1st 5 Pages Oct Workshop - Franz Rev 1

Name: Jason Franz

Genre: Middle Grade Sci-Fi

Title: Attention Authors of Earth

Word Count: 58,000

The frightened surface-dwellers of the ruined planet watched helplessly as the Deathlorian’s Dreadnought climbed higher into the atmosphere. Light glistened off the commander’s metallic skin as he laughed. They had only three rotations to consider his offer before he returned, either to rule their world, or--

I draw a dark line up the middle of my page as the tires of the writers’ conference bus dip into, like, the nintey-thousandth pothole since leaving California. It’s hard enough writing over the roar of conversation engine noise bouncing off the curved walls but if this keeps up, this story will end up like all the others—unfinished. Mom, her stupid boyfriend, my teachers, and, worst of all, Kristy Kruz, will be right about me. 

I tap the clicky top of my pen against my chin. Now, what does the dreadnought look like? I close my eyes like I’m in history class and deconstruct a bunch of different ships from my favorite movies in my head, and put them back together as something new. When I open my eyes, a ship with long tentacles, glowing with orange energy, follows outside the bus. The whips are attached to a metal disc that looks like an upside-down plate. Round, red windows wrap around it like glaring eyes. On top of that disc is a light-green dome I can’t see into. It looks like a flying jellyfish…and nothing like the ship I’d actually imagined. It won’t go away until it’s written down. I lean up against my porthole-style window, smoosh my brown, curly pigtails against the cold glass, put pen to paper, and...

Another pothole sends my notebook tumbling from my knees. It ricochets off my black boots, and slides behind me. Crap! This is the longest I’ve stuck with a story. I’ve gotta find it. The polished floor shakes beneath me as I crawl under my seat. I reach past other passengers' shoes, (and one pair of slippers). I avoid the tissue smeared with what I tell myself is a half-eaten Baby Ruth bar. I’m centimeters from my notebook’s brown hardcover when it’s plucked from the floor. 

My heart beats faster than the U.S.S. Enterprise’s warp drive. What if whoever picked it up reads it and hates it? What’ll they think when they see all the stories I've started but failed to finish? What if they don’t return it? The worst keeps flying through my head until a sheepish, stuttering voice cuts through my fear. “D-did a Paige Turner l-lose a uh…” there’s a quick clearing of the throat before the sentence concludes, “n-notebook?” 

I wrote my name on the inside of the cover. They’re gonna read it, they’re gonna hate it. I gotta get it. I hit my head on the underside of my seat as I back out and pop up. The boy holding my notebook wears a blue plaid shirt that I’m kinda jealous of. He might be my age, but I can’t tell because he’s trying to shrink himself as much as he can, keeping his arms pinned to his side and his head down.   

“That’s me,” I say softly like I’m trying to get a baby deer or squirrel to eat from my hand.  

The boy scoots out of his seat, keeping his head tilted toward the floor like he’s afraid it’ll split and swallow him if he’s looking. His dirty-blonde hair stays draped in front of his eyes as he drums his fingers against the notebook cover without a word. Kinda creepy. “Thanks?” I say, when I can’t take the awkwardness anymore.

The boy chuckles, clears his throat, and chuckles again. “Ok, well, i-it was n-nice talking t-to you. Y-you’re off to a g-good start. Bye.” He places my notebook on my backpack even though I’m reaching for it, then scuttles back to his seat. 

I’m ‘off to a good start’? He did read! I should feel violated. I should also get back to work. But no one’s ever told me that. Who is this guy? He moves the hair away from right eye so he can monitor the other passengers and meets my gaze. The green eye gets real big then he sinks out of view.

Awwww! He’s not creepy, he’s shy! I rise, tie my black and grey plaid top around my waist so as to display my Tribbles Ate My Homework T-shirt, and head for his seat. He’s hunkered down in it like a WWII fox hole. “Hi, can I sit next to you?” He freezes with this Jurassic Park, don’t move, she can’t see me if I don’t move, expression. I don’t wait for him to say yes before helping myself to the empty space. “I guess you already know my name, what’s yours?”

His lips are tight as he chews nervously on the inside of his cheek. FINALLY he clears his throat, and all the words come out in one nervous, garbled mess, “Iumthoughtyouwere…umwriting.”

“Wow, long name. Is it Klingon?”

A hint of a smile slowly spreads across his face, followed by a string of words that resemble an intelligible sentence. “I th-thought y-you were, wr-writing.”

“I was, but I’m not used to people being supportive of my writing, and it was nice to hear something nice. I figured more of that might help.”

The boy’s shoulders relax and his breaths become longer and slower, as opposed to the quick, bunny-like puffs from before. “I’m Wilbur,” he says. “Wells. But, s-since my, d-dad owning a uh—a junk y-yard, most p-people c-call me Scrap.”

“Most people? You mean your friends?”

“Ha! N-no—definitely n-not friends.”

I give Scrap a sympathetic frown. I know what it’s like to be an outsider. When I first started writing about galaxies far, far away, I’d act out my stories. Mom didn’t know what to do with me so she took me to a psychologist. When Kristy Kruz found out, she spread a rumor that I was seeing a “crazy doctor” because I’d been abducted by aliens, or delivered to Earth by aliens (depending on the version you heard). “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t b-be,” Scrap says. “I build st-stuff outta scrap p-parts too, s-so I k-kinda l-like it.” 

“What kinds of things do you build?” 

He moves the hair away from his eyes completely. “All kinds of the things.”  

“If you want, I’ll be the first friend to call ya Scrap.”

He’s smiling so big it makes me smile. “A-alright. B-by th-the way, n-nice glasses. The g-green l-looks n-nice on y-you.” He turns completely away from me, looking out his window. “Oh wow! I think we’re close.”

I cock my head in confusion as the bus starts going down a hill. “That can’t be right. We only left California an hour ago—how can we be in Michigan already?” 

“We are g-going to a sci-fi wr-writer’s conference, m-maybe we t-traveled at l-light speed.” He says with a grin. “E-either way, there it, um…is.” 

Beyond Scrap, through the bare trees, and snow sits Lake Superior. It’s this big, cold-blue thing that stretches to the horizon and beyond. Being from California I should be used to a body of water that big, but there’s something different about the look of the water here. It’s darker, more menacing, with patches of brownish red near the shore, either clay deposits, or sandbars, or both. 

I slip around in my seat as the bus evens out, swings around another corner, and the lake disappears behind the trees, hills, and run-down, cottages.