Natalie Aguirre on What Writers Can Learn from Reading

Today's guest,Natalie Aguirre, is one of the endlessly brilliant duo of bloggers over at Literary Rambles, interviewing debut, middle grade, and other authors, and spotlighting their books with ARC or book giveaways every Monday. She is one of the most engaged bloggers I know, and a ceaseless supporter of this blog and countless others. If that isn't enough, she's an aspiring middle grade and YA fantasy writer. She’s an attorney by day, a wife, and the mother of one child. She's joining us today to tell us about what she has learned from reading.

READING + LEARNING = FUN

by Natalie Aguirre

Thanks so much for inviting me Martina!

I’ve always been a voracious reader since I learned to read. I even read audio books when I walk so I can read more. Since I joined Casey McCormick as her blog partner at Literary Rambles, I’ve been interviewing a lot of authors and reading their books in preparation for their interviews. It’s really become my passion as a blogger to promote books and authors, especially debut and middle grade authors. So I read a lot.

Martina asked me to do a post on what I’ve learned from reading. Before I start, I’ll let you know that I tend to race through the books I’m reading, trying to consume them and find out what’s going to happen next. So I don’t analyze the story while I’m reading. I really encourage you to read Martina’s fantastic posts on the craft of writing where she shows what a grasp she has on the craft and what she learns from reading.

So here’re some things I’ve learned from my reading.

1. The fifty page rule. Last year my daughter’s 9th grade teacher shared a piece of advice she gives her students. Read to page 50 and if the book doesn’t grab you, stop reading it and start something new. Before I started blogging, I didn’t follow this rule. I usually slogged through the book and at some point I’d like the story.

But now I have such a huge stack of books to read. Thankfully, I haven’t had to put down any books I’m featuring on my blog. But there are other books I’ve started that just haven’t grabbed me. And I’ve put the book down because I don’t have time to read a book I don’t enjoy.

And it brings to mind how important it is to grab the reader quickly. Kids, especially in middle school and high school, are incredibly busy and don’t have that much time to read. If you can’t grab their attention by the first 50 pages, they probably aren’t going to finish your book.

So how do you grab your reader? You must present sympathetic characters we want to learn about, let us know what your story is about, and move the plot along in the first 50 pages. This is only five to seven chapters depending on how long your chapters are.

2. Explore new genres. My favorite genres are fantasy, dystopian, and some paranormal. That’s what I mostly read. I’ve learned from interviewing authors that it’s good to expand my horizons sometimes and read in other genres.

For example, I had never read a book in verse until I interviewed Stasia Ward Kehoe about her debut book AUDITION, a contemporary story about a girl following her dream to become a dancer, and Caroline Starr Rose about her debut middle grade novel MAY B, a historical novel about a girl in 1870 Kansas. I’ll share a secret. I don’t like poetry much and was scared before I read Stacia’s book that I wouldn’t be able to finish it. But these books were incredibly fast, enjoyable reads. So now I wouldn’t hesitate to read a book in verse that interests me.

Contemporary is another genre I rarely read. And when I pick up a book for an author interview, I always worry I won’t like it. But then I read Jenny Lundquist’s SEEING CINDERELLA, a contemporary novel about middle grade friendships and boyfriend issues with a touch of magical realism in the use of magical glasses. I could so relate to Callie’s experiences in middle school and loved reading how she resolved her problems.

Debut author Tracey Bilen’s WHAT SHE LEFT BEHIND was another book that reminded me that contemporary stories are good. This is a YA thriller about an abusive family. Tracey really nailed the voice of Sarah, the main character, who has to deal with her abusive dad and is terribly worried about her mom. And she keeps the tension up so you have to turn the page.

I couldn’t put down either of these books and read them both in two days or less.

3. Go back and start the book over if you find you haven’t gotten some of the plot. There’re a lot of new characters, setting, and plot to learn about when you start a book. Sometimes when I start a book at night (when I usually read) and I’m tired (sadly often), I miss a bit when I start a book. If I find I can’t remember things as I’m moving through the first 50 pages, I’ve been making myself go back and start the book again. I find I enjoy the story more and get all the important details.

4. Learn about the craft of writing from your reading. If you’re having problems with some aspect of your manuscript, read one of your favorite authors in the genre you’re writing in and it’ll probably help you figure out what your problem is. Whenever I’m struggling with something, like character development, how to show internal thoughts, description, etc., I’ll look for how the authors I’m reading handle the problem. It always helps me figure out what I need to do. And so many published authors do it masterfully.

Here are some of my favorite books I’ve read this year and something I think the author did well.

In THE FALSE PRINCE, Jennifer Nielson does an incredible job nailing the voice of Sage, a totally self-assured guy who’s resourceful, sarcastic, funny, and never afraid to speak his mind or to not cooperate in the plot to put a false prince on the throne. I’m in love with this book. It’s fantastic!

And in UNDER THE NEVER SKY, Veronica Rossi develops such a fascinating dystopian world where Aria, who had lived mostly in a virtual world, has to cope with living in Perry's Outsider world that has no technology. And watching how their relationship developed, definitely antagonistic at the start, felt like a natural progression, which I loved.

In UNRAVELLING, Elizabeth Norris is the master of twisting a plot. It starts out as a mystery where Janelle tries to solve the mystery of why someone would try to hit her with their car, how Ben brought her back to life, and then the mystery of a death of someone close to her. But suddenly the plot completely twists and you see the story is about so much more. All I could say when I read it was WOW!

And in SHADOW AND BONE, Leigh Bardugo does a fantastic job with the world building, drawing from Tsarist Russia in the early 1800’s, in creating the court and the Grisha, the magical elite world, that Alina is whisked into.

In WHAT’S LEFT OF ME, Kat Zhang creates an intriguing world where two souls share a body until one disappears before the teen years. Only fifteen-year old Eva doesn’t disappear. It’s fascinating watching her try to survive and be able to use their body to be herself. Since she’s the recessive soul, Kat must mostly show her through her thoughts and dialogue.

And in SURRENDER (Possession #2), Elana Johnson introduces us to Raine, incredibly smart and brave in defying her father, and Gunner, such a nice, dependable guy you can’t help falling in love with, and takes us more into the everyday life of Freedom. Then she weaves it all back into Vi and Jag’s story. It’s a brilliant second book in a series.

Finally in THE CROWN OF EMBERS (book #2), Rae Carson takes the story in a new direction as Elisa, who is still insecure and slightly overweight, struggles in her new role as queen in a country she’s never lived in. And Rae does a fantastic job showing us a beautiful, naturally developing relationship between Elisa and Hector, her guard. I’m doing a giveaway of my ARC right now, so stop by my blog if you want to enter the contest.

I could go n and on because I’ve read so many fabulous books. But I’ll stop here.

So what great books have you read and what have you learned from them?

Natalie Aguirre is an attorney by day and an aspiring MG and YA fantasy author. She blogs at Literary Rambles (http://literaryrambles.com) on Mondays and some Wednesdays where she interviews authors and discusses books, almost always with a book giveaway.

Final Edit for September 1st 5 Pages Workshop with Nancy Holder

The final revisions are up for this month's First Five Pages Workshop based on suggestions the participants have received so far from all of us here and our incredible guest mentor, Nancy Holder.

Please join in! Tell us what you think of the stories as they are now, and then look back to see where they've started. Read the comments to see how they've gotten there and then roll up your sleeves and see where you would suggest the writers go from here. What makes a great first five pages? What pulls you into a book? Have the participants captured that? Do you feel you know the story question and have a hint of the mc's inner conflict--the fear or problem that will be tested by the events in this story? Would you keep reading? Why or why not?

Some of Nancy's Books

This week's revisions are posted below. Just scroll down to read them. Then whether you're still working on writing your own manuscript, or in the process of revising, I encourage you to take advantage of the chance to see what Nancy has to say about the these manuscripts in her earlier comments as well as later on this week. Post your suggestions if you're willing, but even if you don't post them, think about what you would say. This is a master class all by itself and a great chance to apply Nancy's expertise to your own writing.

 

About Nancy Holder

Nancy Holder

Nancy is an author whose work has appeared on the New York Times, USA Today, LA Times, amazon.com, LOCUS, and other bestseller lists. A five-time winner of the Bram Stoker Award from the Horror Writers Association, she has also received accolades from the American Library Association, the American Reading Association, the New York Public Library, and Romantic Times.

She and Debbie Viguié co-authored the New York Times bestselling series Wicked for Simon and Schuster. They have continued their collaboration with the Crusade series, also for Simon and Schuster, and the Wolf Springs Chronicles for Delacorte (2011.)

She is also the author of the young adult horror series Possessions for Razorbill. She has sold many novels and book projects set in the Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Angel, Saving Grace, Hellboy, and Smallville universes.

Nancy has sold approximately two hundred short stories and essays on writing and popular culture. Her anthology, Outsiders, co-edited with Nancy Kilpatrick, was nominated for the Bram Stoker Award in 2005. Pretty Little Devils and The Watcher’s Guide Volume 1 appeared in the New York Public Library’s Books for the Teen Age, and The Watcher’s Guide Volume 1 also appeared on the Los Angeles Times Bestseller List in 1999. Saving Grace: Tough Love won the 2011 Scribe Award for General Fiction/Best Original Novel.

She teaches in the Stonecoast MFA in Creative Writing Program, offered through the University of Southern Maine. She has previously taught at UCSD and has served on the Clarion Board of Directors.

1st 5 Pages September Workshop - Ramirez Rev 3

Author: Cecilia Ramirez
Genre: Middle Grade
Title: Rancho Tails

Vato had the girl cornered, but he was the one who was trapped. Between two walls streaked with gooey paint, stood a girl holding a tamale. A whole tamale! His stomach growled. His head buzzed. He should follow the trail of the vandal who made that mess, and stop him before he ruined the rancho with his anger and cheap paint. Bad enough the vandal had grafittied the horse barn on his watch. If Vato did not catch him, he would rather eat a bowl of bad menudo and ask for seconds. He would be kicked off the rancho before he had spent a week here. But the dripping grease from the tamale beckoned him like an old friend.

“Come closer. I’m not going to hurt you,” the girl said. She flicked her braids off her shoulders and waved the tamale in front of him.

Vato basked in the ripples of warmth and masa. Chale! The only way this chica could hurt him was if she ate the tamale herself. She shifted from one foot to the other. It made him uneasy. Why did she act so nervous or speak to him in a voice higher than a chacalaca? Perhaps she feared him. Perhaps she knew a fierce watchdog when she saw one. Not like the other loca watchdogs on the rancho. They had called him “weiner dog” and “fat chorizo on four legs.” They had treated him like roadkill since the moment he and Patton arrived on the rancho.

“Go get it, boy,” she whispered. She tossed the tamale to the other corner of the stall.

Vato scrambled after it, sliding on the scratchy hay. After he scooped up the last piece of beef and deliciousness, he looked for the girl to beg for another tamale, maybe one with chicken in it, or even better, frijoles. But she was gone. Vato ran out of the stall. He was not going to let the girl with the tamales get away from him that easy. Forget the vandal. Finding those tamales was more important.

The barn door caught his eye, as did a saddle with the Lone Star engraved on it. Heavy slashes of paint covered them too. Vato hung his head. He knew he should have chased after that vandal instead of eating that pile of temptation. What was he thinking? His old Jefe had gotten rid of him because he was a bad watchdog. Vato had no doubt the same thing would happen on this rancho if he weren’t more careful. He sat on his haunches and sighed. He might as well throw himself on top of a barbecue pit and light a match.

Rattling metal near the chicken coop made Vato jump. He stared into the darkness and zeroed in on a slight movement inside the coop. Was the vandal going to paint the coop too?

His heart thumped against his chest. He barked to check if it could be another watchdog but no one answered. Vato’s thoughts raced.

There was no time to call for help. It was up to him to catch that paint wielding destructor of property. No beef, chicken or frijole tamale could distract him now. If he caught that vandal, he would prove to everyone he deserved to be on the rancho. They would never want him to leave.

Vato puffed out his chest and hurried to the coop. Holy guacamole! He would be on that vandal like chili on carne. He darted past the corrals and the goat pen, his stride confident, his nose high. It was only when he saw the shadow of his swinging stomach, did the same old doubts creep over him. He wished he could eat something to help him forget his fear, but there was nothing in sight. Not even a dead squirrel. Orale! Just his luck this new Jefa picked up the dead animals before he could eat them. What was he supposed to eat in moments like these?

He braced himself and slowly approached the coop. His back legs trembled. His usual floppy ears were plastered against his head. Something rustled inside the coop. Vato bared his teeth. “Show yourself, or I will squash you like a chancla on a cockroach!”

“Squawk!”

“Chale! It’s only a little chicken,” Vato said, giddy with relief. “Hola, little pollito. I’m Vato, a new watchdog. I heard something and thought it was the vandal.”

“What kind of watchdog mistakes a chicken for a vandal?” the chicken laughed. “That was me who made all that noise.”

He stepped back. How dare she make fun of him? He growled. “You should be lucky I just ate, or else I would wrap you in a corn tortilla and call you an embuelto!”

She scurried into the shadows. Her voice cracked. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. I’m so hungry. I haven’t eaten all day. There is a piece of lettuce on the other side of the fence, but it is too far away for me to reach.”

“You should be sorry,” Vato said, trying to look big and brave, when all he felt was as useless as a saddle on a dead horse. “Who are you anyway?”

“They call me, ‘Tiny’, because I am so little.” She stared at the nest next to her. “Everything about me is little. Even the eggs I lay.”

Great. He had found someone on the rancho who wasn’t good at their job either. Well, Vato wasn’t going to have it. He didn’t want to have anything in common with a chicken. “Do you know what happens to chickens who lay little eggs?” asked Vato.

“Wh-What?” Tiny whispered.

“They get covered in rice,” he said, narrowing his eyes. “Haven’t you heard of arroz con pollo? Chicken with rice is my favorite.”

Tiny gasped. “That’s a terrible thing to say. I can do other things. I tell funny jokes. Here’s one. It took me all day to think of it. What do you do with a broken egg?”

“Eat it,” Vato said automatically.

“Nothing!” she laughed. “Because it’s not what it’s cracked up to be! HAHAHAHA!”

He snorted. “Chale! If that took you all day, maybe you should spend your time laying eggs. Even if they are small, you are better at it.” He noticed her disappointed face. “Why do you tell jokes anyway?”

“It makes everyone forget how angry they are when I am in trouble,” she said softly. “Sometimes they get so mad at me they don’t let me eat. I haven’t eaten in two days. I guess my jokes aren’t working.”

“I think your jokes make them madder,” said Vato. “That wouldn’t work with me. I don’t forget anything, especially food.”

Tiny shrank back. “I know. The goats told me.”

Vato coughed. Maybe he shouldn’t have told them he could never forget the taste of goat meat. He loved cabrito. He stood straighter. “I wouldn’t pay attention to anything they tell you. But what else did they say?”

“Oooh. I don’t want to tell you. They say they like Patton because he is nice,” she said.

“Of course he is nice. He is my best friend.” Vato swatted a gnat. “But our Jefe thought he was too old to be a watchdog so he gave him away too. What did they say about me?”

“They say you would rather eat us than protect us.” She covered her face with her wings and quickly added. “They don’t think you can protect anything.”

1st 5 Pages September Workshop - Fyfe Rev 3

Author: Rebecca Fyfe
Genre: Middle Grade
Title: The Necklace


I rummaged through the attic. My nose tingled from the musty smell came from the boxes I was moving. I really just wanted to go watch some tv, but my mom asked me to find some things we could sell at the yard sale she planned for this weekend. The attic was full of my grandmother’s things. I missed Grams, and I hated the idea of selling her stuff, but mom had asked me to bring it all down.


I sneezed as some of the dust from moving things around drifted into my nose. My allergies were going to be plaguing me for weeks after this. I moved a box full of dresses to the side to bring down later. Jackpot! I thought, looking at the label on the box below that read “jewelry.” I couldn't remember ever seeing my grams without jewelry. She always seemed to be draped in glittery necklaces and bracelets.


I lifted the box to bring it downstairs. As I picked it up, something slipped out from a small tear in the lower edge of the box. I gently reached down with one hand while balancing the box against my hip and picked up a silver necklace. The necklace itself was a twisted rope chain and the pendant on the necklace was unusual. It was a five-pointed star, and in the center was a round stone. The stone was almost white but it shimmered and sparkled with different colors. I was surprised that it was in such good condition after spending so many years up in this attic.


The shimmery stone mesmerized me, and I couldn’t help but put it on. I don’t know what came over me; I rarely wear jewelry, but something about this necklace whispered to me. Once I had put it around my neck and closed the clasp, an oddly comforting feeling settled over me. Mom would never let me keep it, but I suddenly couldn’t bear to part with it. It was a piece of grams. I tucked it under my shirt and continued stacking boxes to carry downstairs.


Heading down the stairs, I thought I heard voices. My mom, dad and brother all seemed to be talking at once, each of them talking over each other. Their voices were somehow muffled though. Why weren’t they listening to each other? Strange.


Wiping the dust from my hands on the legs of my jeans, I found my mom in the kitchen preparing dinner. “Mom, I brought a bunch of stuff down from the attic for the yard sale. I need you to look through it and make sure you’re not giving away anything you don’t want to, okay?” I secretly hoped she’d change her mind about selling grams’ belongings.


“Sure, hon,” her mom said, "I can't look through it right now though. I've got some reports to finish writing tonight." She gave me a weak smile and I was certain just then I heard her say “I just hope we can make enough off of the stuff in the attic.” I was looking right at her while she’d been saying it, and I could swear she hadn’t moved her lips. Odd. Was my mom practicing ventriloquism?


“Mom, did you say something?”


“No, Sandra. Go get cleaned up. Dinner is almost ready,” my mom replied, and then, with mom not saying a word, I heard mom’s voice saying, “You are such a mess from playing around in the attic. Surely, you didn’t plan on eating dinner with those dirty hands?"


"It's really dusty in there." I defended myself. "It's not my fault I got so dirty."


"Pardon?" My mom had a little crinkle in her forehead as she looked at me. Did I just respond to something she thought? A tingle pricked along my chest. I looked down to find the necklace glowing.


As I washed my hands, I looked at myself in the mirror. The necklace was definitely glowing. But the glow was fading. I wrapped my hand around it, without even thinking of what I was doing and a warm heat spread over my hand. A surge of curiosity about the necklace filled me, but before I could think more about it, mom called out to me.


"Sandra, hurry up! Your dinner's getting cold!"


I couldn’t stop wondering about the necklace. Where had my grams found it? How did it glow? Or was I just imagining its glow and that strange warmth coming from it when I held it? Had I really heard my mom’s thoughts? And if so, what did the necklace have to do with it?


Jasper, my family’s dog, a huge Burmese Mountain dog, started barking loudly, interrupting dinner. That usually meant that someone was at the door. Sure enough, the doorbell rang. None of this was a surprise to me, but the soft male voice that I could hear beneath Jasper’s barking made me start questioning my sanity. The voice was saying “Someone’s at the door! Someone’s at the door!” over and over. It took a few minutes before it dawned on me that the voice was actually Jasper! I was hearing Jasper’s thoughts! How was this possible?


It was the necklace. It had to be! I looked down at the necklace hanging around my neck and that subtle glow was visible again. How was the necklace doing this? I could hear my dog’s thoughts. Could I hear the thoughts of other animals too? While my mom went to answer the door and my dad and brother were busy talking about other things, I covertly unclasped the necklace from around my neck and slipped it into my pocket. I didn’t want to hear anyone else’s thoughts right now because the whole thing was freaking me out. Where had Grams found this necklace? Had Grams known it was magical?


"May I be excused?" I looked at dad. "I have some homework to finish."


"You're done?" My dad made a goofy, surprised face at me, "I can't believe you want to leave the table while there are still tacos to be eaten!"


"Very funny, Dad."


Dad smiled. "Go, do your homework. Your brother and I can take care of the rest of this food." He rubbed his hands together in pretend glee. I couldn't help smiling back.


On my way to my room, I noticed the voices at the door. Curiosity about who was at the door overcame me. I slipped the necklace back on and tucked it back under my shirt. Tiptoeing into the hallway, I kept out of sight of my mom and the guest at the door.


"You're late with the money, and, if you don't pay up, my next visit will be to start collecting your possessions." That’s what the guy at the door said, but I heard what he was thinking. "I hate this job. Why don't people just pay their bills on time and avoid having to go through this?"


"I'll be caught up by Monday," mom told the man, but she was thinking, "How am I going to get that much money by Monday? The yard sale isn’t going to get us enough money."


It was good thing no one could hear my thoughts, because the debt collector at the door would not be happy with the thoughts about him going through my head just then. I wanted to hit him. It wasn’t his fault; he was just doing his job, but the burn of anger worked its way through me and I needed to hit something. Then another thought hit me; this is why my mom wanted to sell off grams’ things.

1st 5 Pages September Workshop - Carpinello Rev 3

Author: Cheryl Carpinello
Genre: Middle Grade Adventure/Mystery
Title: Sons of the Sphinx

I don’t see dead people. I hear them. I talk to them. Boy, you should try that. Talk about people looking at you like you’re a freak. That’ll do it.

Take today in math class. We are taking this test, see. I’m concentrating real hard on this problem trying to figure height or something. Then I hear this.

“Hey you.”

I jerk up in my chair, looking around for the guy doing the talking. I glance at the kids on either side of me. Nothing. I look up at my teacher. He’s glaring at me.

“Great,” I whisper. “He probably thinks I’m trying to cheat.” I bow my head and focus on the problem again.

“You, I’m talking to you.”

I shake my head in hopes of tossing the voice out, but it doesn’t work. I should know better.

Every time I rebel against them, I end up in trouble. Just what I need now while I’m trying to take this test.

“Would you be quiet? I’m trying to take a math test,” I whisper fervently.

“Oh sure, that’s okay for you to say. I’ll never take another test again.” His voice broke up, kind of like bad radio reception.

“Not my problem,” I whisper, but putting emphasis on each of the words. I can feel the stares of the kids around me. Great.

“I died too soon, I really did.”

“Look, I haven’t talked to a dead person yet who didn’t say that. Kind of goes with the dead part. I can’t do a thing for you. Believe me, if I could, and if it would get rid of all of you, I would. Now leave me alone. You’re going to make me fail this test.”

I hear him snort, like he has to blow his nose, if dead guys really do that. Then comes the kicker.

“I just want another chance. I promise I’ll do better.”

“I’m going to say this once more. Not my problem. Now leave.” I wrote three exclamation points on my paper just so he would get the picture.

“But it isn’t fair,” he whined. “It just isn’t fair.”

Okay. I’m fed up with this guy. I can’t even remember the formula for whatever I’m trying to find. I am definitely going to fail math if this guy keeps on yapping.

Out loud I say, “Bud, I don’t give a damn if it isn’t fair. Just shut the hell up so I can get this test done!”

Did you get the part where I said “out loud”? Yep, that earned me an F on the test AND a trip to the AP’s (that’s assistant principal’s) office. I couldn’t even defend myself there. What was I going to say? “Excuse me, I’m sorry I blurted out loud in class in the middle of a test, and I’m sorry for swearing, but you see, this dead guy wouldn’t shut up.” Yeah, that would have gone over well. Nope, I just had to sit meekly back and say politely, “It won’t happen again. Had to be the stress over the test.” You get the picture.

He sends me to my next class with several of the same kids. As I take my seat, I see a couple shaking their heads. I just shrug and mumble something like “Idiot dead people.” No one goes out of their way to talk to me. I think they’re afraid whatever I have will rub off on them, or that I’ll go bananas or something.

Understandable.

And when my parents get home, and I tell them what happened...Well, I may be the one shouting
“It’s not fair!”

It would be one thing if I talked to famous dead people. You know like that Elvis guy my mother still drools over? I mean, really? Like the guy would be seventy-something today! Anyway, if I talked to him, I could give my mom a personal message like “Sorry we never got to hook up.” That would be something, don’t you think?

No, the dead people who talk to me are just dead nobodies. Nothing exciting to say. Nothing going down. They’re just hanging out, waiting for I don’t know, to be more dead, I guess. Or, to see how much trouble they can get me in. If I could just ignore them. My mother told me that all the time when my older brother would pick on me. “Just ignore him, Rose.” Yea, easier said than done. I’ve even tried communicating by ESP hoping to keep my temper. That didn’t work either.

So now I sit here in my bedroom trying to work on my history project on ancient Egypt. You know, the kind where the teacher puts you in a group, and then no one in the group does anything. Yep, that’s my luck. The project is due the day after tomorrow, and I’m the only one who has done any work. After what happened today, I’m having a hard time focusing, It’s easier to sit here and daydream.

“Roose.”

OMG! Do the dead have no respect?

And just who is this guy? This isn’t the same voice. That’s nice. Now I have an army of dead people invading my brain. Too bad they can’t do this project for me.

“Roose.”

Who is this idiot?

“Listen. I am done with dead people today. This is my room, my space, and I don’t want you in here. I’m not sharing my things with dead people! And my name is Rose, not Roose.”

Silence. That’s encouraging.

“Look, I’ll make you a deal. You do my homework, make my bed, and clean out my closet, and we’ll talk.”

I wait. Nothing happens.

I must be going nuts. OMG. Who tries to deal with a dead person?

“Roose. Please.”

Will this guy never give up? I cover my ears even though I know it won’t do any good. Why can’t I at least talk to interesting dead people, instead of these whining ones?

Sitting at my desk, I’m determined to get to work. I glance at my King Tut ticket stub on the wall. Now that would be one dead person I’d talk to, especially about this project. At the age of nine he ruled all of Egypt. And his tomb wasn’t discovered until 1922, more than 2500 years later, by that man Carter.

I touch the picture next to it. You know, the one where Ankhesenamun and Tut on the back of the Golden Throne. He is sitting in the throne; she is standing facing him, her arm outstretched, touching him. I’m not a romantic, but when I look at that picture, I can feel their love for each other.

Yep, I could talk to Tut, but I’d rather talk to his wife, the mysterious and beautiful Ankhesenamun. The Lost Queen.

Sometimes I imagine myself as her talking with Tut. Mostly we talk about what’s happening in Egypt, and what we have to do today. I show my support for him with a simple touch of my hand. Other times, we talk about where we’ll be buried. They did that, you know. Had their burial chamber ready sometimes years before their death.

On days when I’m feeling depressed--and today looks to be one of those days--I imagine saying goodbye to Tut as he dies. I assure Tut that we’ll meet in the After Life. Then I go to bed and wonder what it would be like to wander the earth looking for my husband’s spirit or ba. I wonder if he looks for her.

“I do, Roose.”

I turn around and scream. I look at the picture and then scream again.

1st 5 Pages September Workshop - Baccellia Rev 3

Name: Kim Baccellia
Genre: YA Multicultural Sci-Fi
Title: EL COMPUESTO

Uno

Here goes nada.

My hands shook like leaves during a sudden wind storm. It hadn’t been foolish to
keep the encrypted image overnight, it was suicidal. But I had to see it one more time.

I sneaked a glance over my shoulder, checking for security. If I was caught watching the image of the world outside the compound, I’d be thrown into solitary confinement or worse. I’d end up like Papi, disappearing in the middle of the night.

No, I couldn’t do that to Mami but I couldn’t help myself. Deep down I knew it was wrong to question but any clue, lead about what happened to Papi consumed me. Nothing mattered—not my standing in the community or even El Padre. Only my own father’s fate.

The light tapping of combat boots on the smooth auditorium floor meant the supervisor was walking to the other end of the room, giving me some time. It was now or never.

Their vid-monitor devices swept over those closer to the front doors, always on the look-out for floros, those who shirked their responsibilities to el Compuesto. I made sure there was no reason to suspect me. I took pride in doing everything our community expected –from being on time with my assignments, going to bi-weekly youth rallies, and even accepting a choice of a mate. None of this would matter if my latest bout with defiance was found. The hologram had been the last thing Papi had been viewing before he was lead away. I had to watch it, if anything to find the clue to why the leaders had singled out my father.

Still, if they found out…

Guilt nudged the back of my mind, reminding me how stupid I was to push my own standing within our community. I reminded myself I just needed to be careful. Yes. I could do this and it looked like time might be on my side.

I glanced over to the side, looking for my friend Luz but only an empty space stared back at me. I wanted to share my latest ‘find’ with her but the window of time was slipping. For a brief moment my fingers wavered over my monitor, unable to move. Over in the corner my gemela Xochil frowned, shaking her head.

It’s not as if my sister took me seriously as she teased me that I didn’t have the cajones to do anything against the leaders. I was the ‘good’ girl. Her sneaking this vid into my monitor probably meant nothing or was a test.

Right now was all that mattered and that involved finding out the truth. I could almost sense my twin daring me to go through with my defiance, thinking I’d chicken out. If anything that only forced my hand. But still doubt plagued me.

I shuddered. After all these years, the stain of Papi’s disappearance after being vocal against el Padre’s command still followed me. Usually an overhead monitor or two blinked in my direction. But now they were pointed in the other way.


My leg couldn’t stop bouncing with pent-up nervous energy. I wet my lips, waiting for the perfect moment.

Now.

I swiped my hand over my monitor, settling back in my chair. The key to this was to act normal and not show how I really felt inside. I had a lot of practice with this every since Papi had ‘disappeared’. After awhile, tears dried up until a numbness carried me through the day.

The steel backing pressed into my lower back, but I pushed the uncomfortable feeling aside. A hologram circled around my space, seeming to box me in for my own custom performance. The virtual reality image erased the dullness of the classroom with a computerized paint brush, painting everything with bright colors. Magical stokes swept across my perpendicular vision seeming to paint me within the 3D images.

I closed my eyes for a brief second, savoring the flood of emotions that swirled within me. I felt as if a leaded weight had been severed from me, releasing my bruised soul into the heavens. No longer did I blend in with the uniformed oneness which consisted of everything down to the same pair of boots we wore. No, this my own silent way of defiance.

Opening my eyes, I waited.

Then it came.

Jewel-like plumage darted in and out of a group of hibiscus flowers. The vivid coral, pink, lavender, and red petals brightened not only the space in front of me but my whole being. I reached out, stroking the velvet softness of a flower petal. A whiff of sweetness tickled my nose. I wanted, no I craved more.

A chumparosa darted close by my ear. My gaze followed as the hummingbird dipped a long beak inside a flower, hovering for a brief moment before dashing off to another one.

Though I was inside the cold confinement of the school auditorium, it never ceased to amaze me how life-like and real the projected hologram images could be. I continued to watch the dance of the hummingbird once more. Her aerobics fascinated me. Now I know why my ancestors were so enthralled with these small birds.

At first glance, the lone hummingbird’s paper thin wings might seem fragile, unequipped for its mission. I knew better. An insect-like buzzing vibrated around me, teasing me to join her. The tiny bird bounced from one bright hibiscus flower to another before fluttering off into emptiness.

With her passing, the hologram image faded revealing my real world. I sighed. The harsh white plastered walls erased the beauty of the hummingbird into a distinct memory. Once again, I hadn’t found anything. No clue, nada. If anything I was more confused on why this had been so important. Still I felt he was trying to tell me something.

Then another thought came. Was I the hummingbird? Even I knew that the freedom of the tiny creature could never coexist with the iron fist of El Padre. He’d crush it like he did with anyone else who searched for freedom.

Like Papi. Or even me.

I glanced around, nervous. Any slip of composure, hint of rebellion was reported. I slumped down in my chair and tried to push the thoughts aside.

The uncomfortable sensation of someone staring at me caused me to glance over to catch a half smile on Xochil’s face. She mouthed:

“Good going.”

I turned back to my monitor, annoyed but also not surprised. My twin relished subtle attacks against our compound. Right now I didn’t want to give her the satisfaction that maybe I’d been actually listening to her conspiracy stories.

No one else seemed to notice our exchange. Good.


I blinked once, twice, reorienting myself to my class assignments. At least I’d been assigned to botany, which I loved. Still after being engulfed in the holograms, it always took a few seconds to re anchor myself into reality.

El Padre was our true padre

Nadie mas

I hummed part of the national chant in my head and let the words fill me once more with my true purpose and calling. The words came easy enough. I’d heard them since childhood. The leaders had used this message and others to remind us that we were different than those outside of our domed community. Living far away in the desert gave us courage, strength, and unity. The Earth outside our home with their fighting, wars, and hatred was the enemy. Order was our god. Without order, destruction came.

Then I glanced back to Luz’s empty seat. Where was she? A sick feeling gurgled in my stomach reminding me how close I played to the edge.

Luz, hadn’t been in class for two days now, which was unlike her. She’d been my best friend since childhood. We’d done everything together. She’d been the one who didn’t shun me after Papi’s betrayal or added to the vicious rumors that circulated around el Compuesto that he’d tried to kill our beloved leader. No, she’d been more of a hermana then my own twin sister. Though lately she’d also been questioning el Padre.

Just like Papi had done.

Xochil twirled a piece of her raven hair. Her vid was down. Every now and then she’d roll her eyes. Though my gemela at times rambled on with her crazy theories, right now I wished I had her strength to stand up to the leaders without fearing being singled out.

1st 5 Pages September Workshop - Berendsen Rev 3

Author: Margo Berendsen
Genre: Young Adult science fiction
Title: Startripped

I don’t usually have a problem putting makeup on. But today I keep messing up. My hands are shaking, and every time I touch the brush to my eyelashes it jerks and hits the wrong spot. I’ve had to wash my face off and start over again so many times that I just leave the water running in the sink. My face feels raw.

I’m dreading this party.

As I start another attempt, there’s a sharp rap on the bathroom door. “I’m not ready yet!” I yell. “Go away.”

David pushes the door open anyway. “Mom wants to know what’s taking so long. Everyone’s waiting for you.”

“If you’d stop interrupting me, I’d be ready sooner.”

He doesn’t take the hint. “Why do you bother standing in front of the mirror?”

“Go away, David.” He’s not a little brother. He’s a video-game villain that keeps coming back no matter how many times you shoot it.

“At least you don’t have to see yourself anymore. We still have to look at you.”

“Out!” I reach for the door and slam it, hoping it hits him but he’s too quick. In the process I drop the mascara brush and hear it hit the floor. Wonderful. Now it’s going to take me even longer, feeling around trying to find it. I don’t dare ask David for help – he’s had way too much fun switching my makeup around and mixing up the colors. On the other hand, at least he doesn’t treat me like fragile china, like my parents have been treating me since the accident.

There’s a knock on the door again but this time it’s softer. “Hey. Need any help?” My mom says, using her calm, dealing-with-my-disabled daughter voice.

“No. I think I’ll the skip the party and go out for a drive.” The accident happened just a week after I got my driver’s license. I’ve only ever officially driven by myself two times. What a gip.

“Camria, I know you’re not happy about us planning this party,” she says. “But your Dad and I – we thought it was the right thing to do. Your sister loved these parties.”

No kidding. Liz always went all-out planning our birthday. Last year we had underwater fireworks in the pool, and everyone at school talked about it for days.

This year, a party just feels wrong. If losing my sight in a freak accident three months ago wasn’t bad enough, I also lost my twin sister in that same accident. Today is my seventeenth birthday. It should have been hers, too.

“Anyway,” Mom continues in a lighter voice, “if you skip out, you’ll miss meeting the new guy. I think he said he was a transfer student.”

Great. A party crasher.

“A new guy? And you let him in? What if he’s one of the Black Suits?

“He isn’t wearing a black suit.”

“You know what I mean.” How can she be an ex-astronaut and astrophysicist and be so clueless? The National Security Agency Suits still visit me once a week, asking me the same pointless questions about the accident. Sometimes they use different guises, trying to act all casual, but I always recognize them by their voices. Sharpened hearing and other senses are my compensation for blindness. Not nearly enough compensation, if you ask me.

“He’s a high school junior,” Mom reassures me. “Your friend Bei asked if she could bring him along. I think you’ll want to meet him.”

“Why?” My mom-is-meddling radar starts beeping in my head. He’s probably got a disability of some sort, too, and she’s thinks we’d make a good match. Kill me now.

“He’s… interesting.”

Huh. A vague disability. “You’re scaring me.”

Actually, I’m scaring myself – the fact I have a party crasher intrigues me.

“Here’s your mascara.” I hear her place it on the shelf next to the sink. “Let me help you with your make-up before all your guests leave.”

“Scram. I don’t need your help.” My occupational therapist spent hours teaching me how to count each touch of the brush to my eyelashes, each stroke of color to my lips. But I still have to conjure up one of my brave-face smiles to reassure my mom. It works. She gives me a hug before she leaves, enveloping me in her professorish white-board-marker smell.

I manage to get my mascara and lipstick on without any more setbacks. Before I leave the bathroom, I press my fingers against the mirror’s smooth surface. I imagine Liz’s hand touching my fingers from the other side, from wherever she’s gone, reaching out to tell me she’s still there. “Time for our party,” I whisper.

###

As I walk out into the living room, my head buzzes like it always does when I’m in a crowd, my other senses trying to compensate to figure out who the people are. But there’s something different this time, too. In the din of a more than a dozen people, there is a single person who sets off a clear bell in my senses.

That’s never happened before.

Before I can figure out who is in the room, my parents start singing Happy Birthday and the voices join in. Heat rises up my cheeks. I’m not used to being the center of attention; that was Liz’s place.

“Happy birthday, dear Cam….” The song sounds strange without my sister’s name in it, too. At least it helps me pick out everyone’s voices, so now I know who is in the room with me. Alicia’s voice is missing, no surprise. My ex-best friend. The other voices are familiar, a few of my friends from theater and lots of Liz’s friends, the popular crowd. I’m glad they showed up to remember Liz, though they make me uneasy.

There’s another voice that distracts me. I’ve heard his voice before, somewhere, but I can’t place it. He’s the one that set off the bell in my senses. The party crasher.

“Here’s your cake, Cam,” my friend Bei tells me. I smell sulfur and sweetness from birthday candles. I’m going to make a fool of myself, trying to blow out them out. Bei puts her hand on my back and gently directs me toward the cake. “Don’t forget to make a wish.”

Sure, a wish. I’m still waiting on that pony I wished for three years in a row. But before I can censor it, a longing escapes my thoughts: I want my sister and my sight back. Bei turns me slightly, and my senses pick up the faint heat of the candles. And then – for a moment – I see them.

It’s the first thing I’ve seen in three months. Was it my imagination? No, there it is again, a flickering light. This is too weird, especially happening right after a stranger set off a bell in my senses.

“Go ahead, blow ‘em out,” Dad urges me. I’m not worried about missing the candles now, I blow them all out with one breath. Everything is dark again.

Before I have a chance to process this, someone yells, “Everyone outside, check out the pool!”

I recognize Skizz Fulton’s voice, one of Liz’s friends. Everyone stampedes out the back patio door, letting in the cool evening air. Skizz is the unofficial king of school pranks, and an announcement by him is guaranteed to be followed by something shock-worthy. His crowning achievement (so far) was encasing the microphone in the auditorium in a condom right before the principal kicked off last year’s awards assembly.

Need a Master Class in 1st 5 Pages Revision? See 5 Manuscripts Transformed w/ the Help of an NYT Bestselling Author.

The second revisions for this month's First Five Pages Workshop are up for comment based on the suggestions made by our guest mentor, the wonderful Nancy Holder, and the other workshop participants.

I love watching the transformations in the workshop and seeing what I can apply to my own work. Discovering what different people see in the same few paragraphs, I always learn so much, and it is invaluable to watch the way our guest mentors evaluate what works for them and what isn't quite as successful. Seeing a story from the perspective of an NYT bestselling author who is also an MFA instructor this month is a priceless learning experience.

Come join in! Tell us what you think of the stories as they are now, and then look back to see where they've started. Read the comments to see how they've gotten there and then roll up your sleeves and see where you would suggest the writers go from here. What makes a great first five pages? What pulls you in? What drops you out of the story? What makes YOU buy-in?

Some of Nancy's Books

This week's revisions are posted below The Things That Travel With You When You Write post directly under this one. Just scroll down to read them. Then whether you're still working on writing your own manuscript, or in the process of revising, I encourage you to take advantage of the chance to see what Nancy has to say about the work the five manuscripts in the workshop. Examine her comments on the originals posted last week, and see how the workshop participants applied her suggestions--and the suggestions of the other writers. What would you suggest (kindly and respectfully, of course!) from here that might get the writers up another level in the next revision? Post your suggestions if you're willing, but even if you don't post them, think about what you would say. This is a master class all by itself and a great chance to apply Nancy's expertise to your own writing.

 

About Nancy Holder

Nancy Holder

Nancy is an author whose work has appeared on the New York Times, USA Today, LA Times, amazon.com, LOCUS, and other bestseller lists. A five-time winner of the Bram Stoker Award from the Horror Writers Association, she has also received accolades from the American Library Association, the American Reading Association, the New York Public Library, and Romantic Times.

She and Debbie Viguié co-authored the New York Times bestselling series Wicked for Simon and Schuster. They have continued their collaboration with the Crusade series, also for Simon and Schuster, and the Wolf Springs Chronicles for Delacorte (2011.)

She is also the author of the young adult horror series Possessions for Razorbill. She has sold many novels and book projects set in the Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Angel, Saving Grace, Hellboy, and Smallville universes.

Nancy has sold approximately two hundred short stories and essays on writing and popular culture. Her anthology, Outsiders, co-edited with Nancy Kilpatrick, was nominated for the Bram Stoker Award in 2005. Pretty Little Devils and The Watcher’s Guide Volume 1 appeared in the New York Public Library’s Books for the Teen Age, and The Watcher’s Guide Volume 1 also appeared on the Los Angeles Times Bestseller List in 1999. Saving Grace: Tough Love won the 2011 Scribe Award for General Fiction/Best Original Novel.

She teaches in the Stonecoast MFA in Creative Writing Program, offered through the University of Southern Maine. She has previously taught at UCSD and has served on the Clarion Board of Directors.

1st 5 Pages September Workshop - Ramirez Rev 2

Vato had the girl cornered, but he was the one who was trapped. On one side of the stall was an angry streak of fresh paint, and on the other stood the girl with the tamale. A whole tamale! His stomach growled. His head buzzed. He should follow the trail of the vandal who made that mess. Bad enough the vandal had gotten in here on his watch, if he didn't catch him, Vato would rather eat a bowl of bad menudo. He'd be kicked off the rancho before he'd even spent a whole week here. But the dripping grease from the tamale beckoned him like an old friend.

“Come closer," the girl said. "I’m not going to hurt you.”

Chale! The only way this chica could hurt him was if she ate the tamale herself. She shifted from one foot to the other. It made him uneasy. He did not know why she looked so nervous or spoke to him in a voice higher than a chacalaca, but maybe she knew a fierce watchdog when she saw one. Not like the other loca watchdogs on the rancho. They called him “weiner dog” and “fat chorizo on four legs.” They had treated him like roadkill since he and Patton had got there.

“Go get it, boy,” she whispered.

Without a second thought, he scrambled after it, sliding on the scratchy hay. After he scooped up the last piece of beef and deliciousness, he looked for the girl to ask for more, but she was gone. He ran outside.

The barn door caught his eye, as did a saddle with the Lone Star engraved on it. Heavy streaks of paint covered them too. Vato hung his head. He knew he should have chased after that vandal instead of eating that pile of temptation. His old Jefe had gotten rid of him because he was a bad watchdog, and Vato had no doubt the same thing would happen on this rancho. He sat on his haunches and sighed. He might as well throw himself on top of a barbecue pit and light a match.

A loud noise near the chicken coop made Vato jump. He stared into the darkness and zeroed in on a slight movement inside the coop. It could only be one thing, coyotes!

His heart thumped against his chest. He barked to check if it could be one of the other watchdogs but no one answered. Vato’s thoughts raced.

There was no time to call for help. It was up to him to catch those evil chicken killers. No tamale could distract him now. If he caught those coyotes, he would prove to everyone he deserved to be on the rancho. He would prove he was a good watchdog and they would never want him to leave.

Vato puffed out his chest and hurried to the coop. Holy guacamole! He could fight those coyotes and be on them like chili on carne. He darted past the corrals and the goat pen, his stride confident, his nose high. It was only when he saw the shadow of his swinging stomach did he think that maybe he wasn’t a good enough watchdog after all.

When he approached the coop, he crept closer. Something rustled inside. Vato whipped around and bared his teeth. “Show yourself, or I will squash you like a chancla on a cockroach!”

“Squawk!”

“Chale! It’s only a little chicken,” Vato said, giddy with relief. “Hola, little pollito. I’m Vato, a new watchdog. I saw a shadow inside the coop and thought it was a coyote.”

The chicken on the other side of the fence laughed. “What kind of watchdog mistakes a chicken for a coyote?”

He stepped back. How dare she make fun of him? He growled. “You should be lucky I just ate or else I would wrap you in a corn tortilla and call you an embuelto!”

The chicken scurried into the shadows. Her voice cracked. “I didn’t mean to upset you. I’m sorry.”

“You should be,” Vato cried, trying to look big and brave, when all he felt was small and useless. “Who are you?”

“They call me, ‘Tiny’, because I am so little.” She stared at the empty nest next to her. “Everything about me is little. Even the eggs I lay.”

“Do you know what happens to chickens who lay little eggs?” asked Vato.

“Wh-What?” Tiny whispered.

“They get covered in rice,” he said, narrowing his eyes. “Haven’t you heard of arroz con pollo? Chicken with rice is my favorite.”

Tiny gasped. “That’s a terrible thing to say. I can do other things. I tell funny jokes. Here’s one. It took me all day to think of it. What do you do with a broken egg?”

“Eat it,” Vato said automatically.

“Nothing!” she laughed. “Because it’s not what it’s cracked up to be! HAHAHAHA!”

He snorted. “Chale! If that took you all day, maybe you should spend your time laying eggs. Even if they are small, you are better at it.” He noticed her disappointed face. “Why do you tell jokes anyway?”

“It makes everyone forget how angry they are at me when I am in trouble,” she said softly.

“That works? I think your jokes could make them madder,” said Vato. “That wouldn’t work with me. I don’t forget anything, especially food.”

Tiny shrank back. “I know. The goats told me.”

Vato coughed. Maybe he shouldn’t have told them he could never forget the taste of goat meat. He loved cabrito. He stood straighter. “I wouldn’t pay attention to anything they tell you. But what else did they say?”

“They say they don’t mind Patton because he is nice.” Tiny started, wringing her wings.

“Of course he is nice. He is my best friend.” Vato swatted a gnat. “But our Jefe thought he was too old to be a watchdog so he gave him away too. What did they say about me?”

“They say you would rather eat us than protect us,” she croaked before she covered her face with her wings and quickly added. “They don’t think you can protect anything.”

“I would protect you if you were worth eating,” he snapped. “But there isn’t much of you to eat. Now, those coyotes won’t care. They would eat their own shadows if they could. They eat anything. They would even eat you.”

Tiny shrieked and jumped into her nest. “Go away! Leave me alone.”

He stuck his nose through the chicken wire fence. “It’s my job to watch you, pollito. Let’s hope I don’t get hungry because I might have to eat you for a snack.”

A horrified shriek shook Tiny’s nest and she buried her face in her wings. When he was satisfied he had scared the chicken down to her gizzards, he sauntered away. That will teach her to make fun of him. He burrowed a hole at the base of a mesquite tree to keep an eye on the coop, just in case a coyote decided to attack after all.

“That wasn’t very nice, Vato,” a gravelly voice said from beneath a bougainvillea shrub. A silvery Labrador raised his head. “You shouldn’t have scared her.”

“Carnal, fear means respect. At least that is what our Jefe used to say when he beat us. I respected him more than a moving truck.”

“It would be best to forget about our old Jefe and that awful rancho. You want to be respected the right way,” chided Patton. “This is our new home. We should try to make friends.”

Vato groaned. “Why do I need be friends with a chicken?”

1st 5 Pages September Workshop - Carpinello Rev 2

Author: Cheryl Carpinello
Genre: Middle Grade Adventure/Mystery
Title: Sons of the Sphinx


I don’t see dead people. I hear them. I talk to them. Boy, you should try that. Talk about people looking at you like you’re a freak. That’ll do it.

It would be one thing if I talked to famous dead people. You know like that Elvis guy my mother still drools over? I mean, really? Like the guy would be seventy-something today! Anyway, if I talked to him, I could give my mom a personal message like “Sorry we never got to hook up.” That would be something, don’t you think?

No, the dead people who talk to me are just dead nobodies. Nothing exciting to say. Nothing going down. They’re just hanging out, waiting for I don’t know, to be more dead, I guess. Or, to see how much trouble they can get me in.

Take today in math class. We are taking this test, see. I’m concentrating real hard on this problem trying to figure height or something. Then I hear this.

“Hey you.”

I jerk up in my chair, looking around for the guy doing the talking. I glance at the kids on either side of me. Nothing. I look up at my teacher. He’s glaring at me.

“Great,” I whisper. “He probably thinks I’m trying to cheat.” I bow my head and focus on the problem again.

“You, I’m talking to you.”

I shake my head in hopes of tossing the voice out, but it doesn’t work. I should know better.

Every time I rebel against them, I end up in trouble. Just what I need now while I’m trying to take this test.

Inside my head I say, “Would you be quiet? I’m trying to take a math test.”

“Oh sure, that’s okay for you to say. I’ll never take another test again.” His voice broke up, kind of like bad radio reception.

“Not my problem.” I formed the words in my head.

“I died too soon, I really did.”

“Look,” I told him, still in my head. “I haven’t talked to a dead person yet who didn’t say that. Kind of goes with the dead part. I can’t do a thing for you. Believe me, if I could, and if it would get rid of all of you, I would. Now leave me alone. You’re going to make me fail this test.”

I hear him snort, like he has to blow his nose, if dead guys really do that. Then comes the kicker.

“I just want another chance. I promise I’ll do better.”

“I’m going to say this once more. Not my problem. Now leave.” I formed three exclamation points in the head just so he would get the picture.

“But it isn’t fair,” he whined. “It just isn’t fair.”

Okay. I’m fed up with this guy. I can’t even remember the formula for whatever I’m trying to find. I am definitely going to fail math if this guy keeps on yapping.

Out loud I say, “Bud, I don’t give a damn if it isn’t fair. Just shut the hell up so I can get this test done!”

Did you get the part where I said “out loud”? Yep, that earned me an F on the test AND a trip to the AP’s (that’s assistant principal’s) office. I couldn’t even defend myself there. What was I going to say? “Excuse me, I’m sorry I blurted out loud in class in the middle of a test, and I’m sorry for cussing, but you see, this dead guy wouldn’t shut up.” Yeah, that would have gone over well. Nope, I just had to sit meekly back and say politely, “It won’t happen again. Had to be the stress over the test.” You get the picture.

Then I had to face my peers, as they are called, the rest of the day. I just shrugged and mumbled something like “Idiot dead people.” The kids will avoid me for next few days. I think they’re afraid whatever I have will rub off on them, or that I’ll go bananas or something.

Understandable.

And when my parents get home, and I tell them what happened...Well, I may be the one shouting
“It’s not fair!”

So now I sit here in my bedroom trying to work on a history project. You know, the kind where the teacher puts you in a group, and then no one in the group does anything. Yep, that’s my luck. The project is due the day after tomorrow, and no one except me has done anything.

I’m thinking about what happened today, and what’s going to happen if this project isn’t done. I’m having a super hard time of focusing, and my eyes wander around my room.

“Roose.”

Without thinking, I blurt out, “It’s Rose, not Roose,” I screamed. “And I told you to get lost. Now.” I jump to the door and slam it shut. Do the dead have no respect?

And just who is this guy? It’s not the same voice. That’s nice. Now I have an army of dead people invading my brain. Too bad they can’t do this project for me.

“Roose.”

Who is this idiot?

“Listen. I am done with dead people today. This is my room, my space, and I don’t want you in here. I’m not sharing my things with dead people!”

Silence. That’s encouraging.

“Look, I’ll make you a deal. You do my homework, make my bed, and clean out my closet, and we’ll talk.”

I wait. Nothing happens.

I must be going nuts. OMG. Who tries to deal with a dead person?

“Roose. Please.”

Will this guy never give up? I cover my ears even though I know it won’t do any good. Why can’t I at least talk to interesting dead people, instead of these whining ones?

Sitting down at my desk, I glance at my King Tut ticket stub on the wall. Now that would be one dead person I’d talk to. At the age of nine he ruled all of Egypt. And his tomb wasn’t discovered until 1922, more than 2500 years later, by that man Carter.

I touch the picture next to it. You know, the one where Ankhesenamun and Tut on the back of the Golden Throne. He is sitting in the throne; she is standing facing him, her arm outstretched, touching him. I’m not a romantic, but when I look at that picture, I can feel their love for each other.

Yep, I could talk to Tut, but I’d rather talk to his wife, the mysterious and beautiful Ankhesenamun. The Lost Queen.

Sometimes I imagine myself as her discussing our future with Tut. How many children we’ll have; how we’ll raise them. Some days we talk about what’s happening in Egypt, and I show my support for him with a simple touch of my hand. Still other days, we talk about where we’ll be buried. They did that, you know. Had their burial chamber ready sometimes years before their death.

On days when I’m feeling depressed--and today looks to be one of those days--I imagine saying goodbye to Tut as he dies. I assure Tut that we’ll meet in the After Life. Then I go to bed and wonder what it would be like to wander the earth looking for my husband’s spirit or ba. I wonder if he looks for her.

“I do, Roose.”

I turn around and scream. I look at the picture and then scream again.

1st 5 Pages September Workshop - Baccellia Rev 2

Name: Kim Baccellia
Genre: YA Multicultural Sci-Fi
Title: EL COMPUESTO

Uno

Here goes nada.

My hands shook like leaves during a sudden wind storm. It hadn’t been foolish to
keep the encrypted image overnight, it was suicidal. But I had to see it one more time.

I sneaked a glance over my shoulder, checking for security. If I was caught watching the image of the world outside the compound, I’d be thrown into solitary confinement or worse. I’d end up like Papi, disappearing in the middle of the night.

No, I couldn’t do that to Mami.

The light tapping of combat boots on the smooth auditorium floor meant the monitor was walking to the other end of the room, giving me some time. It was now or never.

Their vid-monitor devices swept over those closer to the front doors, always on the look-out for floros, those who shirked their responsibilities to el Compuesto. I made sure there was no reason to suspect me. I took pride in doing everything our community expected –from being on time with my assignments, going to bi-weekly youth rallies, and even accepting a choice of a mate. None of this would matter if my latest bout with defiance was found but I had to do this, if anything to find the clue to why the leaders had singled out my father.

Still, if they found out…

I shuddered. After all these years, the stain of Papi’s disappearance after being vocal against el Padre’s command still followed me. Usually a monitor or two blinked in my direction. But now they were pointed in the other way.

Guilt nudged the back of my mind, reminding me how stupid I was to push my own standing within our community. But the need for one moment of release gripped me and refused to let go. I reminded myself I just needed to be careful. Yes. I could do this and it looked like time might be on my side.

I glanced over to the side, looking for my friend Luz but only an empty space stared back at me. I wanted to share my latest ‘find’ with her but the window of time was slipping. For a brief moment my fingers wavered over my monitor, unable to move. Over in the corner my gemela Xochil frowned, shaking her head. More than once she thought I was loca just dwelling on a stupid loose end to our father’s disappearance. No, she thought fighting against el Padre was better than dwelling on someone she thought was dead. Why concentrate on a dead compadre, even if that someone happened to be your father, when others were still suffering?

Anyway, it’s not as if my sister would take me seriously. She teased me that I didn’t have the cajones to do anything against the leaders as I was the ‘good’ girl.

I ignored her. I could almost sense my twin daring me to go through with my defiance, thinking I’d chicken out. If anything that only forced my hand.

My leg couldn’t stop bouncing with pent-up nervous energy. I wet my lips, waiting for the perfect moment.

Now.

I swiped my hand over my monitor, settling back in my chair. The key to this was to act normal and not show how I really felt inside. I had a lot of practice with this every since Papi had ‘disappeared’. After awhile, tears dried up until a numbness carried me through the day.

The steel backing pressed into my lower back, but I pushed the uncomfortable feeling aside. A hologram circled around my space, seeming to box me in for my own custom performance. The virtual reality image erased the dullness of the classroom with a computerized paint brush, painting everything with bright colors. Magical stokes swept across my perpendicular vision seeming to paint me within the 3D images.

I closed my eyes for a brief second, savoring the flood of emotions that swirled within me. I felt as if a leaded weight had been severed from me, releasing my bruised soul into the heavens. No longer did I blend in with the uniformed oneness which consisted of everything down to the same pair of boots we wore. No, this my own silent way of defiance.

Opening my eyes, I waited.

Then it came.

Jewel-like plumage darted in and out of a group of hibiscus flowers. The vivid coral, pink, lavender, and red petals brightened not only the space in front of me but my whole being. I reached out, stroking the velvet softness of a flower petal. A whiff of sweetness tickled my nose. I wanted, no I craved more.

A chumparosa darted close by my ear. My gaze followed as the hummingbird dipped a long beak inside a flower, hovering for a brief moment before dashing off to another one.

Though I was inside the cold confinement of the school auditorium, it never ceased to amaze me how life-like and real the projected hologram images could be. I continued to watch the dance of the hummingbird once more. Her aerobics fascinated me. Now I know why my ancestors were so enthralled with these small birds.

At first glance, the lone hummingbird’s paper thin wings might seem fragile, unequipped for its mission. I knew better. An insect-like buzzing vibrated around me, teasing me to join her. The tiny bird bounced from one bright hibiscus flower to another before fluttering off into emptiness.

With her passing, the hologram image faded revealing my real world. I sighed. The harsh white plastered walls erased the beauty of the hummingbird into a distinct memory. This sharp contrast between our worlds always caught me off guard. Or maybe it was really the disappointment of knowing that the freedom of the tiny creature could never coexist with the iron fist of El Padre, who would probably crush it like he did with anyone else who searched for freedom.

Like Papi.

I glanced around, nervous. Any slip of composure, hint of rebellion was reported. I slumped down in my chair and tried to push the thoughts aside.

The uncomfortable sensation of someone staring at me caused me to glance over to catch a half smile on Xochil’s face. She mouthed:

“Good going.”

I turned back to my monitor, annoyed but also not surprised. My twin relished subtle attacks against our compound. Right now I didn’t want to give her the satisfaction that maybe I’d been actually listening to her conspiracy stories.

No one else seemed to notice our exchange. Good.


I blinked once, twice, reorienting myself to my class assignments. At least I’d been assigned to botany, which I loved. Still after being engulfed in the holograms, it always took a few seconds to re anchor myself into reality.

El Padre was our true padre

Nadie mas

I hummed part of the national chant in my head and let the words fill me once more with my true purpose and calling. The words came easy enough. I’d heard them since childhood. The leaders had used this message and others to remind us that we were different than those outside of our domed community. Living far away in the desert gave us courage, strength, and unity. The Earth outside our home with their fighting, wars, and hatred was the enemy. Order was our god. Without order, destruction came.

Then I glanced back to Luz’s empty seat. Where was she? A sick feeling gurgled in my stomach reminding me how close I played to the edge.

Luz, hadn’t been in class for two days now, which was unlike her. She’d been my best friend since childhood. We’d done everything together. She’d been the one who didn’t shun me after Papi’s betrayal or added to the vicious rumors that circulated around el Compuesto that he’d tried to kill our beloved leader. No, she’d been more of a hermana then my own twin sister. Though lately she’d also been questioning el Padre.

Just like Papi had done.

Xochil twirled a piece of her raven hair. Her vid was down. Every now and then she’d roll her eyes. Though my gemela at times rambled on with her crazy theories, right now I wished I had her strength to stand up to the leaders without fearing being singled out.

1st 5 Pages September Workshop - Berendsen Rev 2

Author: Margo Berendsen
Genre: Young Adult science fiction
Title: Startripped

I don’t usually have a problem putting makeup on. After the accident, my occupational therapist taught me how to count each touch of the brush to my eyelashes, each stroke of color to my lips. Now I don’t even have to check with someone to make sure I’m presentable, before I face the world with my guide-dog and my cane.

But today I keep messing up. My hands are shaking, and the brush keeps jerking and hitting the wrong spots. I’m dreading this party. I’ve had to wash my face off and start over again so many times that I just leave the water running in the sink. My face feels raw.

As I start another attempt, there’s a sharp rap on the bathroom door. “I’m not ready yet!” I yell. “Go away.”

David pushes the door open anyway. “Mom wants to know what’s taking so long. Everyone’s waiting for you.”

“If you’d stop interrupting me, I’d be ready sooner.”

He doesn’t take the hint. “Why do you bother standing in front of the mirror?”

“Go away, David.” He’s not a little brother. He’s a video-game villain that keeps coming back no matter how many times you shoot it.

“At least you don’t have to see yourself anymore. We still have to look at you.”

“Out!” I reach for the door and slam it, hoping it hits him but he’s too quick. In the process I drop the mascara brush and hear it hit the floor. Great, now it’s going to take me even longer, feeling around trying to find it. I don’t dare ask David for help – he’s had way too much fun switching my makeup around and mixing up the colors. On the other hand, at least he doesn’t treat me like fragile china, like my parents treat me now.

There’s a knock on the door again but this time it’s softer, and it’s my mother. “Hey. Need any help?” She’s using her calm, dealing-with-my-disabled daughter voice.

“No. I think I’ll just the skip the party and go out for a drive,” I say, with my let’s-piss-mom-off voice. The accident happened just a week after I got my driver’s license. I’ve only ever officially driven by myself two times. What a gip.

“Camria, I know you’re not happy about us planning this party,” she says. “But your Dad and I – we thought it was the right thing to do. Your sister… she loved these parties.”

No kidding. Liz went all-out planning our birthday parties every year. Last year we had underwater fireworks in the pool, and everyone at school talked about it for days.

But this year, a party just feels wrong. If losing my sight in a freak accident three months ago wasn’t bad enough, I also lost my twin sister in that same accident. Today is my seventeenth birthday. It should have been hers, too.

“And anyway,” Mom continues in a lighter voice, “if you skip out, you’ll miss meeting the new guy. I think he said he was a transfer student.”

Great. A party crasher.

“A new guy? And you let him in? What if he’s one of the Black Suits?

“He isn’t wearing a black suit.”

“You know what I mean.” How can she be an ex-NASA astronaut and astrophysicist and be so clueless? The National Security Agency Suits still visit me once a week, asking me the same pointless questions about the accident. Sometimes they use different guises, trying to act all casual, but I always recognize them by their voices. Sharpened hearing and other senses are my compensation for blindness. Not nearly enough compensation, if you ask me.

“He’s just a high school junior,” Mom reassures me. “Your friend Bei asked she could bring him along. I think you’ll want to meet him.”

“Why?” My mom-is-meddling radar starts beeping in my head. He’s probably got a disability of some sort, too, and she’s thinks we’d make a good match. Kill me now.

“He’s… interesting.”

Oh great. A vague disability. “You’re scaring me.”

Actually, I’m scaring myself – the fact I have a party crasher intrigues me.

“Here’s your mascara.” I hear her place it on the shelf next to the sink. “Let me help you with your make-up before all your guests leave.”

“Scram. I don’t need your help.” I conjure up one of my brave-face smiles to reassure her. It works. She turns to leave, but then she turns back and gives me a hug, enveloping me in her professorish white-board-marker smell.

After she’s gone, I manage to get my mascara and lipstick on without any more setbacks. Just before I leave bathroom, I slide my fingers across the mirror’s smooth surface. I imagine Liz’s hand reaching out to touch my fingers from the other side, from wherever she’s gone, reaching out to tell me she’s still there. “Time for our party,” I whisper.

###

As I walk out into the living room, my head buzzes like it always does when I’m in a crowd, my other senses trying to compensate to figure out who the people are. But there’s something different this time, too. In the din of a more than a dozen people, there is a single person who sets off a clear bell in my senses.

That’s never happened before.

Before I have a chance to figure out who is in the room, my parents start singing Happy Birthday and the voices join in. Heat rises up my cheeks. I’m not used to being the center of attention; that was Liz’s place.

“Happy birthday, dear Cam….” I’ve never heard this song on my birthday before without my sister’s name in it, too. At least the song helps me pick out everyone’s voices, so now I know who is in the room with me. Alicia’s voice is missing, no surprise. My ex-best friend. The other voices are familiar, a few of my friends from theater and lots of Liz’s friends, the popular crowd. I’m glad they showed up to remember Liz, though they make me feel uneasy – I’ve never fit in with them.

But there’s another voice that distracts me, a person I don’t know. I’ve heard his voice before, somewhere, but I can’t place it. He’s the one that set off the bell in my senses. The party crasher.

“Here’s your cake, Cam,” my friend Bei tells me. I smell sulfur and sweetness – someone has lit candles. I’m going to make a fool of myself, trying to blow out them out. Bei puts her hand on my back and gently directs me toward the cake. “Don’t forget to make a wish.”

Sure, a wish. I’m still waiting on that pony I wished for three years in a row. But before I have chance to censor it, a longing escapes my thoughts: I want my sister and my sight back. Bei turns me slightly, and my senses pick up the faint heat of the candles. And then – for a moment – I see them.

It’s the first thing I’ve seen in three months. Was it just my imagination? No, there it is again, a flickering light. This too weird, especially happening right after a stranger set off a bell in my senses.

“Go ahead, blow ‘em out,” someone urges me. I don’t have to worry about missing the candles, I blow them all out with one breath. Everything is dark again.

Before I have a chance to process this, someone yells, “Everyone outside, check out the pool!”

1st 5 Pages September Workshop - Fyfe Rev 2

Author: Rebecca Fyfe
Genre: Middle Grade
Title: The Necklace

I rummaged through the attic. A musty smell came from the boxes I was searching through, making my nose tingle. I really just wanted to go watch some tv, but I needed to find some things to sell at the school charity auction. The school was trying to raise money for a local no-kill animal shelter. My grandmother had left a lot of junk up here, but I was hoping I’d find some things worthy of the auction. I missed Grams, but, I reminded myself, this was for a good cause.


I sneezed as some of the dust from moving things around drifted into my nose. My allergies were going to be plaguing me for weeks after this. I moved a box full of dresses to the side to go through later. Jackpot! I thought, looking at the label on the box below that read “jewelry.” I couldn't remember ever seeing my grams without jewelry. She always seemed to be draped in glittery necklaces and bracelets.


I opened the lid and started pulling out tissue-wrapped jewelry. The first thing unwrapped was a shiny, black ring. The next thing I unwrapped was a charm bracelet. It had five charms on it, a high-heeled shoe, a lucky four-leaf clover, a coin, a heart, and a star. Admiring it for a moment, I added it to the pile of things to go to the school auction.


The third thing I unwrapped from within the box was a silver necklace. The necklace itself was a twisted rope chain and the pendant on the necklace was unusual. It was a five-pointed star, and in the center was a round stone. The stone was almost white but it shimmered and sparkled with different colors. I was surprised that it was in such good condition after spending so many years in the box up in this attic. With most of the other jewelry I had found so far, they were in desperate need of polishing. But this looked like it had just been polished and shined.


The shimmery stone mesmerized me, and I couldn’t help but put it on. I don’t know what came over me; I rarely wear jewelry, but something about this necklace whispered to me. Once I had put it around my neck and closed the clasp, I realized it felt oddly comforting. I left it there and continued sorting through the rest of the jewelry in the box. I’d have to check with my mom to make sure I didn’t give away anything she wanted to keep, but by the end of my work in the attic, I had a nice pile of things for the charity auction.


Heading down the stairs, wiping the dust from my hands on the legs of my jeans, I found my mom in the kitchen preparing dinner. “Mom, I’ve got a bunch of stuff for the charity auction at school. I need you to look through it and make sure I’m not giving away anything you don’t want me to, okay?”


“Sure, hon,” her mom said, "I can't look through it right now though. I've got some reports to finish writing tonight." She gave me a weak smile and I was certain just then I heard her say “I don’t want to disappoint her, but I don’t know how I’m going to find the time with all of the work I have to do.” I was looking right at her while she’d been saying it, and I could swear she hadn’t moved her lips. Strange. Was my mom practicing ventriloquism?


“Mom, did you say something?”


“No, Sandra. Go get cleaned up. Dinner is almost ready,” my mom replied, and then, with mom not saying a word, I heard mom’s voice saying, “You are such a mess from playing around in the attic. Surely, you didn’t plan on eating dinner with those dirty hands?"


"It's really dusty in there." I defended myself. "It's not my fault I got so dirty."


"Pardon?" My mom had a little crinkle in her forehead as she looked at me. Did I just respond to something she thought? I felt a tingle on my chest and looked down to find the necklace glowing.


As I washed my hands, I looked at myself in the mirror. The necklace was definitely glowing. But the glow was fading. I wrapped my hand around it, without even thinking of what I was doing and it felt warm in my hand. I felt a surge of curiousity about the necklace, but before I could think more about it, mom called out to me.


"Sandra, hurry up! Your dinner's going to get cold!"


Dinner was great, but I couldn’t stop wondering about the necklace. Where had my grams found it? How did it glow? Or was I just imagining its glow and that strange warmth coming from it when I held it? Had I really heard my mom’s thoughts? And if so, what did the necklace have to do with it?


Jasper, my family’s dog, a huge Burmese Mountain dog, started barking loudly, interrupting dinner. That usually meant that someone was at the door. Sure enough, the doorbell rang. None of this was a surprise to me, but the boy’s voice that I could hear beneath Jasper’s barking made me start questioning my sanity. The voice was saying “Someone’s at the door! Someone’s at the door!” over and over. It took a few minutes before I realized that the voice was actually Jasper! I was hearing Jasper’s thoughts! How was this possible?


I knew that it was the necklace. It had to be! I looked down at the necklace hanging around my neck and that subtle glow was visible again. How was the necklace doing this? I could hear my dog’s thoughts. Could I hear the thoughts of other animals too? While my mom went to answer the door and my dad and brother were busy talking about other things, I covertly unclasped the necklace from around my neck and slipped it into my pocket. I didn’t want to hear anyone else’s thoughts right now because the whole thing was freaking me out. Where had Grams found this necklace? Had Grams known it was magical?


"May I be excused?" I looked at dad. "I have some homework to finish."


"You're done?" My dad made a goofy, surprised face at me, "I can't believe you want to leave the table while there are still tacos to be eaten!"
"Very funny, Dad."


Dad smiled. "Go, do your homework. Your brother and I can take care of the rest of this food." He rubbed his hands together in pretend glee. I couldn't help smiling back.


On my way to my room, I noticed the voices at the door. Curiosity about who was at the door overcame me. I slipped the necklace back on and tucked it under my shirt. Tiptoeing into the hallway, I kept out of sight of my mom and the guest at the door.


"You're late with the money, and, if you don't pay up, my next visit will be to start collecting your possessions." That’s what the guy at the door said, but I heard what he was thinking. "I hate this job. Why don't people just pay their bills on time and avoid having to go through this?"


"I'll be caught up by Monday," mom told the man, but she was thinking, "How am I going to get that much money by Monday?"


It was good thing no one could hear my thoughts, because the debt collector at the door would not be happy with the thoughts about him going through my head just then.

1st 5 Pages September Workshop - Carpinello Rev 1

Author: Cheryl Carpinello
Genre: Middle Grade Adventure/Mystery
Title: Sons of the Sphinx


I don’t see dead people. I hear them. I talk to them. Boy, you should try that. Talk about people looking at you like you’re a freak. That will do it.

It would be one thing if I talked to famous dead people. You know like that Elvis guy my mother still drools over? I mean really? Like the guy would be seventy-something today! Anyway, if I talked to him, I could give my mom a personal message like “Sorry we never got to hook up.” That would be worth a few extra bucks, don’t you think?

No, the dead people who talk to me are just dead nobodies. Nothing exciting to say. Nothing going down. They’re just hanging out, waiting for I don’t know, to be more dead, I guess. Or, to see how much trouble they can get me in.

Take today in math class. We are taking this test, see. I’m concentrating real hard on this problem trying to figure height or something. Then I hear this.

“Hey you.”

I jerked up in my chair, looking around for the guy doing the talking. I glanced at the kids on either side of me. Nothing. I look up at my teacher. He is glaring at me.

“Great,” I whispered. “He probably thinks I’m trying to cheat.” I bowed my head and focused on the problem again.

“You, I’m talking to you.”

I shake my head in hopes of tossing the voice out. I know now. Some dumb dead guy is trying to talk to me while I take this test.

Inside my head I say, “Would you be quiet? I’m trying to take a math test.”

“Oh sure, that’s okay for you to say. I’ll never take another test again.” His voice broke up, kind of like bad radio reception.

“Not my problem.” I formed the words in my head.

“I died too soon, I really did.”

“Look,” I told him, still in my head. “I haven’t talked to a dead person yet who didn’t say that. Kind of goes with the dead part. Now leave me alone. You’re going to make me fail this test.”

I heard him snort, like he had to blow his nose, if dead guys really do that. Then came the kicker.

“I just want another chance. I promise I’ll do better.”

“I’m going to say this one more time. Not my problem. Now leave me alone.” I formed three exclamation points in the head just so he would get the picture.

“But it isn’t fair,” he whined. “It just isn’t fair.”

Okay. I’m fed up with this guy. I can’t even remember the formula for whatever I’m trying to find. OMG. I am definitely going to fail math if this guy keeps on yapping.

Out loud I say, “Bud, I don’t give a damn if it isn’t fair. Just shut the hell up so I can get this test done!”

Did you get the part where I said “out loud”? Yep, that earned me an F on the test AND a trip to the AP’s (that’s assistant principal’s) office. I couldn’t even defend myself there. What was I going to say? “Excuse me, I’m sorry I blurted out loud in class in the middle of a test, and I’m sorry for cussing, but you see, this dead guy wouldn’t shut up.” Yeah, that would have gone over well. Nope, I just had to sit meekly back and say politely, “It won’t happen again. Had to be the stress over the test.” You get the picture.

Then I had to face my peers, as they are called, the rest of the day. I just shrugged and mumbled something like “Idiot dead people.” The kids will avoid me for next few days. I think they’re afraid whatever I have will rub off on them, or that I’ll go bananas or something. Understandable.

It would be nice to say that my great, great, great grandmother talked to dead people, and I inherited her gift, but I can’t say that. Nope. As far as I know, I’m the only one in my family with this curse. No, it’s not a gift. It is definitely a curse.

And when my parents get home and I tell them what happened...Well I may be the one shouting “It’s not fair!”

So now I sit here in my bedroom trying to work on a history project. You know, the kind where the teacher puts you in a group and then no one in the group does anything. Yep, that’s my luck. The project is due the day after tomorrow, and no one except me has done anything.

I’m thinking about what happened today, and what’s going to happen if this project isn’t done. I’m having a super hard time of focusing, and my eyes wander around my room.

“Roose.”

Without thinking, I blurt out, “It’s Rose, not Roose,” I screamed. “And I told you to get lost. Now.” I jump to the door and slam it shut. Do the dead have no respect?

And just who is this guy? It’s not the same voice. That’s nice. Now I have an army of dead people invading my brain. Too bad they can’t do this project for me.

“Roose.”

Who is this idiot?

“Listen. This is my room, my space. These are my things, and I refuse to share them with dead people!”

“This is my bookshelf, with my favorite books on it. See, my marked up copy of The Once and Future King. I read that last year in seventh grade English and loved it. I can learn all that neat stuff from the animals, only I don’t know a wizard like Merlin who would turn me into different animals. I just know dead people, and you can’t learn anything from them.”

I’m really steamed now.

“These are my favorite horse books The Black Stallion series my grandma left me. My National Geographics, a gift from my uncle. All arranged on the bookshelves next to my desk.”

I think I’m going nuts. Who rants and raves at a dead person? I wish I could just become someone else like I do when I read. For weeks after reading The Black Stallion, I was that boy Alec except my name was Alexandria. Every day I fed, watered, brushed, and exercised The Black; he was my horse. The people in my books always have a better life than mine. Alexandria with my own stallion; Wart whom Merlin teaches by turning me into different animals. Beats sitting at a school desk nine months of the year.

“Roose.”

Will this guy never give up? Stubbornly I continue.

“Here, above my desk, held by a blue (my favorite color, by the way) push pin is my ticket stub from the King Tut exhibit. My mom took me last fall when the exhibit toured the US. Magnificent. All mine.”

“Roose.”

I continue to ignore him.

“King Tut ruled all of Egypt at the age of nine over 2500 years ago. It wasn’t until 1922 that his hidden burial site was discovered by that man Carter.

“Next to the Tut exhibit ticket is my picture of Ankhesenamun and Tut. You know the one. They are pictured on the back of the Golden Throne. He is sitting in the throne; she is standing facing him, her arm outstretched touching him. I’m not a romantic, well, maybe I am. The point is, when I look at that picture, I can feel the love they have for each other.”