"WIC Proposals"
Proposal for Proposals Anthology?
So, addressing writers here, do some of you do your best work in the witching hours, or wake up at night with ideas? Two nights ago about 3 am I had an idea to post an anthology here.
The above has a question mark, because I do not know if we can do themed anthologies, with vignettes, scenes, or stories from different authors in the same document. When I asked another fan writer, she said she had no idea, so I feel a *little* better, being kind of new here.
My idea is for a number of fan writers to submit vignettes under their fan writing names to put into one document.
The theme I am suggesting would be "WIC Proposals." They could be serious, humorous, off-beat, etc. It's all speculation, of *course* and nothing is canon in this universe, where in the books, "hearth and home" seems to be in suspension…at least for now, and the series has not yet started into a romantic relationship.
I submit one below under my fan writing name… I don't know any other way to do this except for people to PM or email me with their submissions, and of *course* it is a trust thing, and totally voluntary. (I would not edit or proof-read unless asked.) Also, they could be pulled from your *EXISTING* stories, sort of a compilation, distillation of already written proposals from other stories already posted here.
It's something I used to do, collect stories for themed anthologies, for the fandom of the "Beauty and the Beast" CBS/live action television show 1987-1990. FYI, that show is where GRR Martin got his start killing off leading characters before going on to "Game of Thrones." 'Nuff said on the topic of killing off leading ladies...
Writers, please PM me if this is a repulsive or interesting concept. Readers, please PM me if this is something you would like to see.
Chapter 1, One End of "Survival"
by JK Washer
With a burst of speed, she flung herself at the suspect and took him down, sliding in the gravel. She hoped he would have at the very least a bad case of road rash. She got him in an arm bar, hand up-elbow-out behind him, flipped the cuffs on, and was Mirandizing him as Walt trotted up, huffing. Good thing he hadn't heard her earlier invective. He mildly disapproved of verbally abusing prisoners, but this one had been, well, worth calling a waste of oxygen and a sack of shit. After all, he had hurt Ferg. She well remembered when Walt had been a tad rough on some teenage gang wannabes who had been stealing drugs to sell, and ended up beaten up Lorna Dove. He hadn't exactly had tea manners that day.
She sat back on her knees, and Walt assisted her by placing a large boot in the suspect's upper back so she didn't have to wrestle him down again.
"Sack of shit," she said one more time, for emphasis, then looked up at Walt, whose eyes betrayed silent amusement. Suddenly, her whole life fell into place and she took a deep breath. "I think," she said, with great emphasis after catching his eyes with hers, "that I'm about ready for that baby."
Despite the writhing prisoner beneath his boot, the dusty heat of the day, the Ferg cradling his arm and the radio in the truck crackling, time seemed to stop for a moment. She could see Walt processing. It must be Old School processing, because it seemed to take forever.
The ambulance she had radio'd for pulled up, and she filled Walt's silence, a little nervous to hear his response, calling over to where the Ferg was looking a little pasty.
"Good work, Ferg—but get to the ER. We'll catch up with you, later." The Ferg nodded and shuffled over to where the EMTs poured out of the doors to assist him.
If she was trying to change up a routine kind of apprehension and cuffing, she was successful. It was as though they were back at the cabin, his code to her about no longer wanting to be alone still hanging in the air as the telephone trilled. She said nothing but waited. He was silent for a minute, then finally said, "Well, okay."
Boot still in the suspect's back, he forcefully drew her up by the wrist, and kissed her, firm and wet, hands framing her face. No telling if Ferg or the EMTS saw them seen, and she could care less if the suspect could pull an owl maneuver with his head. Now, Vic was no stranger to rough and tumble in her line of work, or more experimental physical stuff in her personal life, but she knew this was more like him signing the contract to what she had offered, a promise of intent. His eyes promised Later and her own answered back, unafraid.
He released her, but his boot never left the perp's back. "This afternoon, then?"
Her heart leapt. It could be that easy?
"So soon! Can we get everyone there, you think—?"
"I dunno," he gave a slow grin. "I know the sheriff, he might have enough pull to wrangle a few places and people in our favor." It was said in the laconic voice he reserved for dry wit.
She couldn't stop her own beatific grin.
"Maybe, in…uniform?"
He paused at that, wincing a little. "You mean, me, too?" He was probably picturing the uniform he'd worn all of an hour several years before. It was a hated thing at the back of his closet…
"Better than a tuxedo, right? For me, just for today? Pictures for children or grandchildren, for posterity? You can change out of it right after, and I promise I won't make you wear it again for a long time, if ever."
He shrugged, finally removed the boot from the suspect's back and yanked the guy to his feet by the collar.
"You're gonna miss the wedding," he said to their witness, in his lowest, most menacing voice, propelling the suspect toward the Bronco.