There’s a twitter contest going on named #sunvssnow. Basically, you had to be one of the first 200 to enter the contest. It filled in a record six minutes. The organizers then pick fifteen each and send to mentors who will have a few days to work with the chosen people. At the end of the mentoring on the pitch, query and first 250 words, they are thrown to agents. To keep everyone from going crazy waiting to find out if they got sorted into house sun or snow, there have been all kinds of little games going on.
Someone asked if any of the entrants had an excerpt from their manuscripts up. So, here is a short excerpt from Far Rider.
Captain Trelaine took another drink from the flask and handed it to the man sitting on a crate beside him. He pushed himself away from the wall and smoothed his mustache, which reached down to join his neatly trimmed goatee. He lifted the pale blue surcoat up and inhaled deeply. “I’ve always love the smell of wisteria. It was well worth darting in there to nab it, but damn the luck I meant to have the girl as well. Let’s see where she’s being sorted, Sticks. We might be able to snatch her later. Of course, it would be nice to know she is indeed who I think she is, but I’ll take my chances.”
Sticks jumped down and stoppered the flask. He was nearly two heads taller than Trelaine and thin as a peddler’s promise. A bright purple silk scarf around his head left tufts of hair sticking out like straw under a setting hen. His braided beard divided in half, although one side was noticeably shorter. A purple ribbon tied the longer side matching the scarf, but the other side had only a grimy strip of once-white linen. “I ain’t in no condition to be meetin’ ladies after Fat Jack ruined me beard.”
“I told you not to arm wrestle over the candles. Help me get some information and I’ll pay the barber to trim it. I’ll even buy new ribbons.”
Sticks brushed off his yellow and purple striped pants and swiped his sleeve across his teeth. “I’m ready.”
Trelaine frowned at his first mate. “I don’t think we’re going to pass for concerned parents. Perhaps we should stick to the fringes.”
An old man trudged by, pulling a heavily laden vegetable cart toward the courtyard.
“Even better,” Trelaine said. “We’ll do a good deed.”
“I did one last night,” Sticks protested. “That whore weren’t worth more than four coppers, but I gave her five.”
“She polished your boots.”
“Aye, I forgot about that.”
“Friend,” Trelaine said to the old man, “let us help you.”
The man stopped and wiped his brow. “Why? You planning to steal my cart? Holy Father wouldn’t much care for people stealing his food.”
Trelaine handed him the flask. “No, no. My father was a farmer and I couldn’t bear if he was pulling a heavy load and no one to help him.”
“Don’t believe you, but I ain’t one to refuse help…or a drink.”
Sticks picked up the cart shafts and Trelaine pushed from behind, keeping his head down. The old man walked beside the cart, swigging rum. The crowd inside the courtyard blocked them, but Sticks maneuvered near the girl and boy.
“Maybe we should wait here for a bit,” Trelaine said.
The farmer sat down on the stones and leaned up against a cartwheel. “Fine with me. Later I get home, less I have to listen to my wife. Traded a sow and a dog for her thirty years ago. Worst trade I ever made. Still got a fat sow, but at least the dog did tricks.”