Showing posts with label First Five Pages Workshop w/ Elana Johnson. Show all posts
Showing posts with label First Five Pages Workshop w/ Elana Johnson. Show all posts
Monday, 25 June 2012
1st 5 Pages June Workshop - Poston 3rd Revision
Author: Ashley Poston
Genre: Supernatural
Title: Malevolent
The man in the black suit was staring at Mallory again.
It was unnerving---the tilt of his head, the sheen of his hair, not quite gray and not quite green, the color of his pallid skin that reminded her of faded cement. I just sort of wish he’d stop staring at me, she thought, concentrating on her bitten fingernails, her knees jumpy under the table. His eyes were the weirdest thing of them all, white halos around ink-black pits. He stirred his coffee with a white-gloved hand, slowly, clockwise, around and around.
She knew she should’ve just stayed in her train compartment.
“Excuse me, ma’am?”
Startled, Mal snapped her head up. It was the waiter, an eyebrow raised in query. He set a cup of coffee as dark as the night sky down in front of her. “Sorry ma’am, we were all out of creamer. Half-and-half?”
“Oh, sure, that’s fine,” she replied. “I’m sorry to bother you again but do you have anything sweet? Naturally sweet, nothing with any preservatives? Anything?” And maybe a rape whistle, just in case?
A girl traveling alone---it’s not like she hadn’t thought about the possibility of never reaching her destination. She’d traveled her entire life. She knew what precautions to take, like never leave a drink anywhere and always keep her purse in front of her and zipped tight, but she wasn’t quite sure what to do about someone just staring at her.
She had half the mind to go back to her train compartment where her suitcase and pillow occupied her seat, but what if he followed her? What’d he do then?
The waiter gave a slow nod, “We have honey buns.”
“That would be glorious.”
“Glorious, good word.” He slid a grin across to her and departed back to the station. He couldn’t have been more than twenty. How did he end up waitering on a train, she wondered, and rested her head against the cool window.
The stranger was still staring; she could feel his eyes on her.
Her knees jostled up and down quickly. Was she really that interesting? Perhaps her hair was a shade too mauve to be auburn, and maybe her eyebrows matched it flawlessly, because it was as natural as the day she was born. Maybe it was the tilt of her mouth? Or maybe how her eyes looked a little too wide and too blue?
The waiter came back with her honey bun and a flourish of napkins. He must’ve been quite good at ignoring creeps in dining cart corners. He leaned against the edge of the booth and asked, “So, where’re you headin’?”
“New York,” she replied.
“You from there?”
“No.” The edges of her lips tilted up just enough to be considered an almost-smile. “No where, really.”
“Ah, a vagabond type of girl. I like those. No home, no worries, right? I like to consider myself one too, but I’m from Columbia---Columbia, South Carolina.”
“Nice place.” She tore the lid off of a creamer cup and poured it in.
He shrugged. “It’s home.”
She tore off another lid and dumped it, and another, until all six cups made her coffee an almost milky white. Home was just a word to Mal. She’d lived in plenty of them with Mom---trailers, duplexes, hotels, motels, condominiums, and cheap houses. They’d even lived out of a retired ice cream truck in California, and just thinking about that small, cramped space made her back sore. Home meant as much to her as Mom’s whereabouts meant to the fine authorities of the Philadelphia Police Department.
Which was to say, not at all.
In the corner, the creeper set down his spoon and took a long, quiet sip.
Mal asked, “I’m sorry, this is a rude question, but do you see that guy over there?”
He glanced over his shoulder. “Oh, yeah, he took the last of the creamer. From Illinois, I think. Asked for the Sunday paper, which was really weird because it’s Friday.”
And he hasn’t creeped you out? But it’s not like she could actually ask him to kick the guy out for staring at her. If the waiter didn’t seem bothered… Maybe I’m just paranoid.
Three days ago, she’d returned to a deserted house. Mom’s clothes were gone. Her jewelry missing. She hadn’t left a note or directions or even pizza money. She hadn’t left… anything. Kidnapped people didn’t take their jewelry, shoes, and favorite photographs, do they? When she realized what had happened, she felt like an abandoned back of luggage in the rain.
“Although I can’t wait for Sunday’s Times. Supposed to be the review of Grant White’s play, Bones Apart. He’s a genius---am I talking too much? I’m sorry, it’s just really…” he leaned in closer and whispered through the side of his mouth, “…boring on the midnight train.”
She took another sip of coffee to hide her scowl. “He’s my godfather, actually.”
“No shit.”
“No shit,” she confirmed.
Mal only knew three things about Grant White. One, he was an esteemed Broadway playwright. Two, he bought a penthouse apartment in Fifth Avenue across from Central Park when she was four, and Mom had taken her to spend a few weeks there. The apartment had been spacious, and so clean she could eat cookies off the hardwood floors. And three, he was less than excited when the phone call came that his goddaughter would be spending an unidentified amount of time there until her Mom could be found.
Which, they both knew, might be a while. If Mal couldn’t find her Mom, then it was scary to admit that her Mom couldn’t be found at all.
Don’t think about that. She’ll turn up, she scolded herself.
“… I mean, he’s freaking excellent. Some of the stuff he writes? Shakespeare himself would cream his jeans. Hey, you know what? I got a card---I’m an actor, you know?” He began to pat down his pants pockets. “Hold on a sec, I’ll be right back. I think I got some over by the register. Man, I knew ya were special.”
A grin so wide cracked his freckled face in half. She smiled with him, because it was the polite thing to do. Stretch lips over teeth, edges upwards, hold pose. Then he left, and her smile sprung shut like a trap.
If he knew what Grant White was really like, would he still ask for an autograph?
The man with the white eyes lifted his cup to his lips again. Mal tried to keep herself from staring, but she couldn’t. He was like a king cobra at the zoo, staring from behind six-inches of glass, completely harmless until given the chance.
The dining compartment jostled ever-so-slightly with the steady hiccup of the railroad. The wheels squeaked underfoot like a symphony of mechanical birds.
I wish Mom was here, she thought. She’d know what to do. She always did. Whenever Mal had nightmares, her Mom knew what to say, what teas to fix with just the right amount of honey and sugar and soothing words. Mal had never gone to the doctor, because Mom was a plethora of healing herbs and spices. When she had the sniffles, Mom would make her drink a nasty concoction, and when she was sad Mom would twine dandelions into her hair. And when the mood set in, whether it was with the change of the tides or the seasons of the moon, they’d pick up everything they owned and migrate, because it was good for the soul.
Mal was never sure if Mom was running, or searching for something. She’d learned not to ask questions when once, after they’d celebrated the summer solstice and blown out all of the candles on the deck, she’d asked, “Why’re we leaving the wine?”
“For the rest of us,” Mom had replied and kissed her auburn curls.
The pre-dawn light outlined the fir trees passing her window, intermingled with cold patches of clear night and crisp stars. Where are you?
Mal took a timid sip of her coffee, the warmth biting her cold lips. Loneliness always made everything a little bit colder, even under the air vent.
“You haven’t eaten your sweet.”
Mal froze, her fingers gripped around the coffee cup. Her jaw clenched, her knees stopped jostling.
The stranger in the immaculate black suit slid into the booth beside her. Her breath stilted, heart hammered. He smelled like lilacs and frosty mornings.
“S-Sir, I’d like it if you’d leave,” she tried to say, but he just leaned in closer, narrowing those snow-white eyes at her in scrutiny.
“You are apprehensive? Nervous. Your eyebrows furrow in that peculiar way when you are.”
She slapped her hand to her eyebrows, feeling their crinkles, as her eyes darted to the waiter. Fright filled her like a gasoline fire. What was his name? Did she ever get his name? Then it crawled up her throat to her lips, suddenly found. “Ethan Wachowski!”
But it didn’t help. He was folded over the counter, slumped in such an awkward position it looked painful, his arm twisted under him, his cheek pressed against the fake marble. A thin line of drool oozed from his mouth.
She hitched a sharp gulp of lilac and snowy morning air, ready to scream.
He held up an immaculate white-gloved finger as if to warn her. “I… wouldn’t.”
Her mouth clamped shut, out of her control.
He tilted his head thoughtfully. “You are not who I imagined you would become. With your… knack… for finding things, you should have at least been able to find yourself,” he said more to himself than to her. Her muscles twisted, tightened. She hoped that whatever he was going to do, it’d be painless at least. “But then again, you have always surprised me.”
She realized she had control of her mouth again only after she’d asked, “Do I know you?”
“Perhaps.” He slid out from the booth. At the counter, the waiter groaned and lifted himself off the counter, wiping the drool from his mouth. A glint of pre-dawn light caught the stranger’s hair, and it glittered like stardust. “Perhaps someday.”
Then he departed through the exit door, but the smell of crisp snowy mornings lingered well after he’d gone, and the waiter came back with his business card.
“Dude, I must’ve spaced or something. Sorry about that.”
She slid out from the booth silently, putting his card in her back pocket. “I think I’ll get going,” she said distantly, trying to keep the quiver out of her voice.
He gave her a confused look. “You haven’t touched your honey bu---”
“I think someone’s looking for you,” she interrupted, slinging her purse over her shoulder, and left.
1st 5 Pages June Workshop - Zoltack 3rd Revision
Author: Nicole Zoltack
Genre: YA Paranormal
Title: Crystal’s Magic
Crystal rubbed her eyes and leaned back onto the hard plastic chair. She could feel a headache coming on from staring at the computer screen for so long.
“What’s wrong?” her mom asked as she came into the living room.
“It’s this project for history class. I can’t find enough information from credible websites.” She made air quotes and huffed out a breath. “And it’s due tomorrow.”
Her mom shook her head. “It’s not like you to wait until the last minute to get your homework done.”
Crystal shifted to look at her mom. “What’s all that?” she asked, nodding to the two large trash bags her mom held.
“I was doing some cleaning up in the attic. So much crud up there it isn’t funny. I don’t know why I kept so many doubles of pictures… We’re lucky the house hasn’t caught on fire, but at least I’m making some progress. In fact, I’m going to head to the bakery to get a cupcake.” She wagged a finger at Crystal. “I’ll pick you up one but you can only eat it after you finish your project.”
“Yum!” Crystal jumped up and kissed her mom on the cheek. “I’ll take these out back for you.” She reached for the bags.
Her mom hesitated before handing them over. “Thanks, honey. I’ll be back soon.”
Crystal waved, then lugged the bags through the dining room to the kitchen. She dropped the bags so she could open the back door. As she lifted one of the bags, it ripped open and pictures scattered across the floor.
She opened another bag and shoved the pictures into it. One caught her eye: a picture of her grade school graduation, her gown too long and slightly wrinkled, her mom grinning wider than Crystal.
Smiling at the three-year-old picture, Crystal tucked it into her jean pocket before retrieving all of the other pictures. She brought the pages onto the back porch. A warm breeze caressed her face, and she closed her eyes, leaning into it. Something crinkled beneath her foot, and she bent down to pick up yet another picture.
Crystal gasped and blinked, unsure of what she was seeing. A lump formed in her throat, and her mouth grew dry as she tried to swallow it away.
A tall man wore a broad smile, his dark hair streaked with a little white on the side. The woman beside him wore the same smile. She had long, chocolate brown hair and soft brown eyes.
Crystal could have been twins with the woman in the picture.
The lump moved down into her chest and grew to be the size of a rock. Her trembling fingers held the picture so loosely, the breeze teased it free from her grasp, and it fluttered to the ground like a leaf. The woman stared up at her, smiling the same smile Crystal had.
How could this be? Who was the woman?
Crystal snatched the picture and flipped it over, hoping their names would be written there, but the back was blank.
Her knees buckled, and she sat down. Dimly, she realized the porch was in desperate need of sweeping, but she still sat there. She pulled out the graduation picture and compared the photos.
She looked exactly like the unknown woman.
She looked nothing like her mom.
The rock-size lump in her chest sank into her stomach, and she felt queasy. Could she have been adopted? Could this woman be her birth mother?
Dizzy, scared, unsure what to think, Crystal shakily climbed to her feet. It wouldn’t be long before her mom returned from the bakery, and although her emotions were a swirling mess, she knew she did not want to see her mom right now. She went into the house, left a note for her mom on the fridge that said she was at the library, and left.
It didn’t take her long to reach the library—she jogged the entire way, trying to outrun her thoughts, to leave her emotions behind. She found some books and worked on her project, but the distraction only worked for a half hour. Her mind refused to focus, and she kept rubbing the photos through her jeans.
Finally, she walked over to the computer lab and pulled out the photo of the couple. She stared at the picture, willing it to give her some clue as to who they were, where they were. The strange shape in the background… was the cone a volcano?
Crystal did a search for volcanoes and eventually realized they were standing in front of Diamond Head in Hawaii. Since they weren’t Hawaiian, she assumed they were there as tourists. Maybe on their honeymoon? Although the little bit of white suggested that he wasn’t young. Or maybe he was prematurely turning white?
She opened up another window and was about to search for information on adoptions when she noticed the time. Instead of jumping to her feet and rushing out like she should have, she stared at the couple some more. She loved her mom. Sure, they didn’t always get along, but her mom was always there for her. These people—if they were her birth parents—she never knew them. Yet she felt a burning desire to get to know them, as if she wouldn’t be complete until she knew their story. Why had they given her up for adoption? Why hadn’t they wanted to keep her?
With these thoughts, she gathered her things. Still holding the Hawaiian picture, she pushed open the library door to see the drooping sun splash cherries and mangoes across the sky. Her school bag bounced on her back as she walked the quiet streets of Claymore. She nodded to the few people she passed, but soon she was alone as twilight descended, and a few stars began to twinkle in the sky.
It was much darker than she expected. Her mother had to be worrying about her right now. If Crystal had a cell phone, she could call to let her mom know she was on her way home, but no, Crystal had to be the only junior—probably the only teenager in her high school—who didn’t own one.
A sudden gust of wind blew the picture from her hand. She tore after it, chasing it down alleys and across the empty streets. Finally, she grabbed it and returned it to her pocket.
She glanced up. Her heart skipped a beat when she realized she didn’t know where she was. Darkness colored the brick buildings, giving them an almost sinister feel. The icy tendrils of fear squeezed her heart.
Her head held high, she turned around and marched the way she thought she’d come. Claymore looked different this late at night. The trees seemed bigger, the pavement more uneven.
Where was the library? If she could just find it, she would know how to get home.
A figure appeared at the edge of the sidewalk. Claymore wasn’t a big town, and she knew almost everybody, but she didn’t recognize the person.
A cloud shifted and blocked the moon. The void of light made her panic, and she ducked down an alley. Although it was even darker than the street, at least she was alone again. The stench of rotting garbage seared her nose. Holding her breath, she picked up her pace. If she could just find a recognizable landmark…
None of the buildings looked familiar, and the cloud still blocked the moon.
Genre: YA Paranormal
Title: Crystal’s Magic
Crystal rubbed her eyes and leaned back onto the hard plastic chair. She could feel a headache coming on from staring at the computer screen for so long.
“What’s wrong?” her mom asked as she came into the living room.
“It’s this project for history class. I can’t find enough information from credible websites.” She made air quotes and huffed out a breath. “And it’s due tomorrow.”
Her mom shook her head. “It’s not like you to wait until the last minute to get your homework done.”
Crystal shifted to look at her mom. “What’s all that?” she asked, nodding to the two large trash bags her mom held.
“I was doing some cleaning up in the attic. So much crud up there it isn’t funny. I don’t know why I kept so many doubles of pictures… We’re lucky the house hasn’t caught on fire, but at least I’m making some progress. In fact, I’m going to head to the bakery to get a cupcake.” She wagged a finger at Crystal. “I’ll pick you up one but you can only eat it after you finish your project.”
“Yum!” Crystal jumped up and kissed her mom on the cheek. “I’ll take these out back for you.” She reached for the bags.
Her mom hesitated before handing them over. “Thanks, honey. I’ll be back soon.”
Crystal waved, then lugged the bags through the dining room to the kitchen. She dropped the bags so she could open the back door. As she lifted one of the bags, it ripped open and pictures scattered across the floor.
She opened another bag and shoved the pictures into it. One caught her eye: a picture of her grade school graduation, her gown too long and slightly wrinkled, her mom grinning wider than Crystal.
Smiling at the three-year-old picture, Crystal tucked it into her jean pocket before retrieving all of the other pictures. She brought the pages onto the back porch. A warm breeze caressed her face, and she closed her eyes, leaning into it. Something crinkled beneath her foot, and she bent down to pick up yet another picture.
Crystal gasped and blinked, unsure of what she was seeing. A lump formed in her throat, and her mouth grew dry as she tried to swallow it away.
A tall man wore a broad smile, his dark hair streaked with a little white on the side. The woman beside him wore the same smile. She had long, chocolate brown hair and soft brown eyes.
Crystal could have been twins with the woman in the picture.
The lump moved down into her chest and grew to be the size of a rock. Her trembling fingers held the picture so loosely, the breeze teased it free from her grasp, and it fluttered to the ground like a leaf. The woman stared up at her, smiling the same smile Crystal had.
How could this be? Who was the woman?
Crystal snatched the picture and flipped it over, hoping their names would be written there, but the back was blank.
Her knees buckled, and she sat down. Dimly, she realized the porch was in desperate need of sweeping, but she still sat there. She pulled out the graduation picture and compared the photos.
She looked exactly like the unknown woman.
She looked nothing like her mom.
The rock-size lump in her chest sank into her stomach, and she felt queasy. Could she have been adopted? Could this woman be her birth mother?
Dizzy, scared, unsure what to think, Crystal shakily climbed to her feet. It wouldn’t be long before her mom returned from the bakery, and although her emotions were a swirling mess, she knew she did not want to see her mom right now. She went into the house, left a note for her mom on the fridge that said she was at the library, and left.
It didn’t take her long to reach the library—she jogged the entire way, trying to outrun her thoughts, to leave her emotions behind. She found some books and worked on her project, but the distraction only worked for a half hour. Her mind refused to focus, and she kept rubbing the photos through her jeans.
Finally, she walked over to the computer lab and pulled out the photo of the couple. She stared at the picture, willing it to give her some clue as to who they were, where they were. The strange shape in the background… was the cone a volcano?
Crystal did a search for volcanoes and eventually realized they were standing in front of Diamond Head in Hawaii. Since they weren’t Hawaiian, she assumed they were there as tourists. Maybe on their honeymoon? Although the little bit of white suggested that he wasn’t young. Or maybe he was prematurely turning white?
She opened up another window and was about to search for information on adoptions when she noticed the time. Instead of jumping to her feet and rushing out like she should have, she stared at the couple some more. She loved her mom. Sure, they didn’t always get along, but her mom was always there for her. These people—if they were her birth parents—she never knew them. Yet she felt a burning desire to get to know them, as if she wouldn’t be complete until she knew their story. Why had they given her up for adoption? Why hadn’t they wanted to keep her?
With these thoughts, she gathered her things. Still holding the Hawaiian picture, she pushed open the library door to see the drooping sun splash cherries and mangoes across the sky. Her school bag bounced on her back as she walked the quiet streets of Claymore. She nodded to the few people she passed, but soon she was alone as twilight descended, and a few stars began to twinkle in the sky.
It was much darker than she expected. Her mother had to be worrying about her right now. If Crystal had a cell phone, she could call to let her mom know she was on her way home, but no, Crystal had to be the only junior—probably the only teenager in her high school—who didn’t own one.
A sudden gust of wind blew the picture from her hand. She tore after it, chasing it down alleys and across the empty streets. Finally, she grabbed it and returned it to her pocket.
She glanced up. Her heart skipped a beat when she realized she didn’t know where she was. Darkness colored the brick buildings, giving them an almost sinister feel. The icy tendrils of fear squeezed her heart.
Her head held high, she turned around and marched the way she thought she’d come. Claymore looked different this late at night. The trees seemed bigger, the pavement more uneven.
Where was the library? If she could just find it, she would know how to get home.
A figure appeared at the edge of the sidewalk. Claymore wasn’t a big town, and she knew almost everybody, but she didn’t recognize the person.
A cloud shifted and blocked the moon. The void of light made her panic, and she ducked down an alley. Although it was even darker than the street, at least she was alone again. The stench of rotting garbage seared her nose. Holding her breath, she picked up her pace. If she could just find a recognizable landmark…
None of the buildings looked familiar, and the cloud still blocked the moon.
1st 5 Pages June Workshop - Freeland 3rd Revision
Freeland
Paranormal
Awakening
Chapter One
No More Lies
The lies would end. Tonight.
No matter what lame excuse Claire threw out, I’d had enough of her weird, cryptic crap. No more secrets. No more arguments. No more dodging questions. I was going to confront her and demand the truth.
Something I should have done months ago. The first time she lied.
My headlights splashed across the back of her baby blue Beetle. While my twin drove a cuter, newer, sportier car, I’d opted for an older, cheaper Corolla. If I had to pay half, I wanted to pay half of less. Claire still owed our parents money. I was free and clear.
Sometimes I made good decisions.
I slid my car into the narrow space next to the Beetle, claiming the last spot in the small parking alcove by the creek. I slammed the gearshift into park and ripped the keys out of the ignition.
Other times I didn’t make good decisions at all.
Like rushing out here on the whim of one of my sister’s histrionic rants. Claire might think it was cool to hang out here in the dark, but I didn’t. Why couldn’t she pout at Starbucks or the nail salon like a normal sixteen-year-old? Somewhere bright and safe where finding her didn’t require a Mag light?
My hand strayed to my pocket, my fingers brushing the soft denim of my jeans.
Get a grip, Kate. It’s a piece of paper.
A piece of paper with some pretty damning words—written in Claire’s barely legible loopy handwriting.
The twilight sky began a slow slide into night—the horizon a hazy pink, growing duskier by the minute. Thanks a lot, Claire. Stupid text—At creek. Need you. You couldn’t have needed me before it got dark?
I checked my phone again. Ten unanswered messages in my outbox in response to the one she’d sent twenty minutes ago. I tossed the phone on the dash and opened the glove compartment. Owner’s manual. GPS. A half-empty pack of Trident. And a tiny red flashlight.
Nothing that made me feel even a little bit okay about getting out of my car. I grabbed the flashlight and shoved open my door anyway.
Crunch.
Right into the car next to me.
Crap. It was a nice car, too. Even under the dimming street lamp, I could make out a deep scratch highlighted with beige paint, marring the black shine on the passenger door. Now I had to find Claire and get back here before Sleek and Sporty’s owner returned and wrote down my license plate.
I let my sweatshirt sleeves fall over my hands. Even mid-December, the winter chill hadn’t quite hit Texas, but the sun’s disappearance lowered the temperature another ten degrees and the breeze brought a bitter edge.
Claire’s sanctuary under the wooden bridge wasn’t too far down the winding creek—just past the huge tree that twisted and bent and practically fell into the water. Maybe a quarter mile or so.
I’d try there first.
Dead leaves and grass crunched under my boots. Long strands of hair whipped across my face. I brushed them back.
Something snapped behind me.
I whirled around, clenching my fingers. A branch blew across the ground. My heart sped again and the loud pounding echoed across the water and got lost in the blackness. A tight knot curled in my stomach. If something happened to me out here, I was going to kill my sister.
What would they say when they found me disemboweled and hanging from a tree a la Scream? Probably—stupid girl came out here all alone, she deserved it.
I quickened my pace. There were other more pressing things to deal with. Real things. Claire things. Crazy things. Things my head couldn’t process that should immobilize my heart more than the thought of some psycho hiding in the trees with a machete.
That slip of paper burned the proverbial hole in my pocket. But exaggeration was Claire’s specialty. I just needed to find her, before it got any darker, and we could talk about this in the car. With the doors locked. Or at Saxby’s over a latte. And I would fix it. Whatever it was.
Nothing ever turned out to be as dramatic as she made it out to be. And what was with all the sneaking around? What did she think she had to hide? Especially from me? Up until junior year started this fall, we’d never kept secrets from each other.
Liar.
My stomach twisted at the accusation.
Okay, one secret. I kept one secret. No point in sharing what couldn’t be fixed.
The bridge loomed ahead, a tall arching structure made of wood and metal that connected one side of the creek to the other. The barely-there-sliver of a moon might as well have been MIA.
I switched the tiny flashlight on and pointed it toward the platform, shining it from one end to the other. Empty. She was probably huddled under the metal supports against the stone wall—which meant I had to climb down there to find her.
“Claire?” I whispered, angling the light toward the shadowy place where I expected her to be, but the dim light and distance made everything black.
I hugged myself, rubbing my arms through the thick sweatshirt. Oh yeah, perfect slasher set-up. Dumb blonde. No common sense. Armed with a penlight. I could almost hear the people in the theater screaming, “Run Kate! Don’t go down there.”
“Claire?” I boosted my volume. “Not funny, okay? Let’s pick up a pizza and go home. I’ll pay.” I glanced over my shoulder at the deserted street, then back to the creek. A cluster of dense trees moved in rhythm with the breeze. It should have been a beautiful dance. It wasn’t.
A sliver of ice skipped across my spine, wrapped around my middle, and took up residence low in my gut. My breath caught. Why didn’t I tell Dad like I’d threatened? Then he’d be out here instead of me.
The third time I said her name, my voice hit the bottom end of yelling and came out a shaky warble. “Claire?”
I stuck the flashlight between my teeth and worked my way one careful step at a time down the steep sloping bank, holding onto to trees and rocks, my hands trembling along with my breath.
“Oh, Claire, you’re going to owe me big time for this. Do you hear me? Work shifts. Bathroom cleaning. Dog poop duty. All yours.”
Almost to the bottom, an old gnarled tree bent and hung over the water, attached to a flat, narrow ledge. I tripped on a giant root, grabbed a low-hanging branch, and barely saved myself from falling the three feet off the edge and into the icy water.
The flashlight fell out of my mouth and landed in the mud, pointing across the creek.
“Don’t text me to come here and then be a jerk, Claire. Whatever’s going on, you don’t need to be mean.” If I could have hissed the words, I would have. “I’m going home.”
Right after I snagged my only source of light.
I slid down the rest of the slope—mostly on my butt—until my feet hit the dirt. I reached for the flashlight. The edge of the narrow beam caught a dark shape in the water.
A log? A broken tree? Or a psycho killer stalking me crocodile style?
Whatever. I was done here. I loved my sister, but I was tired of being pulled into her craziness. Dad could deal with her.
I snatched the flashlight, most of it covered in mud, and prayed Croco Killer wouldn’t jump out of the water once I turned my back. I kept my eyes forward and climbed up the bank, chanting, “Horror movies are made up by sickos with freaky imaginations that get off on scaring people to death. They’re not real. They’re not real. They’re not real.”
The chanting didn’t do much to stop the sliver of ice in my gut from multiplying and spreading to the rest of my body. The longer I refused to look back, the more I could feel someone watching me, rising up out of the water, slow and stealthy, stalking me up the bank, preparing to strike quiet and quick.
I couldn’t look.
I had to look.
Don’t be such a baby, Kate. I braced myself for the worst, held my breath, tensed my shoulders, and spun around ready with the flashlight in case I needed to use it as a weapon.
The bank was psycho free. Unless I counted myself and I was beginning to wonder.
My breath escaped in a sigh of relief that softened my entire body. “It’s just a log.” I pointed the flashlight at the shape one more time. And froze.
Everything faded into a black void. Paralyzed in disbelief, I couldn’t think, couldn’t react, couldn’t do anything. My mind couldn’t process what my eyes were seeing and for a moment, I stood there transfixed by the leg and arm crooked over a fallen tree, mesmerized by the long strands of hair that fanned out and rode the surface of the water.
That moment could have been a second.
Or a year.
A snatch of shimmery purple glinted off the beam of light—my sister’s jacket.
The flashlight hit the ground and the vacuum imploded. A splintered scream shattered my lungs, knocking my breath across the muddy ravine. “Claire!”
Paranormal
Awakening
Chapter One
No More Lies
The lies would end. Tonight.
No matter what lame excuse Claire threw out, I’d had enough of her weird, cryptic crap. No more secrets. No more arguments. No more dodging questions. I was going to confront her and demand the truth.
Something I should have done months ago. The first time she lied.
My headlights splashed across the back of her baby blue Beetle. While my twin drove a cuter, newer, sportier car, I’d opted for an older, cheaper Corolla. If I had to pay half, I wanted to pay half of less. Claire still owed our parents money. I was free and clear.
Sometimes I made good decisions.
I slid my car into the narrow space next to the Beetle, claiming the last spot in the small parking alcove by the creek. I slammed the gearshift into park and ripped the keys out of the ignition.
Other times I didn’t make good decisions at all.
Like rushing out here on the whim of one of my sister’s histrionic rants. Claire might think it was cool to hang out here in the dark, but I didn’t. Why couldn’t she pout at Starbucks or the nail salon like a normal sixteen-year-old? Somewhere bright and safe where finding her didn’t require a Mag light?
My hand strayed to my pocket, my fingers brushing the soft denim of my jeans.
Get a grip, Kate. It’s a piece of paper.
A piece of paper with some pretty damning words—written in Claire’s barely legible loopy handwriting.
The twilight sky began a slow slide into night—the horizon a hazy pink, growing duskier by the minute. Thanks a lot, Claire. Stupid text—At creek. Need you. You couldn’t have needed me before it got dark?
I checked my phone again. Ten unanswered messages in my outbox in response to the one she’d sent twenty minutes ago. I tossed the phone on the dash and opened the glove compartment. Owner’s manual. GPS. A half-empty pack of Trident. And a tiny red flashlight.
Nothing that made me feel even a little bit okay about getting out of my car. I grabbed the flashlight and shoved open my door anyway.
Crunch.
Right into the car next to me.
Crap. It was a nice car, too. Even under the dimming street lamp, I could make out a deep scratch highlighted with beige paint, marring the black shine on the passenger door. Now I had to find Claire and get back here before Sleek and Sporty’s owner returned and wrote down my license plate.
I let my sweatshirt sleeves fall over my hands. Even mid-December, the winter chill hadn’t quite hit Texas, but the sun’s disappearance lowered the temperature another ten degrees and the breeze brought a bitter edge.
Claire’s sanctuary under the wooden bridge wasn’t too far down the winding creek—just past the huge tree that twisted and bent and practically fell into the water. Maybe a quarter mile or so.
I’d try there first.
Dead leaves and grass crunched under my boots. Long strands of hair whipped across my face. I brushed them back.
Something snapped behind me.
I whirled around, clenching my fingers. A branch blew across the ground. My heart sped again and the loud pounding echoed across the water and got lost in the blackness. A tight knot curled in my stomach. If something happened to me out here, I was going to kill my sister.
What would they say when they found me disemboweled and hanging from a tree a la Scream? Probably—stupid girl came out here all alone, she deserved it.
I quickened my pace. There were other more pressing things to deal with. Real things. Claire things. Crazy things. Things my head couldn’t process that should immobilize my heart more than the thought of some psycho hiding in the trees with a machete.
That slip of paper burned the proverbial hole in my pocket. But exaggeration was Claire’s specialty. I just needed to find her, before it got any darker, and we could talk about this in the car. With the doors locked. Or at Saxby’s over a latte. And I would fix it. Whatever it was.
Nothing ever turned out to be as dramatic as she made it out to be. And what was with all the sneaking around? What did she think she had to hide? Especially from me? Up until junior year started this fall, we’d never kept secrets from each other.
Liar.
My stomach twisted at the accusation.
Okay, one secret. I kept one secret. No point in sharing what couldn’t be fixed.
The bridge loomed ahead, a tall arching structure made of wood and metal that connected one side of the creek to the other. The barely-there-sliver of a moon might as well have been MIA.
I switched the tiny flashlight on and pointed it toward the platform, shining it from one end to the other. Empty. She was probably huddled under the metal supports against the stone wall—which meant I had to climb down there to find her.
“Claire?” I whispered, angling the light toward the shadowy place where I expected her to be, but the dim light and distance made everything black.
I hugged myself, rubbing my arms through the thick sweatshirt. Oh yeah, perfect slasher set-up. Dumb blonde. No common sense. Armed with a penlight. I could almost hear the people in the theater screaming, “Run Kate! Don’t go down there.”
“Claire?” I boosted my volume. “Not funny, okay? Let’s pick up a pizza and go home. I’ll pay.” I glanced over my shoulder at the deserted street, then back to the creek. A cluster of dense trees moved in rhythm with the breeze. It should have been a beautiful dance. It wasn’t.
A sliver of ice skipped across my spine, wrapped around my middle, and took up residence low in my gut. My breath caught. Why didn’t I tell Dad like I’d threatened? Then he’d be out here instead of me.
The third time I said her name, my voice hit the bottom end of yelling and came out a shaky warble. “Claire?”
I stuck the flashlight between my teeth and worked my way one careful step at a time down the steep sloping bank, holding onto to trees and rocks, my hands trembling along with my breath.
“Oh, Claire, you’re going to owe me big time for this. Do you hear me? Work shifts. Bathroom cleaning. Dog poop duty. All yours.”
Almost to the bottom, an old gnarled tree bent and hung over the water, attached to a flat, narrow ledge. I tripped on a giant root, grabbed a low-hanging branch, and barely saved myself from falling the three feet off the edge and into the icy water.
The flashlight fell out of my mouth and landed in the mud, pointing across the creek.
“Don’t text me to come here and then be a jerk, Claire. Whatever’s going on, you don’t need to be mean.” If I could have hissed the words, I would have. “I’m going home.”
Right after I snagged my only source of light.
I slid down the rest of the slope—mostly on my butt—until my feet hit the dirt. I reached for the flashlight. The edge of the narrow beam caught a dark shape in the water.
A log? A broken tree? Or a psycho killer stalking me crocodile style?
Whatever. I was done here. I loved my sister, but I was tired of being pulled into her craziness. Dad could deal with her.
I snatched the flashlight, most of it covered in mud, and prayed Croco Killer wouldn’t jump out of the water once I turned my back. I kept my eyes forward and climbed up the bank, chanting, “Horror movies are made up by sickos with freaky imaginations that get off on scaring people to death. They’re not real. They’re not real. They’re not real.”
The chanting didn’t do much to stop the sliver of ice in my gut from multiplying and spreading to the rest of my body. The longer I refused to look back, the more I could feel someone watching me, rising up out of the water, slow and stealthy, stalking me up the bank, preparing to strike quiet and quick.
I couldn’t look.
I had to look.
Don’t be such a baby, Kate. I braced myself for the worst, held my breath, tensed my shoulders, and spun around ready with the flashlight in case I needed to use it as a weapon.
The bank was psycho free. Unless I counted myself and I was beginning to wonder.
My breath escaped in a sigh of relief that softened my entire body. “It’s just a log.” I pointed the flashlight at the shape one more time. And froze.
Everything faded into a black void. Paralyzed in disbelief, I couldn’t think, couldn’t react, couldn’t do anything. My mind couldn’t process what my eyes were seeing and for a moment, I stood there transfixed by the leg and arm crooked over a fallen tree, mesmerized by the long strands of hair that fanned out and rode the surface of the water.
That moment could have been a second.
Or a year.
A snatch of shimmery purple glinted off the beam of light—my sister’s jacket.
The flashlight hit the ground and the vacuum imploded. A splintered scream shattered my lungs, knocking my breath across the muddy ravine. “Claire!”
Monday, 18 June 2012
1st 5 Pages June Workshop - Levy 2nd Revision
Author: Michelle Levy
Genre: YA speculative fiction
Title: CUNNINGHAM MANOR
I wanted nothing more than to change out of my scratchy wool dress and bury myself in my grief, but the wake hadn’t even started yet. Dozens of people who didn’t really know my mother were on their way to our home, and as much as I wanted to, I couldn’t attend my own mother’s wake in sweats.
Even though it was only three months ago, I struggled to remember the last conversation we’d had in person. She’d just helped me move to New York for college. She told me how proud she was of me. She hugged me tight and kissed my forehead. I shouldn’t have been in such a rush for her to leave. I should’ve savored the moment. I should’ve told her how much she meant to me, how she made me the person I am, how much I loved her. I shouldn’t have treated the stupid “curse” so lightly. Losing my mother at a young age was something I had been prepared for my whole life. The mystery illness that, once figured out, would probably be named after our family. But I never took it seriously. She didn’t take it seriously. She always brushed it off as coincidental, superstitious. She was healthy as a horse right up until the day she dropped dead. Just like all the others. If I hadn’t been so selfish, I could have had more time with her. Parsons could have waited.
She was only forty-nine years old. Just three years shy of the longest living female in the Cunningham family bloodline. My grandmother died when she was forty-seven. My great-grandmother died when she was only forty-five. My great aunt died at the ripe old age of fifty-two. That’s when we moved to Cunningham Manor. I was seven.
“Miss Fiona?” Edvina appeared in the doorway. I’m pretty sure Edvina came with the house. “The guests are beginning to arrive,” she said in her thick German accent.
“Thank you, Edvina. I’ll be down in a minute. Has my father been notified?”
“Kent has gone to fetch him.”
“Thank you.”
“Miss Fiona?”
I turned to meet her glassy gaze. I wasn’t sure, but I think she might have even allowed herself to cry. Her usually ruddy complexion was splotchy and her papery eyelids were a little puffy.
“Miss Catherine was a true angel.” She didn’t wait for a reply. She silently closed the door behind her, leaving me to collect myself for the guests.
I felt my eyes get hot as tears threatened to escape, but I refused to allow them freedom until I could surrender to them completely. After the guests had gone.
I sank onto the fluffy, blue velvet bench at my vanity and touched up my make up. Something caught my eye in the mirror. Hope fluttered in my ribcage and I whipped around expectantly.
“Charlie?”
But there was no one there. That glimmer of hope now sat in the pit of my stomach, weighing me down as if I’d swallowed a sizable stone. Why hadn’t he come? I needed him. He was the only person that could help me through this.
After I had successfully collected myself, I made my way down the long, stone hallway toward the grand staircase. Somber voices crescendoed from below with each step.
I had to cross all the way along the balcony to get to the stairway, which meant I had to endure all the people below watching me, their eyes filled with pity. I always hated that the stairs weren’t just right in the center; I hated those extra twenty or so steps I had to take to reach them. I hated it even more today. The staircase seemed to lengthen with each step as if I would never reach the bottom. I was usually really good with names and faces, but today it was all just one big blur. What I wouldn’t give to have Charlie here.
When I reached the bottom of the staircase a man that worked with my father greeted me with a sympathetic hug. He led me across the room toward the fireplace that welcomed people as they entered the massive front doors. The fireplace could easily fit five of me standing shoulder to shoulder without ducking. The heat generated from the fire embraced me in its warmth as the man introduced me to a few of the other early arrivals, some of whom I vaguely recognized. I was relieved to see my father’s boss among this small group. At least I could remember his name: Franklin, though at that moment I couldn’t remember if that was his first or last name.
“Fiona …” Franklin sighed heavily, then he placed his bulbous hands on my shoulders and nodded like he didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know what to say either so we sort of bobbed our heads at each other for an uncomfortable minute until I finally excused myself to “check on something.” I walked briskly toward the drawing room, thinking that if I looked like I was going somewhere with a purpose, people wouldn’t try to stop me.
It worked.
The drawing room was empty except for the coffin at the far end. I hesitated slightly before descending the five steps that led into the two-story room, and found myself being pulled toward the coffin.
I couldn’t help but think how the cathedral ceilings had never looked more like a church. The gothic arched windows that stood behind my mother overlooked the grounds and I thought about how my mother and I used to sit at those windows on rainy days and read in silence, occasionally looking out into the distance to ponder our books. Then we would crack up when the other one caught us. Especially if the book made us cry.
I smiled warmly at the memory as I gazed down at my mother. She looked so beautiful. She always looked beautiful. Her light, golden hair perfectly coifed in a gentle curl, cascaded around her shoulders. I always wanted her hair but I was blessed with my father’s chestnut brown, bone-straight locks. I did, however, get my mother’s brown eyes with light golden flecks. I wished more than anything for one more chance to look into her eyes again. I wanted to place my hand on her shoulder and wake her up. I wanted her to put her lithe arms around me and hold me just one more time. I felt a tear roll down the side of my cheek.
My father’s sadness cloaked the room as he entered and I fought its antagonistic attempt to pull me under even further. His gentle hand brushed away the remnants of my stray tear, which only encouraged a few more tears to follow. My father had obviously been crying. His usually hazel-green eyes were a brilliant green – probably in contrast to the red skin around them. I couldn’t speak because I knew I’d really lose it. He seemed to be thinking the same thing so he just placed his arm around my waist and we gazed down at my mother resting peacefully.
I leaned into my father’s embrace. He was tall. I got that from him. He was six-foot-four, I was a little over five-ten. My mother was a petite five-foot-three. My father loved that about her. I cried the year I outgrew her. I was twelve. I was so upset that I’d never find a boy taller than me. And I didn’t until high school. I got my father’s build too. I hated it. My mother envied my broad shoulders. She called me statuesque. She said that models would covet my frame. She always tried to put a positive spin on everything. I loved that about her. I would miss that about her.
One of the servants pulled my father away to check on some final details before the service. I stayed with my mother, treasuring the last few minutes I would ever get to see her beautiful face again. Forty-nine years? Is that how long I’ll get? Will I last as long as Aunt Bea? When you’re eighteen you don’t want to be plagued with the thought of your own mortality but it’s something I’ve been faced with since I was born. We just didn’t know the cause of the “curse.” We didn’t even know if my mother would be affected by it. Now that burden was on me.
My father motioned to me from the entrance of the room, signaling that they were about to usher the guests in.
I was sort of numb throughout the service. I barely remember giving my eulogy. My father had asked me to speak, as he didn’t want to become emotional in front of his peers. He did cry a little as I spoke. I did not. I seemed to have managed to successfully sever my emotional synapses for the time being.
After a spectacular rendition of “Con Te Partiro” sung by one of the tenors from the Metropolitan Opera – a friend of my father’s boss – everyone paraded out to the family cemetery. My father and I stayed behind to say our final goodbyes before my mother’s body would forever be sealed into the glossy, cherry wood box in which she would sleep for eternity.
The pallbearers kept their distance until we finally signaled them. We followed behind my mother toward the family plot at the far end of the property next to the cliff. My mother always said it would be the perfect final resting place for her. She assured me that when the time came she would be happy there. I found her sitting out near her mother’s grave on many an occasion. People might think graveyards are creepy or morbid, but my mother thought they were beautiful and peaceful. I have always agreed.
The tenor sang “Ave Maria” as they lowered my mother into the earth. The song floated through the air encircling me in its warm embrace. A few hot tears escaped down my cheeks, but no one paid attention to anything but the melody coming from those angelic vocal chords. I closed my eyes and squeezed my father’s hand as the last note carried off toward the ocean as if it was lifting my mother’s spirit to wherever it is that spirits go.
1st 5 Pages June Workshop - Poston 2nd Revision
Author: Ashley Poston
Genre: Supernatural
Title: Malevolent
The man in the black suit was staring at her again.
It was unnerving. The tilt of his head, the sheen of his hair, not quite gray and not quite green, the color of his pallid skin that reminded her of faded cement. And his eyes―white pinpricks. They had to be contacts. Thick ones, too. He stirred his coffee with a white-gloved hand, slowly, clockwise, around and around.
“Excuse me, ma’am?”
Startled, Mal spun to face―the waiter. It was just the waiter. She slapped a hand over her hammering heart. “Please don’t do that.”
Hesitantly, he set a cup of fresh coffee down in front of her and a honey bun. At her request, the coffee was almost a nutmeg brown. “Sorry, ma’am. We were all out of creamer so I hope half-and-half is fine.”
“Absolutely. And I’m just, you know, antsy traveling alone… and stuff.” And your other customer doesn’t help things, she ached to add, pulling her auburn hair over onto her left shoulder. Maybe you can ask him for a few things of creamer because he’s monopolized like twenty of them. “You know how it is, a girl, alone, going to the big city. Good times.”
“I don’t know about the girl part, but I get the big city.” He tilted his head, and a curl came untucked from behind his ear. He couldn’t have been more than twenty-five. How did he end up working on a train, she wondered. “Long way from home?”
Home. It was just a word. She’d been in plenty of those with Mom― trailers, duplexes, hotels, motels, condominiums, and cheap houses. They’d even lived out of a retired ice cream truck in California, and just thinking about those few months made her back cramp up. Home meant about as much to her as her Mom’s whereabouts meant to the fine authorities of the Philadelphia Police Department.
“Yeah,” she lied, fighting the bitter in her voice, “a very long way from that.”
He nodded, as if he understood her completely. Which was funny in it's own right. He probably could relate to her as well as a sheep dog relates to a cat. “So where ya headin’?”
“My godfather’s in the city.”
“That’ll be fun! Ever been to the city before? I love the city.”
“Once, the last time I went to see him. You might know him… Grant White?”
His eyebrows shot up in disbelief. “Might know him? The Grant White―the playwright?”
“He writes something.”
“No shit! I was Harry in Bones Apart!”
Oh God, she thought, I just opened up a can of worms.
“…And Julius in Midnight Wedding in Dallas! And you know that one, The Clocktower? I friggin’ love that one. Oh man, you―hey, you know, you think you could get me his autograph?”
“Umm…” She only knew three things about her godfather. One, he was an esteemed playwright. Two, he bought a penthouse apartment across from Central Park when she was four, and Mom took her to spend a few weeks there. The apartment had been spacious, and so clean she could eat cookies off the hardwood floors. And three, he was less than excited when the news came that his goddaughter would be spending an unidentified amount of time there until her estranged Mom could be found.
Which, they both knew, might be a while.
If Mom didn’t want to be found, the police wouldn’t find her. Three days ago, Mal had returned to a deserted house. Mom’s clothes were gone. Her jewelry missing. She hadn’t left a note or directions or even pizza money. She hadn’t left… anything. When Mal realized what had happened, what it meant, she felt like an abandoned bag of luggage in the rain.
And now I get to spend quality time with His Impeccable Whiteness.
The train’s food car jostled ever-so-slightly with the steady hiccup of the railroad. The wheels squeaked underfoot like a symphony of mechanical birds. If only it could drown out the waiter’s voice.
“…I mean, ya don’t have to but it’d be amazing. I’d love to cold-read his scripts. Maybe be a stagehand? Does he need an assistant? Here, I’ve a card too…” he began to pat down his pants pockets. “Oh yeah! I’ll be right back. Left ‘em over by the register. Man, I knew ya were special!”
A grin so wide cracked his freckled face in half. She smiled with him, because it was the polite thing to do. Stretch lips over teeth, edges upward, hold pose. Then he left, and her smile sprung shut like a trap.
If he knew what Grant White was really like, would he still ask for an autograph?
She curled her fingers around the steaming mug, and inhaled. The sweet smell of sugar untied her muscles and tamed her nerves. Sweet things did that to her. She didn’t know how, or why. Whenever she had nightmares, Mom would be there with a glass of milk and cookies as if she knew when she had them. Maybe she screamed aloud. Maybe her Mom could hear her thrashing.
Or maybe that was just the way her Mom was. Mal had learned to not ask questions when once, after they’d celebrated the summer solstice and blown out all of the candles in the yard, she’d asked, “Why’re we leaving the wine?”
“For the rest of us,” Mom had replied and kissed her auburn curls.
Whatever that meant gave her nightmares for the rest of the year. For the rest of us, as if she and her Mom were just a small part in something larger. Whatever that community was, it’d ostracized them. She still felt as alone as she did the moment she stepped into their abandoned house three days ago.
Mal shivered. Loneliness made everything a little colder, even under the air vent. Was it bad that she missed her Mom’s weirdness? Mom did a lot of crazy things, and because of the way she was, Mal had never gone to the doctor. When she had the sniffles she’d drink a nasty tea, and when she was sad, Mom would twine dandelions into her hair. Sometimes her Mom would lean against the kitchen sink and speak with the moon. She even missed that, although it frightened her, but not as much as the possibility that the moon might talk back.
For the rest of us, she mocked.
The pre-dawn light outlined the fir trees that passed her window, intermingled with cold patches of a clear night and crisp stars. But somewhere in the distance there were towns on the cusp of another ordinary day where ordinary families wavered on the brink of ordinary alarm clocks.
She pressed her head against the coolness of the window as someone slid into the booth opposite of her. The waiter? If he thinks he can smooze up to me to get my godfather―The booth across the compartment was empty. A cold chill trickled down her spine. Don’t look at him, she urged herself, definitely don’t look.
“You haven’t eaten your sweet,” the stranger observed.
She pressed her lips into a thin line, her eyes trained on the space between the trees and the sky. He slithered a hand over the table to move the pastry closer to her, insisting. She said lamely, “I’m not hungry.”
“Sweets sooth me, as well.”
Her skin scrawled. “Sir, can you please get awa―”
“I can tell.” He sounded amused. That rubbed her the wrong way. “You are apprehensive. Nervous. Your eyebrows furrow in that peculiar way when you are.”
Her knees began bouncing under the table; he was seriously freaking her out. His shoulder leaned inward, his arm stretched across the table, successfully barring her into the corner of the booth. Where’s the waiter?! She began to motion to him, but he stood slumped against the counter, a thin line of drool oozing from his mouth. Oh, great. Such a help he’d be.
“You’re not who I imagined you would become,” he said, more to himself than to her. She stiffened at the remark. She’d seen scenes like this on CSI, and she didn’t like where this was going. Two people alone in a dining cart, if one of them screamed and no one was around to hear it… would she make a sound? “But then again, you have always surprised me.”
“Do I know you?” she couldn’t help but ask.
“Perhaps.” He tilted his head, his index finger tapping the table in frustration, “...someday.”
Genre: Supernatural
Title: Malevolent
The man in the black suit was staring at her again.
It was unnerving. The tilt of his head, the sheen of his hair, not quite gray and not quite green, the color of his pallid skin that reminded her of faded cement. And his eyes―white pinpricks. They had to be contacts. Thick ones, too. He stirred his coffee with a white-gloved hand, slowly, clockwise, around and around.
“Excuse me, ma’am?”
Startled, Mal spun to face―the waiter. It was just the waiter. She slapped a hand over her hammering heart. “Please don’t do that.”
Hesitantly, he set a cup of fresh coffee down in front of her and a honey bun. At her request, the coffee was almost a nutmeg brown. “Sorry, ma’am. We were all out of creamer so I hope half-and-half is fine.”
“Absolutely. And I’m just, you know, antsy traveling alone… and stuff.” And your other customer doesn’t help things, she ached to add, pulling her auburn hair over onto her left shoulder. Maybe you can ask him for a few things of creamer because he’s monopolized like twenty of them. “You know how it is, a girl, alone, going to the big city. Good times.”
“I don’t know about the girl part, but I get the big city.” He tilted his head, and a curl came untucked from behind his ear. He couldn’t have been more than twenty-five. How did he end up working on a train, she wondered. “Long way from home?”
Home. It was just a word. She’d been in plenty of those with Mom― trailers, duplexes, hotels, motels, condominiums, and cheap houses. They’d even lived out of a retired ice cream truck in California, and just thinking about those few months made her back cramp up. Home meant about as much to her as her Mom’s whereabouts meant to the fine authorities of the Philadelphia Police Department.
“Yeah,” she lied, fighting the bitter in her voice, “a very long way from that.”
He nodded, as if he understood her completely. Which was funny in it's own right. He probably could relate to her as well as a sheep dog relates to a cat. “So where ya headin’?”
“My godfather’s in the city.”
“That’ll be fun! Ever been to the city before? I love the city.”
“Once, the last time I went to see him. You might know him… Grant White?”
His eyebrows shot up in disbelief. “Might know him? The Grant White―the playwright?”
“He writes something.”
“No shit! I was Harry in Bones Apart!”
Oh God, she thought, I just opened up a can of worms.
“…And Julius in Midnight Wedding in Dallas! And you know that one, The Clocktower? I friggin’ love that one. Oh man, you―hey, you know, you think you could get me his autograph?”
“Umm…” She only knew three things about her godfather. One, he was an esteemed playwright. Two, he bought a penthouse apartment across from Central Park when she was four, and Mom took her to spend a few weeks there. The apartment had been spacious, and so clean she could eat cookies off the hardwood floors. And three, he was less than excited when the news came that his goddaughter would be spending an unidentified amount of time there until her estranged Mom could be found.
Which, they both knew, might be a while.
If Mom didn’t want to be found, the police wouldn’t find her. Three days ago, Mal had returned to a deserted house. Mom’s clothes were gone. Her jewelry missing. She hadn’t left a note or directions or even pizza money. She hadn’t left… anything. When Mal realized what had happened, what it meant, she felt like an abandoned bag of luggage in the rain.
And now I get to spend quality time with His Impeccable Whiteness.
The train’s food car jostled ever-so-slightly with the steady hiccup of the railroad. The wheels squeaked underfoot like a symphony of mechanical birds. If only it could drown out the waiter’s voice.
“…I mean, ya don’t have to but it’d be amazing. I’d love to cold-read his scripts. Maybe be a stagehand? Does he need an assistant? Here, I’ve a card too…” he began to pat down his pants pockets. “Oh yeah! I’ll be right back. Left ‘em over by the register. Man, I knew ya were special!”
A grin so wide cracked his freckled face in half. She smiled with him, because it was the polite thing to do. Stretch lips over teeth, edges upward, hold pose. Then he left, and her smile sprung shut like a trap.
If he knew what Grant White was really like, would he still ask for an autograph?
She curled her fingers around the steaming mug, and inhaled. The sweet smell of sugar untied her muscles and tamed her nerves. Sweet things did that to her. She didn’t know how, or why. Whenever she had nightmares, Mom would be there with a glass of milk and cookies as if she knew when she had them. Maybe she screamed aloud. Maybe her Mom could hear her thrashing.
Or maybe that was just the way her Mom was. Mal had learned to not ask questions when once, after they’d celebrated the summer solstice and blown out all of the candles in the yard, she’d asked, “Why’re we leaving the wine?”
“For the rest of us,” Mom had replied and kissed her auburn curls.
Whatever that meant gave her nightmares for the rest of the year. For the rest of us, as if she and her Mom were just a small part in something larger. Whatever that community was, it’d ostracized them. She still felt as alone as she did the moment she stepped into their abandoned house three days ago.
Mal shivered. Loneliness made everything a little colder, even under the air vent. Was it bad that she missed her Mom’s weirdness? Mom did a lot of crazy things, and because of the way she was, Mal had never gone to the doctor. When she had the sniffles she’d drink a nasty tea, and when she was sad, Mom would twine dandelions into her hair. Sometimes her Mom would lean against the kitchen sink and speak with the moon. She even missed that, although it frightened her, but not as much as the possibility that the moon might talk back.
For the rest of us, she mocked.
The pre-dawn light outlined the fir trees that passed her window, intermingled with cold patches of a clear night and crisp stars. But somewhere in the distance there were towns on the cusp of another ordinary day where ordinary families wavered on the brink of ordinary alarm clocks.
She pressed her head against the coolness of the window as someone slid into the booth opposite of her. The waiter? If he thinks he can smooze up to me to get my godfather―The booth across the compartment was empty. A cold chill trickled down her spine. Don’t look at him, she urged herself, definitely don’t look.
“You haven’t eaten your sweet,” the stranger observed.
She pressed her lips into a thin line, her eyes trained on the space between the trees and the sky. He slithered a hand over the table to move the pastry closer to her, insisting. She said lamely, “I’m not hungry.”
“Sweets sooth me, as well.”
Her skin scrawled. “Sir, can you please get awa―”
“I can tell.” He sounded amused. That rubbed her the wrong way. “You are apprehensive. Nervous. Your eyebrows furrow in that peculiar way when you are.”
Her knees began bouncing under the table; he was seriously freaking her out. His shoulder leaned inward, his arm stretched across the table, successfully barring her into the corner of the booth. Where’s the waiter?! She began to motion to him, but he stood slumped against the counter, a thin line of drool oozing from his mouth. Oh, great. Such a help he’d be.
“You’re not who I imagined you would become,” he said, more to himself than to her. She stiffened at the remark. She’d seen scenes like this on CSI, and she didn’t like where this was going. Two people alone in a dining cart, if one of them screamed and no one was around to hear it… would she make a sound? “But then again, you have always surprised me.”
“Do I know you?” she couldn’t help but ask.
“Perhaps.” He tilted his head, his index finger tapping the table in frustration, “...someday.”
1st 5 Pages June Workshop - Freeland 2nd Revision
Lori Freeland
YA Science Fiction Romance
Awakening
Chapter One
No More Lies
Tonight the lies would end.
No matter what lame excuse Claire threw out, I’d had enough of her weird, cryptic crap. No more secrets. No more arguments. No more dodging questions. I was going to confront her and demand the truth. Something I should have done months ago, the first time she lied.
My headlights splashed across the back of my sister’s baby blue Beetle. I slipped my Corolla into the narrow space next to her car, claiming the last spot in the small parking alcove by the creek. Slammed the gearshift into park. Ripped the keys out of the ignition. My hand strayed to my pocket, my fingers brushing the soft denim of my jeans.
Get a grip, Kate. It’s a piece of paper.
A piece of paper with some pretty damning words—written in Claire’s loopy handwriting.
An engine turned over with a loud roar and the car at the end of the lot backed out onto the street, flipped on its lights, and drove away.
My heart jumped twenty stories, paused for what felt like forever, and then dropped even faster. I slapped my hand over my chest and pushed against the quick thud, thud, thud.
Why couldn’t my sister pout at Starbucks or the nail salon? Somewhere bright and safe where finding her didn’t require a Mag light?
The twilight sky began a slow slide into night—the horizon a hazy pink, growing duskier by the minute. Thanks a lot, Claire. Stupid—At creek. Need you—text. You couldn’t have needed me before it got dark?
I checked my phone again. Ten unanswered messages sat in my outbox in response to the one she’d left twenty minutes ago. I tossed the phone on the dash and opened the glove compartment. Owner’s manual. GPS. A half-empty pack of Trident. And a tiny red flashlight. Nothing that made me feel even a little bit okay about getting out of my car. I grabbed the flashlight and shoved open my door anyway.
Crunch.
Right into the car next to me.
Crap. It was a nice car, too. I glanced around and then checked out the paint. Even under the dimming street lamp, a small beige smudge showed up, marring the black shine on the passenger door. Now I had to find Claire and get back here before Sleek and Sporty’s owner returned and wrote down my license plate.
I let my sweatshirt sleeves fall over my hands to warm my fingers. Even mid-December, the winter chill hadn’t quite hit Texas, but the sun’s disappearance lowered the temperature another ten degrees and the breeze brought a bitter edge.
Claire’s sanctuary under the wooden bridge wasn’t too far down the winding creek—just past the huge tree that twisted and bent and practically fell into the water.
I’d try there first.
Dead leaves and grass crunched underneath my boots. Long strands of hair whipped across my face. I brushed them back.
Something snapped behind me.
I whirled around, clenching my fingers. My heart sped again. The loud pounding echoed across the water and got lost in the blackness. A tight knot curled in my stomach. If something happened to me out here, I was going to kill my sister.
What would they say when they found me disemboweled and hanging from a tree a la Scream? Probably—stupid girl came out here all alone, she deserved it.
I quickened my pace. There were other more pressing things to deal with. Real things. Claire things. Crazy things. Things my head couldn’t process that should immobilize my heart more than the thought of some psycho hiding in the trees with a machete.
That slip of paper burned the proverbial hole in my pocket. But then again, exaggeration? Claire’s specialty. I just needed to find her, before it got any darker, and we could talk about this in the car. With the doors locked. Or at Saxby’s over a latte.
Whatever this was, we could work it out together like we always did. Nothing ever turned out to be as life-ending as she made it out to be. And all the sneaking around? What did she think she had to hide? From me? Up until school started this fall, we’d never kept secrets from each other.
Liar.
My stomach twisted. One secret. I kept one secret. No point in sharing what couldn’t be fixed.
The bridge loomed ahead, a tall arching structure made of wood and metal that connected one side of the creek to the other. The barely-there-sliver of a moon might as well have been MIA.
I switched the tiny flashlight on and pointed it toward the platform, shining it from one end to the other. Empty. Not her favorite place but I’d hoped she’d be hiding there instead of huddled under the metal supports, against the stone wall, because that meant I had to climb down there.
“Claire?” I whispered, angling the light toward the shadowy place where I expected her to be, but the dim light and distance made everything look black.
What if she wasn’t down there, but someone else was? Why couldn’t she have met me in the parking lot, while I waited in my locked car?
The wind picked up, rattling the trees. Oh yeah, perfect slasher setting. Dumb blonde. No common sense. Armed with a penlight. I could almost hear the people in the theater screaming, “Run Kate! Don’t go down there.”
“Claire?” I boosted my volume. “Not funny, okay? Let’s pick up a pizza and go home. I’ll pay.”
I glanced over my shoulder at the deserted street, then back to the creek. A copse of dense trees moved in rhythm with the breeze. A sliver of ice skipped across my spine, wrapped around my middle, and took up residence low in my gut. Why didn’t I tell Dad like I’d threatened? Then he’d be out here instead of me.
The third time I said her name, my voice hit the bottom end of yelling and came out a shaky warble. “Claire?”
I stuck the end of the flashlight in my mouth and worked my way one careful step at a time down the steep sloping bank, holding onto to trees and rocks, my hands trembling along with my breath. “Oh, Claire, you’re going to owe me big time for this. Do you hear me? Work shifts. Bathroom cleaning. Dog poop duty. All yours.”
Almost to the bottom, an old gnarled tree bent and hung over the water, attached to a flat, narrow ledge. I tripped on a giant root and barely saved myself from falling the three feet off the edge and into the icy water by grabbing a low-hanging branch.
The flashlight fell out of my mouth and landed in the mud, pointing across the creek.
“Don’t text me to come here and then be a jerk, Claire. Whatever’s going on, you don’t need to be mean.” If I could have hissed the words, I would have. “I’m going home.”
After I snagged my only source of light.
The ground evened out below the tree and I slid down the rest of the slope—mostly on my butt—until my feet hit the dirt, putting me in reaching distance of the flashlight. I followed the narrow light with my eyes. The edge of the beam lit up a dark shape in the water. A log? A broken tree? A psycho killer stalking me crocodile style?
Whatever. I was done here. I loved my sister, but I was tired of being pulled into her craziness. Dad could deal with her.
I snatched the flashlight, most of it covered in mud, and prayed Croco Killer wouldn’t jump out of the water once I turned my back. I kept my eyes forward and climbed up the bank, chanting, “Horror movies are made up by sickos with freaky imaginations that get off on scaring people to death. They’re not real.”
But it didn’t do much to stop that sliver of ice in my gut from multiplying and spreading to the rest of my body.
“One more glance over my shoulder,” I whispered. “I’ll know I’m alone and then I’ll run back to the car.”
I turned with the flashlight, pointed it at the log one more time, and froze.
That dark shape wasn’t a log. It was my sister.
YA Science Fiction Romance
Awakening
Chapter One
No More Lies
Tonight the lies would end.
No matter what lame excuse Claire threw out, I’d had enough of her weird, cryptic crap. No more secrets. No more arguments. No more dodging questions. I was going to confront her and demand the truth. Something I should have done months ago, the first time she lied.
My headlights splashed across the back of my sister’s baby blue Beetle. I slipped my Corolla into the narrow space next to her car, claiming the last spot in the small parking alcove by the creek. Slammed the gearshift into park. Ripped the keys out of the ignition. My hand strayed to my pocket, my fingers brushing the soft denim of my jeans.
Get a grip, Kate. It’s a piece of paper.
A piece of paper with some pretty damning words—written in Claire’s loopy handwriting.
An engine turned over with a loud roar and the car at the end of the lot backed out onto the street, flipped on its lights, and drove away.
My heart jumped twenty stories, paused for what felt like forever, and then dropped even faster. I slapped my hand over my chest and pushed against the quick thud, thud, thud.
Why couldn’t my sister pout at Starbucks or the nail salon? Somewhere bright and safe where finding her didn’t require a Mag light?
The twilight sky began a slow slide into night—the horizon a hazy pink, growing duskier by the minute. Thanks a lot, Claire. Stupid—At creek. Need you—text. You couldn’t have needed me before it got dark?
I checked my phone again. Ten unanswered messages sat in my outbox in response to the one she’d left twenty minutes ago. I tossed the phone on the dash and opened the glove compartment. Owner’s manual. GPS. A half-empty pack of Trident. And a tiny red flashlight. Nothing that made me feel even a little bit okay about getting out of my car. I grabbed the flashlight and shoved open my door anyway.
Crunch.
Right into the car next to me.
Crap. It was a nice car, too. I glanced around and then checked out the paint. Even under the dimming street lamp, a small beige smudge showed up, marring the black shine on the passenger door. Now I had to find Claire and get back here before Sleek and Sporty’s owner returned and wrote down my license plate.
I let my sweatshirt sleeves fall over my hands to warm my fingers. Even mid-December, the winter chill hadn’t quite hit Texas, but the sun’s disappearance lowered the temperature another ten degrees and the breeze brought a bitter edge.
Claire’s sanctuary under the wooden bridge wasn’t too far down the winding creek—just past the huge tree that twisted and bent and practically fell into the water.
I’d try there first.
Dead leaves and grass crunched underneath my boots. Long strands of hair whipped across my face. I brushed them back.
Something snapped behind me.
I whirled around, clenching my fingers. My heart sped again. The loud pounding echoed across the water and got lost in the blackness. A tight knot curled in my stomach. If something happened to me out here, I was going to kill my sister.
What would they say when they found me disemboweled and hanging from a tree a la Scream? Probably—stupid girl came out here all alone, she deserved it.
I quickened my pace. There were other more pressing things to deal with. Real things. Claire things. Crazy things. Things my head couldn’t process that should immobilize my heart more than the thought of some psycho hiding in the trees with a machete.
That slip of paper burned the proverbial hole in my pocket. But then again, exaggeration? Claire’s specialty. I just needed to find her, before it got any darker, and we could talk about this in the car. With the doors locked. Or at Saxby’s over a latte.
Whatever this was, we could work it out together like we always did. Nothing ever turned out to be as life-ending as she made it out to be. And all the sneaking around? What did she think she had to hide? From me? Up until school started this fall, we’d never kept secrets from each other.
Liar.
My stomach twisted. One secret. I kept one secret. No point in sharing what couldn’t be fixed.
The bridge loomed ahead, a tall arching structure made of wood and metal that connected one side of the creek to the other. The barely-there-sliver of a moon might as well have been MIA.
I switched the tiny flashlight on and pointed it toward the platform, shining it from one end to the other. Empty. Not her favorite place but I’d hoped she’d be hiding there instead of huddled under the metal supports, against the stone wall, because that meant I had to climb down there.
“Claire?” I whispered, angling the light toward the shadowy place where I expected her to be, but the dim light and distance made everything look black.
What if she wasn’t down there, but someone else was? Why couldn’t she have met me in the parking lot, while I waited in my locked car?
The wind picked up, rattling the trees. Oh yeah, perfect slasher setting. Dumb blonde. No common sense. Armed with a penlight. I could almost hear the people in the theater screaming, “Run Kate! Don’t go down there.”
“Claire?” I boosted my volume. “Not funny, okay? Let’s pick up a pizza and go home. I’ll pay.”
I glanced over my shoulder at the deserted street, then back to the creek. A copse of dense trees moved in rhythm with the breeze. A sliver of ice skipped across my spine, wrapped around my middle, and took up residence low in my gut. Why didn’t I tell Dad like I’d threatened? Then he’d be out here instead of me.
The third time I said her name, my voice hit the bottom end of yelling and came out a shaky warble. “Claire?”
I stuck the end of the flashlight in my mouth and worked my way one careful step at a time down the steep sloping bank, holding onto to trees and rocks, my hands trembling along with my breath. “Oh, Claire, you’re going to owe me big time for this. Do you hear me? Work shifts. Bathroom cleaning. Dog poop duty. All yours.”
Almost to the bottom, an old gnarled tree bent and hung over the water, attached to a flat, narrow ledge. I tripped on a giant root and barely saved myself from falling the three feet off the edge and into the icy water by grabbing a low-hanging branch.
The flashlight fell out of my mouth and landed in the mud, pointing across the creek.
“Don’t text me to come here and then be a jerk, Claire. Whatever’s going on, you don’t need to be mean.” If I could have hissed the words, I would have. “I’m going home.”
After I snagged my only source of light.
The ground evened out below the tree and I slid down the rest of the slope—mostly on my butt—until my feet hit the dirt, putting me in reaching distance of the flashlight. I followed the narrow light with my eyes. The edge of the beam lit up a dark shape in the water. A log? A broken tree? A psycho killer stalking me crocodile style?
Whatever. I was done here. I loved my sister, but I was tired of being pulled into her craziness. Dad could deal with her.
I snatched the flashlight, most of it covered in mud, and prayed Croco Killer wouldn’t jump out of the water once I turned my back. I kept my eyes forward and climbed up the bank, chanting, “Horror movies are made up by sickos with freaky imaginations that get off on scaring people to death. They’re not real.”
But it didn’t do much to stop that sliver of ice in my gut from multiplying and spreading to the rest of my body.
“One more glance over my shoulder,” I whispered. “I’ll know I’m alone and then I’ll run back to the car.”
I turned with the flashlight, pointed it at the log one more time, and froze.
That dark shape wasn’t a log. It was my sister.
1st 5 Pages June Workshop - Zoltack 2nd Revision
Author: Nicole Zoltack
Genre: YA Paranormal
Title: Crystal’s Magic
Crystal pushed open the library door to see the drooping sun splash reds and oranges across the sky. Her school bag bouncing on her back, she walked the quiet streets of Claymore. She nodded to the few people she passed, but soon she was alone as twilight descended and a few stars began to twinkle in the sky
Her mother had to be worrying about her right now. If Crystal had a cell phone, she could call to let her mom know where she was but no, Crystal had to be the only junior, probably the only kid in her high school, to not own one.
She thought about going home but didn’t. For the past eleven years, Crystal had known a secret about her mom, a secret that was becoming more than she could bear. She’d even dreamt about it last night and hadn’t been able to fall back asleep again.
With a lump in her throat, she pulled a picture out of her pocket and stared at the happy scene: her grade school graduation, her gown too long and slightly wrinkled, her mom beaming proudly, grinning wider than Crystal was.
The lump moved down into her chest and grew to be the size of a rock. Crystal coughed as she pulled out another picture. A woman with long, chocolate brown hair and soft brown eyes stared at her with a broad smile on her face. The tall man beside her wore the same smile, his dark hair streaked with a little white on the side.
Her mom didn’t know Crystal had this picture.
A picture of her real mom and dad.
Crystal stared at the photo for so long she stopped walking. Even though she knew it was blank, she turned the picture over. Why couldn’t their names by written there? Heaving a sigh, she brought the picture to her lips and kissed it. She had found the picture by accident shortly after her dad—not her real one—had died when she had been almost five.
She could have been twins with the woman in the picture.
She looked nothing like Regina, the woman she called Mom.
Why she hadn’t confronted Regina all those years ago, Crystal wasn’t sure. It probably had something to do with the scariness of the funeral. And Regina had hardly left her bed for nearly a month after her husband passed away. And it wasn’t until Crystal had been eight and watched The Parent Trap for the first time before she understood the significance of the picture—that the woman had to be her real mom.
Crystal rubbed her dry eyes and shoved the graduation picture into her pocket. Before she could tuck away the picture of her parents, a sudden gust of wind blew the picture from her hand. She tore after it, chasing it down allies and across the empty streets. Finally she grabbed it and reverently returned it to her pocket.
She glanced up. Her heart skipped a beat when she realized she didn’t know where she was. Darkness colored the buildings, giving them an almost sinister feel. The icy tendrils of fear replaced the rock in her chest and squeezed her heart.
Her head held high, she turned around and marched the way she’d come. Claymore looked different this late at night. The trees seemed bigger, the pavement more uneven.
Where was the library? If she could just find it, she would know how to get home.
A figure appeared at the edge of the sidewalk. Claymore wasn’t a big town and she knew almost everybody, but she couldn’t see who it was.
A cloud shifted and blocked the moon. The void of light made her panic, and she ducked down an alley. Although it was even darker than the street, at least she was alone again. The stench of rotting garbage seared her nose. Holding her breath, she picked up her pace. If she could just find a recognizable landmark…
She turned down another alley and bumped into someone.
“Hey there, pretty lady.”
Crystal didn’t recognize the voice or its owner. He reeked, as if he hadn’t bathed in months. Her heart pounding, she backed up into a trash can. The lid clattered to the ground, the sound as loud as thunder. She jumped, whirled around, and ran in the opposite direction. None of the buildings looked familiar, and the cloud still blocked the moon.
She glanced up and down the street. No one was around. She closed her eyes. Please, dear Lord, help me find my way back home.
Crystal opened her eyes. She crossed the street then paused, uncertain where to go. The wind picked up and blew to the right. Not having a better idea, she walked with the wind until it died down.
The surroundings were still unfamiliar, and Crystal again prayed for help.
Just then, the cloud moved, and moonlight bathed the world below. At the end of the street, Crystal spied her church.
With a sigh of relief and a quick prayer of thanks, Crystal climbed up her porch stairs fifteen minutes later.
Her mother must have been standing by the window because she opened the door and immediately pounced on her. “There you are. I was worried sick!” Her mom enveloped her into a tight hug. “Don’t go scaring me like that. Where were you?”
Crystal hugged her mom back and breathed in her familiar lilac perfume. It was wonderful to be home, but she still felt aloof from her mom. “I was at the library working on a project and lost track of time. I still have more homework to do.” She bounded up the stairs to her room where she dropped her bag onto the floor.
Biting her lip, she took out the picture of her parents from her pocket. After giving it another kiss, she returned it to its hiding place underneath her mattress.
A knock sounded on the door, and her mom popped her head in. “Is everything all right, Crystal?”
She nodded. “Why wouldn’t it be?”
“It’s not like you to not call. I know your homework is important to you, but you shouldn’t have been out so late. I bought you your computer last year so you wouldn’t have to go to the library so much.” Her mom sat beside her on the bed. “You know you can talk to me about anything. What’s bothering you?”
Crystal thought about showing her the picture they were sitting on. She even opened her mouth to mention it but couldn’t bring herself to. “I’m fine, Mom. I’m just tired. I have a lot of work to get done before school tomorrow.”
Her mom pursed her lips and shook her head. “I know something’s wrong but if you don’t want to talk about it, I won’t push you. Don’t stay up too late. I love you.”
“Love you,” Crystal mumbled as her mom shut the door behind her.
She collapsed onto her bed. Her conscious prickled at her. Although she had been at the library, she hadn’t completely finished her project. She still had to type up the bibliography and print out the report in the morning. Despite having a mountain of homework to do, she closed her eyes. She hadn’t lied about being tired. Within seconds, she was asleep.
***
Huffing and puffing, Crystal climbed onto the bus and slid into her customary seat beside Kelly Mae.
Her best friend took one look at her and raised a perfectly arched eyebrow until it disappeared behind her blonde sideswept bangs.
Genre: YA Paranormal
Title: Crystal’s Magic
Crystal pushed open the library door to see the drooping sun splash reds and oranges across the sky. Her school bag bouncing on her back, she walked the quiet streets of Claymore. She nodded to the few people she passed, but soon she was alone as twilight descended and a few stars began to twinkle in the sky
Her mother had to be worrying about her right now. If Crystal had a cell phone, she could call to let her mom know where she was but no, Crystal had to be the only junior, probably the only kid in her high school, to not own one.
She thought about going home but didn’t. For the past eleven years, Crystal had known a secret about her mom, a secret that was becoming more than she could bear. She’d even dreamt about it last night and hadn’t been able to fall back asleep again.
With a lump in her throat, she pulled a picture out of her pocket and stared at the happy scene: her grade school graduation, her gown too long and slightly wrinkled, her mom beaming proudly, grinning wider than Crystal was.
The lump moved down into her chest and grew to be the size of a rock. Crystal coughed as she pulled out another picture. A woman with long, chocolate brown hair and soft brown eyes stared at her with a broad smile on her face. The tall man beside her wore the same smile, his dark hair streaked with a little white on the side.
Her mom didn’t know Crystal had this picture.
A picture of her real mom and dad.
Crystal stared at the photo for so long she stopped walking. Even though she knew it was blank, she turned the picture over. Why couldn’t their names by written there? Heaving a sigh, she brought the picture to her lips and kissed it. She had found the picture by accident shortly after her dad—not her real one—had died when she had been almost five.
She could have been twins with the woman in the picture.
She looked nothing like Regina, the woman she called Mom.
Why she hadn’t confronted Regina all those years ago, Crystal wasn’t sure. It probably had something to do with the scariness of the funeral. And Regina had hardly left her bed for nearly a month after her husband passed away. And it wasn’t until Crystal had been eight and watched The Parent Trap for the first time before she understood the significance of the picture—that the woman had to be her real mom.
Crystal rubbed her dry eyes and shoved the graduation picture into her pocket. Before she could tuck away the picture of her parents, a sudden gust of wind blew the picture from her hand. She tore after it, chasing it down allies and across the empty streets. Finally she grabbed it and reverently returned it to her pocket.
She glanced up. Her heart skipped a beat when she realized she didn’t know where she was. Darkness colored the buildings, giving them an almost sinister feel. The icy tendrils of fear replaced the rock in her chest and squeezed her heart.
Her head held high, she turned around and marched the way she’d come. Claymore looked different this late at night. The trees seemed bigger, the pavement more uneven.
Where was the library? If she could just find it, she would know how to get home.
A figure appeared at the edge of the sidewalk. Claymore wasn’t a big town and she knew almost everybody, but she couldn’t see who it was.
A cloud shifted and blocked the moon. The void of light made her panic, and she ducked down an alley. Although it was even darker than the street, at least she was alone again. The stench of rotting garbage seared her nose. Holding her breath, she picked up her pace. If she could just find a recognizable landmark…
She turned down another alley and bumped into someone.
“Hey there, pretty lady.”
Crystal didn’t recognize the voice or its owner. He reeked, as if he hadn’t bathed in months. Her heart pounding, she backed up into a trash can. The lid clattered to the ground, the sound as loud as thunder. She jumped, whirled around, and ran in the opposite direction. None of the buildings looked familiar, and the cloud still blocked the moon.
She glanced up and down the street. No one was around. She closed her eyes. Please, dear Lord, help me find my way back home.
Crystal opened her eyes. She crossed the street then paused, uncertain where to go. The wind picked up and blew to the right. Not having a better idea, she walked with the wind until it died down.
The surroundings were still unfamiliar, and Crystal again prayed for help.
Just then, the cloud moved, and moonlight bathed the world below. At the end of the street, Crystal spied her church.
With a sigh of relief and a quick prayer of thanks, Crystal climbed up her porch stairs fifteen minutes later.
Her mother must have been standing by the window because she opened the door and immediately pounced on her. “There you are. I was worried sick!” Her mom enveloped her into a tight hug. “Don’t go scaring me like that. Where were you?”
Crystal hugged her mom back and breathed in her familiar lilac perfume. It was wonderful to be home, but she still felt aloof from her mom. “I was at the library working on a project and lost track of time. I still have more homework to do.” She bounded up the stairs to her room where she dropped her bag onto the floor.
Biting her lip, she took out the picture of her parents from her pocket. After giving it another kiss, she returned it to its hiding place underneath her mattress.
A knock sounded on the door, and her mom popped her head in. “Is everything all right, Crystal?”
She nodded. “Why wouldn’t it be?”
“It’s not like you to not call. I know your homework is important to you, but you shouldn’t have been out so late. I bought you your computer last year so you wouldn’t have to go to the library so much.” Her mom sat beside her on the bed. “You know you can talk to me about anything. What’s bothering you?”
Crystal thought about showing her the picture they were sitting on. She even opened her mouth to mention it but couldn’t bring herself to. “I’m fine, Mom. I’m just tired. I have a lot of work to get done before school tomorrow.”
Her mom pursed her lips and shook her head. “I know something’s wrong but if you don’t want to talk about it, I won’t push you. Don’t stay up too late. I love you.”
“Love you,” Crystal mumbled as her mom shut the door behind her.
She collapsed onto her bed. Her conscious prickled at her. Although she had been at the library, she hadn’t completely finished her project. She still had to type up the bibliography and print out the report in the morning. Despite having a mountain of homework to do, she closed her eyes. She hadn’t lied about being tired. Within seconds, she was asleep.
***
Huffing and puffing, Crystal climbed onto the bus and slid into her customary seat beside Kelly Mae.
Her best friend took one look at her and raised a perfectly arched eyebrow until it disappeared behind her blonde sideswept bangs.
Tuesday, 12 June 2012
1st 5 Pages June Workshop - Levy 1st Revision
Author: Michelle Levy
Genre: YA speculative fiction
Title: CUNNINGHAM MANOR - revised
I wanted nothing more than to change out of my scratchy wool dress and bury myself in my grief, but the wake hadn’t even started yet. Dozens of people who didn’t really know my mother were on their way to our home, and as much as I wanted to, I couldn’t attend my own mother’s wake in sweats.
Even though it was only three months ago, I struggled to remember the last conversation we’d had in person. She’d just helped me move to New York for college. She told me how proud she was of me. She hugged me tight and kissed my forehead. I shouldn’t have been in such a rush for her to leave. I should’ve savored the moment. I should’ve told her how much she meant to me, how she made me the person I am, how much I loved her. I shouldn’t have treated the stupid curse so lightly. Losing my mother at a young age was something I had been prepared for my whole life, only I didn’t take it seriously. She didn’t take it seriously. She always brushed it off as coincidental, superstitious. If I hadn’t been so selfish, I could have had more time with her. Parsons could have waited.
She was only forty-nine years old. Just three years shy of the longest living female in the Cunningham family bloodline. My grandmother died when she was forty-seven. My great-grandmother died when she was only forty-five. My great aunt died at the ripe old age of fifty-two. That’s when we moved to Cunningham Manor. I was seven.
“Miss Fiona?” Edvina appeared in the doorway. I’m pretty sure Edvina came with the house. “The guests are beginning to arrive,” she said in her thick German accent.
“Thank you, Edvina. I’ll be down in a minute. Has my father been notified?”
“Kent has gone to fetch him.”
“Thank you.”
“Miss Fiona?”
I turned to meet her glassy gaze. I wasn’t sure, but I think she might have even allowed herself to cry. Her usually ruddy complexion was splotchy and her papery eyelids were a little puffy.
“Miss Catherine was a true angel.” She didn’t wait for a reply. She silently closed the door behind her, leaving me to collect myself for the guests.
I felt my eyes get hot as tears threatened to escape, but I refused to allow them freedom until I could surrender to them completely. After the guests had gone.
I sank onto the fluffy, blue velvet bench at my vanity and touched up my make up. Something caught my eye in the mirror, and I whipped around.
“Charlie?”
But there was no one there. Why hadn’t he come? I needed him. He was the only person that could help me through this.
After I had successfully collected myself, I made my way down the long, stone hallway toward the grand staircase. Somber voices crescendoed from below with each step.
I had to cross all the way along the balcony to get to the stairway, which meant I had to endure all the people below watching me, their eyes filled with pity. I always hated that the stairs weren’t just right in the center; I hated those extra twenty or so steps I had to take to reach them. I hated it even more today. I held on to the cold, ornate iron railing for support. The staircase seemed to lengthen with each step as if I would never reach the bottom. I was usually really good with names and faces, but today it was all just one big blur. What I wouldn’t give to have Charlie here.
When I reached the bottom of the staircase a man that worked with my father greeted me with a sympathetic hug. He led me across the room toward the fireplace that welcomed people as they entered the massive front doors. The fireplace could easily fit five of me standing shoulder to shoulder without ducking. The heat generated from the fire embraced me in its warmth as the man introduced me to a few of the other early arrivals, some of whom I vaguely recognized. I was relieved to see my father’s boss among this small group. At least I could remember his name: Franklin, though at that moment I couldn’t remember if that was his first or last name.
“Fiona …” Franklin sighed heavily, then he placed his bulbous hands on my shoulders and nodded like he didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know what to say either so we sort of bobbed our heads at each other for an uncomfortable minute until I finally excused myself to “check on something.” I walked briskly toward the drawing room, thinking that if I looked like I was going somewhere with a purpose, people wouldn’t try to stop me.
It worked.
The drawing room was empty except for the coffin at the far end. I hesitated slightly before descending the five steps that led into the two-story room, and found myself being pulled toward the coffin.
I couldn’t help but think how the cathedral ceilings had never looked more like a church. The gothic arched windows that stood behind my mother overlooked the grounds and I thought about how my mother and I used to sit at those windows on rainy days and read in silence, occasionally looking out into the distance to ponder our books. Then we would crack up when the other one caught us. Especially if the book made us cry.
I smiled warmly at the memory as I gazed down at my mother. She looked so beautiful. She always looked beautiful. Her light, golden hair perfectly coifed in a gentle curl, cascaded around her shoulders. I always wanted her hair but I was blessed with my father’s chestnut brown, bone-straight locks. I did, however, get my mother’s brown eyes with light golden flecks. I wished more than anything for one more chance to look into her eyes again. I wanted to place my hand on her shoulder and wake her up. I wanted her to put her lithe arms around me and hold me just one more time. I felt a tear roll down the side of my cheek.
A gentle hand brushed the tear away, which only made me cry more. My father had obviously been crying. His usually hazel-green eyes were a brilliant green – probably in contrast to the red skin around them. I didn’t want to speak because I knew I’d really lose it. He seemed to be thinking the same thing so he just placed his arm around my waist and we gazed down at my mother resting peacefully.
I leaned into my father’s embrace. He was tall. I got that from him. He was six-foot-four, I was a little over five-ten. My mother was a petite five-foot-three. My father loved that about her. I cried the year I outgrew her. I was twelve. I was so upset that I’d never find a boy taller than me. And I didn’t until high school. I got my father’s build too. I hated it. My mother envied my broad shoulders. She called me statuesque. She said that models would covet my frame. She always tried to put a positive spin on everything. I loved that about her. I would miss that about her.
One of the servants pulled my father away to check on some final details before the service. I stayed with my mother, treasuring the last few minutes I would ever get to see her beautiful face again. Forty-nine years? Is that how long I’ll get? Will I last as long as Aunt Bea? When you’re eighteen you don’t want to be plagued with the thought of your own mortality but it’s something I’ve been faced with since I was born. We just didn’t know the cause of the “curse.” We didn’t even know if my mother would be affected by it. Now that burden was on me.
My father motioned to me from the entrance of the room, signaling that they were about to usher the guests in.
I was sort of numb throughout the service. I barely remember giving my eulogy. My father had asked me to speak, as he didn’t want to become emotional in front of his peers. He father did cry a little as I spoke. I did not. I seemed to have managed to successfully sever my emotional synapses for the time being.
After a spectacular rendition of “Con Te Partiro” sung by one of the tenors from the Metropolitan Opera – a friend of my father’s boss – everyone paraded out to the family cemetery. My father and I stayed behind to say our final goodbyes before my mother’s body would forever be sealed into the glossy, cherry wood box in which she would sleep for eternity.
The pallbearers kept their distance until we finally signaled them. We followed behind my mother toward the family plot at the far end of the property next to the cliff. My mother always said it would be the perfect final resting place for her. She assured me that when the time came she would be happy there. I found her sitting out near her mother’s grave on many an occasion. People might think graveyards are creepy or morbid, but my mother thought they were beautiful and peaceful. I have always agreed.
The tenor sang “Ave Maria” as they lowered my mother into the earth. The song floated through the air encircling me in its warm embrace. Hot tears flowed freely down my cheeks, but no one paid attention to anything but the melody coming from those angelic vocal chords. I closed my eyes and squeezed my father’s hand as the last note carried off toward the ocean as if it was lifting my mother’s spirit to wherever it is that spirits go.
1st 5 Pages June Workshop - Poston 1st Revision
Author: Ashley Poston
Genre: Supernatural
Title: Malevolent
Home was just a word to Mal. It meant about as much as she meant to the other kids at her old schools. As much as she evidently meant to Mom. Mal had been in plenty of homes.
When foster care told her, “We’ll find you a home again,” she didn’t understand what they meant. A roof over her head or her Mom? They’d find neither, she guessed, because there was no home left for her, and her Mom had disappeared with the moon.
A dead feeling twisted her gut. She didn’t want a home. She didn’t want to go somewhere just to sleep in a cozy bed and eat frivolous foods in a house she’d never seen before. With a man she’d never met before. Foster care said he was her godfather. Those still existed outside of Italian mobster families?
“It’s only temporary. We’ll find your mom,” the police had promised. “She’s bound to turn up somewhere.”
Mal knew that was a big, stinking lie. Mom wasn’t bound to turn up anywhere. If she didn’t want to be found, they wouldn’t find her. A week ago, Mal had returned to a deserted house. Mom’s clothes were gone. Her jewelry missing. She hadn’t left a note or directions or even pizza money. She hadn’t left… anything. When Mal realized what had happened, what it meant, she felt like an abandoned bag of luggage in the rain.
And now she was on her way to her godfather’s house.
She turned onto her side, and reached to pull her Northface up over her shoulder, but it fell off onto the floor instead. The train wasn’t cold, necessarily, but loneliness made everything a little colder, even under the air vent. As cold as the sky without the moon, she thought.
The train compartment jostled ever-so-slightly with the steady hiccup of the railroad. The wheels squeaked underfoot like a symphony of mechanical birds.
“In the meantime,” a spry woman with foster care had given her a bag of M&Ms---to console her?---and said, “your godfather has asked you to come stay with him. An Ethan Grant?”
Mal didn’t know who the hell Ethan Grant was, and it must’ve been quite evident on her face because the foster care worker went on to explain the qualifications of Ethan Grant, as if they outweighed everything Mom worked hard to be. Successful businessman. Brownstone off of Park Avenue. He even has a son. Which just thrills Mal, of course. There is nothing quite like staying in an alien house with a family of strangers.
“Won’t that lovely, so you don’t feel as lonely,” she’d come to conclude.
Lonely. Right. Mal would feel lonely even if they stuck her in an auditorium full of people who loved her. There was no cure for abandonment---she couldn’t even be shipped to an actual family member, but a knock-ff, because she didn’t know any. Or didn’t have any. Mom had never said much either way.
The worst part was that Mal should have seen it coming. The signs were all there---she could remember her Mom wandering the house in the dead hours of the night, muttering to herself. Mal would catch her leaning against the kitchen sink on nights with full moons, moonbeams spilling onto her face through the window as she spoke with it. That didn’t frighten Mal as much as the thought that the moon might talk back.
But Mom had thrown her off that morning. She’d been cheerful and outgoing as always, all smiles and kisses right up until Mal left for the school bus. Maybe if Mal would’ve paid closer attention, she could’ve stopped Mom from leaving. Or she could’ve went, too.
Sighing again, she sat up and grabbed her Northface from the ground. If she tried to catch some sleep, she knew she wouldn’t be able to because her legs wouldn’t stay put and her mind would circle like a vulture around in her head, picking at all of the little thoughts and baubles, and the last thing she wanted to think about was her godfather. But between living in an abandoned house and somewhere else, she’d choose somewhere else in a heartbeat. She’d never been good at making friends, anyway, so the friends she did have at school would wonder where she’d gone for a few weeks, and move on. Mom had uprooted her enough times in her grand tours across the country for her to realize that.
Standing and putting on her Northface, she slid out of the compartment and wandered down the hallway. The train jostled, rocking back and forth, like a crib. She thought she’d seen a dining cart when she boarded the train, and she was kind of hungry. When was the last time she’d eaten? Yesterday?
That sounded about right.
“You’ll be on the first train to Penn Station,” said the overly-cheerful foster lady, sliding a ticket and a meal pass across the desk, as if Mal had some sort of disease that she didn’t want anywhere near her. “Maybe you can sleep on the way?”
Yeah, sleep. If the foster lady cared enough, she would’ve seen the prescriptions for sleep medications on her record. She would’ve known that Mal and sleep didn’t mix well---at all, really. Sort of like daylight and vampires.
When she finally found the dining compartment, it was almost empty, save for a single man in a booth, flipping through yesterday’s paper and sipping a cup of tar-black coffee, and the waiter. She sat down in the furthest seat from the man, not sure why she wanted to stay so far away, and gave the waiter a tight-lipped smile as he approached her. He was a tired guy who looked like he needed a few hours of sleep, too.
“Coffee and… do you have any Poptarts? Something sweet?” she asked. She sorely missed when Mom would come into the room, freshly-baked cinnabun or cookie in hand, as if she could sense her sleeplessness. The sweetness would soother her enough to face a few hours of sleep.
“We have honey buns,” he replied.
“That’d be awesome.”
“Cream and sugar?”
“Please,” she said, “and as much as you can.”
He chuckled, “I’ll have that right up for you, ma’am.”
Ma’am. He must’ve been from the south. She’d lived in South Carolina for a while---Charleston. Her Mom loved it there, and would disappear to the ocean every full moon, and come back just before sunrise. She did a lot of crazy things, now that Mal thought about it. She’d always just pretend to ignore it, and chalk it up to her Mom being, well, Mom. She’d never known anything else. Every midsummer they’d light candles and celebrate the moonrise, and every equinox they’d count the stars. Every solstice they’d drink wine and dine on cheese and crackers, and always leave some out.
“For who?” Mal had asked once. She was six and a half, and curious about everything. “Whose it for?”
Mom had smiled and tousled Mal’s auburn curls. “For all the rest of us,” she had replied, leaving her daughter with more questions than answers. But Mal learned not to ask them anymore, because they would only multiply, the hows and whos and whys. So she went along with her Mom’s ways, carried on the whimsy of a woman without a sense of direction.
Because of the way Mom was, Mal had never gone to the doctor. When she had the sniffles, she’d drink a nasty tea, and when she hurt herself she’d slather a salve over it. When she was sad, Mom would twine dandelions into her hair, and when she was happy they would go on picnics and adventures and explore every nook and crevice in the place they called home, for however brief a reprise.
Home was only a word to Mal, but Mom was her entire world. Without her, she felt like buoy adrift on the Artic Sea.
Genre: Supernatural
Title: Malevolent
Home was just a word to Mal. It meant about as much as she meant to the other kids at her old schools. As much as she evidently meant to Mom. Mal had been in plenty of homes.
When foster care told her, “We’ll find you a home again,” she didn’t understand what they meant. A roof over her head or her Mom? They’d find neither, she guessed, because there was no home left for her, and her Mom had disappeared with the moon.
A dead feeling twisted her gut. She didn’t want a home. She didn’t want to go somewhere just to sleep in a cozy bed and eat frivolous foods in a house she’d never seen before. With a man she’d never met before. Foster care said he was her godfather. Those still existed outside of Italian mobster families?
“It’s only temporary. We’ll find your mom,” the police had promised. “She’s bound to turn up somewhere.”
Mal knew that was a big, stinking lie. Mom wasn’t bound to turn up anywhere. If she didn’t want to be found, they wouldn’t find her. A week ago, Mal had returned to a deserted house. Mom’s clothes were gone. Her jewelry missing. She hadn’t left a note or directions or even pizza money. She hadn’t left… anything. When Mal realized what had happened, what it meant, she felt like an abandoned bag of luggage in the rain.
And now she was on her way to her godfather’s house.
She turned onto her side, and reached to pull her Northface up over her shoulder, but it fell off onto the floor instead. The train wasn’t cold, necessarily, but loneliness made everything a little colder, even under the air vent. As cold as the sky without the moon, she thought.
The train compartment jostled ever-so-slightly with the steady hiccup of the railroad. The wheels squeaked underfoot like a symphony of mechanical birds.
“In the meantime,” a spry woman with foster care had given her a bag of M&Ms---to console her?---and said, “your godfather has asked you to come stay with him. An Ethan Grant?”
Mal didn’t know who the hell Ethan Grant was, and it must’ve been quite evident on her face because the foster care worker went on to explain the qualifications of Ethan Grant, as if they outweighed everything Mom worked hard to be. Successful businessman. Brownstone off of Park Avenue. He even has a son. Which just thrills Mal, of course. There is nothing quite like staying in an alien house with a family of strangers.
“Won’t that lovely, so you don’t feel as lonely,” she’d come to conclude.
Lonely. Right. Mal would feel lonely even if they stuck her in an auditorium full of people who loved her. There was no cure for abandonment---she couldn’t even be shipped to an actual family member, but a knock-ff, because she didn’t know any. Or didn’t have any. Mom had never said much either way.
The worst part was that Mal should have seen it coming. The signs were all there---she could remember her Mom wandering the house in the dead hours of the night, muttering to herself. Mal would catch her leaning against the kitchen sink on nights with full moons, moonbeams spilling onto her face through the window as she spoke with it. That didn’t frighten Mal as much as the thought that the moon might talk back.
But Mom had thrown her off that morning. She’d been cheerful and outgoing as always, all smiles and kisses right up until Mal left for the school bus. Maybe if Mal would’ve paid closer attention, she could’ve stopped Mom from leaving. Or she could’ve went, too.
Sighing again, she sat up and grabbed her Northface from the ground. If she tried to catch some sleep, she knew she wouldn’t be able to because her legs wouldn’t stay put and her mind would circle like a vulture around in her head, picking at all of the little thoughts and baubles, and the last thing she wanted to think about was her godfather. But between living in an abandoned house and somewhere else, she’d choose somewhere else in a heartbeat. She’d never been good at making friends, anyway, so the friends she did have at school would wonder where she’d gone for a few weeks, and move on. Mom had uprooted her enough times in her grand tours across the country for her to realize that.
Standing and putting on her Northface, she slid out of the compartment and wandered down the hallway. The train jostled, rocking back and forth, like a crib. She thought she’d seen a dining cart when she boarded the train, and she was kind of hungry. When was the last time she’d eaten? Yesterday?
That sounded about right.
“You’ll be on the first train to Penn Station,” said the overly-cheerful foster lady, sliding a ticket and a meal pass across the desk, as if Mal had some sort of disease that she didn’t want anywhere near her. “Maybe you can sleep on the way?”
Yeah, sleep. If the foster lady cared enough, she would’ve seen the prescriptions for sleep medications on her record. She would’ve known that Mal and sleep didn’t mix well---at all, really. Sort of like daylight and vampires.
When she finally found the dining compartment, it was almost empty, save for a single man in a booth, flipping through yesterday’s paper and sipping a cup of tar-black coffee, and the waiter. She sat down in the furthest seat from the man, not sure why she wanted to stay so far away, and gave the waiter a tight-lipped smile as he approached her. He was a tired guy who looked like he needed a few hours of sleep, too.
“Coffee and… do you have any Poptarts? Something sweet?” she asked. She sorely missed when Mom would come into the room, freshly-baked cinnabun or cookie in hand, as if she could sense her sleeplessness. The sweetness would soother her enough to face a few hours of sleep.
“We have honey buns,” he replied.
“That’d be awesome.”
“Cream and sugar?”
“Please,” she said, “and as much as you can.”
He chuckled, “I’ll have that right up for you, ma’am.”
Ma’am. He must’ve been from the south. She’d lived in South Carolina for a while---Charleston. Her Mom loved it there, and would disappear to the ocean every full moon, and come back just before sunrise. She did a lot of crazy things, now that Mal thought about it. She’d always just pretend to ignore it, and chalk it up to her Mom being, well, Mom. She’d never known anything else. Every midsummer they’d light candles and celebrate the moonrise, and every equinox they’d count the stars. Every solstice they’d drink wine and dine on cheese and crackers, and always leave some out.
“For who?” Mal had asked once. She was six and a half, and curious about everything. “Whose it for?”
Mom had smiled and tousled Mal’s auburn curls. “For all the rest of us,” she had replied, leaving her daughter with more questions than answers. But Mal learned not to ask them anymore, because they would only multiply, the hows and whos and whys. So she went along with her Mom’s ways, carried on the whimsy of a woman without a sense of direction.
Because of the way Mom was, Mal had never gone to the doctor. When she had the sniffles, she’d drink a nasty tea, and when she hurt herself she’d slather a salve over it. When she was sad, Mom would twine dandelions into her hair, and when she was happy they would go on picnics and adventures and explore every nook and crevice in the place they called home, for however brief a reprise.
Home was only a word to Mal, but Mom was her entire world. Without her, she felt like buoy adrift on the Artic Sea.
1st 5 Pages June Workshop - Freeland 1st Revision
Lori Freeland
YA Science Fiction/Romance
Awakening
Chapter 1
Death Changes Everything
The lies would end tonight.
No more secrets. No more arguments. No more dodging questions.
My hand strayed from the steering wheel to the front pocket of my jeans. I forced my fingers back to the wheel and tightened them. Get a grip, Kate. It’s piece of paper.
With some pretty damning words scrawled in my sister’s loopy handwriting.
No. There had to be an explanation. Exaggeration was Claire’s specialty. She lived for it. I just needed to find my sister and demand the truth. Tell her I was finished with the weird, cryptic crap. Nothing ever turned out to be as bad or crazy or life-ending as what she made it out to be. Whatever this was, we could work it out together. I should have confronted her the day she began hiding things from me. We never kept any secrets from each other.
Until now.
My Corolla slid between Claire’s baby blue Beetle and a large silver sedan with tinted windows, claiming the last space in the small parking alcove next to the creek.
The twilight sky began a slow slide into night. Great. If I didn’t hurry I’d be walking by the creek in full dark. I unbuckled and opened my glove compartment. Owner’s manual. GPS. An outdated map of downtown Dallas. A pack of half-eaten gum. And a tiny red flashlight.
Why couldn’t Claire pout at Starbucks or the nail salon? Somewhere light and safe where finding her didn’t require a Mag light.
The small scrap of paper, folded the way I’d found it, went in the glove compartment, the flashlight came out, and I slammed the door closed. I snagged my sweatshirt off the passenger seat and got out of the car.
Another car sat parked on the other side of the sedan. Something small, black, sleek and way too sporty for this part of town. Leaving a car like that here was like flashing in neon, “Key me.”
I pulled the white sweatshirt over my head, locked my car, and shoved the keys in my front pocket. The chill of winter hadn’t quite hit Texas, even though in ten short days we’d be celebrating Christmas. But the wind dropped the temperature enough that I let my sleeves fall over my hands.
The bridge wasn’t too far down the winding creek—just past the solitary street lamp and the huge tree that twisted and bent and practically fell into the water. Halfway there, I realized I left my phone on the dash in the car. I didn’t need it, right? If I couldn’t find her, I’d come back for it.
I switched on the flashlight. Quickly switched it off. Maybe I didn’t want to bring attention to myself. Should I have stayed in the car and texted Claire again? She hadn’t answered the last ten texts I’d left.
The wind picked up. Dead leaves and grass crunched beneath my boots. A tight knot curled deep in my stomach. What would they say when they found me disemboweled and hanging from a tree, a la Scream? Stupid girl left her cell in the car. She deserved it.
If something happened to me, I was going to kill my sister. For making me come out here in the dark. For keeping things from me. For writing those words on the paper.
I kept walking before my imagination took a free for all and I started seeing shadows crouching behind the trees. There were other things more pressing to deal with—real things that stopped my heart quicker than the thought of some psycho with a machete waiting for a random teenage girl to walk by. Claire things. Crazy things. Things my head couldn’t process.
The bridge, Claire’s sanctuary, loomed ahead. The tall wooden structure looked empty, but maybe she was huddled by the base, close to the water. It was darker by the water, so I switched the light back on. The barely-there-sliver of a moon might as well have been MIA for all the light it shared.
“Claire?” It came out a whisper.
No answer, but the wind picked up and rattled the trees around me. Oh yeah, perfect slasher setting. Dumb blonde. No phone. No common sense. I could almost hear the people in the theater screaming, “Run back to the car.”
“Claire?” I boosted my volume.
Still no response.
The third time I said her name, it was on the bottom end of yelling and laced with panic. “Come on. Don’t text me to come here and then be a jerk. I’m already mad at you.” I didn’t sound mad though. I sounded shaky and unsure.
A sliver of fear skipped across my spine and took up residence in my lower back. Why didn’t I just tell Dad like I threatened? Then he’d be out here in the almost dark instead of me.
I angled the light toward the shadowy place under the bridge where she sometimes sat, expecting to see her huddled, crying and agitated and un-Claire-like. “Not funny, okay? Let’s pick up a pizza and go home.”
But she wasn’t there. I shined the light back and forth. Great. My shoulders dropped. I came all the way out here, scared myself to death, and she’d already decided to go home on her own. I shoved the penlight in my pocket and started to turn back to climb up the slope about to combine her name with a curse word—one I never said.
A dark shape caught the corner of my eyes. In the water. Floating next to an old log—no a fallen tree. I snapped the light back on and moved it across the water. For a moment, I paused at the edge of the creek, wasting precious seconds transfixed by her hair and the way the long strands fanned out in wisps and rode the surface of the water in an eerie dance.
“Claire?”
Reality struck with the force of a sucker punch—shattering my lungs, knocking my breath across the muddy ravine, and drove me forward.
“Claire!”
The flashlight fell out of my hands. I stumbled down the embankment. Sloshed through the icy water. My socks squished inside my shoes.
A tangled mane plastered Claire’s face. I brushed it away with shaky fingers. Then wished I hadn’t. Stationary eyes—one blue, one green—stared at the blue-black sky. She didn’t see me. She didn’t see anything—her pupils were fixed and dilated.
“Come on, Claire!” I slipped my arms under her, locked my fingers together at the top of her chest, and yanked her off the giant branch. Waterlogged jeans clung to my legs like a suit of armor— weighting me down.
“I’m not mad… I swear... I’m sorry...please wake up.” I kept dragging. Pulling. Heaving. Until the effort brought me to my knees. I got back up. Slow steps. Impossible steps. And then her body finally slid across the rocks.
My shoes cleared the water. One final tug and I collapsed on the damp ground and pressed numb fingers against the cold, wet skin on her neck. Where I was supposed to find a pulse.
“Claire?” My hand fell to her chest. I waited. Nothing. “Claire! Don’t leave me. Please.”
911. I had to call 911.
I pictured my cell phone where I’d left it on my dash.
How many precious seconds had I already wasted trying to make sense of what was happening? I tilted Claire’s chin. Her blond hair, dark with water, fed the ground like a soft stream. How much water did she swallow? How long had she been there? What time had she texted me?
YA Science Fiction/Romance
Awakening
Chapter 1
Death Changes Everything
The lies would end tonight.
No more secrets. No more arguments. No more dodging questions.
My hand strayed from the steering wheel to the front pocket of my jeans. I forced my fingers back to the wheel and tightened them. Get a grip, Kate. It’s piece of paper.
With some pretty damning words scrawled in my sister’s loopy handwriting.
No. There had to be an explanation. Exaggeration was Claire’s specialty. She lived for it. I just needed to find my sister and demand the truth. Tell her I was finished with the weird, cryptic crap. Nothing ever turned out to be as bad or crazy or life-ending as what she made it out to be. Whatever this was, we could work it out together. I should have confronted her the day she began hiding things from me. We never kept any secrets from each other.
Until now.
My Corolla slid between Claire’s baby blue Beetle and a large silver sedan with tinted windows, claiming the last space in the small parking alcove next to the creek.
The twilight sky began a slow slide into night. Great. If I didn’t hurry I’d be walking by the creek in full dark. I unbuckled and opened my glove compartment. Owner’s manual. GPS. An outdated map of downtown Dallas. A pack of half-eaten gum. And a tiny red flashlight.
Why couldn’t Claire pout at Starbucks or the nail salon? Somewhere light and safe where finding her didn’t require a Mag light.
The small scrap of paper, folded the way I’d found it, went in the glove compartment, the flashlight came out, and I slammed the door closed. I snagged my sweatshirt off the passenger seat and got out of the car.
Another car sat parked on the other side of the sedan. Something small, black, sleek and way too sporty for this part of town. Leaving a car like that here was like flashing in neon, “Key me.”
I pulled the white sweatshirt over my head, locked my car, and shoved the keys in my front pocket. The chill of winter hadn’t quite hit Texas, even though in ten short days we’d be celebrating Christmas. But the wind dropped the temperature enough that I let my sleeves fall over my hands.
The bridge wasn’t too far down the winding creek—just past the solitary street lamp and the huge tree that twisted and bent and practically fell into the water. Halfway there, I realized I left my phone on the dash in the car. I didn’t need it, right? If I couldn’t find her, I’d come back for it.
I switched on the flashlight. Quickly switched it off. Maybe I didn’t want to bring attention to myself. Should I have stayed in the car and texted Claire again? She hadn’t answered the last ten texts I’d left.
The wind picked up. Dead leaves and grass crunched beneath my boots. A tight knot curled deep in my stomach. What would they say when they found me disemboweled and hanging from a tree, a la Scream? Stupid girl left her cell in the car. She deserved it.
If something happened to me, I was going to kill my sister. For making me come out here in the dark. For keeping things from me. For writing those words on the paper.
I kept walking before my imagination took a free for all and I started seeing shadows crouching behind the trees. There were other things more pressing to deal with—real things that stopped my heart quicker than the thought of some psycho with a machete waiting for a random teenage girl to walk by. Claire things. Crazy things. Things my head couldn’t process.
The bridge, Claire’s sanctuary, loomed ahead. The tall wooden structure looked empty, but maybe she was huddled by the base, close to the water. It was darker by the water, so I switched the light back on. The barely-there-sliver of a moon might as well have been MIA for all the light it shared.
“Claire?” It came out a whisper.
No answer, but the wind picked up and rattled the trees around me. Oh yeah, perfect slasher setting. Dumb blonde. No phone. No common sense. I could almost hear the people in the theater screaming, “Run back to the car.”
“Claire?” I boosted my volume.
Still no response.
The third time I said her name, it was on the bottom end of yelling and laced with panic. “Come on. Don’t text me to come here and then be a jerk. I’m already mad at you.” I didn’t sound mad though. I sounded shaky and unsure.
A sliver of fear skipped across my spine and took up residence in my lower back. Why didn’t I just tell Dad like I threatened? Then he’d be out here in the almost dark instead of me.
I angled the light toward the shadowy place under the bridge where she sometimes sat, expecting to see her huddled, crying and agitated and un-Claire-like. “Not funny, okay? Let’s pick up a pizza and go home.”
But she wasn’t there. I shined the light back and forth. Great. My shoulders dropped. I came all the way out here, scared myself to death, and she’d already decided to go home on her own. I shoved the penlight in my pocket and started to turn back to climb up the slope about to combine her name with a curse word—one I never said.
A dark shape caught the corner of my eyes. In the water. Floating next to an old log—no a fallen tree. I snapped the light back on and moved it across the water. For a moment, I paused at the edge of the creek, wasting precious seconds transfixed by her hair and the way the long strands fanned out in wisps and rode the surface of the water in an eerie dance.
“Claire?”
Reality struck with the force of a sucker punch—shattering my lungs, knocking my breath across the muddy ravine, and drove me forward.
“Claire!”
The flashlight fell out of my hands. I stumbled down the embankment. Sloshed through the icy water. My socks squished inside my shoes.
A tangled mane plastered Claire’s face. I brushed it away with shaky fingers. Then wished I hadn’t. Stationary eyes—one blue, one green—stared at the blue-black sky. She didn’t see me. She didn’t see anything—her pupils were fixed and dilated.
“Come on, Claire!” I slipped my arms under her, locked my fingers together at the top of her chest, and yanked her off the giant branch. Waterlogged jeans clung to my legs like a suit of armor— weighting me down.
“I’m not mad… I swear... I’m sorry...please wake up.” I kept dragging. Pulling. Heaving. Until the effort brought me to my knees. I got back up. Slow steps. Impossible steps. And then her body finally slid across the rocks.
My shoes cleared the water. One final tug and I collapsed on the damp ground and pressed numb fingers against the cold, wet skin on her neck. Where I was supposed to find a pulse.
“Claire?” My hand fell to her chest. I waited. Nothing. “Claire! Don’t leave me. Please.”
911. I had to call 911.
I pictured my cell phone where I’d left it on my dash.
How many precious seconds had I already wasted trying to make sense of what was happening? I tilted Claire’s chin. Her blond hair, dark with water, fed the ground like a soft stream. How much water did she swallow? How long had she been there? What time had she texted me?
Monday, 4 June 2012
June 1st Five Pages Workshop Entries Are Posted for Comment
The five entries for this month's First Five Pages Workshop are posted below for reading and comment. As always, we invite everyone to participate in the workshop by letting the writers know what is working for you and what isn't working. Consider what kind of a story you think each entry is going to be based on the first five pages. Are you hooked? Do you want to keep reading? Is the voice working? Do you like the characters? Is there too much going on? Not enough? Let us know!
We are excited to have TWO special guest mentors this month: Elana Johnson and Angela Ackerman. Angela is part of the amazing Bookshelf Muse blog team, and one of the authors of the indespensible writer's companion book The Emotion Thesaurus. Elana is the author of Possession and the new sequel coming out this week: Surrender.
Enter here by midnight on 6/7/12 for a chance to win a copy of Surrender.
Surrender
by Elana Johnson
Forbidden love, intoxicating power, and the terror of control…
Raine has always been a good girl. She lives by the rules in Freedom. After all, they are her father’s rules: He’s the Director. It’s because of him that Raine is willing to use her talent—a power so dangerous, no one else is allowed to know about it. Not even her roommate, Vi.
All of that changes when Raine falls for Gunner. Raine’s got every reason in the world to stay away from Gunn, but she just can’t. Especially when she discovers his connection to Vi’s boyfriend, Zenn. Raine has never known anyone as heavily brainwashed as Vi. Raine’s father expects her to spy on Vi and report back to him. But Raine is beginning to wonder what Vi knows that her father is so anxious to keep hidden, and what might happen if she helps Vi remember it. She’s even starting to suspect Vi’s secrets might involve Freedom’s newest prisoner, the rebel Jag Barque....
"A writer's must have in the writers tool box. Highly recommended for all genres of fiction! This is a book you'll use over and over and over again" ~Author Janet Gurtler I'm Not Her, If I Tell, Who I Kissed (Sourcebooks Fire)
"The best 5 bucks a writer could spend. I could see the emotions in playing out in my head, but lacked the words. Just skimming the book, I can and will take my writing from 'Good' to 'Amazing.'" - Jon W. Turner "Raquel"
"The Emotion Thesaurus breaks new ground by providing alternatives to body language cues, thoughts and visceral reactions. Unlike a word thesaurus that we open at a specific page to find alternatives for a word, this book can be read in its entirety not just to derive inspiration, but also to improve your storehouse of `emotion descriptions.'" ~Sanjay Deshmukh
We are excited to have TWO special guest mentors this month: Elana Johnson and Angela Ackerman. Angela is part of the amazing Bookshelf Muse blog team, and one of the authors of the indespensible writer's companion book The Emotion Thesaurus. Elana is the author of Possession and the new sequel coming out this week: Surrender.
Enter here by midnight on 6/7/12 for a chance to win a copy of Surrender.
Surrender by Elana Johnson
Forbidden love, intoxicating power, and the terror of control…
Raine has always been a good girl. She lives by the rules in Freedom. After all, they are her father’s rules: He’s the Director. It’s because of him that Raine is willing to use her talent—a power so dangerous, no one else is allowed to know about it. Not even her roommate, Vi.
All of that changes when Raine falls for Gunner. Raine’s got every reason in the world to stay away from Gunn, but she just can’t. Especially when she discovers his connection to Vi’s boyfriend, Zenn. Raine has never known anyone as heavily brainwashed as Vi. Raine’s father expects her to spy on Vi and report back to him. But Raine is beginning to wonder what Vi knows that her father is so anxious to keep hidden, and what might happen if she helps Vi remember it. She’s even starting to suspect Vi’s secrets might involve Freedom’s newest prisoner, the rebel Jag Barque....
The Emotion Thesaurus by Angela Ackerman and Becca Puglisi
Struggle with how to show, not tell a character’s feelings? Need help creating fresh body language that does come off as stale or cliché?
The Emotion Thesaurus: A Writer’s Guide to Character Expression is a writer’s best friend, helping to navigate the difficult terrain of showing character emotion. Through an easy-to-use list format, this brainstorming tool explores seventy-five emotions and provides a large selection of body language, internal sensations, actions and thoughts associated with each. More information on this resource can be found on our Goodreads page.
This book is available in both Print and Digital formats through Amazon, Barnes & Noble, the iBookstore, and Smashwords. Or, download the PDF straight from our blog (sidebar).
The Emotion Thesaurus: A Writer’s Guide to Character Expression is a writer’s best friend, helping to navigate the difficult terrain of showing character emotion. Through an easy-to-use list format, this brainstorming tool explores seventy-five emotions and provides a large selection of body language, internal sensations, actions and thoughts associated with each. More information on this resource can be found on our Goodreads page.
This book is available in both Print and Digital formats through Amazon, Barnes & Noble, the iBookstore, and Smashwords. Or, download the PDF straight from our blog (sidebar).
Buzz from Amazon:
"A writer's must have in the writers tool box. Highly recommended for all genres of fiction! This is a book you'll use over and over and over again" ~Author Janet Gurtler I'm Not Her, If I Tell, Who I Kissed (Sourcebooks Fire)
"The best 5 bucks a writer could spend. I could see the emotions in playing out in my head, but lacked the words. Just skimming the book, I can and will take my writing from 'Good' to 'Amazing.'" - Jon W. Turner "Raquel"
"The Emotion Thesaurus breaks new ground by providing alternatives to body language cues, thoughts and visceral reactions. Unlike a word thesaurus that we open at a specific page to find alternatives for a word, this book can be read in its entirety not just to derive inspiration, but also to improve your storehouse of `emotion descriptions.'" ~Sanjay Deshmukh
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