The Writer's Voice Entry: SEVEN LITTLE DEADLIES

I'm doing something a bit strange today, friends. Basically, if you're here from the dark creeping crevices of the internet (or, you know, the bright and sunny ones), feel free to ignore this post. If you're here from The Writer's Voice contest, and especially if you're a JUDGE for said contest, why, hello there!

*offers comfy seat*

*passes cookie*

*pours fizzy pink lemonade*

Okay, okay. The rest of you can have cookies and lemonade, too. Here you go.

Without further ado, my entry, SEVEN LITTLE DEADLIES, a young adult supernatural romance.

Query:

Rachel and her boyfriend, Ryan, each have their own reasons for running. For Rachel, it's the morphing of her normally annoying-but-genial stepdad into a violent monster. For Ryan, it's his past-- one that he's not too fond of sharing.

The night Rachel's stepdad tries to kill her, the teens decide to leave their small Tennessee town and strike out for California in Ryan's '68 Camaro. But the further they get from home, the more strange things Rachel sees—like a leather-clad woman who has a thing for classic cars, and can apparently change the weather—and the more she begins to wonder about her boyfriend.

Despite their best efforts, their freedom is short-lived. Not long after they make it to California, Rachel's stepdad catches up to them, ending Ryan's life and changing Rachel's forever.  But things only get stranger after Rachel returns home. First, there are the hints that Ryan might not be dead after all. Then, there's the mysterious package that shows up at her door, containing a dagger she last saw buried in her stepdad's back. Something evil is brewing, and Rachel—and the car Ryan left behind—are in the middle of the storm.

SEVEN LITTLE DEADLIES is a young adult supernatural romance complete at 87,000 words.


First 250 words:


Chapter 1
July: New Mexico

 The cop car stayed behind us for forty miles.

Ryan's brow creased every time he glanced in the rearview mirror, and his knuckles were white on the steering wheel.

"Do you think he's running our plates or something?" I tried to keep my voice steady--panicking wouldn't help keep Ryan calm—but my throat clenched around the last word and squeaked into the silence around us.

"I don't know, Rachel. He could just be following us." He sighed, and unclenched one hand long enough to run it through his curly black hair. "But he's been back there for an awful long time."

"Maybe we should pull over." I didn't want to tell Ryan, but the tension was ready to burst out of me. If we didn't get away from the cop soon, I was going to have a meltdown.

"Pull over where?" He waved one arm across the dashboard, gesturing at the empty plains on either side of the cracked four-lane highway, rimmed by unending barbed-wire fences on either side.

Defeated, I wrapped my arms tighter around my midriff and sank further into my seat, the cop car dropping out of sight in the side mirror.

"I hate New Mexico." I muttered to myself. Ryan overheard, as usual. He grabbed my left elbow and tugged on my arm until I looked over at him.

"Hey," he said. His dimples peeked out of his cheeks, which meant the grin there was real. "We're almost there."