TITLE: Overshadowed
GENRE: YA SciFi
Tayel hurried through the undercity smog, her gas mask rattling with every breath. She clamped down on the filter cartridge, but the centimeter-wide hole in the tubing still hissed as she inhaled. Stupid thing. Pollution burned the back of her throat. She coughed, and Jace – huffing and puffing - sped up to reach her side. He grabbed the loose fabric of her jacket and pulled her forward. Together, they rounded the corner where the neon sign over the grocer’s mart flickered, dispersing light through the haze. One more block to Otto’s.
Pick up the pace.
Bustling city denizens fresh off the after-work tram slowed them on the main street. The cacophony of rasping gas masks drowned out Tayel’s pounding pulse. Nothing mattered more than the hope of fresh air. Fresh air, and safety. Jace lost hold of her jacket as they squeezed through the dense crowd toward their destination. Two more stores down – and there it was. Neon tubing spelled out “OTTO’s” in crooked letters above the shop, washing Tayel’s arm in green light as she reached for the door. She pushed inside, holding it open only long enough for Jace to rush in after her.
Tayel steadied herself while the airlock triggered. She tore off the mask, freeing her dull red hair to fall in sticky waves around her face. Against the opposite wall, Jace removed his own mask and smoothed his ruffled head feathers down with his talons. She eyed him for injuries.
Miss Snark's First Victim
Wednesday, January 14, 2015
January Secret Agent #6
TITLE: Justice Unending
GENRE: YA Fantasy
Faye swung her legs and looked over the edge of the world.
There weren't many places in the Bastion that could see over the wall. No one lived against it, only the soldiers walked outside, and even the tallest buildings turned their windows the other way. There was nothing in the Wilds but suffering, after all, and civilized souls didn't gloat over other people's misery.
Faye tried to be civilized, though there were times—which happened with only mildly shocking frequency—when she fell a little short. But she lived only one mile and one pretty park south of the wall, and it was amazing that she had never tried to look beyond it. Once she realized this, she spent a whole week climbing up the trees, balancing on branches, and scraping her knees until she found a tree tall enough to show her the world beyond.
It wasn't much to look at.
All she saw were the same broad-leafed maples that grew on this side of the wall. That was the point, Faye supposed. There was nothing in the Wilds—no towns, no roads, and no laws. Just nature and nothingness. There were people, but they didn't come near the Bastion. They were off living in caves or huddling in bushes, or doing whatever it was they did.
Faye swung her feet, letting the wind run over them. Her enthusiasm was dying. At this rate she was going to have to admit she was only here because she didn't want to go home.
GENRE: YA Fantasy
Faye swung her legs and looked over the edge of the world.
There weren't many places in the Bastion that could see over the wall. No one lived against it, only the soldiers walked outside, and even the tallest buildings turned their windows the other way. There was nothing in the Wilds but suffering, after all, and civilized souls didn't gloat over other people's misery.
Faye tried to be civilized, though there were times—which happened with only mildly shocking frequency—when she fell a little short. But she lived only one mile and one pretty park south of the wall, and it was amazing that she had never tried to look beyond it. Once she realized this, she spent a whole week climbing up the trees, balancing on branches, and scraping her knees until she found a tree tall enough to show her the world beyond.
It wasn't much to look at.
All she saw were the same broad-leafed maples that grew on this side of the wall. That was the point, Faye supposed. There was nothing in the Wilds—no towns, no roads, and no laws. Just nature and nothingness. There were people, but they didn't come near the Bastion. They were off living in caves or huddling in bushes, or doing whatever it was they did.
Faye swung her feet, letting the wind run over them. Her enthusiasm was dying. At this rate she was going to have to admit she was only here because she didn't want to go home.
January Secret Agent #5
TITLE: Deadline For Murder
GENRE: New Adult Mystery
This story is not about my mother.
Admittedly, she is a major player. Okay, because of her, I returned to Ellwood City and nearly got killed. But it’s not really about her.
It’s my story even though, at 23, I don’t have that much to tell except I don’t know who my father is or was.
During one of many fights over this issue, Momma let it slip that he’d been murdered. That’s pretty critical information to spur any kid to want to know more. But Francesca Torino is tightlipped about who he was, how he looked, where he lived, how they got together, whether they married and, the biggie, how he died and why.
“You became a reporter to torture me with questions.”
“I have a right to know what happened.”
“You have a right to live. It’s too dangerous to know more. So, shut up.”
“After twenty-three years? And don’t tell me to shut up. Why are you always such a prima donna?”
“Because I am a prima donna, my darling.”
And so she is _ a feisty, skinny opera singer, barely five feet tall.
She was working in Chicago where my newspaper internship had ended. I decided, job or no job, it was time to explore Momma’s Ellwood secrets. Nona still lives there.
“Try the newspapers in New York or Rome. Your Italian is good enough.”
“I found a part-time job with the Lawrence County Beacon. Someone will help me with the questions you won’t answer.”
GENRE: New Adult Mystery
This story is not about my mother.
Admittedly, she is a major player. Okay, because of her, I returned to Ellwood City and nearly got killed. But it’s not really about her.
It’s my story even though, at 23, I don’t have that much to tell except I don’t know who my father is or was.
During one of many fights over this issue, Momma let it slip that he’d been murdered. That’s pretty critical information to spur any kid to want to know more. But Francesca Torino is tightlipped about who he was, how he looked, where he lived, how they got together, whether they married and, the biggie, how he died and why.
“You became a reporter to torture me with questions.”
“I have a right to know what happened.”
“You have a right to live. It’s too dangerous to know more. So, shut up.”
“After twenty-three years? And don’t tell me to shut up. Why are you always such a prima donna?”
“Because I am a prima donna, my darling.”
And so she is _ a feisty, skinny opera singer, barely five feet tall.
She was working in Chicago where my newspaper internship had ended. I decided, job or no job, it was time to explore Momma’s Ellwood secrets. Nona still lives there.
“Try the newspapers in New York or Rome. Your Italian is good enough.”
“I found a part-time job with the Lawrence County Beacon. Someone will help me with the questions you won’t answer.”
January Secret Agent #4
TITLE: BENEATH OUR SKIN
GENRE: YA Science Fiction with 1850s-like setting
My rope arced through the moonlit night and slid down the wooden fence to land at my feet. Again. Damn.
Panting echoed from the empty yard beyond the eight-foot fence—the blacksmith's dog must have heard me. I coiled the rope and tossed it a third time. Yes. It caught the top of the post. I yanked it, testing the strength, then braced my feet against the slats and scrambled up.
At the top, the points of the boards dug into my torso as I twisted the rope around so it would fall into the yard and provide me an escape route. The big black mutt gazed up at me, sniffing for the treat I'd brought him. Or smelling me. By now, we were old friends. He hadn't barked at me in weeks.
When I dropped down, the dog whined softly, and I pulled my ration of meat for this week out of my pocket. My mouth watered, but I tossed it to the dog. A small price for a glimpse of freedom. The two chicken pieces disappeared in seconds.
Despite the fence, the shop was always locked at night, but there was a workstation set up outside. Sometimes, nails fell down, and the blacksmith was too lazy to go after them right away. I fell to my knees, inching past the sawhorses toward the lean-to, sifting through the sand with my fingers as I crawled. Under the water-filled trough, my fingers grasped cool metal, and I snatched it up.
GENRE: YA Science Fiction with 1850s-like setting
My rope arced through the moonlit night and slid down the wooden fence to land at my feet. Again. Damn.
Panting echoed from the empty yard beyond the eight-foot fence—the blacksmith's dog must have heard me. I coiled the rope and tossed it a third time. Yes. It caught the top of the post. I yanked it, testing the strength, then braced my feet against the slats and scrambled up.
At the top, the points of the boards dug into my torso as I twisted the rope around so it would fall into the yard and provide me an escape route. The big black mutt gazed up at me, sniffing for the treat I'd brought him. Or smelling me. By now, we were old friends. He hadn't barked at me in weeks.
When I dropped down, the dog whined softly, and I pulled my ration of meat for this week out of my pocket. My mouth watered, but I tossed it to the dog. A small price for a glimpse of freedom. The two chicken pieces disappeared in seconds.
Despite the fence, the shop was always locked at night, but there was a workstation set up outside. Sometimes, nails fell down, and the blacksmith was too lazy to go after them right away. I fell to my knees, inching past the sawhorses toward the lean-to, sifting through the sand with my fingers as I crawled. Under the water-filled trough, my fingers grasped cool metal, and I snatched it up.
January Secret Agent #3
TITLE: MIRANDA CUNNINGHAM, OTHERWORLD GIRL DETECTIVE
GENRE: YA Fiction
When the bell on my communication device awoke me from my after-school nap with a fluttery clang, I picked it up. Still exhausted from my last assignment that saved the mayor from kidnappers, I’d barely glanced at my geometry assignment.
“Miranda Cunningham, go to Shangri-La-La, ten o’clock tonight, and go alone.” The deep male voice gave me directions to my next assignment for New York Futures, an cool e-zine for teens like me.
“Can’t you guys give me a little break?”
“I would, but there aren’t too many sixteen-year-olds who can flit back and forth between New York City and Kroy Wen.”
He hung up before I could protest. Yes, yes, my alternate universe ability was the standard answer my editor loved to give. There were even fewer of us willing to take assignments with little or no prep and who had investigator training, which my detective dad had provided—before he disappeared.
A minute later, my school disguise of glasses, T-shirt, ripped jeans and sneakers lay on the couch beside me. I pulled on my red leather mini-skirt, yanked my red hair out of its rubber-band hold and fluffed my fingers through my long tresses. At the door, I stepped into thigh high red boots and stepped into the street.
With five minutes to spare, I emerged from the crossover subway on the south side of Kroy Wen. This highly dangerous underbelly of the city was sometimes visible if you knew where to look and kept your eyes open.
GENRE: YA Fiction
When the bell on my communication device awoke me from my after-school nap with a fluttery clang, I picked it up. Still exhausted from my last assignment that saved the mayor from kidnappers, I’d barely glanced at my geometry assignment.
“Miranda Cunningham, go to Shangri-La-La, ten o’clock tonight, and go alone.” The deep male voice gave me directions to my next assignment for New York Futures, an cool e-zine for teens like me.
“Can’t you guys give me a little break?”
“I would, but there aren’t too many sixteen-year-olds who can flit back and forth between New York City and Kroy Wen.”
He hung up before I could protest. Yes, yes, my alternate universe ability was the standard answer my editor loved to give. There were even fewer of us willing to take assignments with little or no prep and who had investigator training, which my detective dad had provided—before he disappeared.
A minute later, my school disguise of glasses, T-shirt, ripped jeans and sneakers lay on the couch beside me. I pulled on my red leather mini-skirt, yanked my red hair out of its rubber-band hold and fluffed my fingers through my long tresses. At the door, I stepped into thigh high red boots and stepped into the street.
With five minutes to spare, I emerged from the crossover subway on the south side of Kroy Wen. This highly dangerous underbelly of the city was sometimes visible if you knew where to look and kept your eyes open.
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