The April First Five Pages Workshop Opens on Saturday, April 4!

The First Five Pages March Workshop has come to an end.  This talented group worked so hard on their revisions, and it showed! And they provided great feedback and support to each other, as well. A big thanks to our guest mentor, Patricia Dunn and our guest agent mentor Kimberly Brower, who both gave great comments and suggestions, and of course to all of our fabulous permanent mentors!  

Our April workshop will open for entries at noon, EST, on Saturday April 4, 2015. We'll take the first five Middle Grade, Young Adult, or New Adult entries that meet all guidelines and formatting requirements.  Click here to get the rules. I will post when it opens and closes on Adventures in YA Publishing  and on twitter (@etcashman), with the hasthag #1st5pages.

In addition to our talented permanent mentors, we have the wonderful Becca Puglisi as our guest mentor.  Becca has helped countless writers with her books, website and workshops. I always have her books with me when I write and revise, they are so helpful! And we have my agent, the lovely Amaryah Orenstein of GO Literary, as our guest agent mentor. Amaryah is an editorial agent with great insight and suggestions. So get those pages ready!

April Guest Mentor - Becca Puglisi

Becca Puglisi is passionate about learning and sharing her knowledge with others. This is one of her reasons for writing The Emotion Thesaurus, The Positive Trait Thesaurus, and The Negative Trait Thesaurus. Her website, Writers Helping Writers, is a hub for all things description, offering tons of free resources to aid writers in their literary efforts. A member of SCBWI, she leads workshops at regional conferences and teaches webinars online.

April Guest Agent Mentor - Amaryah Orenstein

Amaryah Orenstein is the founder of GO Literary.  Amaryah has always loved to read and provide editorial advice and, as a literary agent, she is thrilled to help writers bring their ideas to life. She is particularly drawn to narrative non-fiction and memoir but enjoys any book that connects the reader to its characters and evokes thought and feeling. Amaryah began her career at the Laura Gross Literary Agency in 2009 and, prior to that, she worked as an Editorial Assistant at various academic research foundations.

First 5 Pages March Workshop - Mayorska Revision 2

Name: Lyudmyla Mayorska
Genre: Young Adult Fantasy
Title: TEMPLES of TETLAN

The beheadings took place, as usual, at full moon. The doomed souls rattled on the floor of the cage cart on the their way to meet the executioner’s axe – my mother’s axe. I watched them from the basement window disappear behind the street corner. The heavy rain accompanied them past the main arch of the Justice Temple in the direction of the execution field.

I knew the criminals deserved their fate, still, I couldn’t help but to feel pity for their misery. There would be no Priestess there, no prayers. Their feet would be buried outside the city under the statue of the wicked Nott. Their ribs would end up on the shelves of our Bone Shop next to the jars stuffed with finger-bone necklaces, parrots’ skulls, and teeth garlands ever so popular during the harvest holidays.

I sure was glad I wasn’t a boy. Even if my venture were to end in death, at least I could be certain of a proper, honorable burial for myself.

I kissed the fingertips of my right hand, wishing the two men quick death, then tiptoed across the stone floor back to my bed. Naked, I slipped into an old tunic, wrapped the straw blanket around my shoulders, and lit the half melted candle inside the old skull. I decorated it almost ten years ago - the very first human skull I painted for our shop, supplied mostly through my mother’s job. I brushed the jaws with gold and dragged a single black stripe across the forehead. I loved it so much, I asked for my Father’s help to scribe my name on the back with a stylus, like the great artists of the temples did marking their artwork.

“I don’t think we should sell it, Palenke. Keep the skull for your own candles,” he said when were done.

Even if I trusted my reasons for leaving, I still kneaded my knuckles and bit the inside of my cheek to keep from bursting into sobs when I snuck downstairs to bid my respects and say goodbyes to my father. Now three years dead, he was the only inhabitant of the ancestry room built under the kitchen floor of our house.  His body, wrapped in blue cloth and layered with salt and spices, was there for me to talk to, when my mother’s harshness drove me to madness. A stomach infection did him in, and not even Kalarai, the most respected shaman in Bilda City, could save him. “She-Demons do not favor men,” she reminded me as she rubbed the spot between my shoulder blades. I imagined his voice telling me stories of Tai-Tai, “people made of clay”, and straightened out the dried bouquets of herbs and garlands of clay beads hanging on the walls above him. I cherished the handful of memories the old bearded man with pale eyes and freckle spots left me.  I
 was sure he’d watch my upcoming trials form the Black.

I spent the rest of the night pacing my room and nibbling on dried plums with Vi curled around my neck. The monkey’s tail tickled my cheek. I would miss these walls. The pet sleeping under my chin and the smell of the crushed paint powder would soon become my past; the walls of the Temples of Tetlan – my very near future.

I whispered my prayers, ending the requests with, “This I deserve,” and kissed my fingertips, careful not to disturb Vi, when the door slammed, and my mother returned. All the familiar sounds of her shuffling through our shop into the kitchen, and setting a pot to boil, a chair shifting across the floor, the water pouring into the cup - put a rock in my throat and kept me awake even after the bed creaked under the weight of her body, and our home returned to silence

At the first sign of morning, I wiped a stubborn tear and pressed my lips between Vi’s ears, taking in her scent one last time. Carefully, I set her back down on my pillow. The black heavy heap of my floor-length hair remained loose and unbraided. Fifteen years I spent in this house, smelling corn breads and green snake soup, setting tiles into the bone masks and painting ribs. I was leaving everything behind, against my mother’s wishes, despite the low chance of success for my self-imposed quest.

But that was the very difference between my mother and I: she didn’t believe in risking the life of her daughter for a slim chance of saving her son. I couldn’t help myself. I was born in the year of the Jaguar, after all. She was a Carp. If nothing else could explain our constant bickering and clashing characters, the stars did.

I snuck past her bedroom. I shouldn’t have worried about waking her up. She slept like stone – still and somber with the white-leather mask on even in her sleep. They called her Faceless. Even I called her Faceless, on occasion. Only once did I see her without her mask. She was sick and took it off to rub a pale pink ointment on the bridge of her nose. I remember gasping at the sight of the ripped scars that tore through each of her cheeks and pulled at the corners of her eyes - part of the commitment ceremony when she received her assignment from the temple. She described to me the entire ordeal in great detail - the blade, the stinging, the smell of the burnt flesh. I was about to wretch my meal on her feet, when she made me swear I would never enter the temples. Ever.

At five years old I promised, gladly.

Turns out - I lied.

I wiped my eyes with the heel of my palm, forcing a deep breath and resolved not to think of my mother, at the very least not for the following three days. She and Vi would have to manage without me. I crossed the dusty floor of our shop in four paces, and the door slammed behind me, leaving the slanted shelves of our shop to be tended by someone other than myself, for a change. Someone else would carve the shoulder bones into whistles and string the ribs into ornate belts. Someone else would tile the sternums into amulets. I would never attend the Scribe Academy to become a record’s keeper, as my parents wished on me for as long as I could remember myself. I had more important things to attend to – promises to break, blood to shed, and a brother to unchain.

Barefoot, leaping over the puddles, I passed the perfectly shaped round chasm in the center of the square and approached my near destination. I reminded myself that risking my throat sliced over the Well of Gii, or my heart ripped out to the sound of the four-barrel clay flutes - was worth it. My twin brother was worth it.

First 5 Pages March Workshop - Saint-Laurent Revision 2

Name: Sarah Saint-Laurent

Genre: Young Adult Fantasy/Science Fiction

Title: The Mender

 Cambridgeshire, United Kingdom

Do you ever feel like you just know something is not quite right but you can’t prove it?

My entire life I’ve had this gnawing feeling that my parents are hiding something from me. Now I finally have the evidence I’ve been looking for… I think.

Last night I overheard them speaking in low, hushed tones in their bedroom. The door was cracked so naturally I peeked in (don’t judge me.) My father was holding a small wooden box in his hands. It looked extremely ancient and seemed to be causing some friction between him and mum. 

“The girls are not ready Morgan,” I heard dad say. He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose, a habit he has when he is feeling nervous or angry. By the look in his eyes he was experiencing both emotions.

My mother was standing at the large bay window looking out. When she turned and faced my father the look of uncertainty was unmistakable.  

“They’ll never be ready Aidan,” she said in reply. But if you’re going to make such a blasted big deal of it, just put the box back in its hiding place.”

“They’re still so young Morgan, they won’t possibly understand,” he said as he transferred the box nervously from one hand to the other.

My mother grabbed her thick brown hair and wound it at her neck in a knot. She looked thoroughly dejected. 

“Who knows when the right time will ever be? I was much younger than Vivienne when I found out the truth. But I suppose I can wait for another time.”

My mind began to splinter at the thought of all the possibilities this held. But I knew if I stayed here any longer I would be busted.  I tiptoed away from the door and made my way down the hall to my bedroom as stealthily as possible. I needed to concoct a plan to locate this hiding place and get my hands on that box. Maybe then I’ll finally get some answers. I felt a strange sensation surge through me. It felt like… excitement. 

This really is strange considering nothing exciting ever happens to me.  I am the Goddess of Typical. The members of my family possess a quirky-gene and I do not.   The only thing above-average about me is my curiosity.  Otherwise I am entirely blah: average height, average weight, average intellect, athletically average, average friends… the list is endless.

The only thing about me that is remotely unique, other than heightened curiosity, is the color of my eyes, and even that trait I share with the other females in my family, including my eccentric grandmother Lavender and Great-Gramsy Livonia. You see we all have green eyes, but each has a variant of green, either emerald or mossy or mint. One blustering winter day as I sat around the house bored senseless I Googled this odd fact and discovered only 2% of the world’s population has green eyes. Of course I have the most boring shade of green eyes in existence. I would call it pine. Other than that there is not one thing about me that is notable. 

I busily concocted a plan which clearly breaks the “no sneaking and no snooping around where you don’t belong’ house rule. My parents have a lot of rules. Now I know they have secrets too.

My parents keep a battered old chest with a massive brass lock in their bedroom. I always found this curious and strange as I’d never seen them open the chest. Not even once. When I was nine I asked my mum what the chest contained. She flatly replied “Vivienne, curiosity is overrated.” That was the end of the conversation. Now it began to make sense. They are hiding a secret from me, just like I always suspected and it was in that chest. Maybe.

Late last night while everyone was sleeping I snuck downstairs, went into my mother’s office and found the key she thinks I know nothing about. I may be curious but I have never done anything like this before. My heart banged around in my chest all night as I worried about my plan. If I get caught I am doomed.

The next day after school I zoomed up the staircase straight into my parent’s room. I wasted no time and moved straight for the chest. Mum and my little sister Gwen would be home any time from ballet class. My hand began to feel slippery as I drew the key to the chest out of my jacket pocket.

Besides the disgusting perspiration, I’ll admit small, dull daggers of guilt were beginning to poke at my conscience. The house rules were pretty clear on this matter. ‘Children do not sneak around in the private belongings of adults.’  But, I just didn’t care. I intended to find that secret box. That annoying little guilt thing kept popping into my mind but I kept pushing it right back out. 

I made my way over to the enormous chest and heaved open the heavy lid laying it gingerly backwards over the end of the bed. 

‘Blankets! How utterly disappointing,’ I thought to myself as I tossed most of them out onto the floor.

Underneath I discovered other really old items, I mean like ‘Aztec’ old. Among them a small collection of velvet pouches. I quickly peeked into each, one contained rocks and pebbles, another contained what looked like coins, and another held what appeared to be dust. 

‘Bullocks. Where is the box?’ 

Deep in the far corner I spied a large leather satchel with an outline of a butterfly embossed on it. ‘The box must be in that,’ I anxiously thought to myself praying my hard work would not end up a complete waste of time.

I spread my knees apart on the tapestry rug and pulled on the satchel straps. It was heavy. As I tugged harder it unexpectedly came flying out and I fell back on my rump… hard.

 I winced in pain and saw little floating spots dance in front of my eyes. I got up on my knees and pulled the satchel to my lap.

“Just what the Hell do you think you are doing Vivienne Louise Catesby?”

My stomach felt like it hit the kitchen on the floor below me. I looked up into my mother’s face staring at me. Her mint-green eyes pierced into mine. Her face was contorted and crimson red with a small vein on her forehead sticking out a little. My mum looked like a volcano about to explode. If anger could somehow become molten lava this volcano was about to hurl chunks of blistering magma sky high.

 “Oh hi mum,” I said while attempting to appear unshaken. “There is a perfectly good explanation for all this. It’s not at all what it looks—.” 

“Get up and get out. Go to your room immediately, I do not want to hear another word from you,” she said in short, clipped bursts as she attempted to stifle her obvious impulse to scream at me.

“But mum, you see--.”

“Vivienne, do not say another word.”

I dropped the satchel on the tapestry rug and slinked my way to the door not daring to take my eyes off my shoes. As I made my way down the hall I couldn’t help but think ‘maybe curiosity really is over-rated after all.’ One thing was for sure. Whatever was coming next 

First 5 Pages March Workshop - Carpinello Revision 2

Name:  Cheryl Carpinello

Genre:  Middle Grade XXX

Title:  Guinevere: At the Dawn of Legend—Cedwyn’s Story

Cedwyn shifted the reins of the horses to his left hand and then back again. Though nearly eleven, age had not made him more patience. Nor had it made his best friend, Guinevere, any quicker. He turned around as the slender sorrel nudged his back.

“I know, but she’s gotten slower. If she’d moved this slow the time that wild boar was chasing us, she wouldn’t have made it up that tree.” He scratched below the sorrel’s ear. At fifteen hands each, they made the perfect duo.

A low nicker from Guinevere’s black war horse reminded Cedwyn that it also had ears. The black even ducked its head knowing somehow that Cedwyn wouldn’t be able to reach its ears at over seventeen hands.

“Guin’ver! Hurry up!” He hollered up at the window in the keep, his newly deepened voice cracking.

He shivered as a strong gust of wind blew through the bailey, and he pulled his hide jerkin tighter. Cedwyn breathed in the crisp, sharp air of an early winter, then coughed as his nose and mouth filled up with smoke and ashes. For the last month the wind also carried the remains of the fires from the North, as renegades burnt whole villages to the ground rather than surrender to King Arthur. These days ashes covered every level surface and every nook, inside and outside. On days like today when the wind raced through, he forgot to breathe shallow and ended up choking.

Today, he and Guin’ver were going an adventure just like they had so many other times. Except this time, they’d be sure not to get in trouble. Nothing like the rabbit hunt the day King Arthur came to ask for Guinevere’s hand.

Cedwyn’s ma Brynwyn, who really ran the castle in the king’s absence, had given the approval for their ride and overnight stay at the Abbey. With the fighting contained to the northern lands, the castle was safe from danger.

“Here I am,” Guinevere said, her breath coming in small gasps. “I had to run back upstairs for my cloak.” She held out a slender arm blanketed in deep green.

“If we don’t leave soon, my Ma will find another chore for me to do. And for you, too.”

“She wouldn’t do that, would she?” Guinevere spun around looking for Brynwyn.

“She raised you like the daughter she never had, and you doubt me?

Guinevere straightened her body and stretched her neck until she stood half a head above Cedwyn. “Well, I’m going to be Arthur’s queen when the battles up north are over. And, at fifteen, I’m considered a woman now, not a child.”

Cedwyn laughed. “You know Ma. Doesn’t matter if I’m supposed to be the head of the family, or if you’re a princess soon to be a queen.”

“You’re right,” Guinevere said, laughing with him.

Their laughter echoed through the bailey causing several people and children to look up. Laughter came seldom these last few months, just ashes and smoke. They didn’t know if Arthur and his men—Cedwyn’s father and Guinevere’s father King Leodegrance among them—had gained or lost ground. The lack of information increased the tension within the castle walls: the daily scolding of children punctuated at times by the swish of willow stick and the cry of a child replaced the women’s gossip. And, among the men left—those essential to castle life and those too old or unfit for battle—quarrels had broken out.

But, today? Today would be fun, no trouble.

Outside the castle gates, they let the horses break into a canter and were soon hidden in the trees. 

Inside the forest, the smoke thinned; the branches acted as a filter, and after an hour’s ride, the air smelled fresher and held a hint of pine. Only when a strong gust rifled through the tree tops did a shower of ash flutter down.

“Want to stop by that glen and pick raspberries?” Guinevere asked.

“As long as we don’t try to hunt rabbits or run into wild boars,” Cedwyn said, a wide grin on his face.

“We sure did get in a lot of trouble, didn’t we?”

“Especially when you let that rabbit loose in the kitchen! I’m not sure Cook has ever forgotten that,” Cedwyn said.

“I don’t think he has. He still gives me that stare of his whenever anyone asks for rabbit for dinner.”

“You remember the time I ran away with you?”

“How could I forget? You’re ma yelled at me and then I had to face my father.”

“You got yelled at. I had to clean the stable and pig sties for a week after that,” Cedwyn said, his grin fading a bit at that thought.

Guinevere pulled up and turned to him. “You were my rock that day, Cedwyn. Without you, I’m not sure I would have consented to marry Arthur, and then my father might have disowned me.”

“You sometimes think that things aren’t going to turn out like they’re supposed to?” Cedwyn asked.

“You mean, do I wonder if I’ll really marry Arthur?”

Cedwyn nodded.

“And whether you’ll ever be a knight?”

He nodded again, embarrassed.

“Cedwyn, we’ve been best friends forever. If something happens and…and I don’t become a queen, you will be a knight. My father and yours will make sure of that.”

“I know, but sometimes it seems so far away…”

“Well, it’s not,” Guinevere said. “Com’on. Race you to the glen!” Her war horse took its cue and raced away.

Cedwyn hesitated a second, then gave the sorrel its head.

The two horses munched on tufts of green within reach of their bridled heads while their riders sat on the ground eating the raspberries they’d picked. 

“Those berries were almost as good as Cook’s circlette,” Cedwyn said, after finishing off his stack.

Guinevere nodded, her mouth too full to answer. She took a drink of water from an animal skin pouch, drank some, and passed it to Cedwyn.

A rush of wind found the glen and swirled fallen leaves caught in its grasp round and round like a dervish, a devil’s whirlwind. The war horse’s head jerked up, ears flattened. The sorrel imitated it with teeth bared. Guinevere and Cedwyn jumped up and grabbed their reins. Cedwyn’s arms struggled to hold the sorrel. The war horse planted its front legs wide, braced for battle, and tossed its head, nearly ripping the reins out of Guinevere’s hands.

They looked at each other thinking the same thought: If they had stay too long…

Keeping their horses in check, they struggled to mount as the animals spun round trying to find the danger. Once mounted, Guinevere and Cedwyn, their eyes wide with fear, continued to battle for control of the horses.

A scream filled with pain broke through the din of the horses and riders. 

“What was that?” Cedwyn asked.

“It didn’t sound like any animal I’ve ever heard.”

“I…”

“Ar...ar.” The hideous noise interrupted him. The skittish horses moved closer together.

It came again. “Nooooo!” And abruptly ended.

“That was a man,” Guinevere said, her voice shaking.

The horses pawed frantically, turning into each other, almost bolting. Both Guinevere and Cedwyn’s arms ached trying to hold them back.

Guinevere tightened her reins and finally turned the war horse around. Digging her heels in, head down, horse and rider raced down the narrow path.

Cedwyn followed, but continuously looked back under his arm. He feared this side trip had just turned into trouble.

First 5 Pages March Workshop - Chao Revision 2

Name: Gloria Chao
Genre: NA Multicultural Contemporary
Title: AMERICAN PANDA

​

As my dad searches for elusive street parking, Mom and I make our way into Chow Chow, our go-to Taiwanese restaurant. I’m probably the only college senior who sees her parents every Saturday, but I’d rather eat chicken feet than fight them. If you don’t have traditional Taiwanese parents, you don’t get to judge (and you probably don’t know how disgusting chicken feet really are).

Mom mercilessly pushes through the crowd of waiting patrons, and the hostess immediately motions to the wait staff. We’re longtime friends with the owner, Ling, and have been Chow Chow regulars since I was a baby.

Two waiters abandon their tasks to push three tables together to hold the massive amounts of food we’ll order. As we cut everyone who’s been waiting patiently, I cover my face in shame and follow the hostess underneath red ceiling lanterns to our extra-large corner table.

The mix of patrons is the usual: college students, families, and people my parents’ age. All Chinese, of course. The pungent smell of stinky tofu—yes, it’s actually called stinky tofu because it’s fermented, rotten tofu—wafts through the restaurant. It smells exactly how you would expect. What else is named stinky? Even poop doesn’t have its smell in its name.

My mom sniffs and smiles. “Smells like home.”

“Smells like garbage.” Even after twenty-one years, I’ve never acclimated.

“It’s just like the chee-se,” she says, separating the word cheese into two syllables. “Except chee-se is gross. This is so much better. And tastes delicious. Just try it. Once you eat it, you won’t think it smells bad anymore.”

“Okay. I’ll do that after you eat some poop,” I mumble to myself.

I sit next to the paper umbrella mounted in the corner. The Chinese calligraphy wallpaper makes me smile. This place feels as much like home as my parents’ kitchen. Add some plastic wrap over the furniture and it actually could be my parents’ kitchen.

I wait for my mom to go across the street to buy Chinese bread for the week, but she sits down and folds her hands.

“I need to talk to you before Dad arrives. I have this friend and her son is interested in meeting you.”

This again. When I was in high school, my mom thought dating a boy was equivalent to murder. Or not getting into a top-ten school. Then, the second I arrived at college, I had to find a husband.

Even though I know the effort is futile, I have to go down fighting. I’m not ready to settle down with the “perfect Chinese Ivy Leaguer” handpicked by my parents. Well, handpicked by my mom. My dad will go ballistic at the thought of me dating. He still thinks I’m five years old.

In my head, I hear my best friend, Lexi, telling me it’s normal to want to choose your husband and not limit him to one ethnicity and eight colleges. Or in her words, 

​"​

Stop being cray-cray. We’re not in ancient China anymore.

​"​

 In fact, she thinks it’s bonkers I obey my parents as much as I do. She doesn’t believe me when I tell her other Chinese-Americans think I’m too rebellious.

“Mei! Listen to me! He’s Taiwanese, and he went to Brown, got a master’s at UPenn, and is now studying to be a doctor at Tufts.”

“Brown and Tufts? I thought you only approved of Harvard or MIT.”

“Well, you’re getting old. I change my standards. You made me. Your eggs are getting cold.” My mom jabs a finger into my belly. She frowns, then pinches a fat roll. “Did you gain weight? Are you even exercising?” I clamp my mouth shut, afraid I’ll reveal how much time I’ve spent away from studying for dance class.

She’s teeny-tiny without trying, but my genes come from my dad. Ahem, my two-hundred-fifty-pound dad. I will never be Asian-skinny. I personally like that I don’t look like a chopstick that will fall over when the wind blows, but apparently I’m in the minority.

She pokes my breast. “Why can’t you gain weight in your breasts? They much too small. Like mosquito bites. I bring papaya for you next week. To make your breasts grow.” She shakes a bony finger at me. “You need to be careful, Mei. How will you ever get a man? Do you want your child to be born with Down Syndrome? You need to have one soon. And this boy is perfect. His family is very well off. The dad started two companies that went public. But you’d never know they’re rich. So humble and frugal.”

Ahhh there it is. The money. “Why is he so pathetic that he needs his mom to find him dates?”

“Well, he’s shy. He’s a good kid. It’s hard to meet people when you’re like that. Don’t worry, he’s perfect.”

“Oh, so you’ve met him?” I ask even though I already know the answer.

“Well, no, but his parents are such great people. That’s all you need to know. If it’s looks you’re worried about, he’s gorgeous. His mother said so.”

“Oh great, that makes me feel so much better—an unbiased opinion.”

“And everyone at Bible study is trying to get Mrs. Shu to introduce her son to their daughters. She’s refused every one of them, but she came to me about you.”

“Uhh that’s creepy. She doesn’t know me.”

“Yes, but she knows me,” my mom says as if I’m stupid. “Since I’m a good person, you must be good. And she’s seen a picture of you.”

I nod, understanding now. I’ve met the daughters of the Bible study women. It’s not as great of a compliment as you might think.

“I thought you didn’t want me to have an overbearing mother-in-law after what you went through with Nai Nai,” I say, reminding her of the crap my grandmother has put her through. I’m already afraid of meddling Mrs. Shu.

“Exactly! Mrs. Shu will be a great mother-in-law. Not overbearing at all.”

“Right, because she’s been so normal so far.”

“Exactly.”

I sigh. Sarcasm doesn’t translate. “No. Stop finding me dates.”

My mom slams her hand onto the table. “Your mother knows best. You’ll see. At this rate I’m going to have to pay for you to freeze your eggs. Like what my friends do.”

“Maybe we’ll see what Dad has to say about this.”

I escape the insanity by dragging my fossilized eggs to the bathroom. When I return, my dad has arrived. “Hey Dad, guess what Mom and I were just—”

My mom cuts me off. “Look! Hanwei’s parents!” She points in a much-too-obvious way.

First 5 Pages March Workshop - Pagel-Hogan Revision 2

Name: Elizabeth Pagel-Hogan

Genre: Middle Grade Contemporary

Title: Dare Club

I gripped the tree branch with all of my strength, but couldn’t hold on much longer.

“Hang on, Tony!” cried my best friend Inky. 

I closed my eyes. My arms felt like they were being pulled out of my shoulder sockets. I gritted my teeth as the rough bark scratched my palms. 

“I’m slipping!” I gasped. My fingers were going numb.

“I’ve almost got it!” Inky said. “Just one more second!” He glanced back and forth from me to his sketchbook. I tried to hold on as his hand whipped around the page.

“Argh!” I cried and fell. I hit the ground and my ankle twisted under and I fell backwards into the dry leaves. Only klutzy me would get hurt after dangling about a foot above the ground. We were in the woods behind Inky’s house working on his new comic book story. I was helping Inky out so he could draw a character in his new comic realistically dangling in midair over a cliff. 

Inky sat on a log still drawing like crazy in his sketchbook that never left his side. Inky only drew with ink pens, never pencils, so his fingers and hands were always covered in black ink. He read somewhere that real artists never erased mistakes, they just worked them into their drawing. 

I flexed my fingers and grimaced as they itched and tingled. The rough bark had scratched off the day-old scabs I had gotten from falling - instead of stepping - out of my mom’s minivan. I brushed the constellation of bright red blood dots off my palms onto my shorts. My mom wouldn’t be surprised by a little more blood. She told me once I kept the stain remover company in business all by myself. 

“Did you get it?” I asked Inky. 

He leaned back so I could see the page over his shoulder. 

I saw a guy hanging from a tree branch, a serious look of determination in his eye, the muscles in his arms bulging.

“Wow, who is that?” I asked.

“That’s you!” Inky grinned. “At least, it’s based on you.” 

“No way, dude.” I shook my head.

“What did I do wrong?” Inky held the sketchbook out at arm’s length and squinted at it through his glasses. 

Once again Inky’s drawing skills blew my mind. The guy on the paper did not look like some clumsy, scabby kid. The guy on the paper looked strong and brave. And cool. If I looked like the guy on the paper I would have no trouble starting middle school in two weeks.

“Nothing, as usual. It’s amazing,” I patted his shoulder.

Inky was the best artist in our elementary school. I was sure he was going to be the best artist in sixth grade, maybe even the entire middle school. But he was so shy about his drawings, I was the only one who knew how good he really was. Sometimes I felt like I was Robin to his Batman, keeping his talent a secret. If Robin was a total klutz, that is. 

The scab on my elbow itched. I scratched it. Then the one near my ankle itched. Neither one seemed to be getting better fast enough. 

“Only two more weeks,” I reminded Inky. 

“That’s plenty of time,” Inky said.   

I hoped it was. It had to be. Only two more weeks and I could start middle school scab-free and get rid of that stupid nickname from elementary school. 

Trying not to get scabs ruined the summer. I wanted to climb trees. I wanted to use my new skateboard. I wanted to backflip off the diving board and play flashlight tag and even camp out with Inky in his backyard. But every one of those was sure to end up with klutzy me earning a brand new reddish-brown bumpy, itchy scab.

My palms stung. Would these heal in two weeks? Even though I had stopped doing anything fun, or basically stopped, I still got scabs. When one got better, I tripped, or fell, or bumped into something and a whole new scab started. I couldn’t go into school with a scab. Not after the yearbook fiasco.

“Are you almost done?” I said. I wanted to head back to the air conditioning. It was late in the afternoon and even in the cool of the woods sweat rolled down my back.

“Almost,” Inky said without looking up. 

If only there was a breeze. But the woods were completely still. As soon as I noticed that, I realized there was something different about the woods. There was no sound at all. No birds, no insects. 

The woods weren’t big but a little ways in the nearby houses are hidden and it feels like a wilderness. Basically it was a large area of trees and bushes but there was a ravine with a creek winding along the bottom. Down there were some cool boulders that were fun to climb on, but there was lots of poison ivy. And no matter how careful I was, I usually ended up with a new set of scrapes, bruises and a really itchy rash. Whenever Inky and I played in the woods we usually went to a small clearing with some fallen logs. Other kids went there, too, because once we found the cold black ashes of a campfire and a bunch of crushed, empty beer cans there. We didn’t tell Inky’s mom about that. 

We were alone, but I couldn't shake the feeling that someone or something was nearby. I stared into the trees. And then I heard a sound that filled my stomach with piranhas. 

“Oh no,” I said. “Hide!”

I shoved Inky backward off the log and dragged him behind a tree trunk.  

“Tony!” Inky said. “Watch out!”

I scanned the woods. I couldn’t see them but I could hear them.

“You bent the page,” he said. Typical Inky. He wasn’t worried about the coming danger, but if anything happened to his sketchbook the world would end.

“Shh!” I whispered.

“You almost wrecked my drawing,” he frowned.

I clamped my hand over his mouth and pointed. A group of kids we knew came into sight on the trail, but they were the last kids I wanted to see on summer vacation.

“It’s Gunderpants,” I said.

Gunther, or as I secretly called him Gunderpants, had a chipped tooth and his own smartphone. He had a group of friends who followed him around always whispering to each other and laughing at Gunther’s mean pranks and shoving people out of the way. My secret nickname for them was the Mosquitos. Seeing Gunther and his gang was not how I planned to end my summer. I hoped he had been abducted by aliens or recruited for science experiments at the bottom of the ocean. I knew when sixth grade started I’d have to face him but I wasn’t ready. I still had scabs. I peeked out.

“Did he see us?” Inky asked. I shook my head and didn’t answer.

“Good, because if he did I bet he would—”

Before Inky finished his sentence, Gunderpants froze. He held out an arm and the Mosquitos bumped into each other. Gunther scanned the woods. I didn’t duck fast enough.

“Hello Scabs,” he grinned.

Chapter Two - The Tunnel

“Hi Gunther,” I muttered and stood up. His huge booted feet snapped thick twigs as he left the trail and marched into the clearing. Gunther had six inches on me. 

First 5 Pages March Workshop - Mayorska Revision 1

Name: Lyudmyla Mayorska
Genre: Young Adult Fantasy
Title: TEMPLES of TETLAN

The beheadings took place, as usual, at full moon. The doomed souls rattled on the floor of the cage cart on the their way to meet the executioner’s axe – my mother’s axe. I watched them from the basement window disappear behind the street corner. The heavy rain accompanied them past the main arch of the Justice Temple in the direction of the execution field.

I knew the criminals deserved their fate, still, I couldn’t help but to feel pity for their misery. There would be no Priestess there, no prayers. Their feet would be buried outside the city under the statue of the wicked Nott. Their ribs would end up on the shelves of our Bone Shop next to the jars stuffed with finger-bone necklaces, parrots’ skulls, and teeth garlands ever so popular during the harvest holidays.

I sure was glad I wasn’t a boy. Even if my venture were to end in death, at least I could be certain of a proper, honorable burial for myself.

I kissed the fingertips of my right hand, wishing the two men quick death, then tiptoed across the stone floor back to my bed. Naked, I slipped into an old tunic, wrapped the straw blanket around my shoulders, and lit the half melted candle inside the old skull. I decorated it almost ten years ago - the very first human skull I painted for our shop, supplied mostly through my mother’s gruesome job. I brushed the jaws with gold and dragged a single black stripe across the forehead. I loved it so much, I asked for my Father’s help to scribe my name on the back with a stylus, like the great artists of the temples did marking their artwork.

“I don’t think we should sell it, Palenke. Keep the skull for your own candles,” he said when were done.

Even if I trusted my reasons for leaving, I still kneaded my knuckles and bit the inside of my cheek to keep from bursting into sobs when I snuck downstairs to bid my respects and say goodbyes to my father. Now three years dead, he was the only inhabitant of the ancestry room built under the kitchen floor of our house.  His body, wrapped in blue cloth and layered with salt and spices, was there for me to talk to, when my mother’s silence and harshness drove me to madness. I imagined his voice telling me stories of Tai-Tai, “people made of clay”, and straightened out the dried bouquets of herbs and garlands of clay beads hanging on the walls above him. I was sure he’d watch my upcoming trials form the Black.

He was the second son. Naturally, he was never offered to the temples, but his life wasn’t long either way. I cherished the handful of memories the old bearded man with pale eyes and freckle spots left me.  A stomach infection did him in, and not even Kalarai, the most respected shaman in Bilda City, could save him. She shook her bony finger in his face, frowning, and promising him nothing but death, so when he grew cold, it didn’t come as a surprise.  “She-Demons do not favor men,” she reminded me as she rubbed the spot between my shoulder blades. After the prayers were sung, but before the tears have dried, Kalarai returned to the temple steps, to continue collecting She-Demon’s grace and passing it along to the young girls as blessings.

I spent the rest of the night awake in my bed with Vi curled up on my neck. The monkey’s tail tickled my cheek, while my mind wondered.

I knew I would miss these walls. The pet sleeping under my chin and the smell of the crushed paint powder would soon become my past; the walls of the Temples of Tetlan – my very near future.

I whispered my prayers, ending the requests with, “This I deserve,” and kissed my fingertips, careful not to disturb Vi, when the door slammed, and my mother returned. All the familiar sounds of her shuffling through our shop into the kitchen, and setting a pot to boil, a chair shifting across the floor, the water pouring into the cup - put a rock in my throat and kept me awake. And even after the bed creaked under the weight of her body, and our home returned to silence, I spent the night nibbling on dried plums and listening to the rain.

At the first sign of morning, I wiped a stubborn tear and pressed my lips between Vi’s ears, taking in her scent one last time. Carefully, I set her back down on my pillow. The black heavy heap of my floor-length hair remained loose and unbraided. Fifteen years I spent in this house, smelling corn breads and green snake soup, setting tiles into the bone masks and painting ribs. I was leaving everything behind, against my mother’s wishes, and despite the low chance of success for my self-imposed quest.

But that was the very difference between my mother and I: she didn’t believe risking the life of her second child for a slim chance of saving the life of her first one. I couldn’t help myself. I was born in the year of the Jaguar, after all. She was a Carp. If nothing else could explain our constant bickering and clashing characters, the stars did.

I snuck past her bedroom. I shouldn’t have worried about waking her up. She slept like stone – still and somber with the white-leather mask on even in her sleep. They called her Faceless. Even I called her Faceless, on occasion. Only once did I see her without her mask. She was sick and took it off to rub a pale pink ointment on the bridge of her nose. I remember gasping at the sight of the ripped scars that tore through each of her cheeks and pulled at the corners of her eyes - part of the commitment ceremony when she received her assignment from the temple. She described to me the entire ordeal in great detail - the blade, the stinging, the smell of the burnt flesh. I was about to wretch my meal on her feet, when she made me swear I would never enter the temples. Ever.

At five years old I promised, gladly.

Turned out - I lied.

I wiped more water from my eyes with the heel of my palm, forcing a deep breath and a smile, resolved not to think of my mother, at the very least not for the following three days. She and Vi would have to manage without me from now on. I crossed the dusty floor of our shop in four paces, and the door slammed behind me, leaving the slanted shelves of our shop to be tended by someone other than myself, for a change. Someone else would carve the shoulder bones into whistles, someone else would string the ribs into ornate belts, someone else would tile the sternums into amulets. I would never attend the Scribe Academy to become a record’s keeper, as my parents wished on me for as long as I could remember myself. I had more important things to attend to – promises to break, blood to shed, and a brother to unchain.

Barefoot, I leaped over the puddles, passed the perfectly shaped round chasm in the center of the square, approaching my near destination and reminding myself that my offering was worth the risk.