by Alexis Crafts (@abookishchai.bsky.social)
YA Horror
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Query
I’m seeking representation for PORTRAIT OF A FAWN, a YA Speculative Horror complete at 67,000 words. It combines the childhood-friends-to-lovers reunion in Your Blood, My Bones by Kelly Andrew with the gothic, atmospheric botanical horror of Hazelthorn by C.G. Drews.
Haunted by his mother’s death, eighteen-year-old Lucas is stuck assisting his distant father at his local community theater. When strange bouts of violent hysteria start breaking out amongst their cast, Lucas wants to ignore it and bury himself in his art. That is, until his best friend Paisley—a glowing, ambitious girl with Broadway dreams—becomes the latest victim.
Mira’s crush on Paisley had admittedly gotten out of hand when it evolved into borderline stalking. But when she learns that Paisley landed herself in the hospital, an infuriating man named Lucas is her only hope to get closer to the enigmatic girl. Together, they begrudgingly form a deal: Mira will help Lucas in Paisley’s absence, and Lucas will help her disprove any paranormal activity and win over Paisley.
Still recovering from a tumultuous relationship, Mira begins to feel at home in the theater until an off-hand joke strikes her with a realization: Lucas is no stranger. They knew each other as children before a traumatic near-death incident ripped them apart. And he doesn’t seem to remember her. Meanwhile, the theater festers with rot and ruin, coming alive with uncanny laughter and crawling decay. The strange greenery turns bloodthirsty. Together, the duo must get rid of the deadly rot and face their past, or be forced to do the last thing anyone wants: burn the theater to the ground.
I’m a library assistant who’s obtaining my MLIS to become a teen librarian. I studied English with a writing concentration during my undergraduate studies, and have been furiously writing for years, along with two pestering cats.
Thank you for your time and consideration.
First Five Pages
Chapter One- Lucas
Under the blazing Fresnel lights, Lord Henry and Basil argued. The two lanky men suited in oversized frock coats flourished under Teddy Foster’s attention. The Director leaned back in the front row, matte loafers resting on a dented cardboard box from a previous show.
“Days in summer, Basil, are apt to linger,” said Lord Henry, who paused with a finger poised in the air. “God, I’m sorry. I don’t remember my next line.”
Arthur, the poster child of Irish heritage and someone I suppose I should call a friend, groaned next to me. “Michael needs to get his crap together,” he said under his breath. Arthur sounded as exasperated as I was, watching inept adults pretend to be bashful.
“It’s almost October,” Teddy snapped, and rapped his knuckles against the script scrunched tight in his fist. I was surprised he hadn’t pulled out a Marlboro yet, considering this was the third screw-up from their Lord Henry. “We were supposed to be off script for Act I last week.”
Lord Henry’s nervous laugh sputtered out like tire gravel. “I know, I know. My daughter’s sick, remember?”
I rolled my eyes. He used the same excuse three weeks ago. Maybe someone in their mid-thirties should have their life together, but what did I know? I was just another freshly graduated kid who knew nothing about real life.
I thumbed through my sketchbook nearing the end of its life, aiming to find a semi-blank page to squeeze in an inked doodle. Various faces flew by me, some delicate with soft curves, while others were smeared from my heavy-handed strokes. Teddy was drawn a couple of times, smoking and sprawled out like a Victorian damsel in distress, surrounded by puffs of cigarette smoke. Arthur particularly liked that one. He snapped a photo of it at the start of rehearsals.
I sketched Dorian now, trying to capture his sparse, patchy beard and early greys sprouting across his wrinkled temple. The lines appeared crooked, and my wrist ached at the bent angle. With a scoff, I snapped the sketchbook shut, leaving his eyes unfinished and dull.
A crescendo of a mistake from Basil had Teddy flying off his rocker and ending rehearsals twenty minutes early. Thank god. I couldn’t stand another minute of Basil trembling like a fallen leaf, already knowing he’d blank on the next line.
The bloated wings popped open, washing the stage with dozens of chatty actors still adorned in their voluminous costumes. The too-tall ceiling made every footstep echo, laughter bouncing off the brick walls. The theater venue was a typical size for an old community building, dust-streaked and spacious in a hollow, unsettled way. As the amateur actors exited, I waited for one particular actor to spill out.
Paisley reminded me of burning bushes and sugar maples— the perfect shade of golden red. Instead of her typical athleisure, she wore a powder-blue dress as Sibyl Vane, her ginger curls curtaining her flushed cheeks. Her smile glowed like sunshine when she spotted me, her dark duffle bag slung over her shoulder.
“You really put your all into practice today, huh?” Paisley teased, nudging my arm. I snorted. Being the assistant creative director meant minimal work, but the boredom chewed on me. It didn’t help that my father was the creative director, and he was often absent, working from home most days. He’d rather have me sit back than make a mistake on his beloved set. Whatever it took to make Teddy happy, my father obliged his every request.
“Just wait until tech week, and we’ll all be crying.”
“Except you,” Paisley said, “you’ll be swearing up a storm.”
I smiled. “Guilty.”
“Hey, you did really good today, Paisley,” Arthur said, voice layered with awe, as if she didn’t perform her best every night. Despite being on the younger side of the ensemble, Paisley memorized lines as if her life depended on it.
I butted in before the growing crowd could swamp us. “Want me to drop you off tonight?”
She ignored me for a moment as she waved to Lord Henry, who Teddy was currently lecturing in the apron of the auditorium. Basil and Dorian’s actors, two men I recognized as newbloods for our group, stood on stage left. They discussed something in soft, sharp tones. Basil’s face twisted, and he jammed his finger toward Dorian’s chest.
“What’s with them?” I asked, jutting my chin toward the two leads. Dorian flung his hands toward the audience, something snarled out his pinched lips.
Paisley tilted her head, brows furrowed. “No clue.”
“If you could just remember your lines for once—” I heard a snippet. “Michael, you can’t remember— who do you think you are—”
Paisley’s eyes widened, and she peered over her shoulder. Teddy was still too busy ranting at Lord Henry, whatever-his-real-name-was, to notice a blooming argument behind him. As usual, my father was nowhere to be found.
“Are you being serious? What a hypocrite! You forgot three whole paragraphs today!” Basil shouted, bewildered.
Dorian scowled, his dark eyes clouded as he lunged forward.
I let out an impressed whistle. Dorian grabbed Basil’s white undershirt tight in his trembling fist, but Basil was the one who threw the first punch. By the second punch, Paisley sounded the alarm, her distressed shout alerting those nearby. Concerned ensemble members peeked their heads out from behind the wings. Arthur and Paisley leaped into action, hovering around the restrained pair. Curses spat from Dorian’s mouth, while Basil seized in another man’s limiting hold.
“Michael! Eric! What the hell are you doing?” Teddy shouted, his shoes still resting on the make-shift footrest. He rubbed at his five o’clock shadow with budding irritation. “You two, throw them out already!”
I chuckled, unable to quiet myself at the absurd scene unfolding in front of me. I opened my sketchbook and scribbled out a note to myself to replicate this scene later in oil paints. Something about watching grown adults squabble over something as silly as theater made me snort.
Basil was essentially carried out, his short height making him easy to pluck off the ground. It reminded me of how parents brought their toddlers to our performances, only to belt out screaming before Act I. Arthur followed the herd, tailing in the back as the rest of the crowd stood, dumbfounded. “What just happened?” Paisley said. She inched over to my side as the venue plummeted into silence. Teddy muttered something under his breath, his outdated iPhone propped up to his ear.
I shrugged. “Just an argument. It happens.”
Paisley snapped her gaze over. “An argument? That looked like a declaration of war.”
“You read too many epics.”
Arguments between cast members were a dime a dozen. To her credit, they didn’t go past a petty jab or a mocking rendition of their poor performance behind closed doors. A physical altercation was something new.
She scoffed and crossed her arms tightly. “You’re ridiculous, you know that? You didn’t even try to help.”
“You guys had it covered.”
“Don’t do that,” she warned.
“Do what?”
“Play ambivalence, like you always do.”
I gave her an unimpressed look. I could have argued that there wasn’t time; that standing in a gobsmacked group near the circling vultures aiming for each other’s throats wasn’t going to solve anything. I knew she saw my amusement at the taste of some B-rated drama, hoping to cure my boredom.
“You know I don’t want to be here,” I said slowly, as if talking to a child.
Paisley threw her hands up, gritting her teeth. Her fiery hair flashed in the light. “Well, guess what? You are here. So at least pretend to give a crap.”
Not this again. “Do you want a ride home or not?”
Paisley hesitated, the start of another lecture on her tongue.