2017 #YayYA Entry #7: Daughters of the Dragon

Name: Elizabeth Chang-Gibson @ewgibson

Genre: YA Fantasy

Title: DAUGHTERS OF THE DRAGON
35 word Pitch:

In a world where Chinese fairytales are real, Sara, a sixteen-year-old artist, trades her brushes for a sword to save her little sister from a sorceress hell-bent on eating souls to feed her magical powers.

First 500:

Sara

"A heavenly spirit rides on the back of the white crane, carrying secret messages from the world where butterflies dream." ~ Apoism #28

  

I’d waited five years for a message from my dead mother. Now that I had it, I wished to God I could send it back.

Huddled under the covers, I rocked my firefly lighter back and forth to the drone of the rain hitting the roof. Once again, a nightmare had yanked me from my sleep. A nightly occurrence since I lost my parents. After waking, I’d hunch over my book of dreams, and with the stub of my charcoal stick, I’d gouge black shapes into the paper to banish the demons.

This time, when I opened my book, I found something I hadn’t drawn. The blast of my lighter illuminated my mother’s chop—her signature seal in Chinese characters—stamped on the bottom left corner of my book.

Grandma Apo had cautioned that our Chinese ancestors always returned in some form. Their souls redressed and then booted out the door to live again. “Don’t step on the cockroach,” she would warn me. “It could be your thieving great uncle, Feng.” But no amount of forewarning could’ve prepared me for the sight of my mother’s calligraphy.

The chop bloomed as red as the tide that turns the ocean the color of blood. Above it, six stacked horizontal lines, dressed in the blackest of ink, stood like a legion of soldiers in formation. Was this the written language of the dead? Simple lines and no words.

In the distance, thunder rumbled like a wounded animal.

“Sara.” Jaz, my five-year-old sister, cried out in her sleep.

I rolled over and cradled her in my arms. “Shhhhh. We’re okay, monkey face.”

Her tiny body trembled and it wouldn’t stop until the thunder disappeared. “I hate thunder. It makes everything dark,” she said.

 I lit the lantern sitting on the table next to the bed. Then I finger combed her sweat-soaked bangs from her eyes. “Remember the puppet master’s story about his shadow puppets, the sun, and the moon. Well, this morning, the sun is late chasing his wife, the moon. He’s probably napping under a blanket of clouds. As you should be.”

She sat up and puffed herself up as big she could. “I’m not a baby.”

“That’s a relief. Now I can go back to sleep while you light the kang stove with fresh dung cakes. Don’t forget the congee this morning. And remember, I like green onions in my porridge. Then you can help in the rice fields today. ” I lay back on the bed, wishing she would do the same. She was in such a rush to grow up and I wanted her little forever. More precisely, I wanted her ignorant of the monster inside me.

“I have to tell you what I saw,” she said with a tiny pout.

“You can tell me your dream later. After you wake up.”

“But…

35 word Pitch:

In an ancient China that never was, sixteen-year-old artist, Shala trades her brushes for a sword to save her little sister from a sorceress hell-bent on eating souls to feed her magical powers.

First 500 Words:

CHAPTER ONE

Shala

"A heavenly spirit rides on the back of the white crane, carrying secret messages from the world where butterflies dream." ~ Apoism #28

For five years, I have waited for a message from my dead mother. Now that I had it, I wished to all the gods I could send it back.

Huddled under the covers, I rocked my firefly lantern back and forth to the drone of the rain hitting the roof. The motion agitated the fireflies and they reacted by flashing a cold light inside the transparent silk container. Every night since I lost my parents, a nightmare would yank me from a deep slumber. Bleary-eyed, I’d hunch over my book of dreams, and with the stub of my charcoal stick, I’d gouge black shapes into the paper to banish the demons.

This time, when I opened the book, I found something I hadn’t drawn. The blast from my lantern illuminated mother’s chop—her signature seal in Chinese characters—stamped on the bottom left corner of the page.

Grandma Apo had cautioned that our ancestors always returned in some form. Their souls redressed in new skins and then booted out the ten courts of hell. “Don’t step on the cockroach,” she would warn me. “It could be your thieving great uncle, Feng.” But no amount of forewarning could’ve prepared me for the sight of my mother’s calligraphy.

The chop bloomed as red as the algae that bleeds the ocean the color of blood. Above it, six stacked horizontal lines, dressed in the blackest of ink, stood like a legion of soldiers in formation. Was this the written language of the dead? Simple lines and no words.

In the distance, thunder rumbled like a wounded animal.

“Shala!” Jaz, my five-year-old sister, cried out. When our parents died, she was barely a month old. Since then, my sole concerned was protecting her.

I rolled over in our shared bed and cradled her in my arms. “Shhhhh. We’re okay, monkey face.”

Her tiny body trembled against me. “I hate thunder. It makes everything dark,” she said.

I rocked the lantern and handed it to her. The glow from the light brightened her face now full of smiles. Then I finger combed her sweat-soaked bangs from her eyes. “Remember the puppet master’s story about his shadow puppets, the sun, and the moon. Well, this morning, the sun is late chasing his wife, the moon. He’s probably napping under a blanket of clouds. As you should be.”

She sat up and puffed herself up as big she could. “I’m not a baby.”

Covering my mouth, I stifled a laugh. “That’s a relief.” I pinched her nose. “Now I can go back to sleep while you light the kang stove and use fresh dung cakes. Don’t forget the congee this morning. And remember, I like green onions in my rice porridge. Then you can work the rice fields today. ” I lay back on the bed, wishing she would do the same. She was in such a rush to grow up and I wanted her little forever. More precisely, I wanted her ignorant of the monster inside me.

“I have to tell you what I saw,” she said with a tiny pout.

“You can tell me your dream later. After you wake up.”

“But…

2017 #YayYA Entry #6: A Serenade for the Bright Night

Name: Maria Hossain (@logophile_maria)

Genre: High Fantasy

Title: A Serenade For The Bright Night

35 word pitch:

A princess’s quest for revenge jeopardizes her subject’s lives. A day laborer’s feelings for a prisoner sabotage his mission to save his dying brother. Millennium apart, their lives will interweave when humanity’s greatest threat strikes.

First 500 word:

Chapter 01: Prime Princess

When I was born, my mother wished me dead. An ‘apaya’, she called me, according to my midwife. Meaning “born ill-fated” in our ancestors’ ancient language. A proverb goes, “Wherever an apaya turns, a house burns.”

“Get up, you apaya!” 

The moment I hear it, I stiffen. Is it directed at me? I clutch Azibo’s hands in the impasse we’re hiding.

“Get up, apaya!” 

I cower, my self-respect withering. With it surfaces my fear of getting caught. Have we been discovered? The stench of bovine entrails, fish scales, and human urine in the alley make me nauseated. The dry loaves I ate for breakfast threaten to come out. Sweat soaks my threadbare shift to my skin. 

“It’s not you, love,” Azibo whispers. A kiss he places on my head. I sneak a glance over my shoulder. On the street, a girl of about ten winters is being lugged. Her shift too short, too tattered, too somber a view. Her dark locks are tangled, bunched up in a man’s hands, the one dragging her. Teeth gritted, he lifts her scrawny body and hands her to two darkly clad men. 

My father’s men. 

My father, the king. 

Sickle swords are strapped on their belts, with baldrics of daggers across their chest. A sight that terrified and prompted us to hide in this impasse, behind piles of broken trash crates. Though my father begrudgingly spared Azibo and me after my low marriage, we still must evade his men to avoid trouble.

On a mule few steps away from the guards is a sack. When the girl’s been tied with bronze shackles and thrown over the mule, the man who was dragging her lunges for it. A few tears on it reveal its content; flax seed. From the look of it, it won’t last a fortnight, even for one person. 

The girl struggles. The clinging fetters bruise her. “Father…” she whimpers. Her greedy father doesn’t pay her any attention. He’s busy with the sack. 

This has been going on the Island ever since my father ascended the throne. Parents selling off their children, husbands using wives as harlots, all for a mouthful of food. Once cannibalism occurred in the slum outside the border walls. Back then I wasn’t the slum’s resident. 

“That’s enough, love. Please.” Azibo turns me away. Unlike the girl, my scruffy shift reaches my knees. It used to be Azibo’s. I altered it to look more feminine. After all, sewing, weaving and spinning are my only talents, and means of livelihood. 

“I’m fine.” My trembling voice gives away. If I wasn’t born as the Prime Princess, rather impoverished like that poor girl, my father would’ve sold me off too. Even though my father, king of the Meridian Island, was the one who dubbed me with the title. In our state, the largest in the Pantheon, the heir apparent are called Prime Prince. I used to be the only Prime Princess in history.

2017 #YayYA Entry #5: I'm Sorry for Doing Nothing

Name: JL Bartley

Twitter: @TheJLBartley

Genre: YA Contemporary

Title: I'm Sorry for Doing Nothing

35 Word Pitch:

Finn seeks revenge but when his crush is locked in the same room during a school shooting HE created, he rethinks everything. He must lay low to survive or out himself to save her.

First 500 Words:

The hallway is silent. Eerily silent. I had prepared myself for noise and chaos. Running and screaming. Not this. I take a deep breath to calm myself down a bit. It should be starting any minute. What is taking so long? When we discussed it this morning, no one ever told me it’d be so quiet. I stare down at my shoes contemplating the day and what is supposed to happen. Contemplating what I am doing here in this situation. Just as I’m about to back out of this and try and call it off, I look up and see a scared freshman rounding the corner. A few others scramble behind him. It’s too late to stop it now.

       

I’m supposed to be firing my gun. I am supposed to be shooting my classmates but I’m frozen. Kids run into me almost knocking me to the ground. I regain my balance and slowly reach my hand behind me and into my waistband. My fingers wrap around the handle, my index finger resting on the trigger.

My dull senses are slowly returning to me one at a time. First my vision: Chaos surrounds me but it surprisingly seems rather organized. A lot of movement. Not even as much pushing and shoving as I had expected. Students are helping others that have fallen. It’s not a “fend for yourself” situation like I guessed it would be. My classmates were selfish and uncaring. Surely they wouldn’t be helping each other survive.

Next is my hearing: The gunshots that were once a muffled sound are now at full volume. I have snapped out of my trance. “Finn, man run!” someone shouts as he rushes past me. No one is scared of me. No one is running away from me. But I guess why would they be? I am not a threat or at least not a threat they are aware of.

Finally, my ability to move returns. As I grip the handle of the gun again and begin to tug it from my waistband, I am knocked to the ground. My mind panics. I’ve already been taken out before I have even gotten one shot off. This is not how this was supposed to go. “Get up man, we gotta go! Get up,” and a sophomore I shared gym class with is pulling me up from the ground. He doesn’t know what he’s doing. He doesn’t know that he shouldn’t be helping me.  Helping me is hurting him…in the long run. I’m now lost in what seems like a sea of students. I am being jostled and pushed down the hallway. I’ve almost forgotten what my role is in all of this. I’ve forgotten that I have a part to play and I turn into a normal scared student. As I get pushed down the hall everything seems so surreal.

I can't believe this is actually happening today. It has been talked about so much in the news and people make so many plans.

Revised Pitch:

Finn seeks revenge on classmates, but that changes when his crush is locked in the same room during a school shooting he created. He must lay low to survive or out himself to save her.

Revised 500 words:

The hallway is silent and empty. Eerily so. I had prepared myself for noise and chaos. Running and screaming. Not this. I take a deep breath to calm myself down, my head swiveling in all directions looking for what, I wasn’t sure of. Maybe for someone to ask what I’m doing standing in the middle of the hallway when I should be anywhere else but here. Maybe waiting for someone to realize what I am about to do, what is about to happen, and stop it so that I don’t have to…because I don’t think I can at this point.

I stare down at my shoes slightly bouncing back and forth on the balls of my feet, wringing my hands, and contemplating all that we have planned and how I landed myself in this position. I shudder and try to shake off this feeling of doubt, of dread. It should be starting any minute. When we discussed it this morning, no one told me it’d be so quiet.  What is taking so long? As I’m about to back out of this and try and call it off, a scared freshman rounds the corner. A few others scramble behind him. It’s too late to stop this now. 

I’m supposed to be firing my gun, to be shooting my classmates, but I’m frozen in the middle of this once empty hallway. A wave of kids run towards me almost knocking me to the ground. I regain my balance and slowly reach my hand behind me and into my waistband. My fingers wrap around the handle, my index finger resting on the trigger.

My dulled senses begin to thaw and return to me one at a time. First my vision comes back into focus. What was once blurred bodies is now terrified classmates, faces stained with fear. Somewhat organized chaos surrounds me. A lot of movement but not as much pushing and shoving as I had expected. Students help others who have fallen. It’s not a “fend for yourself” situation like I assumed it would be. My classmates were selfish and uncaring. Surely they wouldn’t be helping each other survive. 

Next to return is my hearing. The gunshots that were once a distant muffled sound are now at full volume and getting closer. I have snapped out of my trance. “Finn, man run!” someone shouts as he rushes past me. No one is scared of me. No one is running away from me. But I guess why would they be? I am not a threat, or at least not a threat they are aware of.

Finally, my ability to move returns. As I grip the handle of the gun again and begin to tug it from my waistband, a kid knocks to the ground. My mind panics. I’ve already been taken out before I have even gotten one shot off. This is not how this is supposed to go.

“Get up man, we gotta go! Get up,” and a sophomore I shared gym class with pulls me up from the ground. He doesn’t know what he’s doing. He doesn’t know he shouldn’t be helping me.  Helping me is hurting him…in the long run. A sea of students jostles and pushes me down the hallway making me almost forget what my role is in all of this. I turn into a regular scared student, not the intimidating wielder of revenge I am supposed to be.  As I’m shoved down the hall in this mass of panicked students, everything seems so surreal.

2017 #YayYA Entry #4: Six Easy Steps to Becoming an Oracle

Name: Kimberly Bea (@KimBea)

Genre: Contemporary Fantasy

35 word pitch: A teenage oracle from a family of psychics must decide: follow her calling and lose her freedom, or betray her family's beliefs and let an impostor take her place. Percy Jackson meets That’s So Raven. 

First 500 words: 

It's  Friday night. I’m thinking about my destiny and watching a beautiful boy play guitar.

The coffee shop is nearly empty. Half a mile from school, it’s usually filled with kids, but they clear out on a Friday and on Open Mic night? You might as well let a skunk loose in the locker room—that’s how empty it gets. Which is fine with me, the emptier the better. I can almost pretend it’s just him and me.

The boy’s name is Gareth Davies, and his grade in speech class is three points ahead of mine, but I’m going to catch up. I’ll practice, practice, practice, until my knees don’t shake and my voice doesn’t waver when I spit out those facts and figures I’ve worked so hard to research, and my team is going to beat his in our final debate. He’ll be so impressed with how soundly we’ve defeated him, he’s going to ask me to every dance we have left in high school, and we’re sophomores, so it’s kind of a lot. And then—

I don’t know what happens then. I don't know if any of that is going to happen. This is a daydream, nothing more.

Gareth strums and he sings, and his voice is lovely, but I’m not following his words. I like the tilt of his head as he plays, and I think about how a sculptor would capture the tousle of his sandy hair, his jawline, that little dent in his nose. I am tempted to sketch him myself, but I have no artistic talent. I’m good at school and I’m great at words, that’s it.

I have no other talent.

“Earth to Claire. Come in, Claire.” Fingers snap in front of my face. “You gotta focus, babe, you’re on soon. There are like eight people waiting to hear your poem and six of them are actually awake.”

My best friend Danica peers at me, hovering much too close. Her gold eyeshadow glints against her dark brown skin, her lips are gilded, too, and her strappy top falls in creamy folds past her hips. From the waist up, she looks like the statue of an ancient queen. From the waist down, it's tennis shoes and jeans.

“Eight people?” I repeat, wondering if she's including Gareth in that number. Will he stick around to hear my poem?

“Two more than last time.” She takes a breath. “And you know how you could have got two more—”

“No.” I don't like where this is going. “I don't want my aunts here.”

“Come on, Claire Bear. Your aunts have never seen my Lady Macbeth.” She straightens the wire circlet that crowns her short dark curls. “Even they can use a little culture.”

My aunts get plenty of culture. “They can watch the play with everyone else. Aunt Hope is especially looking forward to it.”

Danica beams under the praise, secondhand though it is. “Still, if they were here—”

“Dani, stop.” 


Name: Kimberly Bea (@KimBea)

Genre: Contemporary Fantasy

35 word pitch: 15-year-old Claire must choose whether to follow her calling as oracle and lose her freedom, or betray her psychic family's beliefs by letting an impostor take her place. Percy Jackson meets That’s So Raven. 

First 500 words:

It’s Friday night. I’m thinking about my destiny and watching a beautiful boy play guitar.

The coffee shop is nearly empty. Half a mile from school, it’s usually filled with kids, but they clear out on a Friday and on Open Mic night you might as well let a skunk loose in the restroom—that’s how empty it gets. Which is fine with me, the emptier the better. I can almost pretend it’s just him and me.

The boy’s name is Gareth Davies, and his grade in speech class is three points ahead of mine, but I’m going to catch up. I’ll practice, practice, practice, until my knees don’t shake and my voice doesn’t waver when I spit out those facts and figures I’ve worked so hard to research, and my team is going to beat his in our final debate. He’ll be so impressed with how soundly we’ve defeated him, he’s going to ask me to every dance we have left in high school, and we’re sophomores, so it’s kind of a lot. And then—

I don’t know what happens then. I don't know if any of that is going to happen. This is a daydream, nothing more. Hardly prophetic, though in my family, you can never be sure.

 “Earth to Claire. Come in, Claire.”

Fingers snap in front of my face, and I shrink back so fast I nearly fall out of my seat.

My best friend Danica peers at me, hovering so close I could practically taste her lemon tea with honey.  Gold eyeshadow glints against her dark brown skin, and her strappy top falls in creamy folds past her hips. From the waist up, she looks like the statue of an ancient queen. From the waist down, it's tennis shoes and jeans. “You gotta focus, babe, you’re on soon. There are like eight people waiting to hear your poem and six of them are actually awake.”

“Eight people?” I repeat, wondering if that includes Gareth, and whether I want it to.

“Two more than last time.” She takes a breath. “And you know how you could have got two more—”

“No.” I don't like where this is going. “I don't want my aunts here.”

“Come on, Claire Bear. Your aunts have never seen my Lady Macbeth.” Danica straightens the wire circlet crowning her short dark curls.  “And you know they don't want to miss that.”

 “They can watch the play with everyone else. Aunt Hope can’t wait.”

Danica beams at the praise, secondhand though it is. “Still, if they were here—”

“Dani, stop.” I push up my glasses, bite down on my lips a moment. “I need this to be just a Claire thing, okay? My aunts are up in my business enough as it is. They’re all but inside my head.”

Danica’s eyes capture mine. “But they aren't. Inside your head. You’ve made that very clear.”

Thank the gods they’re not, but they could be. That’s the thing.

2017 #YayYA Entry #3: Reign of Thorns

Name: Julie Ferguson (@actuaryjulie)

Genre: Historical Fantasy

Title: REIGN OF THORNS

35-word pitch:

When Val leads the next excursion to wake the princess, best friend Ilycia and brother Emeric must work past their differences to help Val succeed. If not, they lose Val and the kingdom remains cursed.

First 500 words:

They have to think you're a boy.

My best friend Val's warnings echoed in my head whenever I postured in front of the target. I silently chanted the directions he'd drilled into me: Don't talk, Leesh. Pin your shoulders back. Widen your stance. They kept me from fiddling with the mask that rubbed against my skin, the hood pinned to my too-tight braid.

Only my pants and tunic were comfortable. The leathers I'd found in my brother Issac's things were large enough to have belonged to Papa, but it wasn't like I could ask what they were or who had owned them. I'd no idea what animal could have provided such a skin: the fabric was light and breathable with a slight stretch. While I could penetrate its surface with a needle, it seemed to reject the skim from a knife blade. For months, I'd risen at first light to alter the pants until I could take a step without tripping over the hem. The tent-like tunic now stretched into a hooded top fitted enough not to hamper my throws, but not so tight to hint at the curves of my body.

Mama would've wished herself dead all over again if she could see seventeen-year-old Ilycia, her eldest daughter, parading outside of taverns in the middle of the night wearing breeches. But propriety wasn't a concern I could afford. I had sisters and a grandmother and an invalid father to feed.

By the time Val and I happened upon the tavern near the eastern quadrant outskirts of Forfaite, it was well after midnight and a full moon gleamed overhead. But the drinkers stumbled outside after word of my arrival grew.

"C'est la Marque!" they whispered amongst themselves.

That was me. The Mark.

My competitors waited their turn beside me. The bar patrons called the man on my right Gustave. Reeking of whiskey and old meat, he cramped my space with a greasy girth. Disgusting, and the exact opponent I wanted: too drunk to look close. To remember.

The same couldn't be said for D'arcy, the man on my left. His height and sharp eyes intimidated me less than the deep red of his tunic. Armed forces, no doubt a guard from Forfaite's labor camps. He scrutinized me like he saw the freckles shaded under my hood, the star-shaped birthmark covered by my mask. 

With a palm up, I balanced Agile, my twelve-inch long throwing dagger, against my middle finger. Her twin Adroite lay sunken in shame within the outer band of the target. My first throw had gone awry when Gustave stumbled and bumped against my shoulder.

I set my jaw. Each of our tipsy spectators had offered up a livre to the winner. Ten livres currently sat on the makeshift table: enough to feed my family, and Val's, for a week.

Now I couldn't lose.

Stepping forward with an underhand swing, I released Agile to sail directly into the bullseye.

35-word pitch: 

When her best friend Val leads a doomed mission to wake a princess and break the kingdom's curse, Ilycia and Val's brother, the boy who broke her heart, chase after Val to ensure he succeeds.

First 500 words:

They have to think you're a boy.

Val's warnings echoed in my head whenever I posed in front of the target. I silently chanted the directions my best friend had drilled into me: Don't talk, Leesh. Pin your shoulders back. Widen your stance. His words kept me from fiddling with the mask that rubbed against my skin, the hood pinned to my too-tight braid.

A full moon gleamed over the tavern near the eastern quadrant outskirts of Forfaite. The richest sources of the kingdom's ore resided here, under a cursed ground almost too dense to penetrate. Engineers and guards from the nearby labor camps had stumbled outside when word of my arrival grew.

"C'est la Marque!" they chattered amongst themselves.

That was me. The Mark.

Mama would've wished herself dead all over again if she could see seventeen-year-old Ilycia Robert, her eldest daughter, parading outside of liquor houses in the middle of the night. In breeches. As if propriety was a concern I could still afford. I had sisters and a grandmother and an invalid father to feed.

My competitors waited their turn beside me. The bar patrons called the man on my right Gustave. Reeking of whiskey and old meat, he cramped my space with a greasy girth. Disgusting, and the exact opponent I wanted: too drunk to look close. To remember me.

The same couldn't be said for D'arcy, the man on my left. His height and sharp eyes intimidated me less than the deep red of his armed forces uniform. He scrutinized me like he saw the freckles shaded under my hood, or the star-shaped birthmark covered by my mask.

Bad idea. The prickles against the back of my neck screamed we shouldn't have come here. But we'd exhausted every tavern in the farmlands of the western quadrant, and there was hardly anyone to hustle in our southern quadrant village of Secheresse.

It's not like this was illegal, anyway.  

I wrapped my fingers around Adroit, my twelve-inch long throwing dagger. She sent soothing vibrations up my arm until I lined myself up for a perfect throw.

That's right, she purred.

I launched the knife, but couldn't avoid the collision when Gustave staggered and careened into me. I sidestepped before he crashed to one knee and brought me down with him.

Squelching a curse before anyone could hear my feminine voice, I locked eyes on the target. Adroit had stuck, sunken in shame within the outer band.

Gustave gaped at me with bleary eyes. "Sorry, boy."  

The crowd jeered. Some whispered and exchanged livres within the shadows of torchlight. They always bet against me at first. They saw what they wanted, a slight figure with daggers too big to handle. 

I clenched my jaw. Each of our spectators had offered up a livre to the winner. Ten livres currently sat on the makeshift table. Nothing to these drunken villagers, it was enough to feed my family, and Val's, for a week.

I couldn't lose.

2017 #YayYA Entry #2: The Palace of Revenge

Name: A. E. Walker

Genre: Fantasy

Title: The Palace of Revenge

Pitch: Woken from 100 yr sleep early Araya finds her country torn: Araya learns her Eyre magic and wages war on King’s justice; claims throne, befriends beasts, and seeks revenge
  
First 500 Words:

The ground pulsed underneath me. Deep thumps grew louder and louder. I pushed brush and branches over, rushing inside our hidden cottage. The sweet smell of carrots and curry hit my nose. My father rested on the wooden pallet in front of the door. “What is that noise?” I asked, looking over to my mother. Her frail frame stood in our tiny kitchen, stirring a pot of vegetable curry.

“It sounds like a stampede. Probably horses.” She said, scooping the curry into a bowl. “Don’t worry, honey. I’m sure they’re riding the edge of the forest. No one has gone past the tree line, since the King’s command, 17 years ago.”

“That we know of.” I added.

“Okay, but no one has made it this far. We know that.”

The thumping remained steady. Matching the quick beat in my chest. It didn’t slow, but grew louder. The crunching of branches ripped through the air. Then, a strange repetitive humming arrived outside our cottage.

“Cyren,” I breathed, remembering my little brother was outside hanging the laundry. I rushed over to mom, searching for a response. Panic swept across her aging face. She dusted her hands on her apron, leaving orange stains from the curry grounds, and stepped toward the door.

“Mella, don’t.” My father demanded, sitting up from the palette. “It’s the Jukan. We all need to stay quiet.” He arched his weary body towards us, like a lion ready to pounce.

The Jukan, served as the King’s ‘justice’. Mother shared stories of the hell’s gatekeepers with us. They traveled town to town on steel machine horses. Covering themselves in all black, never revealing their faces. They policed the towns at random. Surveying the people. Anyone caught dis-obeying the King, they’d kill right in the street. Killing was a relief to some. The most unfortunate people were taken for torture. No one knew which it would be, nor what they did with those they took. But it was far worse than a simple, public death. The entire country feared them.

Why were they inside our forest?

My parents built our cottage-home off a hill of slate, hidden deep inside Tengal forest. We were the only humans living here. Not that the surrounding towns hadn’t tried to conquer the forest. They did. Though, always with fatal consequence. The endless sweeping vines of nightshade and rosary peas that draped from every tree, made the Tengal forest a mastery of illusion. Giving the impression of bountiful feasts, bequeathed to anyone. Fooling the mountainous townspeople in desperate search of food. But, hidden behind the lush mask of nourishment, lied a deadly truth.

The town to the East, Vayesworth and Harveston, to the West, sent their bravest and strongest to conquer the forest. The invaders returned parched and with stomach upset. Every one of them died soon after. My mother and father tracked the towns failures. Noting every death and its symptoms. They carefully gathered plants, and conducted tests on forest critters. 

2017 #YayYA Entry #1: The Yellow Girl

Name: Maria McDaniel  @MariaCMcDaniel

Genre: Thriller

Title: The Yellow Girl

35-word pitch:

Haunted by her parents’ murder, Danni longs for family. Her brother needs justice. When their paths intersect with a boy who sees the unseen—light and dark—Danni will discover some monsters are real.

First 500:

It was the sudden exodus of crows from her mother’s lime tree that first told Danni he was coming. Even before she heard the gritty crunch of tires on the wet driveway, or the sound of a car door closing, the crows had fled the tree’s slender branches and swarmed like bats into the darkened sky. 

“Momma, the crows are back,” she’d said, just before.

“Danni, please. Stop saying that.”

Danni pressed her nose against the windowpane and huffed a cloud of steam from flattened nostrils. “Well, they are.”

The girl was small for her age, which vexed her, with eyes too large for her face and a wild mane of hair that refused to be managed. Glancing toward her mother, she noted the tension in her posture as she bent over her keyboard, fingers tapping madly. For the hundredth time that day, Danni felt a curling in her stomach, like a length of wire winding into knots. 

A dark shape swooped across the garden, drawing her gaze back outdoors. All week long, dozens of blackbirds had gathered on the lawn like feathered loiterers in a prison yard. Danni had planted herself by the front window—counting crows and pretending she wasn’t—and she happened to know that ten of them were perched among the limes in her mother’s tree beside the porch. 

Squinting slightly, she drew a face on the steamed glass; just a lump-like circle, mismatched eyes and a crooked mouth. Bending, she looked through the eyeholes, peering out at the birds in the rain-drenched yard. Something cold crept over her shoulders, then, because all ten had grown quiet and still, and each pair of eyes stared back at her.

“Momma”—she kept her voice low—“are they regular crows?”

“Of course they’re regular,” her mother replied absently. “What else would they be?”

“It seems like they’re thinking stuff.”

“Now you’re being silly.”

Danni frowned at the face she’d drawn on the glass, then decided to add a long, protruding tongue. And also fangs. “Since they’ve come, everybody’s upset.”

“Nobody’s upset.”

“I’m upset. Elliot’s upset.”

Her mother’s sigh could be heard from across the room. “Danielle, I’m sorry we have to move.”

There was a long pause, and then a whisper. “It’s because of that big, red ‘V’ on all your papers.” 

Elizabeth Ireland’s fingers stopped typing. “Who told you that?”

“Elliot.” Danni’s eyes returned to the crow-laden tree. “Something’s wrong, isn’t it? That’s why they’re here.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” Her mother slammed her hand against the desk and stood to her feet. “It’s got nothing to do with the dumb crows!”

It might’ve been her sudden movement, or the sound of her palm, smacking hard against the desk, or the fact that she’d shouted (when she never shouted), but that had been the moment—the precise moment—when every bird in the yard took flight. When the air finally cleared of their screeching bodies, an unfamiliar car was in the driveway.

Genre: Thriller with Supernatural Elements

Ten years ago

It was the sudden exodus of crows from her mother’s tree that first told Danni he was coming. All week long, dozens of the black birds had gathered on the lawn like feathered loiterers in a prison yard. Danni had planted herself by the front window—counting crows and pretending she wasn’t—and she happened to know that ten of them had perched among the limes in her mother’s tree beside the porch.

“Momma, the crows are back.”

Elizabeth Ireland hunched closer to her laptop screen and refused to shudder. “Danni, please. Stop saying that.”

Danni pressed her nose against the windowpane and huffed a cloud of steam from flattened nostrils. “Well, they are.” For the hundredth time that day, there was a curling in her stomach, like a length of wire winding into knots.

She was small for her age, which vexed her, with eyes too large for her face and a wild mane of hair that refused to be managed. Squinting slightly, she drew a face on the steamed glass; just a lump-like circle, mismatched eyes and a crooked mouth. She bent and looked through the eyeholes, peering out at the birds in the rain-drenched yard. Something cold crept over her shoulders, then, because all ten crows had grown quiet and still, and each pair of eyes stared back at her.

“Momma”—she kept her voice low—“are they regular crows?”

“Of course they’re regular,” her mother replied, not shifting her gaze from the screen. “What else would they be?”

“It seems like they’re thinking stuff.”

“Now you’re being silly.”

Danni frowned at the face she’d drawn on the glass, deciding to add a long, protruding tongue. And fangs. “Since they’ve come, everybody’s upset.”

“Nobody’s upset.”

“I’m upset. Elliot’s upset.” For once, Danni and her older brother had actually agreed on something. “It’s because of that big, red ‘V’ on all your papers, isn’t it?”

Elizabeth Ireland’s fingers stopped typing. “Who told you that?”

“Elliot.” Danni’s finger traced a deep “V” across the face in the glass, then another, and another, marring the image into a smeared, angry scribble. “Something’s wrong. That’s why they’re here.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Danielle!” Her mother slammed her hand against the desk and stood. “It’s got nothing to do with the dumb crows!” 
It might’ve been her sudden movement, or the sound of her palm smacking hard against the desk, or the fact that she’d shouted (when she never shouted), but that was the moment—the precise moment—when every bird in the yard took flight. Danni screamed, scrambling backward across the floor as the crows fled the lime tree’s slender branches and swarmed like bats into the darkened sky.  When the air finally cleared of their screeching bodies, an unfamiliar car was in the driveway.