Publishers Marketplace
   site guide
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
   member search
   rights postings
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
This site is a service of Publishers Lunch, the e-mail newsletter known as "publishing's essential daily read." Join the thousands of people who read Lunch every day.
writer :
Mischa KK Bagley
The Rapture of the Panther Woman
London, UK
+44 (0)7909 865 412

"The Rapture of the Panther Woman"
Dark Fantasy/Paranormal Romance/Erotica
79,700 words

"The Rapture of the Panther Woman" is about meek publishing assistant Elizabeth Chamberlain who, looking in the mirror, sees only her small breasts, her skinny hips, and her tears of rage for a better body. When she is bitten by a panther at an exotic London book launch her wish for physical enhancement becomes fulfilled, but with pantheresque transformations impelling her into emotional and sexual states beyond her experience, she struggles with identity and commitment as she swings between normality and metamorphoses, while locked into bitter rivalry with her commissioning editor for co-worker Matthias, the love of Elizabeth's life.

* * *

Short story "The Star of Darfur" published at The Monarch Review, Seattle

years experience: 7

This writer is looking for an agent
Writing, Fiction writing
General fiction, Mystery, Romance, Suspense/thriller, Fantasy/science fiction, Juvenile fiction, History, Religious, Travel, Lifestyle
New York Times bestselling author Diana Gabaldon of the fantasy Outlander series called Mischa's writing "unique in premise, strikingly phrased, well executed" and "enjoyable to read".
"The Rapture of the Panther Woman"


“As I proceeded back down the long descent of Archway Road, returning from the heights of Muswell Hill the way I came, walking this time not running, human now not animal, ruminating on the death of Astaria by my own hand, and making my way like a robber of the dead wearing the sunset-coloured dress of my victim, I thought I walked not along the footpath of one of London’s main traffic routes to and from the north country, but through a vast chasm of ancient ruins. Instead of shops and houses I fancied there rose either side of me the crumbling arches and broken walls of abbeys and cathedrals and temples, scattered with tombs and headstones, all high up on hilly slopes which banked away from the pathway of my journey. Bleak in darkness, brooding in neglect, and reduced by the disintegration of masonry from high worship to low irreverence, all the ruins were now one-of-a-kind in that they had become mausoleums, their empty windows gazing on travellers below as if in mourning for them. And the night was dark. And all was lost.

"And glancing down as I walked it appeared to me that my feet were not wearing the high-heeled shoes I took from Astaria, but sandals, and that my dress was not a dress but a robe, such as worn in ancient times, and that all around me invisible forms made a fuss and a disturbance as they rushed to and fro in the darkness, and whisperings came in from all directions, jostling around my ears for supremacy in sound and impact, like the twitterings of souls on the wind when I climbed the great Ferris wheel of the London Eye. And then a far greater disturbance burst through, and I thought the whisperings and invisible forms flew with speed out of the ruins, creating commotion all around, and alerted by a cry from above I looked up to see a flock of birds flying noisily overhead through the night sky in a streaming V, hundreds of them, possibly thousands, all crowding and cawing together. And then one bird swooped low, and following that one my attention was drawn again to the ruins by the trajectory of that bird’s flight. And the seven figures of the seven members of the Circle Divided by Seven stood up on the heights among the crumbling architecture: Crazy Thunder, Brooke Greene, Riviera Shaw, Hanwell Crowther, Christie, Louis Bouchard, even Waterfall Thompson, though I knew she was dead. And the seven figures waved down at me as I passed by below, even Waterfall Thompson, though I knew she was dead. And I waved back at them, and then the figures were gone, but not before I saw once more in close-up and staring intensity the eyes of Crazy Thunder, as if his eyes had disengaged and flown to me on wings, like the cawing birds. And the last of the long fly-past was in the process of vanishing from view in the sky.”