Excerpts!

“You know, I always feel like these cold catered lunches are a bit of a let down.” His voice was kind of irresistible too, a hint of laughter always on the edge of it. She tried to take a deep breath and resist the urge to kiss this guy.

“Yeah, I totally agree. Like, what, a few chafing dishes are too much to ask for?”

”Well, and I don’t really understand what’s so impressive about this. They rolled up some meat and cheese inside some wraps. And we paid how much for that?”

Ok, seriously. Her friends must have hired this guy, or something.

“And I’ve always thought,” Caitlin said, wondering if her voice was coming out as squeaky as it sounded in her head, “that if you could make something at home and pack it in a regular lunch bag, then it’s not a very impressive catering job, you know? I want something that makes me think “wow! How did they do that?”

”Exactly. This food is perfectly serviceable, it’s just not very impressive. I like my food with a little more pizzazz.”

”Food that jumps up and says ‘wow!’ Except not really, because that would be creepy.”

”It’s a metaphorical wow. I get you.”

”Exactly.” Seriously, he used the word metaphorical? There was no way this guy wasn’t a plant from her friends.

“Although there is that scene in the Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy where the cow comes in and suggests which parts are the most delicious.”

”I think that was in the Restaurant at the End of the Universe, actually.”

”Well, I was of course speaking of the trilogy as a whole.”

”A trilogy in five parts, that is.”

”Naturally.”

Oh my god, seriously. How could this guy be for real? Next thing you know he was going to start talking about his fondness for ice cream.

“And the desserts, I have to say, are a bit of a disappointment. You can only eat so many squares in little white wrappers before you’ve seen them all, you know? I like a Nanaimo bar as much as the next guy, but they just don’t have the satisfying punch of a really good pie.”

Pie. Close enough.

“Especially if it’s pie a la mode. I’m pretty sure that’s the most perfect food in the world.”

That was it. It was all over. It was like the god damn movies, here. He was cute, he was charming, he had an absurdly nice voice and ridiculously beautiful eyes and he was wearing a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up. And he thought pie with ice cream was nature’s greatest creation. How the hell was she supposed to resist this?

A vision of the future, with her pining over the entire Human Resource Division, suddenly appeared in front of her, and she realized that she had regressed to her fourteen-year-old self, where she’d had a crush on the guy who worked at the popcorn station for over six months, only to discover that he didn’t even know her name. Although this guy did seem a lot more interested in her than that guy had.

She was suddenly very glad that she’d bothered with a nice outfit that morning. Although she probably had lettuce in her teeth or something. Those stupid wraps always had little teeny pieces of lettuce in them – not enough to actually have any nutritional value, just enough to get stuck in your teeth shortly before you meet the most perfect guy in the universe.

She tried to surreptitiously run her tongue along her teeth while looking nonchalant, and fortunately, Josh took that opportunity to look around the room.

“They’re probably going to want to introduce me soon.”

”Ah, yes, of course. And we’ll get to hear about how your great-uncle was the human resources guy for the senior partner or something like that.”

”Hmm?” He turned back to her, clearly only half listening.

“Nothing.” She’d lost his interest. Oh well. Pining from afar it was.

“Listen, I should probably be mingling or something. Even though I would much rather stay here and talk to you, because you’re probably the most interesting person in the room and you’re definitely the prettiest, but it looks kind of bad if you don’t at least make an effort to mingle on your first day, you know?”

He thought she was pretty. Her voice was squeaky again. This was ridiculous – she was like a pre-pubescent boy with the squeakiness. “Oh, sure, I know how it is.”

”This might be ridiculously forward of me, but…would you like to have dinner tonight?”

”Oh, uh, well, I probably have to work late.”

”I can wait. How late is late?”

She would leave now if it meant he’d smile at her like that again. “I can probably wrap things up by 6:00 if I leave a few things for tomorrow.”

”What floor is your office on?”

”Uh, the second, but how about I meet you down in the lobby?” She wasn’t entirely sure that she wanted to explain to her entire floor that she was going out with the HR guy on his first day, and that seemed like the easiest way to avoid it. They were all kind of nosey on the second floor.

“That sounds perfect. See you at 6 in the lobby.”

She nodded, and had to fight the urge to run out of the room and call Lauren. With a start, she remembered that they hadn’t really talked in two days, but after a moment’s hesitation, she decided that this was bigger than the current awkwardness between them, and she pulled out her cell phone to send a surreptitious text message. Josh had moved away to talk to one of the senior partners, but nonetheless she sort of slid behind one of the large potted plants in order to reduce her visibility. The squeaky voice was bad enough – if he saw her text message her friend immediately after being asked out he would really think she was a teenager girl. Especially if he saw how many exclamation marks she was planning on using.

((Here's mine. I mean, I'm asleep. XD))

Looking around, everyone was now nodding and smiling, some of the boys with close friends trying to set off each others' funny bones. The bell rang for a short break, and everyone flooded out, no doubt to forget the significance of our story character, and only remember the shooting sensation in their arms.
I waited behind, and came up to Mlle Dupont at her desk, my ring and pinky fingers of my right hand clenched ever so tightly, as always. "Excuse me, Mlle, but I haven't been able to -"
"Oh!" she jumped a little, realizing what I meant by pointing at my elbow. "Yes, I'm terribly sorry, Laurence, but, well… I think you might to have a talk with your mother about that. Suffice to say that you're quite a unique young boy. Don't let it worry you." She patted me on the head and then sent me running out into the schoolyard.
I couldn't believe it, really. Maybe I just hadn't found the right spot - so I went over near the trees and sat there, for nearly a half-hour, banging rocks against my elbow until it bled, and developed dark blue-black bruises.

Ack! Which one to choose? I suppose this'll do...

It wasn’t long after her family visited that she was awakened by another visitor. The dashing man in black from the courtroom stood outside her cell, watching her through the bars. Her eyes were red and swollen from crying, and her cheeks were stained with tears. Her hair had escaped from her braid again and her clothes were wrinkled and stained, and stank with the filth of two weeks of wear. He didn’t seem to notice any of that. When he looked at her, she felt as if he looked right through her, to her very soul.

“Mrs. Duran, you have been charged with witchcraft, do you confess?”

“No.” Marion said scornfully, looking at the man with open distain.

The man didn’t bat an eye before presenting her with what she was accused of. “There have been witnesses who have confessed to seeing you gathered in the presence of other witches, in unholy communion with the devil, collecting ingredients for the purpose of sorcery, and casting magical spells. Do you confess to these accusations?”

“Of course not!” she replied, thoroughly outraged. “It is impossible that you could have witnesses to such atrocious lies, I’d like to meet just one person who could speak out against me in such a manner!”

“That can be arranged, Mrs. Duran.” He said, blandly. “I have here,” and he waved a sheet of paper, nonchalantly, “the confessions of three men and one woman. One man, a Mr. Christian Baker swears on his life that he saw you on the hill top with a gathering of witches. Mr. Thomas Thomson swears that he saw you, on the same hill top, dancing naked in a circle with other witches, around an altar, desecrating the holy communion. Mr. Michael Peterson swears he saw you collecting items for the purposes of sorcery, and Mrs. Allison Wright heard from your own son, that you have performed magic in your own house, in front of your children! Do you still contend that these accusations are false?”

Marion stared at the man for many silent seconds. She was temporarily speechless. The blatant lies and half truths that she was being accused of, and the audacity to turn the innocent comments of her own son against her, had stunned her completely. When at last she was able to speak again, it was slowly and with great deliberation. “Two of your witnesses are blatantly lying to you, Mr. Black.”

His eyebrows shot up at what he was sure was to be a confession, while he was stunned to receive a confession so quickly – a personal best – he was also disappointed that he would be denied the pleasure of working it out of her. “Then you confess, to two of the accusations?” he asked.

“No, I didn’t say that. I said that two are blatant lies. The other two are half truths. It’s true I quite often gather roots and herbs from the country side, but only because I like how they taste in my cooking. And it is true that I have told my son I can do magic, but only to scare away the monsters he envisions are under his bed.”

“One might say, Mrs.Duran, that the innocence of a child may have discovered Satan living in your house….”

“Ha!” Marion laughed briefly, before she could see from the dangerous glisten in his black eyes that laughing at him was a very dangerous mistake. She quickly stifled her laughter, and asked him quite seriously, “Do you have any children, Mr. Black?”

“No,” he said dismissively, “I hardly see what that has to do with anything…”

“Simply this, sir,” she countered, “if a child imagining monsters under his bed is an indicator of Satan in the home, then Satan must be in the home of nearly every single family in this country. Children are scared of the unknown, it’s as simple as that.”

“You have an impudent mouth, Mrs. Duran, you should have more respect for those with power over you.”
“You have no power over me, sir. And you never will.”

She stared him in the eye until he growled, “We shall see about that,” and turned abruptly and stormed away like a spoiled child denied a sweet.

She had been walking forever. Since there was no path, she used the wooden spoons to move the undergrowth out of her way. Lame machetes for sure, but did she have a choice? She watched for snakes--although she wasn’t sure if there were dangerous snakes in this unknown rain forest, she was pretty sure there were. Maybe they hovered in tree branches. But she wasn’t afraid. She remembered the time she and Matt had gone on holiday--they had taken Rookie for a walk in Lethbridge’s Popson Park. Several rattlesnakes crossed their path--she nearly stepped on one--but it skittled away, just like a garter snake. Maybe snakes were like dogs-they sensed if you were afraid. While driving out of the park, they had stopped. A huge rattlesnake was basking in the sun, his beautiful diamond coat a thing of awe. But he was sprawling across the entire roadway, and there was no way she and Matt were driving over him. Matt opened his door and picked up a few pebbles. He tossed them at the snake. The rattlesnake looked annoyed and would not budge. Matt picked up a larger stone and threw it at the poor thing, The snake’s tail had started to rattle--he was definitely pissed-he slithered off onto the prairie. The snake had no idea Matt had saved his life. As they stopped at the park’s exit, a truck barrelled past them-it would have driven over the rattlesnake without even realizing it. Those were the memories of Matt that kept her going here. He was her kindred spirit. She feared not snakes. Every time there was a rustle in the bushes, she froze though--her biggest fear was Grizzly bears or big cats. Usually the interloper was a ring-ring bird, looking terrified at her presence, sending out a quadruple warning to its mare in the jungle. Ba-ding, ba-ding, ba-ding, ba-ding. Caveman alert. She made lots of noise--singing in her off-key voice another Eagles ditty.
“Welcome to the Hotel California
Such a lovely place
Such a lovely face
Plenty of room at the Hotel California
Any time of year, you can find it here.”
What she would of for a hotel room now, even at the infamous Hotel California. Kenzie knew she could listen to the song on her Walkman and sing along with the Eagles, but she wanted to be aware of the sounds in the bush around her. She remembered instances of people being killed at intersections, because they had their i-pods on and weren’t paying attention to the sounds around them, like vehicles turning right at intersections. Here the sounds would be predators moving through the bush--although every rustle in the bushes turned out to be a bird. So far.
She kept moving to the clearing--surely she was getting closer, but the forest just grew thicker and thicker. The bugs were starting to come out in swarms--they reminded her of mosquitoes, but they were green, not black. So far the mosquito spray had kept them at bay--she had used it sparingly. One drop would have to go a long way.
She had walked about four hours when she stopped for lunch in a tiny clearing dotted with flat red stones in rows that gave it a look of a prehistoric classroom. She decided to lunch here. Her apple juice was finished long ago--but she had kept the bottle and filled it up with fresh rain water every day collected in clam shells. Every night the rains came--sometimes just a steady downpour and no thunder and lightning, but always rain. She dug an O Henry bar out of a cargo pants pocket-she still had seven of these left--and allowed herself one per day. As for the sustenance found in this new wild place, she was afraid to try it. She remembered how some berries were poisonous--and some mushrooms. But not far from her resting place, she spotted a large tree with huge pear shaped fruit dangling on it. They were dark pink--out of reach. She was able to reach a lower bough with her foot and climb to where the fruit hung, almost like Christmas bells. She plucked one, and jumped to the ground. The peel was pebbly like an avocado--it was softening like a ripe one too. She ripped the peel back with her fingertips, and saw a pink avocado fruit, the colour of bubble gum. Dare she take a bite? She saw some peels and pits below the tree. Some critter was eating them. She wondered if a monkey would swing out of the tree at her. Well, they must be safe. She peeled one back and took a bite--it was messy eating without a spoon. The fruit was delicious--nutty and fruity, almost a cross between an avocado and cashew flavour. She had a brainstorm--use the remaining Lays chips as scoops, and have a very basic guacamole.

The cottage was primitive. Actually it was a tree, not a real cottage. The abode was a natural one, like a cave in a way. It was fashioned from one of those gargantuan trees, but the top was missing, lopped off completely. You could see where it had been slashed by lightning and charred at about the third storey if the tree had been a building. It looked like a natural Quonset hut, almost entirely covered by vines. She could barely make out the door--how could it be even opened? There were a few natural windows, looking to be porthole-sized knots. Nobody could live here now. The place looked like it had been abandoned for a few decades. The vines had practically camouflaged the place. But Kenzie was thrilled to find a place to hunker down, as long as it wasn’t a den of a grizzly bear, or anything as ferocious. Was she feeling like Goldilocks or what? Or Reddilocks, considering her hair colour. It looked to be ancient and falling to rack and ruin, guarded on both sides by two spindly pink geranium plants--resembling elm trees. How could geraniums grow this tall? Perhaps this was the rain forest--and every thing grew to enormous proportions. The sun was definitely closer to the earth here. She knew that geraniums loved heat and sunshine--did the extra rain turn them into geranium trees? The blooms had to be as big as her head. The birds and fish, from what she had seen so far, were miniature versions of the ones she was familiar with in North America. Trees and plants were giant--fish and bird tiny. And did fish live on land. Is that why they had feet? This really was Dr. Suess-land. She grabbed her notebook and pen and made notes for a future column. Thank God she brought a Bic pen. But she only had one. Even her ink would have to be rationed.
Here she hoped to find shelter from the terrible storms that came after a very long day--almost as long as two earth days without any interlude of darkness. Surely the thick vines creeping across the makeshift roof would keep out the heavy rains if she stopped here for a while. She couldn’t open the primitively hewn door--it didn’t budge--the thick vines had locked it shut. She called out to anything living inside. “Hello, anyone home?” If there was man or beast inside, she was giving them fair warning, like calling “Fore” after a very bad shank. There wasn’t a sound in return. She threw a couple of pebbles inside, to see if anything inside slithered or flew. Nothing. She decided to try to crawl one of the windows. She was sure she could squeeze through one of the vines covering the opening. She pushed the vines to one side with her wooden spoon, being used as a benign machete. She peered through the window. Not bad, even cozy. There was even a fireplace of sorts, built primitively with smooth stones stacked on top of one another. It looked like it hadn’t been lit for years. The ash in the fireplace was dust. There was a hammock of sorts tied between two tree trunks--it was made from a blanket--but moth-eaten or mouse eaten. There wasn’t much left of it. Nobody had slept here for a very long time. She threw her backpack in on the floor and then shifted herself through the window, letting her hands fall to the earthen floor. She pulled herself to her feet. She looked around to see if there were any matches to start a fire of sorts--there weren’t any. How had this tree-dweller started a fire, she wondered. Did they once have matches, and just kept it going all the time, never letting the embers die? She so wanted a warm fire to sit by and get warm. The last few days had been cooler along with the nights. There was a stack of neatly piled wood beside the fireplace. It looked tinder dry as if it had been there for ages--it would burn easily. There was a desk thrown together with charred tree trunks, and a book on it. Windfall. The occupant was civilized, not an illiterate tribesman.
It looked like a moleskin journal-- or a flight plan book. Had a pilot lived here, she wondered. There was a chair too--it looked like the seat of an airplane fixed to a stump with nails--somebody had to have crashed in the jungle and had made this makeshift cabin until they were found, more than likely. They must have had a toolbox somewhere, but she couldn’t see one. Rummaging around, she found a cupboard made of metal pieces, probably from the plane, or maybe it was just part of the plane--a compartment perhaps. In it she found a wine glass, four plastic plates with a snazzy watermelon design and four plastic forks and knives. The cutlery was an unexpected find--she wouldn’t have to eat avocadoes with her fingers any more. The wooden spoons had only been good as drumsticks so far and wannabe machetes. And she could eat off a real plate, and not a clam shell, that is if she was smart enough to find enough food for a real meal. So far she had been eating finger food--avocadoes, mini chocolate bars, and chips. She couldn’t see herself spearing fish or talking to a volleyball, like Tom Hanks in the movie, Castaway. She opened the book and read in the front cover: Grace Cadiuex, it said.
It was a woman, just like her. She felt a kinship with her already. She sat down to open the book--it was a flight plan journal that had been rendered into a journal. The first entry was a shopping list scrawled on the inside cover.
Gift?? What? Towels? Sheets? Picnic Basket? ASK ALLAIN!
Deodorant
razers
pantyhose
new bra
tampons
PICK MOM UP AT 2.
Oh man. What was she going to do about tampons? She only had a few in her backpack emergency kit. Would she have to resort to moss like the Indian women did? And she only had one razor with her swim things at the bottom of her pack. Would her armpits soon resemble the jungles that she had landed in? One thing she wouldn’t need here was pantyhose. She hadn’t needed them in her old life back in Inglewood either. She nosed around the tree house and found a bomber jacket, the coat of the woman who lived here. But where was she? The place had obviously been deserted for ages. And if she was rescued, why hadn’t this Grace person taken her bomber jacket along with her?

(Just so you know, my main character, a boy-king, has fallen into a river (er, for the second time) while escaping rebels who mean to kill him. He was rescued by two friendly men that he only later finds out are actually mercenaries. They do not know that the boy that they rescued is, in fact, king. They have taken to calling him "Cricket" because he is small, green (well, the feathers of his wings are), and squeaks a lot (in surprise). :3
***
Tithonus had found himself dragged into “camp” (a clearing in the woods with a campfire, several rough-looking tents and about a half dozen other even rougher-looking full-blooded Kin), and was promptly dropped before an old scarred-up character with a gleeful “Hey boss, check out what we found!” from his rescuers.
Well, perhaps “dropped” was a bad word to use. “Placed with less than perfect care” before the man was perhaps better. He was still being supported by Burdock and Tenebris, because when they had moved to let go, the boy-king’s knees had buckled, and he’d had to be caught under the elbows again. This “boss” had yet to address Tithonus as of yet. He had merely raised an eyebrow at the pair supporting him, and quite plainly stated: “I thought that I had sent you out to gather firewood?” Just from this one statement, Tithonus could tell that this man was indeed the one in charge. Authority oozed from his tone.
“But boss, this is much more interesting than firewood!” Burdock protested in an almost whiny tone. “Just look at him: isn’t Cricket cute?” Burdock then had the audacity to grab the boy-king’s chin with his hand to angle it, apparently to demonstrate his inherent “cuteness”. Tithonus tried to stay calm.
“Cricket?” The boss inquired, raising his other eyebrow. Oh, good: Tithonus wasn’t the only one who questioned the validity of a nickname comparing someone to a small insect.

“You know it would be easier on you if you just confess your transgressions, witch.” The interrogator said as he drew the knife across Kaori’s mid-section.
Kaori shivered as the cold metal touched her skin. “How can I confess to some thing when I have done nothing wrong?” She choked out. Her throat was dry from lack of water, and the taste of bile and blood coated her tongue. Lifting her eyes, there was a look of defeat there. She could not break the bonds that these people used to keep her still as they tortured her, though the spirits knew that she had tried. There was dried blood coating her wrists and ankles and her limbs ached from being unable to move.
The interrogator slapped the woman across the face, causing her head to snap to the side. “You know what you have done, heathen. Brother Darius is dead because of you and your little group of blasphemers. You will tell us where the others are hiding, of that we are certain.”
“He attacked us, I have told you that already!” Kaori did not know why she bothered to repeat her words. These people wanted to know where the others were, and they were using this ‘Darius’ as an excuse. She would not give them up though, could not give them up. The others were counting on her to keep her mouth shut. The woman only hoped that they were safe and far away from this place. It reeked of death in here, and Kaori had little doubt that soon her own body would be added to the growing pile. She would be just another one of the ‘evil ones’ that had been taken out of the church. Chances were, not many people would notice one more non human around. A few would, yes, and perhaps they would morn. Not openly, never openly. To do that was death now a days.
“Lies!” The man yelled, spitting in Kaori’s face before back handing her again, on the other cheek this time. This time, Kaori kept her head to the side, not looking at her torturer. “Very well,” the masked man said, standing up. “We have some thing that will make you tell us the location. Or rather, some one.” Sheathing his knife, the man walked over to the cell door and opened it, gesturing to some one standing outside. Walking back towards Kaori, he was followed by two other masked men. Between them they dragged a large brown haired man. Looking at the person, Kaori’s eyes opened wide in recognition.
“Leave him out of this!” she said, struggling at her bonds again, knowing that it was useless. She had no energy left, even if she could break the manacles.
Myles looked to be in pretty rough shape as they chained him to the wall across from her. He had cuts all over his face and torso. Ugly bruises also decorated his eye and ribs. From the looks of it, he had some broken ribs. Kaori’s fingers ached to heal the wounds, that she could not frustrated and saddened her to no end. Kaori had no idea how they had found him, or how they had figured out that she knew him. She wondered if they knew that he was her husband or not, and if they did, who had told them. That some one had told them Kaori had no doubt.
“Hm, yes. I thought that would get you fired up. “Now, unless you wish to loose your beloved, I would suggest telling us where to find your group. I will give you two a little time alone, so you can… think about it…”
Kaori glared at the man as he walked out of the room, wanting so badly to fire something at him. Were she not chained to the wall, she would do just that. Or try to choke the life out of him with her bare hands. If she ever managed to get out of here alive, that man would die a very painful and drawn out death.
Kaori was snapped out of her thoughts as she heard Myles stirring. Looking over at him, she wished so badly to be by his side, supporting him, breaking free of his chains. “Myles?” Kaori croaked out, pain and sadness in her eyes.
The broken man groaned and lifted his head, his eyes widening when he saw his wife in the sorry state that she was in. Her clothes were barely covering her now and the pieces that were left were covered in blood, apparently the interrogators did not think that the woman had any need for decent covering. There were cuts and bruises all over her legs, arms, torso and face. The woman looked like she should be dead, and for a moment Myles thought that she was. “Kaori!” The concern for her was evident in his voice. “Kaori, what happened? Maria contacted me and said that you had disappeared, that they feared the worst! I thought you were dead! Then these men came to the house and-“
“Shh, shh… Myles, calm down, you will strain your self to much. You need to be careful; it looks like you have some broken ribs. I can guess what happened, and I am sorry. It is my fault that they tracked you down.” Kaori looked over her husband’s body, more worried about him than for her self.
Myles shook his head, “They would have come after me eventually any way, for being married to you. I am just glad that you are alive. I wish that you were not so badly hurt. But, why are you here, what do they want from you?”
“They… they want me to give every one else up… I… I think that I have to, now that they have you… They will kill you if I do not.” Kaori’s shoulders slumped as much as was possible in position that she was in.
“No, Kaori. You can not.” Myles said, looking straight in to the young woman’s eyes. “No matter what happens, I will stay with you, I promise. But you can not give the others up. Moira is just a child, so are Teàrlag and Bláthnaid. Promise me, no matter what happens, you will not tell these people where they are. Promise me!” Myles repeated as Kaori looked away from him. “Kaori, please! Promise me that you will not give them up!”
“I-” Kaori croaked through tears that would not fall. “I promise, Myles… I promise…”
“Thank you, Kaori,” Myles said with a sad smile, tears of his own falling down his face.”Please, always remember that no matter what happens, I love you.”
Kaori nodded weakly, “I know, Myles. I love you too, so much. “I will find a way to get you out of this, I promise.”
“How sweet, the witch is making promises that she can not keep.” Kaori and Myles looked over at the door to the cell at the sound of the Inquisitors voice. “You really made a mistake there, Irving, marrying one of them. They can not be trusted you know, not a one of them.”

Nice.
Keep writing, it's good.

News reports are a funny thing. Shows have different credibility – certain people trust certain anchors or reporters. Everyone trusted Alyssa Jones, the girl with the microphone and the long legs who could be seen at 9, 5, and 9 again – every day of the week, except weekends. On a big network like XYZ, how could you not trust her, right? She had it all – beauty, brains, and did I mention legs? Oh, yes, legs. Legs you could trust.

On network TUV, there was Mallory Crest. And she was no less attractive and no less brainy than Alyssa Jones, but she worked for a rag of a network. TUV ran the kind of stories that Geraldo Rivera would be embarrassed to be seen covering, and Mallory Crest was always the one out in front, jumping out of the news van, microphone in hand, in that god awful commercial that they played every other second.

Both of them got the scoop, both of the shows aired, but one always got the better ratings – and it was the one with the legs.

On this particular news day, Mallory found herself at a press conference called by the attorney general, discussing the effects of growth hormones in dairy cows. Apparently, or so Mallory’s notes said, the use of estrogen to speed up the growth of cows, making them able to produce milk faster, was altering the DNA in pregnant women. This sounded like a made enough sense to Mallory, who was a proud graduate of St. Mary Rutherford’s, a small high school in an even smaller town in Connecticut. She’d always been good in chemistry, after all.

Six seats down and three rows back, Alyssa Jones was thoroughly enjoying the flavor of her pen cap, or at least that’s how it looked to the four men intently watching her ruby lips working over the cheap plastic Bic. She jotted down a note here and a note there, paying only enough attention to look busy. Alyssa couldn’t work in this type of setting – all these people watching her – they were always watching her – so she’d watch a recording of the press conference on the way back to the station, in the privacy of her limo, and get enough information for her 5 or 9 o’clock.

‘Cows. Growth hormones. Dangerous to mothers. Don’t drink milk.’ Her notes were brief, and she doubted that the network chair would like that last bit, since some of their funding was from the state’s agricultural commission – mainly the dairy farmers. But her journalistic integrity could not be compromised.

The story ran on both channels – even rerunning once more on TUV when their late-night anchor didn’t show up and their backup anchor was ‘on his way’, and by ‘on his way’ he meant ‘high on crack in a Motel 6 with a hooker, but if I remember where the building is after I’m done freebasing, I’ll be there’. Few people paid much attention to the report. You always have your handful of over-zealous housewives, or hypochondriac nerd-men, who take a point and run with it until the tank is on E and the fumes are just about out, and this situation was no different. They picketed the local grocery, they put police caution tape around the dairy farmers yards – one of them, going by the name of Will Gods, even went as far as to cut the udders off of three bovines before getting caught.
He was found guilty of trespassing, animal cruelty, resisting arrest, and disorderly conduct but was able to plead insanity based on the fact that, when he was found, he was wearing one of the removed udder-sacks on his head.

But overall, the story had no effect on the general public. Just like many other health scares that go unnoticed on the radar until it’s too late, the masses continued on in blissful ignorance.

See, smokescreens are a delicate tool. If looked at years later, a few well placed smokescreens can suspend disbelief for at least another few years – if not another decade. And the powers that be, which is the say the ones who were controlling everything, were just setting up a few backups in case a certain day came. Drop a hint there, sneak a note in here, remember when this happened… that sort of thing. Years from the moment that news broadcast about chemically enhanced cow’s milk first aired (and subsequently re-aired on TUV), people would look back and think that the whole thing started then. And that was what the government wanted.

One year later, both of those newswomen were dead, or assumed dead anyway – they both went missing within two months of one another and, though the search carried on for months and familial hope carried on for longer than that, they were never seen again.
They got too close to something - and it had nothing to do with milk.

Cool! I'd read that.

I don't have large chunks of words that are forum safe, so instead I will post micro-excerpts. More random quotes really. Sorry.

Hehe, sitting here, watching Dr. Who, and reading your quotes. Laughing out loud at them while Darleks go on a killing spree. XD

Chapter one. ENJOY!

EDIT: Incidentially, I hate that the < i > tag doesn't work for italics. GAH.

<><><>

Down the old alley, Nolin strained to balance a load of heavy groceries on one arm, trying to unlock the apartment door with his free hand. It was getting late, it was beginning to rain, and he didn’t want to be out here any longer than he had to be. A crash of thunder only reminded him that the faster he could get this door open, the faster he could hole up in his dark apartment with his laptop and a bowl of popcorn as a companion.

Finally, he set down the bags, pushing the door open and picking the paper sacks back up.

The bottom split open. The water must have soaked through, weakening it. Nolin swore, and set the other bags just inside the door. Tossing his keys into the house, he chased after the scattered groceries.

Just my luck…

He retrieved a tin of margarine, went after the small block of cheese and container of coffee.

A dark hand closed over his cheese. As Nolin straightened up, he found himself staring into the liquid eyes of…

“You dropped this,” she offered helpfully.

“Aye… thank you.” Nolin took the cheddar, stacking it in his arms and heading after the carrots. He didn’t recognize the dark-skinned woman. She certainly wasn’t dressed for the weather. She looked like she had stepped out of one of his mystery novels. Femme fatale. A deadly woman. Honed muscles and sharp instincts and a dangerous eye for seduction of the innocent…

She wore a hat, a hat that looked like it had been stolen from the thirties, wore stiletto leather boots that cut off just below her knees and clung to her skin, a corset top and short skirt. She held the remains of a slender cigarette between her left index finger and thumb, smoke wafting from it like incense and a dim glow of fire still caught in the ash-white tip. Beyond the tight clothing she wore nothing to suit the cold weather. There was probably more skin than clothing, but Nolin wasn’t going to be the one to tell her she looked like a prostitute dressed like that. People were so touchy these days about friendly suggestions.

“The new tenant?” he asked amiably, picking up the bag of frozen carrots. He grunted, looking at what he already held. It was one thing to balance an absurd number of bags in sacks, sacks were all about the same size. None of these had handles.

She shook her head—he caught it as he straightened up. But she disagreed aloud as well. “No.”

“Haven’t seen you around before.” Nolin laughed, heading over to the steps and setting down the vegetables and butter. He gestured with the cheese. “And I know pretty much everyone…”

It was a dark and stormy night…

“You don’t recognize me?” she asked. “I’m disappointed, really.”

“Should I have? Are you famous?”

“No.” She smiled.

It was a deadly smile.

In that moment, Nolin knew what he thought of her. Anti-hero. She was the sort of person you’d expect to see in a story, and not helping you pick up your groceries. She was the sort of person you’d think to be evil…

She picked up his grapes, brushing them off and handing them to him.

Their fingers brushed. It was like touching an electric fence. A jolt shot through Nolin’s body and he shivered, instinctively pulling his hand back, the grapes on hand. He glanced at them. Muddy, but they’d still be edible. Just needed a good washing.

“I’m Noira,” she completed, as if the moment had never happened. “You can call me Noira.”

He stared at her through foggy glasses, finally taking them off and rubbing them on the hem of his shirt. She offered him her hand again. “And you?”

“Nolin.” He glanced around, seeing nothing to avoid the second touch. Setting the grapes down in his porch, he accepted her hand. “How do you spell that?” he asked, trying to ignore the feeling.

It wasn’t like just shaking hands.

It was like touching someone made of fire. She made him want something. She made his attention stay focused on one and only one person: herself. It was like a spell. It broke his mind, it took away the fragments of distraction. He knew one thing, in that moment. He held her hand.

A crash of thunder startled him away from it and he jerked, instinctively taking his hand from hers.

The spell broke.

Nolin just stared at her with green eyes. “You know, this isn’t great weather to be talking in. Would you like to come in and have some tea?”

“N-o-i-r-a.”

He realized a moment later it was an answer to his first question.

“And, thank you, but I’m afraid I have very little time…” She shifted from her right to her left leg, looking for a moment awkward. He watched as her gaze drifted over to his car and then snapped back to him.

It was like staring into a vampire’s eyes.

She pushed him against the wall, painted fingernails digging into his shoulders. “Look at me, Nolin.”

He gaped. “What do you want? Money? Food? My car?”

“None of that. Look at me!”

It was an order, not a request. He complied, staring into her dark eyes, dark eyes set in a dark face with dark makeup that didn’t run in the rain. He nervously moistened his lips with his tongue. Nervous. He was so nervous. Her liquid black eyes were controlling, her touch was demanding, her makeup and clothing just right to make her the most seductive person he had ever laid eyes on.

Her eyes could have put a mascara company out of business.

He stared at her.

“Listen to me very carefully. You should know me, Nolin. But in lieu of such pleasantries, we will have to settle for a warning.”

She leaned forward. Her breath was warm on his cheek.

“They are after you.”

“I know you,” Nolin gasped. “You’re…”

She walked through his door, a gun in her left hand, the safety clicked off. The detective glanced up, and when he saw what she carried, he froze. His hands fell to his desk.

The shot blasted through his chest. He dropped a hand to the wound, holding it up bloody. Then he smiled, cocking the gun. She noticed a moment too late the red glow in his eyes as he fired…

“The one who walks in,” he murmured. It’s every writer’s nightmare.

Your character walks through your door... and into your life.

“Very good. They’re after us, Nolin. I need you to trust me.”

“I can’t trust you!” He sank back against the house. “You killed my heroine!”

“That was fiction! But have it your way.” She drew a gun. He wasn’t sure where it came from, or whether it was even loaded, but she did press it against his head with a snarl. “You’re going to come with me, or I’ll shoot you.”

Wow... so, out of curiosity, you ARE publishing this, right? becuase if you do, I am totally buying it as soon as it is printed

Grace Cadieux planned on being in Savannah, Georgia, by suppertime. Her brother Alain was getting married on the weekend--and she was the maid of honour. She raced home after an early lunchtime dismissal from Woodside Middle School in Baltimore--even springing for a taxi- and threw together a suitcase. Her mother had already left--the apartment was empty. What would she need to pack? The gift, of course, and that horrendous Little Bo Beep bridesmaid dress, with the winged sleeves, and covered in tiny green polka dots. She felt like the Incredible Hulk’s mutant wife when she tried it on at the fitting. She surely wouldn’t be stealing attention from the bride-not in this get-up. Of course it had to be let out. More fluffy tulle “dans les ailes”. The only thing missing was a curved staff to gather the sheep. How come brides could pick up such elegant gowns for themselves and then dress their bridesmaids as ugly stepsisters? And to think, she paid a fortune for this pile of chiffon. She wondered if she could wear it again--maybe next Hallowe’en. She always dressed up along with her students.

As for a wedding gift, she had pored over the registry at Macy’s for weeks. The couple’s gift list was filled with pricey items. How would she ever afford a Waterford punch bowl or even one of those newfangled VHS video machines? She had just bought this very gently used Cessna airplane after scrimping for six years, and living in a small apartment with her mother while teaching fourth grade. Flying was her passion, but it sucked up all her earnings. She tried to find one affordable item on the list that wouldn’t make her look too chintzy. As well, she looked for something lightweight and compact--she didn’t want to be adding extra weight and bulk to her aircraft--especially since she was taking her mother along on the flight, and she and her mother both weighed in at 200 pounds each. And she wasn’t going to be cramming a heavy oak dining room table and chairs into her tiny plane. Actually her mother had purchased the dining set for the happy couple--but she ordered it through the Savannah Macy’s. Her mother had invited her to go in on the gift with her, but she wanted to give them something that she had picked out on her own, separate herself from her mother as a unit. Grace knew that whatever she gave as a gift, it wouldn’t measure up--Emily Sue’s father was a rich lawyer in the Southland. These people held cotillions, with Emily Sue coming out as a debutante being a huge deal. Her father, Mr. Wainwright Collier, was probably giving the couple a mansion for their shower gift. But Alain, a lover of the outdoors and partaker of many childhood berry picking expeditions in Quebec, would love the picnic basket.

The Cadieux family, displaced Acadians, originally from Kentville, Nova Scotia, were small potatoes by comparison. They had lived in Baltimore for two generations, and it wasn’t a planned thing. On the way to New Orleans, Grace’s maternal great grandmother had taken sick, and they never got any farther than Baltimore. Alain and Grace had grown up on food stamps in the projects after their dad took a runner back to the Maritimes while they were toddlers. They both learned to fill their piggybanks from first grade, and Grace started saving for an airplane in high school. The work ethic kicked in strong as they watched their mother work three minimum wage jobs. She spoke perfect French to her sister back in Canada--Adele had married a Québecois--their French was very different than the other dialects of French in the United States, including Cajun and Louisiana French. Both Grace and Alain understood it, but never had a chance to speak it except on yearly summer visits to Québec. But their Francophone roots were strong. During the ‘80s, there weren’t a lot of negative feelings in the U.S. toward people of French descent. Alain and Emily Sue planned on putting their future kids in French immersion programs.

Alain had escaped poverty after winning a scholarship to Harvard. Grace was doing all right. Better than her mom had done--she didn’t have two kids to raise on her own. How many 35-year-olds had an airplane? It was third-hand but in pretty good shape. No accidents on it. Mind you, she didn’t make much money as a teacher in the U.S. She had an airplane, but no car. To most folks, that didn’t make sense. “Wouldn’t a car be more practical?” her principal had asked. She took the bus to work-wasn’t that better for the environment? Many teachers took on second jobs in America. But Grace had her mom shared expenses. As for the wedding gift, if she threw in a freebie--a two-way airplane trip to the Bahamas on any long weekend, her offering from the registry wouldn’t seem so tawdry, especially since she was a member of the wedding party. She was expected to give something nice. She decided on the forty-dollar picnic basket--the least expensive item on the list, found at the very bottom near the lowly salad tongs. The thought was romantic enough with its red-checked tablecloth, wine glasses and its decanter, and its country-style wicker basket. And it would tuck nicely into the plane’s cargo compartment. She even found an affordable bottle of wine to include in the picnic basket--a 1984 Llano Estacado Chardonnay--who knew they made wine in Texas? She had heard the chardonnay was dry and aged in oak, and had received rave reviews. Alain was a white wine connaisseur. She was not. She had to ask for help--what was new and trendy--if she had her druthers, she might have chosen a bottle of Mateus, the cheap but tacky beverage of her youth.

As it happened, Grace’s mother cancelled at the last minute. A nervous flyer, Yvonne Cadieux had read her horoscope in the morning paper. “Keep your head out of the clouds.” Zuts alor!” That was an omen. She opted for keeping her head on terra firma--and decided to take the bus to Savannah earlier that day. She had called her daughter to inform her of the sudden change in plans. Grace wasn’t disappointed--her mother was a white-knuckle flyer, and it tended to make her nervous during landings. Turbulence always upset her mother--and thunderstorms often erupted throughout The South in late afternoons. She was glad her mother had chosen to take the bus--her rickety plane was too noisy for conversation anyhow.

But Alain and his lovely fiancé, Emily Sue, never received either the free two-way plane trip nor the lowly picnic basket. And Alain never saw his only sibling Grace again. It certainly put a crimper on their nuptials when the chief bridesmaid never showed. Grace’s plane had taken off from Baltimore on time--she had phoned in her flight plan, as always. Five hours later, she called in a mayday from a position way off course, between Miami and Freeport, Bahamas. It was definitely her plane. Her call numbers, N9028Q, were confirmed with the Miami tower. The weather had been clear--and the strangest thing was, Grace’s plane clearly was not equipped with enough gas to make it to Florida. How had she overshot The South completely and ended up in the ocean between Miami and the Bahamas? Tourists in boats below claim the plane was seen suspended in mid-air in a sort of limbo before it vanished in fog, onlookers said. “It looked like one of them blimps, just hovering there and not moving,” said Wilber Hughes, a fisherman from Freeport. “The fog, she come on top of it, and then she never come out.” Nobody witnessed a crash--no plane parts were ever retrieved from the shallow waters--no body, no luggage, no ugly lime green bridesmaid dress. However the picnic basket was found floating intact, empty, except for a wine decanter. The decanter was later found to have an unexplainable electromagnetic charge. That wasn’t the only strange thing. There was a mayday heard one year later to the day from co-ordinates just over Charlotte, South Carolina. It was the exact sequence of numbers on the exterior of her little Cessna-the female pilot, identifying herself as Grace Cadieux, was asking clearance to land at the Miami airport--she was running out of gas. Had this radio message been trapped in a time warp, to be heard later? Or had she been flying on the same tank of gas for one year? There were similar stories of pilot radio messages heard during the Viet Nam War. The eerie thing was, they were messages from pilots flying in the Korean War, 20 years earlier.

Miss Cadieux’s class had a sub for the rest of the year, but they never forgot their adventurous teacher. Especially when they heard of the ghost message trapped in time by their vanished teacher. The fourth grade teacher became the stuff of legends, an Amelia Earhart of Baltimore’s inner city. Maybe she was a victim of the Bermuda Triangle, they discussed over several recesses. Wasn’t Miami a corner of the notorious Bermuda Triangle? But Miss Cadieux wasn’t dead, they insisted. All of the kids in her class hung onto the hope that she wasn’t lost forever. No, not at all. Just displaced. Maybe she found the lost city of Atlantis and was living as a mermaid there, her former students imagined. One student was even making a comic book about Miss Cadieux called WingWoman. But they were wrong on most counts. Except one. Miss Cadieux hadn’t perished over the Atlantic. But she didn’t end up in Atlantis or Atlanta, either. She was electromagnetically displaced far from earth--20 light years to be exact-- her plane did crash in shallow waters, and the contents of the picnic basket were scattered across a nearby beach. The bridesmaid dress got caught in a tree branch--the birds feathered their nests with the wispy strips of tulle from the sleeves. But Grace had survived the crash with only a few cracked ribs. If only her poor mother had known. Yvonne was a basket case after her daughter’s plane vanished, and she died of a heart attack one year to the day. Why had she ever let her only daughter take to the skies, or why hadn’t she gone with her on that fateful day? Relatives said she had died of survivor’s guilt. A child was supposed to outlive his or her parents. And it was even worse when there is no body to bury, no grave to visit. Grace did outlast her mother by five years. But she didn’t spend them on earth. She lived out the rest of her days on Gleise 581c, and they were mostly happy ones.

nice detail

Very cool. I want to read more! =D
And here is another excerpt of mine, it is a dream sequence, I was half asleep when I wrote it =P

“Mom! Mommy, where are you!?” A younger Kaori looked through the window. She could no longer see the smoke from the trees. In fact, it had ended a while ago. Now the frightened eleven year old was holed up in her house, clutching at the teddy bear that her mother had sewn for her long ago. Of sourse, the child would deny ever doing so if any one sked her about it. But right now, it was a connection to her mother, and it was safe. Breathing deeply, the young girl wlked towards the door. For some reason, it was farther away that usual. It seemed as if no matter how much she walked, the door remained the same distance away. Finally, the girl broke in to a run. Ust as it seemed that she would have to give up, the door was to far a way, the girl tripped and her hand landed on the door knob. Pulling herself up by it, she was almost afraid that it would teleport back to the far side of the room if she let go if it, she slowly turned the knob and stepped out.
Out side was not the familiar yard that she hd expected to see. It was late, dark, but Kaori knew that something was wrong. Steping farther out of the circle of light cast by the lap that was always just outseid the door, Kaori looked around. There were corpses… every where she looked, some half charred, some now only ash, some still looking like they were in the throws of death. The mere thought of it churned the witches stomach. Only there was nothing there to churn up, it was empty. She had forgotten, she had not eaten yet, mommy and daddy were not home yet, she was going to wait for them. Stepping carfully through the sea of bodies, the woman child made her way to the tree line. She froze in her tracks, however, as on of the faces became recognizable to her. Stooping down, she moved the hair out of the bodies eyes, and almost screamed. Looking around, she could see that all of the corpses in her immediate area were familiar. Myles, Abel, Moyra, Terlag, Britania, Blaithnaid, Maurene… Tears had started pouring down her face at some point. Kaori did not know how long they had been there, only that her face was soaked with them.
Frightened now, the woman child ran as fast as she could away from the bodies. And yet every dead face that she looked at, ever corpse, she recognized someone, some one dear. She closed her eyes, but the faces were there as well. Finally, she reached the trees. She threw herself at them, hugging the trunk as if her life depended on it. Breathing deeply, or she thought it was deeply, she looked up. No more bodies… no more of her friends dead… Pushing herself up from the tree, she continued walking forwards, her sight set only in front of her. She was now afraid of what she would see if she let her vision wander for even a moment. Finally, she could see two shapes laying against some partially charred trees. “Mommy, daddy!” the child exclaimed as she ran forward. She was stopped in her tracks again however, when the same sense of dread started to permieate the air. Suddenly, she was afraid to move forward, afraid of what she would see. And yet she seemed unable to stop herself, it was as if her feet moved with their own will.
When she reached her parents, she did not understand anything at all. The sense of dread was still there, but… er parents looked perfectly fine, they were just sleeping using up to much energy did that to you… that is what her parents had always said. Walking over, she knelt down beside her dad and shook his shoulder lightly. “Dad… daddy… daddy, you need to get up… I can not carry you, and mommy is asleep too.” Kaori was soon recoiling again however, as the flesh beneath her fingers crumbled away, turning to ash. Stumbling backwards, the child half ran, half crawled over to her mothers form. “Mom! Mommy, something wrong with daddy! You need to wake up, mommy!” and yet the same thing happened again, where the child touched crumbled away and became nothing more than ash at her feet. The child screamed and stumbled backwards.
She was running through the trees, always running, always running but never able to escape the feeling. Fatigue was setting in, but she kept running, running running running. Running until she tripped over a tree root, or maybe it was a rock, and landed flat on her face. She lay there, sobbing, her shoulder heaving. Her parents were dead… her friends… no… they could not be… they could not be, she had just been with them, they could not be dead… And yet still the images flooded her mind. Kaori felt as if they would never leave her alone, she was frightened, and rightfully so. As she looked up, it was as if all of her friends, all of the people that she had seen laying dead just moments before, were standing in front of her. Only…now they were different. They looked the same as they had when she had seen the alive. That seemed like so long ago now…
Her friends… they were all there. Kaori took a moment to realize it, she could hardly believe it. But there they all stood before her, and they were not at all what they had looked like back in front of the house. In fact… they all looked better than alive and well, a certain aura seemed to surround them, and they were smiling at her. At the fore front were Myles and Abel. Myles had his hand held out towards her. Tentatively, Kaori grasped it. It felt warm, solid, comforting. Kaori seemed dumbstruck as her fiancé pulled her towards him and wrapped his arms around her.
“Kaori… Kaori it is alright. We are with you, we are all with you. Always, always we will be with you.” His voice was soothing, like a caress but instead with his voice. All around her, Kaori could feel the love and care and respect of her friends. As she stood there, safe in Myles’ arms, she slowly, ever so slowly, drifted off to sleep, her eyelids lowering over her hazel green orbs.

If you're talking to me, I absolutely plan to. As much as I hate it now, I know I've created something good enough to finish and polish. Doing Nano two times (last year with two stories) and ScriptFrenzy once, I think I've learned sooo much about writing...

I promise as soon as I publish it I'll scream about it on this board. =D

Yup, I was talking to you :) and very cool, I look forward to that possible post

My ego thanks you. =D

Hehe *pets your ego*

Howard opened his eyes, blackness surrounding him. He screamed until his lungs were empty, clutching at his chest. Blood was everywhere, but the wound was gone. He gasped for air, poking his finger through the hole in his clothes when he finally regained his breath.

“Howard,” said a voice behind him Howard recognized it as the greying man in the stark white suit – his subconscious.

“Father time!” Howard exclaimed, turning around to see him sitting in his invisible seat. “Or... Howard. What should i call you?”

“Anything you want, Howard,” said the greying man in the stark white suit.

“What am i doing here again? Why did you tell me i could save her? Why did you tell me I could save Ava?”

“Because you can.”

“I died! Again! I got shot in the fucking chest! And so will she!”

“You have the potential to do it, Howard.”

Howard sighed. “What am i doing here, old man?”

“I answered that,” said the greying man in the stark white suit. “You 're here because you can be here.”

“Oh, Subconscious mind of mine, stop speaking in riddles, please. I don't understand.”

It 's very simple, Howard. Your ability to change your place in time isn't random. It is to a certain extent, in that you can not decide where in time you'll be sent. Like here, to the end of time. But you can choose when to jump. You haven't in the past, until now.”

“The end of time,” Howard mused. “You've called it that before. What do you mean by that? I don't see a train, here. There's no doorways back to the past. Where am i right now, really? In my own mind?”

“In a way. This place is the end of time by your understanding, the greying man in the stark white suit explained. The black hole is enveloping you, always and forever. I believe that even if you completely avoid the black hole, and save the planet, this place will still exist. Black holes break all barriers of physics, space and time. Paradimensionally, as well. This place is the exact moment before the tidal forces tear you apart, and pull you into the event horizon.

“Here, you are everything you can be, everything you have been, and everything you will be - once those doors are open. Here, you know everything, and nothing. You are the universe, and there is nothing else but you. That is why i am here, my friend. I am your mind, aged and experienced and grown for time boundless. We will never reach the event horizon, because time is traveling so slowly here as to negate the possibility, except to the eyes of an observer watching for many millions of years. I am here to guide you to where you must go.”

“Wow,” Howard said, “I think a simple 'yes' would have sufficed. Nice way to pad it out, though.”

The greying man in the stark white suit smiled, spreading his hands, “Well, we are a journalist, are we not? Turning one word answers into one hundred eighty five word monologues is part of our job.”

“Good point, old man,” Howard said, returning the smile.

“Now it's time for you to return,” said the greying man in the stark white suit.

“Return where?” Asked Howard.

“To the best time to do what you want. You know what's going to happen. You know how to change it.”

“Then gun?”

The greying man in the stark white suit nodded. “I can't tell you whether you'll save her, but i can tell you that it 's your only chance. Before you go in, make sure it's out.”

Howard nodded, closing his yes. “I'm ready. Send me back,” he said.

Oh... wow... corinnelam, your excerpt is amazing, I really feel sorry for your character, poor kid :(

Silentbrad: Moooooorrrrreeee!

Everyones excerpts are so good damnit >.> I am runing out of things to say without reapeating myself

As a warning, there's some swearing in this excerpt.

--

The press was already gathering. Lan sat in a small room, his bodyguards outside the door. He closed his eyes and breathed, focusing on what he aws going to say, what questions he was going to answer.

One of his bodyguards opened the door a crack. “Sir, there's a man here to see you. Says his name is Andy and you'll want to let him in.”

Lan froze and nodded mutely. Andy? Andy couldn't be here. It wasn't possible. The bodyguard opened the door further, and there was Andy, looking almost the same as he used to. Lan felt like he couldn't move, couldn't speak, couldn't do anything.

“Lan.” The smile Andy gave him was surprisingly friendly.

“...Andy,” Lan managed to whisper. “Andy, what- you're-” He stood up unsteadily and touched Andy on the shoulder. He was solid, he was there. “You can't be...”

“Lan, I didn't die. It doesn't matter how. But I, I need you to come with me.” He tilted Lan's head up, his fingers feeling very warm on Lan's skin. “Can you come with me?”

“The, the conference... need to be here...” Lan would go with him. Lan would go anywhere with him. He couldn't believe he was here, couldn't believe he was alive... he'd seen him fall... he hadn't seen him land, though, maybe he hadn't landed... maybe he'd caught himself and just left.

“I'll bring you back. Just come with me.” He took Lan's arm and led him out. One of the bodyguards stopped him.

“Hey, sir, where are you going? You're supposed to stay in there until the start of the conference.”

“It's okay.” Lan even managed to smile. “I'll be back in time.” He let Andy lead him off, out one of the back doors of City Hall. “Where are we going, Andy?”

“I'm sorry, Lan.” Andy sighed and closed his eyes. “Stephenson's orders...”

Lan froze again. “No. You didn't... you're not going to kill me...”

“No, Lan.” A figure strode into view- Jason Stephenson, but not the way Lan had seen him before. Dressed entirely in black like usualy, but not a suit- black jeans and shirt and trenchcoat, eyes a shiny, solid black, showing no iris or white. Lan shuddered as he realized that Jason wasn't human. “I'm going to kill you, you little bastard.”

Lan slid his hand inside his coat, fumbling for the gun he knew was there.

“Oh, don't do that, it's pointless. You'd never be able to shoot me.”

Lan barked a laugh, bringing the gun out. “Me? Never able to shoot you? You ruined my life, you jerk.” He brought the gun to bear, bracing for the recoil and fired. It was a good shot, straight through the forehead, and Andy gaped.

“Lan-” Andy started toward him and then froze in horror.

There was a low, bubbling snarl, and Stephenson pushed himself back up. The hole in his forehead trickled black ooze, and it came from his eyes, too. “So you can shoot me. Can you kill me? That's the million dollar question.”

Lan grabbed Andy and ran, locking the door behind them. It wouldn't take long for Stephenson to get in, obviously- there were more doors than just that one- but it could give them time, time to warn people, time to get back to his bodyguards who were so much more well armed than he was, time in which to actually be alive and not dead, which was starting to seem like a very likely turn of events.

“Andy I'm so glad you're back and it's okay that you just betrayed me because I pushed you out a window and I just want you to know that I love you okay?”

Andy nodded breathless agreement as they stumbled into the main lobby of the hall, where the press was gathered. Lan headed for the podium, turning on the mic. “Um, everyone, I'm afraid that we're actually under attack. Apparently somebody- not namin' any names here- doesn't want this press conference to go forward. Normally I'd say screw them, they can go fuck themselves, but right now I would really not have anyone die. Please get the hell out of here.”

His bodyguards caught up to him, along with his bandmates and Jeremy, wondeirng what the hell was going on and goggling at Andy. “Lan, what the hell is going on here? You came out of that hall like a bat out of hell!”

“Stephenson, it's Stephenson and I shot him in the forehead and he didn't die...” Lan whimpered and held tightly onto his gun. “We need to get out of here, but I think it's too late.”

Beautifully written. Your excerpt touched me-- it is very ,very sad, but I felt the little girl's painful memory.

Forgot to say, my comment above was for Moonsong fae's excerpt.

Fredelle

Thanks :D I think that is my favorote thing that I have writen so far.I love writing dream sequences, because they do not nessiccarily have to make sense and you can show a lot about the characters through them.

My novel this year features a lot of levels and weirdness. The excerpt below is from a novel written by one of the characters in my novel.

Book of the Month
Denise moved out into the rain and around the corner of the diner. She flattened herself against the wall and pulled the hood of her rain-slick over her head, partially obscuring her face. Denise looked around, trying to see where Gerald had come from but couldn't see his car anywhere.

This is ridiculous. Gerald wouldn't cheat on me. There must be some other explanation for this.

Denise straightened and prepared herself. The best solution was to walk across that street into the lobby of that motel and ask him what was going on. Denise took one step towards the street and stopped.

Gerald stepped out of the motel lobby and called out, “I've got the key.”

Denise had no idea who he was talking to. She looked up and down the street and saw a beat up blue Ford truck. The truck window was open on the driver side, facing away from Denise. Denise heard a woman's voice from inside call out, “Okay, I'll meet you around back, hurry up, I'm getting cold!”

The woman turned off the truck's engine and stepped out of the truck. Denise felt her anger swell as the woman moved out from behind the truck and into the line of sight.

Denise started walking towards this little home wrecker. The rain no longer felt cold on Denise's skin, each drop felt like scalding hot water. What was Gerald thinking? Denise had expected some little blonde bimbo, or a secretary from his office, or – or anything other than this little troll. This woman was short and pudgy. Her hair was greasy, straight, and uneven. Denise could hear her breathing from here, wheezing, possibly some sort of respiratory disease or the toll of years of heavy smoking.

The woman went around the side of the motel and followed the walkway around the corner towards the back. Denise followed, keeping back just enough to avoid notice. Denise crossed the street and got to the corner that the woman had turned at. Denise stopped at the corner and strained to hear something.

She could hear the sound of the little troll's feet clumping down the walkway. The motel backed against the water. The walkway was built over the rocky shoreline. It was high tide and the water was less than twenty feet from the edge of the walkway.

The sound of footsteps receded. Denise was having a hard time hearing anything over the pounding in her ears and her own heavy breathing. She saw a small path that ran down towards the water beside the walkway. She quickly ducked down the path keeping herself hidden from view. It was difficult to keep her footing on the slick rocks, but she could hear Gerald's voice ahead.

Denise was almost crawling now. She got up close to the sound of Gerald's voice and strained to hear. She didn't dare looking over the edge of the walkway. She heard him say, “...let's just get all of this off and we can get down to business.”

The woman replied, “Okay, lets make this quick, though. I have another job after this one.”

The salty flavour of her own blood filled Denise's mouth. A trickle ran down from her lip, over her chin and dripped onto the slimy stones. Denise tried to relax her jaw, release her lower lip from the death grip her teeth held upon it, to no avail. She watched the droplets of blood fall one by one.

Here's a bit from Chapter Four, and takes place before the excerpt I have posted on my profile.

I met up with the messenger at Bay station platform, just as this enigma was about to set foot on the escalator. “That’s far enough!” I barked from the top of the stairs. “What is the message you have come to bring me?”
Though I couldn’t see any eyes, I could sense I was being looked over by the face hidden in the dark cloak worn loosely on the yet to be identified visitor. “You are not as I remember Xyox Nemegan Teneb, but your biosigns are the same. You are whom I seek.”
“I am afraid you have me at a disadvantage, for I do not know who you are, and I make a habit of knowing who I invite into my home. I will warn you only once more, identify yourself, or you will suffer the consequences.”
My threat did not bring on the reaction that I anticipated. The hooded figure merely chuckled, and retorted, “You think that you can do anything to punish me? I am a messenger from Letinsu prime schooled in the mercenary combat regimes that have been passed down for generations. You do not need to know my identity only that you must hear the message I bear, or else it will be your own undoing, and that of this planet.”
The voice had a modulated tone to it. Whoever this was, man or woman, they were making it v