TITLE: MASS HYSTERIA
GENRE: YA SCIENCE FICTION
I time my laugh to spill perfectly from my lips.
Except, the sensation rises from my abdomen like gravel tumbling through my mouth. Stacy turns in her seat with her lips pursed tight. She shakes her head. The other girls stop giggling. Their purrs of laughter in deep contrast to my piercing cackle.
They frown in unison - everyone but Stacey. She has an ‘I’m sorry I got you into this mess, Hun’ look on her face. Though lacking in most social skills, I’m easily able to read their expressions: ‘What the hell was Stacey thinking bringing the schizoid?’
I’m painfully aware something is off with me. On a scale of weirdness, I’m not Pinhead. I’m more Carrie, without the powers. I’d change this perception of oddness I convey, but I don’t know where to begin to work on myself.
So I don’t.
Glancing around the table, I attempt a quick recovery. “I have a dog, too. He’s the cutest little Pomeranian.”
My words are met with oohs and awws but Stacey shakes her head once, slightly. I don’t know why she does it. I’ve hit a cord with these girls. I block her shaking head and the bombardment of senseless information streaming through my mind and continue talking. “He’s a handsome little fur ball.”
“I love dogs,” One of Stacey’s friends says.. “My Jax is too freaking cute.”
“My little FeFe is too adorbs. What’s your dog’s name, Elizabeth?” Melissa, the closest girl to me asks.
“Norman Bates. He’s a -”
Miss Snark's First Victim
Wednesday, March 7, 2018
March Secret Agent Contest #3
TITLE: HELL HATH ITS VIRTUES
GENRE: YA Fantasy
Ebba’s soaked dress clung to her skin as she ran through the moonless night. The lake water left from her near-drowning had crystalized into icicles. If she fell, she might not get up again. Keep moving. Get far away from the witchfinder, may he be reincarnated as a drunkard’s chamber pot.
Heedless of direction, she climbed up the mountain, away from her village. A wolf’s cry pierced the air. Ebba froze.
The forest was dead silent again, eerily devoid of owls or bats. An ancient demonic invasion had left this place magic-cursed. Ebba shivered. Most wolves avoid humans. Except for the red-eyed ones living deeper in the forest. Anabiel help me.
She refused to be devoured like her mother. Perhaps she could sneak back to steal a knife and some food. She’d been too panicked in her flight, afraid the witchfinder might wake up…
First, he’d poked pins into the mottled red birthmark covering her left cheek. Giant hands had held her down, his nails filthy and his liver spots as big as spiders. His too-close breath had reeked of onions.
“Confess,” the witchfinder had ordered after every pin. Each time, she’d refused. They’d kill her once she confessed.
The second day had been the hot iron. This morning, the dunking. Through a blur of watery suffocation, her most distinct memory was, peculiarly, the smell of the sausages. Mad Gill had sold them to bystanders. Her pleas with her neighbors had been met with disdain or bloodthirsty fascination.
No, she wasn’t going back.
GENRE: YA Fantasy
Ebba’s soaked dress clung to her skin as she ran through the moonless night. The lake water left from her near-drowning had crystalized into icicles. If she fell, she might not get up again. Keep moving. Get far away from the witchfinder, may he be reincarnated as a drunkard’s chamber pot.
Heedless of direction, she climbed up the mountain, away from her village. A wolf’s cry pierced the air. Ebba froze.
The forest was dead silent again, eerily devoid of owls or bats. An ancient demonic invasion had left this place magic-cursed. Ebba shivered. Most wolves avoid humans. Except for the red-eyed ones living deeper in the forest. Anabiel help me.
She refused to be devoured like her mother. Perhaps she could sneak back to steal a knife and some food. She’d been too panicked in her flight, afraid the witchfinder might wake up…
First, he’d poked pins into the mottled red birthmark covering her left cheek. Giant hands had held her down, his nails filthy and his liver spots as big as spiders. His too-close breath had reeked of onions.
“Confess,” the witchfinder had ordered after every pin. Each time, she’d refused. They’d kill her once she confessed.
The second day had been the hot iron. This morning, the dunking. Through a blur of watery suffocation, her most distinct memory was, peculiarly, the smell of the sausages. Mad Gill had sold them to bystanders. Her pleas with her neighbors had been met with disdain or bloodthirsty fascination.
No, she wasn’t going back.
March Secret Agent Contest #2
TITLE: Time and Again
GENRE: YA Contemporary
Ashley paced around the crowded living room resting her eyes on the package looming their beige kitchen counter. In hot bold black letters, it read Pemerson Lawyers. The room grew smaller as she patrolled through every corner. All the tossing and turning gave her a splitting headache but what mattered stayed inches away from her in the sealed envelope. Spiraling deeper in thoughts, she plunged into self-doubt. Could the notice be for me? Did I relapse and not remember? She hadn’t been part of any foul play at school. Maybe a few clashes with her former clan but that’s nothing worth calling the lawyers over.
Ashley's opinion held no mass in front of the Windrip Town women, they had their own sense of righteousness. The thought of being publicly called out yet again dried her throat and the urgency to know what the package held consumed her. As the flickering lights of her mother’s blue Ford Fusion beamed through the window behind her she dove at the counter.
Without thinking, she opened the carefully packed brown bundle delivered by Randol Myers, Windrip’s local postie less than an hour ago. Ashley pulled out a few pages, frantically looking for any hint as to whose ruin it dictated. She needed the whys and wherefores or maybe just a name to rule her out of danger. The doorknob clicked, and Ashley stuffed the papers back within seconds and turned to face her mother.
“Mom! You’re here.” The dry mouth didn’t let her voice out.
GENRE: YA Contemporary
Ashley paced around the crowded living room resting her eyes on the package looming their beige kitchen counter. In hot bold black letters, it read Pemerson Lawyers. The room grew smaller as she patrolled through every corner. All the tossing and turning gave her a splitting headache but what mattered stayed inches away from her in the sealed envelope. Spiraling deeper in thoughts, she plunged into self-doubt. Could the notice be for me? Did I relapse and not remember? She hadn’t been part of any foul play at school. Maybe a few clashes with her former clan but that’s nothing worth calling the lawyers over.
Ashley's opinion held no mass in front of the Windrip Town women, they had their own sense of righteousness. The thought of being publicly called out yet again dried her throat and the urgency to know what the package held consumed her. As the flickering lights of her mother’s blue Ford Fusion beamed through the window behind her she dove at the counter.
Without thinking, she opened the carefully packed brown bundle delivered by Randol Myers, Windrip’s local postie less than an hour ago. Ashley pulled out a few pages, frantically looking for any hint as to whose ruin it dictated. She needed the whys and wherefores or maybe just a name to rule her out of danger. The doorknob clicked, and Ashley stuffed the papers back within seconds and turned to face her mother.
“Mom! You’re here.” The dry mouth didn’t let her voice out.
March Secret Agent Contest #1
TITLE: BOUNCING BACK
GENRE: Adult Upmarket Women's Fiction
We haven’t spoken since Allentown. Bob listens to sports radio and occasionally digs at something in his ear as I stare out the window at distant, seemingly idyllic farms that turn dilapidated and disappointing the closer we get to them. I’m not the least bit concerned about the silence. It’s one of the perks, actually, of twenty-nine years of marriage—knowing you don’t have to worry about filling the dead air. And besides, I’m sure Bob is as lost in thought over the events of today as I am. Sadie was our last to go. It’s a big deal.
“The roommate seems nice,” I finally say.
Bob doesn’t answer. He leans in and cocks his head toward the radio. Two guys named Joe, both with Long Island accents (pronounced Lung Island) are talking about a baseball player named Manny whose injury and forthcoming surgery will keep him out for the rest of the season. Joe and Joe take a caller.
“I’m a little worried about how they are going to organize that room,” I say, letting my ongoing internal monologue spill out, “It’s so much smaller than I thought it would be. And it isn’t a real closet. It’s an armoire. I should have insisted she leave her winter clothes home until Thanksgiving.”
One of the Joes is arguing with the caller who thinks Manny should pay back part of his fifteen million dollar salary. Joe calls him an idiot and hangs up on him. Bob turns up the volume. I persevere.
GENRE: Adult Upmarket Women's Fiction
We haven’t spoken since Allentown. Bob listens to sports radio and occasionally digs at something in his ear as I stare out the window at distant, seemingly idyllic farms that turn dilapidated and disappointing the closer we get to them. I’m not the least bit concerned about the silence. It’s one of the perks, actually, of twenty-nine years of marriage—knowing you don’t have to worry about filling the dead air. And besides, I’m sure Bob is as lost in thought over the events of today as I am. Sadie was our last to go. It’s a big deal.
“The roommate seems nice,” I finally say.
Bob doesn’t answer. He leans in and cocks his head toward the radio. Two guys named Joe, both with Long Island accents (pronounced Lung Island) are talking about a baseball player named Manny whose injury and forthcoming surgery will keep him out for the rest of the season. Joe and Joe take a caller.
“I’m a little worried about how they are going to organize that room,” I say, letting my ongoing internal monologue spill out, “It’s so much smaller than I thought it would be. And it isn’t a real closet. It’s an armoire. I should have insisted she leave her winter clothes home until Thanksgiving.”
One of the Joes is arguing with the caller who thinks Manny should pay back part of his fifteen million dollar salary. Joe calls him an idiot and hangs up on him. Bob turns up the volume. I persevere.
Monday, March 5, 2018
Secret Agent Submissions Now Open
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