I've been unusually calm this year about walking away from the blog during the holidays. Mind you, I have no problem making down time and family a priority; it's just that I usually do it while twitching sporadically over what I'm leaving behind. As though it won't be waiting for me when I return.
Not this year. I wrote last week's Friday Fricassee and danced off to make merry. And it's been wonderful. I'm in a deliciously slow-paced season of my writing life, too--waiting for Dear Agent to read what is hopefully a final revision, and developing a new story from the ground up (YA SF -- bliss!).
So here I sit, in the midst of after-Christmas lull, thankful but slightly deer-eyed as I look ahead to next month. And I should probably let you know what's on the horizon, so here it is:
1. I'm running another CRITIQUE PARTNER DATING SERVICE! Last July, there were some matches-from-heaven, and I'm hopeful for more of the same. Keep your eyes peeled for entry information after the New Year!
2. Submissions for our first Secret Agent contest of the year will be on the 14th. Guidelines will post on the 7th. Because of the Baker's Dozen hullabaloo, we haven't had a Secret Agent contest since October! So I think this will be especially fun.
3. Miss Snark's First Victim is TURNING 5 THIS SPRING! There will be celebrations. If you have any spiffy ideas, share them below. (Seriously! It's no small thing for a blog to turn 5. I'm happy about this!)
That's all for now. We'll jump in full-blast next week! Thanks for making this such a wonderful community to return to. You've no idea how much it means to me!
Miss Snark's First Victim
Friday, December 28, 2012
Friday, December 21, 2012
Friday Fricassee
Funny, how I've been pressuring myself this morning to come up with Just The Right Friday Fricassee Post Before Christmas. Must be my writerly perfectionism rearing its gnarly head.
But really, I've had such a joy-filled month, and I guess I'd just like to spread a little of that. It's the whole anticipation thing--because I absolutely adore surprising the people I love.
When Mr. A and I were newly wed, a friend asked me if we did stockings with each other. I raised an eyebrow at her--because stockings were something from childhood, right? But after she shared how much fun she and her husband had stuffing each other's stockings, I was converted. Mr. A and I have been doing stockings for each other ever since.
It's the most romantic part of my Christmas.
I'm up for the challenge every year--finding things that aren't stupid or useless that will fit into a woolen Christmas stocking. We don't do silly things like tubes of toothpaste or cheap candy. (Or, like the sign at Walmart touts, bottles of Tums. No, seriously.) Of course, we don't stuff the stockings with rubies and gold watches, either. There's a middle ground and there's a budget, and we've both gotten pretty darn good at this.
We wrap each gift, too, which is a throw-back to my own childhood. I've often scorned Mr. A's upbringing of throw-unwrapped-gifts-into-a-stocking. I mean, where's the magic in that? (I know, I know. Half of you wrap, half don't. What can I say? I'm loyal to my roots.) Fortunately, he's found the value in wrapping the stocking gifts, so it's now a firmly entrenched tradition.
The utter dorkness of our Christmas-morning-on-the-sofa-with-stockings is beyond description. And the anticipation of watching him open the gifts makes me squeal a little whenever I think about it.
And, truly, anticipation is a wonderful thing--not just during holidays, but always. It's a huge part of the joy of giving, and of the joy of experiencing life. We anticipate laughter when we share something funny. We anticipate success when we send our work out there. We anticipate a wriggly hug from our sweet nephew when he greets us at the door.
My entire December has been imbued with anticipation. I love it!
So there you have it. Whether you are celebrating Christmas or not, may your anticipation of joy and pleasure and success and accomplishment and the sparkle in a child's eyes be fulfilled beyond your expectations.
And thank you ALL for being part of this wonderful community!
But really, I've had such a joy-filled month, and I guess I'd just like to spread a little of that. It's the whole anticipation thing--because I absolutely adore surprising the people I love.
When Mr. A and I were newly wed, a friend asked me if we did stockings with each other. I raised an eyebrow at her--because stockings were something from childhood, right? But after she shared how much fun she and her husband had stuffing each other's stockings, I was converted. Mr. A and I have been doing stockings for each other ever since.
It's the most romantic part of my Christmas.
I'm up for the challenge every year--finding things that aren't stupid or useless that will fit into a woolen Christmas stocking. We don't do silly things like tubes of toothpaste or cheap candy. (Or, like the sign at Walmart touts, bottles of Tums. No, seriously.) Of course, we don't stuff the stockings with rubies and gold watches, either. There's a middle ground and there's a budget, and we've both gotten pretty darn good at this.
We wrap each gift, too, which is a throw-back to my own childhood. I've often scorned Mr. A's upbringing of throw-unwrapped-gifts-into-a-stocking. I mean, where's the magic in that? (I know, I know. Half of you wrap, half don't. What can I say? I'm loyal to my roots.) Fortunately, he's found the value in wrapping the stocking gifts, so it's now a firmly entrenched tradition.
The utter dorkness of our Christmas-morning-on-the-sofa-with-stockings is beyond description. And the anticipation of watching him open the gifts makes me squeal a little whenever I think about it.
And, truly, anticipation is a wonderful thing--not just during holidays, but always. It's a huge part of the joy of giving, and of the joy of experiencing life. We anticipate laughter when we share something funny. We anticipate success when we send our work out there. We anticipate a wriggly hug from our sweet nephew when he greets us at the door.
My entire December has been imbued with anticipation. I love it!
So there you have it. Whether you are celebrating Christmas or not, may your anticipation of joy and pleasure and success and accomplishment and the sparkle in a child's eyes be fulfilled beyond your expectations.
And thank you ALL for being part of this wonderful community!
Wednesday, December 19, 2012
"Am I a Success Story or Not?"
Here's the thing: The MSFV Success Stories (have you clicked on the link above lately?) range from direct Baker's Dozen and Secret Agent pick-ups to around-the-bush, affected-me-this-way-so-I-could-go-that-way experiences. Some of the authors have already been published; some are still in the trenches with their agents. But all of them share this blog as a common thread in their success stories, whether directly or indirectly.
Here's one that wasn't sure she "counted". I assured her that she does (remembering the ilk of Beth Revis, who credits MSFV as an indirect influence on her success--Across the Universe showed up on MSFV in Jodi Meadows's Query Contest several years ago, and the rest is history).
What I like about today's story is that it focuses on the advice she received here--and on the fact that she landed some excellent crit partners as a direct result of her involvement here. (And yes, we're going to have another Crit Partner Dating Service in January!)
Without further ado:
Hi Authoress,
I wondered if I counted. . . I did last year's Baker's Dozen, got good feedback on my logline, but wasn't chosen for the Baker's Dozen, which really bummed me out. However, I took the advice you gave to heart, rewrote my first page/chapter and eventually got an agent, Kristin Nelson. I've been with her since March.
I also want to mention I got two very incredible CP's through your site who are themselves success stories. . . it's all about the people, people. I love authors with a passion and think your website is SO helpful--not just offering exposure to agents but in getting us organized and meeting goals. Yay to Authoress!
Stacey Lee
Here's one that wasn't sure she "counted". I assured her that she does (remembering the ilk of Beth Revis, who credits MSFV as an indirect influence on her success--Across the Universe showed up on MSFV in Jodi Meadows's Query Contest several years ago, and the rest is history).
What I like about today's story is that it focuses on the advice she received here--and on the fact that she landed some excellent crit partners as a direct result of her involvement here. (And yes, we're going to have another Crit Partner Dating Service in January!)
Without further ado:
Hi Authoress,
I wondered if I counted. . . I did last year's Baker's Dozen, got good feedback on my logline, but wasn't chosen for the Baker's Dozen, which really bummed me out. However, I took the advice you gave to heart, rewrote my first page/chapter and eventually got an agent, Kristin Nelson. I've been with her since March.
I also want to mention I got two very incredible CP's through your site who are themselves success stories. . . it's all about the people, people. I love authors with a passion and think your website is SO helpful--not just offering exposure to agents but in getting us organized and meeting goals. Yay to Authoress!
Stacey Lee
Monday, December 17, 2012
Writing: The Odyssey
Last night, a dear friend gave me this wonderful box of chocolate bars:
If someone were to hand us a beautiful box on the day we first embarked on our writing journey, and say, "Inside this box are all the steps of your journey; take a look!", we would likely find an equally unexpected, disparate collection of events. And it might be tempting to know everything ahead of time: How long will it take me to get an agent? When will I be published? What will the deal look like? Will I be rich and famous?
But, honestly, would you want to know? Would it encourage or discourage you to know that it was going to take to you 5 years to land an agent? (That's how long it took me.) Would it encourage or discourage you to know that the first book your agent goes out with won't sell, despite some amazingly positive responses? (That's what happened to me.) Would it encourage or discourage you to know that you were not, after all, destined to be the next J.K. Rowling? (I'm still holding out for that one.)
The journey is hard...and it is wonderful. I wouldn't have wanted to know ahead of time that the next flavor was orange hibiscus. It would have given me time to wish for something different, and find dissatisfaction with what was placed before me. Because EVERY STEP OF OUR JOURNEYS IS AN IMPORTANT ONE.
Even the steps that hurt. The steps that suck. The steps that make us want to quit a thousand times, or maybe die a little.
It's only in hindsight that the value of these steps becomes clear. I am so thankful for my own journey, and I wouldn't want to change it. I'm feeling excited and encouraged as I move forward, and I'll open the next bar of chocolate when it's handed to me.
And, yes. It's two years today since I signed with Josh. He's my agent-from-heaven, and it's hard to express how profoundly he's affected my writing and my life-as-writer. In the midst of a persnickety market, he's remained focused and enthusiastic and ridiculously optimistic. And I love him for it.
May your own journey be as blessed. And may friends with fine chocolate show up at your doorstep whenever you need it most.
You have to admit that there's something tantalizing about the phrase "a dark chocolate tasting odyssey." You may not be able read the smaller print, so allow me to share the interesting and unexpected flavors included in this collection:
- black sea salt with caramel
- orange hibiscus
- coconut caramel
- chili cinnamon
- almond ginger
- salt and pepper potato chip
- coffee and cocoa nib
If someone were to hand us a beautiful box on the day we first embarked on our writing journey, and say, "Inside this box are all the steps of your journey; take a look!", we would likely find an equally unexpected, disparate collection of events. And it might be tempting to know everything ahead of time: How long will it take me to get an agent? When will I be published? What will the deal look like? Will I be rich and famous?
But, honestly, would you want to know? Would it encourage or discourage you to know that it was going to take to you 5 years to land an agent? (That's how long it took me.) Would it encourage or discourage you to know that the first book your agent goes out with won't sell, despite some amazingly positive responses? (That's what happened to me.) Would it encourage or discourage you to know that you were not, after all, destined to be the next J.K. Rowling? (I'm still holding out for that one.)
The journey is hard...and it is wonderful. I wouldn't have wanted to know ahead of time that the next flavor was orange hibiscus. It would have given me time to wish for something different, and find dissatisfaction with what was placed before me. Because EVERY STEP OF OUR JOURNEYS IS AN IMPORTANT ONE.
Even the steps that hurt. The steps that suck. The steps that make us want to quit a thousand times, or maybe die a little.
It's only in hindsight that the value of these steps becomes clear. I am so thankful for my own journey, and I wouldn't want to change it. I'm feeling excited and encouraged as I move forward, and I'll open the next bar of chocolate when it's handed to me.
And, yes. It's two years today since I signed with Josh. He's my agent-from-heaven, and it's hard to express how profoundly he's affected my writing and my life-as-writer. In the midst of a persnickety market, he's remained focused and enthusiastic and ridiculously optimistic. And I love him for it.
May your own journey be as blessed. And may friends with fine chocolate show up at your doorstep whenever you need it most.
Friday, December 14, 2012
Friday Fricassee
You can imagine how much fun it is to send agent requests to authors. I mean, the actual administration isn't fun -- it's tedious and annoying. (Let's face it; there's nothing creative about looking up emails and sending countless messages that all say pretty much the same thing.) But the RESPONSES from the authors are what makes this feel like I'm handing out sweets at a Christmas party.
Sometimes it's a simple, "Thank you so much!" Four little words, imbued with the excitement of knowing that someone wants to see your work.
Sometimes it's an entire paragraph singing the praises of the blog and of Authoress herself. And I just want to say--I appreciate the words of affirmation. I really do. It's my primary "love language" (fitting for a writer, yes?), so I feel the fuzzies on a deep level.
But but but--I also want to say this: I wouldn't have sent a single email yesterday IF THE WRITING HADN'T BEEN SO STRONG. You can find the best organized, most publicized, manned-by-amazing-agents contest out there; but if your writing is less than stellar* or not-quite-ready, then the awesomeness of the contest won't matter.
It's a team thing around here. Or perhaps a circus. (Which would make me the Ringleader. I'm not sure how I feel about a top hat and a whip.)
At any rate, I should have paced myself better, instead of pushing through a lot of emails in the morning to get ahead of the game. I started doing things like, oh, forgetting to include the agent's email address. Oy.
So we're finished. We're officially wrapped up, and I think it's safe to say that we'll do this all over again next year.
Once I stop twitching.
Thank you all for being wonderful! And now I'm off to finish this oh-my-gosh-if-I-have-to-look-at-this-for-five-more-minutes-my-eyes-will-explode edit round. Two chapters and a final sweep and it's done. Which makes room for Christmas jollies this weekend.
* An agent actually said that about my writing, in a rejection email. "Not, perhaps, stellar." No, I didn't stab myself. And she did laugh sheepishly about it later. (Well, as much as one can laugh sheepishly in an email.) Anyway, she was probably right. She just might've, yanno, put it a different way.
Sometimes it's a simple, "Thank you so much!" Four little words, imbued with the excitement of knowing that someone wants to see your work.
Sometimes it's an entire paragraph singing the praises of the blog and of Authoress herself. And I just want to say--I appreciate the words of affirmation. I really do. It's my primary "love language" (fitting for a writer, yes?), so I feel the fuzzies on a deep level.
But but but--I also want to say this: I wouldn't have sent a single email yesterday IF THE WRITING HADN'T BEEN SO STRONG. You can find the best organized, most publicized, manned-by-amazing-agents contest out there; but if your writing is less than stellar* or not-quite-ready, then the awesomeness of the contest won't matter.
It's a team thing around here. Or perhaps a circus. (Which would make me the Ringleader. I'm not sure how I feel about a top hat and a whip.)
At any rate, I should have paced myself better, instead of pushing through a lot of emails in the morning to get ahead of the game. I started doing things like, oh, forgetting to include the agent's email address. Oy.
So we're finished. We're officially wrapped up, and I think it's safe to say that we'll do this all over again next year.
Once I stop twitching.
Thank you all for being wonderful! And now I'm off to finish this oh-my-gosh-if-I-have-to-look-at-this-for-five-more-minutes-my-eyes-will-explode edit round. Two chapters and a final sweep and it's done. Which makes room for Christmas jollies this weekend.
* An agent actually said that about my writing, in a rejection email. "Not, perhaps, stellar." No, I didn't stab myself. And she did laugh sheepishly about it later. (Well, as much as one can laugh sheepishly in an email.) Anyway, she was probably right. She just might've, yanno, put it a different way.
Thursday, December 13, 2012
Baker's Dozen Exclusive Has Expired!
So today's the day I'll be sending out requests from agents who didn't win what they wanted -- and also from agents who didn't even participate in the auction. (Yep. Isn't this exciting??)
Bear with me -- this is time-consuming. I've already started, but the process may bleed into tomorrow, as I've got a full plate today (not to mention edits that I need to finish).
Also! K.T.'s 50 slots for the Baker's Dozen I-Didn't-Make-It-In critique, but she is going to do a second round to accommodate more of you! Here are the details:
Please continue to send submissions to ktcritiques [AT] gmail.com by 10 PM EST Saturday night, December 22. I will post the second round of entries on Wednesday, December 26, at KTCROWLEY.COM for critiquing.
In the subject, please state “BD ENTRY 2".
Submit your logline and first 250 words just like when submitting to Miss Snark's First Victim. Your submission should look like this:
TITLE: Your Title Here
GENRE: Your Genre Here
(Logline and first 250 here).
A confirmation email will be sent, but it may not be right away. Only resend if you don't get one by the last hour of the submission window. Once I receive 50 entries, an email will be sent to notify you if you didn't make the cut, so get yours in quickly! Round one filled up in just under 36 hours, so don't delay. And again, if you enter, please critique five other entries, so that it's fair for everyone.
Bear with me -- this is time-consuming. I've already started, but the process may bleed into tomorrow, as I've got a full plate today (not to mention edits that I need to finish).
Also! K.T.'s 50 slots for the Baker's Dozen I-Didn't-Make-It-In critique, but she is going to do a second round to accommodate more of you! Here are the details:
Please continue to send submissions to ktcritiques [AT] gmail.com by 10 PM EST Saturday night, December 22. I will post the second round of entries on Wednesday, December 26, at KTCROWLEY.COM for critiquing.
In the subject, please state “BD ENTRY 2".
Submit your logline and first 250 words just like when submitting to Miss Snark's First Victim. Your submission should look like this:
TITLE: Your Title Here
GENRE: Your Genre Here
(Logline and first 250 here).
A confirmation email will be sent, but it may not be right away. Only resend if you don't get one by the last hour of the submission window. Once I receive 50 entries, an email will be sent to notify you if you didn't make the cut, so get yours in quickly! Round one filled up in just under 36 hours, so don't delay. And again, if you enter, please critique five other entries, so that it's fair for everyone.
Wednesday, December 12, 2012
Dragon Moon Press Anthology: Reminder
Submissions for Dragon Moon's upcoming anthology, WHEN THE HERO COMES HOME 2, will be open the remainder of December.
From the web site:
THEY SAY YOU CAN NEVER GO HOME AGAIN…
The award-nominated WHEN THE HERO COMES HOME, from Dragon Moon Press, has been praised as “a perfect example of how an anthology of stories should work.” Upon the success of HERO and its follow-up, WHEN THE VILLAIN COMES HOME, co-editors Ed Greenwood and Gabrielle Harbowy are pleased to announce WHEN THE HERO COMES HOME 2.
GO HERE FOR ALL THE DETAILS.
From the web site:
THEY SAY YOU CAN NEVER GO HOME AGAIN…
The award-nominated WHEN THE HERO COMES HOME, from Dragon Moon Press, has been praised as “a perfect example of how an anthology of stories should work.” Upon the success of HERO and its follow-up, WHEN THE VILLAIN COMES HOME, co-editors Ed Greenwood and Gabrielle Harbowy are pleased to announce WHEN THE HERO COMES HOME 2.
GO HERE FOR ALL THE DETAILS.
Tuesday, December 11, 2012
Baker's Dozen Non-Chosen Entrants: Critique Opportunity
As promised, here is a public critique opportunity for those over-300 of the original Baker's Dozen entrants, thanks to the generous K. T. Crowley!
Details from K. T.:
Please send submissions to ktcritiques[AT]gmail.com by 10 PM EST Saturday night, December 15. I will post them Monday morning, December 17, at KTCROWLEY.COM for critiquing. A maximum of 50 entries will be accepted.
In the subject line, please state “BD ENTRY”.
Submit your logline and first 250 words just like when submitting to Miss Snark's First Victim. Your submission should look like this:
TITLE: Your Title Here
GENRE: Your Genre Here
(Logline and first 250 here.)
A confirmation email will be sent, but it may not be right away. Only resend if you don't get one by the last hour of the submission window.
If you enter, please critique five other entries, so that it's fair for everyone.
(Please ask your questions below!)
Details from K. T.:
Please send submissions to ktcritiques[AT]gmail.com by 10 PM EST Saturday night, December 15. I will post them Monday morning, December 17, at KTCROWLEY.COM for critiquing. A maximum of 50 entries will be accepted.
In the subject line, please state “BD ENTRY”.
Submit your logline and first 250 words just like when submitting to Miss Snark's First Victim. Your submission should look like this:
TITLE: Your Title Here
GENRE: Your Genre Here
(Logline and first 250 here.)
A confirmation email will be sent, but it may not be right away. Only resend if you don't get one by the last hour of the submission window.
If you enter, please critique five other entries, so that it's fair for everyone.
(Please ask your questions below!)
Monday, December 10, 2012
And now, a few words from our agents...
Winners have received their submission instructions and agents are reading. While we wait for the exclusive to end (this Thursday!) and the extra requests to pour in, here are some thoughts from a few of our participating agents. Enjoy!
Pam van Hylckama Vlieg:
I woke up late. Next year I'll wake up at six am to prepare. Also my thinking that the rules of the auction were super simple was wrong. I violated more rules at this auction than I did my entire high school career. This is absolutely, hands down, my favorite online pitch contest. I can't wait for next year.
Brooks Sherman:
This was my first invitation to participate in the Baker's Dozen auction. Given my antagonistic antics toward my fellow agents during the rush, it may well be the last one, too. Nevertheless, I enjoyed myself immensely. I think auctions like this one serve as wonderful reminders--to agents and writers alike--just how much we all love good storytelling. The support among the writers was inspiring to witness, and the snarking between agents illustrates the very real competitive enthusiasm we all feel for strong projects. My thanks to Authoress (aka Miss Victim) for letting me play...and I hope I can find some way to convince you to let me do so again next year!
Lauren MacLeod:
Until Bakers’ Dozen came into my life, my experience with trash talk was limited to chanting “Yankees suck, Go Sox!” (There may also have been a t-shirt.) Three years in, however, and I’m slowly honing my skill. Sure, I still haven’t quite figured out how to intimidated Sarah LaPolla and Tamar Rydzinski into not bidding against me (WHY MUST YOU CONTINUE TO HAVE SUCH AMAZING, MACLEOD-LIKE TASTE?), but it worked on Josh Getzler who was totally vanquished, so I’m getting there!
I love Bakers’ Dozen—it is my favorite contest of the year. I love the strength of the entries (excellent work Authoress and Jodi Meadows!), the aforementioned friendly trash talking, getting to see the taste of other agents, and the competition--especially, but not only, when I win. Every year my hands literally shake with adrenaline for the first twenty minutes. Thanks so much to Authoress for hosting and arranging, to you guys for being so incredibly brave and putting your work out there in such a public forum, and to my fellow agents for filling my inbox with such hilarious email chains. And now I’ve got some reading to do!
Sarah LaPolla:
Baker’s Dozen is one of my favorite contests. I’ve met some great writers through it, and have seen many go on to get agents. The reason so many agents get so nervous once the bidding officially opens is because of the clear quality of these pitches! We want them all, and we need to get to them first. (Perhaps some of us – coughmecough – got too excited this year and may or may not have forgotten most of the rules… sorry you had to scold us this year, Authoress.) Thank you, as always, for putting together this contest. And thank you, writers, for being so amazing and putting your work out there. If I haven’t worn out my welcome, I’d love to be invited back. Baker’s Dozen has not only been a valuable source for finding new talent, but it’s also helped me learn who my nemeses are. My heart is still fragile from when Josh, Lauren, and Tamar stomped on it last year. This year I see Ms. MacLeod once again has resorted to her dirty tricks. But then, what else can one expect from a Red Sox fan?
Josh Getzler:
It's always such a fun day, the day of the Baker's Dozen. Sixty authors are trolling Miss Snark's First Victim, biting their nails and watching their entries be evaluated and bid on. Thirteen or so agents are jittery on caffeine, trying to outclick each other for their "Fight to the death" openers, cursing both out loud and on the screen, and generally trying to beat Brooks Sherman and Lauren MacLeod et al, and failing. Like Lauren said, there's a surge of adrenaline at the start of the day, when it's ON, and you're looking at your notes and trying to figure out your priorities.
And while some of the excitement comes from the competition, it's really the general rush of being around projects that excite us, that bring us back to the reasons most of us got into this business in the first place: We like stories, and we like to find new ones, exciting ones, ones that we want to guide to the Promised Land...
Amazon.
(JK!)
So thank you to all the writers who submitted; to the other writers and agents and editors who took their time to read and comment on the submissions before the day of the auction; and most of all to the fabulous Ms. A, for putting it together (and her faithful partner in crime Jodi!).
And next year I will be RUTHLESS!
Pam van Hylckama Vlieg:
I woke up late. Next year I'll wake up at six am to prepare. Also my thinking that the rules of the auction were super simple was wrong. I violated more rules at this auction than I did my entire high school career. This is absolutely, hands down, my favorite online pitch contest. I can't wait for next year.
Brooks Sherman:
This was my first invitation to participate in the Baker's Dozen auction. Given my antagonistic antics toward my fellow agents during the rush, it may well be the last one, too. Nevertheless, I enjoyed myself immensely. I think auctions like this one serve as wonderful reminders--to agents and writers alike--just how much we all love good storytelling. The support among the writers was inspiring to witness, and the snarking between agents illustrates the very real competitive enthusiasm we all feel for strong projects. My thanks to Authoress (aka Miss Victim) for letting me play...and I hope I can find some way to convince you to let me do so again next year!
Lauren MacLeod:
Until Bakers’ Dozen came into my life, my experience with trash talk was limited to chanting “Yankees suck, Go Sox!” (There may also have been a t-shirt.) Three years in, however, and I’m slowly honing my skill. Sure, I still haven’t quite figured out how to intimidated Sarah LaPolla and Tamar Rydzinski into not bidding against me (WHY MUST YOU CONTINUE TO HAVE SUCH AMAZING, MACLEOD-LIKE TASTE?), but it worked on Josh Getzler who was totally vanquished, so I’m getting there!
I love Bakers’ Dozen—it is my favorite contest of the year. I love the strength of the entries (excellent work Authoress and Jodi Meadows!), the aforementioned friendly trash talking, getting to see the taste of other agents, and the competition--especially, but not only, when I win. Every year my hands literally shake with adrenaline for the first twenty minutes. Thanks so much to Authoress for hosting and arranging, to you guys for being so incredibly brave and putting your work out there in such a public forum, and to my fellow agents for filling my inbox with such hilarious email chains. And now I’ve got some reading to do!
Sarah LaPolla:
Baker’s Dozen is one of my favorite contests. I’ve met some great writers through it, and have seen many go on to get agents. The reason so many agents get so nervous once the bidding officially opens is because of the clear quality of these pitches! We want them all, and we need to get to them first. (Perhaps some of us – coughmecough – got too excited this year and may or may not have forgotten most of the rules… sorry you had to scold us this year, Authoress.) Thank you, as always, for putting together this contest. And thank you, writers, for being so amazing and putting your work out there. If I haven’t worn out my welcome, I’d love to be invited back. Baker’s Dozen has not only been a valuable source for finding new talent, but it’s also helped me learn who my nemeses are. My heart is still fragile from when Josh, Lauren, and Tamar stomped on it last year. This year I see Ms. MacLeod once again has resorted to her dirty tricks. But then, what else can one expect from a Red Sox fan?
Josh Getzler:
It's always such a fun day, the day of the Baker's Dozen. Sixty authors are trolling Miss Snark's First Victim, biting their nails and watching their entries be evaluated and bid on. Thirteen or so agents are jittery on caffeine, trying to outclick each other for their "Fight to the death" openers, cursing both out loud and on the screen, and generally trying to beat Brooks Sherman and Lauren MacLeod et al, and failing. Like Lauren said, there's a surge of adrenaline at the start of the day, when it's ON, and you're looking at your notes and trying to figure out your priorities.
And while some of the excitement comes from the competition, it's really the general rush of being around projects that excite us, that bring us back to the reasons most of us got into this business in the first place: We like stories, and we like to find new ones, exciting ones, ones that we want to guide to the Promised Land...
Amazon.
(JK!)
So thank you to all the writers who submitted; to the other writers and agents and editors who took their time to read and comment on the submissions before the day of the auction; and most of all to the fabulous Ms. A, for putting it together (and her faithful partner in crime Jodi!).
And next year I will be RUTHLESS!
Friday, December 7, 2012
Friday Fricassee
Well, I suppose it's time for my post-Baker's Dozen gush. Because you'd likely feel bereft without it.
Guys. YOU ARE ALL SO AMAZING. Not that this comes as a shock or anything; you have been amazing over the years (do you realize that MSFV is going to turn 5 in April?!?!), and I wouldn't expect things to change. But wow. Your behavior, your attitude, your generous spirits--I am constantly blown away.
Here's one example from the comments (and there are many others):
I've learned a lot from lurking on this blog but SO much more from finally getting involved in the action!
I've spent years feeling the urge to write yet also feeling the pressure to focus on my more "practical" career. I'm getting to a point where I needed to either try writing or stop daydreaming/being compulsive about it. Finding critical, constructive feedback has been a real struggle, though.
I submitted thinking I might get some feedback on one of the other blogs that will post submissions who didn't get into the Baker's Dozen. I nearly keeled over when I got the email from Authoress telling me I'd been selected!
I didn't get a bid (#25), but honestly, I think I have some more tweaking to do first. I'm ok with that. What I got from participating in the Baker's Dozen was more important for the stage I'm at as a writer: valuable feedback and the sense that, if I do some polishing, people might be interested in what I'm writing.
That means The World to me. I cannot thank you enough, Authoress and Jodi, for selecting me, as well as the people who took the time to read what I wrote and give me feedback. THANK YOU.
And this is one of the most amazing trends from this year's auction--the graciousness of the "unbid" authors. None of us will deny that it's a hard thing to be one of the not-chosen in any situation, yet this author--and others in the same situation--has risen above the sting and received ALL THE GOOD THINGS that were available.
I am CHEERING over here! Because this is the crux of it. If you can get everything possible out of an experience like this, without being a "winner", then YOU'VE ABSOLUTELY GOT THIS THING RIGHT.
As always, I am humbled and thankful and delighted to be a part of your writing journeys.
Of course, HUGE THANKS go to Stephanie Thornton, Myra McEntire, Peter Senftleben, and Alison Weiss, for their WONDERFUL CRITIQUES. (You all know how much time critiques take. This is no small gift!)
And to my gaggle of agents: I LOVE YOU! May wonderful things come your way as a result of this auction.
To Jodi, dearest friend and writing soulmate: We are THE TEAM! I could never do this without you. Never.
(This is starting to sound like an acknowledgements page. I'll stop now.)
Next week: Thoughts from some of the agents on this year's Baker's Dozen! And a critique opportunity for Those Who Weren't Chosen For the Auction.
Have a glorious weekend!
Guys. YOU ARE ALL SO AMAZING. Not that this comes as a shock or anything; you have been amazing over the years (do you realize that MSFV is going to turn 5 in April?!?!), and I wouldn't expect things to change. But wow. Your behavior, your attitude, your generous spirits--I am constantly blown away.
Here's one example from the comments (and there are many others):
I've learned a lot from lurking on this blog but SO much more from finally getting involved in the action!
I've spent years feeling the urge to write yet also feeling the pressure to focus on my more "practical" career. I'm getting to a point where I needed to either try writing or stop daydreaming/being compulsive about it. Finding critical, constructive feedback has been a real struggle, though.
I submitted thinking I might get some feedback on one of the other blogs that will post submissions who didn't get into the Baker's Dozen. I nearly keeled over when I got the email from Authoress telling me I'd been selected!
I didn't get a bid (#25), but honestly, I think I have some more tweaking to do first. I'm ok with that. What I got from participating in the Baker's Dozen was more important for the stage I'm at as a writer: valuable feedback and the sense that, if I do some polishing, people might be interested in what I'm writing.
That means The World to me. I cannot thank you enough, Authoress and Jodi, for selecting me, as well as the people who took the time to read what I wrote and give me feedback. THANK YOU.
And this is one of the most amazing trends from this year's auction--the graciousness of the "unbid" authors. None of us will deny that it's a hard thing to be one of the not-chosen in any situation, yet this author--and others in the same situation--has risen above the sting and received ALL THE GOOD THINGS that were available.
I am CHEERING over here! Because this is the crux of it. If you can get everything possible out of an experience like this, without being a "winner", then YOU'VE ABSOLUTELY GOT THIS THING RIGHT.
As always, I am humbled and thankful and delighted to be a part of your writing journeys.
Of course, HUGE THANKS go to Stephanie Thornton, Myra McEntire, Peter Senftleben, and Alison Weiss, for their WONDERFUL CRITIQUES. (You all know how much time critiques take. This is no small gift!)
And to my gaggle of agents: I LOVE YOU! May wonderful things come your way as a result of this auction.
To Jodi, dearest friend and writing soulmate: We are THE TEAM! I could never do this without you. Never.
(This is starting to sound like an acknowledgements page. I'll stop now.)
Next week: Thoughts from some of the agents on this year's Baker's Dozen! And a critique opportunity for Those Who Weren't Chosen For the Auction.
Have a glorious weekend!
Wednesday, December 5, 2012
The 2012 Baker's Dozen Agent Auction WINNERS
And so closes our third Bakers Dozen Agent Auction! Without further blathering from the exhausted-but-exhilarated Authoress, here are the winning bids-- a whopping 22 fulls and 18 partials:
2 -- THE TRUTH ABOUT TITUS OATES: FULL to Tamar Rydzinski
4 -- PRICE OF REFUGE: 25 pages to Sarah LaPolla
7 -- THE OPELIKA LADIES MURDER SOCIETY: FULL to Brooks Sherman
8 -- LIFEWEAVER: FULL to Amy Boggs
10 -- TO CATCH A FETCH: 25 pages to Victoria Marini
11 -- THE OBSESSION BEGINS: 20 pages to Tamar Rydzinski
13 -- STORMHEART: 100 pages to Pam van Hylckama Vlieg
14 -- THE DEATH CLOCK: FULL to Tamar Rydzinski
15 -- VITRO/VIVO: 20 pages to Tamar Rydzinski
18 -- CITY OF ZERO: 75 pages to Sarah LaPolla
19 -- THE EVERETT QUARTET: 75 pages to Tamar Rydzinski
24 -- DAISIES FOR ELLA: 25 pages to Sarah LaPolla
27 -- VERITAS: 20 pages to Amy Boggs
28 -- BEANBLOSSOM VERSUS BOMBASTIC BANDITS: 25 pages to Brooks Sherman
29 -- THROUGH THE EDGEWOOD: FULL to Danielle Chiotti
31 -- UNKNOWN ELEMENTS: FULL to Tricia Lawrence
32 -- JANE, BODY AND SOUL: FULL to Amy Boggs
33 -- SUSPENDED STATE: 25 pages to Amy Boggs
34 -- DON'T FALL DOWN: 75 pages to Amy Boggs
35 -- HAROLD--THE KID WHO RUINED MY LIFE AND SAVED THE DAY: FULL to Lauren MacLeod
36 -- ULTRAVIOLET CATASTROPHE: FULL to Tamar Rydzinski
37 -- OF ICE AND ASHES: FULL to Tricia Lawrence
38 -- LILLY WASHINGTON'S PRESIDENTIAL ADVENTURE: FULL to Victoria Marini
39 -- DIARY OF A GHOST: 5 pages to Tricia Lawrence
40 -- DEAD NEW WORLD: 25 pages to Amy Boggs
41 -- TICKET TO REDEMPTION: FULL to Victoria Marini
42 -- WHEN I CALLED YOU MINE: FULL to Sarah LaPolla
44 -- DIAS DE LOS MUERTOS: FULL to Tamar Rydzinski
45 -- AUSSIE OUTSIDER: FULL to Lauren McLeod
46 -- THE SKY-HIGH ADVENTURES OF NEVER: FULL to Victoria Marini
48 -- THE FATAL CROWN: 110 pages to Pam van Hylckama Vlieg
49 -- HAUNTED: 50 pages to Tricia Lawrence
50 -- CALIFORNIA R.I.P.: FULL to Tamar Rydzinski
51 -- DUST AND BONES: FULL to Pam van Hylckama Vlieg
52 -- RIP HER TO SHREDS: FULL to Joan Paquette
53 -- THE ASTRONAUT'S DAUGHTER: FULL to Sarah LaPolla
54 -- BAD COMPANY: 5 pages to Joan Paquette
55 -- DISCOVERING ISAAC: 45 pages to Melissa Jeglinski
59 -- ABEL PIRATES: FULL to Tamar Rydzinski
60 -- POWER STRUGGLES: FULL to Amy Boggs
Winners: Please email me at facelesswords(at)gmail.com for specific submission instructions. In order to streamline this process, PLEASE INCLUDE THE FOLLOWING: Your post number, title, and the agent's name and request. Your material will be granted to the winning agents on a ONE WEEK EXCLUSIVE.
Once the week has expired, other agents who placed bids--but didn't win--will have the opportunity to email me to request material from the auction. SO SIT TIGHT. I'll be contacting you if you've got more requests.
Oh, and maybe -- just maybe -- non-participating agents have started emailing me with requests, too. So those will be going out after the exclusive expires as well.
CONGRATULATIONS, WINNERS! And to ALL ENTRANTS -- well played. If your entry didn't get any bids, MOVE ON FROM HERE and get those queries out the door!
2 -- THE TRUTH ABOUT TITUS OATES: FULL to Tamar Rydzinski
4 -- PRICE OF REFUGE: 25 pages to Sarah LaPolla
7 -- THE OPELIKA LADIES MURDER SOCIETY: FULL to Brooks Sherman
8 -- LIFEWEAVER: FULL to Amy Boggs
10 -- TO CATCH A FETCH: 25 pages to Victoria Marini
11 -- THE OBSESSION BEGINS: 20 pages to Tamar Rydzinski
13 -- STORMHEART: 100 pages to Pam van Hylckama Vlieg
14 -- THE DEATH CLOCK: FULL to Tamar Rydzinski
15 -- VITRO/VIVO: 20 pages to Tamar Rydzinski
18 -- CITY OF ZERO: 75 pages to Sarah LaPolla
19 -- THE EVERETT QUARTET: 75 pages to Tamar Rydzinski
24 -- DAISIES FOR ELLA: 25 pages to Sarah LaPolla
27 -- VERITAS: 20 pages to Amy Boggs
28 -- BEANBLOSSOM VERSUS BOMBASTIC BANDITS: 25 pages to Brooks Sherman
29 -- THROUGH THE EDGEWOOD: FULL to Danielle Chiotti
31 -- UNKNOWN ELEMENTS: FULL to Tricia Lawrence
32 -- JANE, BODY AND SOUL: FULL to Amy Boggs
33 -- SUSPENDED STATE: 25 pages to Amy Boggs
34 -- DON'T FALL DOWN: 75 pages to Amy Boggs
35 -- HAROLD--THE KID WHO RUINED MY LIFE AND SAVED THE DAY: FULL to Lauren MacLeod
36 -- ULTRAVIOLET CATASTROPHE: FULL to Tamar Rydzinski
37 -- OF ICE AND ASHES: FULL to Tricia Lawrence
38 -- LILLY WASHINGTON'S PRESIDENTIAL ADVENTURE: FULL to Victoria Marini
39 -- DIARY OF A GHOST: 5 pages to Tricia Lawrence
40 -- DEAD NEW WORLD: 25 pages to Amy Boggs
41 -- TICKET TO REDEMPTION: FULL to Victoria Marini
42 -- WHEN I CALLED YOU MINE: FULL to Sarah LaPolla
44 -- DIAS DE LOS MUERTOS: FULL to Tamar Rydzinski
45 -- AUSSIE OUTSIDER: FULL to Lauren McLeod
46 -- THE SKY-HIGH ADVENTURES OF NEVER: FULL to Victoria Marini
48 -- THE FATAL CROWN: 110 pages to Pam van Hylckama Vlieg
49 -- HAUNTED: 50 pages to Tricia Lawrence
50 -- CALIFORNIA R.I.P.: FULL to Tamar Rydzinski
51 -- DUST AND BONES: FULL to Pam van Hylckama Vlieg
52 -- RIP HER TO SHREDS: FULL to Joan Paquette
53 -- THE ASTRONAUT'S DAUGHTER: FULL to Sarah LaPolla
54 -- BAD COMPANY: 5 pages to Joan Paquette
55 -- DISCOVERING ISAAC: 45 pages to Melissa Jeglinski
59 -- ABEL PIRATES: FULL to Tamar Rydzinski
60 -- POWER STRUGGLES: FULL to Amy Boggs
Winners: Please email me at facelesswords(at)gmail.com for specific submission instructions. In order to streamline this process, PLEASE INCLUDE THE FOLLOWING: Your post number, title, and the agent's name and request. Your material will be granted to the winning agents on a ONE WEEK EXCLUSIVE.
Once the week has expired, other agents who placed bids--but didn't win--will have the opportunity to email me to request material from the auction. SO SIT TIGHT. I'll be contacting you if you've got more requests.
Oh, and maybe -- just maybe -- non-participating agents have started emailing me with requests, too. So those will be going out after the exclusive expires as well.
CONGRATULATIONS, WINNERS! And to ALL ENTRANTS -- well played. If your entry didn't get any bids, MOVE ON FROM HERE and get those queries out the door!
Monday, December 3, 2012
Baker's Dozen: On Your Mark...Get Set...
Here we are, on the eve of the Big Bidding War! Here's everything you need to know for tomorrow:
Questions, comments, pithy remarks below. Let's get behind our 60 entrants and cheer them on!
- PLEASE DO NOT LEAVE CRITIQUES starting at 11:00 am EST on Tuesday (tomorrow). Comment boxes need to be clear for bidding only.
- Agents will be signing in with their real names when they leave their bids. No "Secret Agents" in this auction!
- Bid will be placed IN PAGES, beginning with a minimum opening bid of 5 pages.
- Agents may not bid for a full manuscript until a) a minimum of 5 bids has already been placed on the item, and b) the bidding has reached 150 pages.
- Bids will be placed in increments of 20 pages or more, up to a full. Once the bid on any given item has reached 150 pages, agents ARE NOT OBLIGATED TO BID THE FULL MANUSCRIPT. The 150 is merely a minimum requirement to keep the bidding lively and fair.
- As soon as an item received a bid for the full manuscript, I will close bidding on that item.
- Not all entries will receive bids. This is simple statistics, and it is not a poor reflection on those authors whose entries do not receive any bids.
- Bidding will close on Wednesday, December 5 at 11:00 am EST. All winning bids will be final.
Questions, comments, pithy remarks below. Let's get behind our 60 entrants and cheer them on!
Friday, November 30, 2012
Friday Fricassee
Hello everyone!
I thought I'd use this week's Friday Fricassee to keep pertinent Baker's Dozen information at the top of the screen. We're up and running! Here are a couple of quick clicks for you:
THE EDITORS AND AUTHORS (offering their critique to our 60 entries)
THE CRITIQUING GUIDELINES (as posted yesterday)
Feel free to leave your critique at any time today, through the weekend, or on Monday! And of course, this comment box is the perfect place for Baker's Dozen banter, so please banter away!
ENJOY!
I thought I'd use this week's Friday Fricassee to keep pertinent Baker's Dozen information at the top of the screen. We're up and running! Here are a couple of quick clicks for you:
THE EDITORS AND AUTHORS (offering their critique to our 60 entries)
THE CRITIQUING GUIDELINES (as posted yesterday)
Feel free to leave your critique at any time today, through the weekend, or on Monday! And of course, this comment box is the perfect place for Baker's Dozen banter, so please banter away!
ENJOY!
(60) YA Paranormal: Power Struggles
TITLE: Power Struggles
GENRE: YA Paranormal
A revenge-seeking sixteen-year-old attends boot camp to master her telekinesis and protect herself against psyfons—the power-draining psychics responsible for killing her father. Once there, she catches the attention of Jonas, the gorgeous junior trainer whose very presence makes her dizzy and distracted. Could the boy she’s falling for be one of the monsters who killed her father?
Over the past hour, the girl next to me had ignited several small fires with her bare hands.
Power. As in the singular form.
GENRE: YA Paranormal
A revenge-seeking sixteen-year-old attends boot camp to master her telekinesis and protect herself against psyfons—the power-draining psychics responsible for killing her father. Once there, she catches the attention of Jonas, the gorgeous junior trainer whose very presence makes her dizzy and distracted. Could the boy she’s falling for be one of the monsters who killed her father?
Over the past hour, the girl next to me had ignited several small fires with her bare hands.
Our destination was Camp Awakening. Our purpose: to master our powers in two weeks. Get it right, you could end up a hero. Get it wrong, you could end up dead.
I wish I were kidding about the dead part.
I stared at the smoke drifting from the girl’s fingertips. Sure, it was freakishly entertaining, but we didn’t need open flames while crammed into a non-air-conditioned school bus on a sticky July day with nearly fifty other sixteen-year-olds. And it wasn’t like she was the only one on board who could do it.
“Stop it, Erika, you’re gonna get us in trouble,” a girl across the aisle whispered. “There’s no smoking on the bus.”
“Or burning,” I added.
Erika rubbed her fingertips on her charred jeans and smirked. “What are they gonna do, toss me off? It’s up to them to make sure we get ‘proper’ training,” she said, adding the air quotes. “And I obviously can’t control my power at the moment.”
Power. As in the singular form.
“Hey blondie,” the guy in front of me turned around. “I think you’re hot, too."
I frowned. “Excuse me?”
“I can read you.” He winked.
“You can?” I glared at him and fought off a wave of panic. “How about now?”
“Let’s see.” He shut his eyes for a second. “You think I’m… super dreamy?”
A girl behind me giggled.
(59) YA Alternate History: Abel Pirates
TITLE: Abel Pirates
GENRE: YA Alternate History
To combat piracy in the Caribbean, a desperate solution is instituted: force pirates to surrender by holding their kin hostage. And if they don’t? Hang their next-of-kin.
When sixteen-year-old Beatrix is named “next-of-kin” to her pirating grandfather, she seeks refuge at sea, only to discover that the price of freedom might be too high.
Beatrix was used to keeping her head down in Sheepshank, so it wasn’t until she felt Miss Black tense beside her that she looked up from the uneven cobblestones and spotted him. A man on horseback in their path of retreat.
He hardly seemed a threat—oily black curls bounced beneath his ridiculously wide-brimmed planter’s hat; an orange feather plume sagged upon his shoulder—but Miss Black considered everyone a threat. Even ruddy-cheeked fops who couldn’t keep their periwigs on straight.
“Hallo there, Miss Black,” he called with a wave. “Lost, are you? Courthouse is in the other direction!” He laughed, a high-pitched titter, and spurred his horse toward them.
Miss Black stopped Beatrix, taking her by the wrist. “Not a word,” she instructed quietly, her eyes clouded with worry.
The man was upon them before Beatrix could answer. Not that Miss Black needed an answer—Beatrix would hardly choose today, of all days, to start conversing with strangers. But ever since arriving in town and finding the streets dead, Miss Black had been on edge—more so than usual. The bank had been locked up, and wedged in the door they'd found a hastily scrawled noted: “Closed. Trial of Billy Cook, accused pirate.”
“But won’t it look suspicious if we miss the trial?” Beatrix had pointed out as Miss Black ushered her briskly toward the path out of town.
“Attend a pirate trial?” Miss Black had said with a humorless laugh. “Sometimes I think you take it lightly, just how close you are to the hangman’s noose.
GENRE: YA Alternate History
To combat piracy in the Caribbean, a desperate solution is instituted: force pirates to surrender by holding their kin hostage. And if they don’t? Hang their next-of-kin.
When sixteen-year-old Beatrix is named “next-of-kin” to her pirating grandfather, she seeks refuge at sea, only to discover that the price of freedom might be too high.
Beatrix was used to keeping her head down in Sheepshank, so it wasn’t until she felt Miss Black tense beside her that she looked up from the uneven cobblestones and spotted him. A man on horseback in their path of retreat.
He hardly seemed a threat—oily black curls bounced beneath his ridiculously wide-brimmed planter’s hat; an orange feather plume sagged upon his shoulder—but Miss Black considered everyone a threat. Even ruddy-cheeked fops who couldn’t keep their periwigs on straight.
“Hallo there, Miss Black,” he called with a wave. “Lost, are you? Courthouse is in the other direction!” He laughed, a high-pitched titter, and spurred his horse toward them.
Miss Black stopped Beatrix, taking her by the wrist. “Not a word,” she instructed quietly, her eyes clouded with worry.
The man was upon them before Beatrix could answer. Not that Miss Black needed an answer—Beatrix would hardly choose today, of all days, to start conversing with strangers. But ever since arriving in town and finding the streets dead, Miss Black had been on edge—more so than usual. The bank had been locked up, and wedged in the door they'd found a hastily scrawled noted: “Closed. Trial of Billy Cook, accused pirate.”
“But won’t it look suspicious if we miss the trial?” Beatrix had pointed out as Miss Black ushered her briskly toward the path out of town.
“Attend a pirate trial?” Miss Black had said with a humorless laugh. “Sometimes I think you take it lightly, just how close you are to the hangman’s noose.
(58) YA Historical Fantasy: The Age of Divination
TITLE: The Age of Divination
GENRE: YA Historical Fantasy
When a young female warrior discovers she has the gift of prophecy, she must undertake a perilous journey to find her sacred circle of stones and proclaim her prophetic truths to the multitudes before a corrupt Roman king and a vengeful demon can silence her, the ancient world’s last free sibyl.
I watch as thirty soldiers dismount onto our sacred Isle’s shore. One falls, weighed down by his cumbersome armor and it takes him several tries to regain his footing as the waves thrash about him. They are so misplaced in our homeland where the winds never cease, the seas roil constant and colossal stones jut from the earth.
Yet still they come.
I scan the hillside behind me to assure the other girls are concealed and am relieved to see only the tips of their long bows peering out among the tufted reeds.
As the men fumble about, I call to those behind me. “Hold your places while I give them fair warning.”
Upon seeing me, the men begin to let down their guard, more concerned with adjusting their drenched and tangled tunics like prissy maidens.
I come to a stop about twenty hands away from their leader. His full plumaged regalia is now flaccid from the ocean spray and falls limp to the side of his gaudy helmet making him look defeated and pitiful.
I wait.
He gives me the once over, peers up into the hills and asks, “Where are your men?”
I cannot help but roll my eyes. “You are on The Isle of Virgins where no men traipse lest they be fools or allies to our purpose—and I do not recognize you as an ally.”
He scoffs. For to him, I appear to be just a young savage, but soon he will know better.
GENRE: YA Historical Fantasy
When a young female warrior discovers she has the gift of prophecy, she must undertake a perilous journey to find her sacred circle of stones and proclaim her prophetic truths to the multitudes before a corrupt Roman king and a vengeful demon can silence her, the ancient world’s last free sibyl.
I watch as thirty soldiers dismount onto our sacred Isle’s shore. One falls, weighed down by his cumbersome armor and it takes him several tries to regain his footing as the waves thrash about him. They are so misplaced in our homeland where the winds never cease, the seas roil constant and colossal stones jut from the earth.
Yet still they come.
I scan the hillside behind me to assure the other girls are concealed and am relieved to see only the tips of their long bows peering out among the tufted reeds.
As the men fumble about, I call to those behind me. “Hold your places while I give them fair warning.”
Upon seeing me, the men begin to let down their guard, more concerned with adjusting their drenched and tangled tunics like prissy maidens.
I come to a stop about twenty hands away from their leader. His full plumaged regalia is now flaccid from the ocean spray and falls limp to the side of his gaudy helmet making him look defeated and pitiful.
I wait.
He gives me the once over, peers up into the hills and asks, “Where are your men?”
I cannot help but roll my eyes. “You are on The Isle of Virgins where no men traipse lest they be fools or allies to our purpose—and I do not recognize you as an ally.”
He scoffs. For to him, I appear to be just a young savage, but soon he will know better.
(57) YA: Margaret Ethel
TITLE: Margaret Ethel
GENRE: YA
Sixteen-year-old trouble maker Margaret returns from the grave to stop her best friend from committing the seven deadly sins. Failure means spending eternity apart. Margaret will go to Heaven and her friend will go to that other place — you know the one.
GENRE: YA
Sixteen-year-old trouble maker Margaret returns from the grave to stop her best friend from committing the seven deadly sins. Failure means spending eternity apart. Margaret will go to Heaven and her friend will go to that other place — you know the one.
It's not every day someone dies in Mr. Sample's sixth period physics class. I guess if Freddie Johnson were telling this story she'd say, "It's not every day you kill your best friend in the Samp's sixth period physics class." But she's not telling this story, I am.
Killed, not murdered. It was an accident. Freddie's crazy, but not psycho-crazy. She doesn't go around willy-nilly killing people. But she is always getting into trouble, which was both great fun for me and a royal pain in my you-know-what.
We were in lab and Mr. Sample was going on about something, but I wasn't listening. I was updating my Facebook page to say I'm now completely and definitely single. Just so you know, we're not supposed to use our cell phones during class or even in the hall, but this was an emergency. Thankfully I did, and just in time. Now Kent Adams will always be remembered as the guy who broke up with me on the day I died.
Perfect, it's what he deserves. He dumped me at lunch. I was devastated during fourth period, angry in fifth, and over him by sixth. I'm a quick griever. I told him I wasn't ready. I'm barely sixteen and we'd only been dating for three measly little weeks. I guess when it didn't happen at prom, he figured he'd move on. That's fine. Bye-bye.
(56) YA Urban Fantasy: The Guardian Lineage
TITLE: The Guardian Lineage
GENRE: YA Urban Fantasy
Protect Gargoyles during the daytime? Check.
Escape from ex-girlfriend trying to kill you? Check.
Figure out if new crush is enemy spy? Um... still pending.
Mike Prior hated it when his girlfriend kicked his butt.
The wind left his lungs as a sharp kick nailed him in the chest. He stumbled backwards, surprised, his bare feet grasping for footing on the carpet. Another roundhouse came, this time aimed at his temple. Mike ducked underneath it. He slipped a hand out of his karategi-sleeve and grabbed Laura’s arm to pin her down, but she was too quick. In one fluid motion, she grasped his arm and flipped him onto his back.
Mike rolled left and handsprang to his feet. Cheering filled his ears. Laura took a shot at his torso, but he knocked it aside and countered with a similar jab. Then, after a few seconds of punch-counterpunch, Mike landed a shot on Laura’s stomach. She lurched forward, eyes squinted and mouth open in a stunned expression of pain.
He hesitated. This was just something she’d goaded him into, so the kids could see some real—
Just like that, he was on the floor. Laura slipped a foot inside Mike’s leg and pushed him backwards, landing Mike right on his back. She crouched down and held a fist-blade at his neck.
“Yield,” she said, breathing heavily.
Mike swore in his head. You filthy, cheating, insanely-gorgeous sleazeball…
The crowd erupted into boisterous applause. Mike glanced at the twenty-odd students who’d stuck around the dojo to watch the fight, all of them clapping and gesturing wildly.
He smirked. There hadn’t been a single eight-year-old pulling for him.
GENRE: YA Urban Fantasy
Protect Gargoyles during the daytime? Check.
Escape from ex-girlfriend trying to kill you? Check.
Figure out if new crush is enemy spy? Um... still pending.
Mike Prior hated it when his girlfriend kicked his butt.
The wind left his lungs as a sharp kick nailed him in the chest. He stumbled backwards, surprised, his bare feet grasping for footing on the carpet. Another roundhouse came, this time aimed at his temple. Mike ducked underneath it. He slipped a hand out of his karategi-sleeve and grabbed Laura’s arm to pin her down, but she was too quick. In one fluid motion, she grasped his arm and flipped him onto his back.
Mike rolled left and handsprang to his feet. Cheering filled his ears. Laura took a shot at his torso, but he knocked it aside and countered with a similar jab. Then, after a few seconds of punch-counterpunch, Mike landed a shot on Laura’s stomach. She lurched forward, eyes squinted and mouth open in a stunned expression of pain.
He hesitated. This was just something she’d goaded him into, so the kids could see some real—
Just like that, he was on the floor. Laura slipped a foot inside Mike’s leg and pushed him backwards, landing Mike right on his back. She crouched down and held a fist-blade at his neck.
“Yield,” she said, breathing heavily.
Mike swore in his head. You filthy, cheating, insanely-gorgeous sleazeball…
The crowd erupted into boisterous applause. Mike glanced at the twenty-odd students who’d stuck around the dojo to watch the fight, all of them clapping and gesturing wildly.
He smirked. There hadn’t been a single eight-year-old pulling for him.
(55) MG Contemporary: Discovering Isaac
TITLE: Discovering Isaac
GENRE: MG Contemporary
Eleven-year-old Isaac Sanchez didn’t know what to expect when his deadbeat mom came back, but it definitely wasn’t this: a secret code, a new best friend, and a strange connection to the greatest scientist of all time. Isaac’s experiments sometimes end in disaster, but he may discover what he was looking for all along: his own place in the universe.
GENRE: MG Contemporary
Eleven-year-old Isaac Sanchez didn’t know what to expect when his deadbeat mom came back, but it definitely wasn’t this: a secret code, a new best friend, and a strange connection to the greatest scientist of all time. Isaac’s experiments sometimes end in disaster, but he may discover what he was looking for all along: his own place in the universe.
Isaac Newton: “For the natural days are truly unequal, though they are commonly considered as equal, and used for a measure of time…”
Isaac Sanchez: Every day has 24 hours, but that doesn’t mean they’re equal. Sometimes, your whole universe can change in just 24 hours.
It all started with baseball.
I hated baseball.
I would’ve rather yanked out my nose hairs one by one in front of the whole sixth grade wearing only yesterday’s underwear than play a baseball game. But every year, Grandma made me play, and my whole summer was ruined by never-ending little league. The worst thing about torture is that it’s not optional.
So there I was, an hour before the first pitch of the season, willing to give up my whole life savings (four dollars) if I could find my mitt. Without it, Grandma would be on my case again, and I couldn’t even hide or protect a single part of my body.
I looked under all the dirty clothes littered around my room. No mitt. I heard Grandma’s footsteps coming down the stairs as I chucked the shoes from my closet floor. No mitt. She opened the door without even knocking and stared down at me as I scooped an armload of my collections—my magnets, my birds’ nests, my rocks—from underneath my bed. No mitt.
Grandma frowned at my mess.
“No mitt,” I said, holding out my empty hands. A little hope rose in my chest. “We could just skip it.
(54) YA Steampunk: Bad Company
TITLE: Bad Company
GENRE: YA Steampunk
Spying for President Grover Cleveland in San Francisco is seventeen-year-old Jesse James’s top priority until an alluring sleuth named Scarlett foils his mission and swindles his heart.
“Don’t move.” I lifted the brass bow to my bare chest and shoulder, my focus trained on the apple balanced on Henri’s head.
With shirt sleeves rolled up and scrawny arms poking out, Henri trembled like a winter bare tree in a gale wind. He pressed his back against the stable wall and swallowed.
“You sure Katya fixed the power increments, non?” he asked, his dark hair falling in his eyes.
“I’m sure.” I took a deep breath and drew the string of flexible, coil-like electrum taught.
“Jesse. Arrete!” Henri bobbed and the apple disappeared into a pile of straw. Annoyed, I eased the string to resting position.
“The kinks have been ironed out,” I said.
The sixteen-year-old Parisian snatched up the fallen apple but glanced at the practice bull’s-eye with its scorched edges and large holes everywhere but the center mark. “Why am I target practice? Shouldn’t le petite Russe be holding the apple?”
I tilted my head past the curve of the bow, following the sight-line my knuckles created. “She’s researching a lead.”
“What about your shoulder?”
“Mended.”
With the electrum string pulled back, the Akasha in the quiver thrummed against my bare spine. My fingers released the string just as my mother called from the stable door.
“Jesse James Whitedove!”
The Akasha arrow - a shot of pure energy - went wild, hitting somewhere in the loft. Henri crumpled to his knees, crossing himself and calling on saints I’d never heard of.
GENRE: YA Steampunk
Spying for President Grover Cleveland in San Francisco is seventeen-year-old Jesse James’s top priority until an alluring sleuth named Scarlett foils his mission and swindles his heart.
“Don’t move.” I lifted the brass bow to my bare chest and shoulder, my focus trained on the apple balanced on Henri’s head.
With shirt sleeves rolled up and scrawny arms poking out, Henri trembled like a winter bare tree in a gale wind. He pressed his back against the stable wall and swallowed.
“You sure Katya fixed the power increments, non?” he asked, his dark hair falling in his eyes.
“I’m sure.” I took a deep breath and drew the string of flexible, coil-like electrum taught.
“Jesse. Arrete!” Henri bobbed and the apple disappeared into a pile of straw. Annoyed, I eased the string to resting position.
“The kinks have been ironed out,” I said.
The sixteen-year-old Parisian snatched up the fallen apple but glanced at the practice bull’s-eye with its scorched edges and large holes everywhere but the center mark. “Why am I target practice? Shouldn’t le petite Russe be holding the apple?”
I tilted my head past the curve of the bow, following the sight-line my knuckles created. “She’s researching a lead.”
“What about your shoulder?”
“Mended.”
With the electrum string pulled back, the Akasha in the quiver thrummed against my bare spine. My fingers released the string just as my mother called from the stable door.
“Jesse James Whitedove!”
The Akasha arrow - a shot of pure energy - went wild, hitting somewhere in the loft. Henri crumpled to his knees, crossing himself and calling on saints I’d never heard of.
(53) YA Historical Romance: The Astronaut's Daughter
TITLE: The Astronaut's Daughter
GENRE: YA Historical Romance
In 1963 Texas, 16-year-old Evelyn risks her newfound popularity–and her father’s position with NASA–when she falls for a rising civil rights leader from the rival high school.
I never gave the moon much thought until my father told me he wanted to walk on it.
Sure, lots of people these days probably dreamed of flying a rocket into space. The difference for my father was he might actually go.
My sister Beverly nudged me. “Evelyn, we’re up next.”
I peeked past her to the crowd in the next room. Applause erupted as the current crop of flight test crew waved from a small stage.
My mother turned for a final examination of the two of us. I’d aimed for an Audrey Hepburn look with my silk shift dress, but I felt more like Shirley Temple: the awkward years. She reached across Bev to flatten a fly-away strand from my up-do. I liked the fly-away—it felt more natural. Hair was intended to move.
“The press is here, and a film crew,” my mother said, as if she hadn’t prepared me for weeks. “This will go in the NASA archives. Stand straight.”
She demonstrated a shoulders-back, stomach-sucked-in posture. I straightened and winced as sweat glued my dress to my back.
When I’d imagined the new Manned Spacecraft Center, I pictured sterile metal fixtures and white walls, all cold-seeming to mirror what I expected of space. Instead, I entered a stuffy, formal reception room with all the seasonal luxuries of August in southeast Texas.
The introduction drifted through the doorway: “And our final new recruit for Project Gemini, Mr. Stephen Richardson, along with his family!
GENRE: YA Historical Romance
In 1963 Texas, 16-year-old Evelyn risks her newfound popularity–and her father’s position with NASA–when she falls for a rising civil rights leader from the rival high school.
I never gave the moon much thought until my father told me he wanted to walk on it.
Sure, lots of people these days probably dreamed of flying a rocket into space. The difference for my father was he might actually go.
My sister Beverly nudged me. “Evelyn, we’re up next.”
I peeked past her to the crowd in the next room. Applause erupted as the current crop of flight test crew waved from a small stage.
My mother turned for a final examination of the two of us. I’d aimed for an Audrey Hepburn look with my silk shift dress, but I felt more like Shirley Temple: the awkward years. She reached across Bev to flatten a fly-away strand from my up-do. I liked the fly-away—it felt more natural. Hair was intended to move.
“The press is here, and a film crew,” my mother said, as if she hadn’t prepared me for weeks. “This will go in the NASA archives. Stand straight.”
She demonstrated a shoulders-back, stomach-sucked-in posture. I straightened and winced as sweat glued my dress to my back.
When I’d imagined the new Manned Spacecraft Center, I pictured sterile metal fixtures and white walls, all cold-seeming to mirror what I expected of space. Instead, I entered a stuffy, formal reception room with all the seasonal luxuries of August in southeast Texas.
The introduction drifted through the doorway: “And our final new recruit for Project Gemini, Mr. Stephen Richardson, along with his family!
(52) YA Contemporary: Rip Her to Shreds
TITLE: Rip Her to Shreds
GENRE: YA Contemporary
GENRE: YA Contemporary
When her all-girl band the Wretched Gretchens goes on tour,
seventeen-year-old Charlie sings goodbye to the crush all her songs are
about and hello to the rock star lifestyle. Between eardrum-splitting
shows and heart-thumping parties, Charlie struggles with the increasing
distance between her bandmates — and what happens when she’s the only
one who wants to go home.
There
were at least eleven ways she could screw this up, and as she
death-marched from the greenroom to the stage, Charlie counted them
all.
One: drop the mic.
Two: trip on a cord.
Three through ten: accidentally-on-purpose forget the lyrics to her songs.
And
finally: faint and do a major face-plant into the first row, try to
pass it off as an attempt at crowd-surfing and desperately hope someone
would catch her.
She could probably get away with two through ten.
Her band might not even fully blame her. But sabotage was the wrong way
to tell them she didn’t want to win, and Charlie wasn’t exactly the
crafty type. Besides, number eleven sounded absolutely mortifying, and
no one except middle-aged men who refused to believe punk was over
really crowd-surfed anymore.
Deep breaths, six/eight time. Charlie glanced at her
half-bitten nails before pushing back the stage curtain. She inched to
the front, lifting a hand to her eyes as the lights changed from dim to
destroy-your-corneas blinding.
Next to her, Roxanne plugged in a guitar. “Stop
looking like you’re going to puke,” she said, swishing her long hair
over her shoulder. “We’re going to kill it.”
It
only took four cracks of the drumsticks and a crunch of gritty power
chords for Charlie to believe her. Then came the bass, shaking her feet
and pounding up her spine, forcing her heart to thump with it. The
microphone waited, and Charlie flexed her fingers around it, enjoying
its coldness against her skin.
(51) MG Adventure: Dust and Bones
TITLE: Dust and Bones
GENRE: MG Adventure
Stranded in China after his father’s mysterious abduction, 14-year-old Ethan befriends Mei Li, a beautiful 16-year-old pickpocket. Together they must combat an ancient and immortal evil in a desperate quest to save Ethan's dad—and, perhaps, all mankind.
Ethan leaned on the windowsill while his father snored on the sagging bed. Though the early evening air was cool, it hadn’t helped the tiny, sweltering hotel room one bit. He turned up the volume on his iPod to block the traffic and the snoring.
His watch read 8:30 p.m., but still Ethan knew he should be exhausted. He hadn’t slept, really slept, in days. The flight from San Francisco to Beijing had been a bouncing, turbulent terror and Ethan had been afraid to sleep, lest he wake up in the Pacific Ocean. At least the train from Beijing to Xi’an had been on the ground, but the crowded smoke-filled compartment hadn’t offered much more opportunity for sleep.
Jetlag, Ethan had learned over the last eighteen months, is a wicked tormentor, though—it makes you dead tired when you should be awake and bright-eyed when the world around you is sound asleep. His father apparently paid no heed to jetlag; he was comatose the moment his head hit the pillow. Ethan had offered to take the floor and knew that he’d probably regret it. Space being nonexistent, he thought maybe he would fit under the bed, but the drooping mattress and creaky springs warned him otherwise.
His stomach rumbled. He knew his dad wouldn't want him to go out alone;he was funny about things like that.
Ethan glanced out the window.
I'll only be gone a minute. It's just a block away.
He grabbed his backpack, slid silently from the room, and closed the door behind him.
GENRE: MG Adventure
Stranded in China after his father’s mysterious abduction, 14-year-old Ethan befriends Mei Li, a beautiful 16-year-old pickpocket. Together they must combat an ancient and immortal evil in a desperate quest to save Ethan's dad—and, perhaps, all mankind.
Ethan leaned on the windowsill while his father snored on the sagging bed. Though the early evening air was cool, it hadn’t helped the tiny, sweltering hotel room one bit. He turned up the volume on his iPod to block the traffic and the snoring.
His watch read 8:30 p.m., but still Ethan knew he should be exhausted. He hadn’t slept, really slept, in days. The flight from San Francisco to Beijing had been a bouncing, turbulent terror and Ethan had been afraid to sleep, lest he wake up in the Pacific Ocean. At least the train from Beijing to Xi’an had been on the ground, but the crowded smoke-filled compartment hadn’t offered much more opportunity for sleep.
Jetlag, Ethan had learned over the last eighteen months, is a wicked tormentor, though—it makes you dead tired when you should be awake and bright-eyed when the world around you is sound asleep. His father apparently paid no heed to jetlag; he was comatose the moment his head hit the pillow. Ethan had offered to take the floor and knew that he’d probably regret it. Space being nonexistent, he thought maybe he would fit under the bed, but the drooping mattress and creaky springs warned him otherwise.
His stomach rumbled. He knew his dad wouldn't want him to go out alone;he was funny about things like that.
Ethan glanced out the window.
I'll only be gone a minute. It's just a block away.
He grabbed his backpack, slid silently from the room, and closed the door behind him.
(50) YA Contemporary: California R.I.P.
TITLE: California R.I.P.
GENRE: YA Contemporary
When her parents' divorce uproots Huntington Beach native Dani to Sun Valley, she isn't stoked to trade in her surfboard for skis. But when she discovers snowboarding--and a cute shredder named Cash--€•Dani must decide if she wants the future at USC she’d planned, or if her heart has found an unlikely home in the mountains of Idaho.
I can see the mountains through the window across from my bed, a jaw-dropping view that I suspect I’ll never fully appreciate. The stony, snow-laden peaks remind me of my mother’s face the day she walked out on my father. Cold and unforgiving.
Not that Dad deserves forgiveness for what he’d done. Or who he’d done, to be more accurate. One of his very own patients. After nipping and tucking her to perfection, he apparently found his own work so irresistible that he had to ask her out. An offense that might have been forgivable on its own. But then he had to go and fall in love with her.
And now I’m the one paying for it.
I brace myself and swing my legs over the edge of the bed before I can chicken out, burrow back down under my covers, where I’ve managed to build up a cocoon of precious heat over the course of the night.
As I stuff my arms into the prickly wool of my sweater, I try not to think about Huntington Beach and cotton sundresses and the feel of hot sand sifting between my toes. My entire stash of beachwear is lying in Tupperware bins at the back of my closet, but might as well be lying in a coffin. Mom says I’m being ridiculous, it gets perfectly warm here in the summer. But that’s impossible. Because I already know where the perfect summer is. And it sure as sh*t isn’t here in Ketchum, Idaho.
GENRE: YA Contemporary
When her parents' divorce uproots Huntington Beach native Dani to Sun Valley, she isn't stoked to trade in her surfboard for skis. But when she discovers snowboarding--and a cute shredder named Cash--€•Dani must decide if she wants the future at USC she’d planned, or if her heart has found an unlikely home in the mountains of Idaho.
I can see the mountains through the window across from my bed, a jaw-dropping view that I suspect I’ll never fully appreciate. The stony, snow-laden peaks remind me of my mother’s face the day she walked out on my father. Cold and unforgiving.
Not that Dad deserves forgiveness for what he’d done. Or who he’d done, to be more accurate. One of his very own patients. After nipping and tucking her to perfection, he apparently found his own work so irresistible that he had to ask her out. An offense that might have been forgivable on its own. But then he had to go and fall in love with her.
And now I’m the one paying for it.
I brace myself and swing my legs over the edge of the bed before I can chicken out, burrow back down under my covers, where I’ve managed to build up a cocoon of precious heat over the course of the night.
As I stuff my arms into the prickly wool of my sweater, I try not to think about Huntington Beach and cotton sundresses and the feel of hot sand sifting between my toes. My entire stash of beachwear is lying in Tupperware bins at the back of my closet, but might as well be lying in a coffin. Mom says I’m being ridiculous, it gets perfectly warm here in the summer. But that’s impossible. Because I already know where the perfect summer is. And it sure as sh*t isn’t here in Ketchum, Idaho.
(49) YA Supernatural Thriller: Haunted
TITLE: HAUNTED
GENRE: YA Supernatural Thriller ala Lois Duncan
A sixteen-year-old nurses' aide walks the dark halls of the hospital, feels the presence of something not of this world, and learns she must hurry if she wants to save her mother and several others from eternal torment.
It's nine-thirty, the eighteenth of December, and I'm huddled in a chair in the hall outside the nurses' station, trying not to listen to the eerie sounds. The floors creak and the walls whisper as if they're alive. I wish a patient would turn on her call light to give me something to do.
I've just finished charting the pulses, respirations, and temperatures I took on patients. It makes me feel adult to chart like the nurses do.
I was supposed to have gotten off at nine, and if Mom was still with us, she'd have called and made sure the nurse let me go on time. She'd have said in a worried voice, "Samantha has school tomorrow and she needs her sleep. She shouldn't be working so late. Is there anything wrong over there?" She might even have driven over from the house and rapped on the nurses' office door.
At Huntington, the nurses run the hospital at night and if somebody's late reporting in to work, they make you stay until somebody comes in to relieve you. I've been working at the psychiatric hospital for a month to save money for college. I've adjusted to it during daylight hours, but I always feel jumpy at night.
The lights at the ends of the hall haven't been fixed even though I reported it to the nurse in charge. Not being able to see down there makes me wonder what's happening in the oppressive darkness.
GENRE: YA Supernatural Thriller ala Lois Duncan
A sixteen-year-old nurses' aide walks the dark halls of the hospital, feels the presence of something not of this world, and learns she must hurry if she wants to save her mother and several others from eternal torment.
It's nine-thirty, the eighteenth of December, and I'm huddled in a chair in the hall outside the nurses' station, trying not to listen to the eerie sounds. The floors creak and the walls whisper as if they're alive. I wish a patient would turn on her call light to give me something to do.
I've just finished charting the pulses, respirations, and temperatures I took on patients. It makes me feel adult to chart like the nurses do.
I was supposed to have gotten off at nine, and if Mom was still with us, she'd have called and made sure the nurse let me go on time. She'd have said in a worried voice, "Samantha has school tomorrow and she needs her sleep. She shouldn't be working so late. Is there anything wrong over there?" She might even have driven over from the house and rapped on the nurses' office door.
At Huntington, the nurses run the hospital at night and if somebody's late reporting in to work, they make you stay until somebody comes in to relieve you. I've been working at the psychiatric hospital for a month to save money for college. I've adjusted to it during daylight hours, but I always feel jumpy at night.
The lights at the ends of the hall haven't been fixed even though I reported it to the nurse in charge. Not being able to see down there makes me wonder what's happening in the oppressive darkness.
(48) YA Fantasy: The Fatal Crown
TITLE: The Fatal Crown
GENRE: YA Fantasy
Seventeen-year-old Taela does what she must to survive, but she doesn’t think of herself as a murderer. When her sister is executed for treason, Taela vows to avenge her death--even if it means killing the kingdom’s only hope for salvation. Taela discovers the truth about her sister’s death, and it forever ties her destiny to the very man she wants to destroy.
Taela wasn’t a thief, not usually, but sometimes folks had to do unpleasant things for the sake of the people they loved. Like keep secrets or steal from their own families.
She slipped into the cool darkness of the storage shed and quietly latched the door. She took a deep breath to calm herself. At least, after tonight, it would finally be over. She would fulfill her promise, no matter what it cost or how much it frightened her.
Ribbons of moonlight shone through the slats of the old wooden structure, falling across the crates, casks and barrels stacked around her. She had to be quick. She rummaged through a crate, grabbed a handful of dried apricots and few shriveled potatoes and stuffed them into her pack.
Standing on tiptoe, she reached up to the top shelf for the stoneware crock that held last season’s summerbeans. It felt smooth and cool in her hands. She slid the container to the edge and eased it off the shelf, but it was heavier than she expected. Before she could get a good grip, the crock slipped, fell to the dirt floor and shattered with a crash. She jumped back as shards of pottery and beans scattered at her feet. Blast it! Probably just woke the whole village.
She grabbed her pack and scrambled toward the weathered door, but the sound of footsteps approaching stopped her. Too late. She ducked into the shadows.
GENRE: YA Fantasy
Seventeen-year-old Taela does what she must to survive, but she doesn’t think of herself as a murderer. When her sister is executed for treason, Taela vows to avenge her death--even if it means killing the kingdom’s only hope for salvation. Taela discovers the truth about her sister’s death, and it forever ties her destiny to the very man she wants to destroy.
Taela wasn’t a thief, not usually, but sometimes folks had to do unpleasant things for the sake of the people they loved. Like keep secrets or steal from their own families.
She slipped into the cool darkness of the storage shed and quietly latched the door. She took a deep breath to calm herself. At least, after tonight, it would finally be over. She would fulfill her promise, no matter what it cost or how much it frightened her.
Ribbons of moonlight shone through the slats of the old wooden structure, falling across the crates, casks and barrels stacked around her. She had to be quick. She rummaged through a crate, grabbed a handful of dried apricots and few shriveled potatoes and stuffed them into her pack.
Standing on tiptoe, she reached up to the top shelf for the stoneware crock that held last season’s summerbeans. It felt smooth and cool in her hands. She slid the container to the edge and eased it off the shelf, but it was heavier than she expected. Before she could get a good grip, the crock slipped, fell to the dirt floor and shattered with a crash. She jumped back as shards of pottery and beans scattered at her feet. Blast it! Probably just woke the whole village.
She grabbed her pack and scrambled toward the weathered door, but the sound of footsteps approaching stopped her. Too late. She ducked into the shadows.
(47) YA Urban Fantasy: The Things That Are
TITLE: The Things That Are
GENRE: YA Urban Fantasy
After dreaming of her own murder, sixteen-year-old Chloe Hartwel discovers her prophetic dreams are linked to the society of demigods responsible for her father’s death and the boy she loves is one of them.
Somewhere between my poorly executed bob haircut and my obsession with plaid phase, my therapist declared me crazy. Her exact words were, suffers from delusions and her behavior is a clear sign of conduct disorder. Ethically she couldn’t call me a wacko to my face. But I had Google and her fancy psych words simply meant she wanted my mother to spend thousands more on her so-called therapy sessions. I was nine then and seven years later I thought I had finally ditched the crazy until I found myself hiding in the bushes in the middle of the night. The crazy was lurking.
My quads burned and my feet were numb from crouching for an unreasonable amount of time. I peeked over the bushes again. He was still sitting on the wooden porch swing with his legs resting on the railing in front of him and his phone pressed to his ear. If I listened to one more round of I’m sorry baby and you’re right baby, I was going to vomit. I already wanted to gag from just looking at his side swept, Bieber fever hairstyle. He had to be at least seventeen and seriously needed to move past his tween years.
I leaned forward to help balance myself and wrapped my hand around one of the branches, forgetting it was covered in thorns. I yelped and pulled back. He jerked his head in my direction. The planks on the porch creaked and whined. He was on the move.
GENRE: YA Urban Fantasy
After dreaming of her own murder, sixteen-year-old Chloe Hartwel discovers her prophetic dreams are linked to the society of demigods responsible for her father’s death and the boy she loves is one of them.
Somewhere between my poorly executed bob haircut and my obsession with plaid phase, my therapist declared me crazy. Her exact words were, suffers from delusions and her behavior is a clear sign of conduct disorder. Ethically she couldn’t call me a wacko to my face. But I had Google and her fancy psych words simply meant she wanted my mother to spend thousands more on her so-called therapy sessions. I was nine then and seven years later I thought I had finally ditched the crazy until I found myself hiding in the bushes in the middle of the night. The crazy was lurking.
My quads burned and my feet were numb from crouching for an unreasonable amount of time. I peeked over the bushes again. He was still sitting on the wooden porch swing with his legs resting on the railing in front of him and his phone pressed to his ear. If I listened to one more round of I’m sorry baby and you’re right baby, I was going to vomit. I already wanted to gag from just looking at his side swept, Bieber fever hairstyle. He had to be at least seventeen and seriously needed to move past his tween years.
I leaned forward to help balance myself and wrapped my hand around one of the branches, forgetting it was covered in thorns. I yelped and pulled back. He jerked his head in my direction. The planks on the porch creaked and whined. He was on the move.
(46) MG Historical (with speculative elements): The Sky-High Adventures of Never
TITLE: The Sky-High Adventures of Never
GENRE: MG Historical (with speculative elements)
When thirteen-year-old, wannabe-inventor Never finds a strange silver cylinder by the Thames, her only thought is to sell it for a little extra cash. But someone dangerous is after the contents of the cylinder, and if Never doesn’t keep it safe, British soldiers in the Crimea, and perhaps London itself, could face death and destruction on a scale never before seen.
LONDON, 1849
The last thing Never expected, on that rain-dark December morning, was for anyone to want to buy her.
She had lived at Tooley’s for all of her eight years, and every so often, bickering husbands and wives or weather-beaten tradesmen would sweep through the orphanage, inspecting the children like sides of ham in a butcher’s window. But she was always too skinny to be any use to the blacksmith, too pale to catch the eye of the elegant couple, too wild-eyed for the old lady in need of a maid. So she had stopped looking up as they passed, stopped wondering what life would be like outside the grey, bare walls of the house on Castor Street. Stopped hoping.
It was Wednesday, which meant it was her turn to scrub the kitchen floor, and the thick stench of rotting vegetables and sour milk made her eyes water. She was concentrating so hard on not retching that she didn’t notice the peculiar man in the top hat until he spoke her name.
‘The child’s name is Never?’ The man raised a bushy eyebrow.
‘Right little devil, that one. Any time she’s told to do anything, all she says is “Never!”’ The matron pursed her narrow lips in disapproval. ‘You sure you wouldn’t rather take one of our other children, sir?’
You old bat, thought Never, don’t you wish you could just drown me like a kitten. But she caught a twinkle of mirth in the man’s eye.
GENRE: MG Historical (with speculative elements)
When thirteen-year-old, wannabe-inventor Never finds a strange silver cylinder by the Thames, her only thought is to sell it for a little extra cash. But someone dangerous is after the contents of the cylinder, and if Never doesn’t keep it safe, British soldiers in the Crimea, and perhaps London itself, could face death and destruction on a scale never before seen.
LONDON, 1849
The last thing Never expected, on that rain-dark December morning, was for anyone to want to buy her.
She had lived at Tooley’s for all of her eight years, and every so often, bickering husbands and wives or weather-beaten tradesmen would sweep through the orphanage, inspecting the children like sides of ham in a butcher’s window. But she was always too skinny to be any use to the blacksmith, too pale to catch the eye of the elegant couple, too wild-eyed for the old lady in need of a maid. So she had stopped looking up as they passed, stopped wondering what life would be like outside the grey, bare walls of the house on Castor Street. Stopped hoping.
It was Wednesday, which meant it was her turn to scrub the kitchen floor, and the thick stench of rotting vegetables and sour milk made her eyes water. She was concentrating so hard on not retching that she didn’t notice the peculiar man in the top hat until he spoke her name.
‘The child’s name is Never?’ The man raised a bushy eyebrow.
‘Right little devil, that one. Any time she’s told to do anything, all she says is “Never!”’ The matron pursed her narrow lips in disapproval. ‘You sure you wouldn’t rather take one of our other children, sir?’
You old bat, thought Never, don’t you wish you could just drown me like a kitten. But she caught a twinkle of mirth in the man’s eye.
(45) YA Contemporary: Aussie Outsider
TITLE: Aussie Outsider
GENRE: YA Contemporary
Rory Turner used to be a typical American teen, but now she’s an Aussie outsider, living on a Dr. Pepper can-size island in Australia with her dad. Someone wants her off the island even more than she doesn't want to be there, and if she doesn't find out why, her new home could be six feet under the ground.
When a girl turns sixteen, she has certain expectations about what will happen.
Her bra size will mysteriously increase at least two cup sizes and she’ll shoot up three inches overnight. The guy she’s been crushing over her whole sophomore year will dump his cheerleader girlfriend and ask her out instead. Her numerous friends will throw her a surprise party and the whole school will turn out. Later everyone will remember it as the best party they’ve ever been to.
I never thought I’d be alone at the airport on my sixteenth birthday, handing my passport and one-way ticket to a United Airlines agent for the flight leaving in twenty minutes from Los Angeles to Sydney.
I never thought the only happy birthday I’d hear would be from the surprised agent as he glanced at my passport and back at me. “Sweet sixteen, isn’t it?” he asked as he scanned my passport through the computer.
Sweet? Try anything but.
I used to have a normal life. Well, semi-normal anyway. I had the typical American family: mom, workaholic stepfather, and a stepbrother and stepsister who wouldn’t give me the time of day. I lived in a sprawling house in Redlands, California, with my mom and Ted, the aforementioned workaholic stepfather. I was resentful of his money and upset at my mom for marrying him when I was fourteen.
I used to be a lot of things, but I guess it didn’t matter anymore because that life was so over.
GENRE: YA Contemporary
Rory Turner used to be a typical American teen, but now she’s an Aussie outsider, living on a Dr. Pepper can-size island in Australia with her dad. Someone wants her off the island even more than she doesn't want to be there, and if she doesn't find out why, her new home could be six feet under the ground.
When a girl turns sixteen, she has certain expectations about what will happen.
Her bra size will mysteriously increase at least two cup sizes and she’ll shoot up three inches overnight. The guy she’s been crushing over her whole sophomore year will dump his cheerleader girlfriend and ask her out instead. Her numerous friends will throw her a surprise party and the whole school will turn out. Later everyone will remember it as the best party they’ve ever been to.
I never thought I’d be alone at the airport on my sixteenth birthday, handing my passport and one-way ticket to a United Airlines agent for the flight leaving in twenty minutes from Los Angeles to Sydney.
I never thought the only happy birthday I’d hear would be from the surprised agent as he glanced at my passport and back at me. “Sweet sixteen, isn’t it?” he asked as he scanned my passport through the computer.
Sweet? Try anything but.
I used to have a normal life. Well, semi-normal anyway. I had the typical American family: mom, workaholic stepfather, and a stepbrother and stepsister who wouldn’t give me the time of day. I lived in a sprawling house in Redlands, California, with my mom and Ted, the aforementioned workaholic stepfather. I was resentful of his money and upset at my mom for marrying him when I was fourteen.
I used to be a lot of things, but I guess it didn’t matter anymore because that life was so over.
(44) MG Magical Realism: Dias de los Muertos: Days of the Dead
TITLE: Dias de los Muertos: Days of the Dead
GENRE: MG Magical Realism
When his abusive father dies, 13-year-old Fortunato learns of an ancient Aztec curse that kills off members of his family. Fortunato’s brother is taken by the vengeful ghost of a murdered Aztec woman and, desperate to save his brother, Fortunato races against time to try to pacify the angry spirit.
Uno
My Papi wore a heavy gold crucifix around his neck, so you would think we lived like kings. The relic was our family’s only treasure, though—a gift from times past. One evening when Papi was sober, I pointed to the ornate cross and asked him where it came from. He wrapped his fingers protectively around the crucifix and answered, “Nato, hundreds of years ago, one of our ancestors came to Mexico. This cross was a gift from a priest to help protect him.”
The necklace was meant to safeguard our ancient ancestor, but I’m not certain it worked because eventually he died and passed the necklace on to his son, who passed it on to his son, and so on. All the way to my Papi, and when we were living in bad neighborhoods, eating government cheese and pulling toys from the neighbors’ garbage, Papi couldn’t be persuaded to sell the crucifix. Even when he longed for a beer and had no money in his pockets, he kept the cross securely fastened around his neck.
“It keeps me safe, Nato,” he said to me once when I asked why he didn’t sell the gold necklace. “It protects me, and one day, it will protect you.”
Dos
We were all going hungry because Papi was missing again.
Mamá kept the rice and beans warm for hours as my siblings and I waited, hoping for the sake of our hunger to hear the front door squeak open.
GENRE: MG Magical Realism
When his abusive father dies, 13-year-old Fortunato learns of an ancient Aztec curse that kills off members of his family. Fortunato’s brother is taken by the vengeful ghost of a murdered Aztec woman and, desperate to save his brother, Fortunato races against time to try to pacify the angry spirit.
Uno
My Papi wore a heavy gold crucifix around his neck, so you would think we lived like kings. The relic was our family’s only treasure, though—a gift from times past. One evening when Papi was sober, I pointed to the ornate cross and asked him where it came from. He wrapped his fingers protectively around the crucifix and answered, “Nato, hundreds of years ago, one of our ancestors came to Mexico. This cross was a gift from a priest to help protect him.”
The necklace was meant to safeguard our ancient ancestor, but I’m not certain it worked because eventually he died and passed the necklace on to his son, who passed it on to his son, and so on. All the way to my Papi, and when we were living in bad neighborhoods, eating government cheese and pulling toys from the neighbors’ garbage, Papi couldn’t be persuaded to sell the crucifix. Even when he longed for a beer and had no money in his pockets, he kept the cross securely fastened around his neck.
“It keeps me safe, Nato,” he said to me once when I asked why he didn’t sell the gold necklace. “It protects me, and one day, it will protect you.”
Dos
We were all going hungry because Papi was missing again.
Mamá kept the rice and beans warm for hours as my siblings and I waited, hoping for the sake of our hunger to hear the front door squeak open.
(43) Contemporary YA: Operation Breakup
TITLE: Operation Breakup
GENRE: Contemporary YA
Crushing on the hottest senior in school who already has the perfect girlfriend is a lose-lose situation for wallfower Abby Wheeler, until a shady frenemy proposes a risky plan for attaining the unnattainable. But the plan is far from foolproof and has social suicide written all over it.
No less than five minutes into Global Studies and the first stab of a migraine pierced my left eyeball. It started when I shoved my hand into a brown bag and pulled out a slip of paper with Ian Koch’s name scrawled on it.
“First partnership: Ian Koch and Abby Wheeler!” Mr. Rausch said with a flourish and handed the paper bag to his next victim.
You could hear a pin drop. The entire class looked up like Mr. Rausch had said, “Ian Koch and Osama bin Laden!” They stared at Ian with these big, concerned eyes, like he was going to the gallows or something.
Really? Was I that bad of a partner? I might not have been valedictorian material, but I wasn’t warming the bench in the principal’s office, either.
Ian lifted one hand, looking like it pained him to wave me over. I dragged my a** to the chair next to him, then slammed down so hard I almost paralyzed myself.
Great. Front row. As if Global History wasn’t excruciatingly bad enough.
I loathed sitting up front. Aside from looking like a bonafide dork, Mr. Rausch had this charming habit of spitting when he grew passionate about war (which, in Global History, was just about every day). And since Staples doesn’t sell spit-shields in its school supplies section, I always steered clear of the front row. Hiding somewhere in the middle suited me just fine.
“Should we move into Mr. Rausch’s chair instead?”
GENRE: Contemporary YA
Crushing on the hottest senior in school who already has the perfect girlfriend is a lose-lose situation for wallfower Abby Wheeler, until a shady frenemy proposes a risky plan for attaining the unnattainable. But the plan is far from foolproof and has social suicide written all over it.
No less than five minutes into Global Studies and the first stab of a migraine pierced my left eyeball. It started when I shoved my hand into a brown bag and pulled out a slip of paper with Ian Koch’s name scrawled on it.
“First partnership: Ian Koch and Abby Wheeler!” Mr. Rausch said with a flourish and handed the paper bag to his next victim.
You could hear a pin drop. The entire class looked up like Mr. Rausch had said, “Ian Koch and Osama bin Laden!” They stared at Ian with these big, concerned eyes, like he was going to the gallows or something.
Really? Was I that bad of a partner? I might not have been valedictorian material, but I wasn’t warming the bench in the principal’s office, either.
Ian lifted one hand, looking like it pained him to wave me over. I dragged my a** to the chair next to him, then slammed down so hard I almost paralyzed myself.
Great. Front row. As if Global History wasn’t excruciatingly bad enough.
I loathed sitting up front. Aside from looking like a bonafide dork, Mr. Rausch had this charming habit of spitting when he grew passionate about war (which, in Global History, was just about every day). And since Staples doesn’t sell spit-shields in its school supplies section, I always steered clear of the front row. Hiding somewhere in the middle suited me just fine.
“Should we move into Mr. Rausch’s chair instead?”
(42) YA Steampunk Romance: When I Called You Mine
TITLE: When I Called You Mine
GENRE: YA Steampunk Romance
To rescue her kidnapped brother, Meg must reunite with the boy who broke her heart, hitch a ride on the pirate airship of which he is now captain, and find an ancient Mayan treasure hidden deep within the jungles of southern Mexico.
My job was dangerous in its simplicity.
I should have remembered that, considering I’d worked at the Harrison & Sons’ Diving and Processing Plant for three years now, screwing lids onto vials filled with phosphorus sea slugs and the gelatinous solvent that preserved their light. Really, it should have been at the forefront of my mind.
Every day, for twelve hours straight, it was the same. The swooshing of the rubber belt beneath the vials, pushing them down the line; the soft sighs of the women around me as they twisted caps onto the various tubes, sweat dotting their kerchiefs; the clucking of their tongues as they sorted the vials based on size and grade—military, industrial, or commercial—around their workstations.
It was easy to forget the danger when the process became repetitive to the point of terminal boredom. I’d watched over a dozen girls leave the plant permanently disfigured after forgetting themselves, daydreaming about God knew what. They were clumsy with their thoughts and with their hands, and the solvent poured down their arms, seeped into their shirts and down their leather work gloves. The burns could be treated, but not fast enough to stop their hands from shriveling, their muscles from deteriorating.
Most women did not last very long in this factory, but the work did not bother me. The monotony of it all was usually a welcome reprieve from my life outside these walls.
GENRE: YA Steampunk Romance
To rescue her kidnapped brother, Meg must reunite with the boy who broke her heart, hitch a ride on the pirate airship of which he is now captain, and find an ancient Mayan treasure hidden deep within the jungles of southern Mexico.
My job was dangerous in its simplicity.
I should have remembered that, considering I’d worked at the Harrison & Sons’ Diving and Processing Plant for three years now, screwing lids onto vials filled with phosphorus sea slugs and the gelatinous solvent that preserved their light. Really, it should have been at the forefront of my mind.
Every day, for twelve hours straight, it was the same. The swooshing of the rubber belt beneath the vials, pushing them down the line; the soft sighs of the women around me as they twisted caps onto the various tubes, sweat dotting their kerchiefs; the clucking of their tongues as they sorted the vials based on size and grade—military, industrial, or commercial—around their workstations.
It was easy to forget the danger when the process became repetitive to the point of terminal boredom. I’d watched over a dozen girls leave the plant permanently disfigured after forgetting themselves, daydreaming about God knew what. They were clumsy with their thoughts and with their hands, and the solvent poured down their arms, seeped into their shirts and down their leather work gloves. The burns could be treated, but not fast enough to stop their hands from shriveling, their muscles from deteriorating.
Most women did not last very long in this factory, but the work did not bother me. The monotony of it all was usually a welcome reprieve from my life outside these walls.
(41) YA Contemporary: Ticket to Redemption
TITLE: Ticket to Redemption
GENRE: YA Contemporary
Except, I'm not. I'll never be that girl again.
GENRE: YA Contemporary
Guilt-ridden after the suicide of her best friend,
seventeen-year-old Tenley seeks redemption by helping a boy—who hasn't
left his house in over thirteen years—overcome the fears his agoraphobic
mother instilled in him. But as Tenley tries to give him a life, her
own is crumbling around her as she battles problems at home and a past
that's never too far behind.
My toenails are naked. A year ago, I would've
never allowed such a travesty—especially in the summer. It's funny how
little you care about things like that after your best friend kills herself. Actually, it's funny how little you care about anything.
"What are you thinking about, Tenley?" My dad's voice cuts through my thoughts.
Sitting
in a patio chair with my legs propped up on the weathered deck railing,
I try to think of an answer that doesn't involve my best friend or my unattractive toes.
Shielding my eyes from the sun, I
twist my neck to look at him. He's standing behind the sliding screen
door with his hands in the pockets of his pleated khaki shorts. I force
the corners of my mouth into a reluctant grin. "Nothing. I'm just
enjoying the weather."
The weather? Did I really say that? He'll never
buy it. Then again, he might be so desperate to avoid an argument that
he forces himself to.
My dad rocks back on his heels. The same forced grin I gave him gets returned to me. "It is beautiful, isn't it?"
And there's my answer.
My
dad is trying so hard to pretend this summer is just like any other
summer spent at our beautiful lake house in the lovely town of
Ludington, and that I'm the same girl I was last year.
(40) YA Paranormal: Dead New World
TITLE: Dead New World
GENRE: YA Paranormal
A teenage soldier must brave a zombie-infested wasteland to find the girl he loves.
Sunlight filtered through the trees, brightening parts of the forest while leaving others in shadow. Birds chirped and chattered serenely. Everything seemed peaceful.
That’s what frightened me so much.
Nothing was ever peaceful anymore. Not since I’d been alive, at least. I tightened my grip on my M16 and tried not to let the guys see my hands shaking.
It was my first time out. A search and destroy, away from the relative safety of the bases or towns. No walls or fences to hide behind. No machine guns or bunkers for protection. Out here it was just your rifle, your squad and, if they happened to be in the area, air support.
The summer heat weighed down my bite-proof fatigues. Sweat drenched my body and dripped into my eyes, stinging. I flipped up the visor on my helmet to wipe my face.
Ambrose patted me on the shoulder. “Cold enough for you?”
I turned to him and grinned, struck again by how he’d changed since basic training. He didn’t look like the kid I’d known practically my entire life anymore. He’d shot up and filled out, his built frame and square jaw making him look older than sixteen. Even though we were the same rank, I couldn’t help looking up to him, and I wasn’t the only one.
“I hate these things. It’s like wearing an oven.” I closed the visor.
“Better than being dead, Holt. Or worse, dead-ish.”
GENRE: YA Paranormal
A teenage soldier must brave a zombie-infested wasteland to find the girl he loves.
Sunlight filtered through the trees, brightening parts of the forest while leaving others in shadow. Birds chirped and chattered serenely. Everything seemed peaceful.
That’s what frightened me so much.
Nothing was ever peaceful anymore. Not since I’d been alive, at least. I tightened my grip on my M16 and tried not to let the guys see my hands shaking.
It was my first time out. A search and destroy, away from the relative safety of the bases or towns. No walls or fences to hide behind. No machine guns or bunkers for protection. Out here it was just your rifle, your squad and, if they happened to be in the area, air support.
The summer heat weighed down my bite-proof fatigues. Sweat drenched my body and dripped into my eyes, stinging. I flipped up the visor on my helmet to wipe my face.
Ambrose patted me on the shoulder. “Cold enough for you?”
I turned to him and grinned, struck again by how he’d changed since basic training. He didn’t look like the kid I’d known practically my entire life anymore. He’d shot up and filled out, his built frame and square jaw making him look older than sixteen. Even though we were the same rank, I couldn’t help looking up to him, and I wasn’t the only one.
“I hate these things. It’s like wearing an oven.” I closed the visor.
“Better than being dead, Holt. Or worse, dead-ish.”
(39) YA Paranormal Romance: Diary of a Ghost
TITLE: Diary of a Ghost
GENRE: YA Paranormal Romance
For perpetual eighteen-year-old Cordelia Baxter, there are worse things than being dead: Falling in love with someone who is alive. That's just what happens when the Cahill family moves into the house where Cordelia was murdered, and among them is the hunky and brooding son, Julian.
The Diary of Cordelia Ann Baxter
Born: January 28, 1971
Died: May 27, 1989
Recorded by: Julian Patrick Cahill
Born: October 21, 1989
Died: Once, but not yet
April 22, 2010
“Is anyone there?”
I meander into reluctant awareness, shaking my head to clear the foggy remnants of rejuvenation. It’s been a while since I’ve been… awake, so I have to blink a few times to shed the confusion. Then I see the girl sitting cross-legged on the floor with a Ouija board leveled on her knees.
She’s waiting for an answer.
From me.
It isn’t every day I get summoned by a Ouija-board-wielding teenager. In fact, this is the first time for me.
“If anyone is there can you please give me a sign?”
I roll my eyes. For real?
While she’s waiting patiently for me to pick up a lamp or slam a door or toss a book across the room, I study the lithe creature sitting on the floor in wonder, mainly because she’s alive. Everything about her screams living, breathing – alive - and I’m taken by a ferocious moment of jealousy. Everything from her vibrant green eyes to her long honey-blonde hair reeks of life, and I automatically hate her for it.
My sudden irritation causes a power surge and the lights flicker, unwittingly providing the sign she was hoping for.
She licks her lips, darts her eyes around the room, nervous now that she has the proof she wanted.
“Is someone really there?”
GENRE: YA Paranormal Romance
For perpetual eighteen-year-old Cordelia Baxter, there are worse things than being dead: Falling in love with someone who is alive. That's just what happens when the Cahill family moves into the house where Cordelia was murdered, and among them is the hunky and brooding son, Julian.
The Diary of Cordelia Ann Baxter
Born: January 28, 1971
Died: May 27, 1989
Recorded by: Julian Patrick Cahill
Born: October 21, 1989
Died: Once, but not yet
April 22, 2010
“Is anyone there?”
I meander into reluctant awareness, shaking my head to clear the foggy remnants of rejuvenation. It’s been a while since I’ve been… awake, so I have to blink a few times to shed the confusion. Then I see the girl sitting cross-legged on the floor with a Ouija board leveled on her knees.
She’s waiting for an answer.
From me.
It isn’t every day I get summoned by a Ouija-board-wielding teenager. In fact, this is the first time for me.
“If anyone is there can you please give me a sign?”
I roll my eyes. For real?
While she’s waiting patiently for me to pick up a lamp or slam a door or toss a book across the room, I study the lithe creature sitting on the floor in wonder, mainly because she’s alive. Everything about her screams living, breathing – alive - and I’m taken by a ferocious moment of jealousy. Everything from her vibrant green eyes to her long honey-blonde hair reeks of life, and I automatically hate her for it.
My sudden irritation causes a power surge and the lights flicker, unwittingly providing the sign she was hoping for.
She licks her lips, darts her eyes around the room, nervous now that she has the proof she wanted.
“Is someone really there?”
(38) MG Contemporary: Lilly Washington's Presidential Adventure
TITLE: Lilly Washington's Presidential Adventure
GENRE: MG Contemporary
When twelve-year-old Lilly Washington finds a mysterious diary with entries from the 1870s, she goes against the wishes of the school principal and embarks on a wild adventure to find an undiscovered time capsule mentioned within its pages. What she finds could uncover long lost secrets from the Civil War. That is, if she isn’t expelled first.
Sunlight pours in my bedroom window like a cheerful smile, even though it’s the day I’ve been dreading all summer. The first day of middle school. New school. New kids. New teachers. Higher expectations. Commence freak-out.
The knot in my stomach tightens as I pace back and forth across my room. After seven full steps, I stop, coming face to face with Abe Lincoln. My hero. Most of my friends have posters of Justin Bieber hanging on their walls. I prefer Abe.
Turning on my heel, I recite the Gettysburg Address out loud. It's the one thing that always calms me down when I’m nervous.
“Four score and seven years ago our fathers brought forth ...”
"Lilly, breakfast,” my mom yells from downstairs in a singsong voice.
“... on this continent a new nation ...”
"Come on, come on, come on. We're already late." My little brother Teddy says, sticking his head in the door and waves his arm at me to follow him. He's wearing the Thomas the Train shirt he’s been begging to wear every day for weeks. It looks like he got carried away with the hair gel again. Either that, or the slicked back look is the hot look for the second grade this year.
"I'll be down when I'm ready." It comes out mean, which usually bothers me. But not today. I want to be left alone.
He sticks his tongue out and skips down the hall toward the smell of bacon.
“... conceived in liberty ...”
GENRE: MG Contemporary
When twelve-year-old Lilly Washington finds a mysterious diary with entries from the 1870s, she goes against the wishes of the school principal and embarks on a wild adventure to find an undiscovered time capsule mentioned within its pages. What she finds could uncover long lost secrets from the Civil War. That is, if she isn’t expelled first.
Sunlight pours in my bedroom window like a cheerful smile, even though it’s the day I’ve been dreading all summer. The first day of middle school. New school. New kids. New teachers. Higher expectations. Commence freak-out.
The knot in my stomach tightens as I pace back and forth across my room. After seven full steps, I stop, coming face to face with Abe Lincoln. My hero. Most of my friends have posters of Justin Bieber hanging on their walls. I prefer Abe.
Turning on my heel, I recite the Gettysburg Address out loud. It's the one thing that always calms me down when I’m nervous.
“Four score and seven years ago our fathers brought forth ...”
"Lilly, breakfast,” my mom yells from downstairs in a singsong voice.
“... on this continent a new nation ...”
"Come on, come on, come on. We're already late." My little brother Teddy says, sticking his head in the door and waves his arm at me to follow him. He's wearing the Thomas the Train shirt he’s been begging to wear every day for weeks. It looks like he got carried away with the hair gel again. Either that, or the slicked back look is the hot look for the second grade this year.
"I'll be down when I'm ready." It comes out mean, which usually bothers me. But not today. I want to be left alone.
He sticks his tongue out and skips down the hall toward the smell of bacon.
“... conceived in liberty ...”
(37) YA Fantasy: Of Ice and Ashes
TITLE: Of Ice and Ashes
GENRE: YA Fantasy
Years after a toxic explosion disfigures hundreds of survivors, a town leader declares they are diseased and must all be purged. Self-conscious, seventeen-year-old Wren knows she’s the only truly dangerous survivor, and must brave brutal guards and the malicious leader herself to find the others—or she’ll burn with them.
Three layers of hand-knit sweaters and my gloves protected my skin. I tweaked the leather over my wrists, ensuring that no portion of flesh was exposed.
“You’re too cautious,” Jolie said. Her soft, clumsy hand pinned my mother’s old jade brooch to my outermost sweater. “Everyone knows what will happen if they touch you.”
“Accidents happen,” I said. Actually, an accident hadn’t happened in years thanks to my layering, but I didn’t dare risk it.
I saw Jolie’s lips purse in the silver-framed mirror by my bed. Ten years of nonstop caring for me had sprouted premature lines around her eyes. Otherwise, her face was smooth and soft, particularly round at the apple of her cheeks. Sometimes I wondered if she could have been beautiful without me as her only companion. Her burden.
My lips tugged down as I lost myself in that thought; Jolie’s pout transformed into the easy, sweet smile she always put on to cheer me up. She radiated hopefulness through every pore of that bustling body, regardless of her Scar.
I averted my gaze from hers, silently ashamed that I could never follow her lead.
Her fingers prodded against the back of my neck, adjusting the sweaters. A slight shiver always ran up my spine at these moments, probably my body’s warning against human proximity. Then I’d almost imagine warmth rushing beneath my skin, like it would if a normal person touched me. But I could barely remember what warmth felt like.
Neither Jolie nor I had felt temperature for ten years.
GENRE: YA Fantasy
Years after a toxic explosion disfigures hundreds of survivors, a town leader declares they are diseased and must all be purged. Self-conscious, seventeen-year-old Wren knows she’s the only truly dangerous survivor, and must brave brutal guards and the malicious leader herself to find the others—or she’ll burn with them.
Three layers of hand-knit sweaters and my gloves protected my skin. I tweaked the leather over my wrists, ensuring that no portion of flesh was exposed.
“You’re too cautious,” Jolie said. Her soft, clumsy hand pinned my mother’s old jade brooch to my outermost sweater. “Everyone knows what will happen if they touch you.”
“Accidents happen,” I said. Actually, an accident hadn’t happened in years thanks to my layering, but I didn’t dare risk it.
I saw Jolie’s lips purse in the silver-framed mirror by my bed. Ten years of nonstop caring for me had sprouted premature lines around her eyes. Otherwise, her face was smooth and soft, particularly round at the apple of her cheeks. Sometimes I wondered if she could have been beautiful without me as her only companion. Her burden.
My lips tugged down as I lost myself in that thought; Jolie’s pout transformed into the easy, sweet smile she always put on to cheer me up. She radiated hopefulness through every pore of that bustling body, regardless of her Scar.
I averted my gaze from hers, silently ashamed that I could never follow her lead.
Her fingers prodded against the back of my neck, adjusting the sweaters. A slight shiver always ran up my spine at these moments, probably my body’s warning against human proximity. Then I’d almost imagine warmth rushing beneath my skin, like it would if a normal person touched me. But I could barely remember what warmth felt like.
Neither Jolie nor I had felt temperature for ten years.
(36) YA SF: Ultraviolet Catastrophe
TITLE: Ultraviolet Catastrophe
GENRE: YA SF
When 16-year-old science prodigy Lexie uncovers a mistake in the equation to create a Wormhole, she thinks the resulting ultraviolet catastrophe is an accident - until the lead scientist turns up as a Popsicle in the cryo chamber. If she can't discover who planted the error and stop them, she and her classmates could be next.
My whole life changed with one news story.
Mom and I were having our typical Thursday night dinner. Lasagna sat steaming on the table. I chopped the last tomato for the salad, while Mom poured two glasses of milk. The soft murmur of voices on the TV on in the background filled the house.
The six o’clock news anchor started the story with, “Bad news from government facility Los Alamos today. Hackers broke into a classified server and downloaded a terabyte of top secret military plans. An explosion rocked the facility…”
Crash.
One of the glasses shattered on the floor, but Mom stared at the television, her face as white as the spilled milk.
“Mom?” I set the knife down on the cutting board with a frown. “What’s wrong?”
She shook her head and held up a finger. My skin prickled at her strange behavior and I watched with her as smoke billowed from a squat, non-descript building in the middle of the desert.
“Until the culprits are found and the records retrieved, the government is treating this as a matter of national security.” The news anchor turned the next story over to his co-host and Mom stepped around the milk and turned the TV off.
Her hand trembled.
“What’s going on?” I asked again, grabbing a handful of paper towels to clean up the mess.
“Will you take care of that, Lexie? I need to call your father.” She was already moving toward the kitchen door.
My jaw dropped open.
GENRE: YA SF
When 16-year-old science prodigy Lexie uncovers a mistake in the equation to create a Wormhole, she thinks the resulting ultraviolet catastrophe is an accident - until the lead scientist turns up as a Popsicle in the cryo chamber. If she can't discover who planted the error and stop them, she and her classmates could be next.
My whole life changed with one news story.
Mom and I were having our typical Thursday night dinner. Lasagna sat steaming on the table. I chopped the last tomato for the salad, while Mom poured two glasses of milk. The soft murmur of voices on the TV on in the background filled the house.
The six o’clock news anchor started the story with, “Bad news from government facility Los Alamos today. Hackers broke into a classified server and downloaded a terabyte of top secret military plans. An explosion rocked the facility…”
Crash.
One of the glasses shattered on the floor, but Mom stared at the television, her face as white as the spilled milk.
“Mom?” I set the knife down on the cutting board with a frown. “What’s wrong?”
She shook her head and held up a finger. My skin prickled at her strange behavior and I watched with her as smoke billowed from a squat, non-descript building in the middle of the desert.
“Until the culprits are found and the records retrieved, the government is treating this as a matter of national security.” The news anchor turned the next story over to his co-host and Mom stepped around the milk and turned the TV off.
Her hand trembled.
“What’s going on?” I asked again, grabbing a handful of paper towels to clean up the mess.
“Will you take care of that, Lexie? I need to call your father.” She was already moving toward the kitchen door.
My jaw dropped open.
(35) MG Contemporary: Harold - The Kid Who Ruined My Life and Saved the Day
TITLE: Harold - The Kid Who Ruined My Life and Saved the Day
GENRE: MG Contemporary
Twelve-year-old Jake is D-O-N-E with Harold. Sure Harold’s a genius at baseball trivia and Algebra, but he also has Asperger’s and a knack for ruining Jake’s social life. When Jake gets an opportunity to play shortstop for the undefeated Comets, he’ll get his chance to ditch Harold and the rest of Jake’s second place team—unless winning isn’t everything.
On the first day of sixth grade, I cracked open the front door and looked outside. The bus stop was empty. So far, so good. I’d figured Harold’s mom would drive him this year like she did when he was in kindergarten. Harold had trouble when it came to new things. Well, that was one of his problems.
I walked toward the stop and from behind I heard, “Hey Jake! Wait up! It’s 8:03. Bus Number 6 will be here at 8:07.”
I walked faster and called over my shoulder, “Thanks for the update, Harold. I didn’t know I was so early. Tomorrow, I’ll sleep in a whole 4 minutes.”
Harold caught up with me and said, “I woke up at 6:33, but Mom said I couldn’t come out until I saw you.”
Great. Where is that bus?
“Hey, Jake, have you ever heard of Harvey Haddix?” he asked while he rummaged through his bookbag.
I knew what he was looking for. Each year before school started, Harold added one green composition notebook to his school supply list and in that notebook he kept track of the times he beat me at anything—Texas Hold’em, NCAA 12, checkers. He’d write down the date, the game, and the score. He also wrote down baseball stats.
“Yeah, Harold, I know all about Harvey.”
I didn’t have a clue, but I thought just this once Harold wouldn’t go into his never-ending monologue about one more Major League ballplayer I’d never heard of.
GENRE: MG Contemporary
Twelve-year-old Jake is D-O-N-E with Harold. Sure Harold’s a genius at baseball trivia and Algebra, but he also has Asperger’s and a knack for ruining Jake’s social life. When Jake gets an opportunity to play shortstop for the undefeated Comets, he’ll get his chance to ditch Harold and the rest of Jake’s second place team—unless winning isn’t everything.
On the first day of sixth grade, I cracked open the front door and looked outside. The bus stop was empty. So far, so good. I’d figured Harold’s mom would drive him this year like she did when he was in kindergarten. Harold had trouble when it came to new things. Well, that was one of his problems.
I walked toward the stop and from behind I heard, “Hey Jake! Wait up! It’s 8:03. Bus Number 6 will be here at 8:07.”
I walked faster and called over my shoulder, “Thanks for the update, Harold. I didn’t know I was so early. Tomorrow, I’ll sleep in a whole 4 minutes.”
Harold caught up with me and said, “I woke up at 6:33, but Mom said I couldn’t come out until I saw you.”
Great. Where is that bus?
“Hey, Jake, have you ever heard of Harvey Haddix?” he asked while he rummaged through his bookbag.
I knew what he was looking for. Each year before school started, Harold added one green composition notebook to his school supply list and in that notebook he kept track of the times he beat me at anything—Texas Hold’em, NCAA 12, checkers. He’d write down the date, the game, and the score. He also wrote down baseball stats.
“Yeah, Harold, I know all about Harvey.”
I didn’t have a clue, but I thought just this once Harold wouldn’t go into his never-ending monologue about one more Major League ballplayer I’d never heard of.
(34) MG Contemporary: Don't Fall Down
TITLE: Don't Fall Down
GENRE: MG Contemporary
When twelve-year-old Chloe breaks one of the unspoken rules of figure skating, she finds herself stuck training with a rink full of misfits. To have a shot at Nationals, she must convince the judges her new rink isn't loser central. Which wouldn't be so hard if she was the loudmouth skater everyone thinks she is.
I have my fingers crossed for a gold medal.
Not where everyone can see them, of course, but hidden in the sleeve of my maroon and white Ridgeline Figure Skating Club jacket. If I win this competition, it'll show the judges I'm the skater to beat at Regionals in October.
My stomach rumbles. It's almost three o'clock, and the last thing I ate before I performed was a bowl of Toasted Oats cereal early this morning. The concession stand popcorn smells like something gourmet. I try to ignore it and stand on the tiptoes of my plastic blade guards to look for my friend Ellery. I can't spot her in the sea of girls in sparkling dresses crowding the hallway.
“Aren't you cold, Chloe?” Mom pulls her wool coat tighter around her.
I shake my head. I'm rolling back and forth on my blade guards. Heel. Toe. Heel. Toe. Mom and Dad got me the guards that light up for my twelfth birthday. Every time I move, the lights blink and reflect off my coach's shiny black boots.
Mom checks the time on her phone. “Where are the results?”
Like magic, a competition volunteer threads her way through the anxious crowd in the hallway and tacks the results to the bulletin board. Everyone swarms forward. The volunteer has to elbow her way to safety.
A tingling feeling shoots through my body. This is it.
GENRE: MG Contemporary
When twelve-year-old Chloe breaks one of the unspoken rules of figure skating, she finds herself stuck training with a rink full of misfits. To have a shot at Nationals, she must convince the judges her new rink isn't loser central. Which wouldn't be so hard if she was the loudmouth skater everyone thinks she is.
I have my fingers crossed for a gold medal.
Not where everyone can see them, of course, but hidden in the sleeve of my maroon and white Ridgeline Figure Skating Club jacket. If I win this competition, it'll show the judges I'm the skater to beat at Regionals in October.
My stomach rumbles. It's almost three o'clock, and the last thing I ate before I performed was a bowl of Toasted Oats cereal early this morning. The concession stand popcorn smells like something gourmet. I try to ignore it and stand on the tiptoes of my plastic blade guards to look for my friend Ellery. I can't spot her in the sea of girls in sparkling dresses crowding the hallway.
“Aren't you cold, Chloe?” Mom pulls her wool coat tighter around her.
I shake my head. I'm rolling back and forth on my blade guards. Heel. Toe. Heel. Toe. Mom and Dad got me the guards that light up for my twelfth birthday. Every time I move, the lights blink and reflect off my coach's shiny black boots.
Mom checks the time on her phone. “Where are the results?”
Like magic, a competition volunteer threads her way through the anxious crowd in the hallway and tacks the results to the bulletin board. Everyone swarms forward. The volunteer has to elbow her way to safety.
A tingling feeling shoots through my body. This is it.
(33) YA Paranormal Thriller: Suspended State
TITLE: Suspended State
GENRE: YA Paranormal thriller
When a hospital employee preys on unconscious patients, a seventeen year-old girl’s soul becomes trapped inside his body. Now Lauren must find a way out before she disappears like his other victims. Or worse…becomes a permanent part of him.
It isn’t the cold that makes me shiver. It’s the wolves. I can’t see them behind the wall of pines, but I hear them. The cries are haunting and desperate – one long wail after another.
I scoot closer to Wes, nuzzling against his warm body. “Why are they so close to a ski resort?”
He lifts his shoulders and drops them, shrugging like it’s no big deal. “The mountain is their territory, but they never bother anyone.”
“If you say so.” I look away and pretend like it doesn’t faze me. I love animals. Really. But I don’t want to be anyone’s dinner.
Wes isn’t fooled. He looks at me with softness in his green eyes and squeezes my hand. “They’ll leave us alone, Lauren. I promise.”
I gaze over the valley as the chairlift carries us higher up the mountain. Thousands of pine trees, some covered in snow, some not, all scattered against a backdrop of sparkly white as the sun starts to drop below the horizon. The valley is so peaceful from this height that it almost makes me forget I was freaking out before until Wes asks, “Have you ever seen an avalanche?”
“Seriously? You want to bring that up?”
“I’m just trying to make you forget about the wolves.” His mouth twists into a crooked grin. I try not to stare too long, but his teeth are perfect and his lips look soft. Just another reminder why I’ve had a crush on Wes since I was a freshman.
GENRE: YA Paranormal thriller
When a hospital employee preys on unconscious patients, a seventeen year-old girl’s soul becomes trapped inside his body. Now Lauren must find a way out before she disappears like his other victims. Or worse…becomes a permanent part of him.
It isn’t the cold that makes me shiver. It’s the wolves. I can’t see them behind the wall of pines, but I hear them. The cries are haunting and desperate – one long wail after another.
I scoot closer to Wes, nuzzling against his warm body. “Why are they so close to a ski resort?”
He lifts his shoulders and drops them, shrugging like it’s no big deal. “The mountain is their territory, but they never bother anyone.”
“If you say so.” I look away and pretend like it doesn’t faze me. I love animals. Really. But I don’t want to be anyone’s dinner.
Wes isn’t fooled. He looks at me with softness in his green eyes and squeezes my hand. “They’ll leave us alone, Lauren. I promise.”
I gaze over the valley as the chairlift carries us higher up the mountain. Thousands of pine trees, some covered in snow, some not, all scattered against a backdrop of sparkly white as the sun starts to drop below the horizon. The valley is so peaceful from this height that it almost makes me forget I was freaking out before until Wes asks, “Have you ever seen an avalanche?”
“Seriously? You want to bring that up?”
“I’m just trying to make you forget about the wolves.” His mouth twists into a crooked grin. I try not to stare too long, but his teeth are perfect and his lips look soft. Just another reminder why I’ve had a crush on Wes since I was a freshman.
(32) YA Light SFi: Jane, Body and Soul
TITLE: Jane, Body and Soul
GENRE: YA Light SF
When his first love is killed in a prom night accident, teen genius Daniel stuns the world by using radical new medical research to bring her back to life. Now Jane’s body is failing, doctors are baffled, and she’s more interested in her “near-death experiences” than in recovering. Daniel must find a way to save Jane—or watch her die again.
Waiting for Jane at the bottom of the staircase, I have this weird, jittery feeling, but I’m trying not to fidget since her dad and her grandma are standing right next to me. The slightest movement seems to echo off the marble floors in the entryway, and the only other sound is her grandma’s breathing. I feel like I’m in a funeral parlor or something.
Crap. What am I doing here? I still can’t believe Jane asked me to prom.
She told me I should come meet her dad, but he’s barely said a word since he opened the door to let me in, and I can’t think of anything to say. I keep looking up at the top of the stairs, hoping Jane will suddenly appear.
Her dad clears his throat. “Did you use stem cells?”
“Wh-what?” Wow, I totally wasn’t expecting that. “I-I mean, yes.” I guess Jane must have told him about my internship. “Our research used stem cells, but not the embryonic kind.” I try to smile. People are usually happy with that answer.
But her dad just makes this “hmmph” sound, and his stern expression doesn’t change.
Underneath my rented tuxedo I’m covered in sweat—thanks to the bike ride over here—and now my skin feels clammy. “W-we were able to successfully revive dead organs.” I glance at him, then down at my polished black dress shoes. “The procedure has tremendous potential for saving human lives.”
GENRE: YA Light SF
When his first love is killed in a prom night accident, teen genius Daniel stuns the world by using radical new medical research to bring her back to life. Now Jane’s body is failing, doctors are baffled, and she’s more interested in her “near-death experiences” than in recovering. Daniel must find a way to save Jane—or watch her die again.
Waiting for Jane at the bottom of the staircase, I have this weird, jittery feeling, but I’m trying not to fidget since her dad and her grandma are standing right next to me. The slightest movement seems to echo off the marble floors in the entryway, and the only other sound is her grandma’s breathing. I feel like I’m in a funeral parlor or something.
Crap. What am I doing here? I still can’t believe Jane asked me to prom.
She told me I should come meet her dad, but he’s barely said a word since he opened the door to let me in, and I can’t think of anything to say. I keep looking up at the top of the stairs, hoping Jane will suddenly appear.
Her dad clears his throat. “Did you use stem cells?”
“Wh-what?” Wow, I totally wasn’t expecting that. “I-I mean, yes.” I guess Jane must have told him about my internship. “Our research used stem cells, but not the embryonic kind.” I try to smile. People are usually happy with that answer.
But her dad just makes this “hmmph” sound, and his stern expression doesn’t change.
Underneath my rented tuxedo I’m covered in sweat—thanks to the bike ride over here—and now my skin feels clammy. “W-we were able to successfully revive dead organs.” I glance at him, then down at my polished black dress shoes. “The procedure has tremendous potential for saving human lives.”
(31) YA Suspense: Unknown Elements
TITLE: Unknown Elements
GENRE: YA Suspense
After a tragic "accident", Mila Crowley unexpectedly finds herself caught up in her late mother's secret past, decoding cryptic messages left behind and falling in love with a boy who, she has yet to learn, is connected to everything.
There was a steady humming, but otherwise, everything was still. And completely dark.
I closed my eyes again, trying once more. Same as before--a wall of black.
Moving my head, I felt the fabric shift around my hair. A tightness pulled on my wrists and ankles, as I tried to reposition my contorted body. They’d secured me well. Whichever one of them it was.
Working through the fuzzy memories that flashed through my mind, I could see the mistakes I’d made, the choices that led me here--bound like an animal, in the trunk of a car.
To think, a week ago, I had been sitting in class, just like everyone else. And now... My odds weren't good. Nonexistent might be more accurate.
I held my breath as the car began to slow. Veering off the smooth pavement, gravel crunched under the tires before we pulled to a stop.
The trunk release clicked open. Its hinges creaked. Gulping the stale air silently, I readied myself for anything.
Rough hands grabbed me, harshly maneuvering my body out of the tight space. Biting down on the inside of my cheek, I fought the urge to yell and scream.
Flinging me over his shoulder, the man had yet to say a word. Only the bitter winter breeze, swirling around us, made any sound.
But, I knew what he wanted. It was what they all wanted.
It had gotten her killed. And now I was next.
GENRE: YA Suspense
After a tragic "accident", Mila Crowley unexpectedly finds herself caught up in her late mother's secret past, decoding cryptic messages left behind and falling in love with a boy who, she has yet to learn, is connected to everything.
There was a steady humming, but otherwise, everything was still. And completely dark.
I closed my eyes again, trying once more. Same as before--a wall of black.
Moving my head, I felt the fabric shift around my hair. A tightness pulled on my wrists and ankles, as I tried to reposition my contorted body. They’d secured me well. Whichever one of them it was.
Working through the fuzzy memories that flashed through my mind, I could see the mistakes I’d made, the choices that led me here--bound like an animal, in the trunk of a car.
To think, a week ago, I had been sitting in class, just like everyone else. And now... My odds weren't good. Nonexistent might be more accurate.
I held my breath as the car began to slow. Veering off the smooth pavement, gravel crunched under the tires before we pulled to a stop.
The trunk release clicked open. Its hinges creaked. Gulping the stale air silently, I readied myself for anything.
Rough hands grabbed me, harshly maneuvering my body out of the tight space. Biting down on the inside of my cheek, I fought the urge to yell and scream.
Flinging me over his shoulder, the man had yet to say a word. Only the bitter winter breeze, swirling around us, made any sound.
But, I knew what he wanted. It was what they all wanted.
It had gotten her killed. And now I was next.
(30) YA Paranormal Mystery: The Channels
TITLE: The Channels
GENRE: YA Paranormal Mystery
Sixteen-year-old Hannah Clare can hear people’s thoughts, but a family history of mental illness creates a fine line between what is delusion and what is paranormal. Only Colin’s touch can make the voices melt away, but Hannah’s already heard the one secret she can’t keep: Colin’s cousin is stalking his next prey.
Silence has a sound. When the mind goes blank, I hear it. Jagged with static.
The sound changes when people’s thoughts stream in, their words joining the hiss in my head. When the channels open, nothing can control the flood of secrets. The voices come and I’m blown away, swirled in words, numb from the shock.
The static comes first.
A song of secrets, second.
Tuning into my own crazy radio station.
Chapter 1
I walked into my high school’s cafeteria with a scab on my forehead and my eyes on my feet. The scent of greasy food I didn't want to eat felt heavy in my lungs. I snuck a look around the room. School hadn’t changed at all. The lunch cliques, maybe a little, but the orange tables and worn floor and scowl-faced lunch ladies were the same. The feeling that I didn’t want to be there was also the same, times one hundred. The only good part about school, that day or ever, was Kate, my best friend since ninth grade. I spotted her at our corner table gabbing with a neighboring group, but she stopped mid-sentence when our eyes met and leapt up to crush-hug me until I could barely breathe.
“I’m soooo glad you’re back,” she said, pulling me by the hand toward the bright orb where I slid my tray of food. “I’ve missed you like crazy.”
“It’s good to be back,” I lied. I couldn’t stop thinking about the word she used, crazy.
GENRE: YA Paranormal Mystery
Sixteen-year-old Hannah Clare can hear people’s thoughts, but a family history of mental illness creates a fine line between what is delusion and what is paranormal. Only Colin’s touch can make the voices melt away, but Hannah’s already heard the one secret she can’t keep: Colin’s cousin is stalking his next prey.
Silence has a sound. When the mind goes blank, I hear it. Jagged with static.
The sound changes when people’s thoughts stream in, their words joining the hiss in my head. When the channels open, nothing can control the flood of secrets. The voices come and I’m blown away, swirled in words, numb from the shock.
The static comes first.
A song of secrets, second.
Tuning into my own crazy radio station.
Chapter 1
I walked into my high school’s cafeteria with a scab on my forehead and my eyes on my feet. The scent of greasy food I didn't want to eat felt heavy in my lungs. I snuck a look around the room. School hadn’t changed at all. The lunch cliques, maybe a little, but the orange tables and worn floor and scowl-faced lunch ladies were the same. The feeling that I didn’t want to be there was also the same, times one hundred. The only good part about school, that day or ever, was Kate, my best friend since ninth grade. I spotted her at our corner table gabbing with a neighboring group, but she stopped mid-sentence when our eyes met and leapt up to crush-hug me until I could barely breathe.
“I’m soooo glad you’re back,” she said, pulling me by the hand toward the bright orb where I slid my tray of food. “I’ve missed you like crazy.”
“It’s good to be back,” I lied. I couldn’t stop thinking about the word she used, crazy.
(29) MG Fantasy: Through the Edgewood
TITLE: Through the Edgewood
GENRE: MG Fantasy
When 11 year-old Izzy's little sister is kidnapped by a faerie queen, she teams up with a band of orphan Changelings to rescue her. If Izzy fails, both her sister and the Changelings will end up as ingredients in the queen's youth elixir.
Izzy Doyle stood in the school supply section of the Piggly Wiggly, coming to terms with her fate. She agreed to come with her mom and sister to the grocery store because she needed a new journal. As she faced her only options – yellow legal pad, or inspirational kittens – the full weight of her situation came crashing down on her narrow shoulders. This was it. Her new hometown.
She flicked the thin metal stand with the toe of her shoe. How could her parents have moved them to a town with no movie theater, no swimming pools, and – this part was almost too horrifying to believe – no library? Izzy vaguely recalled her mom and dad going on about fresh air and getting closer to nature, but she didn’t connect the dots until now. When they said “nature”, what they really meant was complete isolation from the rest of civilization.
Her little sister bounded down the aisle, her blonde curls swishing behind her. “Guess what? They don’t have that gross healthy cereal Mom likes, so she’s letting us get Kookoo Crunchies!”
“That’s awesome,” sighed Izzy. Hen could be happy living on the surface of the moon as long as there were snacks.
Having decided she’d rather scrawl her thoughts on a roll of toilet paper, she left the aisle empty-handed to join her mom at the checkout counter. She reached into the front pocket of her sweatshirt, and pulled out her paperback copy of The Hobbit. That’s when she heard the cashier say, “That neighbor of yours is a witch, or I’m a bull toad.”
GENRE: MG Fantasy
When 11 year-old Izzy's little sister is kidnapped by a faerie queen, she teams up with a band of orphan Changelings to rescue her. If Izzy fails, both her sister and the Changelings will end up as ingredients in the queen's youth elixir.
Izzy Doyle stood in the school supply section of the Piggly Wiggly, coming to terms with her fate. She agreed to come with her mom and sister to the grocery store because she needed a new journal. As she faced her only options – yellow legal pad, or inspirational kittens – the full weight of her situation came crashing down on her narrow shoulders. This was it. Her new hometown.
She flicked the thin metal stand with the toe of her shoe. How could her parents have moved them to a town with no movie theater, no swimming pools, and – this part was almost too horrifying to believe – no library? Izzy vaguely recalled her mom and dad going on about fresh air and getting closer to nature, but she didn’t connect the dots until now. When they said “nature”, what they really meant was complete isolation from the rest of civilization.
Her little sister bounded down the aisle, her blonde curls swishing behind her. “Guess what? They don’t have that gross healthy cereal Mom likes, so she’s letting us get Kookoo Crunchies!”
“That’s awesome,” sighed Izzy. Hen could be happy living on the surface of the moon as long as there were snacks.
Having decided she’d rather scrawl her thoughts on a roll of toilet paper, she left the aisle empty-handed to join her mom at the checkout counter. She reached into the front pocket of her sweatshirt, and pulled out her paperback copy of The Hobbit. That’s when she heard the cashier say, “That neighbor of yours is a witch, or I’m a bull toad.”
(28) MG Mystery: Beanblossom Versus Bombastic Bandits
TITLE: Beanblossom Versus Bombastic Bandits
GENRE: MG Mystery
If twelve-year-old Jacob Beanblossom finds hidden treasure before two grownup crooks do, he'll collect a hefty reward and start middle school being known as the boy who recovered a long-lost fortune instead of the kid who could fart on command.
Up until that fateful Friday the Thirteenth, Jacob Beanblossom's claim to fame had been the ability to fart on cue. But that was about to change.
Jacob dragged Old Man Fudgewick’s bratty Pomeranian down Main Street. The dog yipped and snarled non-stop. A lady pushing triplets in a stroller checked for cars and, seeing the coast was clear, jaywalked rather than cross paths with the yapping Pomeranian.
Jacob tugged on the dog’s rhinestone-bordered leash. “Calm down, Special Fella.” Jacob cringed every time he said “Special Fella.” But the only chance he had to be obeyed was to call the dog by his stupid name. Jacob eyed the black curlicue sign on the storefront ahead that read Madame LeChance’s Psychic Palace. “We’re almost there.”
Jacob shoved open the Psychic Palace door, wondering what quacks he’d see there today. As he yanked the dog from the sidewalk and into the waiting room, Jacob got an earful of high-pitched classical music. Anjali Sharma, the biggest nerd in the sixth grade, sat on the floor. She plucked at the strings of a long-necked, small rounded-bodied guitar. She was probably here to find out if she’d get straight As for the rest of her life.
Special Fella growled at Anjali. She stopped playing the instrument and glared at him. “Get that thing out of here! It’s ruining the ambiance.” Anjali darted a meaningful glance at the lady clutching a black-and-white photograph in her age-spotted hands.
Jacob gave Anjali a smug smile. Apparently the know-it-all did not know it all. “We’re clients.”
GENRE: MG Mystery
If twelve-year-old Jacob Beanblossom finds hidden treasure before two grownup crooks do, he'll collect a hefty reward and start middle school being known as the boy who recovered a long-lost fortune instead of the kid who could fart on command.
Up until that fateful Friday the Thirteenth, Jacob Beanblossom's claim to fame had been the ability to fart on cue. But that was about to change.
Jacob dragged Old Man Fudgewick’s bratty Pomeranian down Main Street. The dog yipped and snarled non-stop. A lady pushing triplets in a stroller checked for cars and, seeing the coast was clear, jaywalked rather than cross paths with the yapping Pomeranian.
Jacob tugged on the dog’s rhinestone-bordered leash. “Calm down, Special Fella.” Jacob cringed every time he said “Special Fella.” But the only chance he had to be obeyed was to call the dog by his stupid name. Jacob eyed the black curlicue sign on the storefront ahead that read Madame LeChance’s Psychic Palace. “We’re almost there.”
Jacob shoved open the Psychic Palace door, wondering what quacks he’d see there today. As he yanked the dog from the sidewalk and into the waiting room, Jacob got an earful of high-pitched classical music. Anjali Sharma, the biggest nerd in the sixth grade, sat on the floor. She plucked at the strings of a long-necked, small rounded-bodied guitar. She was probably here to find out if she’d get straight As for the rest of her life.
Special Fella growled at Anjali. She stopped playing the instrument and glared at him. “Get that thing out of here! It’s ruining the ambiance.” Anjali darted a meaningful glance at the lady clutching a black-and-white photograph in her age-spotted hands.
Jacob gave Anjali a smug smile. Apparently the know-it-all did not know it all. “We’re clients.”
(27) YA SF: Veritas
TITLE: Veritas
GENRE: YA Sci-fi
When a virus turns Tori's crewmates violent, she’ll do anything to save her family and her crush, Declan. Leaving Earth was supposed to give them a future—not a death sentence. Or so they were told.
I race past door after door until they blend into the white walls. Only ten minutes late, but already the corridors are empty. Unlike me, everyone else is already at their assignments like good little crewmembers. I turn left down another hall, identical to the last save for the numbers on the doors, and pick up my pace. If Supervisor Dresden catches me running in late again, she won’t hesitate to discipline me.
Unfortunately, this corridor isn’t empty like the others. My momentum slams me straight into a patroller. Hard muscles act like a steel wall against my much smaller form, and I fall to the ground. When I look up the only thing that greets me is a scowl. The patroller’s eyes narrow and his jaw clenches.
I brush long hair out of my face where sweat makes the black strands cling. My hands tremble as the patroller stares down at me.
“Sorry, sir.” The words leave my mouth in a stutter and I look away, hoping he’ll let me go without punishment. Being late to my assignment is one thing, but pissing off a patroller is a whole other universe of trouble that I don’t want to be in.
He doesn’t say anything, just stares—which seems worse than if he’d yelled—as I scramble to stand back up. I shift from foot to foot, itching to run again. Until he growls. Literally growls at me. Even though my heart jumps at the sound, I freeze.
GENRE: YA Sci-fi
When a virus turns Tori's crewmates violent, she’ll do anything to save her family and her crush, Declan. Leaving Earth was supposed to give them a future—not a death sentence. Or so they were told.
I race past door after door until they blend into the white walls. Only ten minutes late, but already the corridors are empty. Unlike me, everyone else is already at their assignments like good little crewmembers. I turn left down another hall, identical to the last save for the numbers on the doors, and pick up my pace. If Supervisor Dresden catches me running in late again, she won’t hesitate to discipline me.
Unfortunately, this corridor isn’t empty like the others. My momentum slams me straight into a patroller. Hard muscles act like a steel wall against my much smaller form, and I fall to the ground. When I look up the only thing that greets me is a scowl. The patroller’s eyes narrow and his jaw clenches.
I brush long hair out of my face where sweat makes the black strands cling. My hands tremble as the patroller stares down at me.
“Sorry, sir.” The words leave my mouth in a stutter and I look away, hoping he’ll let me go without punishment. Being late to my assignment is one thing, but pissing off a patroller is a whole other universe of trouble that I don’t want to be in.
He doesn’t say anything, just stares—which seems worse than if he’d yelled—as I scramble to stand back up. I shift from foot to foot, itching to run again. Until he growls. Literally growls at me. Even though my heart jumps at the sound, I freeze.
(26) YA SF: Something Rich and Strange
TITLE: Something Rich and Strange
GENRE: YA SCI-FI
Seventeen-year-old Hannah “Sasquatch” Bloom thinks her height is her only unusual feature until a gorgeous boy arrives at her school to awaken her to the truth: she’s an alien, like him. Now she must choose – help him and the rest of her race colonize the planet or protect the humans she loves.
When I sleep, I remember, but the memories aren’t my own.
Eons suspended inside a coffinlike tank, the fluid tasting of metal and misery. Glimpses of galaxies beyond the hull of the ship. A white and blue orb swelling out of the darkness, beaconing our journey’s end.
Hope. A million-voiced chorus of hope. Then disbelief. And fury.
The sense of claustrophobia still lingers an hour later. Trudging to my locker before first period, I shake my head, trying to dislodge the strange images that nudge at my brain. The dream only surfaces when I’m stressed. I guess I’m more anxious about senior year than I want to admit. At least no one calls me Sasquatch anymore – not to my face, anyway.
“Hannah!” a breathless voice chirps. “Thank God I caught you before class! Can you believe we’re back here already? It’s like some sick karmic joke. I was hoping that ninth grader who likes to play with matches would have burned the place down over the summer, but no such luck.”
I turn to see Grace Park scurrying toward me, her long, dark hair pulled into a bun at the nape of her neck. Dressed in a pencil skirt, silk blouse, and knit blazer, she looks like she belongs in a skyscraper, not the linoleum-lined halls of Santa Elena High. I, on the other hand, would fit right in at a hoedown in my faded jeans and green plaid shirt.
“Grace!” I exclaim. “I missed you! When did you get back?” I stoop to give her a quick hug.
GENRE: YA SCI-FI
Seventeen-year-old Hannah “Sasquatch” Bloom thinks her height is her only unusual feature until a gorgeous boy arrives at her school to awaken her to the truth: she’s an alien, like him. Now she must choose – help him and the rest of her race colonize the planet or protect the humans she loves.
When I sleep, I remember, but the memories aren’t my own.
Eons suspended inside a coffinlike tank, the fluid tasting of metal and misery. Glimpses of galaxies beyond the hull of the ship. A white and blue orb swelling out of the darkness, beaconing our journey’s end.
Hope. A million-voiced chorus of hope. Then disbelief. And fury.
The sense of claustrophobia still lingers an hour later. Trudging to my locker before first period, I shake my head, trying to dislodge the strange images that nudge at my brain. The dream only surfaces when I’m stressed. I guess I’m more anxious about senior year than I want to admit. At least no one calls me Sasquatch anymore – not to my face, anyway.
“Hannah!” a breathless voice chirps. “Thank God I caught you before class! Can you believe we’re back here already? It’s like some sick karmic joke. I was hoping that ninth grader who likes to play with matches would have burned the place down over the summer, but no such luck.”
I turn to see Grace Park scurrying toward me, her long, dark hair pulled into a bun at the nape of her neck. Dressed in a pencil skirt, silk blouse, and knit blazer, she looks like she belongs in a skyscraper, not the linoleum-lined halls of Santa Elena High. I, on the other hand, would fit right in at a hoedown in my faded jeans and green plaid shirt.
“Grace!” I exclaim. “I missed you! When did you get back?” I stoop to give her a quick hug.
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