Abandon chapter 1...EEP!

Okay, I'm either brave or possessed. 

But I've decided to post a chapter from my WIP. 

I would love some constructive criticism, or any comments on it at all. 

Thanks. 

Here we go...*bites nails*

Another day, another flying plate.

“Mom!” Darcy screamed, ducking as a cup followed the plate. Thankfully it just bounced off the wall, the corner chipping, but was otherwise salvageable. She stooped over, grasped the broken plate pieces in her hands and ignored the old wounds that re-opened and fresh ones making their debut.

            Mae Hallow was having another one of her episodes. They had taken up a significant part of Darcy’s childhood, and she remembered that they got progressively worse after her Dad died and her sister had been taken for service two years ago.

The past two years of her life had been hell, but it was her life. And you deal with the hands you’re dealt, she told herself. You don’t complain. You just try to make the best of a bad situation and pull the best poker face possible so no one can tell if you’re aching inside.

            Mae collapsed in a heap on the kitchen floor, murmuring to herself as she rocked back and forth. Darcy found a rag and hid the broken pieces, making the whole nasty situation disappear, and steadied herself against the counter. Slick blood seeped between her fingers. She took a deep breath, clenched her fist and grabbed another cloth to staunch the wounds before comforting her mother.

“Everybody leaves. Everybody. Everybody leaves...” Mae rocked back and forth, back and forth, eyes wide and glistening. Darcy stooped over, swept the matted hair from her mother’s eyes and rested a comforting hand on Mae’s shoulder, only to feel her tense against the touch.

“It’s going to be okay, Mom. Everything will be okay.”

“Nothing’s okay,” she cried, “Derek, Raina....gone. Gone forever. I have nothing left, nothing.”

What about me? Darcy thought, feeling tears scorch and well in her eyes. Am I nothing?

“I have nothing but you.” Mae grabbed Darcy’s arm with a bruising force, refusing to let go. “Don’t ever leave me.”

“Mom...” Darcy grew uncomfortable.

“Please don’t go.”

“I’m not going anywhere.” Darcy continued stroking the hair on her mother’s crown and wondering when their roles had been reversed, then realised they always had been.

“But,” Mae’s bottom lip trembled with emotion. “If you have to go...”

“I’m not going anywhere--”

“Don’t forget to say goodbye. No one ever says goodbye.”

Darcy paused, but nodded her assent, watching her mother crane her neck, eyes pleading for an answer.

“I promise.” Darcy patted her mother’s hand, reached down and gripped her beneath the armpit to pick her up. Mae stumbled forward as Darcy helped her out of the cramped kitchen and into her bedroom, before tucking her under the sheets, closing the curtains and shutting the door behind her. Darcy leaned against the hard wood, and blinked the last few tears away. If she cried every time this happened, she would dissolve in a sea of salt. Pragmatism was the name of the game. The key to survival.

The kitchen needed a good clean and her homework lay untouched and abandoned in her bag, just like every other night. But if she neglected it one more time...well, the repercussions would be dire. Especially where Ms. Buchanan was concerned.

            Ten minutes later, the kettle screeched and Darcy poured herself a well deserved cup of coffee after searching every last corner for shards of broken porcelain. Mae and Darcy had a habit of walking around the house in their feet, and after the twentieth time she sliced her foot open, she realised a thorough clean was desperately needed.

            The phone rang as Darcy dumped her bag on the table, rummaging around in its depths. Thanking the distraction, she ran to the phone.

“Hello?”

Silence.

Dense, thunderous silence.

“Hello?”

“Get ready.”

            Darcy froze “Raina?”

 Dial tone.  

            It couldn’t be Raina, she decided. Just her own wishful thinking. Raina was in service for another year. There was no contact with family during service. It made it that much harder when the delegates died.

            Darcy put the phone back on its hanger and tried to stop herself trembling. She had that eerie feeling that something was wrong, but tried to ignore it. Even though she generally trusted her gut and this time it wouldn’t stop turning.

When her dinner made an unwelcome appearance on the kitchen floor, she decided it was time for a run.

            After cleaning up, she raced out the door. The sun was setting, and the greenish tinge fell across Lexington Avenue.  After the first three nuclear explosions, radiation seeped into the atmosphere and left an odd green glow across the skyline. The streets were almost deserted, as per usual, since the habitants’ feared contamination; even if the Alliance had assured them it was benign.

            Darcy scoffed and began pounding the pavement. But she didn’t care about the radiation. It was an everyday part of her life; like breathing.

Well, like breathing toxins, but breathing nonetheless.

            Darcy turned the corner and beat down the street to the hum of the streetlights and passing cars. But when she heard a sniffling, sobbing sound coming from the alley up ahead, she slowed. It was Conrad Reeler. He was on her cross-country team at Second school.

“Conrad?” He jerked up, rubbing his eyes and flushed. Darcy kept the beat of the street on her toes while Conrad wiped his eyes dry and his skin raw.

“Hey, Darcy. Practicing?”

“I just needed a distraction,” she shrugged, edging closer to him. Conrad tensed, and pulled himself straight. “Are you--?”

“Okay?” He scoffed. “Of course I’m not okay. My little brother is being sent to die, and I’m just meant to sit back and take it? No, I’m very much not okay.”

“That wasn’t what I was going to say.” Darcy stopped moving and planted her feet.

“Oh,”

“I was asking whether you were coming. I think you need a distraction too.”

Conrad paused, wiped his face clean and jerked his hands through his heavily-mussed hair.

“Yeah, I think maybe I do.”

            Conrad and Darcy shuffled down the street, towards the usually abandoned park. At least there they could talk. At least there they wouldn’t have to act happy. At least there they could be free.

“So, you want to talk?“ Darcy said, sitting on the rusty swing at the far side of the rusted fence. Acid rain does nothing for steel. “Talk.”

            Conrad pulled a hand through his hair, one of his most common ticks, and stood opposite her, between the roundabout and the see-saw. Darcy waited for him to gather his thoughts, which seemed like an endless struggle from the expression on his face.

“Why are you doing this, Darcy?”

“Because, believe it or not, I know what you’re going through. You aren’t the only one to lose someone.”

“But Raina was older than you.”

“It doesn’t make it hurt any less. Age is just a number. Family is a lifetime. And it’s hard not to be affected by that.”

            Conrad’s shoulders slumped. “I guess you’re right. It just doesn’t seem...right? He’s only thirteen.”

“Aren’t they all?”

“But he’s so small. And he has asthma. I see him coming home from training with bruises and he doesn’t even whimper, doesn’t even flinch. Every broken bone, every wound and scar—they’re like a badge of honour.” Conrad shuffles his feet through the gravel, growing angrier with every swipe, letting it all out. If the ground was a person, they would have been unconscious and bleeding by now, Darcy thought, but let him continue. Everyone needs to vent sometimes, and Conrad had a damn good reason.

“It’s just not fair.”

“I know.”

“But it’s life.”

“But it’s life.” Darcy agreed, and the heavy gauntlet of truth bore down on them.

“The funny thing is,” Conrad laughed, the humour long gone and replaced with anger. “Twenty years ago? He would be safe and sound at home, probably bugging me for a game of basketball. God, if that’s all it took to keep him here, I’d play basketball till my hands fell off.”

“I know the feeling.” Darcy hung her head, but then snapped it up. “Wait, what?”

“Yeah,” Conrad smirked “they introduced a new law about twenty years ago, declaring each family were only allowed to have three children. Any more were supplementary. If the number went above three, the cycle would begin again, and the fourth child would then be the first born. And it is the duty of the first-born to protect and serve. Till death do us part.” There was no humour in his laugh and he slumped over the roundabout, grabbing its rusted steel bars between his hands.

“I never knew that.” Darcy let Conrad vent, knowing from personal experience that someone trying to comfort you was the most irritating thing in the world. Conrad was like her. When you’re about to lose a sibling, you just want to be left alone. But the fact that she understood, even if she said nothing, did nothing, but stayed there, would be enough to make him realise he wasn’t alone.

When the person closest to you is taken, that’s the one thing you never want to feel.

Alone. 

“That’s the beauty of being kid number three,” Conrad turned his head and half-smiled. “You’re well versed in legalese.”

“Whereas us second borns are destined for a life of servitude.”

            Conrad quirked an eyebrow. “Don’t most of you guys end up teaching?”

“Exactly.” Darcy smirked as Conrad laughed.

            Conrad pushed himself off the roundabout, turned and made his way to the swings sitting next to Darcy.

“Damn these things are small.” He said, wriggling between the bars. Darcy laughed, pushing herself back and forth, gaining momentum.

“They aren’t built for your average sixteen year old, Conrad.”

“Seventeen.” Darcy slowed down and smiled at him.

“Really?”

“Yeah, it was my birthday last week.”

“Well then, happy birthday.” She said, leaning over and softly, sweetly, swiftly kissing him on the lips. Conrad’s green eyes flashed.

“Well, that was unexpected.” He laughed, beginning to propel himself back and forth, just as Darcy had begun to do again.

“Well, it was that, or buy you an actual present. And since shaking me for change would be a silent affair, I thought it was the better option.”

“Well, as long as it makes you feel better.” He laughed. “Just don’t let Lorie find out.”

Damn, Lorie, Darcy instantly winced at the thought of Conrad’s girlfriend finding out about her kissing him. Even if it was purely innocent, Lorie was a champion kick-boxer, and strangely possessive of her boyfriend. Darcy shuddered.

“Let’s keep that our little secret, then?” Darcy propelled herself back and let the swing carry her back forth. All of the fun, none of the work. Bliss.

            They stayed like that for another two hours, swinging back and forth, letting the weight of the world slip off each of their shoulders, if only for a moment.

“So how are you feeling?” Darcy asked eventually.

“Better. Worse. Both.” He sighed and jumped of the swing, landing in a crouch five feet away while his swing swung aimlessly, lonely after him.

“Yeah. Both.” She agreed. Darcy paused and watched the sun completely set and nightfall come. She sighed. “I better go.”

“Darcy...?” Conrad called as she pushed open the rusty gate at the back of the park, deciding on taking the long way home.

“Yeah?”

“How did you know?”

“Know what?”

“Not to ask if I was okay? Any other person would have.”

“I’m not any other person,” she half-smiled.

“I know,” Conrad smiled. Darcy paused, and shook it off, but couldn’t help but get a niggling feeling in the nape of her neck. She kept staring at him. Conrad, with his messy blonde hair, kind, but currently bloodshot green-eyes and the smile that seemed to echo in her mind...

Conrad cleared his throat and Darcy internally kicked herself. “So how did you know?”

            Darcy stopped, lowered her lashes and answered honestly. “Because, it’s been two years, and I’m still not okay.”

Hushed by Kelley York

Thanks to Entangled Publishing for the Advanced Reader copy.

Summary:

He’s saved her. He’s loved her. He’s killed for her.

Eighteen-year-old Archer couldn’t protect his best friend, Vivian, from what happened when they were kids, so he’s never stopped trying to protect her from everything else. It doesn’t matter that Vivian only uses him when hopping from one toxic relationship to another—Archer is always there, waiting to be noticed.

Then along comes Evan, the only person who’s ever cared about Archer without a single string attached. The harder he falls for Evan, the more Archer sees Vivian for the manipulative hot-mess she really is.

But Viv has her hooks in deep, and when she finds out about the murders Archer’s committed and his relationship with Evan, she threatens to turn him in if she doesn’t get what she wants… And what she wants is Evan’s death, and for Archer to forfeit his last chance at redemption.

I’ve been racking my brains trying to come up with a coherent review for this book since I finished it last week. It had taken me this long to get my thoughts together, and even then all I can say is Wow!

This is not your typical love story. Or a typical novel in any sense of the word. It’s full of murder, intrigue, lust and love...and that’s not even the best part.

No, the best part, Ladies and Gentleman, are the characters.

I’m a fan of broken characters. I just adore them, there is so much to delve through, and even when they’re at their lowest ebb, you still root for them, even if you don’t condone their actions.

Archer is a serial killer. As simple as that.

Except that it’s not.

You can sympathise with Archer, you feel his pain and as you learn more about his childhood and his motivations, you begin to realise how he can justify such drastic actions, and understand his cause.

This book is extremely clever. Kelley York is a phenomenal writer, as even when you’re engrossed in the story, hurriedly flipping page after page to find out what will happen next, you also start to think.

What struck me is how far people are willing to go to protect the one they love, and what they are capable of doing, without hesitation.

But Archer is not like Dexter (although comparisons can be made. A vigilante who punishes the evil? C'mon you know that's going to be interesting. He’s like a teen Dexter, but relatable). Archer feels. He does not enjoy what he does, but sees it as a necessity.

Which brings me on to Vivian.

Like I’ve already said, each character in this book is broken. Even Evan, who we see a notable change in as the book moves on, doing things he does not believe in for the man he loves.

They’re so adorable, by the way. Just thought I’d throw that in there as a nice little side note.

But Vivian is a great character. Vivian is chaotic, and wild, like a lightning storm. She destroys things, she is capable of irrevocable damage, but she is beautiful. On the outside.

Another lesson: Never trust a pretty girl with an ugly secret.

But you can still understand her....These characters are so intricate, it’s amazing

But Vivian is chaos to Archer, who is himself filled with chaos. He needs stability, which Evan provides. Evan is the calm to Archer’s chaos, and they just...fit.

I got so caught up in her tale, as well as that of our two broken boys, that I was finished the book before I knew it and was yearning for more.

If you think this book isn’t for you because two boys fall in love...all I can say is Love is love. And Archer and Evan are so sweet to one another that you can’t help but fall in love with them. I would hold off any and all reservations you have about this book, from plot to characterisation, because it’s fantastic in every way shape and form.

Kelley York is a phenomenal writer, and although the subject matter is quite dark, I urge everyone who loves a good romance and intrigue novel, and loves broken and well-developed characters to give this book a read.
The ending still has me in shock.

And, if you know me, that’s not easily done.
What a twist!

I’m looking forward to Kelley York’s next book. It’s sure to have as many beautiful similes and characters as this wonderful debut.

I highly recommend it.

5/5

No Kiss Blogfest: part 2: My WIP

Okay, here's a little something from my WIP, Abandon.

To put this in context, long story short, is the story of teens being sent to one of four cities to battle the mutants that live their before they reach the rest of the population. Darcy Hallow's sister was one of the delegates on duty, but when she went missing, Darcy was recruited. There she met Dexter Daniels. He knew Raina, Darcy's sister, while she was in service.

Let's just say, they had a thing.

Context given, here's a little something I threw together.

Please comment. Tell me how to improve, if you like it, if you didn't, anything.

And here we go!

The night breathed with blood and venom. Darcy and Dexter scrambled from the ground, collecting glass, blood and grazes, and searched for shelter.

“Move it!” Dexter yelled, glancing left and right looking for somewhere to hide as the sound of scratching grew louder, the claws tearing the ground apart. Dexter kept his hand glued to his sword, like Darcy did hers. Her nose twitched and face contorted once they paused to catch their breath.

“What’s wrong?” he watched Darcy as she doubled over panting. “Leg,” she breathed. A shard of glass had lodged itself in her thigh, and the pain was beginning to get to her.

Dexter cursed. “Here,” he looped Darcy’s arm around his shoulders, but as she protested, he hissed, swept her legs from underneath her, and cradled her in his arms as he ran. The sound of scratching grew louder. Other delegates raced into alleys and houses, hiding from the rats, which were approximately the size of a small car, and vicious to boot.

“Over there,” Darcy elbowed Dexter in the rib softly with her right arm, inclining her head toward the closest house. “We can patch up, get ready and run.”

He looked unsure, but they didn’t have much choice, so darting a quick glance over his shoulder to see if they were being followed by a rat or delegate. Either way, it wouldn’t be good.

Dexter padded over, dropped Darcy gently on the ground, and propped open the door with his left shoulder. After three failed attempts, and an obligatory mental scolding, Darcy finally got up and limped through the door.

“Here,” Dexter took her arm again, acting as her walking aid, but the pain and the closeness made her uncomfortable. “I’m fine.” She said, followed by three steps and a re-acquaintance with the floor.

The house was pretty empty, but it being Riverside, each building had a first aid kit attached to the wall and some supplies. Just in case. Dexter grabbed the box, came back and fell to the floor on his knees.

“You’re not fine.” He said simply, looking for some cloth, and not seeing any. A second later, he whipped his shirt off, placed it between his teeth and ripped some strips free. They were uneven and broken, but Dexter looped two strands together, tied them tightly and rolled up her trousers. He didn’t wince, didn’t say a thing, but the look in his eyes said that it wasn’t good.

“I’m gonna pull it out on three, okay?”

“Okay.”

Darcy drew a breath and Dexter said “three.”

It was like an electric pulse racked through her body. She didn’t scream, but damn, did she feel like it. Darcy stuffed her fist in her mouth, and Dexter tied his make-shift tourniquet tighter.

“There,” he said. “the bleeding’s stopped.”

“Good.” She breathed; learning to control her pain like Jack had taught her. Training was nothing like the real thing. In the centre, you get shot with an arrow, you heal. In Riverside, you get shot, you bleed. Or you die.

Not great options all round.

Darcy met Dexter’s eyes. “Thank you.” She murmured, but she trailed off as the spark of something ignited in his eyes.

“You okay?” he asked.

“I’ll live.” She tried to sit up, but that flare of pain stopped her. Dexter arched an eyebrow, and, hesitantly, as though he wasn’t sure what he was doing himself, leaned down and kissed her wounded leg.

It was like ice had formed in her veins. Unmoving, she asked “What are you doing?”

Dexter leaned close into her ear, his words caressing her skin and making her tingle “I’m kissing it better.”

With that, he stooped down and kissed just a little bit higher than he had before, right in the centre of her thigh. Darcy felt herself begin to tingle, as his trail of kisses flowed up from her thigh to her outstretched hand. His eyes flickered up as he kissed her knuckles languorously before moving to the crook of her elbow, lingering ever so slightly more. The heat of her skin and his kisses was spurring them both on. Darcy’s breath hitched, and she heard Dexter laugh while he pressed his soft, searing lips against her bare shoulder, finally resting in the hallow of her neck. He must have been able to feel her pulse, hear her heart beat stutter. The room was filled with echoes, the sound of her panting reverberating in her ears. When Dexter’s tongue flicked out against her neck, she lost it. Thrusting into his form and pulling him fully on top of her, Darcy felt his breath hitch in his chest and saw the a smile grow on his usually stone-cold serious face. Before he knew what was happening, she flipped the position and was staring down at Dexter’s burning brown eyes, his slight scar from temple to cheek, his waiting, wanting lips...

And the chain around his neck.

The chain with her sister’s favourite ring looped around it. Darcy froze, her heart beating harder than ever and shame spiralling in her stomach. The loss of blood had made her nauseas, but that made her sick.

“We better go.” She said

The light in his eyes quenched like a match in a rain-storm. Darcy helped herself up, offered Dexter a hand, which he refused to take. He went to the closest supply closet, grabbed a shirt and said “I’m ready when you are.”

Darcy looked around, saw the coast was clear and they made their way back to headquarters.

A little bit hotter than my last, I hope! :)

Hope you liked it.

No Kiss Blogfest! Happy January 2nd!

Okay, so I decided to take part in this. Seems like a lot of fun, plus I need the practice. As you'll see by the following.

This is an almost kiss:

Hot, right?

Plus, Chuck Bass? YUM! I couldn't resist.

Anyway...

This is my one-shot.

I'm calling it Impulse.

Hope you like it. Let me know either way. I need to improve. Plus, check out the other entries! :)

So, when you catch your boyfriend mounting another girl at a party, three things come to mind.

One: You want to punch him squarely in the jaw, and keep going until you hear a crack.

Two: You want to break down and cry.

Three: You want to scream bloody murder until everyone sees what a lying scumbag he is.

I chose the secret fourth option.

“Abby,” he bounced from the bed like it was a trampoline, adjusted his zip and fixed his hair. Marcy just sat where she was, didn’t meet my eyes, and fiddled with her t-shirt.

“We’re done.” It was simple, short and succinct. I closed the door behind me, took the stairs two at a time and wanted to get the hell out of there so I could start with option two.

The night had a crisp, bitter feel to it; cutting my skin like tiny needles of ice as I raced down the road, trying not to slip on the slick patches of path. I didn’t care why he had done it—I didn’t even care who he had done it with—but the fact that he had dared to think he could get away with it?

That bugged me.

Tears were threatening to escape from their prison, and I held them in like cold steel bars, picking up my pace. But when I realised it was 2.30 in the morning, I was alone and in a bad area of town, I started to think that maybe I hadn’t been that smart after all.

“Abby!” I whipped my head around and found Max, Marcy’s older brother, chasing me down the street, before he lost his footing on the glistening gravel.

“Max!” I ran to him, but he was already picked himself up and stuffed his hands into his pockets, embarrassed.

“Why’d you leave?”

Did I really want to tell him that his little sister, and my one-time best friend, was testing the springs in his new bed?

Not really.

“I had to get out of there, and I want to be alone. Mind making both of those dreams come true?” I snapped. If I cried in front of him, I’d never hear the end of it.

Max jerked a hand through his hair and seemed to be arguing with himself. Finally he settled on “It’s late. I’ll drive you home.”

Apparently he wasn’t catching the hint.

“I’ll walk, thanks.” Before he knew what was happening, I feigned right and darted into a nearby alley, hoping to loop around to the better lit side of the street.

“Abby! You can’t...” I was faster than Max. And he knew it, but when I came to a dead end, I heard him finish lamely “go that way.”

Growing more frustrated by the minute, from my anger, my resentment and the fact that I was freezing my follicles off, I stopped, jogged in place and started to clench my jaw.

“What happened?” Max said once he’d reached me. I didn’t want to talk about it. I just wanted him to leave me alone. So I hit him.

Again. And again, and again, until my knuckles were sore, his t-shirt was rumpled and he pulled me into his strong arms. Everything just dissolved from there and a salty-sea fell from my eyes and onto his white shirt.

“It’s okay,” he said, hushing into my hair, his breath warming what I thought would be forever frozen. I looked up at him, his messy blonde hair, his earnest green eyes and that crooked smile he always had for me...and I just jumped on him.

My legs wrapped around his waist, and he instinctively wrapped his arms around me. His right hand rested on the small of my back, while his left trailed a lightning storm up my spine, before resting on the nape of my neck, burning me beautifully. I leaned my forehead against his and felt his chest rise and fall against mine. His hand was in my hair, mine were around his neck, and we just kind of....fit. I tilted my head to the right and so did he, inches apart, centimetres, millimetres...I could feel his breath mingling with mine, the scent of peppermint and chocolate catching in my throat...

And then he cocked his head further right and sweetly swept up a solitary tear with his lips, before trailing its path with his thumb, his eyes lingering on mine, and setting me back down to earth softly.

“I’ll walk you back.” He said.

Twice I had been stunned tonight, and when he held out his hand for me to take, I did. It felt warm and secure. But I pulled it away in anger, two seconds later. I was sick of being out of the loop. I wanted answers.

“Why did you stop?!” I yelled.

“Because,” he said simple, not rising to my anger, not stooping to my level. “I don’t want this to be revenge. I saw Marcy and Luke come downstairs after you left. I know what happened. But I don’t want to take advantage of you, because I want this, us, to be something memorable. I want it to be a Hollywood moment.”

Stunned, I couldn’t help but stare at Max. “But...you’re Max?”

“Didn’t stop you before, did it?” he smirked. He held out his hand, and this time I took it without letting go while he guided me to back to his house and car.

“How do I look?” I asked, self consciously smoothing down my hair. Max laughed.

“You look like a mess.” As I made an indignant sound, he continued “but a beautiful one.”

Birds tweeted, music blared, but all I could hear was the blood rushing in my ears and felt the heat rising up my neck.

“Now,” he opened the passenger door and gestured for me to sit in. I stopped at the door, kissed him on the cheek and thanked him. He smiled. “What are you doing tomorrow?”

Nothing, I told him.

“How about coffee?”

Yup, That's it! :)

I may put something up from my WIP.

Hopefully it's a lot hotter!

Peace, love and Lollipops!

3rd Annual No Kiss Blogfest!

Over at http://frankiediane.blogspot.com/2011/12/3rd-annual-no-kiss-blogfest.html

I heard about the No Kiss Blog fest.

Seemed Like fun, so I'm taking part.

For the craic, like.

Besides, isn't the best part of any kiss scene the build up itself? The total yearning the audience/reader feels, empathising with the characters.....

and then it all gets thrown away in one fantastically awful moment.

For a perfect example, watch Season 2, episode 1 of Sherlock.

The last Quarter.

GOOD GOD!

On a side note, I want to have Benedict Cumberbatch's children and would be on Sherlock Holmes in half a second's heartbeat.

That is all.

Now to be a stinker and think of scenarios for make-out sessions that never happen!

WOO.

Ashfall by Mike Mullin:

This is a rare book. One that breathes like a flickering flame, before exploding like an inferno, gathering you in its clutches and refusing to let go.

There are three things I learned from Ashfall:

1) Super Volcanoes are SUPER scary.

2) People are capable of anything.

3) Never trust men with target signs on the back of their skull

Although, if I’m honest, that last one I already had figured out.

Now to the good stuff: The book itself.

This is everything you want from a disaster novel, and everything I hoped The Road would be. The thing is, in a market saturated by post-apocalyptic fiction, this is unique. Because this book deals with the immediate aftermath of disaster, and not as a reference to the past.

Alex, an ordinary fifteen year old on an ordinary day is thrust into extraordinary circumstances when the Super Volcano at Yellowstone National Park erupts. After a series of unexpected and terrifying events, he sets off to find his family in Warren and discovers that disasters bring out the worst in some people.

Particularly when you have this going off in your ears:

YIKES!

The action starts from the get go, and Mullin’s prose is pitch perfect, as he describes everything to great detail, but not to the point where you’re mind is as muddled as a post-volcanic boom. You can see every inch of what he is describing, and this is both a good and bad thing if you have a nervous disposition, because this book is DISGUSTING!

And I love it for that.

I’ll admit it; I love reading thrillers, and horror, so it takes a lot to get a reaction from me. I have read entire scenes featuring decapitation and did not even blink an eye (this probably says something about the desensitisation of my generation, but I say it’s because I’m odd) but when reading this book, the following happened:

I gasped.

I screamed.

I gagged. And gagged some more.

I gagged so much that I was asked if I was okay and offered a glass of water.

And all with a giant, face-splitting grin on my face.

Because gagging while reading a book is not something I have done in a very, very long time. It was a refreshing change.

But don’t let that deter you, this book is phenomenal. It is highly original, artfully written and the characters are just as interesting as the plot.

Ashfall shows that in the face of adversity, when times are tough, people are capable of anything. People will do anything to survive. Because survival is part of our programming. It is part of the human condition.

This is book I want on hand if there is ever an earth-shattering disaster. Firstly, because it’s fantastic, but secondly—and maybe this is more important—it actually tells you HOW to survive a disaster zone. From skinning rabbits, to surviving attacks by psychopathic cannibals.

That’s right: CANNIBALS!

This book has everything!

I can’t wait for the next instalment: Ashen Winter, and to see what becomes of Alex, Darla and the whole gang, as well as seeing more from Mike Mullin.

This is an author to watch folks.

Highly recommend it.

5/5

*I received this ARC courtesy of NetGalley in return for an honest review. I thank them for it*

In the Moonlight: a short story for funzies, and for a contest

So, Merry Sisters of fate are having a contest based on a prompt

Link here: http://merryfates.com/2011/08/08/watcher-prompt-contest-2/

So i thought I'd throw my two cents in and get to writing. So here we go:

IN THE MOONLIGHT:

Only the moonlight, the twittering birds and the guards were outside on the cold winter’s night. The foot soldiers watch the castle, protecting the preciousness that’s hidden inside. The royal family: King Jensen. Queen Annabelle.

And me.

Quinlan stalks outside the horse stables while I hide behind the hay. His sword is poised at his side and a bored expression is etched into every nook and cranny of his face. I am help captive in my castle, and I want out.

The hem of my dress grows filthier and the pungent smell makes me regret my decision to sneak out. But I need to breathe. I need my freedom. I am not a canary to be caged. I only have one life.

I intend to live it.

Once again, Quinlan paces back and forth, his shoe catching the tip of his sword, kicking it as he walks, like a disturbed dance. I almost laugh, but stifle the sound with the trail of my sleeve. I have known Quinlan all my life. His father is the leader of the guards, so he spent many an afternoon keeping me company in the castle, each of us itching to discover secret passage ways hidden in the depths of the stone castle, and only finding secrets hidden behind its doors.

One of which is the bounty on my head, haunting me since my youth.

But two months ago the first serious attempt was taken by the lake, and I only just escaped capture.

Hence the increase in protection detail, and the fraying of my nerves.

Quinlan seems to be alone, bathed in the eerily bright moonlight reflecting off the courtyard.

I wonder...

Hunched behind the hay, I caw like a crow and hopes he remembers our signal from when we were children.

He doesn’t.

I don’t know what disappoints me more: that he didn’t remember, or that I thought he would. Quinlan and I haven’t spoken for three years, ever since he joined the guards and I was sought out for official duties. When my life became too complicated.

When my life was no longer mine to live.

Quinlan pauses for a moment, but shakes his head, thinking he has imagined the noise that incited the shiver up his spine, as it had mine. But unlike him I chose not to ignore the sound. The sound of boot soles crunching against leaves, trying—and failing—to be silent.

Then he attacked.

Quinlan’s cat-like reflexes kicked in, thankfully, as his assailant darted at him with slash after slash. Quinlan parried and defended, metal crashing against metal, ringing out into the night. But no help could be found.

I pause, enthralled and anxious, watching as Quinlan’s movements became more frantic and less skilled. He was getting tired. This could be dangerous. This could kill him.

My stomach drops at the thought. Searching high and low across the stable walls, a scythe cries out to me like seraphim. I slip towards it, careful not to make too much noise. The handle is heavier than I imagined, the long blade coated in a thin film of rust and history.

I heave it from the wall and it crashes into the floor. I cannot lift it, and Quinlan’s grunts become more pronounced and his attacker draws closer. Beside the scythe lies a pitchfork, used to bundle hay together for turning in the heart of summer. I grasp it, feeling its weight reassure me as I hold it steadily at my waist and draw the scythe along the ground behind me, its blade ringing in protest.

The assailant is ten feet away.

He turns at the noise.

This is my chance, and I take it.

The pitchfork is airborne and falls in a downward arc through the muscles of his right leg. He cries out. Quinlan scrambles for his sword, which he lost in the struggle. But despite the blood loss and the pain, the attacker knows his target. He knows I am the one he will get the reward for capturing. Feasts and riches will reign down on him when he serves my head on a silver platter for the neighbouring king.

I can’t let that happen.

I won’t.

His grin grows wide, he tears the pitchfork from his leg and comes toward me, sword drawn and eye menacing. He is the hawk. I am the mouse.

I am about to die.

That is something I cannot fathom. Cannot accept.

Something washes over me, a sudden encompassing calm. I do not cry. I do not whimper. I merely say “Goodnight.”

And once he is close enough, I life the scythe and swing.

There is an arc of blood, a crumpling body, and a rolling head, before the scythe returns to my side and rips my sleeve apart, slicing through the soft skin of my forearm. I grunt and drop the weapon. Nausea roils through me.

I stand, unmoving, and look upon the mess I have made.

“Lina?” Quinlan stares at me in shock. It is enough to propel me across the courtyard, through the back kitchen and toward my room, tears threatening to spill from my eyes.

I climb. And climb. And climb some more.

Finally, the familiar limestone brickwork and flickering candlelight greets me, my bedroom beckoning me for sleep so I can pretend this is all a dream. A terrible nightmare.

Hearing the footsteps clamber up the stairs, reverberating off the secretive stones and turrets, does nothing to settle my nerves.

“Lina,” his voice calls, growing uncertain as he grasps the final footstep separating us, but feeling like a cavern in between. “Princess Lina,” I incline my head toward him, feeling the rush of emotion waving like flags in my veins, and look away once more.

Fear. Nausea. Shock. Uncertainty.

That is all I feel.

All I know.

All I am.

“May I ask why you followed me, Quinlan?” My voice is sharp and bitter as gooseberries, clipped to emulate my position, my god-given right.

What I have put on the line this very night.

Quinlan hangs his head, trying to shake away the shock. “Lina, look at me,”

I say nothing.

I do nothing.

I still.

“Quinlan, leave me.”

“You saved my life, Lina.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I push on the wooden panels, wishing them to fall away beneath my hand, but I can’t seem to enter the room. My breath freezes in my chest, my muscles ice.

“I would be dead if you hadn’t helped. He had his sword poised for the kill. You...you saved me. How can I repay you?”

“You want to help me? Pretend it never happened.” I say, looking at him briefly. His dark hair, his darker eyes. The shadow of the boy I used to know hidden behind the safety of the red guards uniform.

Quinlan grasps my sleeve, fingering the torn fabric and spattered blood. “You’re hurt.” I do not look at him, or speak, but feel his fingers trail like butterfly wings across the wound, holding my arm in his grasp.

“I’ll live.” I whisper.

“As will I.” He says.

“Goodnight Quinlan.” I say, pushing on the doorframe, but am stilled by the fleeting feeling of his lips against my skin, pressing softly against my wound, lingering against my blood stained skin.

The night is still. The castle quiet. Tendrils of my flame-red hair hang free from my braid.

“Thank you, Lina.”

“I miss you Quinlan.” I draw myself from him and enter the room, lean against the dark wood door, and promise that tomorrow is just another day. That living in the moment means yesterday does not exist.

How I wish for this moment not to exist.

Because Princesses are meant to sit pretty and be poised. They are not meant to be armed and dangerous.

The funny thing is, at that moment of death, I had never felt more alive.

Hope you like :)

XxX