Announcing the Free April 1st Five Pages Workshop with mentor Lori M. Goldstein

Our April workshop will open for entries at noon EST on April 5, 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.

 
APRIL GUEST MENTOR

Lori Goldstein is one of our workshop success story alumni. As a young girl, Lori would make a tent with her bed sheet and clasp a flashlight in one hand and a book in the other. She’d read into the wee hours, way past her bedtime. Turns out, the habits you make when you are a kid do become lifelong. And evolve. Now, not only does she read past my bedtime, she writes past her bedtime.

And waking up tired has never felt so good.

She is represented by Lucy Carson of The Friedrich Agency. Her debut novel, a Young Adult Contemporary Fantasy, currently titled Becoming Jinn, will be released by Feiwel and Friends, an imprint of Macmillan Children’s, in Spring 2015. The sequel will follow in Spring 2016.

Website | Facebook | Twitter


ABOUT BECOMING JINN

Wishing doesn’t make it so, Azra does. Turning sixteen opens the door to Azra’s Jinn ancestry and her new life as a genie. But receiving her powers isn’t exactly what Azra would call a gift. Her destiny is controlled by the powerful Afrit who rule over the Jinn world, and she must keep her true identity a secret from all but her fellow Jinn.

As she forms a friendship with the human boy across the street and an attraction to the lifeguard with the underwear model exterior and sweet, shy interior, her attachment to the human world begins to strain her ties to the Jinn. With her attention divided, she skirts the rules, and her genie mistakes begin to mount, along with the consequences. As Azra uncovers the darker world of becoming Jinn, she realizes when genies and wishes are involved, there’s always a trick.

Goodreads

1st 5 Pages March Workshop - Ziegler Rev 2

Name: Allison Ziegler
Genre: Young Adult Fantasy
Title: Aeternium

A cat watches a girl in front of a magical door.

It stands in chip-paint disrepair, nestled in a vestibule safe from prying eyes. It is one of many secret doors scattered across Allegheny City, but they all lead to the same place. Magic has little regard for geography.

Hazel Congelier has little regard for geography, either. She roots through her shoulder bag. She isn't precisely neat, and it takes her a moment to find her prize--a wrinkled page bearing a single word: "open." At least, it would look like a single word to most people. To Hazel, there are swirls of visible energy woven into ink and paper, a framework for a spell. It's a flimsy thing, nothing like the ancient tome her master uses, a toy for an apprentice not yet empowered with a book of her own. Hazel knows the Church wouldn't find it so insignificant if they caught her using it, and besides, a trickle of magic is better than none at all.

Ping.

The cat and the girl whip their heads in unison. A dingy alley stretches toward a city locked in afternoon bustle--newsboys shout and trolleys squeal and spidery Crawlers clang in front of their trundling carriages. A well-dressed working girl barely older than Hazel whistles by, and her t-strap toe connects with a rock. Ping. It hits a nearby gutter.

Hazel lets out a shaky breath. The alley is empty; there are no priests or policemen rushing to drag her away. Hazel bets the other girl, with her swinging skirts and carefree gait, wouldn't panic over a kicked pebble. In her experience, the magic in Hazel's fingertips has gifted her more fear than power.

The cat gives an impatient flick of his inky tail.

Hurry, he says. We're late. This is no time for philosophy. His name is Soren, and he is Hazel's familiar.

With one last glance at the empty alleyway, Hazel grabs at the magic that hovers over her bond with Soren. Their illicit partnership is the reason she can do magic, the reason she will be able to go through this door. All the energy needed for casting spells buzzes between them. The letters on the page glow yellow, casting opaque light into sooty shadows. Hazel raps the door three times and takes three...deep...breaths.

"Open," she says. The world goes black for a split second, and Hazel wills the spell to take shape. In an instant, it's over. The door opens, and she steps through to the other side of reality, faced with a hidden city in miniature for the fantastic things the outside world has declared undeniably and wholly evil. Dozens of makeshift structures line the walls and form cramped alleyways, stacked three high into teetering towers. The air here is clean, free from the heavy smog outdoor streets. The magic users and familiars that roam its creaky corners breathe deeply and speak freely.

A large wooden sign, hanging on the nearest second-story platform, reads "A SANCTUARY FOR FAMILIARED CITIZENS." Hazel takes a moment to absorb this place, called simply "Sanctuary" by those in the know. She's been here before, on a visit to the city. That was four years ago. Four schools ago, four homes ago, four lifetimes ago. Or is it five? The various lives and identities of Hazel Congelier blend a little at the edges lately.

She picks her way to the back the ground floor, all the way to a brick building with a massive mural on the front, painted in blinding-bright colors. A dragon waltzes in a rumple-front ball gown with a monocled turtle, each holding mugs of frothy beer. The top reads thusly:

THE DRUNKEN DRAGON: FOR WHEN A TIPSY TURTLE JUST ISN'T ENOUGH

I forgot how garish it was, Soren says. He bristles as they walk through the door.

"It's better than I remember," Hazel says.

Inside, a pianist with a beagle at his feet pounds out a bright tune, and a man lounges atop the gleaming upright. People dance in a gap between the tables and the bar. They are as varied as the people outside--well-dressed and fraying, men and women, old and young. Few are quite so young as Hazel, though. Magic is generally an adult game.

"Hazel, dear girl! There you are!" calls the man on the piano. His name is Nixby Glass, and the

Drunken Dragon is his natural habitat. He is the owner of Sanctuary, and the overseer of magic in Allegheny City. He is also Hazel's grandfather, after a fashion. He hops down in pink-shoe sprightliness. Purple suspenders poke out of his suit jacket, and a red-and-green parrot takes up residence on his top hat. He is short, only inches taller than Hazel's rather meager five-feet-no-inches, but his voice and presence dominate the room.

"Hello, Master Nixby," Hazel says. He pulls her into a tight hug, and his white whiskers scratch her cheek. She glances over his shoulder, eyes searching for her teacher. Master Sorcerer Astor Congelier glowers at her from a table against the wall, his bearded jaw carrying an impatient edge. He and Soren have similar opinions on lateness.

"Look at you," Nixby says, "Almost a little woman! It's a good thing you came. I have a birthday present for you." He produces a tidy gift box and presents it to Hazel with a wink. She pulls her eyes from Astor's plain disapproval. "How old are you, again? Forty-three? Eight-eight? One hundred and six?"

"I'm seventeen, Master Nixby. Don't you think I'm a little old for you to keep pretending it's my birthday every time I see you?"

"So young as that? I think you can still indulge an old man who likes to dote on you, no?"

Excuse me if I don't watch this charade, Soren says. He fades into the crowd, and Hazel lets him go.

This sort of greeting is a charade, one that they've acted out a hundred times before. Hazel loves the familiarity of it--between constant moving and constant hiding, she's had precious little sameness in her life.

"I suppose for another few decades, I'll be young enough for that." She takes the box and pulls open the bow in one smooth motion. Inside is a heavy silver pendant, an oval bearing a delicate rose. It's a necklace for a grown woman, for someone older and more accomplished than not-quite-grown Hazel
Congelier. "It's beautiful," she says.

"Well? Turn around so I can put it on you. Hurry now," Nixby says.

"Hurry now, Hurry now," Nixby's familiar echoes from atop his hat. Nixby calls him Luck the Liar, and he is the only familiar Hazel has ever known to speak out loud.

"Absolutely stunning," Nixby says as Hazel turns with a little film-star flourish. "Now, I have to attend to something in the back, but it was so good to see you, darling. Welcome home." With that, Nixby rejoins the crowd, a king among his people. Home. After only three days in the city, Hazel isn't sure she can properly lay claim to the word.

She glances back at Soren, who sits at the feet of her master's massive familiar, an Irish wolfhound named Lady. Astor taps the table with an impatient finger.

Hazel makes it halfway to the back of the room when The Drunken Dragon's front doors slam open. She freezes alongside the bar's dancers and drinkers and talkers and laughers. The piano clanks to a discordant finale. A newcomer stumble-foots in. He looks up through fringes of graying hair.

"Paladins," he says.

1st 5 Pages March Workshop - Schafer Rev 2

Name: Jennifer Schafer
Genre: Young Adult Contemporary
Title: BITS & PIECES

My favorite family photo was snapped by a night nurse. She nearly cut off my dad’s head in her off-kilter focus. No matter. The absolute adoration on his face for the tufty-haired bundle in his arms transcends the two dimensional. I’ve felt nothing less in the seventeen years since, despite the woman who bore me and disappeared without the first glance.

Her absence made honorary membership in my best friend’s two-parent, five-child family quite natural. Hence, my presence as designated photographer at the Donohue family reunion, and the reason Zoe and I sit side by side this afternoon on her screened porch with my Canon EOS DSLR camera connected to her laptop.

“You’re a real pro, Bits,” Zoe says as she scrolls through the images. “I love this one of my grandparents.” She grins. “I can hear their laughter.”

“Thanks. I’ll pick a dozen or so for my AP portfolio. Your family won’t mind, will they?”

“Are you kidding? They love you.” She pauses and clicks. Several images overlap on the screen of a tall, lanky teen on a grass volleyball court. “And I’d say you have a thing for my cousin.” Her raised eyebrow dares me to contradict her.

“If you notice,” I reach for the touch pad, and she blocks me. “I took pictures of everyone at that game.”

“Um, hmm.” She continues to preview the photos.

A low rumble up the street diverts our attention. A large moving truck pulls in front of Zoe’s house and backs into the driveway across the street.

“Uh, oh.” Zoe reaches for my hand. “Let’s go inside.”

My dad lost his job five months ago. Twelve weeks of dead end interviews sapped his confidence, and he put our home up for sale. Today, the new family moves in.

“Bits, come on.” Zoe moves the laptop to the chair next to her. “Don’t be morbid.” She stands and tugs on my arm.

On my feet, I shake her off and move toward the half wall of the porch. My fingers itch for my camera. A crew of movers unload the new neighbor’s furniture. I frame the scene in my mind’s eye.

“I could totally use this for Photo.” I say more to myself than my friend.

I’m not a stalker. Really. I always ask permission before I take pictures of strangers. When I explain about my Advanced Placement Photo project on families, people are usually happy to help. Especially when I produce an Elizabeth Callahan, photographer business card and offer them access to the JPEGs.

Zoe disconnects my camera, snaps her laptop closed, and moves next to me. She holds her hands to frame the scene across the street, one eye squinted closed. “If you say so. All I see are a bunch of sweaty guys in baggy pants who need to shave.”

The small army of professionals empty the super-sized truck in about half an hour. A man and a woman arrive and work together with practiced communication to back a smaller moving truck into the drive. Each imagined photo I take captures the undercurrent of excitement in their conversation. They tease, they get it done.

“They remind me of your parents,” I say.

The man jumps out of the truck and gives his wife a feet-off-the-ground hug.

“Yeah.” Her reply comes warm and smiley. “They kind of do.”

The dad swats the mom on the butt in passing. She laughs and pays him in kind. My heart makes a sudden and very violent U-turn. So stupid that something nonexistent, like the four molars I never grew, can hit a nerve. My mother’s absence sucks at my soul like a piece of space dust into a black hole. Right now I want nothing more than my own mom to partner with my dad. I bet I’d still live across the street.

“Earth to bits.” Zoe hangs my camera around my neck. “Are you going over there or what?”

A late model SUV parks in the street and a young teen girl appears from the passenger seat.

“Hands to self, children.” The girl comments with the inflection of an eye roll.

The driver of the SUV lifts the rear gate and calls to the girl. “Hey Brooke, come help me with these clothes.”

“Oh. My. God.” Zoe nearly chokes on her surprise. “Is that Chase Dobson?”

No way can I go over there now.

Chase Dobson, can’t catch me star running back. Straight no chaser, party every weekend. All about the chase, no girlfriend just an entourage wherever he and his teammates congregate.

“Where’s the Cro-Magnon Clan?” Zoe scans up and down the street. “You’d think they’d jump at the chance to show off their brute strength.”

“Football practice maybe?”

Zoe’s gaze sticks to Chase’s solid six foot frame as he loads clothing on hangers into his sister’s arms. Brooke waddles under her load into my—her house.

“What a weird thing to do, move your senior year. It can’t have been far. They’ve lived near the golf course as long as I can remember.”

“Weird to move your senior year eight blocks with your dad to a tiny apartment, too.”

“Not when your dad spends three solid months on the wrong end of every interview.” Zoe throws an arm over my shoulder. The scent of her strawberry lip gloss tickles my nose. “I just wondered what caused Mr. All-American’s change in scenery.”

“Not that you mind.” I give her a sly smile. “The view.”

She squeezes me close, the natural rose on her cheek spreads. “Hard not to appreciate a fine form, my friend. You’ve got to go over there. Now.”

She releases me toward the stairs, but I resist.

“I don’t know.” Chase Dobson? It’s one thing to follow him on the football field with my camera for the school newspaper, another entirely to invade his family, regardless of the photographic possibilities.

“What do you mean, you don’t know?” Zoe moves around to get in my face. Her voice gains volume, so much so I’m afraid she’ll blow our cover. “This is a perfect opportunity.” She flings one arm toward the boy voted least likely to notice my existence. “Look how human he acts without the rest of the team around.”

Chase gathers a closet full of clothes to his chest, but not before a large, black coat slips to the ground.

“Hey, Mom.” He calls. “I dropped my coat. Can you grab it?” He leans his head to indicate the coat. “My hands are full.”

Mrs. Dobson appears out of the back of the moving van parked in the driveway and walks toward the SUV. “Sure, honey.”

“Thanks.” Chase strides after his sister.

His mom bends to pick up the letter jacket laying partially open on the ground. Crouched halfway, she hesitates, then lifts the coat as if it might bite her. She braces herself against the vehicle with the other hand and slowly collapses onto the bumper. The coat swings around, with the back toward me and Zoe. A sob escapes Mrs. Dobson’s throat. In unison, Zoe and I catch our breaths.

Stitched in two-inch high, all caps across the back of the wool and leather jacket is the name MITCHELL.

“Oh, my God,” Zoe whispers from behind her hand. “I forgot.”

“Me too.”

Across the street, Mr. Dobson trots toward his wife and folds her into his embrace.

Zoe hugs herself as she turns away.

1st 5 Pages March Workshop - Rothschild Rev 2

Name: Peggy Rothschild
Genre: Young Adult – Mystery/Crime
Title: Flame

October 1977
From the first moment I saw him, I wanted Denny Beech. Tall and lean, his wheat-colored hair curled over the collar of his blue shirt, while a spiral of smoke drifted from the side of his mouth. I wanted to trade places with the cigarette perched on his lower lip.

Not quite nine o’clock on a Saturday night and the patio thermostat still read seventy-eight degrees. But the Santa Ana winds, blowing since daybreak, had softened. A film of ash from the brush fire east of town coated the walkway and the air smelled of wood smoke. Andie and I paused to inspect our reflections in the sliding glass door. Kim Bellman’s parents traveled a lot and she hosted most of the parties. We all wished the Bellmans would adopt us.

A quick crowd scan told me I knew everybody in the backyard – except for one. Most of us had grown up together. A few new people joined our bunch when we entered high school. But by junior year, our set didn’t welcome many new faces. But Denny’s face demanded welcome. Not a pretty boy, age had already burned away the puppy fat to show off high cheekbones and a strong jaw.

I pulled a cigarette from my quilted purse and nodded toward the newcomer. “Who’s that?”

Andie shrugged then looked at me. “Nice to know someone can still catch your eye.” She dug a lighter from her pocket.

I held back my waist-length hair and bent to the flame, then posed, grateful my period ended two days earlier, taking the bloating and zits along with it. “Is it me or is he drop-dead gorgeous?”

“He’s OK.”

“OK?” I glanced up and caught her staring at the new guy. “Oh, you mean like Jeff Jones was just OK? Or Paul Mathers was just OK?”

Andie chuckled. “You got me. Hand to God, that boy is smokin’.”

“Let’s go talk to him.”

She lit her own cigarette. “What’s gotten into you?”

I centered the Ankh pendant between my breasts. “I’m ready for something different.”

David Bowie’s ‘Stay’ began to play. Andie closed her eyes. “God, I love this song.”

I tugged the sleeve of her gauze top.

She shook her head in mock disgust. “The guy’s not going anywhere.”

“Neither’s the song.”

“Like you’re gonna do anything with him.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

She raised an eyebrow. “You and Randall are really over? For good?”

“We are.” Randall and I’d gone steady – off and on – since we met in ninth grade. For over two years, he’d been the center of my world, with most our ‘off’ times resulting from fights about sex. After last year’s Harvest Moon dance, everyone at school thought Randall and I finally sealed the deal. I hadn’t even told Andie that, once again, I’d shut him down. In spite of his lies to the contrary. I met Andie’s gaze and shook my head. “It’s over.”

“You’re not gonna take him back? Again?”

“No way. Not this time.”

“We’ll see.” Andie stared at the group of boys. “But, if you wind up running back to Randall,” she pointed her cigarette at me, “I call dibs on the new guy.” She started walking across the Tiki torch-lighted yard. “Hell, if you didn’t need some post-break up fun – and hadn’t spotted him first – I’d take the guy behind the Bellmans’ barn tonight.”

“Guess I’ve got something to thank Randall for after all.”

Andie grinned at me. “This’ll be fun. It’s been awhile since I got to play pimp.” She pantomimed adjusting an imaginary hat. “You ready?”

“Yeah.”

Andie strode with a self-assurance I only pretended to own. Maybe because she’d actually slept with a few boys. I took a deep breath. By the time we reached him, we held the new guy’s attention, plus the two others standing with him. I nodded at Chris and Jason, grateful Randall wasn’t hanging out with them tonight.

“Hey,” Andie said.

The guys gave a chorus of heys. Chris said, “Get you a beer, Foss?”

I turned to him. “Thanks.”

Andie held up her hands and shot him a wide-eyed ‘what-the-hell’ look. “Hello,” she sing-songed. “I’ll have a beer, too.”

“Shit, Andie, I knew you’d want a beer.” Chris slouched off toward the ice-filled tub.

Jason signaled for me to give him a cigarette. I dug one out of my purse.

Andie smiled at the new boy. “I’m Andie Greeley. This is Beth Foss.”

“Denny Beech.” He nodded first at Andie, then me.

I gave him a half-smile and waited for Andie to continue carrying the conversational ball.

“You new around here?”

“I’m visiting. Staying with my aunt and uncle.”

“How long?”

Before Denny answered, Chris returned with beers for Andie, Jason and me. “What’d I miss? Anything earthshaking?”

“Nah.” Jason grabbed a can, “Andie’s grilling Denny. Getting all the dope.”

“Speaking of dope,” Chris said, “one of the guy’s is bringing some Maui Wowie later.”

“Excellent,” Andie said. “Now, let me get back to work. I believe we’d gotten as far as: How long will you be here? In spite of Chris’ interruption of our quiz show, there’s still plenty of time to win valuable prizes.” She winked at me.

The way she emphasized ‘valuable prizes’ set my cheeks aflame. The whole idea behind our pimp routine was to talk up the ‘pimpee’– without looking too obvious.

Denny shrugged. “It’s on a ‘we’ll-see-how-it-goes’ basis.”

My stomach gave a tiny flutter. The guy didn’t live at home. He was definitely older. I’d never gone after someone who wasn’t in high school. I tried drowning my nerves with a swallow of beer.

Andie pointed at Denny’s companions. “How’d you hook up these jokers?”

Chris spoke up. “You and Foss writing a book or something?”

“Oh come on. When’s the last time somebody new came to one of Kim’s parties?” Andie turned back to Denny. “So, how’d you meet them?”

Denny smiled. His face transformed from good-looking to movie star handsome. I snapped my mouth shut and tried not to look like I’d started to drool.

He flicked his cigarette butt into the Bellman’s rock garden. “I work with Chris at the Hen House.”

“We love that place,” Andie said. “Part of that’s ’cause we love leaving a mess for Chris. I guess we gotta start acting tidier if you’re bussing tables, too.” She smiled then gave a quick hair toss.

“I’m back in the kitchen. Mostly washing dishes, but I get to run the griddle sometimes.”

“I’ll be sure to order the pancakes next time. I’d love to taste your handiwork.”

I widened my eyes at Andie. She’d abandoned her imaginary purple hat in favor of a shark fin. Best friend or not, I needed to speak up. Soon. If I didn’t, Andie would charm him and Denny would think me simple or mute. “How long have you been in town?” I faced him, both barrels visible, the only way for sure I could best Andie.

“Four weeks now.” Denny’s attention shifted to about eight inches south of my chin. “Came up at the start of September.”

I nodded. “Like it so far?” Denny grinned and my insides melted. Then his gaze met mine.

“I like it better now.”

Denny never looked back at Andie. Or any other girl. After about thirty minutes hanging out with the group, he took my hand and led me to one of the log benches set back from the light and the heat of the fire pit. There Denny leaned forward to kiss me and I met him halfway. His lips touched mine and a spark warmed my heart and stomach then made a beeline to my crotch. I pulled away and looked at him. One kiss and I was already hooked.

“So, why Ventura?” I said when I caught my breath.

“Huh?”

“Why’re you here instead of living with your folks?”

Denny raised my palm to his lips and kissed the fleshy area at the base of my thumb. “Got into a little trouble at home. This is supposed to be my ‘big chance at a fresh start’ – or something like that.” He squeezed my hand. “Why don’t we go for a drive? There’s something I’d like to show you.”

I left Andie at the party without a backwards glance.

1st 5 Pages March Workshop - Moss Rev 2

Name: Michele McCole Moss
Genre: YA Fantasy
Title: The Mythics

Chapter One

Alfy wouldn’t have shot the centaur if she’d known he was helping Bee. But, when she saw him crossing the field with her little sister, his chestnut haunches gleaming in the late afternoon sun, Bee’s head lolled and her body was limp in his arms. She didn’t even give him a warning. Alfy hid inside the shadows of the cabin and silently released an arrow through the window.

She wished she was like the girls who made her want to learn archery in the first place. They didn’t cower while taking down their enemies. But, none of those girls were real. In all the books she’d read, none of those girls fought a centaur. Before the Mythics came last year, Alfy was just another high school freshman who’d never touched a bow or seen a real arrow.

The flint head and a decent portion of the shaft lodged in the soft place below his shoulder, missing his heart completely. She was still a terrible shot, but she always got within inches of her target. That was something. He bent his head low over her sweet sister, unconscious in his arms. God, she hoped she was just unconscious. She had to get Bee away from him. Alfy loosed another arrow. It buried itself deep in his abdomen. Panic ripped through Alfy as she watched him fall. He lifted her sister and curled around her, searching, glassy-eyed, before he collapsed.

They were lying in the grass, clouds of insects disrupted from their business among the stiff golden shoots. Alfy ran to Bee. Her sister, so big for seven, looked tiny tangled up in the arms of the beautiful monster. His carved bow lay in pieces behind him, but Bee was still in one piece. It didn’t make sense. He was a Mythic.

His breath gurgled out of him. Light brown curls haloed his honeyed face. His ridiculously long eyelashes fluttered. Alfy froze.

“Take her,” he said. “She fell.” A spray of blood dotted her sister’s snowy hair as he spoke. His voice was a plucked bass string, low and musical.

Bee yawned like a lazy cat and curled into the centaur’s chest, smearing him with his own blood. Alfy let out a long breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.

Carefully, Alfy pulled her sister from his arms, staring at the centaur. Monsters were ugly, vile things. He had no business being that pretty. The end of the world should be dark and disturbing, so why had they made everything so wretchedly beautiful? It was like burying someone you love on a perfect, sunny day. It was wrong.

Chapter Two

MacKenzie Malone needed the beach today of all days. First, it was the one-year anniversary of her father’s death. It also happened to be her sixteenth birthday. Her eyes scanned the long stretch of sand in front of her. Ever since the Mythics had come, reclaiming the land, there was no trash. No presents today.

Without the search for bottle caps and chunks of wave-tumbled glass, cans and lost trinkets, her mind was unoccupied. Her mother always joked that there was never a more dangerous time to be around Mac than when her mind ran idle.

“What should I do dad?” She whispered the question, casting it into the ether.

She knew what her father would say. In his thick brogue he’d tell her to get off her “arse” and practice her art, as he used to call it. Her “art” according to her father wasn’t the projects she made with beach debris, it was all the things she’d learned at the dojo.

Mac jumped to her feet and shook her head to clear it. The auburn strands in her hair glinted like sparks in the rich sunlight. Those strands might possibly be the only physical trait she inherited from her mother, a freckled beauty of a woman. Everything on Mac’s lean, sinewy frame, from her pale white skin to her sea glass green eyes were compliments of Aedan Malone.

She worked through her katas gracefully, but without focus. She moved through Empi-Godan-Henka, striking an imaginary foe with her elbows and let out a loud kiai at the finish.

A seagull startled. She hadn’t meant to yell. She froze, her eyes darting down to the waves licking up the sand. She mashed her knuckles into her temples. The iron didn’t protect the beach. Everyone stayed on the other side of the highway, or what used to be the highway. The humans that were left never came to the beach because they were convinced some monster was going to crawl out of the ocean and eat them. The thought wasn’t without merit, but she hadn’t caught anything’s attention. For now, the beach was still hers.

She relaxed her muscles and unclenched her jaw. She started again, this time with a chopping kata, envisioning first a satyr, then a dryad, then a mermaid’s head dropping to the ground from her final chop. None of it was satisfying. Not today.

She wanted some comfort, something good. A celebration? No one celebrated much of anything anymore, but she knew if Aedan Malone was still around he’d unearth alcohol from some hidden place and raise a glass to his baby girl. She swiped at her eyes. She wanted, no she needed, her mom. As usual her mother was busy.

Mac’s muscles went rigid. She stood, unmoving, listening hard. Her eyes fell on the sunlight glinting off the water. Nothing. There were eyes on her. Goosebumps prickled down her spine. She suddenly wanted the safety of her iron-protected home. It repelled the Mythics like bug spray. Why hadn’t she brought a piece of iron with her? Stupid.

She whipped around, ready to run for home, but a man stood staring at her. She took note of the long sword at his side, its tip buried in the sand, his hand resting on the hilt. Neither of them noticed the large reptilian eyes, raised just above the water line, studying them.

Chapter Three

Alfy paced the floor between Bee and the window, looking anxiously at the centaur still lying in the grass outside. She should probably kill him. She knew where she hit him was painful and an awful way to die for a human. But he’d helped Bee, a little voice inside her argued. She should help him. He’s one of them another voice said. Before the two opposing views could get in an argument, Bee stirred.

“Where’s Phrix?” Bee said. She sat up in bed, and looked at her sister who turned slowly away from the window.

“You know its name?” Alfy said. It came out meaner than she’d meant. Sure, she was mean to everyone else, but never her sister.

Bee pushed herself up out of bed. She was weak, but when Alfy had inspected Bee’s body for broken bones and deep gashes, she’d found none.

“What did you do to him?”

Bee crossed the floor faster than she should have and swooned. Alfy grabbed her just in time. Looking past Alfy’s arm and through the window, Bee caught sight of the bleeding centaur and gasped. She pushed away from Alfy with all the strength.

“Why? He helped me. How could you kill him?”

Even though she’d contemplated killing him for the last forty minutes, she was hurt that Bee could think she was capable of such a thing.
“I, I didn’t—,” she said.

Bee was already out the door.

1st 5 Pages March Workshop - Saunders Rev 2

Name: Merriam Saunders
Genre: MG Light Fantasy
Title: WHAT WESTIN SCOTT HOPPER FINDS

The basement in Grandma’s house is calling me like lightning to a flagpole.

“Oh, Westiiiin. There’s something really amazing down here to plaaay with…”

But I’m not supposed to go down there.

So I sit on Grandma’s sofa cutting out the Sunday comics instead. Thinking about how my former friends are all at Peter Madsen’s birthday party, stuffing their faces with cake. I wasn’t invited. Whatever. Grandma plops blue sheets next to me and starts folding. Fresh and warm from the dryer. I dig a tunnel into the toasty pile, thinking about how to sneak into the basement, which is way more fun than some stupid party anyway. I’ll have to wait till Dad leaves. He and Pops are watching football, so could be a while. Mmmm, these sheets feel soft. Wonder what it’s like to cut sheets, instead of comics.

“Westin Scott Hopper!” Grandma closes her eyes and shakes her head. “I just bought these. Why would you cut a hole in perfectly good sheets?”

I look down at my hands. Uh-oh. “I didn’t mean to!”

“West! What’d you do that for?” Dad leaps out of the brown lounger chair.

I have no idea why. “Sorry Gram.”

Dad takes a swig from a silver can and sets it on the glass coffee table. “You can’t keep doing stuff like that, West. You're twelve, not two. Use your brain.”

Lot of good that’d do. My Brain’s not the cooperative kind. Someone else’s Brain might have been like “Dude. Bad idea to cut a hole in your Grandma’s sheets.” That Brain’s kid would’ve been like, “Thanks, Brain. I’ll cut the comics instead. Good thing I have you to stop me from doing stupid stuff.”

But my Brain’s different. Mom says it’s not my fault. The part that stops you from screwing up——the same part that makes you pay attention even when it’s super terrifically boring (like math class)—that part of my Brain is on vacation in Hawaii most days. Or climbing Mt. Kilimanjaro. Or canoeing the Amazon. Wherever it is, it’s not in my head doing its job.

“You’ll have to pay Grandma out of your allowance.” Dad glances at his watch.

And I know what’s coming. Actually, what’s leaving.

Him.

“Your mom will pick you up later. You’re her problem now, buddy. Don’t forget anything at Grandma’s.” He leans over and messes my hair. “See you next Sunday night. Be good.”

I follow him to the kitchen. He’s so tall he has to duck through the doorway. And so strong when he slams the back door, sometimes the walls shake. Like now. “Bye, Dad.” I whisper. I watch through the side window as he peals out of the drive-way in the bright red Evidence. That’s what Mom calls his new Porsche—she says it shows he can pay more child support.

My stomach usually feels kind of hollow when he leaves early. But not today. Today I just have this feeling. There’s something cool in the basement.

I pull a soda from Grandma’s fridge. My fourth. Mom doesn’t let me drink soda, so I have to load up at Grandma’s. When I shut the fridge, a picture I drew—a flying blue dragon——falls from its magnet and floats to the floor. Dad’s knocked this drawing off three times today getting a drink out, and Grandma puts it back up every time. She loves my drawings. They’re okay, I guess.

I finish my soda and peak into the living room. Pops is fading fast in the recliner and Grandma has a TV-coma glaze to her eyes. I creep down the hall to the basement door.

“Don’t you even think of going in that basement.” Pops grumbles. “You’re always breaking something.”

Darn. He’s got supersonic hearing for an old guy. I grab a tennis ball and throw it against the basement door, eyeing the knob. Catch. Ba-dump. Catch.

“No ball throwing in the house!” His screechy voice makes the hair on my neck stand.

“Okay.”

I wait.

Doesn’t take long.

Zzzz…ggphkkg…zzzz…zzzz

We have lift off! Full-snore throttle ahead.

I look both ways down the hall and step toward the old basement door. It’s all scratched under the knob where Jessup used to claw at it before he died. He was a fun dog till he started peeing everywhere. I twist the loose knob and quietly open the door. The stair creaks errrt under my foot and I hope they don’t hear.

The basement smells weird. Like wet fur, stale barf and old cardboard. Most kids would be scared down here. It’s dark. Midnight under-the-ground dark. There’s one dim bulb hanging from the center of the room and you turn it on by pulling a long string. But only after you’re all the way downstairs, through Spider City in the floor boards above your head. Once, after I walked into a web, thrashing around to get the sticky wisps off, a giant spider crawled down my cheek and into my sweater. Mega gross.

My heart pumps fast till I tug the string and the light clicks on, dim and yellow. The room is filled to the rafters with stuff Grandma buys at garage sales. There’s a cool record player on a dusty table that works by cranking the handle. The singer sounds like she's in a tin can. Next to it, is a pink accordion. But I accidentally poked a hole in the middle, so it doesn’t work. There are more books than in my school library, in heaps, on shelves, and in boxes. But nothing I'd read. They have weird titles like “The Edible Northwest” or “Weaving for Dummies”.

I tap my thighs and spy around. There’s nothing different since the last time I snuck down except a blue hard-sided suitcase. I snort out dust and disappointment.

But there could be something awesome inside that suitcase. Gold coins. Or Pokémon EX cards. Maybe an intergalactic treasure map with specs to build a space ship. So I kneel down on the red square of carpet and pull the suitcase toward me.

Worse than empty. Just a stupid silky bag. Red with a draw string and scratchy looking symbols shaped like forks. Boring. I pick it up and look inside. Nothing. Totally not worth the scolding I’ll get when Pops catches me in the basement.

I sigh. Still holding the bag, I look around. There’s an ugly oil painting of a swamp propped against the wall. Why would Grandma spend money on that? Totally hideous. The crocodile has huge bug-eyes and the turtle on the shore is a strange purple color. Everyone knows turtles aren't purple. Duh.

I drop the bag back into the suitcase and scratch behind my ears. I’m about to close the lid, when it bangs against my knees.

“What the—?”

Toddling around the inside of the suitcase is a purple turtle. Like the one from the painting. A teensy version, no bigger than a tootsie roll. I reach my hand in to touch it and snap! The bug-eyed crocodile in mini-size leaps out of the red silk bag.

“Look out!” I yell to the turtle. Quicker than the flick of an elastic, the crocodile clamps down and gobbles him up. He looks up at me with his bug-eye, winks, and crawls back into the bag. I slam the top of the suitcase down hard.

No freaking way. I did not just see that. The painting…came alive? Brain is playing a joke on me. I raise the lid, ready to leap away if a mini crocodile attacks my face. I hold my breath. Nothing. Just the red silk bag, flat and empty. How did that happen? I reach in slowly, heart thumping like a basketball and pick it up. I turn it inside out. Empty.

But I know what I saw.

Brain knows it too.

A tiny crocodile ate a purple turtle.

And vanished.

I am so totally getting all my friends back now.

1st 5 Pages March Workshop - Saunders Rev 1

Name: Merriam Saunders

Genre: MG, Light Fantasy

Title: What Westin Scott Hopper Found





SUNDAY



The basement in Grandma’s house is calling to me.



But I’m not supposed to go in it.



So I sit on Grandma’s sofa and cut out the Sunday comics instead. I usually like to cut out the ones that give me ideas for drawing. Grandma sets the warm blue sheets she’s just pulled out of the dryer next to me and starts folding. I dig a tunnel into the toasty pile, thinking about how I can sneak into the basement. I’ll have to wait till Dad leaves. The sheets feel soft on my skin. I wonder what it feels like to cut sheets, instead of newspaper.



“West! What’d you do that for?” Dad leaps out of the brown lounger chair.



I look down at my hands. Uh-oh. “I didn’t mean to!”



“Westin Scott Hopper!” Grandma closes her eyes and shakes her head. “I just bought these. Why would you cut a hole in perfectly good sheets?”



“Sorry Gram.” I have no idea why I did that.



Dad takes a swig from a silver can and sets it on the glass coffee table. “You can’t do stuff like that, West. You’re eleven, not seven. Use your brain.”



Ha! Lot of good that’d do. Someone else’s Brain might have been like “Dude. Bad idea to cut a hole in your Grandma’s sheets.” That Brain’s kid would’ve been like, “Thanks, Brain. I’ll cut the comics instead. Good thing I have you to stop me from doing stupid stuff.”



But my Brain’s different. The part that stops you from screwing up—the same part that makes you pay attention even when it’s super terrifically boring (like math class)—that part of my Brain is on vacation in Hawaii most days. Or climbing Mt. Kilimanjaro. Or canoeing the Amazon. Wherever it is, it’s not in my head doing its job.



“You’ll have to pay Grandma out of your allowance.” Dad glances at his watch.



And I know what’s coming. Actually, what’s leaving.



Him.



“Your mom will pick you up later. You’re her problem now, buddy. Don’t forget anything at Grandma’s.” He leans over and messes my hair. “See you next Sunday night. Be good.”



I usually hate when he leaves. Makes my stomach feel hollow. I follow him to the kitchen. He’s so tall he has to duck through the doorway. And so strong when he slams the back door, sometimes the walls shake. Like now. I watch through the side window as he peals out of the drive-way in the bright red Evidence. That’s what Mom calls his new Porsche—she says it shows he can pay more child support.



But today, I’m glad he left early. Today I just have this feeling. There’s something calling me to the basement.



I pull a soda from Grandma’s fridge. Mom doesn’t let me drink soda, but Gram doesn’t mind. When I shut the fridge, a picture I drew—a flying blue dragon—falls from its magnet and floats to the floor. Dad’s knocked this drawing off three times today getting a drink out, and Grandma puts it back up every time. She loves my drawings. They’re okay, I guess. [ILLUSTRATION]



I finish my soda and look down the hall to the basement door. Sometimes they fall asleep watching TV and that’s the best time to sneak down.



“Don’t you even think of going in that basement!” Pops comes out of his TV coma to yell. “Every time you go down there you break something.”



“Okay.” Darn. Still awake. I throw a tennis ball against the basement door, eyeing the knob. Catch. Ba-dump. Catch.



“No ball throwing in the house!” His screechy voice makes the hair on my neck stand.



“Okay.” I’m going anyway. I look both ways down the hall and take a step toward the old basement door. It’s all scratched under the knob where Jessup used to claw at it before he died. Which was sad because he was a fun dog. I twist the loose knob and quietly open the door. The stair creaks errrt under my foot and I hope they don’t hear.



The basement smells weird. Like wet fur, stale barf and old cardboard. Most kids would be scared down here. It’s dark. Midnight under-the-ground dark. There’s one dim bulb hanging from the center of the room and you turn it on by pulling a long string. But only after you’re all the way downstairs, through Spider City in the floor boards above your head. Once, after I walked into a web, thrashing around to get the sticky wisps off, a giant spider crawled down my cheek and into my sweater. Mega gross.



My heart pumps fast till I tug the string and the light clicks on, dim and yellow. The room is filled to the rafters. There’s a cool record player on a dusty table that works by cranking the handle. The singer sounds like she’s in a tin can. Next to it, is a pink accordion. But I accidentally poked a hole in the middle, so it doesn’t work anymore. There are more books than in my school library, in heaps, on shelves, and in boxes. But nothing I’d read. They have weird titles like “The Edible Northwest” or “Weaving for Dummies”.



I tap my thighs and spy around. Nothing new since last time I snuck down except a blue hard-sided suitcase and next to it, a creepy painting of a swamp in a gold-painted frame. I snort out dust and disappointment.



I kneel on the red square of carpet and pull the suitcase over. Maybe there’s something awesome inside. Gold coins. Or Pokémon EX cards. Maybe an intergalactic treasure map with specs to build a space ship.



Empty. Worse than empty. Just a stupid silky bag. Red with scratchy marks like a dog ran its claws over it. Boring, girly thing. I pick it up and look inside. Nothing. Totally not worth the scolding I’ll get when Pops catches me in the basement.



I sigh. Still holding the bag, I lean over to look at the oil painting of the swamp propped against the wall. Why would Grandma spend money on that? So ugly. The crocodile has huge bug-eyes and the turtle on the shore is a strange purple color. Everyone knows turtles aren’t purple. Duh.



I drop the bag back into the suitcase and scratch behind my ears. I’m about to close the lid, when it bangs against my knees.



“What the—?”



Toddling along the inside of the suitcase is a purple turtle. Like the one from the painting. No bigger than a tootsie roll. I reach my hand in to touch it and snap! The bug-eyed crocodile in mini-size leaps out of the red silk bag.



“Look out!” I yell to the turtle. Quicker than the flick of an elastic, the crocodile clamps down and gobbles him up. He looks up with his bug-eye, winks, and crawls back into the bag. I slam the the suitcase down hard.



No freaking way. I did not just see that. I raise the lid, ready to leap away if a mini crocodile attacks my face. I hold my breath. Nothing. Just the red silk bag, flat and empty. How did that happen? I reach in slowly, heart thumping like a basketball and pick it up. I turn it inside out. Empty.



But I know what I saw.

Brain knows it too.

A tiny crocodile ate a purple turtle.

And vanished.



This is beyond awesome.

1st 5 Pages March Workshop - Ziegler Rev 1

Name: Allison Ziegler
Genre: Young Adult Fantasy
Title: Aeternium

Hazel Congelier ducks into a gateway at the center of a busy block,
pushing past a gaggle of well-dressed working girls and their t-strap
toes. An inky-black cat of delicate proportions follows close at her
heels. The alleyway dampens the surrounding the din of Allegheny City
locked in afternoon bustle--newsboy shouts and trolley squeals and the
metallic clang of spidery Crawlers pulling trundling carriages. She
stops at a door in chip-paint disrepair, nestled in a vestibule safe
from prying eyes. It is one of many secret doors scattered across the
city, but they all lead to the same place. Magic has little regard for
geography.

The cat watches Hazel as she roots through her shoulder bag. She
produces a rumpled sheet of paper bearing a single word--"open."

At least, it would look like a single word to most people. To Hazel,
there are swirls of visible energy woven into ink and paper, a
framework for a spell. It's a flimsy thing, nothing like the ancient
tome her master uses, a toy for an apprentice not yet empowered with
a book of her own. Hazel knows the Church wouldn't find it so
insignificant if they caught her using it. She glances over her
puff-sleeve shoulder, half expecting to find a hulking police officer
or red-face priest watching her.

There is no one.

The cat gives an impatient flick of his tail. His name is Soren, and
he is Hazel's familiar. We're late, he reminds her. He hates to be
late. Hazel is almost never on time. That doesn't mean she has to like
his rushing--or his prying into her thoughts.

She grabs at the magic that hovers over her bond with Soren. Their
illicit partnership is the reason Hazel can do magic, the reason she
will be able to go through this door. All the energy needed for
casting spells buzzes between them. The letters on the page glow
yellow, casting opaque light into sooty shadows. Hazel raps the door
three times and takes three...deep...breaths.

"Open," she says. The world goes black for a split second, and Hazel
wills the spell to take shape. In an instant, it's over. The door
opens, and Hazel steps through to the other side of reality, faced
with a hidden city in miniature for the fantastic things the outside
world has declared undeniably and wholly evil. Dozens of makeshift
structures line the walls and form cramped alleyways, stacked three
high into teetering towers. The air here is clean, free from the heavy
smog outdoor streets. The magic users and familiars that roam its
creaky corners breathe deeply and speak freely.

A large wooden sign, hanging on the nearest second-story platform,
reads "A SANCTUARY FOR FAMILIARED CITIZENS." Hazel takes a moment to
absorb this place, called simply "Sanctuary" by those in the know.
She's been here before, on a visit to the city. That was four years
ago. Four schools ago, four homes ago, four lifetimes ago. Or is it
five? The various lives and identities of Hazel Congelier blend a
little at the edges lately.

She picks her way to the back of Sanctuary's ground floor, all the way
to a brick building with a massive mural on the front, painted in
blinding-bright colors. A dragon waltzes in a rumple-front ball gown
with a monocled turtle, each holding mugs of frothy beer. The top
reads thusly:

THE DRUNKEN DRAGON: FOR WHEN A TIPSY TURTLE JUST ISN'T ENOUGH

I forgot how garish it was, Soren says. He bristles as they walk
through the door.

"It's better than I remember," Hazel says.

Inside, a pianist with a beagle at his feet pounds out a bright tune,
and a man lounges atop the gleaming upright. People dance in a gap
between the tables and the bar. They are as varied as the people
outside--well-dressed and fraying, men and women, old and young. Few
are quite so young as Hazel, though. Magic is generally an adult game.

"Hazel, dear girl! There you are!" calls the man on the piano. His
name is Nixby Glass, and the Drunken Dragon is his natural habitat. He
is the owner of Sanctuary, and the overseer of magic in Allegheny
City. He is also Hazel's grandfather, after a fashion. He hops down in
pink-shoe sprightliness. Purple suspenders poke out of his blue suit
jacket, and a red-and-green parrot takes up residence on his top hat.
He is short, only inches taller than Hazel's rather meager
five-feet-no-inches, but his voice and presence dominate the room.

"Hello, Master Nixby," Hazel says. He pulls her into a tight hug, and
his white whiskers scratch her cheek. She glances over his shoulder,
eyes searching for her teacher. Master Sorcerer Astor Congelier
glowers at her from a table against the wall, his bearded jaw carrying
an impatient edge. He and Soren have similar opinions on lateness.

"Look at you," Nixby says, "Almost a little woman! It's a good thing
you came. I have a birthday present for you." He produces a tidy gift
box and presents it to Hazel with a wink. She pulls her eyes from
Astor's plain disapproval. "How old are you, again? Forty-three?
Eight-eight? One hundred and six?"

"I'm seventeen, Master Nixby. Don't you think I'm a little old for you
to keep pretending it's my birthday every time I see you?"

"So young as that? I think you can still indulge an old man who likes
to dote on you, no?"

Excuse me if I don't watch this charade, Soren says. He fades into the
crowd, and Hazel lets him go. This sort of greeting is a charade, one
that they've acted out dozens of times before. Hazel loves the
familiarity of it--between constant moving and constant hiding, she's
had precious little sameness in her life.

"I suppose for another few decades, I'll be young enough for that."
She takes the box and pulls open the bow in one smooth motion. Inside
is a heavy silver pendant, an oval bearing a delicate rose. It's a
necklace for a grown woman, for someone older and more accomplished
than not-quite-grown Hazel Congelier. "It's beautiful," she says.

"Well? Turn around so I can put it on you. Hurry now," Nixby says.

"Hurry now, Hurry now," Nixby's familiar echoes from atop his hat.
Nixby calls him Luck the Liar, and he is the only familiar Hazel has
ever known to speak out loud.

"Absolutely stunning," Nixby says as Hazel turns with a little
film-star flourish. "Now, I have to attend to something in the back,
but it was so good to see you, darling. Welcome home." With that,
Nixby rejoins the crowd, a king among his people. Home. After only
three days in the city, Hazel isn't sure she can properly lay claim to
the word.

Hazel glances back at Soren, who sits at the feet of her master's
massive familiar, an Irish wolfhound named Lady. Astor taps the table
with an impatient finger.

She makes it halfway to the back of the room when The Drunken Dragon's
front doors slam open, and the deafening crack triggers an expectant
hush among the bar's dancers and drinkers and talkers and laughers.
The piano clanks to a discordant finale. A rumple-coat newcomer
stumble-foots in. He looks up through stringy fringes of graying hair.

"Paladins," he says.

The world stands still. Hazel freezes. The man might have said
"death." It would have felt much the same.

Time catches up. Shouts, screams, murmurs, cracked glass. Panic. It
rings against Hazel's ears.

1st 5 Pages March Workshop - Rothschild Rev 1

Name: Peggy Rothschild
Genre: Young Adult – Mystery/Crime
Title: Flame

October 1977
I wanted Denny Beech from the first moment I saw him. Tall and lean, wheat-colored hair curled over his shirt collar, while a spiral of smoke drifted from the side of his mouth. I wished I could trade places with the cigarette perched on his lower lip.

Not quite nine o’clock on a Saturday night, the patio thermostat read seventy-eight degrees. The Santa Ana winds, blowing since daybreak, had softened. A film of ash from the brush fire east of town coated the walkway and the air smelled of wood smoke. Andie and I paused to inspect our reflections in the sliding glass door. Kim Bellman’s parents traveled a lot and she hosted most of the parties. We all wished the Bellmans would adopt us.

A quick crowd scan told me I knew everybody in the backyard, except for one. Most of the group had grown up together. A few new people joined our bunch when we entered high school. But by junior year, our set didn’t welcome many new faces. But Denny’s face demanded welcome. Not a pretty boy, age had already burned away the puppy fat to show off high cheekbones and a strong jaw.

I pulled a cigarette from my quilted purse and nodded toward the newcomer. “Who’s that?”

Andie shrugged then looked at me. “Nice to know someone can still catch your eye.” She dug a lighter from her pocket.

I held back my waist-length hair and bent to the flame, then posed, grateful my period ended two days earlier, taking the bloating and zits along with it. “Is it me or is he drop-dead gorgeous?”

“He’s OK.”

“OK?” I glanced up and caught her staring at the new guy. “Oh, you mean like Jeff Jones was just OK? Or Paul Mathers was just OK?”

Andie chuckled. “You got me. Hand to God, that boy is smokin’.”

“Let’s go talk to him.”

She lit her own cigarette. “What’s gotten into you?”

I centered the Ankh pendant between my breasts. “I’m ready for something different.”

David Bowie’s ‘Stay’ began to play. Andie closed her eyes. “God, I love this song.”

I tugged the sleeve of her gauze top.

She shook her head in mock disgust. “The guy’s not going anywhere.”

“Neither’s the song.”

“Like you’re gonna do anything with him.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

She raised an eyebrow. “You and Randall are really over? For good?”

“We are.” Randall and I’d gone steady – off and on – since we met in ninth grade. For over two years, he’d been the center of my world, with most our ‘off’ times resulting from fights about sex. After last year’s Harvest Moon dance, everyone at school thought Randall and I finally sealed the deal. I hadn’t even told Andie that, once again, I’d shut him down. In spite of his lies to the contrary. I met Andie’s gaze and shook my head. “It’s over. That boy needs to grow up.”

“And if he does? You’ll take him back? Again?”

“Never going to happen. He’s the original Peter Pan.”

“We’ll see.” Andie stared at the group of boys. “But,” she pointed her cigarette at me, “if you wind up running back to Randall, I call dibs on the new guy.” She started walking across the Tiki torch-lighted yard. “Hell, if you didn’t need some post-break up fun – and hadn’t spotted him first – I’d take the guy behind the Bellmans’ barn tonight.”

“Guess I’ve got something to thank Randall for after all.”

Andie grinned at me. “This’ll be fun. It’s been awhile since I got to play pimp.” She pantomimed adjusting an imaginary hat. “You ready?”

“Yeah.”

Andie strode with a self-assurance I only pretended to own. Maybe because she’d actually slept with a few boys. I took a deep breath. By the time we reached him, we held the new guy’s attention, plus the two others standing with him. I nodded at Chris and Jason, grateful Randall wasn’t hanging out with them tonight.

“Hey,” Andie said.

The guys gave a chorus of heys. Chris said, “Get you a beer, Foss?”

I turned to him. “Thanks.”

Andie held up her hands and shot him a wide-eyed ‘what-the-hell’ look. “Hello,” she sing-songed. “I’ll have a beer, too.”

“Shit, Andie, I knew you’d want a beer.” Chris slouched off toward the ice-filled tub.

Jason signaled for me to give him a cigarette. I dug one out of my purse.

Andie smiled at the new boy. “I’m Andie Greeley. This is my friend Beth Foss.”

“Denny Beech.” He nodded first at Andie, then me.

I gave him a half-smile and waited for Andie to continue carrying the conversational ball.

“You new around here?”

“I’m visiting. Staying with my aunt and uncle.”

“How long?”

Before Denny answered, Chris returned with beers for Andie, Jason and me. “What’d I miss? Anything earthshaking?”

“Nah.” Jason grabbed a can, “Andie’s grilling Denny. Getting all the dope.”

“Speaking of dope,” Chris said, “one of the guy’s is bringing some Maui Wowie later.”

“Excellent,” Andie said. “Now, let me get back to work. I believe we’d gotten as far as: How long will you be here? In spite of Chris’ interruption of our quiz show, there’s still plenty of time to win valuable prizes for the correct answers.” She winked at me.

The way she emphasized ‘valuable prizes’ set my cheeks aflame. I hoped Denny didn’t catch her drift. I swigged some beer then looked at him. He appeared amused and didn’t seem to realize Andie was getting ready to pimp me.

Denny shrugged. “It’s on a ‘we’ll-see-how-it-goes’ basis.”

I pegged him as a rebel, kicked out by his parents. Was his a minor rebellion or something major? Major rebellion was romantic, but minor rebellion remained more my speed.

Andie pointed at Denny’s companions. “How’d you hook up these jokers?”

Chris spoke up. “You and Foss writing a book or something?”

“Oh come on. When’s the last time somebody new came to one of Kim’s parties?” Andie turned back to Denny. “So, how’d you meet them?”

Denny smiled. His face transformed from good-looking to movie star handsome. I snapped my mouth shut and tried not to look like I’d started to drool.

He flicked his cigarette butt into the Bellman’s rock garden. “I work with Chris at the Hen House.”

“We love that place,” Andie said. “Part of that’s ’cause we love leaving a mess for Chris. I guess we gotta start acting tidier if you’re bussing tables, too.” She smiled then gave a quick hair toss.

“I’m back in the kitchen. Mostly washing dishes, but Ed lets me run the griddle some.”

“I’ll be sure to order the pancakes next time. See how tasty your handiwork is.”

I widened my eyes at her. Andie’d abandoned her imaginary purple hat in favor of a shark fin. Best friend or not, I needed to speak up. Soon. If I didn’t, Andie would charm him and Denny would think me simple or mute. “How long have you been in town?” I faced him, both barrels visible, the only way for sure I could best Andie.

“Four weeks now. Came up at the start of September.”

I nodded. “Like it so far?” Denny grinned and my insides melted.

“I like it better now.”

Denny turned his handsome face my way and never looked back at Andie. Or any other girl. After about thirty minutes hanging out with the group, he took my hand and led me to one of the log benches set back from the light and the heat of the fire pit. There Denny leaned forward to kiss me and I met him halfway. His lips touched mine and a spark warmed my heart and stomach then made a beeline to my crotch. I leaned back and looked at him. One kiss and I was already hooked.

When Denny invited me to go for a ride, I left Andie and the party without a backwards glance.

1st 5 Pages March Workshop - Schafer Rev 1

Name: Jennifer Schafer
Genre: Young Adult Contemporary
Title: BITS & PIECES

I thought it was hard to return from a month unplugged at summer camp to find Dad had put our early 1900’s brick two-story up for sale. It’s worse, a month later to watch the new family move in.

“Bits, you are a true glutton for punishment,” my best friend Zoe says, parked beside me on the bottom step of her front porch. Across the street, a crew of movers unload the new neighbor’s furniture.

The new family looks perfect. The professionals leave in the super-sized truck and the mom and dad work together with practiced communication to back a smaller moving truck into the drive. They tease, they get it done. There’s an intense knowledge of the other, an awareness of the other’s place in their little microcosm.

“They remind me of your parents,” I say.

Zoe focuses on the couple as the dad jumps out of the truck and gives his wife a feet-off-the-ground hug. “Yeah.” Her reply comes warm and smiley. “They kind of do.”

I’m glad the rest of Zoe’s family have other places to be. I love all seven Donahues, but right now I wish I had a mom to pair with my dad in my house across the street.

The dad swats the mom on the butt in passing. She laughs and pays him in kind. A late model SUV parks in the street and a young teen girl appears from the passenger seat.

“Hands to self, children.” The daughter comments with the inflection of an eye roll.

The driver of the SUV lifts the rear gate and calls to the girl. “Hey Brooke, come help me with these clothes.”

“Oh. My. God.” Zoe nearly chokes on her gum. “Is that Chase Dobson?”

Can’t Catch Me Chase Dobson, star running back of our high school’s state champion football team. Straight No Chaser, party every weekend. It’s All About the Chase, no girlfriend just an entourage wherever he and his teammates congregate.

“Where’s the Cro-Magnon Clan?” Zoe pops her gum. “You’d think they’d jump at the chance to show off their brute strength.”

“Football practice maybe?”

Zoe’s eyes stick to Chase’s solid six foot frame as he loads clothing on hangers into his sister’s arms. “What a weird thing to do, move your senior year. It can’t have been far. They’ve lived near the golf course as long as I can remember.”

“Weird to move eight blocks with your dad to a tiny apartment your senior year, too.”
“Oh, Bits.” Zoe throws an arm over my shoulder and minty breath across my nose. “It’s not weird when your dad loses his job and spends three solid months on the wrong end of every interview.” She gives me a squeeze and releases me. “What I meant was, I just wonder what changed for Mr. All-American over there for the change in scenery.”

“Not that you mind.” I give her a sly smile. “The change in scenery.”

She bumps her shoulder into mine, a flush deepens the natural rose on her cheeks. “Hard not to appreciate a fine form, my friend.”

Brooke waddles under her load into her house. Chase fills his arms but not before a large, black coat slips onto the ground.

“Hey, Mom.” He calls. “I dropped my coat. Can you grab it?” He leans his head to indicate the coat. “My hands are full.”

“Sure, honey.” Mrs. Dobson appears out of the back of the moving van parked in the driveway and walks toward the SUV. She bends to pick up the letter jacket laying partially open on the ground. Bent halfway, she hesitates, then lifts the coat as if it might bite her. She braces herself against the vehicle with the other hand and slowly collapses onto the bumper. The coat swings around, with the back toward me and Zoe. A sob catches in Mrs. Dobson’s throat. Zoe and I catch our breaths.

Stitched in two-inch high, all caps across the back of the wool and leather jacket is the name MITCHELL.

“Oh, my God. I forgot.” Zoe whispers from behind her hand.

“Me too.”

Across the street, Mr. Dobson trots toward his wife and folds her into his embrace.

“That’s awkward.” Zoe pulls her knees to her chest, hunched forward.

I can’t pull my eyes away from Chase’s parents and the silent conversation between them, in the way he ducks his head to look her in the eye, the way she grips his shirt at the small of his back, the gentle kiss he plants on her cheek, and the quiet way he releases the coat from her hand.

“Mom?” The daughter appears on the front porch. She spies them together next to the car. “Dad?”

The parents break apart, both wiping at their eyes. Mrs. Dobson trudges up the driveway, lays an arm over her daughter’s shoulder and they disappear into the house.

Chase steps onto the front porch of the house. “What’s next, Dad?”

Mr. Dobson turns the coat wrong side out, shapes it over the hanger, and tosses it into the back of the car.

“Dad? What are you do—”

The loud engine of a pizza delivery truck cuts off Chase. The driver meets Mr. Dobson at the bumper of the SUV. Chase trots down the drive and receives the pizzas while his dad fishes in a back pocket for his wallet.

My stomach growls in response to the scent of warm bread and spiced tomatoes. Zoe and I both jump when her phone erupts with Darth Vader’s Imperial March.

“Not sure they heard that two blocks over,” I say.

She ignores me and answers her phone. “Hey, Dad.” Her tone belies the obvious distress we just witnessed.

Chase and his Dad now realize they have an audience. I duck from Chase’s shocked stare and review recent texts on my own phone.

Zoe stands and walks up the porch stairs as she answers her dad’s questions. “Five-thirty. Yeah, I guess. She said Rachel’s appointment should end in time. No, they’re at the Robinson’s. I’m supposed to grill hamburgers. Uh, huh. Okay. You too. Bye.”

Only when the pizza truck backfires and accelerates down the block do I raise my head. Across the street, Chase glances over his shoulder before he follows his dad inside the house.

“Okay.” Zoe finishes a text and slides her phone into her back pocket. “So, I gotta go make dinner. You want to stay?”

“No thanks.” I stand and brush dust from my seat. “That’s all right. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“You’re sure?” Zoe’s forehead crinkles. “You look like you need a dose of Donahue madness.”

“I’m sure.” Today, Mrs. Donahue’s customary greeting, a quick kiss on the forehead that marks the recipient as treasured, will only make me miss more the mother I have never known.

My best friend gives me a hug, releases me, then returns to place a peck at my temple before she disappears into her house. Dishes clunk on the counter and the sound of silverware clinks through the open window. I force myself to breathe in through my nose and out my mouth to keep my heart in my chest.

I should go home, march the eight blocks in the warm afternoon sunshine. My legs itch to run. Eight blocks isn’t far. I balked at Zoe’s invitation to join her family for dinner, yet an inexplicable desire to observe Chase and his family pins me in place.

1st 5 Pages March Workshop - Moss Rev 1

Name: Michele McCole Moss
Genre: YA Fantasy
Title: The Mythics

Chapter One

Alfy wouldn’t have shot the centaur if she’d known he was helping Bee. But, when she saw him crossing the field with her little sister, his chestnut haunches gleaming in the late afternoon sun, Bee’s head lolled and her body was limp in his arms. Alfy hid inside the shadows of the cabin and silently released an arrow through the window.

She wished she was like the girls who made her want to learn archery in the first place. They didn’t cower while taking down their enemies. But, none of those girls were real. In all the books she’d read, none of those girls fought a centaur.

The flint head and a decent portion of the shaft lodged in the soft place below his shoulder, missing his heart completely. She was still a terrible shot. He bent his head low over her sweet sister, unconscious in his arms. God, she hoped she was just unconscious. Alfy loosed another arrow. It buried itself deep in his abdomen, just missing Bee. Panic ripped through Alfy as she watched him fall. He lifted her sister and curled around her, searching, glassy-eyed, before he collapsed.

They were lying in the grass, clouds of insects disrupted from their business among the stiff golden shoots. Alfy ran to Bee. Her sister, so big for seven, looked tiny tangled up in the arms of the beautiful monster. His carved bow lay in pieces behind him, but Bee was still in one piece. It didn’t make sense. He was a Mythic.

His breath gurgled out of him. Light brown curls haloed his honeyed face. His ridiculously long eyelashes fluttered. Alfy froze.

“Take her,” he said. “She fell.” A spray of blood dotted her sister’s snowy hair as he spoke. His voice was a plucked bass string, low and musical.

Bee yawned like a lazy cat and curled into the centaur’s chest, smearing him with his own blood. Alfy let out a long breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.

Carefully, Alfy pulled her sister from his arms, staring at the centaur. Monsters were ugly, vile things. He had no business being that pretty. The end of the world should be dark and disturbing, so why had they made everything so wretchedly beautiful? It was like burying someone you love on a perfect, sunny day. It was wrong.

Chapter Two

MacKenzie Malone needed the beach today of all days. First, it was the one-year anniversary of her father’s death. It also happened to be her sixteenth birthday. She searched the long stretch of sand in front of her. Ever since the Mythics had come, reclaiming the land, there was no trash.

Without the search for bottle caps and chunks of wave-tumbled glass, cans and lost trinkets, her mind was unoccupied. Her mother always joked that there was never a more dangerous time to be around Mac than when her mind ran idle.

Rows of jars, showcasing her collections, hung from wooden shelves in the garage waiting to become part of a sculpture or picture. She’d helped her dad gather the jars, then drilled the lids into the thick wood. Together they’d twisted the containers into the underside of the pine planks manning the back wall. It was the last project they’d done together. He’d always called the garage his workshop, but Mac never saw him do anything but drink and smoke there.

She wanted some comfort, something good. A celebration? No one celebrated much of anything anymore, but she knew if Aedan Malone was still around he’d unearth alcohol from some hidden place and raise a glass to his baby girl. She swiped at her eyes. She wanted, no she needed, her mom. As usual her mother was busy. She knew she was acting like a child, but she didn’t think it was too much to ask to have her mom all to herself today.

Mac longed for the days before the Mythics came when her mother had complained about the dwindling numbers at the library—the patrons, the hours, the budget. Money meant nothing now and knowledge meant everything. No one called her mom Mrs. Malone or Kat or Kathleen anymore. Everyone called her The Librarian.

It was Kat who had reached back into folklore and pulled out solutions for their problems with the Mythics. Iron was key. It repelled the Mythics like insect spray. Under her mother’s instruction their town’s survivors had framed their coastal neighborhood in iron scraps, scavenged from every possible resource. As a result, they’d largely been left alone. In fact, no one had seen a centaur patrol or pixie swarm for months. It felt just as long since Mac had sat with her mom, just the two of them, and had a conversation.

“What should I do dad?” she yelled.

A seagull startled. She shook her head and mashed her knuckles into her temples. The iron didn’t protect the beach. Everyone stayed on the other side of the highway, or what used to be the highway. The humans that were left never came to the beach because they were convinced some monster was going to crawl out of the ocean and eat them. The thought wasn’t without merit, but Mac couldn’t give up the beach. It was still hers.

She knew what her father would say. In his thick brogue he’d tell her to get off her “arse” and practice her art, as he used to call it. Her “art” according to her father wasn’t the projects she made with beach debris, it was all the things she’d learned at the dojo.

Mac jumped to her feet and shook her head to clear it. The auburn strands in her hair glinted like sparks in rich sunlight. Those strands might possibly be the only physical trait she inherited from her mother, a freckled beauty of a woman. Everything on Mac’s lean, sinewy frame, from her pale white skin to her sea glass green eyes were compliments of Aedan Malone.

Knowing she needed to rid herself of some energy, she took off at a sprint so she could focus on her katas later. She loved practicing martial arts on the beach. Her father had signed her up for every class he could. She sampled everything from Judo to Capoeira. Aedan, himself, taught her boxing, but Mac soon learned a good right hook wasn’t a girl’s best defense. She held brownbelts in Japanese Karate and Brazilian Jiu Jitsu and was gaining proficiency in Arnis. Then the Mythics came and everything stopped. So she practiced. Constantly.

When she was little she became obsessed with female warriors, in particular the female samurai of Japan. They fought artistically, beautifully at a distance with their long, deadly weapons.

It took Mac a beat to realize why those double-ended swords popped into her mind during her run. Down the beach stood a man, watching her, a long sword at his side, its tip buried in the sand. Before she could think, she was a few short yards from him.

Chapter Three

Alfy paced the floor between Bee and the window, looking anxiously at the centaur still lying in the grass outside. She should probably kill him. She knew where she hit him was painful and an awful way to die for a human. But he’d helped Bee, a little voice inside her argued. She should help him. He’s one of them another voice said. Before the two opposing views could get in an argument, Bee stirred.

“Where’s Phrix?” Bee said.

1st 5 Pages March Workshop - Moss

Name: Michele McCole Moss
Genre: YA Fantasy
Title: The Mythics

Chapter One

Alfy wouldn’t have shot him if she’d known he was helping her sister. But, when she saw him crossing the field with her, his chestnut haunches gleaming in the late afternoon sun, Bee’s head lolled and her body was limp in his arms. She didn’t even give him a warning. She didn’t so much as show herself. Alfy hid inside the shadows of the cabin and sent one arrow through the window aimed at his heart.

She wished she was like the girls who made her want to learn archery in the first place. They didn’t cower, trying to remain hidden while taking down their enemies. But, none of those girls were real. In all the pages of all the books she’d read, none of those girls fought a centaur.

She missed, of course. The flint head and a decent portion of the shaft lodged in the soft place below his shoulder, to the left of his heart. She was still a terrible shot. He bent his head low over her sweet sister, unconscious in his arms. God, she hoped she was just unconscious. Before she could think it through, Alfy loosed another arrow in the same direction, hoping for his heart. It buried itself deep in his abdomen. Panic ripped through Alfy as she watched him sway. He couldn’t fall on top of Bee. He lifted her sister and curled around her, searching, before he collapsed.

They were lying in the grass, clouds of insects disrupted from their business among the stiff golden shoots. Alfy ran to Bee as fast as her short legs would carry her. Bee looked so tiny tangled up in the arms of the beautiful monster. He’d crashed down, falling backwards on his carved bow.

His breath gurgled out of him. Light brown curls haloed his honeyed face. His ridiculously long eyelashes fluttered. Alfy froze.

“Take her,” he said. “She’s hurt.” A spray of blood dotted her sister’s snowy hair as he spoke. His voice was a plucked bass string, low and musical.

Bee turned her head, yawning like a lazy cat and curled into the centaur’s chest, smearing him with his own blood. Alfy let out a long breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.

Carefully, Alfy pulled her sister from his arms, staring at the centaur. Monsters were ugly, vile things. He had no business being that pretty. The end of the world should be dark and disturbing, so why had they made everything so wretchedly beautiful? It was like burying someone you love on a perfect, sunny day. It was wrong.

Chapter Two

MacKenzie Malone dug her toes into the soft sand, looking out into the surf—lost. The beach was clean. Perfect. Ever since the Mythics had come, reclaiming the land, there was no trash. She’d always been disgusted by all the visitor debris, then she’d started making things out of it. Now she missed it. Cleaning the beach was meditative. Trash had been Mac’s treasure. All her pictures started with it, her brain working to sort things into color, shape, or material to make something new. She needed a distraction.

Without the search for bottle caps and chunks of wave-tumbled glass, cans and lost trinkets, her mind was unoccupied. Her mother always joked that there was never a more dangerous time to be around her daughter than when her mind ran idle.

She collected all manner of bits and baubles from the beach. Rows of jars, showcasing her collections, hung from wooden shelves in the garage. She’d helped her dad gather the jars, then drilled the lids into the thick wood. Together they’d twisted the containers into the underside of the pine planks manning the back wall. The topsides of the shelves held cans of oil, wrenches and dirty rags, set down and forgotten during some half-accomplished task of her dad’s. He’d called it his workshop, but Mac never saw him do anything but drink and smoke there.

Her dad died a year ago today, on her sixteenth birthday. She wished she could blame the Mythics, but it was before they arrived. It was just like him to die on a special day, not that anyone celebrated much of anything anymore. If he was still here, he’d unearth alcohol from somewhere and raise a glass to his baby girl.

She couldn’t get her dad out of her head. Morbidly, she wondered if he was trying to talk to her from beyond the grave, still trying to impose his will on this world from wherever he was.

Her mom, Kat, always said Aedan was too full of piss and vinegar to understand when he should quit while he was ahead. The first time Mac heard her say it, her jaw had hung loose in surprise. It wasn’t like her mom to use slang or cuss words. But her mother, a librarian, was quick to point out that Steinbeck used the phrase first. Her mom was funny that way. She would never swear on her own, but if she could find a literary reference to justify it, she dropped little bombs on them, catching them completely off guard.

Her mom was right. Her dad pushed everything too far—his body, his infrequent jobs, his family. That’s why they had to move west. When she was eight, he’d woke Mac in the middle of the night, telling her to pack a small bag because they were going on an adventure.

Driving out of their neighborhood in the dark, Aedan’s eyes met Mac’s in the rearview mirror.

“Well, my little spitfire, if you could go anywhere right now, where would it be?” he asked.

Rubbing the sleep from her eyes, Mac kept looking at the back of her mom’s head, her flame red hair escaping a hasty ponytail. Mac knew she was crying.

“Mom?” she said.

Aedan reached out and patted his wife’s knee, but she didn’t move.

“C’mon Kitty Kat,” he said.

She shook her head.

“What do ‘ya say Mac ’n cheese? Where to?” he asked, smiling broadly at her in the rearview.

Mac had wanted to make things better, smooth over whatever was happening between her mom and dad, so she’d said the first thing that came to her mind. It was a happy place.

“The beach.”

When she said the beach, she’d imagined the Jersey Shore, but her dad didn’t stop until they reached the opposite coast. It had taken them four days of driving, never stopping at a hotel, but seeing every weird roadside attraction they could find. They ate at greasy diners where her father’s Irish brogue charmed every waitress that took their order.

She grabbed great fistfuls of her hair and and shook her head.

“Idle mind,” she said aloud.

She relaxed her hands and twisted a lock of her long hair. There were auburn strands mixed in with her dark brown, almost black hair. Those strands might possibly be the only physical trait she inherited from her mother, a freckled beauty of a woman. Everything on Mac’s lean, sinewy frame, from her pale white skin to her sea glass green eyes were compliments of Aedan Malone.

Jumping to her feet, she shook her head to clear it. The long stretch of beach was completely deserted except for herself. The humans that were left never came to the beach now because they were convinced some monster was going to crawl out of the ocean and eat them. The thought wasn’t without merit, but Mac couldn’t give up the beach. It was still hers.

1st 5 Pages March Workshop - Rothschild

Name: Peggy Rothschild
Genre: Young Adult – Mystery/Crime
Title: Flame


October 1977
I wanted Denny Beech from the first moment I saw him. Tall and lean, wheat-colored hair curled over his shirt collar, while a spiral of smoke drifted from the side of his mouth. I envied the cigarette perched on his lower lip.

Not quite nine o’clock on a Saturday night, the patio thermostat read seventy-eight degrees. The Santa Ana winds, blowing since daybreak, had softened. A film of ash from the brush fire east of town coated the walkway and the air smelled of wood smoke. Andie and I paused to inspect our reflections in the sliding glass door. Kim Bellman’s parents traveled a lot and she hosted most the parties. We all wished the Bellmans would adopt us.

A quick crowd scan told me I knew everybody in the backyard, except for one. Most the group had grown up together. A few new people joined our bunch when we entered high school. But by junior year, our set didn’t welcome many new faces. But Denny’s face demanded welcome. Not a pretty boy, age had already burned away the puppy fat to show off high cheekbones and a strong jaw.

I pulled a cigarette from my quilted purse before nodding toward the newcomer. “Who’s that?”

Andie shrugged then looked at me. “Nice to know someone can still catch your eye.” She dug a lighter from her pocket.

I held back my waist-length hair and bent to the flame, then posed, grateful my period ended two days earlier, taking the bloating and zits along with it. “Is it me or is he drop-dead gorgeous?”

“He’s OK.”

“OK? Are you nuts? Let’s go talk to him.”

She lit her own cigarette. “What’s gotten into you?”

“I don’t know.” I centered the Ankh pendant between my breasts. “But maybe it’s time I tried something different.”

David Bowie’s ‘Stay’ began to play. Andie closed her eyes. “God, I love this song.”

I waited a verse then tugged the sleeve of her gauze top.

She shook her head in mock disgust. “The guy’s not going anywhere.”

“Neither’s the song.”

Andie smiled. “Like you’re really gonna do anything with him.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

She fisted her hands on her hips. “I’m supposed to believe you and Randall are really over? For good?”

“We are.” I understood her disbelief. Randall and I’d gone steady – off and on – since we met in ninth grade. For over two years, he’d been the center of my world. In our ‘on’ times, he made me laugh and lit a fire within me. Most ‘off’ times resulted from fights about sex – my unwillingness to go all the way. After last year’s Harvest Moon dance, everyone at school thought Randall and I finally sealed the deal. I hadn’t even told Andie that, once again, I’d shut Randall down. In spite of his lies to the contrary. Since our last breakup, I’d realized my feelings for Randall were more like a sickness than love.

I met Andie’s gaze and shook my head. “It’s over. That boy needs to grow up.”

“And if he does? You’ll take him back? Again?”

“Never gonna happen. He’s the original Peter Pan.”

“We’ll see.” Andie stared at the group of boys. “If you change your mind about Randall, let me know. I’ll be happy to nail the new guy.”

“Thought you said he was only OK-looking.”

“I was playing it cool. Something I’m starting to think you’re never gonna learn to do.” She frowned. “Jesus, Beth, you can’t tell when I’m being coy? We need to work on that.”

I laughed. “Yeah, that’s what we need to do. Get to know each other better.”
Andie grinned. “OK, but if you wind up running back to Randall, I call dibs on the new guy. Hand to God, that boy is smokin’.” She resumed walking across the Tiki torch-lighted yard. “If it wasn’t for the fact you need some post-break up fun – and you spotted him first – I’d take the guy behind the Bellmans’ barn tonight.”

Andie strode with a self-assurance I only pretended to own. Maybe because she’d actually slept with a few boys. I took a deep breath. By the time we reached him, we held the new guy’s attention, plus the two others standing with him. I nodded at Chris and Jason, grateful Randall wasn’t hanging out with them tonight.

“Hey,” Andie said.

The guys gave a chorus of heys. Chris said, “Get you a beer, Foss?”

I turned to him. “Thanks.”

Andie held up her hands and shot him a wide-eyed ‘what-the-hell’ look. “Hello,” she sing-songed. “I’ll have a beer, too.”

“Shit, Andie, I knew you’d want a beer.” Chris slouched off toward the ice-filled tub.

Jason signaled for me to give him a cigarette. I dug one out of my purse.

Andie smiled at the new boy. “I’m Andie Greeley. This is my friend Beth Foss.”

“Denny Beech.” He nodded first at Andie, then me.

No words came to mind. I looked to Andie for help. She read my panic and continued to carry the conversational ball. “You new around here?”

“I’m visiting. Staying with my aunt and uncle.”

“How long?”

Before Denny answered, Chris returned with beers for Andie, Jason and me. “So, what’d I miss? Anything earthshaking?”

“Nah.” Jason grabbed a can, “Andie’s grilling Denny. Getting all the dope.”

“Speaking of dope,” Chris said, “one of the guy’s is bringing some Maui Wowie later.”
“Excellent,” Andie said. “Now, let me get back to work. I believe we’d gotten as far as: How long will you be here? In spite of Chris’ interruption of our quiz show, there’s still plenty of time to win valuable prizes for the correct answers.” She winked at me.

The way she emphasized ‘valuable prizes’ set my cheeks aflame. I hoped Denny didn’t catch her drift. I swigged some beer then looked at him. He appeared amused and didn’t seem to realize Andie was getting ready to pimp me.

Denny shrugged. “It’s on a ‘we’ll-see-how-it-goes’ basis.”

I pegged him as a rebel, kicked out by his parents. Was his a minor rebellion or something major? Major rebellion was romantic, but minor rebellion remained more my speed.

Andie pointed at Denny’s companions. “How’d you hook up these jokers?”

Chris spoke up. “You and Foss writing a book or something?”

“Oh come on. When’s the last time somebody new came to one of Kim’s parties?” Andie turned back to Denny. “How’d you meet these bozos?”

Denny smiled. His face transformed from good-looking to movie star handsome. I snapped my mouth shut and tried not to look like I’d started to drool.

He flicked his cigarette butt into the Bellman’s rock garden. “I work with Chris at the Hen House.”

“We love that place,” Andie said. “Part of that’s ’cause we love leaving a mess for Chris. I guess we gotta start acting tidier if you’re bussing tables, too.” She smiled then gave a quick hair toss.

“I’m back in the kitchen. Mostly washing dishes, but Ed lets me run the griddle some.”

“I’ll be sure to order the pancakes next time. See how tasty your handiwork is.”

I widened my eyes at her. Andie’d from pimp to shark mode. Best friend or not, I needed to speak up. Soon. If I didn’t, Andie would charm him and Denny would think me simple or mute. “Um, how long you been in town?” I faced him, both barrels visible, the only way for sure I could best Andie.



Peggy Rothschild
Clementine's Shadow
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