TITLE: pale green light
GENRE: YA Science Fiction
When intruders sneak onto the paleo dig-site where her mother works, sixteen-year-old Maya follows them into underground chambers infested with dinosaurs and ruled by strange green light. Maya wants out, but her survival depends on a guy she just met—and he’s not interested in escape.
I hear my name, Maya, softly spoken.
“Beck?” I can’t see him. I can’t see the portals lining the chamber’s perimeter. I can’t see a hint of the hatchway or the slightest fizzle of electricity. My shoulder throbs where something hit me. I hold my fingers in front of my face. Nothing.
Beck and I ping our names like radar against the black. It’s a relief to find him, an amazing, unexpected comfort. He wraps his arms around my waist, pulling my back to his chest. “Until we know what’s going on,” he breathes into my ear, “don’t move.”
A girl yells, “My cell doesn’t work!” Others say, “Mine doesn’t either.” A guy bumps into me.
“Evvie?” he asks.
“I’m Maya,” I say. “Maya Norris.” Beck’s arms tighten around me.
Clicking noises pierce the dark. People whisper, “What happened? What is that? What should we do?” The clicking grows louder, the sound wheeling over us like gulls over water.
Someone shouts, “Hey Cam! Are you doing that?”
“I’m not a clicker,” Cam says into the void.
I hold my breath and feel Beck do the same. “Don’t move,” he says again. But we do move.
Everyone does. We crowd together tight as a fist.
The girl crushed against my right side shakes so violently that I start shaking too. “It followed us,” she whispers. “It’s here.”
“What’s here?” Cam asks.
Click-click-click-click-click.
Beck squeezes his arms around me until it hurts.
Miss Snark's First Victim
Showing posts with label on the block. Show all posts
Showing posts with label on the block. Show all posts
Tuesday, February 7, 2017
On The Block Concession Crit #12
TITLE: Isabel Slate Makes the News
GENRE: MG Contemporary fiction
Isabel Slate, an imaginative kid journalist with a tendency to embellish the facts, gets a chance to prove herself with a big story when she stumbles upon something strange and mysterious deep in the woods. But first she must stop an ambitious local journalist from stealing her story.
Dog Listens to Baseball Game
By Isabel Slate
Yesterday morning a black dog sat on the Trevor’s porch listening to a baseball game blaring from the house. With every ball, strike, and hit, it wiggled its little nose. When the announcer shouted that the Yankees had won, the dog rolled over and waved its paws in the air. This journalist believes the dog is a Yankee fan.
C.K. Spicer races toward me across the Francis Mott School hardtop, his shaggy hair flapping in the wind. Even sitting on his bike, he’s tall and skinny like a stretched-out rubber band. "Hey, Isabel, what kind of newspaper is Isabel’s Eyes? I’ve never heard of animals listening to a baseball game.”
C.K. Spicer may be the cool new kid at school, but that doesn’t mean he decides what I write in my newspaper. I do. "That's why I wrote about it, C.K. I have to keep my readers up on the news."
C.K. stops his bike in front of me. I want to walk away, but I can’t give him the satisfaction of thinking he annoys me. C.K. came to our school one month ago and acts like he doesn’t care if anyone likes him. Of course, that makes everyone like him.
“It’s time to write a real story, Isabel.”
“Tell me what C.K. stands for … that would make a good real story.”
“Nice try, but that secret is staying a secret.” C.K. smiles, and two little dimples press into his cheeks. All the girls love his dimples.
GENRE: MG Contemporary fiction
Isabel Slate, an imaginative kid journalist with a tendency to embellish the facts, gets a chance to prove herself with a big story when she stumbles upon something strange and mysterious deep in the woods. But first she must stop an ambitious local journalist from stealing her story.
Dog Listens to Baseball Game
By Isabel Slate
Yesterday morning a black dog sat on the Trevor’s porch listening to a baseball game blaring from the house. With every ball, strike, and hit, it wiggled its little nose. When the announcer shouted that the Yankees had won, the dog rolled over and waved its paws in the air. This journalist believes the dog is a Yankee fan.
C.K. Spicer races toward me across the Francis Mott School hardtop, his shaggy hair flapping in the wind. Even sitting on his bike, he’s tall and skinny like a stretched-out rubber band. "Hey, Isabel, what kind of newspaper is Isabel’s Eyes? I’ve never heard of animals listening to a baseball game.”
C.K. Spicer may be the cool new kid at school, but that doesn’t mean he decides what I write in my newspaper. I do. "That's why I wrote about it, C.K. I have to keep my readers up on the news."
C.K. stops his bike in front of me. I want to walk away, but I can’t give him the satisfaction of thinking he annoys me. C.K. came to our school one month ago and acts like he doesn’t care if anyone likes him. Of course, that makes everyone like him.
“It’s time to write a real story, Isabel.”
“Tell me what C.K. stands for … that would make a good real story.”
“Nice try, but that secret is staying a secret.” C.K. smiles, and two little dimples press into his cheeks. All the girls love his dimples.
On The Block Concession Crit #11
TITLE: Tides of Magic
GENRE: Adult Epic Fantasy
The advent of magic allows former tyrants to lay siege to Fabius’ kingdom. The nobility-hating prince must choose whether to submit to their savage rule or destroy magic along with innocent lives and his empire.
Her auburn hair came undone as Elena pressed her face to the gem shop’s window. The raucous thirty-odd people outside had congregated in a matter of minutes. Her eyes widened as a flaming torch arched towards the roof.
Her mentor’s three year old squirmed in her grip as she held him down from scampering up to the window sill. “Dormu!” Elena admonished him as another flash of yellow streaked past the window, a black jet of smoke trailing behind.
The door to the shop burst open and a burly man armed with a staff barged in. “Get out, Elena. Dirma must pay for what he’s done.” Hogarth raised his left hand and waved her to move.
She was not surprised to see the spiteful farmer leading the mob. But any thoughts of standing her ground vanished as smoldering embers of straw floated in through the door. Elena picked up Dormu and burst out.
“You can’t burn down the shop!” Elena shouted to the riotous crowd. “Have you people lost your mind?”
Where is the town guard? She looked around for a sympathetic face in the throng but icy eyes stared back at her. “He didn’t do anything. None of us know how all of this is happening, least of all Dirma,” she pleaded.
“Tell that to Samuise Lothar.” Hogarth grabbed her free hand and pulled her away. “You didn’t have to look at the horror of his body turned to ice. You didn’t have to sit by and watch him melt away into a puddle.”
GENRE: Adult Epic Fantasy
The advent of magic allows former tyrants to lay siege to Fabius’ kingdom. The nobility-hating prince must choose whether to submit to their savage rule or destroy magic along with innocent lives and his empire.
Her auburn hair came undone as Elena pressed her face to the gem shop’s window. The raucous thirty-odd people outside had congregated in a matter of minutes. Her eyes widened as a flaming torch arched towards the roof.
Her mentor’s three year old squirmed in her grip as she held him down from scampering up to the window sill. “Dormu!” Elena admonished him as another flash of yellow streaked past the window, a black jet of smoke trailing behind.
The door to the shop burst open and a burly man armed with a staff barged in. “Get out, Elena. Dirma must pay for what he’s done.” Hogarth raised his left hand and waved her to move.
She was not surprised to see the spiteful farmer leading the mob. But any thoughts of standing her ground vanished as smoldering embers of straw floated in through the door. Elena picked up Dormu and burst out.
“You can’t burn down the shop!” Elena shouted to the riotous crowd. “Have you people lost your mind?”
Where is the town guard? She looked around for a sympathetic face in the throng but icy eyes stared back at her. “He didn’t do anything. None of us know how all of this is happening, least of all Dirma,” she pleaded.
“Tell that to Samuise Lothar.” Hogarth grabbed her free hand and pulled her away. “You didn’t have to look at the horror of his body turned to ice. You didn’t have to sit by and watch him melt away into a puddle.”
On The Block Concession Crit #10
TITLE: Ben Seeker
GENRE: YA suspense
Freakishly big for his fifteen-years and unable to recall his origin, a man-sized boy enters a sleepy farm town in search of his mother, but instead finds trouble. His quest for normalcy pits him against gangsters, sets dark operatives upon him, and awakens his capacity to care for others.
Ben stepped down from the road weary bus and stood at a dusty crossroads in a flat farm valley, alone amongst endless rows of tomato bushes drooping in the sun. As the bus rumbled off he set his jaw firmly, but when he reached into his pocket and touched the picture hidden there, he smiled.
The distant mountains were barely visible in the dirty air, just as his past was obscured by hazy memories. Up ahead, Ben hoped, was the light to uncloak his origin.
He chose the smaller road, and in the fifty minutes it took him to walk to town, only one pickup truck passed by. While it approached Ben averted his eyes. He didn’t want the driver stopping to ask questions such as: Why was a stranger walking on this road in the heat? Ben had his reasons, but saying them out loud . . . that would sound crazy.
Lone country roads could be trouble, so Ben was glad when the driver did not slow. Ben was man-sized big and didn’t look like a lost kid in need of help; but actually, he was beginning to see double because of the heat.
At last Cabrillo Diablo came into view like a wispy mirage and a blur of treetops. Cabrillo Diablo meant devil’s goat cheese, and while Ben pinched his nostrils he thought the name made sense. The musty air was a cow-manure cocktail; but hopefully, the burning stench was the smelling salts he needed.
GENRE: YA suspense
Freakishly big for his fifteen-years and unable to recall his origin, a man-sized boy enters a sleepy farm town in search of his mother, but instead finds trouble. His quest for normalcy pits him against gangsters, sets dark operatives upon him, and awakens his capacity to care for others.
Ben stepped down from the road weary bus and stood at a dusty crossroads in a flat farm valley, alone amongst endless rows of tomato bushes drooping in the sun. As the bus rumbled off he set his jaw firmly, but when he reached into his pocket and touched the picture hidden there, he smiled.
The distant mountains were barely visible in the dirty air, just as his past was obscured by hazy memories. Up ahead, Ben hoped, was the light to uncloak his origin.
He chose the smaller road, and in the fifty minutes it took him to walk to town, only one pickup truck passed by. While it approached Ben averted his eyes. He didn’t want the driver stopping to ask questions such as: Why was a stranger walking on this road in the heat? Ben had his reasons, but saying them out loud . . . that would sound crazy.
Lone country roads could be trouble, so Ben was glad when the driver did not slow. Ben was man-sized big and didn’t look like a lost kid in need of help; but actually, he was beginning to see double because of the heat.
At last Cabrillo Diablo came into view like a wispy mirage and a blur of treetops. Cabrillo Diablo meant devil’s goat cheese, and while Ben pinched his nostrils he thought the name made sense. The musty air was a cow-manure cocktail; but hopefully, the burning stench was the smelling salts he needed.
On The Block Concession Crit #9
TITLE: Below Rock Bottom
GENRE: YA Mature Young Adult
Regina’s future at Yale is threatened by a family history project when she has no family and by getting raped by a man who has ties to her past. If she can’t find the strength to face her rapist, she will lose her scholarship, Thomas and possibly her life.
Mrs. Crandall’s mustache twitched. I couldn’t concentrate on her lecture, thinking instead about the different kinds of home wax kits I could secretly leave in her desk drawer. It was only first period, and already my attention span needed a Snicker’s bar.
“Moving to the last business of the day,” Mrs. Crandall said while waddling to the front of the chalkboard. “Your term project is worth forty percent of your grade, so I would pay attention or you won’t be walking across the stage come graduation.”
She passed out pink instruction papers, her mustache flexing and stretching as she over-exaggerated her vowels. The more she talked, the more I felt like I was in one of those end of the world movies. The project was on family history and the paper was filled with questions about each side of our family and “important events that helped shape what your family is today.”
Ugh. What a bore-fest. I scanned the room while fiddling with the button on my Polo shirt. No one else seemed to be more than slightly annoyed or completely screwed over like I was. Was I really the only seventeen year-old with a dysfunctional family secret? Just how was I supposed to do research on a non-existent family? My father had disappeared right after the umbilical cord was cut. I didn’t know if he was the captain on a pirate ship off the coast of Africa, or a secret agent of some underground criminal gang.
GENRE: YA Mature Young Adult
Regina’s future at Yale is threatened by a family history project when she has no family and by getting raped by a man who has ties to her past. If she can’t find the strength to face her rapist, she will lose her scholarship, Thomas and possibly her life.
Mrs. Crandall’s mustache twitched. I couldn’t concentrate on her lecture, thinking instead about the different kinds of home wax kits I could secretly leave in her desk drawer. It was only first period, and already my attention span needed a Snicker’s bar.
“Moving to the last business of the day,” Mrs. Crandall said while waddling to the front of the chalkboard. “Your term project is worth forty percent of your grade, so I would pay attention or you won’t be walking across the stage come graduation.”
She passed out pink instruction papers, her mustache flexing and stretching as she over-exaggerated her vowels. The more she talked, the more I felt like I was in one of those end of the world movies. The project was on family history and the paper was filled with questions about each side of our family and “important events that helped shape what your family is today.”
Ugh. What a bore-fest. I scanned the room while fiddling with the button on my Polo shirt. No one else seemed to be more than slightly annoyed or completely screwed over like I was. Was I really the only seventeen year-old with a dysfunctional family secret? Just how was I supposed to do research on a non-existent family? My father had disappeared right after the umbilical cord was cut. I didn’t know if he was the captain on a pirate ship off the coast of Africa, or a secret agent of some underground criminal gang.
On The Block Concession Crit #8
TITLE: Garrett Gordon vs. The Cyberians
GENRE: MG Contemporary
When technology genius and middle school dropout Garrett Gordon accidentally sells an unbeatable encryption program to the Russian mafia, he becomes ensnared in a dangerous game – one that he must win, or everyone he cares about will be lost.
Garrett plodded in from fourth grade, slammed the door behind him, and dropped his book bag on the floor with a thud before he spotted his dad, Phillip Gordon, typing at his desk across the room.
“Bad day, kiddo?”
The rickety old chair creaked as his dad stood up and started toward the foyer.
This close up, he was sure his father could see and smell the pudding matting his hair to his head. He squeezed his eyes shut, feeling more embarrassed even than the moment it first happened.
“Want to talk about it?”
Garrett shook his head.
“Well, how ‘bout you go jump in the shower then.”
Garrett nodded.
They both headed down the hall, Garrett to his room and his dad straight to the bathroom to get the water to exactly the right temperature. From inside his room, Garrett could barely hear his dad’s voice over the crashing water. “Do you know some people in India believe that water can actually wash away bad stuff? Evil spirits and bad luck? They say you can start fresh again, without any of the old stuff on you.”
Garrett rounded the corner holding a handful of clean clothes and a towel he’d found wadded up on the floor of his room. “Really?” He buried his nose in the towel and sniffed. Not too gross.
“I kind of think that it could work that way. Don’t you?” His dad took the clothes from Garrett, folded and stacked them on the toilet and hung the towel on the rack in the shower.
GENRE: MG Contemporary
When technology genius and middle school dropout Garrett Gordon accidentally sells an unbeatable encryption program to the Russian mafia, he becomes ensnared in a dangerous game – one that he must win, or everyone he cares about will be lost.
Garrett plodded in from fourth grade, slammed the door behind him, and dropped his book bag on the floor with a thud before he spotted his dad, Phillip Gordon, typing at his desk across the room.
“Bad day, kiddo?”
The rickety old chair creaked as his dad stood up and started toward the foyer.
This close up, he was sure his father could see and smell the pudding matting his hair to his head. He squeezed his eyes shut, feeling more embarrassed even than the moment it first happened.
“Want to talk about it?”
Garrett shook his head.
“Well, how ‘bout you go jump in the shower then.”
Garrett nodded.
They both headed down the hall, Garrett to his room and his dad straight to the bathroom to get the water to exactly the right temperature. From inside his room, Garrett could barely hear his dad’s voice over the crashing water. “Do you know some people in India believe that water can actually wash away bad stuff? Evil spirits and bad luck? They say you can start fresh again, without any of the old stuff on you.”
Garrett rounded the corner holding a handful of clean clothes and a towel he’d found wadded up on the floor of his room. “Really?” He buried his nose in the towel and sniffed. Not too gross.
“I kind of think that it could work that way. Don’t you?” His dad took the clothes from Garrett, folded and stacked them on the toilet and hung the towel on the rack in the shower.
On The Block Concession Crit #7
TITLE: June Plumay, Teenage Curse Inspector
GENRE: YA Science Fiction, Contemporary
June Plumay wants to be a licensed curse inspector like her Pop, then she can investigate his murder. That means playing by the council’s rules: no giving the stink-eye to school bullies, hiding her hex-smithing from her new family, and – most importantly -- No Investigating On Her Own.
June handed her father the wheat flour and the jar of frosted melancholy. He set them down on the counter next to the big copper bowl, and checked the splattered and much abused recipe. The words were beautiful calligraphy torn from an ancient manuscript written by a Welsh monk who liked cats, and whiskey, and cursing the Romans.
While her father whispered a powerful grace over the eggs, June closed her eyes, ran her hands over her head in a benediction, and pretended she was taking a shower in a waterfall. She needed to perform this ritual before she touched her phone, or it would get zapped by her tainted blood.
Her father considered almost anything electronic an abomination, and would not allow her to buy another phone if she destroyed this one. It had taken all of her money doing odd jobs for Sour Ann, babysitting, and fixing Cancer Jack’s skateboard just to replace her first phone.
“Cinnamon.” He wagged his fingers impatiently.
“Just a minute, boss. I need tunes.” It was not easy to select a playlist that fit the mood. It was a late Saturday morning in the Fall, her favorite time of year, when she felt most comfortable in her skin, and all her clothes fit right.
The aroma of bacon and lazy sunlight lingered in the kitchen, and she could still taste buttery pancakes from breakfast. So, comfortably full and pleased with the universe, June helped her father brew concoctions of dreadful potency.
GENRE: YA Science Fiction, Contemporary
June Plumay wants to be a licensed curse inspector like her Pop, then she can investigate his murder. That means playing by the council’s rules: no giving the stink-eye to school bullies, hiding her hex-smithing from her new family, and – most importantly -- No Investigating On Her Own.
June handed her father the wheat flour and the jar of frosted melancholy. He set them down on the counter next to the big copper bowl, and checked the splattered and much abused recipe. The words were beautiful calligraphy torn from an ancient manuscript written by a Welsh monk who liked cats, and whiskey, and cursing the Romans.
While her father whispered a powerful grace over the eggs, June closed her eyes, ran her hands over her head in a benediction, and pretended she was taking a shower in a waterfall. She needed to perform this ritual before she touched her phone, or it would get zapped by her tainted blood.
Her father considered almost anything electronic an abomination, and would not allow her to buy another phone if she destroyed this one. It had taken all of her money doing odd jobs for Sour Ann, babysitting, and fixing Cancer Jack’s skateboard just to replace her first phone.
“Cinnamon.” He wagged his fingers impatiently.
“Just a minute, boss. I need tunes.” It was not easy to select a playlist that fit the mood. It was a late Saturday morning in the Fall, her favorite time of year, when she felt most comfortable in her skin, and all her clothes fit right.
The aroma of bacon and lazy sunlight lingered in the kitchen, and she could still taste buttery pancakes from breakfast. So, comfortably full and pleased with the universe, June helped her father brew concoctions of dreadful potency.
On The Block Concession Crit #6
TITLE: Aubrey's Adventures - The Gift
GENRE: MG Fantasy Adventure
Young Aubrey is upset leaving his friends and moving to a new town, however he makes new ones as he discovers his ability to communicate with the forest creatures. He must muster enough courage to warn his new town of an impending flood, without revealing his new friends informed him.
In a distant forest, the morning sun breaks over the mountain peaks, its rays sweeping softly along the tops of the trees. Suddenly a stiff spring breeze blows causing a wind gust to catch the woodland leaves and debris, swirling them in a circle around the trees. In one particular tree among the oaks and pines, very far up, in an enormous sycamore, is a branch with a huge gnarly hole bored into the trunk. As the wind settles, a large old plump owl waddles out onto the branch. She is a magnificent Great Horned Owl, known as Miss Pearl, to all woodland creatures. Standing there, ruffling her feathers, she taps her talons on the branch, then digs them in as the next warm breeze turns into a strong gust.
Meanwhile in a city far away, a young Aubrey sits on the edge of his bed, wearing his red plaid PJ bottoms. He clutches his father’s dog tags and gold cross dangling around his neck that were given to him only a year ago. Shaking his head, he mutters, “Why, why, what is Mom thinking? I don’t want to do this, it really stinks. This is my home and all of my friends are here.”
At the same time, Miss Pearl says, “Hmmm, there is something in the wind I haven’t felt for a very long time, long time. I’m not sure, but I believe something wonderful is about to happen very soon. I guess I will have to wait and see, wait and see.”
GENRE: MG Fantasy Adventure
Young Aubrey is upset leaving his friends and moving to a new town, however he makes new ones as he discovers his ability to communicate with the forest creatures. He must muster enough courage to warn his new town of an impending flood, without revealing his new friends informed him.
In a distant forest, the morning sun breaks over the mountain peaks, its rays sweeping softly along the tops of the trees. Suddenly a stiff spring breeze blows causing a wind gust to catch the woodland leaves and debris, swirling them in a circle around the trees. In one particular tree among the oaks and pines, very far up, in an enormous sycamore, is a branch with a huge gnarly hole bored into the trunk. As the wind settles, a large old plump owl waddles out onto the branch. She is a magnificent Great Horned Owl, known as Miss Pearl, to all woodland creatures. Standing there, ruffling her feathers, she taps her talons on the branch, then digs them in as the next warm breeze turns into a strong gust.
Meanwhile in a city far away, a young Aubrey sits on the edge of his bed, wearing his red plaid PJ bottoms. He clutches his father’s dog tags and gold cross dangling around his neck that were given to him only a year ago. Shaking his head, he mutters, “Why, why, what is Mom thinking? I don’t want to do this, it really stinks. This is my home and all of my friends are here.”
At the same time, Miss Pearl says, “Hmmm, there is something in the wind I haven’t felt for a very long time, long time. I’m not sure, but I believe something wonderful is about to happen very soon. I guess I will have to wait and see, wait and see.”
On The Block Concession Crit #5
TITLE: Designs of Euphoria
GENRE: YA Science Fiction
When seventeen-year-old Lottie discovers her first love is a genetically modified warrior loyal to an emerging AI, the only thing worse is the reason why.
I looked behind, barely able to see Dad buried between the sacks, hoping against hope that he’d stay there. Grains of sand whipped around us, scattering as we neared West Gate. A slow ache rippled through my shoulder blades as I turned back around. Everything hurt, everything always hurt, by the time we got to the gate. Even my hair hurt. I tugged at its knot, letting the tangled mess fall to my shoulders.
A ding on the transport’s front display called, igniting a faint orange glow. They’d identified us. Cursing myself for not moving sooner, I slammed the text closed and jumped from the makeshift perch. A hollow slip ran between the transport’s interior wall and flat deck. Two quick bangs and the rusty casing opened enough for me to hide the book inside. A good kick and it closed.
Upon sight, the warrior’s darkened silhouettes shifted, drawing electrified braided spears outward. Black synthetic leathers ran smoothly over their bodies, layered on top of the concealed source of their inhuman strength: exogear. More warriors watched from the top of the warded wall, hidden from view and lost in the depths of the sky.
Either the automatic alert or my frantic scurry woke Dad. He wrestled a bit as he made his way to the front of the transport, reeking from whatever he'd hidden under his dusty layers. “Charlotte, I’ve got this.” Barely more than a whisper, his voice sounded thick and raspy from drink and unsettled sleep.
GENRE: YA Science Fiction
When seventeen-year-old Lottie discovers her first love is a genetically modified warrior loyal to an emerging AI, the only thing worse is the reason why.
I looked behind, barely able to see Dad buried between the sacks, hoping against hope that he’d stay there. Grains of sand whipped around us, scattering as we neared West Gate. A slow ache rippled through my shoulder blades as I turned back around. Everything hurt, everything always hurt, by the time we got to the gate. Even my hair hurt. I tugged at its knot, letting the tangled mess fall to my shoulders.
A ding on the transport’s front display called, igniting a faint orange glow. They’d identified us. Cursing myself for not moving sooner, I slammed the text closed and jumped from the makeshift perch. A hollow slip ran between the transport’s interior wall and flat deck. Two quick bangs and the rusty casing opened enough for me to hide the book inside. A good kick and it closed.
Upon sight, the warrior’s darkened silhouettes shifted, drawing electrified braided spears outward. Black synthetic leathers ran smoothly over their bodies, layered on top of the concealed source of their inhuman strength: exogear. More warriors watched from the top of the warded wall, hidden from view and lost in the depths of the sky.
Either the automatic alert or my frantic scurry woke Dad. He wrestled a bit as he made his way to the front of the transport, reeking from whatever he'd hidden under his dusty layers. “Charlotte, I’ve got this.” Barely more than a whisper, his voice sounded thick and raspy from drink and unsettled sleep.
On The Block Concession Crit #4
TITLE: BLOODSTONE
GENRE: Adult Urban Fantasy
A California woman wants to sell her newly inherited brownstone, but the building and its ghost have other plans.
Mottled yellow leaves drooped from tree limbs like tears waiting to fall. I watched them from the cab, willing them to drop, but they wouldn't budge. The car turned down a narrow cobblestone street. My stomach twisted. Everything happened too fast. I couldn't process what transpired. How do I mourn a family member I didn't know, one I never even knew existed? A heavy lump settled in my stomach when the car stopped.
I paid the fare, hoping I tipped correctly. "Thank you. Have a nice day."
"You too, Miss."
Standing on the sidewalk with luggage in hand, I tracked the taxi as it made a u-turn, drove back down the street, and disappeared around the corner. There was nothing left to do but get on with it. My hand tightened on the suitcase handle while I surveyed the homes on the street. Identical brownstones lined both sides, each three stories high with skinny black shutters. Wrought iron rails led up stairs to tall, wooden doors. A toy car sat on the steps across the street, a package leaned against a door, a rake stuck out of a pile of leaves the next building over. Signs of daily life and family were everywhere except on the brownstone in front of me. It not only looked different, it felt different—lonely, almost lost.
I double-checked the address before heading toward the stairs. My pace slowed the closer I came to the building. Was this mystery aunt evil?
GENRE: Adult Urban Fantasy
A California woman wants to sell her newly inherited brownstone, but the building and its ghost have other plans.
Mottled yellow leaves drooped from tree limbs like tears waiting to fall. I watched them from the cab, willing them to drop, but they wouldn't budge. The car turned down a narrow cobblestone street. My stomach twisted. Everything happened too fast. I couldn't process what transpired. How do I mourn a family member I didn't know, one I never even knew existed? A heavy lump settled in my stomach when the car stopped.
I paid the fare, hoping I tipped correctly. "Thank you. Have a nice day."
"You too, Miss."
Standing on the sidewalk with luggage in hand, I tracked the taxi as it made a u-turn, drove back down the street, and disappeared around the corner. There was nothing left to do but get on with it. My hand tightened on the suitcase handle while I surveyed the homes on the street. Identical brownstones lined both sides, each three stories high with skinny black shutters. Wrought iron rails led up stairs to tall, wooden doors. A toy car sat on the steps across the street, a package leaned against a door, a rake stuck out of a pile of leaves the next building over. Signs of daily life and family were everywhere except on the brownstone in front of me. It not only looked different, it felt different—lonely, almost lost.
I double-checked the address before heading toward the stairs. My pace slowed the closer I came to the building. Was this mystery aunt evil?
On The Block Concession Crit #3
TITLE: The Nine Graves of Geraldine Grey
GENRE: MG Fantasy
A young girl tasked with helping souls from a Louisiana cemetery pass to the other side must fight a powerful witch for control over the gate to the underworld.
In the backwoods of Louisiana, where the trees are draped in Spanish moss and mist rises from the swamps, there is a grand old house called La Maison des Fantômes. It is a mysterious house, cobwebbed and covered in ivy. Its columns are French, its gardens English, and just beyond it, where the alligators rest in the oak grove, is the oldest graveyard in all of Louisiana. Its keeper is Geraldine Grey.
If you ever saw Geraldine, the first thing you would notice was that she was a Very Serious child. At twelve, she had already mastered the stern calmness of a professor, and was prone to carrying exactly three books in her satchel at all times. Her curly black hair fell just to her shoulders, and her elbows and knees were knobbier than the branches on an old elm tree. Her most important features, however, were her eyes, which were eerie white, except for the faint black ring separating her pupils.
Geraldine’s eyes were important, because they were what allowed her to see ghosts.
“Bonsoir, Mister Thompson,” Geraldine greeted the groundskeeper when she arrived at the graveyard that evening – bonsoir, of course, meaning good evening in French.
The bad-tempered old ghost did not agree with this salutation. “I don’t see what’s so good about it,” he grouched as he rose from his grave and stretched. His bones rattled from the movement. Mister Thompson was as gaunt and bony in death as he had been in life.
GENRE: MG Fantasy
A young girl tasked with helping souls from a Louisiana cemetery pass to the other side must fight a powerful witch for control over the gate to the underworld.
In the backwoods of Louisiana, where the trees are draped in Spanish moss and mist rises from the swamps, there is a grand old house called La Maison des Fantômes. It is a mysterious house, cobwebbed and covered in ivy. Its columns are French, its gardens English, and just beyond it, where the alligators rest in the oak grove, is the oldest graveyard in all of Louisiana. Its keeper is Geraldine Grey.
If you ever saw Geraldine, the first thing you would notice was that she was a Very Serious child. At twelve, she had already mastered the stern calmness of a professor, and was prone to carrying exactly three books in her satchel at all times. Her curly black hair fell just to her shoulders, and her elbows and knees were knobbier than the branches on an old elm tree. Her most important features, however, were her eyes, which were eerie white, except for the faint black ring separating her pupils.
Geraldine’s eyes were important, because they were what allowed her to see ghosts.
“Bonsoir, Mister Thompson,” Geraldine greeted the groundskeeper when she arrived at the graveyard that evening – bonsoir, of course, meaning good evening in French.
The bad-tempered old ghost did not agree with this salutation. “I don’t see what’s so good about it,” he grouched as he rose from his grave and stretched. His bones rattled from the movement. Mister Thompson was as gaunt and bony in death as he had been in life.
On The Block Concession Crit #2
TITLE: THE LUCK EXCHANGE
GENRE: MG Fantasy
Twelve-year-old Madalece desperately wants to fix her broken Luck to regain Mother's love, but when Mother starts working on a mysterious cure, Madalece must accept herself as is to right Mother’s gruesome wrongs.
When elves die by sword or sorrow,
Owls make certain they see tomorrow.
Their souls are planted and reborn.
With pasts erased, they do not mourn.
But compassion fades and hearts harden
As rumors take root and poison the Garden.
Earthworms of anxiety knotted in Madelece’s belly. She’d barely slept the night before, which meant sporadic Luck. And that wouldn’t go unnoticed by Mother.
Steadying her breath, Madelece climbed out of her canoe and pulled it onto the sand. She scanned the plain oak canoes anchored to the shore by Luck, until she spotted her mother’s.
She turned back to her canoe. “Madelece says, Stay.” Her voice was strong and sure. Reaching down, she gave the boat a small test push, and it scooted back into the water. Jinx! Thank the Owls no one was around to see her failure. She quickly grabbed the edge before it floated away.
Once she found the in-case-of-no-Luck rope she kept hidden under the seat, she tied it to a nearby tree, securing her canoe. She shivered and shook down her copper-colored hair over her shoulders—it was cooler in the Valley than where her papa lived on the fringe of the isle.
Madelece gathered her satchel and took a nervous sip of maple tea. The healers had to cure her sleeplessness. They just had to. Then she’d make Mother proud of her. But, it would mean staying with Papa during the Rite of Names ceremony, and Mother—the Mistress Gardener of the elven afterlife—would never agree to that.
GENRE: MG Fantasy
Twelve-year-old Madalece desperately wants to fix her broken Luck to regain Mother's love, but when Mother starts working on a mysterious cure, Madalece must accept herself as is to right Mother’s gruesome wrongs.
When elves die by sword or sorrow,
Owls make certain they see tomorrow.
Their souls are planted and reborn.
With pasts erased, they do not mourn.
But compassion fades and hearts harden
As rumors take root and poison the Garden.
Earthworms of anxiety knotted in Madelece’s belly. She’d barely slept the night before, which meant sporadic Luck. And that wouldn’t go unnoticed by Mother.
Steadying her breath, Madelece climbed out of her canoe and pulled it onto the sand. She scanned the plain oak canoes anchored to the shore by Luck, until she spotted her mother’s.
She turned back to her canoe. “Madelece says, Stay.” Her voice was strong and sure. Reaching down, she gave the boat a small test push, and it scooted back into the water. Jinx! Thank the Owls no one was around to see her failure. She quickly grabbed the edge before it floated away.
Once she found the in-case-of-no-Luck rope she kept hidden under the seat, she tied it to a nearby tree, securing her canoe. She shivered and shook down her copper-colored hair over her shoulders—it was cooler in the Valley than where her papa lived on the fringe of the isle.
Madelece gathered her satchel and took a nervous sip of maple tea. The healers had to cure her sleeplessness. They just had to. Then she’d make Mother proud of her. But, it would mean staying with Papa during the Rite of Names ceremony, and Mother—the Mistress Gardener of the elven afterlife—would never agree to that.
On The Block Concession Crit #1
TITLE: Enthrall
GENRE: MG Horror
After Zac is kicked out of school for defending his moms, a renovation job leads their family to an old hospital. Zac encounters a ghost in the building who warns him of trapped spirits. When one of his moms grows extremely ill and his sister begins acting strangely, Zac realizes he’ll have to free the ghosts to keep his family safe.
Moving to an old hospital in the middle of nowhere isn’t how I wanted to spend my winter break.
“This place is falling down,” I say. Strips of white paint hang from the porch pillars. The building has three levels and most of the windows facing us are cracked and broken. For a minute, I think I see movement in one of the upstairs windows. Just a flash of something, there and then gone.
“Don’t even start, Zac,” my mom Bree says. “You made your bed. . .”
She’s telling me it’s my fault we’re here. Sure, I hit Jarred Petersen. And hit him. And hit him. Once I finally started hitting him, I couldn’t stop. I wanted to make sure he never said bad things about my moms or my sister again. “You took the job here,” I tell Bree. I don’t call her “Mom” like she wants. She’s never felt like much of a mom.
My other mom, SofÃa, sighs. “Vamos, guys. Could we just get the door open?”
My twin sister Zadie fumbles with the keys. I carried her suitcase so she could open the door for us. “I’m trying,” Zadie says, fitting the key into the lock and turning the knob.
She pushes hard on the door. Hinges creak and it swings open. Bree steps past her and flicks the lights on. We follow Bree, walking into our new house. It smells dusty and old.
GENRE: MG Horror
After Zac is kicked out of school for defending his moms, a renovation job leads their family to an old hospital. Zac encounters a ghost in the building who warns him of trapped spirits. When one of his moms grows extremely ill and his sister begins acting strangely, Zac realizes he’ll have to free the ghosts to keep his family safe.
Moving to an old hospital in the middle of nowhere isn’t how I wanted to spend my winter break.
“This place is falling down,” I say. Strips of white paint hang from the porch pillars. The building has three levels and most of the windows facing us are cracked and broken. For a minute, I think I see movement in one of the upstairs windows. Just a flash of something, there and then gone.
“Don’t even start, Zac,” my mom Bree says. “You made your bed. . .”
She’s telling me it’s my fault we’re here. Sure, I hit Jarred Petersen. And hit him. And hit him. Once I finally started hitting him, I couldn’t stop. I wanted to make sure he never said bad things about my moms or my sister again. “You took the job here,” I tell Bree. I don’t call her “Mom” like she wants. She’s never felt like much of a mom.
My other mom, SofÃa, sighs. “Vamos, guys. Could we just get the door open?”
My twin sister Zadie fumbles with the keys. I carried her suitcase so she could open the door for us. “I’m trying,” Zadie says, fitting the key into the lock and turning the knob.
She pushes hard on the door. Hinges creak and it swings open. Bree steps past her and flicks the lights on. We follow Bree, walking into our new house. It smells dusty and old.
Monday, January 30, 2017
Call For Submissions: Non-chosen Entries For ON THE BLOCK
I apologize for the delay! January was ridiculously busy (performances, mostly), and here we are at the end of it.
At any rate, I'm opening submissions for up to 30 entries from people who entered ON THE BLOCK, but whose excerpts were not chosen for the auction. If you'd like some feedback on your logline and first page, now's your chance!
Here's the skinny:
At any rate, I'm opening submissions for up to 30 entries from people who entered ON THE BLOCK, but whose excerpts were not chosen for the auction. If you'd like some feedback on your logline and first page, now's your chance!
Here's the skinny:
- This critique round is for ON THE BLOCK entrants ONLY.
- Please use THE SAME TITLE as you used when you entered, as I will be checking. If your entry title doesn't match a legitimate entry from the contest, your submission will be disqualified.
- Your entry should include your logline, followed by your first 250 words.
- Note: There is no need to include things like "logline" or "first 250 words". I just have to go through and delete all that stuff, and I'd rather not have to. Please simply include the requested material without labeling it.
- It will be most beneficial to you if you submit your logline and first page exactly as you sent it to me. That way, you can get a critique on the actual content that was rejected.
- HOWEVER, if you have since revised and would prefer feedback on your newer version, that's okay, too. Please keep the logline the same, though.
- In addition to public critique, your entry will also receive feedback from at least one published author. The list of authors will be posted later this week.
- Submissions will open THIS THURSDAY at 8:00 AM EST.
- To enter, GO HERE.
- Submissions will remain open for 24 hours or until 30 entries are received, whichever comes first.
If you have any question, please leave them in the comment box below!
Wednesday, December 7, 2016
Our First ON THE BLOCK 2016 Success Story!!
This may just be our FASTEST SUCCESS STORY EVER! Within days of the auction, Rena Rossner let me know that she had offered representation to the author of the first full she'd read from her auction winnings. Shortly after that, the author accepted. I'm happy to share her story, in her own words:
So I have this little book, a lighthearted romantic mystery about a struggling actress and above-average dog walker who has inherited a police dog with a nose for crime. She's kind of ridiculous, and she has a major luck problem—which is how I could describe myself. No surprise then that I felt daunted at the prospect of looking for a literary agent.
Before I began my search, I belonged to a Facebook group of authors who were in the midst of querying, and the tales of spreadsheets, rejections, R&Rs, or the dreaded silence made the prospect seem bleak at best, muse-killing at worst. But the fact is, there are a lot of manuscripts out there and a finite number of agents. And each of those agents represents perhaps a few genres, and then, within those genres, he or she has preferences, wish lists, and an existing stable of authors with work that shouldn't be cannibalized by something similar. I'm sure many agents dread their inboxes full of queries that miss the mark. As writers, it's our responsibility to get to know as much about each agent we query as possible to increase our chances of a good fit.
Luckily, the Internet and social media now offer some fun and efficient ways for agents and writers to match up. At Miss Snark’s First Victim, the hardworking Authoress provides a super-supportive critique forum and runs a number of very successful competitions where writers and agents can meet. The one I took part in was On the Block 2016, which was an agent auction. I entered it on a whim, not having entered anything like it before, and then as the selection date approached, I readied myself to hear nothing. But then I got an email! I was number thirteen. Lucky number thirteen.
During the week that my excerpt was posted, I was bowled over by the generous and encouraging comments and helpful feedback that I received from Authoress’s writing community. I started to get my hopes up. My husband noticed that I had started to vibrate (kidding!).
When my auction time arrived, I was touched to learn that my sister and my friend Lynne were watching with me. Rena Rossner from The Deborah Harris Agency and Danielle Burby from Hannigan Salky Getzler—both amazing agents who I’d be lucky to have represent me—bid with so much enthusiasm that it was all over in four minutes! I was in shock. I think I shrieked. Rena Rossner had won a one-week exclusive with my full manuscript.
And then I waited. It was an exciting time. I lost a few pounds because my body was whirring as if I had a hamster wheel inside me. My husband started to speculate about whether I might explode if I was offered representation. The final day of the exclusive, I woke up to an email from Rena saying she’d finished my book in two sittings. She was offering me representation! Then my husband had to inform me that I was slapping his arm and he was now awake and I could stop.
Later that day, Rena and I talked on the phone for about an hour. I was impressed with her experience and industry knowledge. And she was so friendly and easy to speak to that I was immediately put at ease, which I feel is important when you’re working with someone on a creative endeavor. We were already batting around ideas for my character’s arc across my planned series. I could tell we were a good fit. And I was very encouraged by her thoughts on the different ways my book might fit in the marketplace. Rena also represents sectors and genres I have an interest in writing in at a later date (middle grade and speculative fiction), so in that respect, she was also a great fit for me. I’m still pinching myself! I couldn’t be happier to be represented by Rena Rossner and The Deborah Harris Agency. And I haven’t exploded—yet!
Thank you, Authoress, for all you do to help aspiring writers to improve, find community, and match with agents. Your hard work is very much appreciated.
—Maggie Findlay
So I have this little book, a lighthearted romantic mystery about a struggling actress and above-average dog walker who has inherited a police dog with a nose for crime. She's kind of ridiculous, and she has a major luck problem—which is how I could describe myself. No surprise then that I felt daunted at the prospect of looking for a literary agent.
Before I began my search, I belonged to a Facebook group of authors who were in the midst of querying, and the tales of spreadsheets, rejections, R&Rs, or the dreaded silence made the prospect seem bleak at best, muse-killing at worst. But the fact is, there are a lot of manuscripts out there and a finite number of agents. And each of those agents represents perhaps a few genres, and then, within those genres, he or she has preferences, wish lists, and an existing stable of authors with work that shouldn't be cannibalized by something similar. I'm sure many agents dread their inboxes full of queries that miss the mark. As writers, it's our responsibility to get to know as much about each agent we query as possible to increase our chances of a good fit.
Luckily, the Internet and social media now offer some fun and efficient ways for agents and writers to match up. At Miss Snark’s First Victim, the hardworking Authoress provides a super-supportive critique forum and runs a number of very successful competitions where writers and agents can meet. The one I took part in was On the Block 2016, which was an agent auction. I entered it on a whim, not having entered anything like it before, and then as the selection date approached, I readied myself to hear nothing. But then I got an email! I was number thirteen. Lucky number thirteen.
During the week that my excerpt was posted, I was bowled over by the generous and encouraging comments and helpful feedback that I received from Authoress’s writing community. I started to get my hopes up. My husband noticed that I had started to vibrate (kidding!).
When my auction time arrived, I was touched to learn that my sister and my friend Lynne were watching with me. Rena Rossner from The Deborah Harris Agency and Danielle Burby from Hannigan Salky Getzler—both amazing agents who I’d be lucky to have represent me—bid with so much enthusiasm that it was all over in four minutes! I was in shock. I think I shrieked. Rena Rossner had won a one-week exclusive with my full manuscript.
And then I waited. It was an exciting time. I lost a few pounds because my body was whirring as if I had a hamster wheel inside me. My husband started to speculate about whether I might explode if I was offered representation. The final day of the exclusive, I woke up to an email from Rena saying she’d finished my book in two sittings. She was offering me representation! Then my husband had to inform me that I was slapping his arm and he was now awake and I could stop.
Later that day, Rena and I talked on the phone for about an hour. I was impressed with her experience and industry knowledge. And she was so friendly and easy to speak to that I was immediately put at ease, which I feel is important when you’re working with someone on a creative endeavor. We were already batting around ideas for my character’s arc across my planned series. I could tell we were a good fit. And I was very encouraged by her thoughts on the different ways my book might fit in the marketplace. Rena also represents sectors and genres I have an interest in writing in at a later date (middle grade and speculative fiction), so in that respect, she was also a great fit for me. I’m still pinching myself! I couldn’t be happier to be represented by Rena Rossner and The Deborah Harris Agency. And I haven’t exploded—yet!
Thank you, Authoress, for all you do to help aspiring writers to improve, find community, and match with agents. Your hard work is very much appreciated.
—Maggie Findlay
Wednesday, November 16, 2016
Our ON THE BLOCK 2016 Winners
Thank you, agents, authors, editors, and EVERYONE who participated in this year's ON THE BLOCK. Here is the list of final, winning bids:
#1 BUGSY’S MOLL: Josh Getzler, 25 p
#2 SIMPLE ACTS OF GRACE: Rena Rossner, FULL
#3 BREATHING IN DARKNESS: Nicole Payne, 20 p
#4 NOW AND WHEN: Nicole Payne, FULL
#5 THE FIX IS IN: Josh Getzler, 25 p
#6 KYTE’S REVENGE: Hannah Ferguson, FULL
#7 HERITAGE OF HATE: Lauren Spieller, FULL
#8 THE NETTLE SPINNER: Nicole Payne, FULL
#9 ONE NIGHT WITH THE DEVIL: Josh Getzler, FULL
#11 EVEN: Pam Howell, FULL
#12 SIGNAL VOID: Nicole Payne, 20 p
#13 STICKS AND BONES: Rena Rossner, FULL
#15 THIRD TIME’S A CURSE: Danielle Burby, FULL
#16 THE ANTIDOTE: Rena Rossner, 50 p
#17 DANGEROUS PLAY: Nicole Payne, FULL
#18 UNDERCURRENTS: Caryn Wiseman, 5 p
#19 THE ZEAL: Susan Hawk, 5 p
#20 WEBS OF GHOST MAGIC: Nicole Payne, FULL
IMPORTANT INFO FOR WINNERS:
Please email me at facelesswords(at)gmail.com to request specific submission instructions. Please include your NAME, POST NUMBER, TITLE, and WHAT YOU WON in the body of the email (which will save me vast amounts of time).
ALSO IMPORTANT: The agent who won your material will have a 1-week exclusive. After that, ANY OTHER AGENT may request your material. So if you saw agents fighting over your work, PLEASE DON'T CONTACT THE LOSING AGENTS. If they are interested (and they probably are), you will hear from me next week!
Hooray, all!
#2 SIMPLE ACTS OF GRACE: Rena Rossner, FULL
#3 BREATHING IN DARKNESS: Nicole Payne, 20 p
#4 NOW AND WHEN: Nicole Payne, FULL
#5 THE FIX IS IN: Josh Getzler, 25 p
#6 KYTE’S REVENGE: Hannah Ferguson, FULL
#7 HERITAGE OF HATE: Lauren Spieller, FULL
#8 THE NETTLE SPINNER: Nicole Payne, FULL
#9 ONE NIGHT WITH THE DEVIL: Josh Getzler, FULL
#11 EVEN: Pam Howell, FULL
#12 SIGNAL VOID: Nicole Payne, 20 p
#13 STICKS AND BONES: Rena Rossner, FULL
#15 THIRD TIME’S A CURSE: Danielle Burby, FULL
#16 THE ANTIDOTE: Rena Rossner, 50 p
#17 DANGEROUS PLAY: Nicole Payne, FULL
#18 UNDERCURRENTS: Caryn Wiseman, 5 p
#19 THE ZEAL: Susan Hawk, 5 p
#20 WEBS OF GHOST MAGIC: Nicole Payne, FULL
IMPORTANT INFO FOR WINNERS:
Please email me at facelesswords(at)gmail.com to request specific submission instructions. Please include your NAME, POST NUMBER, TITLE, and WHAT YOU WON in the body of the email (which will save me vast amounts of time).
ALSO IMPORTANT: The agent who won your material will have a 1-week exclusive. After that, ANY OTHER AGENT may request your material. So if you saw agents fighting over your work, PLEASE DON'T CONTACT THE LOSING AGENTS. If they are interested (and they probably are), you will hear from me next week!
Hooray, all!
Tuesday, November 15, 2016
OTB #20: WEBS OF GHOST MAGIC (YA Fantasy)
TITLE: WEBS OF GHOST MAGIC
GENRE: YA Fantasy
In WEBS OF GHOST MAGIC, a princess of Glenwys reaches across two kingdoms to save a prince of Emlyn from a Cadmarian assassin, but saving him reveals her as the dreamer Emperor Cadmar sent his ghost mage to find. And the prince can’t let a dreamer live.
Prince Lael caught his first whiff of murder three weeks before his seventeenth birthday. No one committed murder in the Kingdom of Emlyn.
Lael and his champion were on their way back from the Southern Markets when Lael smelled the corpse. Lael swung down from his horse to investigate—not from any real sense of concern or urgency but because his backside needed a break. They’d spent a lot of time in the saddle over the last few days, setting a much needed renovation in motion. Kellen protested the detour at first, but then he dismounted to follow.
Deep snow grabbed at Lael’s boots, nearly yanking them off with each step he took. Sun shining on the vast expanse of white made him squint to protect his eyes.
Which direction had the wind blown that smell from?
There. A patch of brown splotched the white to his left, not far from a tall pine tree. Lael veered toward it. Wavy brown hair covered most of the bloated face. A girl. She lay stretched out on her side, arms flung wide. Up close, the stench made him hold his breath. It was difficult to tell her age, but she looked younger than he was. Horrified, he reached for the knife handle protruding from her shoulder.
“Don’t touch that,” Kellen said, investigating the surrounding area. “It isn’t safe this close to the border, my prince. We should go.”
“But we aren’t that close to the border, Kel, and this little knife shouldn’t have killed her.”
GENRE: YA Fantasy
In WEBS OF GHOST MAGIC, a princess of Glenwys reaches across two kingdoms to save a prince of Emlyn from a Cadmarian assassin, but saving him reveals her as the dreamer Emperor Cadmar sent his ghost mage to find. And the prince can’t let a dreamer live.
Prince Lael caught his first whiff of murder three weeks before his seventeenth birthday. No one committed murder in the Kingdom of Emlyn.
Lael and his champion were on their way back from the Southern Markets when Lael smelled the corpse. Lael swung down from his horse to investigate—not from any real sense of concern or urgency but because his backside needed a break. They’d spent a lot of time in the saddle over the last few days, setting a much needed renovation in motion. Kellen protested the detour at first, but then he dismounted to follow.
Deep snow grabbed at Lael’s boots, nearly yanking them off with each step he took. Sun shining on the vast expanse of white made him squint to protect his eyes.
Which direction had the wind blown that smell from?
There. A patch of brown splotched the white to his left, not far from a tall pine tree. Lael veered toward it. Wavy brown hair covered most of the bloated face. A girl. She lay stretched out on her side, arms flung wide. Up close, the stench made him hold his breath. It was difficult to tell her age, but she looked younger than he was. Horrified, he reached for the knife handle protruding from her shoulder.
“Don’t touch that,” Kellen said, investigating the surrounding area. “It isn’t safe this close to the border, my prince. We should go.”
“But we aren’t that close to the border, Kel, and this little knife shouldn’t have killed her.”
OTB #19: THE ZEAL (MG Historical)
TITLE: The Zeal
GENRE: MG Historical Fiction
12-year-old Beryl O’Brien moves from North Carolina to South Boston during the busing desegregation crisis of 1974. She gets involved in the violence, but when the family secret of her being biracial is revealed, Beryl must negotiate being loyal to friends, her school, and an entire community or being true to herself.
September 12, 1974
Boston, Massachusetts
I step in front of the line of shouting protestors and hurl the rock as hard as I can at the yellow school bus. Because I don’t have a dad to teach me to throw, and the only thing Mom and I have thrown are insults at the church ladies back in North Carolina, I expect the rock to miss my target and bounce on the street, the pavement chipping its sharp edges. But the rock has white stripes that go all the way around it, and Mom says that makes a rock as lucky as a four-leaf clover.
Bam! My lucky rock shatters a window on the bus. Police officers in the street look toward the crowd, but I’ve already slipped back between the rows of demonstrators.
A girl inside the bus puts her hands to her face. Fragments of sparkling glass in her puff of black hair catch the morning sun like a tiara of small diamonds. She opens her mouth in the shape of a scream and holds her hands to her face, then turns and looks down and disappears below the window.
The yelling drowns out any sounds from inside the bus. I didn’t hurt her. There’s an ambulance, nearby with its siren blaring, but it’s for someone else. Maybe I wouldn’t have cared if I did hurt her. They should all go back to their own junior high school, in their own neighborhood.
GENRE: MG Historical Fiction
12-year-old Beryl O’Brien moves from North Carolina to South Boston during the busing desegregation crisis of 1974. She gets involved in the violence, but when the family secret of her being biracial is revealed, Beryl must negotiate being loyal to friends, her school, and an entire community or being true to herself.
September 12, 1974
Boston, Massachusetts
I step in front of the line of shouting protestors and hurl the rock as hard as I can at the yellow school bus. Because I don’t have a dad to teach me to throw, and the only thing Mom and I have thrown are insults at the church ladies back in North Carolina, I expect the rock to miss my target and bounce on the street, the pavement chipping its sharp edges. But the rock has white stripes that go all the way around it, and Mom says that makes a rock as lucky as a four-leaf clover.
Bam! My lucky rock shatters a window on the bus. Police officers in the street look toward the crowd, but I’ve already slipped back between the rows of demonstrators.
A girl inside the bus puts her hands to her face. Fragments of sparkling glass in her puff of black hair catch the morning sun like a tiara of small diamonds. She opens her mouth in the shape of a scream and holds her hands to her face, then turns and looks down and disappears below the window.
The yelling drowns out any sounds from inside the bus. I didn’t hurt her. There’s an ambulance, nearby with its siren blaring, but it’s for someone else. Maybe I wouldn’t have cared if I did hurt her. They should all go back to their own junior high school, in their own neighborhood.
OTB #18: UNDERCURRENTS (YA SF)
TITLE: Undercurrents
GENRE: YA Science Fiction
In a world when water is more precious than oil, fifteen year-old Marin Holbert takes a summer job to earn more water rations for her family; there she inadvertently uncovers a plot to take over water resources across the country and must find a way stop it.
The water level in the cistern was low. Too low. And no amount of checking the gauge ever changed that, or the fact that I hadn't had a real shower or done a proper load of laundry in months. Despite myself, I stared at the gauge anyway.
Grandma caught me. "A watched cistern never fills, Marin" she warned.
It never seemed to fill, watched or not, I thought.
“Did you know that when I was a girl it rained every afternoon at this time of year?” Grandma asked. I wasn’t meant to answer. Grandma herself was like a fountain that just kept spouting stories and recycling them. She continued, “Not that it mattered – we washed our clothes or took a shower any time we wanted.”
I glanced over at her on the couch. I loved my grandma. I really did. But if she hadn’t moved in with us last spring, I might have had a better chance at more than just clean underwear. I sometimes wished she would’ve just stayed put in Tucson, even though no one was staying put in Tucson. Or anywhere in Arizona. Or Nevada. Or Texas. Yet that was beside the point. I didn’t need Grandma’s fountain of stories. I needed real water.
“Sounds nice, Grandma,” I answered.
She put her ancient book, one actually made of paper, on her lap. “It was,” she said, her eyes not looking at me anymore, but inside her memory to a time when water just flowed and nobody thought much about it. Her dreams were probably decadent.
GENRE: YA Science Fiction
In a world when water is more precious than oil, fifteen year-old Marin Holbert takes a summer job to earn more water rations for her family; there she inadvertently uncovers a plot to take over water resources across the country and must find a way stop it.
The water level in the cistern was low. Too low. And no amount of checking the gauge ever changed that, or the fact that I hadn't had a real shower or done a proper load of laundry in months. Despite myself, I stared at the gauge anyway.
Grandma caught me. "A watched cistern never fills, Marin" she warned.
It never seemed to fill, watched or not, I thought.
“Did you know that when I was a girl it rained every afternoon at this time of year?” Grandma asked. I wasn’t meant to answer. Grandma herself was like a fountain that just kept spouting stories and recycling them. She continued, “Not that it mattered – we washed our clothes or took a shower any time we wanted.”
I glanced over at her on the couch. I loved my grandma. I really did. But if she hadn’t moved in with us last spring, I might have had a better chance at more than just clean underwear. I sometimes wished she would’ve just stayed put in Tucson, even though no one was staying put in Tucson. Or anywhere in Arizona. Or Nevada. Or Texas. Yet that was beside the point. I didn’t need Grandma’s fountain of stories. I needed real water.
“Sounds nice, Grandma,” I answered.
She put her ancient book, one actually made of paper, on her lap. “It was,” she said, her eyes not looking at me anymore, but inside her memory to a time when water just flowed and nobody thought much about it. Her dreams were probably decadent.
OTB #17: DANGEROUS PLAY (YA Contemporary)
TITLE: DANGEROUS PLAY
GENRE: YA Contemporary
Best friends and soccer all-stars Ashton, Jesse, and Z are on opposite sides of a prank text that spirals into a vicious social war and escalates to serious injury. When a common rival pits them against each other, threatening to destroy their friendship and futures, they must take him down—together.
I’ve been pantsed. Again.
And I wouldn’t be so annoyed if this wasn’t the third time today. Or if I wasn’t standing in the middle of Hollister. With Hot Register Girl. In Batman boxers.
I hate my friends.
Hot Register Girl blushes as I pull up my shorts. “Sorry about that.” I scratch my nose with my middle finger at my friends. Z’s holding up a turquoise shirt that reads If you’re hot, I’m single. “This goes great with Ashton’s boxers, yeah?” he asks.
Yep. I hate them.
“You play for Penn Ridge, right?” Hot Register Girl points a pen at Z. He waggles his eyebrows, charm oozing off of him like cologne off a Hollister model. “Your friend scored a hat trick on my ex three weeks ago. He was totally pissed.”
“So is he,” I say. Her brow scrunches. “Tonight’s the midnight release of Urgent Fury Five. We’re hitting up GameStop and heading to my buddy’s for a shoot-em-up Zombie fest. He’s ticked I asked you out. Bros before hos, and all.”
Z’s words, but did I seriously say that aloud? I want to sucker punch my own nuts. No wonder I’ve never had a girlfriend.
I’m ready to bail when she tuts. “Movie’s out by then. I’m done at nine. Meet me here?”
“Sure.” I fumble for my phone. My next question’s bound to be a date-killer. “What’s your name again? I was too mesmerized by your beauty to concentrate.”
Z would be proud of that one.
GENRE: YA Contemporary
Best friends and soccer all-stars Ashton, Jesse, and Z are on opposite sides of a prank text that spirals into a vicious social war and escalates to serious injury. When a common rival pits them against each other, threatening to destroy their friendship and futures, they must take him down—together.
I’ve been pantsed. Again.
And I wouldn’t be so annoyed if this wasn’t the third time today. Or if I wasn’t standing in the middle of Hollister. With Hot Register Girl. In Batman boxers.
I hate my friends.
Hot Register Girl blushes as I pull up my shorts. “Sorry about that.” I scratch my nose with my middle finger at my friends. Z’s holding up a turquoise shirt that reads If you’re hot, I’m single. “This goes great with Ashton’s boxers, yeah?” he asks.
Yep. I hate them.
“You play for Penn Ridge, right?” Hot Register Girl points a pen at Z. He waggles his eyebrows, charm oozing off of him like cologne off a Hollister model. “Your friend scored a hat trick on my ex three weeks ago. He was totally pissed.”
“So is he,” I say. Her brow scrunches. “Tonight’s the midnight release of Urgent Fury Five. We’re hitting up GameStop and heading to my buddy’s for a shoot-em-up Zombie fest. He’s ticked I asked you out. Bros before hos, and all.”
Z’s words, but did I seriously say that aloud? I want to sucker punch my own nuts. No wonder I’ve never had a girlfriend.
I’m ready to bail when she tuts. “Movie’s out by then. I’m done at nine. Meet me here?”
“Sure.” I fumble for my phone. My next question’s bound to be a date-killer. “What’s your name again? I was too mesmerized by your beauty to concentrate.”
Z would be proud of that one.
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