February 1st 5 Pages Workshop Will Open at Noon 2/2/13

The new workshop will begin taking entries at noon on February 2nd.
Please check here for the full workshop rules.

http://firstfivepagesworkshop.blogspot.com/p/workshop-rules.html?m=0

ABOUT NIKKI LOFTIN
Nikki Loftin is the debut author of THE SINISTER SWEETNESS OF SPLENDID ACADEMY (Razorbill, 2012), which Publishers Weekly called “a mesmerizing read,” and Kirkus Reviews called “deliciously scary and satisfying.”

Nikki’s short children’s fiction has appeared in Boy’s Life and Pockets magazines, among others. She also writes literary fiction, poetry, and essays for adults, and has been published in numerous literary journals and anthologies. Her essay will be included in the upcoming anthology, Dear Teen Me: Authors Write Letters to Their Teen Selves (Zest books, Nov. 2012). Nikki is represented by Suzie Townsend of New Leaf Literary Agency.

Nikki enjoys public speaking, and served as keynote speaker at the Houston Writer’s Guild conference in the spring of 2012, as well as a presenter at libraries, SCBWI conferences and meetings, and various panels and workshops throughout the year. She is an active member of the Austin SCBWI, the Writer’s League of Texas, the Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America (SFWA), and the Junior League of Austin.

Her home on the web is www.nikkiloftin.com.

ABOUT THE SINISTER SWEETNESS OF SPLENDID ACADEMY

“A mesmerizing read…a fantasy that feels simultaneously classic and new.”—Publishers Weekly

“A pinch of Grimm, a dash of Greek mythology and a heaping helping of fresh chills make for an irresistible contemporary fairy tale…Deliciously scary and satisfying.”--Kirkus

Lorelei is bowled over by Splendid Academy--Principal Trapp encourages the students to run in the hallways, the classrooms are stocked with candy dishes, and the cafeteria serves lavish meals featuring all Lorelei's favorite foods. But the more time she spends at school, the more suspicious she becomes. Why are her classmates growing so chubby? And why do the teachers seem so sinister?

It's up to Lorelei and her new friend Andrew to figure out what secret this supposedly splendid school is hiding. What they discover chills their bones--and might even pick them clean!

Mix one part magic, one part mystery, and just a dash of Grimm, and you've got the recipe for a cozy-creepy read that kids will gobble up like candy.

Buy On Amazon

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January 1st 5 Pages Workshop Final Revisions Are Posted

Please scroll down to see the final revisions in this month's workshop mentored by the lovely Kimberly Sabatini. We invite you to read and comment. It's always a great learning experience for me to see what the writers have done based on the input from our mentors and everyone else who pitched in.

The next workshop will be mentored by young adult author Nikki Loftin. Stop by her website to find out more about her, or stop by next week when we post her bio in the sidebar. We'll start taking entries for that workshop on Saturday, February 2 beginning at noon.

And once again, a heartfelt thank you to Kim Sabatini and to the workshop participants. You've all be wonderful to work with!

Best,

Martina and Lisa

1st 5 Pages January Workshop - King Rev 2

D. M. King
YA/Suspense
Chasers: Generation One

One
Neal
June 7, 2017


“Please don’t let me die.” I whisper through the yellow oxygen mask strapped around my nose.

Small suitcases and carry-ons break free from the overhead compartments and bounce aggressively about the cabin. They mimic the downward plunge of the brand-new Boeing 787. I’m not sure where we are on our flight back to Alpha, New York from London, but I know we haven’t flown quite long enough to be over land yet, which only means one thing--Atlantic Ocean. I hate the ocean. I freak myself out with Jaws flashbacks and watch the left engine ignite. What next?

Boom. Another explosion rocks the cabin. Brilliant flashes of glass shards race across my blurry vision. I swear Larry, the forty-five year-old stockbroker sitting next to me, takes one of them straight through his temple. A fresh splash of his blood spray-paints the side of my face and enters my mouth. Damn. I wipe it off in a panic with my shaking left shoulder.

A symphony of terror fills the air as two-hundred and thirty-nine passengers scream their disapproval of the pilot’s flying abilities and wage an unwinnable war. I brace myself in my seat, face-first into the crash pad that moments ago doubled as my seat cushion---the pungent smell of carbon from the ear-splitting explosion stuck in my nostrils.

I look up for an instant to survey the gruesome sight. Still hanging nearly upside down in the aisle like a ride on the Nitro roller coaster at Six Flags, we’re about to make contact with the swiftly tilting planet. My morning omelet reemerges in all its glory, and oddly enough, it’s as if time stands still for a moment then disintegrates like the charred wreckage of the massive plane. Rather than a hungry shark, pure darkness swallows me whole. Whoever said crash-landing on water is softer than on land must not have understood the laws of physics. Even at only five-thousand feet, the impact forces the life right out of the airplane’s lungs and all the rest of the passengers on-board. All except me, 17 year-old Neal Champion.

A black screen of nothingness eventually gives way to sketchy deformed bodies moving back and forth above and around me. I blink several times hoping to clear my vision. For the time being, I’m still staring desperately into distortion. Hours or maybe days pass before I lift my head and open my swollen eyes. Once again, the scenery has changed. Soon, shapes take form, and sideways people with masks and white coats appear upright now, like someone has finally fixed my vertical hold, and my television signal returns.

“Wha--?” I’m unable to speak with two tubes rammed down my throat and a clear mask over my mouth and nose.

“Mr. Champion?” His voice is faint, but I’m anxious for answers. Why can’t I speak? How did I get here?

“No need to talk. A machine is breathing for you. We’re trying to save your life.”

“But…” I mouth the word, though the sound never reaches the airwaves any better than before.

“Plane crash… Coma… Collapsed lungs… Head trauma.” I capture a few more words thrown my way. “Otherwise, you’re a mighty lucky kid. Rest. We’ll take care of you.” The doctor assures me.

Tears trickle down my burned cheeks and cloud my vision once again. It’s so difficult to believe all I am hearing. The unforgettable sights and sounds of London are still fresh in my mind. I drift off again recollecting a paltry piece of yellow caution tape blowing down the steep steps of the embassy. No longer a deterrent to my somber memorial visit, yet a stark reminder that my mom’s footsteps will never again touch that cold marble. Her face now just a picture on the dresser in my mind. I plunge back to my current surroundings and glance at Dr. Zawi’s name tag. Unbelievably, I’m somehow back in upstate New York. Memorial Hospital. In moments, I surrender to the void again.

Vaguely hanging on to the date of my flight, May 25th, I sleep in and out repeatedly and awake to a series of annoying beeps and buzzes. I move my head from side to side hoping to catch a glimpse of a doctor or nurse. Incredibly the place is empty, or so I think. Still slowed by a painful headache and what appears to be a surgically repaired left wrist, I push the button to raise my bed and find the nurse’s alarm. One push. Nothing. Two pushes. Still no one. I sit upright, and my focus clears considerably as I notice the last date marked on my IV bag is June 3rd. Have I been out that long?

My intravenous drip has long dried up, so I end some of the incessant noise by hitting stop on the machine. According to the fancy monitors, my heart rate seems normal enough along with my blood pressure, but where’s the staff? Why isn’t there anybody taking care of me?

Unsure of what may happen, I tug lightly at the tubes still clogging my airway. After a few short pulls I realize I no longer need to have this machine breathe for me, so I gradually disconnect it. Pulling the flexible tubing out of my lungs and throat resembles a sword swallower yanking steel from his jowls---it burns like I drank an entire bottle of rubbing alcohol straight.

I watch my blood trickle down the side of the bed from the tubes and onto the tile, and that’s when I jerk back with a start. Lying on the floor next to my bed is Dr. Zawi. Intense tightness grips my chest cavity and limits my breaths, but I fight back against it and win. My watery eyes blink violently clearing some of the cobwebs lodged in my brain. I swing my legs weakly over the side of the bed and reach down to check his pulse. He’s still alive but barely. He looks like he hasn’t slept for weeks. His dark Indian skin is now pale and cold. I stretch for the full water pitcher on the food tray, open the lid, and splash him in the face with the lukewarm liquid. His eyes open for only an instant then close.

“Dr. Zawi! Please! What’s happened? Wake up!” I shake him a few times, but he never opens his eyes. One last muffled word leaks out before he dies.

“Letter.”

Letter? Not as mobile as I need to be, I make a painful decision to break free of my final umbilical cord, separating myself from my IV. An extended burning travels slowly up my arm finally touching the part of my brain that reminds me that I have nerve endings. Needles. What an incredibly cruel invention. I scream in anguish for some help but to no avail. I am on my own---rich red plasma streaming down my unbroken arm as if I’ve scratched it on a sharp nail.

I tear some gauze from the cabinet over the sink and wrap white tape around my wound protecting my aching right arm from my self-inflicted ignorance. Like a drunk trying to do the tango, my wobbly legs seek my center of gravity. I stumble around the room searching for a letter. Nothing. Taking a quick glance at myself in a stainless steel surgical tray, I’m surprised at how awful I look.

1st 5 Pages January Workshop - Bidania Rev 2

Name: V. Bidania
Genre: YA Apocalyptic/Thriller
Title: Till the End of the World


I’m scared.

Not just because my family’s the only family left in our suburb, or because Mom’s getting sicker every day, or even because the world’s about to end. More than anything, I’m scared of hoping we’re going to survive.

Because what if we don’t?

It’s not yet dawn and I’m crouched by the kitchen window, peeking out the curtains, gripping my brother Ben’s old varsity baseball bat in one hand and Mom’s birding binoculars in the other. It’s my turn on watch.

Only a week ago, I was in the kitchen eating Thanksgiving leftovers. Now I’m alone, surrounded by a silence so deafening I’m afraid my ears will burst.

Down the hall, my family sleeps. I hear them crisp and clear from here. Dad and Ben’s synchronized snoring. Mom’s deep, winded breaths; her oxygen machine is off and her breathing is loud. Yet the silence continues to blare at me.

Through the tiny slit in the curtains, I watch the sun slowly creep over the treetops, quietly spread a coat of blue-gray light onto the empty driveways and abandoned houses.

It’s been days since we heard any warning sirens, since army trucks rumbled down the street to remove any wreckage from riots, since we saw anyone out besides looters. Now the only movement I see is the occasional plastic bag whirling across the ground like tumbleweed.

I hold the bat so tightly my knuckles hurt and I wonder, if a group of looters stormed into our house right now, if they tore down our doors the way I saw them do yesterday to Mrs. Fitzgerald’s deserted house across the street, would I be brave enough to whack a looter on the head with it?

My eyes flit back to the window and I lean closer to the glass, scan the area once more. But it’s dead quiet out there, too. Not even a breeze stirs through the trees. As I stare at the calm, leafless branches, I try hard not to think about Nick. As I concentrate on the curbside and the road, I remind myself that he’s gone now. I’m never going to see him again.

“April, where are you?”

I turn around to find Mom in the hallway, searching the gray shadows of the kitchen for me. She’s wearing the pink flannel pajamas I got her for Mother’s Day. Her favorite wool sweater is draped over her shoulders like a shawl. With one hand pressed against the wall, she looks more frail than usual. Like she might fall over if she lets go.

“Mom, why are you up so early?”

She spots me by the window and frowns. “You need rest,” she says and takes an unsteady step toward me.

I toss my bat and binoculars onto the counter and rush over to help her. Mom holds onto my hand as we step down the hall. I can feel her veins protruding from underneath her soft, thin skin. Her fingers are so cold.

“How are you feeling this morning?” I ask, although I doubt she’ll tell me the truth. She hates it whenever any of us worry about her.

“Good,” she says but I see the truth in her tired eyes, in her slow, ragged breaths. She tries to clear her throat and is interrupted by a sudden coughing fit. It forces her bony shoulders to shake up and down violently, flushing more red into her already pink cheeks.

“Are you okay?” I rub her back and Mom nods, pounds her chest with her fist.

I tug her gently into the family room where we’ve been sleeping since the Voluntary Evacuation. It’s now morning but the room is still dark. The entire house is dark because Dad and Ben worked late into the night boarding up most of the windows and doors from inside.

I help Mom into her wheelchair by the side of the pullout where Dad is snoring away. Just as I pick up her oxygen mask, a thunderous pounding rips through the house. The mask drops from my fingers and I spin around, my heart racing fast.

The front door’s about to burst open. The panels of wood boarded across the doorframe shake and rattle as the pounding roars louder.

Dad snaps up from under the blankets. Sleep lines criss-cross the side of his face like scars. “What is that?”

“Someone’s outside!” I whisper.

“Ben!” Dad hops off the couch to wake him, but my brother’s already kicking his covers away. He springs up from his air mattress on the floor, turns his head from side to side.

“What happened?” Ben asks.

Dad points to the front door and Ben stumbles to his feet. His thermal top and sweatpants are wrinkled, his messy hair stuck flat to the back of his head. He grabs Dad’s golf club on the coffee table. They both start for the foyer.

“Wait!” I see red and blue lights flash in from the foyer window. Through the frosted glass, I can make out figures standing on our front steps. Probably not looters.

I scurry ahead of Dad and Ben to the door. I rise to my tiptoes and squint out the peephole. A group of soldiers and a cop. Behind them two army trucks and a squad car are parked sloppily in the street. I exhale. “Soldiers and police.”

“Open up!” a voice hollers, pounding again.

Ben and I look at Dad. He nods and reaches for the power drill on the shelf.

When Dad pries the door open, four soldiers and a police officer peer in at us. One soldier points a flashlight into the house. The rest stare with wide open eyes, their curious faces frozen on ours.

“Good morning, I’m Sergeant Thompson,” says the soldier with the flashlight. He motions to the others behind him. “Sergeants Michaels, Jones and Cruz. This here’s Officer Harris. Is everyone in your home okay?”

Dad nods. “What’s happening out there?”

Thompson flicks off the light. “Looks like you’re the last family in town. We’ve been combing these neighborhoods and everyone else has cleared out.”

I peek out from behind Ben’s shoulder and notice the soldier beside Thompson watching me. I think I recognize him from somewhere.

“So what’s the status?” Dad says. “Can you tell us anything?”

Thompson shakes his head. “No information, sir. You know as much as we do. We’re moving through the area, making sure those who stayed behind are safe. That’s all we know.”

Ben leans forward and says, “Josh Michaels?”

Sergeant Michaels steps closer to the door. “Berkeley! Ben Berkeley from Little League, right? I don’t believe it! It’s been what, ten, eleven years?”

So I have seen him before. They shake hands. Ben says, “Just about. How long’ve you been in the military?”

“National guard, three years now. How’s your family? Wait, why are you still here?”

Ben glances at Mom. “My mom’s sick, and our cars were stolen.”

“Oh.” Michaels’ smile fades and he nods at my parents. “Mr. and Mrs. Berkeley, I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Josh, how do things look in the city? How are the roads?” Dad asks.

He shakes his head. “The best thing you can do right now is to stay inside your house. Trust me, you’re safer in here than out there. The Announcement and Evacuation brought some pretty crazy characters out of the woodwork. We do not recommend going to the city.”

1st 5 Pages January Workshop -- Nash Rev 2

Erica Nash
Young Adult Fantasy
The Infinite Betrayal of June Grey

My sixteenth birthday was less about candles and more about death. Not my death, of course, that would have been much too macabre for my seemingly delicate mother. No, this birthday was about the death I would be responsible for. The death that has clouded my mind since I was nine and walked into the mudroom looking for my polka dot boots. Instead, I found my parents spraying their hands and forearms clean, spattering the porcelain wash bin a diluted crimson.

Once the initial panic had passed, they sat me down, dried my tears, and showed me how to use a gun.
Seven years later, the stories from that day still haunt me. Stories about monsters that hide in plain sight. The monsters my parents protect the humans from. They’re the reason I carry a firearm like others carry a cell phone. It's my lifeline and a constant reminder of the danger--and my purpose--in this world. I may not technically be a member of the Guard yet, but I still carry. And I certainly don't have the training to kill a full grown dragon, but I can hold my own.

Well, that’s what the Virtual Trials would have me believe.

“So why, exactly, don’t you want this party?” Lucy says from where she twirls in my desk chair.

“Because I like my loner status. I’ve got you two, I don’t need anyone else. And it’s going to be full of old people.” The half truth comes easier than it should. Lucy tells me everything. I tell her lies. The gnarled hands of guilt squeeze my heart, but I push it to the side. When you live in a world where dragons become humans with the self-control of rabid dogs, some secrets are better left kept.

“I am pretty awesome,” she says, pretending to polish her fingernails on the sleeve of her vintage T-shirt.

We bust into laughter, drowning out the music we weren’t listening to anyway. The older we get, the less moments we have like this, so I’m grateful for it. After tomorrow night, there may not be many more.

“Dang, Luce. How is it that so much arrogance can fit into such a tiny person?” Tuck’s comment makes us laugh harder, just as he meant it to. He winks his right eye, the one people always notice because of the scar that runs from his eyebrow to his jaw, and I catch myself watching him. My awe, both at the creature who did the damage, as well as the boy who fought for his life, grows each time I see him. It’s nothing short of a miracle that Tuck survived.
His deep chuckle joins with our high-pitched laughter and something twists in my stomach. After hounding me to be more than friends for too long, he finally got his wish. I'm not sure he realizes I didn't enter the Promising willingly. No way am I ready for a fiancé.

The uncertainty that settles in my gut must show on my face, because he gives me an odd look and says, “Smile, Grey. It won’t be so bad. There’ll be food.” His brow furrows and he looks at me hard. “There will be food, right?”

“Sure, Tuck.” Despite my apprehension, I smile. This is more of the Tuck I know--the easygoing boy with the cheerful grin. I much prefer him over the sullen, irritable version of yesterday. His emotions are more out of control than mine lately.

But it's not the Promising that has Tuck on edge. Tomorrow we’ll start our training as dragon hunters, provided the Council decides to keep us.

Two sharp knocks and my door creaks open.

Mom is smiling in a red apron, looking more like an average housewife than the warrior I know her to be. “June, guests are starting to arrive. Why don’t you guys come down?”

I dare to groan only after I'm sure she’s down the stairs. I feel like a six-year-old on the verge of a tantrum as I flop back on my bed and stare at the ceiling. “Ugh, I don’t want to do this.”

“Well, neither do I, but you dragged us into it, so let’s go.” Lucy stands over me, hands on her hips, long red hair falling over one shoulder.

“Fine, but I’m not going to have any fun.”

It’s her turn to scoff, but I catch the small tug of her lips before she turns. Lucy's a much better friend than I am.

She’s already out the door, where Tuck stands by the opening, arms crossed over his broad chest, leaning one shoulder against the wall. As I catch him watching me, the air in the room changes, thickening into something that I struggle to swallow. So many things I want to say, need to say, but I don’t have the words. Either because they won’t come to me or I can’t say them, I really don’t know, but the longer we stand here, the worse it gets, so I shoot for something neutral.

“Glad to see you smiling today.”

"Yeah,” he says, shaking his head. "Sorry about yesterday. This morning I had a VT and, well, you know how it is. Take down a few lizards, some hand-to-hand, release some aggression.”

He shrugs his shoulders, a gesture that speaks volumes, and he’s right. I get it. The trials clear my head like a run or an hour of yoga does for others. It’s less about the exercise, though, and more about the tunnel my mind creates when I’m there, like nothing else exists.

“Yes, well,” I say, making my way toward the door, “there is something cathartic about pulling that trigger.” The thought has me pulling at the ends of my shirt. It wouldn’t do to walk into a birthday party filled with old folks and have the butt of a glock sticking out of my jeans.

When I'm almost to the door, Tuck doesn’t move to let me through. Instead, he puts his arm across the opening, blocking my way. My breath catches in my throat.

“June.”

My name is a rumble that I feel deep in my chest. It flutters around in there, pattering over my heart and thudding against my ribs.

Somehow I manage to swallow past the mountain lodged in my throat and look up. There’s an odd light in his eyes that I can’t place. It changes, darkening as his gaze roams over my face. He pauses at my lips, then works his way up to my eyes. When he smiles, it’s wide and genuine and I can't help but echo it with my own.

He taps the bottom of my chin with a finger and says, “Happy Birthday.”

The flutter changes then. No longer is it one butterfly or even two, but an entire swarm beating their wings against the inside of my chest, drowning out the noise of the arriving guests below.

I can't do this. Can't feel this way.

Desperate to break up the tension, I punch his arm. "Thanks, loser," I say, but before I can pull back, he has my hand, threading his fingers through mine. I always forget how quick he is.

"Loser?" he says, taking a step forward. "Well, that's not very nice."

"I never said I was nice." My lips form into a wry smile and I step around him, out the door. His carefree laughter follows me down the stairs.

1st 5 Pages January Workshop -- Greene Rev 2

Name: Meredith Greene
Genre: YA-Magical Realism
Title: Order of the Griffin

Couches made the best fires. Cooper had somehow managed to convince his mom to let him dispose of the threadbare couch that sat in their basement. Not that she’d approve of its current purpose, but it’s not like Cooper cared. I sat on the tailgate of his beat up Ford, staring into the raging inferno. A good bonfire was a rite of passage for any Southern teen, and this one I had to admit, was pretty dang excellent.

Coop brushed a hand through his mess of straw blond hair and said, “For the first bonfire of the season, Tessa, I’d say we did pretty good.”

“Well, sir, I have to agree,” I said looking around at the dozen or so cars and trucks parked haphazardly in the field. “Nicely done.”

Someone turned a stereo on, which was blaring the latest country chart topper. Cooper’s lip curled into a sly grin. “Let’s dance.” I let him pull me off the truck and into a two-step. He was like a brother to me, and the only boy I felt comfortable enough to dance with.

As the song ended he looked past my shoulder. Shaking his head he said, “What does Ashley think she’s doing?”

I followed his gaze to see my other best friend, Ashley Tyler, flirting with a senior. “Lord only knows, but why do you care?”

Cooper said, “I care because that is Tommy Sanders, and I can’t stand Tommy Sanders.”

“Hey Coop,” a boy called out, “fire’s getting low.”

He looked back and forth between Ashley and the bonfire.

I sat back down on the truck, “Go, I’ll keep an eye on her.”

“Don’t let her out of your sight,” he said as he walked off.

I watched the light of the fire flickering across Ashley’s face as she worked through all her “moves”. First she twisted her hair, then she touched his shoulder, laughed at his jokes. Tommy reached out and pulled her in, but when she pushed against his chest he didn’t let go. Uh oh, that was not part of Ashley’s plan. I set my bottle of water down and shoved off the tailgate.

“Hey, Tommy,” I said as I neared.

“What’s -sup Montgomery?” His breath reeked of cheap alcohol.

“I was just coming over here to check on my friend.” I said, glancing at a wide-eyed Ashley.

“Your friend? This is your friend? Well, any friend of Montgomery’s is a friend of mine.”

“I’m not your friend, Tommy, and neither is she. Come on Ashley, time for you to go.”

“Hey,” he said pulling Ashley closer to his side, “she can stay if she likes.”

“Can she now?” I asked back.

I wanted him, needed him to hit me first. Anything to knock the pain, the nightmares out of my mind. If I couldn’t fight the demons haunting me in my sleep, I could at least go a few rounds with a drunk Tommy Sanders.

Ashley twisted her arm in his grip, “Let go of me you stupid jerk.”

I stepped in between them, daring him to make the first move. “Time for you to do what she says, Tommy, let go.” I felt a crowd form around us.

He released her arm, but kept his focus on me. “Fine, no big deal.” He surrendered with his hands in the air, palms up.

“Tessa!” I heard Cooper calling from somewhere behind me.

“Aw, is your little boyfriend getting jealous?”

Cooper warned, “Back off Tommy, you’re messing with the wrong girl.”

Tommy roared with laughter. “What’s she going to do, set me on fire like she did her mom?”

And that was exactly what I was hoping he’d say. I plowed my fist right through his crooked front teeth. His head snapped back, blood spewed down his chin. Stunned, he rubbed his jaw. I didn’t want him quitting on me so soon, so I gave him a good shove. He countered, getting one solid hook into my jaw. I hit him again, this time sending him to the ground. Shards of glorious pain radiated through my mouth and hand. “Jesus, Tessa,” Cooper said, pinning my elbows back. I glared at the heap of boy I left on the ground as Cooper maneuvered me back to his truck. He plopped me down on the tailgate. “Are you out of your mind? What do you think you’re doing, picking a fight with a guy?”

Feeling smug I said, “He started it.”

“Let me see your hand,” Cooper said carefully looking me over. “Congratulations Tess, it looks broken.” It was already swelling, turning purple along the way. It probably was broken, but I knew by tomorrow it would be completely healed.

“It’s fine Coop, not broken see?” I said fighting the pain to wiggle my fingers.

“Your jaw’s gonna bruise too.”

I winced. I would have to get creative with my make-up again. A not-broken hand I could fake, a bruise wasn’t so easy. With the exception of the six inch scar on my side, I could heal from any injury in a matter of hours.

Ashley pushed her way through the crowd to meet us at the truck. “I was handling it just fine you know,” she said with her hands on her hips. She pushed a lock of her curly brown hair from her baby face. She put on a brave mask, but her quivering lips gave her away.

“He was drunk, Ashley. You had no business talking to him in the first place.” I heard the sirens, judged they were at least six miles away. “Sorry about your party Coop, but we need to go.” He tilted his head, confused. “You know someone probably called the police.”

His grin split from ear to ear. “Wouldn’t be a successful bonfire without the cops showing up.”

After dropping Ashley off at her house, and making sure she was safely inside, we continued on to mine in uneasy silence.

The truck’s tires crunched on the gravel of my long winding driveway. My Aunt Sheila had left the porch light on, and would be sound asleep in bed. He put the truck in park, turned it off. “Tess, we’ve known each other since eighth grade.”

“That sounds about right,” I said as I crossed my arms.

“And who knows you better than anyone else in this world?”

“You do.” I felt the pangs of guilt tug at my stomach. He may have known me best, but no one knew the real Tessa Montgomery.

“Then why don’t you tell me what the hell is going on with you?”

I stared at him and considered my options. He wasn’t going to be happy with any answer I gave him, truthful or not. “It’s the nightmares again--and the headaches.”

“So you let Tommy punch you in the face?”

“He brought up my mom.”

“Tess, you didn’t do anything to her, you know that right? The night she died, you weren’t even home so don’t let that old rumor get under your skin.”

I desperately wanted to agree with him, but my memories of that night had disappeared.

“I know you too well, there’s more isn’t there?”

I started to lie, but like he said, no one knew me better. “I feel like I’m losing control. The nightmares are getting more vivid, more intense. Last night, I woke up standing at Sheila’s door with a kitchen knife in my hand.”

Cooper sucked in a deep breath.

1st 5 Pages January Workshop -- Goldstein Rev 2

Name: Lori A. Goldstein
Genre: Young Adult Contemporary Fantasy
Title: BECOMING JINN


A chisel, a hammer, a wrench. A sander, a drill, a power saw. A laser, a heat gun, a flaming torch. Nothing cuts through the bangle. Nothing I conjure even makes a scratch.

I had to try, just to be sure. But the silver bangle encircling my wrist can’t be removed. It was smart of my mother to secure it in the middle of the night while I was asleep, unable to protest.

Though my Jinn ancestry means magic has always been inside me, the rules don’t allow me to begin drawing upon it until the day I turn sixteen. The day I receive my silver bangle. The day I officially become a genie. Today.

I slam my newly acquired accessory against my bedroom closet, leaving a rounded indent on the wood door. The pristine, gleaming metal mocks me. For the rest of my life, I’ll go where I’m told, perform on command, and do it all without question.

Screw that.

Barefooted, I can’t kick the pile of tools without impaling myself. I settle for shoving the saw and catch a reflection of myself in the blade. Right, how could I forget? I race to my bathroom and fling open the door. At the mirror, I inspect all the ways my body has been altered while my mind was unable to resist.

Always lanky, my form is now a study in angles. My cheekbones protrude like a shelf, the bones on my hips jut out, and my elbows are sharp like a sword. This is supposed to be attractive? I could double as the skeleton of a svelte supermodel.

I lay a finger on the bangle and push. Watching it spin around my thin wrist, I’m convinced I’m the exception. The bangle stimulates my body to reach full maturity. As an inherently attractive species, this tends to make us, well, hot. I don’t think it’s actually a quid pro quo thing (and if it is, we Jinn must be the most shallow of species), but then again, I’m not privy to the inner workings of the Afrit, the council that rules over our Jinn world.

My birthday falls during the summer, not that I think the HITs (humans in training, aka teenagers) I go to school with would likely question this new and improved Azra Nadira staring back at me. More popular newbie Jinn whose makeovers go beyond what can be explained away by a superior salon or skilled plastic surgeon actually have to change schools. Guess there are benefits to not being popular.

I upend the basket next to the sink. A pair of nail clippers clanks against the marble counter, landing in between dental floss and a barely used compact of blush.

I knew this was coming. Click. I grew up knowing this was coming. Click. But still a part of me believed something would stop it. Click. Maybe my mother would finally realize I was serious. Click. I’ve been begging her to find a way around me having to become a genie since I was old enough to understand what the word “destiny” meant. Click. Maybe the Afrit would decide my well-honed lack of enthusiasm was an insult to the long line of Jinn from which I descend. Click. Maybe they’d take one look at me and realize that, for the first time in Jinn history, powers should skip a generation. Click.

I turn on the faucet and watch with satisfaction as the tips of the long nails that replaced my short ones overnight swirl around the basin and disappear down the drain.

Peeking out from under the overturned basket is the pointy end of a pair of scissors. The spot of blood that rushes to the surface of my finger as I pull them out confirms they’re sharp enough.

Running away was never an option. Snip. I found that out when I was ten, twelve, and fourteen. Snip. My Jinn blood is the equivalent of a permanent tracking device. Snip. And now it’s not just my mother who can find me anywhere, anytime. Snip. The Afrit will be watching. Snip. If I refuse to grant wishes, if I screw up, if I expose our Jinn world to humans, I will be extracted from this human life I’m pretending to live. Snip. I’ll be committed to a life of solitary confinement on the island where the Afrit rub their hands together and cackle as they toy with us Jinn pawns. Snip. It’s not a death penalty. Snip. As much as it may feel like it is. Snip.

A blanket of dark espresso hair surrounds my feet. I’ve sheared off the three inches that are new since yesterday and then some. The color, which morphed from mouse to mink while I slept, is an exact match for my mother’s. That can stay. The sheen helps the chin-length bob I’ve given myself look halfway decent.

They can make me grant wishes, but they can’t dictate what I’m going to look like while doing it.

I splash water on my face and can feel the length of my eyelashes. The gold flecks in my eyes have consumed the hazel. The new color is an exact match not only for the color of my mother’s eyes but for the color of all Jinn’s eyes. And I can’t have that.

Lucky for me, my learning curve with this conjuring thing has been fast. One crooked wrench, one inoperable lighter, and one unrecognizable reciprocating saw preceded the plethora of tools turning my bedroom into a hardware store. And in all fairness, the mangled saw is more because I have no idea what a reciprocating saw actually looks like.

Just as I did when conjuring each tool, I steady my breathing, tune my ears to the beat of my heart, which pumps my Jinn blood at a rate closer to that of hummingbirds than humans, and close my eyes. I picture a pair of transparent contacts tinted dark brown. Having a perfect image of the object is key to conjuring.

An icy tingle snakes through my body. I shiver. My body craves heat. In all the ways I take after my mother — in all the ways I take after all Jinn — an intolerance for cold is the one that bothers me the least.

I concentrate until a bead of sweat forms on my upper lip and the slimy lenses float in a sea of saline in the palm of my hand.

Before I use them to mask my amber eyes, I flutter my long lashes and pucker my full lips, an attempt at being sexy that looks as awkward as it feels. Forget it. I plant my face an inch away from the mirror. With my index finger on my top lid and my thumb on my bottom, I create a larger bullseye for the brown contact. My first attempt sends the lens down the drain. After conjuring another one, I force myself not to blink. I’m successfully affixing the lens to my eyeball when I notice my fingernails are once again long. And red.

My chopped, dark brown hair shoots past my chin, flies down my neck, and leaves my collarbone in the dust. Post bangle, pre haircut, it brushed my shoulders. It now lands mid-boob (the only part of me that seems to have escaped a growth spurt). The gold of my eyes deepens and shimmers until my irises resemble balls of compacted glitter.

Apparently the Afrit can dictate what I look like. I dump the contact lenses in the trash under the sink. I give up.

I dive into my bed and burrow under the soft down of my comforter, grateful for its instant warmth. I ignore the sound of the dog barking somewhere outside and concentrate on the sweet smell of the lilacs in perpetual bloom in our backyard. I will myself to fall back to sleep. Even if I can’t sleep, I can still choose to skip today.

All I have to do is stay in bed. All I have to do is not open my eyes. All I have to do is pretend. Fortunately, being skilled in pretending is another way in which I take after my mother, another way in which I take after all Jinn.

I turn toward the open window and breathe in the lilacs. Along with the fragrance comes the pollen. Along with the pollen comes the coughing. Along with the coughing comes the involuntary opening of my eyes.

Who am I kidding? I can’t skip today. I don’t have that kind of control. The bangle assures that I never will.

I crawl out of bed and shed my pajamas, dropping them on top of the drill. Of course the black tank top I pull over my head and down my newly elongated torso is too short. As I move, the hem plays a game of peekaboo with my belly button, an unintentional homage to the midriff-baring genies of fairy tales and fantasies.

I rummage through the top drawer of my bathroom vanity until I find an elastic and the pair of bug-eyed sunglasses my mother bought for me last year. I gather my hair into a ponytail and hide my gold eyes behind the tinted shades. It’s summer. Well, almost summer. In New England, summer doesn’t debut until July. And only if we’re lucky. June is always a tease. Still, with tenth grade in the rearview mirror, I can camouflage my new look this way until school starts again. By then, no one will remember what I used to look like.

As if that’s a valid concern. I could walk into calculus tomorrow with rainbow-colored dreadlocks and half the class wouldn’t even blink an eye. Being invisible is something I’ve learned all on my own.

January First Five Pages 1st Revisions Are Posted

The first revisions in the January First Five Pages Workshop are up! Scroll down and see what the writers have done after feedback from our guest mentor, Kimberly Sabatini, and let them know what you think! This is an especially great learning opportunity, because Kim will be joining us again to comment on the revisions and help everyone get to the next step.

Have a great week, everyone!

Martina and Lisa

1st 5 Pages January Workshop - Nash Rev 1

Erica Nash
Young Adult Fantasy
The Infinite Betrayal of June Grey

My sixteenth birthday was less about candles and more about death. Not my death, of course, that would have been much too macabre for my seemingly delicate mother; no, this birthday was about the death I would be responsible for. The death that had clouded my mind since I was nine and walked into the mudroom, looking for my polka dot boots. Instead, I found my parents spraying their hands and forearms clean, spattering the porcelain wash bin a diluted crimson.

Once the initial panic had passed, they sat me down, dried my tears, and showed me how to use a gun.

Seven years later, the stories from that day still give me nightmares. They’re the reason I take comfort in the firearm tucked into the waistband of my jeans, the cool steel a constant reminder of my purpose in this world. I may not technically be a member of the Guard yet, but I still carry. And I certainly don't have the training to kill a full grown dragon, but I’d like to think I could bust a cap if I needed to.

Bust a cap? I can't help but snort. I am such a moron.

“What are you snorting at?” Lucy says from my desk chair, her eyebrows raised, ready to throw the sarcasm that’s sure to spout from my mouth right back in my face.

“Just my incredible hilarity.” The half-truth comes easier than it should. Lucy might be my best friend, but she can’t know what I am.

“Laughing at your own jokes again, June?”

I give a solemn nod. “I am.”

We bust into laughter, drowning out the music we weren’t listening to anyway. The older we get, the less moments we have like this, so I’m grateful for it. After tomorrow night, there may not be many more.

“How in the world did I get stuck with you two?” Tuck’s comment makes us laugh harder, just as he meant it to. He winks his right eye, the one people always notice because of the scar that runs from his eyebrow to his jaw, and I catch myself watching him. My awe, both at the creature who did the damage, as well as the boy who fought for his life, grows each time I see him. It’s nothing short of a miracle that Tuck survived.

His deep chuckle joins with our high-pitched laughter and something twists in my stomach. After hounding me to be more than friends for too long, he finally got his wish. I'm not sure he realizes I didn't enter the Promising willingly.

The uncertainty that settles in my gut must show on my face, because he gives me an odd look and says, “I’m just kidding, Grey. I wouldn’t be mean to you on your birthday. Now, tomorrow--that might be a different story--but today, you’re safe.”

Despite my apprehension, I smile. This is more of the Tuck I know--the easy-going boy with the cheerful grin. I much prefer him over the sullen, irritable version I had the pleasure of meeting yesterday.

But it's not the Promising that has Tuck on edge. Tomorrow we'll go through the Induction, provided the Council decides to keep us.

Two sharp knocks and my door creaks open.

Mom is smiling in a red apron, looking more like an average housewife than the warrior I know her to be. “June, guests are starting to arrive. Why don’t you guys come down?”

I dare to groan only after I'm sure she’s down the stairs. “Ugh, I don’t want to do this.” I feel a little like a six-year-old throwing a tantrum as I flop back on my bed and stare at the ceiling.

“So you dragged us into it?” Lucy stands over me, hands on her hips, long red hair framing her face in waves that I have tried duplicating--without success--countless times.

I smile and shrug. “Misery and company and all that.”

It’s her turn to scoff, but I catch the small tug of her lips before she turns. Lucy's a much better friend than I am. She tells me everything. I tell her lies.

The gnarled hands of guilt squeeze my heart, but I push it to the side. When you live in a world where dragons become humans with the self-control of a rabid dog, some secrets are better left kept.

“Well, let’s get this borefest over with, then,” I say through a sigh, heaving myself off the bed.

Lucy’s already out the door, but Tuck stands by the opening, arms crossed over his broad chest, leaning one shoulder against the wall. The air in the room changes as I catch him watching me, thickening into something I struggle to swallow. So many things I want to say, need to say, but I don’t have the words. Either because they won’t come to me or I can’t say them, I really don’t know, but the longer we stand here, the worse it gets, so I shoot for something neutral.

“Nice to see you’re no longer PMSing.” The words tumble from my mouth of their own accord, ignoring my pleas for them to come back. Brilliant, June. Just brilliant. Saying something like that would have been fine before, but is that how you're supposed to talk to a fiancee?

Throwing his head back, Tuck laughs before I can overreact to the F-word. “PMSing,” he says, shaking his head. Then he sobers and his brow creases. "Sorry about yesterday, but this morning I had a simulation and, well, you know how it is. Take down a few lizards, some hand-to-hand, release some aggression.”

He shrugs his shoulders, a gesture that speaks volumes, and he’s right. I get it. The simulations clear my head like a run or an hour of yoga does for others. It’s less about the exercise, though, and more about the tunnel my mind creates when I’m there, like nothing else exists.

“Yes, well,” I say, making my way toward the door, “there is something cathartic about pulling that trigger.” The thought has me pulling at the ends of my shirt. It wouldn’t do to walk into a birthday party filled with old folks and have the butt of a glock sticking out of my jeans.

When I'm almost out the door, Tuck doesn’t move to leave. Instead, he puts his arm across the opening, blocking my way. My breath catches in my throat.

“June.”

My name is a rumble that I feel deep in my chest. It flutters around in there, pattering over my heart and thudding against my ribs.

Somehow I manage to swallow past the mountain lodged in my throat and look up. There is an odd light in his eyes that I can’t place. It changes, darkening each time his gaze roams over my face. He pauses at my lips, then works his way up. When his eyes meet mine again, he smiles. It’s wide and genuine and I can't help but echo with my own.

He taps the bottom of my chin with a knuckle and says, “Happy Birthday.”

The flutter changes then. No longer is it one butterfly or even two, but an entire swarm beating their wings on the inside of my chest, drowning out the noise of the arriving guests below.

I can't do this. Can't feel this way.

Desperate to break up the tension, I punch his arm. "Thanks, loser."

1st 5 Pages January Workshop - Greene Rev 1

Name: Meredith Greene
Genre: Young Adult, paranormal
Title: Order of the Griffin


Couches made the best fires. Cooper had somehow managed to persuade his mom to let him dispose of the thread-barren couch that sat in their basement. Not that she’d approve of it’s current purpose, but it’s not like Cooper cared. I sat on the tailgate of his beat up Ford, staring into the raging inferno. A good bonfire was a rite of passage for any southern teen, and this one I had to admit, was pretty dang excellent.

Coop brushed a hand through his mess of straw blond hair and said, “For the first bonfire of the season, Tessa, I’d say we did mighty fine.”

“Well, sir, I have to agree. Nicely done.”

Someone turned a stereo on, which was blaring the latest country chart topper. Cooper’s lip curled into a sly grin. “Let’s dance.” I let him pull me off the truck and into a two-step. He was my best friend, and the only boy I felt comfortable enough to dance with.

As the song ended he looked past my shoulder. Shaking his head he said, “What does Ashley think she’s doing?”

I followed his gaze to see my other best friend, Ashley Tyler, flirting with a senior. “Lord only knows, but why do you care?”

Cooper said, “I care because that is Tommy Sanders, and I can’t stand Tommy Sanders.”

“Hey Coop,” a boy called out, “fire’s getting low.”

He looked back and forth between Ashley and the bonfire.

I sat back down on the truck, “Go, I’ll keep an eye on her.”

“Don’t let her out of your sight,” he said as he walked off.

I watched the light of the fire flickering across Ashley’s face as she worked through all her “moves”. First she twisted her hair, then she touched his shoulder, laughed at his jokes. Tommy reached out and pulled her in, but when she pushed against his chest he didn’t let go. Uh oh, that was not part of Ashley’s plan. I set my bottle of water down and shoved off the tailgate.

“Hey, Tommy,” I said as I neared.

“What’s-sup Montgomery?” His breath reeked of cheap alcohol.

“I was just coming over here to check on my friend.” I said, glancing at a wide-eyed Ashley.

“Your friend? This is your friend? Well, any friend of Montgomery’s is a friend of mine.”

“I’m not your friend, Tommy, and neither is she. Come on Ashley, time for you to go.”

“Hey,” he said pulling Ashley closer to his side, “she can stay if she likes.”

“Can she now?” I asked back.

I wanted him, needed him to hit me first. Anything to knock the pain, the nightmares out of my mind. If I couldn’t fight the demons haunting me in my sleep, I could at least go a few rounds with a drunk Tommy Sanders.

Ashley twisted her arm in his grip, “Let go of me you stupid jerk.”
I stepped in between them, daring him to make the first move. “Time for you to do what she says, Tommy, let go.” I felt a crowd form around us.

He released her arm, but kept his focus on me. “Fine, no big deal,” he surrendered with his hands in the air, palms up.

“Tessa!” I heard Cooper calling from somewhere behind me.

“Aw, is your little boyfriend getting jealous?”

Cooper warned, “Back off Tommy, you’re messing with the wrong girl.”

Tommy roared with laughter. “What’s she going to do, set me on fire like she did her mom?”

And that was exactly what I was hoping he’d say. I plowed my fist right through his crooked front teeth. His head snapped back, blood spewed down his chin. Stunned, he rubbed his jaw. I didn’t want him quitting on me so soon, so I gave him a good shove. He countered, getting one solid hook into my jaw. I hit him again, this time sending him to the ground. Shards of glorious pain radiated through my mouth and hand.

“Jesus, Tessa,” Cooper said, pinning my elbows back. I glared at the heap of boy I left on the ground as Cooper maneuvered me back to his truck. He plopped me down on the tailgate. “Are you out of your mind? What do you think you’re doing, picking a fight with a guy?”

Feeling smug I said, “He started it.”

“Let me see your hand,” Cooper said carefully looking me over.
“Congratulations Tess, it looks broken.” It was already swelling, turning purple along the way. It probably was broken, but I knew by tomorrow it would be completely healed.

“It’s fine Coop, not broken see?” I said fighting the pain to wiggle my fingers.

“Your jaw’s gonna bruise too.”

I winced. I would have to get creative with my make-up again. A not-broken hand I could fake, a bruise wasn’t so easy. With the exception of the six inch scar on my side, I could heal from any injury in a matter of hours.

Ashley pushed her way through the crowd to meet us at the truck. “I was handling it just fine you know,” she said with her hands on her hips. She pushed a lock of her curly brown hair from her baby face. She put on a brave mask, but her quivering lips gave her away.

“He was drunk, Ashley. You had no business talking to him in the first place.” I heard the sirens, judged they were at least six miles away. “Sorry about your party Coop, but we need to go.” He tilted his head, confused. “You know someone probably called the police.”

His grin split from ear to ear. “Wouldn’t be a successful bonfire without the cops showing up.”

After dropping Ashley off at her house, and making sure she was safely inside, we continued on to mine in uneasy silence.

The truck’s tires crunched on the gravel of my long winding driveway. My Aunt Sheila had left the porch light on, and would be sound asleep in bed. He put the truck in park, turned it off. “Tess, we’ve known each other since eighth grade.”

“That sounds about right,” I said as I crossed my arms.

“And who knows you better than anyone else in this world?”

“You do.” I felt the pangs of guilt tug at my stomach. He may have known me best, but no one knew the real Tessa Montgomery.

“Then why don’t you tell me what the hell is going on with you?”

I stared at him and considered my options. He wasn’t going to be happy with any answer I gave him, truthful or not.

“It’s the nightmares again--and the headaches.”

“So you let Tommy punch you in the face?”

“He brought up my mom.”

“Tess, you didn’t do anything to her, you know that right? The night she died, you weren’t even home so don’t let that old rumor get under your skin.”

I desperately wanted to agree with him, but my memories of that night had disappeared.

“I know you too well, there’s more isn’t there?”

I started to lie, but like he said, no one knew me better. “I feel like I’m losing control. The nightmares are getting more vivid, more intense. Last night, I woke up standing at Sheila’s door with a kitchen knife in my hand.”

Cooper sucked in a deep breath. “What about the locks we put on your door?”

“I don’t know, I must have undone them in my sleep.”

1st 5 Pages January Workshop - Bidania Rev 1

Name: V. Bidania
Genre: YA Apocalyptic/Thriller
Title: Till the End of the World


I’m scared. Not only because my family’s the only family left in our suburb. Or because looters keep coming by the neighborhood. Or because Mom’s getting sicker every day, or even that I’m never going to see Nick again. I’m scared because the world’s ending and I don’t want to have any hope that we’re going to survive -- and then not.

It’s not yet dawn and I’m crouched by the kitchen window, peeking out the curtains, gripping my brother Ben’s old varsity baseball bat in one hand and Mom’s birding binoculars in the other. It’s my turn on watch.

Here in the kitchen where just a week ago we were enjoying Thanksgiving dinner, now I’m alone, surrounded by a silence so deafening I’m afraid my ears will burst. Down the hall, my family sleeps. I hear them crisp and clear from where I sit. Dad and Ben’s synchronized snoring. Mom’s noisy, winded breaths; her oxygen machine is off and her breathing is loud. Yet the silence continues to blare at me.

Through the tiny slit in the curtains, I see the sun slowly creep over the treetops, quietly paint a coat of blue-gray light onto the empty driveways and abandoned houses.

It’s been days since we heard any warning sirens, since army trucks rumbled down the street to remove any wreckage from riots, since we saw anyone out besides looters. Now the only movement I can spot is the occasional plastic bag whirling across the ground like tumbleweed.

I hold the bat so tightly my knuckles hurt, and I wonder if I’d be brave enough to whack a looter on the head with it. If a group of looters actually stormed into our house right now, if they tore down our doors the way I saw them do yesterday to Mrs. Fitzgerald’s deserted house across the street, would I really be able to use this bat as a weapon?

My eyes flit back to the window and I lean closer to the glass, scan the area once more. But it’s dead quiet out there, too. Not even a breeze stirs through the trees. As I stare at the calm, leafless branches, I try hard not to think about Nick. As I watch the curving, winding sidewalks, I try to stop wondering why he didn’t tell me, why he didn’t warn us. With his dad being some kind of important Pentagon official, you’d think he would have had the resources to help us somehow. If he’d wanted. Or at least to give me the heads-up. Didn’t he owe me that much?

Focus on the curbside, the road. Nick is gone now.

“April, where are you?”

I turn around to find Mom in the hallway, searching the gray shadows of the kitchen for me. She’s wearing the pink flannel pajamas I got her for Mother’s Day. Her favorite wool sweater is draped over her shoulders like a shawl. With one hand pressed against the wall, she looks more frail than usual. Like she might fall over if she lets go.

“Mom, why are you up so early?”

She spots me by the window and frowns. “You need rest,” she says and takes an unsteady step toward me.

I toss my bat and binoculars onto the counter and rush over to help her. It’s probably too early for looters anyway. Mom holds onto my hand as we step down the hall. I can feel her veins protruding from underneath her soft, thin skin. Her fingers are so cold.

“How are you feeling this morning?” I ask, although I doubt she’ll tell me the truth. She hates it whenever any of us worry about her, especially if it’s me.

“Good,” she says and I know she’s lying. I see the truth in her tired eyes, her slow breaths. She tries to clear her throat but is interrupted by a sudden coughing fit. It forces her bony shoulders to shake up and down violently, flushing more red into her already pink cheeks.

“Are you okay?” I rub her back and Mom nods, pounds her chest with her fist. “Come on, let’s get some oxygen.”

I tug her gently into the family room, where we’ve been sleeping since the Voluntary Evacuation. It’s now morning but the room is still dark. The entire house is dark because Dad and Ben worked late into the night boarding up most of the windows and doors from inside.

I help Mom into her wheelchair by the side of the pullout where Dad is snoring away. Just as I pick up her oxygen mask, a thunderous pounding rips through the house. The mask drops from my fingers and I spin around, my heart stomping fast.

The front door’s about to burst open. The panels of wood boarded across the doorframe shake and rattle as the pounding roars louder.

Dad snaps up from under the blankets. Sleep lines criss-cross the side of his face like scars. “What is that?”

“Someone’s outside!” I whisper.

“Ben!” Dad hops off the couch to wake him, but my brother’s already kicking his covers away. He springs up from his air mattress on the floor, turns his head from side to side.

“What happened?” Ben asks.

Dad points to the front door and Ben stumbles to his feet. His thermal top and sweatpants are wrinkled, his messy hair stuck flat to the back of his head. He grabs Dad’s golf club on the coffee table. They both start for the foyer.

“Wait!” I see red and blue lights flash in from the foyer window. Through the frosted glass, I can make out figures standing on our front steps. Probably not looters.

I scurry ahead of them to the door. I rise to my tiptoes and squint out the peephole. A group of soldiers and a cop. Behind them two army trucks and a squad car are parked sloppily in the street. I exhale. “Soldiers and police.”

“Open up!” a voice hollers, pounding again.

Ben and I look at Dad. He nods and reaches for the power drill on the shelf.

When Dad pries the door open, four soldiers and a police officer peer in at us. One soldier points a flashlight into the house. The rest stare with wide open eyes, their curious faces frozen on ours.

“Good morning, I’m Sergeant Thompson,” says the one with the flashlight. He motions to the others behind him. “Sergeants Michaels, Jones, Cruz, and Officer Harris. Is everyone in here okay?”

Dad nods. “What’s happening out there?”

Thompson flicks off the light. “Looks like you’re the last family in town. We’ve been combing these neighborhoods and everyone else has cleared out.”

I notice the soldier beside him watching me. I think I recognize him from somewhere. He’s looking at Ben, too.

“So what’s the status?” Dad says. “Can you tell us anything? About the… anything at all?”

Thompson shakes his head. “No information, sir. You know as much as we do. We’re moving through the area, making sure those who stayed behind are safe. That’s all we know.”

“Josh Michaels?” Ben says.

Sergeant Michaels steps closer to the door. “Berkeley! Ben Berkeley from Little League, right? I don’t believe it! It’s been what, ten, eleven years?”

So I have seen him before.

Ben shakes Michaels’ hand. “Just about. How long’ve you been in the military?”

“National guard, three years now. How’s your family? Wait, why are you still here?”

Ben glances at Mom. “My mom’s sick, and our cars were stolen.”

1st 5 Pages January Workshop - Goldstein Rev 1

Name: Lori A. Goldstein
Genre: Young Adult Contemporary Fantasy
Title: BECOMING JINN

A chisel, a hammer, a wrench. A sander, a drill, a power saw. A laser, a heat gun, a flaming torch. Nothing cuts through the bangle. Nothing I conjure even makes a scratch.

I had to try, just to be sure. But the silver bangle encircling my wrist can’t be removed. It was smart of my mother to secure it in the middle of the night while I was asleep, unable to protest.

Though my Jinn ancestry means magic has always been inside me, the rules don’t allow me to begin drawing upon it until the day I turn sixteen. The day I receive my silver bangle. The day I officially become a genie. Today.

I slam my newly acquired accessory against my bedroom closet, leaving a rounded indent on the wood door. The pristine, gleaming metal mocks me. For the rest of my life, I’ll go where I’m told, perform on command, and do it all without question.

Screw that.

Barefooted, I can’t kick the pile of tools without impaling myself. I settle for shoving the saw and catch a reflection of myself in the blade. Right, how could I forget? I race to my bathroom and fling open the door. At the mirror, I inspect all the ways my body has been altered while my mind was unable to resist.

Unlike the human world in which we live, sixteen is the age when we Jinn become adults and our indentured servitude to the Afrit who rule over our Jinn world begins. We grant wishes to humans of the Afrit’s choosing whether we want to or not. The bangles that release our genie magic also stimulate our bodies to reach full maturity, which as an inherently attractive species, tends to make us, well, hot. I don’t think it’s actually a quid pro quo thing (and if it is, we Jinn must be the most shallow of species), but then again, I’m not privy to the inner workings of the Afrit.

Eyeing myself in the mirror, I’m convinced I’m the exception. Always lanky, my form is now a study in angles. My cheekbones protrude like a shelf, the bones on my hips jut out, and my elbows are sharp like a sword. This is supposed to be attractive? I could double as the skeleton of a svelte supermodel.

My birthday falls during the summer, not that I think the HITs (humans in training, aka teenagers) I go to school with would likely question this new and improved Azra Nadira staring back at me. More popular newbie Jinn whose makeovers go beyond what can be explained away by a superior salon or skilled plastic surgeon actually have to change schools. Guess there are benefits to not being popular.

I upend the basket next to the sink. A pair of nail clippers clanks against the marble counter, landing in between dental floss and a barely used compact of blush.

I knew this was coming. Click. I grew up knowing this was coming. Click. But still a part of me believed something would stop it. Click. Maybe my mother would finally realize I was serious. Click. I’ve been begging her to find a way around me having to become a genie since I was old enough to understand what the word “destiny” meant. Click. Maybe the Afrit would decide my well-honed lack of enthusiasm was an insult to the long line of Jinn from which I descend. Click. Maybe they’d take one look at me and realize for the first time in Jinn history, powers should skip a generation. Click.

I turn on the faucet and watch with satisfaction as the tips of the long nails that replaced my short ones overnight swirl around the basin and disappear down the drain.

Peeking out from under the overturned basket is the pointy end of a pair of scissors. The spot of blood that rushes to the surface of my finger as I pull them out confirms they’re sharp enough.

Running away was never an option. Snip. I found that out when I was ten, twelve, and fourteen. Snip. Though each time my predictable hiding place was the Massachusetts beach that lies two miles from our house, my mother would have found me regardless. Snip. My Jinn blood is the equivalent of a permanent tracking device. Snip. Now that I have this silver shackle around my wrist, it’s not just my mother who can find me anywhere, anytime. Snip. The Afrit will be watching. Snip. If I refuse to grant wishes, my personal use of magic, the only pro amid all the cons of becoming Jinn, will be restricted. Snip. If I screw up, grant the wrong wish, grant wishes for humans not assigned to me, the length of my sentence to serve the Afrit will be extended. Snip. If I do all these things without signs of stopping or if I expose our Jinn world to humans, the worst offense a Jinn can do, I will be extracted from this human life I’m pretending to live and committed to a life of solitary confinement on the island where the Afrit rub their hands together and cackle as they toy with us Jinn pawns. Snip. It’s not a death penalty. Snip. As much as it may feel like it is. Snip.

A blanket of dark espresso hair surrounds my feet. I’ve sheared off the three inches that are new since yesterday and then some. The color, which morphed from mouse to mink while I slept, is an exact match for my mother’s. That can stay. The sheen helps the chin-length bob I’ve given myself look halfway decent.

They can make me grant wishes, but they can’t dictate what I’m going to look like while doing it.

I splash water on my face and can feel the length of my eyelashes. Leaning over the vanity, I peer into the glass and widen my eyes. I used to be able to get away with calling them hazel, flecked with gold. They are now simply gold. Amber. The color is an exact match not only for the color of my mother’s eyes but for the color of all Jinn’s eyes. And I can’t have that.

Lucky for me, my learning curve with this conjuring thing has been fast. One crooked wrench, one inoperable lighter, and one unrecognizable reciprocating saw preceded the plethora of tools turning my bedroom into a hardware store. And in all fairness, the mangled saw is more because I have no idea what a reciprocating saw actually looks like.

Just as I did when conjuring each tool, I steady my breathing, tune my ears to the beat of my heart, which pumps my Jinn blood at a rate closer to that of hummingbirds than humans, and close my eyes. I picture a pair of transparent contacts tinted dark brown. Having a perfect image of the object is key to conjuring.

An icy tingle snakes through my body. I shiver. My body craves heat. In all the ways I take after my mother — in all the ways I take after all Jinn — an intolerance for cold is the one that bothers me the least.

I concentrate until a bead of sweat forms on my upper lip and the slimy lenses float in a sea of saline in the palm of my hand.

Before I use them to mask my amber eyes, I flutter my long lashes and pucker my full lips, an attempt at being sexy that looks as awkward as it feels. Forget it. I plant my face an inch away from the mirror. With my index finger on my top lid and my thumb on my bottom, I create a larger bullseye for the brown contact. My first attempt sends the lens down the drain. After conjuring another one, I force myself not to blink. I’m successfully affixing the lens to my eyeball when I notice my fingernails are once again long. And red.

My chopped, dark brown hair shoots past my chin, flies down my neck, and leaves my collarbone in the dust. Post bangle, pre haircut, it brushed my shoulders. It now lands mid-boob (the only part of me that seems to have escaped a growth spurt). The gold of my eyes deepens and shimmers until my irises resemble balls of compacted glitter.

Apparently the Afrit can dictate what I look like. I dump the contact lenses in the trash under the sink. I give up.

I dive into my bed and burrow under the soft down of my comforter, grateful for its instant warmth. I ignore the sound of the dog barking somewhere outside and concentrate on the sweet smell of the lilacs in perpetual bloom in our backyard. I will myself to fall back to sleep. Even if I can’t sleep, I can still choose to skip today.

All I have to do is stay in bed. All I have to do is not open my eyes. All I have to do is pretend. Fortunately, being skilled in pretending is another way in which I take after my mother, another way in which I take after all Jinn.

I turn toward the open window and breathe in the lilacs. Along with the fragrance comes the pollen. Along with the pollen comes the coughing. Along with the coughing comes the involuntary opening of my eyes.

Who am I kidding? I can’t skip today. I don’t have that kind of control. The bangle assures that I never will.

I crawl out of bed and drop my pajamas on top of the drill. Of course the black tank top I pull over my head and down my newly elongated torso is too short. As I move, the hem plays a game of peekaboo with my belly button, an unintentional homage to the midriff-baring genies of fairy tales and fantasies.

1st 5 Pages January Workshop - King Rev 1

D. M. King
YA/Suspense
Chasers: Generation One

One
Neal
June 7, 2017

“Please don’t let me die.” I whisper through the yellow oxygen mask strapped around my nose.

Small suitcases and carry-ons break free from the overhead compartments and bounce aggressively about the cabin mimicking the downward plunge of the brand-new Boeing 787. I’m not sure where we are on our flight back to Alpha, New York from London, but I know we haven’t flown quite long enough to be over land yet, which only means one thing--Atlantic Ocean.

Boom. Another explosion rocks the cabin. Brilliant flashes of glass shards race across my blurry vision, and I swear Larry, the forty-five year-old stockbroker sitting next to me, takes one of them straight through his temple. His lifeblood splatters into my right ear and across my lips. Damn. What gravity fails to remove, I spit out and wipe my face with my shaking right shoulder. A symphony of terror fills the air as two-hundred and thirty-nine passengers scream their disapproval of the pilot’s flying abilities and wage a futile war against their imminent demise. I brace myself in my seat, face-first into the crash pad that moments ago doubled as my seat cushion---the pungent smell of carbon from the ear-splitting explosion stuck in my nostrils.

I look up for an instant to survey the gruesome sight, still hanging nearly upside down in the aisle like a ride on the Nitro roller coaster at Six Flags. We’re about to make contact with the swiftly tilting planet, and it’s as if time stands still for a moment then disintegrates like the charred wreckage of the massive plane. Barely able to keep my veggie omelet down, pure darkness swallows me whole. Whoever said crash-landing on water is softer than on land must not have understood the laws of physics. Even at only five-thousand feet, the impact forces the life right out of the airplane’s lungs and all the rest of the passengers on-board. All except me, Neal Champion, 17-year-old motherless teen.

Eternal nothingness eventually gives way to sketchy deformed bodies moving back and forth above and around me. I blink several times hoping to clear my vision, but for the time being I’m still staring desperately into distortion. Hours or maybe days pass before I lift my head and open my swollen eyes. Once again, the scenery has changed. Soon, shapes take form, and sideways people with masks and white coats appear upright now, like someone has finally fixed my vertical hold, and my television signal returns.

“Wha--?” I’m unable to speak with two tubes rammed down my throat and a clear mask over my mouth and nose.

“Mr. Champion?” His voice is faint, but I’m anxious for answers. Why can’t I speak? How did I get here?

“No need to talk. A machine is breathing for you. We’re trying to save your life.”

“But…” I mouth the word, though the sound never reaches the airwaves any better than before.

“Plane crash… Coma… Collapsed lungs… Head trauma.” I capture a few more words thrown my way. “Otherwise, you’re a mighty lucky kid. Rest. We’ll take care of you.” The doctor assures me.

Tears trickle down my burned cheeks and cloud my vision once again. It’s so difficult to believe all I am hearing. The unforgettable sights and sounds of London are still fresh in my mind. I drift off again recollecting a paltry piece of yellow caution tape blowing down the steep steps of the embassy. No longer a deterrent to my somber memorial visit, yet a stark reminder that my mom’s footsteps will never again touch that cold marble. I plunge back to my current surroundings and glance at Dr. Zawi’s name tag. Unbelievably, I’m somehow back in upstate New York. Memorial Hospital. In moments, I surrender to the void again.

Vaguely hanging on to the date of my flight, May 25th, I sleep in and out repeatedly and awake to a series of annoying beeps and buzzes. I move my head from side to side hoping to catch a glimpse of a doctor or nurse, but incredibly the place is empty, or so I think. Still slowed by a painful headache and what appears to be a surgically repaired left wrist, I push the button to raise my bed and find the nurse’s alarm. One push. Nothing. Two pushes. Still no one. I sit upright, and my focus clears considerably as I notice the last date marked on my IV bag is June 3rd. Have I been out that long?

My intravenous drip has long dried up, so I end some of the incessant noise by hitting stop on the machine. According to the fancy monitors, my heart rate seems normal enough along with my blood pressure, but where’s the staff? Why isn’t there anybody taking care of me?

Unsure of what may happen, I tug lightly at the tubes still clogging my airway. After a few short pulls I realize I no longer need to have this machine breathe for me, so I gradually disconnect it. Pulling the flexible tubing out of my lungs and throat resembles a sword swallower yanking steel from his jowls---it burns like I drank an entire bottle of rubbing alcohol straight. I watch my blood trickle down the side of the bed from the tubes and onto the tile, and that’s when I jerk back with a start. Lying on the floor next to my bed is Dr. Zawi. Intense tightness grips my chest cavity and limits my breaths. Hyperventilation is assured if I don’t react quickly, so I fight it as best I can and win. My watery eyes blink violently clearing some of the cobwebs lodged in my brain. I swing my legs weakly over the side of the bed and reach down to check his pulse. He’s still alive but barely. He looks like he hasn’t slept for weeks. His dark Indian skin is now pale and cold. I stretch for the full water pitcher on the food tray, open the lid, and splash him in the face with the lukewarm liquid. His eyes open for only an instant then close.

“Dr. Zawi! Please! What’s happened? Wake up!” I shake him a few times, but he never opens his eyes. One last muffled word leaks out before he dies.

“Letter.”

Letter? Not as mobile as I need to be, I make a painful decision to break free of my final umbilical cord, separating myself from my IV. An extended burning travels slowly up my arm finally touching the part of my brain that reminds me that I have nerve endings. I scream in anguish for some help but to no avail. I am on my own---rich red plasma streaming down my unbroken arm as if I’ve scratched it on a sharp nail. I tear some gauze from the cabinet over the sink and wrap white tape around my wound protecting my aching right arm from my self-inflicted ignorance. Like a drunk trying to do the tango, my wobbly legs seek my center of gravity. I stumble around the room searching for a letter but find nothing. I take a quick glance at myself in a stainless steel surgical tray surprised at how awful I look. It’s been probably over a month since I shaved, yet there’s still not much of a beard, but my blond faux hawk appears a shade longer.

January First Five Pages Workshop Entries Posted

Once again, I am deeply sorry for the confusion involving the emails! Because we weren't receiving the emails properly we missed a lot of the original emails and ended up announcing that there was still room long after there was no room.

To make everything as fair as I could make it, I have gone over all the original submissions we did receive and the headers of the submissions that were resent. I've coordinated them by the time they were originally sent. The following are the entries that have accepted into the workshop:

King, Generation One
Goldstein, Becoming Jinn
Badania, Till the End of the World
Green, Order of the Griffin
Nash, The Infinite Betrayal of June Grey

The remaining entries will receive priority admission into next month's workshop. (You will be notified of that by email if you are in that situation.)

The entries are posted below. Please help us out by reading and commenting, or just lurking to see what  our guest mentor will suggest. There's lots of information about how to read, what to look for, and how the workshop works on the pages linked in the tabs above. There's also a great guest post by Kay Honeyman today on Adventures in YA Publishing about the promise and conflict in a great opening.

The next workshop will begin taking entries on February 2, 2013. (And I promise to get the email and submissions right!)

Happy critiquing,

Martina

ABOUT OUR GUEST MENTOR

Kimberly Sabatini is a former Special Education Teacher who is now a stay-at-home mom and a part-time dance instructor for 3, 4 and 5 year olds. After her dad passed away in 2005, she used writing as a way to make sense of the experience and discovered that she’s full of questions that need to be answered. She lives in New York’s Hudson Valley with her husband and three boys. Kimberly writes Young Adult fiction and is represented by Michelle Wolfson of Wolfson Literary Agency. She is thrilled to be part of the "Wolf Pack." TOUCHING THE SURFACE is her debut novel. (Simon Pulse - Simon & Schuster, October 30, 2012)

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Touching the Surface

by Kimberly Sabatini

Experience the afterlife in this lyrical, paranormal debut novel that will send your heart soaring.
When Elliot finds herself dead for the third time, she knows she must have messed up, big-time. She doesn’t remember how she landed in the afterlife again, but she knows this is her last chance to get things right. 

Elliot just wants to move on, but first she will be forced to face her past and delve into the painful memories she’d rather keep buried. Memories of people she’s hurt, people she’s betrayed…and people she’s killed.

As she pieces together the secrets and mistakes of her past, Elliot must find a way to earn the forgiveness of the person she’s hurt most, and reveal the truth about herself to the two boys she loves…even if it means losing them both forever.

Author Question: What is your favorite thing about Touching the Surface?

My favorite thing about my book is that my MC, Elliot, is not an instantaneously likable character. I think she wears some of her faults on her sleeve and camouflages quite a few of soft spots--for protection. I adore characters that sweep me off of my feet from the very first sentence. I want to be best friends with them, but a character like Elliot, is more like me--not always perfect. She gives me a lot of hope that I'll some day be able to get my own act together. And of course there is that thing where MY BOOK IS A BOOK! That is also pretty awesome. :o)

Order Touching the Surface on Amazon

View Touching the Surface on Goodreads

1st 5 Pages January Workshop - Goldstein

Name: Lori A. Goldstein
Genre: Young Adult Contemporary Fantasy
Title: BECOMING JINN


A chisel, a hammer, a wrench. A sander, a drill, a power saw. A laser, a heat gun, a flaming torch. Nothing cuts through the bangle. Nothing I conjure even makes a scratch.

I had to try. But the silver bangle encircling my wrist can’t be removed. Shielded by magic, the bangle is what releases the powers coursing through my veins. It’s like being infected by a virus. And it’s going to kill me. I know it.

I slam my newly acquired accessory against my bedroom closet leaving a rounded indent on the wood door. The pristine, gleaming metal of the bangle mocks me. For the rest of my life, I’ll go where I’m told, perform on command, and do it all without question.

Screw that.

I race into my bathroom.

Click. Click. Click.

I turn on the faucet and watch with satisfaction as the red tips of the long, manicured nails that replaced my formerly short, round ones overnight swirl around the basin and disappear down the drain.

Snip. Snip. Snip.

A blanket of dark espresso hair surrounds my feet. I’ve sheared off the three inches that are new since yesterday and then some. The color, which morphed from mouse to mink while I slept, is an exact match for my mother’s. It can stay. The sheen helps the chin-length bob I’ve given myself look halfway decent.

Seriously, how was I supposed to explain the sudden change in length? I’m not the type of girl to get hair extensions. I don’t want people to think I’m the type of girl who would get hair extensions.

I splash water on my face and can feel the length of my eyelashes. Leaning over the vanity, I peer into the glass and widen my eyes. I used to be able to get away with calling them hazel, flecked with gold. They are now simply gold. Amber. The color is an exact match not only for the color of my mother’s eyes but for the color of all Jinn’s eyes. And I can’t have that.

Lucky for me, my learning curve with this conjuring thing has been fast. One crooked wrench, one inoperable lighter, and one unrecognizable reciprocating saw preceded the plethora of tools turning my bedroom into a hardware store. And in all fairness, the mangled saw is more because I have no idea what a reciprocating saw actually looks like.

Just as I did when conjuring each tool, I steady my breathing, tune my ears to the beat of my heart, which pumps my Jinn blood at a rate closer to that of hummingbirds than humans, and close my eyes. I picture a pair of transparent contacts tinted dark brown.

An icy tingle snakes through my body. I shiver. My body craves heat. In all the ways I take after my mother — in all the ways I take after all Jinn — an intolerance for cold is the one that bothers me the least.

I concentrate until a bead of sweat forms on my upper lip and the slimy lenses float in a sea of saline in the palm of my hand.

I’m not supposed to be enjoying this. I know what unleashing my powers means. But for this second, alone with this magically enhanced version of myself staring back at me, I allow myself to be impressed.

Though my Jinn ancestry means magic has always been inside me, the rules don’t allow me to begin drawing upon it until the day I turn sixteen. The day I receive my silver bangle. The day I officially become a genie. Today.

Or more accurately, last night. As I set the contacts down, the bangle clanks against the bathroom counter. It was smart of my mother to secure it in the middle of the night while I was asleep, unable to protest.

When I woke up this morning, she was sitting next to me, a tentative smile on her face.

“Happy Birthday, kiddo,” she said, lifting me off the mattress and wrapping her arms around my torso, which I had yet to notice had elongated during the night.

I sensed the bangle even before the cool of the metal against my skin confirmed its presence. When my eyes adjusted to the sunlit room, my heart found its way to my throat.

I knew this was coming. I grew up knowing this was coming. But still, a part of me believed something would stop it. Maybe my mother would finally realize I was serious. I’ve been begging her to find a way around me having to become a genie since I was old enough to understand what the word “destiny” meant. Maybe the Afrit, our ruling class, would decide my well-honed lack of enthusiasm was an insult to the long line of Jinn from which I descend. Maybe they’d take one look at me and realize for the first time in Jinn history, powers should skip a generation.

The thick shackle masquerading as a piece of jewelry clamped around my wrist meant, despite my contempt for all things Jinn, everyone still wanted me to become one. Everyone but me.

Nothing could be more oxymoronic than the “happy” before my mother’s “birthday.” I pressed my tongue against the roof of my mouth and swallowed the lump in my throat.

I leaned first my pillow and then myself against the headboard and clutched the oval pendant around my neck. Through it resembles a locket, there’s no hinge on the silver medallion allowing it to open. The cursive “A” engraved on the front stands for the first letter of the name I share with the necklace’s original owner, my grandmother, whom I’ve never met. Having no family save for one’s mother is a side effect of being Jinn.

Like a security blanket, the false locket has always calmed me. I was so young when my mother first hooked the chain around my neck that I don’t remember it. But I’ve worn it every day of my life since.

I let go of the pendant, which seemed lighter in my hand than usual, and studied the bangle. Anger, disappointment, nerves, and an unexpected dose of fear fought to become my alpha emotion. My mother was holding her breath, waiting for my response. As cathartic as I’m sure the outburst she was expecting would have been, it wouldn’t have changed anything.

I simply wiggled my wrist at her. “Thanks for the present,” I said, imbuing my tone with sarcasm so heavy I hoped it would cover any shakiness in my voice.

“Figured it’d be better if it was quick,” she said, “like a Band-Aid.”

The bangle is nothing like a Band-Aid. It’s the opposite. Fast, slow, doesn’t matter. It’s not something you take off. Ever. I couldn’t have stopped the bangle from ensnaring my wrist along with the rest of me any more than I could have stopped all the ways my body was altered while my mind was unable to resist. Whether I was conscious or unconscious, my life was going to change. I was turning sixteen, after all.

Unlike the human world, sixteen is the age when Jinn become adults and our indentured servitude to the Afrit begins. The bangles stimulate our bodies to reach full maturity, which as an inherently attractive species, tends to make us, well, hot. I don’t think it’s actually a quid pro quo thing (and if it is, we Jinn must be the most shallow of species), but then again, I’m purposely ignorant of the inner workings of the Afrit.

1st 5 Pages January Workshop - King

D. M. King
YA/Suspense
Chasers: Generation One

One, Neal
June 7, 2017

“Please don’t let me die.” I whisper through the yellow oxygen mask strapped tightly around my nose. Small suitcases and carry-ons break free from the overhead compartments and spray aggressively about the cabin mimicking the rapid downward plunge of the brand new Boeing 787. I’m not sure where we are on our flight back to Alpha, New York from England, but I know we haven’t flown quite long enough to be over land yet, which only means one thing. Atlantic Ocean. I brace myself fully in my seat, face-first into the crash pad---the pungent smell of carbon from the ear-splitting explosion still stuck in my nostrils.

A symphony of terror fills the air as 239 passengers vocalize their disapproval of the pilot’s flying abilities and accept their imminent demise. We’re about to make contact with the swiftly tilting planet, and it’s as if time stands still for a moment then disintegrates like the charred wreckage of the massive plane. Brilliant flashes of glass shards race across my blurry vision, and I swear the forty-five year-old stockbroker named Larry sitting next to me takes one of them straight through his temple. His lifeblood splattering into my right ear and across my lips. More than likely my last supper. I strain to admit to myself.

I peek up for an instant just to survey the gruesome sight, still hanging nearly upside down in the aisle like a ride on the Nitro roller coaster at Six Flags. Barely able to keep my veggie omelet down at that point, pure darkness swallows me whole. Whoever said crash-landing on water is softer than landing on land must not have understood the laws of physics. Even at only five thousand feet, the impact forces the life right out of the airplane’s lungs and all the rest of the passengers on board. All except me, Neal Champion, 17 year-old motherless teen, that is.

Eternal nothingness eventually gives way to sketchy deformed bodies scrambling back and forth above and around me. I blink my blue green eyes several times hoping to clear my vision, but for the time being I’m still staring desperately into distortion. Hours or maybe days pass by before I lift my head and open my swollen eyes once again expecting a change of scenery. Soon shapes take form, and sideways people with masks and white coats appear upright now, like someone has finally fixed my vertical hold, and my television signal comes back.

“Wha--?” I struggle to speak with two tubes rammed down my throat and a clear mask over my mouth and nose.

“Don’t try to talk. You’re intubated. A machine is breathing for you. Best if you just lie still and let us do our jobs. We’re trying to save your life, Mr. Champion.”

“But…” I manage to squeak that word out slightly better than the first.

“Plane crash. Coma. Collapsed lungs. Head trauma.” I capture a few more words thrown my way. “Otherwise, you’re a mighty lucky kid. Rest. We’ll take care of you.” The olive-skinned doctor assures.

Tears trickle down my burned cheeks and cloud my vision once again. It’s so difficult to believe all I am hearing. The unforgettable sights and sounds of London still fresh in my mind. I glance at Dr. Zawi’s name tag and read Memorial Hospital, figure out that somehow I’m unbelievably back in the states, and drift quietly back to sleep. Part of me expects to wake up soon and start walking and ordering meatloaf, but that’s not exactly what happens.

Vaguely remembering the date of my flight, I sleep in and out for at least twenty days or more, I surmise, and awake to a series of annoying beeps and buzzes. I move my head from side to side hoping to catch a glimpse of a doctor or nurse, but incredibly the place is empty, or so I think. Still slowed by a painful headache and what appears to be a surgically repaired left wrist, I push the button to raise my bed and find the nurse’s alarm. One push. Nothing. Two pushes. Still no one.

My intravenous drip has long dried up, so I end some of the incessant noise by hitting stop on the machine. According to the fancy monitors, my heart rate seems normal enough along with my blood pressure, but where’s the staff? Why isn’t there anybody taking care of me? I wonder. Not exactly sure of what will happen, I tug lightly at the tubes still clogging my airway. After a few short pulls I realize I no longer need to have a machine breathe for me, so I gradually disconnect it. Pulling the flexible tubing out of my lungs and throat resembles a sword swallower yanking steel from his jowls---it burning like I drank an entire bottle of rubbing alcohol straight. I watch my blood trickle down the side of the bed from the tubes and onto the tile, and that’s when I jerk back with a start. Lying on the floor next to my bed is Dr. Zawi. My watery eyes blinking violently back and forth clearing some of the cobwebs still lodged in my brain, I swing my legs over the side of the bed and reach down to check his pulse. He’s still alive but barely. He looks like he hasn’t slept for weeks. His dark Indian skin now pale and cold. I stretch for the half-full water pitcher on the food tray, open the lid, and splash him in the face with the lukewarm liquid. His eyes open for an instant then close.

“Dr. Zawi! Please! What’s happened? Wake up!” I slap him a few times in the face, but he never opens his eyes ever again. One last muffled word leaks out before he dies.

“Letter.”

Letter? I question. Not as mobile as I need to be, I make a painful decision to break free of my final umbilical cord, separating myself from my IV. An extended burning travels slowly up my arm finally touching the part of my brain that reminds me that I have nerve endings. I scream in anguish for some help but to no avail. I am on my own---rich red plasma streaming down my unbroken arm as if I’ve scratched it on a sharp nail. I tear some gauze from the cabinet over the sink and wrap white tape around my wound protecting my aching right arm from my self-inflicted ignorance. Like a drunk trying to do the tango, my wobbly legs still seeking my center of gravity, I stumble crazily around the room searching for a letter but find nothing. I take a quick glance at myself in a stainless steel surgical tray only to be disappointed.

Probably over a month since I’ve shaved and still not much of a beard, but my blond faux hawk appears a shade longer now---my new eagle tattoo healing nicely on my shoulder. By the looks of things, I guess I won’t have to worry too much about explaining that to Grandma should I ever make it home that is. How on earth Mom and Dad gave birth to this baby-faced, fair-haired son still amazes me. I’m sure faulty genetics came into play with Dad a full-blooded Frenchman and Mom a Puerto Rican American. Heavy emphasis on the Puerto Rican part.