Pawan Mishra
May 4, 2016 | Literary, 1st pages
Chapter 1. The Cacophonous Plight
It all began with high expectations.
I couldn’t believe at first that Sage Mangal, our esteemed master at the ashram, whose personality I can’t promise to make you very familiar with, had trusted me with a task of such ambition.
“A lack of emotional engagement in the affair affirms higher credibility,” Sage Mangal had explained when asked why he chose me, Sesha, over many others, for pulling the pieces of Coinman’s story together after the latter’s departure from the ashram.
In short, it was the lack of my prior acquaintance with Coinman that had won me this prize.
His Politeness also bestowed me with the divine power to find almost everything that I needed to find. Such was this power that I could enter invisibly into past situations, could be at multiple places at the same time, and could even float in someone’s mind without their discovering. Before you ask, Sage Mangal did meticulously bar my access to certain activities and places—for example, the bathroom where one of the main characters in our story spent a major part of his life. The sage agreed in advance to bear with any compromises that my lack of full access might potentially introduce to the story.
I could ramble on forever, but this is all I wish to convey to you about me and my job. I will assume that you wouldn’t want to know more than that either; not only will it make my job simpler, but it will also fulfill my wish to remain largely invisible. Honestly, with the kind of story I am about to embark on, I know you couldn’t care less about me. So let’s get to the story without further ado.
Jangle jingle! Clink clatter! Ding-a-ling! Ring-a-ding!
The mind-numbing sound of relentlessly jingling coins was something the people of the office, the center stage of this story, hadn’t quite learned to live with yet. Not only when the possessor of the busy coins, Coinman, walked, but also when he stood talking—or engaged himself in doing anything else, for that matter—his left hand constantly fondled the coins with tenderness.
The coins occupied an eternal place in the left pocket of his trousers and, regardless of where he dwelt or what he did, constantly slithered through the narrow spaces between his fingers.
James Hitt
Apr 27, 2016 | Literary, 1st pages
CHAPTER ONE
The War Department sent the telegram dated October 25, 1919. Mister Egbert Jenkins, the local telegrapher, breathing heavily because of his heart condition, shuffled two blocks to our store to deliver the news the moment he received it. Coming along the walk, he saw me standing behind the store window holding a couple of hats that I was about to place on dummies. He held up the paper and waved it expecting me to understand its importance.
“Is your aunt here, Davy?” he said, his voice muffled by the glass.
Before I could reply, he came through the front door and spotted Aunt Esther at the counter half hidden behind a stack of bib overalls.
He crossed the floor and handed her the telegram. She took it, her eyes pinched in worry, which said she expected the worst, but as she began to read, her face lit with hope, and she began to cry, not the kind of hysterical sobbing I’ve seen from other women, but rather a few silent tears followed by a sniffle or two. Reaching into her apron pocket, she pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed her eyes, now rimmed in red. I had never seen her cry, not once in the ten years I’d lived with her and Uncle Marsh, not even at the funeral of my mother, her older sister, whose death had brought me to their home in the first place.
Mr. Jenkins reached across the counter and patted her hand. “Now, now Esther, everything’s going to be fine. He’s coming home.”
Embarrassed, I looked away and placed the hats on the dummies, pretending to position each just so and wondering what made Aunt Esther cry. The telegram obviously brought good news, so why would a person cry over good news? I felt much the same as my aunt―I was glad Uncle Marsh was coming home―yet no one would see me cry. Of course there was another explanation. A part of me felt a little intimidated. After all, Aunt Esther and I had run the business as well as our own lives for the past year and a half, and things ran smoothly. Now I wondered how our lives were going to change.
Don’t get me wrong. I was proud of Uncle Marsh, and any doubts were the doubts of a sixteen-year-old kid who didn’t like change. From the first day I entered their house, he treated me like I was his own son, praising me for my achievements, chastising me for my sins with a stern, cold look that proved far worse than any whipping. He never laid a hand on me, never once, not even when Ben Cooperson and I stole a pack of smokes from Wiggins’ General Store, although on that occasion he hauled my butt to the sheriff’s office where fat Harvey Ralston locked me up for a couple of hours. I was eleven at the time, and that scared the bejesus out of me.
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….
Jessica Norrie
Apr 8, 2016 | Literary, 1st pages
May 2011
Adrian Hartman wasn’t expecting to die that day, so he hadn’t thought to make a will. Now, as he lay slouched across the pool edge, pink shirt and copious shorts plastered unflatteringly to his spread belly, he realised this would cause difficulties for his numerous children and their mothers.
At times, with some glee, he had mentally designed his funeral. A double slot would be booked at the crematorium, and the captive audience of friends and family would have to sit through an hour of his favourite music, without prayers or eulogies. But he had never written down his choices, because they changed and it didn’t seem urgent. He hadn’t foreseen what would be needed, yet in certain circles he was considered very wise, and the happiness of many people depended on him.
Crawling ants and buzzing flies soon clustered about his wounds. Somehow he retained enough sense to realise that to stay under the burning sun would lead to worse injury, and with much groaning and creaking he managed to heave himself away, only to collapse again in the shade of the nearby pine trees. He had no idea how much time passed.
At some point steps padded along the side of the pool and he heard what he thought might be somebody scrubbing the congealing blood from the tiles where he had struck his head as he fell – the work of seconds, but surely to get rid of blood in the water would be a bigger challenge. It would take nearly two days to empty, clean and refill the pool, and would draw attention at a time of low local water pressure.
They might just rely on the natural disguise of blowing debris and dust which disturbed the surface play of moving light and shadow all the time, since the pool was set – fabulously – among wind blown pine trees above a cove. In any case, whoever was doing the cleaning must think the job finished, for the footsteps moved away, down the steep stony path leading to one of the pebbled beaches that punctured the rocky coastline.
Adrian, lying supine and exhausted, half remembered seeing the owner of the sweaty seaside restaurant fishing from his makeshift jetty for the evening menu. But it was too far for his weakened voice to carry even if he did shout for help, and in his growing confusion he could think of nothing else to do.
Arthur Rosch
Apr 7, 2016 | Literary, 1st pages
Chapter One
September, 1967. Detroit, Michigan
Aaron Kantro follows his colleagues through the labyrinth of the nightclub’s kitchen and out the back door. A waft of cool air hits his face as he steps onto the concrete platform next to the loading dock. His sweat instantly begins to dry and he can see steam misting from the other musicians’ tuxedos. It’s the band’s third break. They will play one more set of forty five minutes. Then their work for the night is done.
There are nine or ten people gathered around the rear entrance to the club. They are either jazz fans who want to hang out or they are so loaded they don’t know how they got there.
A man with his shirttails dangling from his suit stumbles into Aaron. “I wan’ shake your hand,” he announces. He extends his unkempt digits and then pulls his hand away as if to recalibrate his arm’s trajectory. Aaron, when he puts his hand out to respond, feels like an idiot. He puts his hands in his pockets and hopes the man will go away.
“I tell you somethin’“, the man says. “You play some drums for a white boy. Some fuckin’ drums. I close my eyes, can’t tell the diff’rence. Sound jus’ like a real drummer.” He tries again to extend his hand and stumbles across his own feet.
“Excuse me”, a young lady says as she passes between Aaron and the drunk. She wants an autograph from the legendary saxophonist, Zoot Prestige. Aaron’s boss transfers a cheroot from his hand to his mouth. He leans down to inscribe his signature into the lady’s little book, while trying to keep his eyes averted from the cleavage that is so conspicuously thrust into his face. Aaron notes this little drama and loses his anger. Zoot Prestige is just too funny. Aaron quietly moves behind the imposing figure of his boss. The drunk rambles away, talking to himself.
Aaron is the only white person beneath the scalloped awning. There are perhaps ten white people in the club. It bothers him more than he likes to admit that he longs to see other white faces. It has been his decision to play jazz, and his brand of jazz carries him to black clubs in black neighborhoods. Sometimes, the moment he walks into a place, he feels the air freeze with racial tension. Sometimes he is scared. The only way through it is to play the music.
As the little throng disperses, Zoot butts his smoke in the sand of an ashtray. He steps off the concrete pad and walks across the lot towards his car.
After waiting about thirty seconds, the group’s organist, Tyrone Terry, follows the lanky figure of his boss. Aaron waits another thirty seconds and follows his colleagues to the cream-colored Continental. This precaution seems a little silly but there are probably narcs in the club and Aaron has to admit that it is pretty obvious what’s happening when three jazz musicians get into a car and don’t go anywhere.
Soon the men are engrossed in the ritual of the pipe: lighting, inhaling, holding breath, exhaling. It’s cozy in the Continental’s plush interior. Air comes sighing through the upholstery’s leather seams as the musicians’ weight compresses the seat cushions. Zoot and his side-men are settling down, recharging their nerves for the next set, the last set. It is one o’clock in the morning.
“She wanted you to look at ‘em,” Tyrone says to his employer.
“I know,” responds Zoot, “but it seems so…I don’t know…un-chivalrous to put my nose right into a lady’s cleavage. Besides, it’s redundant. I seen titties before. Wan’t nothin’ special about hers…they’s just….”
BANG! There is a huge sound, an explosion. The men’s bodies react instinctively. They duck, and their arms rise to cover their heads.
The car lurches as a man dives across the hood, holding a pistol in his right hand. His legs swim wildly as he fights to stop his momentum. Whatever tactic he has in mind, it isn’t working. The car’s sheen and finish turn the hood into a sliding board.
“Jesus fucking Christ!” In the back seat Aaron curses loudly without thinking. He has never before heard a gun shot. In spite of this fact, he recognizes the sound. It is rounder, weightier, and more final than the sound of a firecracker.
The man on the car’s hood waves the pistol frantically. Slithering to get his balance, he clutches at the windshield wipers and misses. Gravity and car wax slide him across the polished metal until he lands on the ground. The pistol fires as he hits the gravel. The bullet penetrates a tire with a loud hiss.
The man springs up and disappears among the ordered rows of vehicles in the parking lot.
Zoot Prestige holds a finger to his mouth, slides from under the steering wheel and drops quietly to the floor of the passenger seat. Zoot doesn’t want to get shot. Zoot doesn’t want to be a witness if somebody gets shot. Zoot doesn’t want questions. Zoot doesn’t want any dealings with the Poe-Leece!
Aaron scrunches onto the floor of the back seat until his arm rests on the hump of the drive shaft. Tyrone, on the other side, is hoping to disappear via the flawed logic of an ostrich. He is pulling his little pork-pie hat over his eyes.
A voice shouts, “I’LL KILL YOU MOTHERFUCKER!”
Two more shots are fired from the opposite corner of the lot. Two sparking ovals of muzzle flash light up the windshields of Cadillacs and Thunderbirds. A man’s face appears, pressed to the window of Zoot’s car. His cheek is distorted against the glass, with an eye like a panicked horse. His quick breath steams the window only inches from Zoot’s face. With a slight turn to the right, Zoot becomes a virtual nose-to-nose mirror image of the man with the gun.
The enraged shooter doesn’t see the human being an inch from his face. He raises his snubby revolver over the top of the vehicle, fires twice without aiming, and runs to cover behind a black Eldorado. The wind has changed. The shots are barely audible.
“Sheee-it!” Zoot grumbles, “I hope nobody messes up my short. I paid three hundred bucks for this custom paint job.” The immaculately polished car is long and sleek as a submarine.
A voice shouts, “HEY LOOK HE’S OVER THERE!”
Bang bang bang! Flashes light up the musicians’ faces. Guns are all over the place. Aaron looks at Tyrone. The keyboard player has twitched and spilled a pipe full of burning marijuana into his lap. He brushes and pats frantically to prevent embers from smoldering through the pants of his tux. Thrusting his hands into his pockets he makes a basket to prevent sparks from spreading onto the seat or the carpet. Aaron produces a handkerchief and helps contain the disaster. Tyrone is feeling little stings of fire burning their way into his palms. He is tossing the embers back and forth as he jumps and wriggles all over the tiny floor space behind the driver’s seat. When the young musicians’ eyes meet they realize that they have entered the realm of the completely absurd.
Mathieu Cailler
Apr 5, 2016 | Literary, 1st pages
From first story, “Over the Bridge”
It was another one o’clock on another Friday, and there I sat in Mrs. Zohorian’s office for our weekly meeting. Ever since Mom died, the school thought it would help me to “talk things out,” but I knew it helped them too, maybe more than it was supposed to help me.
Mrs. Z was an Alaska of a woman—gigantic thighs, multiple chins, and sausage-like fingers. She sat on her padded office chair and asked question after question in a soft voice: “Ella, you feeling better this week?”
“About the same,” I said.
Mrs. Z scribbled something on her notepad. I scanned her office. Inspirational posters lined the walls—a picture of a girl running up stairs with the word “Perseverance” across the top, two kids in polo shirts playing chess with “Strategy” hanging above them, and spring flowers blossoming with “Resilience” in all capitals. I wondered where Mrs. Z bought these posters. Was there a store for high school counselors?
“What class did I pull you out of?” Mrs. Z popped in a mint to battle her breath. Altoids couldn’t handle her stuff, though.
“Math.”
“What were you studying?”
“Stuff on triangles—the Pythagorean Theorem and Soh Cah Toa.”
“Soh Cah what?”
“It’s just this way of remembering what to do for sine and cosine.”
Sometimes Mrs. Z hoped that generic questions would lead to specific answers. I knew her strategy.
