by Kelly Earnest (@kearnest56.bsky.social)
MG - Science Fiction/Speculative
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Query
Twelve-year-old Dilla is used to time-traveling children showing up on her uncle’s back porch. Each carries a message that will save their struggling adult self, and Dilla’s family has never failed to help them in their quest … until now.
Then a mysterious boy arrives with no memory of who he is, and every effort to solve his identity falls flat. To make matters worse, he is the biggest troublemaker Dilla has ever met. Now she’s stuck with him until he remembers who he is and finds his adult self.
As Dilla reluctantly tries to solve the boy’s identity, he begins to help Dilla and her brother work through their own trials, including the sudden death of their parents a few years before. But just as an unlikely friendship begins to form, Dilla discovers that time is running out for the boy: if he doesn’t deliver his message soon, he will disappear from time altogether. And the more Dilla learns about the boy, the closer she comes to uncovering secrets from the past and future that could destroy them both.
THE STORYTELLER’S BACK PORCH is a 50,000-word middle-grade magical realism novel. The story is particularly well-suited for fans of Janae Marks’ A Split Second and Allie Millington’s Olivetti.
I am a former junior high drama teacher, a writer and voice actor for The Time Traveler’s Radio Show podcast, and a sleep-deprived mother of two beautiful little girls. I have participated in the Writing and Illustrating for Young Readers conferences and Storymakers conference, both in Utah, and host a monthly writing critique group. A book nerd, I am the proud owner of over ninety different editions of A Christmas Carol.
Thank you for your time and consideration.
First Five Pages
Chapter One
I hate exactly seven things.
The first thing is the color blue.
And the stranger on the back porch was covered in it.
Her knee-length dress was the color of a robin’s egg, with matching saddle shoes over sapphire socks. The belt around her waist and the bows in her blonde pigtails were a deeper shade, like fresh-picked blueberries. But it was the color that framed her glasses, which made me nearly gag.
Royal blue. Bright. Bold. The color of confidence and cornflowers and the crayon everyone used to draw blue jeans in elementary school.
She stood there on the wooden slats of the small back porch, a look of confusion appearing in her brown eyes. I couldn’t blame her. I’d probably feel the same way if I appeared out of nowhere on a stranger’s porch in the distant future.
“Hello,” she said. “I … I think I’m looking for Something.”
I fought down the sour taste in my mouth and stared at the wooden floorboards. Brown. Boring. A safe color.
“Come on in,” I said. “And don’t worry, you’ll remember everything in a few minutes.”
The girl stepped into the house. She appeared to be nine, maybe ten. From the 1950s, I guessed. The shoes gave it away.
Uncle Brett’s lean form appeared from around the kitchen corner; his chin half covered in shaving cream and the razor still in his hand.
“Hello there!” He smiled a toothy grin, bending at the waist until he came to the girl’s eye level. “Breakfast is almost ready. Take a seat at the table, and we’ll be right with you.”
The girl didn’t move. Her eyes darted back and forth, taking in the small, cluttered dining room. “I’m looking for Something,” she repeated.
“She’ll be right out,” Uncle Brett said. “She’s just finishing the marmalade. Please make yourself at home.”
As the girl made her way to the circular kitchen table, Uncle Brett leaned in close to me. The minty scent of his shaving cream tickled my nose. “Nine years old,” he whispered.
“Ten,” I whispered back. “She looks older than Finny.”
“Hmm. We’ll see.”
He left the room as the girl took a seat at the table, which was already set with five plates of buttermilk pancakes. Behind one of the plates sat my nine-year-old brother, Finny, whose small frame and wispy red hair were barely visible above the steaming pile of pancakes. His thick, round glasses fogged as he stared at her.
The girl’s shoulders visibly relaxed, and a timid smile spread across her face. Something about Finny’s wide eyes and unassuming manner always set visitors at ease.
“Hi,” she said. “What’s your name?”
“What’s in a name?” Finny responded. “That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet. Shakespeare.”
“This is Finny,” I said. “And I’m Dilla.”
“Nice to meet you,” she said. “I’m … uh … I’m …” I saw the confusion in her eyes slowly turn to panic.
“Don’t worry.” I tried to sound reassuring. Some porch kids took the whole memory-loss thing in stride. Some were simply curious. But this girl was on her way to a complete meltdown. “It’s just a temporary side effect of time travel. You’ll remember your name after you hear Uncle Brett’s story.”
Her eyes grew wide. “Time travel?”
I cleared my throat and launched into my usual explanation. “This is 2023. You’ve traveled a long way—well, a long time—in the past couple minutes. And your brain needs a little time to catch up. Your memories will come back soon. They always do. You’re here because you chose to come to the future—your future—in order to deliver a message to someone who needs your help. Once you do that, you’ll go home and won’t have any memory of what happened.”
“Memories are the key not to the past, but to the future,” Finny said.
“Oscar Wilde?” I asked.
“Corrie ten Boom,” he responded.
I paused, savoring the distraction that the girl’s arrival provided. Her fear and confusion made my own troubles feel distant, even if only for a few minutes. As long as I focused on helping her find her memories, my memories couldn’t haunt me. It was a welcome and much needed relief.
I turned back to the girl. “Do you like stories?”
She nodded and wiped at her eyes with a small hand.
“Good. Uncle Brett is a great storyteller. And stories are the key to remembering who you are. It’s the same all over the world. Time-traveling children in South Asia are sent to a dastaangoh. Those in Hawaii go to a mo’olelo. Even in medieval Europe, bards and minstrels restored travelers’ memories through their tales.”
“And in Central Oregon, you get me!” Uncle Brett marched into the room, clean-shaven and balancing three large glasses of chocolate milk between his hands. Behind him, Aunt Something entered, carrying a glistening jar of fresh marmalade, wisps of steam rising above it.
“Marmalade.” Aunt Something placed the jar of liquid gold in front of the girl and smiled. “Trust me, you’ll love it. Now, how can I help you?”
“She’s just being nice,” I told the girl. “Aunt Something already knows exactly why you’re here and what you need. In fact, she sensed you were coming yesterday afternoon.”
“Let her speak, Dilla!” Aunt Something folded her tan arms across her chest and gave me the exasperated look I knew all too well.
The girl cocked her head. “Your name is Something?”
“It’s Savannah,” Aunt Something replied, “but when Dilla would visit us as a toddler, she couldn’t pronounce it. Instead, she waddled around calling, ‘Something! Something!’ and the name stuck.”
For a moment I held my breath, wondering if the girl would question why I now lived with my aunt and uncle, when as a toddler, I was just a visitor.
“Well,” the girl began, “I don’t remember much. I think there was an old man, and he said I should find Something, and that she would help me.”
I exhaled in relief.
Aunt Something nodded. Her signature messy bun of chestnut hair bounced precariously on her head, and a handful of stray strands fell across her forehead. “And do you remember where you met this old man?”
The girl squeezed her eyes shut. “I think … there were ponies. And cotton candy. And a Ferris wheel.” Her eyes snapped open. “A carnival!”
“Very good!” Uncle Brett said, taking a seat between me and Finny.
“You must be hungry from all that thinking,” Aunt Something said, wiping her hands on her sunflower-print apron. “Why don’t you dig into those pancakes, and Brett here will share a story?”
Uncle Brett smiled as he set his fork down on his plate, then cracked his knuckles and cleared his throat. “Have you ever heard the story of Don Chanco?”