Marsha Bloom’s bosom heaved for the fourteenth time that morning. John was coming, at last. She so longed to see the object of her abject desire with every fiber of her being. She knew he was a profligate rake and a faithless rogue, but her quivering, craven achings quiesced whatever vibrant misgivings she might possess.

Wistfully she absorbed her unblemished bounty in the full length mirror for the last time. Her sapphire orbs gleamed with an iridescent glow, bottomless pools of torment peering out at her from under a teeming thatch of sanguine, salacious tresses. The low cut bodice showed her exquisite globes to jutting perfection. One more dab of glimmering gloss on her succulent lips and she knew she was ready. The doorbell rang.

On a planet much like ours – well, actually, technically, it was ours – there was once a great writer named Lori Lewis. Nobody knew that she was a great writer. For light-years she’d been sending her manuscript to publishers who were too stupid to see how good it was. All they ever sent her back were snippy little notes saying, "Thank you for your interest, but your story does not meet our needs at this time." One of them was even mean enough to mention that she’d said "their" where she meant to write "there." This made Lori cry so hard that the snot ran down her nose and landed on the letter, blurring its harsh words.

(With no apologies to Tim LaHaye and Jerry B. Jenkins.)

Prologue. Or, if you prefer, “prolog.” From the conclusion of Leftovers: Nick O’Ley, saving us the trouble of coming up with four new pages to kick off this volume in the series.

Truck Gilliams (that’s right, this guy’s name is “Truck,” now try and keep up) was filled with despair, sadness and ennui as he saw the daycare/youth sports league wing of the Christ Evangelical Faith Protestant Resurrection Church. Of course, being an American he was a couple of healthy miles from ennui and a lot closer to despair and sadness, but nowhere near self-pity. No siree bob. Not him.

"You are flesh of my flesh, and bone of my bone," the voice droned softly into her ear as she looked down at the endless line of laid out, bloodless flesh drying under the harsh lights of the supermarket store. A love song wilted in the air, stifled by the scent of day-old clams. The meat looked bitter and unpersuasive. She picked up a roast of beef; it was too stiff, too coarse, not marbled. She remembered the days of her childhood, and the rich scent of gravy, and the cows out in the pasture. Flesh had been something different then. Something mysterious and familiar. She put down the beef roast and impulsively grabbed a bag of halal chicken, as though the connection with a faintly mysterious, ancient-world religion would bring life back to pre-bagged meat.

“Using language may be compared to riding a horse;
much of one’s success depends upon an understanding
of what it can and will do.”
- Richard Weaver, The Ethics of Rhetoric

My bass teacher, in an effort once to encourage me to learn how to read music, reminded me of my studies in English and creative writing.

“Imagine a writer without a true understanding of the rules of grammar of the language they write in; the difference between a musician who works, and a guy who maybe plays in a band but winds up paying to exercise his craft-- even if it’s just gas money to get to the gig-- is the ability to read music,” he said.

“What did I hit..?”

Pepper released the throttle, and the lawnmower cut off with a ka-thunk. She’d run over something, something big enough to nick the blade. There weren’t any rocks in this part of the yard, and she hoped that she hadn’t struck a rabbit. At the thought, her stomach lurched.

As the roar of the lawnmower engine faded to a ringing in her ears, a high-pitched squeal rattled the blades under the mower deck. Pepper squeezed her eyes shut, and shoved sweaty hair from her eyes. Jesus, it was a rabbit.

In a faraway place in space, the captain of a secret rebel ship received a message that all mankind would fall to the Evil Domain if he did not locate the Sacred Ring of Vorgon. The ring was last seen on Htrae, a once beautiful planet now reduced to a radioactive ruin after its greedy governments had waged terrible wars with armies of cloned cyborg super soldiers.
 
Captain Lance Goodman pushed his blonde hair off his forehead and rubbed his two-day growth of beard. It was going to be tough, but with his loyal crew, he thought he might just be able to pull it off. Lance knew about tough; he’d learned from years of fighting against the Domain.

Celeste's gown drifted across the steel plate cobblestones as she ran deeper into the courtyard looking for her one and only love. Her heart pounded and the excitement was felt throughout her body. For this was no ordinary love, it was forbidden.

She saw him leaning in the shadowy corner, under the hovering basket of a cherry tree. On ancient earth, where her family line traced back, they signified death and suddenly she feared he called her here to end to their love.

By the time Aiethalynne-Bethe reached the tavern, the sun had gone down. She sighed breathily and ran a hand through her fragrant, multicolored hair.

"We're here," piped a tiny voice.

Aiethalynne-Bethe glanced at the plum-sized purple fairy squid that had ridden on her shoulder during the long walk to the tavern. It had insisted that she come here tonight. She knew better than to second-guess Caellimar'ii. It was rarely wrong.

Carson’s dead. So is Briggs. It’s only me and Charlie left alive. I don’t know how much longer we can take it. The storms have been raging for days. We’re nearly buried in this cave. First, it was the sunset, clear, cool and red. Then the snow. Giant red crystals which came faster and faster. We made it here to this cave. Funny, but none of us remembered the cave when we first arrive here in this valley.