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THE ACT OF STORY STATEMENT Kiano, a Scion (immortal) sorcerer with a severed soul and stolen memory, must fight against the dark entity that ravaged his identity; an enemy determined to destroy the Scions’ creator and the world they live in. While Kiano reveals the secrets of his fellow Scion and fights against them as an assassin for the regime, his stolen memories begin to break free, fragmented bits and pieces of his earlier life that have him questioning his role with the regime. Kiano must regain his memory to fight for his world and himself. THE ANTAGONIST PLOTS THE POINT Juels, a soulless entity known as the Darkness, has taken human form and conquered most of Jymon. She learns the prisoner her assassins brought to her is the severed soul of the Scion who entered her world and revealed to her its captivity. Juels tortures Kiano steals his memories and commands his identity to learn Scion secrets. She has branded him to steal the souls of those he kills to feed the Darkness of her world. She has turned Kiano against his own people to obtain her goals and destroy the Light to again rule the Darkness. CONJURING YOUR BREAKOUT TITLE Jymon (working title) That On Which She Fed Dark Souls DECIDING YOUR GENRE AND APPROACHING COMPARABLES Dark Fantasy/Horror 1984 by George Orwell – Similar worlds based on control, fear and watchful eyes. The Assassin’s Apprentice by Robin Hobb – A young man is forced to be an assassin CORE WOUND AND THE PRIMARY CONFLICT An immortal sorcerer attempts to reclaim his memory and his soul from the dark entity that stole them to save his people from annihilation. OTHER MATTERS OF CONFLICT: TWO MORE LEVEL Inner Conflict: Kiano’s false memory is that he was captured and tortured by the Resistance before he was found and taken to Juels to be healed. Kiano believes he is an assassin but begins having internal conflicts. First, he spends time with a prostitute that looks similar to his eternal mate, Kale. Soon after, he meets a young boy (children are known as rats) who he learns is neglected and abused, which pulls at his heart. Kiano was guardian of the mortal children on Jymon. And after raiding the village of his former home, he encounters the child he raised as his own and attempts to kill her. After this scenario, he has dreams that have him questioning his loyalties. Secondary Conflict: Kiano defects to the Scion, taking the boy and two women with him as refuge from the Regime. He eventually collaborates with the Scion and the Resistance against the Regime, knowing there is a price for his capture. And if the assassins he worked with find him, he knows that he will suffer the same brutality as he made others suffer when he worked as an assassin. THE INCREDIBLE IMPORTANCE OF SETTING The world of Jymon exists in the universe of Anavryn, comprised of seven worlds known as the worlds of Light where mortals and immortals called Scion – live together. A dead world, the Darkness, is centered within this universe. Only the Darkness is not dead. It has manifested itself into a human named Juels, now the dictator of Jymon. Jymon: Jymon is similar to Earth is its environment, only on a smaller scale, consisting of mountains, small towns, cities, water fronts, farmlands, etc. Grada: Grada is the only territory on Jymon that the Regime has not conquered. Throughout Grada are small villages. Most of Grada is a forested, mountainous territory. The Scion and many mortals live in Grada, the mortals unaware of the immortal nature of the Scion. As many of the villages house the Resistance, while isolated, they do keep contact with each other through travel by horseback and carry supplies to each other with horse and cart (there are no cars/trucks on this world). The military is aware of the villages in Grada, and occasionally raid them, but because the lowest ranks of the military are assigned this task, most of the villages remain untouched. The Caves of Noble’s Mountain: In Grada’s center is Noble’s Mountain, where the first of the Scion lived. The caves inside the mountain were created by Being (known as Noble, the Scion creator) and given over to the magic of the Scion to create it into a livable housing unit with tunnels running throughout the cave, apartments within the cave, common rooms for gathering and cooking, etc. The cave is supplied with hot springs and the Scion has created touch rocks and smokeless fire to light and heat the caves. The cave is furnished and livable. The Regime is unaware of the Scion holdout until Kiano, after he was given his false memory tells them. The Regime tried to find the cave, as well as the village beyond the cave where Kiano lived, but the Scion used magic to hide the cave and the several openings into the cave. No mortal can enter the cave without the help of a Scion. If a mortal does find their way into the cave, the spirits of the cave frighten them away. Jymon believes in the spiritual world, believing in helping and harming spirits. Kiano, as an assassin, believes he is human and is unaware of the magic of the cave. He is only aware of the rumors surrounding the stories of the cave. He is unaware that upon his defection, he is able to find the cave and enter as the spirits recognize him having a Scion soul. The Between: The Between is where dead souls go before taking on new life, either back to Earth or one of the three worlds that allow mortals. It is also a place where the Scion travels from one world to the next. Scion souls can act in the Between; mortal souls cannot. Mortal souls are simple energy in the Between and are drawn to the energy streams that connect the worlds. Scion souls also travel via the energy streams, but Scion souls can act in the Between. They can be as animated as they are in their own worlds. Form does not happen in the Between for a mortal soul. The soul appears as a light mist, constant movement, swaying. The soul in the Between feels like it’s meandering, floating in a dream. The best way to describe the Between is from Juel’s POV when she first entered it: A swirling flow of radiant blue light fused with misted shades of violet and white throughout its atmosphere. The air was warm, almost embracing, and she shuddered in the warmth that surrounded her. She drifted about these colors, the silence overwhelming compared to the constant groans and rumbles and crashes of her existence. She followed shadowy mists that interrupted the swirling air, only to find them blink away as if only imagined. She studied the raging, black flames at the edges of this light and realized, to her horror, that her Darkness, hardened beneath the flames, stood entombed in this Light. The City: The city is a mix of every past and present culture of Earth with its construction, its people, its businesses, its government. It’s a busy city that’s watched by the Regime through the military broken into high ranking Gray Guards, Secret Police, and the various military ranks. While part of the military but not subjected to the military’s discipline or structure is Dofya. Dofya outranks military personnel and can order them as deemed necessary. Dofya are Juels’ bodyguards and her personal assassins. They are the most frightening and cruelest of the Regime. Dangerous chatter would find the speaker left to rot in the towers north of the city if overheard by any in the military. To the dungeons, then the Darkness if overheard by Dofya. The Resistance has its own spy ring of mortals and Scion. These spies have thriving businesses in the city, have connections to the military, have friendships with Dofya, and live in the palace that the Regime claimed from the Scion with the war. The Darkness: The Darkness is Chaos, the time before time. It is a conscious energy. It creates and destroys. Creation and destruction are an innate concept of the Darkness. It has all knowledge to create, but what it creates does not have name or meaning. The Darkness creates and destroys without purpose. The Darkness wakes and sleeps. It is extremely active while awake, sluggish, but still active when dormant. When the Darkness sleeps, it doesn’t create or destroy. But what lives in the Darkness does destroy. It feeds upon itself. While dormant, the population of the Darkness dwindles. It sleeps to regenerate itself. When it wakes, it creates again. There is no specific cycle of activity or dormancy. It comes and goes randomly. There is no set time period. It can be active or dormant for days, weeks, or centuries. Being (creator of the Light) built a fire around the Darkness during a dormant stage and entombed the Darkness. The Darkness is a mountain form in the center of the Between. Over time, as Being’s fire died and entombed the Darkness, a small crack formed on the surface of the mountain rock. This crack works like a black hole. Anything that gets near it can be pulled in. But because it does not lie near the streams, nothing has entered until Kiano, who free-floating between worlds, got too close. Kiano woke the Darkness. Kiano was a foreign existence within the Darkness. The Darkness itself personified into a boda (a physical creature of the Darkness) and attacked Kiano. The boda tore a piece of Kiano’s soul, dropped it into the bowels of the Darkness where the Darkness, as an unknown, unseen entity terrorized and tortured it. The Darkness keeps itself alive with the creatures it creates. She keeps her corporeal form alive in the Light with the souls she feeds it. And as she is the Darkness personified, the souls she feeds the Darkness give her power. As soon as Juels became aware of the opening in the Darkness where Kiano entered, she instilled it with magic so that it could not be closed again. The Scion are not aware of the opening in the Darkness and Juels ensures that only she can close it. It is unknown how a Scion will fare in the Darkness or even if a Scion can be contained in the Darkness. Though Juels has trapped Kiano’s soul. Juels’s body can die in any world, but the Darkness will never die. Upon the loss of the Juels’s corporeal body, the energy that is the Darkness will be drawn back to its home. The Darkness can exist on any plane without form. It can take any form it chooses.

1) Story statement Enzo and Maddie must battle Mars’s next evolution to save their mothers. 2) Antagonist Augustus Sardeth is Maddie’s uncle, the president of the United States, and much more importantly, the mastermind behind the Mars Colony. He has left his vice president to govern and is using the purse of the US government to fund his bio-engineering experiments on Mars as he seeks to create a race that can thrive on the red planet. Earth is the past, Mars is the future, and the future may not be human. Most people think too small; Sardeth sees everything bigger. Now his niece is on Mars, and he’s ready for her to play her pivotal role in launching the Martian New Race to their next evolution. 3) Breakout Title Against the Red Sky: Colony Exposed This is book 2, and the first book is called Against the Red Sky: Mission X. 4) Genre and comps Genre: YA Sci-Fi action adventure Comps- Legend Series by Marie Lu, Warcross Marie Lu 5) Logline: As Mars becomes the testing ground for a terrifying new race, a boy haunted by everything he couldn’t save and a girl desperate not to lose her mother are drawn into a deadly game with a scientist determined to engineer Mars’s next evolution. 6) Levels of conflict a) Primary conflict- Fight bad guys, stop Sardeth b) Secondary conflict- love story and mom troubles – how do we save her and oops, one is a cyborg c) Inner conflict- Enzo- I’m not good enough. Maddie- If I can’t save her, I’m alone (fears abandonment). Enzo turmoil- Why would I ever be good enough for Maddie? I wouldn’t, I’m not. Maddie turmoil- I’ll have no family if I lose her. I’ll be truly abandoned, alone.

Opening scene: Introduces protagonist, hints at emotional wounds to be revealed later, begins to lay groundwork for the fantastical world the story inhabits, provides inciting incident and hints at core conflict to emerge. --------------------------------------------------------------- New Jersey can sometimes be hell but I didn’t expect it to be so literal. If I had known what was in store for me when I went to work, I would have called out sick that day, and every day for the next seventeen years. Unfortunately for me, precognition was not one of my magical abilities. Blissfully unaware of the horrors that lie ahead, I elbowed my way into Integritas Services, tucked in a tiny strip mall by the Jersey Shore, careful not to spill the coffee I precariously balanced on a wobbly cardboard tray, the low morning sun shining over my shoulder. Just past the small waiting area was the front desk, the Integritas logo blazing across it. Underneath the logo, in smaller letters: "Private investigations, bar spotting, police consulting, and more!" Along the top of the desk were pamphlets that went into our services and offerings in greater detail -- think your husband's cheating on you and trying to hide his cash? Here, have a brochure for our private eye and forensic accountant services. Own a bar and want to make sure your employees aren't lousy, good-for-nothing grifters? Hire one of our spotters. Franchise a chain of retail stores? We’ve got mystery shoppers for you. I even had a brochure all to myself, as the resident employee with magical abilities. Need a Mesmer to track down someone? Monitor your business? Maybe indulge in a bit of corporate espionage? Here's the guy for you, Oliver Parker. Premium pricing only, of course. Yeah, if a magical operation in Jersey surprises you, clearly you haven’t been to Seaside Heights after dark. The office was small, a former nursery transformed into a mostly open room with desks scattered under fluorescent lights. Along the back wall was the office that belonged to the owner, a storage closet, and a pair of meeting rooms. "Hey Gertie," I said as I approached the front desk. She was an older lady, already riffling through the paperwork for the day. She's been here longer than most of us. Longer than the current owner, even. I took out one of the coffee cups. "Extra cream and sugar for my favorite queen." "Bless you," she said, taking the cup and giving it a big sip. She closed her eyes and sighed. As I made my way deeper into the office, she asked, "We all set for this weekend?" I nodded. "I still have a copy of your key from the last time. Can't wait to spend some time with Buddy." She gave me a concerned look. "If you're not up for it..." I brought a finger to my necklace, touching my pet's tags, trying not to think too hard about my recently departed tabby cat. "Of course I'm up for it. I'm looking forward to spending time with him." "You just like watching him because he helps you meet cute gentlemen at the beach," she said. I flashed her a grin. "I can't help if he's such a good boy. He likes being the center of attention." "Don't spoil him too much. The vet says he needs to watch his diet," she added with a warning glare. "Your dog will be just fine, now stop worrying and start thinking about all the slots you’ll be playing at Vegas. You realize Atlantic City is closer and cheaper, right?" "Atlantic City doesn't have Rod Stewart, honey.” I had to concede that point. “Oh, Pete wants to see you. Watch out, Hurricane Jane is here.” She gave me a knowing look. Pete and Jane would be Pete Logan, the owner, and Jane Hall, his girlfriend. Pete took over Integritas a few years ago, inheriting the business from his mom. Jane didn’t work here, but she was very good at spending Pete’s money and being a general nuisance at the office. I looked at my watch. “What’s she doing up so early? She usually doesn’t get up til the crack of noon.” Gertie gave me a heck-if-I-know roll of her eyes and went back to her coffee and paperwork. I shrugged to myself, then dropped off everyone else’s coffee before going to Pete’s office. The door was open, so I peered in. Pete was in his mid-fifties, wearing boating shoes and khakis, a polo and a deep tan. His teeth were unnaturally white, and a key float hung out of his pocket in the shape of a buoy. He was talking to an old man, who was short and wrinkled, with liver spots all over his head. Next to him was Jane Hall, a young forty-something with big hair and bigger nails. She wore a ridiculous bright pink puffer vest, bright pink sweatpants, and a hideous yellow sweatshirt underneath. “Ollie, finally,” Pete said, rising from his desk, a grim look on his face. “We need your help.” This was unexpected. Most of the time, when Pete needed my help, it was usually because he had trouble watching some boat racing video on the internet — being in my mid-thirties apparently meant that I was the natural go-to for computer problems, despite all my protests that I couldn’t figure out technology to save my life. But he actually seemed serious for once. Like this was a real issue. “Uh,” I said eloquently. Pete gestured to the older man. “This is Sid Greene, he’s been a friend of my family since forever. Sid, this is Oliver Parker, the Mesmer I was telling you about. Ollie, Sid’s daughter Sandy’s gone missing.” I understood. Missing people wasn’t usually my thing; for that, people tended to go to the police or some other actual authority. But I was very good at finding lost objects, my bread and butter for Integritas. You wouldn’t believe how many people lose their wedding rings at the beach. “Where was she last seen?” I asked. “Her house,” Sid said, his voice papery thin. But there was a catch to his voice that made me lean forward, prompting him. He hesitated, then went on, “She has cameras at her house. Her neighbors, too. We watched the footage. She went in the house on Sunday, but she never left.” It was Friday. I frowned. “She’s not in there?” “I looked.” He gestured to Jane next to him. “We looked. Multiple times.” “So where the hell is she?” I demanded. At Pete and Jane’s look, I swallowed. Right. That’s what I’m here for. Trying to cover up my dumb question, I asked, “Do you have anything of hers?” “Pete said you’d need this,” Sid said, handing over a little baggy. I took the paper towel out from it. When I unfolded it, it revealed a gold necklace. “It was her mother’s. She wore it almost every day.” I wrapped my fingers over it and immediately felt a faint thrum. This would do. “I can perform a ritual spell to find her. Let’s go to the other room.” As I went to one of the conference rooms, Pete came up to my side and whispered, “I’ve known Sandy since we were kids. She’s the one who introduced me to Jane. You’ve got to find her.” The look on his face was one of raw desperation. I swallowed. “I’ll do what I can.” The four of us shuffled into a small conference room, which had a table large enough to seat half a dozen. Off to the side was a cheap low bookshelf that held a bunch of atlases, and above it on the wall, a world map. I bade the others to be seated while I went to work. I went to the bookshelf and pulled out a velvet cloth runner and a pair of candles, setting them atop the bookshelf. I lit the candles, then turned the dimmer to the room down, leaving the room in a gentle golden light, the small flames making the shadows flicker and dance. The cloth and candles didn’t actually do anything, but when it came to doing magic, people expected a show. They tend not to take me seriously unless I puff up the proceedings with some schlocky mumbo-jumbo. I spread the necklace on the cloth, the gold glittering in the candlelight, nestled against the dark velvet. When finding people or objects, I needed to handle something that had a close connection with whatever it was I’m looking for. In this case, a part of Sandy’s soul was imbued in this necklace. All I needed to do was find the strand that was Sandy within this necklace, and use it to trace her whereabouts. “This ritual will take a few steps,” I said, using what I called my hetero-register, a lower, more serious variation of my voice. Sid and Jane looked at me intently, sensing that I was about to conjure some powerful magics. Little did they know I could do this one-handed, scarfing down a bag of chips with the other. But they needed to see something reverential, almost holy, to believe me when it worked. “First I’ll locate her on this map.” I gestured to the wall behind me. “Once I know what region she’s in, I’ll pull up one of these atlases and narrow down her location.” They looked at the bookshelf crammed with cheap atlas books and maps of all places around the world. Once, when I was hired to serve someone papers, I had to chase them down all the way to Australia. All of them were meticulously labeled; the only one that wasn’t was a thin, leather-bound booklet that I got at the end of my training at Fort Dix a decade ago. “I’ll begin the ritual,” I announced solemnly, turning back to the bookshelf. “Do not disturb me.” I placed a finger on Sandy’s necklace, closed my eyes, and concentrated. Almost immediately, my blood began to sing, like it was charged with an electrical current. A whirling maelstrom of light and color flooded my mind's eye, until, there, shimmering and golden, a pinprick of light. I opened my eyes and looked at the world map, expecting it to settle on a particular location. Instead, the pinprick of light jumped this way and that, bouncing from country to country, ocean to desert, from the north to the south, Mali to Bali, Friesland, Flanders, Portugal, Poland, Uluru, Denali, Botswana and back. What the hell, I thought. This spell never did that. It always homed in on the whereabouts of the person or object I was looking for, none of this dancing around. I grit my teeth and focused, closing my eyes again. This time, the light dropped to the bottom of my mind’s eye, dragging my head down with it, until it finally steadied on a fixed position. When I opened my eyes, I expected to see it having alit on one of the atlases I kept there. It was on the leather-bound book. With a creeping sense of dread, I pulled it out and carefully set it atop the bookshelf. No sooner had I placed it there did the book noisily flip open on its own power, racing past a dozen pages until it landed on a hand-drawn map. That never happened to me before, either. I looked at the map. It was like no map that existed of this world. This was one of the realms that belonged to the Other Side. I stared in horror as the pinprick of light zoomed into a particular location, and began pulsing rapidly. I gulped. When finding people, I could reach out through my connection, chasing the strand of their soul and briefly speak to them in their mind, but I had never done so while crossing over to the Other Side. Hell, I’d never even been to the Other Side. I’d heard of it, sure, every magical person has, just like everybody’s heard of Broadway. But there’s a hell of a difference between singing in the shower versus belting out a tune in the footlights before a thousand people. The Other Side wasn’t just some alternate dimension; it was a place of unfathomable power and danger, where only the most skilled mages, witches, Scions, Soul Hunters dared tread. I may be many things, but “power” and “skill” were not words used to describe one Oliver Parker. Do I dare reach out to Sandy through the Other Side? If I was caught, then Amicus, the Warden of the Unseen Walls, a literal god made flesh, could find me and punish me. I wasn’t keen on discovering what that would be like. But then I remembered the desperation in Pete’s voice, the raw grief on Sid’s face. If I backed out now, how could I possibly explain that I had the chance to find Sandy but wasn’t brave enough to even try? I had no choice. Steeling my resolve, I followed that golden pinprick of light back to its source, my consciousness racing along the thread like some kind of spiritual telegram wire. Sandy? I probed with my mind. But suddenly, a sharp, stabbing pain lanced through my head. I cried out and grabbed my temples. My nose filled with the stench of rot and pus coming from the magic that penetrated me. It smelled like corpses. WHO DARES DEFILE MY PRESENCE a loud voice boomed in my head. YOU DO NOT BELONG HERE. Agony washed over me as I fell back and bumped into the conference table. Jane and Pete were screaming something but I didn’t know what, I couldn’t focus. My vision swam. I only barely managed to catch a glimpse of the candlelight now roaring three feet in the air, a jet of flame, all heat and light, scorching the map and ceiling. I WILL SACRIFICE YOU ON BEHALF OF MY MASTER, the voice went on, awful and relentless. An invisible hand grabbed me by the throat and threw me against the back wall of the office. My back and my head slammed against the sheetrock, stars swam in my vision. I couldn’t breathe, whatever this demon was doing to me was cutting off all air. My legs and arms flailed out uselessly as I thrashed on the wall. Pete tried to dislodge me, but he might as well have been pulling down a skyscraper for all the good it did. I was going to die, I was going to be killed by a demon from the Other Side. I had never even ventured beyond the Unseen Walls but something eldritch seized me and wasn’t letting me go. As my vision darkened, some blessed synapse in my brain made the right connection, fired the right thought. The Unseen Walls had a guardian, the lord of the crossing. Divine Amicus, I beseech you, I prayed, calling out into the world of magic as loudly as I could. THAT FOOL WON’T SAVE YOU, YOU WEAK BAG OF FLESH, the demon said, his voice sneering and dripping with sludge. But I didn’t need Amicus to save me. I needed this demon to think that Amicus would save me. Drawing into my reserves of magic, I conjured an image of an avenging archangel descending from the heavens, golden spear in hand, trumpets blaring. I made the vision of Amicus an auric comet hurtling towards my invisible foe. Groping in the dark, I found the strand that the demon used to connect him to me. It was rotten, like flesh weeping with pus. I flooded the line with the image of Amicus ready to smite this demon. He growled with surprise and suddenly, I fell to the ground. The mysterious hand that grabbed my throat vanished. I found myself back in the conference room, softly suffused with dim candlelight, the roaring flame gone, my face pressed against the cheap, plasticky carpet on the ground. Gratefully, I gulped in heaving breaths of air. Pete and Jane were at my side, making noises I couldn’t quite make out. It took me a few seconds to realize they were calling my name and asking if I was okay. Eventually, I was able to nod and say, “I’m all right.” I slowly pushed myself to my feet. The two of them looked at me with concern — Pete’s hand was on my shoulder, Jane’s on my arm. Somehow, Jane’s joltingly pink vest brought me back more firmly to reality. It felt so out of place compared to what I just went through. “Really, I’m okay.” I took a few more steadying breaths, and looked over at the table. Sid was standing, staring at the wall map, his face ashen. I turned to see what he was looking at when my stomach clenched with anxiety. Dread filled me from head to toe. Written on the world map in blood, leaving dark red streaks as it dripped, were the words DADDY HELP ME.

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Assignment #1 STORY STATEMENT Through a series of events, twelve-year-old Kato is pulled into a quest to a hidden world that his mother, Zena, is connected to with the intention of preventing Barnafus, a trickster who has escaped prison, from destroying their secret community’s annual mission of supplying miracles to people all over the world. Assignment #2 ANTAGONIST Two hundred years ago, Barnafus, an uninspired pottery maker stumbles on his life’s mission after noticing the nearby toymaker leaving his successful business for holiday travels. He becomes persuaded that the toymaker journeys to a secret world. Determined to live until he knows, Barnafus sells his soul to various witches to extend his life. Retreating to a cave for solitude, he only leaves only to stalk the toymaker, his son and then his grandson. After a chance meeting of one of their relatives he sets out to win her affection. Marriage and two children later, he pressures her to take him to visit her family, although it was established that she’d go alone. Once integrated with them he becomes unnerved by her jolly do-gooder relatives and advocates to move into a position of power. When the family denies his request, he becomes outraged, rationalizing they owe him. His attempt to take over fails, so he kidnaps his sons. One year later, he is imprisoned for breaking and entering a toy company. With revenge consuming his being, Barnafus eventually breaks out and reaches out to an old frenemy to help him get back to steal Saint Nicholas’s reign over Mahalitheluji. Assignment #3 BREAKOUT TITLE Journey to The Land of Snow Welcome to Mahalitheluji: The Land of Snow Journey to Mahalitheluji: The Land of Snow Assignment #4 GENRE AND APPROACHING COMPARABLES Genre: Journey to the Land of Snow is a Holiday Urban Fantasy Adventure Comparable titles are*: Christmas Chronicles Merry Wish: A CHRISTMAS ADVENTURE by A.C. Salter Assignment #5 HOOKLINE (LOGLINE) A young boy, who doesn’t seem to fit in with the other boys, and his family that has recently expanded with new colorful relatives, learn about a hidden world that his mother, Zena, is connected to and that happens to be inhabited by the original Saint Nicholas and his peculiar Mahalians. A series of telling events pull them into a quest to prevent Barnafus, a trickster who has managed to live over 200 years and recently escaped prison, from destroying their secret community’s annual mission of supplying miracles to people all over the world. Assignment #6 Inner conflict - protagonist Kato, the main character, struggles with not knowing himself. It’s not that he doesn’t like himself. He does and he is confident and driven. The problem is he isn’t driven in any particular direction. When he thinks about what inspires him or what he’s drawn to, nothing comes to mind except playing casual football or playing occasional video games with his best friend. His mother and her sisters own candle boutiques. They love candles and have built their lives around the candles they make. His father, Jabari is an optometrist, who relishes in his work. Even his younger sister talks about one day having her own candle shop like their mother and she is like a walking encyclopedia of candle history, types and scents. He wishes he were passionate about any one thing like them. Assignment #7 Secondary Conflict involving the social environment Both Lulana and Kato’s mom, Zena, have married men outside of the greater family. As a result, both have been living in exile and unable to return to their home. The women struggle with the decisions they made to build their family which landed them away from their loved ones. Yet, their love for their families makes the conundrum more sensitive. Will their actions of trying to help their community allow them a second chance or will they get them pushed further away? Assignment #8 SETTING Setting 1: Kato, the main character’s home On the outside, a typical suburban home in New Jersey. With close neighboring houses and minivans in the driveways. Inside, Kato’s mom Zena makes over the top casseroles that are savory and include avocado, greens, okra, tomatoes, and beef or salmon or shrimp, casseroles that are sweet and filled with apple and honey, French toast and mixed berries or Egyptian bread pudding, and casseroles that are sweet and savory all at the same time like apples and sausage or spicy kale and sweet potato. During the holiday. From November until the end of May, a Christmas tree proudly stands in the living room with bright purple painted leaves and green, blue, red and gold decorations and lights adorning its every branch. Setting 2: Mahalitheluji/Mahali Square/Keep Giving Festival They move straight ahead towards Mahali Square, driving down a narrow road, filled with trees that have just enough room for one small tram to pass the other. The siblings want to sit back in the seats because they are so comfortable and inviting, with colorful blankets and toss pillows to snuggle with, however there is so much to see that they sit back and look at the winter wonderland that is before them. Snow is everywhere, yet the car feels warm and perfectly heated. The road feels like a hidden gem surrounded by majestic towering mountains that extend as far as the eye can see. The siblings gaze out at the small-town square. The best description that comes to Kenya’s mind is, “Magical.” She can’t help but vocalize it as she takes in a winterized African village smack dab in the middle of snowy mountains. In the distance an opulent building that looks like a palace with blue stain glass windows and the structure made of sand baked mortar with a red velvet carpet laid out in front of. Even closer is an oversized colorful tree. The branch seems to be one color, yet the leaves on each branch are a different color of blue, green, red, purple, pink. Kato couldn’t keep his eyes off it. There are people buzzing all around Mahalitheluji. A group hang a sign that reads, The Mahalitheluji Keep Giving Festival. Set up with long curved tables that make an enormous spiral, a group decorate them with plates and flowers and candles and silverware. The entire layout for the festival is beautiful and elaborate, including coordinating table and chair never-ending table runners. Festive music that sounds like a mixture of Christmas and Afro Dance can be heard throughout the grounds. Across the grounds a lady dressed in a colorful dress trimmed in gold. On her head an elaborate headwrap. Sitting in front of her are children on monoxyl chairs with short back. Each of the children are five years old and under and sitting in awe as the lady tells them a story. Upon close observation, there is no snow on the ground or the trees or the shrubs in the village. Setting 3: Le Morne Brabant Mountain, Mauritius The clear sky was unobstructed by clouds allowing the moon to shine bright on the back side of Le Morne Brabant Mountain. It is here high above this vital, yet exclusive location in Mauritius that we find the caravan of relatives of Kato that he doesn’t even know exist, in a sleigh drawn by grand flying Kudu. They soar through the night sky and know when to look below them to spot the mesmerizing underwater waterfall just off the coast. Zaila becomes giddy every time she experiences the illusion of water falling in the ocean, although she is aware that it was merely the sand falling down. They land in front of a clearing just in front of a what looks like a wall of rocks. Although the mountain is a busy tourist attraction by day, it remains unoccupied at night, which makes it the perfect location to hide their prized candles in a place that no one would think to look. The waves crash softly against the sandy beach below the mountain, and the lush palms in the distance. In the dark, solemn cave. Silence falls over them as they are immediately impacted by the energy still lingering from the Maroons who once inhabited the caves to escape being traded into slavery. Their history is a melancholy and tragic memory they face every time they enter the environment. When they were there, hiding out and living in the caves, the Mahalians brought them food and basic tools every year they held refuge there. They even offered to fly them to their land and allow them to live and work with them, however none were comfortable enough with the idea of flying, save one. Obadias’ grandfather, who incorporated his life with them and became a member of the Special Forces. In exchange they allowed the Mahalians to continue to hide their candles there and pledged to guard them with their lives. Unfortunately, the Maroons eventually took their own lives when they thought they were being ambushed and forced back into slavery.

Story Statement: In 1973, in Madinah, Saudi Arabia, sixteen-year-old Alia Ezz Eldeen is a studious girl who dreams of a world beyond the restrictions of her culture and her loving but dogmatic father, Mohammad. A friendship with an Australian classmate, Kylie, opens her eyes to new possibilities, but a forbidden photograph leads to a brutal punishment that shatters Alia's trust. The traumatic event, followed by a transformative trip to Egypt and the sudden death of her father, forces Alia to confront the true meaning of freedom, family, and her own inner strength as she battles her oppressive uncle for control of her future and her father's legacy, his beloved bookstore, and to choose her own spouse. Antagonist: 1. Her father, Mohammad, is a conflicted patriarch whose deep love for his daughter is expressed through suffocating control, representing the central tension between tradition and individual freedom. Mohammad is not a simple villan; he is the emotional core of the novel's conflict. He is a complex and tragic figure- a man who wants to protect his daughter from a world he fears by building her a cage. His internal struggle and eventual glimpse of understanding make him a deeply compelling character whose arc will resonate with readers who know firsthand the complexity of family love. 2. Her uncle Essam, a tyrant who believes a woman's place is in the kitchen as a mother and wife. This antagonist is the more dangerous one. He is opposing Alia's every dream and drowning her in suitors until she gives him verbal consent. Core Wound: An arranged marriage is looming in Alia's world, an unwed pregnant girl needs her help to give birth, and a picture says a thousand words about a world Alia knows nothing about. Stacked against all this newness is a determined young girl, Alia, whose quiet rebellion against tradition escalates into a courageous fight for her very soul. She refuses to be defined by the limitations placed upon her. Her journey from dutiful daughter to self-determined woman shapes her. Her rebellion is not just against her family but for her identity, making her deeply relatable to any reader who has ever felt torn between duty and desire. Other matters of conflict: After her father passes unexpectedly, Alia finds herself and her future in the ruthless hands of her uncle. He has wanted to marry her off since she turned sixteen years old. This fight for autonomy is unlike her fights with her father; it is menacing, and if she falters, it proves to end all her dreams. Alia is measured by societal expectations, and reputation is her currency. Everyone scrutinizes everything. When Alia goes out at night to help a pregnant girl give birth to an illegitimate child, she trembles with fear. Her only armor is doing what is right even in the face of losing her reputation and thus future marriage prospects as a wife. 1. Titles: Rosewater What the Wind Knows The Bookstore on Al-Anbariyah Street The Luminous City's Daughter 2. Comps  A Woman is No Man — Etaf Rum- This comp highlights the raw, unflinching exploration of patriarchal constraints within a conservative Arab American family. Like my manuscript, it delves into the painful realities of domestic control and the secret dreams of women.  The Pearl That Broke Its Shell — Nadia Hashimi For women to gain freedom and provide for their families in patriarchal Afghanistan, exploring themes of resilience, identity, oppression, and the enduring strength needed for women to control their own fates across generations.  The Henna Artist — Alka Joshi- This is a strong comp for its historical setting (1950s India) and its focus on a female protagonist navigating the complex rules of her society to build a life on her own terms. All three books explore themes of reputation, female enterprise, and tradition. Setting: The story takes place in Madinah, Saudi Arabia, where the sand is dry and the heat is scorching. Sandstorms are around the corner, making a blanket on all furniture, cars, shops, and windows. The parallel of the setting and the weather coincides with Alia's inner fears and tribulations. The oppressive heat and the fragrant scent of oud and spices are a stark contrast between the private world of women and the public world of men. Cairo The loud noise of the chaos that rules the city of Cairo, with the honks of the cars and chatter of the people, makes it vibrant in contrast to Madinah and its soft presence.

Chapter 1: The House on the Hill (note: for some reason the first few paragraphs wouldn't indent, so I separated those with spaces to make the breaks obvious) We sat, as usual, near the center of the cafeteria. Plasticware scraped and chairlegs squeaked in a cacophony all around, kids chewing and chatting and roughhousing all at the same time. Everyone talked over everyone else. Add on to the general scramble the fact that Francesca Ingersoll and Johnny Shitface (not his real name) and their whole ilk decided it was time for “a move,” and you had the perfect recipe for a lunch period even crazier than normal—which was how things typically were. They were what Hollywood might dub “the popular kids,” though we dubbed them “Them” or “Them Assholes.” Francesca’s mother sat on the school board and her father had Ted Bundy eyes so no one ever dared cross her, and every once in a while right at the beginning of lunch, Francesca would get that gleam in her eye and she and the rest of Them Assholes would get up and relocate to another group’s table. Hence, “a move.” I guess it was supposed to be a flex, I dunno. The teenage version of gentrification. Anyway, the current “a move” resulted in a bunch of displaced theatre kids milling about with full trays and Disney Villain t-shirts. Somebody was crying, I think Gracie Hattersfeld, because the group couldn’t find a free table with enough spots so somebody had to sit out. Not that she was the victim, mind you. That girl had mastered the art of crocodile tears. Damn actors and their ability to cry on command. We, of course, never had to move (“never”), because we always sat at The Mustard Table (almost always), so named because someone years ago graffitied “MUSTARD” across its entire length, which I guess compelled people to honor the moniker by constantly dumping mustard packets all across its surface, and now the table always smelled like mustard. Francesca wouldn’t be caught dead at The Mustard Table. This served to prove how “cool” we were, isolated in our safe haven and above all the petty drama. Usually it worked out, though sometimes a displaced group crowded the table first and left us with barely two spots for four people. One time, from lack of room, I knelt next to the bench until a teacher came and yelled at me. Fortunately a spring cold had rendered a good quarter of the school out sick, so we had a whole half of the table to ourselves. The scene kids crowded the other end, all of them hunched over like dark lords or geriatrics. Also, to clarify, I say “scene,” but, well… okay for example I knew Tyler’s mom, and she wouldn’t let him dye his hair or cut it in any way “unChristian,” so he settled for black t-shirts, skater gloves, and a random assortment of chains and rings and whatever accouterments he could hide in his locker. Sometimes he tried guyliner. It made him look like if emo Toby Maguire in Spider-Man 3 quit dieting for two years. I guess Mindy seemed the most authentic—her dad being dead was something she bragged about—but the whole group was essentially what settled for counterculture in a town the size of ours. It was just the three of us at the moment, our fourth late as always (or “fashionably late” as he would retort). Olly sat next to me, laughing at his own jokes and trying to impress Hayley. She nodded at him from the other side of the table, a perpetual half smile the only constant in her wardrobe. The day’s outfit consisted of skinny jeans and a gray vest over a black top. Hayley’s dad was loaded, and every other weekend when he had custody, she’d always come back home dragging a bag or two of new outfits. The one time we tried World of Warcraft, she preferred taking screenshots of her character in cute gear to leveling. We teased her for it of course, calling her “such a girl,” but she just shook her head and laughed it off. Hayley considered herself a tomboy but never rejected the more girlish parts of her personality, and embraced all of her traits with pride. I really admired that about her. Plus, it gave me a perpetual excuse to stare. Only checking out the new threads, after all. Olly broke off his stream of chitchat to knock back a glass of water. He slammed the empty cup onto the table and cleared his throat dramatically, the telltale sign of an impending proclamation. “Okay, so, this morning I learned my parents are gonna be out of town for the weekend. I’m thinking tonight, you guys come over and we can stay up all night playing Halo.” With a low glance from side to side, he leaned in and beckoned the two of us to join him. Hayley and I rolled our collective eyes. He beckoned again, more insistently, so we decided to humor him. Even with all of us huddled close, Olly’s exaggerated whisper came out just as loud as normal volume. “If we want, my sister can probably score us some drinks, if you know what I mean.” Olly wasn’t familiar enough with alcohol to name anything specific beyond the all encompassing “drinks.” That was his sister’s job. Tara had performed this service for us a couple times before, though it still felt exciting and taboo. None of us were big partiers—our idea of a great weekend was potato chips and team slayer—so between the three of us we’d packed away like ten drinks max. Last time, I think the weekend after Halloween, Tara bought us beers. It took us about three collective sips to determine the beverage really wasn’t for us. Well, Hayley did, and Olly and I secretly agreed with her, but of course our manly pride wouldn’t let us stop sooner than two beers each. I much preferred vodka. It tasted like ass, of course, but all alcohol did, as far as I was concerned. The point was to get drunk and silly, and whatever facilitated that with the least number of sips was objectively the best. Hayley leaned back from our conspiratorial circle, hands behind her head, and chewed her lip. I stared at her. There’s simply something about a woman biting her lower lip, that, well, you know. It’s baked into the male DNA. “I think I should be fine,” she replied, staring at the ceiling. “Hopefully. My mom hates me sleeping over at either of you guys’ place, y’know. Thinks we’ll get up to all sorts of naughty stuff.” She laughed at this, the idea clearly silly to her. Let me tell you, there’s no good response to that. I took the coward’s way out. I laughed, too. A sudden hand descended from the heavens and landed on Hayley’s head as Kit, our fourth and final member, swung himself into place next to her. “‘Sup guys, what I miss?” Hayley grabbed his hand and shoved it off her, grumbling, “you’ll mess up my hair.” But I noticed the smile at the corners of her mouth, and how her fingers lingered on his. The clock showed lunchtime as near halfway over, and Kit’s plate held enough food for the three of us combined. He would finish by the time the bell rang, of course. He always did. Since middle school, it had always been just Hayley, Olly, and me. Then right after Christmas break in our senior year, Kit transferred into our school, and somehow, our group. Fashionably late, as always. He was such a natural, easy-going guy, impossible to hate, despite how hard I tried. With blond hair spiked up in the front and arms that made me buy a pullup bar, his casual smile had the disarming charm of a Hollywood star. “We were, um, talking about gaming at my place tomorrow. I can, um, bring up the living room TV, too, so it’ll only be two per screen.” Olly peered at me with eyes as demure as a Victorian bride. He always got shy around Kit. I couldn’t blame him. Kit nodded in response, a smooth motion to the beat of some nonexistent jazz. “Sounds pretty good, pretty good.” He garbled out the words through a mouthful of eggs. “Oh my god, you’re so gross. I can’t even look at you,” Hayley said, continuously looking at him. Kit winked at her, and chewed his eggs with a contemplative frown. His fork twirled about in elaborate patterns. Olly said something, and Hayley chuckled, but her attention was on Kit. She’d talked to me about boys before, mostly to bask in how uncomfortable it made me. I think she assumed my reactions to be a general boyish discomfort. I doubt she knew I liked her. I never told her, after all. It wasn’t love. I don’t think it was. It felt real, it hurt like real. I often whispered to myself, “I love you, Hayley,” in the quiet moments alone in my room, basking in the miserable ecstasy of a one sided crush. But love was for adults, I think. I didn’t feel old enough for love. People always said, “you’ll know when it’s real,” but I didn’t know, and didn’t know how to know, and no certain, godly voice ever split the heavens to declare from on high the objectivity of my feelings. So, it was just a crush. A five year long longing. Hayley rested her cheek on her open palm. The pose pushed her lopsided smile further up her face. The first crush she admitted to me happened back in middle school, on a boy named Brad. Three months later, when I asked about him, it took her a minute to remember what I meant. They were always like that. Transient fascinations. This one, too, would pass. And even as her hand propped up a smile meant for Kit, her wrist still wore the silver bracelet I gave to her. The other constant in her wardrobe. Kit flicked his fork into the air and caught it between his fingers, scooping up the remaining eggs into the center of his plate. “You know me, guys, always down for some gaming. But this time I was thinking about something… else.” His sly declaration didn’t immediately grab me. Kit was an outgoing guy, always full of ideas. Sometimes we tried them, but just as often the collected, introverted energy of the rest of us dragged his fantastical plans down to manageable levels. Like, no Kit, we’re not gonna go rafting down the Mississippi like Huck Finn, but maybe we could take a swim in the local pond. “Have you guys heard of Lancaster Manor?” The name went in one ear and out the other. “You’re just afraid of getting trounced, Kit the Kitty-cat,” I teased him, trying to maneuver the plans back to gaming. I was the best at Halo 3, and I liked having Hayley see how much better my K/D was than Kit’s. “I’m serious, guys,” he retorted, still with his easy smile. “Lancaster Manor.” All three of us stared back blankly. “Olly.” Olly jumped in his seat. “You’re smart. You know it?” The smaller boy scratched his head. “Lancaster… um… what did you say? I think I might have. Lancaster, the town, isn’t too far, you mean there?” “No, it’s right here in Tilbury. Lancaster Manor.” It felt like fog permeated my brain, like trying to write an essay after an all nighter. Kit snapped his fingers, his arm outstretched to the center of the table. “Lancaster Manor. Guys, focus.” A hint of seriousness marred his voice, something I’d never heard there before. But something in the way he said the words made it finally stick. Hayley spoke up first. “Um, yeah, I think, actually. The big house near Sandy Park Hill, right? It’s not far from my house. Just an old building, right?” Kit leaned in conspiratorially. Without hesitation the rest of us followed suit, ever drawn into his pace. “Do any of you guys know anything about this town’s history?” “Um, I remember going to a presentation about it at the library once,” I chimed in. “But that was when I was a kid. So I don’t remember much.” Olly clicked his tongue. “I think I remember doing that, too. Now that you mention it, Kit, Joseph Lancaster was the town’s founder.” He peeped up at Kit for confirmation. The taller boy nodded. “That’s right! And he lived on the outskirts of town, in a big old manor house. Ergo, Lancaster Manor. Guys,” Kit leaned even further in, and we all copied him. Our collective foreheads nearly touched. It no doubt appeared way more suspicious than a normal conversation. “That place. It’s definitely haunted. Let’s go check it out.” “What makes you say that?” A pink blush dusted Hayley’s cheeks. I think she realized how close she was to Kit. “Hayley.” When he turned to face her, the tip of his nose brushed against hers. She leaned back instinctively, then after a second closed the gap again, blush deepening. “You said you live nearby. Have you ever seen anyone come or go?” “I… I don’t think so. Maybe?” “And do any of you know anyone with the last name Lancaster?” I sat back and crossed my arms, hoping to force physical distance between everyone again. “Alright, that just means it’s abandoned. So what? Lots of places are. Nothin’ special about it.” “Not abandoned, no.” Kit steepled his fingers. His plate of eggs sat directly between us like a fluffy yellow campfire. I swear his face somehow had underlighting. “A crazy old man lives there. Some say he’s the last Lancaster. Some say he’s the old gardener, who went insane and killed his employer. But all agree, that every night, the old man retreats into the depths of his house, and speaks with undead souls.” “Some say?” I raised an eyebrow. “You mean ‘you say.’ Nobody even knows about this place, so don’t act like it’s a common ghost story.” “I dunno, Alex, I think it could be fun.” Hayley shrugged and ducked my glare. “Haunted or not, aren’t you curious? Who knows how long it’s been abandoned.” My face soured. Oh, I see. She wanted to Scooby-Doo us. Hey, send Shaggy and the dog off to the ass end of nowhere while Fred explores the bedroom with Daphne. Wink wink nudge nudge and all that crap. “Yeah, you get it!” Kit clapped her on the shoulder. “Although remember, like I said, it’s not abandoned.” Hayley patted his arm. “Whatever you say.” Their physical touches made me ill. “I just think it sounds stupid.” “Oh c’mon, don’t be a scaredy-cat.” “Says the girl who ran out of the room during The Ring.” “Oh, hush. That was years ago.” “Yeah, like, two years max.” Olly watched the exchange without comment. Guess he couldn’t be counted on for backup support. I crossed my arms and let out a long breath through my nose. In truth, while I definitely didn’t want to create romantic moments for Kit and Hayley, I couldn’t explain my real anxiety about the manor. I didn’t believe in ghosts, so that didn’t frighten me. It’s just, when I heard the name, Lancaster Manor… something in my gut felt wrong. Kit smiled at me. “You alright?” “I’m fine, I’m fine. Alright, I think it’s stupid to act all scared about this like little kids, but whatever. Let’s go explore your haunted house.” “Great!” “Great.” “We’ll meet up tonight.” So lunchtime came to an end and we quickly made our plans, or rather Kit made our plans and we agreed. I spent the rest of the school day trying not to get excited. Okay, okay, maybe it did seem a little cool. I guess.

The Children of the Night By Elijah Babcock Story Statement: Alex Cory seeks revenge on the vampire who killed his friends and turned him into a thrall. Antagonist: Bill Hopper is a vampire who works as a gardener for the powerful Edward Lancaster, another vampire. He is bitter about his low position in life, and wastes away his time in drunken binges and bitter self-pity. However, when protagonist Alex Cory breaks into Edward’s mansion on a dare, Bill Hopper bites him and turns the teenage boy into a thrall, a half-human-half-vampire creature that must obey their master’s every command. With this, Bill Hopper is given power over someone he sees as even more pathetic than himself, and abuses that power viciously. However, while Bill Hopper is the immediate and present threat, the true antagonistic force is the manor itself, and the aristocratic sensibilities of Edward Lancaster and his family. Bill Hopper is dirty and unshaven; he lives in a moldy cabin. The Lancasters are dressed to the nines and live in luxury. Alex sees himself attracted to the glamour, and mistakes aesthetics for morality. In contrast to the obvious evil of his master, he desires the subtler evil of the Lancasters. Breakout Title The Children of the Night Taken from the book of poetry named “The Children of the Night” by Edward Arlington Robinson. He was a New England poet with a certain grim yet hopeful ideal that appeals to me, and I drew much inspiration from his poetry. The problem, however, is that it’s such a good title that a few other books have also taken this name, so I don’t know if it’s useable. Forever in the Dark This one is also taken from Edward Robinson, in a line from his poem “Children of the Night” (which gave the whole collection its name). I find myself attached to using something from him, and this title is still pretty evocative, while also being far less common. A Vampire Story While this title started as the working title for my story before I came up with a real one, I did find myself growing a bit attached to it. It’s very generic, but it does evoke connection to the early 2000s, when these sorts of on-the-nose titles were more common (e.g. “A Love Story” or “Not Another Teen Movie”). This book is set in 2008 and does aim for nostalgia from that time, so it kind of works. Comparables “Let the Right One in” by John Ajviude Lindqvist This book deals with the grim reality of vampires, and tells part of its story as a coming-of-age tale from the perspective of a young boy. While Alex, the protagonist of “Children of the Night,” is eighteen and the character of Oskar from “Let the Right One in” is twelve, they do share a similar journey of being forced to grow up fast in a world they are not ready for. “The Vampire Diaries” by L. J. Smith This book series is a YA series that uses the supernatural as a backdrop for interpersonal teenage drama. The primary social conflict of “Children of the Night” sees Alex dealing with burgeoning love and friendship, and having to walk the line of real emotions in an unreal world. This assignment was (is) the most difficult for me. All the contemporary vampire fiction I could find, written in the last five years or so, lies within the romantasy genre. I couldn’t find anything aimed at a male audience. Still, I do see my book as aiming for 2000s nostalgia, in an attempt to do for that decade what Stranger Things did for the 80s. As such, I don’t think it’s entirely inappropriate to use two books written within that time period (Vampire Diaries was written in the 90s, but grew in popularity during the 2000s because of the TV show.) There is, also, something boldly absurd in comparing my book to such vastly different sources, that lie on completely opposite ends of the grimdark spectrum. It isn’t an untrue comparison, either, and I hope it serves to be attention getting. Log Line When Alex Cory is turned into a thrall and forced to work as a gardener in a vampire mansion, he must quickly learn whom he can trust if he is to get his revenge - or even survive at all. Inner Conflict Alex’s inner conflict comes from contradiction. He is a human but must learn to navigate the world of vampires. He is a normal teenager but seeks to kill for his revenge. He feels the urge to drink blood but doesn’t want to kill innocents. He desires the lavish life of the noble vampires, but himself lives in squalor. Whenever this contradiction gets to him, and feels overwhelming, he lashes out and blames the world for his troubles. Hypothetical: Alex is forced to kill an innocent in order to drink their blood. He is sent out into his town, and after faffing about and putting it off as long as he can, he goes to kill his neighbor Mr. Tully. Mr. Tully is not a bad man, but he is a grumpy and cantankerous one. In order to hype himself up, in order to be able to kill him, Alex grows incredibly angry at the old man, and convinces himself that he deserves to die. Alex also tells himself that vampires - and their thralls - are noble creatures, and deserve to take what they want. As such, in order to not feel guilty, Alex adopts a mindset of vampire supremacy, as well as seeing people as nothing more than targets. This mindset seeps into his subconscious, and begins to take over. The book takes place in the Lancaster Manor, populated by an eclectic mix of characters in both members of the family and staff. These figures all have their own agendas and relationships, and the two characters that have the greatest influence on Alex are Jacob Lancaster and Sara. Jacob Lancaster is the youngest son of the Lancaster family, but he has ambitions of becoming the heir, and agrees to help Alex in his quest for revenge if Alex in turn helps him. Sara is an apprentice witch who saves Alex’s life, and Alex begins to have romantic feelings for her. She seemingly has no motive other than being kind, but Jacob Lancaster does not trust her. Alex, thus, is caught between the two of them, and having to decide where his allegiances lie. Setting The majority of the book takes place in the Lancaster Family Manor. It is a large and imposing structure, plucked out of Victorian England and thrust into small town New England. A stone wall surrounds the whole property, that being the manor itself as well as acres of well manufactured lawn. A tall tower juts out from the center of the building, wherein resides Edward Lancaster, the mysterious family patriarch. However, while Alex works on the manor property every day, he does not live in the building itself. He lives with his master, the lowly gardener, who lives in a small cabin on the edge of the property. While the cabin may have been well built in the past, decades of squalor have taken their toll. Alex sleeps in the small dusty attic space. As such, every day he wakes up, crawls out of the attic where he can barely stand, into the dirty and stained cabin proper, and looks outside at abundant wealth only a few hundred yards away. What truly makes the Lancaster Manor stand out, however, is not the architecture but the people. The staff includes Charles, the kindly old houndmaster whose “hounds” are actually wolves; Avery, a mischievous maid with connections to the fae; and Sebastian, the illusive cook whom nobody in the manor has ever actually seen. The Lancaster family, all of whom are vampires, includes Jacob, the affable youngest son with ambitions of becoming his father’s heir; Vivian, Jacob’s twin sister who fully buys into the “vampires are awesome” mythos; and Louis, the taciturn oldest son who takes over running the estate while his father remains locked away in his tower.

DON’T FERTILITEASE ME The three months leading up to my 40th birthday were like a slow countdown to D-Day. There is something about that particular birthday that feels like a day of reckoning – a time to take stock of the first half of your life and face what you have accomplished or royally screwed up. When I had cast forward in my imagination as a young girl, it had never occurred to me that I could end up an unmarried 40 year old with no kids. In my teens, my sister and I used to fantasize about how old we would be in the year 2000. “Can you believe I will be 35 in the year 2000? I bet I’ll be married with 3 kids and be famous, probably a rock star.” Wrong, wrong and wrong. When I danced to Prince’s “Tonight we’re gonna party like it’s 1999”, I never dreamed that I would be single, living with a hairy roommate named Harry, no kids, not even marginally famous, and being contacted by short 50 year-olds on match.com. Every time my mother asked me what I wanted to do to celebrate my 40th, I felt slightly suicidal. “Do you want to see Jersey Boys on Broadway?” “No.” “How about we get two pound lobsters at the Palm-Two?” “God, no.” “Well, honey, you have to decide on something, or it’ll be too late to get reservations.” This didn’t feel like an out-to-dinner birthday. This felt like a bury-yourself-in-dirt birthday. A crawl-into-the-bottom-of-your-closet-and-cover-yourself-with-clothes-so-nobody-finds-you birthday. Can you make a reservation for that? This was no time for a celebration. This was an emergency. Like an ambulance should arrive with a handsome boyfriend with commitment potential and good genes giving me mouth to mouth resuscitation, but a Broadway show and a piece of cake brought by the waitress? Fuck no. It occurred to me that I was most likely at fault for ruining my own life. I had always wanted to be a mother, to have a family. What if all the lousy decisions I had made had culminated in this disastrous drama of a decade birthday from hell? I started contemplating how I got here. There were other people involved. I couldn’t have arrived here completely by myself. So, I went back to the beginning. BECOMING A PERSON IN ROCHESTER, NEW YORK MY HEART BELONGS TO DADDY Every girl’s first love is her daddy. Mine was a psychiatrist. Any kid of a psychiatrist knows that being the child of a psychiatrist means that you' re basically being raised by a mental health professional sans mental health. Your shrink parent will most likely not apply his mental health training to your parent-child relationship. My Dad was charming and hard to reach. He had a fabulous sense of humor, played the piano completely by ear in a Rogers & Hammerstein style, and has always liked to be mostly by himself. I worshipped him because he was such a captivating personality and like the Shamrock Shake at McDonald’s, he seemed available for a limited time only. Personality-wise and looks-wise I felt more alike him than I did my mom. I got my sense of humor from him. I got my nose from him. We played and sang together from the time I was two. Like a fish in his tank, I grew up inside the bubble of my father’s narrative. He was a storyteller, and told more stories about my own mother than she ever told about herself. He often repeated a story about the day I was born. He was in the waiting room of Strong Memorial Hospital, and he was watching the Johnny Carson show while he waited for my mother to give birth. Men were not allowed in the delivery room in those days. Johnny Carson was out that night, and Ed McMann, his sidekick, was also missing. Doc Severensen, the band leader, had to host the show, which my Dad claimed really shook him up because that was unprecedented. It made him think that things were off kilter in the universe on the day I was supposed to be born. I was being induced because I had been in there for almost 10 months and my time was up. When the waiting room phone rang, he was profoundly relieved to hear from the doctor that I was normal with all 10 fingers and toes. The day they drove me home from the hospital it was snowing hard. My Dad drove the car over the wintery lawn and right up to the apartment steps, because it was so icy he was worried my mother might slip and drop me in the snow. He said I looked tiny and red, like a little turtle, and he thought they should put me in a glass terrarium and give me fish food, but mom said no. My Dad’s sense of his parental obligations were honed in the 40’s and 50’s when men did nothing for kids and women did everything. According to my mother, if I awakened in the night as a baby, my father would do one thousand pats and hand me back to her. One thousand pats was the limit. Cloth diapers were status quo then, and my mother said she would return home to find poop laden diapers soaking in the toilet, but that was the end of his attempt to clean them. I remember him being a terrible babysitter. When I was about 8, my brother was 7 and my sister was 3, my mother was out and he was babysitting us. Things weren’t going well and we were all crying. I remember my Dad calling us into the living room for a “pow wow”. We all sat on the floor in a circle and he told us not to tell my mom we had all been crying when she got home. “I’m telling mommy,” screamed my sister. “I’m telling mommy too, “ I shrieked. I remember, another night, asking him what was for dinner and he responded, “I just had a can of tuna, you kids can eat whatever you want.”

Don’t Fertilitease Me A memoir by Amanda The Act of Story Statement Our heroine hits her 40th birthday in NYC in a state of despair. She has always wanted a family but is single with no prospects. She is running out of time. Has she ruined her whole life? In a panic, she examines her history and romantic past to examine how she learned to love and to figure out if she can save her future. Antagonistic Force in the Story There are multiple antagonists in this story. The various boyfriends and lovers are antagonists in different ways. The mean ones or hostile ones are obvious, but even the lovely ones who vanish or don’t commit allow love to be an antagonist in its own right. Our protagonist’s mother has moments of antagonism with her judgments about the protagonist's romantic choices and her fertility pressure. Our protagonist is at times an antagonist herself when she, not acknowledging her own needs or truly understanding who she is, makes poor choices and self-sabotages, getting in her own way of finding happiness. Breakout Title Don’t Fertilitease Me The Big Fertilitease Still Blooming Comparables Everything I Know About Love by Dolly Atherton Notes on Heartbreak by Annie Lord Laughing is Conceivable: One Woman’s Extremely Funny Peak into the Extremely Unfunny World of Infertility Core Wound and the Primary Conflict As our author comes out of her childhood, she wonders why her father did not love her and doubts whether anyone will ever truly love, accept, and choose her. After all, she was just born to her father and didn’t have any choice in the matter, so she wonders if there is something intrinsically wrong with her being that could cause other men not to want her? She has been dating since she was 15 years old. As she closes in on age 35 and her biological clock is ticking loudly, her panic increases. Her mother was the goddess of her family. She wants to be just as essential to a child. Will it be too late for her to have a baby? Other levels of conflict The closer our protagonist comes to the success of her core self and artistic identity with her acting and comedy, the more inappropriate the men she encounters become. The men she is taken with seem both utterly incapable of and uninterested in parenthood, and she begins to lose hope that she will ever become a mother or have a family of her own. She is an audience to friends who are getting engaged and pregnant, is barraged by engagement announcements of seemingly perfectly suited couples in the NY Times, and has a mother and sister who constantly pester her about her dating choices and demand to know when she is willing to “just buy some sperm and get inseminated already!” Settings The protagonist’s life has moved through many environments through her 25 years of dating before she was married. Each environment was distinctly different, and affected the dating relationships. Rochester, NY The Hometown. Our lead character grew up in a predominantly Jewish suburb of Rochester, in an over protected family, in a quiet neighborhood where nothing ever happened. If the lady across the street, Mrs. Hoffman, came out of her house to rake her leaves, it was an event, and her father might pull out his binoculars and report the sighting. Oberlin, OH A sleepy, corn field-surrounded small college town, where you knew everyone on campus at least by sight. It had a small-town feel and a cosiness. It was a dry town and the most you could get was 80 proof liquor. Oberlin was also a politically radical school, and the first one to accept women, Jews, and Blacks in the US. It was a stop on the underground railroad. It had a bisexual dorm/coop that had nude breakfasts and coed showers, a lesbian dorm, and an afro house. Punk was in full force in 1983 and there were punkers slamdancing in the “Sco” which was vaguely terrifying. Oberlin had some good sports teams, but its football team was weak. We used to yell “Our SAT scores are higher than yours!” from the stands New York City The intensity and anonymity of NYC was a challenge to our main character. When she first arrived, it was dangerous. White women were being stabbed with pins tainted with an unknown substance in what appeared to be racially motivated attacks. It was scary to take the subway. Chains were being snatched from people’s necks. Her mother forbade her to wear her gold earrings on the way to work. Taking a bus 9 blocks in Times Square after dark felt like risking your life. She and her mother heard a woman screaming after being shot near Prospect Park when they were in bed. Park Slope was cozy but the restaurants were full of families, lesbians and there were no single men. It had an old-world feel, but as a single woman it felt like a desert island. Manhattan was electric and she roved around with her posse to bars and dance clubs, like MacAleer’s on Amsterdam, where she knew the bouncer. People talked to you on the street. There was big money in the 80’s. The concrete jungle was intense with shoulder padded bankers spilling out into the streets at lunchtime. It was tougher to do basic things in NYC, like laundry. Even simple chores became a dog-eat-dog competitive act. NYC during 9/11 felt like a very small town. None of us were allowed to leave and everyone walked around in hushed voices. The sound of bagpipes were heard frequently in fireman’s funerals. After Guiliani’s Disneyfication of Times Square, things felt safer. Our heroine walked home from acting class at Carnegie Hall after midnight. She heard the clomping of horse shoes out her window as carriages returned to the stables from Central Park South. She got her nails done at 9 pm and snuck McDonald’s cheeseburgers into the movies alone.. She could be free and safe at night which felt revolutionary as a woman. She lived in a two bedroom apartment with her 50 something roommate Barry, which was great except for the Barry part. She glanced at sidewalk diners,, their entitled heads close in intimate conversation and took her take-out to eat on her sofa in front of the tv. Central Park was her backyard, though she had a small planter of grass on her windowsill that she trimmed with scissors to get the “fresh cut grass” smell. Tucson, Arizona A western rambling town with the most sunny days in the US. Davis Monthan Air Force Base is in Tucson and trains 11,000 pilots. They fly training missions over Tucson on most clear days. This is a Sonoran desert climate with more vegetation than any other desert in the world. It has giant saguaro cacti, and many other varieties which bloom in the Spring. There are wildflowers, rabbits, coyotes, rattlesnakes, javelinas and scorpions. The colors are different there. There is much less green than the East coast. There are few deciduous trees and lots of palm trees.It is a more muted, desert landscape. It looks like the bottom of the sea without water. The colors are beige and tan and the tiniest little blooms stand out. There are painted sunsets and big blue skies with clouds that sweep and ripple. The air smells like the creosote bush when it rains. In the summer there are violent monsoons with freezing rain and the cacti sometimes are struck by lightning and power is lost. There are lots of apartment complexes with pools and blooming bougainvillea and charmless streets with strip malls and Circle K’s. San Francisco, CA A town full of hills with old fashioned vibes and Victorian and Edwardian architecture. This is a romantic city with houses painted vibrant colors, streetcars trundling up and down hills and sweeping views. Foghorns can be heard throughout the whole city on foggy days. The fog, nicknamed Carl, is a personnage. Each realtor knows how it crisscrosses the city creating microclimates. It can be blazing sun in Noe Valley and grey and damp 10 minutes away in the Sunset. Our protagonist arrives 5 mos pregnant in July, fresh off the plane from 96 degree steam-scorched NYC, stunned to find herself in 55 degrees, fog, winds and sporadic rain. Nature and culture are in balance there.

OPENING SCENE - Introduces antagonist, teases core wound, and introduces primary conflict. Heaven in Hell's Half Acre, by Andrew Paddock Chapter 1 My Dearest Giorgio, Just a quick note for now, we’re in Los Angeles and about to hop on a train. I think about you every day. I pray you are safe and this letter finds you well. I can’t bear the thought of anything bad happening to you. I know things got pretty heated with your father before you shipped out, but I hope you know how much he and I love you. It’s not that we doubt you or think we can tell you what to do. We just want what’s best for you. Especially after your accident. Your spot in the family business is still here when you get home, no matter what either of you said that night. He’s too proud to say that to you right now, but he feels it. So do I. I know this doesn’t feel like what you wanted after New York but it’s a great life we live. That can be yours too. What you do does not define you. How you live does. Just promise me you will think about it, okay? Time to sign off for now. No matter what you do, we’ll always be here for you and love you. Please write soon, we haven’t heard from you and your sister is worried sick. I love you, Piccolo. -Mamma George Hamilton stared at the sheet of paper for a long moment after reading those last few lines. A few letters now and still no word from his father other than this. The last page had some water spots and the handwriting was sloppy. Tears, he guessed. How long had she been keeping them inside? He felt a pang of sadness and sympathy, but quickly brushed it aside. Don’t get soft now, he thought to himself. Have some pride. No matter what the words on that paper said, the memory of the words that were spoken out loud that night couldn’t be swept aside. Some doors can’t be opened once they are closed. A few men started shouting nearby and he craned his head to see. It appeared to be a card game with a big hand, nothing exciting. Most of the sleeping men on the cots around didn’t even budge. He couldn’t wait to get off this troop ship. All of them were stacked one on top of the other and spread across every inch of space. When the others weren’t bragging about how many Germans they would kill once they got to Europe, they were vomiting from the seasickness. He folded up the pages of the letter and tucked them into his pocket. With one clean movement he jumped down from his bunk and landed on the hard steel floor. All around him were rows of bunks, starting at the ground and rising vertically to the ceiling. He stopped for a moment to gain his balance as the ship went over a light swell outside. After shimmying his way through the bunks, he moved up and out onto the deck. The rush of brisk Atlantic air hit him abruptly. It felt good after the stuffy confines of the bunks. The crisp feeling reminded him of Autumn nights back in New York. George stood aside for a moment as his eyes adjusted to the darkness. A full moon granted decent visibility and cast a comforting glow over the black water below. They refused to turn on any lights above deck for fear of German U-boats. A few sailors moved about on their duties. A few men were puking near the edge. Otherwise, all was quiet and basked in the silver moonlight. George walked down the ship until he found a private spot. He moved over to the edge and pulled the letter out. He gave it one last look in the moonlight. I love you too mamma, he thought. But not yet. He crumbled the pages up, and threw them out to sea. “Bad news from home?” George spun around and saw a sailor standing there. The insignia of an officer on his shoulder. George couldn’t make out the rank in the moonlight. “Something like that, sir.” “I’ve seen plenty of men deal with a Dear John letter. You’re not the only one who lost a girl to this damned war. I’m sorry, son.” “Thanks I guess, but don’t let it eat you up. I won’t. She was alright. Prettier than a pinup girl, but it was never going to last.” George lied. That felt easier than letting this man in on his business. “If that helps make it easier, by all means.” The officer started to walk away. George got defensive. “It doesn’t make anything nothin! It’s just the truth.” He leaned against the side of the ship and looked out at the moonlight reflecting off the ocean. About a half hour passed. The cold air started to push through his coat and he felt a shiver crawl up his spine. He started to walk down the ship to get some life back in his legs. Cold be damned. Anything to keep him from those stuffy bunks. “Mind if I walk with you, pal?” George knew that accent anywhere. It came from the same place he had just been. New York. “Sure.” “George Hamilton, right?” George gave him another close look. He didn’t recognize him, but it was hard to tell with just the moonlight. “Yeah. What’s it to you? Do I know you?” “No, but I’m a fan of your work.” “I’m glad somebody is. You’re an army of one on that front.” “Joey Tessatore.” The man held out his hand. George shook it. “I’m more of a Dodgers fan myself. Brooklyn. But I follow all the New York squads. You’re a helluva pitcher. What are you doing out here? You should be back home with the Giants.” “They cut me on account of my hand getting fucked up. It’s a harsh business.” Joey let a long moment pass. When he spoke again, his tone became serious. “I was wondering what you’d say there. I know exactly what happened to your hand, kid. Good answer.” George instinctively moved away from the side of the ship, taking a few steps sideways. His muscles tensed and he felt his heart rate tick up. His eyes darted around the area for that elusive safety only bystanders can provide. No one else was in sight. Joey laughed. His voice returned to a light hearted tone. “No need to worry, pal. I come in peace. I’m with Lucky’s boys. Paulie Dime’s crew.” That made more sense. He looked around again and still saw no one. “Not even you fellas can avoid the draft, eh?” “We always end up right where we want to be. You know that by now. There’s no higher cause than defending your country, right?” “Looks like the war drive has even penetrated the mafia.” “Ain’t no one say nothing about no mafia.” Joey said in a low, serious tone again as he raised an eyebrow. The message was clear. “Let’s take a walk, yeah? I’ve never had the good fortune to talk with a player from the good ol’ New York Giants before.” “I’m all right. Just came up here to get some air.” George’s hand cramped a bit and he noticed he had been clenching his fists. He loosened them a bit. “Fair enough. But I ain't asking.” Joey started walking slowly. “Let’s cut the shit, shall we? You know as well as I do that if we wanted you dead, you’d be dead. I’ve got a proposition for you instead. I think we can help each other.” “Last time I heard that speech, it didn’t end too well for me. I’m sure you’ve got a good pitch, but I’ll pass.” “Humor me. It might just be the curve ball you’ve been waiting for” Joey reached into his pocket and pulled out a cigarette. He offered one to George, who refused. Joey lit his own under his coat to block the light and took a drag before continuing. “I heard the Giants said you’re done for good. That true?” “More or less. Done with them at least.” “Any other teams call?” “A few.” “You ain’t gotta lie to me, kid. You don’t owe me nothing.” George gritted his teeth. “Just the Seals from the Pacific Coast League, but I don’t plan to go back there.” “That’s a rough draw. It’s a damn shame the way things went down. Sometimes things just get out of hand.” George said nothing. “I’m damn near frozen out here so I’ll just be straight with you. We have an in with the Dodgers. Someone high up there owes us a favor. I made a few calls and we can get you a tryout. As long as that fastball of yours still looks good, the spot is as good as yours.” George perked up. “Yeah?” Almost immediately, he regretted how hopeful that made him feel. “What’s the catch?” “No catch. No strings attached. You’ve been through enough back home. We do need some help on this side of the pond, though. This ship is headed for Naples, Italy. I’ll be assigned there and we have some business for me to attend to, but I need a man in Palermo.” “What’s in Palermo?” “No need to worry about that. Just a couple of errands to run with some of our contacts on the ground there. All real easy. Off the books though. You jump when I say jump, you run when I say run, and when this war is over you’ve got a spot on the Dodgers.” “How do you know I’m headed for Palermo?” “You’re not. But just leave that to me, pal. We’ll make sure you end up there if you agree. Can’t have the next star of the Dodgers on the front lines dying on us, can we?” “And if I don’t agree?” “Well then you’ll head wherever Uncle Sam meant to send you. And I imagine it won’t have a shower, warm bed, and hookers to boot like you’ll get in Palermo.” “Forgive my bluntness here, Joey, but I don’t think they’ll just live and let die back home. They don’t look too kindly on me these days.” “You talking about the Profaci boys? I talked to them, too. You come on with me, we’ll square everything up with them. You won’t have to worry about that. Like I said, we take care of our own. “Tell you what, pal. Think it over. I gotta get inside before my balls freeze off. I’ll find you when we get to Naples. Let me know your answer then. This is a one time offer.” Joey took one final drag of the cigarette and flicked it overboard as he walked away. George’s heart pounded in his chest, and he couldn’t quite feel the cold anymore. His face felt hot. He took one final look at where Joey went to watch him go into the ship before breathing a deep sigh of relief. He took a seat on the deck and leaned his back against a steel wall. How the hell did he wind up here?

For December Conference: 1. Story Statement George Hamilton lost the only life he ever wanted. A deal with the devil gives him a chance to get it back, but first he must find a way to survive four months on the bloody beaches of Anzio in WWII. Can he overcome his past mistakes and make it out? 2. Antagonist The primary antagonistic force is the Anzio beachhead itself and the enemy German soldiers. The Germans create an imposing presence that constantly threatens George’s very existence. A constant foil between him and the thing he wants most - to get off the beachhead and back to his old life. The Germans intend to protect their comrade’s flank at all costs. If they fail their friends will die. They’ll fight tooth and nail and try to obliterate anything in their way. A specific character antagonist exists as well in Joey Tessatore. A smooth talking Italian-American officer from New York City. He is a member of a Mob family in New York, and he offers George a deal: work for the Mafia in Italy and we’ll give you your baseball career back. Joey’s goals: self-preservation and gaining power. He pursues any and every lead that can acquire money and power for the Mafia. His status depends on it. He’s smooth talking, well connected, and possesses a deep and manipulative darkness when pushed. Both forces are essential: the Germans destroy George’s old life, while Joey tries to pull him back into it, providing the necessary tension for George's transformation. 3. Breakout Titles Heaven in Hell’s Half Acre Hell’s Half Acre All’s Fair in Love and Shells 4. Comparables The Alice Network — Kate Quinn Debut novel blending wartime danger with an emotional journey that leads to transformation. Like my novel, it uses a wartime romance to break open a guarded protagonist and push them toward the change. Its commercial success demonstrates strong readership for character-driven WWII stories anchored in personal redemption. Beneath a Scarlet Sky — Mark Sullivan A WWII novel set in Italy which, like my novel, follows a flawed protagonist who finds his purpose in reluctant heroism. This mirrors George’s own journey and balances the antagonistic forces of romance and war. The popularity shows the market appeal of character-driven war narratives set in WWII Italy. 5. Logline A disgraced ballplayer seeking a Mafia-arranged escape from the Anzio beachhead is transformed by the brutal campaign he fights alongside Audie Murphy - the most decorated U.S. soldier in history - and by an unexpected romance with a battlefield nurse, forcing him to choose between running again or standing by the people who now depend on him. 6. Conflict Primary Conflict: The primary conflict and turmoil that George Hamilton faces is the constant tug of war between his desire to selfishly protect his own life and the circumstances of a brutal battle confronting him with the choice to save others. At several points in the battle we see him take two steps forward and one to two steps back. At times he saves his own hide, at others he puts his life on the line for others, sometimes instinctively. A tangible scenario where this occurs is in a chapter when George is asked to be a runner for his unit during an intense engagement. He winds up at the Division HQ and opts to sink into a corner, hoping no one will notice him. Through the radio they hear news of an entire Ranger battalion being wiped out in real time (based on a true story). He feels a pull to go help, but he does not. He opts to help his own chances of returning to baseball and stay in the HQ as long as possible. Secondary Conflict: The main secondary conflict is the interpersonal relationship George has with the love interest: Nurse Hazel “Bunny” Willis. George is terribly wounded and sent to a field hospital where Hazel cares for him. As they get to know each other, she breaks down his walls and sees him as the man he could be, not the man he is. The more she probes, the more George’s barriers break down and the deeper his desire grows to be more. This creates a tangible and deep turmoil between his want - escape to his old life - and his need - becoming a man with a cause greater than himself. One scenario where this manifests itself is after the hospital is bombed. He feels the pull to run to safety and save himself in case more bombs come. But he sees Hazel running around the hospital helping others while wounded herself. He springs into action to help her as much as he can until he eventually passes out from his own wound. 7. Setting This is, in my humble opinion, the greatest strength of Historical Fiction. The setting is the real world at a time and place where the true scope of human transformation, tragedy, and triumph intersect. In my case, this takes place at the Anzio beachhead in Italy. Winter and Spring 1944. Just south of Rome, and more importantly just north of a massive German army at Monte Cassino. If the Allies break through, Rome is captured and the German Army is destroyed. The stakes are massive. The beachhead itself is only about 15 miles long and 7-8 miles deep. The Germans occupy high ground around this territory while the Americans are stuck in flat marshes. There is limited cover, confined to sparsely populated clumps of trees, rocks, and drainage ditches. Constant rain and mud make every movement a slog. Every inch of the beachhead is in view of German artillery. It is hell on earth. Shells fall constantly. You can only move at night as any movement in the daytime will invite certain death. Misery is the only constant. Within this setting - there is a subsetting in which half the novel takes place. The Field Hospital. Most Field Hospitals are in the rear and safe so that soldiers can be cared for in peace. Not on Anzio. The Field Hospital is in constant view of the enemy. It is deliberately bombed several times and subject to occasional shelling from artillery that misses nearby naval ships or ammo depots. Nurses, doctors, and hospital staff are on the frontlines just like the infantry. The nurses nickname it “Hell’s Half Acre”

HEARTLESS Chapter 1 (Opening, first 1000 words to include sample dialogue) Harbrook University students commit to protecting their own safety and the safety of all romantic entanglements by agreeing to the following: I agree to not take any unnatural action to expedite or encourage the expulsion of mine or another’s heart. I agree to return my heart to my chest immediately following a cardiac event. I agree to report any observed heart malfeasance to the school medics, including but not limited to the following: improper heart removal, reckless heart endangerment, stealing or harboring hearts, and organ dissection, experimentation, or dismemberment. As Mac stared at the policy in her shaking hands, she knew one thing for certain: she was making a huge mistake. It felt far from pleasant to finally admit this to herself, impatiently bouncing her knee up and down in the waiting room of her college counselor’s office on her first day at Harbrook University. She was already on campus after all, past the point of no return. Within the next hour, she would have a course schedule in-hand and be helplessly swept into her mediocre life. The sickening feeling of disappointment was stirring in her gut, so she hastily scribbled her signature on the policy document and diverted her attention to the rest of the waiting room. She took a deep breath and was hit with the familiar scent of industrial floor cleaner and fresh ink from an overused copy machine. Plastered across the walls of the counseling center were inspirational posters— some of your standard offenders, such as “Hang in there!” with a kitten clutching a rope, but worse were the ones trying to be modern in their sense of humor. Directly above the receptionist’s head was a poster of an anatomical heart with the bold text: Aorta tell you how bloody proud I am of you! Mac did her best to refrain from rolling her eyes. Directly next to the “humorous” heart poster was a notice that read: CALL 888 TO REPORT ANY HEART MALFEASANCE TO THE HARBROOK CENTER OF HEART AFFAIRS IMMEDIATELY. She felt her breath catch in her throat. Without thinking, her hand wandered back to the top of her sternum to rub the scar barely peeking out from her oversized sweater, at this point just a faint white line stretching the few inches from her heart to her collarbone. The wound had healed months ago, but she still chose to wear her heather gray hoodie to hide any possible traces of it. Though the outfit was casual, she added a sweep of eyeliner and a dash of mascara to frame her large green eyes and draw attention away from her messy brown curls that she could never seem to fully untangle. Heart affairs were the last thing she wanted to think about today. Letting her heart make terrible decisions was what had gotten her here in the first place. Mac forced her attention back to the room, taking in the vinyl flooring spotted with yellowed stains. The out-dated afterthoughts of decor were exactly what she expected given Harbrook’s unsavory reputation as a struggling state school. Though her mom insisted they had a remarkable arts program, Mac refused to believe any college her mom attended could be taken seriously. She should have been grateful that her mom’s alumni status helped her get into Harbrook with only weeks before the semester started, but she only felt resigned as she clocked the other freshmen awaiting their first semester schedules. Nervous energy seemed to radiate from every student she saw, the dull thudding of the receptionist’s keyboard like a symphony to accompany their anxiety. Mac caught herself subconsciously settling into the rhythm of those around her, instinctively tapping her toes onto the cheap flooring. There was a small chuckle to her right, and Mac whipped her head around to see the girl sitting next to her watching her curiously. The girl leaned back comfortably in the blue plastic chair, an upbeat pop tune leaking through the bright purple headphones stretched across her perfectly straight, jet-black hair. She tapped her bright red boots to the beat of her music and locked eyes with Mac, flashing her a quick grin before nudging the headphones back to her neck. “You look nervous. First time?” Mac blinked. “For what?” The girl rolled her eyes. “It was a joke. Since we’re all freshmen?” “Oh, right.” Mac huffed a nervous laugh before quickly averting her gaze down to the orientation schedule resting on her lap. Meeting with the college counselor was the first task of orientation day, and unsurprisingly, Mac awoke before her alarm to beat the crowd of freshmen that would be arriving at any moment. She met uncertainty with preparation, and developed her own version of the freshman orientation schedule weeks before arriving on campus. Mac planned to arrive exactly seventeen minutes early to each event planned for the day to give herself ample time to navigate between buildings, and to get the best spot in every line. She loathed waiting in lines— it simply gave her more time alone with her own thoughts, which was especially unacceptable on a day like today. Because today, she was making the one cliche mistake that she, of all people, should have known better not to make. She was throwing away her future because of a boy, and she hated herself for it. “Mackenzie Webster? Ms. Rivas will see you now,” the receptionist called from the front of the room. Mac felt her chest scar twinge with pain, and forced an awkward smile to hide her grimace. She zipped her hoodie up an extra inch and hastily gathered her backpack. “Go get ‘em, heartbreaker,” the girl with the red boots called. “And watch out for the blood stains.” Mac jolted as she looked at the ground, imagining pools of blood creeping toward her pant legs. Instead, all she saw was the sad off-white flooring, covered in…brownish yellow stains. Too much dried blood for industrial cleaners to erase. “Thanks for the heads up.” Mac nodded to the girl and gingerly tip-toed across the room as fast as she could, darting into the counselor’s office where her future would be decided.

Act of Story Statement After a public and unusual heart incident, College freshman Mackenzie Webster must seduce a total stranger to take her heart back and build a future on her own terms. Antagonist Angela Arnett, a rude and privileged over-achiever, competes with Mac on every level possible. Though her popularity is from intimidation rather than likability, Angela still commands every room she enters with a posse of admiring social climbers at her tail. Their high school rivalry follows them into college, where Angela and Mac end up in the same section of History of Cardiac Reactivity and fight to claim a spot in the coveted Dean’s lab. When Angela joins the overly pink and suspicious sorority Kappa Phi Kappa, she tries to draw Mac in with the allure of secret practices to control one’s heart. A character who is cunning, manipulative, and the fakest sweet one could be, Angela finds a way to get under Mac’s skin and tempt her to the dark side. Titles Heartless The heartless girl at Harbrook University Comparables BLOOD MOON- Britney Lewis- 2025 A college student discovers vampires and werewolves are real and gets sucked into their world. YA college love story with speculative/fantasy elements. MAKE ME A MONSTER- Kaylnn Bayron- 2025 This dark romance follows a mortician’s daughter grappling with corpses coming to life after tragedy strikes. Logline In a world where heart metaphors take on literal meaning, heartbroken freshman Mackenzie Webster locks eyes with a stranger at college orientation and gives him her heart, throwing her life into chaos as she wrestles with opening herself up again and doing what it takes to get her heart back. Inner Conflict After Mac’s high school crush Mason rejects her at the end of their senior year, she diverts from her plan to follow him to the prestigious college down the road and instead settles for the under-funded arts school nearby. When she arrives, she is determined to avoid anything to do with romance– a goal she nearly immediately fails at when she sees Ben Myers at college orientation and her heart bursts into his unsuspecting hands. And of course, her high school crush happened to have transferred to the arts college, too, and witnesses the whole gory scene. Mac is torn between her head and her heart, questioning if she can trust the kind and humble Ben, or if she needs to close herself off to anything and everything she can’t rely on. She oscillates between adoring the new people in her life and pushing them away as she grapples with vulnerability, loneliness, and what deep connections are worth. Secondary Conflict Not only does Mac give her heart to a total stranger, but she experiences an incredibly rare heart incident called love at first sight syndrome, which results in her heart fusing to Ben’s hand. While she desperately wants to transfer back to the prestigious college down the road upon seeing Mason, she is forced to stay at the arts school until she can find a way to get her heart back. Mason approaches Mac trying to apologize for rejecting her, and slowly works his way back into her life. Meanwhile, she gets closer to Ben, who is nothing but reliable and kind. It’s a classic love triangle, but with dangerous, and bloody, consequences. This intensifies as the distance from her heart sets Mac on edge: the longer she goes without seeing her heart, the more distanced she feels from her emotions. Mac’s cold and unfeeling demeanor causes her friends to fall away as she makes increasingly dangerous attempts to reunite with her heart. Her growing desperation pushes her into the arms of a sorority that encourages her to distance herself from her heart and the feelings it incites, despite the body aches and tension that build with every passing day. Setting Though it was an arts school with a laughable reputation, the Harbrook University campus felt like being in another world. It was technically only fifty miles from where Mac grew up, but the city landscape alone was drastically different from the cookie cutter homes and neighborhood parks comprising her hometown. Nestled in the middle of the busy city, the old brick buildings of Harbrook University seemed to grow out of the landscape like they predated the massive oak trees lining every pathway on campus. Something about the place felt wild, untamed, a direct contrast to the polished constructed landscape of the city surrounding it. Mac loved the tangled vines covering her favorite buildings—the library and the dining hall, in that order— and the smell of honeysuckle that permeated the winding stone paths. There was a quad in the middle of campus, a sprawling intersection of pathways colliding in the center at the famous brick bell tower. A new Dean came to campus, demanding modern renovations that stuck out against the old brick buildings. A collision of opposites: old and new, city and campus, brick and steel, Harbrook University was full of secret basements for students to explore.

For the December Conference! 1. Story Statement a. This novel is told in alternating timelines between a sabbatical in Italy and a stressful year in New York. b. Secretly hoping to reclaim the title of main character in his own life, Harrison takes an impulsive sabbatical to a panoramic, stepped village in Lake Como under the guise of grieving his best friend he lost in New York. 2. Antagonist/Antagonistic Force a. In the earlier New York chapters, the surface level antagonist is Emily, whose selfish, narcistic tendencies – almost all relating to her upcoming wedding – not only make Harrison feel like a shadow in their friend group, but distract from the most pressing issue, that their mutual friend, Mara, is silently fighting a terminal illness. Following Mara’s death, Emily confirms Harrison’s worst fears, that his friends’ lives will continue on without him despite his achievements in a supporting role. b. Underlying the above conflict which prompts Harrison’s decision to flee to Lake Como, the real antagonistic force reveals itself to be Harrison’s mistaken belief that good things aren’t meant to come his way and he’s therefore meant to be merely a bystander in his own life (based on a series of prior wounds). It’s this belief that could prevent Harrison from realizing that his Italian odyssey, and the people in it, was the story he wanted to be a part of all along. The idea that Harrison is nothing but an observer in his own life is what leads Harrison to subconsciously exclude himself in his own storytelling (i.e., the earlier New York chapters). 3. Breakout Title a. Cushion for the Fall (current title) b. Alternatives include Post Hoc, To Those Worth Remembering 4. Comparable Titles a. Sean Greer’s Less is Lost i. Follows a queer protagonist on a road trip. ii. Explores past relationships and often envelopes complicated topics with humor. iii. Has distinct narration/POV. b. Kaveh Akbar’s Martyr! i. Explores queer identity of the protagonist following the death of a loved one. 5. Log Line a. A disillusioned New York attorney flees to Lake Como under the guise of grieving his best friend, only to be swept up by meddling locals, a charming photographer, and the realization that he’s not there to mourn, but to stop living as a spectator and reclaim the spotlight in his own life. 6. Conflict a. Inner Conflict i. Harrison has accepted as gospel the mistaken belief that he is meant to be an observer in his own life. This is the result of a series of wounds that teach him good things are not meant to come his way, at least not for good. One example of this is Harrison’s first love who easily dismisses him while Harrison is still closeted. Another example is Mara, the only friend who really understood Harrison, who passes away at a young age from a terminal cancer. In Lake Como, Harrison finally relents to telling Luca (his love interest) about the events in New York leading up to and following Emily’s wedding and Mara’s death. Only when prompted by Luca does Harrison discover Harrison himself is not found in any of his stories. What was first a deep-harbored fear was now boiled over, showing Luca that Harrison is not even a secondary character in his own life. b. Secondary Conflict i. In Lake Como, following the opposite of a meet-cute while eating shit at his local grocer, Harrison meets SOFIA, his middle-aged landlady, who lives in the apartment below him with her debatably communist mother, known only as MAMMA. Sofia, by brute force, and Mamma, by sage Italian wisdom and radioactive limoncello, seem keen on providing Harrison with guidance he never asked for, which inevitably leads to conflict. Harrison wants to mope in peace while the ladies (Mamma, especially) make it their duty to feed and care for Harrison like a wounded baby bird. Additionally, Harrison is irked by Sofia’s prying, as she is constantly asking about what happened in New York and Harrison’s past that is making him act this way. Harrison finds an unsuspecting ally in Sofia, who’s equally unlucky in love and too blinded by her duty to care for Mamma to live her own life. Harrison helps Sofia evade a greased up real estate tycoon who wants to buy Mamma’s house to add to his collection. Mamma, sensing Harrison’s impending exit, admits over limoncello she is selling the house after witnessing Harrison’s odyssey. It is a rare and selfless act of motherly love to stop Sofia from using caretaking as a crutch and seize what life exists beyond their idyllic shores. 7. Setting a. Primary Setting (Bellagio, Lake Como) i. Harrison rents an upstairs floor apartment in the mazed tourist town of Bellagio on the idyllic shores of Lake Como. The apartment is barren, which Harrison understands was because Sofia moved herself out for the extra income, and moved to the downstairs unit where she lives with Mamma. Sofia and Mamma’s home is what Harrison doesn’t have – nostalgic recipes, family photographs and a connection to loved ones. The upstairs/downstairs dichotomy becomes important as the novel progresses. Eventually, Harrison moves a couch into the apartment (more below). The town of Bellagio itself is what you’d expect from a storied, tourist town in Italy. Harrison prefers the mazed streets, old dock workers, and cobblestones. While he could have chosen other quieter towns, deep down he chose Bellagio hoping he could jumpstart his own Odyssey with a handsome stranger. b. Secondary Setting (New York/New Jersey) i. In the earlier New York chapters, setting revolves around Harrison’s friends – not Harrison. Therefore, when friends are buying houses and getting married, the settings reflect that; wedding venues, open houses, stuffy bridal showers, etc. There’s a sense of luxury and sterility. In all of this, Harrison’s own house/apartment is never revealed, which is a personal choice that reflects his own feelings of displacement. c. Couches i. Throughout the novel, couches play a role in setting as a motif in both New York and Italy timelines. The couches reveal themselves to be places where Harrison confronts truth and finds his most authentic self, even in the face of real fears (i.e. “Cushion for the Fall”). One example of this is Mara’s couch. Harrison and Mara have one final conversation on her couch while Mara is in hospice and Mara makes Harrison promise that he won’t disappear from his own life. Another example is Mamma/Sofia’s couch, which Harrison drags upstairs to use for himself. Eventually, Harrison and Luca sleep together on that couch and Harrison shares with Luca his past in New York.

For the December Conference this week! 1. Story Statement Achieve her dream of becoming a successful musician, despite a social media campaign threatening to destroy it, and her. 2. Antagonist Social media itself becomes a character here, with comments and trolls threaded throughout the story, influencing Elodie’s emotions and reactions. Through social media, the antagonist, Raida, is given a platform and support. Once a friend of Elodie’s sister, Raida uses social media to attack and discredit Elodie throughout the novel, finding the mob flock to her with a desire to ‘cancel’ someone. Raida is bitter, privileged, and feels slighted by Elodie because of her closeness with Elodie’s brushed-aside sister. She believes herself to be a vigilante of sorts, and understands enough of the digital world to know that her words can snowball. Social media itself is quick to judge and quicker to forget, and Raida uses this continuously to remind users of Elodie’s wrongdoings. Her ultimate goal is to keep the influence she garners online, while also avenging Elodie’s sister (but really, to avenge herself). 3. Breakout Title The Thing I Can’t Talk About (current working title) Elodie Tennison Is Cancelled 4. Comp Titles This is a women’s fiction contemporary novel. For those who love an authentic London facilitating connection like in The People on Platform 5 by Clare Pooley, the high stakes human drama of Taylor Jenkins Reid, and the painfully deep-cutting and relatable lyricism of Noah Kahan’s album Stick Season. This story is for fans of complicated family dynamics, a modern era of technology, and of course, music. 5. Hook Line A young girl chases her dream of becoming a successful musician without letting social media, which discovers then promotes her greatest shame and secret, destroy it and possibly her. 6. Other Matters of Conflict The story is dual POV, from the perspective of the mother (Catherine) and the daughter (Elodie). Each character has their own inner conflicts they struggle with, while the primary conflict remains on Elodie’s rise to fame and battle with intense social media campaigns. INNER CONFLICTS: Catherine: A middle-aged mother trapped in a soul-crushing job who craves the freedom to chase the dreams she never did when she was young. She watches her children, in particular Elodie, succeed, and feels more and more dejected at her own life. In a rash moment, she quits her job, sending the family into financial distress and further troubles when she discovers she has aged herself out. She becomes guilt-ridden and even more wistful, finding comfort in helping her daughter pursue her dreams by becoming her official manager. Catherine is not a desperate character, but feels a type of desperation that resides deep in regret. Her parents died just as she was on the cusp of adulthood, and left her with hundreds of questions she'll never have answered. She believes she has failed her family, thrown away the stable life they’d grown together, but also feels as though she has always failed herself, even before she quit. Elodie: A 16 year old girl who is incredibly gifted at singing and song-writing. She also suffers from the constant need to pull out her own hairs, causing her to have no eyelashes, patches of missing hair, and scars along her legs and face. She isn’t aware this is OCD, nor that it’s a form of self-harm. Over the years, she has learned to cover up the evidence of her picking, and hide her compulsion well. But once she starts posting to boost her music career, social media notices her habits and diagnoses her with trichotillomania. Turning into the poster-child for thousands of people with the disorder, Elodie feels a mounting pressure and need to ‘fix herself’, all while trying to maintain a budding music career. Elodie crescendos in anxiety throughout the novel, becoming short and arrogant in an attempt to preserve herself. She doesn’t want to fail the hundreds of people looking to her for guidance, or her mother - who becomes entangled with Elodie’s career as her manager -, and knows that she has been given a position of privilege most only dream about. But she feels an overwhelming weight promising to crush her, and begins to wonder if she even liked music and performing in the first place, or if she was simply drawn to the success. SECONDARY CONFLICT: Catherine quitting her job becomes the catalyst for rising tension in the Tennison family, for various reasons. They now have financial struggles that the kids can’t help but notice. Also, without work, Catherine turns her focus solely to her children, primarily Elodie, creating almost a monopoly within the household. Their lives become absorbed into Elodie’s career, and none of them notice when Elodie’s sister, Ashley, begins struggling. Nor do they notice when Elodie herself can’t cope anymore – the success she gains eclipses it all. 7. Setting The story takes place primary in London, UK, with short moments in the Cotswolds (country-side). Not only is London essential to the story with the protagonist being a rising star in grassroots music – wherein London is one of the most popular cities in the world for this -, but it also reflects the narrative. I wanted a concrete jungle, something that represents the speed of a rising star, as well as the rigidity of repressed British culture that permeates the whole novel. As Elodie becomes more successful, she finds herself deeper in stadiums and concerts venues, in concrete greenrooms and hallways that reflect the world closing in on her. London is fast and gritty and loud and exciting and wet and everything wonderful and everything overwhelming. The moments of levity are in the Cotswolds, where the Tennison family spend time with their cousins. The first time we visit, there’s lightness in the air and an ease with the characters. By the second time, we’re nearing the climax, and the characters now reflect the harshness of the city. Tension and buried anger seep into even the quaint country-side. The city can be effectively suffocating, while sprawling fields represent a kind of freedom they can only escape to.

12/8 This post contains my revised/edited version of Chapter One. The first draft is located in an older post: The edits were made to adhere to a stronger POV with only a soft literary omniscient voice. JUST GLORIOUS is a YA, historical coming-of-age novel with significant adult crossover and strong cinematic promise. Though it functions as a complete standalone, it is envisioned as the first book in a potential multi-novel series tracing Glorious Gardner’s journey from ordinary to extraordinary. Hook: Glorious Gardner has carried her name like a burden, too bright and too hopeful for a girl raised in a prairie town where secrets fester, gossip is gospel, and her family’s shrouded past sits on the tip of everyone’s tongue. When a school essay forces her to confront the rumors surrounding her brother Frankie’s death and her family’s troubled past, she begins to unearth the truth the adults in her life have long kept buried. With her journal as witness and her words as courage, Glorious writes the essay that propels her into the national spotlight. But fame only sharpens the questions she’s tried to outrun: Who is her family, really? Who is she? And can an ordinary girl grow into a name that promises something far more than ordinary, something glorious? (revised) Chapter One: Once Upon a Prairie Gloria often wondered if anyone would bother telling the story of an ordinary girl, like her, growing up in a small, stagnant town, surrounded by practical, plain-as-prairie people. But every once in a while, she would let her heart wander like the westerly winds that whipped through Chippewa Creek, blowing away the dust of time, exposing the most ordinary of lives as something extraordinarily unusual, something kind of glorious. Agnes liked to say that some people come into your life as a blessing, some as a lesson. Gloria wasn’t entirely sure what her role was in anyone’s story, including her own. But wisdom found her willing, even in her youthful folly. It was observational wisdom, the kind she gathered by paying close attention to what people did or didn’t do. She listened to their words, turned her ear towards the tone of their voices, and let those everyday interactions shape her conclusions. Faithfully, she made a record of them in one of the many notebooks of reflections and verdicts born from her own partialities. She had spent her entire life in a small town. The rolling, unending prairie littered with tangled, parched coulee riverbeds and the rowdy waters of Chippewa Creek was her native habitat. At just shy of fifteen, her innocence, slightly marred, had already taught her the unwritten rules of small-town living. She had plenty of practice navigating the swell of stormy secrets and tumbleweed tales that strung across the prairie. Gloria figured that most city folk couldn’t understand small-town living. When she visited Cities like Ponderosa Springs, she felt overwhelmed by the city dwellers, as Papa called them. The city rumbled with energy, automobiles dodging, people dashing about with fast walkers, and even faster talkers. But small towns like hers lumbered along, like the slow roll of the Missouri River. Every day in Chippewa Creek was, well, every day same. The town folk were predictable, hard-working, dependable, normal, church-goin’ sinners. About town, there were functional families, broken families, and secrets well kept. In Gloria’s corner of it all, chaos, confusion, and heartache flooded her soul more often than she liked. She couldn’t yet grasp how deeply those moments were settling under her skin, but she felt them starting to guide her sensibilities, sharpen her clever eye, and spit-shine her gritty soul—for the most part Chippewa Creek was an old prairie schooner town. Gloria loved her town, and she knew all the stories: A long time ago, the town just sort of happened. After a long line of covered wagons, on their way to the Pacific Northwest, by accident… and a little luck, found their way off the well-worn trail, made camp, and stayed for a while. The small town built its way up from campfires and baked beans into a rowdy western trading post, finally settling down as a peaceful prairie town. By 1956, it claimed 1,514 official residents. Gloria once overheard Grandma Gardner say something about small towns and small minds, but she thought Grandma was too harsh about the place she called home. “Ipné·kes, my little bird, It’s not for me, that place is a field gone wild. Perhaps you can find a few sunflowers, but it’s mostly tangled with tumbleweeds and tares.” Grandma would insist. Depending on the day, Gloria would agree with her critique. Sometimes she only saw the beauty that flourished in her small world; other times she rambled around like a tumbleweed, on her worst days, the tares tangled around her like bindweed. Gloria especially loved Chippewa Creek near the end of summer. Some of her best memories were helping Papa, Frankie, and Grandma during harvest. Her favorite moments were found rumbling along the patchwork prairie with Papa, cutting rows of grain in Grandpa’s old International Harvester. They would move the golden cargo from fence post to fence post, finally dumping the tiny threshing of wheat and barley at Papa’s Co-Op. “I’m the landlord of the county’s tallest prairie skyscraper!” Papa would tease. But like all good things Gloria had come to know, the crisp autumn air was only a brief reprieve, right before winter’s thick chill would arrive and sock everyone in. It slowed her down, it slowed everyone and everything down, except for the constant neighborly chit-chat, and pot stirring by some of Chippewa Creek’s finest provocateurs. But just like grandma, she knew talk was cheap, but eyebrow-raising gossip was a highly traded commodity. “Alright, class, your assignment for winter break is to research your family tree. Before you leave today, take a hand-drawn family tree. I made a carbon copy for each of you. You will notice that there are lines for both your mother’s side, or maternal relatives, and your father’s side, or paternal relatives. You can go back three generations on the tree. Take special note of old photographs, baptismal records, or family letters. This assignment will be tied to an exciting opportunity for you, so please do your best. Some of you may find you have family crests or tartans. You may even find out that you are royalty, imagine that!” Gloria raised her hand. “Yes, Gloria?” “Mrs. Handswell, how will I know if I am related to royalty?” Mrs. Handswell’s eyebrows marched up, smacking her forehead. “Gloria, you have no worry of that. I am certain your family tree was never planted in that rich of soil!” A hand darted up from the back. “Yes, Henry?” “What if we have weird relatives, or crooks or thieves in our family, or plain boring people?” A squawky voice cut across the room, “You should ask Gloria; she got ‘em all!” Mikey taunted, then darted his eyes around, looking for an accomplice. “Mikey, keep your opinions to yourself, even if they have validity. Please include only proper memories of your family. No need to dig up old bones.” She quickly pointed a stern finger at Mikey. Gloria didn’t truly expect royal blood; she just wanted to discuss the possibility of something exciting, something encouraging. She knew a roundabout insult when she heard one. Mrs. Handswell always had a way of turning lessons into little jabs, especially when Gloria was involved. She was often the target of her teacher’s discourteous nature. She pulled out her small leather journal from her desk and wrote down Mrs. Handswell’s insult, word for word, right under a quote from Benjamin Franklin she had read in Harper’s Bazaar. “Either write something worth reading, or do something worth writing.” She doodled Mike Olsen’s face with crossed eyes and a dunce hat. Her little leather journal was pushing volume 4 now. Each one was crammed with things she noticed or read, and little sayings that struck her sensibilities. “Remember to complete your assignments; they will be due two weeks after we reassemble back at school. Don’t forget your books, hats, jackets, and overshoes. DO NOT leave any food; we don’t need a science experiment to come back to. Thank you for all the gifts, have a great Christmas. ” The 3 O’clock sun slumbered on top of High Timber Butte, waiting for the frosty December day to end. Winter break was officially on. Chippewa Creek was buzzing with holiday energy. The school playground was littered with red-cheeked youths, mittens, and flying snowballs. The high school kids were gathered around the parking lot, exchanging gossip and holiday plans. Gloria thought about going home, but the truth was she didn’t want warmth or chores any more than it seemed the rest of them did. She left whatever cleverness and competence she had between the rows of lockers and the cold brick hallways. Right now, she wanted to linger a little while longer and not think too hard about anything at all. Gloria loitered around the swings, spotting her older sister Peggy gathered with a few girlfriends. The stylish set milled about, batting their eyes and teasing the senior boys with their aloofness. She avoided her sister’s domain, knowing she would only be ignored. It was hard being a 14-year-old underclassman; it had been hard since 13. Adults did not see them as notable; the upperclassmen acted annoyed with them, or anyone, for that matter, and at 14, she felt much too mature to hang out with childish 11 and 12-year-olds. Gloria moved in and out through clusters of unmannerly kids. “Hey Gloria, guess what I heard?” Mikey Olsen popped her in the back with a snowball. “Knock it off, you big ape!” She snapped, feeling the sting through her oversized jacket. “I heard they found an old man’s scalp out at your grandma’s place. They are planning to arrest her for murder! You can write about that in your assignment!” Gloria’s eyes struggled to set sight on Mikey. Her face contorted in anger, mashing her eyelids into the tops of her cheeks. “You leave my grandma alone, you big dumb ape! Leave my family alone!” “What ya gonna do, get Frankie to come beat me up? Oh yeah, almost forgot, he can’t!” Mikey tilted his head back, his limp tongue slid out the side of his lips, and his eyes rolled slowly into their sockets. Gloria’s face unfolded. Her schoolbooks slapped the ground, sliding away on the hard-packed snow. Her arms started swinging. A right hook met up with his slimy, red, bulbous nose, followed immediately by a left hook to his chin. One-two, and down he went, his eyes still firmly rolled back in his head. A sticky red river trickled from his nose, down his chin, staining the white snow. “She killed him! Gloria killed him!” A redheaded third grader cried while a girl in a green checkered coat ran towards the school entrance. A few kids cheered; everyone else hovered over him and waited, staring at the crimson snow. “GET UP! GET UP!” Gloria stood over him, partly ordering him back to life and partly ordering him back to the battle. His eyes fluttered. He wiped his chin, grazing his nose. “You broke my nose! A girl broke my nose!” He blubbered. The girl in the green coat ran up with Mr. Stanford, while Mrs. Handswell scooted on the slick snow, close behind. “See, child, there is no one dead here, just some unfortunate fella with a bloody nose.” Mr. Stanford reassured the onlookers. “Explain yourself, Miss Gardner!” Mrs. Handswell demanded as she yanked her shoulders. “She broke my nose!” Mikey wailed. Mr. Stanford investigated. “Your nose is not broken, son, only your pride. Now let’s get you in the bathroom and clean up your face.” “Not until I get to the bottom of this and Gloria apologizes to him!” Mrs. Hansdwell barked. “I will never, ever apologize to him! He is the worst ever. He made fun of Frankie being dead and said my grandma murdered someone.” Gloria’s eyes filled with salty tears. A chorus of knitted heads started bobbing up and down in unison. “He did, I heard it!” one small voice came from the back. Miss Handswell released her and jabbed her finger at Mikey. “What did I tell you? Use a little discretion. Not everything you think needs to be said out loud! Gloria, if you don’t apologize, I will call your parents to the school now!” A tall, slender body in a lavender coat pushed through the small children. She stuck her hand out towards Gloria. “Come on, Gloria, we are going home, you don’t need to apologize. I overheard the whole thing. She might be my sister, but it’s obvious she was defending herself. As for you, Mikey Big-Nose Olsen, maybe it’s true that not everything you think needs to be said because maybe everything you think is wrong and full of stinkin’ lies.” She glanced back at Mrs. Handswell. “I’m telling my parents what he said and what you did not say! I know what you are really saying about my family. You and Mikey’s mom are two peas in a pod. My dad is right; you both are members of the Chippewa Creek Ladies’ Auxiliary of Malfunctioned Mouths!” Peggy’s nostrils flared as she tightly gripped Gloria’s hand during her tirade. “Pick up your books, Gloria, let’s go!” Sara Peters and a few others had already started gathering her books. Mrs. Handswell snarled and fussed, yanking Mikey to his feet. The crowd stood frozen. Some kids stared wide-eyed; others hid their laughter behind their mittens. “Wow, what a punch, she knocked his lights out,” a young boy let slip. “Yeah, but her sister gave the teacher a what-for! And look at Mikey, he looks like a deranged Rudolph the Red-Nosed-Reindeer!” The red-headed third grader added, delighted. Peggy yanked Gloria down past the other gawkers. Sara Peters draped her arm around Gloria’s shoulder, then turned back just long enough to stick her tongue out at Mikey. The three of them, knotted together, marched towards the street, safely out of sight. Peggy stopped short, her smile loving but her forehead firmly compressed. “You will not tell Mama and Papa what happened. They do not need to be upset because of these dumb motor mouths.” She pulled together Gloria’s jacket and zipped it up past her chin. “I’ll take your books home, stay away from the school, stay with Sara. Remember, don’t give them any reason to say anything else about you…about us!” “Thanks, Peggy, thanks for being so nice.” Gloria’s limp red lips tightened as the saline trickled down from her eyes. “Of course, Gloria, that’s what big sisters are for!” Gloria snuggled into her coat. It was red and black buffalo plaid. The wool had been sufficiently worn to a warm, fuzzy layer. It was a few sizes too big, but that only lent to more coziness. The coat had belonged to Frankie; she could still smell the lingering scent of horses, hay, and his aftershave. She really missed Frankie. “I can’t believe Peggy said that to Mrs. Handswell! I want to be brave like that. Wow, it was amazing seeing Mikey’s nose bleed. You’re lucky to have a sister, Gloria.” Gloria eked out a smile. “Sara, if Frankie were here, he would have pummeled Mikey into the ground!” Her feistiness quickly melted away, realizing that if Frankie were here, she would never have needed to punch his lights out. Sara bumped her hip, hoping to knock the smile back onto Gloria’s face. “Hey, Grandma Lettie is coming by train for Christmas this year. Seth and I are picking her up on Friday at Ponderosa Springs Depot. Do you want to ride along? Remember how she took us to Harvey’s diner for cheeseburgers and milkshakes the last time she came to town?” Grandma Lettie was one of Gloria’s favorite people. Sara’s family was kind, funny, and normal; Grandma Lettie was all of those things, except normal. She lived to be memorable, to make sunshine out of rain and lemons into lemon pie! “Oh sure, you betchya! I can’t wait to see her. I wonder what she will bring you for Christmas? Maybe a new dress from the Paris Toggery or new records for the record player she sent on your birthday?” Gloria had no emotional attachment to Christmas or any celebrations. She was never jealous of what others had. Her friend Agnes once said that it took measurable character to find joy in the mundane, and she understood firsthand that happiness was fleeting, so she took care to be happy for the good fortune of others. “Well, I didn’t really ask for anything.” Sarah fretted while she blew on her cold, mitten-less hands. “I bet she will bring you something too. She thinks you are charming, and she knows all about charm; she was a debutante and went to finishing school!” Gloria shook her head. “Finishing school, what did she have to finish?” “Finishing school is like charm school, where you learn to be interesting, polite, and act like a lady. She learned to be charming and fancy, I guess.” Sara paused. “I wonder if she has royalty in her family tree, and if she does, I could be royalty!” “And I could be best friends with a princess. Princess of the Prairie Sara Peters.” Gloria patted Sarah on the back. “See ya Friday, Prairie Princess!” Mama was sitting in her sewing chair near the big picture window. Papa’s work shirts lay rumpled across her lap. Mama sat still and quiet, attempting to thread a needle. Peggy was at the kitchen table peeling potatoes for dinner. She raised the knife to her lips and exhaled a very soft shhh, reminding Gloria of her stern warning earlier. “I know.” Gloria mouthed. “Dinner is almost ready; someone needs to set the table.” Peggy urged. Gloria pulled out 3 dishes from the cabinet, placing them around Peggy’s potato mess. “Mama, I’m going to Ponderosa Springs on Friday to pick up Grandma Lettie at the depot.” “She’s not your grandma. You don’t have a grandma.” Mama’s words labored in a dull tone. “Grandma Gardner is my grandma. I have at least one grandma who is still alive!” Gloria was already growing tired of this conversation. Mama’s mood was up and down, but to Gloria her responses were always predictable, cold, and hard-laced. “Grandma Gardner is a bitter old woman. She is hardly grandmotherly. My mama never had the chance to be a grandma.” She spoke hauntingly. “I know Grandma Gardner is that way, but she still is my grandma. Papa says she is just tired, tired from raising 10 kids. It’s not that she doesn’t love us; she is worn out after Grandpa died and left her to handle the farm. Papa said that it was all she could take; being an outsider, having 10 kids, and then being left all alone. Anyway, she always bakes my favorite strawberry and rhubarb pie when I go out there with Papa, so that is her way of loving me!” Gloria sat on the floor and grabbed the needle and thread from Mama, slipped the thread into the needle’s eye, sorted through the shirts on the floor, choosing his yellow snap shirt to mend. Mama leaned back in her chair, folded her arms, and looked down at Gloria, her eyes harshly hovering over her. “You defend that woman to no end. What has she ever done for you, for us? You ought to realize that she does not bake those pies for you. That pie is your father’s favorite, and the only reason he gets it is because he spends so much time out there doing her duties, taking care of her farm. We could have had a farm of our own, but he spends too much time relieving her of her responsibilities. The rest of her brood all moved off, took care of their own, not your father; he split his loyalties long ago. Anyway, she never wanted him to marry me. She thought he was too good for me! Ha! Imagine that. A half-breed farm boy with an Indian mother, too good for me!” Gloria winced back, losing her balance. “Mama, Papa said we are to never say those words! He said it’s cruel and uncouth to say such things!” Mama whipped the shirt out of Gloria’s hands; the needle pierced into Gloria’s palm. “Mama, I’m trying to help you. Why are you so angry?” She bleated. “How come you don’t have anything nice to say about my mother? Why are you so defensive of your father’s family and never talk about mine?” Gloria noticed a tear forming in Mama’s eye. Softly, she put her hand on Mama’s knee. “Mama, you never talk about Grandma Riona Cara. I don’t know anything about her. Every time her name comes up, you get upset and cry. I don’t want to hurt your feelings. I would love to learn more about her. I bet she would make me my favorite pie if she were still alive.” Gloria stood to hug her, meeting Mama’s harsh shoulder. “I have to do a family tree assignment over Christmas break. Maybe you can tell me more about her. Do you have any pictures or paperwork?” “I have nothing. I don’t even have that many memories of her. After you were born and all the trouble that came, well, my memories have grown fainter. I don’t even know if she is dead; your Grandma Riona Cara is gone somewhere, up and gone for good.” Gloria didn’t know who needed comforting more, her or her mama. This was a new version of the story. The first time she heard Mama suggest that Grandma Riona Cara might still be alive. She quickly changed the subject. “Can I have dinner at the Creekside Cafe tonight with Agnes and Mr. Benton? Agnes wants me to come along, so that her meeting with Mr. Benton does not look like they are courting and carrying on.” “Will she pay you to go to dinner with her? I think she should, it’s just the same as you taking care of all her issues after school!” Gloria was already on her way to being perturbed by the last few minutes of conversation with Mama. She didn’t want an argument; she just really wanted to leave the house, even if it was to have dinner with Agnes and Mr. Benton. “I don’t know, Mama, maybe. It really isn’t the same, having dinner and helping Agnes in her wheelchair, washing her laundry, and cleaning her house. I don’t want to ask for money just to sit and eat and be their chaperone!” “Chaperon, how ridiculous!” Mama grunted. Gloria also couldn’t imagine that anyone would think Agnes and Ol’ Mr. Benton were carrying on. It was obvious to her that they were just two old lonely people passing the time together. Whatever gossip was whispered, she knew there was nothing lewd or sordid happening, in the least. “I just want to help her. I like all their stories, and Mr. Benton can sing. He always sings Mona Lisa to me. He was in a Barber-Shop quartet when he was young.” Gloria had a heart to help and a warm ear to listen to their stories, but more than that, she just wanted time away from home; away felt better than all the fussing and carrying on she often experienced. The western sun was clinging to the horizon as Papa drove up the drive. He had come from helping Mrs. Carter install a new wood-burning stove in her house. Papa took on all sorts of odd jobs during the winter, when the grain elevator was in hibernation. He was handy with a hammer and nails and could fix just about any engine around. Frankie said he was a jack of all trades. Gloria once heard Agnes refer to him as a Renaissance man. She liked that version better; it gave him stature in her eyes. Gloria headed to the back porch, sat down on the rough wooden steps, and pulled out her little leather notebook. She reread the line she copied from Mrs. Handswell. She knew it was true; they weren’t rich or normal. She probably didn’t have a single rich relative, dead or alive. And now, after Mama’s casual confession about Grandma Riona Cara, she doubted all that she knew to be true of her own family. She hunched over to lace up her over-boots. Papa walked in the back door, kicking the snow off his feet. “Where you headed off to, Glorious?” Papa always called her by her given name. When he spoke her name, his usual cadence would lilt slightly as his eyebrows reached for his hairline. “Having dinner with Agnes and Mr. Benton down at the cafe. Papa, when I get back, can you help me find old photographs of Grandma and Grandpa Gardner? I need anything that tells me who they are and who we are all related to?” “I’ll have to think about that. Not sure what I have. What’s this sudden interest in your genealogy?” Papa asked skeptically. “Mrs. Handswell assigned us to research our family tree. We have to fill out this paper tree and turn in any documents, photos, or proof of royalty to her. I already asked Mama. She got upset and said Grandma Riona Cara may not even be dead!” Peggy peeked through the back door, presenting a plate of brownies she had made in Home Economics class. Papa surveyed the bounty and snatched the biggest brownie. “Mm…mm, these smell mighty good, Peggy. You will make a man fat and happy someday!” “Who’s not dead? I didn’t even know someone died!” Peggy’s eyes darted back and forth between Gloria and Papa, while genially helping herself to a brownie. “No one died; I’m just talking about Grandma Riona Cara. Mama said she may not be dead, I don’t know why she would say that!” “Oh, Gloria, you are so gullible. Mama was pulling your leg. Of course, she is dead. I think I went to her funeral when I was little!” Peggy nibbled her brownie. “Not so, pretty Peg. Your grandma died when your mom was a young girl, like 5 or 6. As for you, little miss Glorious, I will see what I can scratch up, but I’m pretty sure no one in this small town has any royal claims. Heck, I’m not even sure our family trees forks!” Papa hooted. Gloria eyeballed Peggy, confused as to why Papa found humor in talk about death, family trees, or forks.

Ethan Voss’s ears rang with the pause and the silence of the room, and the two men sat on worn wooden chairs opposite one another. The chairs were old and the creaks and moans from the weathered grain echoed in bold disturbance to the silence, but the pause retained its dominance over the moment, as if the pause itself was the sound. The room was old, and the aged aroma sat in the still of it. The two men did not know each other’s names—only referring to each other as “sir,” or “brother,” or by nothing at all. They did not know each other’s stories, though, the knowing of another’s story was a claim made boldly, as no story has ever been told in its entirety by either. The world in which the two men lived was one both of veracity and shadow, and the veracity was dishonest—a carefully orchestrated theatrical, performed and presented only to mask, and under the mask the shadow crept and grew, and the growth was unnoticed, except to the few who lived in it. The man across from him probed and searched for an alternative which did not reveal itself, and the floor and the walls of the room offered no reason or meaning, and the hopelessness of the tomb in which he was now trapped fanned across his face. The bright blue eyes shone through wide lids and the pupils were wide with the lids in the dimly lit room. His hand attempted to comfort the back of his neck with a gentle rub, and the hand occasionally stroked the well-groomed light brown stubble on his defined chin. His thin legs were long and his torso was thin and he shifted in the chair, which echoed in voluminous creak, bouncing waves of high-pitched tone against the boundary around them. The endeavor for bravery displayed vividly on the handsome face, even if feigned. He controlled his breath, and the panic in his chest slowed. “Is there another way?” Asked the blue-eyed man. “No, sir.” Ethan said. “This is the way.” He nodded, biting his lower lip. The eyes of the two met in stilled gaze, held longer than comfort would normally allow—yet it wasn’t uncomfortable, as much could be said under such silence and an honest stare. Ethan remained still but not hardened, and he could see that the blue-eyed man understood the grand design of the ambitious finale, and his role in it was defined, and the definition was clear. The sacrifice was certain, but the legacy of it was that of a bold signature added to a history that would remember, like a vital brushstroke in a masterpiece only the two of them could ever claim to understand. The old room was undecorated. On the far wall of the room, a foam mattress rested on the ground with a single blanket folded neatly at the bottom of the bed and an old green t-shirt was being used as a pillowcase. There was a cutout where a stove should have been in the kitchen area. Instead, a small hot-plate was plugged into the outlet at the end of the counter, sitting under a single pot. Doorless cupboards revealed what seemed to be an endless supply of soup cans and a loaf of bread which appeared to be the sole items supplying the blue-eyed man’s caloric intake. On the table at which the two men sat, there was a single plastic plate, a set of plastic utensils, and an empty ceramic mug, fashioning a logo of a green Labrador-looking canine on the front. It was nighttime in the city, providing ambient white noise to break the tension. The window shades flowed lightly in a modest wind that wafted in an array of aromas organic to New York City. “It's odd,” said the blue-eyed man, breaking the silence as he drew a cigarette from behind his ear, lighting it with a metallic lighter he retrieved from the breast pocket of his weathered flannel. “We know what’s possible. We see it across the news and the tabloids. We see the ease with which it succeeds. We know others have answered the Call. Maybe it is our brains protecting us or our need for hope, acting as a feeble shield against an uncertain future, but we never expect the Call to come to us. We expect to grow old, to live, to love, to be loved.” He paused again and calmed himself in the way one might in anticipation of jumping into cold water, as if breathing away hope in labored breath that was slow and deep. Ethan studied the face, and the face trembled, and then it calmed and tensed once more, and the lips frowned and relaxed in an endless battle between the ears of the man before him. He faced doom, but it was not a doom that was forced upon him, like an execution or the brief seconds before mortal collision. Nor was it doom one walks toward, as a life taken by the self, for those who seek that end already bare the weight of doom and seek relief. This was a different doom—one approached to end a life that needs not end, where the beauty and joy behind is realized and beheld and enjoyed, yet the end still becomes the choice. He would not walk toward his end for the self; he would not walk toward it to escape from the weight of despair. He would walk toward the end for a thing—an abstract thing one could only hope to actually understand. Those in the Call believed in the thing with the whole of heart, but a heart can easily grow smaller in the shadow of certain doom. To walk into that shadow willingly, Ethan thought, what does a man ponder? “I’ll do it, of course.” Said the blue-eyed man, still looking down. “I’ll do it because it needs done, but I don’t want to do it. You look around and it’s clear I don’t cling desperately to life or the finer things in it—but life is a fine thing.” “I know.” “Do you?” “I do. Life is a fine thing.” “Would you want to do it?” “No, I don’t, but I will—just as you have said you will do it.” Ethan watched as the blue-eyed man’s neck began to slowly slump, and the shoulders rolled forward with the neck, and the curve of the man’s spine became pronounced in poor posture as he sat on the hard wood of the chair. Ethan did not know him, but, in this, they were the same. He wanted the blue-eyed man to feel heard but had already stayed longer than was safe to do so. After the brief moment, he reached into his backpack to fetch a box of black latex gloves, donning a pair of them carefully—as to not let his skin touch the exterior of the gloves. He bent down and removed one shoe, taking from it the insole which covered a small compartment in the heel that housed a thumb drive stored in a sealed plastic bag. “On this drive, you will find everything you need to be successful.” Ethan said while opening the bag and dumping its contents onto the table in front of the blue-eyed man. “We have been watching him for months and he follows the same pattern every day.” The blue-eyed man put the thumb drive into his laptop and began reviewing the photos collated into the single document folder on the drive, skipping through them as the other man spoke. “Wake up: 0530. Third story of the townhouse, 3rd window from the left as you see it from the main street. Bathroom 0535, then downstairs to the fifteenth floor kitchen—out of sight from the main avenue but visible from around the street around the corner above the two shorter buildings behind. Leaves the building at 0600, almost to the second, through the parking garage tucked under the building that empties onto the avenue. Arrives at the gym between 0610 and 0612 depending on traffic and how many lights he hits. Works out and then always visits the steam room at exactly 0700. 20 minutes in the steam room, showers, leaves the gym by 0730, give or take a few minutes. Arrives at the gate at work by 0745 and disappears until random evening times. It has been unpredictable thus far. After work, he goes to the bar 3 blocks from work, pretends he’s not married and gathers talent for his non-existent work trips he tells his wife he attends. After the bar, he drives drunk back to his building. Rinse and repeat.” The blue-eyed man nodded again, playing through the options presented to him in the details, distracting himself—retreating into a thing and forgetting that he existed outside of it. “He employs a security detail but there are some parts of day where he’s vulnerable. You’ll see in the photos and videos. You have several windows here, pick your favorite, but make sure it’s noticed. You also need to have this thumb drive with you, on your person, along with some sort of identification. They must think that you are merely a radical citizen and nothing more. We’ve ensured that everything they find about you will support that narrative when they look into your background after. Understand?” “Understood,” said the man. “Good.” Ethan said, pausing. “Good luck.” He removed the latex gloves and placed the wide nylon strap of the bag over his shoulder, then turned to leave—as more detail need not be aired. “Can I know your name?” asked the blue-eyed man as Ethan reached the door. “No. And I cannot know yours.” “You’re the last friendly face I’ll ever see. I’d like to know who’s face it is.” “We don’t work this way. You know this.” “It’s strange that the last vision I will have will be of hatred,” said the man. “I know why I’m doing this, I do. I believe in it. This place will never look inward unless it is forced to. But I will never see that happen. I will see hatred. I would love to know your name, sir, so that I may remember it until there is nothing to remember. Can you do that for me?” Ethan stopped with his hand on the door. He was human after all. He wanted to have an honest, human moment. He wanted to let this scared man find some comfort in his kin whom he did not know. He wanted to show this man trust, but he couldn’t. He knew he couldn’t. The more one knew about the other, the more one could recount the details if things went poorly, and the minor details are minor if alone, but they add like cinderblocks to a wall, and the many blocks begin to show shape and form of the structure, and structures are vulnerable. The passerby cares not for the single cinderblock laying near a plot, especially when the block and the plot are hidden in shadow. All admire the building of a structure as it is being built and the intrigue in the finished form cannot be avoided. Minor details could not be shared to his fellow man in the old room. We seek to restore humanity, but, in doing so, we can seemingly spare none for each other. “You're right,” said Ethan, turning with a feigned hopeful smile. “It's hard to know what this is all for when you answer the Call. You question the worth of both yourself and your task. It's fear trying to protect you from yourself. It's built so deep within you that it cannot be avoided. But this is what we do. We perform on a stage that is real, and that stage shapes what the viewer believes to be reality. Our acts must be as real as the stage on which we perform or else the performance will not be believed, and belief and trust is what we seek to attack. Because our acts must be real, the cost is also real, and that reality is terrifying. We feel the terror, but we follow the path, and we leave our chink in their armor little by little and, eventually, their armor falls off and they tear themselves apart because their armor no longer protects them. Then, there's no more fear for us. There's no more sacrifice.” The two men met each other’s eyes, and the blue-eyed man stood, and he was tall. “We are rolling a snowball down a gradually steeper hill,” Ethan continued. “We must aid its descent in the beginning, and that requires some of us to go down the hill with it. But then the snowball gets larger, and then it gets even larger, and its mass begins to lose its futile battle with gravity. The snowball speeds up on its own and the lucky few of us simply stand at the top and watch the ball roll to its inevitable death at the bottom of the hill. You, my friend, are helping to push the snowball down the hill. I will be asked to do the same someday—with certainty. We are brothers in that way. We are brothers in a fight against a greater enemy and sacrifice is the only way to win. That is what my name is to you. Brother.” The blue-eyed man nodded and forced a meager smile. Returning a kind-eyed grin, Ethan said simply, “good luck.” With that, he departed, leaving the man with blue eyes to his solitude to ponder, plan, and produce the outcome of his life. Ethan stepped out into the New York night. The first step touched the concrete that held the weightless energy that buzzed through at midnight. Seventeen languages taunted and laughed, and the drunk stumbles of best friends poured into and out of the small bar at the corner. The neon reds and blues from the bodega signs flickered against glass and chrome and skin, and the sidewalk pulsed under heels and boots and wheels and dreams. Yellow cabs honked half-heartedly in the distance—sometimes at nothing and no-one. A couple passed by, arms interlocked, and heads leaned together in some private orbit. A man argued into a phone outside a deli, waving a sandwich like punctuation. Sirens moaned blocks away, but no one flinched. Life was speeding. Life was here. Hope lingered like a transparent fog that earned its own gravity—pulling, attracting, capturing all the minds, both great and simple alike. It was a hope in motion, in noise, in the shine of buildings that reached like ambition into the sky. Hope, even in the trash bags lining the curb, waiting for morning. Hope that believed it was invincible. Untouchable. And beneath it all, Ethan moved quietly. Just a man with his hands in his pockets, watching a city unknowingly carry itself toward an end and a beginning, like a movie unfolding from the inside of its own set. The lights were bright, the streets full, the people electric. And somewhere above it all, was a man, alone in an apartment with a hot plate and a single mug—ready and sure.

FIRST ASSIGNMENT: write your story statement. 1. Abandon one’s nature to save a love. SECOND ASSIGNMENT: in 200 words or less, sketch the antagonist or antagonistic force in your story. Keep in mind their goals, their background, and the ways they react to the world about them. 2. The antagonist is The Call. It is a covert network that was born from KGB plots to cause the collapse of the United States and Democracy as a concept by exacerbating all of the problems caused by the democratic process. The protagonist belongs to The Call and is, at first, part of the antagonist force. But the Call has no tolerance of personal wishes or one’s desire to live and love outside of the mission of the Call. It is cold in its operations and it sacrifices its agents with ease. And it is everywhere. When the protagonist abandons the Call, it turns its forces against him. Not because it needs him to succeed in its goal, but because the Call is totalitarian and requires all of the minds who serve it to be devoted to it. THIRD ASSIGNMENT: create a breakout title (list several options, not more than three, and revisit to edit as needed). 3. To My Love And The End FOURTH ASSIGNMENT: Develop two smart comparables for your novel. This is a good opportunity to immerse yourself in your chosen genre. Who compares to you? And why? 4. Comps a. THE POWER by Naomi Alderman, which explores the corrupting nature of power; b. THE WATER KNIFE by Paolo Bacigalupi, which offers a chillingly plausible descent from democracy into scarcity-driven control; and c. BANNERLESS by Carrie Vaughn, which examines the bureaucratic, institutional, and human mechanisms that might follow when “safety” replaces freedom. FIFTH ASSIGNMENT: write your own hook line (logline) with conflict and core wound following the format above. Though you may not have one now, keep in mind this is a great developmental tool. In other words, you best begin focusing on this if you're serious about commercial publication. 5. As an agent of chaos guides the collapse of democracy, he is forced to choose between the woman he loves and the very nature that created him. SIXTH ASSIGNMENT: sketch out the conditions for the inner conflict your protagonist will have. Why will they feel in turmoil? Conflicted? Anxious? Sketch out one hypothetical scenario in the story wherein this would be the case--consider the trigger and the reaction. Next, likewise sketch a hypothetical scenario for the "secondary conflict" involving the social environment. Will this involve family? Friends? Associates? What is the nature of it? 6. Secondary and Inner Conflict. a. The protagonist was born and bred to be an agent of subversion on behalf of the soviet union, a weapon—and he is. But one woman breaks him, and makes him question that nature. He is conflicted with following his path as an agent of chaos and living for his own happiness. Can people divert from their nature or calling? b. The work that the protagonist performs begins to threaten the woman that makes him feel. The covert network he exists in forces him to choose between it and safety of the woman he loves. FINAL ASSIGNMENT: sketch out your setting in detail. What makes it interesting enough, scene by scene, to allow for uniqueness and cinema in your narrative and story? Please don't simply repeat what you already have which may well be too quiet. You can change it. That's why you're here! Start now. Imagination is your best friend and be aggressive with it. The story is set-in modern-day Manhattan, with all of the current rules, laws, and social norms that govern it. It is important to because the story takes the reader through the existence of a thriving society/culture that descends into oppressive order through the creation of chaos.

FIRST ASSIGNMENT: write your story statement. 1. Abandon one’s nature to save a love. SECOND ASSIGNMENT: in 200 words or less, sketch the antagonist or antagonistic force in your story. Keep in mind their goals, their background, and the ways they react to the world about them. 2. The antagonist is The Call. It is a covert network that was born from KGB plots to cause the collapse of the United States and Democracy as a concept by exacerbating all of the problems caused by the democratic process. The protagonist belongs to The Call and is, at first, part of the antagonist force. But the Call has no tolerance of personal wishes or one’s desire to live and love outside of the mission of the Call. It is cold in its operations and it sacrifices its agents with ease. And it is everywhere. When the protagonist abandons the Call, it turns its forces against him. Not because it needs him to succeed in its goal, but because the Call is totalitarian and requires all of the minds who serve it to be devoted to it. THIRD ASSIGNMENT: create a breakout title (list several options, not more than three, and revisit to edit as needed). 3. To My Love And The End FOURTH ASSIGNMENT: Develop two smart comparables for your novel. This is a good opportunity to immerse yourself in your chosen genre. Who compares to you? And why? 4. Comps a. THE POWER by Naomi Alderman, which explores the corrupting nature of power; b. THE WATER KNIFE by Paolo Bacigalupi, which offers a chillingly plausible descent from democracy into scarcity-driven control; and c. BANNERLESS by Carrie Vaughn, which examines the bureaucratic, institutional, and human mechanisms that might follow when “safety” replaces freedom. FIFTH ASSIGNMENT: write your own hook line (logline) with conflict and core wound following the format above. Though you may not have one now, keep in mind this is a great developmental tool. In other words, you best begin focusing on this if you're serious about commercial publication. 5. As an agent of chaos guides the collapse of democracy, he is forced to choose between the woman he loves and the very nature that created him. SIXTH ASSIGNMENT: sketch out the conditions for the inner conflict your protagonist will have. Why will they feel in turmoil? Conflicted? Anxious? Sketch out one hypothetical scenario in the story wherein this would be the case--consider the trigger and the reaction. Next, likewise sketch a hypothetical scenario for the "secondary conflict" involving the social environment. Will this involve family? Friends? Associates? What is the nature of it? 6. Secondary and Inner Conflict. a. The protagonist was born and bred to be an agent of subversion on behalf of the soviet union, a weapon—and he is. But one woman breaks him, and makes him question that nature. He is conflicted with following his path as an agent of chaos and living for his own happiness. Can people divert from their nature or calling? b. The work that the protagonist performs begins to threaten the woman that makes him feel. The covert network he exists in forces him to choose between it and safety of the woman he loves. FINAL ASSIGNMENT: sketch out your setting in detail. What makes it interesting enough, scene by scene, to allow for uniqueness and cinema in your narrative and story? Please don't simply repeat what you already have which may well be too quiet. You can change it. That's why you're here! Start now. Imagination is your best friend and be aggressive with it. The story is set-in modern-day Manhattan, with all of the current rules, laws, and social norms that govern it. It is important to because the story takes the reader through the existence of a thriving society/culture that descends into oppressive order through the creation of chaos.

WRITE TO PITCH—SEVEN ASSIGNMENTS THE BOOK IS AESOPIA BY MICHAEL J. COOPER mcooper@michaeljcooper.com 1. STORY STATEMENT: Babrius struggles to convince the Church leaders they must modernize their dogma or risk becoming marginalized in the computer-oriented world. Theron fights to win the girl he loves from her current partner. 2. ANTAGONIST: Roos is an older priest from South Africa. In his youth he was a well-respected firebrand, fighting for racial equality and increasing the dominance of the Church. In his age, he’s become dogmatic, humorless, difficult and has lost his authority. At the conclave of Church elders he personifies the conservative element that refuses to modernize the Church. He gathers around him acolytes who agree with his position and becomes vehement in his opposition to Babrius. Feeling that he’s regained that force and strength that once made him a power to be reckoned with he pushes an agenda that disdains compromise. Agapanthus is a priest from New York City. He is one of those who is drawn to Roos and shares his convictions. He came to the conclave with his beautiful girlfriend, Livy, but now ignores her. Theron, Babrius’ assistant, falls in love with Livy. As the conservatives start losing the battle for supremacy, Agapanthus turns to violence to save his girl. As a dedicated priest who seeks advancement, he equates the loss of his girl to the rejection of his philosophical principles. 3. TITLE: The current title is Aesopia. Alternatives might be Acropolis Revolution. Or Chronicles of a Church Revived. 4. GENRE AND COMPARABLES: Historical fiction is a common genre. The standard plot sets imagined characters into a more or less real historical events. (Current books of this ilk are Churchills Secret Messenger by Alan Hlad or Carnegie’s Maid by Marie Benedict.) A sub-genre of historical fiction is when imagined characters are set into an imagined, alternative history or virtual history. Michael Chabons’ The Yiddish Policeman’s Union posits that Isreal collapsed in 1948 and the Jews found sanctuary in Alaska. The Alteration by Kingsley Amis is based on a world that is stuck in medieval times. Aesopia imagines a world where the predominant Western religion is not based on the Bible but on Aesop’s Fables. History is the underlying attraction. Inventiveness in revising that history is what makes the stories unique. 5. CORE WOUND AND PRIMARY CONFLICT: An older priest, modestly successful within his own diocese, is now faced with pursuing his enlightened agenda on a world stage where forces of conservative and dogmatic adherence to an ancient script oppose him with organized and vehement energy. He struggles to rise above his limitations to define the Church in the modern world. 6. MATTERS OF CONFLICT: A Sinedria is called by the Kirios, the leader of the Church of Aesop. A world conclave of church elders. The issue is addressing the role of the church in a computer driven society and the possible expansion of doctrine to include disparate, formally marginalized segments of the population. Babrius is invited. He is in favor of modernization but finds the sympathetic members disorganized. He must step beyond his parochial background to lead the charge. He determines who is in favor of growth and progress, who has influence and calls a meeting. Recognizing he void of anyone who will lead the charge, he must step in and rise above his self-doubts. Meanwhile his assistant, Theron, has fallen in love with Livinia, a fashion model who is the girlfriend of a staunch Literalist advocate. Livy is torn between loyalty to the man with whom she’s lived for four years and her growing feelings for Theron. Theron is a small-town boy, inexperienced in romance. He’s in over his head and must deal with the displeasure of his boss. Babrius discovers this incipient romance and bristles at the complications it causes in the middle of such an important event as the Sinedria. 7. SETTING: Aesopia begins in the town of Peekskill, New York, the home of Babrius’ diocese but quickly transfers to Athens where the center of the Church of Aesop is located. The Acropolis is the home of Aesopia, the offices of the Kyrios. The action takes place in the Parthenon, in outlying buildings, in Athens proper and its environs. Real hotels, restaurants, streets, structures are incorporated into the plot development. The details of location are a crucial element in the story. The juxtaposition of the small town of Peekskill and the cosmopolitan Athens is part of the underlying tension that drives Babrius and confuses Theron.

The Elephant's Noose - By: Emelia Rohl - December 2025 NY Write to Pitch 1. Story Statements Adaline Fields, America’s top news anchor, must stop her former best friend, Victor Cromwell, from becoming President because she believes he’s guilty of murder. 2. Antagonist Force Victor Cromwell possesses all the qualities of a desirable American President. Young, fashionable, approachably good-looking, undeniably smart and prophetically gifted at speaking. Every inch of him oozes with charm and attainable relatability. However, like most presidential powerhouses he didn’t get to the top of the political ladder through merit alone. The political world is small, so Victor Cromwell surrounds himself with lifelong friends and colleagues who have pledged undying loyalty to his cause. However, his former best friend, Adaline Fields, is one of the only people who really knows Victor’s past. After being banished from the political arena by Victor’s lackeys, Addie became the top news anchor in the country. Her knowledge of Victor’s sins puts his presidential bid in jeopardy because she knows he killed his college girlfriend and that his family disowned him because of his political greed and ambition. In vulnerable moments Victor capitalizes on his team’s insecurities and leverages them like puppets to do his bidding. Whenever Victor feels like he’s losing he sacrifices the people around him. This includes implicating his wife in a money laundering scheme, destroying his campaign manager’s career, and blasting out a story about Addie’s rape to discredit her. 3. Titles: The Elephant’s Noose Survival Instincts Choking on Red Meat 4. Comparables: The President’s Lawyer – Lawrence Robbin – 2024 *Covers the scandalous relationship of a President and his lawyer. – The Elephant’s Noose also covers scandal between a presidential candidate, a famous news anchor and their respective teams. The Senator’s Wife – Liv Constantine – 2023 *Covers the scandalous relationship of a Senator and his wife in Washington DC. – The Elephant’s Noose also covers scandal in politics, similar to this title, my book emphasizes scandal and drama more than actual political topics. The Hellfire Club – The Devil May Dance – Jake Tapper 2021 *Covers history, political inner workings, mystery and scandal. Has larger than life characters. – The Elephant’s Noose covers scandal and mystery and includes details about political workings on the campaign trail. My book also has larger than life political personalities. 5. Loglines with conflict and core wound The Elephant’s Noose by Emelia Rohl A prominent news anchor who was banished from her career in politics, attempts to thwart her former best friend’s presidential campaign, to exonerate her reputation and prove to America that he’s guilty of murder. 6. Protagonist Conflict Primary Conflict: Addie (news anchor/protagonist) vs. Victor (presidential candidate/antagonist) *Addie knows Victor killed his pregnant girlfriend and she’s determined to stop him from becoming the next President of the United States. Secondary Conflict: Between Addie and her husband (who wants to her stop chasing the next great story and start a family), Between Addie and her assistant (who challenges whether Addie’s morals and intentions are intact), Addie and the FNN Board (who want her to favor Victor Cromwell in her news coverage) Inner Conflict: Addie feels obligated to prove that she’s not like the political monsters she reports on. This feeling of inner turmoil is strong, because most of the prominent politicians she covers in her reporting, including Victor Cromwell and his team, are people she used to be close with. Addie feels a strong underlying need to prove she’s not as bad as her former best friend Victor Cromwell. She blames herself for his college girlfriend’s death even though Victor was responsible. Examples of secondary conflict from book: 1) Addie and her husband have a rocky marriage because she is unable to give him the family he desires and the attention he deserves. Instead she spends her time chasing the Victor Cromwell story. 2) Addie and her best friend – Willow – have a strained relationship because Addie deals in absolutes – she thinks people are all good or all bad. This prevents her from being able to fully understand her best friend’s complicated marriage and domestic abuse. 3) Addie tasks her assistant with pushing the boundaries of ethical reporting, all in the name of proving that Victor Cromwell’s team is corrupt. Erin points out that Addie is hypocritical. 7. Setting – Campaign Trail Main setting for this story is the campaign trail. Addie (protagonist) covers Victor’s (antagonist) presidential run. The campaign trail takes us across America from urban settings to rural settings. From political rallies, to political fundraisers, to campaign headquarters, to private meetings in Washington DC. What makes this setting ripe for opportunity is not the different location options, but the crazy cast of characters associated with every event. (Grassroots voters, political campaign staffers and demanding donors create ample amounts of tension, conflict and entertainment). Below is a list of the different settings throughout the book that serve as a backdrop for each scene: Campaign Trail: -Massive stages and crowds of unlikely strangers mixed together -Desperate and exhausted campaign staffers who behave unprofessionally -Different states, different climates -Golf courses, to country clubs, to airport hangars, to the Senate Hart Building, State Capitol Building, State street -Lincoln Memorial -DC landmarks like the Capitol Hill Club and wine bars around the city -Milwaukee – Pfister Hotel – The Blu Room -Mountains of Montana -Addie’s country estate FNN Studio -Control room – described as a planetarium -Harris’ office – glass overlooks the city -Addie’s office – glass overlooks the city -The set/stage with Addie’s anchor desk -Covering the White House -Covering campaign rallies in Wisconsin