Hey everyone!
I’ve been working on a novel that dives into the world of trading card culture—focusing on the friendships, rivalries, and quirky personalities behind the cards. It’s written for middle-grade readers (8-12 years old), and I’d love to hear your thoughts. There aren’t many, if any, fictional novels about trading card culture, so I’m wondering if it’s been overlooked or if there’s just no interest.
After reading the first chapter, do you think kids who love trading card games (or just funny, slightly weird adventures) would enjoy this? Does the humor land?
I’d really appreciate any thoughts, reactions, or feedback! Even if it’s just, “Yes, my younger sibling would totally read this,” or “Nope, too niche.”
Thanks in advance!
Here’s the opening chapter:
The Underduck
Heroes of the Drawn
1
Okay, so I know what you’re thinking: “Why is this duck talking to me?” Totally fair question. But let me just say, I’m not just any duck. I’m Mally, a proud (sort of) member of Declan’s trading card collection—a half-finished, barely sketched duck that might’ve been cool if they’d actually finished drawing me. I live in a binder pocket that’s so tight I have to imagine I’m wearing a super trendy plastic jumpsuit. My home smells like stale popcorn breath and “Fresh Binder Cologne,” which is really just fancy talk for old plastic sleeves and trapped snack fumes. Yeah, it’s not exactly paradise, but it’s home.
Declan is a kid who collects our kind: magical monsters, mighty dragons, sparkly harpy warriors, the whole shebang. Some of these cards are breathtaking—high-gloss, rainbow-shimmer types that make kids drool on the playground. And then… there’s me. Mally. A duck who is basically a half-baked idea someone printed by mistake, if you ask me. Now don’t get me wrong: Declan’s a good egg—kinda scrambled lately, sure, but a good egg. He’s just got the kind of tension that makes a kid want to hide under a blanket fort.
Look, I get it. If I met a talking duck card in a trading card binder, I’d have questions too. Like, is this what happens when you eat too many of those mystery-flavored candies? To make matters worse, I’m not exactly top-tier material. As I said, my name’s Mally (weird choice, right?), and my flavor text—a sentence giving a card’s backstory—is so incomplete it literally reads: “This duck will”. That’s it. No period, no follow-up. Just “This duck will”. Will what? Fly? Attack? Make a decent grilled cheese sandwich? This duck will… never know. And my one special move, “First Draft,” is barely an attack. It’s more like a polite tap on the enemy’s shoulder, followed by an apologetic shrug. It does one damage. To make matters worse, my stats are a real head scratcher. Someone gave me 500 HP, which is either a huge printing error or a cosmic prank. I mean, I’m a duck. Ducks don’t need that many hit points. Think about it. If I battled myself, it would take me 500 turns to defeat… myself. What a thrilling battle, I know! But it’ll never happen because, as far as I’m aware, there’s just one of me in this binder. I’m stuck alone with a half-smudged tail that might be a lightning bolt or a stray pencil mark.
And don’t get me started on my neighbors. To my left, there’s a stack of grumpy Energy Cards who complain nonstop: “We provide the power and get no respect!” To my right, a Supporter Card named “Coach Hans” who’s always ranting about the good old days of ‘99, when “the tournament rules were pure” and “the internet hadn’t dumbed down the meta.” (I barely know what “meta” means. I think it’s some fancy term for “the way everyone else likes to play.”) Behind me is Valcra, a show-off holo-foil harpy with glittery wings who says things like, “Daaaarling, you simply must see how I shimmer in the sunlight!” She’s been bragging about how rare she is since day one. Then there’s Garonix, right smack in front of me whenever the binder’s closed. He’s a dragon card who claims he has “legendary breath.” Let me tell you, if bad breath were a contest, Garonix would win every time—his secret move would be called ‘Dragon Farts, But From the Mouth.’ He brags that once his rancid breath made another card’s ink melt right off. None of us actually believe him. Still, the Energy Cards whisper, “Ink never lies,” which is super creepy and doesn’t help with my trust issues.
Sometimes, late at night (or whenever Declan forgets to close the binder), we have secret card meetings under the glow of those sticky stars on his ceiling. It’s like an alien rave, but quieter. I can overhear Declan’s world muffled through this cheap plastic: the shuffle of his sneakers, the hum of a TV show in another room, and the clank of a soda can. If Declan holds the binder close while talking, we cards get a front-row seat to human drama. Just now, I catch a snippet of Declan’s voice as he rummages around: “I need that one card,” he mutters, sounding anxious. He keeps repeating something about a new strategy to beat his friend Tommy.
Declan’s nervous. I can feel the tension through the binder rings. Apparently, he needs some special card to complete a “perfect deck.” An idea I don’t really get considering that I’m not a perfect anything. Maybe if I were finished—like if someone had given me a proper attack or a completed illustration—I’d get promoted to the very front page. Instead, I’m buried mid-binder, next to a fat stack of Energy Cards and a Supporter Card who’s older than half the people I know. Declan flips through the pages in a hurry, causing my pocket to crinkle. I spot buttery fingerprint smears on the plastic. Seriously, Declan, what are you eating? Movie-theater popcorn dipped in motor oil? It’s shiny, slick, and it’s covering my “This duck will” text. Now it reads “This duck wi—” as in “This duck will slip right out of this greasy sleeve if you’re not careful.”
We cards know Declan’s under pressure. He’s been muttering about battling Tommy a lot lately. Tommy—Declan’s best friend, I think. I can’t help but sense something’s off, like Declan’s both excited and worried. I can’t put my finger on it, especially since I don’t have fingers.
Before I can spiral into another self-pity rant about my lack of fingerprints, Declan’s phone buzzes on his desk, lighting up like a tiny rectangle of doom. He freezes mid-flip through the binder, staring at the screen like it just announced the end of the world: ‘Tommy on his Mom’s Phone’. Declan freezes for a second before snatching the phone off his desk.
“‘Sup?” he says, trying to sound casual. Spoiler alert: he doesn’t. His voice cracks like an old holo card left in the sun too long.
“Deck!” Tommy’s voice bursts through the phone, way louder than necessary. “Guess what?”
Declan frowns. “What?”
“I’m finally gonna destroy you!” Tommy announces like he’s unveiling a world championship trophy. “I’ve been thinking, Deck. Strategizing. You’ve always been lucky, but not next time. Next time, I’ll be ready and you won’t. I’ve got the perfect plan with all the best cards. You don’t stand a chance.”
Declan pulls the phone away from his ear for a second, staring at it like it just insulted his haircut. “Uh, okay. Is there, like, a reason you’re calling me from your mom’s phone again to tell me this?”
“You know why!” Tommy’s tone shifts into what I can only describe as middle-school-evil-genius. “My iPhone is too expensive to let some random kids get my number. You’re lucky I’m even calling you.”
Declan sighs, leaning back in his chair. “I’m not sure I’d call myself ‘lucky’ right now.”
“Oh, you should,” Tommy says smugly. “You should feel lucky you even have time to cry a little before I crush you. Honestly, I shouldn’t even be warning you.”
“Gee, thanks,” Declan mutters.
I can hear the tension in his voice from all the way inside this greasy plastic sleeve. And honestly? I don’t blame him. Tommy sounds serious—like one of those kids who would bring laminated spreadsheets to recess just to prove they’re right about something.
Tommy’s voice drops, quieter but sharper: “You don’t get it, do you? I’m not just trying to beat you. Everyone’s always saying how you have the best ideas, the best cards. Well, this time, I’m going to prove I can do it better if I have the right cards. Just watch.”
Declan’s gripping the phone so tight now I swear I can hear the plastic creak. “Okay, Tommy,” he says finally. “We’ll see about that.”
“Oh, we will,” Tommy replies. “Get ready, Deck. Because when I’m done, even your Energy Cards will need therapy. Later!”
The line goes dead with a triumphant click, leaving Declan staring at his phone like it just betrayed him. Ever since sixth grade started, Tommy has had this way of turning everything into a fierce competition, from footraces to math test scores—which is ironic for a guy still working on his times tables. Whenever Tommy challenges Declan, their friendship gets a little more smudged around the edges, like someone’s been erasing bits of it, and I’m starting to worry that soon there won’t be anything left to save. That’s what I meant when I said he was Declan’s best friend, I think. I don’t know if they even know for sure.
From my spot in the binder, I feel the tension thickening. Declan mutters something under his breath—probably a word he’s not supposed to say in front of adults. With his parents treating their conversations like they’re hiding secret battle plans and his friends busy crafting their “I’m not trying too hard” personas, Declan’s beginning to think his glory days ended the moment fifth grade did. Ever since he became a sixth grader, life’s been chucking dodgeballs at his face, and Declan’s running out of places to duck. But look, as a lifelong expert on ducking, I’ve got a lot of insights to offer the kid. I’m just waiting for him to notice me. He grabs our binder and starts flipping through pages, his movements jerky and frantic.
“Something’s different. This could be bad,” Declan whispers to himself. “I need to find it. I need that last card.”
He’s muttering again, flipping through pages so fast that I’m bracing for whiplash. Valcra lets out a dramatic gasp as our nine-pocket sleeve folds awkwardly. “Darling, slow down! You’ll crease my shimmer!”
But Declan doesn’t stop. His hands are trembling, and his face is set in a determined frown. He pauses on a page in the binder—not mine, of course—and then gazes at the constellations on his ceiling like they’re actual stars. Whatever Tommy’s planning, Declan’s taking it seriously. Maybe too seriously. I mean, he’s acting like losing to Tommy even once will topple him like a house of cards.
Sigh. If I close my eyes (pretending I have functional eyelids), I can almost remember a distant factory where I was printed. Humming machinery, hot metal presses, ink fumes, and a team of tired artists arguing over whether to give me a lightning tail or a spiked collar. They were probably running late, the coffee machine broken, cursing at printers that jammed right when they needed them most. Maybe that’s why I ended up incomplete—a casualty of a hectic day wherever they designed me. Some intern probably said, “Eh, close enough,” and shipped me off.
Meanwhile, Garonix claims he’s a “reimagining of a classic card,” which is basically him claiming a divine bloodline or something. Valcra continues to preen her holographic finish, adjusting her glittering hair. Coach Hans, the old Trainer card who’s got about as much personality as a stale cracker, grumbles about how in the ‘golden days,’ nobody needed fancy combos or ultra rare cards—just ‘a bunch of energy and some duct tape’. I have no idea what he’s talking about, but the stack of Energy cards chants in agreement like they just found a cult leader.
Declan snaps our binder shut, and darkness falls over us. Everything muffles. I hear the distant creak of a chair, a sniffle, maybe a sigh. “If I keep winning, he’ll keep challenging me. Nothing else will change,” I hear Declan say. “I can’t afford to lose. Not even once.” Tommy’s words are echoing louder than Declan wants to admit—not because he’s afraid of losing, but because he isn’t sure what their friendship will look like if winning isn’t all that matters anymore.
Will he think a half-done duck might help him secure one more victory? Probably not. Truth is, none of us on this page of the binder are that special, even if the others don’t like to admit it. He’s after the big names—like Blazewing or some ultra-rare card I’ve never met. Declan keeps those cards, the best ones, in the glorious front pages of his binder. I’m just here, a background character in a story still being written. As if in response, a neighboring Energy Card mutters, “Hey, at least you’ve got it better than us.” Well, isn’t that just fantastic!
Mally—the underduck—stuck in an unfinished form inside a binder that smells like plastic and bacon grease, hearing muffled human drama. What if this is it? What if I’m destined to languish in the middle pages of this greasy binder, never shuffled into the heat of battle, never proving I’m more than a half-finished sketch in a passing fad? For now, though, I’m just trying not to lose my mind while Garonix begins retelling his stinky-breath legend for the hundredth time.
Here’s the really scary part: I’ve got this weird feeling that if Declan loses this battle, he might just give up on card collecting altogether. So I don’t know what Declan’s planning, but if I can somehow help him pull off a win, maybe—just maybe—he’ll see me as more than a placeholder card. Maybe I can be part of something bigger than this binder.
Maybe this duck will… actually matter.
