1st 5 Pages October Workshop - Allen Rev 2

Name: Kathleen S. Allen
Genre: YA historical
Title: THE PIRATE'S DAUGHTER (PIRATE JENNY)-REV 2

Boar’s Head Tavern

The stench of unwashed bodies drifted around me as I weaved my way through the tavern crowd, my boots sticking to the floor as I walked through God knows what. Tonight the inn was crowded with drunken soldiers and the ale flowed freely. I looked around for one soldier in particular but he was notably absent. Where is he? Why isn’t he here tonight? Worried he might be indisposed; I walked past a group of his fellows and asked.

“Where’s James tonight?”

“Ah, Jenny fancies our captain,” Robert said. “She misses him.”

“Aww,” they said in chorus.

“I just wondered since he’s been here every night,” I said balancing a tray full of goblets and trying not to show how much I did miss him.

“Back at camp,” Robert said with a wink. “Join him there later, I bet he’d welcome the distraction from guard duty.” He guffawed. A captain who does guard duty? Unusual but not surprising. James struck me as the type to do whatever his men needed him to do. Smiling, I delivered the goblets to the next table over. I walked back and forth across the room carrying goblets of ale until my feet ached.

“Jenny,” Meg called from the doorway of the kitchen. I put down the tray and glanced up at her. She pointed to a soldier getting sick by the inside of the front door. I sighed. “Clean it up,” she shouted over the din. The soldier finished and made his way up the stairs but stopped on the landing, getting sick there too. He staggered back down the stairs and collapsed on a bench. Why must they drink until they either pass out or get sick all over the tavern? The smell wafted toward me and I gagged involuntarily. Seeing James might’ve taken some of the drudgery out of the evening but now I didn’t even have that to look forward to. With a loud sigh I filled the bucket from the cistern.

Sweet Jesu, I thought when a woman laughed and walked drunkenly into me causing the contents of the bucket I was carrying to spill onto my boots. I leapt out of the way of the filthy water but it was too late. My boots were soaked through. The woman laughed and fell back against one of the soldiers who peered down the front of her bodice before she got up and found her way back to her companions. I smiled and wagged a finger at the soldier who smiled back.

I wiped my hands on my apron and pushed and shoved my way through the crowd, tripping over boots as I tried to avoid the hands of a soldier who reached out to me. I shook my head holding up the rag.

“I have to clean one of your messes,” I said.

“Good ole Jenny cleans up for us,” he roared with a drunken slur.

“A good girl, that one,” someone else added with a shout.

“To Jenny,” he said and several raised their goblets to me. Acknowledging their thanks with a nod made me pause.

If I was a good girl, I should be content with my lot in life but I was not. From the kitchen door, I gazed at the crowd, most of them laughing and talking in loud voices. Two of the soldiers were dicing in the corner with four others behind them tossing down coins. A woman danced on a table to the sounds of a pipe played by a soldierThe sweet notes flowed through me touching a chord deep in my soul.

I’m not like them, I thought. And yet, I so longed to be. Carefree, happy, content. Going through my days with a smile on my face like Jane, a village girl recently married to one of the soldiers. She saw me staring at her and waved. She was a year younger than me and had her own household. It’s not fair.

I strode into the kitchen and through the back door. I filled the bucket with fresh water from the cistern. Reaching up, I snipped a piece of dried lavender to add to it. I overfilled the bucket and water sloshed over the edge soaking my boots. Maybe now they’ll smell better.

I trudged up the stairs, hauling the bucket to clean the mess at the landing. Once it was cleaned, I took the bucket over to the window into the closest room, mine. Squeezing out the rag, I put it on the sill and pushed open the window.

I meant to dump it out but something caught my eye. I gazed out at the full moon reflected on the blue black sea. The bucket, heavy in my hand made me recall what I was doing. I dumped the contents onto the ground below watching to make sure it didn’t hit anyone. There it was again, a shadow crossed in front of the moon. I paused and gazed out.

A ship!

As I watched, the outline of a tall ship stole into the harbor, gliding silently over the waves like a ghost ship carrying the dead across the river Styx.

What I wouldn’t give to sail on the open seas, adventures awaiting me at every port. For a brief moment I imagined myself standing on the deck of a ship, wind in my hair, on my way to…

A hiss made me turn. Meg.

The now empty bucket still in my hand, I gathered up the rag and plopped it inside. A quick glance out the window told me the ship was no longer there. Perhaps I had imagined it. I turned back to Meg who watched me from the doorway with a scowl on her face.

“Girl, you dreaming again? Get back to work before I whip you.” Meg flew at me with her hand raised.

Rather than pausing to explain and get slapped for the trouble, I dropped the bucket and scurried out of her way, running down the stairs two at a time. My only thought was to get as far away from her as quickly as I could.

“Get back here and pick up this mess!”

Meg was old and had a substantial girth so I knew she would not be able to catch me. I rounded the corner and ran smack into Thomas who carried a full tray of goblets filled to the brim with ale. They spilled all over him, me and the floor. I landed on my bottom, my dress soaked.

He glared at me. “Look at what you’ve done. Now fetch six goblets of ale from the ale room and take them to the table by the window.”

Thomas shook himself like a dog, sending more droplets of the nasty smelling brew all over me.

“I smell like ale,” I complained as I wrung out a handful of my hair that was dripping with the stuff. I stood and tried to get around him but he caught my arm.

“You wouldn’t want me to tell Meg you were daydreaming again, would you?” he asked, a glint in his beady eyes. No, I would not.

Picking up the goblets, I took them and the tray to what Thomas called the ale room.
Too small to be a proper room, the ale room was no bigger than an opening in the wall holding two barrels of ale and several bottles of wine.

Thomas watched me fill six goblets halfway with the ale before adding barley water from the bucket near the barrel. It was Thomas’s way of keeping the costs down. It felt like cheating to me. Most of the time I forgot to add the barley water but this time, since Thomas watched, I didn’t have the chance. I balanced the now full goblets on the tray and headed back out to the main tavern room while Thomas went back to the kitchen.

The men in the corner yelled for their drink.

“Bring our ale!”

“We’re thirsty!”

“Hurry up!”

I rushed to the table near the window, managing to keep most of the liquid in the goblets. One of the soldiers grabbed two goblets. Drinking from one, he passed the other to the soldier next to him. Hands grabbed the rest before I could set the tray down.
“Looks like Jenny has been tipping the ale herself,” Robert said. He yanked me to his lap and sniffed my hair. “Smells good, I like the new scent. Better than what my wife uses.”

I jerked away and stood. “Leave be.” I smacked his roaming hands. “Or I'll tell your wife that you're drinking in here instead of tending to your duties.”

He frowned. “Now, Jenny, be a good girl. I was only teasing. Give us a song and I'll forgive you.” A tiny spark of hope lit up inside me. Singing is the one thing I can do well. Even Meg can’t fault me for bringing in more guests because of my singing. I nod.

1st 5 Pages October Workshop - Awe Rev 2

Chris Awe
MG/ YA historical fiction
Goliath: Deus Ex Machina (Rev. 2)


-Chapter 1-

Well hidden from the guards’ prying eyes, in a place most unlikely, a little boy of very peculiar nature and fashion hunkered in the thick shadow behind a balustrade.

There were whole bunches of little slave boys almost quite like him hustling and bustling through the corridors day in day out and thus he would have been nearly a common sight, if not at this most unreasonable hour and in this perilous place.

Breathing noisily he pressed his back flat against the cold, hard, marble stones.

‘Shuesh.’ gasped he when the night dew soaked through the thin layers of his tattered clothes and added to the sweat already coursing down his back.

Ignoring the unpleasant shudder that crept down his spine he closed his eyes.

‘One ... two ... three.’ Taking another rasping breath he inched himself up the wall and peered over its edge.

‘Blood and guts!’ A broad grin showed on his face.

Beyond the southern wall a blaze was roaring through the mazy alleys of the Jewish quarter, sending up thrashing sheets of flames and sparks, and the silhouettes of the legionaries swarming the battlements loomed dimly against its red glow, radiating into the vastness of the night’s sky.

Thick black gouts of smoke billowed off the Macedonian barracks, paling stars and moon and the charred skeletons of the colossal siege towers outside the gates gave silent witness to the unspeakable violence of the earlier hours that had turned Alexandria into a smouldering heap of rubble and ash. The foul odour of singed wood and flesh clung to the air like a bad memory of the night’s atrocities and the boy almost choked when another gust intensified the stench.

Legionaries rushed to and fro the battlements. Dodging some scattered arrows that still came whistling aimlessly over the wall, the rattling of their armour resounded across the palace square and every now and again a heavy war-drum-beat throbbed and rolled. Far away, in the labyrinthine alleys of the Greek quarter where the Alexandrians had taken cover, there came battle cries and horn-calls, but beneath his feet, geared to one another like a well oiled engine, the Romans had already begun to repair the damaged parts of the fortifications. Watching them placing more ballista and catapults on towers and walls and reinforcing their positions with battering rams and trenches, his face turned into a hateful mask. He had missed the battle. Eli and Festus had succeeded after all.

‘I knew it!’ he muttered crossly to himself. ‘Seth curse them both. Yes, curse them and chop them into pieces. These horse-asses just don’t care,’ he ranted on grinding his teeth. ‘That’s their problem. They don’t care about anything at all.’

All the effort to find this spot for naught. Waiting for the Queen to be taken to a secure place somewhere in the catacombs, pointless. Risking his life dodging the guards and stealthily sliding past Pothinus into her chamber, in vain.

Sulking he glanced around again.

‘If only she wouldn‘t return anytime soon.’ he thought. For if she did, he would be in trouble, and this time real big trouble. Nothing compared to the usual whipping and beating. No, this time it would certainly lead to trouble of the hands cut off, your tongue ripped out and feet burned to charcoal kind.

At this thought panic rose in his throat and he dipped back down to cast a reassuring glance at the balcony door.

Nothing stirred! Just the panicky rattle of his own breath and the silken curtains flapping in the breeze. Bit by bit the thumping in his heart slowed. He fished in his pouch, pulled a handful of dried dates he had sneaked from the kitchen and shoved them into his mouth.

‘Now pull yourself together you coward and calm down!’ he grunted gulping down the sticky lump in whole. ‘You’ll be fine.’ He shook off the little worry that had begun to niggle at the back of his mind, got up and peeped over the balustrade again.

The temple of Isis was to his left. Its wide marble steps, the massive pillars and the magnificent colourful statues never failed to leave him awestruck. Across the vast square, behind the royal garden there loomed the mighty wall, where the ferocious onslaught of the Egyptian troops had been cut to pieces, and to his right there was the Portus Magnus. Like gargantuan sea beast resting after a long voyage the dark shadows of the Rhodian warships rolled gently in the greenish glow of the water.


Left of the harbour’s entrance, the majestic black shadow of the lighthouse, by far the most impressive building in Alexandria and probably in the entire world, rose from the shadowy twilight like a teacherish finger and sent its light across the leaden sea. Braced on top, a colossal golden statue of Poseidon towered, trident in hand, keeping his watchful eye fixed on the horizon.


Further left a long chain of flickering lights marked the Heptastadion. The boy’s gaze followed the great mole that connected the small island to the mainland. He tried to spot his favourite place, the colossal building of the great library, but darkness still veiled this part of the city. Oh, how he missed the library. Before the war, he had stolen away from his duties whenever possible and hurried to this fantastic building, where seemingly endless rows of old scroll awaited him.


When he returned late at night, people always wondered where he had been, but he wouldn’t tell. This was his secret and he was guarding it no matter what. Especially Eli and Festus always tried to squeeze out where he disappeared to, but he had sworn an oath not to tell, and an oath was not to be broken, everybody knew that, right?


The library really was a splendid place. The Ptolemies hadn’t spared any expenses and collected over 600.000 manuscripts from every corner of the civilised world. Made of long-lasting papyrus, they were neatly rolled and meticulously stored in the endless shelves. The boy just loved the dusty old smell and the leathery touch of the ancient parchment, the light crackle when he carefully rolled it out and the mysterious secrets they harboured.


And he loved Aineas. The old man was the Museion’s curator, his mentor and his best, well, to tell the sad truth, his only true friend. Aineas also was appointed keeper of the Archimedean manuscripts and had access to whatever information one desired. Tucked away deep down below the main halls, in the cavernous underground vaults of the Museion, the archive encompassed the most wondrous manuscripts so elaborate and complicated, nobody except for Aineas was able to read, let alone understand them.


Before the war they had often sat together until deep into the night, absorbed in studying the ancient writings. Well, to tell another truth, in the beginning the boy had not been keen on being absorbed in studying so much, who liked studying anyway, but little by little all kinds of questions had popped up inside his head and he had started to ask all kinds of questions. At first the old man had patiently tried to answer each and every one of them, but then, after a few weeks of constant queries, Aineas had grown tired and begun to teach him the secrets of his trade.

1st 5 Pages October Workshop - Ledbetter Rev 2

Name: Christopher Ledbetter

Genre: Young Adult Contemporary (with a pinch of magical realism)
Title: Hard To Breathe

Dreams are like sunsets, beautiful and fleeting. I often wonder what kind of sunset I’d create if I could control it. The colours I’d choose. The balance. The flow. And if it were mine, maybe I’d make it last all day. But then again, there's not much point to that. Like dreams, perhaps a sunset’s beauty walks hand in hand with its brevity.

The air’s thick with autumn’s earthy scent while I sit outside the Hydraulic Road Hilltop Grocery, watching the sun descend toward the foothills behind my school. Monet’s Houses of Parliament has nothing on this. In fact, Monet’s whole outlook on sunsets would’ve been different if he’d lived here in Charlottesville, Virginia, if he could’ve seen what I’m looking at right now.

Condensation from my Gatorade coats my right hand while I bite into the strawberry Scooter Crunch in the other. Not exactly the best post-basketball game meal. But hey, they called my name when I entered the store. I open up my journal to record my day’s outing on the court, as always. I feel like I played pretty well today, but in four pick-up basketball games, I only averaged three points, one steal, and two rebounds. That’s not getting it done.

I need to make the team this year. It’s the last chance for recruiters to notice me. Last chance to get a scholarship since I’m not playing soccer anymore. I’m done with that.

I sigh in a puff that becomes visible in the air. At least my defence is getting better. The guys I guarded only averaged two points per game. And my team stayed on the court the entire time. Small victories, right?

I kill the rest of my Gatorade. It’s a cold fruit punch-flavored river of goodness. I toss my trash and head down the now darkened, winding road toward my house. Actually, it’s far from a house. It’s the tiniest apartment known to man. Every room is two steps from every other room. All Mum can afford, I guess.

I practice my moves down the sidewalk, loving the feel of the worn leather beneath my fingertips. No one should ever bother with a rubber ball. I dribble right-handed. Left-handed. Spin around the oncoming night jogger. Behind-the-back. Between the legs. Shake and bake on that crack in the cement.

After basketball camp at the University of North Carolina that Mum suffered through multiple yard sales to pay for, I have moves. Moves I’m about to unleash when tryouts come around. Too bad no one saw them earlier this afternoon at open gym. Where are my moves hiding?

Soon, the smell of Mum’s baked chicken slides an arm around me and leads me by the nose before I even approach the charcoal gray, metal door to my apartment. If it’s Sunday, it’s chicken day. I swear, she knows one hundred and one ways to cook chicken.

“Mum, I’m home.” I kick off my low-top Adidas and stride into the kitchen.

“Hey, Mo.” She looks up from her hunched-over-the-dining-room-table position and takes her glasses off. Her black hair is wound tight atop her head. “Your plate’s in the toaster oven, keeping warm.”

“Thanks.” I spoon on some cold green beans and mashed potatoes from the stove. Canned and boxed, but it’s all good to me.

“Aww, I’m sorry honey. I should’ve warmed them up, too.” She swipes several strands of dark hair out of her face. “Hey, your dad called today. You should really give him a call–”

“For what? So he can tell me how many goals he scored in his last game… in Greece?”

“At least he’s still sending us checks.”

“He plays professional football, Mum! He can afford to send more than lunch money,” I fire back.

Dad’s shadow looms across oceans. It’s like living under a suffocating blanket. He completely wrecked my love for soccer. In fact, I’m still trying to shrug off his Greek heritage. I’m going to be as American as apple pie. Except my last name will still be Anestis. And I’ll probably still have twice as much body hair as the average American.

Mum’s brown-skinned face falters, probably from the pain of my words and the truth in them. “Well–” She turns back toward the table. “I did get a package from Athens yesterday. I wondered whether or not to open it, send it back or… just give it to you.”

I take a half-step back. “A package?”

Mum walks slowly into the den and fishes a small brown box out of the bottom of her desk drawer. She hands it to me. Her lips are pressed tight. She crosses her arms and twists the wedding band around her finger with her thumb.

Mum braved moving across the world from America to Australia for love, of all things, with visions of a better life. Even though she doesn’t talk much about it, her eyes fail to hide her disappointment that that life is over. That she’s back in the United States with me without dad. Makes me wonder how she’s managed to pick up the pieces so effortlessly once her own dream shattered.

“Why do you still wear that?” I ask with a quiet voice.

She unfolds her arms and stuffs her hands in her pockets. Her gaze shifts to her feet. She sighs. “I don’t know, kiddo.”

A pang hits me as I study the box and its evidence of international travel scrawled across the outside. Definite mixed feelings. I almost wouldn’t know how to accept a nice gift from him. Though, I also don’t want to get my hopes up. “You remember that crap-tastic sweatshirt he sent me one time with the broken English like some Greek person translated it incorrectly?”

“At least he’s trying, sweetheart.” She flashes a forced smile. “By the way, how’d you play today?”

“I killed it,” I say triumphantly. No way am I telling her that those yard sales didn’t mean anything. “Your son is unstoppable.”

“That’s good, honey.” She puts her glasses back on and returns to papers she’s grading. “After you eat, go be unstoppable on your homework.”

After my shower, I stare at the prints of famous paintings that hang on the wall above my bed. Rembrandt. Monet. Botticelli. Okay, they aren’t prints so much as pictures I printed off the Internet in art class last year. But, they spoke to me. And I hung them over my bed in hopes that one night maybe I’d dream I was inside one of them. Of course, I’d actually have to fall asleep to dream.

Ever since Dad left us, I developed full-blown insomnia. It affects everything. My schoolwork. My basketball. My life. I decide to get to work before my insomniac brain shuts down despite being fully awake, before I have to suffer through yet another night of staring at the ceiling while counting the heartbeats that pulse in my aching eyes.

A new nine-weeks term begins on Monday. I place dad's package on my desk and plop onto the bed. The box stares at me, but I don’t have time for Dad right now. I need to focus on my studies. After the required reading in my Geometry book, it’s problems one through twenty-four, only the odd-numbers. I never could figure out why teachers do that. Odd numbers. Like even numbers are so evil.

1st 5 Pages October Workshop - Catalano Rev 2

Name: Pete Catalano

Genre: MG Contemporary Humor

Title: MIDDLE SCHOOL MAFIA

After a very long drive, my dad finally slowed the car down in the middle of nowhere. Looking out the window at the well-kept houses, and neatly trimmed lawns, I quickly realized there wasn't a satellite dish in sight.

 

I can see it now, I thought as we swung around another corner. Deech Rosselli, age thirteen, found dead after being placed in Witness Protection. The cause of death wasn’t a snitch giving up the Rosselli’s whereabouts and the bad guys finding them, but rather a fatal case of boredom. Rosselli passed while sitting on the couch, staring at the TV, remote in hand, waiting for his new podunk little town to get DirecTV.

 

My daydreams were interrupted by my dad yelling, “HOLD ON,” as our Jeep came to a screeching halt less than three feet from the back of the moving truck parked in front of our new house.

 

“DAD!” Angie, my sixteen-year-old sister shrieked, jamming her feet into the back of my dad’s seat, bracing for impact after the Jeep had already stopped. As usual she’d been playing on her iPhone, oblivious to anything that wasn’t on her screen.

 

“What are you putting your feet up for, knucklehead?” I asked her. “You’re still crunched if dad hits the back of that truck. Only thing you can do at that point is hope the hospital you’re being rushed to has Wi-Fi.”

 

“I’ve only been hoping for one thing for the last thirteen years,” she hissed after she put her feet back down on the floor, “but you’re still here.”

 

“Wendell, are you all right?” my mom said harshly, a smile on her face, but her teeth clenched tight.

 

“Hey, mom,” I called to her over the front seat. "You said they took away his gun and his passport. Maybe you should help him with that gas pedal and brake thingy too.”

 

“I’m good.” My dad raised his hands up in the air to silence everybody and end the discussion. “And nobody speaks to Big Rosie . . .”

 

“Wendell,” my mother corrected him for probably the fortieth time on this trip alone, “your name is Wendell now, not Rosie. And not even ‘Big’ Wendell.”

 

“What kind of name is Wendell anyway?” my dad asked, his face scrunching up in disgust. “Do you have any idea how many Wendells I’ve beaten up in my life?”

 

“It’s a perfectly normal name for a perfectly normal family,” a man in a dark suit stepped up to the driver’s window. “Rosie Rosselli is traceable, Wendell Walker is not." Suit looked into the back seat at Angie and me. "Hey kids, I’m U.S. Marshall Stratton and welcome to Walnut Creek. The kids in town call me ‘suit’. I’m not sure if it’s a sign of respect or an insult, but I choose to look at everything on a positive note.”

 

“It’s not a sign of respect,” I said, stumbling past him as I got out of the car.

 

“A man who speaks his mind,” Stratton said. “I like that. But not a lot of kids at that new middle school of yours are going to. You better learn how to duck.”

 

Walking to the edge of the sidewalk, I kept my eyes on Stratton the entire way. There was something I liked about him, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. I took a deep breath and looked at my new block as it stretched out before me.

 

There was a work van parked a couple of houses down that had two men working busily around it. The word Satellite was prominently displayed on the side and even though they were working hard, they didn’t seem to be doing much of anything. I knew right away they weren’t repairmen, but they were pretty convincing.

 

“Well played fake repairmen,” I said, staring at them. “Well played.”

 

“Are you all right?” Stratton asked as he stepped up behind me.

 

“Yeah, I’m good,” I nodded. Then I motioned toward the van. “Should I be worried about them?”

 

“About who?’ Stratton asked.

           

“Satellite TV guys fixing cable in a town that has no satellite dishes,” I said.

 

“No,” Stratton laughed. “They’re mine. You won’t see any of the bad guy vans in front of your house, on your block, or even in the city limits while you’re in my town. You have a good eye.”

 

“Lot’s of vans in front of my house back in Brooklyn,” I said. “I’ve had a lot of practice.”

 

Just then a couple with a kid about my age came out of the house across the street.

 

“Those are the Millers,” Stratton said. “Bob, Judy, and Bartholomew. You should take a walk over and meet them some time. Bartholomew is about your age and they’ve only been here about a week so far.”

 

“Bartholomew?” I asked him. “Did you give him the name Bartholomew?”

 

“Sure did,” the man said.

 

“Why didn’t you just paint a target on his back instead?” I laughed at the thought of living with a name like that in middle school.

 

“I don’t know, Durwood,” he smiled. “Why don’t you tell me? Maybe I should put bigger one on your back.”

 

“You just did,” I said. “Durwood?”

 

“Didn’t your parents tell you?” Stratton asked. “I pick the name for everybody that steps into my town. After I went over your family’s new names with your parents and Angie, they all thought Durwood would be appropriate. Especially Angie.”

 

“Wait, wait, wait. Bartholomew is a wonderful name,” I backtracked as quickly as I could. “Durwood? Please don’t name me Durwood.”

 

He looked at me and smiled. “I’ll see if I can figure out something that won’t get you beat up so quickly. Now, run inside, go find your room, and then meet me back in the living room. We have to go over a few more things before I turn you loose.”

 

I followed Stratton into the house and then went up the stairs to find the bedrooms before Angie claimed all of them. The one on the right side of the house was the master suite for Mom and Dad. There were two smaller rooms on the left side of the house that I knew Angie would be all over. But then I noticed a small doorway. As I walked up one more flight to the attic, I saw the room of my dreams open up before me.

 

It was gigantic! The ceiling soared up until all four sides met in the center and there was an old-timey window set into each of the sides. The walls all had windows, too, so no matter where I put my bed, I would be able to look out and see everything  . . . and if any of the bad guys had gotten past Stratton.

 

I ran back down the two flights of stairs, and in the middle of the flight back down to the living room, I stopped and watched as all these guys carrying boxes marked “Walker” moved quickly throughout the house.

 

“Is this one yours, little man?” this giant of a mover asked as he stood there holding a box with “Tommy Walker” written across the side.

 

“I hope so,” I said, very happy I didn’t see the name “Durwood” anywhere on the box.

 

“Which room is yours?”

 

I turned to look at my Mom and Dad and then over at my sister Angie, who was still moping on the couch. “Top of the stairs and then go up one more flight,” I said, feeling pretty good about it. “Best room in the house.”

 

“Come on.” Stratton called me off the stairs. “Family meeting.”

 

I came down the stairs and settled in onto the couch next to my mom, dad, and Angie. And waited.

 

 

MIDDLE SCHOOL MAFIA Rev 1 Pete Catalano

Name: Pete Catalano
Genre: Middle Grade Contemporary Humor
Title: MIDDLE SCHOOL MAFIA

After a very long drive, my dad finally pulled off the highway in a small town in North Carolina. Looking out the window at the well-kept houses, and neatly trimmed lawns, I quickly realized there wasn't a satellite dish in sight.

I can see it now, I thought as we swung around another corner. Deech Rosselli, age twelve found dead after being placed in Witness Protection. The cause of death wasn’t a snitch giving up the Rosselli’s whereabouts and the bad guys finding them, but rather a fatal case of boredom. Rosselli passed while sitting on the couch, staring at the TV, remote in hand, waiting for his new podunk little town to get DirecTV.

My daydreams were interrupted by my dad yelling, “HOLD ON,” as our Jeep came to a screeching halt less than three feet from the back of the moving truck parked in front of our new house.

“DAD!” my sister Angie shrieked, jamming her feet into the back of my dad’s seat, bracing for impact after the Jeep had already stopped. As usual she’d been playing on her iPhone, oblivious to anything that wasn’t on her screen.

“What are you putting your feet up for, knucklehead?” I asked her. “You’re still crunched if dad hits the back of that truck. Only thing you can do at that point is hope the hospital you’re being rushed to has Wi-Fi.”

“I’ve been hoping for only one thing for the last twelve years,” she hissed after she put her feet back down on the floor, “but you’re still here.”

“Wendell, are you all right?” my mom said harshly, a smile on her face, but her teeth clenched tight.

“Hey, mom,” I called over the backseat. "You said they took away his gun and his passport. Maybe they took his ability to decide between the gas pedal and the brake too.”

“I’m good.” My dad raised his hands up in the air to silence her and end the discussion. “And you need to remember how you speak to Big Rosie . . .”

“Wendell,” my mother corrected him for probably the fortieth time on this trip alone, “your name is Wendell now. And not even ‘Big’ Wendell.”

“What kind of name is Wendell anyway?” my dad asked, his face scrunching up in disgust. “Do you have any idea how many Wendells I’ve beaten up in my life?”

“It’s a perfectly normal name for a perfectly normal family,” a man in a dark suit stepped up to the driver’s window. “Rosie Rosselli is traceable, Wendell Walker is not." Suit looked into the back seat at Angie and me. "Hey kids, I’m U.S. Marshall Stratton and welcome to Walnut Creek. The kids in town call me ‘suit’. I’m not sure if it’s a sign of respect or an insult, but these days I choose to look at everything on a positive note.”

“It’s not a sign of respect,” I said, stumbling past him as I got out of the car.

“A man who speaks his mind,” Stratton said. “I like that. But not a lot of kids at that new middle school of yours will.”

As I walked to the edge of the sidewalk, I kept my eyes on Stratton the entire way. There was something I liked about him, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. I took a deep breath and looked at my new block as it stretched out before me.

There was a work van parked a couple of houses down that had two men working busily around it. The word Satellite was prominently displayed on the side. They didn’t seem to be doing much of anything, so I knew right away they weren’t repairmen, but they were pretty convincing.

“Well played fake repairmen,” I said, staring at them. “Well played.”

“You all right?” Stratton asked as he stepped up behind me.

“Yeah, I’m good,” I nodded. Then I motioned toward the van. “Should I be worried about that?”

“About what?’ Stratton asked.

           

“Satellite TV guys fixing cable in a town that has no satellite dishes,” I said.

“No,” Stratton laughed. “They’re mine. You won’t see any of the bad guy vans in front of your house, on your block, or even in the city limits while you’re in my town. You have a good eye.”

“Lot’s of vans in front of my house back in Brooklyn,” I said. “I’ve had a lot of practice.”

Just then a couple with a kid about my age came out of the house across the street.

“Those are the Millers,” Stratton said. “Bob, Judy, and Bartholomew. You should take a walk over and meet them some time. Bartholomew is about your age and they’ve only been here about a week so far.”

“Bartholomew?” I asked him. “Did you give him the name Bartholomew?”

“Sure did,” the man said.

“Why didn’t you just paint a target on his back instead?” I laughed at the thought of living with a name like that in middle school.

“I don’t know, Durwood,” he smiled. “Why don’t you tell me? Maybe I should put bigger one on your back.”

“You just did,” I said. “Durwood?”

“Didn’t your parents tell you?” Stratton asked. “I pick the name for everybody that steps into my town. After I went over your family’s new names with your parents and Angie, they all thought Durwood would be appropriate. Especially Angie.”

“Wait, wait, wait. Bartholomew is a wonderful name,” I backtracked as quickly as I could. “Durwood? Please don’t name me Durwood.”

He looked at me and smiled. “I’ll see if I can figure out something that won’t get you beat up so quickly. Now, run inside, go find your room, and then meet me back in the living room. We have to go over a few more things before I turn you loose.”

I followed Stratton into the house and then went up the stairs to find the bedrooms before Angie claimed all of them. The one on the right side of the house was the master suite for Mom and Dad. There were two smaller rooms on the left side of the house that I knew Angie would be all over. But then I noticed a small doorway. As I walked up one more flight to the attic, I saw the room of my dreams open up before me.

It was gigantic! The ceiling soared up until all four sides met in the center and there was an old-timey window set into each of the sides. The walls all had windows, too, so no matter where I put my bed, I would be able to look out and see everything  . . . and if any of the bad guys had gotten past Stratton.

I ran back down the two flights of stairs, and in the middle of the flight back down to the living room, I stopped and watched as all these guys carrying boxes marked “Walker” moved quickly throughout the house.

“Is this one yours, little man?” this giant of a mover asked as he stood there holding a box with “Tommy Walker” written across the side.

“I hope so,” I said, very happy I didn’t see the name “Durwood” anywhere on the box.

“Which room is yours?”

I turned to look at my Mom and Dad and then over at my sister Angie, who was still moping on the couch. “Top of the stairs and then go up one more flight,” I said, feeling pretty good about it. “Best room in the house.”

“Come on.” Stratton called me off the stairs. “Family meeting.”

I came down the stairs and settled in onto the couch next to my mom, dad, and Angie. And waited.

Hard To Breathe Rev. 1 Christopher Ledbetter

Name: Christopher Ledbetter

Genre: Young Adult Contemporary (with a pinch of magical realism)
Title: Hard To Breathe

Dreams are like sunsets, beautiful and fleeting. I often wonder what kind of sunset I’d create if I could control it. The colours I’d choose. The balance. The flow. And if it were mine, maybe I’d make it last all day. But then again, there's not much point to that. Like dreams, a sunset’s beauty walks hand in hand with its brevity.

The air’s thick with autumn’s earthy scent while I sit outside the Hydraulic Road Hilltop Grocery, watching the sun descend toward the foothills behind my school. Monet’s Houses of Parliament has nothing on this. In fact, Monet’s whole outlook on sunsets would’ve been different if he’d lived here in Charlottesville, Virginia, if he could’ve seen what I’m looking at right now. 

The sun resembles a giant basketball as it slips through the clouds, igniting the twine. Swish. Helios never misses. I chuckle. Helios, Greek God of the Sun. I guess there are certain things I’ll never escape. Neither my dad’s Greek blood nor his ancient gods.  They’re in my soul, no matter how much I try to shrug off the tunic, so to speak.

Basketball will definitely help, though. I need to make the team this year. It’s the last chance for recruiters to notice me. Last chance to get the scholarship I need since I’m not playing soccer anymore. I’m done with that. Dad ruined it. 

His shadow looms across oceans. It’s like living under a suffocating blanket. So, no more soccer. And, no more Greek heritage. I’ll be as American as apple pie. Except my last name will still be Anestis. And I’ll probably still have twice as much body hair as the average American.

Condensation from my Gatorade coats my right hand while I bite into the strawberry Scooter Crunch in the other. Not exactly the best post-game meal. But hey, it called my name when I entered the store. I open up my journal to record my day’s outing on the court, as always. I feel like I played pretty well today, but in four pick-up basketball games, I only averaged three points, one steal, and two rebounds. That’s not getting it done. 

I sigh in a puff. At least my defence is getting better. The guys I guarded only averaged two points per game. And my team stayed on the court the entire time. Small victories, right?

I kill the rest of my Gatorade. It’s a cold fruit punch-flavored river of goodness.  I toss my trash and head down the now darkened, winding road toward my house. Actually, it’s far from a house. It’s the tiniest apartment known to man. Every room is two steps from every other room. All Mum can afford, I guess.

I practice my moves down the sidewalk, loving the feel of the worn leather beneath my fingertips. Who’d ever bother with a rubber ball? Dribble right-handed. Left-handed. Spin around the oncoming night jogger. Behind-the-back. Between the legs. Shake and bake on that crack in the cement. 

After basketball camp at the University of North Carolina that Mum suffered through multiple yard sales to pay for, I have moves. Moves I’m about to unleash when tryouts come around. Too bad no one saw them earlier this afternoon at open gym. Where are my moves hiding?

Soon, the smell of Mum’s baked chicken slides an arm around me and leads me by the nose before I even approach the charcoal gray, metal door to my apartment. If it’s Sunday, it’s chicken day. I swear, she knows one hundred and one ways to cook chicken.

“Mum, I’m home.” I kick off my low-top Adidas and stride into the kitchen.

“Hey, Mo.” She looks up from her hunched-over-the-dining-room-table position and takes her glasses off. Her black hair is wound tight atop her head. “Your plate’s in the toaster oven, keeping warm.”

“Thanks.” I spoon on some cold green beans and mashed potatoes from the stove. Canned and boxed, but it’s all good to me. 

“Aww, I’m sorry honey. I should’ve warmed them up, too.” She swipes several strands of dark hair out of her face.  “Hey, your dad called today. You should really give him a call–”

“For what? So he can tell me how many goals he scored in his last game… in Greece?”

“At least he’s still sending us checks.”

“He plays professional football, Mum! He can afford to send more than lunch money,” I fire back.

Mum’s hazelnut-hued face falters, probably from the pain of my words and the truth in them. “Well–” She turns back toward the table. “I did get a package from Athens yesterday. I wondered whether or not to open it, send it back or… just give it to you.”

I take a half-step back. “A package?”

Mum walks slowly into the den and fishes a small brown box out of the bottom of her desk drawer. She hands it to me. Her lips are pressed tight. She crosses her arms and twists the wedding band around her finger with her thumb. 

Mum braved moving across the world from America to Australia for love, of all things, with visions of a better life. Even though she doesn’t talk much about it, her eyes fail to hide her disappointment that that life is over. That she’s back in the United States with me without dad. Makes me wonder how she’s managed to pick up the pieces so effortlessly once her own dream shattered.

“Why do you still wear that?” I ask with a quiet voice.

She unfolds her arms and stuffs her hands in her pockets. Her gaze shifts to her feet. She sighs. “I don’t know kiddo.”

A pang hits me as I study the box and its evidence of international travel scrawled across the outside. Definite mixed feelings. I almost wouldn’t know how to accept a good gift from him. Though, I also don’t want to get my hopes up. “You remember that crap-tastic sweatshirt he sent me one time with the broken English like some Greek person translated it incorrectly?”

“At least he’s trying, sweetheart.” She flashes a forced smile. “By the way, how’d you play today?”

“I killed it,” I say triumphantly. No way am I telling her that those yard sales didn’t mean anything. “Your son is unstoppable.” 

“That’s good, honey.” She puts her glasses back on and returns to papers she’s grading. “After you eat, go be unstoppable on your homework.”

After my shower, I stare at the prints of famous paintings that hang on the wall above my bed. Rembrandt. Monet. Botticelli. Okay, they aren’t prints so much as pictures I printed off the Internet in art class last year. But, they spoke to me. And I hung them over my bed in hopes that one night maybe I’d dream I was inside one of them. Of course, I’d actually have to fall asleep to dream.

Ever since Dad left us, I developed full-blown insomnia. It affects everything. My schoolwork. My basketball. My life. I decide to get to work before my insomniac brain shuts down despite being fully awake, before I have to suffer through yet another night of staring at the ceiling while counting the heartbeats that pulse in my aching eyes.

 A new nine-weeks term begins on Monday. I place dad's package on my desk. and plop onto the bed and open my Geometry book. After the required reading, it’s problems one through twenty-four, only the odd-numbers. I never could figure out why teachers do that. Odd numbers. Like even numbers are so evil. 

Pirate Jenny Rev. 1 Kathleen S. Allen

Name: Kathleen S. Allen

Genre: YA historical

Title: PIRATE'S DAUGHTER-RETITLED FROM PIRATE JENNY

Name: Kathleen S. Allen
Genre: YA historical
Title: THE PIRATE’S DAUGHTER-REV 1 (Previous title was PIRATE JENNY)

Chapter One
Boar’s Head Tavern

The smell of unwashed bodies drifted around me as I circumvented my way through the tavern crowd. The floor already sticky with spilled ale and other things I cared not to know about. Tonight the inn was crowded and the ale flowed freely.
Someone had gotten sick in the corner and again upstairs. Meg found me in the kitchen and told me to clean up the messes.
Wrinkling my nose, I scrubbed at the spot near the door. Opening it to let in a breeze and take the smell away, I paused. A shadow crossed my vision but when I looked up I saw nothing. Stepping outside to wring out the rag, I felt a shiver run through me. The night air was chilly as it was ought to be this time of year. All seemed quiet so I went back inside to rinse the rag again in the lavender water before heading upstairs.        
Sweet Jesu, I thought as the bucket tipped when a woman laughed and walked drunkenly into me, the contents spilling over the slick floor and onto my boots. I leaped out of the way but it was too late. The woman laughed and fell back against one of the soldiers who clearly enjoyed it.
I wiped my hands on my apron and pushed and shoved my way through the crowd, tripping over boots as I tried to avoid the hands of the soldiers on my way through.
Several of them called my name as I passed.
“Jenny, sing for us,” one of them said. I smiled and shook my head holding up the rag.
“I have to clean up one of your messes,” I said.
“Good ole Jenny cleans up for us,” he said. “A good girl, that one.”
His comments made me pause. If I was a good girl, I should be content with my lot in life but I was not.
Standing near the kitchen, I gazed at the crowd, most of them laughing and having a great time.
I’m not like them, I thought. And yet, I so longed to be. Carefree, happy, content. Going through my days with a smile on my face like Jane, one of the village girls recently married to one of the soldiers. She saw me staring at her and waved at me. She was a year younger than me and had her own household.
It’s not fair.
Going into the kitchen and through the back door, I got fresh water from the cistern and added lavender to it. Taking it, I found I had overfilled it and it sloshed over the edge soaking my boots.
I trudged up the stairs, hauling the bucket to clean the mess at the landing. Once it was cleaned, I hauled the bucket over to the window. I meant to dump it out but a movement caught my eye and I glanced out at the full moon reflected on the blue black water. The bucket, heavy in my hand made me recall what I was doing. I dumped the contents onto the ground below. Another movement made me pause.
A ship!
As I watched, the outline of a tall ship stole into the harbor gliding silently over the waves like a ghost ship carrying the dead across the river Styx.
What I wouldn’t give to sail on the open seas, adventures awaiting me at every port. For a brief moment I imagined myself standing on the deck of that ship, wind in my hair, on my way to…
A hiss made me turn.
Meg.
The now empty bucket still in my hand. I gathered up the rag and plopped it into the bucket.  A quick glance out the window told me the ship was no longer there. Perhaps I had imagined it. I turned back to Meg who watched me from the doorway with a scowl on her face.
“Girl? You dreaming again? Get back to work before I whip you.” Meg flew at me with her hand raised.
Before I had a chance to explain, I dropped the bucket and scurried out of her way as I ran down the stairs taking two at a time. My only thought was to get as far away from her as quickly as I could.
“Get back here, and pick this mess up!”
Meg was old and had a substantial girth so I knew she would not be able to catch me. I smiled as I rounded the corner and ran smack into Thomas, who carried a full tray of goblets filled to the brim with ale. They spilled all over him, me and the floor. I landed on my bottom, my dress soaked.
He glared at me. “Look at what you’ve done. Now fetch six goblets of ale and take them to the table by the window.”
Thomas shook himself like a dog would, sending more droplets of the nasty smelling brew all over me.
“I smell like ale,” I complained as I wrung out a handful of hair dripping with the stuff. I stood and tried to get around him but he caught my arm.
“You wouldn’t want me to tell Meg you were daydreaming again, would you?” he asked, a glint in his beady eyes.
No, I would not.
Picking up the goblets, I took them and the tray with me to the ale room.
“Don’t waste any,” Thomas said as he followed me.
I hesitated to call it a room when it was no bigger than an opening in the wall holding two barrels of ale and several bottles of wine. A bucket full of barley water sat near the ale barrel.
Conscious of Thomas watching me, I filled six more goblets halfway with the ale, then added barley water to fill them up all the way. It was Thomas’s way of keeping the costs down. It felt like cheating to me. Many times I simply forgot to add the barley water but this time since Thomas stood watch over me, I had no choice but to use the barley water. I balanced the now full goblets on a tray and headed back out to the main tavern room. Thomas went back to the kitchen 
I heard them before I saw them. The men in the corner yelled for their drink.
“Bring our ale!”
“We’re thirsty!”
“Hurry up!”
I carried them to the table near the window managing to spill only a little. One of the soldiers grabbed two of the goblets drinking from one and passing the other one to the soldier next to him. Hands grabbed the others before I could set them down.
“Looks like Jenny has been tipping the ale herself,” one said. He yanked me to his lap and sniffed my hair. “Smells good, I like the new scent, Jenny, better than what my wife uses.” I jerked away as the others guffawed.
“Leave be,” I said smacking his hands which tended to roam. “Or I will tell your wife on you that you are drinking here instead of tending to your duties.”
He frowned at me. “Now, Jenny, be a good girl. I was only teasing you. Give us a song and I will forgive you.”
“Song, song, song,” they began chanting.
I put my hands over my ears and stamped my foot to make them stop but they kept on.
All six of them stood and smacked their goblets on the table splashing themselves with ale and making a horrendous noise. The rest of the room got in on the fun. Everyone shouted at once and stamped their feet or pounded the table.
“Jenny, Jenny, song, song,” they all yelled.
I shook my head and frowned at the soldiers. If Thomas hears I’ll be in trouble. I glanced towards the kitchen and Thomas came out wiping his hands on his apron. He glared at me.
I gulped and my gaze flew to the willow branch Meg kept hanging by the kitchen door. My backside had already felt the sting of that branch and many of its cousins too many times to count. I did not relish feeling its sting tonight.
“All right, all right. Be quiet the lot of you,” he said in a loud booming voice that silenced the room. “What’s this all about?”
“We want Jenny to sing,” said one of the men. “If she sings we’ll stay and order another round, maybe two,” he said watching Thomas. “Two coins for one song.” He held up the coins and then tossed them through the air to Thomas who caught them deftly.

-- 
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Goliath: Deus Ex Machina Rev 1 Chris Awe

Chris Awe
Young Adult historical fiction
Goliath: Deus Ex Machina (Rev. 1)

-Chapter 1-

Well hidden from the guards’ prying eyes, in a place most unlikely, a little boy of very peculiar nature and fashion hunkered in the thick shadow behind a balustrade.

The boy looked young, not much older than ten years of age, and his face, as far as could be seen under the big, shiny cauldron that sat on his head, was chubby-cheeked with a podgy nose right where it belonged. A mop of messy, jet black curly hair bristled under his makeshift helmet and a pair of dark marbly eyes impishly flashed here and there.

From his waist to his awfully skinned knees stretched a skirt of coarse yellow flax tagging him private property of the palace. Over it a ragged moth-eaten cloak, held together by a simple string, fell down to his bare and very smutty feet and a small wooden sword, his every pride and most precious belonging, was dangling from his hip. His thickset, short-necked and rather portly figure, especially around his middle, revealed the boy’s weakness for substantial and solid meals and completed his somewhat out of tune appearance.

There were whole bunches of little slave boys almost quite like him hustling and bustling through the palace’s halls day in day out and thus he would have been nearly a common sight, if not at this most unreasonable hour and in this perilous place.
Breathing noisily the boy pressed his back flat against the cold, hard, marble stones.

‘Shuesh.’ gasped he when the night dew soaked through the thin layers of his tattered clothes, adding to the sweat that was already coursing down his back. He shivered as an unpleasant shudder crept down his spine.
He ignored the cold for once and closed his eyes to focus on his mission.

‘One ... two ... three.’ Taking another deep rasping breath he slowly pushed himself up on the low wall and cautiously peered over its edge.

‘Blood and guts!’ The scenery was beyond his wildest dreams. He had chosen his observation post most meticulously and with the same consideration and thoughtfulness that dominated some, but certainly not most of his actions. A broad grin on his face he squeaked with pleasure and scanned the area.

All the effort to find this perfect spot? Absolutely worth it. The bedlam of the early morning hours providing the necessary cover to sneak here? Godsend! Eli and Festus, those numbskulls trying to play their stupid tricks on him? Unpleasant but predictable! Locking him in the cellar? Pfft, ludicrous! It had taken some time, but there was no lock he couldn’t pick and nobody, really nobody had paid attention to him as he had sidled towards his destination. Not the guards and not even Pothinus, Ptolemy’s beefy warden, who was patrolling the long corridor leading to the royal chambers, a viperish look on his fat feverish face. Too busy yelling at one of the poor souls bustling up and down the corridors, that fat pig. He had gratefully seized his chance and used the one unobserved moment to slip inside.

As usual at the first stirrings of an attack, the princess and her servants had been evacuated to some secure underground location and the chamber lay completely deserted, as expected. Well not entirely deserted. Isis, the princess’s cat had lolled around on one of the fluffy cushions. Yawning and stretching she had been rather annoyed about this unexpected disturbance of her peace. He liked the cat. Whenever he was sent to Cleopatra’s chamber he always brought something special, and for as far as he was concerned the cat’s diet was far better than that of most people in Alexandria. Whipping her tail from side to side it had gracefully retreated into a dark corner of the room when against expectations he had produced nothing from his pouch.

‘If only her mistress won’t return anytime soon.’ he thought. For if she did, he would be in trouble, and this time real big trouble. Nothing compared to the usual whipping and beating. No, this time it would certainly lead to trouble of the hands cut off, your tongue ripped out and feet burned to charcoal kind. At this thought he felt panic rise in his throat and he dipped back down to cast a reassuring glance at the balcony door. Nothing! Just the panicky rattle of his own breath and the silken curtains lazily flapping in the breeze. Bit by bit his thumping heart slowed. He fished in his pouch, pulled a handful of dried dates he had sneaked from the kitchen and shoved them into his mouth.

‘Now pull yourself together and calm down!’ he grunted and gulped down the sticky lump in whole. ‘Everything will be all right.’ The tasty morsel helped him to shake off the little worry that had begun to niggle at the back of his mind. He got up and peeped over the balustrade again.

From here he could overlook almost the entire palace complex. The temple of Isis to the left with its wide marble steps, massive pillars and magnificent colourful statues. Across the vast square and behind the royal garden, there loomed the mighty wall in the south, where the ferocious onslaught of the Egyptian troops had been shattered. To his right there was the Portus Magnus, where the dark shadows of the gigantic three- and four-decked Rhodian warships rolled gently in the greenish glow of the sea.

There was still some action beneath his feet, but there was no denying he had missed most of it. Eli and Festus had succeeded after all.

‘I knew it!’ he muttered crossly to himself. ‘Osiris curse them both. Yes, curse them and chop them into pieces. These horse-asses just don’t care,’ he ranted on. ‘That’s their problem. They don’t care about anything at all.’ Sulking he glanced around again.

The Romans had already begun to repair the damaged parts of the fortifications. He could see them placing more ballista and catapults on towers and walls, and reinforcing their positions with battering rams and trenches. Medics were carrying the wounded to the temple of Isis, which, against the only half-hearted protests of the priests, now accommodated the hospital.

Legionaries rushed to and fro the battlements, dodging some scattered arrows that still came whistling aimlessly over the wall. Every now and again a heavy war-drum-beat throbbed and rolled, and far away in the labyrinthine alleys of the Rhakotis quarter, where the Egyptians had taken cover, there came battle cries and horn-calls. But it was quite obvious that the Alexandrians were on the losing end again.

Beyond the walls, in the Jewish quarter, a blaze was roaring through the mazy alleys sending up thrashing sheets of flames and sparks. The silhouettes of the legionaries swarming the battlements loomed dimly against its red glow, radiating into the vastness of the night’s sky. Thick black gouts of smoke billowed off the Macedonian barracks outside the gates, paling stars and moon, and the charred skeletons of the colossal siege towers gave silent witness to the unspeakable violence of the earlier hours.

‘If I just could get over there, I’d get at least a glimpse of the action.’ He racked his brain, but with Pothinus lurking in the hallway and the entire Roman army sweeping around, there was no way he could possibly make it to the southern wall without getting caught.