Fiction Excerpts
Fiction is my first love. I'm currently querying for a YA fantasy novel called Master of None. It's Kung Fu Panda meets Ranger's Apprentice in a Persian-inspired world of magic and martial arts. Below is a dust-jacket style summary.
Once in their lifetime, the Weapon Masters of Druelm choose apprentices to pass their knowledge and craft to—one each for the masters of the staff, knives, bow, and scimitar.
“You don’t belong here, neevie. Baking bread all your life doesn’t prepare you to be a warrior. You’re a mistake. A flaw.”
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Anjoli Mzjark is a mixed-race baker’s daughter, eagerly awaiting her 15th birthday so she can apprentice under a traveling merchant from a neighboring kingdom. When Anjoli is unwillingly selected as the apprentice to the master of the staff, she struggles to accept her role and find her place among the other apprentices who’ve been training their whole lives for this, especially when Darian, the scimitar apprentice, seems to be doing everything in his power to get her to quit.
“You may be royalty, Cyrus. But you know nothing about being a ruler.”
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Cyrus ri-Asha is crown prince of Ghislain, newly titled when his brother returns from a scouting trip in a coffin. With a grief-stricken, stone-faced father refusing to acknowledge him, and a notebook full of his brother’s suspicions, dotted with unexplainable deaths and disappearances near the country’s towering mountain border, Cyrus knows he must take action whether he’s sanctioned by the sultan or not.
When Prince Cyrus calls on the master apprentices, Anjoli and Darian must set aside their differences and follow the crown prince into uncharted territory to stop the brewing danger before it destroys them all.
- From Master of None
Query letters/pitches and more chapters are available upon request
My first novel, Anyone Can Pull a Trigger, is based on the Soviet Union under Stalin, but with a futuristic twist. Below is an excerpt from chapter 1, which takes place in the secret police training room.
He turns and lands a kick that sends me sprawling. I don’t have time to catch the wind that he knocked out of me before he slams his boot on my trachea. I allow him to kick me in the ribs twice while I feel out his mood. I can tell by his calculated strikes that he’s not simply letting off steam. He’s assessing me. That’s all the confirmation I need to fight back.
The next time his leg comes close I grab it and pull, throwing off him balance, while pulling myself up and behind him. He plants his foot and brings his arm around for a punch, but I block it and counter with one of my own, which he blocks easily. After a few more strikes and blocks he manages to put his massive arm around my throat and squeeze into a headlock. I take a shallow breath and then drop all my weight. His grip loosens and I slide between his legs and then swipe them out from under him while still on the ground. He almost falls and I feel a glimmer of triumph, allowing my stance to relax slightly, but he was faking and before I know it, my arm is twisted painfully behind me and I hear his voice in my ear.
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“Never assume an opponent is down unless he’s dead.” He isn’t even out of breath. I nod, remembering the phrase from past sparring sessions. Celebrating too early has constantly been my defeat these past few years.
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“Thank you for your generosity,” I gasp. This is the standard response whenever an Officer teaches or gives you something, which could be anything from a training tip to a knife wound.