1st 5 Pages September Workshop Opens Saturday, September 5!

I was sad to see the 1st 5 Pages August Workshop come to an end – we had such a great group of talented and supportive writers! A big thanks to our guest mentors, the amazing Lori Goldstein was our author mentor (and workshop alum!), and our agent mentor was the fabulous Caitie Flum of Liza Dawson Associates. They both provided terrific comments and suggestions. And as always, thank you to all of our fabulous permanent mentors!

Our September workshop will open for entries on Saturday September 5, 2015, at noon, EST. 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 hashtag #1st5pages. In addition to our permanent mentors, we have author JJ Howard and agent Danielle Burby!

And we have a new format! The workshop is three weeks, but the third week will now include a pitch. And Danielle will select one participant as the “workshop winner”- and the prize is that she will review and comment on the first chapter of the manuscript! So get those pages ready!

September Guest Mentor – JJ Howard

If you’re looking for J. J. Howard, you’ll probably find her in Central Florida, but she wishes you’d find her in New York City. NYC, along with books, TV, music, coffee, and her mini-dachshund Willow are on top of her list of favorite things. By day she teaches English and Humanities at a small private high school, and by night she writes, edits, or Netflixes.

Howard’s debut YA, That Time I Joined the Circus, tells the story of Lexi, who accidentally joins the circus (and falls in love) while searching for her missing mother. Her second YA, Tracers, follows Cam, a NYC bike messenger who meets a beautiful stranger named Nikki who pulls him into the world of parkour. Her debut Middle grade, Sit, Stay, Love is coming from Scholastic this January.

TRACERS

Cam is a New York City bike messenger with no family and some dangerous debts. While on his route one day, he runs into a beautiful stranger named Nikki—but she quickly disappears. When he sees her again around town, he realizes that she lives within the intense world of parkour: an underground group of teens who have turned New York City into their own personal playground—running, jumping, seemingly flying through the city like an urban obstacle course.

Cam becomes fascinated with Nikki and falls in with the group, who offer him the chance to make some extra money. But Nikki is dating their brazen leader, and when the stakes become life-or-death, Cam is torn between following his heart and sacrificing everything to pay off his debts.

In the vein of great box-office blockbusters, the high-stakes romance here sizzles within this page-turning thriller that will leave readers feeling like they are flying through the streets of New York.

Purchase it at your local bookstore, or online at Amazon or Barnes and Noble

September Guest Agent – Danielle Burby

Danielle graduated from Hamilton College with honors and a double major in Creative Writing and Women’s Studies. Before finding her home at HSG, she interned at Writers House, Clarion Books, Faye Bender Literary Agency, Dunow Carlson and Lerner, John Wiley and Sons, and SquareOne Publishers (along with stints as a waitress and a farmers’ market vendor).

Her passion lies in YA, Women’s Fiction, and mysteries. She gravitates toward stories with a strong voice and particularly enjoys complex female characters, narratives that explore social issues, and coming-of-age stories. Genres that appeal to her include contemporary YA, medieval fantasy, historical fiction, cozy mysteries, and upmarket Women’s Fiction. She finds it hard to resist gorgeous writing and is a sucker for romantic plotlines that are an element of the narrative, but don’t dominate it. You can follow her on twitter at @danielleburby.

1st 5 Pages August Workshop - Miles Pitch

Name: Melissa Miles
Genre: Young Adult
Title: Hashtag Witness

 

Hashtag Witness is the story of seventeen-year-old Mindy Jackson, a feisty redhead dreaming big of life after high school. She never planned to spend the end of her junior year jumping at shadows, but a serial killer terrorizing her community causes the summer to begin in a haze of foreboding. Her refuge from small town blues becomes the epicenter of a media frenzy aptly dubbed a "Reign of Terror"--and suddenly the tranquility of her family's secluded lake house has become anything but tranquil.

 

The killer's arrest should have brought Mindy relief, but instead she's thrust into the media circus swirling around the case in the most negative way possible--as a witness for the Defense. Danger had been closer than she'd imagined, causing her to question everything she'd previously believed about her ability to sense it in her midst.  

 

Cruelly bullied on social media and at school, Mindy struggles to perform her required duty as a subpoenaed witness without compromising her principles. Helping her face down her fears are her quirky group of friends and a mysterious new student, who appears to be everything she's ever wanted in a boyfriend--but can she still trust her instincts?

1st 5 Pages August Workshop - Pennington Pitch

Name: Valerie Pennington

Genre: Young Adult Contemporary

Title: Opposites Collide

Charlotte Beckers’ perfect image of her summer in The Leaders of the Eastern Academic Division (LEAD) Program quickly crashes into reality when Garrett Williams, the arrogant captain of the baseball team, gets chosen alongside her. Leaving behind her best friend and the small town on Lambertville, Michigan, the two begin their journey to Providence with a twelve-hour road trip filled to the brim with obstacles. And that’s only the beginning.

The first day of the program brings forward new friends, new possibilities, and new surroundings, as well news of a summer-long project… with Garrett as her partner. Their friction intensifies as they are forced to work together and explosive fights leave their project in danger but that’s not the only thing on the line. Charlotte’s dreams of Brown University are at stake as well as something infinitely scarier, her heart.

Their summer proves to be full of firsts: Charlotte’s first female friend, Garrett’s (surprisingly) first black eye, and a first kiss that demandsattention. As Charlotte learns more about herself, she might just learn that the summer unexpected is better than she ever could have imagined.

Who knows what could happen when opposites collide?

1st 5 Pages August Workshop - Hartley Pitch

Name: Erin Foster Hartley

Genre: YA Contemporary

Title: Skylar's Kids

After sixteen-year-old drag performer Alexander is betrayed by rival queens, he decides to seek out his biological family. Movie star Skylar Webb auctioned off his sperm to one hundred female fans—including Alexander’s mom—before a nervous breakdown sent him into seclusion in 1997. Alexander and five of his troubled half-siblings track Skylar to a secluded South American island, where they discover their shared heritage is both a blessing and a curse.

1st 5 Pages August Workshop - Roberts Pitch

Name: Danielle Roberts
Genre: Young Adult XXX
Title: Without



It’s the year 2060, and everyone is happy at last. World peace has finally graced the inhabitants of Earth. But, it’s all Alacrisotium’s doing—the miracle serum invented by Simon Hugh Wells. Mandatory and highly successful, Alcrisotium pumps GABA, Serotonin, and Oxycotin through the brains of millions so that they can only feel joy. But there are those whose brains—for reasons unknown—don’t take the serum: Resisters.

Alli Carter falls beneath that unfortunate category. Forced to come to terms with what she was right after the procedure, Alli has lived in perpetual fear of being caught for years. She must pretend the serum worked to get by, to not get captured and taken away like all the other Resisters. With AE’s (Alacrisotium enforcers) at every corner, Alli must constantly keep up her exhausting façade to avoid getting caught.

But then, her mother discovers Alli’s secret, and doesn’t hesitate to do as they are taught: turn Resisters in. Alli is forced to run from home to avoid capture and ends up in the hands of an organization, HMF, who is against Alacrisotium being mandatory. Shortly afterwards, a valuable piece of information is discovered that could alter everything. But with a traitor in the midst of the organization, obtaining the information becomes more difficult than they could have ever imagined. But Alli knows they must get a hold of it before it’s too late, and truly show the world that without pain, there is no happiness.

1st 5 Pages August Workshop - Shorrock Revision 2

Subject: Shorrocks Revision 1
YA Gothic

“The most important tools of the magician are diversion and timing.” – Anonymous Victorian conman.

“Hold your breath when a black bird flies, count to seventeen and close your eyes.” – S/C/A/R/E/C/R/O/W – My Chemical Romance
Yorkshire in winter can be a savage place, the moors particularly so. There’s no buffer to the wind that howls straight off the frozen rock, flinging snow and sleet at anyone unfortunate enough to find themselves outdoors, it will leave you fighting for breath in a matter of seconds. Only the adventurous or the stupid ever wandered outside at this time of year. I didn’t consider myself to be either. I just needed to get lost in that whiteness, to numb the weight of grief and betrayal that had shadowed me since my father’s death.

The path that ran beside the river seemed deserted, my boot prints in the snow the only evidence of life as I made my way up to the churchyard cemetery. I checked the windows of the old Vicarage, but the curtains remained safely closed. As the new girl in town, it wouldn’t do my reputation a lot of good to be found haunting the graves of long dead locals in my free time.

Someone had chosen to place the stone angel facing the wrath of the moor, forcing her to endure centuries of whatever the weather chose to throw in her direction. Her features had been erased over the years, as had the details of whoever she watched over. I crouched down and ran my hands over the grave’s cold face, as if the texture alone might give me some hint as to who was buried there.

It was the scent of my mother’s favourite perfume that first alerted me to the fact that I had been followed. The woman had always had the uncanny ability to sneak up on anyone in silence.

“Lil,” Her voice was wary, “What are you doing here?”

Out of the litany of low and bizarre acts she had committed over the past few weeks, for some reason trailing me around in secret seemed the most despicable. The sudden wave of anger even took me by surprise.

“Just go back to your precious house and leave me alone.”

She took at cautious step towards me, pulling her coat closer around her. “Listen to me.”

The thought that my behaviour may be starting to scare her was strangely satisfying. It evened the stakes between us.

“No, Ali.” She flinched slightly at my sudden use of her Christian name, “You try listening for once instead of turning away from everything and running.”

“I’m not running, Lil.”

When the police arrived on the afternoon of my seventeenth birthday to tell us that my father’s helicopter had crashed on the way back from one of his archaeological digs both of our worlds imploded. After that my mother couldn’t stand the pain of being around anything that reminded her of him and I couldn’t bear to let him go.

I blinked back the hot tears of frustration the seemed ever threatening these days, “What do you call selling up and moving to the other side of the country without even asking me if I was okay with that? What do you call him being buried half a day’s travel away so that I will never even get to visit his grave?”

“Necessary.”

“Right, unlike the need for me to be able to go through some normal sort of grieving process. It’s just easier to send me to a shrink.”

She turned away from me.

“Don’t bother walking again. I’ll save you the effort.” I stormed back the way I had come. This time she didn’t bother to follow.

It wasn’t until I passed by the huge evergreen oak by the side of the church that I noticed the third set of footprints in the snow. They stopped in its shadows and then returned back the way they had come, the way we all had come, along the riverside. Somewhere in the tree above me a bird flapped its wings.

It had been twenty-one days since we buried my father, three days since we came to Ilkley, and less than twenty-four hours since the crows had started arriving.

Three of the birds were perched on top of the old gable above the front door when I stumbled up the drive. They watched my approach, remaining silent but constantly shifting, as uneasy in my company as I was in theirs. A faint light seeped out between the curtains giving the only soft touch to the heavy Victorian stone. The houses in this part of the world had been built to keep wild weather and superstition out, and the living safely in. For the first time since our arrival I was glad of their pure bulk. I gave the crows one last look before I went inside, the wind slamming the door behind me.

The kitchen was the one room in the house my mother I had managed to stake out as our own so far. Gourmet cooking magazines and fashion catalogues were strewn across the bench next to her half empty glass of wine and my school timetable. A framed photo of the three of us I hadn’t seen in years had been propped up against one of the cupboard doors. It was taken at one of my father’s excavation sites, we were all splattered with mud and laughing at some long dead joke. I wondered where she had found it, and if the picture was what had triggered her to come looking for me.

Because she wasn’t there to stop me, I picked up her drink and carried it up to the sanctuary of my room. The tiny Juliette balcony outside was where the first of the crows had arrived, just on dusk the night before. In the silence of the, fog the commotion of wings had startled me. There was enough light left to make out the bird’s black form and the way it perched on the railing, one dark eye trained on my room and the other on the moor. I had gone downstairs and dug an old torch out from under the sink in the kitchen, checking on it at regular intervals during the night, but it never moved or showed any sign that it knew it was being watched. When I woke in the morning it was gone.

In the fading light I checked for footprints around the exterior of the house but there was no sign of whoever had followed us earlier. A single black feather had become stuck in the ice on the balcony railing. I eased it off and ran it against my cheek, walking back indoors.

“What are you?”

1st 5 Pages August Workshop - Miles Revisions 2

Name: Melissa Miles
Genre: Young Adult
Title: Hashtag Witness

 

One of the worst days of my seventeen years was the day they found the body of Dana May. It was the day reality slapped me in the face and I realized that I could actually become the next target in a deadly predator's sights.

 

The incessant media coverage of the so-called Reign of Terror gripping our state had me jumping at shadows and pulling the covers up to my chin at night like I did when I was a little kid. At first the sensationalistic phrase annoyed me, but now I've come to accept that it's pretty damn accurate. We are all being terrorized. All of us.

 

Her decomposing corpse had just been discovered in a remote area within a few miles of my family's vacation home. The news hit me like a sucker punch in the gut. My breathing felt constricted when I first heard exactly where she'd turned up. It was just way too close for comfort. Even knowing that a cold-blooded killer had been anywhere in that vicinity made my skin crawl.

“Aren't you worried Mindy?" The expression on Whitney's face clearly conveyed that she thought I should be. I'd just jumped nearly a foot when a kid behind me dropped his tray, but I didn't want to admit how freaked out I was--even though I was pretty sure it wasn't just the smell of cafeteria cabbage making me want to puke.

 

It had been a decent morning for a school day. The teachers were more ready than we were for summer break, so we'd just signed yearbooks and wasted a crap load of time in all of my classes. As soon as I walked into the cafeteria, it was obvious that yesterday's talk of Netflix summer viewing plans had been replaced by talk of the gruesome discovery.

 

Attempting to tune out the chatter and appear nonchalant, I shrugged casually in response to her question. "I'm not all that worried really."

 

Ugh. I don't know why I always try to act so tough, but I hate showing weakness. My dad says it comes from my Highlander ancestry, just like my thick tangle of red hair. I think I'm just stubborn.

Whitney plowed ahead, ignoring my denial. "But both of those girls disappeared within thirty miles of y'all’s house up at the lake.” Permanently on her phone, she was already pulling up a map of the area in question just to prove her point.

“Thirty miles is a pretty huge area,” I shot back, trying not to sound irritated. Ditching this small town for our secluded house on the lake was the one thing I’d really been looking forward to during these last weeks of school. I refuse to let crazy fears ruin it for me. What's the chance some killer would pick me out of all the other teenage girls around?

"Whitney's making a good point for once." My head whipped around to gawk at my best friend Sanjay. Not him too. His expression showed a trace of amusement, but for once he wasn't being entirely sarcastic.

Sanjay popped some Cheetos in his mouth, appearing to seriously ponder the point, then persisted, “Well, Min I’ll tell you. If the killer was limited to travel on foot you might have a fair point. But considering that he has access to a car, as widely reported by the press, I don’t think thirty miles is a significant enough buffer zone for my personal comfort level.”

Until I met Sanjay, I'd never met anyone else my age with such a mastery of the English language. He'd jokingly called me a brazen trollop once, and I'd had to look it up before I could even get offended.

Sanjay broke into his pitch-perfect impression of the principal's PA voice, “Students and faculty, may I have your attention please?” He provided the realistic pause to allow for everyone to shut up and listen. “In one short week, the normally sensible Bob and Laura Jackson will be removing their enticing daughter Mindy from the relative safety of small town South Carolina, and plunking her into the path of a serial killer. You might want to make a special point to say farewell to her before school is out for summer.”

I glared at him, one eyebrow raised. “Seriously?” He evaded a swipe of my yearbook against the side of his head with no concern for my hostility. “ And I'd been looking forward to your normal lunchtime comedy act. That's all you've got?”

“Actually, I think your folks taking a vacay at the ‘lake house’,” his fingers made air quotes around the words, “in the midst of the largest manhunt in the history of the state provides for a good shtick.”

“You're such an ass,” I said, even though I was completely unable to refrain from smiling. Sanjay found it hilarious that my parents had put a double-wide trailer on such a prime spot on the lake. Our trailer lake house was an ongoing joke between us, and the tone in which he said the words was too funny not to elicit at least a brief smile.

"In fact, I did make good use of my unexpected free time this morning," he continued, pulling a folded piece of paper from his backpack. Sanjay had spent his first class period drawing a picture of me hanging clothes on a line, wearing Daisy Dukes and a cropped top outside of a trailer. He’d added a caption under the picture that read: “How trailer people do laundry.”

"Wow, I'm so flattered," I said as sarcastically as possible. But to be honest, I planned to keep the picture forever.

Whitney, refusing to have her concerns pushed aside, brandished her phone again. “It says right here that the suspect is now a person of interest in as many as five other unexplained disappearances of young women over the past two years. This is getting massive.” When my expression didn't render an appropriate level of concern, she quickly added, “It’s been all over CNN,” as if hoping to sway me decidedly into freak out mode.

I eyed them each suspiciously. If they kept this up, I wouldn't be able to keeping faking my calm facade. “Do you guys want me to nut up over this? You’ve both been up there. Nothing remotely exciting ever happens—that’s kind of the point. It's quiet."

Sanjay waved a hand. “Forget I brought it up.” He immediately switched gears, leaning in close to whisper, “1985 called and asked Laurel to return that big hair.”

I laughed, but didn't find anything funny at the moment. I pretended to listen as Sanjay and Whitney debated a rumor about our English teacher hooking up with the much younger assistant football coach. I was too distracted to stay focused, but the topic was at least a welcome change.

I wondered if they would still want to come up to visit this summer, or if the place seems undesirable now. Sanjay shouldn't be worried--it wasn't guys who were getting grabbed from their yards in broad daylight. But it did feel like a cancer had infected the entire area where girls had vanished and their bodies had been recovered. And our lake house was right in the middle of the tumor.

As we began ambling towards class, Sanjay winked. "We weren't trying to freak you out, Min. I'm sure it will be fine."

God, I hoped he was right. I really needed an escape from this town. 

1st 5 Pages August Workshop - Hartley Revision 2

Name: Erin Foster Hartley

Genre: YA Contemporary

Title: Skylar’s Kids

House passes sperm donation bill

By Dirk Stimmel, USA Today

February 12, 1997

WASHINGTON — The House passed a bill Monday limiting the number of sperm donations individuals may make for the purpose of artificial insemination, but only in cases where the donor won’t be directly involved in raising the resulting child.

Passed 398-12, the Reckless Procreation Prevention Act — otherwise known as the Skylar Webb Bill — received nearly unanimous bipartisan support from its inception. The president has vowed to sign it into law immediately.

Last September, in the midst of a highly-publicized nervous breakdown, movie star Skylar Webb auctioned off samples of his sperm to 100 female fans. How many of these women will ultimately follow through with conception remains to be seen, but typical intrauterine insemination success rates are between 10-20%.

The current whereabouts of Skylar Webb are unknown. The first of his offspring are expected to be born mid-July.

MARCH 2015

ALEXANDER / AGE 16 / IOWA CITY, IOWA

Principal Grimes’ jagged, dingy smile is nothing if not a cautionary tale for proper dental hygiene. “Come in, Alex,” she says. I cringe at her unwelcome nickname and take a seat next to Mr. Gillespie, the drama teacher. “We’ve been discussing the school musical. Unfortunately,Hedwig and the Angry Inch is just not an acceptable choice of material.”

“I’m sorry,” Mr. Gillespie says. “I know you had your heart set on this.” A muscle ripples along his jawline as he swallows. He’s just six years older than me, and it’s his first year teaching at City High. His pores are kinda large and he’s got a weird cleft in his chin, but he’s the school’s only gay teacher and I can’t stop obsessing over him like he’s freaking Bradley Cooper — even now when I have bigger things to focus on.

“What’s wrong with Hedwig?” I ask. “It won the Tony last year.”

“And I’m sure it was well-deserved. But a teenage boy in drag playing a transsexual rock star is going to raise more than a few eyebrows. I’d hate to see Mr. Gillespie come under fire from the PTA.” 

“We don’t care what the PTA thinks,” I say, leaning forward. “It’s not fair. This is discrimination. We’ll fight it all the way to the Supreme Court if we have to.”

Principal Grimes, clearly not appreciating my spontaneous Atticus Finch moment, pulls something from the top drawer of her desk — one of the scripts I printed out in the school library last week when I got yelled at for wasting so much paper. Its edges are adorned with a variety of neon-colored sticky notes. She flips to a yellow-marked page and clears her throat. “Hedwig climbs into the lap of an unsuspecting audience member and rhythmically thrusts her pelvis in his face, the fringe of her skirt tickling his nose. Hedwig: ‘It’s a car wash, ladies and gentlemen!’” She fans through the rest of the pages marked in green, blue, pink, and orange, and shakes her head. “There’s a fine line between provocative and vulgar. This play is about six miles east of that line.”

“We still have plenty of other options,” Mr. Gillespie says. “Jesus Christ Superstar. Or Chicago, even.”

I roll my eyes. I don’t want to play hippie disco Jesus or Richard Gere. I want to do drag, and Mr. Gillespie knows this. Why is he being such a Judas? “Could I play Roxie Hart?” I ask.

He and Principal Grimes exchange a look. “What about Cats?” she says. “You’d make a wonderful Mr. Mistoffelees.”

I stifle a shudder and focus on channeling my inner Elsa from Frozen. Let it go, let it go… Ooh, there’s an idea.

“Alex? Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” I say, but I can’t bring myself to open my eyes.  “I’ll take it into consideration.”

“Oh, wonderful. Here’s a list of PTA-approved plays, which Mr. Gillespie really should have consulted in the first place. Let me know what you decide on by Friday. I want to announce auditions at the pep rally.”

Outside Grimes’ office, Mr. Gillespie puts his hand on my shoulder. “Again, I’m sorry,” he says. “If I wasn’t so new around here, I might have had a better chance to defend you.” At least, I’m pretty sure that’s the gist of what he’s saying. It’s hard to concentrate on anything else besides the heat from his palm seeping through the fabric of my t-shirt. I somehow manage a nod.

“Don’t worry,” he says. “Whatever we end up doing, I’m confident you’ll be spectacular.” He gives me one last atta boy smile before taking off down the hall. I’m too busy watching him go to notice my friend Mathilda approaching.

“Give it up, Blueberry,” she says, grabbing my sleeve and pulling me into the girls’ restroom. “It’s never gonna happen.”

“It could.”

“It won’t.” She hoists herself onto the counter and takes a drag from her e-cig. “You need to stop watching so much gay porn. It’s warped your sense of reality.”

“Whatever.” I stick the play list in my back pocket and make a pouty-face at myself in the mirror. I dyed my hair blue last week (hence Mathilda’s brilliant new nickname for me) but it’s already starting to fade to a greenish-gray. Not a pretty sight. “Grimes killed Hedwig, BTW.”

“Bloody ‘ell. A fucking surprise, that one is.” Mathilda watches a lot of British TV shows, and she likes nothing better than to randomly whip out her crappy Cockney accent. “Did you seriously think that was gonna fly?”

I pick up a local events magazine that someone left by the sink and flip through a few pages. “I guess I sort of expected it.”

“So what’s your plan now? I mean, besides going home to fap to Mr. Gillespie’s yearbook photo?”

I raise my middle finger at her without looking up from the magazine. “He’s not in the yearbook. Do you think I’d make a good Angel fromRent?”

“Oh, sure,” she says, exhaling a puff of vanilla-scented vapor. “If there’s one thing sexier than playing a character with a one-inch dick, it’s playing one dying of AIDS.”

“I didn’t join drama club just to get into Mr. Gillespie’s pants, you know. I actually do care about the musical.” I flip past an article on this weekend’s kombucha festival and three pages of ads for hipster used clothing stores and sub shops before my eyes catch on something interesting.

THE ALLEY CAT

IOWA CITY’S ONLY 19+ LGBTQ NIGHTCLUB

Thursday: Dance Party w/DJ Nate

Friday: Karaoke w/Laydee Twist

Saturday: Amateur Drag Show*

*Winners may be invited to join The Alley Cat’s Drag Troupe: THE P*SSY POSSE

“Uh, Mat? Does your brother still hang out with that guy who makes fake IDs? I’m gonna need one by Saturday.”

She raises an over-plucked eyebrow. “Creepy Carlos? Yeah, but a rush job will cost you. Why, what’s Saturday?”

I sigh and clutch the magazine to my chest. “My debut.”

1st 5 Pages August Workshop - Pennington Revision 2

Name: Valerie Pennington

Genre: Young Adult Contemporary

Title: Opposites Collide

I’m honestly surprised that The Murph hasn’t kicked me out of school yet. One look at my grades will explain why he’s so hesitant though. My status as one of Lambertville High’s top students is hard to overlook in a school where the state-wide testing scores are lower than many thought to be humanly possible. Over the years, I’ve fashioned my words into a weapon, slicing through ignorant statements and cutting down egomaniacs while only getting the occasional detention here or there. I realized years ago that avoiding physical violence is integral to survival here and I’ve kept good on that… until today.

 “Miss Beckers, you may now come in.” I look up to see Principal Murphy standing in the doorway, his imposing height belittled by the fact that he’s wearing a toupee and suspenders.

As I take my regular seat in one of the worn leather chairs, he shuts the door behind me and ascends to his throne. This isn’t my first rodeo and I know better than to talk before he has his dramatic entrance. He spends a few seconds studying me while I sit up in my chair in attempts to make my mere 5’1” stature seem taller and more formidable. I fluff up my bun of dark red hair for added height as I take in the familiar posters and achievements on the wood-paneled walls. I imagine it must be suffocating for The Murph to stare at these walls all day and then find the same dull color in my eyes.

He straightens up and I mirror him, the show’s about to begin. “Charlotte. Is verbally bullying students no longer enough?”

“I’ve never ‘verbally bullied’ anyone, sir. I view it more as educating the masses.”

“Regardless, now you’ve combined verbal bullying with physical bullying. Why’d you kick Garrett Williams in the groin, Charlotte?” He lets out an exacerbated sigh.

“He saw me educating some jock and told me that it ‘took some balls’ to confront that guy.”

“And?”

“And that phrase is entirely sexist! To imply that having a penis and scrotum somehow gives you mythical strength or bravery is just absurd. I mean, women give birth, Murph! They literally—“

“How many times have I told you to call me Principal Murphy?” He asks rhetorically. “Get to your point in the next five seconds.”

“Sorry, so I was educating him and when I told him that he’s suffering from Freudian thinking, I punctuated my argument with a, uh, display of what actually takes balls.”

“I’ll cut to the chase, Charlotte. You’ll report to detention every morning for the next week. In addition to that, I expect you to apologize to Garrett.”

“But sir—“

“If you fail to do either of these things, you’ll be pulled from the prestigious Leaders of the Eastern Academic Division Program.”

Just as I’m about to ask if that means that I’m in the LEAD program, I simultaneously hear a knock on the door and the squeak of hinges. I turn around in my chair to see who had the gall to barge in but my eyes get distracted by the impressive peaks and valleys that is Garrett Williams’ body.

The Murph ushers him in to the remaining chair on my left. I watch as he folds his 6’0” body into the seat, and for the first time I notice the gleam of glee in our dear principal’s eyes.

They’re both waiting on me.

I take a deep breath. “Look, I’m sorry for kicking you in the sack. I let my anger get away from me and I’m sorry it caused you pain. I was out of line and you didn’t deserve it.”  I look for approval but instead I find more instruction. “Oh, and I’m sorry for what I said as well. That phrase pi- upsets me and my knee-jerk reaction is to respond passionately. I know you didn’t mean to set me off.”

The Murph seems happy enough but when I turn back towards Garrett, apathetic blue eyes greet me. He turns towards Principal Murphy with an eyebrow quirked, seeming to ask permission to leave.

“Thank you, Charlotte. Our baseball captain here is such a good sport. Not that we didn’t know that already.” He beams down at Garrett, staring down at the pride and joy of our school. “Now that I have you both here, I want to congratulate you on being selected for The Leaders of the Eastern Academic Division Program.”

I sputter out a breath. Two students, one female and one male, are chosen every year to attend the prestigious program that is notorious for opening up doors to colleges all over the world. I know tons of students who have been battling for one of the two spots and somehow Garrett Williams beat them all out? Schools are already knocking down his door, what could he possibly benefit from this program?

The Murph immediately launches into reading the program packet. I zone out because I’ve already read it so many times it’s practically committed to memory. I sneak a glance at Garrett, trying to view him not as a douchebag but as a serious student who cares about his future. His eyes are focused on our droning principal and they seem alive with interest. He’s wearing a maroon Henley with dark wash pants as opposed to his usual baseball shirts and athletic shorts, giving off the impression that he dressed to impress. Maybe my biases tainted my view of him. Maybe he’s more than his jock complex. Maybe.

We discuss the program for another ten minutes. I learn that our smelly gym teacher will drive us the twelve hours to Providence but I can’t make myself care about the sure-to-be-awkward car ride. The final destination will be worth it. One whole month of pure collegiate bliss. The more we talk about it, the more excited I get. It’s real. It’s happening. I made it.

Before we leave, The Murph passes out papers to give to our parents. In one week, all seven of us (our parents, The Murph, and us) will meet to go over logistics and to sign forms. It’s sure to be a delightful meeting.

Garrett’s dismissed before I even realize what’s happening but I’m not so lucky.

“Charlotte, this is an honor. Don’t mess it up. No trouble, understood?”

“Yes sir.”

He motions for me to leave and I race out of his office is search for a head of short brown hair. I zero in on my target and tug on his Henley when I get there.

“Hey.”

He stares blandly at me.

“Uh, I didn’t know that you were interested in the program. It doesn’t involve baseballs or hot girls throwing themselves at you.” I laugh.

He remains silent.

“I want to start with a clean slate, is—“

“Listen, we don’t have to be friends. You don’t like me and I don’t like you. This program doesn’t change anything.” He punctuates his statement by walking away.

I’m speechless. I’m the one who ends the conversation and walks away.

I stand there like a goober until someone hits me from behind. I whirl around, ready to strike, when I see a familiar mop of messy brown hair and my best friend’s goofy smile.

“Hunter, you’re such a weirdo.”

“And you aren’t?”

“I—“

“It’s pointless to try and deny it. I know you. And I know you just came out of The Murph’s office. Char… are the rumors true?”

1st 5 Pages August Workshop - Roberts Revision 2

Name: Danielle Roberts
Genre: Young Adult XXX
Title: Without



The sputtering voice of our old radio cut through my dream, breaking apart the dark ballroom walls and dripping smiles. My eyes fluttered open and I sat upright, blinking away the dark spots in my vision. Mom and Dad’s laughter sounded from outside my door, intermingling with the sound of the radio. Whatever they were laughing about, I knew it wasn’t actually funny. I swung my feet out of bed, already preparing myself for the day ahead. It was the same as always: Wake up. Act as if the serum worked. Go to Sleep. I raised the corners of my mouth with my thumb and pointer finger, mimicking a smile that I knew I would have to make sincere in a few minutes.

The broadcast from the radio turned from noise to words as I got up and crossed the small space to my closet. “The capture of two Resisters has taken place right outside of Berwyn this morning.” I tugged off my plain white t-shirt. “AE’s who caught the two were Jeffery Dole and Andrew Brown.” I pulled the green tank top over my head before changing into a pair of jeans. “We’re thankful to these two for making the world a better place. And we’re thankful for all of you as well!” I looked up at the clock to check the time before remembering that it was broken. The minute and hour hand were stuck on 4, jerking in one place. I glanced out my window instead. “Keep sending in your tips and calling the AE hotline if you see or know a potential Resister.” The sun was up, glowing her brilliant yellow light over Chicago. I guessed that it was after nine.
That meant Crafts ‘N More should be open already. I needed to buy a new journal today since I’d filled up my previous one the night before, cramming the last of my thoughts into the corner of the page. The thing about being a Resister was that I couldn't talk to anyone about it. Ever. I couldn't talk about how I felt like I was suffocating in a world of fake smiles and vacant eyes, how tiring it was pretending to be like them. I had to keep it all in—all to myself, or else the AE’s would haul me away in a second.

The usual uneasy feeling skirted across my neck at the thought of them. The color of their uniforms—yellow— splashed across my mind. It was really my fear of them that pushed me to start writing down how I felt a year ago. Keeping my emotions under a tight lid of fear for two years had begun to take its toll, and I'd go to bed every night wanting to scream into my pillow. Sometimes, when I was sure my parents were asleep and couldn't hear me, I did. But writing down the way I felt—how badly I wanted to punch something when I was angry, or cry when I was sad—lifted the lid of fear just a little, letting out some steam. It kept me sane. Or, as sane as one could be in this world.

The last of the broadcast leaked beneath my door. “Remember, Resisters are dangerous. They’ll disrupt the peace that Alacrisotium creates.” I stuffed the clothes I’d slept in beneath my purple pillow and headed to the bathroom. The red oak wood floor creaked beneath my feet as I stepped out into the hall. Just as I shut the door, a new broadcast began. “Good morning everyone! Today is July 8th and it is forty-five minutes past the hour…”

 July 8th. I stood in the darkness of the bathroom as the date resounded in my head. Four years ago today, I’d found out that the serum didn’t work on me. My hand reached up, searching for the bathroom light to chase away the flashback that I knew was coming. The switch brushed against my fingers as I flicked it on, but it didn’t illuminate the yellow shower curtain and peach towels and detangler spray bottles cluttered around my sink. Instead, I saw the white hall of the hospital as I stepped out of the operating room, watching as the girl’s dark hair disappeared around the corner, her hands held behind her back by two AE’s. I started down the hall, ignoring the stinging cold of the floor as it jabbed at the bare soles of my feet, ignoring the sobs of the girl being taken away. The air conditioning cut through my paper thin blue hospital gown, and my teeth were slamming together by the time I finally reached the bathroom. It was only when the door was firmly closed that I gripped the white porcelain of the sink, fighting down the bile reaching its fingers up my throat. The fear I’d been holding in trembled my lip and drained the color from my skin.

I thought about my parents and the doctors back inside the operating room, waiting for me to return joyous and smiling with a permanent bounce in my step, just like them. That was the way I should have woken up. If the serum had worked. But it didn’t. This couldn’t actually be happening to me. I couldn’t be just like the girl who was just dragged away minutes ago, caught right in front of my very eyes. I was supposed to have the Serotonin and GABA and Oxycotin neurochemicals pumping through my brain right now. I was supposed to be just like Mom and Dad and everyone else. I wasn’t supposed to be dangerous, I wasn’t supposed to be the monster that I’d been taught Resisters were. Why did my brain resist the serum? What was wrong with me?

I doubled over and vomited right into the sink. My stomach lurched, and suddenly, I wasn’t leaning over the hospital sink anymore, but my own, surrounded by those familiar detanglers. The paper thin gown was gone, replaced by my tank top and shorts. I straightened up and gasped, the last of the flashback disappearing. It never failed to come back and haunt me, to seize my mind and drag it back to that terrible day. Dad’s voice carried from down the hall, and I could already hear his chirpy tone, the cheeriness permanently woven into his voice. “The world is getting safer every day with the captures. Good thing, too.”

Yes, good thing, I thought bitterly. My tired eyes stared back at me in the mirror. Not so much tired from lack of sleep as from living a lie every day. They were the shiny caramel of a candy apple, but there was nothing sweet about them. I knew that in a few minutes I’d have to make them brighter. Awake. Happy. I brushed my teeth, all the while running through the mental list in my head as I did each morning for the past four years. No frowning, no faltering in my footsteps, no getting visibly angry or sad. Always have a faint smile shadowing my lips. It was the same routine, every day for four years.

“Alli, honey?” There was a knock on the bathroom door. “I made you breakfast!”

Now the façade would begin. The curtain could lift and the act could start. I ran a hand over my face and let the familiar robotic smile spread across my lips. My eyes brightened, my chin raised. And then, I opened the door.

1st 5 Pages August Workshop - Shorrock Revision 1

Subject: Shorrocks Revision 1

YA Gothic

Yorkshire in winter can be a savage place, the moors particularly so. There's no buffer to the wind that howls straight off the frozen rock, flinging snow and sleet at anyone unfortunate enough to find themselves outdoors, it will leave you fighting for breath in a matter of seconds. Only the adventurous or the stupid ever wandered outside at that time of year. I didn't consider myself to be either. I just needed to get lost in that whiteness, to feel numbed once and for all.

The path that ran beside the river was deserted, my boot prints in the snow the only evidence of life as I made my way up to the churchyard cemetery. I checked the windows of the old Vicarage, but the curtains were safely closed. As the new girl in town, it wouldn't do my reputation a lot of good to be found haunting the graves of long dead locals in my free time.

My ritual was simple. I picked up a bunch of cheap flowers from a local supermarket, found my favourite grave, and left them there to be utterly crushed by the weight of winter.

The stone angel stoically faced the wrath of the moor, having endured centuries of whatever the weather chose to throw at her. Her features had been erased over the years, as had the details of whoever she watched over. I dropped the roses I had bought and ran my hands over the icy stone, as if its texture might give me some hint as to who was buried there.

The scent of my mother's perfume was the only hint that she had followed me. The woman had always been uncannily silent,.

"Lil," Her voice was wary, "What are you doing here?"

She had committed a litany of low acts in the past few weeks, but for some reason her intrusion on my gravesite visit seemed the most despicable.

"I'm grieving Ali." She flinched slightly at my sudden use of her Christian name but showed no other sign of emotion. "I think you'll find that's what normal people do when someone they love dies.  It would be preferable if this was dad's grave, but since you decided to move us here I have to make do with what I can get."

"We all grieve differently, Lilith."

"Running is not grieving."

"I'm not running."

It was a terrible lie and we both knew it. When the police arrived on the afternoon of my seventeenth birthday to tell us the helicopter had crashed on the way back from dad's archaelogical dig our little world imploded. Ali couldn't stand the pain of being around anything that reminded her of him and I couldn't bear to let him go.

She took a tentative step towards me.  "I think you should come home."

"I don't have a home anymore. You sold it." I turned away and headed back toward the river.

It had been twenty-one days since we buried my father back in Oxford, three days since we came to Ilkley, and less than twenty-four hours since the crows had started arriving.

Three of the birds were perched on top of the old gable above the front door when I stumbled up the drive. They watched me approach, staying silent but constantly shifting, as uneasy in my company as I was in theirs. A faint light seeped out between the curtains giving the only soft touch to the heavy Victorian stone. These houses had been built to keep wind weather and superstition out, and the living safely in. For the first time since our arrival I was glad of their pure bulk. I gave the crows one last look and went inside, the wind slamming the door behind me.

The kitchen was the one room in the house Ali and I had managed to stake out as our own so far. Gourmet cooking magazines and fashion catalogues were strewn across the bench next to her half empty glass of wine and my school timetable. A framed photo of the three of us taken a couple of years back was propped against one of the cupboard doors and I wondered if that was what had triggered her to come looking for me. I dumped by coat and gloves on one of the chairs and headed for the sanctuary of my room.

The bedroom balcony railing was where the first of the crows had arrived, just on dusk the night before. In the silence of the fog the commotion of wings had startled me. There was barely enough light to make out the bird's black form and the way it perched on the railing, one dark eye trained on my room and the other on the moor. I went downstairs and dug an old torch out from under the sink in the kitchen, but despite my regular checks during the night it never moved or showed any signs that it knew it was being watched. When I woke in the morning the sun was just rising and the crow was gone.

I breathed on the glass until I melted a small patch of frost on the outside, just enough to see through and was met by the same black eye staring straight at me from the railing. The skin at the back of my neck crept slowly in response. The night crow was back and it seemed to be waiting for something.

1st 5 Pages August Workshop - Miles Revision 1

Name: Melissa Miles
Genre: Young Adult
Title: Hashtag Witness

 

It had honestly never occurred to me that I could become the next casualty of the so-called Reign of Terror until the day that the second victim's body was found. Her decomposing corpse had just been discovered in a rural location. The gruesome state of her remains was now dominating the lunchroom conversation, replacing the previous day's prevailing topic of Netflix binging plans for the upcoming summer break.

 

Until lunch, this had been a relatively decent day. The teachers seemed even more ready to be done with the school year than we were, so we had just been signing yearbooks and goofing around for the most part.

 

“Aren't you worried Mindy?" The anxious expression on Whitney's face clearly conveyed that she thought I should be.

 

Trying appear more nonchalant than I truly felt, I shrugged. "Not really."

 

Whitney plowed ahead, ignoring my denial. "But both of those girls disappeared within thirty miles of ya’ll’s house up at the lake.” She held up her phone showing a map of the area in question just to prove her point.

 

“Do you have any idea how big of an area thirty miles is?” I was already growing exasperated by this conversation. I really didn’t need anything putting a damper on my one place of refuge. Ditching this small town for my family's secluded place on the lake was the one thing that I’d really been looking forward to during these last weeks of school.

 

"Whitney's making a good point for once." My head whipped around to gawk at my best friend Sanjay. Not him too. His expression bore a trace of amusement, but he wasn't being entirely sarcastic for once.

 

Sanjay popped a handful of Cheetos in his mouth, looking as if he was seriously pondering this point. After swallowing, he persisted, “Well, Min I’ll tell you. If the killer was limited to travel on foot you might have a fair point. But considering that our perp has access to a car, as widely reported by the press, I don’t think thirty miles is a significant enough buffer zone for my personal comfort level.”

 

As if to further validate his point, Sanjay broke into a perfect simulation of our principal's voice making an announcement over the PA system. “Students and faculty, may I have your attention please?” He provided the realistic pause to allow for everyone to shut up and actually pay attention. “In one short week, the normally sensible Bob and Laura Jackson will be removing their enticing daughter Mindy from the relative safety of small town South Carolina, and plunking her into the path of a serial killer. You might want to make a special point to say farewell to her before school is out for summer.”

 

I glared at him, one eyebrow raised. “Seriously?” He evaded a swipe of my yearbook against the side of his head without any apparent concern for my hostility.

 

He shrugged, completely unabashed, allowing me to rant. “I had really been looking forward to what you would come up with to amuse us during lunch. I figured four whole periods of salacious gossip would have provided more than adequate fodder for something better than that.”

 

“I don’t know Min,” he retorted with a wink. “I think your folks going on a little vacay at the ‘lake house’,” his fingers made air quotes around the words, “in the midst of the largest manhunt in the history of the state is rather salacious in itself.”

 

“You are such an ass,” I said, even though I was completely unable to refrain from smiling. Sanjay found it hilarious that my parents had put a double-wide trailer on such a prime spot on the lake. Our trailer lake house was an ongoing joke between us, and the tone in which he said the words was too funny not to elicit at least a brief smile. He had spent his first class period drawing a picture of me hanging clothes on a line, wearing Daisy Dukes and a cropped top outside of a trailer. The caption under the picture read: “How trailer people do laundry.” I planned to keep the picture forever.

 

Whitney brandished her phone again. “It says right here that the suspect is now a person of interest in as many as five other unexplained disappearances of young women over the past two years. This is getting massive.” When my expression didn't render an appropriate level of concern, she quickly added, “It’s been all over CNN,” as if hoping to sway me decidedly into freak out mode.

I eyed them each suspiciously. “Do you guys want me to completely nut up over this? You’ve both been up there. Nothing remotely exciting ever happens—that’s kind of the point. It’s a place to just go and relax.”

Sanjay waved a hand. “Forget I brought it up.” He immediately switched gears, leaning in close to whisper, “1985 called and asked Laurel to return that big hair!”

I laughed, agreeing that I’d seen Delta jets with a smaller wingspan than Laurel’s hair—but not completely forgetting the unnerving conversation about the serial killer's proximity to the very place we’d be heading in just a few days.

 

I pretended to listen as Sanjay and Whitney debated a rumor about our English teacher hooking up with the much younger assistant football coach, but I was too distracted to stay focused. Mainly I just sat there feeling grateful to have finally made some friends in this stuck-up small town. When my dad took the job as the minister of the Presbyterian church, I didn't think I ever would. But now I have this quirky group of friends that don’t care what my dad does for a living.

 

Having a dad as minister of a church instead of a normal job like a bank president or accountant, means you have hundreds of people who think they can tell you what to do--especially what they think you are doing wrong. You can’t get away with anything. If you think I’m kidding, just the other day a woman whose son is the biggest pervert I’ve ever met, told me that I shouldn’t come to church without wearing pantyhose.

Pantyhose? Really? Even my own mother calls them stockings, and she’s cool with me not wearing them. It isn’t 1922 anymore, and I seriously doubt my bare legs offend any normal un-snobbish person under the age of seventy. So I just smiled, thanked the woman for her concern, and went on about my business in my bare legged glory. But still, it completely gets on my last nerve.

Why doesn’t she worry about her own son Edwin, who grabbed my hand and pulled me into an empty room on our first Sunday here to ask me for a blow job? It seems to me that propositioning the new minister’s daughter for oral sex is a bigger disgrace than a lack of hosiery. But of course, I didn’t work up the nerve to tell the woman about her son’s special interest in me—even when she asked me in her fake syrupy voice if Edwin was making me feel welcome. Oh, he made me feel welcome, all right.

 

As we headed to our last few classes of the day, Sanjay gave me a wink and said, "We weren't trying to freak you out, Min. I'm sure it will be fine."

 

God, I hoped he was right. I really needed a couple of weeks up at the lake to just chill.