Comments on Editor Jennifer: November Novelists Contest #2!

untitled steampunk WIP Coby couldn't get off the ...

2009-11-13T16:27:13.686-08:00

untitled steampunk WIP

Coby couldn't get off the omni because a couple of foreign tour-yobs were blocking the steps, yammering at the driver. He turned towards the back door, but there was a tiny Suttie girl behind him, burdened with a tight-wrapped bachi of grey cloth. The driver had lost patience and leaned out the window to see the zippoline approaching against the wind. Which Coby wanted to see, himself.

He pointed to their tickets, then upwards. "Up there, you yobbits. Those are zipp tickets, not omni, see? That cage over there."

Nodding, the tourists moved away, but stopped to open up their fotoleit and take an image of the Leucatrope coming down. You'll ruin the leather, Coby thought, opening the bellows that way. His own Focalitz might be empained and slipping past redemption, but he hated lomograf botched by nob-yobs with more plat than brains.

Then he felt a tug on his sleeve, turned to see the Suttie. Who also pointed up towards the mooring tower on top of the hill and said, "Is it there that will departing the Archon Eiront?"

"Directly there," Coby told her. "And if we can get by these balls of tallow in front of me, we can see him ride down the mast."

She was as slight as a child, her coarse, braided hair reaching about the level of his chest. Her eyes rose at the corners like checkmarks above broad, prominent cheekbones, her skin was the color of strong tea. She wasn't doing very well talking, but he didn't speak enough SouthMouth to help out.

He jumped out and stared up, finally getting the full view of the huge zippoline, settling majestically down to daintily kiss the curved iron tip of the mooring davette. He thrilled to it. Up there! The air! The Archon descending!

He heard a shuffle behind him and a slight snuffle, looked back to see the little Suttie girl trying to step down burdened by her bachi. Gallant for a boy from the Warrens, he turned back to help her. She jerked the bachi back from his reach and he shrugged and started to turn away. Except that he was caught by the way she was as fixed on the zipp as he was. "You a fec of the Archon?"

She just stared, so he spoke slow and clear, "You must like the Archon if you came all the way up here to see him."

She looked down, embarrassed. “To ask his responsibility.” Then her head tipped back and he caught a spark of something alive flaring up under her cloak of humility. “To shame him," she said with a quiet fierceness.

As she spoke he heard another snuffling sound and realized that her bundle was a baby. He stared at it then met her eyes, where he saw both exquisite shame and newfound defiance. His periodicle radar twitched and crackled.

But his conjectures were cut as he saw the girls slender eyes widen and turn gold. He whipped around as he was physically shaken by a thunderous, bawling sound; the sort of sound one hears only once in a lifetime and never forgets.

The Leucotrope had turned into a blossom of flame. The skin crinkled back off the framework like skin burning off a sausage, the framework falling and dragging with it more flame. Clouds of fire spewed forth and twisted in on themselves. The davette was slowly, painfully twisting away. The air was on fire.

Coby took three long strides to the lumpen tourists and snatched the fotoleit from the hands of the big one who stared up like a draft bule. His sure hands set the knobs without looking. He pulled the plaque, reversed it, and slid it back in, then held it up and made his take without conscious thought. And knew he had it.

He turned to run for the hackies at the corner, but passed the little Suttie, standing there with her baby, staring up at the last light in the curly smoke cloud over the tower. That baby….

There'd be bludgies swarming this area. And if they saw a Suttie with a bundle? He ran to the girl and grabbed her arm. She jerked away, but when he yelled, "Come on. You shouldn’t be here," she followed him to the hack stand, clopping along the stones on her wooden sandals.

The cabin door swung open. She stared as he saunte...

2009-11-12T11:56:12.087-08:00

The cabin door swung open. She stared as he sauntered toward her. Her gaze focused on the toes of a shiny, pair of black boots, slowly raising her head she followed the tight fitting black pants tucked into the tops of the boots, her eyes continued their way up his long well muscled legs to his long black coat which fell almost to his knees. It covered his massive wide shoulders and narrow waist. This, of course, made his form appear much larger than it possibly could be. She choked on her breath, as she found his face. Upon everything that was holy, this man was the most handsome man she had ever set eyes on.
His eyes filled with a wicked gleam, met hers. She glanced down at the sword he gripped tightly in his hand as if he was contemplating striking her down with it. His white, linen shirt was splattered with blood. Her eyes widened, time stood still. The air she inhaled into her lungs, stuck in her throat. Her first initial thought was this man has a deadly combination of extremely good looks and arrogance. She rolled her eyes, letting out an exasperating breath.
He stood a good six inches over six feet tall. His hair blond curled at the edges, carefree and tussled. His face was tanned from days in the sun, his jaw exuberated strength and stubbornness. The lips that formed that smile were full and she wondered for a moment what it would feel like to have those lips capture hers. Would they be soft and gentle or hard and demanding like the look on his face? Dismissing the thought she blinked, she would guess him to be in his late twenties. Though he had just been in a battle, he looked energized, with that roguish smile. His eyes, Blue like shards of ice, sparkled, like a young boy who had just received a new toy. Suddenly Jacqueline realized she was that toy.

The main character of my WIP "Win or Go Home" ente...

2009-11-11T09:05:40.780-08:00

The main character of my WIP "Win or Go Home" enters the story:

Rick Parker finished typing and turned the platen knob. If he’d remembered to go to Office Max to buy a new cartridge he could be doing this on his computer. The typewriter belonged to his parents, now basking in the heat of Arizona until March. Besides a working typewriter they owned a phonograph, a rotary dial telephone and a black and white television. Parker had gotten them a converter box after the digital changeover. When he wanted to check his email he had to do it at the office or a Starbucks. In spite of the expense he wanted his own place again.
He removed the paper and checked for typos before signing it and sealing the envelope. Now came the hard part: giving it to Angel. Not that Angel would disagree. His look of dismay after Earl Givens’ escape pretty much said it all. He assigned Parker to block the alley with his car while Angel and Finch made the entry into the target’s apartment. How hard was that? A cute looking blonde drove up and asked Parker to move so she could get to the street. He never thought to check the trunk.
Angel and Finch came tearing up the alley in hot pursuit a few minutes later, breathless under the weight of body armor, Mag flashlights, pepper gas cans and respirators. Angel spewed every expletive in his vocabulary, breathless or not. Earl’s triumph matched Parker’s nightmare. The economics of bounty hunting had a stark simplicity: no skip, no paycheck.

Intro to Rica from "Over the Line" Kind of like i...

2009-11-10T19:59:33.135-08:00

Intro to Rica from "Over the Line"

Kind of like in boxing: you go a neutral corner. No way was I setting foot in the Plank Inn with all his shaggy buddies wishing they were Jimmy Buffet or owners of the Harleys out front. Just like he wished he was one of the hippy pier scum instead of a suit who was too pony liberal to be able to wear the attitude. Hairy knuckleheads sitting around listening to Bob Marley and giving me the eye while he puffs out his chest and acts like he's still got privileges. If I ever went in there with him, I'd be wearing a T-shirt saying, "I cut this jerk off even before the divorce."
And not a chance he'd come up to the I.B. Forum. On my turf with a bunch of sun-buffed beach jocks lounging around just dying for the chance to stuff some pseudo-hip lawyer if he so much as raised an objection with me.
So where to you meet your ex to find out what craziness he just has to put on you this time? Easy: a halfway house. Well, actually a coffeehouse halfway between the two beach bars. And closer to the beach than either one of them. When you sit out back and they roll up the metal garage doors, you can view a slice of breakers past the new condo they put up two years ago when the gentrification was just an outbreak, not an epidemic.
What is it with coffeehouses, anyway? They either have to be some sterile soul-pawned yuppie Ikea thing or else retro-funky, like Jerry Garcia's Victorian living room or something. Why can't they just serve coffee in places where you can shoulder around the bar and hoist your cups and shoot a little pool? I might actually show up, get my jolt.
Not really. I'm a bar girl. A nine-ball shooting, dart-throwing, Chargers-watching beer babe. I'll stipulate on that.
I'll also cop to being a beach bimbo. But I'll add this: the beach life saved me from La Vida Loca. It's what kept me from doing what my girlfriends were doing, signing on as "jainas", "rucas", gang affiliates. As in "gang bang". My first memories of the ocean were just pure thrills. Imperial Beach, of course. IB's the Chula Vista/Barrio Logan beach. Where else would we go? Coronado? PB? Could walk down to 12th and Imperial, catch the 901 and zip down Silver Strand, carrying my boogie board.
Instead of hanging around the barrio I'd be out on the pier with the wind and sun and gulls, looking down all these gorgeous bronzed guys with no body fat bobbing on the waves. I used to just stare at them there, waiting for a wave, almost fall asleep with the rhythm of it. Then they'd jump up and go shooting off on a lacy curl.
And the GIRLS! Hijole!. All these long, tan, blonde goddesses. Beach babes out of Sports Illustrated play volleyball and OTL. I wanted to be one of them with my whole heart. And know what, that's exactly what I did.
Well, not the blonde part, of course. Except for that unfortunate six months my junior year, but the less said about that the better. Especially when my gf's were taunting me for being blonde just on top so I had to show them. Oh, I showed them, all right. Major bad move.
But not as bad as showing the same scenery to Justin Reinholm, then giving him an exclusive option on it for four years. Ever divorced a lawyer who works in the DA's office? I'd suggest just shoot him and throw yourself on the mercy of the jury. But oh, look… I've only been waiting an hour and gone through two double-skinnies, and here's The People himself.

Alan Poe didn’t see the ghostly figure as he storm...

2009-11-10T11:18:05.692-08:00

Alan Poe didn’t see the ghostly figure as he stormed through the news room. And then he bumped right into it. Startled, he screeched to a halt as it flew through the air, hit the floor and bounced haphazardly across the worn carpet.

“Careful!”

He looked toward the urgent voice of Rebecca Spiley, a grey-haired woman in her mid sixties. She gave Alan a disapproving glare as she knelt and picked up the small purple and black snow globe he had inadvertently knocked off her desk. Inside, a tiny plastic ghost pirouetted within the liquid as even smaller bats circled it.

“This was a gift from my grandson,” she sniffed.

“Sorry. Is it broken?”

She examined the globe like a jeweler appraising a rare gem. “No. But—”

He didn’t wait for her to finish. Once he knew the globe was intact, he continued through the small dingy office ignoring the looks from the handful of other writers and staff. His objective was a large door with the words “William McDowall, Editor & Publisher” emblazoned in faded letters. Beneath the title, the words “Do Not Disturb” were imprinted in a much larger font like a magic spell to ward off intrusions.

Poe never let that particular spell stop him in the past. Considering the mood he was in, he sure as hell wasn’t going to pay heed to it now. He shoved the door open so fast, the grey-haired man behind the desk inside almost dropped the sandwich in his hand.

Without missing a beat, Bill McDowall swallowed the bite in his mouth and smiled. “Alan. Good to see you. I was—”

“Ghosts?” Alan spit at him from the doorway as he waved a thick folder in his hand. “Are you shitting me?”

Bill, a friendly-looking man in his late sixties, shifted his slightly overweight frame as he wiped his mouth.

“You want me to write an article about ghosts?” Alan continued. “Ghosts? Do I look like Bill Murray to you?”

“Actually, you’d be more like Carl Kolchak.”

Alan paused, confused. “The geeky guy from ‘Welcome Back, Kotter’?”

“No, the reporter from the ‘Night Stalker’ show in the seventies.”

“Never saw it.”

Bill waved at one of the two chairs in front of his desk. “Let’s talk.”

Alan slammed the door. “All I want to hear is that you made a mistake assigning me this idiotic story.”

The worn leather seat complained when he plopped in it. The chairs were genuine leather, but they passed their prime about thirty years before. Bill swore they used to be owned by Edward R. Murrow, but Alan seriously doubted it. He also had his suspicions about some of the framed photos on the wall showing Bill with some rather prominent politicians and entertainment honchos from the seventies and eighties.

“Did I piss you off?” he asked his editor.

Bill paused. “Excuse me?”

“Did I do something wrong, and this...” Alan slapped the folder on the desk. “...is how you’re punishing me?”

“This isn’t punishment, Alan,” Bill said. “It’s an assignment. A very important assignment.”

“Look, it’s bad enough I work for a magazine that sounds like a porn film, but—”

“Stop saying that,” the older man scolded him. “You know damn well why our magazine is called Deep Throat!”

“Yeah, yeah, after the guy from the Watergate scandal. But—”

“Right! He told the truth when no one else would. And that’s what we do. We’re a hard-edged, no-holds-barred news magazine dedicated to uncovering and revealing the truth no matter how ugly or sordid.”

“I know, Bill. I’ve read the sign out front. But, what the hell does that have to do with haunted houses? The truth is: Ghosts don’t exist. Period.”

“Really?” Bill smiled. “Can you prove that?”

“I don’t need to prove it. It’s a known fact.”

“Alan, you know what I always say: ‘It isn’t the truth'…”

“…until it’s been proven,” Alan finished in a lightly sarcastic tone.

“Exactly. And now we owe it to our readers to uncover the truth about ghosts once and for all. And this...” He pulled a large black and white photo from the folder and set it in front of Alan. “...is the perfect place to start.”

Sorry, it's more than three paragraphs, but that's...

2009-11-10T05:33:42.851-08:00

Sorry, it's more than three paragraphs, but that's because there is a lot of dialogue - Here I am introducing the villain of my book...

With a quirk of his mouth, Jesse pushed the intercom button on his phone. “Dolores, can you send in Layla, please?” His eyes turned the color of old stained glass. He was about to throw the hardball.

The door opened behind her and the smell of cinnamon and sin wafted in with an exotic beauty of a woman. The kind who always got breakfast in bed the morning after instead of the middle of the night dash for the door. Alexia hated her on sight.

“This is Layla Montoya, my new marketing director.” Jesse grinned like a leopard about to smear a white rabbit all over the pristine snow.

With a snort, Alexia said, “You can't hire a twenty year old as a marketing director.”

“I beg your pardon.” The woman walked right in and sat down at the table next to the desk like she'd done it a thousand times. “I have an MBA from SMU.”

“BFD.” Alexia sneered.

This just the intro of Abe the ship's cook. I pick...

2009-11-10T04:34:34.779-08:00

This just the intro of Abe the ship's cook. I pick it up where he comes in. Ben the M.C is stuck in the cargo hold. This is where Abe comes in. The back story is too long to go into .

Ben climbed down the steep wall of crates to the floor, with no sign of the rates he preceded up the row in search of nourishment when he heard the hatch door slam.
“Tar nation, every times I need floor or buttered down here I got’s to go,” The voice muttered as its owner made his way down the row.
“Abe, you gots to go get it yourself,” The man mumbled to himself.
“Get’en tired of doing all myself is what I’m get’en.”
Ben froze in his tracks, his eyes raced around for anywhere he could hide.
“There.”
Ben squeezed and wiggled, but it’s no use, his small frame doesn’t fit. With one last effort, Ben’s push caused the crates to let out a horrible squeal.
“Who dat?” The voice commanded from down the row.
Without as much as breathe, Ben waited.
“Always someth’in going on can’t get anything done around here,” Abe continued as he searched out the source of the strange noise, banging on his flashlight on a crate to help it come on.
“Oh please don’t come here. Please…please.”
As the tall slender man’s shadow grow closer the man got louder and more upset. Ben tried his best to disappear.
“Noises in the dark I don’t need this in my day.”
“Oh Jesus,” the man cried out stumbling back against the wall of crates, “who, who hell are you?”
Ben said nothing petrified in the small crevice of the crates.
The man’s flashlight shook so radically he is barely able to keep the light on he‘s target. “I got gun, now you come outa their nice and peaceful like you here.”
The boy Squinted against the bright light as he climbed his way out into the row.
“Land sacks, you’re just a boy, what’s you do’ in down here boy?”

Hmmmm. This one must be harder. The entries are ...

2009-11-09T17:52:30.401-08:00

Hmmmm.

This one must be harder. The entries are trickling in....

Mallory’s Hermes scarf, intricately patterned in b...

2009-11-09T09:39:31.086-08:00

Mallory’s Hermes scarf, intricately patterned in black, beige and two shades of brown, draped precisely over the back of the chair like another guest at the table, one more aligned with Mallory’s wardrobe and social status than Kate would ever be. She’d left off the scarf while she brushed up the breakfast dishes and wiped the kitchen, despite the fact that, technically, either the French nanny or the El Salvadoran housekeeper was responsible for the task. Kate knew that Mallory couldn’t abide the thought of even ten seconds of disorder, much less the hour or so it would be before either woman made it to the kitchen.

Kate tried to imagine what Mallory would do if she lost her auburn hair. In college, everyone envied the long, smooth blonde cascade that hit Kate’s shoulders with the tiniest hint of an under-curl, but she’d known even then that any woman in her right mind wanted hair like Mallory’s when they grew up – reddish-brown with sun-kissed golden streaks that were natural in their twenties and chemically enhanced now they were forty, but still beautiful. Mallory’s hair had a delicate wave, enough to give it the body and heft to hold any style, and she wore it in a length that flattered her either pinned up in a chignon or let loose to hang in a precisely-cut-then-softened line just below her jaw, the same perfect combination of privileged nature and nurture that touched every detail of her life. But if her hair fell out? Would she tie a Hermes scarf around her bald head every day, perfectly matched to her outfit? Maybe. No matter what she did, Kate suspected Mallory would still manage to look elegant. She couldn’t say the same for herself.

“You’ll be beautiful anyway,” Mallory unknowingly disagreed with her and bit her lip. They stared at each other, but Mallory wasn’t really seeing her, Kate guessed. She could almost hear gears turning and lists forming in her best friend’s hyper-organized, Type-A personality head as Mallory prepared to save her. Doctors to see, research to do, books to read. Mallory’s resolve was inspiring, but it could also be exhausting, and Kate gathered her energy and braced herself for the strategy and battle plans she knew were coming. For once, Mallory surprised her. Rather than ticking off a barrage of questions and directions, she took both of Kate’s hands in hers and squeezed. “How can I help, Kate? What do you want me to do?”

Jacob Bourke drummed his fingers against the wood ...

2009-11-08T12:15:29.609-08:00

Jacob Bourke drummed his fingers against the wood and gave silent thanks the long wait was over. Not that he hadn't admired the shapely figure of the girl doing the counting, but he'd picked a poor time to be chivalrous by letting her in front of him in line.

“That's only eighty-nine.”

Jacob assumed the man behind the counter was Mr. Slader, proprietor of Slader's Mercantile. Whoever he was, he was old enough to be Methuselah's father.

“Of course it isn't. It's ninety, you watched me count them.” The girl's posture was rigid, her dark blue eyes blazed with fire and there was a frown the size of the Territory on her otherwise pretty face. Her strawberry blonde curls caught the sunlight pouring through the windows and reminded Jacob of the stained glass angels in the church where he—no, he wasn't about to think on it now.

from MARY OF ANGELS After some reflection, Mari d...

2009-11-08T08:21:47.845-08:00

from MARY OF ANGELS

After some reflection, Mari decided on just the right cop. Sergeant Bernal had caught her eye at Patudos, a bar favored by narcos, when Talarines had been showed her off after he scooped her up from the ruins of her husband's execution. She could tell he liked her and read him for a good mixture of basic decency, corruption, and genuine toughness. A big, rough guy from the sticks with a homely face and country accent. She took a taxi to Patudos and waited for him to come in for his usual drink. Nobody in the place made eye contact with her, not even the waiters in their sleek black shirts. She sat alone at her white-draped table without benefit of beverage. But when Alonso Bernal arrived he smiled and came straight to her table.
He ordered her a tequila and asked where she was from. She knew he meant what pueblo, not what state. This was a guy like her fathers and brothers. And not a guy to quake in fear of low-level traffickers. She liked that. She liked Bernal in general. He’d do.
"I need a favor," she told him over her second Tequila.
"From me?" he asked, making big eyes that couldn't pretend to being innocent of anything. "And what would I get in return?"
She looked at him, studied his eyes and lips, looked at his hard hands hanging off the edge of the table. She said, "A much bigger favor."
Hel smiled. He liked this country muchacha more all the time. Too bad she was hooked into the narco crowd. They'd chew her up and spit her out. What a waste. But if she wanted something they couldn't do for her? There was more going on here than having a drink with a pretty teenager.
"What could a simple man like me possibly do to deserve a favor that big, guapa?"
"Just your job, really."
"Pos, let's put it down here between us," he said, "Chew the bones a little."
"I don't want you to kill him," she said.
"Easy enough to not kill somebody," he smiled. "Not a favor at all. So what did this tipo you don’t want killed do to you?"
"He beats me up. But it’s not so much that."
He already knew what major crime had been done to her, but she was still working on it and he waited her out.
"He shamed me."
He nodded, then she surprised him by adding, "He made me feel like I'm not anybody. Not a person."
That’s how it works, honey, Bernal thought. He snorted emphatic disdain. "So he’s an idiot. I can see from here it would be good to make you more of a person."
"I want him to be ashamed. I want him to feel like he's just meat and you don't care about him, can do anything you want with him. Oh, and I want him to be afraid."
He smiled deeper than he had in a long time. He raised his glass to her. "I know just how to handle it. Let's make sure we agree on who we're talking about here."