JOURNAL # 05.31.15

corvette summer by Katya

Thoughts passed and flashed like headlights in the night. Searching. Remembering how it was when we were a little younger and times a little bit brighter, or so it seems. Someone was always killing a pack of Menthols a day and didn't care. Someone might have words with you. The colors of the cars will never look that way again, those lead paint jobs are gone forever. Someone really cared and they still do now... only we won't let them act out on it the same way. You could get sued if you try to help. These things are hard to talk about. The way we get to show we care. Hey, isn't it the last day of May? Let's go have coffee and make it up as we go. Paint the town in some of those beautiful old dangerous colors.

your words. my words. our words

So far away we wrote
to one another
you and me so far away

rolling vowels like thunder
off our foamy bows
we crest the whipping seas
of language

we give a try
giving consonants
their wheels in turn
which cast the vowels
in form

i dip my spoon
into the jello mold
amazed how it
slices and cuts so
precise

be careful!
i tell myself
be loving with words!
but most important of all
be honest!

from what was once
water and once solid grains
of language? each letter
sliding down
the sensual sides. the
hourglass

some dashed into the
mull! some lost forever lapping
cross the shores

some protected
held to heart. under cross or buried
by the breast. tucked into
eternity

i must
turn myself inside
out to write another
page with you in mind
because my life is best when
yours

and the poem
you gave me held up
to my lips. life! on a cold
pewter curve


become liquid
again as i close my eyes
and beat my heart!

we made us great
friends
by the by...

your
words become
my words
become
ours

free

cemetery angel by k

 Run away with your love, run across the open sand and into the breakers, run with your dreams, run away with the mind and let it surprise you, arise with the sun and come into your light! We were little boys and girls. We were scared but now we are courage, we are faith, we are tough! The trolls can stomp stomp stomp around and always be trolls. Your daughter tugs your shirt and says Look, Mommy, a troll! We do not stop, no, on we go! Take to the streets with yourself and leave your fingerprints all over, show us who you are and let us hold your hand, you little sunflower, or sunflower seed, with your alternating current kinda creed. Give us some of that, and we will then be able to give back! Some day soon you will see me give the world a book for free.

Journal # 05.28.15

I grew up in New England. If I found a lucky niche for myself within a group of people, I would try and hold on to that belonging with all my might. These were times I fought change. The study halls were quiet except the rustling of papers and scratching of pencils on paper. And the heat pushing from the furnace into the pipes. Some kids wet the paper and pulled the pens apart to shoot spit balls. I showed antisocial tendencies at an early age. I would really be inconsolable over something which happened, and no one could reach me. So I would mutiny for awhile and just be upset and burning, unable to stop burning. There were certain trees I liked to sit under. Certain classrooms would be empty at certain times of the day, where I might go to be alone and do my work. When I was well-liked, I wanted this to last. I did not want myself to change, or the circumstances had coincided to make me whole again. I hoped for a snapshot of the context and to keep it in my pocket with the phone number of some new friend all folded up and handmade. I was troubled by and by.

Journal #05.27

I love you like ice melting pure off the icicle into my mouth underneath, you touch my tongue to speak and all through the week, what with the rolling hills of my expression unfenced and undivided, sprawling all out under your warm regard, you play the card, two of diamonds, which i draw into a hand of deuces and a pair of clubs... i fan myself with royalty on the way to a flush and with you is a rush, the slow developed connect as the sun moves over a screen porch to touch us on the other side and please sun, i don't want to be touched, i say, without my permission today, and i move around to your beside, you and your cadillac margarita and the salt on your tongue, mischief in your eyes... i see your hand, do you not realize... now i know if only i go to the kitchen bare-footed for the freezer trays of blue i crack for you, the cubes of ice so formed  i drop them into a highball, giving the cat and dog my love-flecked call, and etch my bones with your glassy possessive, and click on back in thin thin summer sandals to the underlying praise of the trees and lake, means and ways, where i drop a few cubes in your glass and one down the back of you shirt, yes, and next thing you know i got my flush to lay down by your bright and silver incredulous eyes, you with your hand of deuces... oh what a couple of fools, aces in love we made.

Journal # 05.26.15

I wore a purple shirt and blue jeans. I used black mascara and brown eyeliner. My foundation was liquid and closer to pale than ever before. My mood was fly, like a butterfly could not be captured. Everything about the day was quite fresh other than my faithful if predictable following of schedule. I could watch the sun go up and down a thousand times and still know there was more rebirth going on than dying. Dying was merely a trick of the eye, and god a great magician. One might even take death out of the equation altogether, were it not for the seduction of blood and taste for theatre.

Journal # 05.25.15

Doing the dishes could be delicious, especially around four am. I am easily entertained by chocolate chip cookies on a sunny day with milky clouds and a friend. And fall I fall back into pain like another home in my heart, and feel i feel my way back into life from there. There are some people missing in Texas, flash flooding washed them away on memorial day... pray i pray they will all be okay. Summer is here and wait, i cannot, for the coin in the slot, and the hot delta breeze with a lime-lemon squeeze, and all the tourists give me cameras... say cheese! 

Do Not Resuscitate (Journal # 05.24)

No one would wish not to have memory, and no one could argue that living in the moment was easier without it. I had a past I wanted to lose. I thought about it, and this was the problem. I liked a cemetery very much, I found it easier to talk to the ones who were gone cause the dead don't lie to your face or play games. Forgiveness is unresponsive until you breathe some life into it. The First Aid classes do not teach us how. Only the living carry Do Not Resuscitate orders on their wrists. I got over the memories but my subconscious could not let go, all the old situations appeared in different configurations in my sleep.

All I can do is put on my most comfortable slip and fold myself into my most comfortable sheets, rest my head on my most comfortable pillow, with the sweetest feeling of air pushed by blades, accompanied by my furry friends and the softest light on the backs of prayers I hum into space.

Journal # 05.23.15 (subtectonic plates)

 I fall into deep holes, sometimes several times a day. Climbing back to earth got old. Now I go tunneling and meet all the unheard of species down there below the deep water strata where we tap our wells. I can tell the ones I meet about the sun and the moon but I don't wanna scare them so I keep all the truth of what goes on up there just above the topsoil to myself. Some of them have nightmares; deep memories only sleep can reach. Down there they breathe like trees, speak like God and darkness is their light. Gravity gets turned around, no one is looking for direction. They take me for all what I am. We can go together, if you choose to go. Just when you fall into a hole, this time do not climb out so quickly like you have to. Change the script. It's nice to be treated whole with loving eyes you cannot see. The wealth is in the silence, subtectonic plates. I even met some of those who lived on earth thousands of years ago. They are still alive.

clearing # 05.22

author post cycling

Today was like cool table edges in a cafe and many words sprouted out my head and fell to the faux marble table top and some got trapped in the keyboard of my laptop. i had my iced latte which the girl at the counter who wore the old school cap ordered up for me. i think she likes me. not just because she remembered my name. anyway, i pressed the keys with the letters i needed to describe what i was feeling about my protagonist's boyfriend experience, yes, i put on my best Tender Is The Night routine and pressed the backlit keys into their soft bellies, the words, the ones had sprouted and fallen into the keyboard and were now lying beneath all the vowels, in the bowels, and tickled they began to make curious sounds which the people around me thought were coming from my mouth but my mouth was closed and my vision deep in the scenario in my book and you see, there was a whole world going on the people around me knew nothing of. and i knew nothing of the world going on in them, either. we endured one another's words, in and out and under the keyboards and tables and chairs, splashing about the foam in our drinks, in flight or floating around our heads. i left the space almost one thousand words later. i had pied pipered them all into my google document. the girl at the counter shouted goodbye Kat! the sun was coming out of the clouds and we were clearing.

Big Fish Little Fish

The little fish was not eating much
maybe a half a sea cucumber a day
the big fish was eating most of his friends all the time
the big bad fish ran out of little fish

there was plenty of sea cucumber around

the big fish got tired and drifted slowly about
on a heavy stomach of little fish friends
he could not catch the last of the little fish

the little fish was quick and light
and darted behind the coral
the big fish could not even close
his big mouth

the little fish stopped on a fin

the big fish saw his color go by but that was all
a silvery flash of translucent orange

the big fish coughed up air bubbles
the little fish missed his friends
he saw the big fish needed help and food
if he were to survive
his own appetite

the little fish could not laugh
but would have, watching
him die

Cover Reveal! + 'avocado'

Cover Reveal

avocado
color of moss

you and me
may our paths
cross

red apple
high gloss

Latest Book Review and New Release info

Dear friends and readers,

I want to express my gratitude for all of you who take the time to follow my blog and website. From the silent partners who come by every so often to read a little, to those who leave comments, both critical and encouraging. And to those who read my books. And to those who review my books. Your interest and support help drive this train into the vast wilderness! Together we will explore and try to make sense of the damn thing.

Daughter of Darkness, Book Two, has a title now:  -- MAZE --
I also have a cover designed and ready to go, which I will share with you soon.
My intent is to focus on the love story between Ame and Maze.
I still have a long way to go with editing, but I expect to release by October 2015.

Here is the latest review of Grand Theft Life (DOD, Book 1) from a reader on Goodreads, Meredith  (4/5 stars) ...

"I wasn't sure how I felt about this book for the first ten pages or so. After the eleventh page though, I was hooked. The main character is a girl who was raised by an adopted family. She never fit in at school. She was faster than the boys and acted different than other girls her age. The other kids sensed that Ame wasn't like them. Ame also hears voices in her head telling her that she is special and unique and that one day she will understand who she is and why she is the way she is. The book then skips ahead ten years to Ame having been kidnapped, and driven to Oakland, California, by a man named Freddy who tells her that she is part of his 'people'. The voices have finally stopped talking to her in her head. They have stopped because she is now part of their community in Oakland. The thing that makes her 'people' different from humans is mostly through feelings. Ame fears nothing. She never has. She learns that her people feed off of this Fear that regular human beings feel. She is also connected telepathically to others of her kind. This book was only 75 pages long and can be read in a single sitting as I did. This is the first in a series and I cannot wait to read the second novel to find out what happens to Ame and her new family in Oakland."

Journal # 05.19.15

ncac adventure 2015

When i come to focus on the down and outs, all hell breaks loose and i can do anything. i got stung by a bee while pushing forward to the tail end of 330 miles. i thought he was a shard of glass in my leg. i was racing alongside a freeway in the central valley with a friend. the pain got sharper but it could not hurt me. all the pain in the world i had pushed into a chain. the down and outs where once i was one. some had lost their lives like a roman candle shooting flares out into the darkness. they lit up my world, too. others behind doors for years taking meds, watching controlled light shows until their eyes turned red and their hearts went dim. depression. alienation. marginalization. dying. some of it was self-willed. some of it was not. anger and defiance and blame are no longer the qualities you find in me. i pushed them into the chain which powered the two wheels below me into the wide open. almond and rice plantations here in the Capay Valley. Cache Creek. Cowboy country. I love my country, I love this land. Marysville. Oroville. Sacramento, California. Life is wide open again. all the pain in the world i pushed into a chain. and then i came back again.

(the day) i got away

i am kind

on the eyes

under hot summer

night

I am peaceful

quiet I am

not

all right. every

night I wake with 

alarm

you discovered me

uncovered me

you

then hid me from 

view. you

me

i am kind of bizarre

i play the guitar

without any

strings

the sound of silence

is not lost 

anymore

(no matter what

you may say)

it sings

response to an image

Eyes opened ten at a time at the temple. Bodies became same color as the sky, on their way to new freedoms of mind. Others would turn the same color when suffocated. The shades were hardly discernable in the sun. Same eyes might return to sameness, soon after they found themselves on the other side of the arch between the walls around the temple. Life in the village would not open like eyes. Hope was in harvest, not in the work. But those who made it to the temple had curious minds and wanted more than their lot. They would return through the arch frequently, for each had offered a stone from their home into it's design. The god dressed in gold awaited them inside, and promised an easy vitality. Some would mistake it for fertility, in copycat poses. Brotherhood came out of the experience. Arms raised above the head, fingers clasped symbolically, just so. There might be danger in personal intepretation. But no more or less danger than personal interpretation of anything other than scripture. Vitality and comradery among men was something to fear, and would make the cities which lately overshadowed the village.

pollen

State Capitol, California

Yellow dust was everywhere. you could find it in the unlikeliest of places. mixed with the oil threaded into the ball bearings. lining the cell walls inside your kidneys. speckling the setting white sun at the base of a nail bed. it was as though a star had exploded and now we all wore it on us. glitter was second to something finally, for the models all lined their eyelids with pollen. the loratadine that was dissolved into their sparkling water took care of any potential unfashionable reactions, in most cases. the photographs of course, came out spotted in development, even the most obsessive compulsive photographer could not capture every grain. pollinated-selfies thus turned a corner and trended on twitter, and were particularly cherished if the subject could deliver the exalted clearing of sinuses, instantaneously, on camera.

Journal #05.11.15

When I was about eleven years old, my passions were stirred by the boys and girls my age. I guess I can say looking back I was inherently bi -- my attraction to boys was equally as strong as my attraction to girls. I had a girlfriend whom I mostly saw in school, and we would cut classes to go get swedish fish at the candystore just outside the perimeter of the fields. We would sit on the hill under the oak trees above the courts and sometimes touch. Our mouths were candy red and stained our lips like lipstick. She had clear and intelligent eyes rarely looked in one direction for long. Her bangs cut short and sharp against her pudgy cheeks, her skin softer and whiter than mine. We were both tall for our age. I cannot recollect why she liked me, but we would go adventure after school and find places to makeout. Other girls had actually taught me to french kiss in the freestanding garage next to the house I grew up in. And under the stairs on a bet in one of the latchkey kid's homes while listening to Tainted Love. The year was 1984. I shared Sylvia Plath's hometown (long before I knew she grew up there), a suburb of Boston, and I wore a navy blue jacket on cool spring and autumn days, with red felt lettering across the back. Boston Red Sox. Yaz was King at Fenway. Clemens was still a boy in Texas. An author named Samuel. The boys I knew not from school but from the neighborhood, and we grew up together already. Our gang would be dissolved over late night cocktail talk and mulling over choices and final decisions to send some of us to boarding or semi-boarding schools. We were in bed. The public school system was pretty good but not good enough. In my town, this was true of almost everything. People, places, things. Rare was contentment. The boys were loyal friends of mine. And I had long summer dances with them up and over the sloping hills. On either side of the tracks. Curfews were solidly enforced, and I rarely challenged my parents. I guess I was a good kid. But not behind their backs. I would fight with the boys, and it was playful. They were intent on sports. Their sisters were intent on yogurt and soaps. We watched serial horror in installments on film. We skated the ponds in the winter. Rare was contentment. In our home town. But back then, being a kid was glorious freedom from all the narrow-mindedness. They called us rascals as though we were getting away with something. Maybe we were getting away from something. We found content in small places, and exploited it for all it was worth.

the rains of never end

All the old and endless roads across the continent I traveled, all the green and beaten highway signs, all the years weathered and cracked... still would I travel those distances twice to see your face and hear your voice and walk with you again. Break my bones with curses, you could not undress my faith. Our children walk the earth. They are lost now. One has left behind the room she rented and disappeared, direction south. I have a letter from a Honduran authority I have not yet had translated. The stamps are colorful green, with provincial luminaries unknown to us. The paper is moist and of a tree which does not grow north of the Mexican border. Our children. Lost. One has sailed around the world, never to complete the circle. I see him in a dream. He looks like you. The madness in the eyes. His hair has grown long. It plays out behind him like fire, licking the Atlantic somewhere outside the English Isles. The ends throw sparks. They tell of a time when we were all together. Living on the river, Portland. Fishing for our dinner. The rains of never end.

murder by memory part - i -

Will he come back to me? The silence in the house might break her delicate wrists in two, toss her on the woodpile, long nights, to keep warm. Abbreviated days. All of her memory of him coming home. The squeaking of the belt under the hood of his Jeep, where he parked beneath the sycamore tree. One of the kittens would bound out to meet him. Fatigue had not undone him. She would quickly get up and wrap a sweater around her, step into the sandals by their bed on the mahogany floors, and take the 45 steps down to the kitchen, the backs of her thongs clicking into her heels. She would grab a nice glazed ceramic bowl out of the cabinet, pour some oats and some water without measuring, and throw it into the microwave. Oatmeal was his favorite. Then she would hop back up onto the landing, and click down to the front door to swing it open for him. The feeling of his abs pressing into her and his arms collapsing her shoulders. The cool kiss on the neck. These were the memories which were murdering her now.

Journal #05.08.15

The spirits of the deceased could be found all around. There is a child in a bird. Her tailfeathers have horizontal lines, markings, cream-colored. We are looking for her wooden tombstone, the only one left of hundreds now destroyed by the elements and time. A girl who died in 1893. The bird leaves the tree and shows us her tail feathers prominently. The cream lines. Our bird flies in an arc, in a direction, and then back to the tree. We follow our own path to the same destination. Dusty lines. We are spirits. Equals. In the same place and time. We are free in a nonlinear yet static context. Our lives are wooden, not stone. They will decorate these lands and these times. To be part of the great spirit. Creativity is a use it or lose it affair. And still we are creations. And will be destructions. And recreations. The context is there. Gravity holds us to land. The bird has its wings, to put spirits in flight. But there are other forces at work, greater forces beyond any concern of gravity. I wrap the food in napkins and place it in my bag. The sun has decimated my energies. The coffee has worn off and dehydration setting in. A couple of kids dressed in black and purple, bring new life into the cemetery. The wooden tombstone is hiding beneath some rose bushes. This is how it survived all this time. The inscription is impossible to make out. There are greater forces, beyond any need for inscription. Our lives are written across the sky. Death does not exist in this world of static flux. Context can be archived. Paradigms may shift. The earthquakes may help us toward the truth kept in the earth. Tornadoes cleaning skies. I will disappear into the dust. Then see me swimming with four fingers on my left hand. My legs become a fish tail. Dive down with me into our resurrections. One word at a time. The sun feels better, underwater.

Journal #05.07.15

Touch became a rare and valuable find in a market consisting mostly of audio-visual sensation. A new trend took place, whereby bodies were lying on the ground. Many people left the city for an hour or a lifetime, in order to find a field to borrow or to buy, in order to be able to finish breakfast and coffee and online communications, and head out of the house, off the bottom step, past where the pavement ends, into the center of said field, and dropping oneself first on to one's knees, then back on to one's back or forward even on to one's belly, with or without clothing, to feel the touch of the earth and all the organic matter therein and thereunder. Sun bathing was another form of intimate reception, but no longer viable due to melanomas. Human touch was another form of intimacy, but quite unlikely due to unfavorable market conditions, legalities and general phobic disinclinations. This sorta experience was almost miraculous in the year 2059. Metrosexuals would stop and circle and glom in an insatiable crowd. Certainly not within reasonable expectations. Anyone who cried out about lacking this sorta intimacy, would be ridiculed for sure. Like walking down the street expecting someone to hand you cash money without asking. They would wonder aloud what planet are you from? To which you might respond, Earth, circa 1973? After which, disheartened and alone, you slagged on back to your field of glory, removed your polyurethane skin, and dove headlong into the irrigated mud, hoping to drown. Good news. The exfoliating powers could be exponential.

Journal # 05.06.15

I ran yesterday. I found a secret to distance running. My dad would call it a trick. I had been sitting on the grass beneath the black walnut tree in the yard, looking up at its many green wings pointing high into the sky. The tree was majestic. A stark contrast from how it appeared in the winter, without leaves. Dead. My neighbor came out of his apartment and started clipping his fingernails on the walk. Next door a man was sitting facing the alley, drinking a beer. One of the cats caught a large dragonfly in its mouth. An fire engine could be heard in the distance. Some days can be so peaceful. Other days your ass is on fire. Here is my secret. My dad would call it a trick. I found I can run almost twice the distance I usually run. It wasn't the Super B Vitamins or the time of day. It wasn't the shoes I was wearing. It had nothing to do with how much rest I took, what kind of music inspired me, how much training I did beforehand. It did not matter what I ate, who I didn't sleep with, or whether I planned to vote in the upcoming elections. The secret was running. Running while running. Not thinking while running, or breathing while running, or posture while running. It was none and all of those things. I doubled my usual distance by running while running. And guess what? There is a bonus for anyone who has read this far along. The trick is universal! It can be applied to anything you do. Because if you are fully immersed in anything you do, you will be better at it, and it may even come easier and more natural to you.

love story # 05.05.15

we met under a melting key lime sky

we sailed out on a manta ray, with a
handkerchief for a mainsail

we dripped coffee like poison from
a gold cup into ceramics, then drank
the poison with creme

we cried and laughed and laughed
and cried

we met over an ichabod
crane. on lois lane

you sapped my head of thoughts
i filled your mind with flowers

we placed the world under
revision. it took us many hours

then circumstance took you from me
i felt like sudden death

i got your tear-stained letters
and held them to my breath

Journal # 05.04.15

The eye of the moon dimmed the stars and scrutinized the city. The empaths locked in battle with the analysts. Politicians raising funds. Water going scarce. Iron lungs. The next generation of pharmaceuticals would cost a pretty penny, and everyone would pay. The kids endlessly vaping. Girls the boys were draping. Prisoners developing patience in lieu of blueprints for escaping. Time would spill us all out on to the streets. The full moon saw through it all. I stepped out upon the back porch, by the light, where the spiders had their feast at night. The clouds were rushing down into the ground without a sound. I locked my gaze upon the moon. I gave it time to reflect. The clouds were rushing through the yards and toward me. Trying to save the land! I whistled and my cats came zipping, out of nowhere, up the stairs and to safety. I stepped inside as the clouds were billowing upwards to the door. I threw the door into the wall, and whisps of vapors curled out the edges and fell solemnly to ground, unseen. I drew the curtains and said my prayers. My energy was churning and yearning for release. I did not dare step out into the night again. No. Something was off about it all. This full moon did not feel right. Dangerous. I hardly trusted myself. Part of me wanted to Keith Moon my apartment. I wanted to tear the devil to shreds! No. Slow down, kid. A voice of reason filled my ears. Outside the moon was searching and searching the city for life. I was better off alone. Turn off the phone. Let go of recent history. Disperse the probing eye of the moon by candlelight. Call upon any spirits near or far. Help me! Help me make it through this night, intact. Then rewarded be, with a key, cut to the lock upon my heart, exact.

Journal #05.03.15

Morning. I dreamt I had stolen a taxi, and the car was solid white. The driver had left it running. He was by the curb arguing with someone. I just got in like it was mine and drove away. I began to feel the freedom in the city. The numbers were increasing, and it made me uncomfortable. I pulled over to try and stop the fare from running. I didn't have that kind of cash. A lady stepped off the curb and opened the back door unexpectedly. Two kids, a boy and a girl, plopped into the back seat and said goodbye to mom. She shut the door. Now I had two kids on my hands, and a stolen cab. Am I supposed to take you to school? I asked. They said yes. The girl scooted up and grabbed the headrest in front of her, and pulled close to take a look at me. By her eyelashes I could tell she was single digits in age. They weren't long enough to be ten. Can we go to the movies? she asked, slanting her head sideways. Can we? The boy chimed in, pulling up on my headrest. Can we, can we, can we? They cried. Oh how could I resist two beautiful irritants tugging at me like that? We pulled out into the morning commute, joining the river of traffic. When we got to the cinema, the line was a half mile long, winding up and around and around to the theatre. We stood in line and waited, and waited some more. What a dream, no better than real life? I felt somewhat cheated. By the time we got to the theater, we realized we had no tickets. They turned us away, and we began our dejected descent. Then the girl, who had told me many stories so I knew her like a daughter, began batting her juvenile lashes and tugging at my hand. There was an dark opening to our left, with blue cinema light behind it. Let's go! 

Journal # 05.02.15

 Some old paradigm element had us skimming across the Keys all the way to Key West. It was fantasy. You just don't do that. The islands are long and a long ways apart. They may be connected by bridge and culture and climate, yet each is an entity unto itself. If you stand next to someone in line for bread and water, are you family? The journey would be long from one to another. Harleys trailing exhaust for miles, coughing in clear cracks over the aqua blue magnitude. The fantasy might find redemption in a storm. Red sky in morning. The air shifting and accelerating until few birds could fly. Old nests would be blown out like paper. By afternoon, people stop and stare at the amazement of clouds. Hold onto your bloody mary. American flags begin to whip at the whitewash on the poles. The sky turns many colors with the sun reduced to a narrow band of grey-white above horizon. The clouds would compete with the sea. Pull your outdoor furniture inside. Find your pets. Businesses taped the glass. Lizards darted into porous ground. An ocean above and below. The fantasy lived in the storm. The fishermen took in the catch. The boats being secured all evening long, then the rains came. Only then could our splayed Keys reach and touch one another, falling together on the ring as the winds picked up to shore. All became monotone and inaudible. The sky, the sea. The earth. The mind. And from there we might finally, after too many cocktails and smoke and dissension, come together and unlock all the truth. A moment of clarity. In the morning, it was gone. It was fantasy.

Latest Reviews - 'Grand Theft Life'

5 STARS

Fast forward flash photosynthesized heroics
By Peaceseeker on April 30, 2015

This is a riveting read: gripping in the power of the telling, disturbing in the mindset of the teller. It is short enough to be read at one sitting, and fascinating enough to make it difficult to do otherwise. I suspect that the author – as she says about one of her characters – has “read a lot of culturally-sanctioned literature; from Charles Dickens to Jane Austen to Hemingway.” The style is assured and ambitious: crisp, focused and strong.

“The voices. They were incessant. They reminded me I was not like the others.” “There was a meanness about humans, to which I could not relate.” She says of Freddy – the man who snatched her when she was of age – that he was like family she never knew she had. “Maybe I was ready to start making my own Hallmark cards for a year. Ya. Then open my veins in a Sylvia Plath bath.”

Daughter of Darkness is a powerful poetic monologue from someone who felt so different from those she grew up with/around that she concluded she belonged to a different species altogether: one that looks human, and that lives among humans, but is in fact not ‘human’ in the accepted or acceptable sense. One that has no fear of consequences, and that feeds off human fear. You find them in numbers in the dangerous, poverty-stricken, blighted belts of every concrete jungle. They come out at night, and prey on humans whose fear of consequences makes them easy meat. They can also prey on each other when those inner voices scream…

I urge you to read this book. It thoroughly deserves to be widely read.

5 STARS
I enjoyed reading this book
By Kristina on April 23, 2015

I enjoyed reading this book. When I started to read, I couldn't drop it from my hands. I could literary feel that I live in the head of the main character. It was always something happening, in her surroundings, or in her head. I look forward to the next part.

5 STARS

How can I headline a review for a masterpiece of literature?
By Jen Morrison on April 2, 2015

This was one of the most difficult books for me to review. I honestly took much longer than I expected to contemplate how to review this book. I had to talk about this book for days before I could coherently organize my thoughts for this post. I could say this book was stunning, amazing, wonderful--all the adjectives I might use for a 5-star review, but I wouldn't be doing this one justice.

Writers of all ages often wonder about writing the next Great Amercian Novel. Katya Mills has done it. A hundred years ago, if the genre had existed, I believe William Faulkner's As I Lay Dying would have been something like paranormal fiction.

Wait. Did I just compare Katya to Faulkner? Yes. Yes, I did.

This is a masterpiece of urban fantasy that should be dissected in classrooms and universities. while I may not agree with the socio-political opinions, I recognize the importance of her vivisection of urban gangland. This book kept me engrossed and I even had to reread it before reviewing. I can say that very few books warrant a reread from me, but I got to the end and immediately reread the entire thing.

My first reaction to the first few chapters was, "What the hell?" and I honestly thought I was going to have to pass on reviewing this one, but as I read further on, my opinion sky-rocketed. She left me both confounded, confused, and amazed--and in dire need of a second read. Give this book a place on your shelf and in fifty years when your grandchildren are complaining about their reading in school, remember this moment. They will be complaining about Katya Mills.


5 STARS

Daughter of Darkness
By P. Kater on March 25, 2015

Daughter of Darkness is a different kind of fantasy book. It's tense. Paced. Fast. And it introduces you to a world of people who are different from us. Different in a way you can't see. Ame, the main character, is one of those different people. She grows up being 'strange' and it takes a drastic move and lots of strange encounters and experiences before she realises who she is and what she can do.
I was very entertained by the opposite of the title of the book and how these people, who are so different call themselves. If you want to know what that is I suggest you buy the book and read it.


5 STARS

on hold for second volume
By frank ramon on March 17, 2015

I have read this book three times and continue to glean more out of the story each time. Told by a protagonist (Ame) who is both good and bad, this tale intertwines adroit commentary on modern culture and the underlying affects of fear on human beings in general. This is all woven together in a well told story of a modern anti hero set on the soulful and gritty streets of Oakland California. From an area well known for earth quakes, the writer will certainly rattle your walls with this story. I eagerly await the next volume in this series, it is a real bargain, for a rich story.