Pitch of What Death has Touched , High-Concept YA
by Holly Raychelle Hughes
Liv is dead but doesn’t know it, and she’s having one hell of a day figuring it out.
When Liv’s mom returns home complaining about the morgue’s cold stainless steel slab against her ass and the gaping hole in her head, it doesn’t take much convincing for Liv to realize her mother is dead. Fearing her mother is deteriorating into a maternal apparition that will haunt her forever, Liv sets out to find a way to save mom.
Angels disguised as ravens, a juice girl, and a Goth, attempt to steer Liv toward redemption, but Liv fails to heed the signs causing her to witnesses her and her mother’s brutal death.
Finally, Liv recognizes her twisted fate- she’s dead, trapped in limbo, and reliving the last day of her life and death over and over again. In order to free herself and save her mother, Liv attempts to change the events of Tuesday, December eighteenth. But changing things only makes it worse. Liv must figure out how to move on or risk suffering a horrible eternal afterlife.
In order to reach Heaven, Liv must let go of her new love, forgive herself and figure out her true reason for being.
when you leave me
in the grave
don’t say goodbye
remember a grave is
only a curtain
for the paradise behind
By Holly Raychelle Hughes
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Blossoms spring off fingertips
dipped in icicles trickling fragrance skyward.
Music blankly sits and stares as
Potatoes make bets
which ones the Goblins eat first.
Grandma Died on Friday
Turning away from you,
turning off the light.
Taking off my dark clothes.
Darkness closes in,
inside out and grieving.
Other good news:
A short story of mine titled Wolf, a Modern Tale, will soon be published in the moonShine Review. Please order your copy of this amazing literary journal. The issue should be out in June. Here’s a link: http://moonshinereview.wordpress.com/
I am anxiously awaiting word on a personal essay that seems to be getting a bit of attention from an anthology series. I hope they accept my submission so I can give a shout out to that as well.
5 MINUTE WRITING EXERCISE- Write about someone you love in 5 minutes, being as descriptive as you can.
PORTRAIT OF AUNT MARILYN
Petite pixie woman with punk spiked hair, designer shoes and dresses dancing like a stripper with her lips pursed and red in the middle of my brothers bar mitzvah, her children’s, a family wedding or gathering with wood slapped and snuggly fit together.
I envy the way she snaps her gum in her back teeth, the way she says my nickname -Suki- direct – it’s important whatever she is about to come out of her moth. She means it- always punctuated by her hair.
She lives in a small midtown Manhattan with her antiques piled up around her, a cocoon of junk no one can touch or take from. She goes to Brooklyn every weekend to visit Grandma Jean and her hair done. I’ve seen it in bee hives, twists and piled up- but always covers her ears. She loves elephants, why doesn’t she like her own ears?
“They stick out Suki.” SNAP.
Her hair is thin and teased and colored and doesn’t move until washed a week later. She juts out her lips and inspects it, gently poking at it with a pick like stale jello.
more fiction:inspired by a look into mental illness and The Yellow Wallpaper
“I have lived on the lip
of insanity, wanting to know reasons,
knocking on a door. It opens.
I’ve been knocking from the inside.”
A letter written as a mad woman:
Managing this pen on my back is what is keeping me from disappearing all together. I am a total abyss without this lifeline to you. I fear my smallness, my microscopic self would be crushed by the rolling dust leaning my direction so close to smothering me with its girnormity – so dark it is beneath a shadow husk of some other thing. Perhaps a scale of his skin soaked in vodka or chemical perhaps with vibrancy a petals fragility transferred through heat onto paper or your clothes-
Breathe for me dear friend for my lungs are too small to catch breath and my heart too big to fit into my chest. It leaks. My blood is seeping out from my ribs and knees. The body too small to contain what should pulsate. Breathe quicker! Breathe deeper! The ink is smearing- my footprint erase the lines of letters I am trying to write. Can you still see them on the paper? Are the letters broken lines? I am broken. My toes cracked dragging at the end of my foot and the dust a mountain of waste still threatens to consume me with its pain and its reflection masks me- dresses me up like a doll on a shelf fortifying my identity and eradicating my thoughts are blurred manipulated by this shadow that tells me I am supposed to tell you that I miss you and I am fine when I am nothing like china. An ice pick plunging into ham sweet sticky meant.
Where did I hide your letter? The one in which I tell you how it watches me with the eyes of my father and tells me they are my eyes too and my procrastination to mail this means you will not know the danger you are in being such a good friend. Have you cleaned your kitchen today? Stay away from it with its refrigerator jaws and quicksand floor. The dust waits up high to crush you. It will fall coating the countertops and stove and there is no wiping it away. It grows like fungus. Mold spreads a black plague up the walls and into my lungs. Breathe for me Deb.
With sincere love and devotion,
Your friend Holly
“Remember what being buried was like?” Robert asked.
“Not really, I didn’t come to until you popped my coffin open,” Mary said.
“You were so funny. You shot up, sat bolt upright and asked me for a shot of tequila,” Robert said leaning back and laughing exposing his lower mandible.
“How many times are you going to tell me that story?”
“Until the rest of my flesh rots off and I disappear into the great unknown,” Robert said.
- Teenreads.com (teenreads.com)