I fear I am already too late for this contest. On top of which, most of the entrants appear to be of the fairer sex, and I don’t even seem to be on the right continent, but to hell with it; if you don’t try, you can’t… something… I dunno… Give me a break, I only have 30 minutes left to enter this thing and I’ve already missed the critique portion of the contest.
The contest is being hosted by author Shelley Watters and will be judged by Victoria Marini of Gelfman Schneider Literary Agency. I was supposed to publicize this competition but I only found out about it, 50 minutes before the deadline so… go for it… I guess.
I follow Shelley on Twitter (now) and I urge any aspiring authors out there to do the same, since this is not the first time she has hosted one of these, and I doubt it will be the last.
Good luck to all, and I’m sorry I didn’t get the chance to critique your work.
Title: Regarding Resurrection
Genre: YA (comic fantasy)
Word Count: 79,000
Walter climbed the last of the worn wooden steps and pleaded with the portly chap by the lever, one last time.
‘Nobody likes to be hanged, Mr Lewis. But it’s what we do here.’
This response was no help to Walter whatsoever, and he shuffled over to the trapdoor.
The Hessian bag being placed over his head was itchy, and stank of sweat and bad breath, which may well have been his own. The biting freshness of toothpaste and the slippery caress of soap had long been absent from his life. The only caress he could look forward to these days was that of “Gums” Jensen, who had recently taken to “snuggling” Walter in the mornings; caring little for his objections.
‘That comfortable, Mr. Lewis?’
The voice came from outside the sweaty bag, as the rope was placed over Walter’s head and the knot tightened behind his right ear. It was an absurd question under the circumstances, but answering in the negative would only buy him a few seconds and Walter just wanted the whole thing over with now. He nodded his head slowly.
It was very quiet in this room. Never like the sort of executions you might see in a film about some eighteenth-century folk hero; stepping bravely up to the gallows to the mournful cries of big-breasted women and admiring men.
Walter was no hero. And the only person in here with large breasts was the guy in the apron who pulled the lever.