Genre: MG Science Fiction
Word Count: 38,000
My Main Character is most uncomfortable with:
Snow reminds Xavier of his mom, who passed away several years ago while they were living on a rather wintery planet. Come to think of it--that's probably around the time she hid the microchip in his brain. Although he has, on some levels, accepted her death--Xavier still misses his mom.
Dear Goddesses of Sun and Snow:
Everyone says twelve year-old Xavier has a knack for causing havoc, when in reality he's just terribly unlucky. He's not the one who made the mysterious black spaceship show up and turn the colony into something resembling a burnt pancake. Oh wait—he is.
To be fair, Xavier didn't even know the microchip (the one the goons on the mysterious black spaceship wanted) was in his head until after the colony was fried to a crisp. See, his mom did leave a message explaining the whole I-put-a-microchip-with-my-research-on-it-in-your-head thing before she died several years earlier, but it was locked inside a puzzle box. It wasn't until the box detected the threat of the black spaceship that it opened and spilled its secret.
Now, Xavier must unlock the password to the microchip before "The Man" (the evil head of the Cornucopia Conglomerate) or his goons get their hands on him. If he doesn't, he'll never know what's on the microchip or why they want to cut it out of his head.
First 250 Words:
I thought to myself: Self, that’s not supposed to happen—just as the second dung bomb exploded. As I watched the smelly, sticky, brownish-green substance fly through the air, I knew somewhere I'd made a slight miscalculation. Taking a moment as I crouched in the wheat field, I reviewed the parameters of my little experiment.
The plastic trays held a chemical that Mr. Finch, the colony's bug guy, assured me would be poisonous to the black bellied grain beetle. The trays were covered by a heap of cow dung that would attract said beetles (again according to the illustrious Mr. Finch). Perhaps I should've consulted the colony chemist, too.
The third beetle-trap-turned-dung-bomb exploded.
I cringed. I didn't recognize the voice, the colony was small but not that small, but its tone was certainly familiar. My reputation had preceded me. Turning around slowly, I saw one of the grain farmers. I couldn't remember the man’s name, but I might've been distracted by the fact that he was covered—from head to toe—in dung.
“Yes, sir?” Why does my voice always crack at times like these?
His angry reply was cut off by the fourth and final explosion. The trap I'd proudly dubbed ‘The Hotel’ went out in a blaze of glory spewing forth a cloud of brown and a jet of yellow flames. The wave of brown speckles struck the farmers back and then fell lightly on my face. My chagrin turned toward more of a horror type feeling when I spotted the flames lapping up at the grain.