TITLE: To Fill My Pot With Gold
GENRE: MG Fantasy
Mortimer sat down in his easy chair for the last time. His life was like the smoke from the flames that disappeared up the chimney. His eyes ran across the fireplace mantle. He followed the curves of grain in the oak and the details in the intricate carvings. The fireplace and easy chair were two of the things about the cottage that he first fell in love with. Never again would he be able to curl up in this chair in front of the fire with his poetry while the rain fell outside.
Despite the flames, he felt cold when he looked down into small bag to see the few possessions that Sebastian would allow him to take. The bag was small, but there wasn’t much in there. His notebook was there, as well as a few quills and a small pot of ink. He wanted to make sure he could write his poetry when the mood struck, even though he didn't expect it would strike any time soon.
His empty pot was in the bag as well. No one would object to him taking that, Sebastian had taken the gold from it decades ago. He shook his head as he looked at it. A leprechaun with an empty pot was an embarrassment. There was still plenty of empty space.
He stood and walked out of the parlor and put his hand on the maple molding that went around the entry frame to the parlor and felt its warmth. In the kitchen he caressed his pots and pans. He saw the breakfast dishes sitting and the sink and shrugged.
“Sebastian can take care of those. He’s taking everything, he may as well get those too, I swept the porch for him last night.”
Mortimer walked out of the kitchen. A wavy ghost looked back at him as he looked at the highly polished cherry floor in the hallway.
“Mortimer Purcell Brennan, you are a total and complete failure. You had all this, and couldn’t even keep it. Maybe Sebastian is—”
Pounding at the door interrupted his monologue. “Come on, Brennan.” A voice shouted from outside. “It's time to be out. I've a sale to be on with.”
Sebastian. He was like a parasite feeding on others’ misery. Mortimer had planned on being out before he arrived, but he overslept, and then the fiasco with his shoes. He spent an hour the last night polishing his black shoes. This morning, the right shoe was missing. Mortimer had torn the bedroom apart looking for it, but it was nowhere to be found. To make it worse, the left shoe of his brown pair was missing. What a sight he must look. Surely Sebastian was trying to make him look that much worse.
Mortimer attempted to straighten his old red jacket and rumpled dusty blue trousers, but they wouldn't straighten.
With his faded yellow shirt and decades out of style green cap he did his best to look dignified, but suspected that it came off as more silly.
Miss Snark's First Victim
Showing posts with label First Two. Show all posts
Showing posts with label First Two. Show all posts
Wednesday, February 12, 2014
First Two (MG Fiction) #14
TITLE: MOVING ON
GENRE: MG Historical Fiction
Hot or not hot, I’m not budging from this spot until I talk to Olivia, thought Patsy. The metal rungs of the two-seater swing, almost too hot to sit on this August afternoon, printed red bars on the backs of eleven-year-old Patsy’s legs. The outline of her house shaded the swing as the sun arced across the Carolina-blue sky. But Patsy had a lot of catching up to do with her best friend of forever and a day—and she wanted answers.
Geez Louise! Patsy nudged the swing back and forth. I’ve waited all morning for Olivia to fill me in about her trip and her dad’s decision. Patsy gnawed a fingernail. Especially since I heard Mom crying after her phone conversation with Mrs. Nelson.
Patsy squinted towards Olivia’s house and pushed up her glasses.
Finally! Olivia sashayed across the double driveways with a lips-pressed-thin smile on her face. Her shorts’ pockets bulged with something. She plopped onto the swing beside Patsy like the sinker on Daddy’s fishing line into the Catawba.
“Hey,” Olivia exhaled in staccato breaths.
“Hey, yourself,” Patsy said. “So, tell me. Say it fast, and it’ll be easier.”
Olivia’s bottom lip quivered, and a single line of clear snot ran out of one nostril. “We’re mo-ov-ing.” Olivia reached into her shorts’ pocket between sobs, removed a crumpled wad of Kleenex, and blew her nose.
Patsy’s face wanted to scrunch into a million wrinkles. “When?” she croaked.
“In t-t-two weeks.” Olivia’s shoulders shook up and down with her wails.
Patsy shot up straight in the swing. Her eyes bulged at Olivia. “TWO WEEKS? Holy Moly, that’s awful!”
“I kn-kno-know.” Fresh tears washed over Olivia’s face like rain water over the dam at Sugar Creek. “We’re moving in with Grandmother Nelson until we find a place to live and sell this house. Mom wants us to be all set to start school after Labor Day.”
Patsy felt the color drain from her face like bathwater out of the tub. “You won’t be here to start school?” she whispered.
Patsy’s throat ached, and her gut felt like it did the time Wayne punched her in third grade.
Olivia shook her head. She handed a lump of Kleenex to Patsy.
Now Patsy turned on the faucets. “How will I make it through sixth grade without you?” Patsy tooted into the Kleenex and sniffed.
“You-ou? I’ll be living with Grandmother “No-Touch” Nelson and starting sixth grade in a school full of strangers in Vir-gi-gin-i-ya.” The swing jiggled in time to Olivia’s sobs. “At least you’ll have Linda and Susan he-ere.”
Patsy threw her arm around Olivia’s shoulders. They both snubbed in triplet breaths and swung on in silence.
GENRE: MG Historical Fiction
Hot or not hot, I’m not budging from this spot until I talk to Olivia, thought Patsy. The metal rungs of the two-seater swing, almost too hot to sit on this August afternoon, printed red bars on the backs of eleven-year-old Patsy’s legs. The outline of her house shaded the swing as the sun arced across the Carolina-blue sky. But Patsy had a lot of catching up to do with her best friend of forever and a day—and she wanted answers.
Geez Louise! Patsy nudged the swing back and forth. I’ve waited all morning for Olivia to fill me in about her trip and her dad’s decision. Patsy gnawed a fingernail. Especially since I heard Mom crying after her phone conversation with Mrs. Nelson.
Patsy squinted towards Olivia’s house and pushed up her glasses.
Finally! Olivia sashayed across the double driveways with a lips-pressed-thin smile on her face. Her shorts’ pockets bulged with something. She plopped onto the swing beside Patsy like the sinker on Daddy’s fishing line into the Catawba.
“Hey,” Olivia exhaled in staccato breaths.
“Hey, yourself,” Patsy said. “So, tell me. Say it fast, and it’ll be easier.”
Olivia’s bottom lip quivered, and a single line of clear snot ran out of one nostril. “We’re mo-ov-ing.” Olivia reached into her shorts’ pocket between sobs, removed a crumpled wad of Kleenex, and blew her nose.
Patsy’s face wanted to scrunch into a million wrinkles. “When?” she croaked.
“In t-t-two weeks.” Olivia’s shoulders shook up and down with her wails.
Patsy shot up straight in the swing. Her eyes bulged at Olivia. “TWO WEEKS? Holy Moly, that’s awful!”
“I kn-kno-know.” Fresh tears washed over Olivia’s face like rain water over the dam at Sugar Creek. “We’re moving in with Grandmother Nelson until we find a place to live and sell this house. Mom wants us to be all set to start school after Labor Day.”
Patsy felt the color drain from her face like bathwater out of the tub. “You won’t be here to start school?” she whispered.
Patsy’s throat ached, and her gut felt like it did the time Wayne punched her in third grade.
Olivia shook her head. She handed a lump of Kleenex to Patsy.
Now Patsy turned on the faucets. “How will I make it through sixth grade without you?” Patsy tooted into the Kleenex and sniffed.
“You-ou? I’ll be living with Grandmother “No-Touch” Nelson and starting sixth grade in a school full of strangers in Vir-gi-gin-i-ya.” The swing jiggled in time to Olivia’s sobs. “At least you’ll have Linda and Susan he-ere.”
Patsy threw her arm around Olivia’s shoulders. They both snubbed in triplet breaths and swung on in silence.
First Two (MG Fiction) #13
TITLE: Keys
GENRE: MG Contemporary
Baxter was pretty sure he was the first kid to be grounded in a truck—especially a moving one. Yet here he was, imprisoned in an old U-Haul hurtling down the freeway. He was restrained not only by the seatbelt tight across his waist, but by his dad's cousins—Lizard’s burly arm pressing into his right side and Mange’s hairy arm tickling his left. Baxter hunched his shoulders forward for two reasons; one, to try to put even a millimeter of distance from the two big men, and two, in order to play the small GameBoy Advanced he held in his hands. An urge came over him to pause the game and check for a text on his new phone, but then he remembered he didn’t have his new phone. Unbelievable. His only connection to his recently graduated sixth-grade friends was tucked away somewhere in his parents’ room very well hidden.
The Gameboy was old, but at least a form of entertainment. He had discovered it at the bottom of his closet before hurrying from his house back in Seattle. Baxter shifted back and forth into each man on either side as he waged battle with his thumbs. He beat the level causing a series of beeps to go off.
“Turn that thing off,” Lizard said from the driver’s seat. "Look at the mountains.”
Baxter glanced up to see sunlight flash off Lizard’s numerous earrings. He took in the man’s carefully combed and gelled purple mohawk. The look was a little much for an old guy.
“Okay,“ Baxter said. He found that being agreeable worked well with adults. “Just gonna finish this game.” Like he was going to turn off the only entertainment he had one hour into this seven-billion-hour drive.
“Wow,” Lizard said. Whether he was disappointed in Baxter continuing to play or going on about the wondrous mountain scenery again, Baxter wasn’t sure.
“Off,” Lizard said, drawing the word out with a more threatening tone.
The blinker made a loud Teek-tuk, Teek-tuk that echoed through the cab, and the big vehicle bounced as Lizard changed lanes. Every impression in the asphalt tossed the truck up and down as if they were a boat out at sea. Baxter recalled the words printed on the side of the truck in their driveway. The U-Haul decal still visible underneath the words, “Keys to Happiness—Own a Piano.”
Baxter, still looking down, heard a window open and felt wind on his short, thick hair. WIth his left hand he did a quick check that the cowlick at the crest of his forehead was down. Wind tended to wreak havoc with his hair. As he did so a giant hand yanked the Gameboy from his other hand. He looked up just in time to watch Lizard’s arm flinging the game in front of him past Mange’s head out the passenger window to the shoulder of Interstate-90.
GENRE: MG Contemporary
Baxter was pretty sure he was the first kid to be grounded in a truck—especially a moving one. Yet here he was, imprisoned in an old U-Haul hurtling down the freeway. He was restrained not only by the seatbelt tight across his waist, but by his dad's cousins—Lizard’s burly arm pressing into his right side and Mange’s hairy arm tickling his left. Baxter hunched his shoulders forward for two reasons; one, to try to put even a millimeter of distance from the two big men, and two, in order to play the small GameBoy Advanced he held in his hands. An urge came over him to pause the game and check for a text on his new phone, but then he remembered he didn’t have his new phone. Unbelievable. His only connection to his recently graduated sixth-grade friends was tucked away somewhere in his parents’ room very well hidden.
The Gameboy was old, but at least a form of entertainment. He had discovered it at the bottom of his closet before hurrying from his house back in Seattle. Baxter shifted back and forth into each man on either side as he waged battle with his thumbs. He beat the level causing a series of beeps to go off.
“Turn that thing off,” Lizard said from the driver’s seat. "Look at the mountains.”
Baxter glanced up to see sunlight flash off Lizard’s numerous earrings. He took in the man’s carefully combed and gelled purple mohawk. The look was a little much for an old guy.
“Okay,“ Baxter said. He found that being agreeable worked well with adults. “Just gonna finish this game.” Like he was going to turn off the only entertainment he had one hour into this seven-billion-hour drive.
“Wow,” Lizard said. Whether he was disappointed in Baxter continuing to play or going on about the wondrous mountain scenery again, Baxter wasn’t sure.
“Off,” Lizard said, drawing the word out with a more threatening tone.
The blinker made a loud Teek-tuk, Teek-tuk that echoed through the cab, and the big vehicle bounced as Lizard changed lanes. Every impression in the asphalt tossed the truck up and down as if they were a boat out at sea. Baxter recalled the words printed on the side of the truck in their driveway. The U-Haul decal still visible underneath the words, “Keys to Happiness—Own a Piano.”
Baxter, still looking down, heard a window open and felt wind on his short, thick hair. WIth his left hand he did a quick check that the cowlick at the crest of his forehead was down. Wind tended to wreak havoc with his hair. As he did so a giant hand yanked the Gameboy from his other hand. He looked up just in time to watch Lizard’s arm flinging the game in front of him past Mange’s head out the passenger window to the shoulder of Interstate-90.
First Two (MG Fiction) #12
TITLE: MIGHTY MIKE AND THE INTERGALACTIC CANDY DISPENSER
GENRE: MG Sci-fi/Adventure
According to The List of Chumps to be Pounded After School, today was hang-Mike-like-a-piñata-Thursday. Mike glanced from his math book to the soccer field. Still no sign of the owner of The List. Brutus wouldn’t drag him away in front of everyone else. Right?
Crack!
Just Little League batting practice. Mike gritted his teeth and hoped no one saw his panic. He was not going to hide in his house like a friendless dork. His plan to escape both Brutus’ fists and Dad’s goals for him becoming a lawyer had to work.
Mike pulled his teacher’s recommendation letter for Space Camp from his book. Step one: attend the Academy section two years early. Step two: become the first teenage astronaut—
“C’mon Mike, we need another player.” Carlos stood with his hands spread wide and his usual grin smeared across his face.
Demonstrating his sorry soccer skills was not Mike’s favorite after-school activity, but he could never turn down his best—and only—friend. Besides, doing homework on the bleachers just encouraged the dork title.
Pretending he couldn’t run fast enough to get to the ball never worked because everyone knew he was quick even if he was shorter than half the fifth-grade girls. No, the whole kicking-the-ball thing proved his lack of eye-to-foot coordination.
Maybe soccer balls warped space. Yeah, that was it. A tiny gravity field curved his leg sideways, not his own Bambi-on-ice legs. As usual, groans and laughter followed his latest failure.
“Good job, hermano, you almost walloped the ball into next week!”
Mike raised an eyebrow. Even Carlos shouldn’t be happy with that dismal performance.
“Oh look, it’s Mini-Mike.” Brutus’ screech drowned out laughter from both teams. “If you’re afraid of the ball, there’s a pee-wee league on the other side of the park—in the sandbox. Ha-ha.”
The other players turned away or made sure their shoes were tied. In the classroom, even teachers called Brutus by his self-chosen nickname rather than risk flying, juicy spit wads plastered to the whiteboard.
Mike dragged his feet downfield to make sure he wouldn’t be anywhere near the ball’s space warp—or Brutus and his buddies, Trevor and Cole.
Brutus kept up the jeers. “Mikey’s running away!”
“Don’t let him get to you,” Carlos called softly as he jogged across the field. “You ever see him play soccer? Two left feet! Seriously. Here’s the plan: stick with me, I’ll get the ball to you and move downfield. You don’t have to score, just angle it back to me, easy-peasy!”
“Easy-peasy?” Mike shook his head. The phrases Carlos picked up from his grandmother’s diner were even more confusing than the random Spanish he learned from his dad. It would take a fifty-foot force field generated by the starship Enterprise to give Mike the time and space he needed to connect with the ball. And he’d still miss the target.
“Mikey’s afraid of a little ball. Mikey’s a chicken, Mikey’s a chicken.” A couple fourth-graders picked up Trevor’s tune.
GENRE: MG Sci-fi/Adventure
According to The List of Chumps to be Pounded After School, today was hang-Mike-like-a-piñata-Thursday. Mike glanced from his math book to the soccer field. Still no sign of the owner of The List. Brutus wouldn’t drag him away in front of everyone else. Right?
Crack!
Just Little League batting practice. Mike gritted his teeth and hoped no one saw his panic. He was not going to hide in his house like a friendless dork. His plan to escape both Brutus’ fists and Dad’s goals for him becoming a lawyer had to work.
Mike pulled his teacher’s recommendation letter for Space Camp from his book. Step one: attend the Academy section two years early. Step two: become the first teenage astronaut—
“C’mon Mike, we need another player.” Carlos stood with his hands spread wide and his usual grin smeared across his face.
Demonstrating his sorry soccer skills was not Mike’s favorite after-school activity, but he could never turn down his best—and only—friend. Besides, doing homework on the bleachers just encouraged the dork title.
Pretending he couldn’t run fast enough to get to the ball never worked because everyone knew he was quick even if he was shorter than half the fifth-grade girls. No, the whole kicking-the-ball thing proved his lack of eye-to-foot coordination.
Maybe soccer balls warped space. Yeah, that was it. A tiny gravity field curved his leg sideways, not his own Bambi-on-ice legs. As usual, groans and laughter followed his latest failure.
“Good job, hermano, you almost walloped the ball into next week!”
Mike raised an eyebrow. Even Carlos shouldn’t be happy with that dismal performance.
“Oh look, it’s Mini-Mike.” Brutus’ screech drowned out laughter from both teams. “If you’re afraid of the ball, there’s a pee-wee league on the other side of the park—in the sandbox. Ha-ha.”
The other players turned away or made sure their shoes were tied. In the classroom, even teachers called Brutus by his self-chosen nickname rather than risk flying, juicy spit wads plastered to the whiteboard.
Mike dragged his feet downfield to make sure he wouldn’t be anywhere near the ball’s space warp—or Brutus and his buddies, Trevor and Cole.
Brutus kept up the jeers. “Mikey’s running away!”
“Don’t let him get to you,” Carlos called softly as he jogged across the field. “You ever see him play soccer? Two left feet! Seriously. Here’s the plan: stick with me, I’ll get the ball to you and move downfield. You don’t have to score, just angle it back to me, easy-peasy!”
“Easy-peasy?” Mike shook his head. The phrases Carlos picked up from his grandmother’s diner were even more confusing than the random Spanish he learned from his dad. It would take a fifty-foot force field generated by the starship Enterprise to give Mike the time and space he needed to connect with the ball. And he’d still miss the target.
“Mikey’s afraid of a little ball. Mikey’s a chicken, Mikey’s a chicken.” A couple fourth-graders picked up Trevor’s tune.
First Two (MG Fiction) #11
TITLE: Rules for Running Away
GENRE: Middle Grade Realistic Fiction
My whole life, Mom told me that my dad was dead.
But all this changed the day I found that letter in the recycling bin. There was my name, Annie Berger, below Mom’s and stained in oil. Care of Ellen Berger. Apparently, she hadn’t cared enough.
I tugged the envelope out from under a bottle in the trash. The left-hand corner, where the return address should’ve been, was torn off. Wasn’t it illegal to throw away someone’s mail? I dug deeper.
“Hey!” someone said.
I jumped back. My chest was throbbing. “You can’t just walk up on people like that--”
“Sorry, Big A,” Mom’s fiancé said.
It was the most annoying nickname. Every time he said Big A, I heard, You’re fat. Which I wasn’t.
“What’re you up to?” His grape-colored yoga shorts matched his sweatshirt.
“Recycling! Gotta take care of the earth, you know?” I swallowed and told myself to act normal.
“Right on,” he said. “I didn’t hear you come home. I was meditating. I must’ve gone into another world.”
Craig was always in another world. Thanks to him, our East Village walk-up was a yoga shrine. He’d dragged our TV to Goodwill and lit incense in its place. He’d purged everything in our kitchen, including my unopened box of Lucky Charms.
Dairy gave him gas.
MSG made him break out in hives.
Pecans gave him headaches or heartaches or something.
Our home, where I’d lived all my life with Mom, was now sugar-free, dairy-free, pesticide-free, and smoke-free. I’d give that to Craig: thanks to his herbal remedies and woo woo, Mom had quit smoking, although the other day, I swore she smelled like tobacco. Behind Craig’s back – I mean, behind his butt – I called him Health-butt.
I’d never get to the bottom of anything with him around. “Mom told me you held a headstand for two minutes the other day,” I said.
“ Almost two minutes!” He laughed. I could see where one of his front teeth was chipped.
“I bet you can beat that record.” I reached up and gave him a high five.
What a relief when Health-butt unfolded his sticky matt in the living room with a slap. I dove back into the recycling and as my two minutes ticked by, I pushed little scraps of paper under my shirt. Then I raced into my room.
Every girl knows the best hiding place is in the back of her closet. Crouched on the floor, I taped together the bits of paper.
I’ve written to you tantas veces... Tantas veces?
Even though I looked like the kind of kid who spoke Spanish, with my jet-black hair and big brown eyes, the only word I knew was hola. Taping that letter together was like doing a garage sale puzzle. A few pieces were missing, but even with the holes, I had an address:
P.O. Box 3939, Philadelphia, PA
R.J. Blanco, it said in black jellybean letters. That was my father’s name and one of the few things I knew about him.
GENRE: Middle Grade Realistic Fiction
My whole life, Mom told me that my dad was dead.
But all this changed the day I found that letter in the recycling bin. There was my name, Annie Berger, below Mom’s and stained in oil. Care of Ellen Berger. Apparently, she hadn’t cared enough.
I tugged the envelope out from under a bottle in the trash. The left-hand corner, where the return address should’ve been, was torn off. Wasn’t it illegal to throw away someone’s mail? I dug deeper.
“Hey!” someone said.
I jumped back. My chest was throbbing. “You can’t just walk up on people like that--”
“Sorry, Big A,” Mom’s fiancé said.
It was the most annoying nickname. Every time he said Big A, I heard, You’re fat. Which I wasn’t.
“What’re you up to?” His grape-colored yoga shorts matched his sweatshirt.
“Recycling! Gotta take care of the earth, you know?” I swallowed and told myself to act normal.
“Right on,” he said. “I didn’t hear you come home. I was meditating. I must’ve gone into another world.”
Craig was always in another world. Thanks to him, our East Village walk-up was a yoga shrine. He’d dragged our TV to Goodwill and lit incense in its place. He’d purged everything in our kitchen, including my unopened box of Lucky Charms.
Dairy gave him gas.
MSG made him break out in hives.
Pecans gave him headaches or heartaches or something.
Our home, where I’d lived all my life with Mom, was now sugar-free, dairy-free, pesticide-free, and smoke-free. I’d give that to Craig: thanks to his herbal remedies and woo woo, Mom had quit smoking, although the other day, I swore she smelled like tobacco. Behind Craig’s back – I mean, behind his butt – I called him Health-butt.
I’d never get to the bottom of anything with him around. “Mom told me you held a headstand for two minutes the other day,” I said.
“ Almost two minutes!” He laughed. I could see where one of his front teeth was chipped.
“I bet you can beat that record.” I reached up and gave him a high five.
What a relief when Health-butt unfolded his sticky matt in the living room with a slap. I dove back into the recycling and as my two minutes ticked by, I pushed little scraps of paper under my shirt. Then I raced into my room.
Every girl knows the best hiding place is in the back of her closet. Crouched on the floor, I taped together the bits of paper.
I’ve written to you tantas veces... Tantas veces?
Even though I looked like the kind of kid who spoke Spanish, with my jet-black hair and big brown eyes, the only word I knew was hola. Taping that letter together was like doing a garage sale puzzle. A few pieces were missing, but even with the holes, I had an address:
P.O. Box 3939, Philadelphia, PA
R.J. Blanco, it said in black jellybean letters. That was my father’s name and one of the few things I knew about him.
First Two (MG Fiction) #10
TITLE: COLLIDE
GENRE: MG Sci-Fi
As their hot air balloon ascended, the air became thin and frigid, and the fabric of the balloon flapped in the wind. Above them the night sky glowed with waves of undulating green and pinks. Everywhere the horizon was streaked with colors as if an artist had taken a brush to the sky.
Orion shivered and zipped his jacket to his chin making him look like a turtle. He rested his gloved fingers on the edge of the wicker basket and looked down. The island of Tromso and its tiny lights disappeared as the balloon rose. The colorful wooden houses turned into shrinking specks and the fjords, narrow strips of sea sandwiched by icy cliffs, reflected the misty colors of the aurora dancing across the sky.
Mr. Christensen, the elderly pilot of the balloon, gazed up at the green and magenta waves. “In all my life, I’ve never seen the lights so big.”
Orion pulled his gaze away from the fjords. “Really?”
“Portent of bad things, it is,” Mr. Christensen grumbled under his breath, shaking his head.
“Rubbish,” Orion’s Dad said. Orion watched his Dad extend a long bronze telescope and press the eye piece below his brow. “There’s a scientific explanation for everything old man.” Wind gusts ruffled his dark curly hair as he pointed to a patch of sky where the Aurora Borealis seemed especially bright.
“Whatever you say, Ackerman,” Mr. Christensen growled and his gnarled hands pulled on the valve that ignited the burner. As a blast of flames shot into the bottom of the balloon, Mr. Christensen’s face broke into a wrinkly grin. Flames roared again from the burner and Orion wondered if this was what a fire breathing dragon would be like.
“Get her as high as she’ll go,” Dr. Ackerman yelled.
The wicker basket swayed and vibrated as the balloon lifted higher into the sky. The smell of kerosene burned Orion’s nose. He gripped the edge of the basket to steady himself. “Dad, aren’t we high enough?”
“Almost,” he answered, and reached to open a large nylon bag propped in the corner of the basket.
“What’s in the—” Orion’s question stuck in his throat. Dr. Ackerman pulled a miniature torpedo launcher out of the bag.
“Uh…Dad?”
Mr. Christensen narrowed his eyes and gave Dr. Ackerman a skeptical frown. “That better not blow up my balloon!”
Dad buckled under the weight, staggering a bit, before he hoisted it atop his right shoulder. “Nonsense, old man.” He patted the side of the launcher like it was a pet dog. “This is how we’re going to talk to the lights.”
Orion swallowed hard as cold air stung his face. Shivers wracked his body and he wasn’t sure if it was from the cold or freaking out that they were going to die. “Why do we need to talk to the lights?”
“The Aurora Borealis is bigger and brighter this year than it’s ever been in recorded history,” Dr. Ackerman explained, then turned to Mr. Christensen.
GENRE: MG Sci-Fi
As their hot air balloon ascended, the air became thin and frigid, and the fabric of the balloon flapped in the wind. Above them the night sky glowed with waves of undulating green and pinks. Everywhere the horizon was streaked with colors as if an artist had taken a brush to the sky.
Orion shivered and zipped his jacket to his chin making him look like a turtle. He rested his gloved fingers on the edge of the wicker basket and looked down. The island of Tromso and its tiny lights disappeared as the balloon rose. The colorful wooden houses turned into shrinking specks and the fjords, narrow strips of sea sandwiched by icy cliffs, reflected the misty colors of the aurora dancing across the sky.
Mr. Christensen, the elderly pilot of the balloon, gazed up at the green and magenta waves. “In all my life, I’ve never seen the lights so big.”
Orion pulled his gaze away from the fjords. “Really?”
“Portent of bad things, it is,” Mr. Christensen grumbled under his breath, shaking his head.
“Rubbish,” Orion’s Dad said. Orion watched his Dad extend a long bronze telescope and press the eye piece below his brow. “There’s a scientific explanation for everything old man.” Wind gusts ruffled his dark curly hair as he pointed to a patch of sky where the Aurora Borealis seemed especially bright.
“Whatever you say, Ackerman,” Mr. Christensen growled and his gnarled hands pulled on the valve that ignited the burner. As a blast of flames shot into the bottom of the balloon, Mr. Christensen’s face broke into a wrinkly grin. Flames roared again from the burner and Orion wondered if this was what a fire breathing dragon would be like.
“Get her as high as she’ll go,” Dr. Ackerman yelled.
The wicker basket swayed and vibrated as the balloon lifted higher into the sky. The smell of kerosene burned Orion’s nose. He gripped the edge of the basket to steady himself. “Dad, aren’t we high enough?”
“Almost,” he answered, and reached to open a large nylon bag propped in the corner of the basket.
“What’s in the—” Orion’s question stuck in his throat. Dr. Ackerman pulled a miniature torpedo launcher out of the bag.
“Uh…Dad?”
Mr. Christensen narrowed his eyes and gave Dr. Ackerman a skeptical frown. “That better not blow up my balloon!”
Dad buckled under the weight, staggering a bit, before he hoisted it atop his right shoulder. “Nonsense, old man.” He patted the side of the launcher like it was a pet dog. “This is how we’re going to talk to the lights.”
Orion swallowed hard as cold air stung his face. Shivers wracked his body and he wasn’t sure if it was from the cold or freaking out that they were going to die. “Why do we need to talk to the lights?”
“The Aurora Borealis is bigger and brighter this year than it’s ever been in recorded history,” Dr. Ackerman explained, then turned to Mr. Christensen.
First Two (MG Fiction) #9
TITLE: The Story of the Story of the Egg
GENRE: MG Adventure
“You’re a waddler,” Fin said. He bit into a punctuation biscuit and comma-shaped crumbs fell on top of his little sister. “I only waddle I’m carrying you. Mom only waddles when she carries you. So does Dad. And Grandma. You make people waddle.” He didn’t name Torus, because their older sister never had to carry the youngest around. “Baby waddler coming through.”
“Not a baby!” his baby sister scolded.
The paper bag crinkled in Fin’s paw and he looked in to see what was left of his lunch, as though looking would make what was left better. He’d already eaten the vocabulary fruit, a bunch of scarlet grape-like two- and three-letter words. He wanted melon, but Grandma Curtal said melons were too big for a little story like Fin, so he was stuck with grapes. Again. “Word-problem sweets or sentence sandwich?”
“Bub bub,” she answered.
They were a curious sight, even for the Stacks, the neighborhood where Fin’s family lived. At nearly three feet tall, Fin looked like an otter walking on his back legs. Except nearly all thirteen-year-olds he knew still looked like only one kind of creature, and he already had pale tiger stripes. His four-and-a-half-year-old sister, meanwhile, still hadn’t hatched from her pineapple-sized shell. She sat in a yolk-yellow harness over Fin’s brown belly, her egg a vivid cobalt blue, and Fin waddled as he carried her. It was humiliating. It was, in fact, the fourth most embarrassing thing about being him.
“I’m eating the sandwich,” he said with a sigh. It would be dry. Grandma Curtal always forgot to use the mustard Fin liked, and the word problems would get stuck in his teeth. They were never as good as they looked. Just gooey.
“I think it’s because she’s not done. Grandma Curtal. That’s why she forgets. Loose ends.” More crumbs fell on the Egg, periods and a question mark this time. Fin’s parents didn’t like their children talking about Grandma Curtal, so naturally Fin did, and they punished him for it even if it wasn’t his fault, which was completely unfair.
Grandma Curtal had a lynx’s head and a ferret body with cream-colored fur dotted with dark spots. Her teeth were white and her eyes were wild and pale. She always wore a poofy housedress and her hair was messy. Fin had once wondered out loud if she had a tail under her dress or if there were nothing but loose ends, maybe not even feet. Torus had slapped her paw to her forehead and their Mom had washed his mouth out with soap. It wasn’t polite to talk about stories with loose ends, especially not ones that weren’t even done yet. Even more especially when they were his grandmother’s age. She was like a grown-up Egg, which was a weird thought.
Fin and his whole family were stories, the same as everyone else in Story City. His father was a boring old Biography, his dull gray raccoon head perched atop his stocky, tan pine marten body.
GENRE: MG Adventure
“You’re a waddler,” Fin said. He bit into a punctuation biscuit and comma-shaped crumbs fell on top of his little sister. “I only waddle I’m carrying you. Mom only waddles when she carries you. So does Dad. And Grandma. You make people waddle.” He didn’t name Torus, because their older sister never had to carry the youngest around. “Baby waddler coming through.”
“Not a baby!” his baby sister scolded.
The paper bag crinkled in Fin’s paw and he looked in to see what was left of his lunch, as though looking would make what was left better. He’d already eaten the vocabulary fruit, a bunch of scarlet grape-like two- and three-letter words. He wanted melon, but Grandma Curtal said melons were too big for a little story like Fin, so he was stuck with grapes. Again. “Word-problem sweets or sentence sandwich?”
“Bub bub,” she answered.
They were a curious sight, even for the Stacks, the neighborhood where Fin’s family lived. At nearly three feet tall, Fin looked like an otter walking on his back legs. Except nearly all thirteen-year-olds he knew still looked like only one kind of creature, and he already had pale tiger stripes. His four-and-a-half-year-old sister, meanwhile, still hadn’t hatched from her pineapple-sized shell. She sat in a yolk-yellow harness over Fin’s brown belly, her egg a vivid cobalt blue, and Fin waddled as he carried her. It was humiliating. It was, in fact, the fourth most embarrassing thing about being him.
“I’m eating the sandwich,” he said with a sigh. It would be dry. Grandma Curtal always forgot to use the mustard Fin liked, and the word problems would get stuck in his teeth. They were never as good as they looked. Just gooey.
“I think it’s because she’s not done. Grandma Curtal. That’s why she forgets. Loose ends.” More crumbs fell on the Egg, periods and a question mark this time. Fin’s parents didn’t like their children talking about Grandma Curtal, so naturally Fin did, and they punished him for it even if it wasn’t his fault, which was completely unfair.
Grandma Curtal had a lynx’s head and a ferret body with cream-colored fur dotted with dark spots. Her teeth were white and her eyes were wild and pale. She always wore a poofy housedress and her hair was messy. Fin had once wondered out loud if she had a tail under her dress or if there were nothing but loose ends, maybe not even feet. Torus had slapped her paw to her forehead and their Mom had washed his mouth out with soap. It wasn’t polite to talk about stories with loose ends, especially not ones that weren’t even done yet. Even more especially when they were his grandmother’s age. She was like a grown-up Egg, which was a weird thought.
Fin and his whole family were stories, the same as everyone else in Story City. His father was a boring old Biography, his dull gray raccoon head perched atop his stocky, tan pine marten body.
First Two (MG Fiction) #8
TITLE: Dream-Seer
GENRE: MG Fantasy
Samantha Greer dug her fingernails into her wrist, anything to keep from falling asleep on the school bus. Not here. Not now. Every time she closed her eyes the dream came and John died. Every time she awoke in a cold sweat calling his name.
Jasmin leaned across the aisle. "Do you think they'll have tapestries and surcoats at the exhibit?" She fingered the hand-woven shawl wrapped around her neck, the one she'd designed herself.
Sam nodded. "The website showed lots of cool stuff. Some embroidery, too."
Amy smiled as she peered around Jasmin. "You should be our tour guide. I bet you know everything medieval, don't you?"
Sam bit her lip. She knew everything you could read in books, plus a bunch of stuff she couldn't share. She knew the chalky feel of a battlement crumbling beneath her fingers, the heat of an arrow slicing her shoulder, the stench of a dungeon after a cold rain.
"Yeah, everything," she mumbled as she turned toward the window.
Outside the bus, stubbly fields and billboards whizzed past. Her head nodded and her eyes closed, the hum of tires against the highway lulling her asleep like a softly strummed harp.
***
Sam peered over the crumbling stone wall, her fingers clutching wet moss. Above her, the dark castle loomed. The Silver Knight paced its battlements, moonlight glinting off his armor as the silver orb broke from behind black clouds. Men with crossbows stood watch by the tower, while skeleton trees creaked in the wind.
John slipped from one shadow to the next as he crept toward the castle’s secret back gate.
You can make it! You have to make it . . . Sam held her breath. She cringed as a twig snapped beneath John’s foot. She froze when the Silver Knight turned dark eyes toward her. An eerie howl pierced the night, and shouts erupted from the tower.
“Run!” John sprinted down the hill as arrows rained from the castle walls.
Sam leapt over a rotten log and bolted into the forest. Thorny brambles clutched at her pants as terror clutched at her heart. If the Silver Knight caught her, she would never save Galwyn, never get home, never see her family again.
A horn sounded, and waves of armored men swept out of the castle gates.
No! We can’t . . . She tripped over a tree root, the ground knocking the breath out of her.
Strong hands pulled her to her feet. “Hurry, Samantha!” John cried. “We must gain the river before they let loose the dogs.”
A mournful baying jarred Sam to her senses. White, shining hounds with blood red ears and fiery eyes raced across the midnight sky. They weren’t the castle’s dogs, but the ghost-like hounds John couldn’t see or hear, the ones that always foretold death and doom.
She stumbled toward the creek bed, an arrow whizzing past her shoulder. John pitched forward, the arrow lodged in his back.
“John!” Sam screamed, waking with a jolt.
GENRE: MG Fantasy
Samantha Greer dug her fingernails into her wrist, anything to keep from falling asleep on the school bus. Not here. Not now. Every time she closed her eyes the dream came and John died. Every time she awoke in a cold sweat calling his name.
Jasmin leaned across the aisle. "Do you think they'll have tapestries and surcoats at the exhibit?" She fingered the hand-woven shawl wrapped around her neck, the one she'd designed herself.
Sam nodded. "The website showed lots of cool stuff. Some embroidery, too."
Amy smiled as she peered around Jasmin. "You should be our tour guide. I bet you know everything medieval, don't you?"
Sam bit her lip. She knew everything you could read in books, plus a bunch of stuff she couldn't share. She knew the chalky feel of a battlement crumbling beneath her fingers, the heat of an arrow slicing her shoulder, the stench of a dungeon after a cold rain.
"Yeah, everything," she mumbled as she turned toward the window.
Outside the bus, stubbly fields and billboards whizzed past. Her head nodded and her eyes closed, the hum of tires against the highway lulling her asleep like a softly strummed harp.
***
Sam peered over the crumbling stone wall, her fingers clutching wet moss. Above her, the dark castle loomed. The Silver Knight paced its battlements, moonlight glinting off his armor as the silver orb broke from behind black clouds. Men with crossbows stood watch by the tower, while skeleton trees creaked in the wind.
John slipped from one shadow to the next as he crept toward the castle’s secret back gate.
You can make it! You have to make it . . . Sam held her breath. She cringed as a twig snapped beneath John’s foot. She froze when the Silver Knight turned dark eyes toward her. An eerie howl pierced the night, and shouts erupted from the tower.
“Run!” John sprinted down the hill as arrows rained from the castle walls.
Sam leapt over a rotten log and bolted into the forest. Thorny brambles clutched at her pants as terror clutched at her heart. If the Silver Knight caught her, she would never save Galwyn, never get home, never see her family again.
A horn sounded, and waves of armored men swept out of the castle gates.
No! We can’t . . . She tripped over a tree root, the ground knocking the breath out of her.
Strong hands pulled her to her feet. “Hurry, Samantha!” John cried. “We must gain the river before they let loose the dogs.”
A mournful baying jarred Sam to her senses. White, shining hounds with blood red ears and fiery eyes raced across the midnight sky. They weren’t the castle’s dogs, but the ghost-like hounds John couldn’t see or hear, the ones that always foretold death and doom.
She stumbled toward the creek bed, an arrow whizzing past her shoulder. John pitched forward, the arrow lodged in his back.
“John!” Sam screamed, waking with a jolt.
First Two (MG Fiction) #7
TITLE: sweet adversity
GENRE: historical
The Emu Swamp Children’s Home – 1930
Today was a good day to break a bad rule. Addie McAlpine straightened her tiara, grinning at the bold idea. And with a bit of craftiness and good luck, she’d get away with it.
Tucking her pinafore into the legs of her bloomers, she climbed the paddock gate and gazed over the wide-eyed audience.
Addie wriggled her toes in the short, leather boots from the hand-me-down box – a size too big, and scuffed. Their row of shiny buttons on the side of each boot made up for that though.
Breezes from the distant Blue Gum Ridges carried the tang of eucalyptus; and a hint of autumn. Surely only good things happen on such a day.
Addie flung back her velvet cloak in a dramatic gesture. The gate wobbled. Her audience watched, jostling each other. She ignored their unease, and from the back of her memory came her grandfather’s voice.
Relax those neck muscles, Adversity. Breathe through your nose, right down into your middle. That’s right; fill that belly full of air. Now your chest. Hold it. And release, through your mouth. Slowly.
Addie breathed in again, then her voice rang through the crisp air – clear, powerful and filled with longing.
‘ROMEO, ROMEO! WHEREFORE ART THOU, ROMEO?’
MOOOOOOOOOOOOOO.
The Jersey cow in the front row rolled her eyes in fright. She bellowed again, shoving her backside into the herd. They jostled and panicked. All seven cows bolted across the paddock to safety, their full udders swinging.
‘Come back, girls,’ Addie yelled. ‘I haven’t finished.’
When the cows returned to chomping grass, Addie grinned and jumped from the gate. Did William Shakespeare ever face a stampeding audience? Perhaps the cows would’ve preferred a song instead of Romeo and Juliet; she knew plenty of songs. Something bouncy? Like young Jack’s favourite, A Bicycle Built for Two. Addie hummed the catchy melody – a perfect song to teach the orphans. And Matron Maddock’s stupid rules could go jump in Tin-pot Creek, including the one about NO FRIVOLITY ALLOWED.
Through the trees came the strident clang of the kitchen bell. Breakfast time!
‘Oh, bloody hell!’ For a fleeting instant, Addie cringed, imagining her mother’s horror at the number of rude words she’d learned. She raced across the field, her boots slipping and her cloak flapping. It didn’t pay to miss a meal at the Emu Swamp Children’s Home.
‘ Blast and damn!’ Addie cursed again. She’d forgotten the basket of washed sheets waiting to be hung on the clothesline. If Matron Maddock discovered she’d been acting Juliet for the Jersey herd instead of finishing chores, she’d cop an earful. Performing Shakespeare from the paddock gate would definitely come under the No Frivolity rule.
Addie raced towards the laundry building, choosing a shortcut past Matron’s office in the Home's main building. Risky, but worth it.
The sandstone structure squatted under the gum trees, solid, squalid, cold. Like a giant toad. Mould streaked the blocks, leaves choked the gutters and
GENRE: historical
The Emu Swamp Children’s Home – 1930
Today was a good day to break a bad rule. Addie McAlpine straightened her tiara, grinning at the bold idea. And with a bit of craftiness and good luck, she’d get away with it.
Tucking her pinafore into the legs of her bloomers, she climbed the paddock gate and gazed over the wide-eyed audience.
Addie wriggled her toes in the short, leather boots from the hand-me-down box – a size too big, and scuffed. Their row of shiny buttons on the side of each boot made up for that though.
Breezes from the distant Blue Gum Ridges carried the tang of eucalyptus; and a hint of autumn. Surely only good things happen on such a day.
Addie flung back her velvet cloak in a dramatic gesture. The gate wobbled. Her audience watched, jostling each other. She ignored their unease, and from the back of her memory came her grandfather’s voice.
Relax those neck muscles, Adversity. Breathe through your nose, right down into your middle. That’s right; fill that belly full of air. Now your chest. Hold it. And release, through your mouth. Slowly.
Addie breathed in again, then her voice rang through the crisp air – clear, powerful and filled with longing.
‘ROMEO, ROMEO! WHEREFORE ART THOU, ROMEO?’
MOOOOOOOOOOOOOO.
The Jersey cow in the front row rolled her eyes in fright. She bellowed again, shoving her backside into the herd. They jostled and panicked. All seven cows bolted across the paddock to safety, their full udders swinging.
‘Come back, girls,’ Addie yelled. ‘I haven’t finished.’
When the cows returned to chomping grass, Addie grinned and jumped from the gate. Did William Shakespeare ever face a stampeding audience? Perhaps the cows would’ve preferred a song instead of Romeo and Juliet; she knew plenty of songs. Something bouncy? Like young Jack’s favourite, A Bicycle Built for Two. Addie hummed the catchy melody – a perfect song to teach the orphans. And Matron Maddock’s stupid rules could go jump in Tin-pot Creek, including the one about NO FRIVOLITY ALLOWED.
Through the trees came the strident clang of the kitchen bell. Breakfast time!
‘Oh, bloody hell!’ For a fleeting instant, Addie cringed, imagining her mother’s horror at the number of rude words she’d learned. She raced across the field, her boots slipping and her cloak flapping. It didn’t pay to miss a meal at the Emu Swamp Children’s Home.
‘ Blast and damn!’ Addie cursed again. She’d forgotten the basket of washed sheets waiting to be hung on the clothesline. If Matron Maddock discovered she’d been acting Juliet for the Jersey herd instead of finishing chores, she’d cop an earful. Performing Shakespeare from the paddock gate would definitely come under the No Frivolity rule.
Addie raced towards the laundry building, choosing a shortcut past Matron’s office in the Home's main building. Risky, but worth it.
The sandstone structure squatted under the gum trees, solid, squalid, cold. Like a giant toad. Mould streaked the blocks, leaves choked the gutters and
First Two (MG Fiction) #6
TITLE: The Snow Lion
GENRE: MG Sci-Fi
Lena and her parents had left behind the vast fields of wheat, the rice paddies and endless citrus groves, where Grid-deaf Bhodi toiled with bent backs. They had passed the outer islands, dotted with villages and crowned with snow. Now at last, after six months away, their sail boat Florinal tacked across the wide bay that led into the heart of the City, closer with every puff of wind. Lena leaned out over the bow, her hair flying.
Houses and gardens, temples and shops gripped the rocky mountainsides, a brilliant tapestry in the late afternoon sunlight. Even at this distance she heard bells ringing and the rumble of wheels on the stone roads. Voices drifted across the water. On a dock, Grid workers unloaded bales of crimson silk from a barge and floated them effortlessly onto the back of a truck. Lena inhaled the aroma of spices and smoke and the rich, musky scent of human and animal life.
Lena looked back over her shoulder at her parents, but they weren’t looking at her. They were watching a black boat speeding toward them, slapping every wave, their faces expressionless. Lena studied the oncoming boat. Three men in orange tunics and black pants stood on the deck—King’s guards. It wasn’t a big secret that her parents hated the City guards. Lena did, too. Everyone did.
Now her parents were looking around casually as if they hadn’t even noticed the black ship and the guards. It cut close across their path, and her father flicked the rudder to put Florinal’s bow into its wake. As the King’s ship sped away, and Florinal rocked, his shoulders relaxed. Her mother allowed herself a quick grin. Left out of their silent exchange, Lena turned back to the front of the boat, annoyed, but she loved coming back to the City too much to stay mad.
The wind was now behind them. Lena let out the jib, and it billowed as if Florinal was pleased with herself for bringing them back. The white cliffs of Kushnay rose above her, laced with airy shops and tea gardens. Hot springs sent plumes of steam into the air. Lena watched bubbles rise from the sandy bottom until Florinal caught the current of the Blue Horn and turned south.
Minutes later they docked in their usual slip at Lindahl marina. Bags slung over their backs, they took the elevator to the top of the Netherine Cliffs. At the top, her parents pushed into the crowd, in a hurry, but Lena paused at a shop where little animal guardian charms were hanging–wind horses for luck, snow lions for joy, dragons for abundance, tigers for protection. She was stroking a little crystal snow lion, when an old woman in yellow robes grabbed her arm.
“The Dragon is coming again,” the old woman screamed into Lena's face. “He has been seen in the western skies. He is almost here.”
Her teeth were cracked and brown. Her breath stank. Lena tried to pull away but couldn’t break her grip.
GENRE: MG Sci-Fi
Lena and her parents had left behind the vast fields of wheat, the rice paddies and endless citrus groves, where Grid-deaf Bhodi toiled with bent backs. They had passed the outer islands, dotted with villages and crowned with snow. Now at last, after six months away, their sail boat Florinal tacked across the wide bay that led into the heart of the City, closer with every puff of wind. Lena leaned out over the bow, her hair flying.
Houses and gardens, temples and shops gripped the rocky mountainsides, a brilliant tapestry in the late afternoon sunlight. Even at this distance she heard bells ringing and the rumble of wheels on the stone roads. Voices drifted across the water. On a dock, Grid workers unloaded bales of crimson silk from a barge and floated them effortlessly onto the back of a truck. Lena inhaled the aroma of spices and smoke and the rich, musky scent of human and animal life.
Lena looked back over her shoulder at her parents, but they weren’t looking at her. They were watching a black boat speeding toward them, slapping every wave, their faces expressionless. Lena studied the oncoming boat. Three men in orange tunics and black pants stood on the deck—King’s guards. It wasn’t a big secret that her parents hated the City guards. Lena did, too. Everyone did.
Now her parents were looking around casually as if they hadn’t even noticed the black ship and the guards. It cut close across their path, and her father flicked the rudder to put Florinal’s bow into its wake. As the King’s ship sped away, and Florinal rocked, his shoulders relaxed. Her mother allowed herself a quick grin. Left out of their silent exchange, Lena turned back to the front of the boat, annoyed, but she loved coming back to the City too much to stay mad.
The wind was now behind them. Lena let out the jib, and it billowed as if Florinal was pleased with herself for bringing them back. The white cliffs of Kushnay rose above her, laced with airy shops and tea gardens. Hot springs sent plumes of steam into the air. Lena watched bubbles rise from the sandy bottom until Florinal caught the current of the Blue Horn and turned south.
Minutes later they docked in their usual slip at Lindahl marina. Bags slung over their backs, they took the elevator to the top of the Netherine Cliffs. At the top, her parents pushed into the crowd, in a hurry, but Lena paused at a shop where little animal guardian charms were hanging–wind horses for luck, snow lions for joy, dragons for abundance, tigers for protection. She was stroking a little crystal snow lion, when an old woman in yellow robes grabbed her arm.
“The Dragon is coming again,” the old woman screamed into Lena's face. “He has been seen in the western skies. He is almost here.”
Her teeth were cracked and brown. Her breath stank. Lena tried to pull away but couldn’t break her grip.
First Two (MG Fiction) #5
TITLE: The Key in the Castle
GENRE: MG Fantasy
Malory’s Guide to Britain, page 364
Overton Keep Inn: If you’re looking for lodging that’s fit for a duke or duchess, make sure to visit the palatial bed & breakfast at Overton Keep. It might be a little off the beaten track, but this privately owned castle on a lake is worth a visit. Guests can tour the ruins of the surviving 11th century structures, which are some of the finest preserved pre-conquest ruins in the country and rumored to be haunted. Book early because the well-appointed rooms are often reserved quickly in the summer months.
Chapter 1: The Clause in the Will
Emily hadn’t meant to wear a party dress to her great-grandmother’s funeral. As the only girl in four generations of the Keold family, she stood out even more against a sea of somber black suits in her flouncy dress with pink polka dots. She tried to stand very still so that her tap shoes wouldn’t clack (her only black shoes), but they were two sizes too small and were pinching her toes terribly.
There hadn’t been time for Emily’s mother to take her shopping for funeral clothes before they had to board the plane from Baltimore to London, so her sixth-grade graduation dress and dusty tap shoes had to do. No one had expected Great-Grandma Anne to die at 100. She had been so insistent that she would live to be 101 that everyone in the family believed it. Even the lawyer who had come to read Great-Grandma Anne’s will seemed surprised. He was staring so intensely at the papers in front of him that he had gone cross-eyed.
Great-Grandma Anne’s five sons, and their sons, and their sons (and Emily) had crammed into the library of the Overton Keep Inn after the funeral. Inheriting an Inn that was also a thousand-year-old castle on a lake was a pretty big deal. The younger men and boys shifted their weight or bounced on their heels, while the older men sat in straight-backed chairs reading the newspaper or napping. Great-Uncle Richard eyed the sparkly Faberge eggs on the mantel. Occasionally a cough echoed up into the cobwebbed ceiling rafters.
Emily scratched her nose and did her best to look solemn and sad. Honestly, she was more depressed about missing her soccer game this weekend. It was hard to be sad about the death of a woman she had never met and who had lived a long life.
Finally, the solicitor looked up from the yellowed sheets of paper. (Emily’s father whispered that lawyers were called solicitors in England. Sometimes they were called barristers too. It was rather confusing.)
“This is most unusual,” the solicitor said. “Most unusual indeed.”
Uncle Philip grabbed the papers from the frazzled solicitor’s hands. “It all seems in order to me,” Philip said. “The estate passes to the oldest son and her personal possessions are split amongst the rest. Quite standard.”
“Yes, but look here,” the solicitor said, pointing to the bottom of the page.
GENRE: MG Fantasy
Malory’s Guide to Britain, page 364
Overton Keep Inn: If you’re looking for lodging that’s fit for a duke or duchess, make sure to visit the palatial bed & breakfast at Overton Keep. It might be a little off the beaten track, but this privately owned castle on a lake is worth a visit. Guests can tour the ruins of the surviving 11th century structures, which are some of the finest preserved pre-conquest ruins in the country and rumored to be haunted. Book early because the well-appointed rooms are often reserved quickly in the summer months.
Chapter 1: The Clause in the Will
Emily hadn’t meant to wear a party dress to her great-grandmother’s funeral. As the only girl in four generations of the Keold family, she stood out even more against a sea of somber black suits in her flouncy dress with pink polka dots. She tried to stand very still so that her tap shoes wouldn’t clack (her only black shoes), but they were two sizes too small and were pinching her toes terribly.
There hadn’t been time for Emily’s mother to take her shopping for funeral clothes before they had to board the plane from Baltimore to London, so her sixth-grade graduation dress and dusty tap shoes had to do. No one had expected Great-Grandma Anne to die at 100. She had been so insistent that she would live to be 101 that everyone in the family believed it. Even the lawyer who had come to read Great-Grandma Anne’s will seemed surprised. He was staring so intensely at the papers in front of him that he had gone cross-eyed.
Great-Grandma Anne’s five sons, and their sons, and their sons (and Emily) had crammed into the library of the Overton Keep Inn after the funeral. Inheriting an Inn that was also a thousand-year-old castle on a lake was a pretty big deal. The younger men and boys shifted their weight or bounced on their heels, while the older men sat in straight-backed chairs reading the newspaper or napping. Great-Uncle Richard eyed the sparkly Faberge eggs on the mantel. Occasionally a cough echoed up into the cobwebbed ceiling rafters.
Emily scratched her nose and did her best to look solemn and sad. Honestly, she was more depressed about missing her soccer game this weekend. It was hard to be sad about the death of a woman she had never met and who had lived a long life.
Finally, the solicitor looked up from the yellowed sheets of paper. (Emily’s father whispered that lawyers were called solicitors in England. Sometimes they were called barristers too. It was rather confusing.)
“This is most unusual,” the solicitor said. “Most unusual indeed.”
Uncle Philip grabbed the papers from the frazzled solicitor’s hands. “It all seems in order to me,” Philip said. “The estate passes to the oldest son and her personal possessions are split amongst the rest. Quite standard.”
“Yes, but look here,” the solicitor said, pointing to the bottom of the page.
First Two (MG Fiction) #4
TITLE: Olivia Boogieman
GENRE: MG Fantasy
My family is a bunch of monsters. I don’t mean to be mean but facts are facts and when I say my family is a bunch of monsters I don’t mean they do horrible things, they are literally monsters. My mommy is a mummy; her family comes from ancient Egypt. My dad is a werewolf and when I say werewolf I mean a hairy, scary, howl at the moon werewolf. I also have an older brother and younger sister. My brother is a shape shifter, meaning he can take the form of anything or anyone he wants to be. My sister is a scrawny little skeleton, all bones and nothing else. So you are probably wondering what I am, I am a girl, an ordinary, everyday normal girl. If you haven’t guessed it by now, my parents adopted me when I was a baby. My name is Olivia Boogieman.
To say the Boogieman family is a normal family would be a lie. Sure, we have a dog like every other family on the block but we also have a pet dragon living in our backyard. We didn’t start out wanting a dragon, he just followed my brother home from school one day and we kept him.
“Olivia come down for breakfast or you are going to be late for school again,” My mom shouts from the bottom of the stairs.
I just want to stay in bed, I hate school, and especially today, which is family day. Every year the family of students visit the school at Middlebury Middle School in Midtown Middleton, Wisconsin, (I know the name of my school is a tongue twister).
“Did you feed your dog?” My dad asks me.
“Yes,” I lie. I hate feeding the dog.
“Are you sure,” he asks me.
“Yeah, why?” I ask.
My dad points down at the dog gnawing on my sister’s shinbone. I will admit now that it was a mistake to get a dog when your sister is a skeleton but I really wanted one and after a month of begging and pleading my parents let me get Godzilla, a Chihuahua that is small in stature but giant in attitude.
“Feed your dog,” my dad growls at me.
I grumble as I get up, taking a can out of the refrigerator. I scoop a portion of wet food into Godzilla’s dish and fill his water bowl. I gag at the smell of the food.
“Come on Godzilla,” I call out. The dog continues to nibble on my sister. “Godzilla, now!” I shout.
My sister shakes her leg to get the dog off her but it is no use. The dog prefers bones to food.
“Godzilla, go,” my dad roars. His voice echoes throughout the house.
The dog’s tail slinks between his hind legs and he cowers off into the corner where he eats his food.
“If you can’t take care of your dog we will have to take him to the pound,” My dad says in a low growl.
GENRE: MG Fantasy
My family is a bunch of monsters. I don’t mean to be mean but facts are facts and when I say my family is a bunch of monsters I don’t mean they do horrible things, they are literally monsters. My mommy is a mummy; her family comes from ancient Egypt. My dad is a werewolf and when I say werewolf I mean a hairy, scary, howl at the moon werewolf. I also have an older brother and younger sister. My brother is a shape shifter, meaning he can take the form of anything or anyone he wants to be. My sister is a scrawny little skeleton, all bones and nothing else. So you are probably wondering what I am, I am a girl, an ordinary, everyday normal girl. If you haven’t guessed it by now, my parents adopted me when I was a baby. My name is Olivia Boogieman.
To say the Boogieman family is a normal family would be a lie. Sure, we have a dog like every other family on the block but we also have a pet dragon living in our backyard. We didn’t start out wanting a dragon, he just followed my brother home from school one day and we kept him.
“Olivia come down for breakfast or you are going to be late for school again,” My mom shouts from the bottom of the stairs.
I just want to stay in bed, I hate school, and especially today, which is family day. Every year the family of students visit the school at Middlebury Middle School in Midtown Middleton, Wisconsin, (I know the name of my school is a tongue twister).
“Did you feed your dog?” My dad asks me.
“Yes,” I lie. I hate feeding the dog.
“Are you sure,” he asks me.
“Yeah, why?” I ask.
My dad points down at the dog gnawing on my sister’s shinbone. I will admit now that it was a mistake to get a dog when your sister is a skeleton but I really wanted one and after a month of begging and pleading my parents let me get Godzilla, a Chihuahua that is small in stature but giant in attitude.
“Feed your dog,” my dad growls at me.
I grumble as I get up, taking a can out of the refrigerator. I scoop a portion of wet food into Godzilla’s dish and fill his water bowl. I gag at the smell of the food.
“Come on Godzilla,” I call out. The dog continues to nibble on my sister. “Godzilla, now!” I shout.
My sister shakes her leg to get the dog off her but it is no use. The dog prefers bones to food.
“Godzilla, go,” my dad roars. His voice echoes throughout the house.
The dog’s tail slinks between his hind legs and he cowers off into the corner where he eats his food.
“If you can’t take care of your dog we will have to take him to the pound,” My dad says in a low growl.
First Two (MG Fiction) #3
TITLE: THE WISH GARDEN
GENRE: MG MAGICAL REALISM
Penny always knew she’d be young when her mama died, but that didn’t take the pain away. Even when your mama’s been sick for your whole life, it still hurts to be ten years old and throwing a shovel full of dirt on top of the box that holds your best friend.
Because when you are ten years old, and have spent your whole life with a sick mom, she is your best friend. In Penny’s case, pretty much her only friend.
Penny didn’t stay to watch them fill the hole. Her papa took her home, but she couldn’t stay. Mercifully, Papa didn’t make her. After all, she never went far.
Today, she sat on a boulder at the edge of the forest behind her house, letting the damp moss soak through to her skin as she watched the people of her town of Hopeton mill around her house, eat potatoes and Jell-O, hug her father, pick up photographs and look pityingly out the back window at her.
Penny had gotten used to those pitying looks in her short ten years. Her mama had gotten ill soon after she was born, spending time in and out of hospitals, stumping doctors from all over the country with her mysterious illness. Over the last year, that illness had progressed to the point that her mama couldn’t even make it to the hospitals. Then, she couldn’t even take another breath.
Penny had found it hard to breathe herself over the last week. The house wasn’t the same without her mama. It wasn’t in the absence of things; the beeping machines or bustling nurses. It was in the things that lingered. The smell of lilacs from her mama’s lotion. The piles of cut paper that her and her mama had used to build cities with the extra hospital tape the nurses would sneak for them. Her mama’s favorite blanket, folded neatly on her father’s favorite chair, next to the five pairs of reading glasses her mama couldn’t seem to place and so her father kept buying more for her.
Penny clung to a pair of those reading glasses now, as she huddled under the canopy of trees on the outskirts of their yard, letting the tears stream down and puddle in the folds of her dress. She didn’t even bother with a tissue, just sniffed and wiped her face with the sleeve of the black, velvet dress a neighbor had brought over with a pan of cinnamon rolls.
The breeze that drifted through the pink blossomed trees carried a sad whistle in its wake and the setting sun seemed dimmer than it usually was. Penny pulled her knees into her chest and tucked her scuffed, red Mary Jane’s under her skirt. She couldn’t understand how she could hurt so bad and feel so numb at the same time.
As the sun fell behind the trees and the sky turned from blue, to orange, to gray, Penny laid her head on her arms, and let her eyelids flutter and close.
GENRE: MG MAGICAL REALISM
Penny always knew she’d be young when her mama died, but that didn’t take the pain away. Even when your mama’s been sick for your whole life, it still hurts to be ten years old and throwing a shovel full of dirt on top of the box that holds your best friend.
Because when you are ten years old, and have spent your whole life with a sick mom, she is your best friend. In Penny’s case, pretty much her only friend.
Penny didn’t stay to watch them fill the hole. Her papa took her home, but she couldn’t stay. Mercifully, Papa didn’t make her. After all, she never went far.
Today, she sat on a boulder at the edge of the forest behind her house, letting the damp moss soak through to her skin as she watched the people of her town of Hopeton mill around her house, eat potatoes and Jell-O, hug her father, pick up photographs and look pityingly out the back window at her.
Penny had gotten used to those pitying looks in her short ten years. Her mama had gotten ill soon after she was born, spending time in and out of hospitals, stumping doctors from all over the country with her mysterious illness. Over the last year, that illness had progressed to the point that her mama couldn’t even make it to the hospitals. Then, she couldn’t even take another breath.
Penny had found it hard to breathe herself over the last week. The house wasn’t the same without her mama. It wasn’t in the absence of things; the beeping machines or bustling nurses. It was in the things that lingered. The smell of lilacs from her mama’s lotion. The piles of cut paper that her and her mama had used to build cities with the extra hospital tape the nurses would sneak for them. Her mama’s favorite blanket, folded neatly on her father’s favorite chair, next to the five pairs of reading glasses her mama couldn’t seem to place and so her father kept buying more for her.
Penny clung to a pair of those reading glasses now, as she huddled under the canopy of trees on the outskirts of their yard, letting the tears stream down and puddle in the folds of her dress. She didn’t even bother with a tissue, just sniffed and wiped her face with the sleeve of the black, velvet dress a neighbor had brought over with a pan of cinnamon rolls.
The breeze that drifted through the pink blossomed trees carried a sad whistle in its wake and the setting sun seemed dimmer than it usually was. Penny pulled her knees into her chest and tucked her scuffed, red Mary Jane’s under her skirt. She couldn’t understand how she could hurt so bad and feel so numb at the same time.
As the sun fell behind the trees and the sky turned from blue, to orange, to gray, Penny laid her head on her arms, and let her eyelids flutter and close.
First Two (MG Fiction) #2
TITLE: Stars, Cats and Candycorn
GENRE: MG Realistic Contemporary Fiction
I know change is supposed to be good for me. At least that’s what everyone says. But moving to a new house and a new school and a whole new time zone in one weekend seems like a lot of change for a kid—especially after everything we went through nine months ago.
“Hurry up, Claud, or I’m gonna take this stupid costume off!” my younger sister Lucy hollered from downstairs. Her voice echoed through the hallway.
“Be right there!”
I stuffed my blonde hair into one of Dad’s old hats, tucked a silk scarf into my collar, and picked up a magnifying glass in my gloved hand. So it wasn’t my best costume ever, but Dad wasn’t much help with stuff like this, or anything these days. Sherlock Holmes was going to have to do.
Lucy waited for me in the dining room with her arms crossed. She wore Dad’s old coat and derby hat and she had drawn a fake mustache above her lip with a black marker. “I can’t believe you’re making me wear this thing. I look like a complete dork,” she said.
“No you don’t,” I lied. But she didn’t look at all like Dr. Watson. She hadn’t tried to cover up her red curly hair or her freckles. Still, it didn’t matter. At least we were trying to pretend that this was just like any other Halloween.
“What took you so long? All the good candy’s going to be gone,” Lucy complained.
“I couldn’t get my stupid hair to stay in my hat,” I said.
Dad was in his robe and his face looked thin and pale behind his glasses as he scanned the newspaper. I wasn’t even sure if he had bought any candy to give out to the neighborhood kids. He looked up. “Creative costumes, girls. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle would approve.”
“We did what we could,” I said, knowing that Dad was talking about the author of the Sherlock Holmes stories. I had read them all and some of them more than once.
“You want me to come with you?” he asked. “I don’t think you should be walking around by yourselves in the dark.”
“It’s Halloween, Dad,” Lucy pointed out. “That’s what we’re supposed to do.”
“Besides, we’d get laughed at if you came with us. We’re not little kids anymore,” I said.
He looked through me, as if his gaze reached far beyond where I stood. “Alright, but stick together, and take Bruce. He needs a walk.”
Within seconds Bruce, our golden retriever, had grabbed his leash and was perched in front of me, panting enthusiastically. He had brown eyes and soft, floppy ears, and he was named after Bruce Springsteen, Dad’s favorite singer. Now that Bruce was 11, like me, he had slowed down, since that’s 77 in dog years, but he still had the spirit of a puppy. Sometimes, though, he’d sit quietly and stare out the window. I wondered if he missed Mom as much as I did.
GENRE: MG Realistic Contemporary Fiction
I know change is supposed to be good for me. At least that’s what everyone says. But moving to a new house and a new school and a whole new time zone in one weekend seems like a lot of change for a kid—especially after everything we went through nine months ago.
“Hurry up, Claud, or I’m gonna take this stupid costume off!” my younger sister Lucy hollered from downstairs. Her voice echoed through the hallway.
“Be right there!”
I stuffed my blonde hair into one of Dad’s old hats, tucked a silk scarf into my collar, and picked up a magnifying glass in my gloved hand. So it wasn’t my best costume ever, but Dad wasn’t much help with stuff like this, or anything these days. Sherlock Holmes was going to have to do.
Lucy waited for me in the dining room with her arms crossed. She wore Dad’s old coat and derby hat and she had drawn a fake mustache above her lip with a black marker. “I can’t believe you’re making me wear this thing. I look like a complete dork,” she said.
“No you don’t,” I lied. But she didn’t look at all like Dr. Watson. She hadn’t tried to cover up her red curly hair or her freckles. Still, it didn’t matter. At least we were trying to pretend that this was just like any other Halloween.
“What took you so long? All the good candy’s going to be gone,” Lucy complained.
“I couldn’t get my stupid hair to stay in my hat,” I said.
Dad was in his robe and his face looked thin and pale behind his glasses as he scanned the newspaper. I wasn’t even sure if he had bought any candy to give out to the neighborhood kids. He looked up. “Creative costumes, girls. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle would approve.”
“We did what we could,” I said, knowing that Dad was talking about the author of the Sherlock Holmes stories. I had read them all and some of them more than once.
“You want me to come with you?” he asked. “I don’t think you should be walking around by yourselves in the dark.”
“It’s Halloween, Dad,” Lucy pointed out. “That’s what we’re supposed to do.”
“Besides, we’d get laughed at if you came with us. We’re not little kids anymore,” I said.
He looked through me, as if his gaze reached far beyond where I stood. “Alright, but stick together, and take Bruce. He needs a walk.”
Within seconds Bruce, our golden retriever, had grabbed his leash and was perched in front of me, panting enthusiastically. He had brown eyes and soft, floppy ears, and he was named after Bruce Springsteen, Dad’s favorite singer. Now that Bruce was 11, like me, he had slowed down, since that’s 77 in dog years, but he still had the spirit of a puppy. Sometimes, though, he’d sit quietly and stare out the window. I wondered if he missed Mom as much as I did.
First Two (MG Fiction) #1
TITLE: Side Out
GENRE: Fiction
Footsteps.
I look to make sure it’s not Mom and breathe a sigh of relief when I realize it’s just my twin brother, T.J., heading to the bathroom. Mom doesn’t want me checking the video stats. She thinks the fact that I’m transferring schools will make this whole video mess go away. For someone who’s a college professor, Mom really doesn’t get it. Things on the internet aren’t like socks in the dryer. They don’t just disappear when you’re not paying attention.
T.J. closes the door. He then breaks out into his signature chorus of catch phrases. “ Richard Simmons!” He draws the name out like a sportscaster. “Go Richard! Go Richard! Sweat….Richard Simmons shaves his legs!”
I rock my head back and groan. I so don’t care about Richard Simmons’ hygiene right now, or ever, but especially not now.
Reta—my finger hovers over the “r” key, but I don’t need to press it. The browser has made its suggestions. The first is “Retard Fire Drill.” 2,921 views in three months. A wave of hurt rushes over me, making my heart squeeze inside my chest. I click.
In the video, T.J. runs down the dimly lit hallway, hands pressed tightly against his ears, wading his way through the sea of students that finally parts to let him swim upstream. His terrified screams punctuate the silences between the blaring EEERRR, EEERRR, EEERRR, EEERRR wails of the fire alarm. His special ed. aide can’t get to him. That’s when Video Me shouts his name and bolts out of my single-file class line to help. A speech bubble appears over video T.J.’s head, “Save me, Sasquatch!” Video Me doesn’t know it, but the hours that follow turn out to be the Worst. Day. Ever.
The curved arrow on the laptop screen asks me if I want to play the video again. Now it’s at 2,922 hits. The most recent comments jump out at me.
Zach226: How tall is that girl? Like 6’2”?????
CarlyB808: That poor boy.
CeezyT2T04: This vid made my day. <3 Retard Fire Drill
RachIsAmazing: I’d so hate to be them. Like for real hate it.
JDogg32: Glad someone got this on vid.
CeezyT2T04: Me too. Heard Sasquatch isn’t comin back this year. 2 bad. She was actually pretty good at basketball.
Kevster808: Bet she’s too scared to show her fat face!
Those are the tame comments. Feeling faint, I curl my fingers around my laptop to resist the urge to throw it out the window. No, CeezyT2T04, I’m not going back to that stupid school. And Kevster808, what about your face? I seem to remember you getting an overhand serve rocketed at your nose after you did your impersonation of T.J. That was the one blip of good during the Worst. Day. Ever. Until that moment, sinking a game-winning 3-pointer at the buzzer was the coolest thing I’d ever done, but giving Kevin Ziegler a nosebleed was totally better.
GENRE: Fiction
Footsteps.
I look to make sure it’s not Mom and breathe a sigh of relief when I realize it’s just my twin brother, T.J., heading to the bathroom. Mom doesn’t want me checking the video stats. She thinks the fact that I’m transferring schools will make this whole video mess go away. For someone who’s a college professor, Mom really doesn’t get it. Things on the internet aren’t like socks in the dryer. They don’t just disappear when you’re not paying attention.
T.J. closes the door. He then breaks out into his signature chorus of catch phrases. “ Richard Simmons!” He draws the name out like a sportscaster. “Go Richard! Go Richard! Sweat….Richard Simmons shaves his legs!”
I rock my head back and groan. I so don’t care about Richard Simmons’ hygiene right now, or ever, but especially not now.
Reta—my finger hovers over the “r” key, but I don’t need to press it. The browser has made its suggestions. The first is “Retard Fire Drill.” 2,921 views in three months. A wave of hurt rushes over me, making my heart squeeze inside my chest. I click.
In the video, T.J. runs down the dimly lit hallway, hands pressed tightly against his ears, wading his way through the sea of students that finally parts to let him swim upstream. His terrified screams punctuate the silences between the blaring EEERRR, EEERRR, EEERRR, EEERRR wails of the fire alarm. His special ed. aide can’t get to him. That’s when Video Me shouts his name and bolts out of my single-file class line to help. A speech bubble appears over video T.J.’s head, “Save me, Sasquatch!” Video Me doesn’t know it, but the hours that follow turn out to be the Worst. Day. Ever.
The curved arrow on the laptop screen asks me if I want to play the video again. Now it’s at 2,922 hits. The most recent comments jump out at me.
Zach226: How tall is that girl? Like 6’2”?????
CarlyB808: That poor boy.
CeezyT2T04: This vid made my day. <3 Retard Fire Drill
RachIsAmazing: I’d so hate to be them. Like for real hate it.
JDogg32: Glad someone got this on vid.
CeezyT2T04: Me too. Heard Sasquatch isn’t comin back this year. 2 bad. She was actually pretty good at basketball.
Kevster808: Bet she’s too scared to show her fat face!
Those are the tame comments. Feeling faint, I curl my fingers around my laptop to resist the urge to throw it out the window. No, CeezyT2T04, I’m not going back to that stupid school. And Kevster808, what about your face? I seem to remember you getting an overhand serve rocketed at your nose after you did your impersonation of T.J. That was the one blip of good during the Worst. Day. Ever. Until that moment, sinking a game-winning 3-pointer at the buzzer was the coolest thing I’d ever done, but giving Kevin Ziegler a nosebleed was totally better.
Tuesday, February 11, 2014
Winners for First Two (MG Fiction)
Winning numbers have been drawn for First Two (MG Fiction) and the owners have all been emailed their entry numbers.
If you didn't get an email, I'm sorry; that means your ticket number wasn't selected.
Here is the complete list, so you may double check:
If you didn't get an email, I'm sorry; that means your ticket number wasn't selected.
Here is the complete list, so you may double check:
- 7OCRZKZX as ENTRY #1
- 36ILS3SA as ENTRY #2
- G1KW2MW7 as ENTRY #3
- NFEYYL2T as ENTRY #4
- 89PWKMCY as ENTRY #5
- 4CK82FJG as ENTRY #6
- LY4VOHEG as ENTRY #7
- G0TNSCDH as ENTRY #8
- K0Z9ZHS8 as ENTRY #9
- ZWRIR3CJ as ENTRY #10
- 5TQSZCIM as ENTRY #11
- BWCQN3OT as ENTRY #12
- JTLIT9A2 as ENTRY #13
- 64ZXN6LM as ENTRY #14
- WA01QAYT as ENTRY #15
- OGCC4ZGC as ENTRY #ALT-1
First Two for MG -- Submissions
Let's dig into some middle grade!
The details:
The details:
- This round is for MG FICTION, all genres.
- Submission window: 5:00 to 7:00 PM EST today (Tuesday)
- This will be a lottery. The bot will choose 15 entries from the pool.
- Please submit the first 500 words of your manuscript, completed or in progress.
- Please proofread before submitting!
- PLEASE SUBMIT HERE.
- The 15 entries will post Wednesday for critique.
Post your questions below!
Wednesday, January 29, 2014
First Two (YA Fiction) #15
TITLE: THE BODY THIEF
GENRE: YA Paranormal
I never should have left the house.
So stupid. So incredibly stupid. I scolded myself for the thousandth time and looked at the clock. The minutes pressed forward. I squeezed the railing beneath me until my knuckles smarted and took a deep, calming breath. One more, just to make sure my voice would stay steady when I spoke.
“Do you think it’ll happen here?” My voice sounded almost completely normal. Not scared.
Jai glanced in my direction. He let out a soft puff of air and then, “Jesus, Callie. It’s not going to be you. Stop looking like you’re going to puke.” So much for trying to act normal. I should know by now he’d be able to see through any act of bravery I attempted to wear. This whole dumb night had been my idea. I don’t even know why now. I wanted to show him, and myself, that I wasn’t going to hide like a scared little baby waiting for the big bad to pick me off.
Yep, super brave. That’s me. Sitting out in the open, scared enough to pee myself, but I was still doing it. Facing it. Whatever it was.
One more hour. Anyone could do that. Then the city-mandated curfew would kick in and we’d all be shuffled to the exits and sent on our way. It wasn’t late, but the sky had already faded into pitch-black and the crowds grew thin. I sat on a metal railing, hidden from view behind a food truck with my best friend and eight-year-old cousin beside me. I haven’t been outside on this night in five months. Not since they put together the connection between the new moon and the girls who had died. Eleven of them so far. Each and every one matched a simple description: brown hair, pale skin, and sixteen years old.
Hell, it could be me. What was I doing out here?
I fiddled with the ring around my thumb.
Neon colored flyers plastered the walls and scattered the ground promising rewards, begging for information. At least once a day, I found a poster containing a black and white picture slapped on a wall throughout Ojai, California. The girls always looked sad. Every one of them. Almost like they knew what was to become of them.
I really should go home. Lay in bed with the blankets pulled over my head. Maybe a book, or a movie, or anything that took my mind off of tonight. I stiffened and lifted my chin. No. I was out and I was going to enjoy myself damn it.
The Peddler’s Fair weekend used to be the busiest weekend in Ojai, but now only a few of the brave straggle between the tents lining the street. Strung light’s flicker in the street’s puddles. Food wrappers littered the ground, and some of the tent’s owners began to disassemble. I used to love the fair. I loved the food and the games and the people.
GENRE: YA Paranormal
I never should have left the house.
So stupid. So incredibly stupid. I scolded myself for the thousandth time and looked at the clock. The minutes pressed forward. I squeezed the railing beneath me until my knuckles smarted and took a deep, calming breath. One more, just to make sure my voice would stay steady when I spoke.
“Do you think it’ll happen here?” My voice sounded almost completely normal. Not scared.
Jai glanced in my direction. He let out a soft puff of air and then, “Jesus, Callie. It’s not going to be you. Stop looking like you’re going to puke.” So much for trying to act normal. I should know by now he’d be able to see through any act of bravery I attempted to wear. This whole dumb night had been my idea. I don’t even know why now. I wanted to show him, and myself, that I wasn’t going to hide like a scared little baby waiting for the big bad to pick me off.
Yep, super brave. That’s me. Sitting out in the open, scared enough to pee myself, but I was still doing it. Facing it. Whatever it was.
One more hour. Anyone could do that. Then the city-mandated curfew would kick in and we’d all be shuffled to the exits and sent on our way. It wasn’t late, but the sky had already faded into pitch-black and the crowds grew thin. I sat on a metal railing, hidden from view behind a food truck with my best friend and eight-year-old cousin beside me. I haven’t been outside on this night in five months. Not since they put together the connection between the new moon and the girls who had died. Eleven of them so far. Each and every one matched a simple description: brown hair, pale skin, and sixteen years old.
Hell, it could be me. What was I doing out here?
I fiddled with the ring around my thumb.
Neon colored flyers plastered the walls and scattered the ground promising rewards, begging for information. At least once a day, I found a poster containing a black and white picture slapped on a wall throughout Ojai, California. The girls always looked sad. Every one of them. Almost like they knew what was to become of them.
I really should go home. Lay in bed with the blankets pulled over my head. Maybe a book, or a movie, or anything that took my mind off of tonight. I stiffened and lifted my chin. No. I was out and I was going to enjoy myself damn it.
The Peddler’s Fair weekend used to be the busiest weekend in Ojai, but now only a few of the brave straggle between the tents lining the street. Strung light’s flicker in the street’s puddles. Food wrappers littered the ground, and some of the tent’s owners began to disassemble. I used to love the fair. I loved the food and the games and the people.
First Two (YA Fiction) #14
TITLE: The Yes Girl
GENRE: YA Romance
January. Boston, Massachusetts.
Marin stood at the center of the ice, facing the judge’s table. She took in a deep breath and let the crisp, optimistic atmosphere fill her lungs. She smiled.
Her music began. Her favorite piece Coach Wiggins had played for her. She knew it so well it was a part of her blood.
Wait.
Wait.
On the third note, she pushed off and skated down the center of the ice alternating feet and edges into the required footwork, then she made a deep knee bend and lifted herself up into her first combination jump, a Double Axel-Double Toe Loop.
High and fast and fluid she catapulted herself across the ice, turning two and a half revolutions before a quick touch down on the ice before heaving herself back up with ready arms and legs for two more revolutions, until finally her right outside edge touches down slicing into the ice, as if part of the music.
She nailed the landing, showing the world how jumping had become her superpower. The crowd applauded—of course they did—but Marin paid no attention, with the music under her skin, the lift and stretch of her muscles, the sharp balance of her skates, she was nowhere near finished.
Every spin with grace and ability.
Every jump strong and clean.
And the footwork fast and methodical.
Only one move left. Her pulse started to pull away from the beat of the music, and she tried to push away the sliver of doubt, to feel nothing but the ice. Had she given her all or had she held back and played it too safe for fear of repeating the last two years with no medal? That was her last chance to make the Olympic team. Pyeongchang, South Korea, or bust.
Should she slide in another Double Axel? Such a fine line between playing it safe and playing to win.
But winning superseded everything. Skating ended here if she didn’t deliver. She was going for it, adding another Double Axel to seal the deal.
Twenty seconds left.
Marin shortened the last footwork sequence and lifted up right into the Double Axel, turning two rotations in the air. She went high and far as she always did.
Everything felt right at first. Until it didn’t.
The wall.
Too high.
Too far.
Her hip slammed against the hard plastic barrier and she fell to the ice.
The crowd gasped. The music played on. Get up! She popped up like only champions could, listening to where the music told her she should be. Stay focused, fall apart later. She skated across the rink and raised her back leg to finish the routine with a long, beautiful Camel—her leg extended behind her, coming to a stop only when her music did.
She forged a winning smile for the TV cameras. For the world. As if nothing had gone wrong. Only true champions could do that; erase time and make you forget their mistakes. As if they alone controlled fate.
GENRE: YA Romance
January. Boston, Massachusetts.
Marin stood at the center of the ice, facing the judge’s table. She took in a deep breath and let the crisp, optimistic atmosphere fill her lungs. She smiled.
Her music began. Her favorite piece Coach Wiggins had played for her. She knew it so well it was a part of her blood.
Wait.
Wait.
On the third note, she pushed off and skated down the center of the ice alternating feet and edges into the required footwork, then she made a deep knee bend and lifted herself up into her first combination jump, a Double Axel-Double Toe Loop.
High and fast and fluid she catapulted herself across the ice, turning two and a half revolutions before a quick touch down on the ice before heaving herself back up with ready arms and legs for two more revolutions, until finally her right outside edge touches down slicing into the ice, as if part of the music.
She nailed the landing, showing the world how jumping had become her superpower. The crowd applauded—of course they did—but Marin paid no attention, with the music under her skin, the lift and stretch of her muscles, the sharp balance of her skates, she was nowhere near finished.
Every spin with grace and ability.
Every jump strong and clean.
And the footwork fast and methodical.
Only one move left. Her pulse started to pull away from the beat of the music, and she tried to push away the sliver of doubt, to feel nothing but the ice. Had she given her all or had she held back and played it too safe for fear of repeating the last two years with no medal? That was her last chance to make the Olympic team. Pyeongchang, South Korea, or bust.
Should she slide in another Double Axel? Such a fine line between playing it safe and playing to win.
But winning superseded everything. Skating ended here if she didn’t deliver. She was going for it, adding another Double Axel to seal the deal.
Twenty seconds left.
Marin shortened the last footwork sequence and lifted up right into the Double Axel, turning two rotations in the air. She went high and far as she always did.
Everything felt right at first. Until it didn’t.
The wall.
Too high.
Too far.
Her hip slammed against the hard plastic barrier and she fell to the ice.
The crowd gasped. The music played on. Get up! She popped up like only champions could, listening to where the music told her she should be. Stay focused, fall apart later. She skated across the rink and raised her back leg to finish the routine with a long, beautiful Camel—her leg extended behind her, coming to a stop only when her music did.
She forged a winning smile for the TV cameras. For the world. As if nothing had gone wrong. Only true champions could do that; erase time and make you forget their mistakes. As if they alone controlled fate.
First Two (YA Fiction) #13
TITLE: Love Is Fake, You Know
GENRE: LGBT Coming-of-Age
6-24-02, Monday, 5:03 AM
I have a weird secret ambition that this journal will be discovered and I’ll end up like Anne Frank or something. Except nothing I write flows quite like Anne’s stuff did. And with any luck I won’t be dying any time soon.
Benjamin probably thought he was doing me a favor when he said that writing down your thoughts can help relieve stress. I told him I’m not all that stressed but he bought me this book and said I should consider writing anyway. Aside from my irrational hopes for future journal fame, what pushed me over the edge toward writing tonight was my fight with Jacob. It seems easier to write about it in here than to bother telling Benjamin. Benjamin would just pretend to listen for five seconds and then change the subject to himself. He can’t stop himself from giving advice—but only when I don’t want it.
Jacob said something that made me want to reach through the phone and punch him. He seemed to think I’d be willing to completely give myself over to him without a second thought. I was so mad and hurt! I mean, we’ve only been going out for 55 days. But then he told me what he really meant, and I was so glad it wasn't what I thought. What he actually meant was that our relationship feels so easy—NOT that I’m…well, you get it. He apologized a million times and said he was sooooo sorry and that he would never ever treat me like that. It’s not that I don't believe him... I really do trust him. It was just a misunderstanding, right?
I hope Mom doesn’t wake up again. She’s yelled at me a couple of times tonight/this morning for not going to sleep. Oh well. I’m not tired. Not really.
My hand just fell asleep... Ow…
6-26-02, Wednesday, 12:40 AM
Jacob said he’d call after 8 tonight, but he never did. There’s still time. I haven’t gotten online all night just in case.
I’ve only seen Jacob once since we were officially together, and only once before that. He’s always so busy that he can never go anywhere with me. Just last night he got back from Florida with his friends; today he’s going to his parents’ lake house “for a week or two.” At least I can talk to him on the phone and online once he gets there. And at least I’ll see him throughout the end of the summer at band camp and band practices.
This year I’m going to be in high school. Finally! And Jacob will be there with me!
You might be thinking I shouldn’t be excited about seeing him at school since I’m mad at him. But we always make up after our fights. I know everything will be fine by the time school starts, even if it is two whole months away (that literally feels like an eternity!).
GENRE: LGBT Coming-of-Age
6-24-02, Monday, 5:03 AM
I have a weird secret ambition that this journal will be discovered and I’ll end up like Anne Frank or something. Except nothing I write flows quite like Anne’s stuff did. And with any luck I won’t be dying any time soon.
Benjamin probably thought he was doing me a favor when he said that writing down your thoughts can help relieve stress. I told him I’m not all that stressed but he bought me this book and said I should consider writing anyway. Aside from my irrational hopes for future journal fame, what pushed me over the edge toward writing tonight was my fight with Jacob. It seems easier to write about it in here than to bother telling Benjamin. Benjamin would just pretend to listen for five seconds and then change the subject to himself. He can’t stop himself from giving advice—but only when I don’t want it.
Jacob said something that made me want to reach through the phone and punch him. He seemed to think I’d be willing to completely give myself over to him without a second thought. I was so mad and hurt! I mean, we’ve only been going out for 55 days. But then he told me what he really meant, and I was so glad it wasn't what I thought. What he actually meant was that our relationship feels so easy—NOT that I’m…well, you get it. He apologized a million times and said he was sooooo sorry and that he would never ever treat me like that. It’s not that I don't believe him... I really do trust him. It was just a misunderstanding, right?
I hope Mom doesn’t wake up again. She’s yelled at me a couple of times tonight/this morning for not going to sleep. Oh well. I’m not tired. Not really.
My hand just fell asleep... Ow…
6-26-02, Wednesday, 12:40 AM
Jacob said he’d call after 8 tonight, but he never did. There’s still time. I haven’t gotten online all night just in case.
I’ve only seen Jacob once since we were officially together, and only once before that. He’s always so busy that he can never go anywhere with me. Just last night he got back from Florida with his friends; today he’s going to his parents’ lake house “for a week or two.” At least I can talk to him on the phone and online once he gets there. And at least I’ll see him throughout the end of the summer at band camp and band practices.
This year I’m going to be in high school. Finally! And Jacob will be there with me!
You might be thinking I shouldn’t be excited about seeing him at school since I’m mad at him. But we always make up after our fights. I know everything will be fine by the time school starts, even if it is two whole months away (that literally feels like an eternity!).
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