tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8526683900253948041.post230267659995293270..comments2024-03-27T02:20:51.751-05:00Comments on J.L. Spelbring: Pitch & 250 Word ContestAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07804306924674002487noreply@blogger.comBlogger103125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8526683900253948041.post-683994944649632322011-04-17T20:01:09.205-05:002011-04-17T20:01:09.205-05:00Thanks so much for the contest!
Name: Ann Braden
...Thanks so much for the contest!<br /><br />Name: Ann Braden<br />E-mail: annbbraden at gmail.com<br /><br />Title: Swimming with Tchaikovsky<br />Genre: YA Magical Realism<br /><br />Pitch: When Sally’s Russian host father is kidnapped for exposing govt corruption, all seems lost. Until Sally’s music creates visions of the past.<br /><br /><br />1st 250 words:<br /> <br />With her cello strapped to her back, Sally picked her way past the trash huddled in the eddies of the stairwell as she made her way down from the third floor apartment. Just days before her flight, her friends had warned her that she wasn’t tough enough to handle a week in Russia. Sally had been dabbing at her eyes at the time, having just watched a particularly moving McDonald’s commercial, but she had argued back anyway.<br /> <br />“But I’m used to competitions.”<br /> <br />“It’s not the competition we’re thinking about -- it’s everything else. You’re just too sensitive.”<br /> <br />At the bottom of the stairs, Sally pushed against the metal door to the outside. It didn’t budge. She grit her teeth and pushed harder. I’m NOT too sensitive. <br /><br />The heavy door disagreed. <br /> <br />With a slight growl, she slammed her shoulder into it, only to get her purple fleece caught on the deadbolt that was quietly holding the door in place. She groaned and turned it. As the door swung out over the stoop, it barely cleared something sprawled across her path.<br /> <br />A man’s body stinking of alcohol. <br /> <br />The man groaned, and his arm twitched as he swatted at something on his face. Not too sensitive, right? She took a deep breath. Right. She leaped over the man, just missing the edge of his leather jacket. Then she straightened up and headed for the concert hall. <br /> <br />When she turned onto Nevsky Prospect, the main street of Saint Petersburg, cold wind whipped through her hair.Ann Bradenhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/06948850218207863022noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8526683900253948041.post-46583312840447900692011-04-17T18:33:26.087-05:002011-04-17T18:33:26.087-05:00Thank you so much for hosting such an awesome cont...Thank you so much for hosting such an awesome contest! Wow...I don't think I've seen a contest quite like this--great idea! :DJacqueline (bookbutterfly)https://www.blogger.com/profile/09442004737543989019noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8526683900253948041.post-42370548404746940212011-04-17T18:31:22.343-05:002011-04-17T18:31:22.343-05:00Name: Jacqueline Kim
Email: jacquelinekim (at) ro...Name: Jacqueline Kim<br /><br />Email: jacquelinekim (at) rocketmail (dot) com<br /><br />Title/Genre: SHOES FOR TWO--Fantasy<br /><br />Pitch: Bookish Ariana is mistaken for Cinderella when she is the only girl to fit the glass slipper and is sent to the palace to marry the prince.<br /><br />1st 250 Words:<br /><br />That shoe was not supposed to fit.<br /><br />I could blame a number of people for that: I could blame the princess for wearing it; I could blame Prince Alexandre for thinking of such a foolish way to find her; and, in my present state of anger, I could even blame my own late mother for birthing a daughter the same height and size as this princess. But then again, that would be foolish. I shouldn’t even think of such a thing.<br /><br />Or perhaps I could blame Amica, even though she is my best friend. If she had not forced me to go to the ball, then I may not be in such a mess. On second thought…I did agree to go myself (after a great deal of her indignant goading).<br /><br />Mayhap Mrs. Joan is partially at fault. She was the one that had picked out all the finest jewelry and accessories, clearing my doubts about going to the ball. But I shan’t blame her, for she was so thoughtful as to send this journal to me, and it is a handsome volume that may prove to calm my qualms and frustrations.<br /><br />I could charge Father responsible for giving me such great encouragement to attend, even letting me wear the mask…but he is the only parent I have left, and how dearly I love him.<br /><br />Whosever fault it is, I am in one wretched situation. And I must, must, must get out of it. Before the month is out.Jacqueline (bookbutterfly)https://www.blogger.com/profile/09442004737543989019noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8526683900253948041.post-60433661292549607442011-04-17T16:49:11.875-05:002011-04-17T16:49:11.875-05:00Ebyss, Thank you for hosting a wonderful contest. ...Ebyss, Thank you for hosting a wonderful contest. My name and deletions have nothing to do with "3" times a charm, but everything to do with forgetting the Genre "twice."<br /><br />Have a great day!Karlene Petitthttps://www.blogger.com/profile/17910702587514001827noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8526683900253948041.post-76111923595936976472011-04-17T16:47:16.475-05:002011-04-17T16:47:16.475-05:00Name: Karlene K Petitt
Email: Karlene.Petitt@gmai...Name: Karlene K Petitt<br /><br />Email: Karlene.Petitt@gmail.com<br /><br />Title/Genre: Flight 007, A Darby Series/General fiction.<br /><br />Pitch: Imagine Stephanie Plumb as an Airline Pilot. For Darby, every flight's a challenge and every layover an adventure. A cougar in the sky.<br /><br />1st 250 words:<br /><br />My name is Darby and I am an airline pilot. That’s why I’m sitting outside the chief pilot’s office at 7:30 in the morning. Not because I’m a pilot, but because I’m Darby. Sometimes known as D.B., which has nothing to do with doing business and everything to do with Bradshaw being my last name.<br /><br />Unfortunately I have an uncanny way of getting myself into trouble without even trying. Not a skill, but an innate talent that I’m not proud of. It’s also been said that I’m every older man’s regret and every younger man’s dream.<br /><br />Right now, I’m the chief pilot’s problem, and he’s my nightmare. I’m not really a problem. He just couldn’t have me naked, so he takes every opportunity to make my life miserable. And being Darby, opportunity arises often.<br /><br />Sitting in this hall is definitely not on the top of my list of to-dos after flying ten hours from Tokyo to L.A, at the tail end of an eleven-day trip. I’m tired. I’m grumpy. I can’t drink coffee, because I need to sleep. And on top of everything else, I really need to pee.<br /><br />“Hey Darb, how ya doin?” Brandie asks, balancing her bags against the wall, in attempt to punch the code into the security door pad. I jump up to help.<br /><br />“Great. Let me get that for you,” I say for the ninth time in the previous twenty minutes. I’m actually not good right now, for so many reasons.Karlene Petitthttps://www.blogger.com/profile/17910702587514001827noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8526683900253948041.post-2468281292695732772011-04-17T16:45:18.104-05:002011-04-17T16:45:18.104-05:00This comment has been removed by the author.Karlene Petitthttps://www.blogger.com/profile/17910702587514001827noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8526683900253948041.post-12254663996780449572011-04-17T12:03:31.502-05:002011-04-17T12:03:31.502-05:00This comment has been removed by the author.Karlene Petitthttps://www.blogger.com/profile/17910702587514001827noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8526683900253948041.post-69305701788055568832011-04-17T12:02:14.538-05:002011-04-17T12:02:14.538-05:00Name: Shari A. Brady
Email: Sharibrady1 at yaho...Name: Shari A. Brady<br /><br />Email: Sharibrady1 at yahoo dot com<br /><br />Title/Genre: Epiphany YA Contemporary/Supernatural element<br />Ptich: Sixteen year old Carmella must help her older sister get into heaven, but in order to do that she must face the truth of her and her sister's life.<br /><br />1st 250: <br />As we pull out the Elmwood Park Cemetery, I think about all the dreams Francesca and I confessed to each other when the lights were out and we were supposed to be sleeping. There were so many places Francesca and I wanted to see, so many things we were going to do with our lives. She always wanted to see Hawaii and the Caribbean, where the climate was mild, people were relaxed, where life seemed so much easier than here in the Midwest. But Francesca never made it past twenty-two, never made it past the city of Chicago. <br /><br />Since I was born, my life was all about Francesca. We were inseparable. I wonder when the reality of losing my big sister will sink in and that’ll be it. I’ll lose my mind. Become a mute. Stop living at sixteen. I wonder when the pain in my gut will subside. I know I’ll never laugh again, let alone manage a real smile. I feel like I’m walking around with bricks on my back, and I’m convinced God must hate Francesca and me. I wonder what we did to deserve this?<br /><br />My mother’s resting her head in her hand, looking out the window, silent while my Dad drives. I stare at my dad’s shiny black hair. The dark charcoal suit he has on is the only thing he’s worn for the past two days. It’s the same suit he wore a few years ago for Grandpa’s funeral.Shari A. Bradyhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/17905187305899724569noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8526683900253948041.post-57225375476527384072011-04-16T20:21:01.956-05:002011-04-16T20:21:01.956-05:00Name: Norma Johnson-MacGregor
Email: Johnson_norm...Name: Norma Johnson-MacGregor<br /><br />Email: Johnson_norma(at)hotmail(dot)com<br /><br />Title: VEX<br /><br />Genre: YA SF/F<br /><br />Pitch: Virtual Environment Ten—VEX—turns deadly when Tana, 16, discovers something wants to download itself into her body and take over her life.<br /><br />1st 250 words: <br />I tried to ignore the steady hum of the computers that filled the sterile, white walled room. “Don’t you think it’s a little weird?”<br /><br />“He meant for this technology to be used by someone,” Shane said. “It was all he cared about…toward the end.” His voice choked to a halt. I placed a tentative hand on Shane’s broad shoulder, offering all the support I dared without breaking the fragile ease that existed between us. <br /><br />Toward the end. Shane meant before his father died down here. Before he was driven to obsession by the virtual universe he’d created. It had been common for him to spend days in the lab perfecting it. His body hadn’t been found until two days after his death. I looked around, the large room. I couldn’t imagine locking myself away here. The thought of a body being found in this room made my skin crawl. <br /><br />Despite all of the books that and file cabinets that lined the walls, the room still managed to feel cold and empty. An oversized oak desk stood against one wall, covered by a keyboard, mouse and scattered papers that were filled with complicated looking diagrams and notes. A huge computer monitor was mounted to the wall, its impersonal blue screen staring at us. Several computers lined the floor under the desk, all linked together in a network, Shane had told me, in order to provide the energy needed to power whatever program his dad had been working on.Norma Johnson-MacGregornoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8526683900253948041.post-25670549058100851802011-04-16T20:19:39.686-05:002011-04-16T20:19:39.686-05:00Name: Margay Leah Justice
Email: Margay1122(at)gma...Name: Margay Leah Justice<br />Email: Margay1122(at)gmail(dot)com<br />Title: A DEMON'S REDEMPTION - Paranormal Romance<br />Pitch: The lines between good and evil have been drawn but they blur when redeemer Lorelei falls for sweet-talking demon Azazel. Can she trust him?<br /><br />250 Words:<br /><br /><br />When I was born, all of the demons in hell cashed in their chips to vie for me. Not for want of me, precisely, but for what I represent. I am cursed – or blessed – with the ability to sniff them out. Kind of like a psychic bloodhound. And unearth them. Literally. But in a crazy twist of irony, I am also the conduit for them to buy their way back into heaven. For one month out of the year, it is my duty to help the truly repentant on their journey back onto a nobler path. Unfortunately, during this time, my senses are somewhat blighted, so I can’t smell them coming. Or send them packing, back into the fiery pit from which they arose. Who makes up these rules? Well, at least they can’t harm me during that time, either. That’s the condition of the truce, anyway. Welcome to hell –<br /><br />Lorelei’s fingers crashed against the keyboard as the scent of sulfur wafted beneath her nose. As if someone had just lit a match. Only stronger. More pungent. More…sinister. Damn. She knew that smell – and it always brought trouble. Not now, she thought. My one free moment before the big exam and I have to contend with a wayward –<br /><br />“I’m not here to harm you,” a deep, almost guttural voice sounded from behind the tree against which she was propped.Margay Leah Justicehttps://www.blogger.com/profile/15490126898758440254noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8526683900253948041.post-80588738582605506082011-04-16T19:43:07.623-05:002011-04-16T19:43:07.623-05:00Thanks for a great opportunity.
Name: Theresa Mil...Thanks for a great opportunity.<br /><br />Name: Theresa Milstein<br />E-mail: tmilstein at gmail dot com<br />Title: NAKED EYE - YA Fantasy<br /><br />Pitch:<br /><br />Sixteen-year-old Lucienne’s prosthetic eye is replaced with a lie-seeing one. What price does Lucienne have to pay to uncover the truth?<br /><br />250 Words:<br /><br />You know how adults always warn children not to run with scissors because they could lose an eye and to stop tipping back their chairs because they could crack open their skulls? I’ve never cracked open my skull from tipping back a desk chair, but three years ago, I ran with scissors and lost an eye. <br /><br /><br />Seventh Grade<br /><br />My class worked on an art project, making dioramas of our bedrooms, which had to be drawn to scale. “That’s my scissor,” I accused Andrea when I’d moved scraps of paper, bits of Styrofoam, and pipe cleaners only to spy my orange-handled one in her hand. <br /><br />“It’s mine now,” she responded. Her lifeless hair covered her expression, and she didn’t even bother looking up as she cut out her dilapidated-looking dresser. I only knew it was a dresser because she’d told me. Her artistic ability was as bad as her attitude.<br /><br />I huffed up from the table, banging shoulders with that sloth, Jeremy on the way to the art supply desk. We were locker neighbors, and he made sure to take his time with his door blocking mine so I’d stand there tapping my foot until just before the bell. It was only two weeks into school and I’d received three tardies because of him. <br /><br />I searched the bin to find only rusty scissors were left, which would be terrible for slicing through thick paper. Snatching a scissor, I hurried back to the desk.Theresa Milsteinhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/03477761307315565259noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8526683900253948041.post-9063125631037943632011-04-16T19:41:33.020-05:002011-04-16T19:41:33.020-05:00This comment has been removed by the author.Theresa Milsteinhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/03477761307315565259noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8526683900253948041.post-16975214726622499352011-04-16T17:47:04.262-05:002011-04-16T17:47:04.262-05:00Name: Aheïla
Email: thewriteaholicblog (at) hotma...Name: Aheïla<br /><br />Email: thewriteaholicblog (at) hotmail.com<br /><br />Title & Genre: OIL AND BOILING WATER -- Steampunk adventure with romantic elements<br /><br />Pitch: Tatiana reckons a finer Britannia starts with a female Scholar. Broken engines, flirty French pirates and noes are hurdles of little import.<br /><br /><br />First 250 words:<br /><br />The door slammed shut in my face. Its hinges rang from the shock for a couple of my angry heartbeats. I looked down at my bulging breasts, cursing them as my newfound habit instructed. I tried everything to get through the mahogany threshold and past the high marble walls of the University. Never was I allowed to step in.<br />Once, I strapped my breasts, which wasn’t as uncomfortable as releasing the glued fabric after wearing it for a day. I borrowed my brother’s clothes and tied my hair in a fashion appropriate for young educated lads. Altering my voice would have been tawdry and tedious to maintain. I wanted to agree with the general image of the people allowed in, but I held my gender in high regards and wouldn’t go as far as to forfeit it. <br />They derided me.<br />I opted for a new approach, one that lay at the other end of the spectrum. I put my breasts on a nigh indecent display in a precious dress and wore pricey perfumes. I adorned my neck with my most beautiful jewellery, powdered my nose and reddened my lips. They offered to accompany me somewhere else. Somewhere private. <br />Shoddy fops.<br />It seemed to me I had done it right this time. I wore the appropriate kind of corset, humble yet full of promise. My feet suffered in tight leather shoes with ridiculously high heels. I spoke in the low, charming voice suitable for a lady. I bowed, I fluttered and I smiled.Aheilahttp://thewriteaholicblog.wordpress.comnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8526683900253948041.post-69966580959375779242011-04-16T16:34:42.506-05:002011-04-16T16:34:42.506-05:00name: MaryGrayKaye
email: marygraykaye@gmail.com...name: MaryGrayKaye<br />email: marygraykaye@gmail.com<br />title and genre: A WINGED THING, AND HOLY<br />pitch: Genevieve Dupont hungers for the love of a poet. In that pursuit, she becomes one. The love disintegrates; the poetry flourishes.<br />first words: At first it is the voice flowing down the oaken library table like a rivulet along a forest floor. It carries words I hardly hear, poetizing an act of love – …lying with a woman brings thoughts of mountains…bones rising up out of her flesh…soft wetness, the warmth…. Now the voice wraps around the words – …a snake-like river…uncoiling slowly in the sun….<br /> The recitation transforms this after-hours poetry workshop into a sexual experience, not what I anticipated with the promotional flier’s promise of an introduction to verse – Sweetest is being held by a woman….<br /> My body tenses. Bending forward I catch a glimpse of the face six chairs down churning out the baritone strains, a stoic face in concentration, tanned and gaunt, sculpted by years of emotion. His eyes look over spectacles to read the words he has put to paper. He enunciates each syllable so we can absorb as sensitively as he has experienced the very act of penetration –…she takes the seed as the earth takes seed in the spring…<br /> As he reads, the summer evening sun seeps through the elongated gothic windows behind us. His shadow creeps across the table distracting me, engaging me. In the background I hear this lover describe his beloved in lilting tones, the admiration and the lust tripping over each other in lines of unending beauty. I absorb that love. If I could write such poetry; if I could find such love.Anonymousnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8526683900253948041.post-67955864726975719192011-04-16T14:19:33.349-05:002011-04-16T14:19:33.349-05:00Thanks so much for hosting such an amazing contest...Thanks so much for hosting such an amazing contest, and thanks to Gina for judging!<br /><br />Name: Melissa Barlow<br /><br />E-mail: MelissaBarlow777(at)yahoo(dot)com<br /><br />Title: KNIGHTS OF AVALON - YA Urban Fantasy<br /><br />Pitch: When Justine’s friend turns out to be the reincarnation of Guinevere and is kidnapped by Mordred, Justine will wield Excalibur to save her.<br /><br />First 250 words: <br /><br />“Hi, Justine. I’m sorry to be calling so late.” The voice on the other end of the line sounded scared, exhausted. It was my best friend’s Mom. <br /><br />“Gwen’s not with you, is she?”<br /> <br />I scrambled to get my bearings in the darkness, the cell phone clutched in my hand. I was in my bedroom, the Bruce Lee posters on the walls told me that much. I peered at the alarm clock, the numbers flashed 3:11 back at me. Dread prickled at my skin. This wasn’t good. This was one of those calls you never wanted to get. Not at 3am on a school night. Not when everybody was talking about the murderer out there, targeting the brightest and most brilliant teens in New Jersey.<br /> <br />“No,” I said, fighting to keep calm. “Why would she be?” I was jumping to conclusions. I had to hear Mrs. Martinez out, let her explain why I had nothing to worry about.<br /> <br />“You haven’t heard from her at all?” There was a desperation to Mrs. Martinez’s voice a desperation I couldn’t bear to hear.<br /> <br />“No, what happened?” I asked, throwing the blankets back and sitting up straight. My heart started to pound. Fear forced me wide awake. “I mean, we talked earlier this evening. That was it.” It was three in the morning and the mother of my best friend was calling to find out where her daughter was. Only I had no idea.Melissahttps://www.blogger.com/profile/11886151771194369513noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8526683900253948041.post-72133263750496730052011-04-16T12:06:59.942-05:002011-04-16T12:06:59.942-05:00Name: Bethany - bethanyray.goodman at gmail
Title...Name: Bethany - bethanyray.goodman at gmail<br /><br />Title: Untitled<br />Genre: Space Dystopia<br /><br />Pitch: Juniper and Lillian would do anything to save their little world from their murderous ruler - but first they must find a way back to Earth.<br /><br />250 Words: <br /><br />The crowd surged on the ship, their protests echoing through the decontamination chamber. Most of them had never seen the loading dock; there weren’t many of us with keys. <br /><br />The slim fitting breathing suit set me apart from the others. A few of the faceless bulky figures came to me, pleading admission. But I wasn’t a soldier today. <br /><br />Today I stood among them, just as eager to dock the last ship back to Earth for a month as they were. My father stood at my left, a hand on my back to guide me towards the front. The room was miles long, but the fifty people surrounding us all waiting in the same area. All wanting to board. <br /><br />When the first shot sounded, I pulled my father to a crouch, shielding as much of him as I could with my five foot, three inch frame. My suit was bullet proof; even the sterling white scientists’ suits didn’t have body armor. The rest of the civilian suits were even worse than his. <br /><br />While we crouched, one of the loading dock guys ran over to us. “Dr. Karl, this is no place for a scientist or even a soldier. Go back up to the colony.” He looked out into the crowd. “Quickly.”<br /><br />“My daughter and I want to board. We don’t want any trouble with Dr. Strauss.”<br /><br />The dock worker grimaced, shaking his head. “You already have trouble. I’m going to pretend I didn’t see either of you involved in this. Go back.”Bethanyhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/08639826676031592704noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8526683900253948041.post-23954769172343869952011-04-15T22:48:41.233-05:002011-04-15T22:48:41.233-05:00Name: Jordan Elizabeth Mierek
Email: SignedJori@g...Name: Jordan Elizabeth Mierek<br /><br />Email: SignedJori@gmail.com<br /><br />Title and genre: TABITHA'S DEATH -- YA Dark Fantasy<br /><br />Pitch: Tabitha slits her wrists to leave her painful life. Instead, she is sucked into a world where she must obey the Gray Man in order to die. <br /><br />1st 250 words: Somewhere in the hallway, that stupid clock ticked away, counting down the minutes to my death. Tick-tock, tick-tock, you’re gonna die. I clenched my jaw, staring at my palm where I wanted to see a razorblade to end it all. Do it. <br /><br />No, I didn’t have a razorblade. I could neither cut nor die. <br /><br />Worthless.<br /><br />I headed to Scott’s house to ask how he does it.<br /><br />I was glad it was the weekend, when his parents go out to barbecues with ritzy friends, a mess of designer clothes. After Dad left, I’d begged Mom to move, yet she insisted on staying in the “good” neighborhood where it was safe, regardless of what the neighbors thought of us “trailer trash.”<br />I knocked about a hundred times on Scott’s back door before he finally answered with a joint in one hand and a can of beer in the other. Hardcore rock music blared from the depths of his house.<br /><br /> “Hey,” he said in that nasally voice that grates on my nerves. I tried to concentrate only on Scott. It was the last time I was going to see him, so it had to count. <br /><br />“What’s up, Tab?” <br /><br />I could’ve answered with many different responses. I could’ve said I was fine or the sky was up. I could’ve said I’d been better, the understatement of the century. Maybe he wanted to hear about what happened last night, and then he would have said it was typical boy behavior.Jorihttps://www.blogger.com/profile/06875274426197309249noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8526683900253948041.post-28237274788708365122011-04-15T22:37:34.776-05:002011-04-15T22:37:34.776-05:00Awesome. Thanks for doing this!
Name: Jordan McCo...Awesome. Thanks for doing this!<br /><br />Name: Jordan McCollum<br />Email: jordan at jordanmccollum dot com<br />Title: FAÇADE--Thriller<br /><br />Pitch: To protect the world's tenuous peace after WWII, a dyed-in-the-wool Soviet must choose between love and loyalty.<br /><br />First 250: <br />As a Soviet living in Paris, and a woman, I had multiple fronts to defend. But the most devastating attack would come from a quarter I'd never anticipated. I would remember everything except the blast.<br /><br />Though my father must have considered how accepting a favor from the Americans would affect the treaty negotiations, he'd done the political calculus and apparently this was his answer. I couldn't muster the same confidence, nor could I stop worrying my ring's rounded edge as I followed Papa across the broad court to the waiting maroon Packard. <br /><br />For now, I had to help my father maintain the political balance for the duration of the ride as best we could. None of us could afford another war. <br /><br />I stopped my restless hands and stepped into the Packard. The two Americans in the backseat nodded at me. The Secretary of State touched his gray homburg's brim. I settled onto the collapsible seat in front of him, but even the familiar, faint scent of cigarette smoke and leather couldn't make me comfortable.<br /><br />"His Excellency James Byrnes," my father introduced the silver-haired man.<br /><br />The slight American held up a hand. "Titles aren't necessary." He certainly didn't look like a capitalist, but then, they never did.<br /><br />My father set his briefcase with the others at my feet and climbed into the seat by me. "My daughter, Yekaterina Korneyevna Mikhailova," he continued in his slight accent. "Our cultural attaché." <br /><br />"Mikhailov," the fat American next to Byrnes addressed my father. "Who'd've thought? [. . .]"Jordan McCollumhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/16523599384793856702noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8526683900253948041.post-29241640374840107172011-04-15T17:22:27.527-05:002011-04-15T17:22:27.527-05:00Name: A.E. Martin
Email: aje237@yahoo.com
Title an...Name: A.E. Martin<br />Email: aje237@yahoo.com<br />Title and genre: RAVENOUS DUSK (Urban Fantasy)<br /><br />Pitch: Necromancer Blake loses control of her life when she goes from de-possessing people to unwillingly helping a gorgeous Reaper channel ghosts to the Underworld.<br /><br />First 250 words:<br /><br />The room was spinning, no wait, maybe I was the one spinning. I stopped and wobbled onto a bar stool.<br />“You know, it pisses me off that I live in a world where people just don’t go away when they die!” I said. “I mean, isn’t death supposed to be the ultimate end? The grand finale? The Big Bang?”<br />“Actually, the Big Bang is that theory by scientists about the formation of the universe…” <br />“Now Liam? Really?” I said, glaring at him. Liam sighed.<br />“Sorry, I forgot logic isn’t welcome during ‘drunken times with Blake’.”<br />“Exactly,” I said. “Now, where was I?” I got up again and started pacing. Liam was sitting hunched over the one beer he’d been nursing for the past hour, and watched as I chugged the rest of my beer, then demanded another from the bartender.<br />“Raving about people not being gone when they die,” Liam said dully. He actually took a drink; I must really be annoying the hell out of him tonight.<br />“Right! What’s with all the damn ghosts Liam? Did you know when I was twelve my grandmother’s ghost decided to jump into some old lady, ring my doorbell, and offer me candy from her purse?” <br />“Yes, I knew…”<br />“But she was in an Asian lady’s body!” I said. “That was my first clue something was off.” <br />“Maybe the first clue should have been that you already knew she was dead,” Liam said around a yawn.A.J. Lockehttps://www.blogger.com/profile/08514343224203400113noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8526683900253948041.post-14117848615751341442011-04-15T15:00:25.243-05:002011-04-15T15:00:25.243-05:00Great contest! Thanks for hosting! I'm a new f...Great contest! Thanks for hosting! I'm a new follower. Super excited about finding your blog!<br /><br />Name: Jeanmarie Anaya<br />Email: janaya75@hotmail.com<br />Title: MAGNETIC<br />Genre: paranormal YA<br /><br />Twitter Pitch: <br /><br />Carly Reynolds discovers being a hero won’t automatically get her a gold star. Particularly when the person she must save is already dead.<br /><br />First 250 words: <br /><br /><br />Carly knew something was off about the old man the minute she first saw him. She spotted him peeking out from behind one of the towering flower arrangements dotting the room. He twitched his head back and forth, like a rat nosing at a trash pail and hoping not to get caught. <br /><br />She sized him up. Maybe he was a priest. She quickly nixed that idea—no collar. Besides, what kind of priest hid behind flowers instead of shaking hands? And he was nothing like the other mourners at the funeral, either. He didn’t kneel on the padded velvet footstool beneath Nonna’s casket to offer up a prayer. And he didn’t give anyone the requisite sad, pitiful smile Carly had grown accustomed to seeing in the last three days.<br /><br />She kept one eye pinned on him as she stood behind her father, leaning against the wall, hoping not to be seen by her mother or Aunt Marjorie. Good grief, those two had been sobbing all evening. Marj had bits of Kleenex stuck to the end of her nose. No way was Carly getting within a six-foot radius of that pity party. She didn’t need to be reminded of the obvious.<br /><br />Besides, watching the old geezer stroking the casket was by far the best entertainment she’d had all day and she needed something to take her mind off the fact that her grandmother was in that casket. If nothing else, she’d vowed not to lose her cool in public.Jeanmarie Anayahttps://www.blogger.com/profile/15444097096666633756noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8526683900253948041.post-4163801683816938502011-04-15T09:25:08.177-05:002011-04-15T09:25:08.177-05:00This comment has been removed by the author.Ann Bradenhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/06948850218207863022noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8526683900253948041.post-81082982817566385952011-04-15T08:53:32.377-05:002011-04-15T08:53:32.377-05:00Name: Miriam Caldwell
Email: miriam.caldwell (at)...Name: Miriam Caldwell<br /><br />Email: miriam.caldwell (at) gmail.com<br /><br />Title DREAMING ISIS YA Contemporary Fantasy<br /><br />Pitch:17-year-old Isis must choose between her mom’s acceptance or embracing who she truly is as she learns to control her newfound magical powers<br /><br />First 250 words: It’s often been said that the shortest distance between two points is a straight line, but in the world I live in, a straight line is hard to find. I’ve never seen a road go straight into the distance disappearing into the horizon. Here, they twist and curve seemingly miles out of the way before they lead you where you want to go, which is home.<br /><br />My mom fled her small southern town shedding the stigma of growing up in a trailer park. Ashamed of her mother who, though coming from money, was cast out after marrying my grandfather. She had been warned and when he up and left her with three small kids, her parents did not welcome her back in with loving arms.<br />In lots of ways my mom is still running, even though she’s settled down, married a lawyer and got a fancy house of her own. <br /><br />Appearance is everything, whispers about our family should NOT happen, and any mention of the past is unacceptable as though she is afraid that someday the nightmares she’s been running from are going to find her again.<br /><br />Which leaves me her only child with a bit of problem. An obsessive mother constantly breathing down my neck. Afraid to let me go, even though, thank God, it’s my senior year. My straight line is moving away to college. Running from my family the way my mom ran from hers.Mimhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/08685941102691667990noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8526683900253948041.post-70829205505493328382011-04-15T00:08:29.570-05:002011-04-15T00:08:29.570-05:00Name: Ellen McPeek Glisan
E-mail: eglisan@swbell....Name: Ellen McPeek Glisan<br /><br />E-mail: eglisan@swbell.net<br /><br />Title and Genre: No Free Art; Murder Mystery<br /><br />Pitch: By making the most of their abilities despite their personal struggles, a blind grandmother and her silent, paralyzed granddaughter help to solve a local murder.<br /><br /><br />First 250 words of novel: <br />The winter wind whistled loudly around the wall of the school. A plastic bucket blew across the school courtyard, crashed into the door, and cracked in two. Snow followed frantically, covered the pieces of the bucket, and just as quickly blew away. The pieces of the bucket whipped out into the parking lot and broke into smaller pieces—a typical January night in Norton, Illinois.<br />Inside the high school gym, the basketball game provided the fans a temporary break from the cruel winds that were raging outside. The Norton Nighthawks fans screamed in unison as if the only thing that mattered in the whole world was that certain basket or pass. Even though every single person knew he or she had to brave the sharp, slapping winds in just a short time, while they were inside that gym, they were warm and happy, and the cold wasn’t even a distant thought.<br />Their break from the realities of winter ended as the people of Norton streamed out of the gym following the final shot. The close win over Johnson High lifted their spirits against the sharp, cold wind. They talked as they walked, but none of them lingered to talk a little longer at their cars like they always did in warmer weather. Lifted spirits was not that good of a shield against the subzero winds.<br />A grand total of 1800 people lived in Norton, Illinois……Ellen McPeek Glisannoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8526683900253948041.post-71399667577722181192011-04-14T21:38:55.645-05:002011-04-14T21:38:55.645-05:00Name: Richard Ewell
Email: richardewellart@rocketm...Name: Richard Ewell<br />Email: richardewellart@rocketmail.com<br />Title and genre: FAT TRAPPED (Horror)<br />Pitch: In Garden Estates people are disappearing, what is their connection to each other and who are the people that are about to torture them.<br /><br /><br />Danielle felt blood run down her forehead like a river finding it's way down her nose. The blood dripped off her nose and she could hear it splat on the ground beneath her. Darkness surrounded her like prey and swallowed her whole. The last thing she remembered was doing her daily run routine through the neighborhood of Garden Estates. <br /><br />She blinked several times trying to adjust her eyes in the darkness but it wasn’t working to well. Danielle's arms were high above her head and hands were woven through each other tied by a rope. The rope was holding her up just enough to where her toes touched. She could not put her feet flat on the floor because of the rope so there was constant pressure on her toes. The floor beneath her felt cold, in fact the air was the same. This could be due to Danielle wearing nothing but her purple and black spandex shorts and matching sports bra.<br /><br />Panic began to set in and Danielle pulled against the rope around her hands as hard she could but could not get free. It burned her wrists but that was of no concern to her at this moment. Tears began to form around her eyes and screams started spewing out of her mouth. She could hear noises above her, talking, walking, and even some laughter. <br /><br />“What do you want from me” Danielle screamed as tears fell in her mouth choking her.Richard Ewellhttp://www.richardrants.wordpress.comnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8526683900253948041.post-18625532402990262011-04-14T19:20:47.217-05:002011-04-14T19:20:47.217-05:00Name: Jackie Felger
Email: jackiefelger(at)gmail(d...Name: Jackie Felger<br />Email: jackiefelger(at)gmail(dot)com<br />Title & Genre: BREATHE FOR ME--YA Urban Fantasy<br />Pitch: 17 yr old Hadley Blake discovers illegal cage matches at her new school for gifted teens & must fight for freedom or risk death to escape.<br /><br />I covered my nose with the sleeve of my hospital gown, but it did little to mask the stench. “Next time, warn a girl before you show her a corpse.”<br /> <br />“He isn’t dead, Hadley.” Dr. Ramsey pushed the bed railing down, causing a loud clank to echo throughout the room. <br /> <br />I jumped. The body didn’t. <br /> <br />“If that noise didn’t wake him, nothing will.” I inched closer to the bed. Scarlet puddles seeped through the sheet at one end. Ten toes poked out at the other. “Why is he covered up if he’s alive?” <br /> <br />“I was concerned his appearance would frighten you.” Dr. Ramsey tugged on the sheet, revealing a guy who could’ve served as an extra in a horror flick. A gash on his forehead nearly leaked brains, and his face held numerous cuts, making his head look like it had been used as a piñata.<br /> <br />The smell of rancid meat grew stronger and almost knocked me to the floor. I gripped the bed sheets, trying to anchor myself. “What the hell happened to him?”<br /> <br />“That’s not your concern,” Dr. Ramsey said, ignoring my freak-out fest. “Your focus should be on healing him.”<br /> <br />“That’s what this is about?” I shouted. “You kidnapped me because you thought I could heal him?”<br /> <br />“I didn’t kidnap you.” <br /> <br />“Hello? When you barge into someone’s bedroom in the middle of the night and take them by force, it’s considered kidnapping.”<br /> <br />“We’ll discuss that incident later. Right now, I need you to heal him.”Jackiehttps://www.blogger.com/profile/04526192448146446752noreply@blogger.com