In a small town in Arkansas, two lives that seemingly have nothing in common will converge and change each other forever. A brilliant but tormented street artist and an ex-track star whose career was cut short by a heart condition.
In a small town in Arkansas, two lives that seemingly have nothing in common will converge and change each other forever. A brilliant but tormented street artist and an ex-track star whose career was cut short by a heart condition.
Aimee DeLuca had a promising athletic career before her heart gave out during a high school track and field contest. Aimee struggles to find her way after spending time with a deceased grandmother during a near death experience. Reizo Rush is a street artist whose torment fuels his desire to add color to the gray walls of the city. But Reizo’s tagging and the two voices only he hears land him in perpetual trouble with both his teachers and the law.
During a chance encounter, the two quickly find out they have much more in common than love. When they stumble upon a century-old storm cellar hidden underground on Aimee’s uncle’s ranch, they unearth a cellar full of artifacts and a hundred-year-old Will. Once the news of the discovery leaks out, a drug-dealing teen and a mysterious soul named General are determined to bury the truth along with anyone who gets in their way.
The story behind author's latest book
I started the series off with two simple questions that have been explored over the ages.
1) Why do innocent people suffer?
2) If the afterlife is so awesome, why are we here?
These simple questions sparked a ton of other questions. I started reading everything I could on the topic. I soon discovered hundreds of near death experiences and realized there was a common experience in most of them. I found professional studies on the topic of NDEs. I discovered the story
I wanted to write and quickly realized it would span over a number of books. But most important to me, I wanted to write the series without focusing on any existing belief systems. After all, I was writing fiction. So, I spent time building the world using a variety of inspired ideas. An author friend of mine suggested I share the world. (Hack, Carmina's Diagrams and Carmina's Musings). I dreamed up a bunch of interesting characters and let them lose in my fictional world. Each book explores key aspects of the two main questions. For example, book 1 is all about innocence. Then book 2 takes off in a fun, fast paced paranormal thriller and doesn't look back. I promise all lingering questions will be answered in line with the fictional world. So I encourage readers to stick with it. There may be some questions that linger from book to book. But in the end those questions will be answered. It was so fun to write!
Check out the book trailer to get the overall concept of the series. Maybe it will be a movie someday! hint hint
EXCERPT
~Aimee~
Forty-three minutes without
a heartbeat—a little longer than a sitcom. About the time it takes for first
period at Theodore High. It’d been five years since I’d seen Grams. She looked
amazingly happy, considering she was dead.
After waking up from heart surgery, the first words I
uttered in the recovery room were “Did my team win?”
“Miracle, miracle,” a nurse whispered. I guess she thought
I’d have brain damage.
Another nurse cried. A male nurse asked me if I’d
experienced anything strange. He said some patients have what they call a “Near-Death-Experience”—NDE
for short. After all, I’d been officially pronounced dead before the doctors
brought me back to life.
I told him, “No, nothing worth mentioning.” Lying was easier
than telling the truth. There’s no way I’ll ever talk to anyone about those
forty-three minutes—especially not Mom or her boyfriend, Hank. What would I
tell them? “Hey, remember when I was dead? Well, I hung out with Grams on a
bright day at Uncle Pete’s pond.”
Not a chance. I’d get tagged a wacko and locked up at
Willowgate, just like the crazy kid from school.
The nurses told me it’d been a miracle that I had survived with
only chest compressions until I arrived at the ER. I agreed, of course, but I
knew different. Grams had said, “It’s
your choice, dear. Stay here or return.”
Being a track star and honor student, I wanted to return.
And so I did.
I blink away these thoughts and slurp in a mouthful of milky
flakes while peering at the track star on the cereal box. The glint of
excitement in the athlete’s eyes is familiar. But the feeling of adrenaline and
winning races is a distant memory.
Gardenia
perfume invades the kitchen as Mom scurries in and fills up a travel mug with
coffee. She smiles while sinking a teaspoon of sugar into the mug. “Aimee,
aren’t you excited?”
I place
my bowl in the dishwasher and nod. “I guess. I’m mainly looking forward to
painting at Uncle’s pond.”
Mom
takes a paper sack out of the refrigerator and hands it to me. It’s been part
of our daily routine for as long as I can remember. She sends me into the world
each day with a kiss and a packed lunch.
“Uncle
Pete will pick you up early, but you’ll still need lunch. The artist must be
fed.” She winks.
“Thanks,
Mom.”
Her cell
blasts some upbeat tune from the ancient past. “Let’s go. I’m presenting
closing arguments in court this morning.”
I swim
in Mom’s flowery wake as we walk out the door and into the garage.
Mom
answers her cell, connecting it to the car’s hands-free device. “I’ll be at the
office in twenty minutes.”
As
usual, I push in my ear buds to avoid listening to lawyers’ ramblings while we
drive. Hopefully, junior year will be better if I get a car, like she promised.
Mom
raises her voice. “I’m ready . . . I know, I know . . . it’s our
responsibility.”
I gaze
out the car window. My pulse quickens and my stomach churns. Even with the
music distraction, I still feel Mom’s emotions. I let my mind drift as
she navigates morning traffic.
Cancer took Grams’ life five years before my NDE. But when I
saw her that day, she looked beautiful, like in the framed picture Mom keeps on
her bookshelf. “It’ll be hard, darling,” Grams
had said. “But I hope you’ll decide to return.
There are still things for you to do.”
A couple of years later and I still have no clue what “things”
she meant.
I glance at Mom gripping the steering wheel and feel her
nervousness and anxiety. It must be a big legal case for her today.
I remember the day I left the hospital. It was a shock,
feeling the energy from things around me. It’s like suddenly feeling hot in an
air-conditioned room or feeling chilly when it’s ninety-degrees outside. It’s
hard to explain, exactly, how I can feel excitement coming from saw grass
swaying in the wind and strength emanating from oak trees baking in sunshine. I’m
not psychic or anything, but my intuition is off the charts. It sounds ill and
delusional, which is why I’ll never talk about it.
The first day back to school after my heart surgery was the
worst. I quickly realized the people around me were crushing me with their
emotions. Feelings of worry, excitement, anger, love, and hate swirled the
school hallways from my classmates and hung over my head in class. Trying to
concentrate on schoolwork while being flattened by so many emotions all at once
was impossible in the beginning.
At first, my friends had been supportive when I needed my
space. But soon they realized I’d changed for good. Gossiping about Kelly’s
ridiculous shoe purchase and texting about Sharon and Roger hooking up after a
Friday night football game became boring. Going to a pep rally to wait for the
crazy kid to attack another mascot turned into a ridiculous waste of time. What’s
the point of rushing around, worrying about what people think, or worrying
about saying something stupid? All the little things used to stress me out. Not
anymore. Now people do.
Mom drives the car up to the curb and stops in front of
Theodore High School in the heart of Franklinville, Arkansas. Waves of
anticipation and excitement from kids walking through the school gates roll
over me.
I hesitate before pulling out my ear buds and fight the
overwhelming urge to run. I’d usually pretend I was sick and ask Mom to take me
home, but today is the last day of the school year.
I can do this.
A man’s voice from Mom’s office blasts from the car
speakers.
Mom mouths to me, “I’ll call you later.” Then she leans over
and kisses me on the cheek, exactly like she always does.
At the start of freshman year, I’d been the girl who set
track records. I was the popular girl with friends, the fashion trendsetter,
and the designated shoulder to lean on.
I was all of that before I died.
But I was none of it after the doctors brought me back to
life.
Chapter Two
~Reizo~
Two voices moved into my
skull six years ago and stayed. Not the fun, imaginary-friend kind. These
voices are distinct. Clear. Talking whenever the hell they want. I’ve tried to make
them leave, but nothing works. They just get more intense and argue, like I
don’t exist. Telling me what to do, what not to do.
Dr. Stewart talks to Mom as if I’m not sitting two steps
away on his examination table inside Willowgate Psychiatric Hospital—the oldest
building in Franklinville.
“Let’s increase Reizo’s dosage for six weeks.” He pronounces
each word with a heavy Russian accent. “We are dealing primarily with auditory
hallucinations.”
We?
Stewart likes to use big words, but I know what he means. He
thinks I’m crazy.
“I will clear Reizo for the last day of school, but he must
be monitored...”
Dr. Stewart rubs his shaved head and shifts his lanky frame
from one black shoe to the other. “There is a possibility it is hereditary...”
I want to punch something when Mom’s almond-shaped eyes well
up with tears.
“Based on old family stories, Reizo’s third great-grandfather
had issues,” Mom says. Her voice wavers like a slide guitar as she twists her
brown ponytail with three fingers. “His name was Wesley Rush. He was one of the
first settlers in Franklin County.” She pauses as if to search for the right
words. “When my husband was alive, he told me his Grandpa Wesley had been
committed to a psychiatric hospital back in the late 1800’s.”
Mom clears her throat with a quick cough and adjusts the
floral dress over her slim figure. “He heard voices too.”
The doctor looks up from his clipboard and stares at Mom
with cold blue eyes straight from Siberia. “I see.” He scribbles something on a
paper without looking.
From experience, I know distracting myself is the only way
to get through the exam. I force a long deep breath and gaze at the only splash
of color inside the white exam room and let my mind drift.
Just as I calm down, two voices start up in my head. In a
failed attempt to get them to shut up a few years back, I named the lady voice
Honesti and the guy voice Bouncer.
“I told Reizo the meds
would make him worse,” Honesti says in a soft voice.
No kidding. I
straighten my back and readjust myself on the sheet of paper covering the exam
table.
“Poor Reizo. He was
scared, wah,” says Bouncer in a husky rasp. “Baby man is weak, ain’t that right? He’ll never be ready. Pathetic.
Just tell Stewart to take a hike. Grab a needle. You know what to do.”
What a jerk. I
nearly tagged his voice “Mobster,” but decided “Bouncer” was more accurate,
since he pushes words in and out of my head whenever the hell he pleases.
I focus harder on the framed, crimson rose hanging at an
angle as if it were wilting. Tracing the length of the petal edges with my
gaze, I explore the picture like a honeybee searching dark voids for nectar.
“Wesley died after an accident not long after he was
committed,” Mom whispers to Dr. Stewart.
Bouncer continues. “Don’t
blow it, pretty boy!”
“Died? Oh, I see.”
Stewart writes again on my chart and mumbles a series of big words. “Maybe
we’ll try a new medication for a few days.”
Taking Stewart’s constantly changing pill assortment has
been the biggest mistake of my life. My world crumbled. No more voices, just
hissing static, dizziness, and drowsiness. At first, the silence worked for me,
but not long after, more side effects kicked in and my creativity turned to
mush. The meds nuke my talent. I have zero energy. I’m dizzy all the time. I can’t
concentrate, sketch, draw, use spray-paint to make three-dimensional masterpieces
with “wildstyle” writing, or anything
else artistically worthy.
Hell, when I’m on Stewart’s meds, I can’t even draw a simple
oak tree. At best, I can barely manage a throw-up tag. Visualizing scenes to
paint is impossible. Painting in 3D? No way. Drawing in two-dimensions? Hardly.
I really had no choice—now I palm and flush the meds.
Some people do calculations in their head for a distraction.
Rhyming words and poetry is what I do during examinations to distract myself.
Lately it’s been the same poem, over and over.
I am alive. I am dead.
Dreams strive. Feelings shred.
“Keep your cool,” says
Honesti. “Dr. Stewart is almost done.”
Keeping my mouth shut, I stare at the thorny rose stem and
imagine it puncturing my skin. The last thing I need is Stewart suspecting I’m
not taking his ridiculous pills.
Dr. Stewart continues. “He will need to be committed again if
there is another incident of violence. You know this, yes?”
Hello! I can hear you,
jerk wad.
Mom reluctantly nods as I press hard on my temples. Dammit. I can’t spend my entire life with
voices rambling all the time inside my head. But no way am I going to take Dr.
Stewart’s meds either.
The sun rises. The sun
sets. The dark prizes. The unpaid debts.
Adding color to the old brick and concrete around the city
is my life. Creating works of art on public buildings and sidewalks is what I
do. It’s who I am.
The time passes. The
light goes. Lifeless masses. Spirit froze.
I refuse to lumber around like a creative zombie with no
skills. I’ve been through all the possibilities.
Why should I care? Why
do I cry? Spirits glare. Hopeless sky.
There’s only one way to evict the trespassers.
Exit Plan.
About the author:
When Rick isn't dreaming, you'll find him trying to discover why, figuring out how, uncovering ancient mysteries, writing a crazy fun middle-grade or young adult novel, inventing something seriously cool, or learning something new. He enjoys participating in science camps, writing conferences and talking to groups about creative topics such as the process of inventing, building worlds for science fiction and fantasy stories, and the importance of dreaming big.
Rick is a lifelong inventor and a named inventor on over one hundred patents. He has degrees in Avionics Systems Technology, Computer Science and an MBA from Florida Institute of Technology. His experience includes a wide range of engineering, technology development and management roles ranging from aerospace systems to gaming systems. He is a proud member of the Society of Children's Book Writers and Illustrators (SCBWI), the Delta Mu Delta Honor Society, and the Phi Kappa Phi Honor Society.
Author's Giveaway
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Great book trailer! Thanks for the amazing giveaway!
ReplyDeletelove the trailer! best of luck with everything!
ReplyDeleteI liked both the excerpt, and the book trailer. I will def be purchasing this book/series soon.
ReplyDeleteThe title alone is enough to make me want to read this book :) I'm already stoked! hehe
ReplyDeleteLooks very interesting!
ReplyDeleteSounds like an interesting book! Would love to read it.
ReplyDeletenathansmommy619(At)aol(dot)com
sounds wonderful, thanks for the chance!
ReplyDeleteLoved the trailer!!
ReplyDeleteThis sounds like a fascinating read. Thanks for sharing
ReplyDeleteGreat cover and love the excerpt
ReplyDeletesounds like a great book! Thanks for the giveaway.
ReplyDeleterounder9834 @yahoo.com