's one on this boat."

Something tugged at the back of her head. She ignored it. "If he knew how much he hurt you, then why did he invite you on this expedition?"


----------



## Archer

From _Fire-heart_:

Those souls selected to lure the trolls would have to be able to do so without being killed, and they would have to succeed in getting them all in the chamber together. Then the dwarves would block them in, and signal those on the outside to turn the light upon them. Hopefully, those of the Company who were also blocked inside would be able to evade the trolls until then.

Orogond was uneasy as he thought of it. Gaelen and Nelwyn were logical choices, as the trolls would not be able to resist chasing them, and they were swift and agile as well as skilled with the bow. Nelwyn, in fact, might possibly take one or two of the trolls even before the advent of the light. Yet something might go awry...what if the plan did not work? In that event, Gaelen and Nelwyn would be blocked in a small chamber with angry trolls-trolls out of D'hanar! And that was another question: who could say whether these trolls, spawned in that evil realm, did not possess unique capabilities? What if they were unaffected by sunlight? It was not impossible. Orogond had learned to never become complacent, assuming that things would happen the way he expected them to. There were things in Alterra about which he knew nothing, about which he could not even speculate, and against which he had no hope of prevailing.

He turned to Fima, who was now looking rather intently at him as though he could sense Orogond's trepidation. 'Do not fear, Orogond,' he said. 'These trolls may be out of D'hanar, but I sense they are not so powerful, or no Dwarf would yet dwell beneath these mountains. Your plan will prevail.' He drew thoughtfully on his pipe. 'It is not your destiny to die here, Aridan. Nor will it be mine, or Gaelen's. There will be a satisfactory ending, you will see. Beori's folk are clever and steadfast. They will not fail us.'

'Ah, Fima my friend. I am grateful that you place such trust in me,' said Orogond. 'Yet I am troubled. The simpler a plan is, the more likely it will succeed. This plan is not simple-there are many ways in which it could fail.'

'How little faith you have in yourself, Orogond! Your plan really is quite simple. You just need to be certain that everyone is in the right place at the right time. When it is over, you will have all you desire from Beori. He will probably lead you to Hallagond himself, if he can!' Fima was silent for a moment, then looked over at Gaelen's contented form. 'She will want the task of luring the trolls, you know,' he said. 'And I can think of no one better. She and Nelwyn will both be chosen.'

'I know, Fima. Believe me, I have known since the plan was made. She will want this task, and she will think it is a game, but it is not. This is a game where she makes only a few of the rules...the rest will be made for her. And if the plan fails, she and Nelwyn will be lost.'
'Yes, I should suppose they will be, but then we must make certain that the plan does not fail. Above all else,' said the dwarf, blowing sweet blue smoke through his white beard, 'we must keep them both from the honey-jar!'
␣


----------



## SuzanneTyrpak

Fun! Here's page 99 of the novel I'm rewriting now, *Vestal Virgin*

_When all hope has fled, and the empty heart meets its desire, 
Filling that void-that-that is the heart's greatest joy._

"Burying your nose in work?" Angerona strolled into the library, the veils of her suffibulum wafting on the breeze. 
Elissa slammed shut the book of poetry. "Copying legal documents."
"What are you reading?" Angerona extracted the book from Elissa's hands. "Poems of Catullus. Reading about love. Wouldn't you prefer to practice?" She plunked herself into the curule chair reserved for the Vestal Maxima. 
"That's Mother Amelia's chair" Elissa said.
"So?"
"Do you hold nothing in reverence?"
Angerona wrapped an escaped strand of hair around her forefinger. "I hold you in reverence," she said. "I revere your ability to shut yourself away on such a day as this. Come out and celebrate."
"We're no longer children. I have work to finish." Elissa reached for her stylus. 
"I've been a prisoner here since the age of seven. Remember the day you showed up?" Angerona kicked Elissa's shin. 
Elissa kicked her back. "We were both nine."
"I was nine and a half," Angerona corrected her. "Your elder by six months. You were so scared you p*ssed yourself."
"I didn't." Elissa reached for a page of papyrus and dipped her pen into the ink. "In any case, that was ten years ago. We're women now."


----------



## Maria Romana

Page 99 from _Little Miss Straight Lace_:

A gentleman would never lose control, no matter how much his anger raged inside-like with Linda, for example. Of course, neither did Nic want to be judgmental; nobody had ever bashed any of his sisters' heads into a wall.
"Nic. Buddy. Walk with me," said Shawn, as Nic approached. But before commencing the walk, Shawn looked back behind Nic, as if ensuring that they were alone. And as they started ambling down one of the yellow-striped halls, he lowered his voice. "It was those f***in' Warriors, Nic."
"What?"
"The Warriors of God-can you believe it? I thought they were full of sh**. I mean, I brought you guys in to cover my ass, ya know, because I have to do those things. But I never really thought anything would happen, and now...sh*t. My sister." He mussed his red curls with the fingers of his bloody-knuckled hand.
"Wait a minute, Shawn. What are you saying? You think the Warriors did this? Why? Did they send another email? Leave a message? What?"
"It was all over the joint. They covered the walls with it-in blood, no less. Red paint, anyway. 'Murderers', 'Baby Killers', 'Hand of Satan', that kind of sh*t, and 'Warriors of God', all in dayglow red. And they tore up the lab. Destroyed all kinds of research, specimens, data. Smashed up the computers-not that the stuff at the Women's Center was worth a d*mn."
Nic was shaking his head. "But I do not understand. Did they-what about the security?"
"It's a non-profit, Nic. They don't have the money for all that high-tech stuff. They just had a basic key lock, but the weird thing is, there was no sign of forced entry. Diana said the door was locked when she got there, and she locked it again behind her. She's sure of it."
"Well, key locks are not very challenging to overcome," Nic said, running his hand through his hair. "Still it...it sounds so strange. I am telling you-it is not the style of these groups to do that sort of thing. Wanton violence? Beating up a nurse? Sounds more like gang-bangers in L.A. than an organized protest effort. I will have to ask Robert's opinion, of course, but especially what they did to Diana-that is really not in keeping with their principles."
"They have principles?" Shawn sneered.


----------



## Basil Sands

Page 99 from 65 Below

"You will have to question him later Trooper. He can't take too much right now."
"It can't wait," Wyatt responded, then switched back to Korean, "What is your name?"
"Lieutenant Ho Jik Hyun." He muttered. Red froth foamed at the edge of his lips.
"Lieutenant in what?" she asked, "Are you in the Army?"
"Peoples Army." He replied.
Wyatt snapped her eyes to the other Trooper. 
"Harland, you'd better get the chief over here. Tell him this guy is North Korean."
Harland stepped out into the hallway pulling his radio close to his lips.
A beeper went off on the medication meter connected to his IV. The nurse pressed a button to stop the noise. A message flashed on the small LCD screen on the device.
_"Medication Empty. Replace Vial."_
"Oh my God." Exclaimed the nurse, tension rising fast in her voice. "He's swelling. We have to loosen this strap ASAP."
Nurse Rosen motioned to Wyatt. 
"Trooper, help me here. Hold him up so he doesn't tip over while I loosen this strap a little."
Wyatt put her hands on his shoulders to keep him from falling forward as the nurse unbuckled the strap across his mid-section, which held his wrists tightly to the bed. She then started to do the same for the one across his chest. 
The man groaned deeply as the pressure was released.
The nurse released the buckle from the metal pin that had held it tight and started to slide the buckle to the next hole in the leather strap when suddenly the man's right arm flew up in a blur of motion. He threw the loosened strap off and pounded the side of his fist in a hammer blow straight into Wyatt's forehead. 
Trooper Wyatt reeled backwards. She crashed into the heating unit under the windowpane. 
Lieutenant Ho brought his fist back with equal speed and delivered a crushing punch to the nurse's chest. The young woman crumpled to the ground, a rush of air leaving her lungs in a great whoosh. She toppled over unconscious.
Harland and Edwards burst into the room at the noise. They rushed towards the patient on the bed. Lieutenant Ho ripped the IV tube from the machine that metered his medication, stuck it into his mouth, and blew hard into the end.
The Troopers leapt onto Ho to hold him down. Edwards squeezed on the blood vessels that crossed under the armpit in an attempt to stop the air bubbles from entering Ho's heart and killing him. As hard as he pressed Edwards felt not one but several small bubbles pass under his hand, through the blood vessel. 
Wyatt tried to stand and help but was overcome by dizziness and slipped back down to the floor. The room spun around her.
Lieutenant Ho's body convulsed. His face twisted in a grotesque mask of pain. He screamed a terrible shriek, and then went into spastic convulsions. His body suddenly went rigid, eyelids stretched wide open staring into space. Ho's face turned a deep purple. His eyes rolled up in their sockets and he slumped back into the bed.
The heart monitor sounded an even steady tone.


----------



## FrankZubek

Page 99 from the last story Unfinished Lives, from the collection: Empath: Horror Stories

Stevens continued being confused that he was thinking differently than he usually would.
That’s when it struck him. He had access to this woman’s thoughts! Somehow, his spirit had jumped-for lack of a better word-into her body. Or maybe she had brushed against his body during the process of taking the pictures. However it had happened, his spirit, or his soul, was a host within her body. 

If he could gain some sort of mobility while he was here, maybe he could get her to go back to the scene. Or better, if he could continue to jump from body to body, he might be able to stay in the area and gather what information he could. Who had shot him? Could he find them? Maybe he would be able to gain access to the bodies of the men assigned to bring them in. And then…. 

And then…

Shoot them? Katie suddenly came to mind. Poor Kate. And Nathan. He would never see his family again. It wasn’t fair. But that’s life. People die and people get shot. It happens nearly every day. But he was in a position to do something about it. So, yes. An eye for an eye was warranted. It would balance things out. It wouldn’t bring him back, but it would be fair.

He wish he knew more about this afterlife phenomenon. His wife, Kate, had been the one who had read books on the afterlife. She would have some sort of clue as to what was happening. In fact she had talked about it with him in bed once in awhile but he typically was too tired and usually fell asleep on her. Right now he’d give anything to have listened to even half of what she had been saying because he could sure use the knowledge now!

His thoughts raced as he tried to think of a way for this woman, whos body he was occupying, to go back to the crime scene. 

There has to be way!

That’s when Benson reached out and accepted Crowell’s handshake.
**

“How are you Benson?” I asked her. 

“I’m good. You?”

“I’m okay, Thanks. What’s going on?”

“ATM victim from the looks of it. Two shots fired. Looks like he might have put up a small struggle.”

“Okay, thanks. You take it easy, huh?” I said as I headed towards the crime scene. As I got closer, my heart seemed to be racing with excitement. I found this strange since a murder scene had never had that kind of effect on me before. Well, there were a few times when I knew the person but it still didn’t beat the way it was now.


----------



## Jan Hurst-Nicholson

But Can You Drink The Water?


"That's done it," said Frank flatly.
Mavis glanced nervously at the lions. At that moment she didn't know of whom she was more afraid. There was no chance of them making a dash for it. Not that her Mam was up to dashing anywhere with her feet. And the only time her Dad moved faster than a slippered shuffle was when he’d overdone the senna pods.
"Maybe the car'll start," she whispered hopefully, avoiding Frank's stony accusing stare. She held her breath while he turned the key. But the ominous click told them the engine was as dead as Aunt Lil. The midday sun was blazing down and the car was already like a sweatbox.
“Have another go, Frank,” she urged. But the silence was broken only by the chirruping buzz if the cicadas.
“It’s no good. The battery’s flat.”
“Hey, our Mavis. Why’ve we stopped?” Walter had been regretting that second cup of tea even before they’d entered the  park.
“Car’s stalled,” muttered a scowling Gerry, wedged sullenly between his grandparents in the back seat.
“That wasn’t very clever, Frank,” Gert told him, prodding his shoulder with a bony, arthritic finger.
Frank winced. He cast around for signs of a game ranger, or other visitors foolhardy enough to venture out in the stifling heat. But they were alone. Except for the lions, eyeing them expectantly from the shade of a tree.
“Let’s try rockin’ it,” he suggested. “Might get the connections touching, or start it rolling. There’s a bit of a slope. Everybody jump up and down.”


----------



## Jan Hurst-Nicholson

The Breadwinners

Phyllida had assumed that marriage would be followed by motherhood, and when children were not forthcoming she was at a loss, her purpose in life undefined. Maybe it was her fault there were no children. Perhaps it was because her body never experienced the wildly erotic responses she'd heard it was supposed to when a man and woman made love. Lovemaking, she thought ruefully, was not all it was cracked up to be. All the anticipation and `saving herself' had been for what?  When she did begin to feel the faint stirrings of arousal deep inside her it would all be over and Benjamin lying spent beside her wanting to know if she'd enjoyed it. What could she say? It wasn't as though it was a particularly unpleasant experience, it just left her terribly unsatisfied, as if she wasn't a participant, or there should have been more to it.
Laurence sensed her dissatisfaction. The windows were left open during the hot humid summer, and the bedroom walls were thin enough that he could hear that his sister-in-law did not make the wild passionate sounds his own lovemaking aroused in the girls he picked up in the local bars, sounds that unknown to him came as part of the payment.
Laurence's uninvited attentions worried Phyllida. The way he sidled up and slipped his arm around her asking for a sisterly kiss, pushing himself against her in a way that there was no mistaking his real intentions, his hot hands rubbing up and down her arm, his thumbs pressing into her breast, a vulgar grin on his face. 
He always seemed to be lying in wait for her, and she felt she had no privacy. Benjamin was too wrapped up in his work to notice, and she dare not bring it to his attention for fear of causing trouble between them.


----------



## Gertie Kindle

Historical Fiction/Romance - $2.99

"Your Grace," he addressed Anne, "surely there is someone who can be trusted to care for the boy. I know that, after yourself, Mistress Catherine is the best qualified, but you will need her in London more than Edward will need her here."

Anne opened her mouth to protest, but Kyle forestalled her with a raised hand. "You have not been at Court in a long time, and there is always turmoil and upheaval when a new king is to be crowned, especially a twelve year old king. You will need someone close to you that can be trusted completely."

Anne hesitated for a moment, then nodded her assent. "Your words make good sense, Sir. It shall be as you say. I trust that we can count on your escort?"

"It will be my honor." Kyle grinned to himself at another victory won over the royal witch. "You must be anxious to receive the private message from your husband, so with your leave, I will escort Mistress Catherine wherever she needs to go."

Not waiting for an answer, Kyle offered his arm to Catherine and swept her from the room before Anne could change her mind.
* * *
Kyle snuck a look at Catherine as he hurried her down the stairs. Her head was lowered, and she was biting her lower lip, but her cheeks were flushed with pleasure. Kyle couldn't help himself and laughed out loud as they reached the hall.

For once, Catherine let herself go and gave way to a fit of giggles. She knew she should chastise Kyle for taking over the way he did, but she was too elated at the chance to see London. Catherine's joy was short-lived, however, as Sir Blaise came down the stairs.

"I'm sorry to interrupt, Mistress Catherine, but the Duchess requires your presence immediately."


----------



## altworld

The Tether: None Good by Nick Davis (p99)

The Dark walked past the groveling man the ground smoldering under the figures footsteps, leaving a trail black ichor fizzing behind it,  "No, we need time to recover from the last indice, we are not ready, for now we watch, and we still have the time to strike decisively. Let the boy to lead us to his lair.” 
“And if she learns how to use the Tether?” offered the prostrated man.
“No, we think with our old friend Clarence now little more than furcifer, we doubt the Asinus will have the time or skill help her unlock the source before we take it from her.” said the Dark.
“Master, we should stop her now.” said the groveling man raising his head.
“Tace atque abi STULTUS!” the Dark stopped and turned a puddle of dark bubbling liquid forming where it stood.
“Do not ever question us, you worm, you Vermus... Everything that you are… Everything that you could be will be because of us allowing it.”
“I am sorry master.” the now sniveling figure bowed his head back down.
“We wait, we watch little worm, remember your place.” said the Dark.
“Good plan Master, and then?” crawled the now prostrate man.
“Then we shall pick our moment when they get to his lair; he cannot hide her for long the device is too powerful and attracts to much attention to those that can see it. For now we must gather our strength back from your pitiful animus.” said the Dark before turning to leave.
The groveling figure kept his head bowed until the smoldering footsteps walked off and he was sure he as left alone. He licked his cracked lips and looked around furtively at the shadows.
“Perhaps, if I just nudge her out of his Lair then? It would make it easier?” he asked to air and paused as if listening to an answer, 
“Yes, a little nudge will help my Master complete our task and then my reward will be greater.”

To read more on your favorite eBook device click the links for The Tether: None Good in my signature below...


----------



## Dawn McCullough White

From Cameo the Assassin:

"My parents used to tell me stories about you when I was a little boy.  Well, a rhyme really about how you killed children who didn't go to bed on time."
Cameo smirked.  "Well, not all the time, you know. I did have to work for a living."
He cracked a smile, awed by her infamy.  He knew he shouldn't be feeling quite so impressed by her murderous status.
"I think Black Opal knows that rhyme, don't you Opal?"
Opal glowered back at the two of them.
"Perhaps you might indulge us with a couple lines?"  She turned as he passed by, "I believe you mentioned it was a song about me living in cemeteries or something?"
"We're all going to be living in a cemetery if we don't move out of this area," Bel quipped as he followed Opal.
"You can't really live in a cemetery!" Kyrian charged after them.
The dandy glanced around at Cameo.  
The assassin was busy ripping down those posters.  The price on her head was surprisingly steep, and this roused her a bit.  Now she had a couple more people hanging around her who were innocent of the crime of killing Leon, and then there was Kyrian, a completely guiltless boy whom she had to get to his destination before someone saw them together.  She didn't want to wreck his life simply by association with her.
   "That artist is spot-on too!  He really nailed that portrait of Black Opal—"
   "That old thing?!  It looks nothing like me at all."
   Kyrian's eyes met Bel's quizzically.  "Well, maybe not now.  You look really debonair in that picture, though."


----------



## Dawn McCullough White

Pg. 99 Cameo and the Highwayman:


she appeared to have been reading at one time.  Her cold, gray body was cloaked in voluminous robes, but her hands were delicate and small against the shape of the text, so Cameo believed this to have once been a woman's form.
"You said this place is not the ruins of a castle?"  she said after a lengthy silence.
Edel touched the empty-faced statue gently, as if it were that of a friend.  "No, it's not."
"Yes, I can see the truth of that now.  It's much too fine for just a castle."  She moved across a doorstep, under an arch that was still standing.  There was a fountain across from her, and as she neared it she noticed there was a trickle of ice running down from the top into a large basin underneath, which held partly frozen water.  It still worked.
"Amazing isn't it?  Still in one piece after so long.  It continues to provide drinking water as well," he smiled a sad sort of smile, as if remembering.
"I've never seen anything like this before."  She glanced down at the tiles on the ground, part of a path or floor that was partially visible.  "This artwork is so different."
    "Yes, it's from a time long gone now."  Edel sat down on what had presumably once been part of a wall; now it was more like a short ledge.
    "What was this place?"  She sat down beside him.
    "A university."
    "A ... place of learning?  I thought perhaps a library...."  Cameo followed the vampire's gaze, toward the ruins.  "Did you know this place?"
    "Do you mean, when I was alive?"
    "Yes, that is what I mean, although that would suggest you are very—"


(lol yes, that page really ends that way)


----------



## KenHattaway

This is a third of the way through DEAD CORPSE.
- - -
Dallas froze. He reached behind him and wrapped his fingers around the gun fitted against his back.

“This it?” a second voice said.

“Yeah,” said the first. “This is where I do it. No one can see us from here.”

Dallas shifted his body towards the noise, ready for whatever happened next. Feet shuffled at a quickened pace then stopped. A lighter clicked repeatedly until a flame gripped the end of a Zig-Zag. Two boys, maybe sixteen, squatted behind a bush and shared a joint. Dallas released the grip on his weapon and concentrated again on the lock. Soon he was in.

He turned on the light and paused. “Anyone home?” he said in a loud voice.

Nothing happened. No one yelled, “Get him!” or charged. He clicked the deadbolt into place before cautiously checking each room and staying as far away from the windows as he could. Other than a handful of ants in the bathroom, there were no other living creatures about.

Old album covers, brought to life when vinyl was king, lined the eight-foot high walls supported by thin pieces of balsa wood carefully tacked into the drywall. The carpet was gray and lacked padding underneath. It was worn and felt as thin as crepe beneath his feet.

He did a hasty search, not knowing what he was looking for. He pored through the trash, cabinets, drawers, every nook and cranny he could find, all the while listening for sounds of anyone approaching from outside. He discovered multiple layers of bachelor crud, but otherwise nothing useful.

He ceased movement at an unknown sound. All was quiet. Then voices penetrated the walls from the couple next door. Expecting a protracted argument, Dallas instead heard several minutes of insults followed by soft moaning. Someone was either recovering from a wallop or else engaging in makeup sex.


----------



## Cate Rowan

From _Kismet's Kiss_:

"Out of my way!" Kuramos bellowed at the pedestrians, as much for their own protection as to clear the road. The dust kicked up by the crush of people and fydds coated his tongue.

Two guardsmen surged forward and flanked him, the one on the left holding the banner of the sultan. He turned to the man on his right. "Tell the captain to make the crowd disperse." The messenger nodded and whirled his mount around.

Kuramos drew his scimitar. It flashed in the last shafts of the reddened sun. He and his outrider forced their way through the darting mass and around the corner of another aisle.

"HOLD!" he roared into the throng that choked the aisle.

The outrider on his left added his voice. "The Great Sultan commands you to hold!" He unsheathed his own blade and thrust it high. But their voices made little headway against the thousand-headed mob.

Buld proved his worth again-twelve bugles blared behind the sultan. As the riders and their horns closed in, the edge of the horde turned and scattered in the dimming light. People flung themselves into tents and between the stalls, hopping over the criss-crossed ropes that staked them. The riders pushed on through the dust and screams.

"VARENE!" Kuramos shouted. "Royal Healer!"

"She's here, O Lord!" yelled a voice he didn't recognize. "We've saved her for you, her and her companions!"

Relief blasted through him. He sucked in a fiery breath.

"Aye," screamed another. "And now that you're here, O Lord, you can do the honors!"

The crowd parted down the middle. There, in the center of his market, he spotted Varene's blonde locks dangling filthy and bedraggled about her shoulders. Beside her stood the physician's assistant and Varene's petite maidservant-all three gagged and roped shoulder-to-shoulder to a stake, a pile of flame-licked logs circling their bound feet.


----------



## Christopher Smith

This is a great idea!
From the thriller, "Fifth Avenue": http://amzn.to/cZjORa

He woke at midnight.

The rain had stopped, the sky was clear and moonlight cut into his room from the window opposite his bed.

He looked down the length of his cast to his foot. In the silver light of the moon, the bruises on his toes looked black. He tried moving his toes, couldn't, and tried harder. They remained still.

Eric closed his eyes and prayed to a God he hadn't prayed to in years. He made promises no man could ever be expected to keep and opened his eyes. He tried but still couldn't move his toes. It was as if they were no longer a part of his body. He wondered if he would ever walk again.

It was at that moment he made his decision. He reached for the phone that was on the table next to him, grimaced from a sudden stab of pain in his left shoulder, and punched numbers. A moment passed before a familiar voice answered.

After explaining in detail what had happened, Eric told the man exactly what he wanted from him. There was a silence.

"You're sure?" the man said.

"I'm sure," Eric said
. 
"And you understand once I've set things into motion, you can't change your mind. We go through channels, many of which are anonymous. This is an irreversible decision on your part. You need to understand that."

"I understand that," Eric said. "That's why I called you."

"Any particular way you want it done?"

"I could care less how it's done, Sal--but I do expect her to suffer before she dies."

"Suffering is additional."

"Then charge me for it."

"We'll be in touch," the man said. "And don't worry. We'll make her life a living hell."


----------



## Debra Lee

"There's your Reilly," Carol said with a disapproving arched brow.
Reilly did not hear her. His attention was completely focused on Mary as he rushed to her side, practically mowing over Carol in the process.
"She's gone, Reilly," Mary told him and jumped up into his arms.
"It's okay, kid. We'll find her," Reilly said in an attempt to comfort her.
"Whoever took her came in through the nursery window. Why would someone do this, Reilly?" Mary asked as she pulled back from the embrace and glared at him in hopes of an answer.
"So where were you last night, Jackson?" Daniels picked up on Carol's inquisitive look. He attempted to put her at ease when he said, "I've known this Reilly longer than I care to admit."
"You got any real leads here, Al?"
"Answer my question, Jackson?"
"You know I'd never do something like this, Al." Reilly saw Daniels' chipmunk cheeks begin to shade red. A sure sign the man meant business, which is why Reilly decided he should be more specific with his answer. "I was at home last night. You happy?"
"I suppose alone too?"
It was Reilly's turn to see red. And he glared into Daniels' steady eyes when he answered. "Alone."
Carol tried to conceal her amusement while Mary grew frustrated listening and wanted it to just stop. "If Reilly says he was home, he was home."
"I say he has a pretty weak alibi," Carol said.
"So where were you last night, Miss Ice Lady?" Reilly shot right back.
Daniels jumped up and slammed a fist down on his desktop. "Enough."
It wasn't necessarily the word Daniels had used that acquired their full attention, more the tone in which he had said it. 
http://www.amazon.com/Taken-Debra-Lee/dp/1453809724/ref=tmm_pap_title_0


----------



## Richardcrasta

From "The Revised Kama Sutra", a novel, about one-third of the way in:

I could bear my state of half-knowledge no longer. The lending librarian, for some time now, trusting me as his regular customer and prominent source of income, had begun lending me black-and-white photographs which he fished out of a secret hiding place—they were illegal as hell, three years hard labour minimum. In these stark mirrors of naked truth, shadows no longer lurked around the behinds of women. The models were mainly Western or Oriental, except for a few Indian aberrations who looked like surprised cows. Many of these models didn’t just stand there; they did it, with each other. This was the final, black-and-white proof that I the budding sceptic and illegitimate son of Bertie Russell had been waiting for, that it was do-able! And do-able not just by exotic foreigners from countries that had invented hot dogs or sent men into space, but also by otherwise-inefficient Indians!

Returning Padmanabha’s paper beauties one day, I asked him, ‘Do you, er, er, know of a place where I could do it?’ To make my point, I pointed to the photographs I had just returned. 

He surveyed me quietly, then smiled, as if to say: You have proven a good shishya, a worthy pupil. Now go and fornicate in peace.
He said: ‘It? It? Ha ha. So you wanting to be discharging in a vulba? You wanting a lady for enjoy?’

‘Ahem, yes,’ I said. 

‘I hope you will like it surely. Now carefully listen: Go to the Green Star hotel, ring backdoor’s doorbell, and say to the answering fellow: “The moon is round.”’

I bicycled madly towards the hotel, overtaking bullock carts, fellow cyclists, even growling private city buses that sucked up clumps of commuters while staying poised to spring forward at the approach of a competitor’s bus. But I saw nothing, feeling merely the pain caused to my inelastic erection from my extremely punishing underwear, now brutalized by the dynamics of bicycling. The lungi-clad man answering backdoor’s doorbell saw the bulge in my pants and didn’t even wait to hear that the moon was round. He took my money and led me through a corridor lined by green plywood doors, and into a cubicle where two chocolate-skinned women dressed for business—that is, in coarse petticoats and blouses—sat on a thin mattress resting atop two joined benches. The women eyed me and smiled craftily.


----------



## William Meikle

From CARNACKI - HEAVEN AND HELL ( http://www.amazon.com/dp/B0045UA7E0/ ) ... this bit is from the story THE HELLFIRE CLUB MIRROR

"The cold crept further up my arm. It already felt like
icy stone all the way to my shoulder. I was now sure of my
theory. An entity from the Outer Regions had been
imprisoned in the mirror. But I had underestimated the
effect it could still afflict outside the bounds of the glass.
Now I was paying for my mistake. My hand moved without
my volition, reaching towards the surface of the mirror itself.
If I did not take action, and dashed quick, I would be pulled
inside to join the other damned souls.

"I had little option. I brought to mind the words of the
Incantation of the Raaaee and shouted them at the top of my
voice. The echoes rang around the library, sending the valves
flaring and sputtering. Almost at once the grip on my hand
released and I fell away to the floor. When I had regained
enough of my senses to rise the mirror was once again
showing only my wide-eyed reflection."

Carnacki paused again.

"I would suggest at this point that we all have one last
stiffener," he said. "For we have finally come to the meat of
the tale, and the means by which I made an end to the
matter."

We were all unusually quiet as we refilled our glasses
that night. Somewhow the fact that the tale had taken place
in this same house lent a certain verisimilitude that, no
matter how exciting, had been lacking from Carnacki's
previous tales.


----------



## div

1/3 of the way in:

She asked me if I remembered the fight the night she left. I told her I did but not too much of it, just bits and pieces.
“She told me she had been drinking that night as she did most nights. She knew she had a problem and so did Robert, though he usually didn’t talk about it to her or anyone else. He was always too wrapped up in himself and his work.” She paused at this point and looked at Mark with a very serious expression on her face. “What?” Mark remembered saying, thinking he had done something wrong.
“Mark I need to tell you something. Something I have never shared with another human being. You need to promise me you will never speak of it. Never.”
Mark promised, waiting for the bombshell to hit. And hit it did.
Monica got up and paced around the room. Mark sat patiently quiet, waiting for her to continue, his mind wandering as to what she could possibly say that was so devastating. When she had finished he almost wished he didn’t know.
“I have spoken at great length at so many meetings about the pain in my life. I logged thousands of hours with dozens of therapists trying to reach the inner problem that was Monica Schaeffer and I never shared this little treat I am about to share with you. I feel in a way that you and I have saved each other, Mark, I really do, but you need to know what drove my mother and then me to the bottle. I witnessed things, heard things, horrible things,” Monica shook her head and looked out the window.
“Christ, Monica, what happened?” He asked but she never heard him. She was gone, in another place, still in the apartment but not mentally there. Her eyes were glazed over. She went to the window over the sink and slowly began to tell a story that would haunt Mark for the rest of his life.


----------



## Gertie Kindle

This one is about 30 pages long so I'm posting Page 10



Of Love and War - a novelette

Without looking up, she told him to get the loaf of rye bread she'd bought from the bakery that morning and slice it up. John got the bread, but she kept bending over and taking things out of the fridge to place them on the counter beside her.

When she turned around, John was standing with his back to the counter, the knife clutched in one hand and the bread in the other. One look at hazel eyes gone green was enough to tell her what he was thinking. 
"May &#8230; maybe it would be better if we made the sandwiches outside," she stammered. "I'll just get a tray."

She reached up to the cabinet next to John. It was just high enough and she was just short enough, that she couldn't reach the handle without leaning into him.

Before her body could brush against him, John quickly grabbed her wrist and eased her away. "I'll get it," he said firmly. It was time he got hold of himself before he got hold of her. "Take the salads out and I'll bring the rest."

Julie, bit her lip, embarrassed by what she had nearly done. "Yes, of course. You're right. John, I'm sorry I ..."

"No more of that, now. We agreed," he smiled, handing her the bowls.

Julie grabbed the salads and fled out the back door, letting the screen slap shut behind her.

John let out his breath and concentrated on filling the tray with cold cuts, utensils, napkins &#8230; everything he could think of for a friendly picnic in a shady back yard on a Fourth of July he knew he would never forget.

He stopped for a moment to compose himself, leaning his fists against the counter. Julie was so sweet and so innocent. He really wanted to get to know her. He wanted to have a nice time with a nice girl on the last night before he shipped out.


----------



## MosesSiregarIII

*Page 99 from The Black God's War: A Novella Introducing a New Epic Fantasy* (CreateSpace version)

Death's tunnel pulled Caio, faster and faster.

A shock wave exploded, heat sizzled on every inch of his skin, and he felt himself pulled back into his body.

His senses regained, dozens of Pawelons floated around him, all but one of them unconscious. The first man who attacked Caio had his head bent over; his body only twitched involuntarily. The young man who speared him held a startled expression and his body struggled.

The young soldier clumsily grabbed for his spear, but Caio grabbed it with his free hand, the rod of Mya somehow still in his right. They looked in each other's eyes as Caio pushed the Pawelon's weapon away from both of them.

The boy pointed at his own chest with terror across his face. Caio heard a few garbled words from him. The boy was nearly out of breath.

Caio's empathy awoke, and the boy's history came to him in a flash. His family lived in a poor village in far western Pawelon. His father pressured him to become a soldier because of family tradition. Were he to live, he would have a large family and his first son would become a respected spiritual leader among his people.

Caio could only watch the boy as he slowly died from lack of breath. Caio reached out to him just as the boy's body went soft, and put his arms around the Pawelon just before his heart stopped beating and his head fell forward. _Mya, protect his soul._

All the rest were dead. The boy's strong spirit had been enough to keep him conscious after the lightning cooked the water.

Moments after the young man closed his eyes, the watery globe crashed down in an avalanche and flooded down the hill's steep slopes. Caio fell and smacked the ground in the center of the base, still clinging to the young soldier and now bleeding on his enemy's uniform. Caio rolled onto his knees and grabbed the soldier's shirt with both his hands.

_Mya, I command you, raise this young man from death._


----------



## Gertie Kindle

Here's an excerpt from _Ariana's Pride_ about 1/3 through.



One of the women was handing a blanket to Jeremy when Ariana heard her terrified scream. A boy of about six years had been jumping up and down excitedly on the rocks and fallen into the river.

Jeremy took not even a moment to think before he launched himself into the water in a flat dive. Aided by the current, a few powerful strokes brought him to the child and he grabbed him as he was sinking beneath the water. Jeremy lifted the flailing child and attempted to stand while trying to calm his fears. But the water here was much deeper and the screaming child would not cease his struggles.

Seeing what was happening, the leader yelled to his men, instructing them in a language that Ariana did not understand. She stood, frozen with fear, unable to tear her gaze from the terrifying scene. The men vaulted into their saddles, not even bothering to touch foot to stirrups and thundered past her.

Jeremy guessed what they were about and concentrated all his efforts toward holding the frantic bundle tight in his arms. He let the current keep them afloat as he tried to whisper soothing words in the boy's ear.

Incredibly, the leader stood on top of his saddle, twirling the rope over his head while his mount was in full gallop. The other two rode abreast of him, holding his horse steady. The man shouted out and Jeremy raised his arm, the loop at the end of the rope landing neatly over his wrist. The leader dropped back into his saddle and brought the stallion to a halt, wrapping his end of the rope securely around the pommel. Together, they wasted no time in pulling Jeremy and the boy to safety.

Grabbing the child, the leader raised him high in the air and then clasped him tightly to his chest. Assured the boy was all right, he placed him on the front of the saddle and then mounted himself. The others followed, with Jeremy riding double.

The women ran to meet the horses and grabbed the child, crying words of love and screaming at him for being so careless at the same time. Ariana snatched up a blanket and ran to where Jeremy was bent over double, coughing and getting his breath back. Tenderly, she placed the blanket over his heaving shoulders, rubbing him down as the women had done for her. Reaching up, she pushed the sodden hair back from his forehead and then, unable to contain herself any longer, she threw herself weeping into his arms.

"I feared you were lost to me," she sobbed.

"There, there, Sweeting. After all we've been through, you should know it would take more than a puny river to best me."

The man who had rescued Jeremy allowed them a moment alone and then approached to introduce himself. "I am Zardo, the Rom Baro of this Kumpania." For the first time, Ariana took a good look at their guardian angel. He was well above six feet tall with black curly hair, sparkling eyes as black as his hair, and a swarthy complexion. Gold hoops dangled from his ears and there was more gold looped across the hairy expanse of his massive chest.

"We are Romany," he explained, "but you English call us gypsies."


----------



## William Meikle

From CRUSTACEANS

There was more light beyond and he was able to put out the lighter. But as soon as he turned the corner he immediately stepped back into the shadows. His heart pounded again, so loud he thought his chest might burst.

_Well. I've found the crabs._

He risked a look.

Beyond the corner lay a high vaulted area&#8230; another abandoned station. Faded paint-work on the tiling spelled out the station name but it was too worn to read. All he could make out were two letters, a C and a T. High above were brightly coloured tiled arches, rusted chandeliers and grey murky skylights. It had been abandoned for some time, as there was no sign of any rails, and any platform there might have been had crumbled to rubble.

Dim light came from way up above. There might be a possible way out up there, but Porter wasn't thinking about that. He was looking, awe-struck, at the heaving mass of beasts that crammed into the space, some sleeping, others scuttling to and fro on missions to who knows where.

_My god. There's hundreds of them._

And it wasn't just the number that amazed him. Many were as big as horses, but others were so big his brain struggled to make sense of it. Out in the middle, surrounded by smaller beasts, sat a grey mound more than twenty-five feet across. It wasn't moving but there was no mistaking that it was a crab. A monster crab.

Porter couldn't quite process the information. The smaller crabs seemed to be delivering food to the larger one; rank after rank of them, like ants feeding a queen. Piles of scat lay everywhere and the stink stung in his nostrils and at the back of his throat.

Over at the far side of the chamber there was a series of four tunnels. These were not man-made, but had been recently dug. Following the ranks of smaller crabs he saw that they were using these tunnels to get in and out of the cavernous space.

He leaned out of the narrow tunnel as far as he dared. He stood on a ledge some ten feet off the floor. On either side of him the walls were smooth with no discernible exits. Away to his right he could just see the darker hole where the old subway tunnel disappeared into blackness. A horde of crabs scuttled and crawled between him and it.


----------



## Gabriela Popa

Julie, interesting ideea of a snippet. Here is page 99 of my novel "Kafka's House" http://www.amazon.com/Kafkas-House-ebook/dp/B003NNV10O/ref=ntt_at_ep_dpi_2

"While she dresses, I go in the next room and look in the round wall mirror. Now I see why my mother shouted. Like a tropical fish, I'm covered by countless bright red spots on my cheeks, my forehead, my neck. I even have one on the tip of my nose. Not to speak about those itchy ones on my arms and belly.

We leave Mirela with aunt Aneta. I don't want to enter Aneta's house, but mom makes me. 
-Look at her, mom says to Aneta. Have you ever seen something like this?
Aneta pulls me by the window and inspects my face in great detail, without saying anything.
-What did you eat today? my mother asks. The sandwich I made you this morning was fresh...I made one for everyone, we all ate the same...
-Ah, I know! You walked through nettle, didn't you? Aneta says, suddenly illuminated. Tell the truth!
-No, what nettle, I snap back, I was at school! 
-Let's go, mother says, taking my hand. Be good, she says to Mirela, and kisses her on her cheek.

On our way to the Polyclinic, mom talks to me continuously to distract me from scratching myself. Finally we are there.
-It's good we see the doctor now, and not in the morning. In the morning this Polyclinic it's so crowded you can't throw a needle in. 
And indeed, mom is right. The waiting room in front of Doctor's Vale's office is empty. Well, almost. There are only two other people there, patiently waiting on the old vinyl chairs. And the two people are, of course, Duck - her face covered by big red spots - and her mother, Mrs. Neamtu."


----------



## William Meikle

From THE ROAD HOLE BUNKER MYSTERY

He ran his fingers through his hair again and slouched deeper into the chair. 

“We’ve been trying to find your client all day. She left the hotel earlier, and she’s not come back yet. There’s been no sign since lunchtime.”

“I phoned her earlier,”I said. “She hung up when there was a knock on the door.”

“What time?”

“Just after twelve I think, though I can’t be sure.”

“And you haven’t spoken to her since?”

I shook my head. I neglected to mention the call I’d taken at twenty to seven.

“But I might have something for you,”I said. 

He sat up straighter and put the whisky down for the first time since I’d poured it.

“The Yank was into more than golf. He was in the Halt most of the weekend, playing poker in the back room.”

“I’ll not be telling the Chief about that,”Joe said. “What he doesn’t know can’t hurt him. Who was he playing against?”

“Willie Brown, Davy Clark, Sandy Thomas and … you’ll like this … Jim Crawford.”

His ears pricked up when I got to the part concerning Jim Crawford. Joe had been after him for years. It wasn’t a vendetta … Joe wasn’t the vindictive kind. But given a chance, he’d take great pleasure in finally putting the big man away for a spell.

“Was there much money changing hands?”he asked.

“Hank was a Texan. What do you think? Rumour has it there was eight grand left Crawford’s wallet and made its way into the Texan’s.”

“Eight grand? That could be a motive.”

“That’s what I’ve been thinking,”I said, and started to lie to my best friend. I left out everything about trying to meet Foulkes and Sandy Thomas, and went straight for the jugular.

“I went to see Crawford. He wasn’t in, but his wife said he was up in Dundee. I went looking for him.”
Joe’s right eyebrow rose. 

“Really? What time was this?”

“Just after four. Surely George in the Halt told you?”

“I never believe George on principle,”Joe said. 

“Generally a good idea,”I said, “But this time he’d have been telling the truth.”

The eyebrow rose again.

“And did you find Crawford?”he asked.


----------



## Geoffrey Thorne

from WINTER OF THE WILD HUNT-

In the third week of my absence one of them suggested they look at the video record.

They kept vast and meticulous AVI documentation of the design and construction of their machine. It was Eddie's theory that this would save them having to keep the vast and meticulous hand-written notes that they hated so.

There were sixty video files that they each watched in shifts while the others wandered around the waterfront hoping for a glimpse of me.
On the fifth day of the third week of my absence, Eddie, Chess and James came home to an hysterically frightened Johnny.

He refused to tell them what the matter was but instead hustled them up to the attic. He was so frantic that his hands shook as he operated the playback controls. They couldn't understand what it was that could possibly have frightened him so. Then he showed them the AVI file, the one that hadn't been on their original list but which he'd decided to check "just in case." Then they understood.

They hadn't known what to do with their understanding until I'd appeared in the foyer, my pupils a bright metallic gold and my mouth mumbling about shadows and street people.

"So what was on the file?" I said when they were done.

"Well," said Eddie. Water filled his tear ducts and his pulse was erratic. There was an aura, faintly aquamarine in color, encircling him. Chess fingered his iron cross nervously. "Remember the night that you brought Winter up to meet us? The first night?"

"Of course," I said. "You guys were rebuilding that thing in the attic."

"Yeah. And we were recording it."

"Okay..."

"Well, Johnny shot some footage of you and Winter during that. We thought he'd purged it but he hadn't."

"Then, when we saw what was on it," said James.

"It was incredible," finished his brother.

"I didn't believe it," muttered Chess. "Not at first."

"It was incredible," said Johnny.

"You said that."

"Just tell me what was on the damned file!"


----------



## mamiller

Page 99 of WIDOW'S TALE

Brett focused on the slick stretch of blacktop, the drone of the windshield wipers hypnotizing him as he maneuvered the Jeep around a sharp turn. His constant badgering of the police had finally paid off by providing a list of names involved in Alan's muddled business ventures-the endeavors that had landed him in jail. Both victims and benefactors were obtainable only because Brett argued that since Alan was dead he certainly bore no threat to these people. When asked what possible reason he would want such contacts, Brett simply indicated it was to express regret over his brother's business strategy, and to apologize. What he had though, was something tangible to research-a potential source for Serena's ghost.

A steady rainfall pooled with dusk, making visibility virtually nil. Brett flipped on the fog lights. All he could discern in the murky glow was the sinister profile of the lighthouse. As he passed by it, Brett contemplated the history of the statuesque structure. It conjured up images of tall ships evading the craggy obstacles of the cove. Brett imagined what it would have been like to live in that time, to have a woman with long cinnamon hair, waiting for his ship to return.

It was near dark as Brett pulled into the parking lot behind O'Flanagans. Head hunched against the onslaught of rain, he approached the back door of the tavern. For a moment he stood outside and listened to the muffled sounds of music and laughter. He was anxious to get in there, to be a part of it.

He was eager to see its owner.


----------



## ReeseReed

We walked in silence, stopping when we were out of earshot of the other Elders in the village.

"Jessica," he began, taking my hand in his. "I know that you've been unhappy for quite some time now. Kris has seen this in you as well and is very saddened by it. He's spoken to me about the contract, and we've made some changes." I watched as he pulled a stack of paperwork from the satchel around his neck. "I realize now that you and Kris were not entirely clear on the transformation portion of the contract."

"Uh, yeah, you could say that," I said as I rolled my eyes.

"Kris and I have decided to make an addendum to the contract," he said as he flipped to a page with a sticky note attached. "I'd like you to have a look at it."

My hand shook as I took the papers from him and held them in front of me. I scanned the page eagerly, trying to make sense of the legal jargon it contained.

"Aska," I said. "I had a hard enough time with the first contract. I want to make sure I'm clear on this one. Will you just tell me what it says? I trust you."

"Of course, dear Jessica," he said, taking the papers from me and looking into my eyes. "It's an escape clause."

"An escape clause?"

"Your way out," he said, the light in his eyes dimming. "This," he said, pointing to the first paragraph, "says that you are granted freedom from the contract. You will be given back your humanity, as well as being restored to your age at the date the contract was signed."

I inhaled sharply. "So, I can be twenty-five again?"

"Yes," Aska said before continuing. "But there's more." My heart jumped to my throat as I waited for him to continue. "If you sign this contract you are agreeing to a complete memory wipe."


----------



## Mel Comley

Hi there, here is a page from Impeding Justice.

‘Wakey, wakey. Rise and shine little one!’
Lulled from her sleep, Charlie blinked.  The bright lights above her pierced her fragile eyes as she adjusted to the light and became fully awake.  Awareness gripped and locked her in terror.  The man bending over her, his eyes brimming with mocking hatred, featured in snapshots flooding her memory, and what he’d subjected her to filled her with horror.  She remembered his name – The Unicorn, and wondered again why he had such a nickname.
‘It is time for your medicine, little one…’
His sour laughter trembled through her and echoed off the walls, but then, she realised it wasn’t just him laughing.  Two other men were standing near the door.  Their stance made them look like guards and each followed the Unicorns lead in laughing at her. 
She tried to concentrate.  What did he mean her medicine?
Her surroundings came into focus as he straightened up.  The room reminded her of the Pop Star’s bedrooms she’d seen in her magazines, rich and sumptuous.  Deep gold, satin sheets covered her naked body. 
Without warning the Unicorn snatched the cover from her.  It billowed out before landing in a heap behind him.  She cowered in fear and embarrassment, ‘No…no... Please don’t.’ 
The men mimicked her and the Unicorn laughed.  His eyes travelled the length of her slight body.  She scrunched backwards into the pillows.
‘Enough! Let us get on with it!’
The room fell silent and the men moved forward, one each side of the bed.  They grabbed her arms and stretched her out.  She wriggled and kicked and begged, but she didn’t have the strength to match theirs.  
The Unicorn opened a drawer next to the bed.  Something glinted in the light. Charlie turned her head.  Her voice would not release the scream mounting inside her.  It threatened to choke her as it strangled in her throat.  
A spray of clear liquid squirted from the syringe.  It dropped like raindrops on to her arm.  Then, the needle plunged into her skin.
Her mind calling out to her mum gave her the courage to speak:  ‘Please don’t.  Please ring my mum again.  She’ll give you everything you want.  She’s a very important person….’
‘You should be a comedienne little one. She’s not so important, otherwise she would have bargained for your life by now…’


----------



## RJ Keller

(spoiler tagged at the end because I'm not sure if it violates TOS or not, and I'd rather be safe than sorry.)

Waiting For Spring page 99

I listened to his footsteps thudding toward the bathroom
while I stared at a tiny crack in the ceiling. His room was directly
below mine. And I wondered, for the first time, how my own
footsteps had sounded to him from down here. If he had ever lain
awake, right here, right in this bed, listening to me.

He sauntered back into the room and plopped down beside me
on his back, pulled me over to him. I rested my head on his
shoulder, played with the hair on his chest while he caressed my
back lightly with his fingers. It was the best feeling in the world.
But there was a can of worms I had to open. The one I hadn't
thought about until I'd heard Crinkling above my head. I watched
the clock on his night stand, trying to build up my courage. It
glared back at me in bold red numbers for seven full minutes.
Both of us were silent the entire time. Finally I managed an,
"Ummm..."

He waited for me to continue and when I didn't he asked, "Are
you humming to yourself or are you trying to tell me something?"

I laughed, and it made me brave enough to tell him about my
prescription. Then I asked him That question. He smiled and said:


Spoiler



"Yeah, I have been. And I'm clean. I've never done it without a
rubber anyway."

I smiled back, relieved. Then there was something else.

Never?

It had been so long since there was something new. Even if it
wasn't my something new. So I climbed on top of him and kissed
him, deep and hot and slow&#8230;

Ready again. Twenty-five. Gotta love that.


----------



## Brenda Carroll

*From The Red Cross of Gold I:. The Knight of Death*

"...We fought off the Romans at Hadrian's wall. Scottish history is full of honor and glory and struggle and defeat. You do not know what it means to have your country invaded time and again. To have everything taken from you in an instant. I am not who you think I am, but then, neither are you who you pretend to be. If these Templars you like to speak of, came riding over that hill, you and your precious brothers and sisters would run and hide in the basements and do well enough by it. You have no idea what it means to be free. You take freedom for granted and abuse it ruthlessly. This precious commodity that was bought with the blood of others. You have no appreciation for life, nor liberty, nor the rights of others."

Valentino narrowed her eyes and seemed to be considering his words. Her smile faded somewhat to be replaced by a more thoughtful expression as if she were trying to decide whether to believe him or not.

He had not actually said that he had personally witnessed any of the acts of violence he had listed. Perhaps there was still a chance he could recover from the terrible faux pas. That his words seemed to have some sort effect on her surprised him. Maybe there was something in there after all. The thought occurred to him that he should not have spoken harshly to her about blood and torture, but women were different now as opposed to when? The Dark Ages as it was called? It seemed that most of his dealings with women dated from some time long past. He had no concept of how to deal with Valentino. He watched TV, drove cars, knew everything he needed to know to function properly in the world. He had knowledge of the world, but&#8230; where had he been? Everywhere? Nowhere? Inside a box.

"So what shall we do then, Mr. Ramsay?" She asked finally.

He had to appease her before he found himself back in her lab with Maxie at his throat. "I must apologize for my behavior. You can understand that I am under a little stress here, can't you? I would like to consider your invitation to stay for a while as a guest. I have been known to misjudge people before, especially women," he shrugged and forced his best smile for her. "I would like your permission to spend a bit of time with Merry. I do enjoy her company and I realize that the two of you have a&#8230; an understanding, but I like to talk to her none-the-less. If you believe I have mistreated her, I would at least like to have the opportunity to redeem myself&#8230; to both of you. I believe we have gotten off to a bad start." The understatement of the century.

"Apparently so," she smiled ironically. "Merry is like a child, in many ways, Mr. Ramsay, as I am sure you have noticed. Please don't let her enthusiasm for your attentions lead you astray. She is my responsibility and her welfare is my concern. Don't forget that. Merry knows what is best for her though she may not act like it. She is spoiled and it's my fault. She is used to getting what she wants, but ultimately, she belongs to me and I am willing to die for her."

It was not an answer, but it was not exactly a flat denial of his request. The implications of what she said seemed to point to the fact that Cecile Valentino was allowing the Pixie to indulge herself with him in order to keep her happy. The concept was foreign to him in every way, but he was in her element and had no choice but to go along with her eccentricities until he could do better for himself&#8230; and Merry, if possible. The situation at the mansion was very intriguing; he was actually beginning to think he would like to stay for a while just to see what would develop, if they stopped poisoning him. Part of his mind still insisted that he had nothing to fear from them even though his logical mind screamed at him to run. The thought of relieving Miss Valentino of Merry's company on a permanent basis began to take on a life of its own.


----------



## swcleveland

Pale Boundaries
http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B0036FU0U6/

But the bomb had malfunctioned and lay undetected in an anonymous 
warehouse while the Family's front collected the rest of the consignment 
and detonated on the way up, destroying far more than Dayuki intended.
"What do you recommend?" Hal asked.
"Kill her."
"She could help us find out what Den Tun is up to."
"I've never heard a whisper about this Tiger Opal," McKeon sighed.
"We can't confirm any of her so-called evidence of a Minzoku conspiracy,
and even if there is some kernel of truth to it her solution caused a lot of
damage. She meant well, but a loose cannon with good intentions is still a
loose cannon."
Dayuki's feat was impressive for a young woman without a lick of formal
education whether it was based on fantasy or not. Her devotion to the
Family was obvious and Hal's sense of fair play shrank from the thought of
killing her for it. And how much of McKeon's recommendation was based
on prudence versus embarrassment at the possibility of a Minzoku conspiracy
occurring under his nose?
"I want this checked out first," Hal decided. "She can die as well tomorrow
as today."
Dayuki maintained a sober expression when she learned of her reprieve,
perhaps sensing that it was only temporary and depended entirely on the
accuracy of her accusations. More surprising was McKeon's willingness to
let her return to the Minzoku base unsupervised.
"She doesn't have a lot of options," he explained after they dropped her
off at the portal she'd used to spirit Hal away a few days before. "She betrayed
Den Tun, regardless of whether this Tiger Opal is real or a figment
of her imagination. The Minzoku will kill her for us if he finds out."
Hal wasn't so sure; she was related to Den Tun by blood, and the old
man might be lenient if she confessed all and threw herself on his mercy-
especially if what she said was true and a warning allowed the Minzoku to
conceal evidence of their treachery. Either way, her unexplained absence
from the base would certainly raise suspicions and make it that much harder
to expose Den Tun. Releasing her now was an undesirable but necessary
operational risk.
They returned to the Fort and went straight to Tamara Cirilo's office
where Hal repeated Dayuki's revelations. "I'm not going to claim that the
Minzoku cracking our network is flatly impossible," his cousin said, "but the
chances are very slim. The connections we use to monitor Den Tun's network
are heavily firewalled and very well hidden."
"But if he had outside help&#8230;" Hal pressed.


----------



## Gordon Ryan

_*State of Rebellion*_

(Page 99 is actually the start of Chapter Ten)

*TEN

Chesapeake Bay, Virginia*

Stand by to come about, Pug, and then pop the kite. I'll show you what this baby can really do downwind," George Granata said.
"Aye, aye, Skipper," Pug smiled, his face dripping with salt spray from broaching upwind breakers.
The twenty-eight-foot, fiberglass racing yacht came about, heeling hard over as Granata swung her bow downwind. Pug pulled the lanyard loose, and the spinnaker immediately billowed, popping the rubber bands that had held the folds together. Instantly, the sleek craft lurched forward, her hull seeming to skim above the waves.
"Man, I love this life," Granata bellowed over the wind as Pug made his way aft, taking a position starboard of Granata, who stood at the helm. "If I had it to do all over again, I'd say to heck with law school and take up the offer old Martin Tarkington made to me back in '58 to crew with him. Who knows where I'd have been now? Certainly your Kiwi cousins wouldn't have taken our Cup to Auckland at the Royal New Zealand Yacht Squadron, and then lost it to the Swiss," he challenged.
"Who's Tarkington?" Pug asked, smiling at Granata's jab.
"He ran several sailing crews out of Newport in the old days . . . when American racing yachts were unchallenged." He smiled again.
"Those days are over, Judge," Pug shouted back over the wind.
"Well San Francisco won it back from the Swiss fair and square and it's going to stay in America," Granata said.


----------



## Gordon Ryan

_*Uncivil Liberties*_

Cameron spoke first.
"Have you ever wondered which is worse: waiting for the team to report in, or being part of the team about to go into action?"
Pug nodded his understanding. "You mean, 'They also serve who sit and wait.'"
"Something like that," Cameron laughed, then changed the subject. "Carlos said you and he had served together before, some years ago in Pakistan."
"We did. He's an outstanding Marine. I've had my life in his hands more than once."
"Has he always been Muslim?" Cameron asked. "I noticed him in morning prayers earlier, up on deck."
"No, he was raised Catholic. Embraced Islam about ten or twelve years ago."
"Do you know what took him down that path?"
"A woman."
Cameron laughed. "Of course, what else? I've got two Muslims in my outfit as well. I've wondered how they feel about this increasing religious war. It must be tough to fight your own brothers."
"Man has been fighting his religious brothers for centuries, but not always under a religious banner. Carlos has a good understanding of the situation," Pug said, pausing to take a long drink. "He believes the fanatics and their Mullahs have abandoned the faith, perverted their god."
"Is he still with the woman who converted him?"
Pug ate another hunk of cheese, sandwiched between two crackers, looking out over the ocean before he replied. "She's dead. He met her when he was on a black ops mission in the Philippines, acting as an adviser to local forces to identify and eliminate insurgent groups. He met a young Filipina doctor. She was working to vaccinate village children when Carlos's small Philippine army squad took some casualties. They came into the village for medical treatment. Carlos got himself assigned permanently to the local Marine unit. He fell in love with her, they got married, and Carlos spent the next sixteen months in what he calls the best time of his life. Sometimes he'd be in the jungle hunting terrorists. Sometimes she'd be in the villages providing medical assistance. She was a devout Muslim. He came to believe in the faith, and the rest was history."


----------



## TiffanyTurner

"It's starting to come back to me. I remember a man in a cape was talking to me near the sewer drainage pipe when I was coming back with some of the spring water. The next thing I remember, I was in this maze, and I tried to get out." He shook his head again and smacked his forehead with his hand several times. "It's coming back now. The maze was impossible, and I couldn't find a way out. And I remember feeling that it would be better to just stay here instead of going back and eventually growing up. What happened to me?"
"Sounds like this mind-trap was not just for Wanda, but for you initially Jordan." The Queen eyed us both. "For I think the man you saw was the Shadow Lord Balkazaar. This maze feels of his taint. He must have escaped from where we imprisoned him centuries ago." 
She pursed her lips with concern. "It would explain the increase in pollution and destruction of our forests. I had suspected it before, but I think now I am sure. The Germites would be commanded by few else. Balkazaar, the Shadow Sorcerer, has returned."
The Queen stiffened her shoulders. "But we must leave here. I think Wanda has helped you destroy the mind-trap maze. Brewford, the Cat Sorcerer, will keep the opening stable so we can all exit safely. Will you come with us now Jordan?"
Brewford was a sorcerer? I should have figured that one, but Jordan stepped forward in front of me and reached to give me a hand over some of the puddles from the melting shadow walls. I kept heading to the opening.
"Come Keeper." He reached out to grab my hand after I slipped through one puddle. "...and thanks. I couldn't have done it without you. I think I was going a little crazy." 
"That's ok." I felt lighter as I walked. The gravel was turning to soft, green grass. "It's hard to face your fears. I should know." They all laughed together as the final bits of the maze shattered. The tree at the center blossomed and the shadows disappeared. The opening where Brewford stood expanded to include the tree.
_Well, it's about time._ Brewford's thought speech echoed in my mind. _I was getting worried. What happened in there?_
I laughed again. We edged through the opening where the tree stood. "I think we learned what happens when you battle the darkness. The fears are really within you."
_I think the Queen's wisdom is rubbing off on you Wanda. _ A crow danced near my feet as Jordan stood next to me. The Queen stepped through the opening and joined us.
Queen Lillith smiled down at the crow. "Yes, Malik, but sometimes wisdom is really just knowing what's right for you."

Link on Amazon:
http://www.amazon.com/Lost-Secret-Fairies-Chronicles-ebook/dp/B002C1A2BM


----------



## Neil_Plakcy

Since he’d been gypped out of his long morning walk, I took Rochester out for an afternoon stroll. We were drawn back to the place where Caroline’s body had been found. Though I tried to restrain him as we neared the area, he was just too strong for me, and pulled me down the street like a dog on a mission.

“I’m not your pull toy. What are you, part Eskimo sled dog?” But nothing would stop him, and he dragged me toward River Road, stopping at the grassy lane that led to the Revolutionary War cemetery, the area where Caroline had been shot.

Rochester sat his furry butt down in the street and wouldn’t be budged. “What is it, boy? What do you want?”
He barked once. 

“I’m sorry, I don’t speak dog.” I stared at him. “What?”

He heaved a big sigh, as if I was the dumbest human in the world, and started sniffing the area where Caroline’s body had lain. “Come out of there, Rochester,” I said, pulling on his leash. “I’m sure you’re disturbing a crime scene or something.”

But he kept moving farther into the underbrush, dragging me behind him, til he stopped, sat on his haunches and barked once. “What’s up, boy? Did you find something that belonged to your mom?”

The rain and wind had cleared out the underbrush, and as I looked ahead I saw something shiny, an empty metal cylinder a little over an inch long; the outside was a copper color. All those years of reading mysteries and watching forensics programs on TV paid off. I recognized I was looking at a bullet casing.

I pulled out my phone and called Rick Stemper. “Did you ever recover any casings from the gun that shot Caroline?” I asked.

“Good afternoon to you, too. Got your junior detective kit out again?”

“I’m asking because Rochester dragged me down to where Caroline was shot, and there’s a casing here.”

He heaved a big sigh, not unlike Rochester had done. “Wait there. I’m on my way.”

He brought gloves and an evidence bag, and he agreed there was a pretty good chance that the bullet casing came from the gun that shot Caroline.


----------



## kcmay

This should fall on page 99 of The Venom of Vipers:

"This is Ryder Stone," Hamilton said. "Ryder, meet Mike McLoughlin."
Mike. Yeah that was him. But how did he know Chance?
Mike rose and met Ryder's gaze. "Whoa," he said, stepping back. "Those are some freaky eyes. Is he friendly?"
Katie's face turned bright red. "All the saphers here speak English," she said quietly.
Feeling uneasy about trusting this human, Ryder nonchalantly put his hand with the note into the pocket of his jeans. 
"Oh," Mike said. He stepped forward, extending his hand. "Hello, Ryder. It is very nice to meet you." He spoke slowly as though addressing a foreigner.
Ryder gripped the man's hand hard. _She's mine. Don't ever forget it._ He hoped his eyes conveyed what he didn't dare say aloud. "Likewise," he said, showing his teeth in a half-snarl.
Mike winced. "Whoa, easy."
"Oh, hell. Sorry, man," Ryder said, releasing his hand. "You shoot pool?" 
Mike shook out his hand and grinned. "I used to, when I had full use of my hand." He chuckled.
Ryder snorted. What a


Spoiler



BLEEP!


. "We need some fresh blood in here. You could stop by on a Friday night sometime and shoot a few games." He glanced at Hamilton and saw her eyes grow wide.
"Oh, we'll have to see about that, Ryder," she said.
"My father and Dr. Lambdin are apparently not much of a challenge anymore," Katie said, smiling at Ryder. 
"Come with a full wallet," Ryder said.
"Shall we continue?" Berk said. "Next is the indoor swimming pool."
"Good to meet you, Ryder," Mike said. "Take it easy."
Ryder lifted his hand in a wave as Mike followed the others out of the room. He didn't touch Katie again. At least Ryder had gotten one of his messages across. 
He fingered the folded paper in his pocket. Had he made a mistake by not passing it to Mike when he had the chance? He could catch up to them in the hall, maybe slip it into Mike's pocket as he brushed past.
He kept checking down the hallway for them, looking for an opportunity to plant the note, but he lost them. He stopped his pal, Sam, as he came out of the gym. "Have you seen Hamilton and their visitor?"
"Yeah, man, they were just in the gym. I think they went to have lunch."


----------



## charlotte

From ENVY by Sharon Oliver

Peaches spun around and briefly checked out her image in the mirror.  “The ex-husband really unloaded on Sandy.  I guess he was sick of Treesa’s mess.  Anyway, he said she has mental issues stemming from her teenage years and was once hospitalized.  Treesa nor her parents ever saw fit to tell him this until after they were married and after some episode had occurred.  And, in case you’re wondering, Treesa did not lose custody because of her personality disorder, but because she didn’t want the little girl.”
Deron was speechless, but soaked every word in.
“Get this,” Peaches leaned forward almost whispering even though they were the only two in the shop.  “According to said hubby, Treesa has a habit of zoning in on men she finds attractive and immediately wants.  Eventually, they find out she’s crazy, try to leave but not without some drama from her.  One guy had her arrested for dousing him with honey and using a electrical fan to blow feathers on the shirtless man while he slept.  Another guy she dated broke up with her and married another woman.  She sends an anonymous gift basket to them.”
“Uh-oh.  What did she do?”  Deron was almost afraid to ask.
“Of course everything was doctored.  The shampoo bottle was filled with one-fourth shampoo and three-fourths Nair hair remover.  The shower gel was mixed with a few drops of Drano.”
“Ouch!” Deron screeched.
“Thankfully, the newlyweds stop short of using the body butter.  They lost a few hair follicles and suffered skin abrasions though.”
“Man.  Did they have the body butter tested?”
“Yeah, it was one-part shea butter and one-part chemical relaxer.  No one could prove she did it, but come on.  The girl has a history.”
“The girl is nuts,” Deron concurred.


----------



## Dreamwand

Page 99 from THE AFFLICTED GIRLS A Novel of Salem (and HAPPY HALLOWEEN/SAMHAIN):

"Good Sabbath," offered Thomas Putnam handing Reverend Parris a tiny coin pouch. "For you and yours, with thanks from me and mine . . . with apologies it can't be more." 
Reverend Parris stayed Thomas' arm and quickly guided him out of earshot, to a place at the side cloistered by trees. "Hardly one in ten has tithed today. I don't understand it. This congregation knows it has an obligation. The terms are written clearly in my contract. I am to receive weekly offerings of goods and money."
Thomas sucked in his breath. Ingersoll was Head Selectman, not him. He was the right party to inform the minister. But Nathaniel Ingersoll was not standing here right now with an agitated person digging fingers into his arm. So he answered what he knew, however reluctantly: "There's trouble in the parish, Sam. Dissenting brethren have been speaking out against you. Their din is growing louder. More are beginning to listen." 
"To what? What are they saying?" 
"Complaints you preach too much about the Devil and not enough about God. Dwell mostly on the low points of our Lord's career. Mind you, I, for one, welcome it." Saying that, Thomas put on his hat signaling a wish to depart. But he couldn't go, because the minister still clutched him. 
"Who are these traitors? Tell me! I demand to know their names! Do they expect me to work for their salvation free of charge?" 
Thomas grew more uncomfortable. Why should it fall upon him to name names? 
"Do you also wish to humiliate me, Thomas?" 
Thomas shook his head. What he wished for was his Sunday drink. "Nurse, Porter, Jacobs for three," he said, hoping those names would satisfy ...

(Final day for $4.99 Kindle Halloween special

http://tinyurl.com/2gy9urg
http://www.amazon.com/Afflicted-Girls-Suzy-Witten/dp/0615323138/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1288539600&sr=1-1


----------



## stuartneild

Gnomes : on the kindle

http://www.amazon.com/GNOMES-ebook/dp/B0042P54AA/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&m=A7B2F8DUJ88VZ&s=digital-text&qid=1288544323&sr=8-1

***
"What are these humans doing?" Honey Pie alluded to the four cars in the forest clearing and the two figures they circled. "Is it some kind of human ritual?"
"It looks like a scream," Little Giggler giggled.
"Is it some kind of army manoeuvre?" Grandad's Soldier asked. "If so, it doesn't seem to be going with very much precision.
The four gnomes stood watching in the foliage as Marcie lay spread eagled naked on Dick's shirt. Dick was inside her thighs, thrusting away, his cider cast aside for the moment.
"Some people are just sat in their cars watching, some are moving closer, should we move closer?" Honey Pie asked. "Is it a form of spectator sport, gymnastics perhaps? Do we need to give marks out of ten?"
"It is called dogging," Baby Legs grimly pronounced, "and it amuses me not one bit. Grandad's Soldier, ready the troops."
"Attention," the green gnome shouted.
Honey Pie and Little Giggler readied themselves.
"Charge," Grandad's Soldier bellowed, leading from the front as three of the gnomes descended into the clearing, while Baby Legs looked on, a smile upon his face that Little Giggler would have been proud of.

***

The first Marcie knew something was wrong, was when the miniature, but lethal pick axe sank into her thigh. The roar of car engines followed as the motors hurriedly backed away, leaving the miniature creatures scurrying over her naked body. She could see Dick being brought to his knees, a piece of fishing wire wrapped tight round his member, as the blue gnome like creature pulled on his own fishing rod, which in turn, pulled on Dick's rod. 
She tried to bat away the red gnome, but failed as it lifted the pick axe out of her thigh, only to sink it back in at another point. The red clad, pick axe wielding creature jumped up and down on her with delight. The yellow creature had her foot held down, the red she saw on her foot was no longer her red painted toe nails, but the blood spurting out from the toes on her right foot, the creature had severed with its hedge clippers.
Thankful, unconsciousness came as the green gnome repeatedly hit her head with its spade. She thought how silly the sound of it whacking against her skull made, as the darkness took her.


----------



## Deb Baker

From _*http://www.amazon.com/Murder-Grins-Bears-Backwoods-ebook/dp/B003K16W3A/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&m=AG56TWVU5XWC2&s=digital-text&qid=1288546447&sr=8-2*_:

"There isn't room for him in the truck," Cora Mae complained when she saw Fred sitting next to me. He had already slobbered up the passenger side window and was working on the front window. Long, wet, sliding nose and tongue drool oozed and began drying in streaks. I'd have to start carrying paper towels in the truck.
His tail pounded against the seat as he checked out Cora Mae, nudging her with his nose. She shrunk away, intimidated by his black bulk and red devil eyes. After spending a few hours with him she would figure out, just as I had, that he's a harmless baby underneath his fierce exterior. 
"He looks like a killer. Vicious, mean, and look at those teeth."
"He and I didn't have a very good start," I said. "But, in this case, first appearances don't count. He isn't working right now, so he's a lamb. Once he's on the job, he takes it very seriously."
"What's this?" Cora Mae held up a canning jar filled with water.
"That's Fred's travel mug."
"How's Kitty going to fit?" she said, scrunching up against the door.
"She's not coming along today," I said, dodging Fred's tail. Kitty barely fit in the truck with just Cora Mae and me. With Fred, no way. "But she gave me directions."
We rattled down a gravel road with craters the size of basketballs scattered across it. I weaved through, trying to miss the holes.


----------



## Valmore Daniels

*Forbidden The Stars - Page 99*

Mentally shaking his head, since he could not do so physically, he decided he was just imaging things. Most likely, Macklin's Rock had suffered a collision with another asteroid and the resulting impact and subsequent lack of oxygen was making Alex delusional.

A loud, echoing noise filtered through the TAHU, and after a moment, Alex identified it as a fission laser cutting through the top face of the TAHU. The rescue mission from the Orbiter.

Someone was going to save him.

Salivating, trying to moisten his dry throat, Alex called out, "I'm in here!" as soon as he heard the laser cease to cut, and the grinding sounds of polymer ripping as the rescuers opened the TAHU.

It was then that Alex realized that once all the air escaped the TAHU, sounds could not travel in the emptiness of space. The security receptacle itself served as a soundproof encasement. Without a digital septaphonic booster, the rescuers would not know where he was until they stumbled upon him.

Alex closed his eyes&#8230;

&#8230;and could see in his mind's eye the suitshielded figures of two people drifting down through the opening of the TAHU to the floor of the main room, the soft beams of their palmlights traveling over the confines of the room, searching for survivors. The song was back in his head, dim, as if he had turned down the volume. His internal vision extended just a few dozen meters outside his security receptacle, rather than millions of kilometers.

Panicked because of the images he should not be able to see, he forced his eyes open. A blink brought him a flashing image, quickly fading, of things he should not see. It was like a radar blip. He grunted in surprise at the image. Four more blinks produced the same effect.

With repetition, he became more used to the unusual perception, even though his heart raced with the implications. He did not think he could ever get used to the song, however. It was like the babble of a hundred people speaking foreign languages, and there was an imperative message hidden behind the unearthly lyrics.


----------



## 5711

*The Losing Role







*, from page 99 of the print version, coming soon:

Up front, Max and Zoock smoked the American cigarettes. They were Pall Malls. Max had smoked the very same in New York City. For a moment the fine musky aroma took him back to his apartment on the Lower East Side, to the stoops and drug store diners, the salary men in the elevators, and even to that strange automat where he ate pie with a slice of cheese. And then the moment was gone. It didn't take him back to Lucy. She smoked Camels.

The sky became a heavy, dark gray mass. The morning mist formed drops on their olive green wool. It was time to consider the mission, and Felix took the lead. He checked the maps as they drove on. As planned, they had been dodging the major crossings and villages. They passed only minor crossings and checkpoints. At every signpost Felix had Zoock stop so he could jump out and switch the signs backwards. Ideally this would send any unwary or retreating Americans right back into the advancing Germans and, similarly, any counterattacking Americans far to the rear. It was vaudeville to the death. And with every switch Felix jumped back into the jeep giggling.

They headed downhill, and a fog thickened. A stream had washed out part of the road, revealing the tops of rocks through the mud. Zoock shifted down to cross the water. Max peered through the fog. Something was ahead, at the base of the hill. He grabbed the binoculars.

It was a roadblock. Two jeeps, an armored car, and a squad of roughly ten American soldiers stood ready. The silhouettes looked unreal in the fog, like two-dimensional cardboard cutouts. Seeing them, Felix cocked his Colt pistol. Max shook his head at Felix. "Don't worry, lieutenant. I'm all right," Felix said.

"Good," Max said, and to Zoock: "So. We'll just proceed slowly."

Zoock nodded, slowly.

This was the first semblance of order they had seen. It meant they had to be well behind American lines. I could end it here, Max thought. Just step out of the jeep, stroll over and tell these Americans that German soldiers were with him. Then he'd be free. Wouldn't he? He looked again with the binoculars. The Americans' helmets had horizontal white stripes. They were Military Police-MPs, they called them. Could it be that easy? Max wasn't sure. Logic and sentiment clashed and sputtered in his head.

Felix passed around American chewing gum-Black Jack gum. ...

-----

http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B003D7LVRS


----------



## Richardcrasta

Page 99 (approx) of "The Killing of an Author", http://www.amazon.com/dp/B003WQAX4M

Perhaps the absurdest thing I have ever done for my book, and one that I blush to acknowledge (and if I didn't mention it, I know no one would ever find out, but honesty must be uncompromising), was one afternoon around this time-a Tom Wolfe moment-when I danced with Men's Movement Guru Robert Bly. See, I had figured it out this way: If the Western world is going to be divided into two camps-Men and Women-and no one is going to see me for what I am, independent of my camp affiliation, then why not do what I can do to see that "my" camp roots for me. How about getting an endorsement from Robert Bly for my book, I thought, and asked Harriet for her opinion. She thought it a good idea.
I had listened to a tape of his then-bestselling Men's Movement book, Iron John, in which he explains the need for men to talk dirty (and I'll agree with him, except that I usually talk quite clean; only when I write do I feel the need to throw in a f*** and a p**** in every other chapter-going back to basics, as one might say). According to him, Nature had outfitted women to be a puritanical force on men, to control their sources of pleasure, control the conditions, the environment in which they derive pleasure; the more guilty they feel about enjoying themselves, the less chance that they will be able to have pleasure by and of themselves. He also said that older and more successful men need to mentor younger men; whereas women naturally tended to support each other, this each-man-for-himself mindset had left males in confusion and disarray. All of which made sense to me.
So I registered for this one-day powwow of hairy chests in Manhattan, shelling out a stiff sixty bucks or so. After listening to Robert Bly, dressed in his inseparable silk vest and white shirt and tie, sing and recite, I snaked toward the group of men dancing with Bly offstage to the thumping of drums, the only brown man in the room, looking like he had fallen off an alien spaceship. And then, just as the flushed Bly was about to be limousined and jetted off to his next convention of chest-thumpers, I dashed up to him and said something like "Psst, want to see some real-man fiction-the story of Iron Vijay?" Then I passed him the standard brown envelope with three testosterone-drenched chapters, including the one about that famous morning "in my thirteenth year when our domestic cock, Bimbisara III crowed thrice." 
"Read it on the way, please," I told him, in my best "Discover me, for I have no mentor, no elder brother, no Hunter Daddy" voice.
"I will try," he said, rather unpoetically, though his eyes flashed shaman-like fire.
I never got it back. Perhaps he was too busy milking the Men's Movement at about a hundred grand a day . . .

Link: http://www.amazon.com/dp/B003WQAX4M


----------



## Edward C. Patterson

from *The Jade Owl*
by Edward C. Patterson
page 99 (print version)

"I tried to get him to put the _U-gu-ku _ away," Griffen added, "but Master Nick is his father's son." Griffen snorted, looking toward the Cage. His eyes softened, his hardedge suddenly lost. "It is a curious thing, this Jade Owl. It is so small, yet so powerful. It makes me think on the old days, when the valleys were green with unspoiled wonders and even this Cherokee son saw with both eyes."
Rowden watched this crusty man drift into thoughts of the halcyon days. The toughness was still there, like the steel that encrusted his balls and made him formidable as foe and masterful as friend. Griffen's reverie broke. He turned toward Rowden like a man who has finished his appointed rounds.
"I found Nick stretched on the floor before that thing. He was barely breathing."
"Good thing Griffen, my friend of friends here, was at hand or I'd be more than the silly putty that you find now. But I do feel better. Good old corn soup. And I certainly owe you an apology, Rowdy."
"I should say so," Rowden said. "You promised to be up front with me, you know. I trusted that."
"More soup, Mr. Nick?" Wewoka coaxed.
Simone took the bowl, and then shoveled a spoonful into Nick's quivering mouth, a little river of run-off streaming down his chin. Nick bubbled over to answer Rowden's accusation.
"I never made such a promise," he said. He wiped his mouth on the blanketing. "You spoke the words, but I never agreed to them. I knew I would break such a promise at the time." Rowden appeared hurt. Nick shrugged. "I may be a lousy con-artist and thief, but I take promises seriously."
"Thief?" Simone snapped. "Not you, Nicky. Please, who called you a thief?"
Nick kneeled on the cot, his face redolent of a lobster. "The Jade Owl is mine by right," he said, pointing to the Cage. "The secret it unlocks should have been revealed to my father. He never got the chance. It's my chance now - my inheritance - my destiny; my birthright; even if I had to steal and deceive to get it."
"You're raving," Simone said.


----------



## Consuelo Saah Baehr

They had miscalculated the time and dusk came while they were still far from their destination. The moon rising over the brown hills of Moab was eerie as it trembled over the waters of the Dead Sea.
Max came up alongside her as she hunched over her horse her knuckles white with effort. "This is more difficult than I had imagined," he said with guarded sympathy. "Just grip your horse and let him do the rest. He's picked his way over these wadis a hundred times. Your job is simply to stay on."
She nodded and made a valiant attempt to sit tall in the saddle but one lurch sent her back down over the animal, gripping him with every muscle. Max rode ahead with the guide to survey what they had in front of them. As dusk became dark, almost in unison, the dismal cries of owls and jackals began to bounce back and forth across the ravines.
They made slow progress with only the moon to light their way, but there was nothing to do but continue or else sleep in the wilderness without supper. The moon gave enough light to outline the chasms and present an eerier backdrop although no such enhancement was necessary. Miriam would never forget that evening ride or the grim relief over the sudden appearance of the gay peaked shelters dotting the campgrounds where they were to spend the night.
She dismounted and wobbled briefly on the ground giving her horse over to the guide to be cared for. Max took a lantern from one of the stewards who came to greet them and led the way to unexpected luxury, courtesy of Thos. Cook & Son. They had outfitted the striped green and white tent as if creating a permanent home. A beautiful Oriental carpet covered every part of the floor except for the coffee hearth with its heap of white ashes. A large, well-stuffed mattress took up fully half of the area and the other half was a profusion of cushions propped against camel saddles. The cooking was being done outside and the serving of dinner awaited only the signal that the guests had completed a refreshing wash provided by an ingenious portable shower that allowed one bountiful cascade of water for each of them to rinse with after soaping up. Miriam replaced the riding outfit with a caftan and sank down into the welcome softness of a large cushion.
She began to fuss with the caftan, pulling it out and then pushing it against her body. "It's lovely," said Max.
"Is it appropriate?"
"Perfectly. You look no different from any other matron on a Cook's tour with her husband. Except for one small detail."
"And what's that?" she asked anxiously.
"I don't think every matron's husband is eager to do this." He gave her a long, slow kiss letting his hand stray inside the loose armholes of the caftan to caress her skin beneath.
"Oh, Max no. They'll come in and see us."
"Shhh," he murmured against her temple. "You mustn't worry about anything. No one is paying any attention to us." A throat was cleared on the other side of the tent and Miriam jumped. The haughty steward brought in a pitcher of water, glasses and a bottle of wine.
"Set that here," Max directed the man. "And bring the hors d'oevres."
"Right away, Herr Doktor."
http://www.amazon.com/dp/B0041844C2


----------



## Glenn Bullion

I heard the sliding glass door move behind me. I turned to see Cindy standing there, looking hot in her business clothes.
"Hi."
I smiled, but didn't say anything. I honestly wasn't sure whether I wanted her company or not, but I didn't object when she sat in the chair next to me.
"Alicia's been trying to call you."
"I unplugged the phone. Not really in the mood to talk. I guess you've talked to her?"
"Yeah. She told me what was going on. She wanted me to check on you."
"I'm okay."
"Liar."
I didn't say anything.
"I guess it should have been obvious. You're ugly. Alicia's cute."
Not the best timed joke, but I smiled. "Yeah. I should have known."
"My parents used to joke about it whenever we talked about you at the house. About you probably being adopted. I never thought they would be right."
"What do you and your parents say about me?"
That caught her off guard, and she changed the subject. "Don't worry about it. But tell me what's up."
"I'm just freaked out. I can walk through walls, talk to ghosts. Now I find out I'm adopted. I just . . . who am I, really? I think it's just everything happening at once, ya know?"
That's all I could say. My thoughts were so jumbled. But I think that about summed it up. There was also the fact that my sister wasn't really my sister. My mother wasn't really my mother.
"Alex, is there anything I can do for you?"
I shook my head. "Nah. I'll be okay, really. I just have to soak all this in."
"Okay. I'll leave you alone. But if you need me, you come get me. I'll do anything for you. You know that, right?"
I smiled. "Yeah, Cindy. I know. Thanks."
She slapped me on the back and left.
I didn't sleep at all that night. I had so many crazy thoughts. What if I was some kind of government experiment that they let loose? What if I was part alien?


----------



## julieannfelicity

From: The Kindness of Strangers
...

"I think that answers your question," she laughed, regarding their kiss.

"I thought so, but you're so cryptic sometimes. You play coy and shy, but sometimes I really think you know exactly what's going on." He smiled and kissed her again.

They stood there for a few more minutes, enjoying each other's embrace, not wanting to let go.

"You know I have to get back, Irene's going to be wondering where I am. With my track record, she's going to start getting nervous," Sydney said as she pulled away and bent over to pick up her umbrella. It was nearly full of water so she tipped it out and shook it, spraying them both with the excess.

Ian growled playfully and lunged towards her. She shrieked and shielded herself, using her closed umbrella as a sword. He pulled it away and tossed it aside, pulling her close into him again. Drawing her into yet another sweet, playful kiss.

She gently pushed him away, though keeping her right hand on his face and twisted away from the kiss. "I really mean it," 
she whispered. "Irene's going to start worrying."

Ian scooped her up into his strong arms and carried her over to his work truck. As he opened her door, they could see one of the houses had turned their lights on, probably to investigate why a woman would be shrieking this late at night. They giggled to themselves as they saw an older woman, with curlers in her hair, peek her head outside her curtain window, and mutter something before closing it quickly.

"Shhhh!" Ian whispered, kissing her softly. "We don't want to wake the locals."

She pointed to her umbrella, which was still on the ground across the street, and Ian closed her door. His truck was nice and warm. She watched as he huddled and braced the rain again, just to grab her umbrella, before he opened his door and jumped in.

"You cold? You want me to put the heat on?" He asked her as he started the ignition. The wipers kicked on and squeaked back and forth, clearing the water away from the windshield.

She shook her head and looked longingly out the window, thinking about their relationship. Was this it?

"So, I told you how I feel, and I think I know how you feel, but can you just tell me where this puts us?" Ian asked, pulling the truck out of the parking spot between the two beat up cars. He flipped on the truck's headlights and headed towards Commercial Street.

"I can honestly say, I love you too!" She brushed her hand along his jaw line, trying to turn his face towards her. "I love how you smile, and how you laugh. I love how your face lights up when you see me, and I especially love how you are with Elizabeth."


----------



## Erick Flaig

Even without Splice’s nod of acknowledgment, I knew where we were.  This was the true home of the Swarm, and where Finnie was.  It was also, without a doubt, fully alert to our approach.
“Well, here goes nothing,” I said.
The Bugrider stopped in midair and lost altitude.  “Splice, what the dog’s feet are you doing?  My stomach is too empty for this!  I'm hungry enough to eat a rancid raccoon, or even my wife's cooking.”
Splice’s thin arms shuddered with muscles I didn’t realize the desk-bound girl had as she struggled to keep the Bugrider in the air.  “It’s dead,” she panted.  
We dropped down to the sandy dirt.  As it settled on ground, Bugriders rose around us, sand streaming from their riders.  There were at least twenty of them.
The nearest Swarm-being spoke.  “Resistance is futile, and consumption is anticipated this evening.  Place your weapons on the ground.”
I froze with horror.  Was this the end?  And if it was, did it matter if everything was going to implode in twenty-six or seven hours?  Bety kicked my ankle, and I nearly fell over.
“Agree,” he muttered.
“Okay, okay.  We surrender, but we want to…oh, I don’t know.  We don’t want to be eaten.  And I want to see Finnie!”  I reached for my gun to toss it over the side.
Bety dropped his ax.  “Keep your gun,” he whispered, “They won’t know what it is.”
Splice stood erect.  “Let’s get this over with, then.  But I have to warn you, I think I’m going to taste terrible.  I drink about six bio-carbines a day to discourage this sort of thing.”
The being spoke again.  “I am Graw the Unpleasant, and I must be honest.  The Swarm finds the taste of bio-carbine to be both delicious and refreshing.”
“Drat,” said Splice.  “I picked the wrong de-appetizer again.”
“Again?  Does this happen often?”
“Often enough,” Splice shrugged.  
We were bundled off the Bugrider and into the hive-like home of the Swarm.  I didn’t see much of the decor except a dark tunnel that dripped some sort of ooze.  Several of the Swarm walked in front of us, carrying the same light-poles Graw the Unseemly had carried, and several more followed behind us.


----------



## Terrence OBrien

*One third of the way through The Templar Concordat * 
"It's on the d*mn internet. A compendium of inter-library listings of new additions to about five hundred major research libraries. Page after page, indexed and sorted by library, department, bla bla bla."
"What's it say?"
"Say? It says Treaty of Tuscany, 1189, Vatican Library. Evaluation. Some temporary catalog numbers. It's a few lines of text hidden in a thousand pages. A needle in a hay stack."
"Who gets the list?"
"Who gets it? Who do you think get it? Libraries. Universities. That's why I get it. Some Vatican idiot listed it without knowing what it was. Probably don't even know they did it. For all I know, the computers did it all by themselves. That's an option on their system."
"Is the entry still on the internet?" asked the Master.
"Good God, no. We got the computer whiz kids over in your cellar to hack the hosting computers and erase it. No point letting anyone else know what we know. Knowledge is power."
"OK, Patrick, if you dig up anything else let me know."
"Let you know? You bony French toad! Open your eyes, man. Think."
The Master owed the old Archivist a lot, but there was a time to draw the line. "Patrick, either get to the point or I'm hanging up the phone."
"Hang up? Hang up at your own peril. Has it occurred to you that someone had to know about the treaty before that line in the index could even have any meaning to them? They had to know enough to realize it was worth stealing? Know what it said?"
The Archivist stopped to let his words sink in, then softly said, "And just who might have been around long enough to know that? Just who might have mention of it in their own archives? And just who might love to get their diseased claws on it? Just who might that be?"
Hashashin. The Master wondered if he or the Irishman should be Grand Master. He sure hadn't been thinking clearly.
The Archivist had the knife in and couldn't resist a twist. "So, now I'll leave you to think your great strategic thoughts, with the ancient foe so far ahead of us, planning God knows what mischief. And, you know, you're supposed to be the brains of this outfit&#8230; and none of you thought to ask the simple questions&#8230; mental midgets all of you&#8230; brains like BBs in a boxcar&#8230;see, I'm still pulling your chestnuts out of the fire&#8230;heaven help us&#8230; not like the old days, no, not at all&#8230; have to get me little knives out before..."
The Master clicked the phone off.


----------



## stuartneild

From Giant Killer Eels : Kindle Version

Hugo, an experienced diver of thirty years, had never before sampled the delights of the waterlogged bowls, of the Lake District slate mine. He kept as close as he could to his friend Paul, who was a lot less experienced at diving, but had dived in this particular location on many an occasion. In fact it was only on Paul's recommendation that Hugo was here now, deep underneath the darkened waters. 
Hugo twisted around to get a good bearing on his surroundings, and then turned back to Paul, but Paul was gone. 
Hugo shone his beam of light, trying to find a trace of Paul's outline, but there was none. He couldn't understand, Paul had dived into the water first and Hugo had been right behind him. The water they were in, hardly stretched for miles, in fact once underneath you felt very claustrophobic as the hard touch of the rocks were never far away. Hugo spun round as fast he could with the water weighing heavy, on his normally limber limbs. 
He felt something pass just underneath him to his side. His senses went into overdrive. It was too big to be Paul, it was too big to be anything human, it moved with the swiftness and strength he imagined a great sea serpent would, and from the corner of his eye, he had thought for a split second he had seen as much. 
Paul came into view. Hugo found a respite from the brief insanity he had been feeling. That respite however, didn't last long. To his horror he found himself quickly plunged back into that insanity. Paul came floating into view all right, or at least the top half of him. The bottom half of Paul had been completely ripped away. Shredded rubber from the diving suit, skin and entrails waved like grotesque seaweed, shimmering under the light of Hugo's beam. The hand of the corpse touched Hugo's face as it floated forward.
Hugo's screams were gagged inside his diving suit, as he was sure Paul's must have been, during his dreadful fate. Luckily Hugo's limbs were not bound, apart from the freezing fear he felt, not seeping in from outside his diving suit, but from swimming around inside it, spreading up and out of every pore. 
Hugo began with all his might to power himself towards the surface. The final thing his underwater torch fell on, was the image of the sea serpent he had glimmered earlier. He couldn't see its head; all he could see were the coils and coils of thick black mass, weaving around his body at a smooth but rapid pace. The creature's body cut through the water like the proverbial knife through butter. Squeezing tightly against him, he prayed to God it was not real, that it was just some perverse underwater hallucination, that he had been starved of oxygen for too long, that his friend Paul, would be alive and would pull him to the surface and away from this nightmare. All Hugo got though was the coils tightening faster and tighter. One by one he felt his ribs crack; his breath stole away from him, his head caught vice like, the pressure feeling like his head would explode. 
A final triumphant crack seconds later and it did.

http://www.amazon.com/Giant-Killer-Eels-ebook/dp/B0046LU9Q4/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&m=A7B2F8DUJ88VZ&s=digital-text&qid=1289042771&sr=1-1


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## cshenold

Page 99 of BLOODY MURDER

Singing indoors gave Kimmie's acoustic style an edge since she didn’t have to compete with the midway. Lyn’s daughter, Sue Ann, also sang, but in an unusual style. Her voice was soft, little volume and a smidge flat, as were a couple of other girls. 
I tried to concentrate on the talent but my mind kept wandering to Lyn and her personality change or multiple personalities. How she could go from sweetness and light, aren’t-the-little-girls-all-so-cute to Hansel and Gretel’s witch, I couldn’t figure out. Sometimes she seemed perfectly normal, then she’d strike like a snake. Nothing had been business as usual for this contest anyway. I’d be grateful if we made it through without another murder. 
No one else had contest with this kind of trauma. The fair board would never want me to volunteer again. I’d thought the public showing of my loyalty to Love’s youth would be good publicity, now it may simply point out, once again, that Tali+ event =dead bodies. 
Contestants finished their talent, changed and waited for the judges to add up points. This year was unusual with the timing of the Masque. The winner would be announced and receive her trophy but she would also preside as Queen of the Ball as well as the county. Stage hands moved a table out and arranged the banners, trophies, and flowers.
I made my slow progress to the judges to receive their score sheets and list of winners. Lyn came over and held out her hand but I was faster and snatched the sheets. “That’s all right, Lyn, I’ll make the rest of the announcements. I know you want to watch since Sue Ann is there waiting to see if she places. Go ahead and focus on her.”
Lyn did not appear pleased by my generosity. I stumped onto the stage and motioned to the girls to line up. At each announcement the audience cheered, girls received banners, flowers and trophies. Lyn stood in the wings, a murderous expression on her face as it was announced that Kimmie Baker won and Sue Ann came in second place. 
It wasn’t just Lyn’s expression as Kimmie was crowned, but the feeling that she was somehow dangerous and for whatever reason, that the danger was aimed toward me. I shook my head. Now that was overdramatic. The pain must be addling my brain.


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## WilliamEsmont

Page 99 of The Patriot Paradox

"Yes. Yes it is," Gasanov agreed with a grin of his own. "I recommend you get as far from this city as you can in the next day. I expect the weather will become rather unfavorable." He chuckled at his joke and winked.
"I understand. If you need any further assistance &#8230;"
The laugh died in Gasanov's throat. His eyes narrowed. "That won't be necessary. Pytor can handle things from here. He was in the Strategic Rocket Forces, you know?"
Fish raised an eyebrow. This was news to him.
"I trust you have plans for your men?" Fish added. He didn't like that Gasanov's men had seen his face. Standard procedure would be to eliminate them.
"That is not your concern."
Fish felt his face grow hot. It was definitely his concern. "I respectfully disagree with you on that point."
"Don't worry. I will take care of it. There will be no-how do the Americans say it? 'Loose strings?"
Fish blinked. "Good." He would have to trust Gasanov for the moment.
"In that case..." Fish got up and turned for the door. "I have some business to attend to before I leave town."
"I'll escort you out."
The men walked briskly across the warehouse to Fish's car and Fish left without another word.
As he rounded the first corner, he pulled his phone from his pocket and activated the internal encryption mechanism, punched in Jack's number.


----------



## Philip Chen

*1993: Call to Duty*

_0900 Hours: Friday, June 11, 1993: New York, New York_

Fifty stories above the streets of New York, the dark, wood-paneled office projected the prestige and power of being a managing director of Franklin Smedley & Associates. Smedleys, as the firm was known on the Street, was one of the leading investment banks in the world. Beside the large mahogany desk and leather chair, the office had a comfortable leather sofa and armchair, mahogany coffee table, dark Chippendale side chairs, and expensive oriental lamps. The dark red, hand-tied Oriental rug on his floor had been handpicked on a trip to Istanbul. An oil painting of a delicate, blossoming dogwood branch stretched out across a brilliant blue sky sat on the wall directly across from his desk.
The dark mahogany bookcase and window ledges were crowded with Lucite, glass, and brass flotsam and jetsam: silent memorabilia of a long and successful investment-banking career. Though of nominal value, the odds and ends of plastic, wood, brass, and crystal represented the aspirations of many would-be fortunes.
The office was quiet, but for the soft hum of the ventilating system and the dull background noise of the city in perpetual motion countless stories below, the honking of a frazzled motorist or the loud noise of a muffler-less diesel truck roaring up the busy streets.
Even the Quotron computer on Mike's brilliantly polished mahogany credenza made no sound as it chronicled the rise and fall of million-dollar fortunes on its green-lettered screen.


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## MClayton

Deleted


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## willowpolson

Page 99 (plus a couple sentences to finish the paragraph) of Triune:

"I _am_ an angel. Far as I know, anyway. My name happens to be Mike, or Michael, but I'm not the big guy on the candles. Okay?" He looked earnestly into Javier's dark brown eyes, which were glued to the huge dark wings that moved gently with each breath. Mike smiled softly and plucked out a medium-sized feather, and handed it to him.

"We're around," Mike said quietly. How he knew there were others, he didn't know, but if nothing else, logic dictated that there had to be more than just himself and his brothers walking the earth. "We can't be everywhere, but we do the best we can. Here," he said, taking the candles out of the alleyway and handing them to the woman and her son. "Take them somewhere safer."

Javier gave the feather to his mother, who took it with a shaking hand, and gave her two of the candles to help carry. "Can we... would it be all right if I kept this one...?" he asked, indicating the unlit candle he'd brought.

Mike shrugged. "Like I said, I'm not him. Just tell whoever's leaving these things to light them somewhere else, all right? It's a nice gesture, but I'd rather not burn down my brother's studio." He realized as soon as he said it that he probably shouldn't have, but also remembered that he'd said something about Brian being his brother on that first night to the drug dealers in the alley. If nothing else, he figured, maybe they'd stop breaking into Brian's car because of him.

"What about them?" Javier asked, nodding at the brothers in the distance, which only confused his mother. A tiny smile crept up on one half of Mike's face.

"Who?" he replied with a wink, and then it was Javier's turn to smile a little.

"Uh..." he said, recovering, "...the other angels. That are... around."

"Like I said, we do the best we can. Hey, I gotta get going. You should too." On a whim, he decided to give them a good show, and took a few steps back. They were good people, he knew somehow, and he wanted to give them a little treat for helping to keep the alley clear of the candles, if nothing else. He pushed off powerfully with a muscular sweep of his wings, his brothers deciding to follow, Javier's mother crying out with surprise when she suddenly saw them as well.


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## jmkwriter

"You could always do it at home," Nathan suggested.
Matt shot his brother a look.
"No, I like the poetic nature of dying at work," he replied.
"Around all your terrible writing?" Nathan asked, waving at the notebooks piled up on his desk.
"I was going to print out samples of some of my past stuff, maybe the Marked series, and spread it around my desk to be found with my body. Do you think it would too tacky to have some of my awards out and around, too?"
Matt pulled Nathan back out into the hallway.
"Just to clarify, he's hanging a noose up in there? On the fan?" Matt asked, careful to keep his voice low. "I'm not seeing things, am I? This isn't a figment of my sleep-deprived mind."
Nathan shook his head. "No, it's really happening."
"But the fan? There's no way it would hold his weight."
"You know, I was thinking the same thing," Nathan replied.
Matt frowned. "No you weren't."
Nathan nodded. "Yes, I was."
"This is strange, right?" Matt asked. "I mean, stranger then what we're used to, right?"
"I would say so."
Matt thought about it for a moment. "What do you want to do?"
"With what?"
Matt waved frantically at Vance's office. "With our co-worker who's contemplating suicide in there!" he hissed.
"Oh, he's not going to do it," Nathan said off handedly.
"You say that now and how guilty are you going to feel when Juanita with the cleaning service finds his cold, lifeless corpse one morning and screams bloody murder?" Matt asked, pointing a finger at his brother.
"Not very. And neither would you, for that matter," Nathan replied, pushing the finger out of his face.
"I might," Matt said.
"You didn't even feel bad when Grandpa died," Nathan said. "You sat in the back writing an Explorers script that had dead grandfathers coming back to life and giggled the whole time writing it. If looks could kill, we would have had two funerals that day, the looks that Mom kept shooting at you."
"Hey, I had an idea," Matt said in his defense. "I needed to get it down before I lost it. And it was a pretty funny story."
"Oh, I agree. It was hilarious," Nathan agreed.
"Hey, that gives me an idea," Matt said suddenly.
"Have the Explorers meet their creator?" Nathan asked.
"Who's about to commit suicide," Matt said.
"For agreeing to the Killer Rabbit storyline," Nathan concluded. "That his editor foisted upon him."
"That's what we end with," Matt said. "We can even tie in the different creative teams."
"Have the characters acknowledge that they've been looking different lately," Nathan said. "Very meta."
"It's brilliant," Matt said.
"No doubt," Nathan agreed.
"And excellent use of the word 'foist,'" Matt said.
"Thank you," his brother replied.
They ducked back into Vance's office.
"Hey, good luck with the whole suicide thing. We've got to go, we've just had this creative breakthrough," Matt said and they darted away.
Vance stood on his desk, noose around his neck. "Oh, great. Thanks for the support, guys! Could you pour some more salt on my wounds!"


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## David &#039;Half-Orc&#039; Dalglish

"Stop it and hold still," the boy told him, the only time he'd spoken.
Robert drank the soup while tears trickled down the sides of his wrinkled face.
Now it was night, although he only knew because of the changing shift of the guards. The bars were thick around him, and there were no windows. He marked the days by the tasting of his soup, and by his estimate, it had only been four.
"Four," he muttered, hoping he wouldn't cry again. He was tired of crying. "Only four."
He remembered men Edwin had sentenced for ten, twenty, even thirty years. Often the punishments had little to do with the crime, and more to do with the look of the man and his ability to grovel convincingly. Robert wondered what his own punishment might be. No matter how much he hoped, he knew his imprisonment was until death. He was old; it wouldn't be long.
The bars rattled, and he heard a soft bang on the door. His head tilted backward almost instinctively. Part of his mind thought it was too early for soup, but perhaps he had dreamed, or maybe he was just too hungry and thirsty to care about the time of day.
Arms wrapped around his waist. When he opened his mouth to scream, a hand rammed over it to stifle the noise.
"Silence, old man," a deep voice rumbled in his ear. Robert opened his eyes to look, but they were full of tears. Through blurred vision he saw three strangers, cloaked and almost invisible in the darkness.
"This will hurt," said another voice, this one feminine. Then fire erupted through every joint in his body. His shoulders felt like the center of the inferno. He might have screamed again, but if he did, he wasn't aware. All he knew was that the giant hand across his mouth pressed tighter. The chains rattled above his head. He heard a click. A sudden lurch followed, and though his whole body flushed with pain, he felt a wonderful, delirious satisfaction in the sudden feel of his weight resting no longer on his dislocated arms but instead the chest of another.
---
A Dance of Cloaks
David Dalglish


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## chris v

Page 99: Searching for a Starry Night, A Miniature Art Mystery - Christine Verstraete

Searching for a Starry Night



















Her hair finished, Lita rubbed some gloss across her lips, and scrambled onto the other cot. She stretched out and pondered the question, her face pensive.

"You don't think she took it, do you? When I saw that dollhouse, I thought she was our thief; now I'm not so sure. But that doesn't mean she didn't take it. Like your mom said, we don't have any proof whether she did or she didn't. Do we?"

Sam had to agree. "No, we don't. Those scratches on the door still bother me, but it's not enough. We need a ton more proof than we have. I won't scratch Mrs. Drake off the suspect list yet. We still have . . ." She lowered her voice. "Check it out. What's he doing?"

A confused look crossed the other girl's face. "Who?"

Sam kept her voice low and nodded in the opposite direction. "You know who. Turn around real slow and look at the d-o-g. He's up to something."

In slow motion, Lita slid onto her back and glanced to her side. "Where?" she whispered. "I don't see anything."

"Watch the cloth over the picnic table." Sam nodded towards the back of the room. "He's under the table. Wait, Lita don't . . ."

Lita slowly slipped off the cot and sidled over to the table, leaving Sam no choice but to follow. The two of them tiptoed closer and peered under the tablecloth. All Sam saw was Petey's butt wiggling.


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## iamstoryteller

Page 99, The Storyteller

But there was no answer from Great Spirit, and we never did find any evidence of Zha-Zi, other than a small scrap of the bright pink woven doll she loved so dearly.

In the afternoon, finally giving up any hope of finding her, I turned away from the acrid smell of smoke and burning materials and tended to the wounds on my hands and those of others who so bravely turned over coals in devotion of my forlorn wishes to uncover my precious daughter. I gathered up my medicine bag and water vessel and stumbled up the rocky path to a small cave and storage area in our mesa which I used in my role as healer.

In our lifetime as Chu-Zi, we were a healer. I had been taught healing by my mother and her mother before her, and over time had become renowned in our little pod of tribes in the desert as a healer of children. My cousin Chu-Mana and others from nearby tribes practiced the healing arts on those tribe members past ten summers, but when a child was ill, they often brought them to me, sometimes from many mesas distant.

My sister Sip-Hu hurried to follow me up the path and entreated me to stay with her. Some of the hunters had already placed my mate in a cave we used for the purpose of burial and Sip-Hu and Chu-Mana and others were preparing the garments that would cover Wah-Ra. The burial cave was very high up and inaccessible to predators which might wish to carry the bodies away and was quite deep into the mesa, away from the hot sun. But it was our tribe's practice to have a ceremony quickly. We felt it was important to let the Great Spirits know to look for those who were passing into the higher realms, so they wouldn't get lost. The tribe had met and determined that the ceremony for Wah-Ra and Zha-Zi would be conducted at the setting of the sun. It was always done this way, and I was glad of it. When someone died it was considered the duty of the whole tribe to take care of a proper send-off to Great Spirit.

"Come and get me when it's time," I said, unable to bear the thought of watching the preparations for the ceremony.


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## M.S. Verish

Here's our page 99 from: _Raven's Heart: A Tale from the World of Secramore_http://www.amazon.com/Ravens-Heart-...BH8M/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1286323425&sr=8-2​

Jinx leaned casually against a wooden post, watching the activity around him. He was stroking the stubble on his chin when he caught sight of his next mark. He assessed his target and fidgeted with his knife. No one around him paid him any heed, but that did not stop his heart from pounding inside his chest. His tactic would have to be flawless, lest the smallest mistake draw all attention to him.

His left pocket, he thought. Inside his coat. From the way his mark's clothing bulged, there had to be something valuable hidden there. To retrieve it would be a challenge-one that he had attempted several times before-one that usually was met with success. He glanced at a scar on his left hand.

Jinx pushed aside the embarrassing memory and refocused on the approaching target. He took a deep breath and moved into position, turning to face the closest stand. He pretended to browse through the merchant's goods, all the while keeping a close watch on the man who was now no more than a couple steps away. Mustering his nerve, he pivoted his foot to turn but instead glimpsed a sad-looking creature locked in a cage behind the merchant's counter. Bulging green eyes ogled up at him from the cramped prison.

"Just got 'er the other mornin'," the merchant said.

Jinx looked at him, bewildered. "Wh-what?"

"The imp." He thumbed in the creature's direction. "Ain't she somethin'?"

"Yeah," was Jinx's brief response before he turned and thrust his hand into the desired destination. His fingers met with success, but his prize was not what he had expected. It was not his mark he had found but the form of a beautiful woman's breast. He had reached inside her chemise, unaware that his intended target had already passed him. Standing nose to nose with the disgusted lady, he blushed and withdrew his hand.

Thanks for reading! ​


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## aaronpolson

Page 99 of Rock Gods and Scary Monsters:

But at school? I wasn't any Einstein, but I wasn't that dumb, either. 
The real trouble was that I kind of looked up to Snyder, as much as I could look up to a teacher. He was always pretty cool, letting me dink away on the guitar whenever I wanted and never really lecturing me about any of it. Sure, he gave me the occasional lecture about my life. Now, I felt, well, tainted or something. Weird, like I looked through a window into his private thoughts. 
After a while, I heard the band room door shut; I made sure to strum heartily for a minute so he knew I was in the practice room, business as usual. I couldn't shake the weirdness all day, and somewhere, inside, I felt a little sorry for Snyder. He would be shit-canned for sure once the IT guys figured out his private affairs. 
I could hear the rain thumping on the tin roof overhead, beating out its own time.

*Eighteen*

Thanksgiving landed on Connely with even more precipitation, if that was possible. We were so soggy already, I'm not sure it mattered. I don't think it ever rained on Thanksgiving before, not since I was alive anyway. Mom did the whole roasted turkey thing, Eli came back from Omaha, and Vermin was about as amiable as I could expect. Grandma-Mom's mom-even came in with her new guy friend, this white haired old dude named John with a bad toupee. 
We had this one tradition I wasn't all fired up for.


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## purplepen79

Page 99 of *Tapestry Lion*

We left the orchard, and now the horses waded through the knee high grass of the meadows on the edge of the forest hills. "Eden's at the hall," I said.
"Ah--you think her a spy?" Cyril asked.
"No. She's close with the prince though, and it's better she doesn't hear us. She likes to eavesdrop."
"She's a loose cannon ball," he grumbled. "You'd best keep her from rolling."
"I'm more worried about our heads rolling," I said. "Eden's loyal, Cyril. But even loyalty can be compromised by too much knowledge--she might accidentally let something she overheard slip to the prince, given their frequent meetings."
"If she's so loyal, why haven't you used her position to press him?"
"I have, just not in this matter. It's too dangerous."
He was silent a moment. The horses' hooves rustled the leaves on the forest path. "I don't trust her, Mordric."
"I don't give a d***, Cyril." Cyril and I were allies by default, not by choice. He was the head of council at court, a position a hairsbreadth above mine on the official record. Unofficially, though, I had more influence, and it rankled him.
"It's just every loose woman I've ever known had a loose tongue as well," he muttered.
"And how many women have you've known? Your mother, Arilea, and your wife make three."
"I'm honorable," he said, his voice stiff. "I've never kept a mistress."
I smirked. "If you're so concerned about Eden's reputation, perhaps you would be willing to betroth your nephew to her."
"What?" he exclaimed. "Darin? Darin's courting Alane of Casian."
"Another marriage would strengthen the bond between our Houses."
"Yes. Likely the king would let us hang together then," he said dryly. 
A silence fell as Cyril and I rode further up the path into the forest. I gathered my thoughts about the situation in Sarneth. It seemed every prince in the known world wanted to marry Her Royal Highness Esme.


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## ericbt

Page 99 of SEAMS16: A New Home

"I placed the system in maintenance mode, disconnected the station umbilical. Then I released the primary and secondary mounts, rolled the unit out and to the side, then rolled the replacement unit into position and reversed the process," Charlie explained. "It's a straightforward procedure. I have no idea what I could have missed."

"Well, the only step in the printed instructions you didn't mention was verifying the apartment was vacated, but you already knew you were working on a vacant apartment."

"Wait," Charlie's eyes narrowed. "Printed instructions? Is there some way of verifying that the apartment is empty from the LSS panel?"

"He didn't give you printed instructions and he didn't explain it to you?" Steve started to get upset when Charlie shook his head. "That son-of-a-... Yes, when you put the unit into maintenance if there's a life reading in the apartment the indicator is amber. Otherwise it's green."

"I remember seeing the green light when I put it in maintenance mode, but I thought it just meant the unit was in maintenance mode."

"Well, it does, but it also indicates life readings in the apartment by the color," Steve acknowledged.

"You mean he doesn't explain anything he's doing while he's showing you?" Susan asked.

"No. In fact, I would say that he's not really showing me. He's just doing it in my presence. I guess he expects me to ask, if there's something I don't understand. But so far he hasn't done anything I don't understand. I would have asked if the light came on a different color, but since I didn't know printed instructions exist, and he didn't explain it, how was I supposed to know?"

"You couldn't," Steve agreed. "You can access the LSS manual from the library through your main com and download it to a notetaker if you want. The swap out procedure is on the first page, but you already know all the steps now."

"Still, I like to review manuals of equipment I'm expected to work on," Charlie explained. "I guess I expected to get them on the job. I'll download them to my notetaker tonight and make a big show of reviewing them while he goes through the procedure tomorrow. Maybe that will placate him."

"I'll have a word with his department head tomorrow and find out why you were scheduled for two weeks instead of one," Steve said.

"Thanks, but don't. I think that would just reinforce his already low opinion of me and make him even worse. I managed to put up with Professor Shrum for four years, I think I can handle Trent for two weeks."

"At least Professor Shrum gave you the assigned study materials," Susan said.

"Actually, he didn't," Charlie explained. "He would post the assignments on the panel outside his classroom, but he never told us he did that. Half the freshmen class usually drop out in the first week if they aren't clued in by a charitable upper-classman."

"And who was your charitable upper-classman?" Steve asked.


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## Budo von Stahl

Perception of Evil

    “Have you a crust or a biscuit about you?” the old woman asked hopefully.  “It has been such a very long time since I last tasted bread.”
    Before she finished asking Talmar was on his way to the saddlebags; he returned quickly with an apple, a bit of cheese, and the flour.  While Valkane listened to the old hedge-witch the warrior busied himself with the biscuits.
    “Oh, such kind young men”, the old witch continued, accepting the cheese almost reverently.  Her answer came out slowly, between samples of the cheese and apple.  “What have they told me about you?  A few years ago, the coming of the Dragon Star foretold the birth of Darzoth’s Bane.  I was very old then, but as the star coursed across the night sky, reaching its biggest and brightest, I knew you were here at last.  I knew then it was time for me to make the long journey to this place, to be here at this moment.  I built this hut and table myself!
    “You see, since my youngest days I have prayed to the Allfather himself to be allowed to look upon Darzoth’s Bane.  I lost my family to a Goblin slave party when I was very young.  I only escaped in an accident on the trail back to Arkelebule.  Since that time I have dedicated my life to finding and helping the Chosen One.”  She paused a moment as she toothlessly chewed a bite of cheese, and Valkane took the opportunity to speak.
    “Ma’am, what leads you to believe I am this 'Darzoth’s Bane'?”
    “The answer to my prayers has come to me slowly, in parts, as they were needed; often the Allfather works in this way.  The trees, as I said, whispered to me the day you left your home, though I do not know where that was.  They speak to me often, but never of visitors.  I have not had a visitor since I came here, so you must therefore be him.  
    (No close-quotes because the conversation continues on the next page.)


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## mattposner

From School of the Ages: The Ghost in the Crystal  (for Kindle and Nook)

It was definitely a new experience for me to attend a class at eight in the evening. This made me especially nervous about Memento Analysis. I already wanted to do well, first because I was a novice in an advanced class, and especially because it was taught by my advisor. It had been a very long day, but I found I was very alert as I made my way down to the basement.
The assigned room, which took some finding even with my map, was just a small parlor, and a padlocked wooden inner door across the room from the entrance. The parlor was lit by a single candle. The room was very chilly: I could see my breaths, the way you do on a frosty winter day.
Seated in one of the few wooden chairs was Yakov Mermelstein. He was reading a leather-bound Hebrew book and did not look up.
"What are you reading?" I asked, sitting down.
He looked up and glared at me. "This is not for you."
"I didn't say it was. It still won't hurt you to tell me."
"Why?"
"Because it's polite. Or because being friendly is better than making enemies."
"Enemies?" He laid the book on his lap and gave me the full weight of his stare. His eyes were so dark and cold, they seemed to suck out of me what little body heat I still had. "You don't frighten me," he said after a moment, and looked back at his book.
He hadn't frightened me, either, but he had impressed me. "I'm not trying to frighten you. But let me make a suggestion. There must be a reason why AAC merged with STA. There must be a reason why so many classes have students from each. I'm curious. Aren't you?"
"No," he answered, lowering his book momentarily. "I know what I came here to learn. Not like you, apikoros. You have no idea."
I decided I was getting tired of his nickname for me. "Why do you call me that? What does it mean?"
He snorted. "Go and find out. I'm not your teacher."
"I will find out," I said. "And maybe I'll find something to call you, too. Now please, if you want me to shut up, tell me first what you're reading."
Again he turned his dark, cold gaze on me, and again I felt my strength slipping away. There had to be some way to resist it, but I couldn't think of a way. I looked away. In the corner of my eye I saw him smile, then return to his book. I was not going to let him beat me.
"What is that book?" I tried again.
He looked at me again, angrily, but this time without the cold stare that had weakened me before. "This is Rashi," he said. "It is a commentary on Talmud. Talmud is a book of legal decisions made by rabbis of centuries ago. Rashi is among the most important authors of such commentary. That is the answer to your question, and it is all I have to say to you, so now, shut up!"


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## RachelHowzell

Page 99 from The View from Here:

It wasn't some random thing. Didn't matter if it was random or not. I knew I'd tell Jake 'no.' And I would say nothing to Truman about the affair, or Jake's offer to leave the States, or any of it. I would cook, clean and swallow all dissatisfaction about Truman's work schedule and his hobbies without comment. I'd develop an ulcer from all of this repression, but I could afford bottles of Maalox. Maybe Truman and I could see Dr. Tremaine together for marriage counseling. She had been awful during our first "chat," but maybe she had had a bad day.

If I deserved a second chance, Dr. Tremaine deserved one, too.

But for counseling to work, I would have to confess. Or could I talk around the affair, my secret attempts to conceive? Could I ball all of that up into one load of dirty laundry?

Because I did love my husband. I missed him when he wasn't with me. I enjoyed his company when we weren't fighting. I wanted to forsake my firm abs and thighs to have his baby. That had to count for something.

By ten o'clock, I had finished an endocrinology report and had started on a draft about recent advances in nanomedicine. Truman hadn't called to apologize, and I hadn't called him. This silence, this opportunity to breathe and to think clearly, left me torn. I had been relieved that no one [i.e. Jake] had called to threaten me with the truth; on the other hand, the quiet was too quiet. The kind of scary-movie quiet that always ended with screaming, chainsaws and bloodshed.

Jake had sent me a vase of Casablanca lilies. The bouquet had been waiting for me on my desk, and now sat on my credenza. As I re-read the card, I didn't know how to feel.

_Babybabybaby, I'm crazy about U and I want 2 please U._

Someone knocked on the door.


----------



## Robert Hall

Beware of the Seagulls (The Seagull Trilogy) My page number... well, I took the 1/3 of the way through option.

'Hmm?' was all that Colin's incoherent, alcohol-addled mind could manage by way of a response.

Famine dragged himself to his feet and headed unsteadily over to the bar, making his best attempt to still appear sober, to help Pestilence carry the drinks back.

'Music,' clarified Unlife. 'It all sounds the same these days. Doesn't make for very good listening.'

'No, no!' said War in a voice that only he and his intoxicated friends thought was hushed. 'We're talking about horror films.'

'Horror films? There's not much music in those.'

Colin tried to shake his head whilst having some more of his drink, the result of which was simply that his chin and shirt became soaked with the red liquid. Unaware of this, he continued, 'No, not music. There's no music, just films.'

'Just films?'

'Just films,' echoed Colin and War as one.

'Oh.' Unlife paused for a moment. 'Can I have some crisps?'

War turned to the bar where his other two colleagues were lining up the drinks in preparation for the arduous expedition back to the table. 'Get some salt and vinegar crisps too!' he shouted.

Famine waved an acknowledgement and relayed the additional order to the bartender as War turned his attention back to the table and the conversation. 'Where were we?' he asked.

'Crisps,' slurred Unlife.

'Horrors,' corrected Colin.

'Ah yes, all blood and guts, nothing frightening any more. What about sci-fi's, lad? What do you think of those?'

Pestilence stumbled back to the table, almost throwing the drinks down but somehow not managing to spill a drop, and uttered a muffled response to War's question.

'Sorry, didn't catch that,' said Colin.

Taking the three packets of crisps out of his mouth and dropping them onto the table, Pestilence attempted to answer again. 'Too many special effects, not enough story. It's as though the plots are just there to string the set-pieces together.'

As famine resumed his place at the table, Colin raised his fresh glass with a resounding 'Here, here,' of agreement.

Unlife anxiously clawed his way into his bag of potato snacks as the other three raised their glasses to meet Colin's with a collective nod.

'Okay, gentlemen, the ultimate question,' said the mortal, slamming his drink down and sending some splashing down over the table. 'What is the best film of all time?'

Pestilence held up his glass whilst keeping a finger pointed out at Colin. 'Ah you see we have an answer to that.'

'Really?'

'Oh yes,' continued Famine. 'We've thought long and hard about it for many years, and have concluded that without a doubt the best film in history is-'

'Jeff's back,' interrupted War, pointing across the room.

'Oh, never mind then,' said Famine.

The group stopped as one and looked over to the function room, where the doors were just creaking back open, and an eerie silence fell over the pub.

Death came charging excitedly through the doors first and made a beeline for the bar, where the bartender took his order and headed straight for the coffee machine. Aphrodite swaggered sexily out next, watching Colin with an enchanting gaze as she resumed her position behind the bar. Jeff was next out, and he stopped outside the doors to shake hands with the procession of omnipotent beings leaving. Anubis followed, escorting the elderly Valkyrie - who was still talking to herself about how difficult it was to find reasonably-priced, comfortable seating - and leading her back to the table.

One by one the remaining gods filed out, exchanging handshakes and parting comments with Jeff, and soon the room was back to the state it was in when he and Colin had first entered. Except for the fact that Colin was still sat with the four horsemen, and would now in all likelihood fail a breathalyser test.


----------



## Neil_Plakcy

Page 99 from In Dog We Trust, a golden retriever mystery by Neil Plakcy

Back home, I had to return to grading, and there was Menno’s essay, waiting for me. I read about his father’s many crimes, and the way the Amish community had shunned him. Menno, his mother, and his brothers and sisters were all expected to adhere to the shunning—his father couldn’t live with them any more, and no one in the community would buy the produce grown on their farm, or sell his father any of the seeds or equipment he needed.

His father had left home and moved to Easton. Menno and his brother Godfrey had chosen to go with him, though their two sisters and youngest brother had remained with their mother on the farm outside Lancaster.
The essay was well-written, with few small errors, and I found it very powerful. Having to choose your father over your mother, life outside the cloistered environment of the Amish to the life you’d always known—those were big steps for a boy of fourteen.

Without her husband and sons to help on the farm, his mother had been forced to sell the property and move in with her brother’s family. The community would not allow her to divorce Menno’s father, or to accept any money from him, not even child support. According to Menno’s essay, she now worked for an Amish farm store, baking dozens of shoo-fly pies a day. 

Menno had left school at twelve, but in Easton he’d been forced by the state to return, and he’d graduated from the public high school and qualified for a diversity scholarship at Eastern.

“If my father wasn’t a thief, I’d never have graduated from high school,” he concluded. “I would be married by now, and working my own land. But I would still be bound by a useless religion. Now, it is clear to me that what my father really stole was freedom for me, and I am grateful to him for it.”

It was a different approach, and I gave him a high grade and then went on to the rest of the papers in my pile.


----------



## ldenglish

The Demon Hunters (Whisperings)​
A pair of fashionably clad feet distracted me as they tapped over the floor and stopped inches from my face. "I told you, I don't like threats," Gia said. Her voice sounded muffled, like she spoke underwater. Her hand clamped on my braid.

I grabbed her ankles and bit one, though I didn't break the skin. Not an elegant fighting technique, but I don't have a technique. I use what's available, kind of like an inept Jackie Chan.

Gia yelped and let me go. She yelled something unintelligible. I couldn't hear properly, like I wore a muffler around my head. Had my eardrums burst? Fingers like talons dug in my shoulders and hoisted me up. I opened my mouth so I didn't take a piece of Gia with me.

I dangled from her hands with my toes off the floor. Gia didn't look attractive now, she looked ugly, her face twisted, her eyes black pools too close to mine.

I took hold of her upper arms and head-butted her in the face.

I don't remember flying across the room to the far wall. I must have flown, because I hit the medium-size Christmas tree a foot or so above the floor. At least the tree broke my fall. I lay still, wheezing, tangled in merrily blinking, multicolored lights with the silvery ultra-thin shards of shattered glass ornaments glittering all over me. Gia stalked over. My head should have broken her nose, but I couldn't see I did more than make her madder.

I gulped in air and tried to pull myself together, literally and figuratively. I struggled to break free and almost succeeded in bringing the tree down on top of me.

"Oops!" I ground out through my teeth. "Clumsy ol' me."

I guess Gia didn't appreciate my humor. She bent, snarling, her mouth twisted. Her hands fastened on the neck of my T-shirt and hauled me upright. The lights and tree came with me, the tree toppling to lie along my back, artificial branches digging through my shirt into my skin.

Royal had not moved, he still sat on the couch, hunched over, hands fisted, shaking from head to toe. Daven was on his feet, obviously yelling, but I couldn't hear him either. Gia tugged me to her, her face so close I felt her breath on me.


----------



## Eric C

From CRACK-UP

The codeine pills that I’d been storing up in secret I took all at once—all seven of them—during lunch, shortly before my assigned hour in the recreation yard.  The time came.

The midday sun was bright and hot, the sky cloudless, the air sticky.  I felt as wet as a newborn foal.  The wind, when there was any, was blocked by the brick walls enclosing the yard.

The walls were ten feet high, topped by chain link fencing trimmed with thick strands of barbed wire and razor wire.  Watch towers—one of them manned—stood at two of the corners.

About two dozen inmates, including myself, wandered the yard in light blue hospital pajamas.  I knew the codeine was kicking in when I began feeling light-headed and a little dizzy.

I spied the wiry inmate who had propositioned me in the yard the day before, a thin-haired blond man with a booze hound’s ruddy face and the permanently pinched look of a man being cursed and damned by a crowd.  I approached him.

“Changed my mind,” I said.  “I’ll take that blowjob now.”

“Wait five minutes,” he said, “then meet me in the toilet.”  With a peek up at the watch tower, and then another at an armed guard stationed inside the yard, my would-be sex partner headed straight for the john.

It was a plastic green portable pottie near the rear wall of the yard.  With all the construction going on, it was a good bet the psychiatric facility was overcrowded, and with rules and regulations for things like toilets per capita, I hadn’t been surprised to find portable potties on the grounds.

I killed the allotted time by stretching my major muscle groups.  When it was time, I walked casually over to the toilet and swung the door open.  It struck the blond man waiting inside.  I squeezed in next to him and closed the door.

It was a tight fit, two full-grown men inside there.  The toilet was clogged with human waste.  The stench reminded me of the back streets of Beijing.

“Whip it out,” whispered the blond man.

What I whipped out was not my genitalia, but my right hand.  I jammed two tensed fingers into the man’s windpipe.  The man gagged, bowing his head reflexively.  I drove my elbow into my victim’s left temple.  The man dropped.


----------



## Gary Ponzo

A Touch of Deceit.
http://www.amazon.com/Touch-Deceit-Nick-Bracco-ebook/dp/B003O85YEM/ref=pd_rhf_p_img_3

Nick rubbed the stubble growing on the side of his face. "I used to wonder the same thing myself."
"But you know it's all real don't you, Agent Bracco?"
Nick sighed. "You don't have to worry. You won't be setting eyes on Kemel Kharrazi tonight."
"Why do you say that?"
Nick took a breath. He was tired, he needed a shave, he was hungry, and most of all, he wished he could turn off his brain. Just long enough to relax and make believe it was going to be all right. His brother was alive, he had to hang on to that thought. 
"Sir?" Jake said. "Why won't we see him?"
"Because," Nick said, "when you're dealing with terrorists, coincidences are dangerous."
Nick could tell by the silence that his message had fallen short of its target. He added, "When you find a square peg on the ground and a few feet away you find a perfectly square hole to put it in, it's time to look over your shoulder. Nothing is ever that easy, especially when you're dealing with someone like Kharrazi."
Jim Evans peered through the rear view mirror and said, "You think this is a wild goose chase?"
Nick could sense a schism developing between the two branches. Vegas dealt mostly with racketeering and organized crime. The majority of their criminals engaged in murder, extortion, bribery-spontaneous acts that lacked the planning required to escape detection. An evidence collector's dream world, Las Vegas. But Nick and Matt's world revolved around one thing-terrorists. A type of criminal who planned attacks eons


----------



## Rory Miller

Page 99 from Free Kicks: A Novel About Professional Soccer In the U.S. www.tiny.cc/1nt1i

"Yeah, I know," I didn't mention the photos and I hoped she didn't ask me how I knew about their relationship.
"So Wilcox promised Shelly he'd set up young Alex there with a college fund if she did him a little favor," she said.
"Like set me up," I said.
It was all starting to come together in my head now.
"Yeah, except her friend bailed on her at the last minute. So she called me up and asked me to meet her at that club."
"Where we first met."
"Yeah, and I swear I didn't know what she was up to. I should have asked more questions but when she'd hired a babysitter to relieve me from watching Alex, I love him but he's a demon some days, you know? Anyway, I rushed out for my night on the town."
"So you didn't know what she had planned?"
"Well, to be honest I thought she was into your friend. Since I knew she'd been seeing a married man I would have done anything to get her seeing someone else for a while."
"So you thought you were just her wingman?" This was getting more complicated than I expected.
"Basically. She told me to go after you when you left the club. I figured she wanted to get to know your friend better, if you know what I mean."
"So why did you go back to the hotel with me?"
"I'm a kindergarten teacher from downstate Illinois. When am I going to have a night out on the town, much less a night on the town with someone that's borderline famous?"
I never considered myself famous so the "borderline" part didn't offend me.
"So you didn't know about the pictures?"
"No," she looked down at Alex.
"So why didn't you call me or come forward and straighten everything out?"
"I didn't want to lose my job. I love my job, I love the kids. Also, I didn't want to rob Alex of his college fund. Shelly's so stupid she thinks Wilcox will always take care of her but I know he'll be gone as soon as she starts to sag. At least Alex would get something lasting out of this deal."
"I need you to tell all of this to the league commissioner. Well, not the sagging part but all the rest."
"It won't help."
"Yes, it will. I need him to see that I'm not some type of prostitute buying pervert. Then maybe the bottom dollar won't have to be so good looking for him to allow me to keep my club."
"It won't help, Regan," she said more firmly.
"Of course it will. Assuming I'm at least close to break-even, then I can&#8230;"
"No, it won't matter. The commissioner helped Wilcox plan all this, Shelly told me all about it."
"Oh," I said as the world seemed to go fuzzy at the edges.


----------



## kae

BLOOD AND BOND (in print and on Kindle)









"It's all just feeding Old Luke's prophecies." Elmer gave a hesitant chuckle. "He says this happens every seventy years or so; severe weather, sickness. Says it's a way nature keeps a balance to the area."

Eddie flopped the paper back on the table. "We'll have a solution soon." He started for the door.

"Are you going to brave the halls again?" Elmer asked.

"You know me. Never did mind a tough run."

In his office, he filed his class notes and then exited the building as the last yellow school bus chugged away. The football players had started their warm-ups in the cool afternoon. A few students clumped together along the wall near the asphalt running track. Eddie surveyed them, not recognizing any of the people as they laughed and talked. One brown-haired boy seemed to stare at him.

_Probably a new kid. One who hasn't had a nonwhite teacher before._

He pulled out of his jacket, and when he was seated in his car, he took off the tie-the worst part of his job, the suit and tie. But principal Kyle Winchette insisted on the formal attire. Eddie knew the man would like to have Eddie cut his hair, but over the years, Eddie had become somewhat of an institution around Lamp Creek. Their "token *******" perhaps, but he was respected.

Ninety minutes later, Eddie turned onto the road to his house, his yellow sedan laden with groceries and three bags of wood-stove pellets. He passed the Gavicks' trailer and climbed the three-mile hill. Late afternoon threw long shadows across the car as he drove the tree-lined road to his house. Behind the north pasture, the sky was coral with a pale violet horizon below it. Eddie studied it through the side window, noting the upper sky was clear, seeming to fall away from the land, getting higher, making room for changes in the atmosphere.

_Changes. Time for lots of changes._

He carried in a bag of groceries, then pulled into jeans and an old flannel shirt. After putting on well-worn boots, he went through the barn and got Aztec from the pasture. The horse seemed anxious for activity, and didn't protest Eddie slipping on the hackamore. Eddie placed his work knife into the keeper on his right boot, then grabbed a handful of mane and swung onto the horse's back. He headed around the house and out the south trail under the trees and up a slight rise before dipping into thick woods. The dim lighting made Aztec wary, but the horse trotted along, blowing on occasion, head high, ears alert. The path ended in the small glade with the willows and tiny stream he had studied the week before. Slipping from Aztec's back, he tied the animal to a stout branch and set to work.


----------



## joanhallhovey

CHILL WATERS​ by Joan Hall Hovey



Tommy had not long to wait for his father's return. About an hour later, he heard the truck drive into the yard. Heard the truck door slam shut. Tommy drew himself up in the bed. Ribs shrieking, he cocked the gun. It made a small click. Resting the rifle butt against his shoulder, he set his sights where his father's heart would be.
The door opened and Nate stood reeling in the doorway, clutching a brown paper bag in his hand. By its familiar shape, Tommy knew it was a .40 ouncer. He's not taking any chances of running out, he thought contemptuously. By the look of him, he'd swilled back a good share of the whiskey on the way home.

His faded plaid shirt hung partway out of his pants, the open vee revealing a mat of course black hair. What are you waiting for? Do it!

Nate gave a sudden lurch forward and Tommy braced himself for the full impact of his father's weight on top of him, knowing it would kill him for sure. But after a couple of involuntary steps, Nate managed to steady himself.

Nate's unfocussed eyes were on the gun-barrel which was aligned with the third rust-colored button on his shirt. But Tommy knew he was too drunk for it to register.
He doesn't really see the gun. He won't even feel the bullet's impact when it slams into his body, tearing through flesh and bone. He'll just be dead.

The stench of booze and sweat coming off his father was stronger now, filling Tommy with hatred and disgust. Do it! a voice commanded him. What are you waiting for?

But the moment when he might have pulled the trigger came and went, as his father went reeling into his bedroom. The bedsprings groaned in complaint as Nate sprawled heavily on the bed. He was out for the night. So what else was new.
Tommy relaxed his fingers on the trigger, lowered the gun. And wept.

As on so many nights in his seventeen years, he lay listening to his father's drunken snores through the thin wall. Gradually, those snores and grumblings faded into the background as Tommy's thoughts took a different turn.

Gazing down at the rifle lying across his lap, he thought: Why not? It would be so easy. He would be with Heather then.
~~~
Also in print


----------



## William Meikle

From Berserker ( http://www.amazon.com/Berserker/dp/B004CRSQSU )

_______________________________________________________________________

Tor motioned around at the forests on the hillside.

"Can we rebuild? We only have need of one boat."

"I have been wondering that myself lad. That decision is for the Captain to make."

Tor stared out at the black scarred skeletons of the longboats.

"Are there any bodies?" he whispered.

Bjorn kept his voice low.

"Nary a one,"he said. "Neither Viking nor beast. And there is worse. Come."

He led Tor to the far end of the shore where the sea loch butted close up against the forest. A small patch of snow-covered gravel was all that separated the water from the tree line. Footprints studded the snow - deep, wide footprints too large and too heavy to be made by men. Alongside some of the prints were long deep
gouges that went down through the snow into the gravel below leaving brown runnels that were easily followed.

_Drag marks_.

"The bodies have been dragged away?"

Bjorn nodded.

"Then we must follow," Tor said. "We cannot leave them in the hands of those beasts."

"Follow?" Kai said behind them. "Follow who?"

"Our kinsmen," Bjorn said. "The beasts have taken their bodies. Without proper burial, they will never find
Valhalla."

Kai looked into the forest then spat in the gravel.

"There will be no following,"he said. "See to your boat-building sail-master. I want to be on the water and
out of here in three days."


----------



## Harry Shannon

From "The Pressure of Darkness"
"A dark, thrilling tale of murder and intrigue that will have you turning the pages as fast as you can."
--Crimespree Magazine

http://www.amazon.com/The-Pressure-of-Darkness-ebook/dp/B003DKK1KS/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&m=AG56TWVU5XWC2&s=digital-text&qid=1281128140&sr=1-1

PG 99

"Are you still with us, sir?" the impersonal voice asks. He clearly cares little one way or the other.
"Yeah. Fine. I'm fine. How did you people find me?"
The speaker clicks. "We brought you here."
An odd and chilling thought occurs to Willie Pepper: They haven't even asked me for my name. I don't carry ID, I'm not wearing any bracelet like they give you in the emergency room in Santa Monica or over at Cedars Sinai, so what is this place? Where did they take me?
"Doc?" This must be a doctor, right? "You still there, Doc?"
"Yes," the voice replies, "we are still here."
Another sneeze, another wipe on the top of his forearm. Hundreds of ants crawling his flesh: this time there is some blood in the clear mucous.
"Fuck!"
"What is it, sir?"
"Look, I want to know where I am and what's going on, all right?" Willie gets to his feet, surprised to find that he feels pretty strong, now. Most of the wooziness is gone. "What have you people done to me?" His limbs are flushed with blood and fear is giving him strength. Weird.
A low chuckle. "You are feeling somewhat better now, sir. Quite suddenly, yes? We can see that."
Willie rubs his belly. "Yeah, but I have a shitty cold, man. And I think I'm gonna be sick to my stomach. Can I have some more water?"
"I doubt you would be able to keep it down at this stage."
The fuck does he mean by that? Willie shivers abruptly, licks his lips. His now chattering teeth really hurt. He stumbles to the mirror while the cameras carefully track his every move. He opens his mouth and shrieks. There are pustules on his gums, black dots that look like blood blisters. Before he can manage to form new words the drinking water comes back up in a rush and splatters the mirror.
"Doc, h-h-help me!"
"Be calm. It will not be long, now."
What won't be long?
Willie Pepper looks at the pustules again. He watches himself in the gooey mirror, helpless to intervene or cry out, as his facial muscles begin to twitch and tremble. The right side of his body goes completely numb for a few seconds. Now that his mouth is open, it seems to lock into place as if he had rabies. He cannot close his jaws or move them to speak. He feels an electric shock run through his entire body and he stiffens, like a mannequin. After a long moment his rigid body leans forward against the mirror, tilted like a fallen statue. He is silent, still. The cameras zoom in for a close-up of his full body.
"Hunh!"
The frozen feeling only lasts for a short time. It is followed by something akin to an epileptic seizure. Willie Pepper hits the hard surface of the floor, twitching and moaning and grunting like an animal. He chews in a grinding, devilishly effective manner until he begins to devour his own lips and tongue. A few seconds later he hears a voice, from somewhere far away, say something about damage to the mid-brain and basal writhing.
Willie shits himself. "Bowels evacuated."
His spine arches hideously, impossibly, until it bends so far back it seems certain to break. Blood is gushing from his nose and eyes, now (meanwhile, the voice says epistaxis) and Willie Pepper knows in some dark and dim corner of his mind that he is going to die. He no longer cares. His eyes have rolled back into his skull and he is rigid and silent and nearly insane from the pain. A deep and racking cough occurs; another gout of blood, this one bursts from his mouth like an alien creature to land on the now-messy floor, a foot or so away. Willie Pepper feels all of the tension leave his body and it feels good, almost orgasm good, to have the fit over with. His eyes glass over and his vision darkens. It comes to him that he is no longer breathing, he tries but cannot breathe. The image of his sister in the sunshine returns.
The voice: "We have respiratory failure at 10:19:26."


----------



## Valerie Maarten

I thought we should have a little bit of fun with our books.  Take a short excerpt from your book and post it here.  Think of it as a sales pitch or showcase to your readers.  Which part of your book do you think will get and hold their attention?  I'll start.  Though I have two ebooks, I'll only post one this week and the other next week, etc.  Also, feel free to comment on everyone's excerpt.  This is meant to be fun, so play fair 

Excerpt:
Joy's thoughts were racing through her mind with infinite possibilities of what could possibly be so urgent.  Her heart pounded in her throat as she grabbed her bathrobe, foregoing her slippers for expedience sake.  She raced down the stairs and snatched the door open.

WHAM!  

Cold snow slid down her face.  She wiped the snow from her eyes and glared at her assailant.  

“You promised me a rematch,” Gabe said.  He was grinning from ear to ear, like the cat that made off with the cream.  “Get dressed.”  He pushed past her, not waiting for an invitation.

Joy stood for a moment, bewildered.  The cold wind that chased in behind him reminded her that she was standing in the doorway, naked, with nothing to warm her but a thin bathrobe that was loosely cinched at the waist and bare feet that absorbed all of the cold from the tile floor.  She slammed the door shut


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## deenaremiel

I'd love to do this. But should I post my little excerpt here, Valerie? Or do I post something new? I saw this on FB and had to come around and see what this place is about. I registered. Looks like fun!   Deena Remiel


----------



## Valerie Maarten

Deena, you can post it here.  This is just a fun exercise to showcase one of your books.  I'd love to read something and I'm sure a lot of people would, as well.  Thanks for participating.


----------



## hmcauthor

Here is a short excerpt from my new erotic ebook entitled "Valentine's Day" now in softcover and for Kindle! http://tinyurl.com/4z7mxzr

"I was dancing alone and I'd prefer too keep it that way!" Valentine protested as she felt the warmth of Bradley's body against her. She had not been his close to any man in along time.

"I think you are alone too much beauty. Someone must have hurt you terribly. It's not a weakness too want someone."

"You don't know a damn thing about me and after the way you have disrespected me I'd prefer it that way."

Bradley took a deep breath, grabbed Valentine's wrist and drew her in close to his face. "You have never been around a man who won't back down to you have you? You don't know me either Valentine and when I want something I don't run away or back down to anyone for any reason!"

Valentine was livid. "How dare you? I don't need any man thank you very much!"

"Perhaps you don't need one, but do you want one?"

Want. Need. Those were words that Valentine hated and refused to use or think about. She knew that part of the reason she didn't want Bradley around was that she felt some attraction, another was he was just infuriating to be around.

"Arrogant bastard!" she whispered.

"Maybe, but I'm a fantastic dancer!" Bradley laughed at the shock on Valentine's face as he spun her around to the music.


----------



## D.M. Trink

Here's an excerpt from The Crimson-Eyed Dragon--now on sale for $1.99!
As he got up to shut his blinds, he noticed the way the sunlight was reflecting off the dragon statue’s crimson eye, causing it to shimmer and gleam.
“Cool,” murmured Jared as he leaned closer to examine it.
Also brightly illuminated by the powerful sunshine was the gaping hole from the other eye socket. Jared was fascinated to discover something deep within the socket that was now visible. It looked to be a raised button. Jared searched frantically on his desk for something small enough to reach into the tapered opening. He tried a pencil but it did not fit the narrow shape. Suddenly
10
inspired, he ran down to the garage to his dad’s tool workbench.
“There has to be something here,” Jared thought to himself, rifling through items.
“Aha! A mini screwdriver set.” Jared grabbed it up and raced back upstairs.
He tried the smallest one first. Success! It seemed to hit the end.
Jared carefully applied pressure and with a loud creak, the dragon’s left wing dropped.
“Oh darn!” he shouted. “I’ve broken it!”
Annoyed with himself, Jared carefully hoisted the dragon to see what damage he had caused. To his amazement, he discovered that it was not broken at all. The wing seemed to be floating, suspended on some kind of a hinge that pushing the button had lowered. There was a small cavity now revealed within the wing and with shaking fingers Jared nervously removed what was hidden there.


----------



## Midnight Writer

Excerpt from Jule Reigh and the Jim Stone Affair by Lani Aames

Erotic romance, apx. 11,000 words, 99 cents.

"My name is Juliet Reigh."

"Mmmm." His hands slid off her shoulders, peeling off her jacket with them. When the collar was near her elbows, he jerked her forward while forcing the jacket back and effectively pinning her arms to her sides. "Jule Reigh. Do you really expect me to believe that?"

His sudden entrapment made her heart race. She apparently hadn't convinced the thief she wasn't out to capture him, after all. She looked up into his deep, fathomless eyes, irises so dark they nearly blended with his pupils, and in that moment, she almost didn't care what he did to her as long as he f***ed her first. "It's my name. Blame my parents."

"At first, I thought you were an agent of some kind. Interpol, most likely, but now&#8230;"

"Now?" she prompted, wondering if she could use his other notion to her advantage and make him forget all about agents and Interpol.

"Now, I think you must be Dia Manté, a well-known thief who steals only diamonds."

Jule had heard of the notorious Dia Manté, another international jewel thief in Interpol's files. With her sole interest in diamonds, she'd been a prime suspect along with Stone. Careful examination of the crime scene and analysis of the execution of the heist concluded the _modus operandi_ was more in line with Stone than Manté.

"Interpol? Diamonds?" Jule widened her eyes in surprise. She decided to try to keep the cover of horny chick intact as long as she could. With luck, she just might pull it off. "I don't know what you're talking about?"

His ambiguous smile slanted to one side and clearly indicated he didn't believe her. "No need to keep up the pretense. You're one or the other--Interpol agent or jewel thief. But which one?"

"I--" she began another denial, but he pressed a finger across her mouth.

"Don't insult me. I've been in this business long enough to know when I'm being set up." He let his finger slide away. "I have to admit, my desire for you is clouding my instinct, and I don't know which one you are. So we're going to play a little game."

In one swift movement, he yanked off her jacket and tossed it away. Startled, Jule made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a squeak. He had her nerves on edge because she _never_ squeaked. "Wh-What kind of game?"

"Twenty questions&#8230;except every time you give an answer I don't like, I remove a piece of your clothing."

Amazon US $0.99 http://www.amazon.com/dp/B004HO63YM
Amazon UK £0.74 http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B004HO63YM

Hope y'all enjoyed the excerpt!
Lani


----------



## Dana Taylor

Hi there:

Here's a link to a scene from Devil Moon: A Mystic Romance posted at Author's Den.

The question in this scene is : Does this divorced Dad deserve a second chance?

I enjoyed writing an eleven year old (but glad I don't have one anymore!)

http://www.authorsden.com/visit/viewblog.asp?blogid=53729

Dana Taylor


----------



## melissalwebb

Here is a flash piece from Dark Flutters: Stories For A Moonless Night

*The Eater Of Worlds*

From the moment I crawled out of the pit, the world changed. Contorting and shifting, reality changed to suit my needs. Fear rose in people's hearts as hate boiled in the streets. The days of innocence had gone, fleeing faster than rats disturbed in the night.

I was welcomed into this world by the cries of the tormented and the howls of the damned. It was them who had marked my place in this world. They had dishonored their home so much, that it had been tossed away by those who had sworn to protect it.

Now unguarded and detested, this world was mine to take. And I would take it. I would use it until there was nothing left. I would violate everything, causing the world to be bled of every tear it had to shed. The prostitution of a planet was what I thrived on. It was what I was created to do.

I smiled as I stood back from the mirror and straightened my tie. I was the Destroyer of Civilizations, the Eater of Worlds, and I was damn proud of it.

The door to the room opened and a woman stuck her head in. "They'll be ready for you in five minutes, Mr. President."

"Thank you, Rachael," I spoke as she shut the door. Looking in the mirror, I smiled once again. This world wasn't ready for me at all.


----------



## Valerie Maarten

Very nice excerpts...I am so impressed.  I love it.  Let's keep it going.  I'm sold


----------



## K. R. Whitaker

Here's one from SEALed Justice.  Great idea for a thread by the way!


    It was a thirty three mile drive in the dark to the airport.  The five vehicles turned quickly into the entrance, then sped across the tarmac to stop right beside the waiting Massey Corporation Lear jet.  Two other White Acre Security men were there waiting beside the door, and Michael was already safely seated inside.  The engines were already running when Jase entered the plane and sat beside Michael, followed by Strauss and three of his most trusted men.  The co-pilot shut the door and the plane began to taxi out on the runway of the small airport.  
    "Good morning Jase," Michael said.  
    "Good morning.  Are we ready for this?"  
    "I think so.  I've been on the phone with the supervisor at the plant already, and he's in there now with the guys we sent ahead to start setting up."  
    "Do you think there's been any leaks?"  
    "I don't know for sure, but we should proceed as though there have been.  The two network reporters from Flash News and the reporter for the American Conservative should want to keep quiet and protect their exclusives, but who knows," Michael replied.  
    "How about the cameras for the web-casts?"  
    "Relax Jase, both camera operators are already there setting up."  
    "Sorry Michael.  We've only got one shot at this.  There's no way we'll be able to slip in under their noses like this again."  
    "I know.  This is one of the most exciting things I've ever been a part of Jase.  Is it anything like this when you would set out on a SEAL mission?"  
    "In some ways I think this is worse.  I'm not allowed to kill the enemy."


----------



## BarbaraSilkstone

_*Thanks!*_

Drawn to sounds of opera music from a glass-enclosed wing to the right of the house, I made my way to French doors. I stood on my toes ready for flight and pressed my nose to the glass, careful not to leave any fingerprints or pick up any germs from the door handle. The room was a study in gilt and gaudy. It looked like it had been furnished by Godfather-To-Go by way of the British Museum.

I knocked on the glass. No response. The door swung open and I stepped in to the last few notes of Madame Butterfly. "Mr. Hare?"

Sunglasses sat with his back to me in a high-topped leather chair. He wore a red shirt and what looked like black slacks. "Mr. Hare?"
I got that shaky feeling you get when something isn't right. It wasn't like my arms were growing or my legs were shrinking. It was more like the taste of metal in my mouth.

Stepping to his left side, I touched the gangster's shoulder. It was sticky. I looked at my hand. Blood. And germs. God knows what this man has. And then reality kicked in and for one horrifying moment his head lulled on his neck, rolled onto his right arm, and hit the floor with a crunch-splat. My mind spun. I was pretty sure he was dead; and Leslie did it. Sunglasses must have told him he had the tape recording of his confession of Jug Hare's murder. That meant Leslie was wise to Maris and probably me.

Eeewww&#8230; blood on my hand. I looked around for wipes. There was a small door across the room and to the right. A bathroom? But to get there I had to walk around dropping more of my DNA all over the floor. I focused on the little door and ignored the head on the floor behind the desk. If I touched the knob I'd leave finger prints. I could open it with my mouth&#8230; ick. What was I thinking?

I could grab the knob through my sweater, but I'd have to throw it away. My black turtle neck was one of my favorites. I worked my hand under the fabric and created a mitten. The knob stuck. I pulled more of my sweater into the twist and it released. It was a bathroom. I elbowed the light switch and grabbed a handful of tissues from a red and gold box on the counter. Using the paper I turned on the faucet. 
Sunglasses' blood was on my hands, both lit and fig. It flowed in pink and crimson streams into the sink and down the drain. I kept the water running and threw the tissue in the toilet; I grabbed a second paper to flush the handle. My stomach was about to contribute to the drain - I talked myself out of it.

I glanced over my shoulder at the crime scene, trying to ignore the fact that there was a large bloody head on the floor next to the desk. What had I touched? The French door handles? Sunglasses shoulder. I was not about to re-touch the body. If my finger prints were there, they would stay there. I clicked off the light switch.

The sound of a car door slamming sent me to the floor. I peeked around the bathroom door jamb.


----------



## Mark76

Fun. I'll give this a go. Stolen Dreams, part of Chapter 6

Curiosity must have overcome fear. Richard followed him, pocketing the key and then stepping into the darkness.

"Let your eyes adjust," he told Richard. "It's faint, but there is light in here."

They paced slowly forward, each step feeling slightly off balance on the smooth floor. After a few minutes John looked back. The basement light look distantly welcoming and he had to fight against the urge to turn back.

Suddenly Richard took a step backwards and there was the sound of hands brushing skin.

"What is it?" asked John when the sound faded. The darkness made him instinctively whisper.

"Something on my face," came the alarmed reply. "Crawling&#8230; insects, spiders, I don't know." More brushing sounds.

"Alright, calm down," said John, thinking fast. "It's probably just the breeze, making you think that-"

"No, it wasn't the breeze. Something was on my face!"

John paused.

"Has it gone?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Then it doesn't matter. Forget about it."

They stepped forward again, Richard more hesitant.

Two more steps and John felt it. A moth's wing, perhaps, across his cheek. He brushed his hand over his face, felt nothing. Shaking his head, he continued.

Three more steps, and John realised that Richard had stopped.

"Richard?" he asked over his shoulder. "Come on."
"No. Can't you feel it?"

"It's just a dark room, Rich. Come on."

"Look at the light ahead. Are we any closer? Look at the walls."

John peered at the thin bar of light. It was hard to tell, but he thought they were making progress. They had to be. He glanced left and right and frowned. He could see nothing. He said as much to Richard.

"No," whispered Richard. "It's narrower, smaller. It's pushing at us."

"It's your mind playing tricks in the dark," replied John quickly, though he shivered. Richard's voice was shaking.

"I'm going back," stated Richard.

"We're almost there," replied John. "Keep going."

A faint sound carried on the breeze, its high pitch cut through them and they froze. Silence.

"Did you hear that?" whispered John nervously.

"Yes," came the shaky response.

"What was it?"

"I don't know," answered Richard.

John knew they were both thinking of the officer's words, about the pain caused under the Spire, but neither would voice the thought. As if staying silent would deny the fact that it sounded too much like a distant, muffled scream. Refusing to be turned back, John resumed walking, slowly, hesitantly.

Something hard and bony clamped over his face.

_edited for formatting_


----------



## Phil Edwards

It's fun to see such variety in one thread.

This is from Cloud Crash: A Cal Stevens Novel

When the police finally did show up, it was about forty five minutes after Greaseback had been strangled. The one car force pulled in at 11:40 because an old coot who lived in the neighborhood said he thought some kids were shooting off Fourth of July fireworks a night early. When the two cops arrived, they spent five minutes staring at the blown open back of the gray warehouse. The wall of the building had disappeared and they could see inside it like it was a dollhouse. Cables sizzled on the grass like snakes, and inside the building a few sparks popped, but none of the computers hummed. A few exposed areas of insulation smoldered.

They didn't find Greaseback's belt buckle until very late that night, when one of the cops stumbled on it while walking through the field. They realized Greaseback had died when they found his class ring with a severed hand attached to it. The cop had played with Greaseback on the high school football team, where he sweat so much senior year that people started calling him "Greaseback" and the nickname stuck. The two cops combed through the fields until 1 in the morning. But the explosion had removed any traces, including the 234 pound body of the security guard.


----------



## Midnight Writer

From _*Starkissed*_ by Lanette Curington, published by Samhain Publishing

Futuristic/SF Romance, apx. 80,000 words. The hero is an alien and the heroine human (see cover in my sig).

Quickly, J'Qhir rolled his bulk over until he had captured her. He lay along her length as he had envisioned so often. Not forced by unnatural gravity, not as a haphazard result of falling, but simply to experience the pleasure of her softly rounded body beneath his.

He blinked once when she did not resist.

He was careful to keep most of his weight off her as well as his injured knee. He slipped his arms underneath hers, which raised to accommodate him, and planted his elbows on either side of her torso. His hands entangled in her lustrous hair, cupping the back of her head.

He closed his eyes and breathed in her scent, the sweetness of the _jhuhn'gha_ flower. His body absorbed her wonderful heat through the woven fabric of their clothing. He wondered what it would be like with nothing between them, to feel the prickle of her body hair, to touch the fleshy mounds that rose and fell with each breath.

He wondered how long she would allow the impropriety to last. If she were Zi, she would have cried out in outrage long before now. She was not Zi&#8230;and he was pleased she was not.

Amazon US $4.29 http://www.amazon.com/dp/B000VYX836
Amazon UK £3.26 http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B000VYX836

Thanks,
Lanette


----------



## isaacsweeney

All these excerpts are great. Here's the beginning of thestory "Urine Trouble Now," in _Against Her Fading Hour_.

Urine Trouble Now
The cat won't stop peeing everywhere. We have two litterboxes, but the cat just uses the
damn floor.

And all my husband can do is tell me it will be alright. That's what he always says when
I'm crying. How does he know everything will be alright?

The damn smell. I'm two rooms away from the litterbox and I can smell cat urine. It's a
strong smell, bitter and distinct, that doesn't go away. We tore up carpet and put down
hardwood. We've replaced this sofa I'm sitting on twice because of cat pee.

It's costing us a fortune.

"It'll be okay," he says. The damn smell. His arm is around me now. Of course I push
him away. I can't stand when he gets like this. He thinks he can fix everything by giving me a
hug and telling me things will be better.

When will things be better? We're nearly 30 and we still live paycheck to paycheck. He
doesn't know what he wants to do. He's a writer, but he doesn't know what he wants to do for
money. I hardly ever see him write anymore.

I've been working steady for five years. In that time, he's had three career changes and
gone back to school twice.

"We're supposed to struggle now, while we're young," he tells me. "This is when things
should be hard."

I'm sick of struggling; I can't live like this.

The damn smell. It's getting in my nose, my eyes, my mouth. It's choking me. The smell
is invading me, crawling down my chest, rolling across the lining of my stomach, wrapping
around my sides, my back. Pulling. Tightening.


----------



## Valerie Maarten

OMG!  These are such great excerpts.  This is more fun that I thought it would be.  I love the snippets you all have chosen.  I find myself getting sucked in and hating that it ended.  I NEED MORE!!!


----------



## par2323

Here's a brief segment from _Sounds of Murder _ that explains the title:

She sat at the computer and reached into her purse for the CD. Removing the disk from its folder, she inserted the shiny circular disk into the CD drawer. Impatiently, she waited while the computer uploaded the data. She brought up her favorite acoustic analysis program and nervously loaded the data. Immediately, the screen filled with a spectrograph and wavy lines, indicating the presence of sound. Some of the waves were rounded rather than sharp, indicating to Pamela's perceptive eye that she was looking at human vocal sound in addition to mechanical or non-human sound. Placing a set of earplug speakers in her ears, she turned the volume control to a low level. She was totally engrossed in the screen in front of her as she moved her cursor to the start of the wavy line on the spectrograph and pressed play.

An unbelievably strange, guttural sound was emitted. It was hard to determine what it was or even describe it--like nothing she'd ever heard before. Certainly it was human, but it sounded like choking and there were also non-human sounds too--things being bumped, pushed, a double-clicking noise, a scraping, and various other sounds she couldn't identify. The entire visual display was comprised of these sounds. Towards the end of the recorded section, the guttural, choking sound faded, as did the bumps and other noises. Finally, all the sounds ended abruptly. The wavy line on the spectrograph disappeared. Pamela clicked her cursor to indicate stop.

"What in God's name are you doing?" asked a voice.


----------



## Linda S. Prather Author

Hey, Val, thanks for the thread and it is fun.  I love reading the excerpts here.  I'll add one for Sacred Secrets with a little set up to boot.

Excerpt from Sacred Secrets, A Jacody Ives Mystery - prequel to award winning The Gifts, A Jacody Ives Mystery.

Featured Character:  Katie O'Connor
Katie O'Connor has lived on "death row" for the past 15 years.  Without a heart transplant her life expectancy is less than a year.  A possible heart has been found, but little does Katie know that it will forever change her life and set her on a course of destiny that she may not survive.
********************************************************************************

Katie wrung her hands in her lap as the intern took another curve, maneuvering the car onto the main highway at a rate of speed that was surely against the law. Everything was moving so fast. The tearful goodbye with Clover. The trip home. She had barely gotten unpacked before exhaustion overcame her. She’d slept most of yesterday, and then the phone had rung. Now the mad dash to the hospital. What exactly had Dr. Wagner said?  We may have found you a heart. And what did that mean anyway?  Was it possible that someone was dying as they rushed to the hospital?  Could they maybe live?  Had she truly gotten a pardon from death row, or was this some cruel joke of the executioner.
“What did Dr. Wagner mean, he may have found a heart?”
The intern took his eyes from the road for a moment, smiled at Katie. “There was an accident. A young man with severe head injuries. Your age, good heart.”
“So he isn’t dead yet?  What am I supposed to do, sit around wishing he would hurry up?”
Katie knew her voice was more brusque than she had intended. But surely Dr. Wagner didn’t expect her to sit and wait for someone to die.
The intern braked, going into another curve at breakneck speed. “Actually it’s the opposite. He’s brain dead, so technically he’s already been declared dead. We just have to wait until he gets here and hope he doesn’t die on the way.”
Katie wondered if the intern had any clue how coldhearted his words sounded to her. How cruel to the family of the dying young man. A young man who had signed a donor card so that if he died someone else might live. A young man who wouldn’t get an appeal of his case. The executioner had already dropped the axe.
“How do we know he’ll match.”
Katie almost missed his words, they were spoken so low.
“We don’t.”


----------



## Valerie Maarten

I hope this is as much fun for the one's that are reading these excerpts as it is for me.  You all are very talented and the range of excerpts offered is wonderful.  Thank you all for participating.  I hope to get a chance to read more of your work and from other authors.


----------



## Nicki Lynn Justice

These excerpts are great! A few are really scary, some are funny, some are intriguing, and I enjoyed them all.

Here's mine from Black & White, a romantic suspense novel, end of chapter 1:

            Then her heart froze and lodged in her chest. Her throat constricted so rapidly that she couldn’t even take a quick breath. Her mind, however, registered the details with startling clarity. 

            There was something or someone just behind her right shoulder!  Not only could she feel a presence with her sixth sense that had obviously failed her until now, she could hear breathing. Loud breathing. Her mind began to slide into panic mode. 

Oh no, she told herself, this wasn’t a situation worthy of panic. They caught her. So what? She began to turn around, about to offer up some sort of explanation, when she felt pressure on her shoulder.

How dare they!

“Get your paws off me,” she hissed through clenched teeth as she turned to face her antagonist. Time stood still and iced over as her conscious mind slammed into panic mode.

There was a real paw on her shoulder! A very large, very hairy paw, attached to a very large, very hairy body! 



Thanks,
Nicki Lynn Justice


----------



## Scott Stoll

Some really great stuff here. Clearly there is not enough time in the world to read all the books.


----------



## Samantha Fury

This is from Street Justice Charlie's Angel        Crime/drama/romance $5.99 

      Angel has just left meeting with his brother Joe, he's evaded being arrested while being undercover and he's walking home. 

      It was half past ten when Angel walked across Maple and Lincoln.  A streetlight flickered, but he paid it no mind.  He was taking out his phone to learn the features when someone jumped out, holding a knife.  Angel looked at the punk and, speaking in a weary tone said, “It’s been a long day. Is this really necessary?” 

      “Trick or treat,” the kid sneered and Angel could see another knife blade in the moonlight.  

    “Will this night ever end?”  He slipped his phone back into his pocket . . .or tried to.  As he moved his hand he felt the hit.  He almost passed out.  He closed his eyes and fell to his knees.  The phone flipped out of his hand and went scooting across the ground to the kid with the knife.

      As Angel scrambled to his feet, the leader of the gang put his knife away and bent over to pick up the phone. Angel knew he was out-numbered; there were at least three of them, not counting the punk on the stairs.

      He threw a few punches and put up a good fight, but after a few minutes, it was over.  He felt them looking through his pockets, and barely knew when one of them pulled out his ID.  He was out cold when the youngest kid ripped away the gun that was strapped to his ankle.  

      The tallest kid opened a small bag, but when he found two sandwiches, he tossed it over his shoulder.

      “Someone’s coming.” The kid by the stairs yelled. “Throw him in the bushes and run.”


----------



## Valerie Maarten

When I first started this thread, I didn't know how much I would be drawn into the snippets that I've read so far.  But I'm not kidding you, there is not one posted that I haven't said, "I want to read that book."  Just think that there are other people that are saying the same.  I wish you all many, many sales...KEEP THEM COMING!


----------



## KerylR

Excerpt from Sylvianna: Chris and Sarah are talking about how Chris' magic works and get into some of his back story.

"If you can blow up something's brain just by thinking about it, why are the Minions [the monsters they're fighting] a problem? Can't you just&#8230;" I twirled my fingers and flicked them at an imaginary critter in front of us. "And have it fall over dead?"

Chris laughed. "First of all, I almost never&#8230;," he mimicked my gesture. "Autumn does stuff like that. I don't. For obvious reasons I've never seen myself do it, but I imagine I just look like I'm concentrating hard.

"Secondly, Minions, at least here, aren't the kind of thing I can just kill with a snap. My great talent-if you want to call it that-is to see how something is put together, see what makes it alive, and then stop that. Take us for example: I look at us and understand how heart, brain, and lungs work together to keep a person moving. Then I figure out which of those three options will kill easiest and do enough damage to drop the person. Most magical things without bodies were made by someone. I have yet to run into anything made by a mind like mine that I couldn't take apart. However, the Minions were not made by a mind like mine. I've had lots practice with them, so I do know how to kill them, but it takes more time and effort than I'd like."

"What about the Dark Man[local demon]? What's the problem with him?"

"Same problem as with the Minions. If anything made the Dark Man, it was God, and that's very much not a mind like mine. Sure, give me a day or three of fighting nothing but demons and I'll find a way to kill them. Pick a target, and I'll eventually find a way to destroy it. But that doesn't mean it'll be fast, clean, or easy."

I sat there and nodded. Battle mage was becoming a more concrete term. "So, you really used to kill things on a regular basis?"

"It wasn't my first choice, but yes, I did it, and I was good at it."

"Why?"

"Why did I do it, or why wasn't it my first choice?"

"Why did you do it?"

"Two assassins showed up on my back porch and tried to kill me and my children. It was kill or die, and I wasn't going to let anyone hurt them. I never really did any magic before then. Didn't have a clue I could do it. But no one was going to harm them, not while I was breathing. I don't know, maybe if they had just gone after me, that's where the story would have ended. But those two idiots picked a time when my kids were with me. It was the last thing either of them ever did.

"It was a very&#8230;" He spent a moment looking for the right word and didn't find it. "It was a moment of perfect clarity. Everything slowed down. Everything was sharp and intensely real. I was whole and perfect and doing precisely what I had been created to do. Then it was over. I got my kids inside, then collapsed shaking and threw up because that's when the fear hit.

"There's..." he paused, once again thinking of a word, "an exquisite contentment that goes with doing precisely what you were created for. Pat can tell you about it, too. You can see it when Mike picks up a sword. I know it sounds terrible. When I'm killing things I'm perfectly at peace and right with the universe because it's what I was meant to do. The magic is beautiful and sharp and clear and just so perfect; it's hard to describe. Like working with molten diamonds. It's just&#8230; right."

I didn't know what to do with all of that. So many things there, so I started with the easiest one. "You had kids?" Wrong choice. I could feel the glow he had from talking about the magic fade to regretful pain.

"Yes." He sighed and tried a smile. "Five of them. The youngest two hadn't yet been born when that happened. It was autumn. We were playing&#8230; call it hop scotch. Filling the time between dinner and bedtime. My guards hated that flat. But I was being stubborn and stupid. We were in the Palace, supposedly surrounded by my supporters. We built it the way we wanted it, had lived there for sixty years, and our children had been born there. I didn't want to move to a more secure location. We moved the next day. Our children went into hiding the day after that. The day after that I declared the people who hired the assassins in formal rebellion, and the war was on."

"That's when being a battle mage really started?"

"Yes. Sort of. Took a little while for me to be able to do it on command. The first year I did fight with a sword. It was only by the grace of our God I survived. Pat and his troops showed up in the third year. That's when things started to shift in our direction. Having him around helped. I could watch how he did it and improve my own techniques. There was a war on, so I got lots of practice with my new skills. Since it's what I was made for, I had an innate grasp of better, easier, more effective ways of doing what I needed to do. Basically, I'd watch him do it, try it a few times myself, and then change it to make it work better.

"By the fifth year I was really good at it. By the tenth the price on my head was so high it would have bankrupted the other side to pay it, but it would have been worth it because it would have won them the war. By the last year of the war, no one was even willing to fight me. I won by virtue of being the biggest gun in anyone's arsenal." He paused, looked at me, got a sense for what I was feeling, and said, "You're having a hard time believing this, aren't you?"

I looked at the tall, skinny kid with a bowl of cheerios in his lap, staring at me through small, round glasses and tried to find a tactful way to say what I was feeling. "Well, you aren't precisely Chuck Norris, now are you? I'm sorry. I can feel you mean it. It's so very real to you, but it is kind of hard to believe. While you say it to me, it makes perfect sense. Then I realize I'm sitting on your sofa while you eat Cheerios in your jammies. It's just&#8230; unreal."

He half-smiled. "Well, first of all, me versus Mr. Norris or any other superhero-with the possible exception of someone like Wolverine who can heal really quick-and I win. Secondly, it's probably a good thing you don't just sit there and believe all of this with nothing but our stories for proof. Thirdly, one of these days, you'll see the proof. I don't mind waiting a good long time for that to happen. You're willing to heal us and haven't called campus psychiatric services to see about having us committed. That's about as good as we can hope for right now."


----------



## Valerie Maarten

Keryl, I love your excerpt.  Thanks for participating and I'm glad to see you here.  I've been bumping into you a lot.  Looking forward to working with you more in the future


----------



## Valerie Maarten

@Doomed Muse, thanks for playing.  Loved your excerpt.  Sounds like a great read.  Can't wait to read more.


----------



## Joseph Robert Lewis

Excerpt from Chapter 1 of *Heirs of Mars*:

The dented door rumbled aside on crooked wheels to reveal an emaciated young woman who barely came up to Asher's shoulder. She smiled, her thin face stretching so wide that Asher wondered if it hurt her. He smiled back, hoping he looked friendly. "Pham Lien?"

"Yes, hello." Her smile vanished. "Is that blood? Are you hurt?"

"What? Oh." Asher wiped his cuff absently at the dark blots on his sleeve. "It's not mine. Nice to meet you, Lien. My name's Asher Radescu. I'm sorry to just drop by like this, but you didn't answer when I called and I'll only be on site for another two hours, so, here I am."

She looked uncomfortable, or tired, or both. "Okay. How can I help you?"

Asher glanced both ways down the hall. "Can we talk inside? It's a bit sensitive."

"I'm sorry, but I don't know you." Her smile returned, lip twitching with uncertainty, eyes wavering and darting.

"Oh. Right. Sorry." _Idiot! You're a complete stranger smeared in blood_. He lowered his voice and leaned forward. "Last name is Radescu. I'm a surveyor, based out of New Troy. You can look me up-"

"I am." Her eyes darted to one side and he waited for her to consult the display on the inside wall of her room. "Asher Radescu, age 34, geologist and metallurgist. I'm sorry, that's _Doctor _Radescu, I suppose. PhD from U of NT. Divorced. No address?"

"I pretty much live in my truck with my team. We spend most of our time on the road. We're here delivering parts for one of your turbines, actually." _Well, Priya's delivering the parts. Martin's either with a patient or still in the truck, writing yet another angry letter to the New England Journal of Medicine. And I'm here_.

"You live in a truck? That sounds&#8230;nice." She wrinkled her nose and frowned. Her arm blocking the doorway shivered and her shoulders sagged a bit. "But I don't need any parts or surveying right now. Thanks."

"No, I know. That's not why I'm here." He glanced around the empty hall again, and whispered, "I've come to talk to you about making a donation."

"I'm a poet, Doctor Radescu. And in the noble and timeless tradition of all true poets, I don't have any money."

He shook his head. "I'm not here about your money. I'm here about your ghost."


----------



## Cheryl Shireman

I reach for Matt and my grasp is hollow. He is not there. I long for his chest to bury my head against. I long for the feel of his breath upon my hair as he whispers that it was just a dream. He is not there. Not here. Not beside me. I am not sure how long he has been gone. It was so gradual. I never saw it coming. In fact, his side of the bed no longer exists. In fact, I am in the middle of the bed. In the place where we used to meet. In the empty odd-shaped gap between our bodies that we used to fill like interlocking puzzle pieces.


----------



## jbkirkpat

Very neat idea Valerie. It has been great fun having you on my blog this week. You have a wonderful family of fans and friends.
This excerpt is from a book I've not posted on the board yet. I'll put a link below the text. There are some great things posted here; I'm almost shy now! 

'Breathing into Stone'

"Do you know the sculptor, Antonio Lisi of Resceto, and the Lady he created for their church?"
"Of course I do. You said there were no commissions given there," the Archbishop glared at him impatiently. He had seen Novia begin to recover from his cower, and not anticipated it.
"Eminence, none were. Do you know he has a daughter, about twenty or so, unmarried&#8230;living alone with him in the hills above the village?"
"My own sister raised a child alone, are you a fool, Novia?"
"Were you aware, Eminence, the statue of the Lady, and the daughter&#8230;" and he raised his eyes directly into the Archbishop's gaze again, "they are the same person."
The Archbishop did not move.
"How?"
"Lisi carves the likeness of his own daughter, and calls her the Virgin Mary."
The Archbishop moved at that. His hands fell so suddenly his robes billowed out to the sides. In the flicker of the candlelight, he seemed to tremble. Novia was not misled; the Archbishop was perfectly steady.
"He would not! He is known to us. You have seen this?"
"Yes."
"When?"
"Merely a week ago," Novia replied.
"Why has this offense never been mentioned to me?"
"Resceto, it seems, would rather keep this secret for them. They are quite openly fond of it. But I had never seen the statue&#8230;or the daughter, until then."
"Are you sure they are the same?"
"There is no doubt." Novia let his words take full effect on the old man. He continued, in the barest of whispers. "I investigated a few other works by this man. He uses her shape in nearly everything he carves. When this became a fact to me, I brought the news to you."
"How dare he? The Lady is in public view?"
"She is in the balustrade of the church terrace."
"It is his daughter, her image? I cannot believe it. Why has Biani not made an outcry?"
Novia leaned forward, all his skill brought against the smile that was creeping onto his lips.
"Biani can only be guilty of naiveté. Eminence, in this Archdiocese, Antonio Lisi carves his daughter's naked form, as he pleases, and calls it art, even calls her the Virgin Mary."
The Archbishop seemed to lose all color in his face.

http://www.amazon.com/Breathing-into-Stone-ebook/dp/B0047GN6SQ/ref=tmm_kin_title_0?ie=UTF8&m=AG56TWVU5XWC2&qid=1296336347&sr=1-4


----------



## bazmaz

Nice idea

From my book, What Ukulele Players Really Want To Know (see my signature for link)

----------------------------------------------
Size does matter!

If you are a beginner to ukulele, you may find further confusion when you see the different sizes of uke. They start from the super small to instruments that are not far off the size of a guitar. But which is which, and which do you want?

Generally speaking, the smaller the uke, the more of a 'uke' sound I think it has - a shriller sound if you like. As you move up the sizes, as well as increases in the volume of your sound,  you will also get a fuller thicker sound (and more bass!)

The sizes are often linked to their "scale length". That means the length between nut  (the white strip the strings rest on at the tuning end of the ukulele) and bridge (the white strips the strings run over on the top of the body), an is a gauge of both the size of the instrument generally, but also the amount of notes you can play on the neck (quite simply as a longer neck allows for more frets, and therefore a wider range of notes)


----------



## JimC1946

From my book Recollections: A Baby Boomer's Memories of the Fabulous Fifties, a nostalgic look at life in the United States during the 1950s.

Although the country was booming again a few years after World War II ended, it was impossible for early Baby Boomers to be completely oblivious to the fact that the world had been at war only a few months before we were born. One of the results of the war was a huge national debt, which continued to grow with the onset of the Korean War in 1951. The US government vigorously promoted savings bonds, which grown-ups called war bonds. The smallest denomination was $25, which was the redemption value of the bond after a certain number of years had passed. The $25 bonds cost $17.50. Millions of these bonds were sold through public schools through a savings stamp program. Every student had a book where the stamps were pasted in, and when the book was full, you traded it in for a $25 bond. The idea was to fill at least one book each nine-month school year. So once a week, kids brought their money to school and bought their stamps, which sold for ten cents and twenty-five cents. Buying savings bonds was promoted as a patriotic thing, and kids were strongly urged to buy the stamps each week.

When I said savings bonds were vigorously promoted, I meant it. Even celebrities got in on it. One of the most popular TV shows in the 1950s was "The Lone Ranger." One day around 1960, Clayton Moore, the actor who played the Lone Ranger, came to my high school to promote savings bonds. To our huge disappointment, neither his horse Silver or his Indian sidekick Tonto were with him. They drove the Lone Ranger around the football field a few times in a convertible, and that was it. Pretty exciting, yes, but not exactly the "Hi-yo Silver, away!" and off into the sunset that we expected.


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## JFHilborne

An excerpt from Madness and Murder I read at my signings:

He'd been killing for years. The police had no idea how many he'd killed; hell, even he had no idea. Best of all, no one suspected him. The rest of the world saw a regular guy, living quietly in a nice neighborhood with his own set of problems, along with everyone else. He'd become a master of disguise.
He yawned, stretched out on his bed, and thought about his trail of destruction. Until recently, he'd killed only bums, nobodies, down and outs, homeless people, folks no one cared about or would ever report missing. That had soon become boring and he'd needed a bigger thrill. Murdering someone with a family who loved them, someone who would miss them and grieve for them, provided that thrill. I know all about grief. He knew the depths, the nadir–the lowest human point a person could reach. He'd been to rock bottom and climbed his way back. The time for payback had come.
He sniffed, threw the empty beer bottle on top of the paper, and closed his eyes. Crazed maniac. I'm not crazy, you incompetent bastards, I'm insane.
He drifted into a pleasant doze, where he saw himself closing in on his intended; the one for whom he came back. After that, it wouldn't matter. His purpose would be accomplished.
Soon. He smiled, and sank deeper. Soon.


----------



## Ben White

This is an excerpt from Miya Black, Pirate Princess I : Adventure Dawns. Miya and her half-brother Sola are on her hated Embassy Island, just trying to get through the ballroom without incident:

***​
"Moya, isn't it? Moya Bleck?"
Miya rolled her eyes, then turned. Two young men had approached, probably a few years older than her, the redness in their cheeks perhaps speaking to the contents of the glasses they both held.
"Miya, actually," she said. "Miya Black."
"Ah. Miya. _Princess_ Miya Black. Of course. And who's this? Did you finally catch yourself a boyfriend? Had to go to the islands to do it, I see."
"My brother, actually," said Miya. "Sola, of-"
"Brother?" The two boys started laughing, hard and loud. "Oh, that's brilliant, that's _fantastic_. So it was your father that dillied the dally, eh? Where is the old dog?"
The corner of Miya's mouth twitched just slightly.
"Presently engaged elsewhere," she said.
"I'll bet he is! Arranging a bastard sister for you, perhaps!"
Miya forced herself to remain quiet, and for her hands to remain at her sides. Don't do it, she told herself. Just don't.
"Anyway, Jimmy my boy and I were watching you as you came in, we both decided there was something unusual about you tonight, something different. Jimmy especially, couldn't keep his eyes off you."
"Guilty!" said Jimmy. "Couldn't quite put our fingers on what it was, though. What did you say before, Francis? You used just the most perfect turn of phrase-"
"An intriguingly antic vision of what-may-be," said Francis, in an offhand, casual manner that almost made Miya slap him there and then.
"What-may-be, that was it, very droll," said Jimmy. He smiled at Miya. "You are fascinating, you know that?"
"I'm sure I must thank you for the compliment," said Miya, as politely as she could manage.
"I'm sure you must! So, I was thinking, I have my little boat here, rather humble but one makes do, the cabin is outfitted rather nicely though, I thought perhaps you'd like to come and see it?"
Miya narrowed her eyes just for a moment.
"And then," Jimmy continued, moving towards Miya, almost looming over her, reaching out to lay his hand on her shoulder, "perhaps you could 'thank'-"
Sola wasn't quite sure what happened next. Miya moved very slightly, and Jimmy appeared to trip somehow, stumbling forward into the food table that Miya was standing in front of.
"Oh, your friend's hit his head!" cried Miya, apparently dismayed and shocked, as Jimmy slumped to the floor. "What an unexpected and unfortunate accident!"
"Jimmy, Jimmy old bean, are you all right?"
"I think he may be badly stunned," said Miya. "The way he caught the edge of that table was rather precise."
Francis looked up at Miya, who smiled prettily back at him.
"Well ... I suppose I should rouse a servant, get him seen to," he said, perhaps seeing something in Miya's eyes that he would rather not have.
"I think that would be best," said Miya, nodding. "I do hope he's all right."
"I ... yes, that's-"
"In any case, this seems something better taken care of by a sensible young man such as yourself rather than a silly little princess like me," said Miya. She smiled at Francis again. "You are sensible, aren't you?"
"I ..."
"Take care of yourself," said Miya, and of course her words couldn't be taken as anything but a friendly parting remark, could they?
Miya walked away, Sola beside her, behind another food table and out of Francis's sight, where she allowed herself a brief but earnest shudder.

***​
From The Boy & Little Witch:

There were trees on the Plateau Of The Long Silence, but few of them, and those thin and leafless. When the wind blew, which it did from time to time, it carried with it the scent of the distant Autumn Mountains; smoke, and scarlet leaves, and old books. If you stood very still upon the plateau, and forgot the sound of your own breathing and of your heart beating and of your hair and fingernails growing, you could hear a soft noise, regular like clockwork, the steady tick-tick-tick of an empty space slowly being filled by silence.
This was where starberries grew, or, to be more precise, it was one place where starberries grew, in little clusters that huddled together for warmth, mostly along the Starberry Path, which was a narrow little road made up of dusty-brown hexagonal tiles, each of them with a worn star-like symbol upon its surface. Crabapples also grew here, on tiny little crab-sized trees, and as Little Witch walked along the Starberry Path she saw a pair of Authoritarian Crabs in the distance, gathering apples in tiny little crab-sized apple baskets.
"Hm," she said, not for any particular reason, just because she liked to say 'hm' sometimes. She had a pretty little red and white umbrella balanced on her shoulder, and she was wearing her special black berry-gathering gumboots. Little Witch was also carrying a small basket, into which the occasional ripe starberry leapt.
"That's a good trick," came a voice from Little Witch's left. She turned to see a fox, which was wearing a Laughing Mask. "Are you a witch?"
"Yes, I am," said Little Witch. "Are you a fox?"
"That depends," said the fox, "on what you mean by 'fox'."
Little Witch rolled her eyes. Foxes were always like this, tricky and vague and impossible to pin down, and ones that wore Laughing Masks were particularly bad. They could be dangerous too; foxes were, after all, wild animals. She walked on, towards a likely-looking patch of scrubby brown grass. The fox followed her, slinking and slipping around her shadow, scurrying up trees to peer down at her, and sprinting down holes to pop up again in unexpected places. Little Witch ignored this; she thought it better not to encourage show-offs.
"What are you doing on the Plateau Of The Long Silence?" the fox asked, after popping up behind a turtle-shaped rock Little Witch had just looked at.
"I'm gathering starberries," Little Witch replied. "Why do you think I've got my black berry-gathering gumboots on?"
"Blackberry-gathering?" said the fox. "But you just said you were gathering starberries! Blackberries don't even grow around here!"
Little Witch didn't reply to this, just walked on as the fox laughed.
"Are you using magic to make those starberries leap into your basket?" the fox asked, after slinking out of a hole shaped like a crescent moon just ahead of where Little Witch was walking.
"Yes, I am," said Little Witch.
"Why are you doing that?"
"Because I like walking and carrying a basket, but I don't like bending over and pushing leaves aside and checking which berries are ripe," said Little Witch. "That's what magic is for; taking care of the things you don't enjoy doing."
"Is it?" asked the fox, as it padded past Little Witch to trot lightly along in front of her.
"Yes, it is," said Little Witch. "What's the point of being a witch if I have to do things I don't want to do?"
"Don't ask me," said the fox, as it slunk back past Little Witch, just the very tip of its bushy tail brushing against her leg. "I'm just a fox."
Little Witch clucked her tongue as she passed a row of starberry bushes, and a line of them leapt neatly into her basket one by one.
"It looks like fun," said the fox, from where it sat on the thin branch of a thin tree, looking down as Little Witch passed. "What makes them leap like that?"
"Persuasion," said Little Witch. "I just tell the starberries that they'd much rather be in my basket than on their bushes. Only the ripe ones, of course."
"Of course," said the fox, as it spiralled down the tree to scamper along beside Little Witch. "How many berries do you need?"
"More than I have now," said Little Witch.
"Oh," said the fox, in a bored sort of way. "How interesting."
Little Witch walked on, and the fox followed alongside, and the wind blew silently across the plateau.
"Don't you want to know what I'm doing here?" the fox asked, as it tripped lightly across a pattern of low rocks, short and short and long and short, then long and long and long, then long again and short and short, and finishing on long. "You MUST be curious."
"Why would I be curious?" Little Witch asked, as she lowered her basket for a snatch of starberries to leap into.
"Because I'm a fox! Don't you know that foxes are carnivorous? There isn't anything for me to eat here, I don't eat starberries and I certainly don't eat crabapples, and Authoritarian Crabs are far too despotic for my digestion." The fox grinned under its cheery Laughing Mask, showing its sharp, white teeth. "And even though you are a very little witch, I think that you are _probably_ too big for me to eat."
"I think that I probably am, too," said Little Witch. The fox was closer now, stalking along behind her, its head close to the ground.
"But I always find 'probably' interesting," the fox said. "Because it means that something might not be true, and at the same time it means that it very well _might_ be true, too."
"That sounds like fox-sense to me," said Little Witch. She was walking a little faster than she had been before, but so too was the fox. "Because 'probably' actually means that something is more likely to be true than it is to be false."
"Oh, I see," said the fox, in the kind of tone that suggested that _of course_ it already knew this. "Well then, perhaps I should say that you are _possibly_ too big for me to eat."
"Perhaps you should," said Little Witch. "Accuracy is important, after all."
"I agree," said the fox. It was very close to Little Witch now, its nose almost touching against her legs as she walked. "Do you know what kind of fox I am?"
"The very annoying and persistent kind?" Little Witch suggested.
"No," said the fox. It licked its chops. "I'm the kind of fox that will try anything once."
Little Witch stopped and turned to look back at the fox, which sat neatly in the middle of the path, its front paws tucked tidily together, its bushy tail flicking softly, its eyes gleaming behind its mask.
"Really," Little Witch said. "Because I was just thinking that you're _probably_ the kind of fox that isn't too big for ME to eat."
"Pardon?" said the fox. "Did I hear you correctly? Did you just say that you might eat me?"
"Not exactly," said Little Witch. The fox's tail twitched.
"Then I don't understand," it said.
"It's quite simple," said Little Witch, and she smiled, showing her flat, white teeth. "You might be carnivorous, and only eat other animals, but I am omnivorous, which means that I ... eat ... ANYTHING."
"Oh," said the fox. Its tail twitched again. "I don't think I'd taste very nice. Carnivores usually don't."
"I'm the sort of person who'll try anything once," said Little Witch, as she turned and started walking up the path again, a few nervous starberries leaping into her basket as she went.
"Are you?"
"Yes," said Little Witch, her tone quite airy. "I certainly am."
The fox slunk along behind her for a while. Its Laughing Mask didn't look quite so cheery now.
"Are you sure you're omnivorous?" it said. "I heard that lots of witches are herbivorous."
"Did you?" said Little Witch. Her basket was almost full now. "I can only speak for myself, but I'm certainly not herbivorous."
"You do seem to be very definite about that," the fox said. It sounded quite defeated now. "So you eat anything?"
"Anything," Little Witch said.
"Anything which includes foxes?" the fox inquired, innocently.
"Anything which _especially_ includes foxes," Little Witch replied, not innocently at all.
"Oh," said the fox. "I see."
After that Little Witch walked on in silence for a few minutes. When she looked back, there was no sign of the fox at all.
"Good riddance," she muttered, and, with her basket full, she went home to start baking.

***​
Thanks for reading!


----------



## Valerie Maarten

OMG!  You guys are awesome.  I've read some really nice excerpts.  I hope everyone else is enjoying them as much as I am.  It makes me wish I had a million hours in the day so I can read and read and read.  Please don't stop.  Sometimes this the only time I get to read anymore.  

@Joel, you're a gem.  You honor me by wanting to interview me and I am glad that you were my first.  No one will ever be able to make that claim.  You're the best <3


----------



## Darcia

An excerpt from my dark comedy/suspense The Cutting Edge:
http://www.amazon.com/Cutting-Edge-Bonus-Content-ebook/dp/B003URRSRS/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&m=AG56TWVU5XWC2&s=digital-text&qid=1297556530&sr=8-2

Jenny has beautiful wavy brown hair scattered with gray. She comes in once a month for a color, cut, and blow dry. She insists that I color her hair jet black, so that every wrinkle on her face stands out. While I cut, she sticks her fingers in her hair and complains about the wave. A few times I almost cut her fingertips off. She doesn't seem to think that's her problem.

After the cut, I have to blow dry her waves into board-stiff submission. No hint of wave is allowed to survive. She wants it jet black, stiff, straight, flat, and stuck to her head. And she finds this flattering.

Jenny speaks in a whine, no matter what the topic. Nothing makes her happy. Her kids don't visit enough, her husband doesn't give her enough attention. She walks like an old lady with hemorrhoids and bunions. She is 57 and healthy.

I would like Jenny to die. And I would like that to happen in my chair. I know this is a problem. Fantasies like this aren't healthy. They're beginning to consume me. I should see a psychiatrist. Maybe there's a medication that will fix me. A magic "No Kill" pill.

I've almost convinced myself to search the yellow pages for a psychiatrist. Then I realize that I can't very well tell anyone, even a psychiatrist, that I want to kill my clients. He or she would have to report that to the police. I don't think the doctor-patient privilege extends to murderous intent.

I'm stuck on the fantasy of Jenny and murder. Chances are, I couldn't actually kill anyone. Sure, I think about it almost constantly now. But thinking about something and doing it are two different things.

I close my eyes and imagine myself sticking the blade of my surgically-sharpened shears into the side of Jenny's neck. Straight into her jugular vein. Blood spurts out, covering me. Her eyes open wide. She stares at me, pleading silently, begging for help. The life seeps out of her. She dies knowing that I have killed her. She dies with her eyes fixed on mine.


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## Valerie Maarten

Now Darcia, Why am I surprised that those dark thoughts came from your imagination?  I had to keep looking at your photo to remember how INNOCENT you looked.  That was great, creepy and funny...  Now I need to go talk to a psychiatrist.  LOL


----------



## destill

Thank you, Valerie, for the invitation to post an excerpt!

This is from my latest humor book, Stilettos No More:

Shapewear

For those of us who've lost our youthful figures, the fashion world has a solution called the body slimmer or thigh trimmer, or what's often referred to by our intimate partners as "sex repellent."

You've likely seen these repulsive-looking undergarments modeled in magazines by stick-thin gals with snake hips. This is a trick to make you think that if you wear one of these suffocating Lycra casings, you too will look equally skinny and unselfconscious. But don't be fooled. When you squeeze into a body slimmer, every time anyone attempts to put an arm around your waist you will jump like an NBA star. In fact, you'll do most anything to prevent others from noticing your middle is under more pressure than canned biscuits.

God help those around you if you should blow a strap.

Bursting a support strap is highly unlikely, though, as these items appear to be made by NASA. Body shapers can withstand tremendous stress, which is the only condition under which these garments are intended for use. But you must be careful. If you lower a body shaper strap before first unhooking the crotch section, you run an extremely high risk of being hurled into the path of a jetliner. At a minimum, you could lose an eye.


----------



## R. H. Watson

This is a great thread. I'm constantly amazed at how much talent is out there, and in here. There's this whole churning ocean of storytelling beyond those islands of traditional publishing.

Here's my contribution from Gladiator Girl. It's from the end of Part I, so here's a little background. A surprising discovery in genetic engineering has allowed women, and only women to recover from devastating injuries. One result is the creation of a team sport that takes full advantage of this ability to "put humpty-dumptied girls back together again," as one character explains it.
A match is played as the best two of three short team games. The key player in a game is the guardian. The protagonist, Lucy, is a guardian. The first team lost their game. Lucy is talking to Serendipity, the guardian for the second game. In order to play, Lucy needs her team to win. We already know Serendipity presents herself as eccentric, and that this is probably misdirection.
I have to admit, I'm still a little embarrassed that I wrote this book.

“Hi, Lucy,” Serendipity said. She was putting on her helmet and collecting her hair into a curly red fireworks burst to stick out the back.

“Hey, Dippy,” Lucy said. She walked behind Serendipity and ran her fingers along the new indentation in her own locker door. She turned to Serendipity and opened her mouth.

“You want to play so bad you can taste it,” Serendipity said. “You want to psych me up, so I’ll win, right?”

“Fuck yes.” Lucy said.

“Don’t worry.”

“That sounds insanely confident. You know something Angela doesn’t?”

“No. I just think you shouldn’t worry so much.”

“I’m not worried. I want to win, and I’m counting on you to get me on the temple. Yeah, I can taste it. It tastes bitter. I like bitter.”

“It tastes like butterscotch to me.” Serendipity reached out and brushed a strand of hair off Lucy’s forehead. “I wish I had your hair. It’s so dark and mysterious. I don’t want your eyes, though. They’re dark—yes, but honest. I wouldn’t know what to do with eyes like that. You can’t hide anything in them. Don’t even try. They used to call eyes like yours, cow eyes. It was a complement.”

A gong sounded and the team for the second game whooped, butted helmets, slapped fannies, and headed out to the field. Serendipity picked up her long-sword and tapped her butt with the scabbard.

Lucy slapped her cheek. “Make sure they die horribly.”

“They will,” Serendipity said and whisked herself up the tunnel.


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## HelenSmith

Thanks for this.

You can listen to me reading an excerpt from my new cozy mysteryThree Sisters here.


It has just gone live in the Amazon kindle store in the US and the UK. It's set in London on bonfire night.


----------



## Guy Dragon

@Doomed Muse,

The _Spacer's Blade_ sounds really good. It's gone on my TBR list.

Here's a little bit from _Tinker's Toys_:

Looking around, Derrek could see that the gymnasium had changed. It still had the basic shape of the gymnasium, but it looked entirely different than the gymnasium he had spent hours each week in for the past few years. The walls were greasy, and the windows were covered in cobwebs, but they were still in the same places they had always been. It was as if there was some sort of nightmare version of the Minerton High School Gym that was gradually being superimposed upon the real world, along with all the nightmare creatures that inhabited the alternate reality.


----------



## NotActive

content


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## Darcia

Valerie Maarten said:


> Now Darcia, Why am I surprised that those dark thoughts came from your imagination? I had to keep looking at your photo to remember how INNOCENT you looked. That was great, creepy and funny... Now I need to go talk to a psychiatrist. LOL


Valerie, sometimes I even scare myself with these twisted thoughts.


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## JFHilborne

Darcia said:


> Valerie, sometimes I even scare myself with these twisted thoughts.


The "I would like Jenny to die" bit scares me. Hmm.....


----------



## rscully

Thanks for this thread, awesome!

Here's an excerpt from The High Wizard of Silvinesh.

William’s staff is drawn into his outstretched hand without as much as the slightest thought. He slips his old elvin cloak over his fresh white robes, and marvels at the fact that his body is free from any pain today. He moves down the halls, and finds that he feels better then he has felt in a very long time, and finds that his steps move with an unnatural quickness that some one of his age should never have. He thinks nothing of it, and assumes the Blue Sapphire Ring must be responsible for his newly found energy, and greatly improved health.

The old wizard walks into the throne room, where Alentia is busy practicing her fighting skills with her enchanted blade, Fury. The young girl suddenly stops as he steps into the room, and proceeds to march over to him with a look of unbridled rage upon her normally soft elvin face. She angrily rips his staff out of his hand, and then pushes her blade up against his chest, while screaming at him in a fit of rage. 

“What are you doing with my grandfather’s clothes and his staff? Speak quickly, before I slice you into pieces, and burn you into ashes!” Shocked at this turn of events, William can only mumble and stammer for the moment, trying to figure out why Alentia would be doing this. He simply can’t understand what has gotten into his granddaughter.

“Is she mad?”

William backs away from the infuriated young elf, and suddenly catches his own reflection in a golden-framed mirror upon the far western wall. The figure that stares back is not his old self, but one he does recognize, from a very long, and distant past. He holds his face in his hands, and moves towards the mirror to have a closer look. Alentia, still screaming, and shouting threats, is not pleased that he is now ignoring her, “Stop where you are intruder, or I’ll fry you with my magical blade.”

The image that reflects back at William through the mirror is one of a young elvin man, with long blond hair, and the fairest pale skin, lacking a single blemish or wrinkle. He looks more like one of his very young apprentices, instead of the High Wizard of the White Tower. He stares down at the Blue Sapphire Ring, and his young elvin hands he had failed to notice earlier.


----------



## Darcia

JFHilborne said:


> The "I would like Jenny to die" bit scares me. Hmm.....


  You're safe, Jenny. 
I can assure you that you were not the client in mind for that scene.


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## SuzanneTyrpak

This is great! Thank you.

Here's an excerpt from *Vestal Virgin*, romantic suspense in ancient Rome:

His words rushed through her like a fever, coursing through her veins, her limbs. Justinus leaned toward her. She turned her head, and his lips brushed her cheek.

"I have to go."

She ran along the hallway, and prayed he would catch up with her. His touch caused her knees to buckle. She wanted to be swept into his arms, to feel his body against hers. Flesh of my flesh, blood of my blood. She wanted to be one with him.

"My vows," she whispered.

"Give yourself to love, Elissa. Give yourself to me."

He lifted her chin, gently pressed his lips on hers. Her mouth parted. Fire shot through her body, a melting heat that sealed her wounds. But the vow of chastity she'd pledged to Vesta was branded on her soul. And now it burned.

"I can't," she said, drawing away. "I have been chosen."

Justinus slammed his fist into the wall and chips of plaster rained from the ceiling. "Chosen to live a loveless life? To follow gods who have no power? Let's leave Rome together, start a new life-"

"That's foolishness." She saw that she hurt him, but what he proposed was madness. "I'm a servant of the empire."

"You mean you serve Nero?"

"I must go now." She started for the stairway.

Justinus caught her by the arm. "Do you believe in miracles?" She shrugged. "You have been chosen, not by Rome, but by a greater power. You've been chosen by the one true God. As a vestal you can gain the ear of Nero, convince him to follow Jesus."

"Is that why you brought me here?" She would have laughed, but saw he spoke in earnest. "You want me to persuade Nero to become a Messianic Jew? Nero believes himself a god."

"Miracles are possible," Justinus said quietly.

Elissa doubted it. Gathering her palla, she attempted to regain her composure. Justinus had lost all reason to this foreign god. He was a fool to hope that Nero might follow Jesus, a fool to believe that she might run away with him.

And she'd been a fool to consider, even for one moment, breaking her vow of chastity.


----------



## Mark Feggeler

Great idea! Since I have no fiction published yet, here is something from a WIP with the working title "Damage." It's a murder mystery set in rural NC that I plan to self-publish this summer for Kindle (http://damagebook.blogspot.com).

"Did you want to talk me about something, or are you deliberately wasting my time?" Ray said.

Mimi pretended not to hear him. She finished whatever she was doing with her cell phone and returned it to her purse. It seemed to Ray that she had to brace herself before turning to face him, which she finally did.

"What did Avery talk to you about?" she asked. Her voice, so sickeningly saccharin, should have rotted her teeth out of her head.

"The weather," Ray said. "He thinks it's gonna keep raining. I disagreed."

Mimi's expression didn't change but her eyes narrowed.

"I don't think he wanted to talk about the weather," she said. "Avery is a very sick man whose daughter was almost killed last night. She and I practically grew up together. They are all very dear to me. Avery already gets confused easily. I want to make sure he is not being taken advantage of."

She couldn't even fake sounding concerned. Her words fell flatly out of her as if she were reading from a textbook.

"Seems to me he's sharp enough to look out for himself," Ray said.

"I want to know what you talked about," she demanded.

"No," Ray said. He'd had enough of this place. He stood and moved toward the door.

"Where are you going?" she said, a shrill warning tone snaking into her voice.

Ray looked back at her, shook his head, and walked away.


----------



## mamiller

Greetings all! Here is page 99 from my romantic suspense novel, BORROWED TIME .99 cents

"How much time do we have?"

"Huh?" His head snapped down.

"If they're following this car, how much of a lead do we have?"

"They're not following us, okay?"

Emily worriedly toyed with the collar of her jacket. "Yes they are," she whispered.
Brian startled her by veering the Blazer off the road and into the parking lot of a strip mall.

"What are you doing?"

He pulled in front of a convenience store and cut the engine. Aggravated, he rubbed at his eyes, noticing that his vision was blurry afterwards.

"Look," he said, "I don't know about you, but I've been up for twenty-six hours and I need to be sharp right now, and I'm not going to be unless I get a cup of coffee in me. Besides, I have to think for a minute, and I need you to tell me more than you already have."

Emily crossed her arms. "I've told you all that I know."

"That's bull."

She shrugged. "Fine, what's the difference to me whether it's you that brings me in, or this troop that's on the way?" Grabbing the handle, she looked over her shoulder. "Either way I'm screwed."
Based on Phil's phone call, Brian felt there was a big difference, but he didn't want to share that fact.

"Coffee shop's down there." Emily craned her head to see the small snack shop at the far end of the shopping center.

"Yeah, so do you mind the walk?"

She smiled at him over the hood of the Blazer, but the gesture never reached her eyes. "If they find the jeep, it'll take them a few minutes to discover that we're in the snack shop and not the drug store."

Brian slammed the door shut and rounded the vehicle to grab her elbow. "You think too much," he growled.


----------



## Gertie Kindle

Here's my page 99 from Listen To Your Heart $0.99 Thanks for taking a look.

Lena swore she hadn't taken a proper breath since the men left to look for the children. And it wasn't until she saw Gil coming out of the trees carrying Jackie that she felt her heart start beating again. She was relieved that Charles had the twins, but it was Jackie that she ran to. They hugged, they kissed, they cried as Lena carried her over to the bench where Alma had a wet towel ready to scrub Jackie clean.

Frances and Amelia were getting the same treatment until they protested that they were clean enough. They were hungry and thirsty and couldn't they please have a sandwich and a Coca-Cola?

By now, Charles was able to think clearly again, and he didn't like what he was thinking. "In a minute, girls." He looked down into their wide blue eyes but wasn't about to be taken in by those innocent stares. "Just what were you doing with Jackie so far away from her hiding place?"

Lena was startled by Charles' question, but quickly realized that there was a story here. She hoped her baby was innocent in all this, but she also hoped the twins hadn't been up to mischief again.

"I'd like an answer to that myself," Lena said. "Jackie, would you like to tell us why you weren't where you were supposed to be?"

The twins swiveled to look at Jackie, willing her to tell the story they had concocted. It wasn't so far from the truth. They were just leaving out the part where the twins were going to leave Jackie lost in the woods.

"Well, Mama," Jackie began, taking a deep breath, "they found me right away and I was sad that the game was over. I &#8230; I wanted to go hide again, but we thought we'd go sneak around in back of the others and scare them."

"That's when we got all turned around, Papa," Frances added.

"That's right, Papa," Amelia put in, "and we had to stay with Jackie and take care of her, you know, because she's littler than us."

All three were looking earnestly at Charles; newly scrubbed faces shining, long-lashed eyes fluttering innocently. He wanted to look stern and parental, but these three little heart-breakers were undoing all his best intentions.


----------



## KristieCook

Promise (Soul Savers)

"Nah, I'll stay. Although, we could be done a lot faster if you didn't do it the hard way," he said as he picked up empty boxes that had held the decorations.
Mom mumbled something under her breath, but all I caught was "normal" and "mainstream." Tristan chuckled as if he heard her clearly, though he was at least twenty feet farther away from her than I was.
I opened my mouth to ask what that was all about when a pair of headlights racing down the street distracted me. The shops on Fifth Street closed hours ago. I could see lights of restaurants and bars down another block, but our block was deserted, except for this one car. So I didn't understand when the headlights suddenly swerved, arcing right into the store's window. Then I realized the car barreled straight for us.
"Mom!" I shrieked without thinking.
The car continued racing right at us, way too fast to stop in time.
"Alexis! Jump!" Mom yelled.
Before we even had a chance to jump, though, we both flew off the ladders and into Tristan's arms. I stared wide-eyed like a deer caught in headlights-literally-my mind somehow registering several things at once. When the car was about twenty yards away, still going way too fast, a light flashed on something directly to the right of it. It was the driver's door, swinging open. Then Owen, who had just left through the back door, stood in the street, but out of the car's path. He thrust his hands out toward the car as if willing it to stop. The driver must have finally slammed on the brakes-the tires squealed as it nearly stopped just before crashing into the store.
And then it hit. Sliding into the window. Glass imploding.
Mom and I tucked our faces into Tristan's shoulders. He bent over to shield us. Glass chinked and shattered as it rained to the floor around us.


----------



## OliviaD

Here is page 99 from the 

Chapter Eleven:.

The radio attached to the dash of the power company truck crackled and threatened to come to life. Tyler quickly set down his coffee in the console and reached for the clipboard and pencil he always kept handy for such occasions.
"Dispatch, 1189." The radio-scratchy voice of Roger Pennington, the company dispatcher came across the speaker.
Tyler picked up the mike in his left hand, poising the pencil over the paper.
"1189, dispatch," Tyler answered reluctantly.
"You're 10-02, 1189. Are you 10-23?"
Tyler glanced up at the sun visor where he kept a small laminated copy of the ten code.
"10-04," he answered. "I'm 10-23. Uh, 10-04."
"10-04, 1189. When you get 10-76 be advised there's a 10-45. There was a 10-54 at Mill Road and Highway 12. A 10-57 left a 10-45 at that 10-20."
Tyler scribbled furiously on the paper and let out a sigh.
"10-12, dispatch," he asked the dispatcher to standby while he translated the last transmission. He thought he had it after a few moments. It seemed that someone had run over an animal at the junction of Highway 12 and Mill Road.
"10-04 on the 10-45," Tyler answered Roger.
"I have some 10-43 for you," Roger continued and Tyler reached for the pencil which had rolled down in the seat. He cursed Roger's fanatical use of the ten codes and prayed quickly that the company would soon issue cell phones. He knew 10-43. That meant that the dispatcher had some information for him.
"You got a 10-21 from your Aunt at zero nine thirty hours. Give her a public service on your next 10-100 and make it 10-18 because you need to get out to League Line and check that transformer. It's gonna pop. If..." Tyler lost the pencil in his effort to retrieve it from the seat. He inadvertently keyed the mike, cutting off the last transmission as he chased the errant pencil into the floor. When he sat up the transmission continued, but made no sense.
"10-09 that Roger. I was 10-01," Tyler told him feeling just a bit satisfied.
"The whole thing?" Roger moaned, sounding somewhat crestfallen. Tyler suspected that Roger sat for hours trying to figure out how to work as many codes as possible into the least transmission.
"Never mind," Tyler told him. "For Chrissakes, won't you just say what you mean?"
"Gee, golly, Tyler!" Roger came back. "You sure you don't have a 10-16?"


----------



## MrPLD

Page 99 of "Tree of Life (Part I)", Chapter 15 "The darkening of Deacon".

Much later, Éomus became deeply concerned for Deacon. 
He had not seen him in many hours and ventured out into the 
woods to find him. There he was, leaning with his shoulder
against a tree, his arms clasped round his body, head down-
bent. He looked as if he had been standing in that same po-
sition a long time, and Éomus thought he never looked more
alone and never more estranged. He did not lift his face at Éo-
mus’s approach. Finally he spoke in a mixture of question and
accusation.

“It was never your intention to save her,” he said, his voice
strangled in his throat. “Was it?” He raised his eyes to meet
Éomus with an unswavering enmity.
It was a moment before Éomus could find his voice. “It was
her time,” he answered.
Nodding silently, Deacon dropped his chin again, pressing
his lips shut. Tears gathered in his eyes, and he turned his head
sharply to hide them. The release of emotion in company hurt
him as it hurts a man. He suddenly looked up. “Damn you.”
He choked with rage. “Damn you and the rest of your kind.”
Éomus stood disconsolate, not daring to approach Deacon,
who had returned to his former posture against the tree, only
not with a desolate misery in his bearing, but a fierce animosity,
a stiffness in the neck and shoulders of a man on the brink of
violence.
“It was not a falsehood when I said I would help her,” said
Éomus. “She did not die suffering.”
Deacon understood now Éomus had used magic to either
ease her suffering or perhaps to end her misery swiftly. Either
way he cursed himself for leaving her alone with the traitors.
There was a long interval of unbroken silence, before Éo-
mus said, “I will leave you now and let you seek counsel.”
“I care nothing for your deities,” Deacon muttered. An in-
justice still burned within him. “Tell me. How is it that you
can worship them so blindly when they will permit a man who
could not be more loathsome, more contemptible, to live and
breathe, while my mother lays cold in the earth?”
Éomus knitted his brow and said bleakly, “Our minds are
finite, and our understanding has limits.”


----------



## Mark Feggeler

From "Ramblings of a Very Pale Man."

_Where are the children? Outside playing with the neighbors? That's great. Sure is nice and quiet in here, now that they're more independent.
What's that? After school band practice? That's not a problem, sweetie. It's great you're so dedicated. What? Sure, I can get her from dance to Girl Scouts. 
Are you sure you want to be treasurer of the PTA? Yes, you would do an excellent job. I'd be happy to take over the PTA website, it sounds like fun. Band Boosters at the middle school? Okay, but I'm not going to get too involved. 
Yes, I'm the secretary.
You have a PTA meeting on Monday? What time do we have to get her to dance Tuesday night? The boys have Cub Scouts Wednesday night, but first we'll bring the kids to the homecoming parade on Broad Street in Southern Pines and swing through Wendy's on the way home to drop off their sister before I bring them to the meeting. 
Okay, on Thursday, you bring her to dance at 5:30 after shopping for a birthday gift for her friend's sleepover party on Friday, we'll all eat dinner at different times, I'll leave for the Band Booster's meeting at 6:30, you bring the boys to the free Jack Hanna presentation at the high school at 7:30, which is when I'll leave Band Boosters to pick her up and bring her to catch the end of Jack Hanna..._

In the end, time expands to allow all these new and exciting experiences. Unlike some who stress and wonder how we have the time to do so much, I can't help looking back on my younger days and wondering how I could have wasted so much time doing nothing. 
Life might be hectic, chaotic and relentless at times, but it's better than the alternative.


----------



## Jack Wallen

From my novel "I Zombie I":

I hope the father-daughter team could see the look on my face change to disbelief. "Did I miss something here? Was there an epiphany had that I wasn't privy to? Correct me if I'm wrong, but aren't you the man who wrought this chaos and death upon the planet in the first place? Now you want to atone by searching for survivors with a micro-blogging application on a smart phone? Really?"

The three of us stood in silence for a moment. My mouth decided it had had enough. "Did the words that just spilled over my lips sound as insane to you as they did to me?"

I was obviously digging a hole for myself and that hole just keeps getting deeper and deeper. But that was my nature. Lindsay took two steps toward me, his eyes burning twin holes past my eyes and into my brain.
"I did what I did to save the only thing of meaning I had left on this earth. Begrudge me for what I did, but know that I would have done anything to stop it – anything but lose the last remaining family I had." The doctor's voice was a blistering whisper that seared the skin on my face.

I've had opinions change quickly before – turn on a dime as it were – but never one so powerful change so fast. Dr. Godwin's words melted any remaining anger and doubt that I had. I could finally see the truth in his eyes. The man was just as lost as I was, the only difference being that he created the cause. But now, looking into the innocent eyes of his daughter, I understood why anyone would go to such lengths.

Instead of speaking I just pulled out my trusty phone and fired up my Twitter client. I set the radius for five miles figuring we better start small. A list of those with the same idea quickly popped up on my phone. The posts were reminiscent of those I saw the first time I had the idea, only this time it took more than a minute to find our first destination.


----------



## R. H. Watson

Gladiator Girl print edition page 99:

“But by bringing rebirth into sports, we’ve essentially revived gladiatorial games—the most aggressive sporting rituals ever practiced—and we have licensed their practice exclusively to athletes who produce ova and are capable of gestating and giving birth to a memory placenta. Now every week, we watch girls display a level of aggression that would be impossible, not to mention illegal, for anyone else to attempt. And it’s wildly successful. In just twelve years, blood battle has become the most popular sport, world wide, and incidentally, the most banned—see above, re ethical dissonance.”

“Easy there, ranchero,” Lucy said. “Don’t forget to breath.”

“Sorry, I got carried away. But you see what I mean, right? Rebirth and its most visible manifestation, the blood sports, has changed the way society associates power and aggression with gender. As of last year, sixty-three percent of blood battle fans identified themselves as female, and identified with the athletes. The ‘joke’ is changing the world. Today little girls can dream of growing up and chopping people’s heads off.”

“Little girls have always dreamed of growing up and chopping heads off,” Charlotte said.

“Yes, but now they may actually be able to do it!”

“Huh,” Lucy said.

“So, what do you two do?” Felix said.

“He doesn’t know?” Charlotte said to Lucy. Lucy shrugged. “I don’t know how you two met,” Charlotte said to Felix, “and I don’t know how drunk you were—well OK, you couldn’t remember her name—but didn’t you notice the sword?”

“He was distracted by my eyes,” Lucy said.

Felix’s smile turned into, I-don’t-get-it.

Lucy reached around the end of the dinette to the broom closet and took out her long-sword. She set it on the table and pulled the blade part way out of its scabbard. “The joke’s on you, kiddo,” she said.

Felix looked at the sword, at Lucy, and then at Charlotte.

“Me too,” Charlotte said. “Duel à Mort, foil fencing.”


----------



## BarbraAnnino

*OPAL FIRE
A Stacy Justice Gemstone Mystery
Page 99
*​
"I called Chance," Cin said to me. "He said he'd help out with whatever we need. He is
free tonight, so he said he would stop by."
Fiona dropped the tape and looked at her. "Whatever for?"
Cin tilted her head back and shrugged. "Ask Stacy."
Chance and I were high school sweethearts and when I first got back to town, it looked
like we might revive our romance. He was my first love, and I have to admit that seeing him
again-tanned and muscular from working construction, with bright blue eyes and Brad Pitt's
hair-I was tempted. But I'm not one to read a book backwards.
"Actually, I need him to do something at the Opal." I was still staring at the rock.
What did that note mean? MORE WILL DIE? Where does the more fit in? As far as I
knew, no one had died.
"Uh-oh," Lolly mumbled. I lifted my head. Her eyeballs were bouncing around in their
sockets. It looked like she popped a fuse.
"Lolly, you okay?" I asked.
Fiona said, "She's fine, dear. We'll just be off now. Looks like you girls have everything
under control here." Fiona was ushering Lolly to the door and I saw a spider dance across the
carpet. That was a sign I knew all too well. An uninvited guest.
"Stop!" I yelled. My aunts halted and slowly circled to face me. "What did you do?" I
asked, hands on hips.
"Whatever do you mean?" Fiona asked in her sultry, 'you'll believe me because I'm
gorgeous and charming' voice. But that didn't work on me.
I tapped my foot and Lolly suddenly became fascinated by her split ends.
Fiona sighed. "Well, dear, we felt something was wrong here, so we called your friend
Leo-"
"Wait a minute. You called Leo?"
"Eek," Cin whispered behind me.
The only thing Chance and Leo have in common is me and neither of them is thrilled
about that. But what I was going to ask Chance to do, Leo couldn't know about.
He would think it too dangerous, or he'd want to follow the rule book, or he might try to
convince me that it was illegal.
Which it might be.
"Cin, call Chance back. Tell him to meet us at the Opal ASAP. And you two," I pointed to
my aunts. "Stall Leo and-" The doorbell cut me off.


----------



## maryannaevans

Wounded Earth

no way she was getting enough oxygen to support life. Why was she still conscious? It would be a relief to pass out.

It might even be a relief to die. Then she wouldn't have to think about the people who wouldn't survive a catastrophe at the Savannah River Site. She wouldn't have to wonder whether she'd had the power to save them, if she had only known the right thing to do. She wouldn't have to picture Cynthia, her precious daughter, broken into bloody pieces by the blast or vomiting her life away from radiation sickness.

She had considerately waited for J.D. to go to the bathroom before succumbing to her fears, so she was in sorry shape before he returned. He found her sitting on the living room floor, as far from the telephone as she could get, resting her face against the arm of her father's old rocking chair. She had progressed from a racing pulse and faltering breath to uncontrollable head-to-toe trembling. Even her jaw trembled, crashing her teeth together again and again.

J.D. sat in the rocker and eased her into his lap. Sometime later, it seemed like a long time later, she remembered how to breathe again.

***

J.D. wondered whether he should let Larabeth talk, or whether he should just send her to bed. Reliving her conversation with Babykiller couldn't be good for her mental state, but maybe she was right. Maybe she shouldn't take time to collect her wits, not when Babykiller claimed he could destroy countless lives overnight.

So he sat in Larabeth's immaculately decorated living room and listened to her describe the apocalypse. The fact that he believed her showed how far he'd strayed from the workaday world. "So you really think this nut may be capable of destroying the world, one piece at the time?" he said.
Larabeth's face was paper-white and the coffee sloshed in her mug. "'The death of a thousand cuts', he called it. That's a pretty apt description. And I'm afraid he's going to send the Savannah River Plant sky-high, along with Cynthia and thousands of other people, just to prove to me he can."

J.D mused a minute before asking, "Why do you think Babykiller picked the Savannah River Plant?"

Larabeth waved the question away. "Babykiller made an obvious choice. It's a big plant and an old one. I don't think it's even operating right now. When you think of infamous, Manhattan-Project-era nuclear sites, the Savannah River Plant is right up there with Los Alamos and Hanford."


----------



## David N. Alderman

Taken from page 99 of _Black Earth: The Broken Daisy_ - Book 2 in the Black Earth series

to let out some rage like Sin, but the president's actions didn't really surprise him. They made sense, at least for him, and maybe for anyone else following the president's trail of politics since before she stepped foot into office. Her last act before the Falling Star Directives was to change the Pledge of Allegiance, omitting the word "God." The next logical step for her, which she wouldn't have been able to carry out without the vessels destroying half the country, was to do away with religious freedom.

Nathan opened the Snapple bottle and took a sip. The tart taste traveled down his throat but didn't mix well with his anxious stomach. He set the bottle down in front of Sin. She glanced at it, then returned her gaze to the television. The scene almost made Nathan lose his lunch-a beaten woman sitting in a chair. The light only revealed her legs; Shadows covered the rest of her. Her legs were bloodied and bruised. Her cut ankle spilled blood across an already-stained floor.

Nathan knew before anyone said anything who the woman was and what the image meant. It was his sister, Daisy.

A man in a red suit appeared on the screen-the same man Nathan had watched take Daisy away from the hotel earlier that morning.
_"This body in the chair&#8230;"_ The man ran his finger down the side of his face to imitate a tear.

Nathan felt anger sweeping over him. First they took his sister and called her a traitor. Then they went further and mocked her?

_"This body is still alive. The heart is still beating. This&#8230; shell&#8230;belongs to a precious young lady. A lady who disobeyed the Falling Star Directives. Now this beautiful Daisy will have to die. She will have to set an example for the rest of you, an example that I hope you all take very seriously."_

Nathan sat in the chair, his stomach twisting at the newscast. Sin stared at him, but she didn't speak.

_"With most of the world decimated by the falling stars, we cannot afford to give slack to anyone or anything. Many Trojan horses will try to get into our inner chambers and_


----------



## Mark Young

The other man leered. "At least you'll still be breathing."
"They'll send me to prison. I can't do time."
"You don't have a choice. Get me the rest of that information by next Tuesday or my people will send you to the big burial ground in the sky." The speaker stood up and walked out of view, leaving Peter hunched over the table. They heard a door slam a moment later. Pete glanced toward where the hidden camera rested. He stood, walked toward the lens until he enveloped the picture. The recording went black.
Frank clicked the file closed, glancing up at Travis. "Interesting. We've got to get an ID on that other guy. This might be why Pete disappeared."
"Or he's dead." Travis rose and walked around the desk. "Two big questions. Did Pete disappear voluntarily? And, is this connected to your son's death?"
Frank yanked the flash drive from the USB port and slipped it back into his pocket.
"You going to call Lafata about this, Frank?"
The police chief smiled. "Speak of the devil," he said, gesturing toward the outer office.
A window gave them a glimpse into the next room. Travis turned and saw Lafata and another man walking up to Baptiste, sitting at his desk. They spoke to the officer for a moment. Baptiste turned toward Travis, tight-lipped.
Lafata turned and saw them standing in Frank's office. The agent grinned back at Travis and with two fingers gave him a salute. 
So much for keeping secrets.
Frank turned toward him. "Anything you want to tell me, Travis? The FBI just gave you a look that tells me you might know something?"


----------



## jmbarlog

*Windows to the Soul*​
Page 99

that. However, like so much else, these were suspicions-without substantiation. Merrifield already 
viewed me as irrational and emotional. And maybe I was.
Duffy removed the blood-soaked handkerchief once we were ensconced in my room. The bleeding 
by now had slowed to a trickle. A few of the girls in the day room took notice of our entrance but had the
courtesy not to inquire. You could bet they'd be knocking at my door the moment Duffy left.
A cold washcloth blanketed the swelling on the bridge of Duffy's nose while he stretched out on my bed. 
I dabbed away the remaining crusted blood.
"I think it's stopped," Duffy said, anxious to get up.
"Let's give it a few more minutes."
He smiled with his eyes, looking like a compassionate bandit.
I smiled back, mine a melange of guilt, and I wasn't sure what else.
"What time is it?" he asked.
"One-thirty."
"What time is guys out?"
"Duffy, lay back and relax, okay. We have until two-thirty. If you're not going to go to the clinic, 
I think you should stay right there on the bed until the bleeding stops completely. It's the least I can do."
Duffy settled back and allowed his eyes to close.
"Does it still hurt?"
"A friggin' broken nose hurts, okay."
"I'm sorry."
"It's okay," he apologized.

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B003LBRITG/?tag=kbpst-20


----------



## Valmore Daniels

Page 99 from Angel Fire: The First Book of Fallen Angels

It was the turning point in our relationship. From then until the end, I don’t think we 
had one day where we didn’t scream or shout at each other. I hated myself for jumping 
into a marriage with a boy in a man’s body; and he, I’m sure, resented the fact that 
I was the sole breadwinner. It probably didn’t help that I rubbed his nose in it every 
chance I got.

Things only got worse when we had to leave the mobile home. It wasn’t that Mr. Cromley 
evicted us; it was that we couldn’t afford it on my pitiful income. No one wanted to hire 
Barry after word got around.

I had to beg my parents to let us stay in their mother-in-law suite until we got back on our 
feet. Barry hated being there. My parents’ constant disapproval of him—of us—grated on him 
day after day. His inability to find work emasculated him.

Looking back, I’m sure if we had really wanted to, we could have worked through it and 
eventually made a life together. I knew some folks who had muscled through the bad times 
and figured it out. But I didn’t want to. I hated what Barry had become. I was tired from 
working double shifts at the store, and I didn’t have time for his adolescent antics.

The situation was getting worse every day, and our fights got louder and louder to the 
point where my father had to come downstairs once to break it up.

Everything that happened that summer and fall was your typical small town sob story. 
You’ve heard it a million times. We weren’t the first young couple to have problems, and 
we wouldn’t be the last.

Aunt Martha knew everything that had happened up to this point. Everyone in Middleton 
knew it, I’m sure. But what she didn’t know, and what no one besides Barry and I knew, 
was what happened on our last night together.


----------



## Bryan Smith

From the approximate one-third point of Deadworld (link in my sig):

On the Garden State Parkway
September 27
6:10 p.m.

"It's quiet out there."
Warren felt Amanda's warm breath on his ear. It was reassuring, that warmth. It meant life. Survival. As long as they were drawing breath, they still had a chance. He reached for her hand in the darkness, held it tight, and was pleased to find that it only shook slightly in his grasp. 
His other hand tested the smooth metal of the closed trailer door. They'd been safe here in the dark throughout the day, but Warren had a feeling that had as much to do with luck as anything else. 
Amanda sighed. "I think we can go out there now." 
Warren frowned. "I don't know. We're all right here. I think we should still wait a while. Until..."
Amanda waited a beat, then said, "Until what, Warren? Until help comes?" She breathed an exasperated sigh. "Help's not coming."
"You don't know that."
But, thing was, somehow he _did_ know that. Felt it deep down in his gut. Help wasn't coming. Ever. Which scared the shit out of him. He wanted to be strong for both of them, wanted to protect Amanda and somehow safely steer her through this nightmare. It was silly, this macho desire to play the chivalrous hero, some kind of knight errant. Especially considering how little faith he had in his ability to shield either of them against the dangers awaiting them.
They hadn't glimpsed the outside world in many hours. They'd abandoned their own car after one of those flying things had picked it up and heaved it across four lanes of traffic. They should be dead. But they'd been saved by a combination of buckled seatbelts and properly deployed airbags. Warren believed the ballooning white bags had confused the screeching creatures and sent them off in search of other prey. They managed to fight free of the bags and extract themselves from the ruined car. 
The sky above them had been full of the flying things. When one of them started screeching in a particularly manic way, Warren gripped Amanda by the hand and made a dash for a jackknifed tractor trailer, which sat astride two and a half lanes of dead highway. No cars moved. The stretch of asphalt between them and the trailer was an obstacle course of twisted wreckage and broken bodies. Here and there the road was dotted with splashes of dark crimson.
The trailer door stood open, beckoning to them the way a lonely church in the middle of nowhere calls to a wayward pilgrim. They managed to get inside and pull the door shut before one of the flying beasts could pounce on them. Any one of those things could have pulled the door off the trailer with ease. So Warren figured they hadn't been spotted after all. Which, as best he could tell, meant they'd only delayed certain horrible death. 
It was Armageddon out there. 
"I can't stand it in here any longer." Amanda's voice had a plaintive note now, was just a breath away from a whine--not that he could condemn the impulse to whine, given the circumstances. "It's worse this way. This waiting. It's so quiet. I really don't think they're out there anymore." 
Warren grunted. "So you're psychic now?" 
Amanda's grip tightened on his hand, a signal that a burst of temper was imminent. "I can do without the sarcasm, Warren. If you want, I'll leave by myself and we'll go our separate ways. You can go back to Newark, or Nashville, or wherever the hell, and I'll make it to Florida on my own."
Warren breathed a weary sigh. "Please chill, okay? I'm sorry. I said I'd get you home and I meant it." 
He gave the door a shove and it swung open with a loud squeal that made them both cringe. They stood at the edge of the trailer and stared at


----------



## Valerie Maarten

This is so much fun to me. I get excited like a kid on Christmas when I see a new post. I love reading and these snippets are AWESOME! Thanks to everyone that's participating. You guys ROCK!!!

If you haven't already done so, drop by and read the blog interview with SuzanneTyrpak "Vestal Virgin" http://thetaleisthething.blogspot.com/ It was fun and don't forget to leave a comment.

Keep the excerpts coming...I WANT MORE


----------



## Ben White

Another one from me, this time from Resonance: Birds Of Passage:

Warmth. Gentle, flickering light, dancing over the leaves and the earth and the rocks, painting them all in countless shades of red and yellow and orange.
"-simply had to meet you. You see, my little friend here told me that you were rather special."
Voices. Voices interrupting the complex perfection of the fire's light.
"Don't tell anyone I have that, by the by, it's supposed to be something of a secret."
Words. Useless, pointless words.
Then, shock. Realisation. This is the Judging Place. It exists! Despite my doubt I have come here! Finally, finally I can-
"There's a certain someone in my life who would be more than a little unhappy to find out that I possessed such a toy."	
Further realisation. Deeper shock. This is not the Judging Place. This is the forest outside of Sufferance. These are not Judges. These are normal people.
Somehow, I am not dead.
Somehow, I am alive.
"But, oh, where are my manners? I haven't even introduced myself yet. I shall do so now, then."
Memories, then. Of faces. Of voices. These voices said words that were not useless. Sometimes the words were not important, but rather what lay behind the words. Beyond them.
Naz's head rolled to the left. He could see everything. The two men. The girl, tied to a tree. I know her, he thought. That is the girl who met me when I was dead, the girl who showed me the way back.
Why is she tied to a tree?
Why am _I_ tied to a tree?
Something is very wrong here.
"My name is Edward Swift."
The girl was silent. From somewhere her name came to Naz: Lina. 
"Come now," said the young man with useless words; Edward. "I was expecting more of a reaction than that. What's your name?"
Lina didn't reply.
"Fine then," said Edward, a little pout to his voice. "You don't want to tell me your name. I can understand that. You're playing hard to get, which I appreciate. Perhaps you could tell me something else, then."
Edward stepped closer to Lina, still smiling, always smiling.
"What's your power? What can you _do_?"
Lina just looked at him.
"Because I know you can do _something_-yes, I do. I'd say Pyre there's a wimpy little 'pure' adept, but that's just a guess. How about you, farm girl? Control over plants, maybe? Can you make your tomatoes oh so plump and juicy? Come on, you can tell me-or don't."
Edward's smile became just a little brighter, just a little wider. When he spoke again there was a catch of pleasure in his voice:
"That would be _much_ more fun."
Lina remained silent.
"Oh, _good_."
Edward took another step towards Lina. He held up his hand, displaying it to her, turning it this way and that. There was a faint blurry glow in the air above his palm, and a low, deep hissing sound.
"I'll go first, then," he said, his tone light and friendly. "I control fire. One of my favourite things to do with it is to make people _hurt_. I've gotten this flame hot enough to melt lead before, can you imagine what it does to human flesh?"
Edward took another step towards Lina, close enough to touch her now. Her eyes were on him, big and bright and terrified.
"Are you going to talk? You look wonderfully scared. I'll ask again, with the hope that you don't answer: what do you control?"
Lina just stared, her whole body shaking. Naz longed to do something, to reach out to her, to somehow break his bonds and leap to her rescue, but he could do nothing. I am weak, he thought, useless, I cannot save the girl who saved me, I am worthless, I was not worth saving.
Edward was grinning at Lina now. He glanced back at Ren, who was obviously enjoying this just as much as he was.
"One final time, Ren?" he asked. Ren shrugged in response, grinning. "I think it would be best." Edward turned back to look at Lina. "One final time, so that I cannot later be accused of being unfair. What power do you have, farm girl? What do you control?"
Lina made a sound; not a squeak, not a whimper, but more a tiny, contained sob. To Naz, it sounded like nothing less than pure fear.
Edward's bright hazel eyes ran over Lina's body, searching, appraising. After a few seconds they settled on her right upper arm. He raised his hand again, the glow above his palm brighter than before, more focused, showing it to her, the light of it reflected in her terrified eyes.
"We begin," he said, and then slowly, luxuriantly, he reached towards her arm-
And SCREAMED.
Ren stepped forward as Edward staggered back. Jek looked up from sharpening his axe.
Lina stood, still tied to the tree, panting, almost crying, her upper arm scorched. But when Edward looked up at her, pain and fury in his eyes, Lina's heavy breathing stopped and she looked straight back at him, and when she spoke it was with more controlled calm than panicked fear:
"I control pain."


----------



## heavycat

From LadyStar: The Dreamspeaker
Sample Chapters Available at our site (linked)

Excerpt from Chapter 16 "Challenge Accepted"

Finally! We've been waiting for days! Days!"

Ranko Yorozu turned around. She was standing in the corner of a featureless room that looked like a hollowed out cube of cement. Outside she could hear the pounding of drums and raucous cheering. She was still holding the flaming purple torch.

A man hurried towards her. He was elaborately dressed in what looked very much like the aftermath of a fabric store having been emptied into a cage full of angry wolverines. He wore a great, wide-brimmed hat and tall boots, and had a delighted look on his face that was simultaneously gladdening and slightly alarming.

"The match starts any minute. Do you have _Conquest?_"

Ranko reached up and felt the links of the silver treasure around her neck. "This?"

"Good, good. You're scheduled in the tournament. Your opponent is as overconfident as they get. Fights under the silver banner and claims some kind of nonsensical destiny."

"Who are you?"

"Call me Trench. We're about to be Champions of the Grounds, because we've got a secret weapon."

"What secret weapon?" Ranko asked as they hurried towards the exit. A small creature that looked like a cross between a turtle and a squirrel monkey ran along behind them.

"You."

The doors burst open, and the blast of sound was incredible. Hundreds of impressive looking spectators, most of them at least somewhat humanoid, sat atop rings of wood stumps surrounding a huge arena lined with ten foot tall torches thrust into the ground. Atop each were bright roaring flames that threw sparks and smoke into the dark air. They all cheered with bellowing hoots and great tearing growls, pumping their fists.

A fair number of them were just yelling at the top of their lungs at each other, celebrating some event that from where she was standing, Ranko couldn't see. The slow tempo and deep sound of drums thundered through the air.

Trench stood proudly and cleared his throat as his hand steadied Ranko's shoulder. He held a gigantic red flag as high in the air as he could with his opposite hand.

"We have a challenger!"

The sound abated all at once, and the entire occupancy turned in Ranko's direction. Men, women, birds, snakes, dogs, flies, strange creatures, lanterns, pieces of cooked meat on sticks, flagons of bubbling ale, all frozen in mid-shout. Most of the expressions were astonished, eyes bulging, mouths hanging open. Then all at once, every single creature in the room capable of producing noise on its own let out a celebratory roar that almost caused the ground underneath them to buckle.

Ranko was electrified. She had been at sporting events before and had heard cheering crowds, but there was something about this place that was more intense, almost savage. Then it dawned on her as she and the crazily-dressed Trench started to walk the ground-level aisle through the crowd: _she_ was the challenger.

But challenger for what? And against whom?

All around her people shouted and woofed. A crazed unshaven man wearing only linen pants and sandals scrambled down out of the crowd and landed in front of them. He held up his fists and bellowed something unintelligible in Ranko's face, then did the same to Trench.

Just as the crazy man's growling holler drained the last of his breath, Trench reached back with a fist and clobbered him right across the face. The crazy man spun around and landed face first in the dirt, knocked cold. The cheering got even louder, sprinkled with guffaws and hoots. Ranko looked up with raised eyebrows and saw the delighted look on Trench's rugged face as he shook her by the shoulder. His eyes were a shining black color. Ranko had never seen a person with black eyes before.

Ranko and Trench reached the edge of the ring, standing under two huge oil-covered torches. The floor was covered with dirt mixed with gravel. On the opposite side was a structure that looked something like a judge's stand. An immense bald man wearing a silver outfit was planted on the top row, and surrounded by twisted-looking, thin men each carrying a mean weapon. Next to them was what looked like a dog. It was about the size of a small truck and wearing a crumpled-up iron fence for a collar. Crowded in all about them were more spectators.

_Packed house_, Ranko thought.

The bald man whacked the huge dog-creature upside the head. It roared loud enough to quiet everyone down. The sound subsided, and the spectators listened for a change, their uncontrolled cheering on a hair trigger, all of them sitting forward in their seats. The bald man drew a sip from his cup of ale, then allowed his face to settle into his prodigious chin. His voice echoed.

"And under whose banner does the challenger fight?"

"This," Trench shook Ranko's shoulder. "is the Crimson Challenger!"

Again the cheers exploded into the air, and the drums resumed. Ranko looked around. The spectators were frenzied. Many of them pumped their fists in the air to the slow tempo of the pounding drums, and shouted the word "CRIM-SON CRIM-SON" over and over again.

"One hundred monarchs on the Crimson Challenger!" a voice shouted.

"Five hundred monarchs on the Champion!" came the answer.

"Two hundred monarchs for the Banner of Victory!" another cheered. The noise was incredible. The rhythmic crash of what had to be the biggest kettle drums Ranko had ever heard thundered through the sweltering room like the heartbeat of a titan.


----------



## heavycat

From LadyStar: The Dreamspeaker

Reina picked her way down the wooden stairs outside the Inn as the black bird on her shoulder was finishing the last of the olive bread.

It was approaching late evening, but the bustle of the Branven Square marketplace continued by the light of dozens of lanterns, torches and the occasional roasting fire. The boy she had encountered before dinner was still waiting outside the Inn expectantly.

"A lily for the madam? A lily for the madam?" the boy said enthusiastically. Reina stopped and looked down at him. He seemed completely undaunted by her dark robes or cowl, or the red eyes of her shadowy bird. He was still filthy, but at the Vicereine's suggestion had managed to wash some of the accumulated grime from his face while she was occupied at dinner. Reina considered the boy's plight. He wore a ragged linen shirt and leggings. His right sandal was held together with frayed rope.

_Orphaned, no home, and selling stolen lilies._

A guard pushed past two large inebriated stable hands and waved at the boy, who cowered.

"That will be your last warning!" the guard shouted, then froze at the sight of the Vicereine. The officer lowered his arms almost in a gesture of surrender. Reina stood regally and looked the guard over once, fixing on his boots. She raised _Shadebane_ as an old woman might pick up a broom, reached out with its tip and tapped his right boot a few times as if testing a loose floorboard.

"The Captain will be most unhappy to find his men wearing second-hand boots," Reina said, tilting her head sarcastically as if trying to get a better look at a confusing object. "I've heard tales of boots that look exactly like a Square Guard's for sale in the curio shop."

"Handsome replicas, madam," the guard replied, then swallowed nervously. Reina looked up. One corner of the guard's mouth rose sheepishly.

"Indeed," Reina said, drawing the word out. The guard could not see her raised eyebrow.

"What is your price for this lily?" Reina turned back to the boy and indicated the flower at one edge of his wooden box.

"Three cruss rings," the boy replied, his voice shaky as he glanced at the guard.

"Three? My boy, this lily." Reina leaned down and pointed with emphasis. "This light-colored lily right here was six rings before dinner. Have lilies become so numerous between appetizer and dessert that I might afford two where before I could expect only one?"

The boy hesitated. Reina held her jaw tightly. Finally the boy inhaled sharply.

"The price is three cruss rings for one lily," he said as fast and as bravely as he could.

The Vicereine stood back up straight and reached across her waist with the opposite hand for her coin purse.

"You're an honest bargainer," Reina stated flatly. Then she presented the boy with a tiny faceted jade stone. The boy's eyes widened as he watched. Delicate cut jade was easily worth thousands of cruss rings. The priceless jewelry on each of the Vicereine's slender fingers gleamed in the light of the Inn's lanterns. She carefully placed the gem in his flower box, then leaned close and spoke quietly.

"Do not exchange this precious gem, but keep it for a worthy day. Perhaps on that day honesty such as yours will return to the streets of Aventar."

The boy looked up as he handed Reina her flower. She carefully took it, stood up straight and nodded. The boy smiled and Reina turned to the guard.

"I look forward to that day, officer. Don't you?" Reina asked as she carried her flower up the slight incline of the marketplace street.

The guard wore a hangdog expression as he glanced down at his boots.


----------



## Gary Ponzo

An excerpt from my award-winning thriller, "A Touch of Deceit."

Steele wiped her forehead with the back of her gun hand. "You're crazy," she muttered.
Silk dismissed Rocky. "Go home, Arthur," he said. "And change those pants, will ya?"
Rocky got to his feet and shuffled backwards toward the door, dubiously staring at Silk, never showing him his back.
Silk walked up to Steele, opened his cell phone and began pushing buttons. 
"What are you doing?" Steele said. 
"I'm calling Nick with the info. That's why we came, right?"
"We need to discuss what just happened."
"What is it with you broads, always gotta talk?"
Steele ignored the comment. "There's been a shooting. I have to write a report. You almost killed an innocent man."
"What, the bartender?" Silk asked. "I shot him in the leg on purpose. If I wanted, I'd of nailed him between the eyes." 
"I'm not talking about him, I'm talking about your other victim."
"What, Arthur?" Silk looked bewildered.
"Yes, Arthur. You could have killed him playing your little game of Russian roulette."
Silk let a breath out and shook his head. "Listen," he glanced over his shoulder at the empty bar. "I'll tell you something that I never told nobody. Ever. You understand what I'm saying?"
Steele nodded without a clue as to what he was talking about.
"I make my living through intimidation and fear. I make both of these things do a lot of my work for me. Capisce?"
Silk raised his revolver and slid open the cylinder. He rotated the cylinder exposing six empty chambers. Like a smooth magician, he opened the palm of his left hand and showed Steele the missing bullet. "You know how much I practice that move? Maybe two, three hours a month. Every month." He pointed a finger at Steele. "But if word ever got out that I use this move, I might as well open up a deli in Topeka, Kansas. Sensitive guy like me would get eaten alive." 
Steele pursed her lips. "Why didn't you tell me ahead of time? I could have shot you."
Silk stifled a laugh. "What, and ruin a perfectly good performance. Besides, when we left the Sheriff's office, Nick said to let me do whatever I needed to do. I know you didn't forget that."
Silk continued to push the buttons on his cell phone, hovered his index finger over the send button and looked up at Steele. "Are we done talking here? Or do you wanna know about my feelings?"
Steele shook her head. The KSF could learn a lot about terrorism from a guy like Silk. 
http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B003O85YEM/ref=s9_simh_gw_p351_d0_i1?pf_rd_m=ATVPDKIKX0DER&pf_rd_s=center-2&pf_rd_r=12J809KAX7VR79J31EFT&pf_rd_t=101&pf_rd_p=470938631&pf_rd_i=507846


----------



## Brianna Lee McKenzie

An excerpt from "Ripple Effect", a Contemporary Romance/Action-Adventure


It was a rainy day Monday when they buried her.  The cynic in me reminded me that it couldn't be a sunny day because rain is Mother Nature’s way of saying how very sorry She is for doing such a cruel thing to the people on Earth who grieved.  So tears from the sky mingled with tears from the black-clad people who stood around Lizzy’s grave.  More were my tears trailing anguished, guilt-ridden, poignant paths down my forlorn face, for I felt more touched by this painful loss than anyone who stood among the mourners.

I looked around at the umbrellas that shielded the others from the rain and from skeptical people like me who suspected that they only came there to be seen and not as support for Lizzy’s family.  People like Heather and Angela and the rest of the “beautiful people”, as Lizzy and I had named them.  I searched the crowd and frowned toward the clique in question and then I scowled at Heather, who sniffed in obviously feigned angst when she caught my eye.  

Across the rectangular hole in the ground where Lizzy’s casket would rest for eternity, I saw an unfamiliar face behind the shoulders of those who had loved her.  For some reason, I was drawn to him.  Ignoring the droning preacher and staring intently at the young man who stood behind the swarm of umbrellas that tipped and shivered with their owners’ bobbing sobs, I found myself staring brazenly at him.  

He had blond hair that swept his shoulders above a dark suit and straight white shirt collar.  The flaxen mass was drenched from the rain, unprotected and exposed, and it cascaded like waves on the water, silky and undulating, begging for someone to surf their fingers through it.  His eyes, bright and blue as the Caribbean Sea, stared back at me through the moving shadows, seizing me in a sapphire embrace that caused me to suck in a gasp of exhilaration.  Consumed by embarrassment, I cast my eyes downward and studied the puddle at my feet while I struggled to concentrate on the preacher’s mind-numbing speech.

I watched that tiny pond for what seemed like hours.  It was sheltered from the deluge by my large purple umbrella so it appeared calm and serene until a single tear slipped from my cheek and desecrated its tranquility.  The droplet plopped into the puddle in an unceremonious invasion, causing a plume-like rounded fountain to emerge, hang suspended for a moment before gravity reclaimed it and then it descended back into the water.  As it rejoined its liquid kin, it sent ripples away from its point of impact in the circular shape of a target at my feet.  I watched the puddle shiver and shimmer in the pale light of the sun that dared to peek from behind the crying clouds before it slinked away again, leaving a gray, gloomy day in its wake.  

Then I looked up across the grave, intent upon locking eyes with the strange young man again.  For an instant, he was there, staring back at me and then, when someone tipped their umbrella down and then back up again, he was gone, vanished into thin air.  I searched the faces for his mesmerizing gaze but I never saw him again that day.  Feeling empty and alone all of a sudden, I shuddered and hugged my jacket closer to my body and then followed my parents to our car.


----------



## Lever1

Larry felt rather than heard the presence of a person standing
behind him. Without turning around, he started a position relief
briefing. "Okay, here's what's going on-" He stopped in midsentence
as he felt the cold, insistent pressure of a gun barrel being
jammed into his neck.
"No, here is what is going on," came a deep, unfamiliar voice.
His diction carried no trace of an accent that Larry could discern.
Then whoever was holding the gun pushed harder until it was all
he could feel. It was right beneath his ear. It defined his existence.
"You will be quiet. You will do exactly as you're told. If you cooperate,
you will live. If you do not, you will die an extremely unpleasant
and painfully messy death. Do we understand each other?"
Larry swallowed heavily and gave an almost imperceptible
nod, afraid that if he moved, the gun would go off and blow his
head all over the front of the radar scope.

Final Vector from Medallion Press...


----------



## SuzanneTyrpak

From *Vestal Virgin*, suspense in ancient Rome:

His words rushed through her like a fever, coursing through her veins, her limbs. Justinus leaned toward her. She turned her head, and his lips brushed her cheek.

"I have to go."

She ran along the hallway, and prayed he would catch up with her. His touch caused her knees to buckle. She wanted to be swept into his arms, to feel his body against hers. Flesh of my flesh, blood of my blood. She wanted to be one with him.

"My vows," she whispered.

"Give yourself to love, Elissa. Give yourself to me."

He lifted her chin, gently pressed his lips on hers. Her mouth parted. Fire shot through her body, a melting heat that sealed her wounds. But the vow of chastity she'd pledged to Vesta was branded on her soul. And now it burned.

"I can't," she said, drawing away. "I have been chosen."

Justinus slammed his fist into the wall and chips of plaster rained from the ceiling. "Chosen to live a loveless life? To follow gods who have no power? Let's leave Rome together, start a new life-"

"That's foolishness." She saw that she hurt him, but what he proposed was madness. "I'm a servant of the empire."

"You mean you serve Nero?"

"I must go now." She started for the stairway.

Justinus caught her by the arm. "Do you believe in miracles?" She shrugged. "You have been chosen, not by Rome, but by a greater power. You've been chosen by the one true God. As a vestal you can gain the ear of Nero, convince him to follow Jesus."

"Is that why you brought me here?" She would have laughed, but saw he spoke in earnest. "You want me to persuade Nero to become a Messianic Jew? Nero believes himself a god."

"Miracles are possible," Justinus said quietly.

Elissa doubted it. Gathering her palla, she attempted to regain her composure. Justinus had lost all reason to this foreign god. He was a fool to hope that Nero might follow Jesus, a fool to believe that she might run away with him.

And she'd been a fool to consider, even for one moment, breaking her vow of chastity.


----------



## S.J. Harris

*Here's an excerpt from Journey Into Darkness: A Kim Journey Thriller*

I raced to my locker, grabbed my flight jacket, took the stairs two at a time to the roof.

Rotor wash blasted me with a miniature hurricane as I scurried aboard the BK117 air ambulance and took the seat next to Jim Higgins, the pilot. He switched off his map light, gave me a thumbs-up.

An old maxim popped into my head: There are old pilots and there are bold pilots, but there are no old bold pilots. I put on my helmet, talked to Jim through the two-way headset.

"You're not really going to fly in this shit, are you?" I said.

"What do you think?"

"I think you're crazy, but it's your call."

"We'll be fine," he said. "The wind's not that bad. A little rain never hurt anyone."

Jim offered me a stick of gum, his remedy for my anxiety. I took it, peeled off the foil wrapper, folded the gum into my mouth.

"What about the lightning?" I asked. I hate lightning. I was holding out for a second stick of Juicy Fruit.

"Way off to the east. Where's the paramedic?"

"Here he comes."

Hercules Garcia boarded, raked his fingers through his wet black hair, donned his helmet and strapped himself in. "Let's do it," he said.

I tried to relax as Jim cranked the power. The weather conditions sucked, but I knew I was in competent hands. The best.

When we lifted off, I saw some hospital employees looking up at us from a lighted smoking shelter. For a minute I wished that I was one of the folks on the ground, that someone else was flying off to be the hero this time.

I shook it off.

This is what I do, I told myself. I love my job. It's what I am. I love getting to people in need, and getting there fast. If I couldn't be a flight nurse, I would be lost. "Let's do it," I echoed.
Jim gave me report en route:

"Elmer Barrow, fifty-four year old white male with severe chest pain, diaphoresis, shortness of breath. Initial EKG indicative of an acute MI. Nine-one-one was called, and the local EMS unit made it to the scene in fourteen minutes. They gave the guy sublingual nitro times three, morphine four milligrams and Phenergan twelve point five. They don't think the guy'll make ground transport to Louisville and the community hospital doesn't have tPA on board, which might save him in the golden hour."

Lightning flashed. In about five minutes we traveled a distance it would have taken a ground ambulance thirty.
Jim turned on his spotlight and circled the scene, searching for obstacles like trees and power lines that might present a hazard for landing. The lights from the EMS truck flashed red on the farmhouse and surrounding fields. Behind the house grew a garden of rusted farm machinery and disemboweled cars. The sky had started to clear, as if on cue, and I saw a few stars sparkling on the western horizon. Fast-moving clouds filtered the intermittent moonlight, making it seem as though time was racing by at hyper speed.

Jim landed the copter gently as a mother sets her baby in the crib. He stayed in his seat, kept the airship on simmer while Hercules and I grabbed some supplies and trotted toward the house.

A brown and white dog barked and followed us up the steps of the wooden porch and over the threshold.

"In the kitchen," a baritone voice bellowed.

The dog took the lead through a living room littered with crumpled beer cans and empty potato chip bags. The room, dimly lighted, revealed its squalor to my olfactory nerve: unclean canine, dusty furniture, cigarette butts.

We walked into the U-shaped kitchen, momentarily blinded by the brilliance of a fluorescent ceiling fixture. The patient lay on a grimy tile floor that was supposed to resemble mortared bricks. Two guys, one white and one black, sat at the table. Their hats read MT. WASHINGTON VOLUNTEER FIRE DEPT. The black guy spoke up first:

"He's stable. BP one-ten over sixty. Heart rate seventy-eight. Afebrile. We got his pain under control. The ER doc over at County General figures this guy needs an angiogram and one of those Mr. Plumber drugs that can burst the dam in a coronary. That's why he wants to get him to Louisville stat."

"Sounds reasonable," I said.

Hercules and I unfolded the stretcher, and I noticed an egg-sized bulge at the patient's IV site. The saline drip, started by the EMTs, had escaped its venous route, infiltrating the surrounding tissue. I instructed Hercules to get a new line going, an eighteen gauge or better.

"You gonna poke me again?" Elmer Barrow said. "Uh uh. I can't take no more goddamn needles." He looked up at me with wide eyes and a furrowed brow.

"Try to relax, Mister Barrow. Hercules is really good. I promise he'll only have to stick you once."
Elmer seemed to calm down a little. Hercules tied a tourniquet and tapped his arm to raise a vein.

I pulled my walkie-talkie, padded to the chipped porcelain sink on the other side of the room and pushed TALK, intending to let Jim know we'd be a few minutes. I think the words that actually left my mouth were _holy shit_.

At the bottom of the sink, from an open can of dog food, sprouted what appeared to be a small human finger.


----------



## Valerie Maarten

I originally started the post with a snippet from "The Gift of Joy" I'd like to do another piece from that story. Here goes:

The Set up:
After returning home to be with his family for the Christmas holiday, Gabe begins to wonder about the girl from across the street, Joy. Though he ignored her most of her life, she was never far from his mind. Now, as an adult, he's ready to make all of that change.

Excerpt:
Gabe couldn't remember the last time he laughed so much. His sides ached from laughing. God! It's good to be home. All during dinner his sisters and mother reminisced about all of his mischievous exploits, some of them shocking his nieces and nephews. Not that it was hard for them to believe that their favorite and only uncle had such a playful streak. Even they knew that he was a practical joker with no bounds. He was a "take no prisoners" type of guy.

"But, what you don't know about your uncle is that he also has a tender side, "Annette teased. All of the children guffawed at that bit of news. "He does, "she said.

Jeannie laughed at his dramatics. "I remember one time he gave Mr. Chester a bloody nose," she teased. The girls looked genuinely appalled

"Are you trying to spoil my reputation?" Gabe said in mock outrage. "I do not have a tender side. Everyone here can attest to that."by the thought of blood, but the boys piped up, intrigued. Mr. Chester was the mean man from down the street with fire-red hair and three little imps that no one wanted to play with.

"When was that&#8230;I wish I could have seen that&#8230;did he bleed a lot?" All the boys spoke at once.

"Well, it was a long time ago," Jeannie began, ignoring Gabe's pleas for her to cease. "We were about your ages when it happened. You see, it may be hard to believe, but Mr. Chester was a bully&#8230;making little girls cry and stealing the other children' toys and candy. But your uncle," Jeannie looked at the embarrassment on his face, which fueled her even more, "&#8230;he was not afraid of him. One day, the little girl across the street had come out to play with us and you runcle hit her with a snowball, making her cry."

"You hit Ms. Joy with a snowball?" Lana, his ten year old niece asked. If at all possible, she looked even more appalled.

"I didn't _mean _ to hit her," he said. You could hear the exacerbation in his voice. He was going to flay Jeannie for telling this story. He was going to tell them about that one embarrassing time when he caught Jeannie&#8230;no he couldn't tell a bunch of children about that. But he could tell them about the time she&#8230;no&#8230;not that either.

"&#8230;and when Mr. Chester began teasing her and making her cry harder, well your uncle jumped up and pummeled him into the snow, " Jeannie finished her tale, a satisfied look on her face.

"Oh&#8230;you did that uncle Gabe?" Lana asked dreamily. She jumped up and gave him a tight hug. "You are a hero. That was very gallant of you to come to her rescue." Lana beamed at him, making his heart melt.

"Gallant? What have you been teaching her?" He asked Jeannie, a teasing smile playing on his lips.

"That's enough stories for the night. It's time for you ragamuffins to get ready for bed," Annette announced. She was the drill sergeant in the family. If anyone could control a passel of children, it was her.

"Awww. Do we have to go to bed now? We're just starting to have fun. Besides, we don't have school," they all complained at once.

Jeannie, the most docile of the three, made a compromise. "If you do as you're told, tomorrow I'll tell you about the time Mr. Chester gave your uncle a bloody nose." She smiled up at Gabe when he looked to leap from his chair in protest. Jeannie, Annette and their mother smothered their laughter behind their hands.

With the promise of more humiliating stories about their uncle, the children did not argue about having to take a bath, brush their teeth or their early bedtime. Within an hour, the house was silent and peaceful. Peaceful. It was something Gabe craved for all his life, living with two sisters that constantly fought over everything. But now, being home&#8230;he wasn't so sure. He loved the raucous play and laughter of his family. They were happy children that made happy noises. It made his heart swell with pride and love.

Hope you enjoyed it...HAPPY READING


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## K. A. Jordan

This is from "Let's Do Lunch"

The phone started to ring at around ten with carryout orders. Eleanor switched on the open sign. A couple of customers came in. The lunch rush was on. Sometime in the middle of the rush, Lindsey heard a bright, tinkling giggle. She turned to see her sister waiting on a bearded man.

"So what does a guy have to do to get a plate of fried chicken and French fries in this place?" His dark blond hair was pulled back, a reddish beard and mustache hid most of his face. He wore an Army T-shirt tucked into old jeans.

"Order from another restaurant and have it delivered. We don't serve fried food."

"You call this a menu?" he teased. "All I see is sissy food."

"This is not a greasy spoon," Heather chided. "Denny's is by the interstate."

"Health food in E'town? This is Kentucky, girl. Even steak is breaded and fried."

"Honey, if you don't like our pasta salad, I'll take you to McDonalds and buy you a Big Mac." Heather giggled.

"That's a deal!" He winked at Heather. "I'll take a club sandwich, too. Just don't serve me a little bitty sandwich, or you'll owe me that Big Mac."

"What was that about?" Lindsey asked as Heather came back behind the counter.

"He's giving me a hard time," Heather rolled her eyes. Waitress-baiting was a national pass-time; a good waitress took advantage of it.

"So what did he order?" Lindsey took the ticket with a grin.

"A super-club sandwich and pasta salad, make it good, or I'll owe him a Big Mac."

"Can't have that." Lindsey stacked the sandwich high, then squirted a smiley face on the top of a slice of tomato with mayonnaise. They giggled together before Lindsey started the next order.

A few minutes later, Lindsey saw him at the register, paying Heather for his meal. 
"Well, do I owe you a Big Mac?" Heather grinned at him.

"No ma'am, it was very good." He looked over at Lindsey. "I take back everything I said about sissy food." He held Lindsey's gaze for a moment then tipped a finger towards one eyebrow in a mock salute. Lindsey smiled back and waved.


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## marshacanham

Some of these excerpts are great. Here's mine from The Wind and the Sea:

"Helmsman!" Adrian kept one eye on the men rushing frantically to arm the _Eagle's_ guns, the other on the sleek, graceful marauder. "Helmsman-hard to starboard! Get those topmen aloft! I want all the sail on that she will hold! Move on those guns! Move! Move! Move!"

His shouts were drowned under the roar of another broadside. He saw two crewmen blasted into crimson fragments as he trained his glass on the enemy ship, aware that the _Eagle_ was responding sluggishly to his commands. The rough sea was making it difficult to hold a course or to execute any kind of swift, evasive move. But she was spirited and willing to try. A great hollow groan along the beam heaved the bow skyward, and the frigate hung for a sickening moment over the crest of a wave. Spray burst above the rail as she slewed sideways and seemed on the verge of careening. The wind grasped at her sails and filled them, hurling her forward into the trough. The sea rose in a wall and spewed a foaming cascade of water down upon her decks, but the _Eagle _shook herself free and thundered steadfastly into the next wave.

Hoping to have bought some badly needed breathing space, Ballantine was astounded to see that the raider had backed her topsails and had drawn to a near standstill in the water. She tacked nimbly across the _Eagle's_ stern, and Adrian watched helplessly-and admittedly in awe of the daring maneuver-as she came within hailing distance and caused the American warship's sails to gasp for breath. The _Eagle_ floundered long enough to absorb the shock of several cannonades down her exposed length. The stern bulwark was blown to eternity; the bridge disappeared in a fountain of bloodied splinters. Spars were torn from their braces, carrying lines, canvas, and men to their fiery death as shot after shot exploded on deck. A wildly snaking cable swept the boatswain overboard. The helm spun against the opposing thrust of the wind and sea, and the _Eagle_ found herself back in line with the hungry guns of the raider.

The enemy ship was now within pistol shot-fifty yards-and her gunners unleashed obliterating rounds of grape and canister shot into the _Eagle's_ masts and rigging. When the wind fanned the smoke clear, there were pieces of the dead scattered everywhere. The decks were slippery with blood, and even the faces of the seasoned veterans paled at the extent of the carnage.

Adrian felt the madness surging through him like a fever. Blinded with rage and heedless of the danger, he threw himself at one of the nine-pounder bow guns. With superhuman effort, he single-handedly trained the gun on the looming enemy; he loaded it with double shot and fired, loaded and fired again and again, until his hands were blistered from the heat of the iron barrel. The stench of smoke and blood coated his nostrils. Waves of roiling, scorching air swirled inboard after each salvo, stinging his eyes, choking into his throat, but he had thoughts only for the raider and the murderously brilliant tactician at her helm. The ship was close enough for Adrian to see onto the deck, where the half-naked gunners were firing coolly, continuously, seeming to take the time to fire each salvo in tune with the roll of the ship so that few rounds went wild or splashed harmlessly into the sea.

On one smoke-filled breath Adrian cursed Otis Falworth like he had cursed no other living human being before. They were boxed in flush against the land with no room to tack away or to avoid the deadly assault. With the next breath, he conceded a small gasp of thanks that because of their proximity to the land, the enemy was equally hampered. The attacking ship could not maneuver between the _Eagle_ and shore and would need to turn away and tack into the approaching squall in order to make a second pass.

As if the marauder was privy to Ballantine's thoughts, the gleaming bow sheered away, having passed beyond the effective angle of fire. To his disgust, Adrian saw that she was barely scraped, that few of her sails were being hauled in for replacements, that none of her guns appeared to be smoking wrecks. He uttered a violent curse when he saw that a second tier of gun ports had indeed been cleverly concealed by the black paint on the hull. His earlier, hasty estimate of eighteen guns he now adjusted upward to thirty-eight, possibly more. And judging by the damage suffered to the_ Eagle's_ hull, a good number of those guns were thirty-two pounders that, when fired at such close range, could crush a three-foot-thick hull as if it was tinder.

Suddenly, the Stars and Stripes were pulled down and a new set of flags were run up the mast of the attacking ship. Riding proudly atop an ingratiating demand for surrender was a pennant bearing a scarlet wolf's head on a black field.

Ballantine's mouth went dry, and the blood drained from his face.

It was not possible.

He scrubbed the smoke and sweat from his eyes, but the flags did not change. The scarlet wolf's head was known and dreaded along the entire Barbary Coast.

Adrian backed away from the smoking bow gun and stumbled aft, passing several ashen-faced gunners who looked to him wordlessly for some sign of encouragement. In the sudden lull, all that could be heard on the _Eagle _were the cries and groans of the wounded, the slosh of water pouring through her riddled hull, the creaking of a dangerously unstable topmast. Fires hissed and crackled along the main deck. Men spoke in curses, uttering streams of obscenities instead of intelligible sentences. Bodies were everywhere-draped on spars, crumpled against guns and capstans, sprawled bloodily on the glistening planks.

"What the deuce is happening?" croaked a cold, harsh voice from the bulkhead below the quarterdeck. Jennings had crawled there, aided by Falworth. "Why are we being attacked without provocation? Who is commanding that ship?"

Ballantine, stunned by the devastation he saw around him, could not offer an immediate answer.

"Beddoes!" Jennings screamed. "Damn the man, where is he? Who can identify those colors?"

"I do not know who is in command," Ballantine said slowly, "but those are Farrow colors."

"Farrow! Duncan Farrow? But that is not possible!"

"No!" Falworth screamed. "We were assured that both of Farrow's ships had been captured at Moknine. We were dispatched to Snake Island _because_ both ships had been captured!"

"Obviously the report was premature," said Adrian, dragging a trembling hand across his brow. It came away with a slick smear of blood. His shirt was soaked with sweat, spattered with blood; he stank of cordite and gunpowder, mixed with the unfamiliar, galling taste of defeat.

"You cannot think Farrow himself is in command," Falworth gasped. He was-"

"He was hanged," Adrian snarled. "And the _Wild Goose_ was destroyed. So then you tell me, Lieutenant, who the hell is out there now?"


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## isaacsweeney

This excerpt is from "If Colleges Valued Students, They'd Value Adjuncts," an essay in my nonfiction ebook Students Losing Out: four essays on adjunct labor in higher education

I walk down the noisy hallway, where the students push and shove their way into the narrow stairway they use between classes. I break from the crowd and glance to my right. Through the half-closed blinds on the glass doors, I see most of my colleagues gathered in the conference room. They look serious, intently listening to the one in the corner, who seems to be giving the speech of his life. I am witnessing important business, I think to myself.

I am an adjunct instructor in an innovative writing department in Virginia. It doesn't take long for me to realize that I'm looking into a conference room of full-time faculty members. Then I remember that it's the second Wednesday of the month and time for the faculty meeting. Adjunct faculty members are invited, too, in my department, but it just so happens that the meeting is always on Wednesdays at 11:15 a.m., when most of the adjuncts are scheduled to teach so that the full-time faculty members can have this meeting.

Such is the life of the adjunct, and this outside-looking-in method of inclusion has been going on for far too long.

I am not bitter about my low salary, my lack of benefits, the uncertainty of a job next semester, or the terrible summers, when a lack of available classes means a lack of income. I'm actually thankful. I realize I don't have a Ph.D., nor do I have mounds of teaching experience. It was almost a gift, I sometimes think, that I was hired at all.

Before working here, I was a newspaper editor who had taught only one class for one semester at a nearby community college. I fell in love with teaching during that semester and decided I wanted to pursue it as a career. Entering the land of the four-year university was an amazing experience. I was full of adrenaline and nerves. My colleagues and department were supportive: Both full- and part-time faculty members were always available to answer my questions and give me the advice I needed to become a better instructor. In conversing with part-time faculty members in other departments, I heard horror stories about how they were treated with far less respect.

That was two years ago, and as time has passed, I have come to realize that my department is still top-notch when it comes to adjuncts. At least we are invited to meetings and get department-wide e-mails. Unfortunately, I have also come to realize that this university-like many around the nation-fosters an inherent disregard for all adjunct faculty members. The university benefits by cutting costs; the full-time faculty members and departments benefit by being able to focus more on specialty classes, service assignments, and research; and the students benefit by &#8230; oh wait. It's the students who lose out.

In the classroom, I exude confidence. I walk tall, tell jokes, and keep students' attention. I can lead discussion like nobody's business, and I can wing it if I need to. And that's a good thing, because I am often not prepared for class. Sometimes, I admit, I haven't even read my own assigned reading for the day. It's not that I don't want to; it's just that I had to take on those extra two courses at the community college and finish up the freelance article so I could pay the mortgage for the month. Winging it usually works OK. But sometimes it doesn't.

My not being prepared for class is only one way in which the students suffer. More and more, I find myself completely drained by the end of the day. In the middle of a great discussion, a student directs a comment to me. To the detriment of the discussion, I stopped listening a few comments ago, thinking instead about my decreasing checkbook balance or the dishes that have been piling up as I have been grading papers. Or I stopped listening just because I have had similar discussions four times already today, and I am, frankly, bored and/or exhausted. At least once, I stopped listening because of the loud construction across the street, where the university is building a new performance center. And I couldn't help but remember the news a week earlier that budget cuts had put my job in jeopardy.

In the end, how much does it matter to my department, and to my university, if I do a good job? It's not like I can share this information in any formal setting.

When I leave the classroom, I know I could have done better. That isn't an empty thought; I try to do better every day, every semester, every school year. And maybe my efforts succeed-maybe I do a little better. But I can't help but wonder: Is it enough? If some of these distractions that come with being an adjunct were taken away, wouldn't my students benefit? If I could talk about teaching and listen to others talk about teaching in that conference room, wouldn't my students benefit?

Again, I am not bitter about the money (or lack thereof). I chose to enter this profession this way, and I can choose to leave anytime I want. What makes me uneasy is that cheap labor seems more important to academe than quality instruction. Colleges and universities seem to value football stadiums, basketball teams, new performance centers, unnecessary renovations, and whatever project gets supported with money that could go to adjunct faculty members more than the learning of students who are taught by adjuncts. It's not a money issue; it's a priority issue.

Adjunct faculty members can never fully teach to their potential unless colleges rethink their priorities. If institutions value their students' educations as much as they claim, they need to better embrace adjuncts. Perhaps it is about offering adjuncts a fair wage and more job security. But maybe just valuing their input or asking for their opinions would be a good start.

Again, I am in a top-notch department when it comes to adjuncts. But it seems that the other adjuncts and I should be in that conference room somehow; that's where it starts. We may not have the appropriate titles underneath our names. We may not have been through the rigors that terminal degrees require (though some of us have). We may not have the proper publications to our credit. All those things are important, no doubt.

What we do have, though, is a lot of students. Does it get more important than that?


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## Nicki Lynn Justice

This is interesting!

Here is an excerpt from Black & White, my romantic suspense novel. It's only available in kindle e-book format (http://www.amazon.com/dp/B004HO63UG).

"Now, about that cat..."
She sighed. "This is going to sound really silly."
"No sillier than you just did."
She ignored that comment. "It was a way of rating my relationships. If I liked the cat better than the guy, I'd dump the guy."
"But you don't have a cat."
"I have a good imagination."
He nodded. "So how many imaginary cats did you get rid of?"
"None," she replied.
"Anyone ever ask you to get rid of the cat?" he quipped, to cover the curious feeling of pleasure her words evoked.
"The last one would have. I got rid of him instead.
"But you were going to get rid of the cat for me."
She shrugged. "I was half in love, almost asleep, and had just been through the most incredible love-making experience of my life, so I may not have been thinking clearly."
He preened. "I've been told that I'm pretty good."
"Hah," she exclaimed. "They probably just felt sorry for you."
He quirked an eyebrow at her, but didn't bother to reply. "I don't think anyone has ever said they were half in love with me," he said softly.
"Don't count on it. It could go either way. The cat hasn't been dropped off at that nice home in the country yet."

Thanks, and have a good weekend!

Nicki Lynn Justice


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## Patrick Skelton

The Device, page 99




“I would not have acted any differently myself,” Jacob said after I filled him in on my recent stunt with the sound buffers. “Though I wouldn’t have waited twenty-four years to test such theories.”
“Fourteen years,” I corrected. “My first visit with Dr. Stanley wasn’t until I was ten years old.”
“Fourteen years…yes, of course.”
It was Sunday afternoon, the day after my release from Brunstein Memorial Hospital. We were slouched in lounge chairs on his front porch. Jacob sucked on his usual cigar while I sipped on a glass of lemonade. We’d just finished trimming the remaining hedges around the house. 
“It just sucks that I went through all that pain for nothing.” 
“On the contrary, sometimes truth demands that we get our hands dirty,” he said. “One can only be spoon-fed ideas and theories and nonsense for so long. There’s a point when one has to take risks and find out first-hand what he believes the truth to be. And why he believes it.”
He looked at me and grinned. “Unfortunately, the consequences aren’t always in our favor.”
I felt the three stitches on the back of my head. The bandage was gone, but the knot still throbbed. “Don’t remind me, please.” 
“If it brings you any consolation, I’m certain that Benjamin Franklin’s kite flying experiment wasn’t a safe or even halfway smart thing to do. But he certainly made quite a discovery, now didn’t he?”
“That’s different. It was in the name of science. Plus, I’m sure he took some precautions…like testing electricity in a beaker or something before risking his life in a lightning storm.”	
“Point taken.” He stood and coughed smoke from his throat. “Wait here a moment.” 
He went inside, and after rummaging around, came back out with a tackle box and a notepad.
“Come, pull your chair closer to mine,” he said. 
“Why?”
“Just do so. I’d like to have a look at your inner ear.”
“That’s okay. The doctors already concluded that I’m nuts.”
“Most doctors are pompous morons,” he snapped back. “Now come, let me have a look.”
I groaned, but did as he said. Why not? Couldn’t hurt anything. Right?
“Extend your arm, please,” he said as he put on latex gloves.
“Why? What’s that have to do with my ears? What are the gloves for?”
“Please, just extend your left arm.”
I did as he said again. I don’t know why, but I did.  And before I could pull my hand away, he pricked my thumb.
I flinched and jumped to my feet. A drop of blood gathered on the tip of my thumb. “What the hell did you just stick me for?”
He put something into a tiny clear cylinder and set it aside. “Now, John. There’s no need for stern language. A proper diagnosis begins with a DNA sample. It’s essential for understanding one’s disorders.”
“No need for stern language?” I said, hovering over him, licking my thumb. “You didn’t say anything about jabbing me with a needle or whatever you just used. Was it sterilized?”
He smiled. “Of course. Do you take me for an amateur?”


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## Andre Jute

p99 from THE LARSSON SCANDAL the unauthorized guerilla critique of Stieg Larsson


Giving Eva Gabrielsson what she wants would be the worst possible catastrophe that could befall the legacy of Stieg Larsson.

Though Gabrielsson isn't greedy for money, she is consumed with greed for the power that control of the literary rights will give her, though of course she has persuaded herself that it isn't power for herself, only for the protection of her Stieg's memory. Never mind the rationalizations, what matters is that Gabrielsson is intent on using the power negatively. Effectively, when multiplied by her ignorance of publishing, Gabrielsson's otherworldly view of the Sainted Stieg will soon become a total block on further publication, or perhaps even reprinting of the already published books unless they are cleansed of apocrypha by a modern-day Council of Nicosia chaired by - you guessed it - the High Priestess of Stieg, Gabrielsson herself.

We've seen that where we - and many readers! - have complained of slack or absent editing, Gabrielsson has described a minimum of standard literary work as having 'prissified' or, on another occasion, 'prettified' Larsson's work. She clearly has no grasp of commercial publishing, or that the Millennium Trilogy, far from being carved on stone tablets born of a burning bush, consists of a set of common conspiracy thrillers. It is easy to see that, if Gabrielsson had been in charge, she would have held the original text holy and would not have permitted any changes. We know for a fact that she hates the catchy titles Christopher MacLehose invented for these novels and that she wanted Men Who Hate Women kept, with - looking at it from her viewpoint - very good reason, as Larsson himself had refused to let his Swedish publisher change it. MacLehose changed the title on his own authority because British and American publishers as a matter of contractual routine are granted authority over the title, binding, dustcover and paper - in all of which, and a thousand other matters where the publisher really does know better, it is easy to see Gabrielsson trying to interfere. (The Swedish publishers, Bra Böcker, changed the English title of one of André Jute's novels, Reverse Negative, to Ryktet om Min Död, which has an entirely different meaning; they did it without telling anyone.) It is difficult to believe that the Larsson books would have sold so well - and carried Larsson's didactic message to so many - if Gabrielsson were in control of the literary rights of her late partner.

Gabrielsson doesn't appear to understand that not even the first creator, the author, has the kind of power she demands, nor if he had it would he use it in the way she clearly intends to wield it, as a block on necessary changes, such as we have seen already. Being an author, despite popular depictions, is a cooperative process with several other parties, including agents, publishers, editors, publicists, film and television executives, booksellers, even readers. Any author who behaves as Gabrielsson wants to behave wouldn't be in the profession long. Sony, for instance, held up signing of the film deal clearly out of fear that if Gabrielsson accepted the Larssons' offer, she would constantly attempt to interfere in their films, which would quickly become very expensive indeed. That demand to 'determine which agents are used' is an open threat to Norstedts, which has done exceedingly well by Larsson.

One starts to feel a sneaking sympathy for Stalin, obstructed by Lenin's widow in his first attempt to deify Lenin, when he said of her, 'If Krupskaya continues to be awkward, I shall have to appoint someone else to be Lenin's widow.' (This snippet of history would no doubt have amused the Trotskyist Communist Stieg Larsson, though of course not in Gabrielsson's presence&#8230


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## Andre Jute

p99 from IDITAROD a novel of The Greatest Race on Earth


The turquoise and yellow northern lights were bright and sharp - better than Times Square, it seemed to him - but cast eerie shadows as he ran up the mountain, always upwards, nearly twenty miles up and up and up.

'Soon I'll start hallucinating,' he said aloud. The experience was addictive.

More to rest his mind than his dogs, he took a break when he found open water at Pass Creek. He ladled some of the shockingly cold, clear water for himself and then let the dogs dip. He was about to commit the fatal mistake of chucking the water left in the mug into his face - in sub-freezing temperature - when he saw the white shapes jumping off what appeared a sheer cliff face. He knew they were wild Dall sheep but the fancy lingered that he stood in a graveyard and the spirits of C C Chittick and John Jacobsin came to inveigle him into their world. When he shook his head to free his imagination of the ghosts, he saw the dipper poised to throw the water into his face, to seep into his clothes, to freeze and maim or kill him. He cursed aloud.

By then his dogs were already thirty paces away. The water from the dipper scythed out as he ran after the dogs, shouting like a madman to be heard heard over their barking. 'goshdarm mountain sheep are tough, you stupid mutts. Tough! Stop! I give you Grade A lamb chops and you want Dall sheep&#8230;'

He needed to save his breath for running. His dogs were driven by demons, straining after those sheep. The northern lights showed him shadow under the sled most of the time as it flew along, touching only here and there. Several times his hands reached, only to have the sled jerked away by some unevenness in the trail. Once he fell over a crumpled ice bridge and the effort to catch up left him gasping and nauseated. Finally it was another ice bridge that helped him; the sled stuck, momentarily, behind one of the big blocks of ice left standing where a previous musher struggled through. The dogs jerked, the sled broke loose and the drive bow flew neatly into his outstretched hands; he even carried enough momentum to plant his feet firmly on the runners before the dog were off again. He stood for a long time, panting, simply holding on, without breath to shout at the dogs.

At Puntilla he joked to the vet Lake about nightmares but this was the true black velvet from which they were cut. Involuntarily he glanced over his shoulder for Chittick and Jacobsin but, of course, where were the white shapes but in front of him. He found himself laughing wildly as the sled, with his two hundred pounds not restraining it much, crashed over a big ridge in the trail and then down&#8230;

He originally planned to camp at the top of the mountain and commence the descent at dawn, well rested, alert, able to see the dangers of the trail. Too late. He was into the ice chute in the dark, his dogs out of control. Pitch black. Straight. Left. From above, green and yellow lights reached for him but to no avail. He was gone to the dogs, was lost to men, to reason, even to fear, not a man but a speeding demon hurrying on an unknown errand behind the hounds of hell.

The descent from Rainy Pass is legendary, even among the hard men of the Iditarod, a maze of narrow ledges, dangerous defiles, switchbacks, hairpins, sudden slides on wind-driven banks of loose snow, ravines with sides a hundred feet high only inches from dogs, sled and racer.

James knew all this in advance, of course: a naïf would never be allowed to start the race. Dave told James much about the descent, other mushers shared details of their experience, much of the conversation at the compulsory pre-race banquet centered on this descent. But he never imagined it could possibly be this bad. Not that he discounted what he heard, for he


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## Justin Alexander

The serving man Jack knocked at the door, come to bid Magdalen to her brother. She laid her sewing aside with a slight sigh and a tightening of her mouth, but went out silently. Frevisse continued mending the rend in the knee of a boy's hosen.

Sooner than she expected, she heard Magdalen on the stairs again and looked up as she came through the door, then rose to her feet, startled by Magdalen's white, strained face. Not looking at her, Magdalen shut the door and stood with her back against it, breathing rapidly, her mouth set in a hard line. All the color was drained from her cheeks; her gray eyes were huge, glittering. She was in a rage, but there was a tangle of other emotions too that Frevisse could not immediately read - fear perhaps among them.

Frevisse waited while Magdalen visibly recovered herself to the point where she could straighten from the door and say in almost her normal voice, "It seems you're to have my companionship somewhat more sternly than we intended. My brother has asked me to stay in my room as much as may be for the time being."

"Why?" Frevisse asked incredulously. "Because you won't marry Colfoot?"

Magdalen gave a harsh, short laugh and paced toward the window. "No! Oh no. He doesn't want that either. He will support me in that. He must." She wrung her clasped hands around each other, fighting some inward agony or anger. "No. He's right so far as he understands it. But it will make no difference." She knelt on the window seat and stared out toward the orchard.

"But is he going to keep you here against your will?" Frevisse asked.

"Oliver? No, certainly not. He's not like that." But she did not sound completely certain. "Besides, he has no legal authority over me. I'm of age and widowed, with properties of my own. I can do as I choose." She let go of her anger; misery replaced it in both her suddenly dejected body and her voice. "His only real hold on me lies in our affection for each other, and just now that's making pain enough. I'm not his prisoner, no. I can go. If I want to."


----------



## chiburple

My excerpt from History of the Timelaws:

I moved my foot from the gas to the break and slammed down hard. The chevy spun around, tires squealing and stopped just short of crashing into the building on the other side of the alley. A poor cat sprinted towards a pile of boxes as far away from us as she could get. 
Jeez Liz. What the hell are you trying to do? Mark yelled, sounding a lot more alert. I wasnt listening. I glanced over at the back seat and sure enough the left side window was shattered and there was blood running down the side of the door. Before I could give them a chance to respond Id jumped out the door and reached into my back pocket for my switchblade. 
The door looked like it might be stuck shut so I flipped the blade open and stabbed through the window towards the seat hoping Id hit the wizard. I felt five fingers wrap around my wrist but I had enough muscle and momentum to move forward another inch and a half. Resistance. My knife disappeared in my hand as it became part of the wizards invisibility cloak then something hard (probably a fist) slammed powerfully against my mouth, knocking me back and forcing me to stumble. 
This was enough for Mark to figure out what was going on. He jumped out of the passenger seat and yanked open the right back door while reaching for his own knife. In the mean time I heard a hard pounding against the back left door and assumed the wizard was trying to kick it open. That meant there was another wizard blocking his exit on the right. 
I swayed for a second on my feet then got ready to charge forward again but the door slammed open before I could. I lunged towards the back seat, not wanting to give the wizard a chance to get out of the car where I had a chance of finding him with my blade. Mark you gotta finish this fast. I told him telepathically as the wizard pushed me down onto the pavement and gave me a good punch in my left cheek. He can throw a spell at you at any moment. This time it was Marks turn to let a four letter word slip out. I guess he didnt like me in his head.

****
For more information check the History of the Timelaws book thread: http://www.kboards.com/index.php/topic,57992.msg974963.html#msg974963.
Also, as mentioned in my thread I'm willing to send a few readers a free pdf version of my book in exchange for the promise of an honest review on amazon.

_new post merged with existing 'excerpt' thread.  _


----------



## M.Eddie Mc

Brevity is...etc.



The renegade’s gaze rose somewhere above the horizon ahead, possibly at a cloud.

“You know, I used to think that word was ‘hair-brained,’ like you had hair where your brains should be.  I guess, though, that it is ‘hare.’  Brain like a rabbit, though rabbits never seemed that dumb to me.  What man wouldn’t live like that, if he could?”


----------



## Ian Fraser

An excerpt from the start of *The Depths of Deception*
The Depths of Deception

_Atlantic Ocean, 20xx. _
I woke in darkness and for a moment, my dreams of premature burial seemed real. My eyes adjusted
to the dimness. I recognized the underside of the bunk above me. Beyond the closed curtain, I heard
soft murmurs as crewmen made their way along the aisle. _You made it. You're on board._ The bunk was
soft. The thin mattress felt luxurious. Initially I'd had trouble falling asleep, knowing I was finally here. 
My fingers twitched becoming claws. I relaxed, shut my eyes and let my hand explore the bulkhead 
beside the bunk, my fingertips tracing the rivets, feeling the curve of the hull. _Shouldn't there be switches?_
My fingers found the semi-circular depression containing the controls. It had been a while since I was last
on a submarine.

Early mariners couldn't have imagined the intricate conveniences that I had at my fingertips. There was the
data coupling for laptops, next to it was the USB port, below that was a low-power electrical outlet, and 
running horizontally beside them were the numerous other pushbuttons. I felt along the row._ That's the light._
I prodded it and overhead, a dim florescent tube hummed into life, just bright enough to read by. 
The light felt sharp. I knew without looking that on the wall beside my head there'd be a piece of reflective
metal: a notional mirror. _Do I want to see myself again? Shall I pretend to know me? _ I turned my head, 
opening my eyes. In the mirror, my distorted cheekbone swam into view like some asteroid in space slowly
rolling, revealing flaws and features. A bloodshot eye regarded me. Every time I looked in a mirror, 
awkwardness descended, as if my reflection and I were former friends with nothing to say, both of us 
co-existing in an uneasy silence. 
_You're me._
I told myself I wasn't lying.
My eye observed me and I returned the stare, searching for traces of judgment or disapproval. But the 
reflected eye was neutral, answering me with an impassive gaze. I watched the flesh around the eye crinkle,
as if its owner was smiling. I didn't think I was smiling. But I knew the eye had seen everything I had done, 
and intended to do, and, for whatever reason, it seemed content to convey nothing of substance about 
its opinions. I turned the light off; darkness returned; the pressure diminished.
_I need sleep._ I shut my eyes.


----------



## DDScott

Fabulous fun Thread and filled with tons of fun excerpts!

Here's an excerpt from *BOOTSCOOTIN' BLAHNIKS * - Book One of my Bootscootin' Books Series - think Sex and The City meets Urban Cowboy. It's romantic comedy with a chick lit gone-country twist!

CHAPTER ONE

The nanosecond the light turned green, Roxy Rae Vaughn pressed the gas pedal toward the floorboard of her Mercedes. She didn't have time to jack around. Her boutique opened in an hour. It took twenty-two more minutes to get there, thirty-three minutes to make everything perfect before she unlocked the doors for customers, and she counted on five minutes to spare. Apparently, the driver in the beat-up pick-up truck in front of her had all kinds of time for lollygagging. But she didn't.

Taking her speed up a notch, Dipstick yelped. His pudgy Puggles body slid across the pashmina-covered leather cushion of the passenger seat then propelled off the heated lumbar rest. Not to be outdone by her litter brother, Darling whined from the backseat, followed by an odd, panic-laden pant.

Roxy was a bit worried by her dogs' unusual behavior. Normally, they were good riders. Perhaps they needed some fresh air, she thought, cracking the windows a smidgeon. She'd read, however, that too much air wasn't good for them so they were only getting a tease of the Tennessee summer morning breeze. Something else the driver in front of her obviously wasn't aware of. His mangy mutt, although kind of cute in a disheveled take pity on me way, had free roam of the bed of his truck. Except for what looked to be tomatoes lined-up in well-used baskets, the man's dog owned his space.

"It's okay, Babies," Roxy attempted to soothe Dipstick and Darling. "Mommy is right here. You two love going to work with me. What's wrong?"

In her rearview mirror, Roxy noticed Darling moving her snout in large circles followed by loud, disturbing smacks of her tongue against the roof of her mouth. And was that a bit of frothy drool forming and bubbling around her canines? What the hell was going on?

Roxy stole another quick peek in the mirror then glanced back to the road in front of her in case Grandpa Jones slowed down again. Another look in the mirror revealed Darling was now anxiously pawing at the cashmere blanket covering the backseat as if trying to find a perfect spot to...

Like lightening punctuating the green screen of a horror flick set, a precursor to a grotesque scene coming to life in front of the cameras, Roxy finally understood the red herring for what it was. "Oh no, Darling. Don't do that to Mommy. We're almost to the boutique. Please wait, Honey. Not in the car."

Roxy pounded her fist against the steering wheel, silently cursing her luck. Her determination to live and succeed in her new, classy chick-gone-country lifestyle seemed to kick her in the ass every choice she made.

Darling made a larger-than-life whimper then let loose a super smoothie-sized barrage of pre and partially-digested dog treats - all over Roxy's backseat.

Between the agonizing sounds of her poor sick Puggles and the sickening stench, Roxy was thrown for a loop her stomach and nerves were at a loss to rectify. Before she could get her wits about her to deal with the current crisis, Dipstick took his turn at bat and went nuts in the front seat. He paced the floorboard. Jumped back into the seat. Then pounced into Roxy's lap and out again, his anxiety-heavy yips and yaps turning into awful half wails, half barks before dissolving into fits of desperately pathetic growls.

Keeping one hand on the wheel, Roxy reached out to comfort him. Evidently, however, Darling needed her master's touch too. She hung her hurl-soaked muzzle over Roxy's arm, whimpered then sneezed sending dog snot and God only knew what else blowing out her nose.

Although abhorred by the residue Darling had now smeared all over her arm, Roxy's heart filled with pity for her ill puppy and its wigged out partner in mischief. Composing her psyche for the challenge she faced, she searched the street ahead for a decent place to pull over. It appeared she'd have a good spot just up the road a tad further. Good thing she'd taken this alternate route to work. Not much traffic traveled this old road.

"There there, guys. It's okay. Hang with me just a wee bit longer and we'll get you cleaned up," she coached the dogs, having no unearthly clue how exactly she was going to do that. Never one for organization, she could only hope while God was hee-hawing about her predicament, he'd have the decency to pitch down a roll of paper towels or produce a magical box of tissue.

Increasingly shallow pants and gross gurgles once again consumed Darling's body. Roxy hit the panic button way ahead of her dogs.

"Nooooooooooo..." Before the air even left Roxy's lungs carrying her message through even higher octaves of a Hollywood-worthy cartoon voice-over, Darling was at it again. This time, the pup relieved her ailment - projectile style - all over the dashboard and center console.

Making a decent effort to keep the foul fluid from landing on her neck, shoulders, and vintage-inspired couture t-shirt, Roxy tried to punch the brakes for an emergency exit from the roadway. Instead of a Nascar-qualifying pit stop, the heel of her Blahnik caught between the floor mat and the accelerator, forcing her car square into the rear-end of Grandpa Jones' truck. Roxy rode out the impact in bumper car fashion as the two vehicles careened off the side of the road and came to an abrupt stop.

"Damn." She lowered her head against the wheel, forgetting to make sure none of Darling's snacks had decided to take up residence prior to her landing. "I'm such an idiot."

In the hullabaloo of noise emanating from not only her dogs going ape-shit after the crash but Grandpa's mutt sounding off too, Roxy wished with everything in her she was just an unwitting participant in some way too vivid nightmare. Taking a deep breath, the stench from the car filled her nostrils and brought her oh-so-back to reality.

Oh, God. What if the guy is hurt? Or what if his dog is too? Roxy jerked her head from the wheel so fast a dizzy fog overtook her mind. She may have much more to worry about than coming up with money to fix her car and Grandpa's truck. She could have injured him - and his dog too.

She rested her head once more on the steering wheel. Images of Judy Garland lying on her bed on her way to Munchkin Land in the midst of the tornado swirled through Roxy's mind in Technicolor splendor. She could hear the Wicked Witch taunting her and her "little dog too".

She shouldn't have tried to save a few bucks by buying Dipstick and Darling the tractor supply store's off-brand dog treats. Look where that had gotten her. How could such terrific ideas at the time end up going so wrong?

She took a chance and looked away from the wheel at what she was convinced would be another nightmare in front of her. But she couldn't see through the smoke rising from underneath the crumpled hood of her way-too-pricy sedan. Trying to peer through the haze, she panicked. She still couldn't see Grandpa or his dog.

A brisk tap against her driver's side window caused Roxy's heart to race. She was sure she'd look through the glass only to find the man and his dog dripping with blood. She shivered. She'd seen way too many scary movies with one nanny after another.

Afraid to take another deep breath for fear on the inhale she'd succumb to the hurl hell surrounding her, she looked through the window.

Grandpa Jones had morphed into a hunky, hot cowboy, complete with a sexy-as-all-hell square jaw. A single strand of straw precariously dangled from his sinfully ornery grin. And a lock of unruly, sandy blonde hair fell over his flirtatious, dark mocha eyes.

Roxy's insides shook, but not from fear or exasperation. Perhaps God was guffawing at her misstep. But Roxy might just have the last laugh. It seemed her luck had changed.

*******

I'm thrilled to bring this book to you for less than a trip to your local dollar store...ohhh yeahhh...woohoo for 99 Cent reads here on Kindle!!!

I sooo luuuvvv treating readers to fabulous books for fabulous prices!

Nothin' beats being able to give readers an entire series for less than the cost of one paperback!

Kindle readers rock!!!

Sooo luuuvvv getting to know y'all!!!


----------



## Brianna Lee McKenzie

Here is an excerpt from "Catch a Shooting Star" Historical Romance

Savannah looked up at him wondering how he had figured out that she had questions, but she stood up to her full height and blurted out her first one, “Travis, why did you walk in on me that night while I was bathing?”

He almost laughed at her fuming expression, which was illuminated and exaggerated by the firelight.  Ignoring his instinct to apologize for his aforementioned actions, Travis shrugged his wide shoulders and answered with a smile that sparkled with mischief in his brown eyes, “That was just a happy accident.”

“Then, why didn’t you give me my privacy?” she accused with her hands on the hollow between her ribs and her hips.  “Why did you just stand there, humiliating me with your audacious ogling?”

He took a step forward and hovered over her like a whispering willow, quietly showering her with his overwhelming presence as if to challenge her and to cause her to cower and scurry away.  But she stood her ground, rising higher on her tip-toes in order to appear a more formidable foe, squaring her shoulders for good measure.  Realizing that she wouldn’t back down, Travis softened his stance and balled his fists at his sides so that they would not forcefully grab her and pull her into his arms, because at that very moment, he wanted to, he needed to.  Instead, he pulled in a deep breath and told her the truth. 

“I couldn’t take my eyes off you” he said in a low, agonizingly amorous voice as he leaned so close to her that he could smell her frozen breath, sweet and crisp in the cold night air.  “Seeing you there naked and drenched, your hair wet and falling around your shoulders, reminded me of the night that we met, the night of the storm.”  

Blushing with anger in lieu of embarrassment, Savannah recalled that night when he’d stood almost as close to her as he did during this encounter.  With much displeasure, she jutted her jaw out in determination while she retorted, “And why did you kiss me?” 

She stood up to her full height and looked up at him, her head tilted to one side, waiting for him to counter with words that would continue their argument.  But he did just the opposite when he winked and widened his smile, which revealed the twin dimples that dissolved into the valleys on both sides of his mouth.  Shaking his head, which was now hatless with light brown waves shifting in the slight night breeze, he drew out his words so as to emphasize each essential syllable. 

“It just seemed right to finish what we’d started,” Travis answered, his tongue finding its way to his parched lips and leaving a glisteningly inviting shimmer in its wake.

Savannah’s heart fluttered, her breathing increased and her resolve crumbled like the spent embers in the campfire.  A loud pop from the fire sent her stumbling into his arms and as she looked up into his impassioned eyes, she felt her body melt into his as if the heat that passed between them was enough to bind them together for eternity.  

“And do you want to kiss me now?” she asked, her voice wavering, her knees weak with anticipation that his answer might be in the affirmative.

“Yes,” he answered so quietly that only her heart heard his reply.

She sucked in a breath of expectation when he failed to act on his response.  Then she let it out in a quick puff of mist while she whispered, almost pleadingly, “Will you?”

Easing his face toward her inviting smile but pulling back just at the moment his lips touched hers, he quipped, “Will you throw something at me?”

“I don’t have anything handy right now,” she admitted with a shrug of her slender shoulders, which he caught in his large, strong hands as he gently eased her into the ardent vigor of his body.  

His arms enveloped her, possessed her, while his roaming hands searched her body for that one elusive place that would cause her to whimper for more.  Finding it in the small of her back just where her spine met her hipbone, he pressed his large hand into her flesh so forcefully that it surprised her and took her breath away.  

Savannah’s heart stopped, time stopped, life stopped for that brief, surreal moment where reality meets fantasy, where one’s fear that one’s wishes would truly be fulfilled is suddenly justified when that fear is replaced by the explosion of pure, gratifying bliss.  She sucked in an apprehensive breath as if there was some faraway chance that it could be her last before he snatched it away with the vitality of his kiss.  

His lips were so close to hers at that moment that Travis could taste her frigid breath.  He leaned closer to touch his lips to hers, to tease her with just a taste of what was to come.  Then, he pulled his head back to look into her smoldering eyes to see if she would protest.  When none came, he leaned back down and melted his lips with hers in a searing and passionate kiss that, for some reason, took them both by surprise.


----------



## JJayKamp

From _The Last Killiney_:

People were staring at Paul Henley.

Where he stood sweating in the queue for the pirate ride, he could feel their conservative eyes taking in the cut of his leather trousers and his Cuban-heeled boots. He knew his hair was a mess. His compact, seventeen-year-old frame wasn't tall enough to be menacing, but dressed all in black, sporting his favorite David Bowie badge, Paul could imagine how he looked to these folks-like a punk, a hooligan.

_Get an eyeful, then, if you've a mind to._ And just for a laugh, he turned and winked at the American couple two paces back. They wriggled appropriately. Paul smiled to himself. "Good," he mused under his breath. _After all, I'm not sweating in this leather coat fer nothin'._


----------



## markbeyer

Here's and excerpt from my novel, THE VILLAGE WIT, which is taken from the 1st chapter:

“Richie, what you need is a woman.” 

“I get them often as I like,” he said. He stopped himself, smiling at his irony. “Actually, I probably should say, ‘as often as they like.’”

“No, Rich. I’m not talking about that. You need a woman.”

Bentley turned from the bookshelves. Whipple had his hands spread, taking in the space around him, them, the shop, perhaps even England. Bentley mulled this over until he thought he had caught on.

“Yes–yes! That’s right. No more children working here. A responsible woman is what the shop needs. Someone who knows retail books and … books. She’d be able to talk with customers, not stutter like a moron and turn feeble, worry about her black lipstick or pop pimples in the bathroom mirror. Wouldn’t hurt me for good conversation now and again, either.” 

He leaned against the shelf to ponder the possibility. Someone older would be ideal to hire. One of Heath-on-the-Wold’s retirees looking for part time work so they didn’t just curl up and die from abject boredom. He thought of his “rules for the life to be lived” but shook his head with irritation. Maybe a pensioner would work out. Glancing at Whipple, he thought Not too old, though. 

Mr Whipple gasped. “No, lad. No. I mean you need a woman.”

Bentley’s hand slipped, and now he held his chin awkwardly, like a fumbled cup of tea. His face must have shown faded red as he finally caught what Whipple was suggesting.

“You mean a wife, don’t you?”

Whip let the newspaper slide from his hands. “Let’s not get hasty now – that’s for future consideration – but for now someone who, you know, can set you right.”

“Set me right. What the hell does that mean? Like … sexually?”

“What the bloody hell you running on about now? You just said you get that hanging around the pubs. What I said is what I mean. You need a woman, that person who cares for you and talks to you at night before bedtime. The woman you cook ham and eggs for on Saturday mornings, and don’t burn the toast. Someone to love, Richie.”

Bentley thrust his hands in his pockets and walked to the edge of the sales counter. “You must be out of your mind, Whip.”


----------



## Ian Fraser

Great thread. Its a good way to show off the different writing styles.
This is from Flies for the Mayans (a novella) As you can see its a kind of dark satiric fantasy...

*'Flies for the Mayans'* ​
Once upon a time, I was God.

"Why do you keep coming here?"

Ever since I leaned into the Void and suggested light might be a good idea, 
I progressed cautiously, trying to avoid mistakes. But one misstep causes another, 
and no matter how hard you try, there's no way to feed the meat back into the 
mincer and get a whole pig again.

I still remember eying my Creation and wondering just what exactly _good_ meant, 
when set against the vastness of eternity. How long could that-which-is-splendid
stay awesome in of itself? People living beside a seashore eventually stop hearing
the roar of the waves. The greatness of my Creation had gradually paled - until 
I couldn't see that Heaven and my Kingdom _were_ good.

Something had to be done, and therefore I did it. Me. The complexity is my own fault.

"Why do you keep coming here?" Gabriel repeated, although he knew.
We were at Buddhist Cohen's, a bar of ill-repute, filled with tourists, junkies, whores,
and sleaze of all descriptions. The bar was just beyond the edge of my territory,
where the downtown buildings diminished and the neighborhood became littered and soiled.
The streets were dimly lit - crumbling boarded-up buildings, lined by narrow alleys filled 
with illegals huddled around fires.

Gabriel and I were drinking car bombs - vodka mixed with liquors. Ripples swirled in the 
bottom of my glass. I sighed, glancing at the sneering bouncers beyond the edge of the crowd. 
I had arrived late and James, the bar owner, had tried to take my coat. I'd slapped his hand aside.

"Still employing illegals?"

It was an absurd question. Of course he was. Everyone did. How else would garbage get shifted,
streets cleaned, and food cooked? James didn't respond. I felt inexplicably checkmated, as if 
there were a game underway whose rules I wasn't privy to. I restrained the impulse to lash out. 
_Get a hold of yourself._

James escorted me to where Gabriel and the Christians sat watching the strippers. On stage, 
nipple-tassels spun in circles of light. The Christians were two blondes, awed at the idea of 
hanging out with their Creator. I quelled my self-loathing and guided one of the women 
beneath the table. I unzipped, giving her a piece of my mind.

Gabriel glanced my way. "Are you sure you want to be doing that, boss?"

I squinted at him. He got the message, and I continued crushing cocaine, using the underside 
of an ashtray. The crunching noise sounded like marching feet. I shivered, as if something 
had walked over my grave. Not that this was possible.
The bouncers were leaning against the far wall. I ignored the stares. One of the new strippers
had a snake. I have a thing about snakes. The creature's scales glistened in the spotlights, 
oiled rippling muscles moving gracefully beneath the snake's skin.

"Glug," blurted my Christian under the table.

Eternity used to be different. But unmaking this new Heaven wouldn't solve anything. On stage,
the stripper writhed, the snake swinging back and forth, seemingly giving her a middle leg. 
I selected a straw and leaned in to do a line, thinking about ingratitude.

Gabriel sighed. "Boss?"

At the time, my choice had seemed right. I'd carved my infinite domain into regions and 
begun parceling them out. There had been a few square miles of useless rundown docklands
on the edge of my city. I told my son this neighborhood was his. We hadn't talked since then. 
He had to know I was frequenting one of his apostle's night clubs. He had to. 
_So then, why are you doing it?_ I wasn't sure.


----------



## Craig

Here's a bit of "The Job: Based on a True Story (I Mean, This is Bound to have Happened Somewhere)" Spirituality and humor lumped into one.

A bell rang, the machinery suddenly clanked into motion, and with a jarring jerk a large canvas basket dumped a pile of letters and small packages onto a carousel separator. As if by magic, mail of different sizes mechanically sorted itself onto a half-dozen conveyors spreading out like fingers. Joe B. locked eyes with the young man, and silently they parted ways, each to his own post.
The foreman wheeled up another huge canvas basket to Joe B. and announced gruffly, "Sort these." Joe B. looked down and saw a great load of completely blank envelopes. In both hands he grasped a sampling of the mail and lobbed his boss a puzzled stare, and time hung in limbo. Without warning an eruption of envelopes shot out of the bin, Joe B. bellowing hoarsely as the gorilla exploded from his pile of fake letters, scattering them into the air, a Halloween mask disguising a fellow mail-sorter. At the top of his lungs the man screamed "happy birthday!" A dozen or more fellow workers piled onto Joe B. and wrestled him to the floor, whooping loudly and slapping his back. Joe B. struggled valiantly against his attacking friends, throwing each one off in turn, until he finally regained his feet, laughing and panting. His eyes caught Manny across the room, smiling broadly.
Not until he got home that evening did he see, with his wife's considerate help, the bar code rubber-stamped upon his forehead.

http://www.kboards.com/index.php/topic,40980.0.html


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## Ian Fraser

Its a pity this useful thread sunk beneath the adverts for 99 cent books and excessive use 
of exclamation points. Allowing the forum to actually have a read of the actual text on offer
beats all the fancy subject headings.
Or are the latest crop of authors who're advertising their writing, unwilling to share a few paragraphs?


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## Nicki Lynn Justice

You're right! I loved reading this thread. I posted previously, but thought I would post again just to get things going (and, I won't lie, it's a great way to get a few sales).

So here's another excerpt from Black & White, my romantic suspense/legal thriller, that I think is kinda cute. Jillian, the main character, has bravely volunteered to dress as the company mascot at their yearly bbq:

    “Let me,” he said, with an amused smile, “your audience is pumped. You’re going to need your strength.”
    “Gee, thanks!” She had the feeling he wasn’t kidding, and it was making her a bit nervous. He dropped the head into place and did up the snaps. 
    “Okay, you’re set. I’ll cover your back.”
    “What happened to warm and fuzzy?” she asked plaintively.
    Code laughed.
    “Here goes nothing!” She took a deep breath, and headed in the direction of the crowd. Code caught her arm as she almost tripped over a cement block. Her view was restricted by the giant squirrel head she was wearing, but what she could see in her narrow line of vision made her want to literally turn tail and flee! There was an entire pack of kids stampeding her way! 
    “Okay, you’ve been spotted!”
    Then she was besieged by what seemed like hundreds of little bodies. There were several pairs of arms clasped about her waist like vice-grips, while little hands wrapped about her wrists and grasped at her padded paws.  
    “Hunter Squirrel has asked me to say a few words.” Code’s voice boomed out, and effectively stopped the chattering and frantic motion. The arms about her waist didn’t relax their death grip though. 
    “Hunter Squirrel wants everyone to back up and form a circle around him.”
    Hunter Squirrel? She fought the urge to laugh. She’d have to put the mascot’s name on her “to-do list” if she survived this. Surely she could think of something more creative!
    “Now if you want Hunter to do the peanut scramble, you have to listen very carefully,” Code continued. The children fell silent. Then one little girl put up her hand.
    Code looked in her direction.
    “I’m allergic to nuts.” The little girl’s chin was trembling, and even from this distance, Jillian could see tears in her eyes.
    “Don’t worry honey.” Code’s voice was so kind and smooth that Jillian’s insides turned to mush. “There’s actually no peanuts. It’s more of a candy and prize scramble.”
    “Oh good!” The little girl’s face was transformed by a wide smile, and she began to bounce about on the balls of her feet. The movement was echoed by the rest of the crowd.
    “When I say go, Hunter will throw out the treats. There’s enough for everyone!” 
    Derrick moved into her line of vision and shoved a large bag into her paws. “Throw out the loot as fast as you can then get out even faster,” he advised in an undertone.
    “Go!“
    Jillian took Derrick’s advice, and divested herself of the contents of the bag as quickly as possible. Then she stood back to avoid the frenzy. There were children everywhere! They were pushing and shoving, screaming and yelling! She thought she heard some bad language, followed by a piercing scream. She shook her head. She must be seeing things!  Had she witnessed the girl with the peanut allergy drop-kick an older boy who had dived for what looked like a PSP game? Surely not! 
    She felt a tug on her hand and angled the giant head so that she could see who was trying to get her attention. She stared into the biggest, brownest, saddest eyes she had ever seen.

May all your endins be happy!

Nicki Lynn Justice


----------



## Adria Townsend

[[ASIN:B004OYTUOU To Conquer the Heart of a King]]

To Conquer the Heart of a King 
by J. S. Laurenz
99 cents on Amazon

Excerpt: 
"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?"
---


----------



## joanhallhovey

What a great thread...thank you.

CHILL WATERS

By

Joan Hall Hovey

It’s like a lion at the door; 
And when the door begins to crack, 
It’s like a stick across your back; 
And when your back begins to smart, 
It’s like a penknife in your heart; 
And when your heart begins to bleed 
You’re dead, and dead, and dead, indeed.

Anonymous; Nursery Rhyme

He stood near the ancient gnarled apple tree that for years now had produced only sour, wizened apples, waiting for her. The hot thick air hummed with the chirping of crickets. Behind him, an occasional fat June bug bumped against the screen door, drawn by the night-light. Now and then a car passed by, seeming only to emphasize his sense of aloneness. Not much traffic on Elder Avenue since they built the thruway. 

Three houses down, Nealey’s old black lab set to barking excitedly at something – a raccoon scavenging in a garbage can, most likely, but it could just as well be shadows. The mutt had a game leg and was as deaf as his mother’s turquoise plastic crucifix that hung on the wall above the TV. The old man oughta have him done away with, put the damn thing out of its misery. Maybe I’ll do it for him one of these days, he thought, a grin playing at one corner of his cruel mouth. As he retrieved the pack of cigarettes from his jacket pocket, he heard Nealey’s door open, heard the old man’s low, gravelly voice call the dog inside.

He gazed up at the starry sky, grin fading as he envisioned Marie and that hotshot kid in the fruity white blazer slow dancing under these very stars. Bodies molded together, the kid’s hands moving over her, groping… his breath hot in her ear…

With a muttered curse, he shook his head as if to banish the image, checked an impulse to crush the pack of cigarettes in his hand. Instead, he struck a match against the tree, but his hand was unsteady and it took a few tries before he managed to get it lit. Leaning his back against the tree he closed his eyes. The rough bark of the tree stabbed like jagged stone through his thin nylon jacket. He sucked smoke into his lungs, exhaled slowly, trying to calm himself.

He wasn’t usually a heavy smoker, but four hours later, when he finally heard the car drive up, a small mound of butts had accumulated beside him on the ground. With slow deliberation, he mashed this latest one out too, and rose to his feet. Although stiff from sitting, at the same time a power born of rage surged through his veins like electricity.

Music drifted through the open, car window – a soppy Manilow ballad about a girl named Mandy. Above the music, her laugh floated to him, high and lilting as wind chimes. Mocking him. The flirtatious note in her laugh made his throat tighten, his hands curl into fists at his sides. But it was the maddeningly long silence that followed, while the music went on playing, that made him want to fly at them, yank them both out of the car and beat that scummy kid with her until he had to crawl home through his own blood. He wanted to do it. He saw himself doing it. It took all his will to remain where he was.

At last she got out of the car. He could see the pale flair of her skirt through the leaves.

“Night, Ricky. I had a really nice time.”

“Yeah, me too. Okay if I call you tomorrow?”

“Sure.”

“You wanna go to a movie? Christine’s playing at the Capital.”

“Sounds great.”

The car door closed with a solid thunk. The kid’s old man was a dentist; the car was a graduation present.

As Marie turned away and started up the path toward him, the kid gunned the motor and drove off, taillights glowing like twin rockets, swiftly disappearing into the night.

Now the only sounds were the crickets and the soft click of her shoes on the cement walk. Yet she looked to be almost floating toward him, her white, strapless dress blue in the moonlight.

When she left the house tonight, her black glossy hair had been swept up into a satiny swirl, a few wispy curls trailing down past her ears; now it was messed up. The muscle in his jaw ticked as he moved deeper into the shadows.

Her pearl drop earrings swayed lightly above her bare shoulders as she walked. He knew how smooth those shoulders would feel beneath his hands because he’d touched them before. He had touched her. Had tasted the warm, throbbing hollow of her traitorous throat, crushed her mouth beneath his own, sometimes to silence her crying. Even now, he could taste her salty tears on his tongue.

As she drew nearer to where he stood in the clot of darkness, she touched her fingertips to her mouth, a small secret smile on her lips like the goddamn Mona Lisa. Face all soft and dreamy – all of it for someone else – never for him.

He waited until she was directly parallel to him, then stepped out of the shadows. He enjoyed hearing her gasp of shock, in seeing her hand leap to her breast in fright, the smile vanish as she stumbled on the walkway, nearly falling. 

“Damn you! You scared me half to death. What’s wrong with you? Why are you always sneaking around? Always watching me. Can’t I have one normal…”

His hand clamped hard and sudden over her mouth, cutting off her words. It made him feel good to see those lovely eyes widen with shock, then fear. Fear that turned swiftly to terror, then to pleading. But it was too late for that. Too late. The beast had risen up in him. 

“It’s midnight, Cinderella,” he whispered.

***


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## Vivi_Anna

Here'a snippet from my book GLIMMER, when Nina first meets Severin...

After sliding with the bike for about twelve feet, I came to a complete stop.  The wolf seemed to watch me struggle underneath the weight of the bike then bounded off into the shadows.  Thankfully, I wasn’t injured.  My knee-high riding boots protected my lower leg from road-rash.
Once I righted the bike and kicked the stand, I tore off my helmet, hung it on the handlebar, and walked down the street, searching the shadows for the wolf.  As I was sure it had been one.  Which meant a werewolf was nearby.
As I stood there, out in the open and vulnerable, I thought maybe this wasn’t the smartest thing to do.  I should get back on my bike and get the hell out of there.
Sure, I had training in defensive techniques—I studied S.I.N.G. like everyone else (solar plexus, instep, nose, groin)—and some martial arts, but not enough to take on a huge wolf that could rip out my throat with one swipe of its lethal claws.
I started to back up towards my bike.  Maybe I could get on it and start it before something big and hairy and hungry leapt out at me from the shadows.  If I ran, I wondered if it would chase me.
“Are you injured?”
The sexy accented voice came from a line of shadows near one of the old buildings.  Turning, I searched the night for him.  I could see a form moving in the shadows.  Then he stepped out into the glow of the street lamps and I nearly lost all reason.
Unabashedly naked, he strode into the street toward me.  His skin shone with sweat and I admit fully to ogling him from head to toe.  Possibly pausing much too long on the middle part to be considered polite.  But by the enticing grin on his face, he didn’t seem to mind in the least.
“No,” I finally managed to say.
As he neared, I realized he was maybe only an inch taller than my five foot ten inches.  But he was wide, like a linebacker on a football team.  Powerful shoulders, muscular arms, flat stomach, and ripped athletic legs, he was incredible to look at.  I tried not to stare too long at his other attributes, but it was impossible not to.
Severin Saint Morgan was a big man.


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## Kevis Hendrickson

Haven't posted in an excerpts thread in quite some time. Well here's a snippet from my young adult fantasy novel The Legend of Witch Bane (The Witch Bane Saga):

*Anyr and Kòdobos watched on in silence when they noticed a young, pale, golden-haired boy standing in the midst of the Goblins. There stood also a pudgy-looking female Goblin who was adorned in a fine golden dress. She managed to look quite silly, as if she were trying to pass off as human. Even her horrible scaly-green arms were endowed with brilliant jewelry such as one might see on a noble lady. The Goblin wore a golden tiara about her wide head and bore in her fat hand a scepter of gold. The children assumed from the Goblin's haughty appearance and very lavish garb that she was the queen of the Goblins. They noticed also that the young boy was holding something long and golden, but entirely unlike the scepter. Suddenly it struck the children that what they were looking at was Sif's hair. To make matters worse, the boy was offering Sif's hair to the horrible Goblin queen.

"We have to get it back!" said Anyr.

"We will! Now be quiet!" urged Kòdobos. The boy (who the children rightfully assumed was Lini) presented Sif's hair to the Goblin. It was taken from him. In turn, he was given a shield, larger and brighter than any Kòdobos had ever seen. When the Goblin queen held Sif's hair aloft for all the other Goblins to see, a loud and horrible cheer was raised up from them. Then there was a celebration held, and food and drink (such as only Goblins would eat) was brought out. The boy, Lini, was given a cup to drink from as well.

"Oh, seeing all this food makes me hungry, Kòdobos. How I wish I could have just a little of it," said Anyr.

"I'm hungry, too. Only I doubt we'd like Goblin food very much," replied Kòdobos.

"Perhaps you're right at that," said Anyr as she observed several Goblins devouring a herd of live goats.*


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## Valerie Maarten

I love this game...I have to admit that when I come back and don't see any new excerpts, my heart sinks a little.  I enjoy reading these.  It gives a small glimpse into the writer's mind...I'll also admit that one in particular gave me an emotional chill.  I will definitely be reading that one.  Please don't stop.  I love coming back for more....


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## Ian Fraser

Agreed. Its a great way to get a real sense of what folks are writing and how it reads on the page - I'm surprised that more people aren't putting excerpts up. It's the perfect advert. It totally beats just having a subject heading and some blurb. Seeing how people put their sentences together tells you instantly whether you might like the book. Maybe that's why so few are doing it?


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## Moissanitejewel

Okay, it's tough with fantasy because it's a whole different world, but I'll try. This is tragic comedy. Book 1 of The Great Destruction Series. I picked the best understandable place without knowing the story. Just know: Protectors only protect females (pheromone thing). Okay, move on with the excerpt...

"I didn't say it, Ezra said to say it!" Yed protested on the phone with Muin. He had shared Ezra’s advice, and it hadn’t turned out so well. "Yeah, I agree. He's scum and you could do better. No, I don't know why I said that. No, I didn't know that about milk, Ezra said it, not me! I'm not trying to pin blame on her but she's the one who said it. No, I'm sorry, go ahead.” Yed groaned as he heard a knock on the door. “You know what? If you just come over and whack me, will you stop yelling at me? No? Okay. What do you mean can you do it anyway? No! Muin, will you listen? What do you mean you lost your Sensitive Daddy book? You misplaced it?"

Yed made it over to the door. Lo and behold, Zaria stood there with the Sensitive Daddy book. Muin’s husband waved awkwardly at him.
"Zaria? Oh, he's missing too huh?" Yed continued to talk on the phone. "You think what? He might have hidden the book?" He looked at the book in Zaria’s hands again. "Well, who knows. Okay. Alright, you go look for him and make him pay then. Alright nighty night." Yed hung up the phone.
"How are you Protector Yed?" Zaria tipped his head politely.

"Wondering if I have extra business coming my way," Yed couldn't help himself. "My fees are outrageous for your income and you are not my favorite guy, but after hearing Muin, I'll give you an hour." He gestured for him to come in.

"Oh by the planet of Pagnia…" Zaria groaned as he brought the book inside. "Muin's become a complete psycho now. I don't know what to do. I try to say something nice and suddenly she thinks something's wrong because the book says so. I do laundry or the dishes, she thinks that I don't think she can do it by herself, the book says so! I just don't do anything and, according to this stupid book, I'm accused of making her overwork!" He whined as he dropped the book beside him and landed on the couch. "I didn't know what to do anymore."

"So you ran here?" Yed couldn't help but smile a bit. "I've always protected just women or the king. I've got no clue what to charge you if you come again."

"It's okay. I know she'll settle down in an hour or so," Zaria said as he relaxed. "I just have to stay away until then." He groaned and looked at the book on the floor. "I can't let her find that book, it’s ruining my life."

"Yeah, I’ve heard of that book before." Yed said, “Actually, I knew the author, we both went to the same Protector Academy. He didn’t pass, but I hear he’s doing well.”

Zaria slouched into the couch. "Well he’s made my life miserable. I am used to Muin’s gloom and doom moments, but this is out of my league. How did you get through Ezra's tantrums?"

"Easy," Yed chuckled. "She isn't Muin! It wasn't a soft delicious piece of dessert, but it wasn't so much as concrete cake. Muin laid the foundation and it was quick drying."


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## Ian Fraser

well done you two, it was great reading! More from the rest of the writers!


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## Arthur Slade

Great idea!

An excerpt from my novel *DUST*.

Robert was nervous. He sensed that he was about to be pinned against the wall, an eleven-year-old human trophy to be displayed along with Abram's butterflies. Abram leaned toward him, and Robert cowered.

"Have you ever caught a moth and gently rubbed its wings? You get dust on your hands. The dust is the magic that gives it flight." Abram began peeling his right glove off. Robert was hypnotized, watching to see what lay underneath. "Not all dust is inanimate, you know. Some say there is a special living dust around us in the shape of wings. Our souls, perhaps. In every color imaginable. Children have vast quantities of this dust, but gathering it is a very tricky process."

The glove was off, revealing mottled skin. Abram reached toward Robert with his naked hand. His fingers were mummified, slender as twigs. Robert couldn't budge; his boots were glued to the ground. He desperately wanted to shout or crouch down, but he'd become a statue. He focused on Abram's ancient, rotted fingers, the nails cracked.

"This dust, this commodity, is valuable," Abram whispered as he touched Robert's forehead with cold, rough fingertips. Robert's skull grew numb. "It's worth more than rubies and emeralds. If you harvest and refine it, you can make yourself immortal. Or use it to mesmerize minds. Get men and women to forget their cares."

Robert felt as if the fingers were going deeper into his head, grasping an essential part of him, tugging at it. No, he thought. You can't have me.


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## altworld

From The Tether, Book one of my paranormal action adventure series.

Kneeling down she got a closer look at what looked like an unusually small crab. The strange looking creature stopped as if it was taking a good look at her. It was crab shaped with a dark blue coloring to it. The crab had one tiny pincer and one particularly large misshapen claw. Instead of a smooth shell that you would expect to see on most crabs, it shell was covered in small knots and what looked like barnacles. Sarah reached out to it; the crab-like creature scuttled back warding her off with its large claw.
“What are you?” Sarah asked.

The crab-like creature continued to scuttle away from her and disappeared around the corner into the opposite corridor. Fascinated Sarah began to follow it when a familiar musty, obnoxious egg smell hit her nostrils and Sarah stopped her in her tracks suddenly filled with dread.
“Where have I smelt that before?” 

She sniffed again the smell was even stronger, and she could hear a faint scuttling noise. Following the noise and the tracks of the retreating crab creature she turned around the corner and stopped short, her mouth and eyes went wide at the sight waiting for her.

The entire corridor was filled with hundreds of the scuttling crab like creature she saw in the nurses’ station. They flowed around the frozen hospital staff like water and all seemed to be moving around aimlessly. Then as one the crab like creatures stopped and Sarah could feel a thousand beady little eyes staring at her. Feeling uneasy she took a step back bouncing off one of the inanimate staff members and lost her footing on the frozen floor and fell heavily on her bottom. The fall sent a sharp pain through her belly, making her groan. The scuttling crab creatures watched her intently and the nearest one started to move towards Sarah. She kicked it away instinctively with her foot, and scuttled herself back on her hands. The creature skidded into its fellow before turning to look at her. For a moment there was total silence and then it was broken by the menacing sound of hundreds of pincers clicking. A hissing sound started to rise from the mass of crab creatures. Not wanting to see what would happen next Sarah’s slipped feet slid on the floor as she tried to back away from the creatures. Finally finding her feet, Sarah turned and started to run back down the corridor, she heard, rather than saw the malevolent tide of crab creatures start to scuttle after her.


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## AnneMarie Novark

I'll play! I'll play!

Here's a snippet from my new Regency Novella TO HIS LADY'S RESCUE:

Hampshire 1816

_Desperate times call for desperate measures,_ and Miss Arabella Trent was one desperate young lady.

Perched on a branch of an ancient oak tree that stood on the south side of Cheney Manor, she tried frantically to pry open the third floor window. Leaning forward to get better leverage, her foot slipped, she lost her balance and started to fall. Quickly grabbing the branch she'd been standing on, she clung for dear life, her booted feet dangling in the air twenty feet above the ground.

_Don't look down!_

Arabella squeezed her eyes shut and tried to ignore the rough bark scraping her palms. Her hands were slipping, and she knew she must hoist herself up again or tumble to her death. Climbing this tree and crawling through the bedroom window had been much easier when she'd been a child. But she was a child no longer, and that was the crux of her troubles.

She gritted her teeth and swung herself back into a sitting position, straddling the branch. Thank goodness her old pair of breeches still fit. Her aunt had wanted to burn them, but Arabella had saved them from the rubbish pile and kept them hidden in a locked wooden box beneath her bed. One never knew when they would come in handy. And since climbing trees in skirts and petticoats was next to impossible, the breeches had indeed come in handy tonight.

She sat on the branch and waited until her heart stopped pounding in her chest. Luckily, she hadn't screamed with fright when she'd fallen. If she woke the servants, all would be lost. The only one she intended to awaken was the lone occupant in the bedchamber behind that blasted window.

The night was dark, and the stars twinkled brightly in the black sky up above. The moon smiled down upon her, but Arabella didn't smile back. With a deeply inhaled breath, she stood and balanced again on the branch. Sending up a silent prayer, she pushed open the window and climbed through. Her foot caught on the windowsill, and she toppled to the floor, landing with a loud thump. She froze in a crouched position, her breath lodged in her throat. No sound came from the big bed standing across the room. Heavy curtains were drawn around the massive bedposts. Goodness, she'd made enough noise to wake the dead. Surely, Gilbert had heard. What if he wasn't in his bed? What if he'd moved into his father's bedchamber now that he was the new earl? What would she do then?

###

_*Happy Reading!!!

Anne Marie*_


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## JimC1946

Here's a brief snippet from my semi-memoir "Recollections" about growing up in the 1950s:

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.


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## Edward W. Robertson

A section from The White Tree, a fantasy novel:


"But I haven't learned anything," Dante said, rising to his feet.

"I'm beginning to understand how true that is. I'll be back by dark." Cally pushed his frail back against the door. It grated open and he wormed into the gap. "Meditate on what it means to be a duck," he called back into the tomb.

"A duck?" Dante said, but the old man was gone. Dante wandered from the door and propped himself on a shelf. Somewhere across town Blays was in a room like this. Probably it was smaller, darker, had been home to more of the dead than this mausoleum. Dante punched the stone shelf, then sucked his bleeding knuckles. A duck? What the hell was that supposed to mean? If this was a game, why didn't Cally just spell out what he wanted? If Dante was supposed to do all the work without any guidance, what was Cally doing there in the first place?

He took a long breath. There was a chance Cally knew what he was doing. He was very old, after all. If he wanted ducks, Dante would give him ducks. He'd give him so many ducks the old man would be ashamed he'd ever given him such a juvenile exercise.

Okay. A duck had wings. It had webbed feet, like the neeling, but that couldn't be important. A duck had a bill. Feathers. Liked water. Could travel by land, sea, and air. Was that it? That its home was everywhere and thus nowhere? That sounded like the kind of shallow paradox that would send Cally twittering. What else? What made a duck a duck? Was it the feet, the bill, the feathers? The sum of its physical features? If you chopped all the duck-like parts from different animals and sewed them into one new animal, would you then find yourself holding a duck? Or was the opposite true--a duck was created with an inherent element of duckiness that informed its growth from the egg itself? Dante glanced at his torchstone as its light grew dim and found he was no longer angry. He dug a hunk of bread from his pack and chewed.

It wasn't a chicken or a goose or a swan; it was close, but the differences were enough to earn it a separate name. It walked on two legs, but it wasn't a man. It swam, but it wasn't a fish. Dante traced a mallard in the dust on the shelf. He didn't think Cally intended him to define it by what it wasn't. In the end, a duck was very few things. There was a whole world it wasn't.

Was a duck its quack? Nothing else he knew of quacked. Geese honked, but that was different. Hens clucked and roosters crowed and chicks peeped; meadowlarks sang and starlings chirped and crows cawed; a duck, it seemed, was the only thing that quacked. That must be a part of it. If a duck walked up to him and asked him about the weather, that would make it, in some sense, a man. Still a duck, but less duckish. He bounced his heels against the stone wall beneath his seat. How long could you spend sitting around thinking about ducks? Was there a point where you'd know everything there was to know?

He decided to go back to basics. Ducks lived in pairs, but sometimes they lived in flocks. Ducks laid eggs. Ducks also hatched from eggs, which he thought might be a slightly different thing from laying them. A duck ate water-weeds and bugs, he thought, though he wasn't certain of that. He realized he was just listing their traits without conclusions. Duckiness was something more than what it ate or how it looked or lived or quacked. All those things were true, but if he told someone who'd never seen a duck all the things he'd just thought, they might be able to visualize one, but they wouldn't really know what made a duck a duck, would they? How could he explain the nature of duck-kind so an outsider would understand?

Footsteps jarred him from his maze. How long had it been? The sun was all but set. Dante stuck his head out the door, hand on sword, and saw Cally's bent-backed figure trudging up the hill through the drizzle.

"Have you dwelt on the nature of duckhood?" he said as he entered.

"I have."

"What have you learned?"

"A duck is a duck," Dante said. Cally pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Go on."

"It's not a chicken or a goose or any other bird, though if you told someone that's what a duck is like they'd start to be able to see one. It's got a bill and feathers and wings. It swims, flies, and walks; so what element can be said to be its home?" He stuck his tongue between his teeth and waited for a cue. Cally screwed up one eye, shrugged. "It quacks," he tried. "Nothing else quacks."

"Except a duck call."

Dante went pale. He hadn't thought of that. "I don't think you can ever define a duck," he said slowly. "If you could, you'd have created one. I think all you can do is describe it, piece by piece, until you've got an animal like nothing else."

"An interesting theory," the old man said.

"Well? Am I right?"

Cally pulled back his chin and snorted. "How the hell should I know?"


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## DeAngelo

All right, I'll post an excerpt from my book, The Wizard and the King. It was formatted in open office so sorry if the paragraphs seem odd. This is a scene where Vincent is called upon to help a woman who is fallen ill. 

    “Hello, Adrianna. My name is Kavaldra. Vincent Kavaldra.” The wizard knelt to get a better look at her. “Your friends Lars and Ventar told me that you’re sick.”
    Adrianna sighed. “Ventar. I told you to stop bothering the wizards.” She then looked back at Vincent, “I’m sorry, but you’ve wasted your time in coming here. There is no cure.”
    In reply Vincent simply chuckled, which caused Ventar and Lars to raise an eyebrow. “Helping people is never a waste of time.” He reached into his robes and pulled out the Skull Staff, “And as for there being no cure, allow me to be the judge of that.”
    “What is that?” Ventar stepped forward.
    “Don’t worry. I’m not going to harm her.” Vincent held the staff to her forehead. It’s eyes began shining, one a deep blue, the other light magenta. “I see…” He stood and glanced at the others. “No wonder they weren’t able to cure her. She isn’t ill.”
    “Are you mad?” Ventar clamored, “Of course she’s ill. Look at her!”
    Vincent laughed. “True, she is not healthy. She is, in fact, on the verge of dying. But she’s not ill.” When everyone gave him a confused stare, he added, “You can stick clay ears on me and make me prance around a forest. Doesn't make me an elf.”
    “So you're saying someone did this to her?” Kiku asked.
    “Exactly.” Vincent turned to her, “Remind me to put a gold star next to your name.” He turned back to Adrianna, “Do you have any enemies?”
    “No...” She responded weakly, “I...”
    “Nobody would ever think of harming her,” Ventar stepped in and looked into Vincent’s eyes. The wizard didn’t need a Clairvoyance spell to see the depth of the man’s sincerity. “Everyone she knows loves her. It would take someone with absolutely no humanity to do this to a woman like her.”
    “Of course,” Vincent said more to himself than to anyone else, “that fiend Zinos hired you two to…” He paused as he remembered his promise, “…search for me, because he was the one who put this curse on her.” He shook his head, “I should’ve figured that out sooner.” He turned to Kiku, who arched an eyebrow, “Remind me to put red X next to my name.”
    “Can you help her?” Ventar asked, noticing that Adrianna was becoming fatigued.
    “I can certainly try.”
    Vincent gripped his staff, and for a second Kiku thought she saw a look of uncertainty in his eyes, but it was gone before she could be sure.
    “But I’ll need complete silence. Everyone stay quiet, please.” He took a deep breath, “Alright. Here goes.” He held the Skull Staff to her forehead again. It’s eyes changed, this time one became bright green, while the other was pure white. He began chanting in a tongue that nobody else understood. The eyes of his staff kept glowing brighter and brighter. Eventually everyone had to avert their eyes from the gaze of the staff. Finally the light faded.
    “Adrianna!” Ventar called out, his voice brimming with joy. As Kiku returned her gaze to the woman, she saw why. Her skin and hair had returned to a healthy color. 
    Adrianna sat up, this time with ease. She looked down at her hands and saw that the color had returned. She then stood up and took a few steps to test her legs. Tears of joy streaming from her eyes, she looked at Vincent, “Thank you. I owe you a debt I can never repay.”
    “Vincent, you did it!” Kiku said to the Wizard, who smiled and began using his staff for support.
    “Yeah, I suppose I did.” He responded as he collapsed.


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## Mike Cooley

Here's a snippet from The Crystal Warrior (book link in my signature):

Larissya could feel the cold, hard wall of rock against her back, through the black leather armor she had taken from Althea's cave. They were close; she could see the torchlight reflecting off the walls of the ravine she had followed, trying to get to the top of Hazot Peak. Larissya had chosen badly; she was trapped; a twenty meter wall of smooth, cold, unyielding stone rose behind her.

"We have you," a voice shouted from below. "Give us the crystal, and we'll let you live." The booming voice echoed off the walls of the ravine, sending chills along her spine. The leather strap wrapped around her left forearm was soaked in blood.

Larissya searched the dark shadows of the walls for a way up, a way out, some sign of hope. She didn't want to die today. She grabbed the qualarm blade with her right hand and picked up a jagged rock with her left. She was determined to go down fighting.

The men rounded the last bend in the ravine; there were three soldiers and a tracker-the same as in the vision. The soldiers were wearing ring-mail and carrying weapons. The shifty, slovenly man in the lead carried a torch in one hand and a shortsword in the other; he was wearing black leather armor, and a tracker's beltpack. Behind him were two men, shoulder to shoulder. They were stout and looked very similar. One carried a heavy bow, and the other a longsword. They were grinning like demons. Last in line was an imposing figure, wearing a bronze helmet. He carried a large mace and had a small shield slung around his shoulders; He had the look of command about him.

"You don't have to die like this," the leader said, as the men stopped and spread out ten meters from her. They readied their weapons.

A pile of rope hit the ground to her left, and a voice from above bellowed, "The rope fer Gort's sake! Don't just stand there." Larissya's eyes widened and her pulse quickened. She ran to the left and dove at the rope as an arrow shot through the air, narrowly missing her. She grabbed the rope with both hands, dropping her qualarm blade in the process. She struggled to wrap her legs around the rope as she was violently jerked upwards.


----------



## Chris Northern

A random chunk of The Last King's Amulet (fantasy). Something I posted for #SampleSunday a little while ago.

#

I came to and found Ormal's face close to mine, healing something. “Why are you doing this?”

“Stop fighting them and they will stop hurting you,” Ormal hissed fiercely, keeping his voice to a whisper, his furtive eyes dancing.

“What did they do to you?”

His eyes bulged and he started shaking. “Give in, before it's too late.”

“No.”

“It's pointless, believe me, I know, there's no fighting him, no winning, give in, he will have what he wants, no matter what it takes, no matter what...”

Maybe he said more. Maybe I passed out. I don't know. Things tended to run into each other. Faces, people, questions. And then it was over.


#


I woke up with a start, shaking. More accurately, I was shivering. It wasn't cold. It was light. The surface under me was soft, really soft, not soft because I was too hurt to tell the difference. I was lying in a canopied bed and nothing hurt. But I was shivering and shaking uncontrollably. Fear. It was fear. Not adrenaline fear, but blind blank panicked terror. They were coming to hurt me, I knew it.

For a long time nothing happened. I couldn't recognize the noises coming out of me as human.

I moved. I couldn't stay still. I needed to run. Anywhere. Far from here. Far from me and my memories which were flooding me, filling me up with madness. I jerked the curtains aside and came out of the bed, then froze.

I wasn't alone. There was a girl sitting at a desk, writing. She wore a loose robe, revealing one breast as she leaned forward, pen in hand. She looked up at me, smiling with pleasure.

“You slept a long time,” she said, rising. “I'm glad you are awake.”

I stumbled forward, legs like water, and fell, an explosive noise coming from my mouth that sounded like nothing I'd ever heard before, then spinning darkness.


#


Warmth. A sharp deep breath as I woke, moved, muscles stiff with readiness for anything, and froze. The girl was in bed with me. I recognized her hair. She lay close, but facing away - I'd been spooned up against her, feeling her soft skin on my legs, belly and chest. The smell of her was in me and the memory of her skin as I moved away slowly, trying not to wake her. She stirred and I gasped silently. Don't wake up, don't wake up, leave me alone, don't touch me. Oh gods, I was mad.

No. I thought the word loudly, fiercely in my own head. Gritting my teeth I repeated the word with more care, forming it and every other thought with care lest their fragility hurt me. No. I am not mad. I am hurt. That's all. Hurt in my mind. They did this to me. Then I was weeping. They did this to me. She woke and rolled over languidly in the bed, smiling, then seeing my face cried out softly, “Oh!” She reached for me and I threw myself away.

“No! Don't touch me!” I half fell out of the bed and staggered backwards until my back touched the wall, steadying me. “This is a trick, they are still trying.”

“What?” She looked puzzled, concerned. “What are you saying, my love? Who? What trick? Did you have a dream?”

Did you have a dream? Was it a dream? Where was I?

“Who are you? No! Don't tell me, it doesn't matter.” I stood with my back to the wall, looking around frantically for some route out of here. There was a door but I didn't dare use it. Who knew what horrors lay out there?

“Doesn't matter?! Sumto, Sumto, what's the matter?” She came to her knees, as naked as I was and shuffled to the edge of the bed.

I laughed, but stopped myself in time. Tears and snot were on my face, I could feel them but I didn't care. “Leave me alone.”

“Oh you poor baby, what is it? What can I do to help you?” She stepped off the bed, putting one foot on the floor, displaying her femininity casually.

I turned and moved across the room, fast, unsteady, looking for something, I didn't know what. There was a robe, big and comfortable and dark blue. I made a grab for it and put it on. Naked I was vulnerable. I needed a shield, something between me and her, between me and madness, I hugged it closed, hugged myself. Sick. I felt sick. What warped and twisted mind would think of this contrast.

Shivering I paced around the room, blindly, thinking. It had almost worked. I wiped my eyes and nose on one sleeve, careless of the cost of the material.

“Darling, what are you doing?”

“Don't call me that. It is a lie and I hate lies.” My voice was still strained, tight, words jerking out of me. “Damn this is sick,” I was angry somewhere and it helped. Not anywhere near as angry as I could be. Anger seemed to have been stripped from me and all that was left was weakness. But my mind was okay, my mind worked.

“A lie? I don't know what you mean. Sumto, come back to bed and sleep.” She was up, had walked around the bed but came no closer.

“What were you writing?”

“What? Now what are you asking me?”

“Just tell me!”

“My diary, Summi, I always write my diary in the evening,” she sounded wounded, almost petulant, “you know that. Why are you being mean to me?”

Me? Me being mean to her? I had turned only my head her way, head cocked to one side, mouth open, aghast. How could she say that, this party to torturers? This torturess.

“Tell him it won't work,” I said it calmly, softly, not much more than a whisper.

“Tell who? Summi, what is the matter with you, silly!” She walked forward, relaxed, smiling, arms open and I held up one hand open against her advance. She stopped several paces away. “I don't understand.” She looked like she was going to cry.

“Leave me alone,” I reiterated. “Just leave me alone,” I walked away, heading for the desk, paying no more attention to her. She was a ruse, an actress, an attempt to rob me of my sanity. Well, no thief was coming into my mind to steal my very self from me. I was Sumto Merian Ichatha Cerulian, a patron of the city, better than any king, and better than this... this man Kukran Epthel. His tricks would not break me. The resolve settled over me. My self came back to me. And now I was a little warmer, my anger only an ember but better than nothing, it brought me calm. Idly I flipped open the book she had been writing in and read a few words.

This afternoon Summi and I went riding, the meadows were full of flowers and when we stopped Summi made me a chain of them for a garland, it was so sweet of him I...

I snorted and closed the book. He wanted me to live in a fantasy, to be a lie. I hate lies.

Near the book was a bowl of fruit. I picked up an apple and then thought better of it. I couldn't trust anything while I was in this lie.

“Are you hungry?”

“No,” I tossed the apple over my shoulder where it landed on the soft carpet with a thump. Decorum and civility did not matter in this lie. I would piss on the floor as soon as the pot. I would do nothing to maintain it or accept it or support it.

“Thirsty, then?”

“No.” I was, hellishly thirsty. And hungry. But that was a far away thing as though I had been hungry for ever and was used to it. I ran my hands over my belly to find no belly worthy of the name. Hell, I hadn't been this slim since I was a boy. When had I last eaten? Days? How much time had I spent unconscious? I had no idea. It could be weeks since I was captured, since I had lost the battle by my rash decision. 'We could take them now,' I'd said. Fool. Well, never a fool again. Facts, think, decide, act. My old mantra came back to me. I'd read it in a book of philosophy long ago, years anyway. I'd liked it and taken it for myself. I thought it was right. Belief has no place in the mind of a sentient creature. Feel has no place in decision making.

“Yes,” I said aloud. “I am okay.”

“Of course you are, darling, of course you are, now come here and let me hold you.”


----------



## AshleyLBR

What an excellent idea! And so fun!!

Heather walked down to her new apartment and into the foyer.
"Hi," she acknowledged some others shuffling out as she held the door for them. She decided to check her mailbox and pulled her keys out.
"Doubt there will be anything&#8230;" she mumbled to herself. Along the wall was a metal cubby with small numbered and keyed doors. She went to #119 and unlocked it. To her surprise, there was a piece of mail.
But it wasn't mail.
It looked more like an old notice or trash. It was old, yellow and discolored. It had curling and ripped edges with dirt smudges. As Heather picked it up, her stomach dropped.
Copycat.
"Relentless," she hissed. It was another riddle.

In the shed you will find&#8230;.
Bange. Boom.
You're dead.
&#8230; One more piece of my mind&#8230;
Copycat.

Heather stared at it for a long time and slammed the mailbox door shut. "What's up with him and getting into mailrooms?"
She trudged up the stairs and into her apartment. Meagan was lying on an old dirty and stained, floral printed couch.
"Meagan, that's disgusting. You're lucky I don't have asthma- or that thing would be outta here."
"Oh save it Heath," Meagan snapped.
"Why are you such a snot?" Heather asked, booting up her laptop.
"You wouldn't understand," Meagan mumbled, letting her limbs dangle off the edge of the couch.
"Enlighten me," Heather ordered, her words oozing with sarcasm.
"I'm in a dark place right now, Heather, my world is caving in and you wouldn't understand, trust me."
"What? So you're giving up on the case?"
Meagan didn't answer.
"It's far from over! He knows our every move, as I have received a note in our mailbox today!"
Meagan didn't answer.
Heather shook her head and began going through her evidence archives. "This Bange. Boom reference was sent to the Mason's once before." Heather pieced the broken sentence together, "'In the shed you will find one more piece of my mind&#8230;' There's more if there's a dot, dot, dot," she decided.
"Who cares?!" Meagan hollered across the room, getting up.
"I do," Heather answered seriously. "Something is here. Some clue. In a shed, having to do with a 'bange'."
"And pray tell, what is a bange?"
"I don't know! I'm trying here!" Heather yelled. "And why are you asking if you don't care, anyway?"
Meagan turned her head and looked out the window.
"Yeah, thought so," Heather mumbled, returning to her work.
"You thought what?!" Meagan screamed.
Shocked, Heather answered calmly, "That you're only analyzing every word coming out of my mouth because you're so conceited." 
"Conceited?" Meagan laughed.
"Conceited," Heather confirmed.
Meagan abruptly stopped laughing and glared at Heather with contempt. Suddenly, she went over to the couch and grabbed her coat.
Opening the door, she stated, "I wish I could shoot off every one of your toes and feed them to my piranha!" 
"You don't have a piranha, Meagan."
"I'm going to go get one!" she declared.
"Cute, Meagan, real cute."
Meagan slammed the door and Heather returned to her work. She plugged the laptop into a phone jack and began searching for any known Jonathan Wheaton's in the Agency archives. Three came up. She narrowed her search by choosing key words like the ex-wife being Lillian Anderson. One Jonathan Wheaton in New York City showed up. Heather saved the info then brought up the Bange/Boom note from the Mason house.
"'Am I the only one who knows the secret to the past you ask? How can it be called a secret if only one person knows? Bange. You're dead. 1, 2, 3.'" Heather turned and looked at her new note. "'In the shed you will find&#8230;. Bange. Boom. You're dead&#8230;. One more piece of my mind&#8230;'"
"Bange, you're dead," she thought to herself. "If only one person knows." Heather stopped everything, her phone was ringing. She let the voicemail answer it.
"Bange, you're dead," she repeated. "Bange, you're a person- you are Bange!"
An exasperation left her soul as she realized she may have figured it all out. The cell phone rang again, this time she answered it.
"What?!" she asked, annoyed.
"The Palestinian President has asked for a meeting with us to discuss our plans on closing the case," Dormian answered.
"We may be getting there - I'm in the middle of figuring something out."
"Well, you'll have to put it on hold for now. He wants to meet before the 31st."
"Ok, I'm available tomorrow&#8230; I'll be available to meet him in the afternoon."
"Meagan?"
"We'll take a red eye flight over. She's being a real pain in the butt, but I'll manage. Haven't even unpacked my suitcase."
"Oh no, you wont need your suitcase, it'll be only for a day- plus flying time. I'm sure."
"I'll bring it anyway."

Friday, October 30th
-Day 46-

The ninth day

Meagan and Heather took their private jet over to the Middle East that night, arriving in Palestine at 3:00pm. They were escorted to the embassy where the President was waiting.
"I hear you've made progress?" Nick asked.
Meagan looked at Heather clueless.
"Yes, I've made progress," Heather answered, opening her file.
"This is just a theory. But Bange is a person."
"A person?" a chancellor asked perplexed.
"Yes. It fits perfectly; I was working on it yesterday. So my results are still pending."
"Well I'm disappointed to find that my palace ended up the way he wanted," Nick said coolly.
"Completely unexpected sir, we apologize," Ballard responded gently.
"Yes of course," he replied.
"The tenth day is coming up fast, and I don't want 'the eleventh hour' to be his; you know what I mean?" Nick asked irritated.
"Of course. And we are working on it, but he continues to elude us; we don't know he's been somewhere until he has left his calling card," Heather complained.
"He left a note in my mailbox. I wouldn't have ever known that he was in the US."
"Do a flight plan trace," Meagan mumbled.
"What?"
"He's made a pattern, so go check what flights booked him on the days we know he was in the US, and dates we know he returned, this will track him down," Meagan clarified, annoyed.
"That's what she's on the team for!" Dormian announced excited.
"I still have three wives left on his list," Nick complained.
"Yes, Leyla, Niombe and Naimah," Heather confirmed. "No one's been injured from your family, so I think it's safe to say we needn't worry about their well-being," Heather reassured them.
"Of course guards will be posted anyway," Ballard said, nudging Heather.
Prince Diyari was staring at her smiling, she tried to cover her face with her hand, looking away. He was bothering her.
"Casualties are up to sixteen deaths, forty five injuries," one member of the cabinet announced.
"Hopefully that number won't increase," Ballard said, rising to leave. "If you don't mind, our agents want to continue with their investigation and solve this crime as soon as they can."
"Of course. I'll call for your escort," the President said, leaving the room. Meagan and Heather stepped out to talk.
"We need to collect evidence at the palace," Meagan said.
"I'll tell Dormian," Heather stepped back in the room and told him.
"We'll take one of the Agency cars, and meet up with you at the airport."
"We are eating first, so be ready by eight," Dormian advised.
"No problem, see you later."
The girls arrived at the crater that used to be the palace just before sunset began. Heather parked the car on the private road and got her CSI case out of the back. The area was well lit as they approached the crater.
"I don't think you'll find any evidence here," Heather said in shock.
"I didn't remember it looking like this," Meagan exclaimed.
"You described it as an 'inky pile of chaos' in your report," Heather contradicted. Meagan just shrugged and began climbing around.
"It's still hot," Heather stated, putting her gloves on and moving rubble around.
"Yeah, I'm sure the heat of the day doesn't help cool it down either." Meagan dug around the scene for an hour before giving up. There was nothing to find. Anything around the vicinity of the C-4 was incinerated. Anything on the second floor was burned so badly it was unidentifiable. Not even a wire could be recovered for analysis. The sun was going down and the sky turned a bright purplish-pink color as Meagan emerged hopeless.
"Nothing."
"I told you there wouldn't be anything to salvage," Heather scolded. "I feel so bad for the family, all the belongings that were inside..."
"They can buy new stuff," Meagan replied harshly.
"Not new antiques, and historical artifacts," Heather argued.
"Oh well," Meagan stated flatly.
"It's almost 6 o'clock, Meg, let's go."
"I want to go around to the side door, to the courtyard and inspect the mailroom and security room," Meagan protested.
"Fine..." Heather caved.
The two walked around to the side of the palace and opened the twisted metal frame the gate was on. It squeaked and complained as they snuck in.
"Did you hear that?" Meagan asked. 
Heather flicked her flashlight on and shined it around.
"There should be guards posted here 24-7," Heather complained, stepping into the place the doorway used to be. A pile of burnt equipment lay in a heap.
"I don't know if you will find anything of-" suddenly, Heather stopped talking.
Meagan looked up at her, eyes round and illuminated in the dim light. "Did you hear a crunch?" Meagan asked.
"Yeah," she agreed.
Meagan unsnapped her holster and pulled her gun out. They stepped out of the rubble and peered around the corner. To their shock, Prince Nicholas was standing there, smoking, waiting for someone to meet him. Meagan and Heather exchanged glances and a tall, muscular figure in a black trench coat approached.
Copycat.
Copycat walked up to the Prince who was smoking, and arrogantly took the cigarette out of his mouth. He took a drag and stuck it back in.
"You wanted to see me?" the Prince asked, disgusted, throwing the butt onto the ground.
"Yes..." Copycat answered slowly.
"What then? I don't have all night!" 
Meagan shifted in her place.
"What are you doing?" Heather asked.
"I'm gonna take him out," she whispered, aiming her gun.
"Meg! No, he'll escape again," Heather disapproved, putting her hand over the barrel and pushing the gun down. Suddenly Copycat drew his own gun. The Prince screamed in fear as Copycat cocked the gun. Meagan began to stand up, but Heather gripped her shirt. She had her eye on the cigarette butt, the only evidence she knew Copycat really touched.
"Was about the sixth hour, and there was darkness over all the Earth until the ninth hour," Copycat stated slowly. "The 11th is mine, and so are you. You have served your purpose." Abruptly, and chaotically the Prince screamed in terror, from something the spies could not see, and then Copycat shot him in the head. He fell backwards onto the pavement and Copycat bent over to stare at the body. 
Meagan jumped up again, too quickly for Heather to intercept. Copycat fired at her and began to run. Meagan followed him at unmatched speeds. But still, their distance grew larger. Heather pulled her gun out and stopped short at the cigarette. She put it in her pocket and ran as if her life depended on it. Copycat continued to run into the distance of a field with five foot tall grass. Meagan began to lose him. She spun around, lost in a sea of sound. Each blade moved and swayed; each blade deafened her senses, making her unable to concentrate.
"Follow the snapped reeds!" Heather ordered, catching up.
Meagan's heart pounded as they approached a dirt road. On a bridge up ahead she could see movement, a black trench coat flapping as Copycat ran. Heather cringed as Meagan fired at him and missed.
He got up onto the railing of the old covered bridge and prepared to jump off. He spread his arms out as if he were being crucified, and with his back facing the girls, he called out to them saying,
"And a war broke out in Heaven. Michael and his angels fought with the dragon but they did not prevail. So the great dragon was cast to the Earth, and his angels were cast out with him. For the devil has come down to you, having great wrath because he knows that he has a short time!" With a slow and evil glare, he turned his head and began to laugh at Meagan and Heather.
Meagan stopped running and pointed her gun precisely. "Grace," she whispered. Meagan breathed in sharp cold air and shot him at the base of the neck. Like a leaf he fell, fluttering down into the river below.

"Threshold, Pandora's Box" By Ashley Boettcher
http://www.amazon.com/dp/B004RH4F4E (for US)
https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B004RH4F4E (for UK)


----------



## Ian Fraser

I spent the first few months healing: discovering the extent and layout of my wounds. 
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.

another little torn out piece from The Depths of Deception or UK Amazon The Depths of Deception


----------



## Andre Jute

From *THE LARSSON SCANDAL the unauthorized guerilla critique of Stieg Larsson*
by André Jute & Andrew McCoy

*Is Lisbeth Salander a feminist?*

By the beginning of the second book, *The Girl Who Played with Fire*, Lisbeth Salander, even as an exceedingly doubtful feminist, has gone entirely off the rails:



> When she came back into the room she stood naked in front of the mirror on the wardrobe door and examined her body with amazement. She still weighed less than ninety pounds and stood four foot eleven. Well, there was not much she could do about that. She had doll-like, almost delicate limbs, small hands, and hardly any hips.
> 
> But now she had breasts.
> 
> All her life she had been flat-chested, as if she had never reached puberty. She thought it had looked ridiculous, and she was always uncomfortable showing herself naked.
> 
> Now, all of a sudden, she had breasts. They were by no means gigantic-that was not what she had wanted, and they would have looked ridiculous on her otherwise skinny body-but they were two solid, round breasts of medium size. The enlargement had been well done, and the proportions were reasonable. But the difference was dramatic, both for her looks and for her self-confidence.


Now Larsson is really having it every which way, a short-ass, no-ass anorexic heroine for men who like boys, with big tits on a waif's body for those who like young girls. How the hell could Eva Gabrielsson, who ten years later claims these were conceived as 'feminist' novels, have let Larsson commit these atrocities? That 'But now she had breasts' stands in a paragraph by itself tells us what importance author and character put on appearances, on appeal to men. And a couple of lines further on, again, 'Now, all of a sudden, she had breasts.' This verges on pornography.

Perhaps in Sweden that sort of prurient near-smut goes down well, or at least unremarked. The most likely truth is ironic: a British editor didn't cut one or both those lines, or at least fold the first one back into a less thrusting display (pun intended) because the author was dead, there was no one to approve the cut, and Eva Gabrielsson, the only other credible person to ask, behaved as if every Larsson doodle was Holy Scripture, fixed beyond the providence of mere editors. If so, the law of unintended effect here struck a mighty blow against her pretense that Larsson was a feminist.

Salander would have to be stupid not to work out that there must be plenty of feminists in the child protection agencies and other social services. Yet far from protecting her, they were in the vanguard of her persecution. Why should she trust them now? Larsson here missed an opportunity to make more of his belief that the social services in Sweden are gears in the machine of fascist oppression.

- Fragment from the chapter *Is Lisbeth Salander a feminist?* in
*THE LARSSON SCANDAL the unauthorized guerilla critique of Stieg Larsson*
by André Jute & Andrew McCoy

Want more? Read *the entire extra sample chapter*.


----------



## Guest

From RAISING TABITHA:

Tabitha felt every tiny puff of his breath on her nape, across the stubble covering her scalp. He was too close.

She'd spent so many days exhausted, feeling life ebb away from her like a slow leak in her soul. She'd been angry and scared. She'd been numb and overwhelmed. Her body had become an enemy, a filthy jail in which her spirit was trapped, suffering, cowering on a dank floor. It was impossible that it could be time to let that go.

But there he was. Mike stood, looking down, open as a summer sky. He didn't reach for her. She knew he wanted to as surely as she knew her own name. Impossible. Unreal. When had she emerged from that dark place? When had she risen, broken but whole, cracked and bleeding, but intact with tiny spaces showing a frail, fingering light?

He filled too much space. He was too warm, too solid. She felt ugly and weak... incomplete in the shell she was willing to rebuild itself. Yet there he was, and here she was, and somewhere inside the cracked and torn mask a light found its way upward, outward, casting tiny strands of misty hope all around her.

She reached for it tenatively, a tiny prayer spiraling through her parchment-paper skin, setting her nerves on end. There he was... there it was... 

Desire!


----------



## Jimmy Stille

This is an excerpt from my new book, Werewolf and the Blackwater Hag.

It licked it's lips, and tasted the dried blood from it’s last kill. Steam rose from it's massive jaws, and wisped upward in the cold October air. It could sense the blood flowing in the approaching man's veins. Fifty thousand years of instinct was contained in the creature's DNA. Every fiber of it's muscles tensed, ready to spring. The musky scent of blood became overpowering.....

The canal had been built mostly by slaves, before the Civil War. The canal had been used, to transport agricultural products, like cotton, tobacco, and rice, from the inland counties of Georgia, to the port in Savannah. A yellow fever epidemic in 1870, and another in 1906, had killed scores of people around the Savannah area. Some folks blamed it on mosquitoes, which bred in the canal waters. Other folks said it was witchcraft, and blamed it on the Blackwater Hag.

The epidemics forced the closure of a good part of the canal. After the canal closed, it grew thick with trees and bushes. Then the tow path road fell into disrepair, and finally became so thick and overgrown, that the settlement of Black Ankle was completely, and utterly cut off from the outside world.

For decades the folks in this section of Southeast Georgia totally subsisted on what nature provided. To keep law and order, they had their own brand of justice. Any medical attention was garnered from natural remedies and herbs. Anything that herbs couldn't cure was secretly handled in the cover of darkness by the Blackwater Hag.


----------



## Kilgore Trout

*Southern Belles of Atlanta*

_Charlene:_ Have you all seen that Sarah Palin woman on TV?

_Mary Jo:_ Yeeees; and I cannot stand her! Has there ever been a woman who claims to be such a feminist, while she winks and struts around in high-heeled hooker boots, causing every man in the room to fall all over themselves trying to get a better look at her?

_Suzanne:_ Well, I for one don't see what all the fuss is about. She just wants to show off her beauty pageant crown to all of you homelier women, and y'all just can't stand it. You all think that just because you went to college and liked all that icky stuff like science, math, and psychology that a gorgeous woman like Sarah is just someone to make fun of. I'll take my crown over your old Pythogoneon Theory, or whatever you call it, any day!

_Julia:_ Suzanne always was one to insult the appearance of any woman smart enough to make good grades in college and do something other than lunch well.

_Suzanne:_ That's right, Julia. I do lunch a lot better than any of you ever could do. Who brings in all those rich old biddies for clients, anyway?

_Anthony:_ Well, Suzanne is right about that part. She can eat with the best of them. But me, I'm staying _far away_ from any woman who says things like _you betcha_ and writes things on her hand. Those people at her rallies scare me!

_Mary Jo:_ The thing that gets me is that she flaunts all those kids around like some kind of badge of honor. I thought we just finished fighting a long war with men just to put on some shoes and get out of the kitchen. Sarah Palin wants to slap an apron on us and reopen the baby factory in the bedroom.

_Charlene:_ What's wrong with that, Mary Jo? I want to get married and have a couple of kids one day....

_Mary Jo:_ But _five_ kids? The world already has a population problem and how many diapers do you really want to change in your lifetime?

_Julia:_ Population problem is right. If Sarah Palin just wanted to pop out five kids for herself, that would be her choice, but she wants to make the same choices for all of us, too.

_Anthony:_ I don't know that this whole family thing is what we should be talking about, ladies. I have several cousins that were raised in large families and they turned out just fine. Of course one of 'em had to spend a little time in prison and the another sort of went nuts always wondering who his real daddy was, but....

_Suzanne:_ Anthony, all of you people spend time in prison. That's nothing new. Sarah Palin is trying to tell you people how to behave, but most of you still want all that free stuff like Social Security and free money just for being unemployed.

_Julia:_ lSuzanne, many Americans face abject poverty every day, and they have to do whatever they can to survive. We can't all inherit a big house and a vault full of money like you did.

_Anthony:_ I don't know much about inheriting money, but one dance around the mess hall with T. Tommy Reed will give that woman a new perspective on life! Some of those good old boy ******** are a lot more threatening than our nice President Obama.

_Charlene:_ But y'all still have not answered my question. Palin's on the news acting like President Obama could be such a better President if only he would listen to her advice. Some of those guys on the news seem to think this is true, too, but all I see is what it would be like if we elected Suzanne President!

_Mary Jo:_ Yes, there is a certain similarity between the two beauty queens, but at least Suzanne hasn't been making a bunch of babies and then letting them go wild, doing whatever they want.

_Suzanne:_ See! Even frumpy Mary Jo agrees with me. Once you have earned a crown, it just does something to you. You are never the same again. All you want to do is to wave to all your adoring fans who see you for who you really are.

_Mary Jo: _Suzanne! Have you not heard what's called her Wild Ride story? The woman took a chance, a small chance, yes, but a _chance_ of finding herself lying on the floor in the aisle of a crowded commercial airplane with her legs up in the air and a baby coming out! Do you not see the insanity of that? At the time she was the governor of a state! You show me a woman, any woman, who will risk showing her yoohah to a bunch of people on an airplane _for any reason_, and I'll show you a woman who's lost her mind!

_Suzanne:_ Oh, y'all, that's just a story the liberals made up to make her look stupid. They don't like her because she's a smart, ambitious woman. She threatens all their widdle liberal winkies and refuses to do whatever they want her to do.

_Julia:_ No, Suzanne, that story was told to the press by Sarah Palin herself. Her own father even confirmed that her water broke while she was in Texas. The whole thing was even in the _Dallas Morning News_. If you intend to defend this mindless woman, you'll have to do better than that.

_Anthony:_ That's enough of that story for me, ladies. I think I have some furniture to deliver to one of those old biddies, as Suzanne calls her. Y'all can just continue this conversation without me. When you all get started on that woman stuff, it's time for me to be someplace else!

_Mary Jo:_ Well, Anthony is right in that this is a sort of embarrassing, tabloid type of story, but I have read enough about it already to know that it must be true. As much as I would love to see the first woman in The White House, I am so thankful that at least the racism of The South did not stop Obama from being elected.

_Charlene:_ I agree with that, too. President Obama is what this country needs right now. Have you seen his kids? They are so well behaved, and none of them are even pregnant yet. And that Bristol and Willow have some mouths on them, don't they? Even that seemingly sweet little Piper gave somebody the bird!

_Suzanne:_ Bird, schmird. Obama, pajamas! Oh, who cares if a black person runs for President? We aren't a bunch of hillbilly racists anymore, that is, except for some of Charlene's hillbilly relatives. Do y'all remember when they came to visit last year? It's just as well they all went back to Popular Snuff, or whatever Charlene calls that place full of hicks. They didn't want to do anything but watch reruns of _Hee-Haw_ and spit that nasty stuff into our trashcans the whole time they were here.

_Charlene:_ Suzanne, that was just old Limpy Joe. He's nearly eighty years old, Suzanne. What are people going to think of you when you're that old? There goes that nut Suzanne. She still sleeps with that crown on her head as if it will make her young again in her dreams. At least my family knows the value of a dollar when they see it. You don't see us buying a diamond collar for a pig, do you?

_Suzanne: _For your information, Charlene, Noel was my favorite pet ever, and she needed a diamond collar to match my crown. When we walked down the street together, you could hear everybody whispering as we passed. They knew real royalty when they saw it!

_Julia: _The only thing royal about you and that pig are that you both are a royal pain in the you know what. If you spent as much time helping the poor people of Atlanta better their lives as you do spoiling that pig, we could plan for a better world for our future children.

_Suzanne:_ Well, I, for one, am never having any children. They're all icky, sticky, demanding little creatures. Mommy, mommy, I want that, and I want that, too. And most of 'em are even stinky sometimes! Give me a clean pig like Noel any day.

_Mary Jo:_ Sarah Palin would like that pig, too, on a spit with an apple in its mouth.

_Charlene:_ There's nothing wrong with eating meat, you know. Even Huckabee says he eats squirrel. We even had possum for dinner one time when Uncle Ed was out of a job, but we all ate it and were glad to have it. It was a little greasy, but the main thing you had to do was try to forget what a possum's face looks like. Eeeeewwww!

_Suzanne:_ All you hillbillies will eat just about anything if you can shoot it in your backyard or scrape it up off the highway. At least Sarah Palin goes out moose hunting in the clean, white snow of Alaska.

_Julia:_ Sarah Palin does not need to kill animals to survive in Alaska, but the native people of the area do. She's just making sure that rich people like some of your boyfriends, Suzanne, can go up there and spend a lot of money to shoot large animals so they can feel like real men. Those guys are no different than those with expensive sports cars with big engines - big sexy cars, little wahoos.

_Suzanne:_ That is not true, Julia. I've seen plenty of big wahoos.

_Mary Jo:_ Oh, I am sure of that, Suzanne. You have seen many more wahoos than the rest of us, but at least the ones we have seen are not attached to big jerks who feel they have to kill defenseless animals or waste our natural resources just to have sex with us.

_Charlene:_ Speaking of sex, have y'all heard that maybe Sarah Palin did not really _have_ Trig at all? That she's just covering up her underage daughter's pregnancy?

_Mary Jo:_ That's exactly why I don't think even Sarah Palin was stupid enough to risk finding herself spreadeagled on a First Class flight to Alaska. I think she wasn't pregnant in the first place.

_Julia:_ I tend to agree with Mary Jo on this one. Although Sarah Palin seems to have the brain of a retarded chipmunk, I think she is a little more clever than stupid. I think she planned the whole thing just to impress all those old rich white men with their tongues hanging out.

_Charlene:_ I just don't see how someone who might be running for President could be so dishonest, Julia. Faking a pregnancy to get chosen as VP to an old guy? McCain just looks too much like a dirty old man to me. How could she live with herself?

_Mary Jo:_ Some people will do anything for power and money. Charlene, we all love you so much, but you know, you are a little naive sometimes.

_Julia:_ Yes, Charlene, not all women want to open the glass ceiling for all of us. Some just want to crash through it for their own personal gain, just like some will do anything for a crown.

_Suzanne:_ I resent that, Julia! That crown is what brings in all the business to you and Charlene and Mary Jo. If I had not been Miss Georgia, we'd still be back at the plantation, sipping mint julips and entertaining all the men who came to call. Hmmmm. That wasn't so bad....

_Julia:_ It's a different world now, Suzanne, and we all have to do our part to make it work. You may not remember things the way they really were, but as Mary Jo said, many of us were just slaves trapped in bad marriages with abusive men. I'll strap on my apron only when I want to, and if I don't want to bear any children, or only one or two, then I shall make that choice. No man, or Sarah Palin, is going to make it for me!

Excerpted from PARADIGM SHIFT: The Palin Matrix

[http://www.amazon.com/Paradigm-Shift-Progressive-Strikes-ebook/dp/B004IARV1O/ref=tmm_kin_title_0?ie=UTF8&m=AG56TWVU5XWC2][/amazonsearch]


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## Valerie Maarten

What an eclectic mixture of talent... Emotional, thought-provoking and humor.  This is why I thought this would be so much fun.  Everyone has their own style of writing and there is something here for everyone.  Thanks to all of the participants.  I hope your talents bring you many sales


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## Andre Jute

Valerie Maarten said:


> What an eclectic mixture of talent... Emotional, thought-provoking and humor. This is why I thought this would be so much fun. Everyone has their own style of writing and there is something here for everyone. Thanks to all of the participants. I hope your talents bring you many sales


Thanks to _you, _Valerie, for the showcase!


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## DDScott

Last week, I gave you an excerpt from Book One in my Bootscootin' Books Series *BOOTSCOOTIN' BLAHNIKS*...Think Sex and The City meets Urban Cowboy.

The Bootscootin' Books are romantic comedies with a chick lit gone-country twist.

In Book Two - *STOMPIN' ON STETSONS * - it's Hell's Kitchen mixed with Meet the Fockers.

And here's a Sneak Peek:

STOMPIN' ON STETSONS 
CHAPTER ONE

The sweet allure of vanilla extract and cinnamon chips tickled Jules Lichtenstien's nose.

She inhaled with the gusto of a yoga master, coaxing her subterranean, larger-than-life-sustaining breath to steady her discombobulated nerves. Short of abandoning the kitchen in favor of her yoga studio, meditative breathing was her only hope of achieving a state somewhat resembling the elusion of sanity.

"Push. Pull. Fold." Chanting her pastry chef mantra, she worked her mind in place of over-working the dough.

Using the heel of her hand, she pushed the dough away then back, folding it over as she pulled. With each choreographed motion, she envisioned her masseuse kneading her muscles with the same concentrated pressure.

Handling the powdery ball with schooled finesse, she patted it into a ten-inch circle then reached for a cookie cutter. Pressing the cutter's metal edges into the dough, she punched out a baker's dozen, wishing she could separate her thoughts as easily as scones.

As if her head were a gigantic tube of icing about to spurt into action, she closed her eyes, squeezing her warring thoughts into a tiny tip of reason.

Placing the scones on an un-greased baking sheet, Jules relaxed her shoulders and settled into her routine. Craving nothing but culinary love in the form of a hot, gooey tea biscuit, she poured her restless energy into pastry chef mode, focusing on the confectionary magic beneath her fingertips.

She brushed the scone tops with beaten egg whites and added a dusting of sugar. Sliding the sheet into the oven, she poked the arrows on the control panel keypad until the numbers ticked off second-by-second. She didn't have the eighteen minutes it took scones to bake. But if she didn't feed her tormented ego, along with her work plan, she'd never psych up for her meeting with Music City socialite Sienna Cruz.

Pressing her thumbs into the tingling flesh at the back of her neck, Jules moved her fingers in rhythmic circles, rubbing out the pings of stress hammering the base of her skull.

The renovation of the building for her new bakery and catering company was on schedule. Sort of. Sort of being not close to acceptable considering she'd landed the meeting with Sienna for the company's first big catering event. She should feel great. Terrific. The Cruz gig, if successful, would go a long way toward securing the CMA Fan Fest food service contract. And that job would be Jules' golden, candy apple. The belle of her bakery's dough balls.

Hypothetically, her double boiler should be bubbling over with good fortune. Apparently, however, hers was simmering with nothing but pessimism. Hissing streams of doubt gurgled in her stomach. Her normally confident exterior was overtaken by Mount Vesuvius proportioned, what-the-hell-were-you-thinking eruptions.

She flipped on the coffee grinder, cranking the dial from medium to finely ground, counting on the robust flavor to drown out her espresso strength hesitation. With the grinder whirring down to its last, desperate chugs, she coached her inner Buddha to dig a deep refuge in the name of culinary enlightenment.

Doing her best to keep her nerves as level as the quarter-cup into which she measured the ash-like grounds, Jules glanced at the clock on the oven. Quarter after nine. Damn. Before she could call an end to the latest in a string of exhausting days, she had to make the berry pudding and get it into the refrigerator.

Where the hell was Cody with her berries?

She loaded the dishwasher, trying to unload her irritation, dangling the enormity of Sienna's wedding in front of her muses, hoping like hell they'd save her ass.

Foreseeing her company's demise at the hands of her over-zealous ambitions, she wandered the streets of self-pity-ville. Hearing the doorbell chime, she sidestepped a deep gutter of gloom in favor of the ass chewing she'd dish Cody.

How was she supposed to make Sweet Destiny a success if she couldn't count on her produce man to deliver on time? Good thing he was a terrific guy, fantastic friend and fabulous looking. Otherwise, he'd be replaced.

She opened the door, her lips set to hurl him a stern warning. But once her eyes took in his sweet as maple sugar smile, her vocal chords froze stiffer than her award-winning meringue.

Cody Weiss, the best fruit and vegetable man in Nashville, Tennessee, stood on her porch with a basket load of gorgeous, fresh-picked raspberries, blackberries and blueberries.

Damn his perfect fruit. And damn his dreamy, Stetson-covered head.

****

For more excerpts and tons of Bootscootin' Fun, visit my website at http://www.DDScott.com

Happy Reading!!!


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## DanDillard

Here's an excerpt from my short story "The Demon of Walker's Woods". 
This tale lives at the end of my first collection entitled "Demons and Other Inconveniences" and deals with something many of us grew up with: the creepy house in our childhood neighborhood. Hope you enjoy... and come back for more!



    Several of the neighboring families got together for a dinner party and the kids all carved jack-o-lanterns. Dad told us the Halloween legend of Jack, and how he fooled the Devil just to roam the earth with a carved turnip lantern.  We put candles in them and admired our handiwork in the darkened kitchen. With shades drawn and lights out, a chorus of “Ooh’s" and "Ah’s” rose from the audience of moms and dads.
    There were caramel apples and holiday specials on TV. The kind you waited all year for back when there was no cable or pay per view, no DVD player and no Netflix.  After some popcorn, the adults made their way to the back porch to smoke cigars and cigarettes and drink things we couldn’t have.  
    All Hallows Eve was the day after tomorrow and I couldn’t wait. Aside from the gobs of candy I was going to get, I always got a charge out of seeing the imagination that went into the other costumes. I also got a laugh at all the kids wearing the plastic bag outfits with the cheap vacu-formed masks that hung on your ears with an uncomfortable elastic band. They always ended up worn as hats and ruining the illusion.  
    Kevin and I had gone outside with some old clothes Mom picked from Dad’s closet.  
    “Hey! That’s my favorite shirt,” he’d say each year.
    “You won’t miss it,” she’d reply.
    He really didn’t mind.
    We crammed old shirts and pants with hay from bales she bought at the feed store. Then we glued big button eyes on a burlap sack and set up a scarecrow next to the porch. The boots set on the ground with the end of the pants stuffed in. The same old straw hat from previous years finished the job.  
    Sheets became ghosts that haunted the trees in the front yard. Along with the pumpkins we carved, some cleverly placed red flood lights capped a nice display for impending trick-or-treaters. Kevin and I drooled over the fun we’d have scaring the littlest kids on our street. Then we raked leaves into a respectable pile and took turns diving in, sending them flitting about like little crunchy bats.  It was a great evening, one of the best.  
    It was also the last time I would ever see my brother.


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## AllureVanSanz

Excerpt from Murder Creek: 

Shy reached down for her guns, trying not to think of the week’s worth of cleaning she’d have to give them to get the alley muck out, when she heard the warning click of a gun. 

Slowly her hand changed direction, subtly reaching into the top of her thigh high boot to extract her small peashooter. 

An antique two-bullet mini-pistol wouldn’t make much of a mess but at close range it could get the job done. He had the advantage of position and gun power but she wasn’t about to go out without throwing a bullet or two his way before she died.

She turned and lifted the Derringer into firing position just as the Italian moved his hands into the light of the alley.

What the hell? Was this some sort of truce? 

No. When she looked closely she noticed his shooting grip was solid. He just waited for her to acknowledge his weaponry. A clear statement. He had two guns, she had one, and he could kill her dead twice as fast if he were so inclined. Obviously he wasn’t…which meant he wanted to chitchat. 

“Walk out,” she commanded and heard him chuckle. He was humoring her, completely unafraid of her little gun but that was fine. The surprise on his face would be that much sweeter when the bullet ripped through his eye into his brain.

“Don’t do anything stupid,” he warned before he stepped out from the shadows.

The light bathed him from head-to-toe in all his glory and the strangest thing happened. 

Ho-Lee-Shit. 

Shy couldn’t think, she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t place his hauntingly familiar handsome face. Probably on some romance cover or Calvin Klein ad. Wow. He silently assessed her with copper eyes that shimmered with amusement and for some unknown reason it made her want to rake her fingers through her hair to primp. She resisted the impulse. She was not a Primper! 

He stood much taller than she, with bronzed skin and impossibly perfect facial features. 

…attractive. Really, really.

Considering she had no interest in men as a whole, Shy certainly felt as if someone had kicked common sense out from under her.

He, too, seemed lost to the moment as his eyes dipped down her body taking stock of the Shy Store.

The two might have stood there until the following day if a red laser sight hadn’t suddenly appeared on her chest from a distant adversary.

Eyeing the beam, she groaned. Dammit, he had a man in the wings and she’d been caught mooning. Grudgingly, she lowered her peashooter and dropped it into the pocket of her trench. “I’m about to get very cranky, Stranger.”

He smiled. Her heart flipped a little. “Have it your way, Cutes, I just came here to have a conversation.” 

Cutes? Did he just call her cutes?

His eyes moved down and she followed his gaze to the crimson speck that circled her tits. It bobbed and weaved and made figure eights before dropping lewdly down to the apex of her legs. Smirking, she prepared to make an unhealthy threat before the Italian did something odd. He stepped in front of the laser to shield her from the sexual harassment.

What the hell is that about?  Shy took a few steps backwards and bent to pick up her guns. She made no sudden movements but didn’t do much to reassure him she wouldn’t raise one up and blast into his brain pan either. 

Once she had her guns, she reached beneath her trench and stuck them in the specialized holsters at her back refusing to question why she’d done so.

“A conversation?” She relaxed her stance, letting him think her guard loosened. The second he made a threatening move, she’d end him. “You have an ace in the wings ready to gun me down. I’m guessing I can’t refuse.” She eyed him skeptically. “You working for Gato and Inflate-a-boy?”


Vic smiled. She’d put her weapons away. Good girl. A second later he moved in on her, closing the distance between them. He saw her eyes widen as she brought her hands toward her holsters but he captured her wrists and held them tight, bringing her arms up over her head. He made sure to be gentle…ish…preferring to seduce her to conform. “Relax,” he cooed, like a horse whisperer coaxing a wild filly. “Don’t want my guy to get jumpy.”

His body pressed into her, forcing her to the wall but not hard enough to gnash her into the brick grain. Mouth inches away from hers, he could feel his own breath bounce off of her delicious bottom lip back onto his face. Close enough to lick. 

So this was Ice? She felt hot to him.


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## Lee Doty

What better excerpt than the first paragraphs? If those don't grab you, your book may be doomed. 

These are the first few paragraphs of my novel, Out of the Black. *Please, comment on whether my book is doomed!!*

*Chapter 1: Out of Time*

The impact spread slowly across his back, straining his tightly set muscles and driving the air from his lungs in a long, slow groan. Then, the sound of success- the sound of the end- like a large boot in deep, wet snow, the crunch of parting glass broke out all around him and he kicked out hard one last time. The window crumbled away around him and he flew backwards, away from the death in the hallway and into the night air high above Chicago's deserted streets.

Then his world was a tumbling storm of rain, glass and the wind of increasing velocity. The gathering roar of the air around him promised that this would end badly eighty-two floors down. He'd made his choices, fought hard, and would now die on his own terms. Small consolation, considering that he was only about a second and a half into the fall and he'd already had enough time to count to infinity twice and take a nap. It would be a few more seconds before he stopped accelerating, then a few more before the final splat. He wished in passing he'd brought a good book. He was all for the idea of having time to meditate and ponder the eternities or whatever people were supposed to do in their final moments, but he'd only need the time a bullet took from barrel to brain for that kind of thing.
He watched the light from the building's windows bend and refract through the rain and the shards of the broken window tumbling around him and tried to Zen out for a bit. It was really a beautiful scene, now that he took the time to look. From time to time, the glass would tick off his clothes or skin, pressing then fading like tentative teeth in the chill of the embracing rain. He was going out in style. 
Going out in style maybe, but he was the last one off the stage. Everyone he'd cared about was dead or worse, and when he finally hit the concrete in a handful of seconds at his own, personal terminal velocity, the stage would go dark. Then the world around it would go dark, too- apocalyptically dark. He'd failed his family and they'd died. Now, because he'd failed again, it was going to be everyone else's turn.

He fell through the hollow air, remorse and inadequacy burning through his ancient heart.

And then a dull radiance below drew his eye. As he watched, a few random points of light pierced the mist, then grew and elaborated into the familiar lattice of the city's streets. Then he tumbled from the low clouds and the city erupted around him. There, feeling small and naked before the blazing urban panorama that seemed to stretch from horizon to horizon, he had his epiphany. The black would always be there, hesitating at the edges of the light, but it would never win. Without the light, the black wasn't anything at all. The storm would rage and bluster, but it would eventually pass from the city, and then from memory.

Sure, it was over for him. Sure, his was a brutal, bad end, but these desperate moments were only the last page of his long and satisfying biography. Death stung only because he'd lived so bright. Loss hurt only because he'd loved deep and true. In some insane way, the sheer unstoppable momentum of his unfolding tragedy suddenly made him feel grateful.


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## Valerie Maarten

Lee, you are NOT doomed!  That was great.  It had me so involved, I hated to see it end.  Now I have to go buy the book to see what happens.  GREAT JOB!!!!


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## J.C. Fiske

Great idea Val  I hope I can get away with calling you Val . . . just send me a digital smack if this is not ok lol

Anyway, here's the first scene to my novel, Hell til' Heaven, enjoy!

Joseph McCarley stood on the curb outside his favorite pub, Donegan's Dropkick, gazing over the dead man lying before him. He did his best to snap himself out of his drunken haze to comprehend what just happened.

Joe rubbed at his sore temples. If anything, the dead man might as well be sleeping. The man's eyes looked as if they could flutter open at any moment. Color still flushed in his cheeks and stubble and roguish features graced the man's face. Except for the speckles of blood splashed across his high-collared, black overcoat and his faded blue jeans, Joe figured the man was looking all right. The guy was certainly well built and had long, dark brown, nearly black hair that was stuck up everywhere in a devil may care tribute. For someone just hit by a car, yeah, Joe figured he was looking about as great as a dead dude could.

This wasn't what puzzled him though. There was a fuzziness tearing through Joe's head that wouldn't quit. Something was familiar about this man. Even as the ambulance arrived and loaded the body, it still wouldn't come to him. Joe sighed in frustration and made his way closer to the ambulance's rear window for one last peek at the dead guy, determined to discover his identity. Instead, he saw only his reflection staring back at him. It was then, everything was clear.
"My God, that's . . . me! I'm," Joe realized, stopping himself. He watched as his own body was carried away in a blaze of wailing red sirens. He did his best not to say the word, but his thoughts betrayed him anyway.
_
Dead._


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## GayleC

Here's an excerpt from my debut mystery, FREEZER BURN:

_Such exquisite hands. What a pity to waste them._

Long, tapered fingers balanced the size of the palms perfectly. Half moons shone in the nails, which were strong and rounded, and extended the line of the hand. The porcelain skin blushed the slightest pink, although it seemed to be fading quickly.

The shadow knelt in the darkness, eyes glowing.

_I'd better use the electric knife. No, the hacksaw._

Under the sliver of moonlight, deft hands opened the toolkit and went to work.


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## JeanneM

*Here's an excerpt from my non-fiction book Pet Psychic Diaries. I'm new to writing so please be kind. Zac is a cat who lives with a fellow psychic:*

Zac said there is a ghost he was seeing and that he shows up much more strongly when the lights are out. I asked Zac why he hadn't told me this in the first reading, and he replied: "You didn't ask me once you found out that Sophie makes noises in her stomach." I'm sorry to say, he was right. Because I was being shown her tummy and I was hearing growling, I thought that was all we were dealing with.

This reading taught me that sometimes I need to dig deeper and not accept face value. I asked Zac to tell me more about this and he said in a very emotional tone: "I see him! I see him when it's dark. He is mean and he hates cats." I asked Zac how long he had been seeing this spirit and he said: "For a few months but he is getting stronger from being here and is showing up more. He shows up better in the dark. Please tell Mom to get rid of him before he gets stronger and the family starts to feel and see him too. He is feeding off from Mom's psychic energy!" He was very panic stricken at the thought that his family might be in jeopardy.

I asked Zac if having a night light on would help while his Mom worked on ridding the home of this spirit. "A night light would help a little but I will still hear him. He has slow, heavy footsteps and I run and hide when I hear them." I asked Zac if he was sure he was a bad spirit and not just a ghost who popped in and may pop out again. "I'm sure. I see spirits a lot and they don't scare me but this one does!"

Then I saw and felt him too, and completely understood why Zac was so frightened. Bitterness and hatred radiated from this spirit. It came in waves as I was looking at him. He glared at me and didn't welcome my intrusion at all, and I felt he was there to stay. He looked like he had come from another era. His hair was scraggly and down to the shoulders. He had a cruel looking visage and wore a long beard. He was very unclean and I suspected that he hadn't combed his hair in a very long time, or hadn't been able to. He wore a dark colored overcoat that went down to his ankles. And Zac was right: He hated cats. He hated everyone. I kept seeing a Civil War battle and felt he was a soldier from that time. As scary as he looked, I also couldn't help but feel sorry for him. He seemed like a trapped soul; locked in time

Zac told me he was concerned that this ghost would go into Ann's little girl's room. He said, "I want to protect her, but I don't know how." Ann had mentioned there is a baby monitor in her daughter's room and wondered if the white noise from it bothered him. He said no but asked me to tell her to listen carefully to it at night as she might hear something. I thanked Zac for talking to me and told him I was sorry that I hadn't gotten it right the other day. I also told him that when he hears these noises, instead of running away, he should stay close to his family. I assured him that they would never let anything harm him. Before he left me, he said: "I just want to feel safe again."


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## GayleC

If you can stand just a little more yammering from me, I have a humor book, WHAT WOULD ERMA DO? CONFESSIONS OF A FIRST-TIME HUMOR COLUMNIST. It's a memoir about my entrance into the world of newspaper columns and how I juggled being a wife, mother, and full-time exaggerator. Here's one of my readers' favorite columns:

*Chapter 50: COLUMN - CSI, Placentia*

I've always been a sucker for a good mystery, from Agatha Christie to Dean Koontz. So today's glut of crime shows is heaven for me. Every week I am treated to CSI, NCIS, and a host of other shows in which they analyze bits of this and that and figure out who killed the butler.

Even so, sometimes watching the investigators study the crime scene makes me think about what would happen if we came home and had a dead butler in the kitchen.

First of all, they'd have to buy a lot more plastic bags to pick up all the evidence. We have a cat and dog who run from room to room, spreading cheer and pet hair everywhere.

They might as well save the baggies and just vacuum my house.

And then there's my darling hubby and son, who are not that concerned about clutter or cleanliness. On a recent episode of CSI, they identified a suspect from blades of grass found in a closet.

If they found a clump of grass in our closets, they'd have to carbon-date it to figure out which year it was left there.

I will also confess to random acts of grime, having occasionally walked through the house in my riding boots. This is usually because, just after lacing 
up my boots at the back door, I realize my car keys are in the kitchen. The investigators might come to the conclusion that the butler was killed in a stall, and then dragged into our house.

Fingerprints won't be of any use in our home, either. I try to clean, but my 13-year old son and his friends all feel the need to grip doorways, slap at ceilings and touch everything in a room for no apparent reason. The good news is, I dust so infrequently the CSI team can use less powder and save money.

Come to think of it, murder is one way of getting your house cleaned professionally.

They usually interview the neighbors on these shows, and find out a lot about the victim's habits. I doubt if they'd have the same luck with our neighbors. We all seem to work for a living around here, so we don't spend a lot of time noticing whether the people next door are fighting, leaving at odd hours, or having wild parties.

I imagine their interviews would go something like this:

"So what time did Mr. Carline get home last night?"

"I don't know. I had to work until 9."

"Was Mrs. Carline home all day?"

"I don't know. She only comes out to get the paper and the mail."

"When was the last time you saw their son?"

"When he was four."

"When was the last time you saw their butler?"

"They have a butler?"

Come to think of it, by the time the investigators collected all the evidence, determined which of it was actually relevant, and identified a suspect, the killer could have changed his name and moved to Fiji. The Carline house could be the place to commit the perfect crime.
I guess it's a good thing we don't have a butler.

_Published June 8, 2006 as "Kill my butler and get away scot-free."_


----------



## Valerie Maarten

@Tenacity, I would never digital smack you.  You can call me Val if you want to.  I'll only give you a ~cyber hug~  And you offered a great piece.

@Gayle, yammer away.  Freezer Burn was too short.  I'm nosy and I want to know what they were going to do with the hacksaw.  Now I'll have to buy the book.  Just for the record, I have 97 kindle books I need to get through ~sigh~

@Jeanne, I'm a newbie too and I liked your story.  It kept my interest.  Great job!!!


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## JeanneM

Thank you. That is so kind of you to comment.


----------



## JenniJames

Ooh! Can I play too?

This is a scene from my coauthored book titled Eternity. AJ Cole is from Nottingham, England--while boring ol' me lives here in the States.

By the time I was finished, there were about thirty men scattered on the floor around my feet. My chest was heaving as I glanced about the silent common room, wiping my brow I asked, "Who's next? Anyone else have something to say about the general?"
A good three hundred men stared back at me. 
"Come on!" I roared. "I'm just getting started. Let's fight. I'll take you all on if I have to!"
 No one moved a muscle. In disgust I kicked a chair out of my way, it toppled over a small table in the process. I noticed a pad of paper flutter off the table and land on the floor. There were names and numbers marked all over it. 
"Is that it?" I asked the noiseless room at large. "Is this the wager ledger?" No one responded as I stormed over and jerked the pad up. Within three seconds the thick ledger was shredded by my hands, its fragments crushed beneath my feet. 
With a controlled breath, I slowly turned around-my jaw twitching-never had I known the anger that surged through me. Many of the men were still in the exact same positions they had been in after I'd beaten the last soldier. All I wanted to do then was to thrash the devil out of all the men present, but I knew it wasn't principled-no matter how just it would've been, it still wasn't right.
Panting, I whispered a terse, barely audible, threat to the crowd, "I will never hear of something like this, again. Do you understand? This goes nowhere. Not one of the Council will heed a breath of the way you have disrespected your general just now, or I will personally see to the ending of your existences as you know it. And if any man so much as looks at General Laurelia sideways tomorrow, they will have a private chat with me. I can guarantee you really don't want to have that chat."
I turned to go, and picked up another chair that had fallen in my way. With a shout I heaved the thing across the room and watched several men flinch. I had never been more disgusted with my fellow warriors as I was right then. It took every ounce of self control I had to make it back into the safety of the corridor without harming anyone else. 
"Brother, are you okay?" Aurelius clapped his hand upon my shoulder as I headed back to our quarters. "I don't think I've ever seen you that angry before."
My hand reached up and caught my brother's arm, forcing him to let go of my shoulder. I halted and brought him around to face me. "Did you wager as well?" my deep voice cracked slightly.
Aurelius wouldn't meet my eyes. "It was a lark, something funny. It wasn't meant to-"
"Answer me!" 
"Yes. But, you have to understand she's--"
I shoved him away. "Don't speak to me."
By the time I'd made it home, the true extent of the harm that my actions toward Laurelia could cause had begun to sink in. 
_My great God Divine, what have I done? And how in the world will I ever make it up to her?_


----------



## Mel Comley

Here's an excerpt from Impeding Justice (reduced by Amazon to 79cents at the moment!)

They drove past the alley for the second time, still quiet, nothing suspicious. She eased the car to a standstill. Pete shifted uncomfortably in the seat next to her; she turned to him and asked, 'Nervous?'
'No. As usual the dry cleaners sent these trousers back to me a size smaller than when they went in&#8230;'
'Yeah, right, Pete. The fact you scoff junk food all day, wouldn't have anything to do with them shrinking, I suppose?'
'Hey, it takes a lot of calories to keep my shape, you know. Besides, I eat more when I'm stressed and these wild goose chases don't help.'

Mel


----------



## hmcauthor

A dreamwalker is one who walks the line between the natural and the supernatural world.
http://tinyurl.com/4eo2qrr

Excerpt from DREAMWALKER...

Greta could feel the blood rushing throughout her veins. Her breath quickened and her knees began to quiver in fear. Would this be the day he killed her?
Heinrich grasped her thin, boney shoulder so tight that she feared the bones would break. Greta stood still and silent.
"Nothing to say woman? I am surprised at you; normally your tongue is sharp. And no, I am not the one that will take your life from you. That pleasure will be bestowed upon another. Although the thought of watching your body go limp and breathless in my grasp does sound enticing. It is not in the Master's plan."
Still quiet, Greta's body shook with fear as she continued to keep her back to Heinrich. His grip on her shoulder loosened and for brief moment, she thought he would leave her alone. It was not until he placed his remaining hand on the slight curve of her slim hip that she realized he was not finished with her.
Heinrich felt Greta quiver beneath his touch and presumed it was his manhood that made her humble in his presence. It never crossed his mind that she feared he would kill her with his bare hands.
It had been awhile since he took his pleasure from her and the thought that even now she quivered from his touch made his stomach tightened and the blood rush to his loins. He had kept celibate these last few months to assure himself that Nicholea's training was focused. Surely, he could allow himself one last dalliance with this female that served him.
"You are not worthy of me," He whispered into the back of her neck. "But I will do you one last honour of serving me."


----------



## Steve Vernon

This thread is a terrific idea!

Opening excerpt: LONG HORN, BIG SHAGGY: A TALE OF WILD WEST TERROR AND REANIMATED BUFFALO



> The bullet chewed into the meat of Jonah Walker's dust gray horse long before he heard the shot. Jonah kicked free of the stirrups as the horse dropped. He tried his hardest to land on his feet, but didn't quite manage the trick. He hit the ground like a sack full of busted bricks, smack dab in front of parched out buffalo skull. His ankle twisted and his knee sang out like a freshly skinned Siamese cat.
> He stared down at the buffalo skull.
> Big ugly thing.
> He could have sworn the dead hump bones were laughing at him.
> "Shut up skull. You're dead and I ain't."
> If they were laughing, he was outnumbered. There was nothing out here but dead humps, as far as he could see.
> Dead buffalo, blown down to nothing but shiny white bones.


----------



## Erick Flaig

Sit back and enjoy this small helping of wonder from CALL ME ISHMAEL:

_Even when I was a boy, living in that plywood shack, I feared the lonely nights._

  
Okay, okay. To quote Winnie-the-Pooh, "Well, I did mean a little larger 'small helping.'"

Here's a slightly bigger dab:

_I shook my head. "What now then? I seem to be having coffee with three people who wanted to kill me; all the worlds in existence are coming to an end in less than two days. And my coffee is cold." The waitress materialized at my elbow and refilled my cup. At least I had more delicious, spicy coffee. Unless the waitress was a hit-woman who specialized in poison... 
I decided I'd had enough coffee and set the cup down. 
Finnie reached out and touched me. In that moment, none of the complaints I had just uttered mattered. All that mattered in any dimension was the cool touch of those perfect fingers as she laid them gently on my forearm. 
"I don't want to kill you anymore, Ishmael. You're not stinky anymore, and you haven't turned into a pig or anything, so you're not as icky as you could be."
Finnie, I breathed. But I couldn't say it. I couldn't say anything. 
"I'm sorry you hate me," she continued. "But you really shouldn't hold my wanting to kill you against me."_

CALL ME ISHMAEL. The book that makes you go  right up until you go .


----------



## Alex Owens

Lord, now I've got to add to the gazillion books I've already got sitting in my kindle app. You guys have some talent!

Here's a brief excerpt from "Memories for Sale" -

Mouth still half-full of fried potato goodness, Dave repeated himself, breaking Nell's chain of thought, "Well, why didn't you just tell her no?"
“I don’t know, she sounded odd.” Nell picked up the pile of precisely folded clothes belonging to her daughter and stood to go put them away.  “I started to... I wanted to.” Nell headed down the hall where their bedrooms lay, saying over her shoulder. “Before I could say anything, she just gave me all the flight details. I didn't have time to say no.”
Dave chuckled, his voice carrying down the hall after Nell. "I don"t buy it," he said playfully, "you find a moment to tell me no all the time."


And a little slice from "Reflections"

The desire to procreate, in some, is so strong that it creates a sort of tunnel vision in the afflicted. One can't see beyond trying to make a baby, and they never stop to think about what it will really be like once said baby has in fact, arrived.


----------



## Andre Jute

From IDITAROD a novel of The Greatest Race on Earth, currently a top 100 seller

Blue. In her raggedly tired mind rose the sad specter of her own failed genetic experiment. An Eskimo gave her the little Arctic or Blue Fox and Rhodes hand-reared him as a pet. About fifteen million years ago the wolf, the fox and the dog sprung from a common ancestor, Tomarctus (who, a vet told Rhodes, was probably short and squat with stumpy legs, not unlike a Corgi). Rhodes therefore harbored high hopes for Blue&#8230; The Arctic Fox, in common with the polar bear, grows hair on the pad of its paw. Dogs do not. If she could cross-breed an arctic fox with her dogs and the pups inherited the hairy footprint, they would have better protected feet and - much more important because booties could as easily protect their feet - the hair would give them better grip on snow and far superior purchase on ice. And that no bootie could do, even when made of moose hide with the hair outside and guard hairs still in place: the moose hair wore off too easily. The musher who bred dogs with hairy undersides to their paws would steal a march on all other competitors, worth as much as two or three miles per hour - a devastating edge in a race as long as the Iditarod.

Blue, the Arctic Fox, did its duty by Rhodes's malamute bitch and then ran off into the night in search of greater adventure; the Eskimo warned her that this would happen with even the most affectionate fox but Rhodes could not bring herself to chain Blue. The bitch pupped and - hallelujah! - the pups had hairy footpads. The pups grew apace. But there was something wrong with them. At first Rhodes thought only that they were uncommonly incurious and unadventurous, especially considering their parentage, staying too close to their mother all the time. Then the truth struck her and she brought a torch into the gloomy shed and shone it into their eyes. Not one of them blinked: they were all blind.

Her landlord, sent by his wife to call her to supper, found her standing at the shed door, peering at the unchanging sky. She hugged her body with both arms under the transparent plastic cape she wore, rain running off it distorting her body, lending her an air of fragile sadness. He was not a particularly sensitive man but, still ten paces from her, he asked, 'What is it?'

'My puppies are blind.'

'All? You sure? Let's see.'

But they were all blind. 'You'll have to put them down,' he said, returning the last pup to its mother's teat and resting the six-cell torch face-down on the shelf above the box.

'I hate it! I know it's necessary but I hate it.'

'It's crueler not to do it.'

'Tomorrow. Tomorrow I'll do it.'

'The longer you put it off the worse it will be. I'll do it for you.'

Relief flooded her. She would not have to look into the pups' blind eyes and then kill them. She knew it was weak of her to let him do it: she tried to subvert evolution and was now evading the punishment for failure. But she could not&#8230;

'Hold the bitch here.' He took the five pups in his two hands and walked out of the shed.

With shock she realized he would kill them immediately. She opened her mouth to call out that tonight, after dark&#8230; but he was gone. She talked to the bitch, gentling her, scratching her ears, trying not to look into those trusting eyes. She knew the Eskimo was right: those pups would have grown up to sit staring at nothing all day. But their lives were so short; they harmed no one. After a while she carried a spade outside, closing the shed door on the bitch so that she would not see her dead pups.

The Eskimo stood beside a paraffin drum on which the pups lay spread in a fan, heads outwards. He crushed their skulls with his heel. She gagged, turned away, blinded by tears, and started digging a hole. She would not go in to eat. When he returned from his meal he took the spade from her hands and pulled her by her elbow out of the four-foot deep hole she hacked in violent distress through permafrost that engineers routinely dynamite.

They buried the tiny still-warm bodies to the sad accompaniment of the bitch whining softly for her pups.

Rhodes would never again be tempted to meddle with nature.

From IDITAROD a novel of The Greatest Race on Earth, currently a top 100 seller


----------



## zizekpress

'Are you a witch?'
'Yes.'

Taken from *Ljubljana Witch* by Stavrogin.


----------



## AshleyLBR

I posted last week, but I enjoy reading the other excerpts, and seeing this thread grow, that I will keep it going with another!

This excerpt is from "Threshold, Pandora's Box" which is the first of seven in the series about the creation of the first human clone, who ultimately turns out to be humanity's worst nightmare.

"The psychiatric ward is on the second floor," Heather said, reading the sign.
The two got into the elevator and waited.
"Don't say anything, Ok?" Meagan asked.
"Why?"
"Because you always say something stupid."
"I do not. You are the big mouth, always getting us into trouble. I'll do the talking. You're holding a bunch of black freakin' roses for Christ's sake," Heather stated assertively.
"No, Heather, I will."
"As long as you have a bouquet of black roses, I will be speaking and you will shut up."
"Fine! If you talk then I talk! I don't care!" Meagan yelled as the elevator doors opened.
"Fine!" Heather agreed, stepping out.
"Hi," Both Meagan and Heather said in unison at the desk. They exchanged angry glances at each other and Heather won out.
"We are with a government investigation and we are looking for a specific John Doe here in the hospital."
"Well, someone came for the other John Doe this morning," the nurse answered.
Meagan's heart raced. "I'm with the CIA, we need to see the other right away."
"Ok&#8230;" the woman agreed, getting up and leading them down a dark quiet hall.
"You have ID?" she asked.
Meagan flashed her badge, which was enough to satisfy the nurse. All the way at the end of the hallway was a white door with a glass window and a slot.
"Is this him?" the nurse asked.
Meagan looked through the window at the man clawing at the air.
"Yes, it is," she answered, satisfied.
"I'll call my supervisor. You need him transferred out?"
"Yes," Heather informed her. The nurse nodded and Heather looked through the window as the woman walked away.
"We should pass the flowers through the slot," Meagan commented, dialing her phone.
"You aren't supposed to give psych patients foreign objects and you aren't supposed to be on the phone in a hospital," Heather chastised. Meagan waved her away as she held the phone to her hear.
Heather stuffed the flowers in as Meagan talked. She watched Copycat count the roses and lay them across the floor systematically and rock himself, humming some obscure lullaby.
"They're on their way," Meagan confirmed.
"I wish we could really tell him we know," Heather agonized.
"Pass a note through," Meagan said, looking around. "I'm sure it's taboo, but who cares, he's getting a free ticket to jail in a few minutes anyway."
Heather took a paper gum wrapper from her pocket and a click pen and began to write.

III and II
You can add us to the list, your secret is out and we know your game. You won't be invincible for long. -Copy of Copycat.

Meagan nodded in approval and Heather slipped the note into the slot. Copycat crawled over and read the note. His expression of intrigue turned to anger, but he composed himself.
"Give him the pen; I want to see what he has to say," Meagan prompted.
Heather tossed it in and Copycat immediately wrote a note back and slipped it though the slot.

Now you know my game, and now you will learn how you will be used and why. Copycat.

As they read, Copycat slipped the pen up his sleeve and laughed. The CIA was pulling up to the building, and a terrible plan was unfolding.
Copycat began screaming and trampling the roses, banging on the walls and door. Two attendants came running to see what the problem was.
"Why is he like this?!" a young man in white uniform asked.
"He just started freaking out!" Meagan defended herself.
Two CIA agents came out of the elevator and rounded the corner as the two attendants opened the door. The second nurse took Copycat's arm to restrain him, but Copycat let the pen slip down his sleeve and into his grip. With his right hand, he stabbed the man on his left in the corroded artery and then with great speed and malice, stabbed the other man in the eye. Blood shot across the room and hit the wall.
The two CIA agents came running with three other nurses. Copycat raced after Meagan and plunged the pen into her bad shoulder. She screamed in hopeless agony and pain as he took her gun from its holster and fired at the group running at him. He pulled the pen out of Meagan's shoulder and Heather dropped to the floor and fired at him as he slashed the pen through the attendants trying to halt his escape. He got hit with several bullets, and kept moving. He shot the woman at the desk in the head as Meagan slid down the wall, blood streaks following. Copycat entered the elevator as Heather jumped up to catch him. She got to the doors just as they shut.
"Stairs! Where are the stairs?!" she screamed, but no one could answer her. Heather turned to find the stairs and flew into the door. She skipped the steps three at a time and ran down at full speed, gun in hand.
She burst into the lobby and found a couple of people gathered at the elevator, looking outside at the sidewalk.
"He went out!" an elderly woman yelled.
Heather chased after him and turned left down the sidewalk. There were cars everywhere, and she tried her best to check the faces of each one of the drivers and passengers. Then she looked out at the parking lot. There he was, limping towards the next street corner.
"Stop!!!" she screamed. Heather chased him down, gun drawn. "I said stop! NOW!" she repeated. Heather shot him in the leg and he simply stopped walking. 
Copycat's head was lowered, and he stood limp with his hands at his sides, his leg bleeding.
"Put your arms out!" Heather ordered nervously.
"Every action has its consequences!" he screamed in a smooth milky tone, lifting his arms.
"&#8230;And that would be me!" In a flash, he whipped around, gun in his hands, and before Heather could even react, he shot her in the chest and ran, leaving her lying on her back in a pile of red snow, staring up at the greying sky.

Meagan managed to raise herself up off the floor. Three attendants were obviously dead, and one agent was shot and killed. The other was injured but able to join her in pursuit. They ran into the elevator and raced into the lobby. There was an accumulation of people by the door, alarmed and excited by all the action.
"They went out!" an old woman informed them.
"He'll ambush her!" Meagan complained, pulling off her sling and running. She looked around and saw Heather on the ground in the parking lot.
"Heather! Heather!" she screamed in agony, and ran to her. Meagan fell at her side and lifted her up into her arms.
"Someone get some help, please! Someone hurry!" Meagan wailed, tears streaming down her face.
Blood was freely flowing from Heather's wound as she gasped for air.
"Heather&#8230;"
"I failed," she whispered.
"No, no, no," Meagan argued.
"What have we done? What&#8230; have we?"
"Shh&#8230;" Meagan insisted. She looked up behind her at the abandoned parking lot. "Come on! Help!"
"Don't worry about me Meagan; the consequences are a lot harsher than the bridge of my nose."
Meagan looked down. "I'm sorry, Heather."
"No," Heather whispered, "we all will be." Heather closed her eyes and stopped breathing just as a large group of doctors arrived. 
Copycat then turned slowly and walked into the woods.

Threshold, Pandora's Box


----------



## Carol (was Dara)

I'll play along. Here's a short excerpt from my $0.99 historical mystery _Accomplished in Murder_.

***

Celeste's delicate boots sank deep into the muddy earth. Her hair was mussed by the wind, her hem dampened by the dew-soaked weeds creeping over the cemetery path.

Still, she felt freer now than she had in a long time. Anything was better than being cooped up in the big house with Absalom and his horrid family. Not even the distant rumble of thunder and the wind's promise of a coming storm deterred her resolve to seek solitude in the ancient cemetery.

Such a strange place this was to bury one's dead. Not a church in sight, not even a wrought iron fence to keep out the wild animals and other unwanted visitors.

As she wandered among the tombstones, Celeste shivered, suspecting she was one of those unwelcome trespassers. She wasn't of the family after all, except by marriage. Might the dead resent her intrusion? What an odd notion. But then one got strange ideas after spending enough time among the locals here. They were a superstitious lot, these Cornish.

As she walked deeper into the graveyard, she was struck by the stark contrast between the rough, stone markers standing side by side with intricately carved marble angels and crosses. Here was proof of the contrasting affluence and decline the family had experienced over the centuries.

They were suffering through one of those periods of deterioration now, as was evidenced by the overgrown condition of the rambling burial ground.

She had no sooner had the thought than a sudden wave of dizziness washed over her. 
Stopping, she sank down onto an elaborately carved bench beneath the shadow of an ancient mausoleum. The bench was shaped like a pair of intertwined angels' wings and an inscription across the seat listed the birth date and death of some past ancestor's "Beloved Child."

Celeste forced her mind to happier thoughts. She was far too inclined to brood these days.

Resting her palm against her as yet flat belly, she thought of her recent suspicion, one she had yet to share with her husband. She had no wish to disappoint him should her hopes prove false. Absalom could prove nasty when disappointed.

A soft rustling nearby broke into her thoughts. Over in the stand of trees lining the cemetery something large was moving behind the screen of leaves and branches. What was it? Perhaps there was a wild animal hiding in the gloom, watching her.

Even as her heart beat faster, she told herself the reaction was ridiculous. Most likely it was only a gentle deer cowering in the thicket. Or possibly a goat had escaped one of the neighboring farms and strayed onto the landlord's property.

Nevertheless, she could not stop her thoughts from returning to other similar occasions over these past few weeks where she had felt watched by hidden eyes. It was never anything she could prove, never anything more than the tread of soft footsteps trailing her down lonely halls of the great house. The whisper of a cloak disappearing around the corner whenever she turned to look back.

But she was not imagining these incidents. Someone had begun following her with secret, possibly evil, intentions. And it might be that same someone watching her now.

Suddenly the graveyard seemed a less safe place.


----------



## AllureVanSanz

I love visiting this thread!

Some really great excerpts. Nothing sells a book like having a taste to draw you in. Great job everyone, and thanks for starting the thread, Val.


----------



## Nicki Lynn Justice

Spring is finally here! I'm so happy!

And here I am, on my laptop, reading through the excerpts...I really like this page. So here's another of mine from my romantic suspense/legal thriller, Black & White:


      “What was that all about?” he asked. “You weren’t exactly screaming, but you were definitely running.” 
      “Didn’t do any good,” she gasped as she came to a halt in front of him. Her cheeks were flushed, and her chest rose and fell with each deep breath. “I can’t believe I let them get away!”
      “What?” He tried to follow her line of thought. Perhaps the suit was impeding his ability to think. “There was someone else here?”
      “Yup!” She sounded almost gleeful. “I heard them arguing in the parking lot awhile ago.” She glanced at her watch. “About seventeen minutes ago. I heard voices, then I saw two perps heading this way. I followed them.” 
      “Clarify the word “perps”,” he requested acerbically, “for those of us who are lay people.” 
      “Perpetrators,” she said, impatience evident in her voice, “in this case, two unidentified individuals sneaking around, consorting about or possibly even performing an illegal act.”
He shook his head in confusion. “So you saw two people and assumed they were criminals?”
      “They were behaving in a suspicious manner,” she stated. “They were arguing about something, then I saw them running across the parking lot. When I turned around, they had disappeared!”
      “So?” He tried to keep the impatience from his voice.
      “So the perps obviously didn’t want to be seen because they were doing something illegal.” She spoke as if she was explaining a simple concept to a recalcitrant child.
      “Or they could have been maintenance people.” 
      “Perhaps,” she acknowledged, “I thought of that angle too. Maintenance people don’t sneak about. I’m certain that they were doing something that wouldn’t be covered under any corporate mission statement.”
      “Even assuming that was the case, why would you follow them and not call security?” he asked.
      She hesitated for a moment. “I probably should have,” she said, her brow furrowing, “but it happened so quickly that I didn’t stop to think. They didn’t want to be seen, and they were talking about me. In a bad way.”
      “Talking about you?” he echoed. Now he felt as if he’d taken a step into something that was way over his level of comprehension. “I think you’ve lost me.”
      “They were talking about lawyers, in particular, women lawyers, in a derogatory fashion.”
      “Let me get this straight. You overhear a conversation, and think it’s about you?”
      “Look,” she snapped, frustration clearly evident in her tone, “I would love it if you could come up with an explanation that makes sense! After all, you are the CEO, or, at least, you were until midnight. Call it intuition, but something doesn’t seem quite right.”
      He took a deep breath. “Lawyer-bashing is a fairly common occurrence”. He held up his paw as her face settled into a mutinous expression. “Not that I would ever do it!” he said quickly, backing up a few steps.


----------



## DDScott

Happy Hump Day, All!

Here's a little sneak peek at BUCKLES ME BABY - Book Three in my Bootscootin' Books Series - think paparazzi-hell and Ponzi-scheme fall-out meet home-shopping and Babies "R" Us.

*BUCKLES ME BABY*

*Chapter One*

Audrey Holtz opened the foil pouch and removed the test stick - the third one for the day, used exactly four hours apart for maximum accuracy. She reset the kitchen timer, no longer finding its egg shape a quirky fun, eclectic design element. Removing the cap from the stick, she latched onto the thumb grip. A tremor ricocheted through her palm to her fingertips.

With the absorbent tip pointed down in her urine stream, Audrey peed the five seconds required...and only five seconds, per the instruction sheet. Replacing the cap over the wet tip containing the chemical composition of her future, she laid the stick on the bathroom countertop's flat surface, praying her own egg hadn't also been tipped. In two minutes, she'd know if Damian, her dream man who had no intentions of becoming a dream dad, would be tickled with relief or on his beloved tractor headed to Tijuana.

The blue line appeared in the control window indicating the test had worked. Not that that was any sort of consolation. All kinds of parts were working she hadn't planned on. To ensure her reproductive competency and sanity, she had to see the plus or minus sign one more time.

Being irregular, in menstrual-speak, above and beyond her propensity for psychobabble eccentricities, was a definite detriment. How the hell was she supposed to pinpoint a pregnancy when she couldn't pinpoint her ovulation cycle? She'd be a fertility specialist's worst nightmare...not that that kind of expertise appeared necessary according to the results of test one and two.

With the timer revealing a minute until the fate of her fertilization would show in the stick's result area, she went over what she did know.

Yes. She had the urinary frequency of a prima donna of the throne. But that could be attributed to one-too-many red eyes from her favorite coffee shop. Yes. She'd been a bit tired lately, but certainly not enough to get her down. She had too much to do to cater to fatigue. No. She hadn't had one episode of nausea - the most valid argument against impending pregnancy.

If it weren't for her discolored areolas, she wouldn't be peeing on sticks. They'd not only darkened around her nipples, they'd increased to an alarming diameter. And her breasts had taken on a new level of tender achiness, pain enough to send her to the pharmacy for a home pregnancy test triple pack.

The test sticks, God love 'em, were quick. Just like the directions touted, they were as easy as one-two-pee, although Audrey still held out hope that hers was the three percent not accurate. The test claimed to be more reliable the closer to P-day she was. But she had no clue when her P-day should have been. So she'd waited, per the testing guide, for the longest number of days she'd cycled in the last six months.

When she'd read false-positives were much less common than false negatives, meaning her two-time positive results indicated she was more than likely pregnant, her hopes for error vanished.

So much for the fact that the two previous plus signs were faint, ultra light shades of blue. She refused to use the term 'baby blue'. The only way the pluses could appear period, pun intended, was if her body contained hCG, the hormone a developing placenta produces during pregnancy. The darker the plus sign, the higher the hCG and the further along she was. Although her pluses had been faint, the fact they were there about caused her to faint. She could be anywhere from six to twelve days pregnant, with an embryo already implanted in her uterus.

Did she have an intuition she was pregnant, that "feeling" that many women say they have within moments of conception? Did she think she had a bun in her oven before her kitchen timer dinged and the first two blue pluses lit up the result screens? Not so much. But that changed when her areolas took on a life full of gusto.

The timer went off for the last time, and Audrey meant the last time. She threw out the damn thing, convinced it was a fertility goddess instead of a baking aid. She blinked, took a deep breath, remained seated on her throne then opened her eyes to reality.

Blue plus number three. Shit!

Damian was soooo going to wish he'd kept riding his John Deere instead of her.

*******

Happy Reading!!!

P.S. Check earlier on this thread for excerpts from Books One and Two of The Bootscootin' Books - BOOTSCOOTIN' BLAHNIKS and STOMPIN' ON STETSONS.


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## Guest

Ooohhh... Great idea! 

I love this part of my book in particular--and through the many re-reads and re-writes it always seemed to draw me in as it did the first time I wrote it...

Oh, the title of the book is_ Misty Black -- The Beginning_...

Misty followed Dutton to his room. She was instantly struck by what he did to it. Tacked to the wall, were paintings of a man she heard of from previous training about the society before theirs. Before people destroyed the notion of religion by using its ideals to subdue and control their fellow citizens, knocking morality all out of whack. 
"Jesus of Nazareth," Dutton said, proudly. 
Misty walked from portrait to portrait of Jesus archetypes in every skin color, every culture, Roman, African, Spanish, Russian, and even an American indigenous prototype, the last of those who's lands were untouched by DCMA. 
"Is this why you're a pacifist," she asked, remembering his earlier claim. He didn't speak so she looked at him, he was grinning big. She flashed a quick smile. "I see you and your mom are into collecting antiques; these are old." 
Misty brushed a hand over the Roman portrait of Jesus, the most popular up until the middle of the last century before such images became unpopular amongst the citizens. Down to his long wavy locks, and whimsical beard. He actually looked a lot like Dutton without the acne. 
"How did you acquire the knowledge of this," she finally asked, throwing caution to the wind. There was something revolutionary about Dutton. 
He walked up to the black Jesus and stared at it.
"My mom, came across a book titled Bible during one of her collecting trips. I liked the pages; never saw anything like them, thin and written in a capricious script. It, I don't know, intrigued me. Like you," he added, with a quick glance to see how that registered with her. 
Misty sniffed with a quick smirk to assure him it's okay, and waited for him to continue. Actually, she had no idea she intrigued him enough for him to mention it as slyly as he just did. 
"Anyway, I read the whole thing in about a month. But it was the parts about this guy that stuck with me. You know, he took a lot but sort of won in the end. I like that."
"But he died."
"Because he wanted to."
"True. Misty nodded, appreciating his devotion. "You want to know what got me about the book?" 
Dutton drew back in shock. "You read it?"
"A long time ago."
It fell silent between them, thoughtful. "So what got you about the book?" 
Misty sighed as she glued her eyes to the portrait. "That God repented that he made man. He should've destroyed us then, maybe we wouldn't be here now."
"How do you know we aren't already destroyed?" Dutton muttered. 
That snapped Misty out of her contemplative state. She looked deeply at him.
"Where's the hope," he continued. "I don't see any, do you?"
His face. It was his face that made her want to tell it all. How, she was born to avenge the greed and the evil of men. That maybe his faith in a better world will one day come to fruition because that's all she's been working on since the day she breathed this toxic, polluted, man made air. She wanted to give him hope in fallible creatures that were maybe God inspired, maybe.


----------



## Krista D. Ball

I have two pieces on amazon at $2.99 each (they are $2.50 at the publisher's bookstore and are available in kindle format: https://museituppublishing.com/bookstore2/ ).

Harvest Moon was my publisher's best selling title for 3 months and is still in the top 5, six months after its release.

Harvest Moon (http://www.amazon.com/Harvest-Moon-ebook/dp/B0042JUAIC)
novella (35 pages, I believe...it's 12000 words)
historical fantasy - Canadian First Nations story

Chapter 1

Cross-legged, Dancing Cat sat pounding the sun-dried Saskatoon berries between two hand-sized rocks. The stone, her hands, and her buckskin dress all bore the tell-tale signs of berry duty. Streaks of red dye, impossible to clean, striped her clothing and tanned skin. She tried pushing her hair off her cheeks, only to have the sticky residue coating her fingers glue the dark strands in place. The black flies swarmed and buzzed, ready to feast.

She worked in silence as part of the greater circle of twenty women, who chatted as they worked. Dancing Cat had no reason to join in. They only spoke to her to criticize or belittle, never for companionship. The band no longer even called her by name.

Flying Kite, Crashing Ship (http://www.amazon.com/Flying-Kite-Crashing-Ship-ebook/dp/B004I6D30Q/ref=ntt_at_ep_dpi_2)
Short fiction, 5500 words
SF time travel comedy

Chapter 1

Sally stared wide-eyed as blast shields eased out from various sections of the ship, covering the transparent dome that served as the vessel's hull. Invisible latches thumped throughout the ship as the cloth-like, polyalloy shielding formed an airtight seal. While the clear glass had made her uncomfortable for their trip, being trapped inside a grey, metal cage was worse.

"Define crash?"


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## Kekoa Lake

Fighting...urge...to...post...whole first chapter!

Hi! I've attached the first three paragraphs from the prologue of my thriller _The Twentyfirsters_. I welcome your comments! Much thanks to Valerie Maarten for starting this thread. Enjoy...

*PROLOGUE*

Defeating the x-ray machine was always his favorite part. Bon Carriker stood in the serpentine line to the aviation security checkpoint. Supposedly, London's Metro Police hired an American company to develop the next generation of contraband detection devices for use at Terminal 6. Seeing one in action would be worth the time wasted.

He knew his travel profile could attract some attention. Carriker was a single male of dark complexion without checked-in baggage. That type earns a second look by the transport authorities, until he reveals his Bawlmer accent and expands his chest through his Italian suit. Oh, they would conclude. He thinks he's here to help those of us not fortunate enough to be U.S. citizens. In truth, Carriker wanted to express a completely different kind of imperialism. There were better things to overthrow than governments. They decide where to put the decimal point. But if a biotech startup goes under because its patent drafts were stolen or the special projects branch of a blue chip finds its prototype missing, that's the just the beast going about its business.

Carriker preferred the notoriety of being a hired gun to the infamy of being a superhuman. A man who could move at blinding speed belongs with the unicorns, anyway. Like most people, he hated the superhumans that reveled in their celebrity status. Flaunting your special abilities was the worst kind of self-aggrandizement. This line of thought made him want to touch the gun.

THE TWENTYFIRSTERS by Kekoa Lake
There's no such thing as safety in numbers.
http://www.amazon.com/dp/B004TSCN6I


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## jennifermalin

This is a fun thread! Here's one from _For the Love of Lila_. The excerpt takes place within the context of a parlor game in 1820s Paris:

... Felicity, however, appeared no less than delighted. "We are among friends. Ask what you will."
"Yes, please," Tess said. "In fact, the preface to your question makes me curious."
"Lila?" Tristan asked, peering at her from the corner of his eye.
After the other women's comments, objecting would make her look even more naive than she did already. Besides, she had a natural resistance to showing trepidation. She lifted her chin. "I am intrigued."
"Good." He gave the other men an almost sly look. "I think my Italian counterparts can appreciate this. My question is: What setting would you consider the best place to make love?"
Lila's mouth fell open, while everyone else laughed and murmured translations to Signore Rapallo.
Tristan now avoided her gaze, looking down to pick up his writing materials.
As the others quieted and followed his example, she shook off her shock. At least he hadn't asked about Rebecca--but, good Lord, what a question. And she had to think of an answer!
Surprisingly, one came to her immediately.
In a way, it was a "naughty" one, but once in her head, she could think of nothing else. Seeing that everyone else had begun writing, she lifted her quill and followed suit.
"Would you like to start again, Lila?" Felicity asked.
She set down her quill but shook her head, both excited and shy about her answer. "You start this time."

If anyone wants to read more, there are sample chapters on my blog. The link is in my signature -- from the home page, click on the "Lila" link at the top and scroll down.

Thanks much!
Jen


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## Mike Cooley

Here's a section from _Desert Voices_, which is in my collection _Skin of Giants_:

The sound was now an ominous roaring in my mind, as if I were on the beach of some vast ocean as the waves crashed into shore. As I turned, slowly, I noticed the pedestal. It faced west into a strange bowl-shaped valley. Carved into the base of the stone chair were the words 'Seventh Mountain'. Near the edge of the precipice was a small wooden cross: a children's toy was fastened to it, weathered and torn. The stuffed mouse gazed out over the valley, as if waiting for something to happen. It was still waiting.

I set down my pack and climbed onto the pedestal. It was covered with glyphs. As I spread my arms and faced the valley, a large circular area shimmered below me, as if there were an ethereal swimming pool suspended in the air. The sound called to me. The translucent beauty floated in the air and held the boy's hand; her other arm gestured meaningfully: down.

I launched from the chair, arching my back, attempting a perfect swan dive headfirst into nothingness. The air rushed past me, but I felt no fear; the desert floor raced toward me, and then I was enveloped by darkness.

Thanks for reading! Link in my signature. 
--Mike


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## Markterry

From HOT MONEY by Mark TerryI stepped up to the security checkpoint in the Russell Senate Office Building and presented my ID and turned over my laptop. The Capitol Police cop studied my creds and checked my name against her computer. “Dr. Davis,” she said. “You’re expected. You know the way?”
“I do.”
She waved me through the metal detector and I picked up my computer and proceeded through the rotunda of the building with its white marble statue of Senator Richard Russell. The statue stood in what the sculptor probably thought of as a leadership posture, but I’ve always noted that the right hand is low and palm up—like he was waiting for some lobbyist to lay some green in his palm.
Senator Stephen McGarrity, Republican from Oklahoma, had his suite of offices at the far end of the hallway on the fourth floor. The Russell Senate Building actually has five floors, but due to Capitol Hill and the requirement that the building not be taller than the Capitol, only three of those floors are above the ground.
Staffers in the hallways didn’t seem to recognize me, or at least pretended not to. As I walked along the hallway, though, a female Democratic Senator from New York saw me and nodded. We knew each other. They call me when they need me, but rarely wish to acknowledge the necessity of our relationship.
My business card read:
Austin Davis, PhD 
Political Consultant
It should have a skull and crossed bones beneath my name with the line: I know where the bones are buried.
Sometimes I’m the one who buries them.


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## Rejean

DreamWeaver
pg 40

A surprisingly naked woman opens the door. She reaches out, grabs my jacket and pulls me in, slamming the door quickly behind me. It's a larger house than most I've seen around here. The front room is dark even though it's the middle of the day, and I can't see much as we walk through to another room in the back. Here a table, a few chairs and a couch made of wood covered in fairly ugly cushions are the only furnishings. She points through a blanket hanging over a door to a third room, and motions me to go in.

At least ten lanterns with coloured shades are casting a glow over the room, it's kind of dark but there are reds and greens and blue's mixing together in a flickering glow. Even in the smothering afternoon heat there's a little fire burning in a stone bowl off to the side. 
Just like in the Bronx, I see little pouches and glass bottles with liquids plus a couple animal skeletons and a few stuffed animals that look pretty real. There are carvings made out of wood, stone, and jade of animals, plants, and bizarre figures I couldn't make out. Bunches of hair hang from hooks. I don't want to think about that at all.

I'm supposing the old guy sitting on the floormat is the Mystic. He's got to be seventy or more and has long white hair that's tangled and knotted and hangs to his waist, sitting like he is, it's touching the ground. His face is scarred with what look like long thin cuts and he's got a couple burns on his forehead, cheeks and neck, he has only one eye open and it's bloodshot. The other eye is seared shut with burns.

He points to the floor in front of him and I lower myself to the mat.

This is actually happening, I'm here sitting in front of a Mystic. I don't even know what that is, or who this is. What the hell am I getting myself in to?

_Suck it up bud, and hope there's something real going on here._

He places a little box on the floor between us and reaches out for my hand. Holding it up just right, exposing the stump of the missing finger, he reaches into the little box and pulls out something wrapped in a scrap of colourful cloth, unfolding it with his other hand, I see my finger. I damn near faint, feeling my head waver back and forth on my shoulders. He puts the finger up close to the stump and assures himself that it looks like a fit.

Satisfied it is, he refolds it in the cloth, sets it back in the box and leans back to stare at me. After what seems like ten or fifteen minutes of this staring, or at least gazing my way, (it's hard to tell with the one dark red eye), he yells out in a strange dialect and the young woman enters. She listens to whatever it is he's saying and begins working at something on a little table to the side.

She's still buck naked.

Trying to keep an eye on her is hard, naked or not. I find the stare of the Mystic going right through me and am drawn to stare back. 
Finally he talks in this loud, raspy voice, "So you come ready for a journey. You prove your commitment. Are you ready to commence?" 
As unsure as I am about everything, my will to find Jane is still all consuming and I nod seriously, "Yes I'm ready."

A few words to the woman and a small stool is put between us. A bowl is set on it, filled with a sloppy, lumpy brown mixture, nothing I would want any interest in. Little leaves and a twig or two are sticking out giving the impression there's more inside.

"You drink."

I blink.

Look at the guy. Sitting up straight, chin out, and his arms folded across his chest. He says it like it's a beer or soda pop. I reach down and raise the bowl, peering into it. When the horrid smell reaches my nose, I start to set it back down. He makes arm gestures mimicking downing it, "You drink all, now, now."

Before I can think about what I'm doing, or change my mind, I raise the bowl in one fluid motion and drink down the concoction. I get it all drank except the last three or four mouthfuls. God Jane, the things I do for you. Almost hurling it right back up, I struggle to sit there. The Mystic isn't much comfort as he just sits and stares at me like he's waiting to see what I do next.

Oh boy here we go. Seconds later I'm light headed. The room keeps going out of focus and sweat begins to pour off my forehead. Numbness spreads and I feel like I'm turning to stone.

"I need your other small finger, right hand."

I want to pull my hands back, no way not again. I can't move, and mumble, noooo.

"Don't worry you don't have to cut it off."

That makes me feel better, but wonder if something is wrong. The room shifts and looks to be falling down, but it's really me, as I slowly fall over and land on my shoulder, looking at the mystic sideways.


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## firebird12

What a wonderful, ingenious and clever idea,

Now, which excerpt to use...? Everyone loves a good action scene...yeah...that's what I'll use. But which one...mmmmmmmmmm...that's it, well here goes.

As soon as she was in the air, Crystal realized that this was no ordinary witch she was following. They were accelerating far above the speed that most witches flew at, and instead of gaining altitude, they were just barely above the trees. Crystal was flying a little above the witch she was pursuing, just enough that as they flew past a lighted ball field, she could tell that the other witch wasn't on a broom either. After leaving the city lights behind, Crystal dropped down and started closing the distance between them. They were racing through the night air at an incredible pace. The cooling air was cutting into Crystal's eyes, causing the tears that were blurring her vision. As they neared the lake, the small nocturnal insects in the moist air pelted her face, cutting into her skin. Waving her hand in front of her, she mouthed a spell under her breath, "Praesidium Vesica." There was a slight pop, more felt than heard, and the wind, bugs, even the sound of the air rushing by her ears, was gone. Crystal had never tried to use a protection spell that way before, but was sure glad that it worked because the witch she was following was speeding up again. Fiddlesticks, she thought, whoever that is must have spotted me. Oh no you don't, she told herself as she matched velocities again. You'll not out fly me, she swore. 
Crossing over the lake, they were traveling so low that they were nearly skimming the water. Instead of pulling up above the trees on the other side, they dove through a natural tunnel formed by the trees of the forest. It wasn't a straight shot either, their course zigzagged back and forth through paths that were barely wider than they were, flying only a couple feet off of the uneven floor of the forest at speeds that made the trees appear as a blur as they zoomed past.
Crystal thought back to the days when she was only eight and nine and racing dirt bikes. This is more like riding one of those bikes than flying, it's an absolute thrill ride, of course one mistake and they'll be scraping me off one of these trees, she thought. Suddenly, without actually entering one, they seemed to be in a cave, but only for a split second then they were out into the cool night air at least fifty feet above the ground. Suddenly she realized that they had just gone through another gateway into New Salem. She quickly looked back over her shoulder to spot the opening so she could go back through from this side.
Just before they got to the school, the mysterious witch dropped down to a clump of bushes and disappeared. Crystal came down a little short and slowly walked up to and around the bushes, trying to puzzle out where the other witch had gone when she heard a hollow thump as her foot stepped on something solid. Stepping back and kneeling down she found a circular wooden trap door, lifted it a little, testing to see that it wasn't locked. She opened it up and dropped down to the floor of a small tunnel just tall enough that she could walk through as long as she remained stooped over. 
Knowing that the other witch had gotten away clean, she decided to find out where the tunnel led before going back to show Tianna and Melinda this new way back. As she lowered the trap door over her she thought, it's so close, this must end up inside the school. Taking out her wand, she conjured up a small glow globe, about the size of a golf ball, then bewitched it so it would fly just ahead of her to light the way. At the end of the tunnel there was another trap door overhead, she pushed it up and saw that it was in an old storage room full of boxes and old desks. Letting the door fall back shut Crystal traced her way back through the tunnel thinking, that if nothing else she had found a new way in and out of the school and New Salem, either of which could come in real handy in the future.

from: * Tianna Logan and the Salem Academy for Witchcraft  *​​


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## slpierce

This is from Secrets:

Now the hard part.  I had just killed a man and dumped his body but considered my next task the hard part.  I had to call Jack. Sweet, innocent Jack, who knew nothing of my past.  I had to call and explain what was going on, and that meant telling him everything.  

0.99


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## BethCaudill

Here's a short excerpt from my paranormal romance novella _Healer's Fate_

Liam couldn't watch the ceremony that would mate Corliss to someone else. He could've challenged for her, but that meant fighting his father-the ruling wolf, who was neither a tyrant nor senile. Both of them in their prime, a fight would have ended in one of their deaths, and he couldn't justify the loss of life.

Not even for her. Unable to keep control of his wolf, Liam let the animal free to seek solace in the forest. Except every tree, every scent roused memories of her, and the wolf circled back towards the clearing, towards the woman who should be his.

Stark quiet alerted him to trouble as the wolf crept along the edge of the grass. People were missing and those who remained stood as if waiting for the ceremony to start. He circled around to the front to get a better view, hiding in the shadows so as not to alert anyone. Raymond was unaccounted for. Corliss stood stiff-backed, facing away from the audience.

Her caramel-colored hair was piled atop her head, darkened to walnut in the moonlight. Shadows hid her sea-green eyes and emphasized her high cheekbones. She appeared cold, harsh, and removed from events going on around her. Yet he knew her to be warm and caring, often too caring.

Giving to others more of her personal energy through her healing powers than she should. As her friend, he could offer support, but he couldn't push too hard for her to rest, or she'd rip out his throat.

He chuffed. The dark blue specks in her eyes glowed when she was angry. That spark had been missing from her eyes for days. He repressed a growl as Corliss bit the inside of her cheek. Before the wind shifted, he backed away. She wouldn't appreciate someone seeing her close to tears.

The wolf wanted to rip a hole in Raymond's belly, but even the animals had rules for a challenge. He trotted to a cache of clothes. Only the man could help her now.


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## Valerie Maarten

I love the talent here...I will also admit that I've downloaded a few of the books based on the excerpts.  ~Okay, I'll also admit that I'm a book addict~  You guys are so much fun and your samples ROCK!!!  Keep them coming.  I'm sure I'm not the only one filling up my Kindle.


----------



## Elizabeth Black

Ooh, I like this! Here's an excerpt from my paranormal erotic romance 
novel, Feral Heat. This book stars Grant and Sam, two very sexy werewolves.



Excerpt:

Grant choked down several swallows of his monkshood rye concoction, hoping 
it would make his transformation less painful and intense. He had drunk this 
fetid swill for many years, yet time did not improve the taste. It was a good 
thing he didn't have to work in the morning. He set up his work scheduled 
according to the full moon, so he was off for the next couple of days. While 
the concoction didn't prevent him from turning, it took some of the agony 
out of it. He often thought of his trip to Germany two years earlier, back when 
he was an ordinary human being. What would it be like to enjoy a night out 
on the town drinking and carousing by the light of the full moon like he had in 
the Stag's Head Inn in Freiberg two years earlier, but his life had changed that 
night.

What if he hadn't gone hiking that night? What if he had stayed in the Stag's 
Head instead, enjoying pint after pint of lager? What if things had been different, 
even the smallest change could have affected his future. His buddy Heinrich 
had gotten up five minutes late that morning because his alarm clock had not 
gone off, making him late for work, so he had to work an extra half hour before 
leaving for the night. While he was working a cab driver carted locals around 
town, including a woman who needed to stop at the grocer to buy sliced ham 
and one inch thick lamb chops for a special dinner for her husband that night. 
If the butcher had not given some of his work, including the woman's, to a 
trainee, her sliced ham and lamb chops would have been prepared ahead of time. 
Instead, when she arrived, she had to wait five minutes for the trainee to prepare 
her food. If she had not had to wait, she would have been dropped off by the cab 
at her home ten minutes earlier, and Heinrich would not have had to wait an extra 
ten minutes for this cab to arrive at his work after the cabbie had dropped the 
woman off at home. And if Heinrich had not forgotten his wallet, he would not 
have had to run back to his work station to pick it up, making him an extra five 
minutes late for a total of fifteen minutes. And if Heinrich had not been fifteen 
minutes late getting to the Stag's Head Inn, he would have arrived in time to 
see Grant getting up to leave, and he would have convinced Grant to stay for a 
few more hours rather than go for a short walk in the Black Forest where Grant 
had run into the werewolf.

So much had changed in twenty-four months. Now, he relied on his Blackberry to 
keep track of moon phases while before his trip to Freiberg he didn't even notice the 
moon in the sky at all. Since moving to the town of Savage a year ago after fleeing 
rural Massachusetts, he had taken to hiding out in Dogtown on those couple of 
nights each month when the blood lust took over his mind and body. No one was 
safe when he transformed, and he did what he could to avoid harming people. A 
deer or stray dog quenched his blood lust whilst he hid from the world in the safety 
of the deepest area of the forest, waiting until the full moon decayed the five percent 
he needed to be out of trouble. He only transformed at night, and his gallon jug of 
monkshood rye alleviated his symptoms somewhat, but in the end he knew he was a 
danger and needed to hide, not only to avoid killing people but to keep the local 
authorities away.


----------



## Nicki Lynn Justice

This is such a fun thread! Here's my shameless plug!

Do you want a healthier lifestyle? Here's a tip: Grab an apple and download Black & White, my fun, exciting romantic suspense/legal thriller. Think rendezvous between a Canuck John Grisham and Gemma Halliday, with some twists and turns that are totally unexpected. The sale continues, and it still costs only $0.99. Remember, reading a good book a day will keep the doctor away!

Links:

https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/35883
http://www.amazon.com/dp/B004HO63UG

Blurb:

Jillian Kendall, Centurotech's corporate attorney, hopes that the strange events that have been turning her formerly peaceful life upside-down since she arrived in Calgary, Alberta, are a product of her over-active imagination. But as she implements the merger between Centurotech and Hunter Electronics, she is drawn into the web of deceit that has been spun around her. There is only one way out, and it involves asking Code Hunter, founder of Hunter Electronics and childhood friend, for help. The problem is that Jillian is not certain that he can be trusted. And he is just as wary of her!

Excerpt:

Jillian was about to push her chair back and follow suit when a pile of paper was unceremoniously dumped in front of her. She glanced at the first page. It was entitled "Release and Waiver". At least this was something she was familiar with. She didn't even bother to skim it. She just picked up the pen handed to her by the administrative assistant and signed. She knew exactly what it said. 
"Just a minute," said Code. 
Jillian noticed that he was reading the fine print. "Don't bother," she advised, stifling a yawn. "It just says that no matter what happens, you won't sue any of them."
"Happens?" he echoed. "What do you mean?"
"Oh, you know," she said airily, "if you're found cut-up, grossly mutilated, stuffed in a box, at the bottom of the ocean. Or found riddled with bullet holes in a dark alley, or&#8230;"
"You'd be lucky to be found at all." He followed her advice and signed at the bottom of the second page. "I've always wondered how someone can give permission to have their life ripped out from under them." 
She was startled, both by the bitterness in his voice, and by the fact that she had often wondered the same thing. "Well, it's kind of complicated. I personally think that you can't consent, not really." Jillian tried to quell the quiver in her voice and sound nonchalant. She knew she failed when Code looked up from the pile of paper in front of him. 
She immediately made a show of rifling through the papers in front of her. "When we get through this, I'm going to research that very question. It's really complicated, and hinges on the definitions of negligence and gross negligence." She'd show him that she did far more exciting things with her life than drafting contracts and hassling people like him.
"Okay. Fascinating as it may be, I'm just going to sign this stuff. If I'm going to end up dead, I'd rather not be bored to death. Stuffed in a box at the bottom of the ocean sounds good right about now!" He flipped to the next form in his pile.
So much for demonstrating that she was a worthy and experienced crime-fighting partner. She had just made herself sound like a real geek.

Thanks and Happy Reading!!!

Nicki Lynn Justice


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## libbyfh

Set the Night on Fire
(The link is on my signature)


Beginning of Part Two

"Casey, you're a Celtic knot." Alix giggled as she passed Rain the joint. The smoke Casey had been holding in exploded out of his lungs. He coughed long and hard, drowning out the chorus of "People are Strange" by the Doors.

"Are you all right?" Rain squinted through her granny glasses.

Casey nodded, his throat so raspy he couldn't speak.

Rain crossed her legs Indian-style and took a hit off the J. She held it in, exhaled quietly, then passed it to Dar.

"What do you mean, Alix?" Casey finally croaked.

Alix tucked a lock of blond hair behind her ear. The six of them were on the living room floor of the apartment, a shabby space with yellowed shades, torn linoleum, and cracks in the walls. "You're always making connections," she said. "With people, places, events. You twist things all together. Like a Celtic knot."

"Aw, man, you're just stoned." Payton wiggled his fingers and sang along with the music.

"Cool it, Payton." Dar raised a warning hand.

"It's all right." Alix gently stayed his hand and took the J from his fingers. She passed it to Payton. "Actually, a Celtic knot is a symbol for the complexity of the universe. No matter how our lives play out, we're all intertwined. Twisting and weaving and overlapping. No beginning. No end. Here, I'll draw it."

"Alpha and omega," Teddy said. He lay spread-eagled on the floor.

"Right." Alix got up slowly.

"You all right?" Dar and Casey said it together.

She giggled again and grabbed the back of the couch. "Trippy. I guess I'm a little high."

Dar's eyes, always dark and brooding, were edged with concern. He looked liked he wanted to rescue her, Casey thought. He usually did.

"Just sit," Casey said before Dar had the chance. "Don't draw anything."

But Alix shook her head and went to a large leather satchel in the corner. She fished out a pad and ink pen and started sketching. A minute later she brought it back and handed it to Payton. "See? It folds back on itself. Nothing lost. Very economical."

Payton stared without comment, took another hit, and passed the J to Teddy. 

Casey peered at the sketch over Payton's shoulder. He saw a circle with lots of overlapping lines and squiggles. "Far out," he said appreciatively.

"That's you. Symbolically speaking." Alix plopped back down beside Dar.

"Hey. This is good shit." Teddy exhaled and passed the joint back to Casey. "Where'd you get it, Payton?"

Payton scratched his forehead underneath his rolled up red bandana. "Uh... some guy."

"Casey scored it," Rain said. "Not Payton."

Payton shot her a dark look.

"Well, he did. We were in Old Town, looking for copies of The Seed—you know, the special one with the psychedelic 'Yippie' on the cover—and we met this guy. Casey started rapping with him, and a few minutes later, we walked out with an oz."

Alix splayed her hands. "Connections. See what I mean?"

Dar took Alix's outstretched hand. She snuggled closer to him. 

Casey tried not to notice. "Where's the hemostat?"

Teddy sat up, found it, and handed it to Casey. Casey clipped it to the roach, took one last hit and passed it back to Teddy, who took another toke, then dumped the hemostat and roach into a large ashtray. 

Payton sighed. "So what's the program, group?"

"I Love Lucy," Teddy said.

"Star Trek." Casey blew out the last of the smoke.

"The Flying Nun," Alix said.

"Fuck it." Payton shook his head. "And you call yourselves activists?"

"We boldly went where no man has gone before," Teddy said in a stagey, TV voice. 

"And met some very spacy creatures," Casey added with a laugh.

"We've done our part," Alix said.

"Wrong. 'There can be no peace until every soldier is out of Vietnam and the imperialistic system is destroyed.'" Payton scowled. "Quick. Who said that?"

Casey rolled his eyes. "Give it a rest, Payton."



Thanks Val!


----------



## datinman

Here's mine, from The Eye of the Idol:

Jacob bent back over and prostrated himself in mock humility. ‘You! Here I give you my false obeisance. You are the tree of the fruit of the knowledge of good and bad. I see it, my abomination, my trial, my penance, my...Bathsheba. You are truly beautiful, but I will not eat of you,’ he said as he looked back at her. ‘Your stare is poison to the soul of humanity. Your stare is poison to me, and I will have none of it!’ 

He looked back up and into her eyes, mesmerized by the glow of her stare. ‘You shall be mine,’ he said, but remembered. ‘Mine to carry...entrusted to me,’ and stifled another giggle. 

To think that such a thing could exist! As their eyes locked, his heart pumped faster and reached out, the liquid honey of desire coursing through his veins. ‘None of it!’ he repeated, not noticing the twitch of his hands in the anticipation of soon holding what he had come for.


----------



## Richardcrasta

Thanks for this thread.

Here's an excerpt from The Revised Kama Sutra ( http://amzn.to/gsSfPx ) when the hero, an innocent, wakes up to discover his first erection, and thinks he has a massive medical problem on his hands:

Because about the time that our cock, Bimbisara II, crowed thrice, my world had changed. Like Byron waking up one morning to discover he was famous, I woke up on that sunny morning of my fourteenth year to discover that my most unassuming member had tripled in length and was pointing unaccountably heavenward. I tried disbelief; I tried patience; I tried beating it into submission. When all failed, I rushed to the bathroom wrapped in an evidence-hushing bed sheet and proceeded to examine every aspect of what I regarded as a medical problem of historic significance. And then, failing to persuade it to retreat like a nice fellow, I had dashed back to my bed and snuck under my bed sheet, and wild elephants couldn't drag me out of there.

I hate to sound as if I have a chip on my shoulder about a bulge in my pants, yet what a pain in the vicinity of the nuts it became for the next five years! I'd have given anything, in those years, to read a treatise on Erection Management: how to negotiate undesirable hard-ons in public or how to tell your father: "I can't get up right now, Daddy, because I have a hard-on the size of the Octerlony Monument and I wouldn't like to upset any furniture."

. . . Consider: an erect penis is almost always incongruous. It does not belong. It is a homeless, stateless, parentless, pointless, extraterrestrial creature. Michaelangelo's David is a work of art; but give Little David an erection, and Florence would become the laughing stock of the world. An erection arrives like a bolt from the blue; and arriving uninvited, it stays as long as it jolly well pleases, or until well pleased.
[end of excerpt]

Most of the book is about growing up (of which this is a part, for every boy), childhood, mother, father, and an American Dream.


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## datinman

A quote from my truly disgusting "And You Thought Your Family was Dysfunctional!"

Jorge smiled and once everything was ready, he quickly turned to Samuel. Samuel, realizing the situation, jumped out of the way at the last second. Jorge smacked the igniter and a very surprised naked Alfonso, who had bent over to puke, felt a potato go up where things were only supposed to come out of. He promptly fainted on the spot, and the exclamations of “Ay Jesoosh!” told me something serious had happened.


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## philwhiteland

Ok, try this for size, from 'Steady Past Your Granny's':

"I remember watching a cartoon or some such when I was small that somehow instilled the notion in my mind that there was some awful nameless beast living in the toilet that was biding its time, waiting to capture unsuspecting children.  Somehow this notion then became contorted into the conviction that, in order to avoid the clutches of this horrific, and probably foul-smelling, nemesis, I had to get downstairs before the toilet had finished flushing.  Our bathroom in Anglesey Road (yes, we had a bathroom!  Posh, weren’t we?)  had been created by converting the back bedroom of what was, originally, a three-bedroom terraced house, and the toilet was at the far end of this room, by the window.  This meant, for the aspiring junior flush racer, a frantic pull of the handle, followed by a sprint across the linoleum, up two steps to the landing and then along the landing and down the stairs to the relative sanctuary of our living room.  This may not sound particularly daunting or challenging but you need to know that I was pathologically scared of heights, also widths, depths and just about any dimension you can imagine, and was desperately trying not to make my way downstairs by sliding from step to step on my bottom.  Timidity on the staircase does not fit well with panic-stricken flight and it’s a wonder that my childhood did not come to an abrupt end with me in a crumpled heap behind the stair’s door."


----------



## Nicki Lynn Justice

Happy Easter!! I was talking to the Easter Bunny yesterday, and she gave me a message for you! She said to grab your kindle and download Black & White, my romantic suspense/legal thriller novel, available at http://www.amazon.com/dp/B004HO63UG or https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/35883 for only 99 cents. Then you can eat all the chocolate you want as you are reading!

Here's an excerpt:

"Jump!" he bellowed. 
He had his "Commando" face on. Jillian could tell he was clenching his teeth, which caused the skin on his face to tighten up to the point that it looked as if it was stretched over his cheekbones. She wished she could do that. Her cheeks just looked podgy when she clenched her teeth.
"Now! Or I'll get out of this seat and throw you out!" 
"I can't!" she screamed. How could he expect her to jump? He was the pilot! It was his job to get the plane down safely!
The plane banked again, and suddenly he was beside her. He picked up his chute and quickly secured it. "There's no time to talk about this! We're at 2000 feet! You've got to jump!"
She craned her neck to look out the cargo door again, attempting to meld herself to the side of the plane. She wasn't going to jump! He was crazy if he thought she would! She'd rather take her chances and stick with the plane. Wordlessly, she shook her head.
The plane lurched wildly. With a muttered expletive, he grasped her wrists and yanked her away from the shelving which had become her mainstay.
"No," she protested, automatically bringing up her knee, trying to put some distance between them. "I can't!" 
He twisted, blocking her blows. "Not much chance of that. I've seen you in action before."
"Let go! There's something I have to tell you!" she said fervently, grasping a handful of his shirt. "You need to know!"
"It doesn't matter!"
"Just let me tell you! Then I'll jump! I promise!"
"Okay, it better be good." He left off pulling her fisted hands from his shirt.
She didn't want to die! She had to think of something, fast! "I didn't tell you why I helped Derrick!"
"This isn't the time!" He began to wrestle with her grip again.
"Please, Code, don't!" she begged, desperation edging her voice. She was going to die! She just knew it! She so didn't want to end up as a shapeless blob on the grey landscape below! "Derrick was Amanda's supplier!"


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## Pamela Kay Noble Brown

I really like this thread.  Great idea.  The excerpts are so good.  Here's a snippet from my book Revelations.  Hope you enjoy:

“Melanie, are you ok?  I didn’t mean to go on and on like that,” said Mike.  “Did I bore you to death?  It looks like you’re in a daze.”

“No Mike.  I was just taking in what you said.  You have no idea what…well…you just have no idea how much it means for you to open up and share with me like that.”  Melanie said, wishing that she could be just as open with him.  She’d already told him that she was 38 years old, never married, no kids and had recently moved back to Hampton.  She’d told him that she was trying to make ends meet working temporary administrative jobs during the day and that she enjoyed acting in community theater productions most evenings.  He knew that she was not seriously involved with anyone right now. But as much as he had opened up with her tonight, she just could not bring herself to tell him everything.

“Well as much as I’ve enjoyed our time together this evening, it’s almost ten.  I’d better get you back up to the house before mom puts out an APB on us,” said Mike while helping Melanie up from the bench.

When they entered the parlor Melanie saw that all of the other guests were gone.  Mr. and Mrs. Cornelius were enjoying cups of coffee and warming themselves in front of the fire crackling in the huge 24-carat gold-plated fireplace.

“Oh I’m so sorry if I’ve overstayed my welcome,” Melanie began, only to be interrupted by Mr. Cornelius bounding up from his chair.

“Not at all.  I knew you were ok as long as you were with Mike,” chuckled Mr. Cornelius.

“Now dad,” Mike laughed.  “Enough of those hints you’ve been dropping all evening.”

“You know your dad,” chimed in Mrs. Cornelius.  “He’s your biggest cheerleader…besides me of course.  Melanie my dear, thank you so much for agreeing to be here tonight.  You are welcome in our home anytime.  I hope you enjoyed yourself?”

“Yes I did very much.  Thank you again for having me.  And thank you so much for putting me in contact with those directors.” Melanie replied.

“Ditto what my darling wife said,” added Mr. Cornelius.  “You are most certainly welcome anytime.  Mike and I will go and have the valet get your car.  We’ll leave you two to say your goodbyes,” said Mr. Cornelius as he and Mike headed out the door.

“Melanie are you alright?” asked Mrs. Cornelius gently.  “You seem to have a lot on your mind.”

“Yes mam, I’m alright,” replied Melanie.  “I had a fabulous time at your dinner tonight.  And Mike and I had a good talk down by the lake.   He’s given me a lot to think about.”  

“Yes, he’s quite the deep thinker,” said Mrs. Cornelius amused, but obviously proud of her only son.  “But that’s my baby…oops don’t tell him I said that.”

“Ok I won’t,” laughed Melanie as they walked to the door.  

“Get home safely my dear.  And have a good night,” said Mrs. Cornelius as she gave Melanie a goodbye hug.  

Melanie walked to the car where Mike and Mr. Cornelius were waiting to bid her goodnight.  What is it she wondered?  There’s something I just can’t put my finger on.  Both times when Mrs. Cornelius had given her a hug, she’d felt…oh what was the word…safe.  That’s it. She’d felt safe.  Lord, I don’t know what’s going on she thought as she drove slowly back down the winding driveway.  Maybe, I’ve been working too hard lately.  

Snap out of it girl, she thought to herself.  Just relax and be thankful for the wonderful evening.  Time to get home and hit the sack.  God please help me she prayed.  Please give me some peace.  On the way home Melanie was looking forward to a good night’s sleep, praying that for once the horrible nightmare would not snatch her awake, leaving the bed soaked with sweat and fear.


----------



## Guest

Great idea. It's interesting to see all the different writing styles and approaches. Here's a snippet from Arrival, a free short story on Smashwords. The full story is here.

"I lost the auction." Jim slung the kitbag down and slumped in a chair. Shaking his head, Jake stepped across and closed the door Jim had left swinging behind him.
"Just as well. What would you have done if you'd won?" he asked, and Jim stared at the floor.
"I dunno. I'd have worked something out. I hate to think of her in the hands of strangers."
"And it took you a week to tell me?" Jake sounded unimpressed.
"I didn't think it would take that long to get home. Didn't want to talk about it." Jim wasn't being quite honest; he didn't even want to think about. Jake raised an eyebrow.
"Were you even close?"
"Not a chance. She went for more than my entire backpay."
"Just as well. I don't know what you were doing bidding in the first place. Why didn't you try to buy something less life-changing, like a house?" Jake was utterly unsympathetic, and Jim scowled at him.
"Just sentiment, I guess. I need a drink." Since he was nearer, Jake grabbed two beers from the fridge and sat down, tossing one to his maudlin brother.
"Shouldn't you wait until you're out of uniform for that?" 
"Who's going to care?" Jim cracked the top of the beer and downed a swig, staring moodily at the floor. Jake chuckled, and his brother looked up and glared. He held his hands up in a soothing gesture.
"Jim, seriously, looking at this from the point of view of a rational person and not an obsessive pilot, what the hell would you do with a defunct nuclear bomber?"


----------



## FrankZubek

Opening few pages from my book The Crowell Files: Volume One Empath
The link is below

THANKS for this thread  Valerie!  Fun stuff !



Without A Scratch 

“People don’t respect the dead anymore, Mr. Crowell.” 

I turned to look at the woman who had spoken to me. She was older with a pale complexion and, grey hair, wearing a simple black dress. She didn’t seem as bothered by the light drizzle of rain as everyone else. 

I was at the Brooklyn Cemetery, which sat on the northern city limits of Brooklyn. An old acquaintance from high school, John Moore, had died and I had been granted a few hours of personal time from work to attend the funeral. 

After mass, we all drove to the cemetery and huddled together under a large, makeshift tent for the final ceremony and prayers. I was on the way back to my car when the mysterious woman approached me. 

“You see the way they walk right over the graves?” she said, nodding toward the crowd as it broke up.  “Not even thinking that it’s more than just grass they’re walking across, but people?” 

A few dozen people stayed behind, shaking hands and making promises to keep in touch, but the bulk of the crowd headed back to their cars. Just as she had pointed out to me, they were making a beeline across the grass, ignoring the significance of the ground that the grave markers stood guard over.

“Not to excuse them,” I suggested, as I pointed toward the crowd, “but our society does tend to focus more on the living than those who’ve passed.” 

“At least until you become a burden by growing old.”

“I don’t disagree.” I had the feeling that I should know her, and yet I didn’t recognize her.  Finally, my curiosity overcame me. “Forgive my manners,” I said. “But I didn’t catch your name.”

“Kellogg. Barbara Kellogg.”

“Nick Crowell, but then, you already knew that.”  I moved to shake her hand but she just nodded her head and I respected that. Some people preferred not to be touched. “Did you know John?” 

“No.” 

“I hear he gave it a good fight,” I said. “But the cancer just wouldn’t let him go.”

“Death has its own schedule,” she said. “Anyway, I’m not here to pay my respects to him. I have business with you.”

“With me?” I asked.

“Allow me to walk you to your car,” she said. 

Without my having told her where I had parked, she started walking toward it. I began to have a weird feeling about her but I followed anyway. Once we were a few yards from my car, she stopped and turned to face me. 

“Listen, we know that you’ve been questioning your purpose in the grand scheme of things. We appreciate your efforts.”

“We?” I asked cautiously. 

“We know that we interfere with your normal routine on occasion. The sacrifices you’ve endured so far have not gone unnoticed.” As she said this, she pointed a finger toward the horizon. Not at the group gathered under the tent surrounding the casket, but beyond, toward the older section of the cemetery- where the larger grave markers were. Hundreds and hundreds of white and grey headstones, all of various shapes and sizes. For a moment, they looked very much like the bare bones of animals left exposed to the elements after the vultures had picked them clean. 

Then it hit me. She was referring to the dead. 

While staring at the grave markers, my mood grew angry. My encounters with the dead had been the cause of my divorce and I hadn’t seen my two boys in over a year. While my near death experience had certainly changed my life, I no longer had what anyone would call a normal routine what with ghosts and people with paranormal problems walking into my life every couple of months. And then it struck me what she said just moments ago. 

“What do you mean by, ‘so far’?” I turned back to her but she was gone. I spun around in shock, knowing that my suspicions about her were now confirmed. One minute she was standing next to me, and the next moment, she had vanished as if she hadn’t been there at all.  

I was still angry about what she had said and yet I knew enough from the experiences I’d had that I needed to respect the dead. And yet, look at what this had cost me. While I was curious about what she had hinted at about my immediate future, I knew that there was very little I could do about any of it except to do as I had always done. The best I can. 

I certainly didn’t want to do this forever and there had been times when I wondered if this was some sort of penance for me. For what, I had no idea.

But like she had said, Death had it’s own schedule. 

Wanting to get out of the rain, I whispered, “You’re welcome,” and headed for my car.


----------



## Valerie Maarten

You guys are so much fun.  I'm so glad everyone is having as much fun as I am.
@philwhiteland - I had tears streaming down my face.  I literally laughed out loud.  You're funny


----------



## Remi Michaud

The Path of the Sword

In the dungeon:

Time meant nothing in his hole. He had no idea how long he had been in there. Days? Weeks? Months, maybe. It all blurred together in the seamless, stinking darkness. At first, he had tried to keep track of time by the meals-a slimy, tasteless slop that he probably would not have eaten if he could have seen it-shoved through the little square at the bottom of his door, but it seemed to him that they came at irregular intervals. After what he suspected was about three days (but was in fact closer to five), he had given up.

The gravity of his situation had weighed him down from the first moment he was shoved into this pit of the underworld and as time wore on, for he knew that time still passed, it pressed further and further, worming its way into the cracks, pushing out bits of himself, until sometimes he could not remember his name. It suffocated him along with the stench of decay and offal.

The skitter-pitter-patter of tiny claws clicking and the vulgar squeaks that had so repulsed him for a while when he was first brought here, began to seem almost seductive and it awoke in him a savage, animal hunger. As yet, disgusted with himself, he had managed to ignore that urge. He kicked the furry little blobs that scratched over his feet and his chest.

Sometimes, something caressed his thoughts like a warm breeze, and a familiar voice whispered from the deepest recesses of his mind, but he could not seem to remember who that voice belonged to. It was a friendly voice, a calming voice, but it was alien, apart, and as is often the case with things unknown, it was frightening. He had known that voice at one time, he had known the name attached to that voice but the knowledge eluded him and that frightened him more.

So he drew in on himself and when that voice called, light as a tulip's petal, he shied away, retreating deeper into himself, and ignored it.

When he slept, he dreamed and those dreams were broken things that caused him to toss about fitfully on the pile of wet straw that someone, somewhere, dared call a bed. They were slivers of the life he thought he must have led before the here and the now and they made him ache, the half-remembered bits and pieces pulsing like a fresh bruise. Bright light-the sun, some part of him supplied-dazzled the green grass, tall structures of wood and brick stretching as far as the eye could see.

The worst was when there appeared images of a face. It was a hawkish face with piercing eyes. When that face smiled in his fractured memory, he felt a small part of him die. The name-Dade? Dasit? What the hell was the name?-was important to him and he wanted nothing more than to remember it. Even more than he wanted to remember his own name. Names were powerful. Names brought memory. He knew the name yesterday, he was sure of it. Or perhaps it was last week? What the blazes was that man's name?

Invariably, he could not remember and he wept bitter tears that burned streaks into his face. When that happened, he jumped up and down, roaring out his frustration, pounding soundlessly at the heavy door, and scratching at the stone walls certain that if he pushed just a little harder, he could break through, could see the sun. He did not remember his first view of the cell. He did not remember seeing the bloody scratch marks left by a previous occupant, or maybe it was the one before, identical to the ones he was surely leaving. His hands were hot as torches at the ends of his arms and when he touched something, he left behind a wetness that would have chilled him to the bone if he could have seen the color of it.

How long had he been trapped in that pit? Who cared? He could not even remember his name. 
Pulling his filthy clothes, tattered to rags, and damp with excrescence and mold, around his rapidly diminishing frame, he curled up and prayed into the blackness to a god whose name he could not remember for a sleep that he hoped would be blessedly dreamless.


----------



## Dee Ernst

Here's a bit from Better Off Without Him

Aunt Lily was sitting in my favorite chair, still adjusting her clothing, smiling at me. "I did interrupt, didn't I? I'm sorry, Mona, but, I felt it best to just walk through the door. If I tried to explain what was I was planning to do, I was afraid we'd argue, because I don't have a clue what to do next."

"I see." Although I didn't. "So, you sold the apartment?"

"Yes. For 1.3 million dollars."

"Oh." That's the kind of information that could stop any conversation. At the same moment, MarshaMarsha stuck her head in.
"Your sister-in-law is on the phone," she said. "Marsha."

Good Lord, those tribal drums were quick. "Tell her I'll call her tomorrow," I said to MarshaMarsha. I turned back to Aunt Lily. "You were saying, ah, 1.3 million?"

"Yes. I could have held out for more, but I wanted a quick sale. I've become very concerned about the impending arrival of Martians in Prospect Park and wanted to get out of Brooklyn as quickly as possible."

That's also a big conversation stopper. My jaw may have been hanging open. Patricia sailed back in, looking totally unruffled.

"Lily, we were just finishing up lunch. Can I get you something? The trip must have been horrendous in midday traffic," Patricia said, looking at Aunt Lily as though Aunt Lily were just any normal person.

"Patricia, that would be lovely. I am famished. And, truthfully, I'd love one of those famous martinis of yours."

Patricia looked modest. "Certainly. We were just discussing another round as you came in. Perfect timing."

"Aunt Lily," I said loudly, "was just saying that she felt the urgent need to leave Brooklyn because of the impending Martian invasion of Prospect Park."

Patricia blinked. "Well, then, we'd better get you a double," she crooned, and swept out. MarshaMarsha, hovering in the hallway, stuck her head back in.

"Martian invasion?" she asked. I don't blame her. I mean, honestly, who wouldn't be curious?

"Yes. It's not generally talked about, but those of us on the Park know." Aunt Lily tightened her lips. "The media, of course, refuses to listen."

I didn't know where to look. Luckily, Ben came in, shaking his head.


----------



## Guest

This is a great idea for a thread. Here's an excerpt from my romantic comedy novel, TAKE A CHANCE ON HIM, linked in my sig.


She got only two houses down before she heard Millie calling her name. So much for the walk, she thought.

Millie was the oldest neighbor on the street. She was also the one with way too much time on her hands because she always seemed to know everyone’s business. She had a way of inserting herself into every situation that was going on in the neighborhood—everything from neighbors disagreeing over the location of a fence or new trees to divorces and even what the neighborhood kids were up to.

She was like a walking, talking neighborhood tabloid rag.

“Morning, Lori.”

Lori looked up to see Millie sitting on her front porch. She waved and tried to keep going.

“Got a minute?” Millie sat forward in her wicker chair.

Crap, Lori thought. A minute, sure, but with Millie it was never just a minute.

She made her way up the sidewalk and onto Millie’s porch. The old woman sat with a shawl wrapped around her shoulders. She wore her hair in a tight gray bunch, close to her head. She held a newspaper, and Lori thought she must be one of the few people still subscribing to the print version. It was beyond Lori why anyone would pay for news that was at least twelve hours old when you could read updated versions free on the Internet. She chalked it up to a generational thing.

“Morning, Lori,” Millie said again. “I just realized that sounds a little like ‘Morning Glory' especially if you say it fast.”

“Sure does.” Is this why the old woman had called her up to the porch? To tell her she’d come up with a rhyme?

Millie asked her if she’d like a cup of coffee. Lori declined, adding, “I was just heading out for a walk.”

Normally a person would have said something like “Don’t let me keep you,” but Millie didn’t operate like a normal person.

“Do you know the Cathertons?”

Lori said she did.

“They’re having some problems. Now, I know you had a few problems yourself the last couple of years but nothing like this.”

Lori could never remember why she or her neighbors put up with this woman. She didn’t want to hear what was happening with the Cathertons. It was none of her business and she only knew them from block parties and saying hi at the store, things like that.

She really wanted to get back to her walk, too, so she decided to fill Millie’s head with a totally false rumor that would push the Catherton story right off Millie’s front page.

“I doubt they can top my story, Millie. Really.”

“Oh, honey, you have no idea what—”

Lori cut her off. “If I tell you something, will you promise not to let it get out?”

“Of course.” Millie’s eyes widened.

“What happened between Richard and me…it wasn’t really a divorce. Everything you heard about him cheating was a cover story.”

“Oh my. Go on.”

Lori was happy to go on. “This has to be kept very hush-hush.”

“You can count on me.”

“It was all a cover story because Richard needed to move on to another job. He’s in the C.I.A.”

“The C.I.A.?” Millie said it in a whisper.

Lori nodded and pursed her lips, like she’d just revealed a grave secret. “I can’t go into why he was stationed here. All I can tell you is it has something to do with someone else who lives here who might be a double-agent and is spying for the North Koreans.”

“That’s horrible. Did he catch the spy?”

“I can’t say. Millie, I really need you to keep this quiet. I just figured you should know the truth about Richard and me.”

“I won’t tell a soul.”


----------



## Nicki Lynn Justice

I just wanted to post again because some really awesome things happened last week!

Kinderati, a super-cool site for anyone who enjoys a good book, posted an interview with me featuring Black & White. You can read all about me at http://www.kinderati.com/2011/04/nicki-lynn-justice-on-her-legal!

Then, if you're in the mood, you could trot on over to Chicki Brown's Blog at: http://www.sisterscribbler.blogspot.com. Guess who she featured Friday That's right...me! There's an excerpt posted, and a lot of really cool, reasonably priced books listed, which should make your decision about your post easter bunny prezzie that much easier!

To top it all off, I got the cover for The Oracle! I posted it on my facebook site at http://www.facebook.com/home.php#!/pages/Nicki-Lynn-Justice/17988238. Of course, I'm biased, but I just love it! It will also be at 99 cents for a limited time.

To get you in the mood to do all that clicking and reading, here is a new excerpt:

_"Now, about that cat..."
She sighed. "This is going to sound really silly."
"No sillier than you just did."
She ignored that comment. "It was a way of rating my relationships. If I liked the cat better than the guy, I'd dump the guy."
"But you don't have a cat."
"I have a good imagination."
He nodded. "So how many imaginary cats did you get rid of?"
"None," she replied.
"Anyone ever ask you to get rid of the cat?" he quipped, to cover the curious feeling of pleasure her words evoked.
"The last one would have. I got rid of him instead.
"But you were going to get rid of the cat for me."
She shrugged. "I was half in love, almost asleep, and had just been through the most incredible love-making experience of my life, so I may not have been thinking clearly."
He preened. "I've been told that I'm pretty good."
"Hah," she exclaimed. "They probably just felt sorry for you."
He quirked an eyebrow at her, but didn't bother to reply. "I don't think anyone has ever said they were half in love with me," he said softly.
"Don't count on it. It could go either way. The cat hasn't been dropped off at that nice home in the country yet."_Want more? Download Black & White, still priced at 99 cents. It's available at http://www.amazon.com/dp/B004HO63UG or https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/35883

H.E.A.'s Forever,
Nicki Lynn


----------



## Keith B. Darrell

_Great idea! This excerpt is from "*Paved With Good Intentions*": A dialog between my characters, Gabriel, an angel and Lucifer, a demon, who find themselves tasked with a mission on a college campus. _:

Inside, the pair reverted to their true forms. "I could make a small fortune here," Lucifer said.
"What?"
"Soul futures. This place is ripe for the picking."
"Are you saying you want to buy mortal souls?"
Lucifer shook his head. "Of course not. We don't do that any more."
"You don't? I assumed &#8230; I mean, everything I've heard about &#8230;"
"No, we've gone high tech. Harvesting human souls one by one, then waiting decades to collect was so&#8230; like watching paint dry. Now we use complex mathematical formulas and geometric progressions to calculate the degree of potential corruption in a mortal's soul. Based on that calculation, we discount the soul's present value and trade soul futures. The better a demon's portfolio, the higher the level of Hell he rises to."
"You profit by gambling on the future corruptibility of mortals? That's twisted!" Gabriel exclaimed.
"Isn't it?" Lucifer agreed, with a wry smile. "A nasty piece of work like that 'Black Tulip' could be worth a pretty penny. Not to mention a teen slut like Rose. But if I were to obtain a soul future for innocent Daisy, and were she later corrupted, the value of that soul future would be -"
"Outrageous!" Gabriel exclaimed.
"Exactly," Lucifer replied.
"No, I mean the whole thing is outrageous. Betting on the outcome of mortals for personal gain &#8230;"
"Not betting; sometimes we're in a position to give a little push, you know what I mean?" Lucifer winked. He caught Gabriel's disapproving gaze. "Now don't get all holier-than-thou with me."
"I _am _holier than thou! I'm an angel!" Gabriel replied, indignantly.
"So, how exactly do you guys earn those halos and wings?"
"I can't tell you. We're not allowed to discuss that."
"So, Mr. Holier-than-thou and his goody-goody brethren have secrets? I knew there had to be some dirt up there. What is it? Secret initiation ceremonies? Come on, I won't tell, I promise."
"I told you, we can't talk about it. Besides, your promises are meaningless. You're a demon from Hell. By your very nature, you are a dishonest, pathological liar, with no sense of ethics and no moral compass to guide you."
"You say that like it's a bad thing."


----------



## Marcin Wrona

A quick excerpt from Pale Queen's Courtyard. Leonine has come to steal, and to do so he'll need to seduce a manor's mistress.


“What is this?” Leonine asked, genuinely curious. “I’ve never tasted its like.”

“Wine made from the plum,” she said. “I am told it is a round, violet fruit that grows on the islands that make up Akros. Amashuk introduced me to it… though it is difficult to get. Akrosian goods have been too scarce of late.”

How true, he observed wryly. Akrosian ships only rarely came to Sarvagadis or Adarpa – that was, in fact, precisely why he’d come.

He drained his cup, and grinned at her. “I could be persuaded not to denounce you to the Master of Coin, if you’d be so kind as to pour another.”

“I suppose I’m at your mercy,” she said. Taking up the ewer, Ila-uanna leaned in close to pour another cup. The scent of jasmine and cloves lingered when she drew back.

They played, and talked of inconsequential things. She was born not far away, in Inatum, the daughter of a once well-to-do family that had fallen on difficult times since the conquest of Ekka by the Merezadesh – “your people”, she had called them. He told her that he had grown up poor and humble in Sarvash, and that he learned to play the lyre from a kindly uncle. She spoke wistfully of a marriage she had been forced into and a husband that, over time, she had come to love. He spoke of a life spent single, a traveler with neither the wealth nor the time to attract a wife. As her horsemen struck across the river and attacked his flanks, she told him that she was terribly lonely. And wasn’t he also? He said he was, sometimes.

When she spoke, her rich voice wove strands of pain, joy and regret; a tapestry of a life halfway lived. There was honesty in it.  In what he had told her there was little honesty, although perhaps some of the regret was real. He too had lived life halfway.


----------



## athanos

Excerpt from Mad Gods Redux - Chapter 3: Dangerous Words. 
* Mad Gods is Bible Revelation metaphorically crucified when the Antichrist refuses his destiny
and makes an apocalyptic escape from Satanists, Templars, Dark Nobility & the Catholic Church.*

He stood for a moment, and snuffed out the light on his helmet. As his eyes adjusted to the dark 
he sensed phalanxes of shelves, with heaps of scrolls and leather-bound velum, leafed volumes 
and rows, stretching past perception. He sensed the vast breadth of storehouse; its edges stretched 
for hundreds of feet to his left, right and before him. Every other library and archive that Kosta had visited
private, secret, rare or unique - was now forgotten. Some of those places had contained rare volumes on 
forbidden subjects and lore, which would've damned or maddened lesser men, yet there he stood, sensing 
pregnant danger in this dark. All other past dangers paled in comparison to that which he now felt. 
This danger was latent, rolled up in parchment, bound in velum or forgotten pelt. The dark, itself, 
or the reading of these words, freed them, allowing them to coalesce into their most vicious possibilities.

Their danger lay in their essence, what they were - lies. Lies were valuable. The best lies were able to stand 
the test of time and weren't measured in black and white, fact and fiction. Rather, they became society, 
respected thought, accepted dogma. If enough people believe these lies long enough and hard enough, 
they will them to become fact. The belief of these lies transmuted them over centuries into truths, 
for which faithful millions had killed and been killed.

Christians were told that somebody had died and three days later, had come back to life. This was an old lie 
that many believed and continue to believe. None of it was real, rather, it was the product of human imagination
and all-powerful want and desire. This lie had been believed and told long enough, that it became a something, 
without which faith couldn't continue. This particular belief illustrated that if something is desired for long enough, 
imagination makes it real.

In the past months Kosta had read myths that spoke about the creation of all life. These creation stories explained 
that when the cosmos was alone and there was nothing else, it wanted to breathe and experience and, therefore, 
started life. It then furthered experience and went on to touch, to eat. In time the cosmos wanted to experience 
more and made the overwhelming abundance of life we know today. These myths explained that all the diversity 
of life was made so the cosmos can experience itself. Nobody knew what was before the desires for experience. 
The need to live became more basic than thought. It was unquestioned. The questions came with why life existed at all. 
Clerics, priests and philosophers, whose musings filled libraries, had tried to answer with mixed results. 
History called them Pagans, Christians, Luciferians, Muslims, Buddhists, Atheists. It was all a matter of personal choice. 
That was the essence of what Kosta had read, of all the combined lies: desire.


----------



## Grace Elliot

_http://graceelliot-author.blogspot.com/p/samplesunday.html
This excerpt from A Dead Man's Debt joins Lord Ranulf Charing with his beloved stallion, Fable. _

Head down against the wind, his riding coat flapping behind like satanic wings, Ranulf made for the stable yard. He needed to ride hard and banish Miss Armitage for her soft honesty threatened to open fissures in rules he held as constants. Ranulf needed physical exertion, to outride the storm until his old self reasserted itself and vulnerability was no more.
A maelstrom of hay and straw greeted him in the stable yard. A lad in patched breeches clutched at his cap whilst keeping a wary eye on the heels of the dancing grey stallion. The head groom, his face puce with the effort, clung to the bridle of the muscular horse cavorting in circles around him. Already the horse's neck was lathered with sweat as the squalls tugged at his legs, charging him with restless energy as the groom struggled to quiet the wild eyed beast. 
"I'll take him." Ranulf's gruff voice carried on the wind. Suddenly the horse stilled; ears pricked and nostrils flared. Fable's coal black eyes widened further as he extended his neck and snickered a greeting. Docile as a lapdog the stallion stepped forward, nudging his velvet nose against Ranulf's jacket pocket. 
"Giving Johnson a hard time eh?" Ranulf accepted the probing snuffles with a half smile, hot horse breath tickling his palm. Dipping into his pocket he pulled out a carrot. "This is for you my old friend." 
Johnson rubbed his forehead with the back of his arm with a low whistle of admiration. With a bald head and round face, he was a muscular man, work hardened by years spent with horses. He knew his business and earnt the respect of many through his gentle handling, bringing even the most flighty to heel.
"He's a one man 'oss Sir, and no mistake."
The powerful stallion munched with quiet satisfaction, docile as any cart horse. Then a gate slammed in the wind. Fable braced in an instant, muscles tense, flanks quivering, poised for flight. Softly Ranulf stretched up to rub the sweet spot under his forelock and whispered,
"Easy boy. Soon we'll outrun the wind, you and I." 
Ranulf's intention was to right his world in the only way he knew; to ride himself into oblivion. Only with his lungs on fire, blood racing and the wind stinging his face might he quiet his troubled mind. The stallion calmed beneath his touch, bunting his nose against Ranulf's broad chest. 
"Storm 's a brewing Sir." Johnson nodded gravely toward the gathering clouds. 
Checking the cheek straps, loosening the throat band, satisfied Ranulf threaded the reins over his elbow and moved round to the saddle. With a cursory glance at the sky he lifted the saddle flap and tightened the girth. "Plenty of time before it closes in." .....

(Excerpt from 'A Dead Man's Debt'


----------



## HelenSmith

There's a short video of me reading an excerpt from my dystopian thriller, The Miracle Inspector, on YouTube.

Warning: It contains a spoiler and some bad language.


----------



## pentalpha

Brilliant. Gold fever was sweeping Glasgow bringing out every ned, nutter and corrupt cop in the city, thanks to the Bumble. 
'You realise, Davie, that there's a posse of psychopaths out there in search of Eldorado. 
'There's definitely more than one ingot,' said the Bumble. 'Mind, I told you about Tony taking the documents and showing them to that guy who runs a militaria shop?' 
I nodded and flicked my ash into a pewter ashtray that featured a naked couple making the beast with two backs. 
'Well, that's when the trouble started. As you know, Kev Barr showed up, but there was also this other punter who turned up at my office demanding the Nazi documents, saying he would'nae leave without them and I thought...' 
I interrupted him. 'What was this character like?' 
'About mid-seventies, well dressed... oh and he wore a macabre silver ring... ye know like bikers wear... a skull design.' 
I frowned over at Charlie who simply shrugged. 
'Got any proof of what you're saying?' I said. 
'Aye,' said the Bumble, 'if ye go intae the wardrobe over there it's in the suit jacket.' 
'What am I looking for?' I said pushing through black and pink basques, a PVC raincoat, corsets and various lingerie garments that were designed for more intimate moments. 
'It's in one of the side pockets there, a black card embossed with silver lettering.' 
I rummaged some more, ignoring the packet of fruit flavoured c*nd*ms, and found the card and held it up. It had four capitals that spelled HIAG. and a telephone/fax number at the bottom right hand side. 
'H...I...A...G....' I read out. 
'Haig?' said Charlie. 'Was the guy a whisky rep then?' 
The Bumble and I exchanged looks. 
'I take it he wasn't a whisky rep,' I said. 
'No,' said the Bumble, 'I did'nae get that impression.'

From:
The Bumble's End by Jimmy Bain 
_Comedy Crime featuring femmes fatale, corrupt cops and 
useless crooks - all chasing after a stash of Nazi gold._

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

WARNING: ADULT CONTENT

I'm at the cubicle door when a tanned arm reaches past me and slams it open. 
I open my mouth to protest and he grabs it with his own mouth, pushing me 
backwards into the cubicle with his body. The door closes behind us; the latch 
clicks. I wrestle free, breathless from the kiss, from the swim, from the shock.
'You're beautiful,' he says. 'My mermaid.' 
We stand face to face, my eyes level with a badge bearing the name "Ryan". I am 
about to introduce myself but it seems he's not interested in my name. He slips his 
fingers under the straps of my black one-piece and pulls it swiftly to my waist, his 
movement quick, sure, smooth. My breasts are exposed, my ni**les hard, my flesh 
goose-pimpled.
'Ah,' he says, 'Ah yes.' He kneads my cool flesh, circling his hands over my breasts. 
My t*ts feel firm, like rubber balls rolling against my breast-bone beneath his hot 
hands. He kisses me again and I imagine the taste of chlorine he must have on his 
lips now, as I do too.
'I've watched you for weeks,' he says.
'I know,' I say.
'I know you know,' he counters, and we both smile, our eyes locked, his blue gaze 
searing mine.
Then he steps back slightly to look me up and down, the expression on his face 
appreciative, arrogant, relaxed. He knows he has me; he can take his time. I'm 
at a disadvantage, naked to the waist while he's still fully clothed. He strokes my 
abdomen, sliding his hand beneath the clinging black swimming costume, the tips of 
his fingers halting at the top of my pubic bone. I shiver in anticipation. A fraction 
further and he could touch the silk filaments of hair that nestle there.

From:
The Stiletto Heel and Other Stories by Barbie Scott
_Nine raunchy stories to get you hot under the collar._

Read more excerpts on my blog http://barbiescotterotica.blogspot.com
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


----------



## Nicki Lynn Justice

What would you like to do on Mother's Day? While the mess monsters are making you brekkie in bed, you could be reading! Grab your ereader and download Black & White, my fun, exciting romantic suspense/legal thriller for only 99 cents! Then choke down breakfast and face up to the mess in the kitchen.

Go to http://www.amazon.com/dp/B004HO63UG!!!

Here's another fun thing to do on Mother's Day: check out my new blog at www.nickilynnjustice.webs.com! Guess what my latest post is about? It begins with a "p"... and if you're a busy mom like me, it makes your life much easier! My blog is pretty much me uplugged...just your basic rural Albertan mom with an opinion on EVERYTHING from soup to nuts, including reading, writing, weightloss secrets that really work (ha ha got you), how to be a millionaire (or not), self-help (okay, sure), and gourmet cooking (K.D. forever)! Remember, you are not alone in this quest called "Motherhood"!

If you read my blog, you will eventually figure out that I am violently opposed to cooking and cleaning. It wasn't a concious choice, it just happened. However, even though I love frozen pizza, I did find the best pizza dough recipe ever, which I will post on my blog today! Yippee!!!

Anyway, here's my excerpt! Happy Mother's Day Everyone!!!

_ A scream of pure terror lodged in her frozen larynx! Her mind was unable to make sense out of the scene being played out. All she could think was that she had to get as far away from this beast as possible.In one economical movement, she twisted, ducked, and scooted backward. The safety bar on the door slammed into her lower back and the door hit the wall behind it with enough momentum to create a resounding thud!
"Calm down! It's okay," said the squirrel, its voice hedged with concern.
A squirrel? It was furry, had big brown eyes, and sported a slightly ratty tail that curled above its head, making it at least eight feet tall. And it could speak human! 
Her inner self called off the five star panic attack, but her autonomous nervous system wasn't quite convinced that she was safe. Her legs were unable to keep up with the velocity generated by her sudden flight. 
The squirrel lunged toward her, and she finally released the loud ear-splitting shriek that had been building since her first glimpse of him. His paws settled on her shoulders as her centre of equilibrium changed. They twisted in mid-air while she struggled to push him away. She felt a reverberation through his body, and experienced a fleeting moment of relief. It would have hurt if the hangar floor had made contact with her back instead of the squirrel's. 
Jillian was dimly aware that she was stretched out on top of him, and that he felt like a lumpy cushion. She tried to lift her head and get her bearings, but her face was pressed into his furry chest at an angle. An odd smell, akin to mildew and dampness, tickled her nostrils. She hoped it wasn't squirrel body odour. She sucked in a lungful of air, and her world exploded with a loud sneeze.
"Stop it, Jillian," the squirrel gasped. "Hold still!" 
"Can't help it," she mumbled into what she thought was his elbow, "I'm allergic to dust and mould." The squirrel's grip slackened enough for her to lift her head and push up. He groaned. She locked her elbows and quit struggling. He did seem to be in some pain. 
Impressions followed at the edge of her receding panic: his ragged breathing, the pain of her lower back where she had hit the door, the press of her sunglasses clipped onto her shirt, the fact that he called her by name. 
That caused her heart to skip a beat. How did he know who she was?_

H.E.A.'s Forever, 
Nicki Lynn


----------



## Mehryinett

Some nice stuff in this thread - glad I found it. This is from Aching for Marvin, an erotic romantic comedy (I really must come up with a better genre description than that) about a woman who is desperate to rekindle the passion in her ten year marriage.

The story so far: Christa is on holiday with her husband Miles, their three children, and her mother-in-law, Mrs Vanderveldt. Christa is recovering from the embarrassment of having been in the bath, having a quick... well, _self-massage_, when her mother-in-law walked in on her. She has just gone for a lie down, alone, on the hotel bed.



> She looked across at Miles's pillow.
> 
> _Holy mother of gosh, what was that? _
> 
> It was red and gold, and about ten inches long. Grey plastic was beginning to show through the worn ridges at the side. It was slightly curved at the tip, like a banana. Christa hoped against hope that it wasn't what it looked like. There was a folded note beneath, on hotel letterhead. The handwriting was spidery and elegant:
> 
> "Chrissie, darling, I just couldn't bear the thought of you using that awful bottle. This is Marvin. He's served me faithfully for many years. No batteries required! Just give him a wash when you're done. Pattie."
> 
> Christa pressed a pillow over her face. She wasn't sure what was worse - the idea that her mother-in-law would lend her very own much-used dildo, or that she had critiqued Christa's masturbation technique. And "Marvin"? Wasn't that the name of Miles's first pet dog?


----------



## jennifermalin

Funny that like Mehry above, I have a Miles in my book, too, but I suspect otherwise the stories are very different! 

_Lord St. Leger's Find_ is a Regency romance (think Jane Austen), originally published by Zebra Books. In this scene, aspiring archaeologist Mellie is in London with a couple of her scholarly colleagues for an Egyptian-tomb exhibition.



> "This is asinine," Ben said. "What is that howling supposed to represent? Are we to infer that jackals commonly make their dens in Egyptian tombs?"
> "I believe we're supposed to think a resurrected mummy is wailing at us." Mellie smiled about his unwillingness to suspend disbelief. "It's silly but fun, don't you think?"
> "No, I think it's misleading to people who don't know any better." Ben pointed to the walls around them as they entered the model tomb. "Look at these hieroglyphs. They're very poorly executed. And what's that in the corner? 'Belzoni' spelled out in capital letters, like so much graffiti. Apparently, some archaeologists have no sense of humility."
> Miles leaned close to her and whispered, "And some no sense of humor."
> She giggled.
> Advancing through the first passageway, they turned into an unlit hall. Complete darkness loomed around the next corner. A howl sounded next to her ear, and she yelped, automatically pulling Miles closer. This time she continued to cling to him, laughing. As they stepped into blackness, he wrapped an arm around her shoulders. She leaned her head against his chest, not caring if the move was a bit forward. His heart beat at her ear.
> Heaven help her, she wanted to stay right here forever.
> "Some exhibition," Ben muttered, invisible in the dark. "We can't see a bloody thing."


Links to the Kindle edition on Amazon and to my blog are in my signature. You can also read the first couple chapters on my blog by clicking on the _St. Leger_ link at the top of the home page.

Thanks for reading!
Jen


----------



## Mel Comley

Thanks Val.
Here's an excerpt from Cruel Justice due to be released shortly. My other two books are available and in my signature.

Cruel Justice

Prologue.

Friday August 30th, 2007

The welts on the woman’s naked back became more painful. She had no concept of time, no idea how long she’d been tied up. Her hands had lost all feeling from being tightly bound to an old wooden chair. 
Is this how her life would end?
It had taken a while, but her nostrils had finally grown used to the vile stench permeating her temporary cell.
Time, all she had was time. Time to think, time to ask the same question over and over. Who the hell was he? And why was he holding her captive? What unspeakable thing had she done in her life to make a complete stranger treat her this way? I’m a kind and caring person, aren’t I?
What kind of person kept a woman locked up in a hellhole such as this?
He tortured her with silence when he brought her food, if you can call week-old bread food. She had tried different ways to get a reaction out of him, shouting, reasoning, even her pitiful attempt at begging had fallen on deaf ears. His sneer, and the way his dark eyes roamed her naked body in response, made her skin crawl.
Now her own thoughts had started torturing her. Her aching limbs cried out for warm lavender-oil filled baths, if only to wash away the urine stinging her legs and the faeces clinging to her behind. She felt utterly degraded. It was a far cry from her usual opulent lifestyle.
Agonising minutes dragged into torturously long hours. Please, when will this nightmare end? How will this nightmare end? she asked her maker, repeatedly.
Water constantly dripping in the corner was enough to drive the sanest person mad. She blocked the noise out by reminiscing happier moments, hoping it would help prevent the craziness threatening to seep into her mind. Fearing her life would soon come to an end, she prayed endlessly that her dead husband would be there to greet her when she finally passed over. How wonderful it would be to feel his comforting arms around me now.
Her heart leapt into her throat when the hatch door swung open. The sudden rush of daylight hurt her eyes, causing them to water. She winced and was swiftly reminded that her right eye was swollen from the beating she’d received a few days before.
The man gingerly made his way down the precarious ladder, followed by another person.
The imprisoned woman’s pulse accelerated, furiously gathering momentum. He crossed the stone floor and stopped in front of her.
“Please…please let me go,” she pleaded, in a childlike voice.
The man stared at her for a moment, then the vilest of laughs escaped his lips. “Why? Tell me why I should let you go?”
“I beg of you, please, tell me what I have done?”
He smirked, and circled her chair in a menacing manner. “Ah, ignorance is a blissful thing.”
Bile rose in her throat and she swallowed it back down. “Please, I’m begging you. Please tell me what I’ve done wrong?”
Through clenched teeth he said, “If only you had done something. Helped in some way, but you didn’t, did you? It was far easier to just leave us there. To let us rot in that shithole for years. Well, now you know how it feels.”
The man’s words and aggression made her flinch. “I’m sorry, but I have no idea what you mean. Do I know you?”
“You’re all the same. You avoid helping those who cry for help. Your kind makes me sick.” As though filled with a terrible venom, his lips turned down, then he jerked his head and spat on her face.


----------



## Nicki Lynn Justice

Hi Val:

I was just cruizin' through, reading excerpts, and thought that I would post again. It is warm out now, and people are thinking about getting outside, and I have a few ideas on how to do that!

My plan for a healthier lifestyle: Grab your ereader, walk to the park, find a nice bench, then download Black & White, my fun, exciting romantic suspense/legal thriller. Think rendezvous between a Canuck John Grisham and Gemma Halliday, with some twists and turns that are totally unexpected. The sale continues, and it still costs only $0.99. Remember, reading a good book a day will keep the doctor away!

Links:

https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/35883
http://www.amazon.com/dp/B004HO63UG

Blurb:

Jillian Kendall, Centurotech's corporate attorney, hopes that the strange events that have been turning her formerly peaceful life upside-down since she arrived in Calgary, Alberta, are a product of her over-active imagination. But as she implements the merger between Centurotech and Hunter Electronics, she is drawn into the web of deceit that has been spun around her. There is only one way out, and it involves asking Code Hunter, founder of Hunter Electronics and childhood friend, for help. The problem is that Jillian is not certain that he can be trusted. And he is just as wary of her!

Excerpt:

Jillian was about to push her chair back and follow suit when a pile of paper was unceremoniously dumped in front of her. She glanced at the first page. It was entitled "Release and Waiver". At least this was something she was familiar with. She didn't even bother to skim it. She just picked up the pen handed to her by the administrative assistant and signed. She knew exactly what it said. 
"Just a minute," said Code. 
Jillian noticed that he was reading the fine print. "Don't bother," she advised, stifling a yawn. "It just says that no matter what happens, you won't sue any of them."
"Happens?" he echoed. "What do you mean?"
"Oh, you know," she said airily, "if you're found cut-up, grossly mutilated, stuffed in a box, at the bottom of the ocean. Or found riddled with bullet holes in a dark alley, or&#8230;"
"You'd be lucky to be found at all." He followed her advice and signed at the bottom of the second page. "I've always wondered how someone can give permission to have their life ripped out from under them." 
She was startled, both by the bitterness in his voice, and by the fact that she had often wondered the same thing. "Well, it's kind of complicated. I personally think that you can't consent, not really." Jillian tried to quell the quiver in her voice and sound nonchalant. She knew she failed when Code looked up from the pile of paper in front of him. 
She immediately made a show of rifling through the papers in front of her. "When we get through this, I'm going to research that very question. It's really complicated, and hinges on the definitions of negligence and gross negligence." She'd show him that she did far more exciting things with her life than drafting contracts and hassling people like him.
"Okay. Fascinating as it may be, I'm just going to sign this stuff. If I'm going to end up dead, I'd rather not be bored to death. Stuffed in a box at the bottom of the ocean sounds good right about now!" He flipped to the next form in his pile.
So much for demonstrating that she was a worthy and experienced crime-fighting partner. She had just made herself sound like a real geek.

H.E.A.'s Forever,
Nickie Lynn
www.nickilynnjustice.webs.com


----------



## Valerie Maarten

You guys are getting very creative with this little exercise.  I'm loving it!!!  I haven't posted in a while, so this is mine.  This is an excerpt from Second Chances.

The set-up:  Kadi needed to see her father after his release from prison for murder.  Although she remembered little about that horrid time, she still remembered the man that loved and cherished her.  Now, after all these years, she must confront her beloved father and ask him if he’s the monster all of society labeled him to be. 

************************************************************************

Kadi stood at her father’s door.  This was further than where she had gotten yesterday.  “Here goes nothing,” she said under her breath.  She took in a deep breath.  She held it for a moment then blew out.  She knocked.

She didn’t hear anything at first.  Suddenly, a calm washed over her.  Relief.  Maybe he wasn’t here.  Maybe she didn’t have to face him and…. The door opened and she stood still, unable to breathe and incapable of moving.

For a long while, they both just stood in the doorway.  No one said a word.  The flood of emotions and the endless barrage of questions seemed to be barreling ahead, blinding them for a moment.  Then he cleared his throat.  His voice sounded raspy and hoarse, like he hadn’t used his voice to speak in years.  “Kadi?”

Tears began to well up in her eyes and she couldn’t stop them from flowing.  Her throat constricted, preventing her words from coming out.  She simply nodded.

The look of complete pain and joy took over his aging face.  He didn’t know how to react, just stood there with his hands to his side and waited for her to give him permission…a sign that it was all right to embrace, to hold her and tell her how much he loved and missed her.  

The permission he sought was written all over her face.  He cautiously took her into his bony arms.  She could tell that underneath his shirt he was frail, just skin and bones.  But she didn’t care.  He was here, right now…holding her. 

“Papa, I’m so glad to see you,” she managed to eke out after a long while.

“I’ve missed you, Angel.  I’ve missed you so much.”  He gave her a tight squeeze and let her cry on his shoulder.

They spent the next few hours talking and crying and catching up as best they could on each other’s lives.  It didn’t take long for Kadi to realize that their lives were not that dissimilar.  In a sense, she had also been imprisoned for the last 20 years.  She didn’t realize until talking to her father that she hadn’t begun to live, until this moment.

Her reunion with her father was more than she had dreamed about over the years.  For the life of her, she couldn’t remember what she was so apprehensive about.  She learned, by talking to him, that he had quite the sense of humor.  She couldn’t say what type of wherewithal a person would need to possess in order to retain some of life’s precious gifts, like humor and hope.  But whatever it was, you had to be strong.  And she learned that he was that…he was strong.

After the pleasantries of becoming reacquainted were over, she knew she had to ask the hard questions.  She simply couldn’t leave without having done so.  In this moment of clarity she realized that no matter what her father told her today, she would still love him the same.  She may be sorely disappointed or maybe even appalled, but she would never stop loving him, as he had never stopped loving her.

“Papa,” her voice was soft and unsure, “…are you….did you kill Hanna?”

He didn’t flinch.  His eyes stared off, but he didn’t blink.  Kadi could feel her heart pounding up in her throat.  She steeled herself as she waited for his response.  And silently she prayed.  Her heart was ripping from her chest and her mouth turned dry.


----------



## jennifermalin

Interesting to see how many different ideas are out there -- and how creatively everyone has expressed them. Great excerpts, everyone! And great thread, Valerie -- thank you for starting it!

Here's an excerpt from my ghost romance (contemporary with a Victorian ghost -- or two):



> ... The notion of an invisible Peeping Tom spying on him disturbed him--and the reminder of his own voyeurism embarrassed Geoff. While he'd lived, he never would have resorted to such a shabby practice. Voyeurs, like critics of poetry, sank to their sordid pursuits because they lacked the capability to participate themselves.
> He knew...only too well.
> Ashamed and angry about his fate, he banished the other spirit from his mind and floated down closer to the mortals. In the dimly lit room, Lara shone like a diamond--though, admittedly, one "in the rough." If only she would dress in a manner befitting her beauty, she'd be a gem of unparalleled magnificence.
> Entranced by her golden curls, he nuzzled up to her neck, trying in vain to detect the scent of her perfume with his useless ethereal nose.
> "Oh!" She flinched and rubbed her upper arms, her blue eyes wide as she looked toward Mark. "Where is that horrible chill coming from?"
> _Horrible?_ Geoff balked, nearly as startled as she. For a moment he'd forgotten himself--forgotten what he was.
> Shoulders sagging, he glided away from her.


Thanks again for reading! Sample chapters are available on my blog -- links to that and to my books on Amazon in my signature.

Jen


----------



## Seeker

*Hi All,

Post the beginning of your book here, so that others can get a taste of your writing!

Here's the opening of my book, 'The Legend of Trinity' -*

'You cannot do this to me!' Poskar pleaded, handing the drink to his father.

King Edemius Pedastro sat on the bed with his legs stretched out in front, closely studying the face of his son. He couldn't believe that the dark eyes staring at him once belonged to a laughing kid, who used to fall asleep on his lap after listening to the stories of the ancient kings.

Emptying the cup in a single sip, he replied, 'Justice is inevitable!'

'What justice? I am the rightful heir!' Poskar barked, 'I deserve it! Not her!'

Cold sweat sprouted from the King's face. His eyes appeared unfocussed. His breath flickered. When he spoke, his voice was heavy, 'To rule is not a right, but a responsibility. A great doom pervades the land where the crown rests on an unworthy head!'

'Unworthy?' Poskar's face shivered, as tears crawled over his cheek.

The King's uneasiness was increasing rapidly. A strange grip seemed to be choking his heart. Wiping his face with his sleeve, he said, 'Vila deserves it more than you! Because you&#8230;you&#8230;your mind is greedy. It is cold. There is no love in it!'

'Father!' Poskar groaned.

'No, not father, but King! That is what I mean to you. Nothing else', The King tried to step out of the bed, but his legs felt numb. Suddenly, it seemed his body had become heavier. He felt giddy; as his entire body wobbled. Unable to sit any longer, his back gave way and he collapsed on to the bed, the cup dropping from his hand.

Poskar stood up, his breath random. His eyes narrowed as he smiled. 'Yes, your highness! I am greedy. Unless you proclaim otherwise, I am the next lawful King. And that I shall be!' His voice increased to a shrill pitch as he continued, 'It pains me a lot to do this. But it must be done.'

The King writhed holding his chest. He tried to breathe, but failed. The suffocation kept on increasing until it exploded.

Everything went silent, as the King sank back sighing, abandoning the last drop of air coiling within his lungs.

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00522MQYY

Regards,

Seeker


----------



## CraigInOregon

Okay, I'll play along:

MOST LIKELY
ASIN: B0052G1JAC
Amazon Link: http://tinyurl.com/67hse7f

*CHAPTER 1*

"Runners to your marks!"

At Coach Lansing's words, Becky Howard walked to her respective lane and assumed her starting stance. She looked to her right and her heart began pounding quickly, climbing in her throat while she waited for the smoke from the starter's pistol.

"Set!" the coach yelled.

Becky shook her arms out. She felt poised and patient.

When the smoke appeared, she launched herself down the track, the sound of the pistol reaching her an instant later. She started smooth and found her pace. In one of the outside lanes, Lucie Ford jack-rabbited off the gun and leapt to an early lead. Becky didn't let it bother her. Her legs pumping, she breathed in through her nose, out through her mouth. She kept her eyes straight ahead and concentrated on maintaining her pace.

As the first lap came to a close, she pulled even with Lucie. The younger girl was huffing irregularly, her skin glistening with a fine sheen of sweat in the oppressive afternoon sun. When Lucie glanced over and saw Becky running even with her, she panicked and poured on an extra burst of speed. The effort put her three strides ahead of Becky. She stayed there throughout the second lap.

Becky picked up her pace as she pounded out the third lap and hugged the inside track as she came to the first turn. Lucie's feet moved in a blur but as Becky pulled even with her, they fell into an identical pace. Lucie's face strained from the effort to breathe as she huffed like a steam engine.

Her own lungs began to burn, but Becky maintained control of her breathing. She ignored her body, knowing the feeling would soon pass.

As the girls passed Coach Lansing, the gun sounded again, signaling the final lap.

Becky sped up, pulling energy from an inner reserve. Lucie found her own burst of energy and managed to stay even with Becky as they entered the first turn. Becky held the inside lane as she rounded the turn, hoping to pull ahead and finish Lucie off, but the sophomore stayed dead even.


----------



## ajbarnett

Here's my first page from *Without Reproach*

The face in the mirror reminded her of a bad shave in a cartoon. It was full of nicks and scratches, and visible ends of stitches where flesh had been sewn back together. The trouble was, cartoons were supposed to be funny but this cartoon made her feel like crying&#8230; Where had her face gone?

Apparently, after they'd brought her in she'd remained unconscious for several days - and they said she was lucky&#8230; She felt like shit. 
Her shoulder had been pinned together, her head, a tiny metal plate inside. It was true that only a small chunk of swirling dark hair was missing but it made her self-conscious. Her once petite nose was swollen, discolouration fading but noticeable, high cheekbones marred with stitches.

"You haven't caught me on a good day," she said, glancing from the mirror to the woman by her bed. "I could be bitchy."

"You've been a hard person to trace, Jenny. I'll manage." The woman proffered her hand. "Maria Santos, abogada."

Jenny frowned.

"You'd probably call me a solicitor back in Britain. A lawyer."

"I know what an abogada is. What I don't understand is why you've been tracing me."

Jenny took the hand in her good hand as best she could. It hurt her shoulder though, and she wished she hadn't. She'd almost learned to move without moving, would probably make a good busker when she got out.

"Sorry! I should have realised. Are you feeling up to this?"

"I guess so. But I'm still woozy. I'm afraid you'll have to bear with me." She put the mirror onto the cabinet by the bed.

"Say if you want me to leave."

"I'm fine. I'll be okay, just don't expect too much."

The woman undid her attaché case, took out a sheaf of papers and studied them. "I'm afraid red tape in Spain is rather cumbersome. I sometimes wonder if one day we'll get buried under our own paper work."

Jenny became curious and struggled into a sitting position. Denia hospital was far from home and the prospect of company, a treat. The next bed was empty. It had been occupied for a while but the woman was gone, discharged. There'd been hardly anyone to talk to for days. Not that the woman had spoken much, but she'd been a face to look at, someone to share her frustration with.

"Is it the accident? I wasn't driving you know. I can't remember much about it but I wasn't driving. I'd scrounged a lift after a party."

There had been a confusion of red tail-lights, a blocked carriageway, the car jolting, scraping, bucking; nowhere to go before they hit metal. She'd drawn her knees up; instinctively lowered her head; willed her whole being to shrink up her backside. It was sounds she remembered the most; metal screeching, glass splintering, sounds she didn't want to recall.

"No, it's nothing to do with the accident." Maria shook her head, her eyes all the time on Jenny, perceptive, no sign of emotion. "Okay, so let's start with your full name."


----------



## mikelewis

The opening of *Changers' Summer*

It was raining the day it started. The thin, green, sticky rain that stuck your hair to your head in tangled strands. The kind of rain that dripped in long strings from the bottom of your coat.

Tom sat at the kitchen window looking out across the farmyard, his feet tucked under him. He half watched the rain and half watched his mother baking. Although Tom didn't like the green rain -- he hated the way it marked your shoes and stained your clothes -- it was a welcome sight after the days of yellow rain.
You couldn't go out in the yellow rain. It attacked your clothes, ate holes in the soles of your shoes and generally messed you up. Yellow rain meant days stuck in doors.

"What're you looking at?" Tom's mother asked from behind him. He could see her reflection in the window, her features wavering in the light from the oil lamp.

"Nothing much," he said, staring through her reflection and out into the green, wet world beyond.

"You should go out while you can," his mother said. "It'll be school again soon and then you'll be stuck in doors even on green rain days." Tom turned to face her and watched her hands kneading the large, soft ball of dough.

"I'll go out," he said, pushing up his glasses. He knew that his mother would soon find a chore for him to do if he didn't leave now. Perhaps he could find Jordan?

"Good." His mother turned back to her cooking, humming an old song quietly to herself.

Tom put on his big old black boots and the thick raincoat, which had been new that year. He pushed open the heavy back door and stepped into the porch. The patter of the rain was louder now and Tom could smell the wet stickiness of the ground.

Bess, their old collie dog, was lying across the doorstep and Tom had to step across her to reach the yard. She looked up with sad old eyes and muttered something in a deep growl before flopping back onto her paws. She didn't speak much nowadays. Her voice-box was wearing out and Tom's father hadn't been able to get the parts to replace it. Tom nodded at her and stroked her head for a moment, tracing the grey hairs now showing through the black. "Just going for a walk, Bess," he said. Bess had taught him his first few words and they used to have long conversations when he had been much younger.

Mike


----------



## MoonglowNovel

My turn!
--------

*MOONGLOW - A Sci-fi Lesbian Romance Set In A Future Fashion World*

CHAPTER ONE​
Sometimes, when a dream lingered, one felt the waking world and the dream world were indistinguishable. It was one of those dreams and one of those mornings for Shell Dawes, who felt her dream dissolve beneath her eyelids and woke to the palest sunlight she could remember in a long while.

Focusing on what seemed like a new world, Shell peered through the traces of her fantasia and her rich blonde curls to see the tall, svelte silhouette of her lover holding court in the neighboring kitchen. "

It's about time you woke up," said Rena Hilst as she came into focus, approaching Shell, a coffee mug in each hand. "I debated bouncing on the bed if you snored any longer."

She set a mug on the ivory nightstand beside Shell and sat on the bed's edge, steam undulating around her face as she sipped her coffee.

"I don't really snore as dramatically as you say, do I?" asked the Australian-accented Shell as she reached for her mug. "I never used to."

"Lately, it depends how much champagne is in you," said Rena through a snicker. "You were a drum roll all morning."

Shell's gaze traced the line of Rena's profile. Forehead to chin, she was flawless. There was something feline about her huge, green eyes. Her cheekbones, high and defined, were like rocks peeking up from the fare, tranquil sea of her face. Her neck, long and thin, did not bounce or jitter but waltzed as her throat swallowed coffee. Those green eyes shifted to meet Shell's stare and she felt caught in a vacuum of admiration as the gentle morning light made Rena and her thin, shoulder length blonde hair glow.

"How do you do it," asked Shell. "It's hardly past, what? six-A.M.? And already you look as if you rose up from some holy mould. Amidst angelic light and fanfare, no less."

Rena blushed, smiling a bit, and kept at her coffee.

"Rena, would you do me a favor, please? Snag my saving grace from the dresser?" Shell referred to her hangover remedy of choice; a mild painkiller with anti-anxiety properties.

Rena thought that an odd request. Shell was never far away from her pills, no matter how distracted or drunk. Nevertheless, who knew? Rena was equally wasted the night before so wasn't sure if Shell had left her lovelies in the wrong drawer or wrong room or both. Regardless, she grinned and rose, set her mug on the window-sil and sauntered passed the cream colored, silk-draped bed, the satin of her forest-green robe gliding over her body like breeze through dandelions.

While Rena was out the room, Shell dug into her nightstand's drawer and produced a small ornate tin. From it, she took two periwinkle capsules and washed them down with coffee. She sighed relief and waited for the calming wave to hit. She thought of the day's schedule. In about an hour, she had to be Downtown for the final day of Resort Fashion Week. As a mid-way point between Fashion's Spring/Summer and Fall/Winter seasons, Resort represented everything whimsical, fresh and carefree about style.

The day would begin in the Fiona Wallan Building that always housed Fashion Week shows in Moonglow City. One of the industry's most exciting designers, Paolo Saavedra, a Spanish designer who mused incessantly over Rena, was first up. His collections usually went over without a hitch but they were so elaborate that extra care was often required. That's why Shell had to be there, just to make sure everything was one-hundred-percent for her clients. As one of the top talent agents at Moonglow Model Management, Shell injected herself into the event coordination process, wanted or not. She was a sweetheart, though, more of an extra set of analytical eyes. That kept her hovering presence in the loop. For a friend like Paolo who filled his shows and campaigns with Moonglow talent near exclusively, Shell was even welcome. She knew she could be a professional pain in the ass sometimes. Always expected to be more than what she seemed, Shell mostly expected that of herself. Shell was never the kind to leave things up to others in the spirit of teamwork. She was there, involved, often to the point of excess but that is what helped make anything her clients were involved in exquisite.

Romo, Charlie. MOONGLOW (Kindle Locations 23-61). Smashwords.

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

I just copied the first chunk on the first screen of text from my Kindle for PC program. All this e-Publishing stuff has led me to mentally forgo page numbers. @[email protected]


----------



## mamiller

Yay! I love previews. 

Here is the opening of my romantic suspense, WIDOW'S TALE - .99 cents

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.


----------



## Betsy the Quilter

Hi, I've merged Seeker's First Page Previews with our existing Excerpts thread.  Authors, you're welcome to post a first page preview or an excerpt from elsewhere in the book--I suggest you identify where in the book it is from, as some have done even with the excerpts.

Also, please post an excerpt, not just your book blurb (although you may post that WITH the excerpt).  Posts that are not excerpts but merely promotional will be removed (I removed a couple already).

Thanks!

Betsy


----------



## jennifermalin

Cool to see the snippets still going! Got another one mid-book for you. This from my Regency romance _The Artful Miss Irvine_ (link to $2.99 on Kindle version in my signature below):

From the cluttered surface, she picked up a playbill and grinned. "Troilus and Cressida. I just read this while aboard ship."

Her enthusiasm surprised him, for he had seen the play a fortnight before and had not been impressed. "Yes, Mother persuaded me to escort her to the production at Covent Garden when we first arrived in town."

"Oh! I'm sorry I missed it."

"I cannot say I cared much for it." In fact, the play had touched upon a nerve. He felt his lip twitch at the memory.

Miss Irvine stared at him with wide eyes. "Why ever not?"

"Cressida starts out as such a promising lover for Troilus, seemingly very attached to him. Then, for no apparent reason, she ends up in the arms of another man." His voice cracked, and he paused to clear his throat, taking a step away from her. He pretended to straighten a portrait on the wall beside him. "Of course, I knew she would, as I'd read Homer's version of the story in school, but I still found myself asking why. Why does she do it?"

"She does it because he finds her so easily dispensable."

The conviction in her voice startled him. He shot a look at her, only to be more astonished by the sparks he saw in her eyes. All signs of pleasure had drained from her face. "What do you mean? He obviously loves her."

She looked heavenward, then back at him. "Cressida has given herself to Troilus body and soul, yet he surrenders her to the Greeks without a word of objection. You call that love?"

Thank you for indulging me!
Jen


----------



## 5711

_Thanks for offering this. Here's page 99 from the latest paperback version of *The Losing Role*:_

The Americans' helmets had horizontal white stripes. They were Military Police-MPs, they called them. Could it be that easy? Max wasn't sure. Logic and sentiment clashed and sputtered in his head.

Felix passed around American chewing gum-Black Jack gum. Zoock refused it, but Felix and Max chomped on theirs, smacking and sucking down its weak licorice sap. Any prop would help. Luckily Rattner was still passed out, his head hanging to one side.

The MP jeeps were parked angled into the road, creating a narrow passageway. The armored car stood behind, its gun aiming down the road. "Easy," Max said, "easy." As they approached, slowing, an MP each moved to the hoods of the two jeeps. They had Thompson submachine guns-"tommy guns" like Chicago gangsters used. They raised arms to halt the jeep. Zoock came to a stop.

One MP was a lieutenant and the one on Zoock's side was a corporal. The MP corporal stepped forward. Seeing Zoock's Confederate hood flag, he rolled his eyes. Then he gave Max a lazy salute, which Max returned with only a nod and a smack of gum. Only now did he realize he was smoking and chewing gum. Frightful.

"Kill the engine, please," the MP said to Zoock. Zoock did so, and they heard the distant thunks of battles. It was much louder without the whine of their jeep. Zoock and Felix straightened in their seats. The MP winced at the loudest bursts. He had thick eyebrows. "Man, you boys look lost," he said.

"Yes, yes," Max began. Zoock blurted:

"Ah wreck-on we done gone da wrong dang way."

The Chinese Southern accent had returned in force.

"What?" said the MP. He pushed back his helmet and cupped a hand to his ear.

"Ah sayde, we done-"

"He thinks we're misplaced," Max shouted over Zoock.

"Come again, sir?" The MP stepped closer.


----------



## wm ollie

http://www.amazon.com/Sideshow-ebook/dp/B003WJRNHO

_Something happened today&#8230;_

He was standing there, staring into a swirling white mist, just as he had stood on the sidewalk this afternoon gazing into a hazy grey fog that seemed to have surrounded him. And just like this afternoon, there was music and laughter, the rollicking sounds of children running wild through Hannibal Cobb's Kansas City Carnival. He could see the sign swaying gently in the breeze, beckoning him forward, the Ferris wheel spinning in the sky above him. Fun and games, music and laughter and Girls! Girls! Girls! It spoke to him, whatever was out there waiting in the night. 'Come to me, Jackie," it said. 'I'm waiting for you. I've always been waiting. Come, Jackie, see what I can do!'

He could see it, just beyond the swirling twists of steam, the wide open arms of the carnival, which lay like a great and glorious beast before him: men and women strolling happily down the thoroughfare, children skipping side by side with a host of sideshow performers: a juggler and a midget, a sandy-haired sword swallower dressed in a gold lamé outfit, who smiled and drew a saber from his throat as if pulling it from a leather sheath strapped to his side; painted women, scantily clad, some not clothed at all. There was a blonde, a perfect picture of the youth he so coveted. Long, flowing hair cascaded over her breasts, and those breasts were huge. He could feel them flattening against his chest as she embraced him. There was a scar on her cheek, a twinkle in her eye. A scar on her cheek, but he didn't care. She was young and lithe, and his if he wanted her. He could see her face wavering in and out of the swirling veil of steam that lay before him. It was there and then it wasn't, there and back again, and then gone, replaced by the leering face of a raven-haired beauty, dressed in a skimpy red outfit. Her eyes were green, her red lips heavily glossed. Her lips parted and she smiled. Then her mouth began to open, wider and wider&#8230; wider still, until before him in that swirling mist of steam was a garishly painted mouth as wide open as the maw of a roaring lion, and from that mouth a rush of gold coins began to fall. He could see them, sliding from her as if she were a human slot machine, tumbling end over end through the mist and clattering against his white porcelain sink. He stood there, watching a gleaming mound of yellow fill his bathroom sink as if it were a pirate's chest.

Jack dropped the shaving cream to the floor-the razor quickly followed. He ran his hands into the sink, scooping up a heaping pile of coins and pouring them over his head, smiling as they dropped clattering against the tile. Behind him was the steady hiss of the spraying shower, the pitter-pat of water beating the floor. He scooped another pile, raised his hands and felt those emerald eyes seeking him out.

He looked into the mirror, and there she was, smiling, her green eyes sparkling as she said, "Come to me, Jackie. I'm waiting. I've _always_ been waiting."


----------



## Gertie Kindle

This excerpt is from the novella included in an anthology of 7 stories.



A SLICE OF LIFE​
Chapter One

Grace clutched her notebook to her chest and tried to calm her beating heart. She could see the bus coming down the street and knew she'd have to start her project once she got on. Breathing deeply and repeating relax to herself over and over seemed to be helping, but not fast enough. The bus stopped with a whoosh of brakes and the door opened in front of her. There was no one else at the stop so she couldn't even hang back behind a bunch of people. She needed to be first on the bus anyway so she could have her pick of seats.

This was her project, her idea, and if she was going to save her family's restaurant, she had to bite the bullet and get over her shyness. Coulter's was her father's life and her mother's, too; not to mention hers.

She'd always been able to hide in the kitchen, working under her father with her mother in the front. Now, with her father's illness and him having to cut down on his hours, she had to take the lead. Oh, there was no problem with cooking. The problem was in supervising the staff. For now, Dad was able to supervise while she took over the responsibilities of head chef. But soon; soon she would have to do it all.

Grace had been plagued all her life with debilitating shyness. Blushing, stammering, these were just a couple of the things that made her school years a living hell. That's why she couldn't wait to get to the restaurant every day after school. She would sit in a corner out of the way doing her homework. And while she did, she watched and learned. Before long, Grace had worked up the courage to ask her father to let her help. She was only eight years old, but already knew what she wanted to do when she grew up.

Dad had been so pleased with her. At least this time when she blushed, it wasn't from embarrassment. By the time she was twelve, Grace was chopping vegetables and doing a lot of the prep work. When she was sixteen, she told her parents she wanted to drop out of school and go to work full-time in the restaurant. They weren't too pleased with her decision, but they knew their daughter had been terribly unhappy in school. If she promised to get her GED, they would gladly hire her. When she was twenty-two, the apartment over the restaurant became vacant and she moved into it.

Grace always counted the day she went to work at Coulter's as the beginning of her life &#8230; her real life.


----------



## BELINDA BUCHANAN

After All Is Said And Done by Belinda G. Buchanan


    He sat up allowing her to sit down and then laid his head in her lap.  She began to lightly stroke his hair.  
    “That feels nice," he said closing his eyes.
    The sound of high heels clicking on the hardwood made him open one eye.  When he saw it was Renee, he closed it again.  
    She plopped herself down in the chair and sighed.  
    "Where's James?"  Jessica asked her.  
    "He had to fly back to D.C."  
    Jessica continued to stroke Ethan’s hair as Renee watched.
    "Ethan?  I was talking to Paul earlier," she said.  
    "About what?"  He asked sounding disinterested.  
    "He said if it's all right with you, he would read the will tomorrow."    
    Jessica felt his shoulders tense on her lap as he sat up to look at Renee.  “What?”
    "You heard me."    
    He set his drink on the table and ran his fingers through his hair.  "Renee, we just buried him two hours ago."  
    "I'm well aware of that fact.  But, I have to head back to D.C. tomorrow evening."  
    He reached for his drink.  
    "So, do you mind?"    
    "Yes, I mind!"  He said raising his voice.


----------



## LizSchulte79

“Could it have been like this for a while? Could you have knocked it over and never noticed?”
I wanted to be able to tell him that it was new, but I couldn’t say with certainty. This was the room where I did most of my drinking. I could have bumped into the table any number of nights. I didn’t stare at the picture every day; most days I avoided looking at it at all. I knew perfectly well what I’d lost. I didn’t need photographic evidence of it.
“I don’t know. It could've been like this. I don’t really think we need to do this room. I'm always in here. I would notice if anything was out of place.”
“That’s fine. You want to head up?”
I nodded, relieved.
Upstairs we searched my current bedroom and the two guest bedrooms and the nursery suite with no real leads. The nursery was creepy, but more due to the fact that it was filled with used toys from Danny’s childhood. It looked as though his seven-year-old self had just been called out of the room and was still coming back. It was a frozen moment, untouched by the movement of time. The master bedroom was all that was left. I hadn’t been in there since the last time I went with Gabriel. My shaky hand lingered on the door not really wanting to push it open. It was a gateway into my past and opening it would stir too many unwanted emotions.
“Are we going in? Ella?”
“Yeah,” I said and slowly turned the handle just as Gabriel reached over me and pushed the door open. On the surface, the room looked just as it had the night I heard the noise. I found it hard to breathe.  The air seemed thick, heavy, and bitter.  
“Did you open this again?” 
I looked up at window he was pointing towards. “When would I have opened it? I’ve been with you.” 
Gabriel relaxed demeanor melted away as he prowled around the room on high alert. My focus was a complete loss. Once again I became fixated on the unmade bed. Its allure pulled me in like an alcoholic to a bar leaving me feeling alone and empty. I tried to break away, but it was so hard.  The loss and self-pity were intoxicating. Eventually, I managed to move to the closet. I walked past his clothes brushing my fingertips across the soft fabric of the familiar shirts until I came to something unfamiliar. I pulled the sleeve out pinched between my index finger and thumb looking at it closer. Was it possible I could have forgotten this shirt? I pulled the hanger from the rack to look at the whole thing. It certainly wasn’t a new shirt, but it was one I had never seen.
“Your favorite?”
“I’ve never seen it before.”
“It isn’t Danny’s?”
“I don’t think so.”

Dark Corners
Liz Schulte


----------



## djgross

Here's page 99 from Stolen Justice, a romantic suspense available for 99 cents

Laura balled her hand into a fist and thrust it toward Mandy’s stomach, connecting with bands of muscle.  “Ouch.” She cradled her hand against her chest.
Mandy didn’t even wince.  “At least you made contact.  Tuck your thumb into your fist or you’ll risk breaking it.  I think you’ve got more fight in you.  Picture someone you hate and try again.”
Laura closed her eyes and pictured Rob’s beady-eyed face, smelled his cologne.  When she opened her eyes, she saw Rob standing in front of her.  She balled up her fist, tucking her thumb in and punched the son of a bitch in the shoulder.
Mandy rubbed her shoulder.  “Not bad.”
“Sorry I hurt you.”
“And then you had to ruin the moment by apologizing.”
Thomas moved into view.  He looked shell-shocked.  “Mandy, please...”
Mandy didn’t even bother to turn her head.  “Fuck. Off.”
Thomas flinched, but held his position.
“Fine.  Have it your way.”  Mandy crossed her arms.  “Guess how Thomas learned about the option of ripping out an opponent’s jugular with your teeth?”
Thomas closed his eyes like he was praying.
“Uh, pass.”  Laura edged back.
Mandy grabbed on to her elbow, holding her in place.  “You don’t want to miss the story. It has a killer ending.”


And here is the book blurb:

Stolen Justice is centered on an Ocean’s Eleven-esque heist, and combines suspense, passion and adventure.  

He's a thief 
JT Flynn stole high end art from the world's worst criminals until he lost a member of his team. When a beautiful stranger threatens to expose his thefts unless he steals a Van Gogh, he calls his team together for one last job.

She's a liar
Computer hacker Laura Danvers has many secrets and one goal:  to destroy Rob Autrey's money laundering operation at any cost. She needs JT's team of thieves to divert Autrey's attention so she can get the job done. 

They’ve got trouble	
Forced to work together, Laura and JT come to a grudging mutual respect which heats to a combustible attraction they work to ignore.  Passion can’t get in the way of pulling off the high risk heist.  Then a feud between Autrey and one of his clients makes the job even more dangerous.  Now the cost of stealing justice may be their lives.

Happy Reading!

DJ


----------



## Nicki Lynn Justice

It's been awhile since I visited this thread! There's lots of cool things going on, like the preview of the first page idea. However, I just wanted to post something that I thought was kind of relevant. It's summer, and WOW, the pollen around here is incredible. I live in Alberta, and my driveway looked like it had snowed!

So here's my excerpt. It has to do with allergies (as I type I'm popping Reactine!):

            A scream of pure terror lodged in her frozen larynx! Her mind was unable to make sense out of the scene being played out. All she could think was that she had to get as far away from this beast as possible.In one economical movement, she twisted, ducked, and scooted backward. The safety bar on the door slammed into her lower back and the door hit the wall behind it with enough momentum to create a resounding thud!
  “Calm down! It’s okay,” said the squirrel, its voice hedged with concern.
  A squirrel? It was furry, had big brown eyes, and sported a slightly ratty tail that curled above its head, making it at least eight feet tall. And it could speak human! 
            Her inner self called off the five star panic attack, but her autonomous nervous system wasn’t quite convinced that she was safe. Her legs were unable to keep up with the velocity generated by her sudden flight.  
            The squirrel lunged toward her, and she finally released the loud ear-splitting shriek that had been building since her first glimpse of him. His paws settled on her shoulders as her centre of equilibrium changed. They twisted in mid-air while she struggled to push him away. She felt a reverberation through his body, and experienced a fleeting moment of relief. It would have hurt if the hangar floor had made contact with her back instead of the squirrel's. 
            Jillian was dimly aware that she was stretched out on top of him, and that he felt like a lumpy cushion. She tried to lift her head and get her bearings, but her face was pressed into his furry chest at an angle. An odd smell, akin to mildew and dampness, tickled her nostrils. She hoped it wasn’t squirrel body odour. She sucked in a lungful of air, and her world exploded with a loud sneeze.
            “Stop it, Jillian,” the squirrel gasped. “Hold still!” 
            “Can’t help it,” she mumbled into what she thought was his elbow, “I’m allergic to dust and mould.” The squirrel’s grip slackened enough for her to lift her head and push up. He groaned. She locked her elbows and quit struggling. He did seem to be in some pain. 
Impressions followed at the edge of her receding panic: his ragged breathing, the pain of her lower back where she had hit the door, the press of her sunglasses clipped onto her shirt, the fact that he called her by name. 
            That caused her heart to skip a beat. How did he know who she was?


BTW, here's another fun thing to do while looking for the kleenex: check out my new blog at www.nickilynnjustice.webs.com! I just posted one of my favorite tried and true recipes. My blog is pretty much me uplugged...just your basic rural Alberta mom with an opinion on EVERYTHING from soup to nuts, including reading, writing, weightloss secrets that really work (ha ha got you), how to be a millionaire (or not), self-help (okay, sure), and gourmet cooking (K.D. forever)!  



H.E.A.'s Forever, 
Nicki Lynn


----------



## Guest

p99 of Fire Season by VH Folland

Quickly he announced his location over radio and then began a first low pass to judge the conditions. As he swung passed he frowned. Something was not right.
"C-SPRY 10 to Base. The house is empty and closed up." Matt circled, puzzled. He could understand spraying the house anyway, but the original details had been quite firm that a family would be here. A low pass confirmed that all the windows were closed, the garage shut and locked and there was no sign of any cars. He circled again trying to decide what to do.
"C-SPRY 10 Received. Await new instructions." Matt was barely listening. A sudden realisation hit him and he turned the crop sprayer, flying along the road out. If the family had been here when he was instructed and had only just left then they would not have had time to go far. A couple of minutes flight up the road produced no results, and he turned back, flying straight to the house. The other way the road led to the gorge and road bridge, a natural firebreak, but the fire was closing on it fast. He followed the road back, silently praying he would not find them, only to see a small family car heading down the forest road towards the gorge.


----------



## journeymama

Page 99 of The Eve Tree: A Novel

"Brown?" 
Catherine looked at her.
"I can see that it's brown, Molly. I'm looking for something more." 
"Wood brown?" Molly didn't understand what her mother was getting at. They were silent for a moment, looking at the rough outer skin of the tree. 
Catherine tilted her head toward Molly. "Do you remember when we celebrated your father's birthday at the Eve tree?" 
Molly shook her head no.
"You would only have been about four," she said. "Bill took you to look for strawberries."
"Wait a minute," Molly said, leaning herself against the same branch that her mother was resting against. "I do remember that."

The strawberries had been hidden in another small valley, not too far from the house. They all pretended that the wild berries were a secret, but really all the family knew where they were waiting, gleaming red in the plants, sweeter than anything Molly had ever tasted. 
"Save some for the birthday dinner," her father had said. "Let's try to fill the pail."
When they were finished picking, her father held her hand, pink-tipped with strawberry juice, swinging the pail in his other hand. Molly kept peering around his legs to see the berries piled in a slightly mushy heap in the tin pail, until he became impatient and told her to walk in a sharp voice. Then she cried, so he picked her up and carried her. His face was rough with whiskers, and she buried her face on his shoulder.

"What was he like?" she asked her mother, as if for the first time. 
Catherine touched the bark with the pads of her fingers. 
"He was more giving than I was," she said. "Although for many years I would have said that I was much more giving than him. But I held back more than I gave, while he gave everything he had. Kind of like you." 
Molly looked at the sky. It was empty and wide as a desert, but her mind still searched for rainclouds. You never gave up hoping, however unlikely your hope was.
Catherine continued. "We don't all have the same vessel to work with. If you're pouring dribbles from your leaky tin cup, but you keep on filling and pouring, it counts the same as when you're a sea that breaks waves over all the folks around you." 
Molly stared at her mother. Catherine tapped the tree a few times with a bony finger. 
"Charcoal brown, I'd say it is," she said, looking up. "If there is such a thing." She looked at Molly for a few heartbeats. "He was happy sometimes and he was sad sometimes. And he loved us." She sighed. "I think I'll head back now."
She reached out and broke a small piece of bark off the tree, turning to start down the hill. Molly grabbed her arm, just in time, as Catherine slipped in the rocky dust that held the grass together. They picked their way down the hill together, and Catherine turned to Molly suddenly. 
"Oh, did you need something?" she asked.


----------



## brianspringer13

From Page 21 of Highway To Vengeance. The beginning of Chapter Three:

Almost exactly 72 hours after my wife was murdered, I found myself sitting alone in front of the eight-foot long, four-foot wide, six-foot deep, still-uncovered rectangular hole that held Josie’s coffin, and inside that, her body.

Every waking minute since Josie’s death had been hell, but the previous two hours I felt like I’d been residing in the ninth circle. Wave after unending wave of anonymous faces offering up hollow words of regret, apparently oblivious to the uselessness of their words. 

Neither the speakers nor the words uttered to me mattered in the least, but I nodded my thanks to every concerned individual, going through the motions of courtesy that were expected of a grieving husband, the whole time wishing I’d had the balls to not even show up. It’s not like Josie would have cared. She knew how much I loved her; hell, chances are she wouldn’t even have wanted me to come watch her suffer the indignity of being put under the ground forever.

But come I did, and suffer through the process I had, sitting in my little plastic chair while everyone around me pretended like they shared my pain.

I knew better. Nobody here shared my pain. 

They might tell me that they were sorry, that they felt terrible, or that it was such a horrible accident, but what they were really thinking was, ‘Thank God it wasn’t my spouse.’ I could see it in their eyes, plain as day, when they didn’t know I was looking. I could hear it in their voices, loud and clear, even though they did their best to hide it. 

But that was all right. I didn’t blame them for thinking these things; in fact, if the situation was reversed, I’d be thinking them myself. It was just human nature. 

The important thing was that the whole process was now over, which meant I could go to work on hunting down the men responsible for her murder without any further distractions.


----------



## Colin Taber

My page 99 excerpt is from my first book The Fall Of Ossard:



Behind him I noticed that some of the militiamen wore stained shirts. The sour smell of vomit lay as an undercurrent to the sweet reek of decay. 
A crowd had started to gather. They'd followed the coaches and suspected why we were here. We'd arrived with a handful in tow, but now scores waited. Some of them wept while most stood in silence. They were waiting, waiting for answers. 
Lord Liberigo looked to each of us and then nodded that we were ready. 
A priest opened the door.
Six priests led us in while burning incense and chanting the prayer for the dead. The militiamen stayed outside and were glad of it, but many of Lord Liberigo's men who'd accompanied us on the coaches now carried lanterns to light our way. We entered the dusty warehouse like a funeral march, and only to leave a rising tide of mourning behind us in the street. 
Bare wooden floors met us, only marred by the remains of broken crates. Cobwebs stretched about, some reaching up to cover the thick beams above our heads. The high roof was barely visible beyond our lanterns' light while the distant walls were also lost to darkness. 
Pedro walked beside me, and for the first time since we'd met I found his presence reassuring. In that moment I needed him. We needed each other. All of us in that group did. 
The air grew chill, a light mist giving each lantern a soft glow. The sombre voices of the chanting priests left me feeling as though we were crossing from one world into another - perhaps into the realm of the dead. Maybe for those moments we did. 
Something terrible had happened here. 
The floorboards we walked upon sparkled with frost. 
The priests not already chanting began to recite prayers. They knew, and somehow I did, that the cold mist and dusting of ice remained as an echo of the magic that had been worked here. As if to remind us, the carpet of white crunched underfoot with each of our steps.
Gently, the voices in my head rose in a mournful chorus. 
We were close now. It lay just ahead.
The men who carried the lead lanterns of our macabre march were the first to reach the victims. The sounds of their gasps and moans warned us, yet nothing could see us prepared.


----------



## Stuart Land

ORIGINAL BLOOD

chapter one

My scream choked off as if frozen in the air along with the 
white puffs of my breath. Terror forced my ice skates out across 
the frozen pond, blood pounding in my ears with each thrust of 
my legs. When I chanced a glance back, he was impossibly gone 
from the wide-open ice. The Washington Monument, sleek and 
barren of emotion, loomed ominously above the trees in the 
distant grey dusk. Despair engulfed me as I jerked my eyes 
forward, flooding my mind with prayers that went immediately 
unanswered: his horrid, insipid gaze was just inches from my 
face.
He glided backwards on the ice as fast as I skated forward, 
though he wore no skates and his body showed no motion. His 
voice entered my mind: I'm going to taste you, Zondra. I tried 
desperately to stop, but slid into his outstretched arms and legs 
that wrapped about me like a lover, drawing me to him. I arched 
away, pushing against his chest as he bent toward my neck, 
mouth opening horridly wide as slender fangs seemed to 
materialize with a sound as soft as a breath.
His pallid face passed my vision when his cold hand angled 
my head to the side-and that's when I saw him, just a blur of 
color, nothing really to focus on. In an instant, he was across the 
pond and upon us. The one who held me yelped, almost bird-like, 
when something snapped by my ear. Hot liquid blasted the side 
of my face, my eyes-then the ice broke.
As I slid into the black water, I saw two others, lips curled 
back, talon-like teeth bared, collide with the one who had come 
to aid me. For that frozen moment his face turned toward me 
and I knew what should be unknowable: that I was, and always 
had been, his.

***

www.stuartland.com www.stuartland.com/blog


----------



## Lisa Scott

This is fun!

This is from my short story collection Flirts! 5 Romantic Short Stories This particular short story is titled Not You (Flirts! 5 Romantic Short Stories)

"Looks like I've still got the touch," he said, skimming his tongue along her jaw line.
She arched her head back "You're arrogant."
Nuzzling his nose along her neck, he laughed. "I know."
"And cocky," she said, whimpering as he bit her ear.
"Go on."
She wrapped hand around his head. "And a total playboy." She pulled away from him and looked out the window. "Leave before someone sees us."
"Whatever you want, Samantha." 
Damn, it was a long fifteen-minute drive to her apartment. 
*****
Carly couldn't believe she as returning to her place-with the man she'd pushed out just a few hours earlier.
He walked in behind her, and slid his hand over her hips. He kissed the nape of her neck and then she froze, as he pulled the clip from her hair. "Need some help getting ready? I'd say we have two hours before we have to leave." 
Her heart was pounding even harder than it had been the night before. She wanted to push him out the door again; but she wanted to pull him back into her bed even more.
She shook her head. "You're a pig-headed jerk. And you're my step-brother!" She wiggled her way out of his arms and stormed into the living room.
"Pig-headed jerk, maybe. But I'm not your step-brother yet." He followed her in and looked at his watch. "They won't be officially married for another few hours." He sat down on the couch and reached for her hand.


----------



## Consuelo Saah Baehr

Today the search was in mid-town.  I don’t know that midtown was ever in style but no one talks about it with the same passion as they do about the Village or Chelsea.  The Upper East Side has a definite personality – well groomed, old money, conservative and possibly Republican.  You can just picture the brainy moms with their degrees in Russian Literature, leaving their “classic six” in what the politicians used to call the “silk stocking” district, with tandem baby strollers holding their “classic two” toddlers who are already on the waiting list at Lycee Francais or some other pricy pre-K.  I wonder how these Moms will cope when they are sixty-four. I don’t think you can just stick a barrette in your pageboy and make believe you don’t drink these days. 
When I first got married I lived in the northern reaches of the Upper East Side and was proud of it.  We lived in a floor through on Park Avenue and 95th Street.  My wedding announcement had a little message in the corner:  at home 1217 Park Avenue.  Oh yes, it did! That was to let people know they could come by for a visit with the happy couple.  Nobody came to visit us except an uncle-in-law who tried to grope me in the kitchen.  The apartment had beautiful arched living room windows, big graceful rooms, even a terrace with an Ailanthus tree.  I didn’t have one qualm about leaving that apartment.  That’s how embedded (the only good thing to come out of the Iraq war is this very good word) I was in the American Dream.  Kids were on my mind. A house in the country.  Lots of land.  
One Hundred Open Houses - page 99 Kindle Edition


There is nothing that makes you sadder if you don’t have it, than the classic American life. You want the overflowing supermarket cart.  You want to be the woman in the GE commercials who loves her multiple ovens and wants to cook big and have her house packed with laughing people.  Even if you are smart and bookish, you yearn for the protective coat of that life the way it is burned into your memory.  Excess. And lack of time.  And shooing happy children into big cars.
Conversely to the throngs downtown, the side streets of the mid and upper East side are mostly empty of pedestrians.  You might see a tradesman delivering something or a doorman surveying the scene, but there are few walkers.  On Sunday morning, it’s even more desolate.  The East Fifties are home to what Tom Wolfe, the writer, once described as the Triangle – an enclave of GB’s (good buildings) that begin at 57th street from Sutton Place to Fifth Avenue and then go North to about 83rd. Not every building in the Triangle is a GB and certainly not any of the ones I would be visiting.  The vacancies in GB’s are passed along in an underground club to favored brokers like Henry Cave or Dolly Lenz who pass the information to the right people.  I say, who cares?  Let them press their Triangle GB’s and the ilk who buy them to their chest and hug and kiss them to death.  This kind of exclusivity is only important or desirable to wealthy people who want to feel that they get some power with the money.  Of course, if someone left me an apartment in a GB in his/her will, I would not turn it down.  The building I was visiting was a renegade red brick conglomerate that was close to the East River, an amenity that offset the lack of nearby transportation and affordable grocery stores. 
(Remember Weehawken Street?  This was the river on the opposite side.)
Here’s the write-up that enticed me to venture into the East Fifties between First and Second Avenues.  “Great studio with large entrance hall; three large closets; overlooks gardens and brownstones.  Windowed kitchen and beamed ceilings complete this charming, priced to sell, studio with a common gym and roof garden.”  The description did not do justice to the well-designed, beautifully constructed space that greeted me when I opened the door to 5-F.


----------



## Library4Science

From Colonization

*The Pequot Massacre At Fort Mystic*

By Captain John Mason.

_THE Pequot Indians, numbering some three thousand and inhabiting Connecticut and Rhode Island, murdered an English trader named John Oldham, who had maltreated them, and subsequently scalped seven members of an armed force sent against them to demand retribution. This "outrage," as the English regarded it, so enraged the colonists that the extermination of the Pequots was decided upon.

Influenced by Roger Williams, the neighboring tribes pledged their neutrality, and the Pequots, left to fight alone, fortified themselves near the Mystic River. Against them was sent a force of Connecticut colonists under Captain Mason, who gives this account of the massacre in the third person.

The fort was stormed and the tribe was virtually destroyed. After this exploit Captain Mason became Deputy Governor of Connecticut and long presided as Chief Judge of the colony.
_
AFTER a march of some eighteen to twenty miles (along Narragansett Bay) we camped with our Indian allies for the night. Purposing to make our assault before day, we roused early, and briefly commended ourselves and design to God, thinking immediately to go to the assault; the Indians showing us a path, told us that it led directly to the fort. We held on our march about two miles, wondering that we came not to the fort, and fearing we might be deluded. But seeing corn newly planted at the foot of a great hill, supposing the fort was not far off, a Champaign country being round about us, then making a stand, gave the word for some of the Indians to come up. At length Onkos and one Wequash appeared. We demanded of them, "Where is the fort?" They answered, "On the top of that hill." Then we demanded, "Where are the rest of the Indians?" They answered, "Behind, exceedingly afraid." We wished them to tell the rest of their fellows that they should by no means fly, but stand at what distance they pleased, and see whether Englishmen would now fight or not.

Then Captain Underhill came up, who marched in the rear; and commending ourselves to God, divided our men, there being two entrances into the fort, intending to enter both at once; Captain Mason leading up to that on the north-east side, who approaching within one rod, heard a dog bark and an Indian crying "Owanux! Owanux!" which is "Englishmen! Englishmen!" We called up our forces with all expedition, gave fire upon them through the palisade; the Indians being in a dead, indeed their last sleep. Then we wheeling off fell upon the main entrance, which was blocked up with bushes about breast high, over which the captain passed, intending to make good the entrance, encouraging the rest to follow. Lieutenant Seeley endeavored to enter; but being somewhat cumbered, stepped back and pulled out the bushes and so entered, and with him about about sixteen men. We had formerly concluded to destroy them by the sword and save the plunder.


----------



## davidhburton

From Chapter 1 of *Broken: A Paranormal Romance*

A letter came by registered mail.

It was from my mother.

Had she not been dead for three months, it might have seemed less odd.

The return address was care of the lawyer she had chosen to settle her affairs, but there was no mistaking the handwriting. The circular perfection of the "o" in Joan Gregory was unmistakable.

I signed for the letter and thanked the courier, sending him on his way even though he lingered in the doorway. I don't know if he was looking for a tip or waiting for me to play with his, but either way it wasn't happening. I closed the door, perhaps a little too eagerly, and jiggled the envelope. Something slid around inside.

It wasn't like my mother to send something so late. The woman had conducted her affairs like she had everything else in life - calculated, efficient. I wasn't sure what she could be sending so long after her passing. More than likely it had gotten lost in the lawyer's office, and they'd just remembered to send it now.

I plunked myself on the futon. The frame moaned a little - its time with me as a university student had not been kind.

As I hacked open the envelope a key dropped to the parquet floor. A crisp letter awaited me, its message blunt.

_Dear Katherine,

The key is to open a safety deposit box. The branch address and contact information is attached as well as the necessary legal papers granting you access. You will want to open it before your twenty-fourth birthday.

Sincerely,

Joan Gregory_

I tried not to roll my eyes at the fact she had formally signed the letter instead of the usual, 'Your Mother'.

A sigh escaped my lips. My twenty-fourth birthday was three days away. So it seemed her timing was impeccable.


----------



## Richardcrasta

From "I Will Not Go the F**k to Sleep"
Introduction: 
Preface: The Joy of Pure Laughter

Consider these two limericks:

There was a young man of Calcutta
Who had a terrible sttttt-tutter
He is reported to have said
Please pass me some bbbbbb-bread
And also some bbbbbb-butter!

There was a young man of Ghent
Who had a penis so long it bent. 
It was so much trouble. 
That he kept it double.
And instead of coming, he went

and chapter 1: 
Hey Dad—Grand Patriarch, Pater Sanctus, Daddykins, King-Emperor of this Household, Lord and Master of all you survey, my dearest, darling Pop—I, your humble child and the product of a glorious night between you and Mom, bow before your Awesome, Almighty power, and offer virtual incense before it. But I refuse to, and I Will Not Go the F**k to Sleep. Consider that on this one issue, I have drawn a line in the sand, like George H.W. Bush did with Iraq, get it? And my reasons are as follows, though not necessarily in that order: 
1.	The dog ate my sleep.
2.	The last I heard, we were living in a democracy. Has this become a fascist dictatorship now, and is your name Adolf, or am I just dreaming?
3.	Too late, Daddy, I just injected myself with amphetamines.


----------



## Will Granger

Anabar's Run, page 99

...told him that his missions would be important and that he might have to leave a horse behind, so he decided to continue on foot. 
Anabar dismounted and removed the saddlebag hanging on the horse's left side. He opened the bag and removed a few objects including the knife Omalof had given him, some pieces of dried beef, and a few coins. He knew he needed to travel fast and light, so he tossed the bag behind a tree. Anabar then slapped his horse on the rump and sent it trotting in the direction of some buildings he saw in the distance. The horse had been a good companion and he hoped it would be ok.

 [URL=http://www.amazon]http://www.amazon.com/dp/B004SURI5S[/url]


----------



## Patty Jansen

The start of my SF-romance-y novel Watcher's Web:



Wherever Jessica went, people watched her.
Like those two teenage boys leaning on the fence, akubra hats pulled down to shade their eyes. One of them dangled a cigarette in careless fingers, the other swigged beer from a stubby. Neither was watching her now, but she hadn't missed their gawking, nor their low voices barely elevated over the noise of bellowing cattle, shouts and truck engines.
_ Wow! See that really tall one?
Bloody hell, yeah.
How'd you reckon she kisses a guy? On her knees?_
They laughed, and when she came closer, faced the yard to watch the cattle as if they had said nothing.
Jessica walked past them to the gate, glaring at their straw-covered backs. _Well, I bloody heard you_. She was used to it, anyway.
It hadn't been the worst thing people said about her. They hadn't said the words ugly, or creepy, or freak, but she had become used to hearing those words, too.
They went into a little hard spot inside her where she scrunched up the hurt, forgot it, and remembered that she might look like a freak, but when she helped John Braithwaite and his mates from the Rivervale Stud Farm at a cattle show and Angus went into one of his fits, they still needed her to get him into the truck without spooking him. No one else could do that. No one knew how she did it, and no one should ever know. Because no one was crazy enough to get into a pen with a stroppy bull, right?
_Well, we'll see about that._


----------



## Colin Taber

There are some great samples here!


----------



## mamiller

Prologue from the romantic suspense, BORROWED TIME. Only .99 cents

"Are you alright?"

He heard the voice, but was blind to anything else.

Eyelids that felt encrusted with cement struggled to open. Vertigo set in and his mind careened down a tunnel laced with images of a dark, icy road scarred by the reflection of taillights. The rear lights loomed closer, no longer crimson smears, but distinct forms in the shape of cat eyes. Beneath his boot, the brake pedal lost its tension and a sickening sense of weightlessness ensued.

Headfirst, he plummeted down that illusory tunnel. There was no bright light ahead-only the echoes of squealing tires and a blackness that would consume his soul.

_Are you alright?_

Perhaps his soul had not been consumed. There was the voice again. Or was it from the other side?

Without any fanfare, his eyes opened.

An angel hovered over him.

Radiance from the streetlight framed her in an ethereal glow, with silky cinnamon hair and willowy white arms. That same light eclipsed her features as he tried to blink and bring her back into clarity.

"Are you alright?" The deity repeated.

Figuratively speaking, he was. After all, he had expected fire and brimstone when he died, not this divine creature. Perhaps someone up there had a sense of humor.

"Don't move-I'm calling for help."

He didn't think he could move. There was pain, but it was distant, like a nebulous form in a remote galaxy. Vaguely, he was aware of black twitching tree limbs heavy with frost as they snapped against each other, their staccato rhythm lulling him towards oblivion.

No. His angel said she was leaving. He had to bring her back. The darkness was just too bleak an alternative.

"Wait,"

She reappeared and overwhelmed him with her compassionate smile.

"I'm not going to leave you." Her whisper was kind, as he felt delicate fingers touch his own.

So soft was the texture against his frozen hands.

With newfound tenacity he held onto that link until his angel faded into the shadows and the tunnel consumed him.


----------



## tallulahgrace

Intro to Fate, .99 at Amazon.

_*Prelude*_​
The edge of the blade felt like ice against her skin. One breath too deep, one movement-ever so slight-would give the knife a taste of her blood. It's part of the nightmare, she thought, even as she felt the breath of her attacker lightly touch her face. 
The nightmares that had been plaguing her for weeks warned of this moment. Images too terrifying to be real flashed quickly across her mind's eye in an instant replay of her recent night terrors. Running down a long, empty hallway, filled with doorways on either side, chased by some unknown monster that knew her deepest fears. Running towards a movie, scrolling incessantly with images of those she loved most trapped in a fiery hell. Sepia-toned faces, twisted in pain, were a stark contrast to the blue, red and yellow of the flames engulfing them. The echoes of their screams filled the dark, never-ending hallway. She couldn't look away and she couldn't stop running; her only escape was straight ahead, towards the horror show. 
So far, the nightmares ended with her sitting straight up in bed, breathing hard in a cold sweat. He hadn't caught her yet.
The all too real feeling of cold steel pressed against her neck gave the nightmare an alternate ending. Kris tried to control her breathing, so her attacker would think she slept. Her mind raced as she tried to think of a way to reach the loaded SIG waiting beneath the extra pillow beside her. She didn't always keep a gun so handy, but recent events, including the dreams, made it a necessity.
"Wake up, Sleeping Beauty." The familiar voice spoke the words softly in her ear.


----------



## stoneforger

"He hasn’t spoken a word, your Reverence. He could be a
mute for all we know,” the man with the bloodied iron
scraper said to the Inquisitor. Bits of raw flesh were
still hanging off the tool of torture, the man shackled
to the wall limp, probably passed out.

The Patriarch stood still, his attention drawn to a few pieces of
clothing and some belongings that were gathered on a shabby old table
with jutting splinters and worn-away cuts all over its rough surface.
He picked at some of the clothing with the edge of his patriarchal
Rod, the sigils and High Helican scripts etched on its golden knob top
barely visible in the dim torchlight of the torture chamber.

He sniffed the air around the ragged, bloodied clothing, and a gri-
mace of distaste and scorn appeared on his otherwise solidly expres-
sionless face. Some said he sometimes looked as if he was wearing
a mask, rather than a real human face. And then there were the tales
of him sitting idly in the dark without ever sleeping, or that he never
asked for food or drink to be served. Fewer still feared he might not be
a man. It was indeed wondrous what the human mind could attribute
to persons of unimaginable power. The rumours made the Patriarch
laugh sometimes.

None were brave or stupid enough though to point out such trou-
bled thoughts in the presence of his Holiness. Others were too eager to
circulate such rumors as well as the names of those who commented
on such impertinent views of the Holy Avatar, the Patriarch.
All these kinds of curious, imaginative and disrespectful people
who could not impose self-discipline and mind their own business
ended up in deep rivers, forever reaching for breath. Others met a
similar fate in shallow graves, their bones exposed for wild dogs to
chew on. Some simply vanished with neither body nor bone left be-
hind, not even as a gruesome reminder.

The Patriarch smiled at the thought of people being capable of
voicing such audacity and felt almost impressed. Naturally, such phe-
nomena had subsided considerably after it became a well-known fact
that people with much to talk about can be heard the most. There was
a popular saying that applied well to that fact: ‘When people talk, the
Patriarch listens’. Still from time to time people tend to forget what
has come to pass before their time, but they are on occasion grimly re-
minded not to speak of the Holy Avatar in anything less than reverent
hymns to his Holiness, divine origin, and purpose.

The Chief Inquisitor stood in reverent attention a few steps next to
the Patriarch with his head bowed and his gaze averted from the Holy
Avatar’s face. It was a sign of reverent servitude and deference, which
was in fact nothing less than proper adherence to protocol.


----------



## Simon Halliday

The man took his money-belt and fastened it about the waist. "Perhaps not, but the offering of payment is done and I can choose to mislay a small thing of value, and if it chooses to be found, so be it." He took his coin from the judge's bench and dropped it to the floor. Then he put his cap on, doffed it politely to the judge, turned and walked from the court-room.

  "Shall I arrest him?" the Sergeant-at-Arms asked hopefully, seeing a possible impertinence to the law and a diversion in a very quiet week, but the judge was too taken aback to reply. After a moment he started to laugh. He reached into his robes and pulled out a couple of pennies.

  "No John. Go across the road to the hardware store. Borrow a hammer and buy a nail." To this day, in that courthouse, there is an 1804 silver Federal dollar nailed to the front of the judge's bench and Florence, the girl said, had seen it herself.

  "Wow. That's so cool." Ralph was not only impressed by this evidence of fact, but by Florence's rendition. As immobile as his friend's face was, her voice had the full ranges of a natural mimic's expression. The judge harrumphed with the gouty annoyance of indigestion, the sergeant offered to arrest with comical enthusiasm, and the mysterious man spoke with a deep timbre suggesting mystery and nobility. 

  "But who was he? The guy with the silver and gold?"

  Florence stood. "He lived in that house, your house." She paused for effect, pointing across the valley, "and there he died. We'll never know, because he was never seen again."

  "Oh come on, Florence. That's dumb. He bought the house. He had to buy stuff. Food. Go to shops. Whatever."

  "It's true. I swear. When we moved up here, mom and dad were going to buy your house. Dad wanted to knock it down and build a new one and mom went to the town museum to find out if it was historic or something. You know, like when they'll stop you from tearing something down because it should be preserved. But the lady at the museum told her what happened and it freaked mom out." Florence put one hand on her hip and shook the other at Ralph.

  "Michael Barquist, I did not leave Piscataway to live in a house where there's a body in the well."

  "I don't think we have a well."

  "Or buried in the cellar."

  "Why would they bury him in the cellar?"

  "So you do have a cellar. That's exactly my point."


----------



## kellymcclymer

The Infamous Bride​about 2/3ish​
Feeling strangely bereft, R.J. sat restlessly amid the jovial conversation of the gentlemen for a time, until the duchess returned and gave him a tentative smile. Permission to join his bride.
He made his way up to their room in a fog, with well wishes following him. Fighting an overwhelming sense of unreality, he opened the bedroom door, not certain what to expect.

The bed was empty.

For a moment he thought that she had refused him. Had decided not to share his room tonight. He could not blame her. They were strangers, after all. He had even meant to suggest that they take more time to get to know one another before - But he had not. He had not wanted to wait.
"Does this feel as strange to you as it does to me?" He saw her then. She stood at the window in the shadow of the drapery, staring at him. She wore nothing but a simple nightdress and wrapper, and he could not help but remember his first sight of her dressed so, on the balcony.

"R.J.?" She crossed to face him, and he caught the faint scent of roses.

He did not want to talk. Did not want to think. But he must. With heroic effort, he forced himself to say casually, "Yes. I do feel as if I am still playacting." He commanded himself to move calmly about the room. To undress with his usual evening routine despite the fact that she was here with him.

She said nothing, but he felt her gaze follow him as he undressed and carefully folded his clothing into his trunk, ready to be loaded for their trip tomorrow. How would she want him to treat her? As if he had never touched her before? As if he knew the pleasure he could give her? She was his wife now. He must treat her as he had meant to treat Lucy Matthews. With gentle kindness.
As he closed the trunk, she sighed softly. He stood still, listening to the bedclothes rustle and the feather mattress echo her sigh as she climbed into bed. The light went out.

He cautiously eased himself into the bed in the dark, the blood rushing in his ears as he anticipated taking her in his arms. To his surprise, when he brushed against her, he could feel her trembling. He pulled back. "Are you afraid?"

"No." There was no confidence in her answer.

"We can wait if you like." It seemed the gentlemanly thing to say, though his entire being protested the idea.

"No." It was the answer he had wanted to hear, but her tone strongly suggested that she wished to hurry through an unpleasant chore. Had he misunderstood her earlier expression? Was she dreading this confirmation of their marriage?

He paused, listening to her even breathing in the darkness of the room. Absurdly, he found himself unsure what to do with the woman in bed beside him, despite the fact she was his wife.


----------



## DDScott

TGIF, All!

Here's my *BOOTSCOOTIN' BLAHNIKS Page One (straight from my Kindle)*:

_The nanosecond the light turned green, Roxy Rae Vaughn pressed the gas pedal toward the floorboard of her Mercedes. She didn't have time to jack around. Her boutique opened in an hour. It took twenty-two more minutes to get there, thirty-three minutes to make everything perfect before she unlocked the doors for customers, and she counted on five minutes to spare. Apparently, the driver in the beat-up pick-up truck in front of her had all kinds of time for lollygagging. But she didn't._

Welcome, Y'All, to my Bootscootin' World...where it's romantic comedy with a chick lit, gone-country twist!

Happy Reading and Bootscootin' Too!!!


----------



## CAZraik

From *Looking For The Elf Lords*

"Spooky," the barkeep mumbled, and the word spread like wildfire. "Spooks! Spooks in Dondapratt!" was whispered throughout the crowd. The back ranks turned and fled, and in turn, all the other little Gyrms followed.

Bibby Andypratt heard them coming back, but he didn't care. He rose from his hiding place behind the bar, his face flushed with the amount of ale he had drank, and leaned over the bar. Pander, the barkeep, was the first to run through the doors of the tavern, followed by all the other citizens of Dondapratt. "Bones," Bibby muttered. "I done tol' ya I seen walkin' bones." He grinned, and passed out.

Everyone yammered at once.

An old crone thwacked her cane across the head of a youngster who had stepped on her toes.

Mechum Fuddlepratt put his foot through the canvas covering of Leechy McDoodlepratt's drum, and Leechy pushed him, sending him flying into a group of young ladies who screamed and shooed him away.

Bella Wormpratt and Etchel Primpratt quarreled over a broom, pulling each other's hair and scratching at each other's plump faces.

Women keened and drew their young ones to their side. "What are we gonna do?" they moaned.

"Where's Bibby?" the barkeep hollered. "He seen 'em first! He should be the one ta figure out what we's gonna do now!"
The room quieted down and the Gyrms looked from one to the other, searching for Bibby. In the silence, a long, low snore drifted up from behind the bar and Pander leaned over and looked down. "Dang little thief! He done gots inta me ale!"

Pander scooped up a bowl of cold soapy water and poured it over Bibby's face. Bibby sat up sputtering and gasping, and Pander reached down and dragged the confused Gyrm up onto the bartop.

Bibby wiped the soap out of his eyes and looked around. "Huh? Whatcha all lookin' at me for?" he said.


----------



## Daezarkian

Nice!

BLOOD SKIES
Steven Montano
Page 99

"They're here," Snow said quietly. "But there's a lot of old magic here. It's interfering with our sight. Our spirits can't find them."

"And there's not much we can do about it," Cross added.

"Spread out," Morg said. "Stone, Cross and Graves take the right side; Snow and Kray, with me. Everyone keep your eyes open."

Cross looked at Snow worriedly. He chanced a glance at Morg, who gave him a stern nod.

_You can't stay with her. If the groups need to split, the mages have to be separated. If anything happens to one group and both mages fall, the whole squad is screwed. _

But still&#8230;regardless of logic, or circumstance, or anything else, Cross didn't like the thought of being separated from Snow. Not down there. It felt like throwing her to the wolves.

_No. She'll be with Morg and Kray. She'll be safer than you'll be._

He took her aside.

"Are you okay?" he asked her. Cross wasn't sure if the two groups would even be out of sight of one another, but that place seemed vast, and it would be easy to get lost in the murk.

"I can take care of myself, Eric," she said. "Thank you," she added after a moment.

Cross looked at her. It was hard for him to believe she was grown up. He could lose her here. He took in the sight of her, and he saw her face fade, a mask that concealed her younger self, wide-eyed and curious, pretty and insightful whatever her age, he watched her grow, watched the years pass, saw her spirit swirl in and cover her in a shroud as she left that old world, that old self, the young girl who liked to drag hand-made dolls and throw stones into the sea and who used to just stand next to him, close against his warmth for hours without speaking, and she was replaced by this older girl, this beautiful, powerful, dazzling stranger he'd distanced himself from without ever even meaning to.

_I don't know you like I used to_, he wanted to tell her. _And I'm sorry for that. I'm so sorry._

"All right," was all he said, and he nodded. "Be careful."

_You're all that I have left._

She hugged him, and he hugged her back.

"I love you," she said.

http://bloodskies.com/


----------



## KOwrites

Genre: Women's fiction 366 pages

Chapter One ~ _Surreal Things_ - The beginning page of _Not To Us_

Chapter 1 ~ Surreal Things

There are all kinds of ways for a relationship to be tested, even broken, some, irrevocably; it's the endings we're unprepared for. My life has become a roller coaster ride mixed with equal amounts of pure joy and exposed fear; and, sometimes, this unfathomable incredulity. This arrives in spurts, like adrenalin or injected heroin; well, how I imagine injected heroin would feel. That's when I consider that change-change, its inevitability-is coming. And, I can't stop it. Then, the incredulity comes again. Is this really happening to me? Yes. Incredulity arrives unannounced and jump-starts my failing broken self.

Up until now, I've had the audacity to consider my life perfection. I married my college sweetheart, Bobby Bradford. I've borne three gorgeous kids with him. I live in a grand house on Bainbridge Island and indulge in an editorial career for a successful New York publisher. Respected, beloved, that's me. Everything in my life rang true and perfect, until the day at the Four Seasons, three weeks ago. After that day, I look at what I once thought of as my perfect life and discover the foundation is literally breaking down, disintegrating all around me with each passing day.

I'm watching the B-action movie of my life. I'm the damsel in distress caught onboard the runaway amusement park ride careening out of control, going faster and faster. I can't control the action any more than I can write the script. Let alone, direct it.

And, I'm the heroine already slated for trouble. _Or worse. _

~~~~

Thank you for the topic! Nicely done!

KO


----------



## ketadiablo

Page 99 from Where The Rain Is Made









Memories flooded Cesca. Lying in a pool of her own urine, clinging to life by a thread, the wind kissed her face, whispered in her ear, I Am The Wind . . . I Am The Wind. Ermine Boy, his face as clear as the fingers on her hand, hovered above her, and birds circled overhead, called forth by a nebulous spirit. 
"Cesca?" Marsh touched her arm. "Did I lose you?" 
"No, I heard," she said, and changed the subject. "Did you ever meet Ermine Boy before he died?" 
Marsh nodded. "Once." 
"What did he look like?" 
"Boyishly handsome by a woman's standards, I imagine. The day I saw him, ermine furs hung from his braids." A long pause. "The People bring him food, leave it outside his lodge." 
"He came for me, touched my cheek. I think the spirits sent him to guide me on my final journey." 
Marsh trembled, so slightly only Cesca would notice. "We're Christian, why would Cheyenne spirits . . . unless-" 
"I'm frightened. What kind of a world have we entered?" 
"A mystical, spiritual world of some sort." 
"Finish what you started. You said, 'unless,'" 
"I don't know that much about Cheyenne customs, but now that you married Meko, maybe the spirits consider you one of theirs." 
The cold air crept in, like it had the day Cesca passed the burial ground. She waited until the clouds stopped smothering the moon. "Why do you suppose they bring Ermine Boy food?"Where the Rain is Made 95 
"I asked Thunder Speaks while you were recuperating." 
"And?" 
"The People believe if one dies young, they're not ready to leave the earth. They linger, hang around for a year embracing their old life. They feed Ermine Boy so he doesn't go hungry while he delays his final journey." 
"He wasn't fighting his departure. His face mirrored acceptance and harmony is the only word that comes to mind." The thought the People might one day leave food outside Meko's lodge threw her into panic." 
Marsh looked into her eyes. "He killed Choking Wolf, went against his own kind. He came, Cesca." 
She clasped a hand over her mouth. "God, help me." She clutched his arm to keep from toppling. "He's on a death journey? He means to let them kill him?" 
Her brother nodded. 
"You must find him, bring him back." Her mind raced faster than she could form the words. "Take two-two Dog Soldiers, they'll find him."


----------



## Kevis Hendrickson

*ROGUE HUNTER: QUEST OF THE HUNTER (Page 99)*

_"There was this one last bit of information I extracted. Seems there's a world on the
fringes of the Solaris System. It used to be called Zeta-Proxima, but in the current star logs it's
simply called Planet Z. According to the data orb, it's Zaragos' main munitions depot.
Incidentally, it's also the place where they're building up a secret army. Guess that's all I have
for you. I would try to send this stuff out on an EM band to Alliance officials, but I'm afraid it'll
use up the last of my power. If we never meet again, it's been good. Take care of yourself, Zee.
And, well&#8230;I'll miss you."_

The screen went blank. Zyra could not help but wonder what Logos' last moments were
like before he died. Did he freeze to death on board her ship? Or did he make some vain attempt
to get off of the iceberg he was trapped upon only to lose his life outside in the blistering cold?
Zyra had failed her friend miserably. Had she never gone to his home on Space Station: Nexus
and endangered him, Logos would have had a productive life, found himself a mate, settled down,
and lived to a ripe old age. Through her recklessness, she had caused his premature death, just like she did
Hunter's, and so many others. It took all the willpower she had to keep from giving in to her
grief in front of Commander Nephthys. But even as the tears welled up in her eyes, a quiet rage
passed over Zyra. It was Zaragos that had killed Hunter and Logos-not her. And it was Zaragos
who would suffer for what they had done to the only people she had loved. Zyra ignored the
somber look she received from Commander Nephthys and lowered her stare to the floor. Her
eyes turned to slits as her determination began to rise.


----------



## MartinLake

The Lost King: Resistance



'Greetings, Bishop Aethelwine,' said King Malcolm. 'Welcome to Scotland.'
The bishop gave a smile which was as barren as high moorland. 'Thank you, Highness. His eyes flickered over me. 'I did not know there was a Prince of Scotland.'
'There isn't,' said Malcolm. But he made no move to introduce me for which I was greatly relieved. There was something disquieting about the bishop. 
'I come as an emissary of King William,' said the bishop. His tongue flicked over his lips. 'He commands me to say that he wishes only for peace with the King of the Scots.'
'He told you that?' said Malcolm. 'So you have met him. Where was that and what manner of man is he?'
Aethelwine's eyes again darted at me. He did not know me but I wondered if he had some suspicion of who I was.
'I met the king at York,' he answered. 'He is raising a mighty fortification there. As to the manner of the king, I can assure you that he is a God-fearing and gracious lord.'
'God-fearing, you say.' Malcolm laughed. 'I have heard that he fears nothing else.' 
The bishop inclined his head but made no comment. 
' And what else of this William?' said Malcolm. 'Apart from building a castle, what more has he done?'
'He has removed Gospatric as Earl of Northumbria. He was somewhat suspicious of him. He has raised one of his followers, Robert de Comines to be Earl. It is a wise choice I think, for de Comines is a valiant and experienced man.'
'And how do the people of Northumbria take to having a Norman foisted upon them? They have little love of southern kings as it is.'
'The people of Northumbria have been long used to being ruled by their earl and the Bishop of Durham,' said Aethelwine. 'They will get used to the new earl and can take comfort in the established bishop.'
'Until William begins to distrust you, perhaps.'
Aethelwine stared at Malcolm, eyes unblinking, and remained silent.
At last the bishop broke the silence. 'As well as sending his promise of good faith, William desires to hear word that King Malcolm is equally committed to peace and friendship.'
'I do not desire enmity with King William,' Malcolm said. 
He turned and stared at me for a long, disconcerting moment. 'I seek only to defend my land and kin against those who would endanger them.'
My heart lurched in my stomach. I knew exactly the meaning behind the king's words. I would have to talk to my sister.
'No, no, no,' cried Margaret when I broached the subject with her.
'All right,' I said. 'It's just that I wanted to find out if your feelings had changed towards the king at all. He seems pretty keen on you.'
'An idiot could see that,' she snapped. She leaned her face close to mine and spoke so slowly that I was sure she thought I must be that idiot. 
'I loathe and despise King Malcolm' she continued. 'He is a cunning, cruel, ill-bred beast of a man. He looks grotesque and acts worse than he looks. I would rather kill myself than have anything to do with him.'
'I was just asking,' I said innocently. 
Margaret stormed out of the room.


----------



## jennifermalin

Fun to see the excerpts still coming! Here's one from my time-travel romance, _As You Wish_ ($2.99, contemporary heroine, Regency hero):



> David took her elbow and steered her across the dusty drive toward the manor. When she recognized the door as the main entrance, she gulped down another rush of misgivings. "I could have sworn this driveway was paved." She tried to shake off the eerie feeling, telling herself she must have been mistaken.
> 
> He ignored her comment and led her up three polished marble steps, which Leah knew had been cracked and stained earlier. Another costumed man opened the double doors for them, and they stepped inside the house...only the shabby interior she'd seen an hour or so ago had somehow transformed into a beautifully maintained decor.
> 
> She slapped her hands over her eyes, then uncovered them again, but the dreamlike grandeur was still there. Instead of the faded wallpaper she'd seen before, intricately carved panels lined the hall. While the walls had been practically bare earlier, they now displayed a stunning selection of paintings. And the ragged, garish red rug she remembered had been replaced by an elaborate paisley carpet in rich, dark tones.
> 
> "Oh, my God." She closed her eyes again. "What is wrong with me?"
> 
> A feminine voice broke into her thoughts. "What has happened, David? Who is this young lady?"
> 
> "You will hardly credit the story when I tell you, Phoebe. It seems I have rescued a helpless maiden from drowning."


The first two chapters are also available on my blog. Click the link in my sig, then choose the _As You Wish_ tab at the top of the home page and scroll down to the web reader.

Thanks for reading!
Jen


----------



## mamiller

Howdy all! Here is the beginning of my romantic thriller, ENDLESS NIGHT.

"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 her uncooperative fingers gripped the handle.

"You can't live, Margaret."

Those raspy words incited her 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 confirmation that he had located her, and she wouldn't give him that one triumph.

"It took some doing to even locate this number." His chuckle was oppressive. "But if I had killed you that night, then I would have missed out on all this fun."

Megan's teeth bit down on her lower lip to contain her scream. She tasted blood.

"Sleep tight, Maggie. I will see you soon."


----------



## Kenya D. Williamson

How fun! Here's page 99 through the top of 100 (the beginning of a chapter) of Depth of Focus: A Novel










Hopping on Danni's windowsill, two colorful birds chirped in the sunshine. But, not knowing a purple martin from a finch - a fact Joe would find both amusing and disappointing - Danni sent her easiest-to-grab footwear sailing. Crashing against the inside glass, the worn-out sneaker sent the spring visitors scattering. Danni was up. And, apparently, all was not well with her world. A restless night of tossing and turning had left her crankier than usual.

Unaware of her host's state of mind, April started with phase two of her early morning's mission. She'd already taken a shower - phase one. Now, it was time to cook breakfast. The rest of the day was to be spent looking for work and maybe doing more cleaning - phases three and four. She jumped back as frost-covered sausage links in the frying pan sizzled. Reducing the flame under the sputtering, formerly-abandoned food, April opened the refrigerator. But, any notions of French toast quickly went down the drain - along with a foul, lumpy liquid Danni's fridge claimed as milk. Gagging, she tossed the empty, white and blue carton and set four eggs on the counter - writing MILK on a blank sheet of paper.

Sliding her growing grocery list under a magnet, April inspected the icebox. Halloween candy decorated the fruit bin. Eggs, ketchup and beer on the top shelf indicated to the assessor that her hostess had little interest in being healthy.

****

You can read the first four chapters on my website and Scribd.


----------



## Julie K. Rose

Yay, this is super fun!

From p. 99 of _The Pilgrim Glass_, which is available on amazon.com and amazon.co.uk for $5.99 and £4.29 respectively.

_
The walk to the base of the hills of Côte is long and solitary. The group beyond on the road are jolly and talkative. No doubt they are from Beaune, and this is their first day. The weariness of the road has not yet taken hold. As I struggle over the hills of the Côte, the sound of their singing guides me and sustains me; blessed Ste Cécile!

We reach the base of the hills and a vast forest spreads before us, unlike anything I have seen in the valleys and vineyards of the Saône. The miracles of the Lord are many. The pilgrims take their rest at the edge of the forest before finding a suitable ford across the Ouche. I rest in the great arms of an oak and listen to the rhythms of their conversation. I remove the offering from my satchel and say a prayer to the Magdalene. Only she can secure my release.

I awake with a start to find the forest has grown dark about me. The group has gone, and I am left alone. In my haste to gather my belongings and move on, the offering slips from my lap and a ruby piece in the corner shatters. I quickly rewrap the offering and place it in my satchel. I pick up the broken piece, knowing I cannot make any repairs until I reach Vézelay. It shall be a reminder that I must be vigilant.

I hurry toward the Ouche, hoping to find an easy crossing. As I pick my way along the bank, I hear rustling in the brush behind me. I have not heard of wolves in this area for many years. _

"Meredith. Meredith!" Marie-Laure said, shaking her.

Meredith looked around groggily and found she was sitting on the front steps of a house on the rue St Pierre. "Meredith, mon Dieu, what happened?"


----------



## Mainak Dhar

Here's Page 99 (or it's ebook equivalent at any rate!) from Zombiestan



In the darkness, Mayukh edged towards her and said the three words that electrified her into action.

'They are coming.'

In a split second Hina and Swati were up and helping to move furniture against the door. Mayukh glanced at Abhi to see that the boy had somehow managed to sleep through all the chaos.

Then the banging on the door began. First it was the hammering of a single fist, and then it was joined by a multitude of others as the door shook and threatened to give way. David was crouched in front of the door, his assault rifle at the ready. Mayukh stood a foot behind him, his handgun raised in his shaking hands. Before he had retreated inside the bookstore, David had picked up his Claymore anti-personnel mine and brought it inside, placing it just a few feet inside the store, and activating it. As the door began to give way under the onslaught, he cried out aloud.

'Get back and take cover behind something!'

Mayukh went and hid behind a bookshelf, and found Swati there. She was holding Abhi, who was awake now and sobbing. The boy sensed Mayukh nearby and stammered.

'Are they the bad men? I'm scared.'

The boy's plea put a new resolve in Mayukh and he knew then that whatever happened, the monsters outside the door would not get to Abhi till they got through him. He may have not done much spectacular with his life till now, but if his destiny lay in dying to protect a little boy who somehow seemed to trust him, so be it. He aimed his gun at the door as it burst open.


----------



## Mainak Dhar

And here it is from my new historical fiction Hindustaan: An Epic Adventure of the Mughal Empire



At the top of the stairs was a large carved door, which was bolted from the outside, and had two armed Afghans standing guard outside it. Ranveer may have been wearing the clothes of a commoner, but he walked like a General inspecting his troops. He strode up the stairs, flashing his dastak in front of the two Afghans.

'Let us in. Your General has told me that we are to be the first to sample of what you have inside.'

The Afghans hesitated, not knowing what to do, but the identification looked proper and when they looked down for any assistance, they saw their Officer nod and wink at them before he turned away to join the General further inside the fort. When they entered the room, Ranveer saw a number of women huddled against the wall. Many of the younger ones started to wail at their entry, and an elderly and dignified looking woman stepped forward, as if she thought she could somehow shield the other women. Ranveer both pitied and envied her act of courage, when he heard another woman cry out.

'Rajmata, please come back. They will kill you!'

At those words, Ranveer stepped forward and, to the old woman's shock, kneeled before her.

'Your Highness, my men and I had nothing to do with the rogues outside. I am an Officer in the Imperial Cavalry and will try and get you to safety. We do not have much time so you need to trust me.'

The woman's look of defiance crumbled and she sank to the ground, tears in her eyes.

'They told us they came in peace with a message from the new Emperor. The Raja was away, and we let them in, and then they turned on us.'

Ranveer knew the women had been through a hellish experience, but he also knew he had little time, so he interrupted the Queen.

'Rajmata, is there another way out of this fort other than down the main stairs?'

Another woman stepped forward.

'There is a servant's quarter's behind the main Fort, and there are stairs to the left of this room leading to it, but they may have it guarded.'

Ranveer quickly conferred with his friends, and then they set their hastily improvised plan into action. Theo poked his head out of the door and whispered to the two guards outside.

'Guys, you have to see this to believe it! Come in!'

Their curiosity getting the better of them, the two guards peeped inside. As they did, two things happened in quick succession. Iftiqar plunged his knife into the neck of one guard and pulled him inside, and Theo stabbed the other in the stomach. Both guards resisted for a few seconds, but the first surprise blows had been fatal and both soon lay dead. Iftiqar and Theo quickly put on their black uniforms and stood guard outside the door, while Ranveer told the Queen that he was going to create a diversion to help them escape. As he was about to leave the room, she held his arm.

'Young man, God must have sent you today to save us. Thank you, but I need to ask one more favour of you. I have hidden my daughter in a secret closet behind the bed in the main bedchamber two doors to the right. Please help her escape.'


----------



## Selah March

From Chapter 3 of _*Ain't No Sunshine*_, contemporary small-town romance.

...she was standing at her stove, applying a squeeze bottle of chocolate syrup to a pan of simmering milk, when Boone Butler walked back into her life.

She knew his shadow against the screen like she knew the shape of her own hand. That same loose, easy stance belied by the tense set of his shoulders, and the way he ducked his head at her approach, appearing almost shy till you caught the bright glint of danger in his eyes.

"Well, look at you," she said and pushed open the door, stepping barefoot onto the porch. A sudden wave of _been-here-done-this_ washed over her, strong enough to make her eyes water. All at once she was seventeen again, face-to-face with the only boy who'd ever made her look twice.

He whispered her name as if that single word was all he could manage. The few feet of space between them seemed too far to bridge, like the distance between stars. When he reached out his hand to touch her cheek, she stepped into it, turning her face into the heat of his palm.

"Delia," he said again, and then his mouth was against hers, quick and clumsy, as if he'd never kissed a woman before. Still, she felt the slow twist of desire in the pit of her stomach, and a flutter in her throat that stole her breath. He pulled away and grinned -- that righteous, go-to-hell grin she still saw in her dreams -- and in that instant she wanted nothing more than to let him chase her down the path of her own destruction.

"Hope I didn't wake you," he said and she laughed out loud. Sleeping Beauty she'd never be, but if she were cold and dead in her grave, Boone's kiss would rouse her. She knew it for a fact.

~~~


----------



## Ursula_Bauer

*A Haunting Affair *  (pg 99 aprx. $2.99 kindle)

Sam struggled with the mix of feelings at war with the sensible part of his brain. He didn't want to walk Emma to the library. He wanted to head up the stairs to the bedroom suite. Take her into his arms. Follow up on the promise of her touch, the taste of her kiss. She was broadcasting all kinds of mixed signals, which to him meant 'back off and give the lady space.' But he couldn't stop the protective drives urging him to take her in his arms and keep her safe forever.

At some point he'd gone off the reservation with this one. Wanting a wife was one thing, but wanting a woman like Emma for a keeper challenged everything he knew and believed, made him realize things he thought were fixed were not so fixed after all. Could he live long term with a woman like her? Could he not?

Why was he even asking these questions a few days after meeting her? Wasn't that stalker talk? Or maybe that's how it was, when you met 'the one.' You knew, on some deep level, and you knew quick. Keith married Jen four months after they first met. Sam had never questioned how his friend knew Jen was the one, now he wished he had. Maybe there was some secret he was missing? Whatever it was, Emma had him all tied up inside and he didn't have any desire to be untied. He was in too deep. That much was clear.

They'd returned to the library, the safest place he could think of, and way too crowded with junk for any impromptu liaisons to take place.

"So we need to change up the picture," he said, watching her settle. He loved the way she moved, so light and feminine. The way she tucked her legs beneath her on the sofa and curled into the corner. What might have happened had they met without the cold case from hell hanging over them like an axe blade? Who was he kidding. Under normal circumstances their paths would never cross. Ever. Only the strange vortex of Keith's determination to solve his wife's murder could twist the ordinary course of fate enough to throw two such different souls together.

Emma grabbed her pad and pen from the side table. "Do we go with what we know or what we think?"

An innocent enough question, but one fraught with hidden land mines. He wanted to go with facts, and her Tarot readings and vibrations were not facts. Yes, they'd led to discoveries, but technically they didn't fit the definition he knew. But he didn't want to discount them, nor did he want to ruin the rapport he and Emma had going. "We go with both."


----------



## RobSpalding

Sunday's Unicorn 99c at Amazon - Roughly a 3rd of the way through.

I was unwilling to touch the object in my trouser pocket just yet, not through a fear that they would not be the keys to the door, but rather that they might be.
A feeling of belonging, of homecoming swept over me. How long had I forgotten this place of childhood hopes and woe? Where had my mind sealed away the thoughts and remembrances of this place?
I reached the door, weathered and uncared for yet still as sturdy as the last day I had stepped past it. This was the moment, the time to face all that had gone before. With a shaking hand I reached into my pocket and gasped as the cold metal touched my fingers. Shock at the touch, shock at having brought them at all and an apprehension of what was to come.
The unmistakable smell of mildew and decay flowed out of the open door and for a moment I felt my heart break just a little more. All of the books, those hundreds of books that had been my greatest joy as a child, had been left to grow damp and crumble.
I walked through the old house in a state that was very much like waking up after three hours too much sleep. Everything about me and the world that surrounded me was slightly disconnected, my brain yet to begin functioning in a full state of power. Even as I tried to shake myself back into the real world, the strangeness of returning here, returning to a life long left behind held me in its confusing grip a while longer.
I found myself in the kitchen, amazed at the dust which had built up over those long years of disuse. Running my finger along one counter top I found myself doodling in the dust, creating small spirals and stripes that meant nothing but finally relaxed my mind enough to wake me fully. Evidently the maintenance had not stretched to cleaning.
Why was I here? I knew, had known, ever since the taxi driver had spoken.
I was here to kill the unicorn, I was here to end the fear and pain it had caused me. The stories all said the same thing; unicorns were pure creatures, they could only be killed by those of pure motive.
And what could be more pure than revenge?


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## DonnaMarieRogers

Home Is Where the Heart Is (Welcome To Redemption)

She'd always loved the snow, had looked forward to the many ski trips her family had gone on when she and Matt were kids-and still did when time permitted, though not for the past few years. On their last trip, Dad and Matt had spent most of their time researching a new company they planned to acquire. Which was the same time she'd started penning her first manuscript. She'd imagined a beautiful countess staring off into the snow-covered countryside anticipating the arrival of her true love, the father of the child she'd just discovered she was carrying.

Damn.

Lindy's hand settled atop her flat stomach. With a disgusted sigh, she set the glass of bubbly aside and reached for the book she'd left on the floor beside the tub.

A loud thump had her sitting up in a rush, heart pounding in her ears. The sound had definitely come from inside the house. She glanced at Bianca, whose own ears had perked up. The pounding became full-blown panic when Bianca took off to investigate.

A sharp, feline hiss followed by a dull thud sent a chill up her spine. Bianca! Lindy bit the inside of her cheek, wanting to call out to her precious baby, but too petrified to utter a sound. Instead, she slid from the tub, blew out the candles, and slipped her robe off the hook on the back of the door with trembling fingers. All she could hear over the roaring in her ears was the howling wind outside as the blizzard arrived in full force. No electrical hum, no knocking of the furnace. Whoever had broken into her house must have cut off the power.

Biting her lip, terrified to make even the tiniest sound, Lindy slowly cracked the door open to peer into her nearly black bedroom. She watched intently for moving shadows, but nothing stirred or shifted. A sitting duck in the bathroom, she crept out into the bedroom and positioned herself behind the door, which she'd left slightly ajar. Nothing but absolute silence. And thanks to the storm, not even a flicker of moonlight filtered in through the window in the hall. She'd just started to convince herself she'd imagined the whole thing when someone sneezed so close to where she stood Lindy swore she felt the spray. Tears sprang to her eyes, and she quickly clamped a hand over her mouth.


----------



## Erik Handy

The Web

"It could've been the wind," Jen answered with doubt in her voice.

"Completely possible," Lacey replied. "Or something else natural. Jay?"

Jay wasn't convinced the phantom voices were a product of the wind or anything man-made, but he didn't want to jump headfirst like Candy did into believing blindly. He needed to look into the area's history and see if there were any tragedies, any facts to support the evidence. "I don't know," he safely replied. "I just don't know."

This is bullshit, Jen thought. She grabbed her bag. "Well, I'm gonna go. I have to run some errands. You guys wanna come?"

"I'll stay here in case Candy needs anything," Lacey said.

"I'm gonna do some research," Jay absently replied. His mind was already on his investigation, what websites to check out, what to search for.

Jen wanted to scream at them to come with her. She didn't want to be alone anymore than Candy did, but she wasn't going to become a prisoner to some figment-of-the-imagination bogeymen.


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## Brianna Lee McKenzie

From Enchanted Heart, a western romance set in Texas

She wrapped her arms around his neck and nuzzled the space between his black curls and his shoulders, taking in the woodsy scent of him.

The dreams that had haunted her in the hotel bed returned, filling her mind with visions that she should not dare recall, much less hope to come true. But being in his arms made her want to feel the emotions and sensations that her night-time fantasy had conjured up and her body responded on its own. When she eased closer to his chest, her eager breasts brushed his shirt and the warmth of his skin mingled with hers. A deliciously wicked smile curled her lips which caused Caid to wink knowingly while rewarding her with a broad, expressive grin. 
And then, he seemed as if he was in a trance. For long moments, he looked into her face. His deep blue eyes mirrored hers somewhat, but hers were just a shade lighter and the little specks of gold in hers reflected the firelight, which caused him to comment to her how they sparkled like the granite. She ducked her head into his neck again and he encircled her more tightly into his strong arms and they watched the campfire dance in its circle of stones, which twinkled around the fire like shining stars.

Caid then whispered into her hair, "I missed you."

Marty smiled and whispered back, "I missed you, too."

"I missed your laugh most of all," he mused, which was a lie, but a plausible one and a more appropriate reason for causing him to miss her. While he moved a strand of her auburn hair from her neck, exposing the creamy white column, he thought that this is what he missed the most. This closeness, this stolen intimacy that she seemed to be afraid of yet which she craved just as much as he did, was what his heart longed to return to. He touched his lips to the warm flesh there while rubbing the slip of hair between his thumb and forefinger before he breathed in a long sigh and said as he let his breath back out, "You smell so good."

Marty laughed and told him, "It's because I finally was able to bathe. I mean a real bath with scented salts and a tub and&#8230;"

She stopped suddenly because she feared that her words might lead him to think about her unclothed and she was not quite ready to have his mind meandering in that direction. And because his touch, his kiss had reminded her of her actions in the tub and then the wonderful dream that followed. Embarrassed, she changed the subject, "We ate at the diner, too. We had steak and potatoes and gravy and green beans that the owner had canned. It was wonderful. You should have joined us."

Caid smiled at the way her lips curved in dreamy recollection at her first encounter with a hotel. He'd heard her discuss with her sister and cousin that none of them had ever stayed in a hotel and that she was so looking forward to it. He dropped the tuft of hair, laying a palm upon her shoulder and expertly easing the blouse downwardly to expose her creamy skin and asked, "Was it as wonderful as you had expected?"

"Mmm. More," she answered, relishing the sensation that his touch had triggered and leaning into him without thinking how improper her actions would seem to the others. While she stretched her arms out in front of her and shrugging the blouse back into place without blatantly giving him a warning that he was being too forward, she sighed contentedly and said dreamily, "I could have stayed in that tub forever!"

"So, in one night, you've become accustomed to the finer things in life?" Caid asked with a jovial tone in his voice as he eyed the shoulder that she had strategically recovered, but he did not try that tactic again. Instead, he took her hand into his and interlaced his fingers with hers while he watched her expression as she talked.

"One night in my whole life was enough to last me the rest of my life," she said with finality in her voice, for she had lived that lavish lifestyle and did not want to be influenced by it ever again.

"To experience something one time in your life will suffice for you?" Caid asked with a slightly improper undertone, for he knew that she was a widow and that she had experienced love and all that it entailed. He squeezed her fingers to accentuate his tone just to see her reaction.

Marty threw him a sideways glance, knowing exactly to what he was referring, but she ignored his allusion that she had enjoyed enough intimacy in her lifetime to last her a lifetime. Then, she pulled her hand free and clasped her own fingers together in front of her as she stared at the stars, seemingly in a trance and said as if trying to change the subject, yet still clinging to the intimate insinuation that he had started, "I love to soak in a hot, steamy bath every now and then. But to bathe in a stream can be just as luxurious."

Caid seemed to take this statement in the exact way that she had tried to avoid, for his smile widened and he winked at her, which caused her to blush profusely and turn away from him. He caught her flaming cheek in his palm and slowly made her face him again, but this time his eyes told her that he was serious and that if he did not kiss her right then and there, in front of God and everyone, he would certainly perish.

Marty felt his arms slide around her waist, up her back and she did not resist. Instead, she eased closer to him, tipping her chin and parting her lips to accept the warm, undulating sensation of his lips as they caressed hers. Ignoring the glances from the people who sat and stood around the fire, she melted into him as if no others existed. She clung to him, drinking in his manly scent, tasting his steamy breath, touching the hard ripples of muscle beneath his shirt and glimpsing the glistening blue of his impassioned eyes through her half-lowered lids.

This was Heaven, she mused in her muddled mind. To have him hold her, kiss her, save her life in more ways than one, was to fly upon gossamer wings over streets of gold. To melt into him, becoming a part of him as Eve was a part of Adam was her true and ultimate revival. And to dare to hope, to wish, to dream that this adoring, caring, beautifully handsome man would hope, wish and dream to take her all the way to the Pearly Gates in an eruption of passion, was more than she could envision in her hopeful heart.

~Always find time for love~Brianna~


----------



## jmanasu

He thought of himself as the gatekeeper between good and evil. Someone who could walk on both sides, protecting the light from the dark. He took that role seriously and as he knocked on the front door he was ready to take up that mantle again.
She answered the door in blue jeans, a green top and tennis shoes. Some light dirt stains on the knees suggested she had been doing yard work out back. Her auburn hair was kept up in a pony tail which said she was doing work where she wanted to keep it out of her way. She greeted both men with a smile.
“Mrs. Brewster, thank you for seeing us,” said Trufant reaching out his hand.
“Like I said, anything I can do to help.” Her body language and eyes said she wanted to get this over with as soon as possible as she shifted her focus to Topper.
“This is Topper McMullen. He flew down today to assist me on your daughter’s case.”
Topper reached out his hand. “Mrs. Brewster, thank you so much for your time. I promise I will try to keep this as brief as I can.”
Her smile was genuine as Topper was already putting her at ease. “It’s no problem really, please come in.” She offered them lemonade as she brought them into the living room. Politely declining, Topper and Trufant sat on the sofa while Joann sat in an oversized chair next to the fireplace.
“I thought all of you guys worked with a team. At least that’s how all those television shows portray it,” said Joann. A panicked look came over Trufant’s face as he waited for Topper to respond.
Topper offered one of his trademark smiles as he spoke with humbled and measured words. “Back in Virginia, I’m part of an amazing team and yes, we always work cases together. I’m just on a leave right now, a sort of sabbatical.”
“And you decided to come down here and help with this mess? That’s a fair amount of dedication.”
“Excuse me for saying but I don’t know if it is. I think when those of us have the strength to help others, that’s exactly what we need to do. Sergeant Trufant asked for my help and saying no just didn’t seem like much of a choice. As long as I have the ability, I will always do what I can to help.”
“Well, whatever you choose to call it, I thank you for being here, Mr. McMullen.”
“Please, call me Topper.”
“Topper. It seems like Sergeant Trufant made the right decision when calling you,” said Joann, flashing that smile again. “So please, how can I help?”


----------



## indiebookslist

Hey guys, we post indie excerpts, for free, every single day.

Please feel free to submit your excerpt below, using the submission link.


----------



## avril wilson

]The Healing Touch

Shaken by this demonstration of aggressive bullying Natalie was depressed. She wanted to learn how to control the big
equine that she loved, but not like this!
When Rob next came to visit Natalie broached the subject with him, as a Jockey she expected Rob to side with the lads who all thought she was too soft with her horse. 
"Has Running Wind been out today yet? " 
Natalie shook her head and with shame admitted that she had been unable to take him to the pasture for three days.
"The lads do it for me -but I can't watch."
Rob led the way to Running Wind's stable. Taking the head collar which hung by the door he slowly and softly entered the stable. As the horse turned towards him he stood completely still holding out his hand for him to sniff. He then gently started to caress Running Wind all over his body with soft circular strokes as if he had all day. Rob just stood quietly next to the horse and rubbed his nose, legs and flanks. Finally, with a sigh Running Wind dropped his head near Rob, the jockey then gen-tly put on the halter pulling the horses head over to himself with a soft flexion.
He then stood at the horse's shoulder and tapped him on his back until he took a few steps towards the door, Running Wind then walked quietly to his paddock and when Rob released him he did not head off as usual but remained near Rob who ca-ressed him again.
Natalie watched all this quietly amazed. It had taken Rob nearly half an hour to lead Running Wind out but he was a calm and much happier horse she wanted to know how to do it.

"Oh Rob this is how I want to be with Running Wind." 
"That's what I came to tell you, I've been watching a lot about how these Natural Horsemanship people work and it really is so impressive. Rob knew that Melanie would take this horse back into her care and that she -with Bills help, could rehabili-tate him. However Bill had vanished. Rob had not seen him

The Healing Touch


----------



## Nicki Lynn Justice

THE ORACLE, the first book in NINE LIVES, my new YA Futuristic Fantasy series, is now live.

So here's my shameless plug:

The NINE LIVES SERIES, of which THE ORACLE is the first book, is the story of an average teen girl who takes a cosmic leap from 21st century Earth to a backwards 26th century prison planet, where it is common knowledge that Earth no longer exists. Can Marina, who needs to figure out not only who she is but who she isn't, prevent Earth from sliding into a barren, cold non-existence? She going to give it all she's got, but to do that she needs some help. She turns to Brahmin, who, in her words, is "awfully built jail-bait", and her friends and family, to stage the greatest battle the universe has ever known!

Combine the romantic suspense element of Twilight and the other-wordly elements of Avatar within the framework of the global warming debate, and you have a summer read that makes everyday seem like a beach day.

Here's the blurb:

Everyone has bad hair days, and Marina is no exception. What she doesn't understand is why her bad hair days are always the worst ever! An accidental journey to a world far in the future because of her grandpa's psycho cat pretty much makes her day not only the worst ever, but wins the title of most bizarre day ever.

In the chaos that ensues as she tries to find her way home, Marina embarks on a quest to find and rescue the mother that she never knew. In order to do so, she needs to learn a valuable life lesson. Not only must she accept who she is, she must come to terms with who she isn't.

This story targets young adult readers, and deals with the personal responsibility we all have for the "Green" movement and taking care of our planet, while tackling the often-sticky issue of the need for young people today to take school seriously and pursue education as a way to make a difference in the fate of this world.

Here's an excerpt:

She so hated waking up. It actually hurt.

The pounding on her door intensified. It went from hovering vaguely in the background to a cruel, rending noise, shoving her from oblivion to semi-consciousness. Marina squished her eyes shut and pulled her blankets up around her ears. Why did it seem like every day was a school day? She wriggled her shoulders so that her pillow was wadded up just the way she liked and scootched further down in her bed. She was so warm and comfy.

"Marina!"

"Five more minutes?" She had to clear her throat and her mouth felt like the bacteria had been partying and multiplying at an exponential rate. "Please Gramps?" She knew she was whining, but she didn't care. She should have done her calculus homework and studied for her bio test last night. But she hadn't, so it made no sense to get out of bed. This was as good as it was going to get.

"Get out of that bed and get dressed! You have chores to do."

"Okay, Gramps," she said with an edge to her voice, "I'm coming!"

"Right now!" He sounded seriously p.o.ed, even from the other side of the door.

She took a deep breath, pushed the covers back, then swung her legs over the edge of the bed. She noted with some disgust that it was still dark out.

"Marina!"

"Okay, I'm up." She padded barefoot across the cold hardwood of her bedroom floor and opened the door. "Happy?" Gramps was standing there, his brows drawn together and his eyes narrowed. He must have been banging on her door for awhile.

"You better change your attitude, young lady! You have work to do. One more comment like that and&#8230;"

"What? You won't let me use the car? Oh wait, we're the only people in this universe who don't have one." She willed herself to shut her mouth. Everyone else in the whole world was still tucked in bed. Her eyes felt gritty, but the resentment churning inside of her was burning off most of her fatigue.

"It's not that bad. We don't need a car, and we're helping in a small way to make a difference." Gramps voice was firm, brooking no argument. "You can always take the bus or walk. And you make regular use of the computer and T.V."

"Like I ever get to use them anyway!" Oops, she'd said that out loud. "Sorry, Gramps, that was supposed to be internal dialogue." She didn't mean to be sarcastic, but the undertone to her voice made even her wince.

"Marina! That's enough!" Gramps used his terse sergeant-major voice. He didn't yell, but had a way of making his voice carry so that she felt as if every syllable was being drilled into her head. His cheeks pulled up towards his eyes, which were already mere slits. He looked like an angry Shrek.

She knew what that meant. He was about to ground her, and she so didn't want to spend the weekend in her room. "I didn't mean it like that," she protested.

"Meooowr!" The grey and black striped tortoise-shell tabby observing and weighing the scene didn't have as much self-control as Gramps did. Dragon had no problem being loud. In fact, he was the loudest and most irritating cat on this earth. She should know. She had looked after hundreds of cats as a trainee vet assistant. He was by far the most annoying. Dragon belted out several more loud "meowrs" then fixed his startling green kitty eyes on her.

"Oh shut up Dragon! You're such an idiot!" She couldn't help it; the words just slipped out. Good things didn't happen when she criticised Gramp's cat.

*******

Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/dp/B005FGAQ12


----------



## Anne Maven

"With you in my heart" Anne Maven (excerpt from about 2/3 of the book)
Silent spectator that she now was, Aditi lived her life. Around the monsoon of the next year, she went away again. For a month. The impending fork in the road was not something she anticipated. She was too busy trying to burn regret to cinders with the force of her anger.
The Yoga Center sat eighteen kilometers from the Gomukh glacier at the foot of the Gangotri. The holiest part of the Ganges was supposed to have touched earth for the first time at this point. The Bhagirathi river joined by tributaries rose, potent, bursting with life, protesting release from the glacier’s cool confines. She followed the river’s downstream course, her anger disappearing, regret inconsequential. It became a part of her daily walk after yoga practice. Absorbed in the strange peace she felt whenever she left Saharanpur and the mad bustle of the world, she never sought company. Ashram people often saw a tall woman with shiny hair cut to her chin, walking with her back pack downstream, in the same direction every day. 
A few days later, a friendly cook who whipped up special treats for her asked, “Why don’t you ever go upstream?” 
“I…I never thought about it. I am familiar with the trek downwards. Comfortable with it. It’s so beautiful.”
The cook smiled and said, “It’s purest upstream. You’ll be surprised at how scenic it is. Go with someone though. Don’t go alone.”
Aditi woke up at five am the next morning and headed upstream on her own. Slightly fearful, she carried a torch light and a knife, just in case. She wanted to do this without a guide. Given the season, it was a still morning. Clouds abundant. Her hiking boots anchored her over yesterday’s rain soaked earth. Hugging herself against the chill, she ambled along, head down, for a long time.
If the rock under her boot hadn’t given way, she might never have looked up at that instant. Landing hard on her bottom, in the dirt, she saw a man standing in the effervescent Bhagirathi. He didn’t notice her. The thin white tunic preferred by the ashram men clung wetly to his body. It has to be freezing in there, Aditi thought. Her bottom ached from the fall and her hands were caked with wet mud. But his immobility was fascinating. Wanting nothing to disturb the moment for him and for herself, she breathed shallow, low breaths.
He opened his eyes as the sun peeked out from behind forbidding clouds. Wading slowly through the shallow portion, he took off the tunic, wringing out some of the river that clung to him. As he touched the shore, mud adhering to bare feet, he too saw her. He smiled and waved.
Aditi continued sitting, and smiled back happily. 
“What were you doing?” she asked.
He looked at her a minute and then said, “It’s a private thing.”
“Oh!” she looked stricken for a moment.
He laughed and said, “Since you witnessed a private moment, I guess I can tell you. I just stand there waiting for the river to wash away any programming in my cells.”
Aditi nodded vigorously, saying, “I know what you mean. I’d do it too but it’s so damned cold!”
Laughing, he extended his hand in a dual gesture of greeting and support. She grabbed it, pulled herself up and said, “I am Aditi Krishna.”
“Varun. Varun Dev,” he said.
“Can we go further upstream? The cook told me about some glorious scenery there.”
“Ah! Kanta sends everyone that way. We could go if you don’t mind getting soaked. I’m okay with it.” He looked at the weeping clouds.
“I don’t want to be soaking really. I guess I’ll come back tomorrow.” Aditi said, sounding let down.
“Well, I’ll come with you. If you can arrive a little later than today and let me have my moment.”
“That’s wonderful. I’ll take my time then. A girl’s dream date!” she said, her laughter tinkling and carefree.
Varun looked intently into her eyes and smiled a small smile. His thickly fringed brown eyes crinkled at the edges, Aditi noticed. Overjoyed, she said, “Tell me you’re in the Yoga ashram!”
“Yes. Yes I am.” Varun said matching his stride to hers.
“Oh wonderful. Can we practice together?” she asked, rushing in to the joy of finding a new friend. She saw him hesitate and added, “If you want to, that is.”
Varun appeared to consider it. “I don’t see the harm. We could practice after the classes. I know a meadow where the land is ideal.”
“Great. Are you taking any of the trekking tours?” she asked, not wanting silence between them.
“I’ve been to those places on my own already,” he said, smiling at her eager face. 
“Oh. Oh well. I’ll be joining the tours next week. I have three more weeks left. I’m determined to enjoy myself.” She sounded so determined and serious about enjoyment that Varun did a double take.
“I can take you if you like,” he added, deep voice imparting warmth and certainty, “You’ll enjoy the Valley of Flowers and the Gomukh trek, we could do that starting with the upstream walk. It’s long but a day or two should suffice.”
“Yeah!” Aditi said, punching the air in delight. “A trek and the Beatles!” Wait, you like the Beatles, don’t you? Didn’t they frequent an ashram in these parts?”
“Before the split. Yes. They were in Maharishi’s ashram in Rishikesh. I’ve always noticed that meditation seems to accelerate a decision that you have no intention of making.” Varun said.
“I’ve never meditated but its effect is said to be the opposite of what you’re saying!” Aditi said, looking up at him. He was tall. Taller than Jas. Straight backed and relaxed. Very unlike Jas. Who was rigid. In more ways than one.
“No, I didn’t mean it in the negative sense. Just that it clears up the unnecessary, you know? Clarity is what I mean. It sort of…” he made a circular gesture with his hands, “it sort of illuminates your insides. So you know what you can do without. And understand that you don’t really need much. To keep going, that is.”
Aditi felt her heart give way. Flustered, she looked at her brown hiking boots alternating, moving her forward. Irrelevantly, she asked, “So when did they split?”
“The Beatles? Nineteen seventy, I believe. My dad always said that a song they released in that year has to do with my selfishness. It was I Me Mine.”
“What do you mean?” Aditi asked.
“Oh, I was born that year, in August; the month they released the album with that song in it. Dad’s a fan of the Beatles. He was heartbroken when they split up.”
Aditi looked at him and swallowed. “You were born in nineteen seventy huh? I beat you by some years and have never heard of that Beatles number.”

Thanks for the opportunity!


----------



## SethStedman

The following is one third of the way through the story.



"Well what do you call yourself?"
"It is a series of eloquent squeaks," the rat turned up his nose, "that I am sure you wouldn't be able to appreciate."
Sarcina laughed.
"And what are you laughing at?" Twitch curtly squeaked. He turned his back to the girl. "So glad I amuse you. You're one to laugh, a moment a go you were ready to jump out a window."
Sarcina became serious. "So if not magic then what? Am I going mad?" She recalled stories of poor souls being hauled off to dark rooms, screaming their heads off. She would rather not lose her mind for she was sure it wasn't something she could easily recover.
"Are you going mad?" The rat began to pace back and forth. "Well, I was with you when the hat appeared and that was most certainly odd. I was also present when we were transported from danger by unseen hands, I to your room and you to-"
"The kitchen." Sarcina said.
"Yes," Twitch continued, "I heard the Shadows speaking to you as well and lastly is seems we suddenly can understand each other."
"But," Sarcina said slowly, "how do I know if you're really saying that or I'm just imagining you saying that?"
"You know," said the rat, "You really must stop that."
"I suppose you're right." Sarcina said and then seemed to think very hard about something. She nodded and scooped Twitch into her arms before approaching the window.
"Excuse me," Twitch said, "just what in the name of my left fang are you doing?"
"I'm going to see," Sarcina said and stopped to lean out the window, "if the Shadows were telling the truth."
"You know," Twitch said quickly, "I've given the matter a bit more thought and yes, you are insane. Now why don't you put me on the chair over there?" Sarcina started to climb onto the window sill. "I'm impressed with your bravery," he continued, "but really, this is going to extremes-"
Twitch and Sarcina tumbled out the window. The girl felt the cold air rushing by her face and watched the ground coming up fast. Then, quite suddenly, the earth seemed to unzip and a large fissure appeared, into which the two fell. Now it was very dark and they were falling faster and faster. Sarcina wondered if they would fall through the very earth. Then she began to slow down. At first she dismissed the feeling, but it was as if the air was thickening, cushioning her. There was a light up ahead and she could see a door and a stone landing onto which she was gently deposited. She let out a long breath and collapsed to her knees with the shock of it all. Twitch tumbled from her arms and lay heaving on the ground. When he had regained his breath he wheeled on the girl, his little brown eyes narrowed with anger.


----------



## jennifermacaire

"It's odd the police haven't seen that pattern," said Brianna. 
"They probably have seen it, but they don't want to advertise it. Panic might occur if everyone knew the Heart Taker was stalking his next victim. This way, he hasn't struck in a while, so the people have managed to push him back in their minds. But I bet the police took your deposition very seriously."
"Actually, they did." Brianna frowned. "In the casino, when I hollered, the policeman next to me pulled out his gun so fast I thought he might be the Heart Taker."
"Well, let's go." Mamie Hoya spoke to the empty room. "Don't mind the dishes, Sally, I'll do them when I get back." To Brianna she whispered, "Sally was a house slave and always thinks she has to pick up after me."
"Does she?" Brianna gave a little shiver.
"Only very light stuff," said Mamie Hoya with a shrug. 
#
Jack watched Dee finish putting the finishing touches on the posters he was going to use for the new show. They were bright orange and featured a sexy man taking off his shirt. Dee finished writing the text and bit the end of his magic marker.

Page 99 of 'Jack's Back' by Jennifer Macaire
Available on Kindle for $2.99 here: 
http://www.amazon.com/Jacks-Back-ebook/dp/B005GUPSMY/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1313485853&sr=1-1

Thank you for the opportunity to post!


----------



## Simon John Cox

As I only have short stories available on Amazon at the moment, this is page 99 from my current work in progress. It doesn't even have a title yet...

The guests begin to arrive the week before the wedding, though only the friends and relatives who live relatively close by make the journey. There are two couples from Windhoek, and one who has made the journey from Swakopmund, but the majority are from neighbouring farms, towns and villages. Herr Weber complains that people these days have no backbones. 
Amongst the guests you hear talk of old friends, of mutual acquaintances, every one of them seemingly from the old country: the Schefflers, the Bierwirths, the Bertrands, venerable names from Nuremburg and Trier and Ulm, families that regrettably have not made the trip to South-West Africa for the wedding.
Each new arrival seems to galvanise those guests already present, and by the day before the ceremony the guests are relaxed and jovial. Talk of the atrocities, when there is such talk at all, is framed in such a way that any observer would think that they are happening in another country altogether.
"Did you hear the news?"
"The rebel attacks in Otjikati? I _know_, it's like being in a thriller."
"Aren't you scared?"
"Oh, no, not all the way down here. What about you?"
"Hendrik says it's between the PLAN and the government, nothing to do with the white farmers. He says they'll leave the whites alone."
"Don't worry darling, it'll all blow over, you'll see. Drink?"
Then they laugh and drink and dance, and the compound feels eerily separate from the rest of Africa.
Johns takes his radio with him every time he goes on stag, and he reports back to the rest of you at the end of each shift: "It's getting worse out there, guys," he says, "Every day they're reporting something new. Yesterday two people got killed up in Kawara. Chopped them up with machetes."
"[expletive] animals," says De Vaal.
"They hitting any farms?" says Koone.
"Not yet," says Johns, "Not according the reports."
The compound seems to be getting smaller. You get the uncomfortable feeling that all of Africa is pressing against its walls.


----------



## Tammie Clarke Gibbs

*ISLAND OF SECRETS by Tammie Clarke Gibbs* 
$0.99 for a limited time

*BLURB:*

What if you received a note of warning dated hundreds of years before you were born? What if it was addressed to you?

A Time Travel-

A Love Story filled with Suspense-

A Mystery that will keep you guessing til the end...

On An Island of Secrets
One woman, two men and a love that transcends time get a second chance to prevent history from repeating itself. But will love be enough to win the battle against time and stop the force that's kept them apart for centuries?

SHANE ALEXANDER has realized he should never have allowed his ex-girlfriend to spend her honeymoon on his island, but he never dreamed she'd run to the tabloids and blab about seeing ghosts. With the future of Leigh Island in danger, he devises a plan to dispel her claims and unknowingly sets in motion events that bring him face to face with a past that not only threatens his future but his life.

*EXCERPT:*

Chapter 1
The Present Leigh Island

"I pick you!"

Lila Fitzpatrick stood in silence, mouth agape staring at the most devastatingly handsome man in history.
He was surrounded by a crowd of people she assumed were reporters. He looked a bit out of place in
jeans and a white button-up shirt, his sleeves rolled up like a back yard mechanic, but there he was.

Obviously, he'd never taken a "dress for success" class or read any of the books on making the best first
impression, but if he was worried about not making the grade for this assignment it didn't show.

Lila began making her way back toward the boat. She'd listened to the older man with the black rimmed
glasses explain again the orientation materials. Since there was no doubt now what the papers she'd read
meant, she felt it more to her advantage to be first in line for a good seat on the ride home.

Talk about a no win situation. She hated to disappoint her friend, but the last thing she wanted to do was
spend a week on an island that had given a New York heiress premature graying.

"I pick you."

Lila glanced over her shoulder. Tall dark and dangerous had followed her. At least she thought he was
following her. She looked around to make sure he wasn't talking to someone else.

When she turned back he was standing toe-to-toe with her.

A small shutter of pleasure ran the length of her body. Was it possible to feel flattered and spooked at the
same time?

Pro's, he was gorgeous, con's, his pick up line, well, it could use a little work, and while there was
something strangely familiar about him, she had absolutely no idea who he was.

Lila tried not to stare, but he stood there, his dark wavy hair tickled by the breeze, his gaze raking her
from head to toe the start of what she supposed was a grin forming at the corner of his mouth.

Knees were not supposed to feel like jelly, but then again men rarely looked at her the way he was looking
at her, as if he expected her to&#8230;..say something. Of course, she should say something, hadn't he spoken to
her. For the life of her, she couldn't remember what he'd said. She'd been far too busy staring at him to pay
attention to any conversation. "I'm sorry?" She finally managed.

"I picked you!" He repeated. "Can you start today?"

Lila started to answer, then bit her bottom lip to stifle the "sure" mid-word. What exactly she'd almost
agreed to she had no idea.

"I'm sorry," he held out his hand. "I assumed you knew who I was. I'm Shane Alexander, I own Leigh
Island." He took her hand gently in his, kissed it chastely then looked up at her with eyes as dark as the most
luxurious chocolate she'd ever seen. "And you are?" His eyes dropped to the press Id dangling from a bright
orange cord. "I see, Cassie Edwards with the Coastal Signal, isn't that over in Blair County?"

"I&#8230;." Lila started to correct him about her name, her real job and the fact she really hadn't planned on
staying any longer than the 5 pm boat back to the mainland.

Then he was beside her, whispering. "I had thought I'd like to put this whole ghost thing to rest on a bit
larger scale, but then again, I think you'd be better company."

"You're going to be staying?" She had no idea where the question came from, but suddenly things were
looking up, or in her case looking gorgeous.

"Well sure, you didn't really think I'd leave you out here alone with all my spooks did you?" He winked.

"I really can't stay. I didn't bring anything with me," she stuttered.

"Oh, don't worry about that. Charles will take care of everything."

Lila couldn't believe she hadn't noticed the other man. He was about two inches shorter than Mr.
Alexander and reminded her of those agent types that say little and blend into the scenery like a shadow. He
never said a word just nodded to her and disappeared into the crowd.

Take care of everything&#8230;she wasn't altogether sure she liked the sound of that. The man did look rather
"man in blackish".

"Shall we?" Shane Alexander extended his arm and her body reacted as if it were the most natural thing it
had ever done.

It was a purely instinctive reaction. She knew this because her mind was currently in shock and unable to
issue even the slightest of commands. The desire to fan herself was almost overwhelming, but she fought
it. There was no sense at all in letting Mr. Alexander know just how his nearness was already affecting her.
A part of her wanted to get the heck off Leigh Island, kick Cassie out of the apartment and sink down into
a warm tub with a cup of strong coffee. The other part took one look into those luscious brown eyes and had
to resist the temptation to lock her arms around his and refuse ever to let go. The latter made her realize
quite abruptly, she'd gone a tad too long between dates.

Had she really only arrived here? Had she really only just met Shane Alexander? She glanced over at the
man and couldn't quite determine why he looked so familiar, how his touch felt so familiar. Had his photo
been in the brochure Cassie had given her? No. She remembered Cassie mentioning he rarely allowed
photographs of himself.

They walked along a small dirt road beneath a canopy of ancient oak trees, each dripping with gray-green
moss. It would have been very romantic had it not been for the little voice chanting in her head. Ghosts, it
had to just be a hoax, something to feed a "dry spell" on the news scene. So far the Island looked anything
but haunted. It was lovely and she could well understand why it would make a lovely resort.
It looked at home in the middle of the cobblestone road, much more at home than the Range Rover parked
across from it.

"I thought since the Sinclair's weren't going to be using it&#8230;" He smiled. "It will take you to the threshold
of Winship Manor."

The closest Lila had ever been to a horse drawn carriage was the one in the movie "Cinderella" and she
wasn't sure pumpkins and mice really counted. They certainly couldn't compare with living, breathing,
horses and a shiny white carriage that you could reach out and touch.

She had to admit she was rather delighted by the prospect of riding in a beautiful fairy princess carriage
with a man that looked every inch the part of a Walt Disney prince.

"Charles will be along in a moment to drive you."

"Drive me?"

Shane looked toward the Range Rover then back at her. "I have a few errands. I won't be long and Charles
will see to it that you're settled in properly. I look forward to dinner," he took her hand again and graced it
with another of his kisses.

Lila watched Shane wave to her as he pulled off in the Rover and as ashamed of the action as she was, she
waved back at him, sure that she wore an expression akin to obsession clearly on her face.

That's great, she told herself as she looked around, now I am alone on a haunted island. Haunted by who
is the question. Now, if ghosts could look like Shane Alexander, she might just have to reassess her stand on
haunted islands. Lila looked down at her watch, it was 5:15 and she guessed now was as good a time as any
to set some ground rules for herself.

No spacey, star-struck looks for Mr. Shane Alexander! When she saw him again she'd have to insist he
not kiss her hand. She was supposed to be at work, it didn't matter that it wasn't her work. Maybe, she could
save herself if she thought of him as a client-she did after all have a degree in marketing.

This ghost talk could definitely be a problem for the resort status of the island however, with a little
thought she was sure there was an angle with which she could help him with damage control. Business and
romance weren't allowed, her record with men wasn't exactly stellar. The last thing she needed was to fall
for a rich guy who wouldn't know she existed when she left.

At least she was pretty sure that whatever had sent the honeymooners scampering back to their high-rise
in New York had little to do with ghosts.

No, she doubted ghosts would spoil her little impromptu vacation. Now, Shane Alexander was another
story entirely.


----------



## Julie Morrigan

A couple of weeks later Ruth pulled her car to a halt outside of Weardale prison and headed in to see how Tina Snowdon was coping. Weardale housed both adult and young offenders in the same institution, so when inmates reached the grand old age of twenty-one, all staff had to do was move them to an adult wing. Very convenient.

Before she met up with Tina, Ruth had a meeting with Mary McCluskey, her personal officer, to hear what the official word on the girl's progress was.

'Under the circumstances she's doing about as well as could be expected,' Mary told Ruth over a cup of tea, her accent pure Belfast. 'She was very withdrawn for the first week, she hardly left her room. That's not unusual, of course, but we couldn't allow it to continue. She's had some visitors, you know how much that normally helps, although I have to say, her mother is something of a mixed blessing.'

'Her mother's a bloody nightmare.' Ruth sipped her tea.

'Christina says she looks forward to seeing her and I think in some way, on some level, her visits do help. But they also upset her. The woman can be very harsh.'

'Penny thinks the wrong little girl escaped when the two kids were abducted. She's spent all her time since then making sure Tina knew that.'

'You've known them a long time?'

Ruth nodded. 'I was the FLO when it happened.'

'Christina speaks very highly of you. She looks up to you.'

'She's a good kid. Did she tell you she stabbed Cotter to try to make her mother proud of her?'

'Such a waste.' McCluskey put her hand to her chest and Ruth noticed the shape of what looked to be a large, ornate crucifix underneath the woman's clothing. 'How is Mr Cotter?'

'He's going to make a full recovery. I'd never have believed it possible. I was there when she stabbed him and I didn't think he'd make it to the hospital, never mind pull through.'

'Better for Christina this way,' said McCluskey.

'True. We should be thankful for that, at least. How's she getting on with the other girls?'

'Well, she's mostly kept herself to herself, but she's made one friend. Leanne, a girl on the hairdressing course. I put Christina to work in the salon when she told me what she'd been planning before she was arrested. I'll get her on a course, help her to get a qualification.'

'What about her exams? She was due to take those in a few months,' said Ruth.

'Don't worry, things will be sorted out so she studies and sits them,' McCluskey told her. 'I think we can safely assume she'll be with us for some time.'

'Yes, I think you can,' said Ruth. 'By the way, is it her idea to use her full name, or is that something you prefer to call her?'

'It's Christina's decision. She wants to change, and using her full name is one way she can remind herself of that. Also, she says she thinks it sounds more grown up.' McCluskey stood up. 'You can visit her in her room. I'll get Brenda to show you where it is.'


----------



## ervampires

"This place isn't so much hidden as it is protected," Zhilan explained. "The Spectavi know it exists, but it would be hard for them to get to us here."

"Two vampires?" I asked.

"There's a lot more than that. Don't worry." She formed a slight grin, and added, "Besides, you're with me."

The ride was longer and quieter than I expected, until eventually we came to a stop. The doors opened, and instantly, the electronic notes of dance music from down a long hallway hit me. It was even louder than at Night, but at least it was a familiar sound.

"I'll take your coat, girl," a middle-aged man in a black button-down shirt said from behind a counter, as soon as we stepped out of the elevator. He made no effort to hide the numerous bite marks littering his neck.

"Oh, no thanks, I'll keep it," I said.

"Another first timer&#8230;" The man sighed. "We insist. Your coat, please."

My eyes asked Zhilan for help, but she didn't give any. I took off my coat, handed it to the man, and waited for a ticket or something in return.

"I'll remember you. Don't worry," he said.

On the drive, I had decided to leave my coat on as long as possible. Now, without it and with my hair up, I had become much more exposed than planned. In spite of what Zhilan had said, I fought a strong urge to let my hair back down. Once again, I couldn't believe I had put myself in a situation where this was an issue.

Zhilan headed down the hall, so I followed. Just like at Night, the music got louder with each step, but this time orange and red lights flickered inside the club. Yellow mixed in, and I realized I saw bursts of fire.

I said a prayer, at the same time wondering how much it could help me all the way down here.

We stepped into the main room, and I stopped. The club was drastically bigger than Night in every dimension and appeared to have side rooms off the huge main one as well. Balconies of varying sizes jutted out of the very high walls and plenty of bars were spread all over. In spite of its size, souring vocals and pulsing beats sounded crisp and clear and had no trouble filling the room completely.

Then I saw the fire more closely.

Alone (Vampires and the Life of Erin Rose) at the Kindle store

ervampires.com


----------



## MTM

curvature of her body that always seemed to be fighting with all it had to gain access from its confining clothes, usually rich and colorful and Western.
When Haide finally lost her virginity, not long after she'd made herself at home in America, she found to her delight that she enjoyed the sex act so much that she got into the habit of making it a habit, much to the enjoyment of her steady stream of American dates.
Needless to say, she was quite accomplished in her love-making when Alexander first met her, which was in the parking lot of the fancy Italian restaurant where he worked evenings, and she went to bed with him on their first date. Alexander was so excited by the lithe Persian beauty that he could hardly think of anything but her, even when he was not physically touching or teasing or screwing her, all of which he did for three glorious months. As a result, his grade average began to slip, not much, but slip nonetheless. However, Alexander, normally a serious student, couldn't care less about the slippage of his G.P.A. he was so engrossed by Haide Mohammadi.
In February, however, when her once untouchable loins began to crave the taste of new masculinity, Haide Mohammadi dumped Alexander Smith. She dumped him hard, with little explanation and with finality, and Alexander nearly lost his mind, especially so when her ongoing sexual exploits continued coming back to his own ears. So he began to apply himself to his studies of British literature like he'd never applied himself to anything before, Haide Mohmmadi being no exception. He proved himself so capable in this endeavor that his dissertation supervisor even suggested, after it was all over for Alexander at Oregon State, that his lengthy discourse on the allegorical love poetry of Geoffrey Chaucer be published. But, for one reason or another, Alexander just never got around to trying to do this, though he did manage to maintain a lifelong interest in both love and poetry, allegorical or not.


----------



## mamiller

Howdy! Here is a first page preview of my new romantic adventure, JUNGLE OF DECEIT

_Port Newark, NJ - April 22nd_

From a hundred yards away, Mitch Hasslet lifted his lens to the aft of the ship and narrowed the viewfinder on the cracked white letters.

_Dorian Gray. _

Christ, he hoped there was a portrait stored somewhere that flattered this old bucket of bolts. Perhaps in its heyday, the freighter shined with fresh black paint and gleaming brass fixtures−but now it looked like a ghost ship ready to embark on a voyage to a prehistoric island.

On deck, crewmen were busy preparing for their valuable cargo as Mitch swung his camera in the direction of two police cars entering the barricade. In their wake, a trio of armored trucks stamped with the Museum of Historical Art and Antiquities insignia were flanked by two additional patrol units. The entire convoy pulled up idle at the foot of a ramp that led into the bowels of the Dorian Gray.

Mitch's curiosity flared at the sight of wooden crates towed on mobile skids by the armed security representatives of the HAA Museum. Some of the fanfare in the papers came to mind.

Rare Mayan artifacts. Brutal pieces of art that stirred up controversy and even warranted a disclaimer at the entrance of the museum.

_Not for the faint of heart._

Systematically, the shutter clicked as Mitch captured images of the wooden crates hauled like behemoth creatures into a cage.
When four Apache helicopters descended on the pier, Mitch's camera continued to snap. As if a beehive had split open, a battalion of camouflaged uniforms erupted from the choppers and flooded the dock, encircling the comparatively small police force. Men he had presumed were part of the ship's crew now drew weapons of their own and joined in the invasion as the explosive percussion of AK-47's pierced the brackish air.


----------



## mbeskind

Scans

I'll use this term for any of a number of procedures in which somebody at GE Medical Systems has developed a way to see inside your body without opening you up or sticking a camera in through an orifice you may or may not have been born with. CT (or Cat) Scans, MRI's, and PET's are the most common ones in the cancer world. Some come with IV or Oral contrast, some without. Oral contrast is a liquid made from chalk dust and goat semen that the patient drinks, or rather chokes down, an hour or two before the scan so that the technicians can conduct their daily betting pool on how many patients they can get to drink goat semen. They'll tell you the contrast helps them identify areas of activity of cancer cells, but I think that's bullshit, or perhaps goatshit.

I've been told that even a member of the frequent scanners club like me and many other cancer patients receives less radiation than your average TSA worker receives in a day of walking through the airport scanners in order to continue an inane personal conversation with their co-worker, usually punctuated with an "Oh no he di-int." But I think that's also bullshit. If Ritchie were in charge over at GE Medical, he'd make damn sure to drop enough radiation on, say, a 34-year-old breast cancer patient to cause some other cancer to appear before she's 50. It's called an annuity, folks.


----------



## jennifermalin

Here's an excerpt from my Regency romance novella, "A Perfect Duet" -- new to Kindle this week and priced at 99 cents -- cheap! 

As they approached the vicinity of the conservatory, the tumbling piano notes grew stronger and came more rapidly.

Entranced by the building arpeggio, Miranda slowed her pace.

Through one of the large windows, she spotted Mr. Owen at the keyboard, his movements vivid, his shock of blond hair flicking about as he struck the keys.

As she watched his fingers fly, her heart pounded. The instrument was an extension of his being. He didn't need to think about what key to strike any more than he had to remember to breathe.

Spellbound, she glided toward him, and the strains of the music swelled to exquisite heights. Throughout her body, her muscles contracted until she nearly couldn't bear the tension. Just as Elizabeth opened the French doors leading to the conservatory, he pounded out the climax of the movement.

Miranda sucked in her breath.

Cascades of softening notes rolled over each other to close out the song. He caressed the keys with the final notes, and gooseflesh rose on her forearms and thighs.

_By God, he plays like...like a sorcerer_, she thought.

***

The book is linked in my signature below, or you can click through to my website to read a sample or find info on my other books.

Thank you for reading!
Jen


----------



## HeatherCashman

PERCEPTION (The Tigers' Eye Trilogy, Book 1)
by Heather Cashman
99 cents, but probably not for long

Be careful. Rijan’s faint thought echoed from deep in the forest where she
hunted with her brother, Adamas.
I will. My thought reached to Rijan, my ingenium. I watched, rapt with
admiration for my great white tiger, the other half of my soul. Her vision
momentarily clouded my mind: a large buck bounding through the forest ahead
and Adamas, my brother Kade’s ingenium, concealed not far distant.
Hearing only the twittering and snapping sounds of the forest behind me, I
peeked around the small wooden message board. The area was deserted. Small
puffs of dust betrayed my steps as I crept, cat-like, behind the northern row of
two-story shops with their owners’ apartments above.
A lifetime of cruelty had ingrained a correlation in our minds: going to see
Kade would risk the loss of a few meals. I paused to reconsider and stared at the
strange colors of dusk, a bright orange on the horizon that melted into a deep
purple. Our mother Maran could no longer beat me, and we would be of age in
little more than a ten-day. The news from the message board left me no other
option. I blazed down the back of the buildings like fire in dry grass. My legs and
chest tightened with the anticipation of seeing him and the fear of possible
discovery.


----------



## imakenonsense

These are the first two stanzas from "Wet" in The Hole Between Mine and Yours: Liquid Logic from a Dirty Tumbler:

*Wet*

Floyd and I flied
I mean flew
But you seemed to knew
I mean know

Through the sky that I ride 
I mean wrote
On the waves of the nights
I mean notes

(Psst The book's free on Smashwords or $.99 on Amazon)

Any feedback is welcome!


----------



## K. A. Jordan

Swallow the Moon

June was in the garage setting up her soap making supplies when the dogs barked a warning. An SUV pulled into the driveway, up to the house and stopped. Still a little nervous from the phone call, June went outside to see who it was. She hardly recognized Eric when he swung out, grinning at her. Just as she suspected, all cleaned up, he was a knockout.

"Hey, girl." He scooped her up in an enthusiastic hug that made her giggle.

"Wow, look at you!" She admired the hair cut and trim. "What's the occasion?"

"I had a job interview." He gave her a kiss on the cheek before he let her go.

"I guess it went well, huh?"

"Oh yeah!" Eric ducked in his Explorer to get the pizza. He handed it over to her, then grabbed a couple bottles of soda. "It's a veterinary lab. I'd be running tests for several vets and a bunch of horse farms. Sounds interesting and the money would be good."

"Good." June turned back to the door. "You want to eat now or later?"

"Now." Eric followed her. "We can work and eat at the same time."

"Is that safe?" June walked into the garage.

"Of course." Eric raised an eyebrow at her. "Don't you trust me?"

"Are you sure you want to trust me around caustic chemicals?" June snickered.

"Good point," Eric said, setting the soda down. "Pizza and lye don't taste good together."

They ate and talked about all kinds of things. Eric briefly touched on his marriage to his high school sweetheart. June listened with sympathy. The things they didn't talk about were the most important things - his time at war and her magic. Watching Eric's eyes flick at the mats covering her pentagram without bringing up the subject vexed her.

"Is there an elephant in the room?" she finally asked, crossing her arms in front of her chest.

"What?"

June looked in the direction of the pentagram. Eric followed her eyes, then looked at her with a faint flush. He turned back to melting the chemicals.

"That's a hell of an elephant you got there."

"Are we going to dance around it all night?" June leaned her back against the work table so she could look him in the face.

"Do elephants dance?" There was a quirk to his lips that told her he was teasing.

"Apparently this one does."

"Okay, you got me." Eric set the metal spoon down with a clank, then faced her. "I don't have a clue about how to talk about it. It's not like I can say, 'Cast any good spells lately?' like it was - ah&#8230;"

"Normal?" June raise an eyebrow at him.

"Truce, okay?" Eric held his hands up palm out. "I said I was sorry about - er - that. I was scared shitless. I didn't have a clue."

"And now?" Hope flared in her heart. Would he be able to understand and accept her?

"I did some on-line research the other night. Wicca is a religion, not hocus-pocus or Harry Potter." He gave her a smile. "The whole 'turn the-prince-into-a-frog' cliché is bullshit."

"Pretty much," June admitted. Maybe it was going to be all right.

"Good, 'cause singing 'It Ain't Easy Being Green' is not my idea of fun." The wicked gleam in his eyes made her smile. When she smiled, he moved closer, pinning her against the worktable. As they moved together to kiss, cold wrapped around them both, squeezing their legs and slithering up their bodies.

"What the fuck?" Eric tried to shift away after touching her lips. The cold gripped tighter, June thought she heard music - the soft run of a keyboard. She held onto Eric as the cold squeezed her hips.

"Hold still. Don't move." She looked up at Eric. "Trust me, okay?"

"Yeah," he said.

June closed her eyes, breathing deep and reaching deep inside herself - it was there. Just under her heart chakra, cool, brilliant light washed through her and out as she breathed. The cold slowed its deadly slither, squeezing them painfully. June kept breathing, feeling the light flow from her, washing over the serpent of Cora's will, forcing it back. The squeezing stopped, the cold faded as June swayed in the cage of Eric's embrace. He supported her weight as she went deeper into the trance, to push the garage area clear.

Cora fought back, a swirling darkness that refused to give up. They were matched against each other in a contest of seething will and light. Eventually, June was able to beat Cora back, push the serpent of dark will out of the garage. At that point, she could tap old wards, snapping up barriers Cora could not cross.

When it was over, June came back to herself to find she was cradled in Eric's arms. At some point, he had picked her up. Her head was on his shoulder. She looped her arms around his neck, snuggling close to his warm solid body.

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah, you can put me down."


----------



## VickiT

From:

Fatal Liaison

Approaching twilight blurred the passing rural landscape. For a fleeting moment, Greg found himself mesmerized by the headlights of an oncoming vehicle. With a brisk shake of the head, he refocused his eyes on the road ahead and reached for the dashboard, feeling for the air-conditioning switch. The blast of ice-cold air shocked him back to instant wakefulness.

Unable to convince his mother to return to the city with him, he'd acquiesced and left with a neighbor's promise to look in every day. His mother's reaction to Samantha's disappearance wasn't quite what he'd expected. Although to be honest, he really hadn't known what to expect. She'd sat there stoically, with her hands in her lap and her head bowed, absorbing Greg's words as if they were a punishment to be endured. There were no tears, no emotional outbursts, nothing. It was as if all the life had been sucked out of her body, leaving just an empty shell.

Since reporting Sam's disappearance, Greg had been in contact with the police every day and each time they told him the same thing. The case was being actively pursued, but regrettably, there was nothing more they could tell him, blah blah&#8230; For all the good it did, he might as well have listened to a tape recording.

Detective Sergeant Dave Abrahams - in contrast to their first meeting, the detective's name was now firmly imprinted in his brain - was still being cagey about the possibility of there being any link between Linda Nichols' murder and his missing sister. As far as Greg knew, they still hadn't arrested anyone for the murder.

Greg wasn't totally naïve though. He knew missing persons weren't generally high on the undermanned and overworked police force's agenda. Moreover, at this stage, there was no evidence to suggest Sam had met with foul play. Thank God.

However, none of that would help to bring Sam home.

A break in the Michael Bublé CD he had playing in the car heralded an incoming call.


----------



## BiancaSommerland

*From Deadly Captive*

Mary returned during the night. I woke when she crawled onto the bed, and held her while she cried. When she finally calmed down, I asked her what had happened. She told me she'd had sex with Cyrus, had sex with him, and liked it. She hated herself for liking it because she saw through him now. I wished we could have spared her that, could have left her with her illusions. Her disgust with herself tore at her much worse than anything else he could have done to her. I was sure that was exactly how he'd planned it.

It wasn't the worst thing he did to her. Just a few nights later, he came in with Bruno. After threatening both Joe and me with death should we intercede, he seduced Mary and had her willingly sucking his dick while Bruno fucked her. Joe shouted at them to stop, but I held him back, knowing Cyrus would carry out his threat. To live, we stayed back as they used her, watched her travel the spectrum from rapture to pain as they shared her.
That had been another night when I could do nothing but hold her when she finally came to bed, skin scrubbed raw in the bathroom with the ragged strips of the dress she'd shredded, a gift from Cyrus.

A week later-I knew it was a week because Chrissie made a point of telling us, as though we should feel grateful we'd been left alone that long-we were brought to the glass arena. It was the room I'd been in my first night here, the room where Joe had saved my life. It was the room where we were given a chance to save Mary's life.

We were ordered to perform. We had to make it good. The three of us, together. They wanted to see me with Mary, Joe with both of us. Cyrus carefully explained this before he left us there.

Behind the glass were hordes of people, sitting row upon row, rapt attention all on us. They were dressed in all styles, from medieval to modern and everything in-between. Somehow, I could sense what they were, each and every one of them. They were just like the creatures who tormented us. There were so many of them. Our situation had never looked more hopeless.


----------



## I love books

Thanks for putting this thread together! These excerpts are wonderful. Here's mine:

From *AN UNEXPECTED BRIDE * (Contemporary Romance) $0.99



*BLURB*
Desperate to fulfill her ailing grandfather's last wish to see her settle down and get married, Emma Wiggins, a 30-year-old, career-focused executive tells him a little white lie on his deathbed that she is in fact engaged--to her boss, deliciously handsome and emotionally unavailable, Evan Fletcher.

The situation takes an unexpected turn when her grandfather's condition improves slightly and to her shock, he goes ahead and arranges a wedding ceremony at his hospital bedside before he passes on. Now, all Emma has to do is convince unsuspecting, commitment-phobic Evan to tie the knot with her in seven days. Can love blossom in the most unlikely situation?

*FROM THE FIRST PAGE*
"You mean to tell me, you can't find a decent man? Not one?"
"Grampa!" Emma Wiggins felt the blood siphon from her face. She could not believe she was having this conversation. 
She shifted her hips uncomfortably on the hospital bedside of her ailing grandfather, trying to find the right words to say. She knew quite well where he was going with his comment. He was desperate to see her settle down, get married and have kids one day. But after her previously tainted relationships left her with emotional burns to 70 percent of her heart, no way was she going down that yellow brick road to happiness again. There's no place like home&#8230;alone. 
"Oh, Gramps!" she whispered, tilting her head to the side, gently stroking his wrinkled forehead with her free hand as if comforting a fragile kitten. 
"Look, I promise you, I won't end up&#8230;dying alone and penniless. You have my word on it-okay?"


----------



## Andrew Davis

*From Hard Road Home*
A story of unconditional love and impossible odds.



The amber light of a single floor lamp revealed the words that Frankie could not bring to life amidst his drifting thoughts. 
Other attempts at distraction had failed as well. The television, which he rarely watched, fell short. The latest issue of _Big Bike_ hadn't worked, either. After winding down to where his heart wasn't trying to leap out of his chest, he had settled into his recliner with a book, hoping to calm his mind with visions from the past. 
Nothing worked. 
He placed his miniature bookmark of the author between the pages of Louis L'Amour's Buckskin Run and dropped the book onto his coffee table. 
_I have to talk to Jesse._ 
The nagging thought refused his attempts to dispel it. The potential danger cloaked in Jesse's "brilliant" idea was real and terrifying, a disaster waiting to happen, and, true to form, invisible to Jesse. 
It was suicide, and that meeting in the shop was nothing more than The Last Supper. 
Anything could go wrong: a blowout, slick track and a spin, high speed vibrations, crosswinds&#8230;an explosion. What would happen to Jesse if he went down at two hundred miles an hour in the condition he was in? 
_ Shut up! _
What was Jesse gonna do, roll up to Tech-in on race day in a wheelchair and say, "I can't walk, but I can sure as hell ride this motorcycle"&#8230;? 
_ That's exactly what Jesse Cain will do._ 
Would they let him race? _No way._ 
Would they let him do a check ride? What if he broke the world record on a check ride? It would be just like him to hold nothing back and do it. Would they let him race then? 
And what if he did pull this off, if the braces worked, if he was able to control the bike, and he did run&#8230;and he did win&#8230;? 
Jesse Cain would be an overnight national sensation with a consistent edge on the competition in every respect. There would be a nationwide waiting list for engines built in their shop. 
Big money would follow. In less than two years they could have a Harley Davidson dealership, the latest in racing diagnostics-some of it their own creation-and the best equipment money could buy. 
But Jesse couldn't do it without Frankie Powers. And if Frankie Powers supported this insane comeback, he would guarantee the risk of Jesse being seriously injured or killed. 
But what was he gonna do? Just tell Jesse he couldn't be a party to his self-destruction? Tell him he was about to kill himself and drive his father to another coronary, and Frankie Powers would have nothing to do with it? Warn him of the pending disaster that lurked beneath this thin veneer of anticipated glory, waiting to butcher him? 
"D*mn you, Jesse Cain," he said to the walls. 
Frankie rose and made his way to the kitchen table. For the next two hours he generated a list of questions and ideas for Jesse, questions and ideas that would help map out a game plan for the next eight weeks. 
Jesse Cain's fate was sealed.


----------



## AzureHorizon

from *The Dream Metropolis*, on Amazon + Smashbooks:

_At the end of the day, it's all about the quick buck. They love to dress this whole thing up as some philosophical revitalization of mankind, that we're all going to suddenly fix ourselves by elevating past this limited and worthless body. But that isn't true, I know it isn't. We're being played as pawns on a chessboard with no clear winner, and if there was one, we surely wouldn't be it. There's no transcendence here, only a hole that we're digging with our own minds, our own thoughts, living inside of fantasies forever because that, apparently, is the ultimate goal of the human experience... an escape._

Several photos had been strewn across his bed, many that seemed utterly useless until he gave them a second look. One in particular was the man he had only caught glimpses of: the Architect. The elusive man who'd made it all happen, who Mallister had been charged with keeping underground despite never actually knowing where he was. The other photo, strangely enough, was a picture of a boy and a girl, unrelated and from entirely different families, but nonetheless captured together talking to one another, unsuspecting of the lens that had brought them into the same static pose.

"Just what do you two have to do with anything... ?" He mused to himself. Picking up the photo, he searched it for any clues that would make it understandable, desperately trying to find any reason as to why it would be on his desk, or why the photo had been taken at all. He figured the two were dreamers, somewhere in the city, and that they had unknowingly run into each other. But dreamers never just 'ran into each other' here, there was always something going on above that made such encounters possible. It smelled fishy to him.


----------



## Steve Vernon

From "Nothing To Lose - The Adventures of Captain Nothing Volume 1"

"Hey Nothing.”

I looked up from the blow-job into a very long and hollow tube of metal. A pistol, but from this perspective it looked like an ambitious cannon, pointed directly at my face, right about nose level. 

Shit. 

A set-up.

I opened wide and ate the gun. I caught it between my teeth and rolled, using my weight and praying his finger wasn’t too attached to the trigger. 

First date or not, I don’t swallow.

It was a good plan, as reflex actions go. 

The only problem was Hoovergirl.

She just wouldn’t let go.

So I grabbed the pistol and twisted it away from the gunman’s sweaty hand. I kneed myself up on the rusted hotel mattress springs, yanked the gun out of my mouth and squeezed the trigger, airing out the gunman’s brains. Only it was me that felt the shooting pain as Hoover-girl bit down. She must have been part pit bull, raised on hard tack and chewy beef jerky, because she just wasn’t letting go.

So I shot her in the leg. Her head would have been faster, but I didn’t want to risk hitting anything important. It was fifty-fifty for the longest heartbeat of my life. Was she going to open her mouth, or bite down all the way?

She bit down. My luck was running true to form. I jammed the gun against her chest and shot her where her heart ought to have been.

Then the three behind me stepped out of the shadows and pistol-whipped me to sleep. I fell down onto the mattress, dreaming of myopic face-sucking, zit-busting, puss-drinking aliens.


----------



## Andrew Davis

*From God Bless Mr. Devil*
An uplifting story about power, love, and faith.



Rachael Hart entered Katie's room and found her sitting in bed with a Bible in her lap and Freebie lying beside her. Her school writing notebook lay unfolded on the bed next to her, its pages covered with scribbling, with her dictionary lying next to it. 
"Oh, hi, Mom." 
"Hi, Sweetheart. What on earth are you doing? You're supposed to be asleep." 
Katie shrugged. "I know," she said, and yawned, "but I wanted to know some things about God, so I looked up His name, just like you do sometimes." 
"Well, good," her mother said, collecting the results of Katie's work, "but we need to finish this tomorrow, Darling, it's way past your bedtime." She tucked a brown Teddy bear under Katie's arm and cuddled the covers up under her neck. 
Freebie lay on the bed next to Katie. Her uncle had named the dog when he rescued it from the gas chamber at the pound and gave him to her as a birthday present. The keeper called him "a crude mix of a short hair and a long hair." The resulting genetic mutation was a small, frizzy dog with an anteater snout and brown hair with black tips. Regardless of his looks, he was Katie's loyal companion, and she loved him beyond human understanding. 
"There you go," her mother said. "Now, did you add someone to your prayer list?" 
"Yes, I did." 
Rachael smiled. "Well, good. Then, let's say a prayer and we're off to bed." 
Katie appeared thoughtful and said, "Mom, I've been wondering why no one prays for the Devil." 
Her mother took a deep breath and weighed the statement. "Well, it's like Reverend Frye said. A long time ago when the Devil got into trouble in Heaven, God sent him to live in Hell until Judgment Day. So it won't do any good to pray for him." 
Katie immediately sat up in bed, her eyes now alert and filled with interest. "I've been thinking about that," she said. "In Matthew, chapter nineteen, verse twenty-six, Jesus says that God can do whatever he wants. So that means that God can change his mind." 
Rachael Hart's eyes widened. "You found that?" 
"Yes, I did," Katie said with delight. "I looked in the back, like you've told me to do with other books, found God's name, and then looked in the front where all the books of the Bible are listed. Then I looked up the numbers and read what Jesus said." 
"Why, that's wonderful! I'm so proud of you. And to answer your question, yes, I suppose God can change his mind if he wants to, but he's not likely to do that." 
"But it's possible," Katie said. 
"Yes...I'd say it's _possible_." 
"So then, God can give the Devil another chance if he wants to," Katie said with satisfaction. "So, we should all have faith that he will do that. I looked up faith, too. It means to believe that something will happen. Jesus told the blind man he got back his sight because he had faith. And the Bible says that faith won't work without deeds. So then I looked up deeds in my dictionary, and those are things we do, so that means we should have faith and do things. Reverend Frye even told us that today. He said-I wrote it down," she said, reaching for and shuffling through her notes. "Whatever you ask for in prayer, believe that you have received it, and it will be yours. So," she summarized, "we should all pray for the Devil, and we should believe that God will give him another chance." 
"My goodness, you've been busy." 
"It was hard," Katie said. "Sometimes I didn't know what the words meant, but I got most of it. The important thing is that we should pray for the Devil." 
Her mother nodded affirmation to the apparent logic. "Of course, the Devil would have to _want_ to be saved, and I don't think he does."
"Which is why we should pray for him," Katie said enthusiastically. "If we all pray for him, maybe he'll change his mind, and God will change _His_ mind, and the Devil will be saved, and all the bad things in the world will stop happening." 
Rachael Hart sat staring into her daughter's penetrating eyes, the monumental simplicity and unparalleled implications of the child's statement blocking any attempt to explain it away. She smiled and kissed Katie on her forehead. "Perhaps so," she said. "Now, enough about the Devil. We have to take Freebie to the vet's office early tomorrow, and you need to be thinking about the Christmas play and the rehearsal and all the fun things that Santa Claus will bring you in a few days." 
Katie frowned. "Mom, is Freebie going to be all right?" 
Rachael smiled. "Sure he is, Darling. The vet is just going to take a look at that knot on his leg to see if it needs to be removed." 
"Good," Katie said. "And I have already memorized my lines for the play."
Rachael gave her daughter a mischievous look. "You could have gotten the part of Mary if you'd wanted it," she said. 
"I know," Katie admitted. She shrugged. "Each of the other girls wanted to be Mary, too." A faint smile. "So I just thought I'd be an angel." 
Her mother grabbed her in a hug. "I know, Darling, and I love you so much for being _my_ angel." 
"Besides," Katie said. "I think being an angel is cool-the _Devil_ is an angel." 
Rachael Hart wiped a tear from her eye. "I know that, too," she said. "Now let's say a prayer and off you go." 
Katie wiggled herself under the covers. Freebie lay next to her, his needle nose on his paws. With her Teddy bear in her arms, Katie placed her hands together, closed her eyes, and began to pray. "Dear God. God bless Mom and Dad. God bless Teddy and Freebie. God bless the food we eat and the friends we keep. God bless all of the bad people in the world...and God bless the Devil."

* * *

The nightmare drove Satan bolt upright in bed. Gasping for breath, his face soaked in sweat, his fist came down hard on the red button imbedded in his nightstand.

* * *

The deafening scream shattered the tranquil hum of computer white noise in Hell's main control center...


----------



## Simon John Cox

imakenonsense said:


> These are the first two stanzas from "Wet" in The Hole Between Mine and Yours: Liquid Logic from a Dirty Tumbler:
> 
> *Wet*
> 
> Floyd and I flied
> I mean flew
> But you seemed to knew
> I mean know
> 
> Through the sky that I ride
> I mean wrote
> On the waves of the nights
> I mean notes
> 
> (Psst The book's free on Smashwords or $.99 on Amazon)
> 
> Any feedback is welcome!


I just bought this book. It's excellent, there are some really breathtaking turns of phrase in there. Witty and funny...I strongly recommend it!


----------



## SusanSizemore

From MEMORY OF MORNING



wasn't sex with anyone on board that ship of yours?"
I laughed. "Of course there was. Lots of lovemaking, and as furtive and private as people tried to make it everyone knew what, when, who, and where everyone else was doing everyone else. With everyone pretending no one knew anything. It was farcical sometimes."
"Why secrecy? Sex isn't forbidden on ships, is it? I thought there were married couples on some naval vessels."
"Not forbidden at all," I answered. "It's just very hard to have any privacy. And the sex had damn well never interfere with the smooth running of the ship."
She propped her head on her hand. "So, who did you--?"
"No one."
Bell's eyes went wide at the sharpness of my words. "Not even a flirtation?"
"Some flirting," I admitted. "But I didn't get involved with anyone."
"Was it the lack of privacy that bothered you?"
"That was certainly part of it." 
Memories churned up. I was already homesick enough for the people and life on board the Moonrunner. 
"You fell in love with someone, didn't you? I can see it in your eyes, hear it in your voice. Why didn't you do something about it, my dear?"
She was my sister, and she knew me. We always confided in each other. "I can't talk about it," I said. I touched her cheek. "Not yet." I turned onto my back and closed my eyes. "I'm going to sleep now."


----------



## Joseph Robert Lewis

Chapter 1 of *The Bound Soul*:

*Chapter 1. Qhora*

A warm breeze played through the curtains by the window overlooking the wide street where hundreds of people, zebras, ox-drawn carts, and sivathera-drawn carriages bustled back and forth around the rattling trolleys. A warm golden light burned through the evening haze of dust and smoke, a light not from the first handful of stars above but from the streetlamps below, all flickering and buzzing and hissing with electricity.

Outside there was the quiet chaos of the end of the day, of making the last delivery, of getting the evening groceries, of rounding up the children, and of going home for supper. Outside it was a sultry summer evening in the seaside city of Tingis, in northernmost Marrakesh.

Inside, Qhora could feel the gathering darkness and the lingering heat, the haze of sea air and sweat making her skin glisten and shine, making the room just a little darker and fainter. She closed her eyes and listened to Lorenzo's soft grunts and eager heaving breaths beneath her. Pushing down on his chest, she sat up and arched her back. His strong hands clutched her thighs, holding her down, rocking her with him.

She opened her eyes just a little to gaze at the cheap painting on the wall above the bed, and the floral patterns of the wallpaper, and the strange little electric lamps on the tables beside the bed. The painting was in the new Mazigh style, some sort of colorful abstraction that bored her. For a moment she missed the snowy Espani landscapes hanging in their own bedroom at home.

Qhora smiled and closed her eyes again. Lorenzo quickened the pace and began kneading her hips more roughly. The warm surging tides running up and down her spine quickened with him, and she felt herself slipping deeper into the haze of pleasure, beyond thought and control, closer and closer&#8230; she leaned back farther, squeezing him tighter between her legs, digging her small brown fingers into his pale, hard stomach muscles.

She bit her lip.
_Faster.
Harder.
Deeper._

Enzo groaned and grabbed her tighter, his body so still except for the tiny shudders. A moment later, she joined him in that place, in that world of trembling heat and joy. She crushed him between her legs trying to fill herself up with him, wishing she could wrap her entire body around his and devour him and hold him there forever, hot and pulsing and shivering.

But then the fullness of the moment retreated, slipping away to wherever it lurked when she wasn't riding him or he wasn't riding her, to wait for the next time. 
As the heat began to fade, she rolled off him to sprawl on the cool hotel sheets. Qhora lay still as the last hot tide of her sex subsided and she listened to the noise outside.

So different from home. So busy. So loud. So hot.

Enzo sighed. "Do you think they heard us?"

Qhora glanced at the door that led to the neighboring suite where Alonso and Mirari were babysitting little Javier. She smiled. She couldn't remember if she had made any noise at all. "I don't think so. It's so noisy out there. I can't imagine how anyone can hear anything in this city."

They lay side by side, not quite touching. The heat of the moment was gone, replaced by the heat of the city, the clamminess of the sheets, and the humidity of the air.

Lorenzo sat up. "I'm hungry. Are you hungry?"

"Starving." She sat up on the opposite side of the bed and picked up her blue Mazigh blouse. It was lighter and looser than her Espani dresses, and the one thing about this country that she genuinely liked. With the blouse and matching skirt on, the only thing about her that was even mildly Espani was the small golden triquetra medallion hanging between her breasts.

As she glanced over her things scattered across the side table, the open suitcase, and the floor, she tried to remember where any of her old Incan things might be. Her feathered cloak lay in a trunk in the attic back home in Madrid. The rest were simply gone. Her old clothes had been useless in the freezing Espani winters and even in the cool summers, and whenever they had begun to run out of money she had been quick to sell her jewelry.

They were only things. Pretty things. Things from home. But still only things.

Lorenzo stood across the room, tugging his black trousers up his slender legs, buttoning a white cotton shirt over his lean chest, and kicking his feet into his low black boots.

"You have to be roasting in those clothes."

He shrugged. "It's only for another day, and then we'll be on our way home." He was about to reach for his swordbelt and espada when there was a sharp knock at the door.

"Must be the maid again," he muttered.

"Or the manager with another bill. If it is, you have my permission to stab him. A little." She smiled as she stepped into her shoes.

Lorenzo opened the door. A short man in loose green clothing stood in the hallway. He spoke in a strangely accented Mazigh, "Good evening. Are you Don Lorenzo Quesada de Gadir?"

"Indeed, I am." Enzo stepped back toward the chair for his discarded blue vest. "What can I do for-"

The man dashed into the room with a short straight sword in hand. Qhora glimpsed a flash of deep orange on the blade, a gleam like smoldering coals, like a burning torch in the darkness.

_Aetherium!_

Continued in *The Bound Soul*


----------



## trbraxton

Nathan shook his head. "No, Mama. I can't see in your head. I swear."
She went to him then, kneeling to place an arm around his tiny shoulders.
"It's alright, baby. I'm not poking fun. It just makes me happy to see you do such wondrous things. You know I wouldn't poke fun- right?"
Nathan nodded.
The woman he knew as "Mama" pinched one of his cheeks. "Well, Young Mr. Walker. If you can't read my mind&#8230; then how do you always know where I hide things?"
Nathan thought hard, trying to think of the words to describe a kind of psychic magnetism that led him to the desired spots. All he had to do was visualize each item she called out to him to be pulled toward the proper location. It was as if each hidden item were a hunk of metal and the force guiding him was the world's most effective metal detector. 
Lacking the vocabulary to provide such an explanation, he chose one much simpler. "Somethin' pulls me, somethin' pulls me toward what I want. It's like magic. But Papa says there's no magic."
"Does he now?" his mother said, smiling. "Well, between you and me, Nathan- your Papa doesn't know everything."
Are you ready to learn, Young Nathan? Ruth's voice sounded in Nathan's head, yanking him from his reverie. He and the old woman regarded each other as they sat on the earthen floor of her cabin. A bemused, nearly toothless smile stretched her wrinkled face. Nathan understood that she had thought the words at him, no sound leaving her lips at all.
That's right, boy. I can think right at you. Her coal colored pupils glinted in her gray eyes. What's a matter, boy? Cat got your tongue, so to speak? Or you just don't realize you can do it, too? Go on. Think at me, boy.

http://www.amazon.com/Sight-ebook/dp/B005BEQL6C/ref


----------



## Brianna Lee McKenzie

From "Enchanted Heart"


Enchanted by the assurance of free land in Texas, many German immigrants crossed the great Atlantic Ocean despite the waves of change that were predestined to relentlessly replace their idealistic dreams with challenging realities.  Diligently, they struggled for balance upon the undulating deck of the ship that carved a course across the ocean, for they were determined to carve their own destiny in the unyielding Texas soil.  For many, their excursion had just begun when they had set foot on the sandy beach.  But for those unfortunate souls who had hoped to continue inland and claim the land that had been promised to them, their journey ended at Indianola…


----------



## Susan Brassfield Cogan

BLACK JADE DRAGON, page 99 (of the manuscript. It's going to be coming out in the next month or so)

Whatever held the sword lost interest and the blade clattered to my feet.

I snatched it up. I wasn't sure what I'd do with it, but I liked having it in my hand. 

The giant coils of the two dragons intertwined and thrashed battering against the walls. Claws the size of garden rakes slashed at shiny black scales and emerald scales without doing much damage.

The emerald dragon sank giant harpoon teeth into Daiyu's flank and coiled together they rolled out the broad arch and into the sky.

Suddenly the room was quiet except for the noise of the riot that seemed to be going on down in the prison. I was still holding the sword. It was shaking or maybe it was my hand.

I fumbled for the sheath hanging at my back. The carved black dragon had eyes made of tiny pearls. In spite of my shaking hands I managed to line up the tip of the sword with the scabbard and push the blade in.

An image of that beautiful living pearl filled my mind. It was realer than real. It pulsed with life and beauty. It was nearby. I could feel it.

Out in the sky the two dragons fought. They were like a dark storm disturbing the sky, a ball of lightning and thunder. 

I had a golden opportunity to get the hell out of there. It was time to go. It was time to boogie. Time to make like a tree and leave.

But I could see that pearl. I held the scabbard in my hands and stood there with the pearl shining in my mind like the moon.

Then I realized my sense of the pearl was coming from the scabbard. I couldn't smell the pearl, but I could almost taste it. I could feel it like moonlight and starlight.


----------



## Brianna Lee McKenzie

First page from Golden Dreams, coming out in the next few months.


“Collin!” the young woman’s frantic voice echoed across the rolling rapids of the White River.  Her scream traveled the wide expanse of the gorge that surrounded the river, which ran through the southern part of South Dakota.  Then, her plea bounced off the distant canyon wall before it traveled back to her straining ears.  Her hands instinctively reached toward the raging waters that threatened to pull her into the turmoil to churn with her beloved forever. 

“Collin!” she repeated, a desperate cry for just a hint that he had survived the fall from the path far above her and the violent current before her.
  
Her heart pounding painfully against her breast, she knelt on both knees and plunged her hands into the icy white water.  For an instant, she had thought she had felt his warm hand in hers, but her hopes fell with her heart when it returned with nothing.

“Collin,” her voice was barely above a whisper as she leaned back onto her heels and sucked in a deep, pitiful sigh.

“I’m sorry Mrs. Crawford,” a deep voice from behind her said, a warm and comforting hand squeezing her hunched shoulder in solace.  “There’s nothing we can do.  The current is just too strong.”

Amelia let her hands drop into her lap, her right-hand fingers unconsciously twisting the gold ring on her left-hand finger.  As she shuttered uncontrollably, a single tear slipped from her face and fell into the crook of that finger where it glistened in the bright reflection of the gold.


----------



## MeiLinMiranda

The first page of "Lovers and Beloveds":

_Whithorse Estate, Whithorse Province
Ammaday, the 5th Day of Spring's Beginning, 990 KY_

In the stable yards of Whithorse Estate, two lanterns burned. They shone up at their owners, who sat on a straw bale against a brick wall. The low light transformed the rangy, blue-eyed one's fair hair into a burnished bronze, and turned the shorter, stockier one's eyes near-black. Both wore battered old tweed caps, and coats just heavy enough for the early spring night. The shorter one held a flask of wuisc, full at the start of the evening, and as its level dropped, they listed into one another more and more.

"Say, d'you plan on drinking that whole thing yourself?" said the tall one.

The shorter one passed the flask over. "Be careful, Tem, you're not used to this stuff."

"And you are?" said Temmin. "If I'm going to the Keep, I have to learn to drink." He took a choking swallow, and pulled a face. "Where did you get this stuff? Besides, it's our last night to do this sort of thing. Any sort of thing." Temmin sighed and bumped his head against the bricks. "Why do I have to go, Alvy? Why can't I stay here in Whithorse? Breed horses for the family or something?"

"Don't gulp it, sip it," said Alvo. "The King needs just so many horses, and you're his only son."

"Sedra should be the Heir. She's smarter, and she's the oldest."

Alvo took the flask back, sipped, and snorted. "A woman will rule when Nerr gets the Heir. For that matter," he added, "this wuisc will be drinkable when Nerr gets the Heir. I told you I couldn't get the good stuff. Crokker would've given you some if you'd just asked."


----------



## Tickety Boo

El and Murphy made a half hearted attempt at resuming their banter, but the picnic had been rained out.  Carla soon relaxed, thanks as much to a double rum and Coke as to Bilodeau's departure.  Murphy made a gallant effort to cheer her up.
  
"He's bad news, that one," said Murphy, looking at Hunter, heightened respect evident in his expression.  "Too much of a shaggin' coward to meet you head on, so you'd better watch your back leavin' here, buddy."

Hunter shrugged and turned to Carla.  "Are you going to be alright on your own tonight" he asked her.  He didn't like the woman, but he felt sorry for her.  Many of the victims of domestic violence he'd seen during his career seemed to be fighting a fatal instinct beyond their control, being drawn to abusive partners like moths to a flame.  Randy must have been like a prince to her.  Her relationship with him, however casual it had been for Randy - and he couldn't imagine Randy intending her to become part of his family - must have been a valiant attempt on her part to break out of the vicious cycle of her relationship with Bilodeau, and perhaps others like him.  "You think he might come back looking for you?"

"Nah.  Rick's an asshole, but his bark is worse than his bite.  I'll be okay."  She took a deep drag on her cigarette, then emptied her glass and pulled a full one over in front of her and sucked on her cigarette again.  Her hands were shaking.

"Look.  I've got a friend who lives near here with his wife," said Hunter.  "He's an ugly son-of-a-bitch, but he and his wife are good people.  They'll probably put you up for the night if they've got room.  Give Rick time to cool off.  What do you say?"  Hunter smiled to encourage her.

Carla shrugged and flicked the ash off her cigarette into the black plastic ashtray.  "I'll be okay," she repeated.  "I don't want to be no trouble, you know?  I'll be okay."

By the time Murphy and El escorted the other two out to Hunter's car it was almost eleven o'clock.  The parking lot was dark and quiet, except for another party saying their goodnights a few cars away.  Hunter held the door open for her as Carla threw her cigarette on the ground and slid into the passenger seat.  Hunter started up the Pontiac's engine and let it run while he watched El get into her pickup, and Murph enter the hotel where he had a room booked for the night.

"So Randy showed your ex ...," Hunter fumbled for a word before deciding he didn't need one, "the door last time he was here, did he?"

"Hah!  Rick's my ex, alright - an ex-mistake on my part.  Yeah, Rick got really choked at Randy.  Randy was a pretty skookum guy for his age."  Carla looked over at Hunter with a grin and added, "Take it from me, he was in good shape for a guy his age."

Rummaging noisily in her big purse, she continued talking.  "He backed Rick up against the wall, grabbed him by the front of the shirt, and threw him on his butt.  Told him to leave me alone.  Shit!  Was he mad!"

(excerpt from Slow Curve on the Coquihalla)


----------



## crpaynton

- Page 99 from Wolf Guard Encroaching Dark -

As he approached he noticed a shadow growing over his left shoulder on the floor below him. He watched as it grew larger and larger. He turned around and came face to face with a giant serpent. Rolf fell backwards as he looked at the creature that was rising up before him. Fear began to take hold of him as he looked into the creatures black eyes. It had thick scales and spikes coming from out of its back. Its nostrils flared as it stared at Rolf on the floor. Rolf looked around the hall desperately and then back to the creature. He quickly pushed up off the ground and spun around to face the sword. He began running towards it. Just as he was within reach of the sword the creature shot in front of him rising up to the ceiling. Rolf again fell backwards.
"Trying to steal my sword?" the creature growled.
Rolf hesitated.
"I am not stealing it, and it does not belong to you," he replied, his voice shaking.
"What gives you the right to take this sword?" the creature continued.
"I, I'm the Wolf Guard," Rolf replied, his voice still shaking.
The creature continued to stare at Rolf as he exhaled, causing his nostrils to flare out.
"You are no more a Wolf Guard than I," the creature growled, its voice echoing throughout the hall.



Craig


----------



## AithneJarretta

Page 99 from print edition Concentric Circles: Twin Sparks of Love 



Shayla, mesmerized by Morna’s face, stared while her thoughts spun in fast circles. Too rapid to speculate upon.
Morna studied her in return. “You have the look of my sister, Keira.”
Black Bryan quirked a brow, allowing his gaze to wander. “Is she setting?”
Harry sniggered.
“Bry!” Meekal pulled her toward the library, glaring at Black Bryan.
“Setting?” Shayla paused, looking from Meekal to his ancestor.
Meekal glared fiercely, and hissed low, “Nesting, with child, pregnant.” 
Another gasp rose and she turned back to the foyer. Meekal stopped her, shaking his head. “Shay, he’s from ten sixty-six.”
Another sound assaulted her senses. Harry, collapsed on the couch, laughing and breathing hard, observed her discomfiture.
Her annoyance peaked, pushing to the surface. “Excuse me, what’s so funny?”
Harry pulled in a sharp breath, and then let it out with an ear-wide grin. “Well, I guess this confirms it, cous, you’re one of us. Welcome to the Radgie Farm.”
“Cous? Radgie? And why can I see them move now and not before?”
Meekal smirked at his life-long friend and tried to reassure her. “Morna says you look just like her little sister Keira. Mum thought that, too. If you are descended from Keira, you are related to Harry.” He paused to toss Harry a mock glare. “Radgie means crazy. I guess if you’re related to this prat, then aye, Radgie Farm would cover it. As to seeing Bry and Morna, your magic is fully opened now.”


Thanks for reading!


----------



## dustylynn

I actually went to my original manuscript. Page 99 is only a partial, so I've copied page 98. From my book Dragon Ties.

Auri's heart pounded painfully as she watched him climb the grassy bank. The pain of his words-and the fact that he was right-made her squeeze her eyes closed in self defense. That was why she had asked Wolf to keep Liran safe, because she needed him in ways that she didn't even fully understand. She drew in a deep breath, sat down on the grassy slope, and opened the single piece of parchment with shaking hands.

_Nachal-
I find myself in a position that I've never been before. A war is being waged within me. Part of me wishes for nothing more than your death, a feeling I am sure that you share in regard to me, and the other . . . wants only her happiness.
You do not deserve her. She . . . is so much more than you can imagine. So much more than you can comprehend. She is light and truth, grace and heart. She is breath. She is everything. 
I once told her, that I would never attempt to love her, and that she was destined for someone far different than I. You see, I don't deserve her either. I have too long been the fighter, too long made war with hands that are stained with blood and gore. But when she is near, all of that seems to disappear. The stain of my hands is gone, and the sound that is my constant burden-the sound of every life-force trying to shatter my skull-fades to a soothing whisper. In her, is peace. The peace of the world, and the peace of my soul. 
The horse is a gift. Use it to get to her. Protect her while I cannot. 
Liran _

She finished the letter and folded it carefully in half again, being extra careful not to tear it. Silent tears ran down her face as she watched the river rush past her. The sun set. Night fell. She curled up into a small ball on the grass, and closed her eyes. The eyes of many watched over her.


----------



## dustylynn

Partial of page 98 and 99 in my original manuscript for Dragon Dreams.

Liran looked away wearily. "I meant no offense," he said quietly. "I was merely trying to figure out your place in all of this."
Nachal relaxed and looked out over the endless ocean. He deliberated for a long moment, and then sighed. "I can't talk about it," he whispered.
Silence, and then, "I understand."
"No," Nachal said in frustration. "You don't." His fingers gripped the rail punishingly; he could feel every indentation, every remote crevice of the wood. "Take it from my mind," he demanded stiffly, suddenly. "I can't say it aloud, just take it from my mind."
"I can only hear your current thoughts," Liran warned.
Nachal nodded silently, then let his eyes close against the endless rhythm of the waves flowing from beneath the ship, crashing into the sides of the hull-remembering. He brought them forward, dreams that were streaked with sweat and tears and blood. He paused over each image until the pain in his chest felt like it would explode, and silent tears ran down his face. He felt Liran stiffen in shock beside him, felt the air all around them go still once again.
"Why?" he whispered harshly
Nachal shook his head mutely. That, he didn't know. He brought the final image forward, and left it there to burn a bright, gaping hole in his mind: Obsidian, circling high above. He had to breathe deeply through his clenched teeth for a moment, before he was able to show him the next scene-that pivotal conversation with Cerralys.
"I need a clear view of his face," Liran murmured, his voice strained.
Nachal nodded, understanding instantly why he asked this. He pushed the memory forward. That final moment in Cerralys's study, before he had turned and walked away. He paused there, letting the familiar face and eyes fill his mind completely. Then he opened his eyes, the slate of his mind clean, and looked over at Liran, whose head was bowed.
"I understand now," he said quietly. "Thank you."
Nachal nodded, looking out past the waves again, toward the vast black emptiness of the night that went on forever. Liran was quiet for a long time. When he spoke again, his voice was hoarse with pain. "I know that you love her."
Nachal glanced over at him, suddenly wary of where this conversation was headed. "What does that matter?"
Liran looked at him. His eyes were blazing, tight with deep emotion. "I think it would mean a great deal . . . to her."
"She doesn't even know," Nachal said bitterly. "In her eyes, she just met me."
The answer was soft. "Give her time, Nachal. She needs you. Don't fail her." And with that, he was gone, leaving Nachal to stare unseeingly at the dark and empty night.


----------



## Tony Lee

From DODGE & TWIST: A SEQUEL TO OLIVER TWIST...

Page 99 (off my Word Doc as I didn't have a kindle to hand)


  ‘Not so ineffective after all, Twist,’ she whispered as she opened an eye. ‘Not bad at all.’ She rose to her feet and quickly made her way to the back of the office, pulling the key out of her purse as she did so. Moving the chair that sat behind the desk, she faced the cabinet that ran along the back wall, quickly opening the doors until she found what she was looking for; Percival Bateman’s safe.
Pulling off one of the gloves, she felt along the edge of the door lightly, trembling as she placed the key into the lock, turning it. As expected, it didn’t open. Betsy leaned closer, placing her head against the door, slowly turning the key with the ungloved hand. Then, pausing for a moment she pulled the key out of the lock and, with a small file that was also secreted in her purse, she began to file at the edges.
  ‘Just a couple of minutes, Twist,’ she muttered as she placed the key in the lock and tried again with no success. ‘That’s all I need.’


Down the corridor, Oliver stood with Bateman as he poured fresh water into a glass jug. Bateman was visibly shaking now as he apologised profusely.
  ‘I’m so sorry,’ he said. ‘I really am. I didn’t even think that she might take offense at my words. They were a bit full blooded, weren’t they? I’m such a fool!’
  ‘There, there,’ Oliver patted Bateman on the shoulder. ‘It could have happened to anyone. If anything, Wilhelmina will know that you’re not just a staid bookworm; that there’s a fire that burns inside you, that strengthens your blood.’
Bateman paused, looking up at Oliver with an expression of hope.
  ‘You really think so?’ he asked. 
  ‘Indeed I do,’ Oliver replied, once more slapping Bateman’s back. ‘Now, where do you keep the glasses?’


Back in the study, Betsy was about to place the freshly filed key back into the lock when she felt the hand on her shoulder.


----------



## djgross

From Prior Sins (99 cents at Amazon)

Sarah paced her living room, feeling like a rat in a cage. Calling Hadrian to warn him about Becca Potter's intentions was the right thing to do. She still has a moral compass, as least when she was conscious. But if Becca had told the truth, any contact with Hadrian put her at risk. Instead of picking up the phone, she opened up her laptop and did a Google search. 
"Oh God." Sarah stared in horror at the search results. 
Becca hadn't embellished Hadrian's background. Hadrian hunted down criminals, monsters like her. She shook her head. Stop exaggerating. She might be a monster in waiting, but she'd keep her demons leashed at any cost. 
She looked at the phone. Her stomach clenched. The old athletic shoe commercial popped into her head. Just do it. She picked up the receiver. Hearing the dial tone in her ear filled her with panic. She hung up the phone. 
Run first, call later. 
By the time she arrived at the trailhead, her adrenaline had spiked to epic levels. Despite the temptation to run until her lungs burst, she forced herself to stretch before pounding down the trail. She increased her speed until her breath came fast.
"Tell no one."
"Tell no one."
"Tell no one."
Her mother's voice taunted Sarah, the warning repeating in time with her footsteps. 
"Go away!"
A runner on the opposite side of the trail turned his head in her direction. 
_Keep the crazy inside._ She rounded a turn and the picnic area came into view. 
Blood droplets hovered in midair. 
Sarah stumbled, her arms wind milling. She recovered her balance before she hit ground and then squeezed her eyes tightly shut for a count of three, silently praying the blood would vanish.


----------



## mamiller

From the 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.


----------



## Victoria J

From _The Pumpkin Princess_:

"Can you smell it?" Hunter sniffed in disgust. She felt his great body shiver as she rode on top.
"I can't smell anything. You mean the lake?"
"What else? Perhaps we are not close enough for you to smell it yet." The path began sloping down a hill and in just a few moments after Hunter began trotting downward she could detect the smell from the lake. The path ended in front of a mushroom, fat and tall as a small shed. Some were as small as dog houses. Others far larger. There was a ring of them, just as Old Tree said, many shades of brown; some solid, some mottled with spots. As they entered the ring, Hunter tread slowly and gingerly. Anne could smell the vociferous bite of the lake's stench as they approached. She nearly retched.
"Definitely her work." He growled.
"Oh! It's horrible!" Anne cried. It smelled both rotten and sweet, like Grendo, yet a hundred times worse! If all of her parents' neighbors had piled their garbage in one place out in the open and left it there for two weeks and the garbage men forgot to come and pick it up - that's what the lake smelled like. Added to the terrible stench was the destruction it's poisoned waters wreaked on the flora around it. As they crept closer all they could hear were the thick glub-glubs of the nasty lake water. The trees near the lake's edge were dead, twisted black things. The grasses had turned into a jungle of hard, ugly weeds. The water was grayish black and didn't move and flow like true water. Instead, it bubbled and frothed in places throughout the surface of the lake like a foul stew. No flowers of any kind grew there and the sides of the mushrooms that faced the lake were turning black. Black vines of poison snaked up and around their fat trunks like veins and pulsed sickeningly. At closer inspection, though they were careful not to get too close, they saw curved thorns growing out from the vines. Vines with teeth. The vines crawled out of the lake in hundreds of long arms and lay hold of all plants near the lake's perimeter, killing them, choking them and piercing them with their thorns. There was also a very mysterious thing. Every so often there were translucent, pearly bubbles that rose to the surface, broke through and rose into the air and off into the sky. 
"What are those?"
"I don't know. It can't be good. They're being released into the air. Whatever they, are it's being caused by the black blight." Hunter growled. The stench was so powerful it seemed like a living, breathing organism. She covered her nose, feeling dizzy, but that was useless.
"It's one of her favorite methods of destruction."
"Why?"
"Because it takes less effort from her than wind, ice and snow."
"How do we get the princess out of this lake?"
"I will go in. If you entered by yourself, you would drown. The lake is deeper than we know. I am a winter creature. Her poisons won't harm me. Still, it won't be much fun."
"Where should we start looking?" Anne asked. Hunter looked thoughtful for a moment.
"I saw her use this mischief on someone before. These vines, I suspect are coming from the princess. It's like a seed that is planted within, usually the person is tricked into eating something that has been poisoned. It then sprouts these black-thorned vines. Be prepared for the worst, Anne! I would not be surprised if she has become nothing more than a monstrous root. We shall see." Steam hissed and floated in thick, bilious columns from the lake's surface.
"I hope not! I hate that Winter Queen!" Anne stamped her foot. Then she had a thought. She had packed a box full of iron nails with her. She fished them out.
"What is that?" 
"Iron. Fairy magic can be fought with iron. Let's see if this works." She said.


----------



## MTM

Marvin Baines drove down the highway in his yellow Mazda wagon. The car radio sang to him as he drove, and he sang to the radio. But because he soon began to worry deep down when he, together with the radio, began to sing out the words to "If you loved me half as much as I love you," he flicked off the radio. And, as he continued along the highway in his yellow Mazda wagon, he began thinking of Martha Baines. He couldn't help it. He just sat there and drove and thought.
He loved her as he smiled at the thought of her happy face, so soft and neat and good, laughing at him as she unwrapped her first birthday present from him. And the childish smacking of her lips as she slurped down a strawberry shake, her favorite.
God, how she loved strawberry ice cream! The thought brought a giggle to Marvin Baines.
And the way she smiled that first summer. And her fondness for pizza with everything on it, including anchovies. The thrill a new recipe could give her. The softness of the skin covering her cheekbones. Such rosy cheekbones.
But Marvin Baines did not love the thought of the newly gained flab on her thighs, and the piercing edginess of her voice when he happened home late or did something not to her liking.


----------



## MTM

"That right?" Alexander Smith's thoughts were still on her stunning figure. Damn if she didn't look a heckuva lot like ole Haide Mohammadi!
"Yeah," she laughed. "Isn't that crazy? I just happened to stumble on it myself. I've been looking for it for twenty minutes or more."
"Me, too."
"That right?" She laughed. "I've got a class there tomorrow."
"I do too," said Alexander.
"What class?"
"Chaucer seminar."
"Me too. Two o'clock."
"No kidding!" said Alexander, beaming. "That's when I have it." He gave her chest a quick swoop of the eyes.
"Well, whataya know," said the girl. "I guess I'll be seeing you tomorrow."
"Yes, I would think so," said Alexander.
"Two it is then." She smiled, and her teeth were white.
"Yes," said Alexander Smith. And he stood there watching her backside as it bobbed up and down away from him.

#

William Ferris stepped into the English Department office for the first time. It was a large office with desks for five or six people. Along the back wall sat three unused computers and to


----------



## KDavis

Page 99 of my ebook 'Ignite' by Kaitlyn Davis - Midnight Fire Series Book 1
Amazon link: http://www.amazon.com/dp/B005U8GQT6

Visit my blog for the cover and the first chapter free!: http://kaitlyndavisbooks.blogspot.com/

"Look, Tristan, there's no point hiding the fact that you like me, from me I mean. I flipped through your notebook again after I saw that you'd left it behind. I saw the drawings you made of me." He looked up at her then, and Kira handed his small moleskin back to him, happy to at least have that out of the way. For some reason, she thought he was looking at her like she was an unruly child who wouldn't follow instructions. Where he got that from, she had no idea, but he continued with his speech so she continued talking over him. 
"They were really great actually, pretty flattering," she smiled, hoping he would look at her again but he didn't. "Anyway, I think we should talk about what happened, not here obviously, but somewhere where we can meet in private." They both chose that moment to look around, and Kira saw they had the attention of both Luke and Tristan's friends. Yeah, she thought, the classroom was definitely not the right place to have this conversation, and she kind of hoped talking would lead to other things like it had last time. 
He finished reading his lines. "Hey Juliet, it's your turn." He smirked. 
"Oh, right," she looked down at her book. "O Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art though Romeo," she tried to copy his apathetic style of reading and was secretly overjoyed when he laughed at her. 
"I get it, I sounded like an idiot," she just continued on, giving him the same silent treatment he'd given her. "Okay, here's the truth Kira. We can't talk here and we shouldn't even be talking now or maybe ever."
"You told me that already," she stopped reading. 
"Yet, you seem to have trouble understanding it. English is your first language, right?" She rolled her eyes at the joke. "Like I said before, we just can't ever be."
"I understand what you're saying, but I also know you don't mean it." She leaned closer to him to prevent from being overheard.
"I do," he forced the point. 
"Oh really," she tried to push him now. "It didn't seem that way when you kissed me."
"Kira, forget that ever happened, okay?"
"Or what? You don't scare me."
"I should," he said and shot Kira a lethal look. His eyes changed color to the lightest blue she could imagine and they held her captive, not in the romantic way, but as though she were a prisoner held paralyzed. His eyes were cold and made her shiver like she'd been dropped in an arctic pool, and slowly his pupils began to expand, overtaking his eyeball. 
Kira was scared, and more than that, she felt like he knew it and didn't care. Her fear at not being able to move was slowly surpassed by a swell of power that stirred within her as a feeling of warmth spread to her hands. Kira broke free from him and looked at the floor. Her fingertips still tingled with whatever had coursed through her and allowed her to break his gaze. Kira leaned back against her chair and away from him. She touched her fingers to her cheek and felt them burn into her skin.
"What the hell was that?" She asked unsteadily, still not looking up. The heat emanating from her hand absorbed all of Kira's thoughts. 
"Me," he said with the venom gone from his voice. She looked at him again and caught the unbearably sad expression in his eyes before he looked away from her. Or me? She thought to herself feeling the heat finally ebb.


----------



## Evan Couzens

*Battlesongs of Hope*, location 2168/6509:
_
while we have time and power on our side. All too soon the dooming murmur will whisper in our ear." 
_
Those names sent chills down his spine. He looked down at the rotting corpse lying a few feet away, as if expecting it to rise upon the mere thought of Syme and Delphi. It didn't. The house was very quiet. Another blood-caked page crumbled when he tried to smooth it out. He picked another off the floor beside the overturned bench. It was dated six years ago.

_"We travel to the gray citadel. The Spider Queen knows she has held power at our bequest since the rise of our Houses. Her brood coexists with a handful of fringe farmers, from whom she extracts minor taxes, as she has for five centuries. I pause now, to acknowledge the work of Peter Delphi-Wagte, who consolidated the Archive's information on the Spider Queen. He has served us well.

"The Spider Queen's self-sustaining brood can be used to shelter the blood of the Two Houses until such time as this upcoming Chaos passes. The abhorrent acts we will perform to ensure the safety of the city and its people are a sacrifice both I and The Puppeteer Aldenrod Syme are prepared to make. The Queen will comply, and when her scouts judge the Chaos has passed, she will bring her brood to rebuild and rule the sprawl. It pains us to think of the suffering that will descend upon the common people in the intervening years. We cannot see how long the sprawl will writhe on the Chaos's rack; a year would be a year too long, and yet we fear it will be far longer than that. But this shapeless Chaos will end, and order will be restored. Its instrument is foreseen, and thusly we go." 
_
He dropped the page and started backing out of the room. The birds outside sang with the surreal, muted tones of nightmares. His scalp prickled. Shadows danced in the dark corners of the house. It was beyond comprehension. Words from the dead Prophet himself&#8230;

Jacob hurried out of the house into the fields and looked back at it like it wielded a knife. It looked smaller outside than it was inside. The sun streamed through clouds; a breeze rippled the woods; a squirrel watched him from a solitary tree. Plain, calm, peaceful. Inside&#8230; inside was impossible. The ghosts of the city had no business out here.


----------



## Michelle Muto

On the way back, I insisted on visiting a couple of neighborhood friends in case Jordan was there. She wasn't. No one was home at either Kristen's or Zach's, and wandering through their houses when they weren't there seemed too much like snooping or breaking and entering, so we went back to my house.

Exhaustion had seeped into every part of me by the time we got back home and I wanted to rest for a while. Besides, sitting around watching my parents grieve only worsened my guilt. Still, I lingered in the living room for a moment. Mom and Dad were curled up on the sofa to watch television.

Aunt Jen was there, too. She snatched the remote off the coffee table. "News is too depressing." She flipped through channels, finally deciding on a sitcom rerun, probably hoping the humor might quench some of the despair in the room. But my parents didn't even seem to notice.

After Banning and Daniel assured me they'd stay clear of my parents and Aunt Jen, I trudged upstairs. Despite my uncertainties, my blissful ignorance of the ways of the afterlife, I had to admit they hadn't done a thing to hurt me or my parents either, though they both had the opportunity and the ability.

I stayed in Jordan's room again instead of mine. If she came home while I slept, she'd know where I'd be. I worried about her. Did Jordan have someone to guide her along like Banning and Daniel, or was she alone? She'd been alone at the morgue. At least, Tim hadn't mentioned anyone being with her.

I thought about all the earthbounds Daniel said were unstable and squeezed my eyes closed tightly, trying not to think of my sister among them. My body ached and flickers of light sparkled behind my tired eyelids. My thoughts became more disjointed and less important as my breathing slowed. I wondered if demons or reapers ever slept. Apparently, ghosts did, because before long, I let go of everything and succumbed to wonderful, peaceful sleep.


----------



## pentalpha

I savoured the greasy bacon roll smeared with ketchup, and a mug of 
coffee. Several re-fills and another bacon roll later, I felt ready to do a bit 
of research at the Mitchell reference library. I hopped the train and 
headed for the city centre.

By late morning I concluded one thing - Hess still had 
followers, as did his beloved Fuhrer. Theories abounded around his last 
flight to Scotland - everything from grand conspiracies with sympathetic 
British aristocrats, to the belief that the Germans cunningly sent a 
doppelgänger in Hess's place.

I drew one conclusion from the relatively sane academic 
works - Hess's bum was out of the window with regard to his 
relationship with Adolf Hitler. It seems that in September 1939, Hitler 
relegated Hess from being Deputy Fuhrer and gave the job to that fat 
bastard Hermann Göring. On the war front, old Adolf was making 
preparations to invade Russia as early as July 1940.

Hess wasn't a happy bunny about the thought of the old 
German military dilemma of war on two fronts - it hadn't worked for the 
Kaiser and his moustache so why should it work for Adolf? Hess didn't 
share his beloved leader's optimism and had formulated an alternative 
plan by the autumn of 1940. He was an avid pilot and contacted his old 
friend Willi Messerschmitt to kit out a long range twin-engined plane for 
the job - an Me 110E.

I pondered this fact wondering why he'd taken such a large 
plane and not a Me 109 single seat fighter equipped with extra fuel tanks 
that could have been discarded when empty. Of course he told his pal 
Willi that it was just for a spot of sightseeing - as you would.

Hess's plan came together in the late afternoon of the 10th 
of May 1941. He took off from Augsburg near Munich - fifty miles from the 
Swiss border and ninety from Zurich where, according to the document 
the Bumble had shown me, the gold had been withdrawn a few days 
beforehand.

He was probably an hour into his flight when Adolf Galland, 
the German fighter ace who commanded a squadron down on the 
northern French coast, received a telephone call from fat Hermann. 
Göring ranted on that a leading Nazi had gone mad - which must have 
come as a complete surprise to Galland. Göring revealed it was no less 
a figure than Rudolf Hess who had done a runner and that Galland was 
to intercept him and shoot him down. Galland, probably knowing 
Göring's propensity for drugs, in all likelihood thought Hermann was on 
his own amphetamine-fuelled flight.

Nevertheless, to oblige, he sent up a couple of fighters to 
appease the fat fokker. Galland knew that even if it was true, it would be 
almost impossible to find Hess amid the other aircraft in a war zone and 
besides, even if he made it to Scotland, he would in all probability be 
shot down.

http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B004RK0T9G UK
http://www.amazon.com/dp/B004RK0T9G USA
*The Bumble's End by Jimmy Bain * 
Crime, but not as we know it.


----------



## Steverino

Page 99 of _Outrageous Fortunes: A Novel of Alternate Histories_ falls on a chapter break.

Chapter 23

SUNDAY

The NEWPORT PIER GRILL & SUSHI was closed. Brain, Lynn, and Randy paced aimlessly around it, passing wooden park benches and gray plastic trash cans, trying to keep warm. On their second lap, Randy checked the clock on the lifeguard house.
Five past twelve.
On their fourth lap, Randy saw a blue light on the water, moving fast.
Brain and Lynn stopped too, following Randy's lead. "What are we looking at?" asked Lynn.
The light weaved in the gloom in a way that was eerily familiar. The water sparkled blue-white beneath it. It grew from a spark into a drifting soap bubble.
"I see it," said Brain. "Wow, what is that?"
The sphere was more than six feet across now, big enough to jump through. But nothing appeared. It touched the ocean for a moment and blasted up roaring froth that caught the light.
"I got it," Brain leaned heavily on the rail and squinted. "Ball lightning."
Randy couldn't take his eyes off it. He repeated what Sully had said to him this morning. "Have you ever heard of the many-worlds interpretation of quantum mechanics?"
"Yeah," Brain said.
"Then you're doing better than I was, the first time I saw that."
It was getting too big, more than twelve feet. It lit up a shimmering path on the water that led all the way to the pier, like a rising full moon. Its center dimmed and became translucent, and as it floated, the lights of ships behind it came through distorted and blurry.
A cold wind blew over the pier. Every light on the horizon dimmed. A bank of fog had blown to shore, coming from the sphere. 
It had to be seawater from another world, Randy thought. Ocean waves traveling though the sphere and being vaporized.
It looked like it could swallow the restaurant behind them. How big could these things get?
The sphere flashed once, like the pulse of a heart, and something heavy fell from it to the water, splashing and riding down the swell of a wave.
Its hull was deep green and its sail was furled on its boom. The hum of an engine came to Randy's ears, and after that, the cowboy whoop of a voice that sounded a lot like his own.
Lynn gasped. "Oh my God, it's all true."


----------



## pentalpha

A Salvation Army brass band knocked out 'Oh Come All Ye Faithful' as I fought my way past the Christmas shoppers at the east end of Princes Street. I went down the Waverley steps and into the station. A young guy with a forlorn look and a wispy growth on his chin waved a magazine in front of my face.

`Big Issue? Help the homeless - special Christmas edition.' A large mongrel sat faithfully beside him wearing a red Santa hat.

I fumbled in my pocket and handed him a tenner. `Keep the magazine mate,' I said, `nothing personal.'

I shoved my way past a young couple who only had eyes for each other, and into the inner arched quadrangle of the Railway Bar. The Chinaman was already there. He nursed a glass of scotch at a table in the corner, along with a couple of sad bastards who looked as though they had no intention of catching a train. Though by the look of them they'd had their tickets well punched.

The Chinaman's real name was Reuben McKenzie. He'd been a newspaper hack in Glasgow with the Daily Record and moved to Edinburgh after he'd got into an affray with a hoodlum over an expose about cocaine and an underage sex racket. The encounter resulted in Reuben being stabbed and losing a lung. Hence `Wun Lung, the Chinaman'. He'd been working for the Bumble as well - having supplied me with the recent mug shot of Tony.

He still had the same hawkish features and a swarthy complexion complemented by a dark beard. I remember him claiming once that his looks came from shipwrecked Spanish sailors from the Armada who had sh*gged the local fluff up in the Western Isles. Well, it must have made a change from the sheep.

The Bumble's End by Jimmy Bain 
The Bumble's End
CHRISTMAS IN SCOTLAND - GOLD, FRANKINSENCE AND NAZIS.


----------



## William Woodall

Here are the 99th pages from each of the three books in my werewolf series. A little out of context, but hey. lol

Cry for the Moon (The Last Werewolf Hunter Series)
Book 1 of the series (page 99)

I was riding The Beast over on the north side of town when I passed a big vacant lot, all grown up in trees and thickets and heavy grass. I looked it over a bit and thought it might have some thick bushes I could crawl up under that would probably be a better place to sleep than under the bridge. It would at least block the wind and be a lot more private. 
I wormed my way in there and found the remains of an old burnt down house. That didn't interest me too much, but when I elbowed my way into the back yard I struck pure gold. There was a big home-made dog house back there, almost hidden amongst the weeds. It was maybe eight foot square and four feet high, with a wooden floor up off the ground and a shingled roof. I'm betting it was for a Rottweiler or a Mastiff or some other bigger kinda dog like that. Whatever it used to be for, it suited me just fine. 
It had been empty for a long time, so it wasn't nasty or anything. I could still smell dog a little bit when I crawled inside, and there was some old musty dirty straw that I had to throw out. But once I did that, I had a place to sleep that was warm and dry where nobody would ever think to find me, and at that point that's all I cared about.

Behind Blue Eyes (The Last Werewolf Hunter Series)
Book 2 of the series (page 99)

The last one was in Poplar Bluff, Missouri. The journal didn't explain why it was just those five particular places and no others. There was one more at a place called the New Camp, but there was a piece of the page missing after that, so I couldn't tell where that one was. I wasn't sure whether somebody had ripped it out on purpose or if that old paper had just flaked apart at some point. 
Not all those towns even existed in 1845, but it looked like somebody with different handwriting had marked them on the maps later on. Somebody had put a question mark next to the part about the New Camp, so that made me think the wolves didn't know where that one was either. Maybe they didn't really care that much, since they had the other five.
It would be dull to tell you everything I read in the journal. I'm not even sure I want everybody to know. I'd rather not remember it myself. It's enough to say that Daniel found his way to that place in Greggton late one October, and then he took the curse that made him a loup-garou forever after. I think that was the scariest part of that whole book, that somebody would willingly choose to do such a thing, and spend so much time and effort to figure out how to go about it.
He did, though, and before long he gathered up a handful of other people who joined him. He was rich, and I guess money can buy you a lot of friends. Some things never change, do they?

More Golden Than Day (The Last Werewolf Hunter Series)
Book 3 of the series (page 99)

But then again, you never can tell who might listen and who might not, so I guess Justin is right after all. . . treat them all the same. I don't know. It's hard, and I'm not wise enough to figure it out yet. Sometimes I wonder if I ever will be.
I say all that because I started to wonder if maybe the real purpose God led me to get involved with the werewolf hunters was because I was supposed to try to search their hearts and teach them a truer and better way to do things. It was a staggering thought, and a terrifying one, too. They seemed wickeder than anybody I'd ever seen or imagined, even though I was pretty sure they were at least trying to do something good. One thing was certain; I could never be one of them myself, unless they somehow found that better way. It might not matter to them right now whether or not they lifted everything up to God, but it made an awful big difference to me. So I was taught, and so I've always believed, ever since I was old enough to understand what it meant to be the light of the world. 
I walked out to the truck thinking hard, and slipped the calendar and the pictures and the magazine behind the seat where nobody would see them. I was just about to leave when an old man came walking out of the trees on the far side of the road. He didn't look pleased to see me.


----------



## 1923

*First Page 1923: A Memoir 99 cents this Holiday Season*

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B0060CKF52










My sister and I were children of the one true Church which took its orders from the Vatican. We were commanded by God's earthly representatives to arise, early, each Sunday and dress in clean, presentable clothes. On Sundays, Mam stayed late in bed while Dad always escaped our ritual with an early morning walk. After breakfast of a shared piece of stale toast, my sister would clean my face and hands with an old soapy dish-rag. Until the age of six, I had been excluded and shielded from religious penance and paying homage to Jesus snug in his heaven. So I was mystified and frustrated by this weekly occurrence of stomping across city streets with stores shuttered and bolted. I was envious of our town's well-fed but less-devout brethren who were still wrapped up warm in their beds, while my sister and I traversed, two or three miles to the parish cathedral.

In front of St. Joseph's, we lined up with other hungry children from our school and from other parochial establishments in the parish. We formed neat lines and rows designated by age and classroom. Nuns, from the Sisters of the Cross and Passion barked up and down the street like sergeant majors at inspection. They pulled and dragged sleepy eyed worshippers into their correct drill formation. Nuns, in wimples and long black gowns, impenetrable to human emotions and suffering, demanded silence. Nuns commanded while pulling ears or twisting arms that there was to be order and no shuffling of feet. They ordered us to demonstrate reverence, for the Holy Father and for the Church. The street was a parade ground of regimented child soldiers for Christ. We were twisted in military boxed squares, divided and codified by our school and by our level of education. All of us, impatiently waited to be marched into Sunday Mass and confession. "Father, forgive me, for it has been seven days since my last confession and I have had impure thoughts about my pudding for tea." I was seven then when I shivered before the entrance to God's Holy House, in Bradford.

_Now I am twenty-three. The sky is clear. I am in the back of a truck, in a long convoy of vehicles. We are moving like an enormous centipede up a two-lane road. There are fifteen men in each lorry. Woodbine cigarettes and Capstans dangle from our mouths. The straps to our tin helmets hang loosely around our chins. We are cocksure and unafraid. We are survivors and conquerors pushing our way through Northern Germany. Opposite our convoy, there is an endless procession of refugees. They are pushing their scant possessions in handcarts, or dragging along worn luggage with ropes wrapped around it. The procession contains men and women, the young and the old. Thin, cadaverous horses follow the throng dragging their hoofs in the thin soil beside the road. The jetsam is a mixture of forced labourers, ex-prisoners, ex-concentration camp inmates and the Diaspora, from Germany's eastern provinces. They are all moving southward, as if believing that their homes still existed or that they still had relatives alive to give them shelter. If the Netherlands and Belgium are any example to me, there is little left of Europe. What has not been bombed has been looted and what has not been looted has been burned to the ground.

The landscape of Europe's lowlands is pitted and scarred from the movement of giant armies slithering their fat bellies against the land; while their hydra heads tore and destroyed the countryside, the villages and the cities before them. The nameless trod of people opposite our slow-moving trucks are expressionless their mien stolen from five years of war and untold privation. Their eyes are cast down at their feet, stamping towards a dirty, dusty unknown road. Did they have any thoughts and emotions left? Or, are they automatons who by instinct now force their legs left and right onwards towards their birthplace like diseased salmon spawning against a dammed river?

The air is warm and the smell of fresh earth, petrol and spring mingle together. A hundred kilometers north, Soviet infantry and stray remnants of Wehrmacht divisions' still clash. The Germans, we are told, are fighting in a panicked scramble to come westward rather than face their retribution from the Russians. Four days ago, Hitler shot himself in his concrete bunker below the depths of Berlin. Above ground Red Army forces pitched their flag on the Reichstag and leveled the Prussian city. We have been on the move for almost a full day lumbering up the Northern spine of Germany. We do not know what we will encounter. We do not know if there will be resistance, if we will meet an enemy refusing to surrender. At lunch, we lost two men to drowning. Foolishly, they went for a swim in swollen roadside canal. Their names will be etched up on a monument to the fallen instead of being remembered as mocking chance moments before peace.

Suddenly, on this journey into the enemy's land our trucks stop. Word has reached us from HQ. Last night at precisely 1820 allied forces accepted the surrender of all German armies, all German military, navy, air, ground and anything that could would or should carry a gun in the northern part of Germany. Field Marshal General Montgomery in a tent at Luneburg Heath received the instruments of surrender from a clean-shaven General Admiral Hans-Georg von Friedeburg. He was the last supreme commander of the Krieg's Marine. The rigid infantry General Hans Kinzel put his hands high, for all German forces in this area. The surrender is for Holland, and northwest Germany, including Denmark. The rest of Third Reich still resists even with Berlin and Vienna burning and under Russian control.

In Northern Germany it is complete and total capitulation. The city we are approaching is open and free of hostilities. The war is on its deathbed. It has only a few days left to maim and kill. But I am safe. The city is open. We are now occupiers and I am alive. We approach Hamburg, a modern-day Carthage, brick dusts billows against our uniforms. The gray faces of the master race scurrying like rodents upon our approach. They are in search of food, missing relatives, safe housing or happier days. They scatter in confused fear as our truck horn sounds. They shun our looks. Germans' cast their heads down as one of us stands at the edge of truck to curse them with cat calls and hollers.

Two years previous to my arrival, Hamburg was set ablaze. The metropolis and its citizens burned and baked for three nights. It was 1943 and the war's outcome was uncertain. It was the time when men in charge of this conflict's direction were resolute; total war was our only passage to victory. Russia, our ally, demanded we do our share at defeating the Nazi war machine. The morale of the enemy must be crushed. So, the men in charge of the war asked the men with slide rules and mathematical minds to calculate an exact dropped bomb tonnage. The men in charge wanted to know the quantity needed to create greater civilian carnage and total victory for us. The scientists set to work. After many sleepless nights, they solved the explosives to death ratio and handed their equation over to the RAF.

On a summer's evening, when the air was humid, languid and sluggish, on a summer's evening when children were playing on the streets, and their mothers'- were on their door stoops' gossiping;- Hamburg was set alight. Incendiaries fell from the July night sky above them. Hundreds of Lancaster bombers opened their bellies and spewed out ton after ton of high explosives packed with phosphorous. The sheer tonnage of TNT and humid weather created a firestorm. It reached eight hundred degrees and brought winds that swept across streets and lane ways, alleys, parks and industrial zones with hurricane force. As the RAF, my RAF crept eastward bombing the city, one and 133 miles of street footage was burning. The conflagration reached ten square kilometers and affected 16,000 thousand apartment block buildings. Some said only 15,000 thousand civilians died on that mission. Others said over 50,000 thousand people perished. There were some who didn't say a word as they licked their vengeance for London, Coventry, Rotterdam and Warsaw.

Today May 4, 1945, the fires in Hamburg have long ago been extinguished. Here the war is finished. Germany is kaput. I feel nothing as from the truck I survey, the crumbling brick skeletons and the gray ghosts of buildings. I am alive. I have been through Holland and Belgium and seen Germany's legacy; emaciated children, looted homes. I have seen both national socialist collaborators and German army deserters dangling from trees. I have seen mobs, savagely beating women. I have seen women with their heads shaved, tarred and feathered. I have seen justice done in the streets.

I have no feelings except, perhaps relief. I am twenty-three and will now see twenty-four. Perhaps I would get a life; maybe even a different life from the one I had before the war. I am in the back of that truck with my cigarette firmly between my lips and my stomach is full. I am like some ancient sailor or a warrior from the Odyssey. I am about to enter new and forbidding shores, where a fresh life can be found or snatched out of the rubble._


----------



## John Blackport

_This is from RAINGUN. In the spirit of Julie's first post, it's one-third of the way through the book, after accounting for frontmatter and backmatter. Or, you know, about that. I used an EPUB on Adobe Digital Editions . . . all I have to work with tonight, sorry! _ 

Rick rode to where the ring was thinnest, counting the pike points. Five pikemen faced ten swamptars. These undead were free of clinging vines, and nimbler than those Rick had faced earlier. One 'tar toiled forward along the pike impaling it, to strike the pikeman's jaw. The man fell.

Rick let fly a Water spell to take the 'tar down. "Is he alive?" he shouted. Facing away from the wounded man and those he talked to, he studied the 'tars.

"Sir?" asked another pikeman in a high, desperate tone.

"Is he alive," Rick repeated. "The one who fell?"

"He's . . . he's . . . ah . . . ah . . ."

The man who'd been struck lay dazed, his left cheek a bloody bruise. The injured head rocked side to side. Rick imagined Kristoph's head rocking the same way, before kicking away the image.

"The answer is Yes, Lieutenant! He's alive." Rick thought the pikeman's face looked astonishingly young. "Give me your pike!"

A few seconds later, Rick had tired of waiting for an answer. He grabbed the pike from the boy's unresisting, bewildered grasp. "Bring that wounded man back. To the surgeons." Rick moved the pike in his hands, settling on a one-handed grip far from the point; then he feigned surprise at the boy's continued presence. "Go on! I'm Lieutenant Rivoire. Anyone gives you [crap], send them to me."

"But you're cav! What are you doing with a pike?" called another soldier.

Rick's smile fought through a stench of death he thought would never leave his lungs. "Let's play a game of Keep-Away," he announced. He trotted up to distract the 'tars menacing the pikemen, prodding each one in the back with the pike's point. It was too weak to wound them, but it made them about-face. They displayed teeth laden with bloody flesh, but were hacked down by the infantry now behind them.

"Try their legs too," Rick directed the mass of pikemen. "If they can't walk, they're less dangerous. Try their feet."

Rick spent the last of his waning Mastery taking down a few more 'tars. Now bereft of magic, he rode up and down the line: trotting forward, poking swamptars in the back, then trotting back again until the 'tars shifted.

"Excuse me, Lieutenant?" called Sergeant Marbonne from another part of the fighting, politely as his volume allowed. "Your friend is with the surgeons!"

"He'd better be!" said Rick, checking the nearest swamptar's distance. Gauging it fifteen paces away, he removed his hat and shook sweat from his hair.

"He is!" promised the Sergeant. "My men who took him there reported back! You're free to go, sir!"

"Am I?" Rick rocked in amused annoyance. "Sick of me already, Sergeant?"

The Sergeant drew his sword and took a place among the pikemen, facing new lines of approaching undead. "Surprised to see you, sir, is all!"

"I will check on my friend, Sergeant," Rick declared. "When the work is done." He closed in on another clump of enemy. Then he whirled his head at other pikemen in anger. "Who's laughing? _What's so funny over there!"_

"The Raingun's sticking with us!" yelled the oldest pikeman, sixty years old if he was a day. He had only streaks of black left in his white beard, and white clumps peeking out from under his helmet. He cheerfully punched his pike high in the air. "No hit-and-run cavvy today, eh, sir? Staying here in the [crap] with us! Good for you, sir!"

A ragged huzzah of impromptu praise was raised, and the men settled in to fighting their enemies. After another hour of jabbing at swamptar after groaning, stinking, clawing swamptar, Rick was drenched in sweat. His throat was scratchy from coughing out their smell, and his *ss was sore.

Rick closed his eyes. He cradled his forehead in his hand, believing he'd enough distance to earn a few seconds of rest. But warning shouts around him confirmed he'd rested too long. A dead hand yanked him from the saddle, by the arm.

The strength of the 'tar was terrifying, like the strength of older boys who'd bullied him once on the docks. Rick twisted in a grip he couldn't break.


----------



## phil1861

pg. 99 of They Met at Shiloh

Back across the river, past throngs of uniformed men drained of courage and cowering beneath the rising river bank, Robert Mitchell sat with his pards of the 25th Missouri Volunteers. With their fight behind them and their regiment scattered to the winds, they whiled away the time in the shade. There was a comfort here-to not be the lone coward but be amid an army of cowards.
Robert knew it wasn't mere cowardice that kept these men and him there. It was the lack of the power of one's pards to keep a man in line. One fought with one's family at his side; if that family were beaten or scattered, the fortitude to fight was gone, as well.
"Hube," Robert said to Huebner, "sind Sie nicht ein Fahnenflüchtiger. Das Regiment wird beendet." None of us deserted. The regiment was destroyed. 
Huebner had quieted somewhat but still carried a look of disgrace upon his face. Robert tried to get through to him that he was not the disgrace he felt himself to be. He knew that this boy, not barely a man, should not have volunteered. Yet despite his mental deficiencies, he had managed to survive this far. 
"Ja," replied Huebner. 
Gustavson poked Huebner in the ribs and said to him, "We all kaput. Das Kämpfen get closer, ja?"

The racket crept closer, and the stream of fugitives increased from a trickle to a flood. Wounded men, some helped by three or four others, were brought to the landing. Regiments from the line came to replenish ammunition, some resting near the sea of fugitives to heap scorn upon them. Occasionally, an officer or two, looking to fill out their regiments, would gather what skulkers with weapons were within reach, but even threats and blows with the flat of their sabers did little good, and the men scattered at first opportunity.
Robert's group ignored the attempts and the scorn, but he knew it wasn't right to sit there while the battle went poorly for their banner. The first transports arrived off of the landing about mid-afternoon, and a stir swept the cowards closest to the water. The first reinforcements began to gather inland from the overcrowded landing area. Others trickled in from smaller boats in a clearing to the left of the landing. Roberts's group had chosen shade away from the mass but still near enough to have its protection. The trickle marched past them in small squad formations lead by corporals and sergeants. To a man, they were wide eyed and rattled, and they huddled close together.


----------



## pentalpha

Icicles, sharp as sharks' teeth, glint in the moonlight. The cave is a dark maw. Hesitating at the entrance, she searches the blackness.

_Go in. Go in and look._

She glances over her shoulder, shivering. Snow bleaches the hillside and a far off church bell tolls: Midnight.

_He's gone. You saw him leave. Go in. _

But there might be others. It could be a trap.

_It isn't. He's gone. Go in._

She ventures into the cave, the pulse in her throat violent. Edging across the rock floor she eases into the shadows. Her breathing is ragged, her limbs stiff.

_Call her name. Call out. _

No! He'll hear me. He'll come back. She moves forward. I'll find her. She can't be too far in.

She feels her way into the cave, hands outstretched, eyes straining against the darkness. She holds her breath, pauses, listens: Silence, apart from the incessant thudding of her heart.

As she inches further in, her foot catches on something and she sprawls forwards. But instead of frozen rock to break her fall, the soft give of cooling flesh yields beneath her palms.

The scream is ripped from her. It echoes around the cave as she fights with the body. The corpse hinders her, clings to her, seeks to lock her in its embrace. She scrambles off it, pushes herself away, scuttles backwards. _Get away from me. Get away. Get away. _

Shivering, she hugs herself, eyes wide. _No. God. No. Please. No. _

When her whimpers subside, she gathers all her courage and crawls forward. The body lies face up a few feet beyond the wedge of moonlight. Don't let it be her. Don't let it be her. No please, not her. She reaches out to touch the limp fingers -a pale glimmer in the shadows - but hesitates. Stilled by the scrape of a step behind her, her hand hovers. Her breath is strangled in her throat, her scalp tingles.

She crouches, afraid to look over her shoulder. Afraid to look up into cold, murderous eyes.

DON'T LOOK DOWN by Barbara Scott Emmett - Thriller

http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B006FK6VV6 UK

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B006FK6VV6 USA


----------



## pentalpha

Excerpt from THE BUMBLE'S END

Sitting opposite me on the matching sofa, she placed her drink on a coaster and opened a worked copper Art Nouveau cigarette box. 'Help yourself,' she said.

'Thanks,' I lifted a gold-banded Dunhill out of the box and eyed her cleavage as she too leaned forward for a cigarette. I pondered on the possibility of having sex with her. Maybe, like herself, I was just trying to confirm that I was still alive after recent events. Stretching over, I offered a light. She blew the smoke upwards at the ornate ceiling features. The Cherubs looked on.

'So,' she said.

I didn't need any further prompts and decided to get the worst of the evening out the way. I took a large slug of brandy.

'It seems Tony got mixed up with a shady b*st*rd by the name of Kev Barr. Heard of him?'

She nodded and took a sip of her drink. 'Do you think he killed Tony?'

'Possibly,' I said, deciding to keep the part about the N*zi documents out of my story. 'Look, let's be honest about your son, he wasn't a saint and if you get mixed up with people like Kev Barr... well it sort of goes with the territory.'

I was going to say like father like son but thought better of it. I finished the remains in my glass quickly.

'So that makes it all right?' she said, drawing deeply on her cigarette.

'No,' I said, 'I'm sorry, I didn't mean to be brutal about things.'

'You're right, anyway,' she said. 'I don't know what I was expecting.' She kicked off her pink mules and drew her knees up onto the settee. I noticed her bare feet and the bright red nail varnish adorning her toenails.

THE BUMBLE'S END
by Jimmy Bain

Crime / Dark Humor


----------



## pentalpha

...  
'Shot!' Jess sat bolt upright. 'My God! Who... who shot him?'

But Sherry was obviously enjoying keeping her in suspense. She stomped over to the refrigerator and rummaged for some beers.

'Sherry!' Jess turned in her chair. 'Who shot him? How did it happen?'

Sherry pulled the cans out of the fridge, her back to the room. At last, she turned and eyed Jess with a look of satisfaction. 'He shot himself,' she said, moving to the door.

Jess was silent for a moment while she digested this new information. 'On purpose?' she asked, her voice not much more than a whisper.

Sherry swung around, eyes glinting. 'No, not on purpose. Why would Darcy shoot himself on purpose? He wasn't a complete drongo.' She gave Jess a bitter smile. 'Not as regards that, anyhow.'

'So... what happened?'

'Whaddya think happened? It was an accident.'

'An accident?' Jess could hear the stupidity in her own voice. 'Well... why didn't anyone tell me?'

'You never asked.' Sherry lurched towards the door again.

'I didn't ask because I didn't know.' Jess leapt to her feet. 'Come on Sherry, Darcy was, what, seventy-two&#8230; three? Men have been known to die naturally at that age.'

Sherry swivelled to face her yet again, her eyes hard. After a moment she spoke. 'He was cleaning his 303. Been out looking for 'roo.' She paused. Shrugged. 'Stupidest thing in the book. Bloody thing was still loaded.' She put the cans down on the table. 'Silly old fool. You'd think at his age he'd 'a known better...' She caught her breath and put her hand up to her face.

THE LAND BEYOND GOODBYE
by Barbara Scott Emmett
Fiction / Adventure / Epiphany


----------



## Krista D. Ball

Page 99 of ROAD TO HELL












> Color drained from Salim's bronze features for a brief moment before an easy smile spread across his face. He raised his hands. Slowly.
> 
> "You're late," Katherine said blandly before turning back to face the doors.
> 
> Around her, pulse chambers whined as safeties went back on the rifles. She heard a few more footsteps before Salim stood at her side. "I apologize for being late, Captain. You failed to mention to the rather large contingent of security guards at the corridor entrance that I was the person you were waiting for."
> 
> "I'm quite sure I was clear. Perhaps they didn't trust you." She gave him a knowing grin. "Have any idea why Perdition security would be suspicious of you?"
> 
> He gave her a toothy smile. "I have no idea, Captain."
> 
> One of the security guards grunted. She glared at him long enough to ensure the silent warning would not be mistaken. Bringing White to the station served as the key step in bringing the Alliance into the conflict. With the Alliance on their side, the Union would win the war. She was too close to have a faceless security guard disrespect Salim, her only chance at making the entire plan work.
> 
> "You look rather spry this morning, Captain," Salim observed.
> 
> "I haven't been tortured by Dr. Chan yet. I convinced him to push up the session long enough to let me come here."
> 
> Salim cocked an eyebrow. "How?"
> 
> She leaned toward him, careful not to lose her balance. "A box of chocolates."
> 
> Salim roared with laughter, and even Katherine let out a little chuckle. It had been too long since anyone had laughed around her. When the moment passed, however, the silence seemed all the more strained. True happiness would not exist for a long time yet.
> 
> They stood in silence for the next several minutes until a green light above the metal blast doors began flashing.


----------



## jumbojohnny

Page 99 of Ghosting in on the Blind Side. Ghosting in on the Blind Side

"Blast!" yelled Crackpot. He looked at his watch: just gone 9:00 am. He had slept in his clothes, which was thought Crackpot, quite fortunate. He dragged on his coat, fumbled for his wallet, handed the constable a one pound note, put his wallet back in his pocket, picked up his fishing bag and ran out, just about managing a nod without turning back as "Thank you very kindly, sir!" boomed around the corridor. 
With a muffled apology he pushed an elderly couple out of the way at the lift door, got in, pushed GF, and stood right in the doorway with his hand held up like a traffic policeman, preventing the stunned and aggrieved couple and now three nuns from getting in with him. The lift went down to the ground, and Crackpot dashed into the lobby. But his haste had all been in vain, in a way; Weber was in the telephone booth at the end of the lobby with the door wide open, and not even bothering to keep his conversation private - or perhaps secret from Crackpot's point of view.
Crackpot managed a smile at something he had already noticed but didn't know why it had seemed odd. Until now. He now realised that Weber did not conform to the modern style of simply wearing trousers over a prosthetic leg, and perhaps with a wooden foot extension so a shoe could be worn; instead, he simply went pirate style, and, even though he knew he shouldn't be amused by it, he couldn't help but smile as he saw the wooden leg being used to jam the door of the booth open. 
"He's been in there ages!" came rather an unsuccessful whisper from the young spotty chap at Reception. He had been advised by the young policeman to report anything unusual concerning their mysterious German guest.
"Ja? Ja ja! Der Dumpkoff?! Ja! Endgyltig. Auf


----------



## KirbyTails

From http://www.amazon.com/dp/B006T89E7W

_ It was at the very mention of his mother's name that Edward fell to the floor. Although it was clear he had neither died nor collapsed,	Elizabeth panicked. "Edward, are you alright?" she asked, her entire body trembling.

Edward ignored her. For about thirty seconds, he remained on the floor, resting in a very anxious and edgy manner while everybody silently wondered if he would ever stand again. However, he quickly disproved their thoughts, emerging from his fretful state with a new consciousness fueled with bitter hatred and a new vengeance for the world, though more specifically, his servant. "Joel&#8230;" he muttered, "get out of my house."

The young servant's face fell, and he stood there in silence, waiting. "Edward&#8230;" he stuttered, "you can't&#8230;"

"Pack your things&#8230;and get out&#8230;" he whispered calmly.

"Edward, this is insane. I haven't done a thing, not a single thing. I was only being a gentleman, a proper gentleman. You understand, right? You do understand, don't you?"

"Joel, you have betrayed my trust for the last time&#8230;"

"Edward&#8230;"

"Do as I say&#8230;"

Edward's words rang so strong that Joel could not possibly disobey this time. The two men stared at each other, and the servant gave Edward a quick nod before crawling shamefully up the stairs. Elizabeth watched as he stomped up each step hesitantly and cried to herself, wishing she could run after him. She didn't know why, but she somehow knew she needed him. Yet saving him was and impossibility - her husband's cold gaze scared her, paralyzing her deepest longings. 
_


----------



## Alan Simon

From THE FIRST CHRISTMAS OF THE WAR, paperback, page 99 (with complete sentences at beginning and end)

http://www.amazon.com/First-Christmas-War-Alan-Simon/dp/0982720890/ref=sr_1_1_title_0_main?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1325981674&sr=1-1

"I was doing my Christmas shopping and didn't get home until dinner time." Another of Jonathan's questions down.

"I went shopping with my family last night," Jonathan said cautiously, "that's why I didn't try to call you anymore yesterday."

Should he continue? Why not?

"Besides," Jonathan said, "I think your mother and father didn't sound too happy that I called three times."

"Oh, don't worry about them," Francine answered, the volume of her voice dropping a bit as if she didn't want to be overheard, "my mom is grumpy because of all the work she's doing getting ready for Christmas, and my dad keeps complaining about all the money he's spending."

"I figured it was something like that," Jonathan answered. So what was the harm in a little white lie?

"So when do I get my Christmas present?" Francine asked, her voice again syrupy. "I have yours all ready for you, wrapped and everything."

"Um, how about tomorrow, Christmas Eve?" Jonathan blurted out, at the same time realizing that his mother would kill him if he didn't go to church with his family and then spend the evening at home.

"OK, but it will have to be sometime in the afternoon, my mom is planning this big family to-do, you know, church and then all of us spending the evening together..."

"Mine too!" Jonathan interrupted, and for the first time in the conversation he was at ease. So... apparently all his fears had been for naught, just a touch of paranoia no doubt heightened by everything else going on around them. So what if she had gone out with Donnie Yablonski? Donnie would be gone in a couple days and here was Francine, on the phone with Jonathan this very instant, making plans to exchange Christmas gifts on Christmas Eve.


----------



## Kayden Lee

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B005E077IO/?tag=kbpst-20
Abandoned Angel, by Kayden Lee
"I'm not lying to you Spike. Why would I lie? Angelina wasn't with me at the pond," Tiffany insisted. Her frightened voice cracked as she spoke.
"Then where the fuck is she?"
"I don't know," responded Tiffany, refusing to give in. She would not endanger Angelina by being weak. This time, it would be her who got hurt, and not someone she cared for.
Spike backhanded her again, she toppled to the ground. Blood fell from the corner of her mouth as she let a tear fall.
"Spike, what are you doing?" asked Jose. He didn't want to see Tiffany hurt, he just wanted to party with her. She was always good to party with. Young, tight, did what they liked.
"Shut the fuck up Jose. This cunt knows where Angelina is," said Spike, kicking Tiffany as he spoke. As she lay in a heap on the ground she let out a small gasp as the kick landed against her backside. She would end up with a large bruise there.
Spike grabbed a handful of her long, sun streaked hair, pulling her head back in order to make her look him in the eyes.
"Please Spike, I'll do whatever you want, but I don't know where she is." Tiffany tried to hold back the tears, but the pain was piercing. "She said she was going to the bathroom and never came back. I, I thought she went back up to camp. Why would I lie to you about her? I don't even know her," she whimpered, praying he would not release another blow.
Spike hesitated for a moment, while deciding what to do. Jules had told him that the girls left the camp together and Tiffany was not denying it. As she said, she had no reason to protect Angelina - she was an outsider. Plus, she had never given him trouble before. Controlling his anger proved difficult though.
"Come on spike," said Jose, "let's have some fun, we don't need that bitch. This one will do."
Tiffany did not allow the insult to sting, and tried to prepare herself as Jose grabbed her by the shoulder and led her back to camp.


----------



## IanDuncanBooks

from 

...smile and Shelley tried, too. God, he hated feeling helpless like this. He lay back on the trunk of the Mercedes and let his head rest against the windshield. He could still see Shelley. The .357 was an uncomfortable lump in his back, but it seemed somehow ungentlemanly to pull it out in front of her. He stared up into the mist, squinting against it. "I'm doing kind of a shitty job getting us out of here," he admitted. 
Shelley was quiet for a minute. "Well, for what it's worth, I'm glad we came with you."
Cole considered the we in that sentence. He turned his head and looked at Shelley. It was hard not to love her. Who was he kidding? He did love her. He loved the way her face was angular and yet soft, the earnestness of her eyes, the uncollected way she let her hair fall, the rolling line of her lips, the intelligence even the slightest upward turn there could convey. 
Shelley looked at the dirt on her knee and rubbed it self-consciously.
Cole looked away. Christ, he was already writing poetry to her in his head. 
"Cole?" Shelley said a minute later.
"Yeah?" 
"How much do you think that kayak weighs?"
Cole couldn't help but grin. He wanted to laugh out loud. That's what she was thinking about? The kayak? That's why he couldn't understand women.


----------



## Pamela Kay Noble Brown

*Handcuffs and a Pyramid of Satin*

Excerpt: There's nothing wrong with a married woman having a friend...or is there?

"Were you waiting for someone?" asked a deep sultry voice.

Turning slightly to get a better view in the darkened lights of the club, Kelly found herself looking up into the eyes of a strikingly handsome man. He appeared to be in his mid-thirties. And being that she was in Europe, Kelly could easily imagine that in an earlier time he could have been the model for the statue of David. He was more than chiseled.

"No, I'm just enjoying the bands," replied Kelly.

"My name is David," he said extending his hand. "David Holloway. Would you mind if I joined you?"

"Not at all," replied Kelly. "My name is Kelly Cave...I mean Kelly Brooks."

"May I refresh your drink?" asked David as he settled into the seat besides Kelly at the small table for two.

"Yes, thank you," said Kelly. "I'll have a white wine."

After David had taken care of their orders and the waitress had returned with their drinks, they turned their attention back to the bands. When the last of the bands had played, the DJ switched the music to a lively array of dance tunes.

"May I have the pleasure of this dance?" offered David.

"Well I haven't been dancing in so long," said Kelly. "I'm not sure I know the latest steps."

"Dance isn't always about technique," said David. "It's about fun. You mean to tell me a beautiful woman such as yourself doesn't have men lined up to take you dancing?"

"Thank you for the compliment," said Kelly ignoring the question about men lined up. Fun. Was that even a part of her marriage anymore? The last time she and Jeff had danced had been at their wedding reception. Before they'd gotten married it'd been an entirely different story. They'd gone dancing at least two or three times a month.

"Yes, I would like to dance," Kelly answered with an excited smile. "Let's do it."

The night hours passed like the wind. They danced and laughed and talked. The only time they left the floor was when the DJ would do a triple-play set of slow romantic ballads. On these songs, she conveniently excused herself to the ladies room, or said that she needed a little break. Even without her wedding ring, Kelly couldn't imagine herself dancing that closely with another man. But as for the fast tunes, Kelly had a ball. This was the most fun she'd had in years. If only Jeff....oh never mind. Forget the what ifs and lets party, she thought. And party they did.


----------



## JumpingShip

daveconifer said:


> From MAN OF STEEL
> 
> "I lost respect for them after they threw that pipe through the window," Jonas said. "They seemed scary when then they took Pomeroy out. They really freaked me out the way they sent me that obituary. But any clod can throw a pipe through a window. Maybe they're just amateurs."


(excellent excerpt cut for space)

Darn it. Now you're making me go check out the book so I can find out what happens. lol. Not fair!

ETA: D'0h. Just one clicked. I saw the blurb about the JFK assassination. I recently read 11/22/63, so the topic is intriguing me already.


----------



## mamiller

The first page of JUNGLE OF DECEIT (Romantic adventure .99 cents)

Port Newark, NJ - April 22nd

From a hundred yards away, Mitch Hasslet lifted his lens to the aft of the ship and narrowed the viewfinder on the cracked white letters.

_Dorian Gray. _

Christ, he hoped there was a portrait stored somewhere that flattered this old bucket of bolts. Perhaps in its heyday, the freighter shined with fresh black paint and gleaming brass fixtures−but now it looked like a ghost ship ready to embark on a voyage to a prehistoric island.

On deck, crewmen were busy preparing for their valuable cargo as Mitch swung his camera in the direction of two police cars entering the barricade. In their wake, a trio of armored trucks stamped with the Museum of Historical Art and Antiquities insignia were flanked by two additional patrol units. The entire convoy pulled up idle at the foot of a ramp that led into the bowels of the Dorian Gray.

Mitch's curiosity flared at the sight of wooden crates towed on mobile skids by the armed security representatives of the HAA Museum. Some of the fanfare in the papers came to mind. 
Rare Mayan artifacts. Brutal pieces of art that stirred up controversy and even warranted a disclaimer at the entrance of the museum.

_Not for the faint of heart. _

Systematically, the shutter clicked as Mitch captured images of the wooden crates hauled like behemoth creatures into a cage.

When four Apache helicopters descended on the pier, Mitch's camera continued to snap. As if a beehive had split open, a battalion of camouflaged uniforms erupted from the choppers and flooded the dock, encircling the comparatively small police force. Men he had presumed were part of the ship's crew now drew weapons of their own and joined in the invasion as the explosive percussion of AK-47's pierced the brackish air.

It happened so fast. Outnumbered, and with only futile attempts to fight back, the police and museum force were circled to the tune of more shots. Mitch flinched at the sudden blare of violence-a sound that plagued him often in his sleep. He searched in vain for a way to stop this madness, and this preoccupation prevented him from detecting the figure behind him.

At the last second he turned and came face to face with a dark complected man with a scar on the corner of his lips. The disfigurement elongated them into a macabre smile.

That Cheshire grin was the last thing Mitch Hasslet saw as the butt of a rifle cracked into his jaw.


----------



## Rebecca Burke

p. 99 of What If the Hokey Pokey Really Is What It's All About? (comic diary/YA/women's contemporary fiction)

*Sign in Uncle Spike's den: Recreation, not Procreation.*

Dear Diary,

My uncle's couch seats fifteen people, according to him, but that must mean 15 people from the Southwest, not the Midwest. Still, if I sit at one end and pretend to read, the two of them get the idea I'm so far away I can't hear what they're saying.

I learned that Grandpa Killackey once spied on Uncle Spike and caught him losing his virginity. Grandpa told him he'd "better be prepared to raise the little brat if anything happened."

"Hell, if I had a kid for every woman I ever corked, they'd have to invent a new country just for my family."

All I will say while I'm a guest in his house is&#8230;GROSS.

I also heard my mom discussing her idea for a pet supplies business with him. Once she learned how much it cost to feed Salsa, she got a sense of how many millions were being thrown away on animals in this country. Amazingly, he sounded open to this. Uncle Spike's personal credo is "If you want to stay poor, work for other people."

I wish I had an older, richer brother to fall back on.

He still has the giant bottle of Galliano on tap, though he says whenever he's not looking, Inga guzzles it and then fills it up with yellow water. He no longer keeps beer on tap. "Too fattening. I wanna' get fat, I'll eat steak and caviar, not guzzle beer."

He looks fabulous for someone at his age-tan and no wrinkles at all. "Face lift," my mom pronounced, dead sure of herself. "He'd never look that good otherwise, not the way he's lived his life."

I wonder if he's dabbled in any liposuction? Inga might know.


----------



## Jukebox Loser

'The first chapter of Jukebox Loser

*
Denton, Texas: The Early Nineties *

Poor Tracy. She has been working on me for almost 45 minutes. Her arm must be getting tired. We are holed up in my bedroom, which has no windows and is pitch black. I could live in my little cave forever. My stereo is here, and Tracy is beautiful. But she is a virgin and intends to remain that way. I am not an [expletive] so I don't push her on that point. She can be a virgin for as long as she likes and allow a far better man than I to dig the deep hole to her heart. For now it is enough to be with her because she is stunning in a way that most women are not stunning. She fits inside herself like caramel filling in a candy bar, and if I were on the radio, I would write the worst love song you have ever heard. It cheapens love to write it in clichés or sing it in a song written in an open tuning. I am thinking all of these things as Tracy hammers down on me.

It remains fruitless, and I think she considers oral sex the same as sex, so that is out of the question, too. In her mind it is all wrapped up in a tight package called virginity and bound by the string of Jesus. I am starting to chafe. The bluish light from my stereo's digital clock casts a sepulchral pallor on the walls, and for a moment I consider the possibility that I will be doomed to hell when I die, for this and all my other sins, which surely must seem as trivial to God as they do to me. Or at least as boring. I try to focus on the hand job I am getting from this woman I think I am in love with. How did everything get this lame? I think back to when sex was fun, say, before I had ever had it. I am in 6th grade, and Billy Squier sings his song about hand jobs, and I think sex will be so much fun when it happens to me that I will be content for the rest of my life knowing that I'd had it at least once. And now the song playing in my head is at the point where the raunchy chorus chants the name of the game. But then the song morphs without warning into the Def Leppard ditty that commanded me in one breath to rock until I passed out and in the next to rock without cessation for all eternity. It was phrased as an imperative, and now I wonder what they were trying to convey. Was it possible, even in the golden era of my youth, to live in a constant state of rocking? Wouldn't I eventually have to put down the plastic cup of Coors Lite and go home, praying not to get a DUI on the way? And now the chorus mocks me: You, in the back corner, you are doomed to rock FOREVER. Or until you pass out. Whichever comes first.

Come to think of it, those three chords would get pretty old if stretched out for eternity. Meanwhile, Tracy has switched hands. I moan to make it seem like she pursues a worthwhile and attainable end. But she sees through it: "Is there anything that would help? Could we put on some sexy music or something?"

"Like what?" I ask.

"I don't know. You have a lot of CDs. Maybe one will provide a better atmosphere."

"What's wrong with the atmosphere? Nothing's wrong with the atmosphere. You came twice earlier." I regret it the second it leaves my mouth because it makes me seem ungrateful, or it might suggest that she is not holding up her end of the deal. But I love my hole in the world and the thought that its atmosphere is lacking is offensive. Yet, I don't want her to infer from this incident any possible misgivings I might have about my feelings for her. I like her, but I am so lost I am thinking about feelings about feelings, and this hand job is doomed.
She is beautiful in the way that her big brain and big words and big ideas all fit inside of her like water in a glass that threatens to spill over the lip with every drop you add, but which for unknown reasons does not. I saw a demonstration on Mr. Wizard's World when I was in 6th grade that explained the phenomenon of surface tension, but I don't remember it because that brain cell was taken over by Def Leppard lyrics.

"Nothing's wrong with the atmosphere," she offers. "I just thought you might want to listen to some music."

I hate music because none of it is ever right. It gets into your head and pollutes every discrete moment by dragging in the memory of the first girl you were with when you heard the song. Or it's the bass-line of that goshdarm Sheena Easton song your older sister drove like a stake into your head when you were 11. I don't want to listen to music. I hate music. The only reason to listen to music is to drown out the song that is already echoing in your head, leaping from synapse to synapse until it runs out of brain, ricochets off your skull and starts all over again.

"Sure, we can listen to some music. Whatever you want," I say. I cave in often because I did not have enough sex in high school and am desperate for everyone's approval.

"You pick something," she says, pulling the sheet up around her breasts, which are the ideal representation of Bosc pears bobbing in the pestilent swamp of my mind.

I rummage through the CD towers next to the bed, but they all seem wrong for the moment: James Brown, too cocky; Alan Parsons Project, too sentimental; Jane's Addiction, too not right now; Tori Amos, too reminiscent of my ex-ex-girlfriend, who aspired to sparkle snorting and faerie [expletive]. I sift through a few dozen CDs in my brain's database. Ahh, My Bloody Valentine! Perfect. It is dreamy and free-floating, and ultimately what Smashing Pumpkins could have been were it not for too many unchecked egos.1 I have a split-second flash of terror that none of my CDs matters to anyone but me, that even if the mood is right for me, it is probably wrong for everyone else. I shake it off and put My Bloody Valentine in the player. As the first song churns through the intro, we observe the sad fact that I have lost my erection.

-----
You know you want it! goo.gl/KM45g


----------



## Mark Feggeler

Finally posted on my blog the first two chapter of *Damage*, a murder mystery I've been working on. Let me know what you think!

http://damagebook.blogspot.com/2012/11/first-chapter-revealed.html


----------



## VickiT

*PROLOGUE*

She stirred, her hand seeking her husband's reassuring touch. Cold sheets. Panic fluttered in her chest and then died. She remembered now. What had happened to them that they could no longer talk? Her splayed fingers caressed the empty space next to her, as if searching for some imprint of the man she'd married, the father of her two children. What or who had come between them?

From downstairs, she heard a thud, followed by what sounded like a muffled grunt. She gritted her teeth. He daren't wake the kids. It had taken all her wiles and half the night to convince little Oliver there were no three-eyed, boy-eating monsters living under his bed. Kayla hadn't been much better, getting up at least once every hour to ask for a glass of water and a cuddle. Damn Warren. Didn't he know by now children picked up on every vibe?

Another thud. Closer this time. She held her breath, listening. Footsteps. She rolled over, feigning sleep when she sensed his presence in the doorway. Her breathing didn't falter.

A slight movement of air brushed across her face. She inhaled. Her breath caught, the sharp smell registering in the same instant the cold metal kissed her temple.


----------



## timskorn

From "*A Cold Black Wave*":

His eyes were dilated, and Leah found herself staring at a wild, unpredictable animal. He could do whatever he wanted to her. There wasn't anything she could do about it, and the sudden thought of being trapped here with Josh sent a cold shudder through her body. She couldn't help but hold his stare and was certain he saw the fear in her eyes.

Josh relaxed his grip on the wrap and calmly walked away as if nothing happened. Leah breathed again, her eyes brimming with tears as she gripped her book.

He was standing next to her again, catching her off guard and she startled, her body sliding away from his. Josh held out a machine guns towards her, "Here."

She looked at him with continued recalcitrance. "I don't want that!"

A distant, rumbling explosion blasted through the blustery storm outside. The metal handles on the lanterns rattled.

"What was that?"

"Just take the gun!" Josh ordered.

"No! You need to tell me what the hell is going on, right now!"

Josh ran to the compression door and pushed it open just enough to peer out to where the explosion took place. Small fires licked around the base of the trees and black smoke drifted against the slanting snow.

The magnesium flare floated high in the sky, illuminating the trees and the snow below in a brilliant white light. A dark figure appeared as it ran through the snow towards the shuttle. He shut the door and turned to Leah. "It's coming. All you do is point and shoot. You can't miss, got it?"

Link: http://www.amazon.com/dp/B009Y9UDHI


----------



## Brianna Lee McKenzie

From *L'Inked*

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B009WTDAV6 

He met her in the lobby of her hotel. His heart skipped a beat when he saw her standing before him wearing a low-cut cocktail dress that flattered her figure in mouthwatering fashion. Her blond hair was pulled up into a face-flattering bun with long wisps that framed her delicate cheekbones. Her eyes were dusted with smoky shadow that made her blue irises gleam with a sultry violet hue. Her full lips smiled at him, captivated him without the benefit of manufactured pigment. And her alluring voice touched his already enthralled heart when she whispered, "You're so freakin' gorgeous in that suit!"

"And you are breathtaking in that dress," he breathed while he pressed his lips to her cheek.

"Come, my goddess. Your chariot awaits."

Almost true to his words, there was a horse-drawn carriage waiting by the curb. Cassie's heart quivered when Marc took her hand and helped her step into the buggy. She was so completely enchanted by the fairy-tale encounter that Marc had planned for their last evening together that she hugged him while the carriage moved forward.

Not wanting to break the embrace, yet yearning to feel her lips upon his, Marc pulled far enough away from Cassie to stare into her eyes while the street lights illuminated them with sparks of visible bliss. He memorized her face, a face bathed in pure splendor while she stared back at him, clearly filled with adoring emotion. He moved his head closer to her until his breath was upon her upturned lips as he whispered, "I want this night to last forever!"

Against her will, a tear slipped from Cassie's lashes and melted into the heat of the skin on her breast that the fabric failed to cover. She dared not move in order to wipe away the evidence of her passionate response to Marc's romantic gesture. Instead, she concentrated on his lips that moved as if in slow motion toward hers. Her heart pounded erratically while her mind reeled with ecstatic anticipation until the warmth of his kiss sent her into a whirlwind of elation, and electrifying sensation of pure, dizzying desire.

Her arms encircled his neck, pulling him closer so that she could merge her body to his as if they were one entity, as she was certain they were meant to be. With her breasts pressed against his muscular chest, Cassie clung to Marc while wrapped in his powerful yet tender arms. Entranced by the way his lips gently caressed hers, undulating against the sensitive skin of her hungry lips until she increased the intensity of their kiss.

As if he'd been waiting for that very moment, that not-so-subtle invitation to take the encounter one step further, Marc groaned with yearning as he moved a heated hand toward her breast. Pausing while covering that perfect mound with his palm, he allowed her ample time to protest. When she responded with roving fingers that ascended, urgently searching for the ripples of muscles on his shoulders, he parted her lips with his tongue. Passing her teeth, seeking its mate within her mouth and upon finding its partner, his tongue frolicked with hers while simulating the very intimate dance that their bodies longed to enjoy.

Just when they thought their kiss would last until their lives ceased, the driver announced, "Brennan's Restaurant!"

Growling outwardly, Marc reluctantly left Cassie's embrace. He studied her face for an instant, wondering if she felt the same urgency that seemed to take hold of his body. With a wink, he asked, "Are you hungry?"

"Yes!" she exclaimed. When his expectant expression transformed into one of disappointment, she added, "But not for food!"

With a triumphant smile, he took her into his arms and covered her lips with his. They continued entwining themselves until the driver cleared his throat, at which time, Marc ordered, "Take us back to the hotel."


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## T.P. Grish

'The dwarf who killed the child was a violent prisoner, held captive by the dwarf tribe' stated Elaina, getting to the point. 'The dwarves were trying to recapture him'.

The Mayor bristled, 'What, by Wrazuul's death, are you talking about?' he exclaimed, invoking the name of the demon antagonist in the St. Lusian theology. Remus and Elaina explained what had occurred, and what they had learned. 'So you tried to negotiate with the dwarves?!' yelled the Mayor incredulously. 'You realize, if we tell the townspeople about this, you would be burnt at the stake! You are already under suspicion!'

'Hold on', said the Sheriff. 'You expect us to believe that the dwarves weren't responsible for all the attacks on our town, on the Steelwielder pilgrims?! Witnesses saw dwarves there, lots of them!'

'No, we don't. The dwarves were responsible for that. But we killed our share of them and won the battle. I am not saying we don't have reason to attack the dwarves, I am saying the destruction and death that would be caused by this war will escalate', said Remus.

Elaina added, 'The straw that broke the camel's back was the tragic death of the child. But, what if we capture and kill the dwarf that executed the foul deed, and bring him back here? It has been centuries since anyone successfully destroyed a tribe of dwarves, and it was at a huge cost in lives'.


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## Sean Patrick Reardon

From my short story "The Great Escape".



"Why am I in here? When will I be able to go home?" Grandmother asked me.

"The doctor says you need to stay in here until you have your strength back. Then we'll be able to take you out during the day," I said.

That was the party line and until further notice, that is what we all told her. The truth, she was going to be there for the rest of her life. "There" being the Alzheimer's unit at the Country View Life Care Center in Massachusetts.

***

Six weeks ago the phone rang. It was my mother calling from the hospital to provide an update on my grandmother, who had experienced a mild heart attack the night before. For the last sixteen of her ninety-four years, she had lived in an in-law apartment attached to my parent's house.

"How's Grandmother?" I asked.

"She's doing okay. She'll be in here for a couple more days."

"How's Dad doing?"

"He's alright. He's down at the cafeteria. It's been a long day."

"Let me know when she's getting out. I'll come down and visit her with the kids."

"Well&#8230;I need to talk to you about that. They've been doing a lot of tests and they think it would be best if she went to a nursing home. She's really weak and is going to need rehabilitation to regain some strength."

"How long is she going to be in there for?"

"At least until she can get her strength back. She's been slipping a lot more lately, not taking her medication. The doctors think she really needs full-time care."

Slipping, I hated that goddamn word. It meant she was in that dreadful state of coherency one minute and oblivion the next.

Five days later, she was transferred to the nursing home. This is not how she wanted to go out in life and it didn't help that for the most part, she knew what was happening. It wasn't supposed to go down like this. I always figured Grandmother would pass away peacefully, go to heaven, and leave us all with an everlasting, pleasant image and fond memories.

Now, I was left wondering, if she asked me to put a pillow over her face, would I do it?


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## Emma Hoffman

Poison Heart
by Emma Jean Hoffman

Turning away, I clenched my fists hard, to keep the tears from spilling again, to keep them from extinguishing that spark of anger in my heart.  It was the hardest thing I had ever done, to shove those damning memories into a box in my mind, to bolt them with massive locks, I hoped would prevent for me from opening it again.  I couldn't ever, I knew that as clearly as I knew anything.  This time had almost undone me, like flying to close to the sun with wings made of wax and feather. 
  
Grabbing on to my anger, I turned to Rundar, wanting to hate him for making me relive my betrayal, thinking he might replace the Queen, as my most hated enemy.  It had to be a trick on his part, I kept telling myself, but I saw clearly in his eyes, it was not.  Deep down, I knew I could trust him, that despite being a vicious monster, I couldn't deny he had heart and would be loyal, while we did this.  And I realized something else in that moment. It did not matter.  His intentions, good or evil, would serve me.  I owed the vampires a bloody reckoning, and that was the most important vow to me.  Rundar could help me bring that to fruition, and then, what ever happened after, was no concern of mine, at least at the moment.

“Fine, you will serve me in my endeavors,” I whispered, though I wished more than anything, I didn't have to make this bad bargain.  But I had no choice...

“So, you see what you must do, slayer.”

I nodded.

“Good, I was worried, you may not have the heart to see it through.”

“You have no worries,” I smiled bitterly.

“Then, I will join you, and together, we will inflict the most nastiest of insults on a shared enemy,” Rundar licked his lips in monstrous anticipation.

It was too cocky, the look in his face was one insult too many, and I rounded on him again, thrusting my face into his.  “You think you have done me a favor by revealing the truth.  But you have not.  This is an alliance of convenience and nothing more.  I am a slayer, and I would not shed a tear if I killed you when your usefulness to me ended.”

“We will spend time together.  What if we became friends?” He asked with a spark of humor in his eye.

“Then you will be the fool,” I spat, turning to walk away.  “I have killed my true love.  Killing you will be nothing by comparison.”


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## Mark Feggeler

*The Psi Squad, Page 1:*

I was in first grade when I first saw the "spots."
We were on the playground at my old school in Ohio and Tommy Figgison had just planted my face in the sand for no good reason. Okay, maybe I cried a little, but I was only seven years old and had just gotten shoved from behind by a fifth grade ape who was already growing a mustache. And did I mention the mouthful of sand I swallowed?
Anyway, after I wiped the grit out of my eyes, I looked up at him and saw he was surrounded by this orange glow. It hovered around him for a few seconds and then disappeared. The strange thing was that as soon as the glow was gone, Tommy's expression softened and he held out his hand to help me up.
After that I began seeing similar things happening over and over again. Somebody would be doing something they shouldn't be doing, and if I looked closely enough I could usually see an orange glow around them, too. The brighter the color, the worse their behavior. One time, a first grader named Cameron Harrison bit Paul Penny so hard he had to get three stitches. Cameron was glowing so brightly I practically had to squint just to look at him. By the time I was halfway through fourth grade, I started noticing the other colors -- blues, yellows and greens, mostly -- but orange was the only one that seemed to make kids misbehave.
I told my Mom and Dad several times about seeing the colors, but they'd probably tell you I never did. It wasn't until I told my fifth grade teacher, Mrs. Turnkey, I could see colors floating around me all the time that my parents took me to see Dr. Oglethorpe. I don't know what good they thought he would do, because for an eye doctor he had glasses so thick they looked like something out of the old sci-fi movies my Dad loves to watch. When he asked me to read the letters on the chart hanging on the wall across the room, I had the feeling it wasn't so much a test of my eyesight as it was that he wanted to know what the letters were, but his vision was so bad he couldn't read them for himself.


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## lindakovicskow

*French Illusions: My Story as an American Au Pair in the Loire Valley*

When my alarm sounded at 6:30, I leapt out of bed, eager for another opportunity to attend a course at the Université François-Rabelais. I wanted to make a good impression on my professors and peers, so I spent a bit more time on my appearance, brushing some blush on my cheekbones and curling my eyelashes before applying mascara. The result prompted a grin from my mirror image. Pulling on a sweater, I grabbed my purse and ran downstairs.
After I completed my usual morning routine with the children, Madame Dubois rattled off a list of chores, my pulse accelerating with concern as I listened. Has she forgotten that I'm going to Tours today?
"Wash up the dishes in the sink, change the sheets on my bed, and sweep the entranceway."
"I have to catch the ten o'clock train, or I'll be late for my class," I reminded her.
"Well then, you had better get started."

Rushing out the door an hour later, mumbling angry words, I half-jogged the road to Songais and barely arrived at the train in time.
Oooh . . . she makes me so mad!
Out of breath, I boarded the coach and found a place to sit down. Unclenching my jaw, stretching my neck right, and then left, I willed myself to relax. I was determined not to let Madame Dubois ruin my day.
As the train pulled out of Tours, the attendant, a young man about my age, sauntered down the aisle, his gaze darting back and forth as he identified new passengers. I watched him, admiring his masculine features, until he reached me. Our eyes locked, his sky blue on my moss green, and my stomach lurched.
"Vous visitez Songais?" he asked.
"Non, je suis arrivée récemment," I said handing him my rail pass. No, I arrived recently.
He glanced at my document and leaned in closer. So close, in fact, that I smelled his cologne, musk with a hint of citrus. "Linda . . . d'où êtes-vous?" Where are you from?
"Je viens des Etats-Unis."
He smiled and my heart fluttered. "Enchanté," he said, and added, "Je m'appelle Renaud."
"Enchantée," I responded, feeling tongue-tied.
Renaud tried out his English. "How long you visiting?"
"Many months," I muttered.
"It is wonderful!" he exclaimed, and heads turned to look at us. I felt the heat rush to my cheeks. "I go now, Linda, but I hope to see you again."
Picking up his pace, he moved down the aisle and exited into the next coach. A few of the passengers glared at me, but I ignored them. I had enjoyed my interchange with Renaud and felt flattered to receive so much attention from such an attractive Frenchman. From now on, my rides to and from Tours might be the highlight of my day.


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## Brianna Lee McKenzie

From Grace of God, a short story https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B00BSE3H0W 

She was not expected to live more than a few hours. She surprised everyone when she continued to thrive for days. As the years went by, she touched the lives and hearts of everyone who knew her. But she touched my life most of all.
Five years ago, in June, my parents told my brother and me that Mom was going to have a baby. At fourteen, I was excited about the new addition but my brother Tad, who was nineteen, walked out of the den and didn't come back until late that night. 
Dad was happy, of course, but he worried about Mom since she worked outside the home in order to help pay for Tad's college tuition and then she helped Dad on the farm. And since she seemed to be tired all the time, he was afraid that she might be too weak to carry a baby. But Mom assured him that she was strong enough to bring her third child into the world even though she was almost forty.
The pregnancy progressed without incident for several months. Except for the Texas summer causing her to overheat in her first trimester, Mom made it through the seasons comfortably. However, in November, something went terribly wrong. 
There was an early winter storm coming. The cattle needed nourishment to get through the blistering cold wind and sleet that the news had forecast. Although Mom was not feeling well that day, she insisted upon helping with the chores. 
The family worked together to toss out the hay to the cattle. Mom was driving the truck, which was pulling the flatbed trailer that carried the bales of hay. Dad and Tad were throwing the hay out to the cattle as the truck moved along the dirt lane in the middle of the wide pasture on our rolling beef ranch outside of Brenham, Texas. I was sitting in the cab with Mom, keeping a watch out for cows, but I must have looked away at the wrong moment.
I was watching Dad and my brother in the side mirror. I'd always been amazed at Dad's strength and seeing him lift those heavy bales of hay made me even more proud of him. But I should have been watching the dirt road ahead. 
Mom was watching the men in the rear-view mirror on the windshield while steering the pickup down the dirt lane. Hereford cattle with cinnamon colored coats and big white heads ambled toward the hay that carpeted the dry Texas land behind us, pushing past anything that kept them from their evening meal. Suddenly, Mom slammed on the brakes to avoid hitting Topper, the family's prize bull.
But she was too late. The grill of the truck struck Topper's hindquarters with so much force that the bull's back legs buckled beneath him and he fell to the ground in front of the dented pickup. Mom's body lunged into the steering wheel and her head crashed into the windshield, causing her to lose consciousness. Topper moaned in agony while Mom slowly came to.
I screamed, "Momma!" I threw the transmission into 'park' while scrunching my shoulders, hoping that my dad and my brother had not fallen off the trailer. 
"Oh, my God!" Dad yelled while he clambered down from the trailer and ran toward the cab of the truck. He threw open the truck door and shook Mom, shouting, "Aubrey! Aubrey! Are you hurt?"
Mom slowly blinked her tired eyes and nodded but she could not focus on Dad's face. "Hard," she whimpered, saying Dad's name the way she always did. Though Howard was his real name, she insisted upon calling him Hard, not because he was hard on her or on us kids, but because he was her rock, her strength, her life. Or maybe, in her Texas twang, that's just how she pronounced it. 
Her breath came in sharp, tiny burst as she cried, "Hard, I think the baby's coming!"


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## Kristian_Warner_Jr

*The Rise
A Fantasy/Fiction Novel
by Kris Warner Jr*​
Chapter 21

The cold stone floor echoed Ithuwaen's quick steps as he headed towards the Royal Guard's wing. The typically empty halls were dotted with men in varying degrees of armor, from mail tunics only up to full battle dress. But however variegated their uniforms were, they shared one characteristic: gruffness. Each one of the Royal Guard had been chosen at a young age not only for their immense physical stature, but for their accompanying attitude. They were feared as the King's personal bodyguards and it showed.
Ithuwaen kept his head slightly bent as he traversed the East Wing of the palace, not out of respect - no, a priest of Anhuin outranked all but the god-king himself - but rather, out of contemplation. Convincing the Commander of the Royal Guard to conspire to revolution with him would not be easy; Vega was quite temperamental and could just as easily decide to kill him as he could the god-king. 'But if I can play his rage against him,' Ithuwaen thought, 'this might be possible.'
Ithuwaen reached the doors to Vega's chambers, casting them open with confidence just as the Commander went to open them from the other side. Surprise dotted Vega's face, but then faded back under his typical menacing scowl. He was not happy today.
Shouldering roughly past the priest, Vega demanded, "What do you want?" His defiance was not helped at all by Ithuwaen's office. There had never been a feud or war between, but priests and Guardsmen always seemed to rub each other the wrong way. Ithuwaen sighed, weighing his options. 'Best to make him even more mad,' he thought with reluctance. There was a chance that he could play on Vega's violent emotions, forcing his hand in the process.
"I have orders from Inayan." He waited, testing the waters and looking for a reaction from Vega. Nothing. "The Ark is yet to be filled and needs more prisoners." Still no response. "Inayan grows impatient. He wants you to take them from the Third Ward."


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## Edward C. Patterson

_*Page 99 from the Print version (PDF POD) of 
Belmundus 
Epic Fantasy by Edward C. Patterson*_​*Chapter Nine
The Scullery Dorgan
1*​[size=12pt]Harris walked in darkness and in light, through rooms great
and small, turning left and right at the whispered commands
behind him. It was a long way to go for terrerbyrd flesh in cream
sauce. However, he supposed Little Bird, on his floating footgear,
covered more ground quicker when unencumbered by a slowpoke
consort. On this progress, Harris passed other Trones, who turned
their faces away and bowed. This zone didn't seem like the family
living quarters - more a passageway between the living quarters
and the scullery.
"Are we almost there?" Harris muttered.
No answer, but then he saw an archway ahead, bricked like an
oven. He felt heat and smelt cooking aromas - delectable. He
yearned for a pile of whatever was baking, and a tall mug of beer.
Hell, he'd settle for a Diet Coke.
"We are here, oginali," Little Bird said.
Harris turned, waiting for Yustichisqua to open the door.
However, the archway had no door, being bricked solid. Harris
slapped it with his hand.
"What the fuck?" he muttered in frustration. "How do I get
in?"
Little Bird bowed.
"You cannot."
"Are we starting that business again?" Harris snapped.
"Protocols be damned. There's food in there and I could eat one of
those misancorpus' whole . . . with a side of French fries."
Little Bird laughed, for the first time. He caught himself, and
then bowed again. Harris was pleased with laughter at least.
Progress.
"You cannot enter, oginali, because there is no door. I do not
need a door, you see."
He proceeded to put his hand through the wall. Harris recalled
seeing Charminus' Trone perform a similar trick back when Mortis
House had been a creaky old Victorian.
"How did you do that?"Page99


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