Prospect Agency - a literary agency - excerpts from client novels. en-us http://www.prospectagency.com/index.html Copyright 2007 Prospect Agency, LLC. All rights reserved. Mon, 11 Apr 2016 13:36:52 UTC http://www.prospectagency.com/images/header_our_clients.gif http://www.prospectagency.com/index.html I picked up the two parts of the chain, with a strange feeling in my chest. "Looking for something?" I knew it. I turned around. There was Brian, holding my bike up high, by the front tire. Donald stood close behind him. "Oh, hi, Brian," I said, smooth as I could manage. "Where's the third stooge?" "Shut up, faggot. You want this back?" I felt hot prickles beneath my skin. "No, you can keep it." He blinked, not sure of a comeback. Finally, he hoisted it up with both hands and threw it. Maria and I both ducked. The bike flew over our heads and smashed down in the trees behind us. "Brian!" Maria exclaimed. "Who do you think you are, the Incredible fucking Hulk?" "If I'd known you liked hanging around with queers," Brian's chest heaved, "I never woulda wasted my time." "But, Brian," she batted her eyes innocently. "Why do you think I hung around with you?" "I don't know what the hell they did to you up there," he gritted his teeth at her. "But they sure didn't do you any favors." "Why don't you and Donald go wrestle each other," she put her sunglasses back on, looking annoyed. She turned away, but Brian wasn't backing down, and for a second I thought he was going to hit her. A car horn blasted. "Hey Brian! Come on, man, let's go!" We all looked up. It was Ben. He was driving a huge, beat-up Bronco with a rebel flag in the back window. The radio blasted Tupac. Ben kind of nodded at me. Acknowledging me, but nothing more. I squinted at him. I was glad we didn't have any dissections coming up. "Later, faggot," Brian swaggered off towards the behemoth with Donald trotting closely behind him. The engine grunted and they took off. Maria gave them the finger, but it was futile. We went into the trees to retrieve my bike. "Man," she sighed as we pulled it from a thorn bush. "He really messed it up." I stood the bike upright. The chain had come off, but it wasn't broken. The back tire rim was bent, though - there was no way I could go anywhere on it now. "I don't know how I'm gonna get it home." "Worry about that later," Maria said. "Come on. We'll take mine." I limped my bike over to the rack and tried to tie it up with the two broken chain pieces. "Both of us? Where am I gonna ride, on the handlebars?" "No. On the back," she led me to the farthest rack - there, chained up like an ordinary bike, was a blue Vespa motorscooter, like something out of Roman Holiday. "Cool, innit?" "I'm downright speechless," I finally said. "But the beat goes on. Here," she popped open a compartment under the seat and handed me a small, stylish black helmet. "Safety first." I strapped it on and climbed on behind her. She revved the engine until it hummed. "Hold on to me tight," she commanded. "Don't worry about being fresh." I slipped my arms loosely around her waist, trying not to go too low or too high. She was warm, and smelled a little like lavender and cigarette smoke. We took off faster than I anticipated. Startled, I squeezed her, and she laughed. "I told you to hold on!" She pulled out into traffic and we sped past the doctor's offices and fast food restaurants, past the retirement home and the hospital. Her hair whipped around my face as we buzzed along. It smelled like almonds. There was a cool smell in the air, too; the smell of the woods, of old trees. Winter coming on, I guess. http://www.prospectagency.com/lake.html#meagan-brothers-biography Wed, 31 Oct 2007 05:24:35 GMT meagan-brothers-excerpt The TV was on in the living room. Dave Letterman was debating with Paul Schaffer over whether a rubber chicken would float or not. My mother sat on the couch beneath the amber-colored lamp, going through an old shirt box full of papers, her reading glasses on. I sat down next to her and saw that she had a near-empty bottle of Jim Beam tucked into the crook of her arm. "Geez, mom, have a drink." She handed me the bottle. "This is your father's. I've only had a couple sips." I felt the burn in my throat and handed it back to her. "I figured it would be the last -" she sighed and gazed at the bottle. "Oh, I don't know what I figured. I've been turning this house upside down for the past two days looking for a will -" "You think he might've left you the fine china?" I snorted. My mother gave me a weary look. "I thought he might've left some clue as to what he wanted done with his remains. But instead all I've found is a bunch of old stories he never finished and letters he never sent." She handed me a sheet of folded, yellowed hotel stationary from the shirt box. "Here, look at this." Septembersomething, 19seventysomething, San Fransomewhere 3:25 am Suzy, Jesus, You wanna accuse me of something, fine, but lemme remind you whose been taking care of whose. Not to mention the kid. So you want some marlon brando loverboy to show you a goodtime, fine, kick me to the ol' curb and have fun doing it, but don't jangle me around like yr old highschool saddleshoe promdate ho-dee-ho Goodtime Dan. I'm jangleproof, baby. Shake me, I don't rattle. But I'm not angry with you. It's early and the sun will make the bay turn pink soon and I'll think of your pink skin in the hot bath and the way your teeth leave little halfmoon tracks in my shoulder when you bite down. I want to be there with you but I don't know if you really want me there anymore. I don't know if I should be there or here or anywhere and I get scared at night that I might start tearing around like a tornado some which a way and just whip you up in it, in this frenzy in my head that I'm afraid will bust outta me one day and I can't be held accountable for what it might do. For what I might do. I'm afraid of the day you look at me and don't recognize me. I don't know why I can't sit still and be good, honey. I want to be with you and our kid in our house and even though I told you on the first day we met, no promises, I want to be that real standup guy of your dreams and I'll change change change, unzip my head to whatever psychobabbler you want, I'll join the army, I'll teach geometry, I'll stay right by your side and knit sweaters, you just say what it is you want, and I'll give it to you. By the way, you got the wrong idea about that girl from Del Rio, honey. I'll be here with Mack until Friday. Working up a storm because these bastards won't let me alone otherwise. On Saturday we go down to Hollywood for that Sunday morning television show, but by the time you can see me on it I'll be home to you, if you want me. I miss you, Suzy. Goddam. Love, Eddie "Did I ever tell you about how we met?" "Yeah, sure." He came into her father's bakery in Shreveport and stole her away. "Not the bakery story. The real story." "I'm all ears." http://www.prospectagency.com/lake.html#meagan-brothers-biography Wed, 31 Oct 2007 05:24:35 GMT meagan-brothers-excerpt-2 Once inside, Belle floated up the stairs ahead of her, dressed in a peignoir set that had once been green. Faye saw flashes of color in the folds as they fluttered behind Belle's otherwise monochrome beige. Being outside in the grey overcast light and with the faded grey wicker at her back, Faye hadn't noticed Belle's lack of color. It wasn't like her to be beige. Something must be wrong. "Are you upset at the idea of my inviting Kim to the house?" "No, of course not. I have a feeling Kim will be very entertaining." "You will leave Kim alone," Faye said firmly to Belle, whose knowing smirk irritated the hell out of Faye. "She's not to be jazzed up in any way. While she's here, she'll be working, either helping get the new location ready or searching out new inventory. She's not a plaything." If they messed with Kim, Faye would lose her for sure. Faye heard a deep sigh come from the wall beside her. She stopped and put her hands on her hips, spun toward the long-suffering sound. "I'm not joking, Lizzie. You leave her alone." With Lizzie's penchant for practical jokes, Faye was afraid the spirits would go too far and she'd lose a great employee. Not to mention a friend. There must be a state law against terrorizing the help. Just because she had no problem being surrounded by spirits didn't mean Kim would be okay with it. "All right, I promise," agreed Lizzie from somewhere deep inside the wall. At least it sounded like she was inside the wall. It might have been the ceiling. Now, all she had to do was make Annie and Felicity promise to leave Kim alone and she'd have an easier mind about Kim living here for the next few weeks. "But the minute one of you pulls something on her, I lose my help and you'll be sorry," she threatened, loud enough for all of them to hear. What good threatening the dead did, she didn't know, but it was worth a shot. The attic entrance was in the ceiling of a back hall corner. Belle stood to the side while Faye tugged on an ancient rope. The stairs folded down from the ceiling with the groans and squeaks that were to be expected from hundred year old hinges. But, once the stairs got moving they opened easily enough and Faye climbed up, surprised by the sturdy feel underfoot. "What," she slanted a glance at Belle, "not coming with me?" "I'll meet you there." "You being afraid of heights seems a little weird. You can't exactly get hurt." Belle blew her a raspberry. As soon as Faye set foot on the attic floor Belle appeared seated on a trunk in the corner. Dust flew everywhere, but for all the years of neglect, it smelled clean enough. There were no obvious signs of animal or bird infestations. No bats, either. She hated bats. They flew so erratically. From the central staircase opening, the attic went off in every direction. From here it was clear how large the house was because the entire floor area was open. Dormer windows were evenly spaced around each wall, including the additions that were built on later. There was an octagonal area that was obviously over the conservatory. Each dormer wall had hooks on the walls. Some even had tiny closets built in. "What went on up here, Belle? These sort of look like cubbies or partitioned areas." "Staff slept up here if they didn't have homes to go to. Beds were tucked in under the windows and there was a stove by the stairs for heat in the winter. It wasn't unpleasant." She took a closer look and saw curtain rings on poles stretched across the openings to each dormer. "How large a staff did you need?" Belle shrugged. "Four or five live ins. More in the summer to tend the garden. We had a laundress, eventually some kitchen help, but mostly the cook's son, Henry, at first." Four or five live ins. Willa was right. She was going to need more help than she thought. Even with modern equipment like a dishwasher, vacuum cleaner, and a washer and dryer, Perdition House was too big for one person to keep up. Especially one person with a business to run. "Did Annie work in a cathouse in Butte when she ran away from home?" She might have suggestions for efficient use of Faye's time. "Yes, and it wasn't anything like working here. She'll tell you that!" Belle chuckled and the green in her gown returned. "You're feeling better." "Why, yes." She cocked an eyebrow at Faye in query. "You were beige. First time I've ever seen you so colorless. Is something worrying you?" "Nothing for you to be concerned about. I may have a renegade in the ranks, that's all." "Renegade?" She laughed, finding the idea funny in a weird way. "A renegade ghost. Ooooo, scary." Belle frowned. "Until now your experiences have been pleasant, haven't they?" "You mean things could get nasty?" The thought of a ghost going postal suddenly scared the bejeebers out of her. http://www.prospectagency.com/lake.html#bonnie-edwards-biography Wed, 25 Jul 2007 05:05:00 GMT bonnie-edwards-excerpt The next morning I awoke with a powerful sense that this day would finally be prosperous. As I drove to work, the sun smiled on me from a clear sky. Well, except for that one oddly penis-shaped cloud. The Starbucks near the mini-mall tempted me to cross the street and order a chai latte, but prosperity tea awaited me upstairs. Samantha trotted up the stairs ahead of me. Women milled about on the landing, preparing to go into the Curves to have their chocolate sins exercised from their bodies. As I stuck my key in the lock, whispers surrounded me. I looked up. Three of the women had descended on me. "Can I help you?" They rushed inside. I grabbed the canister of endurance tea on my way to the register. "How many weeks worth of the tea would you like?" The women glanced at each other. A petite woman with red hair a few shades lighter than my own auburn stepped forward. She leaned forward as if she were about to reveal the secret to achieving non-stop orgasms by consuming minute amounts of luxurious dark chocolate. "We're not here for the tea." "I can make you any kind of candle you need," I said. "What's your goal?" The plump brunette shook her head. "We need the thing you gave Tania." "How do you know Tania?" I asked. "I'm her lawyer," the slim brunette said. "She told me about it." "And she told us." The redhead turned in a circle, surveying my wares. "Where are they?" "I don't have any." "I told you we should have come earlier. She sold out already." "She opened three minutes ago." The slim one set her briefcase on the counter. "Can we special order them?" I hadn't even drunk the prosperity tea yet. Was this a sign of the day to come? "That was a special. Just for Tania. But there's a Hustler store further down Sunset. They have a good selection vibrators." "It won't be the same." The redhead shook her head, her bun bouncing. "You charmed it. Tania said she had the best orgasm of her life. We'll pay double for the rush. Triple. Whatever it takes to get them here pronto." The other two women nodded their agreement. I couldn't resist all of them combined. Besides, it couldn't hurt to get a few more vibrators: for special cases related to saving my business. Just so long as this rule breaking didn't become a habit. "Leave me your numbers. I'll call you when they're ready, hopefully by tomorrow." The redhead gripped my hand. "Thank you so much. You're saving my life." I took their information and promised to call them as soon as possible. At the sound of the door opening, the three women turned toward it. The temperature in the room shot up as Dave strolled inside. They looked at me with lust burning in their eyes. I waved to him. The redhead leaned close to me. "Did your magic bring him?" she asked. They stared at him as they skirted past. There was something about his toned frame and movie star blue eyes that made women walk into poles. True to form, one of the brunettes backed into the doorframe with an "oof." I'd done the same thing when we met at the bookstore nine years ago. Some days I wished I hadn't called off our fling a week later when I met Jack and erroneously deemed him The One. Alas there was no use dwelling on the past. I'd been twenty-three. I'd been stupid. I'd learned my lesson. Dave grinned at the three red-cheeked ladies. Like teenagers being noticed by the captain of the football team, they giggled as they hurried out of the store. "What was that about?" he asked. "Tania referred some friends." "Great, new business. You need more of that." "It's not exactly the kind of business I want." I crooked my finger at him to come closer and lowered my voice. "They wanted charmed sex toys." http://www.prospectagency.com/lake.html#aryn-kennedy-biography Wed, 31 Oct 2007 05:39:58 GMT aryn-kennedy-excerpt "Did Doctor Taylor tell you about your condition?" "Yes." She stood unnaturally still for a child. Stock still. And she had a way of turning her head slightly while still keeping her eyes on a person. "I'm going to have a baby." "Yes. Well, we need to talk about that, don't we?" He found himself blinking to compensate for how seldom she did. "Esta, I need to know who did this to you. I know it might be frightening to talk about. But it needs to be said out loud. The person who did this to you did a bad thing. Who's been at you, child?" She cocked her head a few degrees but remained silent. "Esta, we need to know the father of your child." "It's between me and God," she said. "Alright. We can discuss it later if you'd rather. But I'd like to talk with you about what you told Doctor Taylor. About Jenny." "What about it?" she replied. "No one knows better than I how it feels to want to give comfort to those who are suffering and yet be unable to. I have spent much of my adult life and all of the last two months striving to grant the tiniest measure of comfort in the face of terrible loss. But it is wrong to create falsities, even with the purest of motives -- to ease another's pain." "I wouldn't do that," she said. "I must assume that you were school friends with Jenny Taylor and that she told you about the dress and how she wanted to wear her hair." "I've only ever had one friend, Reverend," Esta said, "Miss Margaret Goode." Thomas heard the door to the office opening and conversation between Doctor Taylor and a woman. Thomas continued, "Then you must have heard this information from Margaret Goode. Perhaps you've stored this memory without even being aware where it came from." "I know where it came from," she said. "Where?" Thomas heard himself say. Doctor Taylor pulled back the curtain and entered the room with Priscilla in tow. The woman was in wretched shape with large dark circles around the eyes and a frantic expression. "The Lord showed it to me when he lifted me up," Esta said. "What is this?" Priscilla said. "I told you, Prissy," Doc said. "This is the girl who was found on the church. She says she saw Jenny with God in heaven." "Doctor Taylor, I'm not sure it's wise to involve Priscilla with this," Thomas interjected. "Let me talk with the girl alone." "My Jenny?" Priscilla said choking on sobs. "Yes," Esta said. "Esta, stop it this instant," Brother Thomas pleaded. "You can't toy with people this way! Tell the doctor that you made this up, or that it was just a dream!" "Tell her about the dress and her hair," Doc Taylor said. "She was wearing the green dress you made and her hair was in plaits, Priscilla. It was our Jenny! In Heaven with God!" "But how could you know this? How could you see into Heaven?" Priscilla pressed. "Exactly," Brother Thomas added. Esta had been waiting patiently to be asked. She looked at Mrs. Taylor and Doctor Taylor only as she relayed the story of what happened to her on that day. "It was blowing hard outside. Miss Merrell was poised to hit me with the ruler for not paying attention in class when my cousin, Doris, looked out the window and yelled, 'It's a twister!' Then the roof peeled away." Esta closed her eyes now and a slight smile turned up the corners of her mouth. "And I heard a loud voice say 'Talitha Kumi'." And then I was pulled upward and all the sounds of crashing and screaming and blowing fell silent. And I saw a shining light, bright like the sun, only gentler. It drew me into itself. That's when I saw Jenny seated at the feet of the father. Then the voice said, 'be blessed,' and touched me here," Esta said pointing to the middle of her chest. Esta opened her eyes again. "And then I could hear the wind again and I was moving backward, but I didn't want to. And then it went dark. When I woke up, I was on the church roof." "Praise God! Praise God!" Priscilla exclaimed. Doctor Taylor embraced his wife as she bawled unabashedly. "It's a miracle!" he said. "My girl! My baby! I was so worried, what with her not bein' baptized!" Priscilla tore herself from her husband and ran to Esta pulling the child tight to her chest. "Thank you! Bless you, child." Brother Thomas pulled Esta from the woman's grasp, "Doctor Taylor, I would ask you to kindly take your wife back upstairs. She's had a tremendous shock and needs to lie down." He shot Esta an angry glance as he ushered the two parents toward the office door. Upon returning, he ripped the curtain back and glared angrily at her. "What are you up to, Esta Macphee, with this cockamamie story? You and I both know that nothing like that happened. You were simply lucky to be thrown clear of the awful death the other children shared and now you would mock the very God who mercifully spared your pitiful life! Surely, he will not allow you to go unpunished for this sin!" "I thought you didn't believe in luck Pastor," Esta retorted. "You will speak of this matter no more, young lady. You've got yourself in a delicate condition which requires your full attention. And I won't have you distracting good God-fearing people from their rightfully- earned grieving. Now let's get you home. We've got some news to share with your parents." He took her by the arm and marched her swiftly to the car. The ride back to the Macphee farm felt far different than the ride to the doctor's office. Brother Thomas sensed that there had been a shifting of sorts -- the same feeling he often had when he presided over a wedding or a funeral. It was the uncertainty of stepping from one age, to the next. That the occasion of the telling of Esta's outlandish story, to an even greater extent than the school tragedy itself, marked a new focus in his work on earth, and a new season for the community of Harmony. As he parked the car in the Macphee yard and shut off the ignition, Esta spoke. "Brother Thomas, remember when I came to you and asked you about my spiritual gift?" He gripped the steering wheel and stared straight ahead trying to will the child to be shocked into silence once more. Forever more. But it didn't work. "I think I know now what mine is." http://www.prospectagency.com/lake.html#shannon-landrum-biography Wed, 26 Jul 2007 22:47:32 GMT shannon-landrum-excerpt "You have a right to be mad," Adonis told her. "Your mom cheated you of things a kid should have." Ann's body stiffened. "I'm being unfair. She tried her best." "Maybe so." Touch firm but gentle, he stroked her chest, breasts, rib cage, trying to give her the warmth her mother seemed incapable of. "Doesn't mean you don't have a right to be pissed. Children should be nourished with hugs and kisses, praise and love." "I wish . . ." She sighed and her muscles loosened. "I was going to say, I wish I had a different mother. But that's not true, I love her. I just wish she'd been different." "Is it too late? Could she change?" Her eyes were squeezed shut. "I w-wish. But she's set in her ways." She sniffed. "D-damn, I never cry. Tears are a waste of time." But they were welling from under her closed lids. "That last voice sounded like your mom's," he said gently. She sniffed again. "It was." A tear spilled over. "I don't agree with her." He caught the tear with his finger and brought it to his mouth. "Tears help you let pain out, where it doesn't have so much power." She opened tear-glazed eyes. "That your mom talking?" "Yeah." Definitely not his macho dad. As tears tracked down her temples into her hair, he said, "Your mom may not be super affectionate, but you know she wanted you. She could have had an abortion or given you up for adoption, but she kept you. Loved you." "I guess. But it puts so much pressure on me, being the only person she's got. Pressure to live up to her expectations." She was still meeting his gaze and he looked deeply into her damp hazel eyes, feeling the hurt inside her. He took her by the shoulders. "Those expectations are hers; she owns them. She's the one who let rejection hurt her so badly she never lets anyone into her life. Focuses on her career, rather than risking her heart. You can be braver, you don't have be the same as her. Figure out what you want, and tell her." "What if she says I'm wrong?" The tears were sliding freely now. "Then tell her again." He lay down beside her and gathered her into his arms, felt the dampness of her cheek against his shoulder. For a while, he just hugged her close as she cried. Then, when the tears eased, he said, "Tell her you love her, you respect her, but you have to find your own path. And if she loves you, she should try to understand and respect you back." She sniffed. "Is that what you told your father?" Crap. "Uh, maybe not quite like that. More like, I didn't want to be a tile layer so I wasn't going to do it." "Which he'd take as rejection of everything he's worked for." "Shit." He'd never thought of it that way, but once she'd said it, it was obvious. "I guess you're right." "I know if I'd ever said I didn't want to be a lawyer, that's how Mother would have felt. But it was okay, she made it so fascinating, there was never anything else I wanted anyhow." "And now?" She eased away, wiped her cheeks with the backs of her hands, sat up. "I want friends, too. A life away from the office, maybe one day a family of my own." A little smile. "Perhaps a puppy or kitten." He sat up too, caught and held her gaze. "Those are all good things. Normal things. She's the one with the warped life, Ann. That's sad, and you don't have to be like her." She nodded slowly. "Adonis, what's the thing you've most wanted from your dad?" He squeezed his eyes shut against the pain, then opened them again so she could see into his heart. "For him to say he's proud of me, like he does with my sisters." "Me too, with Mother. Every time she compliments me, there's some damn qualification. Or, what I've done is good but she wants more from me." She sighed. "And I've been trying. Now you, you deliberately chose another path. Neither way has worked out for us." "Nope." "So, what's the worst case scenario?" she said thoughtfully. "They never say those magic words. But we know they love us. Right?" "Yeah." He managed a small smile. "That's not such a bad thing to settle for." "Some wise man once told me, conflict's inherent in the parent-child relationship." His own words. The smile grew. "That was pretty smart. So, I should tell Dad I respect him and what he's accomplished, but his way isn't mine, and I wish he'd respect me too." "And if he's still on your case, remember conflict's normal, and he loves you." God, she was beautiful, even all swollen and tear-stained. Beautiful and smart and brave. And sexy. Opening up the way they'd both done was even better than sexual foreplay. He felt so close to her, and he wanted to get closer. Until they merged. Body and soul. It was so cool she'd finally got into the gazing into each other's eyes thing. He could see the moment she read his thoughts. The green flecks in her eyes sparkled. Her lips curved. "You haven't finished my massage." "Later." He leaned in for a kiss. She avoided his mouth, her smile widening. "Hey, aren't we doing hours of foreplay, before sex?" "We've done hours. Now it's time for sex." He stripped off the silk boxers and leaned in again. http://www.prospectagency.com/lake.html#susan-lyons-biography Mon, 12 Nov 2007 04:55:23 GMT susan-lyons-excerpt A large presence appeared behind her right shoulder, heralded by a whiff of really fabulous aftershave. Pheromones, she told herself stubbornly. That's all. She swallowed hard. Duke brushed a strand of hair from her cheek with a careless gesture. "Nice to see you again, Caitlyn." She bit her lip, gathering up her things and stuffing them into a briefcase. The room was emptying, and she had to grab somebody quickly and beg for information. But Duke was effectively blocking her exit. He propped a hip on the conference table, bringing their eyes level. Her knees trembled. She told herself it was because she had skipped breakfast. She took a deep breath. "You'll have to excuse me," she said, her voice cool. "I have to run." "The mayor wants us to start today." She looked directly at him for the first time. The mischief in his long-lashed eyes was not at all reassuring. "I'm aware of the time table," she said primly. His large thigh, covered respectably in dark suit fabric, was practically touching her hip, so she inched away from the table. He picked up her BlackBerry, and it was all she could do not to snatch it back. "I really am in a hurry," she said with as much politeness as she could muster. He cocked his head. "Don't you think we should program some dates into this little electronic thingy of yours?" He poked at a button and the screen went blank. "Give me that," she hissed. "And no. I'm all booked up in the date department. Thanks anyway." Now the devilment spread across his face and his straight white teeth flashed in a grin of blinding proportions. "Well, Miss Caitlyn... you may be willing to offend the mayor, but I'm not. Turn this thing back on and let's get down to business." Her mouth gaped. "What the hell are you talking about?" He brushed her lips with a fingertip. "Tut. Tut. Such language from a lady. I know your mama wouldn't approve." Temper threatened to blow the top of her head sky high. Her pale skin blotched with color when she got angry, and she knew from experience that it wasn't a good look on her. But God, he made her mad. She pursed her lips. "My vocabulary is none of your concern. I'm out of here." She grabbed up her things and scooted around him, but he was not so easily defeated. He caught hold of the end of the pretty braided raffia belt she wore and reeled her back in, tucking her firmly between his thighs. It would have been a highly inappropriate position had the room not been empty. Even so, she deemed it insulting. She narrowed her eyes. "Swear to God, Duke Yancey. I'll knock the crap out of you with my purse if you don't let me go right this instant. http://www.prospectagency.com/lake.html#janice-maynard-biography Wed, 31 Oct 2007 05:44:06 GMT janice-maynard-excerpt Dan was half-heartedly working through a sheet of math problems on Eben's living room floor. He had lost his pencil and was using one of Eben's pens and kept making mistakes that he had to scribble out. Dan's empty stomach gave off a groan that started low and then rose, like the slow creak to the door of a haunted house. He and Jessie had gotten home from school hours ago and they'd already finished the box of Frosted Flakes. They had ridden the sugar buzz and crashed again, and now they were even hungrier. Millie still hadn't called. It was almost seven o'clock at night. "Where's Mommy?" Jessie asked. "Gorilla's sick of Frosted Flakes." "Everyone's sick of Frosted Flakes." Dan sighed. In his easy chair, Eben looked up from the sports section of the newspaper. "There's instant macaroni in the kitchen. I could make it." "That's okay, Uncle Eben." Dan shook his head at Jessie. The offer was phony; their uncle never cooked. Dan blinked at the math sheet, his eyes fatigued by the poor lighting. He stood and flipped on the lamp switch. The bulb was grey, dead. The dishwasher didn't work either. It leaked brown water and dishes still had hard bits of food stuck to them. Things broke and no one fixed them. He was sick of it. "Maybe she had car trouble again," Eben suggested. "That car looks like it's stuck together with spit and scotch tape." Dan suddenly imagined the Gremlin skidding into an intersection and getting crushed by a garbage truck—a scene from an episode of the Incredible Hulk he had watched. Ever since his father had returned to Chicago, Dan imagined Millie dying in different ways: shot by a drug dealer, caught in a fire, diagnosed with brain cancer. He pictured himself comforting her as she lay in a hospital bed. He pictured her like the wounded soldiers in M*A*S*H—lots of tubes draining fluid from her arms, a nurse tapping air bubbles from a syringe, Millie murmuring but making no sense. An awful feeling ran through Dan when these images appeared, as if he was wishing for her to get hurt. But trying to banish the images from his head made them stick harder, like the tiny burrs that clung to his shoelaces after he walked through the Wissahickon. "Maybe she's buying pizza," Jessie said. "Or maybe she robbed a bank and had to take the long way home." Dan tried to picture Millie speeding away on a motorcycle, popping a wheelie, a bag of cash strapped to her back and a few hundred dollar bills fluttering out. But then, the bike crashed and exploded into flames as his imagination got the better of him. "Dan, can you make me a peanut butter and jelly?" Jessie asked. He knew they had tossed the empty jar of peanut butter yesterday. But, feeling sorry for his sister, Dan went to the kitchen and filled a pot with water and lit the stove. He had seen Millie make macaroni plenty of times. All you had to do was boil the noodles and dump cheese powder on top. Twenty minutes later, they ate macaroni with cherry Kool-Aid and Wonder Bread toast in front of the news, watching a story about factories closing in Pittsburgh. The newslady interviewed a guy who got fired and was trying to sell his lawnmower, his vacuum cleaner and some old shirts in a yard sale. It made Dan think of the bills that Millie wasn't paying. The news anchor talked about the bad economy and inflation and it seemed like everyone everywhere was broke. "What's inflation?" Jessie asked. "It's the banks stealing money right out of your pocket," Eben said. "Dan, this macaroni's not half bad. But you could stir the cheese in better next time." They were finished eating by the time Millie walked through the door. "How's my family doing?" she exclaimed, kissing Jessie on the head. "Christ on a bike! We were about to call missing persons is how we're doing!" Eben barked. "It's past dark. Ever hear of the phone?" "I'm sorry Eben. I stopped at Wade's club downtown and lost track of time. He was dying to show me the renovations. They redid the whole place, it's going to be amazing. I forgot that his father was into real estate, he has so many projects going on. Anyway, I might pick up some weekend shifts at the ticket office. He says you can make good money and you get to hear the music too. Well, let me tell you, I tried a payphone outside but the line was dead. Can someone explain why half the phones in Philly don't work? And when they do work, you don't have a quarter on you." She clapped her hands. "Let's get take-out. Aren't you kids starved? I'm about ready to eat my purse." "We had macaroni," Jessie said, the cheese powder crusted all over her chin. "Good for you, Jessie-girl." Millie picked up a piece of blackened toast and nibbled the edge. "Forget take-out then." She kicked off her shoes and put her feet on the table. Inside her pantyhose, her feet looked like flippers and had a locker-room odor. "Jessie, come here and give Mommy a foot rub. I love these new heels but they're hell on my arches." "Well, you shouldn't come home late," Dan said. "It's bullshit." "Easy there." Eben pursed his lips. "Someone's testy tonight. What happened?" Millie belched and didn't cover her mouth in time. Her breath smelled like beer. "How was school?" "I can't figure out my stupid math homework. The directions don't make any sense." Dan shoved his textbook under the couch, thinking about the kid Shawn who called him a faggot practically every day, how everything was so unfair. "I never met a math problem I couldn't beat," she said. "I love math. We'll blow through the problems in no time. I got a full ride to college for math, you know." "You told us that a million times." Dan carried the macaroni pot to the kitchen. Millie tried to tousle his hair as he passed, but he jerked his head away. She didn't seem to care that he had cursed or shoved his book—and so, he would do something worse. In the kitchen, the pot dropping into the porcelain sink from a two-foot height made a satisfying crash. http://www.prospectagency.com/lake.html#peter-reese-biography Tue, 27 May 2008 02:47:16 GMT peter-reese-excerpt Blackcliff Hall, Cumberland, England, 1811 Someone else was in the house. Sir Trevor Fitzwilliam stopped in the center of the bedchamber he had been considering making his own and listened, head cocked. Blackcliff Hall muttered the usual creaks and groans of a house built nearly two hundred years ago and left for the last two months to itself. He'd already determined the cavernous place to be empty of servants save for an elderly fellow who'd taken his horse at the stables. And servants were generally silent in any regard. From downstairs came the sound of a door closing. Trevor's head snapped up. He slipped across the Oriental carpet and flattened himself against the heavy oak paneling of the wall. Over the last few years he'd made enemies helping his father and aristocratic friends solve personal problems like blackmail and bribery. Any one of a number of vengeful men could have followed him as he made his way north and east into Cumberland. Any one of them could be searching for him even now. But if it was a choice of hunt or be hunted, he'd far prefer to hunt. He glanced out the door, but nothing moved along the wide, oak-paneled corridor that crossed the chamber floor of the gray stone manor house. He knew the main stairs squeaked; he'd frowned at the noise on the way up. From the dust-covered furniture to the cobwebs dulling the brass chandeliers, the place reeked of neglect. The only lamp that was lit was the one he'd set on the bedside table. How kind of his father to hand the god-forsaken place over to him. Another door closed, and footsteps echoed a moment as the intruder crossed a space of bare wood. From the drawing room to the entry hall, perhaps? He seemed to remember a span of dark wood floor separating the ruby-patterned carpets in the two rooms. If his enemy was anywhere near the entry hall, Trevor would be a fool to take the main stairs down. Instead, he followed the upstairs corridor for the servants' stair at the end. His footfalls on the thick carpet were silent. The suits of armor that stood sentry in recesses along the corridor watched his passage. He paused only long enough to relieve one of its swords. The blade was long and heavy in his grip, the steel icy. The sword was also dull as ditchwater, he had no doubt, but his adversary wouldn't know that. At the very least, it would serve as a club. Trevor slid into the servants' stair and closed the door quietly behind him. The white-washed stair was circular, winding up to the schoolroom and down to the main floor, he knew. A window high above let in enough of the fading twilight to allow him to pick his way down. But even as he made the first turn, something moved below. He pulled back before he could be sighted. There was more than one of them then. Hand tight on the sword, breath tight in his chest, he rushed down the final turn, ready to fight for his life. The only thing that moved was the side door, swinging in the cool evening breeze. Outside, a covered walkway swept down to the laundry outbuilding. In the autumn gloom the path stood as empty as the rest of the house had been when he had arrived an hour ago. He'd known it was chancy at best to show up unannounced for the first time at the estate he'd been given when he'd been made a baronet. He'd expected a flurry of activity to greet his arrival—grooms running to stable his horse, maids hurrying to make up a bed with fresh linens, a chef bustling to prepare him a feast. But no one had answered his pull of the bell at the gatehouse, and in the end, he had decided to push open the tall wrought iron gates on his own and ride up the graveled drive. The house was imposing enough, a long block of gray stone, solid and strong, with a separate laundry room a little distance away on one side and kitchen on the other. Trees clustered to the left and right, and gardens lay front and back, but the most visible feature was the black mountain from which the house took its name, rising swiftly in the background. He had no doubt Blackcliff Hall commanded the west end of the Evendale Valley. Yet, as guardian of the area, it stood unlocked, unlit and unoccupied. Trevor hadn't been expected; he certainly hadn't been welcomed. Now he had to make sure he didn't pay the price for his unheralded arrival with his life. He shut the side door and shot the bolt, then stood listening a moment. The house was silent around him, as if holding its breath. Where were they? He eased open the door to the main floor. He knew from his exploration on arrival that the corridor ran past a reception hall on one side and a library and music room on the other to end at the entry hall and the withdrawing room beyond. With the doors closed and the lamps out, the corridor was a black tunnel with a faint gleam of light at the end from the windows flanking the front door. He'd have to pick his way carefully, but right now the shadows were his friends. Trevor slipped down the corridor, ears straining for a noise to locate his enemy. He hadn't crossed half the space before footsteps thundered up the main stairs. He pulled up short, heart pounding along with the noise. How many of them were there? For a moment, he considered leaving. Surely the little village a stone's throw away from the manor boasted a constable. If Trevor could get to the stables, no horse could catch Icarus. He glanced back at the door to the servants' stair and the outdoors. All your life you've wanted something of your own. Will you let them steal this from you, as well? He wasn't sure where the thoughts came from; he didn't think to ask. He knew in his heart they were right. He squared his shoulders and faced front again. Derelict or not, this was his home now. He had plans for it. He would leave only when he was ready. He crept down the corridor for the entryway, debating his choices. He could follow them up the stairs, but they'd hear him coming. He could wait at the bottom, but they'd have momentum on their side. He needed something to stop them, to trip them up so he could gain the upper hand. He reached the entry hall and darted across, careful to keep his boot heels from touching the parquet floor. The furniture in all the rooms was of massive mahogany. Moving it would take time he didn't have, and even in the dim light he thought they'd see it on the stair. But, if he remembered correctly, a stone statue of a shepherd, about knee high, rested in the corner. Placed partway up the stairs, the cheery lad would make an excellent stumbling block. Trevor slid into the corner and frowned. The space was empty, and he thought he could make out a bare spot in the dust of the floor. The shepherd, it seemed, had seen fit to move since Trevor had passed him an hour ago. What would anyone want with a stone shepherd? Nearby, wood scraped on wood. At least one of them was on the main floor then, but doing what, Trevor couldn't know. Why didn't they come for him? Had he mistaken their purpose? Was it Trevor they wanted or the house's treasures? Either way, he wasn't going to give up without a fight. He backed into the withdrawing room and looked around. Someone had left a lantern, partially hooded, near the bow window. The glow bathed the settee, sturdy arm chairs, wood-wrapped hearth and sundry side tables in gold and left the back of the room draped in shadow. He hadn't done more than glance in here when he'd arrived, but he didn't think anything was missing. Indeed, something had been added. The stone shepherd was standing in the center of the blood-red pattern of the carpet. A chill ran up Trevor. But he didn't believe in ghosts, or statues that moved by themselves. Some days he wasn't even sure he believed in God, at least not a god who cared for humankind. His life was proof that a gentleman only had himself to rely on. But what would his enemies want with a statue, and why had they abandoned it? Keeping an eye out for movement, he crossed to the statue and picked it up with his free hand. The piece was heavier than he expected, the stone cold in his grip. He jiggled it up and down, but nothing rattled to indicate a secret compartment. He turned it front to back, but in the dim light he couldn't even be sure of the stone used to carve it, let along any distinguishing marks. "Put that down." Fool! Why had he looked down, even for an instant? Trevor turned slowly toward the voice, ready for anything. What he'd taken as a solid wall across the back of the withdrawing room was clearly a pocket door allowing access to the dining room beyond. Framed in the doorway was a cloaked figure, shorter and slighter than him, a lad by the timbre of his voice. Trevor could have taken him easily, if it weren't for the pistol extending from the shadows in his gloved hand. "Is it valuable, then?" Trevor asked, making a show of eying the statue even as he eased closer across the carpet toward the fellow. "You wouldn't have come to steal it if you didn't think so," the lad countered. Trevor cocked a smile and took another step closer. "Takes one to know one, eh? What are you after?" The pistol was lifted to aim at his heart. "Anyone who dares disturb this house. Now—Put. That. Down." "Certainly," Trevor said. "Catch." He hurled the statue at the fellow and dove into its wake. The statue fell with a thud against the carpet, and Trevor and the intruder went down in a tangle of arms and legs, sword snared in the cloak. The pistol roared, the flash blinding him for a moment. His heart jerked, but he felt no wrenching pain, no blow from a lead ball. "Now look what you've done!" his captive cried, obviously unhurt, as well. "Dolly! Dolly, here!" In that second, Trevor realized two things. Something very large was thundering back down the stairs. And the person he held pinned to the floor was a woman. http://www.prospectagency.com/lake.html#regina-scott-biography Mon, 03 Dec 2007 15:59:38 GMT regina-scott-excerpt "Hampton!" It was my buddy Blaine Keller barking at me. He strictly plays offense so he had his helmet off and his black hair was pasted to his forehead, the black slashes of war paint under his eyes starting to run some from the sweat. "Don't give your hand to the enemy like that. This is a battle, son. Don't ever give your hand to the enemy during a battle." He meant business too. You could tell by the way the sparks flared up in his brown eyes. He wasn't faking. He was mad. I jogged back to the defensive huddle, feeling like I'd had the air half let out of me. Tell you what, Coach Huff and his assistants was some of the best coaches in Oklahoma-and I figured you might as well throw Texas in there too. Everything about them was polished and sharp as a new pair of scissors-their clothes, their hair, and their orders most of all. But they was always distant, up on another level looking down. Blaine was my best friend, my brother almost, and his words cut deeper than anyone else's. He was right, I thought. That always was my shortcoming right there. Too much sympathy. It was like Blaine used to tell me, "Feeling sorry for folks never won no football games." This wasn't any time to go weak neither. This was a time a guy needed insides about as tough and gnarled and hard as one of them old blackjack oaks on the hills outside of town. Me and the rest of the Kennisaw Knights had us eighteen yards and twenty-seven inches of battleground to defend. Three minutes and thirty-four seconds left in the game. First and ten. Kennisaw, 20 and the Wynette Titans, 17. Every game this season, the pressure weighed down more and more. It was like carrying around a sack full of rocks, only every time you got to thinking you could lay it down, someone would throw another sack full of bigger rocks up on top of you. If we could keep it going, this would be Kennisaw's fifth undefeated season in a row. For thirty some years, no Knights team had strung together that many wins, and them old-time players from back then was still heroes around the hill country of eastern Oklahoma. More than just heroes, they was flat-out legends. Now, people love their legends in the hill country. I don't just mean the ones that run up and down the green fields there in Biggins Stadium with its crown of golden lights neither. I'm talking about the old timey Wild West legends like the Doolins and the Daltons and Belle Starr, the queen of the outlaws. All them famous characters in the wax museum. And then you got your bull riders and bronc busters, your Five Civilized Tribes and your wildcat oil strikers. Prettyboy Floyd and Woody Guthrie, Will Rogers, Mickey Mantle and the original great football player, Jim Thorpe his self. Kennisaw's a dusty little old town, but even the smallest scrawny kid can feel big if he's got his self a legend to hold onto. And believe you me, not a player on our team didn't think about what kind of legends we could end up being our own selves if we finished off this fifth straight season undefeated. Boy howdy. The Kennisaw Knights was the best damn football team in all the hill country, where Friday night high school football ranked next to God and country and, truth be known, sometimes come in first. It'd be one hell of a big sack of rocks to carry around if you let the Knights down. http://www.prospectagency.com/lake.html#tim-tharp-biography Wed, 31 Oct 2007 10:52:32 GMT tim-tharp-excerpt Okay, yes, maybe I do drink a little bit more than a little bit too much, but don't go getting the idea I'm an alcoholic. It's not some big addiction. It's just a hobby, a good old-fashioned way to have fun. Once, I said that exact thing to this uptight church girl at school, Jennifer Jorgenson, and she goes, "I don't have to drink alcohol to have fun." So I'm like, "I don't have to ride a roller coaster to have fun either, but I do." That's the number one problem with these anti-drug-and-alcohol programs they shoehorn you into starting in grade school. No one will admit any of that stuff is fun, so there goes all their credibility flying right out the window. Every kid in school-except the Jennifer Jorgensons of the world-recognizes the whole scam is faker than a televangelist's wife with a boob job. I've taken those questionnaires on the internet that are supposed to tell you if you're an alcoholic: Do you ever have a drink first thing in the morning to get your day going? Do people annoy you when they criticize how much you drink? Do you ever drink alone? That kind of thing. First, sure, I drink in the mornings sometimes but not because I need to. It's just a good change of pace. I'm celebrating a new day, and if you can't do that, then you might as well be laid out with your arms across your chest studying the pattern on your coffin lid. Second, who's not going to get annoyed when someone starts nitpicking at them? I mean, you could just have one beer and your mother smells it on your breath and she and your stupid stepfather start in with the good-cop/bad-cop interrogation routine, except there's no good cop. What, are you supposed to enjoy that? And third, why is drinking alone so bad anyway? It's not like I'm some derelict drinking cheap aftershave alone behind the bus depot. Say you get grounded and you're watching TV or playing on the computer in your room-a couple of drinks can keep you from going stir crazy. Or maybe your friends all have curfews on weeknights, so you go home and have three or four more beers sitting on your windowsill with your iPod before going to bed. What's wrong with that? It's all in the attitude behind your drinking, see. If you're like, Woe is me, my girlfriend left me and God hath forsaken me, and guzzling down a fifth of Old Granddad until your neck turns to rubber and you can't lift your chin off your chest, then, yes, I'd say you're an alcoholic. But that's not me. I'm not drinking to forget anything or to cover anything up or to run away. What do I have to run away from? No, everything I do when I'm drinking is about creativity, broadening my horizons. It's actually educational. When I'm drinking, it's like I see another dimension to the world. I understand my friends on a deeper level. Music reaches into me and opens me up from the inside out. Words and ideas that I never knew I had come flying out of me like exotic parakeets. When I watch TV, I make up the dialogue and it's better than anything the writers dreamed up. I'm compassionate and funny. I swell up with God's beauty and sense of humor. The truth is I am God's own drunk. http://www.prospectagency.com/lake.html#tim-tharp-biography Wed, 31 Oct 2007 10:52:32 GMT tim-tharp-excerpt-2 COPYRIGHT AND LEGAL NOTICE: PROSPECT AGENCY IS A LIMITED LIABILITY CORPORATION REGISTERED IN THE STATE OF NEW JERSEY (PROSPECT AGENCY LLC). LEGAL ISSUES SHOULD BE SENT VIA REGISTERED MAIL TO THE ADDRESS BELOW. ALL CONTENT INCLUDED ON THIS SITE AND OTHER DISTRIBUTION MEDIA (RSS, EMAIL, MAILINGS), SUCH AS TEXT (MANUSCRIPT EXCERPTS, CLIENT BIOGRAPHIES, BLOGS, FORUM CONTENT, POETRY, ETC.), GRAPHICS, LOGOS, BUTTON ICONS, IMAGES, AUDIO CLIPS, DIGITAL DOWNLOADS, DATA COMPILATIONS, AND SOFTWARE, IS THE PROPERTY OF PROSPECT AGENCY LLC OR ITS CREDITED AUTHORS AND PROTECTED BY UNITED STATES AND INTERNATIONAL COPYRIGHT LAWS. QUOTES ON THE HOME PAGE ARE CREDITED TO APPROPRIATE SOURCES WHERE AVAILABLE. THE COMPILATION OF ALL CONTENT ON THIS SITE IS THE EXCLUSIVE PROPERTY OF PROSPECT AGENCY LLC AND PROTECTED BY U.S. AND INTERNATIONAL COPYRIGHT LAWS. ALL SOFTWARE USED ON THIS SITE IS THE PROPERTY OF PROSPECT AGENCY LLC OR ITS SOFTWARE SUPPLIERS AND PROTECTED BY UNITED STATES AND INTERNATIONAL COPYRIGHT LAWS. PROSPECT AGENCY LLC RESPECTS THE INTELLECTUAL PROPERTY OF OTHERS. IF YOU BELIEVE THAT YOUR WORK HAS BEEN COPIED IN A WAY THAT CONSTITUTES COPYRIGHT INFRINGEMENT, PLEASE NOTIFY US. OUR ADDRESS: PROSPECT AGENCY LLC ATTN: LEGAL DEPARTMENT 551 VALLEY RD, PMB 377 UPPER MONTCLAIR, NJ 07043 HTTP://WWW.PROSPECTAGENCY.COM http://www.prospectagency.com/legal.html Wed, 29 Jul 2007 17:38:26 GMT http://www.prospectagency.com/legal.html