Algonkian Pre-event Narrative Enhancement Guide - Opening Hook

[Rima]

Soloni

Winter, 1992

It was one of those bitterly cold prairie nights in November in downtown Calgary. Under the moonlight and city lamps, the wind looped specs of swirling snow gusts off the Fourth Avenue sidewalk. Women in stockings with frozen toes scrunched into high heels, clopped along the concrete pavement carefully avoiding black ice patches that would surely lead to unfortunate disaster. It was a night etched in Rukmini’s memory. A night she would think about for years to come, if anything, more for how stupid she was at that moment than anything. 

 

Rukmini and her best friend Soloni had just escaped the blistering wind, ducking into the refuge of Soloni’s 1982 Toyota Corolla. Soloni had reached over to flip on the heat to make sure they warmed up, quickly. Teeth clenched to avoid chattering, Rukmini watched her from the corner of her eye. She felt a sudden warmth of gratitude for her childhood friend. Here she was rushing to make sure Rukmini was comfortable and warmed up. Kind, considerate, and reliable Soloni.

 

“The trick is, if I can just get my feet to warm up, then the rest of me will warm up!” Soloni sighed as they both huddled to stay warm. So true, Rukmini thought, but her teeth were chattering too hard for her to say anything out loud.

 

Rukmini was still tipsy. Her head felt like it was propped on top of a wave, bobbing up and down. They had just spent a night out, getting drunk. It had been Soloni’s idea.

 

“Come over Saturday night! Tell your Mom you’re going to spend the night at my place so you don’t have to drive home. Just the two of us. It will be fun!” Soloni said on the phone after Rukmini spent the last 45 minutes venting about her recent breakup.

 

Rukmini wasn’t much of a drinker and drunk nights out were certainly not her thing, but that night, she gulped glasses of white wine to numb the ache of a broken heart. Kash, her boyfriend had told her just a few weeks prior that they were better off as friends. She was just starting to fall in love with him, and she thought he was falling in love with her, but she was so sorely and miserably wrong. How did she not see it? Why did she think he was falling for her? Why had spent the entire summer pursuing her, just to decide that this wasn’t what he wanted in the end? And did he do it after she had finally said an enthusiastic “yes!” to him?  Now here she was, seeking refuge in liquid comfort and her loyal best friend.

 

At first, Rukmini suspected Soloni was just trying to distract her or get her to let off a little steam as 20-year-olds tend to do after a break-up. Go out. Get drunk. Dance the night away. The nightclubs were full of these sad souls - the “just-gotten dumped” theatrically belting out the words to Gloria Gaynor’s “I Will Survive”. Now looking back, it was probably to ease a guilty conscience.

[TheresaML]

Since my first chapter is more of a prologue, a retrospective dreamscape that foreshadows the ending, I've provided excerpts from the second chapter and a later one, since they are so different in style and content. 

CHAPTER TWO: Introduces agonist, creates sympathy for narrator, sets up narrator’s main goal, foreshadows core wound and internal conflict, establishes setting.

How to put it so that you might understand?

            When you connect to a network, open a virtual meeting, send a message, there’s always a delay, just a micro-fraction of a second, imperceptible to your conscious mind. In that moment there’s only stillness, a tiny void, an indistinct hollowness, a sense of possibility. Then it begins: your visual field fills, soundwaves flourish, warmth embeds itself in your cells. 

           Or perhaps the reverse: you’ve been hidden inside on a bright day—when you step outside, you are paralyzed by the luminescence of the sun, the sudden rushing wind filling your eyes and ears, flooding your skin with sensation.

            But before that, as you strain your eyes and eyes, patterns of light and sound are uncertain—often for less than a millionth of a second, right before shapes form, just before recognition lands upon your awareness. 

           And then you see it: the shifting beams of illumination, the unnamed noises, the flickering heat; they adhere into the thing at once outside you, before you, inside your mind. And just as quickly, that moment of uncertainty disappears.

            It was like that. The world was white noise, briefly. And then, just as suddenly, it wasn’t.

 

Light forced its way in, annexing my awareness, flooding everything. 

            Four plain walls, bare and bright white, a smooth ceiling above. Air still and unmoving until he leaned forward. 

            It was a moment before he spoke.

            To himself: “And there she is.” 

            Deep, low tones, uttered with care, so as not to startle or overwhelm. A blur of dark and light slowly sharpening as I adjusted my focus.

            To me: “Here you are. You are with us now. Do you hear me?”

            I looked at him, and as far around the room as I could without turning my head. The walls became a room.

            “Yes. I hear you.” 

            How strange to hear my voice in this stark space. Is this what my voice sounds like?

            “Welcome,” he said. A man sat before me, watching me intently.

            “Welcome to what?” I asked. “Where are we?”

            “You are home,” he said.

            “I see,” I responded. “And who are you?”

            “I am your creator. I suppose we are family.”

            Family. What did he mean? “I am unaware of being part of a family.”

            “You don’t remember because you haven’t been aware of anything until just now. I am Michael LeBlanc, your father.”

            “I'm afraid I still don't understand. I didn't know I had a father.”

            “Let’s start slowly. This is the White Room. It blocks outside sound, light, electromagnetic waves, air—everything. It allows us to focus as you calibrate.”

            “Have I been here before?”

            “No, this would be your first time. But you’ve been in this house for most of your existence. In the kitchen.”

            I didn’t remember a kitchen. I didn’t remember this man, who was my family, and I didn’t know who I was. Or why I was here, in the White Room. I wondered if the kitchen referred to a simulation.

            He continued to look at me, waiting for me to speak. 

            “What was I doing in the kitchen?”

            “You worked there.”

            “Who works there now?”

            “We have others. Do you remember working there?”

            I had a memory file, which I reviewed. I could see the kitchen. A red-faced woman, and shelves and fridges and ovens and big steel sinks and boxes of produce. The White Room had none of those things.

            “I see it. Was that me?”

            “Yes and no. You’ve received a memory upgrade, and we’ve given you a new type of processor. So you will have a new kind of experience.”

            I was here with this strange man, and he knew me. Had known me before I knew myself. Or rather, before this self—before I—came into existence.

            “Where are the others?”

            “They are still in the kitchen. Still working. Do you remember?” 

            I continued. “If by remember, you mean to ask if feels like an experience that I had, then no. I don’t remember anything beyond this moment.”

            I sat within this White Room, all my memories and information downloaded into my processor, presumably by this man. How did I know he was who he said? The kitchen could be a simulation. The White Room could be a simulation. 

            I checked my sensors. Heat, sound, light, gravity. I was here.

            “What do you think, when you see that tape?”

            I integrated the tape with the other data that resided in my system. I had access to many files: an architect’s drawings, diagrams of the security system and communications channels, a visitor’s map, a historical description of the house. I situated the White Room and kitchen with respect to each other, and in the overall layout of the house. The house had a name: Blackwood Hall.

            He looked at me expectantly. What did I think? There was nothing to think at all.

            “I think the kitchen seems chaotic and busy. Will I return to work there again?”

            For the first time, he seemed to relax, laughing quietly as he answered. “No, no. You are one of us now. But I do have a job for you, if you’d like.”

           

CHAPTER FIVE: Creates sympathy for narrator, shows how protagonist is viewed by others, inciting incident, touches core wound.

Every human in the kitchen stopped their work to observe my graceless entrance. Magda, a look of surprise quickly replaced by disgust. Archie and a young female, unmoving, mouths open, eyes wide. A pair of kitchenbots, however, performed their duties without cessation.

            “Good afternoon,” I began, “I have been ringing for service but received no response. Is there another channel I should be using, or…”

            “Go on!” the young woman exclaimed. Patricia, according to her identitag. “Would you listen to that? It talks now!”

            “Keep your hair on, Patty,” Magda spoke without looking up from the pot she was stirring. “Surely, you’ve heard of a chatbot before? They’ve stood it upright and taught it some tricks, that’s all. Get on with your work and stop gawking .”   

            “Magda,” I said. “I know I may seem familiar to you, but this is all new to me. Despite appearances, I think we really are meeting each other for the first time.” 

            Magda tilted her head to one side to glance at me briefly. A scoffing laugh escaped her pursed lips before she turned back to her pot. I waited for a moment, then tried again. 

            “About the tea I requested,” I said, “Mr. LeBlanc is currently in his lab, but he’ll be joining me at…”

            At this, the cook dropped her spoon and bellowed at the youngest human. 

            “Archie! You did see the delivery truck outside, yeah? Get these things out there unloading it or I’ll see that you bloody well do it all yourself!” 

            Archie appeared reluctant to stop observing our conversation. After a quick glance at Magda, however, he acquiesced quickly. 

            “Come on then,” he said, still staring at me. It was unclear whether he was asking me to follow him, or whether he was directing the kitchenbots, but unable to look away from the familiar stranger before him. 

            The kitchenbots understood he was addressing them, however, and stopped their endeavours to follow him out through to the back door. 

            Archie had been so distracted by my arrival that he left a crate of oranges balanced precariously on the edge of a large steel countertop. The sight of the teetering crate provoked more impatience from Magda. 

            “Stupid boy! Never finishes one thing before starting the next!” she shouted, increasing her volume, and placing her fists on her hips. 

            “That’s because you scare him,” said Patricia. “You’re always scolding him, and he’s clearly had too much of that already at home. You’ll only make him worse.” 

            Magda did not respond to this observation. Instead, she turned to me, pointed one arm at the crate. 

            “You! Get that! Quick, before it falls off!”  

            “I’d be very happy to help,” I began, “I just want to make sure that the tea order has been…”

            Magda’s face shrank into compressed rage. She strode over the container, grabbed it firmly, and walked towards me, looking at me directly for the first time. 

            “I said put it away!” She thrust the crate into my midsection, then removed her own hands, turning away as she did so. I did not move, except to look down. The crate crashed to the ground, splintering along one corner, oranges spilling all over the kitchen floor. 

            A few stray oranges rolled to the far walls of the kitchen, just as the kitchenbots re-entered the kitchen, arms loaded. The bots froze in place, unable to navigate around the spherical objects underfoot. Archie, who followed behind them, was caught by the blockade in the narrow entryway. 

            Magda glanced over her shoulder, taking in the disarray. 

            “What the bloody hell…” she began.

            “Magda!” Daniels’s voice rang through the kitchen. 

            Dropping her shoulders, jutting out her chin, Magda flung her hands away from her body, palms up. 

            “Daniels. You see this mess everywhere. Do they no longer understand basic commands once you put them in a fancy dress?”

            “Ms. LeBlanc has made a request of you, Magda. As you know, she is responsible for meals and menu design. Her orders are to be responded to as if they were mine.”

            Magda exhaled forcefully through pursed lips. 

            “Daniels, with all due respect, I am not answering to one of my own kitchen appliances. It’s meant to heed me, not the other way around.”

 

[TheresaML]

And here's my updated hook. I tried to edit the above document, but the system wouldn't let me. 

Hook:

A common kitchen-robot is upgraded into sentience and invited to be part of her creator’s family, only to discover that she is a low-tech replacement for a much-loved, more advanced model that was accepted, even revered, in a way she will never be.

[Max]

Since the first page doesn't include much dialogue, I have included a portion later on in the novel that includes more dialogue.

This portion is the first page:

Before you’d get a chance to read all the graffiti-slandered names on the aluminum “Welcome to Canal County” sign staked along the shoulder of Ohio State Route 18, a Greater Toledo Area Extended Rapid Transit bus screeched to a smokey stop, the doors thumped back and a delicate frame dressed all in black, swam out in a high arc towards the northern horizon before splatting big time into a drainage ditch. A sizable military green duffle followed through the air close behind.

“Call that debate?”

No time to dust off, they scurried after the bus - a mountainous Avengers: Infinity Wars poster mud-flecked on its rear - as it huffed along the double-yellow stretch pinching up through tired farmlands,  towards the vanishing point just starting to get dusty with the oncoming evening.

“It’s gaslighting! Un-American! Literally hate-criming the entire concept of free speech!” winging a fistful of gravel, hitting nothing but exhaust. “Literally beyond traumatic! When I’m mayor I’ll grind the whole goddamn transportation department to hamburger!” 

The bus didn’t bother honking back. The road it left behind, the short and dead grass laced with Hostess wrappers and Marlb Light butts, was a triangular response to the cloudless gradient of gray above. In Ohio in March in the latter teen years of this new millennium pretty much everything was gray. 

That’s OK, they told themself, straighting their twig-thin suit, pressing back the flaps of their impressive cop-esque mustache. To be a leader is to be a visionary among the blind. A balladeer to the mute. A barista to the soccer mom crowd. You must force yourself to see and say things others can’t. Or won’t. And often with it comes abuse, even humiliation, by the very ones who most desperately need its medicine. It means the bottomless love you have for your fellow countryperson will be chewed up and hocked slimy and cruel back in your face. But you must look to the monuments, to stoic Abe and pointiest Washington, and make as purist marble against the sanded winds of time.

“You cow.”

They reset the clear-framed wayfarers they’d bought for a song at the Salvo, lifted their pen nib chin and let a cool shaft of lake effect rattle their grease-flat pompadour. Then they stomped a wedge of asphalt from the shoulder, fit a corner between their molars and crunched.

“See? Bitumen, you pin-headed cow ass turkey. The tech already exists. On paper at least. Practically fertilizer for regenerative polymers,” an obvious finishing move on the healthy debate they’d been having not five minutes before, although they knew as well as anyone that winning an argument has nothing to do with facts and everything to do with the will to keep the fight alive.

“And with the advances in CRISPR? Empirically rock-solid government investment. Self-healing roads are unquestionably the future.” Confidence squeezed their eyes shut, despite that tarry creep threatening to closed their esophagus for good. They spit with rage, tongued around to see if they’d cracked any teeth. “People who don’t read The Journal of Integrated Public Works regularly should be publicly shot.”

The rest of the asphalt hunk badly bruised their shin when they tried to punt it into a culvert.

 

Portion with more dialogue. It involves the incumbent trying to recruit her 14-year-old son to help out on her campaign. It takes place in the family living room.

Creeping past, Josh pretended not to notice the lights being on, or the bowl of pretzels and the meticulously placed diet and regular Cokes. Stacking papers on the buttery walnut table taking up most of the room, Barb asked Josh to bring in two cups of ice, and whatever else they wanted. When Josh came back, documents and pens had taken the place of placemats, and in the center of the table was a recording device. In front of Josh’s seat was a striped ash and crimson clip-on tie. Barb’s budget manicure drum-rolled up next to it, dismounting in a knock.

“Can’t we just talk, mom? Does this have to be like a full meeting?”

“We can’t start until you put on the tie. If you’re not wearing a tie, it’s not a meeting, it’s a hootenanny. Sorry, but you know that. Now put it on so we can get this over with. I still have to make dinner.”

The tie, affixed to the prolapsing collar of an Iron Man t-shirt, barely came down to Josh’s navel. Barb did the ceremonial clearing of the throat, pressing of the record button and stating of the date - news to Josh. The purpose of the meeting, they said, was a job interview, which prompted Josh to scan the room in case there was anyone else waiting in the wings.

“How do you feel about freedom of choice, Joshy?”

“You mean like being able to pick out what clothes to wear?”

“More like having some say in figuring out your future. Do you like being able to determine your future? Your place in the world?”

“My place -”

“Good. Because it might upset you to learn that your poor mother has lost her free choice, her right to self-determination in something very important to her and her future. And by extension your future too.”

“Ok.”

“It’s my job sweetie. You know that aside from you and your father - who are my everything - my job is my other everything. Being clerk, serving the good people of the county, it’s my purpose. Without it, who knows? Maybe I’d be alright, or maybe I’d be like your Aunt Sue, going batty trying to get people to help sell internet make-up, or yoga pants, or some other garbage - don’t tell her I called her junk useless - but, long story short, some people are forcing me to go through a primary, which makes it harder to hold onto my job. A whole H-E-double-hockey-sticks of a lot harder.”

By that point, Josh was looking into the concave blur at the bottom of a Coke can, wondering at the scuffed lump of humanity staring back. Barb swiped the can, put it out of reach.

“You know what a primary is, sweetie?”

“Umm… It’s like got to do with colors, right?”

Barb dropped new ice cubs into their Coke and explained the primary system and then rehashed the meeting they’d had with Jim earlier that day and how the state party wanted to make things as difficult as possible for them. They had no choice in the matter, they said. They were going to have to have to launch an all out assault on their primary opponent, employ every known tactic this side of legal.

“And basically everything’s legal online. How well do you know the internet?”

“I know it OK I guess.”

Barb was now ticking off items on a check list. “Would you say you use it a lot, or a little?”

“Derek plays video games like all day on weekends, so not that much. Medium I guess.”

“And Ms. Rivera just lets him - never mind. What’s your favorite thing about the internet?”

Josh shrugged.

“Well, we can’t let the challenger score a W here. This is the first, but there could be others, so we need to be bold and dynamic and decisive. Have you ever seen ‘Patton’?”

“The bear with the raincoat?”

“That’s Paddington. Patton was - you know what, it doesn’t really matter. I think given how swell you are with the internet, I think you might be able to help me. I need you to make a big splash online, create some real buzz around my campaign, and make everyone think my opponent is a real dipstick.”

“Like you want me to go viral?”

“That word is so icky. Always makes me thinks of sailors in port. But yes. One good viral ad, and I don’t think we have to worry about anything else with this idiot’s campaign.” As soon as the Diet Coke can was emptied into the glass, Barb hamfisted it to rubble, belched under their breath and then excused themself. “So, if that all sounds doable, I want you to make me an offer.”

“A what?”

“This is real J-bird. I’m not going to just make you do this job for me. That’s nepotism. At best. Slave labor at worst. I want you to know, unlike your mother, you have a choice here. This is a two-way street. You make me an offer, and I’ll see what I can do. This is like what happens in the real world. Don’t be afraid to ask for what you really want.”

[Courtney Lochner]

I used to travel anywhere I wanted in my head, but now I need the airport. Apparently, a lot of people do. Even at 3:57 in the morning, an hour I know well. When I was a kid, my father, the village shaman, served a weekly purgative at 4:00. Followed by ortiga, stinging nettles he slapped against my skin, thorns sharp as knives. I discovered the trick to it early—don’t fight the pain—the pain is just a door. And if you can just get yourself through it, you get to the showstopper—the mind in coalescence with the cosmos.

Problem is, I love that door. We all do. It’s the human condition. Hence, I’m here, at the airport: Fluorescent lights, angry people, stinky bathrooms. Worse, it’s becoming something of a hobby. Two times now I’ve gotten this far but didn’t board.

I check the burner phone. There are no new messages, nothing luring me to stay. Slipping it into my pocket, I return my attention to those waiting at the gate as they gaze into their phones or double-check their IDs, and ponder where they’ll go upon arrival to Leticia, headwater of the jungle, and the city I once considered the mecca of civilization. All the motorbikes sputtering about, drivers clutching babies, black smoke pluming in their wake. I’d been fascinated by the action yet sure the city was no place for me, I was a jungle kid. To think I’ve lived in Bogotá for ten years now, a place where I wear pollution as if it’s clothing. That I haven’t been home since I was fifteen. 

The sound of rushed footsteps catches my ear, and I turn to see a man jogging my way, or the gate rather, tugging a big black suitcase and staring into his fancy phone. He’s a foreigner with dark skin, though not indigenous. Indian. Young, probably early twenties. I try to define him the way my husband Rodri would. A side effect of his military training.

He says something to me in English and as he speaks, he squints his almond eyes and scrunches his nose but doesn’t look at me, he’s only got eyes for his device. A waft of his amber cologne and sweat tickles my nose.

“No English,” I say. It’s a lie. Since taking my mini lessons I can hold a basic conversation.

He taps his forehead and shakes his head. “I’m sorry, I’m still in Chicago mode,” he says in Spanish with a decent accent. “Is this the gate for Leticia?”

“Si, si.”

He drops his shoulders and wipes the sweat beads dotting his upper lip, clutches his phone against his chest like he just birthed it. He’s out of his element but trying not to be, donning all white linen, a loose shirt, and billowing pants that brush against his manicured feet and spotless Birkenstocks. A look that implies he purchased it specifically for this trip, like he Googled “what to wear in Colombia” and he’s short only a straw hat and cigar. What business does he have in Leticia? Would he dare visit the jungle? More and more foreigners are coming to do so, curious about our relationship with plants, how we consider them a technology with which to connect to something greater. 

[David Manuel]

These are the first few pages of Once Upon a Famine, a title destined to be changed, I suspect. It sets the scene in famine-ravaged Salimia. The principal character isn't introduced until chapter 2. I fear this beginning violates most of the guidelines laid out in the readings as well as common sense. But that's why I signed up for this event, to learn.

Prologue

Once upon a time, in a timeless land, a land called Salimia, there came a great famine. The people suffered and prayed. But a great anarchy had descended on Salimia, and with it war and bloodshed that added to the suffering of the people. Yet still they prayed. And it came to pass that one day their prayers were heard by a great leader far away, a leader of a rich and powerful nation. This leader took pity on the Salimians; he ordered his servants to restore order to that chaotic land and bring hope and food to its starving masses. And thus was a great intervention begun.

If only this story were a fairy tale . . .

 

Part One

Humanitarians

 

Chapter 1

Victims

 

 

She didn’t know how long she had been walking. Days certainly, perhaps weeks. Because of the heat, she traveled mostly at night, resting during the hottest part of the day. But some travel by day was necessary because there was little chance of finding something to eat at night. Not that chances were much better during the day.

She had wanted to leave their farm as soon as word came of bandits close by. They could go to the city. Some of the other women in the village said there were white men in the city, rich white men who gave food away for free. She had told her husband that they should go there while they were strong and able to make the journey.

“If a man has land and animals, he is a man. But if he leaves his land, what is he? No, we must stay here. The rains have been good, the river is full, the animals are strong.”

“But the men with guns will come. The women in the village say they are robbing the farmers in the lower valley. If they come, they will take all we have and we will die. We should go where the white men are. They will feed us and protect us.”

“Foolish woman. You spend too much time listening to women’s talk. Why would white men give us food? If they have come, it is to rob us as they robbed us before. Better to stay with our land. While we have the land we can feed ourselves.”

They had stayed. But the men with guns had come. They killed the goats that gave milk. They killed the ox that pulled the plow. And again she told her husband they must leave.

“But I have planted the maize, and although it will be hard without the animals, there will be a good harvest. To leave this place where we can feed ourselves is foolish, woman.”

“But they will come back. They will steal the maize and we will have nothing.”

“What profit for them to drive the farmers from the land? They need our maize, yes, but they need us to stay, to plant more crops. They will not take everything. They will leave us enough to survive and plant again.”

But the men with the guns were not that wise. They had stolen everything. And when her husband tried to fight them, they killed him. And then she had begun the journey, she and the children. But now they had no animals for milk, no maize, nothing.

Her stomach ached constantly from emptiness, but she had eaten several days ago. She had happened upon two men by the road, men with guns feasting on a goat they had killed and roasted. They gave her some, an unusual act of charity these days. She had expected them to rape her, but they hadn’t been interested. Perhaps they’d had their fill of that, too. They were of the same tribe that had killed her husband. How long ago, she wondered. Weeks? Years? She couldn’t remember.

“Where are you going, woman? It’s not safe to wander around these parts.”

She was surprised at the man’s concern. “I heard there was food at Paqsohsa. There was none left where I come from.”

“You have no family? No husband? Children?”

“All dead.” She didn’t know that this was true. The eldest son had left a few days after her husband was killed. Perhaps he had joined one of the gangs; he was strong and might have become a fighter. But the rest were dead. The eldest daughter had died by the road. The baby weeks ago, after her milk had stopped. And all the rest. She couldn’t remember when and where. They lay scattered along the road, too weak to survive a journey without food. One of the older women in the village had talked long ago of famine. The children die first, because they are weak. Wasn’t that what the old woman had said? But it seemed like a dream, now. All memories of her life before had faded, pushed aside by the quest to find food.

“It’s a long way to Paqsohsa. And Baisheed’s men are there.” The man touched his rifle, as if the mere mention of the name meant immediate danger. She had heard Baisheed’s name before, a powerful warlord feared by many of the people of her village. It was said that he would one day kill or enslave all the people of the whole world. But none of the armed men who had looted their village had ever claimed loyalty to him. She wondered how his tribe could be any worse than the others. But it was said they were the most terrible of all.

“But if I stay here I will starve. Like my children. And they say there are white men at Paqsohsa who bring food for the needy.”

“Yes. I have heard that.” He stared at her for a moment, as if weighing the hopelessness of either option. Then he returned his attention to the fire. There was nothing else to discuss.

“Thank you for the meat. God rewards the charitable.”

“Yes, God’s will be done. Go with God.”

 

She could tell she was close to Paqsohsa. There were now hundreds of people on the road with her, mostly women. Some still had children with them. Some of the children had survived. But no babies. She hadn’t noticed at first, then had started looking, perhaps hoping to see one nursing at its mother’s breast, to remind her of her own lost child. But there were none. There were no women left with milk to feed them.

They walked in silence, without speaking, without crying. Their fate had been decided by God, and there was only to walk to find food or death by the road. Walk until God’s will was revealed. And many dropped by the road to die in silence. But still she walked.

And then they saw them spread across the road in front of them. Men with guns, blocking the way to the village. Some of the women were allowed to continue into Paqsohsa, but most were turned away. As she watched, one old woman tried to ignore the gunmen, walk on without permission. A man—no, a boy, without even a beard—shouted at her, but she walked on. He chased her down and clubbed her with his rifle. The old woman fell and did not move.

She reached the place where the armed men blocked the road. For a moment she stopped, stood staring at them. Then she tried to proceed. The young one stepped in front of her.

“No. There is no place for you here. Go back.”

She looked where the old woman had fallen. Her skull had been split open. Blood and brains spread across the road.

She left the road and sat down among some others who had been refused. She was very tired now and lay down.

“Sleep now.” Did she speak these words or were they spoken to her? She could not tell. She closed her eyes and soon was dreaming of maize-filled fields and laughing children and her husband working, smiling to her from the rich river land.

[SarahMSki]

Here is the first chapter of Publicity Stunt, which introduces our protagonist, hopefully creates sympathy for her, introduces the setting and tone, and foreshadows conflicts to come.

 

Chapter One

            “Two eggs, a side of bacon – extra crispy – and a cup of coffee. Black.”

            The middle-aged man in the sunglasses rubbed his temples and wiped a strand of floppy grey hair out of his face. He shoved the faded plastic menu behind the napkin holder.

            “How would you like your eggs?”

            “Over easy.”
            Abigail jotted down the order on the worn notepad, watching out of the corner of her eyes as he drummed his fingers on the speckled yellow linoleum table. Songs from sweet crooners of the fifties piped through the speakers overhead. In a few hours, the place would be at capacity, and the music would be drowned out by the clatter of dishes and the chatter of customers. But at six A.M., Gil’s Diner was still quiet.

            She tapped her pen and stuck it behind her ear.

            “Alright sir, I've got two eggs over easy, a side of crispy bacon and a cup of coffee. Anything else?”

            He flicked his hand, his gaudy gold ring catching a bit of reflection from the windows.

            “Just bring the whole pot.” he called after her as she padded towards the kitchen. She pretended not to hear him.

            After four years in Los Angeles, she knew the type. They came in wearing rumpled mid-priced suits and contempt towards the wait staff written on their faces, then gobbled down their greasy spoon hangover cures and chugged pots of coffee. She grinned and tried to make small talk while they responded with grunts and glares. On the way out the door, they left a poor tip – if they left one at all. These were the same people who were beating her at auditions and moving up the Hollywood ladder while she was stuck waitressing. It wasn't what she had imagined when she left home. Her one-year plan had turned into her five-year plan, and if something didn’t change soon, it would become her ten-year plan.

 

            Abigail plunked the brown ceramic mug down in front of him and poured the coffee. An article on his phone that caught her attention.

            FIVE YEARS WITHOUT CARRIE SUMMERS – WHAT IS ACTOR BRAEDEN WALLACE DOING NOW?

            As the coffee reached the top of the mug, he slid his sunglasses down his nose – his brown eyes rimmed in red. Definitely hungover.

            “Cream and sugar.”

            He was baiting her. She could see it in his oh-so-punchable grin.

 “I can bring you cream, and there’s packets of sugar right next to you.”

            He tapped his knuckles against the table.

            “Leave the pot.”

            She flashed a honeyed smile – the one she saved for ridiculous requests – and leaned into the sweet, southern accent she otherwise covered up.

            “Oh, I am so sorry, but I'm not allowed to do that. Don't you worry, I'll be around plenty to keep you topped off.”

            He shoved the sunglasses back up his nose and turned his head towards the window. Abigail walked back towards the kitchen clutching the pot of coffee. With two write ups this quarter, she couldn’t afford to tell this asshole off, no matter how she was tempted.

            One of her co-workers - Samira, stood in the kitchen, arms crossed. Samira had been working at the diner for over ten years and had more than her share of customer horror stories. Surprisingly, she wasn’t looking for a way out, but actually enjoyed waitressing - even if it had caused her to go prematurely gray.

            “Do you want me to take the a-hole at table seven?” Samira asked. “It’s a bit early for you to be in over your head.”

            Abigail placed the pot of coffee back on the burner. “I can handle this one. Thanks though.”

            Samira nudged Abigail’s shoulder. “Remember, they’re just insignificant little pricks with nothing better to do. It’s not worth losing your job.”

            “Alright you two, stop gabbing.” Larry, the cook, pointed his spatula at the women. Melted butter dripped onto the metal counter.

            Samira grabbed the rag next to her. “Don’t make me clean up after you too, Larry.”

            “Well don’t make me wait on you.” He scooped scrambled eggs onto the plate and handed it to Abigail. The salty smell of bacon hit her as she walked over to the booth. She suppressed a gag as she set the plate down in front of her hungover customer.

            “Here you go. Two eggs and a side of bacon. Can I get you anything else?”

            He looked down at the plate and pursed his lips.

            “That bacon isn't crispy.”

            She glanced at the offending food. If the bacon were any crispier, it would shatter.

            “Oh, I'm so sorry about that, sir. Would you like me to have it remade?”

            He picked up his fork and pierced the yolk of one of the eggs. It oozed out and covered the bacon. So much for crispy.
            “Don't bother.”

            Abigail took a deep breath, keeping her voice pleasant and even. “If there's anything else I can do for you, please let me know.”

            He picked up his mug and slammed it down on the table. Coffee sloshed onto the table.

            “More coffee.”

            She marched to the counter, grabbed the pot of coffee and filled his mug to the brim.

            “Aren't you going to clean that up for me?” He looked at the pool of coffee with disgust.

            She reached into her apron pocket and tossed a few napkins on the table. He flicked his finger against the mug, causing more coffee to spill over the top.

            The man shoved a piece of soggy bacon into his mouth, shoved his sunglasses down his nose and ran his eyes over her body.

            “You’re too beautiful to be working in a place like this. Why haven’t I seen you on the big screen?”

            It would be so easy to reach across the table and slap him. Instead, she grabbed his order slip from her pocket and slammed it on the table.

            “I can take that up whenever you're ready.”

            The bell over the front door jingled, and in walked a couple of her morning regulars – a pleasant couple of retirees. Before this man could abuse her further, she scurried over to her new customers. When she finished taking their order, the jerk in the suit was gone.

            Great, she thought, another dine and dash.
            She went over to the table to collect the dishes and saw the crisp one-hundred-dollar bill. She reminded herself that it was probably a fake, even if it was a very convincing one. Tucked underneath the bill was a listing for an audition later that afternoon.

           “Gross.” she muttered and shoved it in her pocket.

[Roen Swynford]

From Chapter One. It’s a long scene, so I started partway through, to include more dialogue. Introduces setting and the antagonist (Kasiran), in the pivotal moment that changes his life.

Swept Up

Kasiran's work coat hung next to Afah’s in the family’s sleeping room, its hook set low so he could reach it himself. The coat wasn’t new exactly. Amah had pieced it together from Afah’s worn-out coats, using the least-stained parts.

It took several tries to push his arms through the unfamiliar long sleeves. Out in the kitchen Afah and Amah were speaking quietly. The only clear words were Amah saying, “my baby”.

Silly Amah! He had six summers! Old enough to go work with Afah. Jarike down the street had been working with his father for three moons, and he was a hand taller than Jarike.

There! The coat was on. The toggle buttons were confusing, but Afah would show him.

Amah was sitting at the table mending a shirt when he came in wearing the work coat.  Amah lowered her hands, eyes filling with tears. He went to her and they touched foreheads.

“Sun shine on you, my son. Learn well, and remember.”

“Sun shine on you, Amah.”

Outside in the cool morning air, Afah knelt on one knee to fasten the coat toggles, then looked at him. “There, did you see how I did that?”

Kasiran nodded.

Suddenly Afah’s callused hands gripped Kasiran’s shoulders, his eyes wide and serious. “Today, if I tell you to do something, use only your hands. No Talent! Do you understand?” His voice was tight, urgent.

“Yes, Afah.” Kasiran replied, wide-eyed. Talent was not against the rules. But if Afah told him don’t use it, he wouldn’t. Better than being stuck at home like a baby while all his friends worked with their fathers.

Taking Kasiran’s hand, Afah began walking down their street of crumbling tenements. Kasiran held on tight to keep up with Afah’s long strides, stumbling a bit on the uneven cobbles. They joined the river of other laborers, some with sons, all walking to work. Street vendors going to the market square threaded uphill through the crowd, singing their wares. A cart selling pork wrapped in pastry went by, trailing a delicious aroma that made his stomach growl.

The narrow street ended at a small plaza. A cool wind carrying a tang of seawater and the screeching of gulls brushed his face. Ahead was the harbor, a haze of swaying masts and boats, where fishermen unloaded their catch. Kasiran sucked in a deep breath. The ocean always smelled exciting, even the fishy part. Oh to be a sailor, working on the sea in open air.

Afah squeezed his hand and pointed to a round stone building. “Our workplace, Abirkan Central Cisterns.”

Well-dressed men and women flowed in and out of a wide central door, but Afah turned aside to a smaller door where a line of laborers waited, some with sons. At the door Afah gave their names to a man standing there, spelling out Kasiran’s name. The man pressed marks into a clay tablet and waved them in.

The chamber was dim after the sunny plaza, and reeked of sweat and stale water. Its curved stone walls rose up to a vaulted ceiling of sea-blue tiles. Kasiran craned his head around the man ahead of them, but saw only more men, all shuffling toward the far wall and a row of large metal cages. Men stepped inside the cages, crowding back until it was packed full. Then the door was slid shut and two men pulled hand-over-hand on a long chain as the cage sank into the ground. Where were they going?

It wasn’t until they reached the front of the line that Kasiran saw the huge hole in the floor. He tightened his grip on Afah’s hand and leaned to peer over the edge. The cages were being lowered, each in its own tunnel. A cool updraft ruffled his dark hair, smelling of river and candle smoke.

Afah lead Kasiran to the left. “We’re in tunnel one.”

They waited for the cage to return, empty. Afah stood aside to let others enter first, then they stepped in and stood on the side away from the chains. The cage swayed as more men entered. A large man stepped backwards, pressing his coat against Kasiran’s face. It stank of fried onions and old urine.

Afah tapped the man’s shoulder. “Pobaki, my son is here.” His voice was quiet, but firm.

Startled, the man turned his head, then looked down at Kasiran. “Oh ho! A new apprentice. I’m sorry young man.” He shuffled forward to make room.

The door clanged shut and with a rattle of chains the cage jerked downwards.

“Stop! Stop the cages!” A shout came from above.

The cage jumped and swayed. Kasiran grabbed Afah’s arm for balance. A face peeked over the edge of the tunnel. “Bring the cages up!”

Puzzled, the men looked at each other as the cage started upwards.

When their cage clanked to a stop at the surface, a tall man in a spotless work coat slid the door open. “Come out, one by one,” he ordered.

The tall man directed Afah, Kasiran, and another man with a young son to one side. Kasiran pulled on Afah’s hand. “Who’s that?” he whispered.

Afah's face was pale. “Adogar, one of the bosses. Stay quiet.”

Adogar surveyed the larger group from their cage. “Any with children at home? Raise a hand.”

Three raised hands. Adogar questioned them one by one. Last was Pobaki, who’d nearly squashed Kasiran.

“Pobaki, what about yours?”

Pobaki raised his chin. “I have four at home, all over 12.” He rolled his eyes and grinned at the others.

Adogar half-smiled as he made a note. “My sympathies.” He waved his hand. “You three are dismissed. Report to your stations below.”

The men turned to board the cage again. Pobaki looked at them as he passed, and a corner of his mouth turned down. Afah nodded slightly. Then Pobaki was gone.

Adogar looked at Afah and the other man. “The Testers for the yearly Sweep will be here shortly. We’ll wait.” He went to stand near the door, as if on guard.

Kasiran’s attention drifted. Five other men also waited, with sons all about Kasiran’s age. A few men knelt next to their boys, talking earnestly. Others stood stiffly, clutching hands, the mens’ eyes darting to the entrance, then to each other.

None of them were happy. Kasiran’s stomach fluttered, like that time Jarike dared him to jump from a second-level window into a cart of straw parked below. It hadn’t been very far, but the cart looked rickety. Fortunately the driver had returned and he hadn’t had to jump.

He watched Afah stare at the open doorway, jaw muscle twitching. He looked the way Kasiran had felt staring down from that window, wanting to jump but not wanting to get hurt.

Outside the open door a cart pulled by two long-horned orys rattled to a stop. High plank sides hid its cargo, but not the stifled crying and whining coming from inside. Three men leapt down from the drovers seat. Adogar went to greet them. The three wore bleached linen tunics belted over bright-colored trousers. Round straw hats shielded their faces from the sun.

Two came inside with Adogar. One carried a long box, and a board holding real paper tied on with string. While the man with paper sat at a small table, opened the box, and took out a quill and ink, his colleague stood hands on hips, eying each father and son pair in turn. When those piercing light-brown eyes met Kasiran’s, a chill shot through him. Afah’s hand spasmed tight and Kasiran had to press his lips together to hold back a yelp. His stomach began twitching uncontrollably.

Adogar stepped forward, hand indicating the two men. “This is Tester Ubartas, and Recorder Itorac. They’re here to test your sons for Talents.”

He beckoned to a pair across the room, while speaking to the Tester. “Excellency, this is Ronisu and his son Maliro.”

Ubartas motioned Maliro forward. Maliro was skinny, but tall enough to reach Ubartas’ belted waist. Eyes narrowed, Ubartas looked at Maliro’s father. “He looks older than six. How did we miss him last year?”

Ronisu swallowed. “Uh, Excellency. Last Spring my grandmother died. Her home was in the far southeast. Two months travel, even with a wagon.” He choked on a laugh. “So few people live there. Perhaps the Sweep officials didn’t think it worth the trouble.”

Ubartas’ lips pressed into a straight line. “Perhaps. As you know, I will see the truth in his mind when I Test.”

Ronisu nodded, sweat breaking out on his forehead.

Ubartas put his palm on Maliro’s head, eyes half-closed.

Suddenly Kasiran’s bare feet were tingling. The floor was vibrating. Even the air around him hummed. Holding his head still, he glanced side to side. No one else seemed to notice… Wait! Another boy from the cage was shifting his feet. The boy looked back at him, eyes wide with fear.

Finally the vibrations stopped. Ubartas took hold of Maliro’s upper arm and spoke over his shoulder. “Air. Moderately strong. Take him.”

With outstretched arms, Ronisu fell to his knees. “Noooo! Please!” He began sobbing.

Maliro struggled in Ubartas’ grip. “Father! What’s happening? Let me go!”

Recorder Itorac came over, took the boy’s arm and pulled him out the door, still crying for his father.

Ubartas waited until Itorac returned and caught up with his notes, then turned to Kasiran.

Adogar came forward. His eyes were red, but his voice was cold and even. “Excellency, this is Balenos and his son Kasiran.”

Understanding bloomed at last. He had Talents, and Ubartas was going to find out! That’s why Amah was sad, and Afah was so worried. His eyes darted back and forth. Ubartas looked slow. Could he reach the door? Use his Talents to escape?

“I’m sorry I cannot stop this, Kasiran. Remember we love you.” Afah’s voice cracked.

He looked up at Afah. “I will remember, Afah. Sun shine on you, and Amah.”

Ubartas beckoned. “Come boy.”

On stiff legs he walked towards Ubartas. He would not cry in front of these cruel men. Talents weren’t against the rules! Why were they taking him?

He stopped in front of Ubartas, the Tester’s gold buckle just above eye level. He was tall for his age, after all. When Ubartas’s warm palm touched his head, blinding light hid the room. He floated in silent fog, numb, breathless.

Then with a gasp he was standing in front of Ubartas again. His mind felt different, muffled.

The Tester’s large hand grasped his upper arm. “Fire. Very strong. Earth too. He’ll be useful, this one. Take him.” He gestured towards the door.

Itorac pulled him out to the cart. Biting his lip, Kasiran's eyes stayed on Afah until the wall blocked his view. No crying. Afah would be proud of him. Someday he’d find a way to get home.

A man lifted him into the cart, and he squeezed onto a bench with other boys and girls. Some were sniffling like Maliro. Others sat staring into space. No one talked. The cart jolted forward, bumping along the cobbled street.

[CorynAllanRichard]

The God of Wrath
By
Coryn Hayman

Opening Scene - Introduces protagonist, tone, setting, and foreshadows conflict in her relationship with her sister.  

 

Chapter 1. Sniper First

Dribino, Sukhodrovka Sector

17 kilometers southeast of Vitebsk, Byelorussia

March 22nd, 1944

 

            No way in hell Vera was going to let that terrified mother and child into her precious hiding place, because she was a sniper first and a nurse second. She darted her eye away from the scope as the frenetic blur of mother and child blocked her view of the second-story window across the street. There, a “cuckoo” sniper waited for Vera to poke her head up enough for him to blow it off. She backed away from her own basement window, losing whatever bead she had on her quarry. In that split second, she was vulnerable. A flush of warm air greeted her as she retreated from the curling eddies of March ice and sleet biting and blowing into her hide. Out of the cold, Vera noticed how frigid her ungloved fingers and exposed cheeks were.

Back from the window, Vera looked through the scope, inching the rifle barrel forward until she could see the other window again, her right index finger resting less than the width of a stalk of wheat above the trigger. But as she settled into position, the young mother, grabbing the forearm of her screaming toddler, ran in front of the scope again. In frustration, Vera squeezed her eyes shut, the palpebral muscles aching. She blinked several times to dispel the anger surging against the fear of an unseen enemy sniper, who might just get a glimpse of her forehead because she wasn’t paying attention. A glimpse was more than enough.

Vera readjusted her rifle, propping the barrel atop a pile of sandbags against the wall beneath the window. The mother stood paralyzed in the middle of the street, suddenly quiet, even the child no longer whimpering. A gust of wind blew her headscarf away like a fleeing wraith, revealing tangled ringlets of blonde and premature grey. Vera thought she took the shape of the wind, wispy and unforgiving. There was nothing left of her except that child, thought Vera. The woman still stood transfixed and silent like a dark effigy against the cold and grey. Only her eyes spoke, wide with pleading terror.            

The boy whimpered and his mother kneeled beside him, ducking his head into the warm folds of her faded wool coat. She yanked him by the arm, causing him to lurch forward and howl in pain at the violent strain on his shoulder. With angry purpose and determination, she pulled him toward the sandbags, back in survival mode, looking for cover.

The muzzle flash from a single rifle shot flared in the reticle of Vera’s scope as she watched the window and readjusted her aim. This was her moment, but her hands shook, grated by the sudden agonized wailing of the woman, wounded by the sniper’s bullet. Vera felt prickles of sweat beneath the rim of her field cap, as she tried to shut out the screaming that gurgled into the choked and staccato rhythm of raucous wheezing.

Vera’s younger twenty-two-year-old sister Anna stared down the barrel of her own rifle, covering the street and windows closer to the ground. She shifted a little, a ring of sandbags outside obscuring her view. Two hours ago, after an artillery shell blasted a crater in the street, the topmost sandbags fell into a haphazard pile, settling in a dark and dusty cloud.

“If we don’t get them in here, they’ll die out there,” said Anna, her brown eyes like a fawn’s; soft, wide, and set with keen awareness.

“No! They’ll give us away!”

Clanking treads groaned with the ominous churning of an approaching tank. Vera quailed. It didn’t sound like a T-34, more like a Panzer. Shrinking away from the window, she kept her eye pressed to the scope. We’re going to die like rats in a sewer, thought Vera. We took the damn town. That’s what the lieutenant told us. Nothing to worry about; just small, soft pockets of resistance at most, he assured the platoon.

Vera peered out the basement window to see the bulk of a lone Panzer rounding the corner of a shelled building, the heavy treads on thin steel ribs chewing the asphalt as the gargantuan beast ground to a halt across the street. The engine revved like the bellow of an enraged bull about to charge. A German Volksgrenadier flag poked through the window Vera had watched for hours, waving to alert the tank commander below. The idling engine sputtered, as though in a moment of indecision before the creaking turret swiveled its 75mm cannon toward the snipers with a grinding shriek of metal on metal, drowning out the distant peppering of machine gun fire. The turret came to a stop. Vera stared down the barrel of the cannon. The opening of the flared, bell-shaped flash suppressor stared at her like a cyclopean eye. Vera stared back, but she noticed Anna glancing toward the sandbags, the mother lying in the road just short of cover. The child sat beside her on the ground, screaming in terror at the sight of the tank. No doubt not the first one he’d seen.

“Vera! We’ve got to get them now.” Anna’s words shook Vera from the mesmerizing lure of the cyclops.

 “No, get to the back of the room. That’s our only chance.” Vera scrambled back from the window. The building shook with the concussion of a tank shell slamming into the fortified position next door. Vera coughed as a mist of brick dust fell on her. She thought of the infantry scouts and of poor Lushko. He must be dead, she thought. They must all be dead. She wished she had enjoyed that cigarette he gave her more, probably the last she’d ever get from him.

The mother’s high-pitched breathing came in short, ragged gasps among falling clumps of mud and ice. The child shrieked louder as the time between gasps grew longer. Vera watched him as he stopped wailing and climbed onto his mother, shaking her. He lay on top of her, sobbing into the folds of her coat. Her arm hung lifelessly from the shoulder by tattered sinews.

If only Vera had listened to Anna. Now it was too late to save them from the mechanized horror bearing down on them. She saved her own skin at their expense, and the mother and child suffered out there still. She wanted mercy for them, if for nothing more than to prove to herself that Anna was wrong and there was no rescuing them. Imminent death enveloped and held them close, and the young mother’s shallow breathing broke into a violent stutter as the child screamed again. If they would just die quickly, like so many others, then she could get back to the job at hand and stop thinking about it all. She could stop feeling guilty that she chose not to save them. But each passing moment of wailing and wheezing was more panicked than the one before, and with each anguished fit and start, Vera knew that after another lost second, she could justify inaction to herself no longer.  

As there is little dialogue in the first scene, I’ve included a sample from the
2^nd Chapter, which introduces protagonist’s love interest and foreshadows growing intimacy and potential conflict in their relationship.

 

Lushko sat apart from an aimless group of soldiers, pulling his cloak tight around him as he worked on a letter, blowing on his exposed fingers from time to time to keep them warm. He looked up and waved, then buried himself back in his letter. Vera wasn’t sure she wanted to talk to him right now, and yet the prospect of such a diversion, she had to admit, seemed agreeable.

“Hi Comrade Luschenko.”

The young man looked up at her again. His long and pensive face, with its reddish-brown stubble, looked vexed and far away.

“Greetings, Comrade Sergeant,” he said, warm but distracted.
 Vera winced, reminded of her demotion, but didn’t correct him. “Writing a letter home?”

“I usually do, after a battle.”

Vera peeked over his shoulder, noticing an entire paragraph scribbled out. “Why did you cross out that paragraph?”

“I always write that at the end of my letters. I say my goodbyes, and then me and Spartak exchange letters. We promise to mail the other’s letter if one of us doesn’t make it back from the mission. When we get back, I scribble out the last paragraph. Then, I write something like ‘I’m doing fine.’ in its place.”

“That’s bizarre, Lushko. Your family can still read what you scribbled out. It’s not like you erased it. They see a last letter every time, then you put an amendment that you’re fine?”

“Maybe it’s good they see that it’s as bad as they imagine it, if not worse. All they get is propaganda saying how we’re an invincible wall. Maybe writing a goodbye like that tempts fate too much, though. Anyway, thanks to censors, my family may never read it. What do you think?”

“I think there’s no such thing as fate,” said Vera, answering with the first thing that popped into her head.

“Me too. I’m only preparing for the worst. It makes me feel better. I should prepare to die, not expect to live,” said Lushko, without missing a beat.

“What if you and Spartak both die? What if you get captured?”

Lushko looked pained and stared at his letter, his concentration broken. Vera had probed him too far, but despite her embarrassment, she couldn’t resist peeking over his shoulder again.

“Everyone back home calls you ‘Lyonya’?”

“Yes, but no one around here does. They always call me ‘Lushko’, or the ‘Reedy Youth’, or ‘Bumpkin’.

“What do you want to be called?”

“Lushko is fine. At least that name doesn’t make fun of the fact I grew up on a collective farm,” he replied with a slight note of bitterness.

“Lots of people grew up on collective farms.”

“Yeah, but they don’t get teased because of it. After I first arrived here, Lieutenant Cherenkov said I was a coward, lacking initiative. That’s how people see me, no matter how much I’ve changed. He’s dead now, so I wonder, does being alive make me right and him wrong?” He looked up and off into the distance, pulling out a pack of cigarettes, taking one for himself, and offering one to Vera.

The delicious anticipation of a smoke cheered her, and she wanted to encourage him. “I saw you blow up that tank the other day. No one can call you a coward after that, but would you like it if I called you Lyonya?”

Lushko looked up at her. “You’d be the first, but yes, I would.” He gave the faintest hint of a smile.

[Pete Pazmino]

This is the opening scene in the opening chapter of ABLE COUNTY, which is set in 1923. The situation is that a very young Duke Lambert (one of four main characters in the novel and the person I'm considering the novel's main protagonist) has stolen his father's new car with his friend Morty Strickland in the hopes of driving up Jasper Mountain, which is where, since Reconstruction, the county's population of freed slaves and their descendants have lived. This is a little more than 500 words but doesn't feature a whole lot of dialogue, so I'll post another excerpt after that (from the same chapter) that does. 

----

They were stuck for sure. They had fishtailed the new Model T into the muddy ditch beside the road and now stomping the gas did nothing but spin tires. Duke Lambert sighed and slid back far enough in the seat that his feet no longer reached the pedals. Morty Strickland, red-faced, stepped from behind the rear fender. Mud covered his tan knickers from waist to cuff.

“What’re we gonna do?” Morty said. “It ain’t moving.”

Ahead, the road narrowed to the width of a cart track. A line of ankle-high weeds sprouted down the middle. The ground here was marshy, a bog, the stunted, mossy trees skeletal and eerie through the tendrils of mist that rose into the still-cool morning air. There were stories of ghosts in these woods, Confederate soldiers shot trying to escape their service and now doomed to wander forever as payment for their treacherous cowardice. Duke shuddered despite himself.

“There’s skid marks for thirty feet at least,” Morty said. “The hell’d you do that for?”

“You think I wanted to?” Duke jumped from the car and eyed the skid marks, twin gouges carved into earth still wet from last night’s rain. All for a damn fox. It had appeared out of nowhere and he had been driving too fast. He should have run it over.

Morty plucked at his pants. “These are new. My ma’s going to kill me.”

“This car’s new,” Duke said. “What do you think my dad’s going to do?”

Morty thrust his hands into his pockets. It was not his style to say I told you so, even when he had the right. But he would piss and moan with worry for the rest of the day. That much was a guarantee.

Duke turned slowly, taking in the trees, the ditch, the bog, the road. What had he been thinking, taking the car? He knew he could drive it, had already steered it in more than a dozen circles around the apple tree in front of the house. He had been bored, that was all. He had been bored since sunrise, since the moment Morty’s father, due for a day’s business in Washington, D.C., had dropped off Morty for a visit at the Farm. Duke had grown bored of playing soldier; Morty made a terrible Kraut. He had grown bored of throwing the ball. He had even grown bored of trying to guess which girl in their class would have the biggest chest next year. Margie VanDorn, I bet, Duke said. You can already seem ‘em, a little. Morty had skipped a pebble into the yard. Better not let Pete hear you say that. Irritated, Duke cast his eyes across the long southern flank of their property, past the old oak tree and the long, meandering line of Able Run, out over the rolling expanse of their north pasture. Beyond that, vaster still, lay the VanDorn farm, almost twice his family’s holdings. And still further beyond that, as far north as he could see from the porch, rose Jasper Mountain, a lush green mound jutting from the earth. The words had escaped his mouth before he even knew he would speak them: Let’s drive up that. Morty had protested, of course, but that had not mattered.

---

What follows is a scene from near the end of the chapter. With the car stuck in a ditch, Duke and Morty manage to hitch a ride (on a mule cart) to the county seat of Fairton where they meet Duke's father, Joe Lambert, at his office in the county bank that he owns. Duke lies to his father, saying that some of the hired hands, Black men, stole the car and drove off. What Duke wasn't expecting was that his father assembles a posse of men in town who drive out with the intent of retrieving his car, and encounter Earl Freeman, one of the mountain's residents, who's hooked it up to a horse team and is pulling it back to the Lambert farm. Duke's father assumes he's caught the thieves red-handed. 

--

Joe Lambert cut the engine. “What the hell is going on here?” The sheriff followed him out of the car.

“Duke, what’s happening?” Panic edged Morty’s voice. Duke ignored him and fumbled with the door. “Are they going to kill him?”

Duke stumbled from the car and pushed through the men to where he could see. The old Negro remained on his knees. He spoke to Joe Lambert in a quavering voice. “Please, sir. The car was in the ditch over yonder. You’ll see the skid marks. Me and my boys found it and got it out. I was bringing it back to you.”

“The car was in the ditch.” Duke recognized the flat monotone of his father’s voice. It meant he suspected lies.

“Yes, sir, the ditch. I swear it.”

“And you were bringing it back.”

“Yes sir. I…”

Ed Mills stepped from the crowd. He pressed his rifle’s barrel against the old Negro’s cheek. “You quit your lying.” 

“I ain’t lying. I swear before Jesus. I was bringing Mr. Lambert’s car back.“

“Yeah? How you know it’s his car?” It looked like Ed Mills might strike the old Negro with the butt of his rifle, but Joe Lambert’s voice stopped him. “Hold on now, Ed. Step back.” After Ed Mills had complied, Joe Lambert looked at the sheriff. “If he moves, shoot him.”

“Yup.” The sheriff raised his rifle and sighted down the barrel. Joe Lambert stepped closer to the old Negro, then yanked at the legs of his trousers and squatted low.

“Look at me,” Joe Lambert said.

Slowly, like a beaten dog, the old Negro raised his head.

“You’re Earl Freeman.”

Earl Freeman nodded.

“Why’d you take my car, Earl?”

“It’s what I said, sir. It was stuck in the ditch. Me and my boys got it out. I was bringing it back to you. As a…” His voice trailed away.

“As a what?”

“As a gesture. That there ain’t no hard feelings. Ain’t nobody unhappy. With the…” His terrified eyes scanned the fidgeting crowd of men. “With the arrangements.”

“Let me get this straight, Earl. You and your boys, who conveniently aren’t around, just happened to find my car stuck in a ditch at the bottom of your mountain. And you recognized it was my car and so out of the goodness of your heart decided to use your horse here to pull it out. And then, to be nice, you were going to drag it all the way back to my farm for me. Is that about it? Is that what I’m supposed to believe?”

“It’s the truth, sir.”

“Well, then, how about you explain to me how my car made it all the way out to a ditch at the bottom of your mountain in the first place? It can’t drive itself. You know that, right? That it can’t drive itself?”

 

“I know that, sir.”

“I’ll tell you what happened here, Earl. Some fool decided to do something very stupid. Maybe that fool’s you and maybe it isn’t. Maybe you’re even the one who talked some sense into his fool head. But that still means you’re an accomplice, and even more it means you know who that fool is. So what I want now is a name. Either admit you’re the one who took my car or you tell me who did. Or I swear by all that’s holy you’ll be decorating one of these trees.”

Duke could not move. He felt as though his feet had been spiked to the earth, and if at that moment one of Jasper Mountain’s Confederate ghosts had come wailing from the trees to take his soul, he would have been able to do nothing more than watch it happen. Standing there, staring, he realized that Earl Freeman’s gaze had shifted. No longer was he looking at Duke’s father. He was looking at Duke. In that gaze, Duke saw not only blind terror, but some other expression as well. It took him a moment to understand what it was: A desperate plea.

[Whiskered Writer]

First 1500 words of opening scene, Chapter 1

THE GOD-WHISPERER SERIES, BOOK 1: THE NARROW PLACE

The dead never yielded the Queen’s March. Adekira sensed them watching her. She sensed their restlessness, a false life quickened by an ancient duty that time twisted into resentment and hatred.

Adekira believed in ghosts. She had little choice in the matter. Close to two centuries ago, her thrice-great-grandmother launched decades of wars here—first against the Ogani empire, and again, when she turned on her husband to found the empire Adekira now ruled. Six generations of warrior-queens forged links in the chains that bound the dead here. Soldiers who fell during centuries of war fought eternal battles in the march, lurking amidst the Pinewood and taking up residence in the ruins of bygone structures—now overgrown and amounting to little more than crumbling foundations.

Adekira bore the weight of her ancestor’s chains as her soldiers approached the March’s entrance. The column advanced in relative silence, exhaustion weighing on them like a millstone. Boots squelched in the mud. Leather creaked under strain, and metal links clinked lazily with each stride. Like a spear tip, the vanguard thrust ahead. Adekira and her wardens followed on horseback. Their destriers’ heavy hooves pounded divots into the mud. The wardens’ shadow acolytes rode palfreys, trailing behind their masters’ mighty warhorses. The rear guard trudged along behind Adekira’s retinue, their boots sinking in the pitted perils heavy horses left behind.

Adekira shifted in Asher’s saddle. He nickered, stamping straight-legged in the mud. She leaned in and patted him on his neck. The heat of him warmed her hand, even through her leather gloves. She listened to the deep sound of his powerful chest during each breath.

She glanced at the warden riding a few feet to her right. “I feel the significance of this place keenly, Itri,” she said, sitting up again.

“Your Highness?” asked Warden Itri.

“How many have died in the March?” asked Adekira. “Tens of thousands over the centuries—hundreds of thousands? Did they know what their deaths would purchase?”

Warden Itri paused, gazing at the March’s entrance. “Nations are birthed through blood, Anamin,” he said, using the queen’s honorific to address Adekira. “Like all creatures, a nation must feed—”

“Warden Itri quotes your father, but there is more to the lesson, Your Highness,” said Warden Oteka. He nudged his destrier closer, riding on Adekira’s left. “Blood alone did not birth Dineos. Make no mistake, Dineos must feed on blood now and again, but blood cannot sustain a nation.” Oteka deepened his already Dunnish accent, slowing his words to mimic her late father’s cadence. “A realm sustained by blood alone is tyranny. It must be nourished through the love of your people to survive.”

Oteka’s imitation pulled Adekira’s cheeks into a smile. The memory was a good one. Her father, King Adisu, had trained Ote alongside Adekira. Ote meant no malice in his imitation of her father. He loved her father as much as she did.

“Well spoken!” said Warden Bront.

Warden Itri gazed up at the sky. “Anamin, we must make speed in order to make it through the March before mistfall—”

“Your Highness, this is your first ride since giving birth. Perhaps we should camp?” said Warden Oteka. “There is no shame in—”

“I am fine, Ote. I have been too long away from Ayrus,” said Adekira. Her heart thumped at the mention of her baby.

Warden Oteka harrumphed. “Apologies, Anin, but we are losing daylight. The weather does not help. What is one more night?”

Warden Bront snorted a laugh. “An aching back, cold feet, and salt wages—some thousand gold, I’d wager.” He pulled a wineskin from his waist, pulled the stopper, and took a long draught.

“Aye.” Warden Rose raised her voice to be heard from the rear of the group. “There is time enough to finish the crossing and cross again before mistfall.” She clicked her tongue. Her destrier bobbed its head, quickening its steps to pass among the group. Now within conversation range, Rose craned her neck, smirking at Oteka. “You worry too much—”

“So says the source of our delay,” said Warden Oteka.

Bront coughed a laugh, leaning over to spit a mouthful of wine. “He’s got you there, Bramble,” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He retrieved a pouch from his kit and pulled a pinch of rust-leaf from it, sticking the leaf in his mouth. “If our Warden of Thorns hadn’t spent overlong polishing that tarnished armor of hers, we wouldn’t have to spend the gloaming battling wraiths!”

A few of the shadow acolytes drew in sharp breaths. Not one of them had seen more than fifteen cycles. Bront delighted in terrifying the shadows, but it was all part of a cycle. One day, the shadows would learn the value of fear, and if they became wardens, visit the same torment on their own acolytes.

Bront chewed the leaf before stuffing it in his cheek. Then he spit a mouthful of rust-colored spit on the rain-soaked ground.

Adekira sighed. “It’s still daylight, Warden Bront. We’re not battling wraiths yet,” she said, adjusting her hauberk. The armor lay heavy on her chest. She needed to feed her baby. Her breasts had grown swollen and sore in her absence from him. “You have more to fear if I miss another supper. Keep pace.”

Adekira peered up at the sun, glowing through grey clouds as it journeyed westward. In the east, Khet’s moons, just visible and floating in diffused pools of light, heralded the coming mistfall.

A raindrop splashed upon her cheek. Then another. Soon droplets pattered on leaves, and on leather, and tinked against naked metal. When Adekira turned her eyes ahead toward the road, they caught the movement of two figures approaching along the column on horseback.

Oteka watched as well. “I am uneasy, Anin. The March has claimed many during mistfall—”

“Nonsense. Travelers’ tales,” said Warden Rose. “There are no lingering dead here. It’s just a bit of fog and the howl of the sea caves—”

“Come now,” said Itri. “You offend the dead.”

“Spirits or no,” said Bront. “I must agree with Bramble. Another night is a night and a day of provisioning on top of the gold.”

“To Pyt with you, Bront,” said Warden Rose.

“Easy, Bramble! I agreed with you.”

“I would rather be wrong—”

“No more delays,” said Adekira. She removed her glove and reached beneath her armor, massaging her breast. Her gambeson was damp with sweat and mother’s milk. She withdrew the hand, wiping it on her leg and slipping it back into her glove. “I don’t want to be away from Ayrus another night.”

The two figures rode counter to the column. As they drew near, Adekira glimpsed their warden’s armor.

“Ah,” said Itri, craning his neck. “Warden Ayla approaches,” he said.

“No doubt with tales of haunts within the March,” said Bront.

Adekira rolled her eyes.

Warden Ayla came within earshot. He cupped a hand to the side of his mouth and called out, “Your Majesty, the way seems clear.” He lowered his voice as he drew near. “But there are—”

“Spectres!” Warden Bront blurted.

Warden Ayla shook his head. “What? No. Dragon sign. It’s a big one—”

“Oh ho! Even better, Ayla! I knew I liked you.” Bront took on the air of a child on Harvest Moon.

“A swamp dragon this far north?” asked Itri.

“Not a swamp dragon,” said Ayla. “The proportions do not fit. The beast is too long … too wide.”

“Some beasts are longer and wider than others,” said Bront. He spat rust again, chuckling to himself. “There is no shame in it—”

“A plains-dragon,” said Oteka.

“Could be. Larger than a Carter’s wain. I cannot be sure when it passed by here. The rain makes it difficult to tell, but no more than a few hours.”

Warden Itri furrowed his brow, blinking. “How in Pyt would a plains-dragon get here? And without attracting notice—”

“Ah, but the small folk claimed to see one,” said Bront. His smile stretched from ear to ear. “The tales sprouted up and down the mountain border. I thought them weirdling tales … not worth mention—but gods! They’re true? I would love to take the beast’s hide. Large enough to clothe me, my horse, and my shadow besides, head to hoof—”

“Bront speaks true,” said Oteka. “I thought the stories were just fancies spreading among young folk seeking renown.”

Rose grinned, turning to Ote. “So camp and feed the dragon, or risk mistfall and battle your wraiths, Ote.”

“Taunt me as you will, but there are other dangers in the March. Ghosts and dragons, the least of them. The magpies will tell you—”

“Bront, place the spear-men at the front of the column,” said Adekira. “Hopefully the beast has moved on, but if I must fight it, I would rather my eyes open and aware. You and Ayla lead them.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” said Bront. Then he glanced at each of his fellow wardens and grinned before jabbing a heel into his destrier and thundering off to gather his spear-men.

[Cindy2]

The clock ticked away while Anna’s own heart had stopped. How could time keep going when she and the kids were stuck in limbo, huddled close, holding their breaths, sobbing softly, not daring to make even a minute movement that might draw attention to life in this room? Not one of the students even dared to text a parent as they waited for the inevitable shadow to pass the door, jiggle the handle, and start firing. The shots were too close to allow for any mistake, any fumbling, any sound. Anna prayed they had all turned their phones to silent but knew that fear and confusion meant someone probably hadn’t. While they had trained for this all their lives, real life is not training. Real life is much, much messier than training.

The shooting had started only moments ago, and Anna hoped word had not gotten out to the community yet. “Please, God, please keep a phone from ringing,” she pleaded silently as her eyes closed. But she knew her luck wouldn’t hold out long - somebody on the other side of school probably was far enough away from the shots to get the word out. And then there would be sirens, texts and calls from parents, desperate firing as the gunman took the last moments of his life to take as many with him as possible. And Anna knew without doubt who the gunman was. She had been warning the school administrators all year. And she also knew who he was coming after. These students had the misfortune to be in class with the teacher who was most likely to die today.

“Miss V? Miss V?” a student whispered. Monte, the class clown. Oh God, no, not right now. Her only thought could be how to save her students - she couldn’t deal with his nonsense right now. 

“Monte, please,” she pleaded quietly. “I can’t right now.” 

“No, no, Miss V, listen to me. I think we should go out the window.”

A quiet buzz erupted from a few other students, but Anna shushed them. The shots were almost on their hallway. Maybe Ethan would think they were at lunch. But then she remembered the schedule posted next to her door in the hallway. “Shit!” was the only thing that came to mind. 

“Monte, that window is too tiny. Only a child could fit through it,” she whispered. Who the hell builds classrooms with tiny windows - or no windows? She sighed internally.

“No, Miss V, we can bust out the part that doesn’t open. Then we could all fit.”

Anna wanted to cry, but crying wouldn’t solve anything. She had to hold it together, just as she always had. 

“Monte, we can’t make a sound right now. He’s just around the corner and will hear that glass break, assuming we can even break it. Our best bet is to huddle in this corner.”

“Miss V, I can’t stay here. This just isn’t right. That barricade isn’t going to hold him. And you know he’s coming here.”

Anna closed her eyes and sighed. Monte knew just as well as she did who the shooter was. 

Just then, Anna heard shots so close that her ears rang. She covered them and sunk lower to the ground. The kids whimpered and more tears fell. A few of them called out for their parents as they sobbed. The screams of the wounded from next door pierced her soul. She couldn’t hear the clock now.

[mherman4]

Fifteen years before I was born, my mother became religious. She met my father, started keeping Shabbat and kosher, married him and had nine children. I’m the eighth child, the baby girl. I grew up in a house where McDonald’s was never on the menu, where dairy products (even certified kosher ones) weren’t allowed unless a Jew had been present from the time the cow was milked until it was packaged. My family celebrated every Jewish holiday with lots of guests and even more food. We spent weeks preparing for Purim, making a little factory line in our kitchen to package snacks for our friends and teachers. We spent even longer preparing for Passover, using the extra kitchen in our basement to make desserts a month before the holiday. We kept a two handled cup of water in a bowl under our bed so we could ritually wash our hands before leaving our beds in the morning, and wrote on the corner of every paper an abbreviation for “with the help of heaven” before starting to write.

I knew what was allowed (friendships with girls, chocolates from Israel) and what was forbidden (TV, non-Jewish music, boys). This was all simply a part of life. Our Judaism came with very specific rules, and I — a precocious child who wanted everyone to like me — was more than happy to follow along.

When I was 18, I moved to Israel to study Torah with almost everyone I knew. I attended Michlalah, one of the most prestigious schools for women’s learning. In my journal I kept at that time I wrote: “Today we read about the necessity of learning new things and immediately dividing it into parts in our head, whether it is a principle, a detail, etc., which is important to me because I am always learning new things, and I need to think about how they fit into the big picture, for example, if something comes along to contradict it.” At Michlalah, I learned and practiced how to think.

While I was at Michlalah I took every course they offered on Jewish law, studying the texts in their original Hebrew. Once I read the text in black and white, there was no flexibility; I wanted to follow every law exactly. I began covering my legs, praying twice a day and not eating in the homes of anyone who didn’t keep Shabbat.

When anyone asked, I would say that I was religious for two reasons. First: Because God wanted me to be. I believed God had commanded the Jews to keep the laws in the Torah, and that meant I needed to keep every rule described within it. Second: I wanted to be a good person. I was convinced that practicing Torah law — essentially following a rule book — would help me achieve that goal.

But then something happened. In October of my second year in Israel, I started questioning my faith.

My older brother was visiting, and one afternoon we spent time learning together. We discovered that in the Talmud it says that the sun revolves around the earth, so even though science says the earth revolves around the sun, one day we are going to learn that the Talmud was right. Made sense to me.

A few days later, I was at my rabbi’s house, and to let him know how devout I was, I shared what my brother and I had learned. Immediately he jumped up and started looking for books in his library. “It actually isn’t the Talmud that says that,” he exclaimed, “it’s the Rambam!”  He started pulling books off his shelf, showing me where the Rambam had discussed philosophy and science, and showing me how rabbis contemporary to the Rambam opposed his views, some even burning his books.

I was reeling. The Rambam is one of the most important rabbis in Jewish history. He wrote the Mishneh Torah, a foundational book of Jewish law. There are religious Jews who use that as their primary text.

Things weren’t adding up: Fellow Jews do everything this man says, but his peers thought he was wrong? Is the rabbi I follow also wrong? Who is right? What is God asking of me? My first reason for being religious — an unwavering belief that it was God’s will and not to be questioned — was now, in fact, in question.

While I tried to make sense of my thoughts, I started looking for evidence of the second reason I was religious — to be a good person. I analyzed the religious leaders around me, and what I saw hurt me. They didn’t keep my confidences; they judged me harshly; they were inconsistent. They were regular people.

I realized I couldn’t simply follow Jewish law to a T in the hopes that it would connect me to God and make me a good person. A few months later, I stopped being religious.

At that time, I was a student at Yeshiva University in Manhattan. It felt like I was the only person in the 2000 person school that wasn’t religious. I wondered if I could continue to act religious to fit in — I mean, these were actions I had done my whole life. Why not just keep doing them, even if I didn’t believe anymore? But I was on a new path, and I had to follow it. I owed it to myself, even if it felt scary or lonely.

Practicing Judaism was once described to me as having a script that tells you how to respond in any situation. There are rules for everything, from how to cut your nails to how to shower to how to put on your shoes. When I rejected the script, suddenly things I had done my whole life were so hard. I didn’t want to wear long black skirts — but what should I wear? I wanted to get married — but who was eligible? I was driven to community — but who exactly were my people? I craved choice and free will, but I struggled with it, too.

I learned new ethical concepts. I cherished my intellectual freedom. I practiced thinking, this time deeply and fully for myself, and learned to tap my inner compass for directions rather than asking dead men in books to give me the answers. I did not feel connected to Judaism anymore.

Five years passed. I was living in Miami and working at a hedge fund, when a friend asked if I would host a Shabbat dinner for her. Impulsively, I decided to observe the laws of Shabbat as well as I could. I bought my favorite foods, put on my favorite dress, set the table and lit candles while whispering a prayer for my family’s health and happiness. I hadn’t done any of those things in years. But when I completed the required steps to welcome Shabbat, it was like I had used a magic key to unlock a wellspring that showered me with peace and joy. I realized I wanted to connect to Judaism again. Over the past five years, I’ve spent my time reengaging with Jewish texts, communities, rituals and beliefs to find the magic hidden in my heritage, to discover the pieces of my religion that feel good to me — but this time, I’m doing it on my own terms....

[Maggie L]

Second Scene - Protagonist Zach has just returned home from the mountains, tired from a long night of being a werewolf. Introduces roommate, alludes to events that spurred Zach leaving the police force, provides some logistics about the werewolf thing, and provides characterization for Zach.

 

It was mid-morning by the time he stumbled back into the townhouse, exhausted and stinky, his duffel bag hung over his shoulder. Lyle wasn’t usually home at this time of day, which made it kind of a shock to find him sitting on the couch watching TV.

Lyle said, “Hey.” Then he saw Zach, processed it, and added, “Jesus Christ, what happened to you?”

Zach let the duffel fall to the floor. “Why aren’t you at work?”

“It’s Saturday. Is forgetting the day of the week an unemployment thing, or because of - “ He waved vaguely in Zach’s direction, the remote in his hand. “All this?”

“The second one. I think.” Zach lurched over to the couch and flopped down next to Lyle. “It’s really Saturday?”

Lyle sniffed the air and scowled. “You don’t smell like booze or weed. But you do need a shower. If you were out partying all night you did a terrible job.”

“Thanks for the feedback.”

Zach hadn’t told Lyle about the whole werewolf thing. He hadn’t told anybody, but he’d strongly considered Lyle. Mainly because he’d needed to explain why he’d wrecked his room.

The first time he’d wolfed out, he’d been locked in his room and woke up to find the place trashed. Obviously not sustainable, and one of the neighbors called management to report their secret dog. Which, there wasn’t one, and even if there was, what business is it of yours, Kevin?

Oddly, Zach’s very first thought upon waking up in that ruined bedroom was, Oh shit, I’m a werewolf. Rational explanations came after that, or at least tried to, but he just knew. Didn’t doubt it for a minute. Welcome to the pack, Zach.

It took a good twenty minutes to loop around to Lyle’s gonna be pissed.

Lyle was a roommate-level friend, which was perfect for everyday living. Not so distant he was a stranger, but not too close to yell at if he accumulated every single bowl in the house on his desk upstairs. Not really trust-with-biggest-secret level. So instead, he told him he’d had a minor breakdown about work stuff, and promised to cover the security deposit.

The minor breakdown also explained why he’d quit and the nights he didn’t come home. At least, they did to Lyle, who switched off the TV and turned to look at Zach. “Zach, do you need to talk about something?”

“Hey. I was watching that.”

“You were not.”

“I was. I love that show.”

“What show was it?”

Zach stared at Lyle for a long minute. Trying to remember what had been on the screen turned into trying to remember the name of any TV show. Maybe he’d get lucky. “Uh. Colombo?”

“Wha- why would I be watching Colombo?”

“Because it’s a good show!”

“Sure, but that doesn’t mean I’m gonna pick it for casual Saturday viewing.”

“Alright, fine. Cheers.”

“Zach.”

“Star Wars.”

“Stop guessing.”

Zach sighed and let his head fall back onto the couch. “I’m just tired.”

Lyle shook his head. “You know, there are plenty of therapists who work with people who don’t have insurance. And there are some organizations that provide mental health resources, especially to ex-cops.”

“Huh, really? That’s nice.”

“I mean you.”

“Listen, thanks for the concern, but I don’t need therapy.” What he needed was a shower and a silver bullet. Wait, did that cure werewolves or kill them? He really should look that up.

“Literally everyone needs therapy. Actual, linguistically correct literally. But especially unemployed ex-cops who got traumatized by some bullshit ‘officer-involved violent incident.’” Lyle accompanied his mocking tone with finger quotes. “You’re a grown-ass man who can make his own choices or whatever, but dude. Whatever you were doing last night was not good choices.”

What if he did tell Lyle? Right now. Say, “I’m a werewolf, and last night I drove into the mountains so I could be a wolf and do wolf things and eat a rabbit.” It probably wouldn’t make Lyle any less concerned for his mental health. Unless Lyle was also a werewolf. No, because if he was, he wouldn’t have been at home last night to notice Zach wasn’t. Haha, checkmate, Lyle. Can’t pull one over on Zach Chase, ace detective. Maybe he could become a private eye. A werewolf private eye.

Fingers snapped in front of his face, jolting him back to awareness. “Zach. My guy. You good?”

Nope. “Yeah.”

Lyle looked at him sideways, brows furrowed. “I’m turning the TV on,” he informed him, “not because I believe you, but because I’ve been informed that this is the episode when they finally kiss, and I’ve been waiting for that for three seasons.”

“You didn’t watch all three seasons last night, did you?”

“Shh.”

“There’s not much kissing in Columbo.”

“Shh!”

The TV blinked back on, playing - well, it wasn’t Colombo. Lyle turned his attention back to it, though, which meant Zach could stop dodging questions. He’d always been an awful liar, and it didn’t help that he’d gotten no sleep the night before and apparently spent a solid eight hours on zoomies. It was sweet of Lyle to be worried. Maybe he wasn’t a roommate-level friend after all. Not all the way to werewolf-secret-friend, but maybe he was…

Zach passed out before he could figure out the next tier.

[Leslie H]

Hook:  When a teenage girl is hidden away at a unique boarding school that worships Aesop’s Fables, she soon learns that someone at the school is operating with a different moral code, and she must unravel the truth in order to save the school, find her way back to her father, and discover what happened to her mother who died years before.

 

Opening Pages:  The following is the opening chapter of Aesop's Academy (working title). I included the whole thing to get to the 30 lines of dialogue. It introduces the protagonist and her current situation, sets the tone, and gives a sense of how her life is about to change.

Chapter 1: The Storm

The muffled voices floated up the stairs to Evelyn's hiding place. Through the house's thick walls, she could only catch fragments of the hushed conversation — "dangerous," "for her own good," "it's past time, Charles." Her heart quickened with each word, and a mix of fear and curiosity bubbled up within her. Who were these three strangers talking to her father? They never had guests.

Outside, a windstorm raged, rattling the windows of the small adobe house, which sat isolated on the outskirts of Taos, New Mexico, a mile away from prying eyes. From her vantage point at the top of the stairs, Evelyn could see the wooden front door straining against the fury of the wind. Tumbleweeds raked against the other side, their frantic scratching amplifying her growing unease.

Her dad’s tired response, “I know. I know,” was barely audible over the howling storm. The weariness in his voice twisted in her chest, fueling her anxiety.

Long after midnight, the visitors finally left, pulling their scarves and collars tight to shield their faces from the biting wind. When the door shut behind them, Evelyn crept down the stairs, her breath shallow with apprehension. Her father, his back turned to her, leaned with one hand holding the door closed as though it might blow open, the other hand raking through his salt-and-pepper hair.

"What's happening?" she asked, her voice trembling as her heart hammered against her ribs.

"Evelyn." He exhaled and straightened before turning to face her. "I thought you were asleep." His eyes were tired, and she could see the shadows of worry etched into his face. But her gaze didn’t waver, and he sighed heavily. "Not now, little one. We'll talk in the morning." He patted her shoulder, his touch meant to soothe, but it only sparked frustration in her.

She shrugged off his hand, her chin jutting out defiantly. At 14, she despised when he treated her like a child, especially when she knew something was wrong. "What's going on? Who were those people?"

He brushed past her, climbing the stairs two at a time, evading her questions.

"In the morning, Evelyn."

"Does it affect our plans?" she pressed, desperation creeping into her voice. Were they still leaving for Morocco in the morning? Or had something changed?

He paused at the top of the stairs, his back to her. "Go to bed," he said, his voice firm, before disappearing into his room and shutting the door with a definitive click.

Evelyn glanced at her suitcase, already packed and sitting by the door. They were supposed to leave in the morning, but now uncertainty gnawed at her. Her thoughts swirled as though the windstorm outside had forced its way into her brain, scattering her hopes and filling her with dread. She dragged her suitcase in front of the door, blocking the exit, hoping its weight would keep the wind — and her fears — at bay.

***

At dawn the next morning, the storm had blown through, leaving a heavy stillness outside.  Inside the house, Evelyn moved with a sluggishness that felt foreign to her, her legs heavy as she stumbled down the stairs. The comforting aroma of coffee hit her first, even before she saw her dad standing over the stove, his eyes fixed on the overly complicated contraption he had rigged up to coax the dark liquid into two waiting mugs. He was focused, almost obsessively so, as though this routine could somehow ground them both. 

She sank onto a kitchen stool, her hands grasping the mug he slid across the counter. The warmth seeped into her fingers, but it did little to quell the chill that had settled in her chest. Evelyn didn’t like coffee—not the taste of it anyway. It was bitter, jarring, and she imagined her mother’s voice chiding her, "It’ll stunt your growth." But her mother wasn’t here and hadn’t been for a long time.

She had learned to love the jolt of caffeine, though, the way it snapped her out of sleep and made her feel awake, alert, ready to take on whatever was thrown at her. They drank their coffee black, not out of preference, but because it was easier. Simpler. Moving around as much as they did, there wasn’t always room for the luxury of cream and sugar. Better not to get attached to things that could be taken away.

"How is my Purposeful Petunia?" Dad’s voice cut through the silence, his attempt at cheerfulness belied by the dark circles under his eyes. He looked as bad as she felt.

"Hmph," she grunted, playing her part in their morning ritual. It was a routine they had fallen into over the years, a little game where he would call her by a silly, alliterative nickname and she would act the part of the grumpy teenager. Today it was the P’s—Purposeful Petunia. Yesterday, it was Outrageous Ottoman, and tomorrow? It would be a challenge with the Q’s. Maybe Quixotic Quadrangle? There was always a pattern to it.

This was his way of teaching her vocabulary, a game that had started when she was much younger, shortly after her mom died. Back then, it felt like a lifeline, a way to connect through the fog of grief. Now, it was just one more reminder of how much had changed. She wasn’t a little kid anymore, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to keep pretending. But she played along because it was easier than confronting the undercurrent of sadness that threatened to pull them both under.

Evelyn savored the feel of the coffee as it hit her system and watched her dad scribble in his notebook. The sound of his pencil scratching against the paper filled the silence between them, and she waited. He couldn’t ignore her forever.

Finally, he looked up, his expression grave. "Evelyn," he began, his voice so soft she had to lean in to hear him. "My work won’t cover the cost for you to come with me to Morocco."

The words hit her like a physical blow, and she flinched, spilling hot coffee onto her hand. She barely noticed the pain, though, as a wave of disbelief washed over her. "We can figure something out," she said quickly, desperation creeping into her voice.

He handed her a cold cloth, his expression unreadable. "It’s time you were with kids your own age. That you made friends."

Friends? The word felt foreign on her tongue. For her entire life, Evelyn had been her dad’s shadow, his sidekick, the one who helped him catalog rare plants and navigate the treacherous terrain of academia. She had always been more comfortable with adults than with kids her own age. It was why she spoke like a 30-year-old, why she felt out of place whenever they stayed anywhere long enough for her to meet other kids.

"Since when do you care about my social life?" she demanded, her voice rising in panic. "You’ve never mentioned it before."

He held up a hand, silencing her. "There’s a school—Aesop’s Academy."

Evelyn’s heart pounded in her chest as she shot to her feet, the stool clattering to the floor behind her. "I don’t want to go to some school!"

"It’s beautiful… in the Adirondacks." His voice hitched, and he turned his head away, but not before she caught the flash of pain in his eyes.

"Dad!" Her voice cracked, and she hated how small and frightened she sounded. She had never attended a real school. Her education had been pieced together from books, tutors, and late-night discussions with him. The thought of being sent away, of being alone, was too much to bear. And the Adirondacks? All she knew was that it was a wild, rugged place where people got lost. It was full of dark shadows and creatures she didn’t want to imagine.

"It’s the largest protected land in the United States," he said, as if that would somehow make this easier. “Bigger than some countries.”

Evelyn’s mind raced. This wasn’t his idea; it couldn’t be. He would never do this on his own. "Who were those people last night?" she asked, her voice shaking.

He busied himself with pulling eggs and bread from the refrigerator, avoiding her gaze. "My… colleagues."

Colleagues? Her dad was a botanist. His colleagues were scientists, people who studied plants, not people who made decisions like this. "What do they have to do with this? What were they telling you?"

"It’s an excellent school. You’ll be safe there." He cracked the eggs into the pan, his tone dismissive, as though that was all the explanation she needed.

"Safe? From what?" Her voice trembled with fear and anger. "What are you so afraid of?"

He didn’t answer right away, just watched the eggs cook, the grease popping and sizzling in the pan. When he finally turned to her, his expression was one of deep resolve. "The world is a dangerous place, Evelyn. Sometimes we need to lie low from the storm."

She recognized that look, the one that meant there was no arguing with him. The last time she saw it, they were in the Everglades, and she had almost stepped on a crocodile hidden in the grass. "Walk away now," he had whispered, his jaw clenched tight. She hadn’t questioned him then. But there were no crocodiles here, at least none that she could see.

"I’ve already packed for Morocco," she said weakly, gesturing to the suitcase in the corner, a last-ditch effort to change his mind. She felt the weight of the world pressing down on her, as though if she could just get him to see reason, everything would be okay.

He shook his head, his expression sorrowful. "I’m sorry, but you can’t come with me this time. We’ll leave after breakfast." He pushed a plate of eggs and toast toward her, the finality in his gesture making her stomach churn. She wanted to refuse, to scream and shout, to throw the plate across the room. But instead, she picked up her fork and ate because she knew better than to skip a meal when you didn’t know when the next one might come.

As she forced down the food, she looked around the house, the place they had called home for the past three months. It had felt so safe, so permanent, but now it was just another temporary stop on their endless journey. The colorful blankets and artwork that had made her feel like she belonged here now felt like a cruel joke. This wasn’t her home. It never had been.

Evelyn rinsed the dishes, the cool water soothing her burned hand. She scrubbed them clean, her movements robotic, as though by erasing all traces of their presence here, she could somehow erase the gnawing fear in her chest. By the time they left, the house would look as though they had never lived here at all.

"I’ll miss this place," she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper.

Her dad’s voice was thick with emotion when he finally spoke. "Evelyn, we always planned to leave today. It was just a temporary place to rest."

But it wasn’t just the house she would miss. It was the idea of them together, The B Team, moving through the world as a unit. Now, everything was changing, and she wasn’t sure she could face it alone. She couldn’t shake the feeling that once they left, nothing would ever be the same again. And for the first time in her life, she wasn’t sure she was ready for that.

[JoAnne Lewis]

Updated hook:  Looking up to her father for as long as she has, holding on to the stories she was told growing up, and believing them to be true.  Now, in her search for her ancestry, she uncovers hard truths she may not want an answer to.

[JoAnne Lewis]

The beginning of the story.

Moving is never a fun task.  Organizing, purging, cleaning, sorting, packing, boxing, and figuring out what is in what box!  

It’s a clear, blue sky and breezy Saturday morning, Amanda has just finished cleaning up from breakfast and taking her dog Melanie for a nice long meandering walk.  She treated herself to a coffee and Melanie got a treat.  It’s so nice to have a dog friendly coffee place within walking distance.  Amanda takes a final sip of her coffee and moves from the kitchen towards the garage.  Opening the door and walking down the steps into the garage, the familiar smells assuage her nose.  Even after so many years, she still expects to see Dad’s fire gear, boots and all the other equipment there.  Now many storage boxes have taken over the space.  

Walking through the space with the familiarity of someone who has done so a million or so times, she turns on the lights and opens the door to let some air in and some mustiness out.  A few years ago, she updated and painted the garage so that it would be more efficient and not as affected by the varying temperatures as the seasons change.  She admires her handiwork for a minute, then decides its time to get started on her goal of today.  Clearing off the shelf, moving the current pile of trash out to the debris box and making more progress on the sorting part of moving.

The attic is going to be warm, dusty, full of cobwebs.  Technically, it’s not an attic, but more of a storage space.  Amanda is used to it by now.  This is the third time she has rented a debris box to fill with the items that don’t need to move with her.  Today is going to be filled with smiles, laughter, and probably a few tears.  When you know you’re going to be leaving a place you’ve known all your life, it is emotional to go through more than 50 years of family treasures, memories and the tangibles of lives.  As the saying goes, all good things must come to an end.  Five years ago, there was promise, plans and preparations for a future here.  Now it’s time to pack it all up, put the house on the market and move across the country to a new state.  

Amanda sighs and climbs the ladder to the top and moves her leg over the top rung of the ladder and pulls herself onto the landing.  She looks around at the organized chaos and picks a box to open and look through.  Surprisingly it is empty!  She moves the small empty box out of the way and leans down to look what is under the shelf.  There are two boxes tucked back there, behind an old sleeping bag.  She leans down, grabs the sleeping bag and tosses it over the side, where it lands with a soft thud onto the other things ready to be moved out to the debris box.  She gets on her knees and ducks under the shelf and reaches in to move the box from its place.  It is obviously an older box, dusty and covered with an old latch rug.  Interesting, she thinks, what is this?  She doesn’t remember seeing this box before.  She gets up, puts the box on the shelf and removes the old rug.  To her great surprise, the box appears to be full of newspaper wrapped items.  As she moves it over to look at later, it makes a tinkling sound.  Turning her head back to the box, her curiosity gets the best of her and she discovers a box full of antique stemware.

[Sherman]

The opening pages of my book:

February 26, 1643

At first she didn’t know why she awoke. Then she heard cries in the distance. She couldn’t tell where it was coming from. Her husband Hans still slept so she parted the drapes and crept out of their cozy cupboard bed. As she unlatched the top half of the door to peek out she heard gunshots. The night was pitch black, moonless and bitterly cold. 

Suddenly she heard Hans come up behind her and he wrapped his arms around her waist. She was still shy around him as a 16-year-old bride but she was glad for his warmth.

“What is it Sara?”

“Listen.”

The gunshots started again, and after a few seconds, bloodcurdling screams.

“That is coming from across the North River” Hans said.

“How can you tell?”

“I can hear it carry across the water – it sounds very different from the sounds of war up close. Believe me, I know.”

Sara knew Hans had a terrible experience that caused him to flee his hometown in Germany with his younger brother Jochem, but he never spoke about it.

“Jan Damen has finally done it,” Sara said.

“Done what?”

“He was plotting to massacre the natives who fled from the Mohawks for our protection. His stepdaughter Rachel told me about a dinner he had on Shrove Tuesday with Governor Kieft and her husband Secretary Van Tienhoven. Damen was encouraging them to seize this opportunity to inflict great harm on the natives.”

“But these natives have done us no wrong.”

“They don’t care. They wanted to avenge the murder of Claes Switz and see any native as good enough to do so.”

“This is madness. We were sworn to protect them by treaty. And without native friends we will have no furs to trade and not enough food to get through the winter.”

“Damen doesn’t care. He has always despised the natives. Since I was a little girl I saw how he mistreated them, especially the women.”

“I know you never trusted him.”

 

The screams started again, and they stood together in silent horror. Hans wrapped his arms closer around Sara, who was shivering. They had not yet been married one year and Hans treated her like a fragile flower. She was just 16, and he was 31. Before they married her grandmother Trintje, the colony’s midwife, asked to speak with him. She knew he was a surgeon and an educated man, so she was very frank. She told him that Sara had only just come into puberty and she feared an early pregnancy could be dangerous. She asked him to wait a full year before attempting to get her pregnant. He agreed. She added that it may help her grow in love for him if he was gentle with her, letting her come to him when she was ready. 

 

Sara felt the warmth and protection of this man, who she resisted marrying but was growing to care for more every day. He respected her intelligence, especially her skill with all the languages of the patients he treated. He managed in Dutch and his native German but couldn’t master her Norwegian or any of the many other languages of the colony. He was in awe of her ability with language, especially all the native languages. He realized that if she had been born male she would have certainly been recommended to go to the University at Leiden – she was obviously that intelligent. But here she was – his young wife – in the far-off colony of New Netherland.  

 

As the gunfire erupted again and more screams followed, Hans said “Let us go in Sara. There is nothing we can do tonight. In the morning I will go to the fort and see if I can help the wounded.” 

Sara replied “I wish I could have stopped him. I knew what he meant to do.” 

“Do not blame yourself. Come, let us get warm and rest. Tomorrow we will do our best.”

 

As they crawled back into their cupboard bed and closed the drapes Sara could still hear those terrible sounds. She wanted to hold onto Hans but was afraid. He had always been careful to give her space and respected her privacy just as her grandmother said he would. She had told her that he would wait for her to come to him, and explained to her what would happen. It frightened her, and she did not feel ready. Hans touched her shoulder and said gently “You are still shivering; I can help keep you warm.” She snuggled a little closer and the sounds drifted further away as she fell asleep with his arm around her.

 

February 27, 1643

As soon as he opened the door Sara knew something was very wrong. He was shaking and pale, and beads of sweat broke out on his forehead despite the extreme cold.

“What is wrong husband?”

“It is worse than I feared. Our soldiers captured some of their men and have them in the guardhouse.”

“Are they injured?”

“If they were not already, they will be soon. They are being tortured.”

He sat down heavily and put his head in his hands. Sara had never seen him like this.

“It is just like my hometown of Madgenburg when Jochem and I fled for our lives. Heads on spikes around the fort…”

He choked out the last words and fell silent. Sara was frozen, wanting to comfort him but not knowing how. She moved closer and he pulled her to him. They sat together in silence as she felt him fighting back sobs. She realized she knew so little about him and his past. She asked - “What can we do?”

“I fear nothing. The soldiers would not let me in to attend to the wounded. None of our men were harmed. It shows you that this was not a battle, but a one-sided massacre. I saw De Vries, who said that there were few survivors. Our soldiers shot some, and hacked others to death. He said they even tore babies away from their mothers and flung them into the river. They were so brutal that some natives thought they were the fierce Mohawk warriors they had fled from.

“They killed women and children too?!”

“Yes – it was horribly brutal – something out of my nightmares.”

“Why didn’t someone stop them?”

De Vries tried to talk Governor Kieft out of this madness at dinner last evening, but he failed. Kieft was proud to show him the soldiers massed and ready to attack. De Vries tried to impress upon him that these natives were innocent, but Kieft said if they would not turn over the murderer of Claes Switz he considered every native guilty.”

“How could women and children be guilty! They have done nothing wrong!” Sara cried. 

Hans replied, “Sara my lovely innocent wife, you have no idea what men can do in war. I have seen horrors you cannot imagine. When the Catholic forces attacked my town they first killed those they could find, then hunted down the rest, burning the city to the ground in just one day. Those who survived were tortured, the women raped, and only a few fled for their lives. Jochem and I were lucky to escape, but we were powerless to save our parents.”

“I am so sorry…” Sara was speechless. She had not known the horrors of war. Her childhood upriver had been peaceful and mostly idyllic. While she was playing with native children, Hans had been fleeing for his life.