This document appears to be an excerpt from a novel. It provides backstory on the main character Ellie, whose father leaves abruptly in the middle of the night. Ellie is then taken in by her uncles Quinn and Devlin, who she meets for the first time. Quinn seems warm and welcoming, fixing Ellie a nice meal, while Devlin seems more aloof. Ellie is given her own bedroom, which has been prepared for her arrival. As she lies in bed, Ellie sees a face appear in the wrinkles of her bedroom curtains that mouths her name, leaving her fascinated.

1. by
Laura D’Aveta

2. For my family …
for bearing the burden of believing
when it was too heavy for me to bear.
© 2011 by Laura Ann D’Aveta
First published in 2011 by 597G Publications,
A division of Imaginary Press
770 Broadway
New York, NY 10003
www.notarealcompany.com
Library of Congress Card Number: 00-8675309
ISBN 0-8675-309-0
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or
transmitted, in any form or by any means – electronic, mechanical, including photocopying, recording,
taping, or information storage and retrieval systems – without written permission of the publisher.
Manufactured in the United States of America.
First printing, 2011

3. CONTENTS
THE FACE IN THE CURTAINS 1
CRITIQUES GIVEN TO CLASSMATES 25
CRITIQUES RECEIVED FROM CLASSMATES 28
THE AUTHOR’S PHILOSOPHY 30
A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR 31
SUMMARY OF TEXT/BLURBS FROM READERS (Back Cover)
i

4. CHAPTER ONE
The long, knotted fingers clawing at her bedroom window scratched a frantic
rhythm that kept time with the slamming of Ellie’s heart. She froze, caught between the
darkness of her nightmare and the light from the night’s full moon. As the sound of her
mother’s screams faded with the rest of the dream, Ellie came awake enough to realize
the hand scraping against her window was only a branch from the ancient maple tree
that spread its great arms to protect her family’s weathered farmhouse.
Ellie yawned as she climbed out of bed to open her window, her mind still on her
nightmare. She pulled open the glass, reached out to grab the offending branch, and
snapped it free, letting the gnarled knuckles drop stiffly to the ground below. She
shivered as the wind picked up and the temperature dipped, a warning that the clear
night sky would not share its stars much longer.
Ellie grabbed the extra blanket from the foot of her bed, not wanting to lose the
coolness of the breeze against her face. She thought about going to her parents’ room
to talk to her mom about her nightmare, but remembered the sting of her father’s words.
―Ellie, you and I both need to give your mom some more time. This is all even
harder for her.‖
―But Dad, can’t we help her? Can’t we—―
―Ellie, no. We can’t.‖
―You didn’t let me finish.‖
―It doesn’t matter. I said no. Leave her be.‖
Ellie wrapped the blanket tighter around her shoulders, smelling years of
Cheerios and tears trapped within the fibers, and looked back out at the moon. Clouds
1

5. had stalked the breeze and slowly crawled to mask the moon’s face, only allowing its
jaw line to peek out. Ellie followed the weakened beam of light that escaped the cloud’s
cover and traced its path to the foot of the driveway, where it shone brightly on her
father’s face.
Ellie was startled to see that all the blood had drained from her father’s face; his
skin was bleached by more than moonlight. His eyes sparked with anger and
frustration, but as much as Ellie willed her father to look at her, to meet her eyes and
know that she was there to help, he did not look her way; his eyes were drilled to the
man who stood in front of him.
The stranger had his back to Ellie, but even in the timid light she was able to
recognize in the back of his dark hair the same cowlick that both Ellie and her father had
– the one that frustrated Ellie’s mother to no end every time she gave either of them a
haircut. The man was slightly shorter than her father, and broader through the
shoulders, but stood with the same posture – straight-backed, strong, confident.
Fierce.
Ellie noticed these details only fleetingly; she couldn’t tear her eyes away from
her father. His fists were clenched at his sides and his feet pawed at the ground, and
Ellie’s stomach tightened at the glint of anger in his eyes. He wore no coat to ward off
the sinking temperature heralding the oncoming storm whose thunder could already be
heard winding its way from behind the house, around to Ellie’s open window, its growls
challenging the rough idling of the pickup truck. His shirt was buttoned crookedly, the
untucked tails catching in the wind, flapping, counting the seconds between flashes of
lightning. A battered, threadbare duffle bag cowered at his feet. He hugged the
2

6. stranger, slapping his back, and then bent to grab the bag, tucking his chin close to his
chest to shield his face.
Ellie’s heart bounced off her stomach. She ran from her room, down the stairs
and out the front door, flinching as the screen door slammed against its frame and the
echo of her mother’s tired reprimand snapped in her ears. Her father stared at her and
then turned, throwing his bag into the bed of the hulking truck. Ellie started to run to
him, but the stranger grabbed her from behind.
―Dad! DAD! Wait! Where are you going?‖ Ellie’s words began to scratch her
throat as they fought each other to escape the lump lodged in her windpipe. She
struggled against the arms cinched around her waist, reaching for her father even as he
slammed the truck’s door shut.
―Don’t leave me! Dad, please don’t leave me!‖
Her father’s eyes never left the steering wheel, and the gears of the old truck
screeched with protest as he jerked it into gear. The force behind her spun her around,
swung her over his shoulder, and carried her back into the house, faltering every few
steps as she hit and kicked him, screaming for her father, the taillights of the truck
flashing red in her eyes before it disappeared around a bend in the road.
3

7. CHAPTER TWO
In the end, Ellie’s choice didn’t really matter.
In the end … in the beginning … Ellie wasn’t sure what to think of the past few
days as she watched the miles fly by outside the grimy window of the musty, pock-
marked truck.
She had chosen her mother. Not because Ellie believed any of that ―a girl needs
her mother‖ stuff. Her mother had checked out years ago. Her dad avoided the ghost
that occupied the rocking chair in the corner of the spare room every night, anchored in
place by a frayed blue blanket and a rotting nightgown. He stayed up most nights so he
could work in the garage, walls and wind between his ears and the moans that haunted
the halls.
The morning when her mother’s hunched body stood frozen at the front door,
shaking, Ellie realized that her mother wanted to leave, but couldn’t. Something was
growing up through the seams in the hardwood, pinning her feet to the floor. Ellie
cringed as tension rattled her mother’s body as she fought for control over herself and
lost. In that moment, Ellie chose to go with her. She chose to help her mother break
free. She chose her over her dad, the only person left who loved her.
Ellie chose her mother. Her mother needed her.
Her mother just didn’t choose Ellie back.
She still didn’t know what had happened. Her dad swore her mother was coming
back. Ellie spent those first moments waiting for the police to show up at their house to
state they had found her. Ellie didn’t expect to see her mother again.
Her dad’s words came back to her. ―You just didn’t see it, Ellie. She was still
here. And she loved you. She wouldn’t have left.‖
4

8. Maybe he was right. Maybe her mother was more aware of Ellie and her dad
than Ellie had realized. She had managed to survive. She kept eating, kept taking care
of herself. She just didn’t engage. Ellie would catch her mother looking at her once in a
while, but she always looked away and left the room when Ellie’s eyes met her own.
She avoided physical contact … Ellie couldn’t remember what it felt like to be hugged by
her mother. Ellie would have been scared if she had.
That was two days ago. Her mother had disappeared, and Ellie had waited,
knowing something would happen. And now her dad was gone too.
The storm that had ripped Ellie from sleep last night had left home ahead of
them, but the smell of it was still wrapped around her, burning and refreshing, all in the
same breath. She kept tensing for crashes of thunder that had long since raced away.
She must have seemed so strange to the man driving the truck, flinching for no reason
across the cracked bench seat as the tires pounded out an uneven rhythm on the
patchy highway.
―Hey.‖
Ellie looked over at the man who seemed unable to say her name. It was still
shocking, to see someone who looked so much like her dad, only younger and angrier.
At first, Ellie had thought they were identical, but she was now able to recognize subtle
differences. Daylight will do that for you.
Unlike the night. Last night, Ellie would have sworn her dad had stood at the foot
of the driveway, leaning against this same truck, gesturing wildly and arguing with a
mirror image of himself.
5

9. If the storm hadn’t frightened her out of a sound sleep, Ellie might have missed
her dad’s leaving. But that might have hurt less.
―HEY.‖
Ellie had zoned out again. His voice broke through the memories of last night,
reality riding hot on the heels of a distant bolt of lightning. She jumped, and he sighed
and looked back out at the road. Ellie sensed the shadow of tension fill the truck cab
again, so she focused on his face and tried not to make him angrier.
―We’re stopping for breakfast.‖
―Okay.‖ Ellie was just glad that he remembered she needed food. Her mood
lightened when they got off the highway and pulled into a Waffle House. Waffles …
they really do make everything better.
6

10. CHAPTER THREE
Ellie stood on the front porch of what her friends back home would have called a
haunted house. The cedar plank siding had given up its color to years of salted winds
off the ocean and now stood on the edge of a cliff, its grey shoulders hunched against
hurricanes. This place had none of the warmth of her own home – no flowers, no
welcome sign, no porch light to turn on, telling her that even endless July nights came
with a curfew. This house seemed to match Uncle Devlin’s personality: cold, distant,
and completely indifferent to her presence. Even the front steps ignored her, creaking
only as her uncle climbed them ahead of her.
Before her uncle could fit his key in the door’s rusted lock, it flew open and
another version of Ellie’s father came rushing across the porch to grab Ellie. She
stepped back, still off balance after eleven hours trapped in the truck with Uncle Devlin
that day, each of her questions answered with an increase in the volume of the radio.
When he saw her shying away from his reach he stopped, stepped back, and then spun
angrily towards Uncle Devlin.
―I knew I should have been the one to go out there to get her. Crap, Dev, what
did you do to her?‖
Uncle Devlin pushed past him into the house, muttering under his breath; all Ellie
could make out was ―all yours.‖
Ellie found herself alone on the porch, comparing a stranger to her father for the
second time in as many days.
―Hi, Ellie. I’m your uncle Quinn. Come on in and have some dinner – do you like
peach pancakes?‖
7

11. Ellie nodded and followed Uncle Quinn through the front door and into one of the
coziest rooms she had ever seen. The sofa cushions were bursting at the seams with
stuffing, and every surface in the room seemed to absorb the heat from the fireplace
and radiate it back towards the hearth. Peaches and cinnamon had Ellie’s stomach
attempting to race ahead of her to the kitchen.
Uncle Quinn turned back when he realized Ellie was no longer following him. He
smiled at the expression on her face.
―It seems scary at first, doesn’t it? There’s not much we can do about the
outside; everything seems to die out there. But we’ve kept the inside pretty nice. It
makes up for the whole mean, scary vibe you get on the front porch.‖
―Like you and Uncle Devlin.‖ The words were out of Ellie’s mouth before she
could stop herself. She was afraid to look up at Uncle Quinn … until she saw his
shadow shaking with laughter.
―Don’t worry; I won’t tell him what you said if you don’t tell him I agreed with you.
Deal?‖
Ellie grinned. ―Deal.‖
―Cool. Now come on – let’s get something to eat and then I’ll give you the tour.‖
8

12. CHAPTER FOUR
―My dad makes peach pancakes for dinner when my mom has to work nights.‖
―That’s because our mom used to make them for us when we were kids. Your
Uncle Devlin makes them better than I do, though. He won’t tell me what’s missing from
the recipe.‖
Ellie gulped down another bite, nodding as Uncle Quinn hovered over her plate
with another pancake. ―How come I’ve never heard of you before? Why didn’t my dad
ever talk about you?‖
―Good questions. But here’s the thing. It’s almost midnight. I’m guessing if you
have a bedtime, you’re up way past it. Come on, I’ll show you your room.‖
Ellie followed Uncle Quinn up a flight of stairs that curved their way unevenly to
the second floor. A long hall stretched off to the left, while a smaller set of stairs
disappeared into darkness off to the right.
―Devlin’s room is up there, in the attic. We don’t bother him, he keeps the bats
and rats away from us.‖ Uncle Quinn continued pointing out rooms as they walked
down the hallway. ―This is my room – just knock if you need anything. Dev and I share
this bathroom; you have your own. Here’s your room.‖
Ellie wasn’t sure what to expect in a house full of uncles, but she definitely wasn’t
prepared for what was behind the cracked white door.
―I know it’s not home, but I think you’ll be comfortable here. It was strange.
Devlin started working on it a week ago, long before we knew you were coming to stay.
When I asked him why he was in here painting, he said he had no idea – he just had a
feeling. Devlin’s weird that way.‖
9

13. Ellie stood in the doorway, speechless, amazed by what she saw and lulled into
a trance by Uncle Quinn’s steady tenor.
―I’ll let you get settled. Just shout if you need anything.‖ Uncle Quinn briefly
touched her shoulder. Only a slight shift in the air behind Ellie let her know he had
stepped out, he moved so quietly.
Ellie finally managed to whisper a thank you after Uncle Quinn had already pulled
the door shut.
Ellie moved her suitcase from the floor to the foot of the bed and unpacked what
few clothes she had brought with her into a hulking bureau painted white with daffodils
and stargazer lilies, wiping a exhaustion from the corners of her eyes and fighting her
dark hair back into a ponytail. She smiled as she noticed the details around the room
her mother would never have overlooked – the tags on the pillows sticking out of the
open ends of the pillowcases; the comforter spread out with the flowers pointing toward
the foot of the bed; and the curtains on the windows riddled with wrinkles and creases
from being compressed in their packaging – they had obviously never been ironed.
Ellie flopped onto the bed and let her head sink into the pillows and stared at the sheer
curtains, thinking of her mom and watching as they danced in the breeze. She gasped
when her eyes met those of the face looking out at her from among the wrinkles. Ellie
crawled slowly off the bed and crept to the window, but the face disappeared as her
fingertips touched the thin white fabric. She had just dismissed it as a trick of her mind
when the face appeared again and mouthed her name. Fascinated, Ellie grabbed a
notebook and pencil from the roll-top desk in the corner of her room and rushed back to
her bed, careful not to move too close to the windows in case the breeze from her
10

14. passing disturbed the curtain. She sat down, tightened her ponytail, and began
sketching. Her hesitant lines were nothing like the confident, bold strokes of her father’s
artwork, but the foundation was solid, and Ellie captured the details as best she could.
Sleep finally coaxed Ellie under the covers of the brass twin bed, and she nestled
deep under the blankets. She turned off the lamp, and her eyelids had nearly closed
when she saw the silhouettes of both her uncles pause outside her bedroom door. She
fought to the surface of consciousness to listen to their conversation, but lost her battle
and let sleep pull her under.
11

15. CHAPTER FIVE
Ellie was still savoring the salt on her lips as she threw her body against the front
door to force it into its frame. Breathless, cheeks flushed, she mounted the stairs but
paused halfway up as the sound of hissing finally broke through the echo of waves
lingering in her ears. She crept silently up the remainder of the stairs, stepping on the
outside of the second to last to avoid its groans, and froze halfway down the hall when
she saw her bedroom light on, two shadows tangling on the floor and dancing towards
the threshold of the open door. Shaking, she stepped towards them, the hairs on her
arms spiking in protest.
―Did you draw these?‖ Uncle Devlin had Ellie’s notebook clenched in his fist, and
he stomped towards her, bending nearly in half as he thrust his face in hers, hot breath
washing over her skin.
Ellie’s body betrayed her as always. Her voice hid beneath a lump in her throat,
and her eyes immediately submitted with an offering of tears. The anger she would feel
later when she was alone was eclipsed by an intense shadow of guilt.
―Why did you draw these? Where did you see these people?‖
Each question stabbed at Ellie, weakened her. She tried to look past Uncle
Devlin to Uncle Quinn, but he matched her movements, pinning her with his glare.
―I asked you a question. I expect an answer.‖ Uncle Devlin rolled up the
notebook as though preparing to scold a puppy and raised it over Ellie’s head. Finally
the flood of fear broke, and Ellie felt anger bubbling to the surface.
―Why are you in my room? Why are you going through my things? What does it
matter if I drew some stupid pictures?‖ Ellie gulped for air, swiping and the tears that
12

16. ran down her face, wiping her nose on her sleeve. The salt on her lips now tasted
bitter. Her throat constricted as she choked out the question that she wanted answered
most of all. ―Why did he leave me?‖
The silence that followed deflated Ellie’s anger. She had never spoken to her
parents in such a manner; but then again, her parents had never raised a hand in
anger. She realized she knew precious little about either of her uncles, and yet she was
completely at their mercy. She probed the floor with her eyes as Uncle Devlin seemed
to suck all the air from around her, leaving her cold and breathless.
―Dev. Back off a little.‖ Uncle Quinn stepped between Ellie and Uncle Devlin,
pulling Ellie close while he placed a hand on Uncle Devlin’s chest.
―She’s hiding something. I want to know what.‖
Uncle Quinn let go of Ellie and pushed against his brother, leaning in to whisper
in his ear. Uncle Devlin stepped back, met his brother’s eyes, and then walked to the
door. He turned to glare back over his brother’s head at Ellie. His feet pounded an
angry rhythm, and his door cracked like a shotgun blast as he slammed it shut.
Moments later he crashed past, thundered down the main staircase and out the front
door.
Ellie collapsed on the bed, drained. She felt the mattress dip as Uncle Quinn sat
down on its edge. His hand on the small of her back started a new wave of tears, and
she turned her face into the pillow to escape.
―Ellie,‖ Uncle Quinn whispered. ―He’s not really angry with you. He’s frightened.
You may not have noticed, but Dev’s not exactly warm and fuzzy. He’s not good at
expressing himself. Fear comes out as anger.‖
13

17. ―Fear?‖
―Come with me.‖ Uncle Quinn stood, unfolding his body and stretching, giving
Ellie space but watching to make sure she followed him up the narrow to the attic.
14

18. CHAPTER SIX
―I don’t think we should be in here, Uncle Quinn. What if he comes home?‖
Uncle Quinn shut the door to Uncle Devlin’s bedroom behind him. ―Don’t worry;
I’ll take the blame. He knows better than to try to take me on.‖
Ellie grinned as Uncle Quinn flexed muscles his willowy arms didn’t have.
―It’s probably best if you sit down,‖ Uncle Quinn laughed as he tried to step
around Ellie without bumping into anything. He crossed the room, tracing his fingers
along the spines of a row of books. All but one of the room’s walls was lined with
bookshelves, overflowing with what looked like history books from what Ellie could see.
Each draft that flew around the small space stirred up the scent of old paper and dust,
ghosts chasing each other as they dodged the specks of dust that danced on a
sunbeam. The wall opposite the door was dominated by a large, round window, an
unblinking eye looking out over the waves, keeping watch over Uncle Devlin’s wrought
iron bed. In the corner, shadowed between the ratty quilt of the bed and another
bookshelf, sat a hunchbacked wooden trunk. Uncle Quinn lifted the lid gently and dove
inside, finally lifting out a tattered blue afghan, and from within its folds a weathered
brown book.
Ellie tucked her legs underneath her as Uncle Quinn set the book on her lap,
sitting next to her on Uncle Devlin’s bed. She gingerly flipped through the first pages,
filled with childish drawings of knights fighting shadowy dragons, castles guarded by
winged horses, and motorcycles, racecars and fighter jets, all clearly drawn by a child.
The drawings gradually improved, but the subjects shifted from fantasy to landscapes,
with the occasional still life or geometric design. Ellie’s breath caught when she turned
15

19. a page and found a woman’s face staring up at her from the paper. As she got further
into the book, she began to recognize the people on the pages; the lines and curves in
Uncle Devlin’s book mirrored those in her own notebook. She finally remembered that
Uncle Quinn was on the bed beside her, and she met his eyes in confusion.
―This is Devlin’s sketchbook from when he was your age. We all had them –
even your father. Devlin’s the only one that kept his. But they all have those same
faces in them. Your father – he saw the faces in the frost on his window after a late
spring storm. Devlin saw his first in a drying mud puddle on the driveway. I saw mine in
the bark of an old oak tree where we grew up.‖ Uncle Quinn stopped Ellie’s hand as
she reached the end of the drawings and began flipping blank pages.
―We never told each other about our drawings; we were all worried people would
think we were crazy.‖ He grinned. ―Well, crazier, in Devlin’s case. We just drew them
and kept them hidden. It was your father that first mentioned his drawings, after he had
married your mother. In fact, it was when she was pregnant with you. That was when
your father started to see the faces again.‖
―Why was Uncle Devlin so angry when he saw my drawings? If you’ve all seen
the same things …‖
Uncle Quinn waited for Ellie to answer her own question.
―It has something to do with why my mom left.‖
―I don’t know, Ellie. But I think you’re wrong.‖
―You mean it’s just a coincidence that we drew the same people?‖
―No. I meant you’re wrong that your mom left. She didn’t leave. She was
taken.‖
16

20. ―I saw her. At the front door. She wanted to leave.‖ Ellie added ―me‖ silently.
―She wouldn’t leave you, Ellie.‖
Ellie studied the blank page in front of her, waiting for Uncle Quinn to continue,
but he didn’t; he left the room quietly, pulling the door softly shut.
Drawn in by her wonder at the drawings Uncle Devlin had done as a boy, Ellie
found herself flipping back and forth through the book’s pages, thinking about the
people she saw and who they might be. She didn’t notice that their faces had begun to
darken as clouds moved in off the sea until the sound of footsteps falling heavily on the
attic stairs broke her trance. Ellie jumped to her feet as Uncle Devlin opened the door,
stuffing the book under the edge of a pillow and standing in front of the wrinkled quilt.
Peering over her, he tried to see what she was hiding.
17

21. CHAPTER SEVEN
Uncle Devlin silently extended his hand and waited, and she gingerly handed him
the book, waiting for him to begin yelling. He began flipping through the pages of the
book, a scowl knitting his dark eyebrows together.
Ellie watched nervously as Uncle Devlin reached the beginning of the pages with
the faces; the quick flash of recognition which he quickly masked with indifference. He
paused and raised his eyes from the page, and a loud clap of thunder shook the walls
as their eyes met. Ellie let out a garbled yelp, and the sky opened on the storm’s next
report, hailstones trying to break through the roof of the old, weary house. She started
towards the door to escape, but was stopped by Uncle Devlin’s long, calloused fingers
locking around her arm.
Ellie froze, staring at the fingers burning against her skin. She had never been
grabbed like that before; her parents didn’t even believe in spanking. She was afraid to
meet Devlin’s eyes again, but she worked up enough courage to look up at him as she
felt his grip loosen. She expected to see anger, or worse, his blank, piercing stare; but
she never expected to see worry.
―Sit down. Please.‖
Uncle Devlin reached under the foot of the bed and pulled out a large, dusty
cushion. He folded himself onto it, facing her, for once looking up at her instead of
towering over her. He opened the sketch book to the first of the faces and studied it for
a few minutes, then moved on to the next page. Ellie almost lost his words when he
spoke without lifting his gaze from the book.
―Are you afraid of me?‖
18

22. Ellie wasn’t sure how to answer, but Uncle Quinn’s words about his brother
echoed in her mind.
―Yes,‖ she whispered.
Uncle Devlin continued to study the book, nodding almost imperceptibly.
Ellie watched as Uncle Devlin held the gaze of one face for several minutes, his
fingers tracing the sketch, almost as though he was really touching the woman’s cheek,
the line of her jaw. Her fear began to fade as she watched her uncle’s face lose its hard
edges, making him look tired and much younger, much weaker, than he had moments
ago. Ellie felt her stomach turn as it always did when she wasn’t sure what to do; that
little fluttering of panic she felt when she was about to fail a test. So Ellie did what she
always used to do when she was faced with uncertainty.
She asked herself what her mother would do. Back before her mother had given
up.
And Ellie knew that in that moment, her uncle needed her as much as she might
need him. She bent, found another cushion under the foot of the bed, and pulled it next
to Uncle Devlin’s. She sat down next to him and rested her head on his shoulder so
that she could see the book. Ellie felt the muscles of her uncle’s arm jump under her
temple, but her courage held and she stayed where she was.
―Who is she?‖
Uncle Devlin’s finger continued to touch the woman’s face, pausing softly on her
lips.
Ellie’s patience was rewarded with an answer from her uncle, whispered so softly
it was almost lost under the sound of the rain on the attic roof.
19

23. ―She is – was – someone that I lost a long time ago. Shortly after you were
born.‖
Ellie waited for him to continue, but he remained silent, and eventually the
moment was lost. Uncle Devlin stood and crossed to the attic door, pausing to drop the
sketch book back in his trunk.
―It’s time for dinner.‖
20

24. CHAPTER EIGHT
Dinner conversation consisted of the soft clinking of forks against plates and the
wet slapping of spaghetti noodles. Everyone seemed lost in their own thoughts, but the
tension that had filled the house was easing as Ellie and her uncles grew accustomed to
each other. Ellie had so many questions that she wanted to ask, but she was afraid to
be the first to break the silence.
Uncle Devlin’s back lab, Pavlov, walked into the dining room, turned around
under the table until he found the spot where he could be in contact with everyone’s
feet, and then flopped down in a heap.
Moments later, the heap farted.
Ellie couldn’t hold in her laughter, and her uncles soon joined her. Weighed
down by the exhaustion of the day’s events, Ellie’s silently and unexpectedly shifted to
tears. She kept her eyes locked on her plate of pasta, too embarrassed to look at either
of her uncles.
―Ellie,‖ Uncle Quinn started, but the rest of his words fell off as she met his eyes,
tears still pouring from her own. Uncle Quinn looked down at his own plate, uncertain of
his next move.
Uncle Devlin stood and walked around the table to stand over her.
Ellie’s sobs caught in her throat. She was still unsure of him, but Uncle Devlin
seemed to have shaken off the anger that had gripped him since they’d first met.
Without a word, he pulled her up out of her chair, scooped her into his arms, and
held her close, his chin resting on top of her head. Ellie buried her face against his
21

25. shoulder, unable to stop shaking. By the time he gently set her down on her bed and
pulled the blankets up to her chin, she had cried herself to sleep.
The following morning, Ellie woke up to find Uncle Devlin in a chair beside her
bed, completely out of place under a fuzzy pink blanket. Ellie could not remember
falling asleep, but the shadows of several nightmares about her parents clung to the
back of her mind. Each fractured scene had been interrupted by a strong, invisible
presence which she had not understood at the time she fought her way through the
frightening dreamscapes, but which she now suspected had been Uncle Devlin helping
her fight her demons.
Ellie looked across the room to her door, where Uncle Quinn was playing
charades, trying to get her to follow him without waking Uncle Devlin. She padded
softly across the room, shutting the door gently behind her.
―I have a present for you.‖
―What is it?‖
Uncle Quinn grinned. ―Just open it.‖
Ellie ripped the newspaper off the box, wiping the black newsprint off on her
pajama bottoms. ―Oh. It’s a book.‖
―Your father sent it for you.‖
―Dad sent it? Where is he? Did he find my mom?‖
―It came in today’s mail. There wasn’t a note or anything.‖
―Nothing?‖
22

26. ―I know, it sucks – crap, forget that. I didn’t say sucks. Or crap. Stop laughing.
What I’m trying to say is I know that it’s not fair to be going through all this without any
answers. Read the book; it will help prepare you for what we have to teach you.‖
―Teach me?‖
Uncle Quinn grinned at Ellie. ―You want to be able to help your father, don’t
you?‖
Ellie’s heart sped up at the thought of being able to do something, anything, to
help get her mom back. She started to ask Uncle Quinn more questions but he cut her
off.
―Just read it.‖
23

27. PERSONAL REFLECTION ON “THE FACE IN THE CURTAINS”
This story has wanted to be written for a long time. After several years of intentions to
start, I decided to use the concept for our class this semester. Of course it immediately
began to stretch into areas that are way outside my comfort zone, in part thanks to the
amazing feedback, and in part because I realized what I thought was the direction the
story would take turned out to be completely wrong.
I wanted to write a story that dealt with subject areas in which I am always struggling:
science and faith. I’m intrigued by what we don’t know; I’m drawn to the idea that there
is the potential for reconciliation between the two. Every brainstorm, every nugget,
every fragment of an idea that I’ve had for the past few years have been focused in this
area. But like every idea that really excites, it has been elusive as well. Whenever I sit
down at the computer, or with a journal or notepad, it seems to dart just beyond my
reach. That I have enough pages to meet the requirements of this portfolio is a victory
in itself, because it’s proof that I’m getting over whatever fear keeps me from filling the
pages. I will miss the structure of our class, and the amazing encouragement and
feedback, because each word, each thought, is another arrow in my quiver as I take up
arms in the battle for a completed novel.
Ellie has been my idea-catcher. She has already learned more from Devlin and Quinn
than I myself understand; we’re actually learning together. I’m anxious to put so much
more down on the page, but at the same time, I’m afraid that Ellie and I will hit a wall.
After all, there are some big answers out there, and we’re just not meant to have them.
But we won’t stop asking the questions.
24

28. CRITIQUES FROM CLASSMATES
Post 7.6: Critique by Katie Hoeg
Very cool concept. I love the "fear" factor in your story and how it would be enticing to
young readers. My own students LOVE the "Goosebumps" books and I just know they
would be into this as well. You're an excellent writer with a flair for details. I loved how
you mentioned the over-stuffed sofas and the scent of the peach pancakes.
Of course - I have some questions. Does Ellie have any personal experiences with this
"strange" and "unusual" stuff? In "Harry Potter," Harry very much believes he is
different - before he knows. So, I wonder if Ellie is similar? I also have interest in what
ELSE was happening. It seems like you introduced the house very quickly, but that
there was a lot more room for you to slow down and explain. That house must be
terrifying to Ellie, so I would like to hear even more about the chipped paint and
decaying flowers. I would like to hear how the sofa felt. Did her feet dangle? Was she
lifted up because the cushions were overstuffed? What ELSE can you tell me? It
seems that the house is so important; I would like to know everything you can possibly
tell me about it.
Great job with this story, Laura. It is exciting and interesting - and I can't wait to read
more!
- Katie Hoeg
Katie’s critiques were immensely helpful throughout the weeks I spent working on this
project, as well as other writing samples submitted to the group. Her insight into the
pace of the samples, especially regarding where things were moving too quickly, was a
great asset when it came to plotting out future chapters and revising existing ones. I
tend to get too anxious to move the plot forward once I’ve laid the foundation of a story;
I also tend to withhold information from the reader in order to attempt to build suspense.
Obviously there is a risk in doing so, as you can very quickly lose your reader. Katie
brought these areas to my attention with precision that make going back and revising a
pleasure, rather than a chore. She had excellent insights into character as well; her
comments above regarding Ellie are an example. She is the type of reader I hope to
earn in the future.
25

29. Post 8.6: Critique by Sarah Fischer
Laura,
Your plot is getting better and better! I am so grateful for you to share Ellie’s story with
us each week. In this excerpt, we learn more about the relationship Ellie’s uncles have
with one another, and also the fact that they have something in common with Ellie
besides a biological connection. Not only does Ellie see these faces, but her uncles and
father do as well. I thought it was interesting that Ellie’s father began seeing them again
when her mother was pregnant with her. It was a clue I thought to be important, but
can’t quite connect up yet which is adding to the suspense.
Again, you do an excellent job of showing. The figurative language you use is such a
strength. I also love your ability to sense when to give information and when to withhold
it. You are building so much suspense. I know you said you focused on dialogue this
week and I think you wove it together very naturally. My only picky comment is that
Quinn is always calling Devlin “Dev” and it feels a little bit overdone. Other than that, I
think your narration balanced your dialogue wonderfully. I have a lot of my favorite parts
noted below, so please check them out!
There were a few places I thought you might want to reconsider your word choice, and I
have those noted below. I have also noted some of my initial reactions as I was reading.
One thing that did confuse me was Ellie and Quinn’s transition to Devlin’s room. Is it in
the attic? I think it is, but you say Ellie followed him “up the narrow to the attic.” You
might have just left out “stairway”, but I was imagining his room on the same floor as
Ellie’s.
One big question I had was Why didn’t Quinn show Ellie his drawings? Why instead did
he show her Devlin’s? I am also still asking myself why Ellie had never met her uncles.
Such a great job! I am sad we only have a few more chances to read about Ellie this
semester!
-Sarah
Sarah’s critiques were so challenging, and somehow were in perfect balance with the
other critiques I was receiving. When someone else focused on plot, Sarah zeroed in
on dialogue. When it seemed that pacing was the main area needing improvement,
Sarah asked questions that drove me to question myself and work harder to hold her
attention. It was wonderful! The questions she asked, like those above, focused not
only on what I had written, but also on what I was going to write. Too often, in a writing
group (not this one), the comments focus only on what is on the page, and do little other
than help you line edit and clear up technical details within the story. But Sarah – and
26

30. really, the entire writing group – would provide me with questions about the story ―yet to
be‖ … which helped me to realize where I wanted to go, and what I needed to go back
and strengthen in order to get there. What an amazing asset to a writer!
27

31. CRITIQUES FOR CLASSMATES
Sarah Fischer: Post 3.7 (The Johnstown Flood)
I love that you’re taking what is a familiar historical topic for a region, and changing the
perspective to one that many people likely never considered. I wonder if there are any
historical writings – journals, etc. – from any of the children of the country club owners
at the time you describe? I’m sure you’ve researched this (what first captured your
idea, being 10 years old, about the story?) but it’s one of the first things that came to
mind for me as far as research, so I thought I’d throw it out there anyways.
There are WONDERFUL moments in the sample you have provided. The
foreshadowing in this line is incredible: Behind them, a wave quietly swells in the
distance. The girls are unaware of its gathering strength. I also love this line: Fifteen
years is more than enough time to disguise a boy behind a man’s face.
There were a few moments where I thought you could ―show‖ more than ―tell.‖ (I know
we hear reference to ―show versus tell‖ a lot as writers … I’m sorry if I’m repeating
anyone!) The one that stood out to me the most was this: you wrote I saw nothing but a
white rectangle outlined against the dusty aging plaster. I would assume that a painting
would leave a white rectangle; I think if you used something like ―I saw nothing but its
ghost outlined against dusty, aging plaster‖ might work. You’ve done an excellent job at
creating the setting, but I wanted slightly less detail and slightly more emotion. At times,
it felt as though the voice was too ―tell‖ and not enough ―show.‖ I hope that makes
sense.
You have a great start here, and a great topic to work with … as someone who knows
nothing about the flood, you have definitely piqued my curiosity! Keep up the great
work!
Katie Hoeg: Post 6.4 (Plot Discovery)
I had a little bit more trouble finding my footing with this week's sample than I have with
previous submissions, and I think I've finally pinpointed why. There are times when I'm
not getting a clear sense of Arden's voice. My understanding of this piece thus far as
been that at a chosen age, individuals cease to age; they are frozen at that age - at
least biologically. However, the concept of family still exists, and even if someone
chose to freeze their age at a given point - say, for example, the age of eleven - they
still mature emotionally and psychologically - they can get married, have a family
(although not in the conventional sense), etc. Arden, when we meet her, has not yet
chosen her Age of Choice, so she is a "true" child - both physically and psychologically.
And yet she is frustrated with her mother in the passage below because her mother
didn't follow a rule, which (I assume) frightened Arden.
I think you're trying to set up an ironic twist on the parent-child relationship with this
piece, but I'm losing Arden for some reason. Some lines ring true of a child/adolescent,
28

32. whereas others make her seem as though she had chosen her Age of Choice a long
time ago, and has grown weary with her parents. I think this is what is tripping me up.
Somewhere I'm getting a sense that Arden's "parents" are still behaving like children,
but this confuses me, as they reached their Age of Choice and should have "matured"
by now. The mother's voice seems to shift between obstinate toddler wanting to watch
cartoons, and someone wise who no longer has anything to offer in the way of advice to
Arden.
The images you're using are wonderful, and I'm still very intrigued by the plot you're
structured; I just feel as though there's something as a reader I'm getting mixed up in
my head. (I fully admit this could be my fault!) If you want to discuss this more, or if I'm
not explaining something clearly, please feel free to reach out to me directly - you can e-
mail me at laura.daveta@gmail.com or call me at 330-416-0602.
Keep up the great work - you've got me hooked into the story now! The fact that I'm
thinking through it so much is a compliment!
29

33. PERSONAL PHILOSOPHY OF CHILDREN’S LITERATURE
When we first started this course, I hadn’t given much thought to what I loved about the
genre of children’s literature; I simply knew that if given the choice, I spent what few
hours I had for reading on young adult fiction. The books I chose seemed to ask so little
of me while they offered so much in return. The pretension and inaccessibility that
seem to creep into the pages of ―grown-up‖ fiction seem to look down their nose as
children’s books.
As someone who has always loved writing, but never really challenged herself to put
forth any serious effort in any one project, I made the decision to pursue this course as
a source of discipline to try to get started on writing the type of book I love to read. I
had spent a few semesters in Penn State’s program on Children’s Literature, and I felt
comfortable enough with my ability to recognize what is good in the genre to be able to
begin my own project.
I’m so naïve sometimes.
Being able to appreciate talent, and being able to imitate talent, are two very different
things. I found myself cowering in the corners into which I had written myself; I was
anxious about getting feedback from my writing group as I felt out of practice, clumsy,
and intimidated by what I was seeing from others.
But I powered through. I faced down the monster, and I won the battle … simply by
putting pen to paper and trying.
Because after all, this is the beauty of the genre. When we read these books, we are all
children. We are Harry Potter, Lucy Pevensie, Katniss Everdeen, Meg Murray; we are
none of us perfect, yet all of us heroes. We simply have to find within ourselves the
courage to show up; to trust ourselves, and to take that first step, wherever it might
lead.
I’ll never feel that I’ve gotten everything I can out of the genre of Children’s Literature; I
will never outgrow it. There is always something new to learn about myself; there is
always another story to share with the children in my life. I can travel back in time
whenever I choose, simply by picking up a cherished book and allowing myself to shake
off the burdens of being an adult, even if only for a few hundred pages.
And that is why I will never grow up.
30

34. A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR
Praise is nice. Everyone likes to hear praise. I’m no exception. But I also love to hear
criticism.
Okay, so I don’t LOOOOOVE it.
But I try to learn from it.
This semester has been the best writing course I have taken in a while, and quite
possibly the best ever. My writing group had amazing insight; they were both
encouraging and honest, and I walked away each week with a great sense of how to
improve my writing. This doesn’t always happen in writing groups.
The structure of the course was challenging. I came into the course a week late, and
have been out of breath ever since – but in a good way. The assignments were difficult
but productive; the texts were a pleasure to read; and there was an enthusiasm on the
message boards that was contagious.
Typically, by the last two or three weeks of the semester, I have grown tired of a course
and am ready for it to be over. And while I still have a slight measure of that feeling with
this course – after all, it’s nice to have a break once in a while! – I am also disappointed
that the course is ending. I have more story to tell; I still need help in knowing when that
story is succeeding or failing. But I also have confidence that I’m a few steps closer to
being able to tell that story with some measure of success, and I owe that confidence to
this course.
I hope that I have been able to return that feeling to some of you. We are all successful
writers this semester.
Congratulations everyone!
31

35. ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Born in Parma, Ohio and raised for her entire childhood in a small Cleveland suburb,
Laura D’Aveta remains an avid reader of young adult literature, and she is constantly
searching for new favorites. She will complete her Master’s degree from The
Pennsylvania State University in the Spring of 2012, and Ms. D’Aveta will be anxiously
awaiting the University’s acceptance decision for their PhD program. If she had her
way, Ms. D’Aveta would attend college for the rest of her life; but since that gets to be
expensive, she is hoping to teach at the college level so that she never has to leave the
classroom. She currently resides in Columbus, Ohio and spends as much time as she
can with her nieces and nephew because playing with them allows her to be as childish
as she wants.
32

36. When Ellie’s father disappears in search of her mother and
leaves Ellie in the care of her uncles, Ellie thought her
biggest concern would be having nothing to do all summer.
But she soon finds herself in the center of a spiritual war,
where her world is beginning to blend with another
dimension, and every action has eternal consequences.
Ellie must choose between remaining in the oblivion of her
childhood and trusting her uncles to teach her to fight for
those she loves.
“I am truly impressed and I think this is a great start. Within the first twenty pages
my attention was completely grasped and I wanted more!
~Denyelle D’Aveta, Charlotte, NC
“Laura has honed her talent for writing with this entertaining, roller coaster, page
turner that leaves the reader in anticipation of what is to come.”
~ Sandi D’Aveta, Brunswick, OH
“D’Aveta delivers an intelligent, captivating and suspenseful drama which keeps that
reader glued to this exciting literary thriller.”
~ Jeanine Cazares, Columbus, OH
“This is a truly engaging tribute to the struggles of childhood. Filled with love,
uncertainty, and acceptance, it captures the essence of the emotional journey that
everyone encounters at some point in their lives.”
~ Haley Daugherty, Seville, OH
“I kept wanting to compliment you on your ability to paint a scene with description.
It’s straight-up pro material! At no point did I have a tough time seeing a scene …”
~ Robert D’Aveta, Charlotte, NC