TITLE: The Dragon and the Enchanted Kingdom
GENRE: Children's/pb
I have rewritten/edited several times. It has been short listed with one editor and received good responses from two others. Yet it is still rejected. Timing seems off somewhere and ending kinda lame. Any advice would be wonderful. Thanks.
Horns are trumpeted all around for some heroes to be found.
A call goes out across the land -- Help is needed!
10 -- Ten beautiful fairies fly over …
9 -- Nine guardian dwarves marching in rows of three. Who meet up with …
8 -- Eight ornery elves driving a wagon full of hay. For …
7 -- Seven knights brave and strong riding on armored horses. Who are busy
watching--
6 -- Six lively pixies mounted on squirrels skittering from tree to tree. Trying
to avoid --
5 -- Five gnomes with pointed hats. Who are sidestepping….
4 -- Four white unicorns charging up the hill. In front of …
3 -- Three feisty leprechauns with clovers standing tall. Who have hidden
their pots of gold from--
2 -- Two human children
All have gathered together to defeat--
1 -- One mean, vicious, smoke rolling, fire spitting, soot blackened, red eyed
dragon. She has flown into the kingdom and claimed it as her own.
The dragon takes to the air as the battle begins; her powerful wings whipping up dirt
and debris. The falling dust covering everything with a layer of filth as far as the eye can
see.
The dragon puts up a fierce fight, challenging all who come near. She uses her fire
breath to scorch wings and burn hats; smoke wagons and blacken armor. Shrieks of
surprise and then shouts of joy can be heard.
When the dust settles true heroes can be found in--
10 -- Ten dirty fairies limping off the field.
9 -- Nine guardian dwarfs dragging the--
8 -- Eight ornery elves. In front of--
7 -- Seven knights brave and strong hanging onto armored horses. Who are still
watching --
6 -- Six pixies sitting astride tired squirrels. They are shuffling in front of--
5 -- Five gnomes with hats a smoking. Who are trying to stay out of the way of--
4 -- Four brown unicorns walking down the hill. In front of --
3 -- Three tired leprechauns with clovers bent and wilting. All have cleared a
path for--
2 -- Two human children carrying--
1 -- One large blackened pot on wooden planks, full of the dragon's fire, with
smoke a-drifting.
Battered but not beaten; tired but not trampled the heroes have won. They have
defeated the dragon and have captured her fire.
Cheers can be heard throughout the land for now the kingdom is safe. Without her
fire, the dragon is no longer a mean and vicious beast. She is now a kinder, quieter ~ new
neighbor.
Miss Snark's First Victim
Thursday, June 2, 2011
What's Broken? #3
TITLE: PARTITION
GENRE: YA War/Dystopian
No lead-in should be necessary - this is the very beginning.
MAYA
My feet grip the glass in the darkness, and my biceps burn like acid. Can't believe Steven and Elisabeth talked me into this. If I get back without some sorta serious injury, it'll be a goddamn miracle. It's prison at the least if I get caught--and worse, too, if my luck's as shit as usual.
I shouldn't've even entertained the idea. No one sneaks into the Glass City and gets back unscathed--especially not us Pewts, the lowest of the low. The City is gorgeous--we can see it from below, see it sitting smug on these glass stilts, like it's balanced on a forest of fat crystal straws. Beautiful, especially compared to the filth of the Sprawl.
I grit my teeth and haul myself up further, hugging myself to the glass. I'm strong, yeah, but this's ridiculous. The anchors--the stilts holding up the Glass City--are maybe four hundred feet tall, and the only tool I've got is a wide, flat strip of leather slung around the glass, to grip it better than my sweaty fingers could.
I look down and my throat yanks shut like the neck of a drawstring bag. If I fall, I'll die. There's no way I won't when I'm this high up--it's a dizzying, painful height that makes my head bang.
So I look back up and keep pulling. I'm pretty close. It's been a whole hour of climbing.
I thought the actual climbing part would be harder, to be honest. But it turns out there are scars and gouges in the glass from weather, which make good footholds.
I yank myself up and up, digging my feet into the cracks, cursing Elisabeth and Steven. I shoulda listened to Cory. He always has my best interests at heart--dammit, why didn't I listen?
I reach the top of the anchor. Time for the hard part.
The City is built on a disk of glass that sits on top of the anchors. It's at least as thick as I'm tall, and ten feet of packed dirt lies on top, tight wire mesh trapping it in. But tree roots erupt from the mesh, dangling down about a foot to my right. Up here, a foot's distance feels like half a mile, but I close my eyes and grapple for the closest root. As my fingers find the damp wood, I put weight on it, and it lurches. My eyes pop open. Dirt crumbles out from around the root, I let out a high whimper of fear--doesn't even sound like my voice--and my hands break into an uncontrollable sweat. Then, worst of all, the wind tears the corner of the leather strip outta my other hand. The downdrafts yank it from side to side, the material making a flapping noise. It curls and twists until it's out of sight, like it's waving goodbye.
GENRE: YA War/Dystopian
No lead-in should be necessary - this is the very beginning.
MAYA
My feet grip the glass in the darkness, and my biceps burn like acid. Can't believe Steven and Elisabeth talked me into this. If I get back without some sorta serious injury, it'll be a goddamn miracle. It's prison at the least if I get caught--and worse, too, if my luck's as shit as usual.
I shouldn't've even entertained the idea. No one sneaks into the Glass City and gets back unscathed--especially not us Pewts, the lowest of the low. The City is gorgeous--we can see it from below, see it sitting smug on these glass stilts, like it's balanced on a forest of fat crystal straws. Beautiful, especially compared to the filth of the Sprawl.
I grit my teeth and haul myself up further, hugging myself to the glass. I'm strong, yeah, but this's ridiculous. The anchors--the stilts holding up the Glass City--are maybe four hundred feet tall, and the only tool I've got is a wide, flat strip of leather slung around the glass, to grip it better than my sweaty fingers could.
I look down and my throat yanks shut like the neck of a drawstring bag. If I fall, I'll die. There's no way I won't when I'm this high up--it's a dizzying, painful height that makes my head bang.
So I look back up and keep pulling. I'm pretty close. It's been a whole hour of climbing.
I thought the actual climbing part would be harder, to be honest. But it turns out there are scars and gouges in the glass from weather, which make good footholds.
I yank myself up and up, digging my feet into the cracks, cursing Elisabeth and Steven. I shoulda listened to Cory. He always has my best interests at heart--dammit, why didn't I listen?
I reach the top of the anchor. Time for the hard part.
The City is built on a disk of glass that sits on top of the anchors. It's at least as thick as I'm tall, and ten feet of packed dirt lies on top, tight wire mesh trapping it in. But tree roots erupt from the mesh, dangling down about a foot to my right. Up here, a foot's distance feels like half a mile, but I close my eyes and grapple for the closest root. As my fingers find the damp wood, I put weight on it, and it lurches. My eyes pop open. Dirt crumbles out from around the root, I let out a high whimper of fear--doesn't even sound like my voice--and my hands break into an uncontrollable sweat. Then, worst of all, the wind tears the corner of the leather strip outta my other hand. The downdrafts yank it from side to side, the material making a flapping noise. It curls and twists until it's out of sight, like it's waving goodbye.
What's Broken? #2
TITLE: Smoke and Wait
GENRE: Urban Fantasy
Alexandra MacPherson has mixed feelings about being back from the field.
Info dump, telling, or showing? All the above?
I don't know why I'd convinced myself things would be different. Only months, not years, had passed since I'd been in the field office. The building smelled the same; the walls and carpets were infused with a damp and musty odor, courtesy of an inefficient HVAC system that could cool things down -- mostly -- but not dry them out. Someone had burned popcorn in the break room. My desk hadn't changed, either. A single, framed picture of Jack and Sophie sat front and center. Jack, just off the plane and still in uniform, holding Sophie for the first time.
I picked up the photo and dusted the glass with my shirt sleeve. Sophie's right foot was bare, a victim of those worthless baby socks that never stayed on. I used to find them everywhere. In the car seat. Under the car seat. On the floor mat, covered with safety glass from the right rear window. I chewed savagely at my bottom lip before shoving the frame into the corner of my desk and under a shelf where it would be less noticeable.
I was stupid with contradiction. I refused anything stronger than Tylenol in the hospital, trying to prevent a fall off that wagon I worked too hard to find. But then I called Jack, listened to Sophie's voice on a message I should have deleted years ago. Two bad habits that usually led me right to the cliff of Screw-It overlooking the valley of I-Don't-Give-A-S***-Anymore. I hadn't been there in a while, but apparently I was contemplating a visit.
I scrolled through the emails that bred during my absence. Out-of-office must not have meant what I thought it did. I flagged the few that looked important, but right click and delete became the order of the day.
At least a hundred offerings for continuing ed. Right click, delete. Weeks-expired coupons from Borders. Right click, delete. My father's administrative assistant needed to make reservations for Thanksgiving dinner, and was 2:00 p.m. at 1906 Longwood Gardens okay? Right click, delete.
Unbidden, the fingers of my left hand tapped a beaten strip of metal against my mouth. I dropped it when I realized what I was doing, but who was I kidding. Avoidance would never work. The ball chain holding Jack's tags had been around my neck since the day he gave them to me. I wore them on my wedding day instead of pearls. They were as much a part of my uniform as they'd been part of his. And if Sophie had been old enough to have a cell phone when she was killed, I'd call her, too.
I roughly crammed the contents of the case file on my desk into a manilla accordion folder and mashed it all into my messenger bag. "You ready to go?"
GENRE: Urban Fantasy
Alexandra MacPherson has mixed feelings about being back from the field.
Info dump, telling, or showing? All the above?
I don't know why I'd convinced myself things would be different. Only months, not years, had passed since I'd been in the field office. The building smelled the same; the walls and carpets were infused with a damp and musty odor, courtesy of an inefficient HVAC system that could cool things down -- mostly -- but not dry them out. Someone had burned popcorn in the break room. My desk hadn't changed, either. A single, framed picture of Jack and Sophie sat front and center. Jack, just off the plane and still in uniform, holding Sophie for the first time.
I picked up the photo and dusted the glass with my shirt sleeve. Sophie's right foot was bare, a victim of those worthless baby socks that never stayed on. I used to find them everywhere. In the car seat. Under the car seat. On the floor mat, covered with safety glass from the right rear window. I chewed savagely at my bottom lip before shoving the frame into the corner of my desk and under a shelf where it would be less noticeable.
I was stupid with contradiction. I refused anything stronger than Tylenol in the hospital, trying to prevent a fall off that wagon I worked too hard to find. But then I called Jack, listened to Sophie's voice on a message I should have deleted years ago. Two bad habits that usually led me right to the cliff of Screw-It overlooking the valley of I-Don't-Give-A-S***-Anymore. I hadn't been there in a while, but apparently I was contemplating a visit.
I scrolled through the emails that bred during my absence. Out-of-office must not have meant what I thought it did. I flagged the few that looked important, but right click and delete became the order of the day.
At least a hundred offerings for continuing ed. Right click, delete. Weeks-expired coupons from Borders. Right click, delete. My father's administrative assistant needed to make reservations for Thanksgiving dinner, and was 2:00 p.m. at 1906 Longwood Gardens okay? Right click, delete.
Unbidden, the fingers of my left hand tapped a beaten strip of metal against my mouth. I dropped it when I realized what I was doing, but who was I kidding. Avoidance would never work. The ball chain holding Jack's tags had been around my neck since the day he gave them to me. I wore them on my wedding day instead of pearls. They were as much a part of my uniform as they'd been part of his. And if Sophie had been old enough to have a cell phone when she was killed, I'd call her, too.
I roughly crammed the contents of the case file on my desk into a manilla accordion folder and mashed it all into my messenger bag. "You ready to go?"
What's Broken? #1
TITLE: Voice of Asheva
GENRE: Fantasy
The rogue prince who supports the rebellion of Asheva has been imprisoned, and now no one in the rebellion knows what to do. Enter Evyn Stonecry, a young female magician, who asks the council of Asheva to get permission to rescue the prince.
There was a brief silence. To the surprise of no one, it was broken by Oryin. "A girl?" Some of the council reluctantly took their gaze off of her and turned to him; he looked incredulous. "How can a girl help? Can she win a war for us?"
Evyn stood, revealing two curved daggers at her waist. Dark, fringed bangs fell over her strange eyes, eyes like the edge of a summer sunset, and she rested a hand on her hip. Her gaze was cool as it fixed on Oryin. "I donâ't mean to win a war for you, councilman."
As she stepped away from the table, the room fell further into silence. The calls of merchants and street vendors drifted in from the Tala outside as she crossed the room, past the stone pillars that held up the ceiling, past the tapestry depicting the injustices of Stoyrian royalty. Her voice was soft as she drew closer to Liae's end of the table and said, "But I can give you gift worth more than a thousand fighting men, even magic wielders."
"And what is that?" Fayo asked, not harshly.
"I can give you your prince."
As one, the council twisted in their seats to look at Toreph, confused. Even Oryin's face abandoned its normal sarcastic expression. But it was the councilwoman from Rivertown who spoke first. "What in Asheva's name does the girl mean, Toreph?"
He didn't answer, just switched his blue eyes back to Evyn and nodded at her.
"I mean," Evyn answered, her eyes sharing none of Toreph's amusement, "that I can go to Gaeon, sneak into the dungeons, and rescue Prince Theyrn from the city without any of the royal guard even knowing I was there -- until too late."
Oryin laughed, but he was the only one. The other council members were frowning at Evyn as if they'd never seen a girl before. Liae didn't laugh either, noting the determination in Evyn's face. Knowing the look, she felt a small surge of hope; the casual confidence -- that confidence that lacked arrogance -- was nearly as reassuring as Asheva's prophecy had been.
GENRE: Fantasy
The rogue prince who supports the rebellion of Asheva has been imprisoned, and now no one in the rebellion knows what to do. Enter Evyn Stonecry, a young female magician, who asks the council of Asheva to get permission to rescue the prince.
There was a brief silence. To the surprise of no one, it was broken by Oryin. "A girl?" Some of the council reluctantly took their gaze off of her and turned to him; he looked incredulous. "How can a girl help? Can she win a war for us?"
Evyn stood, revealing two curved daggers at her waist. Dark, fringed bangs fell over her strange eyes, eyes like the edge of a summer sunset, and she rested a hand on her hip. Her gaze was cool as it fixed on Oryin. "I donâ't mean to win a war for you, councilman."
As she stepped away from the table, the room fell further into silence. The calls of merchants and street vendors drifted in from the Tala outside as she crossed the room, past the stone pillars that held up the ceiling, past the tapestry depicting the injustices of Stoyrian royalty. Her voice was soft as she drew closer to Liae's end of the table and said, "But I can give you gift worth more than a thousand fighting men, even magic wielders."
"And what is that?" Fayo asked, not harshly.
"I can give you your prince."
As one, the council twisted in their seats to look at Toreph, confused. Even Oryin's face abandoned its normal sarcastic expression. But it was the councilwoman from Rivertown who spoke first. "What in Asheva's name does the girl mean, Toreph?"
He didn't answer, just switched his blue eyes back to Evyn and nodded at her.
"I mean," Evyn answered, her eyes sharing none of Toreph's amusement, "that I can go to Gaeon, sneak into the dungeons, and rescue Prince Theyrn from the city without any of the royal guard even knowing I was there -- until too late."
Oryin laughed, but he was the only one. The other council members were frowning at Evyn as if they'd never seen a girl before. Liae didn't laugh either, noting the determination in Evyn's face. Knowing the look, she felt a small surge of hope; the casual confidence -- that confidence that lacked arrogance -- was nearly as reassuring as Asheva's prophecy had been.
Our One and Only June Crit, Now Underway!
And here come the What's Broken? excerpts! Entrants, please critique a minimum of two other entries. Everyone else, please remember to sign in with a screen name (don't choose "anonymous" when you leave your comment).
I'm trusting that this round will be as helpful to the authors as last month's round.
Allow me to apologize ahead of time for Blogger glitches. In short, if you find you're having trouble leaving a comment, it's probably not your fault--and it's probably not something I can fix. It's just that Blogger is fickle, you see.
No, you don't need to have a Blogger account. Or any other account. Just choose the "Name/URL" option and type in your screen name. It's that simple!
Enjoy!
I'm trusting that this round will be as helpful to the authors as last month's round.
Allow me to apologize ahead of time for Blogger glitches. In short, if you find you're having trouble leaving a comment, it's probably not your fault--and it's probably not something I can fix. It's just that Blogger is fickle, you see.
No, you don't need to have a Blogger account. Or any other account. Just choose the "Name/URL" option and type in your screen name. It's that simple!
Enjoy!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)