#YayYA Entry #21

Name: Edi Cruz

Genre: Fantasy

Title: Magic by Blood, Book 1

35-word pitch: Charmed/Harry Potter-ish story. Three girls meet for the first time to find out they have more in common. The bond they form will ultimately be the savior or the destruction of their world. .

First 500: Tap. Tap. Tap.

            Genova sat up from her bed. Someone was at the door. She felt her heart race. No one had ever come by before. In fact, she believed that no one ever knew that she and her grandmother, Nora, even existed. Her surprise turned to anxiousness. Maybe it was…but it couldn’t be. Why not? Turning sixteen had always been a turning point for any girl, right? So why couldn’t this be who she hoped? It would definitely make a perfect birthday present.

            She got up from the bed and walked to her door. She opened it a little, just enough to hear her grandmother talking to their visitor.

            “Magandang hapon, Aleng Nora,” said the visitor. It was a man who, though he spoke Tagalog, Genova could tell was a foreigner, because he had an accent.

            “Anong kailangan mo?” Nora responded, a twinge of annoyance in her voice.

            “You know why I’m here, Nora.”

            Genova’s brows furrowed. Obviously, this visitor wasn’t a stranger - at least, not to her grandmother. Nevertheless, why the cold reception from the elderly woman? She had never heard Nora speak in that tone. She dared to open her door a little bit more, but did not walk out. She heard Nora let out a scoff, but told the visitor to come in. Genova’s curiosity was growing by the second and she anxiously waited for her grandma to call her out.

            The visitor was an older man with silver hair that glinted when he passed the lamp in the living room. He had pale skin and wore an old gray sweater over his white shirt and gray slacks. She watched as his wrinkly right hand reached for his sombrero, his long skinny fingers holding onto the brim.

            She reverted her eyes to Nora, who stood by the now-closed door with her arms crossed on her chest and her old brown eyes glaring. He remained standing even though he could have sat down on the old wicker couch. Genova suspected that he was waiting for an offer to sit. He was looking at her grandmother, smiling, unnerved by the old woman’s wicked glares.

            “So how have you been, Nora? It’s been a long time.”

            “Hindi pa masyadong matagal,” Nora spat. “I had hoped that you would never come back here. Ever.”

            The old man smiled as he shook his head. Then he chuckled.

            “Like I said, you know why I’m here.”

            The old woman sighed. It almost sounded…defeated. Nora gestured the man to sit as she sat in the chair across from the couch, the coffee table giving them distance.

            “Alam ko nga kung bakit nandito ka, Abraham,” she said, leaning back. “But it doesn’t mean that I have to like it.”

            “I know you don’t like it. I get that. But it’s necessary.”

            “Are you positive that he’s back?”

            He? Who was this “he”? Genova was having a hard time even believing that her grandmother spoke English, let alone knowing the reason for this man’s 

#YayYA Entry #20

Name: Cayce LaCorte     

Twitter:  @lacorte_cayce

Genre: Paranormal

Title: SHIFT

Pitch: Charley's a teenage girl with the ability to teleport, but it comes with a dark side. A killer instinct that takes over. Can she regain control in time to stop the arsonist terrorizing her home?

“Excuse me,” I heard someone shout, “but you can not sleep here. Hey, I need you to wake up,” I pried my eyes open far enough to see a black woman who looked at me like I had ruined her day.

“What?!” I yelled and rolled onto my side, landing on a cold hard floor. “What are you doing here? Get out!” I found myself staring at dirty linoleum.  

“Me? What are you doing here? Now I’m use to some of those other folks trying to catch a nap indoors but you don’t look like you belong here honey,” she said.

I hovered in a low crouch, and felt the pain radiate in my hip. A quick assessment of my surroundings yielded a large open room with some benches. Screens covered in departure and arrival times hung above an enclosed booth. My head sagged and I leaned it against the seat of the bench, “Oh crap, not again.”

“What did you say?” She said, “Never mind, you ain’t supposed to be here. There aren’t any buses coming for hours.” I looked at her and my fear must have been visible because she softened, like she was speaking to a scared child, and I guess she kind of was. “Can I call someone for you honey? How far are you from home?”

I wasn’t going to panic. I was determined not to panic. I had always been a logical and capable person who could handle darn near anything and it’s not like this was the first time this had happened. “I’m fine, I’m fine I promise. I must have passed out at my friend’s party and they’re messing with me,” I said as I tugged at my top and attempted to smooth out my ponytail. “Really, I’m staying just down Tunnel Road. It’ll take two minutes to walk there.” I took a deep breath and smiled. “My friends are probably waiting for me outside right now laughing about all this.” I scanned my surrounding again and casually felt for my keys or phone. Darn.

The last thing I needed to do was freak out my Dad with a strange phone call and me not knowing how I got here. 

“Well, OK, but I didn’t see anyone bring you in. Heck, I didn’t see anything but you on one of my benches, out of nowhere,” she said looking around the room. 

I managed a weak smile but my throbbing head made me wobble and I felt like I was going to throw up. It must have sold my story about partying because she gave me a sideways look as I walked away. 

It was a warm mountain night and I had a long walk ahead of me. Needless to say I had plenty of time to think about what happened. Why did this keep happening to me? There had to be a reasonable explanation. 

REVISION:

Name: Cayce LaCorte     

Twitter:  @lacorte_cayce

Genre: YA Paranormal

Title: SHIFT

35 word pitch: 

Charley discovers she can teleport but it comes with a violent entity that can take over at will. She must control her gift, and her curse in order stop the arsonist that’s plaguing her hometown.

       “Oh crap, not again.” I found myself face down staring at a dirty linoleum floor. A loud crash had snatched me out of a deep sleep, and I had landed hard on my side, pain radiating from my hip. How could a floor be so sticky and still smell like ammonia? 

A loud voice echoed, “Finally. I’ve been tryin’ to wake you up for five minutes. So much for being nice about it, I had to smack the trashcan with my sweeper.” A stout woman stared at me like I was ruining her day. The dark skin wrinkled around the corners of her firmly set frown as she straightened her blue vest, and planted a hand on her hip. “Now I’m use to some of those other folks trying to catch a nap indoors, but you don’t look like you belong here, honey,” she said.

I squatted to a low crouch and winced at the pain in my side and the pounding in my head. I assessed my surroundings as quickly as I could, a large open room with some benches. Screens covered in departure and arrival times hung above an enclosed booth. My head sagged and I leaned it against the seat of the bench. “I’m at the bus station?” 

“What’d you say? Never mind,” she said, “you ain’t supposed to be here. There’s no buses coming for hours.”

I looked up at her and my fear must have been visible because she softened, like she was speaking to a scared child. I guess she kind of was.

 “Can I call someone for you, honey? How far are you from home?”

I wasn’t going to panic. I was determined not to panic. I had always been a logical and capable person who could handle darn near anything and it’s not like this was the first time this had happened.

       Just focus and do the same thing you did last time. Figure out where you are, avoid causing a scene and get home. The last thing I needed to do was freak my Dad out with all this. 

       Hey dad, I’m at the bus station. Why no, actually I have no idea how I got here. I went to bed in my room and woke up here. Can ya come get me?

       Oh yeah, that’d go over like a fart in church.

       “I’m fine. I’m fine, I promise. I must have passed out at the party and my friends are messing with me,” I said as I tugged at my top and attempted to coax the stray blonde hairs back into my ponytail. “Really, I’m just down Tunnel Road. It’ll take two minutes to walk there.” I took a deep breath and smiled as I stood up. “My friends are probably waiting for me outside right now, laughing about all this.” I felt for my keys or phone. Figures. Why should things start going my way now?

       “Okay, if you say so, but I didn’t see nobody bring you in. Heck, I didn’t see anything but you on one of my benches, out of nowhere,” she said, looking around the room, searching for co-conspirators. “And you better believe that nothin’ gets past me.”      

       I managed a weak smile, but when I took a few steps my throbbing head made me wobble, and I felt like I was going to throw up. Judging by the sideways look she gave me, I must have looked as bad as I felt. At least it helped sell my lie about drinking. 

       It was a warm mountain night and I had a long walk ahead of me. Why did this keep happening to me? There had to be a reasonable explanation. 

#YayYA Entry #19

Name: Jamie Rusovick-Smith

Twitter Handle: @Therealslimjym

Genre: Historical Fantasy

Title: Mystified

35- Word pitch: Seventeen-year-old Helena runs from an arranged marriage and right into Mother Nature's war on Humankind. After falling for Mother's deadliest weapon, she must choose: survival and an unhappy marriage, or love and imminent death.

First 500: 

Curse this storm; why hadn’t I thought to run away when the weather was more agreeable?

Pressing through the darkness, Helena trembled, losing speed as the rain soaked into her gown, and turned the dirt beneath her feet into mud. She grasped at low tree branches, pulling her way through the mess. It was tedious, arduous work, yet she refused to stop. The rough wood scraped her delicate hands and the branches snagged at her long, wavy hair, which had fallen from its customary bun. But she set her jaw and reminded herself why she was running.

Trampling of horse hoofs sounded somewhere in the distance. But whether they were the horses of strangers that would help her escape, or her father’s horse along with some of the townsmen gaining behind her, she couldn’t tell.

“I will choose my path,” Helena murmured. “No one else.”

After a few hours, the forest began to thin. The clopping of hoofs had indeed come from ahead of her, for she now saw a wagon being pulled down a narrow, cobble road.

“Hello?” she called, almost too exhausted to speak.

The rain muted her weak voice. Clearing her throat, she called out again. A baritone shouted a command, and the horses slowed. A gentle smile graced Helena’s lips as she stumbled toward the front of the wagon.

She imagined her mother saying, Foolish girl. Did you not listen when I told you of strangers? These could be thieves or godless gypsies! Tread with caution, Angel!

Angel… The sentiment stopped her in her tracks. 

Her mother had passed away only a few months ago. Perhaps she wasn’t imagining the warning. Perhaps her mother, from the other side, was indeed there and deep-in-her-heart concerned. Helena shook her head. It was too late now. She must beg for passage with the unknown driver of the wagon before she was caught. And while he may well be a murderer, and this choice might result in her death, Helena felt it would still be preferable to the fate which awaited her at home.

Breaching the front of the wagon, lit by a single swaying lantern, Helena’s heart sank as her eyes locked with those of the gruff looking driver. He wore a black cape, with the hood pulled on to avoid the rain, but it did nothing to hide to enormity of his body. He was tall, his legs bending at odd angles to fit in the seat, and his meaty hands, which held the reigns, matched his thick arms and torso. Yet it was the depth of his coal black eyes that frightened her, more so than the scowl on his rigid face, for they showed no sign of compassion. 

But he stopped. That was his choice.

Taking a deep breath, she said, “Begging your pardon, but I’m in desperate need of your help. If I could only ride with you to the next town, I’d be very grateful.”

REVISION:

Pitch:

Seventeen-year-old, tenacious-runaway Helena stumbles into Mother Nature’s war on humankind. After falling for Conley- the embodiment of fire and Mother’s deadliest weapon- she must choose: survival and a loveless marriage, or love and imminent death.

First 500:

Helena trembled as she pressed through the darkness, losing speed as the rain soaked into her gown and turned the dirt beneath her feet into mud. Irregular flashes of lightening illuminated the otherwise obscure night, as she grasped at low tree branches and pulled her way through the mess. The rough wood scraped her delicate hands, and snagged at her long hair which hung in a damp curtain around her shoulders. Her shoes squelched with each step. She tripped when her dress tore on a bush.  But she set her jaw and reminded herself why she was running.

“I will choose my path,” Helena murmured. “No one else.”

The echoing of horse hooves sounded somewhere in the distance. Whether they were the horses of strangers that could help her escape, or her father’s horse along with some of the townsmen gaining behind her, she couldn’t tell. Helena forced herself onward and the forest began to thin. The clopping had indeed come from ahead of her. Just beyond the tree line, a wagon was being pulled down a narrow, cobbled road.

“Hello?” she called, almost too exhausted to speak.

The rain muted her weak voice. Clearing her throat, she called out again. A baritone voice shouted a command, and the horses slowed. Helena smiled, albeit a tired one, as she stumbled toward the front of the wagon.

Foolish girl, her mother warned. Did you not listen when I told you of strangers? These could be thieves or godless gypsies! Tread with caution, Angel!

Angel… The sentiment stopped her in her tracks. 

Her mother had passed away only a few months ago. Perhaps she wasn’t imagining the warning. Perhaps her mother, from the other side, was indeed there and concerned. Helena shook her head. It was too late now. She must beg for passage from the unknown driver before she was caught. And while he may well be a murderer, and this choice might result in her death, Helena felt it would still be preferable to the fate that awaited her at home.

Reaching the front of the wagon, lit by a single swaying lantern, Helena’s heart sank as her eyes locked with those of the driver. He wore a black cape, with the hood pulled on to avoid the rain, but it did nothing to hide the enormity of his body. His legs bent at odd angles to fit in the seat, and his meaty hands, which held the reins, matched his thick arms and torso. Yet it was the depth of his coal-black eyes that unnerved her for they showed little compassion. 

But he stopped.

Taking a deep breath, she said, “Begging your pardon, but I’m in desperate need of your help. If I could only ride with you to the next town, I’d be very grateful.”

#YayYA Entry #18

Name: D. M. Daugherty

Twitter: @dmddeb

Genre: Romantic Mystery

Title: THE LONDON INCIDENT

35-Word Pitch: While vacationing in London, a feisty sixteen-year-old girl and her geeky love interest are stalked, witness a murder, and are held hostage by the killer who’s seeking a government file containing names of secret agents.

First 500 Words: Sixteen-year-old Drusilla Stone’s thoughts were on baseball as she and her best friend, Andrea, trudged the eight blocks to school. “Did you watch the game last night? The Red Sox won.” 

     Andrea, who preferred being called by her nickname, Andi, didn’t answer. Her nimble fingers danced up and down on her phone’s keypad as she texted with her boyfriend, Austin. When she did speak, it was about another matter. “Austin just invited me to the school dance on Saturday. Do you want him to see if one of his friends will take you?”

      Dru’s body tensed. She shook her head, causing her hair to fall over her eyes. With a light touch she brushed the loose strands from her face. The sunlight peeking through the clouds made her long wavy hair glisten like flames in a fire. 

     “I’m not a charity case! If I want to go to the dance, I’ll ask someone. I don’t need Austin to find me a date.”

      “Chillax, Dru! I just thought it’d be nice if we doubled.”

      Dru regretted her outburst. She stopped and turned to face her friend “I’m sorry, Andi. I didn’t mean to snap at you.”

      Andi laughed. “Don’t worry about it. I’m used to your tirades.”

      “My tirades!” Dru sputtered, and then she laughed, too. “You’re right. My temper does tend to take over at times.”

      Standing by the exit of an underground parking garage, Dru heard the loud rumbling sound of the sports car before she saw it. She peered down the slope leading into the garage. A black BMW was racing towards them! Her eyes flickered with fear when she realized the driver wasn’t going to stop. 

      Instinct took over. Dru grabbed Andi’s sleeve and yanked, knocking her backwards. Andi dropped her phone and her textbooks and her papers flew in the air. 

      Dru leaped back and held her breath. At the last second the car swerved a bit to the right and just missed her. Dru swore she felt the cold rush of air as the metal bumper of the car passed near her thigh. As the driver sped past, Dru heard him laugh. 

      She shook her fist and screamed, “You crazy, stupid idiot! You could have killed us!” 

      The man ignored her and turned left onto the street. He wove in and out of the mid-morning traffic, scraping several cars in the process. The beautiful shiny sports car was now marred with long streaks of missing paint along the side doors and massive dents in the fenders. Horns blared, brakes squealed, and people shouted and cursed after him. 

     The sound of Dru’s heartbeat pounded in her ears and her pulse raced as she realized how close she and Andi came to being killed. It’s over. Calm down. Dru took a deep breath. “Breathe in, breathe out,” she kept whispering to herself.

            Her eyes fell to where Andi sat sprawled on the ground, and she let out a weak laugh. "Andi, I forgot all about you!"

REVISION:

Name: D. M. Daugherty

Twitter: @dmddeb

Genre: Romantic Mystery

Title: THE LONDON INCIDENT

35-Word Pitch: While in London, Dru and her geeky boyfriend are stalked, witness a murder and held hostage because of a stolen government disk. At stake, the lives of the teens and everyone listed on the disk.   

First 500+ words: Dru’s backpack slid off her shoulders. She let out a sigh of exasperation as she paused to adjust the straps.

     Andi, too busy texting, didn’t notice and kept walking.

     “Andi, wait!” Dru shouted

     Andi smiled when she saw Dru running towards her. “What happened to you?”

     “Backpack,” was the only reply Dru needed. Andi understood. She didn’t have that problem. She carried her books.

     The girls continued their eight block trek to school, their steps now evenly matched in rhythm.

     The sunlight peeking through the clouds made Dru’s long wavy hair glisten like flames in a fire. With a light touch, she brushed the loose strands from her face. “Did you watch Sunday’s game? The Red Sox won with a base-loaded walk in the ninth.”

     “Dru Stone, for a sixteen-year-old girl, you are way too obsessed with baseball.”

     Dru shrugged. “I’ve been a Red Sox fan since I moved here six years ago. That’s not going to change.”

     Andi’s eyes darted to the screen on her phone. “Austin just invited me to the school dance this Saturday. Do you want him to find you a date?”

     Dru’s muscles tensed. Hands on hips, she turned and faced Andi. “I’m not a charity case. If I want to go to the dance, I’ll ask someone. I don’t need Austin to find me a date.”

    “Chillax, Dru. I just thought it’d be nice if we doubled.”

    Dru bit her lower lip, regretting her rant. “I’m sorry, Andi. I didn’t mean to snap at you.”

    Andi laughed. “Don’t worry about it. I’m used to your outbursts.”

     “My outbursts,” sputtered Dru, and then she laughed, too. “You’re right. I do have a temper.”

      Dru heard the loud rumbling sound of a sports car coming from the underground parking garage. She peered down the slope leading into the garage. A black BMW was racing towards them. Her eyes flickered with fear and her hands trembled when she realized the driver wasn’t going to stop. 

      Instinct took over. Dru grabbed Andi’s sleeve, pulling her backwards. Andi dropped everything, and her papers flew in the air as she landed on the ground. 

      Dru leaped back and held her breath. At the last second the car swerved a bit to the right and just missed her. Dru felt the cold rush of air as the metal bumper of the car passed near her thigh. The driver’s face was a blur, but Dru heard him laugh as he sped past. 

      She shook her fist and screamed, “You crazy, stupid maniac! You could have killed us!” 

      The man ignored her and turned left onto the street. He wove in and out of the mid-morning traffic, scraping several cars in the process. The beautiful shiny sports car was now marred with long streaks of missing paint along the side doors and massive dents in the fenders. 

     Horns blared, brakes squealed, and people shouted and cursed at the driver. 

     The sound of Dru’s heartbeat pounded in her ears and her pulse raced as she realized how close she and Andi came to being killed. It’s over. Calm down. “Breathe in, breathe out,” she kept whispering to herself.

     Her eyes fell to where Andi sat sprawled on the grass, and she let out a weak laugh. "Whew! That idiot almost ran us down. Are you all right?”

#YayYA Entry #17

Name: Kelly Hopkins

Genre: Contemporary Thriller

Title: High Vices

35-Word pitch: Graceland/Divergent. Sixteen-year-old Annie is busted for selling her foster parents’ meth and enters an alternative rehab program with a diverse cast of damaged kids to become a junior vice cop working child exploitation cases.

First 500:

There are days when you wish you could hit the rewind, crawl back under the covers, and have a serious do-over. Like days when you get caught with twenty bags of meth in your backpack on the way to PHYS ED because the vice principal’s had it in for you since the first day of the term. Days when the best thing you can hope for is a cop car with good air conditioning on your ride into the tank.

Guess what? Today is that day.

"She's clean, says the big goon that doubles as the school rent-a-cop as he waves the test-stick in front of my face like I just won the lottery. His face is shiny with sweat. He's nervous and twitchy, like he expects me to go all Joker on him and make my yellow number two Ticonderoga disappear up his nose.

"No duh, Sherlock," I growl and toss my hair over my shoulder. I sink deeper into the protective shell of my old army jacket. 

He’s waiting for me to write up my statement on the bright yellow legal pad he dropped in front of me. 

He’s gonna be waiting a heck of a long time.

I bat my eyelashes at him. He loses his train of thought when I put just the right amount of effort into my baby blues. Sigh.

"Her urine might be clean, but if she's dealing in this poison, she's got to be using it too." Principal Jack-off waves at the twenty dollar bags lying on his desk. Bags that I hid in the ripped lining of my backpack, ready for delivery after school to a half dozen loyal customers. 

Really? Since when is he an expert on what I’d willingly put in my body? Battery acid? Drain cleaner? Antifreeze? I know what's in that stuff. It’s my own personal brand. You won't catch me using it to clean a toilet bowl.

"Where did you get the meth, Annie?"

Where? That’s a complicated question. In my life, that's like asking me what I ate for breakfast. Crank's my life. Not by choice. 

Never by choice.

A knock on the door prevents me from telling the principal where to go look for his obvious answer. Two big-as-the-doorway, Pennsylvania state cops fill the tiny hallway outside the office like monstrous gray thunderheads blocking the last rays of my sunshine. 

Their hands hover near their guns. Fingers flex. 

Hello! Teenager over here, not a Charlie Manson look-a-like. Jeez! Does everyone think I’m about to lose it? I swallow as my heart pounds jackrabbit fast. I will my hands not to shake.

From somewhere far away behind me, I hear Principal J-O ask me again, "Where did you get the meth?" But I’m not here listening to him anymore. 

I’m not really here. This is all so screwed up. 

“It’s complicated,” I murmur as I pick at the frayed strings escaping from a tear in my jeans.

REVISION ROUND:

Rachel,

Here it is! Thanks! 

Kelly Hopkins

35-Word pitch: When Annie is busted for selling her foster parents’ meth, she’s placed in an alternative rehab in program to become a vice cop working child exploitation cases. Her options? Cooperate or go to jail.  

 

500 word sample:

There are days when you wish you could hit the rewind, crawl back under the covers, and have a serious do-over. Like days when you get caught with twenty bags of meth in your backpack on the way to gym class because the vice principal’s had it in for you since the first day of the term. Days when the best thing you can hope for is a cop car with good air conditioning on your ride into the tank.

"She's clean, says the big goon that doubles as the school rent-a-cop as he waves the test-stick in front of my face like I just won the lottery. His face shines with sweat. He's nervous and twitchy, like he expects me to go all Joker on him and make my yellow, No. 2, Ticonderoga pencil disappear up his nose.

"No duh, Sherlock," I spit back at him and toss my hair over my shoulder. He glares at me and I sink deeper into the protective shell of my old, army jacket. 

He’s waiting for me to write up my statement on the bright yellow legal pad he dropped in front of me. He’s gonna be waiting a heck of a long time.

"Her urine might be clean, but if she's dealing in this poison, she's got to be using it too." Principal Jack-Off waves at the twenty-dollar bags lying on his desk—bags that I hid in the ripped lining of my backpack, ready for delivery after school to a half-dozen, loyal customers. 

Really? Since when is he an expert on what I’d willingly put in my body? Battery acid? Drain cleaner? Antifreeze? I know what's in that stuff—poison.

It’s my own personal brand, and you won't catch me using it to clean the locker room urinal.

"Where did you get the meth, Annie?"

Where? That’s not a complicated question from where I’m sitting. In my life, that's like asking me what I ate for breakfast. Crank's my life. But not by choice. Never by choice.

A knock on the door prevents me from telling the principal what part of his anatomy he should search for his answer. Two big-as-the-doorway, Pennsylvania state cops fill the tiny hallway outside the office like monstrous, gray thunderheads blocking the last rays of my sunshine. 

Their hands hover near their guns. 

Hello! Teenager over here, not a Charlie Manson look-a-like. Jeez! Does everyone think I’m about to lose it? 

I swallow hard as my heart pounds jackrabbit fast. I will my hands not to shake.

From somewhere far away behind me, I hear the principal ask me again, "Where did you get the meth?" But I’m not listening to him anymore. I’m not really here. This is all so screwed up.

“You’re smart. Figure it out,” I snap as I pick at the frayed strings escaping from a tear in my jeans.

#YayYA Entry #16

Name: Rachel Stevenson

Genre: Urban Fantasy

Title: (working title) American Leprechauns

35-Word pitch: Snow traps Sean in a hotel with his father's leprechaun kidnappers and the witch whose head they want for ransom. She knows his dad’s location, but if Sean spares her, the chauns take his friends.


First 500 words:

Lights smeared down Taylors Road’s rainy asphalt. Sean Campbell climbed out of the Miura, gripping his iPhone as his sneakers sloshed in saturated crabgrass. 

If he’d ever gotten close to swearing, it was now. He leaned over the back, scanning the crumpled bumper and the guardrail hugging the Lamborghini’s flank. Just below swung a drop and a muddy creek’s open throat.

I would’ve died.

His life flashed before his eyes, followed by his dad’s face.

I still might.

Another car with a Tea Party sticker parked along the shoulder, and its rain-freckled window scrolled down. A dark, lipsticked face poked out.

“Y’all need help?” the lady asked. Country music whined from behind her.

Her eyes danced over Sean and the Miura. No surprise there. It was a 70’s automotive Fruit Loop, and he was six foot five. He ran a hand through his fiery hair and shivered.

“Did you see a red Lotus? Without tags? It ran me off the road.”

“Ran you off?”

“Tried to kill me.”

“Holy Toledo. You all right? You call the police?”

“About to.” Sean gestured the damaged Miura. “My dad’s the one who’ll try to kill me next.”

He scrubbed rain off his touchscreen, but didn’t get further when it rang.

Courtney.

“That the cops?” the lady in the other car asked.

“No.” Sean scrunched his brow. Courtney hated calling anyone. “Hello? Courtney? What’s up?”

Frenzied static gasping punched through the speaker. “Sean… Sean, where’s your dad?”

“Should be at home, why?” Sean nodded dismissively at the lady in the other car. She nodded back and pulled back onto Taylors Road’s kudzu-curtained way.

“He’s not. Did you take the Miura?”

“Yeah.”

“The Civic’s still in the driveway, the key under the mat’s gone, and the house is locked down. I peered through the window and it’s utterly trashed. There’s graffiti on the walls and everything.”

Sean blinked summer rain out of his lashes. His imagination tried to register her words and choked. “You’re not serious.”

“Yes, I’m not kidding. You need to get over here. I don’t know what happened, but your house is wrecked and your dad is freaking gone.”

***********

“See, look.”

Sean tripped through spiderwebs and behind the untrimmed azalea bushes. He slammed his palms against the dripping glass, peering through tangled blinds and his own reflection. Courtney sided against him, bumping elbows, accidentally tapping her glasses on the frame. Inside, furniture, food, and wires cluttered across the carpet, sprinkled with pillow stuffing and broken photo frame glass. The television was facedown, and on its back stuck a lopsided photo of Sean and his dad. His dad who was gone.

“What the heck,” was all he managed to blurt, scrambling in his jeans pockets for his keys.

“But look at the wall,” Courtney insisted.

Sean could see. Red ink slashed the eggshell surface.

“Bás go MacCool,” he whispered. “What?”

“I pulled it up on Translate. It’s Irish Gaelic,” Courtney said, displaying her rhinestone-cased phone. “It means Death to MacCool.”