New Beginning 355

Once upon a time . . .

Was that how all the stories used to start? After all this time, all this loneliness and solitude he wasn’t sure what he remembered anymore . . . what was real?

Well, once upon a time he had been a man. He remembered that much at least.

Not just a man, but a knight.

Remember that, wretched creature. Hold to that.

A knight you were. The cherished knight of the king himself. The most loved knight in all the land, some said. Respected . . . renowned . . . a darling of the royal court . . . a paragon of virtue . . . a hero . . . And now . . .

Now he was reduced to naught but a beast, trapped forever as a rangy wolf, with only the boundaries of his forest as a buffer from the human world that had cast him off. The forest was now a sanctuary from the wickedness that had imprisoned him in this God-forsaken shape.

All that was good . . . all that was noble, all that was knightly in you is gone.

Still, there are consolations. You can detect the scent of a rabbit from a hundred yards . . . though you cannot wield a sword, your fangs are formidable weapons in their own right . . . and do not discount that other ability . . . that very special ability . . .

He curled up on the forest floor, extended his long, wolfen tongue, and proceeded to bathe his own balls with his hot saliva for the next seven hours.

Yes, there are consolations indeed.


Opening: E.D. Walker.....Continuation: Lightsmith

Old New Beginnings

Those who've purchased Novel Deviations, volumes 1 and 2, have a more convenient means of revisiting the better New Beginnings than scrolling through the blog. But at least a dozen authors of openings decided they didn't want excerpts from their works appearing in a book. Which means those who own the books might never see these again, unless I make it easy by labeling my favorites so that you can simply click on the label below.

New Beginning 286

Carol Richens walked to the top of the grassy observation mound before she pulled a cylinder of Smart Nicotine Delivery System from the front pocket of her military style, bio-fabric khaki shorts and pinched the end of the cylinder to fire the tobacco. She is the Superior Leader of the Global Women's Army of Environmental and Military Engineers. Not one woman on the PanWestern American Training Base would dare notice that she was using an SNDS outside the defined hours and within the sights of the new Engineering recruits.

After the enriched hybrid tobacco was burning, Carol hooked the thumb of her ruined left hand into the side loop of her waistband, then used her good right hand to lift the brown cylinder to her lips as she thought about the meeting of the Superior Leaders from all four quarters of the country that had just ended. She took a deep pull on the cylinder and held the smoke in her lungs. The old system of country, state, county, and city might have been cumbersome, expensive and wasteful, she thought, but there had been so many leaders under that system that duty, responsibility and blame had been spread thin. She shook her head and sighed.

Below her the crowd erupted in cheering as the motorcade at last rolled into view. Using her good hand, Carol lifted her EnviroKill Ballistic Delivery System 304 A to her shoulder and waited, waited, then released the projectile. The male leader's head snapped backwards.

To Carol's surprise, she heard a loud report from the direction of a large nearby building, and immediately wondered who else could also have planned this removal. The Women's Army of Medical and Dental Workers? The Women's Union of Free Farmers? Or--and the thought chilled her--could it be a lone shooter, acting on commands no one else could hear? It didn't matter now, as the people were running to the vehicle, many screaming and crying. She quickly removed the Hawking Time Travel Apparatus from her pocket and pulled the return fob.


Opening: Anonymous .....Continuation: Khazar-Khum

New Beginning 212

Here are the things he loves about this world: The slow disappearance of his brush strokes into paint smoothing and rearranging itself as though it has always been here, on this wall, on this house. The way he feels the rumble of thunder down to his soles, so much that sometimes he thinks it could be his doing. The sudden moment of silence that captures the teeming steam-liners when the vastness of the water gives way to the exquisite beauty and filth of New York. The bitter shreds of tea leaves that stick to his tongue when he swallows the last of the cup.

Finding just the right word in English to describe a color or a smell or a song.

The swell of the tulips that grow in the village garden. The Brooklyn Ferry.

Robert wonders whether he will miss these things, after Jesus comes to take him to Heaven.


Here are the things he hates about this world: The awful color of not-quite-puce that his wife chose and his brush has smoothed onto the wall, and will always be there, until she chooses another nauseating shade. The way the thunder emanates from his wife's nether regions, so often that he thinks she must have swallowed a Gatling gun. The sudden moment of silence that captures his ears when the vastness of his wife gives way to the exquisite silence of her departure. The way the leaves stick between his teeth when his wife forgets to strain the tea yet again.

Finding just the right word in English to describe the color of her scabs, the smell of her armpits, the croak of her voice.

The horror that he lives with. As big as the Brooklyn Ferry.

Robert wonders if his wife will miss these things after Satan comes to take her to Hell.


Opening: Miss Havisham.....Continuation: McKoala

New Beginning 159

Annis leaned on the windowsill and swore, yelling so loudly she prompted birds into flight and the gardener into dropping his wheelbarrow. She slammed the window shut, confining her temper, and began to prepare for Rosalind’s betrothal dinner.

No man in Christendom would consider marrying a girl who could throw a dagger into an apple at 20 paces, nine times out of ten. Nor would they wed a wench who owned a sword. Unless perhaps it was Excalibur. But Annis knew the reason for her spinsterhood was her complete lack of a dowry. She kicked the wall, averting her gaze from the glass of wine on the windowsill. It would be easy to succumb, to take a few sips to fortify herself against the stares and whispers. She moved back and picked up her comb.

By the time Annis had forced her hair into what she hoped was a flattering style, she changed her mind and reached for the glass. She emptied it in one neat swallow and poured herself another. Not only would it help her to forget the stares and whispers, but it would add some flattering colour to her cheeks.

A dowry, a dowry . . . How was she to come by a dowry?

By the fourth glass a glance in the mirror showed not only that her cheeks were a becoming shade of pink, but that her hair now looked more like soft ringlets than her usual snaky Medusa-like locks.

Who wanted a dowry anyway? Why throw away all this beauty on some white-wigged, fat-bellied fool like Rosalind's betrothed?

She opened her window and leant out to call the gardener. It was time to play with Excalibur again.


Opening: Emma.....Continuation: McKoala

New Beginning 155

When I was four years old, I fell in love with Dana Meyer's fingernails.

I can still picture them today: delicate half-moons peeking coyly over the smooth horizon of his cuticles, directing the eye up toward serene white ridges that capped his fingertips like far-off mountain peaks.

In all the nursery school, there was not one hand that could compare to Dana's fastidious manicure; even the teacher's nails were thick with grit by the end of a day spent clawing through the sandbox for lost toys. As for the rest of us, we were what you would expect from a normal class of pre-schoolers: snotty and scabby and tousled and frayed, dressed as haphazardly as our parents would allow, gloriously unselfconscious in our filth. But Dana was always perfectly, meticulously put together; an oasis of clean and calm amid the messiness of common toddlerhood. Over the course of that year, I cultivated a growing obsession with Dana Meyer's compulsive sense of hygiene.

Before lunch, I would follow Dana into the bathroom and be sure to take the sink next to his and watch him lather, scrub and rinse his hands, using one nail to force the soapy water beneath another.

In art class, while the other kids were finger-painting big, yellow suns and happy, smiling families, my crayon would be tracing the delicate arc of Dana’s lunula. We became best friends; we had a special bond, as strong as the hyponychium. And when I was invited to his house, I would secretly search in his trash or under his bed for clippings to add to my collection.

Yes, even then, at that tender age, I knew some day those perfect fingernails would be mine.

Sit still, Dana Meyer, and don’t say a word. I promise you this will be quick. After the first one or two, you won’t feel a thing.


Opening: AIR.....Continuation: ril

New Beginning 124

Rainaut stared down at the two-toed track in the dried mud next to the rotting remains of a pig. He closed his eyes.

There's no such thing as dragons. There's no such thing as dragons.

He opened his eyes. The track was still there. Ravens nearby fluttered, causing Rainaut to jump. His gaze flicked to the forest, for the last eighteen years, a bright and lovely place, but today, dark and foreboding. Nothing moved, except for the ravens, impatient for him to leave, so they could return to the carcass.

The sun hovered just over the tops of the mountains. Perhaps he should return to Agarèla for the night. But, no, two of the houses there had walls missing from where dragons—no, bandits, he told himself—had broken in and attacked the residents.

A flock of birds erupted from the treetops a half mile away and Rainaut made up his mind. He sprinted down the road toward Corbisnèle.

"There's no such thing as dragons," he sang aloud as he ran. His song seemed to bolster his courage. But as he rounded the next bend and caught sight of Corbisnèle in the distance, a giant shadow fell over Rainaut. He turned, just in time to see the stream of fire blazing from above.

He managed one last thought before the flames engulfed him: So. Apparently there is such a thing as dragons.

Continuation: Evil Editor

New Beginning 55

Ring of Fire

If Tommy Barrett didn’t stop trying to look down her top, she was going to smack him. Gun or no gun.

Fortunately for him, being stuck in the back of the police cruiser severely limited her maiming options, for now. Trixie puckered her lips in annoyance; Tommy had never been one for subtle hints.

“You comfortable back there?” she could hear the smirk behind the words. From experience she knew that reasoning with him wouldn’t work; this situation called for desperate measures.

With a silent prayer to whatever deity was listening, she wet her lips and pulled what she hoped looked like a sexy pout. “What if I promised to behave myself?” This time… she added under her breath.

“No freaking way sweetheart.” Grinning, he checked his cell phone for the twentieth time.

With a hiss of frustration, she slumped back on the hard seat. Flirting was not going to work; Tommy was dreaming if he thought he’d get to see any more skin. It was time to try a new tactic.


Officer Tommy Barrett squirmed uncomfortably in the driver's seat of the cruiser. He lifted himself up a few inches to relieve pressure. That helped, but that tramp in the back seat, Trixie, didn't like it. That skank thinks I'm trying to check out her cleavage in the rear-view mirror! he laughed inwardly.

He wasn't sure if it was last-night's chili-pepper doritos or this morning's breakfast burrito that was ruining his day. All he knew was that his anus was aflame with the notorious "Ring of Fire."


Continuation: Dave Conifer

New Beginning 25

Audrey sidestepped so the man she could see from the corner of her eye could slide past her in the aisle. She pressed back into a rack of clothing, the thrift-store smell wafting out at her. She kept her eyes down, waiting for him to pass, then glanced up to see that he was standing in front of her, staring at her intently.

"Pardon me," she said, stepping aside again. He just looked at her, which upped her city-girl dander. "Is there a problem?"

He thrust a flier at her, big black letters on bright yellow paper. Just a crazy, that's all.

"I'm okay, thanks," she muttered, and headed down the aisle.

"You really need this," he said.

"I'm all full up, honestly." Audrey looked around for a clerk. No one in sight. If this guy got any closer, she was going to stomp on his instep.

The man turned away. Thank God. But as he turned, some of the black letters on the flyer jumped out at Audrey. Audrey Quigglesthorp. What was her name doing on the flyer?

"Give me that!" Audrey snatched at the page, but the man held it above her head.

"Can you pay the price?" he sneered.

"Damn right I can." She stomped on his instep, then tackled him into a rack of shirts.

"You're too late," he laughed. "You had your chance."

As they lay among the garments, Audrey pounded on his face until it was an unrecognizable bloody pulp.

"Too . . . late," the old man moaned.

Audrey grabbed up the flyer. Her name was nowhere to be seen. It was nothing but a coupon for ten percent off her purchase. At the bottom it said, Expires at 5 p.m.

She looked at her watch. 5:02.


Continuation: Nancy Conner/Evil Editor

New Beginning 14

­­Oh, God. She's at it again.

Lia Mitchell ducked past the kitchen, jerked opened the front door and burst out onto the porch to wait for her ride. She looked anxiously down the street, trying to ignore the raised voices spilling out of the house. The whole town probably could hear her mother verbally clobbering her father.

"You'd better not take my Elton John collection with you, you selfish pig!" her mother cried.

Lia winced in embarrassment and hoped the neighbors had their windows closed. If there was anything good about her father moving out next week--and for a long time she doubted there was--it was that the yelling would stop. She was sure once her parents had a little break from each other they could start patching up their marriage. If anything was left of it.

Secretly, she hoped he would take the Elton John albums, or at least the one with "Candle in the Wind" on it, the one about Princess Di that her mom liked to listen to while she cried and lit thirty-six candles in front of her painting of Windsor Castle.

God, no wonder he was leaving.


Continuation: Marjorie James