Summer '16 YayYA Entry #19: AMERICANA INVOKED

Name: Rachel Stevenson (@whatshewrote)

Genre: Young Adult Urban Fantasy

Title: (working title) Americana Invoked

35-word pitch: A grammar nazi and a band geek must crown the next Lady Liberty, mistress of American Magic, before the Fourth of July. Otherwise, long-forgotten defenses collapse, leaving America vulnerable to European invasion once again.


First 500 words:

2:58 PM. Accident Township, Pennsylvania. Backed by the seventeen-year-old cicadas and whispering ash trees, Kaven “Smack” Kooshkikana set his glass bottle on the asphalt and took his weekday position.

But this time, he was watching for someone.

The upside-down bleach bucket jiggled back and forth under what weight he had as he spread his legs. Smack let his handful of honeysuckles fall to the hot pavement beside his bottle. Mostly the vanilla-white ones. He hooked his ear buds on, popped his lips in time with the Mormon Tabernacle Choir, and peeled honeysuckles apart. One thread at a time, he slid the rainbow-lit droplets onto the bottle’s lip.

3:00. Across the street, past where Route 218 and Beaver Street forked, Heidelberg College’s floral iron gates eased open. The cars came first. Never more expensive than a Lexus and never cheaper than a Honda, but the guys knocked off their mufflers for kicks.

Then came the students. Smack sorted through khaki shorts and polo shirts and gelled hair. There he was. As white and blonde as they come. Titus Ryan McKenzie. He put a IV at the end of his signature, but he wasn’t really the fourth, Smack knew. His dad was Titus Rudolf McKenzie III. Mrs. McKenzie wasn’t a fan of the Rudolf and swapped it for Ryan.

Smack knew all this. He never met the guy in his life. And he’d lived as long as the cicadas.

McKenzie darted around the traffic, raising an apologetic hand to each car until he finally spun his way to Kooshkikana Kwick Stop. He gazed up at the pollen-coated neon lights lining the gas station’s structure, pretending he didn’t see Smack. Smack flicked an ear bud out and waited.

They locked eyes. McKenzie’s were blue. Smack knew that, too. A battered bassoon case swung in his hand, and an Ohio State keychain dangled from his backpack.

“Uh, hi,” said McKenzie. “Are you, uh, Kaven?” He said Kay-vin. Like cave-in. The dude had no chill. His knees were locked. How did he survive choir?
            “You can call me Smack,” Smack said.

McKenzie’s face knotted in three different directions of confusion.

“Yanno, like, I talk smack,” Smack offered.

“Oh, okay, sorry. Um, I’m supposed to talk to you,” McKenzie said.

“Okay, hold on,” Kaven held up a hand, a honeysuckle tangled between his dark fingers. “You’re going to have to stop using ‘um’ and ‘uh’ as a punctuation mark. And I will correct your English.”

McKenzie’s face knots slid into a frown. “I did pass AP English, you know.”

“Then speak it. And come on. We can’t talk here. Not about magic.” Smack kicked his bucket aside, swept up his bottle, and started off.

He pushed the gas station’s glass door aside. The bells over its frame jingled, and the familiar stench of gasoline fumes and moldy freezers swept over him. His dad stood at the deli counter, tossing banana peppers on a sandwich. Smack didn’t look at him and marched to the back door, McKenzie following, apologizing for his existence.

Summer '16 YayYA Entry #18: THE EYES IN THE GINGERBREAD HOUSE

Name: Raina Xinyu (@xinraina)

Genre: upper middle-grade adventure with fantasy and sci-fi elements

Title: THE EYES IN THE GINGERBREAD HOUSE (or THE CANDY CANE CONSPIRACY...still deciding between the two)

35-word pitch: 10 years after Santa has revealed his existence to humanity, a school trip to the North Pole goes awry, revealing some unpleasant secrets, and 3 kids must take down Santa's global surveillance operation.

First 500 words:

My name is Angela Xue. I am twelve years old and probably about to die.

Now don’t get me wrong, I’m not some morbid pessimist spending all her time writing profound and depressing observations about death and mortality in a personal journal. It’s just that with the elves after me, I’m not exactly optimistic about my chances, either.

What elves, you ask? Why, the ones helping Santa spy on you, of course. Those elves.

And this isn’t exactly a journal either. At least, not the kind in movies where people write down all their sappy feelings about life that nobody really cares about unless they’re written by someone famous. And besides, I don’t think anyone has actually written a journal, with pen and paper, for fifty years. Old school, much?

Consider this more of a journalistic news report. Or a witness statement about what really happened last Christmas. Because if Santa has his way, I’m probably going to need something like that in the near future. Unless, of course, he chooses a different method of dealing with dissidents, in which case consider this my last will, testimony, and confession. Read it well, when I at last am sleeping...with the fishes...courtesy of the elven hitmen.

You might not want your fingerprints on this, by the way.

The reason I’m writing this down, ink on paper, is because as far as I know, Santa hasn’t figured out a way to hack into paper yet. He probably will in the future, of course, but for the time being, the only way he’s getting his mitts on this journal is if he prys it out of my cold, stiff, though preferably not dead hands. This journal that I’m now giving to you.

Keep it safe. Read it. Pass it on.

The world needs to know.

Be good, kids. Santa's watching.

###

I’ve always hated peppermint. I think that’s going to be my fatal flaw.

That, of course, made the ten hour ride to the North Pole in the “Holiday Express” rather unpleasant.

Then again, twenty kids stuck in a railcar decorated like a gingerbread house, hurtling across the Canadian tundra at seven hundred klicks an hour for half a day does not a pleasant experience make. For anyone involved.

As if the oversized plastic candy stuck to the walls and hanging from the ceiling wasn't enough, the Christmas overlords had managed to thoroughly saturate the area with artificial scents of candy. I’ll admit, the scent of gingerbread alone would have been nice. The vanilla icing and hot cocoa, a bit excessive, but still enjoyable. Gumdrops, still not unbearable. But by the time the smell of peppermint hit my nostrils, it felt like the saccharine “goodness” was practically oozing out of the walls like blood in a horror movie.

The first hour of the trip was occupied by me tearing the railcar apart searching for the source of that awful smell.

REVISION:

Pitch (revised slightly): Ten years after Santa has revealed his existence to humanity, three kids must take down his secret global surveillance program after accidentally discovering it on a school trip to the North Pole gone awry.

500 Words (not so much a revision of the original, but the other one of two different versions of the beginning that I'm trying to choose between.):

There are three things you need to know.

One: You’re being watched. Oh, maybe not all the time, and maybe not right now, but sometime in your life you’ve been right smack dab in the center of a computer screen in the North Pole, under the watchful gaze of elves. Maybe it was just a brief, second-long glance; maybe they have an entire file on you. But it doesn’t matter. Because no matter if you’ve been good or bad, some time or another you’ve been under watch, and sooner or later you will be again. All you can hope for is that they don’t see you reading this journal. Because if you do, well, I won’t say you’re screwed since you probably already are, but bad things are going to happen at a much higher frequency. But maybe you already know that. And maybe you don’t care, or don’t care about safety as much as you care about finding out the truth. Good. You’ll need that determination.

Two: You know this. It may just be an inkling of doubt at the back of your head, but you've always known this. After all, how does Santa come up with the Naughty and Nice lists? He gets it right, every time, doesn’t he? Your parents don’t report you, you certainly don’t fill out self-evaluations, and there are simply not enough elves to go around to have one stationed in every home. And even magic only goes so far. No, it’s the digital age, baby. There’s a better way to skin this cat, without the cat even knowing. Because what it doesn’t know can’t hurt it, right?

But it still quite uncomfortable now that you think about it, isn’t it.

Three: Maybe you want to do something about it. Maybe you don’t. (No, this isn’t need-to-know number three. That’s coming up later. This is something to do. Or don’t.) I don’t know and it’s not in my place to tell you what to do.  But at least you care, and that’s a start. You’re already further ahead than probably ninety percent of the adults on the planet. 

All I can do is tell my story, what I’ve done, how it turned out, and hope that it makes you think a little bit, whatever those thoughts may be. And let me tell you something: I’m still not completely sure what I think. That’s why thinking is a verb, right? Once you start, you have to keep doing it. Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s the there is no such thing as true right or wrong in the world of grownups. Not even the side that I’m on. And that sure makes things a whole lot more complicated, as I’m sure you’ll see for yourself. I did what I did not because I wanted to, but because I couldn’t not do it. All I can do now is tell what happened and see what happens from there. 

Hopefully something. Maybe nothing.

Summer '16 YayYA Entry #17: EMBER

Name: Charis M. Ellison (@agreyeyedgirl)

Genre: Historical Fantasy

Title: Ember [working title]

35-word pitch: Cinderella retold with a fat heroine: Ember found an unexpected friend in Prince Rian, but the prince is slowly dying, and Ember suspects the mysterious woman who dances with him at midnight is the cause.

First 500 words: When the knock came at the front door, the future Duchess of Mellyn was standing in the drawing room fireplace, trying to clear some of the soot from the chimney. Mostly she had managed to cover herself in ashes and spiderwebs. The knock came again, booming through the empty rooms of the house. Ember climbed out of the fireplace. No one had used the front door in more than a year, and it took both hands to drag it open before she could poke her head out into the bright winter day. 

A boy of about fifteen stood on the steps, dressed in a red coat so new that it almost sparkled. His crisp posture drooped a little when he saw her.

"I would like to speak to the butler, girl," the boy said stiffly.

"I'm not a girl," Ember said. "I'm at least year older than you, maybe two, and there isn't a butler. What do you want?"

"I have a royal message for Lady Elliana of Mellyn."

"Well, then give it to me."

The boy stared at her. "Give it to you? You'll get it dirty! If there isn't a butler then I'll only give this message to the lady herself!" He stuck out a hairless chin defiantly.

"Then you can still give it to me," Ember said. "I am the lady herself."

He snorted. "You are not. I won't move from this spot until you go and fetch a proper upstairs servant, one with clean hands."

"What's going on?" Annie demanded, coming out of the hallway that led to the kitchens. "Why are you letting in such a draft?"

Ember shoved the door open wider, so that her stepsister could see the red-clad courier. "This is a royal messenger, with a royal message for Lady Elliana," she said. "Maybe you can get him to give it to you."

"Why won't he give it to you?" Annie asked, but the messenger was already interrupting.

"I won't give the message to her either! She's covered in flour! And this initiation has real gold leaf on the edges!" He sounded close to tears.

"Then give it to me."

The voice came from the grand staircase, and Ember turned to see her stepmother come stiffly down the last few steps, ivory cane rapping hard on the marble floor.

"Mother, you shouldn't be up—" Annie began, but Lady Catherin held up a blue-veined hand.

"What do you have, boy?"

The courier looked relieved to have someone condescending to him. He saluted. "A royal message, my lady, for the Lady Elliana of Mellyn. It comes from the hand of the king, my lady, and it's for a ball, my lady, to celebrate the coming of age of the prince, and all young nobles are commanded to attend, my lady, and it's to be held tomorrow!" This spill of information came on the wave of one long breath, and the boy held out a stiff white card that glittered magnificently around the edges.  

REVISION:

Here's my revised pitch and 500 words! Thank you so much for hosting this event, it has been a huge help <3

Pitch: Fat and freckled, Ember finds an unexpected friend in Prince Rian. But he is slowly dying, and Ember doesn't trust the mysterious woman who dances with him at midnight of every ball. Cinderella retold/subverted.

500 words: When the knock came at the front door, the future Duchess of Mellyn was standing in the drawing room fireplace, trying to clear some of the soot from the chimney. Mostly she had managed to cover herself in ashes and spiderwebs. The knock came again, booming through the empty rooms of the house. Ember struggled out of the fireplace.  No one had used the front door in more than a year, and it took both hands to drag it open before she could poke her head out into the bright winter day.

A boy of about thirteen stood on the steps, dressed in a red coat so new that it almost sparkled. His crisp posture drooped a little when he saw her.

"I would like to speak to the butler, girl," the boy said stiffly.

"I'm not a girl," Ember said. "I'm at least four years old than you. And there isn't a butler. What do you want?"

"I have a message for Lady Elliana, future Duchess of Mellyn."

"Well, then give it to me."

His eyes flicked over her disdainfully, taking in her disheveled appearance. Streaks of ash obscured Ember's heavy freckles, while the worn dress she wore did nothing to minimize her plump, heavy figure.  " You'll get it dirty! If there isn't a butler then I'll only give this message to the lady herself!" He stuck out a hairless chin defiantly.

"You can still give it to me," Ember said. "I am the lady herself."

He snorted. "You aren't! I won't move from this spot until you go and fetch a proper upstairs servant, one with clean hands."

"What's going on?" Annie demanded, coming out of the hallway that led to the kitchens. "Why are you letting in such a draft?"

Ember shoved the door open wider, so that her stepsister could see the boy. "This is a royal messenger, with a message for future Duchess of Mellyn. Maybe you can get him to give it to you."

"Why won't he give it to you?" Annie asked, but the messenger was already interrupting.

"I won't give it to her either! She's covered in flour! And this invitation has real gold leaf on the edges!" He sounded close to tears.

"Then give it to me."

Ember turned to see her stepmother come stiffly down the last few steps of the grand staircase, ivory cane rapping hard on the marble floor.

"Mother, you shouldn't be up--" Annie began, but Lady Catherine raised a blue-veined hand.

"Well, boy?" she snapped.

The courier looked relieved to have someone condescending to him. He saluted. "A royal message, my lady, for the Lady Elliana of Mellyn. It comes from the hand of the king, my lady, for a ball to celebrate the prince's coming of age, and all young nobles are commanded to attend, and it's to be held tomorrow!" This information spilled out on one breath, and the boy held up a card that glittered magnificently around the edges.