I think I'll take part. It's been a while since I tried and I've been neglecting my novel-length ideas.

Right now Cayden is the only solid part of what I'm working on. The world around him hasn't been completed yet, and I'm trying to find a niche that I can work in that's diverse without being generic.

Okay, here I go.

-

Walk down a certain alley on the south end of town, and you might find yourself at a place called Under the Bridge. It's a spook bar; humans weren’t allowed. Even if one followed you, they’d walk right ast you and come out where they started, without realizing they’d done it.

The place was lively as I entered. Booths and tables, pool at the back, a bar to my left, and a stage to my right for the dancers, all packed with one-trick ponies, half-breeds, and outsiders of the magical community, who had no place with their own kind. It was the kind of place lowlifes like me could come for a brew and ‘loosen our belts’ - to be ourselves and not pretend we more human than we actually were. My kind of place.

I took a seat at the bar and watched the dancers. The China dolls – twins with snow white hair and ice-blue eyes – already had the crowd panting like dogs. They moved like a mirror image, so eerily synchronized you’d swear they were a single brain in two very attractive bodies.

When I pried my eyes away from them I found a seven foot tall mountain of mossy-green muscle and warts staring at me from behind the bar.

“Been a while, Cay-baby. What’ll y’have?”

If you’ve never heard a sweet Alabama belle’s voice come from a troll, then you’ve never been to the Bridge. She smiled a set of jagged gray teeth.

“Good to see you too, Momma Bear,” I said, “Shot and a brew, please.”

“Sacrificial?” She asked.

“Thank y’kindly,” I said. She deftly poured me a hit of whiskey, then scooped a few cubes of bloody beef into a pint glass before filling it with smooth amber ale.

I toasted Whyrbolga the troll with the whiskey and downed it. You never toast a lady with raw meat.

“You’re in a pleasant mood tonight,” She said, “Who was the payday?”

“Carlos,” I said, and took a sip of beer.

The troll snorted, “You’d think that spoiled brat would learn his lesson.”

I dug out my wallet, grown recently fat on the ridiculous allowance Carlos made off his dad, “If he keeps bringing cash like this, I might start inviting him.”

Bolga laughed as I set a bill on the table, “Well as long as you remember where to spend it.” She winked and slipped the bill off the table with one finger, then went to serve another patron

I downed my beer, gulping down the bits of steak with them. As I did a pale green girl with living birch leaves tangled in her blond hair sat beside me. She raked a few leaves out of her hair and stretched out her feet.

"Your stalling," I said.

Rachel offered a weak smile, "Is Melissa okay?"

"She's with Becca,” I told her. She relaxed a few notches and mouthed a prayer.

"You know you might wanna stay with us tonight," I said, "Carlos might come back. I only broke his thumb this time."

Rachel chuckled, a poor attempt at hiding her worry. “I’m surprised Becca hasn’t kicked your ass out.”

I smiled, “Maybe I’m a fantastic lay.”

She laughed, a good honest laugh. “Thanks, Cay.”

Someone screamed and I heard glass shatter. Someone was shoving one of Bolga’s waitresses against his table. "I'm not drinking this piss!"

Rachel sucked in a breath, “Jackie’s off tonight.”

I was already up. The jerk had a pair of buddies, and all three were dressed like metrosexuals from some cheap vampire novel. Two were leaning back, laughing to each other while the third shook a short redhead - I think her name was Simone - by her collar.

"Lemme go!" The woman snapped.

The man holding her leaned back with his hand and I caught it. Over the stench of beer and tobacco smoke, this guy was heavy on the cologne. It didn’t mask the blood in his veins, though. He was a familiar, a vampire junkie hopped up on his master’s blood. A little strength, a little speed, and all the attitude.

“Hey suckling,” I said, “No fights, no damage. Pay for the glasses and leave.”

The familiar had to look up at me, since I had almost half a foot on him, “Who do you think I am, you faerie abortion? Do you know who I work for?”

I met his gaze and took a long breath, letting some steam into my limbs, filling them up with my own brand of mojo, courtesy of my dad. “I know he’s not gonna lose any sleep over what happens to you. Pay her and get leave.”

He moved fast. His fist came out of my hand and struck me in the chin, spinning me about. He was strong, too. He could have easily broken a man’s jaw with that swing.

I turned back around, let him get a good view of me, “Strike two, suckling.”

He lashed out with his other fist. I took the hit, and my arms caught his arm.

I took his middle finger in my fist and snapped it just below the knuckle, then twisted the wrist until it snapped. Even as he started screaming I planted my palm on the back of his below, and bent his arm in a direction it was never meant to. Then I took his arm just above the elbow, and twisted it out of the shoulder socket. It was like crushing a dry branch into so many ball bearings in a sock.

He collapsed to his knees, screaming his eighty-dollar hair out. I reached down and hauled him up by his leather pants, digging his wallet out before I lifted him off the floor. He weighed no more than a bag of groceries to me. I carried him to the door, and Rachel opened it for me.

“Run back to your momma, suckling,” I said, and hurled the suckling out of the bar. He landed in a heap, his broken arm flopping uselessly behind his back.

His buddies had barely even gotten out of their seats.

“Pay,” I told them, “And leave.”

Fear and vamp blood lent them wings. Money flashed from their pockets onto the table, and they fled out the door, trying to avoid me. I swung my foot at one and caught him in the backside, knocking him up and into his buddy, and the three formed a tangled heap on the floor.

I shut the doors. The Bridge was silent.

“Ole!” I said.

Laughter and cheers deafened the room. Rachel rolled her eyes at me.

"Fantastic lay," I assured her.

I helped the redhead clean up, and she flashed me the nicest smile I’d gotten all night. Then I went back to my stool, and Bolga poured me another sacrificial pint. “On the house,” She said.

While things quieted down, I checked the suckling’s wallet. Almost a thousand dollars.

Tonight really was my night.

Hello. I'm a struggling writer desperate to get noticed but not so motivated as to actually try and mail out cover letters. Please read my work and give me a job with your company based solely on two paragraphs yanked from a short story I wrote six years ago but think it will earn me brownie points because it's just. That. Good.

Psyche!

I've actually been writing for most of my life, but my C-Type personality (I think that's the quiet religious one who ends up going insane) makes me perpetually unhappy with what I write and too bloody scared to show it to anyone but my cat. Okay, I don't have a cat. But if he did, he would hate my unbelievable literary slop.

My main ambition right now is becoming a chef, and perhaps owning my own business. Between work and college, that doesn't leave me a lot of creative time, but why let the talent slowly die of isolation? And they talk about The Dresden Files on this forum, too, so maybe I'll get to see two geeks duke it out over whether the sparkly vampires of Twilight could beat the sparkly vampires of the White Court.

We both know the answer, and that's why I'm here, and not on the Twilight forum. *Nods*

It's good to meet other writers though. I guess this is where you are all hiding, instead of playing World of Warcraft. I'd shame you, but it would be ironic.