T C Edge
Apr 12, 2016 | YA, 1st pages
When I wake I think of my mother. It's like that every day. When someone you love is dying, you'll be just the same.
She sleeps next door to me, in the room she once shared with my father. I wish most days that he was still here to care for her. I wish most days that I could remember more about him; the sound of his voice, the way he looked when he smiled.
We only have one picture of him, but he's not smiling in it. He's grimacing. It was the day he was taken from us.
It's still dark when I creep to my mother's room and cup my ear to the door. Sometimes I hear movement; the sound of her dressing, of her muttering to herself like she always does. That's not a symptom of her illness. It's just how she is. Somehow she finds solace in talking to the walls.
On other days it's deathly silent in there, and those are the days that scare me. Today is one of them, so I quickly click open the door and guide my eyes to her bed. She lies on her back, her chest moving steadily up and down.
I can see glimmers of sweat beading on her forehead, a grimace of pain on her face. It's rare to see her with another expression these days.
Rose M. Channing
Apr 8, 2016 | Fantasy, 1st pages, YA
PROLOGUE
Late in the night, Lindsey heard a soft knock at her bedroom door. She got up, and tiptoed across the room to answer it.
Her little brother stood outside, staring at her.
She waved him in, and quietly shut the door behind him. “Andy! What are you doing?” she whispered. “You’re gonna wake them up!”
“I’m being quiet,” Andy whispered. “Can we go see her?”
“Now? It’s the middle of the night! Go back to bed.”
“I just want to make sure she’s okay.”
“She’s fine. Why are you worried about her? Didn't you say she can talk to squirrels and they give her nuts and stuff?” She giggled. “There's no need to worry if that's true!”
“It is true!” he said, slapping her arm.
“Okay, calm down, whatever! Either way, she'll be fine, she always is. We’ll see her in the morning.”
He sat down on her bed. “Why can’t we tell them about her? She could stay with us. Mom would say yes.”
“But Dad would say no. He doesn’t like this kinda stuff. He’d probably make her leave.”
“What kinda stuff?”
“You know—she’s kinda weird,” she said.
“So are you,” he said.
“Yeah, and so are you. But it’s not the same. I don’t think he’d get it. Let’s just worry about this in the morning, okay? Go back to bed.”
Andy sighed, and crept out of the room. She waited a few minutes, then checked to make sure he had gone to bed, and hadn’t run off to see their unexpected visitor. He hadn’t. He was curled up in bed, waiting to fall asleep. She went back to her own room, to do the same.
M.T. Magee
Apr 8, 2016 | YA, 1st pages
1: THE TRAGEDY OF GWENLAIS
The young woman’s frantic breathing became faster as she ran through the heavy long grassy field. She nearly tripped on her skirts as they became tangled in the vegetation. The terrifying cries from behind caused her to look back at the horror that was unfolding.
“Run Laurel! Run! Do not stop!” her mother, Queen Milna, screamed at her in desperation.
The last thing she saw before turning back around was a towering dark creature noticing her escape and beginning to take chase. The long bird-like legs carrying it at horrifying speed. She screamed as it drew near and began to close the distance between them. She could hear its labored breathing as it continued its pursuit. She turned once again only to see the creature catching up to her. It shrieked at her in fury as she looked at it. Its enormous crimson eyes filled with hatred, the long pointed ears folded back behind its deer shaped head, with long human-like arms, pumping furiously as it ran. She turned to face forward trying to block the terror that was overtaking her mind, fear pushing her to run faster. At any moment, she would be close enough for her screams for help to be heard, she was almost at the river.
The Sentinel river camp was just over the other side. But too late, she felt its long clawed fingers grab her hair and push her to the ground. She landed with crushing force; she felt blood rush out of her mouth as she bit down on her lower lip. She was unable to move, the pain in her head was excruciating. The creature grabbed her hair once more and threw her over onto her back. It knelt down beside her, making low guttural sounds. It brought its strangely beautiful, but terrifying face closer to hers. It began to speak in an almost musical voice, words she did not understand.
Suddenly and without warning, it then shrieked at her again raising a clawed hand to deliver a final blow. Laurel, unable to scream, closed her eyes waiting for it to come. The blow never reached its intended mark, for in that instant there was the sound of pounding hoof beats, a deafening roar, and the sound of metal ripping through flesh. There was a rasping hiss of a last breath, followed by a heavy thud which shook the ground under her.
Laurel opened her eyes and saw the severed head of the creature only a few inches from her face. She then let out a scream of terror and revulsion, as she struggled to sit up and move away from the hideous sight. In her terror, she was completely unaware of the tall, dark-haired man leaping down from his enormous horse, and coming over to her.
He sheathed his bloody sword and quickly stooped down and gathered her in his arms. He could hear the desperate shouts and screams coming from the village. As the large group on horseback that was with him galloped up, he shouted the order to continue to the village to see what could be done for whoever was there, well knowing there would be more than one of the creatures that had attacked Laurel. They immediately thundered past him, followed by an enormous animal called a Scimitar cat, also known as a Hunter, running with them.
M M Carter
Apr 5, 2016 | YA, 1st pages
CHAPTER 1
‘New Beginnings’
“If my mother was an animal, she would definitely be a Doberman…Victoria Gray, I say the words loudly, deliberately, the acid taste of bitterness rolls off my tongue. The mere thought of her name almost makes me feel sick but I swallow hard and press on. I refuse to think of her as my mother, I say scanning the faces in the classroom. Unfortunately she is, biologically at least. Funny how you can be born to someone that you are completely different from. Except for my dark hair it’s such a relief that I don’t look, or think anything like her”,
All eyes are riveted to my face, ears attuned to every word and I steel myself and continue.
“You see my mother, if you can call her that, is a high profile media personality. You’ve seen the photos: dark glossy salon perfect hair; her Botox induced face and her white teeth, immaculately bleached. I never thought I would know what hatred feels like; I guess this extreme disgust must be kind of close. I can only hope my words convey their correct implication.”
I look around at the horror dawning on their faces, my anger rippling through the audience, causing discomfort as my ‘Show and Tell’ veers off the accepted rails. I smile inwardly at its desired effect. I wait to be asked to stop. Silence hangs heavy in the air and I don’t stop now, I need to make it count.
“I remember when I was about five or six years old and she was reluctantly patching up my split open knee, sit still and don’t be such a baby! You are so much like your father Charlotte, she snapped. The steel of her eyes, the sneer in her voice…unforgettable.
Then at twelve and protesting to another photo shoot. Charlotte for God’s sake get that sulky look off your face or I’ll slap it off, it’s bad enough that you are so fat. I can’t have you on camera sniping like that. The sharp bite of her tongue, leaving another dent in my already bruised self-image.
And so, I see my mother as a dog, something like a Doberman, sleek, beautiful to look at. The type people have put down because they are simply too vicious,
The End”
I finish my class speech to a progressive gasp and walk back to my desk, head held high in victory. I’ve imagined this scenario a dozen times. I can see it as if it’s really happening, a class speech describing a family member if they were anything other than the person that they are. A deserving fit for my mother…but it’s not real…and there is so much more I can say…but I can’t allow myself to think about her final betrayal.
Because when I do…it spins me out of control.
I jolt upright hyperventilating. The reminder so real I can almost feel the pressure indented on my lips as I run my fingers over them. I’d been lying awake for hours the speech running through my head on repeat. My room is starting to feel claustrophobic with the heat of early autumn sun streaming through my window. Drenched in sweat I force myself out of bed. Dreading the day ahead, I stumble across the room pushing hard against the window longing for cool air on my face!
It’s a daydream, a fantasy I tell myself. Only I’ve imagined it so often it’s like it’s become real.
David Santo
Apr 1, 2016 | YA
This tell-all companion guide to the TEEN ZOMBIE SHOW reveals secret information and true events that helped shape and inform the creation of the TV series.
It is the perfect insider’s guide on how and why the show was created. In short, by reading this, you will know things that others don’t.
Now if you’re a Teen Zombie Show newb, and you haven’t seen the series don’t worry; this fascinating chronicle of the people and places involved explores one central question not currently answered in the show…
Are zombies real?
Brian K. Kerley
Apr 1, 2016 | YA, 1st pages
CHAPTER 1
The sun beat pleasantly upon the Murdoch estate. Carriages came up the lane and deposited their young, finely dressed occupants into the courtyard, then moved off to allow the next carriage in line to do the same. Children of all ages ran up the hedge-lined walkway, followed by their teenage nannies, towards the front door of the great mansion. The children were redirected by a waiting servant to a wide, gaily festooned lawn on the west side of the house. Tables were joined together to accommodate the children of Port Augustus’ high society. A smaller table sat slightly lower on the lawn for the nannies of the privileged children. On a lanai overlooking the celebration sat a few of the mothers who had chosen to take the time to attend. Since it was a child’s affair, adult attendance was low. The birthday girl was Aideen Amirson, granddaughter of Traven and Akala Murdoch. It was her eleventh birthday.
Akala was in the kitchen sitting on a stool working the crank handle of an ice cream maker. “I think it needs more salt, and a bit more ice,” she said to Ninole. With her free hand, Akala pushed a strand of her silver-streaked light brown hair behind an ear and rubbed her lower back.
“Half a minute, milady,” replied the middle-aged cook as she removed another cake from the oven, setting it to cool upon a marble slab next to other cakes already stacked in triple layers.
“I thought we were long past such formalities, Ninole,” Akala said with an exasperated sigh. “You’ve been here longer than anyone, even Dorfin.”
“Aye milady,” responded the cook. She took a scoop of rock salt from a canvas bag on the floor and slowly poured it into the outer ring of the ice cream maker as Akala continued cranking. “But today’s one o’ those days it might not hurt t’ keep up appearances.” She went to the evaporator, opened the freezer side, and removed a canister of crushed ice. “By the way, I think the heat exchanger’s got a bad bearing. It squeaks when it’s makin’ ice.” Ninole raked several ice chips into the bucket.
“I remember when Lord Townsend had a man flogged for improperly addressing a lord and the poor wretch didn’t even work for ‘im.”
At the mention of Townsend’s name Akala’s face went flat. “If anyone causes trouble for you, they’ll deal with me,” she asserted.
“Yes Milady,” Ninole agreed. “I doubt it not. You aren’t like other folks born to wealth and privilege. See that’s the difference. One o’ them’s insulted, an’ they’d have the culprit in the stocks, but not you. You’d be teachin’ ‘em manners by the strokes o’ that sword o’ yours, even if’n they was a lord.”
“Oh come now,” Akala responded with a sheepish grin. “I think you’ve been reading too many romance novels.”
Ninole returned the canister to the evaporator, and then wiped her hands on her apron while looking boldly at her boss.
“We’ve all heard you practicin’ with Lord Travin. You can’t hide the sound of clashin’ steel behind a closed door.” Her gaze narrowed on a point below her employer’s chin.
