Kyle is a swaggering bully; Lenny strives to be invisible. Kyle has been left alone in the world; Lenny is the world’s biggest loner. When Kyle saves Lenny from drowning, their lives will never be the same. After a brutal encounter with school bullies, Lenny swims out into the ocean, determined to let the current whisk him away. Next thing he knows the meanest kid in town is pulling him from the waves, promising to be his Dead Sea, and to never let him sink.
All Kyle wants is to get out of beach cleanup, is that too much to ask? So he goes for a swim, only to come upon the most epic “nobody” in the senior class drowning in a riptide. Lenny’s haunted gaze grips him, and Kyle makes the impulsive decision to save his life or die trying. And through this ordeal, Kyle and Lenny are transformed.
Kyle’s heroic act sets him on the straight and narrow, and he opens his heart to the young man he dragged from the ocean. Lenny changes too but is still unable to reveal the truth of his pain. While drowning in a sea of secrets, the reformed bully and wary victim fall in love. But staying afloat in the Dead Sea is not as simple as it seems.
“I know I told you I wanted to talk about schools and futures, but there’s something else I want even more.” Time to come clean.
Lenny opens his mouth to speak—three times. No sound comes out. Damn, he’s cute.
“I wanna kiss you so bad. Can’t remember wanting nothing so much since I was a kid on Christmas Eve hoping for a Gameboy.”
This time when he opens his mouth, he gasps. And it’s more sexy than cute.
“Would that be okay? You know, if I kissed you?” I suck in a breath too, figuring I’ll hold onto it until he answers. Hope it doesn’t take too long—that could spell problems.
“Listen, Kyle, you don’t know everything about me.”
I push the air out of my lungs in one huge gust. Good news, Grampa: he didn’t say no fuckin’ way will I let your lips near mine.
“There’s plenty you don’t know about me too, Lenny. Like how I pants-ed Chad Giza at the seventh grade Valentine’s Day party in Mrs. Webster’s class because I was so pissed-off I got zero candy-cards from girls and he got a dozen. But I still want to kiss you.”
When Lenny smiles, his lips look as good as the finish line at the end of a marathon. Not that I ever ran a marathon, but I figure this is how I’d see it.
“Then kiss me,” he whispers.
“You don’t have to ask me twice.” I say this even though, technically, I was the one who asked him. I lean in, put my sweaty palms on his shoulders, and pull Lenny toward me. He slides my way without a tug-of-war—and I press my lips onto his.
I start with a soft dry kiss, so as not to freak him out. It doesn’t last for even a whole second. Then I pull off Lenny’s lips. I need to check out his face to make sure he’s not losing his marbles. His eyes are closed and long dark eyelashes rest on his cheeks. His forehead is smooth of wrinkles, and his lips are loose and ready for more. And his light brown curls are tousled just right from the wind. Lenny looks like an angel. Seriously, Gramps, the dude belongs on the top of Mom’s keep-your-hands-off Christmas tree. Nope. Lenny’s my angel, and it’s time for another kiss. I swoop in again, and this time, after I cover his lips with mine, I stay. I kiss him once, in the dry sweet way. And when I poke open his mouth with my tongue, he lets me in.
Mia Kerick is the mother of four exceptional children–all named after saints–and five nonpedigreed cats–all named after the next best thing to saints, Boston Red Sox players. Her husband of twenty years has been told by many that he has the patience of Job, but don’t ask Mia about that, as it is a sensitive subject.
Mia focuses her stories on the emotional growth of troubled young men and their relationships, and she believes that sex has a place in a love story, but not until it is firmly established as a love story. As a teen, Mia filled spiral-bound notebooks with romantic tales of tortured heroes (most of whom happened to strongly resemble lead vocalists of 1980s big-hair bands) and stuffed them under her mattress for safekeeping. She is thankful to Dreamspinner Press for providing her with an alternate place to stash her stories.
Mia is proud of her involvement with the Human Rights Campaign and cheers for each and every victory made in the name of marital equality. Her only major regret: never having taken typing or computer class in school, destining her to a life consumed with two-fingered pecking and constant prayer to the Gods of Technology.
My themes I always write about:
Sweetness. Unconventional love, tortured/damaged heroes- only love can save them.
Mia Kerick focuses her stories on the emotional growth of troubled young men within the boundaries of blossoming, supportive relationships. She believes that sex has a place in a love story, but not until it is firmly established as a love story. And Mia’s stories are centered around a certain theme: even heroes can be sweet. Sweet, but not completely innocent.
Jeni has fully accepted her spiritual ability, and yet she’s unnerved by the apparition of Marielle, the ghost of a pioneer girl asking for help. As the ghost’s tragic love story unfolds in her dreams, Jeni’s resistance melts and she resolves to save the soul of Marielle’s lost love. When she discovers her own impulses cause Marielle to act uncharacteristically, Jeni believes she can change the past. Despite warnings against meddling with time, Jeni’s convinced she can save the soul of Marielle’s lover. Deep inside a dream and intent on her quest, Jeni is lured into a trap that binds her soul to Marielle’s. With no allies, no knowledge about crossing through time and with limited 18th century resources, Jeni is terrified: failure will leave her soul trapped in the past, or worse . . . lost in nowhere.
Ice spotted a nearby tree with a thick trunk. He headed for it, capturing Jeni’s hand and pulling her with him. He settled on the ground, knees bent, and patted the space in front of him. “Do they know why the river changed course?’
Accepting the invitation, Jeni scooted backward until her back touched his chest. He looped his arms around her and she sighed, melting against him. “They do now. The forests were cut down to feed the riverboats. It allowed massive erosion. Although,” she twisted her head so she could look up at him, “some people claimed it was a curse.”
Ice smirked. “Sure. Because it couldn’t have been their fault.”
“Exactly.” Sarcasm tinged her voice. “The legend of the curse is actually a tragic love story about… ” Again she looked up at Ice. “Are you ready for this?”
“Sure,” he said.
“A French girl and a Native American boy.”
“Like us.” He chuckled. “Do you know the entire legend?”
“I can give you the basics.” Jeni recounted the story, ending with, “So Amakapa swore that he and Marielle would be together again in the afterlife and that—” She broke off, sitting up so fast she nearly smacked her head into his chin. “Ice. Please tell me you see her this time,” she said in a low voice.
Ice searched the vista for a figure. “Where?”
“Across the road. Behind the fence, just to the left of where it’s leaning forward.” Her entire body was tense.
His eyes scoured the fence line, finding a spot where the wire bowed out as if something had pushed against it, or possibly fallen on top of it, but he saw no one.
“Do you see her?” Jeni’s voice faltered.
“No. Is it the same girl you saw before?”
“Oh, God.” With a strangled cry, Jeni clambered to her feet and dashed for the pathway.
Ice rushed after her. When she reached the trail, Jeni broke into a run, her face a white mask when she glanced over her shoulder. Ice swiveled his head to make his own cursory check, wondering if the figure Jeni saw had given chase. The path behind them appeared empty. He knew, however, something might be there. Something he couldn’t see. When Jeni broke out of the shadows and into the sunshine, she finally slowed, breathing hard.
Ice approached, placing a protective hand on her back while she bent over, hands on thighs, drawing in air. “What happened?”
She shook her head and straightened, hands over her face. “She…” Jeni sucked in a shuddering breath. “It looked like she was trying to speak to me.” She let her fingers trail down her cheeks, meeting his eyes with a haunted gaze.
“What did she say?”
“I couldn’t hear anything,” Jeni said. “But I didn’t need to. I could read her lips clearly. She was saying ‘help me.'”
Having a love for witches and vampires before they were trendy, Barbara gravitates toward stories with supernatural elements both when she reads and when she writes. Although classified as young adult, her books are enjoyed by a wide audience–pre-teen through adult.
Barbara’s novel Thunderstone was awarded 2013 Book of the Year Finalist status by Forward Reviews and before it was published, Thunderstone was a quarter-finalist in the 2012 Amazon Breakout Novel Award contest, winning a review by Publisher’s Weekly.
When she’s not writing, Barbara works in a library where she’s tortured by all the books she has yet to read. She’s a cult fan of the movies Labyrinth and Nightmare Before Christmas and a fan of all things Tim Burton. Barbara lives in Royal Oak, Michigan with her husband, daughter and a cat that often acts like a dog.
Mckenna’s never thought much of her nightmares, but on her seventeenth birthday, a vivid dream of burning at the stake awakens her dormant abilities, thrusting her into a world where faeries are real, spirits hold a grudge, and a High Priestess obsessed with a 16th-century prophecy is tracking her every move.
Now, her overprotective dads, Seán and Andre, are forced to tell her the truth—they know who her birth mother is, and her life is not the surrogate story she’s always been told. Abigail, Mckenna’s mom, is some sort of mystic, and Mckenna a Wise One.
Whatever the hell that means.
With the help of a persistent little wren and company of a newfound friend, Mckenna journeys to Ireland in search of her mother and real answers. Along the way, she learns to harness her innate magic and trust her intuition, as best she can anyway—Cillian, a kind and passionate delegate who crosses her path, is proving much harder to read.
Only her mother could truly help her halt her ill fate and prepare her for what’s to come . . . before she gives in to the darkness she knows is buried deep within.
A sulphery scent filled the air, carried by a chill breeze. Pulled by the rushing sound of waves, Mckenna walked to the road’s end. Far below, the sea whispered its calming notes, both melodic and fierce, as though longing to impart wisdom to the land and sky. “I hadn’t realized we drove so high up.”
She followed Esme about a mile down a red dirt path, which gradually wound downwards to the water’s edge.
“Where are we?” Mckenna said as a rocky landmass came into view.
“Below, where you see the rock formation—that’s the Giant’s Causeway.”
As they drew nearer, Mckenna did a double take at the dramatic sight before her: At the foot of the cliffs lay uneven hills of thousands upon thousands of interlocked black rocks in the shape of hexagons. Like a three-dimensional jigsaw puzzle, the pieces fit together flawlessly. Esme urged Mckenna to walk around the site. She did, stepping up and down from stone to stone.
How could they have formed so perfectly? And why were they all at different heights? How were they floating on the sea?
That was when she realized . . . “Esme, these aren’t rocks, are they? These are columns.”
“Indeed. Forty thousand columns beneath the sea—basalt columns, meaning they’re formed from lava. Some as tall as thirty-nine feet. All of this was the result of a volcanic eruption some fifty million years ago, during the Tertiary period—but of course, there’s also an Irish legend that explains it all.” Mckenna smiled at this. “A Scottish giant, Benandonner, challenged an Irish giant, Fionn MacCool, to a fight. Being very proud, Fionn accepted and built a causeway across the North Channel to Scotland for the two to battle. But when Fionn saw the size of Benandonner, he ran back to Ireland and had his wife disguise him as a baby.
“The funny bit is, when Benandonner saw the size of the baby, he thought, ‘if the baby’s that big, can’t imagine his dad!’ So, he bolted back to Scotland, destroying the causeway along the way. Across the sea to the Scottish isle of Staffa, there are the same columns, made of the same basalt.”
“So, which story is true?” If faeries and ghosts existed, why not giants?
Katrina Tortorici Anglehart is a born and bred Italian-Canadian from Montreal. A devoted academic, she holds a Bachelor of Arts in Journalism; a graduate certificate in Scriptwriting; and a Master of Fine Arts in Creative Writing. After dabbling in TV writing and working as a digital marketing content manager, she left the nine to five to launch her freelance editing and coaching career. Today, she relishes in helping aspiring authors to develop and refine their stories.
Besides English, Katrina speaks French, Italian, and Spanglish. When she’s not writing, diving into magical reads, or Netflixing, she’s travelling with her favourite human–her high-school-sweetheart-turned-husband, Andy–and obsessing over her pet bunny, Magic, and newly rescued pup, Nessie. Katrina currently lives in Toronto, Ontario.
