I don’t know yet if this story’s going to be good enough to offer to an SF magazine I know, so I won’t publish the whole draft. If the intro grabs you, but you think I’m taking too long for a short story to get to the action, I’m hoping you will let me know.
Mikey Yates snapped Melodie’s neck like a twig then came after me. I had ten seconds to get to the hall closet. I whipped out my Tale of Two Cities and heard echoes of a grunt and a varied assortment of swear words, before the world of Cities closed in on me. I’ve visited so often that I only have to close my eyes and imagine the world as its creator envisioned it. Safe, with two seconds to spare. My heart thumped, my head throbbed; my heart was racing as if I’d run a marathon mile.
The prologue is an anteroom furnished with an ottoman two easy chairs with upright backs, a roll top desk and a writing table. A magnificent oak bookshelf covers the whole of the the back wall. It’s filled with the works of Dickens’ contemporaries. Mark Twain, Wilkie Collins, Louisa May Alcott, George Eliot. I’ve spent my adult life sitting on the easy chair rereading the classics while waiting for the latest disaster or confrontation to blow over.