Page One Contest Finalists
Please join us in congratulating the following Top Ten finalists whose entries will be forward to to our Editor judges:
| 2 | Youll never find a knot you can't unravel. The soothsayers words mocked Azurha more loudly than usual tonight. She strained against the hemp ropes that bound her wrists and ankles to the thick wooden posts, reviving new trickles of blood down her copper brown arms. She whispered a string of curses, taking care to speak softly so she wouldnt wake her master and his friends. First, she cursed the Deizians, whose ships appeared in the sky centuries ago and used their magical technology to form the Empire. Then, she cursed the Elymanians like her master, who shook off their yoke of slavery and saddled it on her people, the Alpirions, two generations before. And finally, she cursed her master for subjecting her to this treatment. If she ever got free, shed show him the meaning of torture. The first birdsongs of dawn filtered in from the courtyard, and she cringed. How much longer would the wine dull their senses and leave them adrift in their drunken slumber? For three days, shed been forced to stand in the center of the room like this, a naked plaything for her master and his friends. For three days, shed endured whatever sick fetishes they wanted to satisfy using her body. Now, covered in blood, sweat, and other fluids she didnt want to think about, only her plans for revenge kept her spirit from breaking. Footsteps shuffled outside as the other slaves started their chores. Would one of them come to her aid? | Crista McHugh |
| 4 | Bloody hell. Analise Warrington cringed. Would God strike her down for blaspheming in church even if it was in thought only? Ignoring the collective gasp of the congregants over the initial announcement, the vicar, Mr. Anderson, continued speaking in a voice that was at once calming and strong. "It is the intention of His Grace's family that due to the Cold Bath Field Riots and the persisting tension and unrest within London, to transport His Grace to Staverton Park where the funeral will be held one week from tomorrow." Analise quickly discerned what the result of the vicars innocuous announcement would be, and she nearly bent double as she absorbed its impact. She must have made a sound of distress, for Paul Brigand, the foreman at the textile mill, turned and gave her an odd, speculative look, sliding his glance over Analise and her four nieces. With an insolent wink and a smug smile, he turned back to face the altar. An imposter of piety. Analise stopped breathing. Brigand couldnt suspect could he? She ignored the thought and strove to regain her composure. Brigand and his suppositions were insignificant compared to what was coming. The ton was going to descend en masse on New Mills. And my charade is going to be over. | Elizabeth Walls |
| 7 | Vivid dreams of sinking ships still played in his mind, but hed slept all he would this night. The rumbling of falling stones had woken him from fitful slumber. He rolled in time to see the wall of his home fall onto the pile of moss that served as his bed. Yngvi exited the remains of his shelter and walked to the crumbled side. Ruined. If he did not repair the damage, tonight he would sleep exposed. Though months remained before the icy winter winds began, the thought of laying prone against the rocks, with nothing between him and the sky, sent shivers of unease through his belly. He had carefully stacked the stones, secured them with a mortar of moss and sand, created a cave, a place inside the earth. No reason existed for them to give way in such a manner. Yngvi dragged his hand over his face and settled his tangled beard. In the east, low on the horizon, sat the sun. But the sky's bruised purple told him midsummer night still draped the earth. For the third time this moon his sleep had been interrupted by falling stones. He circled his home; the rest stood firm. Stones and oaken planks of his once proud ship, piled into what could only be called a hovel. But it sat far enough from the village that none would bother him. Bending down, he sorted the rubble at the base of the ruined wall. "You should not stay here." | Seeley deBorn |
| 9 | William Battencliffe wagers five thousand pounds that Miss Julia St. Claire will become the next Countess of Clivesden. Unable to believe his eyes, Benedict read the lines in White's infamous betting book again. His fingers constricted about the quill just shy of crushing it. At the moment, he could no longer recall what he'd been about to set down in the book itself. Some idiocy, no doubt. Hardly worth the bother now. The book's most recent inscription, scrawled out in such a casual hand for all the world to see, had quite driven the notion from his mind. In gold ink, no less. How fitting. Gold ink for Battencliffe, the ton's golden boy. His friend nudged him. "What's the matter? Your feet coming over icy all the sudden?" Lead blocks would be more accurate, but Benedict wasn't about to admit to that. He laid the quill aside and jabbed a finger at the heavy vellum page. "Upperton, have you seen this?" He peered over Benedict's shoulder. "Clivesden? Thought he was married. And what's Miss Julia got to do with any of this?" "I've no idea, but I intend to find out. Appalling how so-called gentlemen will lay bets on young ladies of good reputation." Benedict turned on his heel and exited the club. A glance at his pocket watch told him it was ten minutes past eleven, still early by the ton's standards. That was something. At least he knew where he'd find Julia at such an hour. | Aislinn McNamara |
| 11 | Seth didn't know which was worse. Spending eternity in hell or working his way out of damnation by becoming a murderer. Okay, in his defense, he wasn't technically a murderer, at least in the terms mortals used. He had, however, been responsible for the termination of more lives than he could count-and all in the name of finding redemption. And no, the irony wasn't lost on him, but he didn't have time to contemplate his penance at the moment. He was on the clock. Franklin Michaels jogged around the bend. Each step brought him closer to Sethto death. The park was practically deserted, and Seth was grateful. Not because he feared his target might see himterminations were easier if Seth didnt think of his victims by namebut because this assignment necessitated solitude. Why? Because his bosses, The Angels of Death, deemed it so. And Seths job wasnt to question but to do. To fulfill his obligations without emotion and with as little deviation as possible. Simple as that. Simple? Ha! There was nothing fucking simple about taking a persons life, even a scumbag like this one. For reasons Seth didnt understand, the bastard hadnt been slated for termination after hed suffered his first heart attackhed have another tonight. No, fate had allowed him an additional two years of blessed breath. Time hed used to see his daughter get married, to see his son welcome his own child into the world. To rape four more women. | Brandi Evans |
| 12 | I’d been on my share of boring stakeouts during my career but watching toenail polish dry would have been a titillating distraction right about now. For the past five hours, I'd done nothing but sit on my nearly frozen ass while my target worked Sudoku puzzles-and here I thought my life was pathetic. The only thing keeping me from slipping into a coma of boredom were the violent shivers wracking my body. God, everything from my brain down was numb. Served me right for volunteering to take point on the surveillance while the FBI gear-greasing began. I, Samantha Martin, am a complete idiot. I closed my eyes and rubbed my hands up and down my arms. “God, I’d kill for another cup of coffee.” Or maybe a shot of antifreeze. “Well,” my partner said, sitting his binoculars on his lap, “relief should be here at midnight, which means we have about two more minutes to listen to each other’s teeth chatter.” “We always get the shittiest assignments.” I turned to face him. “Remember the freak with the toenail fetish? I still have nightmares about being buried alive in one of those vats we found in his basement.” Mark’s low-rumbling laughter filled the car, and he swiveled his head in my direction. His green eyes drew me into their alluring web. Again. And, suddenly, I didn’t feel so cold. “Sometimes, I don’t get you, Martin. You have no qualms about facing down madmen with guns, but toenails freak you out.” | Jordyn James |
| 16 | Life should not be allowed to bitch-slap you in the middle of summer -- it is too hot, too muggy, too stultifying to prepare for any kind of blow. Unfortunately, I've yet to figure how to bend it to my will, so there I was, living it, hoping for an easy day at work. It was August in Los Angeles; the air hung heavy with heat and smog, and I was grateful for the state-of-the-art air conditioner in my new office. Mid-snort from the latest Daily Show episode, the door jangled open, exposing a female profile and letting in the thick outdoor air. A quick jab to the spacebar paused the ep and I stood to greet who I hoped was a seriously lost woman. Work and I werent getting along today, even as much as I normally love my job. It was just too bloody hot, and the last case was too bloody bloody. Ironic sentiments coming from a Fury who'd resided in hell for centuries, I know. But Id been on earth too long, and my heat tolerance had gone the way of Madonna's American accent. The woman -- she was actually more of a girl, on second look -- was half-propped on my closed door, heaving and gasping for breath. Forgetting my desire for a day off, I grabbed a chilled bottle of water from the mini fridge and brought it over to her. Two steps from behind my desk, I smelled it. Blood. Shit. Another messy case. | Skylar Kade |
| 20 | The dim purple light above the emergency exit cast a faint glow over the alley and the pair coupling against the brick wall. Barely twenty feet away, hunkered down in the shadows, a darker shape watched, thinking about the merits of killing them both, or waiting for the girl to be alone. The bar catered to the darker element- mostly men- who came to drink, drug, and fornicate. Dangerous men. Men who committed violent crime as easily as breathing. Few women frequented this establishment; most of the females present worked there as waitresses with extras- for a price- for the men with sex on their minds. Management took a cut on everything- the liquor, the drugs, and the sex. The figure in the shadows also knew the management dictated who did what to whom and when, so it had been just a matter of time before a pair left the bar for the privacy of the alley. The guy from inside the bar was clean, well-dressed in something other than biker gear and blue jeans, and wasn't drunk or high. Which was better than usual. The figure watched the man finish and disappear back inside; the girl lingered. A match flared as she lit a cigarette; she began walking in circles near the back door. He knew she wanted a customer who didn't come from the bar. A quickie. She didn't realize she'd sealed her fate. It would be a quickie, all right. A hell of a quickie. | Kelly Whitley |
| 21 | No doubt about it, she was going to have to kill Marissa Keeley. The spawn from hell teenage daughter of the Senator from the great state of Wisconsin had come to the boutique where Mary Katherine OConnell worked--Papillons of Georgetown--tried on every size four outfit in the store and then bought nothing. Nada, zilch, bupkus. Not a blessed thing. Once the spoiled brat had left, it had been Mary Katherines responsibility to return the outfits to the racks which meant she was going to be late for her Conflict Resolution class. Again! Once done, she snatched her backpack and ran out the door. Noting the slow-moving traffic, she dashed unto 35th Street. Headlights sped toward her from the wrong side of the road. She froze. A hard, masculine body slammed into her. They hit the ground with a sickening crunch. The acrid smell of asphalt invaded her nose. Dimly, she registered screeching tires and darkened taillights disappearing in the distance. Something shifted beneath her. Something big and warm and . . . Holey Moley! She was spread eagled on top of her rescuer, her breasts crushed against his chest, her girly part nestled against his groin as if it had every right to be there. Girly part, Mary Katherine? Really. Mother Superior had a nasty habit of popping into her head at the most inopportune times. Well, it beats calling it what you taught me. You couldn't go soft on Mother Superior. Shed walk all over you then. | Amy Villalba |
| 26 | Sean Raleigh threw his shoe at the idiot womans retreating head. When she popped back into his bedroom to protest, he chucked the other shoe at her. Like the first, the second shoe crashed against the wall where her head had been and thunked onto the floor. If Jake didnt stop letting these women in the house, he might consider some light homicide. Just to get started. Jake! Sean rumbled. When silence greeted him, he yelled again. Still nothing. He stretched out on his bed and groped around the top of his desk. If his roommate wouldnt answer his yells, he would try the phone. Before Sean could dial, Jake's tall frame filled the door, blocking the dim light from the hallway. Still dressed in a suit and tie, Jakes imperial reserve came across as fatherly, but a bemused smirk softened his severe appearance. "At least tell me you didn't throw anything at her." Sean snapped his phone closed and shot Jake a sharp look. "I asked you not to let these women in the house anymore." | Rebecca Lynn |
There is nothing left for you to do. We will send each of the above entries to our three editor judges. Our winners (Top 3) will be announced at our AGM/Afternoon Tea at Nationals in Orlando.
All of our ten finalists are invited to this event as ESPAN RWA special guests, so if you are planning to be at Nationals, please email us to RSVP.
We thank everyone who entered and wish you all the best in your writing!
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