Shelley Watters is running another fabulous blog contest with an agent critique as the prize! By now, you know my love of all things contest-y so naturally, I entered. Please help me polish my first page of CONFESSIONS OF A TEENAGE CYBORG for the official entry on May 31! I’d love to hear what you think.
Weightlessness is a funny thing.
One moment ago, Dean and I were joking about the stupid, lime-green dress his ex-girlfriend wore to prom. His cheeks dimpled when he laughed.
Now we skid over the embankment. Our bodies are a blur of pink satin and black tuxedo. My insides lurch and jerk, like knots trying to untie themselves. Dean’s face is a blank sheet of confusion and me, well, I don’t know how I look but I’m sure it isn’t pretty.
The free fall ends when we hit the tree. All that remains is pain and panic. And noise. All kinds of noise. Screams, creaks, and cracks from all sides. I can’t feel my legs or arms, but I’m standing and screaming and tugging at the crumpled car door.
Dean’s stuck. I have to get him out.
Gas fumes sting my nose and burn my chest. I tear the door off the car and nearly tear Dean’s arm off, too. He tumbles out and I drag him toward the field. The car explodes, the flames consuming it in a burst of red and orange. The force throws us back from the road. I sit in the long grass in my tattered cocktail dress, barely aware of the hot metal in my hands or Dean unconscious at my side.
I can’t tear my eyes away from my left arm.
The skin is ripped open, gaping from wrist to elbow, but I hardly bleed.
Shock is an understatement.
Thanks so much for taking the time to stop by–I’m off to critique the other entries!