TITLE: REVENGE OF THE PINK GRANNY PANTIES
GENRE: MG Contemporary
I walked into math class and scoped out the sub. Easy prey.
What little life Mr. Thompson had was about to get a whole lot worse.
Our math teacher had finally had her kid and was home changing diapers for a month. We were on our second sub of the week, and Foster F. Finkman made it his job to upset subs.
I was his partner in crime.
Mr. Thompson was the victim of a bad brown toupee. It looked like Grunt, my guinea pig. This teacher wannabe was somewhere between thirty and fifty, had braces and smelled like there was roadkill in his grill. I'd had him as a sub since kindergarten and he hadn't changed a bit. Except for the braces.
Toupee Thompson knew all of us at Harly Middle School by name. It isn't a big school, since Harly isn't a big town. Okies say you can stand at one end of it and spit to the other. So when he noticed Finkman was new, the sub flashed a silvery smile and squeaked, "What's your name, young man?"
Finkman stood and squeaked back, "Foster Florentine Finkman, sir. And I hope you don't mind my asking, but has your hairpiece had its rabies shot?"
The class cracked up. Thompson turned pink and had this foamy spit at the corners of his mouth. "Finkman? What kind of stupid made up name is that? Is that the best you could do?"
Triple F had only lived in Harly a couple of months, but there's one thing everybody knew about him-you didn't make fun of his name. Someone had called him Farter Stinkman once, and had got a black eye. He was taller than the rest of us, and tough as jerky. With a name like that, I guess he had to be.
The room went quiet. Finkman stared at the sub, then smiled.
"Take out your books and turn to page fourteen." Thompson went to the board and wrote the assignment. His hand shook. "Do these problems."
Finkman turned and winked at me. My stomach tightened. Yesterday Coach Ames had subbed. To welcome him we'd tied pull poppers to the desk drawers and poured itching powder down his shirt. Any other sub would've snapped, but "Attaboy" Ames was a retired Harly High football Coach. He was pretty crusty. Ames cussed for a minute and then laughed it off. We didn't even end up in detention.
De-ten was one place I couldn't wind up again. Mom was a stress muffin already, and she'd had a complete conniption when I got detained for programming Haylee Kincaid's cell during science last week. Mom was scared I'd wreck my chances of getting into a decent college, even though I was only in the eighth grade. Haylee'd called me that night to thank me, and had been nice to me ever since, so it'd been worth it. She was a cheerleader with long, black curly hair. One hot habanero.
Finkman's folks, on the other hand, didn't seem to care about him getting into trouble. We had a deal: I set up the subs and he took the heat. It was a fine line between having fun and getting in trouble.
But this was risky. Thompson knew Mom, and he'd rat on me in a heartbeat. Besides, basketball started next week, and I couldn't be late for practices. I had to be careful.
After a few minutes, I raised my hand. "Mr. Thompson, can I ask you a question?"
Thompson headed toward me. He had no reason to expect trouble, since I'd never given him any before.
"How's your mom, Charles?" Thompson whispered as he leaned over my desk. I didn't like the look in his eyes. "I heard about the divorce. Sorry."
That was it. If there's one thing that makes me mad, it's guys stalking Mom.
"She's fine," I growled. "And it's Chuck, not Charles. I need help with number six." He bent way over to look at my book and I mouthed to Finkman, "Get him!"
It happened in a flash: Finkman snatched the toupee, then hopped on the teacher's desk. He slapped Thompson's rug on his head and started busting moves.
Everyone went ballistic. Thompson straightened up, felt his bald scalp, then shook, squeaked and spit.
Finkman shook, squeaked and spit. The decibel level rose like a rock concert.
Thompson charged down the aisle and lunged at Finkman, who ran around the room, waving the toupee.
Miss Snark's First Victim
Showing posts with label First 750. Show all posts
Showing posts with label First 750. Show all posts
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
First 750 #9
TITLE: Resin
GENRE: Young Adult Epic Fantasy
Rowl always wondered what it was like to be outside, inhaling fresh air and feeling the wind on his face. Finally those sensations were just a few days away. At least, that's what he thought. The topic was on his mind as he poured water from a golden goblet into another glass. He heard a slight gush as the goblet refilled itself with water.
"Thanks, honey," his mom said as he handed her the glass.
"Sure, Mom." He poured himself a glass of water from the goblet, which again refilled itself. He then looked at his mother, a tiny woman hunched over the table, her hands and arms stiff boards, her bony fingers steel rods clutching her glass.
"How are your joints today?" he said.
"Worse than usual."
Rowl sighed as he stored the goblet in the cupboard. "Mom, I think I'm gonna have to get you help," he said.
"Absolutely not. And never another mention of it!"
"But, Mom, your joints are getting worse by the day - you say so yourself! Soon you won't even be able to move. You may even... "
"I'll be fine. Everything will be fine. The most imperative thing is that you never, ever... "
"I know, I know...
leave the house," Rowl grumbled. He opened the cupboard's lower drawers, revealing a bare chicken on a gold platter. He carried the platter to the simmering cauldron over the fire, and gently laid the chicken inside.
As he did so, he gazed through the kitchen window that overlooked the garden outside. Nothing but a plot of dirt spotted with claws of thorn bushes stared back. It was difficult for anything to grow given the black blanket of smog that perpetually hung about Wharvul. The Black Veil, his mother called it. The blanket obscured the sunlight necessary for most of the world's plants to grow, leaving primarily thorn bushes, mushrooms, and other vegetation that flourished in dimness and even pitch-darkness. The only indication that evening was presently falling upon Wharvul was that it was dimmer outside than it had been during the day, as Wharvul was a land that essentially toggled between dusk and night, due to the all-encompassing Black Veil.
"But what if it gets really bad?" Rowl said at last. "What if it really does get to the point where you can hardly move and are in constant pain? You won't be able to bear it, Mom. And I won't be able to bear it, because you're my mom and I couldn't stand seeing you in that condition!"
"There are worse things, Rowl. One woman dying of arthritis in the world... it has seen worse."
"I couldn't allow it," Rowl said. "I would have to go in search of medical treatment."
"You know very well there is no longer any medical treatment available in Wharvul, let alone on Fogurra. Don't tell me you've forgotten your teachings already!" Nna sighed. "Why do you keep bringing this up? Need I remind you yet again that we live in a very dangerous world, Rowl? There is much more danger out there than in here, than in my own body. And you and I are among the most fortunate of all Fogurra. Just look around you - look at this magnificent house! Most people have nothing to call their own and live in cramped quarters, not to mention are constantly ravaged by thieves. If you were to leave the house... "
"I know, I know...
" His mother never stopped stressing just how lucky they had it. She always made it sound like their home - a large three-wing, two-story manor - was constantly surrounded on all sides by thief gangs, each gang hiding behind a nearby copse of trees, just waiting for Rowl or Nna to open a door so they could pounce and steal all of the house's magifacts, or enchanted objects. And who knows? Maybe she was right.
"Mother, why are we so lucky?" Rowl said bluntly. He was being daring again, as usual. "Why can't you just tell me? Don't you think I'm old enough now?" He asked these particular questions at least once a week.
"Rowl, you know I've told you all there is to know," Nna said in almost a whisper.
"No, you haven't! What about Father? You still haven't told me everything about Father."
"That will come when the time is right," she said, again in a deathly whisper, as though her arthritis had begun to freeze even her vocal chords.
GENRE: Young Adult Epic Fantasy
Rowl always wondered what it was like to be outside, inhaling fresh air and feeling the wind on his face. Finally those sensations were just a few days away. At least, that's what he thought. The topic was on his mind as he poured water from a golden goblet into another glass. He heard a slight gush as the goblet refilled itself with water.
"Thanks, honey," his mom said as he handed her the glass.
"Sure, Mom." He poured himself a glass of water from the goblet, which again refilled itself. He then looked at his mother, a tiny woman hunched over the table, her hands and arms stiff boards, her bony fingers steel rods clutching her glass.
"How are your joints today?" he said.
"Worse than usual."
Rowl sighed as he stored the goblet in the cupboard. "Mom, I think I'm gonna have to get you help," he said.
"Absolutely not. And never another mention of it!"
"But, Mom, your joints are getting worse by the day - you say so yourself! Soon you won't even be able to move. You may even... "
"I'll be fine. Everything will be fine. The most imperative thing is that you never, ever... "
"I know, I know...
leave the house," Rowl grumbled. He opened the cupboard's lower drawers, revealing a bare chicken on a gold platter. He carried the platter to the simmering cauldron over the fire, and gently laid the chicken inside.
As he did so, he gazed through the kitchen window that overlooked the garden outside. Nothing but a plot of dirt spotted with claws of thorn bushes stared back. It was difficult for anything to grow given the black blanket of smog that perpetually hung about Wharvul. The Black Veil, his mother called it. The blanket obscured the sunlight necessary for most of the world's plants to grow, leaving primarily thorn bushes, mushrooms, and other vegetation that flourished in dimness and even pitch-darkness. The only indication that evening was presently falling upon Wharvul was that it was dimmer outside than it had been during the day, as Wharvul was a land that essentially toggled between dusk and night, due to the all-encompassing Black Veil.
"But what if it gets really bad?" Rowl said at last. "What if it really does get to the point where you can hardly move and are in constant pain? You won't be able to bear it, Mom. And I won't be able to bear it, because you're my mom and I couldn't stand seeing you in that condition!"
"There are worse things, Rowl. One woman dying of arthritis in the world... it has seen worse."
"I couldn't allow it," Rowl said. "I would have to go in search of medical treatment."
"You know very well there is no longer any medical treatment available in Wharvul, let alone on Fogurra. Don't tell me you've forgotten your teachings already!" Nna sighed. "Why do you keep bringing this up? Need I remind you yet again that we live in a very dangerous world, Rowl? There is much more danger out there than in here, than in my own body. And you and I are among the most fortunate of all Fogurra. Just look around you - look at this magnificent house! Most people have nothing to call their own and live in cramped quarters, not to mention are constantly ravaged by thieves. If you were to leave the house... "
"I know, I know...
" His mother never stopped stressing just how lucky they had it. She always made it sound like their home - a large three-wing, two-story manor - was constantly surrounded on all sides by thief gangs, each gang hiding behind a nearby copse of trees, just waiting for Rowl or Nna to open a door so they could pounce and steal all of the house's magifacts, or enchanted objects. And who knows? Maybe she was right.
"Mother, why are we so lucky?" Rowl said bluntly. He was being daring again, as usual. "Why can't you just tell me? Don't you think I'm old enough now?" He asked these particular questions at least once a week.
"Rowl, you know I've told you all there is to know," Nna said in almost a whisper.
"No, you haven't! What about Father? You still haven't told me everything about Father."
"That will come when the time is right," she said, again in a deathly whisper, as though her arthritis had begun to freeze even her vocal chords.
First 750 #8
TITLE: LURE
GENRE: Upper MG Paranormal
I always thought books were boring and a waste of time, but not dangerous. I was wrong. Anything that caused Melissa to approach me was far from harmless.
"Have you read this, Mitch?" Melissa shoved a book in my face.
The paperback filled my vision, so close it blurred. Fantastic. An encounter with Melis-snob was the first item on my To-Don't list.
"Uh, no. I'm not really into books, Melissa." I tried to keep the annoyance out of my voice, hoping to avoid a confrontation. I just wanted to throw my stuff in my locker and head home. Instead, I was surrounded by Melissa and her snob-clan, about to pass out from the perfume-overload every time Melissa tossed her hair.
"Oh, but it's so amazing!" she exclaimed. "You really have to read it. Here." She thrust a paper at me. "I'm starting a book club. You should join." Melissa had a smile plastered across her face, but her eyes were hard--predatory.
Did she just ask me to join her club? I looked down at the book. Lure. The combination of the title and the way Melissa was acting creeped me out.
Kelly pushed forward out of the circle of Melissa-groupies surrounding me. "Yeah. I read the back, and it sounds awesome. I can't wait to go home and read it! I even got an extra one for Dane."
My mouth dropped open. She's delusional if she thinks Dane's gonna read that book.
"No thanks. It's really not my thing," I said.
Melissa's smile dropped, replaced by the more familiar lip twist. "You probably wouldn't understand it anyway, butthead." Her groupies laughed.
Knowing a comeback would only encourage worse insults (and really, butthead is pathetic), I pushed past the circle of weirdos, and headed to my locker.
What the heck was that all about? The last time Melissa had been nice to me -- well, I couldn't remember her ever being nice to me. And why was she inviting me to join her book club? She wouldn't even give me a piece of paper when I forgot my notebook in English, and now she wanted to hang out? Weird.
I finally reached my locker. I'd been lucky to get the same one as last year, so I didn't have to memorize a new combination. I stared at the familiar scratches as I twirled the lock. At least the weekend was here. Two weeks down, thirty-eight to go.
I looked across the hall and watched as Kelly handed Dane a copy of the book. He shook his head and tried to hand it back to her, but Kelly refused to take it. Shrugging, Dane stuck it in his backpack. As Kelly threw her arms around him, he looked over at me and rolled his eyes. I turned back to my locker, stifling a laugh. Dane was about as interested in reading that book as I was.
After shoving everything except my geometry book into my locker, I slammed the door with a satisfying clang. Yeah, I had other homework besides geometry, but I wasn't going to lug all of it home. I had a new system for all that other homework, and it didn't involve breaking my back. Besides being a waste of time, those other assignments involved oodles of reading, and I was not going to do it this year. If it couldn't be read -- translation: skimmed -- during study hall, it wasn't getting read.
"Hey, Mitch." Jen strolled up. "Two down, thirty-eight to go." She tossed her hair over her shoulder, hitching her backpack higher. My gaze followed the straight brown strands as they fell back across her hand.
"You took the words right out of my mouth," I said. "Let's get out of here."
"Let's," she said, falling in step next to me.
"You coming over? I'm gonna work on your bookshelf. I think I might actually finish it over the weekend."
"As usual."
We walked the first few blocks in easy silence, enjoying the sunshine and cool breeze.
GENRE: Upper MG Paranormal
I always thought books were boring and a waste of time, but not dangerous. I was wrong. Anything that caused Melissa to approach me was far from harmless.
"Have you read this, Mitch?" Melissa shoved a book in my face.
The paperback filled my vision, so close it blurred. Fantastic. An encounter with Melis-snob was the first item on my To-Don't list.
"Uh, no. I'm not really into books, Melissa." I tried to keep the annoyance out of my voice, hoping to avoid a confrontation. I just wanted to throw my stuff in my locker and head home. Instead, I was surrounded by Melissa and her snob-clan, about to pass out from the perfume-overload every time Melissa tossed her hair.
"Oh, but it's so amazing!" she exclaimed. "You really have to read it. Here." She thrust a paper at me. "I'm starting a book club. You should join." Melissa had a smile plastered across her face, but her eyes were hard--predatory.
Did she just ask me to join her club? I looked down at the book. Lure. The combination of the title and the way Melissa was acting creeped me out.
Kelly pushed forward out of the circle of Melissa-groupies surrounding me. "Yeah. I read the back, and it sounds awesome. I can't wait to go home and read it! I even got an extra one for Dane."
My mouth dropped open. She's delusional if she thinks Dane's gonna read that book.
"No thanks. It's really not my thing," I said.
Melissa's smile dropped, replaced by the more familiar lip twist. "You probably wouldn't understand it anyway, butthead." Her groupies laughed.
Knowing a comeback would only encourage worse insults (and really, butthead is pathetic), I pushed past the circle of weirdos, and headed to my locker.
What the heck was that all about? The last time Melissa had been nice to me -- well, I couldn't remember her ever being nice to me. And why was she inviting me to join her book club? She wouldn't even give me a piece of paper when I forgot my notebook in English, and now she wanted to hang out? Weird.
I finally reached my locker. I'd been lucky to get the same one as last year, so I didn't have to memorize a new combination. I stared at the familiar scratches as I twirled the lock. At least the weekend was here. Two weeks down, thirty-eight to go.
I looked across the hall and watched as Kelly handed Dane a copy of the book. He shook his head and tried to hand it back to her, but Kelly refused to take it. Shrugging, Dane stuck it in his backpack. As Kelly threw her arms around him, he looked over at me and rolled his eyes. I turned back to my locker, stifling a laugh. Dane was about as interested in reading that book as I was.
After shoving everything except my geometry book into my locker, I slammed the door with a satisfying clang. Yeah, I had other homework besides geometry, but I wasn't going to lug all of it home. I had a new system for all that other homework, and it didn't involve breaking my back. Besides being a waste of time, those other assignments involved oodles of reading, and I was not going to do it this year. If it couldn't be read -- translation: skimmed -- during study hall, it wasn't getting read.
"Hey, Mitch." Jen strolled up. "Two down, thirty-eight to go." She tossed her hair over her shoulder, hitching her backpack higher. My gaze followed the straight brown strands as they fell back across her hand.
"You took the words right out of my mouth," I said. "Let's get out of here."
"Let's," she said, falling in step next to me.
"You coming over? I'm gonna work on your bookshelf. I think I might actually finish it over the weekend."
"As usual."
We walked the first few blocks in easy silence, enjoying the sunshine and cool breeze.
First 750 #7
TITLE: The Curse
GENRE: YA fantasy
"Witches, Witchcraft, history of-"
Cynthia felt a tingling of anticipation that brought her spine into alignment and cleared the hovering daze from her eyes. Twenty-seven volumes through Merna's Encyclopedia of Forgotten Lore made her ripe for sleep, but hope kept her away from bed and home. She angled the book toward the light--a flickering candle tree that kept the gloom of the library at bay, but did little for eyestrain.
The first couple of lines, something about alchemy, earned only a passing glance. The next several paragraphs looked too much like a history lesson to be of use. She skipped them. Wars and blood and... ugh, a lot of sacrificial details. Skipped.
Where was the magic? The curses? A fleeting image of a dark-robed woman waving a magic wand passed through her mind, complete with gnarled hands and warts. The room seemed to grow colder. With a shake of her head, she resumed reading, glimpsing a pair of names that drained her enthusiasm. Bartholomew the Wise and the Hexus demon. Only nursery children believed in Hexus, the ultimate ghost story.
The entry ended with some magical sickness and a treaty and a reference to "See also Plagues and Mass Death." Useless.
Cynthia rubbed her eyes and tried to summon the same hope over the next entry: "Witchcraft, modern uses and ailments-" though her eyelids felt like lead. Skimming along, she turned the page and jumped up, screaming, as a huge cockroach skittered across the page toward her hand. Book and bug went flying across the room as Cynthia beat wildly at an all-over crawling sensation on her skin.
"Go eat someone else's books!"
Unharmed, the bug disappeared through a crack in the wall and Cynthia stared at the crumpled volume, waiting. When no other creepy crawlers appeared, she poked at it with the tip of her toe, then picked it up and gave the book a good shake. Flakes of glue and dirt fell from the binding, and half the pages dropped, disintegrating further with every attempt Cynthia made to put them back in order. What little she found labeled "Witchcraft" was riddled with holes and chewed into lace.
"Figures." She dropped the remains of the book to the floor and returned to her chair, clenching her fists to stop their shaking. "Cursed forever because of hungry bugs." Tears pricked at her eyes, the back of her throat grew tight, but she refused to cry. Not now. Don't you dare think it, she told herself, which was almost as good as indulgence. The more she tried to fight her feelings, the more powerful her doubts and fears became.
Is there a cure? Will I ever be free? Will he return? Should I give up?
No. As always, she found strength in her determination. But that broken book, that heap of pages crumbling to dust, seemed to shake her. Who knew what information was now and forever lost in that pile--information that might have set her free. As if spoken by someone else, Cynthia heard her darkest fears whispered in her head. You will never succeed. He gave up, and so should you. Nobody ever loved you, or ever will. Give up. Give up. Give up. Give up. Give up.
"No!" The force behind her voice made her jump, which made her glad no one else was around to see. "Scaring myself." She shook her head. "And now, talking to myself, what next?" Next, she would go mad and forget who she was. That, or accept failure and go home, which she could never do.
Her eyes hurt and her head ached--even more than usual. The piles of books waiting wherever she looked made optimism a slippery thing. "I will find it," she said softly. Logic dictated that anything made could be unmade, including curses, and she intended to prove it, if not through talent, then through diligence in research. Somewhere, there had to be an answer. Perhaps in the very next book.
Her fingers brushed another book when a loud, croaking call made her freeze. "Not now," she groaned, muscles going stiff as she looked, first to the stairs, then to the destroyed encyclopedia. The call repeated, echoing louder down the stairwell and Cynthia knew it was too late to try and hide what she'd done. She covered her ears and ducked behind her chair, thinking invisible thoughts. Once, she had read that the power of thought during stressful situations was magnified by up to fifty percent.
GENRE: YA fantasy
"Witches, Witchcraft, history of-"
Cynthia felt a tingling of anticipation that brought her spine into alignment and cleared the hovering daze from her eyes. Twenty-seven volumes through Merna's Encyclopedia of Forgotten Lore made her ripe for sleep, but hope kept her away from bed and home. She angled the book toward the light--a flickering candle tree that kept the gloom of the library at bay, but did little for eyestrain.
The first couple of lines, something about alchemy, earned only a passing glance. The next several paragraphs looked too much like a history lesson to be of use. She skipped them. Wars and blood and... ugh, a lot of sacrificial details. Skipped.
Where was the magic? The curses? A fleeting image of a dark-robed woman waving a magic wand passed through her mind, complete with gnarled hands and warts. The room seemed to grow colder. With a shake of her head, she resumed reading, glimpsing a pair of names that drained her enthusiasm. Bartholomew the Wise and the Hexus demon. Only nursery children believed in Hexus, the ultimate ghost story.
The entry ended with some magical sickness and a treaty and a reference to "See also Plagues and Mass Death." Useless.
Cynthia rubbed her eyes and tried to summon the same hope over the next entry: "Witchcraft, modern uses and ailments-" though her eyelids felt like lead. Skimming along, she turned the page and jumped up, screaming, as a huge cockroach skittered across the page toward her hand. Book and bug went flying across the room as Cynthia beat wildly at an all-over crawling sensation on her skin.
"Go eat someone else's books!"
Unharmed, the bug disappeared through a crack in the wall and Cynthia stared at the crumpled volume, waiting. When no other creepy crawlers appeared, she poked at it with the tip of her toe, then picked it up and gave the book a good shake. Flakes of glue and dirt fell from the binding, and half the pages dropped, disintegrating further with every attempt Cynthia made to put them back in order. What little she found labeled "Witchcraft" was riddled with holes and chewed into lace.
"Figures." She dropped the remains of the book to the floor and returned to her chair, clenching her fists to stop their shaking. "Cursed forever because of hungry bugs." Tears pricked at her eyes, the back of her throat grew tight, but she refused to cry. Not now. Don't you dare think it, she told herself, which was almost as good as indulgence. The more she tried to fight her feelings, the more powerful her doubts and fears became.
Is there a cure? Will I ever be free? Will he return? Should I give up?
No. As always, she found strength in her determination. But that broken book, that heap of pages crumbling to dust, seemed to shake her. Who knew what information was now and forever lost in that pile--information that might have set her free. As if spoken by someone else, Cynthia heard her darkest fears whispered in her head. You will never succeed. He gave up, and so should you. Nobody ever loved you, or ever will. Give up. Give up. Give up. Give up. Give up.
"No!" The force behind her voice made her jump, which made her glad no one else was around to see. "Scaring myself." She shook her head. "And now, talking to myself, what next?" Next, she would go mad and forget who she was. That, or accept failure and go home, which she could never do.
Her eyes hurt and her head ached--even more than usual. The piles of books waiting wherever she looked made optimism a slippery thing. "I will find it," she said softly. Logic dictated that anything made could be unmade, including curses, and she intended to prove it, if not through talent, then through diligence in research. Somewhere, there had to be an answer. Perhaps in the very next book.
Her fingers brushed another book when a loud, croaking call made her freeze. "Not now," she groaned, muscles going stiff as she looked, first to the stairs, then to the destroyed encyclopedia. The call repeated, echoing louder down the stairwell and Cynthia knew it was too late to try and hide what she'd done. She covered her ears and ducked behind her chair, thinking invisible thoughts. Once, she had read that the power of thought during stressful situations was magnified by up to fifty percent.
First 750 #6
TITLE: Colors Like Memories
GENRE: YA
I greeted his tombstone the way I always did--with a swift kick. The release of frustration was more than worth the sharp pain in my toes. The polished marble tilted to the left because of all my visits; a crooked tooth in the rows of pearly white graves.
I sat on the damp grass, folding my legs under me. "I keep hoping one of these days you'll be here waiting for me." The words were tradition. I couldn't keep myself from hoping I'd come over the hill to find him leaning over his grave, wearing a sly smile. He died so very long ago, but I couldn't stop wishing.
I leaned my head against my knees, wishing I could sleep. If I slept, though, I would dream of him, and that made things so much harder. I tried to explain this to him, but tonight I didn't have the will to pretend it was more than starlight that listened.
It wasn't so much a sound that made me jerk upright and glance over my shoulder. Something made me certain I wasn't alone; a tension in the air, or the rush of someone's breath, I wasn't sure which. For one heartbreaking second I almost saw him step out of the shadows, but the illusion scattered with a breath of wind. Scanning the darkness, I couldn't see anyone lurking in the expanse of headstones. Could a stray groundskeeper be working late? Another visitor to someone's grave? If anyone saw me, it would lead to problems I didn't want to deal with.
I kissed my fingertips and touched the top of the smooth white stone as I hurried to leave, alert to any movement in the cemetery. "I'll be seeing you," I whispered, wishing it were true. I wound through the sea of identical marble markers, making for the swell of ground at the far end of the cemetery where it was easiest to catch an updraft.
The small knoll overlooked the freeway below, which was a little too close for comfort, but at this hour there were no headlights streaking past. I stretched out my wings, their emerald green inky black in the moonlight. Each feather ached to catch a hint of breeze. I leapt from the ground, thrust down hard, and was airborne. I circled up, straining, until I reached an altitude where no one would see me from below.
Tilting my wings to swing north, my thoughts wandered to my destination. I said a silent prayer to whoever might be listening, hoping the lonely girl I was supposed to be guarding was safe in her bed. Visiting Frederick was the only thing that kept me sane some nights, but it did nothing to dispel the churning worry over Marcy. She deserved to have someone who wasn't struggling with their own grief, but she was stuck with me. Somehow, I had to help her.
As a Sary, saving Marcy was the only way I'd get to save myself.
Sary are the souls of children who die before they are born, before they take their first breath and are tied to the mortal world through flesh and blood. I was unable to take that breath of life, and the only reason I have a body is because I chose to join the Sary and serve humans in need. The alternative was eternity without a body--never being able to touch, see, taste, or feel. Most days I know I made the right choice, but sometimes I wonder what it might have been like to never know what a broken heart felt like. Those days, I'd take back my choice without a second thought.
The rest of the time, there was a good reason why I was here. I was allowed to help people. I showed them what it meant to live, and why committing suicide was not an option they wanted. When the time came, we were assured our work would be worth the price. The Sary would be rewarded--given the highest honors at the End of Days. Whatever that meant. For now it was reward enough to see the softest pink that rimmed the distant hills, reminding me I needed to get out of the sky and onto solid ground before the dawn. Even if I had to enjoy the sunrise alone.
GENRE: YA
I greeted his tombstone the way I always did--with a swift kick. The release of frustration was more than worth the sharp pain in my toes. The polished marble tilted to the left because of all my visits; a crooked tooth in the rows of pearly white graves.
I sat on the damp grass, folding my legs under me. "I keep hoping one of these days you'll be here waiting for me." The words were tradition. I couldn't keep myself from hoping I'd come over the hill to find him leaning over his grave, wearing a sly smile. He died so very long ago, but I couldn't stop wishing.
I leaned my head against my knees, wishing I could sleep. If I slept, though, I would dream of him, and that made things so much harder. I tried to explain this to him, but tonight I didn't have the will to pretend it was more than starlight that listened.
It wasn't so much a sound that made me jerk upright and glance over my shoulder. Something made me certain I wasn't alone; a tension in the air, or the rush of someone's breath, I wasn't sure which. For one heartbreaking second I almost saw him step out of the shadows, but the illusion scattered with a breath of wind. Scanning the darkness, I couldn't see anyone lurking in the expanse of headstones. Could a stray groundskeeper be working late? Another visitor to someone's grave? If anyone saw me, it would lead to problems I didn't want to deal with.
I kissed my fingertips and touched the top of the smooth white stone as I hurried to leave, alert to any movement in the cemetery. "I'll be seeing you," I whispered, wishing it were true. I wound through the sea of identical marble markers, making for the swell of ground at the far end of the cemetery where it was easiest to catch an updraft.
The small knoll overlooked the freeway below, which was a little too close for comfort, but at this hour there were no headlights streaking past. I stretched out my wings, their emerald green inky black in the moonlight. Each feather ached to catch a hint of breeze. I leapt from the ground, thrust down hard, and was airborne. I circled up, straining, until I reached an altitude where no one would see me from below.
Tilting my wings to swing north, my thoughts wandered to my destination. I said a silent prayer to whoever might be listening, hoping the lonely girl I was supposed to be guarding was safe in her bed. Visiting Frederick was the only thing that kept me sane some nights, but it did nothing to dispel the churning worry over Marcy. She deserved to have someone who wasn't struggling with their own grief, but she was stuck with me. Somehow, I had to help her.
As a Sary, saving Marcy was the only way I'd get to save myself.
Sary are the souls of children who die before they are born, before they take their first breath and are tied to the mortal world through flesh and blood. I was unable to take that breath of life, and the only reason I have a body is because I chose to join the Sary and serve humans in need. The alternative was eternity without a body--never being able to touch, see, taste, or feel. Most days I know I made the right choice, but sometimes I wonder what it might have been like to never know what a broken heart felt like. Those days, I'd take back my choice without a second thought.
The rest of the time, there was a good reason why I was here. I was allowed to help people. I showed them what it meant to live, and why committing suicide was not an option they wanted. When the time came, we were assured our work would be worth the price. The Sary would be rewarded--given the highest honors at the End of Days. Whatever that meant. For now it was reward enough to see the softest pink that rimmed the distant hills, reminding me I needed to get out of the sky and onto solid ground before the dawn. Even if I had to enjoy the sunrise alone.
First 750 #5
TITLE: The Life and Adventures of Miss Gretchen Grey
GENRE: YA Historical Paranormal
'How do you punish someone who's already dead?' Gretchen Grey tightened her grip around an umbrella handle while she waited for her parents to arrive. Her eyes flickered absently over the London townhouse where she had grown up. Thick green ivy cast shadow around the entrance and spread towards the outer corners, almost reaching the top floor panes. Looking at it from afar, it seemed her home rested in the palm of a giant murky green claw.
Mira appeared in the doorway and opened her umbrella against the pelting rain. "Gretchen child! There's no reason to wait outside."
Gretchen tore her gaze away from the townhouse and looked up at the chambermaid.
"You know that's not true," she answered softly.
Mira gave her shoulder a gentle pat. The sound of heavy steps and subdued voices drifted towards them from the interior of the London townhouse before her parents emerged.
They carried her mother's casket out first. It was a rich mahogany, etched with gold. Gretchen imagined her mother would have approved. She'd had an eye for detail that many admired.
The group of men was followed out by a second assembly. Her father's coffin was almost identical to her mother's, though a bit longer. Her father had been a tall man, after all. Gretchen's breath caught in her throat and her hand flew up to clutch Mira's as it rested on her shoulder.
'This is all my fault.'
The heavy wooden coffins were lifted higher and carried out into the street where the funeral carriages waited to transport them to their final resting place. It only took them a moment to load their cargo, and then they were off.
Her father's lawyer appeared in the entranceway. He closed and locked the front doors behind him and Mira had already begun towards their awaiting carriage. Gretchen followed. It suddenly hit her that she would never again see her home or her family within it. A dull ache lingered where her heart should be. Heat beat from it, up towards her cheeks, her throat, and her eyes.
She found the courage to turn and look upon the old townhouse one last time. Her chest rose in a painful sigh. It looked nothing like it did when she was a child. There were no flowers, no sun, no happy memories that filled the place with cheer and light. HE had taken those. HE had taken everything. HE had won. The house was his. Gretchen imagined for a moment the poor families that might be tempted to buy the townhouse and find themselves victims of his evil in turn.
She shuddered at the thought.
A movement caught her eye from the upstairs window; the window that once sheltered her childhood bedchamber. He was there. The one who had killed her parents. She could feel him watching her.
She imagined her porcelain dolls, stuffed bears, picture frames, and embroidered bed covers; all of her family heirlooms, being tainted and stained by his very presence. She looked up through the window and found the familiar black eyes glaring at her from the depths of the darkness.
Hate and fury overwhelmed her but she kept her head steady as she stared back at him, betraying no emotion. Under her breath she uttered her final farewell to her birthplace.
"One day, when I am grown, I shall come back and put an end to you."
She sent this final threat through the gloom, feeling it with all of her being. She didn't know if he had heard or understood but she thought she saw a dual flash of red behind the window panes. Then all was dark as she turned on her heels and followed Mira into the carriage.
Gretchen knew that her parents' deaths were anything but an accident. She had known ever since recieving Mira's letter at her boarding school in Winchester four days ago. She had begun to dream that night. And whenever Gretchen Grey dreamt, one could be certain that reality was not far behind.
GENRE: YA Historical Paranormal
'How do you punish someone who's already dead?' Gretchen Grey tightened her grip around an umbrella handle while she waited for her parents to arrive. Her eyes flickered absently over the London townhouse where she had grown up. Thick green ivy cast shadow around the entrance and spread towards the outer corners, almost reaching the top floor panes. Looking at it from afar, it seemed her home rested in the palm of a giant murky green claw.
Mira appeared in the doorway and opened her umbrella against the pelting rain. "Gretchen child! There's no reason to wait outside."
Gretchen tore her gaze away from the townhouse and looked up at the chambermaid.
"You know that's not true," she answered softly.
Mira gave her shoulder a gentle pat. The sound of heavy steps and subdued voices drifted towards them from the interior of the London townhouse before her parents emerged.
They carried her mother's casket out first. It was a rich mahogany, etched with gold. Gretchen imagined her mother would have approved. She'd had an eye for detail that many admired.
The group of men was followed out by a second assembly. Her father's coffin was almost identical to her mother's, though a bit longer. Her father had been a tall man, after all. Gretchen's breath caught in her throat and her hand flew up to clutch Mira's as it rested on her shoulder.
'This is all my fault.'
The heavy wooden coffins were lifted higher and carried out into the street where the funeral carriages waited to transport them to their final resting place. It only took them a moment to load their cargo, and then they were off.
Her father's lawyer appeared in the entranceway. He closed and locked the front doors behind him and Mira had already begun towards their awaiting carriage. Gretchen followed. It suddenly hit her that she would never again see her home or her family within it. A dull ache lingered where her heart should be. Heat beat from it, up towards her cheeks, her throat, and her eyes.
She found the courage to turn and look upon the old townhouse one last time. Her chest rose in a painful sigh. It looked nothing like it did when she was a child. There were no flowers, no sun, no happy memories that filled the place with cheer and light. HE had taken those. HE had taken everything. HE had won. The house was his. Gretchen imagined for a moment the poor families that might be tempted to buy the townhouse and find themselves victims of his evil in turn.
She shuddered at the thought.
A movement caught her eye from the upstairs window; the window that once sheltered her childhood bedchamber. He was there. The one who had killed her parents. She could feel him watching her.
She imagined her porcelain dolls, stuffed bears, picture frames, and embroidered bed covers; all of her family heirlooms, being tainted and stained by his very presence. She looked up through the window and found the familiar black eyes glaring at her from the depths of the darkness.
Hate and fury overwhelmed her but she kept her head steady as she stared back at him, betraying no emotion. Under her breath she uttered her final farewell to her birthplace.
"One day, when I am grown, I shall come back and put an end to you."
She sent this final threat through the gloom, feeling it with all of her being. She didn't know if he had heard or understood but she thought she saw a dual flash of red behind the window panes. Then all was dark as she turned on her heels and followed Mira into the carriage.
Gretchen knew that her parents' deaths were anything but an accident. She had known ever since recieving Mira's letter at her boarding school in Winchester four days ago. She had begun to dream that night. And whenever Gretchen Grey dreamt, one could be certain that reality was not far behind.
First 750 #4
TITLE: The Ledger Domain
GENRE: YA Urban Fantasy/Spy
Fifteen years ago…
The Keaton Motel was a rat-infested hellhole of a place, but it was home. Besides, the owners gave Anna free room and board in exchange for maid service and they didn't check her papers, so she really shouldn't complain. Not that she was an illegal. Or even Hispanic, despite what the owners thought. Her real name was Anna Cate Milano, and she was third-generation Italian American. She was also 17 and on the run from her overbearing Catholic parents, so, her dark complexion--combined with the prejudices of the ignorant-damned hicks that ran the place--was pretty freaking convenient.
Still, she hated Thursdays. Thursdays were the days that she cleaned the chronically abandoned rooms at the end of building, and those empty rooms gave her the creeps. Even though the Keaton Motel was the cheapest place in all of Nacogdoches, people still broke in rather than paying the small hourly rate. The worst hoodlums the tiny East Texas town could scrounge up flocked to the place, and all sorts of crap happened in those rooms, she'd heard. Bodies had been found in there before. That's bodies plural. And this has happened more than once. Not to mention other things... the other maid refused to go over there, and said Anna shouldn't either. "No woman should go there," she insisted.
If only it were that easy. Given Anna's arrangement with the boss, she didn't have a lot of room to be saying no. She suppressed the temptation to run as she headed down the row to room 112. Despite the fondness for beer, short skirts, and sex that caused her to leave her parents and their ridiculous religious rules, she crossed herself before she reached for the door.
Scratch, scratch.
Anna's head snapped to the room next door. She knew that sound. Rats. Anna hated rats. Absolutely hated them. It was the worst thing about this place, especially Thursdays. The rats congregated in the abandoned rooms, chewing on the mattresses. On two different occasions, she'd opened a drawer to find one of the scrawny critters glaring up at her. Anna contemplated the room, then decided she'd save it for last.
So, it was two and a half hours later before she finally made it back to 113. Anna's hand hovered over the doorknob as she listened.
Scratch, scratch. Scratch, scratch.
She could still hear a scuffling from inside. With a suppressed shudder, she went to put the key in the lock. Then, she noticed it. There were scrapings on the keyhole.
Old. Surely, they were old.
She pressed the door and it swung wide, revealing the absolute worst messy room she'd ever seen. Pillows were strewn everywhere. Lamps on the floor, broken. TV shattered. Kicked in? The curtains were hanging half-off the rod, torn at the fasteners. What had happened in here?
She began searching the floor for blood, hoping not to find any. Her heart started racing when she saw a brown stain on the carpet. Then, she realized the bloodstain was an old one that had stubbornly refused to come out. She let out a breath. It was ok. Someone had broken in and partied a little hard in here. It sucked for her, but it was ok. Just another mess to clean. No big deal.
Scratch, scratch.
Anna wheeled around, her head full of the sound of her grandmother screaming in Italian. She sort of felt like screaming herself. Gran would tell her to leave this place right now, that it was cursed, that there were demons in here to get her. She listened, on the edge of running.
Scratch, scratch. Scratch, scratch. Scratch.
It was coming from the tiny thing the motel called a waiting closet. She inched closer to it, grabbing the fallen lamp on her way. Every inch of her body shaking, she opened the crappy sliding door with a snap.
There was nothing there but a pile of woman's clothes. Where had these come from? Somewhere between nervousness and relief, Anna started to reach down and pick up what was actually a very cute top when the pile moved. Anna froze, hand almost touching the shirt. Then, the pile moved again.
Anna flew back against the wall, terrified. Whatever the animal was, it was bigger than a rat. The pile began moving more violently, and the animal began making an odd noise, almost like a child's cry.
Then, she realized it was a child's cry.
GENRE: YA Urban Fantasy/Spy
Fifteen years ago…
The Keaton Motel was a rat-infested hellhole of a place, but it was home. Besides, the owners gave Anna free room and board in exchange for maid service and they didn't check her papers, so she really shouldn't complain. Not that she was an illegal. Or even Hispanic, despite what the owners thought. Her real name was Anna Cate Milano, and she was third-generation Italian American. She was also 17 and on the run from her overbearing Catholic parents, so, her dark complexion--combined with the prejudices of the ignorant-damned hicks that ran the place--was pretty freaking convenient.
Still, she hated Thursdays. Thursdays were the days that she cleaned the chronically abandoned rooms at the end of building, and those empty rooms gave her the creeps. Even though the Keaton Motel was the cheapest place in all of Nacogdoches, people still broke in rather than paying the small hourly rate. The worst hoodlums the tiny East Texas town could scrounge up flocked to the place, and all sorts of crap happened in those rooms, she'd heard. Bodies had been found in there before. That's bodies plural. And this has happened more than once. Not to mention other things... the other maid refused to go over there, and said Anna shouldn't either. "No woman should go there," she insisted.
If only it were that easy. Given Anna's arrangement with the boss, she didn't have a lot of room to be saying no. She suppressed the temptation to run as she headed down the row to room 112. Despite the fondness for beer, short skirts, and sex that caused her to leave her parents and their ridiculous religious rules, she crossed herself before she reached for the door.
Scratch, scratch.
Anna's head snapped to the room next door. She knew that sound. Rats. Anna hated rats. Absolutely hated them. It was the worst thing about this place, especially Thursdays. The rats congregated in the abandoned rooms, chewing on the mattresses. On two different occasions, she'd opened a drawer to find one of the scrawny critters glaring up at her. Anna contemplated the room, then decided she'd save it for last.
So, it was two and a half hours later before she finally made it back to 113. Anna's hand hovered over the doorknob as she listened.
Scratch, scratch. Scratch, scratch.
She could still hear a scuffling from inside. With a suppressed shudder, she went to put the key in the lock. Then, she noticed it. There were scrapings on the keyhole.
Old. Surely, they were old.
She pressed the door and it swung wide, revealing the absolute worst messy room she'd ever seen. Pillows were strewn everywhere. Lamps on the floor, broken. TV shattered. Kicked in? The curtains were hanging half-off the rod, torn at the fasteners. What had happened in here?
She began searching the floor for blood, hoping not to find any. Her heart started racing when she saw a brown stain on the carpet. Then, she realized the bloodstain was an old one that had stubbornly refused to come out. She let out a breath. It was ok. Someone had broken in and partied a little hard in here. It sucked for her, but it was ok. Just another mess to clean. No big deal.
Scratch, scratch.
Anna wheeled around, her head full of the sound of her grandmother screaming in Italian. She sort of felt like screaming herself. Gran would tell her to leave this place right now, that it was cursed, that there were demons in here to get her. She listened, on the edge of running.
Scratch, scratch. Scratch, scratch. Scratch.
It was coming from the tiny thing the motel called a waiting closet. She inched closer to it, grabbing the fallen lamp on her way. Every inch of her body shaking, she opened the crappy sliding door with a snap.
There was nothing there but a pile of woman's clothes. Where had these come from? Somewhere between nervousness and relief, Anna started to reach down and pick up what was actually a very cute top when the pile moved. Anna froze, hand almost touching the shirt. Then, the pile moved again.
Anna flew back against the wall, terrified. Whatever the animal was, it was bigger than a rat. The pile began moving more violently, and the animal began making an odd noise, almost like a child's cry.
Then, she realized it was a child's cry.
First 750 #3
TITLE: The Collected
GENRE: YA Urban Fantasy
Through the glass of Emma's bottle, the tiny basement room appeared curved and distorted. The door crashed open and the Collector limped over the threshold. He dragged his left leg behind him, smearing blood across the floor with his foot. Emma's heart sank. He needed her talent again.
The Collector staggered toward her. Glass bottles of various shapes and sizes occupied the shelves of the curio cabinet where she waited. Spotlights illuminated the carefully placed bottles, casting colorful shadows. Emma prayed he'd pass her by, but it was a wasted prayer. She knew what he needed, and none of the others could give it. His eyes scanned over them all, but stopped on her.
His fingers trembled as he grasped Emma's bottle and loosened the lid. He left the cap on until he brought it to his lips, and in one fluid motion he removed the lid and inhaled, drawing Emma into his body.
A wave of his pain smacked into her and she gasped. She could feel the heat from his left leg as it throbbed with each beat of his heart. He squeezed his eyes closed blocking Emma's vision of the small room. When he opened them again the room tilted and he plopped down on the only chair.
Fix it Emma heard his thoughts as if he were speaking out loud. And no funny business. If I have to force you this time, I'll make you remember George for me. Do you want that?
He placed one image in her mind, but it was enough: George. Beautiful George frozen with his hand pulled back and balled in a fist. A snarl of fury mixed with fear distorted his features.
Emma's stomach flipped and the Collector chuckled. George's haunting image faded from her thoughts as the Collector struggled to control his nausea.
No, she didn't want to remember George for him. It was bad enough when he made her watch his memories of that day, but far worse when he forced her to relive her own. She would do what he needed, without a fight.
She scanned his body. A silver-dollar sized bruise marred his right palm and a clean gash extended from below his left knee, down and across to inches above his ankle. Blood oozed from the wound and saturated his left pant leg, sock and shoe.
Emma focused on the crescent bruise on his hand. It was easy to fix. It itched as the few broken capillaries healed and the small amount of blood was absorbed. Task completed, she moved onto the more difficult leg. She braced herself for the pain she would feel when she repaired this more serious wound.
A pulsating ache radiated from his bone as she mended it and tears welled in his eyes. The pain was as sharp and hot as a flame sterilized knife. The skin surrounding the wound prickled as it melded together and smoothed.
She examined the finished product through his eyes and smiled to herself. She still had it. The calf looked perfect. Not even scar tissue remained. It was as if there had never been a wide slash across his calf at all.
The Collector stood. The room spun around and he collapsed back into the chair, nauseated. He had lost too much blood.
Do you want me to fix this, or not? Emma said.
"Fix it," he growled.
Then sit still and let me.
Every bone in his body throbbed as she stimulated the marrow to make more red blood cells. This was the worst part. The Collector gasped and hissed in pain. Emma smirked.
Her chore complete, his shoulders slouched with her exhaustion. She longed for him to release his hold on her, exhale and return her to her glass cell.
He had other things in mind. He always did.
Just let me go. I've done what you've asked.
"Don't you want to see how I got her?" he said.
No.
"You're no fun."
Her vision hazed around the edges, as if she were gazing through the bottom of a glass. The kaleidoscope of blurred color blinked away and was replaced by the image of a city street at sunset. Her head turned and she realized she was sitting on a bench looking out of the Collector's eyes. A newspaper sat on the bench beside her and she noted the date with sadness.
GENRE: YA Urban Fantasy
Through the glass of Emma's bottle, the tiny basement room appeared curved and distorted. The door crashed open and the Collector limped over the threshold. He dragged his left leg behind him, smearing blood across the floor with his foot. Emma's heart sank. He needed her talent again.
The Collector staggered toward her. Glass bottles of various shapes and sizes occupied the shelves of the curio cabinet where she waited. Spotlights illuminated the carefully placed bottles, casting colorful shadows. Emma prayed he'd pass her by, but it was a wasted prayer. She knew what he needed, and none of the others could give it. His eyes scanned over them all, but stopped on her.
His fingers trembled as he grasped Emma's bottle and loosened the lid. He left the cap on until he brought it to his lips, and in one fluid motion he removed the lid and inhaled, drawing Emma into his body.
A wave of his pain smacked into her and she gasped. She could feel the heat from his left leg as it throbbed with each beat of his heart. He squeezed his eyes closed blocking Emma's vision of the small room. When he opened them again the room tilted and he plopped down on the only chair.
Fix it Emma heard his thoughts as if he were speaking out loud. And no funny business. If I have to force you this time, I'll make you remember George for me. Do you want that?
He placed one image in her mind, but it was enough: George. Beautiful George frozen with his hand pulled back and balled in a fist. A snarl of fury mixed with fear distorted his features.
Emma's stomach flipped and the Collector chuckled. George's haunting image faded from her thoughts as the Collector struggled to control his nausea.
No, she didn't want to remember George for him. It was bad enough when he made her watch his memories of that day, but far worse when he forced her to relive her own. She would do what he needed, without a fight.
She scanned his body. A silver-dollar sized bruise marred his right palm and a clean gash extended from below his left knee, down and across to inches above his ankle. Blood oozed from the wound and saturated his left pant leg, sock and shoe.
Emma focused on the crescent bruise on his hand. It was easy to fix. It itched as the few broken capillaries healed and the small amount of blood was absorbed. Task completed, she moved onto the more difficult leg. She braced herself for the pain she would feel when she repaired this more serious wound.
A pulsating ache radiated from his bone as she mended it and tears welled in his eyes. The pain was as sharp and hot as a flame sterilized knife. The skin surrounding the wound prickled as it melded together and smoothed.
She examined the finished product through his eyes and smiled to herself. She still had it. The calf looked perfect. Not even scar tissue remained. It was as if there had never been a wide slash across his calf at all.
The Collector stood. The room spun around and he collapsed back into the chair, nauseated. He had lost too much blood.
Do you want me to fix this, or not? Emma said.
"Fix it," he growled.
Then sit still and let me.
Every bone in his body throbbed as she stimulated the marrow to make more red blood cells. This was the worst part. The Collector gasped and hissed in pain. Emma smirked.
Her chore complete, his shoulders slouched with her exhaustion. She longed for him to release his hold on her, exhale and return her to her glass cell.
He had other things in mind. He always did.
Just let me go. I've done what you've asked.
"Don't you want to see how I got her?" he said.
No.
"You're no fun."
Her vision hazed around the edges, as if she were gazing through the bottom of a glass. The kaleidoscope of blurred color blinked away and was replaced by the image of a city street at sunset. Her head turned and she realized she was sitting on a bench looking out of the Collector's eyes. A newspaper sat on the bench beside her and she noted the date with sadness.
First 750 #2
TITLE: THE PRACTICE OF WEARING SKIN
GENRE: YA
I am so going to Hell for this.
Glancing behind me as I pull out of the parking lot, I see a huge pair of caked-on red lips and caterpillar eyelashes in my side mirror. Eden said it would make me look older, but dang, I never expected this. She's somehow added wrinkles to my otherwise smooth face, and huge muddy-blue bags under my eyes.
I guess it worked; I have two pony kegs in my backseat and I'm only sixteen.
My iPhone beeps. It's a text from Eden.
Half of Jared's soccer team is here, where R U?
It went well, Eden, thanks for asking, I type back.
Did you doubt that it would work?
I kinda look like a hooker.
LOL
Ten minutes later I should be well on my way back to Cedar Falls, but with the sky darkening, I swear I've passed this gas station three times. Where the heck is the freeway?
"It's all right, Sofia, you can do this," I say to myself. "You just have to find I-95, get on it, and head east. And stop talking to yourself."
I turn the radio on to some pop station they get here in Naperville and the bass heartbeat calms me down.
"GPS, stupid," I say as I pull my iPhone back out of the caddy beside me, punch in 'Current Location,' and steal glances at the road while I wait for the map to load. The little blue dot that is me zooms in on a tiny road just two streets over from the freeway.
"Ah-ha!" I mumble and look up. Then I scream.
Freaking A, there's a guy in the road!
I slam on the brakes and veer to the left, but it's too late. I'm going to hit him. I see a blur of what must be his blue shirt as I swerve, and one of the kegs hits from behind, knocking the wind out of me. The car screeches to a halt and I see stars. The radio turns off and there is a hand on my forehead. Did I crash? Oh God, I've killed someone. I might as well die now. My life is over. I'm going to be arrested for murder, for underage drinking and then for using a fake ID and I'm going to be raped in prison by some woman named Big Mama.
"Sofia, open your eyes," a man's voice says from the passenger seat.
I turn my head and look at him. He's got great big grey eyes and black hair that curls just at the ends. He's smiling at me, not in a Creepy McCreeperson way, but in that lopsided amused way. Is he an angel? Did I die? I can't die yet, I'm still a virgin! And I was about to throw my first party!
"Sofia, you're not dead. You've still got thirty days." He brushes my dark brown hair from my face.
"Who are you?" I ask, voice faltering.
"I'm Theo. Please, get out of the car." He turns and climbs out of the passenger seat. I'm not going to lie; I like the view as he climbs out and ti startles me for a second. His dark jeans look very worn in, those comfy ones every girlfriend tries to steal from their boyfriends. If he still has his pair, he must be single.
Is he a plain-clothes cop? I wipe my lips with the back of my hand and watch as he walks over to my side of the car.
I don't want to be arrested looking like this, so I quickly rub my eyes and when I glance in the mirror, I see streaks of black and brown smudged sideways. Shit, it's even worse than before.
When he arrives at my door, he opens it, staring at me with grey eyes completely devoid of color and it's like I'm watching a black and white TV in them. The blue shirt he's wearing matches perfectly with those eyes.
Oh God, he's the man I've hit! Here I come, Big Mama!
"You didn't hit me, Sofia, get out of the car. You need to walk around."
He grabs my arm and lifts me out.
"How do you know my name?"
He ignores my question and pulls a square of fabric from his back pocket. "You look terrible."
"What's that for?" I ask, pulling back from him and bumping into the car. "Is that chloroform? Are you going to harvest my organs or something?"
GENRE: YA
I am so going to Hell for this.
Glancing behind me as I pull out of the parking lot, I see a huge pair of caked-on red lips and caterpillar eyelashes in my side mirror. Eden said it would make me look older, but dang, I never expected this. She's somehow added wrinkles to my otherwise smooth face, and huge muddy-blue bags under my eyes.
I guess it worked; I have two pony kegs in my backseat and I'm only sixteen.
My iPhone beeps. It's a text from Eden.
Half of Jared's soccer team is here, where R U?
It went well, Eden, thanks for asking, I type back.
Did you doubt that it would work?
I kinda look like a hooker.
LOL
Ten minutes later I should be well on my way back to Cedar Falls, but with the sky darkening, I swear I've passed this gas station three times. Where the heck is the freeway?
"It's all right, Sofia, you can do this," I say to myself. "You just have to find I-95, get on it, and head east. And stop talking to yourself."
I turn the radio on to some pop station they get here in Naperville and the bass heartbeat calms me down.
"GPS, stupid," I say as I pull my iPhone back out of the caddy beside me, punch in 'Current Location,' and steal glances at the road while I wait for the map to load. The little blue dot that is me zooms in on a tiny road just two streets over from the freeway.
"Ah-ha!" I mumble and look up. Then I scream.
Freaking A, there's a guy in the road!
I slam on the brakes and veer to the left, but it's too late. I'm going to hit him. I see a blur of what must be his blue shirt as I swerve, and one of the kegs hits from behind, knocking the wind out of me. The car screeches to a halt and I see stars. The radio turns off and there is a hand on my forehead. Did I crash? Oh God, I've killed someone. I might as well die now. My life is over. I'm going to be arrested for murder, for underage drinking and then for using a fake ID and I'm going to be raped in prison by some woman named Big Mama.
"Sofia, open your eyes," a man's voice says from the passenger seat.
I turn my head and look at him. He's got great big grey eyes and black hair that curls just at the ends. He's smiling at me, not in a Creepy McCreeperson way, but in that lopsided amused way. Is he an angel? Did I die? I can't die yet, I'm still a virgin! And I was about to throw my first party!
"Sofia, you're not dead. You've still got thirty days." He brushes my dark brown hair from my face.
"Who are you?" I ask, voice faltering.
"I'm Theo. Please, get out of the car." He turns and climbs out of the passenger seat. I'm not going to lie; I like the view as he climbs out and ti startles me for a second. His dark jeans look very worn in, those comfy ones every girlfriend tries to steal from their boyfriends. If he still has his pair, he must be single.
Is he a plain-clothes cop? I wipe my lips with the back of my hand and watch as he walks over to my side of the car.
I don't want to be arrested looking like this, so I quickly rub my eyes and when I glance in the mirror, I see streaks of black and brown smudged sideways. Shit, it's even worse than before.
When he arrives at my door, he opens it, staring at me with grey eyes completely devoid of color and it's like I'm watching a black and white TV in them. The blue shirt he's wearing matches perfectly with those eyes.
Oh God, he's the man I've hit! Here I come, Big Mama!
"You didn't hit me, Sofia, get out of the car. You need to walk around."
He grabs my arm and lifts me out.
"How do you know my name?"
He ignores my question and pulls a square of fabric from his back pocket. "You look terrible."
"What's that for?" I ask, pulling back from him and bumping into the car. "Is that chloroform? Are you going to harvest my organs or something?"
First 750 #1
TITLE: Other
GENRE: YA Fantasy/Romance
Agony shooting through every limb. Noiseless screams in her throat. She fainted to escape a pain that would otherwise drive her mad. She woke, still stiff with pain, and realized with rising horror what she had become. And wished that she had gone mad rather than face this.
She fled the world of humans, no longer one of them. After a year of blind and hopeless wandering, she came upon the forest, a secluded place where the Other World was very close. She ended her journey there.
For the first few years she searched and struggled for a way to restore her former self. Fruitless. Sometimes disastrous, wracking her with worse pain and endangering her life. Eventually she gave up on that as well.
She gave up on everything but bitterness.
--------
Everything changed on the seventeenth day.
The day began like any other, when Alain came downstairs to discover he was nearly alone in the house. There was only Gustav, polishing the silver in the kitchen, and Maria, on her way out to the market to purchase the roast for tonight's dinner.
"Master Nicolaus has gone to call on Sir Charles," Gustave informed Alain as he examined a piece of cutlery. From his tone he might as well have added, And his daughter.
"And Father and Henri?" Alain asked. They would have gone somewhere together; they always did. Henri didn't trust their father to make business decisions without him, believing him an over-lenient creditor and the most gullible of bargainers.
"They have gone to the riverport." Gustav looked up from the silver. "Would you like something for breakfast, sir? I might remind you that you neglected to eat yesterday morning."
"Oh." Alain glanced about the kitchen. He hadn't meant to miss breakfast; he never did, but sometimes a book drew him in so fully that when he finally sighed and shut the cover, he found that the morning had passed. Today he had been puzzling out a passage on the qualities of courage in Hutton's "On Virtue."
His brothers teased him mercilessly that he could be so absent-minded, so removed from the real world. Maybe when he left and began his studies at the university, he would finally find others who didn't think this was odd. Seventeen more days.
Gustav cleared his throat. "Oh," Alain said again, apologetic. Speaking of absent-minded. "I'll just have bread and jam."
"Hm." Gustav could express his disapproval very eloquently in brief noises. Nevertheless, he prepared a plate of sliced bread with a square of butter and a bowl of jam, as carefully arranged as if it were a seven course meal. Alain thanked him and ate at the small wooden table in the kitchen, something else Gustav disapproved of. Silly, when he could see it was the most convenient place. Alain had started on a second slice when there came a knock from the front door.
Gustave put down his polishing rag with a sigh. Alain stopped him. "Don't worry about it. I'll answer it."
"Hm. If it pleases you, sir."
Alain pushed back his chair and left the kitchen. On his way down the corridor the knock sounded again, an insistent rap.
"I'm coming, I'm coming," Alain murmured. What could be so urgent at this time of day? He came to the door and pulled it open.
He was greeted with the sight of de Montmercy, one of Father's clerks, in a state of high agitation. His clothing was in disarray as if he had dressed in a hurry, his wispy graying hair strayed about everywhere, and his eyes appeared ready to pop from his head.
"Is your father here?" he asked breathlessly, and hurried inside without waiting for an answer.
"Wh- no, not at the moment," Alain said. "He and Henri are at the riverport; I expect they'll be back before noontime."
De Montmercy paced the front hall, his shoes clacking furiously against the tile. "I must speak with him as soon as he returns. It is a matter...most urgent...quite unexpected...a serious matter indeed..."
Alain shut the front door, thoroughly alarmed now. "What in the world has happened?"
A headshake sent the wispy hair flying. "No, no, this is a matter for your father to hear first. Might I wait here for his return?"
"Yes, of course." Alain swallowed the dread that was rising in his throat and directed de Montmercy toward the study. "Please, make yourself comfortable. I'll send my father in as soon as he returns."
GENRE: YA Fantasy/Romance
Agony shooting through every limb. Noiseless screams in her throat. She fainted to escape a pain that would otherwise drive her mad. She woke, still stiff with pain, and realized with rising horror what she had become. And wished that she had gone mad rather than face this.
She fled the world of humans, no longer one of them. After a year of blind and hopeless wandering, she came upon the forest, a secluded place where the Other World was very close. She ended her journey there.
For the first few years she searched and struggled for a way to restore her former self. Fruitless. Sometimes disastrous, wracking her with worse pain and endangering her life. Eventually she gave up on that as well.
She gave up on everything but bitterness.
--------
Everything changed on the seventeenth day.
The day began like any other, when Alain came downstairs to discover he was nearly alone in the house. There was only Gustav, polishing the silver in the kitchen, and Maria, on her way out to the market to purchase the roast for tonight's dinner.
"Master Nicolaus has gone to call on Sir Charles," Gustave informed Alain as he examined a piece of cutlery. From his tone he might as well have added, And his daughter.
"And Father and Henri?" Alain asked. They would have gone somewhere together; they always did. Henri didn't trust their father to make business decisions without him, believing him an over-lenient creditor and the most gullible of bargainers.
"They have gone to the riverport." Gustav looked up from the silver. "Would you like something for breakfast, sir? I might remind you that you neglected to eat yesterday morning."
"Oh." Alain glanced about the kitchen. He hadn't meant to miss breakfast; he never did, but sometimes a book drew him in so fully that when he finally sighed and shut the cover, he found that the morning had passed. Today he had been puzzling out a passage on the qualities of courage in Hutton's "On Virtue."
His brothers teased him mercilessly that he could be so absent-minded, so removed from the real world. Maybe when he left and began his studies at the university, he would finally find others who didn't think this was odd. Seventeen more days.
Gustav cleared his throat. "Oh," Alain said again, apologetic. Speaking of absent-minded. "I'll just have bread and jam."
"Hm." Gustav could express his disapproval very eloquently in brief noises. Nevertheless, he prepared a plate of sliced bread with a square of butter and a bowl of jam, as carefully arranged as if it were a seven course meal. Alain thanked him and ate at the small wooden table in the kitchen, something else Gustav disapproved of. Silly, when he could see it was the most convenient place. Alain had started on a second slice when there came a knock from the front door.
Gustave put down his polishing rag with a sigh. Alain stopped him. "Don't worry about it. I'll answer it."
"Hm. If it pleases you, sir."
Alain pushed back his chair and left the kitchen. On his way down the corridor the knock sounded again, an insistent rap.
"I'm coming, I'm coming," Alain murmured. What could be so urgent at this time of day? He came to the door and pulled it open.
He was greeted with the sight of de Montmercy, one of Father's clerks, in a state of high agitation. His clothing was in disarray as if he had dressed in a hurry, his wispy graying hair strayed about everywhere, and his eyes appeared ready to pop from his head.
"Is your father here?" he asked breathlessly, and hurried inside without waiting for an answer.
"Wh- no, not at the moment," Alain said. "He and Henri are at the riverport; I expect they'll be back before noontime."
De Montmercy paced the front hall, his shoes clacking furiously against the tile. "I must speak with him as soon as he returns. It is a matter...most urgent...quite unexpected...a serious matter indeed..."
Alain shut the front door, thoroughly alarmed now. "What in the world has happened?"
A headshake sent the wispy hair flying. "No, no, this is a matter for your father to hear first. Might I wait here for his return?"
"Yes, of course." Alain swallowed the dread that was rising in his throat and directed de Montmercy toward the study. "Please, make yourself comfortable. I'll send my father in as soon as he returns."
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