I’ve wanted to be a writer for as long as I can remember. Before I could even read, I would flip through picture books and make up stories to the images. When I was 11, I wrote my first (albeit terrible) novel, and by high school I’d decided that I wanted to get an agent.
And then nothing happened. Not because I failed, but because I failed to try.
A decade passed. I graduated college, managed apartments in Orlando for a while, got married, had a baby, wrote more books. And still I didn’t try. I think some part of me knew that my work just wasn’t ready, that I wasn’t yet ready to edit it until it was. Life got in the way.
Finally, about a year and a half ago, I wrote the book that I felt in my bones would be The One. I signed up for my first writer’s conference, after which I rewrote the book completely from scratch based on feedback I’d received from agent and author critiques at the conference.
Then I got pregnant again. Which meant round-the-clock sickness for months. I spent those months distancing myself from the manuscript, the way editing books always teach you to. I didn’t read it, didn’t even look at it, all summer long. And it worked. By the time I was ready to do the one-sitting read-through, some scenes were so distant from my memory that I couldn’t even remember writing them.
But I never felt that way about the first pages. Because the opening pages of a manuscript are so important to its success, I’d read through them so many times already that no amount of distance could help me to see them with fresh eyes. So in December, I saw on Twitter that the ladies of Adventures in YA & Children’s Publishing were hosting a First Five Pages Workshop. I decided it was finally time to try.
It’s always hard to have your work critiqued, but the workshop participants were all constructive and specific, so it got to where I actually looked forward to reading the comments after posting my edited pages each week. Separating the first few pages from the rest of the manuscript helped me to see them anew and focus just on the book’s opening, and reading the other participants’ work helped me to recognize issues in my own work.
Before the workshop, things had stalled in my query process for The One. I’d had several requests for partials, and then nothing at all for a few weeks. I’d begun to question if I should take a time-out for more editing, or even a permanent hiatus from Maybe-Not-The-One-Afterall. I decided to try one more round with the new opening pages I’d developed during the workshop to see if the edits helped. And then, things began happening quickly. I immediately got several requests, including my first request for a full. I soon had something like five agents with pages, all at the same time.
I got my first offer of representation only a week after the agent had requested the manuscript. The night before, I’d seen a tweet she wrote about a manuscript she loved, and I’d (in vain, I thought) wished it were mine. Turns out, it was! After the offer, I had a couple weeks to contact and consider the other agents with the manuscript, but ultimately I went with my first offer, the lovely Annie Bomke of Annie Bomke Literary Agency. The most important thing to me was a positive relationship with an agent who genuinely loved the manuscript and would have the time and drive to work hard on selling it. I found that in Annie.
Without the workshop, I’m not sure that Annie—or the other agents, for that matter—would’ve requested the manuscript. The first pages are all you have to catch an agent’s attention. If they don’t do their job, it won’t matter how good the rest of the book is, because no one will ever read it. The first pages are the gateway for the rest of the manuscript. So take the time to polish them. Make them as perfect as they can be. And don’t be afraid of feedback. Enter any contest or workshop you can, starting with the First Five Pages Workshop. It’s better to hear negative critiques from other writers than from agents or editors you’d like to work with!
About the Author
Tiffany Turpin Johnson is a young adult novelist represented by Annie Bomke Literary Agency, and operates TJ Writeography, a freelance writing and photography service. She regularly contributes to such blogs as Audiobook Addicts, Writer's Fun Zone, Bookalicious, and 407Apartments, and serves as Senior Editor for Entranced Publishing and Editorial Assistant for Compose Literary Journal. Find her at www.fictiffous.com and on Twitter at @Fictiffous.
First Five Pages Writing Workshop: Jump Start Your Novel and Career
Monday, June 24, 2013
Monday, June 17, 2013
The Second Revisions Are Up for the First Five Pages June Workshop
The second revisions for the June First Five Pages Workshop with guest mentor Nancy Kress are posted below and ready for comment. Scroll down to read them, or click here to get them all.
And don't forget to read our latest workshop success story, Dana Edwards, a two-timer who landed representation for her first manuscript. We are so proud of her and thrilled to be even a small part of her journey.
We invite everyone to participate in our workshops by commenting or reading along and comparing your thoughts to those of our mentor. Read the original entries, too, if you like, to see how the writer has applied the suggestions. As always, Lisa Gail Green and I will also critique, and of course each of the participants are required to comment on each other's work.
Learn how to participate here:
http://firstfivepagesworkshop.blogspot.com/p/our-monthly-1st-five-pages-workshops.html
And if you're interested in entering next month's workshop, check the full workshop rules at the link below:
http://firstfivepagesworkshop.blogspot.com/p/workshop-rules.html?m=0
Nancy Kress is the author of 32 books, including 25 novels, four collections of short stories, three books about writing, and a YA fantasy trilogy published under the name Anna Kendall (CROSSING OVER, DARK MIST RISING, and A BRIGHT AND TERRIBLE SWORD). Her work has won every major science fiction award, including two Hugos and five Nebulas. The novels include science fiction, fantasy, and thrillers. Her most recent books are AFTER THE FALL, BEFORE THE FALL, DURING THE FALL (Tachyon, 2012), a long novella of eco-disaster, time travel, and human resiliency.; and FLASH POINT (Viking, 2012) is a YA novel about a future TV reality show in an economically stricken United States.
Intermittently, Nancy teaches writing workshops at various venues around the country. A few years ago she taught at the University of Leipzig as the visiting Picador professor. For sixteen years she was the “Fiction” columnist for WRITERS DIGEST MAGAZINE. Nancy lives in Seattle with her husband, writer Jack Skillingstead, and Cosette, the world’s most spoiled toy poodle.
First Five Pages Success Story: Dana Edwards
I participated in the First Five Pages Workshop not once, but twice! The first time I submitted Harold – the Kid Who Ruined My Life and Saved the Day and a few months later, I sent in The Summer I Started a Business, Solved a Bank Robbery, and Showed Up on Cajun Pawn Stars. (One of my critique partners has joked that my titles will never fit on the spine of a book.) Each time, I received not only great suggestions for revisions, but also the encouragement I needed to keep writing.
This workshop is unique in that readers read and critique a big chuck of your story. The most important part of your story - the first five pages. I felt my writing improve with each revision I submitted.
After I got Harold into shape, I entered it in a few contests hosted by Brenda Drake, Deana Barnhart, and Cupid. I also sent out about ten queries, but I didn’t get any requests from those. Harold received a lot more attention by being in contests and it was that first page that struck a chord with readers. Also, I found that a few agents who were closed to queries participated in some of these same contests.
In December, I entered the first 250 words of Harold in Miss Snark’s First Victim Baker’s Dozen Agent Auction and I received four requests for the full ms! I was so excited and while I waited for the agents to read, I began writing another story.
Within a month or so, I got three rejections. I was so thankful that I’d started another manuscript. I needed the excitement of discovering a new story to keep me writing while experiencing the disappointment from the rejections. In one of the rejection emails, the agent gave great feedback. It was exactly what I needed to change up some of the play-by-play baseball action in Harold. Also, I’d met two more critique partners who read Harold and made other helpful suggestions.
There was one agent remaining who I hadn’t heard from yet. It was Tricia Lawrence of Erin Murphy Literary Agency, who was closed to queries. She’d had Harold for a few months, but it wasn’t the new and improved (and somewhat fatter) Harold.
I emailed her saying that I’d made substantial revisions and asked if she’d read the new Harold. She agreed and in April she emailed me saying she wanted to talk. Whoo hoo!! She called and we discussed my goals as a writer and what else I was working on. I told her my wacky story about a girl who joins forces with a retired Marine general and lady with Alzheimer’s, who live in an assisted living facility, to solve a bank robbery. (Yes, really.) I’m sure it sounded crazy but Tricia asked me to send it to her so she could read it. I was SO glad that I had the second manuscript because three days later she called again to say she loved them both and wanted to offer representation. Double Whoo hoo!!!
It was great how we clicked on the phone and so awesome that she completely “got” and loved both of my stories!
Thanks Martina, Lisa, guest mentors, and workshop readers for your encouraging and helpful feedback! Writing can be such a lonely process. It’s so nice when you can talk with and help others who are on the same journey.
About the Author
Dana Edwards is a mom to two kids (19-year-old daughter and 13-year-old son), and she's been in education for 27 years (as a high school teacher, elementary and high school counselor, and a college professor). She has a Ph.D. in Counseling and once upon a time, had all the answers…and then she had children. Now she writes books for kids! She's written one about a kid with Asperger’s-like behaviors who loves baseball and another one about a girl who teams up with a retired Marine general and a lady with Alzheimer’s to solve a bank robbery.
You can find her on Twitter and on her blog. She is represented by the lovely and talented, Tricia Lawrence of EMLA.
This workshop is unique in that readers read and critique a big chuck of your story. The most important part of your story - the first five pages. I felt my writing improve with each revision I submitted.
After I got Harold into shape, I entered it in a few contests hosted by Brenda Drake, Deana Barnhart, and Cupid. I also sent out about ten queries, but I didn’t get any requests from those. Harold received a lot more attention by being in contests and it was that first page that struck a chord with readers. Also, I found that a few agents who were closed to queries participated in some of these same contests.
In December, I entered the first 250 words of Harold in Miss Snark’s First Victim Baker’s Dozen Agent Auction and I received four requests for the full ms! I was so excited and while I waited for the agents to read, I began writing another story.
Within a month or so, I got three rejections. I was so thankful that I’d started another manuscript. I needed the excitement of discovering a new story to keep me writing while experiencing the disappointment from the rejections. In one of the rejection emails, the agent gave great feedback. It was exactly what I needed to change up some of the play-by-play baseball action in Harold. Also, I’d met two more critique partners who read Harold and made other helpful suggestions.
There was one agent remaining who I hadn’t heard from yet. It was Tricia Lawrence of Erin Murphy Literary Agency, who was closed to queries. She’d had Harold for a few months, but it wasn’t the new and improved (and somewhat fatter) Harold.
I emailed her saying that I’d made substantial revisions and asked if she’d read the new Harold. She agreed and in April she emailed me saying she wanted to talk. Whoo hoo!! She called and we discussed my goals as a writer and what else I was working on. I told her my wacky story about a girl who joins forces with a retired Marine general and lady with Alzheimer’s, who live in an assisted living facility, to solve a bank robbery. (Yes, really.) I’m sure it sounded crazy but Tricia asked me to send it to her so she could read it. I was SO glad that I had the second manuscript because three days later she called again to say she loved them both and wanted to offer representation. Double Whoo hoo!!!
It was great how we clicked on the phone and so awesome that she completely “got” and loved both of my stories!
Thanks Martina, Lisa, guest mentors, and workshop readers for your encouraging and helpful feedback! Writing can be such a lonely process. It’s so nice when you can talk with and help others who are on the same journey.
About the Author
Dana Edwards is a mom to two kids (19-year-old daughter and 13-year-old son), and she's been in education for 27 years (as a high school teacher, elementary and high school counselor, and a college professor). She has a Ph.D. in Counseling and once upon a time, had all the answers…and then she had children. Now she writes books for kids! She's written one about a kid with Asperger’s-like behaviors who loves baseball and another one about a girl who teams up with a retired Marine general and a lady with Alzheimer’s to solve a bank robbery.
You can find her on Twitter and on her blog. She is represented by the lovely and talented, Tricia Lawrence of EMLA.
1st 5 Pages June Workshop - Palmer Rev 2
Name: Lora Palmer
Genre: Young Adult Science Fiction
Title: The MirrorMasters
Leah Ellis stretched her legs. She had been curled up on the couch so long her knees ached. The old horror movie her brother and best friend picked was almost over. They’d upheld annual tradition by watching at least one of those stupid movies tonight. Next time, she would pick the film. She brushed back a stray lock of blond hair and tried to focus, but anxiety, loud and unrelenting as a siren’s wail, fragmented her thoughts. She turned to David and Kara, who were sitting, engrossed, on the love seat. “Let’s watch something light, a comedy, when the others get here.”
She’d busted her skinny behind in AP English, Algebra, and Biology all year, and she’d earned a carefree summer working part-time as a babysitter and laying out on the beach with her friends. Tomorrow, that summer would be hers, so long as she could get through tonight unscathed.
“We should go out to the cemetery after the movie,” Kara said, her blue eyes sparkling. Long auburn hair spilled around her as she leaned down to retrieve her soda from the coffee table.
Sure. Why wait for trouble to find us when we can seek it out and bring it right here?
It was the eve of the town tragedy that happened back in the 1870s, when the Stanford twins, the daughters of the town mayor, were killed. Of course Kara would want to do something scary to commemorate it. Every year, on this date, something strange happened, like mysterious pulses of light in the forest and not-quite-solid figures that appeared in the cemetery one second and disappeared the next.
A thrill of horror--and and anticipation--ran through her at the thought. If they went out there, they might find out what happened that night, what it all meant.
She couldn’t help glancing over at the sliding glass doors out toward the church beyond, checking for any signs of unusual activity. Her hands started to fidget, and she fought to still them. Leah thought she could just make out the sounds of otherworldly voices outside, speaking in urgent whispers. She listened. A gust of wind rustled the palm trees, obscuring any other noise and causing moonlight and shadows to flit across the lawn. She shivered as every muscle in her body tensed. Whatever might be out there, they’d be better off staying away from it.
“No.” Leah leaned back against the sofa, taking a bite of popcorn for a bit of self-comforting. “No way, Kara. I’m not playing around with that stuff. If there are ghosts, or aliens, or whatever, I don’t want to know about it. And I sure don’t want us going to confront them.”
Kara pulled a puppy face, complete with irresistible dimples. “Aren’t you the least bit curious? They lived in your house. They could still be here. Maybe you’re connected to all this in some way. I mean, you were found wandering the beach, another Sea Cliff Heights mystery. Nobody knows where you came from. Maybe you could find out the answers...”
“How? I was two years old then! Something must have happened to whoever I was with, or they couldn’t take care of me. Either way, I’m not sure it’s a good idea to go searching for answers in a cemetery, Kara.” Leah rolled her eyes, but her anxiety was starting to get the best of her again. “Don’t give me that look!” She laughed, in an effort to act casual, and held up a pillow to cover her face. She appealed to her brother. “David, talk some sense into her.”
She couldn’t bring herself to tell either of them how rattled she was. If David knew, he’d tease her mercilessly. Kara, with her love of all things sci-fi and paranormal, would never understand.
“Oh, I don’t know. What’s the harm? Unless you’re too scared to see what happens.” David grinned, his brown eyes crinkling with mischief.
Kara leaned over and ruffled his sandy blond hair. “See? Even David’s game.”
Leah shook her head and gave her a knowing smile. Of course he would be game for whatever Kara wanted to do. She threw her pillow at him. “David, you don’t even believe in that stuff.”
“Hey!” David caught the pillow easily and tossed it back at her. “Ergo, there’s no harm in going.”
Leah laughed and raised her arm to block his throw. “You don’t know that.”
Kara grabbed the pillow and whacked David with it. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”
Their eyes lit up as they wrestled each other for control over the pillow, laughing the whole time. Leah looked away, a pang in her heart at the sight of them together. It reminded Leah that in their group, she was a fifth wheel.
Chilling music, followed by sounds of strangled sobs and hitching breaths, sent a shiver down her spine. On the television screen, the killer claimed his next victim, and Leah put a hand over her eyes too late to avoid the sight. She crinkled her nose. “On that note, I’m going to go splash some water on my face. Maybe it’ll help me stay awake.”
Maybe it would give David and Kara the chance to have The Talk, but she doubted it would happen. It would take an act of divine intervention to get them to admit their feelings for each other and finally start dating. Too bad--awkwardness aside, she wished they’d get past this aimless flirting already. If being in love brought them happiness, they deserved every bit of it. Neither of them noticed as Leah crossed the game room and made her way down the hall to the bathroom. Good. At least they wouldn’t pick up on how alone, how odd-girl-out, she felt.
The cool water invigorated Leah as it splashed against her skin. She wiped her hands and patted her face dry with a towel, meeting her wide-set green eyes in the mirror. In the florescent lighting, her fair complexion shone snow-pale, ghostly pale, even though she’d already started working on a summer tan. It was a hopeless cause.
Jenny and Kevin should have been here by now. Or at least Kevin should have. He didn’t have to babysit tonight. Leah’s nerves would ease, at least a little, once all her friends arrived safely. It would definitely make her feel better to hear Kevin say he hadn’t seen anything strange by the cemetery. That’s where it would start, if anywhere, and he lived the closest to it.
The lights flickered, then went out. Leah jumped, startled, as darkness and the scent of cucumber-melon air freshener enveloped her. Her breaths quickened. She felt for the light switch and managed to find it, but flicking it up and down did nothing. Her hand paused midway toward the doorknob as a bright flash in the mirror caught her gaze. She froze. Where was that light coming from? This bathroom didn’t have a window.
It was coming from the mirror.
Transfixed, Leah saw the images in fragments. A soft glow of white light amid the trees. A blonde girl struggling out on the church grounds to protect herself and her sister--the Stanford twins!--against a man with ice-blue eyes. Strange symbols on his weapon that emitted a burst of green phaser fire. One sister crumpled, while a boy with those same ice-blue eyes chased the other into the woods. A wave of a hand, and shattered glass reassembling itself. Lightning bolts of electricity from a dark, cloaked figure. A body, small and slender, falling to the floor--Jenny? A hole in the ground, surrounded by headstones.
She stepped back, toward implied safety. That did not just happen. Images of danger and death did not appear in her mirror. Oh, God, they did. The last trace shadows of a freshly dug grave, now covered, lingered in the glass.
“What is that?” Leah’s voice sounded small and tight to her ears in this enclosed space. She rubbed her arms in a vain effort to warm herself. Goosebumps prickled all along them. Dread seized her, settling like lead in the pit of her stomach.
Leah blinked as the images disappeared, leaving her in complete blackness again. She had to get out of here. Heart pounding in her chest, she fumbled for the doorknob, barely restraining the impulse to pound the door like a crazy person when her fingers failed to find it. Out in the game room, the sliding glass door slid open. Kevin was saying something to David and Kara, but his words were muffled, indistinct. He sounded worried, though. A jolt of fear shot through her. What if Kevin was telling them Jenny had been hurt, or worse, just like the mirror had shown?
“Leah, come on,” David called.
“Coming!” Her hand finally grasped the doorknob. When she turned it and pushed, the bathroom door wouldn’t budge. She pushed again, harder. The door still didn’t move. “Guys, wait! I’m stuck.”
Their only reply was the sliding glass door slamming shut.
“Help me get out of here!” Leah pounded the door, frantic now. Nobody came. They must have already gone outside, leaving her trapped here with these images while they faced whatever dangers lurked in the cemetery. She had to help them, warn them about what she saw--they had no idea they were walking into real danger. All this was nothing more than a joke to David, and Kara thought it was harmless fun. Leah threw her body against the door to force it open. It stayed in place, stubborn. Again and again she tried, until her shoulder ached so badly she had to stop.
Wait. She would not let a little power outage, a stuck door, or strange noises freak her out. In an old house like this, she should expect stuff like that to happen. She couldn’t have actually seen those things in the mirror, anyway. No, they were just a product of her wild imagination, fueled by her fears about tonight. Besides, the others would be back for her when they realized she wasn’t coming, wouldn’t they?
‘Use logic to rule out possibilities until you’re left with the correct explanation’, Dad would say. Logically, it made the most sense to believe she’d imagined it all.
But what if it was real?
‘Trust your instincts’, Mom would say. The last time she’d had an instinct something awful was about to happen, Mom and Dad got into a bad car crash on the way home from a movie after she’d begged them not to go out that night. And the time before that, Jenny would have died of complications from surgery if Leah hadn’t told Mrs. Taylor to take her back to the hospital.
Maybe she’d experienced those glimpses for a reason. Maybe she’d gotten trapped in here, with no other option but to face her fears, for a reason. If it meant finding out what might happen so she could protect herself and the people she loved, Leah wanted, no, needed, to know.
The mirror lit with an eerie glow again, as if responding to her desire. All thoughts of fleeing gone, she peered in closer, willing the images to become clearer.
Genre: Young Adult Science Fiction
Title: The MirrorMasters
Leah Ellis stretched her legs. She had been curled up on the couch so long her knees ached. The old horror movie her brother and best friend picked was almost over. They’d upheld annual tradition by watching at least one of those stupid movies tonight. Next time, she would pick the film. She brushed back a stray lock of blond hair and tried to focus, but anxiety, loud and unrelenting as a siren’s wail, fragmented her thoughts. She turned to David and Kara, who were sitting, engrossed, on the love seat. “Let’s watch something light, a comedy, when the others get here.”
She’d busted her skinny behind in AP English, Algebra, and Biology all year, and she’d earned a carefree summer working part-time as a babysitter and laying out on the beach with her friends. Tomorrow, that summer would be hers, so long as she could get through tonight unscathed.
“We should go out to the cemetery after the movie,” Kara said, her blue eyes sparkling. Long auburn hair spilled around her as she leaned down to retrieve her soda from the coffee table.
Sure. Why wait for trouble to find us when we can seek it out and bring it right here?
It was the eve of the town tragedy that happened back in the 1870s, when the Stanford twins, the daughters of the town mayor, were killed. Of course Kara would want to do something scary to commemorate it. Every year, on this date, something strange happened, like mysterious pulses of light in the forest and not-quite-solid figures that appeared in the cemetery one second and disappeared the next.
A thrill of horror--and and anticipation--ran through her at the thought. If they went out there, they might find out what happened that night, what it all meant.
She couldn’t help glancing over at the sliding glass doors out toward the church beyond, checking for any signs of unusual activity. Her hands started to fidget, and she fought to still them. Leah thought she could just make out the sounds of otherworldly voices outside, speaking in urgent whispers. She listened. A gust of wind rustled the palm trees, obscuring any other noise and causing moonlight and shadows to flit across the lawn. She shivered as every muscle in her body tensed. Whatever might be out there, they’d be better off staying away from it.
“No.” Leah leaned back against the sofa, taking a bite of popcorn for a bit of self-comforting. “No way, Kara. I’m not playing around with that stuff. If there are ghosts, or aliens, or whatever, I don’t want to know about it. And I sure don’t want us going to confront them.”
Kara pulled a puppy face, complete with irresistible dimples. “Aren’t you the least bit curious? They lived in your house. They could still be here. Maybe you’re connected to all this in some way. I mean, you were found wandering the beach, another Sea Cliff Heights mystery. Nobody knows where you came from. Maybe you could find out the answers...”
“How? I was two years old then! Something must have happened to whoever I was with, or they couldn’t take care of me. Either way, I’m not sure it’s a good idea to go searching for answers in a cemetery, Kara.” Leah rolled her eyes, but her anxiety was starting to get the best of her again. “Don’t give me that look!” She laughed, in an effort to act casual, and held up a pillow to cover her face. She appealed to her brother. “David, talk some sense into her.”
She couldn’t bring herself to tell either of them how rattled she was. If David knew, he’d tease her mercilessly. Kara, with her love of all things sci-fi and paranormal, would never understand.
“Oh, I don’t know. What’s the harm? Unless you’re too scared to see what happens.” David grinned, his brown eyes crinkling with mischief.
Kara leaned over and ruffled his sandy blond hair. “See? Even David’s game.”
Leah shook her head and gave her a knowing smile. Of course he would be game for whatever Kara wanted to do. She threw her pillow at him. “David, you don’t even believe in that stuff.”
“Hey!” David caught the pillow easily and tossed it back at her. “Ergo, there’s no harm in going.”
Leah laughed and raised her arm to block his throw. “You don’t know that.”
Kara grabbed the pillow and whacked David with it. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”
Their eyes lit up as they wrestled each other for control over the pillow, laughing the whole time. Leah looked away, a pang in her heart at the sight of them together. It reminded Leah that in their group, she was a fifth wheel.
Chilling music, followed by sounds of strangled sobs and hitching breaths, sent a shiver down her spine. On the television screen, the killer claimed his next victim, and Leah put a hand over her eyes too late to avoid the sight. She crinkled her nose. “On that note, I’m going to go splash some water on my face. Maybe it’ll help me stay awake.”
Maybe it would give David and Kara the chance to have The Talk, but she doubted it would happen. It would take an act of divine intervention to get them to admit their feelings for each other and finally start dating. Too bad--awkwardness aside, she wished they’d get past this aimless flirting already. If being in love brought them happiness, they deserved every bit of it. Neither of them noticed as Leah crossed the game room and made her way down the hall to the bathroom. Good. At least they wouldn’t pick up on how alone, how odd-girl-out, she felt.
The cool water invigorated Leah as it splashed against her skin. She wiped her hands and patted her face dry with a towel, meeting her wide-set green eyes in the mirror. In the florescent lighting, her fair complexion shone snow-pale, ghostly pale, even though she’d already started working on a summer tan. It was a hopeless cause.
Jenny and Kevin should have been here by now. Or at least Kevin should have. He didn’t have to babysit tonight. Leah’s nerves would ease, at least a little, once all her friends arrived safely. It would definitely make her feel better to hear Kevin say he hadn’t seen anything strange by the cemetery. That’s where it would start, if anywhere, and he lived the closest to it.
The lights flickered, then went out. Leah jumped, startled, as darkness and the scent of cucumber-melon air freshener enveloped her. Her breaths quickened. She felt for the light switch and managed to find it, but flicking it up and down did nothing. Her hand paused midway toward the doorknob as a bright flash in the mirror caught her gaze. She froze. Where was that light coming from? This bathroom didn’t have a window.
It was coming from the mirror.
Transfixed, Leah saw the images in fragments. A soft glow of white light amid the trees. A blonde girl struggling out on the church grounds to protect herself and her sister--the Stanford twins!--against a man with ice-blue eyes. Strange symbols on his weapon that emitted a burst of green phaser fire. One sister crumpled, while a boy with those same ice-blue eyes chased the other into the woods. A wave of a hand, and shattered glass reassembling itself. Lightning bolts of electricity from a dark, cloaked figure. A body, small and slender, falling to the floor--Jenny? A hole in the ground, surrounded by headstones.
She stepped back, toward implied safety. That did not just happen. Images of danger and death did not appear in her mirror. Oh, God, they did. The last trace shadows of a freshly dug grave, now covered, lingered in the glass.
“What is that?” Leah’s voice sounded small and tight to her ears in this enclosed space. She rubbed her arms in a vain effort to warm herself. Goosebumps prickled all along them. Dread seized her, settling like lead in the pit of her stomach.
Leah blinked as the images disappeared, leaving her in complete blackness again. She had to get out of here. Heart pounding in her chest, she fumbled for the doorknob, barely restraining the impulse to pound the door like a crazy person when her fingers failed to find it. Out in the game room, the sliding glass door slid open. Kevin was saying something to David and Kara, but his words were muffled, indistinct. He sounded worried, though. A jolt of fear shot through her. What if Kevin was telling them Jenny had been hurt, or worse, just like the mirror had shown?
“Leah, come on,” David called.
“Coming!” Her hand finally grasped the doorknob. When she turned it and pushed, the bathroom door wouldn’t budge. She pushed again, harder. The door still didn’t move. “Guys, wait! I’m stuck.”
Their only reply was the sliding glass door slamming shut.
“Help me get out of here!” Leah pounded the door, frantic now. Nobody came. They must have already gone outside, leaving her trapped here with these images while they faced whatever dangers lurked in the cemetery. She had to help them, warn them about what she saw--they had no idea they were walking into real danger. All this was nothing more than a joke to David, and Kara thought it was harmless fun. Leah threw her body against the door to force it open. It stayed in place, stubborn. Again and again she tried, until her shoulder ached so badly she had to stop.
Wait. She would not let a little power outage, a stuck door, or strange noises freak her out. In an old house like this, she should expect stuff like that to happen. She couldn’t have actually seen those things in the mirror, anyway. No, they were just a product of her wild imagination, fueled by her fears about tonight. Besides, the others would be back for her when they realized she wasn’t coming, wouldn’t they?
‘Use logic to rule out possibilities until you’re left with the correct explanation’, Dad would say. Logically, it made the most sense to believe she’d imagined it all.
But what if it was real?
‘Trust your instincts’, Mom would say. The last time she’d had an instinct something awful was about to happen, Mom and Dad got into a bad car crash on the way home from a movie after she’d begged them not to go out that night. And the time before that, Jenny would have died of complications from surgery if Leah hadn’t told Mrs. Taylor to take her back to the hospital.
Maybe she’d experienced those glimpses for a reason. Maybe she’d gotten trapped in here, with no other option but to face her fears, for a reason. If it meant finding out what might happen so she could protect herself and the people she loved, Leah wanted, no, needed, to know.
The mirror lit with an eerie glow again, as if responding to her desire. All thoughts of fleeing gone, she peered in closer, willing the images to become clearer.
1st 5 Pages June Workshop - Staple Rev 2
Name: Elizabeth Staple
Genre: YA Fantasy/Fairytale
Title: Journey to Slanavalia
I’ve known for a while now that I‘ll be dead by my eighteenth birthday.
But there was no way to anticipate the hollowness in my chest when the clock struck midnight on the first day of my last year of being alive. I was awake to see it, of course, because it’s impossible to sleep in here. Shapeless figures are always coming in and out to monitor or refill or adjust. At times they just hover at the end of my bed, watching me. Screens and gauges beep and tick, a polite reminder that very few of my organs are self-sufficient. A tangle of wires and cords – pressurized cuffs that massage my underused legs, various monitors clipped to my fingers or stuck to my chest, and one big, fat PICC line that goes straight into a vein in my neck – imprison me in bed, even if I did have the strength to stand up -- which I usually don’t.
I ignored the control for my adjustable bed and gingerly propped myself up on my elbows. It was dark, but I could make out the aggressively cheerful banner that stretched across the far wall. I’m in Pediatrics, and my (private, not bad really, long-term care) room is bordered in a clown pattern. I don’t know if this is why I’m terrified of circus performers or just an unhappy coincidence, but my little sister has made it her job to keep the border covered with artwork, streamers and cards. Tonight, it was a long thread of cobbled together construction paper that pronounced boldly, “HAPPY BIRTHDAY EMMALINE.”
I thought I sensed movement at my door and stiffened, waiting for someone to walk in wielding a syringe. Why is it that needles hurt so much more in the middle of the night? But my mind must have been playing tricks on me again, because although the shadow remained, it didn’t move, but stayed sentry-like in the doorway until I finally dozed off.
*****
I woke to find my room bathed in dusty violet light – the kind of reverse twilight that comes just before sunrise. As always, a team of mysterious men and women in white coats were gathered at the foot of my bed. Sometimes they’re med students, sometimes they’re residents, but they always make me feel like a zoo animal, if zoo animals had less privacy. They change rotations a lot, and I gave up trying to learn their names a long time ago. Now I just hope I’m not sleeping with my mouth open when they come in.
“Good morning, Miss Baska!” The groups always feature a Lead Coat with an unnaturally loud voice. It’s ironic, really, because my hearing is one of the few things about my health that’s spot on. “How are we feeling today?” She removed my chart from the end of the bed without looking at me and started flipping through its pages.
“We’re fine,” I mumbled sleepily, bulging my eyes to try and wake myself up. This time I spared my elbows and electronically adjusted the bed. Once I had straightened myself to a sitting position and made an attempt to flatten my hair, I took stock of today’s group: eight coats, all peering excitedly at me over their clipboards like this was a field trip we were rewarded with for being very, very good. I guessed they were in their late twenties – some conservative piercings, a tattoo peeking out here or there, a few scattered wedding rings.
The Lead Coat launched into a dispassionate recitation of my medical problems, which was too jargony for even a lifer like me to follow along with. If anyone had asked, I could have given a much more succinct briefing: Patient suffers from multiple organ deterioration, particularly the gastrointestinal tract, kidneys and lungs. Patient is in constant pain, inadequately managed through the use of narcotic drugs. Patient has been in this hospital for eight months, two weeks and five days. Patient’s doctors say that at the current rate of deterioration, she will almost certainly not survive another year. Patient is terrified.
“Patient is…” Lead Coat was winding up, flipping back to the front page of the chart. I could see her eyes register the date, and for the first time that morning she seemed to realize that this was, in fact, a hospital for human beings. “Seventeen years old,” she finished softly. She finally met my eye. “Happy birthday, Miss Baska.”
*****
I passed most of the morning by watching an old movie. It was a classic with lots of familiar lines, which made it easy to follow along while I battled my constant fatigue. My heavy eyelids were threatening victory when a tall, thin orderly named Jerry pushed through my door with a gurney.
“Time to roll, Princess,” he said, lining it up with my bed and lowering the guardrails. “I brought a deluxe today.” Jerry knows I prefer gurneys to wheelchairs. They’re much more comfortable because I don’t have to sit up through what can sometimes be a long wait before my daily testing.
“Ah, Jer. You always have my back – and support for my back.” I clicked the TV off. “Do I need to bring anything?”
“Just your smiling face. Ready? One, two, three.” I lifted with my hands and scooched my bottom while Jerry guided my feet onto the gurney. He covered me with a scratchy hospital blanket and spent several minutes adjusting my tubes and wires. With separate poles for my IV and PICC, a morphine pump, and oxygen tubes that snake over my ears and into my nostrils, I don’t travel light. When I was finally settled, we pushed off into the hallway.
The long-term care pediatric ward is, unsurprisingly, depressing, although the people who work here try hard to make the experience of dying a pleasant one. There’s artwork and posters on the walls, which are painted in bright, optimistic colors. We have a playroom, a library, and a parlor, where patients who are well enough can host their guests in a more normal setting. I’ve made the mistake of dying in Upstate New York, as opposed to a large city where I might get an occasional visit from an athlete or pop star or something, but that’s OK. We do get some magicians and puppeteers. Come to think of it, maybe that’s why I hate clowns.
No matter what else fills the ward, though, there’s no counteracting the people in it. We’re a bunch of sick kids, frequently visited by family members in various stages of falling apart. It’s a tough place to be for any length of time, yet the very purpose of the ward is to settle in and hunker down. I prefer not to make eye contact with anyone. It’s too painful. I don’t want to recognize their faces. I don’t want to know their names. I don’t want them to mourn me when my turn comes.
Jerry wheeled me all the way to the end of the hallway and into the wide patient elevators. We rode to the bottom floor, where the Radiology Department is located. I should be one of the X-Men by now, based on all of the radiation I’ve been exposed to down here. Still, unless I have to drink something disgusting to show contrast, the tests rarely hurt anything but my dignity.
“OK, Princess,” said Jerry, wheeling me into an antiseptic X-Ray room and putting on my parking break. “I’ll be back for you in an hour. Don’t run off on me.”
“Would that I could.”
Shortly afterwards, a young technician entered the room. He didn’t look at me, but moved with business-like efficiency, checking my monitors and adjusting as he worked. “Miss Baska,” he said to my pole, “Dr. Hayvan wants to check your circulation today.” I’d never heard of a Dr. Hayvan, but that wasn’t unusual. I nodded. The room smelled like rubbing alcohol and cleaning supplies, a combination that always left me nauseous. I focused on slow, even breathing.
He held up a syringe. “It’s very important that you don’t move during the testing, so I’m going to inject this medication into your IV. It won’t hurt, but you’ll probably feel a little stiff as it takes effect. You’re not going to be able to move your arms and legs, but you can talk and rotate your eyes.” Well, as long as my eyeballs were free. “Ready?”
The medication crept into my arm, cold and acidic. I’ve learned in my eight months here that “this won’t hurt” is code for “this is definitely going to hurt,” but I was unprepared for how painful it was. I tried to cry out, but the air seemed trapped in my lungs. Instead, I bugged my eyes and blinked frantically, trying to get the technician’s attention. His gaze was locked on the monitor, disinterested in the specimen in the bed.
I forced my eyeballs as far as I could to the right, where a window led to the observation room. A stocky doctor with dark hair and an early 5:00 shadow was behind the glass, watching me intently. I silently pleaded with the stranger as a tear dripped down my frozen cheek.
The doctor trained his dark eyes on mine for a moment, and I could have sworn I saw his lip curl at one corner. He took his time leaning forward before finally hitting a button. “That will do,” his voice crackled over the intercom. The tech put a second injection into my IV and I slowly felt the burning flush out of my shoulders, arms and fingertips. I glared at him and hugged myself, ashamed that I’d cried but also furious that he didn’t care. Then I put my head back and stared at the ceiling, waiting for Jerry to come wheel me home.
Genre: YA Fantasy/Fairytale
Title: Journey to Slanavalia
I’ve known for a while now that I‘ll be dead by my eighteenth birthday.
But there was no way to anticipate the hollowness in my chest when the clock struck midnight on the first day of my last year of being alive. I was awake to see it, of course, because it’s impossible to sleep in here. Shapeless figures are always coming in and out to monitor or refill or adjust. At times they just hover at the end of my bed, watching me. Screens and gauges beep and tick, a polite reminder that very few of my organs are self-sufficient. A tangle of wires and cords – pressurized cuffs that massage my underused legs, various monitors clipped to my fingers or stuck to my chest, and one big, fat PICC line that goes straight into a vein in my neck – imprison me in bed, even if I did have the strength to stand up -- which I usually don’t.
I ignored the control for my adjustable bed and gingerly propped myself up on my elbows. It was dark, but I could make out the aggressively cheerful banner that stretched across the far wall. I’m in Pediatrics, and my (private, not bad really, long-term care) room is bordered in a clown pattern. I don’t know if this is why I’m terrified of circus performers or just an unhappy coincidence, but my little sister has made it her job to keep the border covered with artwork, streamers and cards. Tonight, it was a long thread of cobbled together construction paper that pronounced boldly, “HAPPY BIRTHDAY EMMALINE.”
I thought I sensed movement at my door and stiffened, waiting for someone to walk in wielding a syringe. Why is it that needles hurt so much more in the middle of the night? But my mind must have been playing tricks on me again, because although the shadow remained, it didn’t move, but stayed sentry-like in the doorway until I finally dozed off.
*****
I woke to find my room bathed in dusty violet light – the kind of reverse twilight that comes just before sunrise. As always, a team of mysterious men and women in white coats were gathered at the foot of my bed. Sometimes they’re med students, sometimes they’re residents, but they always make me feel like a zoo animal, if zoo animals had less privacy. They change rotations a lot, and I gave up trying to learn their names a long time ago. Now I just hope I’m not sleeping with my mouth open when they come in.
“Good morning, Miss Baska!” The groups always feature a Lead Coat with an unnaturally loud voice. It’s ironic, really, because my hearing is one of the few things about my health that’s spot on. “How are we feeling today?” She removed my chart from the end of the bed without looking at me and started flipping through its pages.
“We’re fine,” I mumbled sleepily, bulging my eyes to try and wake myself up. This time I spared my elbows and electronically adjusted the bed. Once I had straightened myself to a sitting position and made an attempt to flatten my hair, I took stock of today’s group: eight coats, all peering excitedly at me over their clipboards like this was a field trip we were rewarded with for being very, very good. I guessed they were in their late twenties – some conservative piercings, a tattoo peeking out here or there, a few scattered wedding rings.
The Lead Coat launched into a dispassionate recitation of my medical problems, which was too jargony for even a lifer like me to follow along with. If anyone had asked, I could have given a much more succinct briefing: Patient suffers from multiple organ deterioration, particularly the gastrointestinal tract, kidneys and lungs. Patient is in constant pain, inadequately managed through the use of narcotic drugs. Patient has been in this hospital for eight months, two weeks and five days. Patient’s doctors say that at the current rate of deterioration, she will almost certainly not survive another year. Patient is terrified.
“Patient is…” Lead Coat was winding up, flipping back to the front page of the chart. I could see her eyes register the date, and for the first time that morning she seemed to realize that this was, in fact, a hospital for human beings. “Seventeen years old,” she finished softly. She finally met my eye. “Happy birthday, Miss Baska.”
*****
I passed most of the morning by watching an old movie. It was a classic with lots of familiar lines, which made it easy to follow along while I battled my constant fatigue. My heavy eyelids were threatening victory when a tall, thin orderly named Jerry pushed through my door with a gurney.
“Time to roll, Princess,” he said, lining it up with my bed and lowering the guardrails. “I brought a deluxe today.” Jerry knows I prefer gurneys to wheelchairs. They’re much more comfortable because I don’t have to sit up through what can sometimes be a long wait before my daily testing.
“Ah, Jer. You always have my back – and support for my back.” I clicked the TV off. “Do I need to bring anything?”
“Just your smiling face. Ready? One, two, three.” I lifted with my hands and scooched my bottom while Jerry guided my feet onto the gurney. He covered me with a scratchy hospital blanket and spent several minutes adjusting my tubes and wires. With separate poles for my IV and PICC, a morphine pump, and oxygen tubes that snake over my ears and into my nostrils, I don’t travel light. When I was finally settled, we pushed off into the hallway.
The long-term care pediatric ward is, unsurprisingly, depressing, although the people who work here try hard to make the experience of dying a pleasant one. There’s artwork and posters on the walls, which are painted in bright, optimistic colors. We have a playroom, a library, and a parlor, where patients who are well enough can host their guests in a more normal setting. I’ve made the mistake of dying in Upstate New York, as opposed to a large city where I might get an occasional visit from an athlete or pop star or something, but that’s OK. We do get some magicians and puppeteers. Come to think of it, maybe that’s why I hate clowns.
No matter what else fills the ward, though, there’s no counteracting the people in it. We’re a bunch of sick kids, frequently visited by family members in various stages of falling apart. It’s a tough place to be for any length of time, yet the very purpose of the ward is to settle in and hunker down. I prefer not to make eye contact with anyone. It’s too painful. I don’t want to recognize their faces. I don’t want to know their names. I don’t want them to mourn me when my turn comes.
Jerry wheeled me all the way to the end of the hallway and into the wide patient elevators. We rode to the bottom floor, where the Radiology Department is located. I should be one of the X-Men by now, based on all of the radiation I’ve been exposed to down here. Still, unless I have to drink something disgusting to show contrast, the tests rarely hurt anything but my dignity.
“OK, Princess,” said Jerry, wheeling me into an antiseptic X-Ray room and putting on my parking break. “I’ll be back for you in an hour. Don’t run off on me.”
“Would that I could.”
Shortly afterwards, a young technician entered the room. He didn’t look at me, but moved with business-like efficiency, checking my monitors and adjusting as he worked. “Miss Baska,” he said to my pole, “Dr. Hayvan wants to check your circulation today.” I’d never heard of a Dr. Hayvan, but that wasn’t unusual. I nodded. The room smelled like rubbing alcohol and cleaning supplies, a combination that always left me nauseous. I focused on slow, even breathing.
He held up a syringe. “It’s very important that you don’t move during the testing, so I’m going to inject this medication into your IV. It won’t hurt, but you’ll probably feel a little stiff as it takes effect. You’re not going to be able to move your arms and legs, but you can talk and rotate your eyes.” Well, as long as my eyeballs were free. “Ready?”
The medication crept into my arm, cold and acidic. I’ve learned in my eight months here that “this won’t hurt” is code for “this is definitely going to hurt,” but I was unprepared for how painful it was. I tried to cry out, but the air seemed trapped in my lungs. Instead, I bugged my eyes and blinked frantically, trying to get the technician’s attention. His gaze was locked on the monitor, disinterested in the specimen in the bed.
I forced my eyeballs as far as I could to the right, where a window led to the observation room. A stocky doctor with dark hair and an early 5:00 shadow was behind the glass, watching me intently. I silently pleaded with the stranger as a tear dripped down my frozen cheek.
The doctor trained his dark eyes on mine for a moment, and I could have sworn I saw his lip curl at one corner. He took his time leaning forward before finally hitting a button. “That will do,” his voice crackled over the intercom. The tech put a second injection into my IV and I slowly felt the burning flush out of my shoulders, arms and fingertips. I glared at him and hugged myself, ashamed that I’d cried but also furious that he didn’t care. Then I put my head back and stared at the ceiling, waiting for Jerry to come wheel me home.
1st 5 Pages June Workshop - Park Rev 2
Name: Jennifer Park
Title: Valor
Genre: Young Adult Fantasy
They sent the old man again.
Part of me is insulted; they believe all it takes to stop a sixteen year old girl is a graying man with a limp.
When I was young, I appreciated his demeanor; he didn’t scare me like the others, the ones who watched me with thinly veiled wariness, who told me repeatedly to leave and never come back. He reminded me of someone’s grandfather, if their grandfather looked like a crusty old pirate with gold hoops in his ears, minus the eye patch and flouncy hat. I get the feeling this place is nowhere near the ocean.
I don’t even glance at his sword anymore; I know he wouldn’t use it on me. But he’s not alone.
He never is.
Several pairs of yellow eyes watch me from the shadows, tucked behind the monolithic trees or lying beneath the lush covering of ferns. They’re always waiting, never moving; hidden so well they might as well be permanent fixtures of the forest.
Except for their eyes.
They follow my every move, their size and intensity hinting at the bodies that encompass them. What they might do, I’m not sure. I’ve never had the nerve to test them, but I’ve never needed to. The day I do should be really interesting. I don’t consider myself brave. I have too many fears for that. But I would be for him, the boy I lost so long ago.
We stare at each other, the old man and I, waiting. I take one careful step out of the circle of mushrooms, their iridescent skin glowing in the dim forest light. It’s the only way I can go back in. The hairs on my arms relax, no longer bathed in the rainbow of light and energy. I feel the tension in the air as I step onto the moss-covered ground, not from the wrinkled old man with the kind eyes, but from the others. My feet sink into the cushy ground, the rich, earthy smell rising to mix with the damp, clean scent of the forest. I hear their breathing cease as they wait for me to move again. They should know by now that I won’t. We’ve played this game for many years now.
The forest around me is ancient, that much I know. The trees rise up like giants out of the dark, fertile earth; cedar, spruce, pine and fir, their lower limbs chained to the earth by thick, tangled vines boasting flora and fauna I’ve never seen. They are almost unnatural in their size. Everything is green, shades of emerald, olive, and jade. Lush. Moss coats the trunks of the trees making it hard to see where the bark ends and earth begins. It doesn’t take long for my arms to be coated in tiny beads of moisture. The moist air is thick in my lungs. Flashes of jewel-tone color, stark against the vivid green, flit in and out of view. They are the barest glimpses of birds and other creatures moving through the forest. I’ve seen things smaller than hummingbirds and larger than eagles soar through the heights.
Suddenly there is movement in the endless sea of ferns, and several pairs of eyes leave mine for just a moment. The ferns cover the ground like scattered green feathers. I’ve longed to touch them for years, run my fingers down their delicate fronds, but they are beyond my circle of safety.
A fawn rises up out of the green, prancing on delicate legs, oblivious. I am frozen in fear, though not for myself. I fully expect them to attack, and I can almost hear the scream that will rip from my throat.
But they don’t.
Seconds later, the eyes shift back to me, almost bored, and my hands start shaking with relief. I squeeze them into fists to hide it. Things here are not as I expect.
The old man shifts, drawing my attention back to him as he rests his weakened leg. I take a deep breath to calm my nerves and look expectantly at him. I don’t speak or ask questions. I learned it was pointless long ago. He’s not allowed to talk to me; that was made clear by the others, but it doesn’t stop us from communicating. If he did now, I’m not sure who would know. I only want one answer. I asked the question years ago and it was the only one he acknowledged. I think he just felt sorry for me. I suppose the tears of a child can weaken almost anyone. But now it’s become our routine. They know when I’m coming, and he’s always there. I wait for his answer, he gives it, and I leave; because it’s never been the right one.
I take a deep breath, already prepared to see him shake his head no like he has so many times before. I’ve grown used to it now and it doesn’t hurt the way it used to. The old man is sympathetic, and honestly, sometimes I wonder which one of us regrets his answer more. But I will never give up, never stop hoping. I have to find him again. This was the last place I saw him when we were separated. They told me to never come back, that it wasn’t safe, that the boy was taken somewhere too far for me to find.
But telling me I couldn’t get him back was their mistake.
It’s been months since I’ve been able to come back here. This summer has been unseasonably hot and dry, another year of drought. Though it’s late August, I was fortunate that the remnants of a hurricane have lingered over Central Texas for the past few days, because I desperately need the rain.
It’s the only thing that opens the gateway.
So I come back here after it rains, when the mushrooms that create the fairy ring grow up out of the moist ground, creating a gateway to another world, to meet this old man and get the answer to my single unspoken question: ‘Is he there?’
The old man nods his head, almost imperceptibly, and I turn to leave. I have one foot over the fairy ring when I freeze.
Wait. What?
I look back at him, confused. He nodded. He said yes.
He does it again.
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. There is a glint in his eyes that has never been there before, a spark of understanding, of knowing. The corner of his mouth lifts slightly, and he winks at me. It’s the first time he’s ever smiled.
My heart drops into my stomach.
The yellow eyes shift in the shadows, growing restless, and the old man gives his head a jerk, my signal to go back. My eyes scan the forest, seeing too many reasons I wouldn’t make it very far if I tried to run. I look back at his face. He can read my thoughts, see me calculating. He might not stop me, but they would. He shakes his head and points at his wrist, then mine. He carefully traces a finger in a circle on the back of his wrist, once, then twice, close to his body where the others can’t see. He smiles again, trying to make me understand, like he’s sharing a secret.
I look down at the watch on my arm, thinking I have underestimated his perception. Two circles: twenty-four hours.
Come back tomorrow.
It’s something I’ve never done.
They won’t be expecting it.
I’ve never had the need to come back before, not in the same growth cycle. I believe the old man wouldn’t lie to me, so I’ve never tried it. I resist the urge to thank him. If I tried to hug him, I might not make it back to the circle. I turn and leave without another glance, the white light blinding me as I enter the gateway. The light fades and the dry heat and strong scent of cedar and pine tells me I’m home.
But not for long.
Chapter Two
I tap a pencil on my open notebook, the lined white pages empty and waiting.
It’s been seven years since I last saw him. Seven years to think about what I would do when the old man finally nodded. I realize I’ve never planned past that moment.
I’m completely unprepared.
“Sarah Woods?”
“Here.” I casually wave my hand but continue to stare at the laminate wood-grain pattern on my desk.
I know what would be required of me, but I can’t leave my family. They wouldn’t understand. I don’t know how long I would be gone, and tomorrow is Kael’s eighteenth birthday party. My Uncle Rhys and I have been planning it for my brother all summer. I still remember the shattered and broken look on my uncle’s face after the last time I went missing. It was seven years ago.
“Sarah Woods.”
I guess she didn’t hear me the first time. “Here,” I say louder, sticking my hand straight up into the air.
Rafe, my best friend, at times my only friend. I have to find him. I have to tell him I’m sorry. I broke the only rule we had between us. He made me promise.
But I followed him home that day anyway.
A shadow falls across my desk. I look up, distracted. Mrs. Walker, my World History teacher, is staring at me. A thread of fear unfolds from the knot in my stomach.
“Ms. Woods, while I am glad you are here today, we checked role thirty minutes ago.”
Oh no. This is not happening. The words repeat over in my mind until there is nothing but a loud deafening roar. I could die right now. Disappear forever and never return. My face turns blood red in an instant, and beads of sweat form on my face. I feel the stares of the other students, and I realize I’ve done the one thing I vowed never to do.
I’ve drawn attention to myself.
“Now, if you would care to open your book to page twenty-one and follow along with the rest of the class, we were just discussing what you will need to know for your first test next week. You might want to write this down.” She turns and walks back to the front of the room.
Title: Valor
Genre: Young Adult Fantasy
They sent the old man again.
Part of me is insulted; they believe all it takes to stop a sixteen year old girl is a graying man with a limp.
When I was young, I appreciated his demeanor; he didn’t scare me like the others, the ones who watched me with thinly veiled wariness, who told me repeatedly to leave and never come back. He reminded me of someone’s grandfather, if their grandfather looked like a crusty old pirate with gold hoops in his ears, minus the eye patch and flouncy hat. I get the feeling this place is nowhere near the ocean.
I don’t even glance at his sword anymore; I know he wouldn’t use it on me. But he’s not alone.
He never is.
Several pairs of yellow eyes watch me from the shadows, tucked behind the monolithic trees or lying beneath the lush covering of ferns. They’re always waiting, never moving; hidden so well they might as well be permanent fixtures of the forest.
Except for their eyes.
They follow my every move, their size and intensity hinting at the bodies that encompass them. What they might do, I’m not sure. I’ve never had the nerve to test them, but I’ve never needed to. The day I do should be really interesting. I don’t consider myself brave. I have too many fears for that. But I would be for him, the boy I lost so long ago.
We stare at each other, the old man and I, waiting. I take one careful step out of the circle of mushrooms, their iridescent skin glowing in the dim forest light. It’s the only way I can go back in. The hairs on my arms relax, no longer bathed in the rainbow of light and energy. I feel the tension in the air as I step onto the moss-covered ground, not from the wrinkled old man with the kind eyes, but from the others. My feet sink into the cushy ground, the rich, earthy smell rising to mix with the damp, clean scent of the forest. I hear their breathing cease as they wait for me to move again. They should know by now that I won’t. We’ve played this game for many years now.
The forest around me is ancient, that much I know. The trees rise up like giants out of the dark, fertile earth; cedar, spruce, pine and fir, their lower limbs chained to the earth by thick, tangled vines boasting flora and fauna I’ve never seen. They are almost unnatural in their size. Everything is green, shades of emerald, olive, and jade. Lush. Moss coats the trunks of the trees making it hard to see where the bark ends and earth begins. It doesn’t take long for my arms to be coated in tiny beads of moisture. The moist air is thick in my lungs. Flashes of jewel-tone color, stark against the vivid green, flit in and out of view. They are the barest glimpses of birds and other creatures moving through the forest. I’ve seen things smaller than hummingbirds and larger than eagles soar through the heights.
Suddenly there is movement in the endless sea of ferns, and several pairs of eyes leave mine for just a moment. The ferns cover the ground like scattered green feathers. I’ve longed to touch them for years, run my fingers down their delicate fronds, but they are beyond my circle of safety.
A fawn rises up out of the green, prancing on delicate legs, oblivious. I am frozen in fear, though not for myself. I fully expect them to attack, and I can almost hear the scream that will rip from my throat.
But they don’t.
Seconds later, the eyes shift back to me, almost bored, and my hands start shaking with relief. I squeeze them into fists to hide it. Things here are not as I expect.
The old man shifts, drawing my attention back to him as he rests his weakened leg. I take a deep breath to calm my nerves and look expectantly at him. I don’t speak or ask questions. I learned it was pointless long ago. He’s not allowed to talk to me; that was made clear by the others, but it doesn’t stop us from communicating. If he did now, I’m not sure who would know. I only want one answer. I asked the question years ago and it was the only one he acknowledged. I think he just felt sorry for me. I suppose the tears of a child can weaken almost anyone. But now it’s become our routine. They know when I’m coming, and he’s always there. I wait for his answer, he gives it, and I leave; because it’s never been the right one.
I take a deep breath, already prepared to see him shake his head no like he has so many times before. I’ve grown used to it now and it doesn’t hurt the way it used to. The old man is sympathetic, and honestly, sometimes I wonder which one of us regrets his answer more. But I will never give up, never stop hoping. I have to find him again. This was the last place I saw him when we were separated. They told me to never come back, that it wasn’t safe, that the boy was taken somewhere too far for me to find.
But telling me I couldn’t get him back was their mistake.
It’s been months since I’ve been able to come back here. This summer has been unseasonably hot and dry, another year of drought. Though it’s late August, I was fortunate that the remnants of a hurricane have lingered over Central Texas for the past few days, because I desperately need the rain.
It’s the only thing that opens the gateway.
So I come back here after it rains, when the mushrooms that create the fairy ring grow up out of the moist ground, creating a gateway to another world, to meet this old man and get the answer to my single unspoken question: ‘Is he there?’
The old man nods his head, almost imperceptibly, and I turn to leave. I have one foot over the fairy ring when I freeze.
Wait. What?
I look back at him, confused. He nodded. He said yes.
He does it again.
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. There is a glint in his eyes that has never been there before, a spark of understanding, of knowing. The corner of his mouth lifts slightly, and he winks at me. It’s the first time he’s ever smiled.
My heart drops into my stomach.
The yellow eyes shift in the shadows, growing restless, and the old man gives his head a jerk, my signal to go back. My eyes scan the forest, seeing too many reasons I wouldn’t make it very far if I tried to run. I look back at his face. He can read my thoughts, see me calculating. He might not stop me, but they would. He shakes his head and points at his wrist, then mine. He carefully traces a finger in a circle on the back of his wrist, once, then twice, close to his body where the others can’t see. He smiles again, trying to make me understand, like he’s sharing a secret.
I look down at the watch on my arm, thinking I have underestimated his perception. Two circles: twenty-four hours.
Come back tomorrow.
It’s something I’ve never done.
They won’t be expecting it.
I’ve never had the need to come back before, not in the same growth cycle. I believe the old man wouldn’t lie to me, so I’ve never tried it. I resist the urge to thank him. If I tried to hug him, I might not make it back to the circle. I turn and leave without another glance, the white light blinding me as I enter the gateway. The light fades and the dry heat and strong scent of cedar and pine tells me I’m home.
But not for long.
Chapter Two
I tap a pencil on my open notebook, the lined white pages empty and waiting.
It’s been seven years since I last saw him. Seven years to think about what I would do when the old man finally nodded. I realize I’ve never planned past that moment.
I’m completely unprepared.
“Sarah Woods?”
“Here.” I casually wave my hand but continue to stare at the laminate wood-grain pattern on my desk.
I know what would be required of me, but I can’t leave my family. They wouldn’t understand. I don’t know how long I would be gone, and tomorrow is Kael’s eighteenth birthday party. My Uncle Rhys and I have been planning it for my brother all summer. I still remember the shattered and broken look on my uncle’s face after the last time I went missing. It was seven years ago.
“Sarah Woods.”
I guess she didn’t hear me the first time. “Here,” I say louder, sticking my hand straight up into the air.
Rafe, my best friend, at times my only friend. I have to find him. I have to tell him I’m sorry. I broke the only rule we had between us. He made me promise.
But I followed him home that day anyway.
A shadow falls across my desk. I look up, distracted. Mrs. Walker, my World History teacher, is staring at me. A thread of fear unfolds from the knot in my stomach.
“Ms. Woods, while I am glad you are here today, we checked role thirty minutes ago.”
Oh no. This is not happening. The words repeat over in my mind until there is nothing but a loud deafening roar. I could die right now. Disappear forever and never return. My face turns blood red in an instant, and beads of sweat form on my face. I feel the stares of the other students, and I realize I’ve done the one thing I vowed never to do.
I’ve drawn attention to myself.
“Now, if you would care to open your book to page twenty-one and follow along with the rest of the class, we were just discussing what you will need to know for your first test next week. You might want to write this down.” She turns and walks back to the front of the room.
1st 5 Pages June Workshop - White Rev 2
Name: Katy White
Genre: Young Adult Fantasy
Title: Daughter of Ethærea
Thunder roared through the hallway as Asa Huntington eased the zipper on her backpack closed. She could smell the rain, even over the perfume, sweat, and hormones of her classmates. The scent of ozone and rain hitting the dry earth lifted her spirits. It was like a sign from the heavens that taking nine finals to graduate would not, in fact, be her undoing.
Her backpack, on the other hand, might be. As she schlepped it through the buzzing, ancient stone halls of Alder Country Day, she prayed for the creaking seam to hold. One more week, and she could retire the bag forever. She wondered if it would make it.
She heard steps directly behind her and looked down to a see a pair of Docs on the oak floor. “I’m not talking to you,” she told the Docs, skirting around a navy and gray clad couple making out against a stone arch. She looked up at her best friend, his mop of bark brown hair swept to the side. “I mean, six stupid finals? Six? No wonder you have time for rugby and baseball and other stupid things.”
Cal grinned and slung an arm over Asa’s shoulder. “Hey, you brought this evil on yourself, graduating with the losers instead of next year with me. What’s so great about Harvard, anyway?”
“Apart from my phytochemistry internship? The Greenhouse Café’ is supposed to have killer kale smoothies.”
He made a face. “Tempting. At least you won’t be the only freckle-faced nerd there. ‘Phytochemistry.’ You sound like an AP English test. In the normal world, people just say ‘botany.’ ”
Asa laughed, shaking her head. Lightning flashed from the small windows near the top of the pointed arch ceiling. Cal knew exactly what was so special about Harvard and her internship. But she relied on him to keep things light when they threatened to get very, very heavy. She reached up and pinched his tanned cheeks. “It’s a good thing you’re so pretty, Cal.”
At the exit, Cal grabbed the thick double doors, and they stepped out into the pouring rain. “And now you’re flirting with me?” He popped open his umbrella and held it over them. “What will Max think?”
“That we can’t hide our passion—”
“Hold up,” Cal interrupted, looking past her. “What’s going on across the parking lot?”
“Oh, probably some jocks fighting about something important.”
“Funny, real funny.” Cal said, squinting through the rain toward the chestnut trees that bordered the school hill. “No, Asa, I think that’s Max…and, oh, frick. He’s with Evan.”
“What? Grab a teacher!”
Not looking to see where Cal went, Asa dropped her backpack. The seam gave its final groan, and the contents exploded. A moment of horror rooted her in place. Her books. Her notes. Finals. She mentally shook herself. Harvard already accepted you. Then she turned and sprinted across the parking lot, her boots slapping puddles. She snaked through the ring of students encircling the fighters. Her heart jumped to her throat. Max was on the ground.
“What do you think you’re doing?” she yelled to Evan, jumping in front of him.
The oaf glared at her. “Max isn’t some helpless little tree, you know. He doesn’t need your protection.” Evan said.
Asa dropped beside Max, still looking at Evan. “That was four years ago, Evan. Time to move on.” Blood from Max’s nose mingled with rain and spilled down his mocha skin. She put a hand on his cheek. “Pinch your nose below the bones and lean forward.”
Max pushed her hand aside, rising to his feet. “Asa, stay out of this.” Asa followed him up, standing beside him.
“Ooh, looks like trouble in paradise,” Evan’s girlfriend, Gwen, taunted. “What do you care, Asa? Everyone knows you’re breaking up with him when you leave for Harvard.”
Asa ignored the girl and glared at Evan. The large, unhinged boy stared down at her, and she tried to control her nerves. Max grabbed her wrist.
“What do you think you’re gonna do to me, Asa?” Evan asked, his voice thick.
“And what are you going to do to me, Evan? Shake some plants at me again?”
“I know you did something with that tree, you little—”
Her laugh sounded tinny in her ears. “Get over it, Evan! Haven’t you been at this long enough? Letting an argument about a stupid tree escalate like this? You’re 18. You won’t go to juvie for messing with me this time, you’ll go to jail. Is that really what you want?” Evan stepped closer, his rage almost palpable. Max tried to get in front of Asa, but she cut him off. “I wouldn’t try anything, Ev. See all those phones with their pretty little cameras? These kids are recording us. Do you want that much evidence against you in court?”
Rain streamed between Evan’s eyes, and the effect was sinister. He dropped his voice so low, she had to strain to hear him over the rumbling sky. “Oh, I’m not going to hurt you, Asa.” He stepped closer. Dangerously closer. “I just want to have a little chat.”
A fist came out of nowhere, connecting hard with Evan’s jaw.
“Cal!” Asa yelled.
“Run!” he yelled back.
She looked at Max, whose eyes darted between her and the now roaring Evan. “Go! Go!”
She bolted towards her car. She reached for her pocket, realizing too late that her keys were in her backpack. At the school’s entrance.
“Crap!” she screamed. She veered back towards the school. Her eyes flitted towards the circle of students. Evan’s toadies had entered the fight, and Cal and Max were badly outnumbered. Fortunately, several of their rugby teammates were running from the field to help, the coach following quickly behind. She exhaled and slowed to a jog.
“Asa. Oh, Ay-suh,” a thick voice sang. Her head snapped back to the direction of the school. It was Evan. Somehow, he had escaped the carnage he’d caused. And he was holding her keys.
She stopped dumbly. Then Evan started coming for her.
***
Asa’s thighs burned. Her lungs ached. Her waterlogged boots were getting painfully heavy. And she was lost.
She doubled over behind a cluster of sugar maples, grasping the cool bark. She and Max had crossed through these woods hundreds of times on their morning runs without getting lost. Yet every time she tried to turn back down the school hill, she saw wood sorrel and hobblebush where it didn’t belong. The downpour didn’t help. The only clear path led up the hill. A path she’d never seen before.
“Asa?” Max called. The thick foliage muffled his voice, so she couldn’t tell where he was. She didn’t dare call back to him, in case Evan was nearby. “Ace, if you can hear me, head towards our spot!”
She half-smiled at the clever instructions. She took a deep breath of brisk, wet New England air and listened for the telltale signs that Evan was close. When she didn’t hear tripping or cursing, she pushed off the maple and darted upwards.
At the top of the hill, her eyes lighted on a familiar patch of yellow ragwort at the base of a copse of birches. She furrowed her brow. Two Wildlife Services signs, a ten-foot high chain link fence, and a metal storm pipe marred their spot. Panting, she slowed to a walk, her feet sinking in the mud. She pulled out her phone and texted Max and Cal where she was. Then she squatted among the sour yellow ragwort and peered into the dank pipe. The smell on the other side of the pipe was nothing like the bitter wildflower all around her. She knew that smell. A mix of pear and sweet pea and oil of wintergreen that couldn’t be here.
Steps squished behind her, and her head whirled around. She put a hand to her chest. “Max, you scared me.” She jumped up and ran to him. He held out his arms, and she dug her face into his strong chest. His uniform was as soaked as hers.
“I was so worried something was going to happen to you,” Max whispered into her ear. His nose was cold.
She looked up at him and the heavens boomed. “You’re one to talk. Seeing you on the ground with blood on your face…” she winced. “Why did you fight him?”
Max’s chocolate brown eyes went flat. Droplets of water ran down his shaved head. “He was talking crap about you and your family.” Asa’s eyes popped. She opened her mouth to protest, but Max cut her off. “I know, I know, Ace. But I didn’t pick that fight, he did.” He let out a bitter snort. “It’s all over school. Evan’s locker was searched today and they found like six bottles of oxy. I guess he heard, because he didn’t show up to any of his classes this afternoon. When he found me in the parking lot after school, he told me this was his last chance to ‘settle scores’.”
A cold wind rushed over her. She huddled against Max’s navy jacket. “Is he really that stupid? Doesn’t he realize this will just get added to any other charges?”
A voice growled nearby. “Maybe he’s just stopped caring.”
Asa and Max jumped. Max pushed her behind him, and this time she stayed. “Evan, dude, think about what you’re doing.”
Evan lumbered towards them with a vicious sneer. He was covered in mud and still holding Asa’s car keys. “You don’t get it, do you, Max? After the hell she’s caused me—”
“Hell?” Asa cried over Max’s shoulder. “Evan, you’ve tormented me since I was thirteen, and all because I stopped you from destroying a rare tree? Come on!”
“It’s what you did to it! I broke my arm when that branch fell on me!”
Asa shivered, remembering her shock at seeing the heavy branch break off the Japanese Maple and fall on Evan. “You broke that branch when you ground leaves in my hair, you idiot. And none of that makes up for everything with my mom.” She hardly recognized the snarl in her voice.
A streak of lightning reflected in Evan’s eyes. “Do you know how much worse I got it when the judge found out?”
“That you spray painted ‘Die, witch,’ on my house and stole my mom’s car the night…” Asa shook her head, letting angry tears spill down her face. She gripped Max’s arm. “How could you do that?”
“Well, the message was meant for you,” he said, approaching them. Asa’s keys were clutched in his fist, and his knuckles were white. Max pushed Asa back and she saw his own fists clench. “But I’d call your mom a bonus.”
Evan was only steps away from Max now. “Evan, you come one step closer, and I will absolutely end you,” Max said. His voice was menacing.
Evan leered. “I’d love to see you try.”
Just then, Cal and an army of rugby players, teachers, and four police officers stormed the hill. Evan jerked around and bellowed. He turned back to stare at Asa, fury and defeat warring on his face. He dangled her keys in front of her.
“Screw you, Huntington.” He chucked the keys past the Wildlife Services signs, over the fence and storm drain, and into a field of yellow ragwort. A police officer grabbed him and slapped handcuffs onto his wrists. “And your whole family.”
***
Hours later, after talking to the police and her principle, Asa curled up on the leather seats in Max’s Range Rover, reveling in the heat from the vents and the seat warmer. The windows were so thick with fog, she could barely make out the gate opening to her winding driveway. Max reached a hand to her wet strawberry blonde curls and tucked one behind her ear. “You okay?”
Asa laughed and sniffed. “With Evan going away for ‘possession with intent to sell,’ among other things? Definitely. With having to use other people’s notes to study for finals? Not so much.”
Max put the SUV in park. He stared out the windshield, watching the wall lights at the front entry come to life. “And how about with what Gwen said? About breaking up with me when you leave for your summer term?”
Asa closed her eyes. “Can we not do this right now?”
Max’s face tightened, but he nodded. Asa’s grandmother opened the mahogany front door, looking anxious. “You’re right, Ace.” Asa collected her torn backpack and what was left of its contents. “Are we still on for tomorrow’s run?” he asked. “We can go hunt for your keys.”
“Sure. See you at six,” she said. Max leaned over and kissed her lightly before she got out of the car. Then Asa ran into her grandmother’s embrace and started to cry.
Genre: Young Adult Fantasy
Title: Daughter of Ethærea
Thunder roared through the hallway as Asa Huntington eased the zipper on her backpack closed. She could smell the rain, even over the perfume, sweat, and hormones of her classmates. The scent of ozone and rain hitting the dry earth lifted her spirits. It was like a sign from the heavens that taking nine finals to graduate would not, in fact, be her undoing.
Her backpack, on the other hand, might be. As she schlepped it through the buzzing, ancient stone halls of Alder Country Day, she prayed for the creaking seam to hold. One more week, and she could retire the bag forever. She wondered if it would make it.
She heard steps directly behind her and looked down to a see a pair of Docs on the oak floor. “I’m not talking to you,” she told the Docs, skirting around a navy and gray clad couple making out against a stone arch. She looked up at her best friend, his mop of bark brown hair swept to the side. “I mean, six stupid finals? Six? No wonder you have time for rugby and baseball and other stupid things.”
Cal grinned and slung an arm over Asa’s shoulder. “Hey, you brought this evil on yourself, graduating with the losers instead of next year with me. What’s so great about Harvard, anyway?”
“Apart from my phytochemistry internship? The Greenhouse Café’ is supposed to have killer kale smoothies.”
He made a face. “Tempting. At least you won’t be the only freckle-faced nerd there. ‘Phytochemistry.’ You sound like an AP English test. In the normal world, people just say ‘botany.’ ”
Asa laughed, shaking her head. Lightning flashed from the small windows near the top of the pointed arch ceiling. Cal knew exactly what was so special about Harvard and her internship. But she relied on him to keep things light when they threatened to get very, very heavy. She reached up and pinched his tanned cheeks. “It’s a good thing you’re so pretty, Cal.”
At the exit, Cal grabbed the thick double doors, and they stepped out into the pouring rain. “And now you’re flirting with me?” He popped open his umbrella and held it over them. “What will Max think?”
“That we can’t hide our passion—”
“Hold up,” Cal interrupted, looking past her. “What’s going on across the parking lot?”
“Oh, probably some jocks fighting about something important.”
“Funny, real funny.” Cal said, squinting through the rain toward the chestnut trees that bordered the school hill. “No, Asa, I think that’s Max…and, oh, frick. He’s with Evan.”
“What? Grab a teacher!”
Not looking to see where Cal went, Asa dropped her backpack. The seam gave its final groan, and the contents exploded. A moment of horror rooted her in place. Her books. Her notes. Finals. She mentally shook herself. Harvard already accepted you. Then she turned and sprinted across the parking lot, her boots slapping puddles. She snaked through the ring of students encircling the fighters. Her heart jumped to her throat. Max was on the ground.
“What do you think you’re doing?” she yelled to Evan, jumping in front of him.
The oaf glared at her. “Max isn’t some helpless little tree, you know. He doesn’t need your protection.” Evan said.
Asa dropped beside Max, still looking at Evan. “That was four years ago, Evan. Time to move on.” Blood from Max’s nose mingled with rain and spilled down his mocha skin. She put a hand on his cheek. “Pinch your nose below the bones and lean forward.”
Max pushed her hand aside, rising to his feet. “Asa, stay out of this.” Asa followed him up, standing beside him.
“Ooh, looks like trouble in paradise,” Evan’s girlfriend, Gwen, taunted. “What do you care, Asa? Everyone knows you’re breaking up with him when you leave for Harvard.”
Asa ignored the girl and glared at Evan. The large, unhinged boy stared down at her, and she tried to control her nerves. Max grabbed her wrist.
“What do you think you’re gonna do to me, Asa?” Evan asked, his voice thick.
“And what are you going to do to me, Evan? Shake some plants at me again?”
“I know you did something with that tree, you little—”
Her laugh sounded tinny in her ears. “Get over it, Evan! Haven’t you been at this long enough? Letting an argument about a stupid tree escalate like this? You’re 18. You won’t go to juvie for messing with me this time, you’ll go to jail. Is that really what you want?” Evan stepped closer, his rage almost palpable. Max tried to get in front of Asa, but she cut him off. “I wouldn’t try anything, Ev. See all those phones with their pretty little cameras? These kids are recording us. Do you want that much evidence against you in court?”
Rain streamed between Evan’s eyes, and the effect was sinister. He dropped his voice so low, she had to strain to hear him over the rumbling sky. “Oh, I’m not going to hurt you, Asa.” He stepped closer. Dangerously closer. “I just want to have a little chat.”
A fist came out of nowhere, connecting hard with Evan’s jaw.
“Cal!” Asa yelled.
“Run!” he yelled back.
She looked at Max, whose eyes darted between her and the now roaring Evan. “Go! Go!”
She bolted towards her car. She reached for her pocket, realizing too late that her keys were in her backpack. At the school’s entrance.
“Crap!” she screamed. She veered back towards the school. Her eyes flitted towards the circle of students. Evan’s toadies had entered the fight, and Cal and Max were badly outnumbered. Fortunately, several of their rugby teammates were running from the field to help, the coach following quickly behind. She exhaled and slowed to a jog.
“Asa. Oh, Ay-suh,” a thick voice sang. Her head snapped back to the direction of the school. It was Evan. Somehow, he had escaped the carnage he’d caused. And he was holding her keys.
She stopped dumbly. Then Evan started coming for her.
***
Asa’s thighs burned. Her lungs ached. Her waterlogged boots were getting painfully heavy. And she was lost.
She doubled over behind a cluster of sugar maples, grasping the cool bark. She and Max had crossed through these woods hundreds of times on their morning runs without getting lost. Yet every time she tried to turn back down the school hill, she saw wood sorrel and hobblebush where it didn’t belong. The downpour didn’t help. The only clear path led up the hill. A path she’d never seen before.
“Asa?” Max called. The thick foliage muffled his voice, so she couldn’t tell where he was. She didn’t dare call back to him, in case Evan was nearby. “Ace, if you can hear me, head towards our spot!”
She half-smiled at the clever instructions. She took a deep breath of brisk, wet New England air and listened for the telltale signs that Evan was close. When she didn’t hear tripping or cursing, she pushed off the maple and darted upwards.
At the top of the hill, her eyes lighted on a familiar patch of yellow ragwort at the base of a copse of birches. She furrowed her brow. Two Wildlife Services signs, a ten-foot high chain link fence, and a metal storm pipe marred their spot. Panting, she slowed to a walk, her feet sinking in the mud. She pulled out her phone and texted Max and Cal where she was. Then she squatted among the sour yellow ragwort and peered into the dank pipe. The smell on the other side of the pipe was nothing like the bitter wildflower all around her. She knew that smell. A mix of pear and sweet pea and oil of wintergreen that couldn’t be here.
Steps squished behind her, and her head whirled around. She put a hand to her chest. “Max, you scared me.” She jumped up and ran to him. He held out his arms, and she dug her face into his strong chest. His uniform was as soaked as hers.
“I was so worried something was going to happen to you,” Max whispered into her ear. His nose was cold.
She looked up at him and the heavens boomed. “You’re one to talk. Seeing you on the ground with blood on your face…” she winced. “Why did you fight him?”
Max’s chocolate brown eyes went flat. Droplets of water ran down his shaved head. “He was talking crap about you and your family.” Asa’s eyes popped. She opened her mouth to protest, but Max cut her off. “I know, I know, Ace. But I didn’t pick that fight, he did.” He let out a bitter snort. “It’s all over school. Evan’s locker was searched today and they found like six bottles of oxy. I guess he heard, because he didn’t show up to any of his classes this afternoon. When he found me in the parking lot after school, he told me this was his last chance to ‘settle scores’.”
A cold wind rushed over her. She huddled against Max’s navy jacket. “Is he really that stupid? Doesn’t he realize this will just get added to any other charges?”
A voice growled nearby. “Maybe he’s just stopped caring.”
Asa and Max jumped. Max pushed her behind him, and this time she stayed. “Evan, dude, think about what you’re doing.”
Evan lumbered towards them with a vicious sneer. He was covered in mud and still holding Asa’s car keys. “You don’t get it, do you, Max? After the hell she’s caused me—”
“Hell?” Asa cried over Max’s shoulder. “Evan, you’ve tormented me since I was thirteen, and all because I stopped you from destroying a rare tree? Come on!”
“It’s what you did to it! I broke my arm when that branch fell on me!”
Asa shivered, remembering her shock at seeing the heavy branch break off the Japanese Maple and fall on Evan. “You broke that branch when you ground leaves in my hair, you idiot. And none of that makes up for everything with my mom.” She hardly recognized the snarl in her voice.
A streak of lightning reflected in Evan’s eyes. “Do you know how much worse I got it when the judge found out?”
“That you spray painted ‘Die, witch,’ on my house and stole my mom’s car the night…” Asa shook her head, letting angry tears spill down her face. She gripped Max’s arm. “How could you do that?”
“Well, the message was meant for you,” he said, approaching them. Asa’s keys were clutched in his fist, and his knuckles were white. Max pushed Asa back and she saw his own fists clench. “But I’d call your mom a bonus.”
Evan was only steps away from Max now. “Evan, you come one step closer, and I will absolutely end you,” Max said. His voice was menacing.
Evan leered. “I’d love to see you try.”
Just then, Cal and an army of rugby players, teachers, and four police officers stormed the hill. Evan jerked around and bellowed. He turned back to stare at Asa, fury and defeat warring on his face. He dangled her keys in front of her.
“Screw you, Huntington.” He chucked the keys past the Wildlife Services signs, over the fence and storm drain, and into a field of yellow ragwort. A police officer grabbed him and slapped handcuffs onto his wrists. “And your whole family.”
***
Hours later, after talking to the police and her principle, Asa curled up on the leather seats in Max’s Range Rover, reveling in the heat from the vents and the seat warmer. The windows were so thick with fog, she could barely make out the gate opening to her winding driveway. Max reached a hand to her wet strawberry blonde curls and tucked one behind her ear. “You okay?”
Asa laughed and sniffed. “With Evan going away for ‘possession with intent to sell,’ among other things? Definitely. With having to use other people’s notes to study for finals? Not so much.”
Max put the SUV in park. He stared out the windshield, watching the wall lights at the front entry come to life. “And how about with what Gwen said? About breaking up with me when you leave for your summer term?”
Asa closed her eyes. “Can we not do this right now?”
Max’s face tightened, but he nodded. Asa’s grandmother opened the mahogany front door, looking anxious. “You’re right, Ace.” Asa collected her torn backpack and what was left of its contents. “Are we still on for tomorrow’s run?” he asked. “We can go hunt for your keys.”
“Sure. See you at six,” she said. Max leaned over and kissed her lightly before she got out of the car. Then Asa ran into her grandmother’s embrace and started to cry.
1st 5 Pages June Workshop - Santelli - Rev 2
A Serpent in the Garden, Chapter 1
Germany, June 1148
The sound of the abbey bells danced in the young woman's ears. Soon they would be safe. When she reached the abbey, she would find an advocate, a protector, someone who could convince him to acknowledge his son. Her arms tightened around the baby nestled in her cloak.
She lost her heart at fifteen, when he followed her into the churchyard and, with burning eyes, demanded a kiss. Two years later, despite everything, she loved him still. In her dreams, she savored the saltiness of his lips and felt the weight of his body as they lay on his cloak, the night curled around them like a raven's wing.
The baby cried out, hungry again. She sat and offered him her breast. He nuzzled against her chest. His fingers brushed her face. Her lips parted. Her breathing slowed. The baby drank himself back to sleep, his warm neck resting in the crook of her arm.
A whistle sounded in the distance. The young woman's head jerked up. She knew that tune, his favorite hunting tune. It coursed through her veins like ice water. How had he found her?
She struggled to her feet and ran, but only for a few seconds. She could not escape him that way. He would strike her down from behind; the baby would be thrown to the ground, his skull broken.
She would reason with him. She would promise to run away. To go where nobody knew them. She would not endanger his prospects. But he would never believe her. Not now.
Tears streamed down her face. They would hide in the woods. A ridiculous notion. He was an expert hunter. He would find them. She could picture his knife slicing her baby's throat, feel the blood on her hands, taste the screams in her mouth.
She saw only one choice.
She hid her sleeping son near the side of the road. Tucking him into the sheltering ferns, she rehearsed what she would say. She would tell him the baby died. Her tears would convince him. And she would die quietly, so her son would not wake and cry out. She ran her trembling hands down his cheeks. Was she doing the right thing? Yes. She was on abbey lands. God would reward her sacrifice by keeping the child safe. She looked at him for the last time, burning his face into her memory.
The whistling drew closer. She walked back to meet it.
A Serpent in the Garden, Chapter 2
2 weeks earlier.
Early one morning, before the rest of the castle woke, I went to the chapel to pray for my mother's soul. She died fifteen years ago, when I was only a babe, but I never neglected this ritual. No-one else prayed for her. No-one else spoke of her. My uncle Baldric forbade it.
Darkness filled the room, intensifying the smell of incense and the aching in my legs as I knelt on the stone floor. I recited the De Profundis, the Misere, and the Requiem Aeternam. Then I stood and walked out to the chapel garden.
On my right loomed the bergfried, a defensive tower and, in times gone by, a holding place for prisoners. On my left, the crenelated battlements of the south wall snapped at the sapphire sky. I shuddered, feeling like a mouse trapped in the jaws of a lion. My tutor, Father Gregory, would have reproached me for such ingratitude. Most ladies would count themselves lucky to have a guardian as wise and temperate as Baron Baldric, but I knew he kept me out of duty rather than love. And most ladies do not have to contend with an uncle as reckless and cruel as his brother, Baron Arnulf.
I walked toward the stone archway that lead to the main courtyard. Suddenly, a ghostly voice cried out. “Judge thou, O Lord, them that wrong me. Overthrow them that fight against me. Take hold of arms and shield, and rise up to help me.”
The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end. I looked at the bergfried. Was the soul of a long-dead prisoner demanding vengeance? I crossed myself quickly. The voice coughed. “Ghosts cannot catch chill,” I whispered. I scolded myself for being so childish. Clearly a flesh and blood human being was crying out to God for help, but who could be trapped in the bergfried?
A massive apple tree stood in the garden; its uppermost branches brushing the arrow slits on the second story of the bergfried. As a child, I clambered through those branches like a squirrel, but I had not braved them in three years.
The voice cried out again. “Say to my soul: I am thy salvation.” He sounded so desperate, I had to know who he was.
I seized the lowest branch of the apple tree. Three years of extra weight stretched the muscles in my arms. I took a deep breath and kicked my feet upwards. Rough bark gnawed at my fingers. Trumpet sleeves and voluminous skirts fought against me. But slowly I ascended. At last I reached the two highest branches. Suspended between them, I peered into the nearest arrow slit.
A reassuringly mortal form huddled in the corner. He wore a dark robe, and on the top of his head a bare patch of skin shone slightly in the darkness. Why, it was a tonsure—and the robe that of a monk. Surely this was the work of Baron Arnulf. He constantly accuses the monks at the nearby abbey of plotting to overthrow the Barons von Hirschburg, but the truth is Arnulf lusts after the abbey lands.
“Good Brother,” I called, “good Brother—”
“Good heavens!” The monk sprang up and rushed to arrow slit. “Are you an angel come to rescue me from me captors?”
“No. Only a lady hanging in an apple tree, but I will help you if I can. How came you to this place?”
“I hardly know myself. It happened so quickly. Brother Rudolfus and I were in the forest collecting firewood, and we became separated. I heard a noise and, thinking it was Rudolfus, I called out. Then four men burst through the trees with swords drawn. They bound me and gagged me and dragged me away!”
“Was there a man among them with a gray beard, bald as a vulture, with half his teeth black as cherry pits?”
“Indeed. A huge, hulking bear of a man with his stomach hanging halfway to his knees.”
“Arnulf! I knew it.”
“If I did wrong, I will gladly make amends.”
I paused. That Arnulf had kidnapped a man of God was appalling enough, but in so doing he put the entire household in danger. The powerful protectors of the abbey might respond with violence. Should I go directly to Baron Baldric? He would surely object to this abduction, but would he jeopardize his tenuous alliance with Arnulf by open dissent? Perhaps it would be best if the monk simply escaped, vanished like the morning mists that wreathed the Hirschburg.
“I will get you out, Brother.”
“But how—”
“Trust me.”
Germany, June 1148
The sound of the abbey bells danced in the young woman's ears. Soon they would be safe. When she reached the abbey, she would find an advocate, a protector, someone who could convince him to acknowledge his son. Her arms tightened around the baby nestled in her cloak.
She lost her heart at fifteen, when he followed her into the churchyard and, with burning eyes, demanded a kiss. Two years later, despite everything, she loved him still. In her dreams, she savored the saltiness of his lips and felt the weight of his body as they lay on his cloak, the night curled around them like a raven's wing.
The baby cried out, hungry again. She sat and offered him her breast. He nuzzled against her chest. His fingers brushed her face. Her lips parted. Her breathing slowed. The baby drank himself back to sleep, his warm neck resting in the crook of her arm.
A whistle sounded in the distance. The young woman's head jerked up. She knew that tune, his favorite hunting tune. It coursed through her veins like ice water. How had he found her?
She struggled to her feet and ran, but only for a few seconds. She could not escape him that way. He would strike her down from behind; the baby would be thrown to the ground, his skull broken.
She would reason with him. She would promise to run away. To go where nobody knew them. She would not endanger his prospects. But he would never believe her. Not now.
Tears streamed down her face. They would hide in the woods. A ridiculous notion. He was an expert hunter. He would find them. She could picture his knife slicing her baby's throat, feel the blood on her hands, taste the screams in her mouth.
She saw only one choice.
She hid her sleeping son near the side of the road. Tucking him into the sheltering ferns, she rehearsed what she would say. She would tell him the baby died. Her tears would convince him. And she would die quietly, so her son would not wake and cry out. She ran her trembling hands down his cheeks. Was she doing the right thing? Yes. She was on abbey lands. God would reward her sacrifice by keeping the child safe. She looked at him for the last time, burning his face into her memory.
The whistling drew closer. She walked back to meet it.
A Serpent in the Garden, Chapter 2
2 weeks earlier.
Early one morning, before the rest of the castle woke, I went to the chapel to pray for my mother's soul. She died fifteen years ago, when I was only a babe, but I never neglected this ritual. No-one else prayed for her. No-one else spoke of her. My uncle Baldric forbade it.
Darkness filled the room, intensifying the smell of incense and the aching in my legs as I knelt on the stone floor. I recited the De Profundis, the Misere, and the Requiem Aeternam. Then I stood and walked out to the chapel garden.
On my right loomed the bergfried, a defensive tower and, in times gone by, a holding place for prisoners. On my left, the crenelated battlements of the south wall snapped at the sapphire sky. I shuddered, feeling like a mouse trapped in the jaws of a lion. My tutor, Father Gregory, would have reproached me for such ingratitude. Most ladies would count themselves lucky to have a guardian as wise and temperate as Baron Baldric, but I knew he kept me out of duty rather than love. And most ladies do not have to contend with an uncle as reckless and cruel as his brother, Baron Arnulf.
I walked toward the stone archway that lead to the main courtyard. Suddenly, a ghostly voice cried out. “Judge thou, O Lord, them that wrong me. Overthrow them that fight against me. Take hold of arms and shield, and rise up to help me.”
The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end. I looked at the bergfried. Was the soul of a long-dead prisoner demanding vengeance? I crossed myself quickly. The voice coughed. “Ghosts cannot catch chill,” I whispered. I scolded myself for being so childish. Clearly a flesh and blood human being was crying out to God for help, but who could be trapped in the bergfried?
A massive apple tree stood in the garden; its uppermost branches brushing the arrow slits on the second story of the bergfried. As a child, I clambered through those branches like a squirrel, but I had not braved them in three years.
The voice cried out again. “Say to my soul: I am thy salvation.” He sounded so desperate, I had to know who he was.
I seized the lowest branch of the apple tree. Three years of extra weight stretched the muscles in my arms. I took a deep breath and kicked my feet upwards. Rough bark gnawed at my fingers. Trumpet sleeves and voluminous skirts fought against me. But slowly I ascended. At last I reached the two highest branches. Suspended between them, I peered into the nearest arrow slit.
A reassuringly mortal form huddled in the corner. He wore a dark robe, and on the top of his head a bare patch of skin shone slightly in the darkness. Why, it was a tonsure—and the robe that of a monk. Surely this was the work of Baron Arnulf. He constantly accuses the monks at the nearby abbey of plotting to overthrow the Barons von Hirschburg, but the truth is Arnulf lusts after the abbey lands.
“Good Brother,” I called, “good Brother—”
“Good heavens!” The monk sprang up and rushed to arrow slit. “Are you an angel come to rescue me from me captors?”
“No. Only a lady hanging in an apple tree, but I will help you if I can. How came you to this place?”
“I hardly know myself. It happened so quickly. Brother Rudolfus and I were in the forest collecting firewood, and we became separated. I heard a noise and, thinking it was Rudolfus, I called out. Then four men burst through the trees with swords drawn. They bound me and gagged me and dragged me away!”
“Was there a man among them with a gray beard, bald as a vulture, with half his teeth black as cherry pits?”
“Indeed. A huge, hulking bear of a man with his stomach hanging halfway to his knees.”
“Arnulf! I knew it.”
“If I did wrong, I will gladly make amends.”
I paused. That Arnulf had kidnapped a man of God was appalling enough, but in so doing he put the entire household in danger. The powerful protectors of the abbey might respond with violence. Should I go directly to Baron Baldric? He would surely object to this abduction, but would he jeopardize his tenuous alliance with Arnulf by open dissent? Perhaps it would be best if the monk simply escaped, vanished like the morning mists that wreathed the Hirschburg.
“I will get you out, Brother.”
“But how—”
“Trust me.”
Monday, June 10, 2013
1st 5 Pages June Workshop - Santelli Rev 1
Name: Rebecca C K Santelli
Genre: YA Historical Mystery
Title: A Serpent in the Garden
A Serpent in the Garden, Chapter 1
Germany, June 1148
The sound of the abbey bells danced in the young woman's ears. Soon her troubles would be over. When she reached the abbey, she would find an advocate, a protector, someone who could force him to acknowledge his son. Her arms tightened around the baby nestled in her cloak.
Why didn't he love his child? Why didn't he love her? She loved him still. In her dreams, she saw his burning eyes, savored the saltiness of his lips, felt the weight of his body as they lay on his feather-soft cloak, the night curled around them like a raven's wing.
The baby cried out, piercing and plaintive. She sat down and offered him her breast. He nuzzled against her chest. His tiny fingers brushed her face. Her lips parted. Her breathing slowed. The baby drank himself back to sleep, his warm neck resting in the crook of her arm.
A whistle sounded in the distance. The young woman's head jerked up. She knew that tune, his favorite hunting tune. It coursed through her veins like ice water. How had he found her?
She struggled to her feet and ran, but only for a few seconds. She could not escape him that way. He would strike her down from behind; the baby would be thrown to the ground, his delicate skull broken.
She would reason with him. She would promise to run away. To go where nobody knew them. She would not endanger his prospects. She would not tell the child his name. But he would never believe her. Not now.
Tears streamed down her face. They would hide in the woods. A ridiculous notion. He was an expert hunter. He would find them. She could picture his knife slicing her baby's throat, feel the blood on her hands, taste the screams in her mouth.
She saw only one choice.
She hid her sleeping son near the side of the road. Tucking him into the sheltering ferns, she rehearsed what she would say. She would tell him the baby died. Her tears would convince him. And she would die quietly, so her son would not wake and cry out. She ran her trembling hands down his cheeks. Was she doing the right thing? Yes. She was on abbey lands. God would reward her sacrifice by keeping the child safe. She looked at him for the last time, burning his face into her memory.
The whistling drew closer. She walked back to meet it.
A Serpent in the Garden, Chapter 2
2 weeks earlier.
I sat bolt upright, clutching the bedclothes, the fur coverlet damp in my sweating palms. Had I dreamt of my mother again—of chasing her ghost through darkened labyrinths and ruined crypts? She died fifteen years ago, when I was only a babe. When would I outgrow these nightmares? Perhaps if someone told me what really happened to her, but that will never be. My uncle Baldric forbids it.
Unable to settle myself, I decided to go to the castle's chapel and pray for her soul. Being careful not to wake my cousin, Gisela, I drew aside the curtains and climbed out of bed. A cold wind whistled through the window, scraping against my bare body like a pumice stone. I pulled my gown down from its pole on the stone wall and dressed quickly.
Exiting the great hall, I saw the crenelated battlements of the south wall snapping at the sapphire blue sky. I shuddered, feeling like a mouse trapped in the jaws of a lion. My tutor, Father Gregory, would have reproached me for such ingratitude. Most ladies would count themselves lucky to have a guardian as wise and temperate as Baron Baldric, but I knew he kept me out of duty rather than love. And most ladies do not have to contend with an uncle as reckless and cruel as his brother, Baron Arnulf.
I crossed the courtyard and passed beneath the stone archway into the chapel garden. A statue of the Virgin Mary stood at the center. Normally I found her beautiful, but in the shadow of my nightmare, the gleaming white figure suggested a shrouded corpse. I forced myself to walk on, but I gave the statue a wide berth, keeping close to the curving wall of the bergfried, a defensive tower of the Hirschburg. I reminded myself that departed souls entered into heavenly bliss, eternal punishment, or the cleansing fires of purgatory. They did not linger on earth to torment the living. Then, as if in direct challenge to my thoughts, a ghostly voice cried out. “Judge thou, O Lord, them that wrong me. Overthrow them that fight against me. Take hold of arms and shield, and rise up to help me.”
I looked at the bergfried. Was the soul of a long-dead warrior crying out for vengeance? I crossed myself quickly. The ghostly voice coughed. “Ghosts cannot catch chill,” I whispered. I scolded myself for being so childish. Clearly a flesh and blood human being was crying out to God for help, but who could be trapped in the bergfried?
A massive apple tree stood in the garden; its uppermost branches brushing the arrow slits on the second story of the bergfried. As a child, I clambered through those branches like a squirrel, but I had not braved them in three years.
The voice cried out again. “Say to my soul: I am thy salvation.” He sounded so desperate, I had to know who he was.
I seized the lowest branch of the apple tree. Three years of extra weight stretched the muscles in my arms. I took a deep breath and kicked my feet upwards. The rough bark gnawed at my fingers. My fashionable trumpet sleeves and voluminous skirts fought against me. But slowly and surely I ascended. At last I reached the two highest branches. Suspended between them, I peered into the nearest arrow slit.
A reassuringly mortal form huddled in the corner. He wore a dark robe, and on the top of his head a bare patch of skin shone slightly in the darkness. Why, it was a tonsure—and the robe that of a monk.
“Good Brother,” I called, “good Brother—”
“Good heavens!” The monk sprang up and rushed to arrow slit. “Are you an angel come to rescue me from me captors?”
So he was a captive. Surely this was the work of Baron Arnulf. He constantly accuses the monks at the nearby abbey of plotting to overthrow the Barons von Hirschburg, but the truth is Arnulf lusts after the abbey lands.
“No. Only a lady hanging in an apple tree, but I will help you if I can. How came you to this place?”
“I hardly know myself. It happened so quickly. Brother Rudolfus and I were in the forest collecting firewood, and we became separated. I heard a noise and, thinking it was Rudolfus, I called out. Then four men burst through the trees with swords drawn. They bound me and gagged me and dragged me away!”
“Was there a man among them with a great gray beard, bald as a vulture, with half his teeth black as cherry pits?”
“Indeed. A huge, hulking bear of a man with his stomach hanging halfway to his knees.”
“Arnulf! I knew it.”
“If I did wrong, I will gladly make amends.”
Genre: YA Historical Mystery
Title: A Serpent in the Garden
A Serpent in the Garden, Chapter 1
Germany, June 1148
The sound of the abbey bells danced in the young woman's ears. Soon her troubles would be over. When she reached the abbey, she would find an advocate, a protector, someone who could force him to acknowledge his son. Her arms tightened around the baby nestled in her cloak.
Why didn't he love his child? Why didn't he love her? She loved him still. In her dreams, she saw his burning eyes, savored the saltiness of his lips, felt the weight of his body as they lay on his feather-soft cloak, the night curled around them like a raven's wing.
The baby cried out, piercing and plaintive. She sat down and offered him her breast. He nuzzled against her chest. His tiny fingers brushed her face. Her lips parted. Her breathing slowed. The baby drank himself back to sleep, his warm neck resting in the crook of her arm.
A whistle sounded in the distance. The young woman's head jerked up. She knew that tune, his favorite hunting tune. It coursed through her veins like ice water. How had he found her?
She struggled to her feet and ran, but only for a few seconds. She could not escape him that way. He would strike her down from behind; the baby would be thrown to the ground, his delicate skull broken.
She would reason with him. She would promise to run away. To go where nobody knew them. She would not endanger his prospects. She would not tell the child his name. But he would never believe her. Not now.
Tears streamed down her face. They would hide in the woods. A ridiculous notion. He was an expert hunter. He would find them. She could picture his knife slicing her baby's throat, feel the blood on her hands, taste the screams in her mouth.
She saw only one choice.
She hid her sleeping son near the side of the road. Tucking him into the sheltering ferns, she rehearsed what she would say. She would tell him the baby died. Her tears would convince him. And she would die quietly, so her son would not wake and cry out. She ran her trembling hands down his cheeks. Was she doing the right thing? Yes. She was on abbey lands. God would reward her sacrifice by keeping the child safe. She looked at him for the last time, burning his face into her memory.
The whistling drew closer. She walked back to meet it.
A Serpent in the Garden, Chapter 2
2 weeks earlier.
I sat bolt upright, clutching the bedclothes, the fur coverlet damp in my sweating palms. Had I dreamt of my mother again—of chasing her ghost through darkened labyrinths and ruined crypts? She died fifteen years ago, when I was only a babe. When would I outgrow these nightmares? Perhaps if someone told me what really happened to her, but that will never be. My uncle Baldric forbids it.
Unable to settle myself, I decided to go to the castle's chapel and pray for her soul. Being careful not to wake my cousin, Gisela, I drew aside the curtains and climbed out of bed. A cold wind whistled through the window, scraping against my bare body like a pumice stone. I pulled my gown down from its pole on the stone wall and dressed quickly.
Exiting the great hall, I saw the crenelated battlements of the south wall snapping at the sapphire blue sky. I shuddered, feeling like a mouse trapped in the jaws of a lion. My tutor, Father Gregory, would have reproached me for such ingratitude. Most ladies would count themselves lucky to have a guardian as wise and temperate as Baron Baldric, but I knew he kept me out of duty rather than love. And most ladies do not have to contend with an uncle as reckless and cruel as his brother, Baron Arnulf.
I crossed the courtyard and passed beneath the stone archway into the chapel garden. A statue of the Virgin Mary stood at the center. Normally I found her beautiful, but in the shadow of my nightmare, the gleaming white figure suggested a shrouded corpse. I forced myself to walk on, but I gave the statue a wide berth, keeping close to the curving wall of the bergfried, a defensive tower of the Hirschburg. I reminded myself that departed souls entered into heavenly bliss, eternal punishment, or the cleansing fires of purgatory. They did not linger on earth to torment the living. Then, as if in direct challenge to my thoughts, a ghostly voice cried out. “Judge thou, O Lord, them that wrong me. Overthrow them that fight against me. Take hold of arms and shield, and rise up to help me.”
I looked at the bergfried. Was the soul of a long-dead warrior crying out for vengeance? I crossed myself quickly. The ghostly voice coughed. “Ghosts cannot catch chill,” I whispered. I scolded myself for being so childish. Clearly a flesh and blood human being was crying out to God for help, but who could be trapped in the bergfried?
A massive apple tree stood in the garden; its uppermost branches brushing the arrow slits on the second story of the bergfried. As a child, I clambered through those branches like a squirrel, but I had not braved them in three years.
The voice cried out again. “Say to my soul: I am thy salvation.” He sounded so desperate, I had to know who he was.
I seized the lowest branch of the apple tree. Three years of extra weight stretched the muscles in my arms. I took a deep breath and kicked my feet upwards. The rough bark gnawed at my fingers. My fashionable trumpet sleeves and voluminous skirts fought against me. But slowly and surely I ascended. At last I reached the two highest branches. Suspended between them, I peered into the nearest arrow slit.
A reassuringly mortal form huddled in the corner. He wore a dark robe, and on the top of his head a bare patch of skin shone slightly in the darkness. Why, it was a tonsure—and the robe that of a monk.
“Good Brother,” I called, “good Brother—”
“Good heavens!” The monk sprang up and rushed to arrow slit. “Are you an angel come to rescue me from me captors?”
So he was a captive. Surely this was the work of Baron Arnulf. He constantly accuses the monks at the nearby abbey of plotting to overthrow the Barons von Hirschburg, but the truth is Arnulf lusts after the abbey lands.
“No. Only a lady hanging in an apple tree, but I will help you if I can. How came you to this place?”
“I hardly know myself. It happened so quickly. Brother Rudolfus and I were in the forest collecting firewood, and we became separated. I heard a noise and, thinking it was Rudolfus, I called out. Then four men burst through the trees with swords drawn. They bound me and gagged me and dragged me away!”
“Was there a man among them with a great gray beard, bald as a vulture, with half his teeth black as cherry pits?”
“Indeed. A huge, hulking bear of a man with his stomach hanging halfway to his knees.”
“Arnulf! I knew it.”
“If I did wrong, I will gladly make amends.”
1st 5 Pages June Workshop - Park Rev 1
Name: Jennifer Park
Genre: Young Adult Fantasy
Title: Valor
Chapter One
They sent the old man again.
Part of me is insulted; they believe all it takes to stop a sixteen year old girl is a graying man with a limp.
But looks can be deceiving.
When I was young, I appreciated his demeanor; he didn’t scare me like the others, the ones who watched me with thinly veiled wariness. He reminded me of someone’s grandfather; if their grandfather looked like a crusty old pirate with gold hoops in his ears, minus the eye patch and flouncy hat. I get the feeling this place is nowhere near the ocean.
The forest around me is ancient, that much I know. The trees rise up like giants out of the dark, rich earth; cedar, spruce, pine and fir. They are almost unnatural in their size. Everything is green. Lush. Moss coats the trunks of the trees making it hard to see where the bark ends and earth begins. It doesn’t take long for my arms to be coated in tiny beads of moisture. The woods are thick, mysterious; I’ve never been able to see far from where I stand. Flashes of color, stark against the vivid green, flit in and out of view. They are the barest glimpses of birds and other creatures moving through the forest.
My favorites are the ferns; they cover the ground like scattered green feathers. I’ve longed to touch them for years, run my fingers down their delicate fronds, but they are beyond my circle of safety. The old man shifts, drawing my attention back to him as he rests his weakened leg.
I don’t even glance at his sword anymore; I know he wouldn’t use it on me. But he’s not alone.
He never is.
Several pairs of yellow eyes watch me from the shadows, tucked behind the monolithic trees or lying beneath the lush covering of ferns. They’re always waiting, never moving; hidden so well they might as well be permanent fixtures of the forest.
Except for their eyes.
They follow my every move, their size and intensity hinting at the bodies that encompass them. What they might do, I’m not sure. I’ve never had the nerve to test them, but I’ve never needed to. The day I do should be really interesting. I don’t consider myself brave. I have too many fears for that. But I would be for him, the boy I lost so long ago.
He was my best friend, at times my only friend. He was my secret, not even my uncle or brother knew about him. I understand now why he only came after the rain; so many of the mysteries about him have become clearer now, though what I don’t know has multiplied. As much as I knew who he was, I have learned more about what he was since he’s been gone. But I was a child. I only saw what was in front of me, and he was perfect; I didn’t need to know more.
We stare at each other, the old man and I, waiting. I take one step out of the circle of mushrooms, their iridescent skin glowing in the dim forest light. It’s the only way I can go back in. The hairs on my arms relax, no longer bathed in the rainbow of light and energy. I feel the tension in the air as I step onto the moss-covered ground, not from the wrinkled old man with the kind eyes, but from the others. I hear their breathing cease as they wait for me to move again. They should know by now that I won’t. We’ve played this game for nearly seven years now.
I look expectantly at him. I don’t speak or ask questions. He’s not allowed to talk to me; that was made clear by the others long ago, but it doesn’t stop us from communicating. If he did now, I’m not sure who would know. I only want one answer. I asked the question years ago, and it was the only one he acknowledged. I think he just felt sorry for me. I suppose the tears of a child can weaken almost anyone. But now it’s become our routine. They know when I’m coming, and he’s always there. I wait for his answer, he gives it, and I leave; because it’s never been the right one.
I take a deep breath, already prepared to see him shake his head. I’ve grown used to it now, and it doesn’t hurt the way it used to. The old man smiles with sympathy, but I will never give up, never stop hoping. I have to find him again. This was the last place I saw him when we were separated. They told me to never come back; it wasn’t safe, that it could mean death for all of us; but telling me I couldn’t have him was their mistake.
He was the only thing I ever wanted.
It’s been months since I’ve been able to come back here. This summer has been unseasonably hot and dry, another year of drought. Though it’s late August, I was fortunate that the remnants of a hurricane have lingered over Central Texas for the past few days, because I desperately need the rain.
It’s the only thing that opens the gateway.
So I come back here after it rains, when the mushrooms that create the fairy ring grow up out of the moist ground, creating a gateway to another world, to meet this old man and get the answer to my single unspoken question: ‘Is he there?’
The old man nods his head, almost imperceptibly, and I turn to leave, realizing what I missed as I do so.
I freeze.
I look back at him, confused. He nodded. I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. There is a glint in his eyes that has never been there before, a spark of understanding. The corner of his mouth lifts slightly, and he winks at me. It’s the first time he’s ever smiled.
My heart drops into my stomach.
He waits a moment, and then gives his head a jerk, my signal to go back. My eyes scan the forest, seeing too many reasons I wouldn’t make it very far if I tried to run. I look back at his face. He can read my thoughts, see me calculating. He might not stop me, but they would. He looks up towards the sky, and then carefully traces a finger in a circle on the back of his wrist, close to his body where the others can’t see. Come back tomorrow.
It’s something I’ve never done.
They won’t be expecting it.
I resist the urge to thank him. If I tried to hug him, I might not make it back to the circle. I turn and leave without another glance, the white light blinding me as I enter the gateway. The light fades and the dry heat and strong scent of cedar and pine tells me I’m home.
But not for long.
Chapter Two
It’s been seven years since I last saw him. Seven years to think about what I would do when the old man finally nodded. I realize I’ve never planned past that moment.
I’m completely unprepared.
“Sarah Woods?”
“Here.” I wave my hand but continue to stare at the laminate wood-grain pattern on my desk.
I know what would be required of me, but I can’t leave my family. They wouldn’t understand. I don’t know how long I would be gone, and tomorrow is Kael’s eighteenth birthday party. My Uncle Rhys and I have been planning it for my brother all summer. I still remember the shattered and broken look on my uncle’s face after the last time I went missing. It was seven years ago.
But he is just as important to me.
“Sarah Woods.”
I guess she didn’t hear me the first time. “Here,” I say louder, sticking my hand straight up into the air.
Rafe was as much a brother to me as my own. They say blood is thicker than water, but the connection I felt to this boy was unfathomable. His presence filled the dark places in my heart, the ones left vacant by the death of people and places I have no memory of. We were just children, but he was my hero. I have to find him. I have to tell him I’m sorry.
I broke the only rule we had between us. He made me promise.
But I followed him home that day anyway.
A shadow falls across my desk. I look up, distracted. Mrs. Walker, my World History teacher, is staring at me. A thread of fear unfolds from the knot in my stomach.
“Ms. Woods, while I am glad you are here today, we checked role thirty minutes ago.”
Genre: Young Adult Fantasy
Title: Valor
Chapter One
They sent the old man again.
Part of me is insulted; they believe all it takes to stop a sixteen year old girl is a graying man with a limp.
But looks can be deceiving.
When I was young, I appreciated his demeanor; he didn’t scare me like the others, the ones who watched me with thinly veiled wariness. He reminded me of someone’s grandfather; if their grandfather looked like a crusty old pirate with gold hoops in his ears, minus the eye patch and flouncy hat. I get the feeling this place is nowhere near the ocean.
The forest around me is ancient, that much I know. The trees rise up like giants out of the dark, rich earth; cedar, spruce, pine and fir. They are almost unnatural in their size. Everything is green. Lush. Moss coats the trunks of the trees making it hard to see where the bark ends and earth begins. It doesn’t take long for my arms to be coated in tiny beads of moisture. The woods are thick, mysterious; I’ve never been able to see far from where I stand. Flashes of color, stark against the vivid green, flit in and out of view. They are the barest glimpses of birds and other creatures moving through the forest.
My favorites are the ferns; they cover the ground like scattered green feathers. I’ve longed to touch them for years, run my fingers down their delicate fronds, but they are beyond my circle of safety. The old man shifts, drawing my attention back to him as he rests his weakened leg.
I don’t even glance at his sword anymore; I know he wouldn’t use it on me. But he’s not alone.
He never is.
Several pairs of yellow eyes watch me from the shadows, tucked behind the monolithic trees or lying beneath the lush covering of ferns. They’re always waiting, never moving; hidden so well they might as well be permanent fixtures of the forest.
Except for their eyes.
They follow my every move, their size and intensity hinting at the bodies that encompass them. What they might do, I’m not sure. I’ve never had the nerve to test them, but I’ve never needed to. The day I do should be really interesting. I don’t consider myself brave. I have too many fears for that. But I would be for him, the boy I lost so long ago.
He was my best friend, at times my only friend. He was my secret, not even my uncle or brother knew about him. I understand now why he only came after the rain; so many of the mysteries about him have become clearer now, though what I don’t know has multiplied. As much as I knew who he was, I have learned more about what he was since he’s been gone. But I was a child. I only saw what was in front of me, and he was perfect; I didn’t need to know more.
We stare at each other, the old man and I, waiting. I take one step out of the circle of mushrooms, their iridescent skin glowing in the dim forest light. It’s the only way I can go back in. The hairs on my arms relax, no longer bathed in the rainbow of light and energy. I feel the tension in the air as I step onto the moss-covered ground, not from the wrinkled old man with the kind eyes, but from the others. I hear their breathing cease as they wait for me to move again. They should know by now that I won’t. We’ve played this game for nearly seven years now.
I look expectantly at him. I don’t speak or ask questions. He’s not allowed to talk to me; that was made clear by the others long ago, but it doesn’t stop us from communicating. If he did now, I’m not sure who would know. I only want one answer. I asked the question years ago, and it was the only one he acknowledged. I think he just felt sorry for me. I suppose the tears of a child can weaken almost anyone. But now it’s become our routine. They know when I’m coming, and he’s always there. I wait for his answer, he gives it, and I leave; because it’s never been the right one.
I take a deep breath, already prepared to see him shake his head. I’ve grown used to it now, and it doesn’t hurt the way it used to. The old man smiles with sympathy, but I will never give up, never stop hoping. I have to find him again. This was the last place I saw him when we were separated. They told me to never come back; it wasn’t safe, that it could mean death for all of us; but telling me I couldn’t have him was their mistake.
He was the only thing I ever wanted.
It’s been months since I’ve been able to come back here. This summer has been unseasonably hot and dry, another year of drought. Though it’s late August, I was fortunate that the remnants of a hurricane have lingered over Central Texas for the past few days, because I desperately need the rain.
It’s the only thing that opens the gateway.
So I come back here after it rains, when the mushrooms that create the fairy ring grow up out of the moist ground, creating a gateway to another world, to meet this old man and get the answer to my single unspoken question: ‘Is he there?’
The old man nods his head, almost imperceptibly, and I turn to leave, realizing what I missed as I do so.
I freeze.
I look back at him, confused. He nodded. I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. There is a glint in his eyes that has never been there before, a spark of understanding. The corner of his mouth lifts slightly, and he winks at me. It’s the first time he’s ever smiled.
My heart drops into my stomach.
He waits a moment, and then gives his head a jerk, my signal to go back. My eyes scan the forest, seeing too many reasons I wouldn’t make it very far if I tried to run. I look back at his face. He can read my thoughts, see me calculating. He might not stop me, but they would. He looks up towards the sky, and then carefully traces a finger in a circle on the back of his wrist, close to his body where the others can’t see. Come back tomorrow.
It’s something I’ve never done.
They won’t be expecting it.
I resist the urge to thank him. If I tried to hug him, I might not make it back to the circle. I turn and leave without another glance, the white light blinding me as I enter the gateway. The light fades and the dry heat and strong scent of cedar and pine tells me I’m home.
But not for long.
Chapter Two
It’s been seven years since I last saw him. Seven years to think about what I would do when the old man finally nodded. I realize I’ve never planned past that moment.
I’m completely unprepared.
“Sarah Woods?”
“Here.” I wave my hand but continue to stare at the laminate wood-grain pattern on my desk.
I know what would be required of me, but I can’t leave my family. They wouldn’t understand. I don’t know how long I would be gone, and tomorrow is Kael’s eighteenth birthday party. My Uncle Rhys and I have been planning it for my brother all summer. I still remember the shattered and broken look on my uncle’s face after the last time I went missing. It was seven years ago.
But he is just as important to me.
“Sarah Woods.”
I guess she didn’t hear me the first time. “Here,” I say louder, sticking my hand straight up into the air.
Rafe was as much a brother to me as my own. They say blood is thicker than water, but the connection I felt to this boy was unfathomable. His presence filled the dark places in my heart, the ones left vacant by the death of people and places I have no memory of. We were just children, but he was my hero. I have to find him. I have to tell him I’m sorry.
I broke the only rule we had between us. He made me promise.
But I followed him home that day anyway.
A shadow falls across my desk. I look up, distracted. Mrs. Walker, my World History teacher, is staring at me. A thread of fear unfolds from the knot in my stomach.
“Ms. Woods, while I am glad you are here today, we checked role thirty minutes ago.”
1st 5 Pages June Workshop - Staple, Rev 1
Name: Elizabeth Staple, Revision 1
Genre: YA Fantasy/Fairytale
Title: Journey to Slanavalia
I’ve known for a while now that I‘ll be dead by my eighteenth birthday.
But there was no way to anticipate the hollowness in my chest when the clock struck midnight on the first day of my last year of being alive. I was awake to see it, of course, because it’s impossible to sleep in here. Shadowy figures are always coming in and out to monitor or refill or adjust. At times they just stand at the end of my bed, watching me. Screens and gauges beep and tick, a polite reminder that very few of my organs are self-sufficient. A tangle of wires and chords – pressurized cuffs that massage my underused legs, various monitors clipped to my fingers or stuck to my chest, and one big, fat PICC line that goes straight into a vein in my neck – imprison me in bed, even if I did have the strength to stand up -- which I usually don’t.
I ignored the control for my adjustable bed and gingerly propped myself up on my elbows. It was dark, for a hospital room, but I could make out the aggressively cheerful banner that stretched across the far wall. I’m in Pediatrics, and my (private, not bad really, long-term care) room was bordered in a clown pattern. I don’t know if this is why I’m terrified of circus performers or just an unhappy coincidence, but my little sister has made it her job to keep the border covered with artwork, streamers and cards. Tonight, it was a long thread of cobbled together construction paper that pronounced boldly, “HAPPY BIRTHDAY EMMALINE.”
I thought I sensed movement at my door and stiffened, waiting for someone to walk in wielding a syringe. Why is it that needles hurt so much more in the middle of the night? But I must have imagined it, because although the shadow remained, it didn’t move, but stayed sentry-like in the doorway until I dozed off.
*****
The next morning I was awoken, as usual, just after dawn by a team of mysterious men and women in white coats. Sometimes they’re med students, sometimes they’re residents, but they always make me feel like a zoo animal, if zoo animals had less privacy. They change rotations a lot, and I gave up trying to learn their names a long time ago. Now I just hope I’m not sleeping with my mouth open when they come in.
“Good morning, Miss Baska!” One thing the groups all have in common is a Lead Coat with an unnaturally loud voice. It’s ironic, really, because my hearing is one of the few things about my health that’s spot on. “How are we feeling today?” She removed my chart from the end of the bed without looking at me and started flipping through its pages.
“We’re fine,” I mumbled sleepily, bulging my eyes to try and wake myself up. This time I spared my elbows and electronically adjusted the bed. Once I had straightened myself to a sitting position and made an attempt to flatten my hair, I took stock of today’s group: eight coats, all peering excitedly at me over their clipboards like this was a field trip we were rewarded with for being very, very good. I guessed they were in their late twenties – some conservative piercings, a tattoo peeking out here or there, a few scattered wedding rings.
The Lead Coat began her dispassionate litany of my medical problems, which was too jargony for even a lifer like me to follow along with. If anyone had asked, I could have given a much more succinct briefing: Patient suffers from multiple organ deterioration, particularly the gastrointestinal tract, kidneys and lungs. Patient is in constant pain, inadequately managed through the use of narcotic drugs. Patient has been in this hospital for eight months, two weeks and five days. Patient’s doctors say that at the current rate of deterioration, she will almost certainly not survive another year. Patient is terrified.
“Patient is…” Lead Coat was winding up, flipping back to the front page of the chart. I could see her eyes register the date, and for the first time that morning she seemed to realize that this is, in fact, a hospital for human beings. “Seventeen years old,” she finished softly. She finally met my eye. “Happy birthday, Miss Baska.”
*****
By late morning, I was watching a movie on TV. It was a classic with lots of familiar lines, which made it easy to follow along while I dozed. Jerry, an orderly I’ve become pretty friendly with, showed up at my door with a gurney.
“Time to roll, Princess,” he said, lining it up with my bed and lowering the guardrails. I brought a deluxe today.” Jerry knows I prefer gurneys to wheelchairs. They’re much more comfortable because I don’t have to sit up through what can sometimes be a long wait before my daily testing.
“You always have both my back and support for my back,” I said, clicking the TV off. “Do I need to bring anything?”
“Just your smiling face. Ready? One, two, three.” I lifted with my hands and scooched my bottom while Jerry guided my feet onto the gurney. He covered me with a thin, scratchy hospital blanket and spent several minutes adjusting my tubes and wires. With separate poles for my IV and PICC, oxygen tubes that hooked over my ears and into my nostrils, a heart rate monitor clipped to my finger and a morphine pump, I don’t travel light. When I was finally settled, we pushed off into the hallway.
The long-term care pediatric ward is, unsurprisingly, depressing. The people who work here are wonderful, and spend a great deal of time and effort trying to make the experience of dying a pleasant one. There’s lots of artwork and posters on the walls, and everything is painted in bright, optimistic colors. We have a playroom, a library, and a parlor, where patients who are well enough can host their guests in a more normal setting. I’ve made the mistake of dying in Upstate New York, as opposed to a large city where I might get an occasional visit from an athlete or pop star or something, but that’s OK. We do get some magicians and puppeteers. Come to think of it, maybe that’s why I hate clowns.
No matter what else fills the ward, though, there’s no counteracting the people in it. We’re a bunch of sick kids, frequently visited by family members in various stages of falling apart. It’s a tough place to be for any length of time, yet the very purpose of the ward is to settle in and hunker down. I know it’s rude, but I prefer not to make eye contact with anyone. It’s too painful. I don’t want to recognize their faces. I don’t want to know their names. I don’t want them to mourn me when my turn comes.
Jerry wheeled me all the way to the end of the hallway and into the wide patient elevators. We rode to the bottom floor, where the Radiology Department is located. I should be one of the X-Men by now, based on all of the radiation I’ve been exposed to down here. Still, unless I have to drink something disgusting to show contrast, the tests rarely hurt anything but my dignity.
“OK, Princess,” said Jerry, wheeling me into an antiseptic X-Ray room and putting on my parking break. “I’ll be back for you in an hour. Don’t run off on me.”
“Would that I could.”
Shortly afterwards, a young technician entered the room. He moved with business-like efficiency, checking my monitors and adjusting as he worked. “Miss Baska. Dr. Roberts wants to check your circulation today.” I’d never heard of a Dr. Roberts, but that wasn’t unusual. I nodded. The room smelled like rubbing alcohol and cleaning supplies, a combination that always left me nauseous. I focused on slow, even breathing.
He held up a syringe. “It’s very important that you don’t move during the testing, so I’m going to inject this medication into your IV. It won’t hurt, but you’ll probably feel a little stiff as it takes effect. You’re not going to be able to move your arms and legs, but you can talk and rotate your eyes.” Well, as long as my eyeballs were free. “Ready?”
The medication crept into my arm, cold and acidic. I’ve learned in my eight months here that “this won’t hurt” is code for “this is definitely going to hurt,” but I was unprepared for how painful it was. I tried to cry out, but the air seemed trapped in my lungs. Instead, I bugged my eyes and blinked frantically, trying to get the technician’s attention. His gaze was locked on the monitor, disinterested in the specimen in the bed.
I forced my eyeballs as far as I could to the right, where a window led to the observation room. A tall, thin doctor with a neatly trimmed beard was behind the glass, clipboard in hand. I’d never seen him before. I silently pleaded with the stranger as a tear dripped down my frozen cheek.
The doctor immediately leaned forward and hit a button. “That will do,” his voice crackled over the intercom. The tech put a second injection into my IV and I slowly felt the burning subside. I glared at him and hugged myself, ashamed that I’d cried but also furious that he didn’t care. Then I put my head back and stared at the ceiling, waiting for Jerry to come wheel me home.
Genre: YA Fantasy/Fairytale
Title: Journey to Slanavalia
I’ve known for a while now that I‘ll be dead by my eighteenth birthday.
But there was no way to anticipate the hollowness in my chest when the clock struck midnight on the first day of my last year of being alive. I was awake to see it, of course, because it’s impossible to sleep in here. Shadowy figures are always coming in and out to monitor or refill or adjust. At times they just stand at the end of my bed, watching me. Screens and gauges beep and tick, a polite reminder that very few of my organs are self-sufficient. A tangle of wires and chords – pressurized cuffs that massage my underused legs, various monitors clipped to my fingers or stuck to my chest, and one big, fat PICC line that goes straight into a vein in my neck – imprison me in bed, even if I did have the strength to stand up -- which I usually don’t.
I ignored the control for my adjustable bed and gingerly propped myself up on my elbows. It was dark, for a hospital room, but I could make out the aggressively cheerful banner that stretched across the far wall. I’m in Pediatrics, and my (private, not bad really, long-term care) room was bordered in a clown pattern. I don’t know if this is why I’m terrified of circus performers or just an unhappy coincidence, but my little sister has made it her job to keep the border covered with artwork, streamers and cards. Tonight, it was a long thread of cobbled together construction paper that pronounced boldly, “HAPPY BIRTHDAY EMMALINE.”
I thought I sensed movement at my door and stiffened, waiting for someone to walk in wielding a syringe. Why is it that needles hurt so much more in the middle of the night? But I must have imagined it, because although the shadow remained, it didn’t move, but stayed sentry-like in the doorway until I dozed off.
*****
The next morning I was awoken, as usual, just after dawn by a team of mysterious men and women in white coats. Sometimes they’re med students, sometimes they’re residents, but they always make me feel like a zoo animal, if zoo animals had less privacy. They change rotations a lot, and I gave up trying to learn their names a long time ago. Now I just hope I’m not sleeping with my mouth open when they come in.
“Good morning, Miss Baska!” One thing the groups all have in common is a Lead Coat with an unnaturally loud voice. It’s ironic, really, because my hearing is one of the few things about my health that’s spot on. “How are we feeling today?” She removed my chart from the end of the bed without looking at me and started flipping through its pages.
“We’re fine,” I mumbled sleepily, bulging my eyes to try and wake myself up. This time I spared my elbows and electronically adjusted the bed. Once I had straightened myself to a sitting position and made an attempt to flatten my hair, I took stock of today’s group: eight coats, all peering excitedly at me over their clipboards like this was a field trip we were rewarded with for being very, very good. I guessed they were in their late twenties – some conservative piercings, a tattoo peeking out here or there, a few scattered wedding rings.
The Lead Coat began her dispassionate litany of my medical problems, which was too jargony for even a lifer like me to follow along with. If anyone had asked, I could have given a much more succinct briefing: Patient suffers from multiple organ deterioration, particularly the gastrointestinal tract, kidneys and lungs. Patient is in constant pain, inadequately managed through the use of narcotic drugs. Patient has been in this hospital for eight months, two weeks and five days. Patient’s doctors say that at the current rate of deterioration, she will almost certainly not survive another year. Patient is terrified.
“Patient is…” Lead Coat was winding up, flipping back to the front page of the chart. I could see her eyes register the date, and for the first time that morning she seemed to realize that this is, in fact, a hospital for human beings. “Seventeen years old,” she finished softly. She finally met my eye. “Happy birthday, Miss Baska.”
*****
By late morning, I was watching a movie on TV. It was a classic with lots of familiar lines, which made it easy to follow along while I dozed. Jerry, an orderly I’ve become pretty friendly with, showed up at my door with a gurney.
“Time to roll, Princess,” he said, lining it up with my bed and lowering the guardrails. I brought a deluxe today.” Jerry knows I prefer gurneys to wheelchairs. They’re much more comfortable because I don’t have to sit up through what can sometimes be a long wait before my daily testing.
“You always have both my back and support for my back,” I said, clicking the TV off. “Do I need to bring anything?”
“Just your smiling face. Ready? One, two, three.” I lifted with my hands and scooched my bottom while Jerry guided my feet onto the gurney. He covered me with a thin, scratchy hospital blanket and spent several minutes adjusting my tubes and wires. With separate poles for my IV and PICC, oxygen tubes that hooked over my ears and into my nostrils, a heart rate monitor clipped to my finger and a morphine pump, I don’t travel light. When I was finally settled, we pushed off into the hallway.
The long-term care pediatric ward is, unsurprisingly, depressing. The people who work here are wonderful, and spend a great deal of time and effort trying to make the experience of dying a pleasant one. There’s lots of artwork and posters on the walls, and everything is painted in bright, optimistic colors. We have a playroom, a library, and a parlor, where patients who are well enough can host their guests in a more normal setting. I’ve made the mistake of dying in Upstate New York, as opposed to a large city where I might get an occasional visit from an athlete or pop star or something, but that’s OK. We do get some magicians and puppeteers. Come to think of it, maybe that’s why I hate clowns.
No matter what else fills the ward, though, there’s no counteracting the people in it. We’re a bunch of sick kids, frequently visited by family members in various stages of falling apart. It’s a tough place to be for any length of time, yet the very purpose of the ward is to settle in and hunker down. I know it’s rude, but I prefer not to make eye contact with anyone. It’s too painful. I don’t want to recognize their faces. I don’t want to know their names. I don’t want them to mourn me when my turn comes.
Jerry wheeled me all the way to the end of the hallway and into the wide patient elevators. We rode to the bottom floor, where the Radiology Department is located. I should be one of the X-Men by now, based on all of the radiation I’ve been exposed to down here. Still, unless I have to drink something disgusting to show contrast, the tests rarely hurt anything but my dignity.
“OK, Princess,” said Jerry, wheeling me into an antiseptic X-Ray room and putting on my parking break. “I’ll be back for you in an hour. Don’t run off on me.”
“Would that I could.”
Shortly afterwards, a young technician entered the room. He moved with business-like efficiency, checking my monitors and adjusting as he worked. “Miss Baska. Dr. Roberts wants to check your circulation today.” I’d never heard of a Dr. Roberts, but that wasn’t unusual. I nodded. The room smelled like rubbing alcohol and cleaning supplies, a combination that always left me nauseous. I focused on slow, even breathing.
He held up a syringe. “It’s very important that you don’t move during the testing, so I’m going to inject this medication into your IV. It won’t hurt, but you’ll probably feel a little stiff as it takes effect. You’re not going to be able to move your arms and legs, but you can talk and rotate your eyes.” Well, as long as my eyeballs were free. “Ready?”
The medication crept into my arm, cold and acidic. I’ve learned in my eight months here that “this won’t hurt” is code for “this is definitely going to hurt,” but I was unprepared for how painful it was. I tried to cry out, but the air seemed trapped in my lungs. Instead, I bugged my eyes and blinked frantically, trying to get the technician’s attention. His gaze was locked on the monitor, disinterested in the specimen in the bed.
I forced my eyeballs as far as I could to the right, where a window led to the observation room. A tall, thin doctor with a neatly trimmed beard was behind the glass, clipboard in hand. I’d never seen him before. I silently pleaded with the stranger as a tear dripped down my frozen cheek.
The doctor immediately leaned forward and hit a button. “That will do,” his voice crackled over the intercom. The tech put a second injection into my IV and I slowly felt the burning subside. I glared at him and hugged myself, ashamed that I’d cried but also furious that he didn’t care. Then I put my head back and stared at the ceiling, waiting for Jerry to come wheel me home.
1st 5 Pages June Workshop - White Rev 1
Name: Katy White
Genre: Young Adult Fantasy
Title: Daughter of Ethærea
Thunder roared through the hallway as Asa Huntington eased the zipper on her backpack closed. She could smell the rain, even over the perfume, sweat, and hormones of her classmates. The scent of ozone and rain hitting dry earth lifted her spirits. It was like a sign from the heavens that taking nine finals to graduate would not, in fact, be her undoing.
Her backpack, on the other hand, might be. As she schlepped it through the buzzing, ancient stone halls of Alder Country Day, she prayed for the creaking seam to hold. One more week, and she could retire the bag forever. She wondered if it would make it.
She heard steps directly behind her and looked down to a see a pair of Docs on the oak floor. “I’m not talking to you,” she told the Docs, skirting around a couple making out against a stone arch. She looked up at her best friend, his mop of bark brown hair swept to the side. “I mean, six stupid finals? Six? No wonder you have time for rugby and baseball and other stupid things.”
Cal grinned and slung an arm over Asa’s shoulder. “Hey, you brought this evil on yourself, graduating with the losers instead of next year with me. What’s so great about Harvard, anyway?”
“Apart from my phytochemistry internship? The Greenhouse Café’ is supposed to have killer kale smoothies.”
He made a face. “Tempting. At least you won’t be the only freckle-faced nerd there. ‘Phytochemistry.’ You sound like an AP English test. In the normal world, people just say ‘botany.’ ”
Asa laughed, shaking her head as lightning flashed from the small windows near the top of the pointed arch ceiling. Cal knew exactly what was so special about Harvard and her internship. But she relied on him to keep things light when they threatened to get very, very heavy. She reached up and pinched his tanned cheeks. “It’s a good thing you’re so pretty, Cal.”
At the exit, Cal grabbed the thick double doors, and they stepped out into the pouring rain. “And now you’re flirting with me?” He popped open his umbrella and held it over them. “What will Max think?”
“That we can’t hide our passion—”
“Hold up,” Cal interrupted, looking past her. “What’s going on across the parking lot?”
“Oh, probably some jocks fighting about something important.”
“Funny, real funny.” Cal said, squinting through the rain toward the chestnut trees that bordered the school hill. “No, Asa, I think that’s Max…and, oh, frick. He’s with Evan.”
“What? Grab a teacher!”
Not looking to see where Cal went, Asa dropped her backpack. The seam gave its final groan, and the contents exploded. A moment of horror rooted her in place. Her books. Her notes. Finals. She mentally shook herself. Harvard already accepted you. Then she turned and sprinted across the parking lot, her boots slapping puddles. She snaked through the ring of students encircling the fighters. Her heart jumped to her throat. Max was on the ground.
“What do you think you’re doing?” she yelled to Evan, jumping in front of him.
The oaf glared at her. She took manic glee at the milk stains on his jacket. “Max isn’t some helpless little tree, you know. He doesn’t need your protection.” Evan said.
Asa dropped beside Max, still looking at Evan. “Hey, Evan, we’re not thirteen anymore. Isn’t it time you got past that?” Blood from Max’s nose mingled with rain as it spilled down his mocha skin. She put a hand on his cheek. “Pinch your nose below the bones and lean forward.”
Max pushed her hand aside, rising to his feet. “Asa, stay out of this.” Asa followed him up, standing beside him.
“Ooh, looks like trouble in paradise,” Evan’s girlfriend, Gwen, taunted. “What do you care, Asa? Everyone knows you’re breaking up with him when you leave for Harvard.”
Asa ignored the girl and glared at Evan. She tried to control her nerves as the large, unhinged boy stared down at her. Max grabbed her wrist.
“What do you think you’re gonna do to me, Asa?” Evan asked, his voice thick.
“And what are you going to do to me, Evan? Shake some plants at me again?”
“I know you did something with that tree, you little—”
Her laugh sounded tinny in her ears. “Get over it, Evan! Haven’t you been at this long enough? How did a stupid tree escalate into you vandalizing my house? Stealing my dad’s car? You’re 18. You won’t go to juvie for messing with me this time, you’ll go to big boy jail. Is that really what you want?” Evan stepped closer, his rage almost palpable. Max tried to get in front of Asa, but she cut him off. “I wouldn’t try anything, Ev. See all those iPhones? These kids are recording us. Do you want that much evidence against you in court?”
Rain streamed between Evan’s eyes, and the effect was sinister. He dropped his voice so low, she had to strain to hear him over the rumbling sky. “Oh, I’m not going to hurt you, Asa.” He stepped closer. Dangerously closer. “I just want to have a little chat.”
A fist came out of nowhere, connecting hard with Evan’s jaw.
“Cal!” Asa yelled.
“Run!” he yelled back.
She looked at Max, whose eyes darted between her and the now roaring Evan. “Go! Go!”
She bolted towards her car. She reached for her pocket, realizing too late that her keys were in her backpack. At the school’s entrance.
“Crap!” she screamed. She veered back towards the school. Her eyes flitted towards the circle of students. Evan’s toadies had entered the fight, and Cal and Max were badly outnumbered. Fortunately, several of their rugby teammates were running from the field to help, the coach following quickly behind. She exhaled and slowed to a jog.
“Asa. Oh, Ay-suh,” a thick voice sang. Her head snapped back to the direction of the school. It was Evan. Somehow, he had escaped the carnage he’d caused. And he was holding her keys.
She stopped dumbly. Then Evan started coming for her.
***
It had all been so stupid.
“He’s evil, mom,” Asa had said five years earlier, trying not to cry as she’d pulled another leaf from her hair. She’d sat at the foot of her parents’ bed, her knees tucked under her chin, staring at the empty fireplace across the master suite. A pile of leaves sat by her foot on the ivory rug. “He attacked me for no reason.”
Her dad’s voice punctuated her words from the sitting room. She couldn’t ever remember hearing him so angry. Evan’s dad was getting an earful.
Her mother reached for her hand. Auburn hair spilled in front of her face, framing a look that could only mean one thing: story time.
“When Lilya was a few years older than you, she learned a difficult lesson like the one you learned today,” her mom said, her Ukrainian accent stronger than normal.
Asa sniffed and rolled her eyes. “I’m thirteen, Mom. Don’t you think I’m a little old for ‘the Adventures of Lilya and Lucya?’ ” Her mother’s brows arched over dark sapphire eyes. “Sorry,” Asa mumbled.
“Don’t worry, I gave up on telling you tales about nymphs and jinn long ago.”
Asa smiled. “It’s about time. So what was the lesson?”
“Simply that people can be cruel.”
Her smile vanished. “That’s it? People can be cruel? Mom, people suck! Gwen’s supposed to be my friend, yet she just laughed while Evan and those jagweeds humiliated me.” To prove her point, she touched her hair and pulled out a leaf from the tree Evan had denuded onto her.
“Asa, language.”
“I know, I’m sorry, but they were so mean! They laughed at me, and Evan called me a witch, and they talked about—”
“Me?”
Asa nodded and the tears started. They’d mentioned her father, too, but she wasn’t ready to talk about that. “Evan was tearing apart a really rare Japanese Maple that Gwen’s mom doesn’t have a clue how to tend, let alone their gardener. So I went over there with Cal and his cousin and told him to stop. Some of the guys just laughed at me. Whatever. But then Evan launched into this thing about how at his house the foreigners who spend all day in the garden aren’t called mom, they’re called ‘the help.’ ”
“Why did this bother you?”
“They were making fun of you!”
To her surprise, her mother smiled. “Do you think their words hurt me?”
“Um.” She blinked. “I guess not.”
Genre: Young Adult Fantasy
Title: Daughter of Ethærea
Thunder roared through the hallway as Asa Huntington eased the zipper on her backpack closed. She could smell the rain, even over the perfume, sweat, and hormones of her classmates. The scent of ozone and rain hitting dry earth lifted her spirits. It was like a sign from the heavens that taking nine finals to graduate would not, in fact, be her undoing.
Her backpack, on the other hand, might be. As she schlepped it through the buzzing, ancient stone halls of Alder Country Day, she prayed for the creaking seam to hold. One more week, and she could retire the bag forever. She wondered if it would make it.
She heard steps directly behind her and looked down to a see a pair of Docs on the oak floor. “I’m not talking to you,” she told the Docs, skirting around a couple making out against a stone arch. She looked up at her best friend, his mop of bark brown hair swept to the side. “I mean, six stupid finals? Six? No wonder you have time for rugby and baseball and other stupid things.”
Cal grinned and slung an arm over Asa’s shoulder. “Hey, you brought this evil on yourself, graduating with the losers instead of next year with me. What’s so great about Harvard, anyway?”
“Apart from my phytochemistry internship? The Greenhouse Café’ is supposed to have killer kale smoothies.”
He made a face. “Tempting. At least you won’t be the only freckle-faced nerd there. ‘Phytochemistry.’ You sound like an AP English test. In the normal world, people just say ‘botany.’ ”
Asa laughed, shaking her head as lightning flashed from the small windows near the top of the pointed arch ceiling. Cal knew exactly what was so special about Harvard and her internship. But she relied on him to keep things light when they threatened to get very, very heavy. She reached up and pinched his tanned cheeks. “It’s a good thing you’re so pretty, Cal.”
At the exit, Cal grabbed the thick double doors, and they stepped out into the pouring rain. “And now you’re flirting with me?” He popped open his umbrella and held it over them. “What will Max think?”
“That we can’t hide our passion—”
“Hold up,” Cal interrupted, looking past her. “What’s going on across the parking lot?”
“Oh, probably some jocks fighting about something important.”
“Funny, real funny.” Cal said, squinting through the rain toward the chestnut trees that bordered the school hill. “No, Asa, I think that’s Max…and, oh, frick. He’s with Evan.”
“What? Grab a teacher!”
Not looking to see where Cal went, Asa dropped her backpack. The seam gave its final groan, and the contents exploded. A moment of horror rooted her in place. Her books. Her notes. Finals. She mentally shook herself. Harvard already accepted you. Then she turned and sprinted across the parking lot, her boots slapping puddles. She snaked through the ring of students encircling the fighters. Her heart jumped to her throat. Max was on the ground.
“What do you think you’re doing?” she yelled to Evan, jumping in front of him.
The oaf glared at her. She took manic glee at the milk stains on his jacket. “Max isn’t some helpless little tree, you know. He doesn’t need your protection.” Evan said.
Asa dropped beside Max, still looking at Evan. “Hey, Evan, we’re not thirteen anymore. Isn’t it time you got past that?” Blood from Max’s nose mingled with rain as it spilled down his mocha skin. She put a hand on his cheek. “Pinch your nose below the bones and lean forward.”
Max pushed her hand aside, rising to his feet. “Asa, stay out of this.” Asa followed him up, standing beside him.
“Ooh, looks like trouble in paradise,” Evan’s girlfriend, Gwen, taunted. “What do you care, Asa? Everyone knows you’re breaking up with him when you leave for Harvard.”
Asa ignored the girl and glared at Evan. She tried to control her nerves as the large, unhinged boy stared down at her. Max grabbed her wrist.
“What do you think you’re gonna do to me, Asa?” Evan asked, his voice thick.
“And what are you going to do to me, Evan? Shake some plants at me again?”
“I know you did something with that tree, you little—”
Her laugh sounded tinny in her ears. “Get over it, Evan! Haven’t you been at this long enough? How did a stupid tree escalate into you vandalizing my house? Stealing my dad’s car? You’re 18. You won’t go to juvie for messing with me this time, you’ll go to big boy jail. Is that really what you want?” Evan stepped closer, his rage almost palpable. Max tried to get in front of Asa, but she cut him off. “I wouldn’t try anything, Ev. See all those iPhones? These kids are recording us. Do you want that much evidence against you in court?”
Rain streamed between Evan’s eyes, and the effect was sinister. He dropped his voice so low, she had to strain to hear him over the rumbling sky. “Oh, I’m not going to hurt you, Asa.” He stepped closer. Dangerously closer. “I just want to have a little chat.”
A fist came out of nowhere, connecting hard with Evan’s jaw.
“Cal!” Asa yelled.
“Run!” he yelled back.
She looked at Max, whose eyes darted between her and the now roaring Evan. “Go! Go!”
She bolted towards her car. She reached for her pocket, realizing too late that her keys were in her backpack. At the school’s entrance.
“Crap!” she screamed. She veered back towards the school. Her eyes flitted towards the circle of students. Evan’s toadies had entered the fight, and Cal and Max were badly outnumbered. Fortunately, several of their rugby teammates were running from the field to help, the coach following quickly behind. She exhaled and slowed to a jog.
“Asa. Oh, Ay-suh,” a thick voice sang. Her head snapped back to the direction of the school. It was Evan. Somehow, he had escaped the carnage he’d caused. And he was holding her keys.
She stopped dumbly. Then Evan started coming for her.
***
It had all been so stupid.
“He’s evil, mom,” Asa had said five years earlier, trying not to cry as she’d pulled another leaf from her hair. She’d sat at the foot of her parents’ bed, her knees tucked under her chin, staring at the empty fireplace across the master suite. A pile of leaves sat by her foot on the ivory rug. “He attacked me for no reason.”
Her dad’s voice punctuated her words from the sitting room. She couldn’t ever remember hearing him so angry. Evan’s dad was getting an earful.
Her mother reached for her hand. Auburn hair spilled in front of her face, framing a look that could only mean one thing: story time.
“When Lilya was a few years older than you, she learned a difficult lesson like the one you learned today,” her mom said, her Ukrainian accent stronger than normal.
Asa sniffed and rolled her eyes. “I’m thirteen, Mom. Don’t you think I’m a little old for ‘the Adventures of Lilya and Lucya?’ ” Her mother’s brows arched over dark sapphire eyes. “Sorry,” Asa mumbled.
“Don’t worry, I gave up on telling you tales about nymphs and jinn long ago.”
Asa smiled. “It’s about time. So what was the lesson?”
“Simply that people can be cruel.”
Her smile vanished. “That’s it? People can be cruel? Mom, people suck! Gwen’s supposed to be my friend, yet she just laughed while Evan and those jagweeds humiliated me.” To prove her point, she touched her hair and pulled out a leaf from the tree Evan had denuded onto her.
“Asa, language.”
“I know, I’m sorry, but they were so mean! They laughed at me, and Evan called me a witch, and they talked about—”
“Me?”
Asa nodded and the tears started. They’d mentioned her father, too, but she wasn’t ready to talk about that. “Evan was tearing apart a really rare Japanese Maple that Gwen’s mom doesn’t have a clue how to tend, let alone their gardener. So I went over there with Cal and his cousin and told him to stop. Some of the guys just laughed at me. Whatever. But then Evan launched into this thing about how at his house the foreigners who spend all day in the garden aren’t called mom, they’re called ‘the help.’ ”
“Why did this bother you?”
“They were making fun of you!”
To her surprise, her mother smiled. “Do you think their words hurt me?”
“Um.” She blinked. “I guess not.”
1st 5 Pages June Workshop - Palmer Rev 1
Name: Lora Palmer
Genre: Young Adult Science Fiction
Title: The MirrorMasters
Leah Ellis stretched her legs. She had been curled up on the couch so long her knees ached. The old horror movie her brother and best friend picked was almost over. Why would they choose a movie like that, tonight...of all nights, even if they’d made it an annual tradition? Next time, she would pick the film. She brushed back a stray lock of blond hair and tried to focus, but anxiety, loud and unrelenting as alarm bells ringing in her head, fragmented her thoughts. She turned to David and Kara, who were sitting, engrossed, on the love seat. “Let’s watch something light, a comedy, when the others get here.”
She’d busted her skinny behind in AP English, Algebra, and Biology all year, and she’d earned a carefree summer working part-time as a babysitter and laying out on the beach with her friends. Tomorrow, that summer would be hers, so long as she could get through tonight unscathed.
“We should go out to the cemetery after the movie,” Kara said, her blue eyes sparkling. Long auburn hair spilled around her as she leaned down to retrieve her soda from the coffee table.
Sure. Why wait for trouble to find us when we can seek it out and bring it right here?
It was the eve of the town tragedy that happened back in the 1870s, when the Stanford twins, the daughters of the town mayor, were killed. Of course Kara would want to do something scary to commemorate it. Every year, on this date, something strange happened, like mysterious pulses of light in the forest and not-quite-solid figures that appeared in the cemetery one second and disappeared the next.
Leah hated the thrill of horror--and fascination--that ran through her whenever she imagined what happened, what it all might mean.
She couldn’t help glancing over at the sliding glass doors out toward the church beyond, checking for any signs of unusual activity. Her hands started to fidget, and she fought to still them. Leah thought she could just make out the sounds of otherworldly voices outside, speaking in urgent whispers. She listened. A gust of wind rustled the palm trees, obscuring any other noise and causing moonlight and shadows to flit across the lawn.
“No.” Leah leaned back against the sofa, taking a bite of popcorn for a bit of self-comforting. “No way, Kara. I’m not playing around with that stuff. If there are ghosts, or aliens, or whatever, I don’t want to know about it. And I sure don’t want us going to confront them.”
Kara pulled a puppy face, complete with irresistible dimples. “Aren’t you the least bit curious? They lived in your house. They could still be here.”
Leah rolled her eyes, but her anxiety was starting to get the best of her again. “Don’t give me that look!” She laughed, in an effort to act casual, and held up a pillow to cover her face. She appealed to her brother. “David, talk some sense into her.”
She couldn’t bring herself to tell either of them how rattled she was. If David knew, he’d tease her mercilessly. Kara, with her love of all things sci-fi and paranormal, would never understand.
“Oh, I don’t know. What’s the harm? Unless you’re too scared to see what happens.” David grinned, his brown eyes crinkling with mischief.
Kara leaned over and ruffled his sandy blond hair. “See? Even David’s game.”
Leah shook her head and gave her a knowing smile. Of course he would be game for whatever Kara wanted to do. She threw her pillow at him. “David, you don’t even believe in that stuff.”
“Hey!” David caught the pillow easily and tossed it back at her. “Ergo, there’s no harm in going.”
Leah laughed and raised her arm to block his throw. “You don’t know that.”
Kara grabbed the pillow and whacked David with it. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”
Their eyes lit up as they wrestled each other for control over the pillow, laughing the whole time. Leah looked away, a pang in her heart at the sight of them together. It reminded Leah that in their group, she was a fifth wheel.
Chilling music, followed by sounds of strangled sobs and hitching breaths, sent a shiver down her spine. On the television screen, the killer claimed his next victim, and Leah put a hand over her eyes too late to avoid the sight. She crinkled her nose. “On that note, I’m going to go splash some water on my face. Maybe it’ll help me stay awake.”
Maybe it would give David and Kara the chance to have The Talk, but she doubted it would happen. It would take an act of divine intervention to get them to admit their feelings for each other and finally start dating. Neither of them noticed as Leah crossed the game room and made her way down the hall to the bathroom. Good. At least they wouldn’t pick up on how alone, how odd-girl-out, she felt.
The cool water invigorated Leah as it splashed against her skin. She wiped her hands and patted her face dry with a towel, meeting her wide-set green eyes in the mirror. In the florescent lighting, her fair complexion shone snow-pale, ghostly pale, even though she’d already started working on a summer tan. It was a hopeless cause.
Jenny and Kevin should have been here by now. Or at least Kevin should have. He didn’t have to babysit tonight. Leah’s nerves would ease, at least a little, once all her friends arrived safely. It would definitely make her feel better to hear Kevin say he hadn’t seen anything strange by the cemetery. That’s where it would start, if anywhere, and he lived the closest to it.
The lights flickered, then went out. Leah jumped, startled, as darkness enveloped her. Her breaths quickened. Only then did she notice the scent of cucumber-melon air freshener. She felt for the light switch and managed to find it, but flicking it up and down did nothing. Her hand paused midway toward the doorknob as a bright flash in the mirror caught her gaze. She froze. Where was that light coming from? This bathroom didn’t have a window.
It was coming from the mirror!
Rooted to the spot in terror, Leah saw the images in fragments. A soft glow of white light amid the trees. A blonde girl struggling out on the church grounds to protect herself and her sister--the Stanford twins!--against a man with ice-blue eyes. Strange symbols on his weapon that emitted a burst of green phaser fire. One sister crumpled, while the man’ s son chased the other into the woods. A wave of a hand, and shattered glass reassembling itself. Lightning bolts of electricity from a dark, cloaked figure. A body, small and slender, falling to the floor--Jenny? A hole in the ground, surrounded by headstones.
She stepped back, toward implied safety. That did not just happen. Images of danger and death did not appear in her mirror. Oh, God, they did. The last trace shadows of a freshly dug grave, now covered, lingered in the glass.
“What is that?” Leah’s voice sounded small and tight to her ears in this enclosed space. She rubbed her arms in a vain effort to warm herself. Goosebumps prickled all along them. Dread seized her, settling like lead in the pit of her stomach.
Leah blinked as the images disappeared, leaving her in complete blackness again. She had to get out of here. Heart pounding in her chest, she fumbled for the doorknob, barely restraining the impulse to pound the door like a crazy person when her fingers failed to find it. Out in the game room, the sliding glass door slid open. Kevin was saying something to David and Kara, but his words were muffled, indistinct. He sounded worried, though. A jolt of fear shot through her. What if Kevin was telling them Jenny had been hurt, or worse, just like the mirror had shown?
“Leah, come on,” David called.
“Coming!” Her hand finally grasped the doorknob. When she turned it and pushed, the bathroom door wouldn’t budge. She pushed again, harder. The door still didn’t move. “Guys, wait! I’m stuck.”
Their only reply was the sliding glass door slamming shut.
“Help me get out of here!” Leah pounded the door, frantic now. Nobody came. They must have already gone outside, leaving her trapped here with these images while they faced whatever dangers lurked in the cemetery. She had to help them, warn them about what she saw. She threw her body against the door to force it open. It stayed in place, stubborn. Again and again she tried, until her shoulder ached so badly she had to stop.
Wait. She would not let a little power outage freak her out. She couldn’t have actually seen those things in the mirror, anyway. No, they were just a product of her wild imagination, fueled by her fears about tonight. Besides, the others would be back for her when they realized she wasn’t coming, wouldn’t they?
‘Use logic to rule out possibilities until you’re left with the correct explanation’, Dad would say. Logically, it made the most sense to believe she’d imagined it all.
But what if it was real?
‘Trust your instincts’, Mom would say. The last time she’d had an instinct something awful was about to happen, Mom and Dad got into a bad car crash on the way home from a movie after she’d begged them not to go out that night. And the time before that, Jenny would have died of complications from surgery if Leah hadn’t told Mrs. Taylor to take her back to the hospital.
Maybe she’d experienced those glimpses for a reason. Maybe she’d gotten trapped in here, with no other option but to face her fears, for a reason. If it meant finding out what might happen so she could protect herself and the people she loved, Leah wanted, no, needed, to know.
The mirror lit with an eerie glow again, as if responding to her desire. All thoughts of fleeing gone, she peered in closer, willing the images to become clearer.
Genre: Young Adult Science Fiction
Title: The MirrorMasters
Leah Ellis stretched her legs. She had been curled up on the couch so long her knees ached. The old horror movie her brother and best friend picked was almost over. Why would they choose a movie like that, tonight...of all nights, even if they’d made it an annual tradition? Next time, she would pick the film. She brushed back a stray lock of blond hair and tried to focus, but anxiety, loud and unrelenting as alarm bells ringing in her head, fragmented her thoughts. She turned to David and Kara, who were sitting, engrossed, on the love seat. “Let’s watch something light, a comedy, when the others get here.”
She’d busted her skinny behind in AP English, Algebra, and Biology all year, and she’d earned a carefree summer working part-time as a babysitter and laying out on the beach with her friends. Tomorrow, that summer would be hers, so long as she could get through tonight unscathed.
“We should go out to the cemetery after the movie,” Kara said, her blue eyes sparkling. Long auburn hair spilled around her as she leaned down to retrieve her soda from the coffee table.
Sure. Why wait for trouble to find us when we can seek it out and bring it right here?
It was the eve of the town tragedy that happened back in the 1870s, when the Stanford twins, the daughters of the town mayor, were killed. Of course Kara would want to do something scary to commemorate it. Every year, on this date, something strange happened, like mysterious pulses of light in the forest and not-quite-solid figures that appeared in the cemetery one second and disappeared the next.
Leah hated the thrill of horror--and fascination--that ran through her whenever she imagined what happened, what it all might mean.
She couldn’t help glancing over at the sliding glass doors out toward the church beyond, checking for any signs of unusual activity. Her hands started to fidget, and she fought to still them. Leah thought she could just make out the sounds of otherworldly voices outside, speaking in urgent whispers. She listened. A gust of wind rustled the palm trees, obscuring any other noise and causing moonlight and shadows to flit across the lawn.
“No.” Leah leaned back against the sofa, taking a bite of popcorn for a bit of self-comforting. “No way, Kara. I’m not playing around with that stuff. If there are ghosts, or aliens, or whatever, I don’t want to know about it. And I sure don’t want us going to confront them.”
Kara pulled a puppy face, complete with irresistible dimples. “Aren’t you the least bit curious? They lived in your house. They could still be here.”
Leah rolled her eyes, but her anxiety was starting to get the best of her again. “Don’t give me that look!” She laughed, in an effort to act casual, and held up a pillow to cover her face. She appealed to her brother. “David, talk some sense into her.”
She couldn’t bring herself to tell either of them how rattled she was. If David knew, he’d tease her mercilessly. Kara, with her love of all things sci-fi and paranormal, would never understand.
“Oh, I don’t know. What’s the harm? Unless you’re too scared to see what happens.” David grinned, his brown eyes crinkling with mischief.
Kara leaned over and ruffled his sandy blond hair. “See? Even David’s game.”
Leah shook her head and gave her a knowing smile. Of course he would be game for whatever Kara wanted to do. She threw her pillow at him. “David, you don’t even believe in that stuff.”
“Hey!” David caught the pillow easily and tossed it back at her. “Ergo, there’s no harm in going.”
Leah laughed and raised her arm to block his throw. “You don’t know that.”
Kara grabbed the pillow and whacked David with it. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”
Their eyes lit up as they wrestled each other for control over the pillow, laughing the whole time. Leah looked away, a pang in her heart at the sight of them together. It reminded Leah that in their group, she was a fifth wheel.
Chilling music, followed by sounds of strangled sobs and hitching breaths, sent a shiver down her spine. On the television screen, the killer claimed his next victim, and Leah put a hand over her eyes too late to avoid the sight. She crinkled her nose. “On that note, I’m going to go splash some water on my face. Maybe it’ll help me stay awake.”
Maybe it would give David and Kara the chance to have The Talk, but she doubted it would happen. It would take an act of divine intervention to get them to admit their feelings for each other and finally start dating. Neither of them noticed as Leah crossed the game room and made her way down the hall to the bathroom. Good. At least they wouldn’t pick up on how alone, how odd-girl-out, she felt.
The cool water invigorated Leah as it splashed against her skin. She wiped her hands and patted her face dry with a towel, meeting her wide-set green eyes in the mirror. In the florescent lighting, her fair complexion shone snow-pale, ghostly pale, even though she’d already started working on a summer tan. It was a hopeless cause.
Jenny and Kevin should have been here by now. Or at least Kevin should have. He didn’t have to babysit tonight. Leah’s nerves would ease, at least a little, once all her friends arrived safely. It would definitely make her feel better to hear Kevin say he hadn’t seen anything strange by the cemetery. That’s where it would start, if anywhere, and he lived the closest to it.
The lights flickered, then went out. Leah jumped, startled, as darkness enveloped her. Her breaths quickened. Only then did she notice the scent of cucumber-melon air freshener. She felt for the light switch and managed to find it, but flicking it up and down did nothing. Her hand paused midway toward the doorknob as a bright flash in the mirror caught her gaze. She froze. Where was that light coming from? This bathroom didn’t have a window.
It was coming from the mirror!
Rooted to the spot in terror, Leah saw the images in fragments. A soft glow of white light amid the trees. A blonde girl struggling out on the church grounds to protect herself and her sister--the Stanford twins!--against a man with ice-blue eyes. Strange symbols on his weapon that emitted a burst of green phaser fire. One sister crumpled, while the man’ s son chased the other into the woods. A wave of a hand, and shattered glass reassembling itself. Lightning bolts of electricity from a dark, cloaked figure. A body, small and slender, falling to the floor--Jenny? A hole in the ground, surrounded by headstones.
She stepped back, toward implied safety. That did not just happen. Images of danger and death did not appear in her mirror. Oh, God, they did. The last trace shadows of a freshly dug grave, now covered, lingered in the glass.
“What is that?” Leah’s voice sounded small and tight to her ears in this enclosed space. She rubbed her arms in a vain effort to warm herself. Goosebumps prickled all along them. Dread seized her, settling like lead in the pit of her stomach.
Leah blinked as the images disappeared, leaving her in complete blackness again. She had to get out of here. Heart pounding in her chest, she fumbled for the doorknob, barely restraining the impulse to pound the door like a crazy person when her fingers failed to find it. Out in the game room, the sliding glass door slid open. Kevin was saying something to David and Kara, but his words were muffled, indistinct. He sounded worried, though. A jolt of fear shot through her. What if Kevin was telling them Jenny had been hurt, or worse, just like the mirror had shown?
“Leah, come on,” David called.
“Coming!” Her hand finally grasped the doorknob. When she turned it and pushed, the bathroom door wouldn’t budge. She pushed again, harder. The door still didn’t move. “Guys, wait! I’m stuck.”
Their only reply was the sliding glass door slamming shut.
“Help me get out of here!” Leah pounded the door, frantic now. Nobody came. They must have already gone outside, leaving her trapped here with these images while they faced whatever dangers lurked in the cemetery. She had to help them, warn them about what she saw. She threw her body against the door to force it open. It stayed in place, stubborn. Again and again she tried, until her shoulder ached so badly she had to stop.
Wait. She would not let a little power outage freak her out. She couldn’t have actually seen those things in the mirror, anyway. No, they were just a product of her wild imagination, fueled by her fears about tonight. Besides, the others would be back for her when they realized she wasn’t coming, wouldn’t they?
‘Use logic to rule out possibilities until you’re left with the correct explanation’, Dad would say. Logically, it made the most sense to believe she’d imagined it all.
But what if it was real?
‘Trust your instincts’, Mom would say. The last time she’d had an instinct something awful was about to happen, Mom and Dad got into a bad car crash on the way home from a movie after she’d begged them not to go out that night. And the time before that, Jenny would have died of complications from surgery if Leah hadn’t told Mrs. Taylor to take her back to the hospital.
Maybe she’d experienced those glimpses for a reason. Maybe she’d gotten trapped in here, with no other option but to face her fears, for a reason. If it meant finding out what might happen so she could protect herself and the people she loved, Leah wanted, no, needed, to know.
The mirror lit with an eerie glow again, as if responding to her desire. All thoughts of fleeing gone, she peered in closer, willing the images to become clearer.
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