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First Page: Unnamed Contemporary Romance

Jane — Sat, 14 Nov 2009 10:00:42 +0000

Welcome to First Page Saturday. Individual authors anonymously send a first page read and critiqued by the Dear Author community of authors, readers and industry others. Anyone is welcome to comment. You may comment anonymously.

***

It had been two years, eight months and twenty-three days since Ella Lucas had last done the horizontal rumba. And even then it hadn’t been very good. With the powerful Harley throbbing between her legs, she was acutely aware of every minute. The vibrations pulsed against her taunting places that hadn’t seen action in a long time making her excruciatingly aware of her complete asexual existence. Was it possible to orgasm on the seat of a Harley? Alone?

She revved the engine. Lock up your husbands, Huntley, Rachel’s kid is back in town.

Her red lips twisted in a bitter smile. Nearly two decades since she’d been back in her hometown and it was still making her nuts. Seventeen years she’d spent in this speck on the map trying to do the right thing, trying to be her mother’s opposite. Playing the good girl. Until she’d cracked under the pressure and just walked away.

And still they tarred her with the same brush.

So today she was determined to give them what they’d always wanted. Proof. Real proof. Not some rumour. Something sound to gossip about once she’d hightailed it out of this one-horse town. Something to truly damn her. Something for them all to nod sagely over and say see, we were right, the apple never falls too far from the tree.

And she intended having a damn fine time doing so too.

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First Page: Contemporary Romance

Jane — Sat, 07 Nov 2009 10:00:41 +0000

***

‘Em? Emily, is that you?’

Emily Standish sat down hard on the little wooden chair with its faded floral needlepoint cushion. She barely registered the small cloud of dust it gave out in protest. Her heart was racing and her breath was short. It couldn’t be. It must be nearly fifteen years – and this really wasn’t the moment for that kind of complex mental arithmetic. If someone had asked her, Emily would have claimed she barely remembered him. She certainly wouldn’t have expected that she could recognise his voice on the end of a crackling phone line in just five words.

‘Hello? Can you hear me?’

She could hang up, of course. For all he knew, she was on a train heading through a tunnel at just the wrong moment. Right moment. Whichever.

Or perhaps she could pretend he’d got the wrong number. He wouldn’t be able to tell if she changed her voice a bit, would he?

‘Emily, it’s Simon.’

‘Yes.’ She knew that. She didn’t have a clue what else was going on but she did know who it was who had got her phone number from somewhere and called her out of the blue.

‘It is you! For a moment there I wondered if I’d made a terrible cock-up and phoned some other Emily Standish.’

Simon sounded just like he always had. Charming and confident with a deep humour always lurking just beneath the surface. Emily couldn’t help herself. She smiled.

‘Hello Simon.’

He laughed. ‘Hello darling! God, it’s good to hear your voice again. You don’t sound as though you’ve changed a bit. Have you? No, don’t tell me, I’m coming to see for myself.’

Emily clutched at the phone more tightly and hoped that Simon couldn’t tell she was shaking. ‘You’re coming to see me?’ Wildly, she looked around the piles of magazines, the not-quite-abandoned knitting, and the tulips that were out of water and dropping petals all over her front room. She closed her eyes and prayed that he’d at least give her time to tidy up a bit.

‘Yes. There’s something I need to talk to you about. That’s okay, isn’t it?’

‘Well, I suppose…’

‘Great. Are you free on Saturday? I’ll pick you up at seven, shall I?’

‘Simon, I…’

He paused. ‘Is something the matter?’

Emily swallowed, wondering how her mouth had suddenly got so dry. Simon Lennox had phoned her. Was talking to her now, as if it were the most normal thing in the world. Wanted to come and see her. To take her out for dinner on Saturday.

This wasn’t supposed to be happening.

It wasn’t what she had planned.

She took a deep breath. Probably it was nothing. Just dinner with an old friend. ‘No. Saturday’s fine. Do you need directions?’

‘You’re still in the cottage, aren’t you? Park in the lane and come round through the back gate. I remember.’

And that, thought Emily, summed up her life over the last 15 years. Still in the same tiny village, in the same tiny cottage that her landlord had never bothered to have modernised. Still doing the same dead end job and still waiting for Prince Charming to sweep her off her feet.

‘Yes. I’m still here.’

‘Great. See you on Saturday, then.’

She listened to the empty buzz at the end of the line for a moment before replacing the phone on its base.

Simon Lennox.

Fifteen years ago, she thought she loved him.

Fifteen years ago, he had married someone else.

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First Page: Unnamed Women’s Fiction

Jane — Sat, 31 Oct 2009 10:00:21 +0000

***

Fate had painted a bull’s-eye on my back. The ironic thing, I didn’t believe in fate or karma before my brother left a message on my office’s answering machine that was the equivalent to Armageddon dropping a line just to say hey. Being the self- designated, birdie-flipper of fate I had to know if listening to the message would be like Darth Vader—Phoenix, I am your brother.

After six years of silence, only one reason would have made Samuel call me. Earlier this week the family had been going through the family bible, and would I mind if they whiteout my name?

But, no, instead of letting the call stay a mystery I helped fate change my course, and pushed that stupid button to listen to the message. At least to my credit, I braced myself to hear what my brother had to say.

“I really don’t want to leave this message, but I don’t think you would call me back.” He paused, and it felt like one of those moments that last a lifetime.

“Mom died last night.”

Maybe I didn’t hear him right, but from the way the air left the room I think I did. I was sure I heard Samuel right when my limbs felt heavy from the weight of them. The words “Mom” and “died” refused to come together in my mind. I moved slowly as if in water. I saw my hand push the button to save the message. The cold plastic against my finger brought me into reality for a moment. I unplugged the machine from the wall.

Definition of something bad: A woman you haven’t talked to in six years, who happened to give birth to you, is dead.

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First Page: Unnamed Contemporary Romantic Comedy Action Adventure

Jane — Sat, 24 Oct 2009 10:00:01 +0000

***

Maddie flicked over the page of a dog-eared graphic spy thriller and burrowed deeper in her office chair, her red Converse hightops propped on an open drawer containing scientific articles, chunks of quartzite and the odd gemological tool. God, she would love to be kick-butt Modesty Blaise coming face to face with that big ape-man Delicata. Wham! Blam! Look out ma’am! She would look so hot in black leather.

At her elbow, twenty million dollars worth of pink diamond glowed in a tiny pool of light beneath the stereomicroscope.

Whirrr. Click. The cuckoo bobbed out of the clock with a mechanical chirp. One o’clock. Maddie closed her book and tossed it in the drawer. Scooting her chair up to the microscope she pushed her glasses up her nose and peered through the stereo eyepieces. Strands of wavy brown hair escaped her ponytail and fell past the shoulders of her Geology Rocks! T-shirt. Tomorrow the gem would go on display in her Aunt Grace’s jewelry shop. Until then, it was Maddie’s to drool over.

She rotated the zoom knob to deepen the focus, moving through layers of facets in the heart-shaped diamond. The Rose was huge for a fancy pink–28.2 carats. And flawless, not a feathery fracture or a mineral inclusion anywhere. The cut was stunning; the edges clean and sharp, the pavilion carved to the perfect depth to reflect light internally so that sparks of iridescent fire scattered deep within its heart sparkled out of the crown.

The sheer sensuality of the jewel held her captive. The deep cranberry color, intensely saturated, was as rare as it was seductive. Maddie lost herself in the lush pink glitter of facets so numerous they resembled the petals of a real rose. A deeply pleasurable sigh escaped her lips.

“Did you know that the Contessa Antonia Licciardo circa 1750 could reach orgasm simply by looking at a beautiful gem?” a deep and cultured English male voice enquired from directly behind Maddie.

“Jesus H. Christ!” Maddie jumped, spinning around on her wheeled chair so fast she almost tipped over. A man loomed above her. A tall, dark-haired intruder in an impeccably tailored charcoal suit. Her heart racing, she gasped, “Where the hell did you come from?”

“London. Oh, you mean just now? Through there.” With a slight movement of his well-groomed head, he indicated the electronically-locked state-of-the-art security door leading onto the alley.

Impossible.

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First Page: unnamed contemporary

Jane — Sat, 17 Oct 2009 13:56:56 +0000

***

“Shit.” Andy’s voice was in a pitch that would rival that of a dog whistle. She had rounded the corner at five knots and slammed into a scrawny chest and a huge red Slurpy.

Five minutes ago Andy had been sitting in the library, chewing on her lip, blinking back tears and mulling over what Molly had told her. The clock had been screaming at her that she was late and she almost didn’t notice. As fate would have it, she was very late and on the day of her Business Economics final. If she didn’t make it to the room in forty-seven seconds the door would close and she would receive an F on the final which would likely force her to retake the damn class. Of course that would mean that her entire scholarly plan would be flushed down the toilet.

“Wow, where’s the fire?”

“I am so sorry.” Andy only missed half a beat and was running down the hall again. “Really sorry. I am so late..” She yelled over her shoulder.

“Stop Professor Ashburn I’m coming.” Andy slipped her text book through the crack of the quickly shutting door, stopping the grumpy old professor, whose pants where pulled nearly to his chin, from keeping her from the test.

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First Page: chick lit/espionage novel

Jane — Sat, 10 Oct 2009 10:00:24 +0000

***

The phone rang.

Swan Shreve ignored it, and continued to flip through files in the black, metal file cabinet until she reached the right tab. The phone had been ringing like a malfunctioning car alarm all morning. It was as though every idiot in the world had signed a pact to call her today to ensure she wouldn’t get the filing done. In all, she’d gotten two sales calls for magazines, one man selling siding, three irate and rude customers, and a woman who called to complain about a bill and when Swan explained she’d called the wrong department said, “Why don’t you know? Can’t you just call it up on your computer?” Swan said she couldn’t look it up and she’d transfer the woman to accounts receivable. The woman brightly explained that they never pick up there. That’s why she’d called this office instead. The phone rang again as Swan slid a piece of paper into the file. She hated filing.

“Are you going to get that?” Mr. Kowalchik yelled from his office.

She closed the drawer with her hip and reached for the phone. “Good morning. Mr. Kowalchik’s office. Swan speaking.” Mr. Kowalchik’s front office was predominately white with mass produced office furniture. The fake cherry veneer was chipping off a corner of the desk. Swan considered herself fairly lucky because Mr. Kowalchik, as head of a section in the engineering department, had a corner office with wide windows and this meant she too had a window, overlooking the vast green lawn of the Bova Technologies campus. No one was ever out on the lawn and it probably had more chemicals spread on it than it was healthy to think about, but Swan liked it just the same.

“Is Mr. Kowalchik there?” asked the caller. He had the harsh, impatient voice of someone who wanted to convince her he was very important.

Swan braced herself. “May I ask who’s calling, sir?”

“I asked you a question first,” the man said.

“I’m sorry?” She considered herself well schooled in caller rudeness by now, but this tactic was new. It was also not working.

“Don’t be sorry. Put Mr. Kowalchik on the damn phone,” said the man.

“Unfortunately, it doesn’t work that way,” she said, trying to keep her voice mostly pleasant. “You have to give me your name and an idea of what you want.”

“Well, if you aren’t going to put me through to Mr. Kowalchik, what good are you?” the man demanded.
Swan clutched the phone, largely because she couldn’t clutch the caller’s neck. “I’m good for screening out rude, idiot callers. I’m not going to give you Mr. Kowalchik, because I’d rather hang up on you.”

She hung up on him.

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First Page: Virgin in the Truckstop

Jane — Sat, 03 Oct 2009 10:00:26 +0000

***

Staring at the bread knife she held in her hand, Angie wondered how long it would take her to die if she were to jam the pointed tip into her eye. The serrated edge ought to do maximum damage, but the very thought of touching anything to her eyeball made her shudder. Still, it was one way to end the miserable night she was having. It would be quick if she hit the brain. But with her luck, she thought with a wry twist to her pink lipsticked mouth, she would end up lobotomizing herself and drooling into a fruit cup for the rest of her shitty existence. She dropped the bread knife into a bucket of soapy water and wiped her hand on her apron. Mac, the short order cook and shift manager, looked up from the burgers flailing on the grill and gave her the stink eye before jerking his head toward the dining area.

Angie returned the cook’s glare and held up a can of lukewarm Diet Coke. “I’m on my break.”

“You’re the only waitress I’ve got on shift, missy. I don’t want to hear about you taking a break. I’ve been on my feet for sixteen hours today.”

“Have you ever heard of the Arizona labor laws, Mac?”

The cook shifted the baseball cap on his head and sneered. “You ever seen that unemployment line at city hall, girlie? Quit giving me lip and get back to work.”

She gritted her teeth and seriously considered walking out. She had some savings which she could live on for at least four months; it was the money she had been putting away steadily, so she could buy a car and get out of this shit-hole town. Her best friend Eileen had a room waiting for her in Los Angeles. The only thing that held her back was Grandma (though Grandma was actually great-grandma). The woman had tirelessly cared for her since Angie was a baby and Suzanne, her grand-daughter, had ran away with some guy and was never heard from again. As Grandma herself had told her, she was eighty-five years old and would not be long for this world. Well, what if Grandma died tomorrow? She squelched the ugly thought and sighed. She was probably going to go to hell for thinking of ditching Grandma and running off to LA. That had to be a sin of some kind. Hopefully when the day came that her soul was dragged to the lake of burning fire by a bunch of screaming shadow creatures like in the movie Ghost, it would not be for bigger things like killing her boss, strangling a customer, or throwing herself in front of a speeding truck on the Interstate.

Cursing Colleen for the umpteenth time that evening for calling in “sick” on a Friday night, Angie pulled her hair back into a ponytail and stormed off to the counter where Mac had placed a plate of sloppy joes soggy with chili. The grease sloshed dangerously close to the edge as she picked it up, beaded droplets of the stuff skating on the surface of unnaturally orange cheese, but she managed to deliver it to Joe-Bob without incident. At least that was the name stitched on the right chest pocket of his ill-fitting short-sleeved button shirt. She didn’t think he was one of those trendy types who would go into an Abercrombie store to buy a faux-Goodwill gas station attendant uniform that costs forty-five dollars. Not with the business-up-front, party-in-the-back hairdo he was sporting. She couldn’t help but stare in awe at the ratty yellow nest, which held a particular sheen under the fluorescent lights above. It looked so dirty and oily she was half-expecting a cartoon louse to lift up a lock and say hello. He did not even glance up from the battered copy of Yuma Gazette he was reading even when she set down his plate in front of him, merely lifted his coffee mug for a refill.

Angie looked at the pot in her hand, then back at the greasy head. Tiny shards of glass had to be a bitch to dig out of someone’s skull, but she doubted they could get past the shield of the yellow mullet. The thing looked shellacked. Gritting her teeth, she filled the mug with the putrid mud Mac called coffee three-quarters to the brim and tossed a few crumpled packets of cream and sugar she had dug out of the pocket of her apron. The man brought the mug to his chapped lips, slurped a mouthful, and gargled it before swallowing it. Angie did not bother suppressing her shudder of disgust as she stomped back to the faded orange counter that she had been half-heartedly polishing before she had retreated to the kitchen for a quick sip of the Diet Coke she had been nursing for half the evening.

As she parked her butt on a hard plastic stool and resumed her futile attempts to erase the “Fuck you, Amy” that some broken-hearted young man must have scrawled on the counter with a black permanent marker, she wondered what Colleen was doing. Sick, my ass. It was a Friday night, for God’s sake. If Colleen wasn’t out partying in a hot nightclub in San Diego—which was almost three hours away—Angie would take over toilet cleaning duty for a whole week. She knew this because Colleen had pestered her in the past to go with her, provided Angie pitched in with gas money. It was why the woman’s dream to move to Vegas to become a showgirl would never happen: all the money she was supposed to be saving was wasted on gas and clubbing clothes.

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First Page: m/m historical romance:

Jane — Sat, 26 Sep 2009 10:00:57 +0000

***

Jonah was late.

Three minutes late, by the somber reckoning of the Trinity Church clock. Two, by his reliable old Waltham, which had kept him apace for twelve years while the rest of New York hurried to keep up. It was only on this morning, twisted into disorder by weeks of expectation and anxiety, that he had failed the Waltham and himself.

Braced for the wind, he jumped from the streetcar the instant it stopped, and navigated a path through the muddy slush to the sidewalk. There he stepped into the crowd and, with a tip of his bowler as he passed the churchyard, proceeded down Wall Street fueled by stomach-churning anticipation—twelve years’ worth.

He had been barely nineteen when Bennet Grandborough had first entrusted him with drafts for collection. It seemed a lifetime ago. From runner to clerk to teller, he had lived up to Mr. Grandborough’s faith in him. Even so, a promotion to ranking bank official had seemed as unattainable as the stars. Though he had performed many of the duties of said position during the years of Mr. Crowe’s increasing fragility—and taken on all the rest upon Mr. Crowe’s passing—the formal announcement was yet to be made.

Grandborough naturally wanted a respectful interval in which to honor Crowe’s twenty-seven years of service. But in the four weeks since, the impending announcement had hung as weighty and ripe as an apple in autumn, tormenting Jonah increasingly as each day passed without that bounty dropping into his lap. Then, with Christmas past, the directors met—which pointed to one thing. Today, with the first business of the new year, was the day.

And he was late. Not an auspicious start, but it couldn’t be helped. He’d awakened earlier than usual, but the well-wishes of his fellow boarders at Mrs. Muncy’s had slowed his progress out of the house. He had missed both the usual omnibus to Broadway and the usual streetcar down. Rather than wait, he’d braved the muck and congestion of that thoroughfare until a car could spare him standing room the rest of the way.

Making up for lost time on foot along Wall Street was not to be thought of. The tide of humanity had grown from the customary seven o’clock tempest to a depth and breadth sufficient to drown a fellow. By the time he rounded William Street and covered the short distance to the bank, no amount of reproach in the Waltham’s minute hand could tip the scales against his own. Still, it would not do for Grandborough Bank’s new cashier to be seen dashing madly into lobby. He took the fourteen steps with barely contained haste and arrived at the landing just as the porter opened the door.

“Good morning, sir.”

Jonah nodded. “Good morning, Mr. Satterfield.”

The clerks and tellers huddled at the far curve of the long counter. Jonah suspected they had stationed themselves there ever since Mr. Grandborough had gathered his vice president and one of the more vocal directors into Crowe’s office, to meet with someone Jonah couldn’t recognize through the glass partition.

Mr. Satterfield coughed gently. “Out late, celebrating, sir?”

“No—“ Jonah tried to pull his thoughts together. The tableau in the office bewildered him. “I was waylaid this morning and had no means to reach Broadway except by my own locomotion—“ He hesitated, aware that Mr. Satterfield, troubled by a war wound which had left him with a limp, might not sympathize with such a complaint.

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First Page: Trespasses and Sins

Jane — Sat, 19 Sep 2009 10:00:57 +0000

***

Warning: Graphic Content

***

The lamb’s blood was splattered against the wall. Its bleating shrieks of pain and surprise drowned out the crowd noise around them. The woman covered her ears to the animal’s pitiful cries. In a circle, the seven of them stood around the dying creature.

“Ladies first,” the black-haired man said, smiling at their guest. He held the lamb by the ears, pulling back its head to expose the cut throat.

She hesitated, then overcame her disgust and dove on the animal, drinking deeply of its warm blood, satiating her thirst. Only for a while. She could feel the lamb’s heartbeat fading as the blood pulsed out of its body. Not wanting to be an ungracious guest, she released her grip on the animal and stepped back.

“Thank you,” she said to the man who’d offered her a brief feast, blood dripping from the lower half of her face. He motioned to a nearby water pump.

The woman rinsed herself and gathered her belongings. She heard the men devouring the animal’s flesh now. She shuddered as their ravenous moans filled the air. It was better than the alternative, she thought.

“It will do,” said the man, seeming to read her thoughts. “It’s sustaining, but wholly unsatisfying. We’ve taken the vow, as have you.”

“Am I going in the right direction?” she asked. “How much longer do I have to go?”

“Another day’s journey, at least,” he said. “But you’re not going alone…”

“I need to keep going,” she interrupted. Thank you for your kindness.”

The group of men watched her as she headed back toward the road. The foul smell emanating from a nearby factory made her gag as she trudged on. She knew exactly where she needed to go and what she needed to do. Then she would live away from the others and wait for the time of the prophecy’s fulfillment.

She could feel the animal’s blood absorbing into what was left of her body. All too soon, she’d have to feed again. But she wouldn’t murder again. Had the animal’s blood atoned her sins? Of course not. But it felt like a cleansing anyway. Her body ached as she thought of her husband. What was left of her body could feel pain, too. She remembered it, all of it. But there were no tears.

Dry, thirsty, and determined, she pressed on. Compared to how long she’d have to wait for the redemption, the journey was relatively short. To no one in particular she said, “Forgive me.”

Several miles later, the woman smelled the fire and heard the familiar prayers. She was getting closer. Years later she’d remember what it cost her. Until then she had to keep moving through the smoke, through the smell of fear, and through the appeals to God.

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First Page Saturday: OH MY GOD! MY GIRLFRIEND’S A BARBARIAN… (Or POLITICIAN? can’t decide)

Jane — Sat, 12 Sep 2009 10:00:26 +0000

***

OH MY GOD! MY GIRLFRIEND’S A BARBARIAN… (Or POLITICIAN? can’t decide)

A Sharp Edged Narrative of Characters Tangled Up In the Passion Realm

…AND SOME MEN ARE FROM GRAMMATIKA CHALLINGA

And the moral of this dream (Tet) is, don’t take lifestyle lessons from cultural newcomers…obviously.

Once, enclosed within a time cycle, a ten year one, there were six living entities bound by the laws of material nature moving as individuals inside a complete whole. Constantly engaged in profit-minded service this handful of living beings, it should be mentioned, have read the right books but in the wrong order. One of these transient, presently earthbound beings is Omni and his girlfriend/shrink was Neon Light. Neon, working late tying up some loose ends, planned to surprise Omni and Nivea with his favourite, a triple cheese-on-triple cheese (with extra grilled cheese and kidney beans) on a dingy-sized pizza, big enough for three of them to share. If she stayed over then from Blackfriars it’d be easy for her to walk to Tri-Kilo before commercial markets opened. Neon was at a great point in her life now, after being led astray, finding her way back…slowly. She loved her job, she loved hanging out with her boyfriend and old chum at there shared flat. Finally, she was gradually beginning to feel like the point of life where you wait for something to happen, was passing, and the best part was yet to come. She hadn’t spoken to her annoying parents in ages, gladly. Whenever father called to say he’d touched down and was holding discussions near, especially at his consulting house, the Analyses Of Finite Commodities Affiliates, a large consultancy building for fiscal members in Immortal Approachville, she always made sure she was out the area or previously engaged, getting her big brother Nick to cover (to Nick’s half-amazement at the length of this family feud and his half-presumption that it would only continue, unless she had a proper one-on-one with their mother). Yes, the time had come for a truce in the parent-daughter war which she first initiated, and now it seemed all involved were softening with age so sit down talks were fast becoming inevitable. Their final camel’s back incident years ago came about when she ducked out of University, because of pre-romanticized ideas of it being some ridged academics sanctum of literature where one could successfully transmigrate from apprentice to master. When she got to Uni, the one in west Zone1 and supposedly rated fourth best in the country, it became apparent that this was not to be the case. Neon returned back from her family ponderings of yesteryear, and refocused her eyes to turn off her CPU and prepare to leave work.
But freakishly at the same time, Vienna was hailing a black cab with Nick following, watching, then tracking behind from a safe distance. The cab’s ‘on duty’ light came on as it pulled over so Nick ran back to his own car with a head full of determined spears, ready to pounce with questions when she reached her destination, a destination that Nick was unaware of. His levels of suspicion were beginning to reach a plateau. In separate vehicles and a few cars apart they entered Tri-Kilo. She stopped outside the Shadowless Towers east-facing car park entrance. It was now his levels of suspicion reached its peak! She paid the cab driver, looked up, and around. Since their blazing row the sky had completely darkened for the night and the spotless streets, usually busy with brokers, and traders, rushing back and fourth across squares were completely empty. She went over to one of the large, air-carrier-sized metal shutters sealing Shadowless off from the outside world and began to tamper about with the flashing digilock. Nick watched from his parked car, battling with Mr P Actience, undecided on what step to take next. He grabbed his moby balancing the two merits of, phoning her to scream that he was fifty meters behind and psychotic, against what Mr P Atience was whispering in his mind, advising that he first: wait and see why in Krsna’s paramantra was she entering his place of work when 731 Filter Systems was down the block and, why she was using a key thought up until a heartbeat ago, impossible to be in her possession. But see now, this was a different game, and he wanted confirmation of exactly what she was playing at there, as the fibre optic interface, the only light anywhere near the shutters, illuminated her steamy breath. He observed, thinking, with Vienna, trying to look as nonchalant as possible in her big dark coat and handbag, stepping under, by now, rising shutters into the darkness of the car park.

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Dear Author: Romance Novel Reviews, Industry News, and Commentary » query

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