TITLE: IN AUDIBLE
GENRE: Women’s / book club fiction with potential young adult crossover
Colin's interpreter flanked him all day, an extra appendage, but between school and practice he navigated the waves of Broadview blue alone as if he'd dived into the wrong ocean. T-shirts, hoodies, drawstring backpacks -- they competed and they flowed together.
He took his time. Spaced out and had to spin his locker combination twice. He hit the last number, lifted the latch. Bingo. He twisted around for his backpack and saw her.
Raven Harding. Coach’s daughter, cheer captain and self-appointed Queen of the Cool. In pre-cal, she eyed him, sidelong sweeps, as if measuring his potential or considering his eligibility to join her fan club. It kind of made him laugh. By default, he wasn't a joiner.
She waved a pen, and he pulled his notepad from his pocket. She pressed it against the wall, but her pen wouldn’t write. He grabbed his pre-cal book, held it flat, hands beneath, like a butler bearing a tray of hors d'oeuvres. She grinned. Moved so close he caught the scent of hair conditioner.
Any good at this? She tapped his book.
He nodded.
Show me? She jutted her chin up at him.
He tilted his head, weighing her question. Nobody at school asked him for help. Not with anything. In football, he was essentially one of the team now, but in class, the other students still skirted him, still studied him as if he were an exchange student from another universe.
I'm desperate, she wrote. She leaned her head the same direction, at the same angle, and gazed into his eyes until he broke.
Miss Snark's First Victim
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
10 Secret Agent
TITLE: Dead Meat
GENRE:Thriller
June 19, 2002
Camp Mamba, 68 kilometers east of Kandahar, Afghanistan
Gil Becker’s sun-baked eyes watched the Navy MH-60S Knighthawk circle, then flare before setting down inside a plume of dust at the center of Camp Mamba five kilometers away. The sight of a whirlybird landing in his little corner of the war never meant anything good. The only time a chopper came in was to transport the wounded or captured to parts unknown, not deliver fresh bodies. They always came in by truck, on foot, or in Becker’s case, tucked into the fetal position in the back of a C-130 waiting for the Jumpmaster to tell him it was time to take a header into the night sky.
Becker put the chopper out of his mind. Whatever was on that chopper wasn’t his problem. It took him another hour to get back to camp, by which time the helicopter was long gone. He nodded to the other members of Task Force 5 who weren’t out and about. Taco Bob cleaning the business end of his Barrett Fifty. Herman the German on a lawn chair, trying (and failing) to get a tan. Gordy in his tent, as always, pumping iron.
Becker went into the tent he shared with Taco Bob. He dumped the rucksack on his cot and pulled out the camouflage blanket. His version of a poor man’s Ghillie suit wasn’t much more than a long piece of burlap covered in random swatches of brown, but it came in handy once in a while.
GENRE:Thriller
June 19, 2002
Camp Mamba, 68 kilometers east of Kandahar, Afghanistan
Gil Becker’s sun-baked eyes watched the Navy MH-60S Knighthawk circle, then flare before setting down inside a plume of dust at the center of Camp Mamba five kilometers away. The sight of a whirlybird landing in his little corner of the war never meant anything good. The only time a chopper came in was to transport the wounded or captured to parts unknown, not deliver fresh bodies. They always came in by truck, on foot, or in Becker’s case, tucked into the fetal position in the back of a C-130 waiting for the Jumpmaster to tell him it was time to take a header into the night sky.
Becker put the chopper out of his mind. Whatever was on that chopper wasn’t his problem. It took him another hour to get back to camp, by which time the helicopter was long gone. He nodded to the other members of Task Force 5 who weren’t out and about. Taco Bob cleaning the business end of his Barrett Fifty. Herman the German on a lawn chair, trying (and failing) to get a tan. Gordy in his tent, as always, pumping iron.
Becker went into the tent he shared with Taco Bob. He dumped the rucksack on his cot and pulled out the camouflage blanket. His version of a poor man’s Ghillie suit wasn’t much more than a long piece of burlap covered in random swatches of brown, but it came in handy once in a while.
9 Secret Agent
TITLE: THE BUTTON GIRL
GENRE: YA FANTASY
Sorrow crouches quietly
at the heart's door,
awaiting the perfect moment to spring.
~Lawful Atwood III, in the first year of the captivity
The lantern, dangling from Repentance Atwater's upstretched hand, cast a pool of yellow light around the village midwife, as she stooped beside Joy Springside's sleeping mat. The rest of the cave lay in darkness.
"Push, now, Joy!" the midwife commanded.
Joy, her face scrunched with the effort, pushed.
The baby came, finally giving up the fight and sliding out, all purple-skinned and slick with blood, and screaming his protest at the world.
Screaming his protest.
A boy.
Lantern light splashed up and down the walls as Repentance's hand shook. A boy! It wasn't fair.
Repentance grimaced, as the babe's squalling bounced off hard stone walls and bruised her raw nerves. Why had she agreed to help the midwife? Beneficence Woodhouse usually held the lantern, but she had taken ill. Now half the village would whisper that Repentance had cursed the birthing and the other half would nod their fog-filled heads in agreement.
She risked a glance at the exhausted new mother.
Joy lay on her sweat-soaked mat, her eyes big and questioning, anxious to know what the hours of her long labor had produced.
Sorrow and regret. That's what.
"Bring the lantern over this way, child," the midwife said. "This one's as slippery as a catfish and twice as heavy."
Repentance obeyed, grateful to have a reason to turn away before Joy read the truth in her face.
GENRE: YA FANTASY
Sorrow crouches quietly
at the heart's door,
awaiting the perfect moment to spring.
~Lawful Atwood III, in the first year of the captivity
The lantern, dangling from Repentance Atwater's upstretched hand, cast a pool of yellow light around the village midwife, as she stooped beside Joy Springside's sleeping mat. The rest of the cave lay in darkness.
"Push, now, Joy!" the midwife commanded.
Joy, her face scrunched with the effort, pushed.
The baby came, finally giving up the fight and sliding out, all purple-skinned and slick with blood, and screaming his protest at the world.
Screaming his protest.
A boy.
Lantern light splashed up and down the walls as Repentance's hand shook. A boy! It wasn't fair.
Repentance grimaced, as the babe's squalling bounced off hard stone walls and bruised her raw nerves. Why had she agreed to help the midwife? Beneficence Woodhouse usually held the lantern, but she had taken ill. Now half the village would whisper that Repentance had cursed the birthing and the other half would nod their fog-filled heads in agreement.
She risked a glance at the exhausted new mother.
Joy lay on her sweat-soaked mat, her eyes big and questioning, anxious to know what the hours of her long labor had produced.
Sorrow and regret. That's what.
"Bring the lantern over this way, child," the midwife said. "This one's as slippery as a catfish and twice as heavy."
Repentance obeyed, grateful to have a reason to turn away before Joy read the truth in her face.
8 Secret Agent
TITLE: Bite Me
GENRE: Urban Fantasy
Talbot blamed his mother for the fact he’d spent most of the summer impersonating a nun.
Though the financial system in the Osbourne household had something to do with it, too. That was his father’s fault—a physics professor who left his family the day he discovered his wife and children were all werewolves. The lycanthrope blamed the bastard every time money ran tight.
Which explained his current situation.
“How could you, Talbot?” his mother screamed into the phone. “After everything I’ve done to scrimp and save to send you to the best paranormal university in the country, and you have the nerve to tell me you failed your classes because of test anxiety? What the hell kind of excuse is alcohol therapy?”
Talbot winced and pulled the phone away from his ear. If he didn’t know better, he’d think she was part banshee. He pinched the bridge of his nose, wishing he didn’t have to have this conversation so close to the full moon. “Well when you put it like that, it sounds stupid, Mom.”
“Don’t you stupid me, young man. You have a serious problem here. If you flunk out, you won’t graduate next spring.”
Talbot rolled his eyes. “Look, I’m sorry. It was a bad semester. I messed up. But I don’t know what you expect me to do about it.”
The minute the words left his mouth, Talbot regretted them.
“Do. Do? Oh, I’ll tell you what you’re going to do, Talbot Alexander Osbourne.”
All three names. Not good.
GENRE: Urban Fantasy
Talbot blamed his mother for the fact he’d spent most of the summer impersonating a nun.
Though the financial system in the Osbourne household had something to do with it, too. That was his father’s fault—a physics professor who left his family the day he discovered his wife and children were all werewolves. The lycanthrope blamed the bastard every time money ran tight.
Which explained his current situation.
“How could you, Talbot?” his mother screamed into the phone. “After everything I’ve done to scrimp and save to send you to the best paranormal university in the country, and you have the nerve to tell me you failed your classes because of test anxiety? What the hell kind of excuse is alcohol therapy?”
Talbot winced and pulled the phone away from his ear. If he didn’t know better, he’d think she was part banshee. He pinched the bridge of his nose, wishing he didn’t have to have this conversation so close to the full moon. “Well when you put it like that, it sounds stupid, Mom.”
“Don’t you stupid me, young man. You have a serious problem here. If you flunk out, you won’t graduate next spring.”
Talbot rolled his eyes. “Look, I’m sorry. It was a bad semester. I messed up. But I don’t know what you expect me to do about it.”
The minute the words left his mouth, Talbot regretted them.
“Do. Do? Oh, I’ll tell you what you’re going to do, Talbot Alexander Osbourne.”
All three names. Not good.
7 Secret Agent
TITLE: Vision of Death
GENRE: YA Fantasy
“Not again!” exclaimed Amirilla, dashing into the kitchen. She had smelled the smoke upon entering the house. Swiftly the sixteen year old pulled the pan of cooking vegetables from the stove, the source of the billowing black clouds. Shutting off all the burners, Amirilla turned unhappily to face her thirteen year old apprentice. “Two years Prisca! I have less than two years to teach you how to cook. What happens when I’m not here anymore?”
The limited time scared her. How could Amirilla possibly ready Prisca to lead the Ration Givers group when she couldn’t even manage to make dinner?
Muttering a jumbled apology, Prisca lowered her head of dark curls towards the floor. Amirilla sighed, hating to pressure her young friend with threats. The threat of war, however, was real. With her seventeenth birthday approaching, Amirilla couldn’t afford to be lenient.
“We can’t keep wasting rations,” sighed Amirilla, her blue eyes fixed upon the burned vegetables. Even if her group was responsible for distributing the food to all the children in town, Ami knew that she could not take more than her designated amount of supplies.
“I said ‘sorry’,” muttered Prisca, hating to be a disappointment. Only thirteen years old, the youngest and newest member of the Ration Givers absent mindedly traced the scar of a carved letter “B” on the upper part of her right arm. The scar served as the only reminder of Prisca’s history with the rival Baroah gang.
GENRE: YA Fantasy
“Not again!” exclaimed Amirilla, dashing into the kitchen. She had smelled the smoke upon entering the house. Swiftly the sixteen year old pulled the pan of cooking vegetables from the stove, the source of the billowing black clouds. Shutting off all the burners, Amirilla turned unhappily to face her thirteen year old apprentice. “Two years Prisca! I have less than two years to teach you how to cook. What happens when I’m not here anymore?”
The limited time scared her. How could Amirilla possibly ready Prisca to lead the Ration Givers group when she couldn’t even manage to make dinner?
Muttering a jumbled apology, Prisca lowered her head of dark curls towards the floor. Amirilla sighed, hating to pressure her young friend with threats. The threat of war, however, was real. With her seventeenth birthday approaching, Amirilla couldn’t afford to be lenient.
“We can’t keep wasting rations,” sighed Amirilla, her blue eyes fixed upon the burned vegetables. Even if her group was responsible for distributing the food to all the children in town, Ami knew that she could not take more than her designated amount of supplies.
“I said ‘sorry’,” muttered Prisca, hating to be a disappointment. Only thirteen years old, the youngest and newest member of the Ration Givers absent mindedly traced the scar of a carved letter “B” on the upper part of her right arm. The scar served as the only reminder of Prisca’s history with the rival Baroah gang.
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