Let’s face it. Baltimore isn’t exactly known for its robust literary culture…but more for its Old Bay seasoning, blue crabs, Orioles, and this guy:

(Ray Lewis of the Baltimore Ravens)

BUT.

There was once this guy. A real Baltimorian (or Baltimoron for those of you playing at home). He was kind of eclectic. Totally mysterious. Probably a little scary.

He was also brilliant.

A poet.

A storyteller.

A gothic legend.

I’m talking about this guy:

(It’s Poe, yo.)

Edgar Allan Poe is the heart of Baltimore’s literary history. We named our football team after him — I mean, COME ON. How cool is that? And there’s also a film being made with John Cusack as Ed! WIN!

So it’s only natural the rest of the world has finally noticed the literary potential of B-more/B-town/Bawlmor/Hon-ville. To celebrate, the town is hosting a three-day event, the Baltimore Book Festival, at the end of the month. The event will be held downtown on Sept. 24-26 and will feature panels with such notable YA authors like:

Holly Black

Diana Peterfreund

Justine Larbalestier

Scott Westerfeld

Carrie Ryan

Elizabeth Scott

Ingrid Law

Amy Brecount White

Oh…and some guy named:

M.T. Anderson

ARE YOU HYPERVENTILATING YET? CAUSE I AM!

I can’t wait for this event! And you bet I’ll be taking notes and reporting back here about all the juicy gems of wisdom I’m hoping to learn (like what’s better: Unicorns or Zombies?).

(And if the kidlit superstars mentioned above aren’t sure to make you salivate, then how about knowing this guy will also be there? Yowzers!)

Photo Credit: I Turned Around by Inessa Emilia

Don’t

Don’t.

Such a simple word, really. And not even a full one, but rather two words that meant the exact opposite—do and not—smashed together like they had no choice.

It was a teasing word.

Maybe that was why I licked her tears from my lips again. Why my fingers prodded just a tiny bit harder into the soft flesh of her neck. Just to hear her say the half-assed word one more time:

“Don’t.”

Yes.

Her eyelids fluttered. In between each slowing blink, I saw the whites of her eyes twitch. Like bingo balls settling down after that last, lucky call.

I waited ten seconds. Twenty. After a full minute I heaved myself off of her. I did the pull and tuck, and then zipped my jeans. A grass stain bled onto my knees. I licked my thumb and tried wiping it away but—like her—it was a lost cause.

Twigs cracked behind me. My attention shifted to the campsite a hundred feet away. The glow of the fire flickered and then burst with renewed life, sending a fresh wave of sparks and smoke to billow up into the trees. There were three of them now, their silhouettes ghosted back and forth behind the tree line. They had no idea.

The sound of laughter filled the woods. Then applause.

Why thank you. I bowed to the patch of wild mushrooms a foot away. Would you like an encore? I smiled.

Encores were my specialty.

A bird flew through the canopy, a rustle of leaves so loud I was sure it’d give me away. I held my breath and crouched, steadying my weight on the balls of my feet just in case one of the campers got too nosey. When it seemed no one cared, I sighed and gave one final, appraising look to my latest achievement.

Her name had been Marianne. That’s what the tall, skinny boy had called her. It suited her well. A Trista or a Nikki or a Samantha would’ve fought back. I brushed Marianne’s hair off her forehead. She was beautiful in this kind of slipping light. The shadows made her cheekbones really pop. Given more time, she could’ve been a model.

I smoothed her sweater across her stomach and pulled the knit-cable down over her hips. I thought about pulling her leggings back up, but she looked more fun this way. A real party.

I stood up and loosened my shoulders, then loped around the far side of the camp site toward the water. Everywhere I looked, exposed tree roots suffocated in soggy dirt. It made foot placement crucial. I’d have to remember to wipe down my boots later. Maybe it’d be best to set them—

“Alex!”

—on fire.

“Alex!”

I turned, slowly, so as not to disrupt the woodland critters in their natural habitat. I’d felt their eyes on me earlier and it made me uncomfortable. The tall, skinny boy waved me over. When I didn’t move, he huffed and kicked through the leaves and fallen branches to get to where I stood. He was beyond loud.

He braced his hands on his knees and wheezed. “Hey. Why didn’t you answer me?”

I shrugged.

“Have you seen Marianne? She went to go pee a while ago but hasn’t come back yet.”

I stroked my chin and studied his wide-eyed expression, his red and sweaty face. “I haven’t. But I’ll keep my eyes open.”

He narrowed his gaze on me and I thought maybe he knew. Maybe he saw everything in my eyes. Maybe he saw too much. I wiggled my fingers by my side. There was a flat rock five inches to the left of my foot. It wouldn’t take much. The kid was so skinny he’d likely break in one swing.

But he just nodded. Smart boy. “Okay. Thanks. If you see her, will you let her know her hot dog is ready?”

“Sure thing.” I smiled. “But if she doesn’t eat her hot dog soon, do you mind if I eat it? I’m starving.”

© 2010 Cambria Dillon

(Author’s Note: I love this picture. I love the sadness. I love the muted tones. I also love camping. Or I did, when I was young. Nowadays I’m more likely to spend the night in a fluffy bed than the unknown of the wilderness. And once again, another psycho teen weasels his way into my head.)

*Don’t forget to check out other stories from YAFF Muse participants:

RM Gilbert
Min Buchanan
Rebekah Purdy
Traci Kenworth
Vanessa Barger

I have NEWS! And it needs my undivided attention! I won’t go into specifics except to say that if there was ever an incentive to finish the spit-polish on my MS, it’s this.

Which brings me to my Two Week Goal. I’m giving myself two weeks — 14 days/336 hours/20,160 minutes — to REVISE and QUERY. Why two weeks? Well, I’m almost there. All I need is a little push, a reasonable deadline (that I can be accountable for), to get me closer to the next step. But there’s always a bit of a risk when you’re about to send out that first batch of queries. What if *gasp* you think it’s ready but it’s really not? For me, that means my MS runs the risk of fatal Too-Soon-itis. And we all know how that goes.

So let me take you on a little journey to illustrate how querying too soon is like taking a trip to the ER:

• You make the obvious decision to go to the hospital because you have a broken arm/volatile stomach/third eye/no eye/other grotesque injury.

• You see a sign on the hospital door that says STOP! FALLING BRICKS ABOVE!

• You shrug because it’s a HOSPITAL and you’re SICK and no bricks are falling on your head. Stupid sign.

• You check in with the gum-smacking receptionist and take a seat in the germ-infested waiting area.

• You realize how bad waiting is going to suck because all you want to do is get through Triage and see a dang doctor for your broken arm/volatile stomach/third eye/no eye/other grotesque injury. But you’re stuck waiting it out in an area that’s too small, too packed, and too smelly for comfort.

• To pass the time until someone calls out your name, you decide to: read a magazine/suck at Sudoku/moan/cry for your Momma/play Hangman without the paper or pencil/plant your ass at the reception desk and tap your finger on the counter until someone pays attention to you. (I don’t suggest this last option because chances are good the guard standing by the sliding glass door is bored out of his mind and is itching–ITCHING–to throw a sucker to the curb.)

• FINALLY your name is called (and with minimal butchering of your last name) after just ten hours of waiting!

• You drag your tired and cranky and now-smelly body to Registration where you give every pertinent detail of your life and promise your first-born child/cat/dog/cupcake to a woman who eyes the small-hand on the clock like she’s getting paid to do that instead of processing your info.

• You wait again.

• Twenty-one hours later and a nurse with a glowing halo above her head and a parade of silky white doves following her every step, calls you back.

• You say a silent prayer and hope it’s really you she’s talking to.

• You gleefully tell the ER Doctor (who’s none too pleased at having drawn the short straw) all about your broken arm/volatile stomach/third eye/no eye/other grotesque injury. No detail is too small to leave out. This is your LIFE we’re talking about here.

• ER Doctor jabs you in parts you didn’t think you could get jabbed.

• After thirty seconds, she tells you your ailment was all in your head and if you just take this discharge sheet and follow the security guard outside, he’ll make sure you get to your car alright (and put you on the Never Allowed Back To The Hospital Again list).

• You drive  home, stare at the wall for a few days/weeks/months, then Eureeka! You realize maybe that ER Doctor was onto something. Maybe you just had a case of the Too-Soons and a good scour or ten in the shower was all you needed to bypass the ER waiting room in the first place.

Obviously, I’ve taken some liberties with this analogy. I mean c’mon — a third eye??? Regardless of how many orbital outlets someone does or doesn’t have, the point is that if you query too soon, your subconscious probably already knows this but you’ll most likely ignore it anyway and submit. And you know what? You might even get a request from Dream Agent’s assistant. Take that stupid subconscious! But if you queried too soon and are lucky enough to get past the slush reader, chances are pretty dang good you’ll get a big, fat “Not for me” from your Dream Agent. And when that happens, you’re pretty much SOL on querying that particular MS to Dream Agent again.

Why take the chance of ignoring sound advice when all you need is a rigorous scrub or two? Scrubbing is good, peeps. Use whatever you can — loofahs, that body wash with the exfoliating beads, good old-fashioned washcloth — just make sure you wash behind your ears and get between your toes. Your Dream Agent will thank you for it.

Photo Credit: My Charm of Luck by Evely Duis

Mouthful

“Alright bitches! Kiss the wall!”

I try not to roll my eyes but—oops. Too late. Veronica Manchester pops her gum and struts toward me. I don’t want to make the same mistake twice so I stare at her necklace. The chain is too long. Her pendant—some plastic, gawdy-looking thing—hits between her bikini-clad boobs. I see waves of heat rise above the pavement behind her. Yeah, it’s hot. My shorts are drenched and sticking to my butt, so I can only imagine the pendant is glued to her cleave-sweat, too.

I’ve heard the stories from past players. I don’t know if they’re true, but if so, this could really suck.

“I said, ‘kiss the wall,’ Stanton. What part of that does your little turd-sized brain not understand?” she asks.

Veronica is so close I can see the chip in the coating of her black-framed sunglasses. At tryouts last week, I overheard her tell the other seniors her fancy shades were Chanel or Christian Dior or some other high-end brand that starts with a ‘C.’ But it’s obvious they’re knock-offs. Just goes to show who really has the turd-sized brain. Of course I’ll never say this out loud. I oohed and ahhed with the rest of the incoming freshman girls.

Veronica huffs. A cotton candy-scented pocket of air wafts in my face.

I forgot she asked me a question. I look at her—a ballsy move for sure—and open my mouth to say what she wants to hear. Except what comes out is: “I don’t know, Veronica. Maybe all of it?” I don’t mean to come off sounding snarky, but it’s too late. I’m at the point of no return.

Veronica mashes her wad of gum to the right side of her mouth. It balloons out of her cheek like a tumor or a ripe zit. I want to pop it. I clench my fists by my sides so I don’t do anything rash.

I’m a freshman. A nobody.

“What did you say?” She drops her chin a little. Above the rim of her glasses I see her brown eyes glare at me like two darts of death.

“All of it?” I ask. A drop of sweat slides down my temple. It’s like Time pulls up a chair and shakes open a bag of popcorn. Off to either side of me I sense five pairs of freshman eyes afraid to blink. A basketball bounces, then rolls off somewhere to the left, maybe by the back court. I see the other senior girls creep closer to me and Veronica, surrounding us like a protective blanket. It’s still up in the air on whether they’re protecting us from each other, or outsider attention. Either way, the best thing for me to do is keep my mouth shut.

“Alright, Stanton,” Veronica says, “I’ll try to make things a little clearer for you.”

* * *

I was right. Her pendant is made out of plastic. It also tastes like rubbing alcohol and salt. I have to swallow hard because it’s more than slightly nauseating to know I’ve ingested Veronica Manchester’s cleave-sweat as I hold the chunky pendant between my teeth.

Veronica leans against the brick wall perpendicular to me. She smiles. “All you have to do is drop it, Stanton.”

I snort. Right, like the alternative is a better choice.

She shrugs and holds out her hand to a senior whose name I can’t remember. Something shiny drops in her palm.

My stomach churns when Veronica glides to me, holding another pendant between her fingers. It’s identical to the one in my mouth, only silver instead of white.

“Open up,” she says. She smiles so big I almost ask to borrow her sunglasses because her teeth are too bright. It hurts my eyes.

But I can’t open my mouth. If I do then her necklace will drop and that’s really not an option at this point. I shake my head as Veronica holds the silver pendant in front of my face.

She shoves it in my mouth anyway.

* * *

There are fifteen seniors on the field hockey team. Apparently there are also fifteen different colors of plastic, gawdy pendants on cheap gold chains. Who knew? I hold fourteen in my mouth. I don’t swallow because I know the first one, Veronica’s white pendant, will slide down my throat if I do.

“Last one, Stanton.” Veronica looks bored as she approaches me. Her shoulders aren’t quite as broad as they were earlier and her smooth swagger has fizzled into a shuffle. And she checks her watch every other minute like she has something better to do than haze freshman girls all day.

I want to flip her off or give her a nasty look but my arms are sore from holding the field hockey stick for so long and my eyes sting because I haven’t blinked since she stuffed the twelfth pendant between my lips. There’s a tickle in my windpipe and I concentrate on clamping the back of my throat closed. This is why I’m not prepared when Veronica shoves the pale pink pendant, the last one, into my mouth.

Fifteen pendants clank onto the pavement like a handful of wet jacks. I drop the stick and barely have time to wretch when both my arms are yanked back.

Veronica’s in my face and amazingly, her breath still smells like cotton candy gum. She sneers and grabs the collar of my shirt with both hands.

At first I think we’re going to kiss and I want to tell her I’m not cool with that. But it’s not softness I feel against my lips. It’s cement—hard and rough—and the taste of blood overwhelms me.

The brick exfoliates my cheek. It stings but I don’t cry because the contrast of sticky hot air against my bare butt is so shocking I stop breathing. I blink and force air into my lungs because breathing trumps crying any day of the week.

* * *

The first whap of the stick across my ass is as bad as I imagined it could be.

The second one isn’t any better.

By the time the fifteenth senior gets her turn, I don’t feel anything.

That’s okay because I understand. This is all part of it—team camaraderie, sisterhood, loyalty, whatever. But I wonder how long it’ll take to get the aftertaste of cleave-sweat out of my mouth.

© 2010 Cambria Dillon

(Author’s Note: The first thing that popped in my head when I sat down to write this story was that hazing scene in Dazed and Confused. You know the one I’m talking about, right? Parker Posey screams “Fry like bacon, piggies!” at the incoming freshman girls and they all begrudgingly flatten themselves onto the scorching pavement and flap around like, well, bacon. Classic scene. Classic movie. This short story is sort of an homage to that scene. )

*Don’t forget to check out other stories from YAFF Muse participants:
Jennifer Fischetto
Vanessa Barger

Hey Mister

“Well, what do you think? I found her by the train tracks.”

I turned in a slow circle and anchored my hand on my hip. “You can’t be serious. This thing wouldn’t scare nobody away.” I clucked my tongue. “And the tracks? You might want to check the seat before you sit in it.” The train tracks were known for two things: Migrants and stop ‘n sticks—otherwise known as pit stops for those needing one last fix before they got too close to border patrol.

Eli hopped off the bench and reached for the pencil he always stashed behind his ear. He frowned.

I pointed by his feet. “There.”

He brushed some rocks away and picked up his No. 2, then scribbled on the notepad he kept in his back pocket. The little journal was worn and curved from all the time spent hugging his butt, but he didn’t seem to notice as his pencil bobbed up and down across the lined pages. He paused, then licked the graphite tip and continued jotting down whatever great stroke of genius he had this time. When he was done, he crooked his finger at me to stand next to him. “This is what I’m talking about,” he said. “All I need is a sheet of aluminum and some nails and I’ll be set. And Rex won’t be bothering you no more. None of them will be bothering you no more.”

I leaned in. And scratched my head. There was a mess of lines and angles and some sort of contraption between the handlebars that looked like a teepee. “Uh. Yeah. It’s nice. I’m sure Rex will be reeaaal scared when he sees that thing coming at him.”

Eli sighed and stuffed his notepad back in his pocket. “Forget it. I’ll just work on it mys—”

A car pulled into the Qwikee-Sip parking lot. The pieces of broken glass and gravel crunched and skipped across the pavement as the car parked in the spot closest to where we stood. I didn’t have to turn around to know who it was. As soon as the driver’s door opened, I smelled the smoke and heard the low twang of a country tune streaming across the speakers. The door slammed.

“Hey, Shanda. Whatcha doin’?”

I pinned my gaze to Eli’s left eye, to the still-healing outline of Rex’s class ring. If I squinted real hard, I saw the ’09 imprinted into the sandy arch of his brow. “Hey Rex. Not much. You?”

Eli bounced on his toes, his fingers playing an invisible keyboard against his thighs. To him, I mouthed, Go. Now. He shook his head. Not a big enough movement for Rex to notice, but mentally I cursed Eli for being such a stubborn little shit.

Rex’s boots ground into the rocks behind me. He was no more than four—maybe five—steps away. That meant it was already too late.

“Well, I figured I’d sit and wait for a ‘Hey Mister.’ I need some beer. Anybody been by yet?” he asked. I heard him pivot in the rocks, probably to scan the store front, then pivot back. He hocked a wad of spit over my left shoulder. It landed on the bench, just missing my school bag.

My fingers curled into my sundress. “No one’s been by yet. But it’s Friday afternoon. So only a matter of time.” I laughed. It sounded odd. Like a too-loud soprano in the church choir who sang off-key compared to everyone else. It made my ears ring.

“Good.” More gravel-crunching. More spitting. “That’s real good.”

I mouthed, Just run, I’ll distract him, to Eli, but he stood there like a Firecracker Popsicle melting all over the sidewalk, not doing anything but looking like a damn fine prize for Rex Tuskergee.

“Why don’t you take your ‘Hey Mister’ somewhere else, Rex?” Eli asked.

I groaned when I heard Rex’s boot dig into the rocks. A second later, the jagged little pebbles pelted the backs of my legs and clanged against the spokes of the bike wheels. It didn’t hurt. Probably looked worse than it felt, but Eli was all heart and no sense. He launched himself toward me. I ducked and turned just in time to see him swat at Rex’s face with his pencil. I cringed. Someone needed to teach that boy how to fight.

Rex laughed and grabbed Eli’s wrists as easy as if they were two chicken legs he’d sopped up with hot sauce and ranch, and twisted. “Boy, I will kill you.” He howled again and dropped Eli to the ground, next to his No. 2 pencil which had broken in half. Then he gave a swift kick into Eli’s belly before stepping over his writhing body. Rex held his arm out to me. “Shanda.”

I placed my hand in the crook of Rex’s elbow and stepped over Eli, who begged for me not to go. But I said, “Hush now, baby brother. I’m going to help Rex with his ‘Hey Mister’ and then we’ll work on that bike of yours. Alright?” I winked but I didn’t think Eli saw it. He was too busy cradling his hands, which jutted out from his wrist bones in weird angles.

I blinked back a tear.

And just in time, too, because a truck pulled up. A battered old thing with a rusty grille and a crooked side mirror, like it was barely holding on and needed more duct tape or tobacco cud to stick things back together. The window rolled down and a man I’d never seen before tipped his cowboy hat at me. “Miss.” He grinned and displayed an impressive lack of teeth. “You look mighty fair tonight.” He swirled his finger at me. “I like that dress you got on.” He nodded and made an indescribable, guttural noise in his throat. It made my stomach turn.

I pressed my lips into a smile and sidled up to his truck. “Hey Mister. I’m awfully thirsty tonight. Wanna buy me some beer? I’d do aannything for a six-pack…” I pressed my boobs against the side of his door, and tried to ignore the smell of Rex’s cigarette burning behind me.

© 2010 Cambria Dillon

(Author’s Note: So when I first saw this picture, I thought of The Wizard of Oz. OBVIOUSLY my story has nothing to do with The Wizard of Oz. Instead it has to do with a boy, his sister, another psycho teen (what IS it with my muse?), and the grand notion of building an aluminum teepee onto a bike as a means of self-defense. Makes perfect sense to me. )

*Don’t forget to check out other stories from YAFF Muse participants:

RM Gilbert
Min Buchanan
Rebekah Purdy
Jennifer Fischetto
Vanessa Barger

But Cam, RWA offers the most comprehensive, thoroughly thoughtful, celeb-author-studded workshops EVAH. What’s the deal with your incessant screeching?

Well, I’m glad you asked. In fact, I have a LIST for why I’m running around my house with virtually no hair, a few new zits, and clad in clothes I wore ALL WEEKEND LONG:

#1 I have not packed.

#2 I have not finished my laundry of things that I *think* I may or may not pack.

#3 I did not have time to get a manicure, pedicure, brow wax, lip wax, any other kind of wax, or haircut. I will be that hairy bushwoman standing in the corner with granny shoes because my feet will be the fugliest ones in Orlando.

#4 I have not finished polishing Life After Send.

#5 I just now got around to viewing and printing out the workshop schedule. My mind is spinning because I have about 5 too many time conflicts which means I will need to make a game-time decision and have I ever mentioned to you that I’m NOT GOOD at making game-time decisions? No? Gah! I hate prioritizing when they’re all priorities!

#6 I am not a morning person. There are several workshops and meetings that require me to wake up before my leisurely time of 7:45am. My sleep cycle is already screwed by this because for the past three nights, I’ve laid awake stressing out about how I won’t be able to wake up on time. Do you see my dilemma here, peeps?

#7 WHAT SHOES AM I GOING TO BRING????

#8 I have only practiced my Just-In-Case-An-Agent-Wants-Me-To-Pitch-Her-In-The-Bathroom-While-She’s-Asking-Me-For-Toilet-Paper pitch 372 times. I need to practice at least 12,841 times for it to not sound like I’m a royal tool with a bucket of marshmallows in my mouth.

#9 DID I MENTION I HAVEN’T PACKED YET?!?!

#10 I will miss Toddler Trouble. And BicycleDude. A lot.

But despite all my whining displayed in all its gloriousness, there are still a few super stellar, awesome, full-of-fantastic reasons why all this belly-aching stress will be worth it:

I will get to hang with cool peeps. I will get to learn until my poor little brain begs me to stop soaking it all in. I will get to see Authors of Awesome in person and hopefully meet them and get their Books of Awesome signed too. I will be in Orlando (I hear it’s the Happiest Place on Earth). I will get to pretend I’m singing karaoke. I will get to meet new cool peeps, like TWITSOM, who is already full of Awesome that I’m sure the two of us in the same room together will surely make it explode. I will be present in the face of inspiration (times, like, a few thousand) as the Swan & Dolphin Resort is infiltrated by mad talent.

And these reasons trump all.

RWA 2010 will be THE BEST TIME EVERRRRRRRRR!

Photo Credit: Musical Burial by Official Twilamore

Small Fish, Big Pond

He had fisherman hands. Cracked. Hairy. And slippery enough to make it seem like his palms were really neoprene mitts in disguise. When he grabbed hold of my wrist, I remembered cringing at the contact.

“It’s easier if you don’t struggle.”

Somehow, I doubted this. I remembered all those stupid stories about females too naïve for their own good. Females who jumped at the chance to have a male smile at them and say something debonair like, “The boys in your school must go crazy when they see you.”

He didn’t say that to me. If he had, things might’ve turned out different. As it were, he yanked me over the dock and hissed a “stop thrashing, will ya?” as he pressed his fingers into the muscle between my neck and my shoulder. It stung and for one second, I froze and forgot to struggle.

My face kissed the sand when he tossed me. I expected softness, like the powdery stuff on the Gulf’s white beaches. But it wasn’t anything like that. It was gritty and mixed with what felt like leftover bits of the crumbling concrete pillar by the pier.

“Come on, I don’t want to hurt you,” he said.

And just like that, the only thing left behind was the impression my cheek had made in the sand.

* * *

The water frothed by my stomach. I expected it to be as cold as everything else. But it felt like sun-ripened water after nine in the morning.

The surf swept up again. This time, it washed over my stomach and splashed my chest and my face. It was only a matter of time before those waves owned me. I ground my teeth and tried rolling the other way, toward the gritty—dry—sand. But as soon as I wiggled my hips, the trench my body had dug opened up and swallowed me into a deeper, wetter, colder hole. The sand turned into hardening cement. I couldn’t feel my lower half.

When the next wave rushed over me, my body slipped out of its skin. But something wasn’t right. The familiar tingling sensations in my extremities—like a deep stretch after a long nap or the arousing zip of salt water pumping through my veins—was absent.

I blinked. Bubbles swarmed my face and it took me a moment before I truly realized how bad this situation was for me.

Liquid filled my lungs. Instinct took over and I fought to keep my head above the surface, to guide my arms through the water and kick my legs in propulsion. But red seeped out of my limbs.

I stopped moving.

No. There were no limbs. Not anymore. I remembered now. He’d cut them off, thrown them into the ocean like worm guts or broken lures. And he’d left me here to die, to drown in my blood and in the unfulfilled dream of being something other than me.

© 2010 Cambria Dillon

(Author’s Note: So apparently when I see iPods on the sand, I think about torture and drowning. Sorry Steve Jobs. And because I think my concept is a little more subtle this week, I’ll clarify here: the narrator in my story was a fish. The guy was someone fishing who caught her and didn’t think the little swimmer he hooked had any big aspirations…but she did. She wanted to be anything but a fish. So there you go. Catch and release, peeps. Catch and release. )

*Don’t forget to check out other stories from YAFF Muse participants:

RM Gilbert
Min Buchanan
Rebekah Purdy
Traci Kenworth
Vanessa Barger

BOOK COVERS

Let’s face it, we’ve all heard the old adage, “Don’t judge a book by it’s barcode.” I kid, I kid. You’re not supposed to get caught up on what’s on the outside because it might not be what you get in the inside, right? BUT, really. Who doesn’t judge a book by its cover? If covers weren’t important then we’d all be fine with grocery bag wrappings ala grade school textbook covers. Right?

Well. I have to say that despite those covers that have absolutely nothing to do with the story, there are some books that get it right. Covers that sing and flash neon arrows to their spot on the bookshelf because it’s just too pretty not to pick up.

So here are a few covers that have recently caught my eye. The ones that made my fingers itch to turn the book over and see what all the flashing arrows wanted me to read.

(NOTE: This list is all about the book covers and not necessarily the content inside. So retract your claws before you go ripping me about how such and such is a horrible writer or how what’s her name is duller than a door stop to read about for 500 pages. Glad we got that out of the way. <grin>)

Stolen by Lucy Christopher

(I love how this one evokes two emotions: sweet and sad. The butterfly provides a nice pop in color and conveys a kind of innocence…yet the black background and glass shattering/cobwebs touch on something darker. Plus with the additional ‘A letter to my captor’ under the already thought-provoking title, it makes you think this could be memoirish, giving it a sense of immediacy that really strikes a nerve.)

Candor by Pam Bachorz

(This is a book I’m waiting to see break out. It’s told from a male POV so it’s nice to see the boy on front — um, eyecandy anyone? — plus the earphones and the cookie-cutter houses AND the orange color all tie into the book. Wouldn’t this catch your eye on a bookshelf?)

Some Girls Are by Courtney Summers

(As covers go, this one isn’t extraordinary with the half-image of a girl leaning against a locker. BUT the body language strikes a melancholy and almost rebellious note, while the red of the locker is majorly significant to the story.)

All Unquiet Things by Anna Jarzab

(I haven’t read this one…but it’s on my TBR. This cover is haunting and makes me want to know all about this girl. Is she dead? Or does she just look dead? Why? Why? Why?)

Living Dead Girl by Elizabeth Scott

(I recommend this book to a lot of people. It’s a totally different tune than Scott’s other books, but this story stays with you long after you put it down. For me, the image does the same thing. The bow is whimsical and reminiscent of little girls and femininity. But the stark font and black background promise something more sinister and disturbing. And this works so well with what the book is actually about.)

Twisted by Laurie Halse Anderson

(I <3 L.H.A. like nobody’s business. And I think she’s been pretty blessed with the cover gods, so it was tough choosing one for this post. I like this cover because it conveys all the elements of the book you’re going to get: teen, imperfect, crazy, full of obstacles. Plus, I like how the position of the title reminds me of a roller coaster car about to go on a fast course. The book is also told from a male POV and there’s nothing girly about this cover.)

Lessons from a Dead Girl by Jo Knowles

(I haven’t read this yet, but I want to open that door.  An image like this makes the reader wonder if we’re going to get something sad or scary on the other side, or a happy surprise. Either way, I’m sold.)

Torment by Lauren Kate

(This is the follow-up to Fallen–which I still haven’t read–but if I could draw the word torment, it’d be this. And I’m a sucker for images of backs.)

The Replacements by Brenna Yovanoff

(I’ve heard this upcoming debut by Yovanoff is supernatural and creepy. And I don’t know about you, but whenever I see sharp instruments of torture dangling above a baby carriage, I don’t think of vanilla pudding and Nilla wafers. Mmkay…maybe I’m always thinking of pudding and wafers. BUT I can guarantee I won’t be moving into this un-family-friendly neighborhood anytime soon!)

Sisters Red by Jackson Pearce

(Graphic design heaven. Red. Black. White. Girls. And wolves. Plus it reminds you of those images from the 90s where you see an old woman one way and then a bunny rabbit the other. I loved those…even if my eyes went a little cross and wonky at times. But to me, this cover is eye-popping in a good way and totally genius!)

Patient Zero by Jonathan Maberry (ok, not a YA but tell me this cover wouldn’t catch your eye on the shelf!)

(Creepy. Creepy. Creepy. This cover sets the tone for suspense, horror, and copious amounts of cringing. I haven’t read this book, but the disturbing side of my brain would like to devour it in one sitting.)

So what do you think? Would you pick up any of these books in a bookstore? What covers make you go hmmmm? And for more analysis of book covers, check out Jacket Whys, Jacket Knack, Uncover,  Book Covers Anonymous, and The Book Designers.

Photo Credit: Autostop by Criswey

Sweet Louise

She slipped me a note after Wayne Shaw left class with his daily nosebleed.

I need a ride after school.

When I rumpled the paper into a ball, she dropped another note onto my desk.

I’ll owe you BIG TIME.

Normally I would’ve ignored her because nothing was this easy in Chickadee, Texas. But her ass looked like two giant cupcakes smooshed in jean shorts every time she sat in front of me. So, hell yeah I wanted in on that.

* * *

The drive she promised would only take five minutes really took forty-five. My poor car, Sweet Louise, sputtered and hissed the whole way. Sweet Louise was a three-stoplight-maximum girl, a safety-is-a-luxury girl, a steady-supply-of-water-jugs-in-the-trunk kind of girl. She wasn’t built for spontaneity. She wasn’t built for a road like Chickadee Lane. Or a girl like Noxie.

* * *

The first time I ever saw Noxie Ramsey I’d been pretending to sleep in Mr. Hermill’s geometry class. Something about isosceles triangles and acute angles or—I don’t know, anything with three sides is about as queer as a graceful stripper around here, so before I knew it, I had the bill of my hat pulled down until I only saw a one-millimeter band of light. I remembered someone had just farted. It rippled through the air, like a motorboat treading on bubble wrap. The other kids giggled. Freaking immature inbreds. But they shut the hell up as soon as the door opened.

When Noxie sat in the chair in front of me, my one-millimeter band of empty space filled up with the most beautiful derriere this side of Austin. Her jeans dipped just a bit in the back. And while everyone else protracted how many degrees this angle or that angle was, I spent the rest of the class period with my chin on my forearms so I could drool over that little peek-a-boo flash of hot pink silk.

* * *

“This isn’t happening.” Noxie paced between the border of old man  Seymour’s wheat field and my car. “Are you sure you can’t fix it?” she asked.

I shook the empty water jug. “Sorry to break it to you, sugar, but I don’t think Sweet Louise is making it anywhere.”

She frowned. “Do you have a cell phone? Maybe I can call a tow truck or something.”

“Who? Fat Ted? It’s Friday. He’s off,” I said, tossing the jug into my trunk.

“What about a cab?”

I laughed. “Nearest cab company’s in Sonora. You’d be looking at a good hundred bucks or so. You have that kind of cash on you?”

“9-1-1?”

“You mean Martha Plantusky? She takes Fridays off, too.”

Noxie threw her hands into the air and screamed. “What kind of crap town is this?” Little clouds of dust rose from her feet as she kicked a pebble across the dirt road.

A fly buzzed by my ear. I slammed my trunk closed and ambled toward her. “Where were you making me take you anyway?” I asked, wiping my hands on the backs of my jeans. “There’s nothing out this way.”

She rolled her eyes and leaned against the driver’s door. “Please. I wasn’t making you do anything,” she said. “You practically drooled all over my shoe when I showed up at your car.”

Fair enough.

Thick black smudges lined her eyes, making them appear small and large at the same time. She glared at me as if I were nothing more than a ride on four wheels for her. I picked up a strand of strawberry-blonde hair that had escaped the ponytail she wore high on her head. Sifting the satiny tendril between my fingers, I said, “Okaaaay. Where was I voluntarily taking you on this fine Friday afternoon?”

She swatted at my hand. “Bus stop.” No need to tell her the bus didn’t run on Fridays either. “I need to get the hell out of this place. There’s a Greyhound that comes through every other week. It’s supposed to be coming today. I checked online. Figure I can hop off in Little Rock, then make my way to the East Coast by train,” she said.

I cocked my head and squinted. “Well, it’ll probably take some time before I make it back into town and get the parts I need for my car to start up again.” I rolled the hem of her collar, right where her carotid flickered under her skin. Her breath hitched. “So why don’t you start thumbing your way toward the bus stop now? Someone’s bound to drive along and pick you up,” I said.

Noxie would’ve taken a step back, but she had nowhere to go. Trapped between me and Sweet Louise. She bit her lip and narrowed her eyes, maybe to see if I was serious. City girls always acted surprised with me. “You think someone will really drive by? No one’s passed us yet.”

“Pshaw. Of course. Chickadee’s the only road leading out of town.” Leaning closer, I lowered my voice until it was as low and smooth as Sweet Louise on fresh oil. “And I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but there ain’t nothing to do in town. Especially on a Friday night.”

She tucked the loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Yeah, no kidding. Everyone’s either showing off their shitty cars or tipping cows.” The muscle under my eye ticked and I thought maybe she noticed it. But then she laughed and dipped all the way through my open window—God have mercy on me—and snatched up her bag. When she whipped around, I acted real noble, like I was admiring Seymour’s wheat field. “But promise me something,” she said, getting close to my face.

Her breath smelled like oranges. It was real nice. And despite what I always told myself, I bottled it up in my memory to save for a summer drive. “Sure, Noxie. Anything.”

“Once you fix your car, do you think you could drive up the road just to make sure I’m not still stranded here?”

I exhaled. “Of course. But I don’t think you’ll have any trouble. Not in these parts.”

Noxie Ramsey smiled, raised up on her toes, and planted a kiss right on my cheek. I stood there, catching flies with my mouth wide open, as her round ass swished down Chickadee Lane, a cloud of dust hugging Every. Single. Curve.

Once she disappeared, I wiped my hand down my face and pulled out my pay-as-you-go mobile phone. Only one number was in the call log. When I heard the line pick up, I said, “Mile marker eight. ETA in two.”

The voice on the other end rattled and coughed. “Good.”

“When will I get my new engine? You said last time—”

The line went dead before I finished.

As I walked around my car to screw the distributor cap back on, I stroked Sweet Louise’s roof. “You’ll get your V8 soon, pretty baby. And then you’ll be purring like the big girls in no time.” She didn’t answer back—how could she? She was just a car—but I was real gentle when I closed her hood because she hated it when I was too rough.

After I lowered myself into the driver’s seat and turned the ignition, a high-pitched scream shrieked down Chickadee and revved across the wheat field. It lasted two-point-six seconds before falling silent.

I nuzzled the steering wheel and sighed. “Soon, my Sweet Louise. Soon.”

© 2010 Cambria Dillon

(Author’s Note: When I look at this picture, I think of cows, muscle cars, and chainsaw-wielding serial killers. (I mean, who doesn’t, right?) And for some reason, Texas seemed the perfect backdrop even though I’ve never been there. Sorry to all you Lone Star residents!)

*Don’t forget to check out other stories from YAFF Muse participants:

RM Gilbert
Rebekah Purdy
Traci Kenworth

Around the Streetmarket by Plamen Stoev

Black Summer Rain

“That black looks hot on your feet.” Gavin smiles at me. It’s the sort of smile he uses when he wants something.

“Not feet,” I say. “Toes.” I wiggle them to show him exactly what I mean. He plants his hands on the car’s hood on either side of me, and leans in, way in, until he fills my field of vision. “You’re going to make me spill polish all over your paint job if you don’t be careful.” Actually, it would get on the towel under my butt and not the paint job, but I give him a gentle nudge anyway.

“I don’t care,” he says, plucking the bottle from my fingers.

I’m not sure where he sets my Knocking On Death’s Door nail polish because he pushes me back until my spine kisses the curve of the hood. It was eighty-seven degrees at noon so the top of the car is warm—no, wait. Not warm. Warm is like apple pie after ten seconds in the microwave. The car is scorching and I wonder if my thin white shirt will melt off my body.

Gavin nuzzles my neck and angles his head so he can blow down my top, between my cleavage. He knows this drives me crazy.

“What do you want?” I ask, and my voice is a little breathy, a combo of the humidity and Gavin’s hard-on teasing the space between my legs.

There’s a naughty hint in his eye when he flicks his gaze at my mouth. It’s in the lazy way he blinks, like he’s trying to hypnotize me, and in the way his mouth puckers just a bit. I swallow hard because I know what he wants.

* * *

It’s one of those flash storms, the kind that catches you while you’re walking home from school or getting the mail or rolling a joint on the hood of your boyfriend’s car.

Gavin curses and grabs the rolling papers and baggie before he ducks toward his house. I laugh because summer rain is my favorite. Closing my eyes, I turn my head to the crying sky and open my mouth. Precipitation doesn’t taste as clean as it did when I was a little girl, but it’s not as bad as, say, drinking from the toilet.

My shirt is soaked through and I realize anyone who wanted to could look out their window and see my flimsy bra with the black stars as clear as if I wasn’t wearing anything.

The rain patters harder and it’s the only thing I let myself hear. Pure. Powerful. A shiatsu massage for your ear drums. When I turn, my breath hitches because Gavin’s an inch from my face. He holds an umbrella over his head, except one side dips at a forty-five-degree angle so a cascade of water pelts his shoulder. I don’t get why he bothers with it.

“Come inside,” he says. “I want to smoke before my parents get home.”

I glance at his car, then the street. When I turn back, he has a mixed expression on his face. I wink and say, “I have a better idea.”

* * *

I tell Gavin to slow down around the bend because I don’t want to burn myself. For once, he actually listens and we pass the street that takes you into the farmer’s market without any problem.

The rain has scared everyone off the road, so I place the lit joint between his lips and let my head fall back against the headrest. My eyelids flutter because it’s almost impossible to keep them open when so much smoke is trapped inside.

* * *

They say it wasn’t Gavin’s fault. That the driver coming from the opposite direction took his eyes off the road and didn’t see us in time. But that driver can’t really say anything, least of all the truth, and no one bothers to ask me.

I roll my eyes at an EMT whose face has turned a brilliant shade of albino. But she sees right through me like I’m not even there, like she doesn’t notice I’m plastered with rain. My star-spangled bra practically winks at every John, Dick, and Harry but no one gazes for more than a second. When a firefighter storms by, I wiggle my black-painted toes. But that gets zero reaction, too. And I find it odd no one asks where my shoes are or why we were driving in the first place.

If they did, I’d say, “Because summer rain is my favorite.” With drops so big they’ll wash you away.

© 2010 Cambria Dillon

(Author’s Note: The girl in the pic looks like a bit of a rebel, no? I mean, who runs barefoot in the rain? The street is just so…gross. Well, that small detail is what inspired me for this week’s story. It started with the simplest activity of painting toes and ended with a stoner-ghost. The mind works in mysterious ways!)

*Don’t forget to check out other stories from YAFF Muse participants:

RM Gilbert
Min Buchanan
Rebekah Purdy
Traci Kenworth
Vanessa Barger
Penny Randall

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