1st 5 Pages Oct Workshop - Franz Rev 2

Name: Jason Franz

Genre: Middle Grade Sci-Fi

Title: Attention Authors of Earth

PITCH:

Thirteen-year-old fan-girl, Paige Turner, loves sci-fi. She watches it, reads it, and writes her own stories about new worlds and civilizations in galaxies far, far away. Paige knows she’s got what it takes to break into publishing if she could only finish one of her stories. Every hero has a weakness. Superman had kryptonite. George Lucas had Jar Jar Binks. For Paige, it’s endings.

When Paige is invited to a young sci-fi writer’s conference on the shores of Lake Superior, she knows it’s her chance to master the art of the ending. After all, her favorite author will be mentoring. Finishing a book will be the start of Paige’s new life as a real author and will win the support of the feet-on-the-ground normies around her. She may even best her writing rival.

But the conference isn’t what Paige expects. Jellyfish from outer space set it up in hopes of finding a young sci-fi author who can imagine a solution to their real-life problem. Things only get worse when their enemies crash the conference. Now, Paige Turner, the girl who can’t end her own stories, must find a peaceful end to their war, or it’ll be the end of Earth.

FIRST 1250 WORDS:

The petrified people of the planet below watched the Deathlorian’s dreaded dreadnought shoot toward the atmosphere like a blazing, bedazzled missile. Lavender light sparkled off the commander’s mega-sharp metal scales like a devilish disco ball, but no one danced. He’d return in three rotations of their purple sun, either to rule their world, or—

The tires of the writers’ conference bus dip into, like, the nintey-thousandth pothole since leaving California. The jostling causes me to scribble a dark line up the middle of my page. Writing is hard enough with the roar of conversation and engine noise bouncing off the curved walls, but if this continues, 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. I have to finish before the conference.

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. My notebook’s only a few feet back. 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, but I can’t find it. Did I nudge it back farther? I move my arm and check. Nothing.

I freeze, I don’t know for how long. 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 voice cuts through my fear. “D-did someone named Paige Turner lose a…um…” there’s a quick clearing of the throat before the sentence concludes, “a notebook?”

Gah! I’d written my name on the inside cover of my notebook. Which means whoever found it, opened it. They’re gonna read it, they’re gonna hate it. I shoot out from under the seat, snagging my pigtails on a bolt. I pop up in my seat, my hair a tangled mess and my neon green glasses hanging on my ear by one arm.

“Th-this belong to you?” A boy in a blue plaid shirt I’m kinda jealous of, asks.

I blow the hair away from my eyes then nod. The boy scoots out of his seat and shuffles up the aisle. He keeps his head tilted to the floor like he’s afraid it’ll split and swallow him if he’s not looking. His dirty-blonde hair stays draped in front of his eyes as he drums his fingers against the brown, hardcover of my notebook 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. “O-ok, well, it was nice talking to you. Y-you’re off to a good start. Bye.” He places my notebook on my backpack even though I’m reaching for it, then scuttles back to his seat. He moves the hair away from one of his green eyes then watches the other passengers.

I’m ‘off to a good start’? He did read it. My guts churn the way they used to in my counselor’s office. It’s weird, between reading and writing I love open books—feeling like one is a different story. Yet, in a way, this kid who’d read my words without permission knows me better than anyone because of it. I never let anyone read my stuff. I wonder what he thinks—but how can I can look him in the eyes after what he did. Why am I still looking at him? He catches me and sinks out of view.

Eye contact won’t be a problem. I tie my black and grey plaid top around my waist so as to display my Tribbles Ate My Homework T-shirt and head up the aisle, The boy is hunkered down in his seat like it’s 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 answer before plopping down next to hime. “Since you already know my name, what’s yours?”

His lips are tight as he chews on the inside of his cheek. He FINALLY clears his throat, and all the words come out in a garbled mess, “Imwilburwellsbut…youcancallmescrap.”

“Wow, long name. Is it Klingon?”

A hint of a smile spreads across his face. The boy’s breaths become longer and slower, as opposed to the quick, bunny-like puffs from before. “I’m Wilbur,” he says. “Wells. B-but, since my, dad owns a, uh—a junk yard, most people call me Scrap.”

“People? You mean you friends?”

“Ha! N-No. Definitely not friends.”

Jerks. 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 would act out my stories. Mom thought I was having trouble coping with Dad leaving so she took me to a counselor. When Kristy Kruz found out, she spread a rumor 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 you get picked on.”

“D-don’t be,” Scrap says. “I build stuff outta scrap parts too, so I kinda like it.”

“What kinds of things do you build?”

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

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

“Okay!” Scrap’s smiling so big he makes me smile. “B-by the way, nice glasses. G-green is your color.” I must be blushing because he apologizes and quickly turns toward the window where something big and cold-blue stretches toward the horizon. “S-sweet! I think that’s Lake Superior, we must be close!”

I shake my head. “We only left California an hour ago, how can we be in Michigan?”

Scrap grins. “It…it’s a sci-fi, um…writer’s conference, maybe our shuttle’s got light-speed.”

I know he’s joking about the light-speed, but that is Lake Superior peeking out from behind the snow-crusted trees. The coast I’m used to is warm and inviting. Lake Superior is this dark, menacing thing. Brownish-red sediment seeps from the nearby clay cliffs and mixes with the churning water like blood. It makes me shiver. The bus swings around a bend and the Great Lake disappears behind rolling hills, and run-down cottages.