Critique and Beta Exchange

Since we've had previous interest in full critique exchanges, and someone just recently posted a comment about a 255-first-pages contest, I'm going to put up this page as an anchor for anyone who is interested to post comments about what they are looking for in critique partners, alpha, or beta readers.

To make it useful, I won't limit it to workshop participants. Anyone can join in, and welcome!

To help make sense of the terminology and make sure everyone is on the same page, here are some brief definitions:

Alpha Reads: Quick assessments of a whole manuscript. Evaluate for structure, pacing, characterization, story, theme--strictly big picture. Likely occur after a first or second draft, or perhaps even after an outline. Turned around in one to two weeks.

Critiques: In-depth assessments of individual chapters or an entire manuscript. Assess everything, from structure to syntax, including line edits. Turned around according to agreed on timeframe.

Beta reads: For finished stories that should really need little more than polishing. Point out anything and everything that pulls a reader out of the story world, from simple typos, spelling and grammar, to characterization, plot, or pacing issues. Generally do not include line edits, and they don't usually point out solutions. Turned around as quickly as possible.

If you would like to participate in a manuscript exchange or are looking for a critique partner, please post the following information:

• Your genre, length, and status of your manuscript
• What you want to exchange, i.e. -- alpha, beta, or critique
• Timeframe and what you are looking for in terms of page count
• If you've participated in the one of the First Five Pages Workshops
• Any other information you'd like to share
• Please make sure you can be reached through your blogger profile, or make sure people can reach you in some other way

Happy writing!

Martina

Final Revisions Are Posted for December's First Five Pages Workshop

Ready to see what our workshop participants have done with a little feedback and the guidance of this month's mentor, the fabulous J. Anderson Coats? Well, then, scroll on down!

We have one last opportunity to make sure that we've coaxed as much out of these crucial first pages as possible. What do you think? Would these entries make you want to keep reading? Make you eager to keep reading? Make it impossible not to read? Do you feel like you are connecting to the characters and that you know what their problems are and where the book is headed? Do you want to go with them for the ride?

Because that's really what first pages are all about, isn't it? They are the setup that creates the bargain with the reader. Come on in, they whisper. Let me tell you a story that will inspire you, or chill you, or horrify you, or warm you, or confound you, or make you laugh. Maybe more than one of those things. They tell us what to expect.

So now, please, tell us. Based on each of the entries below, what would you expect? What kind of a story do you think the corresponding book will be?

Happy reading!

Martina and Lisa

1st 5 Pages December Workshop - Mahoney Rev 2

Name: Vivian Lee Mahoney
Genre: YA
Title: The Rebel Queen


I was born with my eyes open, an oddity that spurred gossip and encouraged matchmakers to find other baby girls to promise to the village boys. Mother and Father didn’t mind when none of the village families claimed me. They saw my life’s beginning as an auspicious sign―a way for me to always see the truth behind the falsities of life―and named me Jin-Ae, Truthful Treasure. How they smiled when I spotted the slight-of-hand merchant who tried to cheat Father with fake pearls that crushed into dust, or the traveling farmer who weighed down the rice with river stones to collect more copper coins. While I didn’t have the ability to see into the future like the village shamans, every silent glance, unheard word, and stifled movement ruffled through me and warned me of people’s intentions.

My senses dulled when Mother and Father’s spirits rose to the heavens seven summers ago, perhaps to forget how my heart pounded me with accusations when I blamed the gods. Where were they when my parents needed them most, their cries drowned by the shrieking wind, their hope smashed by the capsized boat? The ocean swallowed them up and refused to spit them out, no matter how much I wailed and hurled rocks into the cold water. Why didn’t I tell them to stay with me?

I failed my parents. I refused to pay attention. It only seems right the Royal Guard would soon take me away, far from my home, to a life I didn’t want.

A slight breeze rustled through holes in the rice paper window. Shivering, I clutched my jacket closer to my shoulders as I paced the women’s quarters a final time, a stranger in heavy silk. My gown, a lustrous crimson, edged with gold embroidered peonies along the sleeves and hem, announced me with every movement. Swish. Swish. Never had I worn a gown so elegant, soft to the touch, a gift to the eye. Yet, misery draped over me.

“You look just like your mother.” Precious Aunt stood by the doorway, her face softening into a melancholy smile. “She would never want you to go.” She shook her head. “You must forget you heard this.”

My heart caught in my throat. “Please tell me. No one else is here.”

Precious Aunt drew me close to her chest and whispered in my ear. “Do not believe such foolishness.
There will always be eyes and ears following you around.” She straightened my jacket and fastened a gold filagreed ornament to my skirt. “Your mother was once a favored friend of the Royal Family. Did you know she was betrothed to the Daewon-gun?”

“How could it be?”

“Aiee,” she said softly, smoothing out my hair. “It doesn’t surprise me.”

“What happened?”

“We must not talk of such foolishness. It will only bring us bad luck.” She shook her head and held a finger to her mouth.

I ignored her. “How did she manage to leave?”

“Shh.” My aunt glanced towards the door. “There isn’t much time. Before your mother left the palace, the Queen gave her this good luck piece,” she said, brushing her fingers against the golden ornament at my waist. “Perhaps if she wore this…”

A shadow passed outside the window and a chill blew through the torn rice paper. Precious Aunt grabbed my hands. Even though she spoke softly, her eyes expressed a wildness, a fear I’ve never seen.

“You’ve mourned your parents long enough, Jin-Ae.” She reached out and touched my forehead. “It’s time to see the truth. You’re treading into new territory and your parents would want you to wake up.”

“Whatever do you mean?”

“Promise me,” she squeezed my hands. “Promise me you’ll wear this at all times. It’s said this was made from a dragon scale and will protect the owner from harm.”

I nodded, even though thousands of questions burned on my tongue. The shrill cry of the azure-winged magpie shrieked outside my window, and I started. Mother believed in the magpie’s warnings.

“Will this keep me home?” I grabbed her hand. “Please help me stay.”

“I cannot bear this.” Surrendering a sad smile, Precious Aunt turned and fled.

I sighed. Time grew late. I hastened to say my goodbyes. Thick icicles dripped from our slate roof, sprinkling me as I left the women’s quarters and stepped across the inner courtyard, jumping over melting ice patches, my skirts fluttering around my ankles. Two stone tigers, faces smoothed by the elements, guarded the entrance to the main house. For the last time, I reached out and rubbed their heads for luck, before suffering the ten steps to the library, where Esteemed Uncle waited every morning, expecting all the household to pay our respects. Today, I knew not what to say. What do I tell my uncle, who seemed too pleased to have one less mouth to feed, who sang his joy of my departure the night before? Deep bows to the ground and muttered insults would suffice for the man who traded me for my home and a life filled with copper coins.

This was my home, the stronghold of all my memories of Mother and Father. I did not know if I would ever be given permission to return. I was sixteen-years-old, yet I aged over a hundred years since the Daewon-gun, the Prince of the Great Court, selected me from his harvest of the most beautiful and wealthy girls of yangban, noble lineage to be his son’s, King Dae-Jung’s wife. Why the Daewon-gun chose me, the poorest of nobles with no family influence, I did not know. It did not make sense.

I hurried past the stink of the stove that heated the floors, the heady scent rising from the large clay pots of onions and garlic, and into the comforting fragrance of the warm kitchen. My cousins loved to linger over breakfast and gossip, while Precious Aunt chopped vegetables and buzzed around her children, urging them to eat and study hard. I paused. Rather than lively company, empty dishes lay strewn on the table, while a bowl of rice porridge waited for me, steam rising in the clay oven.

Discomfort quieted me and the unusual silence roared in my ears. Where were the baby’s cries, my cousins’ shouts, my aunt’s song, and even Uncle’s complaints? Unease trembled along my skin, curling deep within my belly.

“Precious Aunt?” I held my skirts and raced through the house, out past the stone tigers, through the courtyard, into the women’s quarters and back into the main house, until I stood outside to the stone wall, where the world waited below. I climbed the four foot wall, slipping on ice, my ceremonial gown a burden. Crisp air danced around my shoulders and I shivered, waving with the wind until resolve steadied me.

I stood, Queen of the Hill, hands shielding my eyes and surveyed the lands below. Left to right, top to bottom, my eyes waded through the winter-ravaged grasses, over snow, toward my parents’ shrine and along the nearby forest. Long strands of my hair loosened from a red ribbon, streamed around my face, while my skirts rippled and crackled around me, echoing in my ears. A sob tore at my throat and I wiped tears from my face, wishing for Precious Aunt, needing Mother.

An army of footsteps crunched across the snow and anxiety washed over me. I slipped down the wall, not caring about the small tear in my jacket, the scrape on my elbow, the bruise in my soul. Mother’s plum tree, laden with white blossoms, hid me as I peered out. Four soldiers on horseback held yellow banners emblazoned with the dragon, the symbol of the King. They led the royal procession and came to a standstill in the front courtyard. Two palanquins followed, splashes of red and yellow, each carried by eight men and guarded by soldiers.

“Halt!” The palanquin bearers grunted and lowered their burden to the ground, mere yards from where I watched. Soldiers gathered and stood at attention. Yellow curtains parted from the palanquin closest to me and a sharp-faced woman draped in furs stepped out. I drew back. The men bowed towards The Lady of Benevolence, the woman I secretly called The Spider Lady. She nodded her head and waved them away, choosing to stand facing my plum tree, her eyes piercing through the branches, quiet, waiting.

How could so many people remain motionless? My feet itched to run past The Spider Lady and the soldiers, teasing them to catch me, until I glanced at my dress. Laughter bubbled up in my throat and I swallowed down bitter bile. How dared I imagine hiding from her when my gown made me an easy mark? Blood red splotched against white snow. The Spider Lady’s eyes would soon nip and squeeze me; no doubt she would admonish me for ruining the ceremonial gown, the King’s gift to his future bride.

1st 5 Pages December Workshop - Kelly Rev 2

Christine Kelly
YA urban fantasy
THE OUTLIERS

Rosaleen pushed her violin case against the rehearsal room door and stepped inside. She stumbled against a music stand, setting it rocking. A boy thumped a melodramatic chord on his bass. Laughter rippled through the aisles.

She slunk to her seat, noticing she had sliced her palm on the music stand. A drop of bright blood had fallen on her second favorite pair of black cowboy boots. Excellent, she thought, squeezing the cut. She'd get gangrene and have to have her hand amputated. It would be the perfect excuse to skip Philadelphia Charter School's spring concert. Music was dead to her anyway.

She glanced sideways at her neighbor's sheet music. Jenn slid a folder to block the pages. "Late again," Jenn said. "You even practice this week?" She looked across the room and smirked. "Check out Heather."

Rosaleen's childhood friend was waving energetically from behind her harp's ornate soundboard. Rosaleen made a half wave in return and Heather beamed. She drew her hand across the harp strings.

Rosaleen steeled herself. Each harp note sparked a painful double helix of oranges and reds across her vision. She massaged her temples. The recurring headaches didn't make sense. But hello--good reason to persuade Dad she should drop violin?

"Oooh, you made her day," Jenn said. "Now let's pretend we totally love her solo."

"We will love it," Rosaleen said softly. So what if Heather was into granny stuff? Why should Jenn care?"

Jenn looked surprised then tapped Rosaleen's shoulder with her bow, leaving a smudge of white rosin. "We're all going to the coffee shop after practice. Jonathan will meet us, of course."

Rosaleen arranged her face into a bland mask. "Got stuff to do" Meaning: stuff yourself. And take my lying, cheating ex boyfriend with you.

Jenn flicked the powder off Rosaleen's sweater, snagging a thread. Her eyes narrowed. "Daddy back yet? You need to nail down our concert tix."

Rosaleen flushed. "You'll get your comps. You know Dad has connections with pretty much everyone touring Philly."

Jenn pushed her face toward Rosaleen. "So get on the stick. I told you what we wanted."

"And I told you my father would handle it. Front row seats as usual." The buzz in her head had started again. She closed her eyes. Maybe it wasn't the sound of instruments that caused her weird headaches. Maybe it was the yapping from Jenn and her snooty orchestra clique. Sucking up meant a part-time job for her father and free tuition for her. But also meant keeping her own mouth buttoned. Controlling her inner Rosaleen--whatever it may be--may never be.

"I said, when's daddy returning?" Jenn asked irately. "I need some work done on my violin." She tapped a manicured nail on a tiny scratch on the soundboard.

The conductor rapped his baton on his music stand and pointed it at Rosaleen. Face burning, she grabbed her violin. Dad, where the hell are you?

. . . . . . . . .

Rosaleen dropped her violin case on the kitchen counter and let her backpack fall onto the worn linoleum floor. She pulled up a chair, propping her boots on the recyclables bin. Remnants from last night's Philly cheesesteaks tumbled over a clutter of smelly take-out containers.

The phone rang. "Simone O'Reilly?"

Rosaleen pinched her nostrils. "Wrong number."

"Is Simone about?"

"I said, no Simone here." Her finger hovered over the disconnect button. How many collection calls had she shielded Mom from this week?

"I know 'tis ye, Rosaleen." The woman's soft Irish brogue turned hard. "Put your mother on. It's Brigit from Cnoc Feeorin."

Rosaleen eyed the phone, surprised. As far as she knew, her parents had broken all contact with Dad's Irish godmother. "Brigit? I don't think Mom wants to talk to you."

"Tell her your father is on his way here."

Rosaleen white knuckled the receiver. "You talked to him? Where is he? Is he okay? We haven't heard anything for---." She looked at the wall clock. For 26 days and about 12 hours.

Music played faintly behind Brigit. The phone faded then hummed back to life.

"Never mind the chatter. Tell Simone I expect you straight away. You can have your old bedroom above the pub."

"But Dad never said he was visiting you!" A swirl of colors signaled the beginning of another migraine. Rosaleen wedged the phone on her shoulder and rubbed her temples. "Is he still with a client? Can't you tell him to come home?" Her voice had gone small.

"It's best ye come here."

"Why?" A burst of static almost made her drop the phone. "Brigit, you there?"

"I have no time for this." Brigit's voice was faint. "Pass on my message."

"Wait! My school won't be done for a couple weeks. And the twins—have you forgotten them?" Rosaleen straightened and blew a paint flake off her thumb. Serve Dad right to be ignored for a while---just like he was doing to them. He could hit speed dial, couldn't he?

"There is a school here, Rosaleen. Your father needs you, so make haste." The line buzzed. Brigit had hung up.

Rosaleen slid her hand under her sleeve and pushed her fingers under her woven leather bracelet, a gift from Dad. He was the only one who had her back, but even he never noticed the unhealed sores around her wrist. The oozing red marks created an exact pattern of the bracelet's Celtic design. She snapped the bracelet hard, stifling a moan.

Her mom shuffled into the kitchen, a faded bathrobe tied loosely. Dark auburn hair hung in oily waves along her thin neck.

Rosaleen fanned herself with her hand. "Don't you take showers anymore?"

Her mom flushed. "I thought I heard you say 'dad'."

"Shouldn't I? Just because he abandoned us doesn't mean he doesn't exist." She eyed her mom. Wait for it, wait for it.

"He would never!" Her mom's red-rimmed eyes went scary wild. "He's with a client! You know how he gets when he's repairing their instruments. He loses track of time." She grabbed an unwashed glass from the sink and went to the freezer to fill it with ice.

Rosaleen's mouth tightened. "Ever wonder if he could be hanging out with a client's groupies? Even classical musicians have them, not to mention the rockers. I mean, look at you."

There was no response except for the slow, steady pour of whiskey slipping into her mother's glass. Rosaleen slumped. Resentment at her life was turning her into a Jenn monster.

"Sorry, sorry. I know he wouldn't dump us," she said." Or her, his favorite? "That was Brigit on the phone. Yeah, Irish Brigit. She says we need to get over there 'cause Dad's coming to the pub and needs us."

Her mother swirled around. "She said that?"

"But when I tried to get her to tell me what's going on, she hung up. Guess being a million years old cuts you some slack. Still, she was massive rude. What was that about?" Rosaleen crossed her arms and stared at her mom. "Something happened on Dad's and my last visit to Brigit didn't it? Is that why he wouldn't tell us he was going there?"

Her mom looked away. A half memory moved through Rosaleen's consciousness. So far she had been successful at quarantining her worries about Dad. Now fear heaved up like an abscess rising from a ring of pus.

CHAPTER TWO
Sleet rattled the window in the tiny bedroom above Brigit's Irish pub. Roiseen grabbed her fourth-favorite pair of cowboy boots, pulled on black jeans over her pajama bottoms and shivered into two layers of sweaters, her nose cold as a healthy Irish Setter's. She tiptoed to her mother's room. Her mom lay sideways across the dingy blankets, mouth slightly open. Drool crusted her cheek.

Roiseen took the corner of a blanket and yanked until she had enough to cover her mother's shoulders. She fumbled for another blanket to drape her Mom's bare feet. Her boot heel connected with an empty Bushmill's whiskey bottle. It spun then stopped, pointing at her mother. A bitter smile touched Roiseen's face. She had no intention of kissing Mom. Stale whiskey breath was so not cool.

1st 5 Pages December Workshop - Johnson Rev 2

Name: Tiffany Turpin Johnson
Genre: Young Adult Speculative Thriller
Title: The Phoenix

CHAPTER ONE

There's a dead boy at my window.

I slide out of bed and squint in the darkness to be sure my eyes aren’t playing tricks. I recognize the dead boy right away, and he’s at the wrong window.

My ex-best friend Evan huddles on the second-floor porch, clinging with both hands to my window frame in the moonlight. A year and a half ago we sprinkled his ashes (so we thought) behind the Coral Beach High School football field. His parents said some nice things, and a lot of kids cried. The principal even shut down school for a few days. Seemed like an overreaction to me, but when the most popular guy in school disappears and turns up dead, overreaction is status quo.

Yet somehow here he is, staring at me with eyes wide and bloodshot and definitely alive. His hair is all gone, his skin so sickly pale it glows silver in the moonlight, and there's a huge, jagged scar running across his skull. Beneath the flimsy hospital gown his body is shrunken, concave. Not at all the cocky quarterback I remember. Despite all that, I'm sure it's him.

"Brie," Evan says, voice muffled through the glass, "are you in there?"

I blink a few times, so hard that blue spots swirl on the backs of my eyelids. This can’t be happening. I must be hallucinating again, but why would I imagine a Frankensteiny Evan? We’ve been polite strangers since the Blowout in fifth grade. That's been seven years ago now, part of which he spent being dead. Besides, I'm over him now. Completely. Utterly. And if this is a hallucination, it’s nothing like the ones I had before.

My heart pounds so hard that blood roars in my ears louder than the ocean outside. I swallow hard, willing the roar away. I can’t think with all this noise.

“Brie, please.” Evan reaches up one hand to tap on the windowpane. When the sleeve of his hospital gown rolls down, I see that part of his right thumb—the throwing one—is missing. Something about that empty space where the other half of his thumb should be transfixes me, holds me still and silent, but then the sound of his fingernails tap-tap-tapping on the glass makes me recoil in the darkness.

That sure sounded real enough. But why would he come to me? And why the hell is he wearing a hospital gown like some mental asylum escapee?

It can’t be Evan. People don't just come back to life. The Reanimist Association raised an animal or two before it disbanded, but the one time they tried with a human was a total disaster. So bad that no one even thinks about resurrection anymore. Not after what happened to Jenny Lee.

"God, Brie." I watch Evan’s lips shape my name. He leans toward the window, opening his eyes even wider, as if that will help him to see me lurking to the far side of my pitch black bedroom. "Brie," he says again. "Let me in." I can hardly hear him over the ocean booming at his back, and though the voice is raspy and exhausted, damaged even, I recognize it.

He’s really here.

Evan, I think, one single word filled with a longing I didn’t think could exist in me anymore. I try to say his name out loud but my throat closes and won’t form the word. Eyes stinging, I take a deep, shuddering breath and try again. "Ev," I whisper, and find my feet shuffling forward without permission. I get all the way to the glass before my legs freeze and pull me to a halt.

My arms ache to yank the pane up. Still, I can’t let him in. Resurrection is illegal, which means I could be charged with aiding and abetting. Or something else equally ominous-sounding. And I’ll never shoot for National Geographic from jail.

Evan lets his head fall forward, pressing the scarred flesh of his bald forehead against the pane. He closes his eyes and presses the palms of both hands flat on the glass. I feel mine rising to meet them, pressing against the window with my fingers lined up to his. His fingers eclipse mine in all places but one, where the sad little half-thumb ends in a jagged knuckled stump. Even separated by the panes of glass, I haven’t been this close to him in years.

"Please let me in," he says, speaking so softly now that I have to read his lips forming the words. "Someone's after me. Brie. Please. Let me in."

"Evan," I say again, the word a mere breath this time. My fingers freeze around the window’s lock.

I think of the day we first met, the day he disappeared, of all the days between. The scrawny little boy whose long auburn hair always fell into his evergreen eyes. Who shared ice cream with me on blazing summer days and let me have the melty chocolate bits at the bottom of the cone. Who let me camp out at his house whenever Mom went on one of her binges. The same sweet, awkward little boy who grew up into the gorgeous football star that pawed my stepsister on our couch after winning yet another game. The memory of his once-whole thumb rubbing along the outside of Cora’s shirt is creepier than seeing him here now, when he should be fertilizing the Friday night turf he worshipped.

What if he's a zombie or a vampire or something, and he's going to eat me if I let him in? God, that would be so cliched. Plus he's not glowing or fangy or anything. He's not even dripping blood. Not a monster then.

At least if I get eaten, I’ll know for sure I’m not hallucinating.

I unlock the window and slide it open.

CHAPTER TWO

Evan tumbles through the window and throws both arms around me, forcing me to stumble backwards until I hit the bed and we crash into a pile. He smells vaguely of cleanser, a sharp sort of soapiness that reminds me of Mom’s hospital room. Instinctively I shove him away and scramble toward the headboard, drawing my legs up to my chest and wrapping both arms around my knees as tight as my muscles will allow. My eyes flicker to the open window, as if a cop will climb up any second.

Evan sits perfectly still at the foot of the bed, staring at me with deer-in-headlight eyes. The hospital gown crinkles with each of his quick breaths. He keeps one arm carefully pressed to the tied opening at the gown’s side, as if hiding something there.

I can’t speak. We both breathe hard now, and stare, stare, just all this stupid staring. What do you say to a dead boy? A boy you weren't even friends with anymore when he died?

I should turn on the lights, but I can’t make myself move. What if someone’s taking a random redeye stroll on the beach and sees us? I leap up and shut the window, pulling the shade down for good measure.

As I walk back to the bed my fingers itch for my camera, only a few arms’ lengths away. I ignore the itch.

The silence stretches long and awkward between us. I should say something, anything, but everything I think of sounds idiotic.

What are you doing out of your grave?

Does Jesus really wear Jesus sandals?

Have you missed me at all since fifth grade?

To keep my itchy fingers busy I turn on the bedside lamp. Evan squints, looking paler than ever in the new light. "Thanks for letting me in," he says after his breathing finally slows.

I realize I've been holding my breath and let it out with a whoosh. "Um, sure. No problem." I clear my throat and add, "So you couldn’t find Cora’s window?"

Total failure picking a clever first question.

1st 5 Pages December Workshop - Michael Rev 2

Name: Connie Michael
Genre: YA Urban Fantasy
Title: Entrusted


Luke’s broad frame filled the small porch, blocking the way down the stairs and to my car. I was already late for cross country practice and really didn’t have the energy to rehash his need for me to quit for the millionth time. But the expression on his face made it clear. We were in for another fight.

“Don’t go, Emma.” Luke wrapped his arms around my waist and pulled me close to snuggle my neck. “I have counseling later. I need you when I get back.”

“I’ll be back.” I tried to remain firm and pushed lightly against his chest. “I have practice every day.” I knew counseling was rough. An hour of dredging up all the reasons it wasn’t your fault your life sucked. Running was my way of dealing with my crappy life. I was Luke’s way. Every day he held me and told he needed me. That he wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for me. He scared me when he said those words.

“Then why do I have to ask you every day?” His voice had an edge that confirmed it— he wasn’t going to let me go easily.


I stood on my tip toes and kissed his cheek in an attempt to lighten his mood. “I’ll be done at five and we’ll go eat.”

Luke voice was rough. He fingers brushed against my throat, playing with a small turquoise pendant he’d given me earlier in the day. “Stay.” My heart melted a little. Luke’s tender moments were enough for me to forgive his over possessive temper tantrums. But I couldn’t miss another practice or I wouldn’t be able to compete this weekend. I wanted a scholarship and the meet was important.

“I got to go.” I slid around him, trying not to cave and turn back into his arms. Luke caught me as I reached the first step. Turning me to face him he wrapped his arms around me, clasping his hands just above my butt. Luke’s larger body engulfed my petite frame. Usually giving me a sense of warmth and caring. Now his embrace felt stiff and cold.

“To see Greg.”His anger at my refusal began to grow. His arms tightened. “Why aren’t I enough for you?”

The words cut through me. He knew they could make me stay. “You know it’s not like that.”

Everyone at The Ridge, the therapeutic group home where we lived, had issues. Mine tended to be a need heal everyone while avoiding my own issues. At least that’s what my counselor told me. Luke held scars suffered at his fathers’ hand and had developed a strong sense of paranoia when it came to me and Greg. There weren’t any words that would make him believe Greg was just my friend. I’d tried.

“Let me go,” I whispered.

His expression turned dark when it registered I wasn’t going to stay. “Then go. Go see him.” Luke pushed me from his chest. I stepped back. My foot missed the edge of the step and I teetered scrambling for balance. I reached out for help. Luke stepped away and watched me go down. I tumbled down the five steps that led to the sidewalk. The side of my head hit the railing as I bounced to a stop. Bright lights sliced through my skull—a bump already forming on my temple. Slowly I pushed to my hands and knees and looked up. A shiver ran through me when I met his stare—his eyes were black. Not just the iris but the entire eye was a dark pool of ebony.

“You need to tell Greg to stay away from what’s not his.” Luke’s words crept into the inner most part of my brain. “Stay away from him.”

The bump on my head must have knocked me senseless. His mouth hadn’t seemed to move…yet I’d heard the words loud and clear.

“Luke?” Sasha, a twelve year old who was staying at the home temporarily, until her foster home was ready, came out to the back porch. Luke moved to block me from her view. “Mrs. Farrar wants you.”Mrs. Farrar ran The Ridge—and you didn’t keep her waiting. Sasha leaned to look around Luke. “Em? Are you okay?”

Luke’s gaze moved from me to Sasha. Sasha made a noise that sounded like “Eeep” and ran back into the house. He turned back to me. Slowly his eyes closed. When he opened them again the inky blackness had returned to the rich brown I knew. Without a word he followed her into the house. I stood up trying to decide if I should make sure Sasha was okay or leave while I had the chance. My need to get to practice won out and I got in my car. My hands shook. I couldn’t get the key in the ignition. I rested my head on the steering wheel to try and calm myself. It was just the bump on my head. My eyes had played tricks on me. I drew in a deep breath, turned on the car and drove to the high school.

I ran from the parking lot to the locker rooms and then out to the field. I threaded my fingers through my long blonde hair—lifting it off my neck to pull into a ponytail. I cringed when my fingers grazed the lump and the greenish purple bruise emerging at my temple. I hurried to catch up with the pre-workout stretches.

“Holy crap Emma what happened to your head?” My best friend and running partner,

Greg, looked over from where he sat on grass.

“I tripped over Luke and fell down the stairs.” I settled in the cool grass next to him.

Greg let out a loud snort.

“It was an accident.” Or at least that’s what I’d tried to convince myself. Over the last few weeks Luke and I had a lot of accidents. I’d come up with a variety of clever ways to camouflage my bumps and bruises but today I hadn’t had time. If The Ridge found out about his temper they would send him away. I was afraid of what he would do without me to support him.

“So are you finally going to admit you’re dating him?” Greg stood up and placed his hand on my shoulder for balance while he stretched his quads.

“We can’t date. The Ridge frowns on fraternizing. We hang out.”I’d lived at the Ridge for four years, since the beginning of eighth grade when my last foster home fell apart.
“Fraternizing? What are you? Like eighty?” Greg was like a brother to me and wasn’t a fan of Luke’s. I didn’t like talking about my relationship status with him.

I shrugged. “That’s their term so it probably came from someone who was eighty.”

“Em, you’ve spent every waking moment with him for the last month and when you’re not with him he’s texting you to find out where you are. That is the definition of dating. Or at least stalking.”

“He’s never kissed me.” I leaned over to stretch my quads, burying my words into my legs.

“What? What did you say?” Greg leaned over and stuck his face next to mine.

“Kissing? We don’t do it. And isn’t that in the definition of dating?” I used my snottiest voice.

“Ever?” he asked exacerbated.

I raised my eyebrows and shrugged.

Greg shook his head back and forth. “I don’t even know what to say to that.”

1st 5 Pages December Workshop - Letai Rev 2

Name: Jean Letai
Genre: Middle Grade Fiction
Title: Shinto Secret


I would have mentioned Grandpa’s vanishing limbs over pancakes and orange juice if I had come downstairs just half an hour earlier. By the time I was up, Mom had already got the phone call from across the ocean. “Bad news, Keiko,” she said, her face pale. Grandpa Ojiisan had “passed” unexpectedly, tripping and drowning in a waterfall at one of his favorite parks in Japan.

No way, I wanted to scream. It was too bizarre that I had just seen him in the middle of the night. He was standing at my bedside, reaching out to me with that hand as wrinkled as a bird’s claw. Ghost or not, I knew who he was – even with his scraggly white hair dripping wet, his long wispy mustache drooping against his creased, wind-burnt cheeks, his nose protruding more than it should, and his feet and legs evaporating right in front of me. He struck me as really beautiful, in some eerie kind of way.

Looking at Mom’s tear-filled eyes I realized I had to keep Grandpa’s visit a secret. Mom and Dad would think I was making up a story, or not taking the news seriously…or worse. I’d heard bits of their hushed conversations and seen the headlines when I searched Grandpa on-line… “Renowned Techno-Wizard obsessed with Spirit World,” “Scientists Question Sanity of Secretive Research”... Kind of unnerving to think your own grandpa might be loony. What if it runs in the family?

Still, I had to tell someone. I picked my younger brother, Aki. He likes that psychic and supernatural stuff, especially since Grandpa sent him a book of Japanese ghost stories last Christmas. Together we searched my Japanese-English dictionary to translate what I thought I heard our evaporating Grandpa whisper. “Key-what-soo-kaytaynay,” it sounded like. His mouth was open trying to say more when crash! There went my iPod clattering to the floor. I like to listen to it as I fall asleep, but I wish I hadn’t that night. It scared the breath out of me, and poor Grandpa Ojiisan disappeared altogether.

Ke, Ki… Ki-wot-su-ke-te-ne: Take care, or be careful. That had to be it. But I had never heard it before. Can you dream words you’ve never heard before?

Aki and I agreed that Mom and Dad would think I was losing my grip on reality, just like the recent rumors about Grandpa Ojiisan himself. We also agreed something must happen after death. You can’t just lie there and rot.

“Do you think you go to Heaven?” I asked him. I like to think Heaven is full of all the chocolate you can eat.

“I think you become part of a spirit world where there is no time or space,” Aki answered me. He’s spent a lot of time reading science fiction during his twelve years on Earth. “That means you also get powers like teleporting and shapeshifting.” Aki had clearly given the matter plenty of thought.

“I think you come back as an animal,” my little sister Juni called out then, listening in from the next room the way she does. “I want to be a monkey.”

“Then I’ll come back as a hippo,” Aki declared. No surprise he is the most right-brained member of our family, according to an Internet quiz the five of us took. The rest of us are left-brainers, especially me. I stick to logic and rational thought. Usually. Yet how rational is it that I agreed to fly halfway around the world to a country whose language I don’t speak, to spend the summer with a woman I hardly know?

“She’s your grandmother,” Mom had said sternly when I objected to the whole idea. “She’s in your blood. And Japan is in your blood, too.”

Japan is certainly in my name, Keiko. Even though Dad is American, and Mom and Dad had already settled snug as bugs in small-town New England, Mom insisted on giving us three kids Japanese first names. “With a last name like Jones, you need an interesting first name,” she figured.

Still, I can hardly pronounce Obaasan, the Japanese for Grandmother. I don’t know how I’m supposed to comfort her. I’ve never visited Japan before and will probably be more trouble than help.

Why couldn’t Mom come herself? She can’t take that much time off work, or away from Aki and Juni, but she doesn’t mind not seeing me for six weeks? So much for not having any favorites among us. Or least favorites, anyway.

Mom told me Grandmother needs company to get past her grief, and I’m the only one of the family with enough maturity but no real responsibilities tying me down. She said the poor woman has been dreaming her entire life of climbing Mt. Fuji, the most sacred of all mountains in Japan, the ultimate pilgrimage for followers of Shinto – Japan’s ancient religion. Grandpa Ojiisan had finally arranged to climb the sacred mountain with Grandmother this summer, but now I must go in his place.

It’s only for the summer. My friends think it’s very cool, flying solo across the Pacific Ocean when I’m just fourteen, visiting a continent as far away as Asia. But I definitely did not want to come.

Whatever. Here I am a week later – spending thirteen hours straight on this airplane, squashed in the window seat next to a large, sweaty man who apparently never heard of deodorant. I can’t wait to get off now that the plane’s finally landing. Grandmother will be waiting, and I picture our eyes meeting with instant recognition. I’ll bow in the Japanese way of greeting, as Mom taught me, and Grandmother will bow back, and then we can hug. I could sure use a hug after this long flight. And a restroom.

In the terminal I search the mob of Asian faces. Konnichiwas and squeals, high-pitched with excitement, fill the air. Digital cameras flash. I push my shoulders back and stick my chin up a couple inches, hoping I look like a young lady of the world instead of a clueless kid.

Strange syllables ring out through the loudspeaker – official-sounding inflections in the Japanese language I cannot comprehend. Biting my lower lip, I look up at the airport signs and giant video monitors all displaying kanji characters, weird symbols completely unlike my American alphabet. For some reason I had assumed there would be English subtitles, some way for me to understand where to go. More importantly, I thought Grandmother would be leading the way.

I cast my eyes down at the shiny white floor, gleaming from the fluorescent lights high above. Dozens of business shoes, heels and sandals cross my line of vision – black, brown and burgundy click-clacking past in a chaotic tap dance. I clutch my duffel bag with both hands and shift my weight from foot to foot. I must look like some kind of idiot. The other passengers all find their friends or families and exit together in a flurry of chit-chat, leaving a loud silence in their wake.

The thought of Grandpa’s ghost suddenly strikes me as creepy – only partly there, torn between this world and some other place. The lingering smell in the airport – a medley of human odors, perfumes, and fish cooking somewhere in the terminal – makes me really queasy.

Chapter 2
For another half-hour I sit holding in my pee, even as I see my summer swirling slowly but steadily down the toilet. I work so hard during the school year, summer is supposed to be my time.

1st 5 Pages December Workshop First Revisions Are Up

Ready to see what's been done so far? Scroll down and dig in. And for additional tips on what makes a great opening, check out today's wonderful post by YA author and librarian Mindy McGinnis on Adventures in YA Publishing. Lisa Gail Green also has a wonderful tip today to help you identify the heart of what matters in your story and get past the block of that first blank page.

1st 5 Pages December Workshop - Letai Rev 1

Name: Jean Letai
Genre: Upper Middle Grade Fiction
Title: Shinto Secret


I push my shoulders back and stick my chin up a couple inches, hoping I look like a young lady of the world instead of a jittery kid stuck at this stupid airport all alone. The time has already hit mid-afternoon here in Tokyo, but it’s still the middle of the night back home in America. The Hour of the Ox, Mom calls that darkness after midnight, when the Japanese believe spirits are most likely to appear.

It must have been the Hour of the Ox last week when Grandpa Ojiisan showed up, reaching out to me with that hand as wrinkled as a bird’s claw. Ghost or not, I knew who he was – even with his scraggly white hair dripping wet, his long wispy mustache drooping against his creased, wind-burnt cheeks, his nose protruding more than it should, and his feet and legs evaporating right in front of me. He struck me as so beautiful then, in some eerie kind of way.

Really not sure why though. He was more like a monster – only partly there, torn between this world and some other place. Those narrow dark eyes creeped me out more than his vanishing limbs. They were so piercing, boring into me…

Then there was that gobbledy-gook he croaked out in his hoarse whisper, so unlike his usual voice. "Key-what-soo-kitane," it sounded like. His mouth was open trying to say more when crash! There went my iPod clattering to the floor. I like to listen to it as I fall asleep, but I wish I hadn’t that night. It scared the breath out of me, and poor Grandpa Ojiisan disappeared altogether. The very next morning I found out he had died.

I wonder how you spell that thing he said. Maybe I can find it in my brand new Japanese-English dictionary. I pull the dictionary out of my backpack’s zippered pocket and look under K. I’m curious, plus it gives me something to do while I’m waiting in this bustling airport terminal looking foolish. Ke, Kee, Ki… Ki-wot-su-ke-tene: Take care, or be careful. Hmmm, that’s got to be it. But I’ve never heard it before. Can you dream words you’ve never heard before?

Sounds like a right-brainer thing to do, and I’m a leftie – the most left-brained member of the whole family, at least according to an Internet quiz the five of us took. I stick to logic and rational thought. Usually. Yet how rational is it that I just flew halfway around the world to this country whose language I don’t speak, to spend the summer with a woman I hardly know?

I try hard to paste a pleasant smile on my face as person after person greets loved ones in this waiting area. I slip my dictionary back into its zippered pocket, glad to have something to do for a brief moment, then clutch the handle of my rolling duffel bag with both hands. I can’t help shifting my weight from foot to foot. I probably look like some kind of idiot.

Digital cameras flash on all sides of me. Konnichiwas and giggles, high-pitched with excitement, fill the air. My Japanese grandmother is supposed to be right here waiting for me, so delighted to see me and eager to hear about my journey. Where is she?

Wishing I could teleport back home, I cast my eyes down at the shiny white floor, gleaming from the fluorescent lights high above. Dozens of business shoes, heels and sandals stride across my line of vision – black, brown and burgundy click-clacking past in a chaotic tap dance.

Strange syllables ring out through the loudspeaker – official-sounding inflections in the Japanese language I cannot comprehend. Biting my lower lip, I look up at the airport signs and giant video monitors all displaying Japanese kanji characters, symbols completely unlike my American alphabet. For some reason I had assumed there would be English subtitles, some way for me to understand where to go. More importantly, I thought Grandmother would be leading the way.

‘You know what a strong-willed lady she is, and how close the two of them were,’ I can hear Mom’s words from last week echoing in my head. ‘There’s no telling what she’ll do if she decides she doesn’t want to keep on living with him gone.’ The words I was never meant to hear had drifted up to my bedroom where I lay trying to sleep. ‘Keiko would give her a reason to move forward, keep her from thinking there’s any other option.’ I had listened helplessly as Mom pressed Dad to send me away.

Now I’m listening helplessly for someone – anyone – to call my name, or thrust out a sign, or give any indication that I am welcome, expected, anxiously anticipated even. I search the mob of Asian faces surrounding me. One face must be looking for me. I had pictured our eyes meeting with instant recognition. I would bow in the Japanese way of greeting, as Mom taught me, and Grandmother would bow back, and then we could embrace. I could sure use a hug after that long thirteen-hour flight. And a restroom.

I know I should feel sorry for my grandmother. I should be going out of my way to help her all I can through this difficult time, especially if Mom is right about her not even wanting to keep living with Grandpa gone. It’s kind of sweet, the thought of loving someone so much you don’t want to go forward without them. But I’m sure Grandpa would want her to go on.

To me, Mom said just that Grandmother needs company to get past her grief, and that I’m the only one of the family with enough maturity but no real responsibilities tying me down. So it’s not enough as the oldest kid I always have to babysit Aki and Juni (which I really don’t mind – we eat pizza and watch TV, not such a bad way to spend a night). But now I’ve got to babysit my grandmother too?

Mom said the poor woman has been dreaming her entire life of climbing Mt. Fuji, the most sacred of all mountains in Japan, the ultimate pilgrimage for followers of Shinto – Japan’s ancient religion. Grandpa Ojiisan had finally arranged to climb the sacred mountain with Grandmother this summer, but now I must go in his place.

It’s only for the summer. My friends think it’s very cool, flying solo across the Pacific Ocean when I’m just 14, visiting a continent as far away as Asia. But I definitely did not want to come.

“She’s your grandmother,” Mom had said sternly when I objected to this whole idea. “She’s in your blood. And Japan is in your blood, too.”

Japan is certainly in my name, Keiko. Even though Dad is American, and Mom and Dad had already settled snug as bugs in small-town New England, Mom insisted on giving us three kids Japanese first names. “With a last name like Jones, you need an interesting first name,” she figured.

Still, I can hardly pronounce Obaasan, the Japanese for Grandmother. I don’t know how I’m supposed to comfort her. I’ve never visited Japan before and will probably be more trouble than help. I can’t even use my cell phone here, since apparently it operates on a different frequency from Japanese phones.

Why didn’t Mom come herself? She can’t take that much time off work, or away from Aki and Juni, but she doesn’t mind not seeing me for six weeks?

1st 5 Pages December Workshop - Michael Rev 1

Name: Connie Michael
Young Adult Urban Fantasy
Title: Entrusted


Luke’s broad frame filled the small porch, blocking the way down the stairs and to my car. I was already late for cross country practice and really didn’t have the energy to rehash his need for me to quit for the millionth time, but the expression on his face made it clear we were in for another fight.

“Don’t go, Emma.” Luke wrapped his arms around my waist and pulled me close. “I have counseling later. I need you here when I get back.”

“I’ll be back. I have to practice every day.” I tried to keep the frustration out of my voice and pushed lightly against his chest. I knew counseling was rough for him. An hour of dredging up all the reasons it wasn’t his fault his dad beat him. Running was my way of coping. I was Luke’s way of coping. He hated that I found relief somewhere other than with him.

“Then why do I have to ask you every day?” His voice had an edge that confirmed it— he wasn’t going to let me go easily.


I stood on my tip toes and kissed his cheek in an attempt to lighten his mood. “I’ll be done at five and we’ll go eat.”

Luke’s ability to be the sweet and caring had drawn me in. I hadn’t had many people take care of me in my life and his tender moments were enough for me to forgive his over possessive temper tantrums.

“I got to go.” I slid around him and made it to the top step before his arms wrapped around my waist from behind— holding me in place. Luke’s larger body engulfed my petite frame, leaving me at his mercy.

“To see Greg. His anger at my refusal began to grow. His arms tightened around me.

I turned to face him and tried to keep my voice calm. “You’re hurting me.”

“Tell me you aren’t going to see Greg. I won’t share you,” he insisted.

“Let me go.” I understood Luke’s need to control me. Everyone at The Ridge, the therapeutic group home where we lived, had issues. Aside from the abuse he’d had, Luke feared being abandoned and had a strong sense of paranoia when it came to me. There weren’t any words that would make him believe Greg was just my friend. I’d tried.

“Then go. Go see him.” Luke shoved me away. I teetered on the top step. Scrambling for balance I reached out. Luke stepped out of my reach and watched me go down. A small grin pulled at the side of his mouth as I tumbled down the steps. The side of my head hit the railing as I bounced to a stop. Bright lights sliced through my skull. I could already feel the bump forming on my temple. Slowly I pushed to my hands and knees and looked up for help. He crossed his arms.

“Luke!” Sasha, a twelve year old who was staying at the home temporarily, until her foster home was ready, came out to the back porch. Luke moved to block me from her view. “Mrs. Farrar wants you.” Mrs. Farrar ran The Ridge—and you didn’t keep her waiting. Sasha leaned to look around Luke. “Em? Are you okay?”

Luke’s gaze moved from me to Sasha. Sasha made a noise that sounded like “Eeep” and ran back into the house. Without word Luke followed her. I stood up trying to decide if I should make sure Sasha was okay or leave when I had the chance. Self-preservation won out and I drove to the high school. I couldn’t miss practice or I wouldn’t be able to compete this weekend.

I ran from the parking lot to the locker rooms and then out to the field. I threaded my fingers through my long blonde hair—lifting it off my neck to pull into a ponytail. I cringed when my fingers grazed the lump and the greenish purple bruise emerging at my temple. I hurried to catch up with the pre-workout stretches.

“Holy crap Emma what happened to your head?” My best friend and running partner, Greg, looked over from where he sat on grass.

“I tripped over Luke and fell down the stairs.” I settled in the cool grass next to him.

Greg let out a loud snort. “Seems like you trip a lot lately.”

“It was an accident.” Or at least that’s what I’d tried to convince myself. Over the last few weeks Luke and I had a lot of accidents.

“Maybe you should get your eyes checked or something,” he said.

I gave him my best just shut up look, but it didn’t work.

“So are you finally going to admit you’re dating him?” Greg stood up and placed his hand on my shoulder for balance while he stretched his quads.

“We can’t date. The Ridge frowns on fraternizing. We hang out.” I’d lived at the Ridge since the middle of eighth grade, after my last foster home fell apart.

“Fraternizing? What are you? Like eighty?” Greg wasn’t a fan of Luke’s and I didn’t like talking about my relationship status with him.

I shrugged. “That’s their term so it probably came from someone who was eighty.”

“Em, you’ve spent every waking moment with him for the last month and when you’re not with him he’s texting you to find out where you are. That is the definition of dating. Or at least stalking.” Greg’s words faded when he took off running— leaving me behind.

I jumped up and ran after him. I matched my short strides to his longer ones. Greg was tall and lanky, the perfect body for cross country. I was a good head shorter, making each of his strides equal to two of mine. My phone buzzed in my pocket announcing a new text.

“Is that your phone?” Greg asked. “Why do you have your phone when you’re running?”
“Luke doesn’t like it if he can’t reach me.” I pulled my phone out and texted while I ran.

“That’s stalkerish.” Greg’s voice held a tone of disapproval.

“Why do you guys make this so hard. I shouldn’t have to choose between you. You don’t even know him. You might like him.” We headed into the woods beside the school to begin a five mile run for the day.

“He doesn’t want to know me. He doesn’t want you to know me. Besides what’s it matter if I like him? I’m not the one dating him.”

The path evened out when we came out the other side of the trees.

“We aren’t dating. And I want you to like him because you’re my best friend.” Greg had been my friend since I was placed in the group home. He was the first real friend I’d ever had.

Greg stopped short.

I ran a few paces then turned around and jogged back to him. “What?”

“Emma be careful.”

I jogged in place trying to keep my muscles loose. “Careful of what?”

He narrowed his eyes. “Just be careful. Sometimes people aren’t what they seem.”

“Like he’s a mass murderer disguised as a high school senior?”

“You never know. He does live…He has…” Greg’s voice trailed off.

“He does live where?! At The Ridge? That’s what you were going to say—wasn’t it?

Because everyone at The Ridge is a screw up.” I shoved him.

I’d been in foster care or groups homes for as long as I could remember. I didn’t know my parents.

1st 5 Pages December Workshop - Johnson Rev 1

Name: Tiffany Turpin Johnson
Genre: Young Adult Speculative Thriller
Title: The Phoenix

CHAPTER ONE

There's a dead boy at my window.

I've faced death before, but this is different. My mom nearly drowned in our bathtub seven years ago. I was only nine when I found her drifting in a sea of pale red water.

Now, I look out at my ex-best friend Evan as he clings to my window frame in the moonlight. A year and a half ago we sprinkled his ashes (so we thought) behind the Coral Beach High School football field. His parents said some nice things, and a lot of kids cried. The principal even shut down school for a few days. Seemed like an overreaction to me, but when the most popular guy in school disappears and turns up dead, overreaction is status quo.

Yet somehow here he is, staring at me through the glass with eyes wide and bloodshot and definitely alive. His hair is all gone, his skin so sickly pale it glows silver in the moonlight, and there's a huge, jagged scar running across his skull. Beneath the flimsy hospital gown his body is shrunken, concave. Not at all the quarterback I remember. Despite all that, I'm sure it's him.

Even though it can't be. People don't just come back to life. The Reanimist Association raised an animal or two before it disbanded, but the one time they tried with a human was a total disaster. So bad that no one talks, or even thinks, about resurrection anymore. Jenny's Law makes it illegal to attempt.

No one's stupid enough to try resurrection again after what happened to Jenny.

Right?

"Brie," Evan says, voice muffled through the window, "are you in there?"

I blink a few times, so hard that blue spots swirl on the backs of my eyelids. What if I’m hallucinating again? It's four a.m., so who knows if my eyes are telling me the truth. I know I could trust my camera, but I'm afraid to move to get it.

My heart is pounding so hard that blood roars in my ears louder than the ocean outside. I swallow hard, willing the roar away.

Okay. I have to be logical about this. If the hallucinations are back, why would I hallucinate a Frankensteiny Evan? We’ve been polite strangers since the Blowout in elementary school. That's been ages ago now, part of which he spent being dead. Besides, I'm over him now. Completely. And if this is a hallucination, it’s nothing like the ones I had during Mom’s coma. So why would I see him now if he weren't really here?

Evan reaches up one hand to tap on the windowpane. When the sleeve of his hospital gown rolls down, I see that part of his right thumb is missing. Something about that empty space where the other half of his thumb should be transfixes me, holds me still and silent, but then the sound of his fingernails tap-tap-tapping on the glass makes me recoil in the darkness.

That sure sounded real enough. Still, it doesn’t make sense. Why would he come to my window when his girlfriend’s window is just a few feet away? And why the hell is he wearing a hospital gown like some mental asylum escapee?

"Brie." I watch his lips shape my name. He leans toward the window, opening his eyes even wider, as if that will help him to see me lurking to the far side of my pitch black bedroom. "Brie," he says again. "Let me in." I can hardly hear him over the ocean booming at his back, and though the voice is raspy and exhausted, damaged even, I recognize it.

He must really be here.

Evan, I think, one single word filled with a longing I didn’t think could exist in me anymore. I try to say his name out loud but my throat closes and won’t form the word. Eyes stinging, I take a deep, shuddering breath and try again.

"Ev," I whisper, and find my feet shuffling forward without permission. I get all the way to the glass before my legs freeze and pull me to a halt.

I have never in my life wanted to see someone so much. Not even when I thought Mom was never waking up. Still, I can’t let him in. Resurrection is illegal, which means I could be charged with aiding and abetting. Or something else equally ominous-sounding. And I’ll never shoot for National Geographic from jail.

On the other side of the window, Evan lets his head fall forward, pressing the scarred flesh of his bald forehead against the pane. He closes his eyes and presses the palms of both hands flat on the glass. I feel mine rising to meet them, pressing against the window with my fingers lined up to his. His fingers eclipse mine in all places but one, where the sad little half-thumb ends in a jagged knuckled stump.

"Please let me in," he says, speaking so softly now that I can barely hear him at all and have to read his lips forming the words. "Someone's after me. Brie. Please. Let me in."

"Evan," I say again, the word a mere breath this time.

I think of the day we first met, the day he disappeared, of all the days between. The scrawny little boy whose long auburn hair always fell into his evergreen eyes. Who shared ice cream with me on blazing summer days and let me have the melty chocolate bits at the bottom of the cone. Who let me camp out at his house whenever Mom went on one of her binges.

The same awkward little boy who grew up into the gorgeous guy that pawed my stepsister on our living room couch after football games on Friday nights.

That memory is creepier than seeing him here now. I shove the image away.

What if he's a vampire, and he's going to eat me if I let him in? God, that would be so cliched. Plus he's not glowing or fangy or anything. He's not even dripping blood. Not a vampire then.

Probably.

At least if I get bitten, I’ll know for sure I’m not hallucinating.

I unlock the window and slide it open.

CHAPTER TWO

Before I can do anything else, Evan tumbles through the window and throws both arms around me, forcing me to stumble backwards until I hit the bed and we crash into a pile. He smells vaguely of cleanser, a familiar soapiness that I can't quite place. Instinctively I shove him away and scramble toward the headboard, drawing my legs up to my chest and wrapping both arms around my knees as tight as my muscles will allow. My eyes flicker to the open window, as if a cop will climb up any second.

Evan sits perfectly still at the foot of the bed, staring at me with deer-in-headlight eyes. The hospital gown crinkles with each of his quick breaths. He keeps one arm carefully pressed to the tied opening at the gown’s side.

I have no idea what to say. We're both breathing hard now, and staring, staring, just all this stupid staring. What do you say to a dead boy? A boy you weren't even friends with anymore when he died?

I should turn on the lights, but I can’t make myself move. What if someone’s taking a random redeye stroll on the beach and sees him through the window? All of the elation I felt only moments ago has dissolved into paralyzing fear.

The longer we sit in silence, the more I feel like I should say something, anything, to kill this moment and move on to the next. But everything I can think of sounds idiotic.

What are you doing out of your grave?

Does Jesus really wear Jesus sandals?

Have you missed me at all since fifth grade?

My eyes have adjusted to the darkness, but it’s still not enough to see him well. I compromise and turn on the bedside lamp. Evan squints, waits, clears his throat.

"Thanks for letting me in," he says after a while. His breathing has slowed somewhat, and I realize I've been holding my breath while imagining all the ridiculous first lines I could drop.

I let out a huge breath and say, "Um, sure. No problem." I clear my throat and add, "So what are you doing here, anyway?"

No success picking a clever first question. It's not even possible for him to be here, so why bother asking? God, what if he's not here? I think I was only joking before when I thought I might be a bit whacko, but holy hell, what if I'm right? It wouldn't be the first time.

1st 5 Pages December Workshop - Kelly Rev 1

Christine Kelly
YA urban fantasy
THE OUTLIERS

Rosaleen shoved her violin case against the rehearsal room door. Inside, the clash of tuning instruments hit her head on. She stumbled and grabbed for a music stand, setting it rocking. A boy thumped a melodramatic chord on his bass.

Laughter rippled through the aisles as Rosaleen slunk to her seat. She slumped down and noticed she had cut her hand. A drop of bright blood fell on her second favorite pair of black cowboy boots. Excellent, she thought, squeezing the cut. She'd get gangrene and have to have her hand amputated. It would be the perfect excuse to skip Philadelphia Charter School's spring concert.

Music was dead to her.

She glanced sideways at her neighbor's sheet music. Jenn slid a folder to block the pages. "Late again," Jenn said. "You even practice this week?" She looked across the room and smirked. "Check out Heather and her dorky harp."

Rosaleen's childhood friend was waving so energetically, her antique garnet necklace clinked against the carved soundboard. Rosaleen made a half wave in return. Heather beamed and drew her hand across the harp strings.

Rosaleen steeled herself. Each twang of Heather's harp flashed a painful double helix of oranges and reds across her vision. She massaged her temples. The recurring headaches didn't make sense. But hello--good reason to drop violin?

"Oooh, you made her day," said Jenn. "Now let's pretend we totally love her solo."

"We will love it," Rosaleen said softly. So what if Heather was into granny stuff? Why should Jenn care?"

The other girl looked surprised then tapped Rosaleen's shoulder with her bow, leaving a smudge of white rosin. "We're all going to the coffee shop after practice. Jonathan will meet us, of course." She paused. "You know about prom, right? Him and me?"

Rosaleen arranged her face into a bland mask. "Got stuff to do tonight." Meaning: stuff yourself. And take lying, cheating Jonathan with you.

Jenn flicked the powder off Rosaleen's sweater, snagging a thread. Her eyes narrowed. "Daddy back yet? You need to nail down the concert tix for us. The kids are getting pissed."

Rosaleen flushed. "You'll get your comps. You always do." She let out a little laugh. "That's why you let me hang out with you guys, isn't it?"

"You got that right, headache girl." Jenn pushed her face toward Rosaleen. "So be a good little follower and do your job. I told you weeks ago what we wanted."

"And I told you my father would handle it." The buzz in Rosaleen's head started again.

The conductor rapped his baton on his music stand then pointed it at Rosaleen. She nodded. The less talk about Dad, the better.

When rehearsal finished, Rosaleen quickly packed up. She didn't notice a spurt of laughs circling the room when her classmates checked their phones.
...
Rosaleen tilted her chair against the kitchen wall, propping her boots on the recyclables bin. Remnants from last night's Philly cheesesteaks tumbled over a clutter of smelly take-out containers.

A flicker made her look up: a lost firefly. She went to the window facing their overgrown back yard and pushed. Green paint flakes stuck to her fingers but the sash wouldn't budge. "Sorry, Twinkle Butt. You'll have to find your own way home."

The phone rang. "Simone O'Reilly?"

Rosaleen pinched her nostrils. "Wrong number."

"Is Simone about?"

"I said, no Simone here." Her finger hovered over the disconnect button. How many collection calls had she shielded Mom from this week?

"I know 'tis ye, Rosaleen." The woman's soft Irish brogue turned hard. "Put your mother on. It's Brigit from Cnoc Feeorin."

Rosaleen eyed the phone, surprised. As far as she knew, her parents had broken all contact with Dad's Irish godmother. "Brigit? I don't think Mom wants to talk to you."

"Tell her your father is on his way here."

Rosaleen white knuckled the receiver. "You talked to him? Where is he? Is he okay? We haven't heard anything for---." She looked at the wall clock. For 26 days and about 12 hours.

Music played faintly behind Brigit. The phone faded then hummed back to life.

"Never mind the chatter. Tell Simone I expect you straight away. You can have your old bedroom above the pub."

"But Dad never said he was visiting you!" A swirl of colors signaled the beginnings of another migraine. Rosaleen wedged the phone on her shoulder and rubbed her temples. "Is he still with a client? Can't you tell him to come home?" Her voice had gone small.

"It's best ye come here."

"Why?" A burst of static almost made her drop the phone. "Brigit, you there?"

"I have no time for this." Brigit's voice was faint. "Pass on my message."

"Wait! My school won't be done for a couple weeks. And the twins—have you forgotten them?" Rosaleen straightened and blew a paint flake off her thumb. Serve Dad right to be ignored for a while---just like he was doing to them. He could hit speed dial, couldn't he?

"There is a school here, Rosaleen. Your father needs you, so make haste." The line buzzed. Brigit had hung up.

Rosaleen slid her hand under her sleeve and plucked at her woven leather bracelet, a gift from Dad. He was the only who had her back, but even he never noticed the unhealed sores around her wrist. The oozing red marks created an exact pattern of the bracelet's Celtic design. She snapped hard, stifling a moan.

Her mom shuffled into the kitchen, a faded bathroom tied loosely. Dark auburn hair hung in oily waves along her thin neck.

Rosaleen fanned herself with her hand. "Don't you take showers anymore?"

Her mom flushed. "I thought I heard you say 'dad'."

"Shouldn't I? Just because he abandoned us doesn't mean he doesn't exist." She eyed her mom. Wait for it, wait for it.

"He would never!" Her mom's red-rimmed eyes went scary wild. "He's with a client! You know how he gets when he's repairing instruments. He loses track of time." She grabbed an unwashed glass from the sink and went to the freezer to fill it with ice.

Rosaleen's mouth tightened. "Think he could be hanging out with groupies? Even classical musicians have them, not to mention his famous rocker clients. I mean, look at you."

There was no response except for the slow, steady pour of whiskey slipping into her mother's glass. Rosaleen felt her stomach lurch. Resentment at her life was turning her into a Jonathan/Jenn monster.

"Sorry, sorry. I know he wouldn't dump us." Or her, his favorite? "That was Brigit on the phone. Yeah, Irish Brigit. She says we need to get over there ASAP 'cause Dad's coming to the pub."

Her mother turned around, eyes wide. "She said that?"

"But when I tried to get her to tell me what's going on, she hung up. Guess being a million years old cuts you some slack. Still, she was massive rude. What was that about?" Rosaleen crossed her arms and stared at her mom. "Something happened on Dad's and my last visit, didn't it? Is that why he wouldn't tell us he was going to Brigit's?"

Her mom looked away. A half memory moved through Rosaleen's consciousness. So far she had been successful at quarantining her worries about Dad. Now fear heaved up like an abscess rising from a ring of pus.

1st 5 Pages December Workshop - Mahoney Rev 1

Name: Vivian Lee Mahoney
Genre: YA Historical Fantasy
Title: The Rebel Queen

I was born with my eyes open, an oddity that spurred gossip and encouraged matchmakers to find other baby girls to promise to the village boys. Mother and Father didn’t mind when none of the village families claimed me. They saw my life’s beginning as an auspicious sign―a way for me to always see the truth behind the falsities of life―and named me Jin-Ae, Truthful Treasure. How they smiled when I spotted the slight-of-hand merchant who tried to cheat Father with fake pearls that crushed into dust, or the traveling farmer who weighed down the rice with river stones to collect more copper coins. While I didn’t have the ability to see into the future like the village shamans, every silent glance, unheard word, and stifled movement ruffled through me and warned me of people’s intentions. If only I listened when the Palace announced my fate. I only have myself to blame.

A slight breeze rustled through holes in the rice paper window. I clutched my jacket closer to my shoulders as I paced the women’s quarters a final time, a stranger in scarlet silk. My gown, a lustrous crimson, edged with gold embroidered peonies along the sleeves and hem, announced me with every movement. Swish. Swish. Never had I worn a gown so elegant, soft to the touch, a gift to the eye. Yet, misery draped over me. My red satin slippers burned bright along the path burrowed into the heated dirt floor, twelve paces from one wall to another, towards the open door, away from the chamber of my childhood.

“You look just like your mother.” Precious Aunt stood by the doorway, her face softening into a melancholy smile. “She didn't want this life for you.” She shook her head. “Already I speak too much.”

My heart caught in my throat. “Please tell me. No one else is here.”

Precious Aunt hugged me and whispered in my ear. “Don't believe such foolishness. There will always be eyes and ears following you around.” She straightened my jacket and fastened a gold filagreed ornament to my skirt. “Your mother was once a favored friend of the Royal Family. Did you know she was betrothed to the Daewon-gun?”

“How could it be?”

“Aiee,” she said softly, smoothing out my hair. “It doesn’t surprise me.”

“What happened?”

“We must not talk of such foolishness. It will only bring us bad luck.”

“Why are you telling me this now?”

“Shh.” My aunt glanced towards the door. “There isn’t much time. Before your mother left the palace, the Queen gave her this good luck piece,” she said, brushing her fingers against the golden ornament at my waist. “Perhaps if she wore this…”

A shadow passed outside the window and a chill blew through the torn rice paper. Precious Aunt grabbed my hands. Even though she spoke softly, her eyes expressed a wildness, a fear I’ve never seen.

“You’ve mourned your parents long enough.” She reached out and touched my forehead. “It’s time to pay attention, Jin-Ae. You’re treading into new territory and we will all lose, if you don’t wake up.”

“Whatever do you mean?”

“Promise me,” she squeezed my hands. “Promise me you’ll wear this at all times. It’s said this was made from a dragon scale and will protect the owner from harm.”

I nodded, even though thousands of questions burned on my tongue. The shrill cry of the azure-winged magpie shrieked outside my window, and I started. Mother believed in the magpie’s warnings.

“Will this keep me home?” I grabbed her hand. “Please help me stay.”

“I cannot bear this.” Surrendering a sad smile, Precious Aunt turned and fled.

If Esteemed Uncle heard me plead, he’d punish Precious Aunt for not raising me in the proper manner. Who would protect her from his anger when I leave? I sighed. Perhaps I’d do her more good when I’m in the palace, when money and gifts were mine to give.

Time grew late. The Royal Guard would soon take me away. I hastened to say my goodbyes. Thick icicles dripped from our slate roof, sprinkling me as I left the women’s quarters. I stepped across the inner courtyard and jumped over melting ice patches, my skirts fluttering around my ankles. Two stone tigers, faces smoothed by the elements, guarded the entrance to the main house. For the last time, I reached out and rubbed their heads for luck, before suffering the ten steps to the library, where Esteemed Uncle waited every morning, expecting all the household to pay our respects. Today, I knew not what to say. What do I tell my uncle, who seemed too pleased to have one less mouth to feed, who sang his joy of my departure the night before? Deep bows to the ground and muttered insults would suffice for the man who traded me for my home and a life filled with copper coins.

I peeked into the empty library and rustled past the bamboo sitting mats, silk screen, and mahogany desk with the ink bowls and calligraphy brushes. My favorite part of the room―the stacks of books piled against the wall―beckoned me. How I loved these books, most which Father read to me in secret, teaching me to decipher each character and string into words. My fingers ran along the worn spines, avoiding Instructions for Women, a book of virtues Uncle demanded I study these past couple of months, by order of the Palace. This thin book contained so many expectations for women on the proper rules of conduct―piety, demure countenance, deference to the wisdom of men―standards Mother and Father had not followed, reveling instead in passionate discussions, mutual honor, and respect. My failings multiplied with every word from the book and weighed on my shoulders. My knees gave way and I sank to the ground, without a care for the ceremonial gown that nestled around me.

This was my home, the stronghold of all my memories of Mother and Father. I did not know if I would ever be given permission to return. I was sixteen-years-old, yet I aged over a hundred years since the Daewon-gun, the Prince of the Great Court, selected me from his harvest of the most beautiful and wealthy girls of yangban, noble lineage to be his son’s, King Dae-Jung’s wife. Why the Daewon-gun chose me, the poorest of nobles with no family influence, I didn't know. But now, knowing Mother’s history, I could not erase the slight possibility of revenge. I shivered. I would be Queen of Korea in a few short weeks and already counted one enemy, one powerful enemy in the court. My lips quivered and I stood up, wiping away evidence of the dirt floor and the melancholy that imprisoned me.

I must find a way to stay home. Perhaps Esteemed Uncle would relent if I doubled my chores and found a way to earn my keep. It wouldn’t take long before my hands, softened by empty chores and luxurious oils from King Dae-Jung, regained their usefulness in the kitchen. I will find Uncle and beg.

My favorite book, The Legend of the Dragon King, lay on top of the pile next to me. My mood lifted and I tucked the small volume into my waistband, next to Mother’s filagreed ornament, before rushing into the kitchen, stumbling on the heavy silk skirts. Once Esteemed Uncle agreed to halt the wedding, I would change into my comfortable cotton dress, tattered from constant wear, and prepare the most magnificent feast our meager rations would allow. Barbecued bulgogi. Steamed rice. Pickled vegetables. My stomach growled.

I hurried past the stink of the stove that heated the floors, the heady scent rising from the large clay pots of onions and garlic, and into the comforting fragrance of the warm kitchen. My cousins loved to linger over breakfast and gossip, while Precious Aunt chopped vegetables and buzzed around her children, urging them to eat and study hard. I paused. Rather than lively company, empty dishes piled high in a pail and a bowl of rice porridge waited for me, steam rising in the clay oven. My eyes teared. Precious Aunt arranged extra portions of salted beef and kimchi, her rations, in my bowl.

Discomfort quieted me and the unusual silence roared in my ears. Where were the baby’s cries, my cousins’ shouts, my aunt’s song, and even Uncle’s complaints? Unease trembled along my skin, curling deep within my belly.

Free December 1st 5 Pages Workshop Entries are Up for Comments

The workshop is full and the entries are all posted! Please join us by reading, critiquing, or simply lurking and learning. We will all be making comments until Thursday, at which point the participants will have until Sunday evening to revise before beginning all over again. :)

Check here for the full workshop rules. If you missed the workshop deadline, we'll be starting a new one on January 5th.

ABOUT J. ANDERSON COATS

Our guest mentor this month, J. Anderson Coats, has dug for crystals, held Lewis and Clark’s original hand-written journal and been a mile underground. She has a cool surgery scar unrelated to childbirth, she reads Latin, and she’s been given the curse of Cromwell on a back-road in Connemara. On a clear day, she can see the Olympic mountains from her front window. On the foggy ones, she can smell the Puget Sound.

She writes historical fiction set in the middle ages that routinely includes too much violence, name-calling and petty vandalism perpetrated by badly-behaved young people. Her work is represented by Ammi-Joan Paquette of the Erin Murphy Literary Agency.

The Wicked and the Just, J’s first book, came out 17 April 2012.

Find her on her website or on Twitter as @jandersoncoats.

THE WICKED AND THE JUST

1293. North Wales. Ten years into English rule.

Cecily would give anything to leave Caernarvon and go home. Gwenhwyfar would give anything to see all the English leave.

Neither one is going to get her wish.

Behind the city walls, English burgesses govern with impunity. Outside the walls, the Welsh are confined by custom and bear the burden of taxation, and the burgesses plan to keep it that way.

Cecily can’t be bothered with boring things like the steep new tax or the military draft that requires Welshmen to serve in the king’s army overseas. She has her hands full trying to fit in with the town’s privileged elite, and they don’t want company.

Gwenhwyfar can’t avoid these things. She counts herself lucky to get through one more day, and service in Cecily’s house is just salt in the wound.

But the Welsh are not as conquered as they seem, and the suffering in the countryside is rapidly turning to discontent. The murmurs of revolt may be Gwenhwyfar’s only hope for survival – and the last thing Cecily ever hears.

1st 5 Pages December Workshop - Letai

Name: Jean Letai
Genre: Middle Grade Fiction
Title: Shinto Secret


I push my shoulders back and stick my chin up a couple inches, hoping I look like a young lady of the world instead of a jittery kid stuck at this stupid airport all alone. The time has already hit mid-afternoon here in Tokyo, but it’s still the middle of the night back home in America. The Hour of the Ox, Mom calls that darkness after midnight, when the Japanese believe spirits are most likely to appear.

It must have been the Hour of the Ox last week when Grandpa Ojiisan showed up, reaching out to me with that hand as wrinkled as a bird’s claw. Ghost or not, I knew who he was – even with his scraggly white hair dripping wet, his long wispy mustache drooping against his creased, wind-burnt cheeks, his nose protruding more than it should, and his feet and legs evaporating right in front of me. He struck me as so beautiful then, in an eerie kind of way.

Really not sure why though. He was more like a monster – only partly there, torn between this world and some other place. Those narrow dark eyes creeped me out more than his vanishing limbs. They were so piercing, boring into me…

“Kiwotsuketene,” he had called in a hoarse whisper.

His mouth was open trying to say more when crash! There went my iPod clattering to the floor. I like to listen to it as I fall asleep, but I wish I hadn’t that night. It scared the breath out of me, and poor Grandpa Ojiisan disappeared altogether.

What was that word again? Ki-what? I had never heard it before, but maybe it’s in my brand new Japanese-English dictionary. I pull the dictionary out of my backpack’s zippered pocket and look under K. I’m curious, plus it gives me something to do while I’m waiting in this bustling airport terminal looking foolish. Kiwotsuketene: Take care, or be careful. Hmmm. Can you actually dream words you’ve never heard before?

I would have mentioned the whole vanishing ghost thing over pancakes and orange juice if I had come downstairs just half an hour earlier that morning. By the time I was up, Mom had already got the phone call from across the ocean. Grandpa Ojiisan had “passed” unexpectedly, tripping and drowning in a waterfall at one of his favorite parks in Japan. It was then I decided to keep his visit a secret. No one would believe me saying I had just seen him in the night. They would think I was making up a story.

Except my younger brother, Aki. He likes that psychic and supernatural sort of stuff, especially since Grandpa sent him a book of Japanese ghost stories last Christmas. When I told Aki about it, the two of us agreed that Mom and Dad would think I was losing my grip on reality, just like the recent rumors about Grandpa Ojiisan himself.

We’d heard bits of Mom and Dad’s hushed conversations and seen the headlines when we searched Grandpa on-line… “Renowned Techno-Wizard obsessed with Spirit World,” “Scientists Question Sanity of Secretive Research”... Kind of unnerving to think your own grandpa might be loony. What if it runs in the family?

Anyway, Aki and I also agreed something must happen after death. You can’t just lie there and rot.

“Do you think you go to Heaven?” I asked him. I like to think Heaven is full of all the chocolate you can eat.

“I think you become part of a spirit world where there is no time or space,” Aki answered me. He’s spent a lot of time reading science fiction during his twelve years on Earth. “That means you also get powers like teleporting and shapeshifting.” Aki had clearly given the matter plenty of careful thought.

“I think you come back as an animal,” my little sister Juni called out then, listening in from the next room the way she does. “I want to be a monkey.”

“Then I’ll come back as a hippo,” Aki declared.

Aki is the most right-brained member of our family, at least according to an Internet quiz the five of us took. I think that’s why he seems so relaxed all the time. He just goes with the flow instead of over-analyzing everything. The rest of us are left-brainers, especially me. We stick to logic and rational thought. Usually. Yet how rational is it that I just flew halfway around the world to this country whose language I don’t speak, to spend the summer with a woman I hardly know?

I try hard to paste a pleasant smile on my face as person after person greets loved ones in this waiting area. I slip my dictionary back into its zippered pocket, glad to have something to do for a brief moment, then clutch the handle of my rolling duffel bag with both hands. I can’t help shifting my weight from foot to foot. I probably look like some kind of idiot.

Digital cameras flash on all sides of me. Konnichiwas and giggles, high-pitched with excitement, fill the air. My Japanese grandmother is supposed to be right here waiting for me, so delighted to see me and eager to hear about my journey. Where is she?

Wishing I could teleport back home, I cast my eyes down at the shiny white floor, gleaming from the fluorescent lights high above. Dozens of business shoes, heels and sandals stride across my line of vision – black, brown and burgundy click-clacking past in a chaotic tap dance.

Strange syllables ring out through the loudspeaker – official-sounding inflections in the Japanese language I cannot comprehend. Biting my lower lip, I look up at the airport signs and giant video monitors all displaying Japanese kanji characters, symbols completely unlike my American alphabet. For some reason I had assumed there would be English subtitles, some way for me to understand where to go. More importantly, I thought Grandmother would be leading the way.

‘You know what a strong-willed lady she is, and how close the two of them were,’ I can hear Mom’s words from last week echoing in my head. ‘There’s no telling what she’ll do if she decides she doesn’t want to keep on living with him gone.’ The words I was never meant to hear had drifted up to my bedroom where I lay trying to sleep. ‘Keiko would give her a reason to move forward, keep her from thinking there’s any other option.’ I had listened helplessly as Mom pressed Dad to send me away.

Now I’m listening desperately for someone – anyone – to call my name, or thrust out a sign, or give any indication that I am welcome, expected, anxiously anticipated even. I search the mob of Asian faces surrounding me. One face must be looking for me. I had pictured our eyes meeting with instant recognition. I would bow in the Japanese way of greeting, as Mom taught me, and Grandmother would bow back, and then we could embrace. I could sure use a hug after that long thirteen-hour flight. And a restroom.

The crowd in the reception area thins until I am completely alone. The other passengers have all found their friends or families and exited together in a flurry of chit-chat. I can feel my shoulders sag. Is that my own B.O. making my nose wrinkle? The smell in the airport – a medley of human odors, perfumes, and fresh fish cooking somewhere in the terminal – suddenly repulses me.

1st 5 Pages December Workshop - Mahoney

Name: Vivian Lee Mahoney
Genre: YA
Title: The Rebel Queen


I was born with my eyes open, an oddity that spurred gossip and encouraged matchmakers to find other baby girls to promise to the village boys. Mother and Father didn't mind when none of the village families claimed me. They saw my life's beginning as an auspicious sign--a way for me to always see the truth behind the falsities of life--and named me Jin-Ae, Truthful Treasure. How they smiled when I spotted the slight-of-hand merchant who tried to cheat Father with fake pearls that crushed into dust, or the traveling farmer who weighed down the rice with river stones to collect more copper coins. While I didn't have the ability to see into the future like the village shamans, every silent glance, unheard word, and stifled movement ruffled through me and kept me awake to people's intentions.

My senses dulled when Mother and Father's spirits rose to the heavens seven summers ago, perhaps to forget how my heart pounded me with accusations when I blamed the gods. Where were they when my parents needed them most, their cries drowned by the shrieking wind, their hope smashed by the capsized boat? The ocean swallowed them up and refused to spit them out, no matter how much I wailed and hurled rocks into the churning water. My grief almost drowned me, until stories Father told me of the Legendary Dragon King hissed in my ear. Rough waves knocked me down in an instant, dragging me deep into the West Sea, choking my pleas to the Dragon King, the protector of Korea's waters. The dark waters swelled and tossed me about, until rough hands caught me, dumping me unceremoniously onto shore. I ignored the soldiers who saved me, suffocating instead on the pitying looks from the townspeople, wondering at the shimmering light I saw below.

I failed my parents. I lived. I was only nine-years-old at the time, a mere child, with no brothers to protect me or sisters to befriend me.

Fortune shone upon me when Mother's only sister, Precious Aunt, moved into my home high above the sea, close to the temple of my parents' shrine. On occasion, she accompanied me down the hill, past the lion statues and onto the sacred grounds, whispering promises to Mother, torn between her duty to her husband and love for her deceased sister. As I grew older, I realized Esteemed Uncle made an exception for me. Surely, life looked better from my parents' compound than from his one room hut in the village. My home sufficed as compensation for Precious Aunt's attention and I gladly paid. She kept me in the land of the living, even though my cousins pulled her skirts and Esteemed Uncle hurled insults, his voice thickened with drink.

Her thin face captivated me. I often found myself stealing looks at Precious Aunt from beneath my lashes, seeing Mother's delicate beauty and willful eyes. How I missed Mother. If only I could her say my name, "Jin-Ae."

Esteemed Uncle's voice ruled my life, his daily teachings dulling my pain. I followed and learned, and learned to obey, hating the words "honor" and "duty" when Palace officials announced my fate. I only had myself to blame. The time in the only place I've known as home for the past eight years drew to a close. The Royal Guard would soon arrive and take me away.

A slight breeze rustled through holes in the rice paper window. Shivering, I clutched my jacket closer to my shoulders as I paced the women's quarters a final time, a stranger in scarlet silk. My gown, a lustrous crimson, edged with gold embroidered peonies along the sleeves and hem, announced me with every movement. Swish. Swish. Never had I worn a gown so elegant, soft to the touch, a gift to the eye. Yet, misery draped over me. My red satin slippers burned bright along the path burrowed into the heated dirt floor, twelve paces from one wall to another, towards the open door, away from the chamber of my childhood.

"You look just like your mother." Precious Aunt waited by the doorway, her face softening into a melancholy smile. "She would never want you to go." She shook her head. "Already I speak too much."


My heart caught in my throat. "Please tell me. There is no one else here."

Precious Aunt hugged me and whispered in my ear. "Do not believe such foolishness. There will always be eyes and ears following you around." She straightened my jacket and fastened a gold filagreed ornament to my skirt. "Your mother was once a favored friend of the Royal Family. Did you know she was once betrothed to the Daewon-gun?"

"How could it be?"

"Aiee," she said softly, smoothing out my hair. "It doesn't surprise me."

"What happened?"

"We must not talk of such foolishness. It will only bring us bad luck."

Why are you telling me this now?"

"Shh." My aunt glanced towards the door. "There isn't much time. Before your mother left the palace, the Queen gave her this good luck piece," she said, brushing her fingers against the golden ornament at my waist. "Perhaps if she wore this..."

A shadow passed outside the window and a chill blew through the torn rice paper. Precious Aunt grabbed my hands. Even though she spoke softly, her eyes expressed a wildness, a fear I've never seen.

"Promise me," she squeezed my hands. "Promise me you'll wear this at all times. It's said this was made from a dragon scale and will protect you from harm."

I nodded, even though thousands of questions burned on my tongue. The shrill cry of the azure-winged magpie shrieked outside my window, and I started. Mother believed in the magpie's warnings.

"You've mourned your parents long enough." She reached out and touched my forehead. "It's time to pay attention, Jin-Ae. You're treading into new territory and we will all lose, if you don't wake up."

"Whatever do you mean?"

Esteemed Uncle ran into the room, his face blotched red with exertion. "Wife, hurry. There is no time."

"What is happening? Take me with you."

"Shh, my child. Kiss me goodbye." Her eyes blessed mine with love.

An arrow darted through a hole in the rice paper window and pierced Precious Aunt clear through her upper arm, embedding itself into the dirt wall. Esteemed Uncle cried out. He ran forward. As my aunt slumped to the ground, I caught her and rested her head on my lap. Blood, her blood, left dark petal shaped splotches on my dress.

"Do not leave me." My fingers brushed her hair from her face, stroked her cheek, the face so like Mother.

"Find the old man," she said, her voice faint against her labored breath.

Shouts rang out in the courtyard.

My uncle fell on his knees, at his wife's side. His voice broke. "He promised us safety."

"Who did?" A tall man strode into my room, accompanied by two soldiers. Briefly, the Daewon-gun glanced at us. He gestured his men to attend to my aunt. They brusquely took her away from my arms, and wrapped cloth around her wound.

"We caught a man outside your window, notching his bow and arrow."

Esteemed Uncle bowed low to the ground, grabbing the Daewon-gun's robes. "We thank you for coming to our rescue."

The Prince Regent waved uncle's words away. Instead, he looked down at me, his head cocked to the side. He smiled. "You seem far too calm for a girl who just had an attempt on her life."