Aubrea Summer's Blog
February 17, 2017
Forever Isn’t Long Enough
It’s been a while (way too long), however, I am nearing the finale of the third book in the Epilogue To Humanity series. I’ve complained before about the struggles of writing series fiction, but I have learned something recently. It doesn’t matter what you’re writing. It’s going to be hard. It’s going to be work. This project has challenged me in ways that I never thought of before. I can say that coming out of it, I am a better writer than I was at the beginning. If nothing else, that is valuable to me.
Now, here stands the tricky part.
After two and a half novels of secrets and mystery, I must finally give it away now. I can hear the Red Hot Chili Peppers in the back of my mind, and that is helping, but it’s hard to let go of. I’ve spent so long guarding these answers that the final reveal feels hard to live up to. That, ultimately, will be for the readers to decide. While I do not have a release date scheduled as of yet, I am confident it will be soon. For now, that’s the update.
Here’s a sample of the upcoming novel. Thanks for reading.
PROLOGUE
“When is the last time you had faith in anything? Anything at all, Roland, and that includes yourself.”
“It’s one thing to say you have faith in something. It’s entirely different to actually believe, without question.”
Without question, to actually believe.
Faith in anything, Roland.
Anything.
To scream without sound is drowning. To drown without water is suffocating. To suffocate without the desire for air is something akin to insanity.
He remembered this. He’d been here before. He let desire go, every urge to see, to hear, to breathe, he sent them away. The world returned around him and the words stopped thundering against the nothingness.
He stood on the roof of a building, too familiar, a sharp stab to the stomach.
“Why here?”
“You tell me. You chose this place.”
He hadn’t expected an answer, hadn’t realized his body surrounded him until he turned to find the voice.
“This is your memory, Roland. You set the stage.”
“Where am I, Sera? What happened?”
“You know where you are, Roland. You know what happened.”
“I’m dead. This is my hell.”
Her laugh didn’t belong in his hell, yet it wrapped around them, humid and clinging. “You believe in Hell, Roland?”
His eyes snapped to hers, attempting to scald the amusement he found there. “Tell me what is going on, Sera. I deserve to know, at this fucking point, what is going on.”
“You don’t trust me.”
He snorted. “Trust you? I don’t even know who or what you really are.” His anger lit the edge of his words with a crackle. There was nothing left now, except the truth. The only justification could be to know why, to understand what he’d done.
“I’m sorry. It’s the only way.”
Before he could form another word, hell exploded into blue.
Fevered white lights shrieked at his eyes, striking and recoiling, burning closed lids with a kerosene wick. Deafening thunder ruptured at the seams, a locomotive bursting from a tunnel, the devastating echo of a metal heartbeat in a steel cage.
Screams rang out and bodies fell, suddenly frozen, collapsing mid-step into the snow. Red carpet spread from beneath, steaming and melting as their eyes turned to glass. He was running and then he was falling, dying with them, over and over. It was only when the last heartbeat struck that he could see them. One after another, blue orbs, fleeing into the night sky, expelled with the final breath of each life lost below. Each time he stayed behind, living another moment, dying another way.
The screams faded to silence, absorbed by the darkness. A final blue light jetted away, careening towards the stars. He would have followed, but the idea of leaving without knowing where he was, where he would end up, seemed foolish, even terrifying. With the fear, everything disintegrated.
A new world was crackling into existence. He could feel it, static energy, every fiber, as if it existed as an extension of his mind, and in turn, his body was this very moment. His cells were the rays of sunlight, his breath the wind. His legs were the earth and his eyes were the canopy above it all. For an instant that could have been eternity, he thought he understood true peace. With the understanding, the feeling slipped away, shattering.
P. B.
Water floods my lungs, my throat overflowing with the taste of metallic silt. I’m choking, fighting to breathe though all I want is to give in, to let go and stop. I asked, no, begged for this. Absolution, in one form or another. Don’t think too much. Don’t set it off. Stop trying. Just let go.
She’s crying, beating on my chest, tears and water mixed together on the floor. Glass beads clink in her hair as she leans over to force air into my lungs again. She’s lifting my head, begging me to hear her, to open my eyes.
I hear everything and I can’t answer her. Her tears are stable now, sliding off her chin. I asked for this. I did this. I can offer no comfort, and I know I can’t stay.
I’m weightless, a sudden relaxation of gravity. I have no focus, no direction. My vision refuses to respond, leaving me in darkness. Panic surrounds me like cobwebs, twirling, entangling and adhering until I cannot shake it, and I am spinning. I can’t catch a breath. There is no air to take in. There is nowhere for it to inhabit, and I suddenly know this without a doubt.
I am nowhere, but I am everywhere all the same.
I am particles of sunlight, warmth pouring from a star, and I fall softly on loaded shoulders. She looks up from the ground, and I know she cannot see me, yet she smiles. If I ever had one prayer, it would have been this; to only know she was all right. If nothing else, dying is worth this moment.
Eleanor stares up at the eternal blue above her and I allow myself to believe she knows that’s where I’m going, that she can see them waiting there for me; that soon, they will know her as I do and love her just the same.
A. L.
Red, black, red, black. My eyes open, shut, open again without reason. I can’t see a thing beyond the flashing colors. My arms don’t move. My legs must be broken, frozen, too much weight on top of me. Not my weight. I try to scream, to beg for help, but I have no voice. The weight has taken it from me.
He told me not to come here, that it wasn’t safe. I’d never be able to tell him he was right. He was right, and I wasn’t going to see him again. I should have told him what I saw. I swore I was only trying to help him. I’m so sorry. I feel tears burning where my eyes should be open, where there should be light.
Only the red is there, fading to black, and guilt turns to recognition. I forget to struggle for breath. I ignore the hands around my throat, the man behind them, the soldiers watching. I can’t remember his face, and now I can’t remember his hands. I can’t even feel them. Finally, the thoughts are silent.
I’m looking down and I see me, but I know it’s not me anymore. I’m rising, floating above the city, and now I can see everything. Everything, even him, running down the alley, fleeing the same men he tried to protect me from, the same men who took my life when I didn’t listen.
I wonder if he will always be alone, if he will always be running. Maybe someday he’ll find what he is looking for.
A night sky of pulsating stars surrounds me, welcoming blue warmth radiating from every photon, waiting to know all that I am, all that I’ve learned. I think of him again, and I remember.
C. M.
Time isn’t the same when you’re falling. It forgets about you for a while, just lets you be.
I never knew that before.
I wait for the impact, but it doesn’t come. Time is playing with me, and I am going to fall forever. All I can picture is his face. His voice haunts the silence between my ears, calling my name. But the words don’t fall as fast, and I am leaving them behind.
I am leaving him behind.
I am a coward, and I am running the only way I can.
I love him more than I’ve ever loved myself, but this can’t be for him.
This is for me, selfish and afraid. This isn’t his guilt. This is mine.
And still, I’m destroying him.
If I fall forever, so be it.
My punishment, unending, and I will fall into the nothingness I deserve.
***
He’d been wrong before.
He’d never truly understood torture, never fully realized how much just knowing something could hurt, until now.
Hell.
From the flames to the core of his soul, Roland now understood pain. Those memories, theses scenes played out for him to witness and succumb to; one death after another, as if they were all his own. The finale, a brutal and ravaging firsthand account of the thoughts she left this world with, things he could never unlearn.
Chelsea.
If he could scream, the gods would cover their ears in agony, yet he wore no physical form.
He’d left his body to burn.
Now the inferno would take his soul.
June 3, 2015
Best Served Cold (But wouldn’t it be better if it were free?)
Looking for a quick read?
Wouldn’t it be better if it were free?
For the next few days, the short story Best Served Cold will be free on Amazon for your kindle.
Bam. Two birds. One really odd, cruel, messed up expression.
Anyway, here’s a sample, and here’s the link. Hope you enjoy it. Remember, us indie authors live on bread that comes for free in restaurants, and reviews. Just saying…
Best Served Cold, Free 6/4-6/6, 2015 http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B00JFK9C3W
“It is in your absolute best interest to stop this vehicle now.”
Gene fell to a fit of hysterical laughter, coming out of it in a snort. “You want us to leave you out here? I thought you wanted a ride. That’s what we’re doing babe. We’re giving you a ride. You’ll like it. You’ll see. Just a little farther and…”
Her voice interrupted him like a ball bat shattering a glass pane. “Did you ever consider why I was alone in the middle of nowhere? Did you see my car on your way down the road?” Her eyelids rose slowly, angling a black glare at him from the tops of her coin sized pupils. “Do you understand how much trouble you’re in right now?”
Graham hesitated, the truck slowing down. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
Gene was still grinning, unfazed. “She’s trying to freak us out. Ignore it. We ain’t the ones in trouble.”
His ego cued fate. Twin circles of light suddenly appeared in his rearview mirror.
“Who the fuck is out here right now?” For the first time, Gene showed signs of alarm. They were nowhere now. There wasn’t a reason he could think of for someone else to join them.
“I don’t know man. They’re coming up fast though.” Graham dipped his toes into the gas pedal, urging the old beast to move faster.
He eyed the girl, who now sat absolutely still and silent. He could have sworn he saw her smile. Now his imagination was getting to him. They shouldn’t have done this. Just because they’d gotten away with it before didn’t mean they were safe. The beer was wearing off. His head cleared, and with each breath he felt less intoxicated and more disturbed. This girl wasn’t like the last one. She wasn’t so young and naïve; a runaway no one would miss. She knew what they were planning on doing. She was trying to get under their skin. Now someone followed them, and Graham’s heart palpitated like the bass drum in the song that played through crackling speakers.
“Man can’t you go faster?” Gene stared over his shoulder at the advancing lights. Terry was facing away from the cab now, watching the vehicle that gained on them.
“I’m fucking trying. Besides, idiot, where are we supposed to go? It’s not like we can hide. They know we’re in front of them.” Graham watched the speedometer needle shake violently.
“Maybe it’s just some asshole from town screwing with us.” Gene began to convince himself, all the while alternating the purchase of his gaze from the girl’s legs to the dual beams behind them. Even now his mind refused to give up the idea.
It’s strange how such a simple thing can change the way you look at what you’re used to. Both brothers felt their amusement disintegrate, red and blue, alternating, illuminating the entire empty field before them without escape and washing the truck in instant guilt. This was no longer a game. This was no longer fun. There was no way they would be able to outrun this mistake. Graham glanced solemnly at his brother. Gene nodded. The truck began to slow as the red and blues overtook the gap.
Terry wiped at the dirt in his eyes and felt the knot in his stomach tighten. He cursed at himself for his choices in life, mostly the ones he made in friends. He knew Graham and Gene were trouble makers, Gene more so than his younger brother. He’d heard the brothers make jokes about their “dishes”, but put it out of his mind along with their usual bragging. This time he was going to jail right along with them. From the cab of the truck, Kary slowly turned her head to face Terry, barely moving her shoulders. Neither brother noticed, intent on the cop car now pulling to a stop behind them. Her full lips moved like honey, mouthing one word to Terry through the glass.
“Run.”
April 6, 2015
Why Would Anyone Write Series or Sequel Fiction?
Are you a writer?
If you answered yes, let me start by saying I FEEL YOUR PAIN.
Writing isn’t easy. As a matter of fact, it’s downright painful at times, but we push through because…
Why?
Well, simply put, we absolutely love what we do.
Next question…
Have you considered or attempted series fiction? There are tons of wonderful series out there with twists and turns we never would have expected, and heartbreaking moments we will hate the author for, at least until the agony subsides. This masterful skill, this ability to maintain the sway of a story over the course of several novels, is an rowdy beast to harness.
When I began Sixteen Seconds, I had no idea it would continue on to become a series. I was just following my characters, letting them tell me what they needed to do next, and suddenly, the novel was over and the end was nowhere in sight. There was still so much more to the story. So, I continued writing, kept up with the lives and thoughts of these people who are more real to me than I should admit.
The result? I have completed Eleven Rising, the sequel to Sixteen Seconds, and it will be released April 15th on Amazon. While the task was daunting, I feel an incredible sense of accomplishment. Two years ago, this was just an idea. Two years and two novels later,��these voices and stories are alive and seeking an audience beyond my laptop, beyond the tips of my fingers.
The moral of this?
Our own worst enemy will always be��our doubt. I am not saying that I doubted I��could do this, but there were dark times when I couldn’t see ahead of me through the haze. There were moments when I questioned what I was doing, why I was doing it. Had I heeded this nagging concern, had I let this��worry bend my ear, I would never have��made it this far. If you allow your doubt to dictate your path, you will never��arrive where you truly want to��be. You��will only cheat yourself out of the experience and��deny yourself the power you know you have.
In summation, YOU have the ultimate control over what you accomplish. You are the soul of your journey. Make it mean something. Follow your heart.
In celebration of the upcoming release, my short story compilation ‘Four The Twist’, as well as my newest short horror story ‘Deeper Than Scars’, will be free on Amazon 4/7-4/8. Below are links, blurbs, etc. I hope you enjoy them, and that you’ll e around when Eleven Rising hits the shelves. If you haven’t read Sixteen Seconds��yet, I will be doing a free promo on April 14th, so keep that date.
As always, thank you for your time.
Aubrea Summer
Quotes from Eleven Rising
Four The Twist is a collection of short stories, all sharing one common trait. The end is a twist, and you won’t see it coming. This hair raising collection of edgy tales ranges from practical jokes to werewolves, to ghosts, with a little something for all. Each short story confronts the reader with a new evil, or an unlikely perpetrator of unseen events. Prepare to submerse yourself in a world where nothing is what it seems, and if it is, you may want to look again.
Four The Twist, Short Stories With An Edge
Sanson���s girlfriend has lost her mind. Sparked by the death of her violently zealous mother, fueled by the drugs she won���t let go of, Trin decides to offer the memory of the woman a brutal disrespect, a rosary tattooed over the very scars of her habit.
Imprisoned by the fear that she will take her own life if he leaves, Sanson exists in constant turmoil, too guilty to abandon her and too repulsed to stay. He thought the tattoo was the final blow, a cry for help no one heard but him, until she begins to pull it together, to resurrect her life from the drain.
It���s hard to trust someone, though, when they���ve only ever given you reason not to.
When he wakes to her crying, frantic, babbling senselessly, he can only blame the drugs. After all, a tattoo moving around on your skin? She had to be high to think he���d believe something like that. When it happens again the next night, his mind is made up. In the morning, he���s leaving, no matter the consequences. Until he finds her in the bathroom with a pair of scissors, cutting the ink from her own arm, begging him to get it off of her.
One more night, just to keep an eye on her, just because he couldn���t walk away���
Awaking from a nightmare, his flesh still tingles from the touch of phantom claws. The bed is empty beside him, the water running in the bathroom.
He should have left, skipped town and never looked back.
Sometimes delusion isn���t without merit. He should have listened to her.
Some lessons can only be learned in blood.
Deeper Than Scars, A Short Horror Story
January 13, 2015
Meet Foster
I know there are a few of you waiting for the sequel to Sixteen Seconds. While the release date is not yet set, I do have a teaser for you, introducing a new character that I think everyone will love as much as I do. He really did write himself in, and I’m grateful to have him. Without further ado, meet Foster.
(Title Top Secret)
The handles gleamed silver in the late sun, inviting entry. Roland yanked the chain free and pulled the door open, immediately expecting that tell tale odor he���d grown accustomed to in abandoned buildings. Taking a slow breath, he relaxed. The stink of rot didn���t hit him. The smell of decay was missing entirely. Instead, to his surprise, he smelled coffee.
���What the hell?��� Casey still held Lyrique, not yet willing to let her explore the property freely.
���Careful.��� Roland kept his voice low. ���I don���t think we���re alone.���
Casey���s machete was free before he finished his observation. ���I don���t think so either.���
They warily scanned the area. From the front doors, the facility opened up to a massive showroom floor, raised pads scattered about, no longer spinning like automobile rotisseries. The computer stations still tottered atop dusty desks alongside telephones sworn to silence. The room was empty other than that. Not one vehicle remained on display. Roland���s hope took a blow.
���Shit. There���s nothing here.���
Casey didn���t seem to hear him, cautiously making her way towards to back of the room. Lyrique roamed freely now, pelting from corner to wall, sucking clouds of dust up her nostrils with whatever scent she���d discovered. A glass double door divided the rear of the facility from the showroom, an old sign announcing service and parts departments lay deeper inside the building. Casey cupped her hands to the glass, fighting against the sunlight to peer beyond the glare.
���Jesus.��� The word hardly left her lips before she jumped back two feet and raised the machete defensively.
Roland broke into a run, crossing the room in a few strides and siding up to Casey almost in time with Lyrique. ���What?���
Her hands shook slightly. ���There���s someone back there.���
They stared at the dark panes of glass, transparency stolen by the angle of the afternoon sun. It might as well have been a one way mirror.
���You saw someone?���
She nodded, not breaking her stare. ���Yeah������ She paused, slight amusement dimpling her cheeks. ���He was just standing there, smiling.���
���What?��� Roland stepped closer to the glass, mimicking Casey���s earlier gesture. Without the assault of the sun, his eyes adjusted to the dim.
Less than a foot from them on the other side of the glass stood a young man. Casey was right. He was smiling. His arm lifted, waving slowly at Roland, who quickly retracted his hands and stumbled back a pace, replacing the image of the stranger with his own reflection. Lyrique wagged her thick stub of a tail and nudged Casey���s fingertips. The dog let out a whine.
Roland hesitated. ���He seems friendly.���
Casey���s russet eyebrows drew close. ���Or out of his mind. Did you see him?���
���Yeah. He waved.��� Roland grinned. ���Since when are we allowed to judge someone on their sanity, Case?���
There is was again. Case. She let it go. ���We aren���t, I suppose.��� She glanced at Lyrique. ���She doesn���t seem to think he���s dangerous.���
���No, she doesn���t.��� Roland moved to the glass again, this time raising his hand and rapping his knuckles against the pane.
To his surprise, the doors slid open, revealing a hallway made of white concrete blocks and slick linoleum floors. In the middle stood the stranger, still wearing a smile and holding a screwdriver. Casey let her eyes wander over his clothes, starting with the black motorcycle boots on his feet. He couldn���t have been more than the legal drinking age. Torn denims barely covered his legs, a plethora of holes starting at the knees and working their way to his waist. The left pocket hung out of a rip in the thigh and black smears stained their entirety. A chain dipped in and out of the belt loops around his middle, clasped together with a small padlock on his hip beside the sheathed hunting knife. A black t-shirt completed the ensemble, adorned with an old band logo long since faded and the outline of an umbrella above the words. Tattoos covered every visible part of flesh on his arms, climbing up his neck and stopping below his jaw. His young face was untouched by the multi-colored ink, watery blue eyes nestled beneath black brows, shining with curiosity. His hair stole Casey���s attention from his eyes, a jet-black mohawk shooting up from the top of his head, slicked to points at least six inches higher than he stood. Without the added advantage of real clippers to maintain the sides, the once punk fashion statement was far more disturbing; the splayed feathers of a broken raven wing jutting from a mangled fall. Still, he smiled.
November 12, 2014
DJ WEDNESDAY
This week, the blog is starting something new.
As most of you know, I’m an avid reader and writer, but without music in my life, I’d be nothing but an epic failure. Sooooo…..
On that note, I have decided to put one of my useless talents to work here.
I have been told over and over that I make amazing playlists/mix burns/ect.
So here’s the deal:
Every Wednesday, I am going to assemble and post a playlist that will be themed differently. This will continue until I run out of music (WHICH WILL NEVER HAPPEN!!!).
This week, I’m theming the playlist for all of those broken hearts out there that can’t begin to pick a song that doesn’t set off the waterworks. While these songs have a common theme, they are far from weeping heartbreak ballads. These tunes have been personally selected to lift low spirits and assist, even just a smidge, in moving past that pain that comes with goodbye.
First on the list is one of my all time favorite bands, Alkaline Trio. While I’m sure I could explain in detail why each song is selected, I’d prefer to let the listener wander amongst the guitar riffs and driving lyrics.
What you find there is yours alone to do with as you wish.
Music is the universal language, at least of the soul. Enjoy!!!
Alkaline Trio – Hating Every Minute
http://youtu.be/QM1PyeTFWPo
Foo Fighters – Arlandria
Disturbed – Stricken
Green Day – Horseshoes & Hand Grenades
Breaking Benjamin – Had Enough
Fall Out Boy – The Patron Saint of Liars and Fakes
The Offspring – Can’t Get My Head Around You
Less Than Jake – Goodbye In Gasoline
Kings Of Leon – Molly’s Chambers
The Exies – Kickout
The Kidneythieves – Zerospace
Goo Goo Dolls – Only One
Jack White – Freedom At 21
Lit – Miserable
Evans Blue – Dear Lucid (Our Time Is Right Now)
Seether – Country Song
October 29, 2014
Halloween, Free Campfire Stories
How I love Halloween.
The lights, the fall colors, the zombies and witches and goblins.
It’s my favorite holiday, hands down.
Every year, we throw a massive Halloween Party.
This is the fourth annual, and the biggest yet.
In honor of my love for the month of free roaming spirits and too much sugar, I am giving away my short story, Prey For Wings, along with my collection of other short horror stories, Four The Twist.
Prey For Wings, Aubrea Summer
Prey For Wings takes place in Las Vegas, when all the lights of the city go dark. Something is waiting in the night, something winged and hungry.
You can pick up your copy from Amazon at the following link (Good until midnight)
http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00N27UKL2
Four The Twist, Short Stories With An Edge Aubrea Summer
Four The Twist ventures through four twisted tales, each with an ending you won’t expect. From ghosts to werewolves, between the evil deeds of man, there’s something for everyone in this horror collection. You can pick up your copy from Amazon at the following link (Good until the 31st)
http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00JV58XXG
I hope you enjoy your Halloween as much as I always do.
Maybe you’ll find the perfect story to scare your friends around the fire.
Maybe you’re like me, and you just want to scare yourself.
Peace
July 3, 2014
Do You Want Free eBooks All July?
FREE TO READ!!!
All through July and just in time for Independence Day, Smashwords is running fantastic specials.
Tons of eBooks are discounted, half price, even free.
Readers, get over there and take advantage of the offers that are going on.
Authors, be sure and enroll your work in the promotion.
Get the word out to your friends.
Now it the time to stock up on that to be read stash.
Here’s a teaser from my novel, Sixteen Seconds, FREE on Smashwords right now.
SIXTEEN SECONDS
Prologue
Ten pairs of starving eyes watched their prey move tentatively down the sidewalk. They stayed off the pavement, tucking into overgrown shrubs. Their need to remain silent battled their overwhelming desire to attack. The only sound ringing down the vacant street was the jingle of tiny metal rings against their slightly larger like. One wrong move or one unexpected sound would trigger flight. Prey grew scarcer as winter snuck in. Every kill was important; a matter of living or dying, but this one was small. The pack was larger than the meat would feed. They would have to hunt again later. This would do for now.
In unspoken commands, the largest of the group ushered the rest into a semi-circle, coming around the brush and locking eyes on their prey. This pack hunted often together, working without the trappings of sound to flank their unsuspecting quarry, forcing it into the corner where two buildings met. They’d found this method of hunting quite successful. The kill wasn’t always without danger. Sometimes the prey would fight back, gnashing teeth and scratching extremities making their best attempt for survival. A few times they’d lost a member at the design of potential prey. Repetition brought skill, however, and they’d learned the most difficult of lessons fast. The smell of blood was always an indicator. Those tarnished with its stain were typically aggressive, while those who were timid and in hiding went without much of a fight. Unfortunately, the easy ones were thin and frail, offering little sustenance or meat. The aggressive ones, the ones with bloodstained footsteps and collars, those were far more plump and often worth the risk. Predators understand risk. Ten against one should prove easily favorable odds, as long as they stayed together.
Stay together: The unspoken rule.
The pack rushed in, no longer cautious of being seen or heard. Their prey was suddenly aware, whirling to face the crescent moon of advancing hunger, a shift in the breeze carrying a sensory warning of the progressing danger. Fear was buried beneath age old desires for survival, yet managed to raise an eyebrow, enough to freeze legs needed for running. It simply stood there silent, without a tremor, until the first fist closed around fur and flesh, tearing skin from tissue and meat from bone. If they’d remembered, or ever known what it was, they’d have noticed the worn collar. They never had the chance to learn. They couldn’t care if they had. Food was all that mattered. The tinkling of tiny metal rings against the pavement could barely be heard above the loud snap of the vertebrae that once held the dog’s skull to its spine. Buttons. 72654 Bridgeport Street.
PART ONE
***
Chapter 1
The world hadn’t ended, but damned if it wouldn’t have been better off. Five seconds. Roland abandoned the thought to a new mental dilemma; a sniper rifle, or a cigarette. He couldn’t decide which would currently bring him more joy. Three seconds. His eyes shifted to the skyline. Clouds crept in over the edge of the far buildings, framing the city in pre-monsoon ambiance. Rain meant fresh water, clean, drinkable water and the chance to exist a while longer. Exist. That was it. Roland long since gave up the concept of “living”. This was not life. This was merely survival to him now.
They milled about below his perch on the outlying ledge of a top floor window balcony. Roland made camp here a few nights back, after the marauders came through. After they took the young girl and killed the others. They were of no kin to Roland, but the bond of weary travelers kept the group closely knit. The girl, whose name escaped him now, would sing occasionally, just a few words to some song from long ago. It was all she could manage, but it was a nice distraction since music in general was obsolete. All things end, however, except this wasted planet. Earth seemed to stumble on without the awareness that the desperate corpse of human kind refused to relinquish its rigor mortis grasp on the planet’s coattails, weighing down every forward movement until they were only fruitless mimics of recovery. There could be little hope of salvation when what was left of the human race only proved how parasitic they could still be, even when there was nothing remaining to take. Whether he cared for the condition or not, Roland was lucky to be alive. The five men came upon the sleeping group in the night, silently, slitting the throats of Mary and Josh, taking the school age girl and fleeing. They hadn’t seen Roland, propped up where he’d fallen asleep against a knotted tree trunk on the far side of the camp. He made no effort to intervene. Making plans was out of the question these days. It took more than eight seconds to maneuver an idea into a tangible plot of rescue. It took too long to even worry on the memory. Roland felt little guilt about it. He felt little of anything these days, wondering briefly how different he really was from the drones that prostrated below.
Food would soon become a necessity, and Roland was unable to salvage any of the meat from camp. The looters snatched the rest of the cleaned deer carcass they’d brought down in a successful hunt. Beans it would be, again. Roland was to the point where contemplating the taste of his leather boots wasn’t as ridiculous as risking the time to think about it. He was sick to death of beans, and beans were definitely not worth the energy of a thought. The deer meat was. Roland’s stomach rumbled at the memory of the steaming steak he’d had days ago. It was so tender and warm, filling his nose with the smoky aroma from the fire, perfectly seared in the exterior of the meat.
“Son of a bitch.” Roland jerked straight up, hand instinctively pressing against his head, just behind his left ear where the tissue is thin over the bone. That telltale zap of electrical current accompanied by the high pitched, shrill toned note executing off key harmonies through every tissue of his brain halted his memory. The thoughts were gone, the silence thick and welcome, pressing between his ears.
“Over some deer meat?” Roland shook his ringing head, angry at himself, but trying not to continue entertaining it. He’d only earn himself another fry, and two in one day gave him a migraine. Eight seconds. Eight little strikes of the smallest hand on a clock. He’d timed it on so many occasions. It never varied. Person to person differences held no sway over the allotment of time. As long as you changed thought patterns prior to the cutoff, you could avoid getting fried. Usually Roland was well practiced at the matter, except when he was hungry.
A muffled, skin rippling thud resounded below. Roland cocked his head to find the source, thinking only briefly that he’d heard it before somewhere. He chased off the thought with another. The drone lay in painted stains of red across the sidewalk, nothing about the splayed limbs resembling natural or suggesting life. They did that sometimes, walked right over the edge of some windowsill or rooftop. Roland didn’t understand why. He couldn’t rightly ponder on it much. They didn’t appear to have a reason for it. Maybe they were just done existing. There were definitely days that Roland would agree with that. Seven seconds. He was pushing it today. He blamed it on his still boisterous stomach. Beans it would have to be.
June 25, 2014
Sixteen Seconds, Chapter Five Sample
I haven’t done a lot of promoting lately for the novel. I know it’s difficult to determine whether or not you’re going to enjoy a book by the blurb. I am posting chapter five from Sixteen Seconds here so you can have a bit more to work with. The full length novel is available on Amazon and Smashwords as an ebook, and on Amazon in print if you prefer the tangible. You can also read a sample for free from either site. The story moves fast with plenty of action and I hope you enjoy it.
Sixteen Seconds, Chapter Five
“Shit.” Roland brought his hand to his mouth, using his depleting saliva to clean the new wound on his finger. Wiping off the blood, he inspected the injury. Not too deep. As long as he kept it clean he’d be fine. An infection these days could kill a man. Five seconds. Not that he cared much. The funny thing was, death didn’t scare him anymore. Fear required thinking. It took too long. Fear wasn’t worth it. Death lost a pocket ace in the apocalypse.
Donavan Street, Shovley, and then down Delaney; Roland headed away from the burnt out remnants of the city’s center. There was nothing left there. Too many scavengers, ravenous looters, and drones picked the remaining sundry supplies clean. He would have to do it the hard way, door to door, pilfering cabinets for canned food and basements for stored water. Roland survived this long because he was patient and diligent in his searches. He’d spent many days without food, growling back at his stomach and recycling his saliva to prevent his tongue from turning to dust. Occasionally he would get lucky. Two weeks ago he’d actually found a make-shift storm shelter in a suburban basement stocked with supplies; food, water, ammunition, batteries, first aid supplies, even shaving razors and soap. Those damn thieves were probably shaving right now. Seven and a half seconds. Roland shook his head. All the supplies were gone now. They’d all been at the camp. Why hadn’t they just stayed in the shelter? Six seconds. He was slipping. Back to the important part: Water. One word. One, oh so important little word.
Roland jogged through the streets under the slanted eyes of the wooden skeletons that used to be buildings. The industrial area separating downtown from the outskirts felt like a dungeon. Nothing lived here. Even the wild dogs avoided the area. Structures collapsed fairly regularly, toppling onto whatever happened to be in the path. Roland did not want to tempt fate. Using more energy than he knew he should, he quickened his pace. The break in uniform gloom could be seen beyond the cross street that bordered the old train tracks. Houses speckled the avenues in the distance. He’d have to go farther. He’d been here before. There was nothing left to take. Four streets down. First right. First left. Write them down. Four seconds. He stopped long enough to pull out the remnants of a notebook. Missing both covers and half the spiral binding, Roland resorted to a string tied around it like the ribbon on a gift. This only made it more of an inconvenience to use. He quickly jotted down the street names. He kept track of the places he’d salvaged. No sense in wasting time doubling your own tracks. Not much sense in trying to remember for too long either. That took focused thought.
Massive multi-story house, gated all the way around. Cement block wall along the back. Five seconds. He could get over the wall. There’s no way the drones would be in there. Might make for a good base. Enough thinking. No time. Adjusting the weight of his pack on his shoulders, Roland started around the back of the house and realized he immediately had a problem. The block wall sat at the top of an almost sheer face dirt hill that descended at least twenty feet down. There was no way to climb up it directly. One would have to do a balancing act atop the chain link and razor wire front fence to reach the access to the rear wall. At that point you might as well brave the barbed wire and tumble over the front fence. Roland crested the incline and changed his mind on that. Along the inside of the front fence for at least three feet in every direction, there were animal traps. Large, rusted, metal hinged monsters with gaping jaws and teeth made for shattering bone waited for you on the ground. This place had been set up for defense. That could mean it was still occupied. Roland had no gun. He carried several knives and a set of old brass knuckles, but no gun. Whether or not the owner still resided in their fortress was hard to distinguish. There were no tire tracks of recent crossing the property. No smells of food came from the home. No sound could be heard. Roland saw no footprints in the silt like dirt across the front yard. It was worth the risk. What else was he going to do today?
The toes of his boots found difficult perch in the links of the fence, but he was able to get a grasp and pull himself up enough to struggle for new holds. Using the sleeves of his shirt tugged up around his palms like gloves, Roland managed to grip a strand of the wire between two barbs. He was up, one foot on the edge of the brick wall and the other pushing off the fence to land precariously next to the first on the eight inch wide shelf they now occupied. From his new height, Roland could see into the back yard and up to the door. Relieved, he found the pathway clear and shifted his balance to take another step. Relief did not last long. As he moved forward, a sharp tug pulled him back. A strand of the wire was loose and had found refuge in the mesh on his backpack. Momentarily off kilter, Roland turned, struggling to free himself of the barbs, succeeding only in tangling it worse. If he tried to take the pack off, he’d surely slip. There didn’t seem to be another option at this point. Cautiously he unthreaded one arm from the strap, teetering on the ledge of the cement blocks, failing to avoid looking over his shoulder at the drop below him. The sun-bleached dirt beamed with the sparkles of broken glass, spotted here and there with football size rocks and angry dry shrubbery. With one arm free, Roland grappled with the wire still linking his pack to the fence. He had wire cutters in the bag, if he could get it open from this sideways tightrope walk. He could ditch the bag. Fight with it later. Six seconds. He needed the bag for supplies, along with the lock pick kit he’d gratefully discovered last summer. Frustrated with the inability to think it through, Roland gave the bag a hard tug. That did it. The previously unflinching wire let go, but not of the bag. The force of Roland’s yank separated the wire from the fence, giving a sudden slack and sending Roland backwards, boots losing their placement on the wall.
“Shit.” His protest fell from his lips as he plummeted towards the earth below. First contact met him at the conclusion of a drop almost twice as far below as Roland was tall, due to the incline. His head hit against solid stone, and the rest of the plunge went black.
Scratching sounds. Feet in the dirt. Bodies against bodies, crowding and blocking out the sun. Roland’s eyes wouldn’t open. Something thick and crusty seemed to prevent his lids from rising. Pieces of memory came back. He’d fallen. Damn it. Was he still at the bottom of the hill? The feel of the ground beneath him answered his unspoken query. Roland lay face down in the dirt at the base of the precipice, arms beneath him useless until he could place them. Sliding his left arm from underneath his abdomen, he wiped at his eyes. Dried blood. That’s why he couldn’t see. How long had he been out? Five seconds. Pay attention Roland. Through the slit of his right eye, he could suddenly see the severity of his situation. He was down, weak, and surrounded. They were all over; drones. Most wore little more than rags at this point. Their clothes, long since neglected, merely wore away. They investigated him as he lay there, unsure of what to do. He’d better get up, get out of there. Four seconds. Propping himself up on a bent elbow, Roland tried to count the herd. Ten, maybe fifteen of them paced the area, all sizes and degrees of despondency. His movement backed them up. They must have thought he was dead. Scavengers. Out of the corner of his eye, Roland could see the backpack several feet above him. Climbing to his knees, he eyed the pack around him. They never looked scared, but something shone in the eyes of the closest four. They were hungry, and he’d been dinner. Was it disappointment he saw? Could they even be capable of such an emotion? Six seconds. It didn’t matter. Time to go.
A sharp pain ran through Roland’s ankle, worsening with the weight he attempted to put on it. The ankle gave out. He was down again, on his side. The ground behind him crunched audibly with footsteps approaching. Lifting his torso up once more, he tried to look behind him. Before he could turn his head, a quick pinching, almost like a vice closing and opening, and the sound of cloth ripping sparked his anger. He flipped over, facing the offender. One of the larger of the pack stood a foot away, a piece of denim from his jeans hanging out of its mouth. Blood rose to the surface of the wound on his calf.
“Are you kidding me?” Roland yelled at the drone. “Did you just fucking bite me?”
He anticipated no answer. It was merely an exercise in venting. He’d expected the group to back up when he spoke, but they did not. They did exactly the opposite. They moved closer together, circling in on him as he crouched there. A jolt of fear ran through Roland, surprising him as he typically ignored the sentiment. This time it was an impulse he couldn’t escape. Their eyes focused on the wound on his leg, the red blood trickling into the dirt, clotting into brown mud beneath him. Get up. Move. Run. Again, Roland pushed his pain tolerance as he rose to his feet. Like snakes striking, the two larger drones sided up to him. The first grabbed at his arm while the second made another move to bite his thigh. Instinctively, Roland swatted the initial assaulter away, shuddering at the feeling of the flesh against the back of his hand. The first hit the ground, crawling backwards towards the pack.
“Back off, fucking monsters.” Roland’s confidence rose, watching them retreat a few steps.
It didn’t last long. Responding to some unheard command, the group rushed at him. Somewhere in his mind something screamed “They’re just children.” It didn’t matter. Logic was lost when all the clocks stopped. Children or not, they intended to take him down. This was pack mentality. Test for weaknesses, attack, test, attack, wait, regroup, attack in full. The first two that reached him dove under his blow, affixing themselves to his wounded leg, pulling at his injured ankle, trying to bring him to the ground. As he focused on shaking off the primary assailants, the rest of the pack moved in. They were all over him, swarming him like a noxious cloud of flies. They smelled of rotten garbage and old meat, fingernails like filthy razors and tiny mouths biting everywhere they could reach. Roland fell to his side. There were simply too many. He couldn’t get them off of him. Two for each arm, three for each leg; several just snapped and growled, trying to get a piece of whatever they could attain. His fist struck bone and skin over and over. They cared nothing for the pain. It only stopped them long enough for another to take their place. The thought wouldn’t leave him alone. This is how I’m going to die? After all of this! Really? No…
“LYRIQUE!”
Roland dug his fingers into hair, pulling and ripping to clear a line of sight. A voice, female, rang out from somewhere close by. Another swing cleared the two closest to his face, allowing an instant of sight from his curled up position on the ground. Black fur, gleaming white teeth, and a flash of red came barreling into the pile. Limbs flailed and bodies went flying like bowling pins at the end of the lane. Roland rotated onto his stomach and closed his eyes, covering his face with both hands. He could hear the snapping of bones and the tearing of fabric. The sunlight against his eyelids grew stronger. He was no longer surrounded. He opened his eyes to see the pack retreating down the street. Two lay near him, off to the left, injured but not dead. Blank eyes returned his gaze. Couldn’t have been more than eight years old…
“Ugh.” The air escaped Roland’s lungs in a cloud as something heavy came down on his back. Two feet… Paws? He couldn’t turn his head to see, but a shadow was hovering over him. It had to be a bear. It was pure mass and unmovable weight. Four seconds. Roland might as well have been a pile of dirty laundry for all the sway he held beneath those paws.
“Lyrique, stand down.”
The command took the pressure off of him, and he whipped around to a sitting position, fingering his knife he’d been unable to get at beneath the pile of drones. Unsheathing it, he faced his new foe. Sitting patiently at the feet of its owner was the biggest dog Roland had ever seen. Clearly a Rottweiler, the dog panted and stared at him, head cocked sideways and tongue lolling out to the right. It looked perfectly harmless now, maybe even a little goofy. The owner, however, was far from playful. She stood a good half foot shorter than Roland, dark hair a mess of braids and beads, eyes shielded by tinted aviator glasses. The sun glinted around her, reflecting from the glass ornaments she adorned herself with. She might have been twenty five. She might have been thirty five. Roland couldn’t tell. Her clothes hung loosely over her frame, which was indistinguishable in her attire. A long machete hung at her side and a nine millimeter pistol rested, clipped to her thick leather belt. She wore brown work boots that appeared a few sizes too large and what may have been a pair of riding pants years ago. Now they were pieced together by patches of leather and thick string. She offered no smile, but ignored both weapons and stepped closer to Roland. The dog followed, like a shadow, always at her side.
“You all right?” Her voice was low, calm, possessing a resonance of authority he hadn’t expected.
Roland simply sat there, returning his knife to its sheath, knowing if she wanted to kill him it would take but a word to the dog. “I’m fine. Just a few holes.” He winced as he tried to stand, slowed by the throbbing in his ankle and the sudden change of stance in the dog.
“Easy, Lyrique.” The girl repeated the word, leading Roland to guess it was the dog’s name.
“Thank you.” Roland extended a hand, finally, standing precariously on his injury. “I’m Roland.”
The girl and the dog both stared at his hand like it were a dead fish. To his surprise, she laughed. “You’re welcome. I suppose we’ve forgotten our manners.” She stepped forward, Lyrique watching cautiously. Her hand grasped his, slender fingers a feminine contrast, but strong and calloused, just as rough as his own gravel buffered skin. “I’m C. This is Lyrique.” A giant paw went up into the air, looking for a handshake of her own.
Roland couldn’t help but laugh, wondering at how long it had been since he’d genuinely found any amusement. He stepped forward slowly and took the offered paw. “Nice to meet you, Lyrique. Leereek.” He mimicked the pronunciation, chuckling as she massacred his hand with a giant wet tongue, letting go of her paw and stepping back. “Cool dog.”
C, as she called herself, laughed again. “She’s my bitch.” Lyrique’s head snapped to the side to look at her owner, letting out a simultaneous snort. C just stared back at her and stuck her tongue out. “Well, you are.”
Another deliberate huff came from the dog before she sat down and pretended to ignore the humans in her presence. C glanced back at Roland. “Your ankle is broken isn’t it?”
He nodded. “I think so. It hurts like hell.”
C gestured over her shoulder with her thumb. “I have a truck parked a few blocks back. I’ll come get you.”
Roland began to protest, although he didn’t know why. He had no other options. “You don’t have to help me any more than you have.” He stuttered, knowing his time wore thin but feeling it necessary to complete the sentiment. “You already saved my life.”
She was walking away before he completed his strained sentence, Lyrique at her side, red bandana catching the sun. With her back to him, she called over her shoulder. “What the hell else are you going to do?”
June 19, 2014
Jordanna East, Blood In The Past Review
Blood In The Past, Jordanna East
Review By Aubrea Summer
I happened to luck out and pick up this novella when it was free, but I highly suggest you buy yourself a copy. I’m not normally a huge crime fiction fan, and before you chastise me, here is why. Most of the crime stories I read have either an underlying “mystery” which is blatantly obvious from the get and I don’t want to know what’s going to happen before I read it. Also, the characters in crime fiction have a tendency to lean towards the cliché, not believable as real people. That being said, I loved this story.
The story starts out with a girl, Jillian, who has a few issues. She is seeing a married man and is convinced he will change for her. You feel pity for this girl, but the author does a wonderful job of showing you why you shouldn’t and why a woman who makes this decision is bound to be subjected to the negative aspects. Jillian, however, gets more than she bargained for. I don’t want to give away details and spoil anything, but let’s just say revenge in her eyes is murder in the eyes of another.
Now, bring in Lyla. She is the daughter of the man Jillian was cheating with. The plot thickens. Lyla is bombarded with the tragedy of her mother’s death and left unsure as to whether or not it was really a suicide. She begins to blame her father, rightfully so, I might add, and decides to exact revenge. Lyla is the kind of character necessary to make crime fiction work. You understand and side with her because the author sends you delving so deeply into Lyla’s heart that you can’t help but root for her, even if what she’s doing isn’t “legal”.
Tie it all together with the third character, the son of the detective who lost his life trying to save Lyla’s father. He doesn’t understand why his dad made the choice to run into a burning building, but he desires to follow in his footsteps and pursue police work. Unbeknownst to him, the person responsible for the death of his father is the same doctor who he encounters in the hospital after his failed suicide attempt.
If I say more, it might ruin the plot twists for you, if I already haven’t. It was important to me to convey the connections because the best part of this book is the way the author binds them all together. You, as a reader, are privileged to all the details and the characters in the story are not. You watch it all unfold while they remain struggling to understand. It gives such a great perspective on why they do what they do.
I am excited to read the follow up, Blood In The Paint.
Jordanna East has a voice for storytelling that should be heard by any fiction fan. She weaves intricate webs for her readers to entangle themselves in and you will enjoy this book.
It was free at the time I posted this link, so check before one clicking, but it’s worth the buy!
Blood In The Past, Jordanna East
June 17, 2014
Stop Internet Fuckery (Politically Correct Version Pending)
The internet is a public domain, hosting millions of independent dreams, goals, stores, careers, and livelihoods.
What happens when it becomes segregated due to money?
What happens to your ma and pa store when you have to pay to be seen?
How does this help you, as an individual?
It doesn’t. Not at all.
Want to understand what I mean a bit further?
This is from the John Oliver Show. If you don’t know who he is, it doesn’t really matter. The important part is that you watch this.
If the subject matter seems boring, it’s because it is supposed to. By keeping it boring, why would you watch it?
Why would you care?
The best place to hide something is… drum roll.. in plain sight.
So edge past the “it’s boring” part, and watch this.
It’s important, and he is funny so I promise you won’t fall asleep.
From me to you, share this, spread this around. It’s not bullshit. It’s really happening if we don’t stop it.
It does affect you.
You can make a difference.
Thank you.
