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"The Common Garden" by Martha Moffett Opening Chapter

2012-01-09T17:03:00.004-05:00

THE COMMON GARDEN

JUNE

Sow half-hardy annual seeds in protected frames; late in month, sow tender annual seeds . . . . Start mowing the lawn as soon as it begins to grow. . . . Set the blades of your mower high for first trim. . . . Shade young and newly set out plants. . . . Plant caladiums, tuberoses, and cannas. . . . Choose seedlings with stems the thickness of a pencil; avoid leggy, yellowing seedlings. . . . Hand weeding is laborious but effective. . . . Transfer pollen from male flowers to female flowers with a small paintbrush, or push the male flowers into the female ones. . . . Sow a second lot of candytuft, nigella, and cornflowers. . . Watch nasturtium seedlings closely for aphids. . . . Summer mulch may now be applied to everything.

CHAPTER ONE

Robin telephoned Paul. She telephoned him at the office if he was there. If he was at home and she was out, she called him from all over town, from the first-floor telephone bank at Lord & Taylor; from the telephone arcades in the library at Columbia University where from time to time she did some of her husband’s research on Common Market countries; from the phone booth outside the charming little restaurant on Madison and Sixty-first to tell him that a mushroom omelet and a small carafe of white wine had cost her fifteen dollars. Calling Paul was a way of staying anchored while sailing through the streets of the city. It was her first taste of life in a metropolis and she set out—relentlessly, Paul said—to explore every avenue.

She had him summoned from a sales conference to tell him that she had found an entire undiscovered area of New York City. His secretary sniffed at the end of every phrase, letting Robin know how frivolous it was to summon one’s husband from a sales conference at Marketing Associates International.

“Paul, it’s under this bridge—I think it’s the Manhattan Bridge—and a million Mainland Chinese are living here. I’ll swear, it’s more like Kowloon than Manhattan. Come see it. Come and have Dim Sum with me.”

“Robin, I’m busy. I’ll take your word for it. I’ll see the New Territories some other time.”

“Oh, all right. Sorry I bothered you. Wait a minute. Now I remember what I really called about. Can you leave the office at least long enough to dash out and buy a new tie? Summerish? St. Laurentish? Tomorrow’s the garden party. The Beckfords, in the middle house in the block. Remember? They invited us last week. Our first big New York party.”

“But not our last, one supposes. I’ll try. Now, Robin, get off the phone.”

“I will—no, not yet! Wait. Wait, Paul. I’m jammed in the phone booth. The door won’t open. Paul, I’m lost. I can’t see a street sign from here. I can’t tell you where I am. What’ll I do?”

“Oh, Robin, for God’s sake. Push the door in the middle.”

“I did.”

“Pull the handle.”

“There is no handle.”

Paul let a long sigh pass down the line to Robin’s anxious ear. “Tell you what you do next.”

“Paul—what?”

“Are you wearing a bra?”

“No.”

“Open your purse, put on your sunglasses, let your hair hang down, write ‘Help! I am Gloria Steinem!’ on a piece of paper, and hold it up to the glass. Someone will come along and let you out.”

“Paul! Wait!”

Toward the end of the day, Robin hurried up the stairs at her stop on the IRT local, her calves aching. No wonder the women in New York had such great legs; it took a lot of muscle power to sprint for trains and buses, up and down stairs, across streets, covering block after block, downtown, cross-town, uptown. She must have walked miles today, she thought. In addition, she was weighted down by the bundles in her arms. She had checked out half a dozen new cookbooks from the main library at Forty-second Street and lugged them with her to cooking class; now her arms were full of books and groceries. Out of breath, she emerged from the subway exit and headed in the direction of Park Avenue, toward the bright, sinking sun. At last she knew which way to go when she came up from underground without having to say to herself, “Let’s see, north, south, east, west.” She made herself wait for the green light at Park Avenue, although some hardened city dwellers lined up next to her on the curb decided to make a dash for it. Two nuns, the white hats of their order like paper boats, sailed unconcernedly across without even glancing at the oncoming traffic. How do they know they’ll make it to the other side? marveled Robin, sure that the driver of one yellow taxi had tried to come as close as possible to the billowing black skirts. She wondered when she would get over her self-consciousness at living in New York City and learn to walk blindly through the city like everybody else.

Her block—the block between Park and Madison—was putting out its best small-scale charm today. Not much longer would the high-rise apartment buildings that were creeping up the East Side allow this little remnant of an earlier New York to escape destruction. The line of contiguous narrow brownstone homes stood behind a row of plane trees. Each front stoop led to solid double doors with polished brass fittings. Through windows at different levels she could as she walked catch a glimpse of chandeliers, a wall of books, a flight of stairs. The winter jasmine vine from the Jensen house near the middle of the block had inched its way abroad for so many summers that it now hung like a great hairy green curtain over the fronts of five of the neighboring houses; Robin had welcomed a curling green tendril into the window of her upstairs study, thinking that all too soon, when the time came to close the window against the autumn chill, she and Paul would be gone, their time in the sublet brownstone up, and Paul’s stint in the home office completed.

Robin glanced along the street. In the distance, Central Park turned lilac under the trees. She bypassed the flight of stairs leading to the formal first floor of the house and let herself in by the door under the stairs, which opened into a cheerful blue and white tiled kitchen. There was no time to change. She threw down her bags and books, placed the braided loaf from cooking class carefully on the counter top, and began to prepare the evening meal.

She had started the countdown toward dinner that morning soon after clearing away breakfast and getting Paul off to the office. She had taken two chicken breasts from the refrigerator, inserted her thumb at the pointed end and peeled them like a glove, then holding a breast firmly at both ends bent it back until the prow-shaped breastbone popped out. She pulled the bone out and with a sharp knife cut the breast into halves.

Shaping the meat into flattened ovals, she carefully rolled each supreme around nuggets of sweet, chilled butter into which garlic, parsley, tarragon and lemon had been smoothed with a wooden spoon. The herbs she grew herself, in pots in a sunny spot on the terrace. Next she had wrapped the filets carefully, sealed them with egg yolks and breadcrumbs, and lined them up on a platter to sit on the refrigerator shelf until cooking time. Removing them, she checked her watch and saw that Paul would be home any minute. She’d better get a move on. As she began to drop the filets into the hot oil, one by one, she rehearsed the rest of the menu: with the chicken, they would have newly shelled green peas and diced cucumber, warmed in sour cream, with a pinch of fresh dill thrown in; the braided brown loaf still warm from the cooking-school oven, kneaded and punched with her own hands and rating the qualified approval of a hard-to-please Cordon Bleu-trained instructor; wine; and freshly ground coffee. Back home, she’d probably be frying pork chops. It was paradise to practice the culinary arts in New York City, where every ingredient, no matter how exotic or out of season, could be found, and any dish could be assembled.

Peering in through the steam that had collected on the kitchen window, Paul rapped for Robin to let him in. “Easier than fumbling for my keys,” he explained as Robin tripped the latch and threw open the door. “What are you cooking in here—steamed pudding?”

“That’s the coffee!” Robin said. She had an automatic coffeemaker in her kitchen in Ohio, and was not used to remembering to turn off the stove. She ran for a potholder, snatched up the steaming coffeepot from the burner, and advanced with it to the center of the room, where she hesitated as if lost in thought. Paul circled her warily on his way to deposit his briefcase and jacket in the hall closet.

“Robbie, what the devil are you doing?”

“What? Oh—it’s funny,” she explained. “The coffee is still perking. It feels like a heart beating, in my hand.”

“Put it down, for God’s sake, and I’ll give you the hausfrau’s reward—what every noble American woman is getting at this time of day in this time zone from every red-blooded American husband—” Paul gave her an exaggerated wet smack on her cheek and went on to nuzzle her neck. His arms went around her and his hands slid down to her ass. For a minute, as he hands reached lower, his weight on her shoulders was oppressively heavy, so that she twisted away and began busily to pile dishes and silverware on a tray. They had made it a practice, since taking temporary possession of the house, to eat supper in the big candlelit dining room that opened onto the tiny terrace at the back of the house, even when just the two of them were there for dinner.

In the two years they had been married, this had always been the most important part of the day, the time when they seemed most connected. At the table, with everything in place, Robin looked across at Paul a little anxiously. It’s ridiculous, she thought, to feel that every meal is crucial, to think that the success of the dish is somehow equal to the success of the relationship. She breathed a sigh of relief as Paul’s raised fork pierced the chicken and a jet of hot, aromatic butter shot forth—the test of this particular dish. He tipped his glass in her direction in a toast. All the light in the dim room gathered on the surface of her wine and mooned up at her. Idiot, she said to herself, dismissing her anxiety, her desire to please.

Paul reached for the loaf of fresh bread, breaking off a piece. “Is this the product of today’s labor at M’sieu Henri’s establishment?”

“Yes. I passed bread with flying colors, but I flunked brioche.”

“How’d you do that?”

“My brioche looked like a muffin. It didn’t have a bump on top. It had sunk to nothing. The bump’s obligatory. I said I had made an American brioche by mistake, and I think some of the other pupils accepted that. Not M’sieu Henri, of course.”

“Naturellement. M’sieu Henry wasn’t fooled for a minute.”

Contentedly, Robin watched him enjoy the meal, as if she were watching, through the candlelight, one of the shadowy figures she sometimes ministered to in dreams.

They spent the evening watching old movies on Channel 13. “Again?” Robin had protested as the credits for The Maltese Falcon rolled across the screen.

“Pipe down. I love it,” said Paul, playfully settling her on the couch, his hand warm under her blouse.

It was after eleven o’clock when Robin, on her way to bed, glanced out of the window, looking down from her bedroom at the back of the top floor to the small flagged area where she sometimes sat in the thin spring sunlight. I must do some work there later in the week, she reminded herself. The potted geraniums needed topping, and there were winter leftovers of dried vines and leaves to be cleared away. It would be fun to do the small-scale gardening that city living allowed. Beyond the paving at their back door there was a small pear tree, bravely blooming in the city air. She could smell the rising scent of the pear blossoms. And beyond that, there was a central area, consisting of a formless garden with a pebbled path, a few lilacs and ailanthus trees and a sentimental fountain, the common property of all the householders whose homes opened onto the center court.

Looking down the length of the garden, at the lights spilling from rear doors, Robin was struck by the thought that, in a way, in opening onto the common garden all the doors also opened into each other. Probably some of the neighbors knew each other well enough to use the back door, as informally as in a small town. Perhaps tomorrow, at the Beckford’s party, they would meet most of the people who lived in this double row of brownstones and put names to the faces she had already begun to identify as people from their block. She was looking forward to it; she loved parties.

The summer’s arrangements had really been more for her benefit than for his. Paul, spending time in both Ohio and New York, could as easily have been based at home, commuting to New York during the week, but they had decided that a summer in the city would be enlightening that it was an opportunity to get a taste of city life before they were tied down with kids.

“We were really very lucky to get this house,” said Robin as she slipped a nightgown over her head.

“What? Hey, don’t put that on. I’ll only have to take it off again. Oh, the house, yeah.”

“I’m so glad the Leas went to Europe. You know, they really wanted us to have the house, didn’t they? Funny how people who love New York always want everybody to see the city the way they see it.”

“Don’t be naïve, Robin. What they probably wanted was the rent, which the company was willing to subsidize to have this summer training program work.”

“No, they really wanted us to live in their house. Remember, they were talking about it last year, when we first met them at the new products market. They said then that someday they wanted us to love New York the way they did.”

“Well, enjoy it while you can, baby. In three months, it’s back to the suburban split-level for you. How long will it take your New York veneer to wear off?”

“Wasn’t aware I had one. In fact, I was thinking today when I was crossing Park Avenue that I’m still in culture shock,” answered Robin absently. She stripped off her gown and stood scratching her thigh, a slender woman with long limbs and narrow wrists and straight shining brown hair that fell below her shoulders.

“Come here and I’ll do that for you.”

Robin bounced onto Paul’s side of the bed for a good scratch. Like a kitten, she responded to the long, luxurious strokes. Gradually his nails dug deeper until she started and rolled away when one long scratch furrowed the skin on her back and ass, but Paul’s heavy leg came over and pinioned her. What did it mean, she wondered, when his caresses began to hurt? In the first months of their marriage, it had been her unspoken fear that Paul harbored a secret antipathy toward women—toward her, toward her sexuality—but later she came to feel that what she was seeing was simply the form his curiosity took as he studied her body and its responses. Thinking about it again, she wondered now if it was actually Paul—offering this playful roughness—who liked it? Was he inviting her to treat him violently in return? She shook her head. What could she do to Paul? He was a big man, a head taller than she. Nothing she could do would hurt him.

His curving fingers had turned into probes now, jabbing at her, just missing the clitoris; why couldn’t he remember it was more to the front? She clasped his hand and guided it forward. In, out; in, out; the growing moistness made it better. Friction, moistness, warmth . . . nice. Wouldn’t it be nice to come like this and then be ready when he entered her to come again? She was almost there when disappointingly he shifted his fingers, and the signal was lost, Robin fading and confused on its trail.

Now Paul’s full weight rolled upon her, and he lifted her legs, creasing her into the tightest possible casing for himself. He kissed her, his tongue entering her mouth at the same moment he penetrated her. She gasped. Then there was a long, timeless pounding until he released her and she straightened her limbs in a long stretch. Had she come, finally, had she finished, or had she been on her way to another level of response? She felt a spasm in her belly and decided that wherever she had been going, she hadn’t quite reached her destination.

Robin pulled the top sheet from the bed and wrapped herself in it like a cloak. She paused on her way to the bathroom and leaned her head against the cool windowpane, rolling her forehead back and forth. The scent from the little pear tree flowed across the windowsill in a wash of air that moved around her ankles.

She realized she had been staring down into the middle court for several minutes. There in the common garden, the abandoned fountain stood half in deep shadow and half in the perpetual soft light of Manhattan’s night. Robin was still. She could see a woman leaning against the fountain, her hips braced against the broad lip of the bowl. The woman’s hair hung loose about her shoulders; light gleamed along her cheek when she raised her head to let it fall back against her shoulder, pillowed by the flowing hair. She had the full, heavy-breasted figure of a classical statue . . . perhaps it was a statue? I must go out and look around tomorrow, Robin told herself. The common garden is not uncharted territory . . . I won’t fall off the map.

Her eyes sharpened their focus. No, it was not a statue. It was perfectly clear that it was a woman, resting languidly against the side of the fountain. Robin’s eyes swept the length of the garden. There were no lights burning at the backs of the houses, everyone was asleep then—or, like her, sleepy spies on their way to bed, hesitating invisibly at darkened windows.

The tight shadows across the garden shifted and broke up, and another figure stepped from the row of lilac trees and walked slowly forward, not stopping until he stood between the woman’s legs. He came so close that he might have overbalanced her except that his hands went out to anchor her hips, and her hands came up to hold his shoulders, as her skirt fell back and her legs came up to wind and clutch. . . .

“Paul!” Robin whispered urgently.

“Hmmmmm?”

“Oh . . . nothing. I think I must be dreaming. Or there must be some other explanation. I mean, they can’t be—” Why, she thought, that looks like—oh, who is he, the man who lives in the house with the skylight. But what is he doing?

Robin found a fresh pane to rub her cheek against. The cool glass flashed on her hot face. She knew she couldn’t really be dreaming because her eyes had that strained, dry feeling that comes from the lids having been pulled back too wide. The scene in the garden below was real. The man was real. He was moving his body against that of the woman in long, perceptively powerful strokes. At each slow impact, her body was almost lifted from the edge of the fountain where it rested.

The woman’s head snapped far back on her neck. Robin could see her face. She opened her own mouth in a silent moan that matched the unheard one below. The woman must have cried out. But upstairs, closed away in her bedroom that seemed suddenly airless, her hands before her wide-open eyes, Robin did not hear a sound.

The empty garden had grown darker when Robin stumbled to the bathroom and splashed cold water on her face. She dried her cheeks with a rough towel, and then rubbed away the stickiness between her thighs. Lying on her side of the bed, still wrapped in the sheet, she tossed from side to side for a while, then fell into a restless sleep, later sliding into deep slumber, where she dreamed of a man whose hand would touch her sex like the bell of a flower.

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"Dead Stick Dawn"Opening Chapter by Sharon M.

2011-11-12T12:51:00.001-05:00

PALM BEACH, FLORIDA

APRIL 27

En route to Palm Beach International Airport at thirty-one thousand feet, I heard a violent explosion in the passenger cabin. The cockpit rocked, followed by loud whooshing outside the Boeing 767 cockpit door. My copilot and I pulled on our oxygen masks. The cabin intercom chimed, and I heard noise and screaming as a flight attendant said, “Captain Starr, it’s Kimberly, aft cabin. A bomb exploded, and a man was sucked out!”

I scanned the instrument panel. “Where and how much damage?”

“Under the last window seat, left side, four-foot hole.”

“We need to dive to a safe altitude. Everyone buckled in?”

“Yes. Oxygen masks deployed. They’re putting them on now.”

“Okay, sit tight.” I turned to my copilot, Lance Calder. “A bomb exploded in the aft cabin—initiating emergency descent. Check passenger oxygen system is on, seat belt/no smoking signs are on, and set transponder to emergency code. Notify air traffic control and read the emergency descent checklist.”

“I’m on it, Sam.” Lance pulled out the checklist and entered the emergency code.

While he radioed the Miami Air Route Traffic Control Center, I throttled back our wounded airliner, extended the landing gear and speed brakes, and began a diving right turn to exit the jet route. Lance read the checklist out loud to ensure nothing was overlooked, as we plummeted to ten thousand feet above the sea.

I scanned the gauges when we reached our target altitude. “We’re level at ten, Lance. Remove your oxygen mask and take control. Then I’ll remove mine and call the cabin.”

I asked the flight attendants at every seat station for status reports.

“The hole isn’t getting bigger, there’s no fire, and the passengers are buckled into their seats with their oxygen masks on,” Kimberly reported.

“Good, I’ll talk to the passengers now.” I flipped a switch. “This is your captain speaking. Now that we’ve reached a safe altitude, everyone may remove their oxygen masks. Everything’s under control. We’ll be landing soon.” I took a deep breath and resumed flying.

The air traffic controller’s voice filled our headsets, “Luxury 434, Miami Center, state number of souls on board, fuel remaining, aircraft status, and intentions. Radar shows you ninety miles northeast of Palm Beach International Airport, level at ten thousand feet.”

I pushed the transmit button. “Miami Center, Luxury 434, a bomb blew a four-foot hole in the aft left fuselage. We lost one passenger. Could be more bombs and terrorists onboard. We’ll fly over water near the coastline and land south on the Kennedy Space Center runway, approaching over the unpopulated area north and east of the Space Center. Notify law enforcement and emergency services. ETA: fifteen minutes. One hundred and ninety souls on board and forty-five minutes of fuel remaining.”

The controller spoke in a dismissive, matter-of-fact voice, “Luxury 434, Miami Center, turn left heading one-eight-zero. Descend to six thousand feet. Plan to land at Palm Beach International Airport. Kennedy Space Center is not available to civilian aircraft.”

Nice try. “Negative, Miami Center, too many lives will be at risk if more bombs explode. The Space Center’s long, isolated runway is our only safe option. No launches or landings are posted for today. Deal with it.”

“Luxury 434, police may not have time to secure the area before you land.”

“Call the military base on Cape Canaveral. Ask them to establish a tight perimeter around my aircraft. We have the Cape in sight, descending to six thousand feet.”

Another explosion rocked the cockpit, followed by loud ringing and a bright red light.

“Captain, the left engine is on fire.” Lance pointed to the lighted number one fire handle.

The cabin intercom bell chimed. “Captain, it’s Tiffany, forward cabin. A bomb exploded under the empty left window seat, front row, first class—blew debris into the left engine. It’s burning. I put out the cabin fire, but I’m scared there’s a terrorist. Please send Lance to help us.”

Won’t be suckered into that mistake. “No, Tiffany. Everyone’s best chance for survival is if both pilots remain locked in the cockpit. Suck it up and prepare the cabin for an emergency landing and evacuation.” I ended the call and focused on saving the aircraft.

Lance tapped the glowing red fire light. “Captain, number one is still burning.”

The radio blared, “Luxury 434, Miami Center, the Space Center wants thirty minutes to prepare for your arrival. Hold twenty miles northeast of Melbourne VOR on the zero-six-zero radial at six thousand feet, right turns, ten-mile legs, until we clear you for the approach.”

“Negative, Miami Center, another bomb exploded. Left engine is on fire. Stand by.” I shut down the left engine and discharged the remote fire extinguisher into the flames. “Lance, call out the engine fire checklist followed by the single-engine landing checklist.”

As we ran through the checklists, the red fire light went out. After shutting down the number one engine, the aircraft yawed to the left. I pushed hard on the right rudder pedal. “Call Miami Center and declare a MAYDAY.” How many frickin’ bombs are there?

Lance pushed the transmit button. “Miami Center, Luxury 434 has significant bomb damage and only one engine operating. The fire is out, but we need to land immediately—declaring MAYDAY.”

“Luxury 434, understand MAYDAY. Be advised most of Florida, including Cape Canaveral and Kennedy Space Center, is covered in a low cloud base with continuous heavy rain, ceiling one hundred feet, visibility one-half mile, and wind one-two-zero at thirty knots. State your intentions.”

Bad weather. What next? “Luxury 434 will land on Runway One Five. I want fire equipment and EMS standing by. Warn them we may have more bombs. We’ll evacuate as soon as we’re stopped on the runway.” I gripped the control yoke and focused on the flight instruments, expecting another explosion any moment.

“Luxury 434, descend to two thousand feet. Turn left to one-eight-zero. Cleared for the Runway One Five ILS approach. Contact the tower on one-two-eight-five-five. Good luck.”

Lance called the tower, and I concentrated on the instrument panel as we descended through the storm clouds. My right leg vibrated from the constant strain of pushing hard on the right rudder pedal, compensating for the dead engine rolling our aircraft to the left. My proper use of ailerons and rudder was the only thing preventing our aircraft from rolling upside down. Adrenaline surged through my veins with my senses tuned to high intensity.

“Lance, we don’t know if we have wing damage, so I’ll do a no-flap landing, rather than risk control issues close to the ground. Extra speed won’t be a problem on that long runway.”

“Final approach, Captain. We’re centered on the localizer and glide slope, but we’re still in the soup. Will we do a go-around if we don’t see anything at decision height?”

“No, the airplane might not survive a go-around. If we don’t see the approach lights, call out our altitude every ten feet below one hundred feet until we’re on the runway. Signal the flight attendants to assume the brace position.”

Lance gave the six-bell signal to the cabin. He scanned between the altimeter and the view outside. “Five hundred feet . . . four hundred . . . three hundred . . . two hundred . . . one hundred, ninety, eighty, seventy, sixty, RUNWAY IN SIGHT.”

“Runway in sight—landing,” I declared. “Notify the tower.”

Just as the landing gear touched down, I heard a loud noise and felt the aircraft swerve. Employing the rudder and asymmetrical braking to keep the airliner’s forward motion centered on the runway, I noted the red fire warning light on the front panel.

“Captain, we have a wheel well fire and probably some blown tires.”

“Notify the tower, and tell them we’re evacuating the aircraft.” I wrestled the massive airliner to a stop, set the parking brake, shut down the engine, and announced to the cabin, “This is the captain speaking. Evacuate the aircraft using the forward and aft exit doors. Do not use the wing exits. There is a fire under the wings. Move as far away from the aircraft as possible and follow instructions from law enforcement personnel waiting on the ground.”

I wiped my sweaty hands on my jeans and looked over my shoulder at the check pilot seated in the back of the Boeing 767 flight simulator. Over four frickin’ hours in the sweatbox! My test had better be over.

“Excellent check ride, Sam,” Check Pilot Jim Rowlin said. “We threw every emergency in the book at you. Your selection of the Space Center runway was unexpected, but you showed good judgment.” He glanced at the man to his left. “Unless the FAA examiner has anything to add, I think we’re done here. Congratulations, Captain Starr. Not bad, considering you’ve been a copilot only six years.”

“Piece of cake, Jim,” I said, grinning.

“Miss Samantha Starr, the first female captain at Luxury International Airlines! How does it feel to be the big cheese with the most prestigious charter airline in the world?” Lance asked.

“I’ll let you know when my muscles stop twitching. Jim gave my right leg quite a workout with the left engine failures.” I turned to Jim. “You do know the 767 has two engines? At least one right engine failure would’ve been nice to balance out my leg muscles.” I rubbed my right thigh and smiled. “Now I’d like a long shower and about thirty minutes in my hot tub with a bottle of ice-cold Champagne.”

“Well, I had to make sure you have what it takes to do a man’s job,” Jim joked. “The hot tub sounds tempting, but you’ll have to settle for celebratory beers at the bar instead.”

I saw the men nod in agreement when I released my hair from the clip behind my neck. “Uh huh, I don’t know any men who’ve had five consecutive left engine failures in their entire lives. Good thing a woman was at the controls.” I laughed and followed the men out. “Jim, when do I start the line checks, flying regular passenger flights with check captains?”

Jim checked the calendar in his Blackberry. “Ah, you’ll start in three days. We’ll head to the briefing room, finish the paperwork, and meet at The Sound Barrier Bar and Grill.” He started down the hallway with the FAA examiner at his side.

“Great job, Captain!” Lance gave me a big hug, lifting me off my feet.

I kissed his cheek. “Thanks for your help.”

“You can always count on me.” He gave me a confident wink and escorted me down the hall.

My right leg stopped vibrating during my walk to the briefing room. I caught up to Jim. “Thanks for the fair check ride, but I think I’ll pass on your drink offer.” I wrinkled my nose. “I really do need a shower. After four hours in the sweatbox, I reek.”

Jim put his arm around my shoulder. “Nonsense, you need adult beverages. The flight simulator was so realistic, your subconscious believed you were in mortal danger and flooded your system with adrenaline. A few beers will help you relax. Besides, this is a major milestone in your career. Come and celebrate. Drinks are on us.”

Jim sat at the desk and filled out the forms for the Boeing 767 type rating to be added to my airline transport pilot certificate. “Sign here and we’ll head over to the bar. Are you coming, Lance? You’re invited too, Dick. We don’t mind drinking with a fed.”

Lance grinned. “I wouldn’t dream of missing Sam’s celebration party.”

FAA Examiner Dick Farinati glanced at his watch. “I’d love to join the party, but my wife will have dinner on the table in fifteen minutes. It’s not worth the grief if I’m late. Thanks anyway, guys.” He shook my hand. “Congratulations, Captain Starr.”

I smiled at the eager men, deciding the politically correct choice was to join them at the bar for a few rounds, even if I felt like collapsing into my hot tub. I enjoyed their company, but navigating through the minefield of male egos was just as difficult as my toughest flight test, and mistakes in either could jeopardize my career.

Jim and Lance were handsome, but Jim was married, and Lance had a reputation for running wild with the flight attendants. I didn’t want to complicate my captain qualification flights by dating a company pilot. The men tended to gossip, and my recent breakup with a fellow pilot had registered on everyone’s radar in record time. As the sole female pilot at elite Luxury International Airlines, my life was always under a microscope.

During my short drive to the bar, I pulled out my cell phone and called my mother. “Hey, Mom, I passed! You’re talking to the world’s newest Boeing 767 captain. Not bad for a twenty-six-year-old woman. Wish Dad was alive to see my fourth stripe.”

“Congratulations, Sam! I knew you’d ace it. Your father would’ve been proud. Are you going out to celebrate?”

“I’m meeting the men at the Sound Barrier. After four hours of extreme emergencies, my nerves are shot, and my muscles feel like mush. Wish I didn’t have to wait until August for my vacation. I need it now.”

“I can relate. I’m writing the first chapter of my new romance novel, and I’m having trouble creating the lover for my Highland chieftain.”

“Why not pretend you’re the one enjoying the hot Scot?” I asked.

“Good idea. I’ll make the main characters my age and let the middle-aged damsel marry the handsome warrior for a change. My mature readers deserve a steamy fantasy.”

“Your novels have me fired up to visit Scotland this summer.”

“You’ll love the Highlands. I have a strong feeling it may turn out to be your most exciting vacation ever.”

“I’m counting on it. Your intuition has never been wrong. Gotta go, Mom, love you.”

______________________________________________________________

Robert L. Bacon
theperfectwrite.com
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ANDROMEDA'S TALE Opening Chapter By Sirena G.

2011-09-17T11:41:00.006-04:00

Chapter 1

A Future So Full of Promise

            The smell of sulfur hung in the air for several seconds after the match was lit. Nadia was curled up, asleep, atop a bookshelf. She was small and fit nicely on this high perch in the greeting room. No one would ever think to look for her there.
            The sound of people shuffling in woke her. Nadia studied the man who had lit the cigarette. She wanted him to turn so she could get a better look at his face. From the side, he was not of any race she had ever seen before. She considered he might be a weird third rung, a mixture of races so deep that he did not qualify as anything, one of those who were often kept as guards.
            He wore baggy thick canvas trousers, excellent for hiding weapons. He was accompanied by a tall, stiff-looking human woman. Nadia could never tell humans apart, with their pudding faces. This was indeed an odd couple. And up to no good, Nadia was sure.
            Loeman had lined up the young women in two rows. Nadia always found it amusing to look at the rugged girls of the Common House after they had come from the groomers. This lot wore pink skirts with ruffles and white gloves to cover their knuckle tattoos. They had sausage curls attached to their bad haircuts, and every cheek was circled with pink rouge. Thick coral lipstick had been smeared on their mouths, and heavy false eyelashes were also stuck on. The result was the appearance of a phalanx of hastily manufactured dolls.

Nadia couldn't stifle a giggle. The woman whipped her head around and locked her blue eyes onto Nadia's big gray eyes. Nadia’s long, pointed ears perked. A slow smile crept over the strange woman’s face. Nadia did not like this at all. She did not want to be picked by these sponsors--or any sponsors. Her dumb luck to be here during a showing. She had to act quickly. She picked up a dusty book and chucked it at the woman's head. She was sure to get a month cleaning toilets and a good beating for it, but at least she wouldn't be chosen to serve.

Before she could do anything else, the man snatched her and dangled her upside down by one ankle. Then the man hoisted her up until they were face to face. He cocked his head to one side and inspected her. Nadia gasped when she saw him up close. His profile had not prepared her for what he really looked like. His face was very wide, and his gold eyes spanned from the bridge of his nose to each temple. His mouth was curled in a permanent sneer as a result of deep scars across his cheek. His teeth clenched a roll-me-own so tight, the cigarette looked as if it were in pain.

“Put me down, insidious wild boar hybrid, and do not eat me!” Nadia yelled. To call someone out as a hybrid was a dangerous insult, but he didn't react in an overly violent manner. He just hoisted Nadia a little higher and shook her like a toy.
“Barius!” the woman snapped. “Put the girl down.” Barius flipped Nadia over and set her on her feet. The Loeman stammered while explaining that Nadia was in the process of being trained, but was proving to be intractable. He apologized and gestured to a guard to take her away. The woman stopped him.

“This young lady has been brought to us by the forces of fate and chaos," she said. "We would do well to at least review her file. We should not dismiss hastily the possibility she has been delivered to us by providence." The Loeman stared at Nadia, then back at the woman, then at the rows of sour young ladies dressed like party favors.

“Of course, as you wish. This is Nadia, 18. I must make it clear that this young lady has been a disciplinary problem from the day I began my tenure here two years ago. I will say in her favor that she has not caused any great harm or damage to anyone. Still and yet, I do not believe she is ready for service. I have had many years of experience as a Loeman. I am skilled enough to reason with even the most hardened delinquent. Yet even under my tutelage, she remains recalcitrant, disobedient, and mischievous. Her race is the most difficult to assimilate. So I don't know if I would place too much merit in the idea of good fortune having to do with your selection. I am a man of logic and not passion, so I implore you to balance the pros and cons of....”

“Blah blah blah blah!” Nadia slapped her hands over her throat. “Stop talking, Loeman. You are using up all the air in the room. Leave some for everyone else to breathe!”

Barius grunted. Nadia thought he might be agreeing with her. She did not care if he did. She tried to run out of the room, but found her feet firmly affixed to the spot on which she was standing. Then she felt the light touch of the woman's hand on her shoulder. Nadia twisted her body from side to side. “Hey, she put a spell on me! I'm not going anywhere with you, witch. Witch! Witch!”

Barius frowned at the girl, then looked at the woman. “Think maybe you could turn her volume down?” His voice was deep, loud, and rough, sounding to Nadia like a rumbling truck engine in need of a good mechanic.

The Loeman said, “Ah, Lady Salvin, you are a practitioner of the arts, I see. Well, then, perhaps providence may play a role in this selection after all....” He was sweating. He obviously feared practitioners. He made a gesture to dismiss the girls, and all of them left the room sullenly.

Nadia watched them go with sad amusement. The dumb little bitches were disappointed not to

be chosen. They were all fake, dreaming of being swept away to new homes. That was the fallacy the institution kept trying to convince them of, that being selected as a ward to serve wealthy--usually human--families was their best hope. The very idea revolted Nadia.

The Loeman motioned for the three of them to follow him. “Let us go to my office and pull Nadia's files. We usually take a few days to clear a petition, but in your case, I will file it under ‘Special Need.’ Will that be all right, Lady Salvin?”

“Please call me Iris. And, yes, I think that will work out just fine.”

Nadia groaned. She could not believe it. She was wearing the most tattered shorts she owned. Her chest was bound in a winding cloth that should have hit the rag pile ages ago. She had not bathed in a week and her feet were black with grunge. She howled in protest. The Loeman gave her a sharp look.

            Barius pulled out Nadia's long pointed ears from her nest of tangled red and black hair. He grabbed her ears and wiggled them. “Erinian," he proclaimed and shook his big head. "They are all like this, thorns in the shoe, all of ’em.” Barius rolled a new smoke and lit it. He turned to Iris. “You sure this is what you want, then let's deal, but what you see is what you get.”
              “Touch not my supple ears, fuzzy butt!” Nadia yelled. Barius pinched her cheeks. They headed down a garishly appointed hall to the Loeman's office. Nadia looked at the posters of ragged children taken in by smiling True Bloods. One caption read: A future so full of promise. Nadia disagreed and retorted, “A future so full of compromise.” She was no longer amused. They would have to send her to the reservation at 21 if she was not chosen. She had only three years left. She couldn't believe she was being picked. The witch held a hand on her as if it were a harness.
             What could they want with her, she wondered? Certainly she was adorable and sexy, with her big eyes and curvy figure, but she was also filthy, rude, and obnoxious. She was every inch Erinian, and everyone hated Erinians.

Barius looked back at the girl, who was not keeping up. Normally, he would have been attracted to her. She was cute enough. Right now, though, he was tired, hungry, and anxious to get the hell out of this Common House, free of the fat windbag of a Loeman, and away from the cursed perfumes that had been sprayed on the girls. The perfumes had given him a roaring headache. At least the Erinian smelled like hay and horses.

In the office, the Loeman addressed Barius, as he was cowed by Iris. Barius grunted while the man read through a litany of disclaimers, fees, licensing, taxes, contractual agreements, and other crap Barius did not care about. The Loeman occasionally punctuated the monologue with little anecdotes about his life. He talked about his education, his credentials, and his accomplishments. Meanwhile, Nadia had quietly checked to see if the door was locked. It was. She looked at books and furtively glanced out the window. Barius' headache raged. He finally snapped, “Just tell me if she's a virgin. If she is, we'll pay you and go.”

The Loeman stared open-mouthed at him. “We do not sell girls for sexual purposes. We do not sell girls at all. These fees are part of the processing. Her sexual experience is not a question for you to ask."

Barius grunted louder. Nadia snorted derisively. Everyone knew that most girls in the care of the State were sold either as mistresses or prostitutes.

Nadia watched closely. She sensed a menace and a challenge in Barius. Perhaps the Loeman would throw him out for asking aloud a question meant to be whispered.

Lady Salvin held up her hand. “The question is appropriate. I am of a celibate order. The girl could benefit from our intensive training, but not if she is corrupted. We cannot accept her if she is defiled.”

Nadia snorted again. Her sense of smell was keen. The woman might be celibate, but Nadia could smell juice on Barius. Stale, maybe from last night. He probably got "defiled" any time he could find someone who would hold still for him. Nadia opened her mouth to say something. Barius came over and pushed her down on an ugly plaid couch in the back of the office. She sat with a weak protest.

Barius produced something from his vest. It looked like a misshapen globe of red gel. Gold sparkled deep inside it as lights seemed to go on and off in the heart of the blob. Nadia could not help but stare hard at it and be drawn in by its power. She took the globe and rolled it in her hands. It had a wonderful warmth and weight. She stretched it, and each time she did it slid back into its relaxed shape.

The Loeman watched nervously as Barius let the force subdue the girl. He did not want to tangle with these two. Celibate order or not, they obviously had the magic. “Oh, do forgive me, I apologize for questioning your motives. It's just that we receive some visitors who have less than honorable intentions. Let me assure you, as of her monthly medical examination, the last of which was two weeks ago, her hymen was intact.”

Barius gave the Loeman a stern glare. The man hurried through the paperwork. When it was done, Barius snatched Nadia from the couch as she was braiding three long strands of red goo. Then the braids melded together and became the configuration of a smushed globe once more. She continued to play with the globe as Barius carried her out of the office. She watched dark red flecks collide with tiny sparkles deep inside the greasy interior of the mass. They performed a slow, orchestrated dance. Nadia

had to pay close attention to see this. And if she concentrated hard enough, she could direct the movements.

Nadia was in a deep trance as the Loeman fitted a thin black snake of leather around her neck. The collar served both for identification and as a tracking device. It expired after three solar years, at which point it would fall off. Attempting to remove it before then would result in burns, and a permanent mark of Common House registry would be branded to her skin. Inside the brand, the expiration date would show for the convenience of bounty hunters. A thin chain was attached to the collar.

Barius carried Nadia outside, and as sunlight hit her face the spell was broken. Nadia threw down the enchanted toy as if it were a poisonous snake. She bit Barius on the arm. She planted her feet on his chest and pushed.

“I will not be fed to a Borack. I am not your virgin sacrifice. Let me go! I have sour blood. I taste awful. I steal. I burn things. I'll escape. Put me back in the ward. I'm trouble, bad trouble!” Nadia kicked out of Barius' arms, but he grabbed her and placed her under an armpit. She kicked and punched but hit nothing except air. She did not see Lady Salvin approach. The woman placed her hands on Nadia's face. She went limp.

“You didn't need to do that,” Barius said, holding Nadia's wilted form. Iris did not answer him. She started for the truck. Barius followed. Barius' dog, Soko, danced in excitement at their arrival and let out a curious bark. Soko was tall, with long legs and expansive ears that ended in dark tufts. Barius gave the dog's muzzle a quick rub. He climbed into the driver’s seat while Iris worked on unknotting the tangles in Nadia's hair.

“I thought we agreed I was to do the talking,” Iris said in a quiet but firm tone.

Barius peered at her profile. The sun was low and its angle revealed a glimpse of her age in her face. It was not a matter of lines or sagging skin, but instead a tightening that created a certain sheen on her skin as it stretched across the bone. With each year she appeared harder and harder. In more direct light he could even make out the exact shape of her skull. She was still beautiful, although in a severe fashion, since no one would ever refer to her as cute or pretty. But of greater significance, no one would have guessed her real age either.

“I have a headache from that shit they sprayed on the girls to make them smell better," Barius said. "The whole time in there I was suppressing an urge to beat that Loeman into a bloody pulp. Then I had to keep an eye on this kid so she wouldn't chew a hole in the wall and escape. And I'm damn hungry. I was daydreaming about killing someone. It was the only thought that gave me peace. I know you love to pass judgment and everything, but I wouldn't right now, not until this headache goes away.”

A slight smile turned the corners of Iris' lips. “That was some truly revolting perfume. And those costumes! I have never seen rats in pinafores before. Roll your window down, the fresh air will clear your head. Then, when you feel better, I can light into you about running your mouth.”

Barius let the last comment pass. “All that crap you were talking about--fate and providence--is that why you picked the dust devil that's now in your lap? I mean, there were some young ladies who looked a hell of a lot easier to get along with than an Erinian. Of course, they'd have to ride in the back with Soko to blow the smell off. I think you just picked her because the rest of the lot looked like Navian wharf trollops.”

Iris tilted her head defiantly. “I always make well-calculated decisions. Erinians are, as you say, thorns. But they are also physically strong and emotionally consistent. They can suffer a great deal of corporal punishment and mental turmoil and still keep their spirits intact.”

Barius snorted. “I still say you picked her on a whim. You could have done a little better.”

Iris' jaw tightened. She spoke in carefully measured words. “I'll have you know that I can trace this girl's lineage back many generations. She is directly descended from one of the oldest original families. In fact, she is the last surviving member of that family. She is pure Erinian. Do you understand?”

“That's all I wanted to know,” Barius said as Iris stiffened her back. Barius smiled. His headache was receding.

They drove in silence. Nadia began to squirm. Iris put her hand on the girl’s face. Barius gently placed his great hand on Iris' back. “That's not necessary,” she told him.

Nadia did not wake, but her fingers involuntarily tugged at the collar around her throat. She moaned when it did not release. Barius reached toward her, but Iris said, “Let her have her dreams. Let her sleep. Don't push her under.”

GINGERSNAP by Karen E.

2011-08-07T14:20:00.003-04:00

ONE

My name is Ginger and I just killed myself.

OK, I lied. My name’s not Ginger.

All right, I’ll stop. Actually, I told myself when I sat down just now that if I do this, I’m going to do it right: I’ll tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but. If that means “no more fooling around,” so be it. The truth is, that’s just me, being silly. Honest. All that happy shit about killing myself is just a bunch of crap that I threw in there because:

A. I thought it was funny (I mean, come on);

B. I thought it would be a real kick-ass story starter (which it was, by the way); plus,

C. if I started writing extraneous bullshit, I wouldn’t have to deal with the dreaded “main issue,” which is the real reason I sat down at this computer in the first place.

OK, then. No more fun and games; quit wasting time; it’s time to tell the truth: My name is Mary. God help me, it really is.

Funny, and now I‘ll hop off the pity potty and talk “truth” here for a minute. The truth is, my name doesn’t matter one little bit right now. What matters is how I got here, how I got to this place, and I don’t mean “here” in the physical sense; what I mean is, how did I get into this mess, the mess I’m in right now?

This mess—

I’ve got to wonder if I’ve really, finally done it, e.g., snapped, dove off the deep end, lost my fucking mind. The truth is, I may be, at this very moment, a few clowns short of a circus. . .and if that isn’t bad enough, I can’t stop singing that Kinks song:

‘Cause there’s a red, under my bed

And there’s a little yellow man in my head--

Hey! Maybe that’s my problem. . .but seriously, folks, I think I’m in dire straits here. Maybe I’d better rewind for a minute.

OK, try to picture the scene: I’m driving in my car and thinking about nothing in particular; just cruising along on autopilot, listening to my Best of The Kinks CD and savoring that sweet, delicious cigarette—

Sidebar: In keeping with my "truth theme," I confess that I was on the road yesterday, not because I had to buy toilet paper (although we did need some; we were almost out), but because I had to fulfill that nagging urge to sneak a Marlboro out there on the road, away from the loving but watchful eyes of my husband. (No matter that he wasn't even home; he was at work. I just didn't want my smoke to mingle with his lingering presence and permeate everything.) Anyway, if that's the worse thing I ever do, it's not so bad, and anyway, it was going to be just the one; my first this week--

(Actually, the truth is, I’ve already had four this week and it’s only Wednesday. It usually happens five or six times a week: I’m folding laundry and suddenly I think, I could go for a cigarette; I’m making the bed and I think, I sure could go for a smoke right now. I drink a beer. . .)

Anyway, back to my story: I bought TP and a pack of cigs and I was back on the road, smoking that cigarette and kicking out the jams and thinking about nothing much at all. I remember looking at the clock and it was almost “on the twos,” as they say, so I shut off the music and switched on the radio to catch the weather report. A commercial came on: it was with this guy who owns a ritzy grocery down on Main who’s always pitching some new product or another, and he’s always trying to sound real “down-homey,” like he’s Garrison Keillor or somebody--

“When I was a young’un,” he starts, I wince, “my mother told me, ‘Little Joe, everybody’s got problems, but here’s something your Grandma taught me years ago: any problem you ever face in life can be solved by one fantastic gingersnap cookie.”

I’m thinking, Did he just say what I think he said?

He keeps going. “Now, folks, ever since then, I’ve made it my life’s work to find such a cookie, and now I can say that I’ve finally done it: I’ve finally found the best little gingersnap cookie in America, and it’s made right here in Ohio!”

I’m thinking, What? Is this guy nuts? What does he think we are: morons? Does he actually think we’ll believe that any problem can be solved by a fucking gingersnap? I mean, come on—

And the next thing you know, I’m driving my car right into the path of a big Mack truck and--

OK, let’s stop right there. I swerved my car, that’s true. But I didn’t go through with it; I didn’t do it. The proof is in the fact that I’m sitting here right now, listening to The Kinks and typing away on this computer, and not flat on my back in some basement morgue wearing nothing but a toe tag.

That was yesterday.

So, today (no surprise), I’ve been sitting here, trying to figure out what happened, and I’ve come to the conclusion that yesterday’s event was a red warning flag flapping in front of my face; no, it was a freaking neon sign flashing an inch from my eyes; a blinding pulse of neon, warning me to

DO SOMETHING--DO SOMETHING—DO SOMETHING--

I’m taking this thing seriously.

Needless to say, I’ve thought long and hard about what that “something” should be, and I know this is going to sound ludicrous, but here’s what I came up with, not ten minutes ago: I think I’m supposed to sit down and write myself a book.

No, that’s not true: I know I’m supposed to write a book.

And then (not five minutes ago), I knew exactly what my book should be about. Let me set the stage for you:

The title came to me like a bolt out of the blue: GINGERSNAP It makes perfect sense: Ginger, because that’s going to be my name, and snap, because what happens: I go for a drive and then I snap, just like that.

Now, picture this: GINGERSNAP is an “autobiography.” We meet Ginger (that would be me) at a moment of crisis: she’s a writer, but she cannot seem to find the words; her inspiration has run dry. Her distress blooms into crisis—she snaps (the truck!)—and then she finds herself slip-sliding toward deep despair. In a flash of clarity (insanity?), Ginger realizes that this could be her defining moment as a writer—so (in the first half of her book), she forces herself to chronicle her journey down, down, down; writing everything, sparing nothing, laying herself bare. . .

Then (in the second half of the book), Ginger takes us along for the ride of her life as she stumbles and falls and rights herself again; as she confronts her demons and struggles to find her way back. . .

And she succeeds! By the end of the book, Ginger has healed herself and, in the process, she's written a best-selling autobiography and that's exactly what I'm going to do with this book Ginger I love you--

Stop. Hold on.

Why? It’s brilliant.

No. It’s. . .unrealistic.

I disagree.

Well, what makes you think you can actually do it?

Do what?

Write yourself out of all of this. Come on, Mary, you nearly plowed your car into a truck. This is serious business. You need to talk to somebody, a professional--

Probably. Maybe. Bullshit, I can do this by myself. Why not? I’m smart, I’ve been through it before, and anyway, I’m a writer, that’s what I do. I’ll figure it out. And the best part? When all is said and done, not only will I have written a kick-ass novel, but in the process, I’ll get what Ginger gets: a big, fat, juicy dose of sanity, wrapped up in a nice, warm, sesame seed bun. Plus, the cost to me this time will be zilch, zero, nada, which is a shitload less than a bunch of actual therapy sessions would cost; plus, I’ll make myself some major dough from the thing. OK, that’s a “maybe.” But do you know what? It doesn’t matter. I have it all figured out: it’s “win-win,” as they say. I just have to tie up a couple of loose ends first. Cases in point:

A. It’s Ginger’s autobiography.

B. I ain’t Ginger (minor sticking point).

C. The “snap” part is still being debated by certain individuals (e.g., me, myself and I, ha ha).

Here’s a sidebar to point C: Actually, I don’t think that yesterday’s event was actually a “snap,” per se; at least, not yet. What I think happened yesterday was that I had myself a little epiphany of sorts; what Oprah might call an Aha! moment; what Little Joe might call a li’l ol’ jolt of veracity. The truth is, I don’t care what they call it, here’s what I think: I think that I haven’t snapped yet, but it could happen, I could lose it, I’m definitely bending in that general direction; I haven’t snapped yet but I’m pretty damn close; I’m close—

I think you understand what I’m saying. OK, back to business:

D. As far as the whole “story” idea goes, well, that’s something to consider, too, because that would mean I’d actually have to write something (funny, I know), and it would have to be something substantial; something coming in at what. . .60,000 words, absolute minimum? I just checked: I’m only at a little over 2,500 words right now and anyway, I can’t count any of this ramble as part of my story, so I’m actually holding steady at a big, fat zero

Crap. Anything less than 60,000 words won't be an easy sell; it won't be something I could easily peddle; it won't have the weight of "import" behind it that will allow me to saunter into some agent's office, swinging my big ol' balls of confidence, knowing for a fact that I wrote something good, something to be reconed with, something--dare I say it--marketable. . .

No doubt about it, it would have to be marketable: first, to a go-getter agent; then, to a powerhouse publisher; then, to some high class book reviewers; and then--maybe, if I’m lucky--to a statistically significant portion of the U.S. population.

But then--if I were extremely lucky--that thing might make me some serious dough; and then, finally, it might prove, once and for all, that YES, that gal’s got some serious talent; there is no doubt about it: that hot little gal can write--

Funny, but true: I’ve wanted that since the day I was born. OK, that’s a slight exaggeration; but honestly now, I’ve always felt like writer, I love to write, and I want the world to know that I bloody well can write.

I’ve been a writer my entire life. You want cases in point? All right, let’s see:

When I was a kid, I was always writing poems and cute little plays and stuff like that. (Admittedly, this fits the proverbial “Everybody has to start somewhere” model; in other words, it’s trite, but true.)

When I was eight or nine, I switched to writing scary short stories and they were pretty good, I don’t mind saying; hell, I even scared myself. Seriously.

At thirteen, I started a diary and I’m still keeping a journal, which is what--twenty years later? Yep, I’m thirty-three, so it’s been over two decades now.

Anyway, when I was about nineteen, I put pen to paper in a serious way--

OK, sidebar: It was all—choke--poetry, and if I’m going to be truthful here, I’d have to admit that probably ninety-eight percent of it was nothing more than cheesy crap. If you think I’m being too hard on myself, here are two examples that I thought of, just now:

What does it mean? I mean, what do I do?

I mean, scared and alone, I feel lost, frightened, too.

Not good. Not good.

Lay still, open handed; there a butterfly has landed.

Ouch.

I did write a couple of things that didn’t outright suck, if I recall, like the poem that started:

Though rarely be the brilliant wrath,

Attained through sorrow, midnight blue;

Attained through love lost, ethereal flight—

That one wasn’t too bad, but oh, the misery: those poems reeked of it. No wonder: I was awash in angst when I wrote that stuff--no, I was enveloped by it, consumed by it--for what, three months? I was nineteen and crazy in love with a jerk who didn’t love me back, and for three months, all I did was cry and drink cheap wine and write bad poetry. (Sidebar Number 2: I’ve kept those poems all these years. They’re in a beat-up yellow folder in my top dresser drawer, under the socks, still stinking up the joint and oh, Sidebar Number 3: The asshole wasn’t worth it.)

Anyway, then there’s the novel I wrote the spring before I started college. I was just twenty-one when I wrote “The Great American Novel” (aka: WEB OF LOVE): one hundred-and-two pages; typed, single space); banged out in three weeks’ time on my weary Smith-Corona.

Here’s another little nugget of truth for you: it wasn’t very good. I still have the five (brutally honest) rejection letters to prove it, and although I am loathe to admit this, I deserved every one of them because that novel was bad and I’m not just talking about the writing now; I’m talking about the story itself. (Case in point: there were pirates in it, and I’m not making that up.)

Still, I wrote a novel and that’s something, right? Of course, I’ve kept that momentous (if ridiculous) achievement, too: it’s in a floppy old cardboard box in my bedroom closet, shoved way in the back behind my tennis shoes.

I kept writing, and when I cranked out some pretty decent work then; sometimes, more than decent: I still have the stuff with red A-pluses scrawled across the top, and accolades from professors like Wow! and Can I keep this? and Keep on writing! Never stop!

Now, to be truthful, I must admit that, for a few years there, I didn’t follow their advice. My output was spotty; most of the time, I just wrote in my journal. You might be wondering what was happening during that time and I guess my answer would have to be “Life,” and some of it wasn’t pretty. If you were so inclined, you could fast-forward through that bad movie in 20 seconds flat:

There she is, sweating in her wet, food-splattered uniform, piling a never-ending stack of dirty dishes into that steaming industrial dishwasher; there she is, hunched over her tiny desk, cranking out newspaper ads for men’s cologne and cat food; look, she’s getting married and now she’s struggling to balance marriage and homework and everything else so she can get that teaching certificate; there she is, exhausted after another day teaching those little kids. . .oh, no! The accident! And there’s the aftermath, and there’s the moment when she realizes she’s too messed up, she’ll have to resign, she just can’t do it anymore--

Last year was the worst year of my life.

I think that’s when I started to bend again. Before that, I’d always be able to pull myself out of it—clinical depression, I mean. Writing helped, I know it did. I wrote a lot as a kid after my mother died. I wrote after that asshole stomped on my heart. I wrote in my journal after the accident and again, last year, when I realized I couldn’t handle teaching anymore, but that last time was the toughest. I felt like everything good in my life just slipped away and I found myself slipping away right along with it; slipping down into that deep, dark well of despair again. No, the truth is, I sank right down in there, just like a rock and the worst thing was the sound when she hit the water. I don’t know where that just came from, but that’s exactly how it felt. The point is, it took a lot of crying on my husband’s shoulder, and hours of introspection in my therapist’s office, and Percocet and Flexeril and spilling my guts out in my journal. . .all of that, together, to drag me up, up, up and finally, out of that dark and hopeless place.

I thought I was all better. I thought I was OK. Then came yesterday, when I almost made a great big mess out of everything; when I almost splattered myself like a stupid little bug across the grill of that big Mack truck.

Maybe I shouldn’t try to do this by myself.

_________________________________________________________
Robert L. Bacon
theperfectwrite.com

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TAKEN AWAY, by Ali A.

2011-07-21T16:02:00.013-04:00

“Death solves all problems--no man, no problem.”
-- Joseph Stalin

“I looked around. Everything was the way it should be. My books were under my feet, the rope was in my hands, the door and windows were shut. I raised my head toward the ceiling, pulled on the rope again for good measure, and swallowed. I hesitated for a moment, then jumped.” He stopped, his eyes staring off into nowhere.
“And then what do you remember, Mark?” the doctor asked.
His eyes snapped back. “Nothing.”
The psychiatrist leaned forward and took a deep breath. “But Mr. Williamson, the rope was cut by a knife that had your fingerprints on it, forensics confirmed this. It seems you cut the rope yourself after the jump failed to break your neck.” Dr. Solomon glanced at his papers. “Thankfully, your friend, Mr. Michael, came in shortly after you decided to do what you did. He found you sprawled unconscious on the floor with the knife in your hand.” The doctor looked at his patient the way a parent would at a lying child.
“I told you what happened. Nothing else happened.”
Solomon nodded. “Yes, of course. Mr. Williamson, were you under the influence of any substances. Medication, drugs?” He waited for an answer. “No? Do you have a medical history we should know about? Mental issues perhaps?”
Mark smashed his fists on the table. “I'm not crazy! Leave me alone!” He got up and turned to a wall with a mirror. He could see the red ring, still fresh and raw around his neck.
A guard opened the door and stepped in the room, his hands on his club and belt, behind him a stream of light from the hall. “Everything alright, doctor?”
“Everything’s fine, thank you, officer." Solomon turned to Mark. "If you will excuse me, Mr. Williamson."
He got up from his chair and headed out the door.
The sergeant on duty was in the hall by the room. He was dwarfed by two other policemen who were at his side. He took a cigar out of his mouth and put his arms to his waist. “Well, Doctor Solomon here to grace my police station again, what an honor.” He put out his hand.
Solomon took it. “An honor it must be indeed.”
The sergeant was a little man and put all of his strength into his grip. “So what brings you here, checking out my police station to see how a real place works?”
Solomon thought he would toy with him, the sergeant’s power plays reminding him of the basics. He lifted his chin. “You called me.”

The sergeant puffed his chest, inhaling a deep breath through his cigar. “Oh right, right, for that nut bar, Williamson, or something or other.” With the smoky end of the stogie he pointed to the room. “We got him here for observation while we clear out the mess with his apartment. The landlord’s got some major complaints, some we need to pursue, but it’s police business, nothing you need to worry about.”
“I’ll be the judge of that. What happened exactly? I need to know.”
“The damned nut bar won’t cooperate, he’ll barely talk. The only thing he did say was that he’s supposed to be dead, that he didn’t cut the rope. We even showed him his own fingerprints on his own knife, but all he says is he’s supposed to be dead. Are you going to take him or what?”
Some baggage, Solomon thought. “No, just send him back off to the psych ward for observation. Everybody gets suicidal once in a while, especially in New York. He wanted to try it, and he did, then he cut the rope, but just a little bit too late and now he’s understandably grouchy. It’s called depression and shock, the staff can handle it.”
“I’m afraid we can't do that, doc. The psych ward’s full and you have to take him. That’s what they said, that’s why I called you.”
“We’re understaffed as is, and if we took every guy off the street, we’d never finish. Send him home. At least he won’t try to kill himself again, you can take my word on that." Solomon looked the sergeant up and down.
“For a psychiatrist, you don’t hear well enough yourself. I said the landlord doesn’t want him there. He hasn’t been paying his rent, and he doesn’t even have the lease to the damn place.
It’s his brother's or something, and the big man hasn’t been coughing up the dough like he's supposed to. Basically the landlord wants him out. Besides, the place stinks, like a dead body stinks. We're getting a warrant to search the dump, again on landlord's grievances. I told you, police business.” The sergeant blew out smoke.
Solomon took a while. “I’m going back, I'll talk to him again.”

The guard opened the door and nodded as the doctor passed him. Mark was still by the mirror, his head straight ahead, looking into it. Solomon took his seat. “Mr. Williamson?”
Mark stood there, still staring into the mirror.
“Mr. Williamson, I've no more time to waste. I’m here to help you not get put in jail, and all you have to do is listen, so listen.” Solomon slid a paper and pencil onto the metal table. “I want you to give me the name and phone number of somebody I can call, since the good folks here don’t seem to have adequate information on you.”
Mark didn’t budge.
“I need the number, Mr. Williamson, because, unfortunately, you've been evicted from your apartment. I can't let you go out in the streets a homeless suicidal with no police or medical records."
Solomon waited.
Mark said nothing.
“It’s either this or getting thrown in a cell in this hole until you get cleared by some suited government drone from immigration or whatever department handles people like you. It’s your choice, either way, you’ll have to give us a number.”
Mark got to the table, wrote down something, and went back. Solomon took the paper. It only had a number, nothing else, scratched out in horrible penmanship. He put it in his pocket and went outside, to a room behind the mirror. When he entered, Dr. Ronald Johnson, another staff psychiatrist, was leaning against a file cabinet, his eyes glued on Mark.
“So, tell me, what do you think?” Solomon asked, as he grabbed his thermos from a nearby table.
“Do you think it's wise to push a patient on the initial consult? It's not even the first night here yet.”
Solomon took a sip of coffee. “What do you mean?”
“Seriously? By not so subtly asking him about his medical history and calling him a lunatic, badgering him like that, then also telling him he's homeless? And all at once, one after the other? You've outdone yourself, again.” Johnson clapped his hands. "Congratulations, I really mean that.”
Solomon laughed, slurping his drink. “So says the naysayer. It worked out wonderfully well, all of it. It’s good that you came down here with me, you should just be thankful, you’re so lucky you have the pleasure, the privilege, to see such topnotch psychoanalysis firsthand.
“Let me elaborate, and don't worry, especially for you I'll pronounce each word slowly. You second-rate psychiatrists need all the help you can get.” Solomon took one last sip and put the thermos back on the table.
“First of all I didn’t call him crazy because it entertained me, and even though it did, it more importantly showed us if he had any hidden emotions, which clearly he does as emphasized by all the gorilla slamming and pushing away. But it’s okay that you missed that. I understand.
“And the so-called badgering, it was done very tastefully, and it got him to listen more intently, as it does for all people who are so lucky as to be in my company.
“The third accusation, if you are able to follow any pattern, an ability I doubt you have, is also unsound. Why? Because that perfect addition, added so adeptly, got me this number." Solomon pulled the paper out from his pocket. "And it will solve all our problems. We get one of his relatives, question the person, then we get his life back on track and have him out of our hair before any of it's old and gray.” He walked to the phone. “You see, it’s all really simple.”

Johnson laughed. “Don’t you ever get your head too big for even that meaty neck?”
“Perfection comes at high cost, and people like you will never understand.” He grabbed the handset and dialed the number.
The first tone sank his heart to his stomach. Something felt wrong. “Hello, good evening, thanks for choosing Luigi’s Pizza, home of the best pizza, pasta, and more.”
   Solomon slammed down the phone. It flew off the carriage, startling the speaker. “Hello? Hello? May I take your order?”
   He pulled the cord from the socket.
“You didn’t tell me you were ordering pizza tonight,” Johnson said, laughing.
   Solomon clenched his fist. “Not another word.”
“How wonderfully, perfectly simple. You know I was going to have to get you back for all those insults you slurred my way, but I love it when the universe does my work for me.”
“Are you done?”
   Johnson tried to keep a straight face. “No!” He laughed again.
“That’s it, we have to bring him to Santa Rosa,” Solomon said.
“What? Why? Couldn’t it just be like what you said to the sergeant?”
“I was just playing with the sergeant. Didn't you hear everything? I told Mr. Williamson about the eviction and he didn’t budge. He has some serious issues, more than what Prozac can handle, and we don’t have any records on him. There’s something odd about that. This one’s more than skin deep. We have to take him in and see where it goes. Besides, we have no other choice, the psych ward’s full. We can’t just let him go out of here like he is.”
Johnson looked at Mark through the mirror. “So we really have no records of him, at all?”
“No police records, no medical files, nothing, all the more reason we have to take him. He’s practically a ghost. Do you have any idea what they would do to him, what they would put him through? It’s enough to push anybody over the edge, and he’s already there, he doesn’t need another shove.”
   Mark pulled himself up from the chair and walked over to the mirror. He stared at Johnson, then Solomon.
   “A ghost with a burning death wish. Look at those eyes, you can see there isn’t much he cares about. It’s like he’s looking straight at us.” Johnson moved his hand and Mark tracked it with his eyes. The psychiatrist stepped back. “How the hell can he see us?”
   Solomon shrugged. “Whatever. Keep yourself occupied with that, I’m going to talk to my friend the sergeant and arrange everything.”
“I’ll go talk to him," Johnson said, then smirked. "I can stand him, at least."
“No, it’s okay, his behavior entertains me. It’s so simple and predictable. Annoying, but amusing nonetheless.”
“Well, have fun.” Johnson turned back to the mirror. “I swear though, he’s looking right at me.”
_______________________________________________________________
Robert L. Bacon
theperfectwrite.com
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Virgin Territory Opening Chapter by Buck B.

2011-06-27T12:06:00.006-04:00

Chapter 1

Memorial Day weekend, traditionally the start of a summer filled with beach parties, scuba diving, and Keys vacations for Florida folks. Fewer tourists, lower prices, slower pace. Good times… if you’re lucky enough not to get stuck with an investigation that darkens your soul and wrecks your life. I wasn’t lucky, not even close.

Flies buzzed and flitted over her naked body lying face up by the picnic table. A line of ants marched across her torso, skin dappled by early morning sun penetrating the leafy canopy. A faint smell of necrosis assaulted my nostrils. Then an irrational feeling of failure engulfed me, draining my soul as the death of a young woman always did, but stronger than usual, maybe the strongest ever.

“Is this her, Luke?”

She wasn’t the smuggler’s girlfriend I’d been trying to find, but there was something about her… something familiar. I glanced at OC and said what I was sure he already knew, “This isn’t the girl I’m looking for.”

Though death had slackened her face, she was still beautiful. I couldn’t pinpoint what was familiar. Around twenty years old, long blonde hair, glazed-over blue eyes, medium height, good body, not much makeup, pale lipstick, clear fingernail and toenail polish. A black beetle crawled over blonde pubic hair trimmed short and shaved into a small triangle.

Flawless, except for a bullet hole under her left breast, but not much blood. The bullet must have wiped out her heart instantly. What a fucking waste. I failed her. The world failed her.

“Is this how she was found?”

OC shook his head. “White panties pulled down to her knees and red sandals on her feet. A red top and bra and a white skirt were next to her body. Harlan bagged all of it. That was the only evidence besides the shell casing. No tire prints or footprints in this sand and rock.”

I was glad the panties were gone. Somehow that intimate garment would have made her seem even more violated than her total nakedness. I squatted and touched her left shoulder… flesh cold, so different from the warmth she radiated just hours earlier. My feeling of failing her deepened.

I looked up at OC. “What’d the medical examiner say about time of death?”

“Between ten and midnight, maybe as late as one this morning.”

No blood around her. I lifted her shoulder. Flies swarmed off. No blood on the ground underneath her. “Exit wound?”

“No exit wound. Doc rolled her far enough to see her back. And no sign of sexual assault.”

I stood but a translucent image of me touching her shoulder remained. I shook my head to clear the illusion and said, “Obviously shot while undressing. Gunpowder stippling on her chest. The killer wasn’t far from her.”

“The casing’s a .380. With that stippling pattern Harlan thinks it was about two feet. He’s going to check his charts.”

I leaned forward and studied her face, trying to visualize her alive. “Any idea of who she is?”

“Not yet.”

A second beetle caught my attention and the flies were bringing in reinforcements. Masking the emotions the dead girl had churned up, I said, “Might as well let the meat wagon take her while there’s something left to autopsy.”

OC turned and waved his arm. A deputy moved the crime scene tape blocking the park entrance and the ambulance rolled in. We were silent while the paramedics put the body on a gurney, loaded it, and closed the doors. After the ambulance started back toward the highway, we walked in the same direction.

“The ME finished up a few minutes before you got here,” OC said, “but I wouldn’t let them haul the body till you saw it.”

“Thanks, we don’t usually get called in until the body’s been six feet under long enough to be a fossil and the case is colder than a penguin’s ass.”

I stopped and looked around. Tall water oaks shaded River Bluff Park. Calling a strip of land on the Persimmon River with one picnic table a park was a stretch. A moonlit night about six years ago with a woman who worked for the Treasure County Sheriff’s Department entered my mind. That pleasurable memory of the park was quickly ruined by the dead girl’s glazed-over blue eyes fading in. I blinked them away.

“Really appreciate you comin’, Luke, swamped as you always are.”

Although concentration lines and thinning gray hair had always made OC appear older than his years, my good friend had aged more than he should have in what? Six months? Six months since I’d seen OC. Hard to believe. A hell of a way to get together.

“When,” I said, “did the Florida Department of Law Enforcement ever turn down your request? I’m damn sure I haven’t personally because I’d still be hearing about it.”

“This is different. You don’t work this area anymore and could’ve gotten out of it. But it’s a bad situation and I’ve seen you figure out what happened before anybody else even realized a crime had been committed.”

I held up a hand as though stopping traffic. “You don’t have to lay it on so thick. I’m already here. Did you really think this girl was the one I’ve been looking for, or was that a con job for Tallahassee’s benefit?”

We ducked under the crime scene tape, walked past two sheriff’s department marked units, and crossed River Road where our cars were parked on the shoulder.

“Both,” OC said. “She looked enough like the girl in the photo that I couldn’t positively say it wasn’t her. And I knew your Fort Pierce office couldn’t help much what with the vacancies and some major cases they’re involved in, but most of all, I need you on this.”

OC looked at his watch. “Roughly two hours ago, which was about fifteen minutes before I called you, Harlan had just finished the other crime scene. He got the call to come here and found the same caliber shell casing. With the bodies only bein’ about two miles apart, the homicides could be connected, and the girl maybe bein’ the one you’re interested in, I figured it was an FDLE case.”

“The part about possibly being the girl I’m looking for was a masterstroke. Tallahassee didn’t hesitate about me coming up here. What’s the story on the other victim?”

“Alvin Wayne Reynolds, called Big Al. His body was found inside his house in Persimmon Estates. You know where that is, don’t you?”

I nodded. I knew the place. I’d made an arrest there six years ago. If I’d gone straight on Bridge Road instead of turning toward the park, I’d have come to it about a mile past the bridge.

A strident electronic tone blared out of OC’s cell phone. He pulled it off his belt. “Sheriff Lofton.” He listened but didn’t speak.

Thinking about Persimmon Estates, I looked west down River Road toward Bridge Road, the area as rural as when I’d first driven into Treasure County eight years ago as a rookie agent. Back then, 606 east from I-95 to Treasure Beach was rural too, with only a mom-and-pop gas station and a small local airport along that five mile stretch. I could cruise at a hundred plus and only have an occasional wayward cow to worry about.

This morning after driving past big gas stations and fast food joints crammed around the interchange, I almost rear-ended an idiot stopped in the road gawking at decorated conch shells and coconuts in front of a souvenir shop. Then before turning north, I got stuck behind a truck creeping through a construction zone.

Well, what the hell did I expect in a coastal county between West Palm Beach and Orlando in the budding twenty-first century? Fortunately, the zero-lot-line housing and strip malls sprouting in pastures and citrus groves soon petered out on Bridge Road. By the time I reached River Road, the terrain looked about the same as ever. The closer I got to the park, the more I realized it wasn’t overdevelopment aggravating me. It was knowing I was about to investigate the death of a young woman.

I took a deep breath of clean country air and tried to detach myself from the dead blonde. Some Memorial Day weekend, and it was only Saturday.

OC finally spoke into his cell phone. “Stevenson Community? Be right there.”

He disconnected. OC’s eyes were narrowed and his mouth was set in a hard line. “A three-year-old girl just died at the hospital. Parents brought her in a half hour ago, said she’d fallen into an abandoned well. The doc’s not buying it.”

I tried to talk but something had me by the throat. A faceless toddler under bright hospital lights taking her last breath filled my mind. A child, the only thing that hit me as hard as a young woman, maybe harder. Both, back to back. My neck spasmed. Bile in my throat.

OC blew out his breath. “All my investigators and six special-assignment deputies are working Big Al and this one. I know I got you up here for these cases, but I don’t have anybody to handle the little girl, except you and me.”

I forced out gravelly words. “Meet you at the hospital." ____________________________________________________________

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"A New Beginning" by Mike H. Narrative Opening

2011-06-12T15:34:00.014-04:00

Prologue

The clouds hung full, bunched like ripe grapes in the sky. The air was stagnant, the humidity high, and the smell of approaching rain unmistakable. These were the precursors of Tropical Storm Beatrice, which was disrupting the normal currents and trade winds.

For two days the humidity had been building until it was now unbearable. Even with all the windows open, no member of the O’Rourke family was able to sleep soundly. Mary found it especially hard, since she was pregnant with her fourth child and it was due at any time.

Another day dawned, and even though the clouds appeared thicker on this morning as they blocked the sun, there was no relief—the temperature in the 80s before noon and a humidity near 100 percent.

At 1:40 p.m. both waters broke and chaos started. Beatrice lashed the island with intense rains while Mary prepared for the new birth.

The family was startled three hours later by a bolt of lightning that fried the landscape just outside their ranch-style home. A long rumble and a crash of thunder followed to drown out the woman’s cries of pain.

Beatrice continued to pummel the island. Howling winds created horizontal sheets of rain. Eerily, thunder and lightning would arrive just in time to announce another contraction and obscure Mary’s latest wail. On it went, an opera playing
out over many hours, Beatrice roaring across the island in a rhythm reminiscent of Wagner’s Ring cycle. Finally, it was over, and a different cry filled the room. At 10:35 p.m., as John O'Rourke held his new son, the skies cleared to reveal the constellation Capricorn rising on the horizon.

The child was named Beetle Makena Bailey O’Rourke, born August 4, 1953, on the island of Maui, Hawaii, on the north slope of Haleakala Mountain, in an area later known as Paia.

Chapter 1

June 14, 1957, began with an atmospheric cover that obscured any light from the sky. Dressed all in black, and with grease on his face, an intruder watched the headquarters of Fortunes United Building America’s Resources, acronym FUBAR, from his hiding place in the trees. He saw the lights go out. Then he observed personnel leaving The Organization’s building. He waited. At 3 a.m., he observed a guard walk from the headquarters to sweep the grounds. He knew from previous surveillance that there were two guards, and the other was likely still inside in the control room.

In the northeast corner of the premises, a dart felled the first guard at 3:07 a.m. The second guard came out to check on his partner and was knocked out at 3:27, less than two feet from where the first guard lay. The intruder entered the building. Wherever he went, he upturned bookshelves and kicked over wastebaskets.

In the secretary’s room next to the boardroom he found copious notes, many handwritten from industry and government leaders, detailing changes that would be coming during the next six months. It riled him that these men were circumventing the will of the people to line their own pockets. He knew very well the work of The Organization and its elites, and how they subverted people and the legitimacy and sovereignty of the government. In disgust, he scattered the papers.

On one wall he noticed a large map of the world stuck with pins of many colors. Areas of known conflict were identified by yellow pins. He perused the map and made a mental note of the orange and red pins and their locations. He recognized the orange pins as denoting locations of “natural” disasters. The few red ones had no immediate significance for him, but he noted that one red pin was placed in Peru, another in Italy, a third in Greece, a fourth in Egypt, and a fifth in London.

He entered the personnel offices, picked the file cabinet’s lock, and with the aid of his flashlight located six hanging files. After securing these in the backpack he was wearing, he slammed the cabinet door shut. This would be a meticulously studied crime scene. No need to draw attention to one file cabinet, so he tossed the rest of the office before he set off. In the computer room, he lit a match and threw it onto the punch cards before leaving the building. It was 3:37 a.m.. He smiled. Ten minutes, no more, no less.

Returning to his perch, he watched quietly as the sedative wore off and the guards revived. The guards awoke in time to see flames inside the building and fire trucks approaching. An hour later, the intruder left.

The next morning, the intruder placed the files in a safe deposit box.

Chapter 2

Beetle began to put his puzzlement into words. “What’s going on?” he wondered aloud. “Why can I see colors that show me how people are feeling? Where is this coming from? What does it mean?”

His family was leaving Green’s Grocer where his mother had bought food
and other supplies. It was a bright, sunny day, and the temperature was already into the 80s. As they left the grocery and crossed Dairy Street, Beetle looked at the various people. Every time he focused on a person, a color and emotion pushed into his mind. He was two days past his fifth birthday.

“Mama, what color is that lady over there?”

“Color is not important," Mary said, observing an ocean of Hawaiian brown and tan. "No one’s different from anyone else.”

He turned to his older sister, Angela, and asked her, “Do you get their feelings when people walk past you? Do you see people in different colors, like that blue woman over there?”

Angela gave him a quizzical look. “There is no blue woman over there. Nobody has blue skin, Beetle. And no, I don’t feel emotions when people pass by.
I don’t notice anything special about them at all.”

They entered a clothing store. Mary spent a few minutes sifting through outfits before the family noticed a man approaching. It was the store’s salesclerk, but what Beetle saw was red, and what he experienced was hatred and rage. He ran to his mother, wrapped his arms tightly around her leg, and shivered in fear.

Mary tried to move but was unsuccessful with her youngest holding firm to her leg. “Angela, come get your brother,” she implored.

Angela pried Beetle from his mother’s leg. His sister held him close, asking, “What’s wrong, Beetle? What frightened you?”

He cowered in Angela’s arms, and only after she took him outside did he speak. “That man came toward me, and I could feel he was red and angry and hateful. He scared me.”

Angela said, “Nobody sees into other people like that, Beetle. It’s your imagination. Just relax and it will pass.”

It didn’t, though. It just got stronger.

Mary brought everyone else outside after she finished with the clerk, remarking about him, “That young man was very rude. He must be having a hard day.”

Beetle turned away from his sister and looked at his mother. “Mama, that boy over there is all black. What’s wrong with him?”

Mary glanced around, but couldn’t see the boy he was talking about. There were no black people on the street. She did, however, see the boy he was referring to.

As they watched, the boy picked up his walk to a faster gait. Then, passing by an older woman, he reached out and grasped her purse by the strap and pulled hard. Beetle saw the strap break and the boy run away with the purse in his grip, leaving the woman to fall.

One of Beetle’s older brothers spotted the boy just as the purse came free. He lit out after him. It required sprinting three blocks, but the purse-snatcher was finally caught and the handbag returned to the woman, who was being attended to by other passersby.

Angela stared at Beetle and asked, “How did you do that, brother? How did you see that boy was bad?”

Beetle didn't know but shrugged and said, "He was all black, just like the night."

_______________________________________________________

Robert L. Bacon
theperfectwrite.com

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"The Other Side of Happy" Opening-Chapter Critique By Robert L. Bacon

2011-05-30T14:26:00.018-04:00

                                                      Chapter 1

       Carleigh closed the door behind her and stopped mid-stride when she recognized the heavy footsteps. Her body tensed, then began to tremble. The brassy taste of fear filled her mouth. She slid her backpack around, pressed it protectively against her stomach, and became statue-still.
       Appearing to concentrate on the bare floor in front of him, a man with a weathered complexion and muttonchops tramped down the hallway. His right hand clutched a Budweiser, left hand a cigarette.
       Dean.
       She took a step backward. A floorboard creaked. She sucked in a sharp breath.
       Dean's head snapped up and he slowly arched one eyebrow. “Well, now.”
       Carleigh squeezed her backpack and focused her eyes on the wall behind him.
       Dean inhaled a long drag from his cigarette and came to within a foot of where she stood. “Didn’t hear you come in, precious.”
       The stench of nicotine and alcohol assaulted her nostrils. But she held her position, feet and hands frozen in place.
       Dean tucked the Marlboro between his lips, reached out a calloused finger, and stroked the side of her face. “Where you been?”
       Recoiling from his touch, she jumped sideways. Hatred lurked behind his eyes, as obvious to Carleigh as his gold-capped teeth. He pulled back his finger. “That how it’s gonna be?” He took another deep drag and drained his beer. “Don’t think so.” He held up the can and crushed it. “Listen here, young lady, we ain’t finished. Not by a long shot.”
       Carleigh flinched, but kept her gaze steady. She thought about running but knew
it would be futile. Even inebriated, he’d catch up with her. She’d learned that the last time he came home wasted. A shudder ran down her spine. She lowered her gaze to a spot on the floor.
       Dean exhaled a cloud of smoke in her face. With a snicker, he chucked the beer can across the room.
       Carleigh looked up and saw him heading toward the door. Good riddance.
       But before he reached the end of the hall, he paused and turned to her. Carleigh could hear her heart pounding. He folded his arms across his chest and shot her a razor-sharp look. “You tell your momma, I’ll be back. Tell her we got…unsettled business.”
       Carleigh's throat muscles constricted. Business, no doubt, meant money or drugs. Regardless, Dean certainly would return. She tried to swallow, but her mouth was too dry, the room too warm.
       Two men appeared at the door. Muscular. Bullnecked. Matching Neanderthal brows. “That everything?” one of the men asked.
       Dean motioned toward the kitchen with his thumb. “Two more. Rest is garbage.” He let out a soft laugh. “Let ’em have it.”
       Carleigh looked down and dug her fingernails into her palms. After everything Dean had done, did he have to shame them as well?
       The men went into the kitchen, and each came out carrying a large cardboard box. As they walked through the foyer, she heard them mutter something about her and share garbled laughs. From the corner of her eye she caught them gawking at her breasts, just like Dean always did. She hunched her shoulders, moved her backpack to cover her upper body, and kept quiet. Experience had taught her the less she said to adults, the better.
       Dean finished his cigarette, flicked it onto the floor, and crushed it beneath his heel. While it smoldered he pulled out another smoke and popped it between his lips. Outside, a loud car horn honked repeatedly. He pushed back his sleeve and checked his watch. “Time to go.”
       But instead of leaving, he walked back to Carleigh in what to her were agonizingly slow steps. When he was inches away, he leaned down and whispered, “Don’t forget what I told you.” He pressed his finger against her cheek and ran it alongside her mouth.
       Carleigh remained still as Dean moved his ragged fingernail across her neck, her collarbone, then lower. He was so close, she saw the gray roots in his beard. His hand paused in the valley between her breasts. She felt his breath hot on her shoulder. Her legs quivered but she willed herself to remain steady, her heart not to beat as it slammed in her chest, her diaphragm not to expand as her lungs filled with air, her hands not to shake. She closed her eyes and forced down the panic rising from her abdomen.
       Don’t move. Don’t even breathe.
       She felt him pull away.
       “Remember what I said,” he snarled as his boots slapped the linoleum on the foyer floor. “Tell your momma I’ll be back.”
___________________________________________________________

Robert L. Bacon
theperfectwrite.com

For authors, The Perfect Write® is now providing
FREE QUERY LETTER REVIEW AND ANALYSIS.
Post your query to mailto:theperfectwrite@aol.com (no attachments)
and visit the Sample Letters Page for examples of successful query letters.

The Perfect Write® offers comprehensive editing services, from manuscript critiques to complete revisions, including line-editing, along with query letter design and composition. For pricing, send your project requirements to mailto:theperfectwrite@aol.com.

For business applications, The Perfect Write® also offers advanced services, from designing sophisticated sell sheets to crafting investor-appealing business plans for start-up enterprises. For a customized quote, please send your detailed project requirements to mailto:theperfectwrite@aol.com

BARRY FLYNN Opening-Chapter Critique By Robert L. Bacon

2011-05-16T16:57:00.018-04:00

Barry Flynn Opening-Chapter Critique
by Robert L. Bacon
April 26, 2011

Hello Sterling,

If every opening chapter I received was in the condition of the material you sent me,
I wouldn't have a job. (You'll notice I wrote "was" and not "were" as the verb in this subjunctive clause, since what I'm stating is unassailable, ha ha). You're obviously an accomplished writer, and very much so, I might add.

Of course it's impossible to know the strength of a plot by an opening chapter, and literary fiction has a great deal more leeway than many other genres with respect
to pacing necessities, especially when the writer does a superb job of presenting a character with inherently redemptive qualities, such as how Barry came across to
me. (You old enabler, you.) So I can't offer anything remotely negative about your narrative, except to state that I'd like to have had something more happen with the
trio on the beach other than Barry wondering if he could latch a ride off them. And
I guess there are a few commas I might delete, but this is tomato/tomato stuff and
not even worth throwing spit at.

I'm curious what you've done with this story. Did you already have it published and just wanted to test me, ha ha? Or are you currently querying it? If you are looking for an agent, I might have one or two in mind, but I don't want to get the cart in front of horse if you've got a game plan firmly in place. Regardless, I want to wish you the very best of luck with your story. You're a dandy writer.

Regards,

Robert L. (Rob) Bacon, Founder
The Perfect Write®

Barry Flynn

PART ONE
CHAPTER ONE

Although he’d have sworn he was earning a living, Barry Flynn was out stealing again. Crabs this time, since the eel pots were empty. Blue points all of them, beauties, the color the sky might have chosen if given a choice. But of course it had no choice, and Barry would have said he hadn’t one either. He’d have said many such things, mostly bullshit, with the truth sprinkled here and there. Now though he said nothing, unable to hear himself with the motor so loud. It hung beside him on his garvey’s stern as if trying to climb in, growling an angry waah! as the boat swerved round the river’s
bend. His flat-bottomed girl, that’s what Barry called his garvey. Flat-chested too, he sometimes added. For once he wasn’t lying. The boat hadn’t a girlish curve anywhere, but was built like a box—a shallow box skidding from the bend toward a floating white jug.

Despite the tide rushing in, the jug didn’t move. It pointed down river, toward the brown bay, cutting a V in the current. Coming near, Barry twisted the throttle and the waah! subsided. The garvey’s bow lowered, and he scratched his bearded face. It was a young face, but weathered. Tired, you might say. Actually, Barry and his boat looked in about the same condition. As the boat needed paint and showed scrapes and gouges, Barry’s clothes needed mending and his hands and arms showed scars. This Flynn and his garvey, it seemed, were of the same tough Jersey cedar, but in need of an overhaul.

After drifting to the jug, the motor huff-huffing, Barry stood and reached out with his boat hook, snagging the rope tied to the jug’s handle. He tugged upward and the jug arose dripping, half white, half black with algae. For a moment he stared, as if he hadn’t noticed its two-faced appearance before. He seemed about to say something, but instead dropped the jug to the floorboards and began hauling up the rope. Soon a rusty trap broke the surface.

“Morning, friends,” he said, swinging the trap onto the gunnel. Barry smiled down
at the crabs clinging inside to the wire. “Interrupt something?” Sometimes he hated barging in on them, especially when they were eating. These crabs appeared in deep communion, and ignored him.

“Be that way,” Barry snorted. He heaved his anchor over the bow, yanked the line to set the flukes, then shut off the motor. “Be whatever you want,” he said, opening a red cooler near the stern. “’Cause soon you’ll be sautéed.” He snatched up a beer can and popped the tab. The can hissed, and dripping foam on the crabs he took a long drink. Sighing, he took a longer drink, then crushed the can and tossed it in the water. It began floating upriver.

Barry brought out two more cans, opened them, and flopped back in the stern with
a can in each hand, sipping from one then the other. He raised the brim of his greasy cap, exhaled contentedly and looked around. The Egg Harbor River was wider here near the last bend before emptying into the bay. No houses bordered the bank; just marsh, then trees. The sky was as grey as the paint on his boat, and across it, far ahead, rising from a single pale stack, stretched the plume from the power plant. It veered to the north hard and white, then spread and was gone.

“Gone where?” Barry asked. Lips pursed, he took a right-hand sip of beer. The sip continued and he felt its icy flow spread like the plume. “Everywhere!” he belched, and tossed the can.

Smiling, he turned on his portable radio. A favorite song was playing, black girls shouting, a wild saxophone, and Barry sucked down his left-hand beer and flung the can over his shoulder. From inside the trap a crab stared up at him, its mouthparts working silently.

“Don’t wait so long,” Barry sang. He stood and opened the trap. “Got to have it,” he whined, pumping his hips. The music quickened and Barry reached in and grabbed the crab. “Let’s dance!”

Holding the crab by the points of its shell, he rocked round the boat to the music. The crab tapped its claws as if keeping time. “Can you hully gully?” Barry cried, shuffling his feet, wagging his heels in and out. He scrunched his bearded face, moaning “ooh mama yeah.” Then he lowered the crab and hopped around the floorboards. The radio crackled and the black girls sang. The crab clicked its claws, the saxophone howled, and Barry’s bottom swung like a sack full of clams . . . against the trap, knocking it off the gunnel.

“Cheeses!” he yelled, lunging for the jug as the crab pinched his finger. “Cheeses Christ!” Flicking his hand he flung the crab upward, then watched it spin as it climbed through the air. At the top of the arc it hung for an instant as if grabbing hold, reaching out with its claws like a crabby star. But immediately came its tumbling drop, its awkward splash.

“Hully sea-gully,” Barry said, standing there holding the jug. The song stopped and he switched off the radio. He hauled up the trap and set it once more on the gunnel. All but three crabs had escaped. “Lucky bastards,” he muttered. Then he flipped the trap and shook it. The crabs fell into the river.

“Go on—beat it,” he said. “Old Curt Madison won’t miss you.”

After fastening the lid, Barry dropped the trap over the side. The jug leaped after it and flopped on the water. Only its white half showed again. Then Barry smiled toward the galvanized tub under the bow seat. “But you guys ain’t going nowheres.” He pulled out the tub and winked inside. Hundreds of blue crabs lay piled on one another—damp feathery crabs, bubbles at their mouths. He kicked the tub under the seat.

Kneeling at the stern he yanked the cord and the motor started. Then he pulled up
the anchor and the motor stopped—it idled, coughed and died. Barry swore loudly and threw out the anchor. He stomped back to the motor and squeezed the siphon ball on the gas line. The motor was fifteen years old, a ’60, so anything was possible. All the same, this wasn’t how he’d planned to spend his morning. “Don’t do this to me, you bastard.” He pulled the starter cord, nothing happened, and he punched the gas can, shouting, “I’m warning you,” and pulled the cord once more. The motor sputtered to life. “That’s better.” He brought in the anchor.

Soon he was heading down river. Behind him the bleach jug bobbed. The motor now released an undeviating howl and Barry, grasping its steering arm, guided the garvey around the last bend. An egret watched one-eyed from the bank. With a cry Barry couldn’t hear, the tall bird lifted its white wings and swept itself into the air, its serpent neck curved and thin legs straight, and flew slowly across the marsh. Then Barry surged out of the bend and could see, distant to starboard, the massive blue power plant, all straight lines and corners, with at its center the tall stack, and the white plume rising from the stack before catching the breeze across the bay. Beneath the plume stretched a line of grey electric towers, and beyond them, where the bay narrowed before spreading again, two shadowed bridges. Each familiar image aligned snugly
in his mind, and he was heading for the towers, cruising down the center of the bay where it was wide and deep, no longer a river, telling himself he was almost home, when the engine died again. First it made a puffing noise, “unh uh,” as if saying no.

Suddenly the bay was quiet, with only the sound of water lapping the hull. Barry sat saying nothing. He sniffed, seeking the scent of gasoline, but instead smelled the salt
of the ocean filling the bay. The tide, he knew, would be against him for hours. With
a groan he looked out over the water, toward the electric towers. He thought about crabs crawling deep beneath them, immersed in their concerns. He thought about Curt Madison’s crabs, and wondered briefly if it was wrong to steal them. Of course, he didn’t exactly steal them, or clams either, because he just took a few when needed. But he wondered if taking them was related to his engine not starting, or to other things for him not starting. “That’s stupid,” he said. “Crabs and such belong to none but theirselves.” That settled, he brought out the oars.

Apart from the slowness, there was one big problem with rowing a boat. It was something Barry had never gotten used to, although his father, Big Barry, when Barry was young, made him row boats in the rain, the cold and the heat, on the theory that a bayman should be able to extricate himself, under his own power, from any situation. “The predicaments of life,” Big Barry had said, “will sneak up and grab your posterior, and your posterior had best be prepared.”

So now a fly in the fuel line, or maybe a fouled plug had stopped Barry’s outboard, sneaked up on his posterior, and Barry was ready, could row to Atlantic City if he
had to, but he would have preferred to face forward. That was the problem—the backwardness of rowing, not seeing where he was going. Backward, maybe nothing could sneak up on you, because you were already looking back, but you could sneak yourself into a predicament just the same.

He rowed. Seated on the red cooler, with the outboard tilted up and one foot braced against the stern seat he rowed the wide cedar boat toward the power lines, toward the reach between the fourth and fifth tower . . . and farther north toward Patcong Creek where he would turn and keep rowing until he reached the boat yard. That was miles, with the tide coming in and the wind picking up. Everything was pushing against him and he felt the muscles in his back and his breath in his throat. It made him thirsty. So he opened another beer, and rowed and drank, while the waves hit the bow with a smack, smack—little shoves. The wind whistled. Then he heard something and turned to see under the power lines a cabin cruiser heading fast in his direction. “Holy shit,” he whispered, spotting the insignia of the marine police. “The bastards wanta help me.” He couldn’t allow that. Yanking in the oars he stood and waved the police away. But they came near.

“You okay?” a skinny officer shouted, standing by the transom as the boat slowed. Barry knew him—Sergeant Brochard.

“Getting my exercise!” Barry shouted back. “Fitness first, I always say!”

“Need a tow?” Brochard yelled.

Barry with a smile gazed down at his feet. “Nah—I got all ten. You go chase some robbers.”

Something about the joke made Brochard grimace. “Right,” he said. He gave a nod to the helmsman and the boat sped away.

“And while you’re at it, fuck yourselves!” Barry called after them, snapping a jaunty salute.

He sat down and picked up his beer. Taking a long drink, he felt the tension drain
away. That had been close. But those crabs in the tub weren’t branded like cows,
he reminded himself. “Ain’t no robbers out here, or cattle rustlers neither.” He was guiltless—Barry the Blameless, as innocent as the day he was born—and with that certainty he gazed toward the distant towers. The sun was appearing now, burning away the overcast and lighting up the water. The bay sparkled around him, and he lowered the brim of his cap as something caught his eye. Far off on the left bank, a short beach stretched in front of a big brown house. A small white house sat nearby. Three figures were leaving the brown house. They ran to the beach and seemed to jump. They merged, then separated again.

Barry watched them awhile. He finished his beer and lobbed the can toward them, then began rowing once more. He watched them as he rowed. He had seen people
on that beach before but ignored them. Now they seemed to want his attention, and
the sun was hotter, and the beach was closer than the boat yard. He turned his garvey and headed for the beach. Maybe someone would give him a lift to Vanderbilt’s.
_______________________________________________________
Robert L. Bacon
theperfectwrite.com

For authors, The Perfect Write® is now providing
FREE QUERY LETTER REVIEW AND ANALYSIS.

Post your query to mailto:theperfectwrite@aol.com(no attachments) and visit the Sample Letters Page for examples of successful query letters.

The Perfect Write® offers comprehensive editing services, from manuscript critiques to complete revisions, including line-editing, along with query letter design and composition. For pricing, send your project requirements to mailto:theperfectwrite@aol.com

For business applications, The Perfect Write® also offers advanced services, from designing sophisticated sell sheets to crafting investor-appealing business plans for start-up enterprises. For a customized quote, please send your detailed project requirements to mailto:theperfectwrite@aol.com

Love Thy Neighbor by Maureen C. Opening Critique by Robert L. Bacon

2011-04-29T10:49:00.021-04:00

Hello Maureen,

As I said in my short e-mail message,you should be very proud of your writing. You are telling a wonderful story in a full and compassionate manner that readers will embrace. Every editor will have his or her nitpicking (sic, niggling) ideas. Here, however, is one thing I'm going to suggest that most editors would agree upon if your narrative is written in the same manner as the opening chapter, and this is to Show
the story and not Tell it (I always capitalize the words, they are so important).

I'm fascinated by Jeff, but to make him and his story come alive, the reader needs
to feel what he and those around him are going through--and not be told what has happened. Because of time, I can't revise more than a short section of your draft in
a Show environment, but I'll do the opening long paragraph so you can get an idea of what I'm suggesting. And, yes, a revision will likely involve more work than the four months it required for you to write your initial draft, but when you finish I think you'll have something quite special. (My last novel required four months to write yet over a year of revisions before it was ready to be sent to agents, a timeline which is not at all uncommon.)

Also, please go to the Articles Page on my Web site at www.theperfectwrite.com. It's one of the green links on the right side of the page. Scroll through the topics until you find the two I've published that deal specifically with Showing vs. Telling, as I think you might find each be of some benefit.

Please keep in mind that the setup I'm crafting from your narrative could be written in an as many ways as there are stars in the sky. My feeble offering is just one idea for writing your opening in a Showing medium. And if I can make one other point, it's that readers (and agents, editors, and publishers) like short paragraphs, and Showing action quite often enables this to occur as a natural function of writing in this manner. Regardless, don't be shy about breaking up paragraphs.

Here now is your original opening chapter Telling the action, followed by one quickly written idea of Showing the opening scene. Your entire original opening chapter can
be viewed after this material.

Telling the Action

Chapter 1

Dr. Sylvia Banes handled the records and recalled when she had first met Jeff Green; he was just ten years old and at the time and was living in Broadmere, a residential school for children with emotional problems. His files informed her that he hadn’t spoken for two years; he avoided all eye contact and would only look at his feet. His body language shouted avoidance, and he seemed to be trying to be invisible. Always alone, constantly set apart from others, never watching TV or in groups of children his own age. However, this strangely withdrawn child was an exceptionally good student. He excelled at things that other children in his age group were struggling with. He listened though, rarely gave any indication that he understood or accepted what was being said, but he heard it. That was evident with his school work, he sat silently day in and day out doing what the other children were doing and to everyone’s surprise his work was correct.

Showing the Action

Chapter 1

Dr. Sylvia Banes opened the first file in the stack she was holding on her lap. Jeff Green's name was on it, and as she shuffled some of the forms, she looked up from the paperwork and took in the ten-year-old's physiognomy. Usually she'd be concerned about making initial eye contact with a child at Broadmere for the first
time, and the person becoming more uncomfortable. But Jeff would present no such problem, since he stared at his feet, and even when Sylvia said his name did not raise his head to look at her.

Jeff Green was 5-feet tall, and of normal weight for a child his age, but he was so scrunched up in the supple couch on which he was sitting that he seemed half his size. His breathing was almost imperceptible. And with his shoes pointed inward, his arms and hands tucked within each other and pressed tight against his chest, and neck pushed well below his shoulders, Jeff appeared as though he were trying to crawl inside himself and render his salient features invisible.

"I see you're a very good student, Jeffrey," Sylvia said in a tone that was neither pejorative nor complacent, just honest. She hadn't expected him to respond, and she continued, "You have demonstrated exceptional abilities to comprehend things all by yourself. This isn't easy, and not many people can do it."

She was looking at him as she spoke, but again there was no outward reaction from the boy. However, Sylvia noticed a brief halt in his shallow breathing pattern when she mentioned he was able to pick up knowledge on his own, and she made a note of this in his file.

She read more of the material in the folder, then smiled and turned to face Jeff. She could see he hadn't recognized anything she was doing, since his attention remained fixed on his feet. "Now that I've explored further, I realize that you're more than a good student. I have a letter here that says your school work is almost always perfect."
His respiration changed once more, this time for a half-breath's worth. She didn't think he was still anywhere near ready to speak, and she would be correct. But the alteration in his breathing, while modest, was the indicator she needed. This gave her confidence she could develop a treatment plan that would enable him to shed his insecurities and enjoy the world and the people in it. And most important, respect himself.

Complete Original Opening Chapter

Chapter 1

Dr. Sylvia Banes handled the records and recalled when she had first met Jeff Green; he was just ten years old and at the time and was living in Broadmere, a residential school for children with emotional problems. His files informed her that he hadn’t spoken for two years; he avoided all eye contact and would only look at his feet. His body language shouted avoidance, and he seemed to be trying to be invisible. Always alone, constantly set apart from others, never watching TV or in groups of children his own age. However, this strangely withdrawn child was an exceptionally good student. He excelled at things that other children in his age group were struggling with. He listened though, rarely gave any indication that he understood or accepted what was being said, but he heard it. That was evident with his school work, he sat silently day in and day out doing what the other children were doing and to everyone’s surprise his work was correct.

Only one teacher was able to reach through his shrouded mind and discovered that he had an interest in computers. Alan Prince was on the verge of retiring after 32 years of teaching. He loved to teach those who were eager to learn; he took pride in what he was able to instill in them. That particular day Prince had been tinkering with the class computer when this boy had wandered over to watch. Within the first few minutes Prince deduced he was not going to get any conversation from the boy but he also saw that he was taking everything in. Prince talked nonstop explaining every single thing he was doing. Ignoring the silence Prince talked through ninety minutes of computer cleaning and updating; he explained his every movement. At one point Prince asked the boy if he had ever used a computer, looking away and then down to his feet he took that to be a negative. Step by step Prince explained how to turn on and boot up a computer, he showed how to connect to the Internet and how to do a search. Shutting the machine down Prince stood and offering his chair he told the boy to boot up and do a search for ‘conversation’. With only the slightest hesitation the boy sat at the computer; booted up and did his search. When he got the answer to his query he turned to Prince and indicated by pointing that he was done.

“A conversation is communication between multiple people. It is a social skill that is not difficult for most individuals [citation needed]. Conversations are the ideal form of communication in some respects, since they allow people with different views on a topic to learn from each other. A speech, on the other hand, is an oral presentation by one person directed at a group. For a successful conversation, the partners must achieve a workable balance of contributions. A successful conversation includes mutually interesting connections between the speakers or things that the speakers know. For this to happen, those engaging in conversation must find a topic on which they both can relate to in some sense. Those engaging in conversation naturally tend to relate the other speaker's statements to themselves. They may insert aspects of their lives into their replies, to relate to the other person's opinions or points of conversation.

Conversation is indispensable for the successful accomplishment of almost all activities between people, especially the coordination of work, the formation of friendship and for learning.”

Prince was pleased and patted him on the shoulder, pointing at the screen he suggested that the piece of information become a goal for him, he must find some way to bring conversation into his life.

It took two years for Dr. Sylvia Banes to gain enough trust for him to be relaxed in her company. Asking questions had never gained her any insight so she stopped; instead of questions she began explaining psychology, how the mind closes down to protect itself from people, things or situations. She would have books available, with bookmarked pages that she went over with him; each section would encourage speech as an important form of recovery. He was twelve when she lost her cool calm façade and in frustration asked if he actually wanted to change from the way he was and become responsible for his own life. In an almost inaudible whisper he said “yes”.

She had been stunned but covered it quickly and continued as if had been normal for him to speak. Over the next couple of months he had spoken but without much animation; he used a flat monotone sound. Just before his thirteenth birthday he began talking to her, freely and without being prompted; he began describing what it had been like to live in his home. Speech wasn’t easy for him, he hesitated often as if not sure what he should and shouldn’t say but little by little over the next few years he became much more animated. As he became used to talking he began to enjoy his twice weekly sessions. She was the only person he spoke with; he still wasn’t comfortable with others. Once away from Dr. Banes Jeff reverted back to being silent though he would look at people when they spoke to him. That was an improvement but he still had a long way to go. Despite the talking Sylvia Banes still had the feeling that there was something he was holding back. She felt that with time he would share enough to have brought everything out and he would then move forward by leaps and bounds.

He was just fifteen when his mother passed away; her last weeks were painful and Jeff spent as much time as possible sitting beside her. Whenever she opened her eyes he would smile. There was grief was in his eyes but she never saw it on his lips. Her cancer was swift and she lost her battle after a year. It was exceptionally hard on Jeff. Dr. Banes had been afraid this would set him back but he grieved without reverting to his former ways. The very next Broadmere review of Jeff established him as being ready to try the outside world again. His aunt had agreed that he would be living with them. Despite Jeff resisting the idea he was picked up by his aunt and uncle and taken to their home.

_____________________________________________________________

Robert L. Bacon, Founder

The Perfect Write®

New Free Service for Serious Writers! The Perfect Write® is now providing a Free Manuscript Opening-Chapter Critique and Line Edit. Paste the first chapter of your manuscript (up to 5000 words) to theperfectwrite@aol.com (no attachments). In addition to the critique, The Perfect Write® will line edit, if applicable, up to the first three-pages of your double-spaced material also at no charge.

Also Free! Receive The Perfect Write® Newsletters that feature articles on writing at a publishable level. Click here http://www.theperfectwrite.com and scroll to the bottom of The Perfect Write® Home Page for the simple two-step sign-up box.

Terror at Sea Opening-Chapter Critique by Robert L. Bacon

2011-04-16T23:38:00.019-04:00

Name Withheld by Request

I want to begin by stating that your opening chapter depicts a well-conceived premise, and it's certainly intelligently written. With this in mind, I always do everything I can to encourage writers who are trying to create publishable material to write as much and as often as possible, with the caveat that crafting a novel that people will pay to read is not easy or quick.

To quantify this, on average, my personal circle of friends and acquaintances who are successful novelists have each written five novels during a 14-year period before their first manuscript was accepted by a major royalty publisher. But if you aren't interested in seeking publication via the Big 6 and Kensington, what follows will not have much relevance and will not be worth your time to read. However, if you will be pursing a major imprint at some point, then please read on.

Your opening chapter provides solid conflict, quickly established, and the storyline is one that clearly makes sense in the current political climate in which we live. Your plot, however, presents several developmental issues that I think you'll need to contend with, and you have a number of syntax problems I feel you would benefit from working on. Please keep in mind that editing is subjective, and often highly so, but I try to focus on that which I have personal experience. And here are my observation:

Your storyline makes all the sense in the world, but the opening is not fresh in the realm of it being a new concept. Instead, it's something we've read or heard many times before in one way or another. The other issue is that mainstream publishers seem to have grown very tired of terrorist-group activities, even if the U.S. and/or our allies come out on top. The events of 9-11 are deep-seated, and if you check submission guidelines with top agents and major publishers, you're going to have a hard time finding many who are seeking this sort of material to either represent or publish. However, if you already possessed a huge following, such as Clive Cussler or Tom Clancy for example, this is a horse of a different color, because an established readership is often more interested in the author and his or her characters than the plot.

To have a serious chance at having a publisher pay for something you write, here are some points you might want to consider:

First is formatting. Use only New Times Roman or Courier fonts, and please make more extended paragraph indentations. One inch is preferred. And by all means use quotation marks to set off dialogue and not whatever it is you sent me. In your defense, the text might've been corrupted by AOL as it was pasted in the body of the e-mail, and if this is the case please ignore my remark. But if AOL didn't contribute to what occurred, please never send a draft to an agent, editor, or publisher with whatever those hash marks happen to be. Leave cute ways of setting off dialogue to the likes of Joyce and Frazier.

You have a tendency to leave participles dangling, or as they are more commonly called, misplaced modifiers, such as what occurred when you have the sprouts going out to sea and not the rays from the light. I noticed misplaced modifiers in several other areas in your first chapter, so you may want to work on developing a clearer understanding of linkage. You might benefit from the section on linkage in Jacques Barzun's SIMPLE & DIRECT.

Be alert to repeated words close to one another. I made a number of revision suggestions on the first 3 pages for which I provided a cursory line edit.

Parentheses patronize the reader, and in my opinion should never be used in fiction. Everyone knows what an AK-47 is, and that it's a popular weapon with bad guys in many settings, so stating this essentially insults the reader.

Use an extra-line break to show a scene shift within a chapter that takes place in the same time frame. You'll see where I used this technique at one juncture in the text I line edited, and it is different from the hard breaks you employed later in the chapter. A line break enables better overall continuity for a chapter when events occur at the same time.

Whenever possible, don't begin sentences with "It was" or "There were." We all do this at times, but it's a sign of lazy writing. You'll see how I revised one sentence you began with It was. You might want to go through your draft and ferret out any other instances in which "It was" or "There were" started a sentence.

Try to write in an active and not a passive voice whenever possible. You'll notice a sentence or two I changed around so this was accomplished. One value of writing in an active voice is that it forces a writer to show rather than tell what is happening; which, among other things, is of great importance from the perspective if pacing.

Don't state the obvious: Their heads broke through the blackness of the sea followed by the rest of their bodies. Could anything else occur if the team was emerging from the water?

And accuracy is important. Could this really happen? …crept out of the water without making a sound. I made a revision by suggesting they emerged from the water in relative silence, since it would be impossible to complete this action without making a sound. And I think emerging from the water might sit better with readers instead of creeping from it, which I also think would be very hard to do, especially since you had originally written …their heads broke through followed by the rest of their bodies…. In and of itself, this action indicates they were already on or near shore.

Say things once: Asad's voice went up a couple of decibels. They will pay for this. No matter how long it takes me, I will get my brothers back alive. He walked a short distance towards the beach and threw the expended flashbangs several yards out to sea. He turned to face Fouad. They came ashore right here. He pointed at some groves and tracks on the beach. Then he screamed in the direction of the sea. You bastards will pay for this! In my revision I dropped the first reference.

It's usually best to explain a character's features when the person is first introduced to the reader, not in later scenes.

And in what you sent me, a new chapter can begin with Imad Yousif's introduction.

Here are the first 3 pages of your draft, for which I provided a cursory line edit, along with the same pages cleaned up so you can compare both narratives. At the very end of everything I'll have some closing ideas for your to consider.

Chapter 1

Their late night meeting ~~was~~ took place in an old, faded-white farmhouse on the coast of Libya, not far from Tobruk. ~~It was a~~ The rectangular ~~building~~ structure was made of concrete and situated at the base of a small hill. The only door to the building was ~~made~~ of constructed of heavy wood and the windows were boarded up shut. An ~~electric~~ power line ran to the house from a single wooden pole. . A lone ~~security lamp~~ ligh atop ~~of the pole~~ it burned bright at the front of the house. Its luminescence shone a glistening path ~~of light~~ across the dried-up dirt that once sprouted up crops, and its rays extended ~~out~~ a short way beyond the shore and into the dark waters of the ~~Mediterrean~~ Mediterranean Sea.

Two guards, each armed with Chinese versions of the vaunted Russian AK-47 assault rifle ~~(the weapon of choice of terrorists)~~, patrolled the area outside ~~area~~ the farmhouse–one moving ~~in a~~ clockwise ~~path~~ around the perimeter of the property while the other walked in the opposite direction.

Inside the building, three of the five senior military commanders of the National Front for the Liberation of Islam, or NFLI as it was commonly referred to, ~~and~~ were seated around an ~~improvised table of~~ plywood table that was supported by ~~four~~ rusted~~ing~~ barrels~~, were~~. Several ~~lesser~~ operatives of ~~NFLI~~ lesser stature also sat at the table, along with a number of heavily armed guards ~~inside the building~~. An open map of Europe lay on the table., and laptops and briefcases were strewn around the room.

Clad in ~~black~~ dark wetsuits, ~~the~~ a joint ~~team~~ operation composed of US Navy SEALS and the British Special Boat Service ~~swimmer-canoeists~~ ~~crept out of~~ emerged from the water ~~without making a sound~~ in relative silence. They pulled two identical rubber boats ~~were pulled~~ onto the beach~~. Leaving their masks, snorkels and fins on the boats with two team members, the group of~~ , and two SEALS who remained in the crafts as a ten-man team moved towards the farmhouse.

Two team members moved ahead of the group while the others knelt ~~Kneeling~~ with their M4A1s and MP5s at the ready. ~~, they waited on two team members who had moved ahead of the group.~~

In the blink of an eye, ~~the~~ one guard ~~walking counter-clockwise~~ went down as the result of a single shot from a ~~subsonic~~ sniper rifle with a sophisticated silencer attached to it. The same fate ~~was delivered to~~ befell the second guard. ~~Not a sound was~~h No one came to the door, ~~so it was obvious~~ indicating that those inside the building ~~were~~ had not been alerted to what was happening.

A ~~single~~ brief flash of light ~~from two different locations~~ told the ~~waiting group~~ rest of the team the area was clear~~. They moved closer to the house with a deliberateness and preciseness akin to a military drill team.~~ With stealth and precision, they moved toward the house. When they reached the door, ~~At the only door leading inside the house, two~~ the SEALS readied flashbangs. On a signal from the group commander, they opened the door ~~a few inches~~ and tossed the grenades inside.

After the explosion, t~~he group waited a couple of seconds and threw the door open~~. the door was thrown open and the team ~~As they~~ charged inside ~~the room~~. ~~, f~~ Five men went right and the other five went left. , ~~Ggunfire erupted.~~ ~~A few minutes passed as the gunfire~~ ~~subsided~~. ~~After about five minutes,~~ ~~the~~ ~~group~~ spraying a volley of bullets in every direction in front of them. When the raid was over, the team captured ~~with~~ a half-dozen prisoners, and two laptops along with various documents. ~~The group put the laptops and the documents~~ , the latter placed into waterproof ~~containers.~~ pouches.

The group then ~~paddled~~ drove the boats out to sea for a rendezvous with a submarine - the USS New Hampshire – loaded with an early Christmas gift for Washington and London.

~~Hours later,~~ Asad, the leader of the NFLI, ~~Asad~~ emerged from the old farmhouse and stared out to sea. Fouad, his chief lieutenant, ~~followed behind him~~, along with two bodyguards, followed behind him. ~~armed~~ ~~with their favorite assault rifles~~.

"The Americans did this. I know it," Asad said.

"They killed or captured everyone who was at the meeting. There isn't much we can do now, is there?" Fouad asked.

Asad's voice ~~went up~~ rose a couple of decibels. ~~They will pay for this~~. "No matter how long it takes me, I will ~~get~~ see the return of my brothers who are still alive." He walked a short distance towards the beach and threw the expended flashbangs ~~several yards out~~ into the ~~sea~~ water. He turned to face Fouad. "They came ashore right here." He pointed at some grooves and tracks on the beach. Then he screamed in the direction of the sea, "You bastards will pay for this!"

Revised Text
Chapter 1

Their late night meeting place took place in an old, faded-white farmhouse on the coast of Libya, not far from Tobruk. The rectangular structure was made of concrete and situated at the base of a small hill. The only door to the building was constructed of heavy wood and the windows were boarded shut. A power line ran to the house from a single wooden pole. A lone light atop it burned bright at the front of the house. Its luminescence shone a glistening path across the dried-up dirt that once sprouted crops, and its rays extended a short way beyond the shore and into the dark waters of the Mediterranean Sea.

Two guards, each armed with Chinese versions of the vaunted Russian AK-47 assault rifle, patrolled the area outside the farmhouse–one moving clockwise around the perimeter of the property while the other walked in the opposite direction.

Inside the building, three of the five senior military commanders of the National Front for the Liberation of Islam, or NFLI as it was commonly referred to, were seated around an improvised plywood table that was supported by rusted barrels. Several operatives of lesser stature also sat at the table, along with a number of heavily armed guards. An open map of Europe lay on the table, and laptops and briefcases were strewn around the room.

Clad in dark-colored wetsuits, a joint operation composed of U.S. Navy SEALS and members of the British Special Boat Service emerged from the water in relative silence. They pulled two identical rubber boats onto the beach, and two SEALS remained with the crafts as a ten-man team moved towards the farmhouse.

Two team members moved ahead of the group while the others knelt with their M4A1s and MP5s at the ready. In the blink of an eye, one guard went down as the result of a single shot from a sniper rifle with a sophisticated silencer attached to it. The same fate befell the second guard. No one came to the door, indicating that those inside the building had not been alerted to what was happening.

A brief flash of light told the rest of the team the area was clear. With stealth and precision, they moved toward the house. When the reached the door, the SEALS readied flashbangs. On a signal from the group commander, they opened the door and tossed the grenades inside.

After the explosions, the door was thrown open and the team charged inside. Five men went right and the other five went left, spraying a volley of bullets in every direction in front of them. When the raid was over, the team captured a half-dozen men and acquired two laptops and various documents, the latter placed into waterproof pouches.

The group then drove the boats out to sea for a rendezvous with a submarine--the USS New Hampshire--loaded with an early Christmas gift for Washington and London.

. . .

Asad, the leader of the NFLI, emerged from the old farmhouse and stared out to sea. Fouad, his chief lieutenant, along with two bodyguards, followed behind him.

"The Americans did this, I know it," Asad said.

"They killed or captured everyone who was at the meeting. There isn't much we can do now, is there?" Fouad asked.

Asad's voice rose a couple decibels. "No matter how long it takes me, I will see the return of my brothers who are still alive." He walked a short distance toward the beach and threw the expended flashbangs into the water. He turned and faced Fouad. "They came ashore right here." He pointed at some grooves and tracks on the beach. Then he screamed in the direction of the sea, "You bastards will pay for this!"

This was a cursory line edit at best, but it will give you an idea of the way the text can read once the syntax elements I mentioned are given some attention. You might find it beneficial to go to the Articles Page on my Web Site at www.theperfectwrite.com and scroll through the titles. Many of the pieces pertain directly to issues I brought up in my critique--and illustrated via the line edit.

I want to wish you the best of luck with your writing, and if you have any questions about this critique, please feel free to contact me.

Regards,

Robert L. (Rob) Bacon, Founder

The Perfect Write®

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The Devil's Tower Critique by Robert L. Bacon

2011-04-03T19:41:00.006-04:00

The Devil's Tower
By Pearl S.

Opening-Chapter Critique

by Robert L. Bacon

Hello Pearl,

In your vivid portrayal of the action in the opening scene in THE DEVIL'S TOWER, you have achieved the two most important aspects of any good adventure: creating a solid hook and provided characters readers will root for. Readers immediately have a vested interest in Louise and Madeline, and they want to read more. This in itself is as good as it gets. Another element you handle quite well is Showing and not Telling the action. And from what little I've read of your storyline, it seems rock solid. Here, however, are a few issues I noticed that you might want to consider:

The short opening (the pseudo-prologue if I can be allowed to call it that, ha ha), while well-written, is probably best left out. It tells a critical aspect of what the reader is about to encounter, and for this reason takes away from the full impact of Madeline's abduction. You've written a highly visceral scene, why diminish its strength in any way?

I did a cursory line edit of the first three pages, and I might mention that there was very little to suggest revising. However, from a grammatical standpoint, I found a number of instances in which I felt punctuation was beneficial--primarily commas, and a hyphen would be a good idea in "wide-open." You'll also see that I moved some clauses around to create what I felt was more fluent prose (not better, mind you, just a little easier on the eye). Some of this is tomato/tamato stuff, but there are are few instances in which I think the improvement is noticeable. Also, there are spots where I think conjunctions on the order of "and" might help. Again, you'll find these when you review what I'm returning to you.

I also substituted some repeated words that were close to one another. It's always prudent to be alert to this. And submissions editors will call you on phrases such as: The entire village pants for relief…. since it's not possible for a village to pant. Villagers can, not buildings. Oftentimes I find this sort of nitpicking ludicrous, just like when a community can't be aware of something, but the inhabitants can be alert to what's going on. I'm certain you get my point. This is red flag stuff, and why wave one in front of the bulls we have to endure at every crossroads on our way to publication?

I noticed a few verb tense issues when I went through your draft one more time prior to posting it on this blog, but your material is one instance when mixed tenses worked for me. An agent or editor might require you to reconcile them, but as I read the shifts in Louise's voice, they seemed perfectly natural to me, especially when I consider the era in which this story is written.

Pearl, I like your writing style very much, and after the edited three pages, these same pages are provided without the line-outs, highlights, etc., to precede the remainder of your excellent chapter.

The Devil’s Tower

From a village in southeast England, 1790

Louise de Bourneuf

My name is Louise, the only daughter of Marguerite and Henri de Bourneuf, ~~who was~~ a family of powerful ~~noble~~ nobility during the reign of King Louis XV of France. My parents, Catholics of wealth and ~~nobility~~ esteem, taught me to be honest, and to respect the beliefs of all and their right to live freely. As a maiden, in my naïveté I trusted others without discernment, sometimes with grievous consequences.

Long before the Revolution, my friend Madeleine, a Huguenot maiden, was arrested and deprived of her family. I promised to bring her home from the Tour de Constance, an impregnable prison tower in the south of France. No one, I discovered, is ever freed from the Tour or defies the State and lives.

Indifferent or fearful citizens ignored women of ~~unswerving~~ unwavering will and faith, leaving them to die in that tower. Unlike these ~~citizen~~s people, I knew nothing of evil’s power and endurance.

During these many years of exile from my beloved France, I have ~~ventured to~~ returned there, only when it is safe to travel, for a high price is on my head and there are many who seek it.

The faces ~~and poverty~~ of the women in the tower haunt me. My ~~own~~ body and soul suffered ~~pain~~ when I was there, and I bear scars from my devotion to free the prisoners. And in time, I came to know steadfast love and faith that delivered me from the cruelest of devils.

*****

The village of St. Martin in the Hérault region of southern France, July 17, 1760

Louise de Bourneuf

Sometime during the heat of the night, sweaty and restless, I removed my nightdress. I toss and turn on a lumpy mattress with coarse bed linens that chafe my skin and keep me on the edge of wakefulness. How I long for my own bed, with its cool, silky sheets that give the sensation of floating on water.

This July, like every other since I can remember, I am in St. Martin to visit my childhood friend, Madeleine Dubois, who is fast asleep on the cot opposite mine. Unlike our sturdy manor, the Dubois’ house is constructed of rough-hewn wood with thin walls. Exterior sounds penetrate the dwelling, and the ears of passers-by hear all the family says and does in their daily routine.

This summer, without respite, July has been drifting from hot to even hotter days and nights ~~without respite~~. The ~~entire~~ residents of the village pants for relief and ~~has~~ have yet to feel the cool air that descends in the evening from high in the mountains ~~by night~~ to freshen ~~our~~ their bodies and spirits.

Dawn must be near. Nature stirs in the twitter of birds and moan of farm animals asking for their morning feed. Pale ~~morning~~ early light filters into Madeleine’s bedroom through half-closed louvered shutters. Last night we argued about spreading them wide- open for better movement of air, but Madeleine hesitated. ~~From the kitchen below has seeped~~ A stale smell of yesterday’s cooking has seeped from the kitchen below and lingers in the bedroom and melds with our ~~sweaty~~ sticky clothing.

I have slept poorly this night, and my ears are alert to every sound. On the road outside the bedroom window horses snuffle and whinny low. Someone hawks, spits, and curses. I blink my eyes open, reach for the bed sheet I flung off in the night and draw it over my nakedness. An acrid whiff of lathered horses and the sour smell of men who have ridden hard assault my nose. The muffled laughter and snickering I hear makes me ~~feel~~ uneasy. Decent folk are abed. Who would enter a mountain village while its inhabitants ~~slept~~ sleep? ~~Decent folk are abed.~~

I am tempted to open the latched shutters to see who is outside. Are the men waiting for someone to come—or for something to happen? It is unusual for anyone to travel ~~before~~ prior to sunlight spilling over the mountaintops ~~into the valley~~, before the baker’s ~~cock~~ rooster crows to his signal ~~a village~~ to begin the day. I roll over, perch on the edge of the bed and peer at Madeleine.

“Madeleine.” I stretch across the narrow gap between our beds and poke a finger into her lean hip. “Wake up.” I jab her again. “There are men outside.”

Madeleine squirms, snorts, but sleeps on. I slip into my chemise and start to rise. Before my toes touch the floor, I stiffen on hearing steel rasp out of a long sheath.

Madeleine startles me by bolting upright.

“Hush, Louise. Don’t move.”

She rolls off the bed and tiptoes to the window to peer at the scene on the road through a crack in the shutters ~~at the scene on the road~~. As if struck full in the face, she reels backward. She presses a finger against my lips then slinks to the end of the bed to rummage in an oak chest.

“I recognize the coats of the king’s soldiers,” she whispers, returning to sit beside me. “If they arrest me, I’ll need these warm clothes for cold weather.”

I am confused by what my friend says. I put my arm around her thin shoulders and drop my voice. “If they arrest you…?

Madeleine releases the tremulous sigh of an old woman. In the quietness that remains I am aware something has changed outside.

The Devil’s Tower

From a village in southeast England, 1790

Louise de Bourneuf

My name is Louise, the only daughter of Marguerite and Henri de Bourneuf, a family of powerful nobility during the reign of King Louis XV of France. My parents, Catholics of wealth and esteem, taught me to be honest, and to respect the beliefs of all and their right to live freely. As a maiden, in my naïveté I trusted others without discernment, sometimes with grievous consequences.

Indifferent or fearful citizens ignored women of unwavering will and faith, leaving them to die in that tower. Unlike these people, I knew nothing of evil’s power and endurance.

During these many years of exile from my beloved France, I have returned there only when it is safe to travel, for a high price is on my head and there are many who seek it.

The face of the women in the tower haunt me. My body and soul suffered when I was there, and I bear scars from my devotion to free the prisoners. And, in time, I came to know steadfast love and faith that delivered me from the cruelest of devils.

*****

The village of St. Martin in the Hérault region of southern France, July 17, 1760

Louise de Bourneuf

This summer, without respite, July has been drifting from hot to even hotter days and nights. The residents of the village pant for relief and have yet to feel the cool air that descends in the evening from high in the mountains to freshen their bodies and spirits.

Dawn must be near. Nature stirs in the twitter of birds and moan of farm animals asking for their morning feed. Pale early light filters into Madeleine’s bedroom through half-closed louvered shutters. Last night we argued about spreading them wide-open for better movement of air, but Madeleine hesitated. A stale smell of yesterday’s cooking has seeped from the kitchen below and lingers in the bedroom and melds with our sticky clothing.

I have slept poorly this night, and my ears are alert to every sound. On the road outside the bedroom window horses snuffle and whinny low. Someone hawks, spits and curses. I blink my eyes open, reach for the bed sheet I flung off in the night and draw it over my nakedness. An acrid whiff of lathered horses and the sour smell of men who have ridden hard assault my nose. The muffled laughter and snickering I hear make me uneasy. Decent folk are abed. Who would enter a mountain village while its inhabitants sleep?

I am tempted to open the latched shutters to see who is outside. Are the men waiting for someone to come--or for something to happen? It is unusual for anyone to travel prior to sunlight spilling over the mountaintops, before the baker’s rooster crows his signal to begin the day. I roll over, perch on the edge of the bed and peer at Madeleine.

“Madeleine.” I stretch across the narrow gap between our beds and poke a finger into her lean hip. “Wake up.” I jab her again. “There are men outside.”

Madeleine squirms, snorts, but sleeps on. I slip into my chemise and start to rise. Before my toes touch the floor, I stiffen on hearing steel rasp out of a long sheath.

Madeleine startles me by bolting upright.

“Hush, Louise. Don’t move.”

She rolls off the bed and tiptoes to the window to peer at the scene on the road through a crack in the shutters. As if struck full in the face, she reels backward. She presses a finger against my lips then slinks to the end of the bed to rummage in an oak chest.

“I recognize the coats of the king’s soldiers,” she whispers, returning to sit beside me. “If they arrest me, I’ll need these warm clothes for cold weather.”

I am confused by what my friend says. I put my arm around her thin shoulders and drop my voice. “If they arrest you…?

Madeleine releases the tremulous sigh of an old woman. In the quietness that remains I am aware something has changed outside.

“I don’t hear the men,” I say.

Madeleine throws off her nightdress, pulls on her chemise and dress, twists her long red curls into a knot and shoves them under a cap. Following her lead, I gather my own dress and shoes.

“Dress later, Lou-Lou. I’m going to hide you.”

“Hide me? Why?”

Madeleine tears a mat off the floor between our two beds and kneels to remove several loose floorboards.

“It’s dangerous for you to be found in a heretic’s home—even if you are a Catholic—and it’s too late to escape.”

I drop to my knees beside Madeleine, my thoughts awhirl. “I won’t hide and leave you alone,” I say, running my hand around the perimeter of a hiding space barely large enough for me to lie down. “You’re my friend.”

Several loud bangs on the door downstairs make us jump.

Madeleine digs her fingers into my shoulders and hisses. “Get in.”

My stomach burns as if hundreds of ants are devouring my insides. I swing about to seek Madeleine’s face in the faint light and shrug off her hands. “I’m not afraid to stay with you.”

“Don’t be foolish. We don’t know what those men will do to us. If you’re quiet they won’t find you.”

I feel the tremor in Madeleine’s hands on my shoulders and search her face for another answer.

“It won’t be for long, Lou-Lou. Don’t come out until you know the soldiers have gone.”

She hands me a rolled bundle of my dress and shoes. “You can dress later. Go home across the hills and tell your parents what happened here.”

My heart swells inside my chest I am so choked with fear and anger. “I will.”

“Promise you’ll stay hidden?”

“I promise—if the soldiers arrest you,” I say as we cling to each other and wipe aside our tears, “to find where you are imprisoned and bring you home.” I kiss her cheeks three times.

Madeleine releases me and stands. “Goodbye dear friend.”

I curl up in the hiding space and clamp my eyes shut. Madeleine has reset each floorboard over the hole and slaps the mat down against the floor. I hear her feet scurry to her bed then mine. A cracking sound tells me that the men ramming the door have broken it down, for I hear shouting from below.

Madeleine must be standing above me, for dust rains on my face. Monsieur Dubois’ voice wails for God to save him. A window shatters. Madame Dubois cries for mercy and men howl with laughter. I hear heavy footsteps clumping up the stairs and into Madeleine’s bedroom. A silence turns my spine to ice.

The soldiers curse and threaten my friend, but a cold, authoritative voice intervenes and stops them. When the same voice orders the soldiers to take Madeleine away, I want to cry out. To my shame, I remain silent and hold my breath.

How long is it since the soldiers left Madeleine’s bedroom? I cannot endure this confinement much longer. I pant for air and brush dust from my eyelids. My calves are knotted with cramp and my nose twitches to sneeze. The clatter of pots and pans in the kitchen below, and the scraping of furniture along the stone floor warn me that the men are still in the house. Someone shouts a command from outside, and all activity ceases.

The floorboards pop apart easily when I push them up to rise out of my hiding place. I stretch my limbs and creep to the window. My toe nudges a small hard object that I pick up and know is Madeleine’s Protestant bible. Without thinking, I tuck it into the pocket of my chemise. Madeleine’s winter clothes are in a heap on the floor at the end of her bed.

Outside in the pale light silhouettes are darting around one another. Some struggle to control horses stacked with small furniture and bulging saddlebags. Apart from the pillage a handful of men straddle horses. I spy a soldier dragging behind him what appears to be a heavy sack. He tosses it across the back of his horse and there is a scream of pain as the man climbs into the saddle behind it. I stifle a cry when I recognize Madeleine’s voice.

At the head of the mounted riders a tall man sits erect, a broad-rimmed hat tipped low over his face. He snarls at the soldiers for their slowness. It is the voice of the man who ordered Madeleine’s arrest. Hidden behind the shutters, I watch the soldiers gallop away and the last rider toss a flaming torch toward the Dubois’ house. The flimsy walls ignite. I shrink from the window and rush for the stairs.

In the Dubois’ bedroom streaks of light pour through shards in a broken window. I halt at the sight of debris and stained walls. In front of me, an arm and a leg are on the floor and across the bed sprawls the torso of monsieur Dubois. The bed is soaked with blood.

Vomit rises into my throat, gagging me. My body convulses as burning liquid rushes up inside me and sprays out of my mouth and nose onto the front of my chemise. I cannot stop my bowel and bladder soiling my chemise, legs and feet. I try to run from the room but slip and slide in the blood on the floor.

Madeleine’s mother is tipped over the side of the bed, bare legs straight up in the air. I step backwards, trip over broken furniture and with arms flailing fall into a slippery substance. As I sweep the floor with my hands for something to pull myself up, they snatch at a stringy object near the end of the bed. My fingers skim over two moist, round spheres set on either side of a hard ridge, drop lower and dip into a large cavity as big as my fist. I scramble to get up and slap aside the severed head of madame Dubois. A rapid clicking in my throat locks in my screams, but I am helpless to control the convulsing. On my hands and knees I heave until there is nothing left in my stomach.

Smoke from the fire has penetrated the bedroom. The carnage before me locks inside my memory. I spit out bits of vomit, wipe my mouth and stagger into the foyer, marking with blood whatever my soiled hands and feet touch.

Concealed near the entrance to the Dubois’ home, I watch the sun rim the distant hills with rosy light. At once the baker’s cock crows. Shutters latched tight overnight fling wide and heads dart out of windows. Men and women in their nightclothes spill onto the road.

The Dubois’ home is ablaze. Some villagers run for water to extinguish the flames; others cluster in a semi-circle across from the house, questioning how this could have happened to their neighbours. Before I am discovered or burnt alive, I flee into the Dubois’ garden.

On a path leading into a meadow and the hills beyond, I hesitate to look back, stare at the Dubois’ burning home and know I will never return.

*****

Home at last, I find the courtyard empty of servants and limp toward the door. When I fall against the latch, it gives way. I pitch into the foyer and collapse on the floor.

“Mama.” I shout with my waning strength. The clop-clop of sabots on the stone floor echoes around me. I feel a servant lift me up and my mother’s grasping hands on me.

“My child, what has happened to you?”

“The King’s soldiers arrested Madeleine and killed her parents.”
_________________________________________________________________

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Memorandum of Arrangement by Paul F. Opening-Chapter Critique by Robert L. Bacon

2011-03-06T19:55:00.016-05:00

Hello Paul, Page 1 of 2

Thank you very much for the kind words regarding my Newsletter. I work hard to provide what I hope is credible information from which author's can find some benefit. Now for my critique of your opening chapter.

First and foremost, your story sets up quite well, and as I read through the first chapter I was taken by the solid plot behind MEMORANDUM OF ARRANGEMENT. I feel you've created a terrific storyline, and you've done a commendable job of motivating the reader to want to learn more about what has caused Jaidev Da Costo to be murdered, as well as how all the characters fit in. Of greatest significance perhaps, Baldev comes across as the sort of character readers can get behind and root for as the story develops. And you've crafted a perfect foil via his sister. I'm also impressed with way you developed the intrigue surrounding Jaidev Da Costa as a businessman

The draft of the opening chapter you sent me, however, does have some issues, and here they are:

Some scenes need to be collated differently. For example: …A number of weeks prior to his death, Jaidev had given Baldev brief details of certain other business arrangements…. This should be expressed when you are first telling the reader about Baldev after his father's death. Instead, you depict him as learning the business while knowing nothing whatsoever about his father's dual life. He is not ignorant that something is not right with whatever it is his father is involved with, and learning the day-to-day operations are secondary to the critical information he is aware of, especially since one wrong move on his part and he can end up like his father.

On page 14 you inform the reader that Sajani is part of the "organization." Let her tell Baldev about this in the later scene and not by you giving the reader the information ahead of time.

I noticed one serious transitioning issue: …'Remember Sajani our father was taking instructions from his brother-in-law, our Uncle, this is why the strange document ‘Memorandum of arrangement’ was brought out…. The reader knows nothing about the memorandum until this mention. This scene needs to be changed so the plot element is transitioned smoothly for the reader. (Also, among other things, this sentence needs to be punctuated differently).

There also must be proper story continuity: …'Understand this Sajani if you are into illegal activities, which I can't believe my father was, you will get no help from me…. This timeline doesn’t fit, because it's obvious to the reader that Baldev's father was up to his eyeballs in illegal activity, and you've established this by innuendo when Baldev and his father met weeks earlier. (This sentence also has all sort of problems with punctuation, and a misplaced modifier.)

Memorandum of Arrangement Page 2 of 2
by Paul F.

Opening-Chapter Critique
by Robert L. Bacon

I noticed a substantial number of punctuation issues in the text of this first chapter, but specifically the lack of commas in necessary locations, and I think your writing style would benefit from shorter sentences, especially since your syntax lends itself to a more Heminway-ish structure. It won't take much to accomplish this, and I feel this would result in a more fluent narrative all the way around. And a note on semi colons: they are a great tool, but unless used judiciously they tend to slow the flow of sentences, which is never a good idea. My suggestion is to use a period instead and start a new sentence. Hence, once again, emulating Hemingway's crisp style.

Always provide a draft for editing with standard text alignment and never justified margins.

I spotted a lot of repeated words too close to one another, such as "additionally." I made several revision suggestions with respect to this element on the three pages for which I provided a cursory line-edit. Please look at this closely, as repeated words hinder the quality of any good read.

This also applies to repletion via phrases that say the same thing. Again, you can refer to the opening three pages I worked on to see the changes I suggested. I noticed this line later on …however his bearing was impressive, he had a certain aura…. The second phrase doesn’t amplify but repeats the meaning of the first. Please be on the lookout for these occurrences. Saying something once is almost always enough.

Don't use phrases such as "the fact that." State the fact, don't tell the reader it is one.

What follows are the three pages I line edited, along with the same three pages in a "clean" format for easy comparison. What I offered are simply suggestions to accept or refute. But read your initial draft out loud, then the revised text, and see if the modifications don't improve the fluency of the prose.

If you're considering approaching a major royalty publisher with this novel, I think you will have a much better shot at landing one if you work with a developmental editor and have your material line edited as well. You can evaluate the benefit of line editing when you read what is to follow.

Paul, to reiterate what I said in the opening, I very much enjoyed your setup, and I think you've created an intriguing cast of characters that readers will enjoy following throughout your story. Bravo all the way around on this good work!

Chapter One

Jaidev Da Costa was a big man~~, he towered above all. It was~~ but not just due to his height. Because he was also ample around the girth ~~as well~~., he always looked larger than he really was. Additionally, since he always wore oversized white kurta's, ~~always white.~~ ~~He stood out, wherever he went;~~ his presence could not be mistaken wherever he went.

The white kurta contrasted with his olive skin and slicked black hair, which was ~~always in~~ never out of place, oiled and shiny just like Clark Gable's in his 1930's films. ~~he additionally always had~~ Another of Jaidev's traits was that he always could be found with a cigar.

He could be seen ~~on most days~~ precisely at ten each morning, standing at Batuk Dua's roadside stall, sipping a large iced coffee.

Of course you may wonder why he would go to Batuk's for his coffee, when the hotel opposite him, with its two bars, three restaurants and cake shop, ~~all~~ served iced coffee. ~~These were~~ Iced coffee was most certainly available to him across the street, ~~after all he was the manager, in fact~~ since he was not only the manager but also the owner of 'The Goa Panaji International'.

Jaidev Da Costa had been having a coffee at Batuk's for as long as anyone could remember~~, you may also ask,~~. But why iced coffee,? Surely in Goa, India, there would have been more exotic local refreshments~~, which of course it does have~~.

Jaidev preferred iced coffee, because his grandfather had introduced him to ~~the refreshment~~ it many years before, when he was a young man. From ~~that day on~~ his first exposure to it, the drink had had been his ritual. Batuk Dua's ~~stall had~~ started making iced coffee ~~at that very time~~ the same day ~~when~~ Jaidev had asked for it. ~~if he served iced coffee, which he didn't, however the following day, iced coffee was available.~~

~~Jaidev appreciated ingenuity and as his~~ Batuk Dua's dictum was that if the customer wantsed it something, we he ~~will~~ would supply it. Jaidev appreciated Batuk's spirit for enterprise, and from that day on he had his morning coffee only at his stand.

~~Now~~ The locals referred to Jaidev ~~locally was referred to~~ as 'The Miramar Mountain', not just ~~obviously~~ because of his size ~~and the fact that~~ but due to his hotel's location on Miramar Beach, However, not ~~that~~ many ~~locals~~ townsfolk referred to the stretch of sand ~~as such~~ by the same name, as most called it ~~by its original name~~ Gasper Diaz, ~~named~~ the original handle given by ~~the~~ explorer Vasco Da Gama. Jaidev preferred Miramar, when translated from ~~the~~ Portuguese ~~was~~ meant '"view of the sea."' This translation extended to all the promotional material ~~and advertising of~~ for ‘The Goa Panaji International'. The ~~buy line~~ slogan was, "Located on Miramar Beach, all rooms have a view of the Arabian Sea~~, enjoy your stay'~~.

On this particular morning Jaidev was not in his usual jovial frame of mind, Batuk had noted ~~such~~ when he arrived for his coffee,. he Jaidev was ~~quite~~ gruff, didn't he even speak to J.V. Sankaran, with whom he always exchanged pleasantries. Perhaps something was amiss between Jaidev and his ~~wife~~ family, Baruk thought. That wife of his would cause more than anyone a few headaches. And the daughter, well, she was a walking disaster, worse than the Southeast Monsoon. ~~Batuk observed him from the moment he arrived and had a certain concern for Jaidev Da Costa, if had only known the real reason, his concern would have been so much greater.~~ [Don't tell the reader any more about Baruk's thoughts than what you have already. You've firmly established that Baruk is concerned for Jaidev and knows the man well. This is more than enough to transition to the next scene. You did an admirable job, now don't overdo it. Also, be careful not to hint of imminent doom, as this takes away from the event when it occurs.]

He had hurried his coffee and left Batuk’s without a word. He seemed intent on some errand, ~~thought Batuk~~ as he ~~Baruk watched him stride~~ strode across the road. The shot rang out just as Jaidev reached the entry concourse of The' Goa Panaji International';.

The Chief Commissioner of Police stated in 'The Navhina Times.', "Whoever committed the shooting was a professional, it was one shot and between the eyes."

Chapter One

Jaidev Da Costa was a big man, but not just due to his height. He was also ample around his girth, and because of this he looked larger than he really was. Additionally, since he always wore oversized white kurta's, his presence could not be mistaken wherever he went.

The white kurta contrasted his olive skin and slicked black hair, which was never out of place, and oiled and shiny just like Clark Gable's in his 1930's films. Another of Jaidev's traits was that he always could be found with a cigar.

He could also be seen precisely at ten each morning, standing at Batuk Dua's roadside stall, sipping a large iced coffee. Of course one may wonder why he would go to Batuk's for his coffee, when the hotel opposite him, with its two bars, three restaurants and cake shop, served iced coffee. Especially since he was not only the manager but also the owner of The Goa Panaji International Hotel.

Jaidev Da Costa had been having a coffee at Batuk's for as long as anyone could remember. But why iced coffee? Surely, in Goa, India, there would have been more exotic local refreshments.

Jaidev preferred iced coffee because his grandfather had introduced him to it many years before, when he was a young man. From his first exposure to it, the drink had had been his ritual. And Batuk Dua had started making iced coffee the same day Jaidev asked for it.

Batuk Dua's dictum was that if a customer wanted something, he would supply it. Jaidev appreciated Batuk's spirit for enterprise, and from that day on he had his morning coffee only at his stand.

The locals referred to Jaidev as The Miramar Mountain, not just because of his size but due to his hotel's location on Miramar Beach. However, not many townsfolk indentified the stretch of sand by the same name, as most called it Gasper Diaz, the original handle given to it by explorer Vasco Da Gama. Jaidev preferred Miramar, which when translated from Portuguese meant "view of the sea." This definition extended to all the promotional material for The Goa Panaji International Hotel, showcased by the official slogan: "Located on Miramar Beach, all rooms have a view of the Arabian Sea."

When Jaidev arrived for his coffee on this particular morning, Batuk had noted that was not in his usual jovial frame of mind. He was gruff and didn't even speak to J. V. Sankaran, with whom he always exchanged pleasantries. Perhaps something was amiss between Jaidev and his family, Baruk thought. That wife of his would cause anyone more than a few headaches. And the daughter, well, she was a walking disaster worse than the Southeast Monsoon.

Jaidev hurried his coffee and left Batuk’s without a word. He seemed intent on some errand as he strode across the road. The shot rang out just as Jaidev reached the entry concourse of The Goa Panaji International Hotel.

The Chief Commissioner of Police stated in The Navhina Times, "Whoever committed the shooting was a professional, it was one shot and between the eyes."

[Here is the remainder of the chapter, unedited.]

Jaidev had hit the marble floor, flat on his back, not one drop of blood on his Kurta, his hair was unruffled and a newly lit cigar was between his fingers still smouldering, when the first police arrived.

The whole of Goa was in a hubbub; Jaidev Da Costa was a respected businessman and philanthropist, giving much to the underprivileged, in fact, even building extensive housing developments, with low rents, which the poorer people could afford.

The Press came out with wide ranging reports: 'Leading business man killed by a jealous husband.' 'Local Mafia wants to take over the independently owned, International hotels.' 'Shot by disgruntled staff member.' The stories were played out to the fullest extent until after a week when new events occurred and there were better headlines, from that time nothing more was written. The Da Costa family however was still struggling with the death of the patriarch.

He had been dutifully buried in a solemn catholic service as was the custom of his family, every businessman and politician who had associated, paying their respects to Daya Da Costa his wife, his son Baldev, who was now taking over the family business much earlier than he had ever expected and daughter Sajani, her father’s undoubted favourite.

The killer of Jaidev remained at large after a number of weeks, the Director General of the Goa Police himself regularly met with Baldev and his mother; however each conversation was much the same. 'I am so sorry Mrs Da Costa I have nothing new to report.' He was not even able to enlighten them regarding the type of gun the bullet had come from and no witnesses could be found, it was like a ghost had appeared in front of Jaidev, fired the shot then vanished into the Goan sultry morning air.

'However I'm pleased to report that I have established a most experienced team to investigate you husband’s death.' the Director General advised. 'Detective Inspector Sohan Majhi is in charge, he is a most competent man and I hope we will have better news next time I call.' Director General Chandrak Rajiv excused himself, leaving the family once again completely at a loss.

There was a certain resignation by the family, Jaidev did have enemies, he had been a strong advocate of slum clearing and housing redevelopment he had been accused of shifty deals on land acquisition, nothing was ever proved,but rumour just added enemies. Baldev having now moved into the position of Managing Director of the family business put these things aside, concentrating on the hotel and on further development plans, building on his father's established business.

Baldev was just as tall as his father without the girth, he had a modern hairstyle and he didn't smoke cigars, however his bearing was impressive, he had a certain aura. His father had trained him well, he was a good businessman. Jaidev had known that when the business was passed to his son; it would be in good hands.

With the sudden projection into the senior position of the company, Baldev had to spend many days and late nights catching up with the situation. His mother was continuously questioning him on the status of the business and what income she could expect. She was petrified of losing her status within the community and her lifestyle.

Baldev had established himself well with staff and within a week had a good hold of the business. Most areas he was familiar with. Since his return from University his father had briefed him well. Already he was considering the purchase of a smaller hotel further down the coast at Caranzalem Beach. His objective was, he told staff was to have a chain of superior properties in Goa, his mother Daya was delighted, her stipend had been increased, she was happy, even Baldev's sister Sajani had acquiesced. 'Father was so tight, not a rupee more would he give, even on special occasions.'

Baldev had seen and heard the family squabbles; he knew a few rupees extra would silence the women in his clan, which would give him freedom to develop the business in his direction, rather than the way of his father.

One month to the day of his father's demise, in the late afternoon a phone call was put through to Baldev, the Secretary had said it was quite urgent and from an international caller.

When answering Baldev thought the accent was quite strong, perhaps eastern European, it was certainly not an Indian speaking English.

'We had been waiting patiently for your father to complete his part in the cartel; he refused, we have waited one more year and now require some action to be taken immediately or there will be unfortunate circumstances.'

Baldev listened in silence; he did not reply or make any comment, just returned the phone to its cradle.

He had only returned to Goa within the last six months, prior to his father's death, having been at Amity University in Delhi completing a Bachelor of Commerce degree. His father was determined that he should have an in depth business education. This grounding had certainly been helpful, when suddenly being thrown into the family business. With his father’s death however Baldev was not wise to the world in to which he had be thrown, he had much still to learn.

A number of weeks prior to his death, Jaidev had given Baldev brief details of certain other business arrangements, at that time Baldev had not wanted to know about them. He wanted only to develop the hotels, which he realized even after the first briefing by his father, the hotels were just a front. He had closed 'The Business' as his father had described the arrangement, from his mind, hoping it would not raise its head, now it unfortunately had. He would have to act whether he liked it or not, the phone call was about 'The Business’. He sat thinking for a minute or so after replacing the phone, never considering that members of the Business' would act so strongly.

Perhaps he needed to show his hand, he went to the small safe in the office, punched in the codes and removed a school exercise book. Only six pages were written on, it was the fourth page that he turned too, which was just a series of phone numbers, each with a country prefix, no names, no other information. He went down to the fourth number with prefix seven and then 423 before, dialing an additional six digits. He was calling Vladivostok in Eastern Russia. There was some delay as the numbers rang through; eventually it was answered but there was just silence.

'Hello this is Baldev Da Costa, I believed you called.'

'It is good of you to reply, I hope you understand the situation we are in.'

'I do, and wish to make amends for my father.'

'I am sorry about Jaidev, I liked him much, but business comes before personal feelings.'

It was just as well Baldev could not be seen, he was shaking and sallow, revenge was in his mind this transcended to his physical appearance. He wanted to ask if his father’s death had been an execution by 'The Business' but decided he would wait.

He made no other comment, other than. 'I wish to meet as soon as is practical.'

'Can you be in Singapore on Friday the seventeenth?'

'Yes I can.'

'I will call you two days before the day and advise you of a meeting place.' the phone went dead.

Baldev got up from the desk replacing the exercise book, walked out and asked his Secretary to have the car arranged.

'I wish to go downtown.'

'Landscape Excelsior, Sandeep, to the Induslnd Bank.' Baldev instructed as got in the car.

Sandeep, the driver looked at him through the rear vision mirror. Baldev knew by the look he didn't have clue where he was going.

'I'll direct you; it's a small bank in the complex you probably didn't know it is there.' Sandeep gave an uncertain nod.

It was found without worry, so that Sandeep's nerves were kept at bay, the short journey had also calmed Baldev.

The bank had been chosen by Jaidev twenty-five years before, for a number of reasons, the branch in Goa was small, but had excellent locker facilities and with a main branch to the north, in the city of Mumbai, where an account was just one of thousands, in Goa Jaidev was too well known.

The instructions given to Baldev by his father were quiet specific. 'If anything goes wrong,' he had said, 'go to the locker, with in it, are a number of things. Firstly cash box with funds, but more importantly a folder with all details on our operation. There is a loose page with instructions, follow them precisely, contact only those that are under the heading 'Sentinel' and if you have had to access these instructions, be wary, be very wary my son.' Those last words were ringing in Baldev's mind as he sat down to study the items he had removed. After a long delay by the bank manager who was reluctant to let Baldev into the Bank locker vault. His excuse was he didn’t know Baldev, even though his credentials were checked.

Baldev had avoided accessing the locker since his father’s death and now wished he hadn't. The more he read the more he realised what 'The Business' was, an avenue for making very serious money. He spent some time going through the papers, then opened the cash box to find twelve sealed packs of American dollar bills, a thick wad of Rupees in high denominations, which he didn't even try to calculate, considerable he felt. He found the loose page his father had mentioned, in an old fashioned Accounts Record book. Looking under the column 'Sentinel' were a series of numbers with a letter beside each, they were indiscriminate and some letters were the same, he compared them with those in the exercise book, none compared.

This concerned him as his father had said all numbers he would need were in the book and that any contact initially would be from that list. Now the loose page seemed to be indicating that things were different.

He read through everything and other than the fact there appeared to be considerable amounts of cash, pages and pages of account details and lastly two passports made out one for a male, the second for a female, however in each there were no photographs. They were new with details of both being born in Goa the male in 1978 Baldev’s year of birth, the female in 1982 his sister Sajani's year of birth. Attached was a slip of paper with Baldev's father's

precise handwriting 'If needed take to Gopal Pravil.' Who Gopal Pravil was Baldev had no idea.

All seemed a little strange, the account books particularly, which were just figures under two columns, Income and Expenses with no dates, the second column, Notations with just groups of letters. He studied one page and decided that they must be codes of some sort, for example the first heading under expenses was XHP/GS RP 206,000.00. He had no ideas and could find nothing additional to give him a clue about the paperwork, or anything else that was in the safe, so after a frustrating half an hour he packed it up and locked it away. No closer to understanding what 'The Business' actually did, he had Sandeep drive him back to the Hotel.

There was a light knock on the door, Sajani his sister entered. It was unlike her this time of day to be around the hotel, she would normally have been in one of the 'to be seen.' Restaurants or bars with many of her model and designer friends.

'This is a surprise Sajani, don't tell me you're going to meet here this evening and give our own business a boost.' Baldev commented as his sister slid into one of the guest chairs, even though it was his sister, he admitted to himself she was a very attractive woman.

'I see enough of this place Baldev; however I understand you have been to the Induslnd Bank.'

'Yes I have, I do wonder what business it is of yours and secondly how you were aware I had been there.'

'Let me say, I am kept informed on certain things particularly those I have an interest in.'

Baldev sat back not saying a word his mind spinning, suddenly realizing his sister may well know about the other business arrangements, this completely surprised him as he did not think his father would have confided in Sajani as well.

'My sister I think it may be time under the present circumstances for us to sit down and have a talk.' the phone rang at that very moment; he picked it up watching his sister warily.

Sajani was one of the many Indian girls who were brought up in a house having plenty of money, unlike millions of her sister's. She had been to the best schools, spent a year in Europe, eventually giving up the university education because of her looks and figure and had gone into modeling. She spent two years in Mumbai and was now contracted to two major Hindi magazines which meant that she only had to work occasionally and more often than not this entailed overseas assignments which were a perfect arrangement for her lifestyle. She had become very much involved in the Goan art and design world, additionally unbeknown to anybody but her father, was the fact she was one of the key personnel in 'The Business.'

Baldev came off the phone, it had been a mundane hotel matter, he was agitated, he wished to get to the bottom of Sajani and her involvement.

'What do you know of the special arrangements Sajani?'

'I could ask you the same? My brother, however I feel that straight answers are necessary. I have been working with our father for some three years. It is a very involved arrangement, I find it difficult at this moment to go into every aspect, however I will say that father appears to have not completed certain requirements which I find is most surprising.'

'Sounds to me, like he owed money.'

'It could be he just owed product.' She countered.

'Come on Sajani tell me what it is, what is the product, tell me everything you know, I feel a fool,' he said sitting upright, 'father appears to have been playing one against the other.'

'Not so, father gave me the 'The Business' to run, which I have for the last three years, you were not here, I didn't know however he'd briefed you, or had given you the combination and key to the locker and to be quite frankly I don't know why he did.' Looking at her brother, in a superior manner. Baldev noticed, it gave him a feeling of concern.

'Perhaps he told me, so that you could be kept honest.....'

She broke into his comment. 'Father wished to concentrate on the Hotels and become more involved in politics, he was in fact slowly divorcing himself from other activities, or so I thought, however he was starting to interfere, he was making things difficult.'

'Remember Sajani our father was taking instructions from his brother in law, our Uncle, this is why the strange document ‘Memorandum of arrangement’ was brought about, now we both questioned it at the time but we signed and to be quite truthful I still do not know exactly what I means, however now that father is dead we are tied to following the memorandum. I checked, memorandum the word means, a record of a legal agreement which has not yet been formally drawn up and signed. Now the word arrangement has a number of meanings, one is a plan for a future event or an agreement to do something'.

‘Baldev it was a fantasy by old men, rather than write a will, as normal people do, they came up with this memorandum rubbish. You just said it is a memorandum, which is a legal agreement not yet signed, and we did sign, so does that make it now a legal document, who knows and I don’t care.’

‘Well I’m going to have a very close read of the all of the clauses, as I have a strange feeling about it. Our uncle Maneco, I don’t trust, he’s elderly and starting to lose it, but he’s very cunning, this was not done as a whim or fantasy, I would like to find out why.’

'I think it's irrelevant Baldev, what does it matter, he will pass away soon and so will mother, my task is to run 'The Business' yours the hotels, so let’s leave it like that.'

'I do wish, you would tell me what the business is. What you sell, buy or whatever. Knowing you and your arty friend’s and their world I suppose its drugs.'

She just looked at him, got up and walked to the end of the desk staring down at him, and very quietly said. 'It is not and you will not find out what this business is and just so you know, as far as your trip to Singapore is concerned I will go in your place.'

'How did you know about Singapore?'

'I heard the phone call'

'Did you, and how may that have been?'

She just shrugged, with the suggestion of a smile crossing her face. Baldev suddenly realised he did not know his sister at all, she was someone he did not recognise. He had a terrible thought about their father; many questions were running though his mind.

He made an immediate decision, he would let her get on with the business, but from now she was to have a shadow, he wanted to know everything. He presumed Sajani did not know that he had emptied the locker of all its contents, which were now being held in the Office safe. He would return it all first thing in the morning; the night was going to be spent scrutinising and photo copying.

'Well if you're going to do the bidding of whoever it is in Singapore, go to it my sister. I'm very happy working the hotel business.' With that he stood and went to the end of the desk, he towered over her.

'Understand this Sajani if you are into illegal activities, which I can't believe my father was, you will get no help from me.'

She looked him hard in the eyes. 'I didn't expect any help from you, in this business you wouldn't have the tenacity or the fortitude, you are too much the University gook with no experience in the real world.' She turned the left, when at the door she gave him a fleeting smile. 'Watch how you go my brother; it's a very big world out there.'

THE SECRETS OF THE FAE Opening-Chapter Critique by Robert L. Bacon

2011-02-21T14:52:00.025-05:00

The Secrets of the Fae
By Emma B.

Critique by Robert L. Bacon

November 18, 2010

Hello Emma,

Before you read the revised draft, here are the issues I noticed with THE SECRETS OF THE FAE that need attention:

1) Overall, other than sometimes getting all "caught up" in your narrative and not writing what I'm certain it is you wanted to make clear for the reader, punctuation is your number-one problem area. Specifically, the incorrect and overuse of semi-colons, and improperly punctuated dialogue attributes.

To the latter issue, attributes always need a comma, not a period. "Go to him," I nodded, should be "Go to him," I said and nodded. or "Go to him." I nodded. But never the first example, "Go to him," I nodded. A physical act, as in nodding, is not a speaker attribute such "said" or "asked."

Attributes (meaning, something "attributed" to someone's speech) always require
a word that identifies what the speaker did from the perspective of declaring, questioning, etc., such as the word said as in he said, or asked as in he asked, or words that modify these attributes (called adverb attributes; i.e., the word softly in
she said softly). Regardless of the construction, for something to be attributed to a speaker--thus identifying the speaker for the reader--this requires a comma and not
a period. Always!

2) Many writers have the tendency to repeat words too close to one another, thus making them stand out. This is why "fresh" eyes are so important. Early in your draft, I noticed uncomfortably and uncomfortable a sentence or so apart. As I worked through the draft, there were many such instances, with another close set I remember involving the word vulnerable. As you'll see, I provided substitutes for these sets of redundant words.

3) Alex should always be attractive to the reader, therefore she would never grunt, she groans; she doesn't pop her joints, she flexes her legs, etc. You'll see how I suggested attending to this when you read the revised text.

4) Write in active and not passive voice almost all the time. I noticed you slipping into passive voice in a few areas of your narrative. This stifles writing in many ways, since this also doesn't enable you to show the action, which is almost always advantageous to telling the reader what's happening.

5) I want to encourage you to use more contractions in your dialogue Read your material out loud to see how it fits with the way you want your characters to sound.
If a contraction works better, use it. I understand that you need your characters to speak in a specific way, but from a perspective of pitch, it's important to determine if
a contraction sounds best.

6) An agent or publisher is going to advise you to use more interior monologue to break up your longer runs of dialogue, something such as I did when I inserted a little humor at the end in one of Paralda's exchanges. I offered this for you to consider: Paralda said in a not too pleasant tone, even for telepathy.

7) Don’t tell what's going to happen beforehand. This is a really big deal, since it takes the edge off the ensuing action. You'll see the sections I deleted from your narrative where this occurred. Again, this is hugely important.

8) Consistency is critical. Alex can't set the time in the loop for ten seconds in one scene and then tell Paralda in a later scene that she set it for an hour. This is the only instance in which I think I noticed this, but please check you entire draft for this sort of miscue.

In what you will soon be reading, when I deleted words or phrases in your narrative,
I did so instead of using a strikethrough. Then I highlighted the suggested revised
text in yellow. In this way, once you've seen where the revisions are located and compared these to your original wording--if you want to do so, since this is a Word document--you can simply highlight the entire narrative in yellow and then click the yellow icon in the editing box to delete all highlighting. My clients tell me this a lot easier than having to delete every strikethrough.

Here is your draft with my suggestions for your consideration:

[A note to readers: What is highlighted in yellow is text I revised and not material to be modified]

I could think of more than a dozen things I would rather be doing on a Saturday night, which all involved my vampire boyfriend Xavier, who was currently busy overseeing the domain of a vampire leader who had been killed, something that wouldn’t have happened if it hadn’t been for me. I hadn’t seen Xavier for what seemed like a lifetime, and I only had myself to blame.

I shifted uncomfortably in the darkness trying to stretch muscles that had started to seize. I groaned as I tried to straighten my right leg for the tenth time.

“Alex, you need to be quiet,” Paralda whispered in my ear.

Paralda and I were currently hiding in the hypogeum system of the Colosseum in Rome. Paralda, my ally and leader of the Sylphs from the Fae realm, was sporting the 6-feet-tall goddess form she used when entering the mortal realm. Apparently when your true height is 3-feet, including wings, you like a bit of extra room when you play the mortal. Yet she still appeared more squeezed in that larger space than what my 5-feet 4-inch tall frame allowed me in mine.

Paralda started inching her way along the aqueduct that had been used during the Colosseum’s heyday to flood the arena. I followed closely behind, trying not to make any noise.

I may be High Priestess for the Fae realm, and now the leader of the vampire contingent of the mortal world thanks to my being in a relationship with one of them, but stealth and combat were definitely not my strong suits. I reminded myself of this as we crawled through the narrow space that Paralda and I decided was the best route for getting to Dante and all of us back home safely. And I didn't mind the effort , since what we were going through was nothing compared to what he was experiencing.

Dante, my grandfather and Sylph, was currently being held and tortured by a faction that was tied to Raoul, a rogue area-leader, who with his league of vampires had been causing trouble for the Fae. I had subsequently killed him; well, my pet offensive ward, Draco the Dragon, had killed him. When it happened I had just screamed like the girl I was.

I tried using my power again to get into Dante’s mind. I had succeeded several times in the past day to enter it briefly, but it was chaotic and didn’t contain many coherent thoughts. Just pain! I couldn’t reach his mind even though he was close by. He must have been under again. I wouldn’t allow myself to think we were too late. I had panicked the first day when I was in his mind and suddenly I had been cast out. Paralda explained he had probably lost his ability to remain cognizant, and even as powerful as I might be as High Priestess, I cannot enter a comatose mind.

It had taken me over 24 hours to get enough information out of Dante’s tortured mind to track him to this area. The hypogeum system of the Colosseum was a vast network of tunnels and cages that all looked the same, and pinpointing his exact location was proving difficult. I continued to try to communicate telepathically with Dante, but he was either too weak or in too much pain to respond.

Paralda led us from the main arena through the aqueduct to the tunnels below. Her dark silhouette suddenly disappeared in front of me, and I heard a soft thud and a hiss below. I crawled forward on my stomach and peered into the hole in which Paralda had just fallen.

I giggled as she was wiping red dust off her rear end. She looked up and scowled, motioning for me to join her quickly. I jumped into the hole and landed on the ground next to her. I stretched the full length of my body, trying to ease the kinks that the aqueduct had caused.

But before I even had time to flex my legs, Paralda grabbed my hand and dragged me to the back of a cage that was hidden in the shadows. Paralda and I stopped breathing, and we listened for any noises of anything or anyone approaching that would indicate we had given away our position. We remained in this state for a long time but nothing happened.

Paralda let out her breath and I followed suit and relaxed. We obviously were not close enough to be discovered yet. Paralda grabbed a water bottle out of her backpack and took a drink and handed it to me. I took a quick mouthful and handed it back.

“So what do we do now?” I asked in a low voice.

“When we find them," Paralda said. You have to use your mind control to subdue however many there are so we can get Dante out safely.”

I concentrated but it wasn't working. “I don’t know who has him, so I can’t visualise their minds. We need to get close enough so I can see Dante. His thoughts, when I get to them, are too chaotic. I have only seen one face clearly in his mind. The others are fuzzy, but I think there are at least three.”

“If you can see them, do you think you will be able to subdue them simultaneously?” Paralda asked.

“Sure,” I said and nodded. “If they're all essentially doing the same thing, I can control as many minds as I want.”

Roman, my trainer and Paralda’s brother, had been helping me fine tune my mind control skills, and I was getting pretty good at it.

“So how are we going to find them?” I asked.

“Thanks to you, we are now close enough that I can find him by scent.” Paralda said.

“You can smell him?” I asked.

Paralda smiled. “Vampires aren’t the only ones who can track someone through a blood bond. You should be able to sense him as well, maybe even better than me, since Dante is your grandfather.”

I shuddered as I looked around at my surroundings; the Colosseum was cold, dark, and really spooky. “I can’t smell anything except dust and mould,” I said.

"You can sense the history of this place and feel the presence of pain and death too," Paralda said. Mortals would call it a haunted feeling. Don’t rely on your five normal senses. Use your sixth sense, the feeling in your mind and soul.”

I thought about her words and glanced around again. She was right, I could feel the presence of all the death, pain, fear, and hatred of the place. I tried to concentrate on those things.

In the centre of all this was what I can only describe as a hot spot. It was like a small place burning more brightly in the middle of all the pain. I moved towards the entrance of the cage and the spot pulsed to my movement. I turned right and continued down the tunnel. And though the spot still seemed to beat like a heart, it had started to cool and burn a little less brightly. I turned around and headed the other way through the tunnel, and the hot spot again picked up its intensity.

“I think Dante is this way,” I said.

“Good girl, you can feel it," Paralda said. "Scenting is not really using your sense of smell. That's just an easy way to describe it. It's more like following an essence."

With each step I took inside the tunnel, I could now feel the hot spot pulsing stronger and brighter. Paralda and I moved slowly and cautiously, and stopped when we heard movement and muffled voices ahead of us.

As High Priestess, I had control over who could come into my mind, and when I felt Paralda pushing on the shields around my brain, I let them down so she could enter telepathically, another perk of being of Fae descent.

Be careful. If we can hear them, they can definitely hear us, Paralda said in my mind. No more talking, and take care to be as quiet as possible. Keep the connection open between us so we can speak telepathically. I nodded in agreement and we again moved slowly through the tunnel, keeping to the darkest of the shadows. We were both dressed in black combat gear and we pulled the hoods down over our faces so we were virtually invisible.

Luckily, the scent of blood and urine that was emanating from the room ahead of us was very strong, otherwise I suspect the vampires holding Dante hostage would have been able to smell us approaching.

Paralda pulled me to the wall, and we peered around the corner into an open cage that was larger than other cages we also saw. I suspected this was the room the gladiators had used to practice their fighting skills before entering the main arena. I opened my mouth to scream, but Paralda clamped a strong hand over it.

I was looking at a makeshift torture chamber complete with a rack. There were various torture weapons on the wall, some I recognised and some were too damn weird and I didn’t want to know what they would be used for. Dante was stripped naked and tied to the rack. His head leaned to the side and there was blood covering most of his body. Five vampires stood in the room with him.

“What are we going to do, Radu?" one of the vampires asked. "Raoul should have been in contact by now. We need to know what to do with him.”

“I need to go and see what is going on," another vampire, who looked vaguely familiar to me, answered him. He continued, "Raoul should have left some instructions. Something must have happened. Keep him alive until I return.”

Oh my, that is Radu. I have heard of him but never seen him before. He is Vlad’s brother, Paralda said in my mind.

What the hell is Vlad’s brother doing torturing Dante? I asked, now realising why he looked familiar. Vlad Basarab was the original Dracula and an area leader who I had become friends with whilst trying to stop Raoul.

Vlad and Radu are enemies. They have been since they were mortal Paralda said, You need to subdue them all now, before Radu leaves.

I closed my eyes and visualised the vampires in front of me. I considered them asleep and sent the thought towards them. I placed the visions in each vampire’s mind, but nothing happened. I started to panic.

What is wrong Alex? You need to subdue them quickly, Paralda said.

I tried, it's not working. I sent a visualisation of them asleep, and I know it entered their minds. I felt it.

Vampires don’t sleep, Alex, you know that. You can’t use something that is physically impossible for them to do Paralda said in a not too pleasant tone, even for telepathy.

Well, what do you suggest I do? I asked, at a loss of how to keep the vampires occupied.

Paralda shrugged. I don’t know, but we need to come up with something quickly before Radu heads this way.

Hang on, I might have something, I said.

I wondered whether I could visualise the room remaining the same as it is now, but without us in it--when in fact we were--like what occurs when a security camera is set on a loop that shows something earlier and not what is happening in real time. I suggested this to Paralda and she said to give it a go.

I imagined the room from the previous hour, with time running over and over again, and I sent the vision to the vampires' minds and shrugged.

I’ve done it, so now I suggest we just walk in there and see if it worked. I had said this in Paralda’s mind with much more confidence than I really felt.

Paralda nodded and grabbed my hand. We walked slowly into the room until we were in front of Radu. He looked straight through us, at the entrance that we had just come from. This confirmed he was on the loop and wasn’t going to be able to do anything to us. The other vampires were watching Radu and didn’t notice us either. I let out a sigh of relief. Paralda removed herself from my mind and we resumed communicating normally.

“How long did you set the loop for?” Paralda asked.

“An hour, do you think that's long enough?” I asked.

Paralda nodded. “Come on, let’s get him out of here.”

Paralda and I hurried over to Dante and started untying him from the rack. He groaned but did not open his eyes. We placed his arms on our shoulders and dragged him out of the chamber.

It was slow going through the tunnel, as Dante was dead weight and unable to help us at all. The height difference between Paralda and I didn’t do any good either, and I cursed the 6-foot fairy about her choice of height as we stumbled down the tunnel towards the entrance to the main arena.

It took us nearly half an hour just to get out of the hypogeum system. Once we were in the main arena, it was a little easier to move because there was more room, but we still had a ways to go to get to the portal site in Rome.

Paralda had called Roman telepathically when we had started back through the tunnel, and he met us at the entrance to the Colosseum. Roman picked Dante up and carried him fireman-style. Dante groaned when Roman had lifted him over his shoulder, but we couldn’t afford to check his injuries now.

Paralda, Roman, and I made our way back to the Ulpia Basilica where the Fae line- portal was. By the time we got there, our hour of grace had passed by a few minutes. I looked around nervously as Paralda opened the portal.

Five minutes later we were in the Fae realm and the portal was shut. I sank to my knees on the floor of the Fae forest and tried to stop shaking, not only from the Fae line- travel, which I was still trying to get used to, but from the nerves I had been trying to keep in check whilst we rescued Dante.

Fae line-travel is unlike anything I have experienced before. Imagine a dark tunnel filled with smeared lights all around that gives you the impression of flying at a million miles an hour. You have a sense of weightlessness and you cannot tell whether you are right side up or not. If you can handle that, then you have an idea of what Fae line-travel is like.

I felt my equilibrium settle and let out a big breath. Paralda converted back to her 3-foot-fairy form. Her silver wings caused a cool breeze on the back of my neck as she came down next to me.

‘We did it, Alex," Paralda said, while rubbing soothing circles on my back. "Dante is home." She turned to Roman. "You can you take him to the infirmary. Alex and I will catch up.”

Roman nodded and picked up Dante. Roman had kept his 6-foot form that he used in the mortal realm and this made it easier to carry Dante, who was in no condition to change back to his lighter fairy form. Roman cradled Dante gently to his chest and disappeared into the forest.

“We only just made it,” I said. "If Radu had found out Raoul was dead, I don’t think Dante would still be alive."

“Yes, our timing couldn’t have been better. I'm glad Vlad wanted to keep Raoul’s death quiet for a little while or we may not have got him back,” Paralda said.

“So Radu is really Vlad’s brother, I mean, not just vampire brother but mortal brother too?” I asked.

“Yes, Radu is Vlad’s younger half-brother. They have the same father but a different mother,” Paralda said as she nodded. “Radu held the throne of the Ottoman Court while Vlad held the throne of Wallachia. Vlad launched successful guerrilla attacks against Radu’s armies but could never get to Radu himself.” Paralda paused and smiled at the wood nymphs that were listening to her story.

“Vlad’s older full brother, Mircea, was killed in 1447 by boyars from Tigoviste. They burned his eyes out with red hot pokers and buried him alive. His being buried alive actually ended up saved him. He was turned, and started his life as a vampire, which Vlad didn't know anything about. Vlad then spent the rest of his mortal life trying to avenge his older brother’s death, which he blamed on the Ottoman Court and Radu. But Radu died in 1475 before Vlad could avenge Mircea’s death"

“So they are true enemies even in death?” I asked.

Paralda nodded. “When Vlad was fatally wounded during a battle in 1476, Mircea turned him, and Vlad found out that Mircea had already turned Radu the year before. Vlad’s hatred of Radu burned so deeply, even though all three were now immortal, and Mircea did not blame his youngest brother for his death, Vlad could not bring himself to forgive Radu.”

“Vlad has a very interesting family tree,” I said, running a shaky hand through my hair. I took a deep breath. “I know why Raoul used Radu to torture Dante.”

“You do?” Paralda asked, her eyebrows raised in surprise.

“Vlad’s gift is mind control. If he can capture your gaze and hold it, he can make you tell him what he wants to know. And a vampire’s unique gift is passed on by blood, so if Mircea turned both Radu and Vlad, they'd all share the same gift.”

“So Radu could control Dante’s mind and find out whatever he wanted?” Paralda asked.

I nodded. “Radu probably knows quite a few Fae secrets now.”

Paralda stood up and held her hand out for me. “We better go and check on Dante.”

We started walking through the Fae forest, and back to Paralda’s castle in the Province of Light.

__________________________________________________________

Robert L. Bacon
theperfectwrite.com

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A TRAGIC COMPULSION by Chris O. Opening-Chapter Critique by Robert L. Bacon

2011-02-07T19:27:00.031-05:00

Hello Chris,

There are a great many good things to report about your opening. First, you have what appears to be an excellent story concept, and John/Rhino is a character readers can root for. Both these elements are crucial for a novel to be successful in any market. Another powerful element of your story is the setting. Nigeria is not a country people in the States and in other parts of the world know much about, so there is an automatic curiosity that goes beyond what we read in National Geographic. And from what I've read from of your characterizations, you have presented a quality foundation.

On another topic, I was impressed by the superb way you presented the dream sequence. I was truly on the edge of my seat. That was highly skilled writing, and I can only assume there is more of that throughout the narrative.

However, pertaining to the draft from the point of the dream sequence forward, it was as if I was reading work by two different people. I wondered if perhaps you might've been trying to test me with the pages preceding this, ha ha. And if this was the case, you did a very good job, as you'll notice from how much revising I suggested during the first three pages. I of course couldn't take the time to line edit the remaining 12 or 13 pages, but I found this section of text much easier to read, and I can assure you that nowhere near as much line editing would be necessary to polish it. Perhaps as I was reading I was just getting more used to your writing style, and particularly with respect to the dialogue. Whatever be the case, I really enjoyed the latter dozen or so pages from the perspective of the fluency of the prose.

I went ahead and revised your brief opening description of A TRAGIC COMPULSION, which you can now use as a query (and save yourself the $117.50
I charge for a query, ha ha), as what you provided was very good. But, alas, with all these positive things being stated, as with all unpublished drafts, there are issues to consider, and here they are:

1) Don't write in backstory. Show the action in the correct context in which it occurs. I moved some of the text around in the first three pages to add continuity and eliminate repetition. Whenever possible, always try to show the action, don't tell it (especially in a passive voice).

2) Punctuation and repeated words are a serious problem throughout the draft. Pay particular attention to runs of dialogue. (Your use of apostrophes rather than quotation marks is fine, but not common to 99.99% of what's printed in the Western world. If you're planning to try to find an agent or publisher in the States, you might want to consider quotation marks, but this is just my opinion and certainly not chiseled in stone.)

A Tragic Compulsion

Prologue & 1^st Chapter Critique

By Robert L. Bacon

3) Formatting is a big deal. You need a header at the top of each page with your name, the page numbers, and the name of the book. Then the entire narrative will have to be double spaced if you plan to send this to an agent or publisher. Watch out for different size fonts and font styles. I converted what you sent me to 12 point Times New Roman. Use either this or Courier, and 12 point only. Also, be certain to indent you paragraphs at least an inch.

4) Pay close attention to continuity. Would your protagonist go to church on Sunday and then take his lunch to spend the evening with his best childhood friend? Wouldn't the day or afternoon be more appropriate? And in the run below, can you see the problem of how the words "could not come out," yet be spoken in the prior paragraph?

‘Sappy …,’ he said in a whisper. ‘Don’t kill me…please.’ Within him, the young man regretted his mistake.

Before the words could come out, Sappy suddenly jumped up from his lying position and pointed a pistol at the young man’s chest.

Or were these Sappy's words you're referring to? Either way, it needs to be reworded so the reader knows who didn't speak.

Again, related to continuity, according to your opening, John is going to Europe to bring his family out of unending poverty, but on the third page of the narrative, Sappy tells the reader Jon's family has sold land to finance his excursions. This plot element needs to be reconciled for the story to have credibility with the reader.

On page 16, you wrote: Sappy went on to rant at him, but Rhino had heard enough. Sappy wasn't in this scene, only Rhino and Nichy. Again, continuity is crucial to hold the reader.

5) It is not necessary or desirable to constantly repeat a person's name in dialogue when only two people are talking. If you feel it's important to let the reader know who is talking, use an attribute, such as Sappy said. By the way, don't write said Sappy (or whomever); write Sappy said, John said, Nichy said, etc.

6) You occasionally have dangling modifiers that enable incorrect linkage. For example, in this sentence: Rhino emerged from inside the dilapidated building that housed the miniature room in which Sappy lived through a long narrow passage--you have Sappy living in the long narrow passage, not living on the other end of it. You can fix this by revising the sentence to read: At the end of a long, narrow passage, Rhino emerged from inside the dilapidated building that housed the miniature room in which Sappy lived.

A Tragic Compulsion

Prologue & 1^st Chapter Critique

By Robert L. Bacon

7) Check your narrative for missing words. We all have this problem because we often still see what we wrote before our many revisions, but you need to address this so you have a text that's truly a fluent read.

8) There are also Point of View issues, as this narrative should be written entirely in John's POV during his scene with Sappy. I made the changes and you can compare this with what you wrote so you see the way this was done.

9) Transitioning is sometimes an issue. I added a few short phrases here and there to give you an idea of how to make the exposition flow with something that preceded it. You can remove all of this, of course, but if you read what each phrase alludes to at a prior point in the narrative, you might want to work on this by adding your own words and ideas. Regardless of how you approach this, it mirrors in many way what I wrote regarding transitioning.

What follows is the revised opening (sic, actual prologue) that, as I mentioned, you can use as a query. All you need to do is add the word-count and genre, and a little about yourself at the end. Also, if you find this acceptable for your query, use two spaces after each period. One space is okay for the novel's narrative, but not for a letter.

You'll then find the three pages I line edited, and a clean three pages after this so you can compare my suggestions for improvement with what you wrote. I try to deal with issues that I know, but please understand the editing is often subjective, and sometimes highly so. Consequently, if you don't like some of my ideas, certainly change them back or come up with something else. But keep in mind that I made each revision for a reason.

Chris, I wish you the best of luck with your manuscript, and I hope you find some benefit from what I'm providing. And as I wrote in the e-mail, please feel free to contact me if you have any questions about my critique and cursory line edit.

Regards,

Rob

A TRAGIC COMPULSION

To John, finding a job in Europe would help his family out of what has been never-ending poverty, and this is why he is determined to run away from Mother Africa.

In Spain, he discovers that there are ways to earn cash much faster than by manual labor. But he decides to do things honorably as he struggles for survival. That is, until he is awakened by an early-morning phone call. His best friend is home for Christmas. And a rich man. To compete, John feels the pressure to turn to crime.

While he is contending with the forces of evil, he falls into the hands of a stranger on a deadly mission. The change in John's new life is permanent when he accepts a stipend that would alter his family's situation for good. But when he enters a house and is confronted with three dead bodies, he realizes that his benefactor is really a con man who has made him out to be the murderer.

Now wanted by the Police for multiple homicides, the young African is on the run. His only hope of saving himself is to learn the identity of the man who tricked him. But as he undertakes this task, he discovers he is being hunted by the same man--who also wants him to join the ranks of the three corpses.

PROLOGUE

NIGERIA. JUNE, 2004

Today, Sunday, he returned from church and took his lunch with him, deciding not to while away his time in the house, but to go visit his ~~known~~ best ~~friend right from~~ childhood friend and spend the rest of the ~~evening~~ afternoon with him. And when he stepped inside the bathtub-size, ramshackle, one-room apartment, lying in on the bed, face down, was Sappy~~, his best friend~~.

‘Hey, wake up, am I'm here,’ the young man ~~had~~ called out.

For a long moment, Sappy ~~hadn’t responded~~ didn't respond, so the young man went to an old rusted ~~chair~~ relic by in the corner – the only ~~one~~ chair in~~side~~ the room – and sat down, waiting and thinking that Sappy ~~may be~~ was having a nap and didn't want to be disturbed.

~~Moments~~ But a short time later, Sappy, lying on ~~the~~ a mattress with almost no foam ~~left~~ that was

fitted atop a small, old, ~~almost-no-foamed~~ six-spring Vono bed, spoke., ‘We’re going to make cash.’ To the young man, his voice had never ~~been~~ ~~sounded~~ as icy ~~as heard before~~.

‘Yes ~~we’re~~ we are, but we’ll wait for our time to be ripe.’

‘No,’ ~~said~~ Sappy said. ‘It’s tomorrow.’

‘Tomorrow?’ ~~the~~ The young man’s eyelids flickered, revealing his surprise. ‘How do you mean...tomorrow?’ ~~The young man~~ He then sat in horror as he stared at ~~the hole of~~ the barrel of the gun trained at him from a few feet away.

‘So, how about this?’ the ~~owner~~ holder of ~~the hand which held~~ the gun asked him.

The young man said nothing, but remained transfixed on the weapon, his eyes wide open, his jaw sagging, and his heart thumping ~~with violence~~ as the ~~single eye of the~~ ~~weapon~~ gun ~~rested~~ ~~was~~ remained pointed ~~directly~~ at his chest.

It occurred to him, that in the next few seconds, a red-hot bullet would fly out and pierce ~~through~~ his heart. And he would be dead; murdered by the friend he’d known since childhood.

‘Sappy …,’ ~~the~~ he said in a whisper. ‘Don’t kill me…please.’

~~Within him ,the young man regretted his mistake. Before As soon as the his words could come came out, Sappy suddenly jumped up from his lying position and pointed a pistolat the young man’s chest.~~

‘Sappy! What –? he had begun, but stopped short at the sight of the object: Shiny silver and metallic – a pistol. Not knowing what to do, he had thrown both hands in the air, melting in shock, his shirt’s armpit already bathed with sweat.

~~Now, he was still seated, gaping at the weapon. ‘Don’t shoot… please.’~~

Sappy laughed aloud. ‘Cool it down, Rhino, there are no bullets inside this thing. This,’ he said as he tapped on the barrel of the pistol with his left hand.,‘is a Beretta automatic. It belongs to a politician.’

He The young man dropped his hands~~, then~~ ~~sent them down to~~ and clutched his chest~~, clutching it~~. He ~~shot his eyes~~ closed his eyes for a moment and breathed in, struggling to control the rapid beating of his heart;, trying to reduce the effect of the shock he had just endured. He opened his eyes and looked up at who he thought was his friend. ‘Sappy, you’re going too far! I thought you wanted to murder me.’

‘Why would I want to kill you, Rhino?’

‘I don’t know. You keep surprising me with lots of changes since we came into Lagos. Why ~~Sappy~~?’

‘You are asking me that?’

Rhino nodded.

‘Because it’s what life’s all about in this country, my man: Change. But from good to bad, not from bad to good, as is your own case.’ Sappy looked hard at his best friend.

Rhino returned the look just as firmly. ‘What are you doing with a politician’s gun ~~Sappy~~?’

Sappy ignored the question. ‘Let me teach you how to load and ~~cork~~ cock a gun, man.’ He jumped out of the bed and approached Rhino, but no longer pointing the gun at him. The boxer shorts and the dirty white singlet he wore manifested the well-formed contours of his masculinity in a perfect manner. ‘I know you’ve not had the opportunity to see and touch a gun before.’

‘Don’t teach me anything,’ Rhino said, ‘I ~~have~~ want nothing to do with a gun!’ But as he said this ~~not knowing he did~~, he rested his eyes on what Sappy was doing – feeding bullets into the gun.

‘
'Come on now, ~~Rhino~~,’ Sappy said as he finished loading the pistol, ‘me, you, DJ., Trouble and the Giraffe, we’re going to roughen up a certain man tomorrow. We’re going to teach him some good lessons, say, break one of his knee caps, so that he ~~quits~~ gives up his intention to run for next year’s councillorship elections for this ward.

When the job is done,’ Sappy ~~continued to load bullets into the weapon~~ said, ‘he will bow out of the race. And my friend, the other politician, pays us fifty thousand Naira for our efforts. What do you think about that, man?’

Rhino sat ~~dumb-still~~ dumbfounded, gazing at Sappy.

‘We’re not going to do him with the gun,’ Sappy went on, ~~dropping the forth bullet into one of the cylinder holes~~. ‘But in case anything ~~wen~~t goes wrong, you know what I mean,.’ His smile widened,. ‘This thing is just a personal protection ~~weapon~~ belonging to my friend, the politician. You know him, don't you.’

‘
'I don’t know him,’ Rhino said, his voice harsh ~~due to a growing tension~~ and tense. ‘And I don’t want to know any politician,’

Sappy~~’s hand halted as he wanted to drop the last bullet into~~ quit playing with the loaded gun. ‘Why are you sounding very hostile, Rhino?.

‘I can’t make money through harassing politicians for other politicians. These people keep using the poverty and ignorance of the masses to commit unbearable atrocities in ~~this~~ our rich, good country.’

‘What has our making money got to do with the richness or poverty of this country?’ Sappy stared at him, furious. ‘Look now, ~~Rhino,~~ I keep wondering why you have changed from the ever-respected, ~~intelligent~~ man who was always in command of the English language ~~commanding~~ and very strong in fisticuffs, the Rhinoceros I used to fear back in our secondary school days, to a good hearted, patriotic citizen of Nigeria. This quality will only make you a wretched man.’ Sappy paused for a moment. ‘Why don’t you make good use of your brilliance Rhino? You’re the kind of machinery politicians are in search of ~~everyday~~.’

Rhino stood up, but remained silent.

‘Let me ask you something,’ Sappy said, looking hard into the eyes of a man dwarfing him by almost a foot.

‘What?’

‘How long have you left the east for ~~here,~~ Lagos, in search of visa?’

‘A year and nine months. How does that matter?’

‘And you’re twenty one right now~~, Rhino~~?’

‘Yes, like~~wise~~ you.’

‘And you still depend on your old parents to sell another piece of their precious land, and hand you the money to travel abroad?’

'Well,’ Rhino said as he thought for a moment, ‘as long as it didn’t come to me in a bad way.’

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NIGERIA. JUNE, 2004

Today, Sunday, he returned from church and took his lunch with him, deciding not to while away his time in the house, but to visit his best childhood friend and spend the rest of the afternoon with him. And when he stepped inside the bathtub-size, ramshackle, one-room apartment, lying on the bed, face down, was Sappy.

‘Hey, wake up, I'm here,’ the young man called out.

For a long moment Sappy didn't respond, so the young man went over to an old rusted relic in the corner – the only chair in the room – and sat down, waiting and thinking that Sappy was having a nap and didn't want to be disturbed.

But a short time later, Sappy, lying on a mattress with almost no foam that was fitted atop a small, old, six-spring Vono bed, said, ‘We’re going to make cash.’ To the young man, his voice had never sounded as icy.

‘Yes we are, but we’ll wait for our time to be ripe.’

‘No,’ Sappy said. ‘It’s tomorrow.’

‘Tomorrow?’ The young man’s eyelids flickered, revealing his surprise. ‘How do you mean...tomorrow?’ He then sat in horror as he stared down the barrel of the gun trained at him from a few feet away.

‘So, how about this?’ the holder of the gun asked him.
The young man said nothing, but remained transfixed on the weapon, his eyes wide open, his jaw sagging, and is heart thumping as the gun remained pointed at his chest. It occurred to him that in the next few seconds a red-hot bullet would fly out and pierce his heart. And he would be dead, murdered by the friend he’d known since childhood.

‘Sappy,’ he said in a whisper. ‘Don’t kill me…please.’

Sappy laughed loud. ‘Cool it down, Rhino, there are no bullets inside this thing. This,’ he said as he tap on the barrel of the pistol with his left hand,‘ is a Beretta automatic. It belongs to a politician.’

The young man dropped his hands and clutched his chest. He closed his eyes for a moment and breathed in, struggling to control the rapid beating of his heart, trying to reduce the effect of the shock he had just endured. He opened his eyes and looked up at who he thought was his friend. ‘Sappy, you’re going too far! I thought you wanted to murder me.’

‘Why would I want to kill you, Rhino?’

‘I don’t know. You keep surprising me with lots of changes since we came into Lagos. Why?
‘You are asking me that?’

Rhino nodded.

‘Because it’s what life’s all about in this country, my man: change. But from good to bad, not from bad to good, as is your own case.’ Sappy looked hard at his best friend
Rhino returned the look just as firmly. ‘What are you doing with a politician’s gun?’

Sappy ignored the question. ‘Let me teach you how to load and cock a gun, man.’ He jumped out of the bed and approached Rhino, but no longer pointing the gun at him. The boxer shorts and the dirty white singlet he wore manifested the well-formed contours of his masculinity in a perfect manner. ‘I know you’ve not had the opportunity to see and touch a gun before.’

‘Don’t teach me anything,’ Rhino said, ‘I want nothing to do with a gun!’ But as he said this, he rested his eyes on what Sappy was doing – feeding bullets into the clip.
'Come on now,’ Sappy said as he finished loading the pistol, ‘me, you, DJ, Trouble and the Giraffe, we’re going to rough up a certain man tomorrow. We’re going to teach him some good lessons, say break one of his knee caps so he gives up his intention to run for next year’s councillorship elections for this ward. When the job is done, he will bow out of the race. And my friend, the other politician, pays us fifty thousand Naira for our efforts. What do you think about that, man?'
Rhino sat dumbfounded, gazing at Sappy.

‘We’re not going to do him with the gun,’ Sappy went on, smiling at the now loaded automatic and fondling it. ‘But in case anything goes wrong, you know what I mean.’ His smile widened. ‘This thing is just personal protection belonging to my friend, the politician. You know him, don't you.’
'I don’t know him,’ Rhino said, his voice harsh and tense. ‘And I don’t want to know any politician any more than I want to know about that gun.’

Sappy stopped playing with the loaded gun and stared at his friend. ‘Why are you sounding very hostile, Rhino?'
‘I can’t make money through harassing politicians for other politicians. These people keep using the poverty and ignorance of the masses to commit unbearable atrocities in this, our rich, good country.’

‘What has our making money got to do with the richness or poverty of this country?’ Sappy stared at him, appearing furious. ‘Look now, I keep wondering why you have changed from the ever-respected man who was always in command of the English language and very strong in fisticuffs--the Rhinoceros I used to fear back in our secondary school days--to a good hearted, patriotic citizen of Nigeria. This quality will only make you a wretched man.’ Sappy paused for a moment and smiled at his friend. ‘Why don’t you make good use of your brilliance, Rhino? You’re the kind of machinery politicians are in search of.’
Rhino stood, but remained silent.

       ‘Let me ask you something,’ Sappy said, looking hard into the eyes of a man dwarfing him by almost a foot.
       ‘What?
   ‘How long have you left the east for Lagos in search of a visa?
   ‘A year and nine months. How does that matter?'
   ‘And you’re twenty-one right now?'
   ‘Yes, like you.’
       ‘And you still depend on your old parents to sell another piece of their precious land, and hand you the money to travel abroad?’
       ‘Well,’ Rhino said as he thought for a moment, ‘as long as it doesn’t come to me in a bad way.’

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Robert L. Bacon
theperfectwrite.com

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