First Day of School

I'm going to pretend this prompt isn't because I dropped my babies off at the local elementary school today ...

So many YA and MG books start with the first day of school.  Why?  Because it's something most of us can identify with on a visceral level.  Any character heading in for their first day of school immediately has our sympathy.  We can feel our guts clench with anxiety and the stares of the other kids (especially if it's only OUR first day at a new school, where everyone else is already established). 

However you want to write it, however old your MC is, the prompt for this week is the First Day of School.

Enjoy!

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My response:

I knew I shouldn't have gotten out of bed this morning.  There was just something in the air ... a warning floating in through the open window on a desert breeze.  I told my mom we would be crazy to call the desert's bluff.  She just laughed and tossed a new t-shirt onto my bed.  "Get dressed."

Fifth grade was bad enough, but now that we'd moved to Tucson, into Grandma's house, I wasn't even going to fifth grade with my friends anymore.  And I knew from experience that no one ever liked the new boy. 

The elementary school down the street had wrought iron gates around the whole school and looked like a prison more than a school.  Inside wasn't much better.  Mrs. Apel wasn't exactly welcoming, either.  She frowned at me, adjusted her glasses, and pointed to the bookshelf along the side wall.  "You'll have to sit there until I can get a new desk brought in."  I shimmied along the bookshelf to the back of the class.  She didn't say where on the shelf I had to sit, and the last thing I wanted was to have everyone stare at me all day.

I pulled off my backpack and set it on the shelf next to me.  A kid with brown hair and blue eyes peered at me from beneath his overgrown bangs.  I smiled.  He sneered.

"Ok, class, pull out your pencils and notebooks.  Fifteen minutes of journal writing, starting now."

At least I had notebooks and pencils.  I reached into my bag and got out what I had.

"You aren't allowed to have a plastic pencil box!" a voice whispered. 

I looked up.  A girl with red braids fixed a disapproving stare at my pencil box.

"What else am I supposed to have?"

She rolled her eyes.  "A pencil BAG."  She waved her canvas contraption around in the air for me to see, then shoved it back into her desk.

Just as I was thinking things couldn't get worse, I felt something cold against my leg.  My hand dropped down to brush it away and landed in a puddle of milk.  It was oozing out of my backpack.

I stared, as if I could will it away.  It didn't work.  I peered into my bag and opened my lunch sack.  Sure enough, the lid had come off my TMNT thermos, and it was empty. 

Yep.  Should'a stayed in bed.

Your Space

We've all read books where descriptions are overdone (Victor Hugo, I'm lookin' at you ... 60 pages of sewer system ... Not ashamed to say I did skip that part.)  Nothing is more frustrating than getting to the exciting climax and stopping mid-battle for a description of the wool the enemy's cloak was made of and what the sheep ate to give it such a lustrous texture. 

On the other hand, description can add depth and dimension to a book.  Katniss has goat cheese ... from her little sister's goat ... who Katniss saved from slaughter.  Depth.  Connection.  It means something to the reader, the characters become endearing, and people are sucked in.

The prompt for this week is to describe a piece of your character's space, be it their desk, their car, their purse, their dorm room, etc.  Show us a little about who your character is by describing something that is inherently a reflection of them.

Enjoy!

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My response:

"Adele!"

I hear the cough of an engine behind me and turn, pulling an ear bud out of my ear.

"Adele, you need a ride?"

I peer into the faded, green VW pulling up next to me.  I suck in my breath and bite my lower lip.  I walk to school early on purpose, so the other juniors don't see me.  They all have cars and driver's licenses.  I, on the other hand, skipped second grade, and while I've been able to blow off my school girl image and even make the varsity cheer squad this year, I won't turn sixteen until next fall.  And now, Devon McBride, star receiver on the football team, has me caught red handed.  He reaches across the passenger seat and pops the door open for me.

"Yeah," I say, searching for an explanation.  There is none.  "Yeah, thanks."

"No biggie."

I slide in, the worn leather soft under my thighs, and it's like diving into a pool of car freshener.  Two little trees, one faded and the other fresh, hang from the tab in front of the vent.  I'm surprised at how clean the car is, given how it looks from the outside.  Devon has an old-school ipod plugged into the stereo and something from P!NK is playing.  He turns the music down, a blush rising up his neck.

"Sorry, my sister borrowed the car last night."

I see right through his lie, and it feels like we just shared an inside joke.  I reach over and turn the volume back up.  "I like this one."  I pull the door shut, and he shoots me a smile before pulling back into traffic.

I drop my bag at my feet and my fingers brush a paperback.  There's a picture of a metal insect on the cover.  Mark Frost.  "This your sister's too?"

He glances over.  "Ah ..."  He meets my eyes for a moment.  "Stuff that back under the seat for me, will you?  If the team sees it, they'll be ..."  He cuts off a swear word, his eyes darting over again.  "Sorry.  They just won't get it, I mean."

I've never actually had someone apologize to me for swearing.  It's cute.  Devon made varsity as a freshman, so even when I made JV cheer, I didn't get much of a chance to interact with him.  Is it possible that he's every bit as nice as his reputation?  I stuff the book back under my seat.  "I read that one, too.  Doesn't the next one come out soon?"

"I'm on the list for it at the library."  His smile is ear to ear, and I spot the library card dangling on his key chain.

"Cool."

"You hungry?"  Devon reaches back and pulls a package of Chips Ahoy! from behind my seat.

"For breakfast?"

He shrugs, using one hand to pull a few cookies out.  I take one from his open palm and watch the other two disappear into his mouth as we pull into the school parking lot.  Now I'm wishing it wasn't so early.  I'd love for Claire to see me pull up in Devon's car.

We both climb out, and Devon pulls his football gear from the trunk, throwing it over his shoulder.  He looks across the car at me.  "Same time tomorrow?"

Outside your comfort zone

Most of us have seen this meme lately.



I think we can all agree there is a lot of truth to it. Those are the moments in our life that we can remember in great detail even years later - when you step out of your comfort zone and keep walking until you get to where you want to be.  It's exhilarating.

 I propose that it's also very true in story telling.  No one wants to hear about the day you got a coffee and went to work and went home and ate dinner and went to bed.  There's no story there.  We need that magic spark of a character who is thrust, in some way, out of their comfort zone or who intentionally chooses to leave it.  Without it, the story falls flat.

So that is the prompt for this week: Show us a character either choosing to leave their comfort zone and to try something new.

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My response:

"It's easy to get a guy to ask you to dance," Carol said with a smile, her eyes twinkling as she stepped forward, towards the dance floor.  "All you have to do is separate yourself from the group and toss your hair."  Her voice faded to a whisper in our direction as she stepped bravely forward.

I exchanged glances with Marci and rolled my eyes.  If it were that easy, we'd all be dancing!

Then he came, materializing out of the crowd.  Carol had only just looked forward and he was standing right in front of her.  He said something, and she nodded.  He took her hand to lead out onto the floor, and she turned back to us, eyes wide and lips moving.  Oh my gosh, it worked!

Our chins fell in unison as we stared after her.  Did it really work, or was it just a fluke?  Carol was a very pretty girl, so what worked for her might not work for all of us.  Or had he overheard our conversation and thought it was funny?

Either way, it had to be tested again.  Kendra and Ginny begged off, but Marci rolled her eyes at the rest of us.  "It was a fluke," she declared, and followed Carol's footsteps.  She didn't go far.  Still easily within earshot, and tossing us a smile over her shoulder, she flipped her hair."

We all saw him coming this time.  He'd been standing on the other side of the hall, by the punch.  Marci had time to turn back and grin at us before he reached her.  Then, just like Carol, Marci disappeared into the crowd.

Kendra and Ginny giggled, poking at each other and daring anyone else to try.  I, on the other hand, didn't see any reason to stand on the wall with the girls if there was a chance, no matter how slight, of dancing.  Wasn't that the whole purpose in coming to the dance?  And when Carol and Marci came back, I didn't want to have to listen to their stories and wonder about what might have been if I had been brave like them.  Kendra and Ginny could hold the wall up by themselves.

My heels clicked on the polished wood floor, and it seemed to me they echoed in the hall.  One step away from the other girls seemed like a marathon, but I did it.  One step, and then two.  Three, and then an ocean separated us.  I turned back to Kendra and Ginny, wondering if they could see through my false smile to my shivering nerves.  I locked my knees against the urge to turn and run back.  Then I sucked in a deep breath and lifted my arm to toss my hair back.

"Lizzy, right?"  Like Carol's partner, I never saw him coming.  One minute he wasn't there, and the next he was at my elbow.
"Yeah."  My held breath released in one gasp, and I hoped he didn't notice or think I was stupid.

"We played ultimate Frisbee together this morning, right?  You're pretty good."

Kendra and Ginny were almost rolling on the floor now, and it took all my will to ignore them.

"Thanks."  I couldn't remember him, but then, there had been a pretty big group.

"You like to dance?"  He offered his hand to me, palm up.

I shivered, then reached up and took it.  His hands were soft, like mine, not calloused, like they always are in books.  Then I looked into his eyes.  They were a muddy green, and he had a pimple on his left cheek, near his nose.  Still, it felt good when he pulled me into the crowd and wrapped his arms around me.  And when the music ended and I went back to my friends, I would have my own story to tell.

Superheros!

The new thing in YA is supposed to be superheros.  I did read SHATTER ME by Tahereh Mafi (though I haven't gotten to the second one, yet) and I'm about half way through Brandon Sanderson's STEELHEART.  Anyone who has talked books with me knows I'm a HUGE fan of Brandon Sanderson, and STEELHEART is no exception.  Sanderson is flat out brilliant, and even with everything else I have on my plate, I'm more than half way done in less than twenty-four hours.  I'm still not sure superheros will be as big as the vampire thing, but so far, I'm loving it.

So, the prompt for this week: Write something with superheros.

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My response:

The police radio, sitting prominently on the steel shelves in my secret room, cackled to life.  I jotted down the details half-heartedly.  At this point, it all seemed so very ... stupid.  I mean, how many bank robberies did I have to foil?  How many car jackers did I have to stop?  When would they figure out that invincible means INVINCIBLE.  Is it really that hard to understand?

I smacked the button that opened up the hatch in the ceiling.  This one was just two guys at the Quik Mart.  No big deal.  I didn't even bother to wake up Immensity or Equalizer.  This one I could handle on my own, with both hands tied, in the dark ... and while applying mascara.

I zeroed in on the lights of the Quik Mart and circled once to check things out.  Super vision is the best part.  It's like having an infinite zoom implanted in your head.  Two goons behind the counter.  I swooped in, knocking them to the ground before the glass of the front doors shattered on the floor.

And then it's all, "Thank you, Justice!" and "I knew you'd save us!" and "Will you sign my picture, Justice?"  I cut it all short and take off, flying back to headquarters.  Justice is served.

At least, until next time.

Cows

 

 This picture prompt is in honor of my good friend and running buddy.  We run past a dairy farm almost every Saturday and the cows stare at us.  

Enjoy!

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My response:

"Maggie, go grab the lead rope, will you?"

I rolled my eyes at my dad and backed away from the heifer.  This was not how I'd planned on spending the last few days before school started.  I had school clothes to buy, friends to call, and I wanted to hit the water park before it closed for the summer.  I let my mind wander, listing the myriad of things I'd rather be doing than hanging out at the county fair.

Squish.

I knew immediately what had happened.  My nerves trembled, and I gagged.  Slowly, my eyes traced their way down my designer jeans to the turquoise cowboy boots I had on.  Yep.  Manure.  Someone must have passed by our stall on their way to the auction while I was in there.  My stomach rolled.

"Maggie, now!  Do you want to be late?"

"No!" I don't want to be here at all, I wanted to say, but we'd been down that argument before.  If I hadn't wanted to raise a cow, I didn't have to.  Mom and Dad only bought her for me when I'd begged.  But that was back in the spring, when Tammy Ryland was still here, and she was getting a cow.  All she ever talked about was how much money she made each year at auction.  I couldn't let her show me up, and we did have that small pasture to the side of our property that we never used.  Back then, it seemed like such a good idea.  Back then, I didn't have boots covered in muck.  And now that Tammy's family had moved, I didn't even have Tammy to blame it on anymore.

I stepped back into the hay, swiping my heel against the scratchy stuff, but not having much luck in un-mucking my boot.

"Oh.  Ew."

I looked up at the voice and saw something I never cared to see again.  The rear end of a steer.  Probably the reason my boot was covered in filth.  Then my eyes landed on the boy standing at his head.  Compared to the steer, he was easy to miss, but only because the steer filled the corridor.  The boy could walk down any street in New York, London, or Paris and turn heads.  The evidence of that was how good he looked in his white, button-up shirt and blue jeans - the required dress code that made the rest of us look like country freaks.  He brushed his hair back from his face, his eyes smiling.

"Sorry about that.  Traffic jam."  He motioned to the line of steers in front of him, swinging their tails at flies and stomping in the heat of the stable.

I shrugged, letting my lips curl into a slight smile and hoping my eyes would sparkle as I met his gaze.  "Yeah, well, as long as it doesn't happen again."

He blushed and my heart skipped a beat.  He must have realized I was flirting.  I waited.  His turn.

His chest rose and fell, then he narrowed his eyes at me winked.  "I don't think I can promise that.  After all, it'd be worth it just to see you again."

Now it was my turn.  I felt the warmth of the blood rushing to my cheeks.  The seconds ticking by felt like decades as I tried to think of a reply.  He watched me intently.  "Well, if that's all you want, maybe we can do it without the cows.  Not as stinky."

He laughed.  "I sure hope not!"

"I've never seen you before.  Where do you go to school?"  I kept one ear to my dad - heaven forbid he should come out of the stall now - and prayed the traffic jam would keep the boy here a few more minutes.

"I was at Kenyon Junior, but I'll be a freshman at Oakmount High this fall.  You?"

"Taylor Junior, but I registered at Oakmount last Monday."

"Maggie?!"  My dad was getting impatient.  Lucky for me, the steers were moving forward.  Just one last thing.

"What's your name?"

"David.  David McMillan."  He cast an anxious glance at the line in front of him, then back at me.  "Maggie?"

"Maggie Aldridge."  I smiled, and gave a little wave as his steer led him off down the way.

Maybe, just maybe, I could forgive Tammy for what she'd gotten me into.

Mythical Creatures

I finally got ASCENDANT, by Diana Peterfreund, from the library!  I've just started it, but I loved the first one, and I'm so excited to have it in my hands.  Not only are the books great, but I love the looks I get when I tell people they're about bloodthirsty unicorns.  Haha!

In honor of Ms. Peterfreund, the prompt for this weeks is: Mythical creatures.

Put a spin on it (i.e. sparkly vampires, killer unicorns, etc.) or stick to the normal themes, whatever you like.  :-)

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My response:

Her massive heart pounded, the roaring of blood flooding her ears and drowning out the sounds of the chaos below.  Her taloned feet brushed the treetops as her wings pummeled the air, pushing her scaly body forward like a raptor in a downward dive.  She opened her mouth and hurled a jet of flame at the trees, but her aim was off, and the leaves only curled in on themselves and smouldered instead of catching.  She barely noticed.  There was room in her mind for only one thought: would she get there in time?

The air was heavy with the scent of little men and running horses.  Never before had they dared approach her fortress home, not since she'd driven them out, decades ago.  The shining, marble city on the hill still gleamed in the sunset, the prize she'd won even as a youngling, fresh out of her egg.  Vines and shrubs encroached on the wide road leading up to it, but it was well built, and the men came back all too easily.

One generation of men was not too long for a dragon to wait out, and egg laying was a serious business.  Eggs were helpless.  They had no talons, no tongues of flame to protect themselves.  She pushed herself onward, thinking only of her eggs.  When she saw the doors of the palace, broken open and hanging loose from the hinges, all thought left her.  Only panic remained.

Her flames would not hurt her eggs, and she knew it.  She filled the palace with them.  Horses screamed.  Men yelled.  She heard none of it.  Diving through a crumbling cupola, she landed among ash and cinder, roaring out her punishment upon the men who dared invade what she had rightfully stolen.

Then all was silent.

She coughed, ash-darkened spittle dripping from her jaws to sizzle on the stone.  Egg shells littered the floor, scattered among the skeletons of men and their mounts.  She looked to her nest.  The carnage continued.  Trembling, she reached her long neck out, heart aching at what she knew she would find, but driven, nonetheless, to see for herself.

Then she heard it.  Faint, and buried.  A scratching, or a thumping.  It was muffled.  It didn't come from the nest.  Then men had been thorough.  She twisted around, searching.  There.  A leather bag, strung across the remains of a horse, blackened and cracked, but still whole.  One careful nudge from her claw snapped what was left of it, and one purple egg emerged.

She lifted her head and cried, then snapped her head back down and carefully picked the egg up in her jaws.  They had won the night, but she had won the day, and if not tomorrow, surely in the next few days, there would not be one lone dragon on the mountain, but two.

Courage

I think I've mentioned a few of my WIPs (Work-in-Progress) here before.  I was just working on revising NYMPHKISSED, my YA Fantasy.  It's full of teenage angst and high school awkwardness, but one of my favorite scenes is when my MC steps up and takes on the star polo player of the school.  She tears him to bits and he sulks away.  It's a beautiful moment of triumph, even if the thing that gave her the courage to do it turns out to be a lie.

The prompt for this week:  Courage.

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My response:

The superfine fabric of my prison jumpsuit was supposed to protect me from all extremes of weather.  I shivered anyway.  The courtroom, all chrome and mirrors, was the most daunting place I'd ever been.  Last time I was here, they sentenced me to six months in the brig.

I turned and saw another waif.  She had the same grey jumpsuit, two sizes too big, the same greasy hair, the same darting, flickering gaze.  Bile rose in my throat, and we both dropped our heads.  Not another girl.  Just me, and these stupid mirrors.

The bailiff yanked at my arm, pulling me forward.  From his steel podium, the judge looked down at me.  He was as colorless as the room he reigned, all grey hairs and wan skin, eyes so light they had to be unnatural.  I felt his gaze fall on me, and I shrugged my shoulders, as if I could shake it off.

"Vannaree, no known surname, vagrant of Sharpstead Station," I felt as if a weight lifted from my shoulders as he turned his gaze to the file in front of him.  "You were arrested ..."  His voice droned like the buzzing of the ventilation system, outlining my crime, stealing food, and my sentence.  "You are at the end of your six months' sentence, and are here to be released.  However, as a minor, there is the matter of who we release you to."

"Your honor?"  A voice squeaked from the back of the courtroom.  My mouth went dry.  Too dangerous.  It was much too dangerous for him to be here!  I craned my head around to see.

Derzel stood in the rear of the room, where spectators were allowed to sit.  He looked like his wanted poster come to life.  Couldn't he at least have tried to hide who he was, if he had to come?!  His street cred was worth as much as rat droppings in this room.

"Your honor, my name's Derzel Fletcher, and Vannaree's my sis.  I didn't know she'd got taken here till too late to claim her last time.  Ima take her home, now." 

The judge peered at the folder in front of him.  "You are Derzel Fletcher?  Did I hear that right?"

I balled my fists and willed my legs to stay still.  They wanted to drop the bailiff and vault over the bar to where Derzel was.  Was he so dumb as to use his real name?  As if these civilized types knew any of us street rats from another.

"Yessa."  Derzel's voice faltered.  The three steel doors on the lower level slammed shut, pairs of constables blocking the exits.

"Derzel Fletcher, you are under arrest ..."