The field is narrowed and now it’s coming down to subtleties. Now, before you go search for your entry please read what this week’s judge had to say regarding her task. At first I was only going to post the sweet praise lines. Why? Because, well, quite frankly I didn’t want anyone to get their feelings hurt. But here’s the reality of this contest and the publishing business in general. Honesty is the best policy. When I first ran my first First Line Contest last year it occurred to me as it did to many others who participated and followed the contest: every single word is crucial to a good story. That doesn’t mean more is better or less is better, it means words set up the story, the characters, the pacing, the tone. We are all works in progress, and I found validity in what my judge this week had to say. She is one of the soundest technical writers I know, and she writes a hell of story on top of that. I trust her judgment. I respect what she has to say and I think her comments below are sound. I read them to another published author this morning. She said, “Send me that! I want to print it out and put it next to my computer!” I’m doing the same. Bottom line: to sell, to keep selling, we must set our writing and our stories apart from all others to snag the attention of an agent and editor, and ultimately our reader.
This was tough, because they’re all really good writers, and they know how to write hooks. I had to dig deep and look for subtle ways to tell the wheat from the chaff: confusing sentences that had to be read two or three times to get their true meaning; scenes where nothing happened even though the writing was superb; stories with farcical elements that ended up gimmicky; non-sequiturs that didn’t track from sentence to sentence; a character who gives a poor first impression; a plethora of adjectives that slow the pace. The sad fact is, I know I’ve been guilty of all of these, and they are minor infractions. They do hint at continuing habits, though, and that also factored into my choices. However, my crystal ball could be inaccurate.
Sometimes the writing was not stellar but the idea felt right, original and fresh, so I kept those.
There’s an amazing amount of talent out there. And most of them would have kicked the ass of my first, second, or third line. I am impressed!
1. Jordan James paced the tight confines of the elevator, her pounding feet echoed loudly in the tight space. Hospital staff, sick children, and anxious parents huddled in a corner and peered at her nervously. Not that she blamed them; her six foot four, solid size fourteen frame caused uneasiness under normal circumstances, now, she knew she looked positively lethal.
It was all Adam’s fault, she should’ve known better than to trust him.
“A physician!” Jordan growled as she slammed her fist into her palm, *a handsome, arrogant surgeon with a God complex*.
2. Lindy perused Steven’s form for the one hundredth time since lunch, wondering if today would be the day she would seduce him. Over two months of dating and the hottest it had gotten was a little open mouth kissing.
She blew out a sexually frustrated breath and watched him load tools into the long bed of his black Ford pickup. Biting her lip, she stared in fascination as the well-toned muscles of his bronzed forearms strained against the steel of the heavy toolboxes. She needed those same muscles holding her, pinning her against sweaty bed sheets, sending her body into orgasmic delights.
3. He’d introduced her to passion in payment for his life. And yet, the woman who would be Captain AndrÃ© Marin’s salvation had closed her mind against him, locking him out of her dreams. A waning moon crawled across a starless sky over the bow of the *Trident*, the French merchant vessel under his command. He closed his eyes and reached for her with his thoughts, “*Caitrina, open to my touch.*”
A nothingness as deep as the ocean was his only response.
4. Jack Sutton heard a whisper of movement a split second before an arm wrapped around his neck and something sharp plunged into his gut. The shocking reality that he’d just been stabbed registered as he was shoved to the cold, grease-stained concrete floor, his entire midsection on fire. Instinct forced him to his hands and knees before a hard shove sent him crashing back to the floor.
“You should’ve slit his throat,” a croaky, unfamiliar voice complained.
“He’ll be dead in an hour,” a second voice assured the first.
5. Jordan Blake always figured he’d go to hell someday, but he never expected it to be this soon. His first clue was a no-brainer, the sign posted outside the town limits read: Hades, Colorado, population two hundred and six.
He almost hit the second clue as he wheeled his Lexus onto Main Street and immediately swerved to avoid the horse tied to the hitching rail. Swearing under his breath, he parked across the street, then jerked on the rearview mirror to make sure he hadn’t been seeing things. Yeah, there was a horse tied to a hitching rail, all right.
6.Adam McKinnon stretched out on a tree branch and studied the full moon, his cool blue eyes contemplative. Several hundred feet down and off to the right, his small-looking but cozy cabin sat, puffing cheery clouds of smoke into the warm air from a stone chimney.
He inhaled deeply, the scent of the night and the surrounding forest rushed in, filling his lungs to bursting before releasing in a gush. How he loved the sidhe forest, with its all-around perfect weather, tall, tall trees and gentle, pulsing magic. A warm feeling was settling into his stomach and Adam’s fine mouth curled lazily.
7. So what if he’d gained a reputation for being wicked. Dair Curator simply did what his race had done for thousands of yearsâ€“watch over mortals.
He shot a glance at the bottle-dyed blonde, who stretched like a contented cat. Good thing he was immortal, or she would’ve killed him with her sexual appetite. But, he’d given her just enough to crave more.
8. Elizabeth squeezed her eyes tight and turned her face away from the wicked-looking blade. She’d seen what it could do. Knew first hand the destruction it could bring.
“Please,” she whispered, a tear slipping down her cheek.
I’m sad that I got culled, but it’s almost as much fun reading these and rooting for my favorites. (The key word here being “almost”.)
Thanks for all the time you put into this, Karin.
9. “Maybe you should consider getting a boob job.”
“What?” Kelsie Collins said, pausing mid-bite to look at her mother from across the dinner table; which was, thankfully, tucked away in the far corner of the busy restaurant.
“Come on, honey,” her mother began as she reached for a dinner roll and pat of butter, “you and I both know that fake boobs are all the rage right now.”
“I’m not about to risk my health just to fill my bra out better.”
“Implants are safe nowadays because they’re filled with saline, *and*, according to my latest issue of Cosmopolitan, breast implants can actually boost a woman’s self-confidence level,” her mother pointed out as she spread the softened butter square across her roll.
10. Trevor Carlton hated threats-when they were directed at him. He snapped the cell phone shut on his controlling wife’s warning not to drink excessively during her father’s wake; he planned to celebrate the old man’s death, just as he planned to celebrate hers. But first, he had to force someone else to pull the trigger.
The staccato of his heels against the ceramic tile echoed off the hallowed halls of Eaton-Smith Pharmaceuticals. Tightening his grip on the stolen key, Trevor scanned the deserted corridor one last time.
11. I must’ve pissed off someone at Psych-Ops to pull down an assignment in Forgotten Detroit. I’d been deep inside the maze-like streets of the city’s underbelly half an hour too long, which made me the poster girl for cramped and crabby.
The slivered moon illuminated the deep alley of 14th, where I’d posted into a back corner of the derelict Detroit Hotel. The old building’s pre-Depression era structure and naked third-floor windows stared out hollowly. Its rusty fire-escapes hung twisted and broken, the abandoned tinker-toys of age and disuse.
12. “I can make a woman come using just my mouth.”
George Beringer squinted through an alcoholic haze at his friend Damian Hunt, Viscount Atherton, trying to figure out exactly what Damian meant by that remark. They were both much too drunk, but then, what else was there to do on a cold winter’s night tucked away here at the Atherton estate, except discuss horses and politics, and now, obviously, sex?
“What’s so impressive about that — I’ve never met a woman yet who could resist a man’s mouth on her private lips,” George declared.
“Oh, but I’m not talking about using my mouth on her,” Damian said with a slow smile, “I’m talking about making her come using just the power of my words.”
13. Kyra Delano sipped from her glass of whiskey straight, savouring the sharp burn on her tongue and chill of ice melting in its wake.
The intoxicating fumes invaded her refined sense of smell, removed her for a moment from the repugnant scent of cigarette smoke, old beer spills and sweat – a prerequisite for every nightclub she’d visited this last month.
A mirrored wall behind the bar, flaunted the outlook of jaded humans intent on having a good time – one woman in particular.
Kyra’s fingers clenched, the glass shuddering in her grip, and tossing back the remainder of her drink, she placed it back onto the pitted bar before coming to her feet, weight centred within the restraint of spiked knee-high boots.
Turning to face the dance floor, she moved forward, brushing past a man who’d been intent on picking her up.
14. “Damn, it’s hotter than the devil’s backyard out here.” Castana Castillo took her hands from the steering wheel just long enough to swipe at the river of sweat running down the nape of her neck and to adjust the volume on George Strait’s
“Amarillo by Morning”. The truck and two-horse trailer swerved, and she quickly regained control of the rig, but not before something bounced off the right front fender with a sickening thud.
Oh, no, what now?
Braking as hard as she dared, Castana lurched to a stop, half fell out of the pickup and stumbled back to see what â€“or whoâ€“ she’d struck.
15. “Just keep on driving, Mister,” Moxie said as she struggled to keep the gun in her hand from shaking as she aimed it at the man’s head.
He turned to look down the barrel of the gun, his eyes then trailing up her arm to look into her face. She tried to put on a hard, outlawish-looking expression, but it wasn’t working—it’s hard to look evil when you’ve got curly red hair and freckles.
“You’re joking, right?” He gave her a hopeful little smile, while his eyes cut over to the gun pointed at his chin.
16. When I walked into the office, it felt like the place was holding its breath.
“We’ve got a new client,” Laurel said in a low voice as I passed her desk. I stopped, and she added, “This client is… a little different,” pretending to fan herself.
Meredith, sitting at her desk behind Laurel’s, said, “I wouldn’t call him gorgeous, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen a sexier man.” As she’d worked on Calvin Klein’s underwear ad campaigns before she moved to Toronto, that was saying something, and I was about to ask for all the juicy details when my boss Lou opened his office door and called, “Candice, can you come in here for a minute?”
17. Wealth no longer amused Hugh Hennigan and tonight it suffocated him. Disengaging himself from the beautiful sable-wrapped woman climbing into his lap, he breathed, “Constance, please.”
The carriage was dark but he knew she frowned at him so he added, “I warned you, dressing an Irish stone mason in evening clothes and a top hat won’t make him one of the Four Hundred or even a suitable escort.”
Constance Morgan-Stapleton placed a kid-gloved finger on Hugh’s lips as she told him anyone would mistake him for a viscount if he just didn’t speak, but Hugh’s mind was far from her words in a place called The West where, he’d heard, no one cared how people spoke or dressed.
Rubbing his trouser leg with the calluses on his free hand, he replied, “My hands speak louder than anything I’m wearing so I don’t believe anyone will think I’m a viscount.”
18. The man lay face-up in a pool of his own blood. Kyra Walsh recoiled but not in terror, she’d seen dead bodies before. In her other life, not here.
Recognition flashed – even in death the curly, black hair now tinged by a dull, reddish-brown, the bushy uni-brow, and the pointy nose all combined to give Larry Jones a look of cruelty. What had the bastard been up to at her construction site?
19. “Damn loser recruit,” Captain Connors muttered as he sweltered in the alleyway, forced to endure the scents of week-old Chow Mein coming from the Dumpster he leaned against.
A mingle of sweet citrus and coconut strong enough to turn his stomach overpowered even the stench of the restaurant refuse surrounding him as the hairs rose on his arms. It was one of them, had to be, only shape-shifters gave off that cloying scent a recruiter could catch a whiff of a hundred yards away. He inhaled the rancid fumes rising from the pavement to clear the shifter smell from his nostrils.
Connors stayed leaning, body tense, as a gorgeous blonde strolled into the cramped, trash-filled alley like it was a neighborhood park at lunchtime.
20. “All men are lying, cheating sex-fiends,” said an irate caller on the radio talk show.
“Amen, sister,” Kat Windsor said as she parked her rented SUV behind Hank’s Antiques and secured the 9 mm Glock semiautomatic in her shoulder holster.
As for motorcycle racing champion Dylan Silver, Kat didn’t know whether she wanted to protect him from the female fan stalking him or shoot him herself.
Locking her gaze on the shiny motorcycle beside her, she stepped out into the mid-July Atlanta humidity, sank a four-inch heel into a pothole and fell against the motorcycle, sending them both crashing to the pavement. She screamed, but the bike’s siren-like alarm system drowned out her voice and pierced her eardrums.
21. Fighting the natural urge to fade away, disappear, and remain in reclusion, Lelandi Wildhaven spied the seedy tavern down the street where she would set up her first night of surveillance.
Why had her sister ended up dead—here, of all the godforsaken places in the States? A pang of anger and regret scraped Lelandi’s insides like a ragged knife. Keep a cool head, she reminded herself; she was in *their* territory now.
Sugar-drained leaves colored in ripe purples, reds, oranges, and yellows danced in the breeze while a haunting sound wound through the Colorado town and mountains like a warning.
22. The gossip about Cassie Russel swirled around town like a nasty dust.
When it got back to the originator, she smiled, mission accomplished.
At the Tunica Tavern, Jack Slater overheard the rumor and crushed the beer can in his hand.
He knew damn well he never screwed Cassie Russell.
And he knew damn well she hadn’t aborted his child a month before her wedding.
23.Lord, that man was gorgeous.
Of course, that was why I was standing in his office on a cold, wet Tuesday morning, dressed only in a form-fitting ruby red dress and matching strappy heels.
I was a little cold, but not enough to make me rethink my wardrobe choice â€“ long legs and perky feet were my only real assets, so I had no choice but to show them. It wasn’t as if I could rely on my breasts to carry the outfit â€“ nope, left to their own devices, they’d let the team down every time. So I’d worn a push-up bra to maximise their potential and tried to draw attention in a downward, more beneficial direction.
24. Death comes to all of us in many ways. It doesn’t consider how it leaves us to the mercy of others who must view our remains.
This time, death had come suddenly and without warning. The young man had been in his prime and died with a look of surprise on his face. There were still poker chips and cards set out for two other players on his table; beer bottles and ash trays covered the scarred laminate, and a bowl of potato chips were left uneaten.
25. “Are you out of your mindâ€“you can’t kidnap a cover model!”
“I don’t see why not—he’s only a man—not God.”
“I don’t care, Samantha—it’s wrongâ€“we’ll end up in jail, and I don’t want to get thrown out of my first Romantic Times Book Lovers Convention.”
“Relax, we’re just going to hold the man hostage until someone reads our manuscripts, but first, we have to figure out a way to lure one of those stud-puppies back to our room.”
“And just how do you plan to do that—please tell me you’re not going to try to seduce him!”
26. Joshua shuddered as the massive red door creaked open, allowing the stench of brimstone to steal into the room. Soon he would have to pass through that horrifying doorâ€“unless he could come up with some way to evade his fate.
He strode over to the Waiting Room clerk, a fat man whose inadequate wings fluttered anxiously as Joshua banged his fist on the desk. “Pray tell me, am I destined to go through that infernal door, or is there a path to redemption?”
“Geez, Doc, it’s kinda late to be thinking about redeeming yourself.”
27. “Jesus Mari, when’s the last time you were laid?” The question, coming from this particular girlfriend, wasn’t really surprising; that she’d blurt it out in the middle of a crowded nightclub…well, that made me squirm.
“What,” I flashed a grin and batted my lashes in mock innocence “was I drooling?”
People around me started snickering, and I knew it was a sad reflection on my lack of a life, but I’d rather have them think I was ogling a stud muffin than learn that my apparent fascination with the young man had been no more than blank staring. In truth, I’d been making a list, but not one consisting of; him, not him, definitely him… oh no, not me – I was thinking about food.
28. To say I was running away would be to admit I couldn’t face the horror that had been inflicted upon me four months earlier. But at the moment, looking out the window of my fourteenth floor apartment, I was unwilling to acknowledge my life had been tilted off its axis. I wanted — no, needed, to believe this six-hundred mile move was motivated by an admirable sense of adventure rather than fear.
Like the humidity hanging heavy over my Manhattan neighborhood on this July night, I couldn’t seem to clear the self-doubt from my head. I pressed my brow to the glass, staring at the quiet street below.
29. Like a snake, coiled and ready to strike, it’d been waiting for him when he’d arrived at work. And as it had when he’d first read it, his stomach knotted and cold fear wrapped around him.
He’d stared at the words, reading them but not processing them.
No, that was a damn lieâ€“he’d processed them all right, and what his mind told him was inconceivable.
The paper in his hand crinkled and he turned his gaze to it, smoothing the wrinkles out against his thigh and scanning it again even though he’d memorized it days ago.
30. Through the darkness the child ran, dogging the woman’s heels. Short, angular legs that had never seen an ounce of baby fat, churned through the sweating foliage. The damp heat tightened, stealing her breath as the tropical jungle closed around her.
“Mama,” the child whispered and the faint sound of her own voice was comforting when everything around her breathed death. She reached for the hand her mother offered, holding with desperate strength to the only person who might save her from the evil lurking in the shrouded Cambodian night.
31. “Some wild animal is going to eat you alive!”
The voice coming through the cell phone had Kia rolling her eyes, as she turned her car off the main road and through the narrow band of dark woods leading to her new home. The gorgeous, one-hundred year old, two-story house came into view, and she gasped, “Oh my God!”
“It *is* a wild animal, isn’t it? I knew it!” her sister’s voice got higher pitched with each word.
“Chill, Sydney. The only animal out here is Dracula,” Kia said, closing the phone over her sister’s protests.
32. Across the crowded ferry, the little girl looked up and Gabe Moreau ducked his head, praying she’d sit tight and stay the hell away. Blunt fingernails trenched into sweat slicked palms and a phantom tingle in his right palm itched to feel the reassuring weight of his standard issue Glock.
But the Glock was gone.
Along with his badge.
Above him, a green awning blocked the bright July sun, a wayward corner flapping with the ocean’s stiff breeze, but neither noise nor movement distracted his traitorous mind from the waif of a girl or her piercing gaze.
33. Kenzie Summers swiveled on the bar stool, her gaze encompassing every inch of the lively room in an attempt to find someone to ruin her reputation.
Every hormone in her body clicked to attention when she saw him, the epitome of pure sin, weaving through the gyrating couples on the dance floor.
“Aren’t you supposed to be at your engagement party, Kenzie?” her friend Nate, the bartender asked.
“Hardly an engagement, more like a life sentence,” Kenzie scowled, her attention momentarily distracted from the handsome stranger who’d taken a seat three barstools down.
The first she’d even known she was engaged was when her father had shown her the announcement he’d put in the paper and since then, she’d fought with him constantly, telling him she had no intention of becoming a perfect Stepford wife to a man she’d never met.
34. Who said dying was easy?
Ruby May stepped out the front door of the Delta Funeral Home in what had been her good luck dressâ€“until they buried her in it.
She studied her reflection in passing, and realized dying in Delta had a downside; she was a Blue Light Special on heels.
The town slowly receded as Ruby walked the winding Tennessee roads, reliving life moments all strung together like glass beads.
Life didn’t come with a damn rulebookâ€“a good thing since ignoring advice had been her personal mantra.
35. “Your sorry ass is going to be even sorrier, Jimmy Ray!”
The bat connected with a sickening, satisfying crunch. Jimmy Ray’s pained, horrified expression should have sent a spurt of triumph through Angel, but it didn’t.
“You crazy bitch!”
She tightened her grip on the scarred Louisville Slugger.
36. She’d become nothing more than a common thief.
No, not common – nothing about Egyptologist Katherine Meyer could ever be construed as common, especially when she was legally dead.
Kat checked her reflection in the bathroom mirror one last time, took a deep breath to settle the nerves in her stomach and told herself she looked pretty good for a seven-year-old corpse. The black slacks and matching jacket were perfect, nothing fancy, not one thing about them the slightest bit memorable. No one glancing her direction tonight would ever see anything other than the professional assistant she resembled, and that was precisely the way she wanted it.
37. “Maybe I should become a lesbian for a week,” I blurted.
Carol choked on what was left of her watered down frozen strawberry daiquiri.
I intended to pat her back, but she had become a blur â€“ three too many daiquiris for me â€“ so even the beige walls of my den seemed to move.
“Where the hell did that come from?” Carol asked, staring at me as if I’d grown two heads.
I gulped the rest of my drink and said in a voice I knew sounded like a whine, “Don’t know what else to do.”
38. “Son, you’ve got more metal in you than the Terminator.”
Immobile in a hospital bed with one leg in traction, one arm fractured, and bruises painted on his body like modern art on a canvas, Garrett McCloud found no humor in his doctor’s joke.
Refraining from comment, he watched Dr. Shaw flip open the chart and wrinkle his lips while he studied whatever mysterious gibberish doctors wrote on the things. With his frizzy white hair, the good doctor remarkably resembled Einstein, and Garrett considered him as much a genius as the great scientist, in spite of the quirky, misplaced wit.
Looking up, Dr. Shaw examined Garrett’s face and must have realized his joke flopped because he said, “Here’s the deal, Mr. McCloud, if you keep crashing, I don’t know if we can keep putting you togetherâ€“even now, I can’t guarantee you’re not going to have a limp.”
39. “Despite what you apparently believe,” Lieutenant Kathryn Glace snapped, the pale skin across her cheeks tightening and tinting peach, “I’ve given this a great deal of thought—the family is legitimate, and their unique. . .talents. . have proven significantly helpful in the past.”
“I know who they are,” Nick said, trying to iron the grit from his voice. He knew what they were too: gypsies, tramps and thieves. Okay, maybe not tramps, but the thievery bit sure as hell fit. The con-artist he’d been stuck with on the Riverside kidnapping, had charged the family a bundle for her so called services, only to deliver false hope and additional heartache.
40. As much as he’d hoped Lacey McLaren had gained a hundred pounds and sprouted horns in the five years since he’d last seen her, she hadn’t. Noah cursed, unable to pull his gaze away; if anything, she was more beautiful now than when they’d first met. His heart tripped over itself, his gut twisting into knots as he watched her lead the chestnut mare into the middle of the indoor arena and mount up.
Thank God it was too damn hot for chaps today; the image of her ass framed in tight suede was one he really didn’t need to carry with him. Just the thought sent blood rushing south, causing his jeans to grow tighter around the zipper.
You all know the drill. Post your next line by midnight this Friday.
Good luck in round 7!