starlight star-bright,

first star that i see tonight,

i wish i might, i wish i may,

that someday

i'll be able

to get away

from this

clouded, gloomy, dismal

place,

and wipe the tears

off of my face-

starlight, star-bright,

last star that i see tonight,

i wish i may, i wish i might,

that i could bring myself

to just move on,

because after your darkness,

comes the light

of

dawn.

ginger hair

and

turned tables

peaceful moments

that ended

in the wrong

words

awkward glances

and

unshared feelings

i lost you

then loved you

a little too

late

this is the

sort of hurt

that bandaids

can't fix

When I was younger, I had heard about the tooth fairy from my friends and was dying to loose my first tooth so that she would visit me. As you can imagine I was overjoyed when I found out that one of my teeth was loose. I waited and waited for it to fall out but it seemed to take forever (actually it was just a week or so). Then, one day I looked in the mirror and realized that it was gone. I hadn't noticed I had lost until that point and I found out the terribly sad truth that I had accidentally swallowed it. I cried for hours and my dad, desperately trying to console me (more like trying to get me to shut up) made up some far fetched story that kind of went like this: "When I was younger, I also swallowed my tooth and was very sad. But the tooth fairy can do anything, so she went down my throat and fetched the tooth from my stomach. I'm sure she'll be able to get your tooth too!" I actually believed him - that the tooth fairy could fit down someone's esophagus without choking them and survive the high levels of acidity of stomach acid. I think my dad didn't realize he was telling this to a six-year-old. I was terrified at that story and instead of being comforted I was even more upset at the thought. I think I was kind of relieved when I figured out that the tooth fairy wasn't real and that it was my parents the whole time. So that's my wild childhood belief. (Please see prompt.)

You know the end is coming, what would be called a ‘happily never after’. So you need some questions answered. They’ll sound prying, forcing a withered rose to open its petals, but they won’t give it away, if you tread carefully.

The first one you ask is the most obvious. It’s multifaceted, smashed into the confines of a few one syllable words.

“Why do you do this?”

His lip curls into a smirk. As if you should see the answer already, like you’re stumbling around blindfolded.

The plane is humming, purring, like a sleeping cat. The plane is preparing to descend, descend into an undoing.

Your palms are sweaty. That’s always been a problem of yours, but now, it’s impossible not to notice. You grip the leather armrests, hoping they’ll hold your sanity down.

You nearly expect him not to respond, to laugh it off and shove it away, but he speaks, keeping his head turned away, shielding it from your judgement.

“What drives humanity is the want of what you can’t have. But I have it all. So, I find joy, motivation, in the next best thing. I want what is wrong.”

This makes sense. It’s slimy, disgusting, like a bucket of toads, but it makes sense.

This will be painful. Well, on to the next question.

“Do you regret what you’ve done?”

This time he actually laughs. Explosive chuckles that bounce around the plane’s cabin.

“No. I never will. The world is meant to be exploited. I’ve been taking, taking, taking, and it’s been giving, giving, giving. Sometimes it throws things at me, sometimes I have to put in a little effort. But I always get what I want. I’ll suck this world dry, if it’s going to let me.”

There’s more, but the plane is swooping down now. On to the final question, the one you can ask now because you’re so close to reality.

“What if you get caught?”

A sigh. A breathy, exhausted one. A twinkle in his eyes.

“I won’t. I have money. I know they say ‘money can’t buy everything’. That’s true. But you know what?”

He pauses.

“It can buy enough. Money can’t buy love, but it can buy compliance. It can’t buy happiness, but it can buy distraction. It can’t buy back the past, but it can buy silence in the future. Money is everyone’s undoing. Throw enough at a problem and you can get it to disappear. I can’t fall, because I can rebuild my pedestal in an instant.”

And then he’s done.

These questions had caused a big bang, of sorts. Your loathing had been miniscule, nearly invisible. Now, everything had expanded into infinity, making a giant, bubbling mess.

He deserves this.

The plane lands, coasts down the runway. You’re excited now. Justice will be served. This man considered the world to be his playground, and someone set fire to it while he wasn’t looking.

It will burn.

zoom.

it's all

on zoom

now.

those tiny

snatches of

video,

an unauthentic

slice of

somebody else's

life.

pixelated

glitchy

frames,

unblinking

staring

faces.

and the

echo,

the cursed

echo-

it comes out

of nowhere

courtesy

of someone's

bad internet

connection-

but i mean,

who doesn't

have bad

connection

these

days?

and then,

there's those

people,

with their

mic

and video

off.

they're

obviously

watching

YouTube.

so why the heck

are they even

here?

a chat

spiralling

out of control,

getting political.

is anyone

even paying

attention?

it's all

so

chaotic.

zoom.

a beautiful

tragedy

born

from

corona.

It’s routine now. There’s a set of rules, and if you follow them, you can pull this kill off flawlessly. Just like the others.

Rule one: Always have a cover up.

You told him that you needed a new accountant, and suggested you talk buisness over lunch at his home.

The idiot agreed.

“Excuse me for a moment,” he says. You want to tell him take as much time as you like, but that would be pushing your luck. He staggers off to grab a stack of papers to be signed, and you want to congratulate him for his absentmindedness.

He turns a corner, and you pull the vial out of your purse.

Rule two: Be discreet.

The vial is only an inch high, and filled with bubbly pink liquid.

Rule three: Be quick.

The neurotoxin will kill him in four seconds.

You lean over, the table's wood digging into your stomach. You tip the vial into his drink. The pink dissolves instantly. He won’t even know.

He comes downstairs, and as if sensing what you are mentally willing him to do, takes a sip.

Four.

Three.

Two.

One.

Thump.

He’s gone. The sight brings tears of joy to your eyes.

But you’re not done. Time for the hardest part.

Rule four: Make it look like an accident.

He’s pretty heavy, so you settle for the least creative option. You drag his body over to the bottom of the stairs. You kick his head a few times, to mimic genuine head trauma, and the scene is set.

It’s beautiful.

You stroll out of the house, smiling. One thought is one your mind:

Who next?

Rule five: Have fun.

Sample:

Prologue:

It was a car accident.

She had drunk too much beer.

It had tasted like cat pee.

The party had been excruciating. The beer had made it more tolerable, it had quelled her anxiety, but for a price. She was seeing comets. She could barely keep her hands on the steering wheel.

Beverly was in the passenger seat, alternating between singing an off-key rendition of 'Material Girl' and complaining about her 'old lady name'. She reeked of weed.

It was mid-January. The roads were icy. Too much pressure on the gas pedal, and they flew off the road.

It was a long fall.

She prayed, despite being a life-long athiest. She promised to be nicer. She'd visit her dad more. She'd stop smoking those strawberry flavored vapes that she really liked but that were wreaking havoc on her lungs.

But was it really possible to repent seventeen years of your life in ten seconds?

The ground had arrived.

Screams.

A jolt.

Nothing.

1

...

Something.

*end of sample*

Title of Work: The Other Side

Genre: Realistic fiction, with a dash of sci fi.

Age Range: YA lit, so I'd say about 14+. But I know plenty of adults who read YA lit.

Word Count: See notes at bottom of page, but I'd guess somewhere in the range of 75,000-100,000 words.

Author Name: Anna Carr (this is not my actual name. Because this is the internet I would like to protect my privacy)

Why my project is an excellent fit: This piece exposes a whole new view on death, while also adressing issues such as anxiety, depression, and imposter syndrome. It's a bit like an undercover self-help book, mashed up with dry humor and metaphor.

Hook: When Elaine dies in a car crash, she doesn't actually die. She's teleported to another dimension, 'Tier Two'. This happens to everyone who passes away.

She is sent to live in a division of Tier Two that is made up of teenagers who also had untimely deaths.

Having struggled with overwhelming anxiety and depression in what the folks of Tier Two call 'Tier One', Elaine decides to reinvent herself.

But at what cost?

Synopsis: Elaine's reinvention is slow and shaky, as her mind drifts back to Tier One and everything she's left behind. But eventually she becomes somewhat happy, and adjusts.

She immerses herself in the stories of other's past lives. She makes friends.

But then, things fall apart and she relapses.

In the end, though, she is able to pick herself back up, and finds closure and acceptance in her new 'life'.

Target Audience: Everyone. But this book will especially strike a chord with realistic fiction fans and those who have experienced similar issues to Elaine's.

Writing Style: I really like writing in third person, but the psychological closeness you get in first person really can't be beat. I like to use metaphor, symbolism and motif liberally. I'm not the most skilled with dialogue, but try to incorporate a decent amount. I have a sarcastic sense of humor, and try to add a little bit of that to all of my pieces.

Experience: I was the first place winner in the literature category of a city-wide arts contest about six months ago, for a short story I wrote. I have also had my work published in multiple magazines.

I think that is an adequate amount of information, but here are a few notes:

Because I am currently working on another project, my sample is all that I have written so far. But if needed, I'm sure I could juggle two projects at once.

The remainder of the story would be in first person. The plot is not set in stone, except for the vague outline.

your work is dark, but so am i,

based half on truth and half on lies.

in your pieces, i can see your feelings

each word so beautiful, deep and revealing.

in your work, there is a range

but deep down it’s the same, emotional and strange.

i was the one who brought you here,

and wait in anticpation for a new post to appear.

with every letter, i see something new,

so thank you, friendly_cynic, thank you.

she is a

sunflower.

standing tall,

towering above

the torment of

the world.

she wears

a crown

of butter

yellow,

radiant,

almost glowing.

she is full

of

seeds.

seeds of wisdom,

seeds of hope,

seeds of

possibility.

her stalk

can support

anything,

so go

ahead

and throw

it at her.

murders

of crows,

drought,

weedkiller.

she will

remain.

but like

a sunflower

one day

she will

wither

away

&

die.

Watching out her window

Always missing out,

The fear of all she does not know

Causing her this doubt.

Her doubt is her armor

In this wicked wicked place,

Nets out there to catch and harm her,

Glistening tears upon her face.

Anticpating being saved,

Next time, she will be free.

Drawn to the place that haunts her, it's what she craved

What makes her heart heavy.

Angst and anger, she’s stuck in an abyss,

In this prison, she will swear

That she will overcome this,

Instead she will just stare.

Never getting where

Gleams of possibilities are showing- out there.