The Writer's Voice Query and First 250

QUERY:


Dear Lovely Mentors and Agents,


Eighteen-year-old bounty hunter Fyr wants revenge.

As children, she and her brother Asaan watched their village burn in a genocide that ruined their lives. Ever since, they’ve plotted against Vladyslav, a responsible politician, until new disaster threatens.

Every five hundred years, a magic army called “the Blue People” sets foot in Sayy and attempts to conquer it in fateful single combat. If the ceremonial duel doesn’t take place, the Blue People will drown the continent in bloodbath. And sickly Asaan is one of a few who meet the sacred qualifications to represent Sayy.

As soon as Fyr and Asaan set out to warn the bickering nations into action, they’re arrested by Vladyslav, the same conservative politician Fyr hoped to kill. He lures the mercenary siblings into his high society, promising not to prosecute them as long as they stay. And against Fyr's will, she slowly starts to fall for him.

Fyr is trapped. If the siblings leave, they’re condemned, and Vladyslav is lost to Fyr. But if they stay, the Blue People will arrive with no one to duel, ready to attack an oblivious land and destroy what little they have left to live for.

THE RED AND THE SCARLET is a YA historical fantasy complete at 84,000 words, set on a fictional Asian continent in the Napoleonic Era. It is LES MISERABLES and MULAN with a mercenary, minority Jo March for a heroine. It may appeal to fans of THE WRATH AND THE DAWN, SHADOW AND BONE, and JONATHAN STRANGE.

I am the winner of multiple Gold Keys in the Scholastic Arts and Writing Contest, as well as a handful of local awards for short plays that were performed live in Tulsa, Oklahoma, where I live. Besides writing, I love to study history, especially the Napoleonic Era in which THE RED AND THE SCARLET is set.

Thank you for your time and consideration.

FIRST 250:

Fyr stood under spinning snow, a book and dozing brother in arms. She faced the withered heads piked outside the village. 

For a moment, any enmity between her tribe and the Vlalonnans seemed ridiculous. She wished the head could hear her frosted whisper.

"Thank you." She brushed flakes from her dark lashes and balanced baby Asaan on her hip. "For the book."

But that moment ended.

Bouncing Asaan, she squinted through the shivering distance. Warped shadows galloped across the horizon, shouts on lips and swords in gloved fists. Bugle squawks screeched against the sky.

Vlalonnan cavalry.

Fyr knew.

They came because of the heads. They came for revenge.

The riders broke on the village faster than her people could panic. Gunshots shattered still air, clogging the sky with black smoke and death cries.

She dashed towards the yurts, past flailing horse and angry human. Past the living. Past the dying. She pressed all she had to her pounding heart. Her book. Screaming Asaan. His little fists gripped the shoulders of her handpainted robes.

Fyr had to keep him alive.

Suddenly, she collided headlong with gray uniform and staggered to frostgnawed earth. She yanked a carving knife from her belt, pushed squalling Asaan behind her, and looked up. 

A dismayed white face gawked back.

“Who are you?” She jabbed her knife towards the musket in the soldier’s clenched fingers.

The young man blinked. His accented answer paused as it left his trembling mouth.

“Vladyslav.”

His Vlalonnan sky-shaded eyes flitted to her baby brother and widened.


Thanks for reading!

Why Boromir is the Most Underrated Lord of the Rings Character Out of the Fellowship

"I hate Boromir."

"Boromir is such a jerk."

I've had a number of fellow LOTR-junky fans tell me this. My extremely professional response is something along the lines of, "Dude, Boromir is awesome."

Now, I must admit that I disliked Boromir immensely the first time I read/watched Fellowship of the Ring. I'm probably not the only one who felt a little sorry for him only after he died and the story introduced us to the all-around-amazing and heartbroken Faramir. But when I stopped looking at Boromir as a reader/movie viewer and more like a writer, comparing him to the other members of the Fellowship, I suddenly found more reason to appreciate the genius of his character.

Boromir may be, besides Sam, the most developed of all the Fellowship members, despite his brief page/screen time. Lord of the Rings has a morally ambiguous cast, and can lack psychological depth in the narrative. Not so with Boromir.

Boromir is depicted by Tolkien as an embodiment of sheer determination. In the book, half of his 110

league trip to Rivendell from Minas Tirith was on foot after losing his horse in a river crossing. Tolkien himself admitted once that his narrative brushed over Boromir's drive.

He is also one of the most practical of the Fellowship. To me, this is ironic. You have an experienced Ranger, a Wizard, a dwarf with no small heritage, and an elf prince. But Boromir, the rich guy from a dying Ivory Tower-esque city full of ceremony-obsessed Men, is the only one who thinks of bringing firewood with them on their death climb up Caradhras.

Putting these details aside, the most fascinating part of Boromir's personality is this: like Fëanor in The Silmarillion, he is a hero with the wrong faults.

Tolkien despised pride, manipulation of power/authority, and individuals who looked for reward. These characteristics are almost universally found in literary villains. But Tolkien flipped things around, and gave Boromir these faults. The result? A very different, much more complicated type of anti-hero.

The definition of anti-hero is a protagonist who lacks the idealistic qualities of heroism, especially morality and unselfish courage. Basically, Han Solo, the great stereotype for all anti-heroes.

But Boromir is more than that. It's not that he lacks the qualities of heroism. Quite the opposite.

He has the qualities of a hero and the faults of a villain.

Most heroic characters have faults that are considered "acceptable" in literature, especially lying, poor self-esteem, a hot temper, clumsiness, and shyness. Rarely do they have more "villainous" weaknesses, such as vanity, pride, self-interest, and gain-searching. Tolkien, who formed so many molds for the SFF universe, breaks his own mold of atypical heroes and villains in proud, vain but tragically heroic Boromir.

However, unlike the other Tolkien characters with this development, such as Fëanor (who is described as having so much pride that his wisdom became foolish), Boromir ultimately redeems himself.

On an interesting side note, Boromir's brother Faramir's personal downfall is not his faults, but his qualities (commitment, loyalty, selflessness, and pity).

In the rather morally black and white world of Middle Earth, Boromir doesn't blur lines as much as give the overtly fairy-tale traditional Fellowship a dose of unconventional development.

35 Crazy Things I Had to Research for My Books

Writers know that behind every story, there's caffeine, blood, sweat, tears, and a hilarious Google history.

So the other day on Twitter I asked the #amwriting community what were some of the craziest things they had to research for their books. The responses were both fascinating and entertaining, to say the least.

@whatshewrote nuclear power plant, flower stands, the 1970's, and drug dealing.

— amber H (@AmberAHall) April 21, 2015

@whatshewrote This WIP has been fairly straightforward: Stasi, CIA, Octopi, Baltic Mythology, Massacre at Novgorod, & historical eccentrics

— Lana Wood Johnson (@muliebris) April 21, 2015

@whatshewrote hmm biological warfare in the Dark Ages and Siberian legends

— Jessica Rubinkowski (@JessRubinkowski) April 21, 2015

@whatshewrote the interior of a concert venue in the Soviet Union in the 1980s. I still can't believe I found it.

— Jennifer Lee (@jeneralee) April 21, 2015

@whatshewrote How to make different types of bombs & which are the most effective; blueprints for a popular Chicago tourist attraction; etc.

— Julia Byers (@Julia_Byers) April 21, 2015

 All this to say, I decided to take a break from talking about How To Write Things and list some of the crazy stuff I had to research for the three WIPs that have occupied my writerly time these past two years.

1. The Grande Armeé's cannon horse color coordination

Yes, this was actually a thing.


2. How seats are numbered at Turner Field in Atlanta

3. Qing Dynasty Chinese marriage traditions

4. The history of Hebrew Lexiconography

One of these, basically.


5. Hawaiian leprosy colonies

Moloka'i colony in the 1880s

6. How to fold a letter in the Regency Era

Now I just need to know how to read it! Diagonal, backwards, and across, all to save paper.

7. Hurling (which is a pretty awesome sport)

8. 1920s slang

Some of my favorites are "booshwashing" (chatting uselessly), and "drugstore cowboy" (a guy who hangs around the street dressed up looking for a girl)

9. How to wreck a steam engine effectively

10. The Tailteann Games

The Tailteann Games were the Ancient Irish Olympics, though they pre-dated the Olympics by far. In the 1920s the Games had a hugely popular but sadly short-lived revival. 

11. The history of the can-can

Well, can you?

12. The Art of War by Sun Tzu

13. If Benedictine monasteries take mail

According to the original order, nope.

14. Tsunami wave patterns

Turned out to be a whole lot more complicated than I thought.

15. Heterochromia

16. Insane child monarchs

This is Peter III of Russia, better known as Catherine the Great's husband. His favorite past time was to play war with his pet rats.

17. Luddite Rebellion

18. Trestle bridge construction

19. Cowboy boots

20. Goats

21. Pirate code (which ruined parts of Pirates of the Caribbean for me the first time I watched it)

22. What time of year it's safe to hike Mount Fuji. Also, the haunted forests around it.

They say the trees look like they're walking


23. Grab and go slave auctions

As if they weren't bad enough. Someone would fire a gun and the buyers would run in and snatch the first slave they wanted.

24. Chinese water torture

25. How to brew poteen, negus, and vodka

Poteen = Irish potato moonshine. Negus = spiced wine, AKA Regency Era equivalent of Starbucks. Vodka = well, vodka.

26. How soon to RSVP to a Regency Era ball

Do it ASAP.

27. Celtic cattle raids

Celts took their raids seriously. Really seriously. This is Cu Chulainn. In the Irish fable The Cattle Raid of Cooley, nearby Queen Medb decides she wants Cu's buddy's bull and launches a massive war against him where hundreds of people die... all for a bull. 

28. Pre-Roman cosmetics

Ground beetle shells and berry juice, anyone?

29. The wattage level of a room full of candles

Only about 15 watts, apparently.

30. Thai noodle carts

31. How to creel spinning mules, and what type of grease was used on the machine

Watch your fingers. Creeling is taking the empty bobbins off and replacing them. Spinning mules were greased with vegetable fat.

32. The Taiping Rebellion's Heavenly Army

Included divisions especially for women and children

33. The Carol of the Bells

The original Ukrainian song was about spring, and included lyrics about lambs, flowers, and birds flying through your window.

34. The Georgia Aquarium's Dolphin Show room's layout

35. Russian thunder god totem poles

Yeah, don't ask.




There you go.

What are some crazy things you've had to research?

#YayYA Critique Party: Entry #6

Name: Katy Loutzenhiser (@katyloutz)

Genre: Contemporary YA

Title: Maddy Makes Three

35-Word Pitch: Hidden behind an ironically named Cannon Rebel, Maddy has been clicking along from the sidelines - until an illicit road trip with her friends and crush sends her blundering through life on the wild side.

First 500: 

You pass your exit on the highway. What do you do?

(a) Pull off onto the emergency lane and wait for help.

(b) Look for a break in traffic and make a U-turn. Or,

(c) Get off at the next exit and turn around.

Okay yes, (a) might sound a bit ridiculous but if we’re honest with ourselves, I think we’ve all thought this way once or twice in our lives. Maybe, if I curl up in a ball and wait, someone will swoop in and fix things for me.

(b) is admittedly reckless but I appreciate its rebellious flare. Fight the current! Danger be darned! The word “should” has no place in the vocabularies of (b) people. I am not a (b) person.

That leaves (c): get off at the next exit and turn around. Clearly (c) is the solution to the missed-exit dilemma. Accept your mistake, cut your losses, and avoid any major catastrophes. (c) is the sensible answer, and according to the state of Massachusetts, the correct one.

But here’s where I take issue with this particular parentally-mandated driving school conundrum. Sometimes (c) isn’t an option. Sometimes you miss your exit and there is no second exit. And since, as discussed, (a) and (b) aren’t suitable options, you’re stuck, barreling ahead into the vast and infinite unknown.

In such instances, I propose an alternative:

(d) Make a road trip out of it.

MILE 0

I closed one eye and stared idly through the viewfinder. The little square caught trees and windows, sliding forward and back with the twisting lens. Georgia rested quietly beside me, her door left open to the summer breeze. I noticed she’d set back the trip odometer. Huh, I thought. That seemed weirdly festive of her. A burst of red flashed by the frame. Rose was barreling down her front steps, a fiery mop of pinned-up curls bouncing along behind her.

“EpiPen and inhaler,” she said as she slid into the back.

“You forget those but not your hot pink legwarmers,” I retorted, dead-panned.

“Hey,” said Rose. “Both vital.” Georgia laughed mid-yawn and Rose leaned in between us. “You know. Unlike Maddy here, I can actually drive.” I poked my tongue out playfully.

        

“It’s not really a question of can,” said Georgia, the yawns growing bigger. “More a matter of a should.” Rose nodded, accepting this. Since getting her license, she’d already crashed her mother’s car. Twice.

Georgia pulled up her seat and I returned my camera to its case. “So,” said Rose to me. “Are you completely freaking out?”

“I could ask you the same question.”

Rose shook her head wisely. “I don’t experience guilt. I think I was a bird in a past life."

Georgia was bent forward beneath the wheel now, searching at her feet. “What does that have to do with anything?” she asked, straining.

Rose shrugged. “How many guilty birds do you see flying around?”

Name: Katy Loutzenhiser (@kloutzen)

Title: MADDY MAKES THREE

Genre: Contemporary

Revised 35 Word Pitch: Teen photographer Maddy Taylor has been hiding behind the lens - until a trip to find Georgia's mysterious dad sends her hurtling toward trouble with a carful of unlikely friends and the boy she's always loved.

Revised First 500:

You pass your exit on the highway. What do you do?

(a)  Pull off onto the emergency lane and wait for help.

(b)  Look for a break in traffic and make a U-turn. Or,

(c)   Get off at the next exit and turn around.

Okay yes, (a) might sound a bit ridiculous but if we’re honest with ourselves, I think we’ve all thought this way once or twice in our lives. Maybe, if I curl up in a ball and wait, someone will swoop in and fix things for me.

(b) is admittedly reckless but I appreciate its rebellious flare. Fight the current! Danger be darned! The word “should” has no place in the vocabularies of (b) people. I am not a (b) person.

That leaves (c): get off at the next exit and turn around. Clearly (c) is the solution to the missed-exit dilemma. Accept your mistake, cut your losses, and avoid any major catastrophes. (c) is the sensible answer, and according to the state of Massachusetts, the correct one.

But here’s where I take issue with this particular parentally-mandated driving school conundrum. Sometimes (c) isn’t an option. Sometimes you miss your exit and there is no second exit. And since, as discussed, (a) and (b) aren’t suitable options, you’re stuck, barreling ahead into the vast and infinite unknown.

In such instances, I propose an alternative:

(d) Make a road trip out of it.

Mile 0

I closed one eye and peeked out through the viewfinder. The little square caught flowery branches, sliding forward and back with the camera’s twisting lens. I glanced beside me and laughed under my breath. Georgia stayed face-planted into the steering wheel, arms dangling, her door left open to the summer breeze. I noticed she’d set back the trip odometer. Huh, I thought, returning to my tree. That seemed weirdly festive of her. A burst of red hair streaked across the frame. Rose was barreling down her front steps, a shimmering mop of pinned-up curls bouncing along behind her.

 “EpiPen and inhaler,” she said as she slid into the back.

I blinked back at her. “You forget those but not your hot pink leg warmers.”

“Hey,” said Rose. “Both vital.” Georgia snorted into the wheel and Rose leaned in between us. “You know. Unlike Maddy here, I can actually drive.” I rolled my eyes. Hilarious.

“It’s not really a question of can,” said Georgia through a yawn. “More a matter of a should.” Rose nodded, accepting this. Since getting her license, she’d already crashed her mother’s car. Twice.

Georgia gave herself a wide-eyed shake and started rummaging through her bag.

“So,” said Rose. She gave my hair a little pat. “Are you completely freaking out?”

“I could ask you the same question,” I said quickly.

Rose shook her head. “I don’t experience guilt. I think I was a bird in a past life.”

Georgia was bent forward beneath the wheel now. “What does that have to do with anything?” she asked, straining.

Rose shrugged.  “How many guilty birds do you see flying around?”

Newbery Review: Maniac Magee by Jerry Spinelli (1991 Medal Winner)

"The history of a kid is one part fact, two parts legend, and three parts snowball."

This is only one of many favorite lines out of Jerry Spinelli's classic Maniac Magee. In an era where kids want the entertainment steroids of racing comedic moneymakers, I found Maniac's underrated story, often passed on the shelves, to be a masterfully captured snippet of what childhood used to be.

The author sits the reader down to tell them the story of "the legend of Two Mills." Supposedly, one day some kid with flapping sneaker soles entered the racially-divided town (a fictional setting based on Norristown, Pennsylvania), and became known as Maniac Magee. How? Oh, just by running the rail, getting the Beale kids to stop coloring on everything, skipping school, hitting home runs off of bully McNab, untangling the local pizza parlor's famous knot, and by kissing a bull (actually a baby buffalo... details). But most of all, people remember Maniac for showing them that there was no big difference between East and West other than what difference they wanted to make.

I love this book. I read it a few years back when I first started thinking about going through the Newberys, shortly after I moved to Oklahoma. As a native of Maniac's part of the planet, it warmed me to see names like Conshohocken, King of Prussia, and Valley Forge, and to hear references to Butterscotch Krimpets, minor league baseball, and just general Pennsylvanian culture. Every time I read Maniac Magee, it's a trip home. Obviously, this won't connect the same way to most readers, but to me it was a personal bonus to an already-great story.

Now, don't be fooled by the title. Maniac Magee is not a galloping read. It's not as fast as, say, the Lego Movie or Maze Runner in the least. It jogs along, but with its strong voice and ability to bring you back to your own childhood days, it holds attention. Yes, it's episodic, and yes, it's sometimes a little hard to believe, but that's the whole point. This is a legend we're reading about, right? :D

Spinelli's greatest achievement, though, is his ability to make his political statements without actually making them. By this, I mean that while other Newbery winners often present their political and moral ideas in an adult to child way, this story processes the consequences of racism right alongside its main character. He's also not afraid to show the resentment of the East Enders and their own discrimination towards Maniac, nor show the unhappy state of the so-called "white trash" life.

This could make for a weighty read. But it doesn't. We see everything through Maniac's eyes, and mostly, he just doesn't understand why things are the way they are. And eventually, through his so-called "legendary" antics, which he pulls off kindly and without being a jerk in the least, the rest of Two Mills doesn't either.

All this to say, I highly recommend this book. It's a relatively short read, and I'd love to see it make a comeback in popularity.


Rating: Five stars

Recommended reading age: 10+

Favorite characters: Amanda and Maniac

Content for parents: some slight bathroom humor, some "bad" kids are described as smokers and drinkers, another kid (more dramatically than anything else) wishes he were dead.


For more Marvelous Middle Grade Reviews, check out Shannon's blog here. 

#YayYA Critique Party: Entry #9

Name: Gail Werner

Genre: Contemporary

Title: Chasing Cal

35-word pitch: Eighteen-year-old Chase Winters must use clues from his dead brother Cal's cellphone to rediscover a sibling with another family on the other side of the country now in desperate need of Chase's help.

First 500: 

I'm slouched in a chair in the back row of Professor Monahan's class when I feel a tap on my shoulder. I turn and see a flash of Libby's wine red hair.

"What are you doing?" I hiss.

"I had to find you." From her backpack she removes a small white box, dime-sized grease marks staining its sides. "I wanted you to eat this while it was still fresh."

The guy in front of me, the one with undercut hair and Buddy Holly glasses, turns around, flashing us a dirty look.

"Sorry," Libby fires back, her voice growing louder.

Of course I want to know what's in the box. But I hate missing out on what Professor Monahan is saying. Soon the students will debate the finer points of Kurt Vonnegut's Slapstick. Today's the day I finally planned to join them.

I spent the first three months of spring semester sitting outside this class, trying to follow along with discussions about the works of Vonnegut, one of my favorite authors. It was after spring break before Professor Monahan noticed me lurking.

"You might as well join us," she'd said from the doorway, watching me eye college students scurrying past, late for classes they were paying to take. Following her in, I'd parked it in a chair farthest from the front of the room, the same one I've sat my grateful butt in every Wednesday since.

Now I close my dog-earred copy of the book, staring at the blank eyes of a snowman on its cover, trying to avoid the eyes of someone else: Professor Monahan, who's glaring in my direction. She's upset Libby is interrupting her course. One as a high school senior I shouldn't be taking, but want to remain enough in her good graces to come back to, so I follow Libby out the door.

We head for the stairwell, Libby leading the way. She knows the blueprint of nearly every building at Central State University since her parents have taught here since before she was born. It was a given she'd attend Palmer Academy, the two-year, residential high school that's an offshoot of the university, the one with the glossy brochure touting its ranking as the best in Indiana.

Palmer is where I met Libby. She's pretty much the only one of my classmates I've let know me. As in, well enough to know where I'd be at quarter past six on a Wednesday evening.

"Okay," she pants as we reach the fifth-floor landing. "Almost there …"—she leans against the cinderblock wall—"…I freaking hate stairs."

"Whatever treat you brought," I swallow hard, "it better be worth dragging me out of class." I slide down the door to the roof, relishing the feel of the cool metal through the thin cotton of my t-shirt.

Libby's got the white box back out. Facing me, seated with her legs crossed, she roots in her backpack.

"A-ha!" She pulls out two plastic forks, wiping them on her black jeans.



Revision Notes on First 500: Appreciate everyone who chimed in on my first draft. Your comments (the confusion about whether Chase was in college and why he'd leave class for a treat) pulled me back to my original first scene, which hopefully better captures the camaraderie between my protagonist and his BFF. Also, I worked Cal (the doomed older brother) in sooner. In about two more pages, readers learn his fate and the story takes off from there. 

TITLE: Chasing Cal

Genre: Contemporary YA

PITCH: Chase's dreams of a sibling reunion die the same night his brother does. Now he's convinced all Cal's left behind is a cell phone. The clues it offers are about to prove him wrong.

FIRST 500:

A bell tinkles and I look up from the words I'm putting down in my notebook.

Liberty Jones stands in the doorway of the Railway Café, her soft curves filling its frame. About time, I think as she slides into our booth.

"Before you get mad," she says, "my excuse today is actually a good one."

This is our routine; I show up early, buy us coffees and pie (Libby: sugar cream, me: pecan). She shows up late, proffering reasons she can't arrive on time—not even for this, our last study session of our senior year at Palmer Academy.

From her messenger bag she removes a white box, lifting its lid. I can't see what's inside, but my nose is bombarded by the scent of cream cheese icing. It overpowers the fry grease smells embedded in the walls of the Railway.

 “Is that what I think it is?”

“Uh-huh." Libby's grin matches mine and briefly I'm in a Jules Verne novel, on a journey to prove her dimples reach the center of the earth.

"Mom had a class in Indy. She stopped at Cake Walk on the way home." Libby tilts her head, her red curls falling over her shoulder, light glinting off one of her dangly earrings. "You said once the best cupcake of your life came from there."

I can't believe she recalls this gluttonous confession of mine. "Lib, you didn't—"

"Chase Winters," she interjects. "As if I'd forget your birthday."

I push aside my books and our pie. The slices look sad, their whipped topping deflated and watery. "That's … beyond generous of you," I say, reaching for the box.

"Wait!" She motions for a waitress. "Can we get another plate?"

The next thing I know, a red velvet cupcake the size of my head is revealed.

“Dig in," she pronounces satisfactorily.

I'm removing the cupcake's moist paper liner when she slaps my hand. "Wait!"

I exhale loudly. "What now?" Being denied this cupcake is making me hungry and angry—"hangry" Libby calls it.

Reaching into her leather jacket, she pulls out a candle, pushing it into the cupcake's center. From the other hand, a Zippo lighter, her eyebrows crinkling as she catches a flame. Soon her face is bathed in the warm glow of candlelight.

"I almost forgot. You have to make a wish."

I wait two seconds, eyes locked on hers. Then I lie. "Done."

"Nooo!" She shakes her head. "Close your eyes."

We've taken this childish tribute this far so I do as I'm told. Listen to her hum the "Happy Birthday" song. Then make the same wish I've made since my older brother last saw me blow out a set of birthday candles:

Please be the year I see Cal again.

I open my eyes to see Libby's expression has softened. "What you wished for … did it have something to do with your brother?"

Suddenly I'm too choked up to answer, remembering the first time I told her about Cal.

#YayYA Critique Party: Entry #3

Name: Jessica Bloczynski

Genre: YA sci-fi

Title: Silverblood

35 word pitch: When Izzy accidentally infects herself with stolen cyborg tech meant to save her dying sister, she endangers her family. Now, she must battle vengeful scientists bent on reclaiming their research or lose her sister forever.

First 500:  I brought a fistful of dry Froot Loops to my mouth— and missed. Cereal rained down my shirt, lodging in for future snacking. One rogue purple ring floated, like a cheerful life-preserver, in agar. I coaxed the cereal out of the petri dish. Maybe not noticeable if you didn't look too hard. I pushed my glasses up and looked again. Powdered rainbow carnage coated the dish and the kitchen counter. No, totally noticeable for the not blind-from-birth set. A trail of suddenly sickening fake-fruity spit ran down my throat. 

Awesome.
Yes, because death by lab-partner was exactly how I wanted to end my short life. The clock struck the hour. Only seven minutes to book my late rear to school for bio presentation Thunderdome. The doorbell rang. I cradled the remains of my project against my chest. It rang again, filling the front hall with a stacatto ding-dong-ding-dong-ding-dong.

Impatient, much? Kicking open the door, I squinted through morning glare that bounced off the delivery guy's bald head and electronic signing pad. “Delivery for Eli Silverstein.”

I jerked my chin at the empty driveway. Dad had left hours ago. At the lab, as per usual. I swallowed a mouthful of Froot Loop mush. “He's not here.”

“Look, kid, just sign the form.”

With a lot of sweaty armpits and über-manly grunting, two more delivery dudes hauled a hugenormous, plastic-looking crate onto the porch. It see-sawed on the top step. Delivery Guy one dropped his pad on top of my petri dishes and pirouetted toward the toppling crate. Too late, dude. The crate slow-mo crashed into the porch railing. Glass tinkled, a lightning-bolt shaped rift split the side of the crate, and a weird silvery liquid dribbled from a row of small holes along the bottom.

“Nice moves.” Setting my—possibly salvageable— project on the porch railing, I squiggled my signature onto the pad. “Hope you guys have insurance.” Behind us, the other two hoisted the box upright, and more silver stuff oozed out, running between the slats in the porch floor. The nose-tickling scent of moldy leaves and metal rose from beneath.

You have any problems, have your dad call this number.” He held out a yellow slip of paper. Speedy Delivery – For all your shipping needs. Fast, Friendly, Affordable. Guess they couldn't figure out another F word.

He made a wide turn. One elbow slammed into my project and two weeks of carefully cultured bacteria soared into the bushes.
"Hey!" I called after them, but they were already climbing in their van. It screeched away in a cloud of noxious fumes.

The morning sun hit my upended petri dishes, the large partially damaged box, and a small amount of silver liquid pooling at the box corner. I know I should have minded my own business, salvaged what I could of the presentation, and let Dad's box be Dad's problem. But the silver stuff had such a funky shimmer, the way the light bounced off it. The way it almost seemed to move and glisten in the sunlight. 



Name: Jessica Bloczynski

Genre: YA sci-fi

Title: Silverblood

35 word pitch: When fifteen-year-old Izzy stumbles upon her dad's plan to save her dying sister with stolen nanobots, she is forced to confront that her is sister is no longer human and dangerous. Very dangerous. 

First 500: I brought a fistful of dry Froot Loops to my mouth— and missed. Cereal rained down my shirt. One rogue purple ring floated, like a cheerful life-preserver, smack dab in the middle of the petri dish. I coaxed the cereal out of the pink, gooey agar. Maybe not noticeable if you didn't look too hard. I pushed my glasses up and looked again. Powdered rainbow carnage coated the dish and the kitchen counter. No, totally noticeable for the not blind-from-birth set. A trail of suddenly sickening fake-fruity spit ran down the back of my throat.
Awesome.
Yes, because death by lab-partner was exactly how I wanted to end my short life. The clock struck the hour. Only seven minutes to book my late butt to school for bio presentation Thunderdome. The doorbell rang. I cradled the remains of my project against my chest. It rang again, filling the front hall with a staccato ding-dong-ding-dong-ding-dong.

Impatient, much? Kicking open the door, I squinted through morning glare that bounced off the delivery guy's bald head and electronic signing pad. “Delivery for Eli Silverstein.” 

I jerked my chin at the empty driveway. Dad had left hours ago. At the lab, as per usual. I swallowed a mouthful of Froot Loop mush. “He's not here.” 

“Look, kid, just sign the form.” 

With a lot of sweaty armpits and über-manly grunting, two more delivery dudes hauled a hugenormous, plastic-looking crate onto the porch. It see-sawed on the top step. Delivery Guy One dropped his pad on top of my petri dishes and pirouetted toward the toppling crate. Too late, dude. The crate slow-mo crashed into the porch railing. Glass tinkled, a lightning-bolt shaped rift split the side of the crate, and a weird silvery liquid dribbled from a row of small holes along the bottom. 

“Nice moves.” Setting my—possibly salvageable— project on the porch railing, I squiggled my signature onto the pad. “Hope you guys have insurance.” Behind us, the other two hoisted the box upright, and more silver stuff oozed out, running between the slats in the porch floor. The nose-tickling scent of moldy leaves and metal rose from beneath.

“You have any problems, have your dad call this number.” He held out a yellow slip of paper. Speedy Delivery – For all your shipping needs. Fast, Friendly, Affordable. Guess they couldn't figure out another F word.

He made a wide turn. One elbow slammed into my project and two weeks of carefully cultured bacteria soared into the bushes.
"Hey!” I rushed to the railing. “That was rude!”

Jerkfaces!

But if they heard me at all, they made no sign, and just climbed in their van screeching away in a cloud of noxious fumes. 

The morning sun hit my upended petri dishes, the large partially damaged box, and a small amount of silver liquid pooling at the box corner. I know I should have minded my own business, salvaged what I could of my presentation, and let Dad's box be Dad's problem. But the silver stuff had such a funky shimmer, the way the light bounced off it.