My query submission sample pages - Rejected

My sample pages that got rejected by a literary agents.

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Incision. Let them cut my lip? 

I dread the approach of this day for years. I’m certainly not going to do it,  just because all the other girls are doing it.  Mother says that it is meant to symbolize a woman's strength and self-esteem.  My self-esteem would be shattered, should I decide to follow this tradition.  She says it is a sign of reaching reproductive age. Simply stated…I think of it – as more of an invitation—

Dear Khaan, I Oba, am now ready to be covered and fulfill my purpose as an Othijero women-- 

If only I had a choice, but the choice is his. Still—not letting anyone touch, these lips.

For the last time , I play with the two long plaits hanging over my face.  “Do you know what they have done to the trespasser?”  I ask of mother, about the man caught at the edge.

“They took him to the rock in the hills.”

“But Khai says, he was still in the grasslands. That he did not enter the Crust yet.” 

“That is partly how they managed to protect us, and our home.  Kill now and ask later.”  The Othijero believes it better to prevent than having to solve a catastrophe later.  A man that could have been innocent.  The Othijero warriors assume he is a threat, and he is executed.. It made my skin prickle to think of it.

“Nobody has any business coming here.”  Mother didn’t agree with all the Othijero ways of doing things, but—

“It is better that way.  It is for the safety of our families and our home.” 

“Protect our families? Nine girls of those same families will be killed because of an Othijero tradition.”  I cannot say that the Othijero beasts are cruel men, because amongst them is Khai.   My best friend. Some of the Othijero men even lend their wives to other men, as a hospitable sign.  But the man they found,  wasn’t going to be received with another’s wife.

He was young and scrawny, much shorter than the Othijero men.  “Khai said that by the time they found him,  he was already bleeding.” 

“If he was to be left to leave the Crust, the word of our village would spread and put us in danger.” 

“Khai said that he was barely a man.  A boy with soft complicated hair, like mine.  He fell to his knees in the shimmering heat.”  

“What we have to protect is worth the lives of many tribes, much more than one boy.”  He plunged to the ground, weak. His white shirt shredded.  Revealing a black marking on his chest—for my mother—it read.  Written inside the marking of a constellation.  His head was dangling by a thread.  Five sharpened bone tips, heartlessly tore through his chest. Skewered by spears. A sweaty darkness bend over him.  Clawed into his messy curls,  and saw his head from his body with a blunt dagger.  Blood painted the grass, as red as bacaba juice. If the blunt dagger wasn’t enough. They broke down in laughter. Cheered and mount the head to a pole, for everyone to see.  A new addition to the others planted on the edge.  Others…already skull, with clumps of strands dangling by dried flesh.  The dead eyes, picked by vultures.

Mother does not comment much on my concerns. She is pounding the hematite into small pieces. While I drop the smoldering charcoal into the clay bowl, I filled with geranium leaves.  I bend over the bowl like a Purus red howler.   “You think Khaan would choose me, also? I ask mother, the sharp resinous smell lingers.  I steal a quick glance at mother, but before I could look away—

“You will be fine.” She says, noticing my teary eyes. “It is the smoke.”  I had an excuse.  I don’t want her to know that I am afraid.  It will just cause her more worry.

“Oba, you are what I live for.”  I think the fact that she could not bare children, made her appreciate me even more. “Even though you have not come from me, you have become all of me.  I know your different stares.  Whether they are curious stares or troubled stares.  I know the happy tears from the smoke bath tears.”  I just look at her.  Fighting the war in my throat.  That, is strength—Not a clay plate, in my lip—I think to myself.  . “You might not have been born an Othijero, but in your heart…you are a true Othijero.” 

Sigh, “What will I ever do without you?” I ask, the slow smoke—spicy—creeping up on us.

I fling the bison skin around my shoulders. The blowing action. Setting the smoldering charcoal aflame.  I wait. Once the flame disappear. I guide the slow ascending smoke to underneath the skin.  I wait for the perspiring.

“Did he even – give it any thought? That there is a chance. I might be killed.” 

“Your father has faith in you. As a hunter.”  She says. A milky-way of fireflies attracted to the lengthy grass roof, invade our tree dwelling nestled in the deep greens and low shadows.  A yellow glow, now cast upon her face.

Through the leafy wall—far…down in the valley. I can see the woman line up like ants, beside the Visaya. It is far to early. Those must be the excited ones, gathering in the beats of fire. Amongst them, Aaliyah.  Unlike me, Aaliyah obsessed about this day.  Like a calm heartbeat. Drums pulse from afar.  Beat. Beat. Beat. Together with a concert of thrumming.  Cicada songs and cricket choirs. 

 

“Pass me the butterfat.” She ask.. Mother has sad eyes and a lonely smile. Still she manage to fool those who don’t know her like I do. “Are, you okay?” I am more concerned about how she might feel when something would happen to me, rather than whatever happens to me.

“I guess you are growing up. Sadly, coming of age in the year of the Prince is unfortunate.”  She says, vigorously mixing the hematite fragments with the butterfat.  “I guess all we could do is to trust in, Nakura.”  

 

Mother gather strands of my hair, gently apply the red paste.  She feeds the locks through her hands, bleeding ochre.  “It smells different.”  She inhales.  I could have used commiphora.  It is what Othijero woman have learned to use, and since never changed, but I don’t like the deep woody smell.  “It’s geranium. It grows at the edge—

 

“You know the rules of the edge, Oba.  You know how your father feels about you going to the edge.”  Her grip at my locks, tightening.  “  If the beasts were to see you…it carries grave consequences…for your fathers status—

“Beautiful,” she says, tying all the red dreadlocks tightly together. So tight, my forehead ripples. My face stretched startled.

Mother holds up a necklace, wrapped in a palm leaf. “This is beautiful. Let me touch it.” I touch it. It is riffled, like running my fingers across the back of a blue agama lizard. 

“It was your great grandmother’s necklace.  Never worn”.  It is not right. I pull my hand away. “I cant.” In my heart it doesn’t feel right to accept it. I am not of their blood. I am not even a true Othijero.

“It is a gift, an heirloom, pass down,” Mother said, smiling. It is made of Jobs tears and coral tree seeds. Sectionalized with an olivine trim. 

“The color will go well with your skin and the olivine match the color of your eyes. Tonight you must look like a goddess.” A goddess, I thought. I am no goddess. I don’t feel like a goddess. I am more of a hunter. A daughter of nature. The gift, I am old enough to know, is mothers reassurance. Stronger is she who belongs. “You have no choice,” Mother said.  “Once you are chosen, it is win or die.  You might not feel like an Othijero, but I am an Othijero, and you are my daughter.”  Her voice now quivering, with emotion.  Her hands anxious. This is fathers doing, an opportunist. A plan long time coming.  A man carving a way for himself. Mother walk over to the window, looking out fearfully on the grass roofs of the village. The tree dwellings of the Crust glowing gold in the low hanging sun. I can hear the laughter of village children, clashing their wooden staffs together in hopes of one day becoming warriors themselves, or even hunters. I looked down into the valley.  Longing for when I was one of those children.  When fighting was just playing.  When this day was still, just a day in time approaching slowly.  Not having to attend this ceremony.  Not having to know what is to come. I have been imagining the past more and more, as today drew closer.

 “I’ll do the rest.  Smear my body.”  The whole body should be covered in deep red. It protects us from the heat that emit from the crust.

“So this is it, it is the day,” she says. “Yes,” I reply. “How do you feel?” I open my heart for a moment, to index through my feelings. It’s blank.  I have thought about it so much leading up to this day, that I guess I mentally prepared for the worst. Tonight, in the Visaya, is just the pre-selection ceremony. A ceremony that calls upon Nakura.  The Nakura is meant to show Khaan, the candidates worthy of becoming a chieftain wife. It is within three days, during the pink moon, that will decide my future ; Prince Khaan will have my fate in his hands; with the guidance of the Nakura, he will decide if I am worthy to be his wife;  a decision that will force me to make a choice, and choose between life or death. Be his wife or die. “I don’t know,” I shrug. “Somewhat”. “It is not ideal, but it is fathers wish.”

“He wants, what he thinks is best for you.” She frown. “You ready?.”

“I guess so. Thank you. For helping me with this.” She presses her forehead gently against mine—kissing is not an Othijero gesture too often shared.  The Othijero is not known for openly sharing emotions—and balance the leather crown onto my hardened locks. The crown represents womanhood.  Grandmother wore her crown inverted after she was widowed. I think my mother could be happy, in a different tribe. The everlasting frown on her big shiny forehead between her deep eyes, makes me feel heavy.  She hardly ever smile, but never does she complain.  She has nice shoulders that lose its appeal because of her slight slouch.   All the woman are considered beautiful, but valued at the amount of offspring. Mother has only me, and I am not from her—everybody knows this—and father is silently ashamed of it.  It could be the reason why he is pushing for me to be selected by the Prince.  .

“Oba, promise me—she paused . “Promise me that whatever decision is made at the night of the pink moon. You can not be kind.  Your loyalty is going to get you killed. The previous battles which I have been present for three, has proven this.  It is every woman for herself.  Its kill or be killed.” Mother talking like this, makes my palms wet. My cheeks warm. My face washed with thousands of tiny thorns.

“Hoot…Hoot “ resonant, pulsating deep hoots, Khai is very good at mimicking a speckled owl, but knowing the jungle bird life and my best friend. I know that a true speckled owl sound like a sheet of metal being flexed quickly.  It is not meant to be perfect, but serves as a call between two good friends.  Mother looks at me.  “Khai” she purse her lips. If mother could have her way, it would be for Khai and I to be together.  We have been friends since childhood, it is impossible to imagine.  Khai was my friend when everyone else, shunned me for not being an Othijero.

 

Khai is a hunter also. All Othijero men are hunters. It is because of Khai that I am a skilled hunter. Those discreet visits to the edge.

Khai’s light eyes is contrast to his gleaming pitch black skin.  He lets me climb ahead of him. Going down isn’t as strenuous as climbing up.  I hear a crack.  Confidence grabs him by the ankle. Khai grunts—as he quickly grabs onto another branch cut step. Saved by his strong arms and quick thinking.  It is—you fall, you die—high.  He chuckles. I look up towards him. I can only see his white teeth stained with berry red. The rest is just a black silhouette cast down from the sun sparkling through the leaves.

 

It smell of moist as the last drops of rain still trickle from the slow flexing leaves. A flock of magenta hued dwarf kingfishers scatter startled from nearby.

 

In the Crust, our village is teeming with braided children jumping branch to branch.  Their leather coverings aggressively flapping behind them like tails.  The red wives head back at early dawn. With stiff necks and flat heads.  They carry the very sacred water—in large clay pots—believed to be a factor in the longlivety of the Othijero.  It might seem like the woman are left to do the hard lifting, but it is not entirely true. High up where the leaves are dense, the Othijero men follow discreetly.  Equipped with spears or bows they wait, ready.  The road stringed together by shiny pearl like rocks. Gleaming with gentle streams of water. Dim lights begin to grow one by one, in the high leafy dwellings. Our house is one of the highest—so high, if the leaves were not as dense—the edge would be visible.

A faint smell of roast, slip through the strong smell of bark and moist.  I hear chattering of children. Sweep of a broom. A bird. A cricket. The fresh air tickles my chest.

The edge can be reached. Should you be willing to exert the effort of climbing that high.  Nothing but a dense sheet of leaves, separates the Crust from the edge. For the curious, that come from past the border, it is just a leap of bravery that separates them from us. We are not suppose to go there, because of the wild that wanders the grasslands— lions, cheetahs, hyenas — but nothing can be as dangerous as what lurks here amongst the Othijero.  

We have learned to tread lightly. Khai and I know exactly when and how, it is the best time to break Othijero rules.  Now are not one of those moments.  I have to be at the Visaya, waiting.  I am the daughter of the chiefs advisor, and the most distinctive face of them all.  I have been aĺl the fuss since I set foot here. I will certainly be missed . It is wise, to always scour a moment to look for any predators that might be hunting for prey. At this hour, it’s rare.  It is too busy. But one would never know, just when a predator would venture into Othijero territory in search of its next meal. 

Following Khai’s impatient jump, skipping the last steps, I land on the damp soil, seeping through my toes.  Crouched like a preying leopard.   

“Would you do this if you had a choice?”  Khai asked—pushing through the ferns, where we go off the path towards our gathering spot.  Father does not like me to venture off the path into the jungle. Its dangerous.  

“Your father amaze me with his double standards.” Khai’s forehead ripples irate.  

“You can not go with me because of danger, yet he nominates you as a candidate, for the most dangerous hunt.”  I am not afraid to venture off track with Khai.  I feel safest with him.  He never miss a target.  The ferns are thick.  

“I think ferns must have been the first plants that began to grow here.”  Some parts so dense, it is impossible to cut through.  Good thing we already had our path cut out.  

“Perhaps…or the Boabab.”  I always thought of the Boabab as sacred. Like it has some power.  Or carry spirits in its thick trunk.  

“You think the Boabab has a soul?” I joked with Khai.  “It is not impossible, grandmother told me that the boabab is the children of the Nakura. Placed on earth to give life to the Othijero.  Each waterfall in the Crust is guarded by a boabab.  As soon as we are through the first section of thick ferns—

“Go low”—Khai whisper. Spear or no spear, we are now entering their territory. You never know when such had already set it sights on you. Khai and I dare the dangers of the jungle and its creatures, for a chance at finding the juicy fruits that do not grow close to the village.   

There are all kinds of venomous creatures. From snakes to the tiniest most poisonous spiders, the ones you don’t see until you feel them. By then it is too late. “Be still, and be fast when needed. I can hear their hollow sound.”  The terra bird.  The queen of this jungle.  We take on this danger for the Bacaba palm fruit.  It only grows deep inside the jungle. Not many of the Othijero know where to find it. Unlike Khai and I, most of the other Othijero follows the rules set out by the tribal heads.

 

“This is why we are brave.”  Khai swipes through hard palms. 

“The reason we boldly venture into the jungle, at a chance of being somethings dinner,” Khai bellows from a cliff overlooking a majestic paradise.   A cliff beaded with Bacaba palms.  It’s the palm that produces the most fruit around here, roughly 2500 per bunch. We cook it to make juice, and the leaves are used as shelter. “Don’t move” Khai quickly glance over his shoulder. The trees rustle faintly.  Here, you can never be too careful, we tread lightly, the slightest sound can wake a beast.   

 

Khai’s rocky back gleams, sprayed with gushing waterfalls, his oiled hair glittering in the sun like uncountable diamonds, the size of sand grains. His deep voice turns hushed.  An unfamiliar cry below ignites his curiosity.  He crouch over the cliff—

a wrong move away from a plunge to death—

He feels his way carefully, bravely over the side.  A pointy cliff overgrown with ceropegias—

a coiling grower with white owl-eyed flowers.  He is climbing, groping for solid footing on the hidden, pointy rock-face. 

“Oi!” he cries, straining to hold on while he moves more swiftly.  He reach for his dagger. My spear ready. Constantly gaping over my shoulder.  

“Khai, be careful!” I called. We don’t know what danger he might approach. I can no longer hear him through the roaring of the waterfalls. The soft salty spray cooling my warm face. “I can’t hear you,” I called out, as he shouted words eaten by the raging waters.