1st 5 Pages October Workshop Final Revisions Posted

This month's First Five Pages Workshop mentored by the lovely P.J. Hoover is almost over! The final revisions are posted below. It's been a wonderful experience for us to peek over P.J.'s shoulder as she read the initial entries. We learn so much from our mentors at every workshop, and working alongside P.J. has been an honor and a pleasure! It's also a joy to watch the manuscripts take shape.

Our next workshop will open for entries the first Saturday of November. If you have a manuscript you'd like to consider submitting, please check our Contests page.

Meanwhile, please help us give the writers from this month's workshop the best possible experience by giving them your feedback on their final revisions. Just scroll down below this post to see their entries.

Thanks so much, everyone! Happy Reading!

Martina and Lisa

ABOUT P.J. Hoover

P. J. Hoover first fell in love with Greek mythology in sixth grade thanks to the book Mythology by Edith Hamilton.

After a fifteen year bout as an electrical engineer designing computer chips for a living, P. J. decided to take her own stab at mythology and started writing books for kids and teens. When not writing, P. J. spends time with her husband and two kids and enjoys practicing kung fu, solving Rubik's cubes, and watching Star Trek.

For more information about P. J. (Tricia) Hoover, please visit her website www.pjhoover.com. P. J. is also a member of THE TEXAS SWEETHEARTS AND SCOUNDRELS and THE ENCHANTED INKPOT.

1st 5 Pages October Workshop - Di Gesu Rev 2

Name: Michael Di Gesu
Genre: Y/A Edgy Contemporary
Title: The Blinded Gardener

One moment I’m Dad’s personal punching bag, and the next, well, I’m a pawn in his maniacal master plan. That was, until Danny entered the picture and discovered my secret ...

Once again, I found myself at a new school, the third in two years. It sucked having to live by Dad’s starched and mind-numbing military code 24/7. How much more could I take? No honorable discharge was in my future. Not until I turn eighteen. That is if I live that long.

As the son of a Marine Corp Captain, I had little choice in the decision making of my life. Dad used his usual tactics to persuade me to leave my mom and San Diego to move across the country with him. Needless to say, life in Beaufort, North Carolina wasn’t anything like I had expected.

The warning bell rang for first period. The halls cleared with the slamming of doors. As I wandered about searching for my classroom, I heard someone approach me from behind. Long bangs fell over his eyes as he loped past me with a kind of natural ease.

Didn’t he see me standing here, screwing around with this frickin’ map?

“Hey, dude. Could you tell me how to get to room 305?”

A slight curl formed on his lips as he faced me. He tossed his head. Platinum fringe shifted to the side and revealed freakish blue eyes that glanced toward me, unfocused.

Holy shit! Is he blind? Or is he stoned?

“I’m heading that way.” His deep voice held a trace of a southern accent.

I envied his height: well over six feet and me just an average dude.

“You better move. Connors has little patience when you’re late.”

I rushed to catch up to him. His hand overshot the dented metal banister. On the second swipe, he made contact and climbed the stairs.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

He never looked back, not even when he spoke.

“Aidan.”

His shoulder bumped the wall turning the corner. “Damn!” Rubbing it, he coasted down the hall and stopped midway. “Here you are.” A glint of blue shot at me from under his bangs. “By the way, I’m Danny,” he said, low. He did an about face and was gone.

I shook my head and wondered, what’s his deal?

As I entered the classroom, Mr. Connors paused in mid sentence. “You’re late, Mr—?.

Was he serious? No one calls me mister. “Eh, Forester.”

“Well, Mr. Forester, welcome. Now if you would please take your seat.” In the next breath he continued with the lesson.

Eyes darted from all directions as I made my way toward the back of the classroom. I dropped into the only vacant seat and fumbled through my backpack, searching for my social studies book.

The girl next to me checked out my every move.

Not bad. Redheads really know how to getta dude off.

She caught my eye. After flexing, my pecs and abs strained under the muscle tee that clung to me.

Thick black lashes fluttered as her hazel eyes widened, and the blush in her cheeks matched the freckles on her nose.

Mr. Connors cleared his throat, bore his eagle eyes right into me, and droned on about the domestic issues and conflicts of the Federalist period. I picked up my notebook and tried to comprehend his jabber. If I failed another class, I’d end up in the hospital again. All those prying questions; I couldn’t cover for Dad much longer. Not if he kept drinking. After a few unsuccessful attempts to follow I spaced. My eyes wandered, sizing up the kids in class.

Typical.

I didn’t need to search long to see the usual cliques. Two jocks, clueless in the first row, looked more confused and bored than me. Next to them, a couple of cheerleaders licked their bubblegum pink lip gloss, trying to capture Team Beaufort’s attention.

Glancing to my left, a pig-tailed chick in specs scribbled non-stop, keeping up with the three nerds in crisp, white button down shirts surrounding her. Behind them a group of tough, tattooed, and pierced guys, wearing leather vests and torn jeans shifted in desks far to small for their bulk.

About half the students were black or hispanic. A lot more than in my last school. Not one Asian kid. That surprised me.

Connors’ jagged pacing captured my attention. I listened to a few words before peering out the window. The bright blue sky reminded me of Danny’s unfocused eyes.

Freaky.

After another half-an-hour of mindless drivel, the bell rang. The smoldering redhead asked about my next class. I shuffled through my notebook and found the schedule.

“English with Hartnett in room 223.” I snapped the notebook shut, and stuffed it into my backpack.

“Oh, I’m in that class, too.” She stood and ran her hand through her hair, pushing it behind her ear.

She stepped toward the door and locked her eyes on mine. “Well, are you coming?”

Not yet. You love bad boys, don’t you Red? I’ll give you what you want. You’re not the first.

“Yeah, I’ll be there in a minute.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Later then.”

Before she turned away, I flexed the guns, picked up my backpack, and adjusted my crotch. catching her off guard. Ha, it works every time.

Under furrowed brows, she remained motionless. I took my sweet time before drifting over to her.

“What’s your name, tough guy?”

Now it was my turn to be taken down. I had to laugh at the attitude. It suited her. “Aidan.”

“I’m Tanya.”

As we made our way down the hall, I caught a glimpse of Danny and jerked my chin toward him.

“Do you know that dude?”

“Yes. Why?”

“What’s his story, anyway?”

Tanya paled and her eyes dulled. As she spoke, her voice quivered. “I really can’t talk about it. Let’s say he had it all and now —”

“What?”

“Let’s go. We’ll be late.” She proceeded toward the staircase like a mouse trapped in a maze.

What the hell’s up with the people at this school?

At the sound of the bell, I peeled in the same direction as Tanya. She almost disappeared in the crush of bodies with only her fiery mane visible.

Shoving my way through the mass, snide remarks and “What the fuck” expressions shot back at me. I ignored them and focused only on Tanya’s hair. A few minutes later, I found room 223 and burst through the door with a loud bang. Necks snapped in my direction. Mr. Hartnett dropped the book from his hands and it crashed to the floor.

Spotting Tanya, I worked my way toward the back and sat in the seat she had saved for me.

“Sorry about before,” she whispered.

I rolled my eyes and glanced at the black and white cover of a book propped on top of the desk.

Flipping through it, I scoffed.

Hmmm. The Crucible, by Arthur Miller. What a joke. Like I’m gonna read this shit.

I slammed the book shut. Four or five people around me flinched.

“Is there some sort of problem?” Mr. Harnett asked with a shaky voice.

Man this guy is ancient. He’s way past retirement.

“Nope.”

“Then please open your book and read the first chapter like your classmates.” He shuffled some papers on his desk and picked up what looked like a roster. “What’s your name young man?”

At first I ignored him. School was such a waste of time. I’m no scholar, films are all I care about. Not this crap.

Someone nudged me. I shifted toward Tanya. She grimaced. “Aren’t you going to answer him?”

“Fine,” I muttered and faced Harnett. “Aidan Forester,” I called out.

Tanya stroked my arm and I got an instant rise.

Fire and ice ... I like this chick. I can’t wait to hook up with her.

1st 5 Pages October Workshop -- Mezher Rev 2

Name: Helene Mezher
Genre: YA High Fantasy
Title: (?)

CHAPTER ONE:

My fate was woven from dripping wax. By way of dying candlelight, I had practiced with my wooden spear as an eight-year-old with stick-arms should. I had begun the quest to reclaim my destiny, yet no measure of self-taught defense protected me from the soot of my city, and the ashes of loyalty burying my doorstep. Upon my emergence from the surrounding woods, the fragments of my city-ship were lit in crackling-red clarity.

Incense burned on every street corner, and crops shriveled like the women who tried birthing life. Livestock died within weeks, while laments wailed for the dead and those stamped by the plague. My spear propelled me through the disease-ringed roads, its familiar scent imparting a hint of hard-won security until I discovered the throng of bodies amassed around my house.

As the sparks of lightning flared through the night, so did my familial mob, carrying herbs, tonics, and staffs ablaze. Cousins who had bathed with me when I was younger, and aunts who had embraced me within their chests, bore the solemnity that razed families to dust. My relatives came seeking the dark shield of glory, and there was no escape. I was the ember of the evil, they said, and they would quench their city.

The moment I surrendered my weapon, they rent it to halves and shoved me towards the front door with their callused strength. If I had not noticed her presence, I would have fallen and exposed my back to their desperation. She kept me on my feet, her eyes complete with the salacity of greed.

Robed in sleeves of gossamer silk and with a sash that uplifted her breasts, our Oracle, Rhea, waited at the forefront. A voluptuous woman with a self-righteous attitude, she held her staff like it was an extension of her body, carved of the finest cedar, an eagle at its pedestal, and motioned for me to allow their entrance without a word of acknowledgment. Her movement triggered their eruption.

"Why must we wait?"

"The halfling deserves no pity!"

"Let us begin the purge now!"

"My children," Oracle said, her voice like the whip of flames in an empty grate, "Stop."

At once their chants faded, as if imprisoned within the rotten brigs of our mast-less city. With her authority, Oracle held their keys, much as she held the decrees of the future, written within the hearths which only she could read. Her power was the burn I could not heal, and even I fell prey to its heat. I did not deal in forecasting destiny.

She followed me inside, and I tried to ignore the thud of her staff.

Sigils decorating skin bared for ritual, my would-be murderers trailed into the house after us. Almost thirty people blurred in my vision, and among them, a traitor whose presence--whose support of this ceremony--was poison to my veins. Father, bearing his dirty nails and slouched posture, perpetual fixtures on his small, sinewy frame--he held the four bird cages while his eyes avoided mine. Unlike my sister, who numbered one of the unfortunate sleeping in an earthly tomb, and unlike Father, Mother was strangely absent.

Someone lit the wax towers on my table until they wept orange and yellow. The candles cast shadows on the walls that crept like the pervading whispers of the mob, saturating the house with the untold monstrosity of our ritual. I closed my eyes in an attempt to distract myself, but the smells rendered my imagination futile. Despite the incense and candlelit vanilla, the stink of days-old excrement clung to those present, a blessing for the coming purgation. When I brought my hands to my face, I realized they still smelled of wood--the wood of my broken spear and a past that I could control. I held myself tight to this reminder.

In final preparation, Father deposited the cages by Oracle's feet, kneeling in servitude before scuttling in retreat. His form melded into the dark circle without offering the explanation that I deserved. It was then, though, that I understood.

I remembered the fire on his face when we washed the blood from my skin. The solidarity in his embrace that bound my bones with strong-armed courage. The smell of dough which clung to his unshorn beard, warm and sweet. And I knew that he had deceived Mother. There was no emergency council meeting. He had planned to exploit her lack of interference.

His betrayal was the most monstrous shadow.

Oracle tap, tapped her staff to cease the whispers. In the absence of action, the intruders noted my every breath, my every shake. I straightened my back, though fear was my crutch, its knobs thudding my shoulders.

"We are gathered here today to pay a bloody tribute for our city's cure. Lenaea"--she paused until everyone glared, their gazes as hot as the flames behind me--"daughter of Andrea and Petros,"--she indicated Father, who shrank from the attention--"and prisoner to the light, was destined to live a half-life. My mother's mother decreed this ruling at the conjoining of the moons, when Lenaea entered this world and all was revealed. We call on the Others now to distribute their judgment."

Oracle released one of the birds from its cage. Immediately it pounded its wings, searching for freedom. For a moment, it seemed a mighty beast, flapping feathers with an inky sheen, and a beak of some proportion. Then the truth was revealed: it would never find peace. An arrow pierced its throat before it flew five feet. Father had brought his finest bow, and knew precisely where the death mark lay. I stared into the candlelight to stave an outpouring of tears. I knew what it meant to be caged until my wings broke.

Energy pulsed in the room, a palpable heave of murmurs, menacing laughter, and torches at the ready. I could smell their excitement, their sweat palpitating like a heart-drum for the violence they craved. My fellow citizens, the women who worked in the mornings and voted by night, and the men who raised their children and baked bread with love, had clustered together, a circle of faces that no longer accepted mine among theirs. The table dug into my skin, reminding me that this was real. I could not wake from this nightmare. When Oracle closed her eyes and lifted her hands, prayers began.

"Grant my daughter strength, Healer."

"And mine courage, wisest of all."

"Mastermind of the senses, I am your slave."

I blocked their prayers from my mind--I was a captain of the vessel that sailed for enemy shores; I was a phalanx of the fifth that ran my spear through life; I was nothing when Oracle gasped and shouted, her nails diving into the bird. I fisted my hands, for I knew what was coming, and I could do nothing to prevent the unseen from unfolding. My life would douse the residues of death within the foundation of our city, and heal the sickness while I lay crucified.

As if he longed to see that vision, Father edged closer. My stomach churned when I noticed the eagerness tainting his face. With my broken nails, I clutched the table; it was solid but sure, a buttress of support.

While Oracle rummaged through the bird, reading the future in its entrails, I tasted the stench of fresh blood and incense, and the noxious perfume of their collective anticipation. Rhea made noises--distraught, disappointed, doubtful--I could not read them well. I knew little beyond the thump, thump dirge of my heart, and the murmurs of a mob thirsting for my death.

(All conversation ceased when Oracle let out an agonized cry that reverberated through the thatched house. The flames danced, their fingers reaching for the sky. Every candle caught fire, a flash of sunset smudged light that flared and steadied, as sound as the stone pillars of our theater. The features of those surrounding me were brought into clarity, alight with astonishment.

The fire had introduced another change: one in me. Power thrummed through my veins, gifting me with a strength I had never experienced. Each flex of my muscles and each twitch of my eyebrows pushed the wings of fire closer to the surface. I wondered if the others could sense it, this magic flowing through my blood, whispering to me of the flames' secrets.

Then Oracle smiled, sharp teeth and shadowed holes. I no longer doubted that she knew what had happened. A precocious child, I had never believed in her prophecies until that night. I resented her, for I did not understand these mysteries. Most children wanted to be told they were destined for something greater, something special. I did not. That was a double-edged blade waiting for when I least expected its twist.

This power was a rapier of force.

"My children," Oracle said, "we are alone in this decision. I could not read the Others' message, so I recommend no course of action."

As if in response, the flames roared.)

1st 5 Pages October Workshop - Simone Rev 2

Author: Heather Simone
Genre: YA - Paranormal
Title: Barely There


Nothing could’ve prepared me for seeing my own name etched in a cross on the side of the road. The blood drained from my face at the sight of the treated two-by-fours nailed in the shape of a cross. My sophomore picture from last year sat on the ground next to red roses, my favorite yellow carnations, an orange and brown stuffed cat, and several teddy bears. Balloons, tied to the cross, bobbed in the breeze, the helium no longer kept them above the overgrown grass and weeds. Someone had written Phoebe in puff paint on a yellow ribbon attached to the balloons.

Tucking a wayward strand of long brown hair behind my ear, I bent and reached for one of the teddy bears leaning against the cross. My hand tingled as it permeated the stuffed toy. I gasped and tried again, this time with the balloons. My fingers coasted through the ribbons connecting the balloons to the wood. This had to be a dream. Flicking a balloon my fingers tickled their way into its middle while it kept shape.

Taking a deep breath I surveyed the area noting the guardrail had some slight damage to it. My eyes followed a bird flying overhead in a cloudless sky. It swooped over the rushing river below the bridge where tire tracks led from the guardrail into the water.

A cross with my name on it, not being able to touch anything, and the tire tracks combined caused my heart to stutter into overdrive and my breathing to quicken. I always paid attention while driving. I learned my lesson after popping a tire while changing the radio station two weeks after receiving my driver’s license. One more accident and my truck would be gone. That was the threat, and my parents always stuck to their word. Incident free for six months now.

A car sped past plunging into a puddle. Water splashed onto the cross, stuffed animals, and me. My head snapped up watching the car disappear around the bend. That’s it – I would stop someone and ask what happened. San Angelo’s not that big, someone should know.

When the next car rounded the bend I jumped into the middle of the street, waving my arms in the air. My heart hammered as the car approached with no signs of slowing. I hopped up and down, slowly edging closer to the curb. At the last possible moment I jumped out of the way and the car flew by.

The lady driving gave no signs of seeing me. As if I was invisible to her. I ran my fingers through my hair, dry. My clothes shouldn’t be dry after the douse of water they got, yet they were.

Crap! Oh, crap! Maybe she really couldn’t see me. Pacing up and down the hill beside the river I couldn’t remember anything substantial. My memories fused together leaving me bewildered as to which was the most recent. I didn’t remember an accident, or anything bad, the cross just appeared before me.

On the verge of hyperventilating I needed to calm down, then I would find my brother and ask him what was going on. He would know.

I closed my eyes and pictured the garden of waterfalls by the San Angelo Visitor’s Center, my favorite peaceful place to relax. I told myself to breath in and out, slowly, it was all a dream. When my eyes fluttered opened I stood next to one of the waterfalls.

One second I stood by the cross, and the next, miles away at the heart of San Angelo by the Concho River. A little oasis in the middle of West Texas where cotton grew, cattle roamed, and tumble weed actually tumbled across the flat highways, which stretched for miles and disappeared somewhere beyond the horizon.

Shaken to the core, my feet carried me to the banks of the river. A soft, barely noticeable breeze blew past. The water hardly rippled in response which allowed for flat smooth reflective surface. Beautiful.

I glanced into the water, no reflection. The sixteen year old girl with big chocolate eyes everyone recognized as Phoebe did not peer back at me. My shoulders slumped in defeat. How could I be dead and not remember dying?

I gulped back the fear rising inside and took a deep breath to relax.

The sensation of cool fluid eluded me when I stuck my hand in the water. Instead, deep within me a gripping cold rushed from my toes to my neck. Gasping for oxygen I tore at my throat with my free hand as my airway constricted. Stars sparkled at the edges of my vision and I fell onto my back. With my hand out of the water, the icy grip released me and my breathing returned to normal.

My eyes stung – tears threatened to burst free. I blinked them back, refusing their escape.

“Hey, are you okay?” The guy’s voice behind me could have frightened me to death if I wasn’t already dead. It was the only explanation for everything so far. Out of habit I forced the tears away so he wouldn’t see them. Not like he could see me anyways.

My heart sputtered to a stop when I turned around. A guy around my age stood watching me, waiting for me to answer.

“Um, do you need help?” He stepped closer. I stared, no clue what to say. He could see me, talk to me, so maybe I wasn’t dead after all. Hope the size of Texas swelled in my chest.

“You must be new.” His mouth drew into a sympathetic smile. He ran his fingers through his dirty blond waves before sticking his hand into the pocket of his baby blue board shorts.

I opened my mouth to find I could only spit out one word – when I really wanted to ask a bazillion questions. Such as, who are you? How can you see me? Are we dead or alive? What day is it? Do you know what happened to me? Instead the only word that came out was, “New?”

“Yeah, that is what some of us call it. New to the afterlife, or whatever this is.” He shrugged as though it wasn’t a big deal.

“Afterlife,” I grimaced, all hope dissipated. He nodded and took another step, closing the gap between us.

“I’m Finley, but you can call me Fin.” He extended his hand to shake mine. I averted my gaze to his hand and slowly extended my own. The sensation of touching his skin sent warm currents through my body. His hand was the first thing I could grasp all day and I didn’t want to let go. Even when he tried to pull free, I stared at his hand, and held on for dear life.

“This is the part where you tell me your name.” His clear blue eyes sparkled in the light.

“Uh, I’m Phoebe,” I sputtered releasing his hand. Immediately something was missing, his touch, I needed it back.

Fin glanced at the water, then back at me. “I see you have found we don’t have a reflection.”

My eyes dropped to my hand – his touch made me feel so alive. “So, what do we do now?”

He sat by the water’s edge, kicked off his sandals, and patted the ground next to him for me to sit. “Well, that’s up to you.”

1st 5 Pages October Workshop - Marshall Rev 2

Name: Laura J. Marshall
Genre: Young Adult
Title: All the Angels Stood


CHAPTER ONE

Monday

Struggling up from her bed to see the time, she felt comforted that it would soon be over. She had a few minutes to lie there before the mad rush to school, so she rolled on her side and pulled the heavy blankets over her head with just enough cool air circulating through a tunneled hole near her mouth.


Closing her eyes, she thought back to the day her mother left.


It was windy, almost winter. Stacey ran all the way home, clutching the small pink and white bag in her cold hand, trying not to squish the contents.


Her mother was sitting in her bedroom, a small electric candle burdened by the encroaching cloying darkness.


“Momma? I’m home.” Stacey noticed the untouched cup of coffee and toast she had brought her mother that morning before school.


Her mother’s eyes slowly focused on Stacey’s face. They squinted slightly as she asked suspiciously, “What do you want? You only talk to me when you need something.”


“I brought you…a cupcake, for your birthday.”


Stacey held out the small bag so her mother could see.


“It’s chocolate, your favorite.”


“My birthday,” her mother repeated, as if awakening from a stupor. She took the bag slowly and opened it to peer in. She gave a small smile and patted Stacey’s hand.

The alarmed screamed pulling her back to the present. She wanted to scream back and stomp her feet, her temper rising. So much for that birthday surprise. Her mother had disappeared that night, almost 8 years ago and she in turn, would disappear on her birthday. A permanent disappearance. It would only be 7 days now.


Stacey put her feet on the cold floor. Glancing in the mirror over her bureau, her eyes took in the outside exterior of her hollow self. Long hair fell over dark eyes. Didn’t anyone notice the old Stacey was slowly being replaced with this hopeless person she didn’t recognize or like at all. She made her way downstairs. The house was silent. Her father had left for work already. Mr. Coffee said good morning as she chose a banana off the counter and stuck it in her backpack.


Studiously trying to keep her mind empty, she headed into the bathroom off the kitchen to brush her hair. A small ant caught her eye in the sink basin. She watched it slip and struggle up the wet porcelain. With pause, Stacey put her finger out and squished the tiny black body. She stared at her finger, the six little legs flat and now lifeless. Better sooner rather than later, she did it a favor. She wiped her hand across her jeans and rushed out the door to make the bus.


Claire was waiting for her in the same seat they usually sat in together. She was a year younger, a sophomore, and always full of energy, so much so that her petite frame seemed unable to contain it all. Her bright blonde hair bounced with life and her tiny white teeth flashed at Stacey.


“Hey, coffeecake! How are ya’?”


Claire greeted Stacey each day with whatever breakfast food she had eaten that morning. Stacey used to find it amusing, now it made her think of Claire having breakfast at home with three rowdy older brothers and a mother who doted her. She slumped down low in her seat and picked at the dark blue nail polish on her pinky.


She wondered now at her choice of colors, a deep sparkly blue. She had been determined to feel better, about herself and about life lately but settled on the dark color.


Stacey remained silent.


“Sorry I couldn’t come over Saturday,” Claire’s eyes slid over Stacey’s wrinkled clothes and slightly mussed hair. “Everything okay?”


“Everything’s fine. You know how it is…Mondays.” Stacey forced a small smile and exhaled a very real sigh. She missed her mom and a normal life, whatever that was. Why did she have to run away and leave them all alone?


Her father tried but he was a guy. He didn’t get teenage girls or their need to talk. He wanted to fix everything and if he couldn’t fix it then Stacey knew he didn’t really want to hear about it. He had buried his pain beneath his work and now he had Ellen in his life.


The bus pulled in front of the old two story brick building. Stacey grabbed her backpack and walked with Claire as she chatted with Simon, a boy that caught up to Claire every day just outside school. He had sandy brown hair and freckles across the bridge of his nose. They made a cute couple, thought Stacey as she waved and she walked up the hall to her first class, Science with Mr. Kimble. She walked with her head down to her desk, glancing at the clock on the wall, counting the hours and the minutes until this would all be over.



She didn’t see Bobby in the hall that day. Her eyes darted between classes up and down the hallways. The old places they used to meet were occupied by other couples passing notes and holding hands. She put her mask on, the smile, the wave to people she had known for years. Busy, busy, busy. No one really cared about anyone but themselves. She knew the score. The first week of the breakup had been the worst of it. Everyone wanted to talk, talk, talk about it and offer solace. Now it was old news. Bobby had a new girlfriend and she stood, stricken still in that moment, the moment of his text. Not even enough guts to tell her to her face after over a year of professed love.


She rode home the same way she went to school, slumped down, head back, nail polish almost all chipped away.


“I wonder if it will help make the coroner’s job easier.”


~~~~~


She glanced back and returned to the kitchen, keeping an ear on her father’s low voice as he talked on the phone to Ellen. She filled her sports bottle half way up with wine from the refrigerator quietly replacing the cork.


As she filled the garden tub in her bathroom, she sipped slowly trying not to pucker. She looked at the walls of the tub and thought about the ant from that morning, struggling to get higher and slipping. Wasn’t it better to just cease? To stop? Darkness. Was there just darkness next? Her father believed in heaven and hell. She believed, well…she didn’t know what she believed. Lately, it was the old adage ringing in her head, “Life sucks then you die.”



Stacey lay back with the wine in hand, the water running loudly. She didn’t like to be in the tub without the water running. She liked the noise concealing her thoughts and making her feel safe, like no one would enter or intrude.


The wine made her head numb-er. Was numb-er a word? She smiled a small smile. No. But that was okay. She was numb-er and as she sipped, even numb-er.


She pulled the plug, turned the water off, and hopped out. Quickly she rinsed the bottle out several times, the last with a bit of Listerine, climbed into her pajamas, hit the alarm button and floated off to sleep.

1st 5 Pages October Workshop -Di Gesu

Name: Michael Di Gesu
Genre: Y/A Edgy Contemporary
Title: The Blinded Gardener

One moment I’m my Dad’s personal punching bag, and the next, well, I’m a pawn in his maniacal master plan. That is, until Danny entered the picture and discovered my secret.


Dad forced me to move across the country, and once again, I found myself at a new school, the third in two years. It sucked having a dad in the military.

The warning bell rang for first period. The halls cleared with the slamming of doors. As I wandered about searching for my classroom, I heard someone approach me from behind. Long bangs fell over his eyes as he loped past me with a kind of natural ease.

Didn’t he see me standing here, screwing around with this frickin’ map?

“Hey, dude. Could you tell me how to get to room 305?”

A slight curl formed on his lips as he faced me. He tossed his head. Platinum fringe shifted to the side and revealed freakish blue eyes that glanced toward me, unfocused.

Holy shit! Is he blind? More like stoned.

“I’m heading that way.” His deep voice held a trace of a southern accent.

I envied his height: well over six feet and me just an average dude.

“You better move. Connors loses it when you’re late.”

I rushed to catch up to him. His hand overshot the dented metal banister. On the second swipe, he made contact and climbed the stairs.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

He never looked back, not even when he spoke.

“Aidan.”

His shoulder bumped the wall turning the corner. “Damn!” Rubbing it, he coasted down the hall and stopped midway. “Here you are.” A glint of blue shot at me from under his bangs. “By the way, I’m Danny,” he said, low. He did an about face and was gone.

I shook my head and wondered, what’s his deal?

As I entered the classroom, Mr. Connors glared at me. “You’re late. Take your seat now.” In the next breath he continued with the lesson.

Eyes darted from all directions as I made my way toward the back of the classroom. I dropped into the only vacant seat and fumbled through my backpack, searching for my social studies book.

The girl next to me checked out my every move.

Not bad. Redheads really know how to getta dude off.

She caught my eye and smiled. After flexing, my pecs and abs strained under the muscle tee that clung to me.

Thick black lashes fluttered as her hazel eyes widened, and the blush in her cheeks matched the freckles on her nose.

Mr. Connors cleared his throat, bore his eagle eyes right into me, and droned on about the domestic issues and conflicts of the Federalist period. I picked up my notebook and tried to comprehend his jabber. Not at all interested in anything he had to say, my eyes wandered, sizing up the kids in class.

Typical.

I didn’t need to search long to see the usual cliques. Two jocks, clueless in the first row, looked more confused and bored than me. Next to them, a couple of cheerleaders licked their bubblegum pink lip gloss, trying to capture Team Beaufort’s attention.

Glancing to my left, a pig-tailed chick in specs scribbled non-stop, keeping up with the three nerds in crisp, white button down shirts surrounding her. Behind them a group of tough, tattooed, and pierced guys, wearing leather vests and torn jeans shifted in desks far to small for their bulk.

About half the students were black or hispanic. A lot more than in my last school. Not one Asian kid. That surprised me.

Connors’ jagged pacing captured my attention. I listened to a few words before peering out the window. The bright blue sky reminded me of Danny’s unfocused eyes.

Freaky.

After another half-an-hour of mindless drivel, the bell rang. The smoldering redhead asked about my next class. She licked her lips and waited for me to answer. I shuffled through my notebook and found the schedule.

“English with Hartnett in room 223,” I mumbled, snapped the notebook shut, and stuffed it into my backpack.

“Oh, I’m in that class, too.” She stood and ran her hand through her hair, pushing it behind her ear.

Locking her eyes on mine, she said, “Are you coming?”

Not yet.

I smirked.

You love bad boys, don’t you Red? I’ll give you what you want. You’re not the first.

“Yeah, I’ll be there in a minute.”

She narrowed her eyes.

After flexing the guns, I picked up my backpack, adjusted my crotch, and took my sweet time before drifting over to her.

“I’m Tanya, by the way,” she said in a breathy voice.

“Aidan.”

As we made our way down the hall, I caught a glimpse of Danny and jerked my chin toward him.

“Do you know that dude?”

She nodded.

“What’s his story, anyway?”

Tanya paled and her eyes dulled. As she spoke, her voice quivered. “I really can’t talk about it. Let’s say he had it all and now —”

“What?”

“Let’s go. We’ll be late.” She proceeded toward the staircase like a mouse trapped in a maze.

What the hell’s up with the people at this school?

At the sound of the bell, I peeled in the same direction as Tanya. She almost disappeared in the crush of bodies with only her fiery mane visible.

Shoving my way through the mass, snide remarks and “What the fuck” expressions shot back at me. I ignored them and focused only on Tanya’s hair. A few minutes later, I found room 223 and burst through the door with a loud bang. Necks snapped in my direction. Mr. Hartnett dropped the book from his hands and it crashed to the floor.

Spotting Tanya, I worked my way toward the back and sat in the seat she had saved for me.

“Sorry,” she whispered.

I rolled my eyes and glanced at the black and white cover of a book propped on top of the desk.

Flipping through it, I scoffed.

Hmmm. The Crucible, by Arthur Miller. What a joke. Like I’m gonna read this shit.

I slammed the book shut. Four or five people around me flinched.

“Is there some sort of problem?” Mr. Harnett asked with a shaky voice.

Man this guy is ancient. He’s way past retirement.

“Nope.”

“Then I suggest you open your book and read the first chapter like your classmates.” He shuffled some papers on his desk and picked up what looked like a roster. “What’s your name young man?”

At first I ignored him. School was such a waste of time. I’m no scholar, films are all I care about. Not this crap.

A gentle hand touched my right arm. I shifted myself toward Tanya. She pleaded with her eyes.

“Fine,” I muttered and turned back around in my seat. “Aidan Forester,” I called out.

Tanya stroked my arm and I got an instant rise.

This chick’s hot for me. I can’t wait to hook up with her.

1st 5 Pages October Workshop Opens at Noon Today

The workshop is full for this month, but we will accept entries for the November workshop at noon on Saturday, November 3rd. In the meantime, please come back after noon this coming Monday and help us comment on the work. Thanks to the wonderful folks at Random House Kids, we have two amazing multi-book prize packs to give away to a couple of the non-workshop commentors! :)

The October First Five Pages Workshop will be mentored by the lovely and multi-talented P.J. Hoover, author of both YA and MG books. Starting at noon today, 10/6/2012, we will take the first five 1250-word YA or MG entries submitted by email to kidlit --at-- writeedge dot com that match all of the submission requirements below. Please read ALL the requirements before submitting!

Lisa Gail Green and/or I will work alongside P.J. Hoover to tell you what we see in those first five pages with respect to your voice, plot, characters, setting, pacing and writing in general. You will have the opportunity to post your initial entry plus two revisions. Depending on PJ's schedule, she may comment only on your initial entry, on the initial entry and one revision. Lisa and/or I will comment on all subsequent revisions. You'll also get feedback and comments from your peers throughout the month.

Rules and Requirements

The rules are simple. We ask that you follow all of them, every week for the duration of the workshop. Properly formatting your entry may sound like a pain, but it's good practice because agents and editors will expect you to follow submission guidelines too. It's part of showing your professionalism, and writing is a business as well as a creative endeavor. Entries that do not meet all of the criteria below will be disqualified. Read all the rules and be prepared to follow them each week, otherwise it isn't fair to take up space in the workshop. We always have more entries than we can accept in any given month.

1. Manuscripts must be middle grade or young adult.

2. Manuscripts do not need to be completed, but must be your own, original work.

3. Send us the first five pages, with each page approximately 250 words, max 1250 words.

4. Do NOT send any synopsis or summary information.

5. Make sure your entry is properly formatted, in RTF format, and sent IN THE BODY OF THE EMAIL, single spaced, with a blank line between all paragraphs expect the header information. No attachments.

Before sending it to us, we suggest that you email your entry to yourself so you can see how it will come out.

Your entry MUST look like this:

Name: Your name
Genre: Young Adult XXX or Middle Grade XXX
Title: Your title

The body of the text, max 1250 words, must be SINGLE SPACED. There MUST be an EMPTY LINE BETWEEEN paragraphs. (Hit the 'Enter' button twice.)

If your manuscript is formatted in standard manuscript format, double-spaced with indents at the beginning of each paragraph and no extra space before or after paragraphs, then this will not come through correctly for reading on the web. The easiest way to get the formatting the way that we need it is to copy your snippet, put it into a clean MS Word document, select all the text, change the paragraph spacing to single space, then do a search and replace for ^p and replace it with ^p^p. This will take each paragraph break and turn it into two paragraph breaks. Or, of course, you can go through and hit the enter button again a second time after each individual paragraph.

Create a new email through an email provider other than GMAIL and click on the format text tab at the top of the message. Gmail seems to insert AN EXTRA line for every blank line. It may even insert a blank line between the header information, which should have NO blank lines between paragraphs. To get around the gmail problem, the easiest thing to do is use another email provider if you already have one, or to create a free hotmail account.

In your blank email message, set the message format to “Rich Text,” then paste in the text of your entry.

7. Be prepared to receive honest, constructive feedback EVERY week and to participate through the entire workshop. Not all feedback will be positive. The purpose of the workshop is to help you improve your manuscript, not to tell you that it is wonderful.

8. Provide honest, constructive, and thoughtful feedback to EACH of your fellow workshop participants in a kind and courteous manner by Thursday night EVERY week.

9. Send the revised version of the manuscript back to us--following all the above rules--by 6:00 PM on Sunday nights, properly formatted, every week until the end of the workshop.

That's it. Again, remember that you will need to understand email formatting to submit to agents anyway, so this isn't all a wasted effort.

Send your entries starting at noon (Eastern Time) today to kidlit at writeedge dot com.

That's it. Again, if it sounds like a pain, remember that you will have to understand email formatting to be able to submit to agents when your entry is ready to query.

Accepted entries will be posted here on the blog at noon on Monday, and revisions will be posted at noon on every subsequent Monday.

Happy reading and writing,

Martina


ABOUT P.J. Hoover

P. J. Hoover first fell in love with Greek mythology in sixth grade thanks to the book Mythology by Edith Hamilton.

After a fifteen year bout as an electrical engineer designing computer chips for a living, P. J. decided to take her own stab at mythology and started writing books for kids and teens. When not writing, P. J. spends time with her husband and two kids and enjoys practicing kung fu, solving Rubik's cubes, and watching Star Trek.

For more information about P. J. (Tricia) Hoover, please visit her website www.pjhoover.com. P. J. is also a member of THE TEXAS SWEETHEARTS AND SCOUNDRELS and THE ENCHANTED INKPOT.

Her first novel for teens, Solstice, takes place in a global warming future and explores the parallel world of mythology beside our own and will be published by Tor Children's in June 2013.

Her next middle grade novel, Tut, which tells the story of a young immortal King Tut, who's been stuck in middle school for over 3,000 years and must defeat an ancient enemy with the help of a dorky kid from school, a mysterious Egyptian princess, and a one-eyed cat, will be published by Tor Children's in Winter 2014.

Her published middle grade fantasy novels, The Emerald Tablet, The Navel of the World, and The Necropolis, chronicle the adventures of a boy who discovers he’s part of two feuding worlds hidden beneath the sea.