Biting the Bullet: Submitting My First Manuscript

Well, I’ve done it. I finally gathered my courage together and submitted my first ever story, a short piece entitled Walls, to Harmony Ink Press for their First Time for Everything anthology.

Hitting send on that email, knowing that it would shortly be appearing in the publisher’s inbox, was at once one of the most terrifying and liberating things I’ve ever done. Now it’s out of my hands. All I can do is wait . . . and fret . . . and bite my nails . . . and keep everything crossed the editor likes my story.

In the meantime, here’s a teaser for you:

He’s looking at me.

The realization slammed into Davey with the force of a penalty kick. He couldn’t move, could hardly breathe.

It was mid afternoon and the sky had already darkened to a dull pewter. The Brookshire football tournament, in which sixth forms across the county competed, was a charity event held every November at the Brookminster sports center. The cathedral, famous for being one of the oldest in England, loomed over the proceedings, absorbing what little daylight remained.

Davey had spotted him as the two clubs were making their way onto the field. He wasn’t tall, close to Davey’s own height, but even surrounded by his team, all decked out in the royal-blue and yellow of the Clayhill Kites, the boy drew his gaze. And once he started staring, he couldn’t stop. The player must be new. He hadn’t been with the Kites when Oakfield came up against them last season. Davey would have remembered.

There was something barely suppressed about him—how he was never still, constantly shifting from foot to foot, the careless way he threw back his head to laugh at a remark from his captain. His body, though stocky, seemed unable to contain the restless energy straining for release.

Davey knew he should turn away. Years of practice had made him adept at admiring guys undetected, but still, if anyone noticed . . . he needed to get a grip. Yet, he continued to study him, entranced by the muscular hardness of his thighs; the shirt, drenched with rain and sweat, adhering to sculpted abs; the light-brown hair plastered to his head.

And then the boy looked at him.