The First Five Pages Introduces It's All In Your Mind by Ann Herrick

Chapter One

1959

          

It's All In Your Mind by Ann Herrick

  If I had to pinpoint exactly when I started denying reality, I'd say it was the night I went to The Exit.

            "Turn off the engine, and let's go in," Caprice said.

            "I just want to hear the end of 'That'll be the day.'" I did like the song. But what I really wanted was a few more seconds to gather myself. The dingy building with the dim light struggling to shine through the grimy windows was not exactly in New Haven's new Urban Renewal. "Are you sure it's okay for us to be here?" A mist of cold sweat formed on my brow as I watched people filing in.  "Everyone looks...older. What if they throw us out?"

            "Vija Skalbe, would you cool just it for once? It's a coffeehouse, not a bar. No one here is over twenty. Trust me." Caprice snorted her snide, stifled laugh. "You'll be glad I dragged you here."

            I doubted that.

            Caprice lit a cigarette the second she stepped out of the car. "Just this one," she said. "I'm trying to quit."

            I'd told her Karl had warned me not to let anyone smoke in his car. I took a deep breath as we went inside and ordered coffee from a rough-looking guy with a Frankenstein forehead. Caprice pulled me toward a mushroom-sized table near the low platform that served as a stage. I sat down and wrapped my hands around the mug of acrid liquid. Caprice drank hers black. I had enough cream in mine to turn it white, but still could hardly stand to swallow the bitter taste. My folks loved the dark brew, but my coffee-appreciation gene must have been recessive.

            Blue smoke hung in the air from all the people puffing on cigarettes. One girl with long black hair touched a black cigarette holder to her lips, and blew a thin stream of smoke that swirled in the hazy light. Her over-sized black sweater hit mid-thigh on her black-tights-clad legs.

            I slid my feet under my chair, pushed myself close to the table, and tried to hide. As usual, I didn't quite fit in. Ever since my family moved to Connecticut from Latvia when I was eleven, I had one foot in each country. I wanted both feet planted firmly on American soil. But my parents constantly reminded me that our roots were in Latvia.

            I'd asked Caprice what I should wear, and all she'd said was, "Something somber." My black pleated skirt and mustard-colored sweater with matching cardigan turned out to be as out of place as I felt. I should've guessed, since Caprice had been wearing mostly tight-fitting black for the past two years. Her white lipstick, however, was new. Not a look out of Seventeen. Not that I was either. I tried to follow the latest fashions, but seemed to latch on to them just as they were ending. I was not what you'd call hip.

            During most of the week The Exit held readings. "Beat" poetry, radical writers such as Jack Kerouac, that kind of stuff. I'd read On the Road. I lost track of how many times the characters drove back and forth across the country on the open roads. I wasn't sure there was any purpose to it, but I envied them their freedom. My parents viewed American coffeehouses with profound suspicion. They would be appalled if they they'd known I was here.

            On Fridays, however, all sorts of music, was featured. I liked music, and that was one reason why Caprice was finally able to strong-arm me into going.

            Caprice and I had become friends in the middle of sixth grade, soon after I moved to Chatfield. I was extremely shy. She lived just a block away then, and we found ourselves walking to and from school together, and something clicked. She helped me with my English, and radiated confidence. I admired people with confidence.  Caprice enjoyed coming to my house where there was a father and a brother. She had neither. She liked bugging my brother, Karl, and he liked to tease her. Caprice and I became best friends. For a long time she was my only friend, and even now I was not what you'd call popular.

            Caprice and I even had a ceremony to make ourselves Spit Sisters. We were both too chicken to actually cut ourselves in order to become Blood Sisters. So, instead, we spit into each others hands, rubbing them together to "absorb" the saliva. We figured one bodily fluid was as good as another. We cut a lock of each other's hair and clipped the tip of each other's pinkie fingernail. We dug a hole and buried the hair and nails. Then we marked the spot with a pile of round rocks we'd collected from our back yards.

            We started to drift apart in junior high. When we started high school, Caprice announced that she'd dug up our hair and fingernails and scattered them. She didn't want to be Spit Sisters any more.

            This spring I turned seventeen and my brother joined the Navy rather than wait to be drafted. He left his old Chevy in my care. That's when Caprice started getting friendly again. Maybe it was our history together, as well as the car, that renewed her interest in me. We certainly weren't in the same circle. Of course, my circle was much smaller than Caprice's, so I was more willing to adapt. I struggled to find my place in the world.

          

Ann Herrick

  "Well, Vija..." Caprice lifted an eyebrow. "What do you think?"

            "What do I think about what?"

            Caprice let out a loud sigh. "What do you think about 'The Exit?' Is this a cool place or what?"

            What could I tell her? That The Exit felt like a journey to an alien world to me? That my parents, instead of asking me the usual twenty questions, would've grilled me with thirty questions if I'd told them my plans to drive into New Haven at night. It was only a few miles, but to my parents it was another galaxy. I told them I was going over to Caprice's. Since she'd moved across town a couple years ago, it made sense that I'd drive. I just didn't mention that we were not staying at Caprice's. "Yeah... It's...cool."

            "Maybe we'll meet some guys."

            "Me? Meet a guy? Yeah, right." I crossed and re-crossed my feet. What if I did meet a guy? Then what! Caprice talked about trying to meet "men from Yale." Yale! Guys from our own school made me nervous enough. But of course I couldn't tell Caprice any of that. When she'd been convincing me to drive into New Haven and spend the first Friday night of summer vacation at The Exit, she made me think I'd be a failure for life if I didn't.

            Caprice just shook her head. With her naturally flirtatious manner, she couldn't possibly understand what it was like to be drab in every conceivable way. Besides, I wasn't interested in just any guy. I wanted to wait for someone special. Of course, back in junior high when I told Caprice that, she laughed and said I was afraid of life. Maybe she was right.

            "Cast an eyeball on him." Caprice gestured toward a lanky, dark-haired guy in a far corner. "He's a cool cat."

            "Um. Yeah." He looked kind of gloomy to me.

            The lights blinked and the room's discordant chatter turned to a soft murmur.

            "Here comes Nolan Shar." Caprice nodded toward the stage. "I've heard he even plays gigs in Hartford."

            "Yeah, I know. You've told me." A hundred times. As if Hartford was the center of the music world. Of course, what did I know? Caprice said this guy was a folk singer. I loved rock n' roll, especially Buddy Holly's music. He was killed in that awful plane crash a few months ago, and I still mourned him.

            Nolan Shar stepped out of the shadows, up onto the platform, carrying a guitar. It was rumored that he'd attended Yale for a semester, then dropped out of school to sing. He was the kind of guy Caprice would set her sights on. I saw him only from the back, and took in the sandals, striped shirt, and chinos. A Kingston Trio look. As the lights dimmed, except for one casting its gentle, muted light on him, he turned. He looked out toward the audience--and smiled directly at me.

            A swath of golden curls fell casually on his forehead. He moved with nonchalant grace as he placed himself on the tall wooden stool in the center of the stage. His hands gently cradled the guitar. He spoke two words. "Aura Lee." Then his long, slender fingers caressed the strings, and he started to sing in a quiet, yet almost gravely voice. "As the blackbird in the spring, beneath the willow tree..."

            The music, I realized, had been used for Elvis's "Love Me Tender." But these original lyrics had a haunting quality, and filled me with a sense of peace and satisfaction.

            "...Yet if thine eyes I see, gloom will soon depart..."

            Every word pulled at me. Or maybe it was Nolan's voice.

            "...Love and light return with thee and swallows with the spring."

            I applauded, too enthusiastically apparently for Caprice, as her mouth was tight with displeasure. I realized then that steady, rhythmic clapping was the approved method of The Exit crowd. Still, in the dim, smoky atmosphere, I allowed myself an intense smile.

            Through his set Nolan sprinkled in a couple of lively songs with high humor. But the general tone of the music was soft and yearning. After his last song, he simply acknowledged the final applause with a nod, and put his guitar its case. As the lights came back on, he stepped down from the stage.

            My throat closed as he started toward the door.

"Nolan, wait." Caprice's voice shot across the table. She arched an eyebrow. "Join us?"

            Nolan stopped. He looked at Caprice, then me, then at Caprice again. He shrugged, grabbed a chair from another table, and sat down.

            I stared into his peacock-blue eyes. I could not open my mouth. Fortunately, Caprice never had that problem. She launched into a monologue about Chatfield, folk music, and, of course, herself. Word after word tumbled off her lips, effortlessly, like rain off a roof.

            Nolan sat, apparently fascinated, staring at Caprice, nodding occasionally, tossing out an "mm, hmm," now and then. Finally, the flow of words stopped. Caprice reached out and placed her hand over Nolan's in a possessive gesture. "Can I get you a coffee?"

            Nolan shook his head. "Sorry. Gotta split." He pulled out a pen, tore off a corner of my napkin, scribbled a phone number on it, and shoved the piece paper at me. "In case you'd like to talk some time."

            Then he left.

            For a second Caprice gawked in stunned silence. Then she sat bolt upright. "I can't believe he asked you out!"

"He...he didn't ask me out."

            Caprice rolled her eyes. "He gave you his number. Same thing."

            "Yeah, right. As if I'd ever call him. Girls don't call guys."

            "Maybe prissy little girls don't. But some of us do."

            I looked down at the piece of paper and traced my finger over the number. I folded the paper in half, and in half again, then tucked it in my pocket.

            From the moment Nolan strummed the guitar I knew he was someone special. I suddenly realized what I'd been waiting for. I'd always wanted to fall in love with a folk singer.

Where To Buy

Amazon

e-book $2.99 (as of 10/13/13)

Paperback $10.40 (as of 10/13/13)

Supernatural Christianity

Title: The Dogs of Snoqualmie

By: Calvin Miller

Genre: Suspense/Thriller, Christian

Where I bought it: Lifeway

342pp B&H Publishing $6.40 (Amazon.com)

I bought The Dogs of Snoqualmie at Lifeway, a Christian bookstore. The price was reduced to $3.25 and I can never resist a bargain. Plus, I’ve never really read a book where Christianity was the theme, so I thought I’d give it a shot.

In The Dogs of Snoqualmie, a killer is on the loose and is targeting executive women who are homosexuals. Each victim has had their throats torn out by what can only be a large dog or even a wolf.

In the midst of the investigation, several stories come together. There’s Paul and Rhonda Shapiro, the psychiatrist and his wife. All characters have a connection with Dr. Shapiro.

First, Rhonda comes across a wounded dog that she later discovers is actually a wolf. She keeps him as a pet even though all of Seattle is looking for a dog of his description. She is convinced that her pet, Kinta, is not the ravenous killer. 

Then there’s a priest, Father Peter, that is elderly and has begun suffering from dementia. Dr. Shapiro admits him to a psyche-ward and sees him periodically. Dr Shapiro doesn’t know it, but Father Peter’s visions are real and foretell the events about to occur.

Joanna Nickerson is the reverend at the Pathway of Light Cathedral. A vehicle hits her young daughter, Janie, when she darts out into the road. The driver of the vehicle is psychiatrist, Paul Shapiro.

President and CEO of the lumber company Pacific Woods, Levi Twist, sees Dr. Shapiro as a patient suffering from deep depression. He becomes furious when Dr. Shapiro tells him it’s time for him to move past the death of his wife. He cuts him off from anti-depressants to push Levi forward.

Levi’s girlfriend, Della, is Dr. Shapiro’s receptionist. When she becomes pregnant, she pressures Levi to marry her.

Isletta Borg is the owner of the last 10,000 acre tract of land Pacific Woods needs in order to start cutting down trees. However, no amount of money will convince her to part with it. Her Gaian beliefs lead her clear away from it.

Eric Compton is the successful lawyer at Pacific Woods who has been bulldozing any barriers lying in the way of the company goals. Inside, Eric adores the wilderness and his internal battle is soon relieved when he falls in love unexpectedly and to a degree he could never imagine possible.

There’s also Gary Jarvis, the investigator who has identified Dr. Shapiro (and possibly Rhonda) as the killer(s). He believes Dr. Shapiro has trained the wolf to do his dirty work. 

All roads and complications lead all characters to Isletta’s 10,000-acre tract of land for a demonstration sit-in to keep Pacific Woods from clearing the forested area. Everything comes to a head and the mystery of the serial killer is solved.

Calvin Miller

The suspense building in this book was very good. I must commend the author, editors, and publisher for their way of telling the story. It was definitely suspenseful and very well set up. 

There’s only one thing I felt was left out. Why did the antagonist target homosexual, executive women? The reason is not forwardly revealed. The only explanation I can cite is when the character says, “Now Dell, a lot of these women are sick with corporate power. Sick.” (Ch. 18, Pg. 131)

The reader could make the assumption the character was driven by his hate for the women that perhaps make him feel inadequate, women who have no sexual interest in him, or women who intimidate him. This would build on his character traits of arrogance and disregard for emotions and the human race.

At the same time, it could be something entirely different. Dare I say it? Is it a subtle notion that the author believes Christianity is so against homosexuality that he offs them in his writing? Because of the supernatural occurrences toward the end of the book, I could also surmise the opposite. Is it possible the author believes God makes sure evil-doers meet their demise? The evil doers, of course, being this serial killer, leaving the homosexual women as purely innocent victims who are indeed protected by God. I guess only Mr. Miller knows the answer to that. For my own wellness, I’ll stick with the first explanation. Perhaps you should read it to weigh in on the situation. Please offer your opinions in the comment section.

Comments from An Editor:

Given that Mr. Miller has written a full series (granted, one I’ve never read), I am forced to make the assumption that this book didn’t start as the mess I imagine it to have been before editing. I say that because this book has many characters and many avenues that come together very nicely.

There were two misspellings that I identified, both occurring within the first few chapters of the book. The error was the use of the word “though” when “through” was needed. One last proofread would have caught it.

From what I could ascertain, the editors must have used the Associated Press stylebook for editing along with a few in-house rules. For example, there were sentences that started with conjunctions. There were also several participial phrases that lacked a comma. These errors were consistent through the book, so I gathered they must be from in-house rules.

Regardless, I can imagine how difficult it must have been to organize the telling of this story because of the many characters and lives that were brought together.

One Last Comment: 

There were several occurrences in this book that made me cock an eyebrow. What I mean by that is there were things that happened that were very unbelievable and very unrealistic. When I come across such things, I immediately think that the author has run out of creative juices and is desperate to tie things up and has done so generically. Aside from these unrealistic things, I believe the book was enjoyable. I’ve given it a rating of three (3) pages out of five (5).

Author Bio (from Amazon):

Calvin Miller has written over 40 books of popular theology and inspiration. A former pastor, he is professor of preaching and pastoral ministry at Beeson Divinity School in Birmingham, Alabama. He and his wife, Joyce, have two grown children.

Essentials of a Book Signing

Whether it’s your first book signing or your one hundredth book signing, here are a few essential things to remember.

1. Names. Memorize the name(s) of the person (people) who own(s) the store or is (are) representing the store. Everyone loves to be remembered.
2. Order Books. Make sure you order enough books. Sometimes this takes experience. It isn’t always easy to guess how many people will come into your location. Try to get an estimate of foot traffic from the storeowners so you can estimate how many books to order. It’s always best to overestimate.
3. Planning for Books. Talk with your publisher about ordering the books well in advance. If you self-publish with Createspace, then three weeks should be enough time to receive your order and make sure everything is correct when it arrives.
4. Merchandise & Setup. Do you have t-shirts, bookmarks, posters? If not, you should consider getting some. Be sure to set up your table so that it looks nice. It’s all about presentation. Remember to ask if you’ll be supplied a table or if you need to bring your own. Make a list of all the items you’ll need for your space.
5. Expectations. Make sure you understand exactly what the bookstore owners are expecting. Sometimes they want you to do a reading. If this is the case, get family, friends, and fans to help you decide which snippet to read. This is a great opportunity to engage your fans! Also, talk money up front and candidly. What percentage, if any, will the store receive from the books sold? Will you sell them using the store’s credit card machine? That might cost extra. Do you have your own credit card machine? Will that take away from the store’s profit? Make sure you and the store are on the same page about everything.
6. Transportation. If you have to lug in your table and supplies, be sure to have a big enough vehicle on hand to tote them. This may sound like a no-brainer, but in all the chaos, you’d be surprised what people forget to do.
7. Pens. Don’t forget your pens! Choose an ink color that looks good on the pages. Decide where in/on the book you’ll sign.
8. Advertise. Put it in the newspaper and/or the radio. Better yet, try to get the newspaper and/or radio to interview you.
9. Signature. Practice your signature! You want to make sure it’s unique. Also, you might want to consider coming up with a tagline. I’ve seen, “Happy Reading!” and “Read On, My Friend!”
10. Clean Up. If you want to return to the bookstore for future signings, you better make a good impression and that includes cleaning up after yourself. If you’re not into it, hire someone else to do it. Sometimes family members will be willing to volunteer.

Ten Ways to Gain Exposure Offline

Facebook. It's probably the number one social media site we (we = authors) turn to when we want to advertise our books. Twitter is a close second. However, there's more than Facebook and Twitter. Here's ten ways to gain exposure for your book that doesn't involve sitting in front of your computer.

1. Advertise. Newspapers, television commercials, and radio spots. Those are the traditional and more expensive routes, but the fun in advertising resides in creativity. How many ways can you get your book/work in front of your intended audience?

2. Talk about your work. A lot of people have trouble with this one. How do you bring it up? "Hi, I'm Tabitha, I'm an author." That's a bit awkward. Whether it's someone you've known for years, or someone you've only just met, a simple, "Do you like to read?" will do the trick. Follow it up with, "What do you like to read?" or perhaps, "What was the last book you read?" If the answer to the first question is no, don't write it off so soon. Keep digging to find what they like and relate it to your work somehow. Even if you don't make a sale or generate interest in your work, there's something in that soul that has something for you. What do they do? Can they help with marketing? Can they offer advice in some other realm of the book world? If nothing else, what's their personal story?

3. Book signings and author meet n' greets. They require some time, effort and money to put together, but your return on investment (if you've priced your book appropriately) will pay off. You get what you put in, and that's referring to money!

4. Convince your family and friends to talk about your work. Convince is probably the wrong word. Your family and friends are already going to be rooting for you, so you probably won't even have to ask.

5. Donate your books. Targeted giveaways are a good way to get your name out online, but they're also a great way to do it offline, too. Donate to libraries or schools (if your target market is in that age group). Donate a copy of your book as part of a prize basket for various events. This closely relates to # 6.

6. Participate in festivals, fairs, and the like. Purchase a booth or space and sell your books. It's nice to have bookmarks and other items to sell as well. If you know of any other authors in your area, split the cost and sell together. I wouldn't recommend selling the same genre at the same table, however.

7. Target those big chain stores! Barnes and Noble is readily accepting self-published authors these days. There's a few hoops to jump through, some financial investment to make, and you're subjected to being "approved," but if you earn it, you're in and your sales will increase dramatically.

8. Target independent bookstores, too! It's another investment that can run deep into your pockets if you're supplying several bookstores, but the profits aren't bad. Independent bookstores will most often want to sell your books on consignment, so you'll foot the bill until a sale is made. Be sure to price your books so that you make a profit even after giving the bookstore their consignment percentage.

9. Public Relations. If you can tie your book into something, do it. Is your story about a man with a mental illness? Does a character in the book have cancer? Is the book's man message religion or spiritual related? Find groups that support that type of thing and come up with a way to include it. Perhaps a percentage of sales can be donated to their group in exchange for space in their newsletters to advertise the book.

10. Offline book party. This is a great way to have fun with your friends, meet new bookish people, and get the word out about your book. It's the perfect time to give away copies of the book or any merchandise.

Zombified by Lyra McKen

Zombified by Lyrica McKen

Zombified

Prologue

"You know, it just makes me mad that the news thinks we aren't people too," I said to Neil.

Of course, my words were spoken in what we Zombies affectionately call “Slopar,” so he did not understand me. To him, it sounded like lots of moaning and noises, but I continued anyway, as I determined what part of the leg was the meatiest. I normally don't like the drumstick of a man, but I was feeling particularly hungry today.

In the days before I was completely transformed, I had heard the news stories about us, saying we were monsters. They said lots of things but the ones that stood out to me now were soulless and evil.

"We are people," I continued, as I sunk my teeth into his thigh, ripping off a piece, despite his protests. "Just because we are a little dead does not mean we are any different than you, Neil. Can I call you Neil?"

I was talking through mouthfuls of him. When he didn't respond, I continued to snack away on what I assumed, by the build, to be an athletic thigh.

“Are you a runner, Neil? You taste like a runner.” Happy with my choice of dinner, I continued my rant and made myself comfortable on the cement of the parking lot where we had stopped.

"Like, how they say that we lumber about in groups with no order, and that is just not true. We actually lumber around with our friends. The lady right over there, with only half of her arm, is my favorite person to walk slowly through an abandoned town with."

I was fairly certain that Neil was almost dead. The color had drained from his face and the blood had stopped spewing from the artery in his leg. In case he could still hear me, I continued to ramble. "There are exceptions. There is this one guy who has to walk in the back of the mob because he drags his leg behind him and it slows us down. We dated in middle school. I tolerate him, but his breath always smelled like cheese and he called me ‘tart.’ I hated both of those things."

I nudged Neil at my joke, but instead of laughing, he fell over. I debated staying there while I waited to see if he would become zombified, as well. Since my body did not move fast anymore, I figured it could happen before I made it across the parking lot, so I began my slow march toward my friend, Rose. She seemed to be enjoying herself, as I could see her happily eating the brains of a young blond lady.

As I passed by a car window, I caught a glimpse of my slow moving form and stared for a minute. "Zombie life does absolutely nothing for my complexion," I yelled, over my shoulder to Neil, as I took in a gray face with sunken in eyes.

Continuing on my path to Rose, I tried to push my appearance from my decaying mind. I wondered if it was just my imagination that I could hear parts of me rotting. I remembered my mother always telling me to take care of my body.

“Your body is your temple, Cassie.” She would correct my posture by jerking my shoulders back. “You should make sure you treat it as such.”

“If only my mother could see me now.” I was still talking to Neil, as my progress had not taken me out of his earshot. “She would really be proud of her baby girl.”

 Of course, my mother was dead, and she would never be able to see my current state. She had been in the first round of the infected and they had disposed of her and hundreds of others before they had a chance to spread the disease. That is what they called being zombified in the beginning. They called it a disease.

As I continued to drag myself across the parking lot, I wondered how things could have been different.

Chapter 1

The Longest School Day

“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, and it was the age of foolishness….” The teacher was reading the beginning of A Tale of Two Cities while I was attempting to construct a note to my best friend, Ellen, about how good Brett Nathan’s hair looked that morning. He was the love of my twelfth grade life. Having just turned seventeen, I was now a woman. It was time to make my move. I was getting up the nerve to ask him out, but right now I needed to tell Ellen how fantastic he looked when he got out of the car that morning and the sun hit his perfectly shaped coif.

Horror filled me as I felt the paper slip from beneath the pen I was writing with. I looked up into Ms. Hamrick’s stern eyes, behind impossibly large glasses, and knew that my life was over. She was not happy with my note writing, and I knew for a fact she loved to read notes out loud. I prepared myself for the embarrassment of my innermost desires being revealed to a classroom full of Neanderthals.

She pursed her lips, which only made the fact that she had a hairy upper lip stand out. This woman had never seen a wax strip or a pair of tweezers in her life. I found myself momentarily mesmerized by the amount of hair in between her very unkempt eyebrows. The look of bliss on her face meant I was in for a big humiliation.

“Well, Ms. Williams,” here it came, “while I am sure that Ms. Davis desperately needs to know that Mr. Nathan is way hotter than Leo, with an ass you could just cling to; we have a book to read through. Start at the third paragraph.” She walked back to the front of the classroom, as the idiots around me erupted into laughter, and I felt my cheeks burn with embarrassment.



Author Lyra McKen



I pulled my dark brown hair around my face to hide. I was thankful I had opted to wear it down that day. Too bad it was summer and I was wearing my favorite baby blue tank top instead of a sweatshirt. I wished the worst things ever on my teacher as I began to read from the book. I was just thankful Brett was not in the classroom to hear that display of teenage puppy love. How ridiculous it sounded when she read it out loud that way. There was no doubt in my mind it would get to Brett. I felt like the bathroom would be as good a place as any to eat my lunch today.

I stumbled through the third paragraph, my face burning with embarrassment. The smug look on the teacher’s face made me angry, and I couldn’t wait to get out of there.

Ellen gave me a sympathetic look when Ms. Hamrick finally called on someone else to read. I shrunk down in my seat and willed time to go faster.

I looked at my oversized, white Fossil watch and saw the time was five until two. One more class for the day and I could go home and relax with my favorite book.

When the bell finally rang, I rushed out of the classroom, to my locker, as fast as I could. Ellen was there shortly after and I rolled my eyes at her as I slammed the locker shut. I jammed my hands in my distressed dark jeans and looked dejected. I was glad I had worn my favorite pair of tennis shoes, with the pink laces, so I could make a quick get-away if I saw Brett coming.

“Ms. Hamrick is a mean old witch.” I was angry and taking it out on the teacher was the best thing I knew to do.

“She is, and that was beyond embarrassing.” Ellen lowered her voice to a whisper. “You wrote me about his butt.” She tilted her head and we both giggled at her statement.

I sighed loudly and hoped like hell people would just forget about it, and then something amazing happened. An announcement, from the principal, came over the speakers telling everyone to get into a classroom and lock the doors. The school would be on lockdown until further notice. Ellen and I locked eyes, standing still for a minute, not sure what we should do.

Panic ensued, and there was talk of a shooter in the building, or some type of wild animal; no one knew what was going on. Of course, Ms. Hamrick’s classroom was the one we were closest to, so we all got ushered inside.

I was horrified to see that not only were most of the kids I had just experienced the single most humiliating moment of my life with were there, but so was Brett. He must have been caught in the group of students Ms. Hamrick pushed into her classroom. He caught me staring at him and flashed an adorable smile. His teeth could be the stars of a tooth paste commercial. Getting out of my head, I pulled my gaze away from him, knowing I had stared too long. I thought the day could not possibly get any worse, but I could never predict how wrong I was about that.

I checked my watch and it was almost three o’clock. An hour had gone by and we still hadn’t heard anything from the principal. We were all supposed to be quiet and Ellen and I were writing notes back and forth to pass the time.

I squinted at her chicken scratch across the page. Brett is in here.

I wrote her back. Duh, I am not blind; I see that.

Just then, a guy caught my eye outside the classroom window. The blinds had been pulled shut, but I could see him through the cracks on the side. He looked bloody and his movements seemed slow. He reminded me of an ant that had just been stepped on, the way he jerked almost as if it were painful to move.

 I stared for a minute before I drew attention to him, trying to figure out what he was doing. I raised my hand and watched Ms. Hamrick look at me and look back down. Why was she acting like that?

I nudged Ellen. “Look, something is wrong with that man.”

The clothes he wore looked torn and his shirt was hanging open. I wondered if he had come from the street and been in some kind of accident. His skin was a little gray-looking and his cheeks were sunken in like he had been hungry for a while.

Putting my hand back down, I watched him walking slowly towards the classroom. The look on his face was scary and his eyes stared straight ahead. I couldn’t be sure, but I didn’t think I saw him blink. He kept coming at the same steady pace like it was difficult for him to walk.

He didn’t stop when he got to the window; he pressed his face up against it and opened his mouth wide, revealing blood inside. There was definitely something wrong with this guy, and I was scared. He started to bang on the window of the classroom, and I began to scream.

 BOOK TRAILER FOR ZOMBIFIED:

LINKS FOR ZOMBIFIED AND LYRA MCKEN:

Website Link - http://www.lyramcken.com
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