Pitch Wars: The Alternates Showcase!

Welcome to the Alternate showcase!

Today I’m hosting some of the amazing writers who participated in a six week manuscript makeover known as #PitchWars: where published/agented authors and industry interns mentored a team of writers to help them make their word-babies shiny for agents. The mentors picked one to go into the agent round on Brenda Drake’s blog (http://www.brenda-drake.com/) and two alternates in case their top pick dropped out of the competition.

The alternates were amazing, so we wanted to do a showcase of their talent to reward them for their hard work. Following this post you’ll find the pitches for the writers I’m hosting.

This is not exclusive to the agents signed up for Pitch wars. All agents are welcomed to make requests in the comments of the posts!

This is not open for critiques. So if you’re not an agent, you may comment only if you want to show some love to the writers. Again, please do not critique in the comments.

Thank you! And enjoy the War! Erm...show. :)

My Mentee, Sonia Hartl's pitch can be found here. (NA Contemporary Suspense)
My First Alternate Alexandra Alesssandri's pitch can be found here. (YA Multicultural/Magical Realism)
My Second Alternate Christy Little's pitch can be found here. (YA Contemporary)

Other alternate showcases:Middle Grade: Veronica Bartles

Young Adult: Stacey Lee, Jaye Robin Brown,  Natalie Knaub-Traver

New Adult & Adult: Nazarea Andrews, Lady Lioness

Pitch Wars ALT: DM-1: CELERITY

MENTOR: Jaye Robin Brown

ALTERNATE: Sarah Cannon

TITLE: CELERITY

CATEGORY/GENRE: YA Science Fiction

WORD COUNT: 80,000

PITCH: 

Sath’s life is simple until he’s kidnapped from his planet, whisked to the wildest circus in the galaxy, and falls for winsome pilot, Vim—but when robber barons want to exploit Sath’s home world, it’s up to him to stop them.

EXCERPT: 

The earth is the floor of the sky. It was an odd little snatch of phrase, something Sath had only heard once, but the idea of it had taken root in his mind and made a home there. It was last thing he remembered thinking, when he was still tending his herd on Benyus, before the sky itself turned to fire, before he awoke to a young man’s voice, and the shrill, continuous call of an upset capa.

“Does that thing ever shut up? There’s people around here trying to sleep.”

“I’m out of ideas, Vigor. What do you want me to do? Sing to it?”

The second voice was softer, raspy. Female?

“If it don’t shut up, I’m gonna shoot it and eat it. I bet it tastes like bacon.”

“It’ll fill your belly for a long time to come if I get the price I expect for it. You ever hear the story about the goose that laid the golden eggs?”

“No, Cap’n, but an omelet would hit the spot right now. Would you please SHUT UP?”

This last was surely directed at the silver-furred capa sow standing between Sath and the speakers, but she was unlikely to oblige. Capas were simple in their wants and needs, but once they had a complaint, they were utterly single-minded about expressing it.

Sath flexed his fingers. They were sore, but they moved as they should. He shifted his legs. Odd. He could smell smoke on himself, but none in the air, and the ground was very cold.

Pitch Wars ALT: DM-2: DISCORDANCE

MENTOR: Jaye Robin Brown

ALTERNATE: Chelsey Blair

TITLE: DISCORDANCE

CATEGORY/GENRE: YA Contemporary

WORD COUNT: 88,000

PITCH: Itinerate musician Meridian Ashton breaks ties faster than she changes strings on her guitar. But after losing her leg—and her inspiration--in a humiliating accident, she discovers that learning to connect might send her down a new path to rock-stardom.

EXCERPT:

Claude, the long-bearded street performer who taught me to play guitar would have called the beer-scented draft un mauvais vent. An ill wind. He would have retreated in deference to the omen, but I couldn't think like that. In an hour, the open space in front of me would be packed with people who’d expect music that would make them want to dance, to jump, to scream. To fill the air with body heat, and vibrancy, and passion. I had to provide them with that. I couldn’t get freaked out by air-conditioning.

“Oh my god, Meridian, this place is awesome!” My cousin Natalie bounded past me onto the stage. “I’ve never been in an empty club before.” 

Her expression, a wide-eyed mixture of reverence and excitement, reminded me I didn’t have time to give into fear. I had a show to put on. “Me either,” I admitted. 

“Really? But you’ve been to, like, a million concerts, all over the world. And your friends have connections.”

“They’re more like my associates.” I wouldn’t admit it to anyone else, but she was pretty much my only friend, even though she was two years younger, and I usually lived half a world away. Maybe because of that. “True about connections, though. If I do well tonight, Denis said he’ll book me in every club he knows.” 

“And you’ll have a ton of groupies, and they’ll all be jealous of me,” Natalie said, slipping easily into the fantasy we’d built over the years.

 “Forget groupie. You're strong enough to be a roadie.”

Pitch Wars ALT: DM-3: AFTERTHOUGHT

MENTOR: Lindsey Sprague

ALTERNATE: Elbie Johansen

TITLE: AFTERTHOUGHT

CATEGORY/GENRE: YA Sci-fi

WORD COUNT: 86,000

PITCH:

Lola survived the apocalypse, but lost her memories. Her only clues to her past are the cult chasing her and this formula in her backpack for the cure for death… oh. Oops.

EXCERPT:

I have my watch alarm set to go off every hour. Not for any reason in particular. More like: yay, I survived another sixty minutes, let’s have some cake.

If I had cake.

The watch has been chafing my wrist, so I keep it in my backpack now, along with everything else I own. Okay, so, borrowed. I borrow a lot of things these days. Like the crackers I just borrowed from a dead guy inside this gas station.

I brush the crumbs off my shirt and tuck my ponytail through the hole in my cap, scratching the raised scar on the back of my neck. I’m about to strap on my raggedy old backpack when I see them—

four of them, across the parking lot. They haven’t seen me yet, but they’re headed in my direction. Even though I can’t make out the faint pink glow of their skin, their lithe movements and predatory stance tell me they’re lazzies. It’s like a dance, the way they move—coordinated, instinctual. None of the awkwardness of self-consciousness remains, none of the showmanship of ego. They look just like us—they were us—but there’s no mistaking them for human.

I stop breathing, and the familiar feeling of dread constricts my chest. I rise to my feet and take a step back, praying my shoe doesn’t crunch on the gravel. So far, so good.

Aaaaaand this is when my watch alarm goes off.

Pitch Wars ALT: DM-4: STARRY, STARRY NIGHT

MENTOR: Mónica Bustamante Wagner and Lindsey Sprague
ALTERNATE: Abigail Johnson 
TITLE: Starry, Starry Night
CATEGORY/GENRE: YA Contemporary
WORD COUNT: 89,000

PITCH:

After catching her mom undressing her life-long crush, sixteen-year-old Jill is left with Mom’s post-it goodbye note and a suddenly-cryptic dad. Jill tries focusing on rebuilding her dream car, but escape isn’t at Dad's garage; it’s with her impulsive neighbor hiding his own scarred past. 

EXCERPT:

My mother left on a Tuesday. I remember because Tuesdays were taco night and Dad and I ended up eating cereal. Also because that was the night I fell out of love with Sean Addison.

Winter was old and wheezing by late February. The lingering chill in the air bit at my skin after sunset, making it hard to remember that in a few months it would be hot enough for the soles of my sneakers to stick to the asphalt.

Tourists from back east flocked to Arizona during the winter months, so the snowbirds, as we called them, were still thick on the roads and in Dad’s shop. I’d personally changed enough oil that year to fill a swimming pool, and that particular Tuesday, I was drowning in motor oil. The plastic smell of it clung to my hair and coated my lungs when I inhaled. My red coveralls were splashed with the same greasy stains that turned my hands that ineffable shade of zombie gray. All of which I intended to remedy in forty-three minutes, according to the clock on the wall. 

Six o’clock meant the end of my shift, which brought me that much closer to the only thing I’d ever wanted (apart from a 1970 Triumph Spitfire Mark IV): Sean Addison.

“Jill?” Dad’s voice echoed around the garage, popping my daydream bubble before I could grow it into a perfect first kiss.

“Under the Civic.” I rolled out on my creeper, spinning to face him in a way that made me grin like a four-year-old.

Pitch Wars ALT: DM-5: CROSSING FIRE

MENTOR: Molly Lee

ALTERNATE: Samantha Joyce

TITLE: CROSSING FIRE

CATEGORY/GENRE: YA Fantasy Romance

WORD COUNT: 70,000

PITCH: Devica's the rebellious daughter of the devil. Nathan's an innocent - condemned for a crime he didn't commit. Together, they're determined to break out of Hell. And her father's fury won't be their only obstacle.

EXCERPT: Vibrations rippled up Devica's arm as the man pounded on her desk. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched a tower of files topple and sighed.

"I'm not dead! Stop saying that!" He bent over the table, so close she could smell the acrid-scent of alcohol that still perfumed his breath and clothing. His face reminded her of a tomato; red, round and about to burst out of its turtle-necked prison. She really hoped it didn’t. The clean-up would be dreadful.

Devica wiped a smattering of his spittle off her cheek with the back of her hand. “I’m sorry, sir,” she said through gritted teeth. “You’re very much dead.” She glanced at the file in her hand. “You died in a car crash.”

“Impossible! I’ve never been in an accident.”

She held up the report. “This says you were drinking.”

“Well, I had maybe one or two. But I’m a very competent driver; even after a glass of wine.”

Devica stifled a yawn. Shadelings always had a hard time with this part. Her life would be so much easier if they simply accepted their death and moved on.

“You actually had six glasses of wine,” she said. “Then you crashed into a tree after almost running over an old lady.”

“But I didn’t hit her, see? I was sober enough to miss her.”

“She had a heart attack and died two minutes later.”

He blinked. “Well, I can’t be blamed for that. It was obviously just her time.”

Pitch Wars ALT: DM-6: CROSSING BRIELLE

MENTOR: Molly Lee

ALTERNATE: Jamie Corrigan

TITLE: CROSSING BRIELLE

CATEGORY/GENRE: YA Urban Fantasy

WORD COUNT: 64,000

PITCH: A bridge connects doppelgangers Cross and Brielle. If they don't find the madman who put them on a hit list for swapping worlds before his assassins find them, that connection might be what kills them.

EXCERPT: Cross slinked through the alley as nimble as a cat, tracking her prey, waiting for the right time to strike. Liquid-gold light lit her way as she slid her small frame along a bumpy brick wall. Foot placed firmly on a dumpster filled with what smelled like three-day-old tuna, she propelled herself up to her selected post. Sweat dripped from her brow, but Cross refused to acknowledge it. Spring wasn’t always so hot, but right then she felt like she was kneeling in a freaking desert instead of a tar roof in Nashville.

Any day now. She surveyed the landscape. People zigzagged through the rubble-filled streets, living their lives in ignorance. Daniel was down there among them. In the midst of that decay he was working his way toward her. She was sure of it. He wouldn't pass up the chance to say a twisted hello to his victim.

To the untrained eye he looked like any other guy, six feet tall and two hundred pounds of pure muscle. But Cross knew the monster lurking beneath his skin. All of her jobs were dangerous, but Daniel was the most vicious type of moth—a cinnabar. The viper of the moth race.

Finally the tell-tale solid black figure strolled into the alley below. Blood-red stripes ran down his sleeves and pants. Cross peered over the roof's edge, checking for the matching red spot on his back. Her hand fell to her blade, the spot was there.

She sprang to her feet and shot down the rusty fire escape.

Pitch Wars ALT: DM-7: IF SKYSCRAPERS HAD SECRETS

MENTOR: Fiona McLaren
ALTERNATE: Rachel Horwitz
TITLE: If Skyscrapers Had Secrets
CATEGORY/GENRE: YA SciFi
WORD COUNT: 66,000

PITCH:

To save his mother from sickness, sixteen-year-old Dax teams up with a gang intent on helping people in need. When missions to save lives transform into finding dead bodies, he must either ignore the collateral damage, or expose the group and risk losing the transplant his mother desperately needs.

EXCERPT:

This wasn’t the first time I’d been dragged out of school in handcuffs. This time it was my fault, though. My first run-in with the E-level police turned out to be a big mistake. There was a fight in gym and somehow I ended up in handcuffs.

This time, it was because I skipped out of math. Well, sort of. I had a bladder full of orange juice and it just couldn’t wait. It was as good an excuse as any. I did my business and cleared the bathroom with one glance.

Pulling a marker from my pocket, I drew the wings on the glass over the urinal. A simple double-u to the ignorant, a beacon of hope to those who knew what the Angels were capable of. Sure, just like their mythological namesake, no one I had ever met knew if they really existed. But I was desperate. If the rumors were true, they might be able to save my mother’s life.

I stared at the window, awaiting what might happen. I’d heard once you call for them, you’re never seen again. Poof, gone. Shit, so long as I could buy mom a transplant, I didn’t care what happened to me. But when the bathroom door was kicked in, I sure as hell didn’t expect the E-level police.

In a single instant, a slingshot of handcuffs wrapped around my wrists and pulled me to the wet tile floor.

“Donald Emmanuel Jones Junior, you’re under arrest for attempted gang affiliation.”

Pitch Wars ALT: DM-8: THE DRAMA QUEEN WHO CRIED WOLF

MENTOR: Fiona McLaren
ALTERNATE: Jocelyn Rish
TITLE: The Drama Queen Who Cried Wolf
CATEGORY/GENRE: YA Mystery
WORD COUNT: 76,000

PITCH: Sixteen-year-old Breanna loves horror movies and mysteries, but, unfortunately, her overactive imagination turns every situation into a big-screen thriller starring Brea. Since no one believes her when she discovers a body that disappears, it’s up to her to suit up CSI-style in yellow kitchen gloves and solve the murder herself.

EXCERPT: The woman screamed as she raced through the dark woods wearing nothing but a white towel. I shook my head. Seriously? That was a terrible outfit for trying to outrun a homicidal maniac.

She tripped and crashed to the ground, but instead of jumping back up, she cowered in the leaves.

“At least grab a tree branch to defend yourself,” I muttered, but the woman only whimpered and shook her head like that would change the killer’s mind.

He stood over her and adjusted his grip on his machete. She shrieked when he raised his arm.

As he swung the blade, something cold and wet touched my hand.

I screeched before my brain remembered the psycho couldn’t crawl through the TV screen to attack me. I glared at Maximus, my seventy-pound Frankenstein mutt taking up more than his fair share of the black leather couch beside me. “Dang, Max, you trying to give me a heart attack?”

He chuffed in a way that sounded suspiciously like a yes and then nosed my hand again.

“Really? You have to go out just when the movie’s finally getting exciting?”

Max blinked like he’d never do something so obnoxious. Then he barked at me.

I sighed super loud to make sure he knew he was inconveniencing me, but Max didn’t care because he was too busy swiveling the giant ears he’d inherited from a distant German Shepherd relative toward the sound of footsteps coming down the stairs.

Pitch Wars ALT: DM-9: DREAMWALKER

MENTOR: Skylar Dorset
ALTERNATE: Leatrice McKinney
TITLE: Dreamwalker
CATEGORY/GENRE: YA Fantasy
WORD COUNT: 86,000

PITCH:

What if Buffy went down the rabbit hole instead of Alice? Heads will roll, swords will be shattered, hearts will be broken, and Wonderland will never be the same.

EXCERPT:

This is stupid, Alice decided. If someone Googled stupid they’d find a picture of her doing this. Hatta and his dumb ideas. Try live bait, he said. Won’t take long, he said. Ass.

Sitting in the dirt, waiting to be attacked, the cold of the ground seeped into her jeans and numbed her skin. A shiver shook her and she wrapped her arms around herself to ward off the nighttime chill.

As time stretched, shadows filled the forest. Tangled branches, leaves and vines choked the canopy, keeping the moonlight at bay. The smell of damp earth mingled with the sharp scent of moss and fresh water. Creatures chittered, calling to one another, no doubt mocking her. She felt incredibly mockable.

This wasn’t just stupid, it was crazy, but after trudging through the woods for hours, exhausted and starving, who wouldn’t be somewhat unhinged?

Something croaked a low moooooooron.

“Oh, come on!” Alice’s shout swept outward in echoing waves, silencing the forest save the whispering wind. “Fine. Fine! S’fine.” She pushed to her feet and dusted off her butt. “Guess we’ll do this the hard way.”

She’d backtrack to the Gateway. Hopefully the trail hadn’t gone cold. As she walked, an odd sort of pressure slid along her limbs. Goose bumps prickled her flesh. She paused. Everything remained still, quiet enough for her to hear what she believed to be the wind more clearly, which became a low, heavy pulsing rush. Whuush. Whuush.

Not wind. Breathing.

This plan was stupid, but it worked.

Pitch Wars ALT: DM-11: THE DRUMMING SONG

MENTOR: Eden Plantz
ALTERNATE: Ambiguous_A
TITLE: The Drumming Song
CATEGORY/GENRE: YA Magical Realism
WORD COUNT: 90,000

PITCH: When 17-year-old Drea becomes addicted to an intoxicating drumbeat only four others can hear, she must break the drum’s grisly curse and free herself from the addiction before it takes over her mind. 

EXCERPT: A street musician lounged at the edge of the plaza, singing wistfully about a girl, or a friend, or maybe a car. I wished he would shut up.

A crowd formed, trapping me on Chef, my new-used bike. I knew it was stupid to venture into Venari’s plaza at eight at night, but the thought of waking up tomorrow morning without fresh fruit and vegetables made me grit my teeth and my stomach gnaw. If I didn’t cook for my brother Guster, he’d revert back to a toaster waffle and peanut butter sandwich diet before I could grab hold of a dough whisk.

I used Chef’s front tire to nudge between people.

“Excuse me. Oops. Sorry.” People met my apologies with polite smiles, except one girl with electric yellow braces. She glared at me like it was a personal offense that I didn’t give a damn about the guy’s whining.

Laughter echoed beyond the stone plaza buildings. The setting sun reduced the golden hues of Venari’s meadows to soft yellow sighs. They were pretty, I supposed. A different kind of beautiful than Portland’s perpetually shaded streets.

Sir Sings-a-Lot hit a high note, ripping my thoughts out of that familiar place, back to this mess of song adorers and squat buildings.

I held my breath and squeezed between a chubby guy chomping on a corn dog and a recycle bin, breaking through the last of the bodies. I didn’t know if it was the smell of such deep-fried blechness, but I suddenly craved a shower and anything I could pull out of a garden. I would—

A pulse throbbed through the air, so clear that it reduced the murmuring and so-so singing to background noise. It was as if someone had slipped headphones around the plaza and hit play on a…drum solo.

Pitch Wars ALT: DM-12: SURGE

MENTOR: Eden Plantz

ALTERNATE: Kerri Sparks

TITLE: SURGE

CATEGORY/GENRE: YA Sci-Fi

WORD COUNT: 77,000

PITCH: Kenison has just surged back in time to track the target she was trained to kill. In the next few hours, Kenison will realize that target is her. The countdown begins: shoot…or go rogue.

EXCERPT: Sharp objects. That’s the first thing that comes to mind the moment I stop surging. Knives. Needles. Razor Blades. A lightning strike to the head. All sharp. All piercing into every inch of flesh at an unfathomable rate of speed. This is the very definition of agony...and that’s describing it mildly.

Human beings aren’t meant to time travel. They didn’t tell us that in training, but I know it now. I’ve known it since the moment I began to surge. The moment I first felt the Hurt. It Hurts to breathe. It Hurts to move. It Hurts to live. And yet I’m standing here, in the middle of an overgrown forest, trying hard as hell to suck the cold, tasteless air into my lungs enough times to survive; because I did live.I am alive. I am alive, and I have managed to survive another surge.

“Glad to see you made it in one piece, Kenison,” a voice greets me. I open my eyes just as an awkwardly tall male emerges from behind a tree. He attempts to smooth down the disheveled amber hair that blows in the wind as he walks towards me. It’s my partner, Micah. And he’s alive. Relief hits almost as hard as the surge did. "How do you feel?" he grins.

I shrug. "Like I just surged."

A faint laugh escapes his mouth, but he is quick to contain it. Apparently my dismissal of a near death experience is comical. "How's your head?"

"Still attached."

Pitch Wars ALT: DM-13: FAIRY KEEPER

MENTOR: Sarah Nicolas

ALTERNATE: Amy Bearce

TITLE: Fairy Keeper

CATEGORY/GENRE: YA Dark Fantasy

WORD COUNT: 66,000

PITCH: Fifteen-year-old Sierra wishes she was never marked as a Fairy Keeper. When her hive disappears, Sierra must find another queen to produce nectar for her drug-lord father or her sister will pay the price. The magic she discovers will transform their world.

EXCERPT: The last drops of fairy nectar cling to the edge of the jar I’m holding, poised above the beaker containing today’s harvest. One measly beaker’s worth. My dad, Jack, is not going to be happy. Jack insists that nothing stand in the way of his drug business, especially not annoying little fairies who are refusing to produce as much as usual.

I give the jar a little shake to loosen those stubborn drops, since every bit of it’s precious. Fairy nectar keeps Jack happy. When Jack’s happy, he leaves me and - more importantly - my little sister Phoebe alone.

I squint at the glowing nectar swirling gently in the beaker, measuring it with my eyes. It seems like so little to cost so much.

The ground growls beneath my feet and I freeze. I stand like a statue for a long moment, my hand poised above the beaker. Dread swirls inside me like the golden syrup in the glass. The moment spins out, an elastic split-second in which dust motes float in the air like gold flakes. Then our ancient unicorn gives a rusty bellow. He always knows when all hell is about to break loose.

When his cry scrapes down my spine, it shatters my paralysis. I grab for the beaker, but I’m too late.

The floor roars up to meet me with a human-like shriek, slamming me to my knees. Glass breaks nearby with a crash. My head smacks against the wooden table on my way down.