Okay, I signed up twice for this tour and that is fine, I really enjoyed this book so here is the info and the first chapter. If you have not read my review -------->
Clutch
FIRST CHAPTER
Picture yourself standing on
the edge of a dock...
I shake my head.
Fuck that.
I’m standing on a dirt road
barefoot, exhaust from the Goat swirling the dust up my funeral dress, trying
to make sense of things.
The closed stop-gate in front of
me signals the entrance to the Stag, but the antlered skull in the middle of
the arm spawns a moment of pause. My eyes linger on the decorations only long
enough to log them. Blood-red paint on the antlers, an old wooden arrow
sticking out of one of the orbits, and a crown of acacia thorns draped around
the tines.
A child’s prank.
The cigar slips between my lips.
I cup my hand to block the wind, touch the cigar to the striker, and suck in
deeply as the end glows bright orange. They make me stink, but I don’t care.
Today, I don’t care about much.
I slam the Goat’s door and walk
towards the skull, then hear the tell-tale crack of a sonic boom and turn to
squint at the sun. It’s losing its battle with the rotating earth and starting
to sink. Peak City has been out of my sight line for hours but I know where it
should be on the horizon and the contrail of a suborbital coming out of the
north points back to my home in the distance.
Turning back to the gate, I watch
the wind pick up the strip of wood across the excuse for a road and make it
dance. A stray magpie lands and rides the skull with a rhythm that reminds me
of better days. It watches me, tilting its head to the side, and squawks,
"Away!"
I flick the half-smoked stub at
it and it flies off.
There is nothing here to stop my
progress into the Stag but since this is a forbidden zone in the Rural
Republic, I pause before taking this final step. Consequences tend to mean less
with the loss of precious things, so they mean nothing to me now.
Reaching up, I release my long
auburn hair from the tie and let it flap around my expressionless face as the
wind tries to carry it across the grasslands.
If only the wind would carry me
across the grasslands.
My cold toes scrunch into the
dirt and I remember my funeral shoes are in the backseat, discarded hours ago.
I walk over to the Goat and fish around until I pull together a pair of field
boots and some black thermals. I hike the warm leggings up to my hips and then
sit on the edge of my old Humvee and meticulously lace up each boot so they are
snug, but not tight.
A sheathed hunting knife is in
danger of dropping through the rusted-out floorboard and I rescue it, stashing
it inside the boot. Then I slide my shotgun onto the front seat and drop my
little pistol into the crap box with other items one finds in a vehicle. The
lid drops closed with a snap.
In the end I didn’t need to waste
time in front of the gate. It was never a question of if I would go. Only when.
I climb back into the front seat, jam the Goat in gear and veer off the road,
pressing up against the low-hanging cottonwoods that have crept up from the dry
riverbed. I brace myself as my vehicle bounces down into the ditch and then
jolts back up. I gun it as the tires lose a little traction in earth soft from
the rains, swing her around the ominous gate, and surge back onto the dirt
track that still thinks it is a road.
On the other side I stop once
more to check for Peak City in the distance, but all I see is the magpie, back
on the skull, riding it out. I flip it off and gun the Goat again. We lurch
forward, sputtering out a cloud of smoke that could get you hanged in some
parts of the world.
But not here.
The Rural Republic might
officially be part of the United Republics, but that’s pretty much where it
ends. Our national motto is quaint. Simple Serves . A reference to the
throwback life we are supposed to be leading. But if you’re not from around
here and need help, (which is strictly theoretical, we’re a closed campus,
kids) the answer you get is disinterest. If you’re lucky.
The drive out to Stag Camp is a
stretch of open road, peppered with the occasional falling-down farmhouse or
small herd of antelope. So I settle in, light another cigar, and slide the
window down even though the warm November afternoon has given in to the cold
November night.
Nothing to do now but think about
the job. My eyes track to the passenger seat, past the shotgun, and come to
rest upon the thick envelope pressed into my hands as I left the funeral
several hours ago. The label on the front is machine-printed, but it doesn’t
say Junco. It says Dale. Resident of one Stag Camp in the middle of nowhere.
The dying light seeps out of my
world. The eye-shine peering back at me from the side of the road as I take a
wide turn is what clues me in. The two glowing dots are far enough apart to
estimate size and my body gives an involuntary shiver as I run down the short
list. Nightdog or prairie lion. Either one would eat me alive.
The sky is filled with stars long
before I spy the dark shadow of the landmark hill in the distance. It’s a slow
climb that turns into a nightmare halfway up, then a flat patch to gather some
steam so you can push your vehicle to its limit and struggle up the final grade
that will plunge you over the other side.
I watch the approaching ridge
with some trepidation. Once over it, I’ll be more in than out. A sigh escapes
my lips and I push the Goat until her body shakes, getting ready for the
ascent.
We hit the hill going about 110,
but the steep initial grade checks us and we lose speed quick. I downshift,
then again, and by the time the grade evens back out for several hundred feet
we are barely skimming 40. I gun it again so we can gain some momentum to get
over the hump and I catch a little air as we pass over the summit.
The buck in the road never has a
chance. The Goat slams into the animal midair and the tendons and bones snap
loudly in the cold night. The lower half of the deer slips under the tires,
creating a slick mess of tissue and blood on the road. The head flies straight
at my face and the bloodied antlers crash into the glass.
I slam on the brakes and the head
loses its hold on the window and flies off out of sight. I hit a patch of
greasy mud left over from the last rain and slide sideways, towards the edge of
what may be a cliff, or a gently rolling embankment.
I quickly correct, not waiting to
find out, only to discover I’m now sliding backwards. I swing the wheel around,
body parts flipping out from under the tires, and hit the brakes again. The
Goat and I slip sideways into the ditch and I use the bounce to straighten out
the wheels. When she comes down hard we’re moving forward into a sparse grove
of pines.
I force my foot down on the brake
one more time, sliding sideways in the softened mud, and barely manage to aim
between two old-growth Ponderosas as the lower branches slap against the Goat’s
doors.
I steer us through as best I can,
but when you’re racing a five-thousand-pound vehicle through a small forest,
you tend to run out of luck sooner rather than later. A deep ditch of water
erosion plunges the Goat down, but she recovers and jerks back up. My head hits
the steering wheel and I feel the blood slip down my face, then taste iron as
it trickles into my mouth. The Goat’s front tires find another ditch and I
lurch forward, cracking my head on what’s left of the driver’s side windshield.
Finally we slam into the thick twisted trunk of a cottonwood. I have a second
or two to moan, and then it all goes black.
Picture yourself standing on
the edge of a dock. In front of you is a mountain lake...
The blood seeps into my mouth and
I cough, then spit out a coagulated hunk of something before opening my eyes.
Shit.
I listen for noises around me and
panic sets in when I hear the sharp snap of a dry tree branch off to my right.
My head rolls towards the noise, not quite controlled, and I wait a few more
moments to let things clear up a bit. The pain in my shoulder is like fire and
the blood is hot as it trickles down the side of my head.
In front of me is a stream, not a
goddamn mountain lake.
Wait.
I shake my head.
A small trickle of water has
materialized from the last rain and the sound of it makes my mouth dry up
immediately. I move my head slightly, allowing a moan to escape, and let my
right hand reach out for the water bottle on the seat.
Of course, it’s not there.
I twist my body a little so I can
make a more earnest search of the cab, then grab the steering wheel with my
left hand to stabilize my movement.
"Fucking shit!"
That hurts.
The pain is pulled up into every
synaptic center of my brain. The resulting vertigo almost makes me heave. A
thousand birds take flight from the trees and the wingbeats flare up in my
ears.
And then the whispers start.
The dark whisper of a flock of starlings
too long in the company of men. There is nothing more creepy than human words
coming out of a starling beak and the contents of my stomach experience another
moment of protest until I can push it down. I reach into the crap box with my
right hand and pull out the pistol, aiming it through the broken glass of the
window in front of me. The shot rings out and the recoil travels through my
body like a standing wave. When it reaches my left shoulder I scream again.
This time the starlings stay silent.
More tree branch snapping hauls
me back to my current situation and my eyes dart around, alert for movement. I
take a deep, cleansing breath and let it out slowly, but that does nothing to
stop whatever is moving out in the trees.
I shoot another round off and do
a better job at damping down the recoil. This time I see a shadow of a great
owl fly off in the distance. It must have been hunting in the trees.
I sit there for a little longer
and then swing my legs across the gear stick, scoot over to the passenger side
door and release the handle. Pure determination allows me to coerce my legs
into standing and then I seize my water bottle off the floor and down it in
large gulps.
A thorough shuffling through
dirty field clothes leads to a belt. I position it across my body and slip my
arm into the loop of leather to take the weight off my injury, then sling the
shotgun over my good shoulder and grab my pack to begin my walk back up the
hill to the road. Looking and listening for any sign of apex predators.
The road looks like it usually
does when a large deer gets mowed over by a military vehicle, so I don’t dwell
on it and instead walk the short distance back up to the top of the hill and
try to see if there are any lights in the distance.
The Rural Republic is a chancy
place to be stranded on any given day, but being alone in the Stag is
exceptionally bad luck. There are no vehicles on the road, nor will there be.
No one knows where I am, so no one will come looking.
I look east and see nothing. I
look west and see nothing. That pretty much sums up the extent of what’s
available in terms of assistance. It makes no difference which way I go, the
stop-gate back in Council 5 and the Stag Camp proper are about equal distance
from the spot where I stand. I will have to winch the Goat up and out of that
ravine before any other decisions can be made.
The night isn’t as black as it
could be and for that I’m grateful. The moon has fully risen in the time it
took me to free myself from the Goat and hitch up my arm, and while it isn’t
anything near full, neither is it a sliver of hopelessness. Walking outside of
the boundaries of the road leads me to an almost flat, grassy patch of earth. I
find the Big Dipper and then Cassiopeia to ease the creeping feeling of
aloneness, then lower myself down on the ground and rest my throbbing head back
into the palm of my hand for just a few moments of rest.
The sounds of nature come back.
And with them are the dark
whispers of starlings. They haunt me as I drift off to sleep.
Picture yourself standing on
the edge of a dock. In front of you is a mountain lake and behind you is a
small cabin, pristine white curtains flowing in the breeze passing through the
windows. Down below the water you can see the scales of brightly colored fish reflecting
the sunlight...
... and then you are in a
church, looking down on a meeting.
No, wait, that’s not how it
goes.
I’m a piece of stained glass
high up in the window. I look down at my body and see that I’m naked, but
that’s not the disturbing thing. Instead of feet I have long raptor talons that
host a variety of knives instead of claws. From my mouth come the whispers of
the starlings and the gurgling in my throat causes me to scream and break free
of the glass. It shatters down to the floor where people argue. The shards of
blood-colored glass kill them as they slice through their backs and then I am
flying high up in the air, looking down on the Stag. I know it’s the Stag
because of the tall perimeter wall and the guardhouse at the gate. I land near
the guardhouse, still outside the camp, and my father exits in full uniform and
puts his hand up to stop me. I need to get in, Daddy, I say – even though I
haven’t called him Daddy since my mother disappeared when I was six. He opens
his mouth and starlings fly out, screaming their whispers in my ears, and then
they attack me with their long thin beaks and their wings beat against my body.
I fly away, circling the Stag Camp, and then I dive down, spiraling into the
gushing wind. It explodes and I am thrown up into the sky as a constellation
where Orion hunts me like the bull for time everlasting.
And then I am warm and the
starlings are gone, but the whispers are still there, making me feel safe. They
are soft now, not deep and evil, but soft. And I listen to them and I say OK.
The warmth of the dream fades and
I wake shivering as the sweat drips off my body. A movement catches my eye
across the expanse of wild grass and I sit upright in an instant, ignoring the
fire in my shoulder. I have the shotgun out, propped in the area where my hip
meets my stomach, and I brace my arm on my thigh as I level the barrel on the
shadow in the distance as best I can. My finger slips onto the trigger and
squeezes lightly as I prepare for the shot.
It’s not a prairie lion because I
can see the outstretched wings back-lit by starlight as it skulks across the
field. And it’s obviously not an owl because it’s walking on two legs.
"I wouldn’t do that if I
were you," it says.
I squeeze the trigger and the
recoil slams me into the ground, screaming in pain.
I’m back in the blur of agony
once again and fuck is coming out of my mouth at regular intervals. The black
shadow stands over me now, the dark wings fully outstretched and imposing.
"I told ya not to do
that."
It’s a male voice.
I pull away wincing, trying to
sink down into the ground to avoid him as he leans into my personal space.
"That’s really going to hurt
now. You humans. It’s always shoot first, ask questions later."
I find my voice and snort at him.
"At least a human would know better than to sneak up on a girl stranded in
the middle of nowhere with a shotgun."
The avian’s hypnotic green eyes
brighten as he smiles at me. "Ya have a point there, darlin’."
We have a semi-serious staring
contest for a few seconds and then he reaches down towards me. "Ya need a
hand?"
I look him up and down from my
unfortunate submissive situation. His wings are a lot more imposing than I
figure they should be. I’ve seen images of avians here and there over the
years, but not enough to be any kind of expert on them.
Sighing, I consider my options as
he waits. I can either roll around on my knees and try to get up – or I can get
up with some dignity left intact. I shrug and extend my good arm up to him.
"Sure."
He takes it and I brace for the explosion
of agony that will surely come from my shoulder, but he pulls me to my feet in
a smooth, gentle manner. I manage to end upright with only a few squeaks of
pain escaping my lips.
"That was unlucky, eh?"
"Unlucky? I almost shot you.
I figure that’s pretty fucking lucky myself."
"The accident, friend. An
unlucky thing to hit that animal."
I grab my gun and ignore him as I
hitch my pack up on my hip and shuffle through to check my ammo supply.
"Missing something?"
I give him a long once-over and
he waits patiently for me to finish. "You do realize you’re trespassing,
right? Aliens are not permitted in the RR under any circumstances."
"You’d be surprised,"
he says.
I swing the shotgun on the strap
so it’s out in front of me, brace it on my thigh to compensate for my injured
shoulder, cycle the next round into the chamber, and then point it straight at
his chest. I strain to prevent the wince that really wants to leak across my
face. "Look, I don’t know who you are, or why you’re here, but as a Farm
Family Representative of Council 3, I’m asking you to leave under Regulation
V.1.b – Aliens are not permitted in the Rural Republic under any
circumstances. I have the authority to shoot and if you doubt me, I
apologize ahead of time for taking your life. You are hereby legally
warned."
"Look, sweetheart–"
I squeeze back and the round
blasts out of the chamber but he’s high above me in the air as the shot passes
into the trees. The leaves rustle and the birds are wild once again. The recoil
pain isn’t as bad from the standing position, but I feel the blood leaking out
under the skin on my hip, creating a bruise. I push the pain down. "I’ve
been shooting since I could walk, sweetheart, and I’ve had a really shitty day.
Do not fuck with me."
He flies off over the trees about
a dozen yards away and I can just barely make him out as he lands in the cover
of the brush.
"Is that how ya treat
someone who saves your life? Shoot them?"
I snort. "Saved my life? I
must have missed that one while I was sleeping."
"Except ya weren’t sleeping,
Junco. Ya were unconscious."
It isn’t often that I get stunned
into silence, but an alien knowing my name in the middle of nowhere can do it.
"How the hell do you know my name?"
Silence from him now.
The glimmer of light that was
previously there is gone, and so is he.
I take stock of the mountaintop
meadow. Where are you, where are you?
Silence.
I pivot on my heel, gun braced
one-armed against my stomach to catch the recoil, and do a proper survey of the
area. My good arm is tiring quick after all the adrenaline I’ve used up and it
begins to shake. I force the bravado. "Guess you decided to take my–"
Then he is behind me, the gun is
flying across the field, and he’s twisted my bad shoulder just enough to make
me scream out. His lips touch my cheek as he whispers, "Look, I’m not
usually the type of person who abuses little girls, but you’ve shot at me two
times now and I’m not going to stand for it. I’m here for the moment and you’re
just gonna to have to deal with it. Ya got it?"
He eases up on my shoulder and
pushes me away from him.
I rub the flaming tissue and
wince. "Did you just insult me?"
He tilts his head at me.
"What? Me? Ya tried ta shoot me – twice!"
"I might be little, but the
way you said it implied I’m insignificant. Which I assure you, I am not. And
besides, you’re the one who’s trespassing, right? That’s you." I point my
finger up at him. "I have every right to tell you to leave, I’m a fucking
representative of Council–"
"3, yeah, I heard ya the
first time. Who gives a shit? I’m here. Get over it."
I stare at him in the dim
moonlight and quite frankly, I don’t care for what I see. "You’re so
fucking lucky I’m injured."
"Or what?"
"Why are you here?"
"Why are you
here?"
"Oh my fucking God, are we
in playschool or what?"
"I know where you were
going."
I laugh. "The road only goes
one place, alien. That’s not a hard deduction."
"I know what you were gonna
do, as well."
That’s it, I’m done. I begin
walking down the hill.
"Oi! Now what are you
doing?" he calls.
I ignore him as he trots a little
to catch up. He keeps his distance to a few paces behind as I make my way to
the road and then begin the descent down the slope back to the Goat. When I
finally reach it I wiggle into the back seat of the cab and lie down, trying to
even out my breathing before he gets there. My eyes close as I hear him climb
into the front passenger seat.
"What are you doing?"
he asks.
"I’m sleeping. Get the fuck
out of my Goat." My good arm slides under the seat and I allow my finger
to caress the high-powered rifle tucked away for emergencies. I can’t shoot it,
my shoulder would never tolerate that, but it gives me comfort to know it’s
there.
He doesn’t get out. Instead he
talks.
"I saw yer headlights coming
in the darkness. I didn’t think much about it really, but the accident had me
concerned. Ya hit yer head pretty hard, there."
Yeah, thanks for the update.
"I’m sorry for twisting yer
shoulder, OK?" The anger seeps out of me as I listen to his hypnotic
words. I struggle to keep my eyes closed but an overwhelming force urges me to
look him in the face.
"Junco, I did save your
life. Ya had a bad concussion. It was a mistake to fall asleep. I was just
tryin’ ta help when I brought ya out of it."
This revelation jolts me out of
my trance and I fight to shake off my weariness to get this story straight.
"Wait," I say as I painfully push my body back up into a half-sitting
position. "What? You were touching me when I was sleeping?"
He squirms a little at my tone.
"No, look, it wasn’t like that. Ya weren’t sleeping, ya were unconscious –
I just – wrapped ya in my wings so I could bring ya back up."
"You were touching me."
It’s a statement this time, not a question. "In my sleep."
"Look, I saved your life,
for Christ’s sake!"
"How dare you swear at me!
Don’t you realize–"
"I’m sorry, you’re right,”
he looks away and blows out a breath, “I shouldn’t have said that. I forgot you
are a pious bunch out here."
"Get out!" I snarl. I
feel the blood rush to my face and the adrenaline flood my muscles as I watch
him extract himself from my vehicle, stopping only to release one of his wings
from the floppy seat belt as he exits the Goat.
I let myself smile after he
leaves. That pious bullshit works every time on strangers. And he even heard me
cussing like a soldier up on the hill. But I’m glad he’s gone. I don’t remember
reading anything about avians having glowing green eyes before. Creepy.
When I wake my crusted-closed
eyelids are the least of my worries. I struggle to force them open once I
realize the sun is up. My muscles have been welded into my current sleeping
orientation and no matter how hard I fight against it, they reward me with an
intense shooting pain in my left shoulder with the slightest of movements.
A delicious smell meanders into
the cab from outside so I force a shift in position until I can prop myself up
without contorting my face into an expression of disfigurement. I ease my head
up just enough to peer out the window and see the avian poking a stick at a
roasting bird over a small campfire.
He looks up at me and smiles.
Dammit. So much for stealth. I
should be ashamed of myself.
"Hungry now?" His
accent is something different than mine, but I can’t place it. "Still not
talking, eh? Well, I made breakfast," he points to the smoking fowl,
"so that should buy me some goodwill."
I wrestle around frantically for
a second, trying to find an extraction route that won’t cause me to scream, but
I can’t see it.
"So, how long do ya young
ladies typically pout out here in the wilds, then?" he calls.
"Can you give me an estimate?"
I struggle again, pulling on the
seat belt that hangs limply behind the driver’s seat to get some leverage, but
the aging bracket attaching it to the headliner snaps off from my weight and I
give up and lie back with a sigh.
He appears at the broken window
on the passenger side. "I can’t believe you slept back there in that tiny
space." He laughs at me, and I have to admit, he’s got a nice look to him,
plus his green eyes are bright in the sunlight and they are no longer glowing,
so the creep factor has been dialed down a bit.
His large black wings are tucked
tight against his back and the tips cup over the top of his shoulders, so I
can’t see much of them. A few loose arcs of dark hair tumble off his forehead
and fall around his eyes. He’s wearing some kind of foreign get-up that might
be the alien equivalent of black jeans and t-shirt, but they are cut to his
specific body modifications and made out of some kind of heavy canvas. It has
the look of light armor, something we might wear for war games. His skin is
light, but not fair. Like fall has stolen most of the golden tan of summer
away.
"That’s nice. Short jokes.
Very funny." My voice sounds as cranky as I feel.
He lets off a little laugh.
"Need some help out?"
I scowl and try to think up
another way. But I can’t. "Yeah, sure. Just come around here to the other
side of the Goat and get in so you can push me up a little." Then I add,
"Please."
He smiles at my manners, which
make his eyes twinkle a little. Not glow, but still. The creepiness is just
under the surface.
The old door creaks as he opens
it and I try to turn and look at him but the shoulder flares up at my attempt.
I feel his hands reach under me to my good arm and I struggle not to laugh, but
it bursts out anyway. I wriggle away from his touch before he pulls back in
hesitation.
"Now, what the hell was
that?"
"I’m ticklish, so kill me.
You can’t just slip your hands into someone’s pits and not expect them to
laugh."
“Can I push you up or not?"
"Yes, push. Just don’t stick
me in my pits."
He does push and I flail around
like a turtle on its back for a few embarrassing seconds, then find myself
upright and looking out the window facing the campfire. It smells wonderful.
"Whew, that’s better,"
I say as I turn my whole body so I can see him properly. "Thanks, I really
appreciate it." I even manage a smile, which in turn allows him to offer
me one back.
"Would you like some help
with that shoulder before ya eat?"
"What’s that mean?" I
ask, looking at him sideways.
"The wings, darlin’,"
he says, pointing a thumb towards his shoulders, "they heal,
remember?"
Of course I remember but I’m not
even remotely interested in letting him get a hold of me again, so I lie
instead. "No, I’m fine. Really." And just to prove it I scoot over to
the door and flip the handle with my good hand, then smile back at him as I
push it open.
His hand goes to my good shoulder
and stops me before I can make my hasty exit. "Relax, Junco. I can fix it.
We aren’t going to get far with ya like that, anyway."
"I don’t know what you mean
by we, but in case you haven’t noticed my legs are just fine."
"Yeah, I see that. But we
won’t be walking out of here. That would take days."
I laugh a little and send him a
crooked smile. "The Goat has a winch, so don’t you worry about me."
"Sorry, darlin’, you won’t
be winching anything if you don’t let me take care of that shoulder."
My lips involuntarily form a
snarl and my eyes narrow in anger. "What’s with this darling bullshit?
Stop calling me that."
He just smiles. "Fine, Junco.
Come here, I’ll fix the shoulder. Think of it as a gift."
"No." I move to get
past him but his eyes catch mine and begin to glow. I’m drawn in and I can’t
stop looking at him.
"I said come here,
Junco."
In my mind I say no. But my body
is already wrapped up in his wings and my head begins to spin. I can hear him
whisper in my ear, and his breath dances across my cheek.
"Does it feel good?" he
asks.
"Mmmmhmmmm, yesss," I
say, slurring my words a bit. The heat from his body exchanges between us and
my shoulder is sucking it up like a vacuum. My thoughts twist around in an
incoherent mess as we sit, melded together in heat. He stays that way for
several minutes and my mind is carried away with the effects of his body.
Then I am high above looking down
on the Stag. I see a few straggling antelope and watch the wind caress the
grass as I begin to float away. "Stop, no flying."
In an instant the heat is gone
and the avian has twisted me around to see my face. "What did you just
say?"
My shoulder doesn’t hurt anymore
but my head is really fuzzy, like I’m drunk, so I don’t even remember what I
said.
He shakes me a little to jar my
memory. "Junco? What are you talking about?"
I think hard and squint.
"Flying? Did I say flying?"
"What about flying?"
"The Stag is burning,"
I say as I try to open my eyes.
I feel his chest collapse as he
exhales. "What?"
"Just a dream," I say,
forcing myself to concentrate. "It was just a dream. Didn’t make any
sense."
We sit there as I recover. He’s
still got his arms around me, but his wings never return to make their
addictive cocoon of healing. I stay still as the world comes back to me a
little at a time. Then our closeness gets weird and I push him off. He hops out
and comes over to my side of the door to help me out.
"I’m starving. Can I have
some of that?" I point over to the browned bird strung up over the coals.
"Help yourself, there’s
water too."
"Aren’t you going to
eat?" I ask. But he just walks away and busies himself with his pack.
"More for me then. And
hey," I call out, "Thanks, I guess. Shoulder really does feel
better."
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
J. A. Huss never took a creative
writing class in her life. Some would say it shows. Others might cut her some
slack. She did however, get educated and graduated from Colorado State University
with a B.S. in Equine Science. She had grand dreams of getting a Ph.D. but
while she loves science, she hated academia and settled for a M.S. in Forensic
Toxicology from the University of Florida.
She went on to write science
curriculum for homeschoolers and now runs a successful home business that
creates and offers online science unit studies. When she’s not writing science
curriculum or fiction, she works as a farm inspector, traveling the Eastern
Plains of Colorado in variety of environmentally friendly vehicles that never
have four-wheel drive, so when she gets stuck in the mud in said vehicles, she
has to beg for assistance from anyone who will help her. She is not bitter
about that at all.
She’s always packing heat and she
is owned by two donkeys, five dogs, more chickens and ducks than she can count,
and of course, the real filthy animals, her kids. The I Am Just Junco series
was born after falling in love with the ugliest part of Colorado and the Rural
Republic is based on the area of the state she currently resides in, minus the
mutants, of course.
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