1st 5 Pages June Workshop - Whetter Rev 2

Name: Carly Whetter
Genre: YA Urban Fantasy
Title: Earthrise

Pitch:

When eighteen-year-old Zola Quentin’s father is murdered instead of her, she prematurely performs elemental Earth magic she never knew she had.

Born to the Kerai who ascend to their immortality and magic at nineteen, Zola’s unheard of mortal magical ability could not have been predicted. Only her father’s actions the night he died suggest he kept her secret from everyone. When she discovers her magic is the final piece to a deadly curse, and with her identity no longer a secret, she is swept off to train to become a deadly warrior in both combat and magic.

When a scorned ancient Kerai wages a deathly battle to secure Zola’s power for his own, Zola discovers the crime that her father committed to keep her safe, deep seeded family revenge waged for centuries, and betrayal from those she thought she could trust most. In order to save the Kerai from extinction and avenge her father’s death, Zola must become strong enough to survive her growing powers or risk losing herself and everyone else she loves in the process.

Pages:

Although it’s been ten years since I first heard the story I always repeat it myself like a mantra.

I’ve never been able to find the story anywhere in print, but my father’s voice gave life to it before I was taken by sleep as a child, and a day hasn’t past without it being with me.

I paint Lady Earth lying on the forest floor in the grove where she seeks shelter. She’s curled on her side with her head cradled in the crook of her arm, and her hair loops with the dirt beneath her, giving way to strong cedar trees. Her branch-like fingers turn into the ivy that cocoons around her in a net of safety. If I can do the story justice, I want to paint her eyes that are said to be the origin of starlight.

I stand on my tiptoes wishing I had thought to grab a ladder from the garage. I lift my paintbrush to the ceiling where I’m working on the branches that will eventually twist their way across to the center of the room and around the light fixture.

The tarp covering my bed crinkles beneath my weight, and I place my fingers delicately on part of the mural that has now dried. When my skin touches the wall, a tingling static sensation numbs my fingertips. I pull my hand back like I’ve been burned, shaking my hand to relieve the sting.

After the sting has left, I press my palm flat against the wall to steady myself, and the sensation whips through me like lightning; it moves up my arm and resonates beneath my sternum, burning as it goes. I’m knocked breathless and I stumble backward. My paintbrush falls from my hand and paint smatters across the hardwood floor. My heart thrums against my ribcage, throttling up to my ears.

“What the hell?” I breathe heavily. My entire body I shaking, my breath knocked out of me. My best friend’s father died of a heart attack, and my muscles constrict at the thought. I press my fingers to the skin of my chest, trying to massage the pain away.

Although I haven’t recovered, I investigate the wall. My bedroom is still doused in the same yellow light, and my mural looks just as unfinished as it did two minutes ago.

I shake my head. The air is thick with the smell of acrylic even though I’ve opened a window to let in the winter breeze. Nothing has changed but something feels like it’s lodged itself deep in my chest, tightening around my bones.

My daze is broken when the front door slams downstairs. I vault off the bed, trying to get as far away from the mural as possible. Paint gushes from between my toes when I land on the floor.

I’d worked so hard on the mural all day, hoping it would be done by the time my family got home. I’d been so obsessive, but when I look at it now it’s so foreign to me. My legs are weak and I’m struggling to stay upright. I rub my calloused hands together, trying to recreate the friction but I think I’m seeing things; I must be high off paint fumes.

Aidan’s stomps echo through the stone house as he makes his way through the living room to the stairwell, and loud thunks resonate with each piece of sports equipment he drops every few feet or so. Dad's warning follows soon after.

I know that someone will come in and see my progress so far, and my mind is whirring and I wipe my sweaty palms on Dylan’s old paint-spattered scrubs I’m wearing.

“Zola?” Dad’s voice is just outside my room, and he raps his knuckles three times against my door. “How is it going?”

I carve a path through my paint supplies with my foot, buying time. There are a million thoughts going through my mind: I’m excited to know what my Dad thinks. But the pain in my chest is only just ebbing, and I don’t know what that means.  “It’s not done yet!”

He ignores my protests and steps into the room anyway. His gaze lands on the mural, thankfully, instead of me because I don’t know what to say to him to convince him that this was worth it. His eyebrows furrow and he shakes his head. “No.”

My entire body goes cold and I stiffen, as this single word forces me to forget everything else. “What?”

“I’m saying no. When I said you could paint a mural I didn’t know you would paint this.” He’s speaking faster now, as if trying to keep himself calm but failing to do so. “I told you those stories to help you sleep, I didn’t mean for you to go and start painting them on your bedroom wall for everyone to see.” He’s oblivious to anything but his own words and the mural.

“But they’re just stories.” I don’t know if I’m saying the words to convince him or myself. Heat blooms inside of me, and my stomach turns over from fear.

Only one thing rests in my mind: he’s betrayed me. He let me put time and effort into something that he will never even give a chance. Not even after our long history of going up and down aisles in art stores as he picked out the right colours to match the sunset. I spend hours on my own in those same aisles now, often wondering what made him walk away, while simultaneously wondering what will happen if he realizes I’m there.

“This is too risky.” He’s moving towards the paint cans in the corner of my room that we’d kept after the remodel a couple of years ago. He forces one of the lids up with a ruler.

I can’t voice my horror and he offers me no opportunity to do so or any explanation for his behaviour. He dips a paint roller into an ivory white that doesn’t even match the original paint, and in three steps he’s on my bed. He smacks the roller on the wall and excess paint showers Lady Earth like rain. The suctioning sound is sickening as he slashes the pigment across her peaceful body.

Lady Earth is no longer in her safe space and neither am I.

I can’t let him do this to her, or to me. When I step onto my mattress after my dad, the sudden shift in weight makes him lose his balance, and I have just enough time before he steadies himself to grab the paint bucket out of his hand and throw its contents across the picture.

“There, are you happy now?”