So what's everyone working on NOW?

Anyone writing something RIGHT NOW? No matter how rough or crude a first draft, why not post a few paragraphs, pages, or even a chapter? Sharing is good, comments are better, support better yet, and there's that whole community building thing. Any thoughts?

I'll be game. Lemme find something not completely embarassing...

Here we go:
Chapter 2 – Kegan the Hired Flail

Caranos the giant grinned as he approached the troll. It cowered against the wall of its dugout, raising a pike towards them menacingly. He raised his sword, preparing to swing it into the loathsome creature’s skull. This would be just the beginning, though. Behind that wall was an entire network of tunnels filled with creatures more formidable than this one. It was tough, bloody work, which was why he and Kegan would be paid so well for it.
Caranos began to swing his huge blade just as a momentous blow to his back sent him sprawling. Pain exploded through his body, and for a moment the intensity of it blinded him. When it returned, he saw Kegan picking the troll up with one hand, the thing’s pike clanging uselessly against the giant’s armor. With a primal roar, Kegan snapped its neck, throwing it aside like garbage. He turned to Caranos.
“My, that is one massive wound I gave you there. Wait, don’t try to talk yet, let me wipe your mouth for you.” He removed a dirty rag from his belt pouch and swiped it harshly against Caranos’s mouth. It came away shiny and slick with blood. “Ok, now, I’m sure your mind is just loaded with questions, isn’t it?”
“Wh-why?” Caranos choked out. He coughed involuntarily, but didn’t dare look at what he’d expelled from his body.
“Mm, yes, I suppose that’s a good place to start. Well, Caranos, do you remember that little strumpet you picked up back in Azer? You were pretty hot that night, weren’t you? We’d been out, doin’ what we do best all day, and the God’s damn us if that doesn’t just get us all manner of excited. So you found little Ceres in the fun part of town, took her back to your room for the night…and got a little rough, didn’t you? Hey, hey, don’t try to defend yourself, you’re in no condition to be talking. And besides, I know how fragile those elves can be. I married one, remember?” Kegan laughed heartily as Caranos languished under his knee.
“So anyway, you beat her up a little bit. You probably thought it wouldn’t matter. I mean she’s a whore, a strumpet, who cares about a woman like that, eh? Well, her friends cared. Who’d’ve thought women like that cared so much about each other, right? So they come to me, since I’ve got such a lovely reputation, and offered me seventy platinum to kill you. They did want me to rough you up a bit first. Payback, you know?”
“I’m your…apprentice…” Caranos struggled mightily to get these words out, and the effort almost blacked him out. Kegan understood him, though, and threw his head back with wild, raucous laughter.
“Oh, oh, oh my poor boy. You’re the reason why other people continue to think we’re stupid.” He rapped his knuckles against Caranos’s skull. “Come on, buddy, think. Why did I kill the last giant who tried to ‘prentice with me?” He waited, and when an answer wasn’t forthcoming from Caranos he drove his hand into the bloody wound in his former protégé’s back. “Answer me, you pathetic fool!”
Caranos screamed, and for a moment he thought he really had passed out. Kegan stopped just short of that, though. “Grimbal…he killed a monk…”
“And?”
“And…as soon as you…found out…you killed him.”
“Exactly! Because I’m not a complete monster, am I? We’re mercenaries, but I like to think we have a conscience. ”
“You…bastard,” he spat, but the epithet had no strength to it.
“Yes. I’m a bastard. And that’s why people call me the Hired Flail. Cause I’ll kill anyone, anyone, for enough money.” He stood now, the leather pants he wore creaking as he did so. Kegan began to raise his massive flail, but stopped short.
“Nah,” he whispered. “That won’t be as fun.” He sheathed the flail and picked up Caranos’s sword instead. “Killed with your own weapon, though? That’s absolutely hilarious.” Caranos died almost as soon as the blade entered his neck. The last sound he heard before the black, though, was the incessant, twisted laugh of the man he’d called friend.
Kegan left the sword where it was, standing straight up in Caranos’s body. He’d stopped laughing as soon as the giant was dead, and now turned his thoughts to what his next step was. Maybe he’d go home. He felt like he’d earned a few days bed rest with his woman. When he climbed out of the dugout, though, he saw someone standing there waiting for him. He wore a blood-red cloak wrapped around his body, and a hood obscured his features.
“You are Kegan of Theyln, the one they call the Hired Flail?” His voice was soft and whispery, which Kegan associated with drow.
“Yeah, and you got five seconds to tell me what you want before I start swingin’.”
“So hostile. I’m simply a man in need of a flail.”
“You have a job? Well, now you’re speakin’ my language.”
“Good.” He slid the hood down, and Kegan saw his first assumption was correct. The dark elf’s horns were prominent on his forehead, and his skin had the ash-gray tone of all his race. “My name is Lord Ryllen, and I want you to find someone for me.”

Would you mind posting chapter one? I'd love to know how we got to this point....

Good stuff!

Ghostwriting at the moment. Confidentiality agreement, blah-blah-blah.

But the new Trek novel will be out at the end of August. Maybe when we get closer the folks at Pocket will let me showcase a paragraph or two...

Well, I'm thinking of making that section "Chapter one", actually.
The part that came before was a bit rushed, for one, and it also worked better in the comic book form I was originally trying to write that as.
So, essentially, that chunk is now "Chapter One", or at least the first part of chapter one.

Prelude
The Stolen Child

All Hallows Eve, 1936

In later years, the vast suburban sprawl of Atlanta will bleed outwards like kudzu to cover the hills and hollows that surround the O’Brien farm with subdivisions and mini-malls. But not yet. Now the city is still too much in the future to be a part of life here. It is distant, a dream, like New York or Paris, or the Pyramids in Egypt.

Look around you. The southern hills burn with rich color, fire and rust. Look, see a thousand million shades of orange, yellow, and apple red set against a deep and enduring background of evergreen, and thebeneath the brilliant, sapphire blue sky of an autumn long past. Breathe! Taste air crisp and heavy with the scents of pumpkin, sweet apple wood smoke, dying leaves, and the last wild Georgia blackberries. Breathe it in, and autumn fills you like spiced wine. The old year has dressed in its finery for one last hurrah before the winter frosts come to soothe it away to memory.

Come, human child, come, come closer. Fear not, for I am your handsome good neighbor, the merry wanderer of the night, and I shall be your guide. Hush! Hush now, hush and listen.

From below, hear the sounds of a young girl singing and a child’s laughter. There! There comes the youngest O’Brien girl, pretty Betty, dancing up the pathway as she pulls her young charge behind her. Betty O’Brien, with her long, thin legs, freckled nose, and hair the color of yellow hay. Oh, I know all about her.

The path she follows leads to the meadow at the top of the hill, where the woods give way to rocky bluff. On a day as clear as this, you can see all the way to town from the top of these cliffs. See? There, where the top of the white church steeple rises above the gentle slopes of tree-covered hills. Come, let the wind carry you to the meadow above the bluffs. The view is breathtaking, no? This is a spot where lovers meet.

On a Halloween, Betty O’Brien would normally be at the harvest festival in town with her family. Not tonight, though. No, not tonight. Tonight the freedom of an evening without parents and siblings seems sweeter than all the caramel apples and spiced cider in all the autumn festivals in all Georgia, or all the world.

But that’s not all, is it? No, my child, of course not.

Tonight, she knows the thrilling anticipation of a forbidden rendezvous, and the delicious danger makes her heart beat faster. Betty has arranged everything carefully, hasn’t she just? Like a spy planning a daring caper. She started by telling her parents the truth--she doesn’t like to lie. And if she doesn’t tell the whole truth, well, that’s not the same as lying, is it? No, my sweetling, it’s not the same thing at all.

Betty is a-watching four-year-old Keith Winkler. That’s the child you heard before, the one in the worn overalls and dirty shirt. See how she pulls him along? She should stop to wipe his nose.

Betty’s parents don’t think highly of the Winklers--her father, farmer Job O’Brien, has denounced the whole lot of them as shiftless no-accounts on more than one occasion, hasn’t he? Everyone’s heard him, yours truly no less than any of the others. But Betty likes having money of her own to spend as she likes, at least when the Winklers remember to pay her. Job O’Brien scowled and muttered, but agreed, in the end, to grant his permission. He blustered and frowned, but he’s secretly proud of his daughter’s self-reliance. Besides, he reasoned, the time spent among a better class of people might do the poor child some good. Lord knows it can’t hurt him any.

Betty’s doing exactly what she told her father. She’s not lying, not even the least little bit.

Of course, Job O’Brien doesn’t know that Betty has secrets, two of them, in fact. First, he doesn’t know that she’s taking the straight path that leads from the back gate of her family’s farm to the meadow above the rocky cliffs. If he did, oh, how he would howl with rage, wouldn’t he just! Betty isn’t allowed to play in the ancient forest or even to wander on the path, even though she’s now sixteen and practically a woman. It’s whispered that a girl vanished in these woods once. That happened ages and ages ago, but folks around here have long memories. Mine is longer still, and I remember that the red Indians shunned the forest and the meadow long before the white people came from across the sea. But then, people also say that the meadow is supposed to hide a secret, a secret that’s the source of the O’Brien family’s luck. Who will say? Not me, no no!
For Betty, the whispers and rumors add spice, like cinnamon and cloves in mulled wine, and make the autumn adventure delicious. She hums and sings a little as she pulls wee Keith along behind her. His hand-me-down clothes are torn and his nose is still runny, but he giggles with joy.

But if Betty’s jaunt to the meadow in the forest would make her father’s jowly cheeks shake and blaze red with blustering rage, it is a whisper next to the howl he’d howl if he knew her other secret. But I know all secrets, don’t I? I am the master of tricks and secrets. Come closer, and I will whisper in your ear.

Betty is meeting her love, the oldest Winkler boy, nineteen-year-old Seamus.

There he is now! See how he waits for her, chewing the end of a straw of autumn hay? Watch him push a curl of his dark hair away from his dull brown eyes. See him lean against the trunk of that twisted, knotted oak tree? See how smugly he smiles? The girls like that smile.

Shhh, watch. It is nearly twilight when they finally come together in the meadow. Their hands touch. Let the wind blow you closer as you listen. Fear not! They can’t see us. We flit like ghosts, unheard and unfelt, we spying spirits of the future.

“Hey there, Seamus,” says Betty. She blushes and looks away as she speaks.

Seamus laughs, and puts his hand gently beneath her chin. He is sly and at ease. Why shouldn’t he be so? He doesn’t know that danger comes. He lifts her face until her gaze meets his. Her mouth is open, like she almost spoke but stopped herself. Look at her eyes: she is nervous. She wonders if he is going to kiss her.

Little Keith, forgotten for the moment, tugs on her skirt. “Miss Betty?” he whines. He misses her attention. He tugs again, harder. “Miss Betty!”

Seamus laughs again. He pulls a candy bar from his jacket pocket and tosses it to his younger brother. “Here you go, squirt!” From another pocket, he produces a tin fire cart, complete with horses, and a second chocolate bar. Keith squeals with delight. “Now you just go on over there and play by those trees for a few minutes, okay? Me and Miss Betty here are goin’ to go over to the other side of those rocks there and have us a little talk. If you’re good, I might just have another surprise for you, okay?”

“Yay!” Keith settles down on the soft, browning autumn grass and pushes his toy around. When he isn’t smearing the chocolate on his tongue, lips, chin, and cheeks, he makes noises for the horses and firemen. He doesn’t look up when Betty and Seamus steal away. He doesn’t notice when they slip out of sight. But we do, though. Ho!

For a long moment, neither Betty nor Seamus says a word. Look at the way Seamus slides his arm around her with practiced ease, and shifts just slightly so that it seems only natural for Betty to rest her head on his shoulder. Watch how he grins when he knows she can’t see. He shifts again, as though the rock presses uncomfortably into his back, and suddenly Betty finds herself in the perfect position for a kiss. But Betty, suddenly shy, turns away. “Look at the sunset,” she says, her voice low. The brilliant blue has faded, but in the west, the clouds near the horizon blaze golden-red.

“Ain’t it pretty,” Seamus agrees with a lazy nod. He tries to maneuver so that Betty’s face is close to his again, but she looks away, back towards the path.

“I can’t stay out here too much longer. My daddy--”

“Won’t be back for ages.”

“No, no Seamus, they won’t stay in town too late.”

“Yes they will,” Seamus says. Look at the rascal, how he grins again! “One of your ol’ dad’s horses done come up lame. You know that old man won’t risk one of his prizes till he knows what’s what!”

“Oh! What happened?”

“It ain’t nothing,” Seamus assures her as his sly smile widens. “Just a pebble under a shoe.”

“However could you know that?”

“How could I not?” Seamus laughs again. “I ought to, sure enough. I put it there myself!"

“Oh Seamus!” Betty raises her hand to cover the round O of her open mouth.

“Don’t worry, darlin’. It won’t hurt nothin’. But it’ll slow your old man down sure enough!”

“You shouldn’t have!”

“But Betty,” he says. Mab’s teeth and garters, child, listen to the scoundrel! “I just wanted to spend a little time with you, that’s all! It’s not like I get a chance too often, right? Not with your old man around. Is that so bad? I told you it ain’t gonna hurt nothin’. You’re just… you’re just so pretty and all.” He smiles again, and winks.

“Seamus, you’re a devil.” Betty tucks her hair back away from her face and glances up at him through her lashes. Ha! Look at her. She feels deliciously wicked.

“You know it, darlin’,” Seamus says with a grin. He pulls her close and kisses her, long and deep. The second kiss is even longer, and the third is longer still. The day fades to twilight, but neither of them notices. The wind changes, now it comes from the west. Just then, there is a sound.
Betty and Seamus spin around, startled. Seamus pulls Betty closer. Perhaps it is her father; if so, he doesn’t want to miss his final chance (for such it shall surely be) for gratuitous contact.

The sounds grow louder, and closer. Do you hear it? Betty must know, now, that this is not her father approaching. He would never tie bells to the harnesses of his horses--how gauche, he’d declare with a disapproving frown, how ostentatious. And he would never make such a commotion when traveling, no, not he. He couldn’t if he tried!

Look at Betty’s eyes as they dart hither and yon, skipping like water bugs with something that may be fear, or may be wonder. Or perhaps something of both. Watch her; see how she trembles.

The sounds come closer, and something else rises above the din, something like music but beyond it, courtly and ethereal, beautiful and terrible. Perhaps Betty thinks of church, but this music is both merrier and wilder than what choir and organ produce to fill the whitewashed sanctuary. Mayhap she thinks of the noise of a parade, or the circus. But no. This music is more solemn--joyous and sudden, but stately. Besides, these things aren’t a part of a Georgia farm girl’s experience. Parades and circuses are things from storybooks, not the wood at dusk.

The sounds draw nearer. The strange, unearthly music swells, and now our Betty and Seamus can distinguish other noises as well. Listen! What do you hear? Beasts, certainly, hoofs and brays, and other sounds you can’t begin to identify, I dare say. Forgive my jolly laughter, mortal, I don’t mean to mock you. And voices. Yes, mortal child, voices, many of them. Hear them! Men and women, laughing and singing, ageless, merry and grave, young and old all at the same time. Our Seamus hears them too. See? His smile is gone and his face is pale, like a stump touched with winter frost.

The wind lifts us higher now, even as the day fades to dusk, and we watch from above. There, there is the child, little Keith, all but forgotten by sitter and brother. The sounds have distracted him from his toy and he gazes into the wood, searching for the source of the strange tumult in the shadows beneath the trees. His eyes are wide with wonder and his mouth is open, frozen in the shape of a smile half-formed.

The commotion comes closer, closer. Look! It is near--no, it is here! The uproar comes at last! As sudden as a wink, the twilight is filled with a galaxy of brilliant lights, streaking hither and yon, like the brightest fireflies ever born, or like shooting stars that have escaped the bondage of their patterns in the skies.

Little Keith giggles and reaches out, trying to catch the darting lights with his clumsy weeling’s hands. They are too fast for him, but he squeals with glee. On the other side of the rocks by the bluff, Seamus holds Betty closer. They are dazzled, but not truly afraid.

Not yet.

As the lights swirl closer, they see tiny shapes inside--not insects, but figures that seem almost human, naked, tiny, unashamed, and perfect.
Now other shapes follow the lights into the meadow. Look at the little manikin there, the one with the tall black top hat and tails, the one with the brass watch chain shining against his silken blue paisley vest. Defying the logic of perspective, he seems to grow smaller as he comes closer.
There--see the wee knight in the polished armor of shining brass and silver? Look at his banner of cobwebs and summer leaves; see how proudly he carries it tied to the end of his tall spear. See how straight and tall he sits in his saddle. His noble mount is a hedgehog with bright tattered ribbons and perfect gait. There! His squire rides a mouse.

Look at those three there, the small naked ones with gossamer butterfly wings. For a moment, they seem young, barely pubescent, don’t they? Even innocent, ho! But then they turn, revealing a more mature curve of hip, a generous swell of breast. Which is it, then? Don’t be fooled. See the gleam in their eyes? They were ancient when your race first crawled out of the mud and caves.

Ha! Notice the dandy there--the one with the green doublet and the peacock’s feather in his red cap! His face is like a fox’s, isn’t it just? Look at how his pointed teeth sparkle when he smiles, see how his marble-black eyes shift and flit, look at how he spins and prances as he marches. He wears that shape often.

The fair folk, the good neighbors, arrive one by one and three by three, some thumb small, some taller than the tallest mortal human. Their straight path of shining twilight silver has led them all to this place, this meadow above the rocky cliffs. This is where the Rade ends and the revels begin.

See those three there? The ones with dresses of leaves and moss and acorns, and wings like those of tiny hummingbirds? The feathers of their wings and the hues of their skins are as different from one another as night from day, or winter from summer. But they are sisters, the three of them, born on a single midwinter night. You can catch the resemblance in the way their long hair swirls and twists as they dance, in the wide smiles on their pointed faces, and in the way their eyes sparkle with merriness and mischief.

Ho there! Two of them have taken little Keith Winkler by the hand--they are no taller than he is. The third wild sister joins them; they all clasp hands and dance in a circle, now stepping, now floating when their wings lift them briefly aloft. Look! Red-capped toadstools spring up where their feet touch the soil. Keith laughs and squeals with happy vertigo.

By the bluffs, our Betty buries her face in Seamus’s jacket and sobs. As for Seamus, his eyes narrow as the terror fades to anger. When confronted with the unknown, our simple Seamus knows only two options. He sees nothing here that he can’t fight, or so he thinks, so the instinct to flee is slowly replaced with a darker urge. Alas for him. How does the bard’s saying go? Ah, yes. What fools these mortals be! His fists clench.

More shapes than can be named or described fill he meadow now--the tall and dust-small, Seelie and Unseelie alike, Goblin and Pouka, Pixie and Sidhe. Some are naked with skin baby pink, forest green, or acorn brown. Others are draped in wool or silk or dewy cobwebs, or foppishly adorned in fur-lined cloaks and gleaming silver armor, or gowns woven from moonbeams and starlight. Some are lovely and bright, others strange and terrible. They laugh, they sing, they fly, they dance. The field in the wood has become a city of miracles, a festival place alive with color and dashing light. Behold the climax of the Rade of the Court of Faery!

Now the air is pierced by a new sound, haunting and deep, a noise that echoes through the twilight and the ancient wood and resonates in the very bones of the earth itself. That call is answered by another, and another after that. Hear them, human child, and feel them stir the heart, for no one can hear the Horns of Elfland and remain unchanged.

Now come the riders, the tall and shining Sidhe folk, the oldest and the brightest, like earth-locked angels. Look upon them all in their finery, silk and gossamer, and see how they leave trails of rainbows as they ride. This is the high court, the favored attendants of the Lord and Lady themselves. Ah, you’ve noticed me among them, have you? Yes, that is me indeed, yours truly, my handsome and dashing younger self, wearing jeweled rings and feather in cap, there upon my own gray donkey, as proud and true as any faery mount.

Now the last ones arrive, the highest of the high, and the field becomes brighter, as though the sun and moon themselves deigned to descend for the revelry. See them, clad in star-white samite, their golden hair bound with circlets of bright gold. These are the Lord and Lady of the High Court of Faerie, stately and grim, wild and merry. With their arrival, the revels begin in earnest. Beware them, O mortal, for they are beautiful and perilous. The horns call again, and the mighty sound reverberates through the autumn-draped mountains and hollows.

The child Keith tries to catch the golden lights, each one no bigger than his tiny thumb. He laughs and grabs, but they are too fast and clever for him.
The Lord and Lady dismount as the carousing reaches the rocky bluffs where Betty and Seamus cling to one another, trembling. A figure approaches our friends, a lady with long pointed ears and flowing hair the silver hue of a river lit by moonlight. She laughs and blows sparkling dust at them. Their countenances change at once. A look of dreamlike wonder crosses Betty’s face. Poor Seamus, he just looks rather dazed and confused, doesn’t he? Ah well, we mustn’t expect too much of him, I suppose.

A dandy, one of the Lady’s attendants, leaps nimbly atop a tall stone, one that stands alone and juts out above the bluffs like a sentry. He claps his hands sharply thrice for attention. “The Lady Mab commands dances!” he cries, and at once the meadow is filled with the strings and horns and rhythm of riotous, unearthly noise, music that mortal ears were never meant to hear. Close your ears, human child! Close them tight! Ah, it is too late already, alas for you. You’ve heard the wild music echoing from the long past. It will haunt you.

In the meadow, the fey court bows and moves, touches and leaps. To Seamus, their steps seem sudden and chaotic, but we can see the dance from above, and Behold! To us its wild precision is revealed in all its complex perfection. Betty is swept away from her Seamus, but she doesn’t seem to notice. A tall man with a green cap and a fox’s tail bows to her, and takes her by the hand. She spins, and now there is another man waiting to guide her into the dance. Seamus tries to follow, but the dance pulls him away. “Betty! Betty!” His cries are lost in the din of shouts and strange music.

Two ladies of the Faerie court grab him by the hands and turn him roughly around. Before he can recover, he finds two more waiting for him. One of them curtsies, but Seamus doesn’t see the sly gleam in her eye. The fool is distracted; see how his gaze wanders downward, to where the motion of her stoop reveals the slope of her breast in her gown? Now he is caught.
The leaping and spiraling faeries surround little Keith, coming now close, now pulling away. The dance turns, and brings to the child a spindly figure in a tall stovepipe hat and a black suit like a chimneysweep’s. The man grins and flips, then bends down to stick out his tongue. Keith giggles and claps his hands.

Then, sudden as a bang of thunder, the man’s features change, becoming a snarling wolf’s face. The eyes flash with cruel hunger, and the jaws with their dagger-sharp teeth gnash and snap.

Keith recoils and screams. He falls, but rough hands catch and toss him.
For a brief moment, Seamus sees Betty and remembers, suddenly, that he was struggling to reach her. She seems far away, and then she is lost in the turning throng of dance. The fey women laugh and push him along.
A tall Sidhe man takes Betty by the hand. The dance has caught her. She steps and spins. The man bows, and spins her into the waiting arms of her next partner--the golden Lord himself. He takes her left hand in his right and slips his left arm around her waist. He smiles and Betty blushes, but she doesn’t look away. They twirl and step as the dance becomes faster and wilder still.

“Come away, human child,” the tall lord says.

Keith’s cheeks are wet with tears, but his shrieks are lost. The faeries laugh at this new game, and each finds a new form, a terrible shape with which to frighten the child anew. They growl and snap and shout, then lift him as their dance forms a circle. Keith screams.

Seamus cries out for Betty, but still the dance pulls her away from him. He tries to force his way to her, but too many twirling bodies block his way; the steps of the dance are too frenetic. Four fey ladies pull him this way and that, spinning and twirling him like the winds teasing an autumn leaf.
“Betty! Betty!”

She does not hear him. Already she is too far away. Desperate to reach her, Seamus fights. It does no good; he is helpless. His eyes are wide and his skin is ashen, but I confess I am disappointed in his performance. He is too great a fool for true terror, more’s the pity. His fright would be so much richer, so much more delicious, had he the wit to comprehend even a little of what transpires around him. There is drool on his chin. Ah! He is crying.

The high Lord’s steps are strong and sure. He spins Betty faster and faster as the dance reaches its culmination. Look at her face; see the ecstasy there! Betty feels that she is dancing on the back of the wind--and now she is! The pattern of the dance carries Betty and the Seelie Lord off the edge of the bluff and beyond; in his strong grasp, she twirls but does not fall. The dance continues.

“Come away, human child,” the lord whispers again, his breath tickling her ear. His voice is deep and smooth, like a still green sea, seductive, like the voice that calls the young sailors from home and shore, filling them with longing for sky and far horizons. “Come away, far from the fields you know, for this mortal world is full of weeping--”

Keith’s screams grow louder and more pitiful. The monsters draw closer; the nightmare doesn’t end. He screams, but no help comes.

The faeries lift the child as they glide above the meadow in their spiraling dance, but they forget him as the music changes. They clap and spin as the new pattern takes them, and the child falls hard to the stony ground.
Do you see how his tiny legs are bent at such a terrible angle? They will never heal properly, I fear. Poor creature. How he wails! His tears smear the chocolate on his dirty cheeks.

Look there! The dance brings our Seamus to the Lady herself, Queen Mab of Faery, fairest in creation, her terrible beauty shining and vast beyond mortal ken. He stands transfixed, unable to move. A smile crosses her haughty face as she reaches out to take his hand. He shivers at her touch; her light is cold. Gently, irresistibly, inevitably, she pulls him deeper into the dance.

All of this happens at twilight, in the moment that is neither day nor night. But lo, the first bright star of evening appears in the dusk-gray sky. Slowly and solemnly, the circles of dance straighten to lines and the faeries resume their march, passing at last beyond the fields you know to return to those beyond. One by one, the fey dancers start to fade.

The steps of the dance hold Seamus like chains of cold iron. He turns again, and for the most fleeting of moments, he sees Betty in the distance. Foolishly, he struggles again to reach her. The Lady’s smile becomes a frown and her gaze grows colder. She is displeased.

The first of the riders remount their beasts. Twilight dims to darkness; their time is past. Betty still dances, held fast in the arms of her Lord. The last light fades, and the dance carries her away.

Seamus fights and struggles, desperate to reach Betty. He can no longer see her. For a second, the way seems clear, but then the dance turns again, and the Lady’s gaze holds him once more. He tries to turn and look away, but others are there to block his way.

The revels are ending. My handsome younger self bows and mounts his gray donkey.

Keith screams and cries.

Queen Mab allows Seamus to turn away, but two more dancers with pointed ears protruding from fine, pale-green hair are there to block his way. Skipping like schoolgirls, they take him by the elbows and pull him back.

“Betty! Oh Jesus holy shit! Betty!”

At last the Lady allows her plaything to turn, and he sees Betty clearly. He is close to her, so very close! The dancers between them are fading away from the mortal world. Seamus lunges, but the Lady is there, blocking his way. He panics. She smiles, a cold and cruel smile, and steps aside.

Seamus leaps forward, rushing towards his Betty.

But he doesn’t know that the Sidhe lord carries her away from the world of dust and mortals. He doesn’t realize where the Lady’s dance has led him; he doesn’t see that Betty has left weight and gravity behind to dance on air.
He races forward, and when he reaches the edge of the bluff, he falls.

Once again, our Seamus disappoints, alas. There is no flash of comprehension in his last expression, no moment of understanding in his final second of life. He never realizes what has happened. He doesn’t know he falls. There is only mindless terror and hapless confusion, and then he is gone.

Years later, when young Keith hears the awful noise again in nightmares, he will recognize the sounds of tearing flesh and shattering bones as Seamus’s final scream is abruptly silenced.

The Lady smiles again. “Accept our tithe,” she says. Then she mounts her white steed and vanishes.

Night falls.

The Faerie Courts pass from this world to a deeper one. Now the meadow is still. Betty O’Brien is gone. She is a stolen child, lost. The Lord of the Sidhe himself has taken her.

Alone and forgotten in the meadow above the cliffs, poor Keith wails in the darkness. His cries echo unheard.

wow...big chunk. Gonna take me a little while to work through it. Like what I've read so far, though

What I'm working on right now is a hip little style-over-substance supernatural/mystery/murder/comedy novel that aims to have not one likeable character. It's completely impossible to translate into English, at least for me. 98% grammatical gimmickery.

So it's kinda like "Closer", then?

I'm working on:

1. The second draft of my romantic comedy screenplay.
2. A sketch for my open mic show.
3. A film project I can't talk about.

So there's lots on my plate.

Finishing off the journal I kept on our honeymoon cruise. Then the stuff you guys have seen . . . I really don't write anywhere near as much as I used to, or should be doing. Never seem to have time for it any more.

Ah, screw it. Here's the whole thing so far.

It was the kind of car a college student would drive. Small, cheap, beat up, and of indeterminate make.

Debra wasn't a college student any longer. Not for over a year. But she had kept the little car because it had character, and it ran. That, and her job paid barely enough to keep her in a tiny apartment with peanut butter and jelly for dinner several times a week. Still, the limited funds had helped her keep a slim, girlish figure. Combined with her soft features and longish black hair, Debra looked like she was still a teenager.

All that was about to change. Debra Malken had received notice that her Great Aunt Pollyanna had passed away and that she was mentioned in the will. Debra hadn't been to her aunt's mansion since that day six years before when she'd stormed out, vowing to never come back. It was the kind of gesture that young people were given to making, but young people had no real concept of "never." The years had passed and here she was, her little car crawling along the long, winding private road that led to the mansion.

She rounded a bend and there it was, crouching in the late afternoon sun as if waiting to pounce on her. The strange name the family had given the mansion popped into Debra's thoughts at the sight of it.

Catgate.

The name had sparked the one real moment of warmth between Debra and her Great Aunt. Pollyanna had spun her a long, rambling tale of family history and obligation when Debra had asked about it. Of course, Debra had been only six years old at the time and still held her Great Aunt in a sort of awe. The icy disapproval her aunt always displayed towards her hadn't yet fully developed.

And now here she was approaching the gates again after six years. In truth, Debra had half expected to find the place in ruins, as if it had no right to exist without Pollyanna Malken's formidable presence to anchor it in reality.

The broad circular driveway was full of her relatives' expensive cars. Nothing so pedestrian as a Cadillac was to be seen. Lotus, Porsche, Aston-Martin and Rolls-Royce were well represented. Debra parked behind an H2 Hummer, thinking that her little car might fit in the back seat of the monstrous SUV. She sat for a moment, gathering herself, and then stepped out.

The smell hit her at once, summoning memories of other times at the mansion. That subtle, sweet lilac scent combined with fresh pine mulch. The old groundskeeper had used mulch by the ton to keep the gardens around the estate immaculate. No weed dared to show its leaves in that horticultural perfection. Debra remembered running thru the paths among the planting beds, always keeping out of sight of her aunt or the staff. Running thru the sunlight, lilac scent in her nose, the pleasant mulch odor making a vaguely rotten counterpoint.

Debra shook herself, bringing her mind back to the present. The mansion loomed over her, its cold presence overwhelming memories of sunlit childhood. She headed for the main door.

She raised her hand to knock but the door opened before she could complete the gesture. "You're late, Debra. The family is all waiting for you."

"Miss Yeates," Debra said, startled. "I'm sorry. Traffic on the interstate was backed up . . . " She trailed off as Aunt Polly's ancient maid turned away. Miss Yeates had been Polly's maid for as long as Debra had been alive. Longer. She'd always looked ancient, too. Thin gray hair, pallid skin hanging loose over her bones, scarcely any flesh. Miss Yeates had been a spectral presence in Debra's childhood. Nightmares had revolved around her, tho the maid had never done anything to Debra aside from expressing disapproval.

There was nothing to do but follow Miss Yeates into the mansion. Debra took a deep breath and crossed the threshold.

Memory assailed her on all sides. The banister she'd slid down as a child. The stuffed lion and tiger that framed the doorway to the main parlor. The carved ebony cats that hid in the woodwork of the wainscotting. The portrait of some distant ancestor glaring down from the wall over the entrance to the dining room.

Debra hugged herself and shivered. This was not easy.

Miss Yeates led her into the ground-floor great room. Seated in overstuffed leather chairs were the heads of the various branches of the Malken family. They all looked both bored and impatient.

Debra fixed an expression of determination on her face. These people might be wealthy and powerful, but they were still just relatives. She would not be intimidated by them.

Sitting just inside the doorway to her left was a tall man in a severe dark suit. Her cousin Charles. He was a real estate broker, if one could apply that title to someone who bought and sold city blocks the way other people did socks. Debra got a card from him at Christmas each year but otherwise had had no contact with him since they'd both been children.

Sitting together in front of a low table were her Aunt Rebecca and Uncle Desmond. Desmond ran an import-export firm and had interests in shipping lines, railroads, and trucking companies. Debra hadn't seen them since they'd invited her to their Cape Cod vacation home in her freshman year of college. They were friendly enough, if a bit stuffy.

Opposite them was Grandfather Robert Malken. Ramrod straight, tall even seated, he was the oldest living Malken now that Polly had died. Debra had always called him "grandfather." He was far too imposing to be referred to with any greater familiarity. He'd been a constant presence in Debra's life while her mother had been alive, but afterwards he'd retreated behind occasional letters and expensive birthday presents. He'd been a sort of surrogate father to her when she'd been young and his departure just when she'd most needed him had been painful. The child Debra had not understood, but as an adult she knew that the death of his daughter had hit him hard. Too hard to bear the constant reminder that Debra represented.

Of all the people in the room, Grandfather was the only person Debra could honestly say she loved. He was also the only one who actually greeted her. His angular face, so stony in repose, lit up as he smiled at her. "Debra!" he said as he rose. "Good lord, girl, look at you. All grown up." They shared a brief embrace and Debra kissed him on the cheek.

"Good to see you, too, Grandfather," she said, taking a step back.

There might have been more to say, but a loud sound from the man standing by the fireplace at the far end of the room interrupted. He was dressed all in gray and had more chins than hair. Arrayed before him on a folding table were several stacks of papers and a briefcase. When Debra and her grandfather turned to him, he said "Now that Debra is here, we can get started. If no one objects."

Charles said "Just get on with it, Smallwood. We all know why we're here."

Debra recognized the name. Judge Smallwood had been the lawyer who'd contacted her with news of Polly's death. He'd been her great aunt's legal counsel for decades.

Smallwood turned his attention to the first of the papers on his table. "Very well," he said. "As you know, Pollyanna Malken controlled the bulk of the family estate as was her place as the eldest Malken. She has left detailed instructions as to what's to be done." He took a stack of papers and stepped from one person to the next, handing each of them a sheaf. Or at least, each of them except for Debra.

"Most of these papers deal with real estate titles and stocks of various types. The short version is that each of you, the surviving members of the family, will receive approximately ten million dollars worth of Polly's assets."

Desmond laughed. "I make more than that in a week," he said.

"Yes, but Polly's holdings were . . . of a specific and exclusive nature," Smallwood replied. "She was of the opinion that each of these bequests could easily be grown into several hundred million dollars worth of income with proper management."

Debra contemplated the fact that she'd apparently been left out. It didn't surprise her, given the circumstances of her departure and the cold contempt Polly had always displayed towards her. But Smallwood had told her she was mentioned in the will and had insisted that she had to come. Probably just to watch the others divide up the estate, she thought. That would be right in line with the way Polly had treated her in the last few years before she'd left.

Smallwood returned to his table and picked up another paper. This one was a single sheet. "Now then," he said, "having disposed of the individual bequests, there remains the majority of Polly's estate. We've estimated the combined total value at roughly eight billion dollars." There were nods of agreement from everyone in the room. Except Debra, who was mildly stunned to hear that particular news.

"The terms of the will are clear and simple," Smallwood went on. "The entire estate is to pass into the control of Debra Malken, on condition that she keep and care for Polly's cat and agree to live here at the family mansion. I've been appointed legal counsel until and unless Debra wishes otherwise, and an advisory board has been set up which consists of the senior partners from Polly's accounting firm and brokerage house, Robert Malken, and Polly's personal servant Miss Yeates."

"Wh-what?" Debra said, stunned. "She left it . . . all of that . . . to me?" She groped for a chair and sat down heavily.

"Yes, Miss Malken, she left the whole thing to you," Smallwood said. "She said that there was a proper order of things, and that of all the family, you were the only one she trusted to see them through." Someone choked off a quick laugh and Debra turned to see Charles covering his mouth with one hand.

"I can't believe it," Debra said. She felt a hand on her shoulder and Grandfather said in a quiet voice "Believe, Debra. Believe." She looked up at him. There was something in his voice, some trace of expression about his eyes, that seemed to suggest that this was not unexpected.

Debra would have liked to talk to him about it, but the rest of the family was gathering around her to offer congratulations. And of course, any assistance she might need.

Judge Smallwood waited, then offered her a card. "Call me tomorrow morning, Miss Malken," he said. "There's some papers you'll need to sign, some legal matters to go over at greater length. I know this is a lot to absorb and you'll need a clear head when we discuss your new responsibilities. My secretary will be expecting your call."

Debra mumbled her thanks, still feeling quite off-balance. Her world had just taken the greatest twist she'd ever experienced. Polly had left her everything . . .

Ah, screw it. Here's the whole thing so far.

It was the kind of car a college student would drive. Small, cheap, beat up, and of indeterminate make.

Debra wasn't a college student any longer. Not for over a year. But she had kept the little car because it had character, and it ran. That, and her job paid barely enough to keep her in a tiny apartment with peanut butter and jelly for dinner several times a week. Still, the limited funds had helped her keep a slim, girlish figure. Combined with her soft features and longish black hair, Debra looked like she was still a teenager.

All that was about to change. Debra Malken had received notice that her Great Aunt Pollyanna had passed away and that she was mentioned in the will. Debra hadn't been to her aunt's mansion since that day six years before when she'd stormed out, vowing to never come back. It was the kind of gesture that young people were given to making, but young people had no real concept of "never." The years had passed and here she was, her little car crawling along the long, winding private road that led to the mansion.

She rounded a bend and there it was, crouching in the late afternoon sun as if waiting to pounce on her. The strange name the family had given the mansion popped into Debra's thoughts at the sight of it.

Catgate.

The name had sparked the one real moment of warmth between Debra and her Great Aunt. Pollyanna had spun her a long, rambling tale of family history and obligation when Debra had asked about it. Of course, Debra had been only six years old at the time and still held her Great Aunt in a sort of awe. The icy disapproval her aunt always displayed towards her hadn't yet fully developed.

And now here she was approaching the gates again after six years. In truth, Debra had half expected to find the place in ruins, as if it had no right to exist without Pollyanna Malken's formidable presence to anchor it in reality.

The broad circular driveway was full of her relatives' expensive cars. Nothing so pedestrian as a Cadillac was to be seen. Lotus, Porsche, Aston-Martin and Rolls-Royce were well represented. Debra parked behind an H2 Hummer, thinking that her little car might fit in the back seat of the monstrous SUV. She sat for a moment, gathering herself, and then stepped out.

The smell hit her at once, summoning memories of other times at the mansion. That subtle, sweet lilac scent combined with fresh pine mulch. The old groundskeeper had used mulch by the ton to keep the gardens around the estate immaculate. No weed dared to show its leaves in that horticultural perfection. Debra remembered running thru the paths among the planting beds, always keeping out of sight of her aunt or the staff. Running thru the sunlight, lilac scent in her nose, the pleasant mulch odor making a vaguely rotten counterpoint.

Debra shook herself, bringing her mind back to the present. The mansion loomed over her, its cold presence overwhelming memories of sunlit childhood. She headed for the main door.

She raised her hand to knock but the door opened before she could complete the gesture. "You're late, Debra. The family is all waiting for you."

"Miss Yeates," Debra said, startled. "I'm sorry. Traffic on the interstate was backed up . . . " She trailed off as Aunt Polly's ancient maid turned away. Miss Yeates had been Polly's maid for as long as Debra had been alive. Longer. She'd always looked ancient, too. Thin gray hair, pallid skin hanging loose over her bones, scarcely any flesh. Miss Yeates had been a spectral presence in Debra's childhood. Nightmares had revolved around her, tho the maid had never done anything to Debra aside from expressing disapproval.

There was nothing to do but follow Miss Yeates into the mansion. Debra took a deep breath and crossed the threshold.

Memory assailed her on all sides. The banister she'd slid down as a child. The stuffed lion and tiger that framed the doorway to the main parlor. The carved ebony cats that hid in the woodwork of the wainscotting. The portrait of some distant ancestor glaring down from the wall over the entrance to the dining room.

Debra hugged herself and shivered. This was not easy.

Miss Yeates led her into the ground-floor great room. Seated in overstuffed leather chairs were the heads of the various branches of the Malken family. They all looked both bored and impatient.

Debra fixed an expression of determination on her face. These people might be wealthy and powerful, but they were still just relatives. She would not be intimidated by them.

Sitting just inside the doorway to her left was a tall man in a severe dark suit. Her cousin Charles. He was a real estate broker, if one could apply that title to someone who bought and sold city blocks the way other people did socks. Debra got a card from him at Christmas each year but otherwise had had no contact with him since they'd both been children.

Sitting together in front of a low table were her Aunt Rebecca and Uncle Desmond. Desmond ran an import-export firm and had interests in shipping lines, railroads, and trucking companies. Debra hadn't seen them since they'd invited her to their Cape Cod vacation home in her freshman year of college. They were friendly enough, if a bit stuffy.

Opposite them was Grandfather Robert Malken. Ramrod straight, tall even seated, he was the oldest living Malken now that Polly had died. Debra had always called him "grandfather." He was far too imposing to be referred to with any greater familiarity. He'd been a constant presence in Debra's life while her mother had been alive, but afterwards he'd retreated behind occasional letters and expensive birthday presents. He'd been a sort of surrogate father to her when she'd been young and his departure just when she'd most needed him had been painful. The child Debra had not understood, but as an adult she knew that the death of his daughter had hit him hard. Too hard to bear the constant reminder that Debra represented.

Of all the people in the room, Grandfather was the only person Debra could honestly say she loved. He was also the only one who actually greeted her. His angular face, so stony in repose, lit up as he smiled at her. "Debra!" he said as he rose. "Good lord, girl, look at you. All grown up." They shared a brief embrace and Debra kissed him on the cheek.

"Good to see you, too, Grandfather," she said, taking a step back.

There might have been more to say, but a loud sound from the man standing by the fireplace at the far end of the room interrupted. He was dressed all in gray and had more chins than hair. Arrayed before him on a folding table were several stacks of papers and a briefcase. When Debra and her grandfather turned to him, he said "Now that Debra is here, we can get started. If no one objects."

Charles said "Just get on with it, Smallwood. We all know why we're here."

Debra recognized the name. Judge Smallwood had been the lawyer who'd contacted her with news of Polly's death. He'd been her great aunt's legal counsel for decades.

Smallwood turned his attention to the first of the papers on his table. "Very well," he said. "As you know, Pollyanna Malken controlled the bulk of the family estate as was her place as the eldest Malken. She has left detailed instructions as to what's to be done." He took a stack of papers and stepped from one person to the next, handing each of them a sheaf. Or at least, each of them except for Debra.

"Most of these papers deal with real estate titles and stocks of various types. The short version is that each of you, the surviving members of the family, will receive approximately ten million dollars worth of Polly's assets."

Desmond laughed. "I make more than that in a week," he said.

"Yes, but Polly's holdings were . . . of a specific and exclusive nature," Smallwood replied. "She was of the opinion that each of these bequests could easily be grown into several hundred million dollars worth of income with proper management."

Debra contemplated the fact that she'd apparently been left out. It didn't surprise her, given the circumstances of her departure and the cold contempt Polly had always displayed towards her. But Smallwood had told her she was mentioned in the will and had insisted that she had to come. Probably just to watch the others divide up the estate, she thought. That would be right in line with the way Polly had treated her in the last few years before she'd left.

Smallwood returned to his table and picked up another paper. This one was a single sheet. "Now then," he said, "having disposed of the individual bequests, there remains the majority of Polly's estate. We've estimated the combined total value at roughly eight billion dollars." There were nods of agreement from everyone in the room. Except Debra, who was mildly stunned to hear that particular news.

"The terms of the will are clear and simple," Smallwood went on. "The entire estate is to pass into the control of Debra Malken, on condition that she keep and care for Polly's cat and agree to live here at the family mansion. I've been appointed legal counsel until and unless Debra wishes otherwise, and an advisory board has been set up which consists of the senior partners from Polly's accounting firm and brokerage house, Robert Malken, and Polly's personal servant Miss Yeates."

"Wh-what?" Debra said, stunned. "She left it . . . all of that . . . to me?" She groped for a chair and sat down heavily.

"Yes, Miss Malken, she left the whole thing to you," Smallwood said. "She said that there was a proper order of things, and that of all the family, you were the only one she trusted to see them through." Someone choked off a quick laugh and Debra turned to see Charles covering his mouth with one hand.

"I can't believe it," Debra said. She felt a hand on her shoulder and Grandfather said in a quiet voice "Believe, Debra. Believe." She looked up at him. There was something in his voice, some trace of expression about his eyes, that seemed to suggest that this was not unexpected.

Debra would have liked to talk to him about it, but the rest of the family was gathering around her to offer congratulations. And of course, any assistance she might need.

Judge Smallwood waited, then offered her a card. "Call me tomorrow morning, Miss Malken," he said. "There's some papers you'll need to sign, some legal matters to go over at greater length. I know this is a lot to absorb and you'll need a clear head when we discuss your new responsibilities. My secretary will be expecting your call."

Debra mumbled her thanks, still feeling quite off-balance. Her world had just taken the greatest twist she'd ever experienced. Polly had left her everything . . .

I THOROUGHLY enjoyed that. I am still chuckling at the name Catgate. I can't help feel that this one sentence is unnecessary:

"Her world had just taken the greatest twist she'd ever experienced."

You've just shown us this, clearly and vividly. That sentence weakens what you've already done. Of course, I am sure others will disagree. Loved the rest. I look forward to seeing where it goes.

A good point. But this was for National Novel Writing Month, and I was trying to crank out 50,000 words in a month. I need every extra sentence.

Oh, and the board was giving me problems, as you can see from the double post. Here's the rest of what I have so far.

The day dawned bright and hot. The air was so loaded with humidity that breathing was an effort. The sun blazed down mercilessly, unimpeded by the slightest hint of cloud. Summer was scarcely ten days old and already Debra was longing for the cool breezes of Autumn.

She sat out behind the mansion at a patio table, drinking iced lemonade almost as fast as Miss Yeates could make it and taking dips in the pool. An oversized umbrella kept the worst of the sun at bay.

She'd settled into the mansion easily, since she had spent a good deal of her childhood there. The first few weeks had passed in a blur of paperwork and meetings as her "advisory board" had guided her into the reality of managing a vast financial empire. Debra had never spent a lot of time thinking about it, since she'd assumed when she had stormed out six years before that she would never have anything to do with her family again, but Polly had had interests in dozens of companies, sat on multiple boards of directors, sponsored more charitable foundations than Debra could quite believe, and managed a sprawling investment portfolio that contained everything from government bonds to vaults full of gold bullion.

The worst of it was over, tho. Debra had been introduced to her great aunt's world. She had dozens of new phone numbers and email addresses, faces to go along with them, and access to the highest levels of the business community. Somehow, it had never quite penetrated her awareness just how connected Polly had been. Still, it hadn't been without its memorable moments. Chief among those had been telling her former boss just where he could stick his nine dollars an hour.

She'd also renewed her acquaintance with Aunt Polly's cat. It was an odd codicil to the will, but not without precedent. Polly had specified that in order to maintain her inheritance, she had to care for her cat.

Bertram was nearby, lounging comfortably on the sun-baked concrete of the patio. If the blazing heat bothered him, he gave no sign. Debra thought it a bit odd that the cat was still alive, actually. Polly had had him the whole time she'd lived at the mansion, which was about fifteen years. Add the six since she'd left and Bertie had to be at least twenty-one years old, nearly unheard of for a cat. Of course, it was always possible that this wasn't the same Bertram that she had known back in the day. Big gray tabby cats weren't exactly uncommon in pet shops.

The cat had taken to her almost immediately, though. Her first night in the mansion following the reading of Polly's will had seen the cat jump into bed with her as if he'd been doing it his whole life. He slept on the pillow right next to her.

Debra was shaken from the memory as Bertram stretched and yawned. He was right beside the pool and sudden mischief blossomed in Debra's thoughts. She bolted up from her seat and jumped over the cat. "Cannonball!" she yelled, landing in the pool with a huge splash.

Surfacing with a giggle, she saw Bertram sitting in a puddle of water. He was soaked. Debra laughed out loud. For his part, the cat seemed unperturbed. He stared at her through narrowed eyes, flicking his paws and tail.

“Ya shouldn’t oughtta do that, Miss Debra,” a voice unexpectedly proclaimed. Debra gasped and spun about.

It was Perkins, the groundskeeper of the estate. “Bertie don’t like getting’ wet,” he continued. “And he’s got a long memory.”

Miffed at being startled by the old man, Debra rolled her eyes. “He’s a cat, Mister Perkins,” she said. “What’s he going to do, scratch me?”

Perkins sniffed. “He gots his ways, Miss Debra.” And with that, the groundskeeper turned and shuffled away, mopping his forehead with a bandanna.

Debra climbed from the pool. Strange old guy, she thought. Perkins had been at the mansion when she’d been a child, but she’d never spoken with him. There’d been no reason to talk to him. She walked over to Bertram, who was still sitting in a puddle and staring at her warily.

“You forgive me, right Bertie?” she said, reaching down to pet the cat. He jumped to his feet and walked away, ignoring her. Debra watched him go, then went to her lounge chair and plopped herself down. “Well poop,” she said.

Miss Yeates came out with another pitcher of lemonade. She said nothing, but the downward twist of her lips was more than enough for Debra to understand that the maid had seen her prank with the cat.

“What do you think, Miss Yeates?” she asked into the cold silence. “Does Bertie hold a grudge?”

The maid darted a quick look after the cat, who had found a shaded spot beneath a bush on the far side of the pool.

“He does as he likes, Miss Debra,” the old woman finally said. “It’s not my place to say anything more.” Then, having delivered the fresh lemonade and retrieved the empty pitcher, she returned to the house.

Weird, Debra thought. Am I the only one here who doesn’t think Bertie is a person? The cat was watching a butterfly with rapt interest. She kept an eye on him as she poured another glass of lemonade.

Memories rose unexpectedly. Winter, sometime after Christmas. She was playing by this same pool, which at the time was empty. Making little snowmen, armies of them, all around the pool. And every time she looked towards the house, Bertram was staring back at her from the window.

Debra shook herself. That had been so long ago . . . surely this couldn’t be the same cat. Bertie would have to be almost twenty years old. Not impossible, she knew, but unusual. She closed her eyes and held the cold lemonade to her head, trying to summon the memory into sharper focus. The cat in the window looking at her. Staring at her. Like she was a mouse.

“Debra!” The voice was sharp and harsh.

“Yes, Aunt Polly?” the little girl replied in a soft voice.

“What are you doing out there in the snow? You’ve been out there for hours!”

“I’m just playing, Aunt Polly. I’m not cold. And Bertie is watching me.” They both looked towards the window. Sure enough, the cat was sitting on the sill, the white streak between his eyes standing out against the smoky gray of the rest of him.

“Well, as long as you’re being watched,” Polly said, and giggled.

Giggled. Polly had giggled. Debra’s eyes opened. Polly never giggled, but that day she had. Debra looked at Bertram again. The memory of that bright white streak on his head was clear in her mind. The cat she was seeing now had no streak. He was a uniform dusky gray.

Well. That answered that. Bertram today was not the same Bertram who had watched her from the window. Another Mystery of Science was solved. She laughed to herself. The group she’d run with in college had called anything they couldn’t immediately explain a “mystery of science.” For a moment a sharp pang of nostalgia for those wonderful bright days filled her. Then she thought of her new situation, with the world at her feet. She wondered what her old college friends would think of this. Rich as Bill Gates or Donald Trump, and yet pining for the time when she’d lived on generic macaroni-and-cheese and Ramen noodles.

To shake out of the sudden mood, Debra speculated on the chances that this Bertram was a descendant of that long-ago Bertram. Both big gray tabby cats, which to be sure were common enough.

She took a long draught of lemonade. The heat was getting worse, and even the dip in the pool hadn’t helped. Screw it, she thought, I’m rich now. I have air conditioning. Aloud, she said “Come on, cat. Let’s go inside where it’s cool.”

I just wrote a letter to "The Army Times" that got published. One dude liked it and e-mailed me about it. No big deal.

Still working on the same thing. At least I wish I was working. Someone whip me back to my desk, okay? It's the personal story of a history teacher before during and after a revolution takes place in his (Eastern European) country. Can't share (you guys don't read Dutch) and won't share (not till it's done anyway)

^Sounds fantastic. Get back to work!!!

ok, you're the boss. First thing in the morning!

I guess I can post a part of a short story I'm working on.
------------------

And ripping the demon's heart from it's chest, I watched as it gave a gasping, gutteral epithet and collapsed to the dry, cracked earth, blood pouring from it's gaping maw. There was no living soul around me, none that remotely resembled a human being, anyway. It was almost surreal, watching the sky shift from a light blue to a darkened amber color in a matter of moments. My footsteps as I walked through front yards and across parking lots made a crunching sound, and I quickly realized that I was stepping across dry and broken bones, some long since withered to dust. The hot wind that whipped at my face also gouged my own soul, and I could feel it's rancid sweetness pervade my sense of smell. I coughed violently and removed the sword from it's sheathe. I hefted the weight, remembering just how many years it had been since I had last needed to use such a weapon. The blade shimmered, an odd effect in such a morbid light.

It was then I noticed that I was no longer alone. Through the reflection of my sword, I could see a shape creep up behind me and like a shadow try to strike. I dropped to one knee, and kicked around me, bringing up my sword as a large pipe was brought down to bear upon me. I kicked at the creature and took a quick stab with my blade, missing anything vital, but I managed to slice away one of it's claws, and roll out of the way. It squealed then, and I stabbed downward as it brought up the lead pipe with it's remaining claw, and as it made a swing at my legs, I tried to bring my blade across it's leathery neck, but in my zeal, I failed to notice the thing shove the pipe forward, and I gasped in pain as fire lanced up my right side, and a sickeningly dull crack echoed through my head. It had cracked one of my ribs. I backed away as quickly as I could manage, slicing around me to keep it at bay as I quickly considered other options. The pain was already starting to cloud my mind, and I could feel myself losing focus. I breathed inward and felt knives of fire rip along my ribcage.

The demonic creature eyed me cautiously as I took a step forward. I feinted severe pain in my leg, and while it was not too far from the truth, I had a plan. The creature watched me closely as I slowly edged around it in a circle. I took a step back and the demon growled. It leapt at me, fangs and claw prepared to dive into my flesh and rip me apart. Quickly, I dropped to one knee and removed a small vial of holy water from my coat, and in that next instant, the demon was on top of me clawing at my face. I raised my arm to block it's raging claw and the movement broke my wrist, creating a rush of intense white hot pain, causing me to drop my sword. The vial nearly fell from my grasp, but I held on firmly and screamed loudly, momentarily catching the creature off guard, and at that moment, I took the vial and crushed it into the demon's black cesspool eye. It shrieked violently and started to claw at it's own face. I grabbed my sword and using the last vestige of strength I had, buried the blade up to the hilt in the creature's neck, and kicked it's mass away from me. On my knees I watched it claw at it's neck, the wounds blinding it and suffocating it, all as it even then, tried to reach out at me and kill me.

I grabbed the hilt of my blade and pulled forcefully, watching the serrated edges rip the flesh away with it. The hellish creature made a final pitying cry and finally lay still and silent. I backed away, on my hands and knees, and tried to stand, forcing all of my weight onto my only functioning leg, and took a single step, falling to the ground, and watched as blackness crept in.

-----------------

It's not much, but it's a part of a longer story I'm working on.


-J.

Very vivid and visual! Nice start and a gripping beginning! Anyone else have thoughts on what is posted?

I've begun writing film reviews at www.throughshadow.com if anyone's interested.

What I'm working on now:

1. Next main novel
2. A Graphic Novel
3. A Young Adults novel
4. A short story for a new anthology (finished 2 more last month)
5. The 4th draft of a new thriller screenplay
6. An audio play

Driving me bananas. You asked.

Bathroom stall poetry! Too bad I'm stricken with writer's block.

"Here I sit, my cheeks a flexin, just gave birth to another......another....."

Damn! Somebody help me! How can I finish this?

Thanks! ...I think you were referring to me, I'm not sure. I'm not used to comments on my stories. Then again I rarely post them. I've got one I'm working on right now, more of a humanity story rather than a dark piece of fiction.

-J.

My idea with this thread was to give people a chance to share and comment. Thinking well, since this is the workshop and all... It didn't seem to work, alas. Oh well.

Actually, John, stick around. I'm gonna post what I'm hoping is the beginning for my novel, but I'm kinda stuck.

Ok, for some reason, it keeps stalling when I copy-paste my story. Even in small chunks.