TITLE: The Meddler
GENRE: YA fantasy
I had reluctantly taken inventory of my kidnappers’ weapons. Two were armed with daggers while the other two carried bows and fully stocked quivers.
Maybe they would cut me open like a sack of flour or snap my neck like a fattened, frantic chicken. Maybe they would leave me to freeze to death and I wouldn’t be found until spring thawed the snows. As we navigated the bleak fields, the thought of the first two fates sounded preferable to the last; my neck would crack like solid ice or my blood would spill like freezing water, and then it would be over. But the cold would seem to last forever.
Each icy gust bit me to the bone. A daydream of roasting next to a fire in the kitchens while eating fistfuls of my favorite foods made the cold feel even harsher, the wind wetter, and my stomach all the more empty. But the thought of death made me coldest of all.
“You’ll get no ransom, if that’s what you want,” I said to Hagan, the redheaded gardener. My arms were wrapped around his freckle-spotted neck, numb from taking the brunt of the snowy gusts. My teeth chattered so often I could barely prize them open to force out the words. “You ought to have kidnapped the lord and lady’s daughter. You could have asked a fine price for Hazel.”
Hagan snorted with laughter. “Aye, if I managed not to kill her in the meantime. I wouldn’t go to that trouble for a thousand aurions.”
Miss Snark's First Victim
Wednesday, July 10, 2013
July Secret Agent #26
TITLE: Lynchpin
GENRE: YA Contemporary Sci-Fi
The moment Noelle sits across from me at lunch, an excited gleam in her eye, I can predict how this conversation will go.
“Come with me to Patrick’s back-to-school party.”
I smile apologetically. “You know the answer.”
Squeezing a dollop of ketchup beside my fries, I can feel her roll her eyes at me.
“But you’re a senior. Your dad has to let you go out sometime.”
At the mention of Agent Stephens, my adoptive father, I instinctively touch my sleeve to confirm it’s covering the red, puckered scar from my last torture session in the White Room. Twenty-seven people died in the earthquake I caused — the most I’ve ever killed in one session. Nausea rolls through me, and I fight the urge to push my tray aside.
“Earth to Alanna?”
I shift my hand away from the scar, sliding my smile back into place. “Sorry, what did you say?”
“Can’t you ask your dad about giving you some freedom this year?”
For once, I tell her the truth. “He’s not really the negotiating type.” I avoid the D word — dad — whenever possible. “So what are you going to wear?”
Thankfully, she takes the bait.
Noelle is my favorite of Gina’s friends, and she’s the only one who still talks to me. When you don’t belong to any teams or clubs and say no to every non-school-mandated event, people don’t become more than acquaintances. Before Noelle, Gina was the one person who never gave up on me.
If she had, she’d be alive.
GENRE: YA Contemporary Sci-Fi
The moment Noelle sits across from me at lunch, an excited gleam in her eye, I can predict how this conversation will go.
“Come with me to Patrick’s back-to-school party.”
I smile apologetically. “You know the answer.”
Squeezing a dollop of ketchup beside my fries, I can feel her roll her eyes at me.
“But you’re a senior. Your dad has to let you go out sometime.”
At the mention of Agent Stephens, my adoptive father, I instinctively touch my sleeve to confirm it’s covering the red, puckered scar from my last torture session in the White Room. Twenty-seven people died in the earthquake I caused — the most I’ve ever killed in one session. Nausea rolls through me, and I fight the urge to push my tray aside.
“Earth to Alanna?”
I shift my hand away from the scar, sliding my smile back into place. “Sorry, what did you say?”
“Can’t you ask your dad about giving you some freedom this year?”
For once, I tell her the truth. “He’s not really the negotiating type.” I avoid the D word — dad — whenever possible. “So what are you going to wear?”
Thankfully, she takes the bait.
Noelle is my favorite of Gina’s friends, and she’s the only one who still talks to me. When you don’t belong to any teams or clubs and say no to every non-school-mandated event, people don’t become more than acquaintances. Before Noelle, Gina was the one person who never gave up on me.
If she had, she’d be alive.
July Secret Agent #25
TITLE: FutureShock
GENRE: YA Time Travel
"They can take our freedom, but they can never take our French fries!"
If there had been a desk in front of me, I would have smacked my head against it. Repeatedly.
The auditorium erupted into cheers, a decidedly uncommon occurrence for Dresden High's student council candidacy announcements. Usually, students simply said what position they were running for and why people should vote for them, to weak applause or the occasional overzealous "Yeah!" from the stoner kids in the back.
Apparently, all it took was a twinkly-eyed quarterback running on a French fries platform to get people enthusiastically engaged in student government.
I had to use all my strength to unclench my jaw. My fists, however, I kept balled at my sides, so that I wouldn't try and wring anyone's neck. I wasn't usually this tense, but there was something about pretty-boy jocks reducing student government to a popularity contest that seriously irked me.
Said jock extraordinaire, Jake Carlson, gesticulated wildly at the crowd to keep cheering, and ended his brilliantly puerile campaign speech with, "So if you vote for me, everything will be awesome, and you can have all the French fries you want!"
Head. Desk.
Before I could engage in any more imaginary stress relief, the student council adviser, Ms. Jefferson, nodded at me to go up to the podium despite the fact that the crowd was still whooping, catcalling and clapping. Jake, for his part, was encouraging them by way of a dramatic reenactment of last week's game-winning catch.
GENRE: YA Time Travel
"They can take our freedom, but they can never take our French fries!"
If there had been a desk in front of me, I would have smacked my head against it. Repeatedly.
The auditorium erupted into cheers, a decidedly uncommon occurrence for Dresden High's student council candidacy announcements. Usually, students simply said what position they were running for and why people should vote for them, to weak applause or the occasional overzealous "Yeah!" from the stoner kids in the back.
Apparently, all it took was a twinkly-eyed quarterback running on a French fries platform to get people enthusiastically engaged in student government.
I had to use all my strength to unclench my jaw. My fists, however, I kept balled at my sides, so that I wouldn't try and wring anyone's neck. I wasn't usually this tense, but there was something about pretty-boy jocks reducing student government to a popularity contest that seriously irked me.
Said jock extraordinaire, Jake Carlson, gesticulated wildly at the crowd to keep cheering, and ended his brilliantly puerile campaign speech with, "So if you vote for me, everything will be awesome, and you can have all the French fries you want!"
Head. Desk.
Before I could engage in any more imaginary stress relief, the student council adviser, Ms. Jefferson, nodded at me to go up to the podium despite the fact that the crowd was still whooping, catcalling and clapping. Jake, for his part, was encouraging them by way of a dramatic reenactment of last week's game-winning catch.
July Secret Agent #24
TITLE: Ingenicide
GENRE: YA light scifi
On the morning of my Commencement, I’m eating breakfast in the car when the radio broadcaster tacks 461 more deaths onto the growing May Massacres’ list.
“Us,” I tell my dad, finding that I can’t bring myself to finish my toast. “That’s us that the Normals are killing.”
“Not for you to worry,” says Dad as he parks in the School’s lot. He reaches over to ruffle my hair. “Cheer up, little bird. Press forward with what you know best and put your faith in the authorities.”
I trust Dad, from the lilt of this voice when he says little bird to his long fingers. Even so, I can’t help but glance at the Normal volunteers who hand out programs. You’re killing us, I think, think as the words “thank you” leave my lips.
That’s what we do as Ingenia—press forward and trust others to do their jobs well.
Later, when I’m sitting with the rest of the graduates, my hand begins to dampen, causing my diploma to warp. A drop of sweat slips down my back, tickling my skin. But like the rows and rows of Peers before me, I sit still. Out of politeness, we wait for the head Mentor to finish his speech.
You don’t really need to hear the words when you have lived them, but I hear them all the same, and when he finishes, I’m the last one to rise. Mindy, who’s sitting next to me, snatches my cap and waves it in front of my face.
GENRE: YA light scifi
On the morning of my Commencement, I’m eating breakfast in the car when the radio broadcaster tacks 461 more deaths onto the growing May Massacres’ list.
“Us,” I tell my dad, finding that I can’t bring myself to finish my toast. “That’s us that the Normals are killing.”
“Not for you to worry,” says Dad as he parks in the School’s lot. He reaches over to ruffle my hair. “Cheer up, little bird. Press forward with what you know best and put your faith in the authorities.”
I trust Dad, from the lilt of this voice when he says little bird to his long fingers. Even so, I can’t help but glance at the Normal volunteers who hand out programs. You’re killing us, I think, think as the words “thank you” leave my lips.
That’s what we do as Ingenia—press forward and trust others to do their jobs well.
Later, when I’m sitting with the rest of the graduates, my hand begins to dampen, causing my diploma to warp. A drop of sweat slips down my back, tickling my skin. But like the rows and rows of Peers before me, I sit still. Out of politeness, we wait for the head Mentor to finish his speech.
You don’t really need to hear the words when you have lived them, but I hear them all the same, and when he finishes, I’m the last one to rise. Mindy, who’s sitting next to me, snatches my cap and waves it in front of my face.
July Secret Agent #23
TITLE: Deathless
GENRE: YA Fantasy
It is often said that condemned souls do three things upon the approach of their executioner – tremble, plead, and finally, rage against all those present. Today I will discover if there is any truth to the saying. I am in Ayos, a town half a day’s ride from my village, and on the platform before me, two redcloaks – the red and gold armored emperor’s guards – restrain a wildly struggling woman. Though she seems mad, what with her straggly red hair and garbled speech, she trembles upon sight of the approaching executioner, quickly proving the first part of the saying true – the condemned do quiver in the face of their impending death.
Would that I were younger, and did not have to watch what was happening on the platform. Sadly, I am six winters now – much too old to behave the spoilt child (at least, according to Father). He has reminded me long and repeatedly that I must watch the execution with all the gravity required my age, and has even put me upon his shoulders, so as I have the best view of the platform for miles.
Assuming gravity is yet another of his complicated words for dignity, I fail to see how I could possibly have any – I do after all, require the extra height his shoulders provide.
GENRE: YA Fantasy
It is often said that condemned souls do three things upon the approach of their executioner – tremble, plead, and finally, rage against all those present. Today I will discover if there is any truth to the saying. I am in Ayos, a town half a day’s ride from my village, and on the platform before me, two redcloaks – the red and gold armored emperor’s guards – restrain a wildly struggling woman. Though she seems mad, what with her straggly red hair and garbled speech, she trembles upon sight of the approaching executioner, quickly proving the first part of the saying true – the condemned do quiver in the face of their impending death.
Would that I were younger, and did not have to watch what was happening on the platform. Sadly, I am six winters now – much too old to behave the spoilt child (at least, according to Father). He has reminded me long and repeatedly that I must watch the execution with all the gravity required my age, and has even put me upon his shoulders, so as I have the best view of the platform for miles.
Assuming gravity is yet another of his complicated words for dignity, I fail to see how I could possibly have any – I do after all, require the extra height his shoulders provide.
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