Lorraine Pestell
Apr 18, 2016 | Contemporary, 1st pages
Twenty Years On
‘You know what I like about coming here, angel?’
Lynn smiled as her husband gave her a playful wink. ‘You’re going to say nothing ever changes.’
‘I was,’ Jeff shook his head. ‘How’d you know?’
The black Land Rover Discovery turned into the lane towards the back gates of the vast Benloch property. Both knew the couple’s shared observation was as false as it was true… On the face of things, remarkably little had changed in the twenty-three years since the songwriter and his muse first drove his old, rusty Ford Fairlane along this narrow track, too fast over the gravel and kicking up dust behind them.
Heavy electric gates lumbered away from the car, barely escaping a helping hand from the roo-bar as the car accelerated towards them.
‘Well, that has, for a start,’ the beauty countered. ‘Before, you would’ve tried to run me over instead.’
In the back of the car, Kierney dug her brother in the ribs. ‘Wake up. We’re here.’
For a moment not recognising where he was, Jet opened his eyes and groaned. He had flown in from the UK that very morning, having started his journey home from Cambridge University some thirty hours before.
It had been the lad’s first Christmas away from the family, permission for which he had negotiated carefully when he found out an exquisite Russian archaeology student was staying in college over the holidays. However, he had later confessed to his father that his plan had been an almost total waste of time and he regretted not coming home to Melbourne as planned. The girl had not turned out to be quite as exquisite as he hoped, leaving the young buck to beat a hasty retreat from her room first thing on Boxing Day morning.
The eighteen-year-old sportsman had received a sympathetic hearing from his dad, who then undoubtedly passed on the juicy snippets of information to his mother, judging by the knowing smile she had given him later in the day. Jet didn’t mind. He was very pleased to be back en famille, even if it did mean his kid sister was on hand to give him a hard time.
‘Grab this, please,’ Lynn asked her son, pointing to a large black suitcase.
The young man lifted the case out of the car as if it weighed next to nothing, his six-foot-four-inch frame beginning to fill out as he headed towards the end of his teens. He carried his own bag in the other hand and a folder of paperwork under one arm, stopping to kiss his grandmother in the doorway as he passed through into the house.
‘Are you tired?’ Marianna asked. ‘You mustn’t know what time it is, dear.’
‘What time is it, Grandma? Sorry? What did you say?’ the larrikin teased. ‘Nice to see you. Happy Old Year.’
Jeff clipped the top of his son’s head with the fingers of his right hand, and bent over to kiss his slowly-shrinking mother-in-law. ‘Ignore him,’ he told the elegant lady of the house. ‘He thinks he’s funny. We haven’t got the heart to tell him the truth.’
‘Good morning, Jeff,’ the gracious woman replied. ‘Twenty years. Can you believe it?’
‘Definitely not. Feels like forty.’
‘Papá!’ Kierney shrieked from behind him. ‘That’s so mean! You think you’re funny…’
The father turned round and gave his daughter a playful grin. ‘I mean I wish it were forty,’ he quipped.
Once inside and with everyone suitably greeted and kissed, the Diamond family disappeared straight upstairs to unpack for the New Year’s Eve celebrations. The air-conditioning system made sure the temperature in the big house was comfortable, and sparkles of sunlight glistened on the outdoor pool down below, enticing the couple as they looked over from the balcony.
Dori Ann Dupré
Apr 13, 2016 | Contemporary, 1st pages
SCOUT WEBB, AGE 14
The ball flew toward me in a mad spiral as I stood, stomach churning, wrapped up in anticipation. It was coming to my left so I turned my legs back and ran to position myself to catch it. I don’t know exactly how my body knows what to do and when to do it at the right time, but even “for a girl” my body knew just the same.
My gloved left hand reached just high enough to snatch the speeding baseball out of flight and I stopped myself from stride so I could get the throw into the cutoff man at shortstop. Also known as Charlie. My best friend.
“Good catch, Scout!” I heard someone yell.
I felt a sense of relief come over my whole body. I did my job. I caught the well-hit fly ball that should have been a single. The boy who hit it was pissed off, no doubt, because some stupid wiry girl in the outfield caught it and how embarrassing is that and I hope she falls and breaks her arm. Heard it all before.
I love summer. Summertime is baseball season.
Kristina O'Donnelly
Apr 12, 2016 | 1st pages, Contemporary, Featured, Historical, Literary
Prologue:
Tarsus, Mediterranean Coast, Turkey
“NO!” SHE SCREAMED WITH A HOARSE VOICE, terror turning into fury, “Nooo, you’re not going to have him again! No, not again! No, I won’t let you!” However, even as those words were leaving her throat, she knew the odds favored him being torn to bits by his very own people. Pro-pelled by urgent despair, she pushed her way among the knots of swarthy men and women and tore in the direction of the tall man dressed in white, who stood on a platform surrounded by a fist-shaking, screaming mob. His blondish-brown wavy hair glistened under the sun and his squared wide shoulders, straight back and strong, calm voice spoke of proud defiance.
Her heart ached at the sight of him, for he was the blood in her veins, the flesh upon her bone, and if he would end up martyred by those he had fought so hard to lead to a better tomorrow, she would rather follow him to hell and beyond, and then once again mourn his loss…. Thousands of years ago, the people had been just as bloodthirsty as they were today, and readily falling under Wolf’s spell, they had betrayed White Roebuck. Trapping him like a common beast, they had dragged his bleeding body over sharp-edged stones and thorns.
White Roebuck, who had given them nothing but love and care, who had communicated with animals, flowers, known every star on the sky, thrived on song and dance, and yet been brave enough to rise against terrible odds and fight… the huge rabble led by his own beloved brother, against him.
“Allah-u Ekber! Allah-u Ekber!”
She whirled, looking up toward the direction of the sun. Holy Mary, Mother of God! Could it be? Was it really the Muezzin reciting from the minaret? Did he truly have the audacity to stand high up, and summon the devout to the mosque, to praise God? These very same, Godforsaken men who were trying to murder her husband?
“Allah-u Ekber! Lailahe-il-Al-lah!” the Muezzin confirmed her sus-picion, ululating as he cited the Arabic words equivalent to,” Allah is the Highest; I am a witness that Allah is One; Mohammed is His Prophet. Come to prayer, He will give you comfort….”
As she laughed at the irony, her reason returned and she hurled her-self at the bearded man who blocked her way and was waving her blue scarf in the air. Caught off guard by her violent outburst, he had to re-treat. But others appeared and tried to hold her arms down. Fury heightening her strength, she twisted, turned, kicked, ducked, and man-aged to slip away. The ominous-looking Kurdish rebels from the truck, shouldered the cheering crowd, overwhelmed her husband’s bodyguards, and closed in on him. “You servant of the Allahless Americans!
How dare you come here and poison these innocents with lies?” one of them shouted at her husband, “Traitors like you besmear our Holy Koran’s honor, use our wives, sisters and daughters as fodder for the whorehouses, and lam-baste our traditions and families!” The lone shout metamorphosed into a chorus,
“Death to the man who’s defiled our Prophet! Death to the Two-faced Servant of the Americans!” She was a petite but agile woman, which gave her an edge among the clumsily fermenting crowd as she pushed and zigzagged her way toward her husband. She reached the bottom of the speaker’s podium just as his fist crashed upon someone’s head.
Suddenly their dog Attila darted ahead of her, jumped up and tore at the throat of a huge man at-tacking him from his back. Her heart chimed with relief. Then he was overcome by at least six men who grasped at him simultaneously, sunk under their combined weight and she lost sight of him. An inhuman cry rose from her throat and she tried to plunge for-ward but this time her progress was blocked by a bearded, black skull capped man. He took hold of her blue scarf, pulled it down and freed her hair. Its platinum blondness was unmistakable under the blazing sun.
His hoarse voice rose triumphantly, “Whhoaaa! Here’s the Ameri-can whore!” Somewhere in the distance, Attila was barking violently. Then his bark turned into a long howl, descending to a painful whimper. She stumbled, lost her footing, pitched face forward and hit the rocky ground. Get up! her mind urged, this is not a nightmare, it’s reality! Get up and fight back. She pushed herself up to a kneeling position, struggling to find her balance and to rise on her feet. The bearded man caught up with her, shadowing her horizon. His leer exposing tobacco-stained teeth, he grasped her shoulders and pressed her down. She felt the razor sharp stones cutting into her kneecaps as fiery pain surged toward her eyes.
“Let go of her!” a familiar, deep, male voice commanded, “Let go of her you misbegotten son of a swine!”
Abruptly the bearded man was lifted by a pair of strong arms and hurled away from her. She looked up. Ali’s wiry, dark form emerged in front of her, grasped her by the armpits and helped her stand on shaky legs. As her gaze met his, she sighed with joyous relief. She was not surprised at his appearance. All along, she had expected it, hoped for it. Her husband had come to his domain to campaign on his behalf. They were comrades-in-ideals, side by side they warred to emancipate their people from the outdated cultural and moral standards that were stran-gling their free spirits…
Dimly she heard Ali shout more orders. Instinctively leaning against him, she welcomed his comforting solidity. In black trousers, white shirt open to his waist — obviously all its buttons were ripped off in the heat of fight — he was tanned like a gypsy, and his dark copper coloring set off his green eyes with a feverish sparkle.
“Ayla-aaaa! I’m here, Ayla! Come to me!” The reality of the world around her, its crowds, noises and their im-plication came back into focus: her husband was kneeling under the shade of a large tree, next to Attila’s motionless body. He was bleeding profusely from the cuts on his face, neck, right shoulder and both arms. His torn white shirt was splashed crimson with the other injuries it bare-ly covered.
As she began approaching him, she had to recall the many times she had seen him mangled like this, his blood a willing sacrifice for the betterment of the others. Grimly, she thought, yes, once every few generations, there comes a “horseman,” a visionary martyr who gives himself up willingly so that his people can climb onto the next step on the evolutionary ladder. Suddenly, she felt displaced in time. As in a trance, she turned around. She blinked her eyes, fighting to gather her wits. The vision faded, revealing a tall, shoulder-length black haired handsome young man in a flowing white robe.
His expression intense, his arm outstretched, he was pointing his gun — a huge semiau-tomatic — straight at her husband’s head — with not the smallest ob-stacle in between to perchance divert his steady aim.
Following her stricken gaze, Ali saw him too. His eyes widening, he shouted, “Son, don’t!”
“Stop interfering, Father! Get back, it’s got to be done!”
“No, I won’t allow you, this is murder!” Ali shouted again, leaping forward like a panther. However, before he could complete his leap, the shot cracked with a golden yellow flare….
Tom Forcino
Apr 8, 2016 | Contemporary, 1st pages
Retain what comes,
send off what goes,
when there is emptiness strike
“This is Wing Chun.”
The words echoed in Justin Dewey’s head as he watched his siheng, his Kung Fu older brother, move nimbly around a larger, slower opponent. The slightly undulating hands, the short quick steps, the square hips and shoulders all reflected the long hours of Wing Chun Kung Fu training.
Their arena was a small patch of asphalt between piles of debris and sawhorses with faded white parking lines under their feet. A 10-feet high chain and wood fence separated them from the busy Van Nuys traffic.
Justin focused on the match intensely with a pinched brow and folded arms.
Beside him, Elvis Chen was another story. Short and thin, twenty-two years old with a huge pompadour of thick, black hair, Elvis cheered like it was a sporting event and clapped his hands so hard that his whole body shook.
“Kick his ass, Rico!” Justin wanted to shoot Elvis a sideways glance, but feared missing the big moment, for he was sure that the match would end in a quick, nearly invisible flurry of punches.
A.L. Simpson
Apr 8, 2016 | Contemporary, 1st pages
Chapter One
HAMISH
“Hamish, for the love of God, get your fingers out and fuck me,” Caroline cries as I bring her to the edge.
Performing moves that would have made an acrobat proud, I grab a condom from the nightstand and rip it open with my teeth. The whole time I’m finger fucking her. Enough to keep her wet but not enough to have her come.
I withdraw my fingers from her pussy, lick the sweet juices dripping from my fingers and sheath myself.
After flipping her onto her belly and pulling her up onto all fours, I slam into her cunt. She squeals as I penetrate her with an almighty thrust. She likes it rough which is good, I’ve never been gentle.
Girls know what to expect from the bad boy chef when they join me in bed. Let’s get something else clear. I fuck. I don’t make love. Her hands fist in the sheets as I push her toward that worshipped edge.
Ben Burgess Jr.
Apr 5, 2016 | Contemporary, 1st pages
Karen
I’m lying on white linen sheets panting and sweating in a motel room in Syosset. My breasts rise and fall as I try to catch my breath. The strong smell of sex fills the room. The air conditioner blows on high, cooling my trembling, naked body. I stare at the mirror on the ceiling wondering how, in a matter of minutes, I’ve gone from complete bliss to sadness.
When I have sex with Raheem, it takes me away from my chaotic life. He makes me feel sexy and unrestricted. I feel like a woman, but when it’s over, I fall hard back to reality. Raheem is not my husband.
I watched him get dress and wondered why I kept doing this to myself.
“I gotta go. I’ll text you sometime tomorrow,” Raheem said.
“Okay.”
He kissed me softly, and for that brief moment it felt real, but I know our relationship could never be anything more than this. This isn’t love. What we have is pure lust. Our relationship is merely a quick fix to the problems in my marriage.
Raheem has a family too; a wife and three kids. I have my husband Chris, and my twin girls, Jocelyn, and Jaclyn. He cheats on his wife for the thrill of fucking someone else. I cheat to feel validated.
Raheem winked and closed the door behind him. I stood up and stared at my reflection in the full-length mirror. I fanned myself, ran my hands down my naked body. My chestnut eyes show the windows to the soul of an emotionally drained woman. For the last three years, I’d been living a lie and every day; I feel like a piece of me dies.
My heart was heavy as tears filled my eyes. I started to cry thinking about what my life had become. I cried because I felt horrible for cheating. I cried because I just wanted to be happy but I don’t know how to be.
I composed myself, dressed and headed to the motel office. A maid cleaning one of the rooms shook her head and scowled at me when I put the room key in the return slot. She saw the wedding ring on my hand. I know she figured no married woman would come here in the middle of the day with her husband. That judgmental look would be another thing to torment me. I got into my silver Honda Accord and headed home. I felt even worse than before.
I love Chris, I do. I always have, but I’m not in love with him. I owe him a lot. I knew he was the one when we met in college at a campus party.
***
“Look, I’m not interested,” I said to some random guy who approached me at the party.
“Come on. Stop playing hard to get.”
“She said no, leave her alone before there’s a problem,” Chris said, coming to my rescue.
“Who the fuck…”
Random guy turned around and saw Chris, Will, and Lou standing behind him. They were all huge, but Chris looked the most intimidating. He was about six-one and ripped like a Greek God.
“My bad, I didn’t know she was with you.” Random guy said as he walked away.
“Thanks for that,” I said; liking how sexy he looked.
“It’s no problem. I’m Chris, and these are my boys, Will and Lou.”
“I’m Karen,” I said and smiled.
Chris and I got to know each other after that. I loved that he was driven and masculine. He was about something, a “real man”. It was a huge change from the boys pretending to be men who usually approached me.
Back then I was reckless and irresponsible. Chris came into my life and showed me that I needed to calm down and think about my future. I toned down my hard partying. I quit smoking weed and cigarettes. I stopped drinking to the point of throwing up and passing out, and focused more on school and improving my life. In some ways, Chris saved me. He taught me to want more for myself, and I was truly grateful for that.
When we first started dating, there were several times when my immaturity almost drove him to leave me. Sometimes I’d relapse, and go back to my party girl ways; my last big fuck up happened senior year.
“Chris, please don’t be mad at me.”
I gripped the phone tightly, mentally preparing myself for his reaction.
“What? What’s going on?” Chris asked, groggily. It was two o’clock in the morning.
“Chris, please wake up, baby. I need you. I got arrested, I’m in jail.”
“You’re where?”
“I’m in the holding cells at the 114th precinct. They’re taking me to central booking. I got arrested for DUI.”
Chris sighed. There was a long pause before he spoke.
“What happened?”
“I was partying in Queens… I ended up smoking—”
“Smoking weed.”
“Yes, Chris. I was smoking weed. Anyway, I guess it was stronger than I thought. I got pulled over on my way home, and the cops smelled it on me. When they searched my car, they found some bags.”
“How much is some, Karen?” Chris had that tone in his voice that made me feel like a child.
“I bought a couple bags for days when I’m stressed out.”
“How much is a couple!” he shouted.
“I don’t know exactly. They said it’s felony weight though.”
“Jesus, Karen. Who are you, Pablo fucking Escobar? This could’ve all been avoided if you’d just stop with this bullshit.”
“I don’t need a lecture right now, I need your help. Can you help me, please?”
Chris bailed me out of jail. Since I had no money, he spent a small fortune on a great lawyer who found a loophole in the case and somehow got all of my charges dropped.
While my legal struggles were over, my partying was putting a strain on our relationship. Chris grew distant. The writing was on the wall. I was close to losing him for good, so I stopped taking my birth control. I knew he’d never leave me if I got pregnant. It was lowdown and risky, I know, but I loved him. I still love him more than anything and anyone, but as time passed our relationship became stagnant.
When I come home, I don’t feel appreciated or beautiful. Chris and I don't go out or do anything exciting anymore. He’s always working. When he’s not working, he’s sleeping, watching sports or in the garage restoring his 66’ Mustang. I swear he cares more about that fucking car than about me. He doesn’t pay attention to me anymore. Don’t get me wrong; he’s a wonderful father. He always takes care of our kids and provides for us, but we’ve lost something. I feel that something when I’m with Raheem.
