Kat Kruger

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Grand Prize Winner of the Small Print Toronto Roald Dahl Day Story Contest

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Congratulations to Sierra Maclean (age 10) who’s the Grand Prize Winner of the Small Print Toronto Roald Dahl Day Story Contest! Judging from the creativity of this story, I’m sure we’ll see more from Sierra in the future. I’m pleased to publish this piece on the site and hope that you’ll join in by offering many congratulations to Sierra on her accomplishment. Personally, ten is around the age when I knew I wanted to pursue a career in writing and it’s such a joy to be able to highlight a young talent here.

Julie Wilson has an exclusive interview with Sierra on Canadian Bookshelf where I also give a reading recommendation so be sure to check that out. Special thanks to Small Print Toronto for hosting the contest and partnering with us. And now, without further ado…

JAMES HEADS TO THE R.O.M.

I looked out the window of my aunt’s old one-storey apartment. The sun was just grasping the edge of the earth and the C.N. Tower sparkled in the distance. Countless buildings lined the streets of Toronto, standing tall and proud. I had always dreamed of leaping from one building to another, like a frog on lily pads.

“James! Come here!” my aunt called from the kitchen. Aunt Molly didn’t exactly volunteer to foster me when my parents died. In fact, she was forced to take me into her hands. She was forced to put up with my “silly imagination”, as she called it and she was forced to offer me a place to live my life.

I would have been happier if I could live my life somewhere else…ANYWHERE else. I wanted nothing more than to see the open road in front of me and feel the wind blowing my dark hair every which way. But it wasn’t that easy. Aunt Molly didn’t let me set a foot out of the house unless I was pulling weeds or watering her not-so-beautiful garden.

Once when I was five, I attempted sneaking out in the black of night, hoping that the darkness would swallow me up… out of my Aunt’s reach. But as I said before, it wasn’t that easy. Molly awoke when I scared away some seemingly harmless crows nibbling at the cornstalks. And before I knew it, she was whacking me with an old leather belt. The pain was such that I had never experienced before, apart from the grief and mourning I felt when my parents left me. Passed on to a new life…hopefully better than mine….

“JAMES, I SAID COME HERE!”

My day dream shattered to a million pieces and I retuned (sadly) to reality. But realizing the anger and impatience of Aunt Molly’s voice, I didn’t try to glue the pieces back together. Instead, I trudged into our tiny kitchen, just a helpless boy…

“Where were you? You were due here nearly 5 minutes ago!” Aunt Molly was usually like this. Stern, strict, and stony – otherwise known as the three S’s.

“You’re going to the R.O.M with me today,” she sighed.

My head sprang up in surprise. I had heard of the Royal Ontario Museum, but I had never dreamed of going there! But why would Aunt Molly take me? Wait… Since when have I cared?

The drive there was long and silent, but I was smiling the whole way. Strange noises erupted somewhere in the engine, but it was music to my ears. Nothing could penetrate the excitement and thrill I felt in my heart. Nothing at all.

We were still driving, but the great museum was visible in the distance. I looked out the window and laughed into the wind. Maybe the wind would carry my laugh somewhere far, far away, and another orphan would hear it. They would hear it and gain hope that a miracle might sprout somewhere in his life. After all, the wind is a powerful thing.

We pulled up in the parking lot (I had never been in a parking lot before) and climbed out of the rusty pick up truck. All of the other cars seemed to be new and sparkly, but I didn’t care. My mind was set on the inside of the museum. I wondered how high the ceilings looked from inside… I wondered how many floors there were… the questions were endless, stretching as far as the eye could see.

“Hurry it up, James.” Once again Aunt Molly had shattered my daydream, but this time I WANTED to return to reality.

I practically ran toward the museum, Aunt Molly in my wake. When I reached the huge door, my aunt caught up with me, panting.

“I didn’t want to bring you here, you know,” she said as she pushed open the door.

Ignoring Aunt Molly, I turned to face the interior of the museum. What was inside struck me like a lightning bolt…

Magnificent sculptures and artefacts lined the walls. Realistic wax figures, dinosaur skeletons, and interactive games were surrounded by tourists. People and families were scattered around like marbles, pointing to planes and parachutes that hung from the ceiling. It was beautiful. Well, beautiful for an orphan, I guess.

I glanced around. Aunt Molly seemed to have left. Maybe she went to the bathroom. I’d just have to discover the R.O.M. on my own. But what ought I do first? Everything looked so wonderful. I scanned the museum, searching for possible options. Maybe I should check out the dinosaur exhibit… or the vehicle section… Or the- wait, what was that? Out of the corner of me eye I saw the most peculiar thing – a small door. It stood alone beside a life-sized Viking. Why would there be a door there? And why so small?

I knew I shouldn’t go near the door, but it was difficult to control my curiosity. One side of me was like a green light… telling me to go forward and explore the world beyond. But the other was red… warning me to stop, not to go any further. Before I knew it, the two sides were arguing rapidly. What should I do?
You have to see what’s in there James!
But what if I’m caught?
You won’t be! Just do it!
But Aunt Molly could come back!!
Since when have you ever cared about Aunt Molly?
True…
C’mon. Don’t be a scaredy cat!
Alright, alright. But if anything happens to me…

“I have made my decision. I’m going through that door. And no one can tell me I can’t,” I whispered to myself as I strolled to the Viking exhibit.

I pretended to read the description of the sculpture, and then sneaked swiftly through the small opening. That was easy. There were no security guards or anything!

I stood up and soaked in my surroundings. As far as I could tell, I was standing in an old storage room. There were three brooms leaning against the unpainted walls and the floors were crafted of cement. In the middle of the room stood a magnificent, twenty foot tall peach. I sprinted toward it and took a bite out of the side. It tasted promising. I ran my hand along the fuzz. It felt promising.

“Did you hear that guys?” somebody whispered.

I whirled around. Surprisingly, no one was there.

“Yeah! Do you think someone found us?”

There it was again. I put my ear up to the peach. It seemed to be coming from the inside of it! Who (or what) could be in there? I had to find out…

Using my bite mark as a starting point, I scrambled up the side of the peach. A small hole was carved where the stem should be, revealing a tunnel of some sort. Curious, I ducked into the hole and began crawling through the tunnel ahead.

Eventually, I reached a huge room. Inside it there was a table, three wooden chairs, and a sofa. On the sofa sat the strangest creature I had ever seen. It was a bluish gray color with huge eyes, six arms, and red shoes.

The thing smiled, “Hello young fellow! I’m Fred. Welcome to our peach!”

“Our?” I asked.

“Oh yes. Would you like to meet my friends?”

“Ummm… sure,”

“Larry, Gary, come out and meet our new friend!”

Two more strange creatures came into view. One was bright yellow with orange spots and one was purple. They both had swirly antennae, plaid shirts, and little stubby arms.

“You don’t know how long we’ve been waiting for you!”

I was confused, “Why?”

The one called Larry pointed to a small remote on the table, “We’ve waited years for a child to discover us. That’s why we made the door so small. Now that you’re here, we can finally be set free!”

“But how can I set you free?” I wondered.

“The button on that remote can only be pressed by a kid.”

“What will happen when it’s pressed?

“The roof will open and allow the peach to fly out of it.”

“Wow!” I jogged over to the table and jabbed the little button.

“Thank you so much!” said Gary.

“No problem… I’d better get back, though,”

“Wait!” Fred yelped, “You can’t go! We’re already floating!”

“Sorry kid,” Gary patted me on the back.

I looked up at him and smiled, “I want to come,” I replied truthfully.

No more chores, no more Aunt Molly, no more sorrow. I was entering a new life, full of exploring and wonders – my two favourite things.

Small Print TO’s James & The Giant Peach Writing Contest

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As I mentioned in my post earlier today, BookMadam & Associates Magazine is closing shop. One of the fun partnerships we were working on was Small Print TO‘s  James & The Giant Peach writing contest. Since today is Roald Dahl’s birthday, I figured I’d celebrate by making another formal announcement here. Here are the details:

To celebrate the 50th anniversary of Roald Dahl’s classic novel James & The Giant Peach, we invite writers 8-12 to take part in a citywide short story writing contest. Craft a short story (max 1500 words) about what would happen if James, a lonely orphan, discovered a peach as large as a house filled with friendly creatures, in today’s Toronto.

An all-star panel of judges – including CBC Radio host and author Kevin Sylvester, authors Adrienne Kress, Evan Munday and Vikki Vansickle, Susan Kernohan Director of Young Voices at the Toronto Public Library, Mark Medley, Book Editor at The National Post, and Janet Somerville, English Teacher, Royal St George’s College – will read aloud the top entries and award prizes at this year’s Toronto Roald Dahl Day celebration on Sunday October 23rd., at the Gladstone Hotel.

Send entries to roalddahlday@smallprinttoronto.org by Friday October 14th, 2011. The final work will be published here instead of on BookMadam.com in late October. By then I’ll have my new web site designed and we’ll be ready to party!

34th Atlantic Writing Competition

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I have another happy dance moment to report: I placed first in the YA category of the 34th Atlantic Writing Competition!

Here’s the judge’s citation for my novel, “The Night has Teeth”:

There are a plethora of young adult novels that feature vampires, witches, zombies, ghosts and other types of the undead. What makes this manuscript unique is the strong narrative voice throughout. Meet Connor, a recently jilted student who escapes to a Paris university, only to discover that his new social circle includes werewolves. Mix in moody secondary characters, complex villains who may turn out to be heroes, and scenes that are both humorous and terrifying, thus enhancing the believability of the plot, and you have a truly engaging story. Overlay this with the contemporary theme of the ethics of genetic engineering (and no easy answers) and you have a manuscript worthy of first place. It even comes with an “everything you wanted to know about werewolves” study guide! And while this work is strong enough to be considered as a stand-alone novel, the writer has left room for sequels. “The Night has Teeth” should definitely be read by the light of a full moon.

So, technically, I’m now an award-winning writer and I haven’t even been published yet. Lots of big name East Coast authors, including the amazing Ami McKay have gone on to publish their works from the fiction category. I’m hoping this gives me a big gold star in the eyes of the YA publishing world.

Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award: Update #1

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At the end of January, I entered my manuscript into the Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award competition. I just found out that my entry made it into round two! It’s exciting news even though it doesn’t mean very much at this point. The first round whittled down 2,000 entries in half and was based solely on 300 word pitches. The next round will cut the 1,000 remaining entries in half again but will be based on a 3,000-5,000 word excerpt of the first part of the novels. Here’s hoping I make it through to the next round which will mean the full novel gets read. Regardless of what happens next, I’m doing a little happy dance to celebrate this one small bit of validation.

Merry Sisters of Fate Contest

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From the fabulous writing group, The Merry Sisters of Fate, comes an amazing contest. All you have to do is pick your fave story and post it to your blog, Facebook or Twitter and then leave your link in their comments section. The prize is pretty sweet (lots of signed books and a mystery offering). So, without further ado, here’s my pick. It’s chilling and eerie and written by one of my new fave YA authors:

“Twelve Steps (Cracked)” by Maggie Stiefvater

Step One. Drag his body away from the window. He might not be dead, so try not to hit his head off the coffee table. Don’t worry about the stuff his hands leave behind as they drag on the carpet. The carpet of the history department’s sitting area has suffered far worse insults than that stain.

Step Two. Go to the staff room. That feeling in your throat means that you need water. Yes, it’s important. More important than checking to see if the door to the history department is locked. After all, doors didn’t help Frazier. You really need water.

Step Three. Ignore your thirst because you really, really need to see that the door is locked. Even if it doesn’t help, it will make you feel better. You will not die of thirst in the next two minutes. You could possibly die from what killed Frazier before then. When you find the door is already locked, remember the window behind Frazier and realize that the door is not your problem.

Step Four. Return to the scene. Step on Frazier’s outstretched hand and say the worst swear word you know (it’s four letters and rhymes with ‘grunt’) because swearing has to be better than screaming. Note that he is making more stains on the carpet. Try not to look at his face. He does not look like Sarah’s brother anymore and you don’t need to be reminded. Oh, right, and get off his hand, just in case he is still alive.

Step Five. Look at the cracked window Frazier was sitting in front of. Notice that the hairline cracks that cover it look like a spider web or a snowflake or mosaic. Listen, to make sure the world is still quiet. Notice that outside, the clouds are made of steel and there are no longer any birds chirping. Maybe they all look like Frazier. Not helpful to think about. Get your hands under Frazier’s arm pits again and start to drag him out of the room so you can hide in an office without windows.

Step Six. Your throat hurts. You need water. Drag Frazier’s body a few more feet until you’re out of breath. How can one guy weigh so much? Maybe he is dead and you can leave him. Stop and listen. Still nothing outside. Maybe they’re gone.

Step Seven. Notice there are no car sounds on the street. Maybe everyone’s dead. Maybe you’re the last person left alive. Maybe you will be forced to raid grocery stores full of bodies that look like Frazier’s. Work harder to get Frazier down the hall. I said not to look at his face, it’s only going to make it worse. Because if you look, you’ll see how every bit of his skin is covered with cracks like the window, each oozing a thin line of blood. He is like a smashed porcelain statue full of blood.

Step Eight. Porcelain? You never were any good with art. Keep pulling. Is that a sound? Pass by the staff room door and realize that you need something to drink right then or you just can’t keep pulling. Leave Frazier in the hall under a dozen signs directing you in a thousand directions that he’s not going to be going any time soon.

Step Nine. Open the staff room cabinets, looking for a glass. No good. Every single cup and bowl and plate is a network of fine fractures, and when you touch them, they shatter. In the quiet that follows the splinter of glass, you think you hear the humming starting again, them coming back, but it’s just the small fridge. You dump the plastic pen can out on the counter and fill it with water. When you swallow, it makes you cough, and the water you spit back up into the sink is pink.

Step Ten. Go for Frazier again. He is looking less like a priority, isn’t he? You were just making out with that body forty-five minutes ago. He tasted like gum and uncertainty. Right now, he’d probably taste like the water you just horked up. Stop. Listen. Your heart is pounding. And now you hear them.

Step Eleven. Far away, they sound like an old dial-up modem. They hum and keen from the trees, moving closer and closer. You don’t want to know what they look like, but more than that, you don’t want to shatter. You don’t care whether or not you’re the last person left on earth, left to scavenge cans of Spaghetti-Os from empty grocery store aisles, you decide that you don’t want to die. Leave Frazier — finally, he’s dead, you know that, don’t you? — and run for the windowless staff bathroom. Slam the door and shove the greasy shag bathroom rug you think looks like a skinned buffalo up against the bottom of the door. Cover your ears with the heels of your hands.

Step Twelve. Swallow blood. The water didn’t help. They’re coming closer. You can feel the atoms inside you shaking. A slow crack is beginning to snake across the mirror, but you cannot hear anything with your hands pressing over your ears. Maybe you’ll be okay.

But we’re right outside the door.