The Lacanto Project

Here is another snippet for #ssfsat from my dystopian science fantasy novel THE LACANTO PROJECT for which I am actively seeking an agent/publisher. THE LACANTO PROJECT  is about an assassin who discovers that she is the genetic link necessary for the rise of a prophet in a dystopian world.

In this scene, Devon takes Nashi to the morgue to identify the body of her slain mentor.

***

Devon led Nashi to Vault-18 and pulled open the square door, bringing a body with it. Holding up the lantern so that its light reflected down on the corpse, he snapped back the sheath that covered the cadaver and stepped aside.

She shut her eyes for a moment and then gazed at the gray body, haunting in the dim light, and she suddenly went numb.

“Well?” Devon said in a razor sharp tone.

Nashi took a deep breath. She had seen hundreds of dead people, most having been her victims, either killed during practice or on her missions, but she had never seen one she knew as intimately as Tamron. Viewing his naked still body lying on the metal slab left a hollowness in the pit of her gut. It were as if a piece of her lay on the table.

Devon hung the lantern on a hook above the vault and moved the corpse’s head from side-to-side. She saw the small puncture wounds behind Tamron’s earlobes, an indication to the tortuous nature of his death.

The Yellow Stone

Here's something less gruesome for Science Fiction and Fantasy Saturday, a snippet from my short story, "The Yellow Stone." "The Yellow Stone" was first published in 2009 by Eternal Press. It can now be found in SPECULATIVE JOURNEYS, available at amazon.com. The premise for this story arose out of the events of 9/11 with the following thought: "It is not what people look like that defines a nation, it is how they live." This excerpt is the opening scene of the story.

***

Lozan Kiowa entered her village just before dawn. She could hear the thrum quieting as whispers rose above the RAT-tat-tat-tat-tat and echoed off the canyon walls. Wars songs, in another time, but for her the inaudible chants signified another failed journey and reinforced the other villagers' suspicion that maybe there wasn't anyone out there.

With a strong desire not to become a disbeliever, Lozan trudged into her family's adobe and found Moma Kiowa laying on her bedroll. Her grandmother struggled to her feet and hobbled over to her with wide arms.

"Lozan, the early winter winds have brought you home." The old woman spoke with a guttural voice, like someone had tossed pebbles down her throat and they rattled every time she opened her mouth. She squeezed what remained of Lozan's strength right out of her.

"Low-spirits brought us back," Lozan said. "That and a longing for home."

The poignant smile on Moma's face gave Lozan little reassurance that there really was a place called home. Certainly, this village was not it. Her people had lived in the canyons for centuries, but it never felt quite right to her.

The Lacanto Project

Here is a snippet for Science Fiction and Fantasy Saturday. This is another excerpt taken from my dystopian science fantasy novel, THE LACANTO PROJECT, for which I am actively seeking an agent/publisher. THE LACANTO PROJECT is about an assassin who discovers that she is the genetic link needed for the rise of a prophet in a dystopian world. This scene is near the middle of the story when the secondary character, Devon Han, finds his lover dead.

***

Devon hovered in Sadie Jane’s bedroom doorway, gazing at her naked body laying on the bloodied carpet. An icy pain rammed down his throat, and he forced his legs to move toward her in small, quivering steps. She wore a red wig, the one with the long soft ringlets, his favorite, which was now tainted with blood. Her middle breast had been sliced off, and a knife had been put in its place between the two remaining breasts. Her arms were folded over her abdomen, a knife thrust into her hands, locking them together. Another blade was jammed in her overlapping feet, and eight additional blades purged the sides of her body.

He trembled looking at the grotesque sight before him, its symbolism clear as the ominous shroud that cloaked his soul. Eleven blades thrust into the body of an intimately acquainted redhead at places that were eternally and painfully engraved in his mind.

His breaths came in spastic waves, and he fell to his knees. He stroked Sadie Jane’s swan-like neck, cold and gray, and inspected the base of her head and around her ears with probing fingers. And there it was.

Europa

Below is my snippet for Science Fiction and Fantasy Saturday from my short story, "Europa."  "Europa" can be read in its entirety in SPECULATIVE JOURNEYS, and at Smashwords.

 "Lieutenant Cordelli, return to the Explorer with Lieutenant Clay in one hour.  That's an order.  We'll remain in orbit and prepare the shuttle for another surface landing.  We will not abandon Lieutenant Duval."

 One hour.

 Jouno perched himself on the edge of despair, the thought of leaving Europa, with Rylie alone beneath the ground, numbing him. The late afternoon shadows cast gloom across the landscape that not so long ago had mesmerized him by its uniqueness. Soon it would be dark. Above, he saw two sister-moons and wondered how much light they would reflect down upon him. 

He leaned toward the view-screen, his heart sinking into his gut. Rylie had opened the weird looking triangle and walked through it--and then she disappeared.

"The Yellow Stone" is available at Amazon.com. as part of the SPECULATIVE JOURNEYS anthology.  It is the story about a woman's journey to find her people centuries after the super volcano known to reside beneath Yellow Stone National Park erupted.

"Giving in to Peer Pressure," or, "Why I must Blog"

I remember when life was simple. Back then, there were few organized sports. A team consisted of the neighborhood kids gathering in the street for a game of kick-ball. Summer evenings were best spent sitting on the front porch talking to neighbors, drinking root beer floats and dreaming about a future filled with technology. There were no remote controls--the TV channel turner was but a few yards from your seat--or cell phones. A manuscript was written on a typewriter, not a computer. Surfing was when you took your board to the beach and "blogging" was a misspelled word.

The world is different now. Faster. Spell check, email ... have changed the writing industry. And yes, I've been told, it is an industry. No longer is having a talent for writing enough. A writer must be marketable. She must have a web site, facebook page, twitter account, and of course a blog.

While attending the Penn Writers' Conference a few weeks ago, David Pomerico, Assistant Editor at Del Rey Spectra, stressed how important it is for writers to blog. A woman in the audience challenged him. Why is a blog necessary when it takes away time a writer should be working on her current story? and why would an editor or agent shun a writer who didn't blog? This opened up a dialog, which, I might add, Mr. Pomerico seemed to welcome. After the conference, this dialog continued in many Penn Writers' members' blogs. YES, I was that woman. So I sit her today, blogging. Why? Because writing is not just an industry, it is a TOUGH industry. Have I given in to peer pressure? Me? Never. I'm a writer. I write any time, any place, and nobody tells me how.