While everybody cheered and celebrated, Remi went to her old friend, held her, and cried. She wanted so bad to save her, but she knew there was no other way. Remi asked Colt if they could take Eris with them back to the mountains and give her a proper funeral. Colt began to understand that this journey might involve a lot of this, and he knew he needed to begin talking to the others about what comes next, after they die. He figured now that they had everybody for the journey, it would be a suitable time to start training them physically and spiritually.

“Remi, I saw a perfect spot as we were coming through the mountains close to the river that would be perfect for her final resting spot. Plus, I think it would be a good place for us to start training, I mean yes, we won against Eris but from what you say she is nothing compared to Ragnar, and we barely beat her.” stated Colt.

Christian/Fantasy/fiction

age range 10+

word count-17,387

Author- Colton Lee

Synopsis- When a group of unknown children are asked to save the world, they discover the power of the swords they wield might not be enough to defeat Ragnar. They must rely on God to lead them as they march against a giant army.

Target Audience- Young adult/Christians

“Are you sure?” Father searched my expression. His grey thinning hair and the bold wrinkles around his eyes showed the evidence of time. Standing before this man, I saw him the way I’ve always seen my father; strong.

My hand trembled. I gripped the jeweled handle and centered myself. Exhaling slowly, I responded with a cool nod. With my sword unsheathed, my eyes met the pathetic pile of sin in front of me. 

“Are you aware of your crimes and the punishment you will receive?” My father’s voice broke the heavy silence. His face had become stern and unforgiving. The surrounding scene demanded my attention. I could feel the hot dirt under my feet, the burning sun on my back, and the warm wind pushing the trees around us. The faceless members of the crowd revolted me as I looked upon their wide eyes starved for entertainment. They reminded me of vultures. 

Beyond my father (who was listing the disgusting crimes of the man) and the crowd was a vast emptiness.  The immense pressure of the nothingness strengthened with each one of my breaths. Logically, I knew where we were; this place had been my home years ago. Now it was a distant memory even though I was standing in the road with the same people I grew up with. The vultures I saw now were once my childhood friends, family, and teachers. Now, I couldn’t identify anyone by name, or by memory. I didn’t think I could if I wanted to. 

The pathetic presence kneeling before me was unnecessarily bound by rope. He barely resembled the man who committed the crimes my father listed. Could I really do this? Myself, my beliefs, my entire existence challenged itself repeatedly in what felt like a fiery eternity but, timed by my Father’s words, was only a minute.

My father listed the last crime; the worst crime. I shivered despite the heat. This was the crime that had shaken me to my core; the crime that turned my world upside down and made it meaningless. As he recited the crime that changed who I was forever, my resolve hardened.

I peered down into the old man's sweaty face, searching - and then saw the truth lurking there behind his dark, cruel eyes. He smiled. I could think only of her as I raised my sword. . .

Chapter 1:

I met her at the age of thirteen. On a day like any other, Marge attempted to teach me to fix a tear in my pants. Everyone here had the same clothing, and all of us had little of it. Our village was neither rich nor poor; we were independent. We lived off the food the land had given us. Hunting, fishing, and gathering were done almost every day. The roles were not one person’s, but a collective responsibility. What you can do, you do. Father and the other villagers taught this to me effortlessly, while patching lessons from Marge ended with tears in my eyes or tears in the fabric.

“My word girl! How will you ever survive without me? Keep this us up and when I’m gone, you’ll have to sprint the rest of your life so no one will see you stark naked!” She ripped the pants away from me and undid the stitching I tried, then re-did them properly. Marge’s ebony fingers were nimble; mine had always been awkward. Despite her stern tone, I giggled at her words. She furrowed her brows at me, but I could see the corners of her mouth fight off a smile. 

Marge was there the night my mother died. My father refused to leave her bedside until she coughed her last breath. Marge held me tight in her arms, away from the scene. Father told me that she cooed and rocked me for two days afterwards. Of course, I couldn’t remember when that happened. Instead, I remembered all the times Marge helped me brush my hair and bathed me. She had always saved me the best vegetables from her garden. She loved me as a daughter, and I loved her like family. 

  “Thank you,” I said as I put my now repaired pants on and kissed her cheek. As I started towards the opening of Marge’s shelter, I heard a few of her mumbled words, “. . . mother’s daughter.”

I tiptoed through the vegetables to the road. Across the road from Marge’s was our wooden home. My father and I were lucky to have a doorway, a floor, four walls and a tipped roof made of fine wood from the trees that surrounded our village. Marge’s home had a roof supported by three walls and opened to her garden. Her home was the only one without a floor. She preferred being grounded with the dirt. It was rare to see her without a small shovel in her hand. 

There were only six of these mix-matched homes along the road which made our village. Each hut different depending on what resources were available. Three on our side of the dirt road, and three on the other. The road lead into the forest from either direction, stopping at the tree line. The neighbors told me of the days Marge and father laid the dirt, after fighting younger me for custody of it.

 I wish I would have known to appreciate the seclusion that we had. I did not yet know of the terror that lay beyond the forest, hiding in wait for ignorance to spring its trap. 

“Sylvia!” My father called, “Are you sure you’re ready?” 

“Yes sir,” I said as father approached me. 

  Father placed his hand on my shoulder as I looked up at his furry, kind face. “I don’t know if I should take you out today.” He paused and glanced at my expression before continuing. “But I fear my heart should break if you continue to look at me that way.” He chuckled and patted me once again before walking down the road, queuing me to follow.

I tried to copy his strong, paced walk behind him as we entered the trees. 

The sun on our backs, we began our mission. I followed father’s lead. The morning dew and the running sounds of the stream close by enveloped my senses. I peeked behind us and could no longer see our home. 

“Take in your surroundings, Sylvia. Our steps, what we can smell, what we can see, and how the air feels on your skin.” I walked straight into father as he stopped. Instinctively, he steadied me. I recovered as he knelt to have his face level with mine. 

“Do you hear that?” He whispered. 

I closed my eyes and slowed my breathing; I tilted my head to one side. There was a rustling above us in the trees. My eyes popped open.

“Very good,” Father whispered. He pulled a knife from his satchel. “Now I want you to go up into that tree and bring me down the animal. Remember to be quiet, but quick." He handed me the knife handle first. 

I put the knife between my teeth and climbed. I tested the branches as I went, if they creaked, I looked for another. Hand, foot, hand, foot, I thought to myself each time I reached a new and terrifying height. Finally, I saw the squirrel munching away on a branch two feet from my face. I wrapped the tree with my legs. In an unending moment, I reached and skewered it before it noticed. With the squirrel bleeding on my shoulder, I let myself breathe again. 

  I planted both feet on the ground. A proud smile formed on my face as I presented the prize to my father. He took the squirrel but refused the knife I attempted to give back. 

“That is yours now, I made it just for you.”

  “Thank you, father.” I stuttered.

“Now for the second and final thing I will teach you today,” My heart palpitated at his words. “Close your eyes.” He whispered again. 

Without hesitation, I closed my eyes. I waited for an order. 

And I waited. 

Was this a test to see how long I could obey? 

I counted my breaths. It had almost been an hour before I gave in. I opened my eyes to see that father was no longer there, and dark clouds ominously blanketed the top of the forest. The tree and my knife gave me no comfort as my shallow breaths then became rapid. 

I was truly alone. There was no sense of freedom, only panic. I pried my shoulders away from my jawline. Father's words rang in my ears: our steps, what we smell. . . the air on our skin.

With the tree I climbed behind me; I walked forward with a false confidence. The village was just south of the stream; I only had to find it. I was familiar with the stream, its soft flowing current and the greenest grass surrounding it. The water from it supplied our village. It helped to ease my mind as I thought of Marge walking with me, hands intertwined with pales larger than myself. I chuckled at the thought of the curses she spewed after I had pushed her in. Maybe Marge had been right to fret about this. I had pleaded relentlessly for father to take me hunting in the forest, to venture further than I ever did gathering with Marge . . .

The cool droplets icing my skin interrupted my thoughts. My heart raced faster than the pellets fell around me. The rain seemed to target my eyes, filling their sight as fast as I could wipe them away.  I tried to listen for the stream in the hopes to guide my steps. I mustered every ounce of power I had, I willed myself to remember what flowing water sounded like.

The root of a tree attacked my ankle, cruelly indifferent to my struggle. I heard the stream the second before I was immersed. The cool water slapped the skin on my body and face. Silty mud squished between my fingers as the water tried to keep me submersed. The stream was shallow enough where I fell that I could ease my way out of it.

Panic and the coldness shook me. I wrung out my clothes and hair under the shelter of a willow tree. The rain pattered around it slower than before. I ran my hands over my arms and legs as I waited for it to stop. The willow tree whooshed above my head, as if welcoming the scattered droplets as an old friend. My breathing slowed as I watched its enticing rhythm. 

The stream splashed. My body stilled. 

Every inch of me watched as a figure rose from the water. A girl. Her wet hair dark, unlike mine. It flowed past her shoulders and cascaded down her back as she whipped the moisture from it. Her features were pointed, not sharp. I wasn’t sure if her cheeks were flushed from the cool water or were naturally rosy. Her skin was pale, like the sun never touched it. I had so many questions, but no words to form them.

“It looked like so much fun when you did it, I thought I would too!” Her laugh was feminine and lovely, but shaky breath interrupted the sound. 

“And who are you?” I asked. 

She walked effortlessly through the stream I had fallen into. She stopped beside me while continuing to wipe away the moisture. I couldn’t move. After she looked at her surroundings, and leant against the willow tree, she rested her eyes on mine. 

Her irises were the color of a light milky brown, complimenting and making the whites of her eyes look like the finest silk. The eyes that stared into mine were bright, like liquid gold had blessed them with dancing flecks.

  “I’m Rebecca Honnete,” She looked down at her dress. It was light blue. Different from the clothing we had in the village. Special. “I seem to have lost my way,” Rebecca continued, “My mother. . . I-I'm looking for people.” 

  “There’s just my people. There are few of us in a village near here.” I stopped, “Where are your people?” 

She shivered. Either from the cold rain or possibly from my question. “I lost them.” Her smile faded. I pledged internally to do anything to restore it. 

“I’m sorry, I…” Was that my voice? It sounded foreign. Rebecca’s eyelids were lined red with irritation. She had been crying. Half-moon crescents indented her palms where her fingernails must have been. “Would you like to follow me?” I decided that she was out of place. Rebecca was far too clean for the woods. 

“That’s better than leaving me here,” She smiled.

A high-pitched and unnatural laugh escaped me. Rebecca seemed amused as I reached my hand out from the willow tree’s shelter. The icy rain had stopped. The tree itself had stopped swooshing as the wind retired. 

Rebecca shivered. Her dress held the moisture tight to her skin. I wrapped my light jacket around her shoulders. I blushed at her earnest thanks. “What’s your name?”

“Sylvia,” I spoke as she walked beside me through the trees.

The clouds seemed to lighten as Rebecca sang, “Syl fell into the stream!” She laughed again; this time uninterrupted. I smiled. She walked close enough to me our shoulders brushed. “Where are we going?” 

“My home, the village.” Rebecca looked thoughtful at my words.

“What’s it like?” She giggled before continuing, “I suppose that’s hard to answer.” 

“Hmm,” I looked at Rebecca’s special blue dress. I looked at her clean skin and hair before looking at my own fingernails. A small buildup of dirt from the day underneath them matched the dust on my clothes. “The village is like me.” 

“Good.” Rebecca looked pleased. I tried to hide my confusion.

The sun made its presence known in the sky as we reached the clearing. I watched through Rebecca’s eyes as she stared at the homes and dirt road. Father was about to come greet me but stilled, just as I had, when he saw I wasn’t alone. 

To an outsider, my father was intimidating. He had a short beard and his hair was dark. He stood tall and proud, exaggerated by his strong figure. What an outsider couldn’t know, was that father was cunning and wise. He had led us through drought and sickness with kindness and intelligence. Pride filled me every time I thought of him.

Marge met us with warm wool blankets and wrapped us without hesitation. “I told your father you weren’t ready for the forest yet! Soaking wet, trembling.”  Marge shook her head while uttering a tut-tut. She dried out our hair as she looked Rebecca up and down, before deciding she wasn’t a threat. “And what brings you here, dear?” 

Father stepped forward before Rebecca could answer, “How did you find us?” I had never heard this raised tone from him.

Unphased, she answered, “My name is Rebecca. I was traveling west with my mother when a stranger stopped our wagon.” She looked into her palms by her waist and furrowed her brows. “We were separated. I was completely lost in the forest. I was scared until I saw her fall into the stream.” Rebecca tilted her head towards me and smiled. “Then she brought me here.” 

The fire from father turned towards me with his glare. Marge spoke before he could. “That’s enough, Rowan.” She looked at him sternly. “Take some time to make the fire before it gets dark. I’ll fix up these two.” 

Father returned Marge’s stern look before sighing. I could see him shake his head as he walked to the firepit. I had never seen father so angry before. I wondered why, as Marge withdrew with the damp wool blankets from us. 

“Thank you,” Rebecca smiled brilliantly, “for helping me.” 

“It’s nothing.” I said a little harsher than I wanted. Heat burned in my cheeks as she continued smiling. Something was going on in my chest and stomach. It was a fluttering feeling, as if it was pride’s sister. I took Rebecca’s arm and led her to the fire father had finished making. We sat down on a half log that had been cut to make a long bench-like seat. 

There were no barriers or fences to separate the properties. In the village we didn’t think of it as properties, as everyone contributed to all. It was simple; it was connected. The fire we sat by was in between our home and the neighbors. Beside us lived an older man and woman that the other villagers called doctors. Douglas and his wife were sincere people.

“Sylvia,” My father called me in a tone I didn’t recognize. He beckoned me, and I stood quickly to follow him into our home. I looked once more at Rebecca before leaving. 

The door barely closed behind me as father turned and grabbed my shoulders. “What were you thinking? Bringing her here? She could be dangerous. She could lead others!”

I shrugged his hands off and took a step back. “She was lost. The stream froze us. She couldn't harm anyone! You taught me to care for everyone here like family. Why shouldn’t that extend to her?” I took a cool breath as I tried to stop my hands from shaking.

  Father sighed. I tried to pick a piece of grass from my shirt as I listened raptly for him to speak again. He instructed me to sit before kneeling down in front of me. 

“I’m only telling you this now, because I believe you’re ready. Everything here is a choice. A choice made by your mother and I, a choice made by Marge, our neighbors, and soon even you will have to make the same choice. Our choice is to live here away from others that did not accept us or worse. Some wanted to hurt us.” Father rubbed his eyes. His dry fingers left red marks on his cheekbones. They highlighted the wrinkles around his cool blue irises. A few gray hairs shone in his hair and beard. We had a hard time keeping track of the adult’s birthdays, but I’m sure he must have been nearly fifty years old.

Father continued, and I listened patiently. “Your mother and I came from a town, there are a lot more people in a town than there are here in the village. Over a hundred- “

“A hundred people?” 

Humor escaped father’s eyes, “Yes. There were individuals’ homes just like here, only more of them and with less space between them. Despite less space, they were more separated than here.”

“What do you mean by that?” I asked.

“The people weren’t connected like they are here. Most people didn’t know their neighbor’s names.” Father paused and studied my expression. “Your mother and I might have been the only neighbors to pay attention to each other. She was kind where I was, and she was kind where I was not. She was as beautiful as you.” This I had heard many times before. Father would describe my mother whenever I asked him to, and even when I didn’t.

Father placed his hand gently on the side of my face and I leaned into it. His smile offered me a little relief. He continued.

“We loved each other easily and from the very start. It was open and honest and simple and beautiful. But there was something I didn’t know about your mother until after we were married. Her father was a violent drunk.” 

We had alcohol made from grain Marge and a few other neighbors grew. It was a treat the adults would partake in once every few months. I’d only seen Darcy, an older man who lived with his grandson, roaring drunk. He pulled my hair and called me pet names before falling onto the road and staying there for the night. I didn’t like the idea of alcohol after that. 

“I came home one day, to your mother on the ground cupping her face. Her father had hit her, and I could smell the whiskey on his breath from across the room.”

“He would be my–my grandfather?” I felt sick.

“Yes.” He replied

Father took a deep breath, “When I saw your mother on the ground and hurt, I shoved her father hard. He fell backwards on our wooden floor, and he hit his head on our fireplace. That’s how he died.”

It was as if my mind fought with itself, “So, you killed him?”

Father nodded. He looked vulnerable. I had never seen him like this before. I placed my hand upon his knee. My head reeled as I’m sure my eyes pleaded for him to continue.

The fire sparked outside. It was getting dark. I listened for Rebecca’s voice while letting myself be comforted by the fact we were here.

“In many towns and cities, there’re more laws than we have here, and the punishments are more severe.” 

Punishments? Father had only used that word once to me before. I heard him use it when I had forgotten to put out the fire before going to sleep. My punishment was to gather firewood for the entire day until we had enough to last us the season. 

“Killing someone, even by accident or out of defense, is punishable by death.” Father said. “My only choice was to run. I helped your mother off the ground and wiped the soot from her dress as I tried to tell her goodbye.”

“Your mother glared at me. I will never forget how she stood, her face swollen and eyes with their fiery glow as she yelled at me, ‘I will not bring a baby into this world without her father. Where you go, I follow.’ And that was how I found out about you.” Father’s eyes glistened.

“We traveled through the forest leaving everything behind. After weeks, we found a road which led us to this clearing. There was a small home, with three walls and an opening to a garden. There we met a kind lady who helped us build our home and prepare for you.”

Marge. My respect for her grew as father told me how she helped my mother and even more so when she became sick. By the time I was born, two more families had joined the village, escaping their own demons.

I sighed loudly. The worst was over.

“So, you see, it’s been years since anyone has come. And if we are found out by people involved with the law, none of us would be safe.” Father paused, “This is why I am worried about Rebecca.”

I nearly forgot about all the events of the day. Father wasn’t angry before; he was scared. We embraced each other without hesitation. “I know that I need to care for her. Like I’m meant to. I’m… connected to her somehow.” Father raised his eyebrows as he nodded.

“All right, Sylvia. From now on, we will accept her, but must watch the woods vigilantly.” Father then sat at his own stool and began smoking tobacco. “Go enjoy the fire.” 

Lighter, I returned to Rebecca at the fireside. I exchanged pleasantries with the other villagers and sat beside her on the half-log bench. Rebecca told tales of her home and other strange things. It seemed the whole village had gathered to ask questions and share stories in return.

Rebecca woke me when everyone had gone, and the fire dulled to a few lit embers that crackled. Despite the dark blanket that covered both of us, Rebecca’s face was illuminated. I couldn’t stop myself from staring.

  “Are you all right? I'm not sure your neck is supposed to bend that way,” Rebecca giggled as I rubbed my now sore neck. My body cracked as I stood. She followed me into my home. Inside, two bedrolls were on the wooden floor. Father had set up the extra in my absence. 

Father slept deeply in his bed across the room. Rebecca looked around with hushed excitement. The two bedrolls were near the door by the corner closest to the firepit outside. Rebecca took off the slips on her feet and revealed blisters that had formed. She placed each foot on the cold wooden floor, sighing in relief. I knew she had gone through much more than she had said. 

Everything in the house was wood, except for the beds and material that hung from the small square windows on each wall. The house was never cold nor too hot. The thick wooden walls insulated us against the damp of the winter and shaded us from the sun in the summers. 

Marge had lain clean nightgowns at the end of each bedroll. She had attempted to teach father and I to wash our clothes once and laughed at our deep concentration. She never gave us time to wash our clothes after that. 

Rebecca and I stepped to the end of the bedrolls. Both of us turned away from each other shyly as we undressed and put on our nightgowns. 

“You look so cute!” Rebecca whispered. I gawked at my bright white legs. 

I covered myself before slipping into the bedroll. Rebecca did the same with much more grace. 

“Goodnight, Rebecca,” I whispered. 

“Goodnight, Syl,” I smiled and could see her doing the same.

When we awoke, our hands were touching. I blushed. 

It had been a few weeks since the night father told me everything. Since then, helped by Rebecca’s arrival, the neighbors opened up to me. They told me the reasons they now live in the village. Darcy, who liked to drink more than he should, told me stories of how he was a knight. He served the King dutifully for years. When he lost his sword arm, they wanted to put him down like a horse with a broken leg. Miss Lane, despite being too old for the title she had joked, had been married. Her husband would beat her to near death. Divorce was against the law, so Miss Lane fled. 

My picture of what life was like outside our home became clear. It perplexed me why Rebecca wanted to go back. Although she seemed content going out and gathering with me, I could tell her thoughts were somewhere else. Mostly, I was sure, she missed her mother. It took a long time for Rebecca to tell me about her. 

After gathering for most of the morning, we sat beneath the fully blossomed willow tree. The weather had warmed over the weeks. The sun playfully scattered through the willow tree’s leaves and warmed my skin in small areas where it touched. We had picked berries all morning, and I placed some in Rebecca’s hand. The sun’s reflection danced on the stream as Rebecca watched in silence.

“Syl?” Rebecca spoke. “Do you think I’m a coward?”

I chuckled, “Definitely not. Not many cowards jump into a freezing stream.” 

This didn’t cheer her. “I’m scared that your opinion of me will change if I tell you something.” 

I shook my head. Nothing could change my opinion of her. 

“The day I met you? I was running away.” Rebecca blurted. She studied the berries in her hand. They had stained her palms red.

“Why?”

The tears that had been brimming fell on Rebecca’s cheek. I placed my arm around her and she leaned into me suddenly.

“We were taking the same road we always took. Papa is a horse breeder, and often has to go to Dax to sell and buy. But this time Mama and I had stayed home. After a few days she worried and wouldn’t tell me why. Eventually, we went to see him. We took the wagon and Mama put some jewelry in the lockbox. She said it was for emergencies.”  Rebecca sniffled, “We were halfway there when we came upon a man standing in the middle of the road. Mama stopped the wagon. This man wore a strange lavender coat, his coat tails nearly touched the road. His smile and how he bowed towards us seemed pure evil to me! Do you believe in evil, Sylvia?” 

Rebecca leaned back to search my eyes with her own, which were swimming with tears. Her face was so close to mine. Anything that could commit the offense of bringing tears to her eyes must be evil. “Yes.”

Rebecca placed her head back onto my shoulder, relieved. My breath returned to me.

“He beckoned my mother to come down off the wagon. She did, guessing he was a salesman. They went to the back of our wagon, and I didn’t think much of it. Until she screamed for me to run.” Rebecca’s tears fell onto my shoulder. I held her tighter. “I ran,” her voice shook, “into the trees off the road. Then I hid. I hid behind the biggest tree in sight. When I finally settled and counted to a thousand breaths, I approached the wagon.”

I strained to hear her. Her voice had become hoarse and quiet. 

“There was the wagon. No sign of the man. The horse was fine, and the wagon seemed untouched except for the lockbox, which was broken. It was as if someone else controlled my eyes as I looked towards the wheels and couldn’t look away. Mama’s finest day shoes were there on the ground, covered in dirt, and attached to the rest of her. I couldn’t move. I called out. I called her and called her again. Somewhere inside I knew why she wasn’t answering. I knew why she wasn’t moving.” 

My heart was impossibly heavy. Rebecca stopped crying, and calmed herself. 

“I saw her blood pool closer to her feet. Then I walked into the forest and didn’t come back.”

I rubbed her arm with my hand. She placed her hand on top of mine before looking at me. 

“It had been three days when I saw you fall into the stream.” She tried to smile. “You saved me.” 

There were no thoughts as I tucked Rebecca’s hair behind her ear and out of her face. “You’re no coward.” 

I placed my hands back into my lap. Rebecca threw her arms around me and we stayed like that for a long time. That night Rebecca asked to move her bed roll closer to mine. 

Spring bloomed into summer, and the forest canopy grew thick and green. Rebecca and I couldn’t be separated. The only times apart was when I went hunting with father. He trained me more with the knife and helped me make a bow. Father teased about leaving me in the forest to find more girls.

Every day after I came back from hunting, Rebecca and I would go gathering. We’d gather firewood, water, berries, and anything Marge asked for. I looked forward to gathering as much as hunting, but I had a feeling that had to do with the company. Every night we would go to our bedrolls and lie across from each other and talk about everything. My favorite part of the day was after we finished talking, both tired from the day but not asleep yet. We let the quiet surround us, it was as if it was just us there for all time.

Rebecca acclimated to the village easily. She had a talent to make everyone feel comfortable. She knew when to ask questions and when to not. It was as if she could feel exactly what others around her felt. As if she had always been a part of the village. 

The possibility of Rebecca leaving loomed over me like a rain cloud. It threatened to spill a little more every day. 

I couldn’t help but poke the threat one night, disrupting our quiet surroundings. Rebecca’s eyelids closed heavily with each blink.

“Rebecca?”

She smiled to show that she was listening. 

“Are you. . . happy?” 

Rebecca blinked a few times, waking herself up. “There’s a lot of badness,” She whispered, “But you make everything seem like it will be all right. I’m happy to be here with you.” Rebecca giggled as she poked my nose.

I was grateful for the darkness as I felt my face turn red. “But--” Why do I keep talking? “--Do you miss your old life?”

Rebecca thought to herself again. I cursed myself until she spoke, “You make it better. But yes, I do miss some things. I miss my mother and my papa.” She stopped my face from cringing by kissing my forehead. “Now go to sleep!”

I awoke in the middle of the night. I listened to Rebecca’s deep breathing. Father’s light snoring echoed throughout the home. I sat up to stretch and placed my hand unknowingly on Rebecca’s pillow. It was damp. She must have been crying. 

I was as helpless as the night father told me everything. Gut wrenching guilt, and the weight of sadness covered me. I thought how I never felt so many things before meeting Rebecca.

She heard me sigh, and her breath became less deep. Rebecca faced away from me, her hair touching my outstretched hand. She stretched, picked up her pillow, and moved it onto my arm before laying on it again. Without the pillow her head would be on the inside of my upper arm. If she breathed deep enough, her back would touch my chest. I hoped she would. Instead, she placed the back of her legs on mine.

Can Rebecca hear my heart racing? 

I realized that while Rebecca had been moving, I raised my other arm on the off chance it would disturb her. Now it was getting heavy. It swung precariously in small circles. How would she react if I put my arm around her? I chased the thought away. Another tormented me; would she find it odd? Would she think it funny? My mind raced as fast as my heart when I gave in.

I put my arm around Rebecca’s arm and stomach and she reacted instantly. She grabbed it and used it to turn around towards me. Both of my arms were now around her back and her face was snuggled into my collarbone. Rebecca then put her arm around my waist. 

Sleep came far too easily.

The next day we woke up giggling. Father stood in the doorway, arms crossed, as he watched us fix our bedrolls.

“And why are you two so giddy this morning?” He asked.

This made us laugh harder.

Father and I skipped hunting and helped the villagers prepare their homes for winter. An autumn wind started the day prior. Our village never became too cold, but in the winter months, it rained a lot. If there was snow, it would sprinkle but didn’t stay on the ground for long. Marge had said that most of the prep was to ward off the damp.

Contentedness filled me as Rebecca and I headed into the forest to gather. We never ventured further than the stream. I would with father, as his sense of direction was better than mine. Rebecca had another hidden talent of having no directional sense at all. We walked the same path to the stream every day, gathering berries along the way, when she would turn. I had to stop her and lead us in the right direction. 

“I’m going to have to follow you everywhere to keep you from getting lost.”

“Oh! What a burden I must be for you!” Rebecca laughed and threw berries at me. I couldn’t help but laugh as I threw them back.

We both watched the stream as we sat. It was mid-afternoon. The gentle willow tree protected our eyes from the sun’s glare. The stream reflected the brilliant greens and yellows of the surrounding trees. The night before played in my mind when Rebecca broke the silence and I blushed. To my surprise, Rebecca was blushing too.

“Syl?” Her voice sounded nervous.

“Yes?”

Rebecca’s hands were trembling. “I think. . . ” She paused, “I think I love you.”

“What do you mean?” My voice cracked. Blankness enveloped my mind.

Rebecca leaned towards me. I couldn’t move. I didn’t want to. She kissed me on the mouth before leaning back to watch my face flush. A smile formed on her face. “Um,” was all I could say. I touched my lips with my fingertips. I could still feel the kiss. 

Rebecca grabbed my hand and rested it on her face for a moment. She put it back on my leg, stood, and ran away with her berries in her hands.

I grabbed both of our baskets and ran in time with her. A smile had formed on my face so big it hurt. The trees seemed to flow past us instead of us running through them. The fresh air filled my lungs as I let the happiness flow over me. Every day it was impossible to be happier with Rebecca. Every day she proved me wrong.

Rebecca stopped. We were at the tree line. I hadn’t noticed until she dropped her berries. They rolled away from her. My heart dropped when I followed her gaze.

At the opening of the forest into our village, a horse-pulled wagon accompanied by another horse rested brazenly unaware of how out of place it was. I put both of our baskets on the ground. I led Rebecca by hand to the wagon. 

We sidled around to see the scene unfolding on the road. My father stood proud as he talked to a man I had never seen. He wore a brown suit. He was big in the middle, and like the wagon, unaware to the extent of how unwelcome he was. All neighbors stood outside, on edge. 

Is it him? I willed Rebecca to read my mind. When I looked towards her, I knew instantly that she recognized the man. Her eyes filled with tears. I grasped my knife and tried to prepare. I could never have prepared for this.

“Papa! Oh Papa!” Rebecca called.

She ran to him with open arms. The man picked her up and held her to him. Happy tears rolled down both of their faces. They were the only ones joyful. 

I put my knife away and walked towards them. My heart was heavy, and I felt a stabbing sensation in my chest. I had to stop in front of the wagon and rest on it. I’ll never be able to move again. Realizing that this was inevitable gave me no relief.

“Thank you so much for my little girl! I have been searching for her non-stop for months. How can I ever repay you?” Rebecca hung on to him as he spoke.

My father kept his voice even, but there was no mistaking the gravity of his tone.  “With your silence, we enjoy our private life here.”

“But of course! Of course! If it weren’t for her mother’s wagon, I never would have found this place. I fear I never would have found her! You must accept the reward I posted for her safe return.” He turned to Rebecca, “You gave me such a scare, sweetheart. I’ll never be able to leave you again.” He laughed and so did she through tears. 

A kind of peace formed between my head and heart. Joy for Rebecca, and the pain that this day was our last. My stomach wanted to reject its lunch.

The reward was a purebred horse. It stood away from the wagon, tall and whiter than parchment. It had a saddle and reigns. It was the most Rebecca’s father could offer, and he felt no remorse parting with it, if he had his daughter back.

My father collected the horse graciously and patted Rebecca’s shoulder. “We were happy to have her here. She’s a lovely young girl.” Rebecca beamed at him. Father walked away with the horse in tow towards the forest. He was never one for prolonged conversations.

My heart refused to cease sinking since we first saw the wagon. I didn’t know how much further it could go, and I doubted it would stop any time soon.

“We should go, Rebecca,” Her father said before kissing her forehead.

“I must say goodbye to Syl, Papa.” He nodded in agreement. 

Rebecca ran into me with such force we both fell over. The tears I had been holding back committed the treason of breaking free. Rebecca’s tears hadn’t stopped.

“I’m happy for you.” We wrapped our arms around each other on the grass.

“We will meet again,” Rebecca said defiantly. “We will.”

She kissed my cheek before accompanying her father on the wagon. They both waved one final time before disappearing into the trees. I watched her locks of hair sway until I could see them no longer.

That day was the happiest, and absolute worst day, of my young life.

-END OF CHAPTER 1-

Title: Underneath the Willow Tree

Genre: Teen Fiction

Sub-Genre(s): Romance, Adventure

Age Range: Teen - Adult

Word Count: 6827 words, word count of whole novel: >47,000 words.

Author Name: Jessa Dawn

"Why your project is a good fit?": Racism, sexism, gender inequality. Over it? So am I! At the beginning of this project I had had enough of searching for representation, and when I finally found what I was looking for, I found that nearly every piece of work was littered with outdated tropes. Unprecedented and unnecessary coming of age plot points that have been done over and over again that focus solely on the labels instead of the people encumbered by them. The best way to describe these pieces of work (especially concerning those involving LGBTQ+ plots) are TIRED. What else could I do but lead by example?

The Hook: Society has been struggling with the same issues for as long as there has been a society. As people, do we give up on it or continue the same fight we've always fought?

Synopsis: Sylvia grew up knowing only of her village and the people she grew up with. A mysterious arrival of Rebecca into Sylvia's life enchants her. Young romance blossoms before the two girls are separated. Years pass and the village needs saving. Only Sylvia can save everyone dear to her by setting out into the cruel world to find the help needed. She experiences the true natures of society and the scum that seem to make the rules. Along the way, Sylvia and Rebecca find themselves and their resolves by fighting the villainous society as well as the roles that had been forced upon them. Above everything, Sylvia and Rebecca fight to be together, but will it be enough?

Target Audience: Teens, LGBTQ+, any and everyone who has faced discrimination and wonders what a world without it could look like.

My Personal Bio/Platform: Growing up in a small town, I learned to appreciate antiques, elders, and people from all walks of life. Working towards a Bachelor of Education, I strive to help people express themselves and reconnect with empathy and compassion (which can be scarce to find in this day and age). I'm a fierce warrior for equality and representation.

Education: Working towards a Bachelor of Education (Enlish Language Arts).

Experience: No published works.

Personality: Calm and introspective.

Writing Style: Chicago Manual of Style.

Likes/Hobbies: Cats, animals, streaming, reading, gaming, archery, and of course writing!

Hometown: Small town. Population <4000 people.

Age: 22.

Zosime was bored. She had been sitting in class all day, doodling while barely listening to the teacher droning on about molecules and whatnot. She looked down at her paper and frowned. She had been absentmindedly been drawing something- a bow and arrow. As she wondered why, the teacher called out ‘’ Miss Zosime Thatcher, please pay attention.’’ Her head snapped up and she muttered a ‘’ yes ma’am’’. Finally, after what seemed like hours, the bell rang. Zosime got up and lazily walked out the door. She walked towards the gate when she hears someone trip and shout behind her. She turned to see who it was- and of course it was her best friend- Ash. Ash was a shy timid girl Zosime had befriended in second grade when she defended her against bullies. Ash was short and chubby, with round glasses and red cheeks. Her braided hair was sticking out, and she looked out of breath. Zosime bent down to help her up. She dusted her checked black and white skirt and said panting ‘’ you could have waited for me! I had to run all the way here! ’’ Zosime just shrugged. She shouldered her backpack and said ‘’ come on, let’s get outta here’’

They walked out the long pointed black gate and made their way towards Zosime’s new black motorcycle. Zosime climbed on and started it while Ash climbed behind her. The motorcycle grunted and started. They zoomed past the tall buildings and pulled to a stop at their favorite café- La vista. Ashley went inside and got them a table while Zosime went to the bathroom. She looked at her reflection-and it stared back at her. She had long wavy black hair and stunning hazel eyes with a shot of green. She had pale skin and freckles on her face. It was an odd combination. She loved it.

She went back outside into the café. She saw Ash on a table and went over. ‘’Whatcha having? ‘’ Zosime asked. Ash looked up and frowned, staring at her head. ‘’ Who are you?’’ she asked. ‘’ Uh, I’m your best friend?’’ Zosime said with a confused look. Ash just shook her head and said ‘’ Sorry, but I don’t know you.’’ Zosime grabbed her shoulders and shaked her saying ‘’ Ash, It’s me!’’ Ash slapped her hands away and said ‘’ don’t touch me! I’ll call the police!’’ Zosime looked at her, hurt and ran out of there in tears.

She thought that Ash had gotten tired of having Zosime as a best friend and had decided to ignore her. She settled on the stairs and sniffled. She pulled out her phone and called her mom. Her mom, Sarah, was amazing. She was a philosophical artist, who drew murals all over their house. She was always in tattered jeans and tee, splattered with paint. She smelled of cinnamon and campfire. ‘’Hello?’’ Zosime said shakily. ‘’ Hi! Who’s this?’’ her mom replies. Eyes wide, Zosime nervously chuckles and says ‘’ Um mom? It’s me, your daughter’’. Sarah replies ‘’ Look, I’m sorry child, but I don’t have a daughter. You must have called the wrong number.’’ Zosime’s phone falls from her hand. Her eyes wide and panicking, hands shaking, she sits down, shocked. No one remembers me, she thinks. No one knows me. I’m alone. What happened?

She takes her head in her hands, and tries to recollect everything that happened today. She still couldn’t think of what had gone wrong. She got up and went over to her bike. She climbed on, started the engine and zoomed off to god knows where. A drive always helped her clear her head. Tears were still stinging her eyes, trickling down the side of her face. The wind was harsh against her pale skin, goosebumps erupting. Suddenly, the hairs at the back of her head stood up and a shiver went down her spine. Something was wrong, and she could feel it. And then she saw it. The monster was at least 10 feet tall. It had a scaly green hide, hairy arms and legs. It was wearing – trousers? It had bloodshot red eyes. And Zosime was its target. She was in shock, but recovered quickly enough to scramble out of the way as the monster lunged at it.It growled in frustration and changed its direction. Suddenly, someone threw something at Zosime and miraculously, she caught it. It was a sword. It was made of some unique glowing metal, and had some drawings carved on it. And as she held it, she felt a spark in her belly which quickly erupted into a fire. She felt it in her bones, burning deep within. She felt unstoppable, the epitome of fierce energy. It was like she was on fire and would burn everything in her path. She was enveloped in a fiery halo, floating about the ground. Her hair was flying and her eyes were a bright fiery color. She screamed and lunged at the monster, slicing it in half at one try. She came down and dropped the sword and as quickly as the energy came, it went. The fire seeped out of her until it was smoldered, and she felt the energy leave her bones. She was tired, weak, and barely conscious. And as she slipped away, she saw an angel like face above her, taking her flying.

She woke up feeling like she was floating. The bed she was lying on was soft as cotton, like a cloud. The sheets were satin and velvety. The bed was pushed to the corner, a cupboard on the other side. A window was above her, light seeping through. The rest of the room was empty. Zosime felt well rested, like she had been asleep for a long time. Then, the angel came over. Well, the guy with the angel face looked at her and beamed. He was very hot, with a jawline sharp as a knife, tousled platinum blond hair and electric blue eyes. He was lean and tall, his button up blue shirt stretching across his taunt muscles. Zosime was sure she was drooling . ‘’Hey! You’re awake’’ he said. Zosime said, with panicking eyes ‘’ what the hell happened!? There was a monster a-and a sword and I was flying and killed it and -what is this? W-where am I?’’ He blinked and with a face of realization said ‘’ Oh! Right. You don’t know. So this is a long story. Basically, you are an angel warrior. You never knew your father, did you? That’s because he is an angel. Your mother is human, and with blood of 2 great lineages, you are the most powerful angel warrior. The sword you used? That was the sword that was gifted to the most powerful human king by the first and also most powerful angel king. It only works for the chosen warrior – an angel warrior, daughter or the king angel, and his chosen bride, who gets the power that 100 men do not possess. You are special, for you are the ancestor of the most powerful angel and human king. The sword? It was gifted from your angel ancestor to your human ancestor. And you will be the key to winning this war.’’ Zosime went wide eyed, shaking. ‘’ What do you mean? The most powerful warrior? I don’t know how to fight. I am the daughter of an ANGEL KING? A PRINCESS? A CHOSEN WARRIOR? HOW! Look, I have no idea how the sword worked for me, but it clearly made a mistake. Please just take me back and help everyone remember me.’’ Angel guy looked at her with sympathy in his eyes and said ‘’ Look, the sword made no mistake. You ARE the chosen warrior of two great lineages, and you ARE going to win the war. We will train you; help you become who you are meant to be. But you can forget our old life. After all, everyone forgot about you for a reason. This is where you belong.’’ Zosime just sat there, processing. Finally, she looked and angel guy and asked ‘’ By the way, what’s your name?’’ Angel guy smiled ,with a dimple on one cheek ,and replied ‘’ Xavier.’’ And as Xavier walked out the room, Zosime burst into tears.

Hello,I am shayna,a 13 year old student.Genre is fantasy .it is for 10+ age. It is of 1390 words.

CHAPTER 1: Not in Kansas Anymore

"Ow." Dylan Engstrom opened his eyes and found himself on a hard metal surface. "What … the hell?"

The last thing he remembered was sitting at his desk, sipping a cup of coffee, and preparing to join his buddies for a few hours of mayhem in Grand Theft Auto Online. At some point after that, everything had simply … faded out.

I'm dreaming. That's gotta be it.

He rolled over, stood, and fought off a wave of dizziness. He staggered, rubbed his hands over his face, took a few breaths, and waited for his vision to clear. When it did, he took a slow look around and realized he was in a chamber the size of a gymnasium, with metal walls, ceiling, and floor. No windows. Several doors at the far end. And filled with … aliens? Or something.

Sure, why the hell not? Since this is a dream, I might as well just roll with it.

One a few feet to his left looked like a bipedal, wingless dragon, easily ten feet tall, with muscular arms and powerful thighs and small but noticeable breasts under a tunic that appeared to be made from the skin of an animal. She glanced around quickly, confusion and fear in her reptilian eyes, and he guessed she had also awakened moments ago.

Huh. Doesn't make sense for reptiles to have boobs. But then, I guess an alien wouldn't have an exact correlation to life forms on Earth. He chuckled. More likely it's teenage hormones causing me to dream about tits. I can barely stop thinking about 'em when I'm awake.

Past the dragon was what appeared to be an orc, of all things. Also female, dressed in leather and furs, like a barbarian, sporting huge muscles but somehow managing to still look feminine. Her burgundy hair was tied into a long ponytail with a few locks hanging past either side of her face. Her dark green skin looked kind of leathery, and her face … well, she certainly wouldn't have won any beauty contests even without the two big, parallel scars running from her forehead down and across her right cheek.

Still, there was something about her -- the angles of her cheeks and her wide jaw and chin -- that exuded an air of great strength. But then, he gazed into her yellow eyes as she glanced around. She appeared to be in her forties, but there was far more mileage in those eyes than on her face. They were the eyes of someone who had all but given up on life.

He looked away reluctantly. She may have been as ugly as hell, but goddamn, what a body. He ran a hand through his shoulder-length hair and decided to check out some of the other life forms. His eyes passed over a large number of creatures he couldn't quite get his brain around -- translucent things walking on tentacles, something that resembled a millipede the size of a horse, an eight-foot-tall cross between a pig and an ogre -- and locked on to another female.

He almost laughed at that. Mind always in the gutter, even now.

This one was around six feet tall and might be described as somewhere between chubby and burly. Her eyes glowed white in contrast to her obsidian skin, but aside from that, her face was mostly human. And quite lovely, in fact. A pair of horns curved up from under her wild mane of silver hair, like a ram. She wore a dark blue cloak with a hood hanging over her back, and from what he was able to glimpse, she didn't appear to be wearing anything under it. Each hand had two big fingers and a thumb, just like the orc and the dragon-woman, and her digitigrade legs ended in large hooves.

Not bad at all. He guessed her age to be close to his, or maybe a few years older, and the extra weight was perfectly proportioned.

Huh. Usually, my dreams aren't this detailed. But there's no way this can be real. I'm probably slumped over my desk and drooling on my keyboard. He shrugged to himself again. I just hope I remember all this when I wake up.

His eyes opened a little wider as a realization hit him and he drew in a quick breath.

Shit, I hope I wasn't looking at porn when I fell asleep. If Mom or Dad barges into my room like they always do, I'm hosed.

The alien girl caught him staring at her and smiled, but it was shaky and faded fast.

Well, I can't do anything about it until I wake up. Might as well just see where this goes.

He smiled back before she turned away, and continued examining the people around him. Over to the right was a trio of bipedal creatures that looked like a cross between horses and cows wearing some sort of tribal attire.

Huh. More aliens that kinda-sorta resemble terrestrial animals. How would that even happen?

Past them was a quartet of thirty-foot-long snake people with four arms, wearing only skirts made of glowing multicolored beads roughly where the naughty bits on a human would be.

Dylan's eyes, once again, automatically locked onto the lone female in the group. Her skin was dark brown with a red and black diamond pattern running down her back. Her hands, like the orc and the chunky hooved girl and the rest, had three digits, only hers ended in claws. The top of her head swept back into a curving, three-pointed crest. Her bare chest sported two pairs of breasts. Her face was close enough to human, though covered with scales, and she was actually kind of cute.

Hah. I can't dream about a human with four tits, of course. It's got to be some weird creature. And why would an alien based on a snake have any at all? He realized he was staring and turned away. Again, though, she's an alien, so I guess there's no reason she can't be a mix of mammal and snake. What the hell, you can't go wrong with four of 'em.

He grinned and glanced around again, trying to find other humans. If any were in this chamber, they weren't close enough for him to pick out of the crowd. But his gaze did pass across something that was close enough, at least in size and shape.

The robot stood with her arms crossed over her chest, leaning against the wall behind him, about ten feet away. She had apparently been designed to look like an athletic woman, with a face of flexible metal carrying a friendly -- albeit bewildered -- expression and softly glowing red optics. Her gunmetal body was covered by a pair of cargo pants, boots, a T-shirt, and a long black coat.

Interesting. He wondered if she was anatomically correct.

Before he could check out anyone else, something nudged his shoulder. He turned and found a nine-foot humanoid wearing copper armor and a helmet with an opaque visor. It grasped his shoulder, pointed at one of the doors at the far end of the chamber, and pushed him toward it. He stumbled, regained his balance, and hurried ahead of the whatever-it-was.

In the corner of his eye, another hulking armored figure shoved the orc woman in the same direction. She snarled half-heartedly but headed for the door. She ended up walking alongside Dylan.

"I don't suppose you have any idea how we ended up here or what's going on?" He doubted she would even understand him.

"Nope. I was hoping someone around here could tell me that." Her accent was an odd mixture of Russian and Scottish.

"You speak English. You've met humans before?"

"A fair number of them, yes." She smiled at him, but it was tinged with sadness. "You remind me of one of them, a little. Someone I knew long ago."

"Ah. Decent guy, I hope."

"The best." Her smile grew ever so slightly, and so did the sorrow. "I miss him a great deal."

Dylan wondered what had happened but assumed it was a sensitive matter and didn't pry.

When they reached the door, she sighed and motioned at her clothes. "The one time I put on this old outfit instead of what I usually wear, which includes several guns, and look where I end up. Though I suppose any weapons would've been taken away before I woke up."

The nine-foot goons shoved both of them through the door and onto a large platform. He stumbled and the orc reached out to catch him before he fell. He regained his balance and found himself inches away from her face for a moment, gazing into her eyes, until she looked away and steadied herself. Her face turned a slightly darker green.

Huh. The goon's hand had felt solid enough. And the woman's breath briefly on his lips had been just as real as the three times in his life that he'd gotten this close to a girl. Dylan caught himself blushing and looked away.

He glanced around and noted the others who'd been separated from the main group -- the snake-girl, the three horse-cow people, the burly obsidian girl, the giant bipedal dragon, the robot chick, and about a dozen others. Two of them were human.

Finally! He grinned, but before he could greet them, something else caught his attention.

The goons who'd herded them onto the platform remained behind as the door closed, separating them from Dylan and the others. A bright light washed over everything and his whole body tingled.

Oh, this can't be good.

The light faded and he blinked a few times. His vision cleared and he looked around.

His mouth fell open.

He no longer stood in a room. He and the others were still on a platform, but now it was surrounded by an enormous metal structure made up of sets of stairs, ramps, platforms, and partial walls seemingly placed at random. If he had to give the architecture style a name, it would be … scaffold-chic.

"What the hell is this?" One of the other humans whimpered. "What's going on?"

"Sorcery," a woman's voice came from behind Dylan, barely above a whisper. He turned to find the obsidian-skinned girl glancing around with wide, terrified eyes and trembling.

"No." The orc shook her head. "I've seen enough to know there's no such thing. This is technology, but nothing I'm familiar with."

In the corner of his eye, the snake girl slithered past, put her upper hands on a nearby wall, pulled herself up and leaned over the edge.

"Look at this." Her voice was slightly raspy.

Uh-oh. Dylan walked slowly to the wall, jumped to grasp the top, and pulled himself up.

One of the other humans found a lower wall, leaned over, and drew in a slow breath. "Oh, hell." Her face turned pale.

Dylan glanced at her, frowned, and peered over the edge.

We're in the sky. He couldn't see the ground from here. Below the structure, there was nothing but a sea of red and orange clouds. And off to the right, he could make out two distinct suns, one larger -- closer -- than the other.

Then he realized the metal under his palms felt quite real for something in a dream. In fact, everything around him was as vivid and detailed as everyday life. His dreams were never even remotely like this, at least not the bits he could remember.

What if this is real?

"Oh, fuck me," he muttered.

"Now?" the snake girl said. "Or can it wait?"

"What?" He turned and caught a glimpse of her smirking at him before lowering herself back to the ground. He shook his head and dropped back to the floor.

"This is not a good tactical position," the orc said, flicking her eyes over the structure. "We're out in the open. We should move to an area that's less exposed to …"

Movement in the corner of his eye drew his attention. Hers, too. She snapped her head around to scowl in the same direction before he finished turning. More of the armored, helmeted, blank-visored guys appeared from behind several walls on the far side of the structure. She swept her steely gaze over them and backed up a step. "Find cover."

Dylan squinted, trying to get a clear look at the things the copper-armored goons were carrying.

"They have rifles," the orc said. "Get behind something."

A thin, yellow bolt of energy lanced out from the business end of one of the weapons and crossed the distance between the two groups in an instant.

Behind Dylan, a woman screamed. His pulse jumped and he cried out as he spun around. The human woman staggered backward, bumped into the wall, and collapsed. Her eyes stared straight ahead without seeing anything. Smoke rose from a hole that had been burned through her chest.

"Sarah!" The man rushed to her and fell to his knees. He stared disbelievingly at her, grasped her shoulders, and shook her. "Get up! Come on, baby, please get up!"

A hand grabbed Dylan's arm and he spun around to find the orc woman dragging him away.

"Get to cover!" She shoved him ahead of her just as another beam appeared for a split-second and drilled through the back of the other human's head.

A silvery thing about the size and shape of a hockey puck landed behind Dylan and bounced past him before coming to a stop.

"Grenade!" The orc pushed him again, drew in a deep breath, and yelled, "Run!"

#

The explosion flung bodies into the air and sent others tumbling across the ground -- more than Grishnag had time to count. She shoved the young human ahead of her and ran until both of them reached a wall. She ducked behind it, grasped his shoulder, and held him down. She turned to see if anyone else had survived the blast and found four bodies bleeding all over the metal surface and another -- one of the equine-bovine people -- teetering over the edge of the platform.

"Jesus Christ," the human moaned, hunching over and tucking his head under his arms. "This can't be happening!"

The snake-woman zipped over to the horse-man just as he rolled over the edge. She dived at him and missed his left ankle by a centimeter. She stared in shock as he plummeted out of sight.

One of the armored attackers appeared, crept up behind her, and aimed its rifle at the back of her head.

Grishnag glanced at the human and said, "Stay here." Remaining in a crouch, she moved one step forward -- and suddenly the robot blurred out from behind one of the other walls and tackled the larger humanoid from behind. Her momentum carried both of them into the wall and slammed the enemy into it with bone-crushing force. She drove her foot into its left knee, folding its leg the wrong way, and clamped her arms around its head as it fell. One quick twist snapped its neck, and she snatched the huge rifle out of the air before the body hit the ground.

The robot opened fire on the armored figures. Grishnag risked a quick peek around the corner just in time to see one of them catch a shot clean through the visor and out the back of the helmet. The others ran for whatever cover they could find.

Nice! Grishnag waited until all of them had ducked behind something, and then she glanced at the robot and said, "Cover me!" She sprinted over to the fallen humanoid while the robot continued firing.

In the corner of her eye, one of them swung its rifle around toward her as she picked up the dead one's weapon. She leaped and rolled, and the shot drilled through the space she'd already vacated. She came up in a crouch and put five shots through her opponent's chest. It slumped over and she lunged forward to grab its rifle, and then she ran back to the human.

He was where she'd left him, curled into a fetal position and rocking back and forth.

Okay, giving him the gun wouldn't be a good idea. She glanced around, found the snake girl, and tossed the gun to her. "Do you know how to use that?"

"I can figure it out." She pointed the rifle away from everyone and pulled the trigger, firing a blast into the floor. She squeaked and twitched, pulled herself together, and rose above the wall to fire at their attackers.

Grishnag took a quick look around for more survivors and found only a horse-woman, the burly woman, and the giant humanoid dragon.

"What is happening to us?" The obsidian-skinned female whimpered, huddled against the wall behind the human. "Why is this happening?"

Grishnag noticed the girl's mouth movements didn't match the words she spoke. Something is translating her speech. What the hell is going on?

"We can worry about that later if we survive the next few minutes." Grishnag popped out from behind cover long enough to shoot another of their attackers.

An enemy shot punched through the wall and searing heat on her right cheek made her lunge to her left.

"I want to wake up," the human moaned. "Why can't I wake up?"

"This isn't a dream." Grishnag gunned down another one. Before she could duck back under cover, a movement caught her eye. She turned and found another grenade spinning through the air toward her. She sucked in a breath to shout a warning to everyone else, but suddenly a beam struck the disc-shaped device in midair. It vanished in a flash and an expanding cloud of shrapnel. Grishnag glanced to the left and found the robot shifting her aim from the blown grenade to another pair of attackers.

Grishnag sighed and looked up at the platforms above them. "We'll be better off if we can get to higher ground. We need to …"

Behind the dragon, another of the armored men stepped into the open and lobbed a grenade. It arched over everyone's head and came down straight toward her. The human looked up, spotted it, and his face turned white.

Grishnag rose to her feet as the grenade reached her, caught it in her right hand, and hurled it straight back to the enemy humanoid. It threw itself to the right but wasn't fast enough. Grishnag turned away from the sudden flash and winced at the sharp bang, but laughed when she saw the body flopping off the edge of the platform.

She only had a moment to celebrate, though. Another humanoid hopped over the top of the wall they'd been using as cover and dropped down in front of the dragon. It raised its rifle, but the dragon swatted it aside, braced her hand on the side of his head, and shoved it into the wall with enough force to leave a dent. The gun fell from its suddenly limp hand.

"Hold on." Grishnag hurried over and searched the pouches and compartments on the body's belt. She found three stubby cylinders she guessed were spare power cells for the guns and a rectangular box that might be a communication device or a control system. After finding nothing else on him, she nodded at the edge of the platform.

The dragon flashed a predatory grin and gave the body a casual toss, sending it plunging through the fiery clouds under the structure. She looked the gun over, glanced at Grishnag, and mimicked her pose, holding the rifle in one hand and propping it on her shoulder.

Grishnag found the rest of the survivors gathering behind her. The robot pointed ahead before popping off a few more shots.

"Clear the road. I'll cover our rear."

Grishnag took the lead and made her way to the nearest ramp. She rounded a corner -- and caught a split-second glimpse at the stock of a rifle before it rammed into the side of her head. When she regained her senses, she found the business end of the rifle inches from her face. She tried to ignore the pain lancing through her head and shifted her eyes from the rifle to the humanoid pointing it at her.

A brown blur came in from the right and plowed into the figure, knocking it off its feet and sending the rifle clattering across the floor. Grishnag pushed herself upright and found the snake-girl coiling her body around the enemy. The serpentoid rolled, twisted, and wrenched her body to the right, flinging the humanoid across the floor to the edge of the platform.

As it tumbled over the edge, it lashed out and clamped onto the end of her tail, dragging her along with it as it fell. All four arms flailed, her claws scraping across the metal, trying to find a handhold.

The human leaped after her and managed to grab her upper-left hand, but the combined weight of her and the goon dragged both of them closer to the edge.

The dragon clamped her talons around the human's right ankle, and that was enough to hold them in place.

The snake grunted and contorted her face, and from her movements, Grishnag guessed she was swinging her tail around, trying to dislodge the enemy.

"Pull her back up." Grishnag picked up her rifle and glancing around for more of their attackers. "One of us will be able to pick it off as soon as it reappears."

"Wait," the snake grunted. She took the human's other hand to hold herself steady, gave her tail another swing, then another, and Grishnag saw the enemy appear momentarily before gravity pulled it back down.

One more swing hurled it into full view -- and a rapid series of bolts from the robot's gun drilled through its head. It loosened its grip on the snake girl's tail. Grishnag and the dragon blasted it several more times before it dropped out of sight for the last time.

The human pulled her away from the edge. When she was no longer dangling above the clouds, she threw all four arms around him and just held him for a moment. He looked startled, but recovered after a few seconds and put his arms around her.

"Thank you," she finally whispered.

"Uh … sure, any time."

"Let's keep moving." Grishnag rubbed the side of her head, winced at the pain, and made sure to keep checking in every direction as she resumed the lead. Everyone followed her up the ramp to the next platform, and then on past two more. The next ramp led to a long, narrow level with waist-high walls. She lowered herself to her left hand and her knees, holding the gun in her right hand, and crawled forward, keeping her body below the top of the wall.

The others followed, crawling along close behind her.

Once she reached the end, she found herself in a larger chamber. Fortunately, this one had a solid wall between them and the attackers' last known position. Everyone stood and rushed across to the door and the huge window at the far end. They paused to look out the window before moving on to the door.

"What is that?" the girl with the glowing eyes whispered.

"Looks like a city," the human muttered.

Grishnag nodded. In front of her sat several kilometers of metal buildings, domes, and spires colored in varying shades of gray with streaks and splotches of brown all over. She cocked her head. Is that rust?

"A … city?" The horse-cow woman shook her head in disbelief.

"Like a village, but larger." Grishnag pointed at the nearest structures. "Those buildings are basically … tents? Huts? I've never met any of your people before, so I don't know what you're familiar with." She shrugged. "People live in some of those, work in others. Theoretically, at least."

"Ah. I think I understand."

"Maybe there's someone here who will help us out." The human glanced around at the others.

"I doubt it," the dragon said. "Would they have brought us within reach of someone willing to help us?"

"I … I guess not." He rubbed a hand over his face and sighed. "So what do we do, now?"

"Most cities have vehicles in them. There's probably something there we can use." Grishnag patted his shoulder and smiled. "So, we keep going until we find a way out." She opened the door. "Let's move."

CHAPTER 2: Waking Up Dead

"So," the male said after they'd been traveling through the city streets for a while, "we've faced death together, but we don't even know each other's names."

The muscular green woman chuckled. "I'm Grishnag."

"Dylan Engstrom."

"Pleased to meet you, Dylan."

"And I'm Nishara." She slithered closer to him, smiled, put her upper hands on his shoulders, and touched her forehead briefly to his.

"Uh, hi." He smiled but clearly wasn't sure what else to say or do.

The tall reptile woman bowed, first to him, then to the rest. "Ayastal."

"I am Zilaka," the furry one with hooves, muzzle, and horns said.

"My name's Cora," the machine-woman said, turning to keep watch for more of the helmeted people.

"Syala," the thick one with glowing eyes and hooves murmured.

"Okay." Grishnag stopped at the next street corner and glanced around. "We haven't seen anyone else here. This part of the city appears empty." She sighed. "I hope the rest isn't empty as well."

"The buildings are rusting away." Cora stopped at a wall and looked it over, but was careful not to touch anything. "Looks like it hasn't been occupied in a long time."

"Probably just used for training exercises or something like that," Grishnag said. "Or whatever it is they're doing with us."

"I don't suppose any of you have seen a place like this before?" Dylan mumbled.

Everyone shook their heads.

"I've seen metal buildings before," Ayastal said, "but none like these. When I was a child, there was a settlement of 'sky-people' not far from where my tribe lived. Buildings made of metal, but the …" She took a moment to find the right word. "The shapes were different."

"You're familiar with other worlds, then?"

"No. My people are aware of those who came from the sky, but none of us have been there. Well, until now. When I was a child, I would often sneak away from home and spend most of the day simply watching their flying machines." Ayastal smiled. "I've always wanted to ride one of those machines into the sky."

"Well, you may get your chance yet," Grishnag said as they continued on their way. "If we can find our way out of here."

"Maybe if we investigate some of the buildings," Dylan said. "If there's a computer in one of 'em that's hooked up to the inter -- uh, a global network, if this planet has one, we might be able to find a map."

"I haven't detected any wireless networks." Cora shook her head. "I'm not picking up any power sources, either."

"Damn. We should keep moving, then." Grishnag sighed and walked on.

The rest followed her, glancing around every few seconds to be sure no one was pursuing them. Nishara wasn't sure how much time passed as they made their way across the empty city, everyone remaining silent as they took random turns every now and then, until she'd lost any sense of the direction from which they had come.

Not that there was anything back that way except death if the metal people were still pursuing them.

Finally, they emerged onto an enormous platform, easily bigger than her clan's largest encampment back home. And on it sat large metal structures of varying sizes and shapes. They looked different from the buildings they'd passed by earlier, resting on sets of large things that looked like feet, or in some cases, wheels.

"Flying machines?" Ayastal cocked her head and smiled slightly.

"Looks like it." Dylan turned to Grishnag and Cora. "Any of these look familiar?"

"Some are similar to technology I'm used to." Grishnag walked slowly past one, brushing her hand over the lettering on its side. "But not exactly. I don't recognize any of the insignia or the names."

"Huh," Dylan muttered, stopping to stare at the letters painted on one flying machine's side. "These are all in English. Hell of a coincidence."

"I'm seeing these in my native language." Grishnag moved on to the next ship. "I noticed during the battle that when some of you spoke, your mouth movements didn't match what you were saying, and the same is probably happening for all of you when I speak. Something has been translating us, and I assume the same thing is happening with the writing on these ships."

"Ah. I was wondering how we could understand each other." Nishara slid past Dylan and stopped to examine the ships beyond the one he stood beside. "I don't understand how it's done, though."

"Were you all unconscious when you were brought here?" Dylan glanced around at each of them. "Did you fall asleep back home and then wake up in that huge room where we met?"

Everyone else nodded or murmured an affirmative response. Dylan suddenly looked uneasy.

"I bet they implanted something in us. Hardware that interfaces with our brains and translates what we see and hear." He shivered. "And if that's what they did, then what else did they do to us while we were asleep?"

Syala shuddered and her lower lip quivered. Nishara slithered over to her and put her left arms around her.

Cora looked unsettled for a moment, and then she pulled herself together and marched across the platform. "We'll have to worry about that after we get out of here. We need to take one of these ships, assuming any of them are still functional. A shuttle wouldn't do us much good. Too short-range. We'll need a ship that has a hyperspace vortex generator in case there are no jumpgates nearby."

"But isn't the ability to understand other languages a benefit?" Syala patted Nishara's hand and walked alongside her. "Why would they give us an advantage if they simply want to kill us?"

"For the challenge," Grishnag said, her eyes opening wider at the realization. "They're hunting us for sport."

Dylan grimaced. "Why'd you have to put that idea in my head?"

"Sorry, but it just fits. They give us a way to communicate and work together when they could've just shot us dead. So, they're either hunting us, or this is a test. Evaluating specimens to decide which planet to invade, possibly."

"That's even worse."

"Yeah." Grishnag sighed and moved on to the next ship.

"Whatever the reason they brought us here," Ayastal said, "they paid a terrible price for it. I didn't take the time to make an exact count, but I believe we reduced them by at least half."

"Assuming they haven't brought in reinforcements." Cora walked over to a sleek, black ship that looked like a saucer that had been stretched out to twice its original length.

Zilaka crossed her arms tightly over her chest. "This is a nightmare. It has to be."

"That's what I thought at first." Dylan walked around the front of another ship, shook his head at the buckled strut that had once held it up, and moved on. "It's too detailed and too linear to be a dream. And it just feels too real."

"Even if it were a dream or hallucination," Cora said, "we can't afford to assume it's not real with those assholes trying to kill us."

"Yeah, guess we don't have much choice. We have to keep playing along, just in case." Dylan turned to look at another ship -- and one of those yellow beams came out of nowhere and pierced his chest. A startled look crossed his face, then was replaced by a grimace of pain as he collapsed.

Everyone stared in shock.

"Dylan?" Nishara whispered. Her hearts pounded.

Grishnag and Cora were the first to recover. They threw themselves behind the nearest ship and tried to find where the bolt had come from without exposing themselves to more.

Ayastal pulled Syala and Zilaka behind another ship. Syala stared at Dylan's body and burst into tears.

"Damn it," Grishnag snarled. "He was just a kid."

"What the hell?" Cora aimed her weapon in the distance, but couldn't find a target. "I should've been able to detect them. Why couldn't I detect them?"

Nishara sucked in a deep breath and screamed, "Dylan!" She slid over to him, hoping he was only wounded as she rolled him over.

His eyes stared blankly into the sky and smoke curled up from the hole in his chest.

Still, she put her upper hands on his shoulders and shook him gently. "Dylan! You can't …"

"I'm sorry, Nishara," Grishnag said. "He's gone. Get under cover."

Nishara wiped the tears from her eyes and lifted her head to glare at the place from which the shot had come. She could make out movement among the metal structures in the distance.

She snarled.

Ayastal turned suddenly to face something behind everyone. More of those damned beams drilled into her chest. Her legs buckled and she slumped over on top of Syala.

Nishara turned to find a dozen more metal men charging them. She drew in another breath and let it out in a shriek that caused everyone around her to stop in their tracks for a moment, even the murdering bastards who had taken poor Dylan from them. She raised her weapon, surged forward, and pulled the trigger. The nearest of their enemies stumbled backward and fell, smoke pouring from all the holes she'd blasted through his torso.

A series of flashes came from the others' weapons and sudden, searing pains lanced through her chest as if white-hot knives were being plunged into her. Before she even understood what had happened, she found herself sprawled face down on the metal ground, unable to move, barely able to breathe.

"M … monsters," she whimpered before blackness engulfed her.

#

"What the --" Dylan flailed, gasped, and clutched his chest. Before he realized he was on a raised platform, he lost his balance, fell off, dropped several feet, and landed face down. Groaning, he pushed himself up slowly and looked around. "What the hell?"

More platforms filled the room, almost like metal beds.

No. More like autopsy tables. A shiver rippled through him.

All the tables were occupied by the alien women who'd surrounded him just before …

Just before I died. He glanced down at the front of his shirt, but couldn't find the hole that had been burned through him. The shirt hadn't been repaired -- it was exactly as it had been before that fatal shot.

Just to be sure, he lifted his shirt and slid his hand over his chest. There was no sign of a wound.

How am I alive? He leaned on the platform and tried to take deep breaths and slow his pounding heart. He looked around again and a chill rushed through him.

They're not breathing. He held his breath for a moment, trying not to let a sudden burst of tears out. The only familiar faces in this goddamn place, and they were all dead.

But he wasn't. Why?

Suddenly, Ayastal inhaled. She twitched and lurched upright, glanced around, and her eyes locked on to him.

"What …? How …?"

"I don't know." He ran a shaky hand through his hair. "Did you, uh … ?"

"Die? Yes." Ayastal shuddered. Even though her face wasn't human at all, Dylan could still read her confusion and fear in her wide eyes, twitchy movements, and rapid breathing. Maybe some things were universal. "I felt my heart stop! And yet …"

"Here we are. I know. I think …"

Nishara suddenly sucked in a deep breath and screamed. She convulsed and rolled off the platform.

Dylan let out a quick scream of his own and backed away from her, but pulled himself together and approached her slowly. "N … Nishara?"

She glanced around frantically, found him, and stared. "Dylan?" Her voice was barely a whisper.

"Yeah, it's me."

"But …"

"I know."

"You died!"

"Yeah, I noticed that. So did Ayastal." He motioned at the dragon woman, and Nishara glanced over her shoulder. Ayastal nodded at her. Nishara stared, took a few breaths, looked as if she were about to say something, then she turned back to Dylan.

"As did I." Nishara stared down at herself and ran her hands slowly over her chest. "The wounds are gone."

"Mine, too." He lifted his shirt. "See?"

She slithered up to him, stared for a moment, then reached out hesitantly and touched his chest. Her skin was softer and warmer than he'd expected. She moved her hand slowly over his chest for several more seconds, looked up and met his gaze, and finally pulled him into a tight embrace.

"How?"

"I don't know. Maybe whoever brought us here is able to heal wounds like these." Or maybe we're clones and the originals really are dead. He didn't mention that one to either of them, not just because he would've had to explain what clones were.

"But why?" Tears trickled from Nishara's eyes and she wiped them away with the back of her hand. "Why are they doing this to us?"

"I wish I knew." He pulled the bottom edge of his shirt out to wipe away her tears. "I wish I knew how to even begin to find out."

She put her upper-left hand over his, held it to her cheek, raised her lower-left hand to his cheek, and stroked it softly. She gazed into his eyes for a moment, and then she leaned forward slowly and kissed him.

What the hell? Though it caught him by surprise, it was also quite nice, so he let it continue as long as Nishara wanted. When she finally pulled back from him, her face turned slightly darker, and she couldn't look him in the eye again.

"I'm sorry," she mumbled.

"I'm not." He smiled.

Ayastal managed a chuckle, though she was still visibly unsettled. She stood and ran a hand over her chest as if still looking for her wounds, and finally glanced around at the other bodies.

"Since the rest of us are here, I think we can assume they were killed, as well, and will wake up soon."

"Yeah. Well, I hope they will." Dylan turned slowly, looking around at the others, but kept his left arm around Nishara. "I wonder which one of them died next."

"I wouldn't know." Ayastal's muzzle quirked slightly into what might've been an attempt at a smile. "I was unable to observe anything, being dead at the time, myself."

"Right. Heh." Dylan managed a shaky smile and waited silently to see if anyone else woke up.

The others woke one by one. Dylan, Nishara, and Ayastal took turns explaining what had happened -- or what they thought happened. Cora and Grishnag understood instantly, but Syala and Zilaka took a bit longer.

"We died," Syala whimpered. She remained on her platform, pulled her knees up to her chest, wrapped her arms around them, and rocked slowly. "How can we be alive if we died?"

"Whoever's doing this to us," Grishnag said, "if they're able to abduct us and bring us who knows how many light-years to this place, then repairing fatal wounds might be child's play for them."

"So, this is what our lives will be from now on?" Tears trickled down Syala's cheeks again. "Dying, waking up here, and being killed again? Over and over, perhaps forever?"

"I don't know." Dylan walked over to her, and Nishara joined him. At the same time, they each put an arm around Syala. "But that means we might have a chance to get out of here. As long as we survive, there's hope. Right?"

Syala didn't answer. After staring at nothing in particular for more than a full minute, she put her arms around him and cried into his shirt. He glanced at Nishara, who smiled and nodded. He embraced Syala and rubbed her back slowly.

"And maybe not," Grishnag finally said. "Maybe they'll leave us alone for a while."

A door at the end of the room slid open and two of those damned nine-foot humanoids entered.

"Fuck," Grishnag snapped.

"Jinxed it," Cora muttered, and Grishnag sighed.

"Yeah."

Everyone stood and faced them except Syala. She gripped the front of Dylan's shirt, twisting the fabric in her clenched fists as if terrified he was about to move away from her. He and Nishara remained by her side.

A third humanoid followed the first two, pushing a large cart. They stopped in front of Dylan and the females, and the two in front stepped aside. The third pointed into the cart.

Grishnag peeked into the cart. "Guns. They're arming us, this time?"

"Oh, shit," Dylan moaned. "What the hell are we gonna be facing?"

"Doesn't matter." Grishnag shook her head and backed away from the cart. "I'm not fighting for someone else's entertainment."

The humanoid pointed into the cart again. Grishnag growled.

"Fuck you. I'm not playing your games."

The one on the right turned its blank faceplate toward her and raised its left hand, pointing its palm at her.

She hunched over suddenly, clutched her head, and screamed. Everyone else gasped, and Syala clamped a hand over her mouth and began crying again.

Grishnag stumbled to the right, toppled over, curled up on the floor, and continued screaming.

"Stop it!" Dylan pried himself away from Syala and rushed over to Grishnag. The goon on the left pointed its palm at him. He ignored it, reached out to touch Grishnag's shoulder, but hesitated. He glared at the humanoid on the right and shouted, "Stop it! We'll do whatever you want, just stop!"

Both figures lowered their hands back to their sides. Grishnag suddenly went limp, still holding her head and weeping, but no longer screaming. She rolled onto her back, sobbed, and tried to pull herself together.

"Fucking monsters," Nishara practically hissed before slithering over to help Grishnag sit up.

Dylan clasped Grishnag's right hand in both of his and just held it while she took deep breaths and regained control of herself. Finally, she gazed into Dylan's eyes, reached out and caressed his cheek. Then her eyes widened and she pulled her hand back as if shocked by her own actions.

Okay, what is it with me and alien women, anyway? Have I turned into Captain Kirk or something?

"You gonna be okay?" Cora leaned over to touch Grishnag's shoulder.

Grishnag shuddered before answering. "Eventually." She pushed herself back to her feet and staggered over to the cart. "Fine. I'll go along with whatever insanity you've got planned." Glaring at the helmeted humanoid in front of her, she picked up one of the huge, long-barreled rifles. Then she snarled, "How do you know I won't kill you with it?"

The armored alien stared blankly at her. She held its "gaze" for a long moment and finally sighed and turned away. Her shoulders sagged ever so slightly.

Dylan sighed and picked up one of the guns. He thought it over for a few seconds and then turned to the humanoid on the right. "This is for hurting my friend."

He aimed his gun square at the bastard's chest and pulled the trigger.

Nothing happened.

Trembling, he sagged and stared at the gun. "Fuckin' hell!"

Grishnag patted his shoulder, smiled shakily, propped the gun on her shoulder, and strode out the door.

"I can't do this," Syala mumbled.

"You saw what will happen if you don't." Nishara hugged her and rubbed her back, then took her hand and led her to the cart.

"We'll be right there with you," Dylan said. "We'll all get through this together."

Zilaka nodded, patted Syala's back, and picked up one of the guns. Holding it uncertainly, she sighed and clopped past the guards.

Dylan smiled one more time at Syala, took a step past the humanoid who'd tortured Grishnag -- then he spun around and slammed the stock of his rifle into the bastard's visor. The impact knocked the alien off its feet and sprawled it on the floor.

Holy shit, that actually worked?

The other guards stepped toward him and pointed their hands at him. He propped the rifle on his shoulder and glared at them.

"What?" he snapped. When he made no further moves against them, they stepped back but kept their palms aimed at him. He realized suddenly how close he'd just come to being subjected to the same punishment that had been inflicted on Grishnag, but tried to cover up his fear by pushing past the guards and grumbling, "Get the fuck out of my way."

As he turned the corner to follow Grishnag, he caught a glimpse of Syala staring at him with an awestruck grin -- then picking up one of the guns and marching after him.

He caught up with Grishnag at the end of the corridor, which widened out and ended with what looked like a hangar door. The sounds of boots and hooves approaching from behind told him the rest of the women had armed themselves and joined him and Grishnag.

"I just realized something," Zilaka said, obviously struggling to keep her voice steady. "There were many others sent with us onto the first battlefield, but we're the only ones who woke up in that room back there."

"The others were killed almost immediately." A troubled look crossed Cora's face. "Maybe they were rejected."

All the confidence Dylan had just built up drained away as her meaning sank in over the next few seconds.

"Wonderful." Grishnag turned back to the door. "Well, let's get this over with."

CHAPTER 3: Wheels of Fire

"Huh. That's not what I expected." Dylan turned around slowly and took in their surroundings. He and the alien females stood in the middle of a street with a set of vehicles in front of them. Wheeled vehicles, but none of them familiar to him. Each was about the size of a four-door sedan but ranged from sleek lozenge shapes to something that looked like a cross between a sports car and a SWAT tank.

The city itself was unlike anything Dylan had seen on Earth, but it reminded him of any number of futuristic cityscapes in movies, video games, and TV shows. Lots of gleaming metal, concrete, glass, bridges, overpasses, and skyscrapers. In the distance, vehicles zipped around and equally sci-fi aircraft traced paths across the sky here and there.

I wonder if we're still on the same planet as the place we were killed a while ago? The sky was tinted red instead of the familiar blue and the air felt different -- thinner, with a sharp odor of overheated wiring filling his nose with every breath. If the assholes who abducted us can teleport us to other planets, what fucking chance do we have of ever escaping?

"I know how this works," Syala clopped over to one of the cars, her mouth hanging open and her glowing eyes opening wide. "I've never seen any of these before, never even imagined such things, but I know how to drive them."

"So do I." Ayastal leaned over the nearest car, placed her hand on its roof, and peered in through the windshield. "The knowledge just appeared in my mind. But I can't fit into any of these."

"How is this happening?" Syala drew in several ragged breaths and glanced around until her terrified gaze locked onto Dylan. "How do I suddenly know things I could never have even dreamed of before?"

"I don't know." He hurried over to her and held her hands. "Maybe we'll find out sooner or later, or maybe we'll never know. Right now, all that matters is that we get through this."

She took a few more breaths, pulled herself together, and nodded.

Cora walked over to them and rested a hand on each of their shoulders. "Whoever is doing this, we can't let them break us. Don't give them the satisfaction."

Syala nodded again, smiled, closed her eyes for a moment, and sucked in another long, slow breath to help calm herself.

"I also know what we must do," Zilaka muttered, turning to stare in shock at the others. "Just like the cars -- I didn't know a moment ago, and now I do."

"Same here." Dylan nodded slowly. "There's a package we have to pick up and take somewhere."

"And there will be someone trying to stop us." Nishara turned to gaze out over the city and shivered. "Someone trying to kill us."

"Again." Grishnag sighed. "No matter why our captors are doing this -- to test us, or just for their entertainment -- I don't want to submit to it."

"You know what'll happen if we don't." Dylan tried to give her a reassuring smile, but couldn't hold it for more than a second. "The longer we survive, the more time we have to figure out what's going on and how to stop it."

"True enough." A smile tugged at the corner of Grishnag's mouth. "Well, I guess we should get on with it."

Nishara cupped Dylan's face in her upper hands and held his hands with her lower ones.

"For luck." She leaned in and kissed him.

Uh … wow. He let the kiss continue until she pulled back, gazed into his eyes, and smiled. He stroked her cheek and she gave his hands and shoulders a gentle squeeze before turning to slither over to one of the cars.

Another hand brushed his arm. He turned to the left and found Syala leaning toward him. He met her halfway, thinking she wanted to say something to him without the others overhearing.

Instead, she slid her right hand behind his neck, pulled him closer, and kissed him.

Huh? His heart began to pound, but he went along with it. When Syala finally pulled back, she smiled and glanced away.

"For luck," she mumbled.

"Thanks." His face turned hot and he glanced around and caught Grishnag grinning and chuckling in the corner of his eye. He cleared his throat and tugged on his shirt collar. "So. Uh. Anybody else want a good-luck kiss?"

After everyone flicked a few glances at each other, Cora shrugged and walked over to him.

"What the hell. I don't believe it'll tilt the odds in our favor, but I'm all for finding a moment of pleasure in this nightmare we're all in." She pressed her cool metal lips gently against his and the faint smell of mechanical lubricants and polish filled his nose. Neither the kiss nor the scent was at all unpleasant.

When they parted, the other females approached him. Before he could get his brain around what was happening, each of them kissed him. In the corner of his eye, he found several of them kissing each other.

Okay, this is getting weird. The only possibility he could think of was that maybe humans were the only species that had any sexual hangups, and it simply didn't occur to any of these females to think there was anything strange about this. Hah. Getting weird. Good one.

Finally, Grishnag was the only one who hadn't kissed him or any of the others. She shrugged and put her arms around him.

"I suppose I shouldn't buck the trend," she said softly, chuckling. Her breath brushed across his lips and his heartbeat revved up again. "It has been a while since I've done this, so maybe it's about time, anyway."

Their mouths met and he closed his eyes and lost himself in the moment. It was a little odd, with those big fangs sticking up from her lower teeth, but no more so than any of the others.

When they parted, they gazed into each other's eyes for a moment, smiled, and then Grishnag walked off to choose a vehicle. She picked one of the sporty-SWAT tank-looking things, opened the door, and settled into the seat. Her eyes flicked over its control panel and she pushed a button. The engine started -- not the familiar sound of the car engines Dylan had heard all his life, but more of a throbbing hum.

The others chose their cars, except Ayastal. Grishnag glanced over at her, smiled, and pointed a thumb at the roof of her vehicle.

"This one looks sturdy enough for you to ride on top. You won't have any protection, but at least you'll be able to participate. I mean, if you want."

"Thank you. After seeing what they did to you when you refused to play their games, I'm probably better off not appearing to be uncooperative." Ayastal crouched on top of the car, braced her feet on the rear end, and found handholds on the roof.

Dylan picked another hotrod-tank, got in, and glanced around. All the controls were on the dashboard, including the brakes and accelerator. At least that meant Nishara could drive one despite having no legs. He glanced over at her in time to watch her try to enter one of the lozenge-shaped cars. She ducked in through the driver's side door, pulled back out, entered again, extracted herself again. She grumbled something, opened the back door, slid in and between the front seats, took her position awkwardly at the controls, and pulled the rest of her body in.

Syala closed the back door for her.

"Thank you." Nishara spent the next few moments trying to coil her body around the interior and find a comfortable position.

Dylan started his engine as Syala and Zilaka picked out their cars.

Grishnag's voice came from a speaker in the dashboard. "Okay. Let's do this."

#

"Almost there." Grishnag glanced at the mini-map on her dashboard and noted the position of the waypoint. She returned her attention to the road ahead and slowed as they passed through a gate and entered an area filled with what appeared to be warehouses.

As they approached the waypoint, a dozen red blips appeared around it. Grishnag noted their positions on her mini-map and grumbled.

"Well, here we go." Dylan's voice quivered slightly.

Before Grishnag could offer any reassuring words, she eased around the corner of a large, rectangular building and found a dozen males and females of varying species spinning toward her and snapping their guns up.

"What the hell?" Dylan said. "I was expecting more of the goons we fought last time."

"So was I." Grishnag steered toward the nearest three and accelerated. "No matter. Just focus on getting through this."

"R-right." Dylan's vehicle surged forward, plowed into two of the "enemies," and sent them tumbling across the pavement.

"Nice." Grishnag flashed a feral grin. "Ayastal, you may want to …"

"Dismounting." The huge reptile woman leaped off the top of Grishnag's vehicle and slammed into a pair of humans who'd opened fire a split-second before. The impact flattened them and she made sure they stayed put with a solid punch to each of their faces. She rolled off them, crouched, and sprang over the head of a pig-ogre as he tried to target her. She hit the ground, rolled forward, and came to a halt with her legs braced under her, ready to launch at another enemy.

The pig-ogre whipped his rifle around and lined up a shot at her chest.

Dylan's tank-car shot into view. He turned sharply to the left and the car skidded. The rear end swung around and slammed into the pig-ogre like a bat knocking a baseball out of the park. He rocketed into the side of a parked cargo truck, crumpled to the ground, and came to a stop with his neck twisted at an unnatural angle.

"Nice moves, kid," Grishnag said with an arched eyebrow.

"Thanks. I just now realized this reminds me of a game I played a lot back home. This was one of the moves I used on opposing players."

"This reminds you of a game?" Nishara steered her car around the back of a nearby warehouse and flinched as four enemies concentrated their fire on her.

"Yeah, a video game. It's a -- actually, never mind. I'll try to explain it later." Dylan whipped his car to the right and shoved his rifle through his open window. He pulled the trigger and perforated the human and three bovine males. They twitched and collapsed, fingers convulsing on their triggers and firing random shots until the life finished draining from them.

"Video games," Cora muttered. "I'm familiar with them. They're sort of like simulations."

"Yeah, kind of. You okay, Nishara?"

"For now." Nishara changed course again and accelerated. "I'm near the … whatever we're here to take. I'm going for it."

"I'll cover you," Dylan said.

"As will I," Syala added.

"Simulations. Hmm." Cora veered off to join the other three.

"What?" Grishnag caught up with them, glanced at the waypoint, and followed them toward a building that appeared to be an aircraft hangar.

"Just a suspicion I have. I don't want to distract everyone with it now."

"Sounds good." Dylan mowed down another opponent with his car and continued on to the hangar. "You can tell us after we finish this. Or the next time we wake up dead." He chuckled.

Hah. He has my kind of sense of humor. Grishnag grinned and parked in front of the hangar's massive open door. "Make a barricade with your vehicles while Nishara picks up the package."

Dylan backed his car up until his rear bumper nudged her front. The others followed suit, keeping their driver-side doors facing into the hangar. Everyone except Nishara jumped out and aimed their guns at the remaining enemies, using their vehicles as cover. Nishara extracted herself from her car and surged forward, slithering deeper into the building so fast she became a blur.

Dylan and Syala charged after her, flicking their wide eyes all around the interior, searching for more enemies.

Grishnag glanced at the mini-map on her dashboard. Only three enemies remained … until ten more red blips appeared at the edge of the map and approached her team's position with alarming speed. Grishnag snarled. "More enemies incoming."

"That's what I was afraid of," Dylan grumbled. "It works the same way in that game I mentioned. No matter how many bad guys we take out, more keep teleporting in."

"It's hopeless," Syala whimpered.

"No, it's not." Grishnag drilled a beam through the forehead of each of the three approaching them. "It'll end when we complete our task."

"Yeah." Dylan tried to smile at Syala. "Maybe then we'll get to sit out the next round of fighting. Y'know, as a reward."

Grishnag glanced at her mini-map again. The new red blips were almost on top of her and the others. She frowned, realizing a hissing sound had been growing louder over the last few moments.

That's inside the hangar. But … She gasped and raised her gun to aim at the ceiling.

"They're above us!"

Thumps of multiple feet hitting the roof echoed through the cavernous room.

Cora spun and snapped her gun up toward the ceiling. "I see their heat signatures." She opened fire, burning dozens of holes through the metal. Several voices cried out, and then a guttural roar overwhelmed them. More thumps echoed from the ceiling, the sound of bodies rolling down the angled roof.

"I've got the pilots," Ayastal snarled before opening fire.

The hissing sound revved, sputtered, and turned into a rattling whine. A stubby aircraft with two huge, ducted fans spun into view, a dozen holes melted through the canopy and a mixture of red and yellow blood splattered all over the cockpit. The aircraft continued its spin, tipped to the left, and crashed into the ground. It continued sliding and shedding parts, finally rolled over and ground to a stop upside-down.

"Good work, Ayastal," Grishnag said.

A deafening, sharp bang of a grenade slammed into the side of the building, almost drowning out a truncated scream. Grishnag staggered, shook her head, and a cold sensation rose up in her chest. "Ayastal?"

Nishara, Dylan, and Syala stopped in their tracks. Nishara fumbled and nearly dropped the brick-shaped, crystalline object in her hands.

"Ayastal!" Grishnag rushed to the rear of her car, peeked around the doorway, and found her sprawled on the ground with her chest blasted open.

Past her, two more large vehicles rumbled toward the hangar.

Grishnag winced and turned away. She met the others' gazes and shook her head.

Syala sobbed and covered her mouth with her hand.

"She'll be okay," Dylan whispered, reaching out to rub her back.

"How do we know?"

"She'll probably wake up in the same room we found ourselves in after the first time we were killed."

"He's right." Grishnag took a deep breath and waved a hand around the inside of the hangar. "Take a quick look around. Maybe we can find something useful. Bigger guns, or armor."

"On it." Cora rushed over to the wall to inspect the shelves and crates.

Nishara handed the golden crystal brick to Dylan. "Take this. You seem to know what you're doing."

Grishnag glanced over her shoulder at the mini-map on her dashboard. A new waypoint had appeared at the northern edge.

"We have a new destination."

"Good." Dylan carried the faintly glowing crystal back to his car. "Let's get the hell out of here."

#

"Oh, look what we have here." Cora had just opened one of the metal crates in a corner behind a shuttle and grinned at what she'd found. "Grenades, sticky bombs, and rocket launchers."

"I don't know what those are," Zilaka muttered, "but if they keep us alive, I'll be happy with them."

"They should definitely give us a chance." Cora passed the grenades and sticky bombs to the others, grabbed two rocket launchers, and handed one to Grishnag. "You seem to know how to use stuff like this more than the others. I think we'll have a better chance of holding the goons off while the others escape."

Dylan whipped his head around to stare at her and Grishnag.

"Don't worry." Cora strode toward the space between the door frame and Grishnag's car. "I'm planning on both of us catching up with you. Now, get moving."

Dylan sighed, nodded, and started his engine. Syala, Zilaka, and Nishara returned to their vehicles.

Cora peeked around the corner, found the two vehicles still fifty meters away but approaching rapidly, and nodded at Grishnag. Cora lined up a shot on the nearer van and fired. A fist-size rocket streaked toward her target. The second van veered off and accelerated, while three people bailed out of the first. Cora's rocket struck the front of the van, ripped it apart in a split-second, and the shrapnel shredded the three who'd tried to escape.

Grishnag stepped around Cora and took her own shot while Cora reloaded. The van swerved, but couldn't avoid the rocket. Shrapnel and body parts scattered in every direction. Grishnag smirked, turned toward her car, and stopped suddenly.

"Cora told you to take off."

Cora turned and found the others waiting with their engines running. "Yeah. What she said."

"We're not leaving you here." Syala aimed a stern stare at her, couldn't hold it, and faced forward again. "We finish this together."

Cora almost rolled her optics, canceled the action, and ran to her vehicle. "Fine. Let's all get the hell out of here before anyone else starts shooting at us."

"Dylan," Grishnag said as she climbed into her car, "we'll surround you and escort you to the next waypoint. Stay in the center."

"I'll do my best." He gripped the controls and waited.

"I'll take the lead. Cora, bring up the rear." Grishnag moved her car into position.

Four red, car-shaped icons appeared on Cora's mini-map, approaching rapidly from the rear. She leaned out the window, glanced around, and zoomed in on a distant motion.

"Guys, we've got more --"

"I see them on my map," Syala said, almost whimpering. "Let's go!"

Cora grabbed her rocket launcher, climbed through her window, and perched her ass on the lower edge. She lined up a shot and squeezed the trigger. The rocket streaked away and she zoomed in to watch the impact.

One of the four vans exploded and the shockwave knocked two others off course.

What the hell was that? Cora pulled the last few seconds from her optics' buffer and replayed it in slow motion. Parts of the van flickered and broke into tiny cube shapes for a split second as it exploded, as did the air around the shockwave. She scowled and lined up another shot. Voxels. Damn, I was right.

"Cora!"

"Dylan, what?" Her proximity sensors picked up a sudden movement to her left before he could respond. She snapped her head around in time to catch a glimpse of a rocket before it drilled into the side of her car.

The roar of the explosion overwhelmed her auditory sensors and the flash overloaded her optics for a few seconds. When her sight returned, the entire world was spinning around her -- until the pavement slammed into her back. She glanced around, found parts of her legs and other debris scattered all around her, and her internal sensors detected various lubricants and other fluids spraying out of what was left of her torso.

"Cora!" Dylan shrieked again.

"Keep going! I'll do what I can from here." She found her rifle several meters away and dragged herself toward it while running a diagnostic. Primary systems failing, main power cell breached and heading for a critical overload. Whatever I do, I have to do it soon.

"But …"

"Go!" She clamped onto the rifle and tried to line up a shot on the approaching vans, but her targeting system was offline. "I'll see you all on the next go-around."

"Shit," Dylan moaned before accelerating away.

The others hesitated another few seconds but finally followed him.

The remaining three vans reached Cora.

Fuck it. She rolled onto her back, jammed her rifle's barrel against her exposed power cell, and pulled the trigger. Fortunately, the detonation tore her body apart too quickly for her sensors to detect any damage.

#

The blast was enormous -- far bigger than anything Nishara had ever experienced. It deafened her and shook her vehicle. Both hearts pounded as she glanced over her shoulder and found parts of Cora's body and two of the vans raining down. The remaining van swerved around the debris and continued its pursuit.

"No," Dylan groaned.

"Take it easy," Grishnag said, clearly straining to remain calm, herself. "She'll be okay. She's probably in that same room we woke up in before, with Ayastal."

"I hope so." Dylan took a deep breath. "Alright. Let's get this over with." He accelerated.

Six more blips appeared on Nishara's mini-map, directly ahead. "No …"

"Where are they coming from?" Syala's voice quivered.

"Stay focused," Grishnag said.

A beam from one of the van's occupants drilled Nishara's rear window, the passenger-side headrest, and the windshield. She flinched and her hearts beat even faster.

Must try something. Must do something before we're all killed again. She took several deep breaths. "I … I have an idea."

She twisted her tail into position, gripped her weapon, and slid through her window. She kept her lower-left hand on the controls, kept the accelerator pressed down with the tip of her tail, and held on to the roof with her upper-left hand. With her two right hands, she raised the gun awkwardly and tried to aim it at the approaching van.

A male that appeared to be Zilaka's species leaned out one of the van's windows with his own rifle.

Nishara clamped her mouth shut to prevent a horrified whimper from escaping and fired her weapon. Half of her shots struck the ground or pierced empty air, but the rest punched into the front of the van.

The male fired and a familiar searing pain lanced through Nishara's upper-right shoulder. The gun almost slipped from her hands, but she managed to keep her grip on it and continue shooting.

Finally, one of her beams drilled through the van's windshield and vaporized part of the driver's head. He flopped over and the van swerved off to the right and crashed into a stack of red metal barrels. Nishara shifted her aim to the barrels without understanding how she knew what was about to happen, and continued firing. Whatever was in the barrels ignited violently, and engulfed the van in flames.

Nishara sighed, faced forward, and grimaced at the pain spreading out from her wounded shoulder.

Grishnag veered off to a curving ramp leading to an overpass that wove among dozens of gleaming metal skyscrapers. The rest followed her. Wincing and trying not to cry out, Nishara steered her vehicle in the same direction.

Three more enemy vans appeared directly ahead, swerving through the oncoming traffic.

"Damn it," Grishnag snarled. "Too many innocent people are in the way."

"There's nothing we can do about that," Dylan said with a sigh. "We'll just have to do the best we can to avoid hitting any of them."

A human leaned out of the lead van and began firing. Nishara groaned, shifted her grip on her weapon, and returned fire.

A beam pierced her upper-left arm and another hit her chest, just below her lower heart. She screamed and dropped her gun.

"Nishara!" Syala shrieked. "Oh, no!"

Another shot burned through Nishara's abdomen, and yet another drilled her upper heart. She flailed, screamed again, and her car began to turn sideways and skid.

"No!" Dylan bellowed.

Nishara caught a glimpse of a hail of enemy shots slamming through his windshield and multiple bursts of red blood filling the inside of his car, and suddenly she turned cold inside.

"No …" She coughed as everything around her began to fade away. "Dyl … Dylan …"

Her car struck the divider between lanes and rolled. The last thing Nishara saw was the road rushing up toward her, and the last things she felt were her body twisting and the car crushing her beneath it.

==========

Title: Game Over

Genre: Science Fiction

Age range: adult

Word count: 80,000 words

Author: Fred T. Kerns

Why the book is a good fit: I tend to write the kinds of stories I wish I could find on bookshelves. As TMG has an eye toward innovation, my work would bring them something new and fresh to pass along to the world. TMG also works with a range of genres and my novels and stories are primarily science fiction but also include elements of action, humor, and an often hopeful vision of the future despite the villainous characters standing in the heroes' way.

The Hook: On this planet, "fun and games" is a matter of life and death.

Synopsis: Dylan Engstrom wakes up in a strange place and is thrown into a series of combat scenarios with a handful of aliens. Together, they must figure out what's going on and how to escape before they're all killed. And killed again. And again. And again ...

Target audience: Readers who enjoy action, adventure, humor, spaceships, aliens, and fun characters in a story that leans toward the harder end of the SF scale.

Bio: Sci-fi writer, semi-competent gamer (on a good day), and a huge geek. Born in a small town in Oregon, lived on the Oregon coast until 2013, then moved to Tucson, Arizona, and has lived there ever since.

Platform: My blog has links to most of the stuff I'm up to: https://fredtkerns.blogspot.com/

Education: High school diploma, followed by life in general

Experience: Started writing and submitting short stories at 17 and have never stopped writing since then. I've finished five novels and have another in-progress, and have written a number of shorter works and ongoing serialized stories.

Personality/writing style: Usually pretty mellow. Able to roll with the punches thanks to life being a very long stretch of bad luck. Able to face each setback by immediately going to work on possible solutions almost like a reflex. Writing style tends to be to-the-point with characters who are often a little off-kilter. I've been told that I'm particularly good at writing action scenes. I also like to research specific scientific concepts to attempt to get them right (for instance, hull breaches in my writing won't result in an endless rush of venting air) without bogging the story down with details regarding physics and whatnot.

Likes/hobbies: Writing, video games, and coffee. Lots and lots of coffee. Have been a lifelong fan of Star Trek, Doctor Who, Star Wars, and others. More recent like/influences include the Mass Effect series, Babylon 5, Star Trek Online, Red vs. Blue, gen:LOCK, among others.

Hometown: Tucson, AZ

Age: 46

"There there, all better now." The woman sighs over you, patting your knee gently as he stands to put away the first aid kit.

"I think it's time for a nap," She says, picking you up slowly, as not to reinjure your scraped knee. As she carries you off to bed, you see the mice on their tricycles begin to play. They play all kinds of games, those mice. They toss bread crumbs around as though their mothers had never told them not to play with their food. Back and forth, back and forth, the crumbs go flying through the air.

The mice play soccer ball with the stolen marbles from your collection. The marble rolls towards the woman, and unaware of its presence, she slips and falls. You go flying through the air for what seems like hours, only to land softly on the green wooly carpet. Leaving the room, you retrieve the first aid kit off the kitchen counter. When you return, the woman lies still, bleeding out. You place band-aids over her wounds, pat her knee, and whisper.

" There there, all better now."

Hi there! My name is Madelynn Marshall. I am in midle school. My hobbies are writing, reading, drawing, and ord building. I mainly write in secind person, though sometimes I swith over to third. I have been writing, mainly poetry and short stories, for a while now. As for my target audience, it would be anyone who enjoys suspenful writing with a deeper meaning.

This is my short story 'Mice Talk'. My story uses a form of wrting called 'Circular Narrative'. I think this form of writng adds a cool suspense to the story. In the writing, you meet character A, who is protrayed as " The Woman". From the few lines that you here from her, you can kind of gather that she is a sort of mother figure in character B's life. The next character you meet is character B, protrayed as " You", is written in second person. The whole passage is based off of these two characters interacting, one who speaks and the other who rarely does. The last set of characters you meet are the mice. The mice symbolize a sirt of barier between the woman and "You". Through out the middle of the story, "You" seems to be the only one who can see them mice.

The hook of the story is also the end of it. You witness the woman take a fall the ends up being fatal. Upon this, "You" goes into the kitchen and graps the first-aid kit, the same one used to mend his scrapped knee at the begining of the story. "You" even repeats the same phrase used when his scraped knee was being take care of.

Thank you for listening! I hope you enjoyed "Mice Talk"

What do you see? Do you hear? Do you feel?

I feel nothing, and then everything. I am a cold and silent tomb deep in the earth.

I am a thousand voices screaming to be heard simultaneously.

Do I even exist? Can you see me? When my lips move do words come out? Do they make sense? Do the words I form in my mind take hold in reality, or does your blank expression point to the truth of it? Do the words I speak and the words you hear meet and mirror? or is there a vast chasm that no sentence can bridge.

Title: Do You See

Genre: Poetry

Age range: 18 and up

I've been writing poetry for a long time. I'd love to know how the public would receive my work, but would like to use a pen name if I ever published anything. I write about mental health a lot, as it's the field I'm pursuing career wise. It's not always sunshine and rainbows.

1) A Very Small Case of Thievery

Look, I didn’t steal the book. Okay, so all signs point in that direction. But I promise you, the thievery of Universe had nothing to do with Ren Northwood.

I was slinking along the metal shelves of the Wray Public Library when it happened. I breathed in the scent of old paperbacks, running a finger along the side of the wall. I snagged a book off one of the shelves, frowned at the tattered cover, and started to put it back.

″Ren,” a voice said from behind me. I whipped around to see a little girl staring at me with wide gray eyes, holding a book under one arm.

“Um, yeah?” I said, slipping my own book back on the shelf. “Do I know you?”

“Not yet,” she replied.

What kind of answer was that?

“Does one of your parents work here?” I said. “Do you need help finding them?”

She rolled her eyes and stalked past me. “Alright, listen up, because I’m only telling you this once.”

I shook my head, looking at her closer. She seemed to be only six or seven years old, with pale skin and dark, choppy hair. I guessed that she had cut it herself.

“Okay, kid, can you at least tell me how you know my name?”

“I’m not a—nevermind. Do you see this?” She waved the book in my face, and I sneezed.

The girl leaned over to place it in my hands, her breath smelling of oranges.

“This . . . is something very special, and very dangerous.” She glanced behind her, looking apprehensive. “I have to go soon. Please be careful with it, okay?”

I looked down at the book in my hands. The plain green cover was fraying at the seams, and its riveted pages dug into my palms. The title was written in peeling gold, so covered in dust that I could barely see it. I could just make out the letters. Universe. I hooked a thumb under the cover, but the girl took in a sharp breath, and I quickly pulled away my hand.

“Not yet!” she repeated. “You’ll know. When the time is right.”

I glanced back up at her. “You’re letting me keep this?”

“Yes, yes.” She waved my question away.

“But . . . why me?” I said. I shouldn’t have let hope rise in my chest, the thought that maybe I had been chosen for some sort of great adventure.

The girl squashed that hope with one withering look. “In fact, no one else wanted it. I’ve been walking around this library for the past half an hour trying to get someone to take it.

“I can’t stay any longer. If you spill anything on the book, it’ll be the last thing you ever do. Leave it on your windowsill at full moon. That should . . . recharge it.”

“Um,” I said. “What exactly do you mean, recharge it?”

“Recharge its powers,” the girl said in a soft voice. She must have caught my doubtful expression, because she added, “You can believe me or not, I don’t really care which. At least the book will be gone.”

The little girl turned to leave, but I grabbed her arm before she could disappear.

“Wait—can you tell me why no one wanted it? And where are you going?”

She just shrugged me off with a smile. “Fate has many places to be at this hour. It’s such a big, big universe and souls are such small, small things.”

“Ask for Fate— for me—in an emergency,” said the girl. “Emergency only, you hear me?”

She turned the corner of the bookshelf and disappeared. When I poked my head around the corner, I saw nothing but dust and books.

. . .

I stood there for a while with Universe in my hand. I stared at it, and got a faint sensation something in there was staring right back at me. I decided the logical thing to do would be to leave the book, forget about talking to the strange little girl, and go back home with a different novel.

Before I could put the book back, I heard a familiar voice from the other side of the library. I looked over to see my older brother, Chance, talking to a librarian.

“I’m looking for my brother. His name is Ren . . . he’s thirteen, curly red-brown hair, kinda short—”

“Chance?” I said, and he turned around with a sigh of relief. “There you are. I’ve been looking for you for the past half an hour.”

I frowned. I was sure I had only been talking to Fate for a couple of minutes.

“What were you doing?” Chance asked. He ran his hand through his hair—dyed black for as long as I could remember.

“Picking cherries. What do you think I was doing?”

I suppose I got my sarcasm from him.

Chance rolled his eyes. “I’m glad you found a book. Though it looks rather . . . well loved.”

“I got it from this little girl,” I said. “I think her name was Fate. She wasn’t very nice.”

“Lovely.” He wasn’t listening. Chance traced the scar that ran from the bottom of his left eye to his cheek. He was seven years older than me, but he never seemed a whole lot smarter. He always invented different stories when I would ask how he got the scar, so I always assumed he had done something stupid and cut himself.

“Are we leaving now?” I tried to put the book back on a shelf but couldn’t find a way to wedge it in.

“You’re not taking it? Don’t you need more books?” Chance said.

I didn’t respond as I tried to find a place to put the book.

 “What’s it about?” he said. 

“I don’t know. I wasn’t supposed to open it.” 

At this, Chance gave a little frown and leaned in to look at the book. A look of dread flitted across his face and he pulled away, glancing at me. 

“What is it?”

“Nothing.”

He was a terrible liar, but I didn’t say anything. Mostly to spite him, and a little bit because I felt strangely drawn to the book, I grabbed it from the top of the shelf and brought it with me. When we reached the library’s desk, Chance turned around to look at me.

“You’re checking it out after all?” he said, glancing down at Universe.

“Yes.” I stared at him, waiting for Chance to object. But all he did was take the book from my hands and bring it to the desk.

Strangely enough, the book did not seem to belong to the library. After quite a bit of confusion, a librarian finally concluded that it must have been left by someone—which was the truth—and therefore could not be checked out. I suppose I should have been expecting such a thing. Fate had not been so kind as to fix all of the little details of taking her book out of the library after getting it in, so now I would have to solve the issue on my own. Hopefully without becoming a book fugitive.

I tuned back into what the librarian was saying. “So we’ll have to take the book for now. It must be somewhat rare—I looked up the title and couldn’t find anything. Otherwise I would let you keep it. When it’s all fixed up, it will go through the process of being catalogued and marked before it’s available to loan. If you’d like, we can mark you down on a waiting list.”

“Are you sure I can’t have it now?” I said. “I’d be really careful.”

“Not yet, sorry.”

Chance cleared his throat and gave a nervous little smile, sliding the book across the table toward him. “Thank you for your help, though. Where should we put it?”

The librarian waved her hand in the direction of a heavy metal cart. “Just on that shelf, please.”

She hurried off and Chance stared after her with narrowed eyes. When he was satisfied that she was gone, he took my hand and began to walk in the direction the librarian had pointed. After we passed the cart in question, however, I tugged on the yellow and red sleeve of his sweatshirt and looked him in the eye. 

“Where are we going?”

“Where do you think, Ren? Home.”

“What about the book?” I asked.

He smiled again, tugging me along as we walked out the door. “It doesn’t belong to the library. It’s yours, now. Merry Christmas.”

“It’s probably worth a lot of money,” I said. I wanted the book, but stealing it seemed . . . wrong, I guess.  

“I’d hate to see our faces in the paper,” I said instead.

“You’re too modest.” Chance was walking faster now. He held the book as if it was a small child about to throw a fit, and he had to get it out before a tantrum would erupt and screaming ensued. 

We reached the car, and I slipped into the passenger seat. Chance began to drive home, past sloping hills and withered yucca, with the mountains looming in the distance.

“Can I have Universe?” I said, turning away from the familiar scenery.

“Not yet.” Chance tightened his grip on the steering wheel. I forced myself not to point out those two words had been used far too much in the past few minutes. I made a face at him before grabbing a school notebook and a pencil from the dashboard.

I, Renwyn Northwood, am officially dying of boredom. Two years of living in the Nowhere Town of Wray, Colorado, can do that to you. Especially if you live in a falling-apart house, next to a mountain that spontaneously blocks your wifi, and can go to only one library in the whole town. And the only interesting thing that ever happens, your brother has to go and take away.

My pencil snapped, and I looked up. 

Chance had turned to read over my shoulder. At my glance, he said, “What are you writing?” 

“My death note,” I told him. “I’ve discovered my diagnosis. The people that own our house next will discover it beside my dead body.”

“Well, I’d give you the book, but I’m driving.”

“What kind of excuse is that? You’re not even driving right now.”

He glanced back at the road and swerved to avoid a truck spitting up an unreasonable amount of smoke. The driver yelled something over the wind at him.

“They say it will snow soon. A big storm,” Chance said to distract my glare.

I squinted out at the horizon. It did seem like a storm was approaching. It snowed too much in Colorado.

“Who says?” I asked.

“You know.” Chance shrugged. “The weather people.”

“It’s only December.”

“Maybe we’ll get snow for Christmas.”

“Maybe.”

We pulled into our driveway. In the middle of nowhere, as usual. I closed my eyes and wished I was anywhere else, then opened them. My wish had not been granted. 

“You shouldn’t have done that.” I said

“Should I have kept driving?” He stepped out of the car and walked toward the house. I had to run to catch up with him, grabbing his arm. 

“I mean stolen the book,” I said. Chance kept walking, face emotionless, the book under his arm. He opened the door, then slammed it shut behind him. I stared at the flaking wood for a minute, before finally easing open the door. It creaked, and chips of peeling paint fluttered off of it. Chance stood at the counter, unleashing his irritation upon a loaf of bread. A wedge of cheese sat beside him, heralding the telltale arrival of the only meal he could cook without utter failure.

“Grilled cheese. Something new and different,” I said.

Chance looked up, cutting his finger with a knife. He cursed. “Why did you do that?”

I watched a trickle of blood seep into the bread, which I could now see was whole grain. This day was just getting worse and worse.

“You’re getting blood all over my sandwich,” I said. “Besides, how am I supposed to eat it if we don’t have any ketchup?”

“That’s disgusting. Nobody puts ketchup on grilled cheese,” Chance said, wiping the blood off his finger with an old towel.

“I do.” I grabbed the bread from his hands. “I’m going to bike to the gas station to get some.” 

“I wouldn’t. I already told you, there’s a storm brewing.”

I walked into the living room and opened the window. Sure enough, a freezing wind blew my hair into my face as I poked my head out, frowning up at enormous, ice-heavy clouds. It was unnatural. Storms didn’t come that fast.

“Close that window!” Chance shouted from the other room. I closed the window and stomped past him.

“I’m going out anyway,” I said. “You can have my sandwich if I die.”

“Fine! Get struck by lightning for all I care.” In a smaller voice, he said, “at least wear your helmet.”

 Opening the door, I stepped out into the snowstorm. I tried to take a breath and got only a mouthful of frigid snow. Coughing the snow out, I turned myself right back around. The door slammed shut behind me, the house a welcome relief from the cold, and I collapsed on a chair to thaw.

“Well, look what the cat dragged in, Ren. That ketchup sure came fast.” Chance set the burnt grilled cheese in front of me.

“I’m not going out in that,” I told him. The grilled cheese was still smoking, but I ate it anyway. 

“What did I tell you? Want some apple cider?”

“Yes, but I’ll make it.”

. . .

We sat at the table, watching the snowstorm and sipping cider. I stared down into my mug pensively.

“Hey, Ren?” Chance said. I looked up as he tugged something crumpled and white out of his pocket.

“I was digging around the filing cabinet while you were at school today and I found—” he unfolded the object and smoothed it out— “this.”

It was a photograph, a black and white picture dusted with age. The picture was a shot of Chance holding a toddler up on his shoulders, laughter frozen on both of their faces. 

“Who’s that?” I asked, pointing to the little boy.

Chance smiled. “That’s you.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, really. I think our dad took it.” Chance held the photograph out to me. “Here. You should keep it.”

I hesitated. “Maybe I shouldn’t. I don’t want to lose it.”

“Please, Ren? Just in case,” he said.

Just in case . . . what? I wondered. Something happened to Chance? Something happened to the house? What did he mean? I started to open my mouth, but Chance was already putting the photograph into my hands. I took it and rubbed a smear off with my sleeve, noticing a signature on the back that must have been my dad’s.

“I wish they were here,” I said, touching the signature.

“Me too, Ren. Me too.” Chance glanced at the clock. “You have school tomorrow. You should get to bed.” Then, with a little smile, my brother handed me Universe. “For good dreams.”

Title: Universe

Genre/Age range: Middle Grade Fantasy (11-14 age range)

Author: L. B. Houston

Word count: 60,000

Why project is a good fit: My project is a good fit for Trident because I see your agency represents sci fi and fantasy.

Summary/hook:

Ren Northwood hasn’t stolen the book. Well...he may have helped steal it, just a little, but it’s mostly his older brother Chance’s fault. And to be fair, this isn’t a regular book. It has a whole world within--literally.

But before the two can find out what the book really is, Chance is sucked INSIDE, and it’s up to Ren to rescue him. Even worse, the world within the book, called the Haven, needs saving from an ancient evil. Ren will need the help of two almost human friends and a whole lot of courage to save Chance and the rest of the Haven, before whatever created the evil spreading across the planet catches up to them.

But like, no pressure or anything.

Your bio: I’m a writer and illustrator of middle grade fantasy. I’ve been writing and painting most of my life. My artwork has been featured in galleries and shows across the state, including Artstreet, Appleton’s Art in The Park, UWGB’s Lawton Gallery, and the Art Garage. I am also part of the Visual Arts strand at East High School. In 2018, I won second place in the Delta Kappa Gamma writing contest. 

Platform(website): https://lbhoustonauthor.wixsite.com/books

<a href="https://twitter.com/Lbhoustonwriter?ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw" class="twitter-follow-button" data-show-count="false">Follow @Lbhoustonwriter</a><script async src="https://platform.twitter.com/widgets.js" charset="utf-8"></script>

Education: East High School

Personality / writing style: I write funny, dark, MG books, with a strong character voice and high stakes. I like to sneak in the occasional pop culture reference, though most of my themes have an environmental aspect.

Likes/hobbies: writing (of course), painting and illustrating my novels, being in nature

Hometown: Green Bay

Age: 14

Please email me at lbhoustonauthor@gmail.com if you are interested!

Melancholy?

Restlessness?

Feeling like waiting for something amazing or terrible to happen but it is too far out there. Beyond my comprehension. Tickling the edges of my mind. Something. Somewhere. Some answer out there I just can’t find.

I can’t wrap my brain around who or what or when that’s keeping me in such a state of emotional chaos. I meditate, walk, wait, pray. No answer.

I wish the sky would just open up and the answer to whatever it is my soul is searching for would be clear.

I listen. I hear distant rumbles of thunder and the constant low hum of the neighbors ac unit pumping away. No voice. No answer.

The clouds roll by in a grand show. A mix of deep gray clouds that hint at rain and a brilliant pink and orange sky that frame the puffy white clouds, almost animating them. They swim across each other like two oceans flowing across one another in an everlasting battle that neither will win.

But no big sign in the sky saying “do this” or “search here” or “the answer is this ...”

I don’t know the exact word to describe this feeling. Not happy, not sad, not indifferent. Maybe expectant? But not with a sense of hope or despair. Just expectant. It tortures me, this inability to comprehend or describe this emotion.

The sun has ended it’s descent. The night is pitch black save the twinkling of neighbors porch lights. The air is fresh with the promise of autumn weather. The answer won’t be found today . . .

Title: Nightfall

Genre: Women's Literature

Age Range: Mid-life

Good Fit: Good fit for gen x women who are now mid life and wondering why they are where they are in life at this point.

Synopsis: Now that the independent, sarcastic, rebellious, gen x "superwoman" who could be whatever she wanted has lived half her life . . , what's next? and what the heck happened to bring her to where she is now.

I am a 49 year old wife (married 29 years, husband is a very patient man!) and mom of two adult children. One who is an engineer and one in college for theatre and writing. I live in Houston, TX (I must hate myself to live here, lol! Not the prettiest place.) Literature major, but ended up running my own small businesses. Covid helped end the most recent business, so now taking a beat to figure out what's next. Dealing with first bouts of depression in my life. Crazy, loving, funny, sarcastic and an amazing cook!

The clock hangs over the mantelpiece, silent and unmoving. An ornament and nothing more with the minute hand stuck at five past and the hour hand broken, hanging loose. Only by chance pointing to the six. The family uses a new clock now, tall and imposing, standing in the corner with its own large body. It ticks in the silence, counting down days. Hours. Minutes. Seconds drip by, and both clocks wait for the night to be over, for the house to open its eyes.

The windows in the house display the darkness outside which by degrees is turning from a deep black to a dark blue, with each movement of the pendulum lifting another piece of the veil covering the sky. Both clock faces are turned toward the windows - they cannot help but observe this occurrence every day. The old broken clock above the mantelpiece can remember this same scene for the past thirty years. The Grandfather Clock is newer and can only recall fourteen or so.

As the moon disappears in the brightening sky, small sounds in the attic tell anyone alert enough to listen that the first member of the household has risen. Another clock is witness to this, a small and unassuming one that ticks quietly in the corner of the attic room. A girl sits up in her bed, causing the old floorboards to sag and telling the downstairs clocks that she is awake. She glances at the time (half past five) and yawns, running her hands through her hair. Swinging her legs around she steps into worn slippers to avoid the chill of the hard wooden floor and rises to begin her day.

The house is otherwise silent. Only the clocks are witness to the lonely girl who sweeps the house, who scrubs and brushes and clears. She frowns as she flicks a duster over the face of the broken clock, and makes sure to clean around and under the Grandfather’s pendulum. As she begins breakfast and the smell rises through the house, others appear. A tall imposing woman strides into the room first and sits at the table where the girl has laid a plate of food. The woman eats quickly and purposefully, and then begins to speak.

None of the conversation reaches the clocks, deaf and dumb. But they watch, and they see the woman’s face, stern and unyielding. And they see the girl, hands twisted tightly in the folds of her dress, shoulders pulled up and forward and her head and neck as close to her body as possible as if holding something in. Or possibly keeping something out. She nods and smiles and agrees and her hands grip her dress so hard that her knuckles turn white. The clocks know how many dresses she has mended late at night after having twisted them apart.

But two more girls appear, jostling down the hallway to the table and diverting the woman’s attention. Two more plates are laid out and they quickly clean them. The girl in the kitchen quietly makes a plate for herself and eats like a prey animal, continually looking around in fear of predators. This girl need not fear predators, but she glances every once in a while at the woman and other girls anyway. Slowly, their conversation gains her attention and she sets her plate down, careful not to attract the woman’s notice. The Grandfather’s slow, measured tick tock takes on a more edged tone. This was different, a break in the morning ritual they had observed for so long. What could they possibly be talking about?

The two girls hurry back to their rooms, where there is a buzz of activity. The entire house appears suffused with a type of frenetic bustling. At one point the kitchen girl manages to stop the woman as she flies around the house and appears to converse with her. Whatever she says, the woman brushes it off and sweeps around her, barking soundless orders at the two girls. The kitchen girl sags and tugs at her skirt, reminiscent of when her hands were twisting it to shreds. She turns and grabs a bucket.

There is a compact, neatly flowered clock in the hallway on which the woman and the two girl’s rooms reside, and through the open doorways it can see a huge amount of activity. Both girls feverishly search through what seems to be miles upon miles of fabric, cutting, sorting, measuring. But at some point one of the girls pauses. She looks around at the cloth that piles on her lap and spills over her floor and begins to pick up certain pieces. A long pink strip. Several strings of beads and pearls. She slips away from her sister and mother and down the hallway. The Grandfather clock does not see her emerge, but the broken one does. She looks anxious and harried. The kitchen girl is outside and through the window the Grandfather clock can see her scrubbing the front path. Her shoulders are taut and there is intent in her every motion. The other girl with the armful of fabric and pearls glances at her too, and her face sets. She rushes up the long, winding staircase that leads to the kitchen girl’s room.

The small clock tucked into the corner of the room observes her entrance. She stops and scans the entirety of the room, where normally there is nothing to see. But today a dress stands in the corner, unearthed that morning in a trunk of old clothes. It is worn and faded, plain and unflattering. The sister gets to work, pinning and cutting and sewing, using some of the material planned for her dress and most of the discarded scraps. Her face is pinched and looks perpetually aggrieved, but in this moment the clock sees the wrinkles in her brow smooth, the frown lines around her face being replaced by the concentrated effort of her work. The dress is transformed, each string of pearls placed with care, each piece of fabric sewed with exaggerated precision. When it is done the sister does not hesitate but grabs the bundle of remaining scraps and rushes down the stairs. The broken clock and Grandfather in the living room witness her flight to her room, and the small flowered clock in the hallway witnesses what happens next. Her mother is standing in the sister’s room, hands on her hips. The sister cringes and for a moment is the kitchen girl, hunched and protective. Then the mother’s hand moves too quick to be seen and slaps her twice across the face. She doesn’t flinch - the clock has seen this often enough. The mother leaves to her room and the sister collapses onto her bed, shaking.

In another part of the house, the mother’s clock watches her. The clock is wooden and unornamented, austere but not beautiful. It cannot give testimony to the fact that the mother collapsed, sobbing onto her bed, and yet it saw. Everything that occurred in that room is its story to tell if it could.

The living room clocks watch the sky grow dark again, just as they have many thousands of times before. But this time is different. No one is slowing down, heading to their rooms. The living room and kitchen area is still heavily trafficked, by all of the family but most often by the kitchen girl who with tight little steps goes back and forth cleaning, rinsing, scrubbing, mopping, and clearing with that same intensity and focus that she had earlier that day. Occasionally Grandfather sees one or the other of the sisters looking at her with a curious, almost compassionate expression. They always stops when their mother arrives.

Through the window is movement - a carriage appears. There is a last bustle of activity, and finally the two sisters and the mother stand in front of the door, about to leave. The kitchen girl clears the last pot from the table and rushes up the stairs, where the living room clocks lose sight of her. Her small bedroom clock watches her enter, is witness to when she catches sight of the dress. A sob of relief escapes her lips and she rushes to touch it, to convince herself that it is real. It is real. She puts it on and nearly skips out of the room.

Skipping for earnest now, she enters the living room. Her face is impossibly bright and her eyes sparkle. When her family sees her they go absolutely still. The sister who helped her, frozen rigid with fear. The other, unable to move out of some strong emotion that comes across as rage. And the mother, back so ramrod straight as to be bending, bowing under the pressure of holding itself up. The second sister acts first. The clocks watch as she grabs a handful of beads and tugs, sending them scattering to the ground, and only they know how the other sister stiffens even more at the sight. Only they know that the kitchen girl’s mouth quivered as if biting back an aborted sob. And only they know how the mother’s hands twitched as if, just for a moment, she had the urge to grasp her skirt tightly.

The moment is gone and the other sister reaches out to tug at the lace that she had just hours before sewn on. The mother watches outwardly impassive and the kitchen girl stands stock still, feeling the bruising impact of her siblings’ hands. The second hand ticks by, and the minute hand has only moved twice before the dress is completely unrecognizable, ripped beyond repair. Only three more minutes and the mother and two daughters are gone, whisked away by the coach which disappeared from the window and therefore from the clocks’ vision.

The kitchen girl stands there for so long Grandfather’s minute hand makes its way nearly half way around the face. Then, without warning, she stumbles through the door, trailing rags like ribbons. She goes the opposite way of the coach, away from the windows. The clocks tick in the darkened house, waiting and waiting. When aren’t they waiting? But she doesn’t come back in.

There is another clock, embedded in the top of the coach. It is small and elegant, drawing attention to itself with the quiet, expensive accents that allow it to blend in to the coach drapes. Out hurry the two sisters and the mother, clad in bright and festive colors. Behind them a small figure can barely be seen through the windows of the house, standing perfectly still.

The two sisters get into the coach, and the clock notices that their hands are shaking slightly. The clock’s hands tick onward smoothly and silently, counting down the time until it is time to start counting down again. The minute hand gets nearly a quarter of the way around the face before the mother appears inside the coach. She offers no explanation to her daughters, and indeed barely acknowledges them. Her face is set and her hands are twisted together.

The mother’s clock is positioned better than any clock in the house to look out on the small plot of land that lies around the back. The clock has seen a forest of freshly sprouted flowers, a tangle of fruit vines. For many years now it has been nothing but bare ground and patches of scrub. Rarely does one of the family venture there, and then it is almost always the kitchen girl. Tonight however, the mother appears carrying a medium-sized box. She sets it down on an ornately carved but faded and peeling bench, and begins to leave. As she turns she catches sight of the kitchen girl by the corner of the house, frozen and ghost-like. The clock does not know what the mother says, but she points to the box and words are exchanged. Then she is gone, back to the coach with her daughters, and the girl takes the box where the clock cannot see it.

The ballroom is huge, lit brightly and filled with joy and color. The clock equals or exceeds the room in its grandness, a huge sculpture of gold and marble. It enjoys this night of excitement, knowing that long days of darkness and dust lie ahead. Although it cannot hear the music, the synchronized movements of the musicians give tone and quality to the picture. Brightly dressed figures swirl in the center of the room and even more linger around the edges, mouths moving and hands gesticulating as they talk. From its vantage point the clock can see that there is a purpose to the eddies and waves of people. They move back and forth, up and down, but all inexorably move towards one boy. He dances, and talks, and acts like any other of the guests, but the press of the people in the room is obviously directed at him. He greets two girls, their dresses long and flowing with pearls and beads artfully adorning them. Their mother watches unobtrusively, an expression of forced pleasantry on her face as she leans against a pillar.

The doors open once more and another girl steps in, finely dressed and fashionably late. The clock does not understand, but is patient. It figures out most things with time. It sees how the room clears before her until she is standing in front of the boy, and for an instant her hands reach to grab at her dress, before she stops herself. They talk, so low that people around them lean in to hear. The clock notices the musicians changing, bows moving slowly but distinctively. The ball resumes, and while the girl dances the two others and the mother huddle in a corner, unsure of what to do. The sisters look annoyed, although every once in a while one or the other will seem slightly confused - looking hard at the girl dancing. The mother however is watching the dance with an expression curious to behold. A kind of bitter longing, resignation, and a deep sadness that seems almost older than she is.

They dance and dance, and the second hand ticks and the minute hand tocks and slowly the hour hand creeps toward the beginning of its journey. Slowly, slowly watch it move closer and closer until the final tock.

The dancing girl looks up at the clock and in her face is such a variety of thoughts and emotions that it would take many balls to decipher. She turns, ignoring the boy’s outstretched hand, ignoring the irregular movements of the crowd that mark their confusion. She disappears through the doors of the ballroom, and the clock is disappointed to see the end of the party. The boy rushes to follow and after some moments of confusion the rest of the ball begins to shut down. For several hours there is cleaning, dusting, and packing, and then the ballroom is empty, moonlight lancing down through high windows onto the empty dance floor, and the clock is alone once more.

Grandfather ticks restlessly, both it and the broken mantelpiece clock unsure of this break in the scheduled monotony of the day. Finally the kitchen girl comes in, wearing nothing but the ragged dress she had left in, breathless but seemingly happy. Grandfather has never seen her in this state of mind, although the old broken clock can remember when her mother and father were alive, and she was as bright and shining as she is this night. She immediately walks upstairs to her room, where her small clock sees her change into her tattered nightdress and lie down. But she does not go to sleep.

Quite a few ticks of Grandfather’s minute hand later there is noise outside and the two sisters and the mother arrive, breathless but definitely not happy. The two sisters are outraged and righteously indignant, although occasionally the one that ripped the kitchen girl’s dress first looks with surprisingly quiet, reflective eyes towards the attic. They frequently turn to their mother to back them up, but she is distracted and rarely answers. Her eyes flick often to the attic stairs.

The next morning comes, bright with sunshine and the promise of rain. The promise of something else as well - there is much excited talking among the sisters and mother, and although the kitchen girl is not included she lingers near, listening. The mantelpiece clock sees her suddenly drop her load and disappear up to her room. Both it and the Grandfather clock see her sister quietly ascending the stairs behind her, an iron key in her grasp.

In her room the girl hums as she puts together another dress, using the scraps from the night before and from other dresses and shirts. The small clock of course doesn’t hear anything, but it is obvious that she does because her head jerks up, staring at the doorway. She tries the handle, which doesn’t work. She knocks, but no one answers. In despair she curls up on the floor inside the door and stays there, not crying but indifferent and numb.

The living room clocks see the door open, and an older gentleman walk in. He carries with him an air of importance and a glass slipper. One sister starts to try on the shoe immediately, but the other slips away. She climbs the stairs and disappears into the attic. In the attic room, the girl suddenly uncurls from her position on the floor. Another noise. Cautiously she tries the door handle and it is unlocked. The sister appears in the living room and moves to try on the shoe while her mother and sister watch. Now there is more movement from the attic stairs. The kitchen girl appears, mouth moving. The gentleman nods in acquiescence and steps forward, proffering the shoe. As he does, the clocks see a sister move. Just slightly, she pushes her mother who jabs out her stick for balance. The gentleman trips over it, the shoe flying out of his hand and shattering. He is obviously in despair, the sisters looking respectively horrified and smug, and the mother wearing an expression that the clocks can’t read.

Surprise flashes across the kitchen girl’s face before it is replaced with hope. From her pocket she pulls out another shoe, identical to the first. All present seem surprised by this turn of events, except the mother. The gentleman takes the shoe and it fits on the kitchen girl’s foot. There is quite a lot of talking, and then she is gone. Out of the house and not in the windows, and gone from where the clocks tick.

The gentleman left with her, and as the weeks go by the sisters’ clothes begin to look old and frayed. Their mother cooks breakfast, and they begin to sell things. First a table, and they eat breakfast on the ground. Next is Grandfather, and for a while after that they are happy and well-fed. But money never lasts and soon they sell the chairs. Dresses. The delicate little clock in the hallway. They would sell the mother’s clock, but it is attached to the wall of the house. They begin selling other clothes, going out with bundles of shirts and coming back with a couple coins or a loaf of bread. They find the old clock in the attic and buy fresh vegetables. Finally they take the broken down clock from above the mantelpiece where it has watched from for thirty years. They barely get a handful of beans.

The mother spends more time in her room, skeleton thin under her ragged clothing. Her daughters twist words and snarl at each other, then smile and bat their eyes at others. And the mother’s clock remembers when she made a dress, a dress that was lovelier than both her daughter’s dresses combined. And the clock remembers how she had poured her life into it, and put it in a box and gave it to the thin girl in the rags that floated like ribbons. And in far away places the girl - not so thin anymore - tells the tale of how though her mother and sisters abused her, locked her up, and tormented her the fairy godmother saved her with a beautiful dress and the mice set her free. And what else does she know?

It still stands, that wooden clock. Austere, but not beautiful. Plainly for service only, for the telling of time and nothing else. It saw what happened in that house long ago, and it remembers the heartache and loneliness and sorrow. It is still waiting.

What else can it do?

Provisional Title: Storied Lands

Genre: Magical Realism/Fairy Tales

Age Range: 12-18?

Word Count: ~40,000

Author Name: Jane Farrar (pseudonym)

Good Fit: You came to a free, public writing site in search of authors. To me this means you want progressive, against-the-grain writers who are new to publishing work and I am certainly that.

Synopsis: This is a book of about ten short stories based off of fairy tales but retelling them in ways that make people rethink the assumptions they make about the characters. Think stories like Wicked by Gregory Maguire, in a format like Language of Thorns by Leigh Bardugo. The stories include Cinderella (as told by clocks), Little Red Riding Hood (what the woods saw) and The Little Mermaid (tales of living rocks). Each story changes the original in a different way. The stories are not interconnected except for possibly Little Red Riding Hood, Snow White, and Hansel and Gretel which may be connected through the forest.

Hook: Familiar fairy tales, twisted to reveal darkness and pain hidden inside them. No wishy-washy princesses, no power-hungry-for-no-reason villains, no strong and brave saviors. The main characters of these tales are the poor, the misled, the hungry and the desperate and people can empathize with them.

Target Audience: YA readers who are disenfrachised with fairy tales and want something with more substance.

Platform: N/A

Bio: I am a 16-year-old girl who just completed her junior year of high school, on track for an IB diploma. I love to read, write short fiction/poems/bits of books and I run cross country. Quarantine has broadened my skill set, and I’m now a student representative to the school board figuring out how to reopen school and learning how to bake bread.

Education: Two years of high school (I skipped sophomore year), plus a senior IB English Literature class.

Experience: I have never published, but I’ve been writing quite a lot, especially stories for a Dungeons and Dragons campaign I’ve been running for two years now.

Personality: I love to run with my dog and friends, bake treats, think about quantum and philosophy and string theory, learn cool stuff, and bike/hike/swim/run/camp with my friends. I once convinced three people that worker bees are not alive.

Writing Style: I haven’t really thought about this before. When I’m writing shorter works I tend towards broken sentences and formatting that adds to the story. I’m really into description and dialogue is not my forte, although I’m working on it. When I write anything long it’s mostly from the perspective of a teenage girl, and deals with issues that I have/am dealing with (ex. climate change, etc.).

Likes: I love running, reading, chocolate, lemon treats, my dog, the Imperial Radch trilogy, doing things for people, and taking on more than I can handle. Also existential crises and questions like ‘if an indestructable disk were moved closer and closer to light speed, what would happen?’

Hobbies: reading, yoga, baking, running, collecting shells, swimming, Dungeons and Dragons, creating languages and cultures for non-existent universes. Also defining words really exactly while at the same time claiming that no word can have a perfect definition or translation.

I live in Olympia, Washington.

Chapter 18

Ben

The truck was on fire. Amy was blacked out in the driver’s seat. Jason was already out of the truck and firing upon the other car. Mike was trying to get Amy out of the truck and behind some cover. I was soaring through the air. Large black wings like those of a dragon coming through my back.

I could feel scales growing on me. I was shifting into something. I had been genetically modified by the scientists at the prison.

Swooping down at the enemy car I tore at the roof with my claws. Pulling the roof back like the lid of a can of sardines I opened my mouth and shot fire into the interior of the car. I launched myself into the air again as the car exploded.

Pieces of shrapnel flew everywhere. A few pieces imbedded themselves into my tail. The rest went flying into the forest, hitting into trees or killing any unfortunate animal that happened to be in the area.

A scream split the air, turning I listened for another. I tried to discern the direction it had come in. Then, blood, lots of it. The smell hit the air and beckoned me to follow.

The scent brought me around the cars. Through some bushes on the side of the road and behind a large tree. The source was Amy who had been hit by the shrapnel and now needed serious medical attention. Neither Mike nor Amy had noticed me yet.

Deliberately I snapped a twig a few feet from them then sat. Both reacted by snapping their heads in my direction. “What was that?” Mike asked.

“I can’t see anything,” replied Amy.

“I’m right here. Come on you guys, can’t you see me?” I said. A look of confusion crossed both of their faces.

“Where are you Ben? I can’t see you,” Amy said.

“Alright I’m coming forward a little,” I said. Stepping forward slightly I brought my head down to face level with Mike and Amy. “Here I am,” I said with a grin, well less of a grin than me baring my teeth.

“Jesus Christ! What the hell are you doing?” Mike asked, seemingly unfazed by my being a dragon.

“Bruh, do you not see me?” I asked with a twitch of my wings and thump of my tail. I held out my claws to Mike and Amy, hoping they would realize what I was.

“Holy, hell. You’re a dr-dra-dr-dragon!” Amy screamed.

“Shhh! Not so loud! We don’t need the entire world to here about this. Got that?” I said.

“Yeah, we got that,” Mike said. Looking to Amy, I gave her as much of a questioning look as I could.

“Alright, fine. I just can’t believe that you’re a dragon. Why didn’t you tell us?” Amy asked.

“I’ve been feeling strange for the past couple of days. Last night, when we were attacked, I saw the woman that exploded. She said that my mom was still alive and being held captive. She also said that I would find the power I seek in Anchorage.”

“What would that mean?” Mike asked. “I mean, ‘the power you seek’ can mean anything.”

“I think the woman was sending me a message. Maybe the power I seek is being a dragon. Maybe its finding my mom. Maybe it’s getting rescued and taken back home,” I replied.

“Have you ever wanted to be a dragon?” Mike asked.

“Well, I did when I was a kid,” I replied.

“Then, there you go. That’s the power you seek,” Mike concluded. This statement gave me pause because Mike was never one to jump to conclusions let alone about something so big. Mike was always rational and logical, looking for a way to make his decisions on logic not emotion.

“Okay... how do you know that?” I asked carefully. I was treading on thin ice right now and we both knew it. There was something that Mike was hiding.

“I just … know,” Mike replies hesitantly. I can see from his face that he is indeed hiding something but won’t tell me without some motivation.

“What do you want Mike? I know you won’t tell me anything unless you get something out of it. So tell me, what do you want?” I watch his face shift into an expression of thought.

“You have to take me to a place.”

“What place?”

“It is in Mexico,” Mike replies.

“I need more than that,” I say.

“What more could you ever need?”

“I need more information. Where is this place? What city or town? What address?” I ask. “I can’t just walk into something without sending scouts. You know I’m not that dumb.”

“Alright fine. The address is one this paper,” says Mike as he hands me a small slip of paper.

“I’ll look into it when I can. But first you must tell me what you are hiding,” I say.

“I used to work for the US government. I was the Senior Military advisor to President Solomon.”

“You were the president’s right hand man?!” I yell. I take a step toward Mike, ready to rip him apart.

“Stop! I know what you want. I know what that woman said before she died. I know you saw her earlier,” Mike said frantically.

My eyes grow wide. “How? Was it part of her . . . implant?”

“Yes, all implants are controlled by the president personally and are programmed to keep the soul of the wearers present even after they die,” Mike said.

“What in the Hell??” I say. “Let me guess, the US government has the technology to travel from one end of the universe to the other in a few hours or something.”

“Actually, yes. I personally oversaw the project and the government currently has seven star systems under it’s control.”

“You have got to be kidding me. So, this war that I’m fighting is going to be in space too?”

“Yes. Eventually the US government will get bored of you and will call on it’s space fleet to blow off the face of the Earth. That place I want you to take me to? It has the blueprints and scientists of the project. They went into hiding after the government tried to kill them,” Mike said.

“UGH! So, 1.) I am a dragon which means there is probably a natural species of dragon. 2.) I need to build a space fleet and conquer entire star systems or make treaties with whatever species that I encounter. 3.) I need to rescue my mom. 4.) I need to deal with the war here. And finally, 5.) I have to figure out the implant situation,” I say.

“I can help with that,” Mike replies.

“What in the actual fuck?? So you’re telling me that I need to shoot my ass out into outer space and shoot a bunch of Star Trek geeks?”

“Well that’s one way to put it. We should get back to your army first. That way we have the resources to plan an operation to save your mom and retrieve the space fleet researchers and blueprints.”

“Okay, Mike. Just tell me one thing. Am I high?” I ask.

“Nah, man. I know it’s hard to believe but it is true. You need to advance the technology you use if you want a chance at saving your mom and winning this war,” Mike says dryly.

“So you’re telling me that I need to trust someone who I barely know to help me win my war?”

“There is nothing to be done about it but you do need to trust me,” Mike says. “I know it sounds stupid but I know someone who can help us with your dragon situation.”

“Who?”

“Someone I like to call Anubis the Elder.”

Chapter 19

Anubis

The flash of scarlet scales in the arid desert landscape catches the eye of Anubis. The hot desert sun beats down on Anubis’ human form. Finally, Inferno is here.

The shape of a dragon finally wings out of the shadows of the foothills of the Sierra Nevada Mountains. It would have been impossible for any humans to survive out in the Death Valley desert, but the heat perfectly suited the dragons. “Anubis! How long you been out here?” Inferno called interrupting Anubis’ thoughts.

“I been here for a few days. What the hell took you so long anyway? You were supposed to be here a day ago.”

“Yeah, yeah. Shut your mouth and listen up. We got a problem up in Alaska. Our little friend Mike has escaped and says he needs help. Something about a human being genetically modified into a dragon.”

“Who is this human?”

“You won’t believe it. You know that New Roman Republic? Their leader was captured a few weeks ago. He escaped with Mike and is the human who got modified. Also Mike said something about having to steal that stupid spaceship research from the government.”

“Soo... we need to go into space or something?”

“Yeah, welcome to the 21stcentury where wars need to be waged in space with the help of dragons.”

“Yayyy! In all of my three thousand years I never thought I would be working with a genetically modified human-dragon thingy to wage a war in space,” Anubis says sarcastically.

“Yep! So off to Alaska we go!” Inferno beams. Hopping into the sky, she beckons for Anubis to follow her.

Anubis feels his human form falling away and feels a ripple of heat in the air as his hulking form takes to the sky. Off to Alaska, Anubis thinks wryly.

Title: Big Ben (Civil War)

Genre: Fantasy Romance/War Romance/Sci-Fi

Age Range: 13-21 (Teen/Young Adult)

Word Count: 1603 (sample) and 16046 (total)

Author Name: Hunter Black (pen name)

My project is a good fit because it caters to many different genres while also providing characters that readers can connect to. The plot is invigorating and is constantly providing new twists and turns in the story.

Hook: "The sunset is a beautiful thing that many people take for granted. The soft touches of orange and red mixed with the bold combinations of pink and purple. Many people wish they could see this before they died."

Synopsis:

Big Ben and his friends are tired of watching their country be torn apart. They are tired of being told that corruption in government is normal. They are trained and ready. They have the means to make a difference. So, why not try to make a difference? Ben takes you on an action packed journey through rugged forests and dazzling cities. His troubled past mixed with his uncertain future are sure to give readers the ride of their lives.

Target Audience: Teens/Young Adults interested in Fantasy, War, Romance, and Science Fiction

Bio: I am an aspiring author who currently has two unfinished novels, one unfinished memoir, and one finished novel manuscript. I often take inspiration from smaller things then I let my imagination twist this inspiration into a story.

I currently do not have a platform as I am an unpublished author.

I am a high-school student who is currently attending classes at a local community college in supplementation of my high-school courses.

I have a quirky writing style and often veer from a set course. I tend to have a strict plan for my works but by the time I get through a few chapters, new ideas and pathways form and I often merge them into an amazing story.

I enjoy reading and writing. I also enjoy going for runs in the morning and playing with my dog. The only hobby I have at the moment is writing.

My hometown is Fairfax, Virginia but I know nothing of my time there as I was only a baby.

I would not like to disclose my age as of this moment.

Thank you for your consideration,

Hunter Black