Category Archives: urban fantasy

The Next Big Thing Blog Hop, the Intro.

THE NEXT BIG THING BLOG HOP. It’s a hoppy thing. (See what I did, there?)

What is a blog hop? Among other things it is a way for readers to discover new authors. The path to publication has always been a tough one to navigate, and even when it is attained it is usually not that fabled pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. Getting seen and read after being published is growing tougher by the minute. There are so many good books out there you’ve never known existed, so many amazing authors who are just not getting the attention their skill warrants. Bookstores are closing and publishers aren’t promoting new authors the way they did in the past. Despite all of our hard work, many deserving authors are simply falling through the cracks. It rests with us, fellow authors, and us, fellow readers, to discover the talent that lies in the big blue beyond.

My place in this little hop is to tell you a bit about my book, Resonance, and to direct you to more authors who deserve a chance to be read and appreciated. Pop back in next Wednesday for my Q&A about Resonance, and for links to five other deserving authors.

So, Resonance is my book. It is a dark urban fantasy with lots of demons and magic, and one very reluctant punk hero whose name is, you guessed it, Resonance. It is currently for sale exclusively through Amazon. Print versions are in the works.

A huge thanks to one of my first-ever writing friends, Sidney Williams, for tagging me to participate. He is a talented author whose work you definitely should be reading. Give him some clicky love and check out his book, Midnight Eyes, from Crossroad Press.

See you in a week.

Tagged 7-7-7

Sidney Williams tagged me in a fun meme, so I figured I’d play along. Well, at first I couldn’t, because I was supposed to go to page 77 of my work-in-progress, and the only thing I’ve been doing as of late are novella length, or shorter. But, my genius friend Kate Sterling said I could do what she was doing and go to page seven, and play that way. The rules are, go to page 77 (in my case 7) of your current work. Count down seven lines, and then post the next seven lines/sentences. As I’m a chronic long sentence writer, I chose to copy the sentences, not the lines.

This is part of a short story I’m writing for an anthology on sexuality in fantasy.  I’ve had some thoughts, lately, on the recent sociopolitical push to drag women back to the old prehistoric caves by our hair. It has caused me… Angst. Okay, rage. And you know me, go dark or go home, so this little dystopian piece of bad news was born. This scene is where our heroine, Cherry, is confronted by an official of her church commune whose twisted desires for her cause him to act out in unholy ways:

“To keep me chaste,” she sputtered past the blood.


“As a reminder the Destroyer is everywhere, and that his demons cannot be overcome with manmade Chemical, or the National Church’s polygamist whoring, but by purity’s resistance alone.” If Cherry desired her back as bloody and raw as the Warder made his own every night, she would have added, But, the government keeps pumping me full of hormones and Chemical so I can lure these earthly servants to them, and you let them do it, so how can I be pure when everyone demands something unholy of my virginity?  As she had no desire to be whipped, she remained silent.

The Warder had always been a devout boy, singularly driven to understand the world they had inherited, the life so unlike the antiquated photographs of men and women walking freely in the sunshine, holding hands and pressing together their lips and bodies. He had latched on to the church’s inane assertions that the mouth of hell had opened up and spewed forth the creatures that had one day appeared from underground and carried off the majority of the world’s chaste in less than a month’s time.


As I am very, very late to the game, all of my writing friends have been tagged, so I can’t play the “tag seven friends” part. But, if you’re a writer stopping by here and want to play, go ahead. Just let me know in the comments so I can read your 7-7-7.


Well, the roller derby bout is over (so much fun, even though my team lost in overtime), but I still have house guests and the upcoming holiday weekend to contend with, so I don’t have anything original to post.  I thought I would take you far back to when the vampire phenomenon was gearing up, back when I thought I might like to write a vampire story.  The popularity of the vampire (and, yes, more so the “sensitive” vampire) tale drove this YA piece back into the computer vault, never to be submitted.  While it’s nothing I’d write now, I like some of the prose and Gordon is fun, so I’ll share in good humor.


Joshua’s father had smoked yellow-ended cowboy cigarettes.  Two packs a day.  The bittersweet aroma had seemed to concentrate between his dad’s nubby fingers where the butt always remained pincered until it smoldered to ash.  It was that unmistakable scent that surfaced in Joshua’s mind whenever he recalled the four-year span when his baby teeth had loosened but were reluctant to part with his head, and those aromatic digits had repeatedly crunched the waggling offenders free of their sockets.

The hands pinning Joshua dug into his arms and legs, grinding his body against the concrete wall.  Another pair cemented his head to the cold solidity behind him, pulling open his lower jaw hard enough that the tendons popped and cracked with the strain.  But those hands didn’t concern Joshua nearly as much as the single pale one creeping towards his face, the one that carried the same smoky-sweet aroma he remembered from his childhood.  It was that hand that caused him to writhe in panic under the pressure of his captors, turning his gurgling protests into high-pitched screams.

It was all because of her.

The trance music’s beat picked up the individual thumps from the wildly pounding hearts of the dancers around Joshua, swelling the thick rhythm in his throat.  He stood off to the side, out of the range of both the stroboscopic spotlights and the trajectory of flashing neon glow sticks wielded by a good number of the contorting youngest attendees.  His black hoodie’s ragged string again found its way into his mouth.  He chewed it in time to the music, imagining the cord between his teeth was made of a softer, more palatable fiber.  
He was hungry.

She walked in front of him, taking a deep swig from her nearly empty water bottle as she passed on her way to the door.  She hit the center of his gaze’s range and stopped dead, turning her suddenly wide eyes to meet his.  Her dark hair was piled high on her head in an elaborate series of swirling buns.  Her sweat-ruined turquoise makeup bled down her face and neck, disappearing into the tiny chasm between her black tube top and the slight mounds of her breasts.  For a moment she trembled beneath Joshua’s scrutiny and he feared she would bolt.  Then, her mouth curved in a smile and her hips–clad in yet another miniature stripe of stretchy black fabric–swished to the side as a bangled wrist propped against one of them.  E was a miracle drug.
“See something you like?”  She tilted her head seductively, promising him far more than she was prepared to deliver. 
Joshua nodded, rolling the string around in his mouth like a sweet piece of candy.
“You got a name?”

Joshua nodded again, chewing furiously.  Any natural instinct to flee would have been long squelched by the feel-good chemicals flowing in her veins.  He could tear into her, and she would purr.  He dug into the ragged pocket of his jeans and surfaced with a pair of tiny white disks marked with a letter.  She’d already used twice tonight at the rave.  That meant she’d use again.  He held out the pills, smiling.  “Name’s Josh.”

Joshua screamed as the thick scent filled his nose.  The index finger and thumb closed around his tooth and he could nearly feel their calloused hardness grinding into the enamel.  His chest heaved in short, spasmodic bursts.  If he’d had breath left, he would have hyperventilated.  As he didn’t, the noise continued to flow in broken bursts from his lungs, the high-pitched wailing of a car’s alarm.  With the strength of steel pliers, the fingers tightened and wrenched.  The crunch of the roots tearing free of their tissue echoed in deafening waves through Joshua’s head, and his cries of agony burbled away in a wash of blood.
“Enjoy that drink,” the owner of the fingers said.  “It’s pro’bly the last you’ll get for a long time.”  The fingers returned.  With the same cold efficiency they tore the other pointed incisor from Joshua’s mouth.  

His screams turned to sobs as the imprisoning hands released him and he fell to the floor.  Blood gushed in twin torrents from the gaping chasms in his gums.  Amid a round of vicious kicks and a chorus of taunts urging him to lap it off the floor like the dog he was, Joshua cried.  He hadn’t been a vampire long, and already he’d screwed up beyond redemption.  

“You think we wouldn’t find out?” asked Gordon, his master and owner of the assaulting fingers.  “You think we’re that dumb?”

Joshua lolled his head against the cold basement floor, unable to lift it for the pain.
“You split before the changes were thru.  She didn’t die, but she sure as shit rose again.  You made somethin’ that was only the stuff of bedtime stories ’til now.  You made that broad a livin’ vampire.  You’re too stupid to hunt like us.”  Gordon used the toe of his boot to tip him onto his back.  An old construction foreman from New York’s nineteen-twenties skyscraper heyday, Gordon was extra sensitive to the effect of individual errors on the greater whole, and gave no lenience in the punishing of them.  “You ain’t one of us no more.”  Gordon flashed a crooked, humorless smile beneath his bushy gray mustache.  “But, you do what I tells you, we might let you come back as a Lesser.”
Joshua cringed.
“It’s the best deal you gonna get, boy-o.”
A Lesser.  A human.  No.  Even less than that.  Humans were at least food–useful.  He’d be an encumbrance.  A slave.  If Joshua didn’t do as Gordon commanded, he’d die.  One night he’d be walking down the street and the shadows would sweep up from the ground to meet him.  When they withdrew, there wouldn’t be enough left of him to fit in his father’s novelty Elvis ashtray.  

A hand tangled in Joshua’s hair, jerking it upwards.  Mark–a vampire who’d once been his friend–walked towards him, carrying a lighted brazier.  
Gordon held up his closed fist and rattled the objects inside it like dice, tossing them onto the floor at Joshua’s feet with a flourish.  “You get ta do the honors.”
Joshua gazed at the two miniature white daggers lying in the crimson puddle at his knees.  He stretched out his hand and scooped them up.  In his mind, he made a brilliant break for it, kicking Gordon’s legs out from under him, smashing the elder vampire’s skull against the wall, then plowing through the other ten assembled vampires with Herculean ease before catapulting through the window and out into the night, his teeth clutched like precious gems in his sweaty palm.  In reality, he extended his trembling hand over the crackling miniature fire and dropped in his teeth, watching in helpless grief as they turned to blackened ash.

The first semester art scholar worked alone in her loft, her crackling arc welder and large, contorted slabs of steel the only company she could claim.  Joshua had watched her silhouette move behind the frosted mullioned windows for two nights, now.  It seemed she lived as hollow an existence as he, going to random parties because they were one of the few refuges where a person could be both surrounded and yet remain completely alone, and no one would be the wiser.  Where other humans tended to mesh together to create a fabric, she remained a solitary string frayed away from the rest of the weave–much like the one he’d held clamped in his teeth three weeks before when he decided she was enticing enough to both feed him and be paid eternal life as compensation.

The ramifications of that once seemingly trivial decision pounded in the two tender craters in Joshua’s mouth.  As a slave to those he’d once called brothers, his life would be filled with ridicule and torture.  Yet, he’d still be able to claim their protection against the rival clans who would clamor to possess him once the word got around a eunuch vampire roamed the States.  If he couldn’t survive the torment, he could always choose death.  The other way around was a much more irreversible decision.

If Joshua decided to take the hero’s route and protect his first-made, he would be rewarded with a stake through the heart and she would die at Gordon’s hands just the same.  His mission wasn’t solely about punishment; the vampires would never permit such an abomination to live.  Since she was going to die anyway, Joshua might as well squeeze some sort of existence for himself out of the deal.

It was so simple in his head, yet here he was, staring at her shadow for the second night in a row.  With a great effort, he shook himself out of his torpor.  The sooner it was over, the better it would be for everyone.  

Forcing his way into her apartment was easy; he’d already been invited in.  The remainder was the simple task of pitting his vampiric strength against her door’s common metal latch.
As Joshua moved to stand behind her, she flipped up the visor of her welding helmet and switched off the sparks.  

“Hi again,” she said.

“Hi, April.”

“You’re here to finish what you started.”  She stood, turning to face him.  Her cheeks had gone pallid, as had the luster of her eyes.  Her face and body were leaner than the last time he’d seen her, and the bones in her hips jutted from her torn jeans in sharp points.  She gave him an indiscernible look, and then edged past her sculpture to the fridge.  
“Yeah.”  Joshua took a step towards her, but made no move to attack.  A thin line of blood from the non-healing wounds in his mouth crusted each side of his chin.  They crackled to powder as he formed the next words around the painful gaps with tenuous care.  “I can’t go back unless I do.”

“But you’re not going to.”  April said it with such finality Joshua nodded and then turned to leave.  Two steps later, he stopped short, shaking his head to clear it.  Even though she’d escaped the vampiric curse of living death, she had the undead’s gift of swaying minds.  It was an impressive feat for a novice to muster any amount of control over another vampire.  It made him wonder what other amplified gifts her unusual status granted her.  

“Do you know what you just did to me?” Joshua asked.

“Not really.”  April propped a papery hand against her hip and frowned.  “Not until I did it.”

“I really don’t want to kill you.”
“So don’t.”
He didn’t answer, but lifted first one side of his upper lip and then the other, exposing the voids punctuating the otherwise uniform whiteness of his teeth.
“They pulled them out?”
“If only that.”  Joshua sighed, the sound whistling through the hollows like a desolate wind.  “The others held me down while my master did it.”  He rubbed his hands against the cottony softness of his jacket’s sleeves as if cold–even though the ability to feel such a sensation had long deserted him.  “After they made me watch my teeth burn away to nothing, they turned me out.  They won’t let me back until I kill you.”

“Without your teeth?  Why would they make the job they ordered harder to do?”

“That’s just it.  They took my natural weapons, forcing me to use other, more human means.”  He shook his head as his hands still worked against his biceps.  “Even when I show I’m worthy of the title I was reborn to by fixing my mistake, they’ll still make me live like all the other things not on top of the food chain–at the mercy of those who are.  And I can’t ever again have that feeling of biting into a soft neck and letting the blood gush down my throat.”
“They won’t grow back?” April’s question didn’t drown the low, pitiful stomach rumble his last sentence evoked.

“I’m no better than a house cat that’s sprayed one too many times on the furniture.  I’ve been fixed.”

“What about falsies?  The poseur goth kids get them all the time.”
“They’ll just fall back out.  I’m stuck with two unhealing holes in my face forever.”  He dropped his gaze to the scuffed toes of his sneakers.  “I have to use tools to open veins from now on.  I’ve gone from hunter to plain murderer.”
April’s stomach growled again and she opened the refrigerator door.  Standing in the slice of harsh light, she flipped open the lid of a container brimming with a toxic green liquid, and tipped it to her lips, draining half of it in two gulps.  She turned to him, offering the remainder and he made a face.  

“Spinach and cucumber.  It’s not half bad.”

He grimaced again.

“It’s your fault,” she said after taking another swallow.  “I can’t eat, anymore.  I try even the smallest bite of food and I hurl all over the place for hours.  I want to kill, to drink like you just described, but I can’t bring myself to eat people or animals; I was a raised a vegan, you know.  My parents still call once a week to check on me, make sure my college buddies haven’t lured me to the dark side with a hamburger.”  She seemed to shrink into herself as her own words sunk in.  “Like that’s the biggest of my problems.”
“I’m sorry.” 
A fragile squeak of laughter escaped her throat.  “Lucky for me I have a juicer.  My stomach knows its not blood, but it lets me get away with it–barely.”
“I’m sorry,” he repeated.
“I can’t go in the daylight without getting hives.  Too much water freaks me out.  I’ve had to drop all my day classes; the sun rises and I have to fight not to pass out right then and there.  I’ve lost like fifteen pounds and I’m pretty sure I look like crap, but I wouldn’t know because my reflection is just a hazy blur.”  April fixed him with a glare.  “And the best part?  The day after you turned me into this I woke up naked in a room splattered with my own blood.  Now, that was fun.”
“I’m sorry.”

“I heard you the first two times.”  The corner of April’s mouth gave a minute, downward twitch.

When she turned to put the juice away, Joshua made sure he was gone before she closed the door.


Rough hands pulled Joshua to his feet, yanking him off the park bench.  Newspapers fluttered to the sidewalk and caught the next breeze, scurrying away from the two burly figures holding him.
“Did you think just because we don’t eat bums we wouldn’t find you hiding like one?”  Mark’s hands were as big as baseball gloves as they bunched in the folds of his shirt.  The cloying aroma of dinner still hung from his former friend’s fangs and Joshua’s stomach whined.  He hadn’t eaten in days.  “Gordon gave you an order.”

“No excuses.  The way it goes is, order given, order received, order carried out.  Even as stupid as you are, you should be able to manage somethin’ as simple as that.”  Mark gestured with his head to a thick-necked, vampire behind him.  “Or, do we have to drive the point home?”  
Thick-Neck grinned a gold tooth studded smile and held up a diamond-encrusted shaft with five deadly inches of sharpened wood protruding from its end.  Purchasing custom built, personalized stakes for the skewering of one’s foes was currently a popular trend among the fanged set. 
“No.”  Josh stammered as Mark raised an expectant eyebrow. “No–No, sir.”
“You know, Gordon says me and Biz, here, can share you when you’re done with your little job.”  Mark adopted a tone of false haughtiness as his eyes raked up and down Joshua’s frame in anticipatory appraisal.  “Did I ever mention I have a fondness for the taste of vampire blood?  It’s not for everyone, I know, but I’ve developed a palate for the unique texture of congealed liquid brimming with platelets marinated in aged veins.”  Mark dropped the accent, his expression turning to one of sadistic menace.  “And the best thing is, you’ll keep on living this sad life you carved out for yourself even after I drain every single drop of it from your skinny ass.  You’ll be as hollow as one of those chocolate Easter bunnies and everywhere you go, your shriveled up organs will rattle around in you like a maraca.”
With a laugh, Mark released him.  Joshua toppled to the ground, landing on one side, his elbow taking the force of his thankfully less-than-solid frame.  His assailants had already merged back into the shadows.  He pulled himself to his feet, still rubbing the twanging joint.  How had he been friends with that guy?

Joshua had suspected the quality of life waiting for him when he finished his assignment.  But, suspecting and knowing were two different things.  He wouldn’t live like that.  

Not even if it meant he’d get to live.

Joshua followed April’s scent through the streets, his memory taking over for his nose when the brownstone row houses faded into the familiar sight of the dilapidated buildings of the city’s largely deserted industrial district.  Around the next block, the deep bass boomed through the abandoned warehouse, rattling the few remaining unbroken windows and setting his lifeless heart tripping in the closest thing to a beat it had experienced in the long year and a half he’d been undead.
April was standing just outside the rave, hovering at the fringes of activity as the brightly colored butterflies flitted in and out of the doors with their arms wrapped joyously around one another.  The expression on her face was pained, as if the hunger inside was gnawing its way out.  A young woman with glazed, love-filled eyes brushed by, trailing an exploratory finger up April’s arm.  April lurched forward at the contact, but then checked herself.  It wouldn’t be long, though, before that control slipped entirely away, the hunger eating her rationale because she wouldn’t give it anything more substantial.  The hollow defeat in April’s eyes as she watched her potential meal slide into a waiting car suggested she knew this, that she was merely holding off against the inevitable for as long as she could.

Joshua had a fix for that.

“Hi, April,” he said as he approached.

Her gaze flicked to him.  She didn’t seem surprised he was there.  “You’ve come to finish what you started.”  Although the greeting was the same one she’d used the week before, it was no longer a declaration of fact, but instead a tired plea.
“Yeah.”  He gave her a long look.  They were both alone in this world, unwilling freaks of other people’s machinations.  There was no reason either of them needed to die because of it, and there was every reason the ones who refused to tolerate their aberrant presence should.  

Joshua moved closer, leaning in to whisper his proposal in April’s ear.  At first she shook her head in vehement refusal, eyes wide with horror and panic.  But, as he continued talking, her expression took on a darker, more predatory glow.  

She would be his teeth.  He would teach her how to use them, to repeat the mistake he’d made and paid for.  Only this time it wouldn’t be an accident.  And it wouldn’t be just once.

Every shift in history could be traced back to one moment, a single event that set the wheels turning.  

This moment was the axis for the downfall of the vampires.

The beat of the rave thrummed through Joshua as he twined his fingers around April’s and led her inside.  The sweat-infused damp wrapped them in a warm cocoon as their future army bobbed in cadence under the prismatic spotlights. 

RESONANCE cut scene #3

This scene is from the first incarnation of the novel.  It made it through one or two editing rounds, and then I cut it out, mostly for brevity’s sake, but also because I didn’t like the tone it set for Res and Wyatt’s relationship.  But, it’s an amusing read on its own.  It takes place just after the Massawangee Cypress Swamp Stone trial when Resonance is talking to the necromancers about her mother’s growing interest in Doug, and dissipating trust in her daughter.


     “I’m sorry.  If there’s anything I can do,” Wyatt said.

      “You can give me a paycheck,” Resonance said.

     “I’m sorry, what did you say?”  Wyatt’s eyes widened.
     “You know what I said.”  She gave a cool shrug.  “I’ve kinda been telling Mom I’ve been coming here for on-the-job-training for the past two weeks.  I told her it was without pay, which she flipped over, but then I told her it would be given to me in back pay after the three month probation period.”  She paused to gauge Wyatt’s reaction–which took the form of a bulging vein in the middle of his forehead. “Soon, though,” she continued, biting back a smile, “she’s going to start harping on me about bringing home a check, so I thought you could just write me one.  Eight hundred ought to cover it.”
     “I–don’t, I…” Wyatt stammered.
     “Come on, I won’t even cash it.  I just need to show her something to get her off my back.”
     “I can’t just… Why didn’t you…?”  He turned an accusatory stare on Quinn. “Did you know about this?”
      Quinn looked nonplussed.
     “We haven’t been talking too much lately,” she answered, voice flat, eyes daring Quinn to speak.  She shrugged again.  “It’s no big deal, really.  You don’t have to do it.  Of course, Mom might come knocking on your door, demanding to know why I haven’t gotten paid.  She would, you know.  She thinks I’m a drooling idiot.  Even worse, she’ll accuse me of funneling it all up my arm and turn me over to some rehab clinic in upstate New York, which would severely hamper my saving the world and all.”
     “Are you always this manipulative?”  Wyatt asked, the first hint of a smile crinkling the corners of his eyes.
     “Pretty much.”  She flashed a wolfish grin.
     “Why don’t you just get a job?”
     “Please.  I can barely look at people, let alone work with them.  Besides, you’d rather have me here, memorizing all of your family journals and magic books and becoming your personal reference set, right?”
“I’ll see what I can do,” Wyatt said, shaking his head.  “You are a little extortionist aren’t you?”
“If I was that bad, I’d make you give me cash.”
“Thanks so much,” Wyatt replied dryly.  “If your mother has questions”–he sighed audibly–“tell her to call me.”

The Contest Winners

Thanks to everyone for playing!  I considered all of your stories of rebellion with a sincere amount of gravity and reflection.  After a difficult choice I have decreed the three winners to be:

1) The Walking Man — For standing up against generational expectations, and sheer determination to stay the course.

2) Christina — For CIA-like antics that could have resulted in a field trip to jail had you encountered a more surly police officer.

2) Jenn Sommersby — For teenaged rebellion that truly resonates with Resonance’s own youthful backlash.

Winners, email me at averydebow(at) and tell me which format you’d prefer your eBook to be delivered in: PRC (for Kindle), or ePUB (for Barnes and Noble or iBookstore).

Thanks again to everyone who played.  I had fun reading your little tales of badness.

Contest Ends Friday at Noon

If you haven’t shared your story of youthful rebellion with me, now’s the time to do it.  If I decide it is in the top three, then you’ll win a free copy of RESONANCE–your choice of ebook format (PRC for Kindle, or ePUB for Barnes & Noble or iBookstore).

I’m looking forward to hearing about your dark side!

Win a copy of RESONANCE!

Now that RESONANCE is officially settled in on Kindle, Barnes and Noble, and the iBookstore, I’m thinking I’ll celebrate with an ebook giveaway contest.  To celebrate the characters’–urm–colorful natures, I would like you to read the deleted scene below, and then tell me in the comment section about something you did as an act of rebellion in your younger days.  The three best (decided by me on whatever whim I so choose) will receive an eBook copy of RESONANCE in the file format of their choice: E-Pub (for B&N’s Nook store or iBookstore), or PRC (for Kindle).

It doesn’t have to be a masterful piece of prose, just tell me what you did and I’ll decide if I love it.  That simple.


Spider Flashback Deleted Scene:

Resonance had been a reluctant transfer student dropped in a lions’ den of scholastic and social overachievement, forced to play dead just to survive.  There was a big kid who sat near the back in her mandatory freshman music class, one of those boys who had no doubt started eighth grade normal-sized, but freakishly grew a foot in every direction over the summer.  His broad shoulders were the perfect shelter, forming a jersey-clad wall for her to hide behind, unheard and unseen.  Not even her classmates seemed to realize she was more than another empty chair at the back of the class.  Except him—the one with the mohawk.  He noticed.
It was his pattern to slouch into the room, fling himself into the chair diagonal to hers, and do nothing for the first half an hour.  Then, as regular as clockwork, he would turn and look at her, his eyes searching her face as if to be sure she hadn’t died or turned to stone, his constant sneer deepening enough with what he saw to drive her further into the shadows. A few seconds later, he would turn back around, and finish off the class with another ten minutes of apathy. 
One February afternoon, however, he did more than that.
Outside the classroom window snow drifted down, covering the grass and cars.  Resonance stared hopefully at the defiantly clear blacktop, absently mouthing the words to the week’s song.  Knuckles rapped on her desk.  She started, and looked up into the rabbity face of Mr. Bilke.
“Since you are so intent on the song today, Miss Murphy,” maybe you should grace us with a solo.”
Her heart dropped to her feet.  Her body felt numb, leaden, as every set of eyes in the room—all those gazes she had strived to avoid for so long—fixed on her.  “I– I can’t,” she squeaked.
“You can’t?”
“Why?  Because you haven’t paid attention all year?”  The class snickered.  Fueled by their amusement, Mr. Bilke continued, “Because you hide behind your hair and pretend this class doesn’t exist?  That we don’t exist?”
Resonance prayed she would stop existing.
“I’ll do it.”  All of those burning gazes and curved mouths turned away at the voice. She retreated behind her wall into the soothing shade.  
“Very well, Andrew,” Mr. Bilke said, his tone one of utter astonishment.
“It’s Spider.” The chair ahead and to the right of hers screeched back and the boy with the mohawk curled out of his chair.  He looked back, threw her a conspiratorial wink and strode up to the platform.  Mr. Bilke moved towards his piano. Spider didn’t wait for the music.  He gave the class a cockeyed leer, turned, dropped his shredded jeans and belted out his version of the day’s song, shouting, “It’s-the-age-of-my-hairy-ass,” at the top of his lungs. 
Her teacher and classmates froze. Their paralysis was intoxicating.  For once, Resonance forgot to hide.  She craned her neck for a better look—and laughed.
Fortunately for Spider, Zero Tolerance had not made its way into schools, yet.  Two months later, after his in-school suspension was over, he walked back into the classroom.  Mr. Bilke seethed at his piano.  The students whispered and tittered, re-living the now infamous scene.  Resonance leaned forward and looked him in the eyes, her chin lifted almost defiantly.  The side of his mouth twitched upwards, and her face split into a grin.  He took the chair beside her.

Now it’s your turn. Tell me what you did as a youth to shake up the Establishment. It could win you a novel! I will post the winners next Friday afternoon, so be sure to get your story to me no later than noon (that’s EST for you non-East Coasters out there).

Free Excerpt of RESONANCE–Right Here!

Kindle has offered up a free, embed-able sneak peek of Resonance‘s innards.  Now, I love innards, and there are a lot of them here (255 pages!) so I feel compelled to share them with you.  So, get started.  No clicky links, no downloading software, just move your eyes a bit south and you’re good to go!  Be sure to pop back in later this week for a contest where you can win a copy of the entire eBook.  Yep.  Even more innards, hundreds of pages more–free. Until then, read and enjoy:

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RESONANCE cut scene #2

I have another fallen scene for you, today. This one used to be where the current Wyatt, Quinn and the Grim scene is. I liked it, very much, but I needed to replace it with a scene that forwarded the story as well as revealed more about the characters. So, this scene got the axe and the Grim arose in its place. Reading it again, I kind of miss this one.


Wyatt seized Quinn’s arm, dragging him backward.

They stood at a safe distance, watching tiny forms materialize like mist from a garden hose sprayed into the summer air. With the haze came first the smell of flowers, heady and sweet. As the clouds gave themselves a shadow of form, the odor became the suffocating stench of earth, bone and blood. The infantile hazes lingered there, straining to form in the cloying scent of their graves.

“This isn’t possible,” Quinn said.

“Apparently it is,” Wyatt’s forehead creased into a frown. “These children’s astral corpses have always been different. They’ve been here for a very long time, trapped in their graves by some form of magic.”

“Still, astral corpses don’t just jump up out of their coffins to say hello.”

“I think our power called to them.”

“How? That’s never happened before and we’ve passed this site dozens of times.”

“Maybe it’s that change we’ve been feeling, some outside factor allowing them to contact us.” Wyatt gazed thoughtfully at the shades for a few more moments, and then sighed. “Whatever caused it, we have to try to release them, or at least put them back. We can’t leave them hovering here like this. I should have helped them a long time ago… Before something like this… Stupid to leave them there, tortured…” Wyatt trailed off, his face a mask of misery and self-loathing.

Quinn gave his uncle a modicum of privacy by turning his attention to the materializing spirits. He closed his eyes, quieted his mind, and connected with the spark inside that fed his ability. Instantly, his head filled with a clamor of tiny voices, all howling for his attention. The spirit children’s plaintive calls stirred a mixture of horror and pity within him.

“They want our help,” he said. “They’re angry.”

“They were unfairly treated when they were tethered to their graves, and now that they have our attention, they want something done about it.” Wyatt’s voice held the detached quality Quinn had come to associate with the practitioner aspect of his uncle’s personality. “They want their turn to live.”

Initially, he had found his uncle’s removed professionalism cold and uncaring. Soon enough, though, he learned it was the only way to survive the continual parade of grief that, if not exactly brought on by him, was reinforced by his actions as both an aspiring mortician and necromancer.

The spirits writhed in the shadows, arms beseeching them to draw near enough to bring them to life. He shuddered, chills wracking his body. The sun still beat down mercilessly, but, for all he could tell, it shone on a different planet.

For these children, it did.

“They don’t know their bodies aren’t around anymore?” he whispered, careful not to draw their attention further.


Power prickled along his skin, but this time it was the familiar–if not particularly pleasant–magic of Wyatt. He moved to stand beside his uncle. Although he was not certain what his uncle was about to do, he allowed his power to surge to the surface.

His heart constricted as their tiny consciousnesses reacted, channeling the hope of life towards him. Their momentary glee filled his mind. Mommy and Daddy, play, laughter, friends, love. It sliced through his chest–a knife edged so sharp with longing it nearly cleaved his heart. Then, he followed Wyatt’s lead and sealed it off, severing the painful link of humanity between them.

The only thing they had left in common now was death.

It was a lie to say he and Wyatt brought the deceased back to life. They only re-delivered them to the grave.

Wyatt had begun chanting, low and steady. He added his voice to the melody of the Release–the incantation used when freeing a Raised spirit. For a moment, the specters became clearer, solidified by both their struggle to become material and their outrage at their perceived betrayal.

A cry arose among them, a horrific, screeching parody of their living peers. Over the din his uncle raised his voice as his hands spread in the air, casting his supplication to the Beyond.

As suddenly as it began, the noise ceased. The spirits dissipated without further struggle, vanishing like powder in a breeze.

They were left standing by the graves, both of them breathless from the effort, and on his part, wretched guilt.

Want to Put on My Shoes?

Did you ever wonder what it feels like to have prompts thrown at you?  Ever wonder how it feels to come up with a story based on random spewings from other peoples’ minds?  Well, now you can live the dream.  D. Lynn Fraizer is sponsoring a very cool flash fiction writing contest over at her blog, WrittenWyrrd.  She previously asked readers for prompts (I missed that part, sorry), and came up with a spine-tingling paragraph for writers to use as a basis/inspiration for an urban fantasy flash fiction story.  You can find the prompt and the rest of the details, here.

So, come on.  Jump in the prompt pool and see how well you can freestyle.  The deadline for entries is midnight on Sunday, August 22.