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Thursday, May 30, 2019

Captive Truth by Karen Stary #contemporaryfiction #poker



Captive Truth

Karen Stary

Genre: contemporary fiction

Publisher: Can’t Put it Down Books

Date of Publication: May 15, 2019

ISBN: 978-0-9994623-4-8
ASIN: B07PMDPJ37

Number of pages: 278
Word Count: 127,455

Cover Artist: Eric Labacz

Book Description:

A mercenary, a gambler, and a warlord are drawn together for a high stakes poker game. The trophy: a woman, Christine. They are men of unquestionable wealth, indomitable power, and overwhelming guilt; each is enchanted by Christine’s alluring beauty and each relentlessly desires to have her for himself.

Life has left Christine unable to form meaningful emotional relationships. However, without the ability to appeal emotionally to her male captors she is not only jeopardizing her own fate, but also the fate of other women as well. Alone, with only the three men who have come to mean so much to her, Christine must use not only her wits but her compassion to extricate herself.  Will she become one man’s prized possession, or can she regain her sense of self?

Stary’s complex plot keeps the reader guessing as she explores some of today’s most controversial issues for women.
  

Excerpt

He clears his throat again. I look up. His head gives a slight tilt as if to suggest, “Why not?” His eyes squint, inviting me to have faith in the unknown. Charmed by the smile in those eyes, I relax and take a sip of coffee. He speaks. “So…let me, at least, introduce myself…my name is Cameron Dawson…and your name is…?” His pause leaves the question dangling over a precipice of foreboding. I retrieve the answer before I plummet.
“Christine…Christine Ledge.”
“Now, that wasn’t so difficult, was it?”
He seems to know me too well. I cannot release the shadow of familiarity about this Mr. Dawson. I had this same sensation the moment I first pressed against his arm at the concert. I had ignored that feeling because I had thought that I probably would never see him again. But like a relentless itch, it is a thought that aches to be scratched. So, I take a breath and scratch.
“Have we met before?”
“Last night at the concert and then later in the hall!” a bit too quick and a bit too tidy. I am not satisfied.
“No, before last night. I feel that we had met before last night.”
No response. He sips his coffee. I sip my coffee and allow its warmth to appease his evasiveness. Obviously, I had just trespassed over some line. Because there is no need to ruin this moment, I allow his hesitancy to pass. After a moment he stirs in his seat.
“Did you enjoy the concert?” It is obvious that he wants to change the subject. But, I am a female. And his abrupt shifting is troubling. I disconnect from my unfounded hunches.
“Oh, the concert…well…yes…of course, I enjoyed the concert.”
Last night’s images block any coherent reply. Fractured conversations interfere…caressing words serenaded by the music opened wounds as I recall pressing up against him. And so, I stare at him now and think about how it would be to lie naked next to this man, to physically be touched by him. I harangue myself over my intimate urges. I flip my head back trying to shake off the irrational desire. However, I cannot let go of last night’s encounter between this Mr. Dawson and some young man in a questionable financial exchange to obtain the seat next to mine. Suddenly, I am wary of how much I should trust this man seated across from me.
 Watching me carefully, he tilts his head as if to pardon any past indiscretions. He seems able to read my misgivings. This veil of deception must dissipate to have more clarity. And for that to happen, I must be more forthright, too.
“No, Mr. Dawson, to be quite frank, I did not enjoy the concert last night. I really struggled to sit through it.” Then to continue this openness, “Was that obvious?”
“I did sense you were a bit uncomfortable.” His polite delivery seems sincere enough.
Trying to inject some humor to lift the heavy tone: “You mean since each time I banged into your arm, you got a new ‘black and blue’?”
“Actually, I rather liked the banging in spite of all those black and blues.”
“You did, did you?” There is a pause; I am more comfortable with this exchange. “I’m really sorry; I didn’t mean to be so abusive.”
“No, no…no apology needed. What I meant by the banging was not because of that… but, yes, because of that, too…More because I found you quite intriguing as you squirmed about like you had hemorrhoids or some serious itch in the seat of your pants.” His humor releases any lingering veiled suppositions.
“Oh, I hope it wasn’t that annoying…I should have gotten up and left so that you would have enjoyed the show better.”
“No, no, really don’t feel put off…because…to tell the truth… I rather enjoyed watching you watching the singer.”



About the Author:

Author Karen Stary is a resident of San Diego, California, and a native of New Jersey who spent her summers on the Jersey Shore. She writes about the fragile relationships between women and men in today’s world. Stary asserts that women have yet to realize their true potential: to achieve something greater than any woman who came before them.



Wednesday, May 29, 2019

The Hierophant’s Daughter by M. F. Sullivan #LGBTQ #Horror #Cyberpunk



The Hierophant’s Daughter
The Disgraced Martyr Trilogy
Book One
M. F. Sullivan

Genre: LGBTQ Horror/Cyberpunk

Publisher: Painted Blind Publishing



Date of Publication: May 19th, 2019

ISBN: 9780996539579

Number of pages: 298 (Paperback)
Word Count: about 100,000

Cover Artist: Nuno Moreira

Tagline: Dive into the first volume of a bleak cyberpunk tahgmahr you can't afford to miss. What would you sacrifice to survive?

Book Description:

By 4042 CE, the Hierophant and his Church have risen to political dominance with his cannibalistic army of genetically modified humans: martyrs. In an era when mankind's intergenerational cold wars against their long-lived predators seem close to running hot, the Holy Family is poised on the verge of complete planetary control. It will take a miracle to save humanity from extinction.

It will also take a miracle to resurrect the wife of 331-year-old General Dominia di Mephitoli, who defects during martyr year 1997 AL in search of Lazarus, the one man rumored to bring life to the dead. With the Hierophant's Project Black Sun looming over her head, she has little choice but to believe this Lazarus is really all her new friends say he is--assuming he exists at all--and that these companions of hers are really able to help her. From the foulmouthed Japanese prostitute with a few secrets of her own to the outright sapient dog who seems to judge every move, they don't inspire a lot of confidence, but the General has to take the help she can get.

After all, Dominia is no ordinary martyr. She is THE HIEROPHANT'S DAUGHTER, and her Father won't let her switch sides without a fight. Not when she still has so much to learn.

The dystopic first entry of an epic cyberpunk trilogy, THE HIEROPHANT’S DAUGHTER is a horror/sci-fi adventure sure to delight and inspire adult readers of all stripes.

Amazon     BN


Excerpt:
The Flight of the Governess


Ah, not Cassandra! Wake not her
Whom God hath maddened, lest the foe
Mock at her dreaming. Leave me clear
From that one edge of woe.
O Troy, my Troy, thou diest here
Most lonely; and most lonely we
The living wander forth from thee,
And the dead leave thee wailing!
—Euripides, The Trojan Women


The Disgraced Governess of the United Front was blind in her right eye. Was that blood in the left, or was it damaged, too? The crash ringing in her ears kept her from thinking straight. Of course her left eye still worked: it worked well enough to prevent her from careening into the trees through which she plunged. Yet, for the tinted flecks of reality sometimes twinkling between crimson streaks, she could only imagine her total blindness with existential horror. Would the protein heal the damage? How severely was her left eye wounded? What about the one she knew to be blind—was it salvageable? Ichigawa could check, if she ever made it to the shore.
She couldn’t afford to think that way. It was a matter of “when,” not of “if.” She would never succumb. Neither could car accident, nor baying hounds, nor the Hierophant himself keep her from her goal. She had fourteen miles to the ship that would whisk her across the Pacific and deliver her to the relative safety of the Risen Sun. Then the Lazarene ceremony would be less than a week away. Cassandra’s diamond beat against her heart to pump it into double time, and with each double beat, she thought of her wife (smiling, laughing, weeping when she thought herself alone) and ran faster. A lucky thing the Governess wasn’t human! Though, had she remained human, she’d have died three centuries ago in some ghetto if she’d lived past twenty without becoming supper. Might have been the easier fate, or so she lamented each time her mind replayed the crash of the passenger-laden tanque at fifth gear against the side of their small car. How much she might have avoided!
Of course—then she never would have known Cassandra. That made all this a reasonable trade. Cold rain softened the black earth to the greedy consistency of clay, but her body served where her eyes failed. The darkness was normally no trouble, but now she squinted while she ran and, under sway of a dangerous adrenaline high, was side-swiped by more than one twisting branch. The old road that was her immediate goal, Highway 128, would lead her to the coast of her favorite Jurisdiction, but she now had to rediscover that golden path after the crash’s diversion. In an effort to evade her pursuers, she had torn into a pear orchard without thought of their canine companions. Not that the soldiers of the Americas kept companions like Europa’s nobles. These dogs were tools. Well-honed, organic death machines with a cultivated taste for living flesh, whether martyr or human. The dogs understood something that most had forgotten: the difference between the two was untenable. Martyrs could tell themselves they were superior for an eternity, but it wouldn’t change the fact that the so-called master race and the humans they consumed were the same species.
That was not why Cassandra had died, but it hadn’t contributed to their marital bliss. And now, knowing what she did of the Hierophant’s intentions—thinking, always, what Cassandra would have said—the Governess pretended she was driven by that ghost, and not by her own hopelessness. Without the self-delusion, she was a victim to a great many ugly thoughts, foremost among them being: Was the fear of life after her wife’s death worth such disgrace? A death sentence? Few appreciated what little difference there was between human and martyr, and fewer cared, because caring was fatal. But she was a part of the Holy Family. Shouldn’t that have been all that mattered? Stunning how, after three centuries, she deserved to be treated no better than a human. Then again, there was nothing quite like resignation from one’s post to fall in her Father’s estimate. Partly, he was upset by her poor timing—she did stand him up at some stupid press event, but only because she hoped it would keep everybody occupied while she got away. In that moment, she couldn’t even remember what it was. Dedicating a bridge? Probably. Her poor head, what did the nature of the event matter when she was close to death?
That lapse in social graces was not the reason for this hunt. He understood that more lay behind her resignation than a keening for country life. Even before he called her while she and the others took the tanque to the coast, he must have known. Just like he must have known the crash was seconds from happening while he chatted away, and that the humans in her company, already nervous to be within a foot of the fleeing Governess, were doomed.
Of the many people remaining on Earth, those lumped into the group of “human” were at constant risk of death, mutilation, or—far worse—unwilling martyrdom. This meant those humans lucky enough to avoid city-living segregation went to great lengths to keep their private properties secure. Not only houses but stables. The Disgraced Governess found this to be true of the stables into which she might have stumbled and electrocuted herself were it not for the bug zaps of rain against the threshold’s surface. Her mind made an instinctive turn toward prayer for the friendliness of the humans in the nearby farmhouse—an operation she was quick to abort. In those seconds (minutes?) since the crash, she’d succeeded in reconstructing the tinted windows of the tanque and a glimpse of silver ram’s horns: the Lamb lurked close enough to hear her like she spoke into his ear. It was too much to ask that he be on her side tonight.
Granted, the dogs of the Lamb were far closer, and far more decisive about where their loyalties stood. One hound sank its teeth into her ankle, and she, crying out, kicked the beast into its closest partner with a crunch. Slower dogs snarled outrage in the distance while the Disgraced Governess ran to the farmhouse caught in her left periphery. The prudent owners, to her frustration, shuttered their windows at night. Nevertheless, she smashed her fist against the one part of the house that protruded: the doorbell required by the Hierophant’s “fair play” dictatum allowing the use of electronic barriers. As the humans inside stumbled out of bed in response to her buzzing, the Disgraced Governess unholstered her antique revolver and unloaded two rounds into the recovered canines before they were upon her. The discharge wasn’t a tip-off she wanted to give to the Lamb and her other pursuers, but it hastened the response of the sleeping farmers as the intercom crackled to life.
“Who is it?” A woman’s voice, quivering with an edge of panic.
“My name is Dominia di Mephitoli: I’m the former Governess of the United Front, and I need to borrow a horse. Please. Don’t let me in. Just drop the threshold on your stables.”
“The Governess? I’m sorry, I don’t understand. The Dominia di Mephitoli, really? The martyr?”
“Yes, yes, please. I need a horse now.” Another dog careened around the corner and leapt over the bodies of his comrades with such grace that she wasted her third round in the corpses. Two more put it down as she shouted into the receiver. “I can’t transfer you any credits because they’ve frozen my Halcyon account, but I’ll leave you twenty pieces of silver if you drop the threshold and loan me a horse. You can reclaim it at the docks off Bay Street, in the township of Sienna. Please! He’ll kill me.”
“And he’ll be sure to kill us for helping you.”
“Tell him I threatened you. Tell him I tricked you! Anything. Just help me get away!”
“He’ll never believe what we say. He’ll kill me, my husband, our children. We can’t.”
“Oh, please. An act of mercy for a dying woman. Please, help me leave. I can give you the name of a man in San Valentino who can shelter you and give you passage abroad.”
“There’s no time to go so far south. Not as long as it takes to get across the city.”
It had been ten seconds since she’d heard the last dog. That worried her. With her revolver at the ready, she scanned the area for something more than the quivering roulette blotches swelling in her right eye. Nothing but the dead animals. “He’ll kill you either way. For talking to me, and not keeping me occupied until his arrival. For knowing that there’s disarray in his perfect land. He’ll find a reason, even if it only makes sense to him.”
The steady beat of rain pattered out a passive answer. On the verge of giving up, Dominia stepped back to ready herself for a fight—and the house’s threshold dropped with an electric pop. The absent mauve shimmer left the façade bare. How rare to see a country place without its barrier! A strange thing. Stranger for the front door to open; she’d only expected them to do away with the threshold on the stables.
But, rather than the housewife she’d anticipated, there stood the Hierophant. Several bleak notions clicked into place.
One immaculate gray brow arched. “Now, Dominia, that’s hardly fair. Knowledge of your disgrace isn’t why I’ll kill them. The whole world will know of it tomorrow morning. You embarrassed me by sending your resignation, rather than making the appearance I asked of you, so it is only fair I embarrass you by rejecting your resignation and firing you publicly. No, my dear. I will kill these fine people to upset you. In fact, Mr. McLintock is already dead in the attic. A mite too brave. Of course”—he winked, and whispered in conspiracy—“don’t tell them that.”
“How did you know I’d come here?”
“Such an odd spurt of rain tonight. Of all your Jurisdictions, this one is usually so dry this time of year! Won’t you come in for tea? Mrs. McLintock brews a fine pot. But put that gun away. You’re humiliating yourself. And me.”



About the Author:


M.F. Sullivan is the author of Delilah, My Woman, The Lightning Stenography Device, and a slew of plays in addition to the Trilogy. She lives in Ashland, Oregon with her boyfriend and her cat, where she attends the local Shakespeare Festival and experiments with the occult.

Find more information about her work (and plenty of free essays) at https://www.paintedblindpublishing.com



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Tuesday, May 28, 2019

Release Day Blitz Trudy Hicks Ghost Hunter Case Two-The Kept by Lori Zaremba


Trudy Hicks Ghost Hunter
Case Two-The Kept
Lori Zaremba

Genre: Paranormal Mystery

Publisher: Limitless Publishing

Date of Publication: 5/28/2019

ISBN-13: 978-1-64034-596-6 
ISBN-10: 1-64034-596-5
ASIN: B07RWMGKR2

Number of pages:248
Word Count: 7850


Tagline: Secrets of the past are about to turn deadly.



Book Description

If anyone tells you hunting ghosts is less dangerous than chasing down real-life criminals, they’re wrong. Very, very wrong.

Case two takes us to a New Jersey Shore Inn. A beautiful, yet dead opera singer seems to be begging for help, but her pleas do nothing but terrorize the locals.

While trying to decipher the clues to her 1919 disappearance, uncovering hair-raising horrors, it becomes clear that Jason and I no longer see eye-to-eye.

Jason wants me to stop meddling with the supernatural. He wants me to stop risking my life by interacting with demons and spirits.

What he doesn’t understand is this is my life. These tortured souls need my help in order to move on. How do I walk away from that—from them?

But the better question is—how do I walk away from him?



Trudy Hicks Ghost Hunter Case One- The Deceit


Excerpt 1

The wind was knocked out of her, and she had landed hard. Somewhere nearby, it was breathing heavily. She had to listen over the short gasps for air that passed her lips and the barking dog that was ramming against the other side of the locked door. Trudy lay there frozen, exhausted…but not ready to die. Finally able to breathe, she sucked in the precious air that her body denied her a minute ago and realized a couple of ribs might have broken. She could taste the blood from the gash on her upper lip.
Knowing she had to find her way out of the room, Trudy got shakily to her feet and craned her neck to look for a weapon, anything she could use to hurt or at least distract the invisible demon that was attacking her. Ducking out of the way of a lamp that flew through the air in her direction and a pair of projectile candlesticks that impaled the wall behind her, she quickly dove to crouch beside a desk where she had been working just a few minutes earlier.
What the hell happened? A voice screamed inside her head over the snarl of her attacker. She and Dana were packing up to leave. They had helped the troubled spirit of John Thomas crossover, and the priest was blessing the house. Everything was peaceful. It was one of the most straightforward investigations to date. She even called Jason, who was coming to help her wrap up before taking her to his friend’s cottage on a nearby lake, telling him to take his time. She truly believed she had everything under control.
Rocky, the dog she recently rescued, was now howling, and she could hear Dana calling to her. Both sounded distraught. She knew if a miracle didn’t happen soon, she might be a goner.
Trudy felt the dark, rotten energy coming toward her again in a rush. Overcome by the smell of sulfur that made her gasp and stung her eyes, she willed her broken body to tumble under a nearby table then roll again when the thing picked that up and slammed it down, nearly crushing her.
Jumping awkwardly to her feet, mindless of her pain, Trudy felt a low vibration. Pictures from the wall and books from the shelves came at her at a high rate of speed. It took every bit of focus she had to block the onslaught of household items now being used as weapons of mass destruction. Trudy noticed a crucifix that had been hanging on the wall sailing past her on her right, and she grabbed it before dropping and crawling between the couch and coffee table. She could feel the vise-like grip around her ankle. Now what? She kicked her free leg in the hope of making some contact but found only air.
It pulled her rapidly toward the center of the room.
“Let go of me, you bastard!” Grabbing on to one of the desk legs, Trudy held on with every bit of strength she had left, but whatever was yanking her was too strong and pulled her free. Watching in awe and horror as the desk rocketed to the ceiling,where it hung suspended. With the crucifix still in her hand, she bellowed, “Stop in the name of Jesus Christ.”  The activity stopped for a short, sweet moment, and Trudy sucked in a shaky breath.
A low rumbling started, and before she knew it, the coffee table and sofa lifted to join the desk on the ceiling directly above her.
She weakly held up the cross again and watched in horror as the furnishings dropped loudly, piece by piece in rapid succession to the floor, nearly missing her as she awkwardly somersaulted out of the way. Trudy, lying in the fetal position in among the busted furniture, waited for the next attack. The room was quiet and still. She tried to climb to her knees, but the pain in her midsection stopped her. Suddenly lightheaded, she gasped for air as nausea consumed her.
The energy in the room changed, and a swirling mist appeared to gather around her. Am I dying? The images around her grew fuzzy. From somewhere behind, she heard a loud bang, and before she knew what was happening, she was tumbling into open space.


About the Author:

Lori Zaremba is a full-time Internet Sales Manager and writes Web Content as well as providing Copy Editing for businesses in the Greater Pittsburgh Area. Lori has published short ghost stories on Your Ghost Stories, as the Haunted_Cleaner and on her website lorizaremba.com

On her website, lorizaremba.com, Zaremba refers to herself as the ghost magnet and briefly describes her encounters with departing spirits.

Lori began writing her fiction story as a creative offering of why a ghost would haunt.  Before long the story became a novel Case One: The Deceit in the Trudy Hicks Ghost Hunter series.

Lori currently lives in the suburbs of Pittsburgh with her husband Wayne and two fur babies Jaxson and Stewie.






Warlock from Wales by Shereen Vedam #PNR #FantasyRomance #HistoricalFantasy



Warlock from Wales
The Cauldron Effect
Book Two
Shereen Vedam

Genre: Fantasy Regency Romance, PNR

Date of Publication:  May 21, 2019

ISBN: 978-1-989036-01-3
ASIN: B07NYV3X3M

Number of pages: 284
Word Count: 86,890

Cover Artist: Desiree DeOrto

Tagline: A historian in search of truth. A warlock charged to stop her.

Book Description:

When Hugh is yanked from his apprenticeship and summarily assigned to guard a human female, he is justly incensed.

But when a water demon snatches her from under his nose, he sets off on a desperate race to save her, and prove he is a warlock to be reckoned with.

Excerpt:
The Honorable Mary Bryght, eighteen-year-old daughter of the late Viscount Holywell, faltered and came to a startled halt. She’d been traveling through the woods to her friend's home to deliver some astonishingly grand news about her brother. A sound drew her gaze toward a strand of willows that drank from a small pond. There, a stranger in a dark cape watched her, tapping a riding crop against his Hessians. At the malevolence emanating from him, the hairs on Mary’s arms stood to attention.
In the space of one glance, her mood shifted from cheerful to fearful. She swallowed, tasting dread, and swiftly gauged how fast she must run to reach Rose’s cottage before this stranger’s long strides reached her. She took one deep breath in readiness to sprint, when the man appeared at her side, his large hand grasping her upper arm so hard it pinched.
She cried out. He dropped his riding crop and covered her mouth with his hand, swamping her senses with a pungent aroma of horse sweat and leather.
Fifteen feet! That’s how far away he’d been. Yet, he had closed the distance between them as if it had only been two feet. Heart pounding in terror, she kicked his shin, bit hard onto a gloved finger and with her free hand, punched his throat as her father had taught her.
He grunted and loosened his grip.

Mary tore away and ran. Within a half dozen steps her body froze. There was no other way to describe the bizarre experience. She could not shift one foot, one hand, one finger. She was a statue in mid-motion.

About the Author:

Once upon a time, USA Today bestselling author Shereen Vedam read fantasy and romance novels to entertain herself. Now she writes heartwarming tales braided with threads of magic and love and mystery elements woven in for good measure.

Shereen's a fan of resourceful women, intriguing men, and happily-ever-after endings. If her stories whisk you away to a different realm for a few hours, then Shereen will have achieved one of her life goals.

Visit Shereen’s official website: http://www.shereenvedam.com

Sign up for her newsletter: https://www.subscribepage.com/c9u7e6





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Extinction Of All Children by L.J. Epps #darkfantasy #fantasyfiction


Extinction Of All Children
Book One
L.J. Epps

Genre:  Fantasy Fiction, Dark Fantasy

Publisher:  L.J. Epps

Date of Publication:  06/03/2016

ISBN: 978-0-9971913-3-2
ASIN: B01GM2YTHE

Number of pages: 250
Word Count: 79,826

Cover Artist:  Damonza.com

Tagline: What would you do if you were the last eighteen-year-old in the territory?  Join Emma on a wild ride and find out how she survives this fate.

Book Description:

The futuristic world of Craigluy has been divided into three territories and three economic classes. A large wall separates the territories, so the poor cannot mingle with the rich.

Since President Esther, the ruler over all of Craigluy, believes the poor do not have adequate means to take care of children, they are no longer allowed to procreate. Pregnant mothers are imprisoned until their babies are born, then the infants are taken away.

Emma Whisperer is the last child to survive. She is the last child born in lower-class Territory L before the law was instituted in the year 2080. She is the last eighteen-year-old.

Emma struggles to understand why she was spared while others weren’t. She doesn’t like the laws and believes they should be repealed. Her family doesn’t agree with her; they discourage her rebellious streak. Yet, she helps them to cover up their own family rebellion. She helps them to hide a big secret, a secret that could be both disastrous and deadly for members of their family.

As she meets new people along the way, Emma learns who she can and cannot trust. And, in the end, she makes a gut-wrenching decision that may be disastrous for everyone.

She finds herself in danger for doing what she feels is right.

Amazon    BN


Get the entire series on Amazon

EXCERPT 2


My brain checks back in on the conversation. My mother is still going on about her day.
“I was able to pick up some fruit from the market. The apples and pears were fresh. We can have them for dessert on Sunday, along with the whipped cream Emma picked up.” She puts on a fake smile. “They don’t always have it, since it is only for special occasions. Thanks for going back to the store to get it. I forgot it when I was there earlier. I hope you didn’t have a hard time finding it.”
“It is fine, Mother,” I say, softly.
Sundays are special in Territory L. It is the day families are supposed to stay in and enjoy each other’s company. The day we get to eat chicken or fish, instead of beans and soup. It is the day we play old board games and read old books. Pears and apples are what my mother considers dessert. Maybe this Sunday will be even more special because we’re going to have whipped cream on our fruit. We never had it before. I guess whipped cream will make it look more desirable. So, while Territory U has pie and cake, we’ll have fruit with whipped cream topping.
“Is there any more milk?” Theodore asks.
“I had your sister pick some up on her way back.”
“Yes, T,” I say, chiming in. I always call him T, for short. “There is a fresh carton in the fridge. Try not to drink it all. It has to last for at least the next week.”
I watch as he narrows his eyes in my direction, then he stands with his glass in hand and goes to the kitchen. He is such a child, sometimes I can’t even tell he is nineteen.
“So, how was your day, Emma?” My father turns to me. He just put a spoonful of beans in his mouth. He clears his throat and continues. “I mean, before you ran that errand.”
Every time someone talks about the errand, I cringe. It is as if a knife has been put through my stomach because we have such a hard time even saying what the errand is. And the whole thing leaves a sour taste in my mouth. I try to forget about the errand, for now, and dwell on his question—how my day was.
“If you’re asking me if I found a job yet, I haven’t.” I take a sip of water. “There is not much to do around here.”
“There is, if you want to be cashier at the market or a salesperson at the clothing store.”
“Those aren’t real jobs. Sorry,” I add, glancing over at him.
He has always said it didn’t matter what the job is because any job, even if it isn’t glamorous, should be respected. Judging by the slant in his eyebrows that makes the lines in his forehead crease, he didn’t take kindly to what I just said.
“What I meant to say,” I continue, “is I want to go to college and be a doctor like you, Dad, or a teacher like Mom was. It is not fair—”
“We can’t keep having this discussion every night,” Mother cuts in, her voice curt. “I know it is disappointing that there are no colleges and no continued education for you. And I also know you don’t want any of the jobs the territory has to offer—”
“But that is the way it is, and you have to deal with it,” says Father, cutting her off.
“I’m not hungry anymore.” I push my plate aside.
I know it is foolish because around here you don’t always know where your next meal is coming from, but I can’t stomach the same conversation along with the same dry food every night.
“May I be excused?” I lower my head.
“Yes, Emma. You may.” My mother’s tone is soft. “And Em, things will get better,” she says with sad eyes.
She always says that. I think, more for herself than for me. But things never get better. They always stay the same, or get worse.


About the Author:

L.J. Epps is a lover of all things related to books: fiction and nonfiction novels, as well as biographies and autobiographies. She has also been known to sit and read comic books from cover to cover, several times over.

Over the last few years, L.J. has written several manuscripts; her mission is to publish all of them. She enjoys writing fiction in several genres, including contemporary romance and women’s fiction, as well as young adult dystopian, science fiction and fantasy. She loves to write because it immerses her into another world that is not her own.







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