Your First 500 Words

Here it is....first 500 word from Have This Wish

1805
"Star light, star bright, first star we see tonight..." The three of us together forever, Caro thought.
Cate waited a second before adding alone, "I wish I may".
A beat and Lizzie added, "I wish I might".
Another beat and Caro finished, "Have this wish".
And again together "We wish tonight".
Caro closed her eyes and made the same wish she always made, a twitch of her mouth betraying her thoughts should anyone see. She knew Cate and Lizzie would love this one. She wished with all her heart for –

1818
“Is there a problem I can help you with?” Caro muttered to herself. “The problem is there is no problem.” She sighed and dug into the earth to free a bulb she wanted to transplant to a pot for her room. Caro realized that talking to herself was not likely to help, but it would keep her from lashing out at her Aunt and Uncle who only wanted her happiness. She glanced at the rising sun burning the last of the dew off of the rolling green land of her Uncle’s property as the root gave way tumbling her to her backside. Her gasp turned to a laugh and her brown eyes twinkled with humor.
“Perfect,” she spoke again to herself, “That is exactly what one wants first thing in the morning, to be taught a lesson by a bulb.”
She stood, still holding the hard won bulb, and brushed her earth smeared hands ineffectually down her now damp and slightly muddy skirt. She almost laughed as she pictured her Aunt’s face on her return. She knew that her Aunt would wonder why she did not have the gardener gather or plant the bulb for her, but Caro knew that some things must be done for oneself. That brought her thoughts back to the question her Aunt had posed her the previous evening. Was there a problem her Aunt could help her with? She was not sure, but she did know that something had to change. She could not go on living on her relatives’ generosity forever. After two Seasons and another year, in which she avoided a Season, she had not met a man who either piqued her interest, or wanted an almost penniless orphan for a wife.
She had reached the house by this time and walked through the kitchen to the front parlor where she had left the pot for the bulb. She had forgotten to take it with her when she left earlier. As she entered the parlor she was given the impression of a whirlwind of color before being enveloped in a tight hug.
“Caro,” a familiar voice, high with excitement said. “We thought you would never return, did we Michael?”
She heard the laugh in his voice when Michael replied, “Of course dear. We thought she had decided to run away with some gentleman to the wilds.”
Caro was able to breathe again as Lizzie released her to toss a withering glance at her husband, who pretended to study his fingernails thoughtfully.

First 500...
________

Sophie's Solstice

__________

Death. There are legal definitions of it. There are medical definitions of it. There are religious, philosophical, moral, ethical, military, traditional, commonsensical, comical, myriad definitions of death. It is what all life has in common. Small wonder, with so many possible points of view, it should wind up like the blind mens’ elephant--any two visions might pass themselves walking down the street without the least bit of recognition.

There were two creatures on the forty five hundred block of Hamilton Street on the afternoon of December twentieth. The first was a young woman who had been trudging up the steep hill for what seemed like an hour wearing a backpack, with an unwieldily olive duffel in one hand, and another case, black, in the other. The messenger bag slung across her chest bulged, and her leather purse was large enough to double as a day pack. Her name was Sophie, and she was, in fact, carrying all of her worldly belongings, and she was also seriously regretting her decision to sell her mother's old Buick.
The apartment she had just left, had been perfect. It was within walking distance of both of her brick and mortar jobs, in an area of shops and restaurants and bars with live music. There was even a library only two blocks away, just across the street from her favorite grocery store, the one with the organic produce and exotic scented soaps and candles. The entire area was heaven to her small town heart. It was like stepping into a movie full of fun, bright, beautiful people. A romantic comedy.
The apartment was even furnished perfectly. The only thing it lacked was parking. It took forever to maneuver the behemoth into any curbside space she could find, and that only after countless searches around the blocks for vacancies. She admitted to herself that some of the difficulty lay in herself. Parallel parking was not one of the arts her grandmother had time to impart before her death, and Grace, her mother was hopeless as a teacher of anything. Grace was aptly not named Patience.
Selling the car was the simplest thing to do. And it was oddly liberating. The last, heavy, burden from her mother’s unexpected death, no longer swilling gasoline and causing difficulties. She had a few small, more personal, mementos, as well as a stack of bound notebooks Grace had left tied in brown twine. Those, she had yet to open. The car was too much a reminder of those aspects of her mother Sophie had found so difficult to love. Grace was a woman who preferred to have things her own way.
Sophie would have been happy to have lived in that apartment until she grew old and withered away. The reclusive novelist by day, the mad musician by night. A girl could dream. Unfortunately for her, owners of real estate have dreams of their own which often run counter to the fancies of the rest of the world. Her ideal rental

My first 520 (500 cut off in the middle of a sentence) from my unnamed sci-fi-romance-whatever. :)

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In the beginning, the six tribes all thrived in the same valley. It was not entirely peaceful - no grouping of humans ever is, and doubtless never will be. Our uniqueness, our differences, are what make us human, after all. Still, the tribes lived in relative peace, trading and working and worshiping the Mother Sun and Father Moons. Tribes intermarried, children were born, life continued as it had for centuries.

Until the Darkness.

Not the darkness that comes when the Fathers are courting their Lady, but a Darkness that covered everything. Crops withered in the fields. Water became fouled and undrinkable. Children cried piteously from thirst and hunger, licking the tears from their mother's cheeks in a desperate search for moisture.

Then out of the Darkness came the sickness. A terrifying sickness that started with the elders, then spread to the children and adults.

That was when the harmony was broken, when it became tribe against tribe, fighting for food and water and medicine.

The Gallian tribe was the first to leave the valley, seeking light out of the Darkness. The Tserans and the Riharans left next, the Verlan and the Meisan fleeing several years later, leaving the Sriana alone in the Darkness. Each tribe that left found a new home, but none near as hospitable as the valley. But, as the elders would remind those who complained, they were alive, and they were out of the Darkness.

The Gallian, Tseran, Verlan, Meisan and Riharan still trade, and sometimes intermarry, but there is no unity among them. The Sriana keep to themselves inside the Darkness, and it is even said the Sriana no longer exist. Those who have braved the Darkness never return.

Then, a thousand years after the Darkness, the priests of the Fathers and the Priestesses of the Mother in all three tribes gave a startling prophecy. The Darkness would end, but only when the Mother's Darkness and the Fathers' Light were joined. The Mother's Darkness and the Fathers' Light would be born during the eclipses, each of the a different tribe, raised by parents of the other four tribes. Their joining would end the Darkness, reunite the tribes, and the valley would be home again.

Now, a century after the Prophecy, some eagerly await the Mother's Darkness and the Father's Light. Others actively work to ensure the Prophecy is never fulfilled. But as the holy men and women will tell you, the Will of the Mother and Fathers is not oft thwarted.

--

Shye woke to the chill of the pre dawn wind blowing through the tent. He moved to press against Lorn, seeking the other man's warmth, but found nothing but the rapidly cooling cloth of their bed. Raising his head, Shye looked around for his husband, finally spotting Lorn standing in the opening of the tent, one hand over his eyes, looking to the south. Looking toward home, Shye thought, wondering again if Lorn regretting staying with the Tseran tribe, staying with Shye. He's never said anything, Shye thought as he got out of bed and pulled on a robe, but he has to miss home.

SIXTY MILES TO FREEDOM

Funny, how a day can change everything; one night, and nothing's the same. Fourteen days ago she was a Pastor's wife, Middle Grades Sunday School teacher, solid Alto in the First Church Choir, go-to girl for casseroles for grieving families or grocery runs for the aged and shut in. Chestnut hair in a delicate up-do, Eddie Bauer down to her loafers and french manicure, days full of committee meetings and ladies' prayer group, Bible studies and soup kitchen ministries. Cell phone in one hand, keys to the kingdom, and the Honda, in the other, she'd been ready to take on the world and win it for Jesus.
Thirteen nights ago, the fabric of her reality was ripped away, leaving her in the midst of a battle she could scarcely understand, fighting for a life she could only glimpse, fragile as a fairy tale. Eyes the color of spanish moss went wide on the monitor, pictures no wife wants to see sprang up out of her inbox like soldiers in waiting. Coastal tan faded to near-death pale as the ambush and what it meant began to seep in. Abby clicked, and scrolled some more, page after page, nausea warring with rage until she was shaking with it.
Dear God, Oh God, Dear God, My God, OhGodOhGodOhGod.
When you're a woman, Abby thought, biting full, ginger lips, even when the world's rocking, the dishes still have to be done. Throwing knives into the sink like bullets, sending favorite dishes crashing into soapy water one after the other, unaware of chips, cracks, or cut, bleeding hands, mind full of her husband of two years with someone else. Was he really at a conference? Or, was he making more pictures tonight? Right now, was he inside an auditorium a hundred miles away? Or was he inside a blonde, in front of a camcorder? Just now, was he glad handing and faking his way through a meet and greet? Getting real with a busty brunette? She never heard herself screaming, never realized it even as the sounds stopped coming.
How could he DO this? Liam, how could you do this? What are you thinking? God, WHY?
There, now, kitchen looks good.
Wiping up the last of the spills down the cabinet's white face, drying her own bloodied hands, Abby-the-preacher's-wife tossed her dishtowel into the washer, grabbed the Rainbow and headed for the den.
Because she'd been busy through the night, the white Colonial that was Abigail McCoy Parson's realm sparkled in the sunrise. As daylight hit the verdant lawn and black shutters, more than a new day dawned. Out of the shower and sipping coffee, hands still and mind finally silent, the mistress of hearth and home took in all that had once given her a full, quiet joy. To the sounds of birdsong and her wayward husband's alarm clock, she awoke to the knowledge that

First 501 from Santa's List

Chapter One
‘Twas the night before Christmas and all through the house
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse …

As I plunked out the notes to what had been my favorite Christmas song as a child, I noticed the not-so-endearing looks on my stepchildren’s faces. As much as I loved “The Night Before Christmas” put to music, it didn’t look like they shared my sentiments. Not to mention, it wasn’t the night before Christmas, or even close. Because my wife and I shared them with their dad, Wayne, and his wife, we were forced to have an extra-early holiday celebration every year.
My grandson, Tommy, ended the song in his own way by “helping” me play—banging keys on the piano in a random pattern. His mother and father applauded and we all laughed, although I discreetly closed the lid over the keys to discourage any more playing from our Young Mozart.
“Mom, is it almost time to go?” I heard my granddaughter Elizabeth ask her mother Rachael. I know she meant for it to not be heard, but nevertheless Rebecca and I shared a look. Rebecca tried to smile and turned to her granddaughter, saying, “I think it’s about time to go cut down the tree!” Tommy cheered, as did Rachael’s son Carter, a spirited but quiet seven-year-old. I caught Elizabeth rolling her eyes at her dad but then reach for her coat in the closet.
Part of our annual Christmas celebration included cutting down a tree from our own land, a hundred-acre farm that I had owned for the last forty years. I no longer harvested corn or wheat, but the land still provided a fun place for the grandchildren to explore and a wonderful place for us to grow pine trees to sell to the community. Because of our early-December celebration, our own family got the pick of the crop.
I held Rebecca’s hand as we followed the kids out to the trees. The end of the month would mark 15 years we had been married—reunited after unhappy marriages for the both of us. We had known one another and even dated in high school, then went our separate ways. The first time we met after my divorce I knew that the spark was still there. And 15 years into our marriage, I still loved her just as much. I’m not sure I could say the same of her affection for me! I would find it hard to adore a retired, mechanical-minded grouch, but she seemed to rise to the challenge. I squeezed her hand as we watched Tommy race towards the field of pines, his eyes dancing wildly and trying to take in the vast expanse.
Rachael and Peyton walked stiffly, not touching, as they walked just in front of us. Compared to Ben and Madeline, beaming at each other and Tommy, they looked like Mr. and Mrs. Scrooge. I knew we were keeping Rachael from the office, but surely she deserved one Saturday off.

The first 491 words from The Tribal Age:

Boston, the year 2251
Dog stepped out into the flickering electric light and ran a hand over his shaved head. Four big men stepped out, blocking the way through to the door.

Dog relaxed his knees and shoulders, bowed his head, and tried not to let the anticipation tighten his back muscles too much.

The attack came without warning, although it was not much of a surprise. Fists rained down on Dog, crashing painfully on his ribs and shoulders. His flak jacket under his coat was some protection, but not enough. The violence wrenched his torso in different directions, and drove him backwards, but did not break his structure. Dog focused all the weight in his legs, and did not fall. He also did not raise a hand to block or redirect the battery.

The first blow to his head struck his lower jaw on the right side, and the force made his skull ring, but he did not cry out, or make any noise at all. His body was alive with pain, his muscles were catching it like a dry forest caught fire, but he still did not cry out, and he still did not resist.

A fist plowed into his side, below the protection of the flak jacket, and he felt something snap. Hopefully just a rib, but he could no longer distinguish between the sharp pain of bone breakage or the warm, insidious pain of an internal rupture.

Another fist hit the seam between shoulder and neck. Dog felt shudders from the blow run up and down his frame, from the soles of his feet to his spinal column.

A big bell rang.

"Everyone stop." A woman's voice. Raptor.

The four men stepped back. What had they looked like?

"Dog?"

Dog could not remember, nor could he really recall the reason why he should be beaten so hard. He felt that he had never hurt so completely as now, and though he had not lived a long life, he had experienced very much pain.

"Dog, add 47 plus 26."

His rib cage, which had taken most of the blows, felt utterly crushed, and his head and ears continued to ring. His chest felt crushed to the point of concavity. His nose felt broken, and blood spattered across the sleeves of his denim. His arms had escaped most of the thrashing, but a dull pain was in his shoulders, and seemed to spread somehow down to the nerves of his underarm and wrists. He felt old.

"47 plus 26, Dog. Or you have to do it again."

26. His age. 26 years accepting the rites. How did he know there was any advantage gained by this agony? He had suffered pain of some kind, worse than some people experienced their whole lives, every day for 26 years.

"Dog! Say it!"

"Seventy-three," Dog said.

In truth, Dog thought as the blackness took him, it had seemed longer than it was.

The first 506 words from Some Fantastic:

This one’s going to be my best yet. After all these hundreds of years, this one’s my favorite. Not my most fantastical, perhaps, but my favorite by far.

I had it all start with old lady Rothbert this time. You see, I can never start it with Anna, she would get suspicious. It’s all about her, but of course, she can’t know that. It would ruin the fun.

So I started with old lady Rothbert. She lives down the street from Anna, two doors over, in the old, sort of run down house with the blue door, the one with the bright red flap at its base, always coming in and out with the cats. They swarm around that place, the cats. Tabbys, calicos, all the strays gather here. You’d be surprised just how many of them have thumbs. My doing, naturally.

So I started it with her. It made sense – a quiet beginning always helps avoid panic, and panic isn’t entertaining at all. Well, not that entertaining. Not anymore, anyway. Panic is always the same – you scare a human, they panic, they run around screaming and holding their loved ones and coming together in inspirational unity, or just doing the sensible thing and getting irrationally angry at those around them and blaming each other and yelling pointlessly, and it’s never, ever any different. You may think I’m ranting, but when you’ve been around as long as I have, these things get frustratingly repetitive.

So I started with old lady Rothbert. She was tottering around outside, picking flowers and feeding the cats, when she noticed a little red blotch on her right arm. She didn’t really seem to react right away, but that’s okay, I knew that this one would be a little slower. But it’ll be worth it in the end.

The rash, for lack of a better word, spread a little, but no longer than about six inches long and two inches tall. It got brighter, but just sort of stayed that way for a while. It didn’t itch or anything, so old lady Rothbert didn’t really worry about it. She just went about as usual, shuffling from one room to anohter, petting the cats, reading through old, crumbling, yellow letters. I was just beginning to think that I should start with someone else, worried that word wouldn’t spread through the neighborhood from this hermit, but the plan was saved. Phyllis Hargrave, three houses over and across the street, came by with her biweekly casserole, filled with cream of mushroom, chopped broccoli, saltine cracker crumbs, and heaps of goodwill and community outreach spawned by guilt and a feeling of uselessness. When she visits a house, she always peers in the window next to the door before ringing the bell to check her hair, to tuck back any untidy strands into her perfectly neat, perfectly straight, perfectly graying, chin-length bob of hair. She tried this time, but found no reflection in old lady Rothbert’s window – too many layers of dust, no mirror to be seen.

Yeash ok mine sounds bad now compaired to all of yours :p There's a lot of dialogue and I don't always type the quote marks that's why there's a lot of entering to separate it out.

“Look, Look at my fish!!” Nathan showed his Mom the goldfish he won at the games.
“Cool Nathan, We’ll put him in a bowl when we get home. You managed to throw the ring over those bottles?”said his Mom
“No. I played basketball,, I jumped really high and made it in three times!!! I traded him for that piggy toy.”

Oh I guess we’ll find Aunt Martha another thing then. I didn’t know they had goldfish at the basketball games.
Well I think someone else traded, it was the only one he had.

Nathan Nathan let me see! Nathan’s friends run around to see his new prize. “Cool! Better than these stuffed animals” Said Eric. My sister’s just going to chew them anyway.

Hey Nate said Matilda, “I’ll swap you my Dad for that Goldfish!”
“No, I have my own Dad and it’s supposed to be two goldfish Matilda don’t sell your Dad for that cheep!”
Hey, said Eric, I think this fish has teeth!

The children look carefully at the goldfish in the bag. It’s floating calmly barely flipping his fis as if he were playing a harp and seemingly staring intently at them.
I on’t see no teeth said Matilda
You don’t see ‘any’ teeth corrected Nate’s Mom

I know I saw a tooth at least” Said Eric
“Must have been a glare or reflection of the light off the ride. Speaking of which it’s almost time to go. Anything you guys want to ride before we go? Asked Nate’s Mom
“I’m not a guy Ms. Musil Lets go ride the Tilt=O=Whirl again!
“What about my fish!

I’ll hold him and the other tys. Here, now go the lines not too long, so we should leave in time But Walking Feet!

The children run off to line up for the Tilt-O-Whirl leaving Nate’s Mom with prizes and the fish. She walks over to the ride and waits at the exit. She trys to wave at the kids as they get on the rid, squished in with some other children they know from school.
As the ride starts Nate’s Mom starts putting down the toys.

“Wow Audrey the kids made quite a haul.”
“Hey hon, yes and Nate’s won a fish, he traded that pig.”
“Well you didn’t like pink anyway. Good he’ll have his own fish and stop bugging me for his own salt water tank.
Hank picks up the fish bag as Audrey organizes the stuffed animals and candy. “Hey, this is a weird lookin goldfish.”
Yeah I didn’t want to tell Nate. It looks infected or something. I thought it was one of those bigger cheeked ones but it doesn’t look right. Eric thought it had teeth!
Hank puts the bag closer to his face. “I think Eric’s right actually… Look!”
What? I don’t… then Audrey sees a row of pearly white teeth, razor sharp like a sharks. “Ew!! I’ve never seen that! I wonder what it is?”
“Take it back to the ring toss and ask for a new one.

Ah! I love all of them. <3

Okay, mine's a bit odd- I can only post the first 420-something words because the last bit of the five-hundred is in this calender form that I can't copypasta onto here. And I'll have to warn you, this part isn't in story format. It's other people commenting on a note. All of it's in different fonts and colours on the original document, but it doesn't work on here. So I'm going to put names in front of the quotes that belong to certain people. BUT IT'S NOT THAT WAY IN THE DOCUMENT LOL.

... and there's some harsh language. Hey, I'm 14. It's typical.

The First 420-Something of the still untitled book (:
--
(An Introduction, of Sorts)

Cade: What if you have no idea how to start a book based on your own life?

Shad: Very funny, Cade.
Starting up the notes again, are we?
Although it’s hard to remain anonymous when we already know who it was.

Amelia: Oh /God/.
Not these again.

Elpsi:Whoa, it’s back!

I thought we got rid of this a few months ago?

Cade: Guys. Take a joke.

Amelia: It’s sort of hard to take a joke when I nearly got an F in chemistry for this sort of shit.

Willis: Cade, my child. What are you doing?

Cade: I am not your ‘child’, Willis. It’s a little bit scary when you call me that.

Look, okay, we have to write a book. I got this letter in the mail for an offer. If we can compile everything that happened during the course of ‘The Note Ages’, we can get published.

I don’t know. Maybe I was thinking you wanted money, like every other high school students in the damn country.

Shad: There’s money involved?
I’m in.

Cade: Greed, Shaddai.
I hear it’s one of the mitzvahs.

Shad: I hear being a smartass is, too.

Willis: Guys, can we be a little bit more peaceful? I mean, honestly.
We’re here together. Let’s not ruin that.

Amelia: Willis, as much as I would love to hear your preacher ramblings, I have more important things to cover this piece of paper with.
Such as:
A book? Like, a real story? With descriptions and deep plots and subliminal messages that apply to society and how corrupt we all are on the inside?

Cade: As much as I’m sure you’d love to touch on that subject, Amelia, no.
It’s going to be about ‘The Incident’, ‘The Note Ages’, ‘The Subjunctive Era’, etc, etc.
You know, all of those stories.

Willis: Dwelling on bad things isn’t necessarily a good thing, Cade. You need to let everything go. You can talk to me if you want.

Shad: You would think we stopped the Apocalypse. All we did was write on notes.

We’re just an average teenage debate team, living in your small town, who just had a weird, weird school year.

That’s all. We’ve had weirder. We’ll have weirder. They just won’t know it.

Elpsi: Oh, come on, Shad.

Maybe they do need to hear our story.

Amelia: You know what, as long as it has money, I’m in. Who’s with me?

Willis: Spreading the word is good.

Shad: Why not?

Cade: Let’s do it to it!

Elpsi: Alright, guys!

For the good of history, and for the good of the people…

Casbah High School Debate Team, assemble!

First 499 words, because word 500 starts a new sentence. I really like the stories I've read so far!

Prologue- I Am My Own
“It’s another perfect day for a football game here at Davidson-Carroll Field. Looks like its going to be the perfect start to another season.”

“There’s nothing like a good first game to start off the season.”

“You got that right. Especially the last season for the last Graham quarterbacks to lead the Middleton University team.”

“That’s true. This is the last season for senior Timothy Graham from the Daniel and Robert Graham family. From what I understand, he’s the last boy in the family.”

“I can’t remember the last time there wasn’t a Graham on this football team.”

“Looks like we’ll just have to wait for another generation of Grahams to come along and dominate this football team once again.”

It was Saturday, and the house was practically empty. It was quiet, which rarely if ever happens. The TV was on ESPN, blaring a broadcasted football game that would be seen all over the country if not all over the world. Clearly, it was football season.

“I don’t know why you didn’t just go,” my cousin Lissa said. “You don’t have to keep my company or anything.”

“Mom wouldn’t let me,” I said, my eyes trained on the TV even though the game hadn’t really started yet. I was trying to soak up the environment through the TV, but it just wasn’t the same as being there. “I would’ve had to miss school yesterday. And practice, technically. If it had been a home game, I would’ve gone, but it’s in Arkansas or something. I dunno. Junior year’s important, blah blah blah.”

I didn’t need to look at Lissa to know she was grinning. “You’re still mad that Tim says that you can’t play college football.”

“No,” I corrected easily. “I’m still mad that my parents actually agree with Tim that I can’t play college football.”

She laughed, and a pillow suddenly hit me in the side of the head. “You’re so much smaller than your team now, you dork. Just imagine college boys. Besides, who wants to have their hand shoved in a sweaty guy’s ass all the time?”

“Head in ass, hand in between the legs,” I corrected absently, chucking the pillow back at her. “And it’s only awkward if you don’t know the guy or he’s a perv. Jon and I manage because we’ve been doing it since we were in middle school.”

She just laughed. “I still don’t—“

“Shh!” I ordered sternly. “The game’s starting!” She laughed slightly, and I’m sure she was shaking her head, but I didn’t care. I was going to watch a football game. And as soon as they kicked the ball off, I was gone.

The first time I came fully back to my sense was at the end of the first quarter. Lissa handed me a Coke and put the bowl of popcorn down on the couch between us as a picture of my family sitting in the stands popped up on the screen.

Here are my first five hundred words, which actually come at the middle of a sentence, but it can be ended there and be complete.

LOST SECRETS: Prologue

There is an ‘end’ in friendship. You’d think after all this time I would be used to it, but immortal doesn’t mean wise, or even educated. It just means old.

The sun was setting as I pulled the car into the parking lot outside the cemetery, and I yanked the hat off and tossed it into the backseat, my hair clinging damply to my neck.

I locked the car door behind me, almost absently. Very few people drive cars now, and even fewer know how to hotwire them, but stranger things have happened to me. I push open the gates to the graveyard, the hinges squeaking slightly. I think that it’s an unwritten law that the hinges to graveyards have to squeak – it certainly seems that all of the graveyards I’ve been to do.

The wind picked up, and I shivered slightly, hugging my jacket closer to my body. It wasn’t a true chill, just a psychological one. I wander through the headstones, pausing here and there to look at names, dates, and carvings. Here’s the stone for Mary Frances Quivering, 1921-1999, Beloved Wife, Mother, and Grandmother. Beside her is her husband, Thomas Neville Quivering, 1920-2001, Beloved Husband, Father and Grandfather. I’ve always thought that those words encompass what life means to the end. Nothing better can be said.

Slowly I meander over to the east side of the cemetery. Here’s the hideous angel over the gravestone of Laurel Wendy Johnson. The first time I saw it, I tried to tear it down with my own hands. Spent three nights in jail until my cousin took pity on me and bailed me out, and then I had to do sixty hours of community service. Now I just live in hope that a strong wind will blow it over (and I have some friends who could do such a favor for me, for a price. Don’t think I haven’t considered it). It’s not just the statue that offends me; it’s the offense it offers to those that I come here to visit. Neither received the same regard from their family, but since they’ve gone on, I am offended on their behalf.

I’m unable to avoid the farthest corner of the east side forever, though. I kneel down between the two graves I’ve come to visit. I bring no flowers – my friends didn’t care for flowers, or useless gestures. They preferred actions, and the actions I’ve taken since their deaths would hopefully satisfy them.

Elizabeth Anne Lawrence, one of the gravestones reads. Betsy. Unbidden, an image of her came to mind. A spitfire, stubborn as mule, and one of the most loyal people I’ve ever had the pleasure to meet. She was gifted, struggling with the gift when we first met, but when faced with overwhelming evidence, she stuck with her practical nature, her common sense.

And next to Betsy lies her cousin, Abby. A year younger than Betsy, Abby was always the one who wanted to see what other people missed.

“But where will we go for two months of leave,” Ashley stopped fidgeting with his ballistic goggles and looked across the desk at me.

“Well, I think it’s a chance for us to get out there and see things before we end up back in the desert again,” I had a stack of travel books that had certainly made me consider stock in Amazon.com.

“Hmm, I guess,” he studied his hands for a second, “it’s not like there is going to be much else going on.”

Ashley had been my friend since the moment we met when I first arrived to the Cavalry three years ago. I liked him because he was easy to talk into doing just about anything. Not only had I convinced him that I was cool, but it seemed that I was ok to hang out with, for a girl. He had even told me that once… I was ok, ‘for a girl.’ This coming from a guy with a first name usually associated with the fairer sex.

Three years ago, I came to the US Cavalry in Germany to fly scout helicopters. Three years ago I was regarded by the men in the ground Troops with a measure of professional hostility. I was a stranger in their midst, but I had slowly been accepted into their closed community, and was now seen as something like a guy, but with longer hair and bigger breasts.

Thirteen months ago, the last remaining Divisional Cavalry Squadron in Europe departed for the Great War Against the Axis of Terrorism and All Things Evil (meaning: All Things That Don’t Regard McDonalds as Something Fabulous). Iraq, to me, was a way-station to saving a little more cash for globe-trekking and a chance to store up some leave days to do it with. For Ashley, as a ground scout, it was the chance to prove his skills and leadership in combat. That’s the difference between scout pilots and ground scouts: war outlook and what you do with yourself after it’s all said and done. I had been planning a big back-packing trip since I set foot on Iraqi dirt thirteen months ago, and I was finally going to get my wish. Western Europe. Eastern Europe. Northern Africa. Turkey. Israel. The World was my oyster, and, so help me God, I was going to drag my best friend along for the ride (even if it meant tying him up and stuffing him in my worn out back pack). I would just keep telling myself that traveling for Ashley would be like the time I talked him into eating blood sausage in Munich… he balked until he tried it, and then he liked it.

I hope he remembered to get insurance on that Eurail pass.

Ok, I know it said first 500, but screw it I'm posting part of chapter 3. I'm a rebel!

Chapter Three
Robert

Properly attired for the weather, and clad thickly against a chill, I step up onto the curb of Blockbuster and head for the door. Hot air blasts me in the face as I step inside, and sweat beads upon my forehead instantly. It takes me little time to make my way to the classics, then the P’s. Several minutes of careful scanning and my eyes scream “Jackpot!” Sitting before me is the glory of glories: Pulp Fiction. It’s really a shame that I don’t own it, but it’s exactly what I’m craving.

My hand reaches for the cover, and I realize there are no movies resting behind it. My brow furrows at the realisation, and I head begrudgingly for the desk. Behind it sits a paragon of androgyny. The short, stumpy, heavily pimpled… thing smiles awkwardly at me as I approach.

“Can I help you?” Even the voice is indecisive, modulating between squeaky and resonant, and I begin to wonder exactly what curse this child’s mother could have had cast on her while pregnant. Whatever it was, it must have been a doozie.

“Y-yes. I was looking for Pulp Fiction. But you don’t seem to have any on the shelf.” I try to avert my eyes from a particularly large pimple on the -- thing? No, person -- person’s head as I speak, but something about it just keeps drawing me back. It takes all of my control to not simply reach out and pop it. The hypnotic effect of the thing is strong. I manage to tear my eyes, and concentration, away in time to hear Its response.

“-’ve all been stolen.”

“Stolen? Seriously?”

“Yessir! Folks just keep rentin‘ um and never bring um back. Weird as hell.”

“Huh, well. Thanks anyway… “ I stop in mid turn, and look back at It, my eyes are immediately drawn to the pimple, and I close them before speaking. “Say, don’t they give you name tags?”

“Yessir!” I swear the southern accent gets thicker every time It opens Its mouth. “But I done lost mine. I’m Alex though, if’n you were wond’rin.”

“Heh” is all I say as I head for the door. Alex. I feel bad for that kid’s parents. I wonder if they know what It is. A beep sounds behind me as I open the exit door and step back out into the blistering cold.

*****

The sound of the door swinging shut punctuates the stillness of the city streets, and the cold sets in on me like a ravenous parasite feeding off heat. I turn to head home, my booted feet throwing water about in their wake, but I ‘m stopped in my tracks even as I start.

Standing in my path is the man from the restaurant. A hard lump forms in my throat, and I make to cross the street. He moves as I do, silent and parallel, ever between me and my apartment. My pulse races and I can feel my face flush with inordinate fear.

“Can I help you?“ His gaze lingers on me like an unwelcome shadow, never leaving, never blinking, always watching. It holds my feet in a grip like a vice.

My pulse races as he steps towards me. The sound of my heart beating in my ears duels with the rain for dominance. My breathing is ragged, shallow, and I speak again.

“What do you want? Why are you following me?”

My first 503 words! I'm been such a slacker this year. I don't think that I'll be able to finish in time, but I've truly enjoyed everyone's first 500 words.

Rhona didn’t see this one coming, nervously waiting in the tiny psychiatrist’s office trying to amuse herself by finding animal shapes in the doctor’s potted plants. So far she found a polar bear in the fern and a giraffe in the spider plant, and when the rotating fan hit the plants just right, it looked like a much desired kissed between the two species was just out of reach.
At any given moment, there are a thousand different things to think of, but today Rhona did not want that many options. Finding plant animals was enough for her, and she tried her best to avoid stressing about dinner, or picking up the kids from daycare, or rescheduling her clients this week. Most importantly she didn’t want to think about her reasons for being at a psychiatrist’s office today or the tricks that her mind was playing on her.

Her little game was a successful distraction for the first ten minutes, but as the eleventh minute of waiting rolled on she shifted uncomfortably in her chair as all of her worries about seeing the doctor had returned. How could she explain what she was experiencing to a complete stranger. She couldn’t even find the words to tell her husband so how could she expect an outsider to understand her history and her beliefs in the Source. The doctor would probably take her religious beliefs to be strange enough without even mentioning her visions. He’d probably have her committed for sure.
Though she was not a licensed psychiatrist, she did her own type of spiritually counseling and made a pretty good business at it. She knew how to take control of a session, and all she needed to do was to give the doctor just enough information to get some medication to stop the visions from coming. Everything else she could keep to herself. After all, she thought to herself, your spiritual beliefs have nothing to do with your mental health.

After twenty painful minutes of thinking about all the things that she wanted to avoid, the doctor finally entered the room. “Sorry about the wait, Mrs. Osley. I’m Dr. Beeler.” he said while offering his hand, giving a firm hand shake and a smile. He was a fairly young man, still in his early thirties and carried himself with an easy-going confidence that inspired confidence and hope, even in hopeless cases. He quietly sat in his posh leather chair, offering no excuse for his tardiness, but questioning, “So what brings you in to see me today?”

Rhona was surprised by the abruptness of the question. It wasn’t like she had a cough and a sore throat that she could easily report in 25 words or less. She was having truly bizarre experiences and she could not quite find the words to describe it. She started slowly at first, but her confidence quickly started to grow with every word that she spoke. She was not going to let this situation get the best of her.

Just a word or two more. I had to finish the thought.
_________________
Sa’Al Theron's Choice
_________________

The girl was sitting on the creek bank away from the of the packhorses being unloaded to make camp for the night. They were some days from the next known water, low on meat, and tired one and all. Kers suspected that this camp would last for two or three days for hunting, fishing and resting. He did not like that the girl was off alone. With travel in abeyance, some of the men might remember that she was there and consider her fair game for their sporting. She might be a hostage in theory, but in truth it was unlikely she would see home again, if she so much as lived to see the end of the journey.
“You should get back to the fire”
“What? Oh. You. It is more quiet here. Do you mind?” Her voice was muffled and raspy.
“What is wrong with you?”
“Nothing. Just leave me alone.”
“You are crying. Do you miss your mother and sisters? Is it your abduction that distresses you, or has someone hurt you? You should not be harmed.”
“No. Not that. Nothing. Go away.”
“Not until you stop crying enough to talk to me. It is my assignment to see to your welfare. Please allow me to do this. You are fatigued. We have been long hours in the saddle. Perhaps.” He was unsure of how to phrase it in her awkward language. And to speak of a lady’s private parts, even to consider that she might require medication was rude at the least. Still. “I have unguents.”
She turned away from the water and looked at him. A blank stare, truly, but there was in it recognition of another human for the first time in their long ride together.
“Unguents?”
“For,” he dusted across his pants, ”aches.”
“Unguents for aches,” she said. “No. For my pain, sir, there is no balm.” She wiped her reddened eyes with a dusty hand, leaving a muddy smear across her cheek. “I am in your care, you said. Does that mean that no one else does care for me?”
“Mistress?” Kers wondered if this were one of those women of Valorin reputed to be dedicated to the temple at birth. Or perhaps she had a lover who had been killed in the fighting, the idea saddened him. He chose to return to the idea of family.
“Mistress, I am sure your family will choose to give us our free passage while you abide with us and whatever token ransom the Sa’Al Theron requires for your return. My understanding is that your father is not an unreasonable man. That was why the Sa’Al Theron chose him for his first foray into Valorin. My lord is not a barbarian fool like many others, but a man of thought before action.”
“You admire him, your Sa’Al Theron?”
“Of course, mistress. He is a most admirable lord, a wise leader, and a strong man.”
“I thought so,” she said. Then she looked Kers full in the face with all attention.

This morning was an interesting one. I woke up completely calm. It was one of those mornings where I just rose out of bed with no problems or craziness running through my head. I just woke calmly and ready to start my day. It may have been the Nyquil I took the night before. I have been sick for a couple of weeks now, off and on, with a really annoying cold. It’s harder to get over it when you’ve had it for so long. I’m moving in 2 weeks and I’m getting really excited. I have quite a bit of stuff, but have been going through much of it to only take anything I really need and a few knickknacks too!

I’m an interpreter at an elementary school and I absolutely love my job! It’s hard sometimes with the different situations I encounter, but it’s still a lot of fun and it’s what I like to do.

Everyday is usually the same schedule, with different occurrences few and far in between. Since this morning’s easy wake-up, I’ve felt more alive than ever before. The drive to work was the usual traffic, weather getting better than the rainy days we’d been seeing; I expected traffic to be a breeze. Leave it to everyone to literally slow to see a wreck on the highway. I find that so funny, people do the silliest things while they are driving. Men shave their chins with those portable electric razors, people eating mornings’ new “health craze” breakfast, pets crawling annoyingly across their owner’s laps, and makeup being delicately smeared across a woman’s face as she struggles to gesture at the man who’s just cut her off. I also get tickled when everyone slows at the sight of a highway patrolman parked in the grassy middle of the highway. If everyone just slowed to the “speed limit”, then everything would be a lot better. My mind had been running wildly at a mile a minute, when all of a sudden I saw break lights appear almost instantly on the rear of the car ahead of me. I felt my chest suck in as my world around me got instantly smaller. I nearly hit the car in front of me. Fortunately for me, I had enough time and space in front of me that I barely missed them. All that calm energy from my morning had dissipated into nothingness.

This month was filled with life, never-ending illustrious life. Between my own – moving, holidays appearing, friends getting older and it coming up on my husband and I's 1 ½ year anniversary, it was very lively. And, on top of all of that, people were just in that holiday spirit, life booming all around them. I think one thing that really truly made this month special was that it was the end of the year, but not quite December, giving an excited feeling to everyone.

My sister and I grew up best friends. We’d had our spats, but

Here are my first 500.

Three days into jury deliberations, Raven Blackburn was worried. Three days to come to a consensus on what should have been a slam-dunk for the prosecution.

She took a sip of tepid coffee. It was bitter, but she hardly tasted it. She shifted her weight on the wooden bench. Crossed her legs and swung her foot back and forth. Plucked a few stray dog hairs from the knee of her black slacks and sighed. She’d made fierce use of the lint brush, but Jake shed like a buffalo.

The woman beside her, Carla Jackson, jabbed her with a finger and asked, “They gonna yap in there all week?” Carla was a light-skinned young black woman with a fragile build that reminded Raven of an Italian Greyhound. There was an angry red scar on one side of Carla’s face. It streaked from the inside corner of her left eye to the lobe of her left ear, then slashed back to the corner of her mouth and jigged downward toward her chin. There were other scars hidden beneath the modest black dress the DA had insisted she wear. The scars were the defendant’s handiwork. Carla was Dennis Ray Harper’s last—and, as far as anyone knew, only living—victim. “What they doin’ in there, already?”

“Arguing, probably.” Raven gave the woman what she hoped was a calming smile. “Discussing the evidence.”

“That’s a load of crap.”

“Carla—”

“Shouldn’t be nothing to discuss. Sumbitch done what he done, somebody should just pop a cap in his head, be done with it.”

“I know you’re angry—”

“Damn straight I am.”

“But let’s not discuss popping caps in a hallway full of witnesses.”

Carla set her jaw, but said nothing. Instead, she slunk down on the bench and sucked down a swig of warm Pepsi from the vending machine downstairs. A tough girl, what popular culture euphemistically called a working girl. She was twenty-three but looked seventeen and had been on the streets since she was twelve. Tough on the outside, a lonely, frightened kid inside. And since Dennis Ray Harper, she was badly spooked.

She tugged anxiously at the hem of the black dress. When Dennis Ray had picked her up, she’d been wearing an electric purple micro-mini-skirt and a sheer blouse with no bra. These days, she seemed uncomfortable in anything but baggy jeans and T-shirts that swallowed her up. Covered her curves. Made her invisible.

Raven reached across the bench, gave Carla’s hand a reassuring squeeze. “Keep the faith,” she said. “We knew this might happen.”

The thing about juries was, there was no way to hurry them up. No way to know what was going on inside the deliberation chamber and give a nudge in the right direction. No way to know if the right people were making the right arguments, or if someone else, charismatic but clueless, was dragging the others astray.

She took another sip of her coffee. Three days. What was taking so long?