Young Adult / Save All Monster - Query Letter and Chapter
Dear Susanna:
I have elsewhere submitted the opening chapter of a darkly comic work called Don’t Get Mad Steven for your attention, along with some details about myself.
As Urbis allows more than one manuscript to be offered and you have a declared interest in work for younger adults and children, I hope you won’t mind me sending additional material. This comes from a completed eighty-three thousand word comic novel for youthful readers called Save All Monsters. As well as being an entertaining read, it is a work that would provide a great basis for an animated movie.
What do monsters do with their time? Why is it not a good idea to date a Weresnuppet or provoke a Blazenfelder? Why do witches prefer riding Charmchairs to broomsticks? Why do fairies really suck at baby-sitting? What's the best way to feed a Snizzwizzeller or prepare a tasty glass of hemlock? If you have ever wondered about any of these things, then Save All Monsters is the novel not only for you, but also for anyone that believes that childhood should be something truly magical.
It tells the story of Tyranneous Snoss, a monster who is raised in a protected magical world just a thought-step away. When a ruthless television celebrity starts a campaign to ban all imaginative art and fiction, Tyranneous is forced to gather together fantastical folk to defend their culture and fight back.
Thank you once again for your time and consideration. The sample extract appears below.
Gary Cahalane cygenesis@yahoo.com
This is the story of Tyranneous Snoss,
Of all the monsters, he was the boss.
He’d lead them all in monster gangs,
Howling howls and gnashing fangs.
Up dark alleys, they would creep
From out of your wardrobe, they would peep.
Then, they’d go home and eat a stew,
Of rotten fish fingers and elephant poo.
`Modern Snizzwizzeller Cursery Rhyme'
Billy, the Prince of Terror
The light was round and ghostly like a full moon. The torches beam flickered here and there impatiently in the darkness, over the neat labels on the shelves, jars and boxes. "Skulls – Human" said one. "Eyeballs – Human" another. "Entrails - Human" yet another. "Legs - Human: Bitten", "Legs - Human: Sawn", "Arms - Human:Wrenched Off", "Arms- Human: Mutilated", "Arms- Human: Torn." You could choose your extremity and level of disfigurement. The place with its strict order and rows of narrow shelves seemed like a supermarket for cannibals in the midst of a power failure.
Still the small lumpy figure with the torch moved on, silently, sneakily, stealthily, with purpose. The light passing over another rack of laden shelves. "Fangs - Vampire", "Fangs - Werewolf", "Fangs - Miscellaneous", “Fangs - For the Memory (Ha, Ha) - Borcan's First Pair." The figure with the light stopped here for a short moment of reverence, before continuing, becoming quicker and more assured. In the furthest and most out-of-way corner was a huge covered box, one so large that it dwarfed all the other boxes and the figure that stood before it. The lettering on this box was also much larger than that written on the other boxes and was in bright red marker pen for extra emphasis.
"LATITIA FINKWEASEL MEMORABILIA: DO NOT TOUCH!" It read, then it even larger lettering, underlined three times; "THAT MEANS YOU BILLY!!!"
The figure grinned, feeling guilty but elated, as he always did. He reached into his belt and pulled out a long robust and much battered stick, then he lifted the lid of the box and thrust the stick in.
"SNAP! SNAP! SNAP!"
He took his time, moving the stick back and forth, making sure that he tripped everyone of the tiny gently sprung trap, designed and placed in there as a modest but not painful repellent. He knew the keepers were far to gentle to hurt anyone really.
'I AM the champion of the world.'
He savoured his moment of triumph. Then lifted out the mousetrap-loaded stick and putting it down, reached his hand up and into the box. His hand moved here and there searching for the familiar touch of plastic and cardboard wrapping, but there was none to be found. Instead there was something strange, unexpected, slimy and not altogether pleasant. Then beyond that, something solid, yet yielding and…
"CRAAAASSSSHHHH!"
There was an explosion of light and thunder.
"RRRRROOOOOAAAAARRRRR!"
With a blood-chilling cry, the long dead beast sprung out of the box and tried to grab him. It’s sharp bloody claws savage and terrible.
'AAAAGGGGGGHHHHH!'
Voicing a scream of pure terror he ran and ran until the cellar and those narrow dark stairs were far behind him. Until the breath came in huge gasps that lacerated his throat, and his heart pounded within him to some mad salsa rhythm. Until he was sure, totally absolutely sure that he had not been followed.
He waited, watching the dark doorway. Every muscle poised on some deep subconscious level for flight at the slightest provocation. He did not move, his ears straining all the while for the slightest sound, be it one of discovery or of some primeval eldritch horror rising up from below. This part of the huge house was silent. Only the distant twitter of the unsuspecting birds outside could be heard. Slowly his thundering heart subsided, his breath returned to normal.
There was something in the basement, something terrible. He made a decision and took a quivering step forward towards the doorway.
"DON'T GO INTO THE BASEMENT! DON'T GO INTO THE BASEMENT! DON'T GO INTO THE BASEMENT!" His brain screamed at him, again and again. He had seen enough horror films to know better. No good ever came of it. There was always some half-wit with more bravado than sense who, in spite of all reasonable warnings to the contrary, went into the basement, or the attic, died horribly and was never seen again.
He took another step and then another. His heart started to beat in frantic time again. With every move forward his mental voice got wilder and more insistent.
""DON'T GO INTO THE BASEMENT! DON'T GO INTO THE BASEMENT! DON'T GO INTO THE BASEMENT! YOU FOOL! YOU IDIOT! YOU TOTAL NANA!"
Perversely there was a part of him that was starting to enjoy this fear. He had always been a bit morbid. He stopped just short of the doorway. Now was his last chance, the final moment of decision. He did not know what was just beyond that portal, did not know what foul thing lay hunched in wait within the blackness, perhaps hungry for a fresh meaty meal. Bravely, and not at all sensibly, with every impulse screaming at him to turn and run, he took another step forward through the doorway and pulled shut the basement door behind him. That was when the chilling realisation that he had lost his torch and his stick hit him.
He waited, eyes closed, simpering with little yelps of fear as the instant turned into a moment and the moment turned into a minute. Nothing happened.
He opened his eyes. There was a dim light over in the far corner, where the monster lurked. So faint that he could not have seen it from outside but far too bright to just be his torch. Was it a trap? He waited and waited, his senses strained to their limits, becoming acclimatised to the gloom. All was silent save for a very faint and very creepy creaking noise. He sniffed the air, there was the slightest vestige of powder to be smelt, provoking a fleeting memory of bonfire night. He moved a trembling foot forward onto the next stair. The step gave a groan as if of agony.
Again he waited for the longest time, sweat pouring, senses rampant as nothing happened. Emboldened, he took another step and then another and another, pausing between each. There was naught save for the gentle mournful creaking to be heard. It was a long way to the light, a distance full of severed heads and limbs, of monster bits and pieces, of photo's and posters, all of them now a potential threat or distraction, none of them to be trusted. Slowly and with infinite patience and infinite foolishness he made his way forward.
At last he was on the verge of destiny, one shelf away from where the creaking croaked and the terror lurked. Once more his fluttering brain tried to dissuade him.
"It's all very well curiosity killing cats. Cat's have nine lives. You don't. RUN AWAY YOU TWIT!"
For all the use his brain's sensible defence mechanism's were, they might have well have been King Canute trying to hold back the sea.
He closed his eyes and summoned up all his courage. Mouthing quietly the words. "Please don't eat me. I'm too young to fry."
Then with a wild pagan roar he rushed forward to face whatever horror loitered in that far-flung corner.
'POO BAGS! FLIPPING GREAT FARTY WET SLITHERING STEAMING BAGS OF POO!' He cursed with the strongest words his ten-year-old mouth could summon forth. The monster from the basement ignored him. It could not do much else. It was rubber.
The creature swung gently back and forth, creaking softly on its big spring. The harsh light that was attached to its base shining upwards, making it look forlorn and pathetic.
Without the sound of the explosion and the roar he recognised it at once as one of the monster costumes from The Embalmers Embrace. It was not hard to do, as there was a poster for the film less than six feet from where he stood. Its head and shoulders was covered in slippery movie slime makeup for added effect.
The light was directed upon the sign that the monster held. It was written by his mother: "BILLY SMITHERS (OR LEGORSKA, IF YOU MUST INSIST). YOU ARE IN SO MUCH TROUBLE. HOW MANY TIMES HAVE WE TOLD YOU TO LEAVE MRS FINKWEASLE'S MEMORABILIA ALONE!" It said in large red lettering. Below that in smaller type and a different colour (blue if you must know) it continued: "We've taken her stuff away and hidden it. Who's the champion of the world now, young mister smarty-pants? Love always, Mum and Dad."
Billy ran a professional eye over the trap’s construction. He could see the catch where he'd sprung it, the battery that powered the light and the voice-box, the dead squibs that had held the tiny, almost non-existent charges. His parents had lost none of their touch; it was quite a set-up. It was also something of a challenge. He looked at his watch. Lucky it had been today. Mum and Dad had gone visiting in Demon’s Acre and would not be back for ages.
With a real sense of purpose, he picked up his torch. First he had to put the monster away, reset everything except the squibs (including all the mousetraps) and clear up any evidence. This took a while. Finally it took over an hour of careful searching (coupled with several trips to the servant's quarters to put the staff's minds at rest and give himself an alibi) until at last he found it.
The box was a large one and was placed in an old cupboard in one of the basement's furthest crannies. The label on it read: "Misc. Memorabilia - The Cavern of Doom. Very fragile: DO NOT TOUCH." It was almost simple in the end. No great feat of detection was needed. There was no telltale dust on the box and Billy was already one of the greatest experts (along with his best friends: Lucy and Jim) on Scary Pictures Studio history. He knew that there had never been a film completed or even planned called The Cavern of Doom.
Billy carefully opened the box and there they were. Row upon row of carefully packed garish boxes making all sorts of grand claims for the fully poseable Latitia Finkweasel dolls inside. He was not greedy or stupid enough to take too many and give himself away. He only helped himself to two.
He picked up his stick and torch from the floor, after concealing the dolls in a carefully rolled up jumper for transportation to his secret workroom. He prepared to leave the cellar looking totally wide-eyed and innocent, as only a truly guilty child can, but first he allowed himself a brief moment of gloating self-importance.
'Who's the champion of the world? Billy Legorska, that's who. I am. The Prince of Terror strikes again. Yippee!
* * *
There is a saying that the best laid schemes of mice and men often go astray. You can be the most incredibly devious mouse, the most brilliantly subtle man, woman or child and plot your most fabulously twisted scheme and still the most simple of oversights can trip you up. Thus it was with young Billy Legorska. After he had hid his criminal booty in his secret room he ran straight into to his mother and into trouble.
'Billy. Where have you been?'
'Nowhere special.' Billy said, careful not to sound defensive.
'This nowhere special. Above ground was it?'
'I don't know what you mean.' Billy said indignantly, decided to go on the offensive. He widened his eyes to their fullest most innocent extent for maximum effect.
'Have you been near the basement Billy?'
'Have I been where mother?'
'The basement. Place below ground, dusty, you like it.'
'I would never go there without permission mother.'
'You wouldn't lie to me Billy Smithers?'
'Mother. Mummy. Would I lie to you?'
His mother's fierce grin would not have looked out of place on a hungry tiger.
'Well obviously Mother, I know I haven't been entirely truthful...'
'Try even slightly.'
'...Even slightly truthful in the past, but honestly. I’ve not been near the basement in ages.'
'Ages eh?'
'Aeons Mother. Millennia.'
'OK then you can go.'
Billy hid his smirk until after he turned away.
'I AM the champion...' He started to whisper.
He almost made it to the door.
'Just one thing Billy.'
'.... Of being in big trouble.' He raised his voice and turned back trying to look totally guilt-free. ''Yes?'
'I just want to ask you to explain something.'
'Yes mummy.'
'You can cut out the mummy stuff. That stopped working once you reached five. So you've not lied to me?'
'No.'
'Not been to the basement.'
'No.'
'Can you explain then why you are covered from head to foot in basement dust.'
'Er, No.'
Billy looked down. She was right. He was covered in dust. He had an experience common to most children. He knew he had been beaten by a far more skilful and wily opponent. His own mother.'
'Is there anything you want to say young man?'
'What you mean before the court passes judgement?'
'In your defence certainly.'
'Yes mum. I'd just like to say for the record: curses, foiled again. I would have got away with it too, if it hadn't been for those meddling grownups.'
'I suppose you think that's clever.'
'Yes I do actually.'
He really knew that it was about as clever as poking a temperament polar bear with a pointed stick.
'BILLY!!!!'
Hurricane Katie struck with full ferocity. Katie Smither's tirade went on for several minutes. She was a tempestuous awe-inspiring force of nature in full flow. Staff working several rooms away could feel the tremor and vibration of her forthright opinions.
'Young Billy's been at it again.' They said, and went back to work.
The telling off stopped. The upshot of it was that if Billy lived to be a hundred and forty six, he might just finish being grounded. He went to his room in severe disgrace and lowered spirits.
Katie' spirits if anything were even lower. She hated telling off her son. Hated the necessity for it and the provocation. The fact that someone so young and so beloved could wind her up so much. She went to the door of the basement and stared sorrowfully at the five locks her brilliant ten-year-old-son had bested with ease.
'We need more locks. Bigger ones.' She said.
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About all I know about this genre is how important it is to have your very own unique quality of storytelling. You bascially could rewrite the entire english language, at least that is what your readers will feel. The good thing is you reminded me of this, I think letting go more will defenitely enhance your genuine storytelling.
I would make the introduction stronger with more purpose for being so interested. It’s too nonchalant, make it real, you are committing to something huge. ”Since developing my talent further than my previous submission to ’ ’ with “Don’t Get Mad Steven”, I have much more tell your readers about the soon to be phenomena known as, “Save All Monsters”. They may not want to save any monsters today, but there is always tomorrow.
4, par. 2 sp. realization, from realize.
p. 5, the theatrics seem hazy, either expand or contract, just suggesting.
p. 5 par. 5 sp. defense, and check the grammar of this sentence too.
Page 6 Great stuff, slow and concise, and your cliches are good throughout.
p. 7 par. 3 completed, or even planned, called “The Cavern of Doom”.
p. 8 par. 2 quote “The best laid schemes of mice and men often go astray” is good, did you think that up yourself, I really like that.
p. 10 par. 2 quote “wind her up so much” must be original as well, very funny.
All in all, a good read, it is cute, and seems mature enough for a young audience to enjoy, I know I did.
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I love the idea of this story. It sounds like it would be a fun read.
“Below that in smaller type and a different colour (blue if you must know) it continued” -Instead of the parenthesis why not just say it was written in blue ink? To me the parenthesis take away from the story.
Other than that i think the story is great.
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