THEY MUST DIE: My Book Chapter That Got A Merit Award & An Invitation To AG National Fine Arts

 THEY MUST DIE: My Book Chapter That Got A Merit Award & An Invitation To AG National Fine Arts

Hello my fellow readers and writers! The Fine Arts festival was quite literally yesterday, so I decided that I would post my chapter so that you guys could read it– I will be posting an updated one with my Nationals results once that takes place.

For those of you who don’t know, I submitted a Book Chapter to AG Michigan Fine Arts, titled THEY MUST DIE. Now, Merit Awards go to those who score between 36-40 points, AND were the highest scoring of their category.

I got a 38.33 out of 40. National Fine Arts takes place in St. Louis, Missouri sometime during July of this year (I cannot remember the specific date).

I also had to submit a summary of my story, so I will be including that as well. (This is a work-in-progress that has gone on the backburner because of Storm of Blood– I would like to continue this project, do you think I should?)

The Summary/Blurb

Ruth is trying to be a Follower whilst being condemned and judged for her past as a psychic, even when she hides her clouded eye. 

Paul is a scholar, though the Followers know him better as a killer. He is calculated and cold, with his only soft spot being Ravi, his First Wave faith officer apprentice who is an Empath marked by his sensitivity to others. When Ravi meets Ruth, he becomes greatly intrigued by The Way… even though following Yeshua can result in a violent death.

Ruth and Paul collide when Ravi converts, bringing Paul’s wrath down on local followers, forcing them to flee. But Paul won’t stop until they’re dead… or will he?

In this retro-futuristic world where Yeshua was crucified nine months ago, told in the dual POV of Ruth and Paul, they must decide if they will believe.

THEY MUST DIE - CHAPTER ONE

Chapter One - Ruth

My boots clip the ground at an even pace as I keep my head down, dark hair hiding the bandana that hides my clouded eye. The smell of smoke and steel provides a familiar sting to my senses as I make my way towards the newsboy at the corner of the street.

Tall buildings that gleam in the sun haunt the streets with broken glass, the occasional neighborhood fight drifting down from the open windows. I keep myself on the side of the road, the black pavement riddled with potholes ranging from the size of an orange to the size of a buggie, a small little car that had been discontinued over a decade ago. 

I toss a dain to the newsboy and snag one of the newspapers off the top of the stack. He offers me a gap-toothed smile, which I return briefly. The newsboys keep getting younger by the month. He couldn’t have been older than seven, and I press three more dains into his palm and stride off before he can say anything to me.

I turn the corner and skirt past a vendor’s stall, the smell of weed and alcohol wafting over me like the expired perfume that a fair share of vendors on Main Street try to sell. I speed up, hiding a grimace as the vendor calls a snide comment at me, while I move to the other side of the crumbled sidewalk. 

Glancing furtively from side to side, I take a side alleyway west before slipping out and stopping just in front of the abandoned subway entrance, the sign hanging only by one chain, the other chain having been gone for as long as I can remember. With one final check over my shoulder to confirm that I’m not being followed, I walk through the entrance.

I take the steps down to the abandoned subway three at a time, tucking the newspaper under my arm, not touching the warped metal bars that used to be handrails. The musty smell of old sewer, wet concrete and the inescapable hints of alcohol clog my nose, and I pull my hoodie’s collar up over my nose. 

I pause only slightly to look at the graffiti that has marred this subway for as old as a decade to some drawings that I have only seen twice. My eyes stop specifically on the familiar blood-red words that have taken authorities months to scrub off of buildings and streets alike.

CHRIST MUST DIE. A mantra that had Yeshua crucified rounding nearly nine months ago. I pass it and head toward the other entrance’s stairs, keeping my eyes pasted on the sight before me and trying to not look down at the bodies, either sleeping or dead, littering the subway.

I hurry up the stairs and take a deep lungful of fresh air on the nicer side of Hashem, the micro-city in the metropolis of Jaysla. The air on this side of Hashem smells of the flowers being advertised by vendors, and fresh bread from the bakery that always has its door cracked open– a practice that I’m not sure lines up with Jaysla’s health codes.

I make my way toward Mainscale Apartments, buying a bundle of red roses from Makaya, a sweet older lady who comes sporadically to Jonas’ gathering every Sabbath. 

“Have a good day, Ruth.” She smiles a smile that wavers as her eyes avoid looking at the right side of my face.

“You as well.” I return politely, ignoring the stab of discomfort that comes with that look. 

I slip inside of the white-washed door of the apartment complex, cold air brushing across my face from the ceiling vent, causing a slight smile to work its way onto my face. Taking my time climbing up the staircase to get to Markus’ floor, I resist the urge to take a peek at the newspaper that I have tucked under my arm.

When I hit the 4th floor, I release a sigh of relief. Stairs are a nightmare, no matter how much cardio I do. Striding towards the door with the number 89 stamped onto it with a sickly yellow color, I lift my hand to knock when Markus opens the door, causing me to startle. No matter how many times he does that, I’m never prepared for his innate sense of hearing.

He grins at me, pulling at the scars on his younger face, and I smile back. He’s younger than the other men he shares the apartment with, though Jonas and Harris are in their sixties.

“Hey Mark.” I set the flowers down by the door and slip my shoes off, placing them to the left of the mat. Only two other pairs of shoes sit there, flip-flops and sneakers, which means that Harris is out. Doing what, I do not know. You never know what Harris might do on any given day.

“Hey Ruth.” He returns, clasping my arms by the elbows and giving me a quick kiss on the cheek. I return the gesture, a standard greeting between friends. 

Most of the people that stay in Mainscale are Wytish like Markus and I, but there are enough Gharians here that I’ve gotten plenty of weird looks for the greeting.

I smell a hint of smoke, and cast my gaze toward the black-and-white checkered tiles that decorate the apartment's measly kitchen floor. “Uh, Markus, do you have something cooking?” I ask suspiciously as the smoky smell grows stronger, circling around my senses. He freezes, flexes his hand, and refrains from cursing before hurrying into the kitchen. 

Jonas comes from around the corner near the bedrooms, and gives me a nod and a smile. His sharp eyes, one blue and one hazel, dart towards the kitchen, brow raising faintly. 

“Is Markus cooking?” His voice tinged with both his Gharian accent and laughter as he steps up to me and folds me into a grandfatherly embrace. 

“Unfortunately, I think so.” I reply, removing myself from Jonas’ tight embrace and sitting on the beige worn-down couch while setting my half-forgotten newspaper in my lap. 

“That is one talent that Yeshua has not granted him since his saving.” With that, Jonas heads to the kitchen, most likely to stop anything from being set on fire. 

I lean back on the couch and glance from the off-center clock on the wall next to the door, then down at the newspaper. There’s a picture of Paul, a Gharian scholar who is bent on seeing all followers decimated, and I cringe at the title glaring up at me. Paul issues a shocking statement to ‘stop at nothing’ until all Followers have been killed or dissuaded from their faith. 

Something churns in my stomach at the words, and I open my mouth to call Jonas and Markus over to show them the article when I feel an electric tingle run down my spine. Everything fades from my sight as something from a Higher Power takes over my vision.

The red clay courtyard is filled with people, with guards donning shiny metal armor surrounding one man who appears to be in his mid-twenties, spears pointed in his direction. Paul, chained, with a nasty, scabbing cut on his forehead and a split lip, struggling to his feet even as the crowd throws stones, rotten food, and any object that they can find at him.

He looks at all of them as he squares his whip-torn shoulders, and draws in an unsteady breath before he begins to speak.

“The High One who is in heaven,” He prays, voice so quiet that he can hardly be heard by the guard who strikes him once more to his knees, blood blooming from a secondary strike to his shoulder. “I pray a blessing over all the men and women here, that the salvation you have granted us through your son Yeshua touches them, and saves them. Lord, do not hold this against them in their ignorance.”

A second guard appears by the first one and forces him back to his feet, spitting in Paul’s face before dragging him away as the crowd tries to press in, shouting vulgar words and vows of pain.

The world slowly spins back into focus, and I see my hands once more, clutching my faded red bandana. I stare at it for a beat, then go to tie it back around my eye when I pause. I’m in Jonas’ apartment, and they already know my darkest secret, so why hide the consequences of what I had done from them?

I finger my bandana for a moment longer, memories of a peaceful existence before a very dark period in my life flit about, skipping over the gap in my memory that I’ve long since grown accustomed to. With a mild shake of my head, I set my bandana down next to the newspaper and head to the kitchen to tell Jonas and Markus the troubling news of Paul’s statement, the vision nagging at the back of my mind.

…and there it is! Chapter One of THEY MUST DIE, the book chapter that got me a Merit Award and an invite to AG National Fine Arts!

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