Any publishers in the house? People attached to said people?

Discussion in 'The Bar' started by Slippy, Jan 10, 2012.

  1. Slippy

    Slippy Well-Known Member VIP Gold

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    My little girl is 90% through writing a novel.

    I can reveal one part only, 'cause she posted it on FB for reviews......outside of that it is not my work to reveal.

    She's submitted it to a publisher already, I just wondered if there was anybody here with some sway that could ease her path at all.

    Hang on and I'll get the story........

    those with reading issues better walk away.........I won't link it, or load it.......it's a cut/paste
     
  2. CaptainQueeg

    CaptainQueeg Member

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    This should go well.
     
  3. h5htyt76757j

    h5htyt76757j Chyea Chyea Banned User

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    yo i only herd bout two little frog niggas
     
  4. Slippy

    Slippy Well-Known Member VIP Gold

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    *sigh*

    Nevermind.
     
  5. CaptainQueeg

    CaptainQueeg Member

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    :jj: C'mon.
     
  6. fenderbaum

    fenderbaum Active Member

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    I know somebody who knows somebody.
     
  7. Slippy

    Slippy Well-Known Member VIP Gold

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    It won't allow the whole script, I'm to lazy to host it, or chop it down, just to get myself and my daughter abused for sport.

    I'll do it tomorrow when I'm not tired.
     
  8. nazdrowie

    nazdrowie Sultan of Sweat Gold

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    if it ever makes it to Chapters, i might buy one
     
  9. Avery

    Avery Well-Known Member Banned User

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    What's it aboot?
     
  10. h5htyt76757j

    h5htyt76757j Chyea Chyea Banned User

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    So she sayin it cool to abuse her little baby girl tomrrow when she aint tired..


    :jj:
     
  11. gilaet

    gilaet Xanax Service Dog Staff Member

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    Nobody reads anymore.
    Animate that shit.
     
  12. Slippy

    Slippy Well-Known Member VIP Gold

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    I put the Volvo in drive. I would go it alone. What I was doing, where I was going--I would figure that all out on the way. The rain worsened as I took a left, out of town, onto a wooded concession that was pitted and covered in gravel. I put on my wipers as I weighed the possibilities to myself.

    I couldn't go back to the city, or call anyone I used to know. My dad hadn't been exaggerating when he said that they would want to kill me, now that the word was out on what I'd done.

    And I wasn't going back to the house. I thought of the look in my dad's eyes when he'd looked at me of late--one I now recognized as shame, and regret--and a fresh stab of pain tore at me. I couldn't face him again, not ever.

    I had always fancied the idea of British Columbia--they had great weed there.

    "I'll go somewhere no one knows who I am," I vowed to myself as I slowed to squint through the increasing rain. "Start fresh. My own way." My eyes slid down to the gas gauge. I was running on a quarter tank, and had less than a hundred dollars in my purse. Start over? Yeah right.

    With a helpless cry of rage, I hauled the old thing over to the side of the road so hard it nearly fishtailed. The rain had gotten so hard it looked like a solid sheet, obscuring everything. The sound of it pounding seemed like the loudest thing I'd ever heard.

    The combination of the rain and my streaming tears was virtually blinding me. I was going to kill myself if I kept going. Giving a long, self-pitying whine, I put my forearms on my steering wheel and rested my forehead on them miserably. Then I remembered the gas level and jumped as though goosed to shut off the car.

    "What am I going to do?" A reflection of light through the downpour in the rearview mirror caught my eye and I jerked my head up. A vehicle was pulling up to park behind me. My heart went into overdrive, suddenly hit with the reality that I was on some unlit back road without a house in sight; I had no cell phone; and it was raining so hard I could barely see past the dash.

    Panic started to inch its steely fingers around my chest and I thought of something else: I had nothing with which to defend myself. In the city I'd never left home without a weapon of some kind. Sometimes just a switchblade, sometimes a can of pepper spray, but usually both. I cast a glance around the Volvo using the lights behind me to see. There was nothing sharp, and nothing big enough to hit somebody with.

    "Calm down," I told myself. "It's probably someone here to call CAA or something."

    Nonetheless a wave of terror hit me and I was trying desperately to jam the key into the ignition when the lights shining in my mirror went dim and I saw caught the motion in my side mirror of the driver's door being opened. I was completely seized by the panic I'd been trying to keep at bay and mindless terror--out out I've got to get out--squeezed away all my thoughts. It seemed like the key had grown to twice its size. I scratched at the lock frantically, my ears filling with the sound of metal on metal.

    I thought to hit the LOCK button just as a shadow sidled up to my window, but it was a fraction of a second too late. Whistling wind and pelleting rain tore through the vehicle, screaming in my ears as the door creaked open. A face drew level with my own and vile, stinking breath blew into my nostrils. Some part of me registered a slouched posture, cinnamon-tinged skin and a cruel smile that looked too sharp to be human, but my attention was captivated by a pair of dark eyes, eyes that seemed in some way wrong.

    They were the last thing I saw before I was dragged, kicking and flailing, into the rain, and my head hit gravel.
     
  13. Slippy

    Slippy Well-Known Member VIP Gold

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    I was not exactly conscious but not quite awake when I felt myself being thrown through the double back doors of a van, soaked to the skin. I landed in a crumpled mass onto something soft but rank-smelling. The overwhelming overall smell of decomposition, mildew, and nasty B.O.--and the fact that I might have a concussion--was enough to make me gag in my mouth.

    The thundering rain roared into the vehicle as my attacker jumped back in, quickly putting the van in drive and pulling away. I couldn't muster up the strength to lift my head to count, but the voices indicated that there had to be at least two people in the van. I tried to listen in on what they were saying, but the spinning in my head was making me sick, and the drumming rain on the roof made it hard to make out the words.

    "Yeah, well, that's the last time we grab one off the road, spur-of-the-moment-like, got it? We gotta have a plan."

    The passenger whined something in a reedy, nasal voice.

    "I don't care. Leavin' her car on the road like that is just sloppy," the driver snapped over him. "That's how you get catched-onto."

    "Aw, come on, buddy. You gotta relax. We're gonna be a world away before anybody even knows what happened. Mortal or otherwise."

    The voices dimmed to a buzz, but I fought to stay conscious.

    My dad's voice rang in my mind

    "Don't you get it? I was trying to keep you safe! They would've killed you!"

    And before that:

    "They won't rest, now, 'til the narc is dead."

    My bruised brain tried to piece the events together. How could they have found me? My dad wouldn't have called them, would he? But how else could they have found me the way they did?

    "Are you Zane's guys?" I croaked. "This is about the Mizetti bust, right? You're here to kill me."

    I struggled to untangle my limbs so I could face my death with some dignity.

    The driver I definitely didn't recognize, and when I checked out the scrawny, pinch-faced passenger I was certain I had never seen him before. Neither of their voices struck a familiar chord, either. Had they taken out a contract on me, or something?

    The one with the scrawny frame and the ratlike face twisted in his seat to smirk at me. I saw that he was smoking a cigarette, and a painful craving shot through me.

    "You wish we were Zane's guys," he sneered. "Whatever you worst nightmare is, you're gonna wish that's what happened to you after we get done with you. You'll wish we'd done you the mercy of lettin' you die."

    I squinted in the dim light provided by the dashboard lights and the soft green glow of the radio. There was something off about this one, too. It was his eyes, just like my attacker. Something wrong.
     
  14. h5htyt76757j

    h5htyt76757j Chyea Chyea Banned User

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    :shmoop:
     
  15. Slippy

    Slippy Well-Known Member VIP Gold

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    The driver grumbled something and his accomplice turned sharply to look at him, leaving me fearfully trying to figure out what was off about my abductors.

    "Once we put the Mark of the Demon on her we don't gotta worry about the seagulls," he ratlike one said irritably.

    "Sloth. Mark her."

    For the first time, I realized there was a third person in the van. What I had thought was a huge pile of rancid clothing shifted , showing a piglike face with the eyes of a beetle draped in hanging, flabby skin. He was incredibly obese, with his eyes sunk deep in his face and over engorged cheeks.

    As he heaved forward, my nostrils caught the strong scent of B.O. and urine. I cried out and shrunk back as he reached his meaty, yellowish hands out to grab me. I cried out again when he pulled away my jacket, but he merely placed his hand sideways against my stomach over my shirt. It was so big that it covered the bottom of my ribs to abdomen widthwise.

    I squirmed and struggled as his hand became uncomfortable--almost hot--but he held fast. My shirt started to smoke, and I realized it wasn't just my imagination. The smell of smoldering skin filled the air as the pain escalated.

    "What do you want with me?" I panted, frantic. The cinnamon-skinned driver turned to me and flashed a smile full of too-sharp teeth, and I realized what was off about my abductors; what wasn't human.

    "We want your soul."

    It was their eyes; they had no iris. It looked as if the pupil had swallowed the colour. They were black.

    Black, empty, and soulless.

    I began to scream, and I didn't stop until the darkness came to relieve me from the agony.



    After everything went black, I mostly dreamed of fire. Fire searing my skin, melting it. Singeing the hair until I was choking on the stinking smoke.

    It filled my nostrils, clogging my throat like boiling liquid when I tried to inhale. I dreamed I was drowning in a lake of molten flames, swallowing the stuff when I tried to scream for help.

    But I also dreamed of Mike Mizetti.

    I saw my old friend on the garage floor, tinkering with his bike from beneath. I heard him greeting me in that deep, bass voice that didn't match his boyish features and soft, glossy shag of dark curls. I saw Mizetti as he stole a car, as he drove across the border with a truckfull of smuggled guns, and the way life seemed to spring up and sparkle in his eyes when he did it.

    Mizetti handing me my first joint; Mizetti holding back my hair when I threw up the first time I got drunk. Threatening to rough up my first boyfriend if he broke my heart, then actually doing it when he did.

    I relived the day my friend had finished the bike he'd built himself, the pride on his face when he’d shown me. The tender softening of his eyes every time he talked about it.

    Then the images started to speed up, the memories fearful and not fond.

    Me and my teen friends getting drunk off our parents' liquor, thinking we were tough shit. Me saying I was sick of being the getaway girl and wanting to steal my own car, my own piece of the action. Me wanting to prove I was tough. Then the alarm going off while I tried to disarm it, and my friends booking it out of there like a flash when it took a couple extra seconds to silence. Me freezing up when I heard the sirens, saw the flashing red cherries on the cop car.

    Then I heard the gravelly voice of the cop who'd told me he's make it all go away even though he knew exactly who I was, and what me and my dad did for a living. Just as long as I sang a little song; one about where the next heist would be.

    Faster and faster the pictures reeled, until I saw every second of that week I spent waiting with guilt weighing on me like a ton of bricks, right up to the crystal-clear vision of his pale face, encased in satin pillows as white as his bloodless lips.

    Mizetti. My best friend, my brother.

    My victim.

    I stood in the doorway again with my dad, reliving our final fight.

    "The death of Mizetti." He'd said, when I asked him why he thought I was such a bad person.

    "You were the rat. You were the informant. You killed Michael."



    My jump back into consciousness was instantaneous and accompanied by excruciating pain. My whole midsection felt as though it was on fire.

    When I opened my eyes, I saw that a clean-ish men's shirt had been thrown across the scorched remains of my original. There, in an expanse across my middle, was a black, oozing burn in the exact shape of Sloth's huge hand.

    I sobbed at the tightness in my screaming skin as I struggled to sit up. The fat lump they called Sloth gave me a mildly curious look from where he was slumped across from me, eyeing me with just one puffy lid open. Then he slid it shut again. In the light of morning the disgusting interior of the van was visible, and I saw a tacky brown colour curtain that separated the front and back. Through its open panels I could see the cinnamon-skinned, shaven-headed driver and the pinch-faced passenger were having an argument.

    "Well, we ain't throwin' in and quitting, if that's what's in your head," the passenger said. He fumbled through the smoke behind his ear, and another craving shot through me as he lit it.

    "Not when we're already started. We've got one Marked already. Worst comes to worst we cross with the one we've got and then wait it out 'til the patrols have thinned out a little. No big deal."

    "No big deal?" The other growled. "This ain't a few patrols we're talkin' about here. This is like nothing since before the Dark Age came. We gotta skip this place, and fast."

    "We will! But first we'll make a quick trip through the bar district at midnight, grab a few more, toss 'em in the back and cross like lightning. We've done it a thousand times. I got too much ridin' on this to see it go up in smoke when it's just started."

    "You think you got a lot ridin' on this, just because you're in deep debt to a demon? Just wait 'til the angels get their hands on you. That's what you should be worried about."

    I could take no more. I broke in loudly.

    "Who are you? Where are we going?" My mind felt as though it were stalling.

    The driver turned and flashed me his too-sharp smile.

    "Hell."
     
  16. fenderbaum

    fenderbaum Active Member

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    Bobtraw has a volvo, or if rumor is true, had a volvo.
     
  17. Slippy

    Slippy Well-Known Member VIP Gold

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    I refused to believe him. "Listen, buddy. You've bashed my head off the ground, thrown me in the back of your van, and burnt the fuck out of me. I'm not going to go along with your crazy fantasy. What are you guys going to do with me?"

    His accomplice spoke up

    "Take you to Hell. To the Third Circle; the demon slums. Where even a soul as warped as yours is worth more than you could ever dream."

    "You're not--" I tried to scoff, but the sounds died in my throat. The memory of the previous night came to mind; their black eyes, and the grotesque burn left by a bare hand.

    I looked at my two abductors in the light.

    Their eyes were as black and empty as before, and the bald-headed driver's teeth came to points unlike any human's. The hand of the passenger, holding the smoke, was tipped with thick brown talons.

    I looked over at Sloth again, as though hoping he would tell me it was all a joke. He just stared, his beetlelike eyes as black as the others'.



    "Demons?" I said the word again in disbelief. "I got abducted by demons? Why me?"

    An image of Mizetti pushed its way into my mind, but I pushed it back out. The rat-faced demon took a puff of his cigarette.

    "Wrong place, wrong time," he shrugged.

    "But, more importantly, the right kind of soul. Good call, by the way, Sloth. Hardly ever fails, that intuition of yours. Already got one, and barely started the run."

    The rank-smelling blob gave no indication that he had heard, other than blinking his little eyes.

    "The run?" I recognized the familiar slang.

    "Right kind of soul? What are you talking about?"

    "Twisted. Blackened," he replied with obvious enjoyment.

    "Ugly. The kind of soul we can slip across the border into Hell with, and not have any angels notice. It takes a certain type of sin to twist a soul like that, see. Murder being the best but betrayal," the demon took a long drag and blew the smoke in my face.

    "Comin' a close second."

    I opened my mouth, but all that came out was a small sound of pain.

    "We just gotta get Sloth to triangulate us a good spot to make the jump, so we don't get caught. He's a useful guy for evadin' angels, this guy. The seagulls wouldn't approve, if they caught us. They think souls should only go to Hell when they're dead."

    I had heard something like this--minus the angels--from my dad's buddy, who had run guns up from Florida.

    "Your'e soul runners," I realized out loud. "You steal souls from mortals and sell them on the black market in Hell."

    The bald-headed driver just gave a sinister chuckle. I could see his nightmarish eyes on me in the rearview mirror.

    "There's only one colour market in Hell, kid."
     
  18. gilaet

    gilaet Xanax Service Dog Staff Member

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    Animate that shit.
     
  19. h5htyt76757j

    h5htyt76757j Chyea Chyea Banned User

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    :shmoop:
     
  20. nazdrowie

    nazdrowie Sultan of Sweat Gold

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