Name: Sunni Yuen
Genre: Young Adult Sci-Fi
Title: The Germ Factory
Saskia splayed her fingers over the old-fashioned cash register. The muted sheen of the long brass keys reflected the pink of her nail polish. Perfect. It was a drowsy spot in the afternoon, and she reveled in the quiet, which was surprising considering she had company. She looked away from the register to her left, where Chloe Lim leafed through the dog-eared pages of a detective novel Saskia did not recognize. Across the counter, March was absorbed with applying a bead of Elmer’s glue to his stamp book. Stamps were his latest obsession. Good. They were entertaining themselves without mucking about the store.
She gazed down the sun-dappled aisles, inhaling the comforting scent of paprika and honey. The shelves were laden with bottles of sunflower seed oil, chocolate wafers, and loaves of poppy-seed bread. The beets and pickles glowed ruby and moss green in their jars.
The corner of Saskia’s mouth twitched upwards. She had worked hard all summer at the till and stocking inventory to show Uncle Peter she could run the store. And now, it was actually happening. She, Saskia Brennan, age fifteen, one week shy of high school, was managing the store without any adult supervision. Once school started, she could work late afternoons and weekends freeing Uncle Peter to focus on his research.
“Why are you smiling? No one else is here,” Chloe asked. She wore a petulant expression and slumped low on her stool, legs dangling.
“I’m here,” March said without looking up from his stamps.
“I meant customers. People who matter,” Chloe amended before she clamped her lips around a red braid of licorice and sucked hard.
Saskia suppressed a sigh. That behavior might be tolerated from a ten-year-old like March but definitely not a high school student. Sometimes she found it hard to believe Chloe used to be her closest friend. But that was before Chloe fell in with the computer geek crowd and began rejecting anything mainstream. At least March was still the same boisterous boy, even if he was a pain-in-the-neck to his sister. But that was Chloe’s problem.
“Don’t listen to her, Saskia,” March said. “Chloe’s grumpy because she wants to play that dumb computer game but Mom and Dad made us come here.”
Chloe slipped her licorice in the centerfold of her open paperback and snapped the covers together. “Excuse me, dumb game?”
“Dumb and boring. All you do is shoot smoke rings in Pig’s Quest,” March taunted.
“Pygmalion’s Quest isn’t about brainless button-mashing,” Chloe declared. “It’s about design. You pick an avatar and you decide what special powers it gets by writing code. Like firebolts for my mage! I had to work out the physics of the temperature and the speed depending on the angle.”
“So if a robber attacks, Chloe can save us!” March laughed.
“Can we please not talk about robbers?” Saskia interrupted. She wasn’t superstitious but she could not help glancing out the window. Luckily, the street was clear. A robber was the last thing she wanted to think about on her first day working unsupervised.
Chloe’s eyes shone. “March brought up robbers, not me. But there’s more. The first team to finish Pygmalion’s Quest gets to help design the next game from Fossilware. I mean they’re only the most cutting-edge developer ever! It’s pure torture to be this close and not finish when school is about to get in the way.”
“Get in the way?” Saskia shook her head. “Gee Chloe, high school actually matters. You need to join the debate club or Model UN and build your resume, learn to put on makeup, dance with boys–” Seeing Chloe flail her arms about in a mock waltz, Saskia pressed her lips together. Chloe needed to grow up, badly. Saskia only endured her out of respect for Uncle Peter, who remained close to the Lims.
“What should I be learning?” asked March in what Saskia recognized as his give-me-attention tone.
“Fractions and to stop rolling down hills like a feral child,” Saskia said and she jabbed a key on the register for emphasis. The metallic clang punctuated the silence followed by tinkling wind chimes. A customer had arrived. Good thing too because March looked like he was about to ask and discover what “feral” meant, which would have resulted in an argument.
The customer hovered inside the entrance. He was tall and his broad shoulders were hunched over in a rumpled trench coat that fluttered to his ankles. He wore a battered fedora, under which Saskia could see a deeply lined forehead. He looked haggard. He wordlessly surveyed the store, eyes roving down the aisles to the back where Uncle Peter kept his workshop.
Saskia tossed her hair over her shoulder and greeted the man with a weak smile. She walked up to him and offered a pair of tongs and wax envelope. “Can I help you?” She spoke in her most grown-up voice.
He leaned close, and she caught the odor of burnt matches and sour yeast. He licked his lips. “Where’s the hive?”
“Excuse me?” Saskia’s nostrils curled. There was something unsettling about this man. His hand kept drifting to the pocket by his left hip, as if he sought to reassure himself that something was still there.
“The hive,” he repeated as he took the tongs and envelope from Saskia. “Where is it?”
“If you’re looking for honey,” Saskia said, fishing for comprehension. “It’s in the far left aisle.”
The man lumbered in that direction, pockets clinking. Saskia watched him stoop over the bins and snatch handfuls of dried apricots, toffee, and black pepper crusted walnuts. These he jammed into the same wax envelope. It was going to be a headache to ring him up.
The man had opened a jar of beets and was now running his finger along the inner rim. He stuck it in his mouth and smacked his lips. “Trace remnants of elementals.” He whistled softly, rapping on the walls. “Where are you hiding?”
Saskia stiffened. What was he rambling about? He patted the pocket by his left hip again, briefly flashing a black metal handle. Saskia craned her neck for a better view from behind the counter. A finger jabbed her forearm and she nearly yelped.
“See the pocket by his left hip? There’s an L-shaped object inside. I think—I think it’s a gun!” Chloe whispered.
“Don’t be ridiculous. This isn’t a game,” Saskia growled under her breath but she trained her eyes on the trench coat. The man was now in the back of the store near Uncle Peter’s workbench. That pocket was out of her line of sight but she could see others. Did they conceal weapons? There was a flash of silver. She squinted at the reflection in the rear wall-mounted mirror. No, just a pair of tongs. Wait, tongs. The store’s tongs. Another pocket gaped open, revealing the bottle cap of ginger beer, also from the store. She watched in shock as Uncle Peter’s microscope slid neatly into the same pocket.
Saskia seized Chloe’s elbow and pulled her to the back of the store. The man was hunched over the paper, tools, and gears scattered across the workbench. His right thumb repeatedly flicked a lighter on and off. “The hive is in the safe,” he muttered. “Safe. If they won’t give it to us, we’ll break in and smoke’m. Smoke’m all out.”
Safe? Smoke? Saskia’s mouth contorted as he brought the lighter towards the corner of Uncle Peter’s notebook.
First Five Pages Writing Workshop: Jump Start Your Novel and Career
Monday, September 23, 2013
1st 5 Pages September Workshop - Noser Rev 2
Name: Ann M. Noser
Genre: Young Adult Dystopian
Title: The Truth
Chapter 1 - HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO ME
My tenth birthday was the worst day of my life. Dad had to work late, because his replacement didn’t show up on time. Mom and I waited for him to come home.
Five years later, we’re still waiting.
Most kids would’ve requested a Vacation Pass for their fifteenth birthday, but not me. I’d rather forget the whole thing and help Old Gus prepare the chilled bodies in the hospital mortuary. I drag myself out of bed and pull on teal blue scrubs.
I fumble for socks and shoes, and a ray of early sunlight glints off my dad’s picture hanging on the wall. Once again, his blue eyes capture mine, as if he needs to tell me something important. On the floor beneath the photo sits a memory trunk full of how things used to be. But I won’t open it today. I just can’t.
Dishes clink in the kitchen. Mom calls out, “Hurry up, Silvia. I’ve got a surprise for you.”
She sounds happy, but I can’t tell if it’s real. Since Dad’s death, both of us have done a lot of pretending. So far this year we’ve been able to avoid Psychotherapy Services and Mandated Medication, but sometimes I think I was sent down to Mortuary Services to push me over the edge. Fortunately, I find autopsies intriguing, not depressing. And since I never got to see Dad’s body after the accident, caring for other people’s deceased soothes the empty ache inside.
So does Gus. He’s better than any anti-anxiety med. He always knows what to say and what not to say to me.
Too bad Mom doesn’t have a clue.
Mom glances up from her green tea as I enter the modular kitchen. “I planned a big surprise for your birthday.”
I tense. “What is it?”
Mom slides over a bowl of organic oatmeal topped with raspberries, a special treat. “I got us Park and Art passes today.”
“I’m not hungry.” I shake my head. “And Gus is expecting me.”
“No, he’s not. He knows all about it. I told him weeks ago.”
“Really? Gus must be good at keeping secrets. He never even wished me ‘happy birthday’ yesterday.”
Which proves he knows me better than Mom does.
She frowns. “You should eat something, even if you’re not hungry. And if it makes you feel better, just pretend it isn’t your birthday. It’s some other day instead. A good day, not a bad one.”
I want to protest some more, but there’s a determined gleam in Mom’s eyes—one that hasn’t been there for a long time. And I don’t want to be the one to snuff it out.
I halfheartedly take a few bites of breakfast, swallow my eight prescribed supplements, then return to my bedroom to change into jeans and a long-sleeved green T-shirt. All my clothes are soft and plain, without decoration, made by hands like my father’s. Only Dad proved himself to be Gifted, so he didn’t make Basic Worker Level clothes for long. Instead, he got promoted to Government Level clothing production—a promotion which cost him his life.
“Hurry up!” Mom calls from the front door.
We clamber down six flights of stairs in the brightly-lit stairwell. Once we reach the main floor, we push out the airlock into the early morning rush of people flooding the streets. Dashing across the busy bike path and an empty car lane, we finally reach the closest walk way. Traffic is orderly today. No bikers stray from their lanes into ours. Men and women wearing blue scrubs of various shades hurry towards the hospitals and medical facilities. Those in green coveralls rush towards the monorail station to speed off to one of the numerous Plant and Protein Production Facilities.
I glance back at a beautiful dark-skinned woman, and try not to feel envious of her green uniform. Normally, I don’t mind my job. In fact, I feel more at home in the mortuary than anywhere else. But part of me still longs to spend all day surrounded by plants. Nothing can be done about it now. The Occupation Exam is over, and I’ve been placed where I’m most effective.
We march past rows of buildings, offices on the first two floors and apartments up above. People whoosh past us on bikes, as those on foot press constantly forward. Only the car lane remains empty, as usual.
We make good time until we hit the Citizen Family Planning and Redistribution Building. Traffic stalls. A crowd of walkers fidget in place ahead of us. I shiver a little in the cool morning breeze.
“What’s going on?” Mom cranes her neck and rises up on her toes. “Can you see?”
Indistinct voices argue up ahead. Strangers murmur around us, but avoid making eye contact. After a long pause, the crowd begins to shuffle past the building. A few cast furtive glances over their shoulders. Everyone’s in a hurry to get somewhere. Now I see who is causing the fuss. A red-haired girl who looks to be about my age shoves an orderly away. The crowd behind us pushes forward. Tears stream down the girl’s pale face. She backs away from the building and turns as if to run. Then she cries out in pain, and clutches her swollen belly, breathing hard.
In her moment of weakness, the orderlies surround and restrain her.
“I won’t do it! I won’t do it!” the pregnant girl screams as they drag her away.
Genre: Young Adult Dystopian
Title: The Truth
Chapter 1 - HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO ME
My tenth birthday was the worst day of my life. Dad had to work late, because his replacement didn’t show up on time. Mom and I waited for him to come home.
Five years later, we’re still waiting.
Most kids would’ve requested a Vacation Pass for their fifteenth birthday, but not me. I’d rather forget the whole thing and help Old Gus prepare the chilled bodies in the hospital mortuary. I drag myself out of bed and pull on teal blue scrubs.
I fumble for socks and shoes, and a ray of early sunlight glints off my dad’s picture hanging on the wall. Once again, his blue eyes capture mine, as if he needs to tell me something important. On the floor beneath the photo sits a memory trunk full of how things used to be. But I won’t open it today. I just can’t.
Dishes clink in the kitchen. Mom calls out, “Hurry up, Silvia. I’ve got a surprise for you.”
She sounds happy, but I can’t tell if it’s real. Since Dad’s death, both of us have done a lot of pretending. So far this year we’ve been able to avoid Psychotherapy Services and Mandated Medication, but sometimes I think I was sent down to Mortuary Services to push me over the edge. Fortunately, I find autopsies intriguing, not depressing. And since I never got to see Dad’s body after the accident, caring for other people’s deceased soothes the empty ache inside.
So does Gus. He’s better than any anti-anxiety med. He always knows what to say and what not to say to me.
Too bad Mom doesn’t have a clue.
Mom glances up from her green tea as I enter the modular kitchen. “I planned a big surprise for your birthday.”
I tense. “What is it?”
Mom slides over a bowl of organic oatmeal topped with raspberries, a special treat. “I got us Park and Art passes today.”
“I’m not hungry.” I shake my head. “And Gus is expecting me.”
“No, he’s not. He knows all about it. I told him weeks ago.”
“Really? Gus must be good at keeping secrets. He never even wished me ‘happy birthday’ yesterday.”
Which proves he knows me better than Mom does.
She frowns. “You should eat something, even if you’re not hungry. And if it makes you feel better, just pretend it isn’t your birthday. It’s some other day instead. A good day, not a bad one.”
I want to protest some more, but there’s a determined gleam in Mom’s eyes—one that hasn’t been there for a long time. And I don’t want to be the one to snuff it out.
I halfheartedly take a few bites of breakfast, swallow my eight prescribed supplements, then return to my bedroom to change into jeans and a long-sleeved green T-shirt. All my clothes are soft and plain, without decoration, made by hands like my father’s. Only Dad proved himself to be Gifted, so he didn’t make Basic Worker Level clothes for long. Instead, he got promoted to Government Level clothing production—a promotion which cost him his life.
“Hurry up!” Mom calls from the front door.
We clamber down six flights of stairs in the brightly-lit stairwell. Once we reach the main floor, we push out the airlock into the early morning rush of people flooding the streets. Dashing across the busy bike path and an empty car lane, we finally reach the closest walk way. Traffic is orderly today. No bikers stray from their lanes into ours. Men and women wearing blue scrubs of various shades hurry towards the hospitals and medical facilities. Those in green coveralls rush towards the monorail station to speed off to one of the numerous Plant and Protein Production Facilities.
I glance back at a beautiful dark-skinned woman, and try not to feel envious of her green uniform. Normally, I don’t mind my job. In fact, I feel more at home in the mortuary than anywhere else. But part of me still longs to spend all day surrounded by plants. Nothing can be done about it now. The Occupation Exam is over, and I’ve been placed where I’m most effective.
We march past rows of buildings, offices on the first two floors and apartments up above. People whoosh past us on bikes, as those on foot press constantly forward. Only the car lane remains empty, as usual.
We make good time until we hit the Citizen Family Planning and Redistribution Building. Traffic stalls. A crowd of walkers fidget in place ahead of us. I shiver a little in the cool morning breeze.
“What’s going on?” Mom cranes her neck and rises up on her toes. “Can you see?”
Indistinct voices argue up ahead. Strangers murmur around us, but avoid making eye contact. After a long pause, the crowd begins to shuffle past the building. A few cast furtive glances over their shoulders. Everyone’s in a hurry to get somewhere. Now I see who is causing the fuss. A red-haired girl who looks to be about my age shoves an orderly away. The crowd behind us pushes forward. Tears stream down the girl’s pale face. She backs away from the building and turns as if to run. Then she cries out in pain, and clutches her swollen belly, breathing hard.
In her moment of weakness, the orderlies surround and restrain her.
“I won’t do it! I won’t do it!” the pregnant girl screams as they drag her away.
1st 5 Pages September Workshop - Rothschild Rev 2
Name: Peggy Rothschild
Genre: Young Adult
Title: Punishment Summer
CHAPTER 1
“Wake up, Nicki.”
Fingers dug into my shoulders, strong hands shook me. When I opened my eyes, the world tilted. Drank way too much last night. Dad’s face loomed above, pale in the light cast by my bedside lamp. “What time is it?”
He shook his head. “Never mind that. You need to pack your stuff. Now.”
“What?”
“You’re going to your grandpa’s. For the summer. Get up. Grab everything you’ll need. It’s cold up there. Pack your boots, heavy socks, that wool jacket. You’ve got fifteen minutes.”
Caught between dreaming and reality, I sat up, rubbed my face. Felt real. “Why am I going to Grandpa’s?”
Dad took a noisy breath. “I know you snuck out two weeks ago. And again last night.”
“I-”
“Don’t. I saw the pictures on Gemma’s Facebook page. Grounding you isn’t getting the job done.”
“So you’re shipping me off to Grandpa’s?” Tears burned my eyes. “I screw up and you send me away? How is that fair?”
“Fair? You want to talk about fair?” The roar of his voice made my head throb. “In a fair world, I’d have two daughters. In a fair world, you’d have two parents. Life isn’t fair. You should know that by now.” He strode to the door then turned, a grimace twisting his face. In the half-light, he no longer looked like my dad.
“Get packed. And brush your teeth. Your breath stinks of smoke and Schlitz.”
I stumbled out of bed, tottered to the closet and pushed aside the shoes piled on top of my duffle bag. Dad knew me, knew I wouldn’t dig in my heels. I was a wheedler and a runner, but not a fighter. I clenched my hands, trying to stop their trembling. Dad had a short fuse. Over the years, I’d gotten pretty good at hiding the kind of behavior that set him off. I hadn’t seen him this mad since-
My stomach lurched. No. Thinking about that was a mistake. My insides already felt rocky enough. Though groggy and queasy, I must’ve set some kind of speed record for packing.
No joke about the time limit. Exactly fifteen minutes later, Dad hustled me outside, my hair uncombed and wearing pajama bottoms instead of jeans. But I’d stuffed everything I’d need to survive the summer into the duffle and a knapsack. Once I got settled inside the car, it hit me: I’d crossed the line Dad cared about most. A deep crease bisected his forehead. His jaw looked carved from stone. Making Dad mad always gave me the gut-rumbles. I closed my eyes, wishing I could hit ‘rewind’, get a do-over for last night. Hell, the party hadn’t even been fun. At least not for me. Watching Gemma hold hands with my sort-of boyfriend wasn’t my idea of a good time. It was also why I drank so much.
A stay at Grandpa’s looked unavoidable. But, getting sent away for the whole summer because I snuck out twice? Over-react much? Typical Dad move. I slid a glance his way; he looked mad enough to chew concrete. Better wait until he calmed down before I tried pleading my case.
To show him I was mad, too, I tried forty-five minutes of stony silence as we sped north. But, since we didn’t talk much at the best of times, I wasn’t sure he noticed the difference. When he pulled off the freeway and into a drive-through south of LAX, he finally spoke. “Here.” He passed me a breakfast burrito then zoomed out of the shopping center, one hand holding his food, the other gripping the wheel.
My stomach wobbled after last night’s combined beer and tequila binge. Slumped, knees against the dashboard, I nibbled the tortilla where it folded over like an envelope. After the first few tidbits settled, I took a full bite, then stared out at the housing tracts as they blurred by.
North of Bakersfield, tall glass buildings gave way to squat stucco homes, every mile bringing me closer to a summer with Grandpa. So unfair. Still, when Dad was good and pissed, yelling back never fixed things. That much I knew. Maybe I could talk him into reducing my sentence, only spend half the summer in exile. Get home before Gemma helped Scott forget all about me. I took a deep breath. “I shouldn’t have snuck out and gone to Gemma’s. It was stupid. But I didn’t know it would turn into a party. I only wanted to have some fun.”
“Fun?” The car veered into the next lane. A horn blared. Dad jerked the wheel, bringing us back between the lines. “You and your friends were drinking, smoking pot. I saw the photos.”
I’d rip Gemma a new one for posting those. Talk about stupid.
Oh no. A fuzzy memory took shape: Me laughing my ass off while Gemma and I huddled over her iPhone. Had I been idiot enough to help her? Talk about the dangers of alcohol. “You should see the stuff other kids post.”
“Other kids aren’t my concern. You are.”
Dad gave me a lot of freedom. I chalked that up to his sadness over our Incredible Shrinking Family. But pot and alcohol remained his big constant ‘no.’ When I turned sixteen last year, he grew increasingly rabid on the topic. The result of Single-Surviving-Child Syndrome. OK, not a documentable condition, but real in my world. Maybe this was fixable. “You’re right. I’m sorry. It was immature.” Dad liked me to strive for maturity.
“Immature? Try stupid. Try dangerous. This isn’t the first time. Or the second. I hoped that you… After what we’ve been through…” He shook his head. “I can’t even talk to you right now.”
So that was that. No turning back. Chugging along in Dad’s Smart Car with everything I owned – well, everything I cared enough about to pack in fifteen minutes – shoved behind my seat and in a knapsack at my feet. Heading to some kind of midpoint for the state: Nowheresville, California. Dad says I met Grandpa when I was four, but I don’t remember. Obviously he didn’t care much about me – he never sent birthday cards or presents. Never called. Not even after the fire.
I jerked awake, stared out of the dirt-spattered window. The two-lane road was empty except for our car parked on the shoulder. No nearby buildings either. Just a lot of trees and bushes. My brain banged against the inside of my skull. Should’ve asked Dad for a soda when we stopped for breakfast. Or not drunk so much last night. “Where are we?”
“Your grandpa’s picking you up here.” Dad checked his watch. “We’re a couple minutes early.”
Must’ve dozed through half the state. Hard to believe I fell asleep with my feet jammed under the knapsack and tension pretzeling my guts. “You can’t be serious about this. I screwed up. But sending me off with a stranger… That’s way too harsh.”
“He’s not a stranger.”
“Right. I feel super-close to the guy. I don’t even know what he looks like.”
“You’re staying with your grandpa. End of discussion.” Dad pulled off his sunglasses and massaged the bridge of his nose. “When he gets here, don’t try to drag things out. He hates coming in to the city.”
I glanced at the dusty road and scrub-covered hills. “What city?” I kicked my knapsack. “This is so un-” I caught myself. I didn’t want to hear another rant about fairness. “Uncool.”
Dad snorted. “I’m doing this for your own good. Use this summer to grow up. Not play at being grown up – like your friends. Take on some responsibility. Try to figure out who you are.”
“Sending me to Grandpa’s will do that for me?”
“Nicole, nothing and no one’s going to do that for you. You’ve got to do it yourself.”
“Whatever.” I slumped down, which was tricky considering the lack of legroom.
A gray pickup pulled onto the shoulder in front of Dad’s car. Dust filled the air, making it hard to see the driver. When he stepped from the cab, he looked eight feet tall – at least from where I slouched.
“Wait here.” Dad climbed out.
If this meeting went badly, Dad might take me home.
The two hugged.
Crap. Not a good sign reprieve-wise. They talked for a few minutes before Dad signaled me to join them. I sighed. No stay of execution. I yanked my bag from the narrow space behind the seat, hoisted my knapsack onto my shoulder then dragged my feet and the duffle across the dirt.
Grandpa wasn’t actually eight-feet-tall, but he stood well over six. Dressed in a plaid flannel shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows, ropey muscles showed along his forearms. With his iron-gray hair shooting out around his head, he looked a little crazy. But his gray-green eyes were a match with Dad’s. Grandpa’s gaze flitted from me to the highway, like he was anxious to get a move on.
“You’ve grown a lot since I saw you last, Nicole. What are you – five-six, five-seven?”
“I go by Nicki. And I’m five-seven-and-a-half.”
“That all your stuff?”
“Everything I had time to grab.” I glared at Dad. Grandpa hoisted my duffle like it was empty and tossed it into the back of the pickup. I held on to my knapsack.
“Be good.” Dad leaned down to give me a kiss. I turned away. His lips grazed the side of my head. “See you at the end of summer.”
I climbed onto the passenger seat, slammed the door and didn’t look back.
Grandpa made a U-turn then gunned the engine. We rocketed along the empty road. Away from my dad. Away from my life.
Genre: Young Adult
Title: Punishment Summer
CHAPTER 1
“Wake up, Nicki.”
Fingers dug into my shoulders, strong hands shook me. When I opened my eyes, the world tilted. Drank way too much last night. Dad’s face loomed above, pale in the light cast by my bedside lamp. “What time is it?”
He shook his head. “Never mind that. You need to pack your stuff. Now.”
“What?”
“You’re going to your grandpa’s. For the summer. Get up. Grab everything you’ll need. It’s cold up there. Pack your boots, heavy socks, that wool jacket. You’ve got fifteen minutes.”
Caught between dreaming and reality, I sat up, rubbed my face. Felt real. “Why am I going to Grandpa’s?”
Dad took a noisy breath. “I know you snuck out two weeks ago. And again last night.”
“I-”
“Don’t. I saw the pictures on Gemma’s Facebook page. Grounding you isn’t getting the job done.”
“So you’re shipping me off to Grandpa’s?” Tears burned my eyes. “I screw up and you send me away? How is that fair?”
“Fair? You want to talk about fair?” The roar of his voice made my head throb. “In a fair world, I’d have two daughters. In a fair world, you’d have two parents. Life isn’t fair. You should know that by now.” He strode to the door then turned, a grimace twisting his face. In the half-light, he no longer looked like my dad.
“Get packed. And brush your teeth. Your breath stinks of smoke and Schlitz.”
I stumbled out of bed, tottered to the closet and pushed aside the shoes piled on top of my duffle bag. Dad knew me, knew I wouldn’t dig in my heels. I was a wheedler and a runner, but not a fighter. I clenched my hands, trying to stop their trembling. Dad had a short fuse. Over the years, I’d gotten pretty good at hiding the kind of behavior that set him off. I hadn’t seen him this mad since-
My stomach lurched. No. Thinking about that was a mistake. My insides already felt rocky enough. Though groggy and queasy, I must’ve set some kind of speed record for packing.
No joke about the time limit. Exactly fifteen minutes later, Dad hustled me outside, my hair uncombed and wearing pajama bottoms instead of jeans. But I’d stuffed everything I’d need to survive the summer into the duffle and a knapsack. Once I got settled inside the car, it hit me: I’d crossed the line Dad cared about most. A deep crease bisected his forehead. His jaw looked carved from stone. Making Dad mad always gave me the gut-rumbles. I closed my eyes, wishing I could hit ‘rewind’, get a do-over for last night. Hell, the party hadn’t even been fun. At least not for me. Watching Gemma hold hands with my sort-of boyfriend wasn’t my idea of a good time. It was also why I drank so much.
A stay at Grandpa’s looked unavoidable. But, getting sent away for the whole summer because I snuck out twice? Over-react much? Typical Dad move. I slid a glance his way; he looked mad enough to chew concrete. Better wait until he calmed down before I tried pleading my case.
To show him I was mad, too, I tried forty-five minutes of stony silence as we sped north. But, since we didn’t talk much at the best of times, I wasn’t sure he noticed the difference. When he pulled off the freeway and into a drive-through south of LAX, he finally spoke. “Here.” He passed me a breakfast burrito then zoomed out of the shopping center, one hand holding his food, the other gripping the wheel.
My stomach wobbled after last night’s combined beer and tequila binge. Slumped, knees against the dashboard, I nibbled the tortilla where it folded over like an envelope. After the first few tidbits settled, I took a full bite, then stared out at the housing tracts as they blurred by.
North of Bakersfield, tall glass buildings gave way to squat stucco homes, every mile bringing me closer to a summer with Grandpa. So unfair. Still, when Dad was good and pissed, yelling back never fixed things. That much I knew. Maybe I could talk him into reducing my sentence, only spend half the summer in exile. Get home before Gemma helped Scott forget all about me. I took a deep breath. “I shouldn’t have snuck out and gone to Gemma’s. It was stupid. But I didn’t know it would turn into a party. I only wanted to have some fun.”
“Fun?” The car veered into the next lane. A horn blared. Dad jerked the wheel, bringing us back between the lines. “You and your friends were drinking, smoking pot. I saw the photos.”
I’d rip Gemma a new one for posting those. Talk about stupid.
Oh no. A fuzzy memory took shape: Me laughing my ass off while Gemma and I huddled over her iPhone. Had I been idiot enough to help her? Talk about the dangers of alcohol. “You should see the stuff other kids post.”
“Other kids aren’t my concern. You are.”
Dad gave me a lot of freedom. I chalked that up to his sadness over our Incredible Shrinking Family. But pot and alcohol remained his big constant ‘no.’ When I turned sixteen last year, he grew increasingly rabid on the topic. The result of Single-Surviving-Child Syndrome. OK, not a documentable condition, but real in my world. Maybe this was fixable. “You’re right. I’m sorry. It was immature.” Dad liked me to strive for maturity.
“Immature? Try stupid. Try dangerous. This isn’t the first time. Or the second. I hoped that you… After what we’ve been through…” He shook his head. “I can’t even talk to you right now.”
So that was that. No turning back. Chugging along in Dad’s Smart Car with everything I owned – well, everything I cared enough about to pack in fifteen minutes – shoved behind my seat and in a knapsack at my feet. Heading to some kind of midpoint for the state: Nowheresville, California. Dad says I met Grandpa when I was four, but I don’t remember. Obviously he didn’t care much about me – he never sent birthday cards or presents. Never called. Not even after the fire.
I jerked awake, stared out of the dirt-spattered window. The two-lane road was empty except for our car parked on the shoulder. No nearby buildings either. Just a lot of trees and bushes. My brain banged against the inside of my skull. Should’ve asked Dad for a soda when we stopped for breakfast. Or not drunk so much last night. “Where are we?”
“Your grandpa’s picking you up here.” Dad checked his watch. “We’re a couple minutes early.”
Must’ve dozed through half the state. Hard to believe I fell asleep with my feet jammed under the knapsack and tension pretzeling my guts. “You can’t be serious about this. I screwed up. But sending me off with a stranger… That’s way too harsh.”
“He’s not a stranger.”
“Right. I feel super-close to the guy. I don’t even know what he looks like.”
“You’re staying with your grandpa. End of discussion.” Dad pulled off his sunglasses and massaged the bridge of his nose. “When he gets here, don’t try to drag things out. He hates coming in to the city.”
I glanced at the dusty road and scrub-covered hills. “What city?” I kicked my knapsack. “This is so un-” I caught myself. I didn’t want to hear another rant about fairness. “Uncool.”
Dad snorted. “I’m doing this for your own good. Use this summer to grow up. Not play at being grown up – like your friends. Take on some responsibility. Try to figure out who you are.”
“Sending me to Grandpa’s will do that for me?”
“Nicole, nothing and no one’s going to do that for you. You’ve got to do it yourself.”
“Whatever.” I slumped down, which was tricky considering the lack of legroom.
A gray pickup pulled onto the shoulder in front of Dad’s car. Dust filled the air, making it hard to see the driver. When he stepped from the cab, he looked eight feet tall – at least from where I slouched.
“Wait here.” Dad climbed out.
If this meeting went badly, Dad might take me home.
The two hugged.
Crap. Not a good sign reprieve-wise. They talked for a few minutes before Dad signaled me to join them. I sighed. No stay of execution. I yanked my bag from the narrow space behind the seat, hoisted my knapsack onto my shoulder then dragged my feet and the duffle across the dirt.
Grandpa wasn’t actually eight-feet-tall, but he stood well over six. Dressed in a plaid flannel shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows, ropey muscles showed along his forearms. With his iron-gray hair shooting out around his head, he looked a little crazy. But his gray-green eyes were a match with Dad’s. Grandpa’s gaze flitted from me to the highway, like he was anxious to get a move on.
“You’ve grown a lot since I saw you last, Nicole. What are you – five-six, five-seven?”
“I go by Nicki. And I’m five-seven-and-a-half.”
“That all your stuff?”
“Everything I had time to grab.” I glared at Dad. Grandpa hoisted my duffle like it was empty and tossed it into the back of the pickup. I held on to my knapsack.
“Be good.” Dad leaned down to give me a kiss. I turned away. His lips grazed the side of my head. “See you at the end of summer.”
I climbed onto the passenger seat, slammed the door and didn’t look back.
Grandpa made a U-turn then gunned the engine. We rocketed along the empty road. Away from my dad. Away from my life.
1st 5 Pages September Workshop - Hinebaugh Rev 2
Name: Olivia Hinebaugh
Genre: Contemporary YA
Title: Lark's Rebellion
I sit here, on my usual log bench, breathing in the fresh air and listening to birds sing and dwelling on my discontentment.
Most of the time I love my life here in Peacesylvania, our mostly-off-the-grid tract of land in almost-middle-of-nowhere Pennsylvania. But more and more, I feel like I do right now: separate.
Across the unlit fire pit, my older brother Hudson sits with his arms wrapped around Rosie while she leans back into him. I told Petie, Rosie’s twin, that it was too hot for cuddling, so he’s been relegated to the log next to Hudson.
I tap my pen on my notebook. There are only three blank pages left in this one, and I was hoping to fill them with lists of how to solve my discontentment and complacency. I need to assert my independence, leave the nest, piss off my parents--which at sixteen-years-old, shouldn’t be that hard. Perhaps it's the heat, but nothing is coming to me, so I slam the notebook shut.
“Seriously, what are we doing here, Hudson?” I ask my brother.
Hudson fidgets. I don’t know how Rosie stands it. He’s suspiciously giddy, even for him.
“Do I need a reason to hang out with my favorite sister?” He asks.
“When it keeps me from dinner,” I answer.
“We finally have a plan.” Hudson looks at me as if I should know what he’s talking about.
“Oh yeah? Are we gonna get high and then go skinny dipping?” I ask in mock excitement.
“I knew we shouldn’t have invited you, Lark. You have such a stick up your ass!” Hudson says. He loves getting high and skinny dipping.
“So why did you?” I stand up, ready to walk the few miles back to the little hamlet of RVs and cabins where we all live.
“I insisted,” Petie confesses. “Everything’s more fun with you. Plus, Hud’s right, we do have an awesome plan.”
“Spill it,” I demand.
“Phase one of operation Eco Warriors,” Petie says. His blue eyes twinkle and crinkle at the corners. It’s part of what makes him irresistible to me.
“Eco Warriors? This isn’t your small time terrorism thing, is it?” I ask. Aside from the consumption of a few illegal substances and driving vehicles without licenses, us Peacesylvanians don’t really break any laws.
Although...this could be an excellent way to rebel. I open my notebook, trying to capture this thought before I get distracted.
Petie continues, oblivious to my brainstorm.
“So, okay. We want people to think, right? To really think about how the choices they make affect the environment. Our neighbors in those sickening, cheap, pieces-of-shit houses really don’t even know. I mean, how could they? They’ve been brainwashed all their lives.”
“Unlike you,” I say. He ignores this quip.
“We don’t want to cause any real harm. We just want to make it slightly more difficult to, you know, waste and whatnot.”
“Phase one’ll be fun, Lark.” Rosie says. She gets really quiet when she’s been smoking, which as soon as she was relieved from childcare duty, she did with a frenzy. She and Hudson belong together.
“So what is phase one?” I ask her.
She reaches into her pocket and pulls out a folding hunting knife.
“You’re gonna stab people,” I say, unimpressed.
“Of course not, Lark! Geez!” Petie says. I’m pushing his buttons this evening. I don’t know why. I genuinely like the guy, but it’s a little too easy and I’m just sort of bored. “We’re slashing tires on those moronic SUVs that they use for grocery shopping. See what I mean? Wasteful.”
“Petie, have you checked your truck’s gas mileage? I doubt it’d get over twenty on the highway,” I tell him.
“Moot point. At least I use it for it’s intended purpose--”
“Cruising around the property with Hudson?” I interrupt.
“--hauling and farm work,” he finishes.
“Well...” I begin, “driving with slashed tires is probably bad for gas mileage.”
It’s a valid point. I’m mostly joking, but I can see that I’ve really hurt Petie’s feelings.
“Really then. Don’t come. I thought you’d be all about this. Last week you were excited about initiating change.” Petie kicks up dust with his work boots and stomps off into the thick brush.
The guilt hits me immediately. He’s nothing but nice to me. And he has a point: I was excited about inciting change. I don’t know what I had in mind, but this isn’t it.
“That was harsh, Lark.” Hudson says under his breath.
“He couldn’t wait to tell you the plan. He really thought you'd be exited,” Rosie says.
“Wow. Thanks. Now I feel like total crap!” I snap. “Petie!” I go after him.
I’m barefoot, which was boneheaded, but I wasn’t planning on picking my way through downed branches and endless tangles of thorns and twigs.
Petie’s sitting in a relatively clear spot. He’s on an old tree trunk that’s half-rotted. I’m surprised it holds his solid weight.
“Petie. That was mean. I’m sorry.” I sit next to him, leaning on the log slowly, relieved when it holds.
“I just thought you were on board. I thought we’d have fun. And I thought it’d be exciting, like when we lifted those cigarettes from Wawa. I’ve never seen you more alive,” Petie says. He reaches over and fiddles with one of my braids in my wild mass of curls in the totally-un-self-conscious way he has.
I know why this memory's significant to him. It was the first time we hooked up. I was high on adrenaline. We only ran a hundred yards or so before he dropped the carton of cigarettes and looked at me in that way. We started making out on the side of the road. It was a magical moment.
Then we smoked the cigarettes. I ruined the moment by throwing up. Cigarettes are gross. Never again. But, of course, like a true gentleman, Petie held my hair and went back to Wawa to buy me a bottle of water, which was a bad idea for two reasons:
1. We had just shoplifted.
2. Bottles of water are terrible for the environment.
The memory softens my feelings toward him. I grab his hand and entwine my fingers with his.
“You’re probably right. It’ll be fun. Do you think they’ll know why we slashed their tires? Plus we need to define what our definition of ‘gas guzzler’ is.”
Petie just smiles. “See. Only you would think of these things.”
“You’re probably right about that,” I smile. “Also, we need to wait until the middle of the night and wear sneakers and dark clothing. And maybe I can borrow chalk from the kids so we can write things like: ‘Ride your bike!’ or ‘Carpool!’ on their driveways.”
I pull open my notebook.
Things to pack:
1. Sneakers
2. Flashlight
3. Chalk
4. Dark clothes
5. Condoms
I tap my pen because I’m sure there are other things that would be useful. Petie puts a calloused hand over mine to stop my tapping. He takes the pen and crosses off the last item on my list.
“I’ve got that covered,” he says.
Genre: Contemporary YA
Title: Lark's Rebellion
I sit here, on my usual log bench, breathing in the fresh air and listening to birds sing and dwelling on my discontentment.
Most of the time I love my life here in Peacesylvania, our mostly-off-the-grid tract of land in almost-middle-of-nowhere Pennsylvania. But more and more, I feel like I do right now: separate.
Across the unlit fire pit, my older brother Hudson sits with his arms wrapped around Rosie while she leans back into him. I told Petie, Rosie’s twin, that it was too hot for cuddling, so he’s been relegated to the log next to Hudson.
I tap my pen on my notebook. There are only three blank pages left in this one, and I was hoping to fill them with lists of how to solve my discontentment and complacency. I need to assert my independence, leave the nest, piss off my parents--which at sixteen-years-old, shouldn’t be that hard. Perhaps it's the heat, but nothing is coming to me, so I slam the notebook shut.
“Seriously, what are we doing here, Hudson?” I ask my brother.
Hudson fidgets. I don’t know how Rosie stands it. He’s suspiciously giddy, even for him.
“Do I need a reason to hang out with my favorite sister?” He asks.
“When it keeps me from dinner,” I answer.
“We finally have a plan.” Hudson looks at me as if I should know what he’s talking about.
“Oh yeah? Are we gonna get high and then go skinny dipping?” I ask in mock excitement.
“I knew we shouldn’t have invited you, Lark. You have such a stick up your ass!” Hudson says. He loves getting high and skinny dipping.
“So why did you?” I stand up, ready to walk the few miles back to the little hamlet of RVs and cabins where we all live.
“I insisted,” Petie confesses. “Everything’s more fun with you. Plus, Hud’s right, we do have an awesome plan.”
“Spill it,” I demand.
“Phase one of operation Eco Warriors,” Petie says. His blue eyes twinkle and crinkle at the corners. It’s part of what makes him irresistible to me.
“Eco Warriors? This isn’t your small time terrorism thing, is it?” I ask. Aside from the consumption of a few illegal substances and driving vehicles without licenses, us Peacesylvanians don’t really break any laws.
Although...this could be an excellent way to rebel. I open my notebook, trying to capture this thought before I get distracted.
Petie continues, oblivious to my brainstorm.
“So, okay. We want people to think, right? To really think about how the choices they make affect the environment. Our neighbors in those sickening, cheap, pieces-of-shit houses really don’t even know. I mean, how could they? They’ve been brainwashed all their lives.”
“Unlike you,” I say. He ignores this quip.
“We don’t want to cause any real harm. We just want to make it slightly more difficult to, you know, waste and whatnot.”
“Phase one’ll be fun, Lark.” Rosie says. She gets really quiet when she’s been smoking, which as soon as she was relieved from childcare duty, she did with a frenzy. She and Hudson belong together.
“So what is phase one?” I ask her.
She reaches into her pocket and pulls out a folding hunting knife.
“You’re gonna stab people,” I say, unimpressed.
“Of course not, Lark! Geez!” Petie says. I’m pushing his buttons this evening. I don’t know why. I genuinely like the guy, but it’s a little too easy and I’m just sort of bored. “We’re slashing tires on those moronic SUVs that they use for grocery shopping. See what I mean? Wasteful.”
“Petie, have you checked your truck’s gas mileage? I doubt it’d get over twenty on the highway,” I tell him.
“Moot point. At least I use it for it’s intended purpose--”
“Cruising around the property with Hudson?” I interrupt.
“--hauling and farm work,” he finishes.
“Well...” I begin, “driving with slashed tires is probably bad for gas mileage.”
It’s a valid point. I’m mostly joking, but I can see that I’ve really hurt Petie’s feelings.
“Really then. Don’t come. I thought you’d be all about this. Last week you were excited about initiating change.” Petie kicks up dust with his work boots and stomps off into the thick brush.
The guilt hits me immediately. He’s nothing but nice to me. And he has a point: I was excited about inciting change. I don’t know what I had in mind, but this isn’t it.
“That was harsh, Lark.” Hudson says under his breath.
“He couldn’t wait to tell you the plan. He really thought you'd be exited,” Rosie says.
“Wow. Thanks. Now I feel like total crap!” I snap. “Petie!” I go after him.
I’m barefoot, which was boneheaded, but I wasn’t planning on picking my way through downed branches and endless tangles of thorns and twigs.
Petie’s sitting in a relatively clear spot. He’s on an old tree trunk that’s half-rotted. I’m surprised it holds his solid weight.
“Petie. That was mean. I’m sorry.” I sit next to him, leaning on the log slowly, relieved when it holds.
“I just thought you were on board. I thought we’d have fun. And I thought it’d be exciting, like when we lifted those cigarettes from Wawa. I’ve never seen you more alive,” Petie says. He reaches over and fiddles with one of my braids in my wild mass of curls in the totally-un-self-conscious way he has.
I know why this memory's significant to him. It was the first time we hooked up. I was high on adrenaline. We only ran a hundred yards or so before he dropped the carton of cigarettes and looked at me in that way. We started making out on the side of the road. It was a magical moment.
Then we smoked the cigarettes. I ruined the moment by throwing up. Cigarettes are gross. Never again. But, of course, like a true gentleman, Petie held my hair and went back to Wawa to buy me a bottle of water, which was a bad idea for two reasons:
1. We had just shoplifted.
2. Bottles of water are terrible for the environment.
The memory softens my feelings toward him. I grab his hand and entwine my fingers with his.
“You’re probably right. It’ll be fun. Do you think they’ll know why we slashed their tires? Plus we need to define what our definition of ‘gas guzzler’ is.”
Petie just smiles. “See. Only you would think of these things.”
“You’re probably right about that,” I smile. “Also, we need to wait until the middle of the night and wear sneakers and dark clothing. And maybe I can borrow chalk from the kids so we can write things like: ‘Ride your bike!’ or ‘Carpool!’ on their driveways.”
I pull open my notebook.
Things to pack:
1. Sneakers
2. Flashlight
3. Chalk
4. Dark clothes
5. Condoms
I tap my pen because I’m sure there are other things that would be useful. Petie puts a calloused hand over mine to stop my tapping. He takes the pen and crosses off the last item on my list.
“I’ve got that covered,” he says.
1st 5 Pages September Workshop - Walker Rev 2
Name: Ashley Walker
Genre: Middle Grade Adventure
Title: Once Upon a Tiger
PROLOGUE
When Mei’s mother died, 47 cats attended her funeral.
Some human friends came too, of course, and Mother's colleagues from Chinatown's Cat Clinic. But it was mostly American shorthairs and a handful of more exotic breeds. Chartreux. Manx. The Siamese even made it.
The cats arrived in carriers and carts, a few on leashes. To each who rubbed a furry condolence, Mei scratched thanks.
Throughout the service, the cats sat and slept and slinked between Mei's knees. The Persian groomed. The Sphinx gazed. In the mortuary's glow, the cats' pupils narrowed into tiny exclamation points. Their yellow seemed to say: GONE! After only one life?
“Gone, but not forgotten,” the minister monotoned.
When he wheeled the coffin away, a post-op Persian wailed, his cry rasping like a sandpapery goodbye kiss. Pfsssst! Reaching down to touch behind his pinna, Mei flooded the e-collar with tears as her own eyes filled with a protest: Mother can't just GO like this!
Cats were her calling and she was always on call for them. Dr. Jun Chang was the only one in Chinatown who saw all 73 breeds. And not only that. People brought her rabbits and rodents and retired fighting crickets. She never turned an animal away… Mei ran a sleeve across soggy cheeks remembering how some of Mother’s clients didn't pay because they couldn't pay.
Later, looking back, Mei would say that this was where it started.
The stealing.
What else could she do?
When Jun Chang died, the clinic wouldn't treat the poor animals. No free tapeworm tabs for tomcats, no Selederm for scabby Siamese. No one would administer Advantix to Chinatown's alley cats.
So Mei did. Mei became a cat burglar — albeit a new kind, one who stole for cats.
CHAPTER ONE
Duì. Bu. Qi…
Mei ran a finger under each Chinese character. Lifting the little placard from the classroom doorknob, she struggled through the translation.
Do. Not. Rise.
It was a kind of apology. Something said to calm. Blowing bangs off her forehead, Mei rolled her eyes. She hated calming. And apologies.
Sorry, sorry, sorry. In the months since Jun departed and Mei arrived at Pan Chou Academy, she'd heard 'sorry' so many times. It was a stupid thing to say. (Unless you killed the corpse.) And as for ‘duì bu qi’… Well, saying that about the dead was really rubbing it in.
Mei dropped the placard without reading the rest. As the sign smacked back against the door, she gripped the handle. There’d be no apologies of that sort today.
"Sorry, Mei."
Startled, Mei spun around to see her only (and, really, only-sometimes) friend rush down the hallway. Wen Wu hopped between newly washed black floor tiles, reading as she ran. “Sorry, Classroom Closed for Cleaning.” Wen paused to offer a familiar warning. "Mei, don't make a mess of things."
Mei waved her off with the back of a hand. "I won't even leave a fingerprint." Then, putting one Converse in front of the other, she entered the empty Culture Classroom. Though Mei’s heart hammered, her steps stayed silent. Smooth. No mess.
But as she wove through the desks en route to the Silk Spinning Display, Mei’s palms went all sweaty and her lips dried right up. She stubbed the toe of a squeaky sneaker. Twice.
This wasn't going well. Wasn't very cat burglar-y.
Then again, Mei wasn't stealing for cats this time. Today ‘for cats’ didn’t capture the scope of her crime. Mei smiled a little at the thought of that. It worked, on balance, because ‘stealing’ had been an exaggeration. It wasn’t really an offense to sneak back into the clinic for supplies that Mei stocked herself. Ditto for Uncle Shen's pet shop, where she helped herself after the clinic rekeyed the locks. Although Mei’s guardian didn't believe in charity (he wasn't running “a damn sanctuary”), she’d kept the theft in the family.
Until now.
Mei stopped, soles screeching, before the Silk Harvesting station. Forcing a breath — in and out — she imagined Jun Chang's fingers expertly threading a needle, finding a vein. In. And out. When Mei’s hands ceased trembling, she made a swift and surgical swipe. In …
Out, out, out!
Cupped inside curled fingers, the stuff felt as light as air and soft as silk. But Mei wasn't after the display's pricey material or the means to make it. She wanted the larvae, the grub, the worms — Bombix mori.
Really, lifting the silkworms was an act of saving not stealing. Once they spun cocoons, the teacher planned to take the silk and, with it, the lives of the moths inside. Mei gritted her teeth. She wouldn’t be accomplice to murder — even tiny ones. Jun never abandoned an animal. Not cat, not cricket.
As the final bell rang to end the school day, Mei slipped the silkworms into a box she’d origamied for the job. Dashing to the door, she peered through its small square of glass to check her get-away...
Holy cr— cats! The hall was crawling with predators. It was host to a whole pride of middle-aged women prowling around in search of teachers to set on with questions.
Tiger Mothers.
And Mei had no champion among them.
A growl rose in Mei’s throat. She’d have to sneak out the back, claw her way over the fence. Anything to avoid Tiger Mothers.
Racing to the window, Mei hoisted it right up and squeezed through. Then, pushing the pane down with the pain, she made her escape.
Mei ran until, breathless, she reached the foggy blacktop. It was empty, except for a few girls shivering in shorts. Perfect. No sign of the Games Teacher. Mei's heart beat down as she spied the back fence through the mist.
But, just then, Mei heard someone — several someones, in fact —walking and whispering a few paces behind her. Although spoken softly, their words stuck, sure as shed, to the “sty-lish new girl” in her “fur infested coat” and “Purina perfume.” At Mei’s old school, no one noticed how she looked. None of the vet techs in the clinic where Mei homeschooled ever gave her a second sniff. But at Pan Chou Academy, kids sneezed when she arrived. Actual achoos!
When the footsteps stopped, a girl called out, “She’ll Flinch.”
Clutching the silkworm box to her chest, Mei ignored the challenge.
“If she doesn’t …” another began, “Wen will.”
That growl rumbled in Mei’s throat again as she stopped to set the box down behind her pack. Turning, Mei saw Jasmine Robinson-Lui standing at the head of a circle, arm upraised and fingers curled around something. Mei couldn’t leave Wen to find out what Jasmine hid in her fist.
Mei stepped up to her place in the ring of girls she called ‘Ers’. Fashioned from Mei’s translation of the Chinese word for ‘two’, the Ers were kids with two names and too much of everything else. The Smith-Tangs and Chin-Lees and Li-Roberts. Kids with twice the backing of Mei and Wen. Kids who were richER, meaner, and stupidER.
When Mei's eyes met Wen's, she raised a brow — Ers?
Wen lowered hers. The answer from beneath Wen’s neatly sheared bangs was an unmistakable: yes, Ers! And I don’t need your help with them.
But she so did. Wen needed Mei on the blacktop as much as Mei needed Wen in the classroom.
Mei crossed her arms, feeling a surge of fierce determination to save her ungrateful friend...
Genre: Middle Grade Adventure
Title: Once Upon a Tiger
PROLOGUE
When Mei’s mother died, 47 cats attended her funeral.
Some human friends came too, of course, and Mother's colleagues from Chinatown's Cat Clinic. But it was mostly American shorthairs and a handful of more exotic breeds. Chartreux. Manx. The Siamese even made it.
The cats arrived in carriers and carts, a few on leashes. To each who rubbed a furry condolence, Mei scratched thanks.
Throughout the service, the cats sat and slept and slinked between Mei's knees. The Persian groomed. The Sphinx gazed. In the mortuary's glow, the cats' pupils narrowed into tiny exclamation points. Their yellow seemed to say: GONE! After only one life?
“Gone, but not forgotten,” the minister monotoned.
When he wheeled the coffin away, a post-op Persian wailed, his cry rasping like a sandpapery goodbye kiss. Pfsssst! Reaching down to touch behind his pinna, Mei flooded the e-collar with tears as her own eyes filled with a protest: Mother can't just GO like this!
Cats were her calling and she was always on call for them. Dr. Jun Chang was the only one in Chinatown who saw all 73 breeds. And not only that. People brought her rabbits and rodents and retired fighting crickets. She never turned an animal away… Mei ran a sleeve across soggy cheeks remembering how some of Mother’s clients didn't pay because they couldn't pay.
Later, looking back, Mei would say that this was where it started.
The stealing.
What else could she do?
When Jun Chang died, the clinic wouldn't treat the poor animals. No free tapeworm tabs for tomcats, no Selederm for scabby Siamese. No one would administer Advantix to Chinatown's alley cats.
So Mei did. Mei became a cat burglar — albeit a new kind, one who stole for cats.
CHAPTER ONE
Duì. Bu. Qi…
Mei ran a finger under each Chinese character. Lifting the little placard from the classroom doorknob, she struggled through the translation.
Do. Not. Rise.
It was a kind of apology. Something said to calm. Blowing bangs off her forehead, Mei rolled her eyes. She hated calming. And apologies.
Sorry, sorry, sorry. In the months since Jun departed and Mei arrived at Pan Chou Academy, she'd heard 'sorry' so many times. It was a stupid thing to say. (Unless you killed the corpse.) And as for ‘duì bu qi’… Well, saying that about the dead was really rubbing it in.
Mei dropped the placard without reading the rest. As the sign smacked back against the door, she gripped the handle. There’d be no apologies of that sort today.
"Sorry, Mei."
Startled, Mei spun around to see her only (and, really, only-sometimes) friend rush down the hallway. Wen Wu hopped between newly washed black floor tiles, reading as she ran. “Sorry, Classroom Closed for Cleaning.” Wen paused to offer a familiar warning. "Mei, don't make a mess of things."
Mei waved her off with the back of a hand. "I won't even leave a fingerprint." Then, putting one Converse in front of the other, she entered the empty Culture Classroom. Though Mei’s heart hammered, her steps stayed silent. Smooth. No mess.
But as she wove through the desks en route to the Silk Spinning Display, Mei’s palms went all sweaty and her lips dried right up. She stubbed the toe of a squeaky sneaker. Twice.
This wasn't going well. Wasn't very cat burglar-y.
Then again, Mei wasn't stealing for cats this time. Today ‘for cats’ didn’t capture the scope of her crime. Mei smiled a little at the thought of that. It worked, on balance, because ‘stealing’ had been an exaggeration. It wasn’t really an offense to sneak back into the clinic for supplies that Mei stocked herself. Ditto for Uncle Shen's pet shop, where she helped herself after the clinic rekeyed the locks. Although Mei’s guardian didn't believe in charity (he wasn't running “a damn sanctuary”), she’d kept the theft in the family.
Until now.
Mei stopped, soles screeching, before the Silk Harvesting station. Forcing a breath — in and out — she imagined Jun Chang's fingers expertly threading a needle, finding a vein. In. And out. When Mei’s hands ceased trembling, she made a swift and surgical swipe. In …
Out, out, out!
Cupped inside curled fingers, the stuff felt as light as air and soft as silk. But Mei wasn't after the display's pricey material or the means to make it. She wanted the larvae, the grub, the worms — Bombix mori.
Really, lifting the silkworms was an act of saving not stealing. Once they spun cocoons, the teacher planned to take the silk and, with it, the lives of the moths inside. Mei gritted her teeth. She wouldn’t be accomplice to murder — even tiny ones. Jun never abandoned an animal. Not cat, not cricket.
As the final bell rang to end the school day, Mei slipped the silkworms into a box she’d origamied for the job. Dashing to the door, she peered through its small square of glass to check her get-away...
Holy cr— cats! The hall was crawling with predators. It was host to a whole pride of middle-aged women prowling around in search of teachers to set on with questions.
Tiger Mothers.
And Mei had no champion among them.
A growl rose in Mei’s throat. She’d have to sneak out the back, claw her way over the fence. Anything to avoid Tiger Mothers.
Racing to the window, Mei hoisted it right up and squeezed through. Then, pushing the pane down with the pain, she made her escape.
Mei ran until, breathless, she reached the foggy blacktop. It was empty, except for a few girls shivering in shorts. Perfect. No sign of the Games Teacher. Mei's heart beat down as she spied the back fence through the mist.
But, just then, Mei heard someone — several someones, in fact —walking and whispering a few paces behind her. Although spoken softly, their words stuck, sure as shed, to the “sty-lish new girl” in her “fur infested coat” and “Purina perfume.” At Mei’s old school, no one noticed how she looked. None of the vet techs in the clinic where Mei homeschooled ever gave her a second sniff. But at Pan Chou Academy, kids sneezed when she arrived. Actual achoos!
When the footsteps stopped, a girl called out, “She’ll Flinch.”
Clutching the silkworm box to her chest, Mei ignored the challenge.
“If she doesn’t …” another began, “Wen will.”
That growl rumbled in Mei’s throat again as she stopped to set the box down behind her pack. Turning, Mei saw Jasmine Robinson-Lui standing at the head of a circle, arm upraised and fingers curled around something. Mei couldn’t leave Wen to find out what Jasmine hid in her fist.
Mei stepped up to her place in the ring of girls she called ‘Ers’. Fashioned from Mei’s translation of the Chinese word for ‘two’, the Ers were kids with two names and too much of everything else. The Smith-Tangs and Chin-Lees and Li-Roberts. Kids with twice the backing of Mei and Wen. Kids who were richER, meaner, and stupidER.
When Mei's eyes met Wen's, she raised a brow — Ers?
Wen lowered hers. The answer from beneath Wen’s neatly sheared bangs was an unmistakable: yes, Ers! And I don’t need your help with them.
But she so did. Wen needed Mei on the blacktop as much as Mei needed Wen in the classroom.
Mei crossed her arms, feeling a surge of fierce determination to save her ungrateful friend...
Sunday, September 15, 2013
1st 5 Pages September Workshop - Noser Rev 1
Name: Ann M. Noser
Genre: Young Adult Dystopian
Title: TBD
Chapter 1 - HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO ME
My tenth birthday was the worst day of my life.
Dad had to work late.
Mom and I waited for him to come home.
Five years later, we’re still waiting.
Today I’m fifteen. Most kids would’ve requested a vacation pass, but not me. I’d rather forget the whole thing and help Old Gus prepare the chilled bodies in the hospital mortuary. I drag myself out of bed and pull on teal blue scrubs.
I fumble for socks and shoes, and a ray of early sunlight glints off my dad’s picture hanging on the wall. Once again, his eyes capture mine, as if he needs to tell me something important. On the floor beneath the photo sits a memory trunk full of how things used to be. But I won’t open it today. I just can’t.
Dishes clink in the kitchen. Mom calls out, “Hurry up, Silvia. I’ve got a surprise for you.”
She sounds happy, but I can’t tell if it’s real or fake. Since Dad’s death, both of us have done a lot of pretending. So far this year we’ve been able to avoid Psychotherapy Services and Mandated Medication, but sometimes I think I was sent down to Mortuary Services to push me over the edge. Fortunately, I find autopsies intriguing, not depressing. And since I never got to see Dad’s body after the accident, caring for other people’s dead loved ones soothes the empty ache inside.
So does Old Gus. He always knows what to say to me and what not to say.
Too bad Mom doesn’t have a clue.
Mom glances up from her green tea as I enter the modular kitchen. “I planned a big surprise for your birthday.”
I tense. “What is it?”
Mom slides over a bowl of organic oatmeal topped with raspberries, normally my favorite. “I got us Park and Art passes today.”
“I’m not hungry.” I shake my head. “And Gus is expecting me.”
“No, he’s not. He knows all about it. I told him weeks ago.”
“Really? Gus must be good at keeping secrets. He never even wished me ‘happy birthday’ yesterday.”
Which proves he knows me better than Mom does.
She frowns. “You should eat something, even if you’re not hungry. And if it makes you feel better, we can pretend it isn’t your birthday. It’s just some other day instead. A good day, not a bad one.”
I want to protest some more, but there’s a determined gleam in Mom’s eyes—one that hasn’t been there for a long time. And I don’t want to be the one to snuff it out.
I halfheartedly take a few bites of breakfast, swallow my eight prescribed supplements, then return to my bedroom to change into jeans and a long-sleeved green T-shirt. All my clothes are soft and plain, without decoration, made by hands like my father’s. Only Dad proved himself to be Gifted, so he didn’t make Basic Worker Level clothes for long. Instead, he got promoted to Government Level clothing production.
That’s where he burned to death.
“Hurry up!” Mom calls from the front door.
We clamber down six flights of stairs in the brightly-lit stairwell. Once we reach the main floor, we push out the airlock into the swarms of people flooding the streets. Dashing across the busy bike path and an empty car lane, we finally reach the closest walk way. Traffic is orderly today. No bikers stray from their lanes into ours. Men and women wearing blue scrubs of various shades hurry towards the hospitals and medical facilities. Those in green coveralls rush towards the monorail station to speed off to one of the numerous Plant and Protein Production Facilities.
I glance back at a beautiful dark-skinned woman, and try not to feel envious of her green uniform. Normally, I don’t mind my job. In fact, I feel more at home in the mortuary than anywhere else. But part of me still longs to spend all day surrounded by plants. Nothing can be done about it now. The Occupation Exam is over, and I’ve been placed where I’m most effective.
The street is crowded this time of day. People whoosh past us on bikes, as those on foot press constantly forward. Only the car lane remains empty, as usual.
We march past rows of tall buildings, offices on the first two floors and apartments up above. We make good time until we hit the Citizen Family Planning and Redistribution Building. Traffic stalls. A crowd of walkers fidget in place ahead of us.
“What’s going on?” Mom cranes her neck and rises up on her toes. “Can you see?”
After a long pause, the people ahead of us begin to shuffle past the building. A few cast furtive glances over their shoulders. Everyone’s in a hurry to get somewhere. Now I see who is causing the fuss. A red-haired girl who looks to be about my age shoves an orderly away. The crowd behind us pushes us forward. Tears stream down the girl’s pale face. She backs away from the building and turns as if to run. Then she cries out in pain, and clutches her swollen belly, breathing hard.
In her moment of weakness, the orderlies surround and restrain her.
“I won’t do it! I won’t do it!” the pregnant girl screams as they drag her away.
1st 5 Pages September Workshop - Hinebaugh Rev 1
Name: Olivia Hinebaugh
Genre: YA Contemporary
Title: Lark's Rebellion
I’m lying here in the tall grass, staring at the perfectly fluffy
clouds, trying to figure out how to piss off my parents. This shouldn’t
be so hard. I’m sixteen, after all. Isn’t it supposed to come with the
territory? I’m writing down a list in my five subject notebook as per
usual. This notebook is filled with similar lists.
So far all I have is:
Ways to Rebel:
1. Buy new clothes.
Start eating meat.
Join a convent.
Cut my hair.
I’ve never had this much trouble generating a list before. The white
space on the page makes my fingers itchy and twitchy. I stick the
well-chewed pen in my mouth and hold the notebook so it shades my eyes
from the sun.
I read over my list again. This won’t do.
I begin a new list:
Reasons why the previous list is impractical:
1. Buy new clothes
a. I don’t have money.
b. If I had money, I wouldn’t waste it on clothes. Not when there are
still kill shelters for animals around.
c. I enjoy making my own clothes.
2. Start eating meat
a. Meat is gross.
b. Again, no money, no car, don’t know how to slaughter animals.
c. Even if I knew how to slaughter animals, I wouldn’t. No way.
d. Sean says you can get something called “the meat sweats” and that
just plain makes me want to vomit.
3. Join a convent
a. Not sure if convents still exist
b. Could never be abstinent
c. Don’t believe in God
d. I think nuns have to sing, and I have a terrible voice
4. Cut my hair
a. I love my hair
b. Parents would probably see a short ‘do as a form of self-expression:
plan would backfire.
It’s useless. Nonconformity is the norm here in Peacesylvania.
Peacesylvania is the nom du jour for our mostly-off-the-grid tract of
land in the almost-middle-of-nowhere Pennsylvania. My parents have to
respect my individuality. It’s, like, one of the rules they signed off
on when they joined. I mean, they didn’t literally sign. And there
aren’t actually any rules written down. Old Man Nelson would say: “No
rules, man. Paper trails just let the man control you.” He’s paranoid,
but everyone still listens to him. Crazy hippie.
My goal now is to find the least hippie thing to do, but also something
that doesn’t repulse me. I tap the pen on the notebook, willing myself
to come up with something.
“Lark! It’s quittin’ time!” My brother, Sean, shouts louder than he
needs to. It startles the pen right out of my fingers.
“Jesus, Sean. You have to stop sneaking up on me!” I stand up and do a
quick tick-check on my bare arms and legs. It’s really freaking hot and
my mass of curly, partially dreaded, partially braided hair makes my
back feel immediately sticky.
I reach behind Sean and grab the ratty bandana that’s always in his back
pocket and use it to tie up my hair.
“I definitely just used that to wipe my nose,” he says. He’s been
shoveling manure or composting or something because his sweaty face is
streaked with dark brown grime.
“Whatever,” I smile, “I love your snot.”
“You’re so gross,” he says.
“Says the one with half of his lunch still stuck in his beard,” I tease.
“I’m thinking of shaving it,” he says.
I raise my eyebrows at him. He’s normally so keen to fit in. He loves
the Peacesylvania aesthetic. Because he grew up so mainstream, I think
he feels like he needs to prove something.
“So what were you out here making a list of?” he asks, trying to snatch
my notebook.
“Back off!” I scold him.
“You were on my watch, so you have to tell me,” he says as we start back
toward the little hamlet of cabins and RVs and vans. They form a loose
circle around a decrepit old Victorian home where most of the elders live.
He’s in charge of my “unschooling.” It’s like homeschooling only without
a curriculum. The emphasis is on self-exploration and real-life skills.
This translates to me reading. A lot. And writing my fair share of lists
and personal reflections. There’s a good dose of staring at the sky and
shoveling manure mixed in there. Sean is the most educated of my
siblings. He finished middle school before we joined up with the
commune. I was only five, and my memories of mainstream school were all
about nap mats and snack time.
“It’s a bit of self-reflection,” I tell him. “I’ve been reading as wide
a variety of coming of age stories as I can and there’s a central theme.”
“Oh yeah?” He’s actually interested. It’s why we get along so well. My
other older brother, Hudson, is a hooligan. Hudson says he’s pursuing a
life of spirituality, but let’s call it what it is: an extreme pot
habit. Sean’s the opposite, hardworking to a fault and sickeningly
helpful. Our dad says he takes after his mom, whom he barely remembers.
My mom, on the other hand, probably has more in common with Hudson and
my wild younger siblings. “Free spirit” would be an understatement.
“Well, there’s always a sort of declaration of independence. A coming
into one’s own. A division from the group. And always some sort of great
self-discovery. Occasionally regarding sexuality. Other times regarding
moral obligation.”
“So which of these aspects are you pondering?” Sean asks.
“The division from the group thing. How exactly am I ever going to be
independent if I keep being exactly who mom and dad expect me to be?” I
ask him.
He laughs. “But they don’t expect anything specific of you. ‘Be you. Be
real,’” he quotes my mom.
“Exactly! There’s got to be some way to ‘be me.’ I’m not sure I want to
lead such an insulated life. I need to get out there. Find out who I am.
Separate from Mom and Dad.”
“You gotta let these happen organically,” Sean advises.
“Oh my god. You’ve been drinking the water! You’re no help.” I tease.
“I’ll work out something.”
“When you do, you’ll have to let me know what little act of rebellion
you’re cooking up,” Sean winks at me.
“Oh, you’ll be the first to know,” I say. “It might involve the use of
your car.”
We reach the main house where we cook and meet and eat if the weather is
bad. Tonight will definitely be a picnic night.
“Anytime,” He offers. “Though I was going to replace the wheel bearings
tomorrow.”
“Ooh, can I help you? I’ve always wanted to learn how to do that.” I say.
“Really?” He asks.
He’d probably love to teach me this, but I have no real interest. “No,”
I laugh. He swats at me as I run up the steps into the kitchen.
“Lark,” my mother calls. “Come help Basil and Blossom chop veggies.”
“Sure,” I say, going to the sink and washing my hands and face. I
readjust Sean’s bandana to keep the hair out of my face. I put a calico
apron over my plaid sundress and kiss Mama on the cheek before sitting
down at the long table.
Blossom and Basil are seven-year-old twins. They each stand at the table
with knives as long as their forearms. I don’t think many parents would
trust such little kids with those blades, but we believe in letting
every person decide when they’re ready for something. For example: I’ve
been drinking wine since I was twelve.
Genre: YA Contemporary
Title: Lark's Rebellion
I’m lying here in the tall grass, staring at the perfectly fluffy
clouds, trying to figure out how to piss off my parents. This shouldn’t
be so hard. I’m sixteen, after all. Isn’t it supposed to come with the
territory? I’m writing down a list in my five subject notebook as per
usual. This notebook is filled with similar lists.
So far all I have is:
Ways to Rebel:
1. Buy new clothes.
Start eating meat.
Join a convent.
Cut my hair.
I’ve never had this much trouble generating a list before. The white
space on the page makes my fingers itchy and twitchy. I stick the
well-chewed pen in my mouth and hold the notebook so it shades my eyes
from the sun.
I read over my list again. This won’t do.
I begin a new list:
Reasons why the previous list is impractical:
1. Buy new clothes
a. I don’t have money.
b. If I had money, I wouldn’t waste it on clothes. Not when there are
still kill shelters for animals around.
c. I enjoy making my own clothes.
2. Start eating meat
a. Meat is gross.
b. Again, no money, no car, don’t know how to slaughter animals.
c. Even if I knew how to slaughter animals, I wouldn’t. No way.
d. Sean says you can get something called “the meat sweats” and that
just plain makes me want to vomit.
3. Join a convent
a. Not sure if convents still exist
b. Could never be abstinent
c. Don’t believe in God
d. I think nuns have to sing, and I have a terrible voice
4. Cut my hair
a. I love my hair
b. Parents would probably see a short ‘do as a form of self-expression:
plan would backfire.
It’s useless. Nonconformity is the norm here in Peacesylvania.
Peacesylvania is the nom du jour for our mostly-off-the-grid tract of
land in the almost-middle-of-nowhere Pennsylvania. My parents have to
respect my individuality. It’s, like, one of the rules they signed off
on when they joined. I mean, they didn’t literally sign. And there
aren’t actually any rules written down. Old Man Nelson would say: “No
rules, man. Paper trails just let the man control you.” He’s paranoid,
but everyone still listens to him. Crazy hippie.
My goal now is to find the least hippie thing to do, but also something
that doesn’t repulse me. I tap the pen on the notebook, willing myself
to come up with something.
“Lark! It’s quittin’ time!” My brother, Sean, shouts louder than he
needs to. It startles the pen right out of my fingers.
“Jesus, Sean. You have to stop sneaking up on me!” I stand up and do a
quick tick-check on my bare arms and legs. It’s really freaking hot and
my mass of curly, partially dreaded, partially braided hair makes my
back feel immediately sticky.
I reach behind Sean and grab the ratty bandana that’s always in his back
pocket and use it to tie up my hair.
“I definitely just used that to wipe my nose,” he says. He’s been
shoveling manure or composting or something because his sweaty face is
streaked with dark brown grime.
“Whatever,” I smile, “I love your snot.”
“You’re so gross,” he says.
“Says the one with half of his lunch still stuck in his beard,” I tease.
“I’m thinking of shaving it,” he says.
I raise my eyebrows at him. He’s normally so keen to fit in. He loves
the Peacesylvania aesthetic. Because he grew up so mainstream, I think
he feels like he needs to prove something.
“So what were you out here making a list of?” he asks, trying to snatch
my notebook.
“Back off!” I scold him.
“You were on my watch, so you have to tell me,” he says as we start back
toward the little hamlet of cabins and RVs and vans. They form a loose
circle around a decrepit old Victorian home where most of the elders live.
He’s in charge of my “unschooling.” It’s like homeschooling only without
a curriculum. The emphasis is on self-exploration and real-life skills.
This translates to me reading. A lot. And writing my fair share of lists
and personal reflections. There’s a good dose of staring at the sky and
shoveling manure mixed in there. Sean is the most educated of my
siblings. He finished middle school before we joined up with the
commune. I was only five, and my memories of mainstream school were all
about nap mats and snack time.
“It’s a bit of self-reflection,” I tell him. “I’ve been reading as wide
a variety of coming of age stories as I can and there’s a central theme.”
“Oh yeah?” He’s actually interested. It’s why we get along so well. My
other older brother, Hudson, is a hooligan. Hudson says he’s pursuing a
life of spirituality, but let’s call it what it is: an extreme pot
habit. Sean’s the opposite, hardworking to a fault and sickeningly
helpful. Our dad says he takes after his mom, whom he barely remembers.
My mom, on the other hand, probably has more in common with Hudson and
my wild younger siblings. “Free spirit” would be an understatement.
“Well, there’s always a sort of declaration of independence. A coming
into one’s own. A division from the group. And always some sort of great
self-discovery. Occasionally regarding sexuality. Other times regarding
moral obligation.”
“So which of these aspects are you pondering?” Sean asks.
“The division from the group thing. How exactly am I ever going to be
independent if I keep being exactly who mom and dad expect me to be?” I
ask him.
He laughs. “But they don’t expect anything specific of you. ‘Be you. Be
real,’” he quotes my mom.
“Exactly! There’s got to be some way to ‘be me.’ I’m not sure I want to
lead such an insulated life. I need to get out there. Find out who I am.
Separate from Mom and Dad.”
“You gotta let these happen organically,” Sean advises.
“Oh my god. You’ve been drinking the water! You’re no help.” I tease.
“I’ll work out something.”
“When you do, you’ll have to let me know what little act of rebellion
you’re cooking up,” Sean winks at me.
“Oh, you’ll be the first to know,” I say. “It might involve the use of
your car.”
We reach the main house where we cook and meet and eat if the weather is
bad. Tonight will definitely be a picnic night.
“Anytime,” He offers. “Though I was going to replace the wheel bearings
tomorrow.”
“Ooh, can I help you? I’ve always wanted to learn how to do that.” I say.
“Really?” He asks.
He’d probably love to teach me this, but I have no real interest. “No,”
I laugh. He swats at me as I run up the steps into the kitchen.
“Lark,” my mother calls. “Come help Basil and Blossom chop veggies.”
“Sure,” I say, going to the sink and washing my hands and face. I
readjust Sean’s bandana to keep the hair out of my face. I put a calico
apron over my plaid sundress and kiss Mama on the cheek before sitting
down at the long table.
Blossom and Basil are seven-year-old twins. They each stand at the table
with knives as long as their forearms. I don’t think many parents would
trust such little kids with those blades, but we believe in letting
every person decide when they’re ready for something. For example: I’ve
been drinking wine since I was twelve.
1st 5 Pages September Workshop - Walker Rev 1
Name: Ashley Walker
Genre: Middle Grade Adventure
Title: Once Upon a Tiger
PROLOGUE
When Mei’s mother died, 47 cats attended her funeral.
Some friends came too, of course, and Mother's colleagues from
Chinatown's Cat Clinic. But it was mostly American shorthairs and a
handful of more exotic breeds. Chartreux. Manx. The Siamese even made it.
The cats arrived in carriers and carts, a few on leashes. To each who
rubbed a furry condolence, Mei scratched thanks.
Throughout the service, the cats sat and slept and slinked between Mei's
knees. The Persian groomed, the Sphinx gazed. In the mortuary's glow,
the cats' pupils narrowed into tiny exclamation points. Their yellow
eyes seemed to ask the question: GONE — after only one life?
“Gone, but not forgotten,” the funeral director monotoned.
When he wheeled the coffin away, a post-op Persian wailed. Mei covered
her ears as the cry rasped — pfssst — like a sandpapery goodbye kiss.
Then, reaching down to touch behind his pinna, Mei flooded the e-collar
with tears while her head filled with what was not a question: Mother
can't just GO leave like this!
Cats were her calling and she was always on-call for them. Dr. Jun Chang
was the only one in Chinatown who saw all saw 73 breeds. And not only
that, people brought her rabbits and rodents and retired fighting
crickets. She never turned an animal away... Mei ran a sleeve across
soggy cheeks remembering how some of Mother’s clients didn't pay because
they couldn't pay.
Later, looking back, Mei would say that this was where it started.
The stealing.
What else could she do?
When Jun Chang died, the clinic wouldn't treat the poor animals. No free
tapeworm tabs for the tomcat, no Selederm for scabby Siamese. No one
would administer Advantix to alley cats.
So Mei did. Mei became a cat burglar -- albeit a new kind, one who stole
for cats.
CHAPTER ONE
Duì. Bu. Qi…
Mei ran a finger under each character. Lifting the little placard from
the classroom doorknob, she struggled through the translation. Do. Not.
Rise.
It was a kind of apology. Something said to calm. Blowing bangs off her
forehead, Mei rolled her eyes. She hated calming. And apologies.
Sorry, sorry, sorry. In the months since her mother departed and she
arrived at Pan Chou Academy, Mei had heard 'sorry' so many times . It
was a stupid thing to say. (Unless you killed the corpse.) And as for
‘duì bu qi’, well, saying that about the dead was really rubbing it in.
Mei dropped the placard without reading the rest. As the little sign
smack back against the door, she gripped the handle. There’d be no
apologies of that sort today.
"Sorry, Mei."
Startled, Mei spun around to see her old and only-sometimes friend rush
down the hallway. Wen Wu hopped between newly washed black floor tiles,
reading as she ran. “Sorry, Classroom Closed for Cleaning.” Wen paused
to offer a familiar warning. "Mei, don't make a mess of things."
Mei waved her off with the back of a hand. "I won't even leave a
fingerprint." Then, putting one Converse in front of another, she
entered the empty Culture Classroom. Mei’s heart hammered, but her steps
stayed silent. Smooth. No mess.
But as she wove through the desks toward the Silk Spinning Display,
Mei’s palms went all sweaty and her lips dried up. She stubbed the toe
of her sneaker. Twice.
This wasn't going well. Wasn't very cat burglar-y.
Then again, Mei wasn't stealing for cats this time. Today, ‘for cats’
understated the scope of her crimes... Mei smiled just a little at the
thought of this. It worked, on balance, because ‘stealing’ had been an
exaggeration. It was hardly an offense to sneak back into the clinic for
supplies — Mei had stocked its shelves herself. Ditto for Uncle Shen's
pet shop, where Mei helped herself after the clinic rekeyed the locks.
Though her guardian didn't believe in charity (he wasn't running “a damn
sanctuary”), Mei had kept the offense in the family.
Until now.
Mei stopped, soles screeching, before the Silk Harvesting station.
Forcing a breath — in and out — Mei imagined Jun Chang's fingers
expertly threading a needle, finding a vein. In. Out. Then she made a
swift and surgical swipe. In …
Out, out, out!
Cupped inside curled fingers, the stuff felt as light as air, soft as
silk. But Mei wasn't after the Display's pricey silk, or the means to
make it. She wanted the larvae, the grub, the worms — Bombix mori.
Really, lifting the silkworms was an act of saving not stealing. Once
they spun cocoons, the teacher planned to take the silk and, with it,
the lives of the moths inside. Mei gritted her teeth; she wouldn’t be
accomplice to murder — even tiny ones. Jun never abandoned an animal.
Not cat, not cricket.
As the final bell rang, Mei slipped the silkworms into the box she’d
origamied for the job. Dashing to the door, she peered through the glass
look-through to check her get-away…
Holy cr— cats! The hall was crawling with predators. Host to a whole
pride of middle-age women prowling in search of teachers to set on with
questions.
Tiger Mothers.
And Mei had no champion among them.
A growl rose in Mei’s throat. She’d have to sneak out the back, claw her
way over the fence. Anything to avoid Tiger Mothers. Racing to the
window, Mei hoisted it right up and squeezed through. Then, pushing the
pain down with the pane, she made her escape.
Breathless, Mei reached the foggy blacktop behind the school. It was
empty, except for a few girls shivering in games shorts. Perfect. No
sign of the Games Teacher. Mei's heart beat down as she spied the fence
through the mist.
But that’s when Mei heard it. Someone — several someones, in fact — were
walking a few paces behind her, whispering. Though spoken softly, their
words stuck, sure as shed, to the “sty-lish new girl” in her “fur
infested coats” and “Purina perfume”. At Mei’s old school, no one
noticed how she looked. None of the vet techs in the clinic where Mei
home schooled ever gave her a second sniff. But at Pan Chou Academy,
kids sneezed when she arrived. Actual achoos!
When the footsteps stopped, a girl called out, “She’ll Flinch.”
Clutching the silkworm box to her chest, Mei ignored the challenge.
“If she doesn’t …” another began, “Wen will.”
Turning, Mei saw Jasmine Robinson-Lui standing at the head of a circle,
her arm upraised, fingers curled around something. Mei couldn’t leave
Wen to find out what was in that fist. Setting the box down behind the
pack, a growl rumbled in her throat again.
Mei stepped up to her place in the ring of girls she called ‘Ers’.
Fashioned from Mei’s translation of the Chinese word for ‘two’, the Ers
were kids with two names and too much of everything else. The
Smith-Tangs, Chin-Lees and Li-Roberts. Kids with twice the backing of
Mei and Wen. Kids who were richerER, meanER and stupidER. When Mei's
eyes met Wen's, she raised an eyebrow -- Ers?
Wen lowered hers; the answer from beneath Wen’s neatly sheared bangs was
an unmistakable: yes, Ers! And I don’t need your help with them.
But she so did. Wen needed Mei on the blacktop as much as Mei needed Wen
in the classroom.
Mei crossed her arms, feeling a surge of fierce determination to save
her ungrateful friend...
Genre: Middle Grade Adventure
Title: Once Upon a Tiger
PROLOGUE
When Mei’s mother died, 47 cats attended her funeral.
Some friends came too, of course, and Mother's colleagues from
Chinatown's Cat Clinic. But it was mostly American shorthairs and a
handful of more exotic breeds. Chartreux. Manx. The Siamese even made it.
The cats arrived in carriers and carts, a few on leashes. To each who
rubbed a furry condolence, Mei scratched thanks.
Throughout the service, the cats sat and slept and slinked between Mei's
knees. The Persian groomed, the Sphinx gazed. In the mortuary's glow,
the cats' pupils narrowed into tiny exclamation points. Their yellow
eyes seemed to ask the question: GONE — after only one life?
“Gone, but not forgotten,” the funeral director monotoned.
When he wheeled the coffin away, a post-op Persian wailed. Mei covered
her ears as the cry rasped — pfssst — like a sandpapery goodbye kiss.
Then, reaching down to touch behind his pinna, Mei flooded the e-collar
with tears while her head filled with what was not a question: Mother
can't just GO leave like this!
Cats were her calling and she was always on-call for them. Dr. Jun Chang
was the only one in Chinatown who saw all saw 73 breeds. And not only
that, people brought her rabbits and rodents and retired fighting
crickets. She never turned an animal away... Mei ran a sleeve across
soggy cheeks remembering how some of Mother’s clients didn't pay because
they couldn't pay.
Later, looking back, Mei would say that this was where it started.
The stealing.
What else could she do?
When Jun Chang died, the clinic wouldn't treat the poor animals. No free
tapeworm tabs for the tomcat, no Selederm for scabby Siamese. No one
would administer Advantix to alley cats.
So Mei did. Mei became a cat burglar -- albeit a new kind, one who stole
for cats.
CHAPTER ONE
Duì. Bu. Qi…
Mei ran a finger under each character. Lifting the little placard from
the classroom doorknob, she struggled through the translation. Do. Not.
Rise.
It was a kind of apology. Something said to calm. Blowing bangs off her
forehead, Mei rolled her eyes. She hated calming. And apologies.
Sorry, sorry, sorry. In the months since her mother departed and she
arrived at Pan Chou Academy, Mei had heard 'sorry' so many times . It
was a stupid thing to say. (Unless you killed the corpse.) And as for
‘duì bu qi’, well, saying that about the dead was really rubbing it in.
Mei dropped the placard without reading the rest. As the little sign
smack back against the door, she gripped the handle. There’d be no
apologies of that sort today.
"Sorry, Mei."
Startled, Mei spun around to see her old and only-sometimes friend rush
down the hallway. Wen Wu hopped between newly washed black floor tiles,
reading as she ran. “Sorry, Classroom Closed for Cleaning.” Wen paused
to offer a familiar warning. "Mei, don't make a mess of things."
Mei waved her off with the back of a hand. "I won't even leave a
fingerprint." Then, putting one Converse in front of another, she
entered the empty Culture Classroom. Mei’s heart hammered, but her steps
stayed silent. Smooth. No mess.
But as she wove through the desks toward the Silk Spinning Display,
Mei’s palms went all sweaty and her lips dried up. She stubbed the toe
of her sneaker. Twice.
This wasn't going well. Wasn't very cat burglar-y.
Then again, Mei wasn't stealing for cats this time. Today, ‘for cats’
understated the scope of her crimes... Mei smiled just a little at the
thought of this. It worked, on balance, because ‘stealing’ had been an
exaggeration. It was hardly an offense to sneak back into the clinic for
supplies — Mei had stocked its shelves herself. Ditto for Uncle Shen's
pet shop, where Mei helped herself after the clinic rekeyed the locks.
Though her guardian didn't believe in charity (he wasn't running “a damn
sanctuary”), Mei had kept the offense in the family.
Until now.
Mei stopped, soles screeching, before the Silk Harvesting station.
Forcing a breath — in and out — Mei imagined Jun Chang's fingers
expertly threading a needle, finding a vein. In. Out. Then she made a
swift and surgical swipe. In …
Out, out, out!
Cupped inside curled fingers, the stuff felt as light as air, soft as
silk. But Mei wasn't after the Display's pricey silk, or the means to
make it. She wanted the larvae, the grub, the worms — Bombix mori.
Really, lifting the silkworms was an act of saving not stealing. Once
they spun cocoons, the teacher planned to take the silk and, with it,
the lives of the moths inside. Mei gritted her teeth; she wouldn’t be
accomplice to murder — even tiny ones. Jun never abandoned an animal.
Not cat, not cricket.
As the final bell rang, Mei slipped the silkworms into the box she’d
origamied for the job. Dashing to the door, she peered through the glass
look-through to check her get-away…
Holy cr— cats! The hall was crawling with predators. Host to a whole
pride of middle-age women prowling in search of teachers to set on with
questions.
Tiger Mothers.
And Mei had no champion among them.
A growl rose in Mei’s throat. She’d have to sneak out the back, claw her
way over the fence. Anything to avoid Tiger Mothers. Racing to the
window, Mei hoisted it right up and squeezed through. Then, pushing the
pain down with the pane, she made her escape.
Breathless, Mei reached the foggy blacktop behind the school. It was
empty, except for a few girls shivering in games shorts. Perfect. No
sign of the Games Teacher. Mei's heart beat down as she spied the fence
through the mist.
But that’s when Mei heard it. Someone — several someones, in fact — were
walking a few paces behind her, whispering. Though spoken softly, their
words stuck, sure as shed, to the “sty-lish new girl” in her “fur
infested coats” and “Purina perfume”. At Mei’s old school, no one
noticed how she looked. None of the vet techs in the clinic where Mei
home schooled ever gave her a second sniff. But at Pan Chou Academy,
kids sneezed when she arrived. Actual achoos!
When the footsteps stopped, a girl called out, “She’ll Flinch.”
Clutching the silkworm box to her chest, Mei ignored the challenge.
“If she doesn’t …” another began, “Wen will.”
Turning, Mei saw Jasmine Robinson-Lui standing at the head of a circle,
her arm upraised, fingers curled around something. Mei couldn’t leave
Wen to find out what was in that fist. Setting the box down behind the
pack, a growl rumbled in her throat again.
Mei stepped up to her place in the ring of girls she called ‘Ers’.
Fashioned from Mei’s translation of the Chinese word for ‘two’, the Ers
were kids with two names and too much of everything else. The
Smith-Tangs, Chin-Lees and Li-Roberts. Kids with twice the backing of
Mei and Wen. Kids who were richerER, meanER and stupidER. When Mei's
eyes met Wen's, she raised an eyebrow -- Ers?
Wen lowered hers; the answer from beneath Wen’s neatly sheared bangs was
an unmistakable: yes, Ers! And I don’t need your help with them.
But she so did. Wen needed Mei on the blacktop as much as Mei needed Wen
in the classroom.
Mei crossed her arms, feeling a surge of fierce determination to save
her ungrateful friend...
1st 5 Pages September Workshop - Yuen Rev 1
Name: Sunni Yuen
Genre: Young Adult Sci-Fi
Title: The Germ Factory
Saskia splayed her fingers over the old-fashioned cash register. The muted sheen of the long brass keys reflected the pink of her nail polish. Perfect. It was a drowsy spot in the afternoon, and she reveled in the quiet, which was surprising considering she had company. She looked away from the register to her left, where Chloe leafed through the dog-eared pages of a detective novel Saskia did not recognize. Across the counter, March was absorbed with applying a bead of Elmer’s glue to his stamp book. Stamps were his latest obsession. Good. They were entertaining themselves without mucking about the store.
She gazed down the sun-dappled aisles, inhaling the comforting scent of paprika and honey. The shelves were laden with bottles of sunflower seed oil, chocolate wafers, and crusty loaves of poppy seed bread. The beets and pickles glowed ruby and moss green in their jars.
The corner of Saskia’s mouth twitched upwards. She had worked hard all summer stocking inventory and working the till to show Uncle Peter she could run the store. And now, it was actually happening. She, Saskia Brennan, age fifteen, one week shy of high school, was managing the store without any adult supervision. Once school started, she could work late afternoons and weekends freeing Uncle Peter to focus on his research.
“Why are you smiling? No one else is here,” Chloe asked. She wore a petulant expression and slumped low on her stool, legs dangling.
“I’m here,” March said without looking up from his stamps.
“I meant customers. People who matter,” Chloe amended before she clamped her lips around a red braid of licorice and sucked hard.
Saskia suppressed a sigh. That behavior might be tolerated from a ten-year-old like March but definitely not a high school student. Sometimes she found it hard to believe Chloe used to be her closest friend. But that was before Chloe fell in with the computer geek crowd and began rejecting anything mainstream. At least March was still the same boisterous boy, even if he was a pain-in-the-neck to his sister. But that was Chloe’s problem.
“Don’t listen to her, Saskia,” March said. “Chloe’s grumpy because she wants to play that dumb computer game but Mom and Dad made us come here.”
Chloe stuck her mutilated licorice in her detective novel as a bookmark and snapped the covers together. “Excuse me, dumb game?”
“Dumb and boring. All you do is shoot smoke rings in Pig’s Quest,” March taunted.
“Pygmalion’s Quest is not about brainless button-mashing,” Chloe declared. “It’s about design. You pick an avatar and you decide what special powers it gets by writing code. Like firebolts for my mage! I had to work out the physics of the temperature and the speed depending on the angle. And what works best also depends on the bad guy or obstacle.”
This sounded complicated. “Mmm-hmmm,” Saskia said.
“So if a robber attacks, Chloe can save us!” March laughed.
“Can we please not talk about robbers?” Saskia interrupted. She wasn’t superstitious but she could not help glancing out the window. Luckily, the street was clear. A robber was the last thing she wanted to think about on her first day working unsupervised.
Chloe’s eyes shone with excitement. “March brought up robbers, not me. But there’s more. The first team to finish Pygmalion’s Quest gets to help design the next game from Fossilware. I mean they’re only the most cutting-edge developer ever! It’s pure torture to be this close and not finish when school is about to get in the way.”
“Get in the way?” Saskia shook her head in disbelief. “Gee Chloe, high school actually matters. You need to join the debate club or Model UN and build your resume, learn to put on makeup, dance with boys–” Seeing Chloe flail her arms about in a mock waltz, Saskia paused and pressed her lips thinly together. Chloe needed to grow up, badly.
“What should I be learning?” protested March in a tone Saskia recognized as his give-me-attention voice.
“Fractions and to stop rolling down hills like a feral child,” Saskia said and she jabbed a key on the register for emphasis. The metallic clang punctuated the silence followed by tinkling wind chimes. A customer had arrived. Good thing too because March was about to ask and discover what “feral” meant, which would have resulted in an argument.
The customer hovered inside the entrance. He was tall and his broad shoulders were hunched over in a rumpled trench coat that fluttered to his ankles. He wore a battered fedora, under which Saskia could see a deeply lined forehead. He looked haggard. He wordlessly surveyed the store, eyes roving down the aisles to the back where Uncle Peter kept his workshop.
Saskia tossed her hair over her shoulder and greeted the man with a weak smile. She walked up to him and offered a pair of tongs and wax envelope. “Can I help you?” She spoke in her most grown-up voice.
He leaned close, and she caught the odor of burnt matches and sour yeast. He licked his lips. “Where’s the hive?”
“Excuse me?” Saskia’s nostrils curled. There was something unsettling about this man. His hand kept drifting to the pocket by his left hip, as if he sought to reassure himself that something was still there.
“The hive,” he repeated as he took the tongs and wax envelope from Saskia. “Where is it?”
“If you’re looking for honey,” Saskia said, fishing for comprehension. “It’s in the far left aisle.”
The man lumbered in that direction, pockets clinking. Saskia watched him stoop over the bins and snatch handfuls of dried apricots, toffee, and black pepper crusted walnuts. These he jammed into the same wax envelope. It was going to be a headache to ring him up.
The man was now running his finger along the inner rim of an open jar of beets. He stuck it in his mouth and smacked his lips. “Trace remnants of elementals.” He whistled softly, rapping on the walls. “Where are you hiding?”
Saskia stiffened. What was he rambling about? He patted the pocket by his left hip again, briefly flashing a black metal handle. Saskia craned her neck for a better view.
A finger jabbed her forearm and she nearly yelped.
“See the pocket by his left hip? He’s got an L-shaped object inside. I think—I think it’s a gun!” Chloe whispered.
“Don’t be ridiculous. This isn’t an Agatha Christie book,” Saskia growled under her breath but she strained again. That pocket was now out of her line of sight but she could see other sagging pockets. Did they conceal weapons? There was a flash of silver. She squinted. No, just a pair of tongs. Wait, tongs. The store’s tongs. Another pocket gaped open, revealing the bottle cap of ginger beer, also from the store. She watched in shock as Uncle Peter’s microscope slid neatly into the same pocket.
Saskia seized Chloe’s elbow and pulled her to the back of the store. The man was hunched over the paper, tools, and gears scattered on Uncle Peter’s workbench. His right thumb repeatedly flicked a lighter on and off. “The hive is in the safe,” he muttered. “Protected. Safe. Key. If they won’t give it to us, we’ll break in and smoke’m. Smoke’m all out.”
Safe? Smoke? Saskia’s mouth contorted as he brought the lighter to the corner of a stack of paper
Genre: Young Adult Sci-Fi
Title: The Germ Factory
Saskia splayed her fingers over the old-fashioned cash register. The muted sheen of the long brass keys reflected the pink of her nail polish. Perfect. It was a drowsy spot in the afternoon, and she reveled in the quiet, which was surprising considering she had company. She looked away from the register to her left, where Chloe leafed through the dog-eared pages of a detective novel Saskia did not recognize. Across the counter, March was absorbed with applying a bead of Elmer’s glue to his stamp book. Stamps were his latest obsession. Good. They were entertaining themselves without mucking about the store.
She gazed down the sun-dappled aisles, inhaling the comforting scent of paprika and honey. The shelves were laden with bottles of sunflower seed oil, chocolate wafers, and crusty loaves of poppy seed bread. The beets and pickles glowed ruby and moss green in their jars.
The corner of Saskia’s mouth twitched upwards. She had worked hard all summer stocking inventory and working the till to show Uncle Peter she could run the store. And now, it was actually happening. She, Saskia Brennan, age fifteen, one week shy of high school, was managing the store without any adult supervision. Once school started, she could work late afternoons and weekends freeing Uncle Peter to focus on his research.
“Why are you smiling? No one else is here,” Chloe asked. She wore a petulant expression and slumped low on her stool, legs dangling.
“I’m here,” March said without looking up from his stamps.
“I meant customers. People who matter,” Chloe amended before she clamped her lips around a red braid of licorice and sucked hard.
Saskia suppressed a sigh. That behavior might be tolerated from a ten-year-old like March but definitely not a high school student. Sometimes she found it hard to believe Chloe used to be her closest friend. But that was before Chloe fell in with the computer geek crowd and began rejecting anything mainstream. At least March was still the same boisterous boy, even if he was a pain-in-the-neck to his sister. But that was Chloe’s problem.
“Don’t listen to her, Saskia,” March said. “Chloe’s grumpy because she wants to play that dumb computer game but Mom and Dad made us come here.”
Chloe stuck her mutilated licorice in her detective novel as a bookmark and snapped the covers together. “Excuse me, dumb game?”
“Dumb and boring. All you do is shoot smoke rings in Pig’s Quest,” March taunted.
“Pygmalion’s Quest is not about brainless button-mashing,” Chloe declared. “It’s about design. You pick an avatar and you decide what special powers it gets by writing code. Like firebolts for my mage! I had to work out the physics of the temperature and the speed depending on the angle. And what works best also depends on the bad guy or obstacle.”
This sounded complicated. “Mmm-hmmm,” Saskia said.
“So if a robber attacks, Chloe can save us!” March laughed.
“Can we please not talk about robbers?” Saskia interrupted. She wasn’t superstitious but she could not help glancing out the window. Luckily, the street was clear. A robber was the last thing she wanted to think about on her first day working unsupervised.
Chloe’s eyes shone with excitement. “March brought up robbers, not me. But there’s more. The first team to finish Pygmalion’s Quest gets to help design the next game from Fossilware. I mean they’re only the most cutting-edge developer ever! It’s pure torture to be this close and not finish when school is about to get in the way.”
“Get in the way?” Saskia shook her head in disbelief. “Gee Chloe, high school actually matters. You need to join the debate club or Model UN and build your resume, learn to put on makeup, dance with boys–” Seeing Chloe flail her arms about in a mock waltz, Saskia paused and pressed her lips thinly together. Chloe needed to grow up, badly.
“What should I be learning?” protested March in a tone Saskia recognized as his give-me-attention voice.
“Fractions and to stop rolling down hills like a feral child,” Saskia said and she jabbed a key on the register for emphasis. The metallic clang punctuated the silence followed by tinkling wind chimes. A customer had arrived. Good thing too because March was about to ask and discover what “feral” meant, which would have resulted in an argument.
The customer hovered inside the entrance. He was tall and his broad shoulders were hunched over in a rumpled trench coat that fluttered to his ankles. He wore a battered fedora, under which Saskia could see a deeply lined forehead. He looked haggard. He wordlessly surveyed the store, eyes roving down the aisles to the back where Uncle Peter kept his workshop.
Saskia tossed her hair over her shoulder and greeted the man with a weak smile. She walked up to him and offered a pair of tongs and wax envelope. “Can I help you?” She spoke in her most grown-up voice.
He leaned close, and she caught the odor of burnt matches and sour yeast. He licked his lips. “Where’s the hive?”
“Excuse me?” Saskia’s nostrils curled. There was something unsettling about this man. His hand kept drifting to the pocket by his left hip, as if he sought to reassure himself that something was still there.
“The hive,” he repeated as he took the tongs and wax envelope from Saskia. “Where is it?”
“If you’re looking for honey,” Saskia said, fishing for comprehension. “It’s in the far left aisle.”
The man lumbered in that direction, pockets clinking. Saskia watched him stoop over the bins and snatch handfuls of dried apricots, toffee, and black pepper crusted walnuts. These he jammed into the same wax envelope. It was going to be a headache to ring him up.
The man was now running his finger along the inner rim of an open jar of beets. He stuck it in his mouth and smacked his lips. “Trace remnants of elementals.” He whistled softly, rapping on the walls. “Where are you hiding?”
Saskia stiffened. What was he rambling about? He patted the pocket by his left hip again, briefly flashing a black metal handle. Saskia craned her neck for a better view.
A finger jabbed her forearm and she nearly yelped.
“See the pocket by his left hip? He’s got an L-shaped object inside. I think—I think it’s a gun!” Chloe whispered.
“Don’t be ridiculous. This isn’t an Agatha Christie book,” Saskia growled under her breath but she strained again. That pocket was now out of her line of sight but she could see other sagging pockets. Did they conceal weapons? There was a flash of silver. She squinted. No, just a pair of tongs. Wait, tongs. The store’s tongs. Another pocket gaped open, revealing the bottle cap of ginger beer, also from the store. She watched in shock as Uncle Peter’s microscope slid neatly into the same pocket.
Saskia seized Chloe’s elbow and pulled her to the back of the store. The man was hunched over the paper, tools, and gears scattered on Uncle Peter’s workbench. His right thumb repeatedly flicked a lighter on and off. “The hive is in the safe,” he muttered. “Protected. Safe. Key. If they won’t give it to us, we’ll break in and smoke’m. Smoke’m all out.”
Safe? Smoke? Saskia’s mouth contorted as he brought the lighter to the corner of a stack of paper
1st 5 Pages September Workshop - Rothschild Rev 1
Name: Peggy Rothschild
Genre: Young Adult
Title: Punishment Summer
CHAPTER 1
“Wake up, Nicki.”
Fingers dug into my shoulders, strong hands shook me. When I opened my eyes, the world tilted. Drank way too much last night. Dad’s face loomed above, pale in the light cast by my bedside lamp. “What time is it?”
He shook his head. “Never mind that. You need to pack your stuff. Now.”
“What?”
“You’re going to your grandpa’s. For the summer. Get up. Grab everything you’ll need. It’s cold up there. Pack your boots, heavy socks, that wool jacket. You’ve got fifteen minutes.”
Caught between dreaming and reality, I sat up, rubbed my face. Felt real. “Why am I going to Grandpa’s?”
Dad took a noisy breath. “I know you snuck out two weeks ago. And again last night.”
“I-”
“Don’t. I saw the pictures on Gemma’s Facebook page. Grounding you isn’t getting the job done. Get packed. And brush your teeth. Your breath stinks of smoke and Schlitz.”
Crap.
Dad knew me, knew I wouldn’t dig in my heels. I was a wheedler and a runner, but not a fighter. Head throbbing, I jumped out of bed, opened the closet and pushed aside the shoes piled on top of my duffle bag. Dad had a short fuse. Over the years, I’d gotten pretty good at hiding the kind of behavior that set him off. I hadn’t seen him this mad since-
My stomach lurched. No. Thinking about that was a mistake. My insides already felt rocky enough. Groggy and queasy, I still set some kind of speed record for packing.
No joke about the time limit. Exactly fifteen minutes later, Dad hustled me outside, my hair uncombed and still wearing pajama bottoms instead of jeans. But I’d stuffed everything I’d need to survive the summer into the duffle and a knapsack. Once I got settled inside the car, it hit me: I’d crossed the line Dad cared about most. A deep crease bisected his forehead. His jaw looked carved from stone. Making Dad mad always gave me the gut-rumbles. I closed my eyes, wishing I could hit ‘rewind’, get a do-over for last night. Hell, the party hadn’t even been fun. At least not for me. Watching Gemma hold hands with my sort-of boyfriend wasn’t my idea of a good time. It was also why I drank so much.
A stay at Grandpa’s looked unavoidable. But, getting sent away for the whole summer because I snuck out twice? Over-react much? Typical Dad move.
To show him I was mad, too, I tried forty-five minutes of stony silence as we sped north. But, since we didn’t talk much at the best of times, I wasn’t sure he noticed the difference. When he pulled off the freeway and into a drive-through south of LAX, he finally spoke. “Here.” He passed me a breakfast burrito then zoomed out of the shopping center, one hand holding his food, the other gripping the wheel.
My stomach still wobbled after last night’s combined beer and tequila binge. Slumped, knees against the dashboard, I nibbled the tortilla where it folded over like an envelope. After the first few tidbits settled, I took a full bite, then stared out at the housing tracts as they blurred by.
North of Bakersfield, tall glass buildings gave way to squat stucco homes. I checked the dashboard clock. Already three hours closer to Grandpa’s. So unfair. Still, yelling wouldn’t fix this. Maybe I could talk Dad into reducing my sentence, only spend half the summer in exile. Get home before Gemma helped Scott forget all about me. I took a deep breath. “I shouldn’t have snuck out and gone to Gemma’s. It was stupid. But I didn’t know it would turn into a party. I only wanted to have some fun.”
“Fun?” The car veered into the next lane. Dad jerked the wheel, bringing us back between the lines. “You and your friends were drinking, smoking pot. I saw the photos.”
I’d rip Gemma a new one for posting those. Talk about stupid.
Oh no. A fuzzy memory took shape: Me laughing my ass off while Gemma and I huddled over her iPhone. Had I been idiot enough to help her? Talk about the dangers of alcohol. “You should see the stuff other kids post.”
“Other kids aren’t my concern. You are.”
Dad gave me a lot of freedom. I chalked that up to his sadness over our Incredible Shrinking Family. But pot and alcohol remained his big constant ‘no.’ When I turned sixteen last year, he grew increasingly rabid on the topic. The result of Single-Surviving-Child Syndrome. OK, not a documentable condition, but real in my world. Maybe I could still fix this. “You’re right. I’m sorry. It was immature.” Dad liked me to strive for maturity.
“Immature? Try stupid. Try dangerous. This isn’t the first time. Or the second. I hoped that you… After what we’ve been through…” He shook his head. “I can’t even talk to you right now.”
So that was that. No turning back. Chugging along in Dad’s Smart Car with everything I owned – well, everything I cared enough about to pack in fifteen minutes – shoved behind my seat and in a knapsack at my feet. Heading to some kind of midpoint for the state: Nowheresville, California. Dad says I met Grandpa when I was four, but I don’t remember. Obviously he didn’t care much about me – he never sent birthday cards or presents. Never called. Not even after the fire.
I jerked awake, stared out of the dirt-spattered window. The two-lane road was empty except for our car parked on the shoulder. No nearby buildings either. Just a lot of trees and bushes. My brain banged against the inside of my skull. Should’ve asked Dad for a soda when we stopped for breakfast. Or not drunk so much last night. “Where are we?”
“Your grandpa’s picking you up here.” Dad checked his watch. “We’re a couple minutes early.”
Must’ve dozed through half the state. Hard to believe I fell asleep with my feet jammed under the knapsack and tension pretzeling my guts. “You can’t be serious about this. I screwed up. But sending me off with a stranger… That’s way too harsh.”
“He’s not a stranger.”
“Right. I feel super-close to the guy. I don’t even know what he looks like.”
“You’re staying with your grandpa. End of discussion.” Dad pulled off his sunglasses and massaged the bridge of his nose. “When he gets here, don’t try to drag things out. He hates coming in to the city.”
I glanced at the dusty road and scrub-covered hills. “What city?” I kicked my knapsack. “This is so unfair.”
“I’m doing this for your own good. Use this summer to grow up. Not play at being grown up – like your friends. Take on some responsibility. Try to figure out who you are.”
“Sending me to Grandpa’s will do that for me?”
“Nicole, nothing and no one’s going to do that for you. You’ve got to do it yourself.”
“Whatever.” I slumped down, which was tricky considering the lack of legroom.
A gray pickup pulled onto the shoulder in front of Dad’s car. Dust filled the air, making it hard to see the driver. When he stepped from the cab, he looked eight feet tall – at least from where I slouched.
“Wait here.” Dad climbed out.
If this meeting went badly, Dad might take me home.
The two hugged.
Crap. Not a good sign reprieve-wise. They talked for a few minutes before Dad signaled me to join them. I sighed. No stay of execution. I yanked my bag from the narrow space behind the seat, hoisted my knapsack onto my shoulder then dragged my feet and the duffle across the dirt.
Grandpa wasn’t actually eight-feet-tall, but he stood well over six. Dressed in a plaid flannel shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows, ropey muscles showed along his forearms. With his iron-gray hair shooting out around his head, he looked a little crazy. His gaze flitted from me to the highway, like he was anxious to get a move on.
“You’ve grown a lot since I saw you last, Nicole. What are you – five-six, five-seven?”
“I go by Nicki. And I’m five-seven-and-a-half.”
“That all your stuff?”
“Everything I had time to grab.” I glared at Dad. Grandpa hoisted my duffle like it was empty and tossed it into the back of the pickup. I held on to my knapsack.
“Be good.” Dad leaned down to give me a kiss. I turned away. His lips grazed the side of my head. “See you at the end of summer.”
I climbed onto the passenger seat, slammed the door and didn’t look back.
Grandpa made a U-turn then gunned the engine. We rocketed along the empty road. Away from my dad. Away from my life.
Genre: Young Adult
Title: Punishment Summer
CHAPTER 1
“Wake up, Nicki.”
Fingers dug into my shoulders, strong hands shook me. When I opened my eyes, the world tilted. Drank way too much last night. Dad’s face loomed above, pale in the light cast by my bedside lamp. “What time is it?”
He shook his head. “Never mind that. You need to pack your stuff. Now.”
“What?”
“You’re going to your grandpa’s. For the summer. Get up. Grab everything you’ll need. It’s cold up there. Pack your boots, heavy socks, that wool jacket. You’ve got fifteen minutes.”
Caught between dreaming and reality, I sat up, rubbed my face. Felt real. “Why am I going to Grandpa’s?”
Dad took a noisy breath. “I know you snuck out two weeks ago. And again last night.”
“I-”
“Don’t. I saw the pictures on Gemma’s Facebook page. Grounding you isn’t getting the job done. Get packed. And brush your teeth. Your breath stinks of smoke and Schlitz.”
Crap.
Dad knew me, knew I wouldn’t dig in my heels. I was a wheedler and a runner, but not a fighter. Head throbbing, I jumped out of bed, opened the closet and pushed aside the shoes piled on top of my duffle bag. Dad had a short fuse. Over the years, I’d gotten pretty good at hiding the kind of behavior that set him off. I hadn’t seen him this mad since-
My stomach lurched. No. Thinking about that was a mistake. My insides already felt rocky enough. Groggy and queasy, I still set some kind of speed record for packing.
No joke about the time limit. Exactly fifteen minutes later, Dad hustled me outside, my hair uncombed and still wearing pajama bottoms instead of jeans. But I’d stuffed everything I’d need to survive the summer into the duffle and a knapsack. Once I got settled inside the car, it hit me: I’d crossed the line Dad cared about most. A deep crease bisected his forehead. His jaw looked carved from stone. Making Dad mad always gave me the gut-rumbles. I closed my eyes, wishing I could hit ‘rewind’, get a do-over for last night. Hell, the party hadn’t even been fun. At least not for me. Watching Gemma hold hands with my sort-of boyfriend wasn’t my idea of a good time. It was also why I drank so much.
A stay at Grandpa’s looked unavoidable. But, getting sent away for the whole summer because I snuck out twice? Over-react much? Typical Dad move.
To show him I was mad, too, I tried forty-five minutes of stony silence as we sped north. But, since we didn’t talk much at the best of times, I wasn’t sure he noticed the difference. When he pulled off the freeway and into a drive-through south of LAX, he finally spoke. “Here.” He passed me a breakfast burrito then zoomed out of the shopping center, one hand holding his food, the other gripping the wheel.
My stomach still wobbled after last night’s combined beer and tequila binge. Slumped, knees against the dashboard, I nibbled the tortilla where it folded over like an envelope. After the first few tidbits settled, I took a full bite, then stared out at the housing tracts as they blurred by.
North of Bakersfield, tall glass buildings gave way to squat stucco homes. I checked the dashboard clock. Already three hours closer to Grandpa’s. So unfair. Still, yelling wouldn’t fix this. Maybe I could talk Dad into reducing my sentence, only spend half the summer in exile. Get home before Gemma helped Scott forget all about me. I took a deep breath. “I shouldn’t have snuck out and gone to Gemma’s. It was stupid. But I didn’t know it would turn into a party. I only wanted to have some fun.”
“Fun?” The car veered into the next lane. Dad jerked the wheel, bringing us back between the lines. “You and your friends were drinking, smoking pot. I saw the photos.”
I’d rip Gemma a new one for posting those. Talk about stupid.
Oh no. A fuzzy memory took shape: Me laughing my ass off while Gemma and I huddled over her iPhone. Had I been idiot enough to help her? Talk about the dangers of alcohol. “You should see the stuff other kids post.”
“Other kids aren’t my concern. You are.”
Dad gave me a lot of freedom. I chalked that up to his sadness over our Incredible Shrinking Family. But pot and alcohol remained his big constant ‘no.’ When I turned sixteen last year, he grew increasingly rabid on the topic. The result of Single-Surviving-Child Syndrome. OK, not a documentable condition, but real in my world. Maybe I could still fix this. “You’re right. I’m sorry. It was immature.” Dad liked me to strive for maturity.
“Immature? Try stupid. Try dangerous. This isn’t the first time. Or the second. I hoped that you… After what we’ve been through…” He shook his head. “I can’t even talk to you right now.”
So that was that. No turning back. Chugging along in Dad’s Smart Car with everything I owned – well, everything I cared enough about to pack in fifteen minutes – shoved behind my seat and in a knapsack at my feet. Heading to some kind of midpoint for the state: Nowheresville, California. Dad says I met Grandpa when I was four, but I don’t remember. Obviously he didn’t care much about me – he never sent birthday cards or presents. Never called. Not even after the fire.
I jerked awake, stared out of the dirt-spattered window. The two-lane road was empty except for our car parked on the shoulder. No nearby buildings either. Just a lot of trees and bushes. My brain banged against the inside of my skull. Should’ve asked Dad for a soda when we stopped for breakfast. Or not drunk so much last night. “Where are we?”
“Your grandpa’s picking you up here.” Dad checked his watch. “We’re a couple minutes early.”
Must’ve dozed through half the state. Hard to believe I fell asleep with my feet jammed under the knapsack and tension pretzeling my guts. “You can’t be serious about this. I screwed up. But sending me off with a stranger… That’s way too harsh.”
“He’s not a stranger.”
“Right. I feel super-close to the guy. I don’t even know what he looks like.”
“You’re staying with your grandpa. End of discussion.” Dad pulled off his sunglasses and massaged the bridge of his nose. “When he gets here, don’t try to drag things out. He hates coming in to the city.”
I glanced at the dusty road and scrub-covered hills. “What city?” I kicked my knapsack. “This is so unfair.”
“I’m doing this for your own good. Use this summer to grow up. Not play at being grown up – like your friends. Take on some responsibility. Try to figure out who you are.”
“Sending me to Grandpa’s will do that for me?”
“Nicole, nothing and no one’s going to do that for you. You’ve got to do it yourself.”
“Whatever.” I slumped down, which was tricky considering the lack of legroom.
A gray pickup pulled onto the shoulder in front of Dad’s car. Dust filled the air, making it hard to see the driver. When he stepped from the cab, he looked eight feet tall – at least from where I slouched.
“Wait here.” Dad climbed out.
If this meeting went badly, Dad might take me home.
The two hugged.
Crap. Not a good sign reprieve-wise. They talked for a few minutes before Dad signaled me to join them. I sighed. No stay of execution. I yanked my bag from the narrow space behind the seat, hoisted my knapsack onto my shoulder then dragged my feet and the duffle across the dirt.
Grandpa wasn’t actually eight-feet-tall, but he stood well over six. Dressed in a plaid flannel shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows, ropey muscles showed along his forearms. With his iron-gray hair shooting out around his head, he looked a little crazy. His gaze flitted from me to the highway, like he was anxious to get a move on.
“You’ve grown a lot since I saw you last, Nicole. What are you – five-six, five-seven?”
“I go by Nicki. And I’m five-seven-and-a-half.”
“That all your stuff?”
“Everything I had time to grab.” I glared at Dad. Grandpa hoisted my duffle like it was empty and tossed it into the back of the pickup. I held on to my knapsack.
“Be good.” Dad leaned down to give me a kiss. I turned away. His lips grazed the side of my head. “See you at the end of summer.”
I climbed onto the passenger seat, slammed the door and didn’t look back.
Grandpa made a U-turn then gunned the engine. We rocketed along the empty road. Away from my dad. Away from my life.
Monday, September 9, 2013
1st 5 Pages September Workshop - Noser
Name: Ann M. Noser
Genre: Young Adult Dystopian
Title: WIP with a TIP (work in progress with a title in progress)
Chapter 1 - HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO ME
Dad died five years ago today.
It was the worst day of my life.
It was also my tenth birthday.
***
My birthday is the worst day of the year. So far fifteen doesn’t feel any better than fourteen. Most kids request a vacation pass on their birthday, but not me. I’d rather forget the whole thing and help Old Gus prepare the chilled bodies in the hospital mortuary. I jump out of bed and pull on teal blue scrubs.
I scramble for socks and shoes, and a ray of early sunlight glints off my Dad’s picture hanging on the wall. Once again, his eyes capture mine, as if he needs to tell me something important. On the floor beneath the photo sits a memory trunk full of how things used to be. But I won’t open it today. I just can’t.
Dishes clink in the kitchen.
“Hurry up, Silvia. I’ve got a surprise for you.”
Mom sounds happy, but I can’t tell if it’s real or fake. Since Dad’s death, both of us have done a lot of pretending. So far this year we’ve been able to avoid Psychotherapy Services and Mandated Medication, but sometimes I think I was sent down to Mortuary Services to push me over the edge. Instead it was exactly what I needed. Since I never got to see Dad’s body after the accident, caring for other people’s dead loved ones soothes the empty ache inside.
So does Old Gus. He always knows what to say to me and what not to say.
Too bad Mom doesn’t have a clue.
I enter the kitchen as she brews green tea.
“Sit down.” She turns away. “Happy birthday.”
I sigh. “You know I don’t like my birthday.”
“I’m determined to change your mind.” She forces a smile. “I planned a big surprise today.”
I tense, expecting her to bust into tears at any moment. “What is it?”
She raises her eyebrows. “Well, first of all. You’ll need to change.”
I glance down at my standard issue medical scrubs. Things are definitely getting interesting.
Mom pours both of us some tea. “I got us Park and Art passes today.”
“What if Gus needs me?” I take a sip of tea.
“Don’t worry. He knows all about it. I told him weeks ago.”
“Really? Gus must be good at keeping secrets. He never even wished me ‘happy birthday’ yesterday.” Probably because he knows me better than you do.
“Eat quickly. We shouldn’t waste the day.” Mom slides over a bowl of oatmeal and berries and I dig in.
After breakfast, I rush into my room to exchange the work clothes for jeans and a long-sleeved green T-shirt. All my clothes are soft and plain, without decoration, made by hands like my father’s. Only Dad proved himself to be Gifted, so he didn’t make Basic Worker Level clothes for long. Instead, he got promoted.
“Hurry up!” Mom calls from the front door hallway.
We clamber down six flights of stairs in the airless stairwell. Once we reach the main floor, we push out the airlock into the swarms of people flooding the streets. Dashing across the busy bike path and an empty car lane, we finally reach the closest walk way. Traffic is orderly today. No bikers stray from their lanes into ours. Men, women, and children wearing blue scrubs of various shades hurry towards the hospitals and medical facilities. Those in green coveralls rush towards the monorail station to speed off to one of the numerous Plant and Protein Production Facilities.
A splash of envy hits me as I glance back at a beautiful dark-skinned woman wearing a green turban. Normally, I don’t mind my job. In fact, I feel more at home in the mortuary than anywhere else. But part of me still longs for the lucky woman’s green uniform. I’d love to spend all day surrounded by plants. Nothing can be done about it now. The Occupation Exam is over, and I’ve been placed where I’m most effective.
The street is crowded this time of day. Men, women, and children whoosh past us on bikes, as those on foot press constantly forward. Only the car lane remains empty.
We march past building after building, offices on the first two floors and apartments up above. We make good time until we hit the Citizen Family Planning and Redistribution Building. Traffic stalls. A crowd of walkers fidget in place ahead of us.
“What’s going on?” Mom cranes her neck and raises up on her toes. “Can you see?”
After a long pause, the people ahead of us begin to shuffle past the building one at a time. A few cast furtive glances over their shoulders. Everyone’s in a hurry to get somewhere. Now I see who is causing the fuss. A red-haired girl who looks to be about my age shoves an orderly away. The crowd behind us pushes us closer. Tears stream down the girl’s pale face. She backs away from the building and turns as if to run. Then she cries out in pain, and clutches her swollen belly, breathing hard.
In her moment of weakness, the orderlies surround and restrain her.
“I won’t do it! I won’t do it!” the pregnant girl screams as they drag her away.
Genre: Young Adult Dystopian
Title: WIP with a TIP (work in progress with a title in progress)
Chapter 1 - HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO ME
Dad died five years ago today.
It was the worst day of my life.
It was also my tenth birthday.
***
My birthday is the worst day of the year. So far fifteen doesn’t feel any better than fourteen. Most kids request a vacation pass on their birthday, but not me. I’d rather forget the whole thing and help Old Gus prepare the chilled bodies in the hospital mortuary. I jump out of bed and pull on teal blue scrubs.
I scramble for socks and shoes, and a ray of early sunlight glints off my Dad’s picture hanging on the wall. Once again, his eyes capture mine, as if he needs to tell me something important. On the floor beneath the photo sits a memory trunk full of how things used to be. But I won’t open it today. I just can’t.
Dishes clink in the kitchen.
“Hurry up, Silvia. I’ve got a surprise for you.”
Mom sounds happy, but I can’t tell if it’s real or fake. Since Dad’s death, both of us have done a lot of pretending. So far this year we’ve been able to avoid Psychotherapy Services and Mandated Medication, but sometimes I think I was sent down to Mortuary Services to push me over the edge. Instead it was exactly what I needed. Since I never got to see Dad’s body after the accident, caring for other people’s dead loved ones soothes the empty ache inside.
So does Old Gus. He always knows what to say to me and what not to say.
Too bad Mom doesn’t have a clue.
I enter the kitchen as she brews green tea.
“Sit down.” She turns away. “Happy birthday.”
I sigh. “You know I don’t like my birthday.”
“I’m determined to change your mind.” She forces a smile. “I planned a big surprise today.”
I tense, expecting her to bust into tears at any moment. “What is it?”
She raises her eyebrows. “Well, first of all. You’ll need to change.”
I glance down at my standard issue medical scrubs. Things are definitely getting interesting.
Mom pours both of us some tea. “I got us Park and Art passes today.”
“What if Gus needs me?” I take a sip of tea.
“Don’t worry. He knows all about it. I told him weeks ago.”
“Really? Gus must be good at keeping secrets. He never even wished me ‘happy birthday’ yesterday.” Probably because he knows me better than you do.
“Eat quickly. We shouldn’t waste the day.” Mom slides over a bowl of oatmeal and berries and I dig in.
After breakfast, I rush into my room to exchange the work clothes for jeans and a long-sleeved green T-shirt. All my clothes are soft and plain, without decoration, made by hands like my father’s. Only Dad proved himself to be Gifted, so he didn’t make Basic Worker Level clothes for long. Instead, he got promoted.
“Hurry up!” Mom calls from the front door hallway.
We clamber down six flights of stairs in the airless stairwell. Once we reach the main floor, we push out the airlock into the swarms of people flooding the streets. Dashing across the busy bike path and an empty car lane, we finally reach the closest walk way. Traffic is orderly today. No bikers stray from their lanes into ours. Men, women, and children wearing blue scrubs of various shades hurry towards the hospitals and medical facilities. Those in green coveralls rush towards the monorail station to speed off to one of the numerous Plant and Protein Production Facilities.
A splash of envy hits me as I glance back at a beautiful dark-skinned woman wearing a green turban. Normally, I don’t mind my job. In fact, I feel more at home in the mortuary than anywhere else. But part of me still longs for the lucky woman’s green uniform. I’d love to spend all day surrounded by plants. Nothing can be done about it now. The Occupation Exam is over, and I’ve been placed where I’m most effective.
The street is crowded this time of day. Men, women, and children whoosh past us on bikes, as those on foot press constantly forward. Only the car lane remains empty.
We march past building after building, offices on the first two floors and apartments up above. We make good time until we hit the Citizen Family Planning and Redistribution Building. Traffic stalls. A crowd of walkers fidget in place ahead of us.
“What’s going on?” Mom cranes her neck and raises up on her toes. “Can you see?”
After a long pause, the people ahead of us begin to shuffle past the building one at a time. A few cast furtive glances over their shoulders. Everyone’s in a hurry to get somewhere. Now I see who is causing the fuss. A red-haired girl who looks to be about my age shoves an orderly away. The crowd behind us pushes us closer. Tears stream down the girl’s pale face. She backs away from the building and turns as if to run. Then she cries out in pain, and clutches her swollen belly, breathing hard.
In her moment of weakness, the orderlies surround and restrain her.
“I won’t do it! I won’t do it!” the pregnant girl screams as they drag her away.
1st 5 Pages September Workshop - Yuen
Name: Sunni Yuen
Genre: Young Adult Sci-Fi
Title: The Germ Factory
Saskia chucked the damp rag into the waste bin and splayed her fingers over the old-fashioned cash register. The muted sheen of the long brass keys reflected the pink of her nail polish. Perfect. She gazed down the sun-dappled aisles of Uncle Peter’s corner store, inhaling the comforting scent of paprika and honey. The shelves were laden with bottles of sunflower seed oil, chocolate wafers, and crusty loaves of poppy seed bread. The beets and pickles glowed ruby and moss green in their jars.
The corner of Saskia’s mouth twitched upwards. She had worked hard all summer stocking inventory and working the till to show Uncle Peter she could run the store. And now, it was actually happening. She, Saskia Brennan, age fifteen, one week shy of high school, was managing the store without any adult supervision. Once school started, she could work late afternoons and weekends freeing Uncle Peter to focus on his research.
“Why are you smiling? No one else is here.” Chloe asked with a stifled yawn. She wore a petulant expression and slumped low on her stool, legs dangling.
“I’m here,” March said. He leaned over the counter, absorbed with applying a bead of Elmer’s glue to his stamp book. Stamps were his latest obsession.
“I meant customers. People who matter,” Chloe amended before she clamped her lips around a red braid of licorice and sucked hard. That behavior might be tolerated from a ten-year-old like March but definitely not a high school student. Chloe used to be Saskia’s closest friend and normal. But once Chloe fell in with the computer geek crowd, she began rejecting anything mainstream. At least March was still the same boisterous boy, even if he was a pain-in-the-neck to his sister. But that was Chloe’s problem.
“Don’t listen to her, Saskia,” March said. “Chloe’s grumpy because she wants to play that dumb computer game but Mom and Dad made us come here.”
“Excuse me, dumb game?” Chloe scowled at March.
“Dumb and boring game. All you do is shoot smoke rings,” March taunted.
“The game’s not just button-mashing!” Chloe declared hotly. “There’s way more to it. It’s Pygmalion’s Quest! It’s about—it’s like – it’s, erm,” She fished for an adjective. “Well, you have to try it.”
Saskia decided to indulge Chloe. “How does it start?” she asked.
Chloe closed her eyes. “The game loads and it’s like stepping into ancient Greece. It’s white everywhere. The floor is chalky. The walls are marble but with blue veins so thin and faint, they’re like cracks. There’s a man crouched over. Suddenly you see he’s surrounded by pedestals but there’s no statue on the closest one. He raises his face – there are white handprints on both cheeks.” Swaying gently, Chloe hovered her palms two inches from her own cheeks for dramatic effect.
“Then what?” Saskia asked, slightly perturbed. Did Chloe really think she lived in this game world?
Chloe’s voice became sing-songy. “The man is Pygmalion, who creates a statue of a woman. In the Greek myth, he falls in love with the statue, and she comes to life. But in the game, when she comes to life, she panics, slaps both sides of his face, and runs away, which is less cheesy than her falling in love with him at first sight. Pygmalion is devastated. He doesn’t know where she’s run. He’s so heartbroken the other statues come to life.”
“And then they run away and you hafta catch them,” March volunteered as he flicked little balls of dried glue from his fingers on to the counter. Saskia frowned and swept the glue debris into the waste bin.
“No,” Chloe said impatiently. “They’re avatars. There’s a queen, bishop, king, knight, rook . . . ”
“Like chess,” Saskia commented.
“Nuh-uh. Mine’s a mage. The cool part is that I get to give special powers to my mage by writing code. Like firebolts! I had to work out the physics of the temperature and the speed depending on the angle,” Chloe explained, eyes shining with excitement.
This sounded complicated. “Mmm-hmmm,” Saskia said.
“So if a robber attacks, Chloe can save us!” March laughed.
“Can we please not talk about robbers?” Saskia interrupted. She wasn’t superstitious but she could not help glancing out the window. Luckily, the street was clear. A robber was the last thing she wanted to think about on her first day working unsupervised.
Chloe waved her arms. “March was the one who brought up robbers. Anyways, my point is that playing Pygmalion’s Quest challenges your mind. Plus, the team that finishes first gets to help design the next release from Fossilware. I mean they’re only the most cutting edge game developer ever! It’s pure torture to be this close and not finish when school is about to get in the way.”
“Get in the way?” Saskia shook her head in disbelief. “Gee Chloe, high school actually matters. You need to join the debate club or Model UN and build your resume, learn to put on makeup, dance with boys–” Seeing Chloe flail her arms about in a mock waltz, Saskia paused and pressed her lips thinly together. Chloe needed to grow up, badly.
“What should I be learning?” protested March in a tone Saskia recognized as his give-me-attention voice.
“Fractions and to stop rolling down hills like a feral child,” Saskia said and she jabbed a key on the register for emphasis. The metallic clang punctuated the silence followed by tinkling wind chimes. A customer had arrived. Good thing too because March was about to ask and discover what “feral” meant, which would have resulted in an argument.
The customer hovered inside the entrance. He was tall and his broad shoulders were hunched over in a rumpled trench coat that fluttered to his ankles. He wore a battered fedora, under which Saskia could see a deeply lined forehead. He looked haggard. He wordlessly surveyed the store, eyes roving down the aisles to the back where Uncle Peter kept his workshop.
Saskia tossed her hair over her shoulder and greeted the man with a weak smile. She walked up to him and offered a pair of tongs and wax envelope. “Can I help you?” She spoke in her most grown-up voice.
He leaned close, and she caught the odor of burnt matches and sour yeast. He licked his lips. “Where’s the hive?”
“Excuse me?” Saskia’s nostrils curled. There was something unsettling about this man. His hand kept drifting to the pocket by his left hip, as if he sought to reassure himself that something was still there.
“The hive,” he repeated as he took the tongs and wax envelope from Saskia. “Where is it?”
“If you’re looking for honey,” Saskia said, fishing for comprehension. “It’s in the far left aisle.”
The man lumbered in that direction, pockets clinking. Saskia watched him stoop over the bins and snatch handfuls of dried apricots, toffee, and black pepper crusted walnuts. These he jammed into the same wax envelope. It was going to be a headache to ring him up.
The man was now running his finger along the inner rim of an open jar of beets. He stuck it in his mouth and smacked his lips. “Trace remnants of elementals.” He whistled softly, rapping on the walls. “Where are you hiding? It’s no use. I’ll find you.”
Saskia stiffened. What was he rambling about? He patted the pocket by his left hip again, briefly flashing a black metal handle.
Genre: Young Adult Sci-Fi
Title: The Germ Factory
Saskia chucked the damp rag into the waste bin and splayed her fingers over the old-fashioned cash register. The muted sheen of the long brass keys reflected the pink of her nail polish. Perfect. She gazed down the sun-dappled aisles of Uncle Peter’s corner store, inhaling the comforting scent of paprika and honey. The shelves were laden with bottles of sunflower seed oil, chocolate wafers, and crusty loaves of poppy seed bread. The beets and pickles glowed ruby and moss green in their jars.
The corner of Saskia’s mouth twitched upwards. She had worked hard all summer stocking inventory and working the till to show Uncle Peter she could run the store. And now, it was actually happening. She, Saskia Brennan, age fifteen, one week shy of high school, was managing the store without any adult supervision. Once school started, she could work late afternoons and weekends freeing Uncle Peter to focus on his research.
“Why are you smiling? No one else is here.” Chloe asked with a stifled yawn. She wore a petulant expression and slumped low on her stool, legs dangling.
“I’m here,” March said. He leaned over the counter, absorbed with applying a bead of Elmer’s glue to his stamp book. Stamps were his latest obsession.
“I meant customers. People who matter,” Chloe amended before she clamped her lips around a red braid of licorice and sucked hard. That behavior might be tolerated from a ten-year-old like March but definitely not a high school student. Chloe used to be Saskia’s closest friend and normal. But once Chloe fell in with the computer geek crowd, she began rejecting anything mainstream. At least March was still the same boisterous boy, even if he was a pain-in-the-neck to his sister. But that was Chloe’s problem.
“Don’t listen to her, Saskia,” March said. “Chloe’s grumpy because she wants to play that dumb computer game but Mom and Dad made us come here.”
“Excuse me, dumb game?” Chloe scowled at March.
“Dumb and boring game. All you do is shoot smoke rings,” March taunted.
“The game’s not just button-mashing!” Chloe declared hotly. “There’s way more to it. It’s Pygmalion’s Quest! It’s about—it’s like – it’s, erm,” She fished for an adjective. “Well, you have to try it.”
Saskia decided to indulge Chloe. “How does it start?” she asked.
Chloe closed her eyes. “The game loads and it’s like stepping into ancient Greece. It’s white everywhere. The floor is chalky. The walls are marble but with blue veins so thin and faint, they’re like cracks. There’s a man crouched over. Suddenly you see he’s surrounded by pedestals but there’s no statue on the closest one. He raises his face – there are white handprints on both cheeks.” Swaying gently, Chloe hovered her palms two inches from her own cheeks for dramatic effect.
“Then what?” Saskia asked, slightly perturbed. Did Chloe really think she lived in this game world?
Chloe’s voice became sing-songy. “The man is Pygmalion, who creates a statue of a woman. In the Greek myth, he falls in love with the statue, and she comes to life. But in the game, when she comes to life, she panics, slaps both sides of his face, and runs away, which is less cheesy than her falling in love with him at first sight. Pygmalion is devastated. He doesn’t know where she’s run. He’s so heartbroken the other statues come to life.”
“And then they run away and you hafta catch them,” March volunteered as he flicked little balls of dried glue from his fingers on to the counter. Saskia frowned and swept the glue debris into the waste bin.
“No,” Chloe said impatiently. “They’re avatars. There’s a queen, bishop, king, knight, rook . . . ”
“Like chess,” Saskia commented.
“Nuh-uh. Mine’s a mage. The cool part is that I get to give special powers to my mage by writing code. Like firebolts! I had to work out the physics of the temperature and the speed depending on the angle,” Chloe explained, eyes shining with excitement.
This sounded complicated. “Mmm-hmmm,” Saskia said.
“So if a robber attacks, Chloe can save us!” March laughed.
“Can we please not talk about robbers?” Saskia interrupted. She wasn’t superstitious but she could not help glancing out the window. Luckily, the street was clear. A robber was the last thing she wanted to think about on her first day working unsupervised.
Chloe waved her arms. “March was the one who brought up robbers. Anyways, my point is that playing Pygmalion’s Quest challenges your mind. Plus, the team that finishes first gets to help design the next release from Fossilware. I mean they’re only the most cutting edge game developer ever! It’s pure torture to be this close and not finish when school is about to get in the way.”
“Get in the way?” Saskia shook her head in disbelief. “Gee Chloe, high school actually matters. You need to join the debate club or Model UN and build your resume, learn to put on makeup, dance with boys–” Seeing Chloe flail her arms about in a mock waltz, Saskia paused and pressed her lips thinly together. Chloe needed to grow up, badly.
“What should I be learning?” protested March in a tone Saskia recognized as his give-me-attention voice.
“Fractions and to stop rolling down hills like a feral child,” Saskia said and she jabbed a key on the register for emphasis. The metallic clang punctuated the silence followed by tinkling wind chimes. A customer had arrived. Good thing too because March was about to ask and discover what “feral” meant, which would have resulted in an argument.
The customer hovered inside the entrance. He was tall and his broad shoulders were hunched over in a rumpled trench coat that fluttered to his ankles. He wore a battered fedora, under which Saskia could see a deeply lined forehead. He looked haggard. He wordlessly surveyed the store, eyes roving down the aisles to the back where Uncle Peter kept his workshop.
Saskia tossed her hair over her shoulder and greeted the man with a weak smile. She walked up to him and offered a pair of tongs and wax envelope. “Can I help you?” She spoke in her most grown-up voice.
He leaned close, and she caught the odor of burnt matches and sour yeast. He licked his lips. “Where’s the hive?”
“Excuse me?” Saskia’s nostrils curled. There was something unsettling about this man. His hand kept drifting to the pocket by his left hip, as if he sought to reassure himself that something was still there.
“The hive,” he repeated as he took the tongs and wax envelope from Saskia. “Where is it?”
“If you’re looking for honey,” Saskia said, fishing for comprehension. “It’s in the far left aisle.”
The man lumbered in that direction, pockets clinking. Saskia watched him stoop over the bins and snatch handfuls of dried apricots, toffee, and black pepper crusted walnuts. These he jammed into the same wax envelope. It was going to be a headache to ring him up.
The man was now running his finger along the inner rim of an open jar of beets. He stuck it in his mouth and smacked his lips. “Trace remnants of elementals.” He whistled softly, rapping on the walls. “Where are you hiding? It’s no use. I’ll find you.”
Saskia stiffened. What was he rambling about? He patted the pocket by his left hip again, briefly flashing a black metal handle.
1st 5 Pages September Workshop - Rothschild
Name: Peggy Rothschild
Genre: Young Adult
Title: Punishment Summer
“Wake up, Nicki.”
Fingers dug into my shoulders, strong hands shook me. When I opened my eyes, the world tilted. Drank way too much last night. Dad’s face loomed above, pale in the light cast by my bedside lamp. “What time is it?”
He shook his head. “Never mind that. You need to pack your stuff. Now.”
“What?”
“You’re going to your grandpa’s. For the summer. Get up. Grab everything you’ll need. It’s cold up there. Pack your boots, heavy socks, that wool jacket. You’ve got fifteen minutes.”
Caught between dreaming and reality, I sat up, rubbed my face. Felt real. “Why am I going to Grandpa’s?”
Dad took a noisy breath. “I know you snuck out two weeks ago. And again last night.”
“I-”
“Don’t. I saw the pictures on Gemma’s Facebook page. Grounding you isn’t getting the job done. Get packed. And brush your teeth. Your breath stinks of smoke and Schlitz.”
Dad knew me, knew I wouldn’t dig in my heels. I was a wheedler and a runner, but not a fighter. Half asleep but moving fast, I probably set some kind of speed record for packing.
No joke about the time limit. Exactly fifteen minutes later, Dad hustled me outside, my hair uncombed and still wearing pajama bottoms instead of jeans. But I’d stuffed everything I’d need to survive the summer into a duffle and a knapsack. Once inside the car, it hit me: I’d crossed the line Dad cared about most. A stay at Grandpa’s looked unavoidable, but maybe I could get my sentence reduced.
After trying forty-five minutes of stony silence as we raced along the freeway, I unleashed the tears. Both tactics failed.
Dad finally spoke when he pulled off the freeway and into a drive-through near LAX. “Here.” He passed me a breakfast burrito then zoomed out of the shopping center, one hand holding his food, the other gripping the wheel.
My stomach still wobbled after last night’s beer binge. Slumped, knees against the dashboard, I nibbled the tortilla where it folded over like an envelope. After the first few tidbits settled, I took a full bite.
North of Bakersfield, tall glass buildings gave way to squat stucco homes. I checked the dashboard clock. Already three hours closer to Grandpa’s. So unfair. Still, yelling wouldn’t fix this. “I shouldn’t have snuck out and gone to Gemma’s. It was stupid. But I didn’t know it would turn into a party. I only wanted to have some fun.”
“Fun?” The car veered over the double line. Dad jerked the wheel, bringing us back to our side of the road. “You and your friends were drinking, smoking pot. I saw the photos.”
I’d rip Gemma a new one for posting those. Talk about stupid.
Oh no. A fuzzy memory took shape: Me laughing my ass off while Gemma and I huddled over her iPhone. Had I been idiot enough to help her? “You should see the stuff other kids post.”
“Other kids aren’t my concern. You are.”
Dad gave me a lot of freedom. I chalked that up to his sadness over our Incredible Shrinking Family. But drugs and alcohol remained the constant ‘no.’ When I turned sixteen last year, he grew increasingly rabid on the topic. The result of Single-Surviving-Child Syndrome. OK, not a documentable condition, but real in my world. Maybe I could still fix this. “You’re right. I’m sorry. It was immature.” Dad liked me to strive for maturity.
“Immature? Try stupid. Try dangerous. This isn’t the first time. Or the second. I hoped that you… After what we’ve been through…” He shook his head. “I can’t even talk to you right now.”
So that was that. No turning back. Chugging along in Dad’s Smart Car with everything I owned, well, everything I cared about, shoved behind my seat and in a knapsack at my feet. Heading to some kind of midpoint for the state: Nowheresville, California. Dad says I met Grandpa when I was four, but I don’t remember. Obviously he didn’t care much about me -- he never sent birthday cards or presents. Never called. Not even after the fire.
I jerked awake, stared out the dirt-spattered window. The two-lane road was empty except for our car parked on the shoulder. No nearby buildings either. Just a lot of trees and bushes. My brain banged against the inside of my skull. Should have asked for a soda when we stopped for breakfast. Or not drunk so much last night. “Where are we?”
“Your grandpa’s picking you up here.” Dad checked his watch. “We’re a couple minutes early.”
Must have dozed through half the state. Hard to believe I fell asleep with my feet jammed under the knapsack and tension pretzeling my guts. “You can’t be serious about this. I screwed up. But sending me off with a stranger… That’s way too harsh.”
“He’s not a stranger.”
“Right. I feel super-close to the guy. I don’t even know what he looks like.”
“You’re staying with your grandpa. End of discussion.” Dad pulled off his sunglasses and massaged the bridge of his nose. “When he gets here, don’t try to drag things out. He hates coming in to the city.”
I glanced at the dusty road and scrub-covered hills. “What city?” I kicked my knapsack. “This is so unfair.”
“I’m doing this for your own good. Use this summer to grow up. Not play at being grown up – like your friends. Take on some responsibility. Try to figure out who you are.”
“Sending me to Grandpa’s will do that for me?”
“Nicole, nothing and no one’s going to do that for you. You’ve got to do it yourself.”
“Whatever.” I slumped down, which was tricky considering the lack of legroom.
A gray pickup pulled onto the shoulder in front of Dad’s car. Dust filled the air, making it hard to see the driver. When he stepped from the cab, he looked eight feet tall – at least from where I slouched.
“Wait here.” Dad climbed out.
If this meeting went badly, Dad might take me home.
The two hugged. Not a good sign reprieve-wise. They talked for a few minutes before Dad signaled me to join them. I sighed. No stay of execution. I yanked my bag from the narrow space behind the seat, hoisted my knapsack onto my shoulder then dragged my feet and the duffle across the dirt.
Grandpa wasn’t actually eight-feet-tall, but he stood well over six. Dressed in a plaid flannel shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows, ropey muscles showed along his forearms. With his iron-gray hair shooting out around his head, he looked a little crazy. His gaze flitted from me to the highway, like he was anxious to get a move on.
“You’ve grown a lot since I saw you last, Nicole. What are you – five-six, five-seven?”
“I go by Nicki. And I’m five-seven-and-a-half.”
“That all your stuff?”
“Everything I had time to grab.” I glared at Dad. Grandpa hoisted my duffle like it was empty and tossed it into the back of the pickup. I held on to my knapsack.
“Be good.” Dad leaned down to give me a kiss. I turned away. His lips grazed the side of my head. “See you at the end of summer.”
I climbed onto the passenger seat, slammed the door and didn’t look back.
Grandpa made a U-turn then gunned the engine. We rocketed along the empty road. Away from my dad. Away from my life.
Genre: Young Adult
Title: Punishment Summer
“Wake up, Nicki.”
Fingers dug into my shoulders, strong hands shook me. When I opened my eyes, the world tilted. Drank way too much last night. Dad’s face loomed above, pale in the light cast by my bedside lamp. “What time is it?”
He shook his head. “Never mind that. You need to pack your stuff. Now.”
“What?”
“You’re going to your grandpa’s. For the summer. Get up. Grab everything you’ll need. It’s cold up there. Pack your boots, heavy socks, that wool jacket. You’ve got fifteen minutes.”
Caught between dreaming and reality, I sat up, rubbed my face. Felt real. “Why am I going to Grandpa’s?”
Dad took a noisy breath. “I know you snuck out two weeks ago. And again last night.”
“I-”
“Don’t. I saw the pictures on Gemma’s Facebook page. Grounding you isn’t getting the job done. Get packed. And brush your teeth. Your breath stinks of smoke and Schlitz.”
Dad knew me, knew I wouldn’t dig in my heels. I was a wheedler and a runner, but not a fighter. Half asleep but moving fast, I probably set some kind of speed record for packing.
No joke about the time limit. Exactly fifteen minutes later, Dad hustled me outside, my hair uncombed and still wearing pajama bottoms instead of jeans. But I’d stuffed everything I’d need to survive the summer into a duffle and a knapsack. Once inside the car, it hit me: I’d crossed the line Dad cared about most. A stay at Grandpa’s looked unavoidable, but maybe I could get my sentence reduced.
After trying forty-five minutes of stony silence as we raced along the freeway, I unleashed the tears. Both tactics failed.
Dad finally spoke when he pulled off the freeway and into a drive-through near LAX. “Here.” He passed me a breakfast burrito then zoomed out of the shopping center, one hand holding his food, the other gripping the wheel.
My stomach still wobbled after last night’s beer binge. Slumped, knees against the dashboard, I nibbled the tortilla where it folded over like an envelope. After the first few tidbits settled, I took a full bite.
North of Bakersfield, tall glass buildings gave way to squat stucco homes. I checked the dashboard clock. Already three hours closer to Grandpa’s. So unfair. Still, yelling wouldn’t fix this. “I shouldn’t have snuck out and gone to Gemma’s. It was stupid. But I didn’t know it would turn into a party. I only wanted to have some fun.”
“Fun?” The car veered over the double line. Dad jerked the wheel, bringing us back to our side of the road. “You and your friends were drinking, smoking pot. I saw the photos.”
I’d rip Gemma a new one for posting those. Talk about stupid.
Oh no. A fuzzy memory took shape: Me laughing my ass off while Gemma and I huddled over her iPhone. Had I been idiot enough to help her? “You should see the stuff other kids post.”
“Other kids aren’t my concern. You are.”
Dad gave me a lot of freedom. I chalked that up to his sadness over our Incredible Shrinking Family. But drugs and alcohol remained the constant ‘no.’ When I turned sixteen last year, he grew increasingly rabid on the topic. The result of Single-Surviving-Child Syndrome. OK, not a documentable condition, but real in my world. Maybe I could still fix this. “You’re right. I’m sorry. It was immature.” Dad liked me to strive for maturity.
“Immature? Try stupid. Try dangerous. This isn’t the first time. Or the second. I hoped that you… After what we’ve been through…” He shook his head. “I can’t even talk to you right now.”
So that was that. No turning back. Chugging along in Dad’s Smart Car with everything I owned, well, everything I cared about, shoved behind my seat and in a knapsack at my feet. Heading to some kind of midpoint for the state: Nowheresville, California. Dad says I met Grandpa when I was four, but I don’t remember. Obviously he didn’t care much about me -- he never sent birthday cards or presents. Never called. Not even after the fire.
I jerked awake, stared out the dirt-spattered window. The two-lane road was empty except for our car parked on the shoulder. No nearby buildings either. Just a lot of trees and bushes. My brain banged against the inside of my skull. Should have asked for a soda when we stopped for breakfast. Or not drunk so much last night. “Where are we?”
“Your grandpa’s picking you up here.” Dad checked his watch. “We’re a couple minutes early.”
Must have dozed through half the state. Hard to believe I fell asleep with my feet jammed under the knapsack and tension pretzeling my guts. “You can’t be serious about this. I screwed up. But sending me off with a stranger… That’s way too harsh.”
“He’s not a stranger.”
“Right. I feel super-close to the guy. I don’t even know what he looks like.”
“You’re staying with your grandpa. End of discussion.” Dad pulled off his sunglasses and massaged the bridge of his nose. “When he gets here, don’t try to drag things out. He hates coming in to the city.”
I glanced at the dusty road and scrub-covered hills. “What city?” I kicked my knapsack. “This is so unfair.”
“I’m doing this for your own good. Use this summer to grow up. Not play at being grown up – like your friends. Take on some responsibility. Try to figure out who you are.”
“Sending me to Grandpa’s will do that for me?”
“Nicole, nothing and no one’s going to do that for you. You’ve got to do it yourself.”
“Whatever.” I slumped down, which was tricky considering the lack of legroom.
A gray pickup pulled onto the shoulder in front of Dad’s car. Dust filled the air, making it hard to see the driver. When he stepped from the cab, he looked eight feet tall – at least from where I slouched.
“Wait here.” Dad climbed out.
If this meeting went badly, Dad might take me home.
The two hugged. Not a good sign reprieve-wise. They talked for a few minutes before Dad signaled me to join them. I sighed. No stay of execution. I yanked my bag from the narrow space behind the seat, hoisted my knapsack onto my shoulder then dragged my feet and the duffle across the dirt.
Grandpa wasn’t actually eight-feet-tall, but he stood well over six. Dressed in a plaid flannel shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows, ropey muscles showed along his forearms. With his iron-gray hair shooting out around his head, he looked a little crazy. His gaze flitted from me to the highway, like he was anxious to get a move on.
“You’ve grown a lot since I saw you last, Nicole. What are you – five-six, five-seven?”
“I go by Nicki. And I’m five-seven-and-a-half.”
“That all your stuff?”
“Everything I had time to grab.” I glared at Dad. Grandpa hoisted my duffle like it was empty and tossed it into the back of the pickup. I held on to my knapsack.
“Be good.” Dad leaned down to give me a kiss. I turned away. His lips grazed the side of my head. “See you at the end of summer.”
I climbed onto the passenger seat, slammed the door and didn’t look back.
Grandpa made a U-turn then gunned the engine. We rocketed along the empty road. Away from my dad. Away from my life.
1st 5 Pages September Workshop - Hinebaugh
Name: Olivia Hinebaugh
Genre: YA Contemporary
Title: Lark's Rebellion
I’m lying here in the tall grass, staring at the perfectly fluffy clouds, trying to figure out how to piss off my parents. This shouldn’t be so hard. I’m sixteen, after all. Isn’t it supposed to come with the territory? I’m writing down a list. I’m very methodical like this. I have a five subject notebook (college-ruled of course) filled with similar lists.
So far all I have is:
Sixteen-year-old rebellion ideas
1. Buy new clothes.
2. Start eating meat.
3. Join a convent.
4. Cut my hair.
I’ve never had this much trouble generating a list before. I like my lists like I like my hair: as long as possible. The white space on the page makes my fingers itchy and twitchy. I stick the well-chewed pen in my mouth and hold the notebook so it shades my eyes from the sun.
I read over my list again. This won’t do.
I begin a new list:
Reasons why the previous list is impractical
1. Buy new clothes
a. I don’t have money.
b. I don’t have any way to get to the nearest mall, which is 45 minutes away to buy said clothes.
c. I enjoy making my own clothes.
2. Start eating meat
a. Meat is gross.
b. Again, no money, no car, don’t know how to slaughter animals.
c. Sean says you can get something called “the meat sweats” and that just plain makes me want to vomit.
3. Join a convent
a. Not sure if convents still exist
b. Could never be abstinent
c. Don’t believe in God
d. I think nuns have to sing, and I have a terrible voice
4. Cut my hair
a. I love my hair
b. Parents would probably see a short ‘do as a form of self-expression: plan would backfire.
It’s useless. Nonconformity is the norm here in Peacesylvania. Peacesylvania is the nom du jour for our off-the-grid tract of land in the middle-of-nowhere Pennsylvania. It was changed a few months ago. It’s supposed to inspire us for greater harmony. The elders just weren’t digging the name Eternal Summer Hill any more.
My parents have to respect my individuality. It’s, like, one of the rules they signed off on when they joined. I mean, they didn’t literally sign. And there aren’t actually any rules written down. Old Man Nelson would say: “No rules, man. Paper trails just let the man control you.” He’s paranoid, but everyone still listens to him. Crazy hippie.
My goal now is to find the least hippie thing to do, but also something that doesn’t repulse me. I have a glimmer of an idea when Sean interrupts me.
“Lark! It’s quittin’ time!” he shouts louder than he needs to and it startles me.
“Jesus, Sean. You have to stop sneaking up on me!” I stand up and do a quick tick-check on my bare arms and legs. It’s really freaking hot and my mass of curly, partially dreaded, partially braided hair makes my back feel immediately sticky.
I reach behind Sean and grab the ratty bandana that’s always in his back pocket and use it to tie up my hair.
“I definitely just used that to wipe my nose,” he says. He’s clearly been shoveling manure or composting or something because his sweaty face is streaked with dark brown soil.
“Whatever,” I smile sarcastically, “I love your snot.”
“You are so gross,” he says.
“Says the one with half of his lunch still stuck in his beard,” I tease.
“I’m thinking of shaving it,” he says.
I raise my eyebrows at him. He’s normally so keen to fit in. He loves the Peacesylvania aesthetic. Because he grew up so mainstream, I think he feels like he needs to prove something.
“So what were you out here making a list of?” he asks, trying to snatch my notebook.
“Back off!” I scold him.
“You were on my watch, so you have to tell me,” he says, rubbing a filthy hand through his sweaty hair as we start back toward the little hamlet of cabins and vehicles.
He’s in charge of my “unschooling.” It’s like homeschooling only without a curriculum. The emphasis is on self-exploration and real-life skills. This translates to me reading. A lot. And writing my fair share of lists and personal reflections. There’s a good dose of staring at the sky and shoveling manure mixed in there. Sean is the most educated of my siblings. He finished middle school before we joined up with the commune. I was only five, and my memories of mainstream school were all about nap mats and snack time.
“It was a bit of self-reflection,” I tell him. “I’ve been reading as wide a variety of coming of age stories as I can and there’s a central theme.”
“Oh yeah?” He’s actually interested. It’s why we get along so well. My other older brother, Hudson is a hooligan. Hudson says he’s pursuing a life of spirituality, but let’s call it what it is: an extreme pot habit. Sean’s the opposite. He’s hardworking to a fault. He wants to help everybody in every way he can. He is sickeningly helpful. Our dad says he takes after his mom, whom he barely remembers. My mom, on the other hand, probably has more in common with Hudson and my wild younger siblings. “Free spirit” would be an understatement.
“Well, there’s always a sort of declaration of independence. A coming into one’s own. A division from the group. And always some sort of great self-discovery. Occasionally regarding sexuality. Other times regarding moral obligation.”
“So which of these aspects are you pondering?” Sean asks.
“The division from the group part. I think I’ve got the other ones covered.” I say this with complete certainty. Obviously I’ve listed the ways I’ve come into my own and cross-referenced them to the works of classic American literature I’ve been reading.
“Sounds like you’ve been working hard. You’ll have to let me know what little act of rebellion you’re cooking up,” Sean winks at me.
“Oh, you’ll be the first to know,” I say. “It might involve the use of your car.”
We reach the central part of the commune, an RV that serves as our main kitchen and dining room.
“Anytime,” He offers. “Though I was going to replace the wheel bearings tomorrow.”
“Ooh, can I help you? I’ve always wanted to learn how to do that.” I say.
“Really?” He asks.
He’d probably love to teach me this, but I have no real interest. “No,” I laugh. He swats at me as I run up the steps into the kitchen.
Genre: YA Contemporary
Title: Lark's Rebellion
I’m lying here in the tall grass, staring at the perfectly fluffy clouds, trying to figure out how to piss off my parents. This shouldn’t be so hard. I’m sixteen, after all. Isn’t it supposed to come with the territory? I’m writing down a list. I’m very methodical like this. I have a five subject notebook (college-ruled of course) filled with similar lists.
So far all I have is:
Sixteen-year-old rebellion ideas
1. Buy new clothes.
2. Start eating meat.
3. Join a convent.
4. Cut my hair.
I’ve never had this much trouble generating a list before. I like my lists like I like my hair: as long as possible. The white space on the page makes my fingers itchy and twitchy. I stick the well-chewed pen in my mouth and hold the notebook so it shades my eyes from the sun.
I read over my list again. This won’t do.
I begin a new list:
Reasons why the previous list is impractical
1. Buy new clothes
a. I don’t have money.
b. I don’t have any way to get to the nearest mall, which is 45 minutes away to buy said clothes.
c. I enjoy making my own clothes.
2. Start eating meat
a. Meat is gross.
b. Again, no money, no car, don’t know how to slaughter animals.
c. Sean says you can get something called “the meat sweats” and that just plain makes me want to vomit.
3. Join a convent
a. Not sure if convents still exist
b. Could never be abstinent
c. Don’t believe in God
d. I think nuns have to sing, and I have a terrible voice
4. Cut my hair
a. I love my hair
b. Parents would probably see a short ‘do as a form of self-expression: plan would backfire.
It’s useless. Nonconformity is the norm here in Peacesylvania. Peacesylvania is the nom du jour for our off-the-grid tract of land in the middle-of-nowhere Pennsylvania. It was changed a few months ago. It’s supposed to inspire us for greater harmony. The elders just weren’t digging the name Eternal Summer Hill any more.
My parents have to respect my individuality. It’s, like, one of the rules they signed off on when they joined. I mean, they didn’t literally sign. And there aren’t actually any rules written down. Old Man Nelson would say: “No rules, man. Paper trails just let the man control you.” He’s paranoid, but everyone still listens to him. Crazy hippie.
My goal now is to find the least hippie thing to do, but also something that doesn’t repulse me. I have a glimmer of an idea when Sean interrupts me.
“Lark! It’s quittin’ time!” he shouts louder than he needs to and it startles me.
“Jesus, Sean. You have to stop sneaking up on me!” I stand up and do a quick tick-check on my bare arms and legs. It’s really freaking hot and my mass of curly, partially dreaded, partially braided hair makes my back feel immediately sticky.
I reach behind Sean and grab the ratty bandana that’s always in his back pocket and use it to tie up my hair.
“I definitely just used that to wipe my nose,” he says. He’s clearly been shoveling manure or composting or something because his sweaty face is streaked with dark brown soil.
“Whatever,” I smile sarcastically, “I love your snot.”
“You are so gross,” he says.
“Says the one with half of his lunch still stuck in his beard,” I tease.
“I’m thinking of shaving it,” he says.
I raise my eyebrows at him. He’s normally so keen to fit in. He loves the Peacesylvania aesthetic. Because he grew up so mainstream, I think he feels like he needs to prove something.
“So what were you out here making a list of?” he asks, trying to snatch my notebook.
“Back off!” I scold him.
“You were on my watch, so you have to tell me,” he says, rubbing a filthy hand through his sweaty hair as we start back toward the little hamlet of cabins and vehicles.
He’s in charge of my “unschooling.” It’s like homeschooling only without a curriculum. The emphasis is on self-exploration and real-life skills. This translates to me reading. A lot. And writing my fair share of lists and personal reflections. There’s a good dose of staring at the sky and shoveling manure mixed in there. Sean is the most educated of my siblings. He finished middle school before we joined up with the commune. I was only five, and my memories of mainstream school were all about nap mats and snack time.
“It was a bit of self-reflection,” I tell him. “I’ve been reading as wide a variety of coming of age stories as I can and there’s a central theme.”
“Oh yeah?” He’s actually interested. It’s why we get along so well. My other older brother, Hudson is a hooligan. Hudson says he’s pursuing a life of spirituality, but let’s call it what it is: an extreme pot habit. Sean’s the opposite. He’s hardworking to a fault. He wants to help everybody in every way he can. He is sickeningly helpful. Our dad says he takes after his mom, whom he barely remembers. My mom, on the other hand, probably has more in common with Hudson and my wild younger siblings. “Free spirit” would be an understatement.
“Well, there’s always a sort of declaration of independence. A coming into one’s own. A division from the group. And always some sort of great self-discovery. Occasionally regarding sexuality. Other times regarding moral obligation.”
“So which of these aspects are you pondering?” Sean asks.
“The division from the group part. I think I’ve got the other ones covered.” I say this with complete certainty. Obviously I’ve listed the ways I’ve come into my own and cross-referenced them to the works of classic American literature I’ve been reading.
“Sounds like you’ve been working hard. You’ll have to let me know what little act of rebellion you’re cooking up,” Sean winks at me.
“Oh, you’ll be the first to know,” I say. “It might involve the use of your car.”
We reach the central part of the commune, an RV that serves as our main kitchen and dining room.
“Anytime,” He offers. “Though I was going to replace the wheel bearings tomorrow.”
“Ooh, can I help you? I’ve always wanted to learn how to do that.” I say.
“Really?” He asks.
He’d probably love to teach me this, but I have no real interest. “No,” I laugh. He swats at me as I run up the steps into the kitchen.
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