Congratulations to all of the participants who worked so hard during our November 1st 5 Pages Writing Workshop! And a big thanks to our wonderful guest mentors, Nancy Ohlin as our author mentor, and Tracy Marchini as our agent mentor. As always, thank you to our talented and fabulous permanent mentors, who read, comment, and cheer on our participants every month!
Speaking of our wonderful mentors, we have exciting mentor news!
CURSING FATE, the sequel to Brenda Drake's fabulous YA fantasy, TOUCHING FATE, was published on November 21. I loved this YA fantasy, so you should definitely check it out!
And on December 6, Stephanie Scott's YA contemporary, ALTERATIONS will be released! I can't wait to read it!
We are taking a hiatus in December, opening again in January, 2017! So get those pages ready - we usually fill up in under a minute!
Happy writing (and revising!)
Erin
First Five Pages Writing Workshop: Jump Start Your Novel and Career
Saturday, December 3, 2016
Sunday, November 20, 2016
1st 5 Pages November Workshop - Thomspon Rev 2
Elizabeth Thompson
Young Adult Contemporary
Being Whitney
Eighteen points, eleven rebounds, strong all four quarters; the good stats arrived first. Whitney smiled as she pulled her long brown hair into her standard ponytail. Then she sighed.
“Awesome game Whit, per usual,” her best friend Hannah said crossing the locker room.
“Thanks,” Whitney replied under her breath.
Hannah turned and looked her in the eye. “You’re the best player on the team Whitney. Try to focus on the positives.”
Whitney nodded, but the minute the locker room door slammed shut the other stats appeared forefront in her mind: four missed free-throws, that awful missed pass late in the second quarter, the missed jump-ball. Instinctively the drills she needed to run appeared in front of her. ‘First thing tomorrow’ she told herself. ‘And every day until our game on Wednesday. Then Wednesday will be better. It has to be.’
Whitney stepped out of the locker room hopeful, and stopped short, her dad’s voice freezing her steps.
“She’s going to our money maker one day. Stanford and then the WNBA. That’s her path. When she’s out there, you can see it in her eyes.”
The strange man next to him, likely another college scout her dad cornered like he did nearly every tournament, nodded politely.
“I think that’s your eyes honey. You’re the one who can see it.”
Her dad glanced at her mom with a clinched jaw. Whitney winced; her mom’s interventions never resulted in progress.
“Well I think we can all see it,” her dad continued to the stranger, “Whitney knows it though. She knows where her talent lies. She may only be fourteen, but she’s very aware this is where she can make something of herself. It’s now or never.”
Whitney’s attempt at a deep breath caught in her tight chest. Worried she’d puke if she listened any longer, she stepped into the large gym and joined the trio. While her dad continued to direct the opinion of the recruiter, more of his almost-praise filled Whitney’s head, every statement tinged with ‘maybes’ and ‘ifs’ relying on “how bad she wanted it.” She wanted it of course, but her dad wanted it even more. She added in the affirmations required of her, shook the recruiters hand with a smile, and followed her parents out into the warm summer night.
Once inside the car she reminded herself of her errors and her plans to fix them, building up her confidence for what she knew awaited her.
Her dad started before pulling out of the parking lot.
“Do you believe you played up to your potential today Whitney?”
“No.”
“Do you have another lame excuse you’d like to give me about why?”
“No. There are no excuses.”
“Then why the hell do you keep playing like shit? Why do you keep wasting everything we’ve worked for?”
Whitney fed her dad all the lines she knew he wanted, but he didn’t stop. Although the lectures became commonplace around seventh grade, their intensity continued to grow. Usually Whitney could handle them, he was just trying to help, but over the summer his words had grown sharper and today they felt covered in salt. By the time they hit the freeway Whitney’s eyes were full.
“Now you’re going to cry? That always helps things.”
Whitney wiped her face and dug her fingernails into her palms to stop the tears.
“I’m not crying.”
“You used to love basketball Whitney. This used to be your dream.”
“I do love basketball. This is my dream. I want to do well Dad. I really do.”
“Apparently not enough.”
Whitney tried to ignore the desperate need to be good enough filling her chest.
Her dad turned the car into their private gated neighborhood and maneuvered past the familiar broad houses and perfectly manicured lawns.
The car filled with bitter silence as her dad killed the engine and reached for the door.
“I’m sorry dad. I want it. I do,” Whitney said.
Her dad turned his piercing green eyes towards her identical ones and Whitney held her breath waiting for any token of acceptance.
“Your actions don’t show that. I’m just not sure this is all worth it anymore.”
Whitney moved quickly from the car, for once relieved that her house’s 4,000 square feet allowed her to completely escape even when everyone was home. Her dad’s words echoed in her mind and tore apart her chest: ‘you’re not worth it anymore.’
She pulled out her phone and glanced, through eyes blurred by tears, at her pictures. The waterpark trip, front row at the hottest summer concert, shopping in San Francisco with Hannah and their mom’s, riding lessons with her sister Mable and, of course, basketball, so much basketball. She smiled when she landed on pictures from a recent tournament in Los Angeles. They’d beat the top team on the west coast in the last thirty seconds of the game, dogpiling on Hannah when she made the winning basket. The memory weakened Whitney’s grip and she let her phone fall as her mind drifted to what happened after the picture. Fury had filled her dad when he laid into her before their flight home. He didn’t work his butt of so she could just be on the winning team, he’d said. That wasn’t good enough.
‘Whitney just isn’t good enough’ she heard him say in her mind. Or so she thought, until her mom’s reply followed it.
The voices pulled Whitney towards the hall and she tiptoed to the landing where Mable sat, face pushed against the cold steel bars of the railing, listening to their parents in the kitchen below.
“How can you even say that?” Whitney’s mom said.
“I’ve worked with her tirelessly and she just isn’t there. We’ve given Whitney the world and she is still just a normal girl who can play okay basketball.”
“The world isn’t what they need. Those girls don’t need any of this crap. The private lessons, exclusive camps, huge house, show horses, designer clothes and whatever else you’re throwing at them aren’t important.”
“I’ve never once heard them complain.”
“They’re kids Matt. They don’t know what they need.”
“But I’m sure you do?”
Whitney shrunk back into herself, sitting cross-leg beside Mable, her whole being heavy under her parent’s latest argument.
“I think they need a change. They need some fresh air and room to be themselves. They certainly could do without your excessive pressures.”
“Those girls are thriving here. A move is exactly what they don’t need.”
Whitney and Mable scurried to their feet and moved quickly towards their room as their mom started up the stairs.
“We’ll see,” Whitney heard her mom say before closing her bedroom door.
Her mom’s threat hung over the house like a mourning cloak, making the air impossibly thick. Whitney woke every day anxious for it to lift, assuring Mable it’d soon be gone, and working endlessly on the court, yet in the end it was all pointless.
Three weeks later her dad’s look of shock mirrored Whitney’s, on opposite sides of the tinted glass window of the SUV Whitney’s mom drove her away in.
Whitney’s mom billed it as the most humanitarian rescue mission in history. Her dad billed it as the single greatest mistake her mom would ever make, in regards to Whitney’s life and her own. Whitney just cried. Her friends, her court, her house, her entire being, they were Mountain View, California. Until they weren’t.
Her mom’s threat of a change was exactly what they got. Stuck on their need for fresh air, her mom took a professor position at the University of Oregon, easily within commuting distance from a small town where the girls could ‘be themselves.’ Pulling into their new town, as the sun set behind the water tower, standing tall over tiny Millersburg, Oregon – population 4,237, Whitney fought to understand how she could ever be herself completely stripped of everything she knew.
'She’s moved me to a foreign country.' Whitney text Hannah.
'It can’t be that bad. It’s only a state away.'
'This town has two stoplights, three auto parts stores and a McDonalds. No Starbucks, no mall, no you.'
'Are you serious? I thought every town had a Starbucks.'
'I’m serious here Hannah. I’m very certain I’m not in California anymore. Send help. Fast.'
Pitch:
Whitney isn't from a small town, nor did she ever want to be, yet in an effort to save her from the immense pressures her dad places on her, a small town is exactly where Whitney's mom transports her. Suddenly, Whitney is the new girl in an Oregon town with only 4,000 people, all of whom seem to already have an opinion of the new California transplant. Whitney understood how to live in California, but she quickly learns nothing she knows easily transfers to this town built on family names and land-based loyalty, not even who she is. Each new friend Whitney makes opens another, more complicated glimpse into this small-town web of old-fashion ideas and archaic beliefs. Everyone she meets seems the same, except for Leif. Too bad Leif is the brother of one of the only friends Whitney makes and is also dating the most popular girl in school. Whitney is lost in the middle of more small-town drama than she can ever understand, with the only hope of finding herself coming from the same person who pulled her into the mess.
Young Adult Contemporary
Being Whitney
Eighteen points, eleven rebounds, strong all four quarters; the good stats arrived first. Whitney smiled as she pulled her long brown hair into her standard ponytail. Then she sighed.
“Awesome game Whit, per usual,” her best friend Hannah said crossing the locker room.
“Thanks,” Whitney replied under her breath.
Hannah turned and looked her in the eye. “You’re the best player on the team Whitney. Try to focus on the positives.”
Whitney nodded, but the minute the locker room door slammed shut the other stats appeared forefront in her mind: four missed free-throws, that awful missed pass late in the second quarter, the missed jump-ball. Instinctively the drills she needed to run appeared in front of her. ‘First thing tomorrow’ she told herself. ‘And every day until our game on Wednesday. Then Wednesday will be better. It has to be.’
Whitney stepped out of the locker room hopeful, and stopped short, her dad’s voice freezing her steps.
“She’s going to our money maker one day. Stanford and then the WNBA. That’s her path. When she’s out there, you can see it in her eyes.”
The strange man next to him, likely another college scout her dad cornered like he did nearly every tournament, nodded politely.
“I think that’s your eyes honey. You’re the one who can see it.”
Her dad glanced at her mom with a clinched jaw. Whitney winced; her mom’s interventions never resulted in progress.
“Well I think we can all see it,” her dad continued to the stranger, “Whitney knows it though. She knows where her talent lies. She may only be fourteen, but she’s very aware this is where she can make something of herself. It’s now or never.”
Whitney’s attempt at a deep breath caught in her tight chest. Worried she’d puke if she listened any longer, she stepped into the large gym and joined the trio. While her dad continued to direct the opinion of the recruiter, more of his almost-praise filled Whitney’s head, every statement tinged with ‘maybes’ and ‘ifs’ relying on “how bad she wanted it.” She wanted it of course, but her dad wanted it even more. She added in the affirmations required of her, shook the recruiters hand with a smile, and followed her parents out into the warm summer night.
Once inside the car she reminded herself of her errors and her plans to fix them, building up her confidence for what she knew awaited her.
Her dad started before pulling out of the parking lot.
“Do you believe you played up to your potential today Whitney?”
“No.”
“Do you have another lame excuse you’d like to give me about why?”
“No. There are no excuses.”
“Then why the hell do you keep playing like shit? Why do you keep wasting everything we’ve worked for?”
Whitney fed her dad all the lines she knew he wanted, but he didn’t stop. Although the lectures became commonplace around seventh grade, their intensity continued to grow. Usually Whitney could handle them, he was just trying to help, but over the summer his words had grown sharper and today they felt covered in salt. By the time they hit the freeway Whitney’s eyes were full.
“Now you’re going to cry? That always helps things.”
Whitney wiped her face and dug her fingernails into her palms to stop the tears.
“I’m not crying.”
“You used to love basketball Whitney. This used to be your dream.”
“I do love basketball. This is my dream. I want to do well Dad. I really do.”
“Apparently not enough.”
Whitney tried to ignore the desperate need to be good enough filling her chest.
Her dad turned the car into their private gated neighborhood and maneuvered past the familiar broad houses and perfectly manicured lawns.
The car filled with bitter silence as her dad killed the engine and reached for the door.
“I’m sorry dad. I want it. I do,” Whitney said.
Her dad turned his piercing green eyes towards her identical ones and Whitney held her breath waiting for any token of acceptance.
“Your actions don’t show that. I’m just not sure this is all worth it anymore.”
Whitney moved quickly from the car, for once relieved that her house’s 4,000 square feet allowed her to completely escape even when everyone was home. Her dad’s words echoed in her mind and tore apart her chest: ‘you’re not worth it anymore.’
She pulled out her phone and glanced, through eyes blurred by tears, at her pictures. The waterpark trip, front row at the hottest summer concert, shopping in San Francisco with Hannah and their mom’s, riding lessons with her sister Mable and, of course, basketball, so much basketball. She smiled when she landed on pictures from a recent tournament in Los Angeles. They’d beat the top team on the west coast in the last thirty seconds of the game, dogpiling on Hannah when she made the winning basket. The memory weakened Whitney’s grip and she let her phone fall as her mind drifted to what happened after the picture. Fury had filled her dad when he laid into her before their flight home. He didn’t work his butt of so she could just be on the winning team, he’d said. That wasn’t good enough.
‘Whitney just isn’t good enough’ she heard him say in her mind. Or so she thought, until her mom’s reply followed it.
The voices pulled Whitney towards the hall and she tiptoed to the landing where Mable sat, face pushed against the cold steel bars of the railing, listening to their parents in the kitchen below.
“How can you even say that?” Whitney’s mom said.
“I’ve worked with her tirelessly and she just isn’t there. We’ve given Whitney the world and she is still just a normal girl who can play okay basketball.”
“The world isn’t what they need. Those girls don’t need any of this crap. The private lessons, exclusive camps, huge house, show horses, designer clothes and whatever else you’re throwing at them aren’t important.”
“I’ve never once heard them complain.”
“They’re kids Matt. They don’t know what they need.”
“But I’m sure you do?”
Whitney shrunk back into herself, sitting cross-leg beside Mable, her whole being heavy under her parent’s latest argument.
“I think they need a change. They need some fresh air and room to be themselves. They certainly could do without your excessive pressures.”
“Those girls are thriving here. A move is exactly what they don’t need.”
Whitney and Mable scurried to their feet and moved quickly towards their room as their mom started up the stairs.
“We’ll see,” Whitney heard her mom say before closing her bedroom door.
Her mom’s threat hung over the house like a mourning cloak, making the air impossibly thick. Whitney woke every day anxious for it to lift, assuring Mable it’d soon be gone, and working endlessly on the court, yet in the end it was all pointless.
Three weeks later her dad’s look of shock mirrored Whitney’s, on opposite sides of the tinted glass window of the SUV Whitney’s mom drove her away in.
Whitney’s mom billed it as the most humanitarian rescue mission in history. Her dad billed it as the single greatest mistake her mom would ever make, in regards to Whitney’s life and her own. Whitney just cried. Her friends, her court, her house, her entire being, they were Mountain View, California. Until they weren’t.
Her mom’s threat of a change was exactly what they got. Stuck on their need for fresh air, her mom took a professor position at the University of Oregon, easily within commuting distance from a small town where the girls could ‘be themselves.’ Pulling into their new town, as the sun set behind the water tower, standing tall over tiny Millersburg, Oregon – population 4,237, Whitney fought to understand how she could ever be herself completely stripped of everything she knew.
'She’s moved me to a foreign country.' Whitney text Hannah.
'It can’t be that bad. It’s only a state away.'
'This town has two stoplights, three auto parts stores and a McDonalds. No Starbucks, no mall, no you.'
'Are you serious? I thought every town had a Starbucks.'
'I’m serious here Hannah. I’m very certain I’m not in California anymore. Send help. Fast.'
Pitch:
Whitney isn't from a small town, nor did she ever want to be, yet in an effort to save her from the immense pressures her dad places on her, a small town is exactly where Whitney's mom transports her. Suddenly, Whitney is the new girl in an Oregon town with only 4,000 people, all of whom seem to already have an opinion of the new California transplant. Whitney understood how to live in California, but she quickly learns nothing she knows easily transfers to this town built on family names and land-based loyalty, not even who she is. Each new friend Whitney makes opens another, more complicated glimpse into this small-town web of old-fashion ideas and archaic beliefs. Everyone she meets seems the same, except for Leif. Too bad Leif is the brother of one of the only friends Whitney makes and is also dating the most popular girl in school. Whitney is lost in the middle of more small-town drama than she can ever understand, with the only hope of finding herself coming from the same person who pulled her into the mess.
1st 5 Pages November Workshop - Forrester Rev 2
Name: T.K. Forrester
Genre: Young Adult: Fantasy
Pitch:
At last Milka is an Orgait with the magical powers she craves. The only problem is, she hasn’t a clue how to use them. Of course it would’ve helped if they hadn’t appeared during the worst time EVER … the brutal invasion of her village and capture of her grandmother. Luckily she does have a best friend and together they set off on a rare ice-dragon to find her uncle and help the king stop Zulcor’s villainous acts. But a detour results in near misses and an encounter that gives painful insights into her parents’ death.
As Zulcor’s army grows, Milka is desperate to free her grandmother and stop his tyrannical designs on Pashdom. The once fearless 15 year old must master her new powers while trying to conquer the raw emotions threatening to overwhelm her. Her way forward lies not just in her magical abilities but in the power of her lifelong friendship and the unbreakable bond she builds with her dragon.
Using plenty of humor and the determined voice of a female protagonist, my debut novel is a coming of age story that explores teenage angst in the middle of fighting a war between good and evil.
FINAL DRAFT: Milka & the Ice Dragon
Milka’s hands sliced through the water. Ahead by an arm's length, she could feel Xander gaining. Adrenaline spiked through her with every fevered last stroke. Lifting her head for a final breath, she glimpsed a shadowy figure darting among the bushes.
The bottom of her feet hit against the sharp edges of limestone rocks,but she barely felt it. Her eyes drawn to the cloak fluttering through the shrubs beside the giant toad-shaped rock, near the water’s edge. Panic tickled the back of her throat. Someone’s over there. She blinked, in instant it was gone.
"Did you see that?” Milka spun around.
“What?” Xander jolted mid-stroke. “I don’t see anything.”
The two friends stood waist deep in the stream that zigzagged through the trees, down to the fields behind the village, momentarily halting their daily swim challenge.
Panting heavily, her pulse still rising, she stared at the bush; someone's watching us.
Leaves rustled to her left. Milka swung her head towards the sound. “Did you hear that?”
“What?” Xander tilted his head to one side, as water drained from his ear.
“Come on you must have heard that?”
“No, I didn’t!”
Narrowing her eyes, she searched the embankment, but saw only the clearing with its soft grass and sprinkles of bright wildflowers, surrounded by tall pine trees.
"God's tooth you’re jittery today.” Xander's elfish features scrunched together. “How you even heard anything amidst the usual forest noise is beyond me ... maybe it was just your imagination.”
She opened her mouth for a snarky retort but closed it after another rustle caught her attention.It’s definitely coming from over there. Signalling for Xander to be quiet, she waded through the water, and onto the bank, creeping toward the bush beside the toad-like rock. Milka considered the size of the bush for a moment, she'd never realized just how large this particular one was. It's a good hiding spot for anyone who doesn't want to be seen.
Taking a deep breath, she prepared to stick her head in, but gasped at the sudden drops of water raining against her back. It was enough to send shivers down her spine.
She flashed around to see Xander two steps behind her, shaking his saggy mop of curly red hair.
Milka glared at him, her cheeks flushing.
"What?” Xander paused.
"Didn't I just say to be quiet?"
“You're not still on about that noise are you? You and I both know there’s nothing there.”
Emitting a sigh of frustration, he nudged her to the side and pushed his head into the shrub before quickly pulling it out. "Nothing's in here. Told you." He smirked before doing a neat front flip onto the toad-rock, hand-walking to its edge. “And ... there’s nothing around here either.”
“Hmm.” Milka nibbled the bottom of her lip, looking beyond the clearing where the green tops of the pines towered against the backdrop of a cloudless sky. Where did the person disappear to?
“Okay, now you're acting weird." Xander flipped back next to her, brushing a smear of rock dust from his hands.
“I know, it's just that —"
"What?"
"I could have sworn I saw someone over there. He or she was spying on us.” Milka exhaled.
"Rather early for your Grandmother to send a search party, don't you think?" Xander turned about slowly.
Two squirrels scurried from the trees, fiddling with some dried pine cones lying on the ground.
“Your ‘mysterious’ culprits.” His voice tinged with sarcasm.
“I think I’d know the difference between a squirrel and a person.” She snapped. However, his words had gotten to her. Had it been just a shadow?The light is fading after all. Yet the prickly sensation on the back of her neck refused to go away. She placed a hand at her temple. God I am jittery today. Milka wondered if her recent nightmares were to blame. Grandmother had promised they’d go away, but every night now her parents plagued her dreams.
Sighing heavily, she glanced at Xander who was looking at her rather suspiciously.
“You're not making any sense. I have a sneaky feeling you only ended the race to avoid losing."
“What?” Milka gave an incredulous laugh.
“It’s that McKinley streak of yours, you just couldn’t face losing could you?”
“Lose, you say?” Her eyebrow shot up in contradiction. At times like this she wanted to give him a good shake. She’d been prepared to admit a slight error in judgement but concede a loss? She'd never hear the end of it. “Alexander Mayfield, you know well and good I beat you twice since evening and was on my way to winning for a third time. A thousand arms couldn’t have helped you beat me.”
“Is that so?” The grin started first at his mouth, then slowly spread to his freckled nose, making its way up to his hazel eyes alight with mischief. “See, by my calculations, I was about to swim past you when you supposedly saw someone. Am I to believe this person up and vanished into thin air? A snicker escaped his mouth.
The gall of him! She lifted a finger to give him a good telling off but was side-tracked by something close to where she’d seen the squirrels.
“Look!” Milka sped over to the spot. A huge mark imprinted into ground.
“Well, it’s not a shoe mark," Xander said pointedly,
“Look at the size of this thing.”
Crouching low, Xander placed his palm in its center. "There isn’t a beast in Pashdom big enough to make this mark. It’s likely a trick of the recent rains and mud.”
“Hmm.” Milka furrowed her brows. “I don’t know ... first a figure in the trees and now this. Something strange is happening here today, I can feel it.”
"Right … my friend, what you have, is an overactive imagination.” Xander scoffed. "Just admit defeat and I'll forgive you ruining the race earlier."
“I'll do no such thing. You’re lucky I’m not an Orgait, or I’d have you spinning in the air for such stubbornness.”
Though Milka spoke lightly, Xander’s whole demeanor changed; familiar sympathy evident in his eyes. “It's only been six months since your fifteenth birthday, I’ve a feeling my luck will run out soon. The left side of his mouth curled into a half-grin. “But until then, I’ll just as soon continue to hassle you.”
“Quite optimistic of you to think I’ll ever be able to do magic.” For his sake, she put on a smile. “Anyway, I don’t care about all that anymore.” Milka tossed out the words, careful to avoid looking at him. She knew from experience his gaze missed nothing.
For as long as she could remember, the Miller’s son had been her best friend, partner in crime, or trouble companion as Grandma Esme liked to call him. Though he drove her crazy, he always knew what to say; she just didn’t feel like talking about her magic problems today.
“Come on, we’ve stayed long enough,” She moved towards their meager belongings pausing to gaze at the stream. The water, the trees, and even the gigantic rock—this was truly her favorite place in the world. Here, she could forget about her parents’ death. The fact she barely remembered their faces bothered her. Sometimes she’d stare at the stream, hoping if she looked long enough she’d see her mother’s reflection instead of her own. Needless to say, it never worked. Milka’s blue eyes would pierce back, her oval face clouding with sadness.
Genre: Young Adult: Fantasy
Pitch:
At last Milka is an Orgait with the magical powers she craves. The only problem is, she hasn’t a clue how to use them. Of course it would’ve helped if they hadn’t appeared during the worst time EVER … the brutal invasion of her village and capture of her grandmother. Luckily she does have a best friend and together they set off on a rare ice-dragon to find her uncle and help the king stop Zulcor’s villainous acts. But a detour results in near misses and an encounter that gives painful insights into her parents’ death.
As Zulcor’s army grows, Milka is desperate to free her grandmother and stop his tyrannical designs on Pashdom. The once fearless 15 year old must master her new powers while trying to conquer the raw emotions threatening to overwhelm her. Her way forward lies not just in her magical abilities but in the power of her lifelong friendship and the unbreakable bond she builds with her dragon.
Using plenty of humor and the determined voice of a female protagonist, my debut novel is a coming of age story that explores teenage angst in the middle of fighting a war between good and evil.
FINAL DRAFT: Milka & the Ice Dragon
Milka’s hands sliced through the water. Ahead by an arm's length, she could feel Xander gaining. Adrenaline spiked through her with every fevered last stroke. Lifting her head for a final breath, she glimpsed a shadowy figure darting among the bushes.
The bottom of her feet hit against the sharp edges of limestone rocks,but she barely felt it. Her eyes drawn to the cloak fluttering through the shrubs beside the giant toad-shaped rock, near the water’s edge. Panic tickled the back of her throat. Someone’s over there. She blinked, in instant it was gone.
"Did you see that?” Milka spun around.
“What?” Xander jolted mid-stroke. “I don’t see anything.”
The two friends stood waist deep in the stream that zigzagged through the trees, down to the fields behind the village, momentarily halting their daily swim challenge.
Panting heavily, her pulse still rising, she stared at the bush; someone's watching us.
Leaves rustled to her left. Milka swung her head towards the sound. “Did you hear that?”
“What?” Xander tilted his head to one side, as water drained from his ear.
“Come on you must have heard that?”
“No, I didn’t!”
Narrowing her eyes, she searched the embankment, but saw only the clearing with its soft grass and sprinkles of bright wildflowers, surrounded by tall pine trees.
"God's tooth you’re jittery today.” Xander's elfish features scrunched together. “How you even heard anything amidst the usual forest noise is beyond me ... maybe it was just your imagination.”
She opened her mouth for a snarky retort but closed it after another rustle caught her attention.It’s definitely coming from over there. Signalling for Xander to be quiet, she waded through the water, and onto the bank, creeping toward the bush beside the toad-like rock. Milka considered the size of the bush for a moment, she'd never realized just how large this particular one was. It's a good hiding spot for anyone who doesn't want to be seen.
Taking a deep breath, she prepared to stick her head in, but gasped at the sudden drops of water raining against her back. It was enough to send shivers down her spine.
She flashed around to see Xander two steps behind her, shaking his saggy mop of curly red hair.
Milka glared at him, her cheeks flushing.
"What?” Xander paused.
"Didn't I just say to be quiet?"
“You're not still on about that noise are you? You and I both know there’s nothing there.”
Emitting a sigh of frustration, he nudged her to the side and pushed his head into the shrub before quickly pulling it out. "Nothing's in here. Told you." He smirked before doing a neat front flip onto the toad-rock, hand-walking to its edge. “And ... there’s nothing around here either.”
“Hmm.” Milka nibbled the bottom of her lip, looking beyond the clearing where the green tops of the pines towered against the backdrop of a cloudless sky. Where did the person disappear to?
“Okay, now you're acting weird." Xander flipped back next to her, brushing a smear of rock dust from his hands.
“I know, it's just that —"
"What?"
"I could have sworn I saw someone over there. He or she was spying on us.” Milka exhaled.
"Rather early for your Grandmother to send a search party, don't you think?" Xander turned about slowly.
Two squirrels scurried from the trees, fiddling with some dried pine cones lying on the ground.
“Your ‘mysterious’ culprits.” His voice tinged with sarcasm.
“I think I’d know the difference between a squirrel and a person.” She snapped. However, his words had gotten to her. Had it been just a shadow?The light is fading after all. Yet the prickly sensation on the back of her neck refused to go away. She placed a hand at her temple. God I am jittery today. Milka wondered if her recent nightmares were to blame. Grandmother had promised they’d go away, but every night now her parents plagued her dreams.
Sighing heavily, she glanced at Xander who was looking at her rather suspiciously.
“You're not making any sense. I have a sneaky feeling you only ended the race to avoid losing."
“What?” Milka gave an incredulous laugh.
“It’s that McKinley streak of yours, you just couldn’t face losing could you?”
“Lose, you say?” Her eyebrow shot up in contradiction. At times like this she wanted to give him a good shake. She’d been prepared to admit a slight error in judgement but concede a loss? She'd never hear the end of it. “Alexander Mayfield, you know well and good I beat you twice since evening and was on my way to winning for a third time. A thousand arms couldn’t have helped you beat me.”
“Is that so?” The grin started first at his mouth, then slowly spread to his freckled nose, making its way up to his hazel eyes alight with mischief. “See, by my calculations, I was about to swim past you when you supposedly saw someone. Am I to believe this person up and vanished into thin air? A snicker escaped his mouth.
The gall of him! She lifted a finger to give him a good telling off but was side-tracked by something close to where she’d seen the squirrels.
“Look!” Milka sped over to the spot. A huge mark imprinted into ground.
“Well, it’s not a shoe mark," Xander said pointedly,
“Look at the size of this thing.”
Crouching low, Xander placed his palm in its center. "There isn’t a beast in Pashdom big enough to make this mark. It’s likely a trick of the recent rains and mud.”
“Hmm.” Milka furrowed her brows. “I don’t know ... first a figure in the trees and now this. Something strange is happening here today, I can feel it.”
"Right … my friend, what you have, is an overactive imagination.” Xander scoffed. "Just admit defeat and I'll forgive you ruining the race earlier."
“I'll do no such thing. You’re lucky I’m not an Orgait, or I’d have you spinning in the air for such stubbornness.”
Though Milka spoke lightly, Xander’s whole demeanor changed; familiar sympathy evident in his eyes. “It's only been six months since your fifteenth birthday, I’ve a feeling my luck will run out soon. The left side of his mouth curled into a half-grin. “But until then, I’ll just as soon continue to hassle you.”
“Quite optimistic of you to think I’ll ever be able to do magic.” For his sake, she put on a smile. “Anyway, I don’t care about all that anymore.” Milka tossed out the words, careful to avoid looking at him. She knew from experience his gaze missed nothing.
For as long as she could remember, the Miller’s son had been her best friend, partner in crime, or trouble companion as Grandma Esme liked to call him. Though he drove her crazy, he always knew what to say; she just didn’t feel like talking about her magic problems today.
“Come on, we’ve stayed long enough,” She moved towards their meager belongings pausing to gaze at the stream. The water, the trees, and even the gigantic rock—this was truly her favorite place in the world. Here, she could forget about her parents’ death. The fact she barely remembered their faces bothered her. Sometimes she’d stare at the stream, hoping if she looked long enough she’d see her mother’s reflection instead of her own. Needless to say, it never worked. Milka’s blue eyes would pierce back, her oval face clouding with sadness.
1st 5 Pages November Workshop - Cauthron Rev 2
Name: Kyle Cauthron
Genre: Young Adult Fantasy
Title: The Salter’s Son
Pitch:
Mummifying the dead wasn't ever Paolo’s aspiration, but it’s the work he got. Now no amount of scrubbing can strip the stench of it from his skin, and folks won’t hardly come near him for fear of catching the plague. But he’s a refugee with no family and no money. For him there isn’t any escaping his indenture. Until he discovers the impossible.
In his world all the beasts are reptiles, and commerce, near every bit of it, ebbs and flows with the heat of the sun. That is, until Paolo discovers a new way of warming the beasts. He finally has his chance for cutting free—for buying his way out of his indenture—but only if he keeps his secret long enough to cash in. Unfortunately, Bento, the town's brutal money-lender, catches wind of the discovery and wants it for himself. Soon, so will every cutthroat with a musket or a knife. To stay alive and win his freedom, Paolo will have to venture into the mountains and partner with someone who might just be a cutthroat herself.
Revision:
Even in the dark, finding the house hadn't been any bother. The air around it was thick with smoke. For seven days they'd burned tallows, sage and whatever they could find for incense. But all I smelled was rot. I ducked my nose into the arm of my jacket, desperate to cut the smell. I nearly backed myself off that narrow terrace of a street just to escape, except that wasn't how I was raised.
The house I stood before was like all the others in the Squalors--all of them made of adobe and barely clinging to the cliffside. Its window didn't have any glass. There were only skins stitched together and sewn with stones to stop them flapping, but there wasn't any breeze that morning. There rarely was when I needed one. My breathing was coming in fast and shallow, making me take in more and more of the stench. Bile splashed against the back of my throat.
I knocked on the door harder than I meant to. The thing wasn't more than a few sticks wrapped in hide, and it rattled something fierce. The shaking released a fresh wave of stench, and I had to brace my hand against their wall. Damn those Nazra and their superstitions! I might be Nazra, but at least I had the good sense to know you don't leave a body out of the vat for a week. Not in Secco.
Beneath me the ground had set to swaying, but I knew it wasn't true. It was the memory coming back. I had waited my own week once and now there wasn't any forgetting. For seven days I had huddled below decks in the bowels of a ship. I had stayed there, pressed against a bulwark in the dark, too scared to move. Around me the ship hadn't ever stopped swaying, and the hammock with its body inside had rocked and creaked along with it. The air had been hard to hold onto then, the breathing a struggle. I hadn't had any smoldering sage or spices to cover it. All I could smell was death.
"You're early," the man said.
I jerked away from his wall and tried to look composed. Lacking the adobe I'd been leaning against, it was hard to appear steady, but I doubt he noticed. His eyes were vacant, his voice hollow. I didn't offer him my hand. He wouldn't have taken it--not even with me wearing gloves. Behind him was a room lit by a dozen tallows, all of them burned to nubs. They were spaced around the boy-sized shape wrapped in burlap. An earthen bowl held the lock of hair they would burn when I left.
Please let this be fast.
The man shuffled out of my way. His body stooped like there wasn't anything left holding him up, and I regretted cursing him and his Nazra ways. They had had to flee their home, same as me, and now they had lost their boy. I nodded at his wife sitting in the corner by the dung fire. I considered explaining myself for being early, but I didn't reckon I could manage. The stench of death was as thick as the smoke.
"It ain't right that you come so early," she said. "We get until dawn." As she spoke, she didn't lift her eyes from the burlap sack.
She was right, but it had taken a double measure of will to get me to the door the first time. I couldn't manage it again.
"I told him not to wander," the man said. His voice sounded strained. "I told him you don't leave the ropes. I told him, 'It's the mines, Son. You don't leave the ropes.'"
My stomach clenched in mini-heaves, but I couldn't duck my nose into my sleeve. It wouldn't have been respectful.
"We get until dawn," the woman said. "It's custom."
I sank to their bare earth floor as far from the body as I could get. It wasn't as refined as what the Salter would have done, but it was better than fainting.
I hadn't known the boy--not well at least--and I did my best not to remember how he had looked when he smiled. It was said he had been in the mine four days before they found him, then another seven in that room. I knew his insides would be squirming with bugs, and I knew I was going to have to carry him on my back. It was easier to think of him as just a body.
Dawn, I told myself. I breathed through clenched teeth, trying not to retch, trying not to curse those people for their ways, because I could feel the ground pitching again like it had on that ship. I remembered what it was to sit vigil.
I couldn't keep doing this. That I knew for true. If I didn't escape, there would be another. And another. Because this was Secco, and I was apprenticed to a Salter.
#
It was the flies that got me. Soon as I stepped from the smoke, they started collecting, and it only got worse as I carried the Nazra boy down the cliffside ladders. They crawled across my face and into my ears and nose. I ignored them as best I could until, on the last ladder, when I felt it coming. I dropped to the street and rolled the body from my back, but I wasn't sprightly enough. My stomach emptied before I got to my knees. I sat back on my heels to breathe and spied the sick splattered across my shirt.
"You don't care much for the ripe ones, do you?" asked a man behind me.
I leapt to my feet and tried pretending like I hadn't been doing what he'd seen. I wiped what I could from my shirt.
"I don't expect we'd catch the Salter doing that. Over a little stink?"
It was Bento. Even in his boots his forehead barely reached my cheekbones, but height wasn't what defined him. That man was as dried out as a chili and twice as mean. For whatever reason he had always taken an interest in me, and he grabbed every chance he could to drop me a peg or two. He leaned over the body. He pressed in so close I couldn't help but step back. As it happened, Bento was also missing an ear. While most folk would wear their hair long to hide it, he kept his razor short. At the precise end of his lean he cocked his head so that his empty ear hole stared at me from under his hat. I took another step back despite myself.
He sniffed.
"I will admit it. That one is particularly ripe."
He straightened. "You could have just dropped him from the ladder," he said, working a pinky finger around in his empty ear hole.
Breathe, Paolo, I told myself. He's just trying to goad you. I willed my jaw to unclench and forced my breath out slowly. As I did, he turned his attention to the tip of his pinky and wiped it onto his trousers.
I knelt to hoist the body from the ground and noted how little the burlap did to stop the stench. Bento stayed where he was. His eyes were greedy.
"You know I could get you out of this," he said. "I could get you out from under your Salter, get you away from all these bodies.”
Genre: Young Adult Fantasy
Title: The Salter’s Son
Pitch:
Mummifying the dead wasn't ever Paolo’s aspiration, but it’s the work he got. Now no amount of scrubbing can strip the stench of it from his skin, and folks won’t hardly come near him for fear of catching the plague. But he’s a refugee with no family and no money. For him there isn’t any escaping his indenture. Until he discovers the impossible.
In his world all the beasts are reptiles, and commerce, near every bit of it, ebbs and flows with the heat of the sun. That is, until Paolo discovers a new way of warming the beasts. He finally has his chance for cutting free—for buying his way out of his indenture—but only if he keeps his secret long enough to cash in. Unfortunately, Bento, the town's brutal money-lender, catches wind of the discovery and wants it for himself. Soon, so will every cutthroat with a musket or a knife. To stay alive and win his freedom, Paolo will have to venture into the mountains and partner with someone who might just be a cutthroat herself.
Revision:
Even in the dark, finding the house hadn't been any bother. The air around it was thick with smoke. For seven days they'd burned tallows, sage and whatever they could find for incense. But all I smelled was rot. I ducked my nose into the arm of my jacket, desperate to cut the smell. I nearly backed myself off that narrow terrace of a street just to escape, except that wasn't how I was raised.
The house I stood before was like all the others in the Squalors--all of them made of adobe and barely clinging to the cliffside. Its window didn't have any glass. There were only skins stitched together and sewn with stones to stop them flapping, but there wasn't any breeze that morning. There rarely was when I needed one. My breathing was coming in fast and shallow, making me take in more and more of the stench. Bile splashed against the back of my throat.
I knocked on the door harder than I meant to. The thing wasn't more than a few sticks wrapped in hide, and it rattled something fierce. The shaking released a fresh wave of stench, and I had to brace my hand against their wall. Damn those Nazra and their superstitions! I might be Nazra, but at least I had the good sense to know you don't leave a body out of the vat for a week. Not in Secco.
Beneath me the ground had set to swaying, but I knew it wasn't true. It was the memory coming back. I had waited my own week once and now there wasn't any forgetting. For seven days I had huddled below decks in the bowels of a ship. I had stayed there, pressed against a bulwark in the dark, too scared to move. Around me the ship hadn't ever stopped swaying, and the hammock with its body inside had rocked and creaked along with it. The air had been hard to hold onto then, the breathing a struggle. I hadn't had any smoldering sage or spices to cover it. All I could smell was death.
"You're early," the man said.
I jerked away from his wall and tried to look composed. Lacking the adobe I'd been leaning against, it was hard to appear steady, but I doubt he noticed. His eyes were vacant, his voice hollow. I didn't offer him my hand. He wouldn't have taken it--not even with me wearing gloves. Behind him was a room lit by a dozen tallows, all of them burned to nubs. They were spaced around the boy-sized shape wrapped in burlap. An earthen bowl held the lock of hair they would burn when I left.
Please let this be fast.
The man shuffled out of my way. His body stooped like there wasn't anything left holding him up, and I regretted cursing him and his Nazra ways. They had had to flee their home, same as me, and now they had lost their boy. I nodded at his wife sitting in the corner by the dung fire. I considered explaining myself for being early, but I didn't reckon I could manage. The stench of death was as thick as the smoke.
"It ain't right that you come so early," she said. "We get until dawn." As she spoke, she didn't lift her eyes from the burlap sack.
She was right, but it had taken a double measure of will to get me to the door the first time. I couldn't manage it again.
"I told him not to wander," the man said. His voice sounded strained. "I told him you don't leave the ropes. I told him, 'It's the mines, Son. You don't leave the ropes.'"
My stomach clenched in mini-heaves, but I couldn't duck my nose into my sleeve. It wouldn't have been respectful.
"We get until dawn," the woman said. "It's custom."
I sank to their bare earth floor as far from the body as I could get. It wasn't as refined as what the Salter would have done, but it was better than fainting.
I hadn't known the boy--not well at least--and I did my best not to remember how he had looked when he smiled. It was said he had been in the mine four days before they found him, then another seven in that room. I knew his insides would be squirming with bugs, and I knew I was going to have to carry him on my back. It was easier to think of him as just a body.
Dawn, I told myself. I breathed through clenched teeth, trying not to retch, trying not to curse those people for their ways, because I could feel the ground pitching again like it had on that ship. I remembered what it was to sit vigil.
I couldn't keep doing this. That I knew for true. If I didn't escape, there would be another. And another. Because this was Secco, and I was apprenticed to a Salter.
#
It was the flies that got me. Soon as I stepped from the smoke, they started collecting, and it only got worse as I carried the Nazra boy down the cliffside ladders. They crawled across my face and into my ears and nose. I ignored them as best I could until, on the last ladder, when I felt it coming. I dropped to the street and rolled the body from my back, but I wasn't sprightly enough. My stomach emptied before I got to my knees. I sat back on my heels to breathe and spied the sick splattered across my shirt.
"You don't care much for the ripe ones, do you?" asked a man behind me.
I leapt to my feet and tried pretending like I hadn't been doing what he'd seen. I wiped what I could from my shirt.
"I don't expect we'd catch the Salter doing that. Over a little stink?"
It was Bento. Even in his boots his forehead barely reached my cheekbones, but height wasn't what defined him. That man was as dried out as a chili and twice as mean. For whatever reason he had always taken an interest in me, and he grabbed every chance he could to drop me a peg or two. He leaned over the body. He pressed in so close I couldn't help but step back. As it happened, Bento was also missing an ear. While most folk would wear their hair long to hide it, he kept his razor short. At the precise end of his lean he cocked his head so that his empty ear hole stared at me from under his hat. I took another step back despite myself.
He sniffed.
"I will admit it. That one is particularly ripe."
He straightened. "You could have just dropped him from the ladder," he said, working a pinky finger around in his empty ear hole.
Breathe, Paolo, I told myself. He's just trying to goad you. I willed my jaw to unclench and forced my breath out slowly. As I did, he turned his attention to the tip of his pinky and wiped it onto his trousers.
I knelt to hoist the body from the ground and noted how little the burlap did to stop the stench. Bento stayed where he was. His eyes were greedy.
"You know I could get you out of this," he said. "I could get you out from under your Salter, get you away from all these bodies.”
1st 5 Pages November Workshop - Jiordano Rev 2
Name: Toasha Jiordano
Genre: YA/New Adult Dystopian
Title: Epoch Earth; The Great Glitch
PITCH
Seventy-five percent of Earth's population died off back in the Great Glitch of 2352, but Synta only cared about one of them. Her father. She and the remaining few Citizens are forced to remove their chips or go into hiding. Many choose replacing them with recylced chips by back alley 'doctors' than a life without the Net.
Almost overnight the land won't yield; crops and livestock extinct within a year. Starvation and another wave of Glitches sends the sparse population into a frenzy, turning on each other. Synta and her best friend Howie must grow up fast to care for their younger siblings and ailing mothers. Now, just seventeen and nineteen, they're faced with their toughest decision yet.
Do they trust the same government that may have caused the Glitch, and board ships bound for a new terraformed planet? Or do they stay, and live at the mercy of the angry Earth?
CHAPTER 1
Synta was thirteen the first time she saw someone glitch out and die.
He barged into the room where she stood not setting the table, mentally cussing the stupid dress her mom forced her to wear. As he pushed past, close enough to knock the forks out of her hand, the mental cussing shifted to him. Then her wits caught up. Daddy? He clawed behind his ear like a savage. What is he doing?
Synta opened her mouth to ask him just that when she caught a whiff of him. His flesh sizzled and the distinct smoky scent of steak swirled toward her nostrils. Synta huffed hard out of her nose like a dog to push the tantalizing aroma from her head. Synta’s cheeks burned in accusation of her liking the way her father’s meat smelled.
He fell to his knees, tears and spit running down his face. And that face! It didn’t even look human anymore, much less like her father. The agony masked his features so much that she feared him as she would a monster. Yet she stood there, motionless. Synta’s heart thudded in her chest begging her lungs for air.
Both his hands covered his ears and a low growl erupted from his pursed lips. Synta watched, frozen, as he dropped to the floor and dragged himself over to a small wooden table in the corner.
The world around Synta went black and her father crawling across their dining room floor was the only image burning itself into her brain. With pinpoint clarity, she noticed the discolored patch of skin behind his ear, the blood matting his dark hair to his neck, and the tag of his shirt still miraculously untainted by the carnage.
The fingers on her father’s left hand dug into the hardwood floor, nails crunching as they broke. His right hand scraped at the back of his ear the whole time. Synta grabbed the wall beside her to stop the world from spinning, and to hold steady her legs that wanted to bolt. Still, she never once thought to help.
As his fingers found the table leg he pulled himself upright. The growls turned to pitiful moans, which tore at Synta’s gut more than the former. Kneeling unsteadily, her father hunched over as if to vomit. Before she could wonder why he crawled all the way over there to puke, he bashed his head on the table. The dull thwump of a splitting watermelon rattled both their brains. Synta winced with each new thud.
Her father wavered; his legs buckled, threatening to drop him to the floor. Yet he persevered. Charred chunks of skin slid down his neck onto the table. Synta’s breakfast burned its way back up her throat. Her father’s bloodied hands still tore at the flesh behind his ear between bashes. His finger disappeared knuckle deep into the small hole he’d made.
Heavy seconds ticked by as he worked diligently to retrieve his prize. Finally, he let out a content squeak, holding up a microchip between two fingers. His chip was larger than most, half an inch square. Upon seeing it, Synta heard a low moan, then recognized it as her own.
Congealed blood hung from the corner of the chip, ready to drip in the already darkening puddle of her father on the table. His face softened, eyes lifted to the sky, the hint of a smile across his lips. Synta deflated against the wall. A hollow sigh escaped her father’s lungs as he flopped to the floor, twitching. The plates on the table rained on top of him. I should have set the table.
Synta’s mother screamed in the background void and glass shattered in the distance. The commotion snapped Synta out of her daze as the woman rushed to her husband’s side. Synta’s tunnel vision focused on her mother cradling her father’s mutilated head in her arms. She kissed his forehead and chanted his name.
“Sam… Sam… Sam…” Her tears erupted hard and fast over the carnage on his face.
Her mournful wailing harmonized with his last gurgles creating the most gut-wrenching noises. Her head flung back, dark locks of wavy hair soaking up his coagulated blood. Synta’s legs turned to jelly and she tightened her grip on the wall. The forks in her hand fell to the floor with a loud clang.
Through her fingers Synta watched the chip-to-chip mind meld between her parents as they synced. Fear strangled Synta, air stuck in her throat. Her mother, breathing ragged and shallow with her father - as one - escorted him on his journey out of this world. Only the whites of her mother’s eyes were visible now as they rolled deep into her head.
Never did Synta run to help her father or cry out for her mother. She just held her breath and stood idly by as her flesh and blood was reduced to a pile of, well, flesh and blood. It took every ounce of will inside her to not flee. Finally, her mother’s grief song died as her father’s lungs emptied.
Complete silence blared after her father’s body expelled the last of itself onto the floor of their dining room. The floor that a week ago he’d sworn to finally get around to polishing. The floor where her mom had just yelled at her for leaving the holopad. This is the floor where Synta’s father glitched and died, taking the innocent little girl inside her with him.
The electric charged air stung Synta’s chest as her body forced her to breathe.
Her mother’s cheeks returned to near pink. The woman’s eyes, black and barely open, settled back into their normal positions. She straightened herself, smoothing damp matted hair down her blood-stained apron. Turning those empty eyes toward Synta she whispered, “Go find your brother.”
Genre: YA/New Adult Dystopian
Title: Epoch Earth; The Great Glitch
PITCH
Seventy-five percent of Earth's population died off back in the Great Glitch of 2352, but Synta only cared about one of them. Her father. She and the remaining few Citizens are forced to remove their chips or go into hiding. Many choose replacing them with recylced chips by back alley 'doctors' than a life without the Net.
Almost overnight the land won't yield; crops and livestock extinct within a year. Starvation and another wave of Glitches sends the sparse population into a frenzy, turning on each other. Synta and her best friend Howie must grow up fast to care for their younger siblings and ailing mothers. Now, just seventeen and nineteen, they're faced with their toughest decision yet.
Do they trust the same government that may have caused the Glitch, and board ships bound for a new terraformed planet? Or do they stay, and live at the mercy of the angry Earth?
CHAPTER 1
Synta was thirteen the first time she saw someone glitch out and die.
He barged into the room where she stood not setting the table, mentally cussing the stupid dress her mom forced her to wear. As he pushed past, close enough to knock the forks out of her hand, the mental cussing shifted to him. Then her wits caught up. Daddy? He clawed behind his ear like a savage. What is he doing?
Synta opened her mouth to ask him just that when she caught a whiff of him. His flesh sizzled and the distinct smoky scent of steak swirled toward her nostrils. Synta huffed hard out of her nose like a dog to push the tantalizing aroma from her head. Synta’s cheeks burned in accusation of her liking the way her father’s meat smelled.
He fell to his knees, tears and spit running down his face. And that face! It didn’t even look human anymore, much less like her father. The agony masked his features so much that she feared him as she would a monster. Yet she stood there, motionless. Synta’s heart thudded in her chest begging her lungs for air.
Both his hands covered his ears and a low growl erupted from his pursed lips. Synta watched, frozen, as he dropped to the floor and dragged himself over to a small wooden table in the corner.
The world around Synta went black and her father crawling across their dining room floor was the only image burning itself into her brain. With pinpoint clarity, she noticed the discolored patch of skin behind his ear, the blood matting his dark hair to his neck, and the tag of his shirt still miraculously untainted by the carnage.
The fingers on her father’s left hand dug into the hardwood floor, nails crunching as they broke. His right hand scraped at the back of his ear the whole time. Synta grabbed the wall beside her to stop the world from spinning, and to hold steady her legs that wanted to bolt. Still, she never once thought to help.
As his fingers found the table leg he pulled himself upright. The growls turned to pitiful moans, which tore at Synta’s gut more than the former. Kneeling unsteadily, her father hunched over as if to vomit. Before she could wonder why he crawled all the way over there to puke, he bashed his head on the table. The dull thwump of a splitting watermelon rattled both their brains. Synta winced with each new thud.
Her father wavered; his legs buckled, threatening to drop him to the floor. Yet he persevered. Charred chunks of skin slid down his neck onto the table. Synta’s breakfast burned its way back up her throat. Her father’s bloodied hands still tore at the flesh behind his ear between bashes. His finger disappeared knuckle deep into the small hole he’d made.
Heavy seconds ticked by as he worked diligently to retrieve his prize. Finally, he let out a content squeak, holding up a microchip between two fingers. His chip was larger than most, half an inch square. Upon seeing it, Synta heard a low moan, then recognized it as her own.
Congealed blood hung from the corner of the chip, ready to drip in the already darkening puddle of her father on the table. His face softened, eyes lifted to the sky, the hint of a smile across his lips. Synta deflated against the wall. A hollow sigh escaped her father’s lungs as he flopped to the floor, twitching. The plates on the table rained on top of him. I should have set the table.
Synta’s mother screamed in the background void and glass shattered in the distance. The commotion snapped Synta out of her daze as the woman rushed to her husband’s side. Synta’s tunnel vision focused on her mother cradling her father’s mutilated head in her arms. She kissed his forehead and chanted his name.
“Sam… Sam… Sam…” Her tears erupted hard and fast over the carnage on his face.
Her mournful wailing harmonized with his last gurgles creating the most gut-wrenching noises. Her head flung back, dark locks of wavy hair soaking up his coagulated blood. Synta’s legs turned to jelly and she tightened her grip on the wall. The forks in her hand fell to the floor with a loud clang.
Through her fingers Synta watched the chip-to-chip mind meld between her parents as they synced. Fear strangled Synta, air stuck in her throat. Her mother, breathing ragged and shallow with her father - as one - escorted him on his journey out of this world. Only the whites of her mother’s eyes were visible now as they rolled deep into her head.
Never did Synta run to help her father or cry out for her mother. She just held her breath and stood idly by as her flesh and blood was reduced to a pile of, well, flesh and blood. It took every ounce of will inside her to not flee. Finally, her mother’s grief song died as her father’s lungs emptied.
Complete silence blared after her father’s body expelled the last of itself onto the floor of their dining room. The floor that a week ago he’d sworn to finally get around to polishing. The floor where her mom had just yelled at her for leaving the holopad. This is the floor where Synta’s father glitched and died, taking the innocent little girl inside her with him.
The electric charged air stung Synta’s chest as her body forced her to breathe.
Her mother’s cheeks returned to near pink. The woman’s eyes, black and barely open, settled back into their normal positions. She straightened herself, smoothing damp matted hair down her blood-stained apron. Turning those empty eyes toward Synta she whispered, “Go find your brother.”
Sunday, November 13, 2016
1st 5 Pages November Workshop - Jiordano Rev 1
Name: Toasha Jiordano
Genre: Young Adult Dystopian
Title: Epoch Earth; The Great Glitch
I was twelve the first time I saw someone glitch out and die. It was the scariest damn thing I’d ever seen.
Genre: Young Adult Dystopian
Title: Epoch Earth; The Great Glitch
I was twelve the first time I saw someone glitch out and die. It was the scariest damn thing I’d ever seen.
He barged in the room as I stood there not setting the table, mentally cussing the stupid dress my mom forced me to wear. Out of nowhere the man started clawing behind his ear. His burning flesh sizzled and smelled just like steak. He fell to his knees, tears and spit running down his face. And that face! It didn’t even look human anymore. The agony masked his features so much that I feared him as I would a monster or beast. Still I stood there, motionless.
Both of his hands covered his ears and a low growl erupted from his contorted mouth. I watched, frozen, as he dragged himself over to a small wooden table in the corner. The fingers on his left hand dug into the hardwood floor, nails crunching as they broke. His right hand scraped at the back of his ear the whole time. Still I stood rigid, mouth gaping, wanting to flee. Never once thinking to help.
As his fingers found the table leg he pulled himself upright. The growls turned to pitiful moans. So unnerving. Kneeling unsteadily, the man hunched over as if to vomit. No sooner had I wondered why he crawled all the way over there to puke, he bashed his head on the table.
If you’ve never heard a human skull smack against a wooden table - the dull thud of a splitting watermelon - I suggest you keep it that way. Every thwump sent shivers across my spine and bile to my throat.
His legs buckled, threatening to drop him to the floor. Yet he persevered. Charred sizzling chunks of skin slid down his neck onto the table. The sight churned the peanut butter and jelly climbing its way up my throat. His bloodied hands still tore at the flesh behind his ear between thuds. His finger disappeared knuckle deep down the hole he made.
Within seconds, or years from my estimate, he retrieved his prize! The chip was larger than most, half an inch square. Congealed blood hung from the corner, ready to drop in the already darkening puddle of him on the table. His face softened with relief. He tugged at the chip still hanging from his head. A final sigh escaped the man’s lips as he flopped to the floor. Doilies and magazines raining down.
My mother screamed and glass shattered behind me. The commotion snapped me out of my daze as she rushed to his side. She cradled his mutilated head in her arms, kissed his forehead and chanted his name. Through my fingers I watched the chip-to-chip mind meld between my parents as they mentally became one. Breathing ragged and shallow with him - in full transmission sync - my mother escorted my father through his journey out of this world.
Never did I run to help my father or cry out for my mom. I just held my breath and watched. In my defense, I was twelve. But still, to stand idly by and allow your flesh and blood to be reduced to a pile of, well, flesh and blood. Disgraceful.
“Sam… Sam… Sam…” My mom’s tears erupted hard and fast over the carnage on his face.
Her mournful wailing harmonized with his last gurgles creating the most gut-wrenching tones. Her head flung back, dark locks of wavy hair soaking up his coagulated blood. Only the whites of her eyes were visible now as they rolled deep into her head. Her grief song died as his lungs emptied.
Complete silence blared as my father’s body expelled the last of itself onto the floor of our dining room. The floor that a week ago he’d sworn to finally get around to polishing. The floor where my mom had just yelled at me for leaving coloring books all over. This is the floor where my father glitched and died, taking that innocent little girl inside me with him.
After my father’s last breath, my mom’s cheeks returned to near pink. Her eyes, black and barely open, settled back into their normal positions. She straightened herself, smoothing damp matted hair down her blood-stained apron. Turning those empty eyes toward me she whispered, “Synta, go find your brother.”
Chapter 2
Post Glitch: Day 1
The next morning the world outside Synta’s house was too quiet. Even the birds knew not to breathe. No sound came through the walls, only a random red or blue light peeked in. Synta’s mother languished on the couch one hand over her head like the fainting actresses in the old movies they used to watch together. Shock still had a firm grip on Synta as she sat at the foot of the couch, cradling her four-year-old brother Brooks. Her mother moaned and whimpered above them, still weak from the chip meld with her father on his death floor in that room. Every thought that flew through her mind always found its way back to that room.
Synta’s senses were held hostage by the agony on her parents’ faces, the scent of her father’s charred flesh and that horrible thwump of his skull on the table. Synta shook her head hard and flipped the switch on the holopad to distract Brooks with some TV time. Unfortunately, for three hours already President Sturn’s speech played on a constant loop in their heads and on every channel. Even the cartoon ones. Citizen Network Updates piped directly to every chip and all public broadcasts. There was no escape. So they watched the speech, on repeat, until they could recite it themselves.
1st 5 Pages November Workshop - Forrester Rev 1
Name: T.K. Forrester
Genre: Young Adult: Fantasy
Title: Milka & the Ice Dragon
Milka’s hands sliced through the water. Ahead by an arm’s length, she could feel him gaining. Adrenaline spiked through her with every fervored last stroke. Lifting her head for a final breath, she glimpsed a shadowy figure darting among the bushes.
Milka jolted mid-stroke. The hem of a cloak fluttered through the shrubs beside the odd-shaped giant rock in the clearing by the water’s edge. She blinked, and in an instant it was gone. The smooth limestone pebbles at the bottom of the stream rubbed against her feet, sparkling as she stared intently at the bush.
"Did you see that?” She turned to Xander who'd stopped swimming abruptly.
“What?” Xander wiped his eyes. “I don’t see anything.”
Milka panted heavily, her pulse still rising. Someone’s over there, someone’s spying on them. The two friends stood waist deep in the stream that zigzagged through the trees, down to the fields behind the village, momentarily halting their daily swim challenge. Milka could tell Xander’s annoyance by the frown flitting across his face. His elfish features scrunched together as he looked towards the embankment.
Leaves rustled to her left, “Did you hear that?” Milka spun her head around, but saw only the clearing, with its soft grass and sprinkles of bright wildflowers, surrounded by tall pine trees.
“Nope.” said Xander,
“Come on you must have heard that?”
“No, I didn’t! Christ, you’re jittery today. How you even heard anything amidst the gush of the stream and usual forest noise is beyond me ... maybe it was just your imagination”
Milka opened her mouth for a snarky retort but closed it after another rustle caught her attention. It’s definitely coming from over there.
“Shh.”Putting her finger to her lips, she emerged from the water and crept toward the bush beside the large rock. Xander trudged behind her, shaking his sagging mop of curly red hair so droplets of water splashed against her skin. Milka shivered, not from the water but by the unsettling feeling they were not alone.
On the bank, she peered into the bush cautiously but was nudged away by Xander who stuck his face in before pulling it out just as fast.
“Well, there’s nothing there.” He proceeded to front flip onto the rock where he hand-walked to its edge. “And ... there’s nothing around here either.”
“Hmm.” Milka nibbled the bottom of her lip, looking beyond the clearing where the green tops of the pines towered against the backdrop of a cloudless sky as if an artist’s brush had painted it so. The scent of the pines tickled her nose. Where did the person disappear to? She brought her focus back to the bush, taking in every little detail.
“I could have sworn I saw someone move back there, he or she was watching us.”
Xander turned about slowly, his gaze roaming over the clearing."I doubt your Grandmother would send a search party for us whilst there’s still sunlight.
Just then two squirrels scurried from the trees, fiddling with some dried pine cones lying on the ground.
Xander lifted his brows, “your ‘mysterious’ culprits.”
“I think I’d know the difference between a squirrel and a person.” Milka snapped. However, his words had gotten to her. Am I imagining things or was it a shadow? The light is fading after all. Yet the prickly sensation on the back of her neck refused to go away. She sighed, “Perhaps I am jittery today.”
Xander glanced from Milka to the squirrels then back again. “Look, all I know, is you stopped our race moments before finishing and you’ve yet to fully explain yourself.”
“What are you taking about?”
Xander held out his palm “It’s that McKinley streak of yours, you just couldn’t face losing could you?”
“Lose, you say?” Her eyebrow raised in contradiction.
An hour earlier the two friends dove into the challenge of swimming three times up to Brook Knells and back. Petite and athletic Milka enjoyed these games; not because they brought respite from her increasing manor chores, but she was good at them—especially swimming.
“Yes. I said lose.” Xander smirked.
She wanted to give him a good twat. If she conceded a loss she’d never hear the end of it.
“Alexander Mayfield, you know well and good I beat you twice since evening and was on my way to winning for a third time. A thousand arms couldn’t have helped you to beat me.”
“Is that so?” The grin started first at his mouth, then slowly spread to his freckled nose, making its way up to his hazel eyes alight with mischief. “By my calculations, I was about to swim past you when you supposedly saw someone. Am I to believe this person up and vanished into thin air? A rather flimsy excuse, if you ask me.” A snicker escaped his mouth.
Milka wasn’t impressed. The gall of him! She lifted a finger to give him a good telling off but was side-tracked by something close to where she’d seen the squirrels.
“Look!” Milka sped over to the spot. A huge mark imprinted into ground.
“Well, it’s not a shoe mark," Xander said pointedly,
“A bear’s claw perhaps.” Milka suggested.
“No, look at the size of this thing.” Crouching low, he placed his palm in its center. "There isn’t a beast in Pashdom big enough to make this mark. It’s likely a trick of the recent rains and mud.”
“Hmm.” Milka furrowed her brows. “I don’t know ... first a figure in the trees and now this. Something strange is happening here today, I can feel it.”
"Right, a person who vanished and a mark made by the rain … my friend, what you have, is an overactive imagination.” Xander scoffed. "Admit defeat and I'll forgive you ruining the race earlier."
“I'll do no such thing. You’re lucky I’m not an Orgait, or I’d have you spinning in the air for such stubbornness.”
Though Milka spoke lightly, Xander’s whole demeanor changed; familiar sympathy evident in his eyes. “It's only been six months since your fifteenth birthday, I’ve a feeling my luck will run out soon. The left side of his mouth curled into a half-grin. “But until then, I’ll just as soon continue to hassle you.”
“Quite optimistic of you to think I’ll ever be able to do magic.” Milka sighed.
“Hey, you know me.” The grin broadened.
“Well, more fool you.” For his sake, she put on a smile. “Anyway, I don’t care about all that anymore.” Milka tossed out the words, careful to avoid looking at him. She knew from experience his gaze missed nothing.
For as long as she could remember, the Miller’s son had been her best friend, partner in crime, fellow sleuth, or trouble companion as Grandma Esme liked to call him. Though he drove her crazy, he always knew what to say; she just didn’t feel like talking about her magic problems today.
“Come on, we’ve stayed long enough,” She moved towards their meager belongings pausing to gaze at the stream. The water, the trees, and even the gigantic rock—this was truly her favorite place in the world. Here, she could forget about her parents’ death. The fact she barely remembered their faces bothered her. Sometimes she’d stare at the stream, hoping if she looked long enough she’d see her mother’s reflection instead of her own. Needless to say, it never worked. Milka’s blue eyes would pierce back, her oval face clouding with sadness.
Genre: Young Adult: Fantasy
Title: Milka & the Ice Dragon
Milka’s hands sliced through the water. Ahead by an arm’s length, she could feel him gaining. Adrenaline spiked through her with every fervored last stroke. Lifting her head for a final breath, she glimpsed a shadowy figure darting among the bushes.
Milka jolted mid-stroke. The hem of a cloak fluttered through the shrubs beside the odd-shaped giant rock in the clearing by the water’s edge. She blinked, and in an instant it was gone. The smooth limestone pebbles at the bottom of the stream rubbed against her feet, sparkling as she stared intently at the bush.
"Did you see that?” She turned to Xander who'd stopped swimming abruptly.
“What?” Xander wiped his eyes. “I don’t see anything.”
Milka panted heavily, her pulse still rising. Someone’s over there, someone’s spying on them. The two friends stood waist deep in the stream that zigzagged through the trees, down to the fields behind the village, momentarily halting their daily swim challenge. Milka could tell Xander’s annoyance by the frown flitting across his face. His elfish features scrunched together as he looked towards the embankment.
Leaves rustled to her left, “Did you hear that?” Milka spun her head around, but saw only the clearing, with its soft grass and sprinkles of bright wildflowers, surrounded by tall pine trees.
“Nope.” said Xander,
“Come on you must have heard that?”
“No, I didn’t! Christ, you’re jittery today. How you even heard anything amidst the gush of the stream and usual forest noise is beyond me ... maybe it was just your imagination”
Milka opened her mouth for a snarky retort but closed it after another rustle caught her attention. It’s definitely coming from over there.
“Shh.”Putting her finger to her lips, she emerged from the water and crept toward the bush beside the large rock. Xander trudged behind her, shaking his sagging mop of curly red hair so droplets of water splashed against her skin. Milka shivered, not from the water but by the unsettling feeling they were not alone.
On the bank, she peered into the bush cautiously but was nudged away by Xander who stuck his face in before pulling it out just as fast.
“Well, there’s nothing there.” He proceeded to front flip onto the rock where he hand-walked to its edge. “And ... there’s nothing around here either.”
“Hmm.” Milka nibbled the bottom of her lip, looking beyond the clearing where the green tops of the pines towered against the backdrop of a cloudless sky as if an artist’s brush had painted it so. The scent of the pines tickled her nose. Where did the person disappear to? She brought her focus back to the bush, taking in every little detail.
“I could have sworn I saw someone move back there, he or she was watching us.”
Xander turned about slowly, his gaze roaming over the clearing."I doubt your Grandmother would send a search party for us whilst there’s still sunlight.
Just then two squirrels scurried from the trees, fiddling with some dried pine cones lying on the ground.
Xander lifted his brows, “your ‘mysterious’ culprits.”
“I think I’d know the difference between a squirrel and a person.” Milka snapped. However, his words had gotten to her. Am I imagining things or was it a shadow? The light is fading after all. Yet the prickly sensation on the back of her neck refused to go away. She sighed, “Perhaps I am jittery today.”
Xander glanced from Milka to the squirrels then back again. “Look, all I know, is you stopped our race moments before finishing and you’ve yet to fully explain yourself.”
“What are you taking about?”
Xander held out his palm “It’s that McKinley streak of yours, you just couldn’t face losing could you?”
“Lose, you say?” Her eyebrow raised in contradiction.
An hour earlier the two friends dove into the challenge of swimming three times up to Brook Knells and back. Petite and athletic Milka enjoyed these games; not because they brought respite from her increasing manor chores, but she was good at them—especially swimming.
“Yes. I said lose.” Xander smirked.
She wanted to give him a good twat. If she conceded a loss she’d never hear the end of it.
“Alexander Mayfield, you know well and good I beat you twice since evening and was on my way to winning for a third time. A thousand arms couldn’t have helped you to beat me.”
“Is that so?” The grin started first at his mouth, then slowly spread to his freckled nose, making its way up to his hazel eyes alight with mischief. “By my calculations, I was about to swim past you when you supposedly saw someone. Am I to believe this person up and vanished into thin air? A rather flimsy excuse, if you ask me.” A snicker escaped his mouth.
Milka wasn’t impressed. The gall of him! She lifted a finger to give him a good telling off but was side-tracked by something close to where she’d seen the squirrels.
“Look!” Milka sped over to the spot. A huge mark imprinted into ground.
“Well, it’s not a shoe mark," Xander said pointedly,
“A bear’s claw perhaps.” Milka suggested.
“No, look at the size of this thing.” Crouching low, he placed his palm in its center. "There isn’t a beast in Pashdom big enough to make this mark. It’s likely a trick of the recent rains and mud.”
“Hmm.” Milka furrowed her brows. “I don’t know ... first a figure in the trees and now this. Something strange is happening here today, I can feel it.”
"Right, a person who vanished and a mark made by the rain … my friend, what you have, is an overactive imagination.” Xander scoffed. "Admit defeat and I'll forgive you ruining the race earlier."
“I'll do no such thing. You’re lucky I’m not an Orgait, or I’d have you spinning in the air for such stubbornness.”
Though Milka spoke lightly, Xander’s whole demeanor changed; familiar sympathy evident in his eyes. “It's only been six months since your fifteenth birthday, I’ve a feeling my luck will run out soon. The left side of his mouth curled into a half-grin. “But until then, I’ll just as soon continue to hassle you.”
“Quite optimistic of you to think I’ll ever be able to do magic.” Milka sighed.
“Hey, you know me.” The grin broadened.
“Well, more fool you.” For his sake, she put on a smile. “Anyway, I don’t care about all that anymore.” Milka tossed out the words, careful to avoid looking at him. She knew from experience his gaze missed nothing.
For as long as she could remember, the Miller’s son had been her best friend, partner in crime, fellow sleuth, or trouble companion as Grandma Esme liked to call him. Though he drove her crazy, he always knew what to say; she just didn’t feel like talking about her magic problems today.
“Come on, we’ve stayed long enough,” She moved towards their meager belongings pausing to gaze at the stream. The water, the trees, and even the gigantic rock—this was truly her favorite place in the world. Here, she could forget about her parents’ death. The fact she barely remembered their faces bothered her. Sometimes she’d stare at the stream, hoping if she looked long enough she’d see her mother’s reflection instead of her own. Needless to say, it never worked. Milka’s blue eyes would pierce back, her oval face clouding with sadness.
1st 5 Pages November Workshop - Cauthron Rev 1
Name: Kyle Cauthron
Genre: Young Adult fantasy
Title: The Salter’s Son
Even in the dark, finding the house hadn't been any bother. The air around it was thick with smoke. For seven days they'd burned tallows, sage and whatever they could find for incense. But all I smelled was rot. I ducked my nose into the arm of my jacket, desperate to cut the smell. I nearly backed myself off that narrow terrace of a street just to escape, except that wasn't how I was raised.
The house I stood before was like all the others in the Squalors--all of them made of adobe and barely clinging to the cliffside. Its window didn't have any glass. There were only skins stitched together and sewn with stones to stop them flapping, but there wasn't any breeze that morning. There rarely was when I needed one. My breathing was coming in fast and shallow, making me take in more and more of the stench. Bile splashed against the back of my throat.
I knocked on the door harder than I meant to. The thing wasn't more than a few sticks wrapped in hide, and it rattled something fierce. The shaking released a fresh wave of stench, and I had to brace my hand against their wall. Damn those Nazra and their superstitions! I might be Nazra, but at least I had the good sense to know you don't leave a body out of the vat for a week. Not in Secco.
Beneath my feet the ground had set to trembling, but I knew it wasn't true. It was the memory coming back. In my mind I wasn't any longer on that cliffside. I was below decks and in the dark, struggling to breathe. The air was hard to hold onto. Around me the wooden hull didn't ever stop swaying, and the hammock with its body wrapped inside rocked and creaked along with it. There wasn't any smoldering sage or spices then to cover it. All I smelled was death.
"You're early," the man said.
I jerked away from his wall and tried to look composed. Lacking the adobe I'd been leaning against, it was hard to appear steady, but I doubt he noticed. His eyes were vacant, his voice hollow. I didn't offer him my hand. He wouldn't have taken it--not even with me wearing gloves. Behind him was a room lit by a dozen tallows, all of them burned to nubs. They were spaced around the boy-sized shape wrapped in burlap. An earthen bowl held the lock of hair they would burn when I left.
Please let this be fast.
The man shuffled out of my way. His body stooped like there wasn't anything left holding him up, and I regretted cursing him and his Nazra ways. They had had to flee their home, same as me, and now they had lost their boy. I nodded at his wife sitting in the corner by the dung fire. I considered explaining myself for being early, but I didn't reckon I could manage. The stench of death was as thick as the smoke.
"It ain't right that you come so early," she said. "We get until dawn." As she spoke, she didn't lift her eyes from the burlap sack.
She was right, but it had taken a double measure of will to get me to the door the first time. I couldn't manage it again.
"I told him not to wander," the man said. His voice sounded strained. "I told him you don't leave the ropes. I told him, 'It's the mines, Son. You don't leave the ropes.'"
My stomach clenched in mini-heaves, but I couldn't duck my nose into my sleeve. It wouldn't have been respectful.
"We get until dawn," the woman said. "It's custom."
I sank to their bare earth floor as far from the body as I could get. It wasn't as refined as what the Salter would have done, but it was better than fainting.
I hadn't known the boy--not well at least--and I did my best not to remember how he had looked when he smiled. It was said he had been in the mine four days before they found him, then another seven in that room. I knew his insides would be squirming with bugs, and I knew I was going to have to carry him on my back. It was easier to think of him as just a body.
Dawn, I told myself. I breathed through clenched teeth, trying not to retch, trying not to curse those people for their ways, because I could feel the ground pitching again like it had on that ship. I knew what it was to sit vigil.
I couldn't keep doing it. That I knew for true. If I didn't escape, there would be another. And another. Because this was Secco, and I was apprenticed to a Salter.
#
Near the bottom of the ladder, I felt it coming. I dropped to the muck in the street and rolled the body from my back, but I wasn't sprightly enough. My stomach emptied before I got to my knees. I sat back on my heels to breathe and spied the sick splattered across my shirt.
"You don't care much for the ripe ones, do you?" asked a man behind me.
I leapt to my feet and tried pretending like I hadn't been doing what he'd seen. I wiped what I could from my shirt.
"I don't expect we'd catch the Salter doing that. Over a little stink?"
It was Bento. Even in his boots his forehead barely reached my cheekbones, but height wasn't what defined him. That man was as dried out as a chili and twice as mean. For whatever reason he had always taken an interest in me, and he grabbed every chance he could to drop me a peg or two. He leaned over the body. He pressed in so close I couldn't help but step back. As it happened, Bento was also missing an ear. While most folk would wear their hair long to hide it, he kept his razor short. At the precise end of his lean he cocked his head so that his empty ear hole stared at me from under his hat. I took another step back despite myself.
He sniffed.
"I will admit it. That one is particularly ripe."
He straightened. "You could have just dropped him from the ladder," he said, working a pinky finger around in his empty ear hole.
Breathe, Paolo, I told myself. He's just trying to goad you. I willed my jaw to unclench and forced my breath out slowly. As I did, he turned his attention to the tip of his pinky and wiped it onto his trousers.
I knelt to hoist the body from the ground and noted how little the burlap did to stop the stench. Bento stayed where he was. His eyes were greedy.
"You know I could get you out of this," he said. "I could get you out from under your Salter, get you away from all these bodies." He said it in our native tongue.
The switch of tongues threw me off guard. Was he making the offer sound genuine or was he showing we weren't so different he and I? Either way, I forced myself to shrug and wrapped my arms around the body to roll it onto my back.
Bento pinned it to the ground with a boot.
“You should come see me.”
Genre: Young Adult fantasy
Title: The Salter’s Son
Even in the dark, finding the house hadn't been any bother. The air around it was thick with smoke. For seven days they'd burned tallows, sage and whatever they could find for incense. But all I smelled was rot. I ducked my nose into the arm of my jacket, desperate to cut the smell. I nearly backed myself off that narrow terrace of a street just to escape, except that wasn't how I was raised.
The house I stood before was like all the others in the Squalors--all of them made of adobe and barely clinging to the cliffside. Its window didn't have any glass. There were only skins stitched together and sewn with stones to stop them flapping, but there wasn't any breeze that morning. There rarely was when I needed one. My breathing was coming in fast and shallow, making me take in more and more of the stench. Bile splashed against the back of my throat.
I knocked on the door harder than I meant to. The thing wasn't more than a few sticks wrapped in hide, and it rattled something fierce. The shaking released a fresh wave of stench, and I had to brace my hand against their wall. Damn those Nazra and their superstitions! I might be Nazra, but at least I had the good sense to know you don't leave a body out of the vat for a week. Not in Secco.
Beneath my feet the ground had set to trembling, but I knew it wasn't true. It was the memory coming back. In my mind I wasn't any longer on that cliffside. I was below decks and in the dark, struggling to breathe. The air was hard to hold onto. Around me the wooden hull didn't ever stop swaying, and the hammock with its body wrapped inside rocked and creaked along with it. There wasn't any smoldering sage or spices then to cover it. All I smelled was death.
"You're early," the man said.
I jerked away from his wall and tried to look composed. Lacking the adobe I'd been leaning against, it was hard to appear steady, but I doubt he noticed. His eyes were vacant, his voice hollow. I didn't offer him my hand. He wouldn't have taken it--not even with me wearing gloves. Behind him was a room lit by a dozen tallows, all of them burned to nubs. They were spaced around the boy-sized shape wrapped in burlap. An earthen bowl held the lock of hair they would burn when I left.
Please let this be fast.
The man shuffled out of my way. His body stooped like there wasn't anything left holding him up, and I regretted cursing him and his Nazra ways. They had had to flee their home, same as me, and now they had lost their boy. I nodded at his wife sitting in the corner by the dung fire. I considered explaining myself for being early, but I didn't reckon I could manage. The stench of death was as thick as the smoke.
"It ain't right that you come so early," she said. "We get until dawn." As she spoke, she didn't lift her eyes from the burlap sack.
She was right, but it had taken a double measure of will to get me to the door the first time. I couldn't manage it again.
"I told him not to wander," the man said. His voice sounded strained. "I told him you don't leave the ropes. I told him, 'It's the mines, Son. You don't leave the ropes.'"
My stomach clenched in mini-heaves, but I couldn't duck my nose into my sleeve. It wouldn't have been respectful.
"We get until dawn," the woman said. "It's custom."
I sank to their bare earth floor as far from the body as I could get. It wasn't as refined as what the Salter would have done, but it was better than fainting.
I hadn't known the boy--not well at least--and I did my best not to remember how he had looked when he smiled. It was said he had been in the mine four days before they found him, then another seven in that room. I knew his insides would be squirming with bugs, and I knew I was going to have to carry him on my back. It was easier to think of him as just a body.
Dawn, I told myself. I breathed through clenched teeth, trying not to retch, trying not to curse those people for their ways, because I could feel the ground pitching again like it had on that ship. I knew what it was to sit vigil.
I couldn't keep doing it. That I knew for true. If I didn't escape, there would be another. And another. Because this was Secco, and I was apprenticed to a Salter.
#
Near the bottom of the ladder, I felt it coming. I dropped to the muck in the street and rolled the body from my back, but I wasn't sprightly enough. My stomach emptied before I got to my knees. I sat back on my heels to breathe and spied the sick splattered across my shirt.
"You don't care much for the ripe ones, do you?" asked a man behind me.
I leapt to my feet and tried pretending like I hadn't been doing what he'd seen. I wiped what I could from my shirt.
"I don't expect we'd catch the Salter doing that. Over a little stink?"
It was Bento. Even in his boots his forehead barely reached my cheekbones, but height wasn't what defined him. That man was as dried out as a chili and twice as mean. For whatever reason he had always taken an interest in me, and he grabbed every chance he could to drop me a peg or two. He leaned over the body. He pressed in so close I couldn't help but step back. As it happened, Bento was also missing an ear. While most folk would wear their hair long to hide it, he kept his razor short. At the precise end of his lean he cocked his head so that his empty ear hole stared at me from under his hat. I took another step back despite myself.
He sniffed.
"I will admit it. That one is particularly ripe."
He straightened. "You could have just dropped him from the ladder," he said, working a pinky finger around in his empty ear hole.
Breathe, Paolo, I told myself. He's just trying to goad you. I willed my jaw to unclench and forced my breath out slowly. As I did, he turned his attention to the tip of his pinky and wiped it onto his trousers.
I knelt to hoist the body from the ground and noted how little the burlap did to stop the stench. Bento stayed where he was. His eyes were greedy.
"You know I could get you out of this," he said. "I could get you out from under your Salter, get you away from all these bodies." He said it in our native tongue.
The switch of tongues threw me off guard. Was he making the offer sound genuine or was he showing we weren't so different he and I? Either way, I forced myself to shrug and wrapped my arms around the body to roll it onto my back.
Bento pinned it to the ground with a boot.
“You should come see me.”
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