Every day stuck feeling like a rain cloud dances around you, wiping away any attempts to look better. To look human. Makeup streams down your face, hair looks like a drowned rat. You ask yourself, "why me?" while realizing the cliché.

Everything feels so finnicky, from your yellow teeth to your bitten down nails to your eyes which are neither brown nor green. Some disgusting mucus color that comes between them. It figures. You always feel so... imperfect.

Like the world destined two people to come together and make an ugly, fat child that would never be able to overcome those two adjectives. That would never be able to be more than a picture that makes people turn away.

Too large hips. Too little breasts. Too big nose. Too shiny face. Too everything physically possible.

One large misshapen birthmark right above your eyelid. One broken nose that left a permenant indent on both your face and your self-confidence. One finger that juts out more than the others, but no, I don't understand; it's in a really weird way, a way that makes people uncomfortable to look, but also unable to look away.

You're pigeon-toed and you have one working eye. The other one either closes too much every single time you're exposed to a flash or maybe is just the slightest bit cross-eyed. An asymmetry that discounts you from ever being truly beautiful.

And why should you be? Everyone else deals with this bullshit. The whining voice in the back of your head that whispers you are so ugly. The word feels like what it says to you. You're dirty, broken, busted, and no one wants you around. I know, like you know, that you've felt this way before.

What do you hate about yourself? Why do you hate it?

All of these things I cannot change. And if I can it's not worth it. I accept. I move on.

Why don't you?

Gorgeous woman, stuck in a cage. The only promise is the silence as she fades, wilting out of the spotlight. No one can bare to look at her once the moon meets the twilight.

Gorgeous woman, battered and broken. The world once seemed to her an unmarked token. Of what? You ask. "Of hope unafraid". Soon to be marked by the darkness she craves.

Gorgeous woman, knife in her hand. Doesn't understand the next part of god's plan. She crumples into the corner and prays. Can't stop praying tomorrow away.

Gorgeous woman, wiping her tears. Gathering strength and resilience beyond her years. Lightly dusts her fingers across the shiny surface, hoping this is the last time she's nervous.

Gorgeous woman, stars in her eyes. Knows that the end is behind this last sunrise. Swinging her arms over her head. Plunges a knife into a no-longer friend.

Gorgeous woman, blood all around. Can't think of another way out. Makes a phone call to no one to let them know, how to fair when letting her go.

Gorgeous women, one last time. Touches her face and let's go of her mind. Looks in the mirror, then swallows the pills. By the time they get to her, there's only the will.

Chapter One: Amaya

The first thing she notices upon falling is how freeing it feels, like flying. It feels like that for the minute it takes for her to crash into the ground at the bottom of the seemingly endless pit. Bones shatter on the cave floor. Muscles are bruised and battered, undefined. It’s as if her body becomes viscous, shapeless, a mere puddle on the floor. She breathes once and then stops breathing. For a moment, it seems she is dead. Until a light as brilliant as the sun envelops the cave, spilling onto her broken body and levitating her into the air. Her bruises disappear, broken bones click back into place, her body begins to take a familiar shape. The second she is whole again the light vanishes and she drops to the floor. Unconscious but very much alive. And, eventually, awake.

The second thing she notices is the absence of pain. The third, the absence of memory. She sits up, immediately thrown into a state of terror. Who? Where? How? There is no one near her, no more light following the healing miracle of moments before. No sight, barely a sound beyond her own labored breathing. Labored from fear, not exhaustion. She tries to speak, to call out, but she is so winded it comes out as a whisper. “Help me”. Too quiet to solicit help even if someone could hear her. She reaches out her fingers, sweeping the hard stone floor, feeling nothing but a smooth, flat surface. Almost icy in texture. Amaya. The cave seems to whisper back to her, letting in brief glimpses of memory.

She sees herself climbing a mountain, smiling. Another person behind her. A man with light skin. He calls out to her to slow down, but she just laughs and continues faster. It’s chilly, but not unbearable. Her jacket is warm against her bare arms, but the wind glances her face and she shivers. The darkness of the cave makes it easy to take herself out of it and she is invested in this memory now. They continue to climb the mountain together with her as a leader. She has a recollection of the feeling of reaching mountain tops and looking down at the valley at the conclusion, completely breathless and satisfied; there is a sense that she has had that feeling many times before. She misses it.

She turns her head to look back at the man behind her. He’s wearing similar climbing gear to her own and carrying a backpack. For some reason, it feels like there is a connection between them, but she can’t even remember his name. He’s blonde and blue-eyed, lean and attractive, but there’s nothing beyond his looks. She barely remembers her own name. Amaya. Given to her by this strange environment.

All at once she snaps out of it, transported immediately back to her new reality. In some ways, this reality is difficult to comprehend. Human beings so heavily rely on their senses of sight, smell, hearing. Now all she has is her sense of touch and nearly palpable blackness. It’s everywhere. Her voice is still not working. Instead of calling out, she stands, now determined to use the magic of her long fall and resurrection to her advantage. With her hands out in front of her she shuffles forward, waiting to hit a wall, willing herself forward to survive. There must be something within this cave, and if there is something, she will find it.

Title: Endless Deep

Genre: Magical Realism

Age range: Probably 16-30

Word count: Plan is ~75,000 words (currently at about 7,000 words - it’s on hold because I’m taking a lot of classes right now)

Author name: L. Kershaw

Why your project is a good fit: Trident Media seems to have a diverse portfolio and I’m open to working closely with an editor to make something that fits into that portfolio. I’m very easy to work with and write extremely quickly so meeting deadlines is never a problem.

The Hook: Amaya falls into a hole and seemingly disappears during a hike, the reality is much darker than she could imagine.

Synopsis: There’s a lot still in progress, but essentially the first half of the book is exploring the cave that she’s fallen into (a high degree of fantasy in this section, but trying to keep it relatable to the reader) and the second half is after she leads people out of the cave and what happens after that. I have a full outline that I can provide, but it needs work for sure.

Target Audience: I’m open to advice from an editor on who to target, I can market myself to pretty much everyone, but am not an expert in target markets for novels

Your bio: Currently I live in Ann Arbor, MI with my fiance and my adorable cattle dog mix, Jester. We spend our time (outside of the 9 to 5 drag) rock climing, cooking, and running amatuer Instagram blogs.

Platform

Education: B.S. in Engineering and Psychology, MBA in Marketing (In Progress)

Experience: No official experience beyond creative writing courses in high school, not sure AP English classes count for much in the literary world

Personality: I love to talk to different people and my friends would describe me as someone who gets things done. I’m definitely the type of person who has an idea and goes after it. I’m also an observer in social situations larger than a couple people.

Writing style: Exposition heavy, light dialouge

Likes/hobbies: Food, Cooking, Rock Climbing, Reading, Traveling (pre-COVID obviously), Playing with my dog, Being entirely too honest about everything

Hometown: Small Town, NJ

Age: 22

On my mind. What a strange phrase. Like little people sit in my head bouncing around so they might tell me what to think. Imagine that. All the thoughts in a day, wrapped up into perfect little humans, trying to get one message across. Think about this, think about that. Battling and compromising for purchase in my mind. Crawling around in brain matter and consciousness, these people live and breathe.

There is a baby, wrapped in a pink blanket, new to the world and yet so wise already. She whispers to me somehow, without making a sound. And my mind is wrapped up in wondering how life begins, so cruel to some and so soft and gentle to others. Unfair in a way. But the tiny baby cries and her mother is nowhere to calm her. Left on the side of the street. Orphan. The world is so unfair.

And there is a woman, a young woman, with will to travel all over the world. See hundreds of countries and things just for the culture and maybe the food. But she has no money, and even less time. Because her world is pushing her to become a mother and have a family. She has fallen in love. And with will to travel, but not with will to leave him. Her dream dies, but a new dream comes swiftly.

And there is a boy, skinny, not quite so tall, with eyes that speak the truth. And the woman loves him. Everything about him. Can never get tired of being with him. Is fearful that anything will ever happen to him. Her love for him shines bright in an otherwise empty and dark place. She tells him, even when he is not near, he is a part of her. And they plan on getting married.

And there is an accident. A twist of fate still in my head. Where there is a car crash...no, cancer... no, a disease... no, an unfortunate moment... no, an intentional hurting. And the woman grows old alone. Never moving on from her perfect love.

And there is an elder. Skin soft and wrinkled, white hair that has never been dyed, whether she could afford it or not. Missing her fiance of long ago. Her child, a child born of violence and misfortunate, sits next to her and hugs her close, thankful that the elder gave her a second chance. Grateful that birth didn't also mean death.

That child, now a woman, falls in love as well. And though she is scared of it, scared of the strength of love, and of missing love. Because of her mother. Because of the unpredictability of life. She is terrified. But still she lets herself fall.

These people, real or not real? Somewhere maybe they are. But for now, just on my mind.

Birth, Love, Death... Clarity, and beyond.

Engulfed by flames

Wood twisting in broken harmony

Glass windows shattering from heat

I shatter in disbelief

Watching... just watching

Fire licking at her heels

Emerging--slowly--without fear

She laughs: covered in gasoline

Ignition brings the laughter into screams

And I fall into the grass

Crying, as sirens ring in the distance.

Ama! Ama!

But she does not answer

And the world is quiet

The crackling dies down; there lies a pool of ash.

The world I know has exploded

And I run to her, no flames left

But somehow, one inside me

One crushing flame as I run to her--

--but she is gone.

Men come behind me and try to pull me away

Grabbing my arms, but I grab harder

Dragging her through the smoking remains

They won't let me go, but I cannot feel them

I cannot feel anything

The world is chaos, but I choose to stay

Every Sunday morning I wander out the front door of my home with a fragrant cup of storebrand espresso to sit in the porch swing. I’ve been told it creaks horribly, but I never notice. And the coffee? It tastes undeniably horrible, like dark brown dirt mixed with heavy cream, but it brings to life the beauty of the outside, allowing me to pay attention to other things...

Allowing me to pay attention to her. Her blonde hair sweeping in the wind. Flat shoes tapping on the ground as she races to her car, predictably at 8:45 AM each Sunday, heading to mass at the local church, where she will arrive five minutes late. I imagine the music playing on her radio is gospel or folk. I will never be close enough to hear it.

Every Sunday outside at the same time in a beautiful sundress. Today she wears my favorite one, yellow sunflowers and white lilies. An uncommon combination, but gorgeous against her olive skin. Sometimes she wears a cardigan, faux suede with fringe, Only when it’s cold, and it is rarely cold in this area of Georgia. I love the texture of that cardigan.

Imagining myself speaking to her gives me chills. She is lovely. Every movement perfectly aligned with the breeze outside. Different but familiar with each day that passes. She is the perfect song.

I want to reach out to her. I want her to see me, listen to me tell her how much happiness she has brought into my otherwise dull life, but I fear she will not be able to understand me, and the conversation will implode. So I sit in my chair, and watch her for those few minutes each Sunday.

I listen to her movement. Swishing sundress. Tapping toes. Flowing fringe. And it feels so good. Like a melody just waiting to erupt inside me. It makes me want to get up and dance.

But this Sunday, she has forgotten something. She turns to walk into her home, but notices me. Notices me watching her. She has only noticed once before, in passing, and simply drove away. But this is different, her neutral beauty turns into confusion, then anger. And she walks right across the street and over to me.

Her mouth is moving so fast I cannot make out many words. Creep. Watching. Stop. I have never felt this much fear. I try to talk to her. I sign quickly, I am sorry. She doesn’t understand. It is in that moment that everything changes. That she is no longer a reason to sit on the porch on Sunday; she is a reason to hide inside. The music is gone.

I stare into space for a little bit too long. She is infuriated. I imagine it is because I am not respecting her, even though that’s not the case. I sigh, lightly, and then reach out and grab her hand. She recoils.

I point to my ears. And I shake my head no. She understands now. She backs away, like deafness is something she can catch from me. But now she isn’t afraid of me, just pitying. Just sad for me. And the music is gone. The way she moved, seeing that freedom, that energy. It was brighter than anything I had witnessed before. A symphony.

She apologizes, quickly, and moves away. Then walks back across the street and gets into her car and drives to church. I don’t hear the sound of the tires or the radio or her mumbling on the phone to the person she is telling about this now. I hear nothing. No music. No sound.

I sit at my kitchen tables on Sunday’s now. I realized once, when I was young, that even when you can’t hear, the world around you is full of sound. But when the sound becomes aware of you... it changes. It becomes softer, sadder; it loses it’s brightness. And all I can think now, sitting inside, is that my music is gone.