tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8971798860443757706.post6672199741039523191..comments2024-01-23T11:12:41.620-08:00Comments on GotYA: Read our INTERVIEW with YA Agent Taylor Martindale and Enter to WIN a Manuscript CritiqueTheGotYAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17577024893828894816noreply@blogger.comBlogger95125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8971798860443757706.post-37265180550894551062010-04-30T18:58:15.624-07:002010-04-30T18:58:15.624-07:00Hey hey! Thanks for the contest. Here are my 200 w...Hey hey! Thanks for the contest. Here are my 200 words. (Okay, 167). <br /><br />I was a predator. A predator with a hundred year-old Rolex on his arm.<br /> <br />I leaned against the rusted metal flashing wrapped over the ledge before me and looked at the ancient watch. Two-thirty. God knows how the old thing had survived all these years. It was pretty beat-up, but its wind-up mechanism had far outlived its battery-operated counterparts, and for that I was grateful. You could barely read the inscription on the back anymore. My Grandad got it when he retired, just before the arse fell out of her, 30 years ago.<br /><br />I had an hour to get some food and meet my brother. We would eat together, by the shore. You couldn’t call it supper. Not lunch either. Those sorts of rituals were long gone. We wouldn’t say much – we’d just divide the food, and then quickly – furtively – consume it. As I always say: if food is currency, eating makes you vulnerable. That’s why Hugh and I do it in hiding.Anonymousnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8971798860443757706.post-88964453179220440522010-04-30T18:48:16.305-07:002010-04-30T18:48:16.305-07:00Here's my entry from my urban fantasy mss! Wow...Here's my entry from my urban fantasy mss! Wow, this was hard to choose!<br /><br />----<br /><br />“Well?”<br /><br />He blinked, pausing in his egg scratching. A warning bell began to jingle in his head. Christine did that when she was gearing up for a low blow to his self-esteem. “Well… what?”<br /><br />Sarah lifted her chin and tilted her head at him. “You’re not going to ask me for help again?”<br /><br />Roy stared at her, unbelieving, the spatula in his hand momentarily forgotten. “Again? Are you crazy? No way!”<br /><br />She narrowed her eyes at him. “And why not? Something wrong with me?”<br /><br />“You hit me with a frying pan!” He shouted, incredulous. “I don’t want to be ten feet near you!”<br /><br />She rolled her eyes at him. “Oh my God, you’re a pansy. I hit you once.”<br /><br />His eyes bugged out. “Once was enough, you nut case! You nearly gave me a concussion this morning!”<br /><br />“You’re walking around. You’re fine.”<br /><br />This whole family was definitely crazy.Laura Espinosahttp://www.twitter.com/thecopycornernoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8971798860443757706.post-366332502831303702010-04-30T18:30:28.250-07:002010-04-30T18:30:28.250-07:00Great interview and great opportunity!
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Sittin...Great interview and great opportunity!<br /><br />--<br /><br />Sitting in the hard plastic chair in the office was surreal. Olivia did not want to think of Chase as a victim. She did not want to think about the situation at all, but as she sat there waiting for her parents, listening to the ongoing click-clack of a keyboard behind the receptionist’s desk, the thoughts pushed their way through, invading Olivia’s mind and filling it with unpleasantness. <br /><br />The girl to her right had her arms and legs crossed, her right foot shaking to some muted beat that only she could seem to hear. Her gaze never found its way towards Olivia. Chase’s brother, who as far as she knew went by the name Hunter, was seated to her left, his arms residing over both armrests. His eyes were set on the receptionist’s desk, unmoving, fixed as though he could see through the panel of wood, directly at the secretary who continued to type away at some problem of her own. <br /><br />Every now and then, Olivia felt his gaze shift, and through the corner of his eyes Hunter stared her down, examining her from head to toe, fury building inside him with each glance of the girl beside him.Beccahttps://www.blogger.com/profile/08229009550203388722noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8971798860443757706.post-42837788890002769482010-04-30T15:43:52.602-07:002010-04-30T15:43:52.602-07:00Great interview! And even greater contest! Below ...Great interview! And even greater contest! Below is my entry from my YA paranormal romance.<br /><br />I placed the feather in a book, thanked Ms. Ryken for her time, and got out of there quick. If I hurried, I could catch Farrell. <br /><br />I walked as fast as I could to the side exit where we always parked. When I turned the corner, I saw him just outside the glass doors. I burst through them. “Hey! Farrell!”<br /><br />He hesitated a moment before turning around. I threw my books down and got right in his face.<br /><br />“What are you doing to me?”<br /><br />He raised his hands in the air, like he was giving up. “I’m not doing anything.”<br /><br />I shoved him so hard it hurt my wrists. “Yes you are, and you know it!” Anger rose inside me, and all I wanted was for him to hurt too. I was just about to give him another shove when he grabbed my arms.<br /><br />“Don’t do this, Dominique. Please.”<br /><br />I was almost completely out of breath, my chest pounding. And then I stopped, and look away. <br /><br />“You’re ruining me,” I whispered.<br /> <br />He released my arms and took a few steps back. “What?” <br /><br />“Just leave me alone.”Rose Moriartyhttp://www.rosegarciamoriarty.blogspot.comnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8971798860443757706.post-86687287732714802722010-04-30T15:43:38.236-07:002010-04-30T15:43:38.236-07:00Ok, so I just double checked the rules and they do...Ok, so I just double checked the rules and they don't specifically say we are limited to just one entry... so hopefully this won't get me disqualified. :)<br /><br />#<br /><br />"You gonna ask her out or what?"<br /><br />Startled Josh blinked at Emma. "Sorry?"<br /><br />She rolled her eyes and pointed her fork at him. "You haven't taken your eyes off my mom for more than a few minutes since you got here. So either you like her or you’re stalking her." She frowned. "Stalking's not cool. She's got enough to worry about."<br /><br />"Does she now," he murmured. He cleared his throat. "So let me get this straight: you're asking my intentions toward your mother?"<br /><br />She chewed thoughtfully. "Yeah, I like that. What are your intentions toward my mother? You gonna ask her out or what?"<br /><br />He laughed and shook his head. "Afraid not; I go back to Los Angeles on Monday."<br /><br />"So?"<br /><br />Josh stopped laughing. "What do you mean 'so’? Your mom doesn't strike me as the one night stand type. And am I really having this conversation with a mathematically challenged eighth grader?"<br /><br />"Hmpf," she said. "Technically, if you're leaving Monday it would be a two night stand, Mr. Wizard. Looks like you've wasted all this time checking out her ass and not paying attention. Typical." She turned back to the magazine she’d been engrossed in, dismissing him. "Have a nice flight."Anonymousnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8971798860443757706.post-86498207629691855882010-04-30T15:24:31.800-07:002010-04-30T15:24:31.800-07:00Three seconds. That’s how long it took for my life...Three seconds. That’s how long it took for my life to end. <br /><br />Well, it was an end of sorts. And it might’ve taken longer. I suppose it depends on which point was the actual end. Some might say it was the first or second or third time I died. For me, it was the moment I saw that truck barreling toward us. A girl really should have better memories of her eighteenth birthday.<br /><br />The day started gray—beautiful and dark—a rare occurrence in Mesa, Arizona, and my absolute favorite kind of day. Okay, so it actually started with a stomach ache, but I did my best to ignore the lump in my gut as I walked to my locker after second period. I always had that something-isn’t-right feeling on the days I officially became a year older, but something about this year was different, though I couldn’t figure out what. <br /><br />“How’s my favorite redhead on this lovely December morning?” Trevor hooked his arm around my neck and gave me his cheesiest grin. Fat drops began to fall from the sky, drumming the metal roof and muffling the chatter of the students filling the outdoor locker area.Abby Annishttps://www.blogger.com/profile/05543937393055900844noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8971798860443757706.post-63744830774049591962010-04-30T14:59:27.977-07:002010-04-30T14:59:27.977-07:00Here is my entry from my current YA wip:
I never ...Here is my entry from my current YA wip:<br /><br />I never asked for a lot. Really. In my family, there wasn’t much to ask for, anyway. I guess you could say that demand out-weighs supply. But that was fine by me. I was okay with what I had, so why ask for more when I didn’t need it? Still, it would’ve been nice if, just once, I could ask for this: To get through the day without someone making fun of my name.<br /><br />Just once.<br /><br />Please?<br /><br />No, of course not. Never happens. Inevitably, someone, some time, is struck by the urge to make fun of my name. And how could they resist? With an unfortunate moniker like Irene Goode, they have a lot to work with.<br /><br />Yes, that’s right.<br /><br />Irene.<br /><br />Goode.<br /><br />That’s me. A born punchline for all the budding comedians of Amory High. Or wanna-be mean girls.<br /><br />Today, Bridget Taylor stepped up to the mike for her shot at school fame. And me. Poor Bridget lacked imagination. So rather than dazzling her classmates with her stunning wit, she fell short with a dull pun. A variation of which she’d been slinging at me since our first encounter in grade school.<br /><br />“Can you pass this to the Goode girl?”<br /><br />MargayMargay Leah Justicehttps://www.blogger.com/profile/15490126898758440254noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8971798860443757706.post-20448273957941658982010-04-30T14:36:15.592-07:002010-04-30T14:36:15.592-07:00I wanted to change my snip only to choose the same...I wanted to change my snip only to choose the same snip. *headdesk*<br /><br />From Rules Not to Fall in Love. Robbie's POV.<br /><br /><br />My life as Mason O’Brian was full of flirting with girls and never being in a serious relationship. I was this infamous player that girls learned to avoid. None of them even got to second base with me. Back then, I had high expectations for my girl. She had to be smart and reserved. Someone completely unlike me. Opposites attract, right? And none of those rich, snotty girls at East Prep were able to fit that.<br /><br />Now I supposedly had a new life as Robbie Bailey because of this witness protection thing. How awesome would it be to try to experiment with being a good guy? I’d try to win over Maddy’s heart to see if me as a good boy had better luck with the ladies. <br /><br />Better yet, Maddy met those expectations. Jason said she’s smart and known as the nicest girl at school. Good-girl Maddy falling for good-boy Robbie could definitely go my way. And maybe if I did start to like her for real, I’d go ahead and date her. But for now, it’s all an experiment to see if my new life as a golden boy would be any better than my old bad-boy ways.Karla Calalanghttps://www.blogger.com/profile/17414349286625200655noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8971798860443757706.post-89148167950442920252010-04-30T13:15:34.399-07:002010-04-30T13:15:34.399-07:00This comment has been removed by the author.Karla Calalanghttps://www.blogger.com/profile/17414349286625200655noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8971798860443757706.post-49707646159621969072010-04-30T12:23:27.867-07:002010-04-30T12:23:27.867-07:00On the day I turned sixteen years old, I suddenly ...On the day I turned sixteen years old, I suddenly went from a nobody to a somebody. From fab to flab. From ugly duckling to beautiful swan. From meh to OMFG. Overnight, I shot up from a measly five-two to six feet tall. My smile glistened like a bar of ivory, my eyes sparkled, my skin glowed. The hot guy in my biology class (the guy I'd never had a conversation with, although I’d been cyber-stalking him all year) dumped his bitchy girlfriend and declared his undying love for me.<br /> Okay, okay. All that's a lie. On the day I turned sixteen, I looked exactly like I always had: completely unremarkable. Thin, lifeless hair, brown eyes, flat chest, and a rash of zits on my forehead. No guy (especially not the hottie from biology) asked me out--instead, I went out for dinner and a movie with my best friend, Amy. The pizza was greasy and the movie was lame. I was in bed by ten that night.<br /> It was pretty much business as usual on my birthday.<br /> It was actually the day after my birthday that the interesting things started to happen.Anonymousnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8971798860443757706.post-50994890927472251672010-04-30T10:06:07.195-07:002010-04-30T10:06:07.195-07:00Finally entering
--------------------------------...Finally entering<br /><br />--------------------------------<br /><br />I never really understood why people called gays ‘in the closet’, anyway. Because, come on, if there was a closet full of gay guys then why the fuck would I want to come out? And if there was such a magical place, then why hadn’t anyone told me about it? <br /><br />“I deserve at least one dance with you tonight.” Tasha held out her hand, and we moved to the center of the room where I put my hands on her hips as she wound her arms around my neck. <br /> <br />We shuffled like every other idiot in the room. I would have loved to see what we all looked like from a bird’s eye view -- hundreds of people attached to one another, shuffling their weight from one foot to the other. At least no one could say I danced like a girl -- it was just a shame I had to look like a penguin waddling on the spot to achieve it.H.F.Westhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/06767232210993268059noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8971798860443757706.post-82398305394354712462010-04-30T10:02:40.925-07:002010-04-30T10:02:40.925-07:00This comment has been removed by the author.H.F.Westhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/06767232210993268059noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8971798860443757706.post-19131065113635417612010-04-30T09:38:22.431-07:002010-04-30T09:38:22.431-07:00For my YA Fantasy:
Everything hurt. Inside...For my YA Fantasy:<br /><br /><br /><br /> Everything hurt. Inside, his body ached as if he had been thrown against a cliff, his throat burned, and his mind could not connect one thought to the next, no matter how he tried.<br /><br /> Waving a hand feebly in the air, Valkonen tried to banish the spots that danced before his eyes, but even that was too great. A few inches and his body seized up and he wanted to retch, though he doubted he had the strength to do it.<br /><br /> “Oh my, he’s still alive. I thought we had been caring after a corpse.” A kind voice was followed by a soft hand. He flinched as the wet cloth was put over his eyes.<br /><br /> “Shh, it’s okay now, you’ve been through the worst of it I think. Your body rejected most of the drug.”<br /><br /> Valkonen again tried connecting anything she was saying, but it all came out as a thought of mush.<br /><br /> “You’ve only been out eighteen hours, but your father did give orders that you were to be brought to him as soon as you regained consciousness.” She sounded perturbed by such a thought. It was the one idea that sank through to him. Valkonen’s eyes snapped open.<br /><br /> “My father? I’m summoned to my father?” The pretty nurse nodded lightly. Valkonen groaned and this time really did throw up.Heather Zundelhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/16621649337908358313noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8971798860443757706.post-60026502839622220132010-04-30T09:19:18.557-07:002010-04-30T09:19:18.557-07:00As they approached, the sleeve of the man’s jacket...As they approached, the sleeve of the man’s jacket shifted up just slightly, allowing the sun to glint off a flash of gold bangle at his right wrist. The woman wore a gold bangle as well. Sadie immediately recognized this as a sign that they were Lyors, members of the small religious community from Mt. Arbor, the upscale suburb over the bridge. <br /><br />Lyors were a fiercely private group. Extremely tight-knit and exclusive, their undying commitment to all things beautiful dictated the ways in which they lead their life. <br /><br />It had always seemed like a dumb thing to base a religion on, in Sadie’s opinion. <br /><br />They lived in immaculately maintained row houses in the historic district and always wore those gold bangles with their perfectly tailored outfits. In a town of rich and beautiful people, the Lyors stood apart. They were just a little better looking and a little better dressed than anyone else. Even their accent was different, sweeter, slower. <br /><br />Her dad called them aesthetes, but Sadie called them assholes. Not because she knew any of them personally- they didn’t talk much to the English, that’s what they called non-Lyors- but people who flaunted money like that just bothered her.smrnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8971798860443757706.post-30292523977690825342010-04-30T06:11:09.094-07:002010-04-30T06:11:09.094-07:00. . . the blast of air hit me like a wall. I swerv.... . . the blast of air hit me like a wall. I swerved onto the shoulder and almost went over the handlebars. I twisted around and flipped the guy off. It occurred to me too late that flipping off a maniac in a ten-ton truck wasn't the smartest thing in the world, and now I'd have to worry all the way back. Was the rig coming the other way driven by that same driver? Who'd stopped off somewhere for a belly-fill of brewskis and stewed over this teenager who'd had the fucking audacity to give him the bird, telling the bartender how he'd mash the kid flat if he ever got the chance.<br /><br />I could worry about anything it seemed, if I put my mind to it. I wondered if I could get a job worrying. A designated worrier for people too busy to do their own worrying.<br /><br />"You have any experience?" the interviewer would ask.<br /><br />"Yes, sir. I spent four years in high school worrying about everything. And even when I wasn't worrying, I worried about not worrying."<br /><br />"You're hired," the guy would say, sticking out his hand. Then I'd worry it was too fast, too easy.Lou Dischlerhttps://www.amazon.com/gp/pdp/profile/ADAFEFKRM48OU?ie=UTF8&responseType=info&responseCode=upsnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8971798860443757706.post-62859855013329735502010-04-30T05:25:42.751-07:002010-04-30T05:25:42.751-07:00<3 the interview and <3 Hannah's hair..s...<3 the interview and <3 Hannah's hair..so cool!<br /><br />Yikes, I'm so bad with choosing an excerpt, but here's something from my ms 'What I Was' that I did a teaser with, recently..<br /><br /><br />I push my feet into the sand, loving how the little grains snake around my toes, then fall out of the gaps.<br /><br />I head towards the shack-like structure - sometimes used as an emergency changing room - built on a slightly raised platform at the other end of the beach.<br /><br />Lick clean the ice-cream carton.<br /><br />Stare at the horizon.<br /><br />Dig, dig my feet as far as possible into the sand, sometimes wishing I could dig myself in there, too. Forever obscured.<br /><br />...Exactly one year, seven months ago, we were on a similar palm fringed, white pearly beach. The difference? Another country, another continent and more glaringly - another life. Dad with the camera, Mum with her magazine and me checking the boys. Never exactly verbose, but there. Comfortable.<br /><br />No exhilarating booze after-effect tonight. But nausea and memories - both unwanted.<br />It starts with the hiccups. Small minty gasps. I pull my legs upto my chin and bury my head between my knees. Pits of darkness stare back at me. I think about the events of that summer and I think about the events of this one and I think about the time inbetween.<br />And then, I cry.Bidishahttps://www.blogger.com/profile/17382938442171208326noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8971798860443757706.post-37029678359940969212010-04-30T03:44:26.066-07:002010-04-30T03:44:26.066-07:00I’ve never been with a girl – or a guy; I like bot...I’ve never been with a girl – or a guy; I like both. What I mean to say is I’m sixteen years old and a virgin. That’s why I didn’t run or scream or call the cops when I walked into my bedroom and she was standing there naked.<br /> <br />I froze. I couldn’t think – or move. Well, one part of me was moving, but it was just making my jeans a little snugger (and it wasn’t something I was doing consciously).<br /><br />She was in front of the window with her head cocked to the side. She was looking right at me; like she had been waiting for me. White-blonde hair, parted in the middle, fell to her waist. Her left breast was covered, but the other one – I could see. <br /><br />My pants were still getting tighter, but I hadn’t moved. Normally, I’d be kind of embarrassed – getting hard in front of someone – but she was naked; we were past that. Also, I didn’t know who the hell she was. <br /><br />“Don’t be afraid, Eden,” she said. I glanced up at her face and she smiled, straightening her head. “My name is Alice.”Basthttps://www.blogger.com/profile/12561466241112288690noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8971798860443757706.post-90737115498456649502010-04-30T01:45:56.981-07:002010-04-30T01:45:56.981-07:00Magic is overrated, my father always said. And I g...Magic is overrated, my father always said. And I guess he’d know. He’s Santa Claus. Yes, that’s right. The fat guy with the fuzzy beard is my old man. My chip off the old block. Father you can never live up to? That’s him.<br /><br />I’ve been told I don’t have his genes -- in the nicest possible way. Dad’s short and gluttonous; I’m six-foot-two and lanky. I’ve been working on my guns though. Guns are important. Because, let’s face it, you don’t want to be a beanpole if you don’t have rockin’ arms.<br /><br />I live with my family in the North Pole or, as I like to call it, the snowy jail. The technical name for what I am is an elf, but it’s a stupid name – everyone thinks so -- makes us sound like a bunch of squeaky-voiced idiots with dumbass names like Jingle and Jangle. For the record though, I’m not named after a bell, or some punchy Christmas spirit, or a festive song. Don’t know what the parents were thinking when I popped out, but when I did they called me Carsten.<br /><br />Carsten Claus.<br /><br />So lame.Kathy Bradeyhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/01370707259209847339noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8971798860443757706.post-32022794000947886582010-04-29T22:18:49.027-07:002010-04-29T22:18:49.027-07:00By second period word went around that Ms. Feldman...By second period word went around that Ms. Feldman was holding a meeting after school about the future of “Macbeth: The Musical”. Why Ms. Feldman was in now in charge of the show was a mystery, but I guess she didn’t have enough to do with being a gym teacher/first aid attendant. I was personally of the opinion that perhaps we could have waited more than a day after the murder of the Director to have a meeting, but I guess that the show must go on and all that.<br /> <br /> I was almost late for the meeting, because my fifth period teacher Father Collins is an old school hippie. On the one hand this is awesome, because Father Collins thinks that grades are fascist and only reward imperialists, so everyone gets an A in the class. Unfortunately, he also believes that "the man” wins when we let the bells dictate our lives. Sometimes, this means we get out of class a half hour early, but sometimes we end up staying for twenty minutes to discuss our feelings. With Mr. Marks’ murder, we were forty minutes late getting out of class. People had a lot of feelings about Mr. Marks.Patricia Bnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8971798860443757706.post-75110063706138330772010-04-29T19:17:26.653-07:002010-04-29T19:17:26.653-07:00An excerpt from my YA:
“What about the agents ass...An excerpt from my YA:<br /><br />“What about the agents assigned to the program?”<br /><br />I tuck my other leg underneath me and turn to face Mary with a big smile. “Oh yeah, Agent KAPOW. They’re fabtastic.”<br /><br />She blinks once, looking at me over the top of her glasses. “Excuse me?”<br /><br />“For what?”<br /><br />“Who is this Agent…Kapow, you say? I thought there were…” she trails off, flipping through a folder. My folder, I’m sure. “It says here Agent Jamal Karr and Agent Cassandra Powers are assigned to the Y.I.P."<br /><br />“Yeah, and? That’s who I was talking about. Agent KAPOW.”<br /><br />She tilts her head to the side. “I don’t understand?”<br /><br />“You would if you saw these two. Have you ever met them?”<br /><br />“No. I haven’t had the pleasure yet.”<br /><br />“Hopefully you won’t have to. Your self-esteem drops to about a five just passing them in the hall. I still can’t believe they’re really FBI agents. They look like they should be on a runway in Paris or something. My friend Rico would want to give them an Academy Award for their fashion sense. They can seriously rock a suit. Hence the nickname I gave them. KAPOW.”Celisehttp://www.celisedowns.com/blognoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8971798860443757706.post-9205415045185710752010-04-29T18:29:58.882-07:002010-04-29T18:29:58.882-07:00May was trying to be polite, but Henry seemed cont...May was trying to be polite, but Henry seemed content with giving her curt replies. He was distant and she had to drag every answer out of him. The night was beginning to turn sour and May's mood was dark.<br /><br />Andrew leaned over the table and put his elbows on the pressed tablecloth. "How is your work going, May?"<br /><br />Henry cleared his throat after taking a sip of wine. "You work, Miss Campbell?"<br /><br />“I am an abolitionist and a suffragist.” May was proud of her many causes.<br /><br />“I see.”<br /><br />“If you are offended, it doesn't surprise me." She dipped her spoon into a bowl of beef broth. "I often offend people.”<br /><br />“And you take pride in this?”<br /><br />“No, but people dislike my views because they are seen by some as impractical and radical. My father says ladies shouldn't trouble themselves with politics. It hurts our minds.”<br /><br />For the first time since their encounter Henry smiled then raised his glass. “Perhaps we can discuss your radical and impractical views in the future? This may surprise you but unlike most men I support suffrage."YA Librarianhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/04147401205365756126noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8971798860443757706.post-72589189816558575932010-04-29T16:50:18.839-07:002010-04-29T16:50:18.839-07:00Awesome interview! Here's my entry:
Mrs. Ades...Awesome interview! Here's my entry:<br /><br />Mrs. Adesina wasn’t too keen on watching her daughter drag Set down into her bottomless pit of extra-curricular mediocrity. So, when they came home once again before 4:00, she tossed Remi an old Margaret Jay brochure and ordered her to find an after-school activity they could both do.<br /><br />“It’s time for you to stop being so lazy,” she said before heading to the salon.<br /><br />Lazy. Remi’d spent half of yesterday running around some fairy brothel, trying not to get killed and/or sexually harassed. <i>Lazy.</i><br /><br />She tried obliging her mother anyway, but when she flipped open the brochure, Iara’s face stared back at her, pretending to laugh with her photo shoot ‘friends’. There were more Iaras, studying in the school’s wonderful library, playing the clarinet in the school’s wonderful Wind Ensemble.<br /><br />Remi and Set played poker on the kitchen table instead, the brochure discarded on the floor and dirty with her shoe-print.Xhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/12130387377974576835noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8971798860443757706.post-33964324938440764692010-04-29T15:39:22.599-07:002010-04-29T15:39:22.599-07:00I watch my daughter, her belly round with new life...I watch my daughter, her belly round with new life, kneel down to place flowers on my empty grave. Pink carnations this time…last year was red roses, the year before, golden mums.<br /><br />Her lips move as she whispers to the flower-strewn ground. Her shoulders quake with her sobs and, swallowing, I fight to stifle my own. She caresses my name etched into the grey granite, tracing the letters one by one before wiping the tears from her cheeks. Her fingers touch her lips, then the top of the cold hard stone.<br /><br />I press my own fingers tight against my mouth and smother the impulse to cry out to her.<br /><br />As she turns to walk back to her car, a breath of summer wind lifts her hair and it floats for a moment, waving goodbye.<br /><br />Her scent reaches out to me, triggering memories of our brief life together. Seventeen years was not enough time to share with her, to hold her and teach her and tell her how much I loved her. In a flash of anger I curse the evil creature that stole me away, leaving my daughter to finish growing up alone, and leaving me…leaving me no longer human.roh morgonhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/06823641709307631626noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8971798860443757706.post-83755793327923025652010-04-29T13:01:56.884-07:002010-04-29T13:01:56.884-07:00You can tell a lot about a person by the writing i...You can tell a lot about a person by the writing instrument she uses. Pretty much everyone in the world falls into one of two categories: pencil people and pen people. Take my sister, Christine. Classic pencil person. Everything about her is sharp-- from the clipped timbre of her voice to the point of her severe (yet stunning) chin. Thoughts march across her cerebral cortex like regimented soldiers, processing in a measured cadence, disciplined in their formation.<br /><br />And then there's me. I have a perpetual black stain on the fourth finger of my left hand. Ink pools just beneath my fingernail on a hemispheric callous caused by years of writing with my fingers curled into a tight fist. I’m indiscreet. I spill things. I make mistakes loudly, and wear them like Rorschach tattoos. If pacing sentries guard Christine’s emotions, then drunken fraternity boys tend to mine. I’m in the habit of telling strangers secrets. <br /><br />Sometimes I dream that ink is seeping from my pores. It begins as small black pinpricks peppering my skin, then crescendos to a deluge that soaks my hair and socks. A pen person’s Ebola.<br /><br />They named me Grace. They might as well have named me Irony.Catherinehttps://www.blogger.com/profile/01878077358240079645noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8971798860443757706.post-76356231661534695462010-04-29T10:46:27.641-07:002010-04-29T10:46:27.641-07:00Cheap holographic hedges separated Aunt Jaexa’s ho...Cheap holographic hedges separated Aunt Jaexa’s house from the neighbors’. The fake plants flickered every so often, calling attention to the much nicer houses on either side of my new home. That’s something Rainsey would call adding insult to injury, which is just a retro way of saying “Yesterday I found out I have to live with my overplasticked aunt and her three whiny hellchildren for no explicable reason, and it turns out their house is a cleverly disguised black hole.”<br /><br />As we flew past the house to the right of Jaexa’s, I noticed a teenager of indeterminate gender sitting on the front steps. I swiveled my seat around to study the stranger, but my aunt was flying like the sunpanels were about to run out of fire, so I didn’t get a very good look. <br /><br />Once we pulled into the garage, Aunt Jaexa keyed the landing sequence into the hovercar and hurried into the house, leaving me alone with my bags, which numbered approximately a billion and three. I picked up my smallest suitcases and tried to stack them on the ground. I was hoping I could kneel down and grab them around the middle, but when I gave it a try, the cases beneath my arms hit the ground, and the ones above slid off. I heard something shatter, probably a perfume bottle.Ifihttps://www.blogger.com/profile/08968630996210057407noreply@blogger.com