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Today is our first Teaser-T-Day. Thanks to all who contributed. :)  Excerpts are listed in alphabetical order per author's name/username.

Read and enjoy!

Justin pushes through layer after layer of hazy fog, unsure if the hanging mists are from years of removal or part of a dream state. He is dreaming, right? He pushes forward, parting the white vapor with long-fingered, blunt-tipped hands that have already reached adulthood, while the rest of his body hovers at that in-between stage of lanky, lean limbed adolescence and broad shouldered, baritoned manhood.

The coarse hairs on Justin's arms prickle as his senses sharpen. In the distance, not far from where he stands, is an echo of children's laughter mixed with metal chains clashing against their sturdy pole-in-asphalt bretheren. A hint of ozone tinges the air as Justin opens his mouth in anticipation of the clean tang of raindrops tempting his tongue. But his thirst remains unanswered and he reminds himself: It's only a dream.


The hover glides down to the floor and stops. I step off and Monkey follows, moving past me to do a circuit of the ship. He runs his hand over its battered nose, squats down to look underneath, fingers skipping along some invisible edge.

I watch, arms crossed, a few feet away.

I've never seen a monkey, not in person, but if they wear white grease-stained shirts that are too tight in the shoulder and have perfect balance when sliding their arms under a ship's belly in a mind-bending move that've had me on my butt, then Monkey lives up to his namesake.

By fuguemacabre

Fatigue pulled at Gio's eyelids, her brain pleaded for sleep. She shook her head to clear away the weariness, then forced herself to stand and make her way into the kitchen. She started a pot of coffee, placed her cheek against the counter and watched the dark liquid slowly fill the carafe, then filled her cup. As Gio stirred sugar into the black liquid, she heard the music announcing the beginning of the newscast and returned to her perch on the recliner. The main headline was the death of local entrepreneur William Wingate’s twenty-five-year-old daughter, Sally Wingate. The female reporter looked solemnly into the camera and spoke of Gio’s best friend in past tense.

“A recent graduate of Tulane, she’d recently been hired as an electrical engineer with...” The reporter paused, pressing on her earpiece before continuing. “We have breaking news on the Wingate murder. Lance Kenyon has the latest.” The picture switched to a blond haired, blue eyed man in his mid-twenties. The background appeared to be a control room filled with multiple flickering screens and equipment.

The young reporter’s mouth quirked as if fighting a smile then held up a folded sheet of paper. “This was dropped on my desk just before air time.” He unfolded the paper and read:

“Do not mourn for my women. They are happy at last. They thank me every day for loving them, for rescuing them from their lonely life. Mona Provost’s family ignored her. She had no friends. Lane McIntosh spent her time sitting behind a computer. Her whole world consisted of online buddies. And Sally Wingate tried to fit into a man’s world but ended up fitting nowhere. They are inside me, close to my heart, my soul.” The reporter looked into the camera and finished. “It’s signed, the Soul Man.”

Then the reporter did something that made Gio’s blood boil. He smiled. “I don’t know if the Soul Man sent this to other reporters, but you heard it here first. Back to you, Angela.”

Gio turned off the TV and stared at the blank screen. "Well, Soul Man, your ass is mine."


“This is it,” the cabbie says as he pulls up to my uncle’s apartment building.

I get my stuff out of the trunk, pay him, and watch him drive away. The building towers over me, and I just stand there, looking at it. At my new life.

I hike my duffle bag over my shoulder and go inside.

In the entranceway, it’s hot and airless. I scan the list of names on the panel and find number twelve and my last name. Someone’s put a Hello Kitty sticker next to it. I press the buzzer and wait to get clicked in. The buzz amplifies the tiny entryway. When I step inside, I’m overwhelmed with the smell of carpet cleaner. Larry’s apartment is on the second floor so I start for the stairs when I hear a door open and a familiar voice call, “Sammy?”

A head peers over the railing.

My uncle grins down at me. He doesn’t have a shirt on. “My man!”

When I reach the landing, he bounds over and grabs my bag, then gives me a huge bear hug. His hair is wet and he stinks of recently-applied deodorant.

“Samurai Sam! I didn’t expect you to be taller than me.”

I shrug. He’s called me Sam since I was little and spent the summer with him while my parents went on my dad’s last “tour” with his band. We spent the whole time playing “Samurai Sam” on his computer. I was so good at it, Larry changed my name.

He steps back and checks me out. “You’re so big,” he says. “When did you get so big?”

How do you answer a question like that?

Larry carries my bag inside. There’s a stick of incense burning on the coffee table in the living room. A huge gray cat walks over to us and rubs against my leg.

“Wow,” Larry says. “There’s something you don’t see every day.”


“Clover doesn’t usually like other people.”

The cat looks up at me.

“Hey,” I say. “How’s it goin?”

“Clover, meet the infamous Samurai Sam,” Larry says. “He’s your new, uh, cousin.”

Kathie C

My father's face looked feathered in the lamplight. He sat at the table across from me, restringing his grandfather's bow while I carved new tips for his arrows. His head was slightly bent, his brow creased in concentration. Thin, elongated shadows from the lamp wavered across his left cheek, covering his fair skin like some liquid dark wing, almost sinister, while furrows of thinning blond hair sat soft on his head. Stopping my own work to study him, I imagined I saw in his face the Greatwing he had claimed long ago as his totem. The Greatwing was called 'hawk' in Amer. I liked that name better. Hawk was strong, objective, bold-- like my father. But Greatwing was its spirit name, the name given to my father when he had claimed it as totem. I tasted the names on my tongue and tried to imagine the spirit name I would be given.

A Fatality


With little or no planning, she turned her jaguar into a murder weapon. Succumbing to blind fury, she whipped the steering wheel hard and accelerated, sideswiping the sedan. As she sped away, she reached a decision. “That Woman” needed to die. Soon. She pulled over to the side of the road and put the Jag in reverse. Pulling back on the highway, she hit the accelerator, zooming toward them as fast as she could. It was amazing how fast the car could go backwards. Once she’d rammed them, she put her car in first gear and directed the vehicle until it was behind them. Then she rammed them again. She bee-lined for the median. Once there, she turned the car until it was perpendicular to the wounded sedan. She put the accelerator to the floor. The impact knocked the Ford on two wheels. She gunned her vehicle again and pushed their car over the guardrail. Then she flew the hundred yards to the nearest exit ramp and disappeared from view.


( 7 comments — Leave a comment )
Feb. 3rd, 2011 03:42 pm (UTC)
Great teasers! I'll send one of my own next week!
Feb. 3rd, 2011 05:08 pm (UTC)
Feb. 3rd, 2011 03:55 pm (UTC)
Fun! Thanks for posting! I am assuming your e-mail was to let me know it was up?

So strange I can't read your messages!
Feb. 3rd, 2011 05:09 pm (UTC)
I fixed the problem. I just told you how awesome you are. :)
Feb. 3rd, 2011 06:37 pm (UTC)
It's strange to read my teaser and know I've already made several changes to it since I sent it. Guess that's just an integral part of living.
Feb. 3rd, 2011 06:48 pm (UTC)
Most writers change things a dozen times.

I also probably should've warned people that I don't edit anything. :)
Feb. 10th, 2011 07:38 am (UTC)
Wow, so many great teasers! (Took me long enough to read 'em...haha!)
( 7 comments — Leave a comment )


Jeannine Garsee

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