I received a free copy of this book in exchange for a fair and honest review. All opinions are my own.
A woman pushes herself to experience more of life after the sudden loss of her mother in author Caitlin Forbes’s “What Comes Next.”
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The Synopsis
An empowering and heartfelt novel about the complexities of family, the power of sisterhood, and the bravery it takes to choose happiness when all seems lost.
“My life is perfectly fine.”
Alex has pretended this for years―despite an emotionally absent father, a best friend drifting away, and a floundering dog-training business. At least Alex has her sister, Meredith, a driven polar opposite. But both their lives are upended when their estranged mother dies of a genetic condition that the sisters have a fifty-fifty chance of inheriting. For Alex, a world without her mother is uncomfortable. But a world without Meredith is unthinkable.
Alex suggests a pact to which Meredith tentatively agrees: In three months they’ll get tested. Until then they go after everything they’ve ever wanted. Alex is finally stepping out of her comfort zone and opening herself up to new relationships. Or maybe reconnecting with an old one. Nathan, a boy who once broke her heart, needs a trainer for his mixed-breed rescue. Alex can’t resist.
As sparks rekindle, and time passes much too quickly, Alex discovers more about herself, her sister, and her mother than she ever imagined. And that everything in life―especially happiness―comes with a risk worth taking.
The Review
What a heartfelt and emotional read. The author finds such a delicate yet perfect balance between exploring the grieving process, the intricacies of relationships, and the power of self-discovery. The juxtaposition of animal care with the protagonist’s life, especially with Remy and the frequency of animal abandonment due to past trauma, making it difficult to train or home them, mirrors the protagonist’s own abandonment issues and really speaks volumes throughout this story.
Yet it was the relationship between Alex and Meredith that really stood out to the reader. The way they learned to lean on one another in the absence of their parents, the loss they share, and the shock of a shared illness lingering as a possibility is something that felt so relatable as someone who inherited several ailments and the dangers that come with genetic diseases. The author artfully navigates these troubled waters by exploring the path to finding hope again in a person’s life amidst the trauma.
The Verdict
Memorable, heartfelt, and engaging, author Caitlin Forbes’s “What Comes Next” is a must-read women’s fiction-meets-family-drama novel. The imagery and atmosphere the author brought to life on the page, along with the compelling blend of emotional storytelling and hopeful tones, will keep readers engaged until the book’s final chapters. If you haven’t yet, be sure to grab your copy today!
Rating: 10/10
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About the Author
Photography by Molly Haley, mollyhaley.com
Caitlin Forbes is a Maine-based author who writes stories that explore the messiness of relationships—from sisterhood to romance to the tricky relationship we have with ourselves. When not writing, you can find her chasing after her toddler (or her dog) and exploring small-town New England life.
Join us at the Muffin as we celebrate the launch of What Comes Next by Caitlin Forbes. We interview the author and give you a chance to win a copy of the book.
Stop by B. Lynn Goodwin’s blog for a guest post by author Caitlin Forbes about the question of inheritance – of what we inherit versus what we get to choose.
Stop by Katherine’s blog for her review of What Comes Next by Caitlin Forbes. You’ll also have a chance to read her response to our tour-themed prompt about whether if she had an incurable condition and if she would want to find out.
An empowering and heartfelt novel about the complexities of family, the power of sisterhood, and the bravery it takes to choose happiness when all seems lost.
“My life is perfectly fine.”
Alex has pretended this for years―despite an emotionally absent father, a best friend drifting away, and a floundering dog-training business. At least Alex has her sister, Meredith, a driven polar opposite. But both their lives are upended when their estranged mother dies of a genetic condition that the sisters have a fifty-fifty chance of inheriting. For Alex, a world without her mother is uncomfortable. But a world without Meredith is unthinkable.
Alex suggests a pact to which Meredith tentatively agrees: In three months they’ll get tested. Until then they go after everything they’ve ever wanted. Alex is finally stepping out of her comfort zone and opening herself up to new relationships. Or maybe reconnecting with an old one. Nathan, a boy who once broke her heart, needs a trainer for his mixed-breed rescue. Alex can’t resist.
As sparks rekindle, and time passes much too quickly, Alex discovers more about herself, her sister, and her mother than she ever imagined. And that everything in life―especially happiness―comes with a risk worth taking.
Caitlin Forbes is a Maine-based author who writes stories that explore the messiness of relationships—from sisterhood to romance to the tricky relationship we have with ourselves. When not writing, you can find her chasing after her toddler (or her dog) and exploring small-town New England life.
Join us at the Muffin as we celebrate the launch of What Comes Next by Caitlin Forbes. We interview the author and give you a chance to win a copy of the book.
Stop by B. Lynn Goodwin’s blog for a guest post by author Caitlin Forbes about the question of inheritance – of what we inherit versus what we get to choose.
Stop by Katherine’s blog for her review of What Comes Next by Caitlin Forbes. You’ll also have a chance to read her response to our tour-themed prompt about whether if she had an incurable condition and if she would want to find out.
When the doorbell rings, I’m standing in front of my bathroom sink, the picture of indecision: boxer briefs paired with a black silk tank top, made-up face, and completely untamed hair.
I’m supposed to meet my roommate, Holly, for drinks. But it was a last-minute invite—with people I don’t know, planned days or even weeks earlier—and now I feel uncomfortable. As if I’ve become the kind of obligation that I never wanted to be. We’ve been best friends for nearly a decade, but these days, things are different, and I don’t know that I want to feel the strain of it tonight. I’m more tempted by Netflix and cold pizza. My favorite pair of slippers.
I check the weather app on my phone and am almost relieved that it calls for rain.
I’m conceding defeat, turning off the curler, when the bell rings and I physically jump. Because who rings the doorbell in Somerville, Massachusetts, other than someone who wants to kill me? Or someone who wants to sell something, which is maybe not all that much better. But then I consider my upstairs neighbor, who has lost her keys more than once, and is so young, still new to the Boston area, and I feel guilty, so I pad down the stairs of our apartment and crack open the building door. And I swear, I get a whiff of cinnamon, a smell so familiar it knocks me back before I can remember why.
And he’s standing there. On my doorstep. Tall. Even taller than I remember.
Nathan Browning.
We stare at each other from either side of the doorframe. And I will him to disappear. Or turn into someone else. Or at the very least, to come back when I’m wearing pants.
Nathan. Those first two years of college. Nights spent squeezed onto a twin bed in his dorm room, pretending we weren’t uncomfortable just so we could fall asleep together. The summer I’d spent with his family at Lake Winnipesaukee. Campfires and smoky hair. His lips, pillow soft. Water. An excess of water—one oversize tube, our limbs tangled together. Salty tears.
“Alex?”
It’s my name that gets my attention. My name in his mouth, as if it belongs there. As if we still mean something to each other.
I almost shut the door right then.
“What are you doing here?” I ask. I’m relieved my voice sounds calm. Disengaged, even. Because it doesn’t matter that he is here. Because it doesn’t matter what we once were.
“I need your help,” he says.
I stare at him blankly, but he’s not looking at me. He’s looking over his shoulder. He’s looking at the car parked behind him and, more accurately, at what is sitting in the front seat.
He turns back to me with those gray-blue eyes. The ones that were always focused, always so certain, but now hold the smallest hesitation. An expression that seems wrong in this face I still somehow know.
“I saw your video,” he says. “And I—we need your help.”
The video. The one that changed my life right up until it didn’t.
I was a part-time dog trainer then, still trying to make that dream real. Holly and I made a video, and she stuck it up on YouTube, and then it went viral. It was a fluky kind of thing, like those things always are: the right content at the right time in front of the right people. The algorithm was alerted, and the amplification went from there. I was twenty-four and poor and bored—working a second job and involved in a fling to pass the time—and then suddenly, I was also something else. A dog whisperer, people typed. Cesar Millan but softer, with a woman’s touch. Silly. Casually sexist.
But something just the same.
After the video, it was Holly’s idea to start the training business. DogKind, we called it. I dropped my second job as copywriter to train full-time, and she did everything else—the administration and the management. The promotions. We’d both majored in marketing in college, but Holly was better at it than me. Maybe because she believed in it: the concept of brands that build trust, and colors and fonts that tell a story. It took her only two weeks to launch DogKind’s website and get us live on all the social platforms. We were still twenty-four and poor but suddenly not so bored. I remember the day the site launched—us sitting on the floor in our cramped living room, a five-dollar bottle of red between us. Stained teeth. It was summer in an attic apartment in the city, and we didn’t have air-conditioning. Holly had chopped her hair off, and we were trying to convince ourselves it was edgy.
We were young in that way you actually notice. When you’re afraid of what will happen when you blink.
Four years ago. The length of high school, or of college, but without the predetermined milestones. The signposts that tell you how and why everything is about to change.
Holly quit the business less than two years later, and I followed her lead not long after. Partly because I wasn’t making enough money to cover rent, and partly because of what happened with Cliff, one of the dogs I tried to save. But mainly because I hated being called a “dog whisperer.” I hated that people thought I could perform miracles, that they insisted on believing I was more than I was.
I work at Kensington Media now. It covers the rent, and it could one day become a real career. And I don’t have regrets. Except, there are these moments—when I see a short haircut on a blonde, when Instagram flashes up a memory of a pup—and it’s like my whole body freezes over. A little voice in my head, whispering, You can go back if you just stay still.
“How did you find me? I took down my website ages ago.”
“An old testimonial from a woman named Lois, I think?” Nathan says. “Her address is publicly listed. So I called her. She pointed me in your direction.”
Lois. She was my neighbor as a kid. She moved closer to the city after my mom left, but she always kept a close eye on me and Mere. A bespectacled not-quite grandmother—that careful mix of kind and overbearing. She’s a lifelong dog rescuer and was DogKind’s first client.
Lois never wanted me to quit.
I sneak a peek at him while he’s checking the car, again. He’s still handsome. Those eyes, and dark-brown hair with the slightest hint of red—the red was the part that I liked most, that almost made us match. Behind him, I can see a flash of auburn fur. Two half-bent glossy ears pointed forward. A white-tipped tail.
I swallow. “I don’t train anymore,” I say.
He lifts a shoulder. The gesture looks comfortable on him. Like he’s used to half explaining himself, half caring if anyone understands. And I remember that part, too: the easy confidence. The kind I imagine he still takes for granted.
“She thought you might still help.”
I resist the urge to roll my eyes. Lois is one of those people who likes to imagine me as bigger and braver than I am.
“Listen, I don’t know what you saw in that video, but it’s not—she’s not me.”
“She sure looked like you.”
And right then, our eyes meet. And we get stuck there. Three breaths. Blue-gray eyes, like he still knows me. Like we still know each other. And something electric—something more than anger—passes between us. Right here, on my dirty Somerville stoop, wearing the bottom half of my pajamas, everything else recedes. For three breaths, it’s just us.
A car drives by with the windows open, the radio blaring through the street. I take a step back.
“I’ll give you a referral,” I say. “I know a lot better trainers than me out there.”
“Alex.” I hate the way he says my name. “I know that you and I . . . that our history makes this tough . . .” His voice trails off as my eyes snap to him. He takes in my expression, then lifts his chin. That confidence. Whatever hesitation I saw earlier is long gone.
“I’m sorry,” he says firmly. “You know that I am sorry.”
I shake my head. I don’t want an apology. I’m embarrassed—mortified, really—that I still care. That he knows that I still care. That he’s still talking, and I’m falling backward into sand and blue water and the particular ache of a wound that is old but was also first.
I pull my shoulders back. I make my voice flat. “This isn’t about us. I’m not a trainer anymore. I haven’t worked with a dog in almost two years.”
“Her name is Remy,” he says. “She only has three months.”
I pause, already half turned away, my hand pressed against the battered wooden doorframe. The day we moved in, I hit my shoulder against it and ended up with a splinter. I’d been laughing about something with Holly, and then sharp wood pressed deep under my skin.
“Remy bit someone,” he says. I can feel his eyes studying my half-turned face. “She’s a rescue, and she has a history of bites. I had to go to court, and they mandated that she see a vet behaviorist and trainer. I did the first part, and they have her on anxiety meds, which will maybe help. But I need to do the training. And if we can’t document improvement . . .”
His voice trails off, but I don’t need him to finish. I already know how this goes. I’ve seen it before.
Ninety days. He has ninety days to prove that she can be trusted. Or euthanasia. That’s what the court told him.
Of course, they have it all wrong. It’s not about us trusting her. It’s whether she’ll choose to trust us again after whatever made her stop.
I glance back over his shoulder. Those ears, cocked forward above the dashboard, they break my heart. She’s waiting for him. The Nathan I remember was too busy for dogs. Too focused on everything he planned to achieve. But here he is, with a rescue who has decided he’s worth waiting for.
I bite my lower lip. “Your vet must have given you referrals,” I say.
“They were booked out for a month. And the other ones I called wouldn’t take her. They say she’s hopeless.” His jaw clenches. “But, Alex . . . I’ve seen what you can do.”
“You saw an edited video. If they’re telling you she’s a lost cause—”
“We used to say that lost causes were an excuse.”
Our first real conversation. The one that once it started, it felt like it would never stop.
My breath stutters on the memory.
It seems possible, in this moment, that he remembers just as much as I do.
“I know I shouldn’t be here, okay,” he says. “I know that. But Remy is a wonderful dog. And no one else will help her. Whatever you think of me, and honestly, whatever you think of you . . . none of that matters. You need to try. You can do this.”
It’s all classic Nathan: unapologetic and determined. Nathan’s not used to people saying no, especially when it comes to “doing the right thing.” He can be an ass—too cocky, with expectations that are too high—but he’s a genuinely good guy. And he’s never had much patience for people who don’t step up.
It was one of the first things I loved about him.
It was also one of the things that I hated.
“Nathan—”
“Please,” he cuts in. His voice hitches, and I see it now: the dark circles under his eyes, the tightness of his expression. I used to know him once. There was a time when he let me further in than anyone, and I can tell that he is scared. He’s scared for her.
Remorse crowds my stomach because, back then, I could have helped him. But I am not the girl he remembers, and I’m not whoever he thinks he saw online. “I can’t,” I say. “I’m sorry. I really am.”
He looks like he’s about to argue. I expect him to argue. But then, it’s as if he deflates in front of me. His whole chest sinks inward. It’s not a look I’ve ever seen on him. Or one that I like.
“Yeah, no, I get it,” he says.
“I’m not what she needs,” I mumble.
“Sure, okay. I’m sorry for showing up like this.” It’s awkward now. His voice is clipped, and he’s running his hands through his hair like he does in those rare moments when he’s uncomfortable. I don’t have to check to know the back pieces will stick up.
“Listen, leave your number,” I say. “I know a lot of trainers. I’ll find her someone, okay?”
He nods. “Yeah, okay, sure. Thank you.” I can tell he wants to leave. I can tell I am a disappointment. And maybe it’s my imagination, but I get the feeling that it hurts him. Being here. Seeing me.
I think it hurts him, too.
I left my phone upstairs, so he pulls a pen from his suit pocket and a piece of paper from his bag and jots down his number. The promised rain starts as he turns to go, water brushing against my cheeks, and I duck inside the entryway, the paper clenched tightly in my fist. As I watch him jog back to his car, I wonder about the suit. I wonder what he does for work, what kind of man he turned into. I find myself hoping that he got the life he’d planned.
He drives away, and I unstick my feet. I drift back upstairs, past the bright-yellow welcome doormat Holly bought, and collapse on our coach. My mind is strangely quiet, and I let my eyes wander our small place. Everything about it is bright and fun and filled with Holly’s energy: colorful, mismatched place mats; a half a dozen of those cheesy quote signs scattered across the walls; and an array of weird glass owl figurines that Holly collects. They catch the light, making everything twinkle.
I pull out my phone, scrolling past a missed call from my sister to a text message from Lois.
A lovely sounding boy called about his dog. He seemed a bit desperate but was so polite. Be nice!!
I shake my head. Lois is not the first person to be easily charmed by Nathan.
I am going to connect him to a good trainer. No more referrals, please!
I see the response bubbles pop up from her immediately. And then disappear. She starts again, then deletes whatever she wrote. The gentle thud of rain starts to pound outside the window.
My phone buzzes.
I just want you to be happy, honey.
I stare at the screen lit up against my hand. I ignore the sudden tightness of my jaw. I read the words again.
I just want you to be happy.
It’s such a seemingly innocuous statement. A level of genericness that begs an equally generic response. And I want to type back something funny, something simple, but I’m blinking back water that has nothing to do with the rain.
I should be happy. My life is perfectly fine. And wanting more than fine feels like an obnoxious privilege. Too embarrassing to say out loud. Especially when there’s stuff that I could do to improve my life. Books I could read. Skills I could learn. I know there’s stuff I’m supposed to be doing. Just like I know there’s a person I’m supposed to be becoming.
Except, when I think about that person, she’s just as alien as she was when I graduated from college. And I’m not sure how to change that. I’m not sure how to explain that between work and all the daily stuff in my life that is really not that hard, that I don’t know how to become. How the being takes up all the energy that should go toward the becoming.
I didn’t think I would end up this way. I used to want to be different. I used to want to be more like the girl Nathan remembers. I look down at my hands—at the piece of paper still threaded between my fingers, with a number and a name—and a splash of longing bubbles up delicately in my chest. I turn on Netflix, and I find an old sitcom filled with people in their thirties. And as the rain picks up speed outside, I take a careful breath around the bubble. I tell myself I still have time.
Jaye C. Watts has a new queer sci-fi book out (transgender, poly, non-binary, pansexual, lesbian): The New Worlds.
The year is 2293 and the Truth no longer exists. In the future there are many truths, giving rise to many worlds, but each must be kept separate.
Born to protect these truths, Axton Bryce patrols the New Worlds Star System—to observe, participate, and gather information. But as she learns the ways of each world, she must also hunt for those who defy their world’s truth: the Outliers.
While stationed on a nearby planet, Axton meets the charming Ambassador Bray Wilde. As the two become close, Axton reveals a painful secret—the loss of her first love, exiled as an Outlier.
Longing to see beyond their own world, the ambassador proposes a rescue mission—one that will bring both friends and foes, and ultimately a fight for freedom. But first, Axton must make a choice: between a life-long allegiance… and the chance to claim a truth of her own.
Warnings: indoctrination, brainwashing, threatening with a weapon (guns & a bomb)
I clenched my fists. “Focus,” I told myself. Grabbing my communication cuff, I fastened it around my wrist. “INS communications, activate.” I opened my wardrobe and reached for a freshly pressed uniform. “Aurelia, give me today’s briefing.”
It lit up and responded. “Your next assignment will be on the Amorous World for a standard duration of three months. You are scheduled to depart today at zero six hundred Geo Time and arrive at zero eight-forty Geo Time. The latest reports on the Amorous World are available for your review. Do you wish to accept, Mediator Axton Bryce?”
I crouched to lace up my boots. “I accept.”
“On behalf of Chairman West and the Individual Nations Secretariat, we thank you, Mediator Axton Bryce, for your work in protecting the Truth of many truths.”
I rose to my feet, skin prickling at the back of my neck. Though I couldn’t see it, I could feel it: two lowercase t’s under one capital T, branded at the top of my spine—a permanent part of me ever since my Veneration five long years ago.
I reached back, digging my nails in, tempted to tear the tattoo right from my skin. “She should have been there,” I whispered. If only she’d kept those thoughts to herself.
I grabbed my utility belt and wrapped it around my waist, ensuring the gun was secure. Staring at myself in the mirror, I straightened the collar of my shirt. I’d never been to the Amorous World before. Perfect, I thought. Some fresh scenery was just what I needed.
* * *
I checked my cuff—zero five fifty-five, right on schedule. Marching across the launch deck, I carried one efficiently packed piece of luggage. I never glanced back when boarding my ship; Brokazaria’s endless acres of skyscrapers would still be here when I returned. Instead, I looked up. The early-morning sky was just waking. Aside from Primus B—the Middle World’s secondary, and thus miniature, sun—not a star was in sight. As I approached my ship, the roar of its engine reminded me that soon the stars would be all around me.
I turned and gave the official salute to a line of NI Security standing at attention. In unison, the humanlike Machines returned the gesture, crossing their arms to form a lowercase letter t. Sergeant L43 pumped his eyebrows, prompting me to raise one of mine in response. Hard to believe they were once called “AI.” New Intelligence, we were told, was a much more appropriate term.
L43 stepped forward. “Afternoon, miss.” He grabbed my bag, allowing me to ascend the ladder.
“Thanks,” I said. I climbed to the top and crawled through the hatch.
“Catch!” the NI yelled, tossing up my luggage.
With a reflex just quick enough, I caught the bag. “Sergeant!” I scolded. “What if there was something fragile in there?”
“You humans,” he replied. “Always afraid something’s gonna break. Your luggage, your bones, your bodies… not to mention your hearts and minds.”
I rolled my eyes at the cheeky Machine. “Watch it, L, or I’ll get them to reboot you.”
Unperturbed, the Machine grinned and waved. “I’ll miss you, too. Bon voyage!”
“See you in three months,” I muttered, closing the hatch behind me. I immediately got busy flicking switches and hitting buttons. Muscle memory took over as I continued the launch prep with complete focus. Not a moment later, a blue light illuminated my cuff, drawing my attention. Blue indicated a direct message from Chairman West himself, Secretary-General of the Individual Nations Secretariat.
“Play address,” I said, eager to hear our leader’s words.
A ghostlike image projected from my arm, transporting the man’s titanic figure into my control room. Neatly trimmed grays blended inconspicuously into the rest of his dark hair, swept back to frame a chiseled face. Salt-and-pepper stubble outlined a pair of smiling lips—the beginnings of a goatee that never quite came to fruition. As always, a perfectly pressed suit hugged every one of his bulging muscles.
“Greetings, my children!” The chairman’s voice rumbled from a gaping grin, complete with gleaming teeth. “Today is a very special day, not only for the New Worlds Star System but for some of our most dedicated Mediators.”
My ears perked up as I waited for more.
“Today marks two hundred and fifty years of living in an interplanetary alliance, free from the terrors of war, safe from the dangers of Plurality! A quarter of a millennium since the United Nations of the Old World became the Individual Nations of the New Worlds, marking humanity’s Great Dispersion!”
A swell of pride surged in my chest. I was part of something big and important.
“All of this would not be possible without you,” he declared, “our magnificent Mediators. You have been instrumental in our coordination with each world, fostering the cooperation necessary to manage the complexities of a resource-based economy spanning a system as vast as ours. And!”—the chairman raised a finger, flashing one of his many gold rings—“most importantly, you have upheld the sovereignty of every truth within it.”
I gave a humble nod, as though he could see me.
“Lastly,” the chairman said, “further congratulations to the Mediators of unit 245. Tomorrow is your quinquennium! Five years of serving as peacekeepers, saviors, Mediators! Father Chairman West and the INS commend you.” His thick forearms crossed in a salute, only to vanish as the feed cut out.
I took a moment to absorb his words, stunned by how many years had passed. Then I checked my cuff—Time to go.
I finished preparing for the launch, my movements steady and certain. We had done it. Peace among the planets for over two centuries.
I paused, letting my mind drift…
It had to be worth it.
Author Bio
JAYE C. WATTS (he/they) is a queer and trans sci-fi writer living on Lək̓ʷəŋən territory in Victoria, BC, Canada. He holds a bachelor’s degree in Sociology, with a minor in Technology and Society, as well as a diploma in Professional Recording Arts from the Art Institute of Vancouver.
When he isn’t writing, Jaye can be found falling down rabbit holes of all kinds thanks to an unquenchable curiosity and lust for learning – homeschooling will do that to you.
Jaye also loves classic jazz, mixing cocktails, biking all over the city, and of course, people watching.
The Center loomed before us, a giant, shimmering pearl nestled in the middle of the donut-shaped university.
Trapp halted at the edge of the surrounding lawn, flicking off his headlamp. The rest of us gathered behind him, staring in awe at the breathtaking view.
I’d seen the landmark before, but only during the day. At night, the shining sphere transformed into something otherworldly. To the people of the Quantified World, the Center was akin to a giant crystal ball—all-knowing and all-powerful. I took in the dazzling show, watching its ethereal light cascade across the reflective solar panels covering the surrounding university.
“Whoa,” Bray whispered, their voice reverent.
“Good golly,” Logan uttered.
Medallia didn’t speak, only inhaled deeply through her
nose. Trapp released a satisfied exhale, his shoulders relaxing for the first time all night.
I stood silent, shaking my head in disbelief at how damn lucky we were. Lucky to have made it this far but also lucky this mesmerizing display continued through the night. Strange, given the fact that no one—aside from the occasional NI and rogue Outlier—was awake to see it.
Then again, this was more than just a machine.
I almost felt hypnotized by the swirling neon patterns, their movements dictated by aesthetic algorithms. For the first time, I understood why so many worshipped this construct. Numbers weren’t just functional; they could also be beautiful.
With the rest of the world fast asleep, the omniscient sphere drew me in. Heart rates, body temperatures, brain waves, even dream activity, all coming together in a colorful symphony of light.
“All this,” I marveled aloud, “from a bunch of ones and zeros.”
Bray turned to me, furrowing their brow. “Ones and zeros?”
I turned to meet their gaze. “Oh, um… I was referring to binary code.”
Their forehead crinkled even more.
“It’s a type of language,” I explained. “For computers. But not with words, just numbers. Ones and—” I stopped myself, and instead summarized. “It’s… technology stuff.”
Bray lifted their chin, acknowledging my poor attempt at clarification before turning back to the glowing orb. Any explanation involving the “t word,” as they called it, received little more than a placating nod from them.
Without warning, Trapp began tromping across the lawn, his patience for sightseeing all used up.
Logan and Medallia followed suit as I nudged Bray into motion before bringing up the rear.
As we walked, the sphere’s light continued to play across the grass. I couldn’t shake the feeling that this was the calm before the storm; a sense of peace coated the atmosphere, even as it charged with unimaginable possibilities. So close, I thought, and yet still so far. Hard to believe we were mere steps from Trapp’s door through time, while our final destination lay light-years away.
Our footsteps left faint trails in the dew-coated grass, leading us to a set of doors. Trapp pressed his thumb against a small black scanner embedded in the frame. After a brief pause, the device beeped, unlocking with a soft click.
Amused, Trapp wiggled the digits on his right hand and muttered, “Guess they should’ve taken my fingers, too.”
Once inside, Trapp reactivated his headlamp. The spot‐light beamed down the curved hallway, casting skittish shadows across classroom doors. The walls on either side displayed an array of infographics: pies, bars, bubbles, grids and graphs—statistical analyses whose end results were surprisingly artistic.
While trying to decipher some of the informative shapes, a low-pitched hum caught my attention.
I turned my head toward the sound. Emerging from the shadows was a clunky bot, its movements slow and methodical. The machine hugged the wall as it moved, resembling a lumbering mechanical rodent.
Beside me, Bray flinched, their body jolting as if startled by a wild animal. Their wide eyes darted toward me, like a child searching for guidance in their parent’s reaction.
“It’s okay,” I said. “It’s just a robot”—a word I would never use on the Machine World. “It’s governed by preprogrammed instructions, which look to be nothing more than tidying up.” I lifted my boots, one after the other, hoping we hadn’t tracked in any mud.
Bray’s gaze returned to the machine, their fear giving way to tentative curiosity. While they kept a safe distance, Logan stepped closer, crouching to greet the bot.
“Well, hello there, little fella,” he said, grinning.
“Cleaning in progress,” the bot replied “flatly. “Step aside please.”
Logan chuckled, rejoining us as we continued down the hallway. He spun slowly, taking in everything the dim light allowed. “So these were your ol’ stomping grounds, eh, Trapp?”
“If by ‘stomping grounds’ you mean where I learned how to transcend time and space,” Trapp replied, “then yes.”
Bray cast one last glance back at the retreating bot before asking, “Were you a teacher here?”
“I was primarily a researcher,” Trapp said. “I only taught to gain access to the labs. I’d much rather make new discoveries than teach others about old ones.”
Trapp came to a sudden halt, stopping so abruptly Bray nearly bumped into him. Turning his head, he lit up a windowless metal door with a sign stating its purpose:
PARTICLE PHYSICS LAB RESTRICTED ACCESS
Trapp smiled with his eyes. “We’re close now,” he said, his words laced with determination. “Just a few more steps.” He pressed his thumb against the small scanner to his right, unlocking the door to a new world… an old world, rather.
Please enjoy this special guest post from author Sherri L. Dodd
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When I began writing the Murder, Tea, and Crystals Trilogy, I wanted the story to be authentic, and realized that I would need to reach beyond my own insufficient knowledge of modern-day paganism. Luckily, I had met a couple of witches at my local crystal shop and had recently hosted a Halloween party where the tarot reader informed me that she, too, was a witch. Three to share, and the latter gave me a taste of the lifestyle. Not wanting to go alone, I invited her to attend a Samhain event with me. Her response was, “Oh no. I don’t go to those things because everyone is always trying to out-witch each other.”
So, I found with today’s witchcraft movement. Like the Christian denomination, to be a witch is a very general term. When you say someone is Christian, you know they believe in one God, and Jesus as the son of God sacrificed himself for mankind. Voila—neatly wrapped in a nutshell. But fine-tuning leads to disputes, such as Catholics believe that Mary was a virgin, 7th Day Adventists hold Saturday as the Sabbath, and the Christian Scientist enforces healing through prayer, alone. Look at the holy wars which have shown everyone thinks it’s their way or the highway. If you think that is chaotic, try putting Neo-Paganism into a tidy catchall box.
First, there are many core belief systems—Celtic, Greek, Norse, and Roman Pantheons, to name a few. A witch can worship anyone from Hekate to Brigid to Saturn to your favorite Marvel character; he, that carries a big thick hammer. Further, sometimes you worship more than just one God or Goddess. You can worship two, three, or ten. Occasionally the many different deities are from the same source—in Hindu’s case, Brahman. That means, one witch may worship Kali, yet, the witch worshiping Ganesh is tapping into the same Hindu divine power. Finally, the priests of the Salem Trials probably roll in their tombs knowing that some Christians consider themselves witches through their ability to heal or manifest. This, I know, because my mother has shared that when she was a teen, my devout Baptist grandmother proclaimed herself “a witch for Christ.”
To me, this is all quite fascinating. I have studied different religions and philosophies since my early twenties, so witchcraft falls aptly into the subject. BUT, for some reason—feminist witches blame the oppressive patriarchy—witchcraft remains taboo. Even today, if you put a book entitled Green Witchcraft II on your coffee table or a copy of Modern Witchcraft on your nightstand, your housecleaner may start rumors that you worship the devil or are a nutcase who believes in magick. Either way, I have found that to be a misrepresentation of the today’s modern witchcraft.
Another challenge when writing about witchcraft is the reverence factor. While I respectfully pursue this venture, I believe, as with all measures of spirituality, I can only graze another person’s truth when writing about core belief systems. No matter what is written, some will agree, and some will want to write their congressman about the spread of false information. Luckily, being a redhead since long before it was cute, I have learned to ignore what others think of me or what I write, and this includes my thorough study of witchcraft. I laugh off the derision. Actually, now, I cackle.
Book Summary
At the age of eight, Arista Kelly was frantically swept up by her parents and whisked off to an isolated town in the California redwoods. Two days later, her parents were gone.
Now at the age of twenty-three, she has settled quite nicely into an eclectic lifestyle, much like her great aunt, and guardian since childhood, Bethie. She enjoys the use of herbs and crystals to help her commune with the energy and nature around her and finds pleasure in the company of her beloved pet, Royal. Usually quite satisfied with her mundane life high in the Santa Cruz Mountains, life becomes unsettling when a new recurring vision of an ominous tattoo as well as increased activity from the ghostly presence within her own cottage invade her once-harmonious existence.
But life in this mountain sanctuary takes an even darker turn when the body of Arista’s former classmate is found in the nearby river. As other young young women fall prey to a suspected serial killer, Arista realizes that the terror is coming to her.
The Review
This was such a compelling, gripping murder-mystery-meets-witchy-supernatural-horror YA thriller. The natural fusion of genres was so well done in this novel, and the visceral imagery between the gorgeous Santa Cruz mountains and the chilling murders that drive this narrative forward, all come together to create a stunning blend of romance/fantasy meets YA supernatural occult horror read that is intense and inviting all at once.
The heart of the narrative is really the character dynamics. Arista is a compelling protagonist, taking the reader on a personal journey of growth as she goes from a studious, harmonious witch connected to the natural world around her to a strong, powerful young woman who is thrust into a shocking mystery and uncovers new abilities and secrets she never thought possible. The small-town setting becomes a character in itself, adding depth to the unfolding mystery and significantly elevating the tension and atmosphere with each chapter.
The Verdict
Thrilling, compelling, and entertaining, author Sherri L. Dodd’s “Murder Under Redwood Moon” is a must-read novel. The twists and turns this story takes, the slew of suspects that keep the reader engaged as the plot unravels, and the monster at the end of the book are all revealed. The compelling character dynamics will keep readers on the edge of their seats and eager for the next entry in the series. If you haven’t yet, be sure to grab your copy today!
Rating: 10/10
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About the Author
Sherri was raised in southeast Texas. Walking barefoot most days and catching crawdads as they swam the creek beds, she had a love for all things free and natural. Her childhood ran rampant with talk of ghosts, demons, and backcountry folklore. This inspired her first short story for sale about a poisonous flower that shot toxins onto children as they smelled it. Her classmate bought it for all the change in his pocket. It was not long after that her mother packed the two of them up and headed to the central coast of California. She has ping-ponged throughout the area ever since.
Her first real step into writing was the non-fiction fitness book, Mom Looks Great – The Fitness Program for Moms published in 2005, and maintaining its accompanying blog. Now, transmuting the grief of her father’s passing, she has branched into Fiction, specifically the genre of Paranormal Thriller with generous dashes of Magick Realism! Her Murder, Tea & Crystals Trilogy released book one – Murder Under Redwood Moon – in March 2024. Book two – Moonset on Desert Sands – released in March 2025, and the final book in the series – Hummingbird Moonrise – became #1 New Release in Occult Supernatural on Amazon in October 2025!
Join us as we celebrate the launch of the the first book in Sherri Dodd’s Murder, Tea & Crystals trilogy: Murder Under the Redwood Moon. Read an interview with the author and enter to win the whole trilogy. Two winners!
Zachary Whitlock knows sheep. He knows farming and knows what it’s like to have his best friend forced into an internment camp for Japanese Americans. What he does not know much about is goats and traveling by sea on cargo ships, yet he makes a decision to go with a group of volunteers to Japan to help deliver a herd of more than two hundred goats, many of which are pregnant, to survivors of the U.S. bombing of Hiroshima and Nagasaki.
Shirley Miller Kamada grew up on a farm in northeastern Colorado. She has been an educator in Oregon, Idaho, and Washington, a bookstore-espresso café owner in Centralia, Washington, and director of a learning center in Olympia, Washington. Her much-loved first novel, NO QUIET WATER, was a Kirkus recommended title and a finalist for several awards. When not writing, she enjoys casting a fly rod, particularly from the dock at her home on Moses Lake in Central Washington, which she shares with her husband and two spoiled pups.
Join us at the Muffin as we celebrate the launch of Zachary: A Seagoing Cowboy by Shirley Miller Kamada. We interview the author and give you a chance to win a copy of the book.
Stop by Chelsie’s blog for Shirley Miller Kamada’s guest post on learning that her grandfather helped build the internment camp at Minidoka in southern Idaho.
Early spring, 1948. An American Friends Service Committee meeting was in progress in our house. Several items of business were being discussed by a team of five members, who sometimes arrived with their children and occasionally a dachshund named Parker.
I sat in our big leaf maple tree, properly termed genus acer macrophyllum, which my older brother Jacob once said was planted as a memorial, although for what or whom, I don’t know. With my back against its trunk, and my feet wedged into the crooks of its limbs, I’d long felt I was a part of that tree. Behind my ear a pencil, on my lap a clipboard and my trigonometry assignment. I could work on assignments and keep an eye on the lambs out in the pasture.
Trigonometry is the key to any number of pursuits. Medicine. Engineering. Agricultural science. It was offered at Bainbridge High during the senior year, but I wanted to challenge it. I had enough credits to graduate early, except for a math course, and math was my strong suit.
High school. I felt like I was just marking time, and I wanted to be finished with it.
Then what? I had a part-time job with the island’s newspaper, first as a paper boy. (Of course, not all paper boys are boys. When we were eighth graders, my friend Reyna had a paper route.) Later, I took over what my employers called “the high school beat” and Young Farmers
16 ZACHARY
news. But I was nearly seventeen, and I wanted more. Maybe university? Maybe travel? I wanted to expand my horizons, as the phrase goes.
So, I went to the bank, took money from my account, purchased a money order, and mailed it to the American School of Chicago, Illinois. Fully accredited. Trigonometry was tough. And I liked that. It was fun.
From the pasture I heard a quiet mewling. A tiny woolly being, born early and wobble-legged still, was getting some sun and fresh air and an introduction to the big, wide world. I knew the lamb was fine for a while longer. I could continue working and return the lambs to the loafing shed a bit later.
Twigs snapped, footsteps through the grass. “Hello.”
Standing below was a friend of my parents, Mr. Floyd Schmoe. A Quaker. A conscientious objector. Almost a legend.
My brother Jacob was, too. Not a legend, but a conscientious objector. Because he would not carry a gun, some people called him a conchie during the war. That’s rude.
Mr. Floyd Schmoe would not fight against the Central Powers in World War I. Violence all around. He would not kill. In Europe he worked with the Red Cross. Later, in Poland, he helped refugees find shelter, food, medical supplies.
He also worked for the Park Service at Mount Rainier as a naturalist and taught at the university in Seattle. Same as my parents, he and Mrs. Schmoe are American Friends Service Committee Observers. For the cause of fairness. Justice. They make it their business to visit places where people are being harmed for no fault of their own, but out of envy, prejudice, or greed, and they write about it.
“Room up there for one more?” Mr. Schmoe reached for a nearby branch. Long and lean, he levered himself up. “I’m interrupting you.”
“It’s okay. I’m stuck.” I tapped the clipboard with my pencil.
“You’ll figure it out. I asked after you, whether you were off to college.
Your mother said it would be a while. You’re a bit young still, she said.” “These are my trig calculations. I’m studying trigonometry by
correspondence, through American Schools.”
SHIRLEY MILLER KAMADA 17
“American Schools? I’ve heard of that. Illinois, right? Trigonometry is usually taught in the senior year, isn’t it?”
“Yes, sir. But graduation? I want to get a jump on it. I feel ready to be done.”
“What courses do you still need, in order to do that?” “Just this—trigonometry.”
“I see! Well, your mother sent me, said I’d probably find you here, and she’s about to serve crumb cake.”
Lambs called from the pasture. “Nice flock.”
“Thank you, sir. They’re Lincolns.”
He braced to swing down. “I’ll be heading inside.”
“You can go back in through the window if you like.”
He grinned. “Thanks, that’s okay. I’ll tell your mother you’ll be in soon.” Leaving my clipboard in the tree, I got the lambs, bleating all the way, into the loafing shed. After climbing back up to retrieve my clipboard, I went in through the window and put away my math lesson. A sweet smell drifted through the hall door. Crumb cake.
One good thing about hosting a Friends Service Committee meeting is the food. Salads and desserts. Easy to pack in a car, handy to eat from a plate on the arm of a chair. Or on a lap. Mother has always kept linen napkins edged in her hand-crocheted lace for those occasions. No one expected me to sit through meetings, but sometimes it was interesting.
Pausing on the top step, I brushed grass and bits of leaves off my pantlegs, then retied a shoe lace. Mr. Schmoe’s voice carried up the stairs. He was telling committee members about a project, delivering donated farm animals to families in Japan who had lost their homes and livelihoods because of the war. I heard, “Bombs. Innocent victims of conflict. Hundreds of thousands on the edge of starvation.” I heard, “Goats. Cargo ship. Japan.” One of the Peace Churches was organizing voyages and supervising volunteers to care for the animals. Finding volunteers—he called them Cowboys, and friendly laughter followed—was not easy. Goats aren’t as familiar as horses and cows, the more typical farm animals. No way around it, caring for livestock is hard work.
18 ZACHARY
The conversation quieted then, and I wasn’t much interested in less exciting news.
As I sat there on the stairs, the seed was planted. It sprouted and grew like bindweed. I could not get it out of my head. Mr. Floyd Schmoe was going to Japan. By ship. With goats.
For Mr. Schmoe, this was a way to aid suffering people and, also, to be permitted to visit Japan, since the country was under occupation by the Allied Forces and closed to all but a few civilians. After getting the goats to their destinations, Mr. Schmoe planned to talk with people whose advice he needed to get started on a project he felt passionate about. Building houses for those made homeless when the atomic bomb was dropped on Hiroshima.
A feeling rushed through me. Shaken to my bones. The voyage, the animal care, helping families in need. I wanted to be part of that. All of it
As a member of the Young Farmers Club, I’d helped transport sheep to livestock judging competitions. YFC members worked together to pen and care for the sheep, sometimes for three days duration. Goats couldn’t be much different than sheep. I was sixteen going on seventeen. A couple hundred goats on a cargo ship to Japan? What could go wrong?
This was important, and I could do it. I knew I could. But how?
Downstairs, I enjoyed the cake and hot chocolate Mother had made for the younger guests and me. Later, I helped straighten the front room, as always, and on the floor, under the end table beside the couch, I found a pamphlet describing the Heifer Project. On the front was a drawing of cattle walking up a ramp onto a ship. A cargo ship, I thought. Tucked inside the pamphlet were several pages of questions and instructions. An application! Breathless, I found my favorite pen and went to my writing table. The questions seemed straight forward and reasonable. In answer to, “Do you possess any special skills that would be of value to the project,” I wrote, “I have cared for our family’s flock of sheep, which are ruminants, as are goats, since I could walk.”
SHIRLEY MILLER KAMADA 19
20 ZACHARY
Giving “General Delivery,” as my return address, I signed and dated the application, slipped the pages into an envelope, licked the flap, and ran my thumb, twice, along the closing.
On Monday, when the school day was done, I took the application to the post office, bought and applied a stamp, and dropped the envelope into the slot. Just before I walked out the door, the postmaster called, “Hello, young Mr. Whitlock. Say hello to your folks for me.” I turned, lifted my hand and nodded, then went out to my bicycle. My stomach felt strange for a moment, but I pedaled toward home, and that feeling passed.
James Siewert has a new MM sci-fantasy romance out, Oarthecan Star Saga book 3: Captains of Oartheca.
Welcome to Oartheca—a world of shattered beauty and stolen futures.
Where noble Barons rule with ironclad grace, and loyal drones unquestionably obey. A wounded world, rich with history and pride, struggling to heal… while war still smoulders at its edges.
Hoping to change the fate of all Oarthecans, Captain Rowland Hale II and Toar Grithrawrscion embark on a mission as herculean as it is perilous: to bring Oartheca under the aegis of the Coalition of Allied Planets, and in doing so, usher in a new era of strength, stability, and peace.
But nothing on Oartheca is so easily won. Not peace. Not unity. And certainly not the truth.
In Captains of Oartheca, James Siewert sees our heroes challenge empires, defy impossible odds, and confront the terrible cost of hope. But when victory demands everything they are—and all they have—can they pay the price?
Warnings: Explicit sex scenes between consenting adult males
About the Series
An action-oriented, sci-fi extravaganza staring heroes who battle vicious foes, overcome galactic obstacles, find true love, all while just happening to be men-who-love-men. For adults only, the Oarthecan Star Saga will thrill readers with cinematic battles, daring romances and authentic, one-of-a-kind characters that rise to face challenges through bravery, courage and loyalty.
Get the hell off me!’ I shout angrily, futilely pushing at the rhino of a man smothering me. Goddamn he’s heavy but I’m giving it everything I’ve got, trying to wriggle free. I manage to get my head out from under the behemoth and turn to try and see what the hell is going on.
‘Stay down, Baron!’ the security guard overtop of me orders, his voice hard and urgent. There’s another bright green flash, and this time I see a plasma shot streak harmlessly into the skies, followed soon by more yelling and the sounds of intense struggle.
Annoyingly, cyan telemetry floods my cybernetic ocular display—suit’s integrity is down to ninety-two percent, but no injuries, and my shields are regenerating. That shot was a point-blank, direct hit. Thank God for top-tier CAPS engineering—anything less, and I’d be dead.
‘No!’ I hear a man yell. ‘No, he killed my brother!’
What?
‘Evacuate, evacuate!’ a stronger voice booms, and the man over top of me begins to ease up slightly; I immediately scoot out from under him and try to get a decent look around.
There’s a pile of security guards clustered together—it looks like there are three of them surrounding a fourth, having driven him to his knees. One is wrenching the kneeling man’s rifle from his hands, but the man is not letting go anytime soon. It takes the butt of another security guard’s rifle being driven into the side of his head before his grip finally weakens, and the gun is wrenched free.
The rhino then steps in front of me, blocking my view of the struggling men. I scowl and try to push him out of the way, but this guy’s a stormcoat, maybe a snowcoat, and I don’t even budge him a centimetre.
‘This way, Baron. Now,’ He pushes into me, using his superior bulk to knock me back. With one hand on my shoulder, he spins me around so that I’m facing away from the scene.
‘Where is Ton?’ I demand, trying to slip this guy’s grasp but his grip on my shoulder is firm—not painful, thanks to my exosuit’s kinetic absorption—but I’m not getting free unless I put up a serious struggle, which I don’t think is the wisest of things to do right now.
‘We’ll meet at the safe-point. Hurry, Baron, straight ahead,’ the rhino orders, and I follow as he steers me deeper into the docking bay. He sets a brisk pace—nearly a jog—we’re moving fast. A tug on my shoulder turns me left toward an open corridor, where two guards stand ready, rifles raised and scanning.
‘Inside, Baron.’ I’m not used to being manhandled like this, but I know if this dude wanted to, he could pick me up like an infant. He’s at least letting me move under my own power, so I do as I’m told, and head into the corridor.
We head down a gently sloping, well-lit cement tunnel—hopefully toward the safe-point rhino-guy mentioned. He’s stopped steering me, but with only one path ahead, we keep moving. After about thirty seconds, a circular portal sealed by sliding doors appears and opens as we approach.
‘Through the doors, Baron,’ my escort says. I step into the next tunnel, and he follows, tapping commands into a wall-mounted keypad. The doors slide shut behind us, leaving me to figure out what comes next.
The security guard then turns to face me, placing his hand over his heart, his fingers splayed, and gives me a deep bow. ‘We are secured now, Baron. The safe-point is just down this hall.’
‘Thank you,’ I reply genuinely. ‘I prefer Captain Hale, however. What’s your name, officer?’
‘Second Lieutenant Crahlstran Grithrawrclan, OSS Navy, Captain Hale,’ the man answers. ‘I’ve been assigned to you as your personal security representative. Are you injured?’
I immediately shake my head. ‘No, my suit took the damage. I’m fine. Where is m’Ton? Or the High Baron Grithrawr?’
‘At or en route to the safe-point. Please, if you will follow me, Captain,’ Crahl offers, extending his hand down the new corridor. With him leading the way, I follow as we descend further, until we reach another set of closed sliding doors. Crahl enters a command on the keypad, and they open. He stands aside to allow me to enter first.
Author Bio
James and his husband live in beautiful British Columbia, Canada. Part-time office drone, part-time storyteller, full-time sci-fi and fantasy enthusiast (and some spooky ghost tales), James couldn’t find enough stories involving guys like him and his hubby are: big men with big hearts, full of big ideas!
Taking matters into his own hand, James seeks to share high adventure, low-angst stories where the heroes are solid blokes who take centre stage. Come join the adventure and explore bold new worlds full of authentic characters, gripping scenes, lush imagination and a touch of mushy stuff – there’s a whole galaxy waiting for you to discover!
As the next instalment of the Oarthecan Star Saga, Captains asks whether two people can remain true to each other in the face of ideological conflict, cultural clashes and all-out war. And not just war with a cannibalistic race of slavers, but war between yourself and the man you love. Captains of Oartheca seeks to answer that question.
How did your experience writing Allure of Oartheca influence Captains of Oartheca?
Allure was my first published novel and laid the foundations for brand spanking new universe that’s seen through the eyes of two unique men: a highly intelligent cyber-human wrestling with his morals, and a soft-hearted alien werebear from the other side of the galaxy.
Those are two highly distinct lenses, and that meant having to step deep into their radically different ways of thinking. Yes, Rowland’s thoughts bounces around in his head—and so naturally, his inner monologue is going to reflect that. Toar loves to ramble on, so yes, he’s heavy-handed with his verbiage. It’s part of their character and part of what makes them more than just typical protagonists who act rather than think.
After Allure, there was a lot to feedback, especially around the topic of depth and detail. It seems that some folks crave the straightforward approach to novel writing, while others enjoy being so completely immersed in detail that the world feels alive enough to breathe on its own. Seems that while deep in a thick forest, some readers will feel lost, while others will feel found.
With Captains, I’ve tried to meet both groups halfway, despite Allure teaching me that some readers prefer their sci-fi served with a healthy dose of comfortable predictability and a ‘by-the-book’ story approach.
Some readers found Allure heavy on world-building. How did you approach that balance in Captains?
In Allure, I established a universe from scratch, complete with its history, politics, biology, and languages. That necessitated focusing on the detail of my ‘rules’ for how my universe worked. Everything from a realistic system of faster-than-light travel to bringing authenticity and uniqueness to the cultures of never-seen-before species. No easy feat, but without these rules, science-fiction risks spilling into the world of magical fantasy.
But having put in the work, by Captains, I can trust the reader will know how to walk the surface of Oartheca without needing a hand to hold on to. The story’s streamlined, but I’ve not skimped on the lavish detail when there’s a call for it. True, not every reader will want to decode the important nuances of a high denning, but for those that do? Captain’s got you covered.
What do you want readers to take away from Captains of Oartheca?
That men-who-love men are more than just a genre or trope—we’re real people that exist, and our voices have a place in the universe. That men can be strong without needing a heart of stone. That empathy isn’t supposed to be easy. That love isn’t a blindfold. That sometimes, the cost is too high. That war changes everything, but war itself? War never changes.
How would you describe your evolution as a writer between Allure and Captains?
That I don’t need to apologise for being my authentic self. In Allure, I built the house. In Captains, I moved in. If someone wants to walk through the front door and join me, they’re very welcome. I’ve laid out a feast that will satiate a hungry soul. But if they’d rather stay outside and just critique the paint colour? That’s fine too.
I’ve thought about this a lot because it’s become a common question I get. Why do I write short stories? I remember reading short stories in high school and college. I liked the idea of taking a moment in time and really focusing on it. That’s something short stories do well. You can really focus on one moment and make the most of it.
To me, it made a lot of sense to master the short story form before attempting to write a longer work, such as a novel. I’m not sure that is the best way to approach writing, or if it’s even recommended, but that’s how I approached it. I wouldn’t say I’ve mastered short stories, but I’ve definitely written a lot of them now. I’ve had a handful published individually in literary magazines.
After putting together this short story collection, which is interconnected and themed, I realized that perhaps I could handle the intricacy and challenge of a full novel. I finally felt like taking that on. That’s what I’m working on now.
That’s the path I’ve taken, but every writer I know has their own journey into writing and publishing. And if there’s anything I’ve learned from all the writing books, courses and podcasts, it’s that every writer has a different path into writing. Some study it in college and go on to get MFAs, others just secretly write in their free time, never really expecting to see the light of day. Others go the journalism route. A lot of people start with a novel.
I was told that a short story collection would be hard to sell, especially as a first book. I was disappointed, but determined to try. With the help of a writing coach and editor, I eventually found a small, independent publisher who was interested in publishing it, so I celebrated that win and was over the moon to have my collection out in the world.
If I had to do it over again, I’d do the same thing. I’d write my short stories, create a collection and then work on a novel, like I am now. I’m too early in my career to decide how successful it’s been overall, but it’s all I know and what I’ve done. And taking on any writing project is no small feat, so celebrate your writing and your path and don’t let anyone tell you you’re doing it wrong.
Book Summary
Let Birds Fly by Rhea Thomas is a magical realism short story collection where the extraordinary sparks everyday lives toward transformation. Connected by Ripple Media, each of the fifteen characters navigates personal struggles, such as an impossible itch, a mercurial third eye, and hallucinating coffee. They discover hidden truths, purpose, or power. With whimsy and emotional depth, these stories explore identity, passion, and self-discovery through moments of enchantment that crack open ordinary reality. Let these tales remind you: sometimes, the most magical thing is becoming who you were always meant to be.
Rhea Thomas lives in Austin, Texas where she works as a program manager in the digital media world. Her short stories have been published in multiple publications, including, most recently, The Fictional Café, Toasted Cheese and Does It Have Pockets. She spends her free time hoarding books, walking her stubborn Labrador retriever, playing games with her sons, kayaking and swimming in rivers, searching for mysteries and writing short stories that explore magical moments in the mundane. Her first book, a collection of short stories, is due out in August 2025, and she’s currently working on a literary mystery novel.
Join us at the Muffin as we celebrate the launch of Let Birds Fly by Rhea Thomas. We interview the author and give you a chance to win a copy of the book.
I received a free copy of this book in exchange for a fair and honest review. All opinions are my own.
A woman struggles with the actions that haunt her from a past life in author Amy S. Cutler’s “To Have and to Hold, To Love and to Kill: An Agreement of Souls.”
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The Synopsis
In her past life, after causing the death of a little boy, Nikki was so devastated that her soul mate promised to murder her in their next life, to make her pay for what she had done. With no knowledge of this, Nikki lives for years as an addict, down on her luck, until she is rescued by Ken, who helps her with all aspects of her recovery. With the help of a few new friends and a cat named Destiny, Nikki turns her life around. What she doesn’t know is that someone out there is destined to kill her, and he is watching, his passion for killing her growing stronger each day.
The question is: Can an agreement made between two souls be broken, and how far will one soul go to keep a promise made in a desperate attempt to save the other?
The Review
What a powerful and gripping paranormal and metaphysical fantasy read. The author did an incredible job of balancing the spiritual and karmic aspects of the narrative with the more grounded and emotional character arcs. The opening chapter was a gut punch for readers, revealing the devastating consequences of a single terrible decision. The struggles Nikki went through in this story, and the powerful imagery and atmosphere, were brilliantly illustrated through the author’s writing style and tone.
The heart of this book lies in its rich character arcs and mystery. The idea of karma and past lives was thoughtfully explored in this narrative, and the mystery of who from Nikki’s past life became part of her current life and what role they played was incredibly well developed. The tension and atmospheric nature of the plot, along with the dynamic between Nikki and several characters, were compelling, offering readers emotional depth and thought-provoking insights into the human soul and what it means to be human.
The Verdict
Fast-paced, emotionally investing, and memorable, author Amy S. Cutler’s “To Have and to Hold, To Love and to Kill: An Agreement of Souls” is a must-read metaphysical and paranormal fantasy novel. The twists and turns, the shocking revelations, and the heartfelt, heartbreaking final chapters will stay with readers long after the story ends. If you haven’t yet, be sure to grab your copy today!
Rating: 10/10
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About the Author
Amy Sampson-Cutler, author of “To Have and to Hold, to Love and to Kill: An Agreement of Souls” and “A Shadow of Love,” is a writer who earned her master’s degree in creative writing from Goddard College. Her work can be found in Slut Vomit: An Anthology of Sex Work, Tales to Terrify, WOW! Women on Writing, The Pitkin Review and more. She is the Executive Manager at Mount Peter Ski Area, where she grew up skiing in the winter and dreaming up stories in the summer. Her favorite days are spent knocking around story ideas with her husband. She lives in the Hudson Valley with her husband, son, and a ridiculous amount of furry family members.
She can be contacted through AmysHippieHut.com. Also follow her on:
Join us as we celebrate the launch of To Have and to Hold, to Love and to Kill by Amy Sampson-Cutler. We interview the author and give you a chance to win a copy of the book.
Today on my blog I’m excited to feature Barry Maher’s darkly comic supernatural thriller, The Great Dick: And the Dysfunctional Demon. If you love stories that bend reality, dive into the occult, and keep you turning pages late into the night, you won’t want to miss this one.
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SYNOPSIS
In 1982, failed songwriter Steve Witowski is running from both the law and his past when a reckless act of heroism—saving a woman from a brutal assault—pulls him into a world far darker than he ever imagined. That woman, Victoria, has just purchased a decaying church steeped in sinister history, and with her comes a web of occult rituals, crypts, and grave-robbing secrets that refuse to stay buried. As Steve becomes entangled in her dangerous world, the presence of a desperate demon closes in, blurring the line between delusion and reality. Haunted by visions, hunted by forces he refuses to believe in, and marked by the face of the man he killed, Steve is dragged deeper into a nightmare of dark magic, betrayal, and blood-soaked revelations where survival may cost him his soul.
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EXCERPT
Back in the 60s . . .
On Wednesday October 13th, 1968, a faculty panel recommended the dismissal of Professor John Harris—in absentia, as no one at Harvard had seen or heard from him in weeks. Harris later bragged about delivering his final lecture on “one shitload and a half of LSD.” According to the recording made available to the faculty panel, this was the sum total of that lecture:
“Good afternoon. Wow. American Literature, hunh? Let’s see. Moby Dick today. Right?”
“Moby Dick?” asked a confused voice. “No. What happened to The Scarlet Letter?”
“Right. Moby Dick,” Harris continued. “Great book. None of you have read it. None of you are going to read it. Nobody ever does. What you need to understand is that as far as I’m concerned—and I’m the fucking professor—Moby Dick is the same story as The Great Gatsby, which some of you may read. I call it, ‘the half-assed struggle of the individual to put their world to rights in the face of a failure that threatens to define their life.’ I think that’s from my thesis. Though maybe it’s not pretentious enough.”
Harris laughed. “Hey! How about this? Great Gatsby/Moby Dick: same story, different era, right? So, if someone someday tries to write that story for this generation, they should call it The Great Dick. That’d be perfect, wouldn’t it? The Great Dick. Alright, that’s got to be almost fifty minutes. See you next . . . whenever. Wow.”
SUNDAY, MARCH 21, 1982 Two Women and One Corpse
“Any fool can tell the truth, but it requires a man of some sense to lie well.” —Samuel Johnson
CHAPTER 1
Okay, let me start out by admitting that I was an asshole. I know that. The ludicrous amount of fame and acclaim and money I’ve had dumped on me since that time only makes it more glaring. The fact that we lived in a different world back in 1982 is no excuse. It was the same world. It just wasn’t the world we thought it was.
I remember it was a Sunday night. Sundays always feel different. Looking back now and Googling a 1982 calendar, I’d guess it was Sunday, March 21st. I remember waking up and within minutes making the decision to leave. Quickly, before I could change my mind, I eased myself out of the rickety hide-a-bed.
Immediately, Maria rolled over into the spot I’d just vacated, breathing loudly through her nose and mouth, not quite snoring. I hate to say it, but she looked every minute of her thirty years. Her thick dark hair clung damply to her face; her heavy arms stretched outward. The cast on her left wrist looked like a giant manacle.
The grandfather clock beside the cigar store Indian read 1:37, though a few minutes before, it had chimed four times. That made as much sense as anything else in my life. I was thirty-five years old, a Harvard grad who’d spent the previous two years faking his way through a $13,500 a year job as a territory rep for the Richmond Tobacco company. That $13,500 was the most money I’d ever made. You’re probably thinking that when you adjust for inflation and translate that $13,500 into today’s dollars, it’s a lot more impressive.
No, it’s not.
I slipped on my jersey and my jeans and gathered the rest of my things in my old gym bag. Fortunately, enough moonlight crept in around the edges of the tattered drapes to give the room a dim glow. I wondered if it would be safe to hitchhike out of there, or if Indiana had already notified the California Highway Patrol that I was wanted.
My situation was bad. But not bad enough to, say, crawl into a grave with a rotting corpse.
That would come later.
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GUEST BLOG POST
Where Do You Get Your Ideas from?
A while back, I was speaking on an Asian cruise when I realized I could no longer figure out what the hands of the clock meant. The next day, during a session, I introduced the ship’s captain. Twenty minutes later I picked him out of the audience and asked him what he did for a living. (The uniform did look a tad familiar.) That same day, I gave up trying to understand foreign currency. Even American money was getting tricky. In Viet Nam, I handed a vendor two hundreds and a five for a $7.00 baseball cap. It was a very nice cap.
Back home, the first thing my doctor did was have me draw a clock face at ten to three. The second thing he did was take away my driver’s license. Then he sent me for an immediate MRI. The nurse there wouldn’t comment on the results, but when I asked where the restroom was, she said, “I can’t let you go in there alone.”
I explained that bathroom visitation was a particular expertise of mine.
“Like telling time?” she asked. “You need to talk to your neurosurgeon.”
“I have a neurosurgeon?” Just what I always wanted.
I also had a brain tumor—the size of a basketball. Or maybe the neurosurgeon said “baseball.” I wasn’t tracking too well at that point. Still, I quickly grasped he was planning on carving open my skull with a power saw.
“I don’t really need to tell time,” I said. “Or I can just buy a digital watch.”
Everyone said my neurosurgeon—or, as I thought of him, “Chainsaw Charlie”—was brilliant. My problem was that I’ve spent my life around intelligent people, and I’ve always believed human intelligence was overrated. To me, on a scale of everything there is to know in the universe, the main difference between Einstein and Koko the Wonder Chimp was that Einstein couldn’t pick up bananas with his feet. (As far as I know.)
Still, I went under the knife—or in this case, the power saw. Maybe I had a seizure. The doctors weren’t sure. That might explain what happened. Because I came out of the surgery with Lady Gaga singing non-stop in my head and an unforgettably vivid story, like a memory of something that I’d just witnessed.
Reacting to the intrusion, I suppose my brain could have given me Citizen Kane or a nice rom/com or a few episodes of Seinfeld. Instead I got open crypts, bizarre spells, sudden death and the Ralph Lauren version of the Manson Family. “How did my operation go? Well, I’m doing well, but the people in my head—or wherever they were—they went through Hell.”
Lady Gaga went away after a day or so. But the story stayed with me. And when I was able, I spent a couple of years putting it all down, working it out, trying to get it just right. And that became The Great Dick: And the Dysfunctional Demon.
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Barry Maher’s career has been anything but ordinary. He’s been an award-winning (if modestly so) poet, a magazine writer with bylines across the country, a speaker for some of the world’s largest corporations, and a man who once lived literally on the beach, seagulls and all. His syndicated column Slightly Off-Kilter and his darkly comic fiction reflect that same unpredictable spirit. Media appearances range from The Today Show to CNBC, with features in The Wall Street Journal and even Funeral Service Insider. Connect with him at BarryMaher.com or on Facebook.
