‘Sons of Earth’ is Available to Buy!

Boy, am I excited to share this with you!

My newest novel, Sons of Earth,is now released on Amazon for you to download, and purchase as paperback (in some countries).

Sons of Earthis a sci-fi, dystopian drama set in a near-future city. Human clones, or ‘Manufactured Persons,’ are the new workforce in the City. They are engineered to be physically perfect and mentally compliant. Dominic, a clone himself, escaped from the clutches of Caspian Genetics. Now he returns, in the guise of a scientist, with sabotage on his mind. He doesn’t anticipate falling for his boss.

A manufactured person is no person at all. Designed to fight and die, Dominic escaped from the metallic womb of Caspian Genetics. He knows that if he is found out he’s as good as dead, but he cannot forget that his brothers are enslaved.

He matches his wits against Caspian’s might. But how can Dominic stand against an industry that denies his personhood when he doubts his own humanity? As his plans unravel, Dominic is forced to face the question: Was he lied to? Is he human after all?

Purchase it here.

Read the first chapter at this link: Chapter One Sons of Earth

Do you like zombies, combined with a good story of love and redemption?
For the next two weeks, my first novel We are the Living is offered at a discount on the Kindle store. You can pick up your own digital copy for 1.99 (US) right here.

Two Weeks to ‘Go Time’ on Sons of Earth!

I just approved the proof! Sons of Earth (the print version) is almost reality, and soon the Kindle edition will be too. I’m excited to share this story with you!

A manufactured person is no person at all. Designed to fight and die, Dominic escaped from the metallic womb of Caspian Genetics. He knows that if he is found out he’s as good as dead, but he cannot forget that his brothers are enslaved.

He matches his wits against Caspian’s might. But how can Dominic stand against an industry that denies his personhood when he doubts his own humanity? As his plans unravel, Dominic is forced to face the question: Was he lied to? Is he human after all?

How Romance Novels Tried to Ruin My Life (Why I Didn’t Watch 50 Shades)

I’ve remained silent, at least in the blogosphere, about 50 Shades of Grey because everyone seemed to be blogging about it and I didn’t want to add my rant to the cacophony. Frankly, whoever wants to see it probably has, and whoever was desperately against it has said their piece. 50 Shades likely benefited tremendously by the controversy.

I haven’t seen the movie. I haven’t read the book, aside from reading a synopsis, but this isn’t from lack of interest. Believe you me, there is a base level of me that wants to read the book and see the movie. I’d like to explain why I haven’t.

First Exposure to ‘Romance’

I was eleven or twelve when I had my first exposure to steamy literature. My Grandma had a romance novel (a conventional one, not ‘erotica’) in her bathroom. I picked it up, and in a few page flips, came upon a sex scene. I still remember it really well. The hero and heroine had a bath together, undressing and caressing in minute detail.

It was my first real peek at sex, and I guess I was curious. Soon I had another chance to read a romance, and I paged through it until I found that scene. I don’t really understand the biological reasons for why this had such an impression on me. All I know is that as a teenager, these books drew me like a magnet. Not to read the story, but to read the racy bits. I knew it was wrong—I’d been raised to believe that human sexuality was sacred—but I couldn’t seem to stop myself. It was only after confessing this in tears to a group of girls from church, much later in life, that I experienced a real breakthrough and no longer felt the dreaded pull. The library became a safe place again.

This may sound prudish to some of you, and by today’s cultural standards perhaps it is. As a Christian, my belief is that sex is an expression of love between (and only between) husband and wife, designed to be a means of bonding them together, and for procreation. I believe that if I follow this design, it will ultimately give me the happiest life. This belief doesn’t just define how I conduct myself with a boyfriend, but also how I dress, what music I listen to, what books I read, and what movies I watch.

Why Shouldn’t I Watch What I Like?

What is the harm of watching a movie with a racy sex scene? Maybe nothing—at first. But what about the compounding effect? Face it, we are bombarded with sexual material at various points in the spectrum. I don’t view hardcore pornography, and never have, but softcore porn is almost impossible to avoid. Sexuality is the selling point of media. If I view a movie trailer, there will be a hint of a sex scene (cutting away as the woman removes her top), or if I listen to the pop music station, there will be some line about ‘loving all night’. The magazine at the checkout has a girl in a bikini and says “best sex moves” on it. The rom-com has the couple waking up together, the morning after they consummate their relationship.

Brainwashing of the Sexy Kind

Like it or not, this has altered my perception of sexuality. I’ve realized there’s what I think I believe, and what I actually do/think. Here are some of the ideas that have taken residence in my head.

1. Romance is primarily expressed sexually, and physical intimacy is a precursor to emotional/relational intimacy. The sex is the exciting part, and the conversation, shared experience, shared hardship, commitment, and work is ‘boring.’ I write fiction, and before the story ever hits the page, there is an incubation period where the story evolves in my mind. It seems I always have this conversation with myself, in which I decide what kind of romantic relationship the hero and heroine will have. Will it be a healthy, wholesome one? Or will it be an exciting one? Does there really need to be that dichotomy? No. That’s a lie I picked up somewhere. And it wasn’t from Bible study, I’ll tell you that much.
2. People are primarily sexual objects/animals—or at least young, attractive ones are. Not that I go around fantasizing about every handsome guy I meet. What I mean is that I’m in the hunting mindset far too often. When I joined a very large church with a healthy population of young men, it was very difficult to not walk through the teeming hall going ‘there’s one, and there’s one, and there’s one.’ Whereas, if they don’t fit my type of ‘good looking’, they were dismissed. This is normal, I guess. But I wouldn’t want this done to me. Likewise, I am ferociously hard on my physical appearance. Do I want to be known as a person of good character, high intelligence, ambition and kindness? Absolutely! But face it, what do I spend more time on? My appearance. It’s a point of despair sometimes, because I will never, ever fit the cultural mould of beauty. I do alright, but my genetics just aren’t there.
3. I’m a prude and sexually repressed. I’ve done it already in this article—apologized for being sexually conservative. Why should I be ashamed of my celibacy? Why should I apologize because I have a moral standard that I hold myself to? Don’t I have just as much of a right to NOT partake of sex as others have to be sexually free?

So Why Not 50 Shades?

So let’s loop this back around to 50 Shades of Grey. Why didn’t I watch it?

First of all, there are actually redemptive points to the story. Ana, a nobody, is noticed, desired and romanced (I guess) by a powerful, rich man. Many of us want to believe that though we are ordinary, we are worthy of love, we are noticeable, we are special.

The story is also a backhanded expose of childhood abuse and the lengths a person will go to to expunge their pain. In an article on XXXchurch.com, Craig Gross says, “The best available research suggest that 75% or more of those who commit acts of sexual or physical abuse against others were themselves abused as children. Christian Grey was abused as a child, a horrendous act that he never got over or dealt with or talked with anyone about. This has led him to some serious walls that have gone up in his life. and the only way he knows how to deal with it is to abuse someone else. He has done this to over 15 women and will continue. I heard this story was about sex, but this story at its core is about a broken man and his inability to love and be loved.”

That’s actually a very compelling story. It’s not the story, then, it’s the delivery. In the end, I have to keep that sexual imagery out of my head. My author’s imagination couldn’t handle it. I would never, ever get it out of my head. It would sit there, further selling me on ideas that don’t line up with my moral foundation. It would change how I view myself, and how I view others.

What do I want out of life? I want to have a loving relationship with my God. I want to view all people as inherently valuable as bearers of God’s image. I want to treat all with love and respect, and be treated with love and respect. I want to have a loving, trusting relationship with a future spouse, complete with a healthy sex life. Watching Ana and Christian get it on in the red room will only get in the way of that life.

What we take into our minds matters. In the end, do what you like. But don’t imagine that everything is neutral. Know who you want to be, and what you believe. Because whatever you’ve done, looked at, heard, and read in the past all added up to the person you are today. What you are doing now will produce the you of the future.

A Looker and a Kiss-Ass (A ‘Sons of Earth’ Preview)

Today wasn’t a good day for Khalia’s new assistant to arrive, but… there he was, the boy-wonder.

The travel mug slipped from Khalia’s hand just as her swipe card passed the swipe-station and the door clicked.

Khalia kicked it through the door ahead of her and let the warm interior air wash over her before she stooped to pick it up. She was cold, damn cold, and wet, thanks to the damn bus that had been damn late for the third damn time, and then had the gall to splash water all over her as it pulled away.

And she felt sick. Her stomach was compressed into a hard ball in her center, empty because in her frantic effort to get out of the house, she’d forgotten. Her mind was on the medication stashed in her desk, where she’d forgotten it the day before. She’d barely slept, her chest was so tight with the panic of not having the pills in the house.

She shoved her way through the turnstiles, barely looking at the security desk, where two guards were laughing and talking, with guns hanging off their shoulders, and past the buzzing HR offices. The three ladies chatting by the front desk looked up with big eyes, and immediately bent their heads together.

Yeah, gossip about me, you dirt-bags.

Khalia barged through the lab door without even looking up. Her feet pointed toward her desk.

“Good of you to join us, Khalia.” Adam’s deadpan voice made her halt.

“The bus…” Khalia mumbled, then cut herself off as she glanced toward him.

Everyone stood in a semi-circle around Adam, lab-coats buttoned, hands clasped behind their backs. Barjinder met her gaze and his brown eyes softened. Adam peered at her over his clipboard. His hand was still poised, as if he’d been making some almighty point.

Khalia pushed past and dropped her bag on her desk with a solid clunk. She fumbled in the drawer for the pills.

“As I was saying,” Adam turned and squared his narrow shoulders. The fluorescent light reflected through his thinning hair. “This is…” his voice faded out as Khalia’s fingers closed around two small, green pills. She dropped them on her tongue and gulped them down with a wash of cold coffee. She set the cup down, squeezed her eyes shut and sighed. Her hand fumbled to stick the bottle into her purse, but it just scrabbled across the papers on her desk. Khalia opened her eyes yanked the bag toward herself and glanced around. Mina and Jennifer walked, heads together, toward their desks at the far side of the lab. Jennifer laughed, high and shrill. Adam’s drone continued. His gesturing hands poked and waved from behind a white, lab coated back. A dark head nodded.

“Oh…” Khalia froze in place with the bottle poised above the purse. It was Monday, and that was Vermeer, her new assistant-read-replacement. And she had just walked past him and dove for her medication.

Not fair, not today of all days.

She took a covert glance at his back. His erect figure towered over Adam—square shoulders, slender, sable hair in a short, fashionable style. He’d turned his head slightly to the side as if skeptical. He had just a bit of neat facial hair. Was it to make him look older?

Dominic Vermeer was young, twenty-six or seven, but the man had an impressive resume and she was determined to like him,

as unlikely as that seemed. Maybe he’d become an ally of sorts. She needed one. But now she just hoped the oxy kicked in before Vermeer put his fine ass in the seat next to her.

Khalia squared her shoulders and got up. She screwed the top off her coffee cup with hands that trembled and exited out the back toward the cafeteria. She’d be composed by the time she got back.

When she returned with a full coffee cup and a muffin, Vermeer already sat at the desk next to hers, speaking numbers quietly into the laptop. Images and input boxes flicked across the screen at tremendous speed, but as she slipped through the door he looked up. He jerked back his chair and stood.

“Doctor Kassis.” He held her gaze with intent brown eyes that glittered from behind a dark fringe of lashes. She had to tip her head back to look him in the face as she walked forward to accept his extended hand.

She squared her shoulders and smiled. “Khalia, please.”

“I’ve read all of your published papers,” he said as she released his hand.

Khalia pressed her lips together for a moment so her mouth wouldn’t drop open. “Oh, uh, thank you. I perused your doctoral thesis as well. It was… interesting.”

So you’re a looker and a kiss-ass. Great. You’ll go far here, one way or another.

“This didn’t faze the management at Caspian, apparently,” Vermeer’s lip curled.

“Indeed.” The man had written about ‘post production death rates among manufactured persons’. Postulating that the number one cause of death among Empties was suicide hadn’t been a popular conclusion. She’d doubted his reasoning, but she couldn’t deny that he had moxie.

Khalia took a step back and glanced around the room. “Barjinder got you situated? I’m sorry I didn’t greet you properly earlier. I had some unforeseen circumstances this morning.”

“No trouble,” he said.

“I will give you a tour of the production floor this morning, but first I have some policies for you to read and sign. Have a seat, I’ll just go get them.”

“Of course.”

As she turned to her desk for the sheaf of policies, Khalia caught sight of Adam marching toward her desk. She sighed.

“Vermeer’s bracelet.” The slim metal bracelet, sealed in a plastic bag, dropped in front of her. Adam leaned in and said in a low voice, “You know, if you’re unhappy with my choice of assistant for me, just say it to my face, Khalia.”

What, was that what being late made him think? Khalia looked up into Adam’s fat face. He had a smudge of something purple in the corner of his mouth, probably grape jelly. Of course, she wouldn’t tell him. Let him figure out that he’d oriented the boy-wonder with breakfast on his face. “No, I’m not unhappy with your choice, Adam,” she said coolly, “And if you’re here to lecture me on being late, you tell me to my face.” Adam knew she’d worked late last night, finishing work he was supposed to do.

“No, I’m not…” Adam mumbled, glancing at his scuffed dockers, “Just give Vermeer the policies and the tour, okay?”

“I have the policies right here,” She tapped the folder, “I’ll give him the tour after break. Good enough?”

“Yeah.” Adam walked away.

Khalia blew out her breath and glanced over her shoulder at Vermeer, who had returned to his computer. No, she wasn’t unhappy with Adam’s choice, though she’d been miffed when he’d made it clear she had no real input in the matter. If Vermeer would just work hard and not be a pain in the neck, everything would be fine. If she could trust him, maybe even call him a friend, well… that might be too much to hope for.

Sons of Earth is a sci-fi novel, slated to be released this spring. I’m excited to share it with you! If you enjoyed this preview, you may enjoy my post-apocalyptic love story, We are the Living (may include zombies). 

‘Sons of Earth’ Coming This Spring!

I am excited to announce that Sons of Earth, a sci-fi novel, is to be released this spring!

A manufactured person is no person at all. Designed to fight and die, Dominic escaped from the metallic womb of Caspian Genetics. He knows that if he is found out he’s as good as dead, but he cannot forget that his brothers are enslaved.

He matches his wits against Caspian’s might. But how can Dominic stand against an industry that denies his personhood when he doubts his own humanity? As his plans unravel, Dominic is forced to face the question: Was he lied to? Is he human after all?

Sons of Earth will be released in Kindle, as well as other e-book formats, and print. Stay tuned for previews.

Do I Ask Too Much of a Husband?

Am I asking too much of the husband that I don’t have?

Maybe you never did this, but when I was a teen it was popular among girls of my stripe to write ‘wish lists’ of what we wanted in our future husbands.  Since I was a goody-goody nice Christian girl, I wrote a lengthly list containing things like ‘must be passionately chasing after Jesus’ and ‘must serve in a church’ and eschewed shallow things like ‘tall, dark, and handsome’.

Mmm… tall, dark, and handsome.

As I age (yeah, the ripe age of 24, ha ha) my lists have taken on a pragmatic edge.  At fourteen I could barely look a guy in the face.  Now I’ve had the joy and pain of working with heaps of them, including a couple of tall, dark, gorgeous jerkfaces.  The more I know what I definitely don’t want, the more the good comes into sharp relief.

But I’m beginning to think even this new list may be too idealistic.  Let me list off a few items, and you can give me some feedback.

1. Must Not Live With His Mother

I don’t condemn the guys who live in their mom’s basement… exactly.  I know there are good reasons, and given the chance for a do over, I’d stay there a little longer too.  But I moved out of my childhood home at eighteen, and have been autonomous ever since.  I’ve forgotten what it was like to have a self-replenishing fridge, and self-washing dishes, and to get home from work and have dinner waiting for me.

I figure, if I would enter a relationship with a young man who has not lived independently, I will just replace his Mom as the fridge-replenisher and become the bad guy who reminds him to pay the rent bill and pick up eggs after work.  I want to be on equal footing with him.  I’d rather duke it out over HOW to run the home than have to teach him how to use a washing machine.

Is that horrible of me?  It sounds horrible when I read it.

2. Spends Very Little Time on Video Games

It’s not that I’m against video games, but the idea of a grown man spending hours in front of a TV, fighting imaginary battles, playing imaginary sports games and racing imaginary cars is unsettling and borderline on ridiculous.  I’m sorry.

Some might say the same about writing fiction, I don’t know.

Is life so boring that he must escape into an imaginary world?  Does he have no real battle to fight–no passionate pursuit?  Is he just lazy?  I can understand a bit of TV or gaming to unwind.  But hours upon hours of valuable time that can never be replaced?

3. Has Basic Financial Competency

If he can’t make a monthly budget, I don’t care if he looks like a GQ model.  I have worked VERY hard to learn financial skills.  I’m no accounting whiz, but I respect my money and do my best to be fiscally responsible.  Does he have to be wealthy?  Heck no!  Gainfully employed with a realistic picture of his cashflow?  Absolutely.

Now, how does one ask about this without sounding like a nosy gold digger?

4. A Desire to Do Better, Be Better

In a word: ambition.  He may not know what his life’s work will be yet, but he isn’t content to coast through life.  Whatever job he has, he does his best at.  He reads and learns constantly.  He examines himself and when he sees something he doesn’t like, he works on it.  He wants to leave a legacy, not just a grave marker, when he dies.

Turns out, this is a tall order.  I have met very few young men who pursue excellence.  But because excellence is so important to me, I know that if he does not, I will not be able to respect him as he deserves.  It is very important to me that I can respect my husband.  I ask no more of him than I ask of myself.  Not perfection, but a hunger for growth.

5. A Man of Courage and Character

I’ve worked with men who lie when the truth is inconvenient, cut corners to save effort, and would rather ignore (or rant about) a problem then fix it.  I doubt they realize how detrimental this is to relationships.  They lie to save my feelings, or cut a corner rather than correct me.  They want to be liked–I get that.  But I don’t trust them, so their amiable personality means little.

Over the years I’ve learned that truth isn’t as black and white as I thought, and honesty is much more difficult than just not telling a untruth.  But I need to know that he isn’t a coward.  He tries his best to do what is right. He’s not going to lie to get himself out of a hard place.  He’s not going to cheat on something because it’s little and ‘doesn’t matter.’

If he cheats at a card game, he’ll cheat on anything.  It’s just a matter of time.

6. A Man Who Loves Jesus

Honestly, the other four don’t mean anything without this one.

The passionate pursuit thing?  Life experience tells me that the burning flame of enthusiasm waxes and wanes, but love stays the course no matter what.  I have a passion to write. Sometimes writing is fun, even euphoric.  Sometimes writing is drudgery.  But I never give up.  Same deal here.

To love and to be loved by Jesus is transformative, and this man’s life will bear evidence of that transformation.

So How Am I Doing?

Are any of these unrealistic?

I said it already: I don’t ask of him any more than I ask of myself.  And I don’t want him to BE me.  I’d probably kill him.  One of me is enough, trust me!  But could there possibly be a man who lives life as intently as I do?  Or am I expecting too much of the poor sap?

What would you add to the list?

 

 

 

The Breaking of Liam

“We’ve got to go.” The first intelligible words I heard. Liam. His voice was low, but deadly calm. He grabbed my shoulders and raised me up, but I recoiled from him. He didn’t seem to notice. “Simone,” he said. “We’ve got to go. We can’t stay here.”

“I still have my gun,” Simone said.

I turned, saw the gun still locked in Liam’s hand and stifled a scream. Morgan’s body lay behind me. I couldn’t turn around, so I had to look at Liam’s face, blank as blank could be.

“The map is gone,” he said, “But I remember the way. Come.”

Simone started after him, and so did I. And then I glanced back. Morgan’s body lay crumpled, just off the road. Blood pooled around his head.

I vomited onto my shoes.

Liam turned around, dead eyed. “Keep up.”

Keep up? Rage welled up inside me. “Keep up? You just shot your brother and you’re telling me to keep up? You… you psychopath!”

Liam’s face twitched. His mouth opened and clenched shut. He turned around and kept walking.

“Hey!” I followed after him. “Hey!”

Liam spun around. His face was almost purple, so contorted he could hardly be recognized. “What do you want me to say?” he ground out. I could hardly hear him over my own pounding heart. Again, a little louder, “What do you want me to say?”

Simone grabbed me from behind. “Stop it!”

I didn’t care. I wasn’t even in my right mind. “I could kill you!”

Simone clamped her dirty hand over my mouth and restrained me. Liam turned around. His shoulders formed a hard line, a wall between us, and he marched on. Simone pushed me forward, after him.

“Stop,” she whispered in my ear. “Just leave him alone. You don’t understand.”

Something about her words clicked in my mind. My anger dissipated to a low burn, and I followed after Liam.

My legs pumped in an effort to keep up with Simone. My mind reeled in unintelligible patterns. My stomach ached from vomiting. I would keep up. I would.

The sun began to set. Liam pointed to a house in the distance, and we made it just as the sun slipped behind the hills. We had the last few twilight minutes to make sure the house was empty. It was.

But for safety, Liam packed us into a tiny, windowless room. Simone, then me, then him against the door. The air was stifling, reeking of my own sweat and that of my companions.

We were silent. There was nothing to say. I tried to sleep, but I couldn’t. Beside me Liam was rigid as full rigor. His breath rasped in and out.

I huddled close to Simone so I didn’t have to touch him.

Then, like a rupture, I heard a tearing groan come from within him. He slumped against the door. His cries hissed through his teeth, until even that could not contain them, and he sobbed like a baby.

Strong Liam, so broken, terrified me but I could not comfort him. I would not. Instead I grabbed Simone’s hand as if she could reassure me. She did not. She pushed my hand away and climbed over me to Liam. She grabbed his hand and pressed it to her lips.

“Liam,” she whispered, “Liam.”

He stirred. She grabbed his head and cradled it in her arms, stroking his face. He clutched at her hands, weeping. She cried too.
And I just lay against the wall. Every part of me hurt, but I would not cry.

And then, as quickly as it came, the storm passed. Liam jerked away from Simone. She held out her hand to him, but he ignored it and pressed himself against the wall.

“Kayla.” His voice came, low and rough, out of the darkness. “Kayla, if this should happen to me or Simone…”
“No!” I sat up. “No!”

He reached across and grabbed me by the arm. His fingers dug in to my soft flesh. “I’m serious. You can’t let that happen to Simone and you can’t let that happen to me, just like I won’t let it happen to you. Understand?”

Admit it. You wouldn’t mind having the chance.

Like I could say that to him. I was afraid of him. He was a monster. “Understood,” I squeaked. I burrowed down against my pack. My shirt was damp, sticking to me with sweat. My stomach turned with… with what? Fear? Grief?

His hand was still on my arm, but his fingers loosened and gentled before dropping away. Simone crawled back and lay down between us. She whispered in my ear. “Don’t worry, Kayla. I can do it.”

Her words, tinged with resignation, chilled me right through.

I didn’t really sleep that night. I dozed. The house made too much noise, though it may have been my imagination. There were creaks, moans like that of the undead, groans from Liam. Once I thought I heard footsteps. Liam lifted his head and listened for a long time, but the footsteps never came closer.

Thunder crackled, louder and louder. Then rain rattled on the terra cotta tiles of the roof. The tiny stream of air under the door turned moist, carrying the scent of trees and fields. Out there, things were still living.

This is an excerpt from my recent novel, We are the Living.  I have to admit that, of all the characters, I loved Liam the most.  I said to him (because authors talk to their characters sometimes), “I’m sorry, but you are going to be wrecked by the time I’m done with you.”  But will he redeem himself?  Well, I can’t tell you that, can I?
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Tell Me Yours, I’ll Tell You Mine

An excerpt from my recent novel, We are the Living, a post-apocalyptic love story.  A more tender scene–at Mom’s advice 🙂

I examined his face. There was the beginning of a mask tan on his face. “Do you have to wear the mask all the time?” I asked, in a feeble attempt to redeem myself.
“No,” he said, no elaboration. He took another forkful and chewed slowly, the muscles of his jaw bunching and relaxing in slow, deliberate movements.
“I’m sorry. Perhaps not while you’re eating…”
“No, it’s fine,” he said after he swallowed, “I get along well there.”
“Yeah,” I said, half-laughed. “It looked like you’ve hit off with them.”
His lips twitched. “Heck of group of soldiers, in their own way.”
“Soldiers?”
He shrugged and laughed sheepishly. “Not really. None of them actually are—heck, they have MP5 submachine guns from the army, but about all they know about them is how to pull the trigger. It scares the hell out of me.”
“Yes it does!” A man about my age with a respirator hanging around his neck plopped down beside Liam. He fixed me with a stare that was a little wild. “After Liam teaches us, we’ll know which end to point.”
“Oh, shut up.” Liam grinned, but his eyes flicked toward me. “Even Kayla knows which end of the gun to point, and she’s probably better shot than you.”
“I don’t want to think about that, Liam.” For all my big talk, I didn’t want to think or talk about shooting. Panic, like bile, rose in my throat. I’d had dreams of the grey-eyed infected, still wearing a business suit, flying backward in a pink spray.
I felt Liam’s gaze on me again.
Max leaned in, his rubber mask clunking on the table. “Is he right?”
“Leave it, Max,” Liam said.
“You’ve shot infected?” he asked.
Liam grabbed Max and pulled him back onto the bench. “Leave it!” He turned to me. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have brought it up.” His navy eyes said he could guess what I was thinking. And then his lips twitched. “And Max is generally an idiot. Ignore him.”
I pushed away my plate. “I’ll be fine.” I’d be fine, but I wouldn’t be eating. I couldn’t expunge the image from my mind that quickly.
Liam sighed, elbowed Max, and stood up. “Walk with me?”
We slipped out of the courtyard, across the piazza, past the rusted-out Siena truck, and meandered down the road toward the east wall, all without speaking.
As we turned around at the far end of town in front of Rudy’s wheat beds, we paused and stood facing each other in the middle of the road.
“Are you sleeping any better, Kayla?” He asked.
“A little.” It seemed that my sanity had returned after joining the greenhouse crew, as if belonging brought life back to me. “You?”
He shrugged. “About the same. Listen, when Max was… yammering back there. What did you see?”
I looked up at him and gulped. It all flashed before me again. Grey eyes. Lipstick. Poof! The gun knocked me on my ass as her blood sprayed all around. I forgot to breathe.
His warm, rough hand closed around mine. “You tell me yours, I’ll tell you one of mine. No judgment, I promise.”
I swallowed. “I saw… I saw me and Simone in the back of that truck we took from the GI. We drove into the pack of infected, and I shot this one. She was in a business suit and then she just… disappeared.”
Liam flinched hard, and I could almost see the scene play out on his eyes. “I didn’t see that. I’m sorry.”
I swiped at my eyes. “Your turn.”
“I keep dreaming about Alex,” he said. “I’m driving faster and faster toward Torino and I can hear him screaming in the back of the truck.”
I was gut-punched. “He didn’t scream.”
He pressed his lips together, hard. “When we get to Torino, it isn’t him dead in the truck. It’s you.”
“Oh God.”
We stared at each other, with the full weight of our shared horror hanging between us. It drew us together slowly, and I sagged against him, my face pressed into his neck. We didn’t cry. We were past sorrow.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered into his warm skin.
His hand slid up and caressed the back of my head. “Just don’t die, okay?”
“I’ll do what I can. Same to you.” I lifted my head and stared him in the face. “You take care of yourself, okay? Wear your mask, and sleep, and talk about… talk about this stuff.”
His face tightened and he sighed, “I’ll see what I can do.”
We began walking up the hill, slowly. “It bothers me that you aren’t armed here,” Liam said.
“That’s not Father Lucien’s style.”
“It’s my style,” Liam said, then quickly added, “Though I wish it wasn’t.”
“But do you need to fend off the infected any more?”
Far away a truck started up, and Liam glanced up the hill before looking me in the eye. “We’re not concerned about the infected. It’s the GI.”
The words I’d planned to say disappeared from my mouth. I blinked up at him.
He propelled me onward. The piazza was in sight. “I haven’t seen them recently. Don’t worry.”
“I wish you’d stay.”
“For my safety?”
“Yeah.”
We paused at the tailgate of the truck. Max and the other guy were already in the cab. Liam would be riding in the back, alone.
“I know I’m being stubborn about this,” Liam said quietly. “But I have my reasons, okay?”
“I’ll take your word for it,” I whispered. I reached out and touched his hand, and the look in his eyes squeezed the breath out of my lungs.

We are the Living is available on Kindle and Paperback through Amazon, as well as on Kobo.  You can read further samples here.

It Never Became Light Again

Combat veteran Liam’s steely calm has not failed, but after the traumatic death of one of his friends, his facade slips and we get a glimpse of his past.  A scene from We are the Living.

I walked out to the truck and looked at the bullet hole through the tailgate, at the piled boxes, the scattered bottles, and the blood—a dark dried stain that stabbed me harder than any cry. Just like that, fury overtook me.

I slammed the tailgate down and jumped inside. One sweep of my arm, and half the boxes flew aside. A blue vodka bottle rattled across the truck bed, to my feet. There was a bloody handprint around it. I picked it up and hurled it out the back. It shattered against the building, scattering blue shards all over the packed earth. I took a bottle of water in each hand and poured it over the truck bed. Then I stripped off my shirt and began scrubbing at the stain.

The grey fabric turned burgundy and brown. I was only smearing it. I needed more water. I needed…

“Liam?”

I swung my head around. Simone, grim-faced, stared at me from the tailgate.

“Oh.” Her face sagged a moment. “Good idea. But let me get some water.”

I shoved the t-shirt across the blood again. A moment later the truck wobbled as Simone climbed up.

“Move over. I’ll pour it.” She held up a big plastic jug of water.

Mute, I crawled out of the way. She poured the water, and Alex’s blood streamed toward the tailgate. She just kept pouring, until it had all ebbed away. Then she set it down and came to hunker down by my side.

Everything she had done barely registered. My body shook, white light flashed behind my eyes.

Oh God. Oh God, no, no. Keep it together, please!

I shut my eyes tight, and the scenes that were so familiar played before my eyes like a movie—but worse, because it was not just before my eyes but around me, in my lungs, in my nostrils. One second, a laugh is burbling from my throat, next the screech of tearing metal and the boom of the explosion. The seat I’m in separates from my body and the roof parts as I pass through it. I hit the ground. I see Breanne, sprawled beside me, her eyes catch mine, her mouth parts, the light goes from her gaze. And then everything goes dark.

And it never truly became light again.

I didn’t want to, but I whimpered.

“Liam.”

This is my fault somehow. If we’d switched spots… if I hadn’t been…

“Liam.”

My eyes cleared, and I saw Simone’s heart-shaped face and bloodshot blue eyes staring up at me. She grabbed my bare arms and my confusion and anger gave way to shame, yet I forced myself to meet her eyes.

She shook me gently, “Liam, this wasn’t your fault. If anything, was it not mine?”

“What does it matter?” I looked down, past her.

“But it is what you are thinking, is it not?” And then, before I could react, she leaned in to me and her warm hands brushed up my arms to my neck. She kissed my jaw with rough, chapped lips. “Because it’s what I’m thinking too.”

I grabbed her shoulder, if only to brace myself against her. My skin could not decide if it should recoil, or tingle with warmth. A rough laugh squeaked through my lips. “I don’t know if you can call it thinking. I haven’t been so confused since…”
She reached up and touched the scar along my hairline. “Let me guess.”

I nodded.

“It’s okay,” she said softly. “I’ll cover for you.”

I stared into her eyes, trying to formulate a response. Her head bobbed closer, and my mind made itself up. I pushed her gently away.
She looked down. “Sorry.”

“No, I’m sorry,” I said. “I just can’t… right now.”

She laughed breathlessly and backed away. She rose up into a crouch and scrunched her face into a smile of sorts. I had a feeling it was her brave face. “Well, we’d better find you a shirt. Can’t have people getting ideas.”

I laughed half-heartedly and followed her off the tailgate. The heaviness pushed away just for a moment, and then swooped back in deeper and harder than before.

We are the Living, a zombie apocalypse/love story is now available on Amazon Kindle, as well as other E-Readers through Smashwords.  The print edition (which I’ll admit I’m super pumped about) will be available within a few days!  

Zombie Baby

The following is an excerpt from my novel We are the Living, an apocalyptic love story set in a small Tuscan town.  In this scene, Liam and his colleague are cleaning corpses from a house in the dead city of Siena when they make an unexpected discovery:

“Liam, we forgot that one.” Gennarosa contorted her face in an attempt to adjust her mask without touching it. Her gloved hands were slick with gore and decomposed flesh. She tipped her chin toward a house with a green door and pots of dead, dry geraniums on the doorstep. Behind them, Max shouted at Julio as they came out of a store, carrying a corpse between them. The radio crackled, and someone rattled off in Italian. Gennarosa ignored it and so did I.

I sighed and stepped toward the door. I stood, gun trained on the door, and Gennarosa reached over and opened it. The door slammed against the wall. Through the protection of my respirator, I caught the faintest whiff of rotting flesh.

I peered into the semi dark.   The kitchen looked undisturbed, like the owner had stepped out for a bit and would soon return.

Gennarosa motioned for me to go first. We passed through the kitchen. The dining and living area had been tossed. Blood splattered up one wall, and there, below the bloodstain, was the bloated corpse of a man. His arm was flung out, fingers frozen, pointed toward the doorway. He was definitely dead, not infected.

I pushed open the bedroom door. Only a sliver of light peeked through the drapes. I pulled the flashlight from my belt and swung the beam of light around the room.

“Feet,” said Gennarosa, pointing.

Two shoes stuck out from behind the unmade bed, half covered by draped blankets. I rounded the bed, the gun trained on the feet and bundled bedclothes. Just as the body came into full sight, it moved.

I jumped back, taking Gennarosa with me. We crouched, half-expecting the body to spring up, or at least make another move. It didn’t. It remained as it was, with only the legs protruding from under the blanket.

“What the hell?” Gennarosa leaned forward, but stayed safely behind me.

I reached out with one foot and poked the leg. It didn’t move. To heck with it. I kicked it. There was a faint movement around what should have been the torso, and then a squeak.

“What?”

“I’m going to pull off the blanket,” Gennarosa took a step closer, “At the ready.”

Poised on the balls of her feet, she leaned forward and yanked away the blanket.

“Oh God,” Gennarosa said.

The body was that of a woman, whose long dark hair splayed away from her browning skull, face erased. Her arms were locked around a little form, a baby. The baby was burrowed into the woman’s body-cavity, intestines spread around it like dried sausages.

It lifted its head. Its face was grey, eyes vacant and its cheeks were smeared with blood. It was a zombie baby.

 

We are the Living is now available for purchase through Amazon Kindle, and for Kobo, iBooks and other platforms through Smashwords.  You can download samples on those sites, or read samples I have posted here.