Name: Christina Im
Genre: Young Adult Steampunk
Title: On the Midnight Streets
The envelope in my hand has corners sharp enough to cut me, and for a long moment, I trick myself into thinking it will if I hold it for too long. The clock on our wall ticks one, two, twenty-two times, calmly enough that I can let it time my inhales. My eyes wouldn’t trick me - the messenger who passed it to me through a chink in our doorframe was dressed in livery finer than anyone in these parts has seen in decades. But stranger still was his expression, so guardedly incredulous that the memory of it makes me afraid of the letter he’s brought me.
Strained light coming through the boardinghouse window just barely lets me notice the creamy sheen of the parchment and Mother’s name, printed primly on one side in a hand I don’t recognize. That is what catches me, the unfamiliarity of the writing. For years I’ve been taking Mother’s post in the mornings, but never this early, and never from anyone I haven’t known all my life. My heart shrinks as I stare at the address, undeniably ours, right down to the boardinghouse room. All that’s keeping my fingers from prying it open is bone-deep foreboding.
It’s a letter, Chantilly. The worst it can do is nick your fingers.
It’s far too smooth to be anything less than Upper City material, so thick that it sets me on edge. I turn it over to break the seal when I see it: the emblem of the king and crown, Clarabel’s dagger overrun by thistles. My breath grows stale in my mouth - the crown’s crest is a rare sight here in the Middle City. This knife, these flowers, belong on the other side of the looming stone wall that keeps us away from the wealthy.
My first thought is that plainly the world has gone mad, but as I open up the flap, the greeting that jumps out at me - Salutations to Miss Diane Rosewater - is too sure of itself. Doubt pierces my mind. Did I remember to hand in the rent to our landlady the week before last? Have I forgotten to pay our monthly tithes to the royal coffers? No, no - I do all that out of my own pocket, and I remember scarcely bypassing the paperwork. The king should have no quarrel with us, and a debtors’ warning wouldn’t bear his symbol.
The floor sags behind me with a creak, and I nearly spring out of my skin. Mother steps into the room, groggy.
“Tense, aren’t you?” she says, smiling. “I would say good morning, but you look as if you’ve been up a while.” Her eyes amble over to the letter, still clutched in my hand, and gradually become more alert.
“Oh.” I force my limbs to loosen and wave the paper in her direction. “The post came for you.” She sidles to me expectantly, and together we skim over a block of the letter.
In language too garbled even for a scholar, it declares that our “esteemed relative”, a duke of somewhere or other, is dead, and extends an invitation for a service in his memory. I don’t try to fight the grin that rises onto my face. This can’t be anything but a mistake.
When we arrive at the end of the passage, Mother lets out a soft, dry laugh, like rustling papers. “They’ve certainly gone to a fine bit of trouble,” she muses. “Is there any more?” I clear my throat to go over the rest of the page, and her brow furrows before smoothing itself out again. I pay more attention this time to each word.
As His Grace’s nearest surviving relations, you and any family members have inherited and lawfully acquired the duchy of Fellonsley, its corresponding Henlow House, all affiliated staff members and household appurtenances, and the full and uncorrupted contents of the duchy coffers, totaling to a monetary sum of approximately fifty million arors. Due to the utmost necessity of the presence of an estate head and peer whenever possible, a carriage is planned to arrive at this place at ten o’clock tomorrow morning in order to convey you, your family, and the sum of your possessions to your new domicile in the Upper City.
I don’t notice how badly I’m shaking until the letter lands on the floor. I glance down at my hand, fluttering like a leaf in a gale. All around me, splinters hold me down: half-finished mending, worn fabric and old promises, draped over our only table; the rush of air that leaves me as I collapse into a chair; Mother’s wide, wide eyes that I’m sure must mirror my own. Fifty million arors - a prince’s ransom, enough to buy all of the Lower City and then some. Certainly enough to provide for Mother, my sisters, myself for as long as we live.
Try as I might, I can’t begin to fathom the weight of an estate on Mother’s hands, or mine. Who would Chantilly Rosewater be without a rent to pay, without work to pay it? I ought to be glad, I know, of something to ease our stretched-tight expenses, but all I can find inside myself is a clammy feeling of loss. A servant to dress me? A house wide enough to swallow me up? No, no - I would only break, like a cog placed in the wrong part of an automaton. I’ve spoken to Upper City girls twice before, and even that’s enough for a lifetime.
After a moment, a finger of almost-sunlight creeps through the window. Sunlight? My mind drags itself into order.
“Oh, stars.” I groan, and Mother gasps as she realizes the time.
We flurry into motion, tossing a loaf of hard bread and a small mountain of odds and ends into my satchel without even a word to spare. I get dressed and straighten out my sleeves like clockwork, even as my mind asks why I’m bothering.
Mother shoos me out the door a little too quickly, and my mind won’t let me ask about the letter. “This,” she says with a condemning sigh, “is the latest you’ve ever been in your life.”
It’s a foolish thought, but she looks as if she knows something.
I nod, pull the door open with a rough yank to steady myself. Questions shuffle back and forth in my head, tumbling over one another to be the first out of my mouth, but instead I blurt, “Make sure you get Chamomile and Velvet up.” Mother blinks in understanding; in the mornings, my younger sisters are harder to move than mountains.
I half-run down the stairs of the boardinghouse, not bothering to soften my steps. Clouds are gathering outside, a formation that could be thunder in a few hours. Peralton’s clouds sweep together too suddenly to keep track of. Turning the doorknob and striding out is one thoughtless, mechanical gesture, and then there’s rain, rain, rain, clawing at me from all sides.
This early in the day, mist tends to make visibility poor, so the Middle City is gaslit. Thick sheets of rain pound the cobblestones, and the air breathes chill with fog. The streetlamps glow a dull orange above the people, and above those, the occasional airship drifts lazily across the sky, smearing black smoke onto a patchwork of clouds. Their balloons look almost ludicrous. I let my steps slow; no matter how late I am, it won’t matter tomorrow.
First Five Pages Writing Workshop: Jump Start Your Novel and Career
Monday, April 21, 2014
1st 5 Pages April Workshop - Litwin Rev 2
Name: Laurie Litwin
Genre: Middle Grade Contemporary
Title: Bee Stadium
Harrison Templeton has a big fat head. Thankfully I sit right behind him. When I slouch, Mrs. Cooper, my seventh-period Language Arts Teacher, can't see a single hair on my entirely proportionally sized head.
My right knee taps in time with each second - thirty minutes to go. I've been waiting for-freaking-ever for the first day of baseball practice. This year we might go all the way to the Little League World Series.
"Can anyone tell me from what point of view the Red Badge of Courage is written?" Mrs. Cooper asks, pacing in front of the white board wielding a dry erase marker like a bayonet.
Ugh. I'd rather eat moldy broccoli than read this book.
They should let us read something cool, like The Boy Who Saved Baseball or The Wild Pitch. Heck, I kind of even liked Holes. All this talk of themes and symbolism makes me want to poke my eye out with my number two pencil.
I duck out of her line of sight. She's going to call on someone to read out loud soon.
My eyes blur and I can smell the grass on the field as I wind up to pitch. "Strike!" the ump yells.
“Jake?” I snap my head forward as my heart hammers.
“What?” My voice comes out high, like a girl.
Next to me, Kyle Filbert snickers, his black hair flopping forward and covering one of his eyes like a pirate's eye patch. I shoot my arch-enemy a dirty look and ball my hand into a fist under my desk.
Sometimes I really want to punch the jerk in the face. He's not beating me out of MVP this year.
“I asked you to read the first paragraph of chapter three out loud to the class,” she says slowly, lifting her eyebrows at me. Or, should I say, eyebrow. She has one thick brown eyebrow that crawls across her forehead like a caterpillar.
She picks on me because I have a harder time reading aloud than the other kids. It’s not fair.
I sigh as loud as I can and tap my hand on my leg. Praying for time to speed up so I can get out of this nightmare.
"Henry ... uh .. himself ... I mean ... he ... wal ... k ... walked by ... him ... self into ... uh ... into the ... uh ... dark ... nessss ... darkness." The words are jumping around as I try to read them. I wipe my palms on my jeans.
I peer two inches to the right, around Harrison's watermelon head, at Mrs. Cooper. His hair is sticking straight out on one side, like he battled with the hair gel and lost.
"Continue, Jake."
I take a deep breath, fiddling with the baseball hat in my lap. I have to keep it hidden under my desk because Mrs. Cooper won't let me wear it in class. Last week she kept it for a whole day when I forgot to take it off before I walked into the classroom.
"He ... he ... down ... um ... I mean ... he lay down ... in ... uh ... in the ... in the grass ... sorry ... no ... and ... felt ... sorry ... for ... uh ... him ... self ... himself." I'm sweating so much I could fill a bucket.
"Thank you, Jake. Kyle, please start where Jake left off." She paces back and forth.
My shoulders slump forward and I drop my head. Kyle may be able to read better than me, but I can strike him out with three straight fastballs.
As Kyle reads, I turn my head and look out the window. I squint my eyes and peer at the diamond in the distance. My butt leaves the seat and I spend the next twenty minutes on the field. The ump yells "Batter up!" and I wind up letting pitch after pitch go, striking out three batters in a row. "You're out!" rings out as the bell signals the end of the day.
Another day of sixth grade in the books.
Over the bell, Mrs. cooper calls out, “Pick one of the major themes in The Red Badge of Courage and tell me how it relates to your life – One typed page by Monday. And the practice spelling bee is tomorrow.
Don’t forget to study the word list.”
I freeze in my seat.
Crap, I forgot!
I hate spelling. I hate spelling bees even more. Last year I got the easiest, girliest word ever: Tulip. Of course, I spelled it T-O-O-L-I-P. Everyone laughed. I wanted to hurl.
I can't put myself through that kind of humiliation again.
I pull my baseball hat free from my belt loop and shape the bill between my palms, shoving the spelling bee out of my mind as I race for the door.
Batting seventh ... Number 11 ...
"Jake!"
I stop so fast my sneaker squeaks on the floor.
When I turn, Mrs. Cooper's holding a sheet of paper in front of her. I shuffle my way over to her and take it. There's a red D glaring at me.
My stomach drops into the basement.
Mom's going to murder me and feed my insides to the seagulls.
"I understand today's the first day of baseball practice," she says, putting one hand on her hip and jutting her chin out to the side, toward the baseball field.
"Uh, yeah." I take a step backward toward the door. I wanna jet outta here so bad.
"You're very close to failing my class. If your grade falls any lower, you won't be able to play baseball."
My breath gets caught in my throat and I croak, "Huh?" I try to swallow, but it's like there's a huge wad of Bubble Yum bubble gum stuck there. "No way."
My face burns hotter and hotter the longer I stand here.
"The school has an agreement with the little league program. A failing grade means no baseball," she repeats, saying the words super slow, like I'm hard of hearing. I can hear her fine, I just don't like what she's saying.
"Is there anything I can do. Extra credit, or something." My voice rises.
As she pauses, the caterpillar above her eyes wiggles.
" If you place in the top three in the classroom spelling bee next week you'll advance to the school spelling bee. If you do that, I'll give you enough extra credit points to raise your grade one level." She stares at me so hard I'm surprised I don't combust.
"Is there anything else I can do?" Say yes. "I'll volunteer to read out loud every day for the rest of the school year." I pause.
"Anything but spelling. I get the letters mixed up in my brain and I freeze."
Her face softens and she puts a hand on my shoulder. "You can do it. I've seen your potential. Put some thought into today's assignment. You've excelled on the writing exercises. Otherwise, winning the spelling bee is your only option for extra credit."
I hang my head and stare at the ground.
"Okay." I nod. I'll figure out how to deal with this after practice.
I clobber no less than six kids in the rush to get to my locker and grab my gear bag.
"Dude, it's time!" I whip my head around as Ethan barrels toward me in the hallway, bat bag slung over his shoulder. As he turns, the bag swings around and he almost whacks Emily Hanson in the head.
Genre: Middle Grade Contemporary
Title: Bee Stadium
Harrison Templeton has a big fat head. Thankfully I sit right behind him. When I slouch, Mrs. Cooper, my seventh-period Language Arts Teacher, can't see a single hair on my entirely proportionally sized head.
My right knee taps in time with each second - thirty minutes to go. I've been waiting for-freaking-ever for the first day of baseball practice. This year we might go all the way to the Little League World Series.
"Can anyone tell me from what point of view the Red Badge of Courage is written?" Mrs. Cooper asks, pacing in front of the white board wielding a dry erase marker like a bayonet.
Ugh. I'd rather eat moldy broccoli than read this book.
They should let us read something cool, like The Boy Who Saved Baseball or The Wild Pitch. Heck, I kind of even liked Holes. All this talk of themes and symbolism makes me want to poke my eye out with my number two pencil.
I duck out of her line of sight. She's going to call on someone to read out loud soon.
My eyes blur and I can smell the grass on the field as I wind up to pitch. "Strike!" the ump yells.
“Jake?” I snap my head forward as my heart hammers.
“What?” My voice comes out high, like a girl.
Next to me, Kyle Filbert snickers, his black hair flopping forward and covering one of his eyes like a pirate's eye patch. I shoot my arch-enemy a dirty look and ball my hand into a fist under my desk.
Sometimes I really want to punch the jerk in the face. He's not beating me out of MVP this year.
“I asked you to read the first paragraph of chapter three out loud to the class,” she says slowly, lifting her eyebrows at me. Or, should I say, eyebrow. She has one thick brown eyebrow that crawls across her forehead like a caterpillar.
She picks on me because I have a harder time reading aloud than the other kids. It’s not fair.
I sigh as loud as I can and tap my hand on my leg. Praying for time to speed up so I can get out of this nightmare.
"Henry ... uh .. himself ... I mean ... he ... wal ... k ... walked by ... him ... self into ... uh ... into the ... uh ... dark ... nessss ... darkness." The words are jumping around as I try to read them. I wipe my palms on my jeans.
I peer two inches to the right, around Harrison's watermelon head, at Mrs. Cooper. His hair is sticking straight out on one side, like he battled with the hair gel and lost.
"Continue, Jake."
I take a deep breath, fiddling with the baseball hat in my lap. I have to keep it hidden under my desk because Mrs. Cooper won't let me wear it in class. Last week she kept it for a whole day when I forgot to take it off before I walked into the classroom.
"He ... he ... down ... um ... I mean ... he lay down ... in ... uh ... in the ... in the grass ... sorry ... no ... and ... felt ... sorry ... for ... uh ... him ... self ... himself." I'm sweating so much I could fill a bucket.
"Thank you, Jake. Kyle, please start where Jake left off." She paces back and forth.
My shoulders slump forward and I drop my head. Kyle may be able to read better than me, but I can strike him out with three straight fastballs.
As Kyle reads, I turn my head and look out the window. I squint my eyes and peer at the diamond in the distance. My butt leaves the seat and I spend the next twenty minutes on the field. The ump yells "Batter up!" and I wind up letting pitch after pitch go, striking out three batters in a row. "You're out!" rings out as the bell signals the end of the day.
Another day of sixth grade in the books.
Over the bell, Mrs. cooper calls out, “Pick one of the major themes in The Red Badge of Courage and tell me how it relates to your life – One typed page by Monday. And the practice spelling bee is tomorrow.
Don’t forget to study the word list.”
I freeze in my seat.
Crap, I forgot!
I hate spelling. I hate spelling bees even more. Last year I got the easiest, girliest word ever: Tulip. Of course, I spelled it T-O-O-L-I-P. Everyone laughed. I wanted to hurl.
I can't put myself through that kind of humiliation again.
I pull my baseball hat free from my belt loop and shape the bill between my palms, shoving the spelling bee out of my mind as I race for the door.
Batting seventh ... Number 11 ...
"Jake!"
I stop so fast my sneaker squeaks on the floor.
When I turn, Mrs. Cooper's holding a sheet of paper in front of her. I shuffle my way over to her and take it. There's a red D glaring at me.
My stomach drops into the basement.
Mom's going to murder me and feed my insides to the seagulls.
"I understand today's the first day of baseball practice," she says, putting one hand on her hip and jutting her chin out to the side, toward the baseball field.
"Uh, yeah." I take a step backward toward the door. I wanna jet outta here so bad.
"You're very close to failing my class. If your grade falls any lower, you won't be able to play baseball."
My breath gets caught in my throat and I croak, "Huh?" I try to swallow, but it's like there's a huge wad of Bubble Yum bubble gum stuck there. "No way."
My face burns hotter and hotter the longer I stand here.
"The school has an agreement with the little league program. A failing grade means no baseball," she repeats, saying the words super slow, like I'm hard of hearing. I can hear her fine, I just don't like what she's saying.
"Is there anything I can do. Extra credit, or something." My voice rises.
As she pauses, the caterpillar above her eyes wiggles.
" If you place in the top three in the classroom spelling bee next week you'll advance to the school spelling bee. If you do that, I'll give you enough extra credit points to raise your grade one level." She stares at me so hard I'm surprised I don't combust.
"Is there anything else I can do?" Say yes. "I'll volunteer to read out loud every day for the rest of the school year." I pause.
"Anything but spelling. I get the letters mixed up in my brain and I freeze."
Her face softens and she puts a hand on my shoulder. "You can do it. I've seen your potential. Put some thought into today's assignment. You've excelled on the writing exercises. Otherwise, winning the spelling bee is your only option for extra credit."
I hang my head and stare at the ground.
"Okay." I nod. I'll figure out how to deal with this after practice.
I clobber no less than six kids in the rush to get to my locker and grab my gear bag.
"Dude, it's time!" I whip my head around as Ethan barrels toward me in the hallway, bat bag slung over his shoulder. As he turns, the bag swings around and he almost whacks Emily Hanson in the head.
1st 5 Pages April Workshop - Mayberry Rev 2
Name: Marty Mayberry
Genre: New Adult Contemporary Romance
Title: 100 Kisses
My fear of flying wasn’t the only thing standing in the way of the goals I'd made for my summer in Rome. I met my first nemesis in a grim-faced TSA Agent who looked more like a troll than a man. When he stabbed a finger my way, I cringed.
Groaning, I followed him into the glass room by the x-ray machines. The three-inch heels I’d thought were cute when I’d put them on in Portland clacked on the floor tiles. Damn things had rubbed blisters already. “They just called my flight.” I fiddled with my backpack. “I didn’t mean to be late. My roommate got a flat tire on the drive down from Maine, and-”
“Bag,” he barked, gesturing to the table.
I scrambled to comply. I might be from the sticks, but I read the headlines online. You don’t irritate airport security and live to tell about it.
By the time I’d stuffed everything back into my carry-on, which wasn’t easy considering I don’t pack light, they’d called my flight a second time. Ditching my heels, I clutched them to my chest and raced barefoot to my gate. Let me just say, while I ran for exercise, I hadn’t considered my potential for hurdling until I leaped to avoid a toddler.
I skidded to a stop beside an Alitalia woman shutting the door to the Jetway. “No! Please.”
Her lips tightened as her eyes followed the sweat funneling down my face.
“I need to be on that flight,” I said. Otherwise, I’ll have to swim to Rome.
Heaving a sigh, she opened the door and spoke into the tiny microphone clipped to her shirt. “Hold on. One more.”
Fighting the urge to hug her, I flashed a bright smile and limped down the corridor.
My phone chimed. I’d have to turn it off the second I boarded, so I swiped into my email fast. A message from Dr. Giordano, my long-distance mentor:
The final details for Monte Testaccio are in place. The Project Managers expect you at the dig on Monday.
An eek slipped past my lips. I couldn’t restrain myself whenever I thought about the archaeological internship Uncle Peter had arranged for me. An entire summer piecing together amphora shards to reveal clues about an ancient civilization’s past. Monte wasn’t nearly as exciting as his dig at the Colosseum, and the stipend would barely pay my fall tuition, but I don’t balk when opportunity knocks.
Rather than wiggling my butt, I unearthed a scrap of dignity and typed a reply instead:
Thank you for all you’ve done for me. I’m looking forward to finally meeting you.
After my uncle introduced us via the internet, we emailed daily. Such a sweet old man. He took time from his hectic schedule to send notes about the project I’d participate in, support before a test, and insider tips that gave me a considerable edge over my University of Southern Maine classmates.
I crept into first class, intent on sneaking up on my twenty-one-year-old, identical twin cousins, Natasha and Catherine, aka, Nat and Cat. I hadn’t seen them since my high school graduation, three years ago. We’d grown up like sisters, but college pulled us apart. After my uncle and aunt divorced, they’d spent summers in Rome with their dad. I’d stay with them while I worked at the dig. Our plan to meet at the gate flopped. Thank you, Mr. TSA Troll.
Deepening my voice, I tapped Nat-or maybe it was Cat, because I never could tell them apart-on the shoulder. “Excuse me, Miss, I believe that’s my seat.”
She jumped to her feet and slapped her hands to her face. “Oh. My. God. Maddy? It IS you. You’re skinny!” We hugged, and she kissed my cheeks in bobbing European fashion before holding me at arm’s length. “You look absolutely gorgeous.”
“She always looks gorgeous.” My other cousin stood in the aisle, her green eyes sparkling. “How you been, hon?”
“Great, umm . . .” I bit my lip as my gaze flew back and forth between them, trying to find a clue as to who was who. Their black hair stood on end, adorned with fluorescent pink tips. The hair, along with their tall, slender shapes, gave their pointed features an elven appearance. Like our mothers, we inherited the same pale skin and black hair. Although I wore mine longer and hadn’t considered pink.
Thanks for my lack of height, Dad. Why couldn’t that come from Mom too?
The cousin I hugged pouted. “I’m Cat. Can’t you tell?”
I gestured to the jewel winking in her nose. “Keep that, and I’m set.”
“When we decided to get piercings, I made her go with the opposite side,” Nat said. “People should be able to tell us apart. Especially guys.” She glared at Cat. “Nothing’s worse than finding your sister hefted on the sideboard, her lips cemented to your boyfriend.”
“We’re talking Louigi here.” Cat drooped against her seat and fluttered her eyelashes. “I couldn’t help myself. Wait till you meet him. He is so freaking hot you’ll want to lock lips with him yourself.”
The last thing I could imagine was losing myself in a kiss. Don’t fool yourself, Madison. Who would kiss you? I flinched as my mind dragged me to the she’s-so-fat-she’s-unkissable slam someone wrote in my high school yearbook. Mortified, I’d rushed home and cried while I ate an entire package of Oreos.
Smoothing my hands over my now-narrow hips, I shoved the image away. I’d shed Fatty Maddy, just like I’d dropped one hundred pounds. Only twenty more left to go. And as for my unkissed status-
Nat hugged me. “You look amazing.” Awe gushed in her voice.
Their flattery sent elation through me. “I took up running.” And stopped binging.
“I need to start exercising.” Cat frowned as she pinched the muffin top smooshing above her designer jeans.
“You can run with me anytime,” I said. “I do forty . . . fifty minutes a day.”
“Please be seated, ladies.” A steward posed behind Nat, staring down his long nose at us.
I tumbled into the seat next to Cat and we buckled up.
“You’ll knock Raffaele completely speechless,” Nat said.
“Who?” My brow wrinkled. “Oh, you mean Dr. Giordano?”
She shared a blank look with Cat. “We just call him Raffaele.”
My eyes widened. “I could never be so forward with an esteemed colleague.”
Nat laughed. “Just how old do you think the good doctor is?”
I shrugged, my face overheating. So I admired an old guy. He reminded me of Indiana Jones, and I never could stay away from those movies. Or from crushing on a guy three times my age. “We never discussed it. From the formal way he spoke, and his extensive knowledge, I’d say . . . sixty-five?”
Nat nearly spit out her drink. “Close enough.” She coughed and smacked her chest. “But Raffaele’s not a doctor.”
“He’s your father’s partner,” I said.
“Is that what he told you?” she asked.
“No, I just assumed,” I raked my hair off my face and tried not to whine. “Our conversations weren’t set up like Match dot com. We talked about archaeology most of the time.” Maybe it was a retirement hobby for him, rather than his lifelong career.
“He’s Dad’s assistant. He doesn’t have a PhD, so you should call him Senor.” A sly look danced across Nat’s pretty features. She glanced at Cat, and their eyes did that crazy, silent twin-exchange-thing they’d perfected at five.
Genre: New Adult Contemporary Romance
Title: 100 Kisses
My fear of flying wasn’t the only thing standing in the way of the goals I'd made for my summer in Rome. I met my first nemesis in a grim-faced TSA Agent who looked more like a troll than a man. When he stabbed a finger my way, I cringed.
Groaning, I followed him into the glass room by the x-ray machines. The three-inch heels I’d thought were cute when I’d put them on in Portland clacked on the floor tiles. Damn things had rubbed blisters already. “They just called my flight.” I fiddled with my backpack. “I didn’t mean to be late. My roommate got a flat tire on the drive down from Maine, and-”
“Bag,” he barked, gesturing to the table.
I scrambled to comply. I might be from the sticks, but I read the headlines online. You don’t irritate airport security and live to tell about it.
By the time I’d stuffed everything back into my carry-on, which wasn’t easy considering I don’t pack light, they’d called my flight a second time. Ditching my heels, I clutched them to my chest and raced barefoot to my gate. Let me just say, while I ran for exercise, I hadn’t considered my potential for hurdling until I leaped to avoid a toddler.
I skidded to a stop beside an Alitalia woman shutting the door to the Jetway. “No! Please.”
Her lips tightened as her eyes followed the sweat funneling down my face.
“I need to be on that flight,” I said. Otherwise, I’ll have to swim to Rome.
Heaving a sigh, she opened the door and spoke into the tiny microphone clipped to her shirt. “Hold on. One more.”
Fighting the urge to hug her, I flashed a bright smile and limped down the corridor.
My phone chimed. I’d have to turn it off the second I boarded, so I swiped into my email fast. A message from Dr. Giordano, my long-distance mentor:
The final details for Monte Testaccio are in place. The Project Managers expect you at the dig on Monday.
An eek slipped past my lips. I couldn’t restrain myself whenever I thought about the archaeological internship Uncle Peter had arranged for me. An entire summer piecing together amphora shards to reveal clues about an ancient civilization’s past. Monte wasn’t nearly as exciting as his dig at the Colosseum, and the stipend would barely pay my fall tuition, but I don’t balk when opportunity knocks.
Rather than wiggling my butt, I unearthed a scrap of dignity and typed a reply instead:
Thank you for all you’ve done for me. I’m looking forward to finally meeting you.
After my uncle introduced us via the internet, we emailed daily. Such a sweet old man. He took time from his hectic schedule to send notes about the project I’d participate in, support before a test, and insider tips that gave me a considerable edge over my University of Southern Maine classmates.
I crept into first class, intent on sneaking up on my twenty-one-year-old, identical twin cousins, Natasha and Catherine, aka, Nat and Cat. I hadn’t seen them since my high school graduation, three years ago. We’d grown up like sisters, but college pulled us apart. After my uncle and aunt divorced, they’d spent summers in Rome with their dad. I’d stay with them while I worked at the dig. Our plan to meet at the gate flopped. Thank you, Mr. TSA Troll.
Deepening my voice, I tapped Nat-or maybe it was Cat, because I never could tell them apart-on the shoulder. “Excuse me, Miss, I believe that’s my seat.”
She jumped to her feet and slapped her hands to her face. “Oh. My. God. Maddy? It IS you. You’re skinny!” We hugged, and she kissed my cheeks in bobbing European fashion before holding me at arm’s length. “You look absolutely gorgeous.”
“She always looks gorgeous.” My other cousin stood in the aisle, her green eyes sparkling. “How you been, hon?”
“Great, umm . . .” I bit my lip as my gaze flew back and forth between them, trying to find a clue as to who was who. Their black hair stood on end, adorned with fluorescent pink tips. The hair, along with their tall, slender shapes, gave their pointed features an elven appearance. Like our mothers, we inherited the same pale skin and black hair. Although I wore mine longer and hadn’t considered pink.
Thanks for my lack of height, Dad. Why couldn’t that come from Mom too?
The cousin I hugged pouted. “I’m Cat. Can’t you tell?”
I gestured to the jewel winking in her nose. “Keep that, and I’m set.”
“When we decided to get piercings, I made her go with the opposite side,” Nat said. “People should be able to tell us apart. Especially guys.” She glared at Cat. “Nothing’s worse than finding your sister hefted on the sideboard, her lips cemented to your boyfriend.”
“We’re talking Louigi here.” Cat drooped against her seat and fluttered her eyelashes. “I couldn’t help myself. Wait till you meet him. He is so freaking hot you’ll want to lock lips with him yourself.”
The last thing I could imagine was losing myself in a kiss. Don’t fool yourself, Madison. Who would kiss you? I flinched as my mind dragged me to the she’s-so-fat-she’s-unkissable slam someone wrote in my high school yearbook. Mortified, I’d rushed home and cried while I ate an entire package of Oreos.
Smoothing my hands over my now-narrow hips, I shoved the image away. I’d shed Fatty Maddy, just like I’d dropped one hundred pounds. Only twenty more left to go. And as for my unkissed status-
Nat hugged me. “You look amazing.” Awe gushed in her voice.
Their flattery sent elation through me. “I took up running.” And stopped binging.
“I need to start exercising.” Cat frowned as she pinched the muffin top smooshing above her designer jeans.
“You can run with me anytime,” I said. “I do forty . . . fifty minutes a day.”
“Please be seated, ladies.” A steward posed behind Nat, staring down his long nose at us.
I tumbled into the seat next to Cat and we buckled up.
“You’ll knock Raffaele completely speechless,” Nat said.
“Who?” My brow wrinkled. “Oh, you mean Dr. Giordano?”
She shared a blank look with Cat. “We just call him Raffaele.”
My eyes widened. “I could never be so forward with an esteemed colleague.”
Nat laughed. “Just how old do you think the good doctor is?”
I shrugged, my face overheating. So I admired an old guy. He reminded me of Indiana Jones, and I never could stay away from those movies. Or from crushing on a guy three times my age. “We never discussed it. From the formal way he spoke, and his extensive knowledge, I’d say . . . sixty-five?”
Nat nearly spit out her drink. “Close enough.” She coughed and smacked her chest. “But Raffaele’s not a doctor.”
“He’s your father’s partner,” I said.
“Is that what he told you?” she asked.
“No, I just assumed,” I raked my hair off my face and tried not to whine. “Our conversations weren’t set up like Match dot com. We talked about archaeology most of the time.” Maybe it was a retirement hobby for him, rather than his lifelong career.
“He’s Dad’s assistant. He doesn’t have a PhD, so you should call him Senor.” A sly look danced across Nat’s pretty features. She glanced at Cat, and their eyes did that crazy, silent twin-exchange-thing they’d perfected at five.
1st 5 Pages April Workshop - Conner Rev 2
Name: Candice Marley Conner
Genre: Young Adult Magical Realism/ Fairytale Retelling
Title: THE WILDNESS IN MELLIE FEYE
I could be cursed as worse things. If I was a scallop, I’d have up to a hundred beautiful eyes and I could lie all day on the warm bay floor watching light chase dark. But then I’d have to look out for people like me. Hungry and cursed, with a half-full scallop bag. Trying to enjoy the warmth of the water and the faint balmy breeze except for the guy watching me.
Thigh-deep in Sand Blast Bay, the strong Florida sunlight bounces off the water. I keep my back to him, irritation prickling my skin. The hip-hop reverberating off the bay means he’s not here to fish. Or if he is, he has no clue. A party boat.
I touch the oyster knife strapped to my leg. It’s sharp enough to do more than just pry open shells.
The sapphire of scallop eyes flash in the grassy, brackish water. I go underwater, blinking to clear the salt and sun from my eyes as I push the bay grass aside. The scallop clicks its two shells together, an underwater butterfly fluttering deeper into the mucky bay floor. I grab it. Standing up, I’m surprised when I shiver.
The weather has completely changed. Bruised-looking clouds roll in, hiding the sun. It hasn’t rained in months, but I don’t think these are normal rain clouds. The air smells of ozone. The breeze is more substantial, more menacing. I glare at the sky as I wring water out of my Fish Shack tee shirt. [i]Mama[i].
The boat’s stereo finally cuts off and the engine cranks up. I jut my jaw forward as it heads in my direction. The nearest shore is two hundred yards away. I wade toward the gnarled, twisted pines.
The boat slows as it approaches. I rest my hand above the knife hilt.
“Need any help?” The guy leans against the metal rail of the boat. He has golden skin stretched taunt over muscular shoulders, pecs, abs, and lower… [i]oh, sweetcrabmeat![i]
I whip my head around to once again face the shore before giving him a clipped response: “No, thanks.”
“Crazy weather, huh?”
My bagged scallops clack.
“You’re not going to make it in time. Want us to give you a ride?”
“I’ll take my chances.”
“Hey!”
I pick up my pace but nearly jump out of my skin when there’s a loud splash behind me. Whirling around, I grab the oyster knife. He jumped off his boat and is heading toward me but stops when he sees it.
He holds up his hands, palms facing me. “There’s something behind you!”
I smirk and show him my dive bag. “This?”
“You’re going to gut me when I’m jumping in to rescue you?” He smiles sheepishly. “From a bag of scallops?”
The grin makes my stomach flutter like fish nibbling my toes. Could he be the one to end my curse so I can go home? My hand tightens on the knife grip as a wave of homesickness laps at my heart. “Why don’t you hop back on your boat and scare the fish away someplace else?”
He steps back. A teeny, tiny part of me regrets being so harsh but I need to get away from him. I don’t know what Mama has planned for me with the massive thunderclouds tumbling up on one another. Her magick always has a price. If I’m wrong, I may not be the only one paying it. Turning from him, I’m suddenly blinded by an odd yellowish-green flash.
Then everything is dark.
Air whipping past revives me. The sky is darker, but a normal, sun-about-to-set dusk rather than an unnatural stormy kind of darkness. I’m in an unfamiliar boat with an unfamiliar beach towel covering my still damp t-shirt and shorts. The ties of my swim suit top dig uncomfortably into my spine. Rising to rest on my elbows makes my head spin.
“Hey, Ray? She’s up,” an unfamiliar masculine voice says.
Footsteps approach the padded bench I’m lying on. An electric current zings through the air as the golden-skinned guy leans over me.
“I can’t believe that didn’t kill you,” he says. “Or me.”
I peek, one eye at a time, unsure of what just happened. Close up, his facial features are clearer. Gold lashes frame bright green eyes with light freckling on his nose. His lips are salt puckered and as they curve into a grin, I realize that he’s watching me stare in approval. I yank the towel over my pounding head. “Can you just throw me overboard?”
“You were struck by lightning. Weird lightning. And you pulled a knife on me, so no. I’m not getting rid of you until you at least tell me your name.”
“Mellie.” Crabs, Mama hit me with lightning? What did I do wrong this time? I sniff; nothing smells burnt. Fingers and toes look normal though I wiggle them to make sure.
“Hi Mellie of the Bay, I accept your apology. I’m Raymond. And now we— that’s my buddy, Paul, captaining the wheel— are taking you to get checked out.”
I pull the towel down to glare at him. “I never apologized.”
“I’m sure you meant to.”
“I don’t need to get checked out.” I try sitting up again. I can’t go to a hospital because I don’t know how Mama’s curse has changed me. Fighting against waves of nausea and apprehension, I look around the boat for my water shoes and scallops. “I… I don’t have insurance. Can you take me back? Or to Jake’s Fish Shack? You know where that is?”
He stares as if he’s trying to see into my brain. When he finally nods, I sigh in relief. “You’re not a tourist?”
I shake my head, then immediately regret it.
“I figured you were with the um, green hair. Haven’t seen you around.”
I brush my wet, yes, green hair into a ponytail, knotting it. I dyed it green after Mama kicked me out of the house. Banished me from my sisters. “I’m from the Cape.”
“Even Cape kids go to Bayview High.”
“Home-schooled. Give me back my knife.”
“It shot out of your hand when—” He slides it back into my leg-sheath. Where his hand touches my skin jolts as if that yellowish-green lightning is trapped between us now. I jerk back in surprise. He does too, cutting off his words.
The space between us grows heavy, his eyes going from his outstretched hand back to me. “That didn’t happen when Paul and I pulled you into the boat.” Raising his head, he shouts over the wind. “Hey Paul, head back to the south shore. We’re going to Jake’s.”
“Topless oysters? I’m in!” his friend yells back as he turns the boat in a wide arc.
“You work there?” Raymond addresses me.
I nod carefully, wondering how to explain the shock.
“I’ve never seen you. And I’m sure I would remember you.”
I tuck whipping green strands back into the knot, avoiding his eyes. “I’m usually out on the water.”
“Sounds like I know everything about you now.”
“Yup, that’s it.” I watch the horizon, hoping he’ll take the hint and not pry any deeper. He finally walks away, toward the wheel.
Raymond’ and Paul’s conversation flies back at me but the wind and the motor are so noisy I can’t make anything out. Probably talking about how weird it was that I got hit by lightning but am obviously fine. And that I shocked him.
Genre: Young Adult Magical Realism/ Fairytale Retelling
Title: THE WILDNESS IN MELLIE FEYE
I could be cursed as worse things. If I was a scallop, I’d have up to a hundred beautiful eyes and I could lie all day on the warm bay floor watching light chase dark. But then I’d have to look out for people like me. Hungry and cursed, with a half-full scallop bag. Trying to enjoy the warmth of the water and the faint balmy breeze except for the guy watching me.
Thigh-deep in Sand Blast Bay, the strong Florida sunlight bounces off the water. I keep my back to him, irritation prickling my skin. The hip-hop reverberating off the bay means he’s not here to fish. Or if he is, he has no clue. A party boat.
I touch the oyster knife strapped to my leg. It’s sharp enough to do more than just pry open shells.
The sapphire of scallop eyes flash in the grassy, brackish water. I go underwater, blinking to clear the salt and sun from my eyes as I push the bay grass aside. The scallop clicks its two shells together, an underwater butterfly fluttering deeper into the mucky bay floor. I grab it. Standing up, I’m surprised when I shiver.
The weather has completely changed. Bruised-looking clouds roll in, hiding the sun. It hasn’t rained in months, but I don’t think these are normal rain clouds. The air smells of ozone. The breeze is more substantial, more menacing. I glare at the sky as I wring water out of my Fish Shack tee shirt. [i]Mama[i].
The boat’s stereo finally cuts off and the engine cranks up. I jut my jaw forward as it heads in my direction. The nearest shore is two hundred yards away. I wade toward the gnarled, twisted pines.
The boat slows as it approaches. I rest my hand above the knife hilt.
“Need any help?” The guy leans against the metal rail of the boat. He has golden skin stretched taunt over muscular shoulders, pecs, abs, and lower… [i]oh, sweetcrabmeat![i]
I whip my head around to once again face the shore before giving him a clipped response: “No, thanks.”
“Crazy weather, huh?”
My bagged scallops clack.
“You’re not going to make it in time. Want us to give you a ride?”
“I’ll take my chances.”
“Hey!”
I pick up my pace but nearly jump out of my skin when there’s a loud splash behind me. Whirling around, I grab the oyster knife. He jumped off his boat and is heading toward me but stops when he sees it.
He holds up his hands, palms facing me. “There’s something behind you!”
I smirk and show him my dive bag. “This?”
“You’re going to gut me when I’m jumping in to rescue you?” He smiles sheepishly. “From a bag of scallops?”
The grin makes my stomach flutter like fish nibbling my toes. Could he be the one to end my curse so I can go home? My hand tightens on the knife grip as a wave of homesickness laps at my heart. “Why don’t you hop back on your boat and scare the fish away someplace else?”
He steps back. A teeny, tiny part of me regrets being so harsh but I need to get away from him. I don’t know what Mama has planned for me with the massive thunderclouds tumbling up on one another. Her magick always has a price. If I’m wrong, I may not be the only one paying it. Turning from him, I’m suddenly blinded by an odd yellowish-green flash.
Then everything is dark.
Air whipping past revives me. The sky is darker, but a normal, sun-about-to-set dusk rather than an unnatural stormy kind of darkness. I’m in an unfamiliar boat with an unfamiliar beach towel covering my still damp t-shirt and shorts. The ties of my swim suit top dig uncomfortably into my spine. Rising to rest on my elbows makes my head spin.
“Hey, Ray? She’s up,” an unfamiliar masculine voice says.
Footsteps approach the padded bench I’m lying on. An electric current zings through the air as the golden-skinned guy leans over me.
“I can’t believe that didn’t kill you,” he says. “Or me.”
I peek, one eye at a time, unsure of what just happened. Close up, his facial features are clearer. Gold lashes frame bright green eyes with light freckling on his nose. His lips are salt puckered and as they curve into a grin, I realize that he’s watching me stare in approval. I yank the towel over my pounding head. “Can you just throw me overboard?”
“You were struck by lightning. Weird lightning. And you pulled a knife on me, so no. I’m not getting rid of you until you at least tell me your name.”
“Mellie.” Crabs, Mama hit me with lightning? What did I do wrong this time? I sniff; nothing smells burnt. Fingers and toes look normal though I wiggle them to make sure.
“Hi Mellie of the Bay, I accept your apology. I’m Raymond. And now we— that’s my buddy, Paul, captaining the wheel— are taking you to get checked out.”
I pull the towel down to glare at him. “I never apologized.”
“I’m sure you meant to.”
“I don’t need to get checked out.” I try sitting up again. I can’t go to a hospital because I don’t know how Mama’s curse has changed me. Fighting against waves of nausea and apprehension, I look around the boat for my water shoes and scallops. “I… I don’t have insurance. Can you take me back? Or to Jake’s Fish Shack? You know where that is?”
He stares as if he’s trying to see into my brain. When he finally nods, I sigh in relief. “You’re not a tourist?”
I shake my head, then immediately regret it.
“I figured you were with the um, green hair. Haven’t seen you around.”
I brush my wet, yes, green hair into a ponytail, knotting it. I dyed it green after Mama kicked me out of the house. Banished me from my sisters. “I’m from the Cape.”
“Even Cape kids go to Bayview High.”
“Home-schooled. Give me back my knife.”
“It shot out of your hand when—” He slides it back into my leg-sheath. Where his hand touches my skin jolts as if that yellowish-green lightning is trapped between us now. I jerk back in surprise. He does too, cutting off his words.
The space between us grows heavy, his eyes going from his outstretched hand back to me. “That didn’t happen when Paul and I pulled you into the boat.” Raising his head, he shouts over the wind. “Hey Paul, head back to the south shore. We’re going to Jake’s.”
“Topless oysters? I’m in!” his friend yells back as he turns the boat in a wide arc.
“You work there?” Raymond addresses me.
I nod carefully, wondering how to explain the shock.
“I’ve never seen you. And I’m sure I would remember you.”
I tuck whipping green strands back into the knot, avoiding his eyes. “I’m usually out on the water.”
“Sounds like I know everything about you now.”
“Yup, that’s it.” I watch the horizon, hoping he’ll take the hint and not pry any deeper. He finally walks away, toward the wheel.
Raymond’ and Paul’s conversation flies back at me but the wind and the motor are so noisy I can’t make anything out. Probably talking about how weird it was that I got hit by lightning but am obviously fine. And that I shocked him.
1st 5 Pages April Workshop - Chiang Rev 2
Name: Sylvia Chiang
Genre: Middle Grade Contemporary
Title: Cross Ups
Chapter One
Jaden hammered the buttons on his controller. “Holy crap, this guy is fast! C’mon Kaigo…”
Kaigo was Jaden’s main when he played Cross Ups IV. He was the dragon-cross so he had the most awesome projectile of all the characters: instead of throwing fireballs, he breathed them.
Of course, it was only cool when the fireballs actually hit their target, which they weren’t doing in this match.
Jaden whiffed another combo when his opponent, Blaze, jumped out of range again.
Beside Jaden, his friends Hugh and Devesh perched at the very edge of the couch.
“Aw, dude, you almost had him,” Hugh said.
“Not really.” Devesh chuckled, then added, “No offence, Jaden. But this Knight Rage guy is good.”
The three boys were in Jaden’s living room. Like most of their gaming sessions they had started out playing each other and ended up watching Jaden battle random people online. No one had beaten Jaden in four months. But then he had never played Knight Rage before.
“Who is this guy, anyways?” Devesh asked.
“I see him online all the time,” Hugh said.
Devesh turned to Hugh. “Oh yeah? You ever play him?”
“Once…kinda. I left the match before it ended.”
“You mean you wussed out.”
“No…”
“Would you guys shut up? I’m trying to concentrate here.”
WHAM! The screen flashed a burst of gold and Blaze transformed into a phoenix, flapping huge golden wings that sent shock waves into Kaigo.
“Holy crap! How’d he hit me with that atomizer combo? I was blocking!”
As soon as he was out of hitstun, Jaden played Kaigo’s dragon fire special.
“What the?” Jaden dropped the combo when Blaze disappeared briefly and reappeared attacking behind Kaigo.
“How’d he do that cross up? Can Blaze teleport?”
Kaigo breathed a fireball in his opponent’s face. Blaze jumped out of range and threw another atomizer.
“Aaahhh! I can’t get any moves in.”
Jaden pushed the back button to block the next string of atomizers, but Kaigo took the punishment from the phoenix wings anyways.
“Why isn’t my block working?”
“Your health meter’s critical. You’re going to die from chip damage at this rate.”
“Thanks for your support, Devesh.”
“But hey, your super meter’s full,” Hugh cheered.
“Yeah, go for it. But you’d better do some serious damage or it’s over.”
Jaden worked his controller, trying for Kaigo’s biggest super, Dragon Wind. “Come on…”
Panic made him do something he hadn’t done in ages – a total button mash.
Miraculously, Kaigo transformed into his dragon side and a grey cloud of smoke swirled like a tornado across the screen through his opponent. Jaden watched in shock as Blaze crumpled and his health meter dove. Now both opponents were one hit from defeat.
Jaden immediately played his bread and butter combo: two crouching light punches back to back, followed by dragon breath.
K.O.
“Whaaaaaaat!?!” Behind Jaden, his friends screamed and jumped from the leather couch.
Devesh pointed to the TV on the wall. “No way! You did not just do that!”
Hugh sprawled his hefty form onto the carpet at Jaden’s feet, bowing and chanting, “You are the master.”
Jaden remained frozen on the couch, mouth open, eyebrows raised. His straight black hair fell over his left eye. “Am I dreaming?” he asked softly, letting the controller drop to the floor. “No, seriously, am I asleep? Someone hit me now.”
Devesh and Hugh piled on top of their friend, pummelling him with good-natured jabs.
“I’ve never seen that super,” Hugh said, settling his glasses back in place.
“That’s because I’ve only ever hit it one time. The timing is crazy hard.”
Devesh helped Jaden up off the carpet. “We’ve got to start streaming your battles. That was Godlike!” His phone binged and he pulled it out of his pocket. “I gotta go. I was supposed to meet my dad 10 minutes ago. He just texted me from the car in all caps.” He grabbed his bag and sweater and walked backwards out of the living room.
“Hold up. I gotta go too, dude. Think your dad will give me a ride?” Hugh grabbed his things and ran after Devesh, breathing hard by the time he got to the end of the hall.
“You live on the other side of town. Why you always asking me for a ride? Train your parents better.” Their voices trailed off until the door slammed shut behind them.
Jaden sat staring in disbelief at the TV, his arm muscles twitching as if he had physically done battle. Kaigo’s muscles rippled through his black kung-fu uniform as he celebrated with fist pumps. His win quote at the bottom of the screen read, “You need more confidence to beat me.”
It was 6:27. Jaden was cutting it close still having the game on. His thumb was descending on the power button when a message popped up on the screen.
G00D GAM3 JSTAR
Players didn’t usually message after a fight, unless they were friends. Jaden hesitated then wrote back: THNX
Within seconds another message: CAN U D0 1T AGA1N?
Could he? He had no idea how he’d pulled off that final move. But there was no way he was going to admit that. He typed: ANY TIME
BATTL3 @ T0P T13RS 1N 2 W33KS?
Jaden hesitated, his thumbs rapidly tapping the controller. A real gaming tournament? He often watched footage of his favourite gamer, Yuudai Sato, playing at big events like the EVO Championship Series, but he’d never thought about actually competing. It wasn’t an option.
He wrote back: NO THNX
Y N0T? W3’LL WA1V3 UR F33.
Jaden’s curiosity battled with the ticking clock. 6:31. He heard car doors slamming. Was that his parents? Quickly he typed: WHO RU?
The answer seemed to take forever. When it finally came, it raised more questions than answers. JUST R3G1ST3R - SAY KN1GHT RAG3 S3NT U.
A key turned in the lock. Jaden went into his shut down routine, quickly powering off the TV and game console and sliding the controller under the cushion next to him. He flipped open his math book and tried to act bored, hoping his parents wouldn’t notice his shaking hands.
Knight Rage’s question pulsed in his mind.
Why not?
Chapter Two
Mr. Efram wrote on the blackboard at the start of math class: The Problem of the Day.
“Yeah,” Jaden whispered to Devesh and Hugh, “You have two parents who refuse to let you play any violent games, and one invitation to a way cool video game tournament. What do you do?”
The three boys formed a group as they had done daily since meeting each other in math class on their first day at Layton Senior Public School.
“You have to go,” Devesh whispered back. “You can’t back out of a challenge. You think Yuudai Sato would back out of a challenge? If you want to be the best, you have to show everyone you can bring it.”
“Yeah, maybe if I build a time machine and skip ahead eight months to my thirteenth birthday.” Jaden dropped his head to his desk in despair. “I looked up the tournament last night. Since Cross Ups IV is 13A, I’d need my parents to sign a consent form. That’s not going to happen.”
Mr. Efram finished writing on the board, ran his hand over his bald spot, and turned to the class. Like every day, he pointed with his thumb to the poster of the Justice League on the wall showing the problem solving steps.
Genre: Middle Grade Contemporary
Title: Cross Ups
Chapter One
Jaden hammered the buttons on his controller. “Holy crap, this guy is fast! C’mon Kaigo…”
Kaigo was Jaden’s main when he played Cross Ups IV. He was the dragon-cross so he had the most awesome projectile of all the characters: instead of throwing fireballs, he breathed them.
Of course, it was only cool when the fireballs actually hit their target, which they weren’t doing in this match.
Jaden whiffed another combo when his opponent, Blaze, jumped out of range again.
Beside Jaden, his friends Hugh and Devesh perched at the very edge of the couch.
“Aw, dude, you almost had him,” Hugh said.
“Not really.” Devesh chuckled, then added, “No offence, Jaden. But this Knight Rage guy is good.”
The three boys were in Jaden’s living room. Like most of their gaming sessions they had started out playing each other and ended up watching Jaden battle random people online. No one had beaten Jaden in four months. But then he had never played Knight Rage before.
“Who is this guy, anyways?” Devesh asked.
“I see him online all the time,” Hugh said.
Devesh turned to Hugh. “Oh yeah? You ever play him?”
“Once…kinda. I left the match before it ended.”
“You mean you wussed out.”
“No…”
“Would you guys shut up? I’m trying to concentrate here.”
WHAM! The screen flashed a burst of gold and Blaze transformed into a phoenix, flapping huge golden wings that sent shock waves into Kaigo.
“Holy crap! How’d he hit me with that atomizer combo? I was blocking!”
As soon as he was out of hitstun, Jaden played Kaigo’s dragon fire special.
“What the?” Jaden dropped the combo when Blaze disappeared briefly and reappeared attacking behind Kaigo.
“How’d he do that cross up? Can Blaze teleport?”
Kaigo breathed a fireball in his opponent’s face. Blaze jumped out of range and threw another atomizer.
“Aaahhh! I can’t get any moves in.”
Jaden pushed the back button to block the next string of atomizers, but Kaigo took the punishment from the phoenix wings anyways.
“Why isn’t my block working?”
“Your health meter’s critical. You’re going to die from chip damage at this rate.”
“Thanks for your support, Devesh.”
“But hey, your super meter’s full,” Hugh cheered.
“Yeah, go for it. But you’d better do some serious damage or it’s over.”
Jaden worked his controller, trying for Kaigo’s biggest super, Dragon Wind. “Come on…”
Panic made him do something he hadn’t done in ages – a total button mash.
Miraculously, Kaigo transformed into his dragon side and a grey cloud of smoke swirled like a tornado across the screen through his opponent. Jaden watched in shock as Blaze crumpled and his health meter dove. Now both opponents were one hit from defeat.
Jaden immediately played his bread and butter combo: two crouching light punches back to back, followed by dragon breath.
K.O.
“Whaaaaaaat!?!” Behind Jaden, his friends screamed and jumped from the leather couch.
Devesh pointed to the TV on the wall. “No way! You did not just do that!”
Hugh sprawled his hefty form onto the carpet at Jaden’s feet, bowing and chanting, “You are the master.”
Jaden remained frozen on the couch, mouth open, eyebrows raised. His straight black hair fell over his left eye. “Am I dreaming?” he asked softly, letting the controller drop to the floor. “No, seriously, am I asleep? Someone hit me now.”
Devesh and Hugh piled on top of their friend, pummelling him with good-natured jabs.
“I’ve never seen that super,” Hugh said, settling his glasses back in place.
“That’s because I’ve only ever hit it one time. The timing is crazy hard.”
Devesh helped Jaden up off the carpet. “We’ve got to start streaming your battles. That was Godlike!” His phone binged and he pulled it out of his pocket. “I gotta go. I was supposed to meet my dad 10 minutes ago. He just texted me from the car in all caps.” He grabbed his bag and sweater and walked backwards out of the living room.
“Hold up. I gotta go too, dude. Think your dad will give me a ride?” Hugh grabbed his things and ran after Devesh, breathing hard by the time he got to the end of the hall.
“You live on the other side of town. Why you always asking me for a ride? Train your parents better.” Their voices trailed off until the door slammed shut behind them.
Jaden sat staring in disbelief at the TV, his arm muscles twitching as if he had physically done battle. Kaigo’s muscles rippled through his black kung-fu uniform as he celebrated with fist pumps. His win quote at the bottom of the screen read, “You need more confidence to beat me.”
It was 6:27. Jaden was cutting it close still having the game on. His thumb was descending on the power button when a message popped up on the screen.
G00D GAM3 JSTAR
Players didn’t usually message after a fight, unless they were friends. Jaden hesitated then wrote back: THNX
Within seconds another message: CAN U D0 1T AGA1N?
Could he? He had no idea how he’d pulled off that final move. But there was no way he was going to admit that. He typed: ANY TIME
BATTL3 @ T0P T13RS 1N 2 W33KS?
Jaden hesitated, his thumbs rapidly tapping the controller. A real gaming tournament? He often watched footage of his favourite gamer, Yuudai Sato, playing at big events like the EVO Championship Series, but he’d never thought about actually competing. It wasn’t an option.
He wrote back: NO THNX
Y N0T? W3’LL WA1V3 UR F33.
Jaden’s curiosity battled with the ticking clock. 6:31. He heard car doors slamming. Was that his parents? Quickly he typed: WHO RU?
The answer seemed to take forever. When it finally came, it raised more questions than answers. JUST R3G1ST3R - SAY KN1GHT RAG3 S3NT U.
A key turned in the lock. Jaden went into his shut down routine, quickly powering off the TV and game console and sliding the controller under the cushion next to him. He flipped open his math book and tried to act bored, hoping his parents wouldn’t notice his shaking hands.
Knight Rage’s question pulsed in his mind.
Why not?
Chapter Two
Mr. Efram wrote on the blackboard at the start of math class: The Problem of the Day.
“Yeah,” Jaden whispered to Devesh and Hugh, “You have two parents who refuse to let you play any violent games, and one invitation to a way cool video game tournament. What do you do?”
The three boys formed a group as they had done daily since meeting each other in math class on their first day at Layton Senior Public School.
“You have to go,” Devesh whispered back. “You can’t back out of a challenge. You think Yuudai Sato would back out of a challenge? If you want to be the best, you have to show everyone you can bring it.”
“Yeah, maybe if I build a time machine and skip ahead eight months to my thirteenth birthday.” Jaden dropped his head to his desk in despair. “I looked up the tournament last night. Since Cross Ups IV is 13A, I’d need my parents to sign a consent form. That’s not going to happen.”
Mr. Efram finished writing on the board, ran his hand over his bald spot, and turned to the class. Like every day, he pointed with his thumb to the poster of the Justice League on the wall showing the problem solving steps.
Monday, April 14, 2014
1st 5 Pages April Workshop - Litwin Revision 2
Name: Laurie Litwin
Genre: Middle Grade Contemporary
Title: Bee Stadium
Harrison Templeton has a big fat head. Thankfully I sit right behind him. When I slouch, Mrs. Cooper, my seventh-period Language Arts Teacher, can't see a single hair on my entirely proportionally-sized head.
My right knee taps in time with each second - thirty minutes to go. I've been waiting for-freaking-ever for the first day of baseball practice. This year we might go all the way to the Little League World Series.
"Can anyone tell me from what point of view the Red Badge of Courage is written?" Mrs. Cooper asks, pacing in front of the white board wielding a dry erase marker like a bayonet.
Ugh. I'd rather eat moldy broccoli than read this book.
They should let us read something cool, like The Boy Who Saved Baseball or The Wild Pitch. Heck, I kind of even liked Holes. All this talk of themes and symbolism makes me want to poke my eye out with my number two pencil.
I duck out of her line of sight. She's going to call on someone to read out loud soon.
“Jake?” Hearing my name shouted shakes me out of my thoughts.
“What?” My voice comes out high, like a girl. I push myself upright and shrug my shoulders.
Next to me, Kyle Filbert snickers, his black hair flopping forward and covering one of his eyes like a pirate's eye patch. I shoot my arch-enemy a dirty look and ball my hand up into a tight fist under my desk. Sometimes I really want to punch the jerk in the face. But Mom would be super mad at me if I did.
“I asked you to read the first paragraph of chapter three out loud to the class,” she says slowly, lifting her eyebrows at me. Or, should I say, eyebrow. She has one thick brown eyebrow that crawls across her forehead like a caterpillar.
She picks on me because I have a harder time reading aloud than the other kids. It’s not fair.
I sigh as loud as I can and tap my hand on my leg. Praying for time to speed up so I can get out of this nightmare.
"Henry ... uh .. himself ... I mean ... he ... wal ... k ... walked by ... him ... self into ... uh ... into the ... uh ... dark ... nessss ... darkness." The words are jumping around as I try to read them. I wipe my palms on my jeans.
I peer two inches to the right, around Harrison's watermelon head, at Mrs. Cooper. His hair is sticking straight out on one side, like he battled with the hair gel and lost.
"Continue, Jake."
I take a deep breath, fiddling with the baseball hat in my lap. I have to keep it hidden under my desk because Mrs. Cooper won't let me wear it in class. Last week she kept it for a whole day when I forgot to take it off before I walked into the classroom.
"He ... he ... down ... um ... I mean ... he lay down ... in ... uh ... in the ... in the grass ... sorry ... no ... and ... felt ... sorry ... for ... uh ... him ... self ... himself." I'm sweating so much I could fill a bucket.
"Thank you, Jake. Kyle, please start where Jake left off." She paces back and forth.
My shoulders slump forward and I drop my head.
As Kyle reads, I turn my head and look out the window. If I squint my eyes enough, I can see the baseball diamond on the other side of the big grassy field.
The smell of fresh cut grass fills my nose and I can hear the ump yelling "Batter up!"
I tune out as kid after kid reads out loud and twenty excruciating minutes later, the bell rings.
As I'm standing up, Mrs. Cooper calls out, “Pick one of the major themes in The Red Badge of Courage and tell me how it relates to your life – I want one typed page by Monday morning. And the practice spelling bee will be tomorrow. Don’t forget to study the word list I handed out last week.”
I freeze in my seat, like I got sucked into a black hole.
The spelling bee?
NO!
I hate spelling. I hate spelling bees even more. Last year I got the easiest, girliest word ever: Tulip. Of course, I spelled it T-O-O-L-I-P. Everyone laughed. I wanted to hurl.
I can't put myself through that kind of humiliation again.
I pull my baseball hat free from my belt loop and shape the bill between my palms, the field is calling me.
Batting seventh ... Number 11 ... Jake Evans.
I forget all about the bee. Until I get two steps from the door.
"Jake!"
I stop so fast my sneaker squeaks on the floor. My momentum propels me forward and I flap my arms like a bird so I don't fall on my face.
When I turn, Mrs. Cooper's holding a sheet of paper in front of her. I shuffle my way to where she's standing and take it from her. There's a red D glaring at me.
My stomach drops into the basement.
I stuff it in my backpack, groaning.
Mom's going to murder me and feed my insides to the seagulls.
"I understand today's the first day of baseball practice," she says, putting one hand on her hip and jutting her chin out to the side, toward the baseball field.
"Uh, yeah." I take a step backward toward the door. I wanna jet outta here so bad.
"You're very close to failing my class. If your grade falls any lower, you won't be able to play baseball."
My breath gets caught in my throat and I croak, "Huh?" I try to swallow, but it's like there's a huge wad of bubble yum stuck there. "No way," I squeak.
My face burns hotter and hotter the longer I stand here.
She stares at me so hard I'm surprised I don't combust.
"The school has an understanding with the little league program. A failing grade means no baseball," she repeats, saying the words super slow, like I'm hard of hearing. I can hear her fine, I just don't like what she's saying.
"Is there anything I can do. Extra credit, or something." My voice rises. I probably sound like a girl.
As she pauses, the caterpillar above her eyes wiggles.
"I'll tell you what. If you place in the top three in the classroom spelling bee next week you'll advance to the school spelling bee.
If you do that, I'll give you enough extra credit points to raise your grade one level."
My heart stops beating and I feel dizzy. I grab a desk to steady myself.
"Is there anything else I can do?" I barely eek the words out. Please say yes. "I'll volunteer to read out loud every day for the rest of the school year." I pause. "Anything but spelling. The letters jumble up in my brain and I have a hard time getting the order right."
"Study harder. Make flash cards. Have a friend quiz you. Also, put some thought into today's assignment. You're a good writer, so write a good essay. That'll help you out, as well. Otherwise, winning the spelling bee is your only option for extra credit."
Genre: Middle Grade Contemporary
Title: Bee Stadium
Harrison Templeton has a big fat head. Thankfully I sit right behind him. When I slouch, Mrs. Cooper, my seventh-period Language Arts Teacher, can't see a single hair on my entirely proportionally-sized head.
My right knee taps in time with each second - thirty minutes to go. I've been waiting for-freaking-ever for the first day of baseball practice. This year we might go all the way to the Little League World Series.
"Can anyone tell me from what point of view the Red Badge of Courage is written?" Mrs. Cooper asks, pacing in front of the white board wielding a dry erase marker like a bayonet.
Ugh. I'd rather eat moldy broccoli than read this book.
They should let us read something cool, like The Boy Who Saved Baseball or The Wild Pitch. Heck, I kind of even liked Holes. All this talk of themes and symbolism makes me want to poke my eye out with my number two pencil.
I duck out of her line of sight. She's going to call on someone to read out loud soon.
“Jake?” Hearing my name shouted shakes me out of my thoughts.
“What?” My voice comes out high, like a girl. I push myself upright and shrug my shoulders.
Next to me, Kyle Filbert snickers, his black hair flopping forward and covering one of his eyes like a pirate's eye patch. I shoot my arch-enemy a dirty look and ball my hand up into a tight fist under my desk. Sometimes I really want to punch the jerk in the face. But Mom would be super mad at me if I did.
“I asked you to read the first paragraph of chapter three out loud to the class,” she says slowly, lifting her eyebrows at me. Or, should I say, eyebrow. She has one thick brown eyebrow that crawls across her forehead like a caterpillar.
She picks on me because I have a harder time reading aloud than the other kids. It’s not fair.
I sigh as loud as I can and tap my hand on my leg. Praying for time to speed up so I can get out of this nightmare.
"Henry ... uh .. himself ... I mean ... he ... wal ... k ... walked by ... him ... self into ... uh ... into the ... uh ... dark ... nessss ... darkness." The words are jumping around as I try to read them. I wipe my palms on my jeans.
I peer two inches to the right, around Harrison's watermelon head, at Mrs. Cooper. His hair is sticking straight out on one side, like he battled with the hair gel and lost.
"Continue, Jake."
I take a deep breath, fiddling with the baseball hat in my lap. I have to keep it hidden under my desk because Mrs. Cooper won't let me wear it in class. Last week she kept it for a whole day when I forgot to take it off before I walked into the classroom.
"He ... he ... down ... um ... I mean ... he lay down ... in ... uh ... in the ... in the grass ... sorry ... no ... and ... felt ... sorry ... for ... uh ... him ... self ... himself." I'm sweating so much I could fill a bucket.
"Thank you, Jake. Kyle, please start where Jake left off." She paces back and forth.
My shoulders slump forward and I drop my head.
As Kyle reads, I turn my head and look out the window. If I squint my eyes enough, I can see the baseball diamond on the other side of the big grassy field.
The smell of fresh cut grass fills my nose and I can hear the ump yelling "Batter up!"
I tune out as kid after kid reads out loud and twenty excruciating minutes later, the bell rings.
As I'm standing up, Mrs. Cooper calls out, “Pick one of the major themes in The Red Badge of Courage and tell me how it relates to your life – I want one typed page by Monday morning. And the practice spelling bee will be tomorrow. Don’t forget to study the word list I handed out last week.”
I freeze in my seat, like I got sucked into a black hole.
The spelling bee?
NO!
I hate spelling. I hate spelling bees even more. Last year I got the easiest, girliest word ever: Tulip. Of course, I spelled it T-O-O-L-I-P. Everyone laughed. I wanted to hurl.
I can't put myself through that kind of humiliation again.
I pull my baseball hat free from my belt loop and shape the bill between my palms, the field is calling me.
Batting seventh ... Number 11 ... Jake Evans.
I forget all about the bee. Until I get two steps from the door.
"Jake!"
I stop so fast my sneaker squeaks on the floor. My momentum propels me forward and I flap my arms like a bird so I don't fall on my face.
When I turn, Mrs. Cooper's holding a sheet of paper in front of her. I shuffle my way to where she's standing and take it from her. There's a red D glaring at me.
My stomach drops into the basement.
I stuff it in my backpack, groaning.
Mom's going to murder me and feed my insides to the seagulls.
"I understand today's the first day of baseball practice," she says, putting one hand on her hip and jutting her chin out to the side, toward the baseball field.
"Uh, yeah." I take a step backward toward the door. I wanna jet outta here so bad.
"You're very close to failing my class. If your grade falls any lower, you won't be able to play baseball."
My breath gets caught in my throat and I croak, "Huh?" I try to swallow, but it's like there's a huge wad of bubble yum stuck there. "No way," I squeak.
My face burns hotter and hotter the longer I stand here.
She stares at me so hard I'm surprised I don't combust.
"The school has an understanding with the little league program. A failing grade means no baseball," she repeats, saying the words super slow, like I'm hard of hearing. I can hear her fine, I just don't like what she's saying.
"Is there anything I can do. Extra credit, or something." My voice rises. I probably sound like a girl.
As she pauses, the caterpillar above her eyes wiggles.
"I'll tell you what. If you place in the top three in the classroom spelling bee next week you'll advance to the school spelling bee.
If you do that, I'll give you enough extra credit points to raise your grade one level."
My heart stops beating and I feel dizzy. I grab a desk to steady myself.
"Is there anything else I can do?" I barely eek the words out. Please say yes. "I'll volunteer to read out loud every day for the rest of the school year." I pause. "Anything but spelling. The letters jumble up in my brain and I have a hard time getting the order right."
"Study harder. Make flash cards. Have a friend quiz you. Also, put some thought into today's assignment. You're a good writer, so write a good essay. That'll help you out, as well. Otherwise, winning the spelling bee is your only option for extra credit."
1st 5 Pages April Workshop - Mayberry Revision 1
Name: Marty Mayberry
Genre: New Adult Contemporary Romance
Title: 100 Kisses
First 1250 words:
The only thing standing between me and the most perfect summer of my life was a stupid airplane. Thank God for Dramamine.
I dragged my suitcases into Boston’s international terminal and stopped beneath an overhead monitor to compare the schedule to my itinerary. Alitalia Flight #615, departing at 10:40 p.m. Rome before noon, assuming the plane didn’t nose dive into the Atlantic along the way. I shuddered.
After checking my luggage at the desk, I breezed through security without an unpleasant strip search. I shifted my carry-on to my other shoulder and headed toward the gate to meet up with Nat and Cat.
Natasha and Catherine, my twenty-one-year-old, identical twins cousins, planned to spend the summer with their father in Rome while I participated in the dig. I hadn’t seen them since my high school graduation, three years before. As I drew near the gate, I didn’t need a text message to find them. Their boisterous laughter drew me in.
A grin bloomed on my face as I snuck up on Nat. Or was it Cat? I tapped her shoulder and deepened my voice. “Excuse me, Miss.”
Scooting sideways in her plastic chair, her jaw dropped. She sprang up and slapped her hands to her cheeks. “Oh. My. God. Maddy. You’re skinny!”
People sitting nearby gawked as she rushed around the end of the aisle on five-inch heels. We hugged, and she kissed my cheeks in bobbing European fashion before holding me at arm’s length. “You look absolutely gorgeous.”
“She always looks gorgeous.” My other cousin joined us, her green eyes sparkling. “How you been, hon?”
“Great, umm . . .” My gaze flew between them, trying to determine who was who. Each sported nose rings, although they wore them on different sides. Their black hair stood on end, adorned with fluorescent pink tips. It lent their pointed features an elven appearance. Our mothers were sisters, and I’d inherited the same pale skin and black hair, although I wore mine longer.
The cousin I’d hugged pouted. “I’m Cat. Can’t you tell?”
I gestured to the blue jewel winking in her nose. “Keep that, and I’m set.”
“We wanted piercings, and I made her get hers in the right,” Nat said. “People should be able to tell us apart. Especially guys.” She glared at Cat. “Nothing’s worse than finding your sister hefted on the sideboard, her lips cemented to your boyfriend.”
“I couldn’t help myself.” Cat drooped against Nat and fluttered her eyelashes. “We’re talking Louigi here.”
I hugged Nat. “It’s wonderful to see you.”
“You look amazing.” Awe gushed in her voice. “You’ve lost so much weight.”
“I took up running.” My face heated, but their flattery sent elation swirling through me. I smoothed my hands over my hips and struck a diva pose. One hundred pounds down, and only twenty left to go. I promised myself I’d take the last off by the end of the summer.
“I need to get a little exercise.” Cat frowned as she pinched the muffin top smooshing above her designer jeans.
“You can run with me anytime,” I said. “I do forty, fifty minutes a day.” More if I ate too many cookies.
Nat elbowed Cat. “You’ll never stick with that.”
Cat growled. “You saying I can’t do it?”
Nat laughed and stuck out her hand. “Here’s betting you can’t.”
“Wait a minute.” Cat yanked hers back before they connected. “I know you. Spill it. What are the consequences?”
“Besides needing a bigger size?” Nat smirked and nibbled a nail. “How about . . . you have to kiss Joseph.”
Cat’s shoulders slumped. “Jeez, Nat. Why Joseph?”
“Who’s Joseph?” My gaze slid between them.
“The gardener.” Nat’s mouth twitched. “He has a wart.”
“What, a wart?” I blinked. “Where?”
Nat scrunched her nose and pointed to the scarlet bow of her upper lip. “Right here.”
Cat cringed. “And he’s old. At least forty.”
“There’s nothing wrong with older men.” Nat thrust her hand forward. “You ready to take my dare?”
“No way.” Cat wiped her fingers on her jeans and tucked them into her back pocket. “I’m not kissing Joseph.”
“Ha. Almost caught you.” Nat and I shared a grin.
Cat sighed and rubbed her belly. “Now that Maddy’s here, can we finally get something to eat? I’m starving.”
They grabbed their carry-ons, and we headed to a restaurant. As I wove my way across the terminal bustling with travelers, my phone cheeped. Stopping near the wall, I tapped into my email. A message from Dr. Giordano, my long-distance mentor: The final details for your internship at Monte Testaccio are in place. The Project Managers expect you on Monday.
Giddiness rushed through me every time I thought about the internship my Uncle Peter, a world-renowned archaeologist and Nat and Cat’s dad, had arranged for me. An entire summer piecing together amphora shards to reveal clues from an ancient civilization’s past.
While I longed to shriek and dance on the linoleum, I unearthed a scrap of dignity and replied instead: Thank you for all you’ve done for me. I’m looking forward to finally meeting you.
After my Uncle introduced us via the internet in December, we’d exchanged emails daily. The charming old man took time from his busy schedule to send notes about the project I’d participate in, support before a big test, and insider tips that gave me a considerable edge over my USM classmates. Grinning, I tucked my phone into my purse and followed my cousins into the restaurant.
As I studied the menu, I nibbled the inside of my lip. The salad choices were slim, but the jalapeno turkey burger sounded yummy. Since I’d run fifty minutes today, I could splurge if I substituted a salad for fries.
“You’ll knock Raffaele completely speechless,” Nat said.
“Who?” I peered over my menu, my brow wrinkling. “Oh, you mean Dr. Giordano?”
“Dr. Giordano?” Nat shared a blank look with Cat. “We just call him Raffaele.”
“I could never be so forward with an esteemed colleague.”
Nat laughed and fiddled with the salt shaker. “Just how old do you think the good doctor is?”
I shrugged. “We never discussed it. From his formal way of speaking, and his extensive knowledge, I’d say . . . sixty?”
They shook their heads in unison. “Try again,” Nat said.
“Sixty-five?”
“Close enough.” Nat grinned. “Raffaele’s not a doctor.”
“He’s your father’s partner.”
She frowned. “Is that what he told you?”
“No, I just assumed,” I raked my hand through my long hair. “This wasn’t Match dot com. We mostly talked about archaeology.”
“He’s Dad’s assistant.”
“I see.” Maybe it was a retirement hobby for him, rather than his lifelong career.
“Since he doesn’t have a PhD, I guess he’s just a Mister.” A sly look danced across Nat’s pretty features. “Mr. Giordano.”
My cousins smirked at each other, and their eyes did that crazy, silent twin-exchange-thing they’d perfected at five. Frowning, I wondered where the joke came in.
Cat’s eyes twinkled. “Once you two started chatting online, he pestered us for your picture.” She waggled a finger in my face. “Nothing on Facebook. You lose a ton of weight and kept it hidden. What’s wrong with you?”
I shrugged. While I had a Facebook page, I kept forgetting to visit it, let alone post updates. And I still had a few pounds left to lose before I shared.
“We gave him one of your graduation pics.” Cat said.
“Ugh. You didn’t.” I thought I’d destroyed all the evidence.
Genre: New Adult Contemporary Romance
Title: 100 Kisses
First 1250 words:
The only thing standing between me and the most perfect summer of my life was a stupid airplane. Thank God for Dramamine.
I dragged my suitcases into Boston’s international terminal and stopped beneath an overhead monitor to compare the schedule to my itinerary. Alitalia Flight #615, departing at 10:40 p.m. Rome before noon, assuming the plane didn’t nose dive into the Atlantic along the way. I shuddered.
After checking my luggage at the desk, I breezed through security without an unpleasant strip search. I shifted my carry-on to my other shoulder and headed toward the gate to meet up with Nat and Cat.
Natasha and Catherine, my twenty-one-year-old, identical twins cousins, planned to spend the summer with their father in Rome while I participated in the dig. I hadn’t seen them since my high school graduation, three years before. As I drew near the gate, I didn’t need a text message to find them. Their boisterous laughter drew me in.
A grin bloomed on my face as I snuck up on Nat. Or was it Cat? I tapped her shoulder and deepened my voice. “Excuse me, Miss.”
Scooting sideways in her plastic chair, her jaw dropped. She sprang up and slapped her hands to her cheeks. “Oh. My. God. Maddy. You’re skinny!”
People sitting nearby gawked as she rushed around the end of the aisle on five-inch heels. We hugged, and she kissed my cheeks in bobbing European fashion before holding me at arm’s length. “You look absolutely gorgeous.”
“She always looks gorgeous.” My other cousin joined us, her green eyes sparkling. “How you been, hon?”
“Great, umm . . .” My gaze flew between them, trying to determine who was who. Each sported nose rings, although they wore them on different sides. Their black hair stood on end, adorned with fluorescent pink tips. It lent their pointed features an elven appearance. Our mothers were sisters, and I’d inherited the same pale skin and black hair, although I wore mine longer.
The cousin I’d hugged pouted. “I’m Cat. Can’t you tell?”
I gestured to the blue jewel winking in her nose. “Keep that, and I’m set.”
“We wanted piercings, and I made her get hers in the right,” Nat said. “People should be able to tell us apart. Especially guys.” She glared at Cat. “Nothing’s worse than finding your sister hefted on the sideboard, her lips cemented to your boyfriend.”
“I couldn’t help myself.” Cat drooped against Nat and fluttered her eyelashes. “We’re talking Louigi here.”
I hugged Nat. “It’s wonderful to see you.”
“You look amazing.” Awe gushed in her voice. “You’ve lost so much weight.”
“I took up running.” My face heated, but their flattery sent elation swirling through me. I smoothed my hands over my hips and struck a diva pose. One hundred pounds down, and only twenty left to go. I promised myself I’d take the last off by the end of the summer.
“I need to get a little exercise.” Cat frowned as she pinched the muffin top smooshing above her designer jeans.
“You can run with me anytime,” I said. “I do forty, fifty minutes a day.” More if I ate too many cookies.
Nat elbowed Cat. “You’ll never stick with that.”
Cat growled. “You saying I can’t do it?”
Nat laughed and stuck out her hand. “Here’s betting you can’t.”
“Wait a minute.” Cat yanked hers back before they connected. “I know you. Spill it. What are the consequences?”
“Besides needing a bigger size?” Nat smirked and nibbled a nail. “How about . . . you have to kiss Joseph.”
Cat’s shoulders slumped. “Jeez, Nat. Why Joseph?”
“Who’s Joseph?” My gaze slid between them.
“The gardener.” Nat’s mouth twitched. “He has a wart.”
“What, a wart?” I blinked. “Where?”
Nat scrunched her nose and pointed to the scarlet bow of her upper lip. “Right here.”
Cat cringed. “And he’s old. At least forty.”
“There’s nothing wrong with older men.” Nat thrust her hand forward. “You ready to take my dare?”
“No way.” Cat wiped her fingers on her jeans and tucked them into her back pocket. “I’m not kissing Joseph.”
“Ha. Almost caught you.” Nat and I shared a grin.
Cat sighed and rubbed her belly. “Now that Maddy’s here, can we finally get something to eat? I’m starving.”
They grabbed their carry-ons, and we headed to a restaurant. As I wove my way across the terminal bustling with travelers, my phone cheeped. Stopping near the wall, I tapped into my email. A message from Dr. Giordano, my long-distance mentor: The final details for your internship at Monte Testaccio are in place. The Project Managers expect you on Monday.
Giddiness rushed through me every time I thought about the internship my Uncle Peter, a world-renowned archaeologist and Nat and Cat’s dad, had arranged for me. An entire summer piecing together amphora shards to reveal clues from an ancient civilization’s past.
While I longed to shriek and dance on the linoleum, I unearthed a scrap of dignity and replied instead: Thank you for all you’ve done for me. I’m looking forward to finally meeting you.
After my Uncle introduced us via the internet in December, we’d exchanged emails daily. The charming old man took time from his busy schedule to send notes about the project I’d participate in, support before a big test, and insider tips that gave me a considerable edge over my USM classmates. Grinning, I tucked my phone into my purse and followed my cousins into the restaurant.
As I studied the menu, I nibbled the inside of my lip. The salad choices were slim, but the jalapeno turkey burger sounded yummy. Since I’d run fifty minutes today, I could splurge if I substituted a salad for fries.
“You’ll knock Raffaele completely speechless,” Nat said.
“Who?” I peered over my menu, my brow wrinkling. “Oh, you mean Dr. Giordano?”
“Dr. Giordano?” Nat shared a blank look with Cat. “We just call him Raffaele.”
“I could never be so forward with an esteemed colleague.”
Nat laughed and fiddled with the salt shaker. “Just how old do you think the good doctor is?”
I shrugged. “We never discussed it. From his formal way of speaking, and his extensive knowledge, I’d say . . . sixty?”
They shook their heads in unison. “Try again,” Nat said.
“Sixty-five?”
“Close enough.” Nat grinned. “Raffaele’s not a doctor.”
“He’s your father’s partner.”
She frowned. “Is that what he told you?”
“No, I just assumed,” I raked my hand through my long hair. “This wasn’t Match dot com. We mostly talked about archaeology.”
“He’s Dad’s assistant.”
“I see.” Maybe it was a retirement hobby for him, rather than his lifelong career.
“Since he doesn’t have a PhD, I guess he’s just a Mister.” A sly look danced across Nat’s pretty features. “Mr. Giordano.”
My cousins smirked at each other, and their eyes did that crazy, silent twin-exchange-thing they’d perfected at five. Frowning, I wondered where the joke came in.
Cat’s eyes twinkled. “Once you two started chatting online, he pestered us for your picture.” She waggled a finger in my face. “Nothing on Facebook. You lose a ton of weight and kept it hidden. What’s wrong with you?”
I shrugged. While I had a Facebook page, I kept forgetting to visit it, let alone post updates. And I still had a few pounds left to lose before I shared.
“We gave him one of your graduation pics.” Cat said.
“Ugh. You didn’t.” I thought I’d destroyed all the evidence.
1st 5 Pages April Workshop - Chiang Revision 1
Name: Sylvia Chiang
Genre: Middle Grade Contemporary
Title: Cross Ups
Chapter One
Jaden hammered the buttons on his controller. “Holy crap, this guy is fast! C’mon Kaigo…”
Kaigo was Jaden’s main when he played Cross Ups IV. He was the dragon-cross so he had the most awesome projectile of all the characters: instead of throwing fireballs, he breathed them. How cool was that?
Of course, it was only cool when the fireballs actually hit their target. On screen Kaigo whiffed three combos in a row when his opponent managed to jump out of range.
“Aw, dude, you almost had him,” his friend Hugh called from the couch.
“Not really.” Devesh chuckled, then added, “No offence, Jaden. But this Knight Rage guy is good.”
The three boys were in Jaden’s living room. Like most of their gaming sessions they had started out playing each other and ended up watching Jaden battle random people on-line. No one had beaten Jaden in four months. But then he had never played Knight Rage before.
“Who is this guy, anyways?” Devesh asked.
“I see him on-line all the time,” Hugh said.
“You ever play him?”
“No way. You know I refuse to play anyone who uses Blaze.”
“You mean you’re scared to play Blaze.”
“No…”
“Would you guys shut up? I’m trying to concentrate here.”
WHAM! The screen flashed a burst of gold and Blaze transformed into a phoenix, flapping huge golden wings that sent shock waves into Kaigo.
“Holy crap! How’d he hit me with that atomizer combo? I was blocking!”
As soon as he was out of hitstun, Jaden played Kaigo’s dragon fire special.
“What the?” Jaden dropped the combo when Blaze, disappeared briefly and reappeared attacking behind Kaigo.
“How’d he do that cross up? Can Blaze teleport?”
Kaigo breathed a fireball in his opponent’s face. Blaze jumped out of range and threw another atomizer.
“Aaahhh! I can’t get any moves in.”
Jaden pushed the back button to block the next string of atomizers, but Kaigo took the punishment from the phoenix wings anyways.
“Why isn’t my block working?”
“Your health meter is critical. You’re going to die from chip damage at this rate.”
“Thanks for your support, Devesh.”
“But hey, your super meter’s full,” Hugh cheered.
“You’d better make something happen soon.”
Jaden worked his controller, trying for Kaigo’s biggest super. “Come on…”
Panic made him do something he hadn’t done in ages – a total button mash.
Miraculously, Kaigo transformed into his dragon side and a grey cloud of smoke swirled like a tornado across the screen through his opponent. Jaden watched in shock as Blaze crumpled and his health meter dove. Now both opponents were one hit from defeat.
Jaden immediately played his bread and butter combo: two crouching light punches back to back, followed by dragon breath.
K.O.
“Whaaaaaaat!?!” Behind Jaden, his friends screamed and jumped up from the leather couch.
Devesh pointed to the TV on the wall. “No way! You did not just do that!”
Hugh sprawled his hefty form onto the carpet at Jaden’s feet, bowing and chanting, “You are the master.”
Jaden remained frozen on the couch, mouth open, eyebrows raised. His straight black hair fell over his left eye. “Am I dreaming?” he asked softly, letting the controller drop to the floor. “No, seriously, am I asleep? Someone hit me now.”
Devesh and Hugh piled on top of their friend, pummelling him with good-natured jabs.
“I’ve never seen that super,” Hugh said, settling his glasses back in place.
“That’s because I’ve only ever hit it one time. The timing is crazy hard.”
“We’ve got to start streaming your battles. That was Godlike!” Devesh helped Jaden up off the carpet. Then his phone binged and he pulled it out of his pocket. “I gotta go. I was supposed to meet my dad 10 minutes ago. He just texted me from the car in all caps.” He grabbed his bag and sweater and walked backwards out of the living room.
“Hold up, I gotta go too, dude. Think your dad will give me a ride?” Hugh grabbed his things and ran after Devesh, breathing hard by the time he got to the end of the hall.
“You live on the other side of town. Why you always asking me for a ride? Train your parents better.” Their voices trailed off until the door slammed shut behind them.
Jaden sat staring in disbelief at the TV screen, his arm muscles twitching as if he had physically done battle. On the screen, Kaigo’s muscles rippled through his black kung-fu uniform as he celebrated with fist pumps. His win quote at the bottom of the screen read, “You need more confidence to beat me.”
It was 6:27. Jaden was cutting it close still having the game on. His thumb was descending on the power button when a message popped up on the screen.
G00D GAM3 JSTAR
Players didn’t usually message after a fight, unless they were friends. Jaden hesitated then wrote back: THNX
Within seconds another message: CAN U D0 1T AGA1N?
Could he? He had no idea how he’d pulled off that final move. But there was no way he was going to admit that. He typed: ANY TIME
BATTL3 @ T0P T13RS 1N 2 W33KS?
Jaden hesitated, his thumbs rapidly tapping the controller. A real gaming tournament? He often watched footage of his favourite gamer, Yuudai Sato, playing at big events like the EVO Championship Series, but he’d never thought about actually going. It wasn’t an option.
He wrote back: NO THNX
Y N0T? W3’LL WA1V3 UR F33.
Jaden’s curiosity battled with the ticking clock. 6:30. His parents could be pulling into the driveway. Quickly he typed: WHO RU?
The answer seemed to take forever. When it finally came, it raised more questions than answers. JUST R3G1ST3R - SAY KN1GHT RAG3 S3NT U.
A key turned in the lock. Jaden went into his shut down routine, quickly powering off the TV and game console and sliding the controller under the cushion next to him. He flipped open his math book and tried to act bored, hoping his parents wouldn’t notice his shaking hands.
Knight Rage’s question pulsed in his mind.
Why not?
Chapter Two
Mr. Efram wrote on the blackboard at the start of math class: The Problem of the Day.
“Yeah,” Jaden whispered to Devesh and Hugh, “You have two parents who refuse to let you play any violent games, and one invitation to a way cool video game tournament. What do you do?”
The three boys formed a group as they had done daily since meeting each other in math on their first day at Layton Senior Public School.
“You have to go,” Devesh whispered back. “You can’t back out of a challenge. You think Yuudai Sato would back out of a challenge? If you want to be the best, you have to show everyone you can bring it.”
“Yeah, maybe if I build a time machine and skip ahead eight months to my thirteenth birthday,” Jaden dropped his head to his desk in despair. “I looked up the tournament on-line. Since Cross Ups IV is 13A, I’d need my parents to sign a consent form. That’s not going to happen.”
Mr. Efram finished writing on the board, ran his hand over his bald spot, and turned to the class. Like every day he pointed with his thumb to the poster of the Justice League on the wall showing the problem solving steps. “Remember - be a user of USAR. Understand, Strategize, Attack and Reflect.”
The problem of the day was: A wizard has counted…
Genre: Middle Grade Contemporary
Title: Cross Ups
Chapter One
Jaden hammered the buttons on his controller. “Holy crap, this guy is fast! C’mon Kaigo…”
Kaigo was Jaden’s main when he played Cross Ups IV. He was the dragon-cross so he had the most awesome projectile of all the characters: instead of throwing fireballs, he breathed them. How cool was that?
Of course, it was only cool when the fireballs actually hit their target. On screen Kaigo whiffed three combos in a row when his opponent managed to jump out of range.
“Aw, dude, you almost had him,” his friend Hugh called from the couch.
“Not really.” Devesh chuckled, then added, “No offence, Jaden. But this Knight Rage guy is good.”
The three boys were in Jaden’s living room. Like most of their gaming sessions they had started out playing each other and ended up watching Jaden battle random people on-line. No one had beaten Jaden in four months. But then he had never played Knight Rage before.
“Who is this guy, anyways?” Devesh asked.
“I see him on-line all the time,” Hugh said.
“You ever play him?”
“No way. You know I refuse to play anyone who uses Blaze.”
“You mean you’re scared to play Blaze.”
“No…”
“Would you guys shut up? I’m trying to concentrate here.”
WHAM! The screen flashed a burst of gold and Blaze transformed into a phoenix, flapping huge golden wings that sent shock waves into Kaigo.
“Holy crap! How’d he hit me with that atomizer combo? I was blocking!”
As soon as he was out of hitstun, Jaden played Kaigo’s dragon fire special.
“What the?” Jaden dropped the combo when Blaze, disappeared briefly and reappeared attacking behind Kaigo.
“How’d he do that cross up? Can Blaze teleport?”
Kaigo breathed a fireball in his opponent’s face. Blaze jumped out of range and threw another atomizer.
“Aaahhh! I can’t get any moves in.”
Jaden pushed the back button to block the next string of atomizers, but Kaigo took the punishment from the phoenix wings anyways.
“Why isn’t my block working?”
“Your health meter is critical. You’re going to die from chip damage at this rate.”
“Thanks for your support, Devesh.”
“But hey, your super meter’s full,” Hugh cheered.
“You’d better make something happen soon.”
Jaden worked his controller, trying for Kaigo’s biggest super. “Come on…”
Panic made him do something he hadn’t done in ages – a total button mash.
Miraculously, Kaigo transformed into his dragon side and a grey cloud of smoke swirled like a tornado across the screen through his opponent. Jaden watched in shock as Blaze crumpled and his health meter dove. Now both opponents were one hit from defeat.
Jaden immediately played his bread and butter combo: two crouching light punches back to back, followed by dragon breath.
K.O.
“Whaaaaaaat!?!” Behind Jaden, his friends screamed and jumped up from the leather couch.
Devesh pointed to the TV on the wall. “No way! You did not just do that!”
Hugh sprawled his hefty form onto the carpet at Jaden’s feet, bowing and chanting, “You are the master.”
Jaden remained frozen on the couch, mouth open, eyebrows raised. His straight black hair fell over his left eye. “Am I dreaming?” he asked softly, letting the controller drop to the floor. “No, seriously, am I asleep? Someone hit me now.”
Devesh and Hugh piled on top of their friend, pummelling him with good-natured jabs.
“I’ve never seen that super,” Hugh said, settling his glasses back in place.
“That’s because I’ve only ever hit it one time. The timing is crazy hard.”
“We’ve got to start streaming your battles. That was Godlike!” Devesh helped Jaden up off the carpet. Then his phone binged and he pulled it out of his pocket. “I gotta go. I was supposed to meet my dad 10 minutes ago. He just texted me from the car in all caps.” He grabbed his bag and sweater and walked backwards out of the living room.
“Hold up, I gotta go too, dude. Think your dad will give me a ride?” Hugh grabbed his things and ran after Devesh, breathing hard by the time he got to the end of the hall.
“You live on the other side of town. Why you always asking me for a ride? Train your parents better.” Their voices trailed off until the door slammed shut behind them.
Jaden sat staring in disbelief at the TV screen, his arm muscles twitching as if he had physically done battle. On the screen, Kaigo’s muscles rippled through his black kung-fu uniform as he celebrated with fist pumps. His win quote at the bottom of the screen read, “You need more confidence to beat me.”
It was 6:27. Jaden was cutting it close still having the game on. His thumb was descending on the power button when a message popped up on the screen.
G00D GAM3 JSTAR
Players didn’t usually message after a fight, unless they were friends. Jaden hesitated then wrote back: THNX
Within seconds another message: CAN U D0 1T AGA1N?
Could he? He had no idea how he’d pulled off that final move. But there was no way he was going to admit that. He typed: ANY TIME
BATTL3 @ T0P T13RS 1N 2 W33KS?
Jaden hesitated, his thumbs rapidly tapping the controller. A real gaming tournament? He often watched footage of his favourite gamer, Yuudai Sato, playing at big events like the EVO Championship Series, but he’d never thought about actually going. It wasn’t an option.
He wrote back: NO THNX
Y N0T? W3’LL WA1V3 UR F33.
Jaden’s curiosity battled with the ticking clock. 6:30. His parents could be pulling into the driveway. Quickly he typed: WHO RU?
The answer seemed to take forever. When it finally came, it raised more questions than answers. JUST R3G1ST3R - SAY KN1GHT RAG3 S3NT U.
A key turned in the lock. Jaden went into his shut down routine, quickly powering off the TV and game console and sliding the controller under the cushion next to him. He flipped open his math book and tried to act bored, hoping his parents wouldn’t notice his shaking hands.
Knight Rage’s question pulsed in his mind.
Why not?
Chapter Two
Mr. Efram wrote on the blackboard at the start of math class: The Problem of the Day.
“Yeah,” Jaden whispered to Devesh and Hugh, “You have two parents who refuse to let you play any violent games, and one invitation to a way cool video game tournament. What do you do?”
The three boys formed a group as they had done daily since meeting each other in math on their first day at Layton Senior Public School.
“You have to go,” Devesh whispered back. “You can’t back out of a challenge. You think Yuudai Sato would back out of a challenge? If you want to be the best, you have to show everyone you can bring it.”
“Yeah, maybe if I build a time machine and skip ahead eight months to my thirteenth birthday,” Jaden dropped his head to his desk in despair. “I looked up the tournament on-line. Since Cross Ups IV is 13A, I’d need my parents to sign a consent form. That’s not going to happen.”
Mr. Efram finished writing on the board, ran his hand over his bald spot, and turned to the class. Like every day he pointed with his thumb to the poster of the Justice League on the wall showing the problem solving steps. “Remember - be a user of USAR. Understand, Strategize, Attack and Reflect.”
The problem of the day was: A wizard has counted…
1st 5 Pages April Workshop - Conner Revision 1
Name: Candice Marley Conner
Genre: Young Adult Magical Realism/ Fairytale Retelling
Title: THE WILDNESS IN MELLIE FEYE
A guy’s following me.
Thigh-deep in Sand Blast Bay, with the strong Florida sunlight bouncing off the water, I focus on a scallop I’m about to snatch up to reach my quota for the day. Still, I know he’s there. I keep my back to him, irritation prickling my skin so that I can’t enjoy the warmth of the water and the faint balmy breeze. The hip-hop reverberating off the bay means he’s not here to fish. Or if he is, he has no clue. A party boat.
I touch the oyster knife strapped to my leg. It’s sharp enough to do more than just pry open shells.
The sapphire of scallop eyes flash in the grassy, brackish water. I submerge victoriously, blinking to clear my eyes as I push the bay grass aside to follow it. The scallop clicks its two shells together, an underwater butterfly, propulsing away and deeper into the mucky bay floor. I grab it. Then standing, blinking to clear the salt from my eyes before the sunlight makes them burn, my head smacks into something hard. I topple back underwater with a splash.
“What the—?” The scallop sinks into the now cloudy water. Floundering, the guy looks as dazed as I feel. Anger at losing the scallop and that he closed the distance between us so quickly helps me recover faster. I didn’t realize I was underwater for so long. Pulling the oyster knife from my leg sheath, I hold it out between us. I can’t stop myself from wondering if he could end my curse so I can go home. My hand tightens on the grip.
He touches his forehead. “What did you hit me with?”
“Excuse you?” I spit, my bagged scallops clacking furiously.
He regains his footing as I blink to clear my eyes. Without the glare, this guy is gorgeous. Even observing him with the sun to his back, he has golden skin stretched taunt over muscular shoulders, pecs, abs, and lower… oh, sweetcrabmeat!
“You’re going to gut me after you gave me a concussion?” He winces as he runs a hand through his hair.
“You hit me on my head,” I shoot back, annoyed at him for being so hot and myself for noticing. I twist the edges of my Fish Shack tee shirt to wring out excess water.
“That was your head?”
The surprise in his voice makes me seriously consider gutting him, but instead I glower. If I draw blood, it’ll just attract sharks and then I’ll probably feel bad.
“Are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” I lie, though a headache began throbbing immediately. “Why did you head butt me?” I should go, disappear into the marshes but this spot, about two hundred yards from the shoreline, is shallow and relatively clear. It’s been a favorite of mine for the past couple of days. Something makes me want to stay and talk to this sunshine-outlined mystery guy. Maybe it’s the flutters in my stomach like fish nibbling my toes.
“I didn’t mean to. I tried to get your attention. Figured maybe you were looking for something that flew off your boat? Then you went under so fast, I thought something got you.”
The bay water is still, reflecting pinks and oranges from the setting sun. “Do you see a boat near me?”
“Well, I… no. That’s why I thought you needed help.”
“Oh, you were coming to rescue me. How sweet.” The sarcasm might be a side effect from the blow to the head. Or, maybe it’s part of my charm.
He steps back and a teeny, tiny part of me regrets being so harsh, but really my head is killing me. I’m irritated at myself for turning my back to him and letting him get so close. Usually I can feel things moving in the water; that’s why I’m good at scalloping. I hold up my dive bag. “I’m looking for these.”
“You’re not a tourist?”
I shake my head, then immediately regret it.
“I just figured you were with the um, green hair. Haven’t seen you around.”
I hold the knife between my teeth and brush my wet, yes, green hair into a ponytail, knotting it. I dyed it bright green after Mama kicked me out of the house. “I’m from the Cape,” I respond once the knife is in hand again. Just those simple movements make me woozy. Not good.
“But even Cape kids go to Bayview High.”
“Home-schooled,” I say, uneasy at how personal our conversation is getting and how dark the world is growing.
“You don’t look so good…”
“You look beautiful.” I drop my oyster knife in the bay water as I clap my hand over my mouth, too late to keep those embarrassing words safely inside.
“What?” He grins and scoops up my knife, sliding it back into my leg-sheath. Where his hand touches my skin jolts as if I stepped on a sting ray barb. I jerk back in surprise and he does too.
The space between us grows heavy and dark as he stands there, his eyes going from his still outstretched hand back to me. I want to sink into the water and disappear. Everything’s getting shadowy and now there’s a loud buzzing in my ears as if a hundred motor boats are coming at me. I sway and he catches my elbow. There’s the electricity again. It grows fainter as I slip into the darkness.
Air whipping past revives me. The buzzing sound is louder, from an actual boat motor now. The sky is darker, but a normal, sun-about-to-set dusk rather than a black-out kind of darkness. I’m in an unfamiliar boat with an unfamiliar beach towel covering my still damp t-shirt and shorts. The ties of my swim suit top dig uncomfortably into my spine. Rising to rest on my elbows makes my head spin.
“Hey, Ray? She’s up,” an unfamiliar masculine voice says.
Footsteps approach the padded bench I’m lying on. An electric current zings through the air so either a summer storm is about to strike or I didn’t just have a really bizarre, embarrassing dream. I’m hoping for a bolt of lightening to strike before I open my eyes.
“I put your scallops in the live well.”
I peek, one eye at a time. Now that the sun isn’t as harsh, his facial features are clearer. Long gold lashes frame bright green eyes with light freckling on his nose. His lips are salt puckered and as they curve into a grin, I realize that he’s watching me stare in approval. I yank the towel over my head. “Thanks, but can you just throw me overboard?”
“You head-butted me—at your own expense—drew a knife on me and electrocuted me as I’m standing in water, so no. I’m not getting rid of you until you at least tell me your name.”
“Mellie.”
“Hi Mellie of the Bay, I accept your apology. I’m Raymond. And now we— that’s my buddy, Paul, captaining the wheel— are taking you to get your head checked out.”
I pull the towel down to glare at him. “I never apologized.”
“I’m sure you meant to.”
“I don’t need to get checked out.” I try sitting up again. I can’t go to the hospital because I don’t know how Mama’s curse has changed me. Fighting against waves of nausea and apprehension, I look around the boat for my water shoes.
He puts a hand out as if to hold me down but doesn’t touch me.
Genre: Young Adult Magical Realism/ Fairytale Retelling
Title: THE WILDNESS IN MELLIE FEYE
A guy’s following me.
Thigh-deep in Sand Blast Bay, with the strong Florida sunlight bouncing off the water, I focus on a scallop I’m about to snatch up to reach my quota for the day. Still, I know he’s there. I keep my back to him, irritation prickling my skin so that I can’t enjoy the warmth of the water and the faint balmy breeze. The hip-hop reverberating off the bay means he’s not here to fish. Or if he is, he has no clue. A party boat.
I touch the oyster knife strapped to my leg. It’s sharp enough to do more than just pry open shells.
The sapphire of scallop eyes flash in the grassy, brackish water. I submerge victoriously, blinking to clear my eyes as I push the bay grass aside to follow it. The scallop clicks its two shells together, an underwater butterfly, propulsing away and deeper into the mucky bay floor. I grab it. Then standing, blinking to clear the salt from my eyes before the sunlight makes them burn, my head smacks into something hard. I topple back underwater with a splash.
“What the—?” The scallop sinks into the now cloudy water. Floundering, the guy looks as dazed as I feel. Anger at losing the scallop and that he closed the distance between us so quickly helps me recover faster. I didn’t realize I was underwater for so long. Pulling the oyster knife from my leg sheath, I hold it out between us. I can’t stop myself from wondering if he could end my curse so I can go home. My hand tightens on the grip.
He touches his forehead. “What did you hit me with?”
“Excuse you?” I spit, my bagged scallops clacking furiously.
He regains his footing as I blink to clear my eyes. Without the glare, this guy is gorgeous. Even observing him with the sun to his back, he has golden skin stretched taunt over muscular shoulders, pecs, abs, and lower… oh, sweetcrabmeat!
“You’re going to gut me after you gave me a concussion?” He winces as he runs a hand through his hair.
“You hit me on my head,” I shoot back, annoyed at him for being so hot and myself for noticing. I twist the edges of my Fish Shack tee shirt to wring out excess water.
“That was your head?”
The surprise in his voice makes me seriously consider gutting him, but instead I glower. If I draw blood, it’ll just attract sharks and then I’ll probably feel bad.
“Are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” I lie, though a headache began throbbing immediately. “Why did you head butt me?” I should go, disappear into the marshes but this spot, about two hundred yards from the shoreline, is shallow and relatively clear. It’s been a favorite of mine for the past couple of days. Something makes me want to stay and talk to this sunshine-outlined mystery guy. Maybe it’s the flutters in my stomach like fish nibbling my toes.
“I didn’t mean to. I tried to get your attention. Figured maybe you were looking for something that flew off your boat? Then you went under so fast, I thought something got you.”
The bay water is still, reflecting pinks and oranges from the setting sun. “Do you see a boat near me?”
“Well, I… no. That’s why I thought you needed help.”
“Oh, you were coming to rescue me. How sweet.” The sarcasm might be a side effect from the blow to the head. Or, maybe it’s part of my charm.
He steps back and a teeny, tiny part of me regrets being so harsh, but really my head is killing me. I’m irritated at myself for turning my back to him and letting him get so close. Usually I can feel things moving in the water; that’s why I’m good at scalloping. I hold up my dive bag. “I’m looking for these.”
“You’re not a tourist?”
I shake my head, then immediately regret it.
“I just figured you were with the um, green hair. Haven’t seen you around.”
I hold the knife between my teeth and brush my wet, yes, green hair into a ponytail, knotting it. I dyed it bright green after Mama kicked me out of the house. “I’m from the Cape,” I respond once the knife is in hand again. Just those simple movements make me woozy. Not good.
“But even Cape kids go to Bayview High.”
“Home-schooled,” I say, uneasy at how personal our conversation is getting and how dark the world is growing.
“You don’t look so good…”
“You look beautiful.” I drop my oyster knife in the bay water as I clap my hand over my mouth, too late to keep those embarrassing words safely inside.
“What?” He grins and scoops up my knife, sliding it back into my leg-sheath. Where his hand touches my skin jolts as if I stepped on a sting ray barb. I jerk back in surprise and he does too.
The space between us grows heavy and dark as he stands there, his eyes going from his still outstretched hand back to me. I want to sink into the water and disappear. Everything’s getting shadowy and now there’s a loud buzzing in my ears as if a hundred motor boats are coming at me. I sway and he catches my elbow. There’s the electricity again. It grows fainter as I slip into the darkness.
Air whipping past revives me. The buzzing sound is louder, from an actual boat motor now. The sky is darker, but a normal, sun-about-to-set dusk rather than a black-out kind of darkness. I’m in an unfamiliar boat with an unfamiliar beach towel covering my still damp t-shirt and shorts. The ties of my swim suit top dig uncomfortably into my spine. Rising to rest on my elbows makes my head spin.
“Hey, Ray? She’s up,” an unfamiliar masculine voice says.
Footsteps approach the padded bench I’m lying on. An electric current zings through the air so either a summer storm is about to strike or I didn’t just have a really bizarre, embarrassing dream. I’m hoping for a bolt of lightening to strike before I open my eyes.
“I put your scallops in the live well.”
I peek, one eye at a time. Now that the sun isn’t as harsh, his facial features are clearer. Long gold lashes frame bright green eyes with light freckling on his nose. His lips are salt puckered and as they curve into a grin, I realize that he’s watching me stare in approval. I yank the towel over my head. “Thanks, but can you just throw me overboard?”
“You head-butted me—at your own expense—drew a knife on me and electrocuted me as I’m standing in water, so no. I’m not getting rid of you until you at least tell me your name.”
“Mellie.”
“Hi Mellie of the Bay, I accept your apology. I’m Raymond. And now we— that’s my buddy, Paul, captaining the wheel— are taking you to get your head checked out.”
I pull the towel down to glare at him. “I never apologized.”
“I’m sure you meant to.”
“I don’t need to get checked out.” I try sitting up again. I can’t go to the hospital because I don’t know how Mama’s curse has changed me. Fighting against waves of nausea and apprehension, I look around the boat for my water shoes.
He puts a hand out as if to hold me down but doesn’t touch me.
1st 5 Pages April Workshop - Im Revision 1
Name: Christina Im
Genre: Young Adult Steampunk
Title: On the Midnight Streets
Twenty-two ticks of a clock - the closest I’ve ever come to being daring, and yet still a little too far from it.
The envelope waiting on the table has corners sharp enough to cut me. I hesitate and let my heart shrink in my chest as I stare at it. Strained light coming through the boardinghouse window just barely lets me notice the creamy sheen of the parchment.
It’s a letter, Chantilly. The worst it can do is nick your fingers.
I reach for it before I have a chance to talk myself out of anything. It’s far too smooth to be anything less than Upper City material, so thick that it sets me on edge. I turn it over to break the seal when I see it: the emblem of the king and crown, Clarabel’s dagger overrun by thistles. My breath stills and grows stale in my mouth - the crown’s crest is a rare sight here in the Middle City. This knife, these flowers, belong on the other side of the looming stone wall that keeps us away from the wealthy.
And when the crest comes to a family like mine, the news is never good.
My first thought is that this must be some colossal prank, but as I open up the flap, the words that jump out at me are too sure of themselves, too crisp. A needle of doubt pierces its way into my mind. Did I remember to hand in the rent to our landlady the week before last? Have I forgotten to pay our monthly tithes to the royal coffers? No, no - I do all that out of my own pocket, and I remember scarcely bypassing the paperwork. Our records, if a little dusty, aren’t stained in the slightest. The king should have no quarrel with us.
The floor sags behind me with a creak, and I nearly spring out of my skin. Mother steps into the room, disheveled and groggy.
“Tense, aren’t you?” she says, smiling. “I would say good morning, but you look as if you’ve been up a while.” Her eyes amble over to the letter, still clutched in my hand, and gradually become more alert.
“Oh.” I force my limbs to loosen and wave the paper in her direction. “The post came for you.” And as the page unfurls before me, its greeting really is addressed, albeit stiffly, to Mother:
Salutations to Miss Diane Rosewater -
We truly regret to inform you on this most unfortunate day that your esteemed relative, His Grace the Duke of Fellonsley, Reginald Harneld, has passed away due to a severe bout of consumption. We will, of course, be quick in our numerous assurances that Lord Fellonsley took leave of this world peacefully and painlessly. On behalf of His Majesty, our illustrious King Alastair, we would like to extend our sincere condolences for this most dreadful loss, as well as a congenial invitation to attend a solemn service in His Grace’s highly honored and cherished memory on the first day of the coming month, at precisely three hours past noontime, on the hallowed Harneld plot of Peralton’s finest Upper City burial grounds.
When I read the passage out loud, Mother lets out a soft, dry laugh, like rustling papers. “They’ve certainly gone to a fine bit of trouble,” she muses. “Is there any more?” I clear my throat to go over the rest of the page, and her brow furrows before smoothing itself out again.
As His Grace’s nearest surviving relations, you and any family members have inherited and lawfully acquired the duchy of Fellonsley, its corresponding Henlow House, all affiliated staff members and household appurtenances, and the full and uncorrupted contents of the duchy coffers, totaling to a monetary sum of approximately fifty million arors. Due to the utmost necessity of the presence of an estate head and peer whenever possible, a carriage is planned to arrive at this place at ten o’clock tomorrow morning in order to convey you, your family, and the sum of your possessions to your new domicile in the Upper City.
Cordially,
His Majesty’s Residential Council
I don’t notice how badly I’m shaking until the letter lands helplessly on the floor and I glance down at my hand, fluttering like a leaf in a gale. My vision bleeds into itself. All around me, splinters hold me down: half-finished mending, worn fabric and old promises, draped over our only table; the rush of air that leaves me as I collapse into a chair; Mother’s wide, wide eyes that I’m sure must mirror my own.
Try as I might, I can’t begin to fathom the weight of an estate on Mother’s hands, or mine. Who would Chantilly Rosewater be without a rent to pay, without work to pay it? I ought to be glad, I know, of something to ease our stretched-tight expenses, but all I can find inside myself is a clammy feeling of loss. My pulse is slowing, I note dimly, but it’s not been a moment before it ratchets up again, like a faulty cog in an automaton.
After a moment, I become vaguely aware of a finger of almost-sunlight creeping through the window. Sunlight? My mind drags itself into order. Then what time...?
“Oh, stars.” I groan, and Mother gasps as she realizes the time.
We flurry into motion, tossing a loaf of hard bread and a small mountain of odds and ends into my satchel without even a word to spare. I get dressed and straighten out my sleeves like clockwork.
Mother shoos me out the door a little too quickly, and my mind won’t let me ask about the letter. “This,” she says with a condemning sigh, “is the latest you’ve ever been in your life.”
I nod, pull the door open with a rough yank to steady myself. Questions shuffle back and forth in my head, tumbling over one another to be the first out of my mouth, but instead I blurt, “Make sure you get Chamomile and Velvet up.” Mother blinks in understanding; in the mornings, my younger sisters are harder to move than mountains.
I half-run down the stairs of the boardinghouse, not bothering to soften my steps. Turning the doorknob and striding out is one thoughtless, mechanical gesture, and then there’s rain, rain, rain, clawing at me from all sides.
This early in the day, mist tends to make visibility poor, so the Middle City is gaslit. Thick sheets of rain pound the cobblestones, and the air breathes chill with fog. The streetlamps glow a dull orange above the people, and above those, the occasional airship drifts lazily across the sky, smearing black smoke onto a patchwork of clouds.
What little light there is has been thrown to the ground in desperate pockets. As I expected, people are already roaming the streets. Some walk with a clear destination, like me, while others meander, with an arm sometimes raised as a makeshift umbrella. I shiver and gaze up at the sky. It’s a stubborn whitish-gray, and I’ll wager that won’t change until the sun goes down this evening.
It’s all so beautiful.
Genre: Young Adult Steampunk
Title: On the Midnight Streets
Twenty-two ticks of a clock - the closest I’ve ever come to being daring, and yet still a little too far from it.
The envelope waiting on the table has corners sharp enough to cut me. I hesitate and let my heart shrink in my chest as I stare at it. Strained light coming through the boardinghouse window just barely lets me notice the creamy sheen of the parchment.
It’s a letter, Chantilly. The worst it can do is nick your fingers.
I reach for it before I have a chance to talk myself out of anything. It’s far too smooth to be anything less than Upper City material, so thick that it sets me on edge. I turn it over to break the seal when I see it: the emblem of the king and crown, Clarabel’s dagger overrun by thistles. My breath stills and grows stale in my mouth - the crown’s crest is a rare sight here in the Middle City. This knife, these flowers, belong on the other side of the looming stone wall that keeps us away from the wealthy.
And when the crest comes to a family like mine, the news is never good.
My first thought is that this must be some colossal prank, but as I open up the flap, the words that jump out at me are too sure of themselves, too crisp. A needle of doubt pierces its way into my mind. Did I remember to hand in the rent to our landlady the week before last? Have I forgotten to pay our monthly tithes to the royal coffers? No, no - I do all that out of my own pocket, and I remember scarcely bypassing the paperwork. Our records, if a little dusty, aren’t stained in the slightest. The king should have no quarrel with us.
The floor sags behind me with a creak, and I nearly spring out of my skin. Mother steps into the room, disheveled and groggy.
“Tense, aren’t you?” she says, smiling. “I would say good morning, but you look as if you’ve been up a while.” Her eyes amble over to the letter, still clutched in my hand, and gradually become more alert.
“Oh.” I force my limbs to loosen and wave the paper in her direction. “The post came for you.” And as the page unfurls before me, its greeting really is addressed, albeit stiffly, to Mother:
Salutations to Miss Diane Rosewater -
We truly regret to inform you on this most unfortunate day that your esteemed relative, His Grace the Duke of Fellonsley, Reginald Harneld, has passed away due to a severe bout of consumption. We will, of course, be quick in our numerous assurances that Lord Fellonsley took leave of this world peacefully and painlessly. On behalf of His Majesty, our illustrious King Alastair, we would like to extend our sincere condolences for this most dreadful loss, as well as a congenial invitation to attend a solemn service in His Grace’s highly honored and cherished memory on the first day of the coming month, at precisely three hours past noontime, on the hallowed Harneld plot of Peralton’s finest Upper City burial grounds.
When I read the passage out loud, Mother lets out a soft, dry laugh, like rustling papers. “They’ve certainly gone to a fine bit of trouble,” she muses. “Is there any more?” I clear my throat to go over the rest of the page, and her brow furrows before smoothing itself out again.
As His Grace’s nearest surviving relations, you and any family members have inherited and lawfully acquired the duchy of Fellonsley, its corresponding Henlow House, all affiliated staff members and household appurtenances, and the full and uncorrupted contents of the duchy coffers, totaling to a monetary sum of approximately fifty million arors. Due to the utmost necessity of the presence of an estate head and peer whenever possible, a carriage is planned to arrive at this place at ten o’clock tomorrow morning in order to convey you, your family, and the sum of your possessions to your new domicile in the Upper City.
Cordially,
His Majesty’s Residential Council
I don’t notice how badly I’m shaking until the letter lands helplessly on the floor and I glance down at my hand, fluttering like a leaf in a gale. My vision bleeds into itself. All around me, splinters hold me down: half-finished mending, worn fabric and old promises, draped over our only table; the rush of air that leaves me as I collapse into a chair; Mother’s wide, wide eyes that I’m sure must mirror my own.
Try as I might, I can’t begin to fathom the weight of an estate on Mother’s hands, or mine. Who would Chantilly Rosewater be without a rent to pay, without work to pay it? I ought to be glad, I know, of something to ease our stretched-tight expenses, but all I can find inside myself is a clammy feeling of loss. My pulse is slowing, I note dimly, but it’s not been a moment before it ratchets up again, like a faulty cog in an automaton.
After a moment, I become vaguely aware of a finger of almost-sunlight creeping through the window. Sunlight? My mind drags itself into order. Then what time...?
“Oh, stars.” I groan, and Mother gasps as she realizes the time.
We flurry into motion, tossing a loaf of hard bread and a small mountain of odds and ends into my satchel without even a word to spare. I get dressed and straighten out my sleeves like clockwork.
Mother shoos me out the door a little too quickly, and my mind won’t let me ask about the letter. “This,” she says with a condemning sigh, “is the latest you’ve ever been in your life.”
I nod, pull the door open with a rough yank to steady myself. Questions shuffle back and forth in my head, tumbling over one another to be the first out of my mouth, but instead I blurt, “Make sure you get Chamomile and Velvet up.” Mother blinks in understanding; in the mornings, my younger sisters are harder to move than mountains.
I half-run down the stairs of the boardinghouse, not bothering to soften my steps. Turning the doorknob and striding out is one thoughtless, mechanical gesture, and then there’s rain, rain, rain, clawing at me from all sides.
This early in the day, mist tends to make visibility poor, so the Middle City is gaslit. Thick sheets of rain pound the cobblestones, and the air breathes chill with fog. The streetlamps glow a dull orange above the people, and above those, the occasional airship drifts lazily across the sky, smearing black smoke onto a patchwork of clouds.
What little light there is has been thrown to the ground in desperate pockets. As I expected, people are already roaming the streets. Some walk with a clear destination, like me, while others meander, with an arm sometimes raised as a makeshift umbrella. I shiver and gaze up at the sky. It’s a stubborn whitish-gray, and I’ll wager that won’t change until the sun goes down this evening.
It’s all so beautiful.
Monday, April 7, 2014
1st 5 Pages April Workshop - Im
Name: Christina Im
Genre: Young Adult Steampunk
Title: On the Midnight Streets
When things like stars or kingdoms or fates collide, even the worst novels give their heroines prophetic dreams for a week in advance - at the very
least.
If I were the heroine in a novel, I’d feel something coming. It would be as clear to me as if there were grim, thunder-laden clouds clustering around my head, and I would know it, better than anything I ever have. I would get a stirring in my chest, maybe, or a choice sentence or two of foreshadowing.
But I’m standing in my family’s boardinghouse room, not in a book, and it’s quite plain that the blood running through my veins is the common red rubbish and not ink off of a printing press. And it's even plainer that I don’t know what's in the wax-sealed letter on the table any more than I know what I'll look like thirty years from now.
The clock on the wall ticks twenty-two times while I decide to make a move. The waiting envelope has corners sharp enough to cut me. I hesitate and let my heart shrink in my chest as I stare at it.
It’s a letter, Chantilly. The worst it can do is nick your fingers.
I reach for it before I have a chance to talk myself out of anything. It’s far too smooth to be anything less than Upper City material, so thick that it sets me on edge. I turn it over to break the seal when I see it: the emblem of the king and crown, Clarabel’s dagger overrun by thistles. My breath stills and grows stale in my mouth - the crown’s crest is a rare sight here in the Middle City. This knife, these flowers, belong on the other side of the looming stone wall that keeps us away from the wealthy.
My first thought is that this must be some colossal prank, but as I open up the flap, the words that jump out at me are too sure of themselves, too crisp. A needle of doubt worms its way into my mind. Our records, if a little dusty, aren’t stained in the slightest.
The floor sags behind me with a creak, and I nearly spring out of my skin. Mother steps into the room, disheveled and groggy.
“Tense, aren’t you?” she says, smiling. “I would say good morning, but you look as if you’ve been up a while.” Her eyes dart to the letter, still clutched in my hand.
“Oh.” I force my limbs to loosen and wave the paper in her direction. “The post came for you.” And as I start to scan the page, I see that its greeting really is addressed, albeit stiffly, to Mother:
To Miss Diane Rosewater -
We truly regret to inform you on this most unfortunate day that your esteemed relative, His Grace the Duke of Fellonsley, Reginald Harneld, has passed away due to a severe bout of consumption. We will, of course, be quick in our numerous assurances that Lord Fellonsley took leave of this world peacefully and painlessly. On behalf of His Majesty, our illustrious King Alastair, we would like to extend our sincere condolences for this most dreadful loss, as well as a congenial invitation to attend a solemn service in His Grace’s highly honored and cherished memory on the first day of the coming month, at precisely three hours past noontime, on the hallowed Harneld plot of Peralton’s finest Upper City burial grounds.
When I read the passage out loud, Mother lets out a soft, dry laugh, like rustling papers. “They’ve certainly gone to a fine bit of trouble,” she muses. “Is there any more?” I clear my throat to go over the rest of the page and see her brow furrow before smoothing itself out again.
As His Grace’s nearest surviving relations, you and any family members have inherited and lawfully acquired the duchy of Fellonsley, its corresponding Henlow House, all affiliated staff members and household appurtenances, and the full and uncorrupted contents of the duchy coffers, totaling to a monetary sum of approximately fifty million arors. Due to the utmost necessity of the presence of an estate head and peer whenever possible, a carriage is planned to arrive at this place at ten o’clock tomorrow morning in order to convey you, your family, and the sum of your possessions to your new domicile in the Upper City.
Cordially,
His Majesty’s Residential Council
I don’t notice how badly I’m shaking until the letter lands helplessly on the floor and I glance down at my hand, fluttering like a leaf in a gale. My vision bleeds into itself. All around me, splinters hold me down: half-finished mending, worn fabric and old promises, draped over our only table; the rush of air that leaves me as I collapse into a chair; Mother’s wide, wide eyes that I’m sure must mirror my own.
After a moment, I become vaguely aware of a finger of sunlight creeping through the window.
Sunlight? My mind drags itself into order.
Then what time...?
“Oh, stars.” I groan, and Mother starts as if she’s never heard my voice before. She shakes her head, frowning, and then gasps in realization.
We flurry into motion, tossing a loaf of hard bread and a small mountain of odds and ends into my satchel without even a word to spare. I get dressed and straighten out my sleeves like clockwork.
Mother shoos me out the door a little too quickly, and my mind won’t let me ask about the letter. “This,” she says with a condemning sigh, “is the latest you’ve ever been in your life.”
I nod, pull the door open with a rough yank to steady myself. Questions shuffle back and forth in my head, tumbling over one another to be the first out of my mouth, but instead I blurt, “Make sure you get Chamomile and Velvet up.” Mother blinks in understanding; in the mornings, my younger sisters are harder to move than mountains.
I half-run down the stairs of the boardinghouse, not bothering to soften my steps. Turning the doorknob and striding out is one thoughtless, mechanical gesture, and then there’s rain, rain, rain, clawing at me from all sides.
This early in the day, mist tends to make visibility poor, so the Middle City is gaslit. Thick sheets of rain pound the cobblestones, and the air breathes chill with fog. The streetlamps glow a dull orange above the people, and above those, the occasional airship drifts lazily across the sky, smearing black smoke onto a patchwork of clouds.
What little light there is has been thrown to the ground in desperate pockets. As I expected, people are already roaming the streets. Some walk with a clear destination, like me, while others meander, with an arm sometimes raised as a makeshift umbrella. I shiver and gaze up at the sky. It’s a stubborn whitish-gray, and I’ll wager that won’t change until the sun goes down this evening.
It’s all so beautiful.
Genre: Young Adult Steampunk
Title: On the Midnight Streets
When things like stars or kingdoms or fates collide, even the worst novels give their heroines prophetic dreams for a week in advance - at the very
least.
If I were the heroine in a novel, I’d feel something coming. It would be as clear to me as if there were grim, thunder-laden clouds clustering around my head, and I would know it, better than anything I ever have. I would get a stirring in my chest, maybe, or a choice sentence or two of foreshadowing.
But I’m standing in my family’s boardinghouse room, not in a book, and it’s quite plain that the blood running through my veins is the common red rubbish and not ink off of a printing press. And it's even plainer that I don’t know what's in the wax-sealed letter on the table any more than I know what I'll look like thirty years from now.
The clock on the wall ticks twenty-two times while I decide to make a move. The waiting envelope has corners sharp enough to cut me. I hesitate and let my heart shrink in my chest as I stare at it.
It’s a letter, Chantilly. The worst it can do is nick your fingers.
I reach for it before I have a chance to talk myself out of anything. It’s far too smooth to be anything less than Upper City material, so thick that it sets me on edge. I turn it over to break the seal when I see it: the emblem of the king and crown, Clarabel’s dagger overrun by thistles. My breath stills and grows stale in my mouth - the crown’s crest is a rare sight here in the Middle City. This knife, these flowers, belong on the other side of the looming stone wall that keeps us away from the wealthy.
My first thought is that this must be some colossal prank, but as I open up the flap, the words that jump out at me are too sure of themselves, too crisp. A needle of doubt worms its way into my mind. Our records, if a little dusty, aren’t stained in the slightest.
The floor sags behind me with a creak, and I nearly spring out of my skin. Mother steps into the room, disheveled and groggy.
“Tense, aren’t you?” she says, smiling. “I would say good morning, but you look as if you’ve been up a while.” Her eyes dart to the letter, still clutched in my hand.
“Oh.” I force my limbs to loosen and wave the paper in her direction. “The post came for you.” And as I start to scan the page, I see that its greeting really is addressed, albeit stiffly, to Mother:
To Miss Diane Rosewater -
We truly regret to inform you on this most unfortunate day that your esteemed relative, His Grace the Duke of Fellonsley, Reginald Harneld, has passed away due to a severe bout of consumption. We will, of course, be quick in our numerous assurances that Lord Fellonsley took leave of this world peacefully and painlessly. On behalf of His Majesty, our illustrious King Alastair, we would like to extend our sincere condolences for this most dreadful loss, as well as a congenial invitation to attend a solemn service in His Grace’s highly honored and cherished memory on the first day of the coming month, at precisely three hours past noontime, on the hallowed Harneld plot of Peralton’s finest Upper City burial grounds.
When I read the passage out loud, Mother lets out a soft, dry laugh, like rustling papers. “They’ve certainly gone to a fine bit of trouble,” she muses. “Is there any more?” I clear my throat to go over the rest of the page and see her brow furrow before smoothing itself out again.
As His Grace’s nearest surviving relations, you and any family members have inherited and lawfully acquired the duchy of Fellonsley, its corresponding Henlow House, all affiliated staff members and household appurtenances, and the full and uncorrupted contents of the duchy coffers, totaling to a monetary sum of approximately fifty million arors. Due to the utmost necessity of the presence of an estate head and peer whenever possible, a carriage is planned to arrive at this place at ten o’clock tomorrow morning in order to convey you, your family, and the sum of your possessions to your new domicile in the Upper City.
Cordially,
His Majesty’s Residential Council
I don’t notice how badly I’m shaking until the letter lands helplessly on the floor and I glance down at my hand, fluttering like a leaf in a gale. My vision bleeds into itself. All around me, splinters hold me down: half-finished mending, worn fabric and old promises, draped over our only table; the rush of air that leaves me as I collapse into a chair; Mother’s wide, wide eyes that I’m sure must mirror my own.
After a moment, I become vaguely aware of a finger of sunlight creeping through the window.
Sunlight? My mind drags itself into order.
Then what time...?
“Oh, stars.” I groan, and Mother starts as if she’s never heard my voice before. She shakes her head, frowning, and then gasps in realization.
We flurry into motion, tossing a loaf of hard bread and a small mountain of odds and ends into my satchel without even a word to spare. I get dressed and straighten out my sleeves like clockwork.
Mother shoos me out the door a little too quickly, and my mind won’t let me ask about the letter. “This,” she says with a condemning sigh, “is the latest you’ve ever been in your life.”
I nod, pull the door open with a rough yank to steady myself. Questions shuffle back and forth in my head, tumbling over one another to be the first out of my mouth, but instead I blurt, “Make sure you get Chamomile and Velvet up.” Mother blinks in understanding; in the mornings, my younger sisters are harder to move than mountains.
I half-run down the stairs of the boardinghouse, not bothering to soften my steps. Turning the doorknob and striding out is one thoughtless, mechanical gesture, and then there’s rain, rain, rain, clawing at me from all sides.
This early in the day, mist tends to make visibility poor, so the Middle City is gaslit. Thick sheets of rain pound the cobblestones, and the air breathes chill with fog. The streetlamps glow a dull orange above the people, and above those, the occasional airship drifts lazily across the sky, smearing black smoke onto a patchwork of clouds.
What little light there is has been thrown to the ground in desperate pockets. As I expected, people are already roaming the streets. Some walk with a clear destination, like me, while others meander, with an arm sometimes raised as a makeshift umbrella. I shiver and gaze up at the sky. It’s a stubborn whitish-gray, and I’ll wager that won’t change until the sun goes down this evening.
It’s all so beautiful.
1st 5 Pages April Workshop - Conner
Name: Candice Marley Conner
Genre: Young Adult Magical Realism/ Fairytale Retelling
Title: THE WILDNESS IN MELLIE FEYE
There’s a guy following me.
I try to ignore him but as I’m the only one wading out here, thigh-deep in Sand Blast Bay, it’s hard to do. His stride is unfamiliar so I glare at him even though the strong Florida sunlight bouncing off the water makes it pointless. He yells something that I can’t make it out, so I turn my back to him. Maybe it’s not the smartest course of action, but I want him to know I’ve got more important things to do like getting my quota of scallops for the day. He can just make his way back to those party boats he came from, the stereo loud enough that he and his buddies aren’t out here to fish. I touch the oyster knife strapped to my leg for reassurance.
The sapphire of scallop eyes flash in the grassy, brackish water and I submerge victoriously, blinking to clear my eyes so I can see to push the bay grass aside. The scallop clicks its two shells together, an underwater butterfly, propulsing away and deeper into the mucky bay floor. It can’t escape me though and I grab it. Standing up, blinking to clear the salt from my eyes before the sunlight makes them burn, my head smacks into something hard. I topple back underwater with a splash.
“What the—?” I screech, surfacing and sputtering, the scallop sinking into the now cloudy water. The guy flounders, looking as dazed as I feel though anger at losing the scallop and that he closed the distance between us so quickly helps me recover faster. I pull the oyster knife from my leg sheath. Holding it out between us, I can’t stop myself from wondering if he could end my curse. My hand tightens on the grip.
He gingerly touches his forehead. “What did you hit me with?”
“Excuse you?” I spit, my bagged scallops clacking at this interloper in admonishment.
He regains his footing as I blink furiously to clear my eyes. Now that I can see better without the glare, this guy is gorgeous. Even observing him with the sun to his back, he has golden skin stretched taunt over muscular shoulders, pecs, abs, and lower… oh, sweetcrabmeat!
“You’re going to gut me after you gave me a concussion?” He winces as he runs a hand through his hair.
“You hit me on my head,” I shoot back, annoyed anew at him for being so hot and myself for noticing.
“That was your head?”
The surprise in his voice makes me seriously consider gutting him, but instead I glower. If I draw blood, it’ll just attract sharks and then I’ll probably feel bad.
“Are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” I lie, even though a headache began throbbing immediately. “Why did you head butt me?” I should just go, turn heels and disappear into the marshes but this spot has been a favorite of mine for the past couple of days and oddly enough, something makes me want to stay and talk to this sunshine-outlined mystery guy. Maybe it’s the flutters in my stomach that feel like fish nibbling my toes.
“I didn’t mean to. I tried to get your attention. Figured maybe you were looking for something that flew off your boat? And then you went under so fast, I thought something got you.”
I look around at the still, flat water. Into the setting sun, the boats he walked over from are still pulled together. “Do you see a boat near me?”
“Well, I… no. That’s why I thought you needed help.”
“Oh, you were coming to rescue me. How sweet.” The sarcasm might be a side effect from the blow to the head. Or, maybe it’s part of my charm.
He takes a step back and a teeny, tiny part of me regrets being so harsh, but really my head is killing me. I’m irritated at myself for turning my back to him and letting him get so close. Usually I can feel things moving in the water; that’s why I’m good at scalloping.
By way of apology, I hold up my dive bag so he can see. The scallops inside clap their bivalves in reproach for being pulled out of the water. No matter, they’ll be in batter and hot oil soon enough. “I’m looking for these.”
“You’re not a tourist?”
I shake my head, then immediately regret it.
“I just figured you were with the um, green hair. Haven’t seen you around.”
I hold the knife between my teeth and brush my wet, yes, green hair into a ponytail, knotting it. I dyed it bright green soon after my mom kicked me out of the house for taking revenge on a father I thought for sixteen years was dead. “I’m from the Cape,” I respond once the knife is in my hand again.
“But even Cape kids go to Bayview High.”
“Home-schooled,” I say simply, uneasy at how personal our conversation is getting and how dark the world is growing.
“You don’t look so good…”
“You look beautiful,” I slur then drop my oyster knife in the bay water as I clap my hand over my mouth to keep those embarrassing words safely inside.
“What?”
But I can see by the grin on his face that he understood me just fine. He scoops up the knife and slides it back into the sheath on my leg. Where his hand touches my skin jolts as if I stepped on a sting ray barb. I jerk back in surprise and he does too.
The space between us grows heavy and dark as he stands there, his eyes going from his still outstretched hand back to me. I want to sink into the water and disappear. Everything’s getting shadowy and now there’s a loud buzzing in my ears like a hundred motor boats coming at me at once. I sway and when he reaches out to catch my elbow, I feel the electricity again, but it grows fainter as I slip into the darkness.
When I come to, the buzzing sound is even louder but I realize it’s from an actual boat motor now. The air whipping passed revives me so that I see the sky has grown darker, but a normal, sun-about-to-set dusk rather than a black-out kind of darkness and that I’m in an unfamiliar boat with an unfamiliar beach towel covering me. Rising up to rest on my elbows makes my head spin.
“Hey, Ray? She’s up,” an unfamiliar masculine voice says.
Footsteps approach the padded bench I’m resting on and an electric current zings through the air so either a summer storm is about to strike or I didn’t just have a really bizarre, embarrassing dream. In that case, I’m hoping for a bolt of lightening to hit me before I have to open my eyes.
“I put your scallops in the live well.”
I open one eye at a time. Now that the sun isn’t as harsh, his facial features are clearer and they go along perfectly with everything I saw earlier. Long gold lashes frame bright green eyes with a light freckling on his nose. His lips are salt puckered and as they curve into a grin, I realize that he’s watching me stare in approval. Squeezing my eyes shut, I pull the towel over my head. “Thanks, but can you just throw me overboard?”
Genre: Young Adult Magical Realism/ Fairytale Retelling
Title: THE WILDNESS IN MELLIE FEYE
There’s a guy following me.
I try to ignore him but as I’m the only one wading out here, thigh-deep in Sand Blast Bay, it’s hard to do. His stride is unfamiliar so I glare at him even though the strong Florida sunlight bouncing off the water makes it pointless. He yells something that I can’t make it out, so I turn my back to him. Maybe it’s not the smartest course of action, but I want him to know I’ve got more important things to do like getting my quota of scallops for the day. He can just make his way back to those party boats he came from, the stereo loud enough that he and his buddies aren’t out here to fish. I touch the oyster knife strapped to my leg for reassurance.
The sapphire of scallop eyes flash in the grassy, brackish water and I submerge victoriously, blinking to clear my eyes so I can see to push the bay grass aside. The scallop clicks its two shells together, an underwater butterfly, propulsing away and deeper into the mucky bay floor. It can’t escape me though and I grab it. Standing up, blinking to clear the salt from my eyes before the sunlight makes them burn, my head smacks into something hard. I topple back underwater with a splash.
“What the—?” I screech, surfacing and sputtering, the scallop sinking into the now cloudy water. The guy flounders, looking as dazed as I feel though anger at losing the scallop and that he closed the distance between us so quickly helps me recover faster. I pull the oyster knife from my leg sheath. Holding it out between us, I can’t stop myself from wondering if he could end my curse. My hand tightens on the grip.
He gingerly touches his forehead. “What did you hit me with?”
“Excuse you?” I spit, my bagged scallops clacking at this interloper in admonishment.
He regains his footing as I blink furiously to clear my eyes. Now that I can see better without the glare, this guy is gorgeous. Even observing him with the sun to his back, he has golden skin stretched taunt over muscular shoulders, pecs, abs, and lower… oh, sweetcrabmeat!
“You’re going to gut me after you gave me a concussion?” He winces as he runs a hand through his hair.
“You hit me on my head,” I shoot back, annoyed anew at him for being so hot and myself for noticing.
“That was your head?”
The surprise in his voice makes me seriously consider gutting him, but instead I glower. If I draw blood, it’ll just attract sharks and then I’ll probably feel bad.
“Are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” I lie, even though a headache began throbbing immediately. “Why did you head butt me?” I should just go, turn heels and disappear into the marshes but this spot has been a favorite of mine for the past couple of days and oddly enough, something makes me want to stay and talk to this sunshine-outlined mystery guy. Maybe it’s the flutters in my stomach that feel like fish nibbling my toes.
“I didn’t mean to. I tried to get your attention. Figured maybe you were looking for something that flew off your boat? And then you went under so fast, I thought something got you.”
I look around at the still, flat water. Into the setting sun, the boats he walked over from are still pulled together. “Do you see a boat near me?”
“Well, I… no. That’s why I thought you needed help.”
“Oh, you were coming to rescue me. How sweet.” The sarcasm might be a side effect from the blow to the head. Or, maybe it’s part of my charm.
He takes a step back and a teeny, tiny part of me regrets being so harsh, but really my head is killing me. I’m irritated at myself for turning my back to him and letting him get so close. Usually I can feel things moving in the water; that’s why I’m good at scalloping.
By way of apology, I hold up my dive bag so he can see. The scallops inside clap their bivalves in reproach for being pulled out of the water. No matter, they’ll be in batter and hot oil soon enough. “I’m looking for these.”
“You’re not a tourist?”
I shake my head, then immediately regret it.
“I just figured you were with the um, green hair. Haven’t seen you around.”
I hold the knife between my teeth and brush my wet, yes, green hair into a ponytail, knotting it. I dyed it bright green soon after my mom kicked me out of the house for taking revenge on a father I thought for sixteen years was dead. “I’m from the Cape,” I respond once the knife is in my hand again.
“But even Cape kids go to Bayview High.”
“Home-schooled,” I say simply, uneasy at how personal our conversation is getting and how dark the world is growing.
“You don’t look so good…”
“You look beautiful,” I slur then drop my oyster knife in the bay water as I clap my hand over my mouth to keep those embarrassing words safely inside.
“What?”
But I can see by the grin on his face that he understood me just fine. He scoops up the knife and slides it back into the sheath on my leg. Where his hand touches my skin jolts as if I stepped on a sting ray barb. I jerk back in surprise and he does too.
The space between us grows heavy and dark as he stands there, his eyes going from his still outstretched hand back to me. I want to sink into the water and disappear. Everything’s getting shadowy and now there’s a loud buzzing in my ears like a hundred motor boats coming at me at once. I sway and when he reaches out to catch my elbow, I feel the electricity again, but it grows fainter as I slip into the darkness.
When I come to, the buzzing sound is even louder but I realize it’s from an actual boat motor now. The air whipping passed revives me so that I see the sky has grown darker, but a normal, sun-about-to-set dusk rather than a black-out kind of darkness and that I’m in an unfamiliar boat with an unfamiliar beach towel covering me. Rising up to rest on my elbows makes my head spin.
“Hey, Ray? She’s up,” an unfamiliar masculine voice says.
Footsteps approach the padded bench I’m resting on and an electric current zings through the air so either a summer storm is about to strike or I didn’t just have a really bizarre, embarrassing dream. In that case, I’m hoping for a bolt of lightening to hit me before I have to open my eyes.
“I put your scallops in the live well.”
I open one eye at a time. Now that the sun isn’t as harsh, his facial features are clearer and they go along perfectly with everything I saw earlier. Long gold lashes frame bright green eyes with a light freckling on his nose. His lips are salt puckered and as they curve into a grin, I realize that he’s watching me stare in approval. Squeezing my eyes shut, I pull the towel over my head. “Thanks, but can you just throw me overboard?”
1st 5 Pages April Workshop - Mayberry
Name: Marty Mayberry
Genre: New Adult Contemporary Romance
Title: 100 Kisses
Spotting my ipod on the coffee table, I tugged it from beneath my roommate’s legs. I tapped my foot on the frayed carpet while I dialed up a pavement-slapping mix of U2, Beyonce, and Taylor Swift.
“Going for a run?” Charice stared at the TV, transfixed with a bare-chested man brandishing a spear. She tore her gaze from the Survivor rerun long enough to glance my way, her deep brown eyes widening in her caramel face. “Girl, you look smokin’ in those black, stretchy-leg things. I should take up exercise. Might meet some cute guys.” The package by her side crackled, and she lifted a cookie to her lips. “I’m porkin’ out here.”
“Perseverance, Charice. You start with one run and somehow find the will for another.” I grinned and nudged her thigh. “Before you know it, you’re proud to sport spandex.”
“That’s too much effort.” Grabbing another cookie, she peeled it apart, revealing the thick, creamy center. Her pink tongue darted out to lick the frosting, and a blissful expression suffused her face.
I groaned.
Forget it, Madison. Don’t risk falling down the slippery slope of cookie overindulgence. Like a junky in need of a fix, you’ll stuff your mouth in a blind blur, only to wake with your nails scrambling along the bottom of the package, crumbs dusting your chest, your stomach churning from carb overload. You’ll have to run for hours. Forty minutes is bad enough.
“What time does your flight leave tonight?” she asked.
“10:40. I’m meeting my cousins at Logan.” I wanted to collapse to the ground every time I thought about my upcoming archaeological dig in Rome. I’d scored an opportunity my fellow USM classmates would kill for, even if the stipend would barely pay my fall tuition. An entire summer piecing together amphora shards to reveal clues from an ancient civilization’s past. Nirvana.
Even better, I’d finally meet Dr. Giordano, my long-distance mentor. My uncle introduced us via the internet and we’d exchanged emails the past six months. The charming old man took time from his busy schedule to send notes about the project I’d participate in, support before a big test, and insider tips that gave me a considerable edge over my peers.
I’d packed my bags, tucked my itinerary into my purse, and cleaned out the local Rite Aid’s Dramamine supply. I cringed at the thought of flying. While I knew my chances of dying were greater in a car, I could barely rein in my panic.
“I can picture you now, tiny paint brush in hand, elbow deep in dirt as you reveal some dead person’s trash. You’ll be in heaven.”
I laughed. “Can’t wait.”
“Lots of hot Italian guys in Rome.” She wiggled her eyebrows.
My jaw dropped. “Italian men in Rome? You don’t say.”
“I read they pinch asses every chance they get, so watch out.”
“Guess so.” I doubted anyone would pinch my ass.
“You’ll see.” She waved the remote my way. “Wear those slinky things, and they’ll be all over you like peanut butter on jelly.”
“Sounds yummy.” Chuckling, I locked the door behind me.
After stretching, I speed walked along Exchange Street. Casco Bay sparkled in the distance, a quilt of assorted blues, adorned with white-capped frills. A crisp breeze blasted my face, trailing goose flesh across my arms with its icy caress. The sea-leaden air ruffled my long, black hair, driving stray chunks into my eyes. I restrained it with a headband.
Taking my usual route toward Commercial, I strode past moms pushing carriages with well-bundled babies strapped inside, and window shoppers who stopped in the middle of the sidewalk without a care for anyone around them.
I popped in my ear buds and stretched my legs to a steady jog. My pink Nikes obeyed my command, and I picked up my pace, grooving to the beat of Bootylicious. As I passed DeMillo’s Restaurant, the palpable aroma of the fryolator sank into my pores. My taste buds surged, blasted with a tantalizing mix of onion rings, burgers, and local lobster with piping-hot butter. I put the Bay to my back, and forced myself up Franklin. Surging down the other side, I puffed past the traffic stopped at the lights on Marginal Way. I took the long way back to the Old Port, adding five more minutes to my run so I could have a few cookies.
Staggering to a stop outside my apartment, I braced my hands on my knees and panted. Sweat trickled down my face and glued my sports bra to my chest. My phone cheeped, and I pulled it from my back pocket.
An email from Dr. Giordano: The final details for your internship at Monte Testaccio are in place. The Project Managers expect you at the dig on Monday.
While I longed to shriek and dance on the sidewalk, I unearthed a scrap of dignity and typed a reply instead: Thank you for all you’ve done for me. I look forward to finally meeting you.
##
A security guard winked as I passed him at the airport. Hiding a grin behind my curtain of hair, I dragged my suitcases, stuffed to the gilpies with my new clothes. I’d dressed in capris, a red top, and strappy sandals with three-inch heels my parents purchased. I hated it when they spent money on me, because dairy farms paid nill. Mom insisted, citing my lost weight as a valid reason for a shopping spree. Now that the deed was done, I had to admit, I enjoyed wearing something that fit for a change. Hell, when I scrutinized my reflection in the mirror before I left Portland, an entirely different girl smiled back at me.
I paused under an airport monitor and compared the schedule to my itinerary. Alitalia Flight #615, on time. First class seats and a direct, overnight flight, courtesy of Uncle Peter.
After checking my luggage at the desk, I breezed through security without an unpleasant strip search. I shifted my carry-on on my shoulder and headed to my gate. When I drew close, I didn’t need a text message to find my way. Boisterous laughter announced their presence from a mile down the hall.
Natasha and Catherine, aka, Nat and Cat, my twenty-one-year-old, identical twin cousins. I hadn’t seen them since my graduation from high school, three years before.
A grin bloomed on my face as I snuck up on Nat. Or was it Cat? I tapped her shoulder and deepened my voice. “Excuse me, Miss.”
Scooting sideways in the plastic chair, her head cricked, and her jaw dropped. She sprang off her seat and slapped her hands to her cheeks. “Oh. My. God. Mady! You’re skinny!” Tottering around the aisle on five-inch black heels, she rushed me. We hugged, and she kissed my cheeks in bobbing European fashion before holding me at arm’s length. Her eyes widened as they traveled down my body. “You look absolutely gorgeous.”
“She always looks gorgeous.” My other cousin joined us, her sapphire-blue eyes sparkling in her lightly tanned face. “How you been, hon?”
“Great, umm . . .” My gaze flew between them as I tried to determine who was who. Each sported nose rings, although one wore hers on the left, the other on the right. Their black hair stood on end, adorned with fluorescent pink tips. It lent their pointed features an elven appearance.
The cousin on my left pouted. “I’m Cat. Can’t you tell?”
Genre: New Adult Contemporary Romance
Title: 100 Kisses
Spotting my ipod on the coffee table, I tugged it from beneath my roommate’s legs. I tapped my foot on the frayed carpet while I dialed up a pavement-slapping mix of U2, Beyonce, and Taylor Swift.
“Going for a run?” Charice stared at the TV, transfixed with a bare-chested man brandishing a spear. She tore her gaze from the Survivor rerun long enough to glance my way, her deep brown eyes widening in her caramel face. “Girl, you look smokin’ in those black, stretchy-leg things. I should take up exercise. Might meet some cute guys.” The package by her side crackled, and she lifted a cookie to her lips. “I’m porkin’ out here.”
“Perseverance, Charice. You start with one run and somehow find the will for another.” I grinned and nudged her thigh. “Before you know it, you’re proud to sport spandex.”
“That’s too much effort.” Grabbing another cookie, she peeled it apart, revealing the thick, creamy center. Her pink tongue darted out to lick the frosting, and a blissful expression suffused her face.
I groaned.
Forget it, Madison. Don’t risk falling down the slippery slope of cookie overindulgence. Like a junky in need of a fix, you’ll stuff your mouth in a blind blur, only to wake with your nails scrambling along the bottom of the package, crumbs dusting your chest, your stomach churning from carb overload. You’ll have to run for hours. Forty minutes is bad enough.
“What time does your flight leave tonight?” she asked.
“10:40. I’m meeting my cousins at Logan.” I wanted to collapse to the ground every time I thought about my upcoming archaeological dig in Rome. I’d scored an opportunity my fellow USM classmates would kill for, even if the stipend would barely pay my fall tuition. An entire summer piecing together amphora shards to reveal clues from an ancient civilization’s past. Nirvana.
Even better, I’d finally meet Dr. Giordano, my long-distance mentor. My uncle introduced us via the internet and we’d exchanged emails the past six months. The charming old man took time from his busy schedule to send notes about the project I’d participate in, support before a big test, and insider tips that gave me a considerable edge over my peers.
I’d packed my bags, tucked my itinerary into my purse, and cleaned out the local Rite Aid’s Dramamine supply. I cringed at the thought of flying. While I knew my chances of dying were greater in a car, I could barely rein in my panic.
“I can picture you now, tiny paint brush in hand, elbow deep in dirt as you reveal some dead person’s trash. You’ll be in heaven.”
I laughed. “Can’t wait.”
“Lots of hot Italian guys in Rome.” She wiggled her eyebrows.
My jaw dropped. “Italian men in Rome? You don’t say.”
“I read they pinch asses every chance they get, so watch out.”
“Guess so.” I doubted anyone would pinch my ass.
“You’ll see.” She waved the remote my way. “Wear those slinky things, and they’ll be all over you like peanut butter on jelly.”
“Sounds yummy.” Chuckling, I locked the door behind me.
After stretching, I speed walked along Exchange Street. Casco Bay sparkled in the distance, a quilt of assorted blues, adorned with white-capped frills. A crisp breeze blasted my face, trailing goose flesh across my arms with its icy caress. The sea-leaden air ruffled my long, black hair, driving stray chunks into my eyes. I restrained it with a headband.
Taking my usual route toward Commercial, I strode past moms pushing carriages with well-bundled babies strapped inside, and window shoppers who stopped in the middle of the sidewalk without a care for anyone around them.
I popped in my ear buds and stretched my legs to a steady jog. My pink Nikes obeyed my command, and I picked up my pace, grooving to the beat of Bootylicious. As I passed DeMillo’s Restaurant, the palpable aroma of the fryolator sank into my pores. My taste buds surged, blasted with a tantalizing mix of onion rings, burgers, and local lobster with piping-hot butter. I put the Bay to my back, and forced myself up Franklin. Surging down the other side, I puffed past the traffic stopped at the lights on Marginal Way. I took the long way back to the Old Port, adding five more minutes to my run so I could have a few cookies.
Staggering to a stop outside my apartment, I braced my hands on my knees and panted. Sweat trickled down my face and glued my sports bra to my chest. My phone cheeped, and I pulled it from my back pocket.
An email from Dr. Giordano: The final details for your internship at Monte Testaccio are in place. The Project Managers expect you at the dig on Monday.
While I longed to shriek and dance on the sidewalk, I unearthed a scrap of dignity and typed a reply instead: Thank you for all you’ve done for me. I look forward to finally meeting you.
##
A security guard winked as I passed him at the airport. Hiding a grin behind my curtain of hair, I dragged my suitcases, stuffed to the gilpies with my new clothes. I’d dressed in capris, a red top, and strappy sandals with three-inch heels my parents purchased. I hated it when they spent money on me, because dairy farms paid nill. Mom insisted, citing my lost weight as a valid reason for a shopping spree. Now that the deed was done, I had to admit, I enjoyed wearing something that fit for a change. Hell, when I scrutinized my reflection in the mirror before I left Portland, an entirely different girl smiled back at me.
I paused under an airport monitor and compared the schedule to my itinerary. Alitalia Flight #615, on time. First class seats and a direct, overnight flight, courtesy of Uncle Peter.
After checking my luggage at the desk, I breezed through security without an unpleasant strip search. I shifted my carry-on on my shoulder and headed to my gate. When I drew close, I didn’t need a text message to find my way. Boisterous laughter announced their presence from a mile down the hall.
Natasha and Catherine, aka, Nat and Cat, my twenty-one-year-old, identical twin cousins. I hadn’t seen them since my graduation from high school, three years before.
A grin bloomed on my face as I snuck up on Nat. Or was it Cat? I tapped her shoulder and deepened my voice. “Excuse me, Miss.”
Scooting sideways in the plastic chair, her head cricked, and her jaw dropped. She sprang off her seat and slapped her hands to her cheeks. “Oh. My. God. Mady! You’re skinny!” Tottering around the aisle on five-inch black heels, she rushed me. We hugged, and she kissed my cheeks in bobbing European fashion before holding me at arm’s length. Her eyes widened as they traveled down my body. “You look absolutely gorgeous.”
“She always looks gorgeous.” My other cousin joined us, her sapphire-blue eyes sparkling in her lightly tanned face. “How you been, hon?”
“Great, umm . . .” My gaze flew between them as I tried to determine who was who. Each sported nose rings, although one wore hers on the left, the other on the right. Their black hair stood on end, adorned with fluorescent pink tips. It lent their pointed features an elven appearance.
The cousin on my left pouted. “I’m Cat. Can’t you tell?”
1st 5 Pages April Workshop - Litwin
Name: Laurie Litwin
Genre: Middle Grade Contemporary
Title: Bee Stadium
Harrison Templeton has a big fat head. But it's a good thing. When I slouch in my seat behind him in seventh period Language Arts, Mrs. Cooper can't see me. At least, I don't think she can.
Today I scrunch so low, my butt isn't even on the chair.
My right knee taps with each second - thirty minutes to go. I've been waiting for-freaking-ever for this day. Or eight months, which is practically forever. The first day of baseball practice.
We have a shot at making it all the way to the Little League World Series in Williamsport this year. That would be the most awesome thing ever. Well, not as awesome as A Rod showing up at my house. But still awesome.
I peer two inches to the right, around Harrison's watermelon head. His hair is sticking straight out on one side, like he battled with the hair gel and lost.
"Can anyone tell me from what point of view the Red Badge of Courage is written?" Mrs. Cooper asks, pacing in front of the white board wielding a dry erase marker like a bayonet.
I hate this book. I'd rather eat moldy broccoli than read this book.
I don’t understand why we can’t read something cool. Like The Boy Who Saved Baseball or The Wild Pitch. Now those were good books. Heck, I kind of even liked Holes. All this talk of themes and symbolism makes me want to poke my eye out with my number two pencil.
I duck out of her line of sight. She's been droning on the entire class period about the book. She's going to call on someone to read out loud soon. And it better not be me.
I hate reading out loud. I see the words, then they jumble up like a puzzle when I try to read them.
Drumming my fingers on the desk, I turn my head and look out the window. If I squint my eyes enough, I can just make out the baseball diamond on the other side of the big grassy field.
I can hear the ump yelling "Batter up!" in my mind.
“Jake?” Hearing my name shouted shakes me out of my thoughts.
“What?” My voice comes out high, like a girl. I push myself upright and shrug my shoulders. I have no idea what Mrs. Cooper just asked me.
To my right, Kyle Filbert, my arch enemy, snickers, his black hair flopping forward and covering one of his eyes like a pirate's eye patch. I shoot him a dirty look and ball my hand up into a tight fist under my desk. Sometimes I really want to punch the jerk in the face. But Mom would be super mad at me if I did.
“I asked you to read the first paragraph of chapter three out loud to the class,” she says slowly, lifting her eyebrows at me. Or, should I say, eyebrow. She has one thick brown eyebrow that crawls across the top of her eyes like a caterpillar.
She picks on me on purpose. I know it. Because I have a harder time reading aloud than the other kids. It’s not fair.
I sigh as loud as I can and then tap my hand on my leg, stalling. Praying for the bell to ring so I can get out of this nightmare.
"Henry ... uh ... wal ... k ... walked by ... him ... self into ... uh ... into the ... uh ... dark ... nessss ... darkness." My palms sweat more and more with each word I read.
I stop and take a deep breath, fiddling with the baseball hat in my lap. I have to keep it hidden under my desk because Mrs. Cooper won't let me wear it in class. Last week she kept it for a whole day when I forgot to take it off before I walked into the classroom.
The final bell rings as I open my mouth to continue.
Safe!
“Saved by the bell, Mr. Evans.”
My shoulders slump forward and I drop my head, defeated.
She looks away from me and addresses the class. “Pick one of the major themes in The Red Badge of Courage and tell me how it relates to your own life – I want one typed page by Monday morning. And the practice spelling bee will be tomorrow. Don’t forget to study the word list I handed out last week.”
I stop, frozen in my seat, like I got sucked into a black hole.
The spelling bee?
NO!
I hate spelling. And I hate the spelling bee even more. We had to do one in class last year and I got my first word wrong. Tulip. The easiest word ever. Not to mention a total girl word. And I got it wrong. I spelled it "T-O-O-L-I-P." Everyone laughed at me. I wanted to hurl.
No way can I put myself through that kind of humiliation again.
I pull my baseball hat free from my belt loop and shape the bill between my palms, putting the spelling bee out of my mind. If I concentrate hard enough, I can hear the baseball field calling my name.
Batting seventh ... Number 11 ... Jake Evans.
I bolt outta my seat my seat and head for the door. I'm two steps from freedom when Mrs. Cooper shouts my name.
"Jake!"
I stop so fast my sneaker squeaks on the floor. My momentum propels me forward and I have to flap my arms like a bird so I don't fall on my face.
When I turn and look at Mrs. Cooper, she's holding a sheet of paper in front of her. Taking tiny steps, I shuffle my way to where she's standing and take the paper from her. There's a red D at the top of the page.
My stomach drops into the basement as I stare at the glaring red letter.
I stuff it in my backpack, groaning.
Mom's going to murder me and feed my insides to the ducks at the duck pond downtown.
"I understand today's the first day of baseball practice," she says, putting one hand on her hip and jutting her chin out to the side, toward the baseball field.
"Uh, yeah." I take a step backward toward the door. I wanna jet outta here so bad.
"You're very close to failing my class. If your grade falls any lower, you won't be able to play baseball."
My breath gets caught in my throat and I croak, "Huh?" I try to swallow, but it's like there's a huge wad of bubble yum stuck there. "No way," I squeak.
My face burns hotter and hotter the longer I stand here.
She stares at me so hard I'm surprised I don't combust. I ball my hands into tight fists, fighting the urge to flee.
"A failing grade means no baseball," she repeats, saying the words super slow, like I'm hard of hearing. I can hear her fine, I just don't like what she's saying.
"Is there anything I can do. Extra credit, or something." My voice rises. I probably sound like a girl.
She pauses, thinking. The caterpillar above her eyes wiggles a little as she considers my question.
"I'll tell you what. If you place in the top three in the classroom spelling bee next week you'll advance to the school spelling bee.
Genre: Middle Grade Contemporary
Title: Bee Stadium
Harrison Templeton has a big fat head. But it's a good thing. When I slouch in my seat behind him in seventh period Language Arts, Mrs. Cooper can't see me. At least, I don't think she can.
Today I scrunch so low, my butt isn't even on the chair.
My right knee taps with each second - thirty minutes to go. I've been waiting for-freaking-ever for this day. Or eight months, which is practically forever. The first day of baseball practice.
We have a shot at making it all the way to the Little League World Series in Williamsport this year. That would be the most awesome thing ever. Well, not as awesome as A Rod showing up at my house. But still awesome.
I peer two inches to the right, around Harrison's watermelon head. His hair is sticking straight out on one side, like he battled with the hair gel and lost.
"Can anyone tell me from what point of view the Red Badge of Courage is written?" Mrs. Cooper asks, pacing in front of the white board wielding a dry erase marker like a bayonet.
I hate this book. I'd rather eat moldy broccoli than read this book.
I don’t understand why we can’t read something cool. Like The Boy Who Saved Baseball or The Wild Pitch. Now those were good books. Heck, I kind of even liked Holes. All this talk of themes and symbolism makes me want to poke my eye out with my number two pencil.
I duck out of her line of sight. She's been droning on the entire class period about the book. She's going to call on someone to read out loud soon. And it better not be me.
I hate reading out loud. I see the words, then they jumble up like a puzzle when I try to read them.
Drumming my fingers on the desk, I turn my head and look out the window. If I squint my eyes enough, I can just make out the baseball diamond on the other side of the big grassy field.
I can hear the ump yelling "Batter up!" in my mind.
“Jake?” Hearing my name shouted shakes me out of my thoughts.
“What?” My voice comes out high, like a girl. I push myself upright and shrug my shoulders. I have no idea what Mrs. Cooper just asked me.
To my right, Kyle Filbert, my arch enemy, snickers, his black hair flopping forward and covering one of his eyes like a pirate's eye patch. I shoot him a dirty look and ball my hand up into a tight fist under my desk. Sometimes I really want to punch the jerk in the face. But Mom would be super mad at me if I did.
“I asked you to read the first paragraph of chapter three out loud to the class,” she says slowly, lifting her eyebrows at me. Or, should I say, eyebrow. She has one thick brown eyebrow that crawls across the top of her eyes like a caterpillar.
She picks on me on purpose. I know it. Because I have a harder time reading aloud than the other kids. It’s not fair.
I sigh as loud as I can and then tap my hand on my leg, stalling. Praying for the bell to ring so I can get out of this nightmare.
"Henry ... uh ... wal ... k ... walked by ... him ... self into ... uh ... into the ... uh ... dark ... nessss ... darkness." My palms sweat more and more with each word I read.
I stop and take a deep breath, fiddling with the baseball hat in my lap. I have to keep it hidden under my desk because Mrs. Cooper won't let me wear it in class. Last week she kept it for a whole day when I forgot to take it off before I walked into the classroom.
The final bell rings as I open my mouth to continue.
Safe!
“Saved by the bell, Mr. Evans.”
My shoulders slump forward and I drop my head, defeated.
She looks away from me and addresses the class. “Pick one of the major themes in The Red Badge of Courage and tell me how it relates to your own life – I want one typed page by Monday morning. And the practice spelling bee will be tomorrow. Don’t forget to study the word list I handed out last week.”
I stop, frozen in my seat, like I got sucked into a black hole.
The spelling bee?
NO!
I hate spelling. And I hate the spelling bee even more. We had to do one in class last year and I got my first word wrong. Tulip. The easiest word ever. Not to mention a total girl word. And I got it wrong. I spelled it "T-O-O-L-I-P." Everyone laughed at me. I wanted to hurl.
No way can I put myself through that kind of humiliation again.
I pull my baseball hat free from my belt loop and shape the bill between my palms, putting the spelling bee out of my mind. If I concentrate hard enough, I can hear the baseball field calling my name.
Batting seventh ... Number 11 ... Jake Evans.
I bolt outta my seat my seat and head for the door. I'm two steps from freedom when Mrs. Cooper shouts my name.
"Jake!"
I stop so fast my sneaker squeaks on the floor. My momentum propels me forward and I have to flap my arms like a bird so I don't fall on my face.
When I turn and look at Mrs. Cooper, she's holding a sheet of paper in front of her. Taking tiny steps, I shuffle my way to where she's standing and take the paper from her. There's a red D at the top of the page.
My stomach drops into the basement as I stare at the glaring red letter.
I stuff it in my backpack, groaning.
Mom's going to murder me and feed my insides to the ducks at the duck pond downtown.
"I understand today's the first day of baseball practice," she says, putting one hand on her hip and jutting her chin out to the side, toward the baseball field.
"Uh, yeah." I take a step backward toward the door. I wanna jet outta here so bad.
"You're very close to failing my class. If your grade falls any lower, you won't be able to play baseball."
My breath gets caught in my throat and I croak, "Huh?" I try to swallow, but it's like there's a huge wad of bubble yum stuck there. "No way," I squeak.
My face burns hotter and hotter the longer I stand here.
She stares at me so hard I'm surprised I don't combust. I ball my hands into tight fists, fighting the urge to flee.
"A failing grade means no baseball," she repeats, saying the words super slow, like I'm hard of hearing. I can hear her fine, I just don't like what she's saying.
"Is there anything I can do. Extra credit, or something." My voice rises. I probably sound like a girl.
She pauses, thinking. The caterpillar above her eyes wiggles a little as she considers my question.
"I'll tell you what. If you place in the top three in the classroom spelling bee next week you'll advance to the school spelling bee.
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