It’s been a long time getting here but I can finally say
that I am now an officially published author. Cue the confetti and welcome the
“woots!”. My book is now part of the great big Amazon family. My little brainchild is swimming in the
gigantic tide pool of YA, trying to defy Darwin alongside glittering glampires
and hungry female archers.
Needless to say, it wasn’t smooth sailing getting the ebook
up for download. Something always tries to trip you on the home stretch. I
believe that when you’re so close to achieving what you’ve always wanted, there
are some dark, perverse forces out there that’ll do everything to thwart you at
the final hour. For some bizarre reason, right at the time my wife and I were
preparing my book for its launch, our two cats decided to shift into whack job
mode. They sprinted back and forth like their
tails were on fire. One of them even tried to step on the keyboard right when we
were trying to enter some vital information.
I’m convinced it’s got something to do with the fact that my
first published book wasn’t the novel about them. Sometime last year I finished
a novel entitled, Cats: This Ain’t No
Musical. It’s a fictionalized
version of our cats, their friends and their adventures together. I was trying
to write a children’s book but ended up creating a parade of gritty, unwholesome
cat characters, a doggie mobster straight out of the Sopranos, and a
lock-picking klepto Capuchin monkey. Not
exactly your Saturday morning cartoon. I ditched that train wreck of a draft
and decided to focus on something else.
So anyway, my book is out there for your pleasure and
perusal. Just click its cover on the
side and it’ll take you straight over to Earth’s Biggest Bookstore. If you ended up here because you bought the
book then I’d like to thank you for obliging this newbie author. Don’t forget to write a review when you get to
my Amazon page. Right now all that’s there are crickets and tumbleweeds, so do
leave a note about my book to make the place a little less lonely.
I've included an excerpt here from the first few pages of The Cellar:
Daren wiped the blood off his knife and
looked down at the twelve bodies at his feet. They were scrawny, their ribs
showed, and they would’ve died on their own if he hadn’t killed them. He
grabbed their tails—four at a time—with one fist and stuffed the rodents into
his backpack, making sure the flap was buttoned before slinging it over his
shoulder. Two days of tracking and all he could show for it were twelve puny
rats.
Lara’s absence only made him feel
worse. Something must have happened to her. She had a sick mother and three
siblings to feed, yet she hadn’t shown up to hunt in over a week. He considered
looking for her village to check up on her, maybe even bring her a couple of
rats. But bursting in unannounced with a gift would be taking their
relationship a step too far. They had never been more than friendly
competitors, and he certainly couldn’t afford to part with any of his kill—not
with his village always on the brink of starvation. Yet as he recalled her red
hair and green eyes and the deft, graceful way she held her club before the
kill, he couldn’t help but wish they could be something more.
In the fading light, the perennially
gray landscape turned a shade darker, and Daren pushed away all thoughts of
Lara. He needed to focus on getting home. With game now scarce in the usual
places, he had gone farther than he had previously dared. To make it home in
time for supper, he’d have to take a shortcut. And that was exactly what he was
afraid of.
He walked briskly under a blanket of
ash clouds. Most of the vegetation had receded, and the topsoil had been
carried off by dust storms. None of this disturbed him. In all his seventeen
years, the skies have always reflected the starkness of the earth.
Taking a sharp right, he passed
through a wasteland of dry hills and stunted shrubs and kept on until he stood
at the edge of the Dead Fields. There wasn’t much to see: an expanse of wilted
crops, a roofless shack, and a line of trees in the distance that marked the
entrance to the forest. He’d recently heard about strange happenings in that
vicinity. Traders who had gone there had warned the villagers about getting too
close to the area. “The spirits have awakened from their slumber,” they had
said in hushed tones.
Daren took a few tentative steps and
checked around. The shack, with its rotted wood and boarded up windows,
remained still and empty. A light breeze played over the cracked earth, ferrying
dust around dried stalks of wheat. With a deep breath, he marched forward, the
stalks crackling under his feet as he stomped on them. His village lay
somewhere beyond the trees. He just had to keep one foot in front of the other,
and he’d be at the gates in less than an hour.
He stopped when a ripple appeared in
the air right above him. It looked like a thin film had momentarily swept over
his field of vision. He rubbed his eyes, blinked, and saw nothing. Three more
steps forward and another ripple appeared. In that instant, the fields and the
shack seemed like a reflection distorted by a hurled pebble. He waited, his
neck hairs tingling, afraid that he had disturbed something. Nothing else
happened, but a sudden urge to get away overwhelmed him and he sprinted toward
the forest.
When he got to the forest entrance,
he paused and took a few breaths to calm himself. He hoped the mysterious force
haunting the fields would allow him to pass unharmed. Daylight was dimming, and
since he had run out of torches, he’d be groping his way through if he
delayed any longer.
The strangeness he witnessed in the
fields might extend into the woods—and he shuddered at the thought of having
something dart out at him in the dark—but he steeled himself and entered it.
Naked branches stretched forth like crooked fingers seeking to pierce the cloud
cover, hoping to reach the sun, but failing in the attempt. Each trunk now
stood in silent vigil to its own death.
As Daren made his way through the
forest, fear pricked at the corners of his mind and tried to drive its way in.
In his peripheral vision, he saw figures lurking, but when he whipped his head
around to look, they disappeared. He sighed. A trick of the light. But a few
more yards into the forest, he saw a green glow coming from the trees ahead. It
didn’t flicker like a torch; it remained steady. He had never seen anything
like it.
The eerie glow sent cold dread
through his body. A ghostly figure seemed to move out from behind a tree, and
he turned away and bolted as fast as his lungs could bear. Terror fueled his
mad dash as he imagined the specter floating just above—about to swoop down and
snatch him. The trees melted into fleeting blurs as he barreled his way
through. Low lying branches whipped his face and arms as he kept on running.
Roots threatened to trip him at every turn. He staggered and almost fell when
he stubbed his toe on one of the larger ones. It was as if the entire forest
had conspired to attack him.
Relief washed over him when he
finally broke through the maze of trunks, though he kept on running until he
was far enough away from the trees. He bent down and heaved in several
mouthfuls of air. Behind him, the forest was a black outline against the
evening sky. No green light was visible and nothing pursued him.
Now that he was out of the forest, he
could think clearly, logically. As his heart rate slowed, he began to doubt
that he’d seen the strange ripples or the cloaked figure lurking in the trees.
Maybe it was just the fatigue brought on by the hunt. He’d pushed himself too
hard and probably just needed a long rest.
He released a sigh when he saw
firelight in the distance and columns of chimney smoke rising up from his
village. As
he got closer, he recognized the pile of rocks encircling the settlement—the
bones of former dwellings blasted in a long forgotten disaster. The wall was
about ten feet high, a bulwark against the terrors of the open wasteland. He
always felt protected whenever he was inside it. It kept safe everything dear
to him—kept everything from wasting away like the rest of the landscape. He
loved his village because he never felt the need to guard his back. The
comforting wall of rubble did that for him.
He approached a rusted iron gate
covering the rock wall’s only entrance. Just a few more steps and he’d finally
be home. He would find his cot, lie down, and sleep away the fear and the
weariness. He placed his hand on the gate and was about to enter when a
red-haired young man wearing a patched leather jacket swung it open. He seized
Daren by the throat and flashed a knife. Daren struggled against the man’s
grip, but when he felt the blade press under his chin, he froze in place.
“You’ve got some nerve trying to
barge in here.” The man pushed his thumb against Daren’s windpipe. “Who sent you?”
Daren responded with a faint wheezing noise.
Oooooh, cliffhanger!
Ciao now.
