Lynn Thompson's Blog, page 47
March 4, 2014
Chasing Prophecy by James Moser Book Blast!!
Title: Chasing Prophecy
Author: James Moser
Genre: Young Adult, Paranormal, Thriller
Ebook available at: Kindle | Smashwords
Book Description:
Mo is a shy teen who is just trying to survive high school. He has secretly fallen in love with a girl named Prophecy who lives with a group that some call a commune and others call a cult. When she disappears, Mo must find the courage to face the monster that her family has become. Chasing Prophecy is a contemporary coming of age story that is heartwarming, suspenseful, and beautifully written. This book chronicles the adolescence of one boy who must transform himself to save the girl of his dreams.
Kirkus Reviews:
“A stellar read for teens and adults, full of hilarious growing pains, tenderness and a few surprises. Moser’s debut is an unflinching young-adult novel that sees a group of friends tested by bigotry and the illegal machinations of a religious cult. The author serves up an irresistibly wisecracking narrator in Mo Kirkland. Every page ripples with a controlled cleverness. There’s also a rawness to this tale similar to that which many teens face in the real world. Moser can wax rhapsodic about young love, but he shows that he knows how to raise the tension in the second half of the novel.”
Excerpt:
Richard said, “Why are you even talking, Maureen, I mean Maurice? Go sit in your highchair and let the grownups work this out, OK, little guy?”Even with my new growth spurt, he never missed a chance to let me know I lived every second of my life ten seconds from a surfing lesson.
Max said coldly, “Don’t you clowns talk to him that way.”
Kazzy said, “—or we will kick your cracker asses.”
I looked up at her and realized I’d been looking up to her my whole life. She was calm and still when she was standing up for herself. She didn’t have to stand on her tiptoes or raise her voice. When I tried to stand up for myself, I knew people saw the question marks in my eyes.
Kazzy’s eyes were full of answers, and I loved her. Deep inside me I felt something break, heal, and get stronger all at once.
Richard watched another carful of mourners pass us by. “Your little cult funeral all done?” he said.
Kazzy said, “Why do you say ‘Cult’? Do you see a fence keeping anyone in or out? Do you see us trying to blow anything up? There’s not a weapon on our whole ranch. You crackers have more guns than I’ve seen in my whole life.”
I pulled out my pocketknife, found a smooth spot in the pine railing, and pushed the blade into the sun-bleached log. I worked the blade up and down, back and forth, deeper and deeper.
Kazzy said, “So let me get this straight. One of us jumps, and you don’t say ‘cult’ for two years? You don’t say a word to any of us all the way til graduation night?”
“That’s the deal.”
I pushed the tip of the blade across the wood. I made a rectangle and rounded off the corners.
I pulled off my Seattle Mariners baseball cap and dropped in my keys and phone. I found a safe corner to stash my stuff near a gigantic steel bracket joining two logs. I walked to the other side of the bridge, across from the others.
Richard said, “We’re waiting, Kazzy, I mean Prophecy.”
“Hey, Richard!” I said.
He looked at me. They all looked at me.
“Catch!” I yelled, tossing him my knife. I said, “It’s August twentieth. If you can’t spell ‘August,’ just write eight-dash-twenty.”
They all stared at me. I held up three fingers. “Redneck Honor,” I said. I pulled off my shirt, dropped it to the ground, and ran right at Richard and Boo. They stepped back. Their eyes were full of questions.
For the first time in my life, my eyes were full of answers.
“He’ll never . . .” Richard started to say.
“Mo, DON’T!” Kazzy yelled.
Max screamed, “Oh, YEAH!!!”
My left foot landed on the orange Bigfoot “X”.
My right foot landed on the low rail. I pushed off.
I closed my eyes. I opened my eyes. I saw sky and mist kicked up by white water crashing into rocks.
I closed my eyes. I opened my eyes. I looked down. I was either going to just clear the boulder closest to the bridge or I was getting an ambulance ride, or I was about to die.
I screamed, “AAAAAAAAAAAAHH!”
The bottoms of my feet smacked the water hard, then all of me was underneath, then my feet hit the bottom. Knees and elbows on rock. I looked up through ten feet of clear, freezing water. Through the bumpy surface I could see the shapes of my friends, the colors of their clothes. I pushed off the bottom and shot through the surface.
Bloody. Dizzy. Alive. Icy water—snow the day before—stretched my skin tight.
I squinted up at the bridge, saw Max and Kazzy jumping up and down, arms over their heads, screaming. I pulled myself up to the flat top of a giant rock. I stood and raised my arms to the sky, the mist throwing little rainbows all around me. I held up the three-fingered redneck honor salute. My friends threw back their heads and laughed. They turned to Richard and Boo, showed them three fingers. The bullies walked slowly to their car. I stood on a rock but felt myself floating.
I thought, So this is what it means to fly.
About the Author:
James Moser has always loved stories in all forms. He is in his fourteenth year of working with high school students. The author’s goal was to write a book that would inspire even his most reluctant readers. Young adults have always inspired him. As such, he wanted to show teenagers transforming themselves to overcome obstacles, which is what he watches them do, every day.
Moser has a B.A. in English and a Master’s degree in Secondary English Education. He lives in Seattle with his beautiful wife and eight year old son. When he’s not reading and writing, or thinking about reading and writing, he’s watching way too much television while snacking on frozen treats from Trader Joe’s. Man, those things are good.
Where to find James Moser:
a Rafflecopter giveaway
March 2, 2014
February Posts Revisited?: Happy Valentines Day!!
Back to Don Quixote Winery and Distillery www.dqDistillery.com and chocolates! The owner has now started making her own treats and they are fabulous. I’ve had the pleasure of trying all of them! The lavender, mimosa, and Dulce De Leche are my top 3 favorites.
Here are a few more she’s made up:)
Bourbon Dark chocolate
Cranberry Almond
Grand Marnier
Coffee Hazelnut
Pistachio Key Lime
Cherry Almond
Coconut
White Fudge Bourbon Pecan….
The list goes on and on
*This month my son has also turned the BIG 16! Where does the time go? He says he’s feeling old. LOL. Makes me wonder how he’ll feel at my age:) He’s his mothers son, so he’ll probably never really grow up.
*I will not longer be posting–Posts Revisited! Working with wordpress makes it more time consuming than it’s worth:)*
February 27, 2014
Introducing–>> Lyn C. Johanson
As this weeks featured Author
About this author
A computer science major, Lyn C. Johanson decided to leave the cold world of code lines and pursue her passion for writing romance stories. Now, she mostly lives in the world she dreams up. Except when her husband and sons drag her back to reality—where she enjoys photography, dancing, and spending time with her family.
For more information, join Lyn C. Johanson at https://www.facebook.com/LynCJohanson
genre Romance, Paranormal
Till Death and Beyond is a sizzling tale of two souls bound by destiny in a cruel plot to separate them forever…
A COLD BEAUTY WHO KNOWS DEATH INTIMATELY…
Amira is the strongest witch on the face of the earth, with psychic abilities no others possess. And yet, she is but a slave to the whims of the gods. Forced to be born anew every time she fails in fulfilling an ancient prophecy, Amira is desperate to break the vicious cycle.
A TORMENTED WARRIOR WHO HAS LOST EVERYTHING…
Plagued by the memories and guilt over his family’s demise, Raven lives for the sole reason of restoring his younger brother. And kidnapping a witch is only the beginning—for he intends to right the wrongs of his past by any means necessary.
A DESTINY TO CHANGE THE WORLD…
While the gods might have planned for her to be captured, surrender is not something that comes easy to Amira. Yet one glance into her captor’s eyes, and she is swept away by emotions long ago denied to her. She decides to play along. For a while.
Despite the hatred Raven harbors for their kind, he is intrigued by the witch. One taste of her lips, and she becomes his obsession. Soon, he discovers that fighting against the passion they ignite in one another is futile. But as they strip each other’s secrets, a powerful force threatens to destroy them both.
For in this game of gods nothing is simple—the whole universe seems to conspire against them. And no matter how fiercely they fight, or what they are willing to endure to save each other … the path they travel is paved with loss.
Will they survive the ultimate test, if even their determination—to fight till death—might not be enough?
February 24, 2014
January Posts Revisited: Let there be snow:)
Not much, I know. But it was so nice to finally have some moister in the air. This winter’s been drier than last:( The clouds cleared, the sun came out and it started snowing again! I tried to capture a picture of the snow falling while the sun was shining, but the snow flakes didn’t come out well with the scenery.
Introducing–>> Mark E. Lein January 30, 2014
The Healing Powers of Mumio?–Week One January 27, 2014
Please Help a Fellow Author Who Has Suffered a Serious Stroke
January 24, 2014 Introducing–> Sharon Stevenson
January 23, 2014 December Posts Revisited: http://lynnthompsonbooksblog.wordpress.com/2014/01/19/december-posts-revisited-and-moving-to-wordpress-blogs/
Introducing–>> Lisa Marie Gabriel http://lynnthompsonbooksblog.wordpress.com/2014/01/16/introducing-lisa-marie-gabriel/
I lost all of the blogs I was following! http://lynnthompsonbooksblog.wordpress.com/2014/01/15/i-lost-all-of-the-blogs-i-was-following/
Off the Beaten Path: Christmas Day http://lynnthompsonbooksblog.wordpress.com/2014/01/14/off-the-beaten-path-christmas-day/
Why I may no longer use KDP Select: http://lynnthompsonbooksblog.wordpress.com/2014/01/07/why-i-may-no-longer-use-kdp-select/
This weeks featured Author is Heather Dowell http://lynnthompsonbooksblog.wordpress.com/2014/01/10/this-weeks-featured-author-is-heather-dowell/
February 20, 2014
Introducing–>> Dylan White
As this weeks featured Author
https://www.goodreads.com/dylanwhite
Book One of The Apparition Trilogy
Jade Foster just moved to a new city with her mother and step-dad in the middle of her senior year. She doesn’t know anyone. She has a midterm on Monday. And her house is haunted.
Sean Clayton died at eighteen almost seventy years ago. He believes Jade is the one who can help him finally move on. But his connection to Jade exposes her to dark forces from the afterlife. Despite the danger, Sean promises to protect her.
But falling in love with her might be the scariest thing he could do …
Revenant (The Apparition Trilogy #2)
After everything Jade has been through, Sean wants to make life as normal as possible for her. But being in love with a ghost is anything but normal. The threat of Feeders has grown worse. Despite Sean’s efforts to keep Jade safe, he might not be able to help her anymore. When Ray senses a dark spirit has descended on the house, he will do anything to dispel it. And that could mean eliminating Sean, as well …
Crossover (The Apparition Trilogy #3)
The pressures keep piling on for Jade. She has to meet with a mysterious old woman, she has to keep Sean from going Dark, she has to face a swarm of Feeders, and — on top of all that — she has to get a job. With Sean’s intentions cast into doubt, Jade also has to do some digging into his past. What she unearths could not only endanger their relationship, but Jade’s life as well. Now Jade has to keep secrets from Sean as much as he’s been keeping them from her. Jade knows, eventually, everything must come to light. And when it does, Jade might have to die to have a love worth living for …
February 19, 2014
“Make an Elvis song into a BOOK contest!” @MimiBarbour – author!
**After I listened to an old Elvis Presley hit called “She’s Not You”, I couldn’t get the words out of my head. Finally, it came to me. The sentiments were so beautiful that the story they told should be written. So, I wrote the first chapter and the song stopped haunting me. I released book #1 of the Elvis Series late in Nov.
When it came time to decide which of Elvis’s song should be chosen for Book #2, I decided who better than the readers themselves to make the choice.
~Mimi **
“Make an Elvis song into a book contest!”
Here it is live for the whole month of February.
Please let all your friends know about it!
Tell your mom and her pals who grew up with the King!
Share this link with your Facebook buddies and twitter followers.
It’ll be fun to see which of his songs will grace the cover of
Book #2 in Mimi Barbour’s
Elvis series.
**Here’s what the winner will receive:
The winner will have his/her favorite song chosen as the title and theme for the next book in the Elvis series.
It will be dedicated to the winner.
And their name will be used for one of the characters.
Video of Elvis singing – Book #1 “She’s Not You”
Follow this link to enter the Contest: http://freshfiction.com/contest.php?id=6223
February 17, 2014
The Healing Power of Mumio? Week Four
Week four…
Day 22–> LOL! I found out why I’ve been congested in the mornings–Wood Smoke– Duh! Every winter and when there is controlled burns this allergy kicks up:( I use to have my allergy specialist desensitize me every time it popped up until we realized that that one allergy wouldn’t hold. We think it’s on a subconscious level. I’ve seen my town go up in flames and watched fires rage through the mountains too often in the last several years. It saddens me deeply to watch our beautiful forests turn into blackened matchsticks. This one I’m going to have to ride out.
The Mumio is said to help get rid of allergies. If I can get my immune system working correctly maybe it will. One can only hope!
It is so hard to write when your in a fog half of the time:)
Day 23–> Well this is disheartening, my whole family is sick, my bosses daughter is sick, and, of course, I’m feeling it today:( Bummer! Maybe I should move deep into the mountains and become a hermit for a year, or… at this rate I may just survive the zombie apocalypse… LOL Argh! We will see what tomorrow brings.
Day 24–> Blah!!
Day 25–> Dare I jinx myself—as soon as I hopped out of the shower my congestion disappeared. I have more energy so far today and I’m feeling more like I should be:)
Day 26 –> Still doing good, of course, I went to work yesterday and found a really sick boss, funny. The bugs are still going around, maybe this time I will be able to give it the Kung Pow Punch and keep it at a distance:)
Day 27 –>Wow, I actually slept until 6 this morning! That’s a rarity for me:) Feeling good and have more energy, yay! I hope this keeps up.
Day 28 –>29 –>30 –> Not much to report. The last few days I’ve been doing much better:0 Of course, it’s taken a months of ups and downs to get to this point, and now I have 10 days off before I need to start taking the Mumio again. I think I’m going to stick with the Mumio for a while, or maybe the rest of my life. So far this is the first thing I’ve found that has actually helped. Now if my bosses kids will get better (their sick again) things will be great.
Mumio (mumijo), mountain balsam http://www.kyrgyzstantravel.info/resorts/mumio.htm
http://www.eartherbs.com/index.php?page=127&
February 13, 2014
Introducing–>> Nicoline Evens
As this weeks Featured Author:
Nicoline Evens
website http://www.nicolineevans.com
twitter username nicolineeva
genre Fantasy, Fiction, Suspense
The former royal bloodline of Russia, thought to be lost forever, has resurfaced. The newly found descendants have been embraced and issued honorary titles. Unbeknownst to the rest of the world, they bring with them a powerful addiction that will change the country forever.
Through media manipulation, government deception, and the power of fame, Prince Mikhail and Princess Milena Romanov are able to spread their addictive lifestyle across the country. Fueled by silve cocaine and their own blood, this new populace is devoid of ethics. The addiction has transformed everyday citizens into freakishly strong and morally unhinged individuals. They are known as haemans, and they have taken over Russia.
Sevrick Bykovsky is one of the few humans to have escaped. He now lives hidden within the forested outskirts of St. Petersburg. Forced to leave behind his fiancée, Arinadya Tarasova, in the grip of her newfound addiction, he has devoted his life to save her. Accompanied by a ragged band of freedom fighters, they struggle each day to survive.
HAEMANS is a dystopian thriller that mixes gothic urban-fantasy with survivalist suspense. This debut novel from Nicoline Evans depicts a world where the villains rule and the heroes are scarce. It follows one man’s quest to save the woman he loves from a dangerous new society where self-destruction is deemed fashionable. HAEMANS is a story about survival and perseverance through the darkest times, and a reminder that we all can come undone.
February 12, 2014
Happy Valentine’s Day! Love, and romance… from Mohadoha Rajakumar
Are you looking for content related to Valentine’s Day, love, or romance? If so, check out the award winning Love Comes Later
Mo’s bio:
Mohanalakshmi Rajakumar is a South Asian American who has lived in Qatar since 2005. Moving to the Arabian Desert was fortuitous in many ways since this is where she met her husband, had a baby, and made the transition from writing as a hobby to a full time passion. She has since published seven e-books including a mom-ior for first time mothers, Mommy But Still Me, a guide for aspiring writers, So You Want to Sell a Million Copies, a short story collection, Coloured and Other Stories, and a novel about women’s friendships, Saving Peace.
Her recent books have focused on various aspects of life in Qatar. From Dunes to Dior, named as a Best Indie book in 2013, is a collection of essays related to her experiences as a female South Asian American living in the Arabian Gulf. Love Comes Later was the winner of the Best Indie Book Award for Romance in 2013 and is a literary romance set in Qatar and London. The Dohmestics is an inside look into compound life, the day to day dynamics between housemaids and their employers.
After she joined the e-book revolution, Mohana dreams in plotlines. Learn more about her work on her website at www.mohanalakshmi.com or follow her latest on Twitter: @moha_doha.
Love Comes Later
By Mohanalakshmi Rajakumar
Best Indie Book, Romance, 2013
New Talent Award Finalist, Romance Festival, 2012
Best Novel Finalist, eFestival of Words, 2013
Cover design by Marsya Affrin
Photography by Nejd Al Misned
Prologue:
Abdulla’s mind wasn’t on Fatima, nor on his uncles or cousins. Not even when he drove through the wrought iron entry gate, oblivious to the sprawl of family cars parked haphazardly in the shared courtyard, did he give them a thought. Despite the holy season, his mind was still hard at work. Mentally he clicked through a final checklist for tomorrow’s meetings. I can squeeze in a few more hours if Fatima is nauseous and sleeps in tomorrow, he thought, rubbing his chin. Instead of the stubble he had anticipated, his whiskers were turning soft. A trim was yet another thing he didn’t have time for these days, though longer beards were out of fashion according to his younger brother Saad, who had been trying to grow one for years. Beard length. Just another change to keep up with.
Change was all around him, Abdulla thought. The cousins getting older, he himself soon to become a father. Abdulla felt the rise of his country’s profile most immediately in the ballooning volume of requests by foreign governments for new trade agreements. By the day, it seemed, Qatar’s international status was growing, which meant more discussions, more meetings.
He slid the car into a gap in the growing shadow between his father’s and grandfather’s houses. It would have to serve as a parking space. The Range Rover door clicked shut behind him as he walked briskly toward his father’s house, BlackBerry in hand, scrolling through his messages. Only then did the sound of wailing reach him, women in pain or grief, emanating
from his Uncle Ahmed’s house across the courtyard. He jerked the hands-free device out of his ear and quickened his pace, jogging not toward the majlis where the rest of the men were gathering, but into the main living area of Uncle Ahmed’s, straight toward those unearthly sounds.
The sight of Aunt Wadha stopped him short. Disheveled, her shayla slipping as she howled, she was smacking herself on the forehead. Then came his mother, reaching her arms out to him with a tender, pitying look he hadn’t seen since his pet rabbits from the souq died. But it was Hessa, his other aunt – Fatima’s mother, his own mother-in-law – who sent him into a panic. Ashen-faced, her lips bleeding, she was clutching the evil eye necklace he had bought Fatima on their honeymoon. At the sight of it, the delicate gold cord in Hessa’s hands instead of around his wife’s neck, Abdulla felt his knees buckle and the BlackBerry slip from his hand.
“What has happened?” he said. He looked from one stricken face to another.
Numbly, he saw his female cousins were there. At the sight of him, the older ones, glamorous Noor and bookish Hind, both now adult women in their own right, whom he hadn’t seen in years, jerked their shaylas from their shoulders to cover their hair and went into the adjoining room. In his haste, he hadn’t said “Darb!” to let them know he was entering the room.
“Abdulla, Abdulla…” his mother began, but she was thrust aside by Aunt Hessa. “Fatima,” Hessa screamed, staring wildly at him. “Fatima!”
Rather than fall onto the floor in front of the women, Abdulla slumped heavily into the nearest overstuffed armchair. Fatima…
They left behind gangly nine-year-old Luluwa, Fatima’s sister, who resisted when they tried to take her with them. His father, gray-faced and tired, entered. Abdulla slouched and waited, the growing dread like something chewing at his insides. His father began to talk, but on hearing “accident” and “the intersection at Al Waab” he remembered the Hukoomi traffic service SMS. Then he heard “Ahmed,” and a shiver of horror ran up his back. The driver had been Ahmed, his uncle and father-in-law.
Later that night in the morgue, in the minutes or hours (he couldn’t keep track) while he waited to receive her body, Abdulla flicked his Zippo lighter open and struck it alight. Holding it just so, he burned a small patch on his wrist just below his watch strap. Even this couldn’t contain his rage at the truck driver who came through without a scratch, at his uncle, or at himself.
The morgue was antiseptic, mercilessly public. The police advised against seeing her, insisting that he wouldn’t be able to erase the memory of a face marked with innumerable shards of glass.
Surrounded by family and hospital staff, he couldn’t hold her, talk to her, or stroke her slightly rounding stomach, the burial site of their unborn child. Any goodbyes he had hoped to say would have to be suppressed.
He would mourn the baby in secret. He hadn’t wanted to tell relatives about the pregnancy too soon in case of a miscarriage. Now it could never happen: the need to visibly accept God’s will in front of them would prevent him from crying it out—this woe upon woe that was too much to bear.
Fatima’s body was washed and wrapped, and the prayers said before burial. His little wife with the round face and knowing eyes he’d grown up next to in the family compound, and the baby he would never see crawl, sleep or walk, were hidden from him now for all eternity. The secret she was carrying was wrapped with her in a gauzy white kaffan, her grave cloth, when he was finally allowed to see them. The child would have been named after Abdulla’s grandfather if a boy, his grandmother if a girl, whose gender would now remain a mystery.
At the burial site, as was customary, he fell in line behind his father and uncles. Ahmed, the father, carried his daughter’s slight form.
They placed her on her right side.
Men came to lay the concrete slabs that sealed the grave, so her frame would not rise up as it decomposed in the earth. Abdulla regretted not having been able to stroke the softness of her chin or the imperceptibly rounding curve of her belly. I am burying my wife and our unborn child, he thought, the taste of blood filling his mouth from the force with which he bit his cheek to stem the tears. Their secret would have to be lost within her lifeless womb. News of a double tragedy would spread with the sand under doors and into the ears of their larger circle of acquaintances. Someone would call someone to read the Qur‘an over him. Someone would search out someone else for a bottle of Zamzam water from Mecca.
None of it would stop the acid from gnawing through his heart.
In swirls of conjecture and pity, his newly-assigned role as the widowed and grieving almost-father, would replace his role as the eldest grandchild in a fertile and happy extended family. His birth order had focused their marital intents on him. Caught between duty and tradition, he did the only thing he could do. He tried to forget that he had been too busy to drive Fatima that day, the day he lost a wife and a child because of his own selfishness. He had thought they had years ahead, decades, when they would have time to spend together. A chubby infant growing into a child who went to school, for whose school holidays they would have to wait to travel abroad, and eventually another child, maybe several more. Now none of this would ever be.
He should have died with them. But he kept on breathing—as if he had a right to air.
They returned from the funeral to gather at the home of the grieving parents for the ‘azaa, the receiving of condolences. Abdulla rode in the back seat of the Land Cruiser, his father at the wheel, his cousins and brothers messaging friends on various applications. For him there was no sharing of grief. This was his burden to bear alone.
He was the last to climb out of the car, but the first to see Luluwa hunched on the marble steps of Uncle Ahmed’s entryway. The lines around her mouth, pulling it downward, aging her face, drew his attention; the stooped shoulders spoke of a burden heavier than grief for her sister. His mother saw it at the same time and hurried over to the girl, concerned.
“Yalla, what is it?” she said, pulling her up.
Luluwa shook her head.
“Go inside, habibti,” said Abdulla’s mother, but Luluwa shook free and drew back, panic in her wide eyes. Abdulla’s mother turned her face back to the men. Then they heard the shouting.
“When? When did this all start?” Hessa’s voice screamed, raw and startling, from inside the open door. “Leave this house.”
The family halted in their tracks, exchanging uncertain glances.
Ahmed emerged, looking shaken but defiant, a weekender bag in one hand. Abdulla’s father, the eldest of the brothers, stepped forward and took him by the arm.
“Everyone is upset,” he whispered harshly. He was trying to lead him back inside, as his wife had done a moment ago with Luluwa, when Hessa burst forward into view, her face aflame with indignation.
“Tell them,” she spat at her husband. “Tell them now, so when you don’t come back here everyone will know why.”
The words made no sense to Abdulla. His first thought was to speak up and still the voices. He had already forgiven Ahmed in his mind. The accident hadn’t been his fault. “There’s no reason to throw him out,” he called out, half-climbing the steps. “It was my fault, not his. I should have been driving them.”
Hessa turned towards him and laughed in a way that made the hairs on the back of his neck
stand on end. “Who needs to throw him out when he’s leaving?” she said. “Leaving his daughter to a house with no man to look after her. She might as well have died with her sister.”
“Yuba, no,” Luluwa cried, moving toward her father, but her mother grabbed a fistful of her abaya and spun the girl around by the shoulders.
Abdulla’s mind whirred to compute what they were witnessing. A sudden white-hot rage stiffened his spine. His gaze narrowed on Ahmed. So the rumors were true, he thought.
“He doesn’t want me and so he doesn’t want you,” Hessa hissed, nose to nose with her daughter.
The family froze in the entryway as understanding sluiced them like rainwater. Ahmed stood for a moment in the glare of their stares. He shifted the weekender bag into his opposite hand.
Saoud, the middle brother, stepped forward to question Ahmed, the baby of the family, but Hessa wasn’t finished yet.
“Go,” she screamed at her husband. “You’ll never set foot in any house with me in it ever again.” She collapsed onto the floor, her abaya billowing up around her like a mushroom, obscuring her face.
Saoud moved quickly to stand in front of his brother as his wife helped Hessa up. “Think of your daughter,” she added pointedly. “The one that’s still alive.”
Abdulla brought Luluwa forward. Her face was tear-streaked and her body trembling so hard it was causing his hand to shake.
“Keep her, if you want,” Ahmed said, his glance flickering over Luluwa’s bent head. “My new wife will give me many sons.” He sidestepped Mohammed and Saoud, continuing on down the stairs towards his car.
The look Hessa gave Luluwa was filled with loathing. She dissolved into another flood of tears.
The girl darted inside. Abdulla followed as his parents tried to deal with the aftermath of his uncle’s leaving. His aunt looked as though she might faint. His cousins’ faces were ashen. Mohammed and Saoud murmured in low voices about the best way to deal with their brother’s child. She couldn’t live in a house with boys; one of those boys, her cousins, might one day be her husband.
He followed Luluwa’s wailings, sounds without any force, the bleating of a cat, like one of any number roaming the streets of the city. Without a male family member to look after her, she would be as abandoned as those animals. And, in the eyes of their society, as susceptible to straying. He found her on the sofa, typing away on her laptop, and hoped she wasn’t posting their family’s mess on the internet. Wedged next to her hip was an opaque paper bag stamped with their grandfather’s name, the white tops of a few pill bottles visible.
Abdulla came and sat on the sofa next to her, unsure of what to do next. He was assaulted by her screensaver, a photo of Fatima and Luluwa on the evening of the wedding reception. He hadn’t yet arrived with the male relatives; the bride and the rest of the women were still celebrating without hijab. His wife’s eyes stared back at him even as her sister’s now poured tears that showed no sign of stopping.
With trembling hands Luluwa wrenched open the bag of medicine and dug around for pills. She let the laptop slip and he caught it before it hit the floor. As he righted it, the heading of the minimized Google tab caught his attention: suicide. For one moment he allowed himself to admit that the idea she was apparently contemplating had begun to dance at the edge of his own mind.
“Don’t,” he said. “What will we do if both of you are gone?”
He put the laptop aside and, as if calming a wild colt, reached out slowly, deliberately, to take the bottle from her shaking hands. With little effort he wrenched it from her, and with it any remaining shred of strength. She dissolved into incoherent sobs, a raging reminder of what it meant to be alive, to be the one left behind.
Abdulla folded her into his arms, this slip of a girl who used to hide his car keys so that her weekend visits with her sister and brother-in-law wouldn’t have to end, this girl who had already lost so much, a sister and now a father and mother. Instead of shriveling into himself, as he had felt like doing from the moment he saw his family in mourning, Abdulla’s heart went out to Luluwa. He murmured reassurances, trying to reverse the mirror of his own loss that he saw reflected in her eyes.
“We can do this,” he said. “She would want us to.”
She pulled away to look at him.
“Together,” he said. From deep in his own grief he recognized the despair that would haunt him for years, and made a pledge to keep the decay he felt growing inside him from tainting someone so young. He would bear the guilt. It was his alone to bear.
He would speak to his father. If nothing else, perhaps Luluwa might gain a new brother, and he a little sister. Small comfort, but tied together in the knowledge of the loved one they had lost, a bond that might see them through what was to come.
Mohadoha social media links:
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Other books Other books by Mohanalakshmi Rajakumar Available for sale on Amazon.com
An Unlikely Goddess
The Dohmestics
From Dunes to Dior
Mommy But Still Me
So, You Want to Sell a Million Copies?
Coloured and Other Stories
Saving Peace
February 10, 2014
The Healing Power of Mumio? Week Three
Week three…
Day 15 –> Okay, I feel like Mumio is pulling every nasty bug up and out of me:( I hope this gets better soon. I’m looking at this as a good thing, I feel like the Mumio is wiping out every nasty toxin in my system! I don’t feel necessarily bad, just overly toxic right now, and I eat fairly healthy! But viruses are abound in this town I call my own right now.
Day 16 –>woke up congested again, but I don’t feel nearly as toxic, cleared up during the day, and as soon a laid down I became congested:(
Day 17 –>Wow! Awesome, No congestion, No feeling drained first thing in the morning:) And I’m not feeling toxic anymore!
Day 18 –> Woke up with minor congestion today, but am very tired, even though I slept a full 8 hours:( I’m not sure what’s going on. I don’t feel sick anymore.
Day 19 –> Little congested this morning. My son let me know last night that he’s been really congested and isn’t feeling to well, along with half the school. I hope the exhaustion yesterday wasn’t a precursor to getting whatever he has. I do have more energy today.
Day 20 –>Ha, ha, I think I’ve picked up my sons bug! Not surprising at all, but at least I was able to stave off my bosses kids tummy virus:)
Day 21 –> Yesterday I felt pretty down from the bug I picked up and was not a happy camper. It was short lived though. Today I’m still not quite up to par, but I don’t feel nearly as bad as yesterday. Right now I honestly feel the Mumio is working, it’s taking a while to up my immune system, but that can be expected due to my immune systems trials and tribulations over the last years. We’ll see what week 4 brings.
Nope, not giving up on Mumio yet. I’m still going to take it for the full 30 days.
Mumio (mumijo), mountain balsam http://www.kyrgyzstantravel.info/resorts/mumio.htm
http://www.eartherbs.com/index.php?page=127&
