An Agent's Inbox #6

Dear Gabrielle,

Seventeen-year-old Ian Hill, the first male in a long line of witches, is a dud. His sixteenth birthday came and went, along with his hopes for a power. Any power. He would’ve settled for levitating pencils.

Used to being a disappointment, Ian resigns himself to a boring suburban existence, running errands and taking out the garbage at his mom’s pagan supply store. Until he meets Violet. The talented witch not only saves Ian’s life, but mysteriously awakens his weird powers, and some normal teenage hormones, too. Welcome to the world of telepathic trees, killer shadows, and ghost pet cats.

Ian’s new tree whispering Gift isn’t just unique; it’s practically extinct. But having loyal leafy allies with unmatched wisdom, protection, and healing abilities isn’t enough for Ian. To impress Violet, Ian “borrows” her treasured book of spells and tries a shortcut to master more magic. His attempt ends in a wildfire, and Violet, betrayed and hurt, disappears from his life.

While nursing a broken heart and gnawing guilt, Ian learns he is a target of the Dark Soul Stealers. Feared by the whole witch community, these powerful occultists seek to unleash denizens of demonic realms onto the world. Ian’s powers may be the missing ingredient they need to succeed. Without Violet’s training, Ian fails to prevent the destruction of his hometown and his mom falling gravely ill. As he races to save his mom and to find Violet, his adversaries present him with an impossible deal: his mother’s and Violet’s lives in exchange for his soul.

MOLFAR is a 92K YA Contemporary Fantasy that will appeal to readers of BEAUTIFUL CREATURES and THE RAVEN BOYS.

I grew up in Western Ukraine with stories about mystical individuals who lived in the Carpathian Mountains. They could call up storms and cure even the gravest of illnesses with medicinal plants and the power of their word--Molfars. Inspired by the tales from my childhood, I created MOLFAR, where Ukrainian folklore and Slavic mythology are incorporated into the modern world to give it international appeal.

The first 1,250 words of my manuscript are pasted below as per submission guidelines.

Sincerely,
L.K.

MOLFAR

When your mom is a walking lie detector, you master the art of withholding the truth.

Sitting under a shady oak, I grab the closest sack full of herbs and tie it tightly with a twine. A little too tightly. Applying unnecessary force feels cathartic. Mom’s got to stop canceling my plans every time a high holiday rolls around. There are eight of them! My social life won’t survive it. Midsummer--Litha, as witches call it--may be in a few days, but Rick’s graduation party is tonight. Mom knew I’d be missing it when she sent me on a three-day plant harvesting trip to Gram’s cabin in The-Middle-Of-Nowhere, Poconos.

That’s why tonight I’ll drive back to Chornohora and attend Rick’s party against her wishes.

Binding the sacks together, I hoist them onto my right shoulder, two in the front and two in the back for a perfect balance. My phone vibrates in my jeans pocket. I fish it out with my free hand and read the text message from my buddy Tommy: Rick’s confirmed it. Sam will be there tonight. I grin and reply with a smiley face.

Samantha Lawrence is the reason I’m breaking the rules today. As far as I’m concerned, she’s worth the risk. Day one of senior year’s French class, when Sam waltzed over and sat in the chair next to mine, I knew I was a goner. She threw her long, honey-blond hair over her shoulder and said, “Bonjour.” I’m pretty sure time stopped for a while. She’s been on my mind ever since.

Paul’s coming too. You better not be late, man, Tommy’s second text says.

My jaw tightens. Paul Carter, that filthy-rich, self-absorbed, gym-dwelling, and hair-gelling moron. He’s got muscles to make Schwarzenegger jealous, a wallet full of cards with six digit limits, and zero brain cells. Naturally, girls fall at his feet. When Sam didn’t, he got interested.

I haven’t seen Sam since graduation, with my crazy work schedule and all. Rumor has it Paul’s been making progress in my absence. But tonight, I’ll change his luck. And if I incur Mom’s wrath in the process, so be it.

Tucking my phone into my backpack, I head out of the oak grove. White clouds drift across clear skies, and warm summer wind hisses between the rocks. It’s a beautiful day that promises a perfect night for a party.

The two-hour, one-way drive means no evening plant harvesting, but I’ll have two more nights to catch up. Sleep can wait, and Mom won’t know a thing. And in the unlikely event she does find out, the worst she can do is make me work overtime at her pagan supply store. I practically live there already, so what’s a few more hours?

In the first clearing, the wind snatches my baseball cap and hurls it into the thorny brush. Crap. With a grunt, I place the sacks on the ground and climb into the prickly bushes to get my stupid hat. Then I freeze. Swaying in the breeze beside my worn blue baseball cap are tiny scarlet flowers with fuzzy purple leaves that resemble the wings of a Phoenix.

I’ve only ever seen drawings of this flower, but the distinct shape of its leaves can never be confused for any other--it’s one of a kind. All those botany lessons Gram forced on me no longer seem like a waste. If only she were here to see this.

My hands shake as I position my fingers an inch above the ground level and snap the precious stem. The worth of one little flower can sponsor my entire college education. And there are a few dozen more here.

I’m going to be rich. I won’t ever have to work at The Moon Goddess store again. My college tuition won’t be a problem. Richy Rich Paul Carter will have nothing on me.

Giddy laughter erupts from my throat. I’ve never been lucky; haven’t even won a dollar playing the scratch-off lottery. I can’t believe I’m holding it--the mythical, powerful plant rumored to be extinct for centuries--the Phoenix Flame. This is every witch’s dream, and I’m the one who gets to live it. Me. The guy who was skipped by his family witch gene.

I place the scarlet flowers in my baseball cap and roll it up. Then I hide it inside my shirt. There’s no way I’m parting with it, not even for a second. If Gram’s lore isn’t bogus, this plant can unlock the body’s ability to heal itself, even if one is an inch from death.

Hoisting the sacks over my shoulder, I hurry out of the woods, grinning. My steps and spirits are light until I reach the meadow.

A powerful gust of wind makes me take a few steps back and then lean forward to keep my balance. Dark, massive clouds swarm the skies, blocking out the sun. Angry lightning bolts slice through them and echo with ear-splitting thunder. Where did this storm come from?

I scan the meadow for a shelter and spot a protected area between the rocks. But then I remember the party. If I get stuck on this mountain for hours, I’ll miss it. Images of Paul Carter kissing Sam invade my mind, and all of a sudden getting to the party becomes more important than dodging lightning bolts.

Ignoring all self-preservation instincts, I press my treasure-filled baseball hat tighter to my chest and dash for the path that snakes down the mountain.

The heavens open, releasing a torrential downpour. I slip and slide on quickly-forming mud. When I pass a boulder that resembles a turtle, I know the ledge is dangerously close. Swearing loudly, I latch on to a young oak and come to a halt. But the ground under my feet breaks off, like a piece of soft chocolate cake, and slides down the mountain, taking me with it.

My heart drops into my stomach. Frantically grabbing at plants and roots, I struggle to slow my fall. Sharp rocks cut into my skin, and dull waves of pain rush through my ribs and knees. The next bump knocks the wind out of me and sends me airborne. Gasping for air, I hover for a second in a state of weightlessness and then land on a large stone. A dull thud from my head smashing against something hard echoes in my ears and then everything goes black.

#

I awake to pain tearing through my body. When I open my eyes, everything swims in a gray haze. Slowly, the shapes come into focus. Dancing flames on wax-dripping candles cast shadows on dark mud walls. Plants hang suspended from the ceiling in bunches. Nothing about this place is familiar. My heart starts pounding. Where the h*** am I?

I lift my dead-weight head, and a sharp pain shoots down my back. Moaning, I let my head fall back onto the rickety cot.

“Don’t make any sudden moves,” a soft voice says. A pair of eyes, which belongs to a girl about my age, locks with mine. “You aren’t healed yet.”

Staring at the biggest eyes I’ve ever seen on a human being, I swallow my growing panic. I clear my throat and croak, “What happened?”

The girl tilts her head, regarding me with curiosity. Her long hair spills over her shoulder like a waterfall. “You fell.” She presses a mug of bitter-smelling concoction to my lips and tilts it. “Drink.”

An Agent's Inbox #5

Dear Ms. Piraino,

Hammond’s a game programmer, an if/then warrior, with commitment issues. June’s a woman who enjoys sketching while nude, loves waffles, and who might be a witch. When he meets her at Ernesto's Memorial Day Moose Bash and Buffet, no one is more surprised than himself that he falls head over heels for her.

His friend, Fran, is pleased he’s finally settling down. Mel, who seems to idolize Hammond’s bachelor ways, wins the office pool by guessing the nearest date to Hammond’s first profession of love. Even his heart keeps ignoring his logical assertions about the dangers of relationships. But June helps him learn how to see the hidden truth of things. It’s not magic she says, but every moment with her is magical.

When he discovers the truth of another world that lies beyond his own, his sense of reality is upended. And now June is gone, lost to a land where magic is real, people carry swords, and fortune tellers run the local newspaper. Fran and Mel are willing to make the journey with him to find her and bring her back. But each choice they make will change them, pulling them deeper into the tangle of Summer. And every decision seems to guide them inexorably to the midsummer festival, where the magic of both worlds rests in the balance, and June is the fulcrum point.

Hammond faces a difficult calculation: he must find a way to save June, his friends, and his heart, and do it all without destroying two worlds.

SUMMER is an Adult Fantasy novel that is complete at 136,000 words.  It reflects my love of blending genres, mixing romance and comedy with magical realism and a second world fantasy setting. The book will appeal to those who love works like Neverwhere, where the real blends with the surreal, and who enjoy geek humor like The Big Bang Theory. The first 5 pages (approximately 1250 words) are included below, and additional materials can be sent at your request.

I look forward to your reply.

Sincerely,
J. R.


SUMMER

I wasn’t looking for anything more than a good time, if I’m being honest. Ernesto’s Memorial Day Moose Bash and Buffet was sure to be glorious, and I drove the two hours there from Baltimore to enjoy myself. And as always, Ernesto didn’t disappoint. There was a moose-shaped cake, and a huge stuffed moose near the front gate. He had a moose piñata hanging from the elm tree in his back yard.

There was something odd and disjointed about the combination, though. Orange with apple, coal with snow, Memorial Day with moose. But no one cared, this was par for Ernesto’s course and if the beer and brats were flowing, he could label his party whatever made him happy. Still, that should have been my first warning.

“Why moose?” I asked his lover, Rufus, as I walked up to the door. Rufus was wearing a pair of fake antlers made of felt. The brown band flattened down his dark hair.

“Rocky and Bullwinkle was canceled on this date in 1964,” he answered, and handed me a beer. Then he patted me on the shoulder and I walked into the room and looked around.

A woman I didn't recognize was standing by the food table. Her hair was curly and black, cascading wildly down over her shoulders. She had a cute little nose beneath eyes that were a dark green mixed with browns and blues. Her neck was slender and led down to a hint of cleavage, her breasts small and high, her waist narrow, and her overall shape lithe and desirable. Her summer dress was fashionably red and white, with flowers on it, appropriately short for the warm weather without being scandalously daring. She was a perfectly attractive girl, one of many in the room as my eyes scanned past her. I had seen her type hundreds of times and there was nothing remarkable about her at all.

She smiled at me.

I fell in love.

Really, it was as simple as that. I didn’t realize it at the time of course. I was still wedded to the theory that I could play it cool and take it slow, ease into any relationship and bolt when I wanted. Even that smile, that one perfect smile with its girl-next-door charm didn’t change that thought process immediately. It took the rational side of me another month to catch up to the emotional side, and slap it hard enough to serve as a reminder to not drag a** behind. I should have known, though, and been more careful. Everyone falls in love at Ernesto’s. That’s where the magic happens.

Ernesto’s parties were the talk of our group for months, and sometimes years. The Ides of March party was an experience of drunken debauchery on an epic level, with more naked bodies than a porn shoot. But it was his Medieval Mariachi event the previous summer that we discussed ad nauseam through the long, dreary fall that followed. Even his regular New Year’s Eve Extravaganza didn’t wash out the bright memory of everyone in colorful tunics and robes, and the host in his plate armor.

There was a near drowning that took place when the jousting event went badly and Sir Edward of Chamomile--Eddie Fenton, who was a manager at the local Any-Mart chain store--ended up at the bottom of the pool still strapped into his shopping cart, his chainmail weighing him down. Melissa dove to the bottom and dragged him out after cutting him free, then performed rather lengthy and vigorous mouth to mouth. A couple of beers later, and Eddie was ready to go again. He placed second overall once they fixed his cart. He married Melissa six months later.

Rosie and Charles hooked up at Ernesto’s Labor Day Lindy Hop. They were the oddest couple I had ever seen. She was a pale colored waif of a redhead with enough freckles to start her own connect-the-dots catalog company, and a temper that made grown Navy Seals cry. Her previous boyfriend had been the Navy Seal in question, and I remember stifling a laugh when I saw him standing in front of her, his shoulders slumped, wracked by sobs as she glared up at him with her hands on her hips. We never saw him again, and I often wondered where she hid the body.

Charles, on the other hand, was a quiet man with a shy smile in his dark face, and a voice as deep and wide as the Grand Canyon when he could be coaxed into talking. But both were intelligent and funny in their bookish ways, and they spent the evening telling each other literary jokes about Chaucer and Shakespeare while everyone else partied around them. They slept together in one of the spare rooms, and we watched them leave the next morning, sharing a cab. I think they moved in with each other within a week.

People get together at Ernesto’s. It was as inevitable as the return of spring each year. Even guys like me, the type of men who never stay in a relationship long and prefer to keep company with their keyboard and Netflix reruns of old Star Trek shows, could meet someone. But I wasn’t looking for it, so it snuck up on me.

I walked over to where she was and poured myself a drink from the punch bowl. The little sign next to it read “Antler-aid,” and it smelled like my grandmother’s cranberry-juice cocktails, the ones that kept her well lubricated after dinner each evening. Gran was a better drunk than my father had been, and I spent many evenings with her listening to her stories of Gramps and the war and the things they did to get by.

“I was a Foley dancer back in those days,” she would say, pausing to take a swig from her tall glass. “It was a wonderful job, and so many handsome men. I was the belle of the ball back then, Ham, my boy, and your grandfather was so jealous when he heard all the stories. Ah, but he was off fighting the war and wasn’t here, and he liked that sort of thing anyway. He was a bit of a pervy bastard, your grandfather.” Tuning her out did no good, and she always called me Ham, which I hated. I couldn’t get her to call me Hammond, though I suspect that was partially due to her continual state of inebriation.

I stood near the girl, awkwardly holding my drink while I tried to determine how to begin a conversation. The buzz of voices surrounded us, the music was playing “52 Girls” by the B-52’s, and my tongue was twisted into knots.

“June.”

She opened her mouth and spoke, and the word came out as smooth and dark as tinted glass. A cool tingle passed along my spine, and I found myself staring at her incredibly white teeth as she smiled at me.

“What?” This turned out to be the extent of my conversational repertoire as I slowly drowned in the liquid pools of her eyes.

“My name. It’s June. You want to ask my name.”

“Yes. What’s your name?”

“June,” she said, ignoring my reduced mental capacity, for which I was grateful. “June July August.”

“What?”

She laughed, and the room brightened, the melody of her giggle like the sun raining its shine down as it peeked out from behind a cloud. “That’s my name, stranger. First name June, last name August, middle name July. June July August.”

An Agent's Inbox #4

Dear Ms. Piraino,

Dylan Ronayne has struggled with a dark secret for his entire life--an almost uncontrollable urge to kill. But when the South Pacific military base he lives on is attacked with sarin gas, and the evacuation plane crashes on a remote island, that secret might be the thing that saves him.

As the five other army kids who survived the crash try to gather food and search for a way home, Dylan does his best to keep his distance. However, six-year-old David, the youngest survivor, looks up to Dylan and unwittingly becomes his responsibility. Having lost his little sister in the attack on the base, Dylan promises to keep David safe.

Soon, mercenaries arrive on the island, but the kids quickly discover they’re not there to rescue them--they’re there to kill them. What begins as a story of overcoming obstacles and hope soon turns into a tale of pure survival against carnal thirst, where the most dangerous predator on the island might be Dylan himself.

SURVIVING SARIN is a 56,000 word YA thriller, best likened to Lord of the Flies meets Darkly Dreaming Dexter.

I’m a high school biology teacher who also serves as Chapter Director of Pets for Vets NYCLI, an organization that trains rescued dogs for military veterans. I am also a land searcher for Search and Rescue, and will be taking my SAR TECH II in a month. I’m a member of SCBWI, RWA and Sisters in Crime. My article, “Lessons We as Writers Can Teach Our Kids,” was published in Sisters in Crime’s First Draft July 2014. 

Thank you for your time and consideration.

Warm regards,
T.S.

SURVIVING SARIN

“Nothing makes us so lonely as our secrets.” --Paul Tournier

The ear-numbing blare of sirens fills the air. My hands clamp over my ears and my eyes slam shut. The pain in my head is excruciating. A loud metallic hum replaces the wail of sirens and the floor vibrates. My eyes flutter open, focusing on the metal floor lined with white and yellow lines. It reminds me of a parking lot for miniature cars, except for the evenly spaced grip pads. A Galaxy. Why the h*** am I on a C-5? Screw that, when did I get on the plane? I rub my aching temples, trying to remember.

My head pivots toward the tiny window over my left shoulder. On the ground below, bright red bodies lie sprawled in the streets, some with puffy patches, like water balloons ready to burst. Frantic people race along the tarmac as the last plane waits to take-off, desperate to find a way inside.

Our plane picks up speed and the images outside skip around, making my stomach turn. I swivel my head to face forward, hoping to alleviate the nausea. The steel engines roar and my ears pop as our plane ascends. When it’s fully off the ground I turn my attention back out the window.

The last plane hurtles down the runway. Just as the wheels lift off, the C-5 plummets to the ground, and flames engulf the fuselage from both sides. A loud boom cuts through the air, sending vibrations through my body, and shakes our plane.

“Holy s***!” The tall boy sitting next to me slaps his head, mouth hanging open, while bulging green eyes fixate on the burning vessel.

Those people, the kids. In a matter of minutes they don’t exist anymore. A small girl with dark curls sprawled on the floor in front of me cries. I grit my teeth, hating she’s afraid. My eyes close, fingers undulating against my temple. This makes no sense. There’s no reason to attack a US military base in the South Pacific with barely 8,000 people on it. “What the f***’s happening?”

“Don’t know. No one knows.” The boy’s gaze settles on the rear of the plane, his eyes dancing from one side to the other. I recognize him from school, but can’t remember his name. D*** drugs still haven’t worn off. “Thought you were dead,” he says.

“Huh?” I turn quickly. My eyes trail behind, sending a wave of nausea racing through my body. “Honestly, I hardly remember getting on the plane.”

“A nurse helped you.”

The nurse. She shook me viciously, her eyes wide as she told me we needed to go. I could hardly stand from the pain killers so she helped me across the tarmac. Strapped me into this harness.

“Ugh.” I grab my head, the pounding viscous. A distant, dull throb fills one of my palms. I pull my hand from my head.

It’s covered in gauze.

Bile creeps up my throat. Cynthia. Her chest…the blood…her vacant eyes…

My chest tightens, tears threatening to overflow at any moment. I take in deep breaths to calm myself. I will not cry in front of these people. My hand slides deep into my pocket until my fingers touch the smooth metal of the pocket-watch. Still there.

Cynthia’s tender cheeks, full of leftover baby fat, were covered in red welts. Through her shirt, flesh protruded in ways it definitely shouldn’t, oozing clots of thick, blackish blood from a large wound. Her tiny, frail frame was impossibly still. My baby sister wasn’t a threat. She was helpless.

Our plane levels off, the screaming dies down, and I scan the cargo bay as the effects of the drugs begin to wear off. There aren’t enough seats for everyone. Most people are huddled on the floor. Some parents squeezed two to three kids into a single seat. Others coddle sobbing children. But most are silent. Their eyes wide. Their bodies stiff. Their hands gripping whatever’s in their reach.

“I’m Tim by the way,” the muscular boy says, his shaggy auburn hair framing his perfectly spaced almond eyes.

“Dylan.” That’s right. He’s the captain of the basketball team. Tim cranes his neck, his eyes still darting from side to side. “Is your family in the back?”

“What? Uh, no. It’s only me and my dad. But he’s on the base like the other officers.” Tim shrinks into his chair, wringing his hands, his face taut. “And your family? Have you found them yet?”

“My stepdad’s on the base too.” I don’t offer any more information.

“When the sirens went off, everyone stampeded. Some kids got trampled. I barely made it onto the plane,” he says, words pouring out like he’s got verbal diarrhea. “So much for order. What would’ve happened if we were in school? Like single file out the door for a fire drill would work?” Tim rolls his eyes and throws up his hands.

I look out the window and find nothing but a black abyss dotted with white twinkling stars. No turbulence and the low hum of the engine make the ride peaceful, withstanding the reason we are on the plane that is.

I run my fingers over my wrapped hand. D*** it! I could’ve tried harder to save them. I should’ve let Cynthia stay in my room, I shouldn’t have shooed her out. If we went downstairs together, maybe she’d still be alive and with me.

We should’ve been safe on base. With all the security protocols, how the h*** did a murderer go undetected? Taking a deep breath, I force myself to focus and remember whatever details I can about that day. Three days. It’s only been three days since she died. Black boots. Yes. Definitely black boots. But everyone wears black boots--we live on an Army base for crying out loud. No, I need something else.

My brain is still fuzzy and the killer made sure to stay in the shadows. Short hair. Or was it longer? Doubt creeps in. Why can’t I remember what she looked like? Or was it a he? I slam my fist into the armrest. The way Cynthia’s blood smelled like copper, the waft of jasmine from that stupid candle Rob keeps in the kitchen, those details stick in my mind.

The plane suddenly swerves then dips, tossing several unbuckled passengers out of their seats. The people sitting on the floor slam into the walls of the fuselage. As they regain their balance, and the plane levels off, it plummets again.

“Oh s***, oh s***, oh s***,” Tim shouts, gripping his armrest, eyes closed.

I do the same, my stomach taking a dive. The parents and kids who were seated on the floor fly past me towards the back of the plane. A girl in front of me wails. Suddenly, a pair of hands tries to unbuckle my seat belt from my right. “Yo, man! Gimme your seat,” a bigger kid commands, his breath reeking of corn chips.

“F*** you.” I shift my body sideways and land a kick that sends him stumbling backwards. The plane’s dipping action pulls the linebacker wannabe farther from me. He scrambles to his feet, flips me off, then runs to the other end of the plane.

“Hold on.” Tim’s fingers work tirelessly as he tries to help me re-buckle my seatbelt.

The plane dips into a downward spiral, and its force is too strong, ripping me from my seat.

An Agent's Inbox #3

Dear Ms. Piraino,

Thank you for participating in such a fun contest! Since you're looking for imaginative fantasy, I hope my project is a good fit for your list.

GOLDEN CROWNS, CRIMSON THORNS is a young adult fantasy novel complete at 87,000 words. It combines the fairy tale elements of UPROOTED with the girl power of THE PRINCESS ACADEMY and the betrayal and darkness of SHADOW AND BONE. It was requested by Miriam Weinberg from Tor/Forge at the May 2016 Atlanta Writer’s Conference, and it’s my goal to find an agent before I submit my manuscript to her.

Synne Davies is seventeen years old, a fisherman’s daughter, and--technically--a princess. When she’s summoned to attend Caerwood Academy with three other princesses to save the peace of the four kingdoms, she is, at first, defiant. She’s chosen a life of independence, fishing in a boat made with her own hands, holding her own in a harbor full of men. But when she’s escorted by armed guards to attend the Academy, her loss of freedom becomes the least of her worries. School might not be as dull--or safe--as she thought.

Despite her fears, her initial days at the Academy are filled with etiquette classes, history lectures, and homesickness. She struggles to find common ground with the other princesses, and her only ally is the handsome mathematics teacher who sees potential in Synne despite her rural background. However, the normalcy crumbles when Synne unearths the truth: the princesses were brought to the school to be brainwashed into supporting the wealthiest kingdom of Astun--or, should that fail, as hostages. 

Facing a princess rebellion, the teachers use powerful enchantments to trap the girls in the castle, where the princesses face starvation if they refuse to comply. Now Synne has only two goals for the academic year: to resist, and to survive. To do that, she must unite the other girls, uncover some magic of her own, and prepare the castle for siege, knowing failure means more than death--it means war.

I graduated in 2010 with honors and a Bachelor’s Degree in Liberal Arts and Culture from New St. Andrews in Northern Idaho, where I read and wrote until I had brain callouses and terrible posture. I've pasted the first 1,250 words below, thank you so much for your time and consideration. 

All my best,

A.D.

GOLDEN CROWNS, CRIMSON THORNS

The fishing net caught the stitches on the back of her hand with a stomach-lurching jerk. Synne bit off a curse and hauled the empty net in, blood trickling down the crook between her thumb and finger. There were only five stitches, but three had torn free, and the puckered flesh was even uglier now. Her mother had stitched it up only the night before, and she kept a tally of the scars on Synne’s calloused fingers. All scars and no ring.

Synne sighed and ignored the school of cod flashing in the water. Swaying in her perch on the prow, she pinched the cut together, wrapped a bit of cloth around her palm, and knotted it.

She glanced to the stern, but, thankfully, Captain Cam wasn’t watching. He didn’t allow her to swear like the crew did, but then again, he was her father. Rough hands were a fisherman’s trademark, but he still fussed over her every time a hook marred her fingers or the ropes burned blisters into her palms. Probably because his wife only gave him an earful over Synne’s marriage prospects.

She picked up her casting net and rubbed the wet fibers between her fingers. Her shadow stretched past the bow and over the waves, and she could look east without squinting. It was the end of the day.

The boat was her second home. She’d spent half of her seventeen years on it. Every knot in the nets, every groove in the deck were as familiar to Synne as the pattern of scars on her hands. The captain gave her a man’s wages, and the crew couldn’t complain. She could mend a net before any of the men could thread a needle. Like an otter in the water, she was the only one who could bring in a stray float or dive to check a snarled line.

Fishing was her birthright.

A cold snout pushed into her bandaged palm. Synne drew it away, reaching around to scratch behind Kip’s ears with her uninjured hand. His stub tail vibrated, but when the scratches were over, he circled back to his resting place in Synne’s shadow, panting beside the full basket of bait fish. Every cast, he twitched like he would follow the net into the sea. But he wasn’t allowed. Hauling him back out, smelly, exhilarated, and thrashing, was a nightmare. Besides, it scared the fish.

Synne rolled her shoulders and brushed a trickle of sweat from the back of her neck. A shout rang out from the stern. Synne dodged the sail and lines, swinging her way towards the men at the rear of the boat. They had pulled the lines in for the night, stashing the gear away. All except one.

Synne’s father crouched down, one brown hand on the line, squinting at a swirl of white water behind them. A sea turtle struggled behind the boat, caught.

“Can’t pull it in without hurting it,” Cam grunted. “Will, fetch it in.”

Will glanced at the captain, uncertain. The turtle was an Ebban Snapper, as big as the one that took off a man’s hand last spring. Only a fool bothered a snapper, even on land. One tangled in a net would be rearing for a fight. And Synne had seen Will swim. He’d either drown or paddle to the turtle just in time for it to take a chunk out of him. It should be her job. If Will got hurt, it would be her fault.

Will was still halfway out of his shirt and her father’s eyes were on the snapper bobbing behind them. She stripped down to her shift, stepped past Will, and dove. Delicious cool surrounded her, the sun’s harsh glare gone. Synne kicked, judging the distance to the turtle. Don’t get too close.

Surfacing, Synne spat briny water and wiped her eyes, waving to Cam. He had one hand on Kip’s collar, his arm jerking as Kip tried to throw himself after Synne. She could just make out her father’s mouth, pressed into a line under the shade of his cap.

“That isn’t a buoy, Synne,” he called.

Cam threw his thumb over his shoulder.

But he was the man who’d taught her to pull her weight in the world. And Synne always did. She gulped, treading water. She should have stayed underwater until she was far enough away to pretend she couldn’t hear him. She pressed her own mouth into a frown, shook her head, and pointed to the turtle. Its slitted yellow eye glared. The captain threw up his free hand and shook his head. Will laughed. Cam smacked him on the back of the head.

Synne grinned, and sea water sloshed into her open mouth. She hadn’t disobeyed a direct order. Besides, there wasn’t much he could do from the deck of the boat. Unless he replaced her with another crew member. And there were rules on the boat. No special treatment.

She struck out for the turtle. Facing it, she felt like she’d taken another gulp of cold seawater. It loomed like a tiny island of rage. Loops of tangled line wound around the wide, spiked shell, and its muscular flippers thrashed the water. She wouldn’t be able to get near enough to do anything. Of course not. She couldn’t exactly ride the turtle back to the boat. She swallowed, the heat of embarrassment warming her numb limbs.

“Synne!”

A shout, then the end of a line smacked in the water beside her. Synne swam to the turtle’s side and bobbed out of the reach of its powerful jaws. She tied a noose, treading water with her legs. Bellowing with rage, the turtle craned its neck to spot her, but she drifted behind its flailing tail and looped the rope around the shell.

“It’s all right, you ugly thing.” It snapped its beak at her like it knew what she’d said. Her soothing voice needed work, then.

“Shush, I’m sure your mother loves you very much.”

A vision struck her, of what her mother would say if she lost a whole hand. Or both hands. A desperate laugh bubbled under her ribs.

She kicked and surged backwards. The noose tightened, wedged between two primeval spines. She waved to the boat, and a shout answered. A foaming wake formed behind the turtle as strong arms pulled it in. Synne bobbed in the water, light as a cork. Will was safe and dry, and she was still irreplaceable on the boat, still in one piece.

Flipping onto her back, Synne dawdled in the wake, ears in the water. The world turned to sunlight, cool water, and silence. The silence was important. A lecture waited on the boat. But she couldn’t stay in the water forever.

Her father looked down at her and shook his head before pulling her aboard, his mouth pressed shut, his eyebrows drawn. Good. That meant he was trying not to smile. She was in trouble, but he’d be telling the story at the pub that night. From the looks the crew gave her, they would be, too.

She pulled her dress over her soaked shift. On the deck, three men held the turtle’s shell as it scrabbled deep grooves in the planking, eyes rolling. Will crouched beside it, slashing each loop of line with swift strokes. Synne slid an oar handle under its nose. With a crack, the turtle’s beak clamped down, giving her father enough time to ease his hand between its jaws.

An Agent's Inbox #2

Dear Ms Piraino,

Fifteen-year-old Lucy Nightingale has always suspected that the world hates her, from her parents’ divorce to the stupid freshmen who keep sticking gum all over her bike handlebars. But then the world goes and proves it, when her own dreams start trying to murder her in her sleep.

Every night, Lucy must face her Dreamon--a shapeshifting physical manifestation of all her darkest thoughts. Not only that, but she must come to grips with the new rules which govern her dream world, such as the warped laws of physics, the random explode-y things, and the fact that she can't wake up until dawn. Not that real life is much better. After attacking her best friend at school, Lucy is confined to her room, with no outside contact.

Then there's Uri, another being in her dreamscape who claims to know all about Dreamons. He refuses to answer personal questions, lies by omission, and talks in riddles, but he's good at keeping Lucy away from danger. That works fine for her. If she can't stay away from the Dreamon, she's screwed.

But Lucy can't keep running from her nightmares forever. As the line between dreams and reality begins to blur, she must venture into the deepest corners of her own psyche to defeat her Dreamon before it takes over for good. Otherwise, she'll never wake up again.

THE DREAMON is a 65,000-word YA contemporary fantasy. It is a standalone with series potential. When I'm not writing, I work at my local library, swim, and (of course) read. I do have nightmares sometimes--this book was inspired by one--but thankfully none of them have tried to eat my soul yet.

Thank you for your time and consideration.

Sincerely,
E.F.

THE DREAMON

The last thing I saw before my life turned into a nightmare was a rubber monkey head.

It was one of those little joke erasers that you get in craft stores for ten cents each. It had big cartoony eyes, a tiny nose, and a smile which was supposed to be cute but looked creepy instead.

Hey there. Can I eat your brains? Golly, thanks a bunch. You're my best friend! Snarf snarf snarf ...

Imagining scripts for a homicidal monkey eraser was a pretty boring thing to be doing, but at least it was more interesting than the economics class which I was supposed to be paying attention to.

“...thelawofsupplyanddemandisheavilyinfluencedbythevelocityofmoney ...” Blah, blah, blah.

I glanced at the clock above the whiteboard. 4:04. Six more minutes to go. Maybe I could last that long, if I was lucky.

I tapped the monkey head against the surface of my desk in a rhythmic pattern. Lots of monkeys seem to be named after me. Lucy the human-ape fossil. Lucy the chimpanzee who learned sign language and started to act like a person. Even my Aunt Jean named her marmoset Lucy, though she says I shouldn't take it personally.

As such, I decided that my eraser should be called Lucy, too.

Hi there. I'm Lucy the mad scientist monkey. Let me tell you my evil plan. Much like economics, it involves velocity. Of a pencil. Aimed at an unsuspecting economic teacher's head.

My mind was too numb to come up with an exit strategy for Lucy the monkey eraser, so I set her down on my desk. She grinned back at me with her syrupy smile.

Brainssss…

Oh, just shut up already. I slapped a piece of scratch paper on top of her and shoved her underneath my textbook.

My eyes flicked to the left. Keisha, my best friend, was watching the teacher with what seemed like interest. Just beyond her, my other best friend, Cassie, looked like she was as bored as me. Her pen flip-flopped in her hand as she drew lazy circles on her notepaper. When she saw me watching, she pointed two fingers at her temple, miming a gun, and made a “pfff” noise.

I raised my eyebrows and nodded. I get you, Cass.

The clock's minute hand inched towards the 2, vibrating as it struggled towards the end of its journey. The anticipation was almost too much to bear. I wrapped a lock of my chocolate-brown hair around my finger, round and round, round and round, until it tugged at my scalp.

Come on, baby, come on ….

BRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!

At the sound of the bell, we all shot up out of our chairs. The teacher stopped in mid-drone. He started saying something about homework for next time, but most of the students, including me, had already gathered our stuff and were halfway out the door.

I paid a quick visit to my locker to pick up the rest of my homework, and then headed straight towards the main entrance of Springville High.

Another day over. Another day survived.

Or so I thought.

I stepped outside, squinting into the bright September sun. Just then, Josh Feller barged through the crowd and bumped into me, knocking my backpack off of my shoulder. He flashed me a smirk as he slid down the railing. I was about to yell some choice words at him, but Amy Rourke picked up my bag and pressed it into my hand with a smile. An unfamiliar dark-haired girl, who was probably a senior, shot me a sympathetic look as she passed by. Cassie gave my arm a light punch and swept off into the crowd, yelling, “See you tomorrow, Lucy-bear!”

I scanned the ground to see if anything had fallen out of my bag. A couple of pencils, a tube of ChapStick, and...Lucy the monkey eraser, smirking up at me like the Cheshire Cat.

Come on. Retrieve me, my minion! I want my brains!

I decided to leave her there. I could deal with evil plans and an appetite for internal organs, but being called a minion was the final straw.

After I'd gotten the rest of my stuff together, I started down the stairs. I was the last one out. I just hoped that Josh, stupid freshman that he was, hadn't taken this opportunity to stick gum all over my bike handlebars again. But, you know, if he had, I had my own ways of getting revenge.

Four steps from the bottom, I froze again. Now that the sun's glare had cleared from my eyes, I could see a woman standing at the bottom of the steps.

She was tall and bony, with short platinum hair that stood straight up in gelled spikes. She wore a hideous jumpsuit patterned with squares of black, yellow and neon pink. A pair of slim sunglasses, tinted red, covered her eyes.

And as far as I could tell, she was staring straight at me. Her gaze seemed to pierce right into my mind, into my soul.

A trickle of sweat dripped down the back of my neck, and the hairs on my arms stood up. I backed all the way up to the top of the steps, heart racing. The woman didn't move a muscle. She might as well have been a statue.

Maybe she was a statue.

Stop it, I told myself. Stop it, you're being stupid. It's just a woman. Someone's weird mom, probably. Since when are you scared of someone's mom?

I took a deep breath and walked down the steps, past Ms Creepo, to the bike racks. Josh had been merciful today--my handlebars were clean. Shoving the key to the bike lock in the back pocket of my jeans, I swung myself into the saddle and started pedaling.

It's kind of annoying that I'm not old enough to drive by myself yet, but it's not a major disadvantage because my house is only a mile away from school. I've cycled that route so many times that it's become an automatic process for me to get home. Go down 5th, turn onto Sunset, Lamar, University, Los Alamos, and voilà! Dinner, shower, social media, bed.

5th is a nice road, because it has a dedicated bike path down the middle of its landscaped median. Sunset is just a small side street, with a subdivision wall on either side. On the left is the natural limestone of the River Bend neighborhood, and on the right is the pre-fabricated fake red brick of Eagle Ridge. Two of my good friends live in Eagle Ridge, but I don't know anybody from River Bend, because most of those kids are farmed out to fancy private schools in the suburbs.

When I turned onto Lamar, which is the road leading into Eagle Ridge, I pulled up short. There in front of me was a gray brick wall, stretching fully across my route. I mean, it completely blocked the road, running up over the sidewalks and forming a right angle with the red pre-fab walls on either side.

I swallowed hard. This could not be right. I pulled my bike into a U-turn and cycled back to check the street name.

There it was, the sign on the corner, written in firm white letters. LAMAR.

I dismounted and wheeled my bike along the sidewalk, back to the wall, trying to keep my breathing steady. I reached out to touch the bricks. The wall was real, all right, but something was wrong.

An Agent's Inbox #1

Dear Ms. Gabrielle Piraino,

Since you stated on the DeFiore & Company website that you’re interested in fantasy with strong world-building, and spunky, stubborn characters who don’t do what you expect, I think you’d appreciate CURSE OF THE NINE-TAILED FOX, an 87,000-word young adult fantasy novel inspired by Japanese mythology. Fans of Naruto by Masashi Kishimoto and A Court of Thorns and Roses by Sarah J. Maas will enjoy this story. It’s a stand-alone with series potential.

Seventeen-year-old KUROKO, a fox-spirit with a gift for snarky insults and secret yearning for companionship, steals from the Goddess of Foxes to survive in the gang ridden slums of Itazura. Caught red-handed, the Goddess sentences Kuroko to death. When HIKARU, an arrogant male warrior blinded by revenge, tries to kill him, a mysterious power saves his life.

Unable to kill the irreverent thief, the Goddess of Foxes curses Kuroko and orders him to retrieve her katanas from the Underworld. If he refuses, the Fox Goddess will rip his soul from his body and turn him into a mindless servant. He’ll need every wily sleight of hand and thieving trick he has up his sleeve to steal them. 

On the path to reclaim the katanas, Kuroko falls for Hikaru--the first man he’s ever had feelings for in his entire life. At the same time, lonely Kuroko forges his first friendship with SUSANOO, a devious god with a penchant for pranks, laughter, and cunning games. After a stinging betrayal, Kuroko faces an impossible choice. If he doesn’t steal the katanas, he’ll lose his soul and become a mindless slave to the Goddess of Foxes for eternity. If he succeeds, he risks losing the first person he’s ever loved.

Thank you very much for your time and consideration. 

Sincerely,

A.L.

CURSE OF THE NINE-TAILED FOX

If I’d known from the start that home was a feeling instead of a place, I could’ve saved myself years of suffering. But a wise-a** once said--like the stupid prick knew the secrets of the universe at the ripe old age of nineteen--“It’s not about the destination, it’s about the journey.”

Uh huh. Sure.

As a fox-spirit who spent the first seventeen years of my life hated by the rest of my kind, who grew up in the slums of Itazura with hunger for a friend and violent street gangs for enemies, I knew firsthand those words were a steaming pile of cow dung. The journey sucked, and from where I stood, the destination wasn’t much better.

I scrabbled along the rooftops of the palace, hurling myself from one red, shingled awning to the next. There was nothing elegant or graceful about the way I skittered across the roof like a demented crab. My black fox ears twitched backwards, listening to the pursuit of thundering footsteps, and my bushy black tail lashed to keep my balance. It wasn’t exactly easy to scale a five-story palace in the heart of winter, with a layer of ice covering everything, snow numbing my face, and nothing but a dirty, tattered, threadbare kimono to keep myself covered.

The snowy courtyard blurred twenty feet below me, and my heart rose into my throat with every jump. Even though I slipped and slid my way across the icy surface, and nearly fell to a snowy death with every other step, I couldn’t stop the wild grin from stretching my cheeks too tight.

I’d just snuck into the sacred palace of Inari Okami, Goddess of Rice, Fertility, and Foxes and stolen a jade figurine worth at least 100 gold kaiki. Even though I couldn’t count high numbers without an abacus, I’d memorized the currency. Each silver taihei coin was worth twenty copper maiho, which meant one gold kaiki coin was worth twenty silver taihei and forty copper maiho. I had no idea how the exchange worked, but it meant I’d be able to live in luxury for the rest of my life with 100 gold kaiki.

I cackled and clutched the treasure to my chest. Suck on that, self-centered, horrible excuse for a goddess. I didn’t think of it as stealing. I’d simply taken what I deserved, because she sure as h*** wasn’t using it. I mean, the thing had dust on it. Dust! Why did she need a five-story palace ­filled with priceless works of art that she never saw, while kitsune starved and struggled to survive in the slums of her so-called “blessed city of Itazura?” The lady had an ego large enough to feed all of us homeless orphans if she ever bothered to notice we existed.

While I cradled my expensive figurine like a babe, the chilly wind tore through me with the force of a thousand blades. My teeth chattered, and my entire body throbbed with shivers, but I felt more alive than I had in months.

With this, never again would I have to fall asleep at night with hunger cramping my belly, ensuring I never had a full night’s sleep. With this, never again would I nearly freeze to death in my lame excuse for a hut, with its tilted, termite infested walls, broken windows that dumped snow all over me with every gust of wind, and patched-up roof that poured rain on me with every storm. With this, never again would I sleep on a pile of miserable straw crawling with lice, and the gods knew what else, while shivering in the winter and boiling in the summer.

With this, I would finally have a life, instead of the piece of crap existence I’d been stealing, clawing, and fighting to survive day to day.

My nose quivered. I recognized the palace’s bushi, the royal samurai, by their smell. The scent of polished steel and ginger, of old blood and leather. Each noble samurai had at least four tails. They looked unfairly warm in their yoroi armor, the tiles of linked gold metal leeched of color by the white winter air. Their katanas, the long-curved swords easily the length of my torso, and wakizashi, less threatening swords the size of my arm, remained sheathed at their waists, but for some reason they thought it would be smart to wave their spears at me. The naginatas never came close to my tail, the pointed tip quivering at the end of a bamboo staff with a red ribbon, and did more to knock them off balance than to knock me off the roof.

“Stop, thief!” one shouted. “If you do not--s***.” I heard a very pleasing thump, the clatter of claws grinding against ice and stone, and the sound of a fading shriek as the bushi fell off the roof.

I counted on one of my hands and snickered. One bushi down, three to go. 

The other samurai decided to focus their attention on not dying instead of shouting useless threats at me. Unfortunately for them, their heavy armor weighed them down. Fortunately for me, my kimono could barely pass as a table cloth, and let me fly like the wind. At least ten feet of distance separated us, and none of them had managed to close that distance by even a few inches.

The torii gates, carved of bamboo wood in the shape of an enormous entryway and painted blood red, loomed ahead of me, separating the inner courtyard of the palace from the white outer gates. The rest of the city spread out in a tidy grid of streets and buildings, like the patches of a quilt behind a veil of white, fluffy snow. My heart pounded with excitement. If I made it to those torii gates, I could vault over the walls of the outer courtyard and lose the bushi in the city. I’d be free, and then I’d be rich. I salivated thinking of the kaiki the jade fox would bring me, fantasizing about the heavy, delicious clink of the golden coins in my coin pouch.

At that precise moment, as if to remind me of my lowly place in the world, my tiny straw sandals caught on an uneven tile, and I pitched forward.

Did I say fly like the wind? I meant tumble down the awning like a bird with a broken wing caught in a cyclone.

The bushi skid to a halt and watched me fall, snickers and guffaws falling out between their panting breaths.

S***, s***, s***. Keeping the jade fox tucked under one arm, I flailed my other hand, legs, and tail, clawing for purchase. Sparks flew as my jagged talons slid across the icy red tiles of the awning. My dirt encrusted nails cracked, and I hissed as blood welled to the surface, leaving a very clear trail of red down the roof. By curling my toes into the awning, I managed to slow my mad tumble to a helpless slide, but then my tail was in open air, and then my feet were in open air, and then I made one last helpless grab at the awning before the rest of me flew into open air.

And then I fell twenty feet to the snowy courtyard below. I closed my eyes and curled into a protective ball. There was a flash of white, a searing pain in my arm, and then everything went dark.

Now Accepting Entries

UPDATE: And the contest is full! The entries will go up on Wednesday morning.

I'm now accepting entries for this week's round of "An Agent's Inbox." Here's a quick refresher:

The Rules

1. To enter, your manuscript must meet two conditions: First, it must be COMPLETE, POLISHED, AND READY TO QUERY, and second, it must be in one of the genres The Agent represents (which are listed at the bottom of this post).

2. IF YOU PARTICIPATED IN MARCH'S ROUND OF “AN AGENT’S INBOX,” please DO NOT participate in this one UNLESS YOUR HAVE A NEW MANUSCRIPT that meets the criteria listed above. If the entry slots don’t fill up by Tuesday, April 11, I may allow previous participants to enter.

3. All entries must include A QUERY and THE FIRST 1,250 WORDS of your manuscript. Please note that this word count is different than usual! You must paste these items IN THE BODY OF YOUR E-MAIL; otherwise, I'll disqualify it.

4. THE ENTRY WINDOW OPENS AT 11:00 A.M. EDT (OR 8:00 A.M. PDT). Once the entry window opens, I'll accept the first 15 entries. I won't accept any entries sent before the entry window opens or after the first 15 slots fill up.

5. If your entry makes it in, I'll send you a confirmation e-mail with a post number. If your entry doesn't make it in, I'll still send you an e-mail, but it won't have a post number.

6. If your entry makes it in, YOU MUST COMMENT ON AT LEAST 3 OTHER ENTRIES.

The Prizes The Agent, Gabrielle Piraino* of DeFiore & Company, will select both the winners and the prizes. The Agent might pick 15 winners, or she might only pick one. The Agent might offer full requests, or she might only ask to see another page. It all depends on how good the entries are.

Please keep in mind that THIS CONTEST ISN'T FOR THE FAINT OF HEART. I've encouraged The Agent to treat the entries exactly as she would a normal batch of queries. Essentially, The Agent will be answering the question, "How much of the entry did you read, and if you didn't read it all, why did you stop?" I think this process will be instructive for all of us, but if you enter, you need to be prepared to hear exactly what The Agent thinks of your query and first FIVE pages.

The Genres

YA Science Fiction
YA Fantasy
YA Thriller
YA Horror
Adult Science Fiction
Adult Fantasy
Adult Thriller
Adult Horror

To enter, please send an e-mail with YOUR QUERY and THE FIRST 1,250 WORDS of your manuscript to kvandolzer(at)gmail(dot)com. And please, please, please remember to PASTE THESE ITEMS IN THE BODY OF THE E-MAIL.

*I know this probably goes without saying, but if you’re thinking about entering, you should probably treat this round a little differently than you would if you didn’t already know The Agent’s identity. Feel free to do a little research and include personalization in your queries. Also, if you've already queried Ms. Piraino, PLEASE DON'T ENTER UNLESS YOU HAVE A NEW MANUSCRIPT THAT MEETS THE CRITERIA LISTED ABOVE. Since I don't have access to Ms. Piraino's inbox, I can't really police this, but you--and she--are going to get a lot more out of this contest if you enter something The Agent hasn’t seen before.

"An Agent's Inbox" Contest Alert

THIS IS NOT A CALL FOR ENTRIES! I'M JUST GIVING YOU A HEADS-UP. THE CONTEST OPENS NEXT MONDAY, APRIL 10.

Holy cow! Back-to-back rounds of "An Agent's Inbox"? I must be spoiling you guys:)

“An Agent's Inbox” is exactly what it sounds like--next week, I'm turning the blog into an agent's inbox, a public one. We'll get to see 15 queries along with their first FIVE pages, and we'll get to hear what a bona fide agent thinks of each one.

The queries and first FIVE pages will be yours, of course. I'll accept your entries this Monday, April 10, and then I'll post them next Wednesday, April 12. The entrants and anyone else who wishes to review them may comment until the following Monday or Tuesday, April 17 or 18, when I'll announce the winners.

Those winners will be chosen by The Agent, and this month, The Agent is Gabrielle Piraino* of DeFiore & Company!

The Rules

1. To enter, your manuscript must meet two conditions: First, it must be COMPLETE, POLISHED, AND READY TO QUERY, and second, it must be in one of the genres The Agent represents (which are listed at the bottom of this post).

2. IF YOU PARTICIPATED IN MARCH'S ROUND OF “AN AGENT’S INBOX,” please DO NOT participate in this one UNLESS YOUR HAVE A NEW MANUSCRIPT that meets the criteria listed above. If the entry slots don’t fill up by Tuesday, April 11, I may allow previous participants to enter.

3. All entries must include A QUERY and THE FIRST 1,250 WORDS of your manuscript. Please note that this word count is different than usual! You must paste these items IN THE BODY OF YOUR E-MAIL; otherwise, I'll disqualify it.

4. THE ENTRY WINDOW OPENS AT 11:00 A.M. EDT (OR 8:00 A.M. PDT). Once the entry window opens, I'll accept the first 15 entries. I won't accept any entries sent before the entry window opens or after the first 15 slots fill up.

5. If your entry makes it in, I'll send you a confirmation e-mail with a post number. If your entry doesn't make it in, I'll still send you an e-mail, but it won't have a post number.

6. If your entry makes it in, YOU MUST COMMENT ON AT LEAST 3 OTHER ENTRIES.

The Prizes The Agent will select both the winners and the prizes. The Agent might pick 15 winners, or she might only pick one. The Agent might offer full requests, or she might only ask to see another page. It all depends on how good the entries are.

Please keep in mind that THIS CONTEST ISN'T FOR THE FAINT OF HEART. I've encouraged The Agent to treat the entries exactly as she would a normal batch of queries. Essentially, The Agent will be answering the question, "How much of the entry did you read, and if you didn't read it all, why did you stop?" I think this process will be instructive for all of us, but if you enter, you need to be prepared to hear exactly what The Agent thinks of your query and first FIVE pages.

So get those queries and first FIVE pages polished up, then meet us back here on Monday, April 10, at 11:00 a.m. EDT! At that time, you may send your entries to kvandolzer(at)gmail(dot)com. Looking forward to it!

The Genres

YA Science Fiction
YA Fantasy
YA Thriller
YA Horror
Adult Science Fiction
Adult Fantasy
Adult Thriller
Adult Horror

And of course, if you have any questions, feel free to leave them in the comments below!

*I know this probably goes without saying, but if you’re thinking about entering, you should probably treat this round a little differently than you would if you didn’t already know The Agent’s identity. Feel free to do a little research and include personalization in your queries. Also, if you've already queried Ms. Piraino, PLEASE DON'T ENTER UNLESS YOU HAVE A NEW MANUSCRIPT THAT MEETS THE CRITERIA LISTED ABOVE. Since I don't have access to Ms. Piraino's inbox, I can't really police this, but you--and she--are going to get a lot more out of this contest if you enter something The Agent hasn’t seen before.