3volve (13 page)

Author Note

As I’ve noted in the past, I strongly believe in inclusion of language in texts. Languages other than English tend to be
emphasized
by authors’ use of italics. I acknowledge its use. However, I will not conform to such standards without compromising myself. Therefore, I have provided translations and glossary of terms. I am always open to commentary, thus I listened to a suggestion to link the glossary and texts for a quicker translation while reading.

I grew up on the West side in a diverse and alternative household. I put forth all my childhood experiences, and the people I meet or have met some way in my writing.

Growing up in a bilingual community, we each have our own dialect and words. They may not always be terms or phrases some Spanish speakers know, but that should not detract from the importance they may hold for other Spanish speakers of different communities. We as individuals, must be consciously aware how we treat people of other language communities, and embrace every spoken or written word. Realizing that class-taught languages may not be an accurate representation. Language is as diverse as people. To place one language or dialect above another, is not right.

I truly hope you enjoyed my continuation of the world I created with
The Shadow of Loss.
I will continue to expand on the world and its stories next with Vanessa and Eric, but first I will completely change it up with my next fantasy series.

Translation

Fotografía- Juanes ft. Nelly Furtado

Cada vez que yo me voy llevo a un lado de mi piel

Tus fotografías para verlas cada vez

Que to ausencia me devora entero el corazón

Y yo no tengo remedio mas que amarte

Every time that I leave I take next to my skin

Your photos to look at every time

Your absence devours my entire heart

And I have no remedy but to love you

Y en la distancia te puedo ver

Cuando tus fotos me siento a ver

Y en las estrellas tus ojos ver

Cuando tus fotos me siento a ver

And in the distance I can see you

When I sit to look at your photos

And in the stars I see your eyes

When your photos I feel the need to see

Glossary of Terms

In order of appearance

Santo - Saint

Lotería - A game similar to bingo

La Virgen - The virgin. It is used to refer to Our Lady of Guadalupe.

Niños - Boy’s

Chica - Girl

Mensa - Crazy/Stupid girl. It is often used jokingly.

Migas - Eggs and tortillas

Ay dios mío
- Oh my god

Michoacana - A small shop that sells meat and other groceries

Sí - Yes

Chiquita - Small/Cute girl

Taquería - Mexican restaurant

Comal - Hot plate, or griddle

Raspa - Shaved ice with flavored syrup

Cajon - Dresser

Chancla – Sandal

Hermanito - Little brother

Vatos – Thugs. Many people think of them as gangsters/thugs, but for many it’s more of a lifestyle, which through media representation has been viewed negatively.

Mamacita - Sexy/Hot mom, but is often used interchangeable with girl.

Vamanos - Let’s go

Cascarones - Eggs filled with confetti, often used during Easter.

Folklorico – Dance style in traditional dress

Empanada – Popular filled pastry

Otherworld

(Book 1)

A Young Adult Fantasy Dystopian Series

Kyra Staar, is a seventeen year old working for
The Agency
in the Otherworld. Her home was destroyed by Queen Beatrice years ago, now she has taken over the nation, forcing supes into working camps. She killed her parents, and now Kyra is out for revenge. Can she trust the people she works for? Or a mysterious stranger, Zale? Selkie’s aren’t known for their honesty after all. Kyra’s only hope to stop Bee’s reign is an artifact thought lost, the Bringer of Light, but will she be able to handle what she finds?

The following is a short—really short excerpt from my upcoming series filled with
Love, Betrayal, Secrets, Justice, and Redemption
.

CHAPTER ONE

“
Sitting under the great oak tree, behind the cemetery is the only solace I seem to get.”

-Lima

I have been working for
The Agency
since I was eleven years old. I started out just being a messenger between sectors, but now I am a full-fledged agent at only seventeen years old.

I am the youngest ever to be promoted to an agent. Usually youths are allowed into the program when they turn twenty-two, but since I have plenty of experience dealing with this damn war, I was granted early acceptance.

Early acceptance sounds pretty damn sweet to others, but everyone knows the only reason they granted it to me was because my parents died in the line of duty. I had the pity vote.

Óisín Lynch is the head of our sector and just so happens to be my godfather.

He inducted me as a new agent because he thought it would help me grieve better if I had something to fight for. And you know what? He was right. Revenge is a better outlet to achieve justice for supes everywhere, not just my parents. The Queen Bee is going to regret demolishing my home.

While
3volve
is a standalone book, I have created a world where characters come and go, as is life. Enjoy the first chapter of
The Shadow of Loss
.

Happy reading!

Chapter 1

Ever heard the expression it all went down in a pile of flames?  Well shit, I didn’t think life was going to get all literal about it.  Now I am quietly tucked away between four white walls and a twin bed, where I can touch opposing walls with my index fingers.  I have been stuck with my thoughts in this box for months.  I have been cut off from the outside world, because I went
crazy
.  My own sister, locked me up, but I don’t blame her—I really don’t.  Olive was trying to help me when everyone else abandoned me.  She writes me letters every week.  I guess it is another way to anchor me to the living.  It’s not like I don’t see her on visiting days, but like she says, “Letters are better for communicating, they force you to realize what is important.”

“Miss Gonzalez, your sister has arrived.  Please gather your personals and follow me,” the orderly tells me.  She was nice, but firm.  I’ve heard the opposite is usually true in these cases—so I was lucky.  She introduced me to Stigmata.

“Yes ma’am,” I say and walk over to the desk.  I was only allowed the basics.  I was stripped of all the vital things that would keep me informed or busy.  I grab my small travel bag and my copy of Stigmata, which is on loan.  Stigmata did for me what others could not.  Some might have chosen an entirely different genre or novel, but it was never a matter of deciding, I knew.  Institutionalization was a no brainer. 

I hand my personals to her and follow her to the front.  I see her waiting for me.  She was always the attractive one.  She is pacing back and forth near the front desk.  She doesn’t see me yet, but I wave anyway, hoping she can sense it.  Her face looks swollen, she must have been crying.  She also looks skinnier than our last visit.  How is that possible?  I saw her a few days ago.  Tsk tsk, frozen dinners most likely.

“Okay, Miss Gonzalez here are your items you brought in,” the orderly says.  She hands me my old clothes, “You need to get changed.”

“Yes ma’am,” I grab my clothes and change quickly.  I want to leave.  I need to leave.  I will try harder.  I know I can try harder.  When I open the door, sure enough the orderly is waiting for me.  “Follow me Miss Gonzalez,” she says and turns to leave.  “Yes ma’am,” I follow her.

She walks up to security.  It is procedure upon discharge to get searched.  They have my travel bag open and are rifling through my belongings.  Opening caps and peering inside bottles.  Why would someone smuggle something
out
of here?  This seems unnecessary, but I go along with it.  Besides I am supposed to be a reformed crazy person.

“All clear,” he tells her, and she begins searching me.  Yes, I smuggled something on my person when I was in the restroom stall.  I desperately wanted that five year old edition of Times.  After I am searched, I grab my personals and hand the book back to her, but she just shakes her head.  “Miss Gonzalez I hope we don’t see you again.  You keep that book.  Remember to take deep breathes to calm yourself,” she gives me a genuine smile.  You know those smiles where a person’s eyes crinkle, so you know it is real, then it hits me I won’t see her again—hopefully.

“Yes ma’am.  Thank you,” I smile back.  I walk through the open door and I see Olive signing my discharge papers.  I’m free.  I have to stop myself now, because I feel like I might have too much fun celebrating. 

“Eve, are you ready?” she asks, grabbing my travel bag.

“Yes ma…” I stop myself.  I’m not locked up anymore.  I can say what I feel like.  “Damn straight.”

“Are you hungry?  We can get something on our way out,” she asks me.

“Feel me up with grease and sugar.”

“You got it sis,” she gives me a big hug.  Olive is almost a foot taller and it’s definitely an awkward tall-walking-but-hugging-hug, and I love it.

I get in her car and take a deep breath.  I’m out of there finally.  She drives for an hour to the next big city for gas and food.  I can finally eat some real food, so I go a little overboard.  I eat what I assumed would be a lethal dose of meat.  I’m proud to say meat didn’t claim my life.  I can’t tell if I have a buzz from the grease or the sugar.  I’m drinking my third vanilla coke.  It’s filling me up with joy only coke can fix. 

Olive fills me in on our house, it’s going up for sale soon.  They spray painted offensive slurs on our house, like “Weiner Beaner” and “Germexican”.  People lack creativity if that is all they can come up with.  She doesn’t ask me too many questions, our conversations remain balanced between facts and pop culture—mostly on her part.  I don’t know half the people she is rambling about, but I know she is keeping the focus on anything else but the elephant in the car.

Our drive after eating is quiet enough because we ran out of safe topics to talk about in the restaurant.  Even though the car keeps moving I still feel stuck back in that tiny white room.  I am so lost in thought that I didn’t notice Olive asked me something.  “Huh?” I shake bad thoughts from my head.  “Can you get me a water from the cooler please?” Olive asks again.

“Sure,” I unbuckle my seat belt to reach behind the seat.  I grab a bottle and open it for her.  “Here you go princ…” I stop when I notice where we are.  We just drove past the library, the next house would be hers.

“I didn’t want you to see.  I thought I could pass it before you came up…I’m sorry,” she wipes her hands on her jeans.

“Stop!”  I shock her with my intensity and she pulls over.

Looking at her house it seems unchanged.  The shingles are sliding off, and the lock is still hanging from the gate.  I thought they would have fixed that.  I walk closer to the gate, but I don’t open it.  I keep seeing it all again.  I need to remember to breathe and stay calm, so I walk backwards to the car.  “I want to leave.  Please.”  I adjust the seat so I can lay back and I close my eyes.

Olive doesn’t ask if I am okay and I didn’t offer to talk about it.  I have talked about this for months.  Instead she blasts Katy Perry and drives to my new home.  The entire time I think it should have been me—not her.

“We’re here,” she says, as she comes to a complete stop.  I get up and look outside.  I see an older apartment building with red bricks and a fire escape cascading down the right side.  I get out without saying anything.  “We are apartment 4D.  Grab a box and head up,” she opens the trunk.

“Okay,” I tell her and notice she doesn’t look pleased.  Maybe I said something wrong.  I grab my messenger bag and a box, then follow her inside.

The entry hallway is filled with blooming flowers resting on a white finished console table.  All the furnishing are antiques and marvelous.  I veer off to the side and notice a reading nook between four ceiling tall bookshelves.  The owner must love books.  This is a perfect spot to read.  This building looks more like a hotel than an apartment.  But it has a charming appeal.  Like a wanderer from the street can stumble upon this place and decide to live here, then a vacancy would open up at the snap of someone’s fingers.  I remember I still have a box in my hands, so I walk back to the entrance and head towards the elevators.

The fourth floor is almost as charming as the entrance.  The walls are painted a light yellow.  Yellow—much better than white.  I walk to the end of the hall and kick the door open slightly.  I can hear my sister changing in her room.  I walk around the apartment and I notice a door is open.  This must be my room.  I walk in and put my stuff on the floor.  Then I hurry back down to get the rest of my stuff.  I don’t understand why Olive is changing, now, I mean sure we just got here but all my stuff is still downstairs.  Someone could run off with my boxes thinking they have a camera or PS4 or something equally expensive.

When I get downstairs I don’t see anything devious happening, so I guess my stuff is safe.  I grab two more boxes and head up.  I never thought I had that much stuff, but six boxes is
a lot
.  I really should stop hoarding.  I put all my boxes on the floor and run down to check if I missed anything.

On my last trip downstairs I see a boy.  He is laying out on a bench outside the apartment building reading a book.  He looks kind of handsome in the lighting—but then again any boy reading looks handsome, so it’s probably that.  His hair is pitch black and curly, but not in a dramatic way, more loose around his face.  I wonder if he lives here or is waiting for his girlfriend.  Does he know about the reading area in there?  He should read in there, instead of outside in the dark.  Doesn’t he know reading in the dark is bad for his eyes?  Tsk tsk.  Boys.  I shake my head and close the trunk.