17-year-old Drew Donovan has an absolutely perfect, not-at-all-dangerous plan for her last real summer vacation (library job, reality show marathons, rinse, repeat). Her plan does not include working at Wylde Lake summer camp (as Drew’s pretty sure the forest gives her hives), nor does it include getting caught in the boys’ bathroom on her very first day by the hot-camp-boy-perfection that is Liam Walsh. And in no way does her plan include being chased across camp by a giant black dog that can make people disappear.
But Wylde Lake doesn't only have monsters. When Drew finds a pixie in her cabin, mermaids at the lake, and fairies in the forest, she starts to think that all of the Faerie Tales her dad told her when she was little might just be true, and that Liam, who seems to know all about this Faerie world, may actually be one of them. When Drew and Liam realize that all of the monsters coming out of the forest are actually coming for her, Drew decides to follow the clues of an ancient Alfar prophecy to stop the darkness from taking over the Fae, and save Liam from the darkness within himself, even if, as the prophecy predicts, she’ll have to give her life for his.
Mar 17, 2009
Mar 16, 2009
Query: KRELIS (Revision 1)
Click here to read the original query.
Dear Agent,
Once every hundred years, Comet Orel blazes across the sky, calling to the heavens the souls of deceased dragons. During this time, an opportunity opens to imbue dragon stones with the souls, creating powerful talismans. Krelis and six wizards embark on a journey to collect the elusive dragon stones, which are formed from the hearts of dragons, but the power they yield proves to be too enticing, corrupting one of their own.
Krelis’ innate, magical ability earns him an apprenticeship with the great wizard, Antigonus. He lives in the conservatory on a small remote island where he practices the art with his friends. His life is simple, free from the conflicts that plague rest of Known World.
All of this changes when his mentor brings Krelis and his friends together to reveal the real reason for their selection; a dream of everlasting peace between the races of Known World that can only become a reality with the power of the dragon stones.
Krelis and his peers leave their home and undertake the quest filled with danger and ultimately…betrayal.
KRELIS is an 80,000 word, young adult fantasy.
Thank you for your time and consideration. I look forward to your response.
Sincerely,
Dear Agent,
Once every hundred years, Comet Orel blazes across the sky, calling to the heavens the souls of deceased dragons. During this time, an opportunity opens to imbue dragon stones with the souls, creating powerful talismans. Krelis and six wizards embark on a journey to collect the elusive dragon stones, which are formed from the hearts of dragons, but the power they yield proves to be too enticing, corrupting one of their own.
Krelis’ innate, magical ability earns him an apprenticeship with the great wizard, Antigonus. He lives in the conservatory on a small remote island where he practices the art with his friends. His life is simple, free from the conflicts that plague rest of Known World.
All of this changes when his mentor brings Krelis and his friends together to reveal the real reason for their selection; a dream of everlasting peace between the races of Known World that can only become a reality with the power of the dragon stones.
Krelis and his peers leave their home and undertake the quest filled with danger and ultimately…betrayal.
KRELIS is an 80,000 word, young adult fantasy.
Thank you for your time and consideration. I look forward to your response.
Sincerely,
Query for Love.com
Dear Agent:
Marsha Underwood is one of those people who actually can sell iceboxes to Eskimos. So it’s logical that she is recruited as Director of Marketing for the San Francisco based Internet dating service startup, LOVE.COM. The startup’s founder, Paul Latimer, has loved Marsha for her strength and beauty for more than ten years since their college days, but Marsha doesn’t consider Paul to be marriage material. Paul is desperate to win the approval of his own powerful but remote father as well as Marsha’s affection. Love.com becomes the vehicle for both of his desires. Paul also recruits Marsha’s father, the noted relationship expert Dr. John Underwood to develop matching protocols. The company becomes an overnight sensation after adopting Marsha’s novel pricing strategy: allow subscribers unlimited use of the site for free, and charge them only after a successful match is made. But such a pricing strategy proves an irresistible temptation for Paul to tinker with Mother Nature. Of course, he can’t let Marsha or her father in on the plot. They wouldn’t understand. They have morals.
A slick advertising campaign and the Company’s controversial ‘Soulmate Strategy’ isn’t enough to account for the Company’s success. Soon, subscribers begin marrying in numbers far greater than anyone can fathom. When Marsha and her father question why, danger and death are right behind. With Love.com now a worldwide phenomenon, Marsha is afraid for her life from the man who purports to love her. Will Marsha save her own life, discover the secrets of Love.com and perhaps even find her own soulmate?
LOVE.COM is a romantic suspense complete at 99,000 words. It will be of particular interest to the millions of women and men who have dabbled with Internet dating (we all know at least one). It is the first work I have submitted for representation. I was previously Vice President of Marketing for an information technology consulting firm, which not only is relevant to the story, I also have an excellent marketing plan for the project. Thank you for your time and consideration.
Sincerely,
Author
Marsha Underwood is one of those people who actually can sell iceboxes to Eskimos. So it’s logical that she is recruited as Director of Marketing for the San Francisco based Internet dating service startup, LOVE.COM. The startup’s founder, Paul Latimer, has loved Marsha for her strength and beauty for more than ten years since their college days, but Marsha doesn’t consider Paul to be marriage material. Paul is desperate to win the approval of his own powerful but remote father as well as Marsha’s affection. Love.com becomes the vehicle for both of his desires. Paul also recruits Marsha’s father, the noted relationship expert Dr. John Underwood to develop matching protocols. The company becomes an overnight sensation after adopting Marsha’s novel pricing strategy: allow subscribers unlimited use of the site for free, and charge them only after a successful match is made. But such a pricing strategy proves an irresistible temptation for Paul to tinker with Mother Nature. Of course, he can’t let Marsha or her father in on the plot. They wouldn’t understand. They have morals.
A slick advertising campaign and the Company’s controversial ‘Soulmate Strategy’ isn’t enough to account for the Company’s success. Soon, subscribers begin marrying in numbers far greater than anyone can fathom. When Marsha and her father question why, danger and death are right behind. With Love.com now a worldwide phenomenon, Marsha is afraid for her life from the man who purports to love her. Will Marsha save her own life, discover the secrets of Love.com and perhaps even find her own soulmate?
LOVE.COM is a romantic suspense complete at 99,000 words. It will be of particular interest to the millions of women and men who have dabbled with Internet dating (we all know at least one). It is the first work I have submitted for representation. I was previously Vice President of Marketing for an information technology consulting firm, which not only is relevant to the story, I also have an excellent marketing plan for the project. Thank you for your time and consideration.
Sincerely,
Author
QUERY - BAGASTANA
A revision of this query has been posted. Click here to read it.
Dear Ms. Agent:
There is a huge grizzly bear in their parents' bedroom.
This comes as rather a shock to Mina and Darwin, but they don't have time to think much about it before they and the bear fall through the portal into another world, Bagastana. As soon Bear sees what has happened, she begins to swear in quite forceful and creative ways, because getting the kids back home is going to be a challenge. The only known portal back is far away; it is guarded by a powerful creature who calls himself “The Maker,” and he will kill Mina and Darwin if he discovers who they really are.
Along the way, the twins encounter shape-shifting animals who worship a deceitful tiger; they are kidnapped by giant ants, forced undercover by misogynist horses, nearly devoured by eagles, and asked to make a great sacrifice by evangelizing fish. Mina and Darwin begin to develop their own magical abilities, and as they grow in power and knowledge, they begin to understand why the Maker would want them dead. They also learn how the Maker imprisons some of those who challenge him in his Living Clay, where they are unable to see, hear, breathe, or die.
BAGASTANA is the story of two young people who, while trying to get home, discover who they really are along the way. Like Pullman's GOLDEN COMPASS or L'Engle's A WRINKLE IN TIME, the story of Bagastana is multi-layered with deeper meanings. This novel is complete at 73,700 words; it can be marketed in the commercial-literary genre or as YA fantasy (no sex or profanity, although the religious symbolism might be a bit controversial).
I was born and raised in suburban New Jersey, but I managed to escape. After attending Yale as an undergraduate and getting my Ph.D. in psychology from Rutgers, I took a job with University of Maryland's overseas teaching program, living in several different cultures, many of which I've drawn on for this novel. I moved back to the U.S. in December.
Please contact me if you are interested in receiving a partial or the complete manuscript. The first chapters also are available on my website at http://www.mywebsite.com/writing.
Thank you for your time, and take care!
Dear Ms. Agent:
There is a huge grizzly bear in their parents' bedroom.
This comes as rather a shock to Mina and Darwin, but they don't have time to think much about it before they and the bear fall through the portal into another world, Bagastana. As soon Bear sees what has happened, she begins to swear in quite forceful and creative ways, because getting the kids back home is going to be a challenge. The only known portal back is far away; it is guarded by a powerful creature who calls himself “The Maker,” and he will kill Mina and Darwin if he discovers who they really are.
Along the way, the twins encounter shape-shifting animals who worship a deceitful tiger; they are kidnapped by giant ants, forced undercover by misogynist horses, nearly devoured by eagles, and asked to make a great sacrifice by evangelizing fish. Mina and Darwin begin to develop their own magical abilities, and as they grow in power and knowledge, they begin to understand why the Maker would want them dead. They also learn how the Maker imprisons some of those who challenge him in his Living Clay, where they are unable to see, hear, breathe, or die.
BAGASTANA is the story of two young people who, while trying to get home, discover who they really are along the way. Like Pullman's GOLDEN COMPASS or L'Engle's A WRINKLE IN TIME, the story of Bagastana is multi-layered with deeper meanings. This novel is complete at 73,700 words; it can be marketed in the commercial-literary genre or as YA fantasy (no sex or profanity, although the religious symbolism might be a bit controversial).
I was born and raised in suburban New Jersey, but I managed to escape. After attending Yale as an undergraduate and getting my Ph.D. in psychology from Rutgers, I took a job with University of Maryland's overseas teaching program, living in several different cultures, many of which I've drawn on for this novel. I moved back to the U.S. in December.
Please contact me if you are interested in receiving a partial or the complete manuscript. The first chapters also are available on my website at http://www.mywebsite.com/writing.
Thank you for your time, and take care!
Query for Demon Dreams, main stream paranormal fiction...
Almost thirty years ago Margaret Turner left the occult world and the duties of being a Guardian for a normal life. Two marriages and three kids later she’s still trying to find normal.
Late one night while relaxing and reading a good book an old friend pops in to pay Meg a visit. More curious than scared of the demon, Meg agrees to a battle of wills and quickly gains control of the situation. What she learns from the demon under her control makes her less than thrilled. Hell is in danger and needs her help.
A power hungry warlock has been killing demons and assuming their powers. He’s somehow blocked the higher level demons from leaving hell on their own and any move they make to attack him misses. Having exhausted every evil plan they can think of, Satan and his minions turn to their earthly counterparts for help.
The idea of returning to her duties as Guardian of the Way makes Meg pause. She left all of that behind to live a normal life. As she wonders if she can pick up where she left off, she realizes that if she doesn’t help everything she knows and loves will die. So with help from her psychic friend, druidic boss, a few demons and angels, Meg immerses herself into the world she left behind. Can she find a way to defeat the warlock at his own game before hell takes over earth?
Demon Dreams is a finished 65,000 word paranormal/fiction manuscript that follows Meg Turner, witch and Guardian of the Way on a wild ride to save Hell. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. Thank you for your time and consideration.
Sincerely Yours,
Late one night while relaxing and reading a good book an old friend pops in to pay Meg a visit. More curious than scared of the demon, Meg agrees to a battle of wills and quickly gains control of the situation. What she learns from the demon under her control makes her less than thrilled. Hell is in danger and needs her help.
A power hungry warlock has been killing demons and assuming their powers. He’s somehow blocked the higher level demons from leaving hell on their own and any move they make to attack him misses. Having exhausted every evil plan they can think of, Satan and his minions turn to their earthly counterparts for help.
The idea of returning to her duties as Guardian of the Way makes Meg pause. She left all of that behind to live a normal life. As she wonders if she can pick up where she left off, she realizes that if she doesn’t help everything she knows and loves will die. So with help from her psychic friend, druidic boss, a few demons and angels, Meg immerses herself into the world she left behind. Can she find a way to defeat the warlock at his own game before hell takes over earth?
Demon Dreams is a finished 65,000 word paranormal/fiction manuscript that follows Meg Turner, witch and Guardian of the Way on a wild ride to save Hell. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. Thank you for your time and consideration.
Sincerely Yours,
QUERY - XENOLITH
Bearing flowers to the cairn erected in his vanished wife's memory in the wilderness of Belize, an ambush awaits Dr. Robert Bowen and his heart.
Bound and bruised on the forest floor, he battles a potentially fatal arrhythmia while his captors bicker in an obscure tongue. They ignore his wallet and passport. He thinks they might be drug runners. He couldn't be more mistaken.
For millennia, the Philosophers of Ubabaor denied the existence of xenoliths -- stones rumored to mediate convergences between worlds. For centuries they had witnessed the advance of earthly technologies and summarily rejected them.
When a brutal invasion overwhelms their country's defenses, their military commandeers the stones to open corridors through our world to support the covert strikes and strategic evacuations that enable their country to persist under siege.
Robert's exile to Ubabaor for witnessing a convergence rekindles hope that his wife still lives. Seeking other exiles who might have seen her, he roams a war-ravaged landscape, facing Ubabaor's enemies, as traces of Elizabeth, faint but unmistakable, lead him closer to a possible reunion, if he can keep his balky heart beating long enough.
XENOLITH, an urban fantasy, is complete at 110,000 words. I am a Harvard-trained, tropical disease ecologist whose many forays in developing countries and innumerable bouts of culture shock help inspire my depictions of exotic cultures and settings.
Thank you for your time and consideration. Please let me know if you would like to see more.
Bound and bruised on the forest floor, he battles a potentially fatal arrhythmia while his captors bicker in an obscure tongue. They ignore his wallet and passport. He thinks they might be drug runners. He couldn't be more mistaken.
For millennia, the Philosophers of Ubabaor denied the existence of xenoliths -- stones rumored to mediate convergences between worlds. For centuries they had witnessed the advance of earthly technologies and summarily rejected them.
When a brutal invasion overwhelms their country's defenses, their military commandeers the stones to open corridors through our world to support the covert strikes and strategic evacuations that enable their country to persist under siege.
Robert's exile to Ubabaor for witnessing a convergence rekindles hope that his wife still lives. Seeking other exiles who might have seen her, he roams a war-ravaged landscape, facing Ubabaor's enemies, as traces of Elizabeth, faint but unmistakable, lead him closer to a possible reunion, if he can keep his balky heart beating long enough.
XENOLITH, an urban fantasy, is complete at 110,000 words. I am a Harvard-trained, tropical disease ecologist whose many forays in developing countries and innumerable bouts of culture shock help inspire my depictions of exotic cultures and settings.
Thank you for your time and consideration. Please let me know if you would like to see more.
Query: YA Fiction: Fault Lines
Sam can’t imagine her ancient grandmother, Granny Franny, or her mother, Angela, as teenagers. To Sam's mind, her grandmother was born an old lady and her mother has always been a bordering-on-boring single mother. But the discovery of a photo of a teenaged Franny kissing a cute boy and a look through Angela's high school yearbook now have Sam resolved to learn more about her grandmother's and mother's younger years. Her voyages through the past coincide with her finding her first boyfriend.
Sam discovers more than just exciting first kisses and tender hand-holding. She learns secrets with the power to destroy her fragile family. After Granny dies, petty arguments, old jealousies and unraveling secrets threaten to explode into intractable family feuds.
Fault Lines tells three interwoven stories of love, loss and identity, each echoing the shiver-inducing electricity of young love, the plaintive ache of lost innocence, and the ongoing struggle to become an independent, self-assured adult. Fault Lines is around 60,000 words long.
I have twelve years of professional writing experience, the bulk of which has involved writing instructional manuals for the computer software industry.
My freelance work has appeared in magazines such as Boys’ Life, Chicago Parent, American Health & Fitness, Bride & Groom, and Delicious Living.
Thank you for your time and consideration. I look forward to hearing from you.
Sam discovers more than just exciting first kisses and tender hand-holding. She learns secrets with the power to destroy her fragile family. After Granny dies, petty arguments, old jealousies and unraveling secrets threaten to explode into intractable family feuds.
Fault Lines tells three interwoven stories of love, loss and identity, each echoing the shiver-inducing electricity of young love, the plaintive ache of lost innocence, and the ongoing struggle to become an independent, self-assured adult. Fault Lines is around 60,000 words long.
I have twelve years of professional writing experience, the bulk of which has involved writing instructional manuals for the computer software industry.
My freelance work has appeared in magazines such as Boys’ Life, Chicago Parent, American Health & Fitness, Bride & Groom, and Delicious Living.
Thank you for your time and consideration. I look forward to hearing from you.
Mar 15, 2009
Query: LAZY CATS (Revision 1)
A second revision of this query has been posted. Click here to read it.
Click here to read the original query.
Dear XXXXX,
LAZY CATS is a 60,000 word, work of Women’s fiction.
Just Maggie’s luck! Seven years in a comfortable marriage, one night of shamefully exciting sex, then poof, her husband’s gone without an explanation.
Did he run off with his secretary, Tracy Morgan?
Perhaps Maggie’s own wanton behavior drove him away.
Could Maggie’s latest story have anything to do with her husband’s disappearance? YES!
Maggie had no idea Chris had been secretly reading about Sarah.
“An undemanding woman, content living in the shadow of her puffed up husband, keeping a clean house, being the ideal wife, Sarah loses herself and gives up her dream of becoming a famous writer. But when her selfish husband goes too far, stepping out on her, Sarah cleverly plots his murder. Mouse poison should take care of a rat.”
Maggie and Sarah have a lot in common. The women even write alike. There is one big difference though, Maggie is real and Sarah is only a figment of Maggie’s imagination. But both women scare the hell out of their cheating husbands.
Thank you for your time. My contact information is listed below for your convenience.
raymond@threeriver.net
Click here to read the original query.
Dear XXXXX,
LAZY CATS is a 60,000 word, work of Women’s fiction.
Just Maggie’s luck! Seven years in a comfortable marriage, one night of shamefully exciting sex, then poof, her husband’s gone without an explanation.
Did he run off with his secretary, Tracy Morgan?
Perhaps Maggie’s own wanton behavior drove him away.
Could Maggie’s latest story have anything to do with her husband’s disappearance? YES!
Maggie had no idea Chris had been secretly reading about Sarah.
“An undemanding woman, content living in the shadow of her puffed up husband, keeping a clean house, being the ideal wife, Sarah loses herself and gives up her dream of becoming a famous writer. But when her selfish husband goes too far, stepping out on her, Sarah cleverly plots his murder. Mouse poison should take care of a rat.”
Maggie and Sarah have a lot in common. The women even write alike. There is one big difference though, Maggie is real and Sarah is only a figment of Maggie’s imagination. But both women scare the hell out of their cheating husbands.
Thank you for your time. My contact information is listed below for your convenience.
raymond@threeriver.net
Too much is never enough
I've received several comments asking if I plan to regulate or suppress the flow of new queries posted to the site.
For the time being, I don't. I know many people would like to critique all of the queries posted, but for most of us there just isn't time. I've struggled to find fifteen consecutive minutes of free time this weekend, so trust me, I'm playing in the same ballpark as you are.
I understand better than ever why agents send form rejections. I'm not saying I would be issuing rejections for all the queries posted here, what I mean is that reading a query takes time; providing concise feedback triples that time, at least.
If you ever wonder why agents beg us not to reply to a form rejections asking why, then do this:
Log onto this site. Read and critique five queries. Time yourself. Then pretend you have to do 95 more today. And tomorrow, another hundred. And another hundred every day after that...
As a courtesy, if you are submitting a query, please take the time to critique another query (or two, or three...). Any one of us can't critique them all, but as a community of readers and writers, we should be able to get through the slush.
So far I've posted 16 queries, counting two revisions. I've commented on about half, and I want to get tot hem all. There is only one query that has not received any comments, but in all fairness I only posted it 15 minutes ago.
If the volume of queries zaps the value from this project, I'll find a way to deal with it. I'm solutions-oriented.
Until that time, don't feel obligated to read everything. Just read something, and I think it will be fine.
Thanks again for visiting!
For the time being, I don't. I know many people would like to critique all of the queries posted, but for most of us there just isn't time. I've struggled to find fifteen consecutive minutes of free time this weekend, so trust me, I'm playing in the same ballpark as you are.
I understand better than ever why agents send form rejections. I'm not saying I would be issuing rejections for all the queries posted here, what I mean is that reading a query takes time; providing concise feedback triples that time, at least.
If you ever wonder why agents beg us not to reply to a form rejections asking why, then do this:
Log onto this site. Read and critique five queries. Time yourself. Then pretend you have to do 95 more today. And tomorrow, another hundred. And another hundred every day after that...
As a courtesy, if you are submitting a query, please take the time to critique another query (or two, or three...). Any one of us can't critique them all, but as a community of readers and writers, we should be able to get through the slush.
So far I've posted 16 queries, counting two revisions. I've commented on about half, and I want to get tot hem all. There is only one query that has not received any comments, but in all fairness I only posted it 15 minutes ago.
If the volume of queries zaps the value from this project, I'll find a way to deal with it. I'm solutions-oriented.
Until that time, don't feel obligated to read everything. Just read something, and I think it will be fine.
Thanks again for visiting!
Query: KRELIS
A revision of this query has been posted. Click here to read it.
Dear Wonderful Agent Person
Once every hundred years, Comet Orel blazes across the sky, calling to the heavens the souls of decease dragons, and during this time, an opportunity opens to imbue dragon stones with the souls, creating them into powerful talismans. Seven wizards embark on a journey to collect the elusive dragon stones, which are formed from the hearts of dragons, but the power they yield proves to be too enticing, corrupting one of their own.
Krelis’ innate, magical ability earns him an apprenticeship with the great wizard, Antigonus. He lives in the conservatory on a small remote island where he practices the art with his friends. He enjoys his simple life, free from the conflicts that plague rest of Known World. All of this changes when his mentor brings Krelis and his friends together to reveal the real reason for their selection; a dream of everlasting peace between the races of Known World that can become a reality with the magic of the dragon stones.
Krelis and his peers leave their home and undertake the perilous quest filled with danger and ultimately…betrayal.
KRELIS is an 80,000 word young adult fantasy.
Thank you for your time and consideration. I look forward to your response.
Dear Wonderful Agent Person
Once every hundred years, Comet Orel blazes across the sky, calling to the heavens the souls of decease dragons, and during this time, an opportunity opens to imbue dragon stones with the souls, creating them into powerful talismans. Seven wizards embark on a journey to collect the elusive dragon stones, which are formed from the hearts of dragons, but the power they yield proves to be too enticing, corrupting one of their own.
Krelis’ innate, magical ability earns him an apprenticeship with the great wizard, Antigonus. He lives in the conservatory on a small remote island where he practices the art with his friends. He enjoys his simple life, free from the conflicts that plague rest of Known World. All of this changes when his mentor brings Krelis and his friends together to reveal the real reason for their selection; a dream of everlasting peace between the races of Known World that can become a reality with the magic of the dragon stones.
Krelis and his peers leave their home and undertake the perilous quest filled with danger and ultimately…betrayal.
KRELIS is an 80,000 word young adult fantasy.
Thank you for your time and consideration. I look forward to your response.
Mar 14, 2009
Query: LAZY CATS
A second revision of this query has been posted. Click here to read it.
Click here to read the first revision.
Dear XXXXX,
LAZY CATS is a 60,000 word, work of Women’s fiction.
Author Maggie Weather’s glass (slipper) would be more than half full if it wasn’t for those pesky mice.
Just Maggie’s luck! Seven years in a comfortable marriage, one night of shamefully exciting sex, then poof, her husband’s gone without an explanation.
Did he run off with his secretary Tracy Morgan? Highly unlikely, she was just a temptation that got out of hand.
Did Maggie’s wanton behavior drive him away? Possibly, Chris had always kept Maggie on a pedestal. Their one night of uninhibited sex might have tarnished her halo.
Did he get tired of the peaceful country life where Maggie insisted they live? Doubtful, he seemed to enjoy the quiet after a busy day in the City.
Did Maggie’s latest story have anything to do with her husband’s disappearance? YES!
Maggie had no idea Chris had been secretly reading about Sarah.
“An undemanding woman, content living in the shadow of her puffed up husband, keeping a clean house, being the ideal wife, Sarah loses herself and gives up her dream of becoming a famous writer. But when her selfish husband goes too far, stepping out on her, Sarah cleverly plots his murder. Mouse poison should take care of a rat.”
Maggie and Sarah have a lot in common. The women even write alike. There is one big difference though, Maggie is real and Sarah is only a figment of Maggie’s imagination. But both women scare the hell out of their cheating husbands.
Thank you for your time. My contact information is listed below for your convenience.
Click here to read the first revision.
Dear XXXXX,
LAZY CATS is a 60,000 word, work of Women’s fiction.
Author Maggie Weather’s glass (slipper) would be more than half full if it wasn’t for those pesky mice.
Just Maggie’s luck! Seven years in a comfortable marriage, one night of shamefully exciting sex, then poof, her husband’s gone without an explanation.
Did he run off with his secretary Tracy Morgan? Highly unlikely, she was just a temptation that got out of hand.
Did Maggie’s wanton behavior drive him away? Possibly, Chris had always kept Maggie on a pedestal. Their one night of uninhibited sex might have tarnished her halo.
Did he get tired of the peaceful country life where Maggie insisted they live? Doubtful, he seemed to enjoy the quiet after a busy day in the City.
Did Maggie’s latest story have anything to do with her husband’s disappearance? YES!
Maggie had no idea Chris had been secretly reading about Sarah.
“An undemanding woman, content living in the shadow of her puffed up husband, keeping a clean house, being the ideal wife, Sarah loses herself and gives up her dream of becoming a famous writer. But when her selfish husband goes too far, stepping out on her, Sarah cleverly plots his murder. Mouse poison should take care of a rat.”
Maggie and Sarah have a lot in common. The women even write alike. There is one big difference though, Maggie is real and Sarah is only a figment of Maggie’s imagination. But both women scare the hell out of their cheating husbands.
Thank you for your time. My contact information is listed below for your convenience.
QUERY- The Amazing Tale of Rudy Toot-Toot
A revision of this query has been posted. Click here to read it.
Dear Agent XYZ,
Please consider my 500 word picture book, THE AMAZING TALE OF RUDY TOOT-TOOT. This quirky comedy will make little boys giggle, but the laughs come with a lesson on manners. I chose to query you based on the interests listed in your bio on the 123 Literary Agency website.
Rudy Toot-Toot was born on a bean farm. He has an amazing gift - at least he thinks it is amazing – but I’ll tell you about that in a second. He also has an amazing problem: Rudy Toot-Toot does not know how to use any manners. His family tries to eat dinner, but can barely even get started because of Rudy’s antics. “Rudy Toot-Toot! How rude!” the family exclaims repeatedly, a fun phrase that kids can say, too. But then when Rudy starts eating his beans, his amazing gift takes over…and the family had better run for cover!
I have been writing professionally for business for the past eight years, including copywriting, press releases, and proposals. THE AMAZING TALE OF RUDY TOOT-TOOT is my first picture book manuscript, inspired by my own two sons.
Thank you for your time and consideration. The complete manuscript follows, per your submission guidelines.
Regards,
Rick Daley
Dear Agent XYZ,
Please consider my 500 word picture book, THE AMAZING TALE OF RUDY TOOT-TOOT. This quirky comedy will make little boys giggle, but the laughs come with a lesson on manners. I chose to query you based on the interests listed in your bio on the 123 Literary Agency website.
Rudy Toot-Toot was born on a bean farm. He has an amazing gift - at least he thinks it is amazing – but I’ll tell you about that in a second. He also has an amazing problem: Rudy Toot-Toot does not know how to use any manners. His family tries to eat dinner, but can barely even get started because of Rudy’s antics. “Rudy Toot-Toot! How rude!” the family exclaims repeatedly, a fun phrase that kids can say, too. But then when Rudy starts eating his beans, his amazing gift takes over…and the family had better run for cover!
I have been writing professionally for business for the past eight years, including copywriting, press releases, and proposals. THE AMAZING TALE OF RUDY TOOT-TOOT is my first picture book manuscript, inspired by my own two sons.
Thank you for your time and consideration. The complete manuscript follows, per your submission guidelines.
Regards,
Rick Daley
Query- DON'T LET THE BEDBUGS BITE!
Dear Editor/Agent,
If you stop and think about many of the old sayings we use to calm and soothe our children, you will find that most of them don’t really include much by way of comfort. For example, why do we sing our babies to sleep with a song about them falling “cradle and all” out of a tree? One saying that always gave me the creeps is the one about not letting the bedbugs bite. If there are bugs in my bed, should I really be sleeping there? And yet, I find myself muttering that same old phrase each night when putting my own kids to bed. Therefore, I’ve decided to make the bedbug seem a little less scary and a lot more fun.
I have written a picture book entitled, DON’T LET THE BEDBUGS BITE! It is a quirky, fun bedtime story written in verse with a twist. In it, mom puts her child to bed and spouts the old bedbug adage. Sure enough, the anxious child soon discovers there is indeed a bedbug in her bed. But this is no ordinary bug. Dressed in her own frilly pajamas this weary insect isn’t thrilled to find a human in bed with her either! Can these two adversaries iron out their differences before another night-time fable comes a-calling?
My manuscript is approximately 400 words and is written for the 4-8 age group. It can be sent to you immediately upon request by email or regular post. (Publishing credits go here.) I have enclosed a SASE for your convenience and look forward to hearing from you soon.
If you stop and think about many of the old sayings we use to calm and soothe our children, you will find that most of them don’t really include much by way of comfort. For example, why do we sing our babies to sleep with a song about them falling “cradle and all” out of a tree? One saying that always gave me the creeps is the one about not letting the bedbugs bite. If there are bugs in my bed, should I really be sleeping there? And yet, I find myself muttering that same old phrase each night when putting my own kids to bed. Therefore, I’ve decided to make the bedbug seem a little less scary and a lot more fun.
I have written a picture book entitled, DON’T LET THE BEDBUGS BITE! It is a quirky, fun bedtime story written in verse with a twist. In it, mom puts her child to bed and spouts the old bedbug adage. Sure enough, the anxious child soon discovers there is indeed a bedbug in her bed. But this is no ordinary bug. Dressed in her own frilly pajamas this weary insect isn’t thrilled to find a human in bed with her either! Can these two adversaries iron out their differences before another night-time fable comes a-calling?
My manuscript is approximately 400 words and is written for the 4-8 age group. It can be sent to you immediately upon request by email or regular post. (Publishing credits go here.) I have enclosed a SASE for your convenience and look forward to hearing from you soon.
Query: GHOST OF ZORRO
In THE GHOST OF ZORRO, a 35,000-word book for boys, Zorro comes alive to save a thirteen-year-old living in New York
I’m Carlos Rodriguez and my life’s been one bad event after another since my father went out for cigarettes one day three years ago, and never came back. My mother says I’m the man in the family now, and I’m in charge of my little brother.
What a handful. He’s trying to join a gang and I have to stop him, but how much can a thirteen-year-old do?
One night after my brother just about got killed, I couldn’t sleep, and so I watched an old Zorro movie on TV. After I saw all the things he could do, I made a wish to be just like him. This part you won’t believe. I know I don’t. When I woke up the next day, he was in my bedroom. Zorro! I think he’s just a ghost, but he told me he was going to teach me to be a man. That’s when my life started changing.
I’ve copied in the first pages below.
Thank you for your consideration.
THE GHOST OF ZORRO
1
Word on the street: my little brother is trying to join a gang.
I’d been looking for him everywhere. So far, no results. My eyes watered from the cold and I had to zip up my Day-Glo Jets jacket just to block out the wind. I rushed along, hoping to find Manuel.
He was my responsibility. My mother told me so.
She’d sat me down three years ago after my father went out for a pack of cigarettes and never came back. “You’re the man in the family now, Carlos,” she told me, tears in her eyes, sadness in her voice.
Too much for a ten-year-old to understand, but I’d been growing up fast. Out of a possible ten, I gave myself a four on how I was doing. What I really needed was a father to show me the ropes about how to be a man. So far, I hadn’t found one.
So, there I was on the street, pushing people out of the way and zigzagging around tamale vendors and taquerias, the smells of quesadillas filled with pork tantalizing my nose. I didn’t have time to stop. I had to find Manuel before he did something really
stupid.
No one looked friendly, but maybe that was because I was nervous. Not because of the crowd, but because I might be too late.
“¡Cuidado!” A Nuyorican elbowed me as I ran by.
“Sorry,” I shouted back. Didn’t my brother know gangs just played on your weaknesses and fear? They made you do bad things. What gave him the idea to join a gang?
One of the men jostled me as I shoved past.
Another shouted in what sounded like Chinese. “Jiănsù!”
Not daring to look back, or take time to explain, I kept running. Split by weather and speckled with spit and flattened chewing gum, the cement felt cold under my sneakers. What if I couldn’t find my brother in time?
Manuel could get hurt or worse. If only I’d been able to keep him out of trouble.
Salsa, soul, rap and reggae music tumbled from windows above me and cars alongside me. As I neared McDonald’s, the smells of snow cones, uncollected garbage, and fresh-cut flowers combined with the lure of French fries.
I had no idea how to stop my brother or even how to find him. My heart thundered and my lungs ached, but I kept going. I threaded my way around the two-for-one sweat suits, evening gowns, underwear and overcoats hanging on racks and lying in bins that spilled from the open doors of discount stores and the folding tables of temporary merchants.
“Slow down!” One of the employees raised a fist and shouted when I nearly tripped over his decrepit chair held together with speaker wire and duct tape.
I didn’t answer. I had to find Manuel and according to my calculations, it had to be soon.
At the corner, almost covered over by a dumpster and scaffolding, graffiti marked the building with a portrait of the salsa king, Tito Puente. Next to that, a Rest in Peace mural marked the site of a local tragedy. Charred by soot, a temporary altar made of a cardboard box, candle, and liquor bottles depicted the dead kid’s face.
I jumped back when a gypsy cab driver in a black Lincoln Town Car tapped his horn at me in the intersection. I ran around the back of the vehicle and across the street past his favorite bodega. Throat dry and stomach empty, I wanted to stop for a package of mini-donuts and a bottle of quarter water, but I didn’t have the time or the money.
I rushed toward Mr. Blanco’s vegetable stand like a cat, listening for any sound that might give me a clue. I stopped for a gulp of air in front of a hardware store where a couple of gray-haired men sat on a bench, talking.
“Have you seen a boy, about eight years old, about this tall?” I held my hand shoulder high. “Black hair, brown eyes.”
They pointed down the street. “About a dozen boys that size just ran by here going towards the river,” one of them said.
Half a block down, I saw two of Manuel’s friends run across the street to join about a dozen other boys.
“Wait!” I shouted to them, but they kept going, moving as if some kind of invisible force pulled them along. If they were here, Manuel wasn’t far behind. I squinted down the street. He might even be with them.
They wore high-top sneakers and jackets with patches sewn on them and bright-colored baseball hats. Some of the gang wannabees wore their red handkerchiefs in the wrong pocket. Their breath came out like smoke in the chilly air as they streamed across the street, dodging in between cars and trucks, all shouting and whooping. They headed for Mr. Blanco’s stand.
“Hey, you.” I yelled at the boys. “Stop. Manuel?” They paid no attention. I told myself not to think the worst, but with Manuel for a brother, it was hard not to.
I knew I looked even smaller and skinnier than I was in the too big jeans and jacket my mother bought me. But I was big enough and fast enough to teach Manuel a lesson. If I caught him stealing fruit, I’d make him eat lemons, skin and all, for breakfast, lunch and dinner for two weeks.
Still shouting and whooping, the boys rushed up to Mr. Blanco’s stand. They grabbed handfuls of shiny red apples and knobby oranges and most of the bananas. They dropped some of the fruit and it smashed onto the ground. The boys just ran away.
“Get out of here you delinquents!” Red-faced and with a towel tied around his waist, Mr. Blanco came running out of his store. He whacked a couple of the slower boys
with a broom.
The others stuffed fruit into their jacket pockets. They ran back across the street and down the alleyway.
All but one of the smaller boys. He must have gotten confused or just wasn’t watching. He kept running forward and taking more fruit.
“Manuel?” The breath caught in my throat. It couldn’t be Manuel because he didn’t own a jacket with patches sewn on it, at least not that I knew about. But he did look a
lot like my brother with his curly hair and stocky body.
I started across the street. Halfway there a delivery truck roared around the corner and headed toward me. Heart pounding, I shouted out a warning to the boy. “Look
out!” I could barely hear my own voice above the street noise and the boy was too far away for me to grab him.
The driver leaned on the horn and the truck bore down on the boy. At the last second, I jumped back on the sidewalk, and stood watching, terror filling up my heart.
With a loud thud, the truck scooped up the boy and threw him onto the curb. The driver raced past, not even slowing down.
“No!” I somehow willed myself to move, and raced across the street to the boy. It couldn’t be Manuel, it just couldn’t. Once I got to the curb, I wasn’t sure what to do. What I wouldn’t give to find someone to show me. Hands shaking, I stared at the boy lying on the sidewalk and knelt down beside him.
Thank God, it wasn’t Manuel. And triple thanks the kid wasn’t dead, just breathing sort of hacky like he had something stuck in his throat.
Shouldn’t I push on the kid’s chest? I put out my hands and touched the boy, but when he moaned in pain, I jerked back. That was a stupid thing to do. Maybe I hurt the kid even worse. He wasn’t even somebody I knew, but I still felt sorry for what happened to him. And guilty. Why hadn’t I run across the street and tackled the kid before truck
I’m Carlos Rodriguez and my life’s been one bad event after another since my father went out for cigarettes one day three years ago, and never came back. My mother says I’m the man in the family now, and I’m in charge of my little brother.
What a handful. He’s trying to join a gang and I have to stop him, but how much can a thirteen-year-old do?
One night after my brother just about got killed, I couldn’t sleep, and so I watched an old Zorro movie on TV. After I saw all the things he could do, I made a wish to be just like him. This part you won’t believe. I know I don’t. When I woke up the next day, he was in my bedroom. Zorro! I think he’s just a ghost, but he told me he was going to teach me to be a man. That’s when my life started changing.
I’ve copied in the first pages below.
Thank you for your consideration.
THE GHOST OF ZORRO
1
Word on the street: my little brother is trying to join a gang.
I’d been looking for him everywhere. So far, no results. My eyes watered from the cold and I had to zip up my Day-Glo Jets jacket just to block out the wind. I rushed along, hoping to find Manuel.
He was my responsibility. My mother told me so.
She’d sat me down three years ago after my father went out for a pack of cigarettes and never came back. “You’re the man in the family now, Carlos,” she told me, tears in her eyes, sadness in her voice.
Too much for a ten-year-old to understand, but I’d been growing up fast. Out of a possible ten, I gave myself a four on how I was doing. What I really needed was a father to show me the ropes about how to be a man. So far, I hadn’t found one.
So, there I was on the street, pushing people out of the way and zigzagging around tamale vendors and taquerias, the smells of quesadillas filled with pork tantalizing my nose. I didn’t have time to stop. I had to find Manuel before he did something really
stupid.
No one looked friendly, but maybe that was because I was nervous. Not because of the crowd, but because I might be too late.
“¡Cuidado!” A Nuyorican elbowed me as I ran by.
“Sorry,” I shouted back. Didn’t my brother know gangs just played on your weaknesses and fear? They made you do bad things. What gave him the idea to join a gang?
One of the men jostled me as I shoved past.
Another shouted in what sounded like Chinese. “Jiănsù!”
Not daring to look back, or take time to explain, I kept running. Split by weather and speckled with spit and flattened chewing gum, the cement felt cold under my sneakers. What if I couldn’t find my brother in time?
Manuel could get hurt or worse. If only I’d been able to keep him out of trouble.
Salsa, soul, rap and reggae music tumbled from windows above me and cars alongside me. As I neared McDonald’s, the smells of snow cones, uncollected garbage, and fresh-cut flowers combined with the lure of French fries.
I had no idea how to stop my brother or even how to find him. My heart thundered and my lungs ached, but I kept going. I threaded my way around the two-for-one sweat suits, evening gowns, underwear and overcoats hanging on racks and lying in bins that spilled from the open doors of discount stores and the folding tables of temporary merchants.
“Slow down!” One of the employees raised a fist and shouted when I nearly tripped over his decrepit chair held together with speaker wire and duct tape.
I didn’t answer. I had to find Manuel and according to my calculations, it had to be soon.
At the corner, almost covered over by a dumpster and scaffolding, graffiti marked the building with a portrait of the salsa king, Tito Puente. Next to that, a Rest in Peace mural marked the site of a local tragedy. Charred by soot, a temporary altar made of a cardboard box, candle, and liquor bottles depicted the dead kid’s face.
I jumped back when a gypsy cab driver in a black Lincoln Town Car tapped his horn at me in the intersection. I ran around the back of the vehicle and across the street past his favorite bodega. Throat dry and stomach empty, I wanted to stop for a package of mini-donuts and a bottle of quarter water, but I didn’t have the time or the money.
I rushed toward Mr. Blanco’s vegetable stand like a cat, listening for any sound that might give me a clue. I stopped for a gulp of air in front of a hardware store where a couple of gray-haired men sat on a bench, talking.
“Have you seen a boy, about eight years old, about this tall?” I held my hand shoulder high. “Black hair, brown eyes.”
They pointed down the street. “About a dozen boys that size just ran by here going towards the river,” one of them said.
Half a block down, I saw two of Manuel’s friends run across the street to join about a dozen other boys.
“Wait!” I shouted to them, but they kept going, moving as if some kind of invisible force pulled them along. If they were here, Manuel wasn’t far behind. I squinted down the street. He might even be with them.
They wore high-top sneakers and jackets with patches sewn on them and bright-colored baseball hats. Some of the gang wannabees wore their red handkerchiefs in the wrong pocket. Their breath came out like smoke in the chilly air as they streamed across the street, dodging in between cars and trucks, all shouting and whooping. They headed for Mr. Blanco’s stand.
“Hey, you.” I yelled at the boys. “Stop. Manuel?” They paid no attention. I told myself not to think the worst, but with Manuel for a brother, it was hard not to.
I knew I looked even smaller and skinnier than I was in the too big jeans and jacket my mother bought me. But I was big enough and fast enough to teach Manuel a lesson. If I caught him stealing fruit, I’d make him eat lemons, skin and all, for breakfast, lunch and dinner for two weeks.
Still shouting and whooping, the boys rushed up to Mr. Blanco’s stand. They grabbed handfuls of shiny red apples and knobby oranges and most of the bananas. They dropped some of the fruit and it smashed onto the ground. The boys just ran away.
“Get out of here you delinquents!” Red-faced and with a towel tied around his waist, Mr. Blanco came running out of his store. He whacked a couple of the slower boys
with a broom.
The others stuffed fruit into their jacket pockets. They ran back across the street and down the alleyway.
All but one of the smaller boys. He must have gotten confused or just wasn’t watching. He kept running forward and taking more fruit.
“Manuel?” The breath caught in my throat. It couldn’t be Manuel because he didn’t own a jacket with patches sewn on it, at least not that I knew about. But he did look a
lot like my brother with his curly hair and stocky body.
I started across the street. Halfway there a delivery truck roared around the corner and headed toward me. Heart pounding, I shouted out a warning to the boy. “Look
out!” I could barely hear my own voice above the street noise and the boy was too far away for me to grab him.
The driver leaned on the horn and the truck bore down on the boy. At the last second, I jumped back on the sidewalk, and stood watching, terror filling up my heart.
With a loud thud, the truck scooped up the boy and threw him onto the curb. The driver raced past, not even slowing down.
“No!” I somehow willed myself to move, and raced across the street to the boy. It couldn’t be Manuel, it just couldn’t. Once I got to the curb, I wasn’t sure what to do. What I wouldn’t give to find someone to show me. Hands shaking, I stared at the boy lying on the sidewalk and knelt down beside him.
Thank God, it wasn’t Manuel. And triple thanks the kid wasn’t dead, just breathing sort of hacky like he had something stuck in his throat.
Shouldn’t I push on the kid’s chest? I put out my hands and touched the boy, but when he moaned in pain, I jerked back. That was a stupid thing to do. Maybe I hurt the kid even worse. He wasn’t even somebody I knew, but I still felt sorry for what happened to him. And guilty. Why hadn’t I run across the street and tackled the kid before truck
Mar 13, 2009
QUERY - BROKEN
A revision of this query has been posted. Click here to read it.
Click here to read the second revision.
Click here to read the third revision.
Click here to read the most recent revision.
Dear Agent,
While standing on a busy London street, American psychologist Alec Sumner spots Eli Burke and likes the look of him, but there’s no way for him to know that behind the man’s bright blue eyes lies the memory of his lover’s murder.
Having relocated after a failed love affair, Alec is not eager to launch the next, but when he unknowingly rents the attic in the house Burke shares with his loving, if flawed, family of friends, he’ll have little choice.
My 80,000 word gay fiction manuscript, BROKEN, explores the idea that whatever scars you carry, there might be someone out there who will see beyond them and love you through the pain.
I worked as a copy editor for a daily newspaper. This is my first novel.
Thank you for your consideration.
Sincerely,
Click here to read the second revision.
Click here to read the third revision.
Click here to read the most recent revision.
Dear Agent,
While standing on a busy London street, American psychologist Alec Sumner spots Eli Burke and likes the look of him, but there’s no way for him to know that behind the man’s bright blue eyes lies the memory of his lover’s murder.
Having relocated after a failed love affair, Alec is not eager to launch the next, but when he unknowingly rents the attic in the house Burke shares with his loving, if flawed, family of friends, he’ll have little choice.
My 80,000 word gay fiction manuscript, BROKEN, explores the idea that whatever scars you carry, there might be someone out there who will see beyond them and love you through the pain.
I worked as a copy editor for a daily newspaper. This is my first novel.
Thank you for your consideration.
Sincerely,
QUERY - EVONALÉ
Dear X,
[Intro explaining why I think agent X might be interested], I think you might like my YA fantasy novel EVONALÉ. Sprinkling elements of Shakespearean comedy in with modernized female gothic, it tells the tale of a justifiably paranoid girl in 70,000 words.
Tales of loathesome tyrants, seduced maids, prophesied saviors—many a child loves hearing such stories and wishes he could be the hero. But if you are the helpless, hapless prophesied-savior-but-still-little-girl stuck in the middle of the would-you-(please)-die? group, things aren't so fun. Evonalé has therefore fled the enslaved remains of her grandmother's kingdom, her two half-siblings who should've been her cousins, and her father who really should've stayed her uncle.
Trapped between a prophecy she sees no way of fulfilling and a realization that any ruler would do well to return her to her powerful and deadly father, she's terrified of being recognized. Due to her elf quarter, even her terror can cause problems for her. Fear makes her body temperature drop. (She's also justifiably afraid of her lethal and not quite insane faery godmother, but that's a side issue.)
But then King Aldrik inexplicably picks her up from his hunting grounds and personally ensures that she is unusually well-cared for, despite her uncanny ability to turn chicken feeding into a life-threatening experience. She's being taught in private lessons beside the king's own son and heir. His prophetess is giving her magic lessons. What does King Aldrik think he's doing?
Thank you for your time and consideration. May you have an excellent day (or evening, or whatever it is when you're reading this).
Sincerely,
"Carradee" [actual name and penname to be included in actual query]
[Intro explaining why I think agent X might be interested], I think you might like my YA fantasy novel EVONALÉ. Sprinkling elements of Shakespearean comedy in with modernized female gothic, it tells the tale of a justifiably paranoid girl in 70,000 words.
Tales of loathesome tyrants, seduced maids, prophesied saviors—many a child loves hearing such stories and wishes he could be the hero. But if you are the helpless, hapless prophesied-savior-but-still-little-girl stuck in the middle of the would-you-(please)-die? group, things aren't so fun. Evonalé has therefore fled the enslaved remains of her grandmother's kingdom, her two half-siblings who should've been her cousins, and her father who really should've stayed her uncle.
Trapped between a prophecy she sees no way of fulfilling and a realization that any ruler would do well to return her to her powerful and deadly father, she's terrified of being recognized. Due to her elf quarter, even her terror can cause problems for her. Fear makes her body temperature drop. (She's also justifiably afraid of her lethal and not quite insane faery godmother, but that's a side issue.)
But then King Aldrik inexplicably picks her up from his hunting grounds and personally ensures that she is unusually well-cared for, despite her uncanny ability to turn chicken feeding into a life-threatening experience. She's being taught in private lessons beside the king's own son and heir. His prophetess is giving her magic lessons. What does King Aldrik think he's doing?
Thank you for your time and consideration. May you have an excellent day (or evening, or whatever it is when you're reading this).
Sincerely,
"Carradee" [actual name and penname to be included in actual query]
Query- The Stolen Moon of Londor
Dear Mr. Blank:
My name is Aaron Stephens, and I would like to submit my fantasy novel The Stolen Moon of Londor (93,200 words) for representation by your agency.
The era of peace among the elves, men, and dwarves comes to an end when one of Londor's twin moons disappears from the heavens. Without the moon's balancing effect, evil forces grow bold, and warfare, sickness, and chaos threaten life itself.
Hearing the prayers of desperation that ride on the violent winds, the ancient wizard Randor Miithra, servant to the elf-gods, takes it upon himself to mend the world he has sworn to protect. The task will not be an easy one, though, for the wizard, too, has begun to feel the effects of the world's imbalance. As Randor struggles to maintain some semblance of his powers, he meets a secretive band of colorful characters from all walks of life, drawn together by a common goal: to find the stolen moon, whatever the cost. It does not take Randor and his motley company long to see that someone or something does not want the moon returned to the heavens. After encountering werewolves and magical monks along the perilous journey, they learn that the warlock Lord Adian has used his dark powers to pull the moon from the sky, only to give it as a bauble to a beautiful enchantress. Randor and company must hasten to Adian's stronghold, which is protected by legions of soldiers, and reclaim the moon before it is too late.
My extensive background in theater and martial arts has also aided me in fleshing out action sequences and building compelling, diverse characters. You can find a sample chapter, an audio excerpt, and artwork for The Stolen Moon of Londor at my website, www.apstephens.com. I have been writing for seven years.
The Stolen Moon of Londor is the first book of my WHITE SHADOW SAGA trilogy, and would appeal to readers of Terry Brooks as well as other fantasy readers. I would be happy to send you sample chapters or the entire manuscript at your request.
Thank you for your time and consideration.
Sincerely,
Me
Chapter One: A Great Downfall
Chapter One: A Troubled World
In the dawn of Londor’s greatest tragedy, the elf-mercenary, Gildan, sat near his campfire—pondering the fate of the world. The summer night was bitter, yet calm in this mysterious time. Gildan was accompanied closely by two fellow elves, Faragen and Telsar, as they rested uncomfortably underneath a large oak tree before their soldiers of the Obinoth Kingdom. The elves took refuge from their travels at the edge of the Plains of Erogd, a place which was all too familiar to them.
Many other campfires laid a short distance behind Gildan and the two Obinoth officers as the mercenary granted the soldiers under his authority short respite after two strenuous days of marching back into the west. Soft songs and inaudible conversations hazed the night air.
Gildan looked over to the trunk of the tree where the famed wizard, Randor Miithra, rested peacefully, sitting propped up with his wide-brimmed hat of blue felt covering his face. His cloak lay motionless in the weak breeze from the vast fields. Gildan smiled slightly as he brushed his tall, green hair back, forever grateful to the wizard’s role in the recent victory of the mercenary and the elves of Obinoth.
As Gildan led the remainder of his army towards the Obinoth Kingdom, his thoughts were consumed with many items of business—with no apparent answers thus far.
“Is there anything either of us can do for you, sir?” Telsar asked.
“No,” Gildan replied, looking at Telsar, a sturdy young elf, who reminded Gildan of himself in his younger days. “Just try and rest. We will be on the move again shortly.”
Telsar nodded and shifted his silver armor before leaning back on his elbows. “I hope Obinoth is safe. I have much to attend to once we are returned.”
“As do I,” said Gildan. “Though I will no longer be able to assist you or your king, my future days are now certain to be full of work from those wishing to solve this mystery.”
“Indeed, sir.”
Gildan laid back in the soft grass and looked into the heavens. The memories of the recent night of catastrophe charged to the forefront of his mind, and he embraced the details of his victory, once again.
Two nights ago, Gildan and his elf-knights drew up at the edge of a dark, wooded valley—once again on the heels of the Obinoth’s ancient foes. The twin moons rode high in the clear night sky, casting muted double shadows beneath the trees. For forty miles the army had crossed the Plains of Erogd, a region once known for its placid rivers and lush fields. But now the beauty of this land was tainted, its rivers polluted with blood and its fields heaped with the bodies of the slain enemy. None of the Obinoth had ever traveled this far east, and now fatigue weighed heavier on them even more than even their pierced and dented armor.
Gildan paced alone before the awaiting ranks, his finely crafted, short yellow cape billowing in the constant breeze. The cape was the only personal clothing effect he kept with him, leaving his usual wardrobe of extravagant jackets, pants, and boots behind. These were set aside for uniformity of Obinoth’s black clothing and silver armor, not very pleasing to Gildan’s taste. His green eyes scanned the valley below, seeking out his next move, as his fingers tapped the silver buckle on his precious leather belt.
Telsar and Faragen approached quietly and stood at attention.
“We await your command, Gildan,” said Faragen.
Gildan turned, looking beyond them to the gathered troops, seeing the fading morale written on every face. “We need to end this tonight,” he said at last. “Send a small squad of scouts to get the lay of the land. I do not know much about this place. Have them search out the Rhingar forces, but tread with caution—the scouts must not be seen.”
“Yes, sir,” replied Faragen.
“Report to me once the sweep is complete.” Gildan paused. “Now I must speak with our advisor.”
The two lieutenants saluted and returned to the ranks.
As Gildan strode to the boulder at the dark wood’s edge, he looked uneasily up at the mountains that surrounded the small valley on three sides.
For centuries the Rhingar had attempted to overthrow their neighboring country, the Obinoth Kingdom, yet had never been successful. The Rhingar wished nothing more than to seize the Obinoth capitol, Handefel, and destroy it—for it was in Handefel that the founding fathers of the Rhingar Kingdom perished during the Dark War. For the past two hundred years the Rhingar burdened the Obinoth, bent on vengeance for the spirits of their ancient heroes.
For months on end both armies
waged war at the edges of the Obinoth Kingdom until, at last, the Obinoth drove their enemies outside its borders. Yet they pursued the Rhingar into the east with orders from their king to eliminate them—no matter the distance traveled. The Obinoth were determined more than ever to convey to the Rhingar that they would never yield to them.
There, standing alone upon one of the many boulders and puffing a long-stemmed pipe, was Randor Miithra, the eldest servant of the elven god, Ethindar. Randor, as he was simply called, was invested with all the magic and arcane wisdom of his famed order of wizards. He stood tall, shrouded in his deep-blue cloak, uncowed by the continuous battles and lack of rest. Though he had seen eight thousand winters, he looked like a human of thirty. His face was shadowed from the moonlight by his ever-present hat.
This campaign was not the first encounter for Gildan and Randor, befriending one another many decades ago. Gildan always welcomed the opportunity to fight alongside his oldest friend and closest confidant.
Gildan stepped up onto the boulder and held silent.
“I see you have finally sent scouts about the perimeter, my old friend.”
“Indeed. You have tracked the Rhingar for me across Erogd, but I will let these elves survey this instance,” Gildan replied. “But…what do you make of this, Randor?”
“That is a good question,” the wizard replied. He slid his dark-tinted spectacles up his narrow nose and puffed again at his pipe. “Do you know where you find yourself?” Randor grinned slightly.
“No. I have traveled far and wide, but this place has no particular memory for me.”
“Before you lies the Valley of Siln.”
“Siln,” whispered Gildan. “What can you tell me of this place?”
“A featureless, barren place, with neither inhabitants nor wildlife—unless you love the company of scorpions.” Randor paused to savor the pipe’s comforting taste. “Only one road leads into and out of the valley…” Gildan turned his head and looked at the wizard. “This lonesome road is the one that you and the Obinoth now control.”
“Are you certain of this?”
“Although many years have passed since last I was here, I doubt anyone has altered this land.”
Before the elf-mercenary could reply, Randor raised his hand and added, “I cannot be certain of their strategy here, but nevertheless, we must not falter now. You hold the advantage, Gildan, and you must keep it this time. I grow weary of all this cat-and-mouse.”
“Trust me, Randor, when I say that I will hold true to my vow and see this to its end. The Rhingar are fools, and we shall slaughter every foul one of them. Besides, the gold I was paid is wearing thin to my terms of this job.” Gildan scanned the forest, looking for some clue to evil’s whereabouts. Even aided by the light of the two moons, his green eyes picked up nothing helpful. “They are unpredictable this night,” the elf observed. “Not one campfire, nor a single piercing shriek. Yes, the Rhingar are behaving most strangely.”
My name is Aaron Stephens, and I would like to submit my fantasy novel The Stolen Moon of Londor (93,200 words) for representation by your agency.
The era of peace among the elves, men, and dwarves comes to an end when one of Londor's twin moons disappears from the heavens. Without the moon's balancing effect, evil forces grow bold, and warfare, sickness, and chaos threaten life itself.
Hearing the prayers of desperation that ride on the violent winds, the ancient wizard Randor Miithra, servant to the elf-gods, takes it upon himself to mend the world he has sworn to protect. The task will not be an easy one, though, for the wizard, too, has begun to feel the effects of the world's imbalance. As Randor struggles to maintain some semblance of his powers, he meets a secretive band of colorful characters from all walks of life, drawn together by a common goal: to find the stolen moon, whatever the cost. It does not take Randor and his motley company long to see that someone or something does not want the moon returned to the heavens. After encountering werewolves and magical monks along the perilous journey, they learn that the warlock Lord Adian has used his dark powers to pull the moon from the sky, only to give it as a bauble to a beautiful enchantress. Randor and company must hasten to Adian's stronghold, which is protected by legions of soldiers, and reclaim the moon before it is too late.
My extensive background in theater and martial arts has also aided me in fleshing out action sequences and building compelling, diverse characters. You can find a sample chapter, an audio excerpt, and artwork for The Stolen Moon of Londor at my website, www.apstephens.com. I have been writing for seven years.
The Stolen Moon of Londor is the first book of my WHITE SHADOW SAGA trilogy, and would appeal to readers of Terry Brooks as well as other fantasy readers. I would be happy to send you sample chapters or the entire manuscript at your request.
Thank you for your time and consideration.
Sincerely,
Me
Chapter One: A Great Downfall
Chapter One: A Troubled World
In the dawn of Londor’s greatest tragedy, the elf-mercenary, Gildan, sat near his campfire—pondering the fate of the world. The summer night was bitter, yet calm in this mysterious time. Gildan was accompanied closely by two fellow elves, Faragen and Telsar, as they rested uncomfortably underneath a large oak tree before their soldiers of the Obinoth Kingdom. The elves took refuge from their travels at the edge of the Plains of Erogd, a place which was all too familiar to them.
Many other campfires laid a short distance behind Gildan and the two Obinoth officers as the mercenary granted the soldiers under his authority short respite after two strenuous days of marching back into the west. Soft songs and inaudible conversations hazed the night air.
Gildan looked over to the trunk of the tree where the famed wizard, Randor Miithra, rested peacefully, sitting propped up with his wide-brimmed hat of blue felt covering his face. His cloak lay motionless in the weak breeze from the vast fields. Gildan smiled slightly as he brushed his tall, green hair back, forever grateful to the wizard’s role in the recent victory of the mercenary and the elves of Obinoth.
As Gildan led the remainder of his army towards the Obinoth Kingdom, his thoughts were consumed with many items of business—with no apparent answers thus far.
“Is there anything either of us can do for you, sir?” Telsar asked.
“No,” Gildan replied, looking at Telsar, a sturdy young elf, who reminded Gildan of himself in his younger days. “Just try and rest. We will be on the move again shortly.”
Telsar nodded and shifted his silver armor before leaning back on his elbows. “I hope Obinoth is safe. I have much to attend to once we are returned.”
“As do I,” said Gildan. “Though I will no longer be able to assist you or your king, my future days are now certain to be full of work from those wishing to solve this mystery.”
“Indeed, sir.”
Gildan laid back in the soft grass and looked into the heavens. The memories of the recent night of catastrophe charged to the forefront of his mind, and he embraced the details of his victory, once again.
Two nights ago, Gildan and his elf-knights drew up at the edge of a dark, wooded valley—once again on the heels of the Obinoth’s ancient foes. The twin moons rode high in the clear night sky, casting muted double shadows beneath the trees. For forty miles the army had crossed the Plains of Erogd, a region once known for its placid rivers and lush fields. But now the beauty of this land was tainted, its rivers polluted with blood and its fields heaped with the bodies of the slain enemy. None of the Obinoth had ever traveled this far east, and now fatigue weighed heavier on them even more than even their pierced and dented armor.
Gildan paced alone before the awaiting ranks, his finely crafted, short yellow cape billowing in the constant breeze. The cape was the only personal clothing effect he kept with him, leaving his usual wardrobe of extravagant jackets, pants, and boots behind. These were set aside for uniformity of Obinoth’s black clothing and silver armor, not very pleasing to Gildan’s taste. His green eyes scanned the valley below, seeking out his next move, as his fingers tapped the silver buckle on his precious leather belt.
Telsar and Faragen approached quietly and stood at attention.
“We await your command, Gildan,” said Faragen.
Gildan turned, looking beyond them to the gathered troops, seeing the fading morale written on every face. “We need to end this tonight,” he said at last. “Send a small squad of scouts to get the lay of the land. I do not know much about this place. Have them search out the Rhingar forces, but tread with caution—the scouts must not be seen.”
“Yes, sir,” replied Faragen.
“Report to me once the sweep is complete.” Gildan paused. “Now I must speak with our advisor.”
The two lieutenants saluted and returned to the ranks.
As Gildan strode to the boulder at the dark wood’s edge, he looked uneasily up at the mountains that surrounded the small valley on three sides.
For centuries the Rhingar had attempted to overthrow their neighboring country, the Obinoth Kingdom, yet had never been successful. The Rhingar wished nothing more than to seize the Obinoth capitol, Handefel, and destroy it—for it was in Handefel that the founding fathers of the Rhingar Kingdom perished during the Dark War. For the past two hundred years the Rhingar burdened the Obinoth, bent on vengeance for the spirits of their ancient heroes.
For months on end both armies
waged war at the edges of the Obinoth Kingdom until, at last, the Obinoth drove their enemies outside its borders. Yet they pursued the Rhingar into the east with orders from their king to eliminate them—no matter the distance traveled. The Obinoth were determined more than ever to convey to the Rhingar that they would never yield to them.
There, standing alone upon one of the many boulders and puffing a long-stemmed pipe, was Randor Miithra, the eldest servant of the elven god, Ethindar. Randor, as he was simply called, was invested with all the magic and arcane wisdom of his famed order of wizards. He stood tall, shrouded in his deep-blue cloak, uncowed by the continuous battles and lack of rest. Though he had seen eight thousand winters, he looked like a human of thirty. His face was shadowed from the moonlight by his ever-present hat.
This campaign was not the first encounter for Gildan and Randor, befriending one another many decades ago. Gildan always welcomed the opportunity to fight alongside his oldest friend and closest confidant.
Gildan stepped up onto the boulder and held silent.
“I see you have finally sent scouts about the perimeter, my old friend.”
“Indeed. You have tracked the Rhingar for me across Erogd, but I will let these elves survey this instance,” Gildan replied. “But…what do you make of this, Randor?”
“That is a good question,” the wizard replied. He slid his dark-tinted spectacles up his narrow nose and puffed again at his pipe. “Do you know where you find yourself?” Randor grinned slightly.
“No. I have traveled far and wide, but this place has no particular memory for me.”
“Before you lies the Valley of Siln.”
“Siln,” whispered Gildan. “What can you tell me of this place?”
“A featureless, barren place, with neither inhabitants nor wildlife—unless you love the company of scorpions.” Randor paused to savor the pipe’s comforting taste. “Only one road leads into and out of the valley…” Gildan turned his head and looked at the wizard. “This lonesome road is the one that you and the Obinoth now control.”
“Are you certain of this?”
“Although many years have passed since last I was here, I doubt anyone has altered this land.”
Before the elf-mercenary could reply, Randor raised his hand and added, “I cannot be certain of their strategy here, but nevertheless, we must not falter now. You hold the advantage, Gildan, and you must keep it this time. I grow weary of all this cat-and-mouse.”
“Trust me, Randor, when I say that I will hold true to my vow and see this to its end. The Rhingar are fools, and we shall slaughter every foul one of them. Besides, the gold I was paid is wearing thin to my terms of this job.” Gildan scanned the forest, looking for some clue to evil’s whereabouts. Even aided by the light of the two moons, his green eyes picked up nothing helpful. “They are unpredictable this night,” the elf observed. “Not one campfire, nor a single piercing shriek. Yes, the Rhingar are behaving most strangely.”
Query: HOUND IN BLOOD AND BLACK
A revision of this query has been posted. Click here to read it.
Click here to read the second revision.
Dear Agent,
The undead are everywhere in popular culture, from video and board games to novels and films. Even my two-year-old nephew claims that zombies live in grandpa’s garage. HOUND IN BLOOD AND BLACK is speculative fiction, and explores a new kind of future where existing isn’t just about running from and killing the undead, but about the survivors who turn humanity’s leftovers into something spectacular.
The world is dirty. The centers of the continents are filled with dust and undead. Clean water and peaceful sleep are things of the past. After all, a barricade of rusted metal, broken glass and people with guns isn’t always enough to keep the dead out. And for some, it’s all about letting them in.
Kumari is a wrangler, a poacher and a gambler who catches undead and fights them against one another in the pit as gladiators. It’s not pretty, but it’s good enough. All Kumari has ever wanted to do, just like everyone else, is to live and die without becoming a monster.
Kumari’s simple life is tested with a wager against her fiercest rival – a gamble that could cost her everything. The bet yields complicated results and Kumari finds herself in possession of the slave and child-whore Heaven. Granting the girl freedom is the first in an avalanche of events, and Kumari faces the death of a treasured friend after she is forced to pull the trigger. From there, mere survival becomes much more complicated.
As Heaven struggles between the acceptance of misery and the chance to live for herself, Kumari stares in the maw of her greatest fear when she is bitten by an undead and the death she believes so strongly in is threatened.
HOUND IN BLOOD AND BLACK, complete at 101,500 words, is capable of standing on its own, but also leaves the door open for a possible sequel.
I currently work for Costco Wholesale where I write for a magazine, Costco Today, with a circulation of more than 140,000 employees. In January 2009, my short story “Savage” was published in “Monstrous: 20 Tales of Giant Creature Terror” by Permuted Press. I have samples of both my professional writing and fiction posted on my blog at http://www.thescreamingguppy.blogspot.com/.
Thank you for your consideration,
Erin
Hound in Blood and Black
Part I
I remember the first time I met Kumari. I recall, most vividly, that she smelled of gunmetal, blood and death.
I hated her.
Chapter 1
“Harder!”
Kumari screamed the words over the howl of the battered engine. It revved as Bastion punched the gas pedal, dust and pebbles spraying the side of the jeep in peppered graffiti. Driven by the wind, coarse bits of the world clawed her face and scratched the surface of her smoke-glass shades. She tugged the bandana across her nose and lips, turning around to stare at the back of his head.
“I said harder, Bastion.” Her voice barely broke the wind. The driver twisted his neck only an inch to the left, an affirmation that he indeed heard her over the grinding engine. The jeep jumped in speed again, spewing more of the broken earth into the sky.
She stepped down from behind the seats, striding easily through the back of the moving bed. Bending low, she scooped the collar from her feet, turning the seven foot pole around in her grip. She checked the prongs at the tip of the weapon, satisfied that the horseshoe was intact and strong. Only a fool, or an inexperienced wrangler, would jump the bed with a broken collar.
“Left!”
His response was swift, and the jeep veered hard to the side, tires skidding and jumping over the roadless plain. She caught herself with a hard foot to the wheel well, the span of the collar keeping her upright as it rammed against the crossover bars above her head. Despite the murky air, she saw her quarry, clear against the horizon.
“Again, harder!” Her throat was dry. It was only daybreak, but the heat was already climbing. Best to get done and home before noon. The jeep jerked again, this time right, and she checked her arsenal as they closed the gap. Handgun, kukri, rifle, bootblade and collar. Her shields, the gauntlets that covered her fingers to her mid-bicep and metal boots that stood to her upper thigh, were in place and secure. She flexed her hand around the collar pole. She remembered a time when she thought the armor heavy.
Today she didn’t feel the weight when she jumped.
The landing jarred her knees, but she rolled with it as she’d practiced for years. She was on her feet in a heartbeat, grunting as her armored feet dug into the drought-ridden soil. Her grip was solid still, the collar light as air.
She heard the jeep and Bastion turning to come back for her over the wind. She inhaled the exhaust, savoring the smell before it faded away and was replaced by the ripe taste of decay. The bandana was to block the unpleasant scent, but she always felt it limited her capacity when she hunted. And while she knew her prey understood little, she still wanted them to see her smile when she won.
She was running, the pounding of her stride lost in the ocean of noise. The hunted paused, its shambling canter stumbling to an unbalanced halt. It smelled her. Kumari licked her lips and ran harder.
Less than twenty more feet.
The shape, human and hunched over, finished its rotation, facing full on the incoming attack. She planted the spike of the collar in the dirt, using her weight and momentum, to vault through the air.
Her weighted feet slammed into the undead’s chest, flattening the creature to the dirt. She bellowed as they connected, the cry coming from deep in her belly. They both collided hard, but she was ready. She was quicker. She was alive.
On her feet before the monster moved, she lifted the collar high up and above her head, before driving it around the neck of her catch. The undead flailed, roaring and moaning in the broken voice of what was once a man. She wrinkled her nose at the smell and sight of one this close. The pole of the collar vibrated in the hair, flapping like an empty flagpole.
She backed away, leisurely taking off her glasses as she watched the undead struggle. As she tucked the sunglasses on the front of her tank, she ran her other metal-cased hand across her forehead. The heated metal stung her skin, but it kept the sweat and salt out of her eyes. She cracked her neck, a tangle of braided black hair slipping forward over her shoulder.
She sunk slowly to her knees, a pace away from her catch, and forced herself to swallow the thickness in her mouth. As she considered it, the sun warmed what was exposed of her tanned skin, her ability to burn under the rays vanquished years ago.
She didn’t turn around at the sound of the jeep pulling up behind her, or even at the sound of Bastion’s footsteps as he walked over to gauge her handiwork. She was thinking.
“It’s thin, don’t you think?”
His voice was gruff, but light. She turned her head, cupping a hand over her eyes to block the light. Bastion shifted to his right, positioning his mass between her and the rising sun. She lowered her hand, staring into his face.
“So am I.”
A grin tugged at the edge of Bastion mouth, before he shrugged his shoulders in retraction.
“You’re the wrangler, Kumari. Not me. If you think it’s a good catch, let’s pack it and go.” Bastion peeled back the sleeve of his tattered windbreaker, staring into the face of a solar watch. “Rem’s up by now. I’m sure he’s wondering where we are.”
Kumari snorted, shaking her head as she turned to the flopping body.
“He’s a brilliant man. I’m sure he can guess.” Kumari reached a hand out to grab one of the undead’s jerking limbs. The muscle tissue was soft, denting under the pressure of her hand. The thing roared, and with its predictably above-human strength, it tore easily from her grip. The undead left the meat of its forearm behind, draped over Kumari’s palm. A vicious stench wafted up, and Bastion took a step back with a frown.
Kumari sighed, hauling herself slowly to her feet and dropping the chunk of rancid meat next to the struggling corpse.
“Mushy.” Bastion wrinkled his nose. “It’s been dead too long, or found a damp place to keep home.”
She nodded, reaching out to grab the waving pole.
“You’re right. This one’s no good. It’ll never make it in the pits.” Kumari twisted the collar, snapping the undead’s neck with a single flick of her wrist. She leaned her weight against the pole, easily separating the head from the shoulders once the neck was shattered. The sound was one of tearing meat, tendons stretching and snapping apart. The flailing ceased. “How long do we have left?”
“Noon is four hours off. Right now we’re two hours out from the barricades.” Bastion held out a hand as he spoke, and Kumari passed the collar into his palm. Together they walked back to the jeep, leaving the bloodless, rotting corpse to bake in the sun and be eaten by vultures. Black wings were already dotting the horizon, aggressively coming for a meal.
“Plenty of time.”
Bastion raised a brow, looking down at Kumari. She was fierce, of all things, but he still stood nearly two feet taller. He watched her as she climbed into the back of the jeep, checking for the things she always ignored. She appeared hydrated, no signs of fatigue, no injuries from the scuffle. Of course, that collaring had been flawless, as most of hers were.
He watched as she pulled up her hair, winding the tangled dreads away from her face. It was normal, he knew, for women to keep that hairstyle, at least the few who didn’t run in the prostitution rings or keep house. Glints of silver caught in the dim sunlight, the marks of her victories in the arena for all to see, displayed in the form of the valuable metal decorating her hair. To Bastion it was less trouble to simply shave his head with grease and a dull blade.
“What?” Kumari caught his attention, narrowing her gaze just before she slipped the sunglasses over her dark eyes. Bastion shrugged, leaving the gnawing nostalgia behind with the dead as he climbed back into the driver’s seat.
Click here to read the second revision.
Dear Agent,
The undead are everywhere in popular culture, from video and board games to novels and films. Even my two-year-old nephew claims that zombies live in grandpa’s garage. HOUND IN BLOOD AND BLACK is speculative fiction, and explores a new kind of future where existing isn’t just about running from and killing the undead, but about the survivors who turn humanity’s leftovers into something spectacular.
The world is dirty. The centers of the continents are filled with dust and undead. Clean water and peaceful sleep are things of the past. After all, a barricade of rusted metal, broken glass and people with guns isn’t always enough to keep the dead out. And for some, it’s all about letting them in.
Kumari is a wrangler, a poacher and a gambler who catches undead and fights them against one another in the pit as gladiators. It’s not pretty, but it’s good enough. All Kumari has ever wanted to do, just like everyone else, is to live and die without becoming a monster.
Kumari’s simple life is tested with a wager against her fiercest rival – a gamble that could cost her everything. The bet yields complicated results and Kumari finds herself in possession of the slave and child-whore Heaven. Granting the girl freedom is the first in an avalanche of events, and Kumari faces the death of a treasured friend after she is forced to pull the trigger. From there, mere survival becomes much more complicated.
As Heaven struggles between the acceptance of misery and the chance to live for herself, Kumari stares in the maw of her greatest fear when she is bitten by an undead and the death she believes so strongly in is threatened.
HOUND IN BLOOD AND BLACK, complete at 101,500 words, is capable of standing on its own, but also leaves the door open for a possible sequel.
I currently work for Costco Wholesale where I write for a magazine, Costco Today, with a circulation of more than 140,000 employees. In January 2009, my short story “Savage” was published in “Monstrous: 20 Tales of Giant Creature Terror” by Permuted Press. I have samples of both my professional writing and fiction posted on my blog at http://www.thescreamingguppy.blogspot.com/.
Thank you for your consideration,
Erin
Hound in Blood and Black
Part I
I remember the first time I met Kumari. I recall, most vividly, that she smelled of gunmetal, blood and death.
I hated her.
Chapter 1
“Harder!”
Kumari screamed the words over the howl of the battered engine. It revved as Bastion punched the gas pedal, dust and pebbles spraying the side of the jeep in peppered graffiti. Driven by the wind, coarse bits of the world clawed her face and scratched the surface of her smoke-glass shades. She tugged the bandana across her nose and lips, turning around to stare at the back of his head.
“I said harder, Bastion.” Her voice barely broke the wind. The driver twisted his neck only an inch to the left, an affirmation that he indeed heard her over the grinding engine. The jeep jumped in speed again, spewing more of the broken earth into the sky.
She stepped down from behind the seats, striding easily through the back of the moving bed. Bending low, she scooped the collar from her feet, turning the seven foot pole around in her grip. She checked the prongs at the tip of the weapon, satisfied that the horseshoe was intact and strong. Only a fool, or an inexperienced wrangler, would jump the bed with a broken collar.
“Left!”
His response was swift, and the jeep veered hard to the side, tires skidding and jumping over the roadless plain. She caught herself with a hard foot to the wheel well, the span of the collar keeping her upright as it rammed against the crossover bars above her head. Despite the murky air, she saw her quarry, clear against the horizon.
“Again, harder!” Her throat was dry. It was only daybreak, but the heat was already climbing. Best to get done and home before noon. The jeep jerked again, this time right, and she checked her arsenal as they closed the gap. Handgun, kukri, rifle, bootblade and collar. Her shields, the gauntlets that covered her fingers to her mid-bicep and metal boots that stood to her upper thigh, were in place and secure. She flexed her hand around the collar pole. She remembered a time when she thought the armor heavy.
Today she didn’t feel the weight when she jumped.
The landing jarred her knees, but she rolled with it as she’d practiced for years. She was on her feet in a heartbeat, grunting as her armored feet dug into the drought-ridden soil. Her grip was solid still, the collar light as air.
She heard the jeep and Bastion turning to come back for her over the wind. She inhaled the exhaust, savoring the smell before it faded away and was replaced by the ripe taste of decay. The bandana was to block the unpleasant scent, but she always felt it limited her capacity when she hunted. And while she knew her prey understood little, she still wanted them to see her smile when she won.
She was running, the pounding of her stride lost in the ocean of noise. The hunted paused, its shambling canter stumbling to an unbalanced halt. It smelled her. Kumari licked her lips and ran harder.
Less than twenty more feet.
The shape, human and hunched over, finished its rotation, facing full on the incoming attack. She planted the spike of the collar in the dirt, using her weight and momentum, to vault through the air.
Her weighted feet slammed into the undead’s chest, flattening the creature to the dirt. She bellowed as they connected, the cry coming from deep in her belly. They both collided hard, but she was ready. She was quicker. She was alive.
On her feet before the monster moved, she lifted the collar high up and above her head, before driving it around the neck of her catch. The undead flailed, roaring and moaning in the broken voice of what was once a man. She wrinkled her nose at the smell and sight of one this close. The pole of the collar vibrated in the hair, flapping like an empty flagpole.
She backed away, leisurely taking off her glasses as she watched the undead struggle. As she tucked the sunglasses on the front of her tank, she ran her other metal-cased hand across her forehead. The heated metal stung her skin, but it kept the sweat and salt out of her eyes. She cracked her neck, a tangle of braided black hair slipping forward over her shoulder.
She sunk slowly to her knees, a pace away from her catch, and forced herself to swallow the thickness in her mouth. As she considered it, the sun warmed what was exposed of her tanned skin, her ability to burn under the rays vanquished years ago.
She didn’t turn around at the sound of the jeep pulling up behind her, or even at the sound of Bastion’s footsteps as he walked over to gauge her handiwork. She was thinking.
“It’s thin, don’t you think?”
His voice was gruff, but light. She turned her head, cupping a hand over her eyes to block the light. Bastion shifted to his right, positioning his mass between her and the rising sun. She lowered her hand, staring into his face.
“So am I.”
A grin tugged at the edge of Bastion mouth, before he shrugged his shoulders in retraction.
“You’re the wrangler, Kumari. Not me. If you think it’s a good catch, let’s pack it and go.” Bastion peeled back the sleeve of his tattered windbreaker, staring into the face of a solar watch. “Rem’s up by now. I’m sure he’s wondering where we are.”
Kumari snorted, shaking her head as she turned to the flopping body.
“He’s a brilliant man. I’m sure he can guess.” Kumari reached a hand out to grab one of the undead’s jerking limbs. The muscle tissue was soft, denting under the pressure of her hand. The thing roared, and with its predictably above-human strength, it tore easily from her grip. The undead left the meat of its forearm behind, draped over Kumari’s palm. A vicious stench wafted up, and Bastion took a step back with a frown.
Kumari sighed, hauling herself slowly to her feet and dropping the chunk of rancid meat next to the struggling corpse.
“Mushy.” Bastion wrinkled his nose. “It’s been dead too long, or found a damp place to keep home.”
She nodded, reaching out to grab the waving pole.
“You’re right. This one’s no good. It’ll never make it in the pits.” Kumari twisted the collar, snapping the undead’s neck with a single flick of her wrist. She leaned her weight against the pole, easily separating the head from the shoulders once the neck was shattered. The sound was one of tearing meat, tendons stretching and snapping apart. The flailing ceased. “How long do we have left?”
“Noon is four hours off. Right now we’re two hours out from the barricades.” Bastion held out a hand as he spoke, and Kumari passed the collar into his palm. Together they walked back to the jeep, leaving the bloodless, rotting corpse to bake in the sun and be eaten by vultures. Black wings were already dotting the horizon, aggressively coming for a meal.
“Plenty of time.”
Bastion raised a brow, looking down at Kumari. She was fierce, of all things, but he still stood nearly two feet taller. He watched her as she climbed into the back of the jeep, checking for the things she always ignored. She appeared hydrated, no signs of fatigue, no injuries from the scuffle. Of course, that collaring had been flawless, as most of hers were.
He watched as she pulled up her hair, winding the tangled dreads away from her face. It was normal, he knew, for women to keep that hairstyle, at least the few who didn’t run in the prostitution rings or keep house. Glints of silver caught in the dim sunlight, the marks of her victories in the arena for all to see, displayed in the form of the valuable metal decorating her hair. To Bastion it was less trouble to simply shave his head with grease and a dull blade.
“What?” Kumari caught his attention, narrowing her gaze just before she slipped the sunglasses over her dark eyes. Bastion shrugged, leaving the gnawing nostalgia behind with the dead as he climbed back into the driver’s seat.
QUERY: THE UNICORN TAMER
Dear Agent,
With a pro-environment motif similar to Carl Hiaasen's HOOT, THE UNICORN TAMER is Greek mythology meets Pokémon.
Try being 13 and discovering that your parents spent your whole life lying to you.
Try being 13 and having to deal with a kidnapped dad.
Try being 13 and learning that your mom - yeah, she can create fire with her bare hands.
When Emma Brown's dad mysteriously disappears, Emma is catapulted back to her birthplace - a dimension where fairies are anything but tales. In the wonderland called Drualtys, teenagers study to become Tamers - people who for unique bonds with legendary animals to save them from extinction. Through this bond, Tamers absorb the creatures' majick, special powers ranging from the ability to control lightening, run on water, or see through skin.
Emma embraces her taming lessons to rescue her dad from the Hunters, a ruthless clan of humans hell-bent on proving that man is the most powerful beast of all. Their mission: murder the creatures of Drualtys and steal their majickal abilities. The prize: a unicorn's cloak of invisibility. Together with her newfound friends, including a half-pixie who's too pretty for his own good and a whimsical boy who can talk to animals, Emma must stay one step ahead of the Hunters and save her dad and the unicorns - before she is hunted herself.
THE UNICORN TAMER is approximately 100,000 words and is the first in a middle-grade fantasy trilogy. Upon your request, I'd be more than happy to send you the complete manuscript.
I graduated from Santa Clara University with a Major in Communications and a Minor in Creative Writing. I worked on my university's literary magazine as well as a Children's Storyteller at Barnes and Noble.
Thank you for taking the time to consider representing my work. I look forward to hearing from you.
Sincerely,
Christine
With a pro-environment motif similar to Carl Hiaasen's HOOT, THE UNICORN TAMER is Greek mythology meets Pokémon.
Try being 13 and discovering that your parents spent your whole life lying to you.
Try being 13 and having to deal with a kidnapped dad.
Try being 13 and learning that your mom - yeah, she can create fire with her bare hands.
When Emma Brown's dad mysteriously disappears, Emma is catapulted back to her birthplace - a dimension where fairies are anything but tales. In the wonderland called Drualtys, teenagers study to become Tamers - people who for unique bonds with legendary animals to save them from extinction. Through this bond, Tamers absorb the creatures' majick, special powers ranging from the ability to control lightening, run on water, or see through skin.
Emma embraces her taming lessons to rescue her dad from the Hunters, a ruthless clan of humans hell-bent on proving that man is the most powerful beast of all. Their mission: murder the creatures of Drualtys and steal their majickal abilities. The prize: a unicorn's cloak of invisibility. Together with her newfound friends, including a half-pixie who's too pretty for his own good and a whimsical boy who can talk to animals, Emma must stay one step ahead of the Hunters and save her dad and the unicorns - before she is hunted herself.
THE UNICORN TAMER is approximately 100,000 words and is the first in a middle-grade fantasy trilogy. Upon your request, I'd be more than happy to send you the complete manuscript.
I graduated from Santa Clara University with a Major in Communications and a Minor in Creative Writing. I worked on my university's literary magazine as well as a Children's Storyteller at Barnes and Noble.
Thank you for taking the time to consider representing my work. I look forward to hearing from you.
Sincerely,
Christine
Query- Angel Undercover (Revision 1)
Click here to read the original query.
Dear Mr./Ms. Agentperson
A heart of gold and shy as a mouse. That was Paige Moss before the adventure that led to her saving her city and becoming the hero no one, leastwise herself, ever thought she could be. A real angel undercover.
Getting kidnapped turned out to be the best thing to ever happen to Paige Moss. She is brought to an exotic rainforest, where myth and magic exist, where her new friends teach her aerial acrobatics and underwater horse riding. She gets reunited with her older sister, Savannah, who set up the abduction to save Paige from dangerous thieves back home. And best of all, she finds the chance to escape the shyness that has always held her back.
But Savannah is actually working for her kidnapper, Maisen, training an army for his vision to unite the three sister races of the world. While Maisen’s aims are noble, he’ll use any means necessary to accomplish them. So when Paige learns of the covert mission, he drags her through an arsenal of magical tortures before leaving her to die in a sea cave, just so she cannot interfere.
When Paige is rescued, the truth comes out and Maisen flees. Weeks later, an entire city is leveled overnight and Paige is positive he’s involved. She rounds up her friends and allies and returns to her turbulent home city, a shy girl no longer. With her sister at her side, Paige expects one final showdown with the person she fears most, but it turns out that Maisen has become the victim of one of his own plans. The rogue firestorm he sparked is out of control and it’s up to Paige and her team to stop it.
Angel Undercover is a YA fantasy and is complete at 94,000 words. It is the first in a planned quartet.
Kind Regards,
Dear Mr./Ms. Agentperson
A heart of gold and shy as a mouse. That was Paige Moss before the adventure that led to her saving her city and becoming the hero no one, leastwise herself, ever thought she could be. A real angel undercover.
Getting kidnapped turned out to be the best thing to ever happen to Paige Moss. She is brought to an exotic rainforest, where myth and magic exist, where her new friends teach her aerial acrobatics and underwater horse riding. She gets reunited with her older sister, Savannah, who set up the abduction to save Paige from dangerous thieves back home. And best of all, she finds the chance to escape the shyness that has always held her back.
But Savannah is actually working for her kidnapper, Maisen, training an army for his vision to unite the three sister races of the world. While Maisen’s aims are noble, he’ll use any means necessary to accomplish them. So when Paige learns of the covert mission, he drags her through an arsenal of magical tortures before leaving her to die in a sea cave, just so she cannot interfere.
When Paige is rescued, the truth comes out and Maisen flees. Weeks later, an entire city is leveled overnight and Paige is positive he’s involved. She rounds up her friends and allies and returns to her turbulent home city, a shy girl no longer. With her sister at her side, Paige expects one final showdown with the person she fears most, but it turns out that Maisen has become the victim of one of his own plans. The rogue firestorm he sparked is out of control and it’s up to Paige and her team to stop it.
Angel Undercover is a YA fantasy and is complete at 94,000 words. It is the first in a planned quartet.
Kind Regards,
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