Friday, June 23, 2017

2017 #YayYA Entries

Here are all the June 2017 #YayYA entries in one location! For a refresher on the rules, click here!


Entries:

Entry #1 The Yellow Girl

Entry #2 The Palace of Revenge

Entry #3 Reign of Thorns

Entry #4 Six Easy Steps to Becoming an Oracle

Entry #5 I'm Sorry for Doing Nothing

Entry #6 A Serenade for the Bright Night

Entry #7 Daughters of the Dragon

Entry #8 Shift

Entry #9 A Shadow of the Night

Entry #10 Saving Grace

Entry #11 It Gives a Lovely Night

Entry #12 Dusk Before Dawn

Entry #13 Seductress

Entry #14 Fighting Clichés

Entry #15 No Man's Land

Entry #16 The Temporary Death of Millie Krup

Entry #17 One Way Ticket to Multiverse

Entry #18 Traveler's Epic

Entry #19 Ascending

Entry #20 Duodecim

BONUS Entry #21 The Life You Stole

BONUS Entry #22 The Blood of Runes

BONUS Entry #23 The Witch and the Demon

BONUS Entry #24 Can't Go Back to Yesterday

BONUS Entry #25 Within and Without


Revised Entries:

Entry #1

Entry #3

Entry #4

Entry #5 

Entry #7

Entry #11 

Entry #20

Entry #21

Entry #22

Entry #25

2017 #YayYA BONUS Entry #25: Within and Without

Name: Deborah Maroulis (@yaddathree)
Genre: Contemporary
WITHIN AND WITHOUT
35 Pitch: Sixteen year-old Wren ignores her feelings for the Greek farm hand and dates her long-time crush. But when he takes things too far, she must decide if the illusion of love is worth her health.

First 500:
Hair twisted into a bun and ear buds in, I pushed play on my favorite song and shoved my phone into my pocket. I glanced at the borrowed suitcase taking up what little floor room existed and braced myself for one last try. I gripped the closet handle and tugged. With my entire body weight, I pulled. But instead of the door sliding open, it broke free from the track, sending us reeling and my phone tumbling. Boxes of Home Shopping Network’s finest spilling after us. My collection of favorite band t-shirts and headphones tangled in between Fed-Ex and first class mail. 
I wiggled myself from the door, ignoring the floor’s strangled protest under my weight. With my foot, I slid the phone toward my outstretched hand and hoped the glass wasn’t shattered. 
As I turned the screen, I muttered the first prayer I could think of. Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep When my playlist stared back at me unharmed, I sighed in relief. The only mantra I could remember was now the patron prayer of cell phones.
I pushed myself from the floor only to crash into one of the million shelves lining my new room. Each one held some of Granny’s precious dolls that looked too much like my mom for comfort. Phone in hand, my arm shot up to defend against another whacking and sent one of Granny’s prized dolls careening toward the floor. 
I gasped, eyes wide. One hand propped me up and the other held my phone, the one connection to the outside world until school started. And I couldn’t hold it and save the Mini-Mom plummeting to instant death. 
Granny’s forced smile and disappointed eyes flashed before me. She would nod and tell me it was an accident. All the while picking up shards of its ceramic face like discarded tissues at a funeral. 
I’d been here all of five minutes, and creepy or not, these dolls meant the world to her. Mini-mom it was.
I tossed my phone toward the pile of boxes and shirts, hoping it’d land on its back. My hand closed around stiff fabric just in time to save Ms. Porcelain from her ultimate demise. Standing slowly, I placed her back on the shelf smoothing her hair and lace frock as best as I could, hoping she looked all right. I tried tucking the tag that bragged, “Made by Marie Osmond” under the stand, but then it stooped sideways. 
Seriously, who buys dolls designed by a weight-loss spokesperson, anyway?
I backed away slowly to avoid another disaster and looked for my phone. This time, when I reached for it, tiny bumps pricked my fingertips. I closed my eyes and hung my head. Once my mom saw my cracked screen, I would be laid to sleep. No prayer needed.
I stacked the boxes back in the closet Tetris-style. Somehow there were three left-overs, not to mention all my stuff I was supposed to be unpacking and making comfortable.

Sixteen-year-old Wren believes her bulimia helped attract her long-time crush. But when he pushes her into a physical relationship she’s not ready for, she must decide if the illusion of love is worth her health.


Hair twisted into a bun and ear buds in, I pushed play on Death Cab for Cutie and shoved my phone into my pocket, ready to take on the closet door one more time. Gripping the handle, I tugged. With my entire body weight, I pulled. But instead of the door sliding open, it broke free from the track, sending me reeling and my phone tumbling. Boxes of Home Shopping Network’s finest spilling after, and my collection of band t-shirts and headphones tangled in between Fed-Ex and first class mail. My borrowed suitcase taking up the rest of what little floor room existed.
I wiggled myself from under the door, attempting to ignore the pinch of my jeans in all the wrong places. With my foot, I slid the phone toward my outstretched hand and hoped the glass hadn’t shattered. It was the one connection I had to the outside world until school started.
As I flipped the phone over to check the screen’s lifespan, I muttered the first prayer I could think of. Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep.  When my playlist stared back at me unharmed, I sighed in relief. The only mantra I could remember was now the patron prayer of cell phones.
I pushed myself from the floor only to crash into one of the million shelves lining my new room, each one holding Granny’s precious dolls that looked too much like my mom for comfort. My arm shot up to defend against another whacking and sent one of Granny’s prized dolls careening toward the floor.
I gasped, eyes wide. One hand propped me up and the other held my phone. And I couldn’t hold it and save the Mini-Mom plummeting to instant death.
Tossing my phone toward the pile of boxes and shirts, I prayed it’d land on its back. My hand closed around stiff fabric just in time to save Ms. Porcelain from her ultimate demise.
Granny’s forced smile and disappointed eyes had flashed before me like one of those near death experiences all over late night TV. She would’ve nodded and told me it was an accident, all the while picking up shards of its ceramic face like discarded tissues at a funeral. I’d been here all of five minutes, and creepy or not, these dolls meant the world to her.
I placed the Mini-Mom back on the shelf smoothing her hair and lace frock as best as I could, hoping she looked all right. I tried tucking the tag that bragged, “Made by Marie Osmond” under the stand, only making it slump sideways. Exhaling a snort, I shook my head.
Seriously, who buys dolls designed by a weight-loss spokesperson?
I backed away, parkouring the closet fallout to avoid another disaster and looked for my phone. This time, when I reached for it, tiny fissures threatened my fingertips as I slid my hand over the screen. I closed my eyes and hung my head. Once my mom saw the cracks, I’d be laid to sleep. No prayer needed.

I stacked the boxes back in the closet Tetris-style. Somehow there were three left-overs, not to mention all my stuff I was supposed to be unpacking to make myself comfortable, as Granny insisted.

2017 #YayYA BONUS Entry #24: Can't Go Back to Yesterday

Maria Stout
Genre: YA Fantasy

Title: Can't Go Back To Yesterday

35-word pitch: Goonies meets National Treasure when a teen and a librarian join forces with a sarcastic gremlin to decipher the clues and solve the mystery of the disappearance of his clan.

First 500 Words:  
               Adjusting her wig, Laney ran through her checklist knowing she had to look perfect. Makeup: precise. Hair: on. Outfit: dirty. On this October evening the details needed to be just right. She headed down the dusty hallway towards the noise. Turning the corner and crossing the threshold she smiled at the sight of the horde in the room crowded with mismatched furniture and a bank of lockers.
These are my people.
Pausing in the doorway, she looked at all of the ugly, disgusting faces, each one more hideous than the previous. Some faces were disfigured and bloody; others were covered with scales or fur and didn’t look human. And then there were their eyes; oddly colored irises - yellow, red, completely white - with irregularly shaped pupils. There was an unmistakable energy in the room. Again, Laney smiled because this felt like the right place for her. Five months ago she wouldn’t have imagined feeling connected to anything in this town, but things have a way of changing and in this case all it took was one ‘yes.’ An Alice In Wonderland quote floated into her mind. 
‘Every adventure requires a first step.’ Hhmph. This is fun, but I think I’m gonna need to get out of this town before I really find adventure. 
As she scanned the room, someone near the bank of lockers caught her attention. He was moving around, so it was hard for her to get a good look at him.
Who’s that? I don’t remember that face before.
Just then a man stepped into the center of the group. At seven feet 300 pounds, he loomed over everyone else. The loose curls of his greasy, shoulder length hair hung in his face. Gashes across his forehead and cheek dripped red into his goatee. He wore a butcher’s apron that looked like it had been sewn together from pieces of skin.
“We’re all here for the same reason. Are you ready?!” His deep, gruff voice called out.
“Yeah!” The group responded loudly.
“Whose house is this?”
“OURS!
“Whose?”
“OURS!”
He thundered as loud as he could. “I SAID, WHOSE HOUSE IS THIS?!”
“THIS IS OUR HOUSE!” They shouted getting more and more hyped up.
A petite woman in jeans and a hooded sweatshirt joined the imposing man in the center of the group. Her short bobbed hair was dark with purple streaks through it. A wide grin had spread across her face as she addressed the group.
She laughed gesturing for them to quiet down. “Okay, my monsters. It’s going to be a great night. We already have people lining up outside. Opening night last night was good, but I want tonight to be great! People come here to be scared and I don’t want you to stop until you’ve gotten ‘em good. Last night we had a lady peed her pants. Not that I like the mess, but let’s aim to do it again. Use your best scares and give them a good time.”

2017 #YayYA BONUS Entry #23: The Witch and the Demon

Name: Katherine Toran (@bookgirl_kt)

Genre: Fantasy

Title: The Witch and the Demon

35-word pitch: 
Fleeing a witch hunt, Aspie Ebba surrenders her heart to a dying demon, becoming embroiled in a deathmatch to stop a demonic invasion. Whacking him with a severed head accidentally starts an equally violent courtship.

First 500 words:

Ebba ran into the moonless night. Her soaked dress clung to her skin, wind and water competing to freeze her into a corpse. Tree roots clawed at her feet and fatigue crept up from her shaking limbs to numb her brain. If she fell, she likely wouldn’t get up again. Keep moving. Get as far away from the witchfinder as possible—may he be reincarnated as a diarrheic drunk’s chamber pot.

In the darkness, directions blurred. She focused on climbing up the mountain, away from her village. Faster, faster, faster. Her lungs took on the weight of iron.

Her knee finally gave out—right when another root caught her ill-fitting clog. Her ankle bent sideways with a crack. She hit the dirt.

Waves of agony crashed over her. Mustn’t stop moving. Despite her straining muscles, her body refused to rise. She wanted to scream or cry. Instead, Ebba took a deep breath. To focus her mind, she pinched her face, right on top of the scabs from the witchfinder’s pins. The itching behind her eyes from too long without sleep, the burning of her throat, and the blistering sores on her hand—she pushed it all away. First, get up.

Her right hand oozed pus from the burns on her palm, so she used her left one to pull herself into a sitting position. The merest touch to her swollen joint was torture. Through the pain, the rational part of her noted this felt worse than a sprain.

Her breath came faster as panic clawed at her self-control. No, no, this couldn’t happen now. If she’d broken her ankle, she wouldn’t be able to run, and then…then…

It occurred to Ebba that she had no idea what to do next. She’d never had a plan past getting out of her cell.

The silence of the forest unnerved her. At the very least, there should have been insects chirping. But this was a magic-cursed place. She’d fled here because no god-fearing villager would venture into the forest. Ever since the wolves had first descended, only those too poor to leave remained in the region. Ebba shivered. She told herself most wolves avoided humans, and the red-eyed wolves really only came once every few years.

Alone in the darkness, with wolves theoretically a hand span away, this argument became less convincing. She didn’t want to die the same way her mother had. Perhaps she could still turn back.

Ebba glanced over her shoulder, uncertain which direction “back” would be. A great wall, ten times her height, blocked out any trace of light from her village. Only holes worn by trees, weather, and thieves had allowed her to slip through. Once, the wall’s upkeep had been part of every villager’s religious duty to the Supreme God Anabiel. But it had been a thousand years since the last demonic invasion.

2017 #YayYA BONUS Entry #22: The Blood of Runes

Name: Danielle Simonelli (@dmsimone99)
Genre: Historical Fantasy
Title: The Blood of Runes

Pitch: In 9th century Scotland, a 16-year-old Viking girl must rescue her brother from a vengeful Norse witch by stealing an enchanted raven banner and using ancient blood magic. 

First 500 words:

Pippa rolled the dice and winked.
She played a scheming game of tafl and moved a pawn three spaces across the checkered board. The winner would claim the knife with scrollwork snaking around its handle and a curious rune decorating its blade. Her brother, Jamie, would love to add it to his collection. He always sought weapons with character. 
            The man sitting across from her looked like he belonged in a band of ruffians, with faded scars puckering his nose. He leaned over the game board and rolled the dice. Six marks. Sailors trying to earn some quick coin exchanged bets and told him to move this piece or that. They shouted drunken suggestions at Pippa too, but she already had a strategy to capture the King-piece. The ruffian moved a white pawn by six squares and muttered something in Norse. His sharp gaze met hers with a look that said “that’ll show you!”
“Tricky move,” Pippa said. She bowed her head to hide her impish smile. Jamie had taught her how to master tafl, which her opponent foolishly agreed to play. The ruffian originally suggested a test of riddles, but the last time Pippa attempted a riddle contest she lost a silver bracelet. 
            She scanned the crowd, making sure Jamie wasn't around. She hoped he wouldn't think to look for her in the mead hall, because she wanted to surprise him with the weapon.
Her father would have been furious at her for gambling. Furious, but proud when she won the knife. Longing for his smile made her chest ache, so Pippa lifted a cup of frothy ale. The faint scent of aged oak conjured images of summertime mischief with her brother, when they had snuck a taste of ale from the brewer’s barrels. She drank it with a single swallow and banged the emptied cup next to the game board. Everyone cheered as she reached for a nearby flagon and refilled her cup. Pippa could enjoy two drinks, maybe three, without muddling her senses.
She tapped her foot to the warbled rhythm of a panpipe, relishing her imminent win. With her turn came a squall of suggestions from the crowd, yet one spectator remained aloof. The figure stood near the fire, fussing with voluminous robes until they lay just right. By the look of his unscathed leather boots and the flashing gold rings on his fingers, he wasn’t a farmer or seafarer. She wished he’d stop staring. A heavy hood framed his face, but his eyes glimmered as he watched the game…and her. 
She turned back to the board and rolled the dice. Seven marks. The ruffian’s an idiot, she thought, but he needs to think he has a chance. Otherwise, he might end the game. Pippa started to reach for a red pawn, hesitated, made a show of sighing and tugging on her bottom lip, and then reached for another. She moved it seven squares, diagonally.
The ruffian cracked his fat knuckles. “I need a break.”

Pitch:
In ninth century Scotland, a sixteen-year-old Viking girl, Pippa, vows to rescue her brother from a vengeful Norse witch. She must embrace ancient blood magic to find him before the witch captures Pippa herself.

First 500:
Pippa rolled the dice and winked.
She slid a tafl pawn three spaces across the checkered board, eyeing the prize knife. Scrollwork snaked around its handle and a curious rune decorated its blade. Her brother, Jamie, would love to add it to his collection. He always sought weapons with character.
            The ruffian sitting across from her scratched the faded scars puckering his nose. He leaned over the game board and rolled the dice. Six marks. Sailors trying to earn some quick coin exchanged bets and told him to move this piece or that. They shouted drunken suggestions at Pippa too, but she already had a strategy to capture the King-piece. Her opponent moved a white pawn by six squares and muttered something in Norse. His sharp gaze met hers with a look that said “That’ll show you!”
“Tricky move,” Pippa said. She bowed her head to hide an impish smile. Jamie had taught her how to master tafl, which her opponent foolishly agreed to play. He originally suggested a test of riddles, but the last time Pippa attempted a riddle contest she lost a silver bracelet.
            She scanned the mead hall, making sure Jamie wasn't around, because she wanted to surprise him with the weapon.
Her father would have been furious at her for gambling. Furious, but proud when she won the knife. Longing for his smile made her chest ache, so Pippa lifted a cup of frothy ale. The faint scent of aged oak conjured images of summertime mischief with her brother, when they had snuck a taste of ale from the brewer’s barrels. She drank it with a single swallow and banged the emptied cup next to the game board. Everyone cheered as she reached for a nearby flagon and refilled her cup. Pippa could enjoy two drinks, maybe three, without muddling her senses.
She tapped her foot to the warbled rhythm of a panpipe, relishing her imminent win. With her turn came a squall of suggestions from the crowd, yet one spectator remained aloof. The figure stood near the fire, fussing with voluminous robes until they lay just right. By the look of his unscathed leather boots and the flashing gold rings on his fingers, he wasn’t a farmer or seafarer. She squirmed under his stare. A heavy hood framed his face, but his eyes glimmered as he watched the game…and her.
She turned back to the board and rolled the dice. Seven marks. The ruffian was an idiot, but he needs to think he has a chance. Otherwise, he might end the game. Pippa started to reach for a red pawn, hesitated, made a show of sighing and tugging on her bottom lip, and then reached for another. She moved it seven squares, diagonally.
The ruffian cracked his fat knuckles. “I need a break.” His voice sounded harsh, like the jagged edges of raw, unforged steel scraping against stone. A raider, no doubt. He clearly didn’t expect to lose to a sixteen-year-old girl.


2017 #YayYA BONUS Entry #21: The Life You Stole

Name: Maria Mainero @mariaannawitt
Genre: Contemporary Supernatural
Title: The Life You Stole

Pitch: Kelsey must stop a comic book artist's revenge on her boyfriend when he develops bodyswapping powers from his stories.

500:


The first weekend of the summer before senior year, and my boyfriend of two weeks might break up with me. No biggie. In eight solid years of experience with Dave, as a friend, he’s never let me down.
As a boyfriend?
Maybe I let him down.
 “He’ll be here,” Darcie promised as I scanned the parking lot for Dave’s truck. In front of us, the long concrete breakwall stretched out into Caseville Harbor, where Lake Huron rippled with tiny waves, blue and glassy, under the rosy setting sun. 
 At the end of the walk, a pile of large boulders in the water, and voices. “It’s just Kelsey and Darcie.” I ducked through the railing and stepped over lapping water to the first rock. Just Kelsey. Not someone they wanted to see. Like Dave. 
On the large center rock Queen Bree and her clone Cate perched like pink and blonde flamingoes in a flock of jocks and other seagulls. “Hi all!” I forced confidence into my voice, and squeezed in on a rock with Darcie. One of the guys tilted a beer can in our direction. “Thanks,” I said, as Darcie held up her hand to decline. This was a mistake. What if Dave did let me down? The icy aluminum in my palm made me shiver.
 “Too early for shorts in Michigan,” Darcie commented. 
 “They’re not shorts, they’re capris,” I pointed out, scrunching up my self-pedicured toenails in  Parlez-Bleu Francais .
 “You’re explaining fashion to someone who wears black jeans and flannel to the beach,” Bree remarked, to laughs from her loyal subjects. 
 “Oh, we were supposed to wear pink?” Darcie asked, looking Bree and Cate up and down. “The day I do, kill me. Slit my throat, drench me in my own blood and bury me in a garbage bag. A black one.”
The girls exchanged an eye-roll, but Darcie didn’t care. I sipped my beer slowly, the way Dave taught me at my first high school party. “Just drink a sip or two,” he told me. “Hold it for a while, then put it down somewhere. You can do that all night long, and never get wasted.” 
 No matter how many beers I abandoned, he always claimed I was buzzed when I tried to flirt with him. Always said he’d never take advantage of me. I always pretended to be grateful for that. Welcome to the friend zone. Our friendship was too important to screw up with a relationship. Yeah, he really said that. But for one wonderful week, I thought I proved him wrong. Then I proved him right.
 “Just talk to him,” Darcie kept telling me on the drive up to Caseville. That’s what I dreaded.  I knew what he’d say. This was a mistake, let’s just stay friends. I knew what would happen, the awkward conversations, the gradual distancing. 
 I knew what I’d feel.  I was feeling it already, waking up from unsettling dreams where Dave refused to listen to me or take my side. But Darcie was right about one thing. I couldn’t avoid him any longer.



New 35 word pitch:
A classmate crippled by Kelsey’s boyfriend in a car accident draws powers from his comic book art, and swaps bodies with her. She must stop his revenge against her boyfriend, or live his life forever.
Revised 500:
It was the summer before senior year, and my boyfriend of two weeks might break up with me. No biggie. In eight solid years of experience with Dave, as my friend, he’d never let me down.
 As my boyfriend?
 Maybe I let him down.
 I scanned the parking lot for Dave’s truck. “He’ll be here,” Darcie assured me. In front of us, the concrete break wall stretched out into Caseville Harbor, where Lake Huron rippled with tiny waves, blue and glassy, under the rosy sunset. We headed to the far end, toward the pile of large boulders in the water, and the sound of voices.
“It’s just Kelsey and Darcie.”
 Queen Bree and her clone Cate were perched on the center rock like pink and blonde flamingoes in a flock of jocks and other seagulls. I ducked through the railing and stepped over the lapping water to the rocks. Just Kelsey. Not someone they wanted to see. Like Dave.
“Hi all!” I forced confidence into my voice, and squeezed onto a rock to sit with Darcie. One of the guys tilted a beer can in our direction. “Thanks,” I said, as Darcie held up her hand to decline. The icy aluminum in my palm made me shiver. This was a mistake. What if Dave did let me down?
  “Too soon for shorts in Michigan,” Darcie said.
 “They’re capris.” I scrunched up my self-pedicured toenails in Parlez-Bleu Francais.
 Bree snickered. “You’re explaining fashion to someone who wears black jeans and flannel to the beach?”
  “Were we supposed to wear pink?” Darcie looked Bree and Cate up and down. “If I ever do, kill me. Slit my throat, drench me in my own blood and bury me in a garbage bag. A black one.”
 The girls rolled their eyes but Darcie didn’t flinch. I sipped my beer the way Dave had taught me at my first high school party. “Just drink a sip or two,” he told me. “Hold it for a while, then put it down somewhere. You can do that all night long, and never get wasted.”
 No matter how many beers I abandoned, he always claimed I was buzzed when I tried to flirt with him. Always said he’d never take advantage of me. I always pretended to be grateful for that. Welcome to the friend zone. Our friendship was too important to screw up with a relationship. Yeah, he really said that. But for one wonderful week, I thought I proved him wrong. Then I proved him right.
 “Just talk to him,” Darcie kept telling me on the drive up to Caseville. That’s what I dreaded.  I knew what he’d say. This was a mistake, let’s just stay friends. I knew what would happen, the awkward conversations, the gradual distancing.
I knew what I’d feel.  I was feeling it already, waking up from disturbing dreams where Dave refused to listen to me or take my side. But Darcie was right about one thing. I couldn’t avoid him any longer.


2017 #YayYA Entry #20: Duodecim

Name: Mads Bertasio (@madsbertasio)
Genre: Diverse YA Science fiction
Title: Duodecim
35 Word Pitch: When Blake finds out he’s prophesied to defeat immortal, genocidal Elites, he must decide if it’s better to run away and leave his friends to face certain death, or risk becoming the Elite’s ultimate weapon.
First 500 Words: 
Blake crept across the creaking floorboards. Mother would’ve hated to see what her house had become since she and Father disappeared. Good--after all, the house wasn’t all that they had abandoned when they went and vanished two years ago.
Now, he was poised for this final act of defiance.
After more attempts than he could count, he finally stood in front of the place they'd forbidden him his entire childhood. He hoped to find answers behind those doors, but even if the police had cleared it out, he wanted to see. He wanted to stand in the room and strike a last blow against his parents' neglect. 
After all of this time, he still felt the leaden knot of anxiety for breaking the rules. As he drew closer, the air was charged with electricity, and thick with humidity he hadn’t noticed before now. He was like a little kid again, getting caught playing tricks on the maid.
Holding his breath as his stomach twisted, he reached out to touch the doorknob, jerking back as static shock jolted through his hand. “What the--,” he started, biting his lips and running his fingers through his hair. No, he was too close to give up again.
Blake reached out with both hands, holding the knobs of the double doors, glad not to be shocked this time. He could do this. Three…two...one—
“Why am I always catchin’ you in places you shouldn’t be?” drawled a voice behind him.
Blake froze as his heart stuttered, shoulders tense where his shirt stuck to them. “Darn it, every time…” he whispered, head tipping forward against the cool wood for a beat. Clearing his throat, he pushed back and turned, hiding his frustration with an open stance and outspread arms. “Charlie! Funny running into you here. Strangest thing. I was on a walk, and I got lost.”
“C’mon, Blake,” the police officer huffed, though the corner of his lip curled up a little bit. “Time to get you home. You know you’re not supposed to be here. Trespassing and all that.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Blake sighed, glancing at the door one more time before following Charlie back downstairs and into the cool night air that pebbled his skin. The puddles from that day’s rainwere shimmering as they illuminated London’s cobbled streets. Truth be told, he hated the nighttime. It wasn’t as though he was afraid of the dark. But it was lonely at night; just him alone with his thoughts—his mind running down rabbit trails that he didn’t want to reach the end of.
“Y’know, Charlie, you pretend to be all tough, but I know you love our little walks.” Blake offered a cheeky smile and a wink. At least he wasn’t alone right now. He could put off being angry with himself for not opening the doors until he went to bed.
The officer raised an eyebrow and offered a stern look.


Name: Mads Bertasio (@madsbertasio)
Genre: Diverse YA Fantasy
Title: Duodecim
 
35 Word Pitch: Blake finds out he’s prophesied to fight immortal, genocidal Elites. His premonitions foresee him becoming their puppet and ultimate weapon for a second genocide, but running and hiding spells certain death for his newfound friends.
 
First 500:
 
Blake crept across the creaking floorboards. His mother would’ve hated to see what her perfect home had become since she and his father disappeared. Good--after all, the house wasn’t all that they had abandoned. He flicked a finger out, pushing a vase from its pedestal, not looking back as it shattered.  
He was poised for this final act of defiance. After more attempts than he could count over the two years they’d been gone, he finally stood in front of the place they'd forbidden him his entire childhood. He hoped to find answers behind those doors, but even if the police cleared it out, he wanted to see; wanted to stand in the room and strike a last blow against their neglect.
After all of this time, the leaden knot still sat in his gut at breaking the rules. He drew closer; the air charged with electricity. He was like a little kid getting caught playing tricks on the maid. This was a close as he’d gotten. Whether it be Charlie catching him, or his own nerves, he never made it all the way to the doors of his parents’ quarters before. After this, he could move on from that part of his life--put it behind him once and for all. People would still whisper to each other when he passed, eyes drawn with pity, but at least he could move on. Maybe nothing important was in there, but it's where they were taken from, and the only part of this old mansion he never explored. There would be nothing new to discover after this, and that had to be for the best. They were gone and he needed to move on.
 
Holding his breath, he reached out to touch the doorknob, jerking back as a shock jolted through his hand. It hurt more than simple static, like a warning. Maybe he should stop here--be proud he made it this far and come back next week, but… Blake punched at the door. No, he was too close to give up again. Blake reached out with both hands, tapping the knobs to test that he wouldn’t get shocked again before taking hold. He could do this. Three…two...one—

A creak sounded behind Blake, setting his teeth on edge. Logic told him it was just Charlie. The officer had been busting Blake for breaking into the old Clive mansion since the very first time he tried, but it wasn’t like him to be so quiet, and he certainly wasn’t built for stealth. Maybe it was the creeping foreboding in the place making him mistake every creak and groan for someone following him. Or, he was looking for a reason to back out. He could just look behind him and prove there was nothing to worry about—that there weren’t eyes staring hard into the back of his head like a looming threat—but, somehow, not knowing seemed safer. Closing his eyes, he pressed his forehead to the cool wooden doors. Just turn and push.