1st 5 Pages Sept Workshop - Baron Rev 1

Name: Angela T. Baron (A. T. Baron)

Genre: Young Adult Contemporary Supernatural

Title: Emerson’s Guide to Playing with Sand

Pitch:

Eager for lively summer fun, seventeen-year-old, Emerson wants to put Leukemia behind her. A hospital stay takes a turn for the worse when she dies. In passing, she finds herself newly employed in an afterlife corporation run by God. Under the tutelage of her mentor, Calvin, she learns the ropes of shepherding souls with the sands of life.

Emerson’s job would be child’s play if not for her potent living spirit that makes her nauseous, induces her associates to stray from Heavenly paths, and delights the devil. When she discovers that the sand can transport her to the land of the living, Emerson tries to connect with her family and friends, but it’s against policy and makes her an ideal target for Lucifer’s plans to control the company and human souls.

Seeking comfort and council from Calvin, Emerson learns that love after death is just as hard. She believes their affection for each other is keeping Calvin from his divine promotion. With some help from a saintly janitor, Emerson must let go of life, prevent a hostile takeover by the devil, and navigate feelings for Calvin if she wants their souls to climb the corporate ladder to Heaven.

Pages:

Chapter One - You Can't Have Your Cake and Eat It Too

On the last day of my hospital stay, I found my mother holding the limp hand of another me. Streaks of mascara ran down her cheeks.

“Emmie! No—” A sob choked off her plea.

I looked down at the cupcake in my fist. The chocolate cake crumbled through my fingers and fell to the sand. I tried to rub the dream-like vision from my eyes, but it remained—sand as far as I could see, and in the middle of it was me on the bed, pale and dead.

The doctor struggled to find a pulse while nurses circled like a swarm of bees around a hive.

“Mom?” I reached out to her, but a cascade of white crystals obscured my sight. “What the—” I watched the glittering particles flow over my arm and saw shimmers of what I thought was me, but from half an hour ago. The vision played out like a television rerun, but I was smack in the middle of it playing the role of myself and feeling it all over again.

Warmth bloomed inside me as the sand showered over my body. Content with the feeling, I relived my last moments.

Mom dabbed at her eyes with a tattered tissue; tiny Kleenex confetti fell to the floor.

I struggled for breath, and her eyes met mine.

“Oh, baby. How are you feeling?”

“I—”

“Don’t talk. You’re too weak.”

“Mom—”

“Your dad says, ‘Hi.’”

“Want. To. Sit up,” I managed to say.

“Oh, sure.” My mom leaned forward and pushed the button on the plastic guardrail panel. The electric motor whined as the top of the bed rose. The rest of the room came into view along with my blanketed feet and then stopped with a jerk as she released the button.

I should have been spending the warm sunny days hanging out at the beach with my best friend. Instead, I was wasting away my body and my summer laid up in a hospital bed in room 314 of St. Cajetan’s Medical Center. The sea and surf were replaced with powder blue walls and noisy monitors.

I was getting used to scenes like these. Leukemia had me coming to the hospital for treatments since middle school, but since the beginning of my junior year, my weakened body fell prey to the slightest breeze as malignant blood cells coursed through my body. This was my third visit to the hospital in as many months. The most recent predator, complications from pneumonia, consumed the last week of school and exams. I would’ve taken solving Trigonometry questions over frequent blood tests any day.

My mom was religiously by my side. She slept in the crappy lounge chair next to the bed and ate every meal with me—when I could stomach the thought. She only left my side to go to the bathroom, which I assumed was to reapply more makeup. I didn’t even know why she bothered putting on makeup at all. It wasn’t like she had anyone to impress at the hospital. I certainly couldn’t outdo her with my pasty skin, bald head, and drool dripping down my face.

“Deanna stopped by this afternoon. She left you another balloon.”

I glanced at the explosion of colors by the window. Flowers and plants from family, stuffed toys and cards from friends, and enough balloons from Dee to raise a house off the ground.

I knew they were all from her because everyone was different. She worked at Party Emporium and got a discount. On the first day in the hospital, she told me she would keep me supplied with something sweet and an interesting view. The newest balloon was round, pink, and mylar, emblazoned with the words, “It’s a girl!” Hell yeah!

“I don’t quite understand this last balloon,” my mom said as she squeezed my hand. “Is that all they had in stock?”

“No, Mom. She’s making fun of my looks.”

My mom shook her head in disgust, “That’s terrible.”

“I love her for it.”  I tried to smile, but the oxygen cannula plugged into my nose pulled on my crusty skin.

It was bad enough that I was cursed with small breasts, but losing my hair was difficult for me to deal with. Dee, being the best friend that she was, did everything in her power to cheer me up in my hours of need.

Before chemotherapy, I loved wearing my hair long and dying it different colors. It was the one thing I could control in my life. The last color I picked was “Violet Vixen.” My mom shrieked when she saw my purple head for the first time, but eventually got used to it. I enjoyed the color for a whole two weeks until I pushed my hair behind my ears, and a clump came out in my hand.

Once the rest of my hair fell out, I appeared somewhat asexual. Dee thought I should take advantage of my new guise. She dared me to sneak into the boy’s locker room at school and get a peek at the cute guys in their underwear. I chickened out, and Dee blamed it on the fact that I didn’t have the balls.

Mom left my side and walked to the window. She picked off a faded blossom from a potted plant. Her wrinkled chiffon blouse and knit leggings hung on her thin frame.

“Your dad’s going to come by later. He has to work late.” She sighed. “He wants to see you before—” She rolled the wilted bloom in her hand and never finished the statement.

“It’s okay.” I didn’t know why I said that. It wasn’t okay. I had been in the hospital for two weeks trying to regain lung capacity, but I only felt worse. The doctors said I was getting better, but my parents believed in expecting the worst; that way, they would never be disappointed. Unfortunately, my mom’s mood was dragging me down even more than cancer.

God, hospitals are so depressing! Staff rushed around trying to get as many bodily samples from patients as possible and then try to make them comfortable because that is all they can do for them. At least I had cable. I filled my waking hours with silly cartoon sound effects to cover the weeping and complaining from neighboring rooms.

A rolling computer cart entered the room, followed by the nurse. Loretta was filling the evening shift and overfilling her scrubs. She was pleasant to talk to, but I never got a lot of time to chat with her. Normally, she wheeled in her equipment, took my vitals, and wheeled herself to the next invalid.

“Hey, honey. How you feelin’ today? I heard they had chocolate puddin’ for dessert tonight.”

“I’m really not hungry.” The thought of eating hospital food didn’t appeal to me, especially when the chicken salad looked the same going in as it did coming out—either end. Lately, I satisfied myself with tropical-flavored lifesavers or the occasional bag of gummy bears if I could acquire them from my supplier.

Loretta took my temperature, checked my monitors, and pushed buttons on the computer display. She changed my intravenous bag and ran the attached tube through the monitor.

I had tubes coming from multiple places on my body. Each port left an expanding sickly purple contusion. I knew the doctors needed them to monitor my vitals and fluids, but they felt like plastic shackles that kept me from living.