Tina Yeager's Blog, page 11

The Snow Angel, Part Three

 Snow whirled across the windshield. Beyond the fervent wipers, churning flurries thickened the air. Lanes blurred together. The white glare ached on Amber’s bleary eyes.

Her chin drooped. Register buttons. Impatient customers. Talvert smacking the counter. The day drifted through her thoughts like a nightmare.

The car skidded, fishtailed a bit. She stiffened. Clamped onto the steering wheel and peeled her eyes wide until turning into her driveway.

The engine sputtered to a halt. Her car door creaked as she heaved herself out. Raw winds whipped at her hair. She gathered her purse and  the door bludgeoned her shoulder. With a primal growl, Amber shoved the squeaky panel away. Slammed it shut. Her handbag strap slipped to her elbow. She snatched it into place. Grabbed her throbbing shoulder. Trudged through the snow-quilted walk toward her stoop.

With each step, pain needled through the numbness of her soles. She closed her eyes against a damp gust as she neared the stoop. Her toe stubbed at a solid object. A half-buried trash bag peeked from the drift against her front steps. She tugged the weighty sack out by its drawstring handles. A sheet of notebook paper fluttered from a safety pin attached to the top.

Blue marker announced in all capital letters, “NOT TRASH!”

 Amber lugged the package inside with a huff. Shoved it in the corner beside the pile of canned goods. Her numb fingers trembled as she locked the door and tacked a coverlet over the frame. Despite her blanketed windows, a bitter chill pervaded the bungalow. Cold enough to keep herself wrapped in her coat. She gazed at her sodden boots. Sitting on the nearby bench, she peeled the winter-slushed duds from her feet. Nine hours of retail work had weighed on her ankles and arches, swelling them to fill the extra wide cavity. Amber dropped her boots onto the tattered welcome mat.

A kick jolted the inner wall of her abdomen. An eddy of nausea and emptiness swirled in her gut. Cradling her expectant belly, she stood and hobbled to the kitchen. Stared at the lonely jar of pickles in her pantry. A can of soup guarded the shelf below it. The pile of canned goods rested near the front door, right where she left them two days ago. About twenty paces away. A cramp seized her left ankle. She grabbed the soup.

In two minutes, she hobbled with her meal to the living room. Coat buttons clicked against the edge of her tray. She settled into her armchair and makeshift bed. Propped her feet on the ottoman. Her hands hung limp at her sides, almost too tired to eat. Acid churned in her gut. With a sigh, she lifted the spoon.

Three bites into her meal, a knock erupted at the front door. Amber shook her weary head. Not this time, kid.

Rapping persisted. She continued eating.

“Mrs. Werschall? Ma’am, you have to come!” The pounding knocked a corner of the coverlet from the door frame.

Amber’s womb thumped at the tray, sloshing her soup over the side of the bowl. She set the tray on the ottoman. Grumbling, she shuffled to answer the door.

“What is so urgent?” She thrust her head out and narrowed the opening to minimize the draft. “Somebody die?”

Glistening frost clung to Angela’s cap and shoulders as she shook her head. In the streetlamp’s glow, she glittered like a sappy ornament. “Not yet. At least, I hope not.”

Amber shifted on her throbbing feet. “I’ve had a very long day, so…”

“Right, I’ll get to the point.” She raised a finger. Reaching into a totebag, she pulled out a stack of envelopes. “I’m collecting Christmas cards for people in the hospital.”

Nostrils flaring, her fingers curled against the door’s edge. “Are you serious?”

“Yes. They’ll really appreciate it.”

Her lips tightened into a flat line against her teeth as she spoke. “Do I look like I have Christmas or birthday or any kind of cards here?”

“I have extra.” She extended a handful of blank envelopes. “You can make them birthday cards, too, if you want. Great idea. Didn’t even think of that.”

Another kick jolted her. Amber took a deep breath. Her lashes fluttered as she exhaled. “Look. I’m not in the mood to bring cheer for my own birthday. Or Christmas. If you want to enjoy your little charity project, it’s best if you hit up the other neighbors.”

“It’s your birthday?” She tilted her head.

“Tomorrow. But that’s not the point.” Rolling her eyes, she sighed. “Skip my door from now on. Stopping at my house won’t do any good because I’ve got nothing to offer. Agreed?”

“You don’t have to write cards.” Angela shrugged and stuffed the cards into her bag. “But I don’t agree.”

As the child walked back toward the sidewalk, Amber leaned out of her front door. “You mean you’re going to keep pestering me. Why?”

A glitz of snowy dust sprayed from her head as she looked over her shoulder. “You’re wrong. Everyone’s got something to offer.”

The lamppost flickered off a moment, and Angela vanished into the winter night.

****TO BE CONTINUED****

“Nevertheless, each person should live as a believer

in whatever situation the Lord has assigned to them, just as God has called them”

(1 Corinthians 7:17).

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The Snow Angel, Part Two

Buzzing sounds pierced the foggy end of Amber’s dream. She rubbed the crick in her neck and lifted her head. The pillow slid behind her armchair as she grabbed her cellphone from the coffee table.

“Mm-hello?” She rubbed the blear from her eyes.

A gravelly voice rumbled through the phone. “This is Mrs. Amber Werschall?”

“Ms., actually. But, yes.”

“This is Consuright Drugstore, calling in response to your job application.”

A thin ribbon of light wove through a hole in the window blanket. Eight-thirty, the wall clock declared. The morning hour failed to restrain her from a broad yawn.

“Did we catch you asleep, Ms. Werschall?”

“I was just about to get up.”

The clock’s tick resounded in the silent pause.

“We are looking for someone who can handle morning shifts starting at seven. Will this be a challenge for you?”

“Not at all, sir. I work well in the mornings.” She squeezed the bridge of her nose. Bit her lip to restrain an echo yawn.

“I have an interview slot available at nine-thirty. Can you be here by then?”

“Yes, of course.” She scooted to the edge of her chair.

“Bring your resume. And be prompt. See you soon.”

“Wait, sir. Who shall I ask to see?”

“Mrs. Talvert. And try not to call me ‘sir’ again.” The call ended with a click.

Amber stood with a groan. Urged her swollen body to hustle. Flinging two dresses from the rack, she snatched another. Less maternity-styled. Never had she hoped to look fat. A few layers might hide her pregnancy a little until she got hired.

After a final primp, she hastened to the front door. Her messenger bag swung awkwardly around her as she unfastened the drapes over the exit. With trembling hands, she opened the door. Amber burst across the threshold and stumbled through a stack of cans. Flailing, she caught herself against the outer wall as the non-perishables clattered and rolled across the stoop. Condensed milk, chicken, and heat-to-eat foods lay strewn across her doorstep. With a grunt, she bent and chucked most of them inside. The last can was infant formula, slushy after a night in the cold. A cramp seized her belly. She stood. Locked the door. The rest would wait.

As she defrosted her car windows, a depression in the lawn’s surface caught her eye. A four-foot, ten-inch snow angel lay just past the drifts in the center of her yard. Child-sized footprints led from the angel’s hem to the wagon-tracked sidewalk.

***TO BE CONTINUED***

“… blessed is the one who is kind to the needy.”

-Proverbs 14:21

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The Snow Angel

A chill radiated from the kitchen window and prickled the hairs on Amber’s arms. Her numb fingers fumbled. She managed to press a tack through the jersey sheet. As she stretched to affix her makeshift drape in the top corner, her pregnant belly bumped to a halt against the icy tile counter. With a groan, she rose on her toes. Scraped her abdomen past the obstacle. Stabbed the wall.

Grunted. Dropped flat to her heels. Huffed.

She rubbed the bruised surface of her underbelly. Swollen with life, her neighbor had said. Others called it a promise of joy. Or hope. Love’s fruit, the postman declared. Things she once believed in. When she was her stupid, former self. A woman she could barely remember.

A few months seemed like a lifetime ago. Her former world existed only in a fairytale. Princes devoted themselves to their princesses, and true love lasted ever after. A story she loved to tell herself before Jack left.

She snatched a tattered coverlet from the counter and waddled to the front door. A sneeze triggered pain throughout her abdomen. After hanging a third layer over the entrance, she surveyed the darkened bungalow. Nodded at each blanket-covered entrance. All the drafty whispers blocked.

A sneeze registered a broader cramp, all the way to her tailbone. Amber rubbed her numb hands together. She pressed at her lower back and shuffled to the hall table. Rifled through the junk drawer. Lifted out a box of matches. After shuffling into the living room, she lit all the candles around her favorite chair. A melange of waxy scents rose with the meager wisps of heat. Vanilla, lilac, some attempt to resemble apple–whatever the dollar store stocked last week.

The bathrobe and throws lay strewn over the ottoman. Where she left them the night before. She donned the robe. Snuggled under the second-hand fleece. Fluffed her pillow. As comfortable as possible without venturing into the unthinkable room.

With a sigh, she leaned back and lifted her library book. A science fiction set in a volcanic planet. Maybe she’d get through chapter one this time. Just long enough to believe the warmth before drifting off to sleep.

Rap-rap-rap. Then the doorbell.

Amber shook her head. Cracked the plastic-wrapped binding, and squinted at her lava paragraph.

Doorbell again. And again.

She flared her stuffy nostrils. Threw off the covers. With a groan, she heaved up from the seat. As she scuffed to the entrance, she tightened her belt.

Rap-rap.

“Yes, I hear you. Gimme a minute.” After unhooking three layers of blankets from nails above the door, she opened it. “What do you want?”

From layers of knitted scarves and a stocking cap peeked the pale face of a girl. The wool coat added a bit of girth to her narrow frame, but hung off her shoulders a few sizes too big. “I’m Angela.”

Amber scanned the vacant snowdrifts along her walkway, yard, and sidewalk. “What are you doing walking around by yourself at night? You can’t be more than nine years old.”

“Eleven and a half, actually. I’m small for my age.” Angela leaned aside. With a mittened hand, she thumbed toward a wagon behind her. Canned goods nested in the center beneath a dusting of snow. “Collecting donations.”

“You made all that noise to ask me for a can of peas?”

“It’s important.”

“I don’t believe this.” Amber narrowed the door’s crack, but a sneeze halted her from closing it. Her back seized with a shot of pain. “Ow.”

“Please, just a single can makes a difference to somebody. Think of Christmas.” Angela tilted her head, cracked lips rising into a smile. “Besides, it’ll make you feel good to give to the needy.”

“The needy?” Stiffening, she tightened her grip on the handle. Heat prickled up her neck. “Let me tell you about needy, okay? I have no heat, barely enough groceries for two days, and now I’m standing in the draft catching a cold. Maybe you have it easy and can have yourself a lucky Christmas. I’m all out of cheer to share.”

“I see.” Her fawn-like eyes widened a moment. With a deep breath, she offered a nod. “Guess I know what to do.”

“Try the other neighbors. Bother them, if you want. They’ll probably like it.”

The girl shook her head as she turned toward the wagon. And Amber closed the door, certain she’d seen the last of Angela.

**** TO BE CONTINUED****

 

“In humility value others above yourselves, not looking to your own interests but each of you to the interests of the others” (Philippians 2:3-4).

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The Harvester’s Patch, Part Two

Amy picked her steps through the roadside clumps of withered thistles and ragweed. At the top of the lumpy slope, a shack hunkered among untended hawthorn and mulberry limbs. The gray remnants of porch planks and rails jutted in errant directions like a decaying grin along the front. Its mildewed roof skewed left on leaning posts. Cobwebs tethered the columns in place.

Tom hustled up beside her. “I think it’s abandoned. There’s gotta be another stand up the road somewhere. Let’s–”

Creak. Creak.

“No, listen.” Amy pointed to the shadowy corner of the stoop.

A woman rose from her rocking chair, gathering a loose-webbed shawl about her shoulders as she shuffled across the porch. A shock of white hair flamed wild from her gnarled features.

She removed a corn cob pipe from her weathered lips and leaned forward. Her voice dragged in smoky octaves and sharp teeth glinted in the afternoon light. “You folks come for a harvest in the patch?”

“Is it open for picking?” Amy glanced at the iron gate, tethered with rosary beads. “I didn’t notice the tied entrance from the road.”

The old woman’s wrinkled countenance contorted into a smirk. “Always open for visitors. I’m sure you can manage the gate.”

Tom wrapped an arm around Amy, drawing her closer. “How much? It is at the end of the season.”

“Depends on your appetite, don’t it? For us, the season don’t end on a date. We eat what comes up.” She pointed her pipe toward the field. “Go on and see what you find. Then we’ll settle on cost.”

Tom frowned. His eyes narrowed and he cocked his head aside.

Amy elbowed him and muttered, “You seriously gonna be cheap with this poor old bag? Everybody’s gotta eat.”

She tugged his arm. They turned and walked to the gate. Amy untangled the rosary from the rusty bars. The gate squealed as it fell away from the fence post. Tom followed her into the field. An icy gust swept in behind them, needling under Amy’s collar at her neck.

“Come on. Looks like the pie fillers are hidden in the middle.” She tightened her scarf and bounded into the patch.

Tom lagged a few yards behind. He meandered around the boulder-sized gourds. “These are monsters. Never seen anything grow like this. Not even on gram’s farm.”

“Wonder what they feed them.” Amy shrugged, then stooped to continue her careful inventory of the pumpkin bed.

As the sun sank beyond the line of crooked trees, a tide of fog washed in to blanket the field. Tom rubbed his tweed sleeves. “It’s getting dark. Better pick a couple and get going, sug.”

“All right. I think I’m done.” Amy wiggled her numbing toes against the radiant chill creeping through her soles from the earth. She bent over and tugged at the stem attached to a small pumpkin. “Vines are tougher than they seem. Might need your knife.”

“Just a sec.” Tom stroked a lateral scar on the warty surface of a huge gourd. “This one’s already been cut.”

He unfolded his sports knife and pried the blade into the carved line. The opening expanded and sucked the knife from his grip. Tom gaped at his empty hand. Arms shot out of the same crevice and snatched hold of him. A gray-skinned, gaunt figure popped up from the top of the giant gourd. The bare-chested man flashed a sharp-toothed grin in the eerie glow of twilight.

Amy screamed. Started to run toward him. Vines tethered her ankles and jerked her feet out from under her. As she fell, ropes looped around her arms and torso.

“Picked us a couple of ripe ones.” The old woman chuckled as she strode toward them. “Everybody’s gotta eat.”

The post The Harvester’s Patch, Part Two appeared first on Tyeagerwrites.

Harvester’s Patch

A gust rifled through the maple and elm trees huddled along the vacant county highway, as if the forest huffed to protest the intruding Subaru SUV. Crimson leaves attacked the waxed ebony finish. The crisp, dead foliage skittered furiously over the hood, but left no impression.

Amy echoed Tom’s yawn.

“Quiet out here. Nothing but the whisper of wind.” He stretched his fingerless gloved hands and repositioned them on the steering wheel.

Amy unfolded her legs and placed her Berkenstocks on the floor. She leaned forward. Poked the radio buttons.

Static, static, more static.

She sighed. “No tunes or data. Retro way to drive, I guess.”

Tom scratched the groomed stubble framing his jaw.”Airwaves don’t reach these hills, babe.”

The landscape encroached as they drove further. Weeds chewed at the gravel shoulders and crumbled the asphalt. Trees grew nearer to the road. Just ahead, branches stretched over their passageway and clasped twigs as a canopy.

Amy dug inside her patchwork totebag. Shadows crept across the dashboard, reaching toward her knitted beanie. The spindly shade fingers tapped the cuff of her hat just before she sat up.

“Forgot my crotchet stuff, too. How much farther to your gram’s?”

“Bout an hour.” The SUV emerged from the canopy and he pointed through the windshield at a rogue black bird swooping overhead. “As the crow flies.”

Amy squinted at the soaring raptor. “That’s kinda big. Sure it isn’t a vulture?”

Tom adjusted his round spectacles. “Huh. Yeah, maybe. Gram was always into birdwatching. Never got her farm-world sensei gene. I’d be lost out here without an organic sherpa like you.”

“Organic sherpa? Sweet name for a bodega.” Amy snuggled her cheek against Tom’s flannel sleeve. “If your gram lets us move in, we could open one in her village. Whaddya say?”

“Anything you want.” He caressed her chin and lifted it. With a wink, he pursed his lips in a kissing expression. “Just pay me well.”

A squeal whipped Amy’s attention forward. “Look out!”

Tom swerved. Tires screeched. Missed a bounding wild hog and a trail of piglets by a couple of feet.

He continued on the downslope of the highway. “That was close. Odd for them to run around in the middle of the afternoon.”

On the right hand side of the road, a field came into view. The lumpy terrain overflowed with a variety of pumpkins. From extraordinary sized monsters to tiny orbs, the warty skinned gourds consumed the vast patch. Black-trunked trees hemmed three sides of the field, while an a rusting iron fence grated the highway line.

“Oh, pull over Tom! Let’s stop and get some little cute ones. I can ask your gram to teach me how to make a pie.”

She batted her lashes, fingers clasped under her chin.

The SUV tires crunched onto the gravel shoulder. Brakes lurched. The engine cut off with a foreboding groan.

***TO BE CONTINUED***

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Hostiles on the Wagon Trail

 

 

Prairie grass tufts undulated beneath the wagon’s creaky axles. Dusk bled its final rays between jagged angles of the looming ridge ahead. Millie jostled into Pa’s dusty shoulder.

He pointed a gnarled finger across the fly-swarmed landscape at fleshy mounds lining the trail. “Buffalo hunters just days ahead of us.”

Rancid odors wafted from the maggot-ridden carcasses and stung her nostrils.

“I’m so weak.” She shifted on the rough bench and rested her cheek against the gingham of Ma’s sleeve. “How long?”

Pa snapped the reins. “We’ll camp just past this field. Could be something to hunt.”

Millie’s lashes fluttered until a whinny perked her attention.

“Whoa.”

Millie raised her woozy head as the stallion hooves slowed to a halt. Twilight spilled blue shadows across the plain. Ink collected among tree clusters and puddled around brush clumps.

Pa hopped to the ground. “Make a small fire. I’ll scout for—”

Their attention snapped to a lone rider galloping at full speed toward them. His uniform buttons gleamed in the moonlight as he reined his horse to stop beside their wagon.

The soldier tipped his stetson. “I advise against making camp alone here. Angry injun tribes in these parts. Best keep on a few hours to the wagon train.”

“Much obliged, sir.” Pa pinched the brim of his stovepipe hat with a nod. “How many settlers in it?”

“It’s a bigun. Fifty families, I reckon. Shall I escort you up the road a ways?”

Ma climbed down from the wagon. “We need to rest for now. Regain our strength. Would you consider joining us for dinner?”

“This ain’t a good spot, ma’am.” He gestured toward the carnage lined trail behind them. “Dead buffalo tend to stir up the natives.”

“Oh, my. Such an excitement.”  She exchanged a glance with Pa.

“How likely are they to attack us?” As Pa approached, the cavalry steed reared.

The soldier tightened his grip on the reins and patted his mount’s neck. “Purty high.”

“Please stay with us, sir.” Millie extended a trembling hand toward their visitor and lighted her other palm on her heaving chest. “I’d be ever so grateful for the company of a gentleman.”

“My orders are to scout the area for stragglers. And watch for hostiles.” His eyes met Millie’s gaze.

“Perhaps your orders would be best fulfilled here.” Ma took her daughter’s fingertips and helped her descend from the wagon.

“I suppose I could stay and help you nice folks.” He dismounted.

Millie batted her lashes and strode toward him. “Can’t tell you how relieved we are.”

“A soldier must prove himself a true gentleman. Just doing my duty, miss.” The officer lifted Millie’s fingertips and kissed them.

“Mebbe so.” Pa wrapped the steed’s reins around his bony hand. The cavalry horse neighed and reared, pawing the air. “But, you’re wrong about one thing.”

“What’s that, sir?”

Ma smiled as she whisked to her daughter’s side. “We aren’t nice folks.”

Pa swooped in to join his family as they encircled him, fanged sneers glistening in the moonlight.

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Poured Life: Part Two

The creature stabbed his fingertips into Christie’s side. Pain shot through her gut, but the grip at her throat muffled her cry.

He licked her blood from his fingertips. “Sweet liver, but I came for the whole deal—from your heart to the marrow of your soul.”

The monster allowed Christie to drop a bit. A grip at the back of her scalp yanked her head back, stretching her neck. She half-gulped before the sting of fangs sank into her throat. Suction drew instant pain through her veins and threatened to invert her fingertips and toes.

She forced her withering lips to move. “Belong…to…Christ.”

A shockwave rippled from her core and surged energy into the bite wound.

The creature shoved her to the steps. She winced at the impact and clutched her throbbing side.

Steam furled from his pores as he stumbled backward. “What have you done?”

Christie coughed, then mustered a grin. “All the nights you watched me, I was drinking holy water.”

He lunged toward her. “You contaminated yourself with life! You will still die—”

The words choked off as the creature grabbed his throat and withdrew from her.

She raised a brow and mustered a rasp. “But your death will end you. Mine brings a life upgrade—infinite contamination.”

He clawed his open mouth with his talons. His gape froze. The fangs disintegrated first. The creature’s flesh and bone hardened and cracked like summer clay. He crumbled to fine dust and the night breeze gusted his remains away.

As the last quart of her life eked out, the faces of her surviving neighbors and their children flashed across her mind. Christie leaned back against the planks of the church steps and smiled.

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Poured Life: Part One

Steeple chimes echoed through the clapboard chapel’s rafters. Christie raised her forehead from the altar railing. Polished oak furnishings glinted in the candlelight, while darkness oozed through the stained glass windows.

Perspiration trickled from her temples and followed the lines of her long neck. She wiped her moist palms across the front of her jeans. As the chorus tolled, Christie grabbed a small pitcher from a wooden stand at the railing’s end. She gulped. A tide of cool water soothed her scorched palate and throat.

The altar candles dimmed as the last note hung in the air. Christie rose and turned toward the exit. With a clenched jaw, she marched past the vacant rows. She couldn’t read the engravings on the end of each pew, but she knew the missing families’ names. Jacob and Missy LaCour… Elvin and Martha Smith…Joe and Elizabeth Brown…Ms. Minnie Harrison…The aisle’s carpet deepened to burgundy as the light waned.

Her heart threatened to burst her eardrums as she pressed her cheek against the ivory door frame. “I know you’re out there.” She took a deep breath, then straightened and rolled her shoulders back.

She thrust the door open. A humid gale rushed into the chapel, extinguishing the remaining glimmer of light. Christie stepped forward and pulled the door shut behind her. She scanned the moon-silvered oaks. Moss dripped from their limbs, as if melting in the torrid night. One bough wriggled its spindly tips.

A cloudy figure emerged from the leaves of a high bough. It leapt into the wind. Bones appeared within the mist. Sinews and flesh materialized over the skeleton as it swept toward her. Striking green eyes glared in contrast to the creature’s porcelain skin. A statuesque ghoul alighted on the step beside her.

He grabbed Christie’s arm and an icy chill shot through her veins. “I’ve been watching you come here every night.” His lip curled up to one side, revealing a long fang amid rows of dagger sharp teeth. “I saved you for my special treat.”

Christie jerked her arm free. “I don’t belong to you.”

He grabbed her by the throat and lifted her off the ground. Christie kicked at the air. Shallow breaths from her nostrils drew in his acrid stench.

He drew her a few inches closer and sneered. “Preacher’s kids taste like honey, I hear.”

****

to be continued ….

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Blood Mercy – A Vampire Tale Staked in Profound Meaning

Blood Mercy:  A Vampire Tale Staked in Profound Meaning

Guest Post by Janeen Ippolito

When we created the world of Blood Mercy, Julia Busko and I wanted to shed light on hidden issues. Things that people normally keep to themselves, lest they face stigmatization from society. Conditions and life experiences that make people misfits.

 

One of these areas was mental disorders. Processing issues. Cognitive malfunctions.

 

Anyone can be afflicted with them without any obvious signs. Which can be a good thing—and a bad one. It’s convenient when you want to blend in with society. But it also means you can suffer from a sense of loneliness, afraid to tell others or gain support. It also means that people can take advantage of their disguise of normality to hide the monster inside. We thought that having these side effects would be an interesting downside to the usual vampire ‘perks’ of longevity, enhanced strength, etc. The idea of immortality is appealing to many—until you throw in paranoia or bipolar or extreme sensitivity to light, along with mandatory blood transfusions.

 

One thing we were quite careful about was showing both sides of any mental or physical condition. Having this kind of issue doesn’t make anyone more or less prone to darkness. It just means the temptations and difficulties are different.

 

In the case of the Blood Kind, the blood curse has side effects particular to each strain. But how those side effects manifest depends on the individual, through their upbringing, their treatment, and their life experiences.

 

For instance, one character named Zuri is of the Vectorix strain, so she is afflicted with sensory processing issues. However, she was given therapy and treatments at an early age, so it isn’t obvious that she has problems, especially since she doesn’t have a point-of-view scene in this novel. I’ve based her experiences on my own dealings with SPD. On the other hand, Jean-Claude (who is a main villain) started out with schizoid tendencies, including eccentric processing. However, his upbringing and traumatic life experiences have made him fully “embrace the crazy” and indulge his own warped perspective of the world.

 

Ultimately, one goal in the Blood Mercy books is to open the reader’s mind not just to a different take on vampirism, but an entire subculture of individuals who, for better or worse, are marked by their chronic conditions. Diversity of all kinds is a passion for Uncommon Universes Press. Julia and I hope that readers enjoy the plot and characters, and also come to a greater empathy for those around them who might be suffering in silence.

Thirsty for More Insight on Blood Mercy?

Let the following summary whet your appetite:

What would you do if the one you loved was turned into a monster?

Melrose Durante brings order. As founder of the Houses of the Dead, he tirelessly opposes the vampires, and provides refuge for the Blood Kind, those like himself who fight against the blood curse that leads to vampirism. His medical breakthroughs have brought many back from the vampire path. After thousands of years, the Blood Kind finally has the upper hand.

Until a vampire attacks Melrose’s family, then begs for asylum. To his friends she’s Lucy, a disturbed young woman prone to incoherent rants, warning of an imminent attack by vampire leader, Conan. But to Melrose she’s something more.

His lost wife, Jane.

One thing is clear – time is running out. In five days Conan will attack Quebec City, killing or enslaving all in his way. If Melrose cannot unlock his wife’s tormented mind, even his immortal wisdom may not be enough to save Quebec City, the Blood Kind, and the Houses of the Dead.

 

Order your copy now! Amazon Preorder Link: https://www.amazon.com/Blood-Mercy-Thicker-Than-Water-ebook/dp/B01L47ILUS/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1476321001&sr=8-1&keywords=blood mercy: thicker than water

 

 

 

Blood Mercy Official Website: http://www.bloodmercy.wordpress.com; Publisher: Uncommon Universes Press http://www.uncommonuniverses.com

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/uncommonuniverses ; Twitter: @uncommonunivers; Instagram: uncommonuniversespress; Pinterest: Uncommon Universes Press

 

 

Get to know the authors!

Janeen Ippolito

Author Bio: Janeen Ippolito is an idea-charged teacher, reader, writer, book reviewer, and the Fearless Leader of Uncommon Universes Press. She writes nonfiction writing help and speculative fiction laced with horror, humor, and cultural tension. Her co-written illustrated novella, Blood Mercy: Thicker Than Water, releases on October 29th.  In her nonexistent spare time she reads, cooks, and sword-fights. Two of her dreams are to eat a fried tarantula and to travel to Antarctica. Go to janeenippolito.com for world-building resources and off-the-wall insights from this sleep-deprived author.

Social Media Links 

Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/janeenippolitowriter/

Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/14112384.Janeen_Ippolito

Twitter: @TheQuietPen; Instagam: janeen_ippolito; Pinterest: Janeen Ippolito

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Julia Busko

Author Bio: Julia Busko (like “bus” and “co.”) is an illustrator, designer, writer, and the Elusive Unicorn (art director) of Uncommon Universes Press.  In addition to co-writing with Janeen Ippolito, Julia has created book covers, made logos and t-shirt designs, and is planning a series of steampunk fairy tale picture books. In her spare time she dances with a local company and watches documentaries and horror movies. She strives for art filled with creative wonder and the beauty inherent in tragedy. Go to juliabusko.com to dive into a world of remarkable visions and artistic musings.

Social Media Links

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/JuliabuskoIllustrator/

Instagram: juliabuskoillustration

Pinterest: Julia Busko

 

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The post Blood Mercy – A Vampire Tale Staked in Profound Meaning appeared first on Tyeagerwrites.

An Author Interviewed by Her Protagonist!

I’m so excited to introduce you to visionary artist, Kat Heckenbach and a figment of her brilliant imagination. Angel, her imaginary interviewer, also works full-time as the protagonist of Heckenbach’s Toch Island Series. I’ve included links below, so you can get a taste of the readable delicacies in Heckenbach’s trilogy. Enjoy our fun twist on an author interview.

Character Tour post, by Kat Heckenbach, author of Finding Angel

 

Angel:  Hi. My name is, um, Angel. Yeah, I know, odd name. I get that a lot. But it’s what my charm bracelet says, and since that’s the only thing I have from the past that I couldn’t remember when I was found by Mr. and Mrs. Mason when I was six…

 

Oh, sorry. That’s not why I’m here. I mean it is—my story is why I’m here. But I’m not here to tell you that story. The whole thing is written out in a book. Yep, Kat Heckenbach wrote a book all about me. And today I’m going to ask her some questions about it. I bet you’d have questions for someone if they wrote a whole book about your life, wouldn’t you? Yeah. So, here we go.

 

Angel: Miss Kat, I—

 

Kat: You can just call me Kat, Angel. “Miss Kat” makes me feel like a preschool teacher.