(this is the look on my face when I discovered that we only have 18 days left before the next phase of our contest)
It is comforting to know that even in the world of the future, be it science fiction or reality TV, that some metaphors are simply irreplaceable. London fog (not the product line!) will ALWAYS be chilling, and always the consistency of pea soup–not bouillon, not chicken soup, not even lobster bisque or cream of mushroom–but pea soup!
Parisianne Modert, our most reliable commentator on this site, has submitted her second entry into our contest, Once Upon a Time.
AND THAT TIME IS RUNNING OUT!
You have until the end of May to submit the prologue to the novel you have always promised yourself and that person snoring next to you that you would write. Five semi-finalists will be announced in June, and shortly thereafter must submit chapter one. Then three finalist submit chapter two. Winners will be announced and rewarded on June 27th, at the fifth annual editor-in-chief surprise birthday party! All semi-finalists get a $25 gift card to the bookstore of their choice, and the overall winner gets their choice of $250 or a date with the editor- in- chief at the Mcdonalds of their choice here in Moscow (dutch). I don’t put-out on the first date, but I do put-up!
So here is part of the competition. The Towers that are A Word with You Press proudly presents
by Madame Parisianne Modert
Pea soup fog thickly chilling the late London night creeping tension tentacles along the thigh-gartered stockings of Annalise Tuscanini. Her Ferragamo heels clicked rapidly on the cobblestones outside Westminster’s Lady Chapel as she ignored the demands to halt. The cathedral purloined, Māori mask relic jiggled in the expansive Givenchy bag dangling from the crook of her left arm. Intercepted, coded correspondence between Interpol and the British Intelligence Service had left no choice. Ricocheting bullets off the ancient stones lit the outer wall behind Annalise at eye level. The x-file scientists in lab coats, due to arrive in the morning, need not discover the alien metal alloy she ran with nor be allowed to do her autopsy. The dark eyed, raven-haired vixen tossed a phosphorous grenade over her shoulder towards the gunshots, removed her heels while hopping and remotely started her knockoff, cloaked to human eyesight, Lamborghini Egoista with non-human accessories.
The normally orange-lit stealth auto roared west onto London’s Victoria Street flipping open its sloped wings, launching with take off for its flight back to the mothership orbiting Rhea within the fifth ring of Saturn.
British SIS agent Bristols Banning skeptically took DNA samples and routine evidence knowing Annalise Tuscanini’s modus operandi was the ability to vanish herself into thick air never making an error. Interpol’s Alien Search Division would be furious, asking questions why he had allowed the spy to escape stealing the Cook Islands’ space metal, once presumed a meteor pointing towards New Zealand.
Bristols had learned at the crime scene that a Māori Ariki sent Victoria the metal-worked mask as a coronation gift in 1837. The new queen in return permanently lent the hideous artwork to the Roman Catholic Archbishop of Westminster who could not refuse or fail to display the mask for fear of alienating the crown.
Annalise’s theft of mask and life came without absolution by the silent priest laid to rest on the chapel’s alter with a respect which almost caused both her life and the mission. The Orionian lady felt self-consternation for delaying too long risking the safety of those of her abandoned sisters and brothers too long stranded upon Earth. Annalise felt genuine remorse for the priest who had tried to restrain her escape while on his walk to night prayers.
Reunion with the Orionian colonists lay several Earth repair years away,so the mothership remained no longer than to retrieve Annalise Tuscanini before returning home. For now the less everyone knew (except for the replacement spy on Earth) the better.
Bristols Banning sighed, turning over evidence to Inspector Yvette Arceneau of Interpol believing she would not discover anything of interest, but he was very wrong.