Future
Tense (In revisions):
(YA
Urban
Fantasy/Magical Realism)
In the ten years since his parents died in
a fire he predicted but
couldn't prevent, seventeen year old Matt is trying to stay out of
trouble, biding his time until he ages out of foster care. All he wants
is for the world to leave him alone so he won't be tortured by seeing
someone's future he's powerless to change anyway. But his plans for
keeping himself aloof fail when he interrupts a vicious attack on
Amara, a girl from his school. Despite his best attempts to push her
away, he can't ignore the connection they've formed. That's when
glimpses of her dangerous future start to invade the present —
a future he fears he is responsible for. Now Matt has something to lose
again . . . and something to fight for.
Another day without getting punched,
stabbed, or shot. I guess I could call it a win.
Grabbing my backpack, I waded into the mob leaving P.S. 20, a high
school so beaten down nobody bothered to give it a name. Like most of
the district schools, and I had been in them all, it was mostly
crumbling bricks, cinder blocks, gangs, and drugs with some classrooms.
If nothing screwed up my placement this time, I’d graduate from here.
"Matt!"
It was Chico and I ignored
him. A tenth grader Mr. and Mrs. Powell took in six weeks ago. An
"emergency" placement.
"Yo, Garrison, wait up!"
I kept walking, past the school and the
empty lot that was supposed to be a playground. A few budding trees and
some new weeds were the only signs winter was over, if you didn’t count
a fresh crop of beer cans, broken nips bottles, and syringes.
"Come on, man."
We're never told why a kid is in foster
care, but it's not hard to figure out. The lucky ones had parents who
only tried to ignore them to death. Some kids got hurt so bad they
disappeared into a black hole. Others stole your stuff and split in the
middle of the night. Then there are the few true orphans like me. And
Chico? He was what we called a lifer. His dad disappeared
before he was born and his mom bounced around between jail and drug
treatment, but she refused to give up her 'parental' rights. Not that
kids as old as Chico and me were even adoptable at this point.
"We’re going to the same place, man,"
Chico said.
Like that made a difference to him. Most
afternoons, Chico disappeared after school and showed up reeking of
body spray just before Mrs. Powell got home from her shift at the
nursing home. If he was heading back now, it was only because he ran
out of money for pot. Well, he would have to hustle to catch up. The
Powells counted on me to be there to meet the elementary school bus.
Mr. Powell worked afternoons at a local locksmith shop and there was a
gap of about a half hour or so before Mrs. Powell got home. Watching
the kids earned me extra computer time, so I didn't mind too much.
"Hey, where's the fire?" Chico asked.
I whipped around so fast, he just about
slammed into me. I knew he didn't know, couldn't know what he was
saying, but it didn't stop the nightmare images. My throat felt tight
and raw. I couldn't swallow. The memory of ashes coated my
tongue. Chico stared at me, his eyes so wide the whites showed all
around the brown.
He stepped back and put his hands in
front of him. "We chill, hombre, right?"
I unhunched my shoulders. That fire was
long gone and it had been a while since some stupid remark made me
relive it all again. "You talk too damn much," I said, slowing my
breathing down and shoving away images of smoke and death.
Chico shook his head. I waited, not
saying a word until he walked away from me. My hands were curled into
tight fists. I forced them to relax. Mostly, it wasn't Chico I was mad
at, but maybe he would leave me alone now. Picking up the pace, I
crossed the street, dodging taxis and jogged past the Korean grocery on
39th Avenue. 40th was just a whole block of pawn shops and check
cashing places. The men and women filing in and out of the armored
storefronts looked as beat up as I felt.
(Top of
page)
Unnamed
medical thriller:
An
ER doctor gets accidentally exposed to a bacteria genetically
engineered to effect mitochondria and give soldiers an energy boost
during crisis in wartime. The only problem: the bacteria has adapted to
the antibiotic vulnerability the scientists thought they had programmed
in. And it's spreading, causing a near epidemic of what looks like
leukemia in some patients, sickle cell crisis in others.
Nights in the ER I can
roll up my sleeves and get to
work.
Literally. And at least now, with the sun setting by 4:30, I
actually have a life outside of the graveyard shift. Most of the rest
of the New Englanders around me are doing their annual battle with
seasonal affective disorder, but this is my favorite time of the
year. The sooner it gets dark, the happier I am.
I've
lived my whole life avoiding sunlight. I'm not really a
vampire
and I won't explode in a cloud of dust as the sun rises.
What
I
face is more like a death by slow torture. My first melanoma
was
removed when I was six.
My
girlfriend does a complete skin check on me every month. It's
not
so bad, actually. Michelle loves me, XP and all and she
doesn't
let me feel sorry for myself. The last skin check involved a
blindfold--for me, not for her--and was a lot more fun then when my
dermatologist examines me.
It
was nearly five am and the ER was finally quiet. Michelle
would
be gone by the time I was through with this shift, but our off-kilter
schedules mostly worked. She got to maintain a normal daytime
life, I was the scourge of the ER from midnight to seven, and we had
the third shift to take care of us.
Shift
change was coming soon and barring any last minute crises, I might be
able to get home on time. I finished dictating the notes from the last
wave of gunshots and stab wounds, tossed my sunglasses next to the
computer monitor, and rubbed my bleary eyes.
"So you're human like the rest of us."
I looked up and smiled. The night nurse manager dropped into
the chair next to me.
"Sorry to disappoint you," I said.
Bernie
looked me over, her deep brown eyes hound dog worried, but her voice
was its usual take-no-prisoners drill Sargent. "You're not
getting enough sleep, Count Dracula."
She
was the only person who called me that to my face.
"Well, my coffin's at the dry cleaners," I said,
leaning back
in
the chair. I was tired. This was my fifth extra
shift this
month, but my loans weren't paying themselves and Michelle and I were
hoping to buy a condo. Just call me Greg Dalton, ER whore.
(Top of
Page)
The
2 story ideas below are
simmering on the back burner.
The
Forgetting: In a world in which spoken language preserves history and
sets the course of the future, Unegen, a powerful mage, begins to lose
his mastery over words. Epic fantasy set in a nomadic culture.
Unnamed YA/urban fantasy: A young girl researching her roots for a
school genealogy assignment discovers her own adoption papers. But even
family secrets and lies are not what they seem and searching for her
'real' parents sends her into a past she's never studied in a history
book.
|
