Pitches from the Pensive 3


So, it was agreed that the #PitchSlam team, or some of us at least, post our 35 word pitches and first 250. To ease some of the anxiety about hitting send. Why not! We’re all in this together, right? So, pulling at our own pitches, like memories from a pensive (have to tie it into Harry Potter somehow) here’s my mock entry for one of my current WIPs. Let me know what you think!

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Name: L.L. McKinney

Genre: MG Fantasy

(Working) Title: ARTHUR PENSLEY AND THE KING’S RANSOM

Word Count: Incomplete

Hogwarts House: Honestly, the characters would be all over the place, some landing in each of the houses, but Arthur would be a Gryffindor. Cause…it’s King Arthur?

35 Word Pitch: When 13yo Arthur learns he’s the legendary king of Camelot reborn, it’s up to him and his gamer Knights to stop a superintendent sorceress from claiming Excalibur, enslaving their reincarnated souls, and exacting her revenge.

First 250: Arthur flung his hands up when his avatar jerked, screamed, then dropped to the ground with a gurgle. The dwarven character he’d been guiding through battle faded, leaving a skeleton stretched in its place, haloed by the words AN HONORABLE DEATH near the top of the screen. Groans filled his ears as his teammates voiced their shared irritation.

“Really?”

“Unbelievable…”

“The heck was that, Landon?” Arthur barked into his headset. “You fall asleep on your keyboard again?”

Silence descended, peppered with grumbles. After weeks of being stuck in the same dungeon, they finally reached the last boss. Then Landon, their should-be healer, stopped…healing. Insta-wipe.

“Mmm, sorry.” Landon smacked on the words, along with a mouthful of something crunchy. “Mom brought home peanut brittle.”

The guys erupted.

Wincing, Arthur tugged off his headset to keep from joining the chorus of angry shouts. Instead, he checked his messages and found a missed IM from his best friend.

Gwen: Yo, you busy?
Gwen: You ain’t gone idle, you there?
Gwen: Hey.
Gwen: Helloooooooooo
Gwen: PENSLEY!

Okay, a few missed IMs. He tapped out an apology, explaining he’d been raiding but was finished, and went to hit send when the screen flashed blue.

Frozen, Arthur gaped for several seconds before the fan kicked on, full speed. Panic jolted through him. “No, nononono! Please no.” His hands hovered over the keys, afraid to touch anything and risk making it worse.

Then the blue vanished, replaced by scrolling text: We’re out of time. She’s coming…

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