1st 5 Pages December Workshop - Larson Rnd 2

Name: Kim A. Larson
Genre: Young Adult Mystery
Title: Stop Mr. Ryden

The spiral-ringed notebook slips from my fingers and drops to the floor. That woman! She—she was in my dream last night. But who is she? And why is she at Walmart? Is she following me? She should have grabbed a cart that doesn’t squeak if she didn’t want me to notice her.

Unless—I’m supposed to notice her—t o jar my dream into consciousness.

“Earth to Anna.” My best friend Elle waves her hands in front of my face.

I stare at the woman from my dream through a maze of back-to-school shoppers. Is it really her? Tight shirt. Short shorts. But, yeah, it’s her. In my dream she wore a shiny red blouse, white scarf, and navy pants. Like an American flag. She stood next to an open door, against a white backdrop with words written in black letters. Words I can’t remember.

“Anna…Anna…”

I ignore Elle and watch this woman sort through a bin of marked-down school supplies. This didn’t happen in my dream—but I know what happens next. I nudge Elle’s arm and nod toward the stranger. “She’s going to buy the pack of yellow highlighters.”

The woman tosses markers, note cards, and pens aside before throwing yellow highlighters into her cart.

“Wow!” Elle says. “You’re good.”

“No, not really. I’ve just been here before.”

“Yeah, haven’t we all.” Elle tosses her hair over one shoulder. “Every August—getting new school junk. You think we get our ninth-grade planners here or at school?”

“Seriously, El, I just had another déjà vu.”

“You did?” She bounces into my personal space. “But weren’t you going to stop calling them that?”

“Yeah, but I just can’t say it.” I fidget, too uncertain of my gift and how to use it.

“Practice with me.” Elle cradles my face in her hands, pulling my cheeks up and down, moving my jaw with each word. “Say… Elle, I had another vision.” She drops her hands and rests them on my shoulders.

Uncomfortable, I turn my face away from her warm spearmint breath and from what feels like looking into a mirror—with the exception of her adorable dimples. Our hazel-green eyes and straight blonde hair are identical, but then half the girls I know wear their hair this same way. Yet, it’s still freaky that our two dark-haired dads, though brothers, produced daughters who look so much alike.

“Tell me more!” Elle uses my shoulders as a springboard. “Did more happen? Besides the highlighters?”

“No, that’s it.” A flash of dream resurfaces. “Don’t freak now, El. But she was in my dream last night, too.”

“Really? Buying highlighters?”

“No.” I take a deep breath. Sometimes it’s hard for even me to follow what’s happening. “That was just now in the déjà vu—I mean vision. Last night in my dream she stood by an open door with something written behind her. I wish I could remember what.”

“Yeah, me too. Like how sweet would that be? But what’s up with dreaming and having a vision of…her?” Elle glances over her shoulder and looks this woman up and down. “You think God is trying to tell you something? Like when your dad crashed his car?”

“Maybe.” I scowl.

The only dream I’ve ever had that actually came true was two years ago on the night my mom kicked my dad out of the house. He’d come home drunk again, and Mom had his suitcase packed and waiting outside the front door. She’d done this before, but this time was different. Earlier that day she’d had the locks changed and made me promise not to let him in.

“I still get goose bumps.” Elle shivers. “If you hadn’t had that dream…and prayed, your dad might not be alive.”

“Lucky me.” I cross my arms. He’s all but dead to me anyhow. Dropping out of my life after Mom divorced him. “Lane seven’s shortest.” I rush to get in line and out of this conversation.

After paying for our school supplies, we walk to Elle’s house. Her mom greets us with a plate of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies. At the first inhale of the sweet, buttery aroma, my mouth waters.

“Want a warm one with some milk?”

“Mmm, thanks, Auntie Cindy.” The chocolate chips melt and swirl with the lingering grease on my fingers as I gobble the cookie in three bites.

“Do you girls have everything you need for your new school?” Aunt Cindy pours our glasses of milk. The frothy bubbles surface then pop.

“Yeah, Mom,” Elle says, licking chocolate from her fingertips.

“You know it’s not too late to go back to Park Christian, if you want. Uncle Dave and I will gladly pay your tuition, Anna.”

“Thanks, but Mom and I don’t want charity.” That’s my story, anyhow. I take another cookie, break it in two, and dip half into my glass of milk. “This change is finally one I’m looking forward to.” I lie to her and myself.

“We’re supposed to be lights in the world, not hide them under a basket,” Elle says. That’s the verse she used to help convince her parents to let her change schools.

But now, how to be a light? It seems as difficult as getting this soggy cookie into my mouth. A crumbly-milk mixture dribbles down my chin.

Aunt Cindy hands us each a napkin, blue eyes glimmering as she watches us devour her baking. “See, memorizing a verse every week has already paid off, and that’s exactly why you should stay at Park Christian.”

“We promised to keep memorizing, already.” Elle rolls her eyes. “Besides, you let Brandon switch at my age.”

“That’s because of sports.” Aunt Cindy pulls the last sheet of cookies out of the oven. “He had your father’s blessing, not mine. The twins were babies. I was too tired to argue.” She shakes her head. “Sports! You’d think the world revolves around them.”

Elle scrunches her face behind her mom’s back. I don’t have to be prophetic to know what Aunt Cindy will say next—how sports have become the god of this world. Elle rushes to her mom and puts her arms around her. “I love you, Mom.” She looks over her mom’s shoulder and winks at me. “Thanks again for letting me switch and convincing Dad.”

I know Elle says this to keep her mom from ranting, but she’s also sincere. She loves her mom, and I feel a pang of jealousy over their closeness.

“What’s fair is fair,” Aunt Cindy says. “If I didn’t think the two of you had such a firm foundation, I’d have never agreed.” She wipes her hands on her apron. “Well then, how are you set for school clothes, Anna?”

I shrug. Clothes cost money, and a girl thinks twice before spending what she’s made cleaning toilets.

“We just take turns wearing mine,” Elle says. With her hand-me-downs, I’m the best-dressed poor person I know. Elle looks at her mom and nods toward the doorway. “Apron strings…” She uses their code phrase for requesting privacy.

Aunt Cindy rests an arm around my shoulders, the fragrance of apple blossoms overpowering the cookie aroma. “Maybe we need to plan a girls’ shopping weekend.”

I smile to be polite, but shopping? Even if she’s buying, I’d rather hunt worms.

“Maybe,” Elle says. “But later.” She motions more obviously for her mom to leave.

Aunt Cindy unties her apron and lays it on the granite countertop.

1st 5 Pages December Workshop - Pollinger Rnd 2

Name: Henry Pollinger
Genre: Young Adult Fiction
Title: The Adventures of Jake and Willy

Out of all the rules at Harry S. Truman Middle School, five rules are
strictly enforced.

1. Don't be late. Arrive to school and class on time.
2. No chewing gum in class or in the hallways.
3. No use of cell phone or any electronic device during school
hours. All cell phones and electronic devices must be turned off and
stored in your locker. It is best to leave them at home.
4. When absent, you are responsible for any missed work.
5. Three unexcused absences equal an after school detention.

There he was. On a bright Monday morning, sitting in the middle
stall of the boys bathroom. Leaning forward, Jake was chewing gum (rule
#2) playing Angry Birds on his iPhone (rule #3), and waiting for the
second bell to ring. The middle stall was the only one with a door and a
lock. Jack did not pay attention to the disembodied voices grumbling
about girls, farts, skateboarding, and what to do this weekend, already.


He just kept playing, with the sound turned low. It didn't
matter if he was late to his first period class (rule #1). He had Mr.
Peters. In fact, he had Mr. Peter's all day, for every subject. He
didn't have the luxury of changes classes like everyone else. He was
special ed. Although, he didn't feel so special.

People came in and out and he kept playing, moving from one
level to the next. Then it happened.

He heard a sound. He looked up. He saw the tile moving. The roof
tile slid completely across, two feet dangled from above. Jake looked
up, his mouth open. Slowly someone lowered themselves down onto the back
of the toilet.

“Thank you for not actually going to the bathroom,” said an
unrecognizable voice from behind.

“You welcome...I guess,” Jake said awkwardly. Who the hell is
this?

“Get up.”

“Why?”

“Get up and turn around.”

Jake got up off the toilet, turned around and saw him. Someone
around his age, but smaller. He was about five feet tall, his knees were
bent and he was balanced on the back of the toilet. He was wearing a
baseball cap, a swath of bright red hair peeking through the front, a
sweatshirt, jeans, and a huge smile.

“Now you see me.”

“I do. Who are you?”
“I obviously go to the same school as you.”

“Yes, but I have never seen you before.”

“Right, I hardly every really come to school, not my thing.”

“OK.”

“Willy,” he said as he offered Jake his outstretched hand.

“Jake.”

“So, Jake...Do you make it a habit of hanging out in the
bathroom.”

“Every morning.”

“I see. Are you looking for adventure?”

“Of course.”

“Get your stuff, let's go!”

Jake got up, put his phone in his front pocket. Willy jumped
down from the back of the toilet. They both left the stall. Standing by
the door they stood face to face. It was clear that Jake was the taller
one. Willy barely made it to his shoulders. After a short pause, they
both left the bathroom and walked into the quiet, vacant hallway.

“What's the plan?” Jake whispered.

“Follow me,” Willy responded.

Jake followed Willy. They walked casually down the hallway. They
walked past Mr. Stone's technology room. Luckily, Mr. Stone had his back
to the door and in his customary way, was talking to students about what
Jake thought was student safety for the hundredth time. Then, it
happened. They were outside. It was first period and Jake and Willy were
outside, preparing to escape.

“Follow me,” Willy said.

Willy quickly walked over to the shed behind Mr. Stone's
classroom. Behind the shed were two bikes. Willy motioned to Jake to
take one and Willy hoped onto the other. They began riding down the
parking lot and out of school, heading towards the Rail Trail. The Rail
Trail was a paved walkway over the old railroad lines that use to run
clear up to Albany from their small, rural town. Willy and Jake began
pedaling and reached the Rail Trail in what appeared to Jake to be
record time. They finally slowed down.

“Where are we going?” Jake asked. He was breathing a little
heavily because they were bicycling so quickly he was unable to catch
his breath.

“To the train station,” Willy replied.

“The train station? Why?”

“Because, buddy...We are going to New York City!” Willy stated
enthusiastically.

“New York City? Why?”

“To find my father.”

“But...what about school? Jake had a tinge of concern in his
voice.

Willy stopped his bike. “Give me your phone.”

Jake handed Willy the phone. Willy dialed a number and put it on
speaker.

“Good morning J. Edgar Hoover Middle School. Cindy speaking, how
may I help you?”

Willy had called the Principal's office.

“Good morning.” Jake thought, Willy sure does sound like my
father.

“This is Mr. Martin. I wanted to call to let you know that my
son, Jake will not be in school today. I think he may have the stomach
bug. He has been pooping, pu...”

“OK, Mr. Martin.” Cindy, the Principal's secretary cut him off
right there. “I will mark Jake Martin down as absent. Should I get his
work for him?”

“Of course.” Willy looked at Jake and made a face with his
upturned lip.

“Thank you, Mr. Martin.”

Willy hung up. “There, down. You are excused from school for
today.”

Jake thought to himself, it was that easy. All I had to do was
have someone call and tell them that he was sick in order to get out of
school. Why didn't he think of that?

Jake and Willy continued to peddle, in silence, towards the
train station. When they arrived, they parked their bikes in front of
the platform. While climbing the platform, Jake said “I don't have any
money for tickets.”

“No worries. I have them right here.” Willy patted his pocket.
“We just have to wait for the 7:55 train.”

Jake and Willy sat on the bench. They were both looking forward,
in silence.

Commuters dressed in long coats and carrying briefcases were
pacing back and forth, heads down reading the paper. Jake thought, one
day, I hope that is me. A fancy job in NYC. Reading the newspaper,
wearing one of those coats. People probably listen to them. They seemed
important. Jake didn't feel important. In fact, he felt alone. He heard
words like stupid and retard on a daily basis. It didn't make it any
better that he spent his whole day in Mr. Peter's Special Education
class with other kids were called the same names. Even PE, where he was
allowed to be with “normal” kids was a nightmare. Despite being a decent
athlete, no one picked Jake for fear that his stupidness would rub off
on him. But, Jake wasn't stupid. He had a hard time reading. Other than
that, he was good at Math and just ask him any questions about
Presidents. He could name them, starting with George Washington and tell
you their birth dates, the years in office, and when they died. Harry S.
Truman born May 8, 1884; died December 26, 1972. He was the 33rd
president and he served from 1945-1953.

The train finally roared into the platform. They both stood up.
Willy reached into his pocket and pulled out two tickets. He handed one
to Jake.

“If they ask, we are going to New York on a field trip. We were
separated from the group. Our teacher is in the front car.” Willy
explained to Jake.

The train stopped, they walked on. Walking past a few empty
seats, they finally stopped at one. Willy jumped in next to the window.

“I hope you don't mind. I need the window seat. I like to see
whats going past.”

“No problem.” Jake swung his book bag onto the rack above the
seats. He sat down.

“Why me?” Jake asked as Willy stared out the window.

Still staring out the window, Willy replied. “I have been
watching you. Not in the creepy sense, but in a way to see if you were
able to handle this important mission with me.”

“What important mission?”

“We are going to New York to find...” Willy stopped. He
continued to stare out the window. The train began to pull away from the
platform.

“We are going to New York to find what?” Jake asked.

“We are going to New York to find my father.” Willy responded.

After Willy said this, they both sat in silence. Jake knew Willy
from school. They were both in Mr. Peter's class together. He was the
kid who rarely made it to school on time. He always had a note from Mrs.
Kerry, the school social worker. He never did homework, yet he always
knew what was going on. He was quiet and smart. He stood up for
everyone. When people picked on anyone from Mr. Perry's class he was the
first to defend them.

“I need to find my father.” Willy finally said. “I have the
address where he works.”

Willy pulled out a piece of paper. It said 80 Spring Street.

“I know that he is a sous chef. He works in some restaurant in
New York. The address is right here.”
Jake had never been to New York. He had never even been on a
train. To say he was nervous was an understatement.

“I saved over five hundred dollars for this trip.” Willy said.
“I just want to go to New York. Find him, say hello and come back. We
will be back before school ends.”

Jake relaxed. If that was the case, there was really nothing to
worry about.

“So, just sit back and enjoy.” Willy winked at Jake.

1st 5 Pages December Workshop - Madden Rev 2

Name: Paco José Madden
Genre: Young Adult Fantasy
Title: Cinderella, Dragon Slayer (3rd Draft)

Fire. It’s all I ever think about when I stack wood in the fireplace. The fire that ruined my life, that changed everything. I can see it happening right before my eyes.

Flames flicker all about me. My mother screams from above. A screeching sound of something terrible rips through the air and pierces in my ears. I place my hands over them, hands much smaller than my hands are now. Hands of a girl four—no, five—years of age. My tiny feet run to the stairs but the burning steps collapse in ash and smoke. The fire blazes so fast. My father stumbles from his workroom. I run towards him. A flaming beam falls on top of him and traps him underneath.

‘Papa, please. Let me help you,’ I hear myself cry.

My little hands can’t lift the burning wood.

‘Go! Get out! Save yourself.’ He says through fits of coughing.

‘I’m not going to leave you and mama.’

‘You’ll die. You’ll—’

Then my father looks up at me strangely. What’s wrong I think? Before those words can escape my mouth, the roof crashes down. Then all is darkness.

I’ve avoided fire as much as I possibly can ever since. With the logs in the fireplace lit, I carefully place the poker back in its holder and wipe soot from the front of the hearth. I’m just starting my day, and there is much work for me to do before the dawn.

Our house was destroyed by a dragon. When the townspeople came to the wreckage, they weren’t expecting survivors. Underneath the charred roof they found me. Still alive. Bruised and cut. But without a burn on my entire body. From that point forward, I was called Cinderella, the girl found in the cinders.

“Cinderella, bring in the tea and crumpets.”

That’s Auntie. I enter the parlor room with a serving tray. She sits there with her daughters, my cousins, against a backdrop of drapes that are a hideous green color. Each time I see the curtains I feel nauseous.

We’re in Auntie’s manor house. The place I was taken after the fire. The place where I live as a slave. The residence is located outside the walls of town and overlooks a duck pond that has gone stagnant and lifeless. The home itself has two floors. There is also a storeroom below, where I live, and a garret with a turret above that is home to a flock of geese that do nothing but honk all day long. The once elegant estate is mostly rundown due to my aunt and cousins’ carelessness, but I do my best to keep up appearances.

I place the serving tray on the table, pour the tea, and hand Auntie, whose girth fills each crevice of the clawed-legged chair, one of the china teacups and a plate. Elvira and Esmira, as equally protuberant as their mother, whisper to one another other across a small round table.

Auntie takes the saucer and plate from me and says, “Cinderella, I expect the laundry done before noon.”

I nod in my usual fashion, yelling Do you own laundry! inside my head.

Then I take a cup and plate of the flour and yeast cake and hand it to Elvira.

“I dropped a bowl of lentils outside my window. Be a dear and pick up every bean,” my cousin commands in mock gentility.

I nod again. I wish I could take that bowl and smash it over her head.

Finally, I reach Esmira.

“Shouldn’t we give Cinderella something to wear other than that old gray shift or something for her feet?”

She’s talking about the sack-cloth dress I wear everywhere. I would like to take the wretched thing and stuff it down her throat. I also have no slippers for my feet, even in winter. But I do nothing except nod, for I have not a scudi or friend in the world. I’m stuck here with no way out.

Finally, my tormentors deliver the same punch line they say each and every day: “Why? Gray suits her. It’s the color of blandness.

They laugh.

The trio do nothing all day but gossip and stuff themselves with teacakes. They imagine every idleness a virtue and hard work a sin. Without me, these lollygags would most likely starve and die. That fact doesn’t make them treat me any better.

My only happiness is what I find on my windowsill each evening. When I go to bed, after all my labors are done, when my relations have teased and tortured me to no end, there on the ledge outside my window lies a cut red rose. I don’t know who brings it. I don’t know why. And I have never been able to catch the giver. But without fail, since my thirteenth birthday rain or shine, freezing cold or blistering hot, a red flower greets me when darkness falls and the stars come out of hiding. I sometimes imagine it’s my dead mother or father descending from heaven to cheer me up. Silly, I know. Perhaps it’s some admirer from afar. But who would admire me? It may just be some wandering soul who pities me. But I’m grateful. That daily act of kindness tells me there is still good in the world. It gives me hope.

“Daydreaming again?” Auntie calls from the gaming table.

I stand in the kitchen doorway, leaning against a broom.

Her brows furrow, cracking the white paint on her face.

“Lazy girl,” adds one of my cousins looking over a hand of cards. A beauty mark dots her chin.

“Sweep! Sweep!” says the other and fans with her suits of cards in such a motion. This one’s cheeks are so red with rouge you would think she was constantly blushing.

I get back to the work and the three idlers return to their game.

I am walking home from the market with a basketfull of goods when I hear a rope snaps and see a crossbeam tumble on one of the masons building the home for orphaned children. He screams as the timber crushes his legs. The first to arrive on the scene is Prince Perfect in his royal blue cape and jodhpurs.

Prince Perfect is the heir to the throne and only child of the King and Queen. His real name isn’t Perfect, but everyone calls him that because he strives in every way to be faultless. In courtesy and manners, in manliness and courage, in compassion and humility, the Prince excels, hence the nickname. This was not due to his parents’ care, but the nursemaid who raised him. She was a saintly soul, who loved and disciplined the child as duty required. The nursemaid taught him never to treat the servants as chattel, that kingship was a privilege not a right, and that one must always endeavor to do good with the gifts in one’s possession. It was said that the Prince as a child told a lie about a theft he committed which he blamed on his manservant. The nursemaid did not punish him, but her disappointment was so great that the Prince vowed never to lie again unless it was to save a person’s life. Prince Perfect meant every word and never lied or committed a misdeed since. He also joined the nursemaid on her daily calls about town to assist the poor and sick. The Prince was a willing helper. He enjoyed being kind and generous. When his gentle-hearted angel of a nursemaid passed away, Prince Perfect grieved terribly, but he kept her spirit alive by continuing to do good and acting properly.

Now kneeling in front of the stonemason, the Prince shouts for help, as he tries to lift the beam from the hurt builder. I drop my wicker basket to the ground, fruits and vegetables spilling everywhere. I bend down to help lift the block of wood. Another set of hands grabs hold of the other side. Something rank stings my nostrils, but I am too preoccupied to investigate the scent. The injured man moans and cries out in pain.

“On the count of three we lift. And you”—the Prince shouts to one of the carpenters at the worksite who arrives—“pull the poor fellow out.”

The carpenter puts his hands under the man’s armpits. He nods at Prince Perfect.

“One. Two. Three.” The three of us lift the great plank of timber just enough, so the carpenter can free the man lying below.

“Let go,” the Prince instructs. The log drops to the ground with a thud. Several other men arrive and load the injured man onto a cart. He mumbles an agonized ‘thank you’ to the Prince, who takes the worker’s hand and says some encouraging words.

Then he turns to one of the masons. “Take him at once to the doctor in the castle. Make sure he receives the best care. His legs still might be saved.” Prince Perfect places a gold ducat into the man’s hand. The men carry away the injured party, as the stoops to collect the fruit and vegetables that fell from my basket.

“Thank you both for helping lift the beam,” he says, as he puts a pair of tomatoes in the hamper. I look behind me. So that was where the foul smell was coming from. The swineherd’s son was the other person lifting the beam along with the Prince and me. The boy stands on the opposite side of the girder with his hair and clothes splattered with mud and slop.

“What are your names?” asks Prince Perfect, still gathering my fallen foodstuffs. From a kneeling position, his blonde lashes catch the sun and sparkle like the gold that was in his palm a moment ago. I don’t know why I remain standing and do not bother to collect the fruits and vegetables myself. Somehow I’m fixed to the spot.

“My name is Cinderella,” I tell him.

The swineherd’s son, on the other hand, dashes off before saying a word.

“I hope I didn’t offend him by asking his name.” The Prince rises and hands me the basket.

“He’s the swineherd’s son. He smells and no one likes him.” I wrap my arms around the wicker vessel.

“If you had been working with pigs all day, you would reek too. I wonder if there is anything I can do to help?”

I blush, embarrassed by what I said about the swineherd’s son. I forget that I’m talking to a prince and Prince

Perfect at that. “You’ll think of something,” I reassure him.

“Again, you have my gratitude.” The Prince is known for profusely thanking those who help him do a good deed.

“I hope I shall soon see you again, Cinderella.” He removes his feathered cap and bows. A footman brings his horse around. Prince Perfect mounts the silvery steed and gallops away.

I sigh, my head full of silly fantasies. Continuing my journey home, I regret how I spoke of the swineherd’s son.

If there’s anyone worse off than me in town, it is him. He lives on a pig farm not far from Auntie’s house. Auntie and her daughters often complain when a breeze blows downwind of the farm, bringing with it the stench of pig and offal. The boy has the unenviable task of caring for the hogs of his cruel stepfather. Sometimes, when passing the farm, I hear the sound of a belt thrashing flesh and the cries of the poor boy. Still it’s hard to sympathize with someone whose fate so closely resembles my own.

“Dawdling again?” Auntie stands in the doorway of the house. Her arms cross over her chest, and she has the usual expression of dissatisfaction on her face. “We’ve been sitting all day waiting for supper. Where have you been? Oh, never mind. I’m not in the mood to hear one of your useless excuses. Get inside the kitchen and cook something edible.”

I duck past her into the kitchen with the basket and begin preparing the evening meal.

Paco José Madden
Playwright/Poet/Speculative Fiction Writer

1st 5 Pages December Workshop - Leclerc Rev 2

Name: Sylvie Leclerc
Genre: Young Adult paranormal fantasy
Title: Crossing the Twin Maze



August 22. It was our birthday, mine and Moira’s, my twin sister.

We did not want to spend time on the streets where traffic was bumper to bumper for four miles. Summer was almost over in Cape Cod and the tourists were on the move. We did not want to go to Eastham; the quaint little town had pulled us deep into the mecca for artists and the punk  predominant subculture this season. I was too twitchy about them.

We decided to stay in the camp. It was called Camp Wellfleet, an abandoned military training facility.

“Check this out!” yelled Moira, pushing the fuselage of a drone painted red lying on the beach. “These morons have built a kids’ camp on a minefield!”

“What is this?” I asked, puzzled. “Some kind of torpedo or what?”

Moira crossed her arms and Mike, her boyfriend, stooped forward for a better view. “Get out of here!” he said. “Is that thing still lethal?”

Moira shook her head in disbelief, pulled a huge garbage bag she kept in one of her leather jacket’s pockets and put the rusted torpedo in it. The studs on her jacket gleamed. Moira brushed a few dyed blond strands over her messy black bun. As she bent over, her snub nose shaded a thin line of lip gloss and bony chin. She wore the ear cuffs in the shape of a bow and arrows I gifted her for our sixteenth birthday.

“You’re gonna recycle that thing?” said Mike, laughing.

“The hell, I’m going to recycle it. I’m gonna shove it down the throat of the military. That’s what I’ll do. Do you know that the military is recruiting high school kids as part of the No Child Left Behind Act campaign? It’s like the video games and all that crap.”

“Whoa!” said Mike, putting his arm over her shoulders to calm her down. “That’s enough with all the fire, Moira.”

She shrugged him off. “That’s enough? You think you can talk to me like that! What the…” She pushed him away rudely then snapped the plastic bag and left, the bag moving to and fro like a pendulum.

Mike raised his hands up and said, “When she’s got it, she’s got it, your sister. I don’t know what’s with her since she met these guys in Eastham.”

“Yeah,” I said, slipping out of my ethnic sandals. “She sure has a different look and a different mindset.”

“And her temper!”

“Pfew! Believe me I know all about it,” I said.

He reached the sand and scooped up my sandals like a bouquet of glimmer painted flowers. I let a handful of pine needles fall from my hands.

“I… Uh… I can carry them,” I said, my hands reaching the delicate laces.

“Nah,” he said, his arm stroking the soft part of my arm. “Your hands are full.”

Hairs along my arm rose instantly and I cleared my throat in embarrassment. “I can wiggle a finger.”

His smile left me breathless. It was not the little half a-s-sed smirk he often gave to Moira that made them look like they were up to something. No, it was a full out teeth smile that contrasted with his island type.

“I thought your hands were full with all these shells you’re carrying. Is that another project?”

“No, not really. Well... yes. I wanted to write messages on the inside of the shells for my sister. It’s all the rage now. I actually wanted to put them in my shoes, but you can carry them… if you want. Well… I mean, thanks.” My heart made a few flips in my chest.

What was I thinking about, me and Mikey, together! It’s true I had a serious crush on him, but no way was I going to act on it. He was out of my league, and with my sister.

We walked slowly to the line of twisted pitch pines that sank the dunes in place. The sun was high in the sky and they held a lot of intermittent shade. Moira had joined a group of friends and she listened to their chat, the plastic bag still dangling at her feet, a few yards away. They were eating the remaining crumbs of the birthday cake Cheyenne had gotten from the town. Moira sucked the tip of her fingers, nervously licking the frosting.

 Mike pointed at Moira with his chin and said, “She’s totally out of control. I don’t know, maybe she’s going through hormone growth or something. What do you think, Janna?”

“Me?” The effect of his scent on me. My head was in a whirl. It was much better than the scratch and sniff samples in the local drugstore. “Uh… Listen Mikey,” I said, pulling away from him. “Moira is my sister. I could never…”

As my senses overpowered me, I became conscious of little details: the warm wind ruffling the sand into dunes around me; the distant sound of waves crashing along the beach; the sunlight streamed though the treetops. Bathing me in dappled shades, the shades my best friend had warned me about, the shades where the shadow people liked to rest, up to her.

That’s when a man whispered in my ear, "Janna."

I bolted up and threw my hand in the direction I heard the voice, but no one was there. A distant squirrel startled away with a twist of rust, but not the voice.

“Janna, listen.”

“Oh no, no, no!” I moaned. I was psychic, so ghosts typically liked to take a hike in my head. “Who are you and why are you in my head? Leave me alone.”

Mike stared at me as if I had sprouted seaweeds in my ears.

Since I couldn’t drown the voice out, I put my hands over my ears.

“Watch out for Moira,” he said, so close I could feel his breath dislodge hair from the side of my face. I closed my eyes.

I wish you away.

The voice stroke me again, loud like a thunderbolt, “Janna, are you all right?”

I opened my eyes and saw Mike, his face very close to mine. He held my face between his warm hands and his lips brushed the side of my lips.

I looked in the direction of the cabins that separated the beach from the road. Some of the windows in the cabins were lit up where the girls had switched room lanterns that made colorful strings of lights. The bunch of high-schoolers who had registered for summer camp this year were probably  either talking, playing games or napping. The group who was with Moira glared at me and Mike, and my sister’s face turned livid with rage.

Icy sensations rippled along my body, tensing my muscles.

The intimate voice filled me, like it was coming from some imaginary earphones. It warned me, “Don’t make her angry.”

“Quit stalking me!” I cried, so loud, Moira’s group stood up. Moira gestured them to stay put. They hushed comments among themselves. Cheyenne walked straight toward Mike. I could hear them having a huge argument. She was Mike’s half-sister.

I ran to the cabins with my eyes half-closed and my hands over my ears and butted into Moira.

“Janna! Are you all right?” she said, a smirk on her face. “What did this jerk do to you?”

A moist breath blew onto my neck. I wiped it off with my hand. “I… I don’t know.”

“Look at me!” Moira said, forcing my hands away from my ears.

“Did you see anyone around?” I blurted out. “I mean a ghost or something... or… or a hidden one? I mean…” I did not make any sense.

She watched me, concerned and angry at the same time. “You know I can’t see them. Darn it! You sound like they’re after you or something.”

I pulled my cell out of my jeans’ pocket and texted my best friend:

REEN, WHERE ARE YOU? IT’S HAPPENING AGAIN!

“Who are you texting?” asked Moira, a stern look on her face.

“Reen, of course. Listen, Moira. Nothing happened there. I swear.” Her face froze, her gaze striking a dangerous spark. “I mean, yes… It’s not what you think.”

“I’m cool,” she said. “I know you didn’t mean anything. I’m not angry at you,” she said slashing the tree line with her icy gaze. “What was it that you were yelling at? Mike?”

“No, no,” I said, my throat so dry I licked my lips in an attempt to get some moisture in. “There was this voice. But that wasn’t a ghost. It was just a voice and I could feel its presence. It wasn’t an entity. It wasn’t a person with a blurry face and it wasn’t making noises like ghosts. It was a… a person! An invisible person!”

She stared at me for a moment and then put her hands on her hips and yelled, talking to the air, “Hey, big guy! Stop screwing with my sister’s brains and come meet her evil twin.”

The group of girls laughed behind Moira, their lips upturned in contempt.

“I swear Moira. I heard someone,” I said, holding onto her tee.

She pulled my hands free from her T-shirt and an old iron union jack held in place by safety pins.

“Damn, Moira! I wish I couldn’t see or hear all these guys.” I looked away, screwing a piece of drifting wood into the sand with my foot. “Actually, I only heard him, which is even creepier.”

“Poor Janna,” she said, pinching her lips, doing a good imitation of myself. “I’m a psychic. I can do all those cool things, like getting ghosts to warn me about things, saving lives and all that. It’s so unfair. What a wimp!”

        “Stop being a bitch!” I yelled, angry.

“What did he say this time?” asked Moira, crossing her arms.

“He said your name.”

“Omigod!” said Moira with excessive force.“Hey, big guy, come and sweep me off my feet!”

She pulled a chain out of her tee and whirled it around her fingers. A crooked cross shone on her tanned skin.

“Don’t tell me you’re still wearing this?”

“Of course, I do!”

“You look like you’re straight out of a history book. And not in a  good way.”

“Piss off!” she said. “And Mike is going to hear from me. He’ll regret he even washed off here. Where is he anyway?”

“Cheyenne took a hold of him.”

Reen opened the door of her cabin and I got distracted. I waved and she walked toward us. Her long skirt made the sand twirl around her like small sand devils. She wasn’t bad ass or anything, but Moira flew every time she was about.

“I’m gonna find them. And if you hear that voice again, you tell him to go back haunt those shades,” she added.

Moira turned around and left in search of Cheyenne and Mike.



“Are you okay?” Reen asked when she reached me.

“I’m all right. A little freaked out,” I said, hugging her.

“Freaked out why?”

“I think I got myself a spirit companion.”

“A djinn?” That’s what Reen referred to them as. “No kidding. Are you sure?”

“Why would I joke about this? He touched me, and he… he is… warm! And he told me to stay away from Moira.”

“Really? Wow!”

“I hate this, you know…. being a psychic. I’m so freaked out. It’s not a gift, it’s a tic toc clock.”

“I know,” she said, tightening her hug. Of course, she didn’t know. Nobody did.

I pulled away and said, “Do you mind getting my sandals. I don’t think I can get near those trees anymore.”

Reen curled up the edge of her mouth and tilted her head to the side.

“You’re all emo, you know that? Whatever you think right now, it’s just because you’re scared. It’s a gift, Janna. Nobody is asking you to share it. But think of the ways you can use it to help people. You can help the police find kidnapped people or do what those guys do in the TV series Psychic Kids.”

I ignored her reply, dropped to the ground and hugged my knees. “Well, the gift has gone all berserk on me.”

“I know… I don’t like spirits one little bit more than you do. But this voice? It’s like he was trying to help. Anyway, it’s not a ghost, it’s a djinni. Anyway, djinn are not all bad. Some are good spirits...”

“Or something. Right. You say that ‘cause it’s not stuck in your head.”

“I guess.”

“Don’t you know that spirits can turn nasty?” I asked.

“You sure?”

“Positive.”

“Well, he didn’t turn nasty on you, right?”

“Yeah… but maybe it’s because I didn’t let him in. He’d be all over me if I did. ”

I watched the parking lot nervously, afraid of seeing my twin sister coming back.

“Did you see Mike?”

“No!” She stared. “Why? Something happened?”

I shifted nervously. “Moira thinks I kissed her boyfriend. Well, technically he kind of kissed me.”

“Really? Is that even possible?” Reen razzed. “I mean… he cares so much for her.” I gazed knowingly at her. She paused. “Oops. I’m glad I don’t have a twin.”

I shrugged. “Duh. It’s not like he thought I was Moira or as if it was dark. He can’t be into me... you know… ”

Reen waved her hand in front of her face. “Okay, stop… ew.”

“The worst is, Moira’s gonna be a pest from now on. If she ever turns her evil side on… She’s been so violent recently. And she’s wearing this swastika around her neck. She knows it makes me cringe, but she’s like trying to go all punk on me.” I made an imitation of her. “I’m rebellious, blah blah. Everybody should scream at the world. It’s not a swastika, but the hammer of Thor, a spinning hammer. The hammer that strikes for truth, that protects against all evil.” I pelted the sand nervously. “She knows my parents would kill me if they knew I let her wear that. It sounds like a bunch of hooey to me.”

Reen turned around and stared at the cabins. “Uh… She’s back.”

I stared back at Moira. She had this wicked flame all about her gaze and Cheyenne was with her, whispering something, holding something in her hands.

“Are they coming back for the kill?” I asked nervously.

Pete Catalano: GRIMM & CO Rev 1

Name: Pete Catalano

Genre: YA Fantasy

Title: GRIMM & CO

My name is Scarlett Hoode; my friends call me “Red”. 

In a world where magic and curses reign, an economic recession has hit Fairytale Land and unfortunately for all of us, it hit hard. I had the idea for GRIMM & CO PROTECTION AGENCY a few months ago. We only take on the tough cases, and using the specialized skill sets of the many characters, we prefer the more direct solutions to problems. The friendly employees at GRIMM & CO are always happy to help . . . for a price.

 

After putting our business plan together and then having to beg, borrow, and steal (forget I said that last part), I was finally able to sign a lease for a small but cozy space behind the Baker’s Building. I currently have two partners, Duke Wolfe and Nathan Hunter. Needless to say the two boys do not get along so everyday in the office is an adventure, or at least the days when Duke decides to come in to work.

           

We moved a few desks, several bookshelves and file cabinets into our small but cozy space . . . and waited. When people didn’t line up at our door the way we had expected we knew we had to go out and get their attention. We hired a marketing company with the few bucks we had left, contracted to create a slogan we could use to kickoff the opening of our promising venture.

 

                                             GRIMM & CO. When Fairy Godmothers Just Aren’t Enough.

 

Is what they brainstormed and much to everyone’s chagrin, preceded to plaster on every inch of billboard space, telephone pole, and abandoned building that was scattered throughout Fairytale Land.

I had a lot of very pissed off fairy godmothers there for a while. And they can be a nasty bunch too. Forget pickets lines. I would have loved to have picket lines, rather than the spells, curses, and even the well placed poison apple in the fruit baskets that were dropped off at the office from time to time. Eventually they all settled down and we found a happy medium where we could all work together. Besides, Fairy Godmothers don’t do revenge anyway.

 

 

TWO

 

After what had turned out to be another very long day, I gathered my purse, the files on new accounts, turned out all the lights and turned on the lamps fastened securely to the building, brightly illuminating the name GRIMM & CO that was painted, rather beautifully, over the entrance. 

           

Stepping out onto the first in a series of limestone steps, there was a creepy coolness to the dark as I found night had come much earlier than expected. Three steps down and out onto the cobbles, the first remnants of evening mist hugged them tightly as it rolled through the streets of an unexpectedly quiet Fairytale land.

           

The sharp clack of my high heels as they struck the cobbles echoed off the face of the tumble down brick buildings that lined the snickelway. It was, eerily enough, the only sound to be heard.

           

Walking under the gas lamps, I slowed my pace as a strange popping noise started from somewhere just ahead of me. I saw one of the lamps farther down the block flicker a few times and then go out. I stopped in mid step, letting my hands carefully fall to my sides. Three more lamps in front of me dimmed within moments, one after another, until the only one left to light up the night was the one directly above me.

           

The moment I looked up, the lamp grew bright as the others had and just as I thought it would burst, it snapped dark, leaving the bright outline of the bulb still fresh in my eyes.            

           

I twisted my wrists slightly, dislodging two sharp blades from hidden sheaths and letting them slip into my waiting hands. I closed my eyes, taking two blind steps forward before shooting my left arm out to the side, placing the tip of my blade under what was a very familiar chin.

           

“Hello, Duke,” I said to Duke Wolfe, my on again off again partner, and resident poison expert at GRIMM & CO. Wolfe is charming, cursed, and despite being exasperating most of the time, one of the few people I trust . . . mostly.

           

“Hello Red,” Duke smiled, as he pushed the blade slowly away from his throat. Every smile from him looks like a leer but it’s part of his genetics, but not his character. “A beautiful woman like yourself shouldn’t be walking home alone after dark, especially on a night like this.”

           

Retracting my knife back into its sheath, Duke reached up to the spot on his chin. He wiped his fingers across it to see if I drew blood. “What makes this night so different from the rest?”

 

The sound of music rising from the dark interrupted our conversation.

 

As we walked I saw some movement in the shadows.

           

“Hey, Red,” a voice called out from the darkness followed by the sound of a violin, guitar, and a cello, playing so softly.

           

“Hello, boys,” I nodded and the music followed us down the block, choreographing our every start and stop.

           

“They’re so annoying,” Duke groused. “Especially when you run. Don’t ever run past them, Red. It’s embarrassing.”

           

“They’re old, Duke,” I laughed, “and just trying to fit in like everyone else. It’s tough trying to find a gig for a dog, cat, donkey and rooster all playing string instruments. Nobody ever believes they can play a note, until they hear them.”

           

“Then why aren’t they set up with some sweet gig somewhere and staying off the streets and out of my soundtrack?” Duke asked.

           

“Hey, I tried to help them,” I said. “Had them all lined up but they like being on the corner and setting the mood for all of Fairytale Land. They’ve gotten pretty good at it.”

           

“Hey Red, where exactly is Bremen?”

           

“I’m not sure,” I shrugged, “but I have to say I’m kinda glad they never made it.”

           

Duke and I walked the rest of the way to my house together, talking about some of the cases that have walked in during the past several days.

 

How was work today?” he asked.

           

“It was okay,” I said, trying to figure out why he shown up out of nowhere, how he managed to make those gas lamps go out one by one, and why was he suddenly so interested in work. “A little busier than I had expected, but that’s because one of the partners didn’t show up the way he had promised . . . again.”

           

Duke smiled shyly. “Sorry Red, just one of those things that came up last minute. Time is valuable these days. If it will make it any easier on you I will be there first thing in the morning and catch up on anything that I’ve missed.”

           

“That would be great,” I agreed, though a little surprised. “Why the sudden change of heart?”

           

“I . . . I have a friend of mine that will be coming into the office in the morning,” Duke said. “An old friend that has helped me a great deal throughout the years and has never asked for anything in return.”

           

“And now he’s asking?” I said.

           

“And now he’s asking,” Duke repeated.

 

“Of course I’ll be happy to do whatever I can for him, Duke,” I said. “As always. But why do I get the idea that there’s something you’re not telling me?”

           

“What do you mean?” Duke asked. “I’m telling you everything. I always tell you everything.”

 

“Yeah,” I said, “I know. Maybe I should put it a little differently. I know you won’t help me find this answer unless I ask exactly the right question. Duke, you seem to be making sure my weapons are still at my fingertips . . .”

           

“Literally,” Duke laughed as he touched hi chin again.

           

“Plus you’re walking me home,” I shook my head. “You never walk me home. What’s going on Duke? What are you afraid of?”   

 

Duke was quiet for a moment. It was very un-Duke like. “”He’s back, Red.”

Kim A. Larson: Stop Mr. Ryden

Name: Kim A. Larson

Genre: Young Adult Mystery

Title: Stop Mr. Ryden

The spiral-ringed notebook slips from my fingers and drops to the floor. That woman! She—she was in my dream last night. But who is she? And why is she at Walmart? Is she following me? She should have grabbed a cart that doesn’t squeak if she didn’t want me to notice her. Unless…that’s exactly what God wants.

 

“Earth to Anna.” My best friend Elle waves her hands in front of my face.

 

I stare at the woman from my dream through a maze of back-to-school shoppers. Is it really her? Tight shirt. Short shorts. But, yeah, it’s her. In my dream she wore a shiny red blouse, white scarf, and navy pants. Like an American flag. She stood next to an open door, against a white backdrop with words written in black letters. Words I can’t remember.

 

“Anna…Anna…”

 

I ignore Elle and watch this woman sort through a bin of marked-down school supplies. This didn’t happen in my dream—but I know what happens next. I nudge Elle’s arm and nod toward the stranger. “She’s going to buy the pack of yellow highlighters.”

 

The woman tosses markers, note cards, and pens aside before throwing yellow highlighters into her cart.

 

“Wow!” Elle says. “You’re good.”

 

“No, not really. I’ve just been here before.”

 

“Yeah, haven’t we all.” Elle tosses her hair over one shoulder. “Every August—getting new school junk. You think we get our ninth-grade planners here or at school?” 

 

“Seriously, El, I just had another déjà vu.”

 

“You did?” She bounces into my personal space. “But weren’t you going to stop calling them that?”

 

“Yeah, but I just can’t say it.” I fidget, too uncertain of my gift and how to use it.

 

“Practice with me.” Elle cradles my face in her hands, pulling my cheeks up and down, moving my jaw with each word. “Say… Elle, I had another vision.” She drops her hands and rests them on my shoulders.

 

Uncomfortable, I turn my face away from her warm spearmint breath and from what feels like looking into a mirror—with the exception of her adorable dimples. Our hazel-green eyes and straight blonde hair are identical, but then half the girls I know wear their hair this same way. Yet, it’s still freaky that our two dark-haired dads, though brothers, produced daughters who look so much alike.   

 

“Tell me more!” Elle uses my shoulders as a springboard. “Did more happen? Besides the highlighters?” 

 

“No, that’s it.” A flash of dream resurfaces. “Don’t freak now, El. But she was in my dream last night, too.”

 

“Really? Buying highlighters?”

 

“No.” I take a deep breath. Sometimes it’s hard for even me to follow what’s happening. “That was just now in the déjà vu—I mean vision. Last night in my dream she stood by an open door with something written behind her. I wish I could remember what.”

 

“Yeah, me too. Like how sweet would that be? But what’s up with dreaming and having a vision of…her?” Elle glances over her shoulder and looks this woman up and down. “You think God is trying to tell you something? Like when your dad crashed his car?”

 

“Maybe.” I scowl.

 

The only dream I’ve ever had that actually came true was two years ago on the night my mom kicked my dad out of the house. He’d come home drunk again, and Mom had his suitcase packed and waiting outside the front door. She’d done this before, but this time was different. Earlier that day she’d had the locks changed and made me promise not to let him in.

 

“I still get goose bumps.” Elle shivers. “If you hadn’t had that dream…and prayed, your dad might not be alive.”

 

“Lucky me.” I cross my arms. He’s all but dead to me anyhow. Dropping out of my life after Mom divorced him. “Lane seven’s shortest.” I rush to get in line and out of this conversation.

 

After paying for our school supplies, we walk to Elle’s house. Her mom greets us with a plate of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies. At the first inhale of the sweet, buttery aroma, my mouth waters.

 

“Want a warm one with some milk?”

 

“Mmm, thanks, Auntie Cindy.” The chocolate chips melt and swirl with the lingering grease on my fingers as I gobble the cookie in three bites.  

 

 “Do you girls have everything you need for your new school?” Aunt Cindy pours our glasses of milk. The frothy bubbles surface then pop.

 

“Yeah, Mom,” Elle says, licking chocolate from her fingertips.

 

“You know it’s not too late to go back to Park Christian, if you want. Uncle Dave and I will gladly pay your tuition, Anna.”

 

“Thanks, but Mom and I don’t want charity.” That’s my story, anyhow. I take another cookie, break it in two, and dip half into my glass of milk. “This change is finally one I’m looking forward to.” I lie to her and myself.

 

“We’re supposed to be lights in the world, not hide them under a basket,” Elle says. That’s the verse she used to help convince her parents to let her change schools.

 

But now, how to be a light? It seems as difficult as getting this soggy cookie into my mouth. A crumbly-milk mixture dribbles down my chin.

 

Aunt Cindy hands us each a napkin, blue eyes glimmering as she watches us devour her baking. “See, memorizing a verse every week has already paid off, and that’s exactly why you should stay at Park Christian.”

 

“We promised to keep memorizing, already.” Elle rolls her eyes. “Besides, you let Brandon switch at my age.”

 

“That’s because of sports.” Aunt Cindy pulls the last sheet of cookies out of the oven. “He had your father’s blessing, not mine. The twins were babies. I was too tired to argue.” She shakes her head. “Sports! You’d think the world revolves around them.”

 

Elle scrunches her face behind her mom’s back. I don’t have to be prophetic to know what Aunt Cindy will say next—how sports have become the god of this world. Elle rushes to her mom and puts her arms around her. “I love you, Mom.” She looks over her mom’s shoulder and winks at me. “Thanks again for letting me switch and convincing Dad.”

 

I know Elle says this to keep her mom from ranting, but she’s also sincere. She loves her mom, and I feel a pang of jealousy over their closeness.    

 

“What’s fair is fair,” Aunt Cindy says. “If I didn’t think the two of you had such a firm foundation, I’d have never agreed.” She wipes her hands on her apron. “Well then, how are you set for school clothes, Anna?”

 

I shrug. Clothes cost money, and a girl thinks twice before spending what she’s made cleaning toilets.

 

“We just take turns wearing mine,” Elle says. With her hand-me-downs, I’m the best-dressed poor person I know. Elle looks at her mom and nods toward the doorway. “Apron strings…” She uses their code phrase for requesting privacy.

 

Aunt Cindy rests an arm around my shoulders, the fragrance of apple blossoms overpowering the cookie aroma. “Maybe we need to plan a girls’ shopping weekend.”

 

I smile to be polite, but shopping? Even if she’s buying, I’d rather hunt worms.

 

“Maybe,” Elle says. “But later.” She motions more obviously for her mom to leave.

Aunt Cindy unties her apron and lays it on the granite countertop. “I should wake the twins anyhow, so they’ll sleep tonight.”

Sylvie Leclerc: Crossing the Twin Maze Rev 1

Name: Sylvie Leclerc
Genre: Young Adult paranormal fantasy
Title: Crossing the Twin Maze


Reen, my best friend, had warned me not to sit at the edge of tree shadows or dappled shades.

“That’s where the hidden ones hang out,” she said.

Even though  I dismissed it as old Wampanoag lore, I listened. I went inside when the sun went down because, as she said, djinn spread out then and take things. The Cape Cod Indians have loads of tales about kids being kidnapped, especially at night.

But on that day, I wasn’t paying any heed to it. And I got myself a spirit companion.

Midsummer. The warm wind ruffled the sand into dunes. The distant sound of waves crashing along the beach lulled me to daydreaming. The sunlight streamed though the treetops, bathing me in dappled shades.

That’s when a man whispered in my ear, "Janna."

I bolted up and threw my hand in the direction I heard the voice, but no one was there. A distant squirrel jarred away with a twist of rust, but not the voice.

“Janna, listen.”

“Oh no, no, no!” I moaned. “Who are you and why are you in my head? Leave me alone.”

I wished I had my iPod to drown out the voice, but the player had vanished from my cabin last week. I’d ranted about it for days.

Who’s taken it? My wannabe friend the voice, maybe.

These spirits would do anything to get my attention. I was a psychic and as such I could see ghosts. However, none were a stalker like that djinni.

Since I couldn’t drown him out, I rigged up a tent with my blanket and hid in it.

“Watch for Moira,” he said so close I could feel his breath dislodge hair from the side of my face. I closed my eyes.

I wish you away.

The voice stroke me again, loud like a thunderbolt, “Janna, go to bed before it’s too late.”

I can’t believe a shadow person is dictating my bedtime.

I pulled my cell out of my jeans’ pocket and texted my best friend:

REEN, WHERE ARE YOU? IT’S HAPPENING AGAIN!

I looked in the direction of the cabins that separated the beach from the road. Some of the windows in the cabins were lit up where the girls had switched on their individual lamps. The bunch of high-schoolers who had registered for summer camp this year were probably  either talking, playing games or sleeping. There was no curfew; just a set of common sense rules. Reen wasn’t outside.

I hope she got my text.

I breathed deeper. Hope filled my heart. “Is there anyone here?” I murmured.

The voice sighed almost as if he had given up on me. “I am here.”

Icy sensations rippled along my body, tensing my muscles. The intimate voice filled me, like it was coming from some imaginary earphones. It felt so close.

“Quit stalking me!” I cried.

I ran toward the cabins with my eyes half-closed and my hands over my ears. I ran into my sister Moira.

“Janna! Are you all right?”

A moist breath blew onto my neck. I wiped it off with my hand.

“Look at me,” Moira said, forcing my hands away from my ears.

“Did you see anyone around?”

She watched me, concerned. “You know I can’t see them. Darn it! You sound like  they’re after you or something.”

“No, no. He bounced, ” I said, bracing myself.

“Hey, big guy!” said Moira, talking to the air. “Stop screwing with my sister’s brains and come meet her evil twin.” She laughed.

“I swear Moira. I heard someone.”

Moira brushed a few dark strands over her messy bun and ear cuffs in the shape of a bow and arrows. Then she readjusted her studded leather biker jacket thrown over a tee with an old iron union jack held in place by safety pins. Moira was what someone had once defined as edginess meets glamour. In comparison, I had my grandmother’s old-fashioned try-to-blend-in looks. Sixties all over me.

“Damn, Moira! I wish I couldn’t see all these guys.” I looked away, screwing a piece of drifting wood into the sand with my foot. “Actually, I don’t see him I only hear him, which is even creepier.”

“Poor Janna,” she said, doing a good imitation of myself. “I’m a psychic. I can do all those cool things, talk to spirits and all that. It’s so unfair.”

        “Stop being a bitch!” I yelled, angry.

“What did he say this time?” asked Moira, crossing her arms.

“It sounded like something important is going to happen. He said your name.”

“Omigod!” said Moira with excessive force.“Hey, big guy, come and sweep me off my feet!”

She pulled a chain out of her tee and whirled it around her fingers. A crooked cross shone on her mate skin.

“Don’t tell me you’re still wearing this?”

Reen opened the door of her cabin and I got distracted. I waved and she walked toward us. Her long skirt made the sand twirl around her like small sand devils. She wasn’t bad ass or anything, but Moira flew every time she was about.

Moira sighed and said, “Ah, Reen. That’s my cue.” She turned around and left.

“Are you okay?” Reen asked me when she arrived.

“I’m all right. A little freaked out, but Moira made the stalker go away.”

“Sorry I came out late.”

“I hate it, Reen. You know… being a psychic. Moira thinks it’s fun. Why me? Why not my sister?” I said, shaking my blanket to get rid of the sand and sitting next to the fire.

“You’re all emo, you know that? It’s a gift, Janna. Nobody is asking you to share it. But think of the ways you can use it to help people.”

I ignored her reply and hugged my knees. “Well, the gift has gone all berserk on me.”

“I know… I don’t like spirits one little bit more than you do. But this voice? It’s like he’s only trying to be your pal or something. Anyway, it’s not a ghost, it’s a djinni.”

“Or something. Right. You say that ‘cause it’s not stuck in your head.”

“I guess.”

“Don’t you know that spirits can turn nasty?” I asked.

“You sure?”

“Positive.”

“Well, he never turned nasty on you before.”

“Yeah… but maybe it’s because I don’t let him in. He’d be all over me. ”

I watched the cabin door nervously, afraid of seeing my twin sister coming out.

“Did you see Mike recently?”

“No!” She stared. “Why? Something happened?”

I shifted nervously. “Moira thinks I kissed her boyfriend.”

“Really? Is that even possible?” Reen razzed. “I mean… he cares so much for her.” I gazed knowingly at her. She paused. “Oops. I’m glad I don’t have a twin.”

I shrugged. “Duh. He thought I was Moira. It was dark and… ew…”

Reen waved her hand in front of her face. “No need for details. I’ve got it.”

“The worst is, Moira has been a pest every since. And she’s wearing this swastika around her neck. She knows it makes me cringe, but she’s like trying to go all punk on me.”I made an imitation of her. “I’m rebellious, blah blah. It’s not a swastika, but the hammer of Thor, a spinning hammer. The hammer that strikes for truth, that protects against all evil.” I patted the sand nervously. “She knows my parents would kill me if they knew I let her wear that. It sounds like a bunch of hooey to me.”

Paco José Madden: Cinderella, Dragon Slayer Rev. 1

Name: Paco José Madden

Genre: Middle Grade Fantasy

Title: Cinderella, Dragon Slayer (2nd Draft)

Fire.  It’s all I ever think about, as I stack wood in the fireplace.  The fire that ruined my life, that changed everything.  I can see it happening right before my eyes. 

Flames flicker all about me.  My mother screams from above.  A screeching sound of something terrible rips through the air and pierces in my ears.  I place my hands over them, hands much smaller than my hands are now.  Hands of a girl four—no, five—years of age.  My tiny feet run to the stairs but the burning steps collapse in ash and smoke.  The fire blazes so fast.  My father stumbles from his workroom.  I run towards him.  A flaming beam falls on top of him and traps him underneath.

‘Papa, please.  Let me help you,’ I hear myself cry.

My little hands can’t lift the burning wood.

‘Go!  Get out!  Save yourself.’  He says through fits of coughing.

‘I’m not going to leave you and mama.’

‘You’ll die. You’ll—’

Then my father looks up at me strangely.  What’s wrong I think?  Before those words can escape my mouth, the roof crashes down.  Then all is darkness.

I’ve avoided fire ever since.  A safe distance from the logs lit in the fireplace, I carefully place the poker back in its holder and wipe soot in front of the hearth.  I’m just starting my day, and there is much work for me to do before the dawn.

#

Our house was destroyed by a dragon.  When the townspeople came to the wreckage, they weren’t expecting survivors.  Underneath the charred roof they found me.  Still alive.  Bruised and cut.  But without a burn on my entire body.  From that point forward, I was called Cinderella, the girl found in the cinders.

I’m sixteen now.  For the past eleven years, I have been living with Auntie and her two daughters, Elvira and Esmira in a manor house on the outskirts of town.  To say they took pity on me would be a lie.  Auntie gives me nothing to wear but an old gray shift and no slippers for my feet, even in winter.  I am also tasked with all the chores within and without the home.  Before dawn, I the carry water, make the fire, cook, and wash.  I clean in the afternoon.  I prepare dinner and run errands before the sun goes down.  Life isn’t so terrible if it’s simply drudgery, but Auntie and her charges find every opportunity to cause me grief and make me look ridiculous.

“Handle the plate and silver with a dishtowel.  We don’t want it to get grubby,” gripes Auntie.

“I dropped a bowl of lentils out my window.  Pick up every bean,” orders Elvira.

“Cinder, gray suits you.  It is the color of blandness,” sneers Esmira.

They laugh.

The trio do nothing all day but gossip and stuff themselves with teacakes.  They imagine every idleness a virtue and hard work a sin.  Without me, these lollygags would most likely starve and die.  That fact doesn’t make them treat me any better.

My only happiness is what I find on my windowsill each evening.   When I go to bed, after all my labors are done, when my relations have teased and tortured me to no end, there on the ledge outside my window lies a cut red rose.  I don’t know who brings it.  I don’t know why.  And I have never been able to catch the giver.  But without fail, since my thirteenth birthday rain or shine, freezing cold or blistering hot, a red flower greets me when darkness falls and the stars come out of hiding.  I sometimes imagine it’s my dead mother or father descending from heaven to cheer me up.  Silly, I know.  Perhaps it’s some admirer from afar.  But who would admire me?  It may just be some wandering soul who pities me.  But I’m grateful.  That daily act of kindness tells me there is still good in the world.  It gives me hope. 

 “Daydreaming again?”  Auntie calls from the playing table.

I stand in the kitchen doorway, leaning against a broom. 

Her brows furrow, cracking the white paint on her face.

“Lazy girl,” adds one of my cousins looking over a hand of cards.  A beauty mark dots her chin.   

“Sweep!  Sweep!” says the other and fans with her suits of cards in such a motion.  This one’s cheeks are so red with rouge you would think she was constantly blushing.

I get back to the work and the three idlers return to their game.

#

A rope snaps and a crossbeam tumbles on one of the masons building the home for orphaned children.  He screams, as the wooden timber crushes his legs.  The man’s weather beaten hat lays beside his balding pate, as workers above scrabble down a series of ladders, ropes, and pulleys from the frame structure that appears as nothing more than ribs of wood.  The first to arrive on the scene is Prince Perfect in his royal blue cape and jodhpurs.

I’m walking home from the market with a basketful of goods when I see this happen right in front of me.

Prince Perfect is the heir to the throne and only child of the King and Queen.  His real name isn’t Perfect, but everyone calls him that because he strives in every way to be faultless.  In courtesy and manners, in manliness and courage, in compassion and humility, the Prince excels, hence the nickname.  This was in not due to his parents’ care, but the nursemaid who raised him.  She was a saintly soul, who loved and disciplined the child as duty required.  The nursemaid taught him never to treat the servants as chattel, that kingship was a privilege not a right, and that one must always endeavor to do good with the gifts in one’s possession.  It was said that the Prince as a child told a lie about a theft he committed which he blamed on his manservant.  The nursemaid did not punish him, but her disappointment was so great that the Prince vowed never to lie again unless it was to save a person’s life.  Prince Perfect meant every word and never lied or committed a misdeed since.  He also joined the nursemaid on her daily calls about town to assist the poor and sick.  The Prince was a willing helper.  He enjoyed being kind and generous.  When his gentle-hearted angel of a nursemaid passed away, Prince Perfect grieved terribly, but he kept her spirit alive by continuing to do good and acting properly.

Now kneeling in front of the stonemason, the Prince attempts to lift the beam from the hurt builder.  He turns to me and says, “Can you give me a hand?”  I drop my wicker basket to the ground, fruits and vegetables spilling everywhere and bend down to help lift the block of wood.  Another set of hands grabs hold of the other side.  Something rank stings my nostrils, but I am too preoccupied to investigate the scent.  The injured man moans and cries out in pain.

“On the count of three we lift.  And you”—the Prince shouts to a carpenter who has reached the ground floor—“pull the poor fellow out.”

The carpenter puts his hands under the man’s armpits.  He nods at Prince Perfect.

“One.  Two.  Three.”  The three of us lift the great plank of timber just enough, so the carpenter can free the man lying below.

“Let go.”  The Prince instructs.  The log drops to the ground with a thud.  The other workers arrive and load the injured man onto a cart.  He mumbles an agonized ‘thank you’ to the Prince, who takes the man’s hand and says some encouraging words.

Then he turns to one of the mason’s.  “Take him at once to the doctor in the castle.  Make sure he receives the best care.  His legs still might be saved.” Prince Perfect places a gold ducat into the man’s hand.  The men carry away the injured party, as the Prince stoops to collect the fruit and vegetables that fell from my basket.

“Thank you both for helping lift the beam,” he says, as he puts a pair of tomatoes in the hamper.   I look behind me.   So that was where the foul smell was coming from.  The swineherd’s son was the other person lifting the beam along with the Prince and me.  The boy stands on the opposite side of the girder, his hair and clothes splattered with mud and slop.  His hair is rangy and looks as if a pile of straw was laid on top of his head.  The boy also has a squat if stout build. 

“What are your names?” asks Prince Perfect still gathering my fallen produce.  From a kneeling position, his blonde lashes catch the sun and sparkle like the gold that was in his palm a moment ago.   I don’t know why I remain standing and do not bother to collect the fruits and vegetables myself.  Somehow I’m fixed to the spot.

“My name is Cinderella,” I tell him.

The swineherd’s son, on the other hand, dashes off before saying a word.

 “I hope I didn’t offend him by asking his name.”  The Prince rises and hands me the basket.  

“He’s the swineherd’s son.  He smells and no one likes him.”  I wrap my arms around the wicker vessel.  

“If you had been working with pigs all day, you would reek too.  I wonder if there is anything I can do to help?”

I blush, embarrassed, by what I said about the swineherd’s son.  I forget that I’m talking to a prince and Prince Perfect at that.  “You’ll think of something,” I reassure him.

“Again, you have my gratitude.”  The Prince is known for profusely thanking those who help him do a good deed.  “I hope I shall soon see you again, Cinderella.”  He removes his feathered cap and bows.  A footman brings his horse around.  Prince Perfect mounts the silvery steed and gallops away. 

I sigh, my head full of silly fantasies.  Continuing my journey home, I regret how I spoke of the swineherd’s son.  If there’s anyone worse off than me in town, it is him.  He lives on a pig farm not far from Auntie’s house.  Auntie and her daughters often complain when a breeze blows downwind of the farm, bringing with it the stench of pig and offal.  The boy has the unenviable task of caring for the hogs of his cruel stepfather.  Sometimes, when passing the farm, I hear the sound of a belt thrashing flesh and the cries of the poor boy.  Still it’s hard to sympathize with someone whose fate that so closely resembles my own. 

“Dawdling again?” Auntie stands in the doorway of the house.  Her arms cross over her chest, and she has the usual expression of dissatisfaction on her face.  “We’ve been sitting all day waiting for supper.  Where have you been?  Oh, never mind.  I’m not in the mood to hear one of your useless excuses.  Get inside the kitchen and cook something edible.”

I duck past her into the kitchen with the basket and begin preparing the evening meal.