Announcing the Free March First Five Pages Workshop with Guest Mentor Elana Johnson

Our March workshop will open for entries at noon on March 1, 2014. We'll take the first five Middle Grade, Young Adult, or New Adult entries that meet all guidelines and formatting requirements.

Click here to get the rules!

And we have some very exciting news!

As some of you may know, Lisa and I have been really struggling to keep up with the workshop on top of our own writing and various other responsibilities at Adventures in YA Publishing and elsewhere. In addition to going through the final stages of publication on the first book of my trilogy, I'm writing the second book, and I was honestly struggling with the decision to have to close the workshop  down. But we have had such success and so many great participants come through the workshop, that I really hated that idea.

Fortunately, a number of amazing authors have stepped up to give us a hand here as permanent mentors who will each take one participant per month through the initial entry and two revisions so that each workshop participant will receive a critique each week (time permitting) from the guest mentor and two permanent mentors.

We'll always have the updated mentor list here, but so that you know how it is going to work, here is the full current list.

FOUNDING MEMBERS:

Martina Boone (little old moi), loves reading and writing books about beautiful, vicious, magical worlds that intersect our own. She is the principal blogger at Adventures in YA Publishing, and the founding member of YA Series Insiders. COMPULSION, the first book of her Southern gothic trilogy, will be available Fall 2014 from Simon Pulse – Simon & Schuster.

Lisa Gail Green (aka Lisa the Great) writes paranormal and fantasy. She is the author of THE BINDING STONE, the first novel in her DJINN series. She would most definitely have a werewolf for a pet if she weren't allergic.

AND OUR NEW MEMBERS:

Kimberly Sabatini is a former Special Education Teacher who is now a stay-at-home mom and a part-time dance instructor for three and four year olds. She lives in New York’s Hudson Valley with her husband and three boys. Kimberly writes Young Adult fiction and is represented by Michelle Wolfson of Wolfson Literary Agency. TOUCHING THE SURFACE was her debut novel from Simon Pulse – Simon & Schuster.

Julie Musil is represented by Karen Grencik of Red Fox Literary. She writes Young Adult novels from her rural home in Southern California, where she lives with her husband and three sons. She’s an obsessive reader who loves stories that grab the heart and won’t let go.

Susan Dennard is a reader, writer, lover of animals, and eater of cookies. She used to be a marine biologist, but now she writes novels–and not novels about fish, but novels about kick-butt heroines and swoon-worthy rogues. Her debut, SOMETHING STRANGE AND DEADLY, as well as the prequel, A DAWN MOST WICKED, and the sequel, A DARKNESS STRANGE AND LOVELY, are available from HarperTeen.

Ron Smith writes television commercials for an ad agency in Chicago. He doesn’t want to talk about it. He’d rather be writing fiction full-time, and exploring worlds of wonder and imagination. He writes YA and MG fiction and is represented by Adriann Ranta of Wolf Literary Services.

Miriam Forster is a recovering barista and former bookseller who's obsessed with anthropology, British television and stories of all kinds. Her debut fantasy CITY OF A THOUSAND DOLLS was published by HarperTeen in February 2013.

Leslie S. Rose was an assistant professor in the Department of Theatre at UCLA for many years where several of her plays were produced. Her short stories appear in the ongoing Journeys of Wonder series and the anthology Paramourtal 2 by Cliffhanger Books.

Erin Cashman's debut YA fantasy novel, THE EXCEPTIONALS, was named a Bank Street College of Education Best Children's Book. She primarily writes YA and middle grade fantasy while eating chocolate and drinking tea.

Sheri Larsen is a lover of the otherworldly, and her sweet spot is writing for the average tween/teen who's not so average. But she write picture books and middle grade as well. She is represented by Paula Munier of Talcott Notch Literary, and is also the creator of #WS4U!-a Facebook writer support group, and co-collaborator for Oasis for YA.

Stasia Ward Kehoe is the author of YA novels THE SOUND OF LETTING GO and AUDITION, both published by Viking. She grew up performing at theaters along the eastern seaboard, then shifted from stage to page and has been writing fiction, marketing copy and educational materials for almost two decades.

Melanie Conklin is a MG & YA author represented by Peter Knapp of Park Literary Group. In between books, she spends her time doodling and chasing after two small maniacs. She is also the founding member of Kidliterati.com, a group blog that gets to the heart of kidlit.

 
MARCH GUEST MENTOR

Elana is the author of the Possession series, which includes full-length novels POSSESSION and SURRENDER, and short stories REGRET (ebook only) and RESIST (free here!). Learn how to spell and say her name.

Elana wishes she could experience her first kiss again, tell the mean girl where to shove it, and have cool superpowers like reading minds and controlling fire. To fulfill her desires, she writes young adult science fiction and fantasy.

Using her boring human powers, she graduated from Southern Utah University with Summa Cum Laude honors in Elementary Education with a minor in Mathematics. She started her teaching career as an upper grade music and art specialist. After a four-year stint in 3rd grade, she is currently the technology specialist.

In her world, Oreos and bacon would be the only food groups. Everyone would drive 10 over the speed limit. Winter would be eliminated as a season, and Jeff Probst would be President. As it is, she lives with her husband and two kids in central Utah, gets cited when she drives too fast and eats Oreos only on special occasions.

She is the author of From the Query to the Call, an ebook that every writer needs to read before they query.

She runs a personal blog on publishing and is a founding author of the QueryTracker blog, a regular contributor to The League of Extraordinary Writers, and a co-organizer of WriteOnCon. She is a member of SCBWI, ANWA, and LDStorymakers.




ABOUT ELEVATED

The last person seventeen-year-old Eleanor Livingston wants to see on the elevator—let alone get stuck with—is her ex-boyfriend Travis, the guy she's been avoiding for five months.

Plagued with the belief that when she speaks the truth, bad things happen, Elly hasn’t told Trav anything. Not why she broke up with him and cut off all contact. Not what happened the day her father returned from his deployment to Afghanistan. And certainly not that she misses him and still thinks about him everyday.

But with nowhere to hide and Travis so close it hurts, Elly’s worried she won’t be able to contain her secrets for long. She’s terrified of finally revealing the truth, because she can’t bear to watch a tragedy befall the boy she still loves.

Amazon | Goodreads

1st 5 Pages February Workshop - Schuren Revision 2

Name: Shannon Schuren
Genre: YA Contemporary
Title: Children of Psolemnity


The girls never get a choice. This has always been our way, for as long as I've been alive and longer. My father chose my mother, a fact he seldom lets her forget. Tonight, it is my turn to be chosen, and though the very thought of it turns my insides liquid, it is more from anticipation than fear.

I have a secret.

My mother perches beside me on one of the low benches the men have dragged out into the Mojave Desert. Tonight—and tonight only—we are allowed outside the high, concrete walls of Psolemnity.

She holds out a plate piled with sticky rice, some slices of roast lamb, and a crumbling chunk of bread. “You need to eat something.” She has to raise her voice to be heard above the throaty Tibetan chanting piped from big speakers into the open air of the evening.

The smell churns my stomach, and I push it away.

“I saw Ruth over by the food station.” She points through the crowd, toward the fire in the distance. “She looks as nervous as you. Perhaps more.”

“I’m not nervous.”

Ruth is terrified of what tonight will bring. She does not know who will choose her, or whose wife she will become. But I have no reason to share her fear.

Still, my stomach lurches again as I follow my mother’s finger and catch sight of the cave opening in the rocks behind us.

I’ve never been inside. Like most of our rituals, the men are free to attend. The women go only once, on their wedding night. Afterward, they are forbidden to speak of it. My own father is the only man I know well enough to ask about it, and he refuses to answer. I cannot imagine why the ceremony must be shrouded in such secrecy. Either the proceedings are too sacred to speak of, or too profane. Or perhaps women just attach more importance to these things.

After tonight, I will be able to ask my husband.

“Surely you can tell me something,” I say, watching my mother’s headscarf twist in the cool night breeze. “The time is nearly upon us. What will it matter now?”

She shifts her gaze away from mine. "It's better if you don't know." she says. "The unexpected should feel like a gift, not an obligation."

“What is one more obligation?”

She must hear the bitterness in my voice, because she sighs and lays a hand on my arm. “Please. Not tonight, Miriam.”

I pull my hand away. “I need to talk to Ruth,” I say, jumping from my seat and spilling the plate she has balanced between us. “Sorry.”

“Go.” She waves me off and kneels in the sand to clean up my mess.

I hesitate only for a moment. I should help her, but the urge to get away is too strong. I pull up my skirt and begin to jog, scanning the faces of the girls for my best friend, though it is a half-hearted gesture. I have someone else on my mind tonight.

I skirt the crowd, stepping behind the groups of chattering women and around the booths and tables where they are serving food. I walk away from the warmth of the fire, from the familiar sounds and smells, until I am far enough into the darkness to see the stars. They decorate the sky like thousands of candles, while back near the celebration, the smoke from our bonfire climbs toward Heaven like an offering to God.

I stop only when I have no choice, when the patrolling guards come into view.

We are free for this one evening every year, but freedom requires protection. The rest of the country—the rest of the world—do not live as we do. It is only inside the walls of our communal society that we are safe. Outside, people do unspeakable things to one another.

It is my greatest shame that I have tried to imagine these things.

But all I can picture is the vast desert, stretching out beyond me forever; faceless people hovering at the perimeter doing God only knows what. This life is all I’ve ever known. I was born here, and tonight I will marry someone who was born here, too. We are the Second Generation of Psolemnity. It is a title that carries its own obligations.

I walk back towards the firelight, my heart pounding loudly in the stillness. For the first time, I am afraid. Not of being chosen, but that I will be caught here, near the boys’ side.

From the shadows, I seek out Boaz. His eyes are bright, his skin bronze against the white of his shirt. His voice is warm and strong as he jokes with the other boys. They stand together, shoulders jostling, hands waving. My skin tingles at the sound of their laughter.

They sound just like Ruth and I.

We are not allowed to speak in the presence of men, and because we are separated whenever possible, they rarely speak in ours. The only time we are together for any length of time is Sunday, at Chapel. And at Chapel there is no speaking. That is a rule that even I have never broken.

His eyes are drawn to mine, like magnets, even in the darkness. There is a heat between us far greater than the desert sun. For a brief second, I worry that he will give away my presence. But then he smiles, the corner of his mouth curving like the crook of a finger. It is an invitation. I have felt this tether between us before, but never as strong as this. Tonight, it sends shivers of excitement down my body. Boaz is going to choose me, and I will finally know what it is like to speak to him. Touch him. Be touched by him.

There is a shift in the energy, a signal that I am too far away to catch. He turns—our connection momentarily broken—as the others begin moving toward the cave.

I must get back. I have been waiting for this night my whole life. If I am late . . . I don’t actually know what will happen if I am late, but it will not be pleasant. There is no time for keeping to the shadows. I break into a flat-out run, sand dragging my stride and chafing inside my leather sandals.

I don’t see Aaron until it is too late. I barrel into him, sending him flying backwards. My body quivers from the impact, and I flounder to stay on my feet.

The gangly boy lies on the ground, eerily still.

“Are you all right? Do you need help?” I kneel beside him, the words slipping off my tongue before I can catch them back.

“Miriam?” The voice is sharp and imperious, even with only three short syllables to convey her superiority.

Of all the people to witness this, why did it have to be Susanna? Her willowy beauty, though the envy of us all, masks the heart of a viper. Still, that won’t keep her from being chosen, probably first.

“Did you just touch him?” The words come out in a hiss, as if by whispering in his presence she will manage to avoid the punishment I am certain to receive.

Aaron scrambles to his feet, though I am not sure if it is my breach or Susanna’s reaction that shocks him into mobility.

1st 5 Pages February Workshop - Dagher Revision 2

Name: Helene Dagher
Genre: YA Fantasy
Title: Reborn


Ever had it been that the young woman knew darkness. She was hardly of age; bony, bare legs sticky with blood. It had trickled into the chamber pot below, and melded with the stench of her prison. With her neck chain bolted to one wall, her flea-bitten hands grasping at air and feet teetering on a narrow beam, she could not adjust her position without penalty of death. She would suffocate on her collar, the fate that had befallen the four rotted men decorating the cavity where she hung.

She chose to survive. Sleeping while standing, testing the limits of her reach, gobbling what food and water was provided. To pass time she depended on the strength of her imagination. She was often disappointed.

All that remained was memories of her brother. His crooked smile, regal posture, jutting chin; how he paled at the sight of blood and stuttered before crowds but fought for peaceful change —

The rusty door squeaked open. She tried to shield her eyes from the sudden light but lost her balance and flailed like a newborn still attached to its cord. Callused hands restored her to that damned perch, and searched her knee-length tunic despite her disadvantage. Were her mind focused, she would not attack nine men.

When she was freed, she hesitated; her jailer did not. The behemoth lifted her to the floor, wet with excrement. Her legs wobbled — had he not seized her arm, she would have fallen to her knees. Throat dry and heart shivering, she was too weak for self-defense, for any assault. Strategy could not unmake these cold facts: her wrists and ankles manacled, soldiers towering over her. Swords readied, daggers hidden.

Her past was well known.

Light sliced across the crest of dancing lions on their plated armor. A royal contingent. If she had been summoned, they would not risk harming her. The king did not tolerate disobedience. Where logic normally comforted, a dead calm settled. She would need to draw on her reserve to counter whatever tactic al-Fat'h used next.

Enclosed by the troop she clanked past the moaning of other prisoners, the criminal stacks of hardened bread and shriveled dates. Several times they had to stop so that she could catch her breath—and sneak glances at their surroundings, though her aching joints and blisters were a distraction. Her training had not conditioned her to the pain.

Trudging through the courtyard was an onslaught of sensation. Immaculate grass crunched beneath their boots and stabbed her feet. A sea-breeze whipped through the ivy and reed ridden towers and into pine trees, their needles budding in the recent spring. Over the murmur of water, the slap of sandals on stone, the jeers echoed; a dishonored prisoner so loftily escorted! An officious gaggle of veiled women and men in coats of mail laughed from beside a fountain of a dragon, its eyes scorched with fire.

She stared. The statue held her gaze while she was dragged past cultivated gardens and stationary knights. Finally they reached a familiar lavish room.

The morning glinted through the stained-glass windows, a mockery of all that she had lost and would find in these sun-favored soldiers. Intricate arrangements of bluebells draped the long chamber, leading to a stately man with blonde hair seemingly fresh from a chamomile oil wash. Robed in red and gold, the prince reeked of hyacinths.

Already much too like al-Fat'h, al-Hashim had led several of his father's conquests. Before she had been imprisoned, he was known to have journeyed to the farthest edges of Albinar where the borders were not enforced. Villagers had whispered of his adventure and the treasures he would bequeath upon his return, earning their loyalty without the taxing choke-hold that his father had embraced. Certainly his guards looked well-fed and unwavering beside the north exits, stairwells and alcoves tucked twenty paces beyond their arches. Al-Hashim leaned forward so that his curls concealed his broken nose while she stood on her cold feet, waiting.

It appeared that he, not his father, was to interrogate her. Either al-Fat'h had grown into an invalid since she had last seen him, wheezing, or a fortunate event had occurred. She would confirm her suspicion.

"Sahar," al-Hashim said.

She considered his calculated tone, his palpable impatience. He watched his men for the slightest reaction to the false name. Most Albinariyye citizens knew what she had done but not who she was. He was searching for her accomplices among his trusted soldiers, for she could not have committed treason without extraordinary help.

"O wise and generous prince?"

"King. My father has finally passed, thanks to you." He noted her smile, and his jaw clenched. "Impudence will not aid your cause. What do you know of Ibn Shaddad?"

Aside from the guards, she had had but one visitor. He had shared kindness, not information. For once she could plead ignorance—it was unlikely that an enemy of the king would have access to her cell. Sahar shook her head.

"You have no knowledge of him?"

Al-Hashim gestured, rings gleaming in the shards of light. Ridiculous trinkets. Albinariyye commitments were consecrated with firmer means. Rubbing her palm, she stared into his dirt-colored eyes even as her own watered from the hyacinth-heavy air.

"Why," said Al-Hashim, steady, studying her face, "just last night the rogue pillaged the castle kitchens."

This royal persistence was more ridiculous than those rings. Once she had shared his arrogance, keen to fulfill her unrealized potential. She had yet to earn her freedom after that folly.

"I watched my brother and his advisers die." A deep breath; she would not show weakness. "In the prison that your father had designed for me. Tell me, my fanciful friend, when I would have had the chance to meet Ibn Shaddad or plan this crime."

His expression hardened. "Well then, tell me of my sister."

"What of her," Sahar croaked, "O merciful savior?"

"Where is she?"

"Rue for both of us." Sahar lifted her chains. Her wrists were sore, and well could she remember previous beatings. Rarely did her dishonesty please these foreign sovereigns. "As I told your father, your sister may have drowned for all that I know."

"You dare—" He clutched the knobs of his elaborate throne, studded with sapphires and rubies and stained crimson from the windows. "And what of your brother's body? Shall I burn his remains? Will that ensure your cooperation?"

Had his father not intervened, she would have joined her brother. She could never forget how his cheeks had puffed, his arms had flapped and his bulging eyes had met hers across the putrid prison air: green slashed with red. Staring at his body—and the other three—was revenge from al-Fat'h, punishing her for the months that he had spent in pain before dying, his daughter still missing. No one, even al-Hashim, knew what to do with Sahar.

Above his right eyebrow curved a claw-shaped scar. Staring heightened her focus: the three paces between her and the nearest guard, and the fifteen paces needed to pierce his regal throat with a well-thrown dagger. Killing al-Hashim would satisfy the anger that she had learned to bury, but his death would not honor her brother.

Al-Hashim expected her meek, likely disobedient. Though she had ensured that he could not kill her without dire consequences, he could return her to that eternal torment. She would need his favor.

"How may I please you, O compassionate crusher?"

Like an eagle among rukhs, al-Hashim glided toward her in a monstrosity of trailing cloak. He had the build of a military commander but the finery of a fat sultan. "I want peace. I want my sister returned. Most of all, I want to know the extent of your foolishness. My father locked you away. Perhaps that is not the answer."

1st 5 Pages February Workshop - Wilson Revision 2

Name: Kip Wilson

Genre: Young Adult LGBT Historical

Title: The Most Dazzling Sunrise in Berlin



The steel-gray sky loomed above the battered tenements, pressing me to escape. With one hand, I held on to my cloche hat. With everything else I possessed, I launched my heeled oxfords over the sidewalk. Nothing would stop me that night.



Most people moved aside as I sped past, but one bespectacled old woman glared with disapproval, clutching her handbag with hawk-like talons. Perhaps she wished she had an important appointment, too. Or perhaps she thought I was a thief. I pulled my own handbag closer and, like a moth, hurried toward the lights of the main street, Alt-Moabit.



At the corner, church bells chimed six o’clock. I stumbled. It couldn’t be. I had to make it to my audition; I simply had to. Yet each chime made it more impossible. The film production studio was all the way across the Spree River; I’d never arrive in time. Leaning against a jewelry shop window, I fished the advertisement from my pocket and held it up to the light.



Extras wanted for Fritz Lang picture:

Murderer Among Us

10 Reichsmark/day

Auditions Nero-Film AG, Unter den Linden 21

Doors close at 18:00



Doors close. The words bit me. I kicked the stone storefront and balled the advertisement in my fist. I should never have indulged Lottchen one last fairy tale before bursting into the evening. I’d blown my chance to get discovered by the world-famous director of Metropolis.



And I’d have to find another way to get the Reichsmark we needed.



Movement inside the shop caught my attention. A carefully-coiffed, well-fed woman pointed at the display case. The salesgirl smiled proudly and held up a necklace of three strands of golden beads, gathered with a mother-of-pearl clip. I pressed my nose against the glass. An impulse to snatch the necklace gnawed at me with as much ferocity as my empty stomach. Not because it was beautiful—though it was—but because its theft might tide us over a bit longer.



Evidently the necklace tugged at the customer too. She waved the salesgirl to do her bidding. With a smile, the girl took great care placing the necklace in a box and adorning it with a silky bow before handing it to the customer, who slipped it into the pocket of her ermine coat as though it were nothing. Yet that unimportant necklace could feed my little sister for a month.



My mind was made up. I pulled my cloche lower and leached into a doorway beside the window just before the woman stepped onto the sidewalk. My heart pounding, I fell into step behind her and attached myself like a shadow. Matching her movements, I swept my arm forward when she did. With a deep breath, I slid my fingers into her silk-lined pocket and lifted the box with extreme care. She continued down the block, oblivious, and I dropped the box into my handbag. My fingers trembled. I’d done it.

Only then did I see Kurt across the street, watching. I froze. He stood spindly as a street lamp in his threadbare trousers. His cap was tipped back, giving him a startled expression. A foggy breath escaped my lips as I waited to see what he would do.



For another moment, the two of us stood there, observing each other. We had history, Kurt and I. History that had ended badly.



His gaze fixed on me, Kurt pulled his cap firmly in place. He ran.



I turned and sped in the other direction—as far as I could get from him.



Surely he was already on his way to turn me in to his Ringverein’s boss. Their gang was only one of many in Berlin, but this was their territory. I should’ve been more careful. Cold droplets of sweat formed on the back of my neck. I had to get out of here. My breath thundered in my ears as my heels pounded down the block. Kurt’s boss probably had spies everywhere, but I didn’t think anyone would’ve been watching my theft.



Especially not Kurt.



I hurried down the sidewalk, slowing only when I got to the corner of Lüneburger Straße. The oncoming traffic was never-ending. I waited, dangling a foot over the curb. A taxi honked its tinny horn at me. If only I had the handful of Reichsmark needed to step inside and let it whisk me away.



But I didn’t, and before I could cross the street, rough hands grabbed me. A thick arm braced my neck in a choke hold.



“Help!” I cried. None of the passersby who’d been on the sidewalk moments before my theft were anywhere in sight now. I was on my own. Before I could twist around for a look at my attacker, he had already dragged me to the mouth of a dark alley. Fear sent an icy chill down my spine. He could do anything to me back there, and no one would know.



“Let me go!” I wiggled my shoulders to try to free myself. But my struggle only made him drag me faster. Within seconds, we were deep in the alley. It stank of week-old garbage. Something scurried over one of my shoes, and I quivered, snatching my foot away. But whatever creatures lived in the alley were the least of my worries. My gaze darted left, right, up. There was no way out.



The thug shoved me against the wall and ripped my handbag from my grasp. Two more shadows appeared at the end of the alley, blocking out the light from the streetlamps beyond. One was solid and stout, the other tall and thin. Kurt. For a moment, I dared hope our shared past meant something to him, but Kurt was clearly on his gang’s side, not mine. He’d be no help. Together he and the other shadow made their way toward us as the man in front of me rifled through my handbag.



“That’s mine.” I tried to snatch it back, but he shoved me against the wall again. Once he found the box, he handed it to the giant of a man who stepped forward from the shadows. Even with the brim of his black fedora low over his eyes, I’d have recognized him anywhere: Emil Feuerstein, the boss of Kurt’s Ringverein. I glanced beside him at Kurt, but he avoided my gaze.



“I’ll take that.” Emil pocketed the box and moved closer. His muscle-bound thug pressed closer to my side as if reminding me he was there. As if I could forget. The sweat that had formed on the back of my neck returned in an instant, sending a chill over me.



“Magdalena Braun.” Emil poked my chin upward with a thick finger. “I don’t know what you were thinking, robbing in my neighborhood. The spoils around here belong to me, which can only mean one thing. You belong to me.” His finger jabbed into my chin from below again, knocking the back of my head against the wall, coating my hair in alley grime. My head smarted.



“Hey,” I said, trying to sound brave. “Watch out. You’re hurting me.”



“I’ll hurt you a lot more than that if I have to.” His grip closed around my throat. I couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. I shot a glance at Kurt. He was all I had.



Kurt was shifting his weight in apparent indecision, but after meeting my gaze, he stepped forward. “Emil.”



Emil whipped his head around.



“Come on,” Kurt said, his expression serious. “Cut her a break.” I pressed my lips together, silently thanking him for the help. Hopefully it’d be enough.



Emil turned back to face me, his lip curled up in a smirk. “All right.” He released his grip, and I coughed, rubbing my neck. “But she’s not getting out of this for free. Anyone who owes me a debt has to work for me.” He looked me up and down. “Luckily for you, one of the dancers at my cabaret up and left this week, and I can use a pretty girl like you to replace her.”



A cabaret. As badly as I wanted to make it big on the silver screen, I hadn’t sunk that low yet. The cabaret wasn’t a rung on the way to stardom; it was a step down. Even worse, I’d heard the rumors about Café Domino—that it catered to lesbians. I squirmed in my heels.

1st 5 Pages February Workshop - Chen Revision 2

Name: Jeff Chen
Genre: Middle grade contemporary
Title: Robot Smackdown


Coming in just eight weeks,

only on XTV…


ROBOT SMACKDOWN VII:

The SMASH for CASH


With the biggest prize yet…

TEN MILLION DOLLARS.


WINNER.

TAKE.

ALL.


Chapter 1

My muscles burned with fire, my ponytail clung to my neck like a wet towel, but I couldn’t afford to rest. I had to beat this go-kart frame into submission, and quick.

Smashing my hammer into a tube stupid enough to defy me, I winced as vibrations tore up my arm. But I pushed aside the pain to throw jabs and right crosses, punishing the struts for their disobedience.

Five. Ten. Twenty body blows later, I dropped into a light-headed crouch, crinkly red hairs flopping into my face as I panted in the heat of the summer night. Sweat cascaded off my brow, plinking to the cement as I studied the frame under the buzzing fluorescent light. It wasn’t pretty—rusty steel, scavenged wheels, and two dozen bolts holding everything together—but it would do.

I checked the wall clock, biting my lip. Only 30 more minutes before our buyer was supposed to arrive. Where the heck was Walker? If my little brother didn’t get here with an engine, we’d lose tonight’s sale.

And we needed this one.

Bad.

I rubbed the big oil blotch staining the floor, a bittersweet reminder of the days when Dad still had his junker car. Still owned the boxing gym. Still could pay the bills without us secretly helping out. I wiped grease into the go-kart’s seat, hoping to smear in some good luck.

A rattle sounded outside. I froze, listening at the garage door to the approaching creaks.

“Rose,” whispered a high-pitched voice. “Lemme in.”

Walker. Anxious to see his haul, I jammed my fingers under the garage door and yanked. The broken mechanism screeched in protest as I fought it inch by inch, moonlight oozing through the widening gap.

Walker crawled in army man-style, his cowboy hat in hand. He smoothed out his straight black hair and put on the ten-gallon hat, the only thing keeping him from being the shortest kid at our school. “Y’all gotta do something about that door.”

I pumped my fist. Walker’s ridiculous Asian-Texan drawl was way thicker than usual, a sure sign he had succeeded. “You got it?”

He nodded, tugging in an old wagon loaded with parts. “But how am I supposed to keep looking slick when I have to crawl through sludge? Speaking of that, you better clean up…” Nose crinkling, he pointed to where sweat had soaked all the way through my undershirt and overalls.

“What?” I aimed my armpit at him and grinned. “Is there a problem?”

Walker shrieked and gagged, writhing like a dog fighting a bath. “Keep that toxic waste away from me, woman!”

I laughed at my brother, who had to be the girliest cowboy ever. Turning to inspect the wagon’s contents, I ran a finger over the dusty lawn mower engine. “Honda GCV 160. It’s not a 190, but it’ll do.”

“Lemme help,” Walker said. “It’s super heavy.”

I shook my head. Walker could get us almost anything we needed—pretty incredible for a seventh-grader, really—but his noodle arms were like chow mein. Lifting the engine with one hand, I lowered it into the frame and nodded. Almost a perfect fit.

“Dang,” Walker said, his mouth hanging open. “I couldn’t carry that with both hands. And both legs.”

I turned away, red heat spreading through my face. So I was strong for a fourteen-year old girl—why did everyone have to make such a big deal of it? Three years as Dad’s sparring partner would make anyone tough. “Quit staring at me,” I said as I coupled the clutch to the engine. “Go get the drill. And the number eight bit. Hurry.”

Walker pouted by the workbench. “What, no ‘Awesome job?’ No ‘You’re the best scrounger in all of Indiana?’ Don’t you want to hear how I got this beauty?”

I narrowed my eyes. “Did you do anything illegal?”

His face twisted in mock horror. “Rose, Rose, Rose, you insult me. Walker the Texas Ranger lives by the code of the Old West.” He held the duct-taped drill like a six-shooter. “Pa-pow-pow-pow!”

I gave him a sidelong glance and grabbed the drill. I had never seen that ancient “Walker, Texas Ranger” show, but I was pretty sure the real Walker’s “code of the Old West” was a lot stricter than my brother’s. I drilled a final hole in the frame, orange sparks flying. “Gimme six half-inch bolts and matching nuts,” I yelled over the grinding.

A thought jumped to mind, and I let off the trigger in annoyance. I only had minutes left, and now I’d have to waste some of them. Dad was gone so much these days, working any odd job he could get, so somebody had to keep Walker in line. Forcing myself out of my usual hunch, I straightened to my full six foot one. “Answer my question. Did you do anything illegal?”

A crooked grin smeared across Walker’s face. “Don’t ask questions if you don’t wanna know the answers.”

“Walker! How many times do I have to tell you—”

“I know,” he said, rolling his eyes. “If we don’t keep squeaky clean, our social worker could kick us back into the foster care system.”

I shoved him. “Take this seriously. You think any other foster home would take all three of us? We’d get separated—”

“Relax, I’m just yanking your chain. I didn’t break any laws.” Walker flicked a fraying stitch on his button-down shirt. “A little sweet-talking down at the junkyard, that’s all. Pulled the dumb ol’ middle-schooler bit.”

He covered his heart with his hat, widening his eyes as big as they would go. “Could you help me, sweet ma’am? I got a science class project and I need help so bad. You look like you’re really smart.” He blinked three times and smiled hard, his trademark dimple popping out.

I scoffed. “That actually worked?”

“Of course it worked. I’m like Jim Sawyer. Only Chinese. And better looking. Tell me, sis—am I good or what?”

I chuckled as I mounted the engine. “It’s Tom Sawyer, not Jim.” I wasn’t much better at school than Walker, but even I knew that.

“Pshaw, book learning ain’t important,” he muttered. “I bet you couldn’t have gotten a free engine in near mint condition. And look at all this other stuff. A full set of wheels. Brake pads. Two struts, brand spankin’ new. Almost a full go-kart worth of parts in here. Awesome, right?”

I sighed as I cranked down the final nut. Walker’s constant need for my approval was annoying, but I had to admit, he was good. “Yeah, awesome. C’mon, let’s test this out. Did you get gas?”

Walker nodded at a bright yellow container hooked over the back of his wagon. “Your wish is my command.”

I squinted. “Where did you get that?”

Walker filled the engine, the stench of gasoline biting my nose. “You don’t wanna know.”

“Nothing illegal?”

“Fire it up already, we’re running out of time.”

Someone pounded on the garage door, and my stomach clenched. I signaled to Walker and lost sight of him after he flicked the light switch, a ghost retreating into the shadows.

My hand trembled as I lifted my hammer. I tried to growl, but my voice broke high. “Yeah?”

“I’m looking for Red,” came the voice, deep and menacing.

1st 5 Pages February Workshop - Huerta Revision 2

Name: Lizz Huerta
Genre: Young Adult Contemporary
Title: When My Father Was Beautiful


I heard right after third period. Joaquin, my Joaquin, my dream boat obsession, friend and crush, had been caught in the darkroom of the photography lab with Hannah. They hadn’t been developing film. My face burned. Joaquin, who had given me all the signs he was headed in my direction and one quick kiss close to my mouth weeks before. I was sad, angry sad. Embarrassed for thinking we had a thing sad. I left school, dizzy, ditching for the first time.

There was a strange car parked in front of my house, with OM and Born Again Pagan bumper stickers. The scent of burning sage was in the air. It smelled like Mom was “getting spiritual” again, she probably had a yoga friend over.

I walked in quietly. The good thing about mom in her spiritual phases was that she didn’t get freaked out about things, she and dad fought less. I could tell her about Joaquin and she would forgive my ditching. She would be happy I was telling her something, anything. She was always reaching for me to be closer to her.

I heard a sound coming from my parent’s bedroom, my mom’s voice low, a long laugh.

I walked to the cracked door. I could see my mother reclined on the bed, a sheet over her. She wasn’t alone.

“Oh, Grace.” The naked stranger beside her said my mother’s name softly, kissing her .

“God, Ernie,” she moaned, eyes closed, “I love you.”

I slammed the bedroom door and ran out of the house.
*

Diana found me at J Street Marina. I was sitting on the boulders staring at the bay. There were no boats on the choppy water.

“Sol! You abandoned me! You can’t answer your phone?” she said, climbing down to sit beside me.

“I needed to be alone.” I didn’t look at her. I’d shut my phone off while walking to the marina.

“Alone? The last thing you need is to be alone after what happened.”

I didn’t respond. In my head I kept hearing the stranger’s voice saying my mother’s name. He’d had a graying ponytail and skinny ass.

Diana threw a rock into the water.

“Joaquin is an ass. He totally led you on.” She said, putting an arm around me.

I’d almost forgotten about Joaquin. My eyes filled again. Diana crooned a comfort and I leaned into her. Diana and I had been best friends since we were nine. Her mother Lora used to watch me after school when my mother was attempting to go back to school. Lora had taught me the little Spanish I knew. She’d always said it was a shame my father didn’t each me the language of our people; that I had to learn to speak in the language of my emotions. I didn’t know what she meant back then but wondered if there was a word in Spanish to describe what I was feeling now, the wreckage in my chest.

“Oh Sol, it isn’t that bad.”

“It’s worse. You don’t even- -” I stopped, took a breath. “Can I come over?” I didn’t want to go home, I couldn’t. There was no way I could face my mom, or dad, knowing what I knew.

“Is water wet?” She smiled, picked up a loose rock and threw it overhand into the water, breaking up a group of seagulls at the water’s edge. Diana never pried, she knew I took time to try and figure my feelings out before talking.

“Sol, look at those crazy birds. They are totally related to dinosaurs. You can see T-Rex in their eyes and beaks. If seagulls were the size of humans we’d all be dead.” Diana’s strange observations about the world were one of many reasons I loved her. As we walked towards Diana’s home she went on and on, not needing me to respond. By the time we got to the small apartment she lived with her mother she had broken down the evolutionary chain of seagulls being the last dinosaurs and I was feeling slightly better.
*
“Your Mama came by looking for you.” Lora kissed us both as we walked through the door. I froze. “What happened Sol? She was frantic, she said to call her if you showed up. Should I be worried?”

“Gracie showed up? Here?” Diana looked bewildered. My mom never came over. She felt awkward in the tiny apartment the couple of times she’d been by when we were younger and talked too much about how she had grown up poor. Lora wasn’t my mom’s biggest fan.

“What did she say?” My voice shook and my face got hot. My mom must have known it was me slamming the bedroom door. My father worked long hours and never came home during the day.

“She said you ditched school and she had to talk to you, that it was an emergency. You ditched?” Her voice went up, surprised. Diana jumped in.

“I didn’t ditch but Sol had a crap day and she had to escape. Fucking Joaquin hooked up with that dancer Hannah, Ma. He led my girl on, diiiiirty.” She hissed.

Lora glanced at Diana then looked back at me, eyebrows raised.

“I don’t want to go home,” I whispered, starting to cry. Diana started to say something but Lora put her hand up and pointed to the bedroom.

“Let me talk to Sol,” she said. Diana tried to protest but her mom gave her a look I hadn’t seen the look since we were kids and drank the rum off Lora’s altar. Diana shut up and went to the room and closed the door, grumbling.

Lora led me to the bathroom where Diana wouldn’t be able to hear us. She put her hands on my shoulders, worry and love all over her face.

“What happened?” She asked. I went into her arms, sobbing. Tears and drool and snot all over her shoulder as I cried and cried until there were no more tears, her arms around me the whole time. I pulled back and wiped my face with my hands. Lora exhaled.

“Baby girl, what’s wrong? This isn’t about the boy.” She stroked my face with the backs of her fingers.

“I saw my mom,” I whispered, then stopped, another sob came up, choking my words. “There was a man with her, in her bed.” Saying it made me feel nauseous.

“Oh no,” Lora crooned, pulling me back into an embrace, “Oh no, Sol baby, I am so sorry.”

“Do I have to call her?” I couldn’t imagine. “What do I say?”

Lora smiled her sympathy smile, upper lip tucked in against her teeth.

“You call, you listen. Trust me, this is going to be a hell of a lot harder on her.” She pressed her lips together, “It doesn’t feel like it now but no hay mal que por bien no venga.”

I shook my head. My Spanish wasn’t even close to being good enough for me to understand what she said.

“There is no evil from which good cannot come.” She kissed my forehead. “Call your mama. I’ll be right by you, holding your hand.”

1st 5 Pages February Workshop - Chen Revision 1

Name: Jeff Chen
Genre: Middle grade contemporary
Title: Robot Smackdown


Winner of Robot Smackdown I:
THE THRILLA BOTZILLA

(ILLUSTRATION)

Weight 299.3 pounds
Top speed 5 mph
Weapon Vertical spinning disc
Defense 1/2” hardened steel
Driver(s) Tom Knight
Age of driver(s) 43
Lead Sponsor Motors Worldwide, Inc.
Other Sponsors Nine-One-One Metals
Turbo Engineering
Professional Record 8-3 (5 KOs)
Lost title to: THE KING OF STING


Chapter 1

My ponytail clung to my neck like a wet towel, my lungs burned with fire. I had fought so long I was about to collapse, but I didn’t care. I was going to beat this go-kart frame into submission, even if it killed me. I lifted my hammer and swung hard, wincing as it smashed into a tube stupid enough to defy me. Vibrations tore up my arm, but I pushed aside the pain to deliver jabs and body blows, punishing the steel for its disobedience.

A dozen right crosses later, I dropped into a light-headed crouch, panting. Sweat cascaded off my brow, plinking to the cement as I studied the frame under the buzzing fluorescent light. It wasn’t pretty—rusty metal parts, scavenged wheels, and two dozen bolts holding everything together—but it would do.

I checked the clock on the back wall, biting my lip. Only 15 more minutes before our buyer was supposed to show up. Where the heck was Walker? If my little brother didn’t get here soon with an engine, we’d lose tonight’s sale.

And we needed this one.

Bad.

I rubbed the big oil blotch staining the floor, a bittersweet reminder of the days when Dad still had his junker car. Still had his job. Still could pay the bills. I wiped a greasy fingertip into the go-kart’s seat, hoping to smear in some good luck.

A rattle sounded outside, and I tensed up. Tucking a lick of damp hair behind my ear, I listened at the garage door as the creaks rolled to a halt.

“Rose,” whispered a high-pitched voice. “Lemme in.”

I worked my fingers under the sharp edges of the garage door. Straining against the broken mechanism, I fought inch by inch, summer moonlight creeping in through a cockeyed gap.

Walker crawled in army man-style, his cowboy hat falling off as he tugged an old red wagon behind him. Getting to his feet, he smoothed out his straight black hair before replacing his ten-gallon hat, the only thing keeping him from being the shortest kid at our school. “Y’all gotta do something about that door,” he said. “How am I supposed to keep looking slick when I have to crawl through sludge? Speaking of that, you better clean up…” Nose crinkling, he pointed to where sweat had soaked through my undershirt and overalls.

“What?” I lifted my arm with a grin. Edging forward, I aimed my armpit at him. “Is there a problem?”

Shrieking and fake choking, Walker writhed in the corner of the garage like a dog trying to escape a bath. “Keep that toxic waste away from me, woman!”

I laughed at my brother, who had to be the girliest cowboy ever. Turning to inspect the wagon’s contents, I ran a finger over the dusty lawn mower engine. “Honda GCV 160. It’s not a 190, but it’ll do.”

“Here, I’ll help,” Walker said. “It’s super heavy.”

I shook my head. Walker could get us just about anything we needed—pretty darn incredible for a seventh-grader, really—but he was a noodle-armed piece of spaghetti. Lifting the engine with one hand, I lowered it into the frame and nodded. Almost a perfect fit.

“Dang,” Walker said, his jaw hanging low. “I couldn’t carry it with both hands. And both legs.”

I shrugged uneasily. So I was strong for a thirteen-year old girl—why did everyone have to make such a big deal of it? Three years of boxing as Dad’s sparring partner would make anyone strong. “Gimme the drill,” I said as I tapped the engine into place. “And the number eight bit.”

Walker pouted by the workbench. “No ‘Awesome job, Walker?’ No ‘You’re the best scrounger in the entire state of Indiana?’ Don’t you want to hear how I got this beauty?”

I narrowed my eyes at him. “Did you do anything illegal?”

He pointed at his chest, his face twisted in mock horror. “Rose, Rose, Rose, you insult me. Walker the Texas Ranger lives by the code of the Old West.” Picking up the duct-taped drill, he held it like a six-shooter. “Pa-pow-pow-pow!”

I gave him a sidelong glance as I took the drill and chucked up the bit. I had only ever seen one episode of “Walker, Texas Ranger,” but I was pretty sure the real Walker’s “code of the Old West” was a lot stricter than my brother’s. Placing the tip of the drill against a mark in the frame, I squeezed the trigger, sending orange sparks flying. “Gimme a half-inch bolt and a matching nut,” I yelled over the squealing and grinding.

A thought jumped to mind, and I let the drill die out. I was in a rush to finish this go-kart, but since Dad wasn’t around much these days, someone had to keep Walker in line. Forcing myself out of my usual hunch, I straightened to my full six foot one. “You never answered my question. Did you do anything illegal?”

Walker shot me a crooked smile. “You shouldn’t ask questions if you don’t wanna know the answers.”

“Walker! How many times do I have to tell you—”

“I know,” he said, rolling his eyes. “If we don’t keep squeaky clean, we’ll get kicked out of here.”

I shoved him. “This is serious. You think any other foster home would take all three of us? We’d get separated—”

“Relax, I’m only yanking your chain. I didn’t break any laws.” Walker flicked an imaginary piece of lint off his T-shirt. “Just a little sweet-talking down at the junkyard, that’s all. Pulled the ol’ dumb little middle-schooler bit.”

He covered his heart with his hat, widening his thin eyes as big as they would go. “Could you help me, sweet ma’am? I have a project for science class, and I need so much help. I bet you’re really smart.” He blinked three times and smiled hard, his trademark dimple popping out.

I scoffed and went back to work. “That actually worked?”

“Of course it worked. I’m like Jim Sawyer. Only Chinese. And better looking. Tell me, sis—am I good or what?”

I couldn’t help breaking into a smile as I cinched the engine down. “It’s Tom Sawyer, not Jim.” I wasn’t much better at school than Walker, but even I knew that.

He kicked at the ground. “Pshaw, all that book learning ain’t important. I bet you couldn’t have gotten a free engine in near mint condition. And look at all this other stuff. A full set of wheels. Brake pads. Two struts, brand spankin’ new. Almost a full go-kart worth of parts.”

I finished bolting in the engine, nodding as I cranked down the final nut. “You did good, Walker. You did real good. C’mon, let’s test this thing out. Did you get gas?”

Walker nodded at a bright yellow container hooked over the back of his wagon. “Your wish is my command.”

I squinted. “That looks new. Where did you get it?”

“You don’t want to know.” Walker filled the tank, the stench of gasoline biting my nose.

“Nothing illegal?” I asked.

“Fire it up already, we’re running out of time.”

1st 5 Pages February Workshop - Dagher Revision 1

Name: Helene Dagher
Genre: YA Fantasy
Title: Reborn


Ever had it been that the young woman knew darkness. She was hardly of age; bony, bare legs sticky with blood. It had trickled into the chamber pot below, and melded with the stench of her prison. With her neck chain bolted to the wall, her flea-bitten hands grasping at air and feet teetering on a splintered beam, she could not adjust her position without penalty of death. She would suffocate on her collar, the fate that had befallen the four rotted men decorating the cavity where she hung.

She chose to survive. Testing the limits of her restrained reach, gobbling what little food and water was provided. To pass time she depended on the strength of her imagination. She was often disappointed.

Memories were her familiar diversion until the rusty door squeaked open. She threw an arm to shield her eyes from the sudden light but lost her balance and flailed like a newborn still attached to its cord. Callused hands restored her to that damned perch, and searched her faded, knee-length tunic. Had her mind the focus to attack, she would not. Outnumbered and weakened: a clear disadvantage. She shivered. Her throat had dried in the empty cold.

When the iron clanged free, she hesitated; her jailer did not. The behemoth lifted her to the floor, wet with excrement. Her legs wobbled. A headache threatened. Her heart beat much too fast. He manacled her wrists and ankles, and towered over her along with nine guards. Swords readied, daggers hidden. Her past was well known.

"If you would follow us..." The jailer paused, unsure of how to address her. She would smile if those muscles were not as stiff as the rest.

Light sliced across the crest of dancing lions on their plated armor. A royal contingent. The group clanked past the moaning of other prisoners, the criminal stacks of hardened bread and shriveled dates. Several times they had to stop so that she could catch her breath—and sneak glances at their surroundings, though her aching joints and blisters were a distraction. Her training had not conditioned her to the pain.

Trooping through the courtyard proved exhausting. Immaculate grass crunched beneath their boots and stabbed her feet. A sea-breeze whipped through the ivy and reed ridden towers and into pine trees, their needles budding in the recent spring. Over the murmur of water, the slap of sandals on stone from those noble gossipers, the jeers echoed. An officious gaggle of veiled women and men in coats of mail laughed from beside a fantastical fountain of a dragon, its eyes scorched with fire.

She stared. The statue held her gaze while she was dragged past cultivated gardens and stationary knights. Finally they reached a familiar lavish room.

The morning glinted through the stained-glass windows, a mockery of all that she had lost and would find in these sun-favored soldiers. Intricate arrangements of bluebells draped the long chamber, leading to a stately man with blonde hair seemingly fresh from a chamomile oil wash. Robed in red and gold, Ibn Ash'ab al-Fat'h reeked of hyacinths.

Dubbed al-Hashim by his enemies, he had led several of his father's conquests. Before she had been imprisoned, he was known to have journeyed to the farthest edges of Albinar where the borders were not enforced. Villagers had whispered of his adventure and the treasures he would bequeath upon his return, earning their loyalty without the bloody, taxing choke-hold that his father had embraced. Certainly his soldiers looked well-fed and unwavering beside the north exits, stairwells and alcoves tucked twenty paces beyond their arches. Al-Hashim leaned forward so that his curls concealed his broken nose while she stood on her cold feet, waiting.

He did not announce her name. Every loyal man had his price, and al-Hashim need not risk revealing that she was alive.

"What do you know of Ibn Shaddad?"

Aside from the guards, she had had but one visitor. He had shared kindness, not information. She shook her head.

"You have no knowledge of the thief?"

Al-Hashim gestured, rings gleaming in the shards of light. Ridiculous trinkets. Albinariyye commitments were consecrated with firmer means. Rubbing her palm, she stared into his dirt-colored eyes even as her own watered from the hyacinth-heavy air.

"Why, just last night the rogue pillaged the castle kitchens." Al-Hashim watched her face. His expression hardened. "Well then, tell me of my sister."

"What of her," she croaked, "O wise and generous prince?"

"King. My father has finally passed, thanks to you. And," said Ibn Ash'ab, his chest heaving, "impudence will not aid your cause. Where is she?"

"Rue for both of us, my most merciful king." The young woman lifted her chains. Her wrists were sore, and well could she remember previous beatings. Rarely did her answers please these foreign sovereigns. "I have been dancing with death myself. Your sister may have drowned in the Faraway for all that I know."

"You dare—" He clutched the knobs of his elaborate throne, studded with sapphires and rubies. "And what of your brother?"

He had matched her dishonesty with cruelty. Al-Hashim smiled. "Shall I burn his remains? Will that ensure your cooperation?"

Had the king not intervened, she would have joined her brother. She could never forget how his cheeks had puffed, his arms had flapped and his bulging eyes had met hers across the putrid prison air: green slashed with red. Staring at his body—and the other three—was revenge from al-Fat'h, punishing her for the months that he had likely spent as an invalid before dying, his daughter still missing.

In the beginning, her anger had burned deep; fire that died less quickly than her brother had. With time her shackles became leaden and ashes coated the smoking embers. Thinking of al-Fath was like breathing onto the old flames. Yet he had been succeeded by his fanciful son, and she remained in that twilight between waking and understanding. Knowing that she had learned how to sleep while standing and wondering whether fortune would truly allow her to fix what she had started. She needed to honor Khalid's death.

"How may I please you, O compassionate crusher?"

Above his right eyebrow curved a distinctive mark. A new memory: the soft feel of jeweled hands when someone with that claw-shaped scar snuck into the dungeon with additional food and water. He was the gentle whisper of fingers that erased the trace of tears on her cheeks, and the one-two echo of fine boots on the floor of a cage that she could only hope to forget. For whatever reason, her visitor had been the son of her enemy.

Like an eagle among rukhs, he glided toward her in a monstrosity of trailing cloak. He had the build of a military commander but the finery of a fat sultan. "I want peace. I want my sister returned. Most of all, I want to know the extent of your foolishness. My father locked you away. Perhaps that is not the answer."

He examined her left palm. Between dirt and scars lay an eye tattooed in purple. Al-Hashim smiled before digging his nails into the talisman. The pain was as if he had snapped her forefinger back while holding her hand and wrist steady. She collapsed onto the marble floor, his silhouette a blurry halo against the domed ceiling. Evaluating his guards, he looked frustrated.

Forehead creased, he rubbed his hand while she curled her fingers to protect the reminder of what she once had. They had both lost their families because of her crime, but hers had not deserved its fate whereas his continued to profit on the blood of Albinar. His lips flattened.

1st 5 Pages February Workshop - Wilson Revision 1

Name: Kip Wilson
Genre: Young Adult LGBT Historical
Title: The Most Dazzling Sunrise in Berlin

The steel-gray sky loomed, pressing me to hurry. With one hand, I held on to my cloche as I launched my heeled oxfords over the sidewalk. Most everyone stepped aside to let me pass, but one bespectacled old woman eyed me with disapproval, clutching her handbag with hawk-like talons. Perhaps she secretly wished she could be so spry, so brazen. Or perhaps she knew something I didn’t. I pulled my own handbag closer as I sped down the block.

Moments later, church bells chimed six o’clock. It couldn’t be! The film production studio was across the Spree River; I’d never make the audition in time. My footsteps faltered. Leaning against a shop window, I pulled the advertisement from my pocket and held it up to the light.

Extras wanted for Fritz Lang picture
10 Reichsmark/day
Auditions Nero-Film AG, Unter den Linden 21
Doors close at 18:00

I’d missed my chance. I should never have indulged Lottchen one last fairy tale before bursting into the evening. I kicked a pebble and shoved the paper in my pocket.

Just then, movement inside the shop caught my attention. A carefully-coiffed, well-fed woman pointed at the display case. The salesgirl smiled proudly and held up an ornate necklace of glimmering gold. I pressed my nose against the glass. The necklace gnawed at me with as much ferocity as my empty stomach. Not because it was beautiful—though it was—but because its theft might tide us over a bit longer.

Evidently the necklace tugged at the customer too. She waved a hand, as only the rich can, confident that others will do their bidding. The salesgirl nodded and smiled. She took great care placing the necklace in a box and adorning it with a silky bow before handing it to the customer, who slipped it into the pocket of her ermine coat as though it were nothing. Yet that unimportant necklace could feed my little sister for a month.

My mind was made up. I pulled my cloche lower and leached into a doorway beside the window as the woman stepped out onto the sidewalk. Wasting no time, I took a deep breath and attached myself to her like a shadow. Matching her movements, I swept my arm forward when she did, reaching from behind and lifting the box with extreme care. She continued down the block oblivious, while I slipped back into the darkness.

Only then did I see Kurt across the street, watching. Nein! I froze. He stood spindly as a street lamp in his too-short knickerbockers. His cap was tipped back, giving him a startled expression. A foggy breath escaped my lips as I waited to see what he would do.

For another moment, the two of us stood there, observing each other. We had history, Kurt and I. History that had ended badly.

His gaze fixed on me, Kurt pulled his cap firmly in place. He ran.

#

I turned and ran in the other direction—as far as I could get from Kurt.

Surely he was already on his way to turn me in to his Ringverein’s boss. A lump grew in my throat. I had to get out of this neighborhood. My breath thundered in my ears as I sped down the block. Everyone knew this part of Berlin was his gang’s territory, but I didn’t think anyone would’ve been watching my theft.

Especially not Kurt.

I hurried down the sidewalk, slowing only when I got to the corner of Lüneburger Straße. The oncoming traffic was never-ending. I waited, dangling a foot over the curb. A taxi honked its tinny horn at me. If only I had the handful of Reichsmark needed to step inside and let it whisk me away.

But I didn’t, and before I could cross the street, rough hands grabbed me. A thick arm braced my neck in a choke hold.

“Nein!” I cried. None of the passersby who’d been on the sidewalk moments before my theft were anywhere in sight now. I was on my own. Before I could twist around for a look at my attacker, he had already dragged me to the mouth of a dark alley. Fear sent an icy chill down my spine. He could do anything to me back there, and no one would know.

“Let me go!” I wiggled my shoulders to try to free myself. But my struggle only made him drag me faster. Within seconds, we were deep in the alley. It stank of week-old garbage. Something scurried over one of my shoes, and I quivered, snatching my foot away. But whatever creatures lived in the alley were the least of my worries. My gaze darted left, right, up. There was no way out.

The thug shoved me against the wall and ripped my handbag from my grasp as two more shadows appeared at the end of the alley. One was solid and stout, the other tall and thin. Kurt. I let out a breath of relief before remembering Kurt had put me here. He’d be no help. Together he and the other shadow blocked out the light from the streetlamps beyond. They made their way toward us as the man in front of me rifled through my handbag.

“That’s mine.” I tried to snatch it back, but he shoved me against the wall again. Once he found the box, he handed it to the giant of a man who stepped forward from the shadows. Even with the brim of his black fedora low over his eyes, I’d have recognized him anywhere: Emil Feuerstein, the boss of Kurt’s Ringverein. I glanced beside him at Kurt, but he avoided my gaze.

“I’ll take that.” Emil pocketed the box and moved closer. His muscle-bound thug pressed closer to my side as if reminding me he was there. As if I could forget. The lump in my throat grew, making it impossible to swallow.

“Magdalena Braun.” Emil poked my chin upward with a thick finger. “I don’t know what you were thinking, robbing in my neighborhood. The spoils around here belong to me, which can only mean one thing. You belong to me.” His finger jabbed into my chin from below again, knocking the back of my head against the wall, coating my hair in alley grime. My head smarted.

“Hey,” I said, trying to sound brave. “Watch out. You’re hurting me.”

“I’ll hurt you a lot more than that if I have to.” His grip closed around my throat. I couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. I shot a glance at Kurt. He was all I had.

Kurt was bouncing up and down on his heels, but after meeting my gaze, he stepped forward. “Emil.”

It was all Kurt said, but Emil whipped his head around. When he turned back to face me, his lip curled up in a smirk. “Anyone who owes me a debt has to work for me. Luckily for you, one of the dancers at my cabaret up and left this week, and I can use a pretty girl like you to replace her.”

A cabaret. As badly as I wanted to make it big on the silver screen, I hadn’t sunk that low yet. The cabaret wasn’t a rung on the way to stardom; it was a step down. Even worse, I’d heard the rumors about Café Domino—that it was for lesbians. I squirmed in my heels.

1st 5 Pages February Workshop - Schuren Revision 1

Name: Shannon Schuren
Genre: YA Contemporary
Title: Children of Psolemnity


The girls never get a choice. This has always been our way, for as long as I've been alive and longer. My father chose my mother, as he so often reminds us. Tonight, it is my turn to be chosen, and though the very thought of it turns my insides liquid, it is more from anticipation than fear.

I have a secret.

My mother perches beside me on one of the low benches the men have dragged out into the desert. Tonight—and tonight only—we are allowed outside the high walls of Psolemnity.

She holds out a plate piled with sticky rice, a roast leg of lamb, and a crumbling chunk of bread. “You need to eat something.” She has to raise her voice to be heard above the fluty sound of Yanni that is being piped from big speakers into the open air of the evening.

The smell churns my stomach, and I push it away.

“I saw Ruth over by the food station.” She points through the crowd, toward the fire in the distance.

My stomach lurches again as I follow her finger, catching sight of the opening in the rock wall behind us where the ceremony will take place.

I’ve never been inside. Like most of our rituals, the men are free to attend. The women go only once, on their wedding night. Afterward, they are forbidden to speak of it. My own father is the only man I know well enough to ask about it, and his answer is always a vague mumble of forgetfulness. I doubt this is true, but I cannot think why he would lie. I can only imagine the experience is either too sacred to speak of, or too profane. Or perhaps men do not attach the same importance to these things.

After tonight, I will be able to ask my husband.

“Surely you can tell me something,” I say, watching my mother’s headscarf twist in the cool night breeze. “The time is nearly upon us. What will it matter now?”

She shifts her gaze away from mine. "It's better if you don't know." she says. "The unexpected should feel like a gift, not an obligation."

“What is one more obligation?”

She must hear the bitterness in my voice, because she sighs and lays a hand on my arm. “Please. Not tonight, Miriam.”

I pull my hand away. “I need to talk to Ruth,” I say, jumping from my seat and spilling the plate she has balanced between us. “Sorry.”

“Go.” She waves me off and kneels in the sand to clean up my mess.

I hesitate only for a moment. I should help her, but the urge to get away is too strong. I pull up my skirt and begin to jog, scanning the faces of the girls for my best friend, though it is a half-hearted gesture. I have someone else on my mind tonight.

I skirt the crowd, stepping behind the groups of chattering women and around the booths and tables where they are serving food. I walk away from the warmth of the fire, from the familiar sounds and smells, until I am far enough into the darkness to see the stars. They decorate the sky like thousands of candles, while back near the celebration, the smoke from our bonfire climbs toward Heaven like an offering to God.

I stop only when I have no choice, when the patrolling guards come into view.

We are free for this one evening every year, but freedom requires protection. The rest of the country—the rest of the world—do not live as we do. It is only inside the walls of our communal society that we are safe. Outside, people do unspeakable things to one another.

It is my greatest shame that I have tried to imagine these things.

But all I can picture is the vast Mojave Desert, stretching out beyond me forever; faceless people hovering at the perimeter doing God only knows what. This life is all I’ve ever known. I was born here, and tonight I will marry someone who was born here, too. We are the Second Generation of Psolemnity. It is a title that carries its own obligations.

I walk back towards the party. In going round, I have managed to come out near the boy’s side. From the shadows, I seek out Boaz. His eyes are bright in the firelight, his skin bronze against the white of his shirt. His voice is warm and strong, and my skin tingles at the sound of his laughter.

These boys sound just like us.

We are not allowed to speak in the presence of men, and because we are separated whenever possible, they rarely speak in ours. The only time we are together for any length of time is Sunday, at Chapel. And at Chapel there is no speaking. That is a rule that even I have never broken.

His eyes are drawn to mine, like magnets, even in the darkness. There is a heat between us far greater than the desert sun. He smiles, the corner of his mouth curving like the crook of a finger. It is an invitation. I have felt this tether between us before, but never as strong as this. Tonight, it sends shivers of excitement down my body.

Ruth is fearful of what tonight will bring. She does not know who will choose her, whose wife she will become. But I don’t share her fear because I am sure of our connection. Boaz will choose me, and I will finally know what it is like to speak to him. Touch him. Be touched by him.

There is a shift in the energy, a signal that I am too far away to catch. He turns—our connection momentarily broken—and they all leave the fire, moving toward the cave.

I must get back. I have been waiting for this night my whole life. If I am late . . . I don’t actually know what will happen if I am late, but it will not be pleasant. There is no time for keeping to the shadows. I break into a flat-out run, sand dragging my stride and chafing inside my leather sandals.

I don’t see Aaron until it is too late. I barrel into him, sending him flying backwards. My body quivers from the impact, and I flounder to stay on my feet.

The gangly boy lies on the ground, eerily still.

“Are you all right? Do you need me to get help?” I ask, kneeling beside him and touching his shoulder.

“Miriam?”

I recognize the voice, sharp and imperious, even with only three short syllables to convey her superiority. Of all the people to witness this, why did it have to be Susanna? Her willowy beauty, though the envy of us all, masks the heart of a viper.

“Did you just touch him?” The words come out in a hiss, as if by whispering she will manage to avoid the punishment I am certain to receive.

Aaron scrambles to his feet, though I am not sure if it is my breach or Susanna’s reaction that shocks him into mobility.

“He’s going to pay for that,” she says, as he runs from us without a backwards glance.

I don’t think it’s right to punish him. The accident was my fault. But here in Psolemnity, my opinion does not matter.

1st 5 Pages February Workshop - Huerta Revision 1

Name: Lizz Huerta
Genre: Young Adult Contemporary
Title: When My Father Was Beautiful


I heard right after third period. Joaquin, my Joaquin, writer/skater/rocker crush, my friend and secret obsession, had been caught by a teacher in the darkroom of the photography lab with Hannah. They hadn’t been developing film. My face burned, eyes watered. I blamed the winds. El suspiro del diablo, my Mexican grandmother would say, the Devil’s Breath. It was what she called the Santa Ana winds that blew in over Southern California every fall and winter. Hot, drying desert winds. The devil will breathe on you and you will be changed, she echoed in my mind. I knew if I saw Joaquin I’d start crying. I left school, ditched for the first time ever. I walked home, scorching from the wind or disappointment.

There was a strange car parked in front of my house, a modern station wagon with OM and Born Again Pagan bumper stickers. The scent of burning sage was in the air and I sighed. It smelled like Mom was “getting spiritual” again. She should have been volunteering her day at the Nature Center but a couple times a year she’d decide to find herself. We had evidence of her seeking all over the house; Tibetan singing bowls and crystals gathering dust, a teak box full of essential oils. It never lasted.

I walked in quietly. The good thing about mom in her spiritual phases was that she didn’t get freaked out about things. She “allowed, surrendered.” I could fake the language and she would forgive my ditching. I wondered who her guru was this time. Dad would be annoyed but he and mom got along better when she was being spiritual, she wouldn’t complain about his long hours.

There was no one in the living room but I heard music coming from my parent’s bedroom, a track of tribal sounding drums with voices chanting wildly over. The door was closed. I hesitated. It seemed odd. I cracked the door open a bit, looked in. I turned and left the house as quickly and quietly as I could. They had been too busy to notice me.

*
Diana found me at the J Street Marina. I was sitting on the boulders staring at the bay.

“Sol! You abandoned me! You can’t answer your phone?” she greeted, climbing down to sit beside me.

“I needed to be alone.” I didn’t look at her. I’d shut my phone off while walking to the marina.

“Yeah, what about my needs? Do you ever think of what I need?” She joked, snapping her fingers to try to get my attention. I didn’t respond. In my head I kept hearing the stranger’s voice saying my mother’s name. Grace, he had whispered as he moved over her naked body on my parent’s bed, Grace. He’d had a graying ponytail and skinny ass.

Diana threw a rock into the water and sighed.

“Joaquin is an idiot. Come on, Hannah? He’ll get over that real quick.” She said, putting an arm around me.

I’d forgotten about Joaquin. My eyes filled again and spilled. Diana crooned a comfort and I leaned into her. Diana and I had been best friends since we were nine. Her mother, Lora, used to watch me after school when my mother was attempting to go back to school. Lora had taught me the little Spanish I knew. She’d always said it was a shame my father didn’t each me the language of our people; that I had to learn to speak in the language of my emotions. I didn’t know what she meant back then but wondered if there was a word in Spanish to describe what I was feeling now, the wreckage in my chest.

“Can I come over for dinner?” I didn’t want to go home, I couldn’t. There was no way I could face my mom, or dad, knowing what I knew.

“Is water wet?” She picked up a loose rock and threw it overhand into the water, breaking up a group of seagulls at the water’s edge. A couple of the birds voiced their protest at her.

“Sol, look at those crazy birds. They are totally related to dinosaurs. You can see T-Rex in their eyes and beaks. If seagulls were the size of humans we’d all be dead.” Diana’s strange observations about the world were one of many reasons I loved her. As we walked towards Diana’s home she went on and on, not needing me to respond. By the time we got to the small apartment she lived with her mother she had broken down the evolutionary chain of seagulls being the last dinosaurs and I was feeling slightly better.

“Your Mama called.” Lora kissed us both as we walked through the door. I froze. Lora gave me a look. “Sol, the school called your house. You didn’t show up for half your classes. She wants to know where the hell you were all day. I’d like to know too.” She turned her gaze to Diana, Lora knew we rarely did anything apart.

“I was at school! I swear, Ma!” Diana protested, slamming her bag down and opening it to pull out papers. “See? I got this handout from History, it’s dated, November 16. Sol didn’t even tell me she was leaving. I found her at our spot after.” She waved the paper in front of her mom.

“Sol?” Lora ignored her daughter.

“I needed a personal day.” I said, no energy to lie.

“So you went to school, had a change of heart, then left?” She was good at interrogating, I hadn’t been on the other end of one of her interrogations since we were kids and we the drank the rum off her altar.

“I walked to J Street.” It was true.

“In the crazy heat of the day? And you just decided not to answer your phone?” Lora stared into me hard. I used a trick Diana had taught me and stared at the space between her eyes so I wouldn’t break down under her gaze.

“Yeah.” I glanced at Diana who jumped in.

“Ma, Sol is having an existential crisis. Joaquin is with somebody else.” Diana said this all very dramatically and relief coursed through me. I could use the excuse of Joaquin for my sadness and confusion.

“Okay.” Lora raised her eyebrows at me and I saw what Diana would look like at her age. I turned to follow Diana to her room. Lora grabbed my upper arm. With her other hand she held my face and stared into me. Her concern was evident and my eyes filled with tears. But I couldn’t tell anyone, especially Lora. It was too much. I was ashamed. How could I even say it aloud? Thinking about it hurt. Lora breathed in deeply.

“Sol,” she said softly, “No hay mal que por bien no venga.”

I shook my head. My Spanish wasn’t even close to being good enough for me to understand what she said.

“There is nothing bad from which good cannot come.” She kissed my forehead and handed me the phone. “Call your mama.”

*
“Come home.” My mother’s voice on the phone was tense and matched my stomach.

“I was going to eat here--”

“Soledad, now.” She hung up. She only used my full name when she was angry. It meant big trouble. I slammed the phone down. I wanted to scream. Lora looked like she wanted to say something but didn’t.

1st 5 Pages February Workshop - Schuren

Name: Shannon Schuren
Genre: YA Contemporary
Title: Children of Psolemnity


The girls never get a choice. This has always been the way in Psolemnity, for as long as I've been alive and longer. My father chose my mother, and though I have known this my whole life, tonight the words become real. It was on a night just like this, sixteen years ago, that our family began.

I have a thousand questions, and though she has never answered before, tonight is different. I am sixteen—a woman in the eyes of our community—and tonight is my Selection. I open my mouth to ask: What will I do? How will I feel? What will happen next? But my mother shakes her head, her dark hair rustling beneath her headscarf.

"It's better if you don't know, Miriam." she says. "The unexpected should feel like a gift, not an obligation."

I have been to past Selections. Not the actual ceremony, just the celebration leading up to it, which is our biggest all year. It goes on for days, out in the open desert, beyond the high concrete walls of our intentional community. There is singing, and dancing, and feasting. The stars decorate the sky like thousands of candles, and the smoke from our fires climbs into the vast darkness like an offering to God.

Tonight is it my turn, and I am giddy with anticipation. Too anxious to sit still, even if that is what is expected of me. I twirl, with my skirt held wide and my face turned to the sky. The night breeze is a soft caress, carrying the comforting smell of burning wood and roasting meat in its wake.

I stop when I feel his gaze on me. Boaz is standing on the other side of the fire—the boy's side. His eyes are bright in the firelight, his skin bronze against the white of his shirt. And I dare to hope that maybe, just maybe, he has practiced whispering my name. But there is no way to know for sure. Our whole lives we have been kept separate, except for Sundays at Chapel. And at Chapel there is no speaking. That is a rule that even I have never broken.

So I don’t know if he is nervous. Or excited? Does he practice his Selection, or is that just a story we girls have invented to make us feel better? Surely he must have some feelings about this day? After all, he is the one who must . . .

But then, no girl knows what happens during the Selection. We've all imagined it, or at least I have, but there is no way to know if my fantasies are accurate. My own father is the only man I know well enough to ask, and he says he cannot remember. And maybe that is true. Perhaps the experience is too overwhelming. Or perhaps men do not attach the same importance to these things.

After tonight, I will be able to ask my husband.

He is watching me again. I glance at him over my shoulder. His blonde hair has been cut and wet down, though a single curl springs loose against his forehead. His is strong, with shoulders made for carrying, arms for lifting, hands for crafting. I have heard whispers that he has been chosen to work in the cavern tonight and I wonder what use they have for his strength down there.

He smiles, the corner of his mouth curving up like the crook of a finger. It is an invitation. There is a connection between us, a tether that sends shivers of excitement down into my belly. He will choose me, and I will finally know what it is like to speak to him. Touch him. Be touched by him.

There must have been some sort of signal, though I missed it, because the crowd has thinned. Parents and young children have gone back through the gates to the city to their homes. The music has stopped. Voices have lowered.

An electric thrill of excitement runs through the crowd, which is suddenly made up entirely of my sisters and their mothers.

And Aaron.

The gangly boy trips between us and sprawls in the sand at Susanna’s feet. Even in the dark I can tell his face is crimson. Shame rolls off him like a thundercloud, as Susanna stares down at him with disdain.

If our society followed the feudal system, there is little doubt Susanna would be our queen. Her beauty is a tangible thing, and she wears it like a crown. Watching her sneer at the errant boy in our midst, for the first time I wonder if beauty can be a burden. Whoever chooses first tonight is bound to choose Susanna. Why wouldn't he? Even Aaron has a look of wonder on his face, despite the sand that she has kicked in it.

The rest of the girls have formed a tight circle around the strange tableau. We are all equally fascinated and horrified. Still, no one speaks. We are not allowed, not with a boy in our presence. Even this boy, who was not born among us but joined us as an Outsider.

A dim orange glow emanates from the cave’s opening in the sand wall beyond us. The fire flares up from deep within and then recedes.

"It has begun."

The voice is older, familiar. I scan the women's faces but I cannot tell who has spoken. Perhaps she didn't mean to say it, the words just spilling out, slippery and silver off her tongue like a fish, before she can catch them back.

It is a sensation I know all too well.

Some girls break from the group and move toward it, but their mothers press them back. Aaron's presence is holding up the proceeding. Maybe he knows this too, but he seems frozen in place. I move into the circle, pushing the others away with my shoulders, and squat in the sand beside him.

"Are you all right?" I ask, ignoring the shocked gasps of my sisters and letting my mother’s silent disapproval wash over me. “Did you hurt yourself?”

Aaron’s eyes are wide in fear and maybe relief. He shakes his head and scrambles to his feet. My own breach, so much worse than his, has shocked him into mobility.

“Good evening.” This voice booms out into the darkness, coming from nowhere and everywhere. This voice we all know, better than our own. It is our leader, Daniel.

"Good evening," we respond, or at least the females do. Aaron scans the crowd like a trapped animal.

"Welcome to our celebration. To your Selection."

A smattering of chatter flows through the crowd and is immediately silenced. For once, I say nothing.

I am waiting for him to speak, to inspire us, to give us words of hope and courage. To tell us how we should feel. It is what he does best. But he, too, is silent, and it is a disconcerting absence in an already confusing night. Why so much secrecy? Why the darkness? Why the silence? Panic flutters in my chest. What will happen to us after tonight?

I search the crowd for my mother’s serene face. When I find it, the tension in my shoulders eases. Life will go on tomorrow, just as it always has. Nothing will change. Nothing and everything. After tonight, I will no longer be only a daughter.

I will be a wife.

1st 5 Pages February Workshop - Chen

Name: Jeff Chen
Genre: Middle grade contemporary
Title: Robot Smackdown

My ponytail clung to my neck like a wet towel, and my lungs burned with fire. I had fought so long I was on the verge of passing out, but I didn’t care. I was going to win this bout.

And I was going to win it by knockout.

I lifted my hammer and swung it hard, wincing as it clanged against a metal strut stupid enough to defy me. Vibrations tore up my arm, but I pushed away the pain and pounded with jabs and body blows, punishing the go-kart frame for its disobedience. I had been battling it for two hours straight, and I would bend it to my will, even if it took all night.

A dozen one-two combinations and a flurry of right crosses later, I collapsed into a dizzy crouch. Sweat dripped off my brow, plinking onto the cement floor as I willed my vision not to go black. The garage came back into focus, and I cracked an eye at the opponent I had beaten into submission. It wasn’t pretty—junky steel tubes, wheels scavenged from office chairs, and dozens of bolts holding everything together—but it would do.

I glanced at the clock hanging on the back wall and bit my lip. Eight o’clock. Where the heck was Walker? Finishing the frame and drive train was a big step, but if he didn’t get here soon with an engine, we’d lose a sale.

And we needed this one.

Bad.

I rubbed the big oil blotch staining the concrete floor, a bittersweet reminder of the days when Dad still had his junker. Still had his job. I wiped a greasy fingertip into the palm of my hand, trying to smear in some good luck.

A rattling noise sounded outside, and I stiffened, jumping to my feet. Tucking a matted-down lick of hair behind my ear, I listened at the garage door as the creaks rolled to a halt. “Walker?” I whispered.

“Yup,” came a high-pitched voice. “Lemme in.”

I worked my fingers under the sharp edges of the garage door and strained against the broken mechanism, fighting the door inch by inch to let a glimmer of moonlight pass under. When I had forced open a two-foot gap, I let out the breath I had been holding and wiped at the sweat stinging my eyes. Thankfully, the cockeyed garage door held in place.

Walker crawled in army man-style, pulling a crooked red wagon behind him. Getting to his feet, he brushed off his jeans and took off his cowboy hat to fix the part in his straight black hair. “You gotta do something about that door. How am I supposed to keep looking awesome when I have to crawl through oil? And we have an important sale to make, you know. Why don't you do something about… uh…” He pointed at the wet patches soaked into my undershirt.

“What?” I grinned as I threw an arm around his neck and shoved his face into my armpit, holding it in place with an iron grip. “Is there a problem?”

Writhing like a dog trying to escape a bath, Walker screeched as he wriggled his way out. “That’s toxic waste! I’m going to report you to the United thingy.” He rubbed both palms over his nose and made fake choking noises.

“The United Nations?” I chuckled. For being as slick as he was, Walker was just about the worst when it came to book learning. “And like you smell any better than me, junkyard boy.” I inspected the wagon’s contents, running a finger over the dusty lawn-mower engine. “Honda two-stroke. Not that old, even. Spark plugs look fine. Not bad.” I checked the clock and winced. Our buyer would be here any minute.

Walker dragged his sleeve across his face one last time in an exaggerated display of disgust. “Here, I’ll help. It’s super heavy.”

I shook my head, lifting the engine with one hand to drop it into the frame. All that pounding and bending paid off, because it fit just about perfectly. “Hand me that drill,” I said as I whacked the frame for a last set of adjustments. “And the number eight bit.”

“Dang,” Walker said, his eyes going wide. “I couldn’t carry that thing with both hands. And both legs.”

I shrugged as I hammered the engine into place. So I was strong for a thirteen-year old. Anyone would be if they had spent the last three years as Dad’s sparring partner. “Hurry it up. Number eight bit.”

Walker pouted as he picked through the pile of tools on the workbench. “What, no ‘Awesome job, way to go, Walker?’ Or, ‘You’re the best scrounger in the entire state of Indiana?’ Don’t you want to hear how I got this beauty? I outdid even myself this time.”

“You didn’t do anything illegal, did you?” I narrowed my eyes at my brother.

He pointed at his chest, his face twisted in mock horror. “Rose, Rose, Rose. Walker the Texas Ranger lives by his cowboy code.” Fetching the electric drill, bands of duct tape barely holding it together, he pointed it at me like a six-shooter. “Pa-pow-pow-pow!”

I gave him a sidelong glance as I took it and chucked up the drill bit. I had only ever seen one episode of “Walker, Texas Ranger,” but I was pretty sure that cowboy guy had a much stricter interpretation of the law than my brother. Placing the tip of the drill against a point I had marked in the frame, I squeezed the trigger, the bit bored in with a burst of orange sparks. “Gimme a half-inch bolt and a matching nut,” I said over the squealing and grinding.

A thought jumped to mind, and I paused, letting the drill die out. I stood to my full height, nearly six feet tall and curled my left hand into a fist. I was in a rush to finish this go-kart, but Dad wasn’t around a lot these days, so someone had to keep Walker in line. “You never answered my question. If you broke any laws, I’m going to break you. So did you?”

Walker smiled. “Would I break any laws?”

“Yes. Did you?”

“You really shouldn’t ask questions if you don’t want to know the answers.”

“How many times do I have to tell you—”

“I know, I know,” Walker said. He opening and closing his hand like it was a puppet’s mouth. “If we don’t keep squeaky clean we’ll get kicked back into the foster system.”

I shoved him. “Come on, take this seriously. We’d get separated—”

“Relax, will you? I was just messing with you. I didn’t do anything illegal.” Walker flicked an imaginary piece of lint off his button-down shirt and pawed through the junk and scraps heaped on the bench. “I just did a little sweet-talking, that’s all. Pulled the ol’ innocent schoolboy act on a nice lady at the junkyard.” He removed his ten-gallon hat and placed it over his heart, widening his almond-shaped eyes as far as they would go. “Could you help me, sweet ma’am? I have a project for science class. I bet you know a lot, and I know so little.” He blinked three times and smiled hard, popping out his trademark cheek dimple.

1st 5 Pages February Workshop - Wilson

Name: Kip Wilson
Genre: Young Adult LGBT Historical
Title: The Most Dazzling Sunrise in Berlin

The darkening steel-gray sky loomed, pressing me to hurry. With one hand, I held on to my cloche as I launched my feet over the sidewalk in great bounds—with the precise, powerful leaps of a dancer. Most everyone stepped aside to let me pass, but one bespectacled old woman eyed me with disapproval, clutching her handbag close with hawk-like talons. Perhaps she secretly wished she could be so spry, so brazen. I embraced my freedom with another running leap.

Only a few moments later, church bells chimed the hour. No. My footsteps faltered. I was too late. The cabaret was still blocks away; I’d never make it to my audition. I crumpled beside a jewelry shop window. I should never have indulged Lottchen one last fairy tale before bursting into the evening.

The first audition I’d landed, and I’d blown it before even stepping on the stage.

My fingertips traced circles on the window. A jewelry shop was the last place I’d ever enter, with no need for jewels and no Reichsmark to buy them. Still, movement inside caught my attention. I pressed my nose against the glass. A carefully-coiffed, well-fed woman pointed at something in the display case. The shop girl smiled proudly and held up an ornate necklace of glimmering gold.

In the muted light streaming through the window on the dullest, grayest of evenings, the necklace shone with the brightness of a thousand suns. Or perhaps it was the promise of everything it might fetch.

I’d resolved to give up picking pockets, but the temptation to snatch something so deliciously grand gnawed at me as with as much ferocity as the giant hole in my stomach. Perhaps one more theft would tide us over until I got another audition.

Evidently the necklace tugged at the customer too. She waved a hand, as only the rich can, confident that those beneath them will do their bidding. The shop girl nodded and smiled. She took great care placing the necklace in a box and adorning it with a silky bow before handing it to the customer, who slipped it into the pocket of her ermine coat as though it were nothing. A small candy wrapped in shiny pink paper; a worn key to a garden shed; an unimportant necklace that could feed my little sister for a week.

I pulled my hat over my eyes and leached into the background as the woman exited the shop, stepping out onto the sidewalk. She didn’t deserve the necklace. I, on the other hand, simply couldn’t ignore its pull. Wasting no time, I attached myself to the woman like a shadow and lifted the box with extreme care. She continued down the block oblivious, her confidence unshaken.

Only then did I see Kurt across the street, watching. He stood tall and spindly as a street lamp, his expression waiting to be lit up. For a moment, we both stood there, observing each other. We had history, Kurt and I. History that had ended badly.

A dark shadow crossed Kurt’s face. He ran.

#

I turned and ran in the other direction, as far as I could get from Kurt.

Surely he was already on his way to turn me in to his Ringverein’s boss. I had to get out of this neighborhood before they caught me. My insides quaked as I sped down the block. I knew as well as anyone that this part of Berlin was his gang’s territory, but I didn’t think anyone would have been watching my theft.

Especially not Kurt.

I bounded down the sidewalk toward home, extending my legs in the same long, graceful leaps as before, slowing only when I got to the corner of Kaiser Allee. After a quick glance at the oncoming traffic, I dangled one foot in the street. A taxi honked its tinny horn at me. If only I had the handful of Reichsmark needed for me to step inside and let it whisk me away.

But I didn’t, and before I could cross the street, rough hands grabbed me by the elbow. “No!” I cried. But none of the passersby who’d been on the sidewalk minutes ago were anywhere in sight. Instead, there was only this muscle-padded thug. Silent and unshakable, he dragged me to a dark, dank alley. “Let me go!” I struggled to free myself, but it only made him grip my arm tighter.

Deep in the alley, it stank of week-old garbage. Something scurried over one of my shoes, and I quivered, snatching my foot away. But whatever creatures lived in the alley seemed to be the least of my worries. The man who’d grabbed me released my arm and ripped my handbag from my grasp as two more shadows appeared at the end of the alley. One was solid and stout, the other tall and thin. Kurt. Together they blocked out the light from the street’s lamps beyond. Without a word, they made their way toward us.

With my escape impossible, the man in front of me rifled through my handbag. Once he found the box, he handed it to the solid giant of a man who stepped forward from the shadows. Even with the brim of his black hat low over his eyes, I’d have recognized him anywhere: Emil Feuerstein, the boss of Kurt’s Ringverein. I glanced beside him at Kurt. Kurt avoided my gaze, shifting in his too-short knickerbockers. His forehead wrinkled in a guilty expression. At least he felt guilty about turning me in.

“I’ll take that.” Emil pocketed the box and moved closer. His muscle-bound thug pressed closer to my side as if reminding me he was there. As if I could forget. I struggled to swallow my nerves down.

“Magdalena Braun.” Emil poked my chin upward with his thick, strong finger. “I don’t know what you were thinking, robbing in my neighborhood. The spoils around here belong to me, which can only mean one thing. You belong to me.” His finger jabbed into my chin from below again, knocking the back of my head against the wall, slick with alley grime.

“Hey,” I said, trying to ignore his claim. “Watch out. You’re hurting me.” My head smarted.

“I’ll hurt you a lot more than that if I have to.” His grip closed around my throat. Fear ballooned in my belly.

Kurt bounced up and down on his heels and then took a step forward. “Emil.” It was all he said, and when Emil turned his head around, Kurt held up his hands and sank back into the shadows. Some help he was.

“I’m sure you know that anyone who owes me a debt has to work for me.” He looked over his shoulder at Kurt, who averted his gaze once more. “Luckily for you, one of the dancers at my club up and left me this week, and I can use a pretty girl like you to replace her.”

His club. I’d forgotten that Emil counted a cabaret among his many enterprises. But as badly as I wanted to get onstage, I’d also heard the rumors about Café Domino. It wasn’t exactly the kind of cabaret I’d hoped for.

“I’m going to give you a choice.” He released my neck, and I squirmed in my heels. I didn’t know much about Emil, but I knew he couldn’t stand weaknesses. I couldn’t show him any.