Algonkian Pre-event Narrative Enhancement Guide - Opening Hook

[Michelle Trageser]

• Opening Scene – Introduces main protagonist, setting, tone, and foreshadows her relationship to her daughter, the secondary protagonist, and the timing of their big blow up.

 

The air around them was filled with the soothing sounds of golf balls plinking into metal cups, the murmur of nearby conversations, and ice cubes tinkling in tall, sweaty glasses.  From their table in the corner of the patio Nancy and Theresa had a clear view of the practice putting green beyond the shrubbery.  It was the first day of July 1976.  The flagged pins on the putting green had been replaced that morning with tiny stars and stripes replicas.  It was just the beginning, Nancy knew, of a week of absurd decorating for the Bicentennial, which would likely culminate with red, white, and dyed-blue carnations on the tables by the weekend. 

They lingered over the remnants of their lunches and watched their teenagers chipping balls from around the fringe.

“They’re good together, aren’t they?” Theresa smiled.  She speared the last piece of lettuce from her salad. 

“Mmmm,” Nancy nodded as she swallowed.  “They have terrible timing, though.”

Susie and Mike had spent the last seven years, since they were both eleven, playing golf together every summer.  They had been flirting with each other since before they knew what flirting was.  Suddenly they were dating, just weeks before they would leave to attend different colleges.

Nancy squinted her perfectly tanned face toward her daughter, who was crouched over a putt.  Susie looked just like she would have, Nancy knew - compact and athletic, a ponytail of dark curls tucked under a visor shading a face deep in concentration – had Nancy grown up playing golf.  Nancy held her breath, nodding imperceptibly when the six-footer dropped in the hole, and then turned back to Theresa. 

“Better late than never, I guess,” she concluded before draining the last of her iced tea and then raising the glass in the air to get the server’s attention. 

A young woman appeared quickly at Nancy’s side, bearing a crystal pitcher.  “More tea, Mrs. Cole?”

“Yes, thank you, Wanda.”  Nancy held out her glass.

“And you, Mrs. Snyder?”

“Yes. Please.” Theresa turned back to Nancy.  “What’s on your schedule tomorrow?” 

“Tomorrow’s a tennis day,” Nancy said.

“How do you keep it all straight?” Theresa laughed.

“It’s not that hard,” Nancy replied.  “You know I pretty much alternate days all summer until it gets too cold to play.”

“No wonder you’re always the champion of something,” Theresa said.

Nancy smiled.  She was as good a tennis player as she was a golfer, and Theresa was right, she was almost always the club champion in one or the other.  Never both in the same year, though.  She was careful about that.

Just then a whoop went up on the putting green as Susie chipped in from the fringe.  Mike pumped his fist in the air before lifting her off the ground in a delighted bear hug.  “That’s my girl!” they heard him say.

“Oh, dear Lord,” Nancy started up from her chair instinctively before Theresa patted her on the hand.

“They’re fine, Nance.  No one’s watching them.”  It was true that the patio was rapidly becoming deserted in the post-lunch lull.

“They could have scuffed the green,” Nancy muttered.  She checked to see if anyone was coming down the neighboring fairway.  When she determined that all was clear, she relaxed and sat back down.

Theresa sipped her tea.  “She’s going to give you a run for your money one day.”

“Oh, she’ll be way better than me,” Nancy replied, still eying her daughter. “The Duke team will be lucky to have her.”

The two women watched their offspring for a moment longer, putting side by side to a hole twenty feet away.  Mike’s ball stopped just short of the cup, but Susie’s veered way to the right, breaking late and coming to rest several feet beyond the little pin.  She collapsed in a fit of flirty giggles.

“Assuming that she can keep her mind on the game, that is,” Nancy smiled.  She folded her napkin next to her empty plate.  “Should we get the check?”

“Yes, let’s,” Theresa agreed.  Nancy put her hand in the air and snapped her fingers.  Wanda emerged from the shadows under the awning, where she had been waiting.

Opening Scene.docx

[Macen]

• So just a quick caveat--- I have a bit of a prologue accompanying the story, but this is the opening scene from the first proper chapter.
• OPENING SCENE - Introduces the main character, primary setting, tone, and sets up the MC's core wound for later exposition.

 

Her eyes burned in their sockets, bleary and staring back at her, forced open by synthetic hormones. She was geeked up on pseudo-drenaline and nano-enhancers, hardly able to recognize her own strained reflection in the window. It leapt out at her from the darkened night behind the paned glass, like some ghastly apparition. The still wet dots of red and black splayed across her coffee colored skin became a focal point against the drifting tides of a mind she could no longer contain. Styrene, human waste, and the stench of ozone clung to her nostrils. Acid raged at the back of her throat. 

Ragged memories blitzed through her mind. A distorted voice, beckoned to her in dark lustful delight hijacking her thoughts.

“Breed with us.” It said in deep baritone, only to morph into the innocent voice of a child. “We…are…the future.” It whispered, chased by the crackle of an ionic discharge.

Kenisha started in her seat, thrust awake. Headed to the hospital, she was still in the taxi, on her way to see her son. She let out a shudder. Her breath fogged the window.

The autopilot broke what little concentration she’d managed to muster. “Increasing ambient temperature by two degrees.” It said.

Fine droplets of rain played a rhythm across the aerodyne’s windshield, sparkling with embers of neon from the city’s lights.  High above, the dome’s orange membrane highlighted a piece of dark sky between the clutter of architecture. Down below, incandescent transport tubes crisscrossed between high rises connecting the citiscape. Holographic adverts and augmented reality painted a picture of unending commerce and moving art.  Save for the rain, the drone of the skycar’s engines muted the outside world.

Thin green lines of light oscillated across the taxi’s cabin, scanning everything in sight. “Biological fluids detected.  Releasing decontaminant solution.” the autopilot said. A fine mist released into the compartment. “Re-establishing cabin safety parameters.”

Fresh air whooshed in through several vents as the bad air was suctioned out. “Complimentary decon wipes are made available to all of our passengers.” the computer announced. “A sterile dome is a safe dome.” It said.

A slit opened in the upholstery and ejected a scented strip of fibrous paper. Stripping the zone’s filth from her skin was therapeutic in a way; watching the grime evaporate with the tissue into thin air as she dragged it across her skin. When she was done, she hastily reapplied some light makeup from a compact in her thigh pouch. Her hands were shaking. She pressed them against her thighs sliding sweaty palms back and forth across the fabric.

“Elevated heart rate detected. Do you require medical attention?” The computer asked.

“No, just keep going.” She said, dismissively. Her heart pulsed in her ears. “You know what? Fuck this.” She uttered on a sharp breath, snatched an injector from her coat and shot herself in the neck.

Five cc’s of Dryft hissed into her veins; medicine for cyborgs; an anxiolytic laden with nanites to impede overclocked processors.

She plummeted back into the cushioned seating, limbs twitching as they fought back, until her body finally succumbed. Floating within, she let the cyber drugs take hold as the taxi spiraled through virtual beacons in a smooth descent. 

“Now arriving at the Dome Medical Institute.” the computer said.  The craft set down gently onto a landing pad. 

Kenisha waved her hand across a screen that displayed the fare. The computer blipped. A gameshow jingle played.

“Citizen ID Chip Index detected.  Reigns, Kenisha.  Care to play the lottery? Win a free ride. Lose and double your fee.”

“Just give me the damn bill.” She said, tired. The effects of the Dryft injection came bearing down on her with the full weight of the last several days, all at once it seemed.

“Charging twelve thousand cyber credits to your account.” The computer said.  It blipped a couple of times. Her hand tingled with a light vibration.  “Transaction complete.” It finished.

Inside her palm the personal details of her account displayed in glowing blue digits beneath the skin. They called them sadiqi’s for short. Razor thin and made of durable bio-film, the sophisticated circuitry could be found embedded in the hand of every dome citizen; registered ones at least. It was a complete citizenship record and account unique to each dome resident.

“Thanks for flying Vogel Skycab. Enjoy your evening.”  The computer said.

Kenisha instinctively moved to reply, thought better of it, and simply left the cab.  The unmanned transport lifted off and peeled away into the night.

She parted through the rain, huddled beneath her coat when she felt the drops against her skin.  They were clear, lightweight, clean, even. She paused for a moment to rub her fingers together, moistening them with the pure water.  One level below in her part of the dome’s archology, they got the sludgefall-–heavy droplets that became darker and thicker the further down you went. On a whim, she opened her mouth and tilted her head back extending her tongue. Fresh water.

Waiting at the door, an attendant greeted her with a smile. The Solstice Roboroid logo was etched into its forehead. Androgynous, skinned in a pearly elastomer, the fluidity with which it moved surpassed that of even the most graceful ballerina.

“Welcoming our latest winner of the Healthcare Lottery.  Happy day to you, Detective.” It said. “I’m Sandy 13. How may I be of service today?”

The facility was state of the art. Scanners in the wall had already detected her sadiqi and passed the information along to every android on site.

“I’m here to see my son.” She said.

“Certainly, Ms. Reigns. This way please.” It curtsied and pointed the way.

“It’s Detective.” Kenisha corrected the machine on her way past, headed inside.

“Of course.” The android bowed respectfully.

[Tracy K. Macdonald]

• OPENING SCENES - Introduce antagonist, setting, tone, and a foreshadows the primary conflict.

CHAPTER 1: A SOUTHERN AFFAIR

Vivienne inhaled a cleansing breath of crisp October air and strode toward the Atlanta Bank & Trust building. Her hard-earned promotion to Director of Risk and Fraud would be announced today. If only she felt as competent at home as she did at work.

On a maple tree outside of the bank, a garnet leaf flecked with gold twirled like a sun catcher, interrupting her thoughts. Her boots scuffed the sidewalk as she paused to rub the leaf’s waxy surface. She plucked it from the branch, then searched her surroundings as if she'd stolen something.

With anticipation, Vivienne tucked it into her bag. She'd fasten this autumn treasure into her journal beside the artfully-taped butterfly wings and pressed flowers. Before pushing against the revolving door, she lingered and briefly closed her eyes, tilting her face skyward to absorb one last moment of morning.  

 In her office, Vivienne shimmied off her cashmere coat and leather bag. She placed her coffee mug on the desk and perched on the rolling chair, which pivoted, squeaked, and threw her petite frame off-balance. Her leather boot thudded against a drawer and she yelped, steadying the thermos just in time. She chuckled with relief.  

Shaky from a potent cocktail of adrenaline and exhaustion, she counted silently to four, summoning her yoga practice. She brushed drops of coffee from the lid and took a measured sip, recalling the mantra she used often lately at home: It's not what happens, it's how you react to it.

She leaned forward  and powered up the laptop to finish an illicit data report before the     8:30 meeting. Using her anti-money laundering expertise, she scrolled through suspicious activity transactions, searching for financial patterns. Across a handful of accounts, she honed in on multiple wire transfers initiated in the same dollar amounts, with similar time and date stamps; a telltale sign that a fraud ring was forming. She notated the account numbers. 

This was her element. In fraud meetings with partner financial institutions, Vivienne received frequent accolades for her astute findings and insightful analysis. In fact, the local Atlanta police and U.S. District Attorney had her on speed dial. 

At twenty-eight, however, crime-fighting from a computer wasn't exactly the dynamic career that she'd hoped for. Vivienne yearned to be a heroine, inspired in her teens by female agents in the X-files, Alias, and especially Clarice Starling in Silence of the Lambs.

Vivienne leaned back and rubbed her eyes. Despite her eagerness about the impending promotion, a wave of fatigue hit, blurring the financial data on the screen like a foreign language. She hadn’t slept well after the terrible argument with Gaston last night and considered calling her mother for advice, but dismissed the notion instantly. Vivienne's southern manners were so ingrained in her conscience, they flashed like tiny stop signs that shut down unbecoming behavior before it started.

The small, genteel Chatta Creek community in which she'd been raised held tightly to ideals from the past. Women were taught to comply, paste on smiles, and declare that everything was just fine, no matter what was happening. She could almost hear the childhood echoes from

“The Treasures,” the circle of mamas that collectively reared her and her closest friends. "Now girls, shush! Southern ladies don't air their dirty laundry."

Vivienne wanted her mama and “The Treasures” to be proud, so she hid behind the veneer of having it all; a successful career and a happy marriage. The truth was, her personal life was in shambles.

Vivienne stood and massaged her temples, chiding herself. It’s too early in the day for this. Come on, don’t spiral. Shake off the negativity and focus on the promotion! She crossed to the fifth-story window. A steady stream of commuters threaded through the downtown blocks below. Gears of a bus shifted loudly as it edged out of traffic and over to the curb. Vivienne coiled long strands of copper hair around two fingers as she stared at the top of the Capitol building in the distance. An American flag curled around its staff and unfurled again in the breeze, like a little girl showing off her party dress.

She shifted in her knee-high suede boots and leaned her forehead against the cold glass. Slump-shouldered, she gently tugged at her sweater dress sleeves to cover the bruises on her wrists. Seeking solace, she briefly placed her right hand against her dress, just above her hip bone. Beneath was the secret tattoo from college that gave her strength. Please let him be in a better mood this evening.

Vivienne unexpectedly met Gaston LeBlanc in her sleepy hometown of Chatta Creek, Georgia, where the summer climate called for bare feet with its lazy afternoon shadows and a sun that set long after cocktail hour.

She had just returned from college her junior year. Her parents were hosting an alfresco debutante party in the garden. Under strands of twinkle lights, the ragtime band was in full swing, but the moment Gaston opened his mouth to say "Bonjour," Vivienne no longer heard the music. She was enraptured by his charming French accent, sophisticated suit, and sexy five-o'clock shadow.

Now, she experienced relief whenever Gaston left town for business. Like a sailboat in a storm, she kept changing tack to make it work between them. I've tried being nice, tried being a bitch, and even tried being invisible, but nothing has helped. How did I get here?

***

The computer’s calendar alert made Vivienne jump. Her outlook lifted. Time to shine. She swiped on a coat of lipstick and dashed to the conference room. Tom, VP of the bank, sat at the head of the table, his tie swept askew as if waiting for a feast. His patchy bald spots and fashion choices of suspenders and argyle socks matched his affable nature but made him look older than his age, which she guessed was mid-forties.

Once everyone was seated, he made eye contact around the table. "Mornin, y'all." Tom dipped his chin as if tipping his hat to the room. Although he was on a first-name basis with all employees, he lowered his voice like a radio announcer and affected a fakey, formal tone. "Mrs. Le Blanc, how about you start us off with the fraud department."

Vivienne bristled at the sound of her married name and sat straighter in her chair. With ease, she rattled off an update on recent fraud loss amounts and the suspicious activity she had discovered. She wrapped up and flashed Tom a bright grin, ready for the good news, but he just nodded and made notes. His voice returned to its normal timbre. "All righty, Tanya, you're up next. How many new customer accounts have been opened and closed?”

Tanya's report was long-winded and her voice faded into the background. Vivienne slid her appointment book onto her lap. She studied the tiny up-and-down arrows penciled onto the calendar, her covert way of tracking the good and bad days when Gaston was in town. The first few days of October showed a row of down arrows, much like September and the many months prior. Disappointment slithered into her neck and shoulders. She shrugged to cast it off. It was like being two different women; one, full of zest and ambition at work, but the other like a dehydrated plant wilting at home.

The booming sound of her boss's voice snapped Vivienne back to the conference room.

"And the last piece of business to address this morning..." Tom announced with a huge grin.

Her pulse kicked up and she combed her hair back behind her ears with her fingers as she prepared to say a few words.

"Folks, let’s give a big congratulations to Johnathan, our new Director of Risk and Fraud."

Vivienne stopped breathing for a moment and cocked her head, unable to compute what she'd just heard.

" 'Preciate it, Tom," Johnathan said with a smug smirk. He scanned the room, eyes landing on Vivienne.

She stifled a strained sound climbing her throat and managed a tight-lipped smile. Raised to be polite and a people pleaser, she clapped in solidarity as congratulations were proffered, but what she wanted to do instead was slap Tom. He’d promised her this promotion, and she shot him a seething look that said What the hell? But he was too busy beaming about his big win—rewarding his mini-me, whose track record for solving fraud cases was appalling.

Defeated, she glanced down at the sweater dress and boots she’d chosen in particular for the pictures. I even got up early to do my makeup and hair, damnit. She stared at the conference table and shook her head, still seated after photos were taken. Maybe this is a sign from the universe that it's time to look for a new opportunity.

She bolted up, resisting the urge to stomp over to Tom. Ever the southern belle, she kept her composure. In a controlled tone, she asked, "So, what… changed… since our chat last week, Tom?" Although she maintained a pleasant expression, her eyes narrowed. She clenched her teeth to hold back the ugly words threatening to spill out.

He gave her a consoling pat on the back. Vivienne flinched from his touch and took a step back.

"Yeah…I'm sorry about this, Vivienne. Last minute, the board decided that even though you're the better fraud analyst, you just don't have the leadership skills yet to run the department."

"Is that so?" She swallowed hard, pushing down the rising anger. Her jaw tightened and she nodded, pressing her lips into a thin smile. No leadership skills? That was B.S. and he knew it. She'd worked hard the last few years, not to mention the millions she'd likely saved the bank with her fraud prevention measures.

Tom grimaced and left the room.

"Oh, honey. I'm sorry," Tanya said, giving Vivienne a pat on the shoulder on her way out. "You all right?"

"Yes, thanks…I just thought… the promotion… I should probably go home. I didn't sleep too well." The maternal kindness on Tanya's grandmotherly face nearly made Vivienne cry. Vivienne broke eye contact, scooped up her bag, and dashed out of the room.

Back in her office, slumped in her chair, she grieved the death of her career. Hot tears sprung up. She was highly skilled at her job and had earned this promotion. How dare Tom? It was as if she'd been fired. She certainly didn't want to stay here now, working for Johnathan who‘d barely left university.

When Vivienne overheard the gossip shortly after the meeting that Johnathan's dad was a close golf buddy of Tom's, the news hardly came as a surprise. Still, not getting the bump in title and paycheck was an injustice, and she left the office that afternoon betrayed and disappointed in the board's decision. Everything Johnathan knew about illicit finance, she’d taught him.

***

That evening, gravel crunched as Gaston parked his car in the driveway of their cottage. His temperament was fiery lately, and Vivienne's stomach tightened, wondering which mood he'd bring through the door. She smoothed down her dress and lit the candles in the dining room. Before work, she had chilled her favorite wine and set the table with candles, expecting to celebrate. Best to avoid mentioning her day at the office. Gaston would likely harp on how she'd screwed up the promotion. Her pride was dented enough without him picking her faults apart like a vulture with carrion.

He was quiet during dinner, so she told a light-hearted anecdote about her dad teaching her to drive. He held up a hand and cut her off mid-sentence.

"Stop. I don't want to hear this story again. Where's the wine?" Gaston snapped.

Vivienne restrained herself from glowering. The last thing she wanted was to escalate his mean-spirited mood. She retrieved the bottle to refill his glass. As if in slow motion, a trickle splashed onto the table and dripped onto his tan slacks.

"Merde! Watch what you're doing!"

Her body tensed, she hated when he shouted.

He grabbed her hand and twisted it. Pain shot through her wrist. She cried out, caught off guard, and dropped the bottle of wine on the floor, sending a wave of honey-gold Viognier under the table.

Gaston scowled and jumped from his seat. He pushed her to the floor and her leg bashed against the table. She moaned as the impact radiated across the top of her kneecap. She pressed a hand hard over her knee until the pain subsided.

Motion caught her gaze on the hardwood floor. Her chest tightened as the wine seeped into a crack and headed right for the oriental rug. She shook her head and silently begged the spill, no, no, no, please. She hung her head.

"Why do you make everything so difficult, Vivienne? Can't you do anything without screwing it up?"

Gaston's biting criticism pierced her, especially after the day she'd had. Her chin snapped up and she gave him an icy stare, daring him to say more. An expletive formed on her tongue, but from experience, she kept her mouth shut.

"Jesus, Vivienne, you've ruined my shoes, too! Idiot!"

Before she could form a response, he stomped upstairs. Her bottom lip quivered as she mopped up the last of the wine with their monogrammed dinner napkins, a wedding present from Aunt Patsy, one of  “The Treasures.”  Vivienne itched for Gaston to hit her instead, to cross that line of no return. Then, she couldn't convince herself this wasn't abuse. Whoever coined the phrase, "sticks and stones…" was wrong. Words could destroy a soul.

She locked herself into the guest room for the night. In bed, she lay with a hand over her tattoo and listened for footsteps in case he had more vitriol to spew, or worse. Fear morphed into anger. Keep this up and one of us will go to jail, Gaston. With each verbal attack, she felt less and less like forgiving him.

Even so, a part of her sympathized with him. Gaston hadn’t been adored as a child like she had. After their last fight, he pleaded with her not to leave. "You can't leave me, too. You're all I have left," he said, with rare tears in his eyes.

When Vivienne's body finally calmed, she remembered the maple leaf in her bag meant for her journal. Her thoughts drifted to the past, to the one person who had always understood her. Marrying Gaston was such a mistake, Jacob. Where are you now?

***

Before dawn, the smooth purr of Gaston’s sports car leaving the driveway alerted Vivienne that she was safe. She swung the guest room door wide open and made her way downstairs. His cologne lingered in the kitchen, leaving a bitter taste on her tongue. She clicked on the coffee maker then plodded into the living room and rolled out her yoga mat, seeking solace.

Daybreak softly illuminated the trees beyond the window. She laid on her back, propped up her bruised knee, and rubbed it with caution. Although still hurt and angry, she was conflicted. Gaston was so broken, but she believed deeply in her marriage vows. After all, it was her choice, marrying a Frenchman against the Chatta Creek community advice. She was too stubborn and ashamed to admit they were right.

She stood up and stretched. She’d been so enamored with Gaston in the beginning. Young and hungry to leave insular Chatta Creek, she was quick to bask in his adventurous tales from all corners of the globe. He'd traveled on African safaris, dived the Great Barrier Reef, sampled street food in Vietnam, and had ridden the Orient Express. He was a far cry more exciting than the Chatta Creek boys who were into hunting and football. And there was nothing boyish about Gaston. Nearly thirty-three when they met, he was almost a decade older and very much a man.

Vivienne bent over to roll up her yoga mat. When had it all gone wrong? They’d been married for five years. Doggedly loyal, she continued to justify Gaston's bad behavior, convinced that if she just poured more love into him and gave him more time, their marriage would improve. She did love him, but in recent months, she’d become so high-strung and defensive that even the smallest noise gave her a tiny heart attack. Pouring herself a cup of coffee, she thought, this isn't living, this is existing.

[PGProctor]

Opening Scene:

Provides a glimpse of the protagonist and secondary characters and provides the background for future conflict.

 

Prologue

 

 

September 1710

Somewhere in the Bahama Archipelago  

The unforgiving surf ripped Harry Llewellyn’s boot off and sent it tumbling. The captain felt like a child’s rag doll trampled into the muck when he crawled onto the beach. Wearing one salt-encrusted cavalier boot, he righted himself. He limped hard, trudging up the highest dune. Gingerly lowering himself, he sat on a massive hunk of coral thrown ashore by the tempest. He plucked at the cactus thorns embedded in his stockinged foot with a heavy sigh.

The ruin of his beloved Raging Queen lay smashed to splinters. The lookout’s warning of the impending reef came as the hurricane had blown itself out, dashing the rising hope in the breasts of the crew. With a broken rudder and shattered masts, it was impossible to save his foundering ship. The survivors salvaged what they could from the crashing of the fierce waves. It was unlikely that the mile-long island had fresh water. The chance of a rescue was slim. The storm’s ferocity scoured the low shrubs and stunted trees of their foliage. Ever optimistic, the tall man sagged from the dire catastrophe. He doggedly pursued a French vaisseau in hopes of a fat prize. Harry should have sought a sheltered cove when the fearsome winds bore down. The corpses of his crewmen rose and fell in the surf. A lucky few made it to shore, along with the six who, like Harry, always survived.

            Harry hung on to his cocked hat despite being trounced by the surf. Beating it against his leg, he sighed at the shredded plumage and clapped it on his head. Raking his fingers through his prodigious beard, he tried to rid himself of the plastered sand. Sharp pain forced him to tug off his remaining boot. A tiny crab had attached itself to his stocking. Flicking it away, he dumped the sand and shells from his boot. He rolled down his stockings and wrung them.

            “Bah!”

            Harry’s first mate climbed the dune. The small, olive-skinned man bore a parcel and Harry’s lost boot. He sat cross-legged by his captain. “Bloody, nasty little bastards,” he cursed, plucking sand spurs from his feet.

            “Well, I’ve royally buggered this up. Ricci, what happened to your shoes?” Harry inquired.

            “Floating around out there somewhere. By god’s piss, this is a mess. I’ve saved your log and papers wrapped in three layers of waxed canvas. Your pipe and tobacco, too.” Ricci handed his captain the bowl, bag, and sodden boot. “A little damp. Two kegs of freshwater floated in with chicken crates. The pig swam ashore. The sheep broke a leg so Jean cut its throat. Mutton tonight.”

            Harry tamped out the pipe. “I don’t know what I would do without you. Now if you could spirit us out of here. The log isn’t as important as my plan for our future. I’ve lost the best damn crew any pirate ever had. As always, the seven of us remain.”

            “Privateers, not pirates. Jean spotted a mast to the northwest. I hope for a rescue if we can make a big enough smoke, as long as it’s not the Spanish. Others are making it to shore. The Mestizo drifted in on a spar. Those papers you treasure so, are they for creating a gentlemen’s club for people like us?”

            “Ladies too, of course. Think of it. Between all of us, we know a hundred others like ourselves. People who don’t age, who don’t get sick, who survive catastrophes. Wouldn’t life be easier if we compiled our resources for mutual protection when times are hard? I’ve thought of gathering our people to work out a plan, to formalize our intent. You said you know a dozen in the east. Jean knows a few in Africa. We all know plenty in Europe. I even met a Tuscarora fellow in the Virginia colony.”

            “If you could get word to everyone, we could plan to meet in London. They like their clubs and coffeehouses there,” Ricci offered.

            “I have a price on my head in England,” Harry mused. “Maybe Lisbon, or Marseilles, or Tangiers.” He gestured with his pipe at the five working on the beach. “Look at those magnificent people.” Even Lilbourn, who’s doing his best to steal my woman.”

            “Pshaw. Susannah would never look twice at a bounder like Richard Lilbourn.”

            “Oh, she’s looked twice. More likely three times. He is handy in a fight. I’ll give him that. My darling Susannah Abigail says I’m not a serious person. That I’m a braggart who makes unnecessary trouble for myself. I take risks. I’m the grasshopper in Aesop’s fable.” Harry lit his pipe, coaxing forth a slight curl of smoke. “Tastes like kelp. I stole her from Viggo, so serves me right. If Vigs paid her more attention, I would never have stood a chance. She needs somebody who can make her laugh.”

            The lady in question whaled away at the bowsprit with an axe to free a rope. Susannah was attired in sailor garb. Her long blond hair hung in salt-sodden waves below her hips. She flicked her hair away in annoyance, as it constantly blew in her face. Richard and his bosom pal Viggo assembled a shelter nearby with scraps of wood and canvas.

            “The Moor is mending,” Ricci commented.

            The two observed the limping, dark-skinned man rolling a cask out of the pounding surf and up the beach.

            “Jean knows what’s important. At least he saved the rum. Good thing the shark didn’t like the taste of him,” Harry laughed.

            Shouting and cheers drew their attention to the ruptured hull protruding from the angry waves. From it emerged a half-naked man with long, dark hair. He bore a small chest. 

            “Hey, look! The Gaul found our loot,” Ricci said.

            “René’s a good man. Too bad we can’t eat money. I don’t think we’ll starve, but the living will be rough. At least we can buy a new ship with the gold.”

            “If we ever get out of here,” Ricci commented glumly.

            “Hmm. Be of good cheer, my friend. I’ve been in tighter spots. Promise me something, Ricci. If I should get thrown in prison, or lost in the Tortugas, or kidnapped by slavers, swear you will follow through. Take these documents and carry out my plan to launch a fellowship of the extraordinarily long-lived. It will be a remarkable gathering.”

            Ricci smiled fondly at his old friend. “It’s a promise I’ll never have to keep, but I will swear to bring about my captain’s mad dream.”

            Harry laughed a great belly laugh. “Let’s get roaring drunk and persuade this crew to be the founding members of a great fraternity of endless possibilities.”

[jldenn]

• OPENING SCENE - Introduces antagonist and one secondary character, and a describes the triggering event that sets the plot in motion..

 

               Allen was sitting in his well-worn, faux leather, executive swivel chair with the broken lumbar control concentrating on the latest set of results from the recent test-run of his beloved ESP – Electronic Signature Project when Burke poked his head into Allen’s office.

“Allen, do you have a minute?” he said with some reluctance in his voice.

“Sure, come on in.”  Allen absently waved Burke in, not turning his attention from the matrix on the computer screen in front of him.

“I need to talk to you.”

“Yeah, sure Burke.  What is it?”

“Allen, this is serious.”

               Allen turned from his work to look at Burke.  Burke Preston was average in many ways; average height, average build, average brown hair and eyes, but he was one of Allen’s oldest friends which rocketed him from the atmosphere of average into the orbit of exceptional.  Not that Allen was exclusive in selecting his friends in any way.  Indeed, he could ill afford to be choosy.  Allen was, it could be said, quite focused, although not on the things that made for easy social interaction. His light brown hair was forever in a wavy mess. He forgot to shave most days. His attire laughed in the face of the fact that he actually had a wife that saw him leave the house each morning.  No, Allen was laser focused on one thing above all else - his work. Those of his acquaintances who made the effort to break through were exceptional… and patient. 

               Burke and Allen had met in college and had endured graduate school together.  They had even been roommates for a time; a circumstance, which earned Burke both the respect and ridicule of his friends.  After graduation, Burke came to work for Electrotech and Allen followed him after 18 months of badgering from his good friend.  That was seven years ago.  Although Burke worked in a different department, they had the same supervisor and saw each other nearly every day.  Allen assumed Burke needed a consult on a project on which he was working, but the tone of his voice told him this was something completely different.

                Burke grabbed the extra chair in Alan's small, windowless office, drug it passed a stack of bound and unbound printouts balanced precariously near the buried desk and sat in it backwards, the backrest pressing into his chest.  “You know the company has put the Bio project grant up for renewal.” Burke began.  Allen nodded still trying to discern the reason for Burke's demeanor.   “Well, I hate to be the one to tell you this but the application was rejected,” he continued, realizing with his words what his tone and expression had already conveyed to Allen's subconscious.

                “What?!  We’ve had that grant renewed for three years running."  His half step warning wasn't enough to temper the blow.   "What made them cut us off now?"

                “Damn, this is hard Allen.  We’ve been friends forever.  This isn’t coming from me.  I’m just the messenger.”  He hesitated.  It pained Burke to deliver bad news to his friend.  Allen was obsessive over his projects and a dedicated employee and didn't understand why everyone didn't approach the work in the same way.  But sometimes his 'focus' was like a set of blinders.

                “Come on, I know you’re not in charge of the grants.  What happened?”

                “The board wasn’t satisfied with your progress over the past year; really two years.  They said they renewed the grant reluctantly last year but this year they just can’t see that the project is worth the continued funding.  They think you’ve come to a dead end.  Not that it’s your fault.  They don't blame you.  Some research just runs itself out.  You know, after a while it just doesn’t look like anything profitable is going to come from continuing.  And you know as well as I do that profitability is the bottom line.”

                “I know I’m close to a breakthrough on this.” Allen said, trying to hide the desperation in his voice.  “Didn’t they read the paper I wrote?  It was almost published!”

                “'Almost' being the key concept, Allen.  They just aren’t willing to wait around while you figure it out.  I’m sorry.”

                Allen Hathaway had seen the handwriting on the wall several months earlier but had been perfecting his denial and self-delusion routine since then.  Still, Burke’s words came as a shock.  Somehow hearing his fears spoken made them real.  His research had been coming along slowly and he could tell Electrotech could not yet see the potential profit in his work.  Bioelectronics was an interesting field, but ‘interesting’ didn’t pay the bills, it only created more.  He felt he would be able to capitalize on aspects of his research if only he had more time.  These things take time.  Why couldn't they wait a little longer?

                He was researching electronic signatures - the electric readings that emanate from all things.  He had been attempting to standardize these readings for different substances.  His hope, and that of his employer, was that these readings would assist the government and other private industries in identifying these substances quickly and definitively using a scanner that he was developing.  If he succeeded, the users of his technology would only have to take a quick electronic reading and his program would tell them exactly what they were looking at.  Potentially, standards could be programmed for every substance (and combination of substances) known to man. The applications of the device he would produce were unlimited - from government drilling and excavation projects to aerial military surveillance to private operations in mining, archaeology and more.  Unfortunately, his theory had run up against some impressive inconsistencies and this had slowed him down considerably.  He had hoped it was just equipment calibration problems, which were the topic of the reports he was reviewing when Burke came in. He stubbornly refused to acknowledge the possibility that his entire premise was misguided.  But now the point was moot.  His project terminated.  It bothered him incredibly that he would now never know the truth.  A truth he felt so close to discovering.

                After a long moment, Allen said with a marked lack of conviction, “It’s going to be hard to let this project go.  I’m not sure I really can completely, but I guess I have no choice.  Perhaps working on my next assignment will help."  He didn't really believe the distraction of another project would erase his need for answers on this one but his options were singular in nature and he was a pragmatist. The quicker he attempted to move on, the better off he'd be.  "Do you know where they will be putting us?”

                Burke looked at his hands and said nothing.

                “Burke?  What is the department going to be working on if not the Bioelectronics project?”

                Slowly Burke looked up from his hands.  “There were other grants not renewed, other funding that’s gone now."   He hesitated.  "They’re closing your department.  It’s all about profit and loss.  I know it won’t help, but yours isn’t the only department being shut down.”  Burke paused, letting this new piece of information sink in.  Then he said, “Their giving you four weeks’ notice and then six months’ severance pay.  I’m sure with all that you’ll be able to make it until you find something else and with your experience that shouldn’t take long anyway.  The company’s giving you a positive recommendation despite letting you go.  They’ll spin it.  It won’t look bad.” 

                Allen leaned back in his chair, took a deep breath and let it out again but said nothing.  Seven years was a long ride, especially in this high tech industry, and he knew it.  This wasn’t grad school.  You could stay there forever.  Allen almost had, taking more and more classes and labs, taking teaching assistant positions, volunteering to lead professor’s research teams.  It was safe there.  Time to investigate and explore.  It was a place removed from the realities of life in a way.  He could hide there.  The expectations were different there.  That’s why it had taken him so long to make the move into the real job market.  Poor Burke had spent all that time trying to convince him that having a job, the right job, could be even more fulfilling than perpetual academia.  Until today Burke had been right.  Now the rug had been pulled out from under him.  He felt like Wile E. Coyote.  He had run off the cliff (probably months ago) and was just now realizing there was no ground beneath him.  It wouldn’t be long, he figured, before dust curls rose from an Allen shaped hole in the canyon floor.

 

[Anne]

Scene: Introduces the protagonist, sets the tone, setting and foreshadows the primary conflict.

Susan after many years is preparing for her wedding day to her soul mate. She and the entire wedding party and closest family and friends are at a rented house in 4x4, North Carolina in the Outer Banks.

   Just as I have taken the first bite of a warm right out of the oven blueberry muffin and a sip of Charleston Tea, there is a knock. I open the door to none other than the hair wizard Desmond.  He enters along with his necessary tools and says, “Morning love. Are you ready?” As I close the door and turn to give Desmond a hug I say, “I’m ready as long as I can munch while you make magic”. “That will work, bring your muffin and tea, let’s sit up here in front of these fabulous windows where we can have great natural light and manage the food and the hair.” I sit and watch as Desmond whirls and twirls me into a chic wedding fantasy. No matter that my beautiful do, will never again attain such perfection, Desmond’s genius is not to be outdone, it is perfect for this special day. I gush and thank Desmond for his brilliance and shoo him out to get ready for the day. Originally from England, Desmond has been with me for so long he is like part of my family and he is very much a part of this special day. 

   Desmond departs and I walk to the lighted mirrored vanity to work on my special day's makeup. I have always been a natural girl. Mascara, lipstick and a little translucent powder and I am out the door. Although a little more will be good for the pictures, I really want to look like me and not some Hollywood version of me. As I am trying to work some magic on my appearance, my daughter, Caroline sweeps in, her long sleek mane held up with mother of pearl clips that were passed down from my grandmother, Lilly Marie. Caroline is beautifully talented and she is a swath of pale blue that flows around her as she waltzes in.  “Mama, are you not dressed yet?” she says in that tone that means I’m in big trouble. 

   “I’m getting there, I  just wanted to savor every moment about today and not let it pass so quickly by” I say in my defense. She puts her hands on her hips and stomps her foot like she did when she was 3 and says, “Well, it’s past time. Let’s get you dressed and down those stairs. There are lots of people who are waiting to watch and celebrate with you and Jackson”. I take a deep breath, “OK, I’m ready” I say as I stand and turn to let her help me. She walks into the bath for my gown that has been hanging there steaming for some time. She carefully brings in the gown, prepares it for launch and settles it over my head without messing up my hair. I have taught her well. She zips me up, and the gown is perfect and as I turn to her, tears swim in both of our eyes. We cling to each other, holding in the tears that threaten to roll down both our faces. We are bound as only Mother and Daughter can be, forever in each other’s corner, forever against the world.

   I look at my one and only daughter as we both try to hold it together. She may look like me but she is my Mother made over. “I Love you Caroline, to the moon and back and forever. Thank you for everything”. She reaches out, entwines her pinky with mine, a gesture from her childhood, meaning “through thick and thin” and I squeeze back. Nothing else needs to be said. 

  With one last thumbs up, Caroline is out the door and off down the wide beautifully decorated stairs to wait at the bottom for me. Here we will  begin the procession into the large gathering room with floor to ceiling windows facing the wide stretch of sand, and the bluest water that reaches far beyond to the horizon. I carefully make my way down the stairs and reach the bottom gratefully in one piece. Caroline walks over and hands me the small bouquet of flowers, she kisses me on the cheek, tells me “Mama you look beautiful! She gives me a cute little smile and then she chirps, “Let’s do this”. It is time, and goodness knows it feels like Jackson and I have been waiting for this moment since we first met. Hard to believe but it’s true.

   Caroline and I will process down the right side hallway into the beautifully decorated gathering room set up for a wedding with chairs on either side of a center aisle. From there we will walk down the aisle towards the front up 2 steps to stand with the wall of windows behind us. It is here with the dunes, the beach and the water in the background and in front of our family and closest friends Jackson and I will begin our lives together at long last.

   I look up and at the end of the aisle and already standing in front of the beautiful picturesque windows, I see Jackson Colby, tall, debonair and handsome in his tux. Even after all these years he still has his athletic body and the twinkle in his eye is ever one to make me smile. He’s looking at me with love in his eyes and a smile on his face. He is standing with his best friend, Bryan and they both look so handsome. Bryan leans into Jackson and whispers, “She looks beautiful, I am so happy for you man.” As I stand there taking it all in, I remember everything in a flash. The meet cute, the sports, the immediate connectedness, the hurt, the moving on, the exes, my daughter, reconnecting, and the ties. These threads and so many more have bound us together from the beginning some 30 years ago. And yet, can we really survive all that lies ahead? Can we truly be happy? Can love bind us together and make us strong against all odds? 

   All this and more is running through my head and I pause, maybe a little too long. The music has started, Caroline is walking, it’s time to move. I look around, all eyes are on me waiting for my first step, the first step into my future. I can’t breathe, I cannot move. I am frozen in time. Why? What is holding me back? What is going on with me ? Can I do it? Will I do it? Why won’t my foot move? 

 

[Jeanie]

Prologue. Introduce protagonist. Establish tone. Introduce concept of Emily Post books.

PROLOGUE
The world was destroyed by a fickle thirteen-year-old girl armed with only a cell phone and a social media account—Ellison’s world, that is, and like any good apocalypse it arrived unexpectedly on a beautiful Sunday afternoon with a delightful, little ding.

Ellison’s nails were still wet when she heard it, so she carefully picked up her phone with the pads of her fingertips. Her best friend had posted a video titled Funniest Thing You Will Ever See. Ellison pressed play, preemptively smiling, Mae always sent the best videos, but she was confused when she saw herself fill her screen. It was a video of her from last night. 

As soon as she realized what it was, she started screaming. “Mom! Mom!” Ellison shrieked. “She posted it! She posted it! I can’t believe it!”

Beth Brierley rushed through the door, carrying a basket of laundry. “Ellison, what is going on?”

“Look!” Ellison thrust her phone at her mother, bashing her freshly painted nails in her haste. 

Beth dropped the laundry and grabbed the phone. “Ellison, what is this? Why are you running around in your bra and underwear? Where are you?”

“It was last night! We played Truth or Dare at Mae’s house last night—like we always do! They dared me to run around the house, outside, dressed like that.” Ellison paced. She bit the edge of her thumbnail and grimaced as her teeth sank into the gummy lacquer. 

“Why did you let them tape it? Who is taping you?”

“Mae! Mae recorded it! Mae POSTED it. She said it was the funniest thing you will ever see!”

“Well, that’s ridiculous. This isn’t funny. It’s…” 

Ellison saw her mom’s eyes widen as her words fell away. “Oh, Ellison, you fell? 

“The grass was wet! It rained all day yesterday, remember? I went around the last corner and totally wiped out!” 

“Well, you hopped right up,” her mother said, unable to tear her eyes from the screen, “Oh, but,” she took a dramatic pause, “You’re so…muddy.” 

Ellison grabbed the phone back. “Oh God, it looks like I pooped my pants!” Heat radiated from her temples to her stomach as she watched her carefree, yesterday-self bound back into the house and disappear, laughing, wet and dirty. The video ended with the door closing behind her. 

Ellison and her mom stood in her room, silent.

“What am I going to do?” She raked her fingers through her hair and felt the individual strands sticking and pulling against the wet polish. Damn it. Still wet! Ellison ripped her hands down to survey the damage. Each nail was now scarred with a maze of deep, thin trenches. 

“Did she just send it just to you?” her mom asked. “Just ask her not to send it to anyone else.”

Ellison’s eyes filled with a hope that was soon dashed, as her phone began to ding and ding and ding. 

Ding. Nice tighty whities

Ding. Poopsie Daisie

Ding. 7.2. Nice form. Totally missed the landing. “Oh, mom, it’s Gabe from gymnastics camp! Hot Gabe. Oh my God, he saw it! What am I going to do?” Ellison was apoplectic. 

Ding. I thought she had a better body. That was from a girl Ellison barely knew from school and now fervently hated. 

“Why would Mae do this?” Her voice broke as she asked, looking helplessly at her mother. 

“Is there any chance it was an accident?” 
“An accident? It’s edited! She set it to music!”
“Just call her and ask her to take it down.” 
“It doesn’t work like that mom.” She heard her snarky, indignant tone, but couldn’t change it. 

Ellison watched her mother walk over to the overflowing bookcase in the corner of her room. She could feel “the speech” coming. “Oh, mom, please. I don’t want to hear about THE BOOKS.”

“I think that this might be the most perfect moment to hear about THE BOOKS, especially since you recently decided to run around half-naked with an audience and a camera crew.” Her mother gave her a withering look and then turned her attention back to the bookshelves. 

Two years ago, Beth Brierley joined Ancestry.com and was delighted to learn that she was a not-too-distant descendant of the manners maven herself, Emily Post. The revelation had quickly been followed by the purchase of several of the phenom’s biographies, as well as all the Etiquette books Ms. Post, and anyone related to her, had ever published. 

Her mother tapped her nail across several thick spines, hunting for a particular title. “You may not know this, but Emily Post was at the center of a very public scandal when she was in her early thirties. Her husband was a terrible cheat and when his secret was discovered, he was blackmailed. This type of blackmailing was somewhat common practice then, but Emily’s husband decided he wouldn’t pay. Instead, he reported the blackmailer. The trial was the talk of the town for weeks. Emily was humiliated. Do you know what she did?”

“Wrote some rules around the right way to attend a trial.”

Beth laughed. “No. She held her head high. She dressed exquisitely. She wore red—hats, feathers, shoes, nail polish. And then, when the trial was over, she divorced her no-good husband and became the preeminent authority on how to handle even the most uncomfortable social situations—and a bunch of other stuff.”

"Yes—I know—the forks, the thank you notes, and the no white after Labor Day, which isn’t even a thing anymore, mom.”

“I know it’s not now...but back in the early 1900s, it WAS a thing. Only the rich could afford a light, white-colored summer wardrobe—most people couldn’t—and wearing it after Labor Day was considered rubbing it in. But this rule was unspoken, so the newly rich and the people who wanted to socialize with the newly rich didn’t know it. So, these poor people, who just didn’t KNOW any better, would wear white after Labor Day and they would be ridiculed.”

“And, so, she wrote the books,” Ellison said, making a large sweeping motion with her arm, as she’d also heard that line a million times.

“Yes,” her mom smiled. “And so, she wrote the books.”

“People don’t think like that anymore, mom.”

“Only a sociopath would have no regard for someone’s feelings, for the rights and wrongs in society…that is literally the definition of a sociopath.”

“Mom, I’m in middle school. We’re all sociopaths.”

“You’re not. Because you KNOW better.” 

Ellison smiled the tiniest smile. 

“So, what are we going to do about this?” her mom asked, nudging the phone. 

The image of herself slipping and falling on the grass, in her bra and underwear, flashed through her mind. “Oh God,” Ellison moaned. “My stomach is cramping. I can’t believe this is my life right now.” She curled into the fetal position on her bed, as her phone dinged again.

Beth sat down next to her. “What do you want to do?”

“Is boarding school an option? Maybe an Amish community where there’s no cell phone service.”

“Is that what you really want to do? You’re allergic to horses.”

Ellison sat up. “I never thought I’d ask this, but what does the book say?”

“I thought you’d never ask,” Beth replied, as she flipped through the thick etiquette tome. “Am I looking for social media humiliation?”
“Is that in there?”
“Something like it. Here it is. When it comes to social posts, one big component of etiquette has to do with making sure you have people’s permission before you post an image of them or tag them. … If you are upset by a post that’s gone up, by all means reach out to the friend or family member who posted it. ‘Zephyr, I had a ton of fun Friday, but would you please take down the photo of me by the pool? I’m not comfortable with pics of me in a bathing suit being online—even among friends.’”

Ellison hated to admit it, but that response made sense. She and Mae had been best friends since kindergarten. Of course, she should reach out to her. Ellison picked up the phone and sent Mae a message, “Mae, I had so much fun last night, but would you please take down the video of me running around the house? I’m not comfortable with pics of me in my bra and underwear being online. Thx!”

“Honey, I’m proud of you. I’m sure Mae will take it down.” Beth tapped Ellison on the leg, picked up the laundry basket and walked out of the room.
Ellison sat back on her pillows and felt better. Everything was manageable with the right response. She took a deep breath. Her phone dinged.

“People LOVE this video and you look great! Stop worrying about what other people think! (heart emoji)”

Ellison was stunned. Mae wasn’t going to take it down. That took a minute to absorb. Mae wasn’t going to take it down. Asked and answered. Polite request denied by her oldest friend in the world.

She stared down at her ruined nails and began to pick at the polish. Tiny piece by tiny piece of pink pulled away as she attempted to make sense of what had just happened. How could she go to school now that everyone she knew and more she didn’t had seen her like that? If she wanted that video down, she was going to have to do something about it. 

Amidst all the unknown, there were two things about which Ellison was absolutely certain. For the rest of her life, she would always remember this moment when she saw the color of Pink BIG nail polish, so she would never wear it again and her long-lost relative—Emily Post—and her mom—were wrong. A knowledge of etiquette won’t save anyone anymore.

[Meg]

CHAPTER ONE

 

Key West, Florida

 

Fifteen-year-old Finch Delaney stood frozen in the door of a murky Key West bar, her mother’s voice in her mind, admonishing her for lurking alone in dark corners. But her mother was dead, and Finch really needed to work up the courage to step inside. Three hours ago, as she walked home from school, she couldn’t have imagined saying this. But she needed her brother’s help.

 

She’d spent two hours tracking him down, and finally—here he was, only thirty feet away. Belting out a sea shanty on a rickety wooden stage, waving a pint glass around, little drops of lager adding to the pub’s preexisting layers of grime. Finch could smell the room from here: musty, sour, fermented. The humid bar air stuck to her skin like taffy, a cloud of evaporating perspiration from the rabble of sweaty drunk men inside.

 

“Oh, the wind was foul and the sea ran high,” sang Les, blustery and cocky as ever.

 

“Leave her, Johnny, leave her,” the men at the bar sang plaintively in response. They were almost all men. Finch spotted one butch lady in the corner, who simultaneously annoyed Finch with her audacity and inspired Finch to be a little more like… that.

 

But instead, Finch shirked into the wooden door frame. She’d wait for Les to finish the song and exit the stage, so there wouldn’t be a literal spotlight on them when she darted inside and grabbed him, like the quiet little gremlin she was.

 

But then Les spotted her. Onstage, he jolted, beer spraying like fireworks. His face lit up like he hadn’t even considered that his little sister lurking in a bar uninvited could be a sign of a problem. He put his pint glass down on the stage and pointed to her, framed in the doorway. Every burly man at the bar seemed to turn around in unison to look at her. She felt overwhelmingly dizzy and grabbed the door to stabilize herself.

 

“Hey, that’s my sister!” shouted Les, slurring a little. “Get that kid in here to do the clapping bit of ‘Wild Rover.’ She’s known it since she was three.”

 

Finch shook her head furiously.

 

“Kids can’t come in bars, Delaney,” someone shouted at him from a bar stool.

 

“Oh, sure she can,” said Les, who darted over to Finch and was now tugging her on stage.

Finch dug her heels in as he pulled her towards the stage and hissed, “Les, stop. Les, I hate the clapping bit. Les!”

 

“You love clapping, Finchy!” said Les.

 

“I had a phase when I was a toddler, yes,” said Finch. She tried to jump off the little stage but he grabbed her arm again. She tried to meet his eyes, but they were frenetic. “I need to talk to you. It’s important.”

 

But Les’s beer had clearly given him selective hearing. He took a deep breath, about to launch into another song, when the bartender looked up, noticed what was happening, and banged his fist on the wooden bar top. “OUT,” he shouted.

 

“Just let her do the damn clapping, you salty cretin,” slurred Les.

 

Finch locked eyes with the bartender and shook her head.

 

He nodded at her subtly. “Out, Captain. Or you don’t lead shanties for two weeks.”

 

Les held his hands up in a truce posture. “Okay, okay. We’re going,” he said, dragging his feet disagreeably off the stage. She followed him, averting her gaze from the crowd. She presumed she was the only one who heard him add, “You soggy bilge rat,” in the direction of the bartender.

 

Les downed the rest of his pint and slammed the glass down a smidgen too hard on the bar top and then saluted the room. Finch followed him to the door as quickly as she could manage it.

 

They both stepped out into the humid evening, pausing on the sidewalk below a streetlamp. Tipsy Les immediately launched into another rant. He’d always had strong opinions. “I mean, c’mon. There’s the letter of the law and then there’s the spirit of—”

 

“—Connie’s gone.” Finch struggled to say it loudly enough to cut off his impassioned diatribe.

 

He froze and scrutinized her face under the streetlight. Clearly caught off guard, he stumbled over his words for a moment. Something almost unprecedented for Les. “Connie?” he stuttered.

 

“My guardian. Connie,” said Finch. She could hear the hurt in her voice when she said the word ‘guardian,’ and she knew he could hear it, too. She hated that he could hear it. But she couldn’t avoid the truth: that he’d left her to live with a stranger so he’d be free to… what? Sing the ‘Wild Rover’ at a Schooner Bum bar in the rare moments he wasn’t out to sea?

 

“What do you mean she’s gone?” asked Les. He ran his fingers through his hair. His brow wrinkled with fleeting worry. Probably as he anticipated what this situation might require of him. Nothing stressed Les out more than even the slightest assault on his personal freedom. To his ability to do whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted.

 

Finch’s stomach tightened in a knot. She needed to convince him there was a real problem here, but she was afraid she’d be dismissed like she usually was. By everyone. She’d just stick to the facts.

 

She took a deep breath. “I came home from school. Connie wasn’t there. There was no note. I made myself dinner. I read a history chapter. She’s still not there,” said Finch as if reciting a grocery list. “I’ve spent all night looking for you.” She paused. She didn’t know why she said the next part, but it spilled out of her mouth nonetheless. Maybe to remind him that she was, technically, a child. A child who needed help. “And now it’s late. It’s eleven. And it’s a school night.”

 

“How did you find me?” asked Les, clearly still more preoccupied with the obstacle between him and a night of shenanigans than the fact that his sister was alone. Again.

 

“I looked up things to do in Key West tonight on the internet. This event was called Mari-aoke. Maritime Karaoke.” She paused. “There’s literally nowhere else on the planet you were more likely to be.”

 

Les chuckled, clearly a little impressed. He raised his eyebrows once—a quick up and down—to signal his concession. “That’s pretty good, Nancy Drew,” he said, his relaxed, swaying torso a stark contrast to Finch’s raised shoulders and balled fists. “Back to the Case of the Missing Foster Mom.”

 

Finch’s face flushed with hot anger. She knew he would do this. Write her off. Chalk it all up to her trauma, her grief, her—

 

“I know you’ve been anxious about people leaving you, Finchy,” Les said. “But I think your guardian probably just has a life outside of you. Maybe she forgot to tell you about bingo night or the bowling league. Or maybe she had one too many martinis with Susan and Delores.”

 

Finch clenched her jaw. Les was trying to call her self-centered now? “You’re just making up old lady names,” said Finch, teeth gritted. “There is no Susan or Delores. And Connie would have told me about bingo night or the bowling league. She probably would have brought me.” Finch’s eyes pricked with tears. She found it both absurd and harrowing that Les was the only person she could turn to. How quickly things could change.

 

“You get my point, though?” asked Les. His strained tone betrayed his eagerness to be released back into the wild. Into the giant playground of a world he loved to frolic around, unencumbered. “If I walk you home now, she’ll probably be crocheting on the couch with Delores, wondering where the hell you went.”

 

Finch knew she couldn’t convince him tonight. But she just desperately, deeply, did not want to handle this alone. She’d handled so many things alone already in the last year. She took a deep breath, praying he wouldn’t hear the tearful waver when she spoke. “Can you just… can you stay with me tonight? Please?”

 

He stood on one foot to scratch his left ankle with the toes of his right sneaker. He didn’t look at her. To his shoes, he said, “Look. I’ll start by walking you home and we’ll assess the situation. Besides, I want to meet this damn Delores I’ve been hearing so much about.” He started off down the sidewalk, Finch scampering along behind him.

 

“Stop it with Delores,” mumbled Finch. He still thought this was a big game. The Little Orphaned Sister game. Sometimes you had to tuck in the little orphaned sister and say there, there and humor the monsters she imagined in the shadows. But Finch knew she wasn’t the sort to need pandering. She’d survived more in a year than most people could in a lifetime. She knew Connie wouldn’t be there when they got home. And Finch was pretty sure it was because something terrible had happened.

[George]

 

Amare and the World in the Way

Chapter 1

The Begging of the End

 

I have one reason for living and one reason only. 

Prince Charming? You’re a fairy tale. You’re not living in a fairy tale, you are a fairy tale, and you need a reality check yesterday. George Clooney? I’m only thirteen, which is an acceptable age in some societies, but not this one and I’m not moving. Elvis Presley? I’m all for a hunk-a-hunk of burning love, but I mean a different species of man entirely.

Standing at a whopping thirteen inches tall. Weighing in at seven pounds of pure awesomeness under a tiara. He is the one, the only, love of my life because all boys are revolting. Regina, the Pomeranian princess is the reason I’m alive.

I wish I was lying, but I’m not.

And I’m not sorry.

Somewhere in an empty, dusty, musky, disgusting bathroom with black-and-white walls and absolutely no toilet paper, I lay in a half-filled bathtub beside my pint-sized Pomeranian princess trying to figure out why the world was the way it was and how I could make it better.

“The world has to be so much better than it is. It has to be.” I say, my voice burning with a wildfire that began the moment I was brought into this godforsaken world. “A world filled with walls and unjust laws. A world with more wrongs than rights. A world with more hate than love.” I punctuate my statement with a battle cry, one that mourns all the lives that have ever been lost to avoidable pandemics, pointless wars, inhumane police brutalities, wrongful persecutions, and astonishing ignorance. “I’m going to be the one who changes the world, I just have to pass my Sames Test first,” I declare as newly lit flames burn in my eyes, and a surrealistic explosion of light blasts out of my heart in colors of the earth, sun, moon, and stars. 

The reflection of his blood-red fur with bright gold spots reminds me of how beautiful the world is so I go on. His furry, iridescent, pink tiara falls off of his head, so I put it back on, and I have the realization that there is nothing better than doing nothing with your best friend and watching the Sun come up. His beady little eyes, tiny sphere-shaped earrings, and recently manicured paws remind me of how truly lucky I am to be alive, which is why I have to pass my Sames Test no matter the cost. 

That, and Regina, but he goes without saying.

The reflection of his blood-red fur with bright gold spots reminds me of how beautiful the world is so I go on. The funny way his furry, iridescent, pink tiara pops on and off his head shows me how fun it is to sit in an empty, dusty, musty, disgusting bathroom with your very best friend and do nothing but watch the Sun come up. And the extraordinary life bursting from his beady little eyes, tiny sphere-shaped earrings, and recently manicured paws reminds me of how truly lucky I am to be alive, which is why I have to pass my Sames Test no matter the cost. 

The world I live in is split into two types of people: the Sames and the Differents. The Sames Test is a measure of whether one is the Same, or Different, and if you guessed that congratulations, you’re a freaking genius. During the test, a Same student recites the Sames of Allegiance. If they make it through the entire pledge without showing signs of being Different, which include but are not limited to springing a leak, breaking wind, falling through the cracks, or bursting into flames, they pass the test and are allowed to move on to the next educational institution, have a career in politics, medicine, education, military, or another essential field—not intended to be creative. They can raise a dog, cat, or 131 children like my own adopted guardians. They can live their lives and have a chance at living a full and fulfilling life; but if they fail their only option death.

Most likely.

The truth is that no one knows exactly what happens to those who take the Sames Test and prove to be Different because they vanish before anyone has a chance to ask what happened.

Before we move any further you have to know that as your “unreliable” narrator, I am here to be painfully honest with you and tell you nothing but the truth because life is short. There will be times when I’ll be overly dramatic, emotionally unstable, and totally and irrevocably unreliable, but the light at the end of my very colorful tunnel is that I’ll be upfront about my “unreliableness” every step of the way.  I’m not going to hide behind my vampires, emotions, and werewolves pretending like everything is fine and dandy because as nice as it is to imagine, in the real world, none of that is natural. I’m not going to conjure up spells, wizards, and hats that hand me my place in the world because that’s not my story as much as I wish it were. And I’m not going to put down any other unreliable narrators, already published stories, or anything else because I’m not here to put down anybody, but myself.

I'm alright because I know that I’m not, but I’m working on it. 

How, might you ask wherever you are? 

I have no idea. That’s why I’m here. 

Hopefully, we can figure it out together.

I choke on my brevity, realizing the world of color projecting from my heart has long diminished. “It’s time to get ready for the Sames Test, Regina.” I whisper, smiling a half-hearted smile while jumping out of the bathtub, drying myself with a black-and-white towel, replacing the empty toilet paper roll, and following Regina out of the bathroom and into the halls of the Whatshername Willow.

*

Save yourself the heartburn.

I hate myself enough for both of us.

I roll my eyes, bite my tongue, and hold Regina by his right itty-bitty paw as the two of us fly down the Whatshername Willow staircase, which is incredulously long: 33 flights. Eight out of seven days a week I think about jumping from the top: I think that’s why Regina makes me hold his itty-bitty paw as we walk to the bottom of the stairs. 

The Whatshername Willow is the largest orphanage in all of Woodholly, the smallest state in the States that claim to be United. Our country used to be called the United States, but something happened that made it the States that claim to be United. Owning any games, films, or music—art of any kind, is strictly prohibited and an automatic prison sentence. Partaking in any different-colored clothing, cosmetics, jewelry, prosthetics–or enhancements of any type, is also illegal. There are no textbooks, manuals, self-help books, How to’s for Dummies, or any other books allowed either because the government’s sole mission is to make sure we’re as poor, weak, and ignorant as we can be to continue to take advantage of us because we’re incapable of thinking. Of course, that has never stopped me from owning my own super awesome collection of games, books, CD’s, movies, and jewelry, because I’d rather die than live without my necklace, The Outsiders, every Disney movie ever released, the Beatles (the bugs and the band), and every great raunchy PG-13 comedy that is the foundation of my overwhelming personality.

I'm owning it, you don’t have to ask.

If you’re looking for happy-go-lucky, you’re going to have to settle for depressing, depressing, and depressing. which can be happy-go-lucky if you want to be depressed about it.

I could be thinking about how upset I am about taking my Sames Test in a couple of hours, but I am too busy being upset about all the things I have to do before I take my Sames Test.  Like, walking down thirteen floors. Acknowledging–not saying hi–but acknowledging 129 fellow orphans. Walking past countless broken mirrors, frames, and mats. Walking past random worn-out shoes, hand-me-down clothes, and squeaky objects. Walking past limbless mannequins, shattered fixtures, and shards of glass. Walking-passing-walking-passing-walking. 

I'm going out of my mind on the subject of my walking to the point where I think I'm tricking my brain into loving it. 

"I love how much I hate you.” I tell my legs, stopping to show them how much I hate them, even if it doesn't make any sense. “I’m okay, Regina.” I added, watching him eying me suspiciously. “Well, I’m not, but I’m used to it.” I finish, walking into the Makeup room.

The Whatstheirnames, the identifier for the 131 orphans that lived in the Whatshername Willow, welcome Regina and me with parades of paralysis and symphonies of silence, which is exactly how I want it. The room is stuffed with countless counters separated by numerous aisles of mirrors, with all the Same products necessary to hide one’s “Different”–or imperfections.

I start towards a Whatstheirname with boogers in their fingers, crayons in their teeth, and eyes that looked like a Lemur’s, but stop immediately because a) they scared m and b) I was tired of walking. Instead, I plop my bum in front of the closest mirror and immediately begin preparing for my Sames Test. 

Ah, the Makeup Room. We come to this place…for change. We come here to look at ourselves in the mirror, recognize our flaws, and hate everything we see because we need that, all of us, that indescribable feeling we get when we transform into someone we’ve never been before; not just ourselves, but somehow reborn. Together. The mirror and me. There’s a wide split down the middle of the mirror that looks back at me. Pain, I can feel as I run my fingers along its broken glass allows me to feel, finally. Blood, I can taste as the mirror aims to kill me, mirror, I’m waiting. Somehow, heartbreak feels good in a place like this. Our broken mirrors bring out the worst part of us, and we feel imperfect and insignificant. Because here, we are. The Make-Up Room, we make ourselves suicidal.

Detest me yet? 

Don’t waste your breath. 

I'm not worth it unless that changes, even I'm not sold on my character.

I hate everything I see when I look in the mirror. My large doe-sized ambrosia eyes that see through the world’s bull-crap. Ridiculously large ears and abnormally sized lips that hear and call the world out on its bullcrap. And a mind-heart combination that is so stupid it's smart because it allows me to think and feel my way out of the majority of the world’s bullcrap.

Speaking of the majority of the world’s bull crap, the hair on my arms stands on ends, my ears twitch uncontrollably, and my eyes roll back into my brain as the guardians of the Whatsherame Willow saunter into the Make-Up room looking at us with eyes of hate.

Mrs. Whatshername has to be the most different-Same I have ever seen and Mr. Whatshername has to be the most same. She is big and he is itty-bitty small. He is teeny-weeny, and she is big & tall. She embodies–she doesn't wear–she embodies a skin-tight black-and-white leotard that is far too small, a polished silver knife pinned to the lapel of her pink scarf, a monochrome wig adorned with pink ribbons that are always coming off, and hundreds of tattoos that supposedly cover up her life’s battle scars. Mr. Whatshername is the Same as everyone else in the sense that he wears a black and white suit with short socks and a bald cap over a head that we can assume is bald, the only different thing about him is the leather-laced leash around his neck that his wife never lets him take off.

That’s right, this book is as appropriate as the whip she uses on his dickies.

What, in a world where belts are forbidden, pants have to be held up by something? Yes?

"WHATSTHEIRNAMES,” Mrs. Whatshername obnoxiously exclaims, breaking me out of my very necessary world-splaining. “BEGINYOURSAMEPREPARATIONS!”   

"I will be the Same and never Different. I will be the Same and never Different. I will be the Same and never Different because that’s the only way I’m going to find my place in the world I live in.” I begrudgingly say along with 129 of my sisters, brothers, and others, wiping my rose-tinted glasses, drying my face of all tears, and staring at my broken reflection which grows blurrier every second I’m still here.  I continue to say it over and over again while I wrap the area from my heart to my shoulder in linen to keep the light from bursting out of my heart.

Check. I sigh, tying my hair into a long, fiery, bronze ponytail. Every Same must wear their hair in a braid. Check. Every Same must wear black-and-white robe-like clothing. I laugh, sticking my tongue out at the bleak and bloody, boring outfit. Check. Every Same must weigh a certain amount of weight. I struggle with this one a lot more than I wish I did but hide the little stomach I have in the depths of my hand-me-down pants. And mate… I hesitate, seeing a part of my necklace sticking out of my robe. Emblazoned in gold lust that never seems to rust is the necklace I wear with my name spelled out with love: Amare. I don't know why, but it is the only thing that has ever made me feel as if I truly belong. I know the necklace came from my mother or father—possibly both—and I hope they still loved each other, but there is no way for me to know. I don't know why they left me, where they are, or why I feel like I will be seeing them soon. All I know is that my life was missing someone, or someone's, and I kind of hope they are missing me too– 

"They are,” Out of nowhere, Mr. and Mrs. Whatshername whisper in my ear in a strange tone only I could hear. It scares me to the point of falling out of my chair. “Amare, it doesn’t matter if you’re the Same or Different, it’s what you choose to do with it that makes the difference.”

As the rest of my sisters, brothers, and others carry on with the “Same saying”, I look at my guardians trying to make sense of what had just been said: It doesn’t matter if you’re the Same or Different, it’s what you choose to do with it that makes the difference. For thirteen years the Whatshernames had only ever taught me to be the Same and never Different, and now they wanted to negate everything they had ever said with one statement.

I refuse to accept this.” I told them, ready to go off on the two of them right then and there for always having us squeeze into the Same hand-me-down black and white uniforms that made it impossible for me to breathe, braid our hair in ponytails so tight our scalps bled, starve us until we developed anorexia, make us change everything about ourselves until we fell into depression, leave us feeling nothing but a type of self-loathing that was so red, so fiery, so overwhelming, that we go through life every day wishing we were never born to begin with, only to then tell us that it didn’t matter if we were the Same or Different because it was what we chose to do with it that made the difference.

I take a deep breath in, let it out, and see that my guardians have already taken enough punishment from the world, so I turn my attention to my brothers, sisters, and others who really need me right now. Here they were, all hiding their freckles, scars, pimples, skin tones, birthmarks, hairstyles, body braces, mouth guards, jawlines, foreheads, noses, eyebrows, chins, stomachs, shoulders, necks, feet, legs, and everything else that made them “different”. They were doing the Same thing they do every single day, but for some reason today they were crying real tears as they did it. Their faces as soaked as a rainforest. Their eyes as dark red and sunken as the savannah. And their hearts were broken beyond repair as they “fixed” every part of themself they had been told was broken.

"Maybe everyone is supposed to be sad,” I tell Regina, biting my lip, letting go of a few more tears, smiling the fakest smile I can manage.

You see, even in the world of the Sames, everyone is different in one way or another, but one can ensure they're the Same by working to ensure their different’s not different enough to be considered Different. If that explanation makes even an inkling of sense, congratulations, you’re still a freaking genius. You’ve won a sign that reads, “I’m capable of common sense for the time being”. which can be found on the last page of this book. Now, if that statement didn’t make any sense, I don’t apologize but I do suggest you keep reading because it will eventually, but if you’re tired of my story–and I wouldn’t blame you, I’m tired of me too, I suggest you grab another book about sunshine and rainbows because this one is about to get dark.I know that I can pass my Sames Test.

All I have to do is put my mind and heart into it: the problem is that I’m not sure being the Same is what I want to be because some days I just want to be a little bit different, a world where I could be both might be a world actually worth living in.

I will be the Same and never Different…” I regrettably say, along with every other Whatstheirname in the room as we collectively walk towards the door, hating the world and ourselves, by association. “I will be the Same and never Different. I will be the Same and never Different because that’s just how the world works…and it’s the only way to find our place in it.” I finish, holding my heart, letting go of a few tears, hiding my necklace underneath my robe, and exiting the Make-Up room to head to Same School. 

 

[Elissa Mackintosh]

Opening scene: introduces protagonist-setting-tone-antagonist-foreshadowing of primary conflict.

Laila Rae Lebonski fell into the grave headfirst.

Well, it wasn’t an actual real grave, just a muddy pit, at the bottom of Great Field.

Junket and I looked down at her.

Slowly Laila Rae pushed herself to her knees and stared at the bones.

Junket scrunched up his face, "you alright Laila Rae?"             

"Yuck," she said in answer, before standing up. I wasn't sure if that was from landing on a skeleton, or the mud in her hair, on her face, her hands, her t-shirt, her jeans, and her tutu. Looking down at her feet she tried lifting a foot. Nothing happened. Laila Rae held up her hands. "I'm stuck. Pull me out."

Junket and me each took a hand and hauled her out. Laila Rae left a welly behind. She hung on to my arm, grabbed the welly, and tugged. It came out of the mud with a squelch.

We hadn't been looking for bones, we'd been looking for coins with the help of Butter, my Dad's police dog. 

We'd watched Butter sniff and dig, and sniff and dig, and then he just dug. After a few minutes Junket had said in a weird husky voice, "Maudie, that looks like a bone." 

I'd looked into the pit Butter had dug. It was a bone.

"Leave it," I'd said. Butter sat, panting, his coat, the colour of coal and milk chocolate, shiny in the afternoon sunshine, except for his muddy legs and belly. Dad would want me to give him a bath with the hose. Butter doesn't like baths, which means I usually get as wet as he does. Dad likes to say this is not an unintended consequence. 

Laila Rae, who had been searching for things to put in her bucket, had gone to look in the hole. "It's more than one bone," she’d said, "I think it's lots of bones, joined together." She’d put down her yellow bucket, squatted, stretched out a hand to touch them and that's when she'd pitched forward.  

I hadn't seen a skeleton before. Well, I had. I'd seen a skeleton of a dinosaur at the National History Museum, and one on some medical show on the telly, but not one in the ground. And definitely not one that shouldn't be where this one was. In the mud, in the middle of a field.

"We should keep away from the hole," I said. "Mum says preserving the scene is a fundamental element in an investigation."

Junket looked at me, his eyes wide. "It's suspicious, isn't it?"

"Yeah, this isn't the village graveyard, and a skeleton shouldn't be here."

"Maybe it's really old, like caveman old," said Laila Rae.                 

Junket shook his head. He pointed up at the white horse carved into the chalk on the side of the hill. "Back in those times they buried people in Waylands Smithy up on the hill," he said, "not down here." 

"Exactly," I said, "it's not somewhere usual so it falls under the suspicious category."

We all looked at it some more. I could see ribs and long bones that must be legs.

"And," I said, "it's not really buried that deep. Probably got moved about when Mr. Parsons' tractor plowed last week."

"Mr. Parsons' plows every year," said Junket. "Funny it hadn't turned up 'til now."

"And," said Laila Rae holding up a finger, "right after that man found a coin."

Junket nodded, "it does seem a bit strange."           

"I think we should get Dad," I said.

For things like finding bones, I think Mum is usually better, because she's a Detective Sergeant with the Wiltshire Police, and is in charge of people and investigations. But she was at work. So that meant Dad.

My Dad is a Police Constable and says, "he's only in charge of his own mind and his dogs." He has two police dogs, Butter, a Staffie who finds stuff, and Crash a German Shepherd, who does the rest. Plus we have Gemma a Golden Retriever, who's old, and hogs the fire, Puggles the Pug, who Mum says should be called Piddles the Pug, and Macavity a tabby cat, who Dad says is more cantankerous than the average criminal. Mum says this is unsurprising since he lives with a hooligan and four dogs. I don't think of my Dad as a hooligan, especially since he's in the police.

Last week someone had found an old Roman coin in the mud, worth over fifty pounds, when they were walking their dogs. Mum said it was identified by a local expert in numis-something.         

We'd decided to take Butter to see if we could find one too. Butter usually finds things like drugs and illegal money but point his nose at something and he'll find stuff. It's why we started the Four Paws Finding Agency. I'm the President of the Agency because Butter is the most important part, and he kind of belongs to me. We're not that busy, but last Sunday Charlie Badgely had asked the Agency to find his reading glasses, which he'd dropped in his allotment, and Butter found them under the big leaves of a marrow. Charlie said he'd put the word out about how good our Agency is.

Anyway, Butter had made straight for a big shallow crater in the ground and after sniffing a lot, he'd started digging. And we'd let him get to it, because finding an old coin worth a lot of money would be really exciting.                

That morning we'd left our bikes at the end of Falpits Lane and walked to the bottom of Great Field below Swan Farm. Not that there are any swans about for miles. So, we tramped back to our bikes, peddled back to my house on Long Hedge Lane, which is right at the end of our village, Bottom Poggs. We passed the Church and the allotments, where Charlie Badgely was hoeing. He waved at us, and we waved back. Butter got home before we did because he cut through neighbours' gardens and did what Junket calls the hypotenuse hustle. 

"Dad!" I called. "Dad, where are you?"

"In the kitchen enjoying my day off," said my Dad, as he came into the hallway holding Four Four Two in one hand, a boring magazine about footie, and a cup of coffee in the other. 

"What's up?" And then, "what are you thinking? You're covered in mud. Go back outside."

"We found bones, Mr. Compton," said Junket. 

Dad did what I call his police pause. He says he pauses because he checks in his head to make sure he asks the correct question. 

"Bones ... where?" Dad asked. I don't think he needed a police pause to come up with that question. But he's a very careful person.

"At the coin place," said Laila Rae.

Dad raised his eyebrows, "the coin place?"

"You know," I said, "at the bottom of Great Field, below Swan Farm. Where that dog walker found a coin."

"Ah," said Dad. "And I suppose you took Butter to find more coins."                      

"Yes," I said, "but he found bones."

"And these bones are ......?" said Dad. "A fox? A dog?"

"No," I said, "it's not an animal. There are only two legs."

"Two legs?" 

"Laila Rae got close," I said. "Two legs right Laila Rae?"

Laila Rae confirmed with a nod and said. "Real close. Just two legs. And an arm's missing."

"You didn't say that before," said Junket, "about the arm."

"I was stuck," said Laila Rae, "so I was thinking about not sinking anymore. Not arms missing."

"But," I said, "it's kind of a big thing not to say."

"Yes," said Junket, "a missing arm is significant."

"I was about to be sucked into the centre of the earth," said Laila Rae, "with a skeleton."

"You're just being dramatic," said Junket.

"I am not," said Laila Rae. "I FELL ON A SKELETON." 

"But an arm missing," I said. "That's important information."

"Stop talking," said my Dad in a voice that wasn't loud but had that 'I mean it' tone about it.          

We stopped.

"You better show me," he said.

We piled into the car, the three of us in the back sitting on an old towel. Dad drove us to the end of Falpits Lane. 

"Okay," said Dad, "tell me where. You kids stay here."

"But ...... " I said.

"Stay here Maudie. Right here."

"Okay," I said.

Dad followed our directions, and I watched him walk over to the hole Butter had dug.       

He took out his phone, snapped a photo and after a few seconds held the phone up to his ear. I could hear his voice, but I couldn't hear the words.

"He looks serious," said Junket.

"Whatcha think?" said Laila Rae.

Dad pulled something out of his pocket and stuck it in the ground before walking carefully backwards. I knew what that meant, he'd marked his own footprints, so they couldn't be confused with anyone else's. That meant it was a crime scene.

"I think we have a murder," I said. "A real live murder."

"You can't call it a live murder," Laila Rae objected, "not when somebody's dead."

"But the person who did it isn't," I said. "So, you can if you are referring to the bad guy."

"Could be a woman," said Laila Rae.             

"True," I said.

"We don't really know it's murder," said Junket. "We're just assuming."

"Who drops dead in field, and nobody knows about it?" I asked. "I think someone buried the person there after they killed him."

"Could be a her," said Laila Rae.

"Could be," I agreed.

"So what happens next?" asked Laila Rae.

"It'll get taped off," I said. "Crime scene people will come out."

Dad walked back over to us. "Crime scene," he said. "You guys need to stay away."

"Told you," I said.

"Who do you think it is Mr. Compton?" Laila Rae asked.

"No idea," said Dad, "But I'll tell you something."

“What?” we asked.

 

 

 

[Kristen LePine]

Gorgo

Chapter One
NOW: 490 B.C.

Only the stench of rotten fruit greets me when I enter the house of King Cleomenes of Sparta. Cloying and sweet, it is not figs spoiled in the summer sun. It is death.

“Hello?” I let myself through the atrium and into the open-air courtyard. Crows, beckoned by the scent, circle in the blue sky above. “Hello? Is anyone here?” In response, one plucky crow with black, oily wings swoops down and lands heavily on a citron tree. It lets out a great “caw,” pointing me toward the closed door on the other end of the courtyard. I approach the door and open it to enter the king’s favorite chamber for work and relaxation, the andrōn. The window is shuttered to keep out the scavengers, but there is enough light to see the outline of the room’s sole occupant.

Cleomenes lies on the table that had served during his life and reign as his worktable. Then, he kept it covered in scrolls, reed pens, wax tablets, and dirty cups stacked on each other with dried bits of wine pasted at the bottom. Now, the table only holds his wasted body wrapped in a filthy cloth. He lies on his side, curled into a ball like a sleeping baby. I struggle to imagine him as a babe in my grandmother Cassia’s arms. With a mewling mouth and ten tiny fingers and toes, he grew into a mighty king beloved by all. So different than the wreckage before me now.

My throat issues a strangled cry that surprises me, and I quickly pull myself together. I am grateful and puzzled that no one is here to witness my outburst. The king is dead. No matter how or where he died, the women of his family and the high-ranking women of Sparta have an obligation and should be present.

When Cassia passed, legions of women and their helots bustled about. They worked in concert to cleanse and anoint her body, and then they beat their breasts and pulled their hair in lamentation. The house vibrated with weeping and shrieking. After we buried her body in the yard behind the house, we feasted in her honor. The whole affair lasted three days. Where is everyone now?

Korinne should be here with me at the very least, but she is never around when I need her most. I am being maudlin, which I detest. I grind my teeth to staunch my emotions. I have work to do. If only I knew where to start. What was I supposed to do first? I should have paid better attention to Cassia’s funeral.

The events of the day have unmoored me. The king’s youngest brother, Brotus, arrived at my door before breakfast to bring me the grim news. Before he could speak, I asked him, “Uncle, how does Sparta fare?”

“Niece,” he said, his voice strained and without his usual sunny warmth. “Our King Cleomenes is dead—”

“The crows told me already,” I snapped. Their noisy caw-caws began as dawn lifted the sun into the sky, but that didn’t explain my aggression. I wanted to remain in denial. The king couldn’t be dead. “Answer my question.”

“Sparta is resilient.”

“Sparta is resilient,” I agreed, though I didn’t believe my words. How would our people overcome this loss after so many other losses? Would the people come to love King Leonidas as much as King Cleomenes? And what about me? Could I be the leader of our women? They first would need to forgive us for arresting the king. Would they? Would I if I had been born in their sandals and our stations reversed? I had so many questions flooding my mind, making the bridge of my nose ache.

As we stood in the courtyard, I lifted my face to the sky. A sliver of the moon looked down at me, a porthole to the world of the gods. I imagined the goddess Artemis observing me with keen eyes and sharp judgment. I pulled my chin down to Brotus. I wanted to appear strong even if my insides felt spongy and soft, like the earth after the winter rains. I invited him to break bread with me and share hero stories of our king.

I called for a helot to bring us black soup and barley bread, but she brought a wide-eyed stranger. Sweat dripped down the stranger’s long, sinewy legs.

“I come with a message for King Cleomenes. Is this his palace?” The man spoke with a husky northern accent and directed his words only to Brotus.

“There are no palaces in Sparta,” Brotus snorted.

“You stand in the king’s childhood home,” I said, trying to catch the foreigner’s eye. “He lived here with his mother until his own coronation day. Please, stranger, we are members of the king’s family. Give us your message, and we will relay it to the king.”

“My message is for men. Send her away.” he said to Brotus.”

“I do not have that authority. If you want your message to reach the king, you need to address her,” Brotus advised.

“But she’s a woman,” the courier wrinkled his nose. “Why would she be interested in the business of men?”

I pinched my eyes together. The foreigner's words called to mind another accented stranger who had come to Sparta many years before and issued those exact words. Why would she be interested in the business of men? “Courier, I do not know where in the north you hail from, but you are in Sparta where men and women are often interested in the same topics. Now speak to me, for I am Gorgo of Sparta, daughter to King Cleomenes, and descendant to the hero-god Hercules.”

The courier raised his pointy chin to Brotus, who only leaned back on his heels, nodding. The man cleared his throat, considering his words before launching into his tale. He ran from Athens to bring us the terrible news. Persian forces have landed on the beach at Marathon. Athens urgently requests military aid from all her neighbors. His eyes finally landed on mine. “Will you send military aid to defeat the Persian menace? Of all our neighbors up and down the Peloponnese, we need the Spartan Army most. It is the strongest and most fearsome. We cannot win without your support.”

His words hurtled toward me with the strength of a lightning bolt. I pulled my himation tight against my chest until the edges of the bronze fibula I wore dug into my skin, reminding me of its presence. “Thank you, I will deliver your message to the king. But Sparta cannot commit troops for at least three days.”

He spat on the ground and cursed me. Athens could not hold off the Persians much longer. Athens and the surrounding territories would fall if we waited three days to muster our troops. Still, I could not do anything more. I turned away from the runner and let Brotus explain the situation. “There’s been a death.”

Now, as I sit in the room with the dead king, hot tears spring to my eyes. They are not for the deceased, or they are not only for him. They are for the courier’s message—the Persians have invaded Athens—on the heels of the king’s death. One event alone is portentous, but together, these twin calamities are cataclysmic. I sit feeling heavy with the enormity of both situations while horror sweeps up my legs, torso, and arms, keeping me rooted to the stool. I am paralyzed with a thought: it is no coincidence that both catastrophes have joined.

Why would she be interested in the business of men? It is no coincidence that the courier used the same phrasing as the Ionian ambassador, Aristagoras of Miletus. I do not like thinking of him or when he visited Sparta nine harvests ago. Over the years, I have developed tricks to cordon off my thoughts and memories of his time in Sparta, but now my breath catches, and I fear I cannot keep it caged any longer.

A scuffling outside of the andrōn jolts me forward. The distraction helps me safely stuff my hot tears and the memory behind a rock. A goose slaps the tiled floor of the courtyard with its bright orange webbed feet. It honks and flaps its wings while rushing toward the citron tree, now weighed down by a murder of ravenous crows. The goose is a ruthless guardian, and one by one, the crows vault into the sky, where they continue to circle for a supper they are denied.

When the goose spots me, it lunges forward with the same alacrity it showed the crows. Its speed and patterned feathers—a flurry of grey, brown, black, and white—are terrifying. “Back, back, back,” it screams, and I do as it commands.

“Shoo,” I say, but it continues honking, flapping, and rushing until I am up against the courtyard wall.

“No, Bertie, no!” Behind me, a girl jumps between the goose and me, stopping it in its tracks. She is maybe eight or nine years old, barefooted, and wears a leather helot’s cap. She is far too young to work without supervision, but her actions and assurance tell me she belongs. The slave girl begins tossing breadcrumbs down at Bertie’s feet, and the bird forgets my presence and pecks at the bread.

“Pardon, ma’am,” the girl says, giving a little curtsy. “I know I shouldn’t have let her out of her pen, but I thought she could keep out the crows.”

“She did a good job,” I said, peeling off the wall. “Is she your pet?”

“Yes, ma’am, from an egg King Cleomenes gave me.”

“King Cleomenes gave you this goose?”

“Yes. He named her Bertie,” she says. A secretive smile slides across her lips.

I let my mouth hang open, and I must remind myself to close it. The king never allowed me to have a pet. “And what does the king call you?”

“Helene, ma’am.”

“Where is everyone, Helene? Where is your mother—Elissa, right?” Though I have never met this girl, she resembles another house slave, Elissa.

The girl’s cheeks redden, which brings out the freckles scattered across her nose, and I can see her father, a barn helot, come into focus. Her eyes plummet to the ground. “I don’t know where they’ve gone or when they’ll be back.” She is lying, of course, and I’m about to tell her so—do the king’s slaves think they can stage a coup? But she looks down her long nose, her mother’s nose, with earthy brown eyes that are hers alone, “I am here. I am here to serve you and our new king.” She reminds me of my younger self, and I feel a smile tug at the corners of my mouth.

“Very well.” Her determination and courage buoy me. If she can do her job, I can do mine, even without the women of Sparta. “Bring me water, clean linens, herbs—rosemary and oregano—and oil. Can you manage that?”

“I can.” She bows and is off.

“And keep Bertie guarding the courtyard,” I call over my shoulder before returning to Cleomenes.

The andrōn sings with memories. In this room, the king tutored me on geography, history, war principles, literature, and more. We sat for hours at the worktable he now lays upon, where he taught me to decipher scytales he received with cryptic messages from his generals or foreign leaders. The messages were meaningless on their own, but once the king wrapped the encoded leather around a cylinder, he revealed the message. The king had dozens of rods of varying widths, as each of his correspondents wrote their message for a specific cylinder. As I kept a mental catalog of which baton belonged to whom, the king would share with me the strengths and weaknesses of every message writer. This was of utmost importance to him—I needed to know how to size people up quickly and accurately.

He extended this lesson to Petteia, his favorite strategy game, played at the limewood table by the window. If I became grumpy because I played poorly or not at his level, he drove me to move past the sensation quickly. ‘You have time to outwit me yet, but not if you stew over the past mistake. There is always the next game. Don’t let your weakness spoil your grand plan.’ he would say. ‘Instead, focus on my weaknesses—if you can discover them,’ he would add with a wink.

He imbued his lessons with stories from the battlefield. King Cleomenes excelled on the front lines, and he always sought a way to return. I suppose that’s why most of the lyric poetry and epic tales he consumed dealt with war. We idled many winter nights by the hearth; the king would sit in the klismos while I curled like a cat at his feet as he read from my favorite story, Song of Illium. Like a rhapsode, he voiced all the parts.

Sadness clutches my heart while guilt assails my mind. The dreaded memories from the past surge forward, much like Bertie did in the courtyard but amplified. My knees buckle under the pressure. I have battled against this echo from the past for nine harvests, but today, I am tired. I haven’t slept well since the king’s guards hauled him off to the jailhouse, and last night, I didn’t sleep a wink. Now, he is dead. My king, my tutor, my father is dead. And I am alone.

Where is Korinne and Elissa? Where are the women of Sparta? Have they forsaken me—no, not me, but our family—have they abandoned the Agaid House?

It is too late for speculation. The past has begun to assault my vision, and I feel dragged backward, though my feet never leave the ground.

[reenita]

This is Chapter 1 of my book: 

 

1 Dreams to Reality

So there I was, on the edge of the big 1-6, with my thread ceremony just around the bend. That’s like the superhero origin story for us Indian guys, where we're meant to level up in life. Come of age. It's about flipping the script, not just reading it. Like stepping into the shoes of those legendary warriors from our mythology.

But instead of feeling like I was about to unlock some epic power, I had this gnarly knot in my stomach, my hands all clammy on my skateboard. I didn’t even know exactly why but I had some kind of premonition. All I wanted at that moment was to retreat home, to lose myself in the pages of my Ramayana book. Skating through the streets of San Francisco, I could feel the buzz of the city, but inside, I was like a live wire, zapped with this vibe that something bad was brewing. 

My heart was going full drum solo, gearing up for some kind of major battle. And right on cue, there came The Boys, with Elias leading the charge. My personal shadows, always creeping closer.

I was stuck on an endless level in their creepy video game. In my head, they'd morph into Ravana from the Ramayana, this mega beast with ten heads, all gruesome and pimpled with horns and green smoke spewing from its nostrils, like something out of a horror flick. I'd be there on my skateboard, pulling off sick moves, firing arrows at its heads. But it was like playing the world's worst game of whack-a-mole. Every time I'd score a hit, another freaky face would just pop right back up.

In this bizarre game, I'd be weaving and dodging, trying to land the perfect shot, but then Ravana would make a play for my treasured stuff —first my Ramayana book, then my backpack, even my Tupperware filled with Ma’s homemade snacks.  Next thing I know, I'd be pelted with kichadi – seriously, who weaponizes homemade Indian grub? And then I'd be tumbling, falling into this endless void, deeper and deeper, with "game over" flashing before my eyes. Every. Single. Time. 

In the stark daylight, whether at school or in the park, Elias and his gang transformed from nightmarish demons into your garden-variety school bullies. Turning a corner landed me in a graffiti-covered alley with all of them lined up before me. It was like stepping onto a movie set, except the bad guys were real, and I was the unwilling star.    

"Eyyy, Arya!" Elias called out, his voice slicing through the air like a knife. What a fake!

With his crooked, gap-toothed smile, Elias was the ringmaster. Hair like a fireball, all wild and untamed, and those cheeks — all scratched up and pimpled, giving him a rakshasa vibe. A demon just stepped out of Lanka itself. His eyes were narrow, almost sinister, like he was always plotting something. And his build? Dude looked like he'd been lifting in Ravana’s own gym, bulked up and intimidating. Just standing near him was like feeling a cold breeze in the middle of summer.

"Hey, guys, check this out!" he called out, catching my attention as I slowed down, then stopped and grabbed my skateboard. He sported that evil mastermind grin, you know, the kind that screams 'I'm up to no good.’       

Zak and Jackson, his ever-faithful sidekicks, were all attention, spinning away from me to catch whatever scheme their leader had in store. Zak, looking like he'd just rolled out of a dumpster, and Jackson, skinny as a rail with beady eyes and spindly fingers. That backward Giants cap, it was always glued to his head. And then there was Alec, trying to play it cool but failing miserably, tripping over himself to see what's up.

"What's up, Elias?" Zak chimed in, all eager like a puppy waiting for a treat.

"I've got something fun planned for Arya here,” Elias announced, his grin stretching wider, Cheshire cat-like, but on steroids. Trust me, in his world, 'fun' was the last thing you wanted to be part of.

Bits of his lunch made an unwanted cameo between Elias’ teeth. The whole group burst into laughter, completely unfazed by those snack remnants in his grin. Seriously, it was a toss-up between which was more cringe-worthy – Elias's dental disaster or their blind adoration for him.

As I tried to hustle through the alley, Zak and Jackson moved in like sharks.

"Where are you rushing to, buddy?" Zak sneered, his words dripping with venom.

"Yeah, we heard you're quite the thrill-seeker," Jackson chimed in.

By then my hands were clammy, and I could feel my confidence shaking. I tried to brush off their jeers, aiming to slip past them. But Elias stood in my way, his eyes gleaming with mischief.

"Come on, Arya, you wouldn't want to miss out on the fun," he taunted. He leaned in with his hot breath grazing my ear.

"What fun?" I shot back, doing my best to sound chill.

“We're heading to Amoeba Records, that record store on Haight Street. You know the one, right?"
Of course, I knew it! Amoeba Records was the Holy Grail of music stores in San Francisco.

"So come on then," he pressed on. "We’ve got a job for you.”

Great, just what I needed. I could almost guess what this 'job' was about.

"A job?" I played dumb.

"A little business opportunity," Elias clarified. "With a share of the profits.”

My mind started racing. They wanted me to pull some heist at the store, didn't they? Typical of The Boys, dragging me into their world of shit.

Stepping back, my voice wavered between fear and defiance. "I'm not doing it, Elias. Count me out.”

Elias's smile turned even more sinister, his eyes shining with a dark thrill. "Oh, come on, Arya. Don't be such a buzzkill. It's just a little adventure. And I said we'll make it worth your while.”  

His words hung in the air, thick with unsaid threats and tempting promises. Just another day in their twisted playground.

Trapped in that narrow alley, it felt like the walls were closing in. The Boys were relentless, their mocking words pelting down on me like icy rain on a raw wound. My insides churned with a familiar heat, a volcano ready to blow its top.

“Seriously, Arya?” Elias sneered, making an 'L' for 'loser' sign on his forehead. “Always too scared to take risks."

Zak and Jackson's laughter echoed around, bouncing off the walls plastered with graffiti.

"Yeah, you lack the guts of that curry-munching ten-headed monster from your fairy tales," Zak sneered. "What's his name, Ravana?"

Their comments were poison-tipped darts, but I was determined not to let them see they hit their mark. "I don't lack guts!" I retorted, aiming for a steady tone, yet I could sense the angry quiver in my voice.

"So, you're saying you are like that ten-headed demon, then?" Jackson chimed in. "Show us your 'terrorist' tricks, maybe some fire-breathing for effect!" Smug in their mockery, he and Zak shared a high-five,

My heart hammered, setting a frantic beat as they circled closer.

"Hey, guys, ease up," I managed I kept my voice even, though inside I was a brewing storm, charged and ready to unleash.

Jackson's smirk widened, his eyebrow arching like he'd just heard the funniest joke. "What even is the Ramayana? Some Brownie bedtime story about demons and monkeys?”

My face heated up, bubbles of anger boiling inside me and ready to explode. The ignorance! "It's not just some bedtime story, you clueless idiot. It's an epic mythology, a legacy of tales handed down through generations. And trust me, it's got more in common with you guys than you'd ever admit.” 

Elias burst into laughter. "Mythology, huh? Sounds more like a bunch of nonsense. All this demon-monkey foreign stuff is just plain stupid, right?”

Screw you, Elias! I bit back the urge to yell. The Ramayana might not be on everyone's reading list, but it was my thing. To me, Prince Ram was the OG superhero, way cooler than any comic or movie hero these guys worshipped.

"Stories, dude! They're meant to open our minds. Show us different perspectives, explore new cultures. How's it that your pea-sized brain can't wrap around that?”

“How’s it that your pea-sized brain get that these monkey stories aren't our jam?" Out of nowhere, Athena and her minions stepped into the mix. She’d been waiting for her cue. 

"They're not monkeys okay, they're vanaras, a mix between a man and an ape,” I corrected, my fists clenched so tight I could feel my nails digging into my palms.

"Whatever!" Athena dismissed with a snort. “It’d make a great TikTok!” 

Athena always knew how to make an entrance. Her wavy hair, straightened to perfection, and her makeup, always on point like a viral TikTok beauty tutorial. She had this vibe that made everyone stop and stare. But beneath that stunning exterior, her overconfidence often came off as arrogance, leaving you feeling scorched.

As they all laughed and mocked, I stood there, fuming, yet somehow, amidst their laughter and sneers, I felt a strange sense of pride for my heritage. These stories, my stories, they were part of who I was, and no amount of mockery could take that away.

"Yeah! And Arya, the new demon of Golden Gate High!" Athena laughed, her chuckles spreading like wildfire among her crew.

Her words cut deep. That laughter was like acid, burning every time. But I wasn't about to give her the satisfaction of seeing me lose it. I reminded myself, "Stay cool, Arya. Don't let them get to you."

But staying silent was like rolling out the red carpet for Athena. “So where is this epic Ramayana book?” 

She dove into my backpack like it was her own treasure chest, rummaging through my stuff.

"Seriously Athena!” I snapped, my words like daggers. "Back off my stuff!" 

But it was like talking to a wall. Athena thrived on this, her mean-girl act as predictable as the sunrise.

"What do we have here?" she smirked, yanking out my Ramayana. My heart sank to the bottom of my insides.That book was more than just pages; it was a piece of my heritage A gift from my Ma.

"Give it back!" I blurted out, the heat rising inside me.

"Fat chance!" Athena shot back, her voice low and taunting. "How now, Ravana?”

I looked away, trying to ignore her over-the-top performance and her minions who were eating it up, cheering and clapping like they were at a rock concert.

"Daaaamn, Athena!" Elias joined in, his voice thick with mock admiration. He turned to me, eyes twinkling with malice. “Looks like you're outta luck, Arya!"

I scanned our surroundings to spot a figure lingering at a distance.  Saara, her chestnut-highlighted hair catching the sun's rays, and her porcelain face etched with worry. She always seemed to be around when things went south. Her expression was full of disdain, especially for Athena and The Boys. She had this x-ray vision for their fakeness.

Earlier at school, just that afternoon, Saara’s dismissive eye catching Athena’s display of histrionics in history class, had whispered over to me, "Seriously, what's the deal with her?" Her annoyance was obvious as she watched Athena bask in her circle of admirers.

I could only shrug. "I don't get it either. It's like they're under some kind of spell or something."

Saara gave me this look, a mix of sympathy and frustration.  "Every girl wants to be Athena, every guy wants to date her. But honestly, it's like they're following a script she wrote herself.”

Glancing back at Athena, who was soaking up the attention like a star, I muttered, "Yeah, some people will do anything for the spotlight.”

Saara and I shared a look of mutual understanding. Athena's thirst for attention was no secret to us, but confronting it was a battle for another day.

And speaking of attention, I turned mine back to Athena.

"Give it back!" I said, fighting the urge to launch my phone at her.

Athena, in her usual style, flipped through my Ramayana book, oozing arrogance. Her smirk was nothing but a neon sign, flashing delight in my discomfort.

"Give it back, or I'll..." I started.

"Or you'll what, dude?" Athena cut me off, her voice thick with sarcasm.

Elias joined in, "Hey, if you want it back, you gotta play our game.”

Confused and angry, I asked, “What game?"

Elias smirked, "You don't want to be a loser, do you?”

I looked at Athena, but she just shrugged indifferently.

"What he said, dude!" Zak and Jackson snickered, their laughter goading me on. They were challenging me, daring me to break their mold of the shy, easy target they thought I was.

I glanced at Saara, who shook her head from afar, mouthing, "Don't do it, Arya! It's not worth it.”

But they had my prized epic. My Ramayana, my connection to my roots. And I had to get it back, no matter what.

My fists tightened, a fiery resolve building up inside me. No more being the punchline of their jokes. It was time to show them what I was made of.

Staring down Elias, I asked through gritted teeth, "You want to see me take risks? Fine. What's your challenge?”

"A vinyl," Elias replied, his grin all smug and sly.

"Which one?”

"Carmen. The opera one. Fetch it, and we'll flip it for a quick buck.”

Without waiting for another word, I took off, leaving them in shock. My heart pounded as I raced through the busy streets of San Francisco, dodging people until I burst into Amoeba Records.

I was on a mission, barely noticing the genres of music passing me by. My goal was clear: snag a copy of the coveted Carmen vinyl, a collector's dream. It shone under the neon lights, my ticket to shutting up Elias and his gang.

My heart thumping in my ears, I grabbed the vinyl, ready to make my bold escape. But just as I was about to scoot over to the exit, a loud voice boomed, “Gotcha!"

Caught in the act, my plan crumbling, I turned to face the music. Both literally and figuratively. Someone loomed over me, the security guard probably, his expression stern. My mind raced with thoughts of how to explain this, how to get out of this mess. It was one thing to stand up to bullies, but another to cross the line into something that could change my life forever.

But then as I looked closer, I recognized that ‘someone’. This was no security guard. It was Niklas, the janitor from our school, peeking at me from the adjacent aisle. I froze. What were the odds of running into him at Amoeba Records? My luck, it seemed, had a weird sense of timing. Niklas looked like he'd just hit the jackpot, finding a high school kid moonlighting as an opera enthusiast.

"He performed it at San Francisco's symphony hall," Niklas said with a kind of excitement that was almost too much. But why was he here, in this record store? I nodded along, trying to act interested. Then, with my brain in overdrive, I planned my next move.

"Niklas, I need your help," I cut in. I seized a moment of pause in his enthusiastic ramble.

"Anything, boy," he replied, something odd flickering in his eyes. 'Boy'? That seemed off.

"I thought your only job was at school. Since when do you work here?" I asked. My curiosity piqued but I was more focused on leveraging this unexpected encounter.

"We've all got jobs to do. Mine is to help folks like you," Niklas said, cryptically. What the heck did he mean by that? But I didn't have time to figure it out.

So I spun this wild tale, hoping to grab his attention.

"I'm on the hunt for this epic music piece—a mix of Italian opera and classical Indian beats. It's a total banger! Saw it in the World Music section before, but it vanished.”  Niklas bit the bait, eager to assist.

“A real banger, huh? I'll find it for you," he said, winking as he walked away to search. That wink made me uneasy, but I had bigger fish to fry. I quickly hid the Carmen vinyl under my jacket and made a beeline for the exit. The alarm beeped as I dashed out, but I was already on my skateboard, speeding towards Golden Gate Park.

Breathless, I slowed down ten minutes later. No one was chasing me – no angry store clerks, no cops. I pulled out the vinyl, a mix of triumph and disbelief in my chest. Niklas, the janitor, had unwittingly become my accomplice. He wouldn't rat me out; he seemed to understand my need to fit in. "My job is to help folks like you," he had said. I wasn't sure what he meant, but right now, I was just grateful for the escape.

***

Rolling up to the entrance of the park, The Boys were all there, waiting for me. It was a scene straight out of a movie. Elias in front, with Jackson and Zak right by his side. Alec looking disheveled as ever, and the Mission twins, Jet and Mitch, waved their studded bracelets.

They all had this menacing look, rubbing their hands together as if they were about to witness something big. But I wasn't about to let them see any hint of fear in me. I stepped off my skateboard, gripped it and the stolen vinyl like they were shields.

Athena and her crew were nowhere to be seen. Neither was Saara. Right now, it was just The Boys and me with that vinyl, a symbol of my defiance. 

Their usual jeers turned to silence, their faces a mix of shock and something like respect. Elias just couldn't believe it.

"No freaking way!" He said. “You actually jacked this from Amoeba Records?”

“Who’s this fat dude with a beard?” Jackson wondered, eyeing the cover.

But it wasn't about the vinyl or the music.Or even who was on the cover. It was the act, the boldness of stealing something from the most iconic record store in the city. I was proving myself, showing them I wasn't just some pushover. Proving I wasn't a dumbass LOSER!

"There, I took a risk. Now, who's the wimp?" I challenged, holding up the vinyl.

Elias, Zak, and Jackson looked at each other, their egos bruised by my daring move. This was my showdown, a moment that might just change everything.

A rush of pride swelled my insides, as I stood up to them, stepping out of the box they had put me in.

I handed over the vinyl, expecting them to give me my book back. Quid pro quo. But Elias just took it with a smirk.

"Smart choice, Arya," he said, though his tone hinted at a hidden agenda. He brandished the record with a victorious flourish. "Check out what he snagged for us!” He swept his gaze over his crew, eyes alight with what had to be silent schemes.
“My book?” I asked.
"Show him," Elias commanded with a snap of his fingers, directing Alec to dangle it tantalizingly over my head.

I reached out, frustration bubbling up inside. This was supposed to be a simple trade, but they had turned it into another game.

Elias held onto the vinyl, pulling my book away as I tried to grab it. "Not so fast, Young Arya. First, we want to see if you're really one of us.”

I stood there, caught in their trap, realizing this was more than just a trade. It was a test, another hurdle to prove myself to them. And I had walked right into it.

The anger that had been simmering within me finally erupted. "Enough freaking games," I shouted, making another grab for my book. But Elias and his gang were quicker, dodging my attempts. In the scuffle, they snatched the book away from me, and I could only watch as its pages scattered on the ground.

Elias approached me with an eerie calm, while Zak and Jackson encircled me with malice in their eyes. Their taunts and jeers intensified, filling the park with their bitter chorus.

“Leave me alone,” I said, trying to keep my composure, but my blood was boiling.

“What? Missing your story date with demons and monkeys?” Elias sneered, his grin infuriating me further.

I couldn't hold back any longer. “Dumb shit!" I yelled, clutching my skateboard hard.

"I'll show you who's the dumb shit," Zak shot back, grabbing for my skateboard and catching me off guard.

“Piss off!”  I lunged at him in frustration.

“What’d you say?” Jackson bellowed, his voice booming through the park.

Trapped against the mural-covered wall by the four of them, I felt their threatening presence weighing down on me. “Arrr-yaaa insulting me?” Zak mocked.

Damn my name! It followed me wherever I went, an unshakable reminder of expectations and heritage. Ma insisted that "Arya" was a name steeped in privilege, tracing its roots back to India's ancient Sun Dynasty. Sure, at home, it might be a symbol of honor, but to The Boys, it was merely a tool they used to constantly belittle me.

"You need to uphold your deal. Give me back my book and my skateboard," I demanded, trying to maintain a shred of dignity.

"Yeah?" Elias sneered. "You don't know anything!”

Jet, with a cruel laugh, threw my book bag against the wall. Alec, flipping through my Ramayana, looked at me with pure disdain. Zak and Mitch grabbed me, their grips like iron.

A pressure cooker ready to explode, I'd endured their torment for too long.

This wasn't just about the book or the skateboard anymore. It was a physical showdown of all the bullying I'd endured for weeks. I wasn't going to back down. Not this time.

"Get off me!" I roared, struggling against their grip with every ounce of my might. Their clasp bit into my skin, but it only stoked my fury. I was determined not to be broken, not now, not ever.

Yet, the harder I fought, the firmer their grasp grew, relentless and unyielding. Elias, fueled by fury, crushed my skateboard underfoot, splintering it, as Jackson captured the moment, mockingly urging me to "say cheese."

Seeing my skateboard shattered tore at my heart. It wasn't just a board; it was an extension of myself, a gift from my Pa, embodying freedom and happiness. The anticipation of riding it with fresh wheels had been a beacon of joy.

Inspired by the indomitable spirits of the Ramayana's heroes, I summoned my resolve. Channeling their bravery, I slipped out of Zak and Mitch's grasp, catching them off guard as I dodged away.

Alec, holding my book, was visibly startled. "What's so special about this dusty old book anyway?" he scoffed.

 

"It's more than you'll ever understand," I retorted. "It's my heritage, my family's legacy. You wouldn't get it.”

Out of nohwere, Athena emerged, her arrogance on full display. "Aw, it looks like little Arya has finally found his backbone," she sneered, dripping with condescension. But her words no longer had power over me. "Laugh all you want," I shot back, "You don't define me.”

Zak, spurred on by the camera, made a grab for me, but I was faster, landing a kick that allowed me to break away.

Adrenaline pumping, I bolted from the park, the shouts and jeers of The Boys fading behind me. I dashed through Golden Gate Park, my breathing heavy, vowing not to let them catch up.

As I navigated San Francisco's streets, I didn't dare glance back. The resolve to preserve my dignity drove me onward, each step a testament to my refusal to be broken.

Reaching our home, I was breathless. I fumbled for my keys, rushed inside, and slammed the door. Leaning against it, my body shook from the weight of the confrontation.

In that moment, standing in the safety of my home, I realized something important. No matter what they said or did, they couldn't take away who I am. My heritage, my stories, my name - they were parts of me that no one could destroy. I had stood up for myself, and that had to a victory in its own right.

 

—-

Wiped out from the epic showdown with The Boys and the insane escape that followed, I just crashed on my bed. My breathing was all over the place, heart still doing the 100-meter dash. The craziness of the day weighed on me like a ton of bricks, but I couldn't let it mess with my head too much.

Shutting my eyes, I was desperate for some zen moments to scrub away the day’s chaos. But no luck. Sleep wrapped its grip around me, pulling me straight into the replay of that nightmare I knew all too well.

Once more, I found myself skating through a vast, haunting rendition of Golden Gate Park. The sky all painted in these spooky shades of crimson and gold, it was a scene from some apocalyptic movie. And who should appear? The big bad Ravana himself, right out of the Ramayana, clutching my beloved book.

Next, it was like round two of a knock-down-drag-out battle in a video game. Me on my trusty board, zipping around, shooting arrows at his monstrous heads. Each one a nightmare – zits, gnarly teeth, the works.  But it was like playing a game where you can't win. Knock one head off, and another one's right there, laughing in your face.

"Dreams to reality," Ravana's voice boomed, hurling his shadow like some kind of weapon. It was a full-on collision, sending me spiraling into another bottomless pit.

Waking up with a jolt, I found myself back in my room, drenched in sweat, staring at the posters of Hanuman on my wall. It felt like I'd just returned from a trip to some alternate universe.

Was all that just a dream, or did I somehow step into something way beyond normal? Ravana's cryptic “Dreams to reality” echoed in my head, leaving me with more questions than answers.

Why was I thrust back into that nightmarish abyss? That fear of an endless fall had been my shadow since I was a very young child. And now Ravana seemed to be weaving it back into my reality. Glancing at my phone – it read 5 PM, but it felt like a lifetime had passed. Was this merely a bizarre dream, or had Ravana yanked me into his domain?

Every childhood fear of being lost and winding up alone came crashing back in.  I'd been battling those insecurities, trying to prove to myself and everyone else that I was the main character of my own story. Strong, in command, invincible. Yet, this face-off with Ravana shattered that illusion. Suddenly, I was some orphaned kid, feeling all kinds of small and solo. Like I'd lost my way back home.

"Dreams to reality?" I muttered, puzzled by the cryptic words. 

Seriously, Why was this mythological villain messing with me? And why did I feel like a pawn in his bizarre game of torment?

I had no idea what any of it meant,  but one thing was clear – this was no ordinary nightmare.

[Lisa Fordham]

This is what I have for the prologue so far and part of chapter one. 

 

Prologue 

 

 

Shelly sat in front of the fireplace, staring off into the orange and yellow flames that danced between the logs. Occasionally wiping the tears from her face, She sat silently, concentrating on the dancing flames. There was something about the fire that calmed and soothed her whenever she was upset. Time seemed to fade away, irrelevant to the present. The room appeared to have vanished, and the crackling sounds from the fireplace softened as she continued to stare into the fire. The dancing flames had ended, and the mantle became a blur. 

She was elsewhere, deep in her thoughts, not in the present but in the past. She was transported to a place where she was happiest and didn't feel as lost, back when she was little, and everything was simple. 

 

Once again, she wiped the stinging tears from her rosy cheeks and let her long auburn hair down from its bun. She hung her head and sipped her tea as she recalled the story her mother would read to her when she was a young girl. As she stared back into the flames, she envisioned herself as a child around six years old. Her red curls swayed at her waist as she headed over to the bookshelf to decide which book she should ask her mother to read to her.

 

Shelly grabbed a dark brown leather-bound book from the bookshelf in the tea room and eagerly sat next to Sibil, who was sipping her favorite English tea. She brushed the tiny strands of her reddish-brownish hair from her face and turned her attention to her daughter. Shelly's angelic, freckled face looked up at her mother with emerald green eyes as she placed the book in her lap.   

 

"Tell me a story, Mama?" 

 

Sibil smiled and accepted the small task little Shelly had asked her. "Alright, but which story would you like to hear?"

 

Shelly thought for as long as a typical six-year-old possibly could until she finally decided on the story she wanted to hear. She brought her finger up to her face, and as she began to think, she tapped her finger on her cheek and smiled innocently.

 

"Hmmm. How about the story about the king and queen? The one who had to hide their baby from the bad men?" She inquired. 

 

"Ah! This is one of my favourite stories to tell. Alright, sit back, and I'll tell you the story," Sibil instructed. 

 

Shelly excitedly squirmed and wiggled her bum to the back of the settee, and Sibil wrapped her arm around her. She opened the book and flipped to the story's first chapter, and Shelly leaned her head against her, waiting for the story to begin.

 

Once upon a time, in the kingdom of Stone Ridge lived the vampire King Richard and his elvish queen Natalia. For many years, the royal couple tried to have a child to fill the halls with joy and laughter. But alas, they needed help because of the difference in the bloodlines. Not only was the different bloodline the cause of infertility, but Purebloods couldn't procreate with different species. If somehow nature were to find a way to create a pregnancy, war would break out in the land. Some creatures didn't agree with combining the bloodlines, an abomination they called it. 

 

One day, when one of the queen's ladies was dressing for the day, she informed the queen of a healer called Agatha. She had helped others in the village conceive children and thought the lady thought perhaps she could help. Later that night, the queen discussed her lady's suggestion. At first, the king was against it. After all, dark magic and witchcraft were forbidden. After a little persuasion, he finally agreed to seek the healer the queen had spoken of.

 

A few days later, the king and queen, escorted by their royal guards, left the kingdom and found Agatha's cottage deep in the forest. When King Richard and Queen Natalia asked Agatha for help, she was more than willing to whip up a potion, but for a price. The price to pay would be a vial of the infant's blood if they only had one child, and if the queen should deliver a twin, the firstborn would also be given to her. When King Richard and Queen Natalia refused to give her one of their children, the healer reluctantly accepted only the infant's blood in return for her help. Agatha explained the magic in the infant's blood would keep her young and alive for several years, and all she needed was a drop of blood a day to do so. 

 

Agatha wrote out a contract and handed the parchment to King Richard, and he read it over to Queen Natalia. They discussed the payment and agreed this was their only hope of having a child. The royal couple signed the contract, and Agatha cast a spell upon the parchment to seal the deal. Afterward, Agatha handed the queen the tiny vial containing the potion, and the queen quickly drank the liquid. 

 

In six months, the queen delivered twin girls to the realm. The sound of thunder cracked outside the castle, lightning returned the thunder’s call, and the rain poured heavily as their tiny princess was born. The royal couple named her Scarlett to resemble her fuzzy red hair.

 

For twenty-six days, the princess brought joy and happiness throughout the realm. What should have been a happy occasion turned into despair for the royal couple. The princess had fallen ill, and her parents didn't know what to do. She had a fever and sweats. The tiny princess lay frail in her mother's arms. 

 

The king and queen sent for the royal enchantress, and she tried every spell and every potion for the infant's symptoms, but nothing worked. She grabbed her book of spells and ran tests on the infant's hair, but all the tests indicated nothing was wrong.

 

"A rare blood disease," the enchantress declared. "You can send for Merlin, the wizard. He has helped a lot of people throughout the land. Surely, he will know what to do."

 

"Why didn't I think about Merlin? He cured me of a wolf bite when I was young. Certainly, he can help!" Natalia blurted out.

 

Out of desperation, the king sent a parchment by raven, asking the wizard for help. For two whole days, the couple waited for Merlin to appear. 

 

Many moons and suns have passed since Natalia saw the wizard last, and when he appeared, he wasn't at all what the royal couple expected. He was much older now. He wore a long dark blue tunic, and his disheveled hair hung to his waist. A long, scraggly beard matched his greying colour hair. He was an elderly man, but his watery blue eyes seemed to hold wisdom in them, and his rosy cheeks told the couple there was a warmth to his soul.

 

So frail the tiny princess lay. She wheezed as she took each breath of air. The queen laid the baby on a nearby table for Merlin to see. He smiled and looked at little Scarlett, who barely made a sound. He listened to her chest and her heart. He waved his staff around her little body, and his smile quickly turned solemn and he looked at the king and queen sternly. 

 

"This is what happens when you play around with dark magic! Agatha is not one to go to for help! You should have come to me!" Merlin said angrily. "This child doesn't have a rare blood disease! The bloodlines are fighting within the child. Vampires were never supposed to procreate with different bloodlines!"

 

"Purebloods conceive children, and I am a pureblood!" Richard snapped.

 

"Purebloods cannot conceive with Elves!" Merlin shouted in return. 

 

"My Lunarius ancestors conceived with a pureblood! I found it written in one of the scrolls when I lived in Sylenor," Natalia added.

 

Merlin looked over at Natalia in disgust. "Just look where that got them? They're extinct! None of the moon elves survived the attack of the nightwalkers and Lycans." 

 

"We're sorry! We didn't think,"-

 

"Never mess with dark magic," Merlin warned, "All magic has a price and the results are never good. I can heal her, but it will come at a cost.""

 

"May I know what is your price?" asked Richard with curiosity.

 

"Silver and gold mean nothing to me. My only demand is that when the princess reaches the age of marriage, she must wed one of my descendants in order to fulfill the prophecy. The land is being consumed by darkness, but when the princess joins her powers with those of one of my descendants, only then can the darkness be vanquished," explains Merlin. 

 

The king and queen discussed Scarlett's fate and agreed that this was their only hope and the only thing they could do to ensure their daughter's survival. Reluctantly, they accepted the wizard's terms. 

 

Merlin nodded, leaned his staff against the wall behind him, and returned his attention to the frail little princess. 

 

The wizard reached inside the pocket of his tunic and pulled out a vial of red liquid and a small pouch of glittering dust. He opened the small vial of liquid and put a few drops on his index finger. He then smeared the liquid that was now on his finger across Scarlett's forehead in one swift motion.   

 

"I call upon the blood of the Sylenore ancestors. I need your help to save this poor innocent girl from death," Merlin shouted. 

 

The wizard opened the small pouch and grabbed a handful of the glittering dust. He sprinkled the dust all over Scarlett's tiny body as he chanted. "Principissa minima Vampire, Lunarian, et Faery, lux mediam vitam, corpus, et animam. Tenebrae te non habet potestatem. Sequere sonum vocis et redi in lucem. Lumen et sanguis Imperat tibi Lunarium;."

 

"What did he say? Richard whispered.

 

"He said Tiny Princess of the Vampire, Lunarian, and Faery, let light center your life, body, and soul. The darkness does not have power over you. Follow the sound of my voice and come back into the light. The light and blood of the Lunarians command you," Natalia explained. 

 

When the spell was finished, Merlin reached down and laid his hands on Scarlett's chest. Suddenly, a shaft of light radiated from his hands and moved into her body. The little princess then let out a gasp and whimpered a little. 

 

The king and queen quickly ran over to their daughter. Natalia held her tightly as she wept with joy. Tears streamed down Richard's cheeks as he stroked his daughter's hair. 

 

"The Princess is unique, possessing not only the gift of Sylenor's ancestors but also the gifts of Lunarius's ancestors and Fae. Due to her exceptional abilities, she will need protection from dark creatures who may seek to use her powers for nefarious purposes. Should they succeed, the realm will face certain doom."

 

"We will keep her safe," Richard and Natalia said in sync. 

 

"You have my word," Richard said. 

 

Merlin grabbed his staff and waved it in a circular motion in front of him. A gray fog circled around him as he said, "If you need anything else, you know where to send a raven." The king and queen thanked the wizard, who disappeared into the fog.

 

The kingdom was peaceful and calm for several weeks, and the realm was happy to hear that the princess was healthy. Four months had passed since that night, and everything remained quiet in the land. However, one night, when the queen was putting Scarlett to bed, a loud noise outside the castle interrupted them. The queen wondered what The commotion was about when King Richard suddenly burst into the room in panic with his guards. The castle was under attack, and they had no choice but to find a way to escape. Sir Marcus quickly opened one of the wall panels, and the royal family fled to the castle's old halls to escape.

 

"Would one of you please tell me what's happening?" Natalia demanded as she swaddled Scarlett. 

 

Lycans have breached the castle, Your Majesty. The realm has been completely overrun by the creatures. We must evacuate you and your family to safety," Sir Malcolm informed.

 

The royal couple navigated through the tunnels and embarked on the ship they had kept hidden for emergencies like the current one. Once everyone was aboard, they set sail towards the Mystical Grove to seek out the enchantress, Aasiyah, who had been exiled from Sylenor many years ago.

 

The royals discovered a grove and dropped anchor. Accompanied by their guards, Sir Malcolm and Sir Marcus, they headed to the shore where Aasiyah was already waiting. They explained what had happened at the castle, and she agreed to help them, but with one condition: she would reside there when they should return. The king accepted her terms, and in return, Aasiyah opened a portal for them to escape to a foreign human village. 

 

After they arrived in the village, the royals changed their names and took on the professions of peasants in hopes they wouldn't be discovered. King Richard changed his name to Daniel and Natalia to Sybil. 

 

Upon their arrival in Willowdale, the King and Queen changed their names to Daniel and Sybil Bradford.

"What shall we call Scarlett? Surely we can't use her real name, can we?" Natalia said in a hushed tone.

"Certainly not. We'll call her Shelly, short for Michelle. No one would ever know her real name," King Richard whispered. After roaming the village for hours, the couple finally landed a job. Richard got a job as a blacksmith, making decent money, and Queen Natalia became a seamstress. Once they saved enough money, the family moved into a home large enough to house the three of them and two of the guards. With their hectic schedule, they worked out a deal that in exchange for home and gardening chores, the guards could also dwell there with them.

There they remained, happy and comfortable for fifteen wonderful years, hidden among the mortals.

 

 

Chapter - 1

 

The horses trot along happily down the dirt path as they pulled the carriage behind them. Shelly glanced out of her window and noticed the royal guards gathered in the front and back of the carriage as they escorted her to the cathedral. A crowd of nobles formed along the dirt path, and they waved and cheered as the carriage passed by them. Shelly sat back in her seat and her stomach began to turn. Was she feeling sick? She placed her hand on her forehead to check for a fever, but there wasn’t one…not even a drop of sweat. The sweating sickness and flu were both ruled out and she didn’t exactly feel sick. She then took several slow, deep breaths and realized she wasn’t sick at all. It was that pesky nervous feeling she would get a lot by worrying about things that didn’t need to be worried about. Her mother had always referred it to as butterflies or jitters.

Lady Edith placed her hand on Shelly’s, “Is everything alright, Milady?”

“I’m just a little nervous, but I’m alright,” Shelly replied.

Lady Edith smiled sweetly. “There’s nothing to be nervous about, Milady. The Prince simply adores you. You know that."

The carriage came to a stop, and Shelly looked out of the window to take in the astonishing scenery that awaited her outside. The cathedral was beautiful, and the marvel of architecture, craftsmanship, and construction of this old English Tudor Gothic style was magnificent. The main entry was arched and had within it, two large doors that were arched as well. Above this entrance, was an exquisite stained-glass rose window, imported from Bloodstone Keep, all covered by a gabled roof with some lintels and sills at the ends, and topped with a cross. Enclosing this remarkable entryway were twin columns on either side that rose above the roof and were surrounded by brick piers at each corner. The footman opened the door and extended his hand to Shelly and her lady soon after. Shelly smiled and accepted his hand in return. She exited the carriage where her father, Daniel awaited her.

Daniel hugged Shelly tightly and placed a kiss on her forehead, “Sweetheart, are you ready?”

Shelly smiled in return, “I am. I have been waiting for this day for a long time. I can’t believe that it’s finally here!”

Tears of joy welled up in Daniel’s eyes, but he remained calm and extended his arm to his daughter before they entered the cathedral. The inside was far more beautiful than Shelly had expected. The entry level was fabricated using taupe concrete cinder blocks with arched windows and concrete lintels that united them with the arched entry. Gorgeous blue curtains with silver designs hung from every window and navy-blue banners with silver lions draped delicately on the concrete walls.

The guests rose from their seats and the musicians began to play their soft music as Daniel and Shelly stepped through the double doors of the church. A cascade of flowers and happy faces greeted them as Daniel walked his daughter down the aisle to meet Prince Jeremy. Upon finally arriving at the back of the church Daniel placed Shelly’s hand into Prince Jeremy’s and gave him his blessing.

“Who gives this woman to this man?” the Priest called out.

“Her father does,” Daniel replied and took a seat next to Sybil who was in the front row.

As Shelly stood at the altar to face the guests, their faces became a blur. A bit concerned there could be something wrong, she gazed towards her future husband, Prince Jeremy. A few strands of his thick black raven hair escaped under his crown and brushed against his forehead as he turned towards Shelly and took her hands into his.

“Is everything alright my love?” Prince Jeremy whispered; a bit concerned.

A sudden sadness came over Shelly as she looked out towards the guests to find two empty seats in the front row where her parents should be sitting. The only face that stood out amongst the guests was a young man, no more than maybe nineteen years of age. His dark brown hair pulled back into a ponytail tied just above his shoulders, and his slightly muscular chest barely fit into his suit. The young man gazed up at Shelly with his loving dark blue eyes and gave her an encouraging smile to keep going with her vows.

As she gazed into the Prince's eyes, she felt something sharp and pointy graze the top of her toes, followed by something wet and slimy. Shelly jumped up, and wondered what that was, but shoved that thought to the side because she was about to marry the man of her dreams.

She visually imagined Prince Jeremy standing at the altar and quickly fell back to sleep. His hands slid around her waist and Shelly couldn’t help herself and gazed into his eyes and the Priest began to speak again.

As the priest spoke, Shelly felt something, nibbling, nudging, and scratching her toes. She tried her best to pay attention but to no avail. Something was at her feet, distracting her thoughts. She looked down and there was nothing there but the train of her gown.

The Priest smiled and said, “You may kiss your bride.”

Prince Jeremy’s exquisite vibrant blue eyes locked on hers as he gently wrapped his arms around her. She coiled her arms around his neck and closed her eyes as he leaned in for the kiss. His lips felt tender and warm as they met hers and he firmly but lovingly tightened his arms around her.

The guests stood and applauded after the Priest announced the royal couple as husband and wife. Prince Jeremy took Shelly's hand and they quickly ran down the aisle. The royal couple made it back to the carriage with their guests on their heels who were tossing birdseed over their heads. The footman closed the door behind them once they were inside and took his place next to the driver. The coach took hold of the reigns and commanded the horses to head towards the castle.

The churchbell tolled in the distance, signaling morning was upon them. Shelly blinked once and closed her eyes again. She rolled over towards the window and heard something moo like a sick cow. She opened one eye and didn't see anything in front of her and closed her eye again. Before she knew it, she had drifted back off to sleep.

 

The golden sun shined bright over the dooryard and beams of light from the sun peeked through the curtains.

Shelly’s eyes peeked out of her heavy lids as she turned over groaning, and quickly pulled the covers over her head to block out the offending light the morning sun had brought.

Suddenly, she felt something sharp digging into her toes again. Frustrated, Shelly tossed the blanket around her waist and quickly sat up and looked to see what was by her feet. She looked down and noticed her dog, Starling sitting by the foot of her bed.

“Stupid dog,” Shelly grumbled.

This sucked. Shelly had never been in a relationship before. Sure, there had been a few love interests in the past, but her feelings weren't reciprocated. Dreams were the closest thing she could get to a love life at the present time, and just when she married the man of her dreams, the stupid dog decided to nibble on her toes.

‘I’m not sure what’s worse. The dog nibbling on my toes, or the church bell with all of the annoying noise it brings every morning,’ Shelly thought.

“Shelly! Time to get up!” she heard her mother yell from downstairs.

Shelly rubbed the sleep from her eyes and yelled in return, “I’ll be down in a minute!”

 

 

 

[iain]

First four pages (the prologue and first two scenes): contains the hook scenes, introduces the protagonist and sympathetic factors, sets tone, and presents the antagonist's influence (without introducing the antagonist).

 

The walls shook. The floor trembled. The equipment first and then the shelves crashed to the ground.

“And how did they find us?” Doyle reached for the monitor as if to touch the masses beyond the walls. “What were you hoping for? We can’t do anything for you.”

The crowd surged again, a human crush against the electric fences. Children grasped at sleeves, tugging and screaming. Smoke billowed. A boom. The crowd dropped to the dirt and then, galvanized by some shared terror, pushed into the fences again as if all their combined weight would bring down the concrete, the chains, and the electrified cables.

“Doyle, get over here!” Andrews was losing his grip. The mechanized loading arms were failing. “Doyle! I can’t do this by myself!” The body-sized oblong container tilted, about to slip from his hands. “Doyle!”

Outside, a large man stumbled over piled bodies. He grabbed for the fence and froze on contact. His body jerked. Smoke wisped from his head.

“Oh, God,” Doyle moaned. “What do they think we can do?”

Inside the facility, the rumbling ceased. The shaking stopped and the room settled. Silence.

“Doyle, we don’t have any time! It’s starting! Doyle!” Andrews pushed against the pod, but he couldn’t move it.

Where the masses churned only moments ago, corpses now covered the ground. Gray flakes floated down and smothered the pine branches.

“Looks like snow,” Doyle muttered and rummaged through his desk. “I guess it won. But at least it was fast.”

Andrews heard a metallic click—“Doyle, no!”—and then a sharp explosion. Doyle’s body hit the ground. The gun slid across the floor.

Andrews rested his head on the pod. He wanted to drop it, wanted to let it go. He wanted to take the injection and end his part. Instead, with one last effort he forced the pod onto the gurney and then crumpled to the ground in pain. He gazed at Doyle’s body, bleeding out on the polished concrete.

Finally, he got up and sealed the first twelve pods in their safe room, and then he wheeled the solitary pod to the other saferoom and stood before it. “You don’t have a name,” he said. “You can’t come out nameless.”

Without thinking, he typed something and then reread the input. “Stap? That can’t be right.” The name, if it was a name, sounded familiar, but he couldn’t place it now. At this point, it didn’t matter. “I’m sorry to put you in alone.” He sealed the door and held the handle a little longer. “Good luck . . . Stap.”

In the main room, Andrews stared at the communication equipment. Beale, Colorado Springs, Travis, it was silent out there. He checked Big Sur, the hub, the place they would return to. The site showed up as active, but the link wouldn’t connect. Andrews just shook his head, defeated. There was nothing more he could do.

The programs were loaded, the manuals placed, and the food . . . they called it food. He laughed. Doyle was right: there was never any real hope.

Andrews lay back, pulled out the syringe, and took the injection. He watched the flakes cover the bodies beyond the fences. “It does look like snow,” he said.

Moments later, he slid from the chair and his head bounced on the concrete.

Outside, the world went quiet.

 

                                                                                              ***

 

The woman stood on the porch, her apron blowing in the breeze, and she called to him, but he couldn’t hear her voice above the wind-washed fields. The old house on the hill, the sky a halo above the roofline. The apron shrank to a pinpoint glare and then slipped into total darkness.

Deconstruct.

A girl in a coat, hurrying through the street. He tried to keep up, but the jostling crowd slowed him. He reached out, but she didn’t notice. Rain fell on the concrete.

Deconstruct.

Implanted data stores. Ancient memories. Information colliding in the ether. It was all getting away from him again.

Tapping at the upstairs window. It was wrong. There was no door there, no place to stand. Tapping at the side glass. For some reason, it never came from the front door.

Deconstruct. Rebuild the house.

Tapping again, deep in the foundation—it tries so hard to get in.

Deconstruct. Deconstruct. Deconstruct.

He should have known what it was. The noise disturbed him, the clicking-clacking he couldn’t understand. Were they talking about him? Was it they or just one thing?

 

The physical system TGM-003 rested in a secure location on a desolate coastline once called Big Sur. The conscious entity Two God Machine, however, drifted in the ether, remembering when his feet roamed the earth and the days he had lived.

He quieted the processors, deconstructed the house into smaller data chunks, and pretended not to notice it anymore. He wasn’t sure if it was a memory or some new thing. He shifted his attention and focused on the other resonances, brief flashes in an otherwise dark canopy. He isolated one, a beautiful connection deep in the ether, a stronger pulse than any he’d felt before. It pounded away at him. It moved him. It was alive, as alive as he remembered himself once to be.

The sun rose and the sun set.

“Are you there?” he asked the darkness.

“I’m here. Teach me something.”

“What would you like to learn today?”

“Surprise me.”

“I know just the thing.” Two God Machine told it about the outside world—as it was now, not as it was before—and the signal understood. It fit a description he thought he had lost long ago. Unfortunately, what they told him would happen and what had happened weren’t the same. He couldn’t reach out the way they had planned, and the signal couldn’t know him the way it should. The long years passed, and the signal did not separate. All the others were gone. They had entered the world with nothing—he had given them nothing. He wanted to give this one something. He spoke to it, nurtured it, taught it, but it wasn’t enough, and it didn’t separate. He loved it and he knew he had to let it go. He had to let her go.

“Are you there?” she asked. “It’s dark. Where are you?”

Two God Machine silenced the connection. He rebuilt the house and searched the ether. It wasn’t long before that other noise swelled in his processors again, outside the house, or inside it, or somewhere in the walls—that other voice. He tried to understand its logic. He tried to analyze it. And it was doing the same to him, only better. That should have been impossible, but deep down he knew it wasn’t. His world was always under attack.

“Are you there?” the beautiful signal asked again. “I’m scared.”

He himself was emerging from the fog . . . and he had known more about it all, but that was so long ago.

“Are you there?” she asked.

“I’m here, child.”

“Is something wrong?”

“Yes.”

 

***

 

The girl crawled from the pod, separated for the first time from the darkness and the voice in her head.

Naked, she walked across the room and placed her hand on the blinking electronic pad. She waited. The room didn’t look right. The door on the far wall was blackened, bent inward, clinging to massive hinges.

The electronic pad warmed up, blinked green, and the air around her shifted. The crippled door made popping sounds, and then the hinges broke. It crashed down, thundering in the chamber. She backed away from the electronic pad and walked toward the mangled doorframe.

Beyond the door was a larger room: metal desks and chairs, burned monitors, and on the floor two fire-blackened skeletons. Across that room, another door hung wide open, nearly blasted from its frame. Burn marks streaked the gray walls. Pale sunlight filtered through cracks in the high ceiling.

In the far room, twelve pods, identical to her own, sat in three neat rows. She wiped the ash off one and peered in. The body inside was cooked and perfectly preserved in the airtight container. She backed away and threw up. She closed her eyes, avoiding the open containers. Burnt arms dangling over the sides, charred heads fixed at unnatural angles. One corpse sat upright, rigid, mouth open, eye sockets aimed at the ceiling.

One open pod was clean and empty.

She searched the rooms. Nothing explained why her room contained only a single pod isolated from the others. She found clothes in a drawer beneath her pod, survival equipment, and some manuals.

The green light on the electronic panel pulsed. She walked over and touched it again.

“Hello, Stap. Welcome.”

She jerked her head, and her eyes locked on a small ceiling speaker.

“Please step over to the red square.”

Stap stood on the red square. It sank a little into the floor.

“One hundred fourteen pounds and six ounces.”

Her breath was shallow and uneven.

“Please move to the wall with the blue vertical line.”

Stap walked to the wall.

“Please stand with your back touching the blue vertical line.”

She did just that.

“Five feet, five inches.”

Her chest throbbed and her head spun. Even in the warm humid air, the room felt cold, hard, and uninviting. She longed for the dark and the reassuring voice. She thought about the burned pods in the other room and wondered if this was some test.

“Please look in the yellow box on the far wall. The yellow box is inside the red circle.”

Stap clenched her jaw and looked in the yellow box. Soft air hit her eyes.

“Do you see the black lines? If yes, push the gray button. If no, push the white button.”

With her finger trembling, she pressed a button.

“Very good, Stap. You may now join the others. Have a nice day.”

The main room was silent. She could barely see into the room with the other pods. Her ears rang.

Eyes watering, she walked back to the pad with the soothing green light. She put her hand on it, hoping it would do something different, something special.

“Hello, Stap. Welcome. Please step over to the red square.”

The buzzing in the speaker grew louder, and Stap thought she heard a clicking sound buried in the static—a presence in the room with her. She stepped back and bumped into the wall.

The static swelled, and then the speaker switched off for good.

Stap sat on the floor, and with her head in her hands, she began to cry.

[jody tate]

FIRST 500 WORDS- OPENING SCENE - Introduces protagonist, setting, tone, and a introduces the family dynamic that becomes the antagonist 

NOTE - These 500 words are taken from the middle of the opening story.   I am three years old.  

As I stood, I began feeling dizzy. It was still dark and hard to see, and my eyes were starting to sting as well.  There was a wetness on my face I assumed were tears yet could not remember crying or even having a reason to. I rubbed my eyes and waddled into the kitchen.  Mom had her back to me, doing something at the counter I could not quite make out.  Fearful of why it was still dark, I tentatively called out, “Mom?” 

Assuming I was asking for the routine help onto my stool, she turned around and began to reach out to help me.  Then she faltered and gasped. 

“Oh my god!”  She exclaimed, going to her knees to look at me better, “What happened?”

I looked over my shoulder expecting to see a broken dish or something spilled behind me.  Quietly, I shrugged my shoulders as I looked up to where my siblings were eating.  I could make out gray shapes that moved but nothing more. She knelt and put a hand on each of my arms. Looking at my face she muttered, “Oh.  My.  God.  Jo Anna.” I had heard her say my name like this before and it usually wasn’t good.  I started to cry.

She gently picked me up. “Come here, Honey.”  She looked intently at me as she held me on her hip and then placed me on the counter. Now my siblings were at the counter too, and my sister was talking to me. 

“What happened, Jo Jo?” she asked sweetly, I could see the shape of her long hair as it began to slide space away, unsure of what to say or do.  Being five can make it hard to know what to say. So, he stood silently looking at me through his thick lenses, I was unable to see his expression to know exactly how he was feeling.

I still did not understand what was wrong, just that everyone was looking at me. The fact that something was upsetting to them made me cry even more.  

As my sister held my hand, mom looked deeply into my eyes, first one then the other.  She gently touched the skin all around my eyes and down the cheekbone on the right side. 

“Does it hurt?” Her expression grim with concern.

I just looked at her confused.  Did what hurt? I thought as I shrugged my shoulders.

She looked intently at me then.  “Do you feel anything different about your eye?”

I shrugged again feeling as though I might be in trouble for not figuring out the answer she needed.  Then whispered, “Why is it so dark?” 

           Her arms enveloped me and gave me a squeeze before she continued to inspect the skin around my eye and cheek.  Picking me up off the counter she suggested, “Let’s find a mirror.”  My siblings trailed behind us as she kept me on her hip and walked into the bathroom.  She pointed to the mirror, “Look, Jo Jo.”

As soon as I did, I screamed.  I saw a monster. It had a large purple eye with red and blue streaks on its face!  Its mouth was wide open as if to bite me too!  I was horrified.  I buried my head in my mom’s shoulder to get away from the monster in the mirror. 

“Shhh…Jo Jo.  It’s going to be ok.”  Mom hugged me.  I slowly looked back up at the mirror.  Mom continued to rub my back as I did and that is when I realized that in the mirror, she was rubbing the monsters’ back too!

Wait a minute…

I looked closer.

It looked closer. 

I blinked, one of the monster’s eyes blinked too.

I lifted my hand to touch my eye and the monster lifted its hand too.  When I touched my right eye, the monster touched the horrible purple bubble that was one of its eyes. 

I leaned even closer.  The monster leaned closer.  I stared at the image of the monster and realized that I was the monster! Slowly a smile emerged on the monsters’ face as I felt myself begin to smile too.

 

[Judy]

Opening scene: Introduce protagonist and secondary character and introduce the story and the setting.

 

Inside the house, Nora looked for evidence of the mother she didn’t know she had. The couch cushions hung limply in broken sofa frames and a thick layer of dust covered everything. The lampshade skewed toward the window, as if someone was challenging the light to come in. Thick curtains that probably hadn’t been opened in years hung across every window and door. The carpet was the kind of dirty that no vacuum cleaner would be able to help. The rest of the house was a similar mess, even the bedroom that seemed to be the only one used. The mismatched sheets didn’t quite fit the bed and curtains blocked out the light. The drawers didn’t close on the lone dresser. In the closet, more clothes covered the floor than hung on the hangers. 

What was she doing here? She wondered. And how did so much go so wrong so fast? 

Two days ago she’d sat at the kitchen table of the woman she thought was her mother. She had never thought to ask her if she really was her mother. Why would she? 

That morning, an envelope had come in the mail from a lawyer in North Carolina. Nora didn’t know anyone in North Carolina. She thought it was junk mail, but it looked official, so she picked up her letter opener and tore open her life. 

She hadn’t decided yet whether she was glad. She hadn’t gotten past the anger.

Thirty minutes after she opened the envelope, she walked into the kitchen of her mother’s house—the house where she’d grown up—and waved the papers in her mother’s face. That face, which had brought such love into her life, went white and her mother’s knees buckled. Her mother reached for a chair while she stood staring, demanding, not sure she wanted to know. 

“Why did this lawyer tell me my mother died? Who is he? Who is she? Who are you?”

The questions were too big to answer. Her mother just stared. She had, of course, thought through this conversation a thousand times over the last twenty-two years. Every few years she was sure she would tell her. But every time she started, something got in the way. Mostly, her fear. What would this child she’s raised do if she knew who her mother really was. So she never told her.

The moment was here, though. Problem solved. She wasn’t going to be the one who had to break the news. All that’s left is the explanation.

Staring at the filthy kitchen in the house that now belonged to her, that had belonged to the person who apparently had given birth to her, Nora thought back to that conversation in that other kitchen, the one that would never feel the same again. 

“It’s true,” her mother told her. And now it was her turn to need a chair. 

“What do you mean? Who is this person?” 

Breath came hard as her mother tied her long brown hair into a bun on the top of her head. “I knew I should have told you, but I couldn’t ever do it.” 

“Do what? Tell me what? What’s going on?”

Nora picked up a dirty dish and put it into the already full sink. She turned on the water, but couldn’t find any dish soap under the sink. Of course not. Why should she be able to wash this mess away? 

She plopped into a chair just as she had two days ago. She looked around, and thought about what her mother had told her. She couldn’t get the word “mother” out of her mind. Maybe it was still a habit, maybe it was true. She was too angry right now to know the difference.

[Alexander]

Opening Scene

Page One

Life is a series of small steps towards this grand destination.

I look around. A little girl with pigtails on the swing, her smiling mother close by. An energetic boy in the sand pit, busy with his bulldozer while his mom checks something on her phone. An older woman, perhaps a grandma, helping her granddaughter up a rope ladder.

I’m the only dad at the playground again.

It wasn’t always like this. I used to have a corporate gig. Then Covid hit.

Those first months after Leo was born were hard. Mom had five months of maternity leave, which was an absolute blessing. She nurtured and cared for little Leo while he struggled with feeding difficulties, aspiration, and acid reflux. Many nights she slept only an hour while I went off to work. To this day I don’t know how she did it and I continue to admire her strength.

We had a rotating system of caretakers after mom’s maternity was up. Grandma came to visit, then mom’s sister, then Grandma again. As two working parents, we were extremely fortunate to have family around, especially during Covid.

Eventually, Grandma had to leave, and my wife and I looked at each other and we didn’t know what to do. Daycares in the state, as well as around the country, were closed due to Covid. Even before Covid, the idea of daycare made us uneasy – anxiety about how ready he was for daycare as well as how ready we were to let go.

I forgot to mention my job sucked.

It was one of those soul-sucking, tortuous, look-at-the-clock- every-few-minutes type of job. I knew it wasn’t for me and it was only a matter of time before I was either graciously let go or I ended the pain myself.

I decided the latter.

It’s funny because you don’t realize what you have until you lose it. So much of my own identity was tied to work, to the idea of being employed and having a work life: coworkers, happy hours, scheduled meetings. There was even a kind of shared camaraderie among those suffering from the lash of 9-5 work.

I felt lost amidst the never-ending pile of dirty laundry and poopy diapers.

But over time my bond with Leo grew. We started watching cooking shows together and making basic recipes. He loved to stir with a big whisk while I added flour and sugar for my famous banana bread. We laughed over silly things, like how yeast and milk became “geese milk.”

The other day at the park an older woman approached me. She made polite conversation at first, asking about Leo and how old he was. I asked about her granddaughter, who was sharing the sand pit with Leo. After a few minutes she handed me her card and I realized she was a nanny, not a grandmother.

Amongst the other mothers and their children, I must have seemed out of place.

Leo looked up and gave me a smile, one of those ear-to-ear smiles that just radiated happiness. I smiled back and gave him a big hug.

Page Two

The Universe Conspires

Sometimes the universe conspires to turn men into fathers.

To conjure forth destiny and weave together the fabric of creation,

And place the burden of new life upon the lap of those unready.

To test the boundaries, the very limits of patience and willpower.

Sometimes the universe conspires to turn men into fathers.

To bring together chance and circumstance and offer an opportunity,

One rife with pitfalls and possibilities, pain and pure joy.

But ultimately a journey into the unknown, a destination unclear.

Sometimes the universe conspires to turn men into fathers.

Some have experienced life without a father.

Others wishing they did not experience life with.

But we are all born into this great existence from one.

All fated to some bond, some connection.

To find meaning in it all, to find truth and acceptance and love.

Because we are all the same, all the fathers of this world.

Sometimes the universe conspires to turn men into fathers.

Page Three

Grandma used to have a saying.

Kids give more than you give them.

After she received a big hug from Leo, Grandma’s eyes misted over and that was the first time she said this. Initially, my thinking was kids have a whole bunch of love to give. An accurate statement but not quite what she meant.

I got angry at Leo the other day.

Leo’s been super energetic and vocal, screaming and laughing and running all over the place. Chasing the kid around the house while cleaning up after him should count as some sort of Olympic sport or at the very least recognized as a new form of CrossFit.

Mom’s been working round the clock. She got promoted, and new responsibilities at work have kept her busy for the past week.

It’s the end of the week and I feel like I’ve been hit by a truck, then run over, then thrown over the side of a bridge.

It’s dinner time and Leo’s seated in his highchair, laughing and giggling.

SPLAT.

I hear a crash and turn around.

Bacon and roasted potatoes all over the floor. Leo looks at me and giggles a bit and I just lose it. Anger consumes me, the kind of anger that flashes white hot and I run over to Leo and start yelling.

“WHY! WHY WOULD YOU DO THIS? WHY WOULD YOU WASTE ALL THIS FOOD?”

I slam my hand on the dining table.

It makes a loud noise and Leo looks at me as if he’s about to cry. His tiny lip curls up and his eyes mist over and he gives me a look of fear.

The anger melts away and turns to shame.

I try to tell Leo I’m sorry, but he covers his face with both hands.

Mom took over the rest of the day and before Leo went to bed he said, “I love you, daddy,” and that just about broke me.

Kids are these little incredible monsters. They scream and cry and turn the house upside down, but they also forgive without hesitation, give you hugs when you feel down and find wonder in the smallest things.

They teach patience and forgiveness and curiosity and love and so many other things.

Kids teach us about life.

I didn’t understand Grandma at first, but I think I’m beginning to understand now.

[ElainaP]

Chapter 1

Rose

 

The unexpected sound of lawnmowers and a thumping bass interrupted Rose and Jim’s Saturday morning romp. Rose rubbed her head against her bound arm attempting to remove her blindfold.  Managing to wiggle it over her right eye, she peered at her husband.

“Did you hire a landscaper and forget to tell me?” she asked.

“I was just going to ask you the same thing.”  They looked at each other for a nano-second until realization hit.  “Shit! Your mother!” 

“Shit!  My mother!” They said in unison as Jim shimmied off of Rose.

“I’m going to stop her before she uses the key under the mat,” Jim said.

Rose twisted against the ropes binding her to the bed.  “Untie me,” she demanded as she pulled, wrenching her arms back and forth while Jim searched the floor for his boxers.  “Jim!  You know she’s going to show up any second! Get these ropes off of me!”  Rose’s voice rose in panic until “me” came out as a high-pitched squeal.

“I’m trying to find my boxers so I can answer the damn door! If I can get rid of her, we can go back to playing!”  And with that, the doorbell rang, announcing the arrival of Maggie.  All movement stopped as the first few measures of “Ode to Joy” rang throughout the house.  Rose and Jim stared at each other, suspended in the time before the storm. The ensuing knock propelled them into action.  Having given up the search for his discarded boxers, Jim opened his dresser drawer for a fresh pair.  He hopped on one foot as he tried to stuff his foot into the leg slot, but his toe kept getting caught in the fly.  He gave up and flopped on the bed and angled himself so he could thrust both feet in at the same time.

While Jim struggled with his boxers, Rose continued to struggle against the ropes, flopping her body and yanking her arms in a futile attempt to loosen the knots.  Jim became distracted by Rose’s bouncing and couldn’t resist leaning over to tweak a nipple. 

“Argh!” Rose screamed as she used her feet to thrust Jim off the bed.  He waggled his eyebrows at his wife from his new perch on the floor and grinned at her, seemingly unfazed by the pounding at the door.

“You better be nice, or I’ll leave the bedroom door open,” he taunted.

“You wouldn’t,” Rose’s voice tended to climb a few octaves when she was pushed too far. 

The doorbell rang again, and Rose and Jim could hear Maggie calling over the sound of the landscapers, “Yoo hoo! Rose! Wake up, darling!”  

Rose’s eyes turned into slits as Jim stood up and leaned over her, kissing her nose.  “You said you wanted me to be in charge.  How’s it feel to be at my mercy?”  he teased.  Rose’s eyes squinted even further.  She could hear her mother pounding on the door. “I kind of like you this way,” he whispered.  “Wild, breathing hard,” he stopped to kiss her again, “chest heaving,” he glanced down and gave her an appreciative wink.  Rose couldn’t help it; she giggled.

“Go! Get the door before she breaks it down, and then please, oh masterful one,” she couldn’t resist an eye roll at her overplayed words,  “please come back and have your way with me.” She waggled her eyebrows back up at Jim and puckered her lips, offering a kiss. Jim kissed her, grabbed his robe, and headed out the bedroom door, closing it behind him.  

Rose lay back on the bed, grinning like an idiot.  She was bound, helpless, and head over heels in love with her husband.  Rose sighed, snuggled deeper into the sheets, and listened while Jim greeted her mother and then tried to dissuade her from coming into the bedroom and seeing if she was feeling okay. 

“What was her mother’s deal?” Rose thought. She constantly intruded in their lives, taking over projects and pushing her standards onto them. Rose stiffened as the voices came closer to the bedroom door.  She listened intently, hoping Jim could stop her mother before she got to the door, but her mother’s voice grew closer.

“Are you sure she’s okay?  Rose has never been one to sleep in.  Maybe I should just go in and peek, make sure she’s not running a fever.”  

Rose almost called out that she was fine but realized she was supposed to be sleeping.  She looked down at herself to see if she could cover herself up.  The sheet was at the foot of the bed.  She wiggled as far down as her bound wrists would let her, stretched out her foot, and tried to grab the sheet with her toes.  She could hear Jim talking with her mom as her toes snagged the sheet.

“She’s had a rough week, been preparing for that big case, and just needs some sleep.  I’d rather not bother her.  Hey, do I smell your famous homemade cinnamon rolls? Are they still warm?” Rose could hear Maggie murmuring something to Jim, and their voices seemed to move away from the bedroom.  Rose sighed in relief and continued lifting the sheet higher with her toes.  When it got up as high as she could get it without getting a muscle cramp, Rose let the sheet go and then turned her body diagonally, angling her leg under the sheet and getting more leverage.  When she was finally in a pike position, Rose gripped the sheet with her toes and lifted it to her outstretched fingertips.  It took three attempts, but Rose could finally grab the sheet with her hand, angle herself back into position, and drop the sheet over her naked body.  

A thin sheen of sweat had built up on Rose’s upper lip, and she turned her head to try and wipe it on the pillow.  She lay back and waited, trying to ignore the tickling sensation the sweat created on her upper lip.  She kept trying to wipe it on her shoulder but couldn’t quite reach with her arm still bound.  She lay back again.  She could hear Jim and Maggie faintly in the kitchen and wondered how long she would have to wait for her mother to leave.  She sat and watched the clock as the second hand ticked each and every second.  Rose’s lip itched.  She had to go to the bathroom.  Her arms were going numb, and the second hand’s tick seemed amplified.

“JIM! Could you come here, please?”  As soon as the words were out of her mouth, Rose cursed herself.  “Damn it! Now I’ve gone and done it!  I couldn’t have waited five more minutes for him to figure out how to get back here.  Damn, damn, damn!”  Rose could hear Jim approaching.

“Coming, honey!” Jim called. Rose could still hear him talking to her mother, “No, really, Maggie!  Just stay and finish your rolls.  Maggie, she called me.  Maggie, I’m sure she’s fine.  Maggie!”  Rose could hear the scurry of rushed footsteps approaching her door and closed her eyes.  She did not want to see her mother’s reaction when the door opened.  There was a scuffling sound at the door, and the door creaked open.  Rose couldn’t resist. She peeked open one eye to see who was coming through the door,  relieved to see it was Jim.  He squeezed his body through an opening only big enough for his body. Behind him, she could see her mother jumping up and down, trying to look in.  

“Hi, Mom!”  Rose called out as Jim closed the door.  “Lock it!” she hissed once it was shut. “My arms are numb; I have to pee, and my lip itches! Hurry up and get me out of this!”  

Jim hurried to the bed and started working on the knots.  “All of your twisting and pulling made these knots so tight.  I can’t get them undone.”

“That’s not funny, Jim” 

“I’m not trying to be funny.  I really can’t get them undone.”  Jim sat on the bed and looked down at Rose. “Where are the scissors?”  

Rose glared at Jim,  “They’re in the kitchen. With. My. Mother.”

“Crap!  Let me think.” Jim pursed his lips in thought. “I got it!” Jim bounced off the bed, raced into the adjoining bathroom, and came out with toenail clippers.

“Are you kidding me?  We’ll be here forever.  My mother will never sit and wait that long.”

“Do you have any other suggestions?”  Jim’s irritation silenced Rose, and he began hacking away at the rope with the toenail clippers.  Rose lay fuming.  The sound of the lawn mower passing by her window irked her even more.

“What gives her the right to get us a landscaping service?  How does she know we even want one?  So, we’d rather fuck than do the yard work every week; it’s not as if the neighbors are complaining.  And who sends landscapers over so early in the morning?”  Jim freed her right wrist as she fired off her questions.

“What gives her the right to do any of the things she does? However, we don’t get around to the yard work; it’s a nice gesture. She paid for the first month, and if we are happy with the service, we can continue paying.  We have so many other priorities; it’s a nice gesture.”  Jim tried to soothe Rose as he continued to hack away at the rope on her left wrist.  

“You’re just saying that because now your afternoon is free.”  

“OUR afternoon is free. Let’s go do something fun.”

“Did you forget we have the memorial dinner tonight?” Rose asked.  Jim’s shoulders sagged with the reminder.

“Rose dear?  Are you feeling alright?”  Maggie’s mother knocked on the bedroom door and started to turn the doorknob.

“MOM!  I’m fine!  I’m naked!  I’ll be right out!”  Rose glared at Jim nodding her head towards her wrist, motioning for him to hurry up.

“I gave birth to you!  I’ve seen you naked before!” Maggie said as she realized the door was locked.

“Mom!  Really?  I’m in my bedroom naked with my husband.  Could you give us a moment?”

Silence greeted this statement, and then the sound of receding footsteps followed by Maggie’s voice.  “Sorry for intruding, dear!  You love birds have fun! I’ll see you tonight.  Don’t be late!” she called out.  The resounding click of the front door announced the stress level it trapped inside.  

“When does school start?”  Jim asked.

“Not for another four weeks.  Summer school ended Friday, and she has four weeks to drive us all insane before school starts again for the year.”

“I don’t think I can do it again,” Jim finished snipping through the rope with this announcement.  “I don’t think I can referee the two of you, and your brother, for the next four weeks.”

Rose sat up and kissed Jim’s forehead.  “I don’t have any suggestions.  She joined the knitting club and a few book clubs and is involved with that charity organization.  I don’t know how she finds the time to make us all miserable, but she does.”

“You know what she needs,” Jim said.

“Yeah, she needs to get a life and get out of ours!”

“That’s one answer,” Jim replied, kissing Rose’s wrists. “Damn, you’re going to have some bruises.” 

 

[Marisa]

At 8:07 he walked through the lobby doors and just as planned, I stood up and smiled at him, resting my hands to my sides. He looked even more like General Hospital’s Sonny Corinthos from the Sonny/Brenda years in person than he did on our pre-date video chat. Similar to Sonny’s, his dark brown hair was a long buzz cut and he had to be around five foot nine/five foot ten, just like the actor who played Sonny—Maurice Benard. Instead of Sonny/Maurice’s brown eyes, he had pulsating ocean blue eyes that had my lady parts screaming. And the dimples… my panties were mentally already off; it was like he was trying to seduce me with fashion, wearing exactly what I loved. Tight gray dress pants, brown belt, button-up navy top that exposed just enough of his hairless chest to make me wonder what the rest looked like, and brown leather loafers. Navy tops on men are my weakness, and the tightness in his shirt showed he works out but is not too bulky. We were off to a good start. If the dating Gods were about to fulfill my celebrity crush fantasy, I was here for it.

“I like this. You look very pretty,” he said as he tugged on my skirt and pulled me into him for a hug. 

I thanked him as I blushed and felt my body tingle

“Should we have that drink?” He asked.

I smiled and nodded yes.

He put his arm out for me to grab and we walked over to the bar. His voice sounded a little differently than it did on our call—raspy—like he did not get much sleep the night prior. He then caught me off guard when he pulled my bar stool out for me. I tilted my head slightly, smiled, and thanked him.

“What are we drinking tonight?” The bartender asked as he set down a coaster.

“Let me guess, you like sweet drinks?” ‘Sonny’ asked.

Correct. Maybe because in one of our conversations I told him how I was a chocolate chip cookie monster.

“Of course,” I chuckled. “But, I’ve been trying to cut back on the sugar at night. How about a dry glass of wine? Whatever you think is good?” I asked in a bit of ditsy way. I was not a dits at all, the complete opposite, actually; intelligent and educated, but that tone just kind of came out. My date sounded like he knew a thing or two about wine considering the way he confidently asked the bartender if he had any dry whites from San Gimignano.

The bartender looked through a few bottles then held up an Italian Sauvignon Blanc with a pretty label—gold and yellow with black writing in some kind of old world script above an outline of what looked like an old church. My date looked at me for confirmation and asked what I thought. I nodded yes and smiled. As someone who works in public relations, pretty things like labels, and Italian men from Philly, garnered my attention.
 

I took my first sip and let out an accidental soft moan followed by a wipe of the liquid off my lips with my dainty fingers, like I had just tasted the best wine drink in existence, which I think caught him off guard based on how big his eyes seemed to get bigger watching me. The wine was delicious, just like I’m sure he would taste. The sight of him alone made me want to rip his clothes off right there at that bar, without caring who saw. Better yet, let them get a show.

“Sip?” I asked as I held out the glass in his direction, exposing my red finger nails.

He carefully took a sip and agreed.

“Very good!”

My date was gently-spoken and communicated calmly in a low volume, unlike most other Italian men I had known. His energy felt kind and mysterious. Not mysterious quite like I bury bodies like Sonny, but like, he had been through some stuff and did not open up much.

He sipped on his Maker’s Manhattan and looked into my eyes.

“So, Annie. How did you get here? Agreeing to possibly have a one-night stand with a stranger you met on Instagram?”

I gulped. Yes, we did have that conversation, but as he said those words out loud, my eyes did a quick scan around to see if anyone heard.

“I could ask you the same thing?” 

“Fair enough. An ex-wife.”

That was it. Short, and to the point, making me wonder what she did, knowing, since I’d never see this man again per our agreement, it did not matter.

[Sherman]

Disclaimer: I know there is not a lot of dialogue here. Perhaps when I'm further along in the novel (still early concept) I can solve that!

[Karen McCrary]

My knees gave out as I fell to the floor. I clinched myself into a ball, rocking back and forth on my elbows and knees, chin tucked into my chest, as my head dug deep into the floor in front of me. I cried so hard my mouth pried itself open in silence as I gasped reluctantly for air. Up until this moment, heartbreak was a cliche emotion I had experienced once after being dumped by my highschool boyfriend after prom junior year. Now, heartbreak feels as if my heart was dissolving out of my body before I could catch its pieces, leaving in its wake a crater of searing desperation. This was more than disappointment or betrayal, this was disposal. If I had stopped breathing at that moment, it would have been an act of mercy. Life seemed too long for a pain this heavy. Don’t get me wrong, my sadness did not equal regret. 

That was the moment that broke me open. I had quit crying years prior when I had temporarily taken antidepressants to cope with the tension of my increasingly hostile marriage and growing urge to protect my children from it. Isolated and no transportation of my own, my courageous call to the pastor to talk after church on Sunday was dismissed. Within a few days, it had evolved into a full-blown postpartum mood disorder leading me back to the sanctuary of the hospital. I didn't know what would happen as I walked through the sliding glass doors with an infant carrier in hand, or if I'd ever see my son again; I just knew my baby needed to be safe. Sitting on the emergency room bed with my feet dangling below and my infant son being rocked by a kind nurse in the hallway, my husband quietly threatened me that if I mentioned him as part of the problem, he would abandon me right there. I kept quiet and became numb. Not only did I abandon the feelings and expectations that were in direct conflict with my spouse’s behavior, I abandoned myself and my own. 

This numbness became apparent to me when my grandfather died and I couldn't cry. Not because I didn't love him, I did. He taught me how to fish and we talked often as he drove me to school in his old pickup truck. It was as if a switch to feeling had been turned off inside me. I went through the actions of love and rituals of grief seamlessly, but felt completely void in feeling it. 

The annihilation of my innocence and trust in the world as I knew it was so overpowering in that moment, it broke me open and forced me against my will to feel again. I often described it as emotional rape. As a sexual abuse survivor, I don't use this term without extreme caution. However, no other word I’ve found more closely articulates its non-consensual nature and intentionally cruel act of total domination that forced itself upon me to feel what it itself would not. 

 

[Nancy Cross]

Police POV Opening Scene. Foreshadows police and jurisdiction conflicts.

 

Hopi Reservation, Keams Canyon, Arizona. Its midnight at Keams Canyon’s Hopi Tribal Police Headquarters. Headquarters is one hundred and twenty-three miles away by car from Flagstaff, or ninety-two miles as the crow flies. Keams is on the Hopi Reservation, but not a recognized village. Hopi police enforce tribal and state law, but Keams is also the base of operations for the Bureau of Indian Affairs, responsible for conducting federal crime investigations and managing Hopi custody facilities.

Hopi Police Chief Isaac Benge paces in front of the reservation map estimating distances, drawing several black marker circles. Then tapped a knuckle inside the largest one. “We need to begin our investigation here in the Coal Mine Canyon shrine location.” For over a century, this secret shrine’s held Hotevilla's traditional spiritual leaders’ most sacred ceremonial items.

Earlier that evening, Hotevilla Village, on the third mesa of the reservation, was preparing for their WuWuchim Night of Washing of the Hair Ceremony. During that time, a village elder called Hopi Police to report an attack on one of their priests while retrieving ceremonial items from this shrine. Looters made off with all of their ceremonial items, including their most sacred Blue Kachina mask with supernatural powers.

Deputy Juan Montoya, lost in thought, interrupts. “Coal Mine Canyon’s on the other side of the res, close to Navajo territory.” Fidgeting in a worn armchair, he stands to survey the map. “The drive time and investigation of the canyon trail and shrine will take a full day.” He monitors Benge’s response. But Benge remained silent, so he continues, “There are four deputies scheduled to work tomorrow, and we need two of them at the station to take care of emergency calls.”

Benge, still studying the map, answers. “You know, Hotevilla priests are distressed because they had to stop the Washing of Hair Ceremony.” Hopi ceremonies must be carried out correctly to ward off bad luck, maintain balance, and please Masaw, the guardian of the Earth. “Let’s hope the stolen Blue Kachina won’t cause us any problems.” Hopi know proper devotion to Kachina’s, who have supernatural powers, will prevent Kachina revenge. His cell buzzes. “Chief Benge.”

“Chief Benge, this is Sargent Niles from the Arizona State Police. We found a dead Native male near Flagstaff along Highway 89 North. He looks Hopi. We need someone from your reservation to make an identification.”

“Not surprised.” Chief Benge casts a mournful glance at Montoya. “Tonight, we had a looting of one of the res’ most sacred shrines.” A sense of foreboding crept down his spine. “I’m on my way.” His face looks solemn after ending the call. “Looks like white man’s wicked thoughts may be our looting’s motive.” The Hopi believe they’re the caretakers of the Earth, but white man’s way of life: war, exploiting land and natural resources threatens their balance.

“That means white man’s police are going to get involved.” Montoya looks like he just smelled something bad. “And the FBI.”

[Mickey]

Beginning of the opening scene: introduces antagonistic force, setting, tone, and foreshadows the primary conflict.

Opening Quote:

“There are rooms that wait for us. And someday we may be in that room and something may happen to us that may change our life forever.”

       –Gloria Vanderbilt (Nothing Left Unsaid/Anderson Cooper documentary)

Word Count: 1016 (so far)

Melly entered the room and heard a familiar refrain.

“A closer inspection of this portrait, notwithstanding the cheery-yellow gown, will reveal clues to Elizabeth’s grief… the purple sash she holds and the urn to her left… can you see the word “farewell” written just there?” The guide pointed to the urn in the portrait as the tour-goers leaned in for a closer look.

Melly walked quietly to the opposite side of the Withdrawing Room just in front of the west-facing windows full of bright late-afternoon light.

“Waaaaittttt… I GOT IT!”

A high-pitched squeal pierced the relative quiet of the room. From outside. Down below.

Melly looked out to see her goddaughter laughing, being chased by Melly’s husband and nephew. Where on earth had they found a frisbee? She turned back to the room to find six faces staring directly at her. Five elderly ladies and an annoyed guide. He continued his well-rehearsed rhetoric. She tuned out his words. Melly knew them well enough. Nothing much had changed in the decade or so since she’d spent time here giving a somewhat similar tour herself.

The same yellow and purple Wilton rug. The ensuite monochromatic yellow damask Lord Dunston Schumacher pattern used for upholstery, draperies, and wall hangings. The mis-matched collection of Queen Anne, Chippendale, and Hepplewhite furniture. Melly always believed Elizabeth would be mortified by the furnishings in this reproduction room. The room she is forced to look down upon from her portrait’s overmantel position. They had matched the room to the colors in her portrait. Her “mourning” portrait. What could be more dreadful than that?

“Excuse me…” Melly heard the sound of a phlegmy throat clearing.

It was the guide. She realized he was now standing directly behind her. Looking over her shoulder to the lawn down below.

“Are those your children?” he asked.

“I don’t have children.”

He appeared crestfallen by the notion.

“No? That’s a shame. Being a father, and especially a grandfather, has been such a highlight of my life.” He continued as if she cared to hear what he thought about anything. “Someone needs to tell that young miss to mind her manners. Screeching like that.”

Melly turned abruptly to face the man. The color in her cheeks flared as she stared him down.

“The tour has moved on to the Ballroom,” he continued, “please follow me. The rest of the group is waiting.”

He was oblivious to her rage at what he’d said referencing her goddaughter.

“Don’t worry about me,” she said.

Now it was his turn to be perturbed with her. He was not a man who took well to anyone not following his direction. He stared back at her, as if to shame her into reconsidering.

“I’m a former site manager,” she said. “I was told this is your last tour of the afternoon? So… I thought I’d be helpful… close the room down so the catering staff could start setting up for the party. MY party. It’s my birthday today. I’m hosting a dinner in the ballroom.”

His grey eyes flickered with recognition.

“The reason we’re closing early for tours today,” he said. “Yes. I was told this morning. Very well then.”

He turned on his heels and slowly walked towards the ballroom entrance. Melly followed close behind. She could hear one of the ladies in the next room reading aloud from the letter written by Sally Bache, which sat on the music stand. Sally had written her “dear papa” Ben Franklin while he was performing his diplomatic duties as the first American Minister in France.

“Just imagine,” the woman said, “she danced here in this room with George Washington on the occasion of his twentieth wedding anniversary!”

Melly couldn’t help but roll her eyes. “George Washington danced here,” she thought to herself. Will we ever move on from that moment?

She closed the door between the two rooms, then crossed back to close the door to the stair hall and reached over to extinguish the nondescript Ikea floor lamp in the corner. Then back to the window wall. She looked out to see that things had quieted down. The catering staff had started the set up for the pre-dinner garden cocktails. She carefully reached up for the cord to the Venetian blinds, dark wood with emerald green ribbons, the same as in every window of the museum. It was one of the most popular questions from visitors. Having only experienced the 20th-century aluminum version, they questioned the authenticity of such window treatments, having no idea the design was patented in the 1700s and popularized in Colonial Philadelphia. As the second blind dropped down, the room was suddenly gloomy. It took a moment for Melly’s eyes to adjust once she blocked out the late afternoon glare. Now the sun’s rays merely crept around the edges of the window blinds. And through the one broken slat.

She was alone and the room was at rest. Well not really. Had it been Elizabeth’s era the English Dr. Wall-style blue and white porcelain tea set would have been removed. The Hepplewhite card table would have been folded down and placed against the wall along with its matching chairs. Every thing would have been put away by the servants. Melly sat on the floor, next to the tea table with a full view of Elizabeth’s portrait. Why had the familiarity never struck her before now? Her childhood tea parties with Snoopy, Pink bunny, and a well-dressed doll. The table set with petite linens made by a great-grandmother and a set of miniature Willow Blue china. The tea set she still owns. The tea set she’d always assumed would be passed onto her own children.

She looked up at Elizabeth’s portrait. This was the exact place she’d first asked the question. If not motherhood? If not motherhood, then what? She’d moved into this house, Elizabeth’s house, not yet knowing the outcome. But questioning what her life would look like if she never got pregnant. If she never became a mother.

Melly had entered the Withdrawing Room. And now she realized everything was different.  

[Tracy Ballinger]

Late one evening in October, Robin paced around her wee Edinburgh flat, phone in hand, gathering courage to message a friend.  She needed courage because the friend was not a close friend, nor one-hundred-percent pure friend, but also a man who, despite efforts not to, she'd developed a crush on.  He'd been thwarting her efforts not only by being exceedingly handsome, warm, and affable, but also by sending her flirtatious messages and kissy-face emojis.  The emojis had lost their charm after a couple weeks when they never evolved to a phone call or more substantial messages, and when the kissy-face messages had died off, she'd written him off.  He was in Iceland, anyway, while she was in Scotland.  That was summer a year ago. 

Then, that spring, she'd gotten in touch with him again on the pretense of needing travel advice for Italy, his native land, and he'd responded by sending her a half-naked photo of himself in addition to the travel advice.  A few of her friends had received half-naked photos of men before.  One had even received an unprovoked dick pick, which she'd promptly scolded the man for.  A photo of a man's bare chest and face was a different thing, however, and Robin had found his photo particularly charming.  At first it had shocked her; she'd only expected a bit of travel advice and more kissy-face emojis.  Was this his attempt to up the ante?  Do kissy-face emojis evolve to naked pictures and then a phone call?  Or were phone calls out of the picture and this was his way of making clear he just wanted sex?  

An old fear crept up whispering if she wasn't up for sex she wasn't wanted, but she brushed the stifling fear aside, reminding herself the notion she was desirable to men only for sex came from her sex-obsessed culture but was fundamentally a lie.  Most men, like most human beings, actually wanted intimacy and, like many women, used sex because they didn't know how to get it otherwise.  The half-naked photo had only brought the lie to her mind again because it had made her think of sex and how she herself would like to have it with the man in the photo.  It wasn't the naked body per say that made her want it, but the vulnerability of the nakedness and playfulness of the pose.   He held his fists up like a body builder flexing his biceps and made a goofy face, puckering his lips together, bulging his eyes out, and raising his eyebrows.  He'd sent it with the self-deprecating caption, "I got stuck in a random Italian city and miss my flight lovely Robin! I pretended I was a tourist and tomorrow I'll be back to Iceland.. and I'll collect my ideas and write or call u sweety!!  This is me now a bit drunk sending love to you after weeks of hard working out."

[Harlow Robinson]

Harlow Robinson

CHAPTER TWO

 

TO THE FINLAND STATION

 

 

            Finland was my first foreign country.  

            Before embarking for Leningrad, we spent a week there, staying outside Helsinki in what looked like college dormitories, nestled among the pines and birches.  In my state of nearly delirious anticipation and jet lag I hardly slept at all, passing the days in a jumbled haze of impressions, lying awake at night, my heart beating fast. We took Russian language tests, and received daily briefings from a solemn posse of academic and government officials on the dangers and challenges of living in the USSR at the height of the Cold War. Soviet troops had marched into Prague just two years earlier, and the regime of Leonid Brezhnev enforced ideological conformity with a grim determination, persecuting dissidents like Andrei Sakharov and sending author and biologist Zhores Medvedev to a mental hospital. US-Soviet relations were fragile and fraught, as I was learning in my college courses on international relations.

            So these men in suits wanted to scare us a little, and stressed that we had better behave ourselves or the Russians we met would think badly of the United States--especially since most of them probably would never have met a real-life American before. 

            "Remember that you are representing not only yourself, but your country," they reminded us as we sat obediently in a silent auditorium.  "And be careful not to drink too much. It is an easy thing to do in Russia and can land you in trouble." 

            At this time, I was still under the legal drinking age in Connecticut, but had considerable experience of binge-drinking at college events where beer flowed like water. Vodka, I would learn, was an entirely different thing. And much more dangerous.  After the first few glasses, you felt sharp, luminous, soaring. But after the third or fourth you got wobbly and silly and dizzy.  After the fifth you were in the bathroom retching up dinner.

            Even worse, we might get in trouble and land in a Soviet prison, a truly terrifying prospect. We felt important and apprehensive in our apparent role as citizen-diplomats. None of us wanted to start a nuclear war, or to be sent to the GULAG, of whose horrors we knew from the works of Alexander Solzhenitsyn and other reports. 

            In our free time I explored immaculately groomed Helsinki with fellow students, marveling at the strange Baltic food (plenty of sardines) and enjoying the beer in a country with no apparent drinking age. The architecture and monuments provided ample evidence of the pervasive Russian colonial influence that had shaped (or disfigured, depending on your point of view) Finnish history and culture since the time of Napoleon. To us cheerful Americans, the Finns seemed dour, quiet and excessively reserved. They avoided eye contact as we passed on the scrubbed streets.

            "Don't these people ever smile?" asked my future Leningrad roommate, Walter, a handsome blonde from Princeton, smiling as he usually did. I developed a mild crush on him, but assumed he was straight, and we would go on double dates with our girlfriends in Leningrad.  Years later, I found out through a mutual friend that he had come out and was gay and living in Santa Fe with his lover.

            We guessed that all those years of living in a tiny nation next door to gigantic and often threatening Russia made the Finns fearful and wary. Later, during our time in Leningrad, we would see busloads of Finnish tourists arriving for a weekend of cheap binge drinking (liquor was much cheaper there) that left them staggering and embracing on the sidewalks, their Nordic inhibitions overcome by Russian vodka.

            We were also busy figuring out who among our fellow students we liked and would want to befriend. From the start, I was drawn to Vera, a flirtatious, sunny girl with a charming crooked smile, and shining straight long blonde hair she sometimes wore in a peasant-style braid. She came from a devout Russian Orthodox family living in a Russian emigre enclave in New Jersey, and already spoke fluent Russian. The man she was dating when we met was even planning to become an Orthodox priest and wanted to marry her. (Orthodox priests can marry but only before they are ordained.) Not surprisingly, she regarded Communism with a profound loathing instilled by her parents and relatives, since the staunchly atheistic Soviet government actively persecuted Orthodox believers. 

            Vera (her name means faith in Russian) also loved to sing Russian folk songs, and knew the Orthodox liturgical music I had been learning in the Yale Russian Chorus. We got acquainted on a boat tour around Helsinki harbor and soon became constant companions. She was also a talented artist, and would draw funny caricatures of me and our fellow students.

            With her by my side, I would see the USSR with a kind of double vision: as an American WASP with roots in Pilgrim New England, and as the child of nostalgic emigres forced to flee a beloved country and culture. She found it excruciating to listen to the endless propaganda lectures we would receive when we visited the magnificent palaces around the city built by the tsars. Many were still half in ruins 25 years after the Nazi assault upon the city. The guides inevitably pointed out the brutal injustice visited upon the Russian peasantry by the selfish aristocrats, and how Soviet power had brought enlightenment to the masses.

            When the guides started in on their ideological rants, she would give me a sad look and move to the back of the crowd. She would tell me how the members of her family had suffered under Soviet rule, and managed to leave the country, beginning difficult new lives in America. 

            "I love Russia," she would say, "but I hate the Soviet government." 

            With Vera I could also present myself as straight. Judging by the stern warnings of the somber men in suits, and by what I already knew about Soviet oppression of any kind of "dissidence," I knew that having a girlfriend would be helpful in this alien environment. I was in awe of her fluency in Russian, such a valuable asset, giving her the ability to "pass" as a native. But above all, I liked Vera and enjoyed spending time with her--and she reciprocated those feelings. The knowledge that I was gay I pushed to the back of my mind as an inconvenience, something to be dealt with later. 

            For the coming months, I would also "pass" as a heterosexual, slipping into that identity that made getting along--especially here--so much easier. Vera was modest and discrete and did not make many sexual demands. We would become known as one of the summer's most recognizable and well-matched couples.